"It is a grief to me," she said, gently, "that you never saw my child. I should like to tell of it, if my speaking of it does not trouble you."
"Oh! my dear," said Mrs. Dorriman, and her voice trembled a little. "Is it wise for you?"
"It is wise," answered Margaret. "I often wish I had a friend near me to whom I could sometimes speak of it—it hurts me to feel that it is not to be mentioned before me, while I feel it still so near me."
Mrs. Dorriman, her anxiety checked about giving Margaret pain, could only answer by a tighter grasp of the arm she clung to.
"Yes, at first it was very dreadful to me. Now at times tears still come, but I am beginning to think of it as waiting for me, not as lying here and leaving me childless and alone. It was very fair, auntie, and had winning ways...." She stopped for a moment and went on in the subdued voice which was her characteristic. "At first I was so selfish and I prayed for death, I, who have still much to do."
"You have seen much illness lately?"
"I have seen many terrible things," she answered, earnestly. "I have seen troubles and trials that dwarf mine; I try to help; it is a great blessing to be able to help. When I stroke the little faded cheek of another child I still think of mine, for I am still selfish in my grief; but the joy of seeing a child recover kills the selfishness, and I begin more to do things for God's sake and theirs, than for the sweet little face always present to me. I am happier since I have learned how to make others happy!"
She paused, folding her hands, and looking to Mrs. Dorriman like some fair saint, with her unclouded eyes and the sweet folded lips that were both grave and tender.
"Here there is poverty, sickness, and often sorrow," said Mrs. Dorriman; "but somehow, with these surroundings, poverty does not seem so grim."
"Here there are springs of water, fresh air andthis," said Margaret, pointing to the river; "but in London, water is taxed even to the very poor, the very kindling of their fires is a difficulty. Here the people have at any rate kindling," and she added, pointing to a woman in the distance, who was carrying a bundle of furze,
"And peat for the cutting; and yet the ambition of many is to leave the country and flock to the towns."
"The sound of higher wages is tempting, but what I hope to live to see one day is the middle-man done away with."
"The middle-man!" exclaimed Mrs. Dorriman; "I do not understand you, my dear."
"I mean those who pay the manufacturer so little that he often cannot raise wages, or do what he would like to do, and who grasp from the rich as well; and the working class I think of do not understand the question, and not understanding are unjust. They blame the rich, but the rich are not to blame; they pay often a hundred per cent. where the workman does not get ten. It is the middle-man who grows rich grasping on either side, and who spend their money in eating and drinking. They help no art or science, and they are indignant if they are appealed to for charitable aid. You do not know how bad it is!" and Margaret's cheek flushed with her earnest, almost passionate, speech.
"I never thought of it before," said Mrs. Dorriman, "and now I do not quite understand. Shopkeepers have to pay high rents and rates and things."
"Oh, I do not mean the better class of shopkeepers," said Margaret, "and I am talking of small shops I know about in London where coals are sold by the pound and tea in ounces, and those places where shirts are made, literallymade, for twopence. It is this misery that should be attacked, these things should be made impossible!"
"Why can it not be done?" said Mrs. Dorriman.
"Because ours is such a free country that interference is not often possible. Oh, there is so much to put right it does not bear thinking about," and the two turned up the river-side and home.
Grace was much too excited to feel keenly the parting with Margaret; indeed, the gravity of her young sister, while, of course, to be accounted for, she felt altogether as a drag upon her energies.
Like other girls of her peculiarly thoughtless nature she hated having to think of anything that was not what she considered cheerful; and she had not the power of throwing herself into the sorrows of any one, even of a sister, whose one fault it was, that she had allowed her clear instincts to be obscured and darkened by her passionate love for Grace, and her wish to give what she thought her very life depended upon at that moment.
Accustomed to be considered, it was new to her to find that she had twice to change her place to suit Lady Lyons, who was one of the women who imagine that, whatever happens to belong to another, from a husband to a corner in a railway-carriage, must be superior to anything they have themselves.
Grace was good-humoured, and changed her seat cheerfully, although she felt the difference. Margaret would have borne any discomfort rather than disturb her. But the thought that she was going to join the world in London and form one of the giddy throng was too enchanting to her not to support her under any surprises—she was so determined to be happy.
She was surprised beyond measure that Margaret's marriage should have left her the winner in the race; but it was satisfactory that, as she cared for money and Margaret did not, she should have it, and Margaret would soon forget that horrible man, who was, however, not all horrible, since he had done this.
"Pray see about your luggage, Miss Rivers," said Lady Lyons, very languidly, when they arrived at the station.
"Surely your maid can do that," said Grace, with a little toss of her head.
"How can she possibly know your luggage when she has never seen it?" asked Lady Lyons, fretfully, but not without a show of reason.
"Maids should have instincts," said Grace, as she sailed along the platform to point out her boxes.
This difficulty overcome they got into a cab, the maid following in another. But, as Lady Lyons was always afraid of being cold, she took a bearskin of some standing, a roll of rugs, and a bottle of lavender-water. She gave the man unnecessarily minute directions, and pulled up her window. It was the last days of a hot June.
Grace let her window down with a bang that very nearly shivered it to atoms.
"MydearMiss Rivers, pray put up the window. I have such a languid circulation, and I am ordered by my medical men to be careful about draughts."
"There really cannot be a draught when one window is hermetically closed," said Grace very coolly; "be as stuffy as you like on your side of the carriage, but I must have fresh air."
Lady Lyons was a little daunted, and said nothing. In a moment or two she began to cough, a short cough improvised for the occasion. Grace took no notice.
"If I am very ill you will have to send to Wandsworth for Mr. Jones," she said, at length.
"Why should you be ill? Fresh air is what you want, Lady Lyons. You are coughing on purpose."
"MydearMiss Rivers."
"Wait till you hear me cough; then you will know a real cough when you hear one," said Grace laughing and putting up a little bit of window. She did not want to quarrel with Lady Lyons, but she did intend to assert her independence from the first.
They went to a private hotel, where again Grace interfered. She would have nothing but the best rooms, and all the little arrangements put forward in an economical form by poor Lady Lyons were ruthlessly swept upon one side.
"I did not come here to economise," said Grace, with a grand air, as they took the rooms in Brook Street.
For the first few days Grace was content, and more than content. She did not care about being seen till she was what she called properly dressed, and she certainly knew what she wanted, and got it, as people usually do when they have the command of money.
Then came the grand question of society, and poor Lady Lyons was completely at a standstill.
"Surely you know a few people, Lady Lyons; some one to make a beginning?"
Lady Lyons reflected.
"I have been out of it so long," she murmured; "yes, there is a very kind friend; I wonder if she is in London?"
"Let us find out," said Grace, ringing for the book, and turning over the leaves rapidly. "What is her name?"
"I—I think it begins with a P," said Lady Lyons; "but, dear me, it is so stupid of me. I cannot remember her name at this moment."
"Your kind friend and you have evidently not been corresponding lately," said Grace, laughing.
"My dear Miss Rivers!"
"Now I have got the P's," said Grace, "and I will run through the list."
"Penshurst!" exclaimed Lady Lyons. "Yes, Penshurst is the name."
"There are seventeen," said Grace, in an aggravated tone, "and they live all over London. WhatisMr. Penshurst?"
"I do not know."
"Ha!" said Grace suddenly, "this is funny. Here is a name Penryn. I used to know one of the girls a little, the daughter of Sir Jacob Penryn, and here is his address. I wonder if she would remember me?"
"Was she at school with you?" asked Lady Lyons, with evident relief.
"Oh! dear no. Her father had a place in the neighbourhood and we went there sometimes, my sister and I, because our father had shown some kindness to a son of his who had died."
"But, my dear, that is a very good thing indeed; write at once, and say you have come into a fortune and are here. A beginning! Why he is an M.P., and has his own house in London."
"No, I will not write," said Grace, decidedly, "and my fortune is hardly worth speaking about, but I will call, and if they wish to renew acquaintance they can return it."
With this Lady Lyons had to be satisfied—indeed, she was more than satisfied, as the difficulty seemed to her to be completely overcome. She took heart now and went off on her own account to see a doctor, and paid a good deal to be assured there was nothing whatever seriously the matter with her.
This was hardly what she had expected or what she anticipated—she was not at all sure she was pleased.
Grace in the meantime left her card, and wrote on the top "In London for a short time with Lady Lyons."
In a few days Miss Penryn called, a very nice-looking girl, dressed with extreme simplicity. She apologized for her mother and brought her card, and an invitation from Lady Penryn for a meeting to be held in her house that week.
When she had left, Grace surveyed her elaborate white toilette and thought her lace frills too numerous.
"It is overdone," she said, discontentedly, to Lady Lyons.
"It is very sweet," said Lady Lyons, who was not thinking of her "young friend's" dress, but who was weighing in her own mind the pros and cons in connection with Lady Penryn's meeting.
She wished to make acquaintance; on the other hand she was terribly afraid of having an appeal made to her pocket, and she was one of many who make small payments to stated charities, and do not like spontaneous action.
Grace settled the point for her, saying with her usual nonchalance,
"You will make your first appearance as my chaperone, Lady Lyons."
After that she could make no objection, but she made many inquiries about Lady Penryn.
"What is she like, my dear? Is she nice?"
"I should say that word describes her exactly; my remembrance of her is that she is much too nice; to be sincere, she always said, 'Dear thing!' and got rid of us as soon as possible."
"She may not have liked children," observed Lady Lyons, lucidly.
"Possibly," but Grace did not think that she was much fonder of grown-up people. She and Margaret had always unfavourably contrasted Lady Penryn's neglect and Sir Jacob's heartiness.
"Gratitude about her son," began Lady Lyons, "that must have been there at any rate."
"Oh! the poor man father knew so well was not her son. She has no son. There were two or three by a first wife; this girl is not her daughter."
When Grace and Lady Lyons arrived in Cromwell Road they found the whole place crowded with people, mostly elderly; a few girls, and the men might be counted on their fingers. Papers were handed to them, and Grace with much amusement found that the meeting was convened about woman's suffrage.
Lady Penryn in a rich crimson velvet was very cordial in her reception of both Lady Lyons and Grace, advised them to sit on the right, said they would find plenty of friends, and turned her back upon them to receive somebody else.
Miss Penryn was not there, or, if there, Grace could not see her.
For upwards of two hours they sat in a room which in spite of open windows was stifling, seated on very small cane chairs, and hearing speeches from men and women more or less celebrated, upon a subject they neither of them took the faintest interest in.
No question of the day ever interested Grace. Lady Lyons never understood the question, and the injustice of women who have large control of money, and who contribute largely to the revenue in many ways and yet cannot give a vote, did not give her a pang. She knew that some women had made the subject ridiculous; she was afraid of ridicule, and she did not take the trouble of disentangling the question from the absurdities reared round it, and judging it on its own merits.
"I don't like being here at all," whispered Lady Lyons; "I am so afraid of being taken for a strong-minded woman."
"Pray do not be afraid of that," said Grace, satirically; "that is the very last thing your worst enemy would accuse you of."
The meeting dragged on, and the heat became quite suffocating. All at once Grace gave a little cry, and threw herself back, closing her eyes.
"A lady fainting! Air! Water! Salts! Salvolatile!" shouted dozens of voices at once.
Grace, still with closed eyes, was carried out of the room, where Lady Lyons gladly remained with her, in a small back room, consecrated to Lady Penryn's writings.
When the meeting dispersed she came in to see how Grace was, and was overwhelming in her affectionate attentions.
"Poor dear thing," she said.
"The heat was very great," said Lady Lyons, apologetically.
"Not in my rooms," said Lady Penryn, very decidedly. "The ventilation is admirably done—a private arrangement of my own."
Lady Lyons was too much awed to contradict her.
"Poor dear thing! how do you feel now?" said Lady Lyons, turning again to Grace.
"I feel better, Lady Lyons, and we will go home," said Grace. "And Lady Penryn, I must apologise for disturbing you all. What funny things everybody said. Doyoureally believe in all that was said to-day?"
Lady Penryn coughed gently.
"My dear, the object of a meeting is to ventilate the subject."
"Oh! I see. Well then, you do not mind my saying that it all struck me as very absurd!"
"The question in itself is not absurd; and it should interest the moneyed class; and it is of general interest."
"Then it should interest me, as I am one of the moneyed class," laughed Grace; "at least, I have an income all to myself."
She was amused to see Lady Penryn look at her with redoubled interest when she made this statement.
"Let us trust, dear child, that you will use your wealth wisely. Now will you not have some tea or wine?" she continued, waxing hospitable.
Lady Lyons accepted, and they went downstairs before they left. Lady Penryn came up to Grace with a good deal of grace, and kissed her on both cheeks.
"For the sake of old times," she said, plaintively.
"She is a sweet young thing," she continued, "and has fulfilled the promise of her youth;" and Grace noted that she took care not to introduce either of the men standing near.
"We will soon meet again, Itrust," she said, in a pathetic voice.
"That depends upon you," said Grace, quietly. "When you return our visit I hope we shall be at home."
"Ah! till then, good-bye. Sweet thing—good-bye."
"Sweet thing!—good-bye," mimicked Grace, as they got into the brougham.
"Oh! my dear, hush!—some one might hear you."
"Yes, the coachman. I think we had better pursue your Mrs. Penshurst."
"If I could but remember anything about her husband—but I do not. I lay awake for half-an-hour last night, and I cannot recall his Christian name. It may be Charles, but I think it is John—no, it may be James," and Lady Lyons looked blankly before her.
Grace threw herself back in the brougham with a good deal of petulance. They had been three weeks in London and had not achieved a single acquaintance.
As the carriage turned into Brook Street Grace suddenly caught sight of Sir Albert Gerald. She pulled the check-string, and called him by name.
Much surprised, he turned round and came up to her. She was so near Margaret that it was a pleasure to meet her.
"Come and see me," said Grace: "come to tea. This is Lady Lyons. I want particularly to see you—can you come to-morrow?"
"If you could see me early—but I leave town to-morrow afternoon for a few days."
"I will see you at any time. Eleven in the morning will find me clothed and in my right mind, in the stuffy little sitting-room we call our own."
"Till then, good-bye," he said, stepping back, and raising his hat.
"That poor girl looks frightfully ill," he thought, "as if she had not very long to live;" and he went on from this idea to think of Margaret. What a curious difference there was between the two sisters—the one so calm and sweet and so thoughtful, the other so restless and so frivolous.
He kept his word, however, and found Grace in a flutter of spirits, a huge Peerage and the Morning Post in front of her.
It was evident that there was some request trembling on her tongue, and that she was longing for the first conventional phrases to be over; the inquiries about Margaret were answered so indifferently, and Grace was all the time keeping a place in the Peerage open with a finger of her left hand.
"Now, Sir Albert, I do want you to do something for me," she said, with more earnestness than she had yet shown.
"If I can," he said, seriously.
"Yes, you can if you will."
"Après?" he asked.
"The Duchess of Mallington is going to give a big 'at-home.' She is your aunt. She is also going to give a ball. Could you not get a card for Lady Lyons and for me to one or other?"
"I think I could," he said; "she's a very dear old lady and I could ask her. She may refuse but I do not think she will."
"Sir Albert, excuse the strength of my language, but you are a darling, there!" exclaimed Grace, laughing and colouring a little. "You do not know how I long to go to just one swell ball, to see it all. It is so dreary moving about in this big place and knowing not one single soul."
"I am sure it must be," said Sir Albert, sympathetically; "it is very natural you should wish to see it all for yourself. I am afraid you will not enjoy it, but I think I can get you the invitation."
"I am sure to enjoy it," and Grace clapped her hands with delight. "Do you not enjoy it?"
"Not much now," he said; "I am very fond of certain people, and I find every one very kind. I like to meet pleasant people in moderation, but I do not go in for much gaiety."
"Only think!" said Grace; "I have never in all my life been to a good, big ball, never!"
"The novelty may amuse you certainly; the only thing is, that if you do not know many people it is very dull looking on and seeing others dancing and talking. If I am there I can take care of you and introduce some men to you at any rate."
"You certainly are a most delightful friend," said Grace, enthusiastically, "and I really do not know how to thank you enough!"
"It is a great pleasure doing anything for you, Miss Rivers. I think you know why!"
"Oh, yes, indeed I do. It is for Margaret."
"Did she tell you I met her accidentally? I got into her railway-carriage without knowing she was there."
"She never told me," said Grace; "Mr. Stevens escorted her till all the changes and junctions and things were passed."
"Who is Mr. Stevens?"
"He was Mr. Drayton's manager, and mixed up in his affairs. I thought you might have seen him at Wandsworth. He came to the rescue at that terrible time."
"I saw no one butherthen," he said, in a lower voice. "Miss Rivers, do you think she will forget all that frightful business?"
"I think she will: at least, her letters are much less heart-broken than they were. I think she rather nursed her sorrow at Wandsworth. Then she took to going to see sick children and giving away all her money, and she began to get better."
"She gave away all her money?"
"Every farthing he left her. Yes, she would not keep even one hundred pounds a year, nor a hundred pence. She could not bear touching his money."
"I am so glad!" he said, fervently.
"Really?" Grace said, in a curious tone.
Sir Albert coloured, and said,
"It is pleasant when a character we admire is consistent."
"Margaret is very consistent."
"She is everything a high-minded woman should be," he answered, earnestly; "I am quite sure we agree in our ideas of her."
"Perhaps we do; but you express it better than I do: and my sister is too good forme. I admire her, but she is so far above me that there is not full sympathy between us."
"But there might be," he said, in his quiet voice; "to live with some one having a high aim must help one."
"It does not help me," said Grace, sharply, but with an accent of pain in her voice; throwing off any feeling weighing with her she added, in a laughing tone, "It gives me a crick in my neck."
