This he read attentively, and his
countenance changed.
The change was almost phantasmagorial, as if the sun had burst
through the fog upon that face: it became clear, bright, almost
radiant. Yet it was but a change that may take place in the
commonest human being, provided his countenance be not too wooden, or
his artifice have not grown to second nature. He turned to Margery,
who was again edging off, and, seizing her hand, appeared as though
he were about to embrace her. Checking his impulse, he said, 'My
guardian child--my good friend--you have saved me!'
'What from?' she ventured to ask.
'That you may never know.'
She thought of the weapon, and guessed that the letter he had just
received had effected this change in his mood, but made no
observation till he went on to say, 'What did you tell me was your
name, dear girl?'
She repeated her name.
'Margaret Tucker.' He stooped, and pressed her hand. 'Sit down for
a moment--one moment,' he said, pointing to the end of the seat, and
taking the extremest further end for himself, not to discompose her.
She sat down.
'It is to ask a question,' he went on, 'and there must be confidence
between us. You have saved me from an act of madness! What can I do
for you?'
'Nothing, sir.'
'Nothing?'
'Father is very well off, and we don't want anything.
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