“Then satisfaction ought to be no new feeling to Margaret,” said Hester. “She always loves every one: she meets with sympathy wherever she turns; and I believe she has faith enough for a martyr, without knowing it. Ought not she—must not she, have often felt real satisfaction?”
“Yes.”
“I wonder you dole out your words so sparingly about such a being as Margaret,” said Hester, resentfully. “I can tell you, Edward, though you take so coolly the privilege of having such a one so nearly connected with you, you might search the world in vain for her equal. You little know the wealth of her heart and soul, Edward. I ask you whether she does not deserve to feel full satisfaction of conscience and affections, and you just answer ‘Yes,’ with as much languor as if I had asked you whether the clock has struck eleven yet! I can tell you this—I have said in my own heart, and just to Morris, for years, that the happiest man of his generation will be he who has Margaret for a wife: and here you, who ought to know this, give me a grudging ‘Yes,’ in answer to the first question, arising out of my reverence for Margaret, that I ever asked you!”
“You mistake me,” replied Hope, in a tone of gentleness which touched her very soul. “One’s words may be restrained by reverence as well as by want of heart. I regard Margaret with a reverence which I should not have thought it necessary to put into words for your conviction.”
“Oh, I am wrong—as I always am!” cried Hester. “You must forgive me again, as you do far, far too often. But tell me, Edward, ought not Margaret’s husband to be the happiest man living?”
“Yes,” said Edward, with a smile. “Will that do this time?”
“Oh, yes, yes,” replied she—the thought passing through her mind, that, whether or not her husband excepted himself as a matter of course, she should not have asked a question to which she could not bear all possible answers. Even if he meant that Margaret’s husband might be a happier man than himself, it was only too true. As quick as lightning these thoughts passed through her mind, and, apparently without a pause, she went on, “And now, as to Enderby—is he worthy to be this happy husband? Does he deserve her?”
Mr Hope did pause before he replied:
“I think we had better dwell as little as we can on that point of the story—not because I am afraid—(do not take fright and suppose I mean more than I say)—not because I am afraid, but because we can do nothing, discern nothing, about it. Time must show what Enderby is—or rather, what he has the power of becoming. Meanwhile, the thing is settled. They love and have promised, and are happy. Let us shun all comparison of the one with the other of them, and hope everything from him.”
“There will be some amusement,” said Hester, after a smiling reverie, “in having this secret to ourselves for a time, while all the rest of Deerbrook is so busy with a different idea and expectation. How will Mrs Rowland bear it?”