North and South

if they were the best friends as ever was. So then, to spite me⁠—for you see we were getting savage, for all we were so civil to each other⁠—he began to inquire after Master Frederick, and said, what a scrape he’d got into (as if Master Frederick’s scrapes would ever wash George Leonards white, or make ’em look otherwise than nasty, dirty black), and how he’d be hung for mutiny if ever he were caught, and how a hundred pound reward had been offered for catching him, and what a disgrace he had been to his family⁠—all to spite me, you see, my dear, because before now I’ve helped old Mr. Leonards to give George a good rating, down in Southampton. So I said, there were other families as I knew, who had far more cause to blush for their sons, and to be thankful if they could think they were earning an honest living far away from home. To which he made answer, like the impudent chap he is, that he were in a confidential situation, and if I knew of any young man who had been so unfortunate as to lead vicious courses, and wanted to turn steady, he’d have no objection to lend him his patronage. He, indeed! Why, he’d corrupt a saint. I’ve not felt so bad myself for years as when I were standing talking to him the other day. I could have cried to think I couldn’t spite him better, for he kept smiling in my face, as if he took all my compliments for earnest; and I couldn’t see that he minded what I said in the least, while I was mad with all his speeches.”

“But you did not tell him anything about us⁠—about Frederick?”

“Not I,” said Dixon. “He had never the grace to ask where I was staying; and I shouldn’t have told him if he had asked. Nor did I ask him what his precious situation was. He was waiting for a bus, and just then it drove up, and he hailed it. But, to plague me to the last, he turned back before he got in, and said, ‘If you can help me to trap Lieutenant Hale, Miss Dixon, we’ll go partners in the reward. I know you’d like to be my partner, now wouldn’t you? Don’t be shy, but say yes.’ And he jumped on the bus, and I saw his ugly face leering at me with a wicked smile to think how he’d had the last word of plaguing.”

Margaret was made very uncomfortable by this account of Dixon’s.

“Have you told Frederick?” asked she.

“No,” said Dixon. “I were uneasy in my mind at knowing that bad Leonards was in town; but there was so much else to think about that I did not dwell on it all. But when I saw master sitting so stiff, and with his eyes so glazed and sad, I thought it might rouse him to have to think of Master Frederick in hiding, he would have to go, poor fellow, before Mr. Bell came.”

“Oh, I’m not afraid of Mr. Bell; but I am afraid of this Leonards. I must tell Frederick. What did Leonards look like?”

“A bad-looking fellow, I can assure you, miss. Whiskers such as I should be ashamed to wear⁠—they are so red. And for all he said he’d got a confidential situation, he was dressed in fustian just like a workingman.”

It was evident that Frederick must go. Go, too, when he had so completely vaulted into his place in the family, and promised to be such a stay and staff to his father and sister. Go, when his cares for the living mother, and sorrow for the dead, seemed to make him one of those peculiar people who are bound to us by a fellow-love for them that are taken away. Just as Margaret was thinking all this, sitting over the drawing-room fire⁠—her father restless and uneasy under the pressure of this newly-aroused fear, of which he had not as yet spoken⁠—Frederick came in, his brightness dimmed, but the extreme violence of his grief passed away. He came up to Margaret, and kissed her forehead.

“How wan you look, Margaret!” said he in a low voice. “You have been thinking of everybody, and no one has thought of you. Lie on this sofa⁠—there is nothing for you to do.”

“That is the worst,” said Margaret, in a sad whisper. But she went and lay down, and her brother covered her feet with a shawl and then sat on the ground by her side; and the two began to talk together in a subdued tone.

Margaret told him all that Dixon had related of her interview with young Leonards. Frederick’s lips closed with a long whew of dismay.

“I should just like to have it out with that young fellow. A worse sailor was never on board ship⁠—nor a much worse man either. I declare, Margaret⁠—you know the circumstances of the whole affair?”

“Yes, mamma told me.”

“Well, when all the sailors who were good for anything were indignant with our captain, this fellow to curry favour⁠—pah! And to think of his being here! Oh, if he’d a notion I was within twenty miles of him, he’d ferret me out to pay all old grudges. I’d rather anybody had the hundred pounds they think I am worth than that rascal. What a pity poor old Dixon could not be persuaded to give me up, and make a provision for her old age!”

“Oh, Frederick, hush! Don’t talk so.”

Mr. Hale came towards them, eager and trembling. He had overheard what they were saying. He took Frederick’s hand in both of his:

“My boy, you must go. It is very bad⁠—but I see you must. You have done all you could⁠—you have been a comfort to her.”

“Oh, papa, must he go?” said Margaret, pleading against her own conviction of necessity.

“I declare, I’ve a good mind to face it out, and stand my trial. If I could only pick up my evidence! I