she saw them walking down the avenue.

"They might have said something to me," she thought, but she understood
immediately that this was another protest made by Grace against any
"interference."

She went off herself, not sorry to be alone, feeling the squalor of the
narrow streets through which she passed--like all people who are easily
impressed by the absence of any beauty in life. She felt for the poor
human beings who toiled so hard for such a bare and unlovely existence.
The grey houses with their dirty, ill-kept doors, and the "common
stairs," upon which went so many weary feet. In front, a bit of
trodden-down mud and a black stream, in which dirty ducks and dirtier
children paddled. Her spirits sank lower and lower. At length she
arrived at the address she had got from Jean, and was asked to "walk up
the stair" by a shock-headed girl, without any attempt at tidiness,
"busy," and evidently imagining that in that fact lay excuse enough for
all disregard of appearance.

Jean, clean, trim, but with eyes that told their own tale of weeping,
was scrubbing a floor; unaccustomed to such treatment, the shutters and
woodwork all glistened, and the floor was nearly finished. It was one of
the rooms, part kitchen, part bedroom, which you obtain in towns where
overcrowding is the rule. The window was small and high up--worse than
this, it could not open.

"And is this your situation? This the place you were coming to, my poor
dear Jean?" asked Mrs. Dorriman, in faltering tones.

"'Deed, my dear, I may just say, without vanity, I could get mony a
situation; but I am here working housekeeper to two lads--kin to myself,
my dear. No one to hurry me or hinder me, and little to do. So little,
I'll be often down bothering you."

She spoke lightly, afraid of giving way. The sight of Mrs. Dorriman
brought back all her own misgivings of the day before; when she had
found herself in an airless room, with nothing but filth and dirt around
her, and not a "kent face" near her.

But Mrs. Dorriman must never know that she had made a sacrifice to be
near her; and with a fair attempt at a laugh she said--

"You know, my dear, I was always ill to command. Better this than be
under a mistress who might be a harder mistress than ever you were to
do with."

Mrs. Dorriman could not speak. She looked round the room to see in what
way she could help to make things comfortable. She resolved that
something should be done to the windows, and she noted other things. But
the feeling uppermost in her mind was, that it would not be for long.
Jean and herself--they would at no distant day wend their way back to
the hill-side together.

"And are you happy? Are you comfortable, my dear?" asked Jean, "How is
it with you?"

"I am comfortable, Jean, and have all to make me comfortable; but, like
you, I miss the great purple hills, the life and light of the sea, the
freedom and brightness of Inchbrae."

"And yet you speak cheerfully, my dear;" and the poor woman looked
wistfully at her former mistress.

"I speak cheerfully, Jean," and Mrs. Dorriman rose and laid her hand
caressingly upon the old woman's shoulder, "because, Jean, the darkest
and longest day comes to an end; you and I will go back to the light and
the sunshine. We shall go back, Jean, there again."

"But the place is sold; it has passed into the hands of a stranger,"
said the old woman, wondering.

"We shall go back," said Mrs. Dorriman, firmly. "Yes, Jean, that hope
keeps me from despair; that conviction comforts me. We shall go back to
Inchbrae once more," and so saying she left her.

CHAPTER VI.

In spite of a good deal of open opposition on the part of Grace,
Margaret, full of the enthusiasm of a girl whose intelligence after
being long cramped suddenly finds an outlet, threw herself heartily into
a systematic course of real study, and the mornings flew on pleasantly.
Mrs. Dorriman, who had read a great deal during the lonely hours she had
spent, had theorized after the fashion of solitary readers. Her views of
life were not unnaturally entirely pessimist, she rejected many high and
great ideas from a dislike to what she conceived to be exaggeration. Her
character was very far from firm, and she was conscious of this and
other shortcomings, but her sweetness of temper saved her from being
soured. She had a craving for happiness, without believing in its being
possible for her. Her spirits were always low, and the effect of the
harshness of her brother, and of the neglect she had suffered from in
her youth, would probably pursue her all her life, and affected her now.

She carried this negation of hope even into her religious exercises,
finding comfort chiefly in passages about resignation; and, though she
had a vague belief that in the future she might have some share of
bliss, she never expected it on this side of the grave.

Then another and a most terrible question troubled her greatly. She did
not look forward with any profound rejoicing, to the prospect of once
more meeting with her husband whom she had forgiven, but whom she had
never loved.

That hope that spans the chasm between us and the future, is not always
the comfort it is supposed to be, and indeed much may be said about her
want of wisdom in dwelling upon problems which must remain unsolved.

She was too timid to take her fears and show her anxieties to any one
capable of helping her at all. She was conscious of feeling disloyal to
her husband in this matter, which was often a trial to her, and she
indulged sometimes in speculations which unsettled her and did not tend
to comfort her.

Poor woman! When Margaret put those pointed questions to her common to
girls who have begun to think out things and want help, she read and
re-read various authors only to come to the unsatisfactory previous
conclusions. In this respect the association was not productive of much
good on either side, but, excepting in this, the results were to make
both happier.

Mrs. Dorriman, married so young as to be barely out of childhood, had
the tenacity of opinion and the strong bias in favour of her own
conclusions always to be found where the mind has dwelt upon itself,
and has not been enlarged by friction with other minds, a bias which no
amount of reading tends to modify, since each book is read and digested,
almost one might say distorted, by the views brought to bear upon it, a
mode of reading which may be compared to looking at a bright and a rainy
day through the same smoky glass which gives everything its own hue. But
the very exception she took at times, served to arouse Margaret's own
powers of thought, and to make her reflect upon her reasons for liking
and disliking opinions, and the language in which those opinions were
put before her. Many fine sounding phrases fell to pieces when treated
this way, and many lovely poems became to her so much more when she
followed out a thought therein shadowed forth.

Grace could in reality do nothing to stop this reading, and, though at
first she made many bitter observations, she had not the heart to
destroy her sister's comfort in these mornings; and indeed, at certain
times, when her own idleness became oppressive, she went and sat with
them, preserving her independence by making no remarks, standing, as it
were, aside and taking no part in any discussion, as though her own mind
had been long made up and that these questions had been grappled with
and settled by her long ago.

Mrs. Dorriman, who was always more timid when Grace was present, was
always relieved when she did not appear, and then took herself to task
for the relief. There was no doubt that Mrs. Dorriman brought a great
increase of comfort to the place, everything was well looked after, and
Mr. Sandford recognised that it was so, without exactly knowing in which
way a change had been made.

The one restless and dissatisfied person was always Grace. The monotony
of the days became to her absolutely terrible. She had all the
discomfort of having put herself upon a pinnacle without any admiring
crowd to make up for the isolation. It was difficult for her to come
down. Advances of friendliness and proffered affection had been made in
vain by Mrs. Dorriman and now no effort was made. Perhaps the hardest
trial of all was the perceptible loss of her sister's blind admiration
for all she said. To Margaret, Grace was still beautiful, graceful, and
full of talents, which only needed recognition to dazzle the world; but
she began to think it just possible that Grace did not quite understand
things affecting herself and Mrs. Dorriman; and instead of accepting her
conclusions, as she had done all her life, without question, she began
now to endeavour to argue with her, and though Grace bore her down by a
flow of language and silenced her she remained unconvinced and Grace
herself knew it. This change, this falling-off in her allegiance, was
laid to the charge of Mrs. Dorriman, and when occasions arose that poor
lady was told much, which wounded her sorely, about setting the sisters
against each other.

There were times when Grace paced her room in a perfect frenzy of
impatience. Her life was slipping away, she thought, and there was no
break, nothing in sight. What was the use of being what she was--fitted
to reign--when there was no kingdom? Were her gifts--for she believed in
her gifts--all to be useless to her?

They had been four months together now; she had seen the snowfall turn
black and smutty and lose its beauty under the influence of smoke. Some
half-dozen people had called, but they came to see Mrs. Dorriman. In a
thousand little minute things she found herself of no account. This was
not her natural sphere, and she longed for something in which her merits
would be recognised. A good deal of her dissatisfaction was entirely
unknown to Mrs. Dorriman, but she had so kindly a heart that she longed
to give the girl some interest in life. It was sad to see her day by day
more dull, more apathetic, and more discontented.

"Will you not come and look into the housekeeping with me, Grace?" she
said, one morning when she saw her, without even the pretence of a book
in her hand, throw herself down on a lounging-chair, looking as usual
bored and dull.

"What good would it do?" asked Grace, surprised by the invitation.

"I think a notion of housekeeping is a very useful thing. You may have a
house of your own some day."

"When that day comes I may learn it. There is not much to learn, I
suppose--any intelligent person can order a dinner."

Mrs. Dorriman said no more.

It was rather surprising to Grace that Mrs. Dorriman was so fond of
going into the town, and evidently liked going alone. What took her
there? Idleness being the mother of curiosity as well as of mischief and
other things, she never rested till she found out that she always went
to one particular street and to one particular house.

Unsuspecting Mrs. Dorriman felt as though a bomb-shell exploded under
her feet when Grace said at dinner:

"What is the name of the person you go to see at Baxter's Houses, Mrs.
Dorriman?"

The poor woman coloured and looked nervously at her brother as she
answered:

"An old servant of mine, if you wish to know."

Her colour and her nervousness gave Grace a sort of inkling that
something more lay behind, so she said with a laugh:

"You must be much attached to her as you seem to go and see her every
second day."

Poor Mrs. Dorriman was ready to cry at the suddenness of the attack. She
answered something in a low voice which was heard by no one--but she
required no defence. Mr. Sandford, usually absorbed in his dinner and
taking small share in the conversation, looked up keenly as Grace put
the question, and when she asserted the visits were of such frequent
recurrence he received a certain shock. An old servant--who was she? But
he was not going to have his sister bullied by any one but himself, and
he thundered out with an emphatic slap upon the table:

"What business is it of yours, I should like to know, who my sister
visits or does not? I consider it very impertinent and uncalled-for your
speaking in that way to her; and I blame you," he said turning to his
sister, "for letting her get the upper hand; you should keep her down,
you should keep her in her place."

Grace rose, white with anger. Margaret trembling rose also.

"Sit down, both of ye," he said, in a tone which awed them both, and
they sat down. When they eventually left the room Grace went to her
bedroom and Margaret followed to console her.

But the consolation was not so great because Margaret, while grieving
for her being wounded, could not think her in the right, and was much
too honest to say so; and to her sister no consolation could come
unless she was entirely placed in the position of an injured martyr.

In the meantime Mr. Sandford sent for Mrs. Dorriman. He could not be
happy till he had spoken to her about this. He did not choose that she
should be bullied but he also did not choose that she should have old
servants and people in her interests at hand.

"Who is this person living here, and in your confidence?" he asked
roughly.

"My old maid, Jean."

"What made you bring her?"

"I did not bring her; but, supposing I had, if I did not bring her to
your house, it cannot matter."

"It matters, because you are keeping to my wish ostensibly, but, in
reality, you are opposing it."

"I do not pretend to understand you," and Mrs. Dorriman's spirit rose.
This was going too far. "You break up my home; you bring me here; you
deprive me of the comfort of my personal attendant--and to what end?
What is the use of my being here?"

"Of course you cannot understand. You cannot afford a separate house.
There are certain papers your husband had, which might have made all
different. You _might_," and he looked at her earnestly and anxiously,
"have found receipts and be better off; but the purport of everything
would have to be explained to you, and, after all that has come and gone
between me and your husband, it would be as well not to let a stranger
step in."

Mrs. Dorriman shrank. She also had this fear; but we say a thing to
ourselves that we cannot bear to put into words, and now it was dreadful
to her to hear this. Her spirit died again, and she said helplessly--

"I cannot give up seeing Jean."

"How did she come here?"

"When I told her you would not--could not--have her here, she said
nothing, but she sought and found a situation here. She has been ill;
and she has had no comforts; and I _must_ see her!"

There was a pause. Mrs. Dorriman looked at her brother anxiously. He was
evidently thinking over something. At length he broke silence--

"What is the tie between you?" he asked, abruptly. "Has she any of your
things in charge?"

"Things!" she said, surprised. "No. Why, poor thing--where could she put
them? No, she has no charge of anything; and the tie between us is but
the tie of long service and great trustworthiness. You are a rich man,
brother, and can command services; but to be poor and to be alone is to
know what faithful service given you from affection is."

"That is a high-flown idea," he answered; "that is the sort of thing the
doctor said. I never found that sort of service available. I was also to
derive much satisfaction from the society of young people. I cannot say
that the society of Grace Rivers affords me any satisfaction; I think
she is as disagreeable a girl as I ever came across."

"She has all the lessons of life to learn," said Mrs. Dorriman, gently.

"She had better learn them soon," he said, gruffly, "if she intends to
remain under my roof."

"If she could marry, and have a home of her own," and Mrs. Dorriman
sighed, for this did not always bring happiness.

"And why should she not marry?"

"There is no reason, except----" and Mrs. Dorriman made a startled
pause.

"Well," said Mr. Sandford, "except--pray go on--you really are very
trying sometimes. What upon earth are you afraid of?"

"To marry, you must have a chance of seeing people."

Mr. Sandford reflected upon this answer, then he said--

"You do not know it, but do you know sometimes you say very sensible
things."

Mrs. Dorriman smiled faintly, and left him, relieved beyond expression
that nothing more had been said about Jean.

