"No—let her have her rest; I would never be so selfish as to disturb her, while I can wait. But, Davenport, I will be candid with you, and say that I have no hope of winning her. I have insulted her too deeply."
"Did she think of your former insults when she came here at the risk of her life to find you, and to nurse you out of the fever?"
"No, bless her—all that was forgiven!"
"And will she think of your former insults when you say, 'Margaret, I won't accept one penny piece of the Brand property unless you be my wife?'"
"Her own words—that, in that contingency, Margaret Walsingham would never marry me—her own words."
"You believe in your Perdita's love?" cried the lawyer, throwing his last ball with triumph straight at the bull's eye.
"If noble tenderness, and devotion such as hers, is love, I do, most solemnly."
"Then she'll do as your Perdita, what she wouldn't do as your enemy, Margaret Walsingham. She'll even lower her pride to marry you, if she thinks it necessary to your happiness."
But Mr. Davenport was forced to modify his satisfaction, when, on seeking an audience with his ward, the old negress who had that morning taken Margaret's place in the colonel's sick room, brought from her chamber a note from the young lady.
"She's been and gone," said the woman; "and this is for Massa Davenport." It said to the staring lawyer: