“No, you cannot, thank you. For Mr Rowland’s sake, no one must be by; and none of you can testify to the facts. No; leave me alone. By this time to-morrow night it will be done. What knock is that? No one ever knocks on my account. Surely it cannot be your servant already. It is only now half-past eight.”
“I promised Hester I would go home early.”
“She cannot want you half so much as I do. Stay another hour.”
Margaret could not. Hester made a point of her returning at this time. When the cloaking and final chat were done, and Margaret was at the door, Maria called her. Margaret came skipping back to hear her friend’s whisper.
“How is your wretchedness, Margaret?”
“How is yours?” was Margaret’s reply.
“Much better. The disburdening of it is a great comfort.”
“And the pain—the aching?”
“Oh, never mind that!”
Margaret shook her head; she could not but mind it—but wish that she could take it upon herself sometimes. She had often thought lately, that she should rather enjoy a few weeks of Maria’s pain, as an alternative to the woe under which she had been suffering; but this, if she could have tried the experiment, she would probably have found to be a mistake. When she saw her friend cover her eyes with her hand, as if for a listless hour of solitude, she felt that she had been wrong in yielding to her sister’s jealousy of her being so much with Maria; and she resolved that, next time, Maria should appoint the hour for her return home.