CAPÍTULO 8.

            WHILE Noel, refusing any further reply to Margaret’s proposition, was hurrying homewards from Rome, she passed the first day or two in reflecting on her own motives and the possible result. Her one hesitation was suggested by the fear lest she had been influenced by any thought of happiness to herself.

(p. 494)

            ‘For me,’ she said to herself, ‘I could gladly endure long seasons of torment to know that he would come for intervals, however brief, and be happy at my side. But I do not think it is this that has prompted me. No, I am sure that my own love and own happiness have no part in my offer; were they se, I might have done wrongly. But being for him, for his sole good, there can be no wrong in it. The greater the cost to myself the better.’

            When day after day passed, and no reply came, and no sign appeared of Noel’s being still in Rome, the warm blood mantled in her cheeks as she divined the cause, and thought, –

            ‘He has departed without giving it a serious thought. He knows the world better than I do. He loves me too well to take me at my word.’

            Probably nothing could more forcibly exemplify the unworldliness of Margaret’s character and experiences than the total omission from her thoughts of the effect that the acceptance of her proposition by Noel would have upon the position of her children or her own relations with her aunt and Sophia, or even upon Noel’s own character and position in the world. In her absolute unconventionality her children were to her, not ‘daughters,’ but merely little girls. The idea of a stigma upon herself, or upon them, as a result of her acting up to what she deemed her best, never for an instant occurred to her. Had she failed to fulfil her own conception of duty by acting to please herself, it would have been different. Self-denial and atonement were as innate dogmas with her. Even when she referred to the world, it was not the actual world, but the world as she imagined it – that is, God, – that was in her thought.

            She subsided into her usual calm course of life. One evening, about a week after Sophia Bevan’s visit to Noel, as Margaret was sitting with her children at their evening meal, she was amazed by the sudden entrance of Sophia.

            ‘I wouldn’t let them announce me. Can you take me and my maid in for a night, or must we go to an hotel? Don’t let us derange you. I have only just come over for a chat; and must hurry back, as I have left mamma alone and wondering what has possessed me.’

            While Sophia ran on, Margaret conferred with the dame as to the possibility of making arrangements for their unexpected visitors. Meanwhile, Sophia exercised her delight upon the

(p. 495)

little girls, with whom she was an especial favourite, until Margaret came and said, –

            ‘Now, Sophy, we are ready to keep you as long as you will stay.’

            ‘And I may sleep here? that is charming. I want a good talk with you, but must not linger abroad. You need not look serious. There is nothing to be alarmed about. How nicely the darlings grow. And you are looking so well too, quite a colour. James always said that Rome had a natural affinity for your race. It certainly agrees with you.’

            After she got Margaret alone, Sophia subsided into seriousness.

            ‘I have come partly to have a peep at you and the chicks, and partly to consult with you about our dear Edmund. It was on seeing him in London that I formed my sudden resolution. Ever since his return from Mexico he has shut himself up; seen nobody; worried his lawyer by neglect of most important business ; risked, if not lost, his own fortune ; and looks altogether careworn and slovenly, instead of bright and genial as we have always known him. I knew you would agree with me that we who are his friends must not let him sink uncared for into illness or poverty. So here I am. ‘I’ll and poor! He was not too ill to come here last month; and I don’t see how he can be poor when I am able to draw so freely on my bankers, and he has the other half of the property, in addition to his other fortune.

            ‘Are you so sure of that?’ asked Sophia, who was watching for this opportunity.

            ‘How can it be otherwise? Mr. Tresham gave it in equal shares.’

            ‘What was the amount of the purchase-money?’

            ‘I really don’t know.’

            ‘But you know what your half came to?’

            ‘Indeed, I do not. I suppose I ought to be ashamed of my neglect, but the fact is that where I have perfect confidence never think of inquiring.’

            ‘I see,’ said Sophia. ‘And he trusted to that for your not finding it out.’

            ‘Finding out what?’

