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_ CHAPTER XXXI - 'SHOULD AULD ACQUAINTANCE BE FORGOT?'
'Show not that manner, and these features all,
The serpent's cunning, and the sinner's fall?'
CRABBE.
The chill, shivery October morning came; not the October morning
of the country, with soft, silvery mists, clearing off before the
sunbeams that bring out all the gorgeous beauty of colouring, but
the October morning of Milton, whose silver mists were heavy
fogs, and where the sun could only show long dusky streets when
he did break through and shine. Margaret went languidly about,
assisting Dixon in her task of arranging the house. Her eyes were
continually blinded by tears, but she had no time to give way to
regular crying. The father and brother depended upon her; while
they were giving way to grief, she must be working, planning,
considering. Even the necessary arrangements for the funeral
seemed to devolve upon her.
When the fire was bright and crackling--when everything was ready
for breakfast, and the tea-kettle was singing away, Margaret gave
a last look round the room before going to summon Mr. Hale and
Frederick. She wanted everything to look as cheerful as possible;
and yet, when it did so, the contrast between it and her own
thoughts forced her into sudden weeping. She was kneeling by the
sofa, hiding her face in the cushions that no one might hear her
cry, when she was touched on the shoulder by Dixon.
'Come, Miss Hale--come, my dear! You must not give way, or where
shall we all be? There is not another person in the house fit to
give a direction of any kind, and there is so much to be done.
There's who's to manage the funeral; and who's to come to it; and
where it's to be; and all to be settled: and Master Frederick's
like one crazed with crying, and master never was a good one for
settling; and, poor gentleman, he goes about now as if he was
lost. It's bad enough, my dear, I know; but death comes to us
all; and you're well off never to have lost any friend till
now.'Perhaps so. But this seemed a loss by itself; not to bear
comparison with any other event in the world. Margaret did not
take any comfort from what Dixon said, but the unusual tenderness
of the prim old servant's manner touched her to the heart; and,
more from a desire to show her gratitude for this than for any
other reason, she roused herself up, and smiled in answer to
Dixon's anxious look at her; and went to tell her father and
brother that breakfast was ready.
Mr. Hale came--as if in a dream, or rather with the unconscious
motion of a sleep-walker, whose eyes and mind perceive other
things than what are present. Frederick came briskly in, with a
forced cheerfulness, grasped her hand, looked into her eyes, and
burst into tears. She had to try and think of little nothings to
say all breakfast-time, in order to prevent the recurrence of her
companions' thoughts too strongly to the last meal they bad taken
together, when there had been a continual strained listening for
some sound or signal from the sick-room.
After breakfast, she resolved to speak to her father, about the
funeral. He shook his head, and assented to all she proposed,
though many of her propositions absolutely contradicted one
another. Margaret gained no real decision from him; and was
leaving the room languidly, to have a consultation with Dixon,
when Mr. Hale motioned her back to his side.
'Ask Mr. Bell,' said he in a hollow voice.
'Mr. Bell!' said she, a little surprised. 'Mr. Bell of Oxford?'
'Mr. Bell,' he repeated. 'Yes. He was my groom's-man.'
Margaret understood the association.
'I will write to-day,' said she. He sank again into listlessness.
All morning she toiled on, longing for rest, but in a continual
whirl of melancholy business.
Towards evening, Dixon said to her:
'I've done it, miss. I was really afraid for master, that he'd
have a stroke with grief. He's been all this day with poor
missus; and when I've listened at the door, I've heard him
talking to her, and talking to her, as if she was alive. When I
went in he would be quite quiet, but all in a maze like. So I
thought to myself, he ought to be roused; and if it gives him a
shock at first, it will, maybe, be the better afterwards. So I've
been and told him, that I don't think it's safe for Master
Frederick to be here. And I don't. It was only on Tuesday, when I
was out, that I met-a Southampton man--the first I've seen since
I came to Milton; they don't make their way much up here, I
think. Well, it was young Leonards, old Leonards the draper's
son, as great a scamp as ever lived--who plagued his father
almost to death, and then ran off to sea. I never could abide
him. He was in the Orion at the same time as Master Frederick, I
know; though I don't recollect if he was there at the mutiny.'
'Did he know you?' said Margaret, eagerly.
'Why, that's the worst of it. I don't believe he would have known
me but for my being such a fool as to call out his name. He were
a Southampton man, in a strange place, or else I should never
have been so ready to call cousins with him, a nasty,
good-for-nothing fellow. Says he, "Miss Dixon! who would ha'
thought of seeing you here? But perhaps I mistake, and you're
Miss Dixon no longer?" So I told him he might still address me as
an unmarried lady, though if I hadn't been so particular, I'd had
good chances of matrimony. He was polite enough: "He couldn't
look at me and doubt me." But I were not to be caught with such
chaff from such a fellow as him, and so I told him; and, by way
of being even, I asked him after his father (who I knew had
turned him out of doors), as if they was the best friends as ever
was. So then, to spite me--for you see we were getting savage,
for all we were so civil to each other--he began to inquire after
Master Frederick, and said, what a scrape he'd got into (as if
Master Frederick's scrapes would ever wash George Leonards'
white, or make 'em look otherwise than nasty, dirty black), and
how he'd be hung for mutiny if ever he were caught, and how a
hundred pound reward had been offered for catching him, and what
a disgrace he had been to his family--all to spite me, you see,
my dear, because before now I've helped old Mr. Leonards to give
George a good rating, down in Southampton. So I said, there were
other families be thankful if they could think they were earning
an honest living as I knew, who had far more cause to blush for
their sons, and to far away from home. To which he made answer,
like the impudent chap he is, that he were in a confidential
situation, and if I knew of any young man who had been so
unfortunate as to lead vicious courses, and wanted to turn
steady, he'd have no objection to lend him his patronage. He,
indeed! Why, he'd corrupt a sairt. I've not felt so bad myself
for years as when I were standing talking to him the other day. I
could have cried to think I couldn't spite him better, for he
kept smiling in my face, as if he took all my compliments for
earnest; and I couldn't see that he minded what I said in the
least, while I was mad with all his speeches.'
'But you did not tell him anything about us--about Frederick?'
'Not I,' said Dixon. 'He had never the grace to ask where I was
staying; and I shouldn't have told him if he had asked. Nor did I
ask him what his precious situation was. He was waiting for a
bus, and just then it drove up, and he hailed it. But, to plague
me to the last, he turned back before he got in, and said, "If
you can help me to trap Lieutenant Hale, Miss Dixon, we'll go
partners in the reward. I know you'd like to be my partner, now
wouldn't you? Don't be shy, but say yes." And he jumped on the
bus, and I saw his ugly face leering at me with a wicked smile to
think how he'd had the last word of plaguing.'
Margaret was made very uncomfortable by this account of Dixon's.
'Have you told Frederick?' asked she.
'No,' said Dixon. 'I were uneasy in my mind at knowing that bad
Leonards was in town; but there was so much else to think about
that I did not dwell on it at all. But when I saw master sitting
so stiff, and with his eyes so glazed and sad, I thought it might
rouse him to have to think of Master Frederick's safety a bit. So
I told him all, though I blushed to say how a young man had been
speaking to me. And it has done master good. And if we're to keep
Master Frederick in hiding, he would have to go, poor fellow,
before Mr. Bell came.'
'Oh, I'm not afraid of Mr. Bell; but I am afraid of this
Leonards. I must tell Frederick. What did Leonards look like?'
'A bad-looking fellow, I can assure you, miss. Whiskers such as I
should be ashamed to wear--they are so red. And for all he said
he'd got a confidential situation, he was dressed in fustian just
like a working-man.'
It was evident that Frederick must go. Go, too, when he had so
completely vaulted into his place in the family, and promised to
be such a stay and staff to his father and sister. Go, when his
cares for the living mother, and sorrow for the dead, seemed to
make him one of those peculiar people who are bound to us by a
fellow-love for them that are taken away. Just as Margaret was
thinking all this, sitting over the drawing-room fire--her father
restless and uneasy under the pressure of this newly-aroused
fear, of which he had not as yet spoken--Frederick came in, his
brightness dimmed, but the extreme violence of his grief passed
away. He came up to Margaret, and kissed her forehead.
'How wan you look, Margaret!' said he in a low voice. 'You have
been thinking of everybody, and no one has thought of you. Lie on
this sofa--there is nothing for you to do.'
'That is the worst,' said Margaret, in a sad whisper. But she
went and lay down, and her brother covered her feet with a shawl,
and then sate on the ground by her side; and the two began to
talk in a subdued tone.
Margaret told him all that Dixon had related of her interview
with young Leonards. Frederick's lips closed with a long whew of
dismay.
'I should just like to have it out with that young fellow. A
worse sailor was never on board ship--nor a much worse man
either. I declare, Margaret--you know the circumstances of the
whole affair?'
'Yes, mamma told me.'
'Well, when all the sailors who were good for anything were
indignant with our captain, this fellow, to curry favour--pah!
And to think of his being here! Oh, if he'd a notion I was within
twenty miles of him, he'd ferret me out to pay off old grudges.
I'd rather anybody had the hundred pounds they think I am worth
than that rascal. What a pity poor old Dixon could not be
persuaded to give me up, and make a provision for her old age!'
'Oh, Frederick, hush! Don't talk so.'
Mr. Hale came towards them, eager and trembling. He had overheard
what they were saying. He took Frederick's hand in both of his:
'My boy, you must go. It is very bad--but I see you must. You
have done all you could--you have been a comfort to her.'
'Oh, papa, must he go?' said Margaret, pleading against her own
conviction of necessity.
'I declare, I've a good mind to face it out, and stand my trial.
If I could only pick up my evidence! I cannot endure the thought
of being in the power of such a blackguard as Leonards. I could
almost have enjoyed--in other circumstances--this stolen visit:
it has had all the charm which the French-woman attributed to
forbidden pleasures.'
'One of the earliest things I can remember,' said Margaret, 'was
your being in some great disgrace, Fred, for stealing apples. We
had plenty of our own--trees loaded with them; but some one had
told you that stolen fruit tasted sweetest, which you took au
pied de la lettre, and off you went a-robbing. You have not
changed your feelings much since then.'
'Yes--you must go,' repeated Mr. Hale, answering Margaret's
question, which she had asked some time ago. His thoughts were
fixed on one subject, and it was an effort to him to follow the
zig-zag remarks of his children--an effort which ho did not make.
Margaret and Frederick looked at each other. That quick momentary
sympathy would be theirs no longer if he went away. So much was
understood through eyes that could not be put into words. Both
coursed the same thought till it was lost in sadness. Frederick
shook it off first:
'Do you know, Margaret, I was very nearly giving both Dixon and
myself a good fright this afternoon. I was in my bedroom; I had
heard a ring at the front door, but I thought the ringer must
have done his business and gone away long ago; so I was on the
point of making my appearance in the passage, when, as I opened
my room door, I saw Dixon coming downstairs; and she frowned and
kicked me into hiding again. I kept the door open, and heard a
message given to some man that was in my father's study, and that
then went away. Who could it have been? Some of the shopmen?'
'Very likely,' said Margaret, indifferently. 'There was a little
quiet man who came up for orders about two o'clock.'
'But this was not a little man--a great powerful fellow; and it
was past four when he was here.'
'It was Mr. Thornton,' said Mr. Hale. They were glad to have
drawn him into the conversation.
'Mr. Thornton!' said Margaret, a little surprised. 'I
thought----'
'Well, little one, what did you think?' asked Frederick, as she
did not finish her sentence.
