Chapter 48 - Page 2

thought, ere
now, and she knew that if he could, he would avoid going to a
place which he disliked, and moreover would little understand the
secret importance which she affixed to the explanation that could
only be given by word of mouth. She knew that he would feel that
it was necessary that it should be done; but whether in summer,
autumn, or winter, it would signify very little. It was now
August, and there had been no mention of the Spanish journey to
which he had alluded to Edith, and Margaret tried to reconcile
herself to the fading away of this illusion.

But one morning she received a letter, saying that next week he
meant to come up to town; he wanted to see her about a plan which
he had in his head; and, moreover, he intended to treat himself
to a little doctoring, as he had begun to come round to her
opinion, that it would be pleasanter to think that his health was
more in fault than he, when he found himself irritable and cross.
There was altogether a tone of forced cheerfulness in the letter,
as Margaret noticed afterwards; but at the time her attention was
taken up by Edith's exclamations.

'Coming up to town! Oh dear! and I am so worn out by the heat
that I don't believe I have strength enough in me for another
dinner. Besides, everybody has left but our dear stupid selves,
who can't settle where to go to. There would be nobody to meet
him.'

'I'm sure he would much rather come and dine with us quite alone
than with the most agreeable strangers you could pick up.
Besides, if he is not well he won't wish for invitations. I am
glad he has owned it at last. I was sure he was ill from the
whole tone of his letters, and yet he would not answer me when I
asked him, and I had no third person to whom I could apply for
news.'

'Oh! he is not very ill, or he would not think of Spain.'

'He never mentions Spain.'

'No! but his plan that is to be proposed evidently relates to
that. But would you really go in such weather as this?'

'Oh! it will get cooler every day. Yes! Think of it! I am only
afraid I have thought and wished too much--in that absorbing
wilful way which is sure to be disappointed--or else gratified,
to the letter, while in the spirit it gives no pleasure.'

'But that's superstitious, I'm sure, Margaret.'

'No, I don't think it is. Only it ought to warn me, and check me
from giving way to such passionate wishes. It is a sort of "Give
me children, or else I die." I'm afraid my cry is, "Let me go to
Cadiz, or else I die."'

'My dear Margaret! You'll be persuaded to stay there; and then
what shall I do? Oh! I wish I could find somebody for you to
marry here, that I could be sure of you!'

'I