Lady Lyons was in a great state of excitement about Grace's wedding. She had large ideas as to what was the right thing to do; and she never for one moment thought that upon an occasion of this kind Grace would be wilful or obstinate. That she was peculiar she knew; but she had no idea she would indulge in peculiar ideas about a wedding, and that wedding her own.
Grace would have no wedding-cake, no breakfast (in that sense), and no fuss, no bridesmaids. It was to be by special licence, and quiet as quiet could be.
"But why, my dear?"
"Because there is no one to ask."
"We have plenty of acquaintances. I know many people, and it is unusual to have a wedding in a corner this way."
"I don't know about a corner—I am to be married in church."
"You know what I mean, Grace; and it is my only son."
"I am sorry you have not got more sons, if you wish it, Lady Lyons."
Then suddenly she knelt down beside her and said earnestly—
"Usually there are friends to rejoice; there is a mother or sisters, a father—some one who cares for a girl. They gather round her at an important moment of her life; but, Lady Lyons, in all the world there does not exist a more forlorn girl than I am. It would be mockery to summon acquaintances and call them friends. What do they know about me or about your son? I have thought, till I am tired of thinking, who there is to give me away. I can think of no one—I shall have to borrow a father for the occasion; and I cannot think where I shall find one."
"My dear Grace, you do say such odd things!"
"Do I? I am speaking the truth, perhaps that seems odd."
"I do not feel as if it would be a wedding at all."
"I hope it will be a wedding, though there are to be no guests; and, without guests to eat it, why have a wedding-cake?"
"To send some away, and the look of the thing. You don't seem to think of that."
"Who is to look? There is to be no one. I do not care for wedding-cake myself, though I love the almond-paste, and, if you eat some, you would be ill for weeks."
Lady Lyons was not to be consoled. She told Sir Albert (who was still detained in town), and he tried to sympathise with her. Then he spoke to Grace—
"If people came, not here, but to the church—you would not mind it?"
"How can I prevent people from going to church?"
"And who is to give you away?"
"I do not know; I have told Lady Lyons I intend borrowing a father for the occasion."
"How would Sir Jacob do?"
"They have never been near us, though they made such a fuss about us. Of course, it is nothisfault—still I will not ask him."
"It would be kinder to think of some one, and so please Lady Lyons."
"But, kind or not kind, I cannot think of any one."
"There is some one I know; he is very kind, and it would be pleasanter for you."
"It would be much better if I knew some one. I think girls are to be envied who have relations and friends; I have none."
"If I find some one will you be nice about it?"
"I will be very nice: as nice as I know to be. Lady Lyons would like some one a little before the world. She thinks Paul's wedding a very important thing."
"If I can I will arrange about it. I was so provoked about not getting away, now I am glad."
"Yes, I am Margaret's sister."
"You say she is not coming?"
"She offered and I declined. Where was the use of a long journey? I am going north afterwards."
"And you are to write to me?"
"If Paul is not jealous," and she laughed.
Then he said good-bye.
That evening Lady Lyons sat worrying herself a good deal about everything in general, and this impending difficulty in particular, when a note to Grace was brought in. It was from the Duchess.
"Dear Miss Rivers,"My nephew says that, owing to your sister's absence, you would like to be befriended a little on your wedding-day. The Duke begs me to say that he will give you away with pleasure, and, as Lady Lyons is the young man's mother, I will call and take you to church."How wise you are to have no bridesmaids or breakfast. I wish other girls were as sensible. Believe me, dear Miss Rivers,"Yours truly,"Katherine Mallington."
"Dear Miss Rivers,
"My nephew says that, owing to your sister's absence, you would like to be befriended a little on your wedding-day. The Duke begs me to say that he will give you away with pleasure, and, as Lady Lyons is the young man's mother, I will call and take you to church.
"How wise you are to have no bridesmaids or breakfast. I wish other girls were as sensible. Believe me, dear Miss Rivers,
"Yours truly,
"Katherine Mallington."
Grace gave the note to Lady Lyons without comment.
"Her Grace's servant waits to see if there is any answer," said the waiter, very respectfully.
Grace wrote,
"Dear Duchess of Mallington,"You are very kind, and I beg to thank you and the Duke very much. Yes, I shall be very grateful to you for so befriending me; it is good of you, who know me so little; of course it is also good of your nephew."Yours truly,"Grace Rivers."
"Dear Duchess of Mallington,
"You are very kind, and I beg to thank you and the Duke very much. Yes, I shall be very grateful to you for so befriending me; it is good of you, who know me so little; of course it is also good of your nephew.
"Yours truly,
"Grace Rivers."
"My dear Grace, now all is most delightfully arranged," said Lady Lyons; "now it will not be in a corner."
"The place is not changed," said Grace. "I told you before I did not mean a corner."
"You do take everything so much as a matter of course," said Lady Lyons, irritably.
"How ought I to take things? Ought I to laugh or cry? Tell me what is the proper thing to do?"
"You might be a little pleased."
"I am very much pleased. I think the Duchess is very kind."
"She must have taken a fancy to you, my dear."
"I think not. I suspect she does not know me by sight."
"Then why do this? What do you think yourself?"
"I think it is all for Margaret."
"And she has never seen her! My dear, you really are too ridiculous!"
"No, Lady Lyons; can you not see how things really are? Sir Albert knew how you lamented my want of friends and he has done this for me."
"But why, my dear, why? That's what I want to know," and Lady Lyons looked puzzled.
"Ah, that is very puzzling indeed," said Grace, gravely: and Lady Lyons, who had from the first stated that she thought she had a gown that was quite good enough, went to consult her maid upon the subject.
She found her maid in a state of ecstacy over a very handsome dark, plum-coloured silk, very fashionably though quietly made, bonnet and mantle to match, "With Grace's love" on the top of it.
"Oh, my dear, how lovely! I am so sorry I said that about a corner. Corner, indeed! how kind, how very thoughtful of you! I cannot bear taking such a handsome present from you."
"You must learn to take many presents from your new daughter," said Grace, but something in her tone struck Lady Lyons.
"You have been crying," she exclaimed; "what is it, my dear? what has happened?"
"Nothing has happened, but I have a letter from Margaret, a most dear letter, and I could not help contrasting my marriage with hers, for I love Paul, Lady Lyons, and all is different."
"Very different," said Lady Lyons, and she sighed sympathetically; "and Mr. Drayton had no position, my dear; he was only a manufacturer."
"Oh, Lady Lyons, how absurd you are!" said Grace, the tears still standing in her eyes, though she laughed heartily; "fancy, in these days, talking like that! Why, all our leading spirits in Parliament and out of it are 'only' manufacturers; they have the ball at their feet now."
"My dear, you have a way of putting things I never can follow," said poor Lady Lyons; "now you are talking about a ball, it is really very puzzling."
"Well then, I beg your pardon over and over and over again," said Grace, "and I will try not to say puzzling things."
"Thank you, my dear," said Lady Lyons, very heartily, who considered this a great concession.
"Now I am to be your daughter," said the girl, with the natural wish of having a little affection and kindness shown to her just now, "you will try and like me—love me a little bit." She looked wistfully at Lady Lyons, who was touched and quite melted by this appeal.
"I suppose," she said very naïvely to Grace, who had turned round to leave the room, "that I also have things about me, peculiarities that require indulgence."
"You are very good," said Grace, evading the question, "and I mean to be a good wife to Paul, you believe that?"
"Oh, yes, my dear, indeed, you put that very prettily; I used to wish it was Margaret, but now I think you will like to know, that I am quite reconciled—then there is the Duchess, and my new dress!"
Grace laughed a little and left her.
She locked her door and once again read Margaret's affectionate, earnest letter.
After discussing the news of her marriage she said,
"Now, Grace, my darling, I want you to think, think more prayerfully than I did, about this. If you do not love Paul Lyons, do not mind the disagreeable speeches that may be made, but do not go on with it. Far better to bear angry words now than to marry without love. I would come to you, darling, at a moment's notice, and I could make a home for you somewhere, only do not do this. Had I had so solemn a warning I might have been saved."
There was more to the same point; each word, every line, showed by its intensity what an agony of pain, and shame, and misery she had herself gone through.
Hot tears fell on Grace's hands as she read the letter, and she threw herself upon her knees.
"Why should she suffer and not I?" she cried, "and I am looking forward to happiness. Then she prayed long and fervently, not for happiness and blessings but for forgiveness!"
"I shall only be really happy when I know she has forgotten," she said to herself, and she knew that this meant when Sir Albert Gerald had won her sister.
The sun shone brightly on Grace's wedding-day. She was quiet and composed. When Lady Lyons praised her for her demeanour she said gravely,
"I am losing nothing, leaving no one, and I am gaining much."
The Duchess kissed her, and Lady Lyons moved forward a little. She had a vague idea she might be equally honoured, but was disappointed; however, there was the register signed by the Duke and Duchess,thatwould go down to posterity in connection with her son, and that was always a great deal.
As the small party left the church, they were met by Lady Penryn.
"Oh, you naughty girl!" she said, playfully. "You nice thing! where have you been all this time? Does she not look sweet?" appealing to the Duchess, who, passing on, took no notice of her.
She met with a cold reception from even Lady Lyons; but she was not to be daunted; laying a detaining hand on Grace's arm she said—
"The right thing for friends to know each other; the Duchess, my dear, introduce me."
"Let me introduce Mr. Lyons," said Grace, with much composure, and passed on to the carriage with Paul.
The discomfited lady received no comfort from her husband.
"If I had only known she was that sort of girl," she said, bitterly; "I always thought she was a nobody, and the Duchess gave her away!"
"Her father was most kind to my poor boy. I know nothing of his people, but he was a thorough gentleman. I never could understand why you would never take the slightest notice of the girl. However the thing's done now and cannot be mended."
He did not tell his wife that he had sent Grace a magnificent bracelet, and a kind and fatherly letter, offering to be of use to her.
She understood though he said nothing about his wife; and, avoiding all mention of Lady Penryn, she thanked him warmly, and told him about the Duchess and her kindness. Paul Lyons took his wife to Scotland, and to Inchbrae.
Grace saw for herself the clearness of the sea, the beauty of colouring—all the fitful charm which makes the Highlands so very lovely and so dear to its people.
"I think I know why you care for me," she said to Paul one day when they had been for a ramble, she on pony-back and he on foot beside her. "I understand, since I came here, how delightful it is never to know what to expect. I look out of my window in the morning and I see sunshine and blue sky, and a sea in which a thousand delicate colours melt and blend. Half-an-hour afterwards there are clouds, but all is still, light and the sun seem behind, and anxious to peep out again. Next comes darkness, the blue turns to indigo, the sea becomes grey and sullen. All is changed, and so it is ever new, and no one can ever be tired of it. Now, Paul, that is what I conceive to be my charm in your eyes; I am never quite the same, and therefore I hope you will never be tired of me!"
Margaret was in far better spirits, and looking so much more her old self, that Grace was happier about her; but not quite happy, she said to Paul,
"Till something happens which will happen——"
"And till that happens (which I know nothing about) I am to ask no questions?"
"You may ask hundreds—I shall answer none. Do you know, Paul, one thing in connection with our marriage weighed terribly on my mind, shall I tell youthat?"
"Pray do, darling, unless it is something very uncomplimentary."
"I used to wonder what two people, bound to live together always, could ever find to talk about. I was so afraid I should find your conversation monotonous, and that I should not be able to rise to the occasion."
"I may tell you that long ago—before I knew you—I often wondered what married people could find to talk about all their lives; since I knew you I have only thought how delightful it would be to have you to talk to, all mine," said Paul simply.
Tears came into her eyes. "You are very good to me," she said; and then they went in.
To Mrs. Dorriman, Grace was "as nice as she could be," and the quartet were happy together, but the consequence of the old days left their trace in a certain constraint. Had Grace remained ill and lonely the kind little woman's heart would have gone out to her more, but she thought (as we often do think) that there was a certain injustice in Grace's being so happy, while Margaret, all for her (because of her impatient temper and other faults) was left to feel bitterly the consequences of a great mistake, entered into entirely from a false conception of what she owed her sister.
Margaret was forgetting, but there were many terrible moments to her. It is one of the many instances of that compensation which is the rule in life, in spite of all assertions to the contrary, that with a great gift—the great gift of poetry and imagination—comes often morbidness.
The high-strung note is oftenest the one that goes most out of tune; and the very vividness and gracefulness of fancy—that combination that makes a poet live in a world of his own—has often its darker side.
Margaret still, at times, lived through the old terrors, still fancied her child's voice called her. She was silent about these things. Every pang she suffered would be a remembrance to Grace. Grace, who was so softened and yet so bright, and who seemed to her to be so completely now the sister she had at one time imagined her to be.
Mrs. Macfarlane was always a friend they were glad to see, but it was Grace who spoke with satisfaction of their having no society, and perhaps nothing more thoroughly convinced Mrs. Dorriman how completely she was altered. They were not to stay long, those two; Paul had not very long leave of absence and wanted to get his wife south. Before they left, one day, Mrs. Dorriman, who had always that feeling about Margaret and the injustice of her suffering for Grace's fault, did want to say one word. She thought it was right, and she was resolved to do it.
"I am very glad you are happy, Grace," she began, the day before their departure.
"Thank you, auntie; you are very good to say so; I am very happy."
"It seems strange; of course we all know that whatever is, is right, but does it not seem strange that poor Margaret?..."
"What is strange about poor Margaret?"
"That you should be happy and that she ... should so suffer."
"Yes, every thing is strange in this world," Grace answered; "at least we think so."
"I am sure, sometimes, you must feel it all very much, though you look as though care and trouble had never touched you."
"Do you count that to me as a crime?" Grace asked in a peculiar tone.
"I sometimes wonder if you ever blame yourself." Mrs. Dorriman's tone was, for her, severe.
"I suppose we all do at times."
"Well, it seems hard."
"That we should blame ourselves?"
"You know I do not mean that."
"No," answered Grace very slowly, and looking at her with a sort of surprise in her face; "I know what all this means; you beat about the bush very badly, Mrs. Dorriman."
"Now I have offended you since you call me Mrs. Dorriman."
"You have offended me," said Grace, vehemently, "because you give me credit for being utterly heartless and cruel, and wanting in affection; you think that, because I am happy now, I have forgotten. I have forgotten nothing! I do blame myself! I know as well as you can tell me that my selfishness and impatience and everything else made Margaret wretched! Up till lately I was very very unhappy, and all her sufferings weighed upon me terribly, but now that I see happiness for her looming in the distance I do allow myself to be happy. It was not till I saw that quite clearly that I consented to marry Paul and to be happy myself!"
"Happiness for Margaret! I see nothing before her but the perpetual grief for her child."
"I see something more. She will always regret her child, but, though there is so much bitterness mixed up with the recollection of its death, she will learn to think more happily even about its loss. Has it never struck you that, had it lived, there must have been a horrible anxiety about it."
"She will never see it in that light."
"You are wrong, for last night I saw her reading something, and I saw it moved her strangely." Grace's own voice faltered for a moment; recovering herself quickly she said, "It was about the short-sightedness of mourning a loss too deeply and not reflecting that it was a veiled mercy, as it was often taken from the evil to come. We talked about it afterwards at night, and I know her thoughts, auntie, now."
"I hope you may be right," said Mrs. Dorriman, and let the conversation drop.
Grace thought she should never forget the night before, when she and Margaret had stood together in something of their old fashion. It had been wonderfully calm and still; the moon, so bright that they might have read by its light, was shining down upon the sea, turning its rippling surface to silver; the soft light, which yet makes such sharp, dark shadows, was on the hills. Every now and again came the curious little grumbling sound from below, where the waves lapped and splashed quietly against the rocks. These waves seemed held by a restraining hand, they were so quiet. A night-hawk gave its weird cry, and some owls hooted; the trees seemed to have nothing to say, their usual rustle was, for the time, stilled. The sisters, in their different ways, felt the great beauty of it all. Margaret had drawn closer to Grace, and the latter gave an affectionate caress. These nights touched a responsive chord in Margaret, that wonderful sympathy that exists between a poet and nature filled her heart to overflowing; and Grace, softened by the affection of her husband, a happier future to look forward to, was sufficiently enthusiastic to draw her out a little.
She began to talk of heaven and of her child.
"On such a night, Grace, there is undescribable peace, and yet these influences pass away and regrets press upon one."
"That is natural," said Grace, softly; "but I do sometimes feel that, in thinking of a little child, regrets must be softened to one. To leave the world before it has been tempted, before it has sinned, with the future in this world, the trials all unknown; you do not know, darling, what it may have been saved."
"You do not know how often that thought comforts me," said Margaret, very earnestly; "if it had lived there might have been perpetual dread of an hereditary curse. No, what troubles me now, in my sad moments, in those darker moods that I sometimes have to fight against, is my own self-reproach."
"And my own dear Margaret, if you suffer from self-reproach what must I do?" asked Grace, with the sincerest sorrow.
"Not about my marriage, Grace; wrong as it was, it brought its own retribution: but I reproach myself bitterly now for not having struggled against the position I was put into. Looking back now I cannot help seeing that there were many things I might have done. I was so afraid of my child being taken from me. I allowed that fear to paralyse my senses. I might have appealed to Mr. Sandford, and done many things I know now I might have done: and it would have been better forhim; but I simply lived for my little one; my senses seemed numbed in all directions except in that one. I made it my idol; I prayed for it alone; I dreaded things for it; I worshipped it, and it was taken from me.... If only I knew that the little life had not been sacrificed to neglect I could remember it more happily; but in that fear lies the bitterness of my loss."
"Then you may remember it more happily," said Grace, feelingly, "because that London doctor said to me that the little child could not have been saved; there was something very delicate about it, and it had a very oddly-shaped head."
"Then I can say God is very good," said Margaret, so low that Grace could hardly hear her.
She began to talk again soon, about the scenery round them, and of Mrs. Dorriman.
"There is something—some dread she has. I have no idea what it is, but the curious thing is that she so entirely forgets at times; then something brings it before her again. I love her dearly, and I wish she was perfectly happy."
"I think she is a dear old thing," answered Grace; "but she always puts me in mind of some ivy or creeper that the wind has blown away from its support. She is one of the women who must have somebody to cling to, even if that somebody be tyranical and harsh like her brother."
"Yet, in his own way, he has been kind to us."
"Very much in his own way," said Grace, resentfully.
"I have a fancy about Mr. Sandford," Margaret said rather dreamily.
"You have generally nice fancies about most people, darling; tell your fancy to me."
"You will only laugh?"
"I swear not to laugh."
"You dislike him more than I do."
"I suppose I do, but do you know, Margaret, that since I am happier, I mean since I have had so much affection from my husband and not felt like a boat without oars or rudder, or whatever the thing is that steers it, I feel ever so much kinder about every body—even about him. I am quite convinced that if somebody left me a large fortune I should become a striking instance of overpowering amiability."
"It is a problem I never can solve. I often wonder whether trial or prosperity softens people best."
"It depends upon the material; nothing would hurt you; but for me, I am a sort of acid, and more acid makes me into an explosive."
"My fancy about Mr. Sandford is that at one time in his life, perhaps when he was quite young, he has suffered, and cruelly suffered, from some terrible injustice."
"Another case of acids mixing and blowing up," said Grace, laughing; "he is in a perpetual state of effervescence."
"No, but seriously, Grace, he has a great deal of good in him, and his devotion to his wife shows he has warm affections somewhere, and he has always been kind to me."
"You win every one, even Paul. I know well that you were his first grand passion, and curiously enough I am not jealous."
"Who talks of jealousy?" said a voice from below, and Paul, his cigar nearly ended, came under the window.
"I am merely saying, dear," said Grace in her most melting accents, "that, though you once were madly in love with Margaret, I amnotjealous."
