Margaret got up, feeling the conversation had gone far enough. “May not I see the—orchids? It was the orchids I think that Lady Mary said.”
“This is the way,” said Harry, almost sullen, feeling that he had fallen from a great height. He went after her with his huge handful of velvety jasmine flowers. He did not like to offer them, he did not dare to strew them at her feet that she might walk upon them, which was what he would have liked best. He flung them aside into a corner in despite and vexation. Was he angry with her? If such a sentiment had been possible, that would have been, he felt, the feeling in his mind. But Margaret was not angry nor annoyed, though she had stopped the conversation, feeling it had gone far enough. To “give him encouragement,” she felt, was the very last thing that, in her position, she dared to do. She liked the boy, all the same, for liking her. It gave her a soothing consciousness of personal well-being. She was glad to please everybody, partly because it pleased herself, partly because she was of a kindly and amiable character. She had no objection to his admiration, to his love, if the foolish boy went so far, so long as no one had it in his power to say that she had given him encouragement; that was the one thing upon which her mind was fully made up; and then, whatever came of it, she would have nothing with which to reproach herself. If his people made a disturbance, as they probably would, and put a stop to his passion, why, then, Margaret would not be to blame; and if, on the contrary, he had strength of mind to persevere, or they, by some wonderful chance, did not oppose, why then Margaret would reap the benefit. This seems a somewhat selfish principle, looking at it from outside, but I don’t think that Margaret had what is commonly called a selfish nature. She was a perfectly sober-minded unimpassioned woman, very affectionate in her way, very kind, loving comfort and ease, but liking to partake these pleasures with those who surrounded her. If fate had decreed that she should marry Harry Thornleigh, she knew very well that she would make him an admirable wife, and she would have been quite disposed to adapt herself to the position. But in the meantime she would do nothing to commit herself, or to bring this end, however desirable it might be in itself, about.
CHAPTER VII.
No Encouragement.
“You must not take any more trouble with me,” said Margaret, “my brother will come up for me; it will be quite pleasant to walk down in the gloaming—I mean—” she added, with a slight blush over her vernacular, “in the twilight, before it is quite dark.”
“Oh! pray don’t give up those pretty Scotch words,” said Lady Mary, “gloaming is sweeter than twilight. Do you know I am so fond of Scotch, the accent as well as the words.”
Margaret replied only by a dubious smile. She would rather have been complimented on her English; and as she could not make any reply to her patroness’ enthusiasm, she continued what she was saying:
“Charles wishes to call and tell you how much he is gratified by your kindness, and the walk will be pleasant. You must not let me give you more trouble.”
“No trouble,” said Lady Mary, “but you shall have the close carriage, which will be better for you than Harry and the ponies. I hope he did not frighten you in the morning. I don’t think I could give him a character as coachman; he all but upset me the other night, when we left your house—to be sure I had been aggravating—eh, Harry?” she said, looking wickedly at him. “It was very good of you to let me have my talk out with the Professor; ladies will so seldom understand that business goes before pleasure. And I hope you will do as he asked, and come to the lecture to-morrow.”
“I am not very understanding about lectures,” said Margaret.
“Are not you? you look very understanding about everything,” said Lady Mary. She too, as well as Harry, had fallen in love with the doctor’s sister. The effect was not perhaps so sudden; but Lady Mary was a woman of warm sympathies, and sudden likings, and after a few hours in Margaret’s society she had quite yielded to her charm. She found it pleasant to look at so pretty a creature, pleasant to meet her interested look, her intelligent attention. There could not be a better listener, or a more delightful disciple; she might not perhaps know a great deal herself, but then she was so willing to adopt your views, or at least to be enlightened by them. Lady Mary sat by, and looked at her after the promenade round the conservatories, with all a woman’s admiration for beauty of the kind which women love. This, as all the world knows, is not every type; but Margaret’s drooping shadowy figure, her pathetic eyes, her soft paleness, and gentle deferential manner, were all of the kind that women admire. Lady Mary “fell in love” with the stranger. They were all three seated in the conservatory in the warm soft atmosphere, under the palm tree, and the evening was beginning to fall. The great fire in the drawing-room shone out like a red star in the distance, through all the drooping greenness of the plants, and they began half to lose sight of each other, shadowed, as this favourite spot was, by the great fan branches of the palm.