In spite of a good deal of open opposition on the part of Grace, Margaret, full of the enthusiasm of a girl whose intelligence after being long cramped suddenly finds an outlet, threw herself heartily into a systematic course of real study, and the mornings flew on pleasantly. Mrs. Dorriman, who had read a great deal during the lonely hours she had spent, had theorized after the fashion of solitary readers. Her views of life were not unnaturally entirely pessimist, she rejected many high and great ideas from a dislike to what she conceived to be exaggeration. Her character was very far from firm, and she was conscious of this and other shortcomings, but her sweetness of temper saved her from being soured. She had a craving for happiness, without believing in its being possible for her. Her spirits were always low, and the effect of the harshness of her brother, and of the neglect she had suffered from in her youth, would probably pursue her all her life, and affected her now.
She carried this negation of hope even into her religious exercises, finding comfort chiefly in passages about resignation; and, though she had a vague belief that in the future she might have some share of bliss, she never expected it on this side of the grave.
Then another and a most terrible question troubled her greatly. She did not look forward with any profound rejoicing, to the prospect of once more meeting with her husband whom she had forgiven, but whom she had never loved.
That hope that spans the chasm between us and the future, is not always the comfort it is supposed to be, and indeed much may be said about her want of wisdom in dwelling upon problems which must remain unsolved.
She was too timid to take her fears and show her anxieties to any one capable of helping her at all. She was conscious of feeling disloyal to her husband in this matter, which was often a trial to her, and she indulged sometimes in speculations which unsettled her and did not tend to comfort her.
Poor woman! When Margaret put those pointed questions to her common to girls who have begun to think out things and want help, she read and re-read various authors only to come to the unsatisfactory previous conclusions. In this respect the association was not productive of much good on either side, but, excepting in this, the results were to make both happier.
Mrs. Dorriman, married so young as to be barely out of childhood, had the tenacity of opinion and the strong bias in favour of her own conclusions always to be found where the mind has dwelt upon itself, and has not been enlarged by friction with other minds, a bias which no amount of reading tends to modify, since each book is read and digested, almost one might say distorted, by the views brought to bear upon it, a mode of reading which may be compared to looking at a bright and a rainy day through the same smoky glass which gives everything its own hue. But the very exception she took at times, served to arouse Margaret's own powers of thought, and to make her reflect upon her reasons for liking and disliking opinions, and the language in which those opinions were put before her. Many fine sounding phrases fell to pieces when treated this way, and many lovely poems became to her so much more when she followed out a thought therein shadowed forth.
Grace could in reality do nothing to stop this reading, and, though at first she made many bitter observations, she had not the heart to destroy her sister's comfort in these mornings; and indeed, at certain times, when her own idleness became oppressive, she went and sat with them, preserving her independence by making no remarks, standing, as it were, aside and taking no part in any discussion, as though her own mind had been long made up and that these questions had been grappled with and settled by her long ago.
Mrs. Dorriman, who was always more timid when Grace was present, was always relieved when she did not appear, and then took herself to task for the relief. There was no doubt that Mrs. Dorriman brought a great increase of comfort to the place, everything was well looked after, and Mr. Sandford recognised that it was so, without exactly knowing in which way a change had been made.
The one restless and dissatisfied person was always Grace. The monotony of the days became to her absolutely terrible. She had all the discomfort of having put herself upon a pinnacle without any admiring crowd to make up for the isolation. It was difficult for her to come down. Advances of friendliness and proffered affection had been made in vain by Mrs. Dorriman and now no effort was made. Perhaps the hardest trial of all was the perceptible loss of her sister's blind admiration for all she said. To Margaret, Grace was still beautiful, graceful, and full of talents, which only needed recognition to dazzle the world; but she began to think it just possible that Grace did not quite understand things affecting herself and Mrs. Dorriman; and instead of accepting her conclusions, as she had done all her life, without question, she began now to endeavour to argue with her, and though Grace bore her down by a flow of language and silenced her she remained unconvinced and Grace herself knew it. This change, this falling-off in her allegiance, was laid to the charge of Mrs. Dorriman, and when occasions arose that poor lady was told much, which wounded her sorely, about setting the sisters against each other.
There were times when Grace paced her room in a perfect frenzy of impatience. Her life was slipping away, she thought, and there was no break, nothing in sight. What was the use of being what she was—fitted to reign—when there was no kingdom? Were her gifts—for she believed in her gifts—all to be useless to her?
They had been four months together now; she had seen the snowfall turn black and smutty and lose its beauty under the influence of smoke. Some half-dozen people had called, but they came to see Mrs. Dorriman. In a thousand little minute things she found herself of no account. This was not her natural sphere, and she longed for something in which her merits would be recognised. A good deal of her dissatisfaction was entirely unknown to Mrs. Dorriman, but she had so kindly a heart that she longed to give the girl some interest in life. It was sad to see her day by day more dull, more apathetic, and more discontented.
"Will you not come and look into the housekeeping with me, Grace?" she said, one morning when she saw her, without even the pretence of a book in her hand, throw herself down on a lounging-chair, looking as usual bored and dull.
"What good would it do?" asked Grace, surprised by the invitation.
"I think a notion of housekeeping is a very useful thing. You may have a house of your own some day."
"When that day comes I may learn it. There is not much to learn, I suppose—any intelligent person can order a dinner."
Mrs. Dorriman said no more.
It was rather surprising to Grace that Mrs. Dorriman was so fond of going into the town, and evidently liked going alone. What took her there? Idleness being the mother of curiosity as well as of mischief and other things, she never rested till she found out that she always went to one particular street and to one particular house.
Unsuspecting Mrs. Dorriman felt as though a bomb-shell exploded under her feet when Grace said at dinner:
"What is the name of the person you go to see at Baxter's Houses, Mrs. Dorriman?"
The poor woman coloured and looked nervously at her brother as she answered:
"An old servant of mine, if you wish to know."
Her colour and her nervousness gave Grace a sort of inkling that something more lay behind, so she said with a laugh:
"You must be much attached to her as you seem to go and see her every second day."
Poor Mrs. Dorriman was ready to cry at the suddenness of the attack. She answered something in a low voice which was heard by no one—but she required no defence. Mr. Sandford, usually absorbed in his dinner and taking small share in the conversation, looked up keenly as Grace put the question, and when she asserted the visits were of such frequent recurrence he received a certain shock. An old servant—who was she? But he was not going to have his sister bullied by any one but himself, and he thundered out with an emphatic slap upon the table:
"What business is it of yours, I should like to know, who my sister visits or does not? I consider it very impertinent and uncalled-for your speaking in that way to her; and I blame you," he said turning to his sister, "for letting her get the upper hand; you should keep her down, you should keep her in her place."
Grace rose, white with anger. Margaret trembling rose also.
"Sit down, both of ye," he said, in a tone which awed them both, and they sat down. When they eventually left the room Grace went to her bedroom and Margaret followed to console her.
