"Just as I thought," murmured Jeremy, "and some people might be vexed with their fathers; but that's only to waste time. So there it is. You're all powerful with father—eh, Margery?—and surely to God you know Jane and me well enough to know mother is right."
Margery perceived the nature of the bargain. She believed with Jeremy that their father was to be won. Indeed he sometimes came near yielding to Judith's steadfast conviction. She might very possibly settle the point in her brother's favour; but what could he do for her? Nothing with her parents. The problems that had looked vague and, indeed, had never been considered in her mind before, now rose and began to take a definite shape, Until now nothing but a dim, undefined desire for something that must not be—for something her parents held unthinkable—had stolen through her mind and settled over it, like a sad fog. She had accepted the situation and supposed that the craving for some return to vanished conditions was at best weakness, at worst evil. Yet now she had moved beyond that point to an acute nostalgia. Jacob's tribulation was augmented by the startling news that he desired to see her. She found comfort in Jeremy's sophistries, but knew, even while he uttered them in his mother's words, that they echoed anything but his mother's spirit. Jeremy was a humbug, as charming people are so apt to be; but the fact still remained: nothing happened but what Providence planned.
She began to think of details and they made her giddy. To move from secret wishes to open words was enough for one day. She had never dared to be so explicit, and her confession in the ear of sympathetic Jane comforted her. But her constitutional timidity, developed much of late, now drew her in.
What could Jeremy do? Deeds were not in Jeremy's line. Time must pass. Jacob must get well again—then, perhaps—she would see how she felt then. He might change his mind. Possibly he only wanted to mention some trifle. Margery doubted whether her present emotions were healthy or dangerous; then she fell back on her brother's affairs.
"You've given me something to think about; and I will think of it," she said.
"And Jeremy shall think of what you've told us," promised Jane, "for I'll remind him to do so."
"The thing is the greatest good to the greatest number," declared Jeremy. "That's always been my rule and always will be. And clearly the greatest good to me and my wife and children lies at the post-office. Others see it beside us. As for your greatest good, Margery—that's a very difficult question."
"I know it. I hope I haven't said too much; but you'll forgive me if I have. I feel—I feel, somehow, that I ought to see my husband, if he still wishes it."
"You would," answered Jane, "and so would any nice woman feel the same."
"That's the point," argued Jeremy. "You may be right, or you may be wrong. But the general opinion is that you show what a fine creature you are by keeping away from him. Why don't you put it to mother?"