And laughing, Grace escaped to her own room. Margaret remained at the window. She was moved by what Grace had repeated to her about her child; yes, better to have lost it here than to have seen it that....
And Grace was really very happy. Paul was most kind and good, and there was more manliness about him now than she had ever thought him capable of; and yet, she said to herself, that for her to give her whole heart, to have such an affection for any one, such as Grace had for her husband, there must be higher qualities.
She must look up more, she must have help, and some one in whom she could find a better and a nobler self.
And in the softening influences of that hour and that scene a vivid blush rose to her face, and she told herself that already one was there; and that her heart, crushed as it had been, and cruelly as she had suffered, was not hopelessly embittered. She knew that she could love, and then she sighed. Large tears came into her eyes and rolled slowly down unchecked over her face, a sudden thrill of passion and of hope went through her frame, and she knew she did love!
Next morning came parting with Grace, but it was a parting in which she allowed no sorrow to appear.
She utterly bewildered Mrs. Dorriman by saying to her, "You will, I hope, soon have very good news to send me."
"About what, my dear?" and poor Mrs. Dorriman's face was expressive of blankest bewilderment.
"About every thing, generally," said Grace; "never mind about understanding now, you will some day; and it will be all right."
When she and Paul had waved a last farewell Mrs. Dorriman stood looking out of the window till the carriage became a speck upon the horizon.
"I wonder what Grace meant, Margaret my love? she does say such odd things, sometimes. Did you hear what she said to me just now?"
"I do not think I know which particular thing you mean, dear auntie; Grace says so many odd things."
"She hoped I should soon have very good news to send her. Now, my dear, what news can I have to send her from here? It really is a very odd saying and I am quite puzzled."
"Do not puzzle yourself; Grace often says things that have no meaning."
"But what do you think, Margaret? You know her so much better than I do. What are you thinking about, just now?"
"I am wondering if it is going to rain," Margaret said, and turned away laughing.
"As if I had spoken about the weather," the poor little woman said. But Margaret had left the room.
In these days unless adventures take the disagreeable form of accidents, nothing is likely to arise in a journey between the north of Scotland and the south of England to mar the serenity of one's temper.
Grace, carefully cherished all the way, travelled with supreme satisfaction. She saw in the distance, not very far off, happiness for Margaret. She grew more fond of her husband each day, in return for the affection he lavished upon her, and she had none of the anxieties to which she had once been no stranger.
There was but one cloud upon the horizon, and the one drawback to her perfect happiness lay in that fact. If it grew larger it might mar her happiness to a certain extent, and the fear that it might do so troubled her when she remembered it.
It may be recollected that neither Margaret or herself had conceived a very high opinion of Mr. Paul Lyons on first acquaintance; indeed, Margaret had had a good deal to do to bring herself to think happily about his being Grace's husband; then, on further acquaintance, she grew not only to like him but to recognise that there was much merit in the young man, and she was thankful her sister had fallen into such excellent and kindly hands.
Grace had been won by his affection for herself, and by the amount of admiration she inspired, but she did not take a very high view of his character, and that fact did not trouble her in the least. She always took exception to her sister's ideas as "high-flown," and, if she had been asked, would have answered that her husband aspired to nothing very great in the way of intellect or sentiment, but that he had quite enough for this work-a-day world, and more than enough forher. It was a daily surprise to her, therefore, to find that, even in little things, her husband had a very much higher standard than she had. This discovery was startling; she felt she must take care lest she forfeited his good opinion. Then one day he was talking about Margaret, and of her having divested herself of every farthing of her husband's money, and Grace laughed a little about it. She was astonished at the view he took of it; he was quite vehement about it.
"I cannot see it in your way," Grace had said. "It seems to me that, as poor Margaret married the man, she had every right to whatever he chose to leave her."
"I am sorry to hear you say that, even in fun (I know you are not in earnest). I should never have been able to think of Margaret in the same way if she had acted differently."
"But, Paul,why? Margaret suffered horribly and behaved like an angel. Why should she not reap any benefit?"
"It is not a thing to argue about, it is a thing one feels," he answered; "and I am quite grieved, darling, that you should pretend to think differently." This was pleasant; then Paul went on, "I cannot myself fathom her motives: but the way I read the story of her life is, that she was, for some reason, anxious to make a home for you—so you have told me—rushed into the scrape, and has repented ever since. Girls are so curious. I suppose she had the independence you have; so where the good of it all was I cannot see. Then, when she found what she had done, her better, higher nature prevailed, and she gave the money away."
"You really think it wrong to benefit in any way by that man's money?" asked Grace, horribly conscious, and feeling most uncomfortable; "supposing, Paul—only supposing—I had benefitted, would you have blamed me?"
"Do not put such absurd questions," he answered, sharply; "it is not the least like you to have done such a thing. Can you not see that, in one sense, in a sort of way, it is almost like blood-money? Imagine being the better for anything of the kind! I believe the money would bring a curse and not a blessing!"
Grace felt an acute and miserable pang of self-reproach; she was afraid now that her husband might find out, and she knew that the loss of his esteem would be terrible to her. He and Margaret thought so much alike; what could she do?
His appointment was worth a few hundreds a year, and the six hundred a year she had was counted in arranging their expenses.
Whenever the future was talked of, this miserable idea haunted her. When Paul advised her to get something, whenever money was in question, there was this one constant weight upon her mind, and the strange thing to herself was, that now she began to see a little as he did, and she could not now understand how she had reconciled herself to accepting it, how she could have claimed her right to this money so complacently.
Paul had proposed to her, thinking her penniless, and the small fortune had been a joyful surprise. How she wished now that she had never had anything to do with it!
But she could not see her way out of it. She knew that, if she spoke to Margaret, Margaret would do without things and help her, but for that very reason she could not speak to her.
Paul saw that his wife was not quite so bright as usual, but he thought she was tired, and was full of affectionate solicitude. Every attention he paid her, every kind word he uttered, gave her an additional pang.
They slept two nights on the journey, as Grace had always to be careful, and within an hour of London Mr. Stevens got into the carriage.
Grace saw him enter with some misgiving. The horrible thought occurred to her that perhaps he might refer in some way to investments or something that might lead her husband to make inquiry. She could only answer by speaking the truth. To her immense relief Paul said, "As you have some one to talk to now I will go and smoke," and so saying he left her with Mr. Stevens.
Grace felt now or never was her opportunity. Before Mr. Stevens could look round she poured out her trouble with a rapidity and vehemence that astonished him. When he, at length understood, he entered very fully into it all.
"Your husband is quite right; I should have the same feeling about it," he said.
"That makes it worse for me," said Grace, colouring, "but perhaps you have never had my temptation; you were never dependent upon others—very nearly penniless."
"Penniless, yes! Dependent, no!" he answered, "since I could work for my living."
"Mr. Sandford ruled my fate and Margaret's," answered Grace, "and that was never thought of; but I wish—oh! how I wish—I knew what to do. Would he help me?"
"Mr. Sandford is the one person who could help you," said Mr. Stevens; "a frank appeal to him might be productive of much good, and my advice to you is not to hide your trouble from your husband; let him know it; the fewer secrets between married people the less likely they are ever to disagree."
"I will tell him some day," answered Grace, "but I have behaved very badly to Mr. Sandford—he has no reason to love me."
"He is a man who has much to contend against, but he is a generous man. He never grudges money, and he can but say he can do nothing. I hope you left all well at Inchbrae," he said, with a resolute turning away from the subject.
"'All' consisting of Mrs. Dorriman and my sister," laughed Grace, rallying the moment her trouble was put out of sight.
"Ah! I am going there next week to meet Mr. Sandford; there is still something to be arranged between us."
"Then," asked Grace, "could you not say something for me? Could you not speak to Mr. Sandford for me?"
"I could, certainly, but Mr. Sandford dislikes me, and after all, to speak plain English, Mrs. Lyons, what can he do? There is only one way in which he can help you. If he chooses to pay you your income out of his own pocket, or to pay fifteen thousand pounds to your account. When you talk of help—which is an exceedingly vague word—you should put it in its practical form."
"Then everything is at an end," exclaimed Grace, and she leaned back upon the cushions in despair.
"I do not quite agree with you," he answered, "only I wished you to see the practical side of the question; there is no use in my going to a man like Mr. Sandford and when he puts the question, 'What does she expect me to do?' have nothing to reply on your account."
"I cannot ask him to give me fifteen thousand pounds, it is impossible!" said Grace flushing at the curt tone used by Mr. Stevens.
"You need ask him for nothing; but help in this case means money—as it generally does; leave the sum to him, but you must understand when you use the world 'help' what it does mean. I merely wanted to prepare you for that."
"Thank you," said Grace, whose hopes were now sunk very low indeed.
She sat silent for a few moments, and then, looking up, said, "Supposing you spoke to Mrs. Dorriman, she can say many things to her brother no one else can, and she always understands."
"Yes," said Mr. Stevens in an odd tone, "I agree with you, she does understand most things."
"When do you go there?"
"On Thursday, I hope; and now, Mrs. Lyons, before we part let me know how am I to communicate with you."
"Can you write to me?"
"That is not quite impossible; but if your husband is to know nothing about this it seems to me that my writing to you upon business matters—now he is supposed to know all about your business—may lead to complications."
"You do not understand, Mr. Stevens, he—my husband—never asks any questions. I merely told him I had succeeded to fifteen thousand pounds; he was very much surprised and pleased, I suppose, but there the matter dropped. Mr. Sandford arranged all about the money matters for me, and the money was settled upon me and then upon my husband."
"That complicates matters of course; you have no power to give up money settled upon him; I see no way out of it."
"Do speak to Mrs. Dorriman," pleaded Grace, "she has a great opinion of you, and, if you put the matter before her, something might be done."
"I still advise you to tell your husband," said Mr. Stevens; "remember every day's delay makes confession more difficult afterwards. Then again, does not Lady Lyons know about it?"
"I do not think she does," but as she spoke Grace felt very uncomfortable. She once again entreated Mr. Stevens to speak to Mrs. Dorriman, and as Paul got into the carriage again she could only trust that her persuasion had been successful.
No one, however, can imagine how this dread of discovery weighed upon her. Each time Paul returned, when he had been out alone, her expression, when he appeared, was anxiety—did he know? had anything been said to make him suspicious?
"I am beginning to be afraid you are tired of me," he said one day; "when I come home now you never look the least pleased to see me."
"I am glad, dear; please do not take fancies into your head."
"Well, I wish you showed it a little more; I am longing to get you away—you are much less energetic than you were a little while ago. The way you stick to my mother is very unlike you. I am awfully fond of her, and all that, but I like having you a bit by myself, and her too for that matter."
Grace turned red and white by turns. She knew that she was suffering from irritability produced by anxiety. She was essentially one who could stand neither fatigue of body nor anxiety of mind.
"What can you have to say to your mother that I may not hear?" she asked, with a certain sharpness of tone that surprised him. He looked at her attentively, and that seemed to displease her still more. To his unbounded astonishment she burst out crying, and cried with a sort of miserable, helpless vehemence, that was infinitely distressing to him.
"My darling! can you not tell me what is wrong?" he said, "for thereissomething wrong, you are not yourself. Who can you turn to if you have any worry or distress so well as to your husband? Have you no confidence in me?"
"Don't," she sobbed, "you only make me worse!"
He was deeply wounded, not so much by her words as by the way she shrank from him.
Lady Lyons made her voice heard in the passage, asking if her son was in, and Grace snatched her hand from Paul, and rushed out of the room by one door as her mother-in-law came in at the other.
Paul was an affectionate son, but at that particular moment he would have preferred to have had time to discover what was the matter with his wife, and he was so absorbed that his mother told him a fact very interesting to her, and which she considered should have been equally interesting to him, without his taking it in.
"MydearPaul," she said at length, "you are not attending to me one bit!"
"I beg your pardon, mother, I think I heard what you said."
"About the doctor, Paul?"
"I think so," he answered, trying to recall her words.
"Well, you see, I shall have to get another that being the case."
"A very good thing, I should say."
"Paul! the death of an eminent medical man is not a subject for rejoicing."
"Oh! he is dead. Who is dead, mother?"
"Dr. Dickson, and you said you heard what I said. Oh! Paul."
"Well, I hear now, and I do not think I ever heard Doctor Dickson's name before."
"After that!" said Lady Lyons, throwing up her hands; "he was the only man—the only man who quite understood my constitution."
"Well, I'm sorry he is dead if he was useful to you, mother, but you have been no better and no worse ever since I can remember anything. Would you mind my leaving you for a moment? I am afraid Grace is not well."
He left her and went to find his wife.
Grace had recovered herself, and reproached him for making "a fuss."
"You know I am not strong," she said, "and easily sent up and down. I am like a shuttlecock, and sometimes, Paul, I feel that we are not as much alike as we thought."
"Now you have hurt and vexed me still more," he said, in a tone of real vexation. "What discoveries will you make next? In what way am I your inferior? I know in many ways I am, but in what particular am I wanting to-day?"
"My inferior!" said Grace, with sudden passion; "I feel beneath you in all things—in principle, in every thing."
She covered her face with her hands.
"I cannot understand you, dear," he said, kindly; "and if you do not wish to tell what all this means leave it alone. But my hope was that you had learned to confide in me, and I am disappointed. My mother is there, do as you like about seeing her. I said you were not well."
"I am all right," she said, throwing off her depression and her penitence at once. "Go to your mother, Paul; I am sorry you said anything about my not being well, it was only a passing indisposition."
He left her not fully satisfied, but knowing it was useless to press her further.
Lady Lyons was overflowing with motherly sympathy, and fussed in a way Grace thought nearly intolerable, and which in days not so very long ago she would have ungraciously put a stop to.
But Paul's mother was to her a different person from the Lady Lyons she had known and laughed at in the old days, and she bore her attentions with all possible patience.
The trio sat down to dinner with those subdued feelings generally indicative of a past storm.
Lady Lyons resented Paul's evident want of interest in her physicians; and Grace was exhausted, and annoyed with herself for having given way as she had done; while Paul, while trying to converse with his mother, was conscious of a painful impression about his wife which he could not shake off.
The atmosphere was therefore not very clear to begin with; and poor Lady Lyons, feeling that subtle constraint that somehow had arisen between husband and wife, threw all at once an explosive just when Grace was least expecting it.
"It will interest you to hear, my dear, that before I came up here I went to see the grave of your little niece. I found it well-cared for, flowers, and all that you know."
"It does not interest me much," answered Grace, very languidly. "I never saw the poor little thing, and everything connected with that time is so hateful to me I never willingly recall it."
"As things are, is that not a little ungrateful, my dear? And he deserves your gratitude—poor Mr. Drayton!"
"What has Grace got to be grateful for to that unhappy man?" asked Paul, with very faint curiosity.
"The money, my dear, the fortune; surely you know?"
"I hold my money from my sister," said Grace, defiantly.
"Ah! but, my dear, if he had not left it to your sister she could not have given it to you!" said Lady Lyons, quite sure now that she had put the case convincingly.
Grace grew as white as marble; she did not dare look at Paul. Rallying all her power, she said—
"It makes a great difference taking money from my sister and taking it from Mr. Drayton."
"I see no difference," said Paul, in a cold hard tone she had not believed him capable of.
"There!" said Lady Lyons. "Paul will perhaps convince you—since that money came to you...."
"Do leave the subject alone, Lady Lyons—it is hateful to me!"
"Why, dear me, my dear, this is only a whim. I am quite sure Paul agrees with me."
"I hate the subject also," said Paul angrily; and poor Lady Lyons, utterly unconscious of how she had managed to make things unpleasant, saw she had done so and began to apologise.
But Paul's expression, the disgust she saw written in his face, was too much for Grace, worn out as she was with the anxiety this very subject had given her, and she rose, tried to move to the door, and fell into her husband's arms in a faint—out of which they found it difficult to rouse her.
Paul was sorry for her and very anxious. He had seen her suffer, but he had never known her faint like this before.
For the moment, and till she recovered, everything was forgotten; but when she came round again Grace saw that she had fallen in her husband's eyes, and cried bitter tears when he turned away.
Yes, she had fallen. How often occasions had arisen when he might have been told the truth! How utterly she had kept him in the dark! He was resentful, and it was not in him to see any circumstances in extenuation. If she thought it right to benefit by this man's money, why not have said so frankly? In any conversation about Margaret, when he had spoken his mind, what was there to prevent her saying what the case was?
Mingled with indignation at the way he had been treated was also the bitter fact that they would be so much poorer than he had imagined, because, of course, the money should go back. It was the price of Margaret's happiness, and he would have none of it.
Lady Lyons, with the best intentions, drove him nearly wild that evening.
It is wonderful what powers of irritation very well-meaning people possess when they are endowed with blunt perceptions and limited intelligence.
Some days passed on. There was constant constraint between the two who, up till now, had been so happy. Then there came the day before they sailed.
Grace was lying back in a chair, looking pale and weary, and her husband was writing.
All at once he looked up and said briefly—
"Grace, that money must be given up."
"Yes," she said, and he thought he heard a little sob.
"How you can care to keep it!" he said, trying to subdue his feelings because she was evidently so unwell.
"I care to keep it! If you only knew how I hate myself for ever having cared! Paul, do you remember your being so violent—speaking so strongly about it. It took away my courage. I could not tell you, and it has been making me so wretched!"
"But why was I kept in the dark about it from the first?" he asked, always trying to control himself. "Why was it talked of as a legacy?"
"There was no reason you should not have known at first. I described it to your mother as a legacy (it was, in the first instance, left to Margaret); it saved explanations, and I did not care for her to know. You never inquired how the money had come to me. If you had asked one direct question, I should have been forced to speak the truth to you."
"I see no difference," he said again.
He was most terribly annoyed; the whole thing was a shock to him, and he was all the more annoyed because he was conscious that the increase to his income had been pleasant, and that it had helped to smooth their path so much.
Without it how could he afford Grace's extravagant habits? He knew that the money coming from his own appointment was not enough, and out of that even he had given his mother something. If he now explained to her how could he explain without hurting his wife and showing that perfect confidence had not existed between them?
In spite of all these considerations he never for one moment thought of retaining the money. To him it was the price of Margaret's happiness, and he now turned over in his mind how he could say something to his mother without entering into details which would be so painful to him.
He turned away once more from his wife, and once again he said, as he had said before,
"The money must go back."
Grace was very miserable. She had learnt to love her husband and to find much to help her in his directness, and a certain strength she had not expected to find in his character. When she had married him she had thought that in all important things she would be the guiding star. He was slow in thought, and she valued her own quickness over-much; that position of being a sort of "Triton among minnows" at a second-class school influenced her fatally still, and to fall, as she had fallen, was a bitter mortification to her. She sat down now to write to Margaret, and, as she wrote and repeated her husband's sentiments, she began herself to see things more as he did.
In the meantime poor Paul had a very difficult task before him. He had to make his mother understand, without explanations, that his promise of help, as far as a regular increase to her income went, could not be carried out.
Lady Lyons heard with dismay, in which a certain irritation against him for having raised false hopes was plainly visible.
"I have engaged a footman," she said, helplessly; "and now I must send him away. It will look so odd."
"I am very sorry."
"It would have been different, of course, if you had said nothing about it: then, you quite understand, Paul, thatthenI could have had nothing to complain of."
Paul did quite understand. He went out as soon as he could, going to his club and entering it with that sense of leaving domestic and other troubles behind him which makes club-land enviable to those who know it not.
But the remembrance of his lessened resources came before him there. A friend asked him to give his subscription to help the family of a mutual friend. Paul was obliged to say, with great reluctance, that he found, on reconsideration, he could not do it. This was doubly hard, as, with the full consciousness of a good balance in the bank, he had himself originated the idea.
A clever man would simply have stated the fact of finding himself less well off than he expected, and the fact so stated would have been held sufficient excuse; but Paul Lyons was not clever, and he hesitated, muttered something about not being his own, and gave his friends directly an unfavourable impression.
Manner so often speaks more plainly than words.
Even this refuge seemed to have lost its charm now this unexpected annoyance had crept up.
He could himself do nothing to strip himself of this money since it was not his but belonged to his wife. He took a long walk by the Embankment, and, in the mood he was in, it was natural that the past, with all its follies and the many foolish and wrong things he had done when he was younger, came before him. What right had he to judge his wife so severely? His temptations and hers were different; was his standard so much higher than hers because he had not known the want of money as she had? He began to feel that he had behaved unkindly, and hurried back to that hotel in Brook Street where they were again staying. He would apologise, and, though he could not keep that money, and hoped she would give it up, still they had enough to get on with;—if their bread had no butter, still, there would be bread.
He arrived tired out, and was confronted by his mother, in a state of abject despair, her face blurred with tears, who announced that Grace had gone!
What had passed? It was in vain that he tried to get Lady Lyons to tell him, in rational order, anything about his wife's departure.
Afraid of her son's anger, bewildered by Grace's sudden departure, the poor lady's ideas were entangled in a confusion from which she could not extricate herself; and her son, accustomed as he was to sift her statements, could make nothing of them now. Suddenly she quoted something said by Sir Albert Gerald.
"Was he here then?"
"Yes, he was here. I think, Paul, though I am not quite sure, and I do not want to assert anything not quite the case, that Grace sent for him."
Paul had a natural movement of anger;—Why should a third person be sent for by his wife? What business had any third person to come between them?
"Where has she gone?" he asked, his self-reproach of an hour ago still softening him towards Grace.
"I really do not know—but to Scotland I think. I heard her say to Sir Albert, 'You will escort me,' and he said he was going to Scotland, so I suppose she has gone there also."
"And left no message, or note, or anything for me?" said Paul, with rising anger, not yet fully understanding that Grace had really gone.
"Oh, my dear Paul! how stupid I am. Yes, she left a note for you, or a letter—let me see was it a letter?—no, I remember thinking it was oddly folded."
"Will you please give it to me?" asked Paul with the calmness of despair.
"My dear Paul, if you would only not hurry me and flurry me so," said his mother, as she sought in her pockets, one after another, and then looked under the china ornaments on the mantel-piece, and drove her son wild altogether.
At last she said as a brilliant idea crossed her mind, "I remember now. I was so afraid of forgetting it that I put it inside one of your slippers, Paul, and I knew that you were quite sure to find it to-night, when you put your slippers on. I think it was rather clever of me, eh Paul?"
But Paul had left the room.
As he read his wife's note, consisting only of a few lines, he felt he loved her very dearly. She had gone to Richmond, she could not bear to see him so changed towards her.
"When you have forgiven me, if you can forgive me, then I will come back," she said.
Paul knew he had forgiven her, but he was still sore about that third person intervening. He was on his way to Richmond before many minutes were over.
Grace received him with intense satisfaction, she was ready to promise everything. Then came that question about Sir Albert Gerald.
"Is it possible you do not really understand all that story?" asked Grace, who, now, with that weight removed from her mind, and restored to her husband's affection, was in tremendous spirits.
"I understand nothing about him. What story do you mean?"
Then his wife enlightened him.
"I was to let him know about Margaret when I thought it would not hurt his cause—I was to send for him."
"Oh!" said Paul, "then you think he is in love with Margaret?"
"I do not think it, I know," she answered, laughing.
That evening dinner was ready at the Brook Street Hotel—three covers were laid.
"I think you may remove one cover," said Lady Lyons, "only two are going to dine to-night."
The waiter looked surprised and hesitated, then the door opened, and Grace, beaming, entered, followed by Paul.
Mrs. Dorriman was not a little perplexed just then by the delay in her brother's arrival. She had lost much of her dread in connection with those papers which had at one time weighed so heavily upon her, and the affection which had sprung up between her and her roughly-spoken brother made her feeling in regard to a possible fault he might have committed sink into the background. But all through her little daily duties, rendered sweeter and pleasanter because of Margaret's companionship, when she was reading or working, walking by the burn-side, or gliding along on the sea in a boat, whatever her occupation was there was a subtle indefinable consciousness of something impending, which did not actually make her unhappy, but which kept her in a state of suppressed mental excitement.
Mr. Stevens had something to do with her not dwelling upon this coming explanation unduly. He seemed to be ubiquitous, flying here and there and everywhere at one and the same moment. He seemed to think so little of what he called running up to London, but he managed to spend a great deal of his time at Inchbrae.
There was a great deal he consulted Margaret about, but she was quick enough to see that business was not always the real reason of his visits. It often happened that a letter might have done just as well, and nothing but a dread of seeming inhospitable, made Margaret refrain from saying so.
Margaret was so accustomed to find that without any effort on her part those few specimens of mankind she had met always managed to fall in love with her, that she was afraid now of this being the case, and she puzzled Mr. Stevens by becoming all at once distant and reserved with him—her manner became changed and cold.
It was only natural that she should become her own heroine, now she had no Grace to think of, and that all interest centred in herself.
Mrs. Dorriman spoiled and petted her. Jean thought her perfection; the people liked her manner, which was both gentle and courteous to them; and when they discovered that she was a "giving" lady their respect and affection rose to enthusiasm. The few outsiders knew that she had faced a tragedy; and the death of her child, her husband's insanity, everything combined to surround her with the halo of suffering, which sets a woman apart from other women.
There was little in the surroundings of Inchbrae to draw out her sympathies. The people were not badly off, the crofter question had not cropped up, and the soil was fertile. Now and again a sick woman wanted soup and she got it, or a child was in need of some garment which gave occupation, but this was all.
Margaret was essentially a loveable woman, and had that air of dependence which (though frequently misleading enough) appeals so forcibly to the chivalrous side of mankind, and, with the claim it establishes, so often creates, an affection besides.
She was what people call sentimental, but not in the mis-used sense of that very ill-used word. Just as the commonest objects in life, a broken bough, a shallow pool, the faded leaf upon the grass, resolve themselves into pictures to the eye of an artist, so where the poetic faculty exists (more especially when it has been developed by suffering) all the various incidents of life, all the impulses and influences of personal life, become unwritten poems. Margaret had suffered terribly; the suffering was healing under the influence of time, but leaving a vivid imagination. She lived much over again, she dwelt morbidly upon her own shortcomings, and she began to be dangerously near an all-absorbing selfishness.
There was one pleasure that never palled upon her—the effect of natural beauty is so different upon different temperaments. The freshness of a sea-bound coast, the tints of grey and green, the harmony of all, is felt by some who recognise the quickened circulation, and call it health-giving; and so it is.
To a poet, however, this harmony of nature says something more—there is a deeper and fuller meaning in it all, whether the faculty of expression be given or not. Heaven and earth do not seem far apart when the soul is stirred to its very depths. The secret of those forces that carry awe when manifested in their grandest power, has a key-note, which, begun here, is carried upwards. Margaret had the power of expression, and her poems became to her the best and highest part of her life; she no longer cared to publish them; so much of herself was in them that she shrank from letting any one read them. She lived in a world of her own, a world full of beauty, but one in which self entered too much.
Grace's letter, with its violent expressions of remorse, and its incoherent account of having left Paul, broke in upon her self-absorbed feelings with rather a rude shock.
She knew Grace too well to doubt the despair of which her sister wrote, as though it and remorse henceforward were to be her portion; but she could not doubt her sincerity about the money; the cry was too natural, and Margaret's own sentiments were in such complete accordance with it.
It had been painful to her the ease with which Grace had accepted the money, and she felt thankful now that they had this point in common.
In her own mind the argument she had used seemed conclusive. "I vowed a vow I could not keep, and the benefit arising from a broken vow cannot justly be mine."
She rose to answer this letter, which had disturbed her, and, opening the door, found Mr. Stevens just coming into the hall.
"Can you spare me a moment?" he said, with some anxiety.
She answered "Yes," trusting that his business was really business.
"I have had such an extraordinary letter from Mr. Sandford," he began. "I wrote to him about money matters, and his answer is, that he is not in a position to advance a penny anywhere. I am afraid things have gone very wrong; have you heard anything?"
"Nothing to this effect. Mrs. Dorriman cannot imagine why he does not come."
"He says, 'I am utterly penniless, and can do nothing!' It is most extraordinary!"
"I wonder if Mrs. Dorriman knows anything? shall I go and find her?"
"No; I have written to Mr. Sandford for an explanation; till I hear again there is no use making her unhappy."
"It will affect her?" Margaret asked, with real interest.
"It will affect her. She told me once she had no settlements, and was entirely dependent upon her brother."
"I am so grieved."
"It will, of course, affect you also, Mrs. Drayton. It seems very hard upon both of you."
"And my sister is giving up that money; Paul Lyons cannot bear her having it."
"I have made up my mind. I am going to ask you a great favour, Mrs. Drayton."
"Pray do not," said Margaret, much distressed, and turning rosy red.
"Why?" he asked, astonished, and very much offended with her.
"We had better ... do let us remain friends," she said, pleadingly.
"What else do I want?" he asked, very much astonished at her changing colour.
"Oh," said Margaret, drawing a long breath and speaking with evident relief; "of course I will do anything for you."
He looked suspiciously at her.
"You young ladies are so cautious in these days; you answered as though I was going to ask you to lend me ten thousand pounds, or lay a proposal of marriage at your feet."
Again Margaret coloured violently, but she laughed also; she felt she had so nearly made herself supremely ridiculous.
"What I want you to do," continued Mr. Stevens, earnestly, "is nothing very remarkable. I want you to manage that I shall have a little time alone with Mrs. Dorriman. I have something to say to her, and it so happens that I never can see her alone; you are always there, you know."
How Margaret laughed to herself!
"My dear Mr. Stevens," she said, all the former charm and cordiality of her manner once again in full force, "how dreadfully sorry I am that I have been so blind and so stupid. I am afraid I have been dreadfully in your way."
"Well, you have rather," said Mr. Stevens, who was disappointed to find her manner, capricious; he had thought her above that sort of thing.
Margaret laughed again, but she went upstairs, put on her things, and then found Mrs. Dorriman, who was still weighing in her own mind the respective merits of cranberry or blackberry jam for the pudding that evening.
"Which does Mr. Stevens like best? for I think he will dine here to-night," Margaret said, with a smile the little lady did not understand.
"Have you asked him, my dear?" she asked placidly; "I did not know he was here."
"No, but I think you will ask him. He is here, and, by the way, he wants to see you about something."
Mrs. Dorriman took off her housekeeping apron, washed her hands, and went composedly to meet her fate, with an innocence and want of suspicion that gave Margaret much quiet amusement.
Mrs. Dorriman was a little nervous, because she thought perhaps Mr. Stevens brought her news from her brother. She had not heard from him for some days, and she expected him daily; since the frequent attacks of illness, which she did not thoroughly understand the import of, a vague uneasiness filled her.
"Is my brother well? Have you news of him?" she asked hastily, when she went into the room.
"He was well enough when I heard," he answered; and then a sudden shyness possessed him.
She waited for him to speak, and he noted, with much admiration, that when she sat expectant she did not fidget. This power of stillness he counted a great merit. Nothing annoyed him so much as being spoken to in turns, with an intense and unflattering attention towards an uninteresting piece of work, or what he considered uninteresting.
"I wish," he said suddenly, "that you could think of some one else as much as you do of your brother!"
Startled, she raised her eyes, and his look confused her.
"I——I have no one else," she said, in a low voice.
"Yes, you have, Mrs. Dorriman, if only you will try to think so. I believe—I am afraid the idea is new to you—but could you not try and like me a little? I cannot tell you how I have learned to love you! but you are so good and so unselfish. I think—I am quite sure—there is nobody like you!..."
Margaret, sitting on the stone seat, heard voices coming towards her. She rose, and went to meet those two who, after the flush of youth and bloom was passed, had for the very first time found a real home in the heart of another.
Mrs. Dorriman seemed to have renewed her youth; the flush in her face, and the serenity of her brow, made her look so much younger.
She walked as in a dream. She had for so long now thought of Mr. Stevens as a most kind and most helpful friend; and she had always admired that independence and straight-forwardness that upheld the right without roughness. And this man loved her! How wonderful, she thought in her humility, how extraordinary, that he, with the whole world to choose from, should loveher—wish her to be his wife.
Margaret's congratulations were most heartfelt. She understood the charm to Mr. Stevens that lay in Mrs. Dorriman's sweetness and gentleness, and there was something frank and pleasant about him.
The sight of these two, so utterly and quietly happy, did make her think a little of the emptiness of her own life; but she would not dwell upon this—she would try and throw her energies into some useful direction. In the meantime, she would do her utmost not to mar Mrs. Dorriman's happiness by any repinings about leaving Inchbrae. The place was very dear to her; she had grown to love it; but she knew that there was no scope here for her energies. She must turn her steps southwards; she would not make a third in the little household. Perhaps Mr. Sandford might wish her to remain with him, and she would do this. She told herself she would do whatever was really right.