All these weeks there was no intelligence of Mr. Bell’s going to Milton.  He had spoken of it at Helstone as of a journey which he might have to take in a very short time from then; but he must have transacted his business by writing, Margaret 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!’