She puzzled him. It was painful to him to see her so delicate and thinking of nothing but amusement, but he could not judge; and through the flippant tone broke so much real feeling that he knew she spoke much more lightly than she felt. She was Margaret's sister, and he would do his utmost for her amusement. Instead of leaving London as he had intended doing, he would remain and go to this ball and to others, and do his utmost to enable her to enjoy it.
The Duchess's card and the invitation were handed to Lady Lyons; and her first idea was that it was a mistake. Grace interposed.
"It is all right, Lady Lyons; of course the Duchess could not ask me without you, and I know some of her family."
Lady Lyons was most deeply impressed.
"My dear! I never was in the same room with a duchess before; it is very delightful."
"l do not suppose she is different from other people," said Grace, indifferently.
"I hope it is not a case of a new gown—I really cannot afford it," and Lady Lyons looked really troubled.
"As I am dragging you to the party, I will find the gown," said Grace, laughing; "leave it to me."
This card was not the only one that came on that and the following days, and Grace was quite enchanted, though she professed to be prepared for this, and any thing else that might befall her.
Lady Lyons was not quite happy. She was by nature indolent, and she was easily fatigued. Women who assume the habits of an invalid, soon become invalids in reality. She loved going to bed at nine o'clock and being read to sleep; indeed, with a vague idea that Grace intended to make herself useful to her, she had said something about the reading, and the peculiarities of her maid's pronunciation, but Grace was too wise to begin by doing anything that might be a tax upon her in future, and she laughed the idea to scorn—"besides," she added, and with truth, "with my delicate chest, the exertion would be very bad for me."
But, as Lady Lyons loved going to bed early, the prospect of being out of it for an indefinite number of hours was not amusing; still the thoughts of seeing so many people, known only through the newspapers, sustained her.
She gave many sighs, however, in private; Grace half thought of persuading her to go to bed early in the afternoon, but for a well-founded conviction that, if she did, she would in all probability not get up again; but she did get her to drink strong coffee, and that, and the sight of her new dress, kept her comfortably awake.
Grace appeared, radiant, her inexperience making her punctual. She had a very simple white gown, and looked well.
When they arrived they found themselves very nearly the first, and quite the first of the strangers asked.
Lady Lyons looked about for the great lady and could not see her. At that moment a kind little old lady held out her hand—asked the black and white gentleman doubling himself in two before her to repeat the names, and Lady Lyons and Miss Withers was the result shouted into her Grace's deaf ears.
Grace was half annoyed and half amused. She went to a sofa near, and sat down watching the arrivals, and being entertained by the talk going on between a plain clever looking girl, with a quantity of red hair, and some older girls, who stood caressing their elbows in the doorway very affectionately.
"The dear Duchess has a funnier mixture than ever, to-night, apparently," said the eldest maiden, who had on a crushed looking dress, and who used an eyeglass very freely when she neglected her elbows for a moment.
"Yes, dear old thing! she is so kind-hearted, she never can say no. You cannot conceive anything so funny as the mob coming to-night."
"What makes her do it?"
"Good-nature; she says people like to come because she has a big house, and can give them a good supper, and why should she not?" and the girl laughed.
"She is rather a trial in some things. You have no idea how young men fly her. She is so sorry for plain girls that she marches them up, whether they like it or not, and introduces them straight off. I assure you she has carried off my pet partners under my very eyes, and made them dance with lamp-posts and billiard-balls."
"My dear," whispered Lady Lyons in a very discreet whisper, "what does she mean by that? How can a man dance with——?"
"Oh! do you really not understand?" said Grace, impatiently; "tall girls and very short ones."
"Oh!" and Lady Lyons drew a very long breath.
No band, no music, and hardly any men. It was going to be a very queer ball, Grace thought. An hour and a half passed in this way. As a rule, people wore gowns that had seen the brunt of the season—no one was very smart except as regarded jewels. A great many people had beautiful diamonds on, and some had good lace, but the majority, knowing what a crowd there would be, had left lace at home.
The band arrived and began playing two or three bars of well-known valses and then stopping. Then, all at once, there was a sudden stream of people, the rooms filled all at once, and dancing began. But only in a limited space; it began all over the large room, three or four circles beginning at once.
The sound of the music, the sight of others doing what she would like to do, filled Grace with despair. She did not know a soul, and nobody looked at her or noticed her in any way. Dance after dance went on, and the girl felt really forlorn—tears of vexation rose in her eyes and nearly overflowed.
Lady Lyons fidgeted.
"I think the Duchess might find you a partner," she said, huffily; "and what an uncomfortable sofa! I wish for my part that I was safe at home again."
And Grace very nearly said,
"So do I!"
A funny looking little man, with curiously small eyes and a big head, passed and re-passed, looking along the benches, sliding behind the crowd, which seemed to increase every moment. As he passed he saw Grace's wistful eyes, and he went on.
Returning, he was accompanied by a tall fine looking, middle-aged man; they approached, and her heart beat high with hope; this little man was some relation, and he had found her a partner.
Delightful delusion born to be dispelled. The tall man bowed to Lady Lyons, and then said,
"Her Grace has asked me to introduce Mr. Bott to you and your niece; he is anxious to persuade her to try this valse;" and without seeing Grace (unless, as she thought angrily, he could see her without looking at her) he bowed himself away again.
Grace's mortification knew no bounds. To make her first public appearance dancing with this peculiar looking man was very terrible to her, but to sit for a whole evening behind the backs (and very ample backs) of sundry dowagers, who either preferred standing or could find no seats to their liking, seemed the only other alternative, and still more intolerable to her.
She rose and moved with him, a little surprised at the way he glided through the dense crowd, making room for her behind him.
She had been considered at school a perfect dancer, but dancing well with mankind requires practice which she had never had, and this little man danced abominably. He had all possible defects, and did as nearly as he could every single thing he ought not to have done.
He could not steer. He had no confidence, and he got out of nobody's way. Grace's ears got red and tingled, and her whole face flushed with wounded vanity.
After two or three struggles, in which they were ignominiously worsted, she stopped and gazed at the soft, gliding motion of happier girls, with a feeling of anger and desperation.
