“Harry, you are very worldly—you do not understand generous sentiments—”
“No, I don’t,” said Harry stoutly, “what’s the good of generous sentiments if all that they bring you to is tutorizing in a private family? I’d rather put my generous sentiments in my pocket and keep my independence. Hallo, here’s your pony carriage. Shall you drive, or shall I?”
Lady Mary was crushed by her nephew’s straightforward worldliness. Had she been perfectly genuine in her own generosity, I have no doubt she would have metaphorically flown at his throat; but she was subdued by the consciousness that, much as she liked Edgar, any sort of man with a good position and secure income would appear to her a preferable husband for Gussy. This sense of weakness cowed her, for Harry, though he was stupid intellectually, was more than a match for his aunt in the calm certainty of his sentiments on this point. He was a man of the world, disposed to deal coolly with the hearts and engagements of his sisters, which did not affect him personally, and quite determined as to the necessary character of any stranger entering his family, which did affect him.
“I will have no snobs or cads calling me brother-in-law,” he said. “No, he ain’t a snob nor a cad; but he’s nobody, which is just the same. It’s awfully good of you to visit these other nobodies, his relations. Oh, yes, I’ll go in with you, and see if she’s as pretty as he said.”
The lodging in which Dr. Murray had established himself and his sister, so much against his will, was a succession of low-roofed rooms in a cottage of one story, picturesque with creepers and heavy masses of ivy, but damp, and somewhat dark. The sitting-room was very dim on this wintry afternoon. It was a dull day, with grey skies and mist; the two little windows were half-obscured with waving branches of ivy, and the glimmer of the fire flickered into the dark corners of the dim green room. You could scarcely pass from the door to the fireplace without dragging the red and blue tablecloth off the table, or without stumbling against the sofa on one side, or the little chiffonier on the other. When Lady Mary went in, like a queen to visit her subjects, two figures rose simultaneously to meet her. Margaret had been seated in the recess of the window to catch the last rays of the afternoon, and she let her work drop hurriedly out of her fingers, and rose up, undecipherable, except in outline, against the light. Dr. Charles rose too in the same way against the firelight. Neither of the four could make each other out, and the strangers were embarrassed and silent, not knowing who their visitor was. Lady Mary, however, fortunately was equal to the occasion. She introduced herself, and mentioned Edgar, and introduced her nephew, all in a breath. “I am so sorry you should have had so uncomfortable a reception,” she said, “but you must not be angry with poor Mrs. Franks, for it could not be helped.”
“Oh, no, it could not be helped,” they both said, in unison, with low Scotch voices, the accent of which puzzled Lady Mary; and then Margaret added, still more softly, “I am sorry for her, poor woman, stopped at such a moment.” The voice was very soft, shy, full of self-consciousness and embarrassment. Harry stood by the window, and looked out, and felt more bored than ever. He had come to see a beauty, and he saw nothing but the little grass-plot before the cottage-door, shut in by bushes of holly and rhododendron. And Lady Mary went on talking in a sort of professional lady-of-the-manor strain, telling Dr. Murray what he had to look forward to, and wherein Dr. Franks had been deficient.
“You will find it a very good house, when you can get in to it,” she said, “and a pleasant neighbourhood;” and then in the little pause that followed these gracious intimations, Edgar’s name was introduced, and the mutual surprise with which his cousins and he had met; while the brother and sister explained, both together, now one strange soft voice breaking in, now the other, how much and how little they knew of him, Harry still stood leaning on the window, waiting, with a little impatience, till his aunt should have got through her civilities. But just then the mistress of the cottage appeared, holding in both hands a homely paraffin lamp, by no means free of smell, which she placed on the table, suddenly illuminating the dim interior. Harry had to move from the window while she proceeded to draw down the blinds, and thus of a sudden, without warning or preparation, he received the electric shock which had been preparing for him. Margaret had seated herself on the end of the little sofa close to the table. She had raised her eyes to look at him, probably with something of the same curiosity which had brought him to the cottage—Lady Mary’s nephew, a person in the best society, could not be without interest to the new-comers. Margaret looked up at him with the unconscious look of appeal which never went out of her beautiful eyes. The young man was, to use his own language, struck “all of a heap.” He thought she was asking something of him. In his hurry and agitation, he made a step towards her.
“You were asking—” cried Harry, eagerly, affected as he had never been in his life before. What was it she wanted? He did not stop to say to himself how beautiful she was. He felt only that she had asked him for something, and that if it were the moon she wanted, he would try to get it for her. His sudden movement, and the sound of his voice, startled Lady Mary too, who could not make out what he meant.
“I did not say anything,” said Margaret, in the slightly plaintive voice which was peculiar to her, with a smile, which seemed to the young man like thanks for the effort he had made. He took a chair, and drew it to the table, not knowing what he did. A sudden maze and confusion of mind came over him, in which he felt as if some quite private intercourse had gone on between this stranger and himself. She had asked him, he could not tell for what—and he had thrown his whole soul into the attempt to get it for her; and she had thanked him. Had this happened really, or was it only a look, a smile that had done it? The poor boy could not tell. He drew his chair close to the table to be near her. She was not a stranger to him; he felt at once that he could say anything to her, accept anything from her. He was dazed and stunned, yet excited and exhilarated by her mere look, he could not tell why.
And the talk went on again. Harry said nothing; he sat casting a glance at her from time to time, eager, hoping she would ask that service from him once more. Perhaps Margaret was accustomed to produce this effect on strangers. She went on in her plaintive voice, telling how little she knew of Edgar, and what he had done for his family, in an even flow of soft speech, answering all Lady Mary’s questions, not looking at the new worshipper—while Dr. Murray, in his embarrassed way, anxious to make a good impression, supplemented all his sister said. Margaret was not embarrassed; she was shy, yet frank; her eyes were cast down generally as she talked, over the work she held in her hands, but now and then she raised them to give emphasis to a sentence, looking suddenly full in the face of the person she was addressing. It was her way. She renewed her spell thus from moment to moment. Even Lady Mary, though she had all her wits about her, was impressed and attracted; and as for poor Harry, he sat drawing his chair closer and closer, trying to put himself so near as to intercept one of those glances which she raised to Lady Mary’s face.