'Margaret, it was very wrong of you. You knew I did not wish you
to know.' But, as if tired with the contest, she left her hand in
Margaret's clasp, and by-and-by she returned the pressure
faintly. That encouraged Margaret to speak.
'Oh, mamma! let me be your nurse. I will learn anything Dixon can
teach me. But you know I am your child, and I do think I have a
right to do everything for you.' 'You don't know what you are asking,' said Mrs. Hale, with a
shudder.
'Yes, I do. I know a great deal more than you are aware of Let me
be your nurse. Let me try, at any rate. No one has ever shall
ever try so hard as I will do. It will be such a comfort, mamma.' 'My poor child! Well, you shall try. Do you know, Margaret, Dixon
and I thought you would quite shrink from me if you knew--' 'Dixon thought!' said Margaret, her lip curling. 'Dixon could not
give me credit for enough true love--for as much as herself! She
thought, I suppose, that I was one of those poor sickly women who
like to lie on rose leaves, and be fanned all day; Don't let
Dixon's fancies come any more between you and me, mamma. Don't,
please!' implored she.
'Don't be angry with Dixon,' said Mrs. Hale, anxiously. Margaret
recovered herself.
'No! I won't. I will try and be humble, and learn her ways, if
you will only let me do all I can for you. Let me be in the first
place, mother--I am greedy of that. I used to fancy you would
forget me while I was away at aunt Shaw's, and cry myself to
sleep at nights with that notion in my head.' 'And I used to think, how will Margaret bear our makeshift
poverty after the thorough comfort and luxury in Harley Street,
till I have many a time been more ashamed of your seeing our
contrivances at Helstone than of any stranger finding them out.' 'Oh, mamma! and I did so enjoy them. They were so much more
amusing than all the jog-trot Harley Street ways. The wardrobe
shelf with handles, that served as a supper-tray on grand
occasions! And the old tea-chests stuffed and covered for
ottomans! I think what you call the makeshift contrivances at
dear Helstone were a charming part of the life there.' 'I shall never see Helstone again, Margaret,' said Mrs. Hale, the
tears welling up into her eyes. Margaret could not reply. Mrs.
Hale went on. 'While I was there, I was for ever wanting to leave
it. Every place seemed pleasanter. And now I shall die far away
from it. I am rightly punished.' 'You must not talk so,' said Margaret, impatiently. 'He said you
might live for years. Oh, mother! we will have you back at
Helstone yet.' 'No never! That I must take as a just penance. But,
Margaret--Frederick!' At the mention of that one word, she
suddenly cried out loud, as in some sharp agony. It seemed as if
the thought of him upset all her composure, destroyed the calm,
overcame the exhaustion. Wild passionate cry succeeded to
cry--'Frederick! Frederick! Come to me. I am dying. Little
first-born child, come to me once again!' She was in violent hysterics. Margaret went and called Dixon in
terror. Dixon came in a huff, and accused Margaret of having
over-excited her mother. Margaret bore all meekly, only trusting
that her father might not return. In spite of her alarm, which
was even greater than the occasion warranted, she obeyed all
Dixon's directions promptly and well, without a word of
self-justification. By so doing she mollified her accuser. They
put her mother to bed, and Margaret sate by her till she fell
asleep, and afterwards till Dixon beckoned her out of the room,
and, with a sour face, as if doing something against the grain,
she bade her drink a cup of coffee which she had prepared for her
in the drawing-room, and stood over her in a commanding attitude
as she did so.