Man proposes ... and wives sometimes interfere.

John went with the single and innocent object of conveying his master's wishes to Mr. Macrae. He found, however, that there were two sides to this as to all other questions.

Mr. Macrae was a portly, good-humoured man, who suffered from some perplexity as to the reason why his waistcoats had taken to hitching themselves up in front; waistcoats being, he supposed, made on different principles in these days. When he was younger, waistcoats had not this evil habit. The cut probably was different. His first action on being summoned was to pull down his waistcoat, his next to brush some imaginary crumbs off his coat-sleeves, and then to hold his head up and march off. But fate—and his wife—interposed. Mrs. Macrae was a slight woman, who was kindly and good-natured, but who had a keen eye to her own interests, and, who being more able than her husband to see those two sides of a question, had a slight contempt for his intellectual powers.

"If Sir Albert wants a little conversation I'll go myself," she said, with alacrity; "especially as Mr. Macrae cannot leave the bar at the busiest time of the day."

"But you'll do at the bar as well as myself," said her husband, unguardedly, preparing to go and yet not quite able to assert himself so decidedly.

"As well as yourself!" she returned, with strong contempt. "I'll do as well and better than you in both ways. Sir Albert probably wishes to speak about his diet, and what do you know about that?"

Mr. Macrae looked at John, who said, blandly, "I am sure master would be glad to see you, Mrs. Macrae, but I was to be sure and say, not if you was busy."

Mr. Macrae let things alone. He was quite able to perceive the great inconsistency of his wife's proceedings. How often did she not say to him that he was of no use, and she would be better without him, and yet now he could not be spared from the bar for even a few moments. He contented himself, however, by muttering a good deal of treason against the sex generally, and his wife in particular; and then he turned to the contemplation of the street and pier; watched the gambols of two dogs, and the unlading of a cart, and allowed his waistcoat to wrinkle up undisturbed.

John explained the situation in a hurried speech to his master, and, having left him comfortably disposed of for the time, went out also on the pier to look about him.

Mrs. Macrae looked at the young man with all the interest in him natural to her as his hostess, and a woman full of kindly sympathies. His strong constitution was pulling him through, but there was weakness and helplessness enough left, to appeal to all the kindest part of her nature.

"I am afraid I give a great deal of trouble, Mrs. Macrae," he began, in soft low rich tones—tones that would go far in his favour anywhere, she thought.

"Oh, never think of the trouble, sir. We are paid for taking trouble," she answered, hastily, an innate refinement making her anxious to lessen his sense of obligation.

"Ah! but you are not paid for taking it cheerfully. My servant says every one has been so kind and ready to help. You must allow me to feel obliged, and let me thank you."

"I am sure you are welcome, sir. How did it happen? it was a terrible accident. If it does not tire you to talk about it all, I should like to know."

"I am tired of silence," he said, pleasantly, "but if you would sit down, Mrs. Macrae, it would be very good of you. Seeing you stand gives me a feeling of fatigue."

Mrs. Macrae obeyed and drew a chair near, upon which she placed herself in a most uncomfortable attitude.

"There is little to tell," he said, after a moment's pause. "I went too near the edge of a disused quarry, I think, or the rains had undermined the ground I was on; at any rate, I took a step too near a part standing treacherously forward, and fell a good height, taking a quantity of loose stones and gravel with me. Then I remember nothing else."

"And I dare say you lay a long time before your man found you, sir. Well, it might have been worse, they might not have found you so soon."

"Oh, a young lady saw me first, and she got assistance."

A young lady! Mrs. Macrae pricked up her ears at this. Why, it was going to be a romance, she thought. "A young lady!" she said, aloud; "there are none so many here, sir. Do you know her name, sir; was it one you know?"

"I think I know her name," he answered, and he opened the little book lying beside him, and held it towards her. "Do you know her? where does she live?"

"Grace Rivers!" exclaimed Mrs. Macrae. "Why, those young ladies have been living here for some weeks; they are here now with their aunt; they are just going away. And how did you get that book?"

"She left it I suppose when she ran to call for help. My servant found it, and thought it was mine, and he brought it here."

"Well, it is a providential thing some one was by, you might have been killed, sir, and died with no one there. Miss Grace Rivers. Yes, yes. It is her, though Miss Margaret's the one that is aye rambling."

"When I am a little better I should like to see Miss Grace Rivers," said Sir Albert, with some hesitation, "to thank her; do you know where she lives?"

"Indeed, I do not, sir, when she is at home; but she and her sister are here just now."

"Here!" he exclaimed. "Do you mean in this house?"

"Yes, here, sir, and there's no need to excite yourself; they are here with a quiet nice lady, not a real aunt, but some way kin to them, and they're all going away soon."

"Oh, they are going away?" and Sir Albert felt unaccountably disappointed.

"Well, sir, they came for a few weeks, and they liked the place and liked the cooking and felt comfortable, and they stayed on."

"I am sure I do not wonder," said Sir Albert, politely, "if you make them as comfortable as you do me."

"Hoot, sir, and you that has aye slops. How can ye tell?" and Mrs. Macrae laughed comfortably; she was beginning to feel at her ease with him.

"Ah, slops—are slops," he said, with a little grimace, "but there is a right and a wrong way of sending them up. I still remember being ill at school, and the greasy broth and cold gruel—cold gruel!"

"And may be a deal paid for you there; well, I do not believe in schools for my part."

"Now your beef tea is good, though I am getting tired of it; and has the doctor never spoken to you about my moving? I am pining to get out."

"Ech, sir, and you all smashed—you are wonderful, and so cheerful."

"Am I cheerful? I am afraid you see your own reflection, Mrs. Macrae. I feel dull enough now I am out of pain. But I am very thankful," he added, in a more serious tone.

"I am sure, sir, we are all thankful too. It would have been a sair pity if you had come here a corpse, and that is bad for an hotel at any time too."

At that moment John entered and announced the doctor.

"I am earlier than usual, Sir Albert. I have to go some way off, but I wanted to see you first."

"Thanks! I am getting well fast."

"And wishing to go out," put in Mrs. Macrae, hoping to see the doctor's face express disapprobation and corroborate her old-fashioned idea of fresh air being bad for all cases of sickness.

"Of course, as soon as the moving does not pain you, you have severe bruises to recover from still—but fresh air. Yes, get out as soon as you can—lying here your spirits may go down. Yes, get out as soon as ever you can."

Sir Albert gave a triumphant smile to Mrs. Macrae, who rose and left them, much exercised in her mind about these new-fangled ways.

Thus it happened that soon a bath-chair was conveying Sir Albert along the level road by the sea, and that Mrs. Dorriman and Grace thus met him.

"Miss Grace Rivers and her aunt, Sir Albert," said John, hurriedly, as he saw them coming, and he was sent by his master to beg them to come and speak to him.

When they came nearer Sir Albert was conscious of a great and overwhelming disappointment. He must have dreamed of the expression in the girl's face, even the colour of her eyes. This face was like and yet unlike, and the cold steel-blue eyes, and the little self-satisfied expression, repelled him and made his proffered thanks an effort, all the time hating himself for being so ungrateful.

He apologised to Mrs. Dorriman for having ventured to detain her, but he was so anxious to express to Miss Rivers, Miss Grace Rivers, all he felt.

"Oh! I had nothing to do with it. It was my sister, it was Margaret," Grace said hurriedly.

"Yes," said Mrs. Dorriman, "poor Margaret came home quite ill from the fright and shock."

"Ill—I am so grieved," began Sir Albert.

"She is all right now," said Grace, quickly. "After all she was not able to help you."

"You do not know how she helped me," said Sir Albert, quietly. "But for her courage in staying and bathing my face—even moving me—I might have died. I do hope I shall have an opportunity of seeing her and expressing my thanks in person."

"Of course you shall," said Grace abruptly, impatient of the subject, one in which she played no part.

Mrs. Dorriman felt interested in the helpless figure, and the pallor which spoke of much suffering—she would fain have lingered, but Grace hurried her on.

"I am so disappointed," exclaimed the young lady, "Sir Albert is grave, and not at all good-looking, so pale and cadaverous."

"It is not wonderful, having had such a terrible accident, my dear. I think he has such a fine face. I am sure his eyes are wonderful, there is patience written on his face."

"And he is grateful to Margaret, which is the only reason you are interested in him," said Grace, pettishly. "It is always Margaret."

Mrs. Dorriman said no more. When Grace took this tone she exercised a gift she possessed—a gift of greatest value—the golden gift of silence.

It was not many days after this, Margaret, who had been disturbed and anxious because of a scene between Mr. Sandford and Grace, had gone for the relief of quiet and fresh air along the sea-side. All around her lay the hush of evening, when all have rest. The sun was low and lighted up the western sky with a soft glow of golden colour, showing himself only behind high-fleeting clouds which but partly only veiled his glory. Every ripple on the sea caught a quivering touch of light, all the great hills took softening shadows, all inequalities seemed brought into one harmonious whole, as a fine soul will sometimes blend inconsistencies till they cease to strike one as incongruous. The light fell softly upon Margaret's face, and the little ruffle upon her brow, the sign of disturbance, was smoothed out.

