she remembered Nancy, left alone and helpless all through this long morning; and, ill as she could endure detention from the solitude she longed to seek, she patiently fulfilled her small duties, and sought out some breakfast for the poor old woman.
When she carried it up stairs, Nancy said:
“There’s something up. You’ve trouble in your sweet face, my darling. Never mind telling me — only don’t sob so. I’ll pray for you, bairn: and God will help you.”
“Thank you, Nancy. Do!” and she left the room.
Chapter IX.
When she opened the kitchen-door there was the same small, mizzling rain that had obscured the light for weeks, and now it seemed to obscure hope.
She clambered slowly (for indeed she was very feeble) up the Fell–Lane, and threw herself under the leafless thorn, every small branch and twig of which was loaded with rain-drops. She did not see the well-beloved and familiar landscape for her tears, and did not miss the hills in the distance that were hidden behind the rain-clouds, and sweeping showers.
Mrs. Browne and Edward sat over the fire. He told her his own story; making the temptation strong; the crime a mere trifling, venial error, which he had been led into, through his idea that he was to become Mr. Buxton’s agent.
“But if it is only that,” said Mrs. Browne, “surely Mr. Buxton will not think of going to law with you?”
“It’s not merely going to law that he will think of, but trying and transporting me. That Henry he has got for his agent is as sharp as a needle, and as hard as a nether mill-stone. And the fellow has obtained such a hold over Mr. Buxton, that he dare but do what he tells him. I can’t imagine how he had so much free-will left as to come with his proposal to Maggie; unless, indeed, Henry knows of it — or, what is most likely of all, has put him up to it. Between them they have given that poor fool Crayston a pretty dose of it; and I should have come yet worse off if it had not been for Maggie. Let me get clear this time, and I will keep to windward of the law for the future.”
“If we sold the cottage we could repay it,” said Mrs. Browne, meditating. “Maggie and I could live on very little. But you see this property is held in trust for you two.”
“Nay, mother; you must not talk of repaying it. Depend upon it he will be so glad to have Frank free from his engagement, that he won’t think of asking for the money. And if Mr. Henry says anything about it, we can tell him it’s not half the damages they would have had to have given Maggie, if Frank had been extricated in any other way. I wish she would come back; I would prime her a little as to what to say. Keep a look out, mother, lest Mr. Buxton returns and find me here.”
“I wish Maggie would come in too,” said Mrs. Browne. “I’m afraid she’ll catch cold this damp day, and then I shall have two to nurse. You think she’ll give it up, don’t you, Edward? If she does not I’m afraid of harm coming to you. Had you not better keep out of the way?”
“It’s fine talking. Where am I to go out of sight of the police this wet day: without a shilling in the world too? If you’ll give me some money I’ll be off fast enough, and make assurance doubly sure. I’m not much afraid of Maggie. She’s a little yea-nay thing, and I can always bend her round to what we want. She had better take care, too,” said he, with a desperate look on his face, “for by G—— I’ll make her give up all thoughts of Frank, rather than be taken and tried. Why! it’s my chance for all my life; and do you think I’ll have it frustrated for a girl’s whim?”
“I think it’s rather hard upon her too,” pleaded his mother. “She’s very fond of him; and it would have been such a good match for her.”
“Pooh! she’s not nineteen yet, and has plenty of time before her to pick up somebody else; while, don’t you see, if I’m caught and transported, I’m done for life. Besides I’ve a notion Frank had already begun to be tired of the affair; it would have been broken off in a month or two, without her gaining anything by it.”
“Well, if you think so,” replied Mrs. Browne. “But I’m sorry for her. I always told her she was foolish to think so much about him: but I know she’ll fret a deal if it’s given up.”
“Oh! she’ll soon comfort herself with thinking that she has saved me. I wish she’d come. It must be near eleven. I do wish she would come. Hark! is not that the kitchen-door?” said he, turning white, and betaking himself once more to the china-closet. He held it ajar till he heard Maggie stepping softly and slowly across the floor. She opened the parlor-door; and stood looking in, with the strange imperceptive gaze of a sleep-walker. Then she roused herself and saw that he was not there; so she came in a step or two, and sat down in her dripping cloak on a chair near the door.
Edward returned, bold now there was no danger.
“Maggie!” said he, “what have you fixed to say to Mr. Burton?”
She sighed deeply; and then lifted up her large innocent eyes to his face.
“I cannot give up Frank,” said she, in a low, quiet voice.
Mrs. Browne threw up her hands and exclaimed in terror:
“Oh Edward, Edward! go away — I will give you all the plate I have; you can sell it — my darling, go!”
“Not till I have brought Maggie to reason,” said he, in a manner as quiet as her own, but with a subdued ferocity in it, which she saw, but which did not intimidate her.
He went up to her, and spoke below his breath.
“Maggie, we were children together — we two — brother and sister of one blood! Do you give me up to be put in prison — in the hulks — among the basest of criminals — I don’t know where — all for the sake of your own selfish happiness?”
She trembled very much; but did not speak or cry, or make any noise.
“You were always selfish. You always thought of yourself. But this time I did think you would have shown how different you could be. But it’s self — self — paramount above all.”
“Oh Maggie! how can you be so hard-hearted and selfish?” echoed Mrs. Browne, crying and sobbing.
“Mother!” said Maggie, “I know that I think too often and too much of myself. But this time I thought only of Frank. He loves me; it would break his heart if I wrote as Mr. Buxton wishes, cutting our lives asunder, and giving no reason for it.”
“He loves you so!” said Edward, tauntingly. “A man’s love break his heart! You’ve got some pretty notions! Who told you that he loved you so desperately? How do you know it?”
“Because I love him so,” said she, in a quiet, earnest voice. “I do not know of any other reason; but that is quite sufficient to me. I believe him when he says he loves me; and I have no right to cause him the infinite — the terrible pain, which my own heart tells me he would feel, if I did what Mr. Buxton wishes me.”
Her manner was so simple and utterly truthful, that it was as quiet and fearless as a child’s; her brother’s fierce looks of anger had no power over her; and his blustering died
