Part 12 (1/2)
”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 bl.u.s.tering died away before her into something of the frightened cowardliness he had shown in the morning. But Mrs. Browne came up to Maggie; and took her hand between both of hers, which were trembling.
”Maggie, you can save Edward. I know I have not loved you as I should have done; but I will love and comfort you forever, if you will but write as Mr.
Buxton says. Think! Perhaps Mr. Frank may not take you at your word, but may come over and see you, and all may be right, and yet Edward may be saved. It is only writing this letter; you need not stick to it.”
”No!” said Edward. ”A signature, if you can prove compulsion, is not valid.
We will all prove that you write this letter under compulsion; and if Frank loves you so desperately, he won't give you up without a trial to make you change your mind.”
”No!” said Maggie, firmly. ”If I write the letter I abide by it. I will not quibble with my conscience. Edward! I will not marry--I will go and live near you, and come to you whenever I may--and give up my life to you if you are sent to prison; my mother and I will go, if need be--I do not know yet what I can do, or cannot do, for you, but all I can I will; but this one thing I cannot.”
”Then I'm off!” said Edward. ”On your deathbed may you remember this hour, and how you denied your only brother's request. May you ask my forgiveness with your dying breath, and may I be there to deny it you.”
”Wait a minute!” said Maggie, springing up, rapidly. ”Edward, don't curse me with such terrible words till all is done. Mother, I implore you to keep him here. Hide him--do what you can to conceal him. I will have one more trial.” She s.n.a.t.c.hed up her bonnet, and was gone, before they had time to think or speak to arrest her.
On she flew along the Combehurst road. As she went, the tears fell like rain down her face, and she talked to herself.
”He should not have said so. No! he should not have said so. We were the only two.” But still she pressed on, over the thick, wet, brown heather.
She saw Mr. Buxton coming; and she went still quicker. The rain had cleared off, and a yellow watery gleam of suns.h.i.+ne was struggling out. She stopped or he would have pa.s.sed her unheeded; little expecting to meet her there.
”I wanted to see you,” said she, all at once resuming her composure, and almost a.s.suming a dignified manner. ”You must not go down to our house; we have sorrow enough there. Come under these fir-trees, and let me speak to you.”
”I hope you have thought of what I said, and are willing to do what I asked you.”
”No!” said she. ”I have thought and thought. I did not think in a selfish spirit, though they say I did. I prayed first. I could not do that earnestly, and be selfish, I think. I cannot give up Frank. I know the disgrace; and if he, knowing all, thinks fit to give me up, I shall never say a word, but bow my head, and try and live out my appointed days quietly and cheerfully. But he is the judge, not you; nor have I any right to do what you ask me.” She stopped, because the agitation took away her breath.
He began in a cold manner:--”I am very sorry. The law must take its course.
I would have saved my son from the pain of all this knowledge, and that which he will of course feel in the necessity of giving up his engagement.
I would have refused to appear against your brother, shamefully ungrateful as he has been. Now you cannot wonder that I act according to my agent's advice, and prosecute your brother as if he were a stranger.”