Margaret sat down by her mother's sofa on a little stool, and softly took hold of her hand, caressing it and kissing it, as if to comfort.
Mrs. Hale cried without restraint.
At last, she sat straight, stiff up on the sofa, and turning round to her daughter, she said with tearful, almost solemn earnestness,
'Margaret, if I can get better,—if God lets me have a chance of recovery, it must be through seeing my son Frederick once more.
It will waken up all the poor springs of health left in me.
She paused, and seemed to try and gather strength for something more yet to be said.
Her voice was choked as she went on—was quavering as with the contemplation of some strange, yet closely-present idea.
'And, Margaret, if I am to die—if I am one of those appointed to die before many weeks are over—I must see my child first.
I cannot think how it must be managed; but I charge you, Margaret, as you yourself hope for comfort in your last illness, bring him to me that I may bless him.
Only for five minutes, Margaret.
There could be no danger in five minutes.
Oh, Margaret, let me see him before I die!'
Margaret did not think of anything that might be utterly unreasonable in this speech: we do not look for reason or logic in the passionate entreaties of those who are sick unto death; we are stung with the recollection of a thousand slighted opportunities of fulfilling the wishes of those who will soon pass away from among us: and do they ask us for the future happiness of our lives, we lay it at their feet, and will it away from us.
But this wish of Mrs. Hale's was so natural, so just, so right to both parties, that Margaret felt as if, on Frederick's account as well as on her mother's, she ought to overlook all intermediate chances of danger, and pledge herself to do everything in her power for its realisation.
The large, pleading, dilated eyes were fixed upon her wistfully, steady in their gaze, though the poor white lips quivered like those of a child.
Margaret gently rose up and stood opposite to her frail mother; so that she might gather the secure fulfilment of her wish from the calm steadiness of her daughter's face.
'Mamma, I will write to-night, and tell Frederick what you say.
I am as sure that he will come directly to us, as I am sure of my life.
Be easy, mamma, you shall see him as far as anything earthly can be promised.'
'You will write to-night?
Oh, Margaret! the post goes out at five—you will write by it, won't you?
I have so few hours left—I feel, dear, as if I should not recover, though sometimes your father over-persuades me into hoping; you will write directly, won't you?
Don't lose a single post; for just by that very post I may miss him.'
'But, mamma, papa is out.'
'Papa is out! and what then?
Do you mean that he would deny me this last wish, Margaret?
Why, I should not be ill—be dying—if he had not taken me away from Helstone, to this unhealthy, smoky, sunless place.'
'Oh, mamma!' said Margaret.
'Yes; it is so, indeed.
He knows it himself; he has said so many a time.
He would do anything for me; you don't mean he would refuse me this last wish—prayer, if you will.
And, indeed, Margaret, the longing to see Frederick stands between me and God.
I cannot pray till I have this one thing; indeed, I cannot.
Don't lose time, dear, dear Margaret.
Write by this very next post.
Then he may be here—here in twenty-two days!
For he is sure to come.
No cords or chains can keep him.
In twenty-two days I shall see my boy.' She fell back, and for a short time she took no notice of the fact that Margaret sat motionless, her hand shading her eyes.
'You are not writing!' said her mother at last
'Bring me some pens and paper; I will try and write myself.' She sat up, trembling all over with feverish eagerness.
Margaret took her hand down and looked at her mother sadly.
'Only wait till papa comes in.
Let us ask him how best to do it.'
'You promised, Margaret, not a quarter of an hour ago;—you said he should come.'
'And so he shall, mamma; don't cry, my own dear mother.
I'll write here, now,—you shall see me write,—and it shall go by this very post; and if papa thinks fit, he can write again when he comes in,—it is only a day's delay.
Oh, mamma, don't cry so pitifully,—it cuts me to the heart.'
Mrs. Hale could not stop her tears; they came hysterically; and, in truth, she made no effort to control them, but rather called up all the pictures of the happy past, and the probable future—painting the scene when she should lie a corpse, with the son she had longed to see in life weeping over her, and she unconscious of his presence—till she was melted by self-pity into a state of sobbing and exhaustion that made Margaret's heart ache.
But at last she was calm, and greedily watched her daughter, as she began her letter; wrote it with swift urgent entreaty; sealed it up hurriedly, for fear her mother should ask to see it: and then, to make security most sure, at Mrs. Hale's own bidding, took it herself to the post-office.