Sir Albert Gerald hurried to his Welsh home finding the tediousness of his journey and the inevitable jolting of the railway-carriage almost beyond his strength.

John remonstrated in vain. To the young man there was something tragical in his mother's death, apart from the only being she loved and clung to.

That doubt that visits most people when one loved is gone, as to whether we have in any way failed towards them, visited him now. Even his new passion for Margaret was for the moment pushed upon one side, and he would, he must, be beside her, see her once more; and he would not allow any personal ease or want of strength to stay him.

The result might have been guessed by all. When he got home he carried out his wish, he did see that loved face once more, but a return of the acute internal pain stretched him on his bed, and the local doctor, fearing for him in his reduced state, gave him opiates, and so kept him from consciousness and suffering at the same time.

Afterwards, what pain he would willingly have borne! had he been allowed full consciousness.

It was some weeks before he emerged from the darkened room, and his first act was to find out Margaret's address.

But, though he learned the sisters had gone from Lornbay, no one knew where, and when his pressing letters stirred a friend into action, and that he actually went to Renton, it was only to find that they were no longer there, and that even Mrs. Dorriman had not their address.

To her he wrote and made no secret of his anxiety to find Margaret, but with the best will in the world (and she sincerely liked Sir Albert) she could say nothing, knowing nothing.

At that very time Margaret was trying to resign herself to a fate she dreaded for the sake of Grace.

When on that memorable evening the doctor had spoken out his fears, and Margaret had watched by her sister's bedside, she had noticed the hollow cheeks and listened to her distracting cough, she absolutely hated herself for shrinking from any sacrifice and so save her.

Had she had one shred of hope in connection with Sir Albert it would have been impossible, but she had no hope; and more than this, the terrible stab to her pride, the feeling that she had given her love without its being really sought, maddened her at times. He would hear of her, if she married Mr. Drayton, and he would never know the truth.

Grace woke in a paroxysm of pain and terror; till now she had suffered acutely, but there had been no hÆmorrhage, now it came on, and poor Margaret, terrified and dreading she knew not what, was driven to despair. Standing by her sister and watching her agonized face she took a solemn vow that at any cost to herself she would save her.

After a night of bitterest anguish and suffering came peace, and Margaret slept on the hard little sofa, slept profoundly through all the stir and bustle of the "Sun" till the afternoon.

There was a shaded light in the room, and when she woke it was with the consciousness of some one gazing at her, which most of us have known by experience. Startled and confused, her lovely eyes still heavy with sleep, and her hair in disorder, she sat up and looked round her.

There, sitting like a silent fate, on the opposite side of the room, was the man she dreaded, Mr. Drayton, who was intently watching her.

Margaret started to her feet, a burning blush rising to her face.

"How did you come here?" she said. "Why did Mrs. Munro let you come upstairs?"

"I have been at Renton, Margaret," (she never noticed that he spoke her name familiarly). "Do you think I could stop away when I knew that you were wandering and by yourself?"

"My sister has been very ill, she is very ill," poor Margaret said, trembling.

"A bad place to be ill in," he said. "No comforts, let alone luxuries. Now what can I do for you? make a friend of me. I will do what I can, and I will do it willingly for your sake."

Margaret could not speak. She had thought everything possible a few hours before, and now——Why did that sound of the sea fill her ears, that sound that made a grand chant as an accompaniment to other words and other tones? She pressed back that memory. Mr. Drayton was again speaking.

"I trust you will let me be of use," he was saying, wondering what caused that flush of consciousness that came into her face and died away again.

"You are very good," she said, in a low voice.

He made one or two steps nearer her, and, in that small room this brought him close. She shrank back involuntarily, and he saw the movement and it made him savage. But he controlled himself; he began to understand a little of her character; if he intended to win he must be cautious.

"I will go now," he said, taking her cold little hand in his, "but I will not go far, and you must think of me as your friend; will you?"

Again came the faintly-uttered words,

"You are very good."

He gave one lingering look at her and went downstairs, calling Mrs. Munro in a sharp, quick tone.

"Mr. Sandford requested me to see that the sick young lady and her sister had every comfort you can provide. Can you think of anything?"

"Oh dear, sir!" said poor Mrs. Munro, immensely relieved