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.