But the consolation was not so great because Margaret, while grieving for her being wounded, could not think her in the right, and was much too honest to say so; and to her sister no consolation could come unless she was entirely placed in the position of an injured martyr.
In the meantime Mr. Sandford sent for Mrs. Dorriman. He could not be happy till he had spoken to her about this. He did not choose that she should be bullied but he also did not choose that she should have old servants and people in her interests at hand.
"Who is this person living here, and in your confidence?" he asked roughly.
"My old maid, Jean."
"What made you bring her?"
"I did not bring her; but, supposing I had, if I did not bring her to your house, it cannot matter."
"It matters, because you are keeping to my wish ostensibly, but, in reality, you are opposing it."
"I do not pretend to understand you," and Mrs. Dorriman's spirit rose. This was going too far. "You break up my home; you bring me here; you deprive me of the comfort of my personal attendant—and to what end? What is the use of my being here?"
"Of course you cannot understand. You cannot afford a separate house. There are certain papers your husband had, which might have made all different. Youmight," and he looked at her earnestly and anxiously, "have found receipts and be better off; but the purport of everything would have to be explained to you, and, after all that has come and gone between me and your husband, it would be as well not to let a stranger step in."
Mrs. Dorriman shrank. She also had this fear; but we say a thing to ourselves that we cannot bear to put into words, and now it was dreadful to her to hear this. Her spirit died again, and she said helplessly—
"I cannot give up seeing Jean."
"How did she come here?"
"When I told her you would not—could not—have her here, she said nothing, but she sought and found a situation here. She has been ill; and she has had no comforts; and Imustsee her!"
There was a pause. Mrs. Dorriman looked at her brother anxiously. He was evidently thinking over something. At length he broke silence—
"What is the tie between you?" he asked, abruptly. "Has she any of your things in charge?"
"Things!" she said, surprised. "No. Why, poor thing—where could she put them? No, she has no charge of anything; and the tie between us is but the tie of long service and great trustworthiness. You are a rich man, brother, and can command services; but to be poor and to be alone is to know what faithful service given you from affection is."
"That is a high-flown idea," he answered; "that is the sort of thing the doctor said. I never found that sort of service available. I was also to derive much satisfaction from the society of young people. I cannot say that the society of Grace Rivers affords me any satisfaction; I think she is as disagreeable a girl as I ever came across."
"She has all the lessons of life to learn," said Mrs. Dorriman, gently.
"She had better learn them soon," he said, gruffly, "if she intends to remain under my roof."
"If she could marry, and have a home of her own," and Mrs. Dorriman sighed, for this did not always bring happiness.
"And why should she not marry?"
"There is no reason, except——" and Mrs. Dorriman made a startled pause.
"Well," said Mr. Sandford, "except—pray go on—you really are very trying sometimes. What upon earth are you afraid of?"
"To marry, you must have a chance of seeing people."
Mr. Sandford reflected upon this answer, then he said—
"You do not know it, but do you know sometimes you say very sensible things."
Mrs. Dorriman smiled faintly, and left him, relieved beyond expression that nothing more had been said about Jean.
But her satisfaction did not last long. Late in the afternoon of the next day she was told a woman wished to see her, and Jean—much too ill to have left her bed—stood before her, pale, defiant, and all her spirit roused to resistance.
"The master has ordered me away," she said, "he came to-day and bid me go. He threatened and stormed!"
She was flushed and feverish. All through the cold wind of the early spring she had come, fever in her veins, and burning in her head; and now she dropped down upon a chair and shivered, looking wild, and evidently was on the verge of delirium.
The dinner-bell rang unheeded, and when Mrs. Dorriman was fetched she sent word she could not come.
Mr. Sandford, angry and amazed, went to her room—to find Jean on a sofa, talking loud and fast, incoherently, and Mrs. Dorriman pale and composed, attending to her. She met him with reproach.
"How could you? How could you?" she began. "She was ill, poor thing! and you told her to go. But she shall not go! I will nurse her. My poor, poor Jean!"
Mr. Sandford himself was startled. To do him justice, he had not seen that the poor woman was so ill. In the height of her illness, upheld by a strong resentment against him, she had come to his house, and there she must remain.
No persuasion would induce Mrs. Dorriman to consent to her removal to the hospital or to allow any one to take her place by Jean's bedside.
The doctor came and went constantly, Mrs. Dorriman, submissive and timid when she herself was in question, was neither of these things as regarded Jean.
That bow-windowed room coveted by Grace was made into a bedroom for her, but she would not sleep out of Jean's room; she allowed no other hand to tend her. Mr. Sandford was astonished and touched. This was the weak woman he had scouted, and whom he had thought so incapable. He watched her come and go with a perpetual amazement, and learned by that poor woman's bedside something of the service love can give and does give, and which no money can buy.
It was a sad household because Mrs. Dorriman was missed by all, but as there is generally a bright spot somewhere, so in this instance Grace thought she had found it, and that now she had her opportunity.
She rearranged the drawing-room, making the very moving of the furniture a protest against Mrs. Dorriman's position as head—she interviewed the cook, throwing so much command into her manner that she was met with direct antagonism. All the servants were in arms against her, the dinners were bad, the servants discontented, and the household bills heavy. Grace knew nothing of expense, nothing of the commonest rules as a guidance, and she allowed no one to suggest or of course tell her anything. Mr. Sandford recognised the loss of his sister's services the moment he was deprived of them; and Grace had the mortification of hearing him say to her,
"It is to be hoped you will be soon able to take your own place again. The discomfort is terrible, and we never get anything fit to eat, and everything is at sixes and sevens."
Watching his sister's ways with the servant she so regarded, he could not help asking himself whether supposing he was ill, as ill as this, he could command the same devotion. He expressed this to Mrs. Dorriman one day; she looked at him gravely and said without any emotion:
"If you were ill, I should try and do my duty."
He turned abruptly and left her; he had hoped for something more, and yet what reason had he to expect it?
When Jean got better and required less attention, Mrs. Dorriman found that all her powers were wanted in a different direction.
Between a spoiled undisciplined nature like that of Grace Rivers, and a character whose salient feature was love of power, such as Mr. Sandford possessed, it was impossible for the constant association to go without friction. Margaret was in a state of perpetual alarm, giving her sister right always, from habit and unreasoning affection, and therefore no real use to her, and the first day Mrs. Dorriman found herself able to take up her round of daily duties, she found Grace, not Margaret, waiting to speak to her, Grace in a state of excitement she did not try to repress, who plunged into the subject of her troubles with an abandonment and vehemence which went far to frighten the gentle little woman, who was expected to console, and understand, and sympathise all in a breath, at a moment's notice.
"Your brother hates me, why does he have us here?" Grace began; "it is cruel! Why does he not let us go where at any rate we might be free and lead our own lives, Margaret and I."
She paced up and down, her hands clasped before her, an angry flush upon her face—pausing every now and again to look at Mrs. Dorriman whose delicate forehead was ruffled, and whose attitude spoke of weariness.
"Has any thing happened? What is the matter? What has gone wrong?" Her voice sounded cold and unsympathetic to Grace's ears. It acted like a drop of cold water on heated iron.
"Of course you don't care," she burst out with, "you care for nothing; nothing seems to move you; nothing rouses you; but can you not see my sister and I are miserable and wretched?"
"Grace," said the elder woman, and her voice was full of real kindness, "would you mind sitting down, it tries me sorely to see you dashing about this way, and—I'm not very strong just now. I have had a good deal of fatigue lately."
"I am sorry," the girl said in somewhat a hard tone, throwing herself into a chair, feeling that all she had to say was more difficult to say when she was deprived of her manner of saying it.
"Let us talk it all out, Grace; all the bitterness, all the disappointment, everything that is making you wretched. What is it you wish to do? What is it particularly you complain of?"
"Mr. Sandford is so unkind: he speaks so harshly to me. I know he hates me."
"And you have tried to win his affection, you have done all on your side to make him like you?"
"I know it is no use. And he does not appreciate me in any way."
"Appreciate you?"
"At school I was always first and everyone knew I was clever—since—and—here he takes no notice. If he dislikes us, why must we live here, why may we not go?" Grace persisted, anxious to cling to her point and gain it.
"I am afraid you have never quite understood your position, Grace; that you really know nothing about it; and if I explain it to you you will perhaps be very angry."
"I think I understand our position," said Grace, with a slight toss of the head, "we are his wards, Margaret and I; he is our guardian."
"You are quite wrong, Grace; he is nothing of the sort."
"Then why does he arrange for us? I was always told he was our guardian," and Grace opened her eyes wide, and looked at Mrs. Dorriman, surprised out of her usual self-assertion.
"You know he, my brother, is in no way related to you, except by marriage?"
"Yes, I suppose so."
"When your mother died—your father being long dead, poor child—there was nearly nothing——" Mrs. Dorriman hesitated. It seemed so hard to tell this girl what she had to tell her.
"Nothing! but we have an income, Grace and I?"
"You have a small income, because my brother gave up his wife's, your aunt's, little fortune, and added to the little, the very little, there was, and managing it skilfully—there is as you say a little income, but Grace, my dear child, do you suppose that such an income would enable you two to live in any comfort as you have been accustomed to live? There is little over one hundred a year."
"Is that all?" asked Grace, her face crimson; "we thought that was only an allowance out of our money, we never dreamt there was nothing else. You are quite sure?" she asked, her face paling again; she felt this a blow she could never recover from.
"My brother welcomes you to his house, he makes me give up my pretty and quiet home to come and be here so that all should go well. He has a rough and a hard manner, but to you, Grace, he has been good, to you and Margaret he has been very generous."
"Is this really the truth?" asked Grace; "do you mean to say that we have nothing, Margaret and I, and we are not his relations? Why, why has he done this? He does not care for us. What is his motive?"
"He cared for your mother's sister, Grace. He loved his wife with a passionate affection time has not changed. Her anxiety was about you, left to the world's mercy. Is it fair to him that his kindness should be met with scorn, and that, owing him what you do, you should take exception to his manner and defy him openly?"
Grace was silent, kept silent by surprise and by a passionate and impatient remonstrance against the position she was placed in. It was intolerable to her to have this weight of obligation with no affection to lighten it.
"He weighs us down with the sense of obligation," she said at length; "if he were really generous he would make the load lighter."
"He is a human being and imperfect," said poor Mrs. Dorriman, who, while acknowledging the truth of this, felt it came ungratefully from the lips of Grace Rivers, who owed him so much. "Now, Grace," she went on, after a thoughtful silence on the part of each, "let us examine into your other grievances. I think I have given you good reason for accepting the home my brother offers. It is not beautiful I own. It is to me everything I most dislike, but he chooses it and there is no use in wishing it to be bettered."
"Then you, too, are dependent upon him?" said Grace; "of course you are or you would not so surrender your house, the hills and rocks and river you have talked of so much, without a strong reason."
"I am not discussing my position or my grievances," said Mrs. Dorriman, stung by a careless word flung at random and making so perfect a hit.
But Grace, this new idea in her head, found Mrs. Dorriman much more tolerable to do with. She was a fellow-sufferer, and, as such, to be felt for; there was a perceptible change in her tone when she said,
"I think at our age we might see people sometimes. I get frightened when I think that perhaps all our youth may pass in this way and no possibility of a change."
"That is a very natural thought. I also have had the same idea. I have already spoken to my brother."
"And what does he say?" asked the girl eagerly.
"He agreed to make some effort; then poor Jean was ill, and everything has been left as it was."
"And now she is better you will speak again?"
"Yes, I will speak again; and now one word more. I hope what I have told you will make you more inclined to accept my brother as he is, whatever his faults may be. However harsh he may have been to others, he has been good and kind to you."
"I must first become accustomed to the painful idea of owing him so much," said Grace, in a tone of anything but humility and full of a patronage, in her way, that made Mrs. Dorriman regret she had revealed her own position to her, and she soon rose and left the room.
Meaning to be kinder to her, Grace's manner was more of a trial to Mrs. Dorriman than it had been before. Unmerited impertinence is bad enough, but to be patronised by a girl who had no tact and a great belief in herself, was quite beyond ordinary trials.
Just at that time, before Mr. Sandford had time to note the difference in Grace's manner, he received a letter which made a change in the household eventually, though this change dawned but gradually on the minds of those who were affected by it.
The girls noticed that his manner became more important, that he read and re-read this letter during dinner several times and kept it beside his plate, a thing unknown in his previous history; then, in a pompous voice and addressing his sister, he said,
"Mr. Drayton, a person for whose family I have a high regard, comes to-morrow to consult with me on important business. We must ask him to dinner."
"Very well," answered Mrs. Dorriman, not fully aware of the importance he attached to this arrival.
"He is a man of enormous wealth, enormous wealth, and comes to consult me about some investments." He rolled out these words with immense emphasis, and looked round at the three faces to see what impression his announcement had made.
"Is he good-looking?" asked Grace, with some interest in her manner. "Is he amusing?"
"Is he a friend of yours, John?" Mrs. Dorriman asked gently. "I never heard his name before."
Margaret was mute.
"How can I tell what you consider good-looking," he answered, roughly. "He is a fine strong well-built fellow, and has seen a great deal of the world, and he is a successful man, which is more than being good-looking or amusing, let me tell you."
"If he has seen the world he will be at any rate interesting," said Mrs. Dorriman, rising; but when they had reached the door he called her back, and said in a tone of mystery:
"You spoke of society and giving the girls a chance. I don't wish Margaret away, but if George Drayton takes a fancy to Grace she will have to take him."
Mrs. Dorriman shivered: this speech recalled her own youth, when she had to "take" the husband he had chosen for her.
Instinct often gives a woman the right weapon to use, and she said now hurriedly:
"If you let her know this, if you tell her this, she will set herself against him."
He looked at her with that sort of surprise which always came to him when she showed anything of the wisdom of the serpent he considered her so completely without.
"I think you are right," he said, slowly; "but I mean this marriage to be, and you understand if you see a way of helping it I expect you to help it on."
"If I like the man—if I approve," she said, in a low voice, but with a firmness unusual to her. "And if she likes him."
Mr. Sandford laughed his usual sarcastic laugh.
"If! if! if!" he exclaimed. He was going to say something, but there was a look in her face that warned him he had better not. He turned sharply round and went off to his own room.
"Grace, my darling!" whispered Margaret to her sister as they stood in the window that night with the grimy world before them hushed into silence, and the stars shining down upon them, "perhaps this will be the Prince."
"It does not sound like it, Margaret," she answered, scornfully. "A manufacturer, and a man no longer young."
"We cannot tell," said Margaret. "But it may be, oh, I hope, I hope it may be your prince, and that he may be charming and everything your prince ought to be."
"I hope so," said Grace, whispering also, and in a voice trembling with some suppressed feeling. "For, Margaret, I am very, very wretched here, and I sometimes think if I see no escape for myself, if no change comes, I shall die. Oh!" she exclaimed, breaking into the silence of the night with a passionate cry she could not repress, "if life holds nothing more for me than this, then give me death!"
That finality of all things, whether of happiness or of misery, brought Jean's long illness to a close—and the pleasure Mrs. Dorriman had in seeing her recover was often now tinged with sorrow when she thought of the separation that must follow.
Her brother had been forbearing, but his patience must not be overtaxed. Mrs. Dorriman knew nothing of those changes of feeling which softened Mr. Sandford towards her and any one she loved. She stood no longer to him in the antagonism he himself had placed her in. If she was acting against him in any way, if she knew what he dreaded, she might know he was satisfied that the knowledge had come without understanding. Her great sweetness of temper was something soothing to him, her kindness to her old servant, the unfailing cheerfulness towards her, was a sort of surprise to him. He found her no longer, in his eyes, a weak woman, whom he could keep by him, and under his authority, but a woman full of unexpected tenderness. Towards himself the habit of years gave her a certain submissiveness; he began to wish, as he lay, often wakeful, that this could be changed. But affection! He had no hope, no belief, in this as possible from her to him. He had blighted her life; her crushed spirits were a standing proof of this; and then he would laugh himself to scorn.
His illness must have left some weakness—why was he now beginning to think in this way? All his life, since his wife's death, he had given no love anywhere, and expected none. Then an uncomfortable remembrance of the doctor's speech about recurring illness made him shiver. If he were to be ill how could he carry out his plans, how could he rise to the position he intended to rise to?
He was a far richer man than any one thought, and he was accumulating money. When he had made what he intended to make safe out of all the risks of trade which he liked so little, he would buy the place where his wife's people once had lived. They had scorned him till they found he was rich, and he chiefly wished to sit in their "high places" for this reason. He intended winning an election, being returned for the county, and then—he could not think of marriage. The one pure unselfish feeling he had was the love for his wife, and his devotion to her memory. He could never think of placing another beside him.
His sister would be there, and then he would go off into long reflections about the girls: Grace who was beginning to be so oppressive to him, and Margaret who was a little likeher.
All unconscious of his softened feelings towards her, poor Mrs. Dorriman, in the meantime, was cruelly troubled and perplexed. What she was to do about poor Jean, she did not know. Inchbrae was not her home, she had followed her mistress from the old place thither; besides, what comfort could there be in seeing strange faces and strange people there? It was Jean herself who cut the Gordian knot and brought things to a climax.
She was much too high-spirited a woman to remain one moment anywhere as an unwelcome guest, and she determined that she would herself seek Mr. Sandford and say a word of gratitude to him for the shelter he had given her, and, if she found him "quiet," she intended pleading her own cause; a cause which, if hers, was also Mrs. Dorriman's. Jean had that strong belief in herself which is the mainspring of many a brave action. She was, above and beyond this, a woman whose prayers went up with a faith which was beautiful and pure. Though religious phrases were more in her heart than on her lips, every action of her life was in a great degree guided by this great and secret strength. She was single-minded, full of prejudices, and had a keen sense of humour, seeing much to amuse her in ordinary things. She was passionately devoted to Mrs. Dorriman, and though she was too proud of her, in a right way, to allow it to any one, she knew that she required some one near her to befriend her—that, to use her own expression about many another person, she "gave in" too easily.
It was the very day Mr. Drayton was expected. Mr. Sandford, who was ruffled about some trifle, made an unusual fuss about something at breakfast which was not well done, and sent it out with orders that it was to be made over again.
Mrs. Chalmers, already making much of that something extra which falls heavily where all is as a rule on a simple footing—lost her temper: and, with all the delight of being able to reach the man whose uncomplimentary remarks about her performances were so frequently gall and wormwood to her, declared she would go there and then and would do nothing more for the household. She arrayed herself in her bonnet and shawl, and sat firmly upon her box, hoping and indeed expecting that she would be asked to stay—at any rate for that day—in view of the expected visitor, and fully resolved upon obtaining concessions if she did remain.
But Mr. Sandford, with all the ignorance of a man who had never been obliged to think of details, never for one instant thought about the dinner, took her at her word, and insisted on her going there and then.
Mrs. Dorriman's dismay first taught him that he had acted hastily, and annoyed and worried by the whole affair he went off to his own room.
He was trying to forget it all, and was turning over some papers, when a loud knock, evidently given by a determined hand, came to disturb him.
In walked Jean, her bonnet on, her shawl over her arm, looking like going, in complete ignorance of any disturbance, as she never put her foot downstairs.
Mr. Sandford glared at her, he was not "quiet" she saw, so she intended to express her gratitude, which was the right thing to do, and then depart and not say that word about remaining which she would fain have done.
She was a handsome and imposing figure, her kind and homely face, pale from the effects of her recent illness, was surrounded by a full-plaited border of lace, her print gown was a purpose-like gown, and she had a shawl folded neatly across her chest. She was the picture and type of the good, unspoiled, old-fashioned, country servant. Her manner was full of respect, and free from any servility.
"I am come to speak my thanks to you, sir, before I go;" she began, "I have been a great trouble. Now I am well, I will thank you and go my way."
"My sister, not I, looked after you," he said.
"She did that, but there's no one like her in the world."
The two looked at each other, her keen brave blue eyes saw the expression in his and could not understand it.
"You think much of my sister."
"I think all the world of her. She has need of love and care, and kindness—I will always give her what I can."
"What are you going to do when you leave this?" he asked abruptly.
"I am going to get a place somewhere near. Yes, maister Sandford, you will not like it, but it is my only pleasure to be nearher, and she needs me."
"What place will you get in Renton itself? There are no gentlefolks there."
"I'll get some place; I can put my hand to anything, the Lord will provide for me," said Jean in a low voice.
"Why need you go? Since you and my sister cannot live apart, stay," he said; and, trying to hide the fact of his giving in from kindly motives, he continued sternly, "I do not choose my sister to be running through Renton streets at all hours—as you and she won't part, stay!"
"I am not sure, sir."
"What do you mean, you are not sure?"
"I must be guided by Mrs. Dorriman's wishes, and other things."
"Well," he said, roughly, "I have asked you to stay, and you can speak to Mrs. Dorriman and do as you like."
He was conscious of a great wish that she should stay; but he could think of nothing more to say.
"There is no room for me, sir, and I am afraid you say it now, and will be sorry afterwards; and the end would then be worse than the beginning. It would hurt Mrs. Dorriman more."
"You can do as you like," he said, more determined she should stay, since she opposed his will, "but I cannot reconcile your affection for Mrs. Dorriman with your determination to leave her."
"Can you not?" said Jean, her blue eyes flashing a little. "Can you not, sir? Can you not see that the bread of dependence is bitter to her and bitter to me? You took her from her own home, and her own quiet life—for some reason of your own—but I know it was ill done. If I am here, it is another weight upon the wrong side."
"Do as you like, and leave me, in Heaven's name!" he exclaimed, impatiently.
"Heaven had not much to do with her being taken away," said Jean, firmly, "but I do not wish to speak about what I know imperfectly after all. What I wish to speak about is just this—Do you really want me to stay, and is it all for her sake? or is there something else?"
"The woman will drive me mad!" said Mr. Sandford. "What else could there be? No! I do wish you to stay; and with regard to Inchbrae," he said, in a lower voice, "had I known she cared so much——"
"She did care," said Jean; "she greeted till I thought she would wear herself out; but she is getting over it a bit, and she knows that one day she will go back."
"Ah!" said Mr. Sandford, "what is that about going back? The place is sold."
"Yes, it is sold," said Jean composedly, "and can be bought back any time. Your sister knows the prophecy, and she'll go back to it in God's good time. Till then we are content—she and I."
"Some old woman's story," muttered Mr. Sandford. "Now you will be good enough to go and leave me."
"I will wish you good day, sir; it's not good-bye, till I know Mrs. Dorriman's wishes."
Jean left the room, and Mr. Sandford took his hat and went out. Nothing Jean said held much meaning for him, but her manner impressed him; and he went off to look into some business matters, never for a moment thinking it curious that his changed feeling towards his sister had made him try to persuade her old servant to stay in his house.
When he went home Mrs. Dorriman's face was more cheerful than he had yet seen it.
"I should like to know how we are to get any dinner," he said, afraid of her thanks.
"Oh! brother, there is Jean."
"Well! what of that?"
"She is a first-rate cook, and she has agreed to stay; and she is getting on with everything; and it is like a dream," said the poor woman, in a perfect flutter of gratitude, and relief, and happiness.
Her brother looked at her wonderingly.
"You are an odd little woman," he said, but not unkindly. "It does not take very much to upset you," but he was glad all the same.
He had always felt uncomfortable about Jean since he had found out how much his sister was wrapped up in her; and he now felt rather grateful to her for coming in to his plan so readily.
It was dark when Mr. Drayton arrived, and only Mrs. Dorriman was waiting to receive the two, who came in together.
Mr. Drayton was a pleasant-looking middle-aged man, with a countenance wanting expression, a manner very nearly as undecided as poor Mrs. Dorriman's; fair curly hair, which was beginning to turn grey, and a child-like way of speaking. Any one judging him at first sight would have said at once he was one of the men who go through the world unsuccessfully. Sanguine to a fault, perpetually disappointed, only perpetually to spring up again.
He had a very absent manner, and frequently missed hearing important facts, because he was thinking of other things. Passionate and kind-hearted, only believing in himself to a certain extent, led by any stronger mind than his own, and making mistakes he himself laughed at when it was too late to remedy them. He was tall, extremely slight, had very sloping shoulders, and was inconsistent in his dress—at one time wearing rough and ill-made country clothes, and at another particular to a fault about the cut of his things and the shape of his boots.
His father had made the money, and had left it all to him. He had been an affectionate son and a most disappointing partner. People said the business would not hold together two years; he had now held it together six since his father's death, because Mr. Drayton had a warm affection for the manager, Mr. Stevens, was guided by him, and did nothing of any importance without consulting him.
Mr. Sandford had, at that time, a great project in hand, a project requiring far more capital than he could furnish without disturbing his own investments.
He had met Mr. Drayton once or twice and looked upon him as a man through whom and by whom a great deal might be done.
He had urged his coming to Renton for two very different reasons; he intended him to marry Grace Rivers, and he arranged it so completely in his own mind that he never even put the case conditionally. He was beginning to dislike Grace extremely, she interfered in so many little things. It was all very well for Mrs. Dorriman to allow it; she was, and always had been, one of the women born to be ruled by every one round her, but he objected to the perpetual assertion of herself which forced Grace to be always, so to speak, on the disc of the family life, to the exclusion of the others.
She annoyed him, and he had, from the first moment of this discovery, resolved to marry her to some one who would take her off his hands, since, in these days, getting rid of her in any other way might lead to comment. He was resolved that Mr. Drayton, who always declared hemustmarry, and who, in his lighter moments, declared himself to be too much bewildered by the enormous amount of beauty and accomplishment he met with to be able to choose, should have no such bewilderment now. What Grace Rivers would do, whether she would like or dislike the man, was to him a matter of no moment, he never thought of the marriage as affectingherin any way; and had Mr. Drayton been repulsive and hideous, or even much older, it would not in any way have made the slightest difference in his arrangements. Grace out of the way, Margaret would be all by herself with his sister, and he was beginning to love Margaret; indeed, the society of the women round him was both softening his character and developing a certain kindness in him which no one had ever given him credit for. The one soft place in his hard heart had been his love for his wife, and since that time the only disinterested kindness had been shown to her orphan nieces. Though he told himself that it had all been forhersake, and that it did not increase his happiness, yet, when he was coming home after a long and wearisome day, it was pleasant to know that there was some one to meet him, some one who looked after things for him. The gentle face of Margaret was always a pleasant thing to look forward to, and, even as regarded his sister, her even temper and great sweetness had taught him, as we have seen, a sort of respect, and his suspicions about her were lulled to rest. He had hurried home to be in time to go himself to the station and meet Mr. Drayton.
Little did that individual know of the many plans made in connection with him. He was a little bored by the length of his journey and glad to get out of the train. He was too good-tempered a man to be cross, and he was flattered by the importance Mr. Sandford attached to his coming. This was something like success, he said to himself, to be sought by a man of so much influence.
Sending his portmanteau on to the house, the two men walked up together, and soon Mr. Sandford was taking his guest upstairs, to find no one there but Mrs. Dorriman. This rather disconcerted him; he had intended to find a look of comfort and home and the three sitting as he usually found them, and there was only his sister.
"Where are Grace and Margaret?" he asked, with the frown upon his forehead which bespoke displeasure.
"They have gone to their room," she said, in a deprecating manner; "it is later than you think."
"Ah, you are punctual, I see," exclaimed Mr. Drayton, with an unrestrained laugh which accompanied most of his remarks. "I shall have to take care; I could fancy your brother a terrible tyrant in the household, so strict. I am right, eh?" and he laughed again, still more cheerfully than before, not having the vaguest idea that he had spoken that true word in jest which is often a painful enough truth.
Mrs. Dorriman found her conversation more terribly common-place than ever. She had made much of the slowness of the train and had been met with another laugh, as though some indescribably funny joke was wrapped up in its tediousness. She had asked if the country round Mr. Drayton's house was like Renton; was it equally smoky? and he, laughing as ever, asserted it was worse, much worse, and then a pause had come. The poor woman was growing nervously aware of the silence and she resolved to break it, dreading to say something which would bring that laugh back, quite unaware that Mr. Drayton was himself shy, and that he laughed because it was the only way of concealing his shyness.
What terrible sufferings a man must go through afflicted with shyness; a woman may suffer but at any rate she is in her rights. She may be timid and shy and self-conscious, it is all part of a quality belonging to her, though in an exaggerated form—but a shy man!
There is, to begin with, a feeling as though it were not a misfortune but a fault; it is contrary to all preconceived notions of what a man's character should be; it is out of place, and the unfortunate man who is so afflicted seldom meets with pity or sympathy. With an inkling of this truth, Mr. Drayton concealed his shyness by an overpowering amount of cheerfulness. He was consistently, perpetually, oppressively cheerful; and having once assumed this character, it soon became a confirmed habit. After all, to be incessantly cheerful, and in apparently superabundant high spirits, is a less afflicting thing than the habit of looking at life through a smoky glass, and depressing every one round one by melancholy facts and a lengthened face.
Mr. Sandford came now to the rescue unintentionally, by carrying Mr. Drayton off to dress, and, with a sigh of relief, the poor little woman went off to her own room.
Dinner was ready, the guest—with an immense expanse of shirt front, was standing on the rug, talking to Mr. Sandford, when the door opened, and Mrs. Dorriman and the two girls came in.
The moment they saw him all interest in him vanished. They saw only a prosperous middle-aged man, whose laugh was noisy and vulgar. He was Mr. Sandford's friend, so they need have expected nothing better, they thought.
Mr. Drayton, who had never understood that the people living with Mr. Sandford were young girls, was astonished. They took so little notice of him that he was piqued. He was a man accustomed to consideration from every one—especially from the young ladies he knew. The indifference he now met astonished him. His most amusing stories, which he told with tears in his eyes and roars of laughter afterwards, were received with rounded eyes, and not a smile in sight. The girls, indeed, thought him ridiculous, and Margaret's grave young face never relaxed for a moment.
From indifference, Grace's expression rose to disdain, and Mrs. Dorriman, as usual, had the whole brunt upon her shoulders.
How that poor little woman tried to do her duty! to show a polite interest, and to smile, when smiles were expected; while the ungrateful man counted her interest and approbation as nothing, and tried to win, at any rate, attention from the other two.
Even to Mr. Sandford, not himself an acute observer, there was something strained in Mr. Drayton's laughter, something unfriendly in Grace's expression. The moment he discovered it—the instant he read tacit disapproval and opposition—he was the more resolved that these two should bow to his decision, and accept his arrangement.
He observed, also, that it was Margaret who attracted most of his guest's attention. That must, of course, not be allowed; he must give him to understand at first that Margaret was out of the question. He did not wonder at it, however. There was a winning sweetness in Margaret's expression that must please every one. Young as she was, there was a composure, a repose of manner, wanting in her sister. It was the difference between one character absolutely forgetful of self and one full of self-consciousness.
Conversation is never more difficult, than when it ought to be there, never more spasmodic than when people meet—who know nothing of each other's likings or dislikings—and who have none of that light talk which dwells on politics, great events, and the last new song in one and the same breath.
Grace was intent upon the impression she was making. He was uninteresting, but, all the same, her silent disapproval of his noisy manner would put her in the position of being superior to all this uncalled-for merriment.
Margaret watched Grace, and felt sorry for the unconscious Mr. Drayton—so sorry that she began to talk to him—listening with a sense of completely missing the jokes when his laugh broke into his speech.
There was one subject of satisfaction to Mr. Sandford, the dinner was excellent; and this fact went far to soothe him. Men, though superior beings, are apt to feel this important affair, and Mr. Sandford was one of the men who felt any failure in this direction with great acuteness.
After discussing with playful heaviness those topics of conversation started by Margaret, Mr. Drayton threw a bomb-shell down by saying to Mrs. Dorriman—
"I saw a pretty little place you lived at till lately. I went over to see a boat I had heard of. A pretty place, but lonely. I dare say you got tired of the sea. The sea is a very dreary thing to me; I am ill when on it; cold when near it, and I hate it when I see it. Ah! ah! ah!"
"I love the sea," said Mrs. Dorriman; "it is to me a friend and a companion. There is always something grand to me in its monotony, as in its angry moods. I love it best when it sends showers of spray up into the air, and comes dashing in in all its might."
"Then what made you——My dear Mr. Sandford, are you aware that you gave me a violent and painful kick just then? I wish to goodness you would take care, if you knew what a start you gave me!"
"I am sorry," said Mr. Sandford, as the ladies rose and left them.
"I am sorry I hurt you, but you must not speak of Inchbrae to my sister. She lost her husband there, and altogether it is a painful subject."
"But she did not seem to dislike my talking about it."
"She conceals her feelings, but it is, I assure you, not a subject she cares to discuss."
"All right! I'll accept your view, but upon my word your kick is still painful."
"I had no other way of stopping you."
"Then you did it on purpose!" and this new light upon the subject sent Mr. Drayton into the loudest and longest fit of laughter he had yet indulged in.
It was not till next day that Mr. Sandford had an opportunity of saying that word to Mr. Drayton which should make him understand that Margaret was out of his reach.
Mr. Drayton's idea of making himself pleasant to the young ladies was buying some of those endless and useless trifles to be found in what are called fancy warehouses; and Mr. Sandford, meeting him when his own work was done, found him surveying with much satisfaction some gilt goats dragging a wobbling mother-o'-pearl shell car all on one side, with gilt wire wheels.
"I think Miss Margaret will like this," he said, his face beaming with satisfaction.
Mr. Sandford's face was a study. That a rational being with money waiting for investments, which fact alone was sufficient to fill any man's mind, could be enchanted with a trumpery toy, and actually spend money upon it, was an amazing idea to him, and he looked at Mr. Drayton closely, as though he might see something in his countenance calculated to explain it to him.
"You need not trouble to take gifts to my nieces," he began, gruffly, "especially not to Margaret."