'Oh, only,' said she, reddening and looking straight at him, 'I
fancied you meant some one of a different class, not a gentleman;
somebody come on an errand.'
'He looked like some one of that kind,' said Frederick,
carelessly. 'I took him for a shopman, and he turns out a
manufacturer.'
Margaret was silent. She remembered how at first, before she knew
his character, she had spoken and thought of him just as
Frederick was doing. It was but a natural impression that was
made upon him, and yet she was a little annoyed by it. She was
unwilling to speak; she wanted to make Frederick understand what
kind of person Mr. Thornton was--but she was tongue-tied.
Mr. Hale went on. 'He came to offer any assistance in his power,
I believe. But I could not see him. I told Dixon to ask him if he
would like to see you--I think I asked her to find you, and you
would go to him. I don't know what I said.'
'He has been a very agreeable acquaintance, has he not?' asked
Frederick, throwing the question like a ball for any one to catch
who chose.
'A very kind friend,' said Margaret, when her father did not
answer.
Frederick was silent for a time. At last he spoke:
'Margaret, it is painful to think I can never thank those who
have shown you kindness. Your acquaintances and mine must be
separate. Unless, indeed, I run the chances of a court-martial,
or unless you and my father would come to Spain.' He threw out
this last suggestion as a kind of feeler; and then suddenly made
the plunge. 'You don't know how I wish you would. I have a good
position--the chance of a better,' continued he, reddening like a
girl. 'That Dolores Barbour that I was telling you of,
Margaret--I only wish you knew her; I am sure you would like--no,
love is the right word, like is so poor--you would love her,
father, if you knew her. She is not eighteen; but if she is in
the same mind another year, she is to be my wife. Mr. Barbour
won't let us call it an engagement. But if you would come, you
would find friends everywhere, besides Dolores. Think of it,
father. Margaret, be on my side.'
'No--no more removals for me,' said Mr. Hale. 'One removal has
cost me my wife. No more removals in this life. She will be here;
and here will I stay out my appointed time.'
'Oh, Frederick,' said Margaret, 'tell us more about her. I never
thought of this; but I am so glad. You will have some one to love
and care for you out there. Tell us all about it.'
'In the first place, she is a Roman Catholic. That's the only
objection I anticipated. But my father's change of opinion--nay,
Margaret, don't sigh.'
Margaret had reason to sigh a little more before the conversation
ended. Frederick himself was Roman Catholic in fact, though not
in profession as yet. This was, then, the reason why his sympathy
in her extreme distress at her father's leaving the Church had
been so faintly expressed in his letters. She had thought it was
the carelessness of a sailor; but the truth was, that even then
he was himself inclined to give up the form of religion into
which he had been baptised, only that his opinions were tending
in exactly the opposite direction to those of his father. How
much love had to do with this change not even Frederick himself
could have told. Margaret gave up talking about this branch of
the subject at last; and, returning to the fact of the
engagement, she began to consider it in some fresh light:
'But for her sake, Fred, you surely will try and clear yourself
of the exaggerated charges brought against you, even if the
charge of mutiny itself be true. If there were to be a
court-martial, and you could find your witnesses, you might, at
any rate, show how your disobedience to authority was because
that authority was unworthily exercised.'
Mr. Hale roused himself up to listen to his son's answer.
'In the first place, Margaret, who is to hunt up my witnesses?
All of them are sailors, drafted off to other ships, except those
whose evidence would go for very little, as they took part, or
sympathised in the affair. In the next place, allow me to tell
you, you don't know what a court-martial is, and consider it as
an assembly where justice is administered, instead of what it
really is--a court where authority weighs nine-tenths in the
balance, and evidence forms only the other tenth. In such cases,
evidence itself can hardly escape being influenced by the
prestige of authority.'
