“Pray do not speak of it in that way, Stephen,” she answered. “It’s a dear, delightful book, at all events; and since I read it I have been thinking more than ever of dear Jack. You know that he went away in a ship to the Pacific Ocean, and the ship was wrecked, just as Robinson Crusoe’s was, and though he was not a supercargo, he was a midshipman, and I don’t suppose there is much difference; and at all events, if Robinson Crusoe was saved, and lived on a desert island for many years, though everybody else in the ship was lost, why should not dear Jack have been cast on some island, and be still alive, though not able to get away, or I am sure that he would, and would come home and tell us all about it; for he knows how we all love him and think about him every day.”
“What a strange idea!” said Stephen, somewhat coldly. “I thought that it was settled that Jack was dead long ago. Do you really believe that he is alive?”
“Of course I do,” answered Margery, with some little impatience in her tone; “it was only those who don’t care about him settled that he was dead. I have always, always, been sure that he is alive, over the sea there, a long, long way off; but he will come back when we can send for him.”
“Very strange!” muttered Stephen. “But what, Mrs Margery, would you have me do?”
“Stephen, you knew dear Jack well,” she answered, fixing her large blue eyes on him; “you used to call him your friend, and friends ought to help each other. If I was a boy, whether or not I was Jack’s brother—if I was his friend,—I know what I would do: I would go out and look for him.”
“But where would you look?” asked Stephen. “The Pacific is a very wide place, even on the map; and I have a fancy that in reality it is wider still. There are many, many islands no one knows anything of.”
“Ah! that is the very thing I have been thinking of,” exclaimed Margery. “I am certain that Jack is living on one of those very islands.”
“How can you, Margery, be certain of any such thing?” said Stephen, in his usual cold tone, which contrasted curiously with the enthusiastic manner of little Margery.
“How can you ask that question, Stephen?” she exclaimed, half angry that he should venture to doubt the correctness of her most cherished belief. “Robinson Crusoe was wrecked on a desert island and so Jack may be, and I want you to go and look for him, and bring him home! There! I will not be refused! You are old enough and big enough to go,—bigger than Jack was—and you have plenty of money; and your papa always lets you do just what you like, so you say; and besides, you often speak to me of Jack as your old friend; and if he was your friend I ask you to prove it by bringing him home.”
When Stephen heard this he first thought that Margery was joking, but the matter was too serious for that; then the idea occurred to him that she had gone out of her mind; but she looked so calm, and quiet, and earnest, that he banished it immediately, and promised to think over her proposal, and speak to his father. He, however, very well knew the answer his father would give, and he himself had no wish to go wandering about the world in search of one for whom he cared but little. Had Margery known what was passing in his mind how she would have despised him. But she did not; she fancied that he must be as enthusiastic as she herself was, and that it was only necessary to mention her idea for him to take it up warmly. She therefore was prepared to wait patiently, under the belief that Stephen would soon be able to give a favourable answer to her request.