Then coming towards her, she saw a couple moving with an inexpressibly graceful air, and recognised Sir Albert Gerald.
Forgetful of everything, but that she saw at last one face she knew, she stepped forward and pronounced his name.
Sir Albert laughingly bowed and swung on without stopping.
Tears rose in her eyes, and, turning to Mr. Bott, she said—
"I do not feel well. Will you take me to Lady Lyons?"
He obeyed in silence, so deeply offended with her for her manner, showed evident want of appreciation or his dancing, that he made no effort to persuade her to have some refreshment instead, and bowing, turned away immediately.
"Let us go home, Lady Lyons; I am so tired."
"And have no supper! I have been longing to have something to eat. I declare, sitting on this hard bench and doing penance, makes one desperately hungry; and I am here on your account, my dear."
"How can we go to supper without any one to take us?"
"We can go by ourselves—several people have done it already—do come."
Just as Grace was complying with her request, she was stopped by Sir Albert Gerald, who brought a young man—a very young man—up to Grace, and introduced him.
"I am coming to claim a dance soon," he said; "I saw you suffering martyrdom with poor little Bott. It was very good of you to give him a dance."
"I could not help myself," said Grace, her spirits restored immediately by this change in her prospects of enjoyment; "he was the only person introduced to me."
"Bott always manages to find a new victim," said the man introduced by Sir Albert—a Mr. Powis. "Do you want to have supper? Oh! I see, the old lady does. Come along, Gerald; we will have supper all together," and Lady Lyons was soon as perfectly happy as she could be while half dead from want of sleep.
The appearance of Sir Albert Gerald on the scene of action had a magical effect upon Grace. Every trace of fatigue vanished. She was once again bright, happy, careless, and full of enjoyment; once again the music charmed her, and once again she was glad to be there.
Supper over, Sir Albert found a more comfortable seat for Lady Lyons, and introduced her to a lady sitting there, who eyed her smart clothes with a little suspicion till the Duchess addressed a few kind words to her, when she discovered immediately that they had much in common.
Lady Lyons indeed was overflowing with content to find some one to talk to, after prolonged silence, in the first place; and, in the next, to discover that they had been disappointed in the same doctor, liked the same food, and had the same symptoms; this made the ball enjoyable indeed, and she did not care now how long Grace stayed.
In the meantime Grace realised her dreams; she floated round the room, though her appearance was a little marred by the peculiar position of her head and a certain stiffness in her action.
"You must trust more to me and be a little less timid," said Mr. Powis, when he, in his turn, took her round the room; "one can see you are out of practice."
Grace did not tellhimit was quite her first ball.
She danced without stopping; she would not take it quietly; she did want this one ball to be full of happiness, and she was encouraged by the laughing compliments of young Powis, who, himself a noted athlete and in excellent condition, could have danced for hours, and, to use his own expression, "not turn a hair."
Grace's lips got very white, and Sir Albert more than once remonstrated with her and with her partner.
"Has Gerald got anything to do with you?" he asked, with some temper. "What makes him interfere?"
"I am sure I don't know," Grace answered with a ghastly smile; "but you see I don't mind. Let us go on."
"What a brick you are!" he said, as they once more started. Arrived at the end of the long room, there was suddenly a great commotion, and Mr. Powis was shocked to find his "brick" of a partner fall back in a perfectly dead faint, in the arms of some of those lookers-on always standing about in a ball-room.
She was quickly carried into a small sitting-room, where they scattered one or two people holding interesting conversations there.
There was one chief idea present to every one, the Duchess must not be disturbed and the ball not for a second interrupted.
Grace was very long coming round, and then she owned herself too ill to stay.
Lady Lyons was found without much difficulty, and the two left the brilliant scene as soon as possible.
Young Powis said something about the catastrophe to Sir Albert, who was annoyed with him.
"How could I know she was going to faint?" he said; "she seemed all right: she wanted to go on."
"She has been very ill indeed for months, and, as I sent her the invitation, I felt bound to try and prevent her from doing herself harm."
"Oh, I did not know. She goes well enough, but she hangs back and makes herself heavy; my arm aches enough now. All the same I am very sorry. I could not think why you interfered."
"If it had not been you it would have been with somebody else," and Sir Albert sprang into a hansom and disappeared.
Lady Lyons only knew that Grace was over-fatigued; she knew nothing of her having fainted, and Grace herself was quite determined to say as little as possible. Were there not several other cards waiting, offering the same enjoyment?
In the manner a stupid woman sometimes has of vexing unintentionally, poor Lady Lyons contrived to offend her a good deal.
"Really, my dear, you cannot be grateful enough to that nice Sir Albert Gerald. But for him you and I would have had no supper, no dancing, and a very dull evening; and he hunted up a partner for you as well as dancing with you himself. I assure you he took a lot of trouble about it."
"Mr. Powis asked to be introduced to me."
"Did he, my dear? Why, what a humbug he must be! I heard him myself say to Sir Albert, 'I know too many girls already; do let me off!' and Sir Albert said, 'Nonsense,' and walked him up to you, and then he pretended to wish it himself."
"At any rate Sir Albert said, 'Mr. Powis would like to be introduced to you,'" and Grace was red with anger and mortification.
"My dear, I think they always say that. I heard it said so often near me."
Grace was silent. She had thought that this one man had been attracted by her, forgetting that in a great crowd there must be that undeniablesomethingto be at all noticed.
Her next ball was a great mortification to her. She saw Mr. Powis, he asked her how she was, hoped she was better, and didnotask her to dance; more than this, he expressed surprise at her coming to a ball again.
"I should have thought you would have funked it, Miss Rivers. I shall feel quite nervous till I see you going home, you know."
Grace was furious.
She and poor Lady Lyons sat on unnoticed. They went away when they were tired and crept into the supper-room.
All the servants of the establishment were drawn up in a phalanx in the hall in splendid liveries, and the supper—done by contract—was very bad, and the waiters worse. They sat very forlorn, getting no attention, and retreated, nearly worn out, and having the greatest difficulty in getting their carriage, none of the liveries choosing to face a drizzling rain and call it up. After standing very long in a terrible draught, some one asked the name, and "Lady Lyons's carriage, no servant!" was shouted up and down the street.
