“Mrs Grey is not very well pleased,” observed Margaret, when their visitors were gone. “Could not you have been a little more explicit as to this gentleman, whoever he may be?”
“I thought it better not to say more,” said Hester, now unable to help stealing a glance at her sister. “Our visitor is to be Mr Enderby. He is so uneasy about his mother, that my husband is to see her this afternoon; and Mr Enderby offers to come in the evening, to discuss her case.” After a slight pause, Hester continued— “Sophia was very positive about its being impossible that our visitor could have any business with you—was not she?”
“Oh, Hester!” said Margaret, imploringly, with her eyes full of tears.
“Well, well,” said Hester, remembering how cruel this speech might appear to her sister, “I ought not to speak to you from my own habitual disbelief of Mrs Rowland’s news. I will go away, dear; only just saying, first, that I like Philip’s looks very well. He does not seem happier than he ought to be, while his mother is so ill: nor does he act as if he felt he had neglected us, his old friends. As my husband says, we must hear his own story before we judge him.”
When she left the room, Margaret could not have settled with herself whether there was most pain or pleasure in the prospect of this evening. Five minutes before, she had believed that she should spend it at the Greys’—should hear the monotonous hiss of the urn, which seemed to take up its song, every time she went, where it had left off last—should see Mrs Grey’s winks from behind it—should have the same sort of cake, cut by Sophia into pieces of exactly the same size—should hear Sydney told to be quiet, and the little girls to go to bed—should have to play Mrs Grey’s favourite waltz, and sing Mr Grey’s favourite song—and at last, to refuse a glass of sherry three times over, and come away, after hearing much wonder expressed that the evening was gone already. Now, instead of this, there was to be the fear and constraint of Philip’s presence, so unlike what that had ever been before!—no longer gay, easy, and delightful, but all that was awkward. No one would be sure of what the others were feeling; or whether there was any sufficient reason for their mutual feelings being so changed. Who would find the conversation? What could be talked about which would not bring one or another into collision with Mrs Rowland or Miss Bruce? But yet, there would be his presence, and with it, bliss. There would be his very voice; and something of his thoughts could not but come out. She was better pleased than if his evening was to be spent anywhere else.
Dinner passed, she did not know how, except that her brother thought Mrs Enderby not materially worse than when he saw her last. The tea-tray came and stood an hour—Mr Hope being evidently restless and on the watch. He said at last that it would be better to get tea over before Enderby came; and Margaret repeated in her own mind that it was less awkward; and yet she was disappointed. The moment the table was cleared, his knock was heard. He would not have tea: he had been making his mother’s tea, and had had a cup with her. And now, what was Hope’s judgment on her state of health?
The gentlemen had scarcely entered upon the subject when a note was brought in for Margaret. Everything made her nervous; but the purport of this note was merely to ask for a book which she had promised to lend Mrs Levitt. As she went up to her room for it, she was vexed that the interruption had occurred now; and was heartily angry with herself that she could command herself no better, and be no more like other people than she fancied she had been this day. “There is Hester,” thought she, “looking nothing less than merry, and talking about whatever occurs, as if nothing had happened since we met him last; while I sit, feeling like a fool, with not a word to say, and no courage to say it if I had. I wonder whether I have always been as insignificant and dull as I have seen myself to be to-day. I do not believe I ever thought about the matter before: I wish I could forget it now.” Notwithstanding her feeling of insignificance in the drawing-room, however, she was so impatient to be there again that her hands trembled with eagerness in doing up the parcel for Mrs Levitt.
When she re-entered the drawing-room, Philip was there alone—standing by the fire. Margaret’s first impulse was to retreat; but her better judgment prevailed in time to intercept the act. Philip said:
“Mr and Mrs Hope have, at my desire, given me the opportunity of speaking to you alone. You must not refuse to hear what I have to say, because it is necessary to the vindication of my honour;—and it is also due to another person.”
Of course, Margaret sat down. She seemed to intend to speak, and Philip waited to hear her; but no words came, so he went on.