CHAPTER III

‘The more haste the worse speed’

’Learn to win a lady’s faith
Nobly, as the thing is high;
Bravely, as for life and death—­
With a loyal gravity.

Lead her from the festive boards,
Point her to the starry skies,
Guard her, by your truthful words,
Pure from courtship’s flatteries.’ 
Mrs. Browning.

‘Mr. Henry Lennox.’  Margaret had been thinking of him only a moment before, and remembering his inquiry into her probable occupations at home.  It was ’parler du soleil et l’on en voit les rayons;’ and the brightness of the sun came over Margaret’s face as she put down her board, and went forward to shake hands with him.  ‘Tell mamma, Sarah,’ said she.  ’Mamma and I want to ask you so many questions about Edith; I am so much obliged to you for coming.’

‘Did not I say that I should?’ asked he, in a lower tone than that in which she had spoken.

’But I heard of you so far away in the Highlands that I never thought Hampshire could come in.

‘Oh!’ said he, more lightly, ’our young couple were playing such foolish pranks, running all sorts of risks, climbing this mountain, sailing on that lake, that I really thought they needed a Mentor to take care of them.  And indeed they did; they were quite beyond my uncle’s management, and kept the old gentleman in a panic for sixteen hours out of the twenty-four.  Indeed, when I once saw how unfit they were to be trusted alone, I thought it my duty not to leave them till I had seen them safely embarked at Plymouth.’

’Have you been at Plymouth?  Oh!  Edith never named that.  To be sure, she has written in such a hurry lately.  Did they really sail on Tuesday?’

’Really sailed, and relieved me from many responsibilities.  Edith gave me all sorts of messages for you.  I believe I have a little diminutive note somewhere; yes, here it is.’

‘Oh! thank you,’ exclaimed Margaret; and then, half wishing to read it alone and unwatched, she made the excuse of going to tell her mother again (Sarah surely had made some mistake) that Mr. Lennox was there.

When she had left the room, he began in his scrutinising way to look about him.  The little drawing-room was looking its best in the streaming light of the morning sun.  The middle window in the bow was opened, and clustering roses and the scarlet honeysuckle came peeping round the corner; the small lawn was gorgeous with verbenas and geraniums of all bright colours.  But the very brightness outside made the colours within seem poor and faded.  The carpet was far from new; the chintz had been often washed; the whole apartment was smaller and shabbier than he had expected, as back-ground and frame-work for Margaret, herself so queenly.  He took up one of the books lying on the table; it was the Paradiso of Dante, in the proper old Italian binding of white vellum and gold; by it lay a dictionary, and some words copied out in Margaret’s hand-writing.  They were a dull list of words, but somehow he liked looking at them.  He put them down with a sigh.