But her satisfaction did not last long. Late in the afternoon of the
next day she was told a woman wished to see her, and Jean--much too ill
to have left her bed--stood before her, pale, defiant, and all her
spirit roused to resistance.

"The master has ordered me away," she said, "he came to-day and bid me
go. He threatened and stormed!"

She was flushed and feverish. All through the cold wind of the early
spring she had come, fever in her veins, and burning in her head; and
now she dropped down upon a chair and shivered, looking wild, and
evidently was on the verge of delirium.

The dinner-bell rang unheeded, and when Mrs. Dorriman was fetched she
sent word she could not come.

Mr. Sandford, angry and amazed, went to her room--to find Jean on a
sofa, talking loud and fast, incoherently, and Mrs. Dorriman pale and
composed, attending to her. She met him with reproach.

"How could you? How could you?" she began. "She was ill, poor thing! and
you told her to go. But she shall not go! I will nurse her. My poor,
poor Jean!"

Mr. Sandford himself was startled. To do him justice, he had not seen
that the poor woman was so ill. In the height of her illness, upheld by
a strong resentment against him, she had come to his house, and there
she must remain.

No persuasion would induce Mrs. Dorriman to consent to her removal to
the hospital or to allow any one to take her place by Jean's bedside.

The doctor came and went constantly, Mrs. Dorriman, submissive and timid
when she herself was in question, was neither of these things as
regarded Jean.

That bow-windowed room coveted by Grace was made into a bedroom for her,
but she would not sleep out of Jean's room; she allowed no other hand
to tend her. Mr. Sandford was astonished and touched. This was the weak
woman he had scouted, and whom he had thought so incapable. He watched
her come and go with a perpetual amazement, and learned by that poor
woman's bedside something of the service love can give and does give,
and which no money can buy.

It was a sad household because Mrs. Dorriman was missed by all, but as
there is generally a bright spot somewhere, so in this instance Grace
thought she had found it, and that now she had her opportunity.

She rearranged the drawing-room, making the very moving of the furniture
a protest against Mrs. Dorriman's position as head--she interviewed the
cook, throwing so much command into her manner that she was met with
direct antagonism. All the servants were in arms against her, the
dinners were bad, the servants discontented, and the household bills
heavy. Grace knew nothing of expense, nothing of the commonest rules as
a guidance, and she allowed no one to suggest or of course tell her
anything. Mr. Sandford recognised the loss of his sister's services the
moment he was deprived of them; and Grace had the mortification of
hearing him say to her,

"It is to be hoped you will be soon able to take your own place again.
The discomfort is terrible, and we never get anything fit to eat, and
everything is at sixes and sevens."

Watching his sister's ways with the servant she so regarded, he could
not help asking himself whether supposing he was ill, as ill as this, he
could command the same devotion. He expressed this to Mrs. Dorriman one
day; she looked at him gravely and said without any emotion:

"If you were ill, I should try and do my duty."

He turned abruptly and left her; he had hoped for something more, and
yet what reason had he to expect it?

When Jean got better and required less attention, Mrs. Dorriman found
that all her powers were wanted in a different direction.

Between a spoiled undisciplined nature like that of Grace Rivers, and a
character whose salient feature was love of power, such as Mr. Sandford
possessed, it was impossible for the constant association to go without
friction. Margaret was in a state of perpetual alarm, giving her sister
right always, from habit and unreasoning affection, and therefore no
real use to her, and the first day Mrs. Dorriman found herself able to
take up her round of daily duties, she found Grace, not Margaret,
waiting to speak to her, Grace in a state of excitement she did not try
to repress, who plunged into the subject of her troubles with an
abandonment and vehemence which went far to frighten the gentle little
woman, who was expected to console, and understand, and sympathise all
in a breath, at a moment's notice.

"Your brother hates me, why does he have us here?" Grace began; "it is
cruel! Why does he not let us go where at any rate we might be free and
lead our own lives, Margaret and I."

She paced up and down, her hands clasped before her, an angry flush upon
her face--pausing every now and again to look at Mrs. Dorriman whose
delicate forehead was ruffled, and whose attitude spoke of weariness.

"Has any thing happened? What is the matter? What has gone wrong?" Her
voice sounded cold and unsympathetic to Grace's ears. It acted like a
drop of cold water on heated iron.

"Of course you don't care," she burst out with, "you care for nothing;
nothing seems to move you; nothing rouses you; but can you not see my
sister and I are miserable and wretched?"

"Grace," said the elder woman, and her voice was full of real kindness,
"would you mind sitting down, it tries me sorely to see you dashing
about this way, and--I'm not very strong just now. I have had a good
deal of fatigue lately."

"I am sorry," the girl said in somewhat a hard tone, throwing herself
into a chair, feeling that all she had to say was more difficult to say
when she was deprived of her manner of saying it.

"Let us talk it all out, Grace; all the bitterness, all the
disappointment, everything that is making you wretched. What is it you
wish to do? What is it particularly you complain of?"

"Mr. Sandford is so unkind: he speaks so harshly to me. I know he hates
me."

"And you have tried to win his affection, you have done all on your side
to make him like you?"

"I know it is no use. And he does not appreciate me in any way."

"Appreciate you?"

"At school I was always first and everyone knew I was
clever--since--and--here he takes no notice. If he dislikes us, why must
we live here, why may we not go?" Grace persisted, anxious to cling to
her point and gain it.

"I am afraid you have never quite understood your position, Grace; that
you really know nothing about it; and if I explain it to you you will
perhaps be very angry."

"I think I understand our position," said Grace, with a slight toss of
the head, "we are his wards, Margaret and I; he is our guardian."

"You are quite wrong, Grace; he is nothing of the sort."

"Then why does he arrange for us? I was always told he was our
guardian," and Grace opened her eyes wide, and looked at Mrs. Dorriman,
surprised out of her usual self-assertion.

"You know he, my brother, is in no way related to you, except by
marriage?"

"Yes, I suppose so."

"When your mother died--your father being long dead, poor child--there
was nearly nothing----" Mrs. Dorriman hesitated. It seemed so hard to
tell this girl what she had to tell her.

"Nothing! but we have an income, Grace and I?"

"You have a small income, because my brother gave up his wife's, your
aunt's, little fortune, and added to the little, the very little, there
was, and managing it skilfully--there is as you say a little income, but
Grace, my dear child, do you suppose that such an income would enable
you two to live in any comfort as you have been accustomed to live?
There is little over one hundred a year."

"Is that all?" asked Grace, her face crimson; "we thought that was only
an allowance out of our money, we never dreamt there was nothing else.
You are quite sure?" she asked, her face paling again; she felt this a
blow she could never recover from.

"My brother welcomes you to his house, he makes me give up my pretty and
quiet home to come and be here so that all should go well. He has a
rough and a hard manner, but to you, Grace, he has been good, to you and
Margaret he has been very generous."

"Is this really the truth?" asked Grace; "do you mean to say that we
have nothing, Margaret and I, and we are not his relations? Why, why has
he done this? He does not care for us. What is his motive?"

"He cared for your mother's sister, Grace. He loved his wife with a
passionate affection time has not changed. Her anxiety was about you,
left to the world's mercy. Is it fair to him that his kindness should be
met with scorn, and that, owing him what you do, you should take
exception to his manner and defy him openly?"

Grace was silent, kept silent by surprise and by a passionate and
impatient remonstrance against the position she was placed in. It was
intolerable to her to have this weight of obligation with no affection
to lighten it.

"He weighs us down with the sense of obligation," she said at length;
"if he were really generous he would make the load lighter."

"He is a human being and imperfect," said poor Mrs. Dorriman, who, while
acknowledging the truth of this, felt it came ungratefully from the lips
of Grace Rivers, who owed him so much. "Now, Grace," she went on, after
a thoughtful silence on the part of each, "let us examine into your
other grievances. I think I have given you good reason for accepting the
home my brother offers. It is not beautiful I own. It is to me
everything I most dislike, but he chooses it and there is no use in
wishing it to be bettered."

"Then you, too, are dependent upon him?" said Grace; "of course you are
or you would not so surrender your house, the hills and rocks and river
you have talked of so much, without a strong reason."

"I am not discussing my position or my grievances," said Mrs. Dorriman,
stung by a careless word flung at random and making so perfect a hit.

But Grace, this new idea in her head, found Mrs. Dorriman much more
tolerable to do with. She was a fellow-sufferer, and, as such, to be
felt for; there was a perceptible change in her tone when she said,

"I think at our age we might see people sometimes. I get frightened when
I think that perhaps all our youth may pass in this way and no
possibility of a change."

"That is a very natural thought. I also have had the same idea. I have
already spoken to my brother."

"And what does he say?" asked the girl eagerly.

"He agreed to make some effort; then poor Jean was ill, and everything
has been left as it was."

"And now she is better you will speak again?"

"Yes, I will speak again; and now one word more. I hope what I have told
you will make you more inclined to accept my brother as he is, whatever
his faults may be. However harsh he may have been to others, he has
been good and kind to you."

"I must first become accustomed to the painful idea of owing him so
much," said Grace, in a tone of anything but humility and full of a
patronage, in her way, that made Mrs. Dorriman regret she had revealed
her own position to her, and she soon rose and left the room.

Meaning to be kinder to her, Grace's manner was more of a trial to Mrs.
Dorriman than it had been before. Unmerited impertinence is bad enough,
but to be patronised by a girl who had no tact and a great belief in
herself, was quite beyond ordinary trials.

Just at that time, before Mr. Sandford had time to note the difference
in Grace's manner, he received a letter which made a change in the
household eventually, though this change dawned but gradually on the
minds of those who were affected by it.

The girls noticed that his manner became more important, that he read
and re-read this letter during dinner several times and kept it beside
his plate, a thing unknown in his previous history; then, in a pompous
voice and addressing his sister, he said,

"Mr. Drayton, a person for whose family I have a high regard, comes
to-morrow to consult with me on important business. We must ask him to
dinner."

"Very well," answered Mrs. Dorriman, not fully aware of the importance
he attached to this arrival.

"He is a man of enormous wealth, enormous wealth, and comes to consult
me about some investments." He rolled out these words with immense
emphasis, and looked round at the three faces to see what impression his
announcement had made.

"Is he good-looking?" asked Grace, with some interest in her manner. "Is
he amusing?"

"Is he a friend of yours, John?" Mrs. Dorriman asked gently. "I never
heard his name before."

Margaret was mute.

"How can I tell what you consider good-looking," he answered, roughly.
"He is a fine strong well-built fellow, and has seen a great deal of the
world, and he is a successful man, which is more than being good-looking
or amusing, let me tell you."

"If he has seen the world he will be at any rate interesting," said Mrs.
Dorriman, rising; but when they had reached the door he called her back,
and said in a tone of mystery:

"You spoke of society and giving the girls a chance. I don't wish
Margaret away, but if George Drayton takes a fancy to Grace she will
have to take him."

Mrs. Dorriman shivered: this speech recalled her own youth, when she had
to "take" the husband he had chosen for her.

Instinct often gives a woman the right weapon to use, and she said now
hurriedly:

"If you let her know this, if you tell her this, she will set herself
against him."

He looked at her with that sort of surprise which always came to him
when she showed anything of the wisdom of the serpent he considered her
so completely without.

"I think you are right," he said, slowly; "but I mean this marriage to
be, and you understand if you see a way of helping it I expect you to
help it on."

"If I like the man--if I approve," she said, in a low voice, but with a
firmness unusual to her. "And if she likes him."

Mr. Sandford laughed his usual sarcastic laugh.

"_If! if! if!_" he exclaimed. He was going to say something, but there
was a look in her face that warned him he had better not. He turned
sharply round and went off to his own room.

"Grace, my darling!" whispered Margaret to her sister as they stood in
the window that night with the grimy world before them hushed into
silence, and the stars shining down upon them, "perhaps this will be the
Prince."

"It does not sound like it, Margaret," she answered, scornfully. "A
manufacturer, and a man no longer young."

"We cannot tell," said Margaret. "But it may be, oh, I hope, I hope it
may be your prince, and that he may be charming and everything your
prince ought to be."

"I hope so," said Grace, whispering also, and in a voice trembling with
some suppressed feeling. "For, Margaret, I am very, very wretched here,
and I sometimes think if I see no escape for myself, if no change comes,
I shall die. Oh!" she exclaimed, breaking into the silence of the night
with a passionate cry she could not repress, "if life holds nothing more
for me than this, then give me death!"

CHAPTER VII.

That finality of all things, whether of happiness or of misery, brought
Jean's long illness to a close--and the pleasure Mrs. Dorriman had in
seeing her recover was often now tinged with sorrow when she thought of
the separation that must follow.

Her brother had been forbearing, but his patience must not be overtaxed.
Mrs. Dorriman knew nothing of those changes of feeling which softened
Mr. Sandford towards her and any one she loved. She stood no longer to
him in the antagonism he himself had placed her in. If she was acting
against him in any way, if she knew what he dreaded, she might know he
was satisfied that the knowledge had come without understanding. Her
great sweetness of temper was something soothing to him, her kindness to
her old servant, the unfailing cheerfulness towards her, was a sort of
surprise to him. He found her no longer, in his eyes, a weak woman, whom
he could keep by him, and under his authority, but a woman full of
unexpected tenderness. Towards himself the habit of years gave her a
certain submissiveness; he began to wish, as he lay, often wakeful, that
this could be changed. But affection! He had no hope, no belief, in this
as possible from her to him. He had blighted her life; her crushed
spirits were a standing proof of this; and then he would laugh himself
to scorn.

His illness must have left some weakness--why was he now beginning to
think in this way? All his life, since his wife's death, he had given no
love anywhere, and expected none. Then an uncomfortable remembrance of
the doctor's speech about recurring illness made him shiver. If he were
to be ill how could he carry out his plans, how could he rise to the
position he intended to rise to?

He was a far richer man than any one thought, and he was accumulating
money. When he had made what he intended to make safe out of all the
risks of trade which he liked so little, he would buy the place where
his wife's people once had lived. They had scorned him till they found
he was rich, and he chiefly wished to sit in their "high places" for
this reason. He intended winning an election, being returned for the
county, and then--he could not think of marriage. The one pure unselfish
feeling he had was the love for his wife, and his devotion to her
memory. He could never think of placing another beside him.

His sister would be there, and then he would go off into long
reflections about the girls: Grace who was beginning to be so
oppressive to him, and Margaret who was a little like _her_.

All unconscious of his softened feelings towards her, poor Mrs.
Dorriman, in the meantime, was cruelly troubled and perplexed. What she
was to do about poor Jean, she did not know. Inchbrae was not her home,
she had followed her mistress from the old place thither; besides, what
comfort could there be in seeing strange faces and strange people there?
It was Jean herself who cut the Gordian knot and brought things to a
climax.

She was much too high-spirited a woman to remain one moment anywhere as
an unwelcome guest, and she determined that she would herself seek Mr.
Sandford and say a word of gratitude to him for the shelter he had given
her, and, if she found him "quiet," she intended pleading her own cause;
a cause which, if hers, was also Mrs. Dorriman's. Jean had that strong
belief in herself which is the mainspring of many a brave action. She
was, above and beyond this, a woman whose prayers went up with a faith
which was beautiful and pure. Though religious phrases were more in her
heart than on her lips, every action of her life was in a great degree
guided by this great and secret strength. She was single-minded, full of
prejudices, and had a keen sense of humour, seeing much to amuse her in
ordinary things. She was passionately devoted to Mrs. Dorriman, and
though she was too proud of her, in a right way, to allow it to any one,
she knew that she required some one near her to befriend her--that, to
use her own expression about many another person, she "gave in" too
easily.

It was the very day Mr. Drayton was expected. Mr. Sandford, who was
ruffled about some trifle, made an unusual fuss about something at
breakfast which was not well done, and sent it out with orders that it
was to be made over again.

Mrs. Chalmers, already making much of that something extra which falls
heavily where all is as a rule on a simple footing--lost her temper:
and, with all the delight of being able to reach the man whose
uncomplimentary remarks about her performances were so frequently gall
and wormwood to her, declared she would go there and then and would do
nothing more for the household. She arrayed herself in her bonnet and
shawl, and sat firmly upon her box, hoping and indeed expecting that she
would be asked to stay--at any rate for that day--in view of the
expected visitor, and fully resolved upon obtaining concessions if she
did remain.

But Mr. Sandford, with all the ignorance of a man who had never been
obliged to think of details, never for one instant thought about the
dinner, took her at her word, and insisted on her going there and then.

Mrs. Dorriman's dismay first taught him that he had acted hastily, and
annoyed and worried by the whole affair he went off to his own room.

He was trying to forget it all, and was turning over some papers, when
a loud knock, evidently given by a determined hand, came to disturb him.

In walked Jean, her bonnet on, her shawl over her arm, looking like
going, in complete ignorance of any disturbance, as she never put her
foot downstairs.

Mr. Sandford glared at her, he was not "quiet" she saw, so she intended
to express her gratitude, which was the right thing to do, and then
depart and not say that word about remaining which she would fain have
done.

She was a handsome and imposing figure, her kind and homely face, pale
from the effects of her recent illness, was surrounded by a full-plaited
border of lace, her print gown was a purpose-like gown, and she had a
shawl folded neatly across her chest. She was the picture and type of
the good, unspoiled, old-fashioned, country servant. Her manner was full
of respect, and free from any servility.

"I am come to speak my thanks to you, sir, before I go;" she began, "I
have been a great trouble. Now I am well, I will thank you and go my
way."

"My sister, not I, looked after you," he said.

"She did that, but there's no one like her in the world."

The two looked at each other, her keen brave blue eyes saw the
expression in his and could not understand it.

"You think much of my sister."

"I think all the world of her. She has need of love and care, and
kindness--I will always give her what I can."

"What are you going to do when you leave this?" he asked abruptly.

"I am going to get a place somewhere near. Yes, maister Sandford, you
will not like it, but it is my only pleasure to be near _her_, and she
needs me."

"What place will you get in Renton itself? There are no gentlefolks
there."

"I'll get some place; I can put my hand to anything, the Lord will
provide for me," said Jean in a low voice.

"Why need you go? Since you and my sister cannot live apart, stay," he
said; and, trying to hide the fact of his giving in from kindly motives,
he continued sternly, "I do not choose my sister to be running through
Renton streets at all hours--as you and she won't part, stay!"

"I am not sure, sir."

"What do you mean, you are not sure?"

"I must be guided by Mrs. Dorriman's wishes, and other things."

"Well," he said, roughly, "I have asked you to stay, and you can speak
to Mrs. Dorriman and do as you like."

He was conscious of a great wish that she should stay; but he could
think of nothing more to say.

"There is no room for me, sir, and I am afraid you say it now, and will
be sorry afterwards; and the end would then be worse than the
beginning. It would hurt Mrs. Dorriman more."

"You can do as you like," he said, more determined she should stay,
since she opposed his will, "but I cannot reconcile your affection for
Mrs. Dorriman with your determination to leave her."

"Can you not?" said Jean, her blue eyes flashing a little. "Can you not,
sir? Can you not see that the bread of dependence is bitter to her and
bitter to me? You took her from her own home, and her own quiet
life--for some reason of your own--but I know it was ill done. If I am
here, it is another weight upon the wrong side."

"Do as you like, and leave me, in Heaven's name!" he exclaimed,
impatiently.

"Heaven had not much to do with her being taken away," said Jean,
firmly, "but I do not wish to speak about what I know imperfectly after
all. What I wish to speak about is just this--Do you really want me to
stay, and is it all for her sake? or is there something else?"

"The woman will drive me mad!" said Mr. Sandford. "What else could there
be? No! I do wish you to stay; and with regard to Inchbrae," he said, in
a lower voice, "had I known she cared so much----"

"She did care," said Jean; "she greeted till I thought she would wear
herself out; but she is getting over it a bit, and she knows that one
day she will go back."

"Ah!" said Mr. Sandford, "what is that about going back? The place is
sold."

"Yes, it is sold," said Jean composedly, "and can be bought back any
time. Your sister knows the prophecy, and she'll go back to it in God's
good time. Till then we are content--she and I."

"Some old woman's story," muttered Mr. Sandford. "Now you will be good
enough to go and leave me."

"I will wish you good day, sir; it's not good-bye, till I know Mrs.
Dorriman's wishes."

Jean left the room, and Mr. Sandford took his hat and went out. Nothing
Jean said held much meaning for him, but her manner impressed him; and
he went off to look into some business matters, never for a moment
thinking it curious that his changed feeling towards his sister had made
him try to persuade her old servant to stay in his house.

When he went home Mrs. Dorriman's face was more cheerful than he had yet
seen it.

"I should like to know how we are to get any dinner," he said, afraid of
her thanks.

"Oh! brother, there is Jean."

"Well! what of that?"

"She is a first-rate cook, and she has agreed to stay; and she is
getting on with everything; and it is like a dream," said the poor
woman, in a perfect flutter of gratitude, and relief, and happiness.

Her brother looked at her wonderingly.

"You are an odd little woman," he said, but not unkindly. "It does not
take very much to upset you," but he was glad all the same.

He had always felt uncomfortable about Jean since he had found out how
much his sister was wrapped up in her; and he now felt rather grateful
to her for coming in to his plan so readily.

It was dark when Mr. Drayton arrived, and only Mrs. Dorriman was waiting
to receive the two, who came in together.

Mr. Drayton was a pleasant-looking middle-aged man, with a countenance
wanting expression, a manner very nearly as undecided as poor Mrs.
Dorriman's; fair curly hair, which was beginning to turn grey, and a
child-like way of speaking. Any one judging him at first sight would
have said at once he was one of the men who go through the world
unsuccessfully. Sanguine to a fault, perpetually disappointed, only
perpetually to spring up again.

He had a very absent manner, and frequently missed hearing important
facts, because he was thinking of other things. Passionate and
kind-hearted, only believing in himself to a certain extent, led by any
stronger mind than his own, and making mistakes he himself laughed at
when it was too late to remedy them. He was tall, extremely slight, had
very sloping shoulders, and was inconsistent in his dress--at one time
wearing rough and ill-made country clothes, and at another particular to
a fault about the cut of his things and the shape of his boots.

His father had made the money, and had left it all to him. He had been
an affectionate son and a most disappointing partner. People said the
business would not hold together two years; he had now held it together
six since his father's death, because Mr. Drayton had a warm affection
for the manager, Mr. Stevens, was guided by him, and did nothing of any
importance without consulting him.

Mr. Sandford had, at that time, a great project in hand, a project
requiring far more capital than he could furnish without disturbing his
own investments.

He had met Mr. Drayton once or twice and looked upon him as a man
through whom and by whom a great deal might be done.

He had urged his coming to Renton for two very different reasons; he
intended him to marry Grace Rivers, and he arranged it so completely in
his own mind that he never even put the case conditionally. He was
beginning to dislike Grace extremely, she interfered in so many little
things. It was all very well for Mrs. Dorriman to allow it; she was, and
always had been, one of the women born to be ruled by every one round
her, but he objected to the perpetual assertion of herself which forced
Grace to be always, so to speak, on the disc of the family life, to the
exclusion of the others.

She annoyed him, and he had, from the first moment of this discovery,
resolved to marry her to some one who would take her off his hands,
since, in these days, getting rid of her in any other way might lead to
comment. He was resolved that Mr. Drayton, who always declared he _must_
marry, and who, in his lighter moments, declared himself to be too much
bewildered by the enormous amount of beauty and accomplishment he met
with to be able to choose, should have no such bewilderment now. What
Grace Rivers would do, whether she would like or dislike the man, was to
him a matter of no moment, he never thought of the marriage as affecting
_her_ in any way; and had Mr. Drayton been repulsive and hideous, or
even much older, it would not in any way have made the slightest
difference in his arrangements. Grace out of the way, Margaret would be
all by herself with his sister, and he was beginning to love Margaret;
indeed, the society of the women round him was both softening his
character and developing a certain kindness in him which no one had ever
given him credit for. The one soft place in his hard heart had been his
love for his wife, and since that time the only disinterested kindness
had been shown to her orphan nieces. Though he told himself that it had
all been for _her_ sake, and that it did not increase his happiness,
yet, when he was coming home after a long and wearisome day, it was
pleasant to know that there was some one to meet him, some one who
looked after things for him. The gentle face of Margaret was always a
pleasant thing to look forward to, and, even as regarded his sister, her
even temper and great sweetness had taught him, as we have seen, a sort
of respect, and his suspicions about her were lulled to rest. He had
hurried home to be in time to go himself to the station and meet Mr.
Drayton.

Little did that individual know of the many plans made in connection
with him. He was a little bored by the length of his journey and glad to
get out of the train. He was too good-tempered a man to be cross, and he
was flattered by the importance Mr. Sandford attached to his coming.
This was something like success, he said to himself, to be sought by a
man of so much influence.

Sending his portmanteau on to the house, the two men walked up together,
and soon Mr. Sandford was taking his guest upstairs, to find no one
there but Mrs. Dorriman. This rather disconcerted him; he had intended
to find a look of comfort and home and the three sitting as he usually
found them, and there was only his sister.

"Where are Grace and Margaret?" he asked, with the frown upon his
forehead which bespoke displeasure.

"They have gone to their room," she said, in a deprecating manner; "it
is later than you think."

"Ah, you are punctual, I see," exclaimed Mr. Drayton, with an
unrestrained laugh which accompanied most of his remarks. "I shall have
to take care; I could fancy your brother a terrible tyrant in the
household, so strict. I am right, eh?" and he laughed again, still more
cheerfully than before, not having the vaguest idea that he had spoken
that true word in jest which is often a painful enough truth.

Mrs. Dorriman found her conversation more terribly common-place than
ever. She had made much of the slowness of the train and had been met
with another laugh, as though some indescribably funny joke was wrapped
up in its tediousness. She had asked if the country round Mr. Drayton's
house was like Renton; was it equally smoky? and he, laughing as ever,
asserted it was worse, much worse, and then a pause had come. The poor
woman was growing nervously aware of the silence and she resolved to
break it, dreading to say something which would bring that laugh back,
quite unaware that Mr. Drayton was himself shy, and that he laughed
because it was the only way of concealing his shyness.