            ‘And what brought him to Rome lately?’ asked Sophia, suddenly shifting the ground, and looking Margaret full in the face.

(p. 496)

            Rarely had Margaret been conscious of an emotion that sent the blood mantling to her face. She fancied that of late years she had become more liable to the affection. Certainly the date of its origin was subsequent to her acquaintance with Noel. On the present occasion Sophia’s abrupt question caused her to feel as if the whole crimson flood of her system were mounting to her head. Making a vast effort to control herself and repress the visible signs of her emotion she merely said, –

            ‘Did he not tell you?’

            ‘He said only that he wanted a change.’

            ‘He did not tell me the precise purpose of his journey. But I saw very little of him; and he left rather suddenly, I believe.’

            ‘Listen to me, please. I wanted him to come to Linnwood, and to get into parliament. He said he had no heart for gaiety, or anything, and was too poor to enter parliament. I learnt from his lawyer that his share of the Mexican property has made but a trifling addition to his means, though yours has made you rich; and that he systematically refuses to avail himself of the considerable fortune which he might recover from his uncle’s property. I learn, partly from you and partly from himself, that he came suddenly to Rome, and left it as suddenly after seeing you; left it, too, in deep disappointment; and I gather from himself that he is very deeply in love. Now, putting all these things together, what do you tell me that I ought to infer from them?’

            ‘I cannot say, indeed,’ murmured Margaret; ‘but if you have any reason to think that he has deprived himself of his share for me, I must write and ask. How careless and ungrateful he must think me! And so wrong of him, as if he could think that I would accept what is not properly mine.’

            ‘Probably it was that conviction which made him do it in such a way. But I don’t think you ought to be offended.’

            ‘His affection for James must have prompted his generosity ––’

            ‘More likely his affection for James’s widow. Come, Margaret, don’t pretend insensibility. I asked you once to recommend a wife to Edmund, and like a good creature you recommended me.’

            ‘How do you know?’

            ‘Never mind. I asked him plump, and he was obliged to acknowledge it. It was a mistake, though a pardonable one, for

(p. 497)

one who knows so little of the world as you do, to make. Ours has always been one of those friendships that are incompatible with love – at least such as Edmund imagines it. I could never be anything but as an elder sister to him. I thought then that there was one in the world better suited to his taste than any other whom I knew, but that one was pre-engaged. She is free now. Will you take him?’

            ‘Really, Sophy,’ stammered poor Margaret; but Sophia having burst her bounds went on impetuously.

            ‘Here’s the best fellow in the world – I know all his faults – has been in love with you since the first moment he saw you, and that, I happen to know, was long before you ever saw him. His whole life has turned upon you ever since he knew you. He is consumed by a hopeless attachment for you – wasting his life, ruining his health, giving you one-half his fortune, and running the risk of losing the other. He talks of devotion to literature, but that must be a mere pretence, since he has no motive for exertion. And he as good as gives up his friendship and intimacy with me, which I WON’T stand. I come to ask you to give me back my friend – not a haggard, indifferent, cynical man, but Edmund, bright and affectionate as of old, clear of intellect, ambitious of distinction, active in benevolence, and eager in the use and enjoyment of life. Margaret, I demand Edmund Noel at your hands. Restore him to me as he was, or I can never love you more.’

            ‘How am I to do all this?’ asked Margaret, bewildered by her friend’s impetuosity, and wondering what her meaning could be, seeing that Sophia had allowed that there could be no love between Noel and herself.

            ‘How? By marrying him, and making a man of him again.’

            ‘Is that your idea of my duty’ she asked, faintly.

            ‘Most decidedly. Is it so very distasteful to you?’

            ‘It is very difficult.’

            ‘Why?’

            ‘Can you not imagine?’ And as she spoke, a soft, warm, rosy hue spread over her whole countenance, and, bending downwards, she hid her face in her bands.

            A light flashed upon Sophia. It seemed to her that she must have been blind never to have suspected before. She exclaimed, loudly, –

            ‘Is it possible? Can it be that you love him?’

