One of these evenings specially stamped itself on their memories; the sky was flushed rose-red with the sunset, and all the sounds in the air were soft, as summer only makes them in England: there was a tinkle going on close at hand from a convent-bell, and there was a soft sound of voices from the beach—voices, of which the inflections, the accents, were all dramatic, though they could not tell a word that was said. It was the enchanted hour, the time of natural magic and poetry; and Aubrey, though he was not at all poetical, felt it a little more than he could have believed possible. He had found out how pretty Margaret was—how much prettier, day by day. It was not that there was any striking beauty in her that conquered with a glance; but every morning when she appeared down-stairs, with her color coming and going, with her brown eyes full of such eagerness and lovely wonder, “she grew upon you,” Aubrey said. He had thought her very tolerable even at first—no particular drawback to her income and her estate. But by this time he took a great deal of interest in her. She was never the same; always changing from serious to gay, from red to white, from quiet to eagerness. He was interested, never wearied. He had not really found it much of a sacrifice to accompany the ladies, after all. The place was a bore; but then, fortunately, Margaret no longer required to be kept at this place; there was a reasonable hope of moving on to places in which there was more amusement; and Margaret was really amusing, very amusing, as girls go. There was a variety about her which kept your interest alive.
“Did you ever do anything that was real wrong?” said Margaret, dreamily, looking out toward the horizon where the rose of the sky met the blue of the sea. She was rather thinking aloud, than realizing the scope of what she said; and it is doubtful whether the girl ever realized the difference between a girl and a man—the very different sense that real wrong might have to him, or the equivocal meaning which such words might bear to a listener of so much more experience in the world.
He laughed, startling Margaret from her dreamy musing. “Alas!” he said, “a great many times, I am afraid. Did you? But I don’t suppose you know what wrong means.”
“Yes,” she said, drawing a deep breath, “I am not in fun; once: and it seems as if you never can get better of it. I don’t know if it is any excuse that I did it because I did not like to hurt a person’s feelings.”
“What was it?” he said, lightly; “a little fib—a statement that was not quite justified by fact? These are the angelical errors that count for wrong among creatures like you.”
“Then what do you call wrong, if that is not wrong? Aubrey, it was more wicked than that: but I am not going to tell you what it was. I have been dreadfully sorry ever since I did it. But I feel a little easier, a little happier now.”
“Perhaps you broke a bit of old Dresden?” he said, “or lost that Venice point Aunt Jean showed me. I should never forgive you for such sins, Margaret. No wonder you are reluctant to confess them. You are happier because nobody could be unhappy in this delicious evening, walking as we are. It is only in such a scene that I could look with complacency upon the heartless destroyer of china, the careless guardian of lace—”
“You are only laughing at me,” she said; “I think you are always laughing. Don’t you think there is anything in the world more serious than china and lace?”
“Very few things, Margaret. Few things so dear, which you will allow is very serious, and few things so easily injured.”
“But oh, Aubrey! I think that is almost wicked, to love a thing that cannot love you again, as much as—more than things that have life.”