'But is it not worth trying, to see how much evidence might be
discovered and arrayed on your behalf? At present, all those who
knew you formerly, believe you guilty without any shadow of
excuse. You have never tried to justify yourself, and we have
never known where to seek for proofs of your justification. Now,
for Miss Barbour's sake, make your conduct as clear as you can in
the eye of the world. She may not care for it; she has, I am
sure, that trust in you that we all have; but you ought not to
let her ally herself to one under such a serious charge, without
showing the world exactly how it is you stand. You disobeyed
authority--that was bad; but to have stood by, without word or
act, while the authority was brutally used, would have been
infinitely worse. People know what you did; but not the motives
that elevate it out of a crime into an heroic protection of the
weak. For Dolores' sake, they ought to know.'
'But how must I make them know? I am not sufficiently sure of the
purity and justice of those who would be my judges, to give
myself up to a court-martial, even if I could bring a whole array
of truth-speaking witnesses. I can't send a bellman about, to cry
aloud and proclaim in the streets what you are pleased to call my
heroism. No one would read a pamphlet of self-justification so
long after the deed, even if I put one out.'
'Will you consult a lawyer as to your chances of exculpation?'
asked Margaret, looking up, and turning very red.
'I must first catch my lawyer, and have a look at him, and see
how I like him, before I make him into my confidant. Many a
briefless barrister might twist his conscience into thinking,
that he could earn a hundred pounds very easily by doing a good
action--in giving me, a criminal, up to justice.'
'Nonsense, Frederick!--because I know a lawyer on whose honour I
can rely; of whose cleverness in his profession people speak very
highly; and who would, I think, take a good deal of trouble for
any of--of Aunt Shaw's relations Mr. Henry Lennox, papa.'
'I think it is a good idea,' said Mr. Hale. 'But don't propose
anything which will detain Frederick in England. Don't, for your
mother's sake.'
'You could go to London to-morrow evening by a night-train,'
continued Margaret, warming up into her plan. 'He must go
to-morrow, I'm afraid, papa,' said she, tenderly; 'we fixed that,
because of Mr. Bell, and Dixon's disagreeable acquaintance.'
'Yes; I must go to-morrow,' said Frederick decidedly.
Mr. Hale groaned. 'I can't bear to part with you, and yet I am
miserable with anxiety as long as you stop here.'
'Well then,' said Margaret, 'listen to my plan. He gets to London
on Friday morning. I will--you might--no! it would be better for
me to give him a note to Mr. Lennox. You will find him at his
chambers in the Temple.'
'I will write down a list of all the names I can remember on
board the Orion. I could leave it with him to ferret them out. He
is Edith's husband's brother, isn't he? I remember your naming
him in your letters. I have money in Barbour's hands. I can pay a
pretty long bill, if there is any chance of success Money, dear
father, that I had meant for a different purpose; so I shall only
consider it as borrowed from you and Margaret.'
'Don't do that,' said Margaret. 'You won't risk it if you do. And
it will be a risk only it is worth trying. You can sail from
London as well as from Liverpool?'
'To be sure, little goose. Wherever I feel water heaving under a
plank, there I feel at home. I'll pick up some craft or other to
take me off, never fear. I won't stay twenty-four hours in
London, away from you on the one hand, and from somebody else on
the other.'
It was rather a comfort to Margaret that Frederick took it into
his head to look over her shoulder as she wrote to Mr. Lennox. If
she had not been thus compelled to write steadily and concisely
on, she might have hesitated over many a word, and been puzzled
to choose between many an expression, in the awkwardness of being
the first to resume the intercourse of which the concluding event
had been so unpleasant to both sides. However, the note was taken
from her before she had even had time to look it over, and
treasured up in a pocket-book, out of which fell a long lock of
black hair, the sight of which caused Frederick's eyes to glow
with pleasure.
'Now you would like to see that, wouldn't you?' said he. 'No! you
must wait till you see her herself She is too perfect to be known
by fragments. No mean brick shall be a specimen of the building
of my palace.' _
Read next: CHAPTER XXXII - MISCHANCES
Read previous: CHAPTER XXX - HOME AT LAST
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