Grace burst out laughing, but Lady Lyons, who saw nothing funny in any part of the evening's entertainment, subsided in a heap in the corner of the brougham and wept.
In spite of this, Grace persisted in going to the few things offered her.
"I cannot understand your caring for going out; you never meet a soul you know. Why do you go?" cried poor Lady Lyons at last.
"I go because it is so good for me—and for you too."
"So good for you! So good for me!"
"Yes, it is a sort of penance for you, sitting there and not amusing yourself; and, as for me," said Grace, lightly, "after this I can never set too high a value on myself! It is mortification all round."
"You say the oddest things."
"I am glad I am original; and now, Lady Lyons, I want to arrange some business, and when that is done I want to go to Scotland, but I must finish my business first."
"How long will it take?" asked Lady Lyons.
"I cannot tell. I want to make my will."
"My dear!"
"Is that another original idea? People have done such a thing before. Why do you particularly want to know about the time, Lady Lyons? You very clever people always have a motive in asking anything."
"It is about the rooms, my dear, and it is about my son," and Lady Lyons looked at Grace to see whether this mention of her son's name had any interest for her.
Grace hardly heard her. She was conscious herself of being very much worse in health than she had been when she arrived in London. It was true she had met many mortifications, but she did not care much about them. She had seen something of that whirl she had longed to be in, though she was conscious she had only been at the edge and looking on from a distance. The disenchantment, however, was complete; she saw that, unless living and moving amongst people and having them as friends, there was no pleasure in going to any place, however brilliant; and she was struck with the higher tone of many of the people she met, who did not live only for pleasure, but who took interest in other things, and who accepted "excitement" as an interruption, even if a pleasant interruption, to their usual pursuits, and did not make it their business. She grew ashamed of the frivolous aims and small ambitions she had, and, though she did not own it to herself, she wished she was more like Margaret.
Sir Albert called one day to say good-bye. He was going abroad. He wanted very much to say something to Grace, but he wanted to speak to her alone, and Lady Lyons was always there.
That good woman's way of thanking him for the trouble he had taken to promote their amusement was very amusing.
"Yes, indeed, Sir Albert, but for you, as I always say to Miss Rivers, no supper, no partners, a hard bench and a crowd. Oh, dear! I shall never forget it, never! Then you came, and that supper, and the Duchess was civil, and I had a pleasant conversation, and all was different."
"I am very glad I was able to be of use. The Duchess is always kind."
"Yes, she is very kind—though I bowed to her yesterday and she did not know me; perhaps, as I had a very thick veil on she could not see me," Lady Lyons added reflectively.
"Perhaps not."
"There is only one thing, Sir Albert, if you don't mind my saying it—I was so surprised to see her so plain."
"So plain! We think, in the family, that my aunt, for her age, is very good-looking; she has such a pleasant face."
"Oh! I don't mean plain in the sense of ugly," Lady Lyons said, in a great hurry, "but plain in her dress. She had no jewels on, not even a diamond ring, for I looked to see when she took off her gloves at supper."
"Some people think that the hostess ought to be unadorned. I rather like the sentiment."
"I don't the least understand it," said Lady Lyons, bluntly; "when I used to have company I put on my smartest gown."
"I suppose the Duchess has no smartest gowns," he answered laughing.
"Now that's nonsense, Sir Albert. But I should like to know the 'sentiment,' as you call it, though, for my own part, I cannot see any connection between sentiment and clothes."
"I do," said Grace; "if I am in a very good temper I can wear blue or white with a quiet conscience; if I am in a rage I wear red."
"My dear Miss Rivers! You do say such funny things."
"I shall then avoid speaking to you if I see you in a red gown," laughed Sir Albert.
"You had better——but please enlighten Lady Lyons, she is dying to know why one's 'best' gowns should not be aired on grand occasions."
"I fancy the idea is that it is better taste not to outshine one's guests," Sir Albert said; "the Duchess has such magnificent jewels that it would be easy to outdo every one else."
"That is rather a delicate nice feeling," said Grace, warmly.
"But I would rather wear my jewels, if I had any," said Lady Lyons. "Sir Albert, did you notice my butterfly the other night? No! how strange! Well, never mind! I will go and get it for you, it has a history."
She left the room, and Sir Albert seized his opportunity. "Miss Rivers," he began, hurriedly, "you have some idea, have you not, of what your sister is to me?"
"I think I have" said Grace demurely.
"Will you do me a very great kindness?" he said, earnestly. "Will you send me a line now and again? All that dreadful time the only plan, forhersake, was to keep away."
"I suppose it was," said Grace; "it must have been difficult."
"It has been very difficult."
"And when I send you this line, 'now and again,' am I to say anything to her?"
"I see no reason you should not let her know you are so kind as to write to me," he answered.
"Nor do I. I only wanted to know."
"If at any time you think she would care to see me—if I could ever be of use—you will let me know?"
"I will. Not that sending a letter to Norway or Finland, let alone the Antipodes, holds out much prospect of your being able to come within a reasonable time," she added, laughing.
"Distance sounds more than it is," he answered, composedly, "and I may not go quite so far as the Antipodes."
"Or Norway?" she said, mischievously.
He coloured vividly.
"Miss Rivers, I mean to put the sea between us, till...."
"Till she has forgotten, in some measure," said Grace, kindly. "I think you are right; because, just now, everything is so terrible to her. She might think happiness in connection with you quite out of the question; and if you came forward just now she might put herself into a position from which it might be difficult for her to draw back. I think you must wait till she has quite recovered, and then she may become conscious of a great blank in her life, and wish for you."
"God grant it may be so!" he said, fervently.
"Do you mind telling me how it was it all went wrong at Lornbay? I thought you cared for her then."
"Cared for her! It was a terrible misunderstanding. I never can forgive myself for having said something—put something in a stupid way. It does not bear thinking about. You have no conception what a trialthathas been to bear. It has added to everything else."
"Well, before my lady and her butterfly comes, hear me promise to do what little I can in the matter, Sir Albert. Let us swear an eternal friendship!"
She held out her hand as Lady Lyons came into the room, and he gave her a grateful pressure. Lady Lyons coughed loudly, as much as to say—"I am here."
"Now, Sir Albert," said Grace, gaily, "Lady Lyons is quite shocked; you really must not make love to me under her very eyes."
Poor Lady Lyons felt dreadfully taken aback. Sir Albert, however, was so kind about her jewel, and, taking it to the light, gave it such real attention, that she was soon thinking of her butterfly more than of anything else.
When he had gone, however, the little scene recurred to her, and she began talking about him.
She was just sufficiently afraid of Grace to begin the conversation as far from the subject as possible, and, without losing sight of what she wanted to know, she began talking of Mrs. Dorriman, and of the days of her youth, when she had been a neglected girl of sixteen as Anne Sandford.
"Do you know, my dear, that in those days people used to think she was an heiress. Nobody knew anything at all about the brother, and it was such a surprise when he appeared. No one knew anything abouthismother, and no one, I believe—none of his most intimate friends—knew of his father's first marriage."
"A disagreeable surprise for Mrs. Dorriman."
"Yes! and how good she is always; never a murmur, and it is very hard for her. First of all, her father made no will; then her husband muddled away all his money! Poor dear woman! Now, can any one say truthfully that she has had a happy life?" And Lady Lyons looked round the room, appealing, as it were, to an invisible audience, only at last looking at Grace.
"It is quite impossible that any one should be happy without independence," answered Grace. "It is a most galling thing to owe all, or nearly all, to some one who is nothing to one. I speak feelingly, Lady Lyons. Mr. Sandford, out of affection for his wife (who, as you know, was my aunt), offered us a home, and added to our income at school. But he made the obligation hateful to us by the way he went on. His temper is absolutely unbearable. I cannot tell you how terrible the scenes were. No one—no girl with any sense of self-respect—could put up with it! No one!"
"My dear! this is very, very sad."
"It is more than sad. This is the history of my poor darling Margaret's marriage. I was so utterly wretched, so perfectly miserable, that she married Mr. Drayton (all her instincts being against him) to savemefrom a life I hated. I urged her to do it; but, Lady Lyons, I was very ill; if I had only been well—if only I had not felt so much in want of all the comfort and care I could get—I am sure I never would have allowed her to sacrifice herself so terribly."
She stopped, exhausted, and covered her face with her hands.
"My dear! my dear!" said Lady Lyons, feebly patting her on the arm. "For my sake do not excite yourself so much. I am so very sorry I brought this forward—but I don't think I did either."
"It does not matter whether you did or not, it is always here—no, not always," said Grace, with a bitter little laugh, "because I am not a girl who makes herself miserable about what cannot be helped, but when I am driven into thought——Oh! Lady Lyons, do you know what it is? Did you ever, in all your life, have remorse?"
"Oh, yes!" said Lady Lyons, very placidly, "when I lost my husband I wished I had not been so cross to him. But he was trying, my dear—very trying. However, I was sorry I was snappish to him sometimes. It quite weighed upon me when he died."
Grace laughed again, and Lady Lyons looked at her curiously. What had she said that was so funny? She began to talk again, this time a little spitefully.
"I suppose you will be glad if your sister marries again?"
"Of course, I shall be glad for her to do whatever is for her happiness; but marrying again, Lady Lyons, does it not seem a little hard that she should have so many chances and I ... have none?"
"My dear, if I am not very much mistaken, Sir Albert Gerald is very much in love."
"Yes, I think he is very much in love," Grace answered indifferently.
"Then let us hope it will all come right."
"I hope it will," and before Lady Lyons could go on with her investigations a servant came to ask if Grace would see Mr. Stevens.
"Certainly." Grace was enchanted to see any one; and Lady Lyons, who did not care for Mr. Stevens, carefully gathered her patchwork together and left the room.
"Well, Mr. Stevens, you see me on the very verge of departure," exclaimed Grace; "I am really going far from this gay and festive scene, and intend recruiting my shattered nerves in Highland air."
Mr. Stevens looked at her gravely. He was deeply shocked by her appearance. She looked so fragile, and her lips were so absolutely without colour.
"I hope the Highland air will set you up," he said; "you look as if you have not had sleep for an indefinite time."
"No, sleep.... I do not sleep well." There was something almost pathetic in her tone. He had seen her pretty often now, but he had always seen her full of high spirits, bandying words; he thought her more interesting, and he said very kindly, "Change of air does much for every one, and it will do you good seeing your sister."
"How is she?" Grace felt softened by his tone.
"A different person since she went there. I went up there for a few days...." A curious hesitation in his manner struck her.
"I shall like being with my sister. I shall very much dislike being with some one else," Grace said, with a bitterness of tone he could not help noticing.
"Not—Mrs. Dorriman?"
"Not—Mrs. Dorriman!" she rejoined, imitating the little pause he had made, and looking at him with laughing eyes.
Mr. Stevens got up and looked out of the window. Grace called him back. "Did you come to see how I was? I do not look very robust, but I intend to get well up in the North."
"I hope you will."
"But you are afraid? Mr. Stevens, your face is nearly as good as a looking-glass. I see exactly how I look by the expression of your eyebrows. When you come into the room they are tidy and straight; if I look well they arch up into a sort of surprised state, as much as to say 'That girl is a riddle to me, she is actually better, who would have thought it?' When I look very ill, as I suppose I look to-day, they go down in a melancholy line and say as plainly as possible, 'Poor thing! she is going down-hill very fast.'"
"Miss Rivers, I am sorry my eyebrows should be so very inconveniently expressive," he said, trying to laugh, and feeling absolutely heartsick; she seemed to him frightfully ill, and so utterly devoid of anything like serious thought.
"You need not be sorry," she said, in an odd tone; "we none of us know anything of each other, and I daresay I judge you quite as hardly as you do me."
"Hardly! Do I judge you hardly?"
"You think I am so fearfully frivolous and thoughtless and——I cannot at this moment think of any other words."
"I know your sister best. She is not thoughtless: and may I say to you, Miss Rivers, that the more I know her the more thunderstruck I am at her ever having married poor Drayton?"
"You knew him better than any of us."
"Yes, ever since his boyhood. He had no chance. His father and mother were cousins, and insanity in the family. It was terrible to me to hear of his marriage."
Grace shivered.
"You do not like Mr. Sandford. I remember hearing this. I cannot bear him."
"He is in very bad health now."
"That does not alter things a bit. When I think of all his rudeness and violence ... and he always looks to me as though he had some great sin lying on his conscience."
Grace watched Mr. Stevens very narrowly, and she saw him give a little start.
He turned the subject at once.
"I came to pay something over to you, Miss Rivers—will you give me a receipt?"
It was a large cheque—the interest on the fifteen thousand pounds from the date of her sister's marriage.
"Mrs. Drayton refused this—the legacy duty is deducted and an account inclosed."
Grace examined it all quietly. Then she drew a blotting-book near her. She signed a receipt and inclosed the cheque to her bankers—rang, and desired the letter to be sent by hand.
Mr. Stevens watched her narrowly; how curiously unlike Mrs. Drayton she was, and yet something—that indescribable and subtle resemblance which comes out in tricks of manner more than in feature—would have caused Grace to be known any where as Margaret's sister. He began to describe Inchbrae to her, but she stopped him hurriedly.
"Pray do not begin about it for I know it by heart—Margaret writes about nothing else, and, as for Mrs. Dorriman, I do not know whether she or Jean talk most about it. Clear crystal sea—soft shadows on the mountains, sometimes clouds (always cloudsIshould say!)—sharp crags, fir-trees beautiful with red stems, beautiful without, waterfall, rowan-trees, scarlet geraniums,anda grey house. There, do I know my lesson, or do I not? The idea of your beginning too!"
Mr. Stevens went off into a fit of laughter, and he was one of the men who laughed with merriment, so many are noisy and not merry. In the midst of this hilarity in walked a tall young man announcing himself, with an injured waiter in the background waving deprecating hands.
It was Paul Lyons.
"Come and laugh too, Mr. Lyons," said Grace, as she shook hands with him. "Should you be surprised to hear that Mr. Stevens (by the way, let me introduce you. Mr. Stevens, Mr. Lyons; the same to the same). Yes, Mr. Stevens is laughing at an excellent, undeniable joke made by me."
Paul Lyons seemed older and more careworn than when she had last seen him. He looked at her with so grave an expression that she was startled. The laughter died away upon her lips, and she was silent.
"You have been ill?"
He spoke with very real feeling, and she, though she tried to answer him lightly, the effort was a failure. At length she said shortly—
"I have been ill, and your mother kind. My face speaks for itself, I suppose."
"Yes," answered Paul, "you are looking far from well. But you are better? You are going away?"
"Who told you this important fact?"
"My mother. I came home sooner. I wanted to see you before you went away."
Mr. Stevens had not very quick perceptions, but when Paul Lyons made this speech it dawned upon him that he was perhaps in the way.
He rose, and, renewing his offers of service, left the room, with an overpowering amount of thanks from Grace.
"Tell me about your illness, now that man has gone. Have you been seriously ill—as ill as my mother thinks?"
"How can I possibly tell what your mother thinks?"
"Oh, Grace! do not trifle just now! I have known for a very long time that my whole happiness is bound up in you!"
"Margaret is free, remember."
"What does that matter? Why remind me that I once liked her best? Is a man never to change? I know now—I have long known it—if I could but get you to believe it! that Margaret was a sort of dream of my youth. I shall always reverence her, but she is too far beyond me. She is like some pure cold saint, and I do love you, Grace!"
"But I have no wealth to endow you with," said Grace, looking at him earnestly, "only a very few hundreds a year."
She watched him a little anxiously, but his face showed it did not matter.
"I am poor enough," he said, "but you shall never want anything if you will only give me the right of taking care of you. I have succeeded in getting an appointment in Italy. I am sure that climate will suit you; the doctors said so."
"And you got the appointment without knowing that I would say yes," exclaimed Grace, a good deal in her old manner.
"If you say no, all places will be alike to me."
"Oh, Paul! shall I tell you something? I do love you, but I have a great deal to say to you before I say yes or no."
"Say anything now, and put me out of suspense."
"I believe I shall live; I am not very strong; but I am stronger than people think; and Paul, if I do say yes—if I am your wife—I am afraid you will have a very sorry bargain. I am not a very amiable girl, and I am capricious. Do you know what I am afraid of? I am always so afraid of getting tired of my husband."
"Grace, please don't talk like this. I also have many faults; you do not think I am perfect, do you? We must make allowances for each other."
"I certainly do not think you perfect," said Grace, laughing a little, "but I do think you should reflect. Just think, Paul: a delicate wife, full of whims, not very attractive."
"Grace, you will drive me crazy if you go on in this way. I love you, dear, with all your whims, and all else, and you will get strong and well in Italy. Say plainly, and at once, that you will marry me."
"Well then, plainly and at once, I will, Paul. I am not quite sure that the reason I care for you is not that you are the only man who has ever wished to marry me, but I will only marry you on one condition."
"On any condition, darling."
"I want to be married at once. I have heaps of new clothes; and I do not want to go to Scotland and confront old Sandford without some one to fight my battles."
Paul was surprised to find his mother pleased about his marriage.
"I was afraid you wanted me to marry a rich wife," he said, his satisfaction unbounded at the evident pleasure with which she received his news.
"I did, Paul, yes; but Grace has something."
"Not much I am afraid—but I have this appointment, mother, and we shall get on all right."
"I suppose it is not much; did she tell you what it was?"
"A few hundreds."
"A year. She has six or seven hundred a year."
"Oh!" said Paul, "I am glad, mother, of course. I am also glad I did not know anything about it."
"Would it have made a difference?"
"I cannot say," he answered.