“But you can, Tom, and I shall be most thankful if you will. Does his mother hate me as much as she did? That is a great trouble to me also. What would I not give if I could win Mrs. Hunter’s good opinion! But I have no chance. She avoids me as much as possible, and when we happen to meet she will not look at me or speak to me if she can help it. Sometimes I think I will break through all reserve, and tell her that I will not marry her son until she wishes it, for I do not mean to do so.”
“You had better not say that, Margaret. Aunt is very one-sided and narrow in many of her notions, and as stubborn as only a woman can be. John’s happiness ought to be of far more consequence to you than his mother’s good opinion. The one you can insure; the other you may deserve, but it is doubtful if you will get it.”
“You are not very encouraging, Tom; but I do not despair, notwithstanding all that you say, and I know, of Mrs. Hunter. She will, perhaps, receive me yet as a daughter some day, if I am patient. My grandfather often says that all things come to those who wait, and I am only in a hurry for John’s sake.”
Margaret spoke the last three words with such tender emphasis that the colour came into Tom’s face. She would never tell any one of the battle which she had fought with herself over her cousin; but she thought the victory was completely won, and had spoken quite sincerely when she congratulated her friend. The two talked together of John, and when one was not sounding his praises the other was. They both knew, though Tom more than Margaret, of the many troubles that made him look grave, and caused him—and them too, for the matter of that—many an anxious hour. He was doing the right thing by his men; he was cultivating his land to its fullest extent and farming on the most scientific principles; but at present he had been able to do nothing toward paying off the mortgage, which pressed heavily upon his mind.
Margaret’s dreams were often of what she would do if she had a legacy—how she would help John without his knowing who did it, and change his losses into successes. But her love was able to do so little to express itself; and her faith was so sorely tried when she saw that he was not happy, that frequently she was not the bright Margaret which she knew she ought to be.
When she returned from her visit to Hornby Hall she found her grandfather had been thinking of John Dallington also.
“You will not be a penniless wife, Margaret,” he said; “and that reminds me that I have never shown you our treasure-trove, or, to put it as I ought, your treasure-trove, for really it all belongs to you. You will not be surprised to hear that our bank is in the house, for I have told you so already. That was one of the promises which I had to make to Captain Dallington—namely, that I would keep in the house a certain iron box which he gave into my charge. I often wonder why he did this; he was a sensible man in many respects, but he had some of the most peculiar and eccentric ideas. And the money which I was to use for your wants, and in order to keep a comfortable home for you, is in the house. Would you like to look at it?”
“I should very much, indeed, Graf. Is it a heap of shining sovereigns, such as you read of in books?”
“Come with me, and you shall see. I wish we could give some of it to Mr. Dallington; but he would not take it, of course, unless he had to take you with it; and even then, though there is enough for you and your children, there is not enough to buy back a farm or an estate, and I am afraid there is nothing we can do.”
As he was speaking, Mr. Harris led the way to his own room, and with a key which he took from his pocket he opened a drawer, from which he took another key. Then he removed a table and inserted this second key—a very small one—into a hole in the wall. A door flew open, and all that Margaret saw was another key, and a plaster wall in front. Mr. Harris touched a spring, and the wall slid back, and then a box was discovered. The opening of this box was watched with considerable interest by Margaret, for she, who wanted nothing for herself, wanted much for the man whom she loved. It was a deep iron box, and when it had in its turn been unlocked she saw the gold she had dreamed of—a great pile of it, and of notes, at the sight of which she burst into a low laugh.