‘You really think that, do you?’ returned the old man in a tone of unmistakable relief. ‘Well, in that case, just drop him a line and let him know how the matter stands. You need not put it upon me at all, but say you miss his society here very much, as, of course, you do.’
Margaret was greatly embarrassed; the task thus proposed to her was almost impossible. She had never written to the young man before, and to do so now in her peculiar circumstances, and for the purpose of asking him to return to town, would be very painful to her and might be misleading to him.
‘I like Mr. Dennis very much, uncle,’ she stammered, ‘but—— ‘
‘Just so,’ interrupted the antiquary; ‘this scepticism of his, as you were about to say, is a serious drawback; still, if _I_ can get over it, _you_ can surely make allowance for him. Moreover, when he sees the lock of hair and the love letter—and perhaps there may be other discoveries by the time he returns—he must be a very Thomas not to believe such proof. Now if it had been he instead of William Henry who had found these precious relics, all would have indeed been well.’
‘I don’t think we should grudge poor Willie his good fortune, sir,’ returned Margaret reprovingly, She was quicker than ever now to take her cousin’s part, and her uncle’s tone of regret had touched her to the quick. It made it evident to her that his new-found regard for his adopted son was but skin-deep—or rather manuscript-deep. The pity for him that she had always felt had become a deeper and more tender sentiment, and given her more courage to defend him.
‘Grudge him? Of course I do not grudge him,’ returned the antiquary, fuming. ‘I only meant that if Frank Dennis had William Henry’s gifts he would be a perfect man; you can tell him _that_ if you like.’
For a single instant Margaret saw herself telling Mr. Dennis ‘that,’ and felt the colour rise to her very forehead. Her uncle noticed that there was a hitch somewhere, and became naturally impatient at finding his wishes interfered with by the scruples of a ‘slip of a girl.’
‘Well, write what you will,’ he continued with irritation, ‘only see that it brings him.’
Poor Margaret! She liked Frank Dennis, as she had said, very much; but, as she had only too good reason to believe, not so much as he wished her to do. What she had to say to him was: ‘Come to me, but not for my sake.’ It was a parallel to the nursery address to the ducks, ‘Dilly, Dilly, come and be killed;’ only he was not to be killed, but tortured. What were the use of compliments? It was like asking a young gentleman to be best man when he wants to be the bridegroom himself. She could thoroughly depend upon Willie to avoid all appearance of triumph, but there was no getting over the fact that he was Frank’s successful rival; though he would never say like the boastful schoolboy to his less fortunate companion, ‘Do you like cakes? Then see me eat them!’ yet he had the cake, and it was a cake that could not be divided. However, there was no help for it, so she sat down to write her letter.