In the midst of such a scene she felt that her irritation had been unworthy—how could she allow herself to feel things so much? She tried to set before herself Mr. Sandford's deeds of kindness, but she failed. She had a strong sense of justice, and it was unjust to heap obligations upon them upon the one hand, and make those obligations hateful on the other. What could she do to help Grace? How act so that she might in some way be saved from a life she hated, and out of which no good came to her.

She had another and a deeper trouble to bear. Mr. Sandford had never wished her to be particularly friendly, or even civil, to Mr. Drayton; but that uncongenial man had arrived that day, and Mr. Sandford had changed in his views. He had insisted upon Margaret's remaining to talk, and had shown great temper when she did so with evident reluctance; and this was a terrible trouble to her.

Was there nothing that she and Grace could do alone? was there no way of making a little home for themselves? She possessed no accomplishments, and though Grace was so very clever, and every one admired her performances, they had often lately tried selling something, and had failed.

If she went out as a governess she would not help Grace. They had so little, what could they do? What could she do? She imagined that it was the life that was hurting Grace, and that more favourable circumstances would raise her tone of mind, and this made all harder to bear.

She often thought with a real pang that Grace had thought her marriage to Mr. Drayton possible. Then she blamed herself for attaching too much importance to what was said in a moment of depression and misery.

She was losing herself in these thoughts, conceived of a passionate longing for something to help her, praying, as she often did, to be shown her way, and for patience, and, with her eyes fixed upon the light and her thoughts with God, she went on her way, and so Sir Albert Gerald met her once again.

Lying back in his bath-chair, he had been looking at the soft loveliness around him, thinking that such a sunset had more poetry and more beauty than the blaze of gold and crimson which, as a rule, presented itself when the sunset was not softened and veiled by clouds; and sharply defined against the evening sky he had seen a figure full of quiet grace, and before she drew near he recognised her, and thrilled with the recollection of the prayer she had breathed beside him.

There was no consciousness or shyness in her manner. She was glad to see him better, glad to meet him, and she put her hand into his outstretched towards her, with a feeling of relief and gladness. It would have been terrible had this powerful frame, this youth and strength, been crushed. His eyes rested upon her with intense satisfaction, he noted the straightforward open gaze, and the lovely smile that brought colour into her face. He had not dreamed it—she was lovely!

"I am so glad to see you out. You will soon get well," she said, and he thought her voice was as lovely as her face.

"You must let me thank you," he said earnestly. "You were so good and so brave. Most girls would have been too much frightened to help. Some would have fainted."

"I think not," she said, gravely, reddening a little under his earnest gaze. "I was too anxious to be of use to feel afraid. I think others would also have been anxious—others might have done more."

"Oh, no!" he said; "I am glad to have to be grateful to you. I have thought so much about it. I have so wished to know you."

"You have seen Mrs. Dorriman—you have seen Grace, my sister, I mean," correcting herself.

"Yes; her name was in the book you had. I thought it belonged to you."

"Mine is a very common name—Margaret."

"I know. I think it is a beautiful name; it is my mother's name."

"Your mother has been, she must have been, very unhappy."

"Yes, but we only told her when I was getting better—poor mother! she cannot leave her sofa. She is carried everywhere.

"How sad!"

"Yes, it is terrible for her, and she has been to me father and mother, and brother and sister, since I am an only child."

"It must be so sad not to have a sister," said Margaret, softly. "It must be like not having the whole of oneself."

"And yet sometimes sisters do not get on," said Sir Albert, smiling, and thinking of episodes in his family history that pointed to a very different state of things.

Talking still, they turned at the end of the path, the road beyond being too rough for Sir Albert in his present condition; the faithful John pushed the chair back again, accommodating its pace to the footsteps of the girl who walked beside it. What is the subtle influence that makes one feel as though to one person all may be confided, and to another as though a visible barrier rises between you? It is not only sympathy, for sympathy comes when full appreciation for a common object is discovered, when the same bias of the mind is found in each; but the appreciation must first be known. It is something more—it is apart from love between man and woman (though love on one side or another frequently follows it); it is an unknown force compelling us to frankness, filling us with a sudden liking which we cannot reason about, and do not find ourselves able to account for.

Mr. Sandford, occupied by trying to mould Mr. Drayton to his wishes, prepared to carry his plans out at any sacrifice, little imagined that a sudden obstacle was rising in a quarter he never dreamed of,—like most of us, conscious of our hopes and wishes only, and never taking into account for one moment the many combinations against us.

This first meeting between two drawn together in the beginning by an hour of pain and anxiety, was naturally not the last. Margaret, sometimes with the others, sometimes with Grace, at times alone, met Sir Albert Gerald every day. Acquaintance with him did her good; his larger views were often opposed to her narrower experience, and in argument her prejudices and preconceived opinions gave way. She was truthful to herself as to others, and she was forced to allow the shallowness of her ground.

Upon his side there was a never-ending delight in the absolute freshness of her mind. Old ideas received a new beauty from her way of seeing them, and he was often startled by the poetry of a thought new to him.

The drawback to this pleasant acquaintance was the sense of its finality. They did not know from day to day that Mr. Sandford might not put a stop to it by taking the whole party home.

Sir Albert, still a little weak from his severe accident, never paused to question himself where this delightful companionship was leading him. He only knew that in her presence he seemed to live. She drew out his noblest, highest, and best feelings. She was to him a guiding star; he loved her passionately, and he respected her as the purest and most perfect of God's creatures. There were in these few days none of those short partings which serve to teach the real nature of a similar feeling in most cases. There was that sense of impending parting possible, but far off, which is so different from an announced fact; there was nothing to shake them into consciousness.

They grew silent now when they were together, conscious of that full unison of thought that requires no outward expression—a glance, a look told all.

The trial to her was terrible just now, since she could say nothing, and Mr. Sandford gave the man she had begun to hate (Mr. Drayton) every opportunity of being with her; insisting upon her receiving his attentions, more dreadful to her now than ever.

She appealed to her uncle in private against this persecution—in vain. He knew now, though Mr. Drayton never put it into words, that the price of his own safety was—Margaret.

In his solitary moments he ground his teeth with rage—not because of her, poor child! but because he had unwittingly put himself into this position. He promised Mr. Drayton that he would use his influence, but he warned him that if he spoke now, when Margaret was full of repulsion for him, all hope would be at an end. "She has so high a spirit, that if she were driven to it she would go away."

Mr. Drayton laughed. "Fancy you owning yourself unable to cope with any young lady."

Mr. Sandford started from his chair, there were many moments during their intercourse when the whole fabric he had raised seemed likely to fall; there were many days when he could hardly act his part—when remorse confronted him, seeing what the man was made of to whom he wished to consign Margaret.

Had Grace known then what she only learned afterwards!

She drove Mr. Sandford to distraction, she was so fitful, so impertinent, and so openly regardless of any expressed wish of his.

Then he grew violent, and Margaret was miserable.

It was after heavy rain; the sullen clouds had not yet begun to clear, and there was a grey, dull, leaden look upon the reflecting waves. Everything had combined to make poor Margaret miserable. Mr. Sandford had stormed, and there had been a scene before Mr. Drayton. Grace had been in the wrong, and this was an additional sorrow. Then Mr. Drayton had taken advantage of the family jar to pose as Margaret's defender, and afterwards Grace had spoken bitterly. Why could Margaret not accept this man (who had not Mr. Sandford's temper), and make a home for them both?

Distracted, wretched, her heart oppressed by the burden placed upon it by others—poor Margaret sped along the road where she had been when Sir Albert had fallen. She could not meet him then—she could not bear him to see her misery. She instinctively felt it might be an appeal to him, and he was her friend, she could not tax his friendship. Then suddenly she saw him for the first time walking.

"Great ideas meet," he called out, as he saw her coming. "I wanted to see the place that made us known to each other." Then, as she came closer he saw the traces of tears, the troubled look, and the small mouth was quivering. He stopped short; the sight of her distress showed him what she was to him. "Darling!" he said, softly; and then with a great effort he drove back the words rushing to his lips.

She heard him, however, and a look of perfect happiness flashed into her face.

He saw her turn towards him, surprised at his silence. He did not know she had heard that word.

He broke silence after a moment or two, forcing himself to speak calmly—while his heart was beating violently. "Are you surprised to see me walking again?" he said, with a faint attempt at a smile. "I can walk without pain, and I am not tired." She did not answer, she was too much overwhelmed by the sudden emotion of his betrayal of that one word, and the forced calm afterwards. What did it mean? Had she mistaken him? A perfect quiver of fear, a sudden sense of having by a look answered too readily something he had not said—or had said by accident—filled her with dismay.

He read her thought, and he could not help her. He bit his lip angrily. He had given his mother his solemn word of honour that never would he tell his love to any one till he had told her first of his intention; and it seemed to him in the great anguish of that moment that only now, only at that moment, did the truth come to him. They stood side by side looking out upon the sea, she dazed with the misery of having misunderstood; he thinking how he might show her that there was a reason for his silence, without breaking his word of honour. "Margaret," he said, and his voice dwelt lovingly upon her name, "We are—friends, and we may trust each other. I cannot say all—I am not free. Will you trust me?"

Her heart seemed to die within her. She of course did not understand him, poor child. Those words, I am not free should have ended "to speak just now;" but in moments of great agitation things are not always made clear.

She thought he was telling her, for her sake perhaps, that he was not free, that they could only be friends.

She turned towards him pale to her lips. "I understand," she said faintly, "we can be friends."

She had struggled for self-command; she was afraid of saying more, but he must let her know that he had something more to tell her—he was turning towards her to speak when she suddenly moved away from him with a gesture of farewell, and he was too feeble to follow her swiftly.

All along the road home her heart was throbbing with pain. She did not understand that in so leaving him she was betraying how deeply her affections were engaged.

He looked after her dismayed at first, and then the happy conviction of her love filled his mind, and all else was forgotten.

He hurried home and wrote long and fully to his mother. He told her that his promise to her had been kept, and how much it had cost him to keep it; he tried to describe Margaret, and found his words cold and formal, and he entreated his mother to telegraph and to write without delay. He lay back exhausted after this, and lost himself in the happiest day-dreams.

Soon, soon, the answer would be there, and he could go to her and tell her something of his love for her; something, but not all. It would take a lifetime, he thought, to prove his devotion to her. As he sat thinking happily about it all he did not hear the deep stifled sobs of the poor child upstairs, struggling through anguish and misery. He never dreamed for one moment that he had been misunderstood, and that in trying to say something, in trying to explain without departing from his promise, he had conveyed so false an impression to her.

That parting in the grey light of a rainy day was their real parting—for long—and then all was changed.

When Margaret went downstairs and met her sister and Mr. Sandford she saw that a sudden decision had been come to, and that they were to go, go back to the smoky place they so disliked.

But the great blow that had fallen upon her heart made all else sink to littleness. She was stunned, and no change in their lives, no outside accidents, seemed capable of affecting her.

Next day Sir Albert suffered from the exertion and agitation of the previous one, and was feverish and unwell. The doctor was summoned by his faithful servant, and pronounced him too unwell to rise or to see any one. Not all the prayers of his patient moved him, and then, resigning himself to the inevitable, the young man consoled himself. Had he been able to see Margaret, what had he to say to her? What dared he say till the expected telegram came to set his speech free?

How long the hours seemed! He kept watching the clock and calculating how soon it was possible to hear. His mother was in Wales, and the telegram station was five miles off. He saw it all in his mind's eye. Saw the slow movements of the post-master and the unkempt Welsh pony, and its rider with the letter-bag. Often the boy, glad of the Castle's hospitality on a wet day, would be told to wait and take back the telegram. The hours flew on and no response arrived. Night came and John was sorely put to it to know what to do—his master was evidently worse, and yet he had been annoyed at the doctor being hurried that morning, and had spoken very sharply. What ailed him that he was so unlike himself, so irritable, so anxious?

All this time a tall grave man was hastening to Lornbay—a man bearing grievous tidings to poor Sir Albert Gerald.

While his telegram was speeding on its way, all the hopes and fears and interests of life had ceased for Lady Gerald. She lay dead; having been startled by the news of her son's terrible accident, her slight hold upon life was not strong enough to sustain a shock so great; and that very afternoon, when his promise to her held him back from speaking to Margaret as he longed to speak, she had died with loving messages upon her lips to him. It was in the morning; John, with a grave face and that air of preparedness for coming evil, came to his master and spoke of evil tidings.

Mercifully, the instant those words are breathed we believe the worst, and are so made ready to bear it. Then his uncle, her brother Mr. Wynston, went up to his side and told him all.

The tidings were unexpected and terrible to him; he loved her dearly, and all his life had taught him to expect her to be delicate. He was so accustomed to her being an invalid, that he never thought of her as more fragile than other people. And while he wept for her, regardless for the time of all else, his poor little love had gone—with that weary pain of a blighted love to make her still childish heart miserable—for ever?