Miss Margaret, sir?”
“Yes.”
“Whatever else may be in Morris’s mind,” thought Hope, “it is clear that she is surprised at my wanting to see Margaret.—Here she comes.”
He was not sorry that the step paused in the hall—that there was a delay of some seconds before Margaret appeared. He felt as weak at the moment as on first rising from his bed after his accident; but he rallied his resolution before he met her eye—now timid and shrinking as he had never seen it before. Margaret was very grave, and as nearly awkward as it was possible for her to be. She shook hands with him, however, and hoped that he was better again.
“I am better, thank you. Will you sit down, and let me speak to you for a few minutes?”
It was impossible to refuse. Margaret sank down, while he shut the door.
“I hear,” said he, “that you are already thinking of returning to Birmingham. Is this true?”
“Yes: we shall go home in a few days.”
“Then, before you leave us, will you allow me to ask your advice—?”
At the word “advice” a glow of pleasure passed over Margaret’s face, and she could not quite suppress a sigh of relief. She now looked up freely and fearlessly. All this was good for Mr. Hope: but it went to his heart, and for a moment checked his speech. He soon proceeded, however.
“I want your advice as a friend, and also some information which you alone can give me. What I have to say relates to your sister.”
Margaret’s ecstasy of hope was scarcely controllable. For her sister’s sake she hung her head upon her bosom, the better to conceal her joy. It was a bitter moment for him who could not but note and rightly interpret the change in her countenance and manner.
“I wish to know, if you have no objection to tell me, whether your sister is disengaged.”
“I have no objection to say,” declared Margaret, looking up cheerfully, “that my sister is not engaged.”
“That is the information I wished for. Now for the opinion which I venture to ask of you, as of the one to whom your sister’s mind is best known. Do you believe that, if I attempt it, I am likely to win her?”
Margaret was silent. It was difficult to answer the question with perfect truth, and with due consideration to her sister.
“I see,” said Hope, “that you do not approve my question: nor do I myself. Rather tell me whether you suppose that she prefers any one to me—that she had rather I should not seek her—whether, in short, you would advise me to withdraw.”
“By no means,” said Margaret. “I cannot say anything tending to deter you. I know of nothing which need discourage you; and I assure you, you have my best wishes that you may succeed.”
She looked at him with the bright expression of sincerity and regard which had touched his heart oftener and more deeply than all Hester’s beauty. He could not have offered to shake hands at the moment; but she held out hers, and he could not but take it. The door burst open at the same instant, and Mr. Enderby entered. Both let drop the hand they held, and looked extremely awkward and grave. A single glance was enough to send Mr. Enderby away, without having spoken his errand, which was to summon Margaret to the orchard, for the final shake of the apple-tree. When he was gone, each saw that the face of the other was crimson: but while Hope had a look of distress which Margaret wondered at, remembering how soon Mr. Enderby would understand the nature of the interview, she was struggling to restrain a laugh.
“Thank you for your truth,” said Mr. Hope. “I knew I might depend upon it from you.”
“I have told you all I can,” said Margaret rising; “and it will be best to say no more at present. It is due to my sister to close our conversation here. If she should choose,” continued she, gaily, “to give us leave to renew it hereafter, I shall have a great deal to say to you on my own part. You have done me the honour of calling me ‘friend.’ You have my friendship, I assure you, and my good wishes.”
Hope grasped her hand with a fervour which absolved him from the use of words. He then opened the door for her.
“I must return to the orchard,” said she. “Will you go? or will you repose yourself here till we come in to tea?”
Mr. Hope preferred remaining where he was. The die was cast, and he must think. His hour of meditation was salutary. He had never seen Margaret so—he dared not dwell upon it: but then, never had her simplicity of feeling towards him, her ingenuous friendship, unmixed with a thought of love, been so clear. He had made no impression upon her, except through her sister, and for her sister. He recalled the stiffness and fear with which she had come when summoned to a tête-à-tête; her sudden relief on the mention of her sister; and her joyous encouragement of his project.
“I ought to rejoice—I do rejoice at this,” thought he. “It seems as if everyone else would be made happy by this affair. It must have been my own doing; there must have been that in my manner and conduct which authorised all this expectation and satisfaction—an expectation and satisfaction which prove to be no fancy of Mrs. Grey’s. I have brought upon myself the charge of Hester’s happiness. She is a noble woman, bound to me by all that can engage my honour, my generosity, my affection. She shall be happy from this day, if my most entire devotion can make her so. Margaret loves Enderby: I am glad I know it. I made him dreadfully jealous just now; I must relieve him as soon as possible. I do not know how far matters may have gone between them; but Margaret is not at liberty to explain what he saw till I have spoken to Hester. There must be no delay: I will do it this evening. I cannot bring myself to communicate with Mrs. Grey. If Mr. Grey is at home, he will make the opportunity for me.”
Mr. Grey was at home, and on the alert to take a hint. “I guessed how it was,” said he. “Margaret has been trying to keep down her spirits, but not a child among them all flew about the orchard as she did, when Mr. Enderby had been to look for her, and she followed him back. I thought at first it was something on her own account; but Enderby looked too dull and sulky for that. I have no doubt he is jealous of you. He found you together, did he? Well, he will soon know why, I trust. Oh, you have a hearty well-wisher in Margaret, I am sure! Now, you see they are setting Sophia down to the piano; and I think I can find for you the opportunity you want, if you really wish to bring the business to a conclusion this evening. I will call Hester out to take a turn with me in the shrubbery, as she and I often do, these fine evenings; and then, if you choose, you can meet us there.”
Hester was not at all sorry to be invited by Mr. Grey to the turn in the shrubbery, which was one of the best of her quiet pleasures—a solace which she enjoyed the more, the more she became attached to kind Mr. Grey: and she did much respect and love him. This evening she was glad of any summons from the room. Margaret had fully intended not to speak to her of what had passed, thinking it best for her sister’s dignity, and for Mr. Hope’s satisfaction, that he should not be anticipated. All this was very wise and undeniable while she was walking back to the orchard: but it so happened that Hester’s hand hung by her side, as she stood looking up at the apple-tree, unaware that Margaret had left the party. Margaret could not resist seizing the hand, and pressing it with so much silent emotion, such a glance of joy, as threw Hester into a state of wonder and expectation. Not a syllable could she extort from Margaret, either on the spot or afterwards, when summoned to tea. Whether it was on account of Mr. Hope’s return to the house, she could not satisfy herself. She had sat, conscious and inwardly distressed, at the tea-table, where nothing remarkable had occurred; and was glad to escape from the circle where all that was said appeared to her excited spirit to be tiresome, or trifling, or vexatious.
How different was it all when she returned to the house! How she loved the whole world, and no one in it was dull, and nothing was trifling, and it was out of the power of circumstances to vex her! Life had become heaven: its doubts, its cares, its troubles, were gone, and all had given place to a soul-penetrating joy. She should grow perfect now, for she had one whom she believed perfect to lead her on. Her pride, her jealousy, would trouble her no more: