But who can tell what cause had that fair maid
To use him so that loved her so well?
Or who with blame can justly her upbraid
For loving not? For who can love compel?
SPENSER.

It was customary with Mr. Grey to pass his mornings in the library unless some very particular business caused him to take refuge in his study. He was fond of desultory reading, and was accomplished in the knowledge of several modern languages. Mr. Haveloc usually employed himself at the other end of the room, without any reference to Mr. Grey's occupations; reading with as much eagerness upon any subject that happened to engage his attention, as if he were still a candidate for academic honours.

They seldom exchanged a remark during these hours, unless Mr. Grey suddenly became alarmed at the steadfastness of his young friend's application, when he would favour him with some of those cautions, which he was in the habit of addressing to Margaret, regarding the injurious effect of too much study.

One morning a letter was brought to Mr. Grey, which he opened and looked at with some surprise, glanced at the signature, and exclaimed, "From Hubert Gage! How extraordinary! Why could not the silly fellow come and say what he wanted, instead of writing it?"

Mr. Haveloc looked up at the unwonted interruption, and seeing Mr. Grey reading his letter with many sounds of impatience and vexation, he could not avoid "hoping that there was no bad news from Chirke Weston."

"No; not bad news," said Mr. Grey laying down his letter and his reading glasses upon it, and leaning back in his chair, as if quite tired out: "not exactly bad news."

This remark was, perhaps, rather calculated to excite than to gratify his curiosity; but Mr. Haveloc resumed his reading without farther inquiry, and Mr. Grey remained for some time in deep thought.

At last Mr. Grey looked up, and turned round to his companion.

"A very strange thing, Claude," said he. "I am sure, as far as I am concerned, the most unlooked-for occurrence. Here is Hubert Gage proposing for my little niece, Margaret—a mere baby!"

Mr. Haveloc started from his chair, made a step or two towards Mr. Grey, and then returned quietly to his seat, and made a great show of finding the place in his book again.

"Yes, it is very remarkable," said Mr. Grey, who had interpreted Mr. Haveloc's sudden movement into an expression of surprise; "I could never have foreseen it. And really, Hubert Gage, a mere boy! Of course the connexion is highly honourable, impossible to be better; but at their age. Not that anything can be more fair and manly than his letter; but if he has Captain Gage's consent to fetter himself by an engagement of this kind before he is one and twenty years old—why his father has not half the sense I gave him credit for."

Mr. Haveloc was silent.

"Yet poor young fellow," said Mr. Grey, taking up his letter, "if he is in love as he says he is, perhaps all this impatience is more natural in him than in an older man. And although this love is very often a source of great inconvenience, yet we all look back to that period, whether successful or not, as to the most spiritual, and the happiest portion of our lives. Faith, I will do all I can for him in the business."

"And Miss Capel," said Mr. Haveloc, speaking with effort.

"Oh! for her, poor little girl, I dare say she fancies herself attached to him. For I have often remarked, Claude, that when a handsome and agreeable young man pays a great deal of attention to an inexperienced girl, it generally ends in this way; first impressions are everything. And you heard her telling me the other night that Hubert used to roast chestnuts for her, and all that sort of thing. I dare say it is all for the best."

Mr. Haveloc made no reply. A dark frown settled on his face, and he leaned his head on his hands, seeming to be immersed in the folio volume that stood on a desk before him.

"If," he thought, "the love of a creature like Margaret can hinge upon such wretched trifles, why let it go. If she can love him, why should I regret her?"

Yet he felt that all he was worth would be too little to purchase such affection as hers would be, where it was freely given.

Both parties were silent for some time. Mr. Grey forgot the presence of Mr. Haveloc, so entirely was he engrossed with the subject on his mind; and he was employing himself in making a mental estimate of the amount of Margaret's and Hubert's property, and the sum he meant to add to it, when he heard her voice and step in the drawing-room, half-dancing, half-singing, as she came near the library. The sounds ceased as she turned the handle of the door, and she entered with the most demure expression in the world.

"Uncle Grey, may I have the carriage after luncheon, if you please, to go to S—," said she advancing to him, "for I have broken my guitar string—this silver one, and I cannot play till I have got another."

"Yes, my love, certainly," said Mr. Grey, drawing her towards him, "are you busy now?"

"No; this is the last piece of business I have done," said Margaret laughing, and showing him the string, which she was twining round her fingers, "a very bad business; you cannot think how it startled me when it snapped."

"Have you learned that song which Hubert Gage gave you?" asked Mr. Grey.

"The Neapolitan one? Oh, yes! it is very easy;" said Margaret, singing one or two bars in a low tone, "Mr. Hubert thinks himself so fine because he can play that air on the guitar. It is the only tune he can play."

"Well, my love," said her uncle, "I have had a letter from Hubert Gage this morning. You may read it, if you will."

As he spoke, he put the letter into her hands. He entirely forgot that Mr. Haveloc was in the room; and even had he recollected it, he would have taken it for granted, that sitting at such a distance, and engaged in reading so closely, his presence would have been no drawback to the conversation he wished to hold with his niece. Margaret, standing with her back to him, never perceived him at all; and for Mr. Haveloc, he never imagined that Mr. Grey would have done more than give Margaret the letter, and recommend her to read it at her leisure. He could not leave the room, except by passing Margaret; and he thought the sight of him would embarrass her while conversing on such a subject, therefore he remained where he was. And an intense curiosity to learn how she would receive such tidings, held him, breathless and motionless, until she left the room.

Margaret read the letter through attentively, and steadily, the crimson deepening every moment all over her face, and then looking up straight to her uncle as she returned it, she said:

"I am glad you will have to answer this letter, uncle, instead of me, since I have no practice in these matters; and it is unpleasant to be obliged to say—no."

"But, my dear child," said Mr. Grey, quite puzzled at receiving a reply so totally different to what he had expected, "what objection have you in the world to such a fine fellow as Hubert Gage?"

"He does not love me, uncle, that is one objection," said Margaret with a slight smile; "and I am sure I do not love him."

"Why, my child," said Mr. Grey, "what, do you suppose can induce a man to make you an offer, if he is not in love with you?"

"A great many reasons, uncle. I will not suppose that all the married people in the world who are so indifferent, or unhappy, have once loved each other. In my case, I can acquit Mr. Hubert of any interested motives. It is a passing fancy of his."

"But, my dear—time—you do not know how attached you might become to him. You would not like to give pain to the poor young man."

"Uncle," said Margaret, looking steadily into his face. "I must love a person a little, before I would suffer pain myself, rather than occasion it to him. I would do so for you, or Elizabeth, but not for Mr. Hubert Gage, I tell you frankly. If I thought he really loved me, I should be grieved and pained at the necessity of wounding his feelings; but, as it is, I am only ashamed, that he should have singled me out as the object of so trifling, so fleeting a regard."

"But, my dear little girl," persisted Mr. Grey, "what on earth can have put it into your head, that he does not love you?"

"Little things, uncle, that it would not be easy to put into words. It may seem vain, Sir, but at one time I was afraid he meant to pay me particular attention. A very little observation set me at rest on that point. I am young, and do not know much; but this is a matter of feeling, and not of knowledge. I am old enough to feel that he has made a mistake."

"Well, my love," said Mr. Grey, "I do not understand it:" he folded and unfolded the letter in his hand for some moments, and at last went on.

"You must reflect a little, my dear. This young man is of good family; highly connected, and, in the event of your marrying him, you would find yourself in as good a circle of connexions and acquaintances as you could possibly desire. He has something, and so have you. I would come forward, and I have no doubt his father would come forward; and you could be able to keep a carriage, and have every comfort about you."

"I am afraid, uncle," said Margaret, smiling, "that I am not old enough to appreciate these advantages."

Her uncle paused again. "He will not be satisfied, my dear, with my reply. What do you say to seeing him yourself?"

"I had rather not, uncle," said Margaret blushing still more deeply. "It is rather embarrassing—it is not agreeable to discuss this subject, even with you, Sir."

"Well, my dear," said Mr. Grey, "we will see about it; but I can tell you the young man will not give it up so quietly, if you have not another attachment."

"I can understand that such a question concerns him," said Margaret, with a faltering in her voice; "and, therefore, if you please, you can tell him I am free in that respect; but if I am free, uncle, I need not choose a person whom I do not like."

"The idea of not liking Hubert Gage!" said Mr. Grey.

"I do like him, uncle, as an acquaintance, and shall do so, if he does not teaze me; but, as a suitor—why, Uncle Grey," said Margaret brightening up, "he will forget all about me now, before I forget him, though he does profess a regard for me that I cannot return."

"Well, my love," said Mr. Grey, "you shall act exactly as your feelings dictate; but it is an awkward business I can tell you, all this proposing and rejecting."

"Thank you, dear uncle," said Margaret leaning forward, and kissing him on the forehead. "But—I may have the carriage all the same, Sir, may I not, to go for my guitar string?"

"Oh! poor Hubert Gage," said Mr. Grey leaning back, as Margaret left the room, and looking very much exhausted. "If she can think of her guitar string at such a time, I am afraid there is a remarkably small chance for the young gentleman."