Renton Place looked black and dingy after the clear air and great beauty of Lornbay. Mrs. Dorriman, always susceptible to those influences of natural external things, shivered, and was depressed, and showed it by the marked effort at cheerfulness she thought was due to her brother.

Mr. Sandford was in a mood difficult to understand. He travelled but a short way with them, avoiding Margaret in a manner that both the girls noticed, and interpreted differently.

He went into a smoking-carriage, chiefly because they could not follow him there, and he could be free from their observation. He felt thoroughly uncomfortable. He had carried his point with Mr. Drayton, conditionally, and Margaret's face, with its wistful expression, hurt him. Yes; though he put it differently to himself, he had virtually sacrificed her to save his own position; and his word was given, and more, he had reluctantly put it down in writing.

Mr. Drayton, while he covered his deepest plans with a jovial laugh that threw every one off their guard, had told him he must have something in writing—not, of course, to show any one, "but as a satisfaction to myself," he said.

Mr. Sandford fought against this point, in vain.

"I do not believe you are in earnest," Mr. Drayton had said. "I will do nothing for nothing. If you intend to help me as you have promised, why make such a fuss about it?"

"I can only say I will do all I can."

"Then put that in writing."

And Mr. Drayton, with another laugh, wrote out that he (Mr. Sandford) would not leave a stone unturned, but would manage to induce Margaret to marry Mr. Drayton.

When Mr. Sandford had signed it, a strong misgiving crossed his mind. Mr. Drayton's eyes had that look in them that Margaret had noticed; and he felt that remorse, that shrinking from the consequences of his action, that all men, not wholly bad, feel when they act unworthily.

As he sat in the smoking-carriage alone he was conscious of this pang about Margaret, and he was glad to see a total stranger, evidently not an Englishman, get into the carriage.

Anxious to avoid his own thoughts, he broke silence, taking advantage of a turn on their way that opened up an enchanting scene on either side. Waving his hand towards the window, he said, with that air of proprietorship noticeable in some Scotchmen—

"A fine view, sir, a very fine view."

"For God's sake, sir!" exclaimed his fellow-traveller, with a very strong American accent, "do not talk to me of the view. I have a wife and two daughters in another compartment, and I had to come away from them, I am so dead sick of the way they go on about the view. Why upon arth don't you level it all, and grow grain?"

Mr. Sandford was so taken aback at the man's sentiments that he made no further effort in his direction.

He also felt the depression hanging about the air at Renton; but he had placed himself in a position from which he could not escape. He had a few days before him still; then, before Mr. Drayton appeared, he had to say something, and he had to say it in earnest, to Margaret.

It was strange, he thought, that he hated vexing or wounding her in any way. Had she been like Grace, what would it have mattered? But the soft pleading eyes, that look of quiet self-possession, which was so like her. He hated by anticipation the look of horror he had seen formerly in her face when Mr. Drayton was in question. He dreaded the coming passage between them, as he seemed never to have dreaded anything before.

Three days came and went, and the very next day Mr. Drayton was to appear, and expected to find that all had gone well, and not one word had Mr. Sandford found the courage to say. Margaret was unusually quiet, even for her; Grace was in a bitter and discontented mood, and tried her sorely. She could not know the weary aching pain that had never left her sister since that fatal interview on the hills. Margaret, who had plenty of spirit generally, and who could parry any remarks she did not like, was now dull and depressed. She had had her dream, and life was a blank to her henceforward. And yet she could not understand it—surely she was not all wrong. And the expression of those dark eyes was speaking the truth perhaps—he did love her and yet was bound. It was all terrible and black as night, before and all around her.

Grace went downstairs the morning Mr. Sandford had resolved to announce his expected guest to Margaret, in a flighty, wild, odd state. She drove Mrs. Dorriman distracted, turned Jean into ridicule, and ended by provoking Mr. Sandford to such an extent that one of his most terrible fits of temper ensued.

He literally raved at her, he ordered her out of the house, and altogether, when Margaret hurried downstairs, he was quite beside himself; there was no insult he could think of he did not fling at Grace, who for once in her life was fairly terrified.

It was Margaret who took her upstairs, Margaret, who, white to her lips, that terrible sense of impending evil pressing upon her, began putting their things together. Grace looked at her blankly, she had a glimmer of its being her fault, and she broke out into murmurs and abuse of Mr. Sandford. "We cannot stay," she said, and Margaret trembling answered her, "No, we cannot stay."

In silence they went on with their preparations; wondering a little that Mrs. Dorriman did not come near them, not knowing that Mr. Sandford prevented her doing so. He never, for a moment, thought Margaret would be such a fool as to go too, and when Mrs. Dorriman suggested this, he got so violent she was forced to draw back.

The girls were ready, and they went downstairs. Mr. Sandford suffering, as he always did, after his fits of passion, was lying back in his chair in his own room, every nerve in his head throbbing, and his head feeling as if it would burst. He heard the door open, and Margaret, yes Margaret, walked in. She was very white and was trembling. He heard her wish him good-bye, and had no power to stop her. She went out gently, and the two forlorn figures left the house, neither of them knowing where to go, full of but one idea, going away and being free.

They had a little money, and neither of them were anxious about ways and means. To the eyes of youth and inexperience, living seems so easy; they had of their own about forty pounds a year; this they thought was quite sufficient; and they would make money; that also seemed so easy in the sublime self-confidence of their youth. They took the train without clearly knowing which station to go to, and, finding that Glasgow seemed to lead everywhere, they went there in the first instance, and then consulting the book they went to a little village among the hills where they thought they might rest quietly and arrange their future plans.

No scenery in the world varies more than does Scottish scenery under the changing influence of the weather. All its rugged grandeur—so splendid bathed in sunlight—so magnificent when partly veiled by those light fleecy clouds that give a subtle charm to its grand hills, and which sends out that marvellous blue colour by the force of contrast—becomes, under the sullen splash of a downpour of rain dreary, oppressive, and bleak. The rain fell heavily as the two girls stopped at Torbreck, and they looked around them in dismay.

The little station was apart from the village, in the dim distance some small white houses were dotted about. Stacks of peat rose around, and the wide muir on which Torbreck was built was disfigured by the peat-cuttings, now filled with water, which had the deep black tinge of bog-water.

There was no carriage of any kind, the station being a small one of no importance, and having been made chiefly to bring the herds of Highland cattle within reach of the market-town, and for the convenience of a few Highland proprietors who lived some miles off, and who had obtained the concession by yielding their land to the Railway Company on favourable terms.

Leaving their luggage to be sent for, the two girls walked to the village, utterly unconscious of an angry and amazed face that noted their movements.

That day Mr. Drayton had gone to Glasgow en route for Renton Place, and he saw the girls at the station, he heard their discussion about the best step, and resolved to find out what it all meant. He had followed them in another part of the train.

Naturally enough he imagined that they were going because of Mr. Sandford's insistance about him, and he was very angry. The man must have bungled in some way, knowing nothing of girls, of Margaret's real character; it seemed to him that she was one of those very gentle quiet people who could be persuaded easily. Why not? He was not an ugly, or an old fellow, he thought. He had all his life been considered handsome. His bright colour and curly hair, his blue eyes and ready laugh, had won him great applause among his few feminine belongings. He had been flattered by most of them, and though his vanity occasionally received a shock, and he sometimes felt himself at a disadvantage, he generally consoled himself quickly. He was too full of self-appreciation to be long unhappy about any slight check, and we all know that every commonest expression is capable of many interpretations. He was too wise to get out at Torbreck, but he stopped at the next station.

The object of his going to Renton was now at an end, and he sat down to think over the position of affairs quietly. After reflecting upon it all he made up his mind to two things, he must know why the girls had left Renton, and he would not tell Mr. Sandford where they were.

He went back to Glasgow, telegraphed to Renton to Mrs. Dorriman that he had been detained, but was on his way there, and would follow his telegram as soon as he possibly could.

Mr. Sandford, in the meantime, was alternating between fits of remorse and despair. What had he to say when this man came and claimed that "pound of flesh"?

Misfortunes never come singly. That afternoon the post brought letters to Renton Place proving to the master who had so long ruled as with a rod of iron that his sagacity was at fault, and that he who had been for so long a signal mark for success had been proved unwise and that his speculations had failed. It did not mean ruin or even very heavy loss, but it did mean loss of prestige to some extent, and it came at an inopportune moment. There is a certain state of bodily health when a pin-prick may produce disastrous consequences; there is also a corresponding attitude of mind when reverses come with an overwhelming depression, far, far beyond their actual real weight; and then—with that look of happy success characteristic of Mr. Drayton, he arrived, and Mr. Sandford felt that he hated him.

Is it not hard that a man sometimes suffers because nature, ever impartial in the distribution of her gifts, has pointed his nose upwards instead of downwards. He may be full of sublime thoughts, intellectual capacity, and have a decided inclination for poetry, but we credit him with common aspirations only, because of the fluctuation of his nasal organ from the direct perpendicular.

Mr. Drayton might suffer deeply but he never could look miserable; we associate unhappiness with pallor, depressed muscles round the mouth, and drooping eyelids, and he had a rosy and somewhat beaming face, very round, wide-opened eyes, inclined to stare, and a large mouth wearing a perpetual expression of satisfaction. When the two men confronted each other, Mr. Sandford, whose brow was ruffled with care, and who looked as though he had not slept, could not utter the conventional welcome, he could not speak. Mrs. Dorriman, seeing something unusual, went to his side in fear, and her little, feeble, spasmodic greeting saved both men from a very awkward silence.

"Well," said Mr. Drayton, pleasantly, "and how are the young ladies? how is Miss Margaret?"

A deep, red flush mounted into Mr. Sandford's face, he turned hurriedly to his sister.

"Leave us," he said, shortly, and she, trembling, obeyed.

"Drayton," he said, in a tone that betrayed effort and agitation, "I had no opportunity of speaking. I intended to keep my word at any cost to myself, but it has been impossible."

"Really," said Mr. Drayton, scornfully. "Well, let me see Miss Margaret and plead my cause with her; let me tell her——what I must tell her in order that she may understand."

"You cannot see her; she is not here."

"Not here! What do you mean? What foul trick have you played me?"

"I have played you no trick and you need not bluster and take that tone!" answered Mr. Sandford, angrily, his temper rising.

"I have your promise, in words, over and over again, in writing also; I insist on knowing how it all came about. You must have done your spiriting very ungently, perhaps said something unfavourable of me. I declare to you I cannot trust you."

"I never mentioned your name. Grace sent me nearly mad and I said something to her about leaving the house, then Margaret went with her."

"Is this the truth?"

"It is the truth."

"And her leaving this house had nothing to do with me?"

"Nothing whatever."

Mr. Drayton felt that, so far, all was well, but he would not betray any satisfaction to the man before him.

"Those investments I followed your advice about have brought me a loss," he said, after a pause, watching Mr. Sandford's face keenly.

"A loss?"

"Not in money; but my manager has given up his place, and his going is a serious loss. You are really the cause of his departure. He does not believe in you to the same extent other people do. I am sorry, but is there not a proverb about good fish being still in the sea? He was a good man but a trifle too cautious, yes, much too cautious! Well, as Miss Margaret is not here I shall go back."

Mr. Sandford heard this and was uneasy. He knew quite well that Mr. Drayton had no business capacity, and it came home to him very clearly that now that man's influence was withdrawn other people might find the way to his pocket as easily as he had done, when Margaret was in the background.

"I am sorry," he said curtly, relieved to find that he was to be left alone. Mr. Drayton, now Margaret had gone, did not see the use of staying. He made very short adieus to Mrs. Dorriman, and she noticed that he had kept his cab waiting, and had never had his luggage taken off.

"Brother," she said, softly laying her hand, upon his arm, "Mr. Drayton has seen Margaret somewhere, he knows where she is. He knew she was not here."

Mr. Sandford stared at her. She sometimes took him by surprise, this under-valued sister of his, and her idea now struck him with surprise. He thought (now that he had time to arrange his ideas) that Drayton had taken the announcement coolly. At the moment it had been a relief, now it confirmed his sister's words. He suspected that she was right, nevertheless it was a sort of surprise to him. It is difficult when one person has habitually put another into a position of inferiority all their lives, and considered them dull, suddenly to change and to credit them with quickness of apprehension. He gave a sort of grunt, and went back to his den. The most important fact now was the resignation of Mr. Drayton's manager. As far as he himself was personally concerned he was glad. Whatever happened now, those lynx-eyes were not in a position to look at the matter confidentially. Still the other side of the question, abovementioned, did not make it altogether pleasant news, and he set himself to think if there was any way in which he could lay a restraining hand upon Mr. Drayton, or rather on Mr. Drayton's speculative tendencies. In the meantime at Torbreck the girls were not doing very well.

They had arrived in a drenched condition at the very small inn, and had applied for a room and for something to go for their luggage.

But, though they got a room, it was fireless, and the luggage a greater difficulty.

There were horses, but they were all busy; the little place, self-contained and prosperous enough, was not prepared for the advent of strangers.

A fire was kindled, but would not burn, the smoke insisted on searching every corner of the room, and if it went up the chimney it came out in puffs in an unexpected and distracting way altogether; the girls sitting there felt their spirits go down to the very lowest ebb, and shivered.

Nothing could be more cheerless than the place—one black horsehair sofa, two rather narrow arm-chairs, and six other chairs, a table that nearly filled up the room in the middle of it, upon which a dusty-coloured worsted mat reposed, three funeral cards of departed relations framed and glazed upon the chimney-piece, and a convex mirror, which reflected and distorted with strict impartiality everything that was there.

After waiting a long time in their wet things, since they had nothing to put on dry till their luggage came, they got some tea and hoped that its warmth would revive them, but the tea was tepid; an accident not unknown to history when there is nothing to keep it hot, and a peat fire, though cheerful to look at and hot enough, does not offer the convenience of a hot plate.

The bedroom close to the sitting-room was as small as it could well be, and the sisters could barely turn round in it. Grace sat looking straight before her. She was feeling very ill. At all times a little fastidious, the second-rate baker's bread (tasting of sawdust) and the uninviting tea, extinguished all wish to eat. She had the painful satisfaction of knowing that her own want of self-control had brought them to this, and yet, poor child, this was nothing to what the future held in store for her, though she did not know it!

The sisters did not speak, they both felt that it was all best endured in silence; they sat, cold and very wretched, till their luggage arrived, then soon creeping into bed they tried to sleep and to forget their misery.

Soon Margaret slept. Her calmer and less exciteable temperament always gave her this advantage, and she slept soundly.

But Grace was sleepless, the shadows of the night oppressed her; long after her sister's regular breathing told its own story she lay tossing wearily from side to side. The small room seemed to stifle her; to the intense cold and shivering she had suffered from, had succeeded burning heat, her head seemed too heavy to lift from her pillow, and it was very early when Margaret was startled by a sharp cry of distress and anguish, and heard Grace saying:

"I am very ill; Oh! Margaret, wake up and do something for me!"

The morning had barely come, the grey dawn, moisture-laden, grew slowly into perfect day; and poor Margaret with a cloak thrown over her, her long fair hair streaming over her shoulders, her sleepy eyes looking wonderingly round her, went downstairs to do her best.

One bare-footed girl was busy, early though it was, and to her Margaret explained herself.

With evident reluctance she went to call her mistress, who came inclined to be cross at losing an hour's much-needed rest.

But crossness vanished when she saw Margaret, and she went upstairs with her; where poor Grace, with a crimson face and panting heavily, lay tossing from side to side and calling her sister.

"How can you leave me when you see how ill I am? I shall die! I know I shall die."

She was frightened, and crying hysterically.

To her immense surprise, Mrs. Munro gave her a good scolding. The surprise was so great that it quieted her, and when that good woman saw the effect she had produced, she left her, to see and get some remedy and to send for the doctor. Before night she was worse, and both knew now that her illness was no light thing. She was suffering acutely, and her illness was pronounced to be inflammation of the lungs.

Mrs. Munro was glad it was "no a catching thing," and was sorry for them. The women of her class in Scotland may be rough, and have a keen eye to a bargain; but their kindness is often wonderful!

Margaret, whose courage always rose when it was needed, neither gave way or got unduly frightened. But she had all the dread of necessary expense that yet could not be met. Grace, always thoughtless and often unreasonable, wanted and asked for a thousand things difficult to obtain, and of course proportionately expensive. Money melted fast. It was impossible to worry Grace, and the burden fell with all its weight upon poor Margaret.

She took counsel with the landlady, and found that she had acted unwisely in so doing. Mrs. Munro had imagined from their appearance and all else that they had plenty of money. Margaret, in her great inexperience, talked of having none, meaning no money for heavy extra expenses. Mrs. Munro, with a sensible loss of respect in her manner, inquired sharply,

"And how am I to be paid, and me doing all I can?"

"I do not mean that," said poor Margaret; "but we are not rich enough, my sister and I, to be able to buy expensive things."

"People should say what they mean," said Mrs. Munro, slightly consoled, but not altogether easy in her mind.

She took counsel with the doctor; and he, who knew of their connection with Mr. Sandford, and indeed thought the relationship closer than it really was, reassured her on the subject.

"But how comes it then that these two young ladies are stravaging about the country by themselves and na a maid or a soul with them, and they come of rich folk?" asked Mrs. Munro.

"Young ladies have often independent ideas," said Mr. Burns; "but when I was staying with a friend, not far from Renton, the talk there was about the arrival of these young ladies, indeed, I myself saw them there one day walking in the town."

"Well! well! and so I need not be anxious," said Mrs. Munro, much relieved; "but what with gaseous waters and fruits there will be something big to pay; and dear me, Miss Margaret's a nice young lady, she ought to have some one to help, she's nigh worn out already, and it's like to be a time yet before she can see her sister out of bed."

"Her sister is very seriously ill," said the doctor, with a graver face; "I am afraid she is constitutionally delicate. I wonder what her mother died of."

"Oh! I think that will have been a natural-like death, for Miss Margaret said she died in India, and that's a country that kills many folks," she said, comfortably; "they that live come home yellow, and when they don't turn yellow they die."

"Come, come," said Dr. Burns, "I know many that neither turn yellow nor die, that is merely a prejudice."

"It is no prejudice, doctor. I had an uncle once, and he was like one of they dried things they call mummies and show in museums; and people said if you could see his inside it would be all shrivelled up like an old walnut, and I am sure that never was in our family. It was all India; he was a soldier, poor man, and had gone through a deal."

Dr. Burns had no time to carry on the discussion: he was professionally anxious about Grace, she was still so feverish, and, though the acute pain was lessened, her cough was most distressing, and her weakness very great.

"Have you no one to come and help you?" he asked Margaret one day when he had found her worn out, suffering acutely from headache, and in a very depressed state.

"No one," she answered, in a low voice. "I did propose some one to my sister, but she says if she came she would get much worse."

"It is really thoughtless, and, I may say, selfish of her," he said, earnestly. "If my wife were at home I should send her to help you; let me try and get a nurse for you?"

"Oh, no!" said Margaret, earnestly and very eagerly. "I cannot—we cannot afford the expense. I am doing my best, my sister does not suffer from my want of experience," and she looked up very fearfully.

"I am not thinking of her so much as of you," he said, bluntly. Then he went on, in a matter-of-fact tone—"Your sister is better; the pain is lessened, but the fever still runs high. I do not think she is so strong as you are. What did your mother die of? do you know? She died when you were a baby in India, Mrs. Munro tells me, probably of some fever, did she not?"

"She died of consumption," said Margaret, who did not for a moment see the connection of ideas. Then it flashed across her, and she said, clasping her hands, and in a perfect agony of feeling—"You do not—you cannot—think Grace so ill. Oh! tell me, tell me;" and, weakened by her long watching and hastily-taken meals, she lost her self-command, and cried pitifully.

"I am sorry to have frightened you," said Dr. Burns, who understood her tears, and who, while full of sympathy, spoke in that calm tone which quelled her excitement better than a show of kindness might have done.

"There is no danger at present, absolutely none; but there is great weakness, and very great delicacy."

"What should we do? What ought she to do?" asked Margaret, struggling for her self-command, ashamed of having so completely lost it.

"When she is able for it, she ought to go to some drier climate," he said, looking at the window, where, every now and again, the raindrops came with a vicious splash, "and, forgive me Miss Rivers, but you cannot command many comforts here. Why do you not write to Mr. Sandford."

"That we cannot do, least of all for Grace!" poor Margaret said unguardedly.

"Of course, I have no right to interfere, but I cannot help feeling interested in the case, and your sister ought to be moved soon; that room is too small for an invalid; the surroundings are too depressing. To be of full use to her you should be cheerful and well; and, bless me! this is not the place for either of you. I would get out of it as soon as I could—if you will forgive my saying so."

He left the room downstairs, where she went with him each day, to learn, without Grace's overhearing, all he had to say. Margaret stood like a statue after his departure, looking blankly before her, seeing nothing.

What could she do? What was to become of them? She resolved to make one final appeal to her sister about writing to Mrs. Dorriman. If she would consent to this—if she would allow her to endeavour to make friends with Mr. Sandford, all would be well.

If not ... Margaret came to herself with a start. A horrible conviction began to pierce through all her anxiety. The end would have to be her marriage with Mr. Drayton.

There was nothing else. These two courses alone were open to her. After all, as he was not free, did it matter so much what became of her? In all good women's natures there is a vein of self-sacrifice. Her life, she thought, would not have been in vain if she could save her sister. And she did not in the least comprehend Mr. Drayton's character.

She thought him unrefined, noisy, but probably good-hearted and generous. She thought of Grace so completely as a bit of herself that it never for a moment crossed her mind that any one would think of them apart. The absence of all close ties, save that one, made it all in all to her.

Slowly she went upstairs. She would speak to Grace. She would appeal to her. She knew only too well that if she acted without her consent, if she appealed to Mrs. Dorriman, Grace would work herself into a fever; the consequences might be fatal to her. She could not write and not speak, because she knew that she had grown very dear to the poor woman, who had so little outlet for her affections, and that she would come herself to look after them.

When she went into her sister's room she found her asleep; but it was not the sleep of perfect convalescence. There was still much fever, and as poor Margaret watched her tossings and wretched moanings at intervals, her heart sank, and she feared everything!