"I should like to tell you now, James, because I would rather not have to refer to the matter again, that I know how kind you were to me, and how right in everything you said, and how hard you tried to save me. Yes, yes; let me speak," she went on, and tears, seldom seen in her eyes, stood in them now. "I could not again; let me speak now. You tried, James, I know; but you could not succeed. It was from myself I needed to be saved. Never think that you could have done anything more than you did; indeed you could not. Nothing could have saved me."
She was trembling now, even as the hand which he laid on hers, unnoticed, was trembling. Her lustrous eyes were wet, and the emotion in her face made it quite beautiful. James Dugdale did not attempt to speak; he looked at her, and his heart was wrung with pity.
"It had to be, James, and it is done with, as much as it ever can be in this world, in which there is no release from consequences of our own acts. And now"--she raised her head, she released her hand, she was regaining her composure, the momentary expansion was past, as he felt, and he had learned nothing!--"let us talk of your friend, who was so kind to me, and retains so kind a recollection of me. What do you think of all he says?"
"I think badly of it," said James, as he leaned back on his couch again, and adopted the tone she had given to their conversation. "I fear Robert Meredith is a bad boy."
"So do I," said Margaret. "I have seen him, though not often, and I never saw a boy--almost a child--whom I disliked so much. He is a handsome fellow, but selfish, heartless, and sly. His very cleverness was revolting to me, and I suspect the feeling of dislike between us was mutual; he has an American-like precocity about him which I detest. His little brothers, rough colonial children as they are, are infinitely more to be liked than he is. Of course you must do as Mr. Meredith asks you; but if you will credit my judgment--and, all things considered, I am rather daring in asking you to do so--you will not undertake anything like personal charge of Robert Meredith."
"I will certainly take your advice in the matter, Margaret; you know the boy. I fancy I had better urge Meredith to bring him to England himself, if it is determined that he is to come. Tell me as much as you remember about the boy, and all the family. I remember Mrs. Meredith a pretty, active, pert kind of girl--strong and saucy--a capital wife for him, I should think."
"I daresay," Margaret answered carelessly; "I did not know much of her."
Then their conversation turned on the career and circumstances of Hayes Meredith, with which this story has no concern. In aftertime James Dugdale remembered that day as one of the happiest of his life. They were quite uninterrupted until late in the evening. Mrs. Carteret had carried off to a dinner-party her reluctant husband, who would have infinitely preferred to superintend the dinner of a peculiarly fine spider--whose proceedings he was watching just then, and whose larder was largely provided with the last unwary flies of the expiring autumn.
Margaret and James Dugdale dined alone. She was in good spirits on the occasion; she had almost lost the painful impression produced by Hayes Meredith's letter, by talking it over with James; and between herself and him there reigned harmony and unreserve which had had no previous existence. James had never seen her look so nearly beautiful; he had never seen her so kind, so gentle to him.
The hours passed over him in a kind of trance-like spell of pleasure. Margaret talked as he had never imagined she could talk. He had soon recognised that her character was hardened and strengthened by the trials she had endured; but until this day he had not known that her intellect had grown and brightened in proportion.