'I was used
To sleep at nights as sweetly as a child,--
Now if the wind blew rough, it made me start,
And think of my poor boy tossing about
Upon the roaring seas. And then I seemed
To feel that it was hard to take him from me
For such a little fault.'
SOUTHEY.
It was a comfort to Margaret about this time, to find that her
mother drew more tenderly and intimately towards her than she had
ever done since the days of her childhood. She took her to her
heart as a confidential friend--the post Margaret had always
longed to fill, and had envied Dixon for being preferred to.
Margaret took pains to respond to every call made upon her for
sympathy--and they were many--even when they bore relation to
trifles, which she would no more have noticed or regarded herself
than the elephant would perceive the little pin at his feet,
which yet he lifts carefully up at the bidding of his keeper. All
unconsciously Margaret drew near to a reward.
One evening, Mr. Hale being absent, her mother began to talk to
her about her brother Frederick, the very subject on which
Margaret had longed to ask questions, and almost the only one on
which her timidity overcame her natural openness. The more she
wanted to hear about him, the less likely she was to speak.
'Oh, Margaret, it was so windy last night! It came howling down
the chimney in our room! I could not sleep. I never can when
there is such a terrible wind. I got into a wakeful habit when
poor Frederick was at sea; and now, even if I don't waken all at
once, I dream of him in some stormy sea, with great, clear,
glass-green walls of waves on either side his ship, but far
higher than her very masts, curling over her with that cruel,
terrible white foam, like some gigantic crested serpent. It is an
old dream, but it always comes back on windy nights, till I am
thankful to waken, sitting straight and stiff up in bed with my
terror. Poor Frederick! He is on land now, so wind can do him no
harm. Though I did think it might shake down some of those tall
chimneys.' 'Where is Frederick now, mamma? Our letters are directed to the
care of Messrs. Barbour, at Cadiz, I know; but where is he
himself?' 'I can't remember the name of the place, but he is not called
Hale; you must remember that, Margaret. Notice the F. D. in every
corner of the letters. He has taken the name of Dickenson. I
wanted him to have been called Beresford, to which he had a kind
of right, but your father thought he had better not. He might be
recognised, you know, if he were called by my name.' 'Mamma,' said Margaret, 'I was at Aunt Shaw's when it all
happened; and I suppose I was not old enough to be told plainly
about it. But I should like to know now, if I may--if it does not
give you too much pain to speak about it.' 'Pain! No,' replied Mrs. Hale, her cheek flushing. 'Yet it is
pain to think that perhaps I may never see my darling boy again.
Or else he did right, Margaret. They may say what they like, but
I have his own letters to show, and I'll believe him, though he
is my son, sooner than any court-martial on earth. Go to my
little japan cabinet, dear, and in the second left-hand drawer
you will find a packet of letters.' Margaret went. There were the yellow, sea-stained letters, with
the peculiar fragrance which ocean letters have: Margaret carried
them back to her mother, who untied the silken string with
trembling fingers, and, examining their dates, she gave them to
Margaret to read, making her hurried, anxious remarks on their
contents, almost before her daughter could have understood what
they were.