What terrible sufferings a man must go through afflicted with shyness; a
woman may suffer but at any rate she is in her rights. She may be timid
and shy and self-conscious, it is all part of a quality belonging to
her, though in an exaggerated form--but a shy man!

There is, to begin with, a feeling as though it were not a misfortune
but a fault; it is contrary to all preconceived notions of what a man's
character should be; it is out of place, and the unfortunate man who is
so afflicted seldom meets with pity or sympathy. With an inkling of this
truth, Mr. Drayton concealed his shyness by an overpowering amount of
cheerfulness. He was consistently, perpetually, oppressively cheerful;
and having once assumed this character, it soon became a confirmed
habit. After all, to be incessantly cheerful, and in apparently
superabundant high spirits, is a less afflicting thing than the habit of
looking at life through a smoky glass, and depressing every one round
one by melancholy facts and a lengthened face.

Mr. Sandford came now to the rescue unintentionally, by carrying Mr.
Drayton off to dress, and, with a sigh of relief, the poor little woman
went off to her own room.

Dinner was ready, the guest--with an immense expanse of shirt front, was
standing on the rug, talking to Mr. Sandford, when the door opened, and
Mrs. Dorriman and the two girls came in.

The moment they saw him all interest in him vanished. They saw only a
prosperous middle-aged man, whose laugh was noisy and vulgar. He was Mr.
Sandford's friend, so they need have expected nothing better, they
thought.

Mr. Drayton, who had never understood that the people living with Mr.
Sandford were young girls, was astonished. They took so little notice of
him that he was piqued. He was a man accustomed to consideration from
every one--especially from the young ladies he knew. The indifference he
now met astonished him. His most amusing stories, which he told with
tears in his eyes and roars of laughter afterwards, were received with
rounded eyes, and not a smile in sight. The girls, indeed, thought him
ridiculous, and Margaret's grave young face never relaxed for a moment.

From indifference, Grace's expression rose to disdain, and Mrs.
Dorriman, as usual, had the whole brunt upon her shoulders.

How that poor little woman tried to do her duty! to show a polite
interest, and to smile, when smiles were expected; while the ungrateful
man counted her interest and approbation as nothing, and tried to win,
at any rate, attention from the other two.

Even to Mr. Sandford, not himself an acute observer, there was something
strained in Mr. Drayton's laughter, something unfriendly in Grace's
expression. The moment he discovered it--the instant he read tacit
disapproval and opposition--he was the more resolved that these two
should bow to his decision, and accept his arrangement.

He observed, also, that it was Margaret who attracted most of his
guest's attention. That must, of course, not be allowed; he must give
him to understand at first that Margaret was out of the question. He did
not wonder at it, however. There was a winning sweetness in Margaret's
expression that must please every one. Young as she was, there was a
composure, a repose of manner, wanting in her sister. It was the
difference between one character absolutely forgetful of self and one
full of self-consciousness.

Conversation is never more difficult, than when it ought to be there,
never more spasmodic than when people meet--who know nothing of each
other's likings or dislikings--and who have none of that light talk
which dwells on politics, great events, and the last new song in one and
the same breath.

Grace was intent upon the impression she was making. He was
uninteresting, but, all the same, her silent disapproval of his noisy
manner would put her in the position of being superior to all this
uncalled-for merriment.

Margaret watched Grace, and felt sorry for the unconscious Mr.
Drayton--so sorry that she began to talk to him--listening with a sense
of completely missing the jokes when his laugh broke into his speech.

There was one subject of satisfaction to Mr. Sandford, the dinner was
excellent; and this fact went far to soothe him. Men, though superior
beings, are apt to feel this important affair, and Mr. Sandford was one
of the men who felt any failure in this direction with great acuteness.

After discussing with playful heaviness those topics of conversation
started by Margaret, Mr. Drayton threw a bomb-shell down by saying to
Mrs. Dorriman--

"I saw a pretty little place you lived at till lately. I went over to
see a boat I had heard of. A pretty place, but lonely. I dare say you
got tired of the sea. The sea is a very dreary thing to me; I am ill
when on it; cold when near it, and I hate it when I see it. Ah! ah! ah!"

"I love the sea," said Mrs. Dorriman; "it is to me a friend and a
companion. There is always something grand to me in its monotony, as in
its angry moods. I love it best when it sends showers of spray up into
the air, and comes dashing in in all its might."

"Then what made you----My dear Mr. Sandford, are you aware that you gave
me a violent and painful kick just then? I wish to goodness you would
take care, if you knew what a start you gave me!"

"I am sorry," said Mr. Sandford, as the ladies rose and left them.

"I am sorry I hurt you, but you must not speak of Inchbrae to my sister.
She lost her husband there, and altogether it is a painful subject."

"But she did not seem to dislike my talking about it."

"She conceals her feelings, but it is, I assure you, not a subject she
cares to discuss."

"All right! I'll accept your view, but upon my word your kick is still
painful."

"I had no other way of stopping you."

"Then you did it on purpose!" and this new light upon the subject sent
Mr. Drayton into the loudest and longest fit of laughter he had yet
indulged in.

It was not till next day that Mr. Sandford had an opportunity of saying
that word to Mr. Drayton which should make him understand that Margaret
was out of his reach.

Mr. Drayton's idea of making himself pleasant to the young ladies was
buying some of those endless and useless trifles to be found in what are
called fancy warehouses; and Mr. Sandford, meeting him when his own work
was done, found him surveying with much satisfaction some gilt goats
dragging a wobbling mother-o'-pearl shell car all on one side, with gilt
wire wheels.

"I think Miss Margaret will like this," he said, his face beaming with
satisfaction.

Mr. Sandford's face was a study. That a rational being with money
waiting for investments, which fact alone was sufficient to fill any
man's mind, could be enchanted with a trumpery toy, and actually spend
money upon it, was an amazing idea to him, and he looked at Mr. Drayton
closely, as though he might see something in his countenance calculated
to explain it to him.

"You need not trouble to take gifts to my nieces," he began, gruffly,
"especially not to Margaret."

"Why especially not to Margaret?" asked Mr. Drayton, as he once more
looked at his purchase with admiring eyes.

"Because Margaret's a mere child, and her life is pretty well arranged
for her."

"Well, that is a pity. I think she is a great deal the nicest of the
two. I doubt Miss Grace has a touch of pride in her. She looks as if she
thought a deal of herself; always begging your pardon for saying so," he
added, laughing heartily.

"I am not sure I think pride unbecoming in a girl," said Mr. Sandford,
after a moment's reflection, "Miss Rivers is good-looking."

"Now, I don't think her a patch on Miss Margaret," said Mr. Drayton.
"Well, it's just as well you told me that _her_ future is settled; I am
not at all sure, not at all sure, I might not have been hit."

They left the subject and plunged into other matters, but Mr. Sandford
quite forgot to take into account one thing, that the very way to
encourage any one to like or care for anything is to put it out of his
reach--forbidden fruit is as tempting now as in the days of our first
parents, and he never, as far as his own wishes were concerned, did a
more unwise thing than in adding this incentive to the slight dawning of
admiration Mr. Drayton had for Margaret Rivers.

In the meantime the girls discussed him with all the intemperate
feelings of youth, added to the disappointment of his being so exactly
the opposite of that coming prince who was to rescue poor Grace from the
uncongenial home.

"His laugh goes quite through my head," said Grace, pettishly, as she
sat in front of the little mirror, and unplaited her hair for Margaret
to brush. "What an odious man he is."

"No, not odious, for he is good-natured," said Margaret, gently, "but I
wish he did not laugh so; it makes me feel so melancholy; and oh, Grace,
how difficult he is to talk to."

"Difficult! say impossible. And Margaret, we thought it might be the
prince," and Grace folded her hands, laid her chin upon them, and stared
at herself in the glass.

"The prince will come, Grace; you will see."

"No, Margaret! I do not believe in him. I believe in nothing now. All my
hopes are dead. What have they to live on? We shall go on living here
for ever till we are quite old and grey, and we shall never see any one
younger than Mr. Sandford and his friends, and never see the world, or
know any other life," and she lowered her head in a fit of despair.

"Grace, darling! you do not really think that all your many perfections
were given to you only to be thrown away; this despair is unlike your
usual bright brave spirit; and we are not so unhappy now. You are not so
miserable here, now, Grace?"

"Yes," said Grace, fiercely, "I am miserable. I am sick of my life here;
of the ugliness of everything. I hate it, Margaret. I hate it more than
I can say."

"And I was growing contented," said poor Margaret, with a little
suppressed sob; "I am so much less gifted than you, darling, so much
less full of restless life; you must forgive my being so different, so
easily satisfied--it was selfish, I might have thought of you." She put
her arms round Grace affectionately.

The sisters sat in silence and then Grace spoke again--

"The only good thing I know about Mr. Drayton is that he lives in the
South; I envy him that, I envy his being near London; it is the only
merit he has."

"When I said he was good-tempered," rejoined poor Margaret, anxious as
ever to bring her own conclusions, even about trifles, into harmony with
those held by her sister, "I think he is good-tempered as a rule, but I
fancy if he were to be vexed or disappointed in any way he would be
persistently angry. I do not think he would forgive easily."

"In other words you think him vindictive. Well, Margaret, I think you
are right. And I also think him not worth talking about, I think him
hateful," and Grace rose and stood before her dressing-table again.
"Oh!" she exclaimed, clasping her hands together, "what it would be, to
me, to leave this place, to go away, once again to England; though
school was tiresome, it was better than this. I would give all I am
worth in the world to get away. Sometimes I dream, Margaret--I dream of
floating away--of hearing beautiful music and lovely voices. I am so
happy! Then I wake--and I am _here_!"

CHAPTER VIII.

Mr. Drayton, in the meantime, took greater pains to talk to Margaret, to
discover how he could please her, with no particular object in view; but
she interested him, in the first place, and the fact of her life being
"arranged for" made her still more interesting. Besides, paying marked
attention to all she said and did enabled him to leave Grace alone. He
was not a sensitive man, but Grace's impertinence was much too open not
to go home to him. She despised him and showed she did so far too
openly, and from passive disapprobation he began to dislike her
heartily. The girls were right, his was a character that was
vindictive. He was wrapped up in a thick skin of self-esteem; he was
good-humoured and cheery so long as he was admired and his vanity
satisfied by flattery, direct or indirect, but once his self-love was
pierced or wounded it rankled, and woe to the person who had inflicted
the wound.

His visit was drawing to a close; he had been with Mr. Sandford for some
days, and so far nothing had come of it. Grace was out of the question,
and Mr. Sandford saw it. The investments he wished him to make were
equally undecided; Mr. Drayton would do nothing without consulting his
manager, and was waiting to hear from him. He extended his visit for two
days, and he spent those two days in trying to make Margaret understand
something of his feeling for her. Mr. Sandford was at his office all day
and Mrs. Dorriman said nothing; and though Mr. Drayton's way of looking
at Margaret and his fits of absence might have enlightened him he
thought he had made all that so impossible that it never gave him any
uneasiness, and in two days he would be gone.

But the old story was repeated in this instance. Mr. Drayton, in
hurrying home to have a word with Margaret, managed to slip, and,
falling the whole length of the flight of stairs at the office, came
down on the stone flags at the bottom with a bruised shoulder and a
sprained leg, and of course had to remain at Renton.

Mr. Sandford had to go to his office daily with the full consciousness
that his unwelcome guest was making the most of his opportunities. Still
he hoped things might come right in the end.

Poor Mr. Drayton hardly regretted his accident since it placed him near
_her_, Margaret, the lady of his dreams. For love had come to him in a
violent fashion, and he acknowledged to himself that if she would not
listen to him he would be miserable all his life.

Love plays such strange pranks in its flight. In this case it gave the
self-confident man timidity; his noisy laugh was modified, his manner
softened. He was very much in earnest.

Margaret never for one moment thought of his meaning anything. She was
very sorry for him, as any kind-hearted girl might be for the sufferings
of any one or even any _thing_, and this pity gave her voice a still
more dangerous softness. Each day found him longing to speak to her and
losing courage when she came near him. He was longing to know what the
_arrangement_ meant that Mr. Sandford had dwelt upon. Longing to hear
from her, about herself and her future, because, once he knew that, his
course would be plain. If there was really nothing in which her heart
was interested would it not be possible to alter things? She was so
young she could not already have met her fate.

She was so often with Mrs. Dorriman he seldom saw her alone; it was with
a throb of pleasure that he saw her come into the drawing-room alone
one afternoon, some snowdrops and ivy-leaves in her hand. She had been
walking, and she had thrown back her cloak and pushed her hat off her
head a little, and she came forward to fill some glasses with her
flowers, unconscious of his emotion, full of some thought which had
suggested itself to her whilst she was out, and a smile breaking the
gentle gravity which was her habitual expression.

"There are still many glasses to fill," he said, as, lying a prisoner
upon the sofa, he watched her accustomed fingers arranging and
re-arranging the pure, white blossoms with the glossy background of
leaves.

She looked up with a little smile and a heightened colour.

"Those are to stand empty till to-morrow; Grace wishes it. I thought you
would like a few to look at, but to-morrow Grace is going to arrange all
the flowers."

"What is that for? Is to-morrow a great festivity? Miss Grace does not
generally give herself any trouble for nothing," he said laughing.