(p. 498)

            ‘Please don’t,’ murmured poor Margaret, her face still buried.

            ‘Why not? I must know. Speak!’ And then, more gently, –

            ‘Dearest Margaret, you need not fear to tell me. Am I not as his own sister?’

            Raising the sweet face, smiling through its tears, she said, imploringly, –

            ‘Do not blame me; I cannot help it. I love him with my whole soul.’

            ‘I see, I see. And it is this poor foolish timidity that you are allowing to work his misery and yours. Pray, what did he say to you when he came to Rome last month? Did he ask you to marry him?’

            ‘Yes,’ was the scarcely audible reply, as of a conscious culprit.

            ‘And you refused him?’

            Margaret was silent. Sophia repeated her question.

            ‘Refused him while loving him! and why, pray?’

            ‘Because I loved him, thought he might do so much better for himself.’

            ‘Oh, this self-sacrifice!’ almost groaned Sophia. What fools we women make of ourselves with it. But now that your “duty” takes another shape, I hope you will be equally ready to perform it.’

            ‘Why, what can I possibly do? You would not have me seek him? Besides, you must see, that with all London before him he can do so much better.’

            ‘I suspect he thinks that he might search a hundred Londons through, and not find another Margaret. And I am very much of the same opinion. There! No, no, darling. I will make you both happy without your taking a step yourself, and want no other reward than to see you so. But you must come home with me.’

            ‘No, no, not now; I cannot.’

            ‘I do, not see that it is at all so unlikely that I should come and persuade you to return to us, as to betray a special purpose. Have you anything to detain you beyond a sentiment? By the bye, how have you occupied yourself all this time?’

            ‘I will show you some of my work to-morrow morning. And in the mean time I must think. You must have some rest. I shall send you to bed at once.’

(p. 499)

            As they parted for the night, the kisses which they exchanged showed more depth of affection than they had ever before been conscious of for each other. They were both true and both women.

            Next morning Margaret, who had passed the greater part of the night in pondering, told Sophia that she could not see her way to returning to England just yet. ‘You are so much quicker than I am,’ she said, ‘and see the way through difficulties of which I see only the commencement. If only for the sake of my own satisfaction, I must remain a while longer in Rome. It is important, too, for the children, that they do not return to England before the season gets milder.’

            ‘Well, perhaps you are right. Edmund is not a man to be taken by storm. So I will go back without you.’

            ‘And now come and see my paintings,’ said Margaret, leading the way to her studio.

            Three or four pictures, large and small, copies of the best works of the best masters, were ranged round the room. Sophia did not care for these, admirably as Margaret had done them; but pointing to some draperies, asked what they concealed. Margaret raised one, and revealed a portrait of Lady Bevan.

            Sophia was in ecstasies.

            You have got her exactly. Her dear calm quiet air, and serene elderly grace, and that cap, – it is all to the life. How pleased she will be!’

            ‘I am a little doubtful of this one,’ said Margaret, uncovering another.

            ‘You have made me too handsome, my dear,’ said Sophia. I am afraid any one who sees that first will be disappointed on seeing me afterwards. But it is very good; and all from memory, too?’

            ‘Well, I confess I studied you a little, and made some sketches for it when first we came to Rome. I have yet another,’ she said, with a blush, and one that I should not have shown you yesterday.’

            And withdrawing a curtain, she exhibited a picture of Edmund Noel, life-size, and nearly half-length. Sophia gazed at it in silent amazement, an unusual phenomenon for her, as she afterwards remarked; and at length turning to Margaret, said, ‑

            ‘This has indeed been a labour of love. Love lives in every

(p. 500)

line of it. Commend me to Rome, if this be the kind of penance inflicted here.’

            ‘And do you think it has been no penance to me?’ asked Margaret. ‘I meant this for a wedding present to his wife. Since he was here I have not dared to look at it. But you must not tell him,’ she added, hastily; ‘all this is in confidence, like the rest of our revelations.’

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