“Yes, indeed I do. If you go about with that dismal face and strong disapproval, it will really seem as if it was the having your dominion muddled with that you dislike. Besides, it is putting yourself forward to censure what is not absolutely wrong in itself, and that cannot be desirable.”
“No,” said Ethel, “but I cannot help being sorry for Cocksmoor. I thought patience would prepare the way, and the means be granted in good time, without hastiness—only earnestness.”
“You had made a picture for yourself,” said Margaret gently. “Yes, we all make pictures for ourselves, and we are the foremost figures in them; but they are taken out of our hands, and we see others putting in rude touches, and spoiling our work, as it seems; but, by-and-by, we shall see that it is all guided.”
Ethel sighed. “Then having protested to my utmost against this concern, you think I ought to be amiable about it.”
“And to let poor Mary enjoy it. She would be so happy, if you would not bewilder her by your gloomy looks, and keep her to the hemming of your endless glazed calico bonnet strings.”
“Poor old Mary! I thought that was by her own desire.”
“Only her dutiful allegiance to you; and, as making pincushions is nearly her greatest delight, it is cruel to make her think it, in some mysterious way, wrong and displeasing to you.”
Ethel laughed, and said, “I did not think Mary was in such awe of me. I’ll set her free, then. But, Margaret, do you really think I ought to give up my time to it?”
“Could you not just let them have a few drawings, or a little bit of your company work—just enough for you not to annoy every one, and seem to be testifying against them? You would not like to vex Meta.”
“It will go hard, if I do not tell Meta my mind. I cannot bear to see her deluded.”