"Why especially not to Margaret?" asked Mr. Drayton, as he once more looked at his purchase with admiring eyes.
"Because Margaret's a mere child, and her life is pretty well arranged for her."
"Well, that is a pity. I think she is a great deal the nicest of the two. I doubt Miss Grace has a touch of pride in her. She looks as if she thought a deal of herself; always begging your pardon for saying so," he added, laughing heartily.
"I am not sure I think pride unbecoming in a girl," said Mr. Sandford, after a moment's reflection, "Miss Rivers is good-looking."
"Now, I don't think her a patch on Miss Margaret," said Mr. Drayton. "Well, it's just as well you told me thatherfuture is settled; I am not at all sure, not at all sure, I might not have been hit."
They left the subject and plunged into other matters, but Mr. Sandford quite forgot to take into account one thing, that the very way to encourage any one to like or care for anything is to put it out of his reach—forbidden fruit is as tempting now as in the days of our first parents, and he never, as far as his own wishes were concerned, did a more unwise thing than in adding this incentive to the slight dawning of admiration Mr. Drayton had for Margaret Rivers.
In the meantime the girls discussed him with all the intemperate feelings of youth, added to the disappointment of his being so exactly the opposite of that coming prince who was to rescue poor Grace from the uncongenial home.
"His laugh goes quite through my head," said Grace, pettishly, as she sat in front of the little mirror, and unplaited her hair for Margaret to brush. "What an odious man he is."
"No, not odious, for he is good-natured," said Margaret, gently, "but I wish he did not laugh so; it makes me feel so melancholy; and oh, Grace, how difficult he is to talk to."
"Difficult! say impossible. And Margaret, we thought it might be the prince," and Grace folded her hands, laid her chin upon them, and stared at herself in the glass.
"The prince will come, Grace; you will see."
"No, Margaret! I do not believe in him. I believe in nothing now. All my hopes are dead. What have they to live on? We shall go on living here for ever till we are quite old and grey, and we shall never see any one younger than Mr. Sandford and his friends, and never see the world, or know any other life," and she lowered her head in a fit of despair.
"Grace, darling! you do not really think that all your many perfections were given to you only to be thrown away; this despair is unlike your usual bright brave spirit; and we are not so unhappy now. You are not so miserable here, now, Grace?"
"Yes," said Grace, fiercely, "I am miserable. I am sick of my life here; of the ugliness of everything. I hate it, Margaret. I hate it more than I can say."
"And I was growing contented," said poor Margaret, with a little suppressed sob; "I am so much less gifted than you, darling, so much less full of restless life; you must forgive my being so different, so easily satisfied—it was selfish, I might have thought of you." She put her arms round Grace affectionately.
The sisters sat in silence and then Grace spoke again—
"The only good thing I know about Mr. Drayton is that he lives in the South; I envy him that, I envy his being near London; it is the only merit he has."
"When I said he was good-tempered," rejoined poor Margaret, anxious as ever to bring her own conclusions, even about trifles, into harmony with those held by her sister, "I think he is good-tempered as a rule, but I fancy if he were to be vexed or disappointed in any way he would be persistently angry. I do not think he would forgive easily."
"In other words you think him vindictive. Well, Margaret, I think you are right. And I also think him not worth talking about, I think him hateful," and Grace rose and stood before her dressing-table again. "Oh!" she exclaimed, clasping her hands together, "what it would be, to me, to leave this place, to go away, once again to England; though school was tiresome, it was better than this. I would give all I am worth in the world to get away. Sometimes I dream, Margaret—I dream of floating away—of hearing beautiful music and lovely voices. I am so happy! Then I wake—and I amhere!"
Mr. Drayton, in the meantime, took greater pains to talk to Margaret, to discover how he could please her, with no particular object in view; but she interested him, in the first place, and the fact of her life being "arranged for" made her still more interesting. Besides, paying marked attention to all she said and did enabled him to leave Grace alone. He was not a sensitive man, but Grace's impertinence was much too open not to go home to him. She despised him and showed she did so far too openly, and from passive disapprobation he began to dislike her heartily. The girls were right, his was a character that was vindictive. He was wrapped up in a thick skin of self-esteem; he was good-humoured and cheery so long as he was admired and his vanity satisfied by flattery, direct or indirect, but once his self-love was pierced or wounded it rankled, and woe to the person who had inflicted the wound.
His visit was drawing to a close; he had been with Mr. Sandford for some days, and so far nothing had come of it. Grace was out of the question, and Mr. Sandford saw it. The investments he wished him to make were equally undecided; Mr. Drayton would do nothing without consulting his manager, and was waiting to hear from him. He extended his visit for two days, and he spent those two days in trying to make Margaret understand something of his feeling for her. Mr. Sandford was at his office all day and Mrs. Dorriman said nothing; and though Mr. Drayton's way of looking at Margaret and his fits of absence might have enlightened him he thought he had made all that so impossible that it never gave him any uneasiness, and in two days he would be gone.
But the old story was repeated in this instance. Mr. Drayton, in hurrying home to have a word with Margaret, managed to slip, and, falling the whole length of the flight of stairs at the office, came down on the stone flags at the bottom with a bruised shoulder and a sprained leg, and of course had to remain at Renton.
Mr. Sandford had to go to his office daily with the full consciousness that his unwelcome guest was making the most of his opportunities. Still he hoped things might come right in the end.
Poor Mr. Drayton hardly regretted his accident since it placed him nearher, Margaret, the lady of his dreams. For love had come to him in a violent fashion, and he acknowledged to himself that if she would not listen to him he would be miserable all his life.
Love plays such strange pranks in its flight. In this case it gave the self-confident man timidity; his noisy laugh was modified, his manner softened. He was very much in earnest.
Margaret never for one moment thought of his meaning anything. She was very sorry for him, as any kind-hearted girl might be for the sufferings of any one or even anything, and this pity gave her voice a still more dangerous softness. Each day found him longing to speak to her and losing courage when she came near him. He was longing to know what thearrangementmeant that Mr. Sandford had dwelt upon. Longing to hear from her, about herself and her future, because, once he knew that, his course would be plain. If there was really nothing in which her heart was interested would it not be possible to alter things? She was so young she could not already have met her fate.
She was so often with Mrs. Dorriman he seldom saw her alone; it was with a throb of pleasure that he saw her come into the drawing-room alone one afternoon, some snowdrops and ivy-leaves in her hand. She had been walking, and she had thrown back her cloak and pushed her hat off her head a little, and she came forward to fill some glasses with her flowers, unconscious of his emotion, full of some thought which had suggested itself to her whilst she was out, and a smile breaking the gentle gravity which was her habitual expression.
"There are still many glasses to fill," he said, as, lying a prisoner upon the sofa, he watched her accustomed fingers arranging and re-arranging the pure, white blossoms with the glossy background of leaves.
She looked up with a little smile and a heightened colour.
