Three months (you must not come for less) of this delicious climate—all sunshine, and grapes as common as blackberries, would quite cure her.
I don't ask my uncle'—(Here the letter became more constrained, and better written; Mr. Hale was in the corner, like a naughty child, for having given up his living.)—'because, I dare say, he disapproves of war, and soldiers, and bands of music; at least, I know that many Dissenters are members of the Peace Society, and I am afraid he would not like to come; but, if he would, dear, pray say that Cosmo and I will do our best to make him happy; and I'll hide up Cosmo's red coat and sword, and make the band play all sorts of grave, solemn things; or, if they do play pomps and vanities, it shall be in double slow time.
Dear Margaret, if he would like to accompany you and Aunt Hale, we will try and make it pleasant, though I'm rather afraid of any one who has done something for conscience sake.
You never did, I hope.
Tell Aunt Hale not to bring many warm clothes, though I'm afraid it will be late in the year before you can come.
But you have no idea of the heat here!
I tried to wear my great beauty Indian shawl at a pic-nic.
I kept myself up with proverbs as long as I could;
"Pride must abide,"—and such wholesome pieces of pith; but it was of no use.
I was like mamma's little dog Tiny with an elephant's trappings on; smothered, hidden, killed with my finery; so I made it into a capital carpet for us all to sit down upon.
Here's this boy of mine, Margaret,—if you don't pack up your things as soon as you get this letter, a come straight off to see him, I shall think you're descended from King Herod!'
Margaret did long for a day of Edith's life—her freedom from care, her cheerful home, her sunny skies.
If a wish could have transported her, she would have gone off; just for one day.
She yearned for the strength which such a change would give,—even for a few hours to be in the midst of that bright life, and to feel young again.
Not yet twenty! and she had had to bear up against such hard pressure that she felt quite old.
That was her first feeling after reading Edith's letter.
Then she read it again, and, forgetting herself, was amused at its likeness to Edith's self, and was laughing merrily over it when Mrs. Hale came into the drawing-room, leaning on Dixon's arm.
Margaret flew to adjust the pillows.
Her mother seemed more than usually feeble.
'What were you laughing at, Margaret?' asked she, as soon as she had recovered from the exertion of settling herself on the sofa.
'A letter I have had this morning from Edith.
Shall I read it you, mamma?'
She read it aloud, and for a time it seemed to interest her mother, who kept wondering what name Edith had given to her boy, and suggesting all probable names, and all possible reasons why each and all of these names should be given.
Into the very midst of these wonders Mr. Thornton came, bringing another offering of fruit for Mrs. Hale.
He could not—say rather, he would not—deny himself the chance of the pleasure of seeing Margaret.
He had no end in this but the present gratification.
It was the sturdy wilfulness of a man usually most reasonable and self-controlled.
He entered the room, taking in at a glance the fact of Margaret's presence; but after the first cold distant bow, he never seemed to let his eyes fall on her again.
He only stayed to present his peaches—to speak some gentle kindly words—and then his cold offended eyes met Margaret's with a grave farewell, as he left the room.
She sat down silent and pale.
'Do you know, Margaret, I really begin quite to like Mr. Thornton.'
No answer at first. Then Margaret forced out an icy
'Do you?'
'Yes!
I think he is really getting quite polished in his manners.'
Margaret's voice was more in order now. She replied,
'He is very kind and attentive,—there is no doubt of that.'
'I wonder Mrs. Thornton never calls.
She must know I am ill, because of the water-bed.'
'I dare say, she hears how you are from her son.'
'Still, I should like to see her You have so few friends here, Margaret.'
Margaret felt what was in her mother's thoughts,—a tender craving to bespeak the kindness of some woman towards the daughter that might be so soon left motherless.
But she could not speak.
'Do you think,' said Mrs. Hale, after a pause, 'that you could go and ask Mrs. Thornton to come and see me?
Only once,—I don't want to be troublesome.'
'I will do anything, if you wish it, mamma,—but if—but when Frederick comes——'
'Ah, to be sure! we must keep our doors shut,—we must let no one in.
I hardly know whether I dare wish him to come or not.
Sometimes I think I would rather not.
Sometimes I have such frightful dreams about him.'