'Edith says she finds the printed calicoes in Corfu better and
cheaper than in London.' 'Does she?' said her father. 'I think that must be one of Edith's
exaggerations. Are you sure of it, Margaret?' 'I am sure she says so, papa.' 'Then I am sure of the fact,' said Mr. Bell. 'Margaret, I go so
far in my idea of your truthfulness, that it shall cover your
cousin's character. I don't believe a cousin of yours could
exaggerate.' 'Is Miss Hale so remarkable for truth?' said Mr. Thornton,
bitterly. The moment he had done so, he could have bitten his
tongue out. What was he? And why should he stab her with her
shame in this way? How evil he was to-night; possessed by
ill-humour at being detained so long from her; irritated by the
mention of some name, because he thought it belonged to a more
successful lover; now ill-tempered because he had been unable to
cope, with a light heart, against one who was trying, by gay and
careless speeches, to make the evening pass pleasantly away,--the
kind old friend to all parties, whose manner by this time might
be well known to Mr. Thornton, who had been acquainted with him
for many years. And then to speak to Margaret as he had done! She
did not get up and leave the room, as she had done in former
days, when his abruptness or his temper had annoyed her. She sat
quite still, after the first momentary glance of grieved
surprise, that made her eyes look like some child's who has met
with an unexpected rebuff; they slowly dilated into mournful,
reproachful sadness; and then they fell, and she bent over her
work, and did not speak again. But he could not help looking at
her, and he saw a sigh tremble over her body, as if she quivered
in some unwonted chill. He felt as the mother would have done, in
the midst of 'her rocking it, and rating it,' had she been called
away before her slow confiding smile, implying perfect trust in
mother's love, had proved the renewing of its love. He gave short
sharp answers; he was uneasy and cross, unable to discern between
jest and earnest; anxious only for a look, a word of hers, before
which to prostrate himself in penitent humility. But she neither
looked nor spoke. Her round taper fingers flew in and out of her
sewing, as steadily and swiftly as if that were the business of
her life. She could not care for him, he thought, or else the
passionate fervour of his wish would have forced her to raise
those eyes, if but for an instant, to read the late repentance in
his. He could have struck her before he left, in order that by
some strange overt act of rudeness, he might earn the privilege
of telling her the remorse that gnawed at his heart. It was well
that the long walk in the open air wound up this evening for him.
It sobered him back into grave resolution, that henceforth he
would see as little of her as possible,--since the very sight of
that face arid form, the very sounds of that voice (like the soft
winds of pure melody) had such power to move him from his
balance. Well! He had known what love was--a sharp pang, a fierce
experience, in the midst of whose flames he was struggling! but,
through that furnace he would fight his way out into the serenity
of middle age,--all the richer and more human for having known
this great passion.