She played with her teaspoon, and did not attend particularly to what Mr. Bell said.
He contradicted her, and she took the same sort of smiling notice of his opinion as if he had agreed with her.
Then she sighed, and putting down her spoon, she began, apropos of nothing at all, and in the high-pitched voice which usually shows that the speaker has been thinking for some time on the subject that they wish to introduce—'Mr. Bell, you remember what we were saying about Frederick last night, don't you?'
'Last night.
Where was I?
Oh, I remember!
Why it seems a week ago.
Yes, to be sure, I recollect we talked about him, poor fellow.'
'Yes—and do you not remember that Mr. Lennox spoke about his having been in England about the time of dear mamma's death?' asked Margaret, her voice now lower than usual.
'I recollect.
I hadn't heard of it before.'
'And I thought—I always thought that papa had told you about it.'
'No! he never did.
But what about it, Margaret?'
'I want to tell you of something I did that was very wrong, about that time,' said Margaret, suddenly looking up at him with her clear honest eyes.
'I told a lie;' and her face became scarlet.
'True, that was bad I own; not but what I have told a pretty round number in my life, not all in downright words, as I suppose you did, but in actions, or in some shabby circumlocutory way, leading people either to disbelieve the truth, or believe a falsehood.
You know who is the father of lies, Margaret?
Well! a great number of folk, thinking themselves very good, have odd sorts of connexion with lies, left-hand marriages, and second cousins-once-removed.
The tainting blood of falsehood runs through us all.
I should have guessed you as far from it as most people.
What! crying, child?
Nay, now we'll not talk of it, if it ends in this way.
I dare say you have been sorry for it, and that you won't do it again, and it's long ago now, and in short I want you to be very cheerful, and not very sad, this evening.'
Margaret wiped her eyes, and tried to talk about something else, but suddenly she burst out afresh.
'Please, Mr. Bell, let me tell you about it—you could perhaps help me a little; no, not help me, but if you knew the truth, perhaps you could put me to rights—that is not it, after all,' said she, in despair at not being able to express herself more exactly as she wished.
Mr. Bell's whole manner changed.
'Tell me all about it, child,' said he.
'It's a long story; but when Fred came, mamma was very ill, and I was undone with anxiety, and afraid, too, that I might have drawn him into danger; and we had an alarm just after her death, for Dixon met some one in Milton—a man called Leonards—who had known Fred, and who seemed to owe him a grudge, or at any rate to be tempted by the recollection of the reward offered for his apprehension; and with this new fright, I thought I had better hurry off Fred to London, where, as you would understand from what we said the other night, he was to go to consult Mr. Lennox as to his chances if he stood the trial.
So we—that is, he and I,— went to the railway station; it was one evening, and it was just getting rather dusk, but still light enough to recognise and be recognised, and we were too early, and went out to walk in a field just close by; I was always in a panic about this Leonards, who was, I knew, somewhere in the neighbourhood; and then, when we were in the field, the low red sunlight just in my face, some one came by on horseback in the road just below the field-style by which we stood.
I saw him look at me, but I did not know who it was at first, the sun was so in my eyes, but in an instant the dazzle went off, and I saw it was Mr. Thornton, and we bowed,'——
'And he saw Frederick of course,' said Mr. Bell, helping her on with her story, as he thought.
'Yes; and then at the station a man came up—tipsy and reeling—and he tried to collar Fred, and over-balanced himself as Fred wrenched himself away, and fell over the edge of the platform; not far, not deep; not above three feet; but oh!
Mr. Bell, somehow that fall killed him!'
'How awkward.
It was this Leonards, I suppose.
And how did Fred get off?'
'Oh! he went off immediately after the fall, which we never thought could have done the poor fellow any harm, it seemed so slight an injury.'
'Then he did not die directly?'
'No! not for two or three days.
And then—oh, Mr. Bell! now comes the bad part,' said she, nervously twining her fingers together.
'A police inspector came and taxed me with having been the companion of the young man, whose push or blow had occasioned Leonards' death; that was a false accusation, you know, but we had not heard that Fred had sailed, he might still be in London and liable to be arrested on this false charge, and his identity with the Lieutenant Hale, accused of causing that mutiny, discovered, he might be shot; all this flashed through my mind, and I said it was not me.
I was not at the railway station that night.
I knew nothing about it.
I had no conscience or thought but to save Frederick.'
'I say it was right.
I should have done the same.
You forgot yourself in thought for another.
I hope I should have done the same.'
'No, you would not.