"But the lady must not make the first step."
"Not by proposal or direct word, of course—though I'll wager there have been exceptions to that; but I've read, and believe from what I've seen, that 'tis oftenest the lady that gives the first hint. No doubt, she has already made sure of the gentleman's feelings, by signs he doesn't know of. If a man didn't receive some leading on from a woman, how would he dare tell her his mind?—for if he loves her he must dread her refusal, or scorn, beyond all things. However that be, I've seen, in companies, and at the play, and even in church, how girls contrive to show their partiality to the fellows they prefer. Why, we've both had it happen to us, when we were too young for the fancy to last. And 'tis the same, I'll wager, when the girls are women, and the stronger feeling has come, the kind that lasts. Be sure a girl as clever as Margaret will find a way of showing it, if she has set her mind on either of us. And so, I'm resolved to wait for some sign from her before I speak."
He went on to explain that this course would prolong, to the unfortunate one, the possession of the pleasures of hope. It would save him, and Margaret, from the very unpleasant incident of a rejection. Such a refusal must always leave behind it a certain bitterness in the memory, that will touch what friendship remains between the two people concerned. And I know Philip's wish that, though he might not be her choice, his old friendship with her might continue perfectly unmarred, was what influenced him to avoid a possible scene of refusal.
"Then I shall do as you do," said I, "and if I see any sign, either in my favour or yours, be sure I'll tell you."
"I was just about to propose that," said Phil; and we resumed our fencing.
There was, in our plan, nothing to hinder either of us from putting his best foot forward, as the saying is, and making himself as agreeable to the young lady as he could. Indeed that was the quickest way to call forth the indication how her affections stood. I don't think Phil took any pains to appear in a better light than usual. It was his habit to be always himself, sincere, gentle, considerate, and never thrusting forward. He had acquired with his growth a playful humour with which to trim his conversation, but which never went to tiresome lengths. This was all the more taking for his quiet manner, which held one where noise and effort failed. But I exerted myself to be mighty gallant, and to show my admiration and wit in every opportune way.
I considered that Phil and I were evenly matched in the rivalry; for when a young fellow loves a girl, be she ever so divine, and though he feel in his heart that she is too good for him, yet he will believe it is in him to win her grace. If he think his self-known attractions will not suffice, he will trust to some possible hidden merits, unperceived by himself and the world, but which will manifest themselves to her sight in a magical manner vouchsafed to lovers. Or at worst, if he admit himself to be mean and unlikely, he will put reliance upon woman's caprice, which, as we all know, often makes strange selections. As for me, I took myself to be quite a conquering fellow.
In looks, 'twas my opinion that Philip and I were equally gifted. Phil was of a graceful, slender figure; within an inch of six feet, I should say; with a longish face, narrowing from the forehead downward, very distinctly outlined, the nose a little curved, the mouth still as delicate as a boy's. Indeed he always retained something boyish in his look, for all his studiousness and thoughtfulness, and all that came later. He was not as pale as in boyhood, the sea breezes that swept in from the bay, past the wharves, having given him some ruddiness. His eyes, I have said, were blue, almost of a colour with Margaret's. I was an inch or two shorter than Phil, my build was more heavy and full, my face more of an equal width, my nose a little upturned so as to give me an impudent look, my eyes a darkish brown.
That I was not Phil's match in sense, learning, talents, self-command, and modesty, did not occur to me as lessening my chances with a woman. If I lacked real wit, I had pertness; and I thought I had a manner of dashing boldness, that must do one-half the business with any girl, while my converse trick of softening my voice and eyes to her on occasion, would do the other half.
But Margaret took her time before giving a hint of her heart's condition. She was the same old comrade to us, she confided to us her adverse opinions of other people, laughed with us, and often at us (when it was like as not that she herself had made us ridiculous), told us her little secrets, let us share her gaiety and her dejection alike, teased us, soothed us, made us serve her, and played the spoiled beauty with us to the full of the part. And a beauty she was, indeed; ten times more than in her childhood. The bud was approaching its full bloom. She was of the average tallness; slender at neck, waist, wrist, and ankle, but filling out well in the figure, which had such curves as I swear I never saw elsewhere upon earth. She had the smallest foot, with the highest instep; such as one gets not often an idea of in England. Her little head, with its ripples of chestnut hair, sat like that of a princess; and her face, oval in shape, proud and soft by turns in expression—I have no way of conveying the impression it gave one, but to say that it made me think of a nosegay of fresh, flawless roses, white and red. Often, by candle-light, especially if she were dressed for a ball, or sat at the play, I would liken her to some animate gem, without the hardness that belongs to real precious stones; for indeed she shone like a jewel, thanks to the lustre of her eyes in artificial light. Whether from humidity or some quality of their substance, I do not know, but they reflected the rays as I have rarely seen eyes do; and in their luminosity her whole face seemed to have part, so that her presence had an effect of warm brilliancy that lured and dazzled you. To see her emerge from the darkness of the Faringfield coach, or from her sedan-chair, into the bright light of open doorways and of lanterns held by servants, was to hold your breath and stand with lips parted in admiration, until she made you feel your nothingness by a haughty indifference in passing, or sent you glowing to the seventh heaven by a radiant smile.