He set forth his scheme to her the next day, taking her acquiescence for granted.  She listened quietly, without expressing her thoughts; but she neither consented nor refused.  Ned, however, made full arrangements for their voyage; considering it the crowning godsend of a providential situation, that a vessel was so soon to make the trip, notwithstanding the unlikely time of year.  When Margaret’s things were brought over to our house, he advised her to begin packing at once, and he even busied himself in procuring additional trunks from his mother and mine, that she might be able to take all her gowns to London.  The importance of this, and of leaving none of her jewelry behind, he most earnestly impressed upon her.

Yet she did not immediately set about packing, Ned probably had moments of misgiving, and of secret cursing, when he feared he might be reckoning without his host.  The rest of us, at the time, knew nothing of what passed between the two:  he pretended that the extra trunks were for some mysterious baggage of his own:  nor did we then know what passed between her and Captain Falconer late in the day, and upon which, indeed, her decision regarding Ned’s offer depended.

She had watched at our window for the captain’s passing.  When at length he appeared, she was standing so close to the glass, her eyes so unmistakably met his side-look, that he could not pretend he had not seen her.  As he bowed with most respectful civility, she beckoned him with a single movement of a finger, and went, herself, to let him in.  When he had followed her into our parlour, his manner was outwardly of the most delicate consideration, but she thought she saw beneath it a certain uneasiness.  They spoke awhile of her removal from her father’s house; but he avoided question as to its cause, or as to her intentions.  At last, she said directly, with assumed lightness: 

“I think of going to London with my brother, on the Phoebe.”

She was watching him closely:  his face brightened wonderfully.

“I vow, you could do nothing better,” he said. “There is your world.  I’ve always declared you were a stranger in this far-off land.  ’Tis time you found your proper element.  I can’t help confessing it; ’tis due to you I should confess it—­though alas for us whom you leave in New York!”

She looked at him for a moment, with a slight curling of the lip; witnessed his recovery from the fear that she might throw herself upon his care; saw his comfort at being relieved of a possible burden he was not prepared to assume; and then said, very quietly: 

“I think Mrs. Russell is coming.  You had best go.”

With a look of gallant adoration, he made to kiss her hand first.  But she drew it away, and put her finger to her lip, as if to bid him depart unheard.  When he had left the house, she fell upon the sofa and wept, but only for wounded vanity, for chagrin that she had exposed her heart to one of those gentry who will adore a woman until there is danger of her becoming an embarrassment.