"My sister takes trouble when she thinks it necessary," said Margaret,
with a pretty, dignified reproach, quick to resent the slightest implied
disapprobation of her beloved Grace; "to-morrow will be my birthday. I
shall be seventeen," she said, with full consciousness of her advanced
years.

"Seventeen," he murmured, "only seventeen!"

"Did you think I looked more or less than that?" she asked gaily.

"I hoped you were more than that," he said in a confused tone; "I knew
you were very young, your uncle told me that. He told me something else
about you," he went on trying to gain courage, and trying to read her
countenance, which without a shadow of suspicion was turned towards him
in all its sweetness and candour.

"I hope he gave me a good character."

"Your character needs no giving; it is written in your face."

He spoke in a lower and more hurried tone, and she once again raised her
eyes to his in surprise.

"Is it true? what does he mean when he says your future is arranged for?
Is there any one?" he brought out in quick agitated tones. Margaret was
startled; if her uncle had said this, he meant it, and she knew enough
of his will to dread having to submit to any thing he chose for her.

Her whole being rose in protest:

"My life is not arranged for, though I do not know what those words
mean, and there is no one," she added very vehemently.

He saw how true her words were, and he hurried on afraid of losing
courage, of not being able to say what he wanted to say, if he paused.

"Margaret," he said in a tone that compelled her attention, and trying
to raise himself as he read her face. "If you have no one, if there is
no one, if you are free to be won, may I not try and win you?"

Poor Margaret shrank back.

"No!" she said, breathlessly, "oh! no!"

"May I not try?" he pleaded. "I am more than double your age, but need
that matter? I never have loved any one, and I think I could make you
happy. I should not expect you to love me in the same way, and I could
give you much, I could surround you with luxuries, and grudge you
nothing for your happiness, you should not be dependent."

"If I loved you for these things I should be unworthy, do you not see
that?"

He did not heed her.

"You know you do not care for this narrow life, you would like being in
the South, in London, you should have a house where you liked, you
should do what you liked."

"I cannot," said Margaret, red and pale alternately, "I am sure you mean
to be kind, but your words are hateful to me. They are bribing me. No!
better to live anywhere, better to be as we are, and as you say
dependent, than to be false to ourselves. I cannot say anything else,
and oh! pray, pray, say nothing about this to any one, do forget it. It
is quite, quite impossible."

His voice was broken by disappointment and a sense of helplessness.

"I cannot forget it," he said, and, hearing Mrs. Dorriman's voice,
Margaret left the room hurriedly.

He dwelt upon her words in the way that people have of hugging a painful
remembrance. There _must_ be some one else he thought, and he tried so
to comfort himself, but in vain. His vanity was wounded, but he was too
thoroughly in love with her to heed that so much, he was cruelly hurt.
What was the use of the flattering assertions of his people? he had
always been assured of success if he wanted success, and now he had
failed.

He was very silent, subdued, and unhappy. He longed now for recovery;
the place was hateful to him. He dreaded seeing Margaret again; he was
afraid Mr. Sandford might read his story; he was irritable and restless,
and very very miserable.

On the top of this came the answer from his cautious manager strongly
advising him against Mr. Sandford's scheme, and giving very excellent
reasons with which he could not but be content.

He was so fully aware of his own incompetency, that he never for a
moment disputed his conclusion; but he was too much upset, too much
unlike himself, that night, to go into anything in the shape of
business, and he was wheeled into his own room early, pleading headache,
and happy to escape from the family party that evening, and be alone
with his unhappiness.

His absence created no surprise. Mr. Sandford was indifferent; he was a
little annoyed by some checks he had met with in his business things,
and a little more irritable than usual, a little harder about Grace's
shortcomings, and very violent and disagreeable to her all dinner-time.

Margaret was still unhinged. Mr. Drayton's words had agitated her, and
she was sorry for him, more sorry than she could express, when she saw
how really he suffered. She could not understand how it was that he
could see any merit in her, while Grace was by; only to be sure, Grace
had been so persistently antagonistic. But for that she, Margaret, would
have escaped, and Grace would have known what to say so much better.
Thinking it over she was afraid she had been unkind, but she had been so
taken by surprise.

It was not till the sisters were in their own room, and the house was
hushed for the night, that Margaret told Grace what had happened.

Their favourite way of talking when the weather made it possible, was
standing at their open window--a window that looked a little away from
the town; the clear air predominated over the smoke of the busy town
then, and what remained was hardly perceptible. The great deep blue sky
of night with its "thousand eyes" made up to them for the dull darkness
of the days. When it was chilly, one plaid covered them both as the two
young faces looked out into the stillness, and whispered their thoughts
to each other there.

"Grace," said Margaret, in a low tone, feeling shy even with her sister,
her other self, about the great event of the day, "I have something to
tell you, something we never dreamed of, that you will be as much
surprised to hear as I was."

She clung a little closer to her sister, putting her arm round her
waist.

"Have you?" asked Grace, wonderingly, but not roused to much curiosity
as yet: "it is wonderful that anything can happen in this place. Every
day is like the day that has gone before; each day is as dull and as
empty of anything we can care about."

"You will be surprised, Grace; but I want you to promise not to laugh at
him."

"Laugh at him!" re-echoed Grace. "Is it Mr. Sandford?"

"No, he knows nothing, and of course we must not tell him."

"Him--you said I was not to laugh at _him_," said Grace, suddenly
startled into consciousness. "Is it anything connected with Mr.
Drayton?"

"Yes," murmured Margaret, in a low voice, "he spoke to me this evening.
He told me, Grace, that he--loved me. I was so sorry about it."

"Why should you be sorry? It must not be thought of in a hurry; but we
must try and be sensible about it," answered Grace.

"It does not require much thought," said Margaret, surprised, almost
bewildered, by her sister's quiet tone, as if the question could be
weighed. "I told him at once it was quite impossible of course."

"But you need not have done it in such a hurry, why not think it over?"
Grace spoke as though she was disappointed.

Margaret was conscious of the keenest pain she had ever known in all her
life. She paused for a moment, almost breathless. Her sister, then, saw
a possible conclusion widely different from hers: that she did so seemed
to set them further apart in feeling than they had ever been. "You
yourself have done nothing but laugh at him, we have laughed together,"
she said in a pained voice; "he was to be the prince, and he came, and
you yourself said how middle-aged and uninteresting he was--do you
forget, Grace?"

"I do not forget, Margaret, darling, it is true; but if I encouraged you
to laugh, and in so doing have spoiled the future for you--and for me,"
she added, in a lower tone.

"Spoiled the future!" exclaimed Margaret, wondering, "we think
differently. I am sorry, I was very sorry, because he cared so much--but
no future with him is possible. Think, Grace, how annoyed we have been
by his noisy laughter, by his endless jokes, by his very ways. How is it
you forget?"

"It is different," said Grace. "Mind, I do not say, take him; but I say
you might have thought of it for a little while. What did he say,
Margaret can you remember?"

"I can remember some; he was very kind; and he said something about
making me happy and about living where I liked in London, or anywhere,
and giving me luxuries. I hated his saying all that, and I said so. I
said it was like a bribe."

"It was not nice," said Grace slowly, "he ought not to have said it. And
yet--oh, Margaret!" she exclaimed, fervently, "think how near we have
been to the realization of our dreams! To leave this hateful
place--which is choking me, and making me wretched--to go away, to live
in the centre of all that is worth living for!"

Margaret was perfectly overwhelmed at this discovery. Grace was
disappointed; she wished her to marry this man, whom she had laughed at,
and turned into the bitterest ridicule, ever since she had seen him, and
had seen that he was not in the least like the expected prince who was
to rescue her!

The poor child could not get over it. She stood still clasping her; but
she felt as though her world had crumbled to pieces at her feet. She was
roused from the deepest and cruellest pain by feeling Grace's tears
dropping fast upon her. Grace was weeping, and she was the cause of her
tears. She struggled with a feeling of indignation also. A sense of
being unfairly and unjustly put in the wrong, made her less hurt than
angry after a moment. It seemed as though in a supreme moment of her
life her sister had failed her.

"Grace," she said, after a long silence seemed to have made her voice
startling, "if this had come to you, would you have done it?"

"How can I tell?" said Grace. "Nothing comes to me, it seems."

"But you can imagine--you can put yourself in my place."

"No, I cannot! We are so different--you and I."

"And yet we used to think alike, up till now, Grace. I have always seen
the wisdom of your thoughts; you surely cannot counsel me to marry a man
who has never appeared to me in any but a ridiculous light."

"No, I do not counsel it," said Grace; "but I cannot help seeing that
this was a chance for us both, and that it has gone."

Margaret shivered.

"It is getting cold," she said, abruptly, "and I am tired."

She kissed her sister with a long, lingering kiss. It was as if she were
bidding farewell to the sister she had known, so much had her words
jarred upon her heart and hurt her.

Grace slept. Through the uncurtained window, with no blind between her
and the bright stars she so loved to look upon, Margaret lay awake.

She was only conscious at first of a vivid and keen disappointment. All
Grace's cutting speeches about this man's inferiority were fresh in her
memory, and now--she thought it possible! Then she thought of all their
high expectations when they left school, and of the way in which Grace
had been made a sort of leader among them. Grace, who had never really
worked, who only did things when she felt inclined, whose work was, as
often as not, done for her, and who took all for granted, as due to her
personal influence--why had she the position she took up? Softer
thoughts succeeded these; during their long stay at school how often
Grace had defended her from the oppression of others. How often she had
used her influence in her behalf; how often stood out till she had
obtained some concession for her.

Loving words and caresses, the numberless little actions that knit
sisters together, floated before her. The times without number when she
had been filled with pride; and how proud she was of Grace. If she could
be seen; if only the world could see her, she would have it at her
foot--so she had always thought, so she thought still. Then as a flash
came the thought, "Could I do it?" She thought of all it might give
Grace; of the many things she might have in her power; and she began to
feel once more bewildered; her brain was getting weary; her eyes were
closing, and her lips framed the words, "I cannot do it," as she sank
into slumber.

The stars looked down upon her innocent face--ruffled with the first
real care or sorrow it had ever known--they faded as the day
strengthened; and then came the blaze of early morning, and the long
shafts of light everywhere, and her seventeenth birthday had come.

She met Mr. Drayton that day with an overwhelming sense of
consciousness, but she was reassured by his manner, perhaps she had
exaggerated--all unwittingly--to Grace and to herself his despair and
his passion, for he met her with a smile in which there was nothing to
be seen save good-will, and he congratulated her upon having reached so
advanced an age in something of his old manner; then he produced his
birthday-gift, a ring, deep-set with stones, and with a half-laughing
reference to her uncle, Mr. Sandford, for permission, put it into her
hand. She took it unwillingly, feeling afraid that in taking it she was
in some way giving him cause to think she might change, and she felt no
change was possible for her. But she was obliged to accept it and to put
it on, and, on the whole, the day passed off well. Mr. Sandford looked
anxiously for some indication of any liking between Mr. Drayton and
Grace, and was disappointed afresh to see none.

Mr. Drayton was obliged to go, and his going put an end to all hopes
about an investment, and the disappointment in two quarters made itself
felt in the home party, but was skilfully veiled by Mrs. Dorriman, whose
duty it seemed generally to be to stand in the breach and turn all
storms and disagreeables aside.

These things, however, once more made Mr. Sandford think of the past.
The interest in the present and the anxiety he had felt to arrange
matters had driven the past further from him.

Poor Mrs. Dorriman, as she caught her brother's eyes fixed upon her,
little thought how he was weighing her in the balance, wondering whether
she would show herself more pliable now in the matter of those papers
and how best he could talk to her about them.

She herself had put the subject away from her when she first entered his
house. She had a confused notion that even thinking of them was
treachery whilst under his roof; having done this the companionship of
Margaret and the small round of household duties filled up her time and
her thoughts; she strove hard to do her duty, and she did it well,
giving nothing a divided attention. By degrees the papers and their
possible contents became as a forgotten tale. She had the consciousness
that they were there, but they were not before her mind now.

Something might have been uttered by Mr. Sandford, had not his attention
been drawn to Grace. She had spoken some words that had roused even
gentle Mrs. Dorriman to indignation, for the words had reference to
Jean.

"Her illness was nothing much," she was saying, "and she gained her
point. She got poor Mrs. Chalmers out of it and stepped into her shoes.
I liked Mrs. Chalmers myself."

"It is very unfair to say this of Jean," said Mrs. Dorriman, with a
heightened colour; "she never meddled or interfered, and I never asked
her to stay; she stayed because Mrs. Chalmers left suddenly and we had
no one else."

"Yes, my dear Mrs. Dorriman, but _why_ did she leave suddenly? There are
two sides to every question," said Grace, with her little air of
superiority, caring nothing really about the question, but in rather a
state of irritation, and arguing merely because she had no other way of
venting her ruffled feelings. She was unreasonably cross, first because
Mr. Drayton was not what she had expected, and then because something
might have come of his visit and nothing had come, and she saw before
her the monotony of days, and nothing, no excitement, nothing in sight.
Her spirits were low and when this was the case she was always cross.

"What are you driving at?" exclaimed Mr. Sandford angrily; "what do you
know about it?"

"Only that that Highland woman, Mrs. Dorriman's servant, managed to get
Mrs. Chalmers out of the house. I suppose I may have an opinion on the
subject?" said Grace, her colour rising and her temper also.

"You have no business to say anything of the kind," thundered Mr.
Sandford, too angry to restrain his voice, sending terror into the timid
soul of his sister and making Margaret turn pale, while she
instinctively rose and stood by Grace; "Mrs. Chalmers ventured to be
insolent to _me_ and she left, as all people may expect to do who
venture to show insolence to me or mine."

"If _you_ have an opinion I may have mine," persisted Grace, too much
roused herself to feel afraid of him.

"You may have an opinion but you are not entitled to express it in my
house," he answered, still more irritated by her manner; "you can wait
for that till you have a house of your own, a thing which appears to me
very problematical, since no man would care to have an upsetting,
conceited young woman as a wife with no fortune, or looks, or any single
recommendation."

Grace was pale with anger. Margaret turned upon him like a young
lioness.

"How can you say such unkind, such untrue things?" she exclaimed
passionately. "Oh! Grace, my darling, do not heed him."

"I do not heed him," said Grace, magnificently, wounded and stung beyond
belief, and quivering with passion, "but I want to know why you keep us
in your house, hating us so evidently--we will not stay, we will go. You
offered us a home, and now you speak as though we were a burden. We will
go, Margaret."

"Speak for yourself, I offered you a home for the sake of one I loved. I
did not know you then. When I saw what you were, I still kept that home
open to you for the sake of your sister; you put yourself above her in
everything, you have made her believe you her superior in all things,
but she is worth a dozen of you, and so every man in his senses will
think as they know you."

Grace was in tears by this time, and Margaret tried to get her to go out
of the room, but she was struggling forwards, she would not go till she
had said something, and she meant the last word to be very cutting.

"Brother," said Mrs. Dorriman, imploringly, "you are wrong; you are
saying things now in the heat of passion that you will be sorry for
afterwards. It is hard to be obliged to eat the bread of dependence,
and to have it cast up to you."

"It is her own fault," he said, angrily; "she gives herself airs and
graces as though she were above the ground she treads upon. It makes me
ill the way she goes on, and she must hear it!"

"Spare her now."

"Oh! I'll spare her, but she has to lower her head; even Drayton would
have nothing to say to her, though I did my best, and praised her up to
the skies when I spoke to him."

"That is more than enough!" sobbed Grace, as with Margaret clinging to
her she rushed to her own room, and the sisters sobbed out their misery
in each other's arms.

But crying would not help them; they resolved to leave the house, to go
far from this, _where_ they did not exactly know; they did not know any
one except their school-mistress, and having left her with flying
colours it seemed terrible to them to have to go back and face the
wonder and the pity they would meet with.

They were both so young and so inexperienced. They sat thinking, not
wholly miserable now because they were conscious of a sort of excitement
and they were together.

Grace at that moment could not help thinking what a small beginning
generally leads to large conclusions--this beginning had been so very,
very trifling.

She had been walking up and down one day to obtain the amount of
exercise she conceived necessary to her well-being, the day had been
damp and she kept to the gravel in front of the house.

Jean, who was at the open window, to use her own expression, trying to
get strong, was talking in her rich guttural voice to Mrs. Dorriman, who
was in the room, though out of sight, and was watching her.

Conscious of observation--though only the observation of an old
woman--Grace, who was proud of her way of moving, stepped forwards and
backwards with still more daintiness than usual. She heard Jean say--

"What gars Miss Rivers walk yon way, hippity hop from ane side till
another?"

And then in a moment she answered her own question--

"Ou, aye, the gravel's hard; and she'll have corns."

Grace retreated, with a feeling of hatred against her. This little
affront was the cause of her impertinence to Mrs. Dorriman, and all that
had followed.

Nothing could be done that night, and when the long chilly evening came
to an end the sisters crept into bed. They had come to no resolution,
they only intended to go away; but it may be noted that in this
emergency Grace's superiority failed to assert itself--it was Margaret
to whom she turned; Margaret, who, barely beyond childhood, was to think
for both.

The last thing Mr. Sandford wanted was to have the difficulty solved in
any way derogatory to the position he had taken up, of befriending two
girls who had no real claim upon him. If they left his house, all Renton
would hear of it, and put their own conclusion upon it.

Like all men who act and speak in a passion he was very angry if he was
taken at his word. He found it so easy to forget his harsh sayings, that
he never could understand that other people should have any difficulty
in doing so.

He had wished to wound Grace and bring her down, and then was annoyed by
her retreat. Mrs. Dorriman had so often smarted from his tyranny in old
days that she could fully understand and sympathise with the girls; and
the incessant rudeness of Grace to herself did not prevent her feeling
for her.

Mr. Sandford had implied, and almost said, that he had offered Grace, so
to speak, to Mr. Drayton, who would have none of her. She was womanly
enough to resent the insult for Grace, as representing girlhood, and she
was so indignant with her brother about this that she, for the time,
lost all sense of dread. He would not come upstairs, but he sent to
request her to go to him to his own room, where he was sitting sending
long puffs of smoke across the room. He saw her glance at his pipe, and
laid it down--the act in itself spoke of a changed feeling towards her.
She keenly remembered in old days how persistently he had made her write
for him and talk to him, while the fumes of his pipe had made her feel
so ill she could hardly do either.

"Well! what is to be done?" he began, looking at her keenly underneath
his shaggy brows.

"I am sure I do not know," she answered, helplessly.

"Well, you had better think. What is the use of being a woman if you
cannot arrange things?"

And Mrs. Dorriman thought; and then spoke out her thoughts--a thing new
to her when her brother was in question.

CHAPTER IX.

Mrs. Dorriman, like most shy people, spoke quickly when she had anything
to say that cost her an effort, and she said rather abruptly, though
with a little deprecating air, "You see, you were wrong--you must feel
that now."

"I feel nothing of the kind, and I do not see it, either. This is a new
tone for you to take with me."

"It is a right tone just now, you asked me to help to see what could be
done. Grace can never forgive what you said--never."

"Why not?"

"Was there any truth in it? Did you really speak to Mr. Drayton about
her?"

Mr. Sandford sat looking straight before him. He could not quite
remember at first how it had been. Had Mr. Drayton spoken first, or had
he mentioned Grace to him in the first instance? Then he remembered,
"Drayton spoke of Margaret. He said something about her admiringly. I
did not want him to have any notion of Margaret--I did not know how far
it might go. I wished him to like Grace, and I did say something. Yes,
that is true. He would not see it, and I am not surprised; but, at any
rate, he led up to it, he spoke first."

"Then it is not quite so bad for her. I may tell them this?"

"You may tell them anything you like."

"I only wish to tell them the truth."

"Just as you please."

"Brother!" and Mrs. Dorriman leaned forward a little, and her gentle
face flushed a little, "these children are living here with you by your
wish; you must not make it hard for them."

"Saul among the prophets! Why, you are coming out in quite a new light."

Mrs. Dorriman shrank back again. She might have answered him and said
that for these girls she had more courage than for herself, but she knew
the wisdom of silence and she held her peace.

"What do you think they will do?" He asked the question with assumed
indifference.

"I think they will go away. They are both high-spirited girls. Margaret
feels it so much--she feels any slight offered to Grace more even than
Grace does herself; she is perfectly devoted to her sister."

"You must prevent their going--at any rate in this way," he said, not
looking at her, but looking straight into the fire.

"How can I prevent it?" said the poor woman, helplessly; she felt as
though life was very hard to her.

He did not answer her, but went on looking straight before him.

Then an inspiration came to her. "If I went with them somewhere, after a
time perhaps they would come back."

"That would do," he said, slowly.

"It would cost something," she said, always nervous when money matters
were in question, and looking at him anxiously.

"You can have any money you want," he said, carelessly. "When would you
go?"

"We should have to go at once--to-morrow. I am quite sure the girls will
want to be off at daylight." She thought to herself that had she been so
insulted she would not have waited till daylight. "I think it will be
better to go as soon as possible, and Jean will take care of you."

"I am not afraid of myself, thank you; it is only going back to the days
before you came."

She said no more, but wishing him good-night she went upstairs.
To-morrow gave but little time for any preparation, and then she had to
arrange where she could go with the girls. In this matter she could be
guided perhaps by their wishes. She called Jean, who generally sat up
for her, and told her in concise words what was to happen.

Jean was fairly taken aback, not unnaturally her first thought was about
herself. "Is it me, ma'am, that is going to be left to look after Mr.
Sandford? I shall never be able to get on with him."

"Yes you will, dear Jean, you please him already, he is always saying
how well everything is done."

"Oh, I'm not afeard for him when he's in a good way," said Jean,
stoutly, "but what will I do when he gets _rampagious_? I'll be feared
of my life of him then."

"Oh, Jean, do not make difficulties," said poor Mrs. Dorriman; "it is
hard enough, and in the wide world I do not know where I am going with
these girls!"

"That's bad," said Jean, sympathising fully with the position of
affairs; "it's a hard case to go to an unkent place, with other people's
children too!" She made no more difficulties, she put everything ready,
but she strongly advised Mrs. Dorriman to prevent the girls going early.
"Go at a reasonable hour, and why not?" she insisted. "What is the good
of setting people's tongues wagging? they'll aye be speaking whether or
no, but no harm comes if the things they say have no legs to stand on."

The early morning roused Grace and Margaret, and they went to the window
and looked out.

The night had been bright, and, though the moon had not been visible,
there had been that soft starlight which is so mysterious and beautiful.
With a vague hope of seeing a fine morning which would inspirit them
they drew near, and gazed blankly at the scene before them.

A grey, leaden-coloured sky, a hopeless, pitiless rain, mud everywhere,
and everything cheerless, drooping, and miserable.

Tears came into Grace's eyes, and she and Margaret clung together for a
moment.

"We must go," said Margaret, to whom nothing else seemed possible.

"I suppose we must," said Grace, looking blankly before her.

Their spirits sank. Margaret, moving softly so as to disturb no one,
dragged out first one then another of their boxes. She was resolved to
go on with the preparations. She had been more deeply wounded than even
Grace by those words of Mr. Sandford's about Mr. Drayton; and then came
this terrible thought--was _his_ offer the consequence of something said
by Mr. Sandford? If so, how doubly glad she was all had ended as it had.
Grace, always easily influenced by the aspect of things, was in a
terrible state of depression.

She turned her head round once or twice and watched Margaret, but she
never offered to help her. She did so hate discomfort! and the prospect
of going out and facing the dirt and rain and cold broke her down. Her
spirit had forsaken her, and sitting there with a plaid thrown over her
she cried miserably.

Margaret was too much occupied to notice that her sister's face was
persistently turned away from her. She was kneeling facing the door,
while with hands trembling a little from cold and partly from agitation
she was putting into the bottom of the boxes their heaviest possessions.
She would not take time to think of the future, of where they should go,
or what they were to do. To get away--that was her thought, to be far
from this hateful position for Grace, to shield her from all chance of
hearing anything so hard again....

Noiselessly she went on, and mechanically, trying how the little old
work-box took up least room, placing it sideways and lengthways with
that carefulness regarding detail which is often the outcome of great
excitement, when she was startled by a knock at the door.

The sisters involuntarily drew together--Grace having dashed the tears
away from her face. It was Jean, a tray in her hands and some hot tea
for them. She took the whole thing in at a glance, saw the look of
depression in Grace's face, and Margaret's expression of resolution.

"My bairns," said the good woman, "if without offence to you I may call
you so--I heard you moving; work is ill on an empty stomach, and the
morning cold. Take up your tea, it will do ye good. And now," she went
on as the girls took her advice, "what is it all about?"

"Mr. Sandford has cruelly insulted us," said Margaret, reddening, "and
we are going away."

"And where will ye go?"

"I--we do not know--but we _must_ go away from here," both the young
voices chimed in.

"Well, it's no my place to preach--an insult's ill to put up with--but
Mrs. Dorriman has one of her headaches, and I've to ask you to go and
see her at a reasonable hour, ye ken. I trust she's sleeping now. She's
been saer put about. She's going away too."

"Going away--Mrs. Dorriman is going away! then," said Margaret, "she has
taken our part."

The sisters looked at each other.

"And did you ever know Mrs. Dorriman take any part but the part of the
weakest?" asked Jean. "See how she stood by me--not but that your case
and my case are two different ones--yes, bairns, they are very
different. Mr. Sandford may have a rough tongue, I'm no denying
it--whiles I myself am afraid of him--but you're no exactly kin till
him, and he offered you a home, and has been good to you in many ways.
It's no my business to preach," insisted Jean, "but I think it's an ill
return to him to set all the tongues wagging about him. Go! of course
you can go, but you can leave his house decently, and not in a mad-like
way, particularly as you do not seem to be expected anywhere else."

"He said very terrible things last night," said Margaret, "and we must
go."

"I'm not saying anything against it," said Jean, coolly, "but you cannot
go till you have seen my lady, and you cannot see her till a reasonable
hour. She is going too, and she is going on your account, and you owe
her that much. See," she continued, looking at Grace, who was knocked up
and ill now from the agitation and want of sleep. "Your sister is
ill--go back to bed, my bairns," she said, "and I'll bring you something
by-and-bye, and you must see Mrs. Dorriman before you go away--before
you make any plans."

Grace was too glad to lie down, never very strong; she was suffering
now, and Margaret, vexed at heart, saw that Jean was right. Grace ill,
it would be cruel to make her move,--cruel, if not impossible. She was
herself too much excited to go back to bed. She went on when Jean left
the room, arranging her things in the open boxes, moving quietly, as
Grace, worn out with her crying and the emotions of the morning, sank
into sleep.

As Margaret watched her, and noticed the swelled eyelids and look of
unhappiness, she blamed herself for not having thought of her grief and
sorrow before. Nothing she thought then would be too hard for her, no
sacrifice too great for her to make on her behalf. She knelt down beside
her sleeping sister and offered up her innocent and earnest morning
prayer, and she went on making quite a solemn vow to make her happiness
her chief object in life, never to think of herself, but to put Grace
before her always.

She rose comforted, as we receive comfort from a great resolve--the
decision seems to bring its own strength with it.

Turning to the window she saw that the day was more hopeless than ever;
rain in the country pattering on the green leaves brings with it a
refreshing and not altogether a melancholy sound; the effect of a heavy
rain is to wash the grass into brilliancy, and leave glittering traces
for the first sun-rays to turn into beautiful prismatic effects; but
rain in the outskirts of a town where every pathway is of coal-dust and
the mud is black from the same cause--when the rain brings down with it
dirt and blacks and insoluble portions of the grimy smoke--is a dreary
and wretched thing. Only those who do not live in their surroundings,
whose imagination lifts them up and beyond these influences, or are too
busy to heed them, are not weighed down by them.

She was startled to see a cab coming up to the house. She looked out,
and with indescribable feelings in which relief was uppermost she saw
Mr. Sandford and some luggage drive off towards the station.

It was breakfast time, and just as she was turning to go downstairs, and
went to see if Grace was still sleeping, Mrs. Dorriman came to the door
and Grace started up.

Margaret met her with a little misgiving. She only knew the fact as Jean
had told it to her. Mrs. Dorriman was also going away, and on their
account, and obeying her first impulse she said to her, "Is it true, you
are going away also? Are you vexed with us? But you know we cannot
stay."

"Children," said Mrs. Dorriman, and her soft sweet voice imposed silence
upon them both, "you took my brother up wrongly. Mr. Drayton spoke
first, and the sting is gone I think, then--had it not been so I could
understand, and I can feel for you; but my brother said I might tell you
the truth, and this is the truth. But he sees, and I see, that the life
here is not suited to you--you cannot expect my brother to change his
habits and his home for you. His business is here and here his home must
be. But he has given me leave, he has given me the means, to go with you
somewhere for a time. I think this wise--we will go somewhere and have a
change and begin in a new way when we come back. The first question is
where do you wish to go?"

Grace and Margaret heard this speech with an emotion and thrill of
gratitude. Grace felt as though she had never done Mrs. Dorriman
justice. To go somewhere, anywhere away from this, and yet not have to
regret it--to go as she had thought it impossible to go! Words failed
her, and it was Margaret who thanked Mrs. Dorriman, and who expressed
something of the relief and gratitude they both felt.

Mrs. Dorriman was not insensible to the charm of Margaret's affection;
but she was not a woman given to much demonstration. She closed the
question at present by telling Grace to lie still. She would send her
her breakfast, and, taking Margaret with her, they went downstairs. It
was to a woman of her temperament a very strange bewilderment now, to
have the world to choose from, and not know where to go.

One plan after another was discussed by her and Margaret between the
demolition of one scone and the attack upon another. The question was
not settled, but Margaret felt thankful in her heart of hearts, giving
Mrs. Dorriman credit for the whole arrangement of the difficulty.

When Grace, refreshed, though still pale and bearing traces of
agitation, in spite of her sleep, joined them, the great matter was
again talked over.

"We cannot go from here," said Mrs. Dorriman, with unwonted firmness,
"till we have settled where we are to go, and are sure of rooms."

"Will not that take very long?" asked Margaret.

"Once we agree about the place--writing and hearing in reply will take
little time--we can telegraph," said Mrs. Dorriman, with a certain pride
in her unlimited powers. She had, never of her own free will, sent a
telegram in all her life.

Then a brilliant idea came to Margaret. "Let us go South, and try one
place first; if we do not like it we can try another."

Grace was enchanted.

"And now," said Margaret, who seemed to be taking up a new position that
morning, "We owe you so much; what do you like best?"

"Oh, my dear!" said poor Mrs. Dorriman, her long self-repression giving
way, and surprising the girl by her glistening eyes and brilliant flash
of colour, "give me the sea and the hills;" and though, as half ashamed
of having shown her craving for both these things, she added, hastily,
"Put me out of it, my dear; never mind me. I can be happy anywhere."
Their first move was soon decided upon now. To one of the lovely bays at
the mouth of the Clyde they resolved to go, and with hearts fluttering
with excitement, at one moment studying the Railway Guide, at another a
map, they decided to go to Lornbay, and then hastily resumed their
packing. Three days came and went swiftly, and satisfactory answers
having been received about rooms in the best hotel, Mrs. Dorriman, not
without various doubts as to her fitness for this great responsibility,
found herself alone with the girls, leaving Renton with all its varied
experiences behind them in its murky vale of smoke.

It often happens that the realization of a wish brings with it a certain
fear as to whether the intensity of the wish has been altogether full of
wisdom, particularly is this the case when we are conscious of having
thought of ourselves, to the exclusion of any other consideration.

Of the trio who were whirling to the mouth of the Clyde, Grace was the
most disturbed and the one least able to enjoy the change of scene, the
one upon whose spirit lay the shadow of a reproach.

She was conscious of having from the first placed herself in a position
of antagonism to Mr. Sandford. She had intended him to recognise her
merits, and to allow her to influence him as she had influenced those
school-companions to whom she had been as a superior being. But she had
forgotten to take into account his temper, his prejudices, and his
passions; and, though she now recognised that she had failed, she
blamed his obtuseness, and not her own powers, for the failure.

Margaret was evidently much to him; she was nothing, and the one person
who had come there, though he fell far short of being a prince, had
utterly also failed to see in her any attraction.

This also she imagined was due to some fault in him and not in her.
Margaret had a way of effacing herself, of putting herself so completely
out of the question, that Grace's vanity was almost excusable. Reared in
the belief of her possessing many gifts, flattered by the small world
around her, it would require a much severer blow to her pride than Mr.
Sandford's rudeness and Mr. Drayton's blindness, before she learnt how
wide a difference exists between the value we put upon ourselves and the
value placed upon us by outsiders who are not biassed or prejudiced in
any way in our favour. To the indifferent world poor Grace would simply
be an ordinary-looking girl who gave herself airs. But she had this
still to learn.

The beauty of the late spring was filling every copse and valley through
which they passed. Everywhere was the budding forth of those tender hues
which bring a sense of quiet refreshment to the eye; on every sheltered
bank the primroses were gazing at the passers-by like faint stars from
their deep leafy beds. The mountain torrents here and there were
quivering with excitement as they raced down the hill-sides bubbling
over with the joy of having escaped from the imprisonment of the
winter's frosts. When the train stopped they could hear the twittering
and singing of birds; all these things of everyday occurrence and of no
importance in everyday life, perhaps; but to these three, who had felt
the great want of the fresh beauty of country life, and had passed some
months without any of these cheering influences, they came as a breath
of Paradise.

Grace began to respect Mrs. Dorriman when they changed stations, and
she saw the quiet practical way in which everything was arranged. Then
they sped on their way along the banks of the Clyde, and an exclamation
burst from Margaret's lips. Mrs. Dorriman's eyes were moist. The sea
came in sight where the river widened; the evening light was falling
over it all touching with a golden gleam the ripple of the water. Some
yachts were lying at anchor. Away to the South rose faint blue hills as
on the West. Even Grace, too much self-absorbed as a rule to be
passionately alive to natural beauty, felt it all, as she had never in
all her life felt any scenery before. The movement and life all framed
in this exquisite scene thrilled her. She forgot herself, her hopes, her
ambitions, and all else, and, unconsciously holding Margaret's hand, she
found herself giving back an answering and a sympathetic clasp.

The bustle of arrival came as a break to the high-strung feelings of
Mrs. Dorriman. She had not been to this place since the days of her
girlhood; when her father had gone for change and she had accompanied
him. Can any one look at the scenes of their youth and compare the
still-remembered visions of those days with the blank reality of their
lives? All seems unchanged, everything seems to have stood still. We
remember the gnarled trunk of that tree, its very boughs seem hardly to
have lost a twig; the same wild flowers grow under and around the great
grey stones, where so often we gathered them, with supple limbs that
sprang across the burn as lightly as any roedeer. Now we stoop stiffly,
our suppleness is gone from us, and we are afraid of even the
stepping-stones; they are still there, but we are woefully changed. Mrs.
Dorriman was not old enough for so painful a contrast, and her activity
was still stirring her to action, but the elasticity of her spirit was
gone. She could still feel things keenly, but her powers of enjoyment
had gone; she feared more than she hoped, she had lost the freshness of
her feelings; she was saddened and subdued, the habit of her mind was
depression, she expected evil and not good. Nothing for so long had come
to her in the way of pleasure, that she had ceased to think happiness
could come to her at all, and she drifted on in her life without any
aim, only trying to do what was right. Even heaven seemed to her a vague
and far-away dream, which was not to her a positive joy because of that
uncomfortable distaste we have alluded to about her husband's perpetual
companionship.

But when their informal but comfortable meal was over and they had
separated for the night she stood long looking down on the moving lights
upon the water; the black hulls of the larger ships sent dark shadows in
vivid contrast to the moonlight rays, the boats flying about with their
twinkling lights; the splash of oars came up to her in the stillness;
every now and again a hoarse cry rang out as boats hailed each other,
snatches of song came up on the light wind that fanned her face. She
could hear the cheerful unrestrained laughter ringing out. Over all,
the moon shone down resplendent, and the soft wind, hurrying from the
south, was warm and pure, tasting of the sea over which it had come so
many many miles.

It was one of those times in her life when her whole nature protested
against unhappiness. She understood but vaguely (we generally do
understand it vaguely) what would give her happiness, but she craved for
a higher and a fuller life; the perpetual repression, the subjection of
her very ideas to a stronger mind, chafed her, and as she clasped her
hands the thought that at the moment comforted her was that here she
could have freedom--here it would be more like home.

How long she stood there! The lights went out as the boats came
in-shore, the sounds died away, the feeling of being free seemed to show
her all at once how much she really feared her brother, and then slowly
rose before her once more the thought of those papers.

This problem always filled her with pain, the same dread of still
further learning to distrust her husband, the same irresolution came
over her, she turned round quickly and shut the window, shutting away
that painful remembrance with a resolute determination not to think of
it just now, and putting it away from her with all her power. Even as
she prayed she was conscious of that something she would not think of,
as a secret sin may be covered up and concealed in a corner of our mind
(knowing that it is seen) and passed over, while we confess every other.

The morning broke exquisitely fine, light clouds enhanced the sunshine.
The girls, with few regrets in their past lives, came to breakfast with
"shining morning faces" full of the happiness of a delightful change and
all the pleasantest expectations of what the world held for them there.
Grace was radiant; Margaret's more composed face reflected her sister's
expression. They went out, hurrying Mrs. Dorriman's slower movements
with a naturalness and impatience she did not dislike as they seemed so
near her; and they looked about them with the full enjoyment of girls
who had never seen anything of life, except in the serried ranks of
schoolgirl's fashion, and who now stopped to look at every shop window
in the long street running round the bay, alternating this close
attention by watching the boats, upon the other hand, glide to and fro.

Mrs. Dorriman was very nearly as much taken up as they were, and entered
fully into their pleasure. She was not superior to the charms of caps,
which she wore with a mental protest, having great quantities of hair,
but which she thought frightful, and which, she was always trying to
improve upon.

They had just turned away from an array of these necessary evils when
she noticed a lady coming towards them leaning on the arm of a very tall
young man. She was walking very slowly, and evidently was using his arm
from no conventional sense, but as really requiring it.

As she drew nearer she fixed her eyes inquiringly on Mrs. Dorriman's
face, made a hurried pause--moved on--turned back, and said in a voice
of inquiry, "Annie Sandford?"

"Lady Lyons! Yes--I was Annie Sandford--I am Mrs. Dorriman."

"And these?" inquired Lady Lyons, turning with languid grace to Grace
and Margaret.

"Miss Rivers and her sister," said Mrs. Dorriman, who never knew exactly
how to put their connection with her brother concisely, and determined
to explain it at her leisure.

"Oh," said Lady Lyons, evidently requiring some further explanation now,
at the present moment.

"My brother's wards--he is their guardian."

"Oh!" again said Lady Lyons, but this time in another manner; she
thought she understood.

Then she introduced her son, and he dropped behind and talked to the
girls. Lady Lyons slipped her hand under Mrs. Dorriman's arm and they
walked on together.

"Delightful," began young Lyons, turning impartially to each sister in
turn, "to find unexpected acquaintances in this dull little place."

"We only came last night, we do not think it dull," they said in a
breath. Grace adding, for fear of his looking down upon her, "we have
not had time to find it dull."

"What have you seen, so far?" he asked; adding in a breath, "not that
there is anything really to see."

"We have seen ---- caps," said Grace laughing.

He laughed with full understanding, and quoted "The ruling passion...."

Margaret felt annoyed, and could not quite see why she should be
annoyed. Still her innate loyalty made her dislike even a covert sneer,
and looking at him full in the face she said, "What is there to see here
that you think interesting?"

He laughed merrily; "How severe you are,--very severe. Some people like
the sea, others go into raptures about the hills; it depends upon
whether you like nature or human nature. There is no choice here, there
is only the sea and the hills, always the hills."

"We think the place lovely," said Margaret, "and we have seen so little,
only school and then Renton. Renton is such a smoky place."

"But Renton Place is a fine place," he rejoined. "I have all my life
heard of Mr. Sandford as being a millionnaire."

Margaret laughed. "We used to think it would be a fine place standing in
a large park. I believe we thought (Grace and I) that there would even
be deer there, but it is quite different--a square house, a short
avenue, and the town just outside the gates."

Mr. Lyons looked puzzled. "How strange!" he began, when Grace
interrupted him. "All very rich men have whims," she said, in a tone
quite unlike any Margaret had ever heard her use before. "Mr. Sandford's
whim is to live close to Renton, where he coins money, I believe."

"It will be all the better for those who succeed him," the young man
said, looking more attentively at Grace than he had done as yet.

"Yes," said Margaret, in her straightforward way, "but that is a
question that does not interest us."

"My dear Margaret, you should not make these very positive assertions,"
said Grace; "you know nothing, really. My sister is very young, Mr.
Lyons, and young girls always draw their own conclusions, often without
anything really to go upon."

Mr. Lyons laughingly said her youth was very self-evident. "How
beautiful is youth!" he exclaimed, with mock solemnity, and Mrs.
Dorriman was startled to hear them all on such a familiar footing
already.

She and her friend parted with enthusiasm. Poor Lady Lyons really out of
health, and having many, many troubles to bear, was unfeignedly pleased
to meet Mrs. Dorriman again; and Mrs. Dorriman, while conscious of much
short-coming in the matter of friendship, as she could look back only
upon acquaintanceship, and nothing more, was much flattered to find
herself of so much importance to another.

At the dreary school where Mrs. Dorriman had been educated; Lady Lyons,
then an older, stronger, and handsomer girl than herself, had been.

Mrs. Dorriman could not remember that they had been friends, but now the
old familiarity made them more than acquaintances, and they met with
that common ground of "old times" which bridges over so much.

As they neared their hotel a man was standing on the steps and lifted
his hat. It was Mr. Drayton.

CHAPTER X.

Nothing reconciles one to a place so much as finding one's self not
wholly left out in the cold as regards acquaintances.

Beautiful scenery, except to some exceptional souls, does not take the
place of all human companionship. The interchange of thought with one's
own species is an especial necessity when the small home duties that
usually fill up time at home, are taken from one.

Mrs. Dorriman, who paid great attention to all the details of household
matters, and had a pleasant sense of ably fulfilling those duties,
would have felt stranded had she been left at Lornbay without any one of
her own age and standing to talk to and nothing to do. Even in the
matter of caps it was a pleasure to find an appreciative listener, and
Lady Lyons, a woman whose range of interest was limited to the
fluctuations of her own health and the welfare of her son, could listen
and give intelligent attention.

Mrs. Dorriman was fulfilling her brother's wish in remaining at the
hotel. She was filled with great doubts as to the goodness of the food,
and resisted all attempts to inveigle her into preferring disguised
dishes. She had a horror of anything made up except when she knew who
had the task in hand; and her occupation was gone now she had to accept
the dinners as they were, and had nothing to do with the ordering of
them. She would have infinitely preferred lodgings (which she had never
had), and had visions of wholly ideal landladies, and great powers of
interference.

Once her spirits became accustomed to the scenes around her, she would
have felt dull missing her Inchbrae occupations, had it not been for
Lady Lyons. Lady Lyons had seen a great deal more of the world than Mrs.
Dorriman; but seeing the world does not always imply fuller
understanding. It is quite possible to see a great deal and take in
nothing. Lady Lyons was a woman who had arranged her ideas before she
left the paternal nest, and, partly from ill-health, partly from a
limited understanding, she was narrow-minded and prejudiced, and
everything was measured by her own standard, and that was as small as it
could be.

Her character acted fatally upon her son. She had been left a widow
young (with a moderate fortune and this only son). People went into
ecstacies over the way in which she gave up her life to her son, which
meant that he never went to school. He was educated upon her
lines--under her own eye. She was desperately afraid of the wickedness
of the world, schools were full of iniquity, therefore he never went to
school. Companions he had none. She was afraid of his knowing boys with
school experiences. Paul Lyons was content, knowing nothing better. He
grew up narrow, selfish, and consequential, his world bounded by his
mother and himself, with no developed intelligence, no nobility of
thought, no aims, no aspirations, thinking himself in all ways superior
to other men, and interested in nothing outside his little molehill.

Then came one brief terrible experience.

Lady Lyons, worse than usual in health, was ordered to a watering-place
in the South of France, and to winter in Nice.

She knew nothing of the world; and of course Paul, who had never stood
upon his own feet anywhere, was equally ignorant. Before he had been
many days in the little place he had been taken in hand by the worst
possible class of men; and at Nice he got into every conceivable scrape,
lost money all round at Monaco, was fleeced and put into all sorts of
disgraceful positions by those who told him they would make a man of
him; and found himself terribly in debt, ill, and threatened with all
sorts of penalties before he had been six weeks in the place.

Lady Lyons, gently obtaining the air in a Bath-chair, which, with a
strong misgiving about the means of locomotion, she encumbered herself
with, dreamed on in blissful ignorance.

She had given her son "principles," she thought, and she imagined that
to be enough.

Paul was forced to get money from her, but he told her very little;
indeed, the poor lady always talked of Paul as having been robbed, and
in talking of his adventures spoke as though he had been an unblemished
knight who had been robbed because his principles were too good to allow
him to win, and on these occasions, though the young man would colour,
so much grace was left in him, he would make a grimace when she was not
looking, expressive of her foolish innocence and belief in him.

This beginning once made, he went down-hill rapidly. Once a young man
reared in ignorance of the world conceives sin to be a sign of
manliness, his fate is sealed.

Before he was utterly ruined, however, he was pulled up short by a long
and terrible fever he was very long of recovering from. Lady Lyons, who,
though a feeble, narrow-minded mother, was an affectionate one--the
strain of anxiety was too much for her, and his recovery was followed by
her having a paralytic stroke.

When poor Lady Lyons recovered she was feebler than before, and her son
learnt, almost for the first time, that her income was almost entirely
derived from a pension (her husband, a K.C.B., and an Indian General,
this was secured to her); and that when she died the little place in
Cumberland, and a few thousand pounds, upon which he had already given
heavy bonds, was all he had to look to.

It was too late to begin a profession; he knew too little to be able to
pick up anything. There was but one course open to him, and this was to
marry some one with money. He had a tall figure, and was good-looking,
though he had a weak face, and he was convinced himself that when he saw
some one that "fetched" him, and that he was inclined to throw the
handkerchief to, it would be picked up with enthusiasm. There are some
men who think in this way.

When Lady Lyons came to Lornbay, hoping to derive benefit from its balmy
air, Paul Lyons of course came with her. His best trait was his
affection for his mother, though he despised her ignorance of the world,
and was openly indignant with her having kept him in leading-strings all
his life, and not having given him "a chance with other fellows."

Lady Lyons used to argue feebly with him about this. "See, my dear Paul,
how much nicer and better you are than other young men," she would say,
with a sigh. "Schools teach boys so much wickedness," and Paul would
shrug his shoulders, and say something ambiguous which puzzled her.

This was the young man whom fate and Mrs. Dorriman introduced to Grace
and Margaret Rivers. Every day now there was some walk undertaken, or
some little expedition made in which Paul Lyons joined.

Lady Lyons had that motherly feeling that Paul, being her son, was such
a safe and pleasant companion for every one. She was quite amused that
Mrs. Dorriman considered it necessary to act as chaperon. "It is only
Paul," she would say, with a little laugh.

"But he is not 'only Paul' to us; he is a young man and no relation. I
do not want to be ridiculous, but I have the responsibility, and I want
to do what is right."

This little speech about the responsibility forged another link in the
chain of events, though Mrs. Dorriman spoke in innocence of making any
chain. It is not given to us always to know when we are making history.

"My dear Paul," said Lady Lyons, when the mother and son were yawning
through the remains of an evening shortly afterwards, "I think I have
made a discovery; those two girls, the Rivers girls, are either rich or
going to be very rich. That is why poor dear Mrs. Dorriman makes such a
fuss about them, and herds them about so."

"I made that discovery long ago, mother," and Paul laughed. "The
difficulty in my mind is, are they going to be even, or is one going to
be heiress, and the other have a poor competency."

"My dear Paul, you will have to be careful; how clever you are! I never
thought of that." And this new idea made Lady Lyons hold her knitting so
carelessly that she dropped some stitches, a fact (as usual) she never
discovered till she had done a good bit, when she was intensely
surprised to see a very large hole, and could not imagine how it got
there.

"I don't know about being clever, mother, the girls make no secret of it
to _me_."

"My dear Paul! is it as far on as that?" and Lady Lyons looked up at
him from her sofa with a truly admiring maternal look.

"I don't know what you mean by as far as that," said Paul, inserting his
first finger with immense difficulty between his tight masher collar and
his much harassed throat; "but they talk in a way I cannot help
understanding. Old Sandford is coining money and saving money, that
means something like wealth to his heirs or heiresses."

"It does indeed," said Lady Lyons, with sparkling eyes. "Paul, it is so
strange, but when you were quite a tiny baby your poor old nurse used
always to say you were born to marry a rich lady. How often I laughed at
her--and now it will come true. My dear boy!"

"I think you are going too far now, mother; I feel a long way behind
you. I cannot find out anything about any definite promise. We do not
know anything about Mr. Sandford."

"I know a great deal about him," said Lady Lyons, eagerly. "Mrs.
Dorriman talks so much about him; not that perhaps she has really told
me much," she added, with a sense of having held out false hopes; Mrs.
Dorriman's confidences about her brother being, she now remembered,
entirely about frivolous matters, his fondness of old-fashioned dishes,
and so on, and his dislike to others.

"Of course, mother, I shall be careful not to lead either of the young
ladies to fancy I am in earnest till I know something definite."

"Of course not, my dear," said Lady Lyons, absently. Then suddenly a
look of intelligence came into her face. "Oh! my dear Paul, how stupid I
am. I remember quite distinctly now, Mrs. Dorriman answered some remark
I made about Margaret's looks, and said, 'I admire her very much, and I
am sure my brother does, he never takes his eyes off her. He says she is
the image of his wife, and like her in disposition; that is why he is so
devoted to her.' I remember her words so well now; but I can easily talk
about it again and get her to tell me something more."

"I think she told you enough," laughed her son, and he walked up to the
window humming a tune, and his mother, after trying in vain to get him
to talk to her, soon grew sleepy and went to bed.

Long after she left he paced the room; then he lit his candle and
prepared to go to bed also. There was a smile upon his face, which
lingered till he was fairly in bed. Then he murmured something to
himself, "I am glad it is Margaret," he said, and turned round and went
to sleep.

In the meantime the girls were happy, though Grace was a little
restless. To go out walking, to meet two or three people, to eat and
drink and sleep, was not enough for her; she wanted something more, she
had a perfect craving for excitement. This was not the life she had
dreamed of. But for Paul Lyons it would be worse, but between her and
Paul had arisen a kind of perpetual give-and-take in words which
satisfied her since it occupied all his time. Margaret was nowhere as
regarded this, and Grace was happy in having the one cavalier within
reach entirely at her service.

Indeed, Margaret, with the unnecessary frankness of a girl, piqued him
by her open and undisguised sentiments of not only indifference, but
dislike.

There is an instinct in unspoiled girlhood which is often an unerring
guide. Margaret disliked Paul Lyons from the first; the ready change of
tone, the slighting observations at every moment about Mrs. Dorriman's
tastes, which Grace thought so natural and so witty, displeased her. She
thought him worse than he was. His manner to his mother was so careless,
and he so openly scoffed at her views, that she did not give him credit
for the hours he spent beside her when she was ill, or for the affection
he had for her. She thought him hateful. She had a high idea of what a
man should be, and her limited experience had not been happy. One great
relief was the fact that, save and except that one meeting on the steps
of the hotel, Mr. Drayton remained invisible. Indeed when they met in
this spasmodic and unpremeditated way he was waiting for a steamer to
take him many miles in another direction, and had gone, determined,
however, to return at the earliest possible opportunity.

After the conversation with his mother, Paul began to take much greater
pains to recommend himself to Margaret. He was like most of
us--attracted towards her by seeing her what he would wish to be. She
had so much of what he lacked. She was quiet, reserved, singularly
fearless on those rare occasions of asserting herself, and so openly
disapproved when he said or did anything giving the lie to his
professions, that he caught himself feeling ashamed of himself. Under
the gaze of her pure and unclouded eyes he felt unworthy, and she awoke
in him the desire for something better. He began to look back with
disgust and weariness on the portions of his life when he had fancied he
had seen life and lived; a better and truer manliness became visible to
him.