"Those are to stand empty till to-morrow; Grace wishes it. I thought you would like a few to look at, but to-morrow Grace is going to arrange all the flowers."
"What is that for? Is to-morrow a great festivity? Miss Grace does not generally give herself any trouble for nothing," he said laughing.
"My sister takes trouble when she thinks it necessary," said Margaret, with a pretty, dignified reproach, quick to resent the slightest implied disapprobation of her beloved Grace; "to-morrow will be my birthday. I shall be seventeen," she said, with full consciousness of her advanced years.
"Seventeen," he murmured, "only seventeen!"
"Did you think I looked more or less than that?" she asked gaily.
"I hoped you were more than that," he said in a confused tone; "I knew you were very young, your uncle told me that. He told me something else about you," he went on trying to gain courage, and trying to read her countenance, which without a shadow of suspicion was turned towards him in all its sweetness and candour.
"I hope he gave me a good character."
"Your character needs no giving; it is written in your face."
He spoke in a lower and more hurried tone, and she once again raised her eyes to his in surprise.
"Is it true? what does he mean when he says your future is arranged for? Is there any one?" he brought out in quick agitated tones. Margaret was startled; if her uncle had said this, he meant it, and she knew enough of his will to dread having to submit to any thing he chose for her.
Her whole being rose in protest:
"My life is not arranged for, though I do not know what those words mean, and there is no one," she added very vehemently.
He saw how true her words were, and he hurried on afraid of losing courage, of not being able to say what he wanted to say, if he paused.
"Margaret," he said in a tone that compelled her attention, and trying to raise himself as he read her face. "If you have no one, if there is no one, if you are free to be won, may I not try and win you?"
Poor Margaret shrank back.
"No!" she said, breathlessly, "oh! no!"
"May I not try?" he pleaded. "I am more than double your age, but need that matter? I never have loved any one, and I think I could make you happy. I should not expect you to love me in the same way, and I could give you much, I could surround you with luxuries, and grudge you nothing for your happiness, you should not be dependent."
"If I loved you for these things I should be unworthy, do you not see that?"
He did not heed her.
"You know you do not care for this narrow life, you would like being in the South, in London, you should have a house where you liked, you should do what you liked."
"I cannot," said Margaret, red and pale alternately, "I am sure you mean to be kind, but your words are hateful to me. They are bribing me. No! better to live anywhere, better to be as we are, and as you say dependent, than to be false to ourselves. I cannot say anything else, and oh! pray, pray, say nothing about this to any one, do forget it. It is quite, quite impossible."
His voice was broken by disappointment and a sense of helplessness.
"I cannot forget it," he said, and, hearing Mrs. Dorriman's voice, Margaret left the room hurriedly.
He dwelt upon her words in the way that people have of hugging a painful remembrance. Theremustbe some one else he thought, and he tried so to comfort himself, but in vain. His vanity was wounded, but he was too thoroughly in love with her to heed that so much, he was cruelly hurt. What was the use of the flattering assertions of his people? he had always been assured of success if he wanted success, and now he had failed.
He was very silent, subdued, and unhappy. He longed now for recovery; the place was hateful to him. He dreaded seeing Margaret again; he was afraid Mr. Sandford might read his story; he was irritable and restless, and very very miserable.
On the top of this came the answer from his cautious manager strongly advising him against Mr. Sandford's scheme, and giving very excellent reasons with which he could not but be content.
He was so fully aware of his own incompetency, that he never for a moment disputed his conclusion; but he was too much upset, too much unlike himself, that night, to go into anything in the shape of business, and he was wheeled into his own room early, pleading headache, and happy to escape from the family party that evening, and be alone with his unhappiness.
His absence created no surprise. Mr. Sandford was indifferent; he was a little annoyed by some checks he had met with in his business things, and a little more irritable than usual, a little harder about Grace's shortcomings, and very violent and disagreeable to her all dinner-time.
Margaret was still unhinged. Mr. Drayton's words had agitated her, and she was sorry for him, more sorry than she could express, when she saw how really he suffered. She could not understand how it was that he could see any merit in her, while Grace was by; only to be sure, Grace had been so persistently antagonistic. But for that she, Margaret, would have escaped, and Grace would have known what to say so much better. Thinking it over she was afraid she had been unkind, but she had been so taken by surprise.
It was not till the sisters were in their own room, and the house was hushed for the night, that Margaret told Grace what had happened.
Their favourite way of talking when the weather made it possible, was standing at their open window—a window that looked a little away from the town; the clear air predominated over the smoke of the busy town then, and what remained was hardly perceptible. The great deep blue sky of night with its "thousand eyes" made up to them for the dull darkness of the days. When it was chilly, one plaid covered them both as the two young faces looked out into the stillness, and whispered their thoughts to each other there.
"Grace," said Margaret, in a low tone, feeling shy even with her sister, her other self, about the great event of the day, "I have something to tell you, something we never dreamed of, that you will be as much surprised to hear as I was."
She clung a little closer to her sister, putting her arm round her waist.
"Have you?" asked Grace, wonderingly, but not roused to much curiosity as yet: "it is wonderful that anything can happen in this place. Every day is like the day that has gone before; each day is as dull and as empty of anything we can care about."
"You will be surprised, Grace; but I want you to promise not to laugh at him."
"Laugh at him!" re-echoed Grace. "Is it Mr. Sandford?"
"No, he knows nothing, and of course we must not tell him."
"Him—you said I was not to laugh athim," said Grace, suddenly startled into consciousness. "Is it anything connected with Mr. Drayton?"
"Yes," murmured Margaret, in a low voice, "he spoke to me this evening. He told me, Grace, that he—loved me. I was so sorry about it."
"Why should you be sorry? It must not be thought of in a hurry; but we must try and be sensible about it," answered Grace.
"It does not require much thought," said Margaret, surprised, almost bewildered, by her sister's quiet tone, as if the question could be weighed. "I told him at once it was quite impossible of course."
"But you need not have done it in such a hurry, why not think it over?" Grace spoke as though she was disappointed.
Margaret was conscious of the keenest pain she had ever known in all her life. She paused for a moment, almost breathless. Her sister, then, saw a possible conclusion widely different from hers: that she did so seemed to set them further apart in feeling than they had ever been. "You yourself have done nothing but laugh at him, we have laughed together," she said in a pained voice; "he was to be the prince, and he came, and you yourself said how middle-aged and uninteresting he was—do you forget, Grace?"
"I do not forget, Margaret, darling, it is true; but if I encouraged you to laugh, and in so doing have spoiled the future for you—and for me," she added, in a lower tone.
"Spoiled the future!" exclaimed Margaret, wondering, "we think differently. I am sorry, I was very sorry, because he cared so much—but no future with him is possible. Think, Grace, how annoyed we have been by his noisy laughter, by his endless jokes, by his very ways. How is it you forget?"
"It is different," said Grace. "Mind, I do not say, take him; but I say you might have thought of it for a little while. What did he say, Margaret can you remember?"