He made a charge, as it were, at the position—a random, desperate charge.
“Margaret, can you trust me?” he asked.
She merely put out her hand, which he seized.
“Well, then, believe me when I tell you that I know everything about your doubts; that I know more than anyone else can do; and that there is nothing to prevent us from being happy. More than that, if you will only agree to make me happy, you will make everyone else happy too. Can’t you take it on trust? Can’t you believe me?”
Margaret said nothing; but she hid her face on Barton’s shoulder. She did believe him.
The position was carried!
CHAPTER XV.—The Mark of Cain.
Next morning Barton entered his sitting-room in very high spirits, and took up his letters. He had written to Maitland the night before, saying little but, “Come home at once. Margaret is found. She is going to be my wife. You can’t come too quickly, if you wish to hear of something very much to your advantage.” A load was off his mind, and he felt as Romeo did just before the bad news about Juliet reached him.
In this buoyant disposition, Barton opened his letters. The first was in a hand he knew very well—that of a man who had been his fellow-student in Paris and Vienna, and who was now a prosperous young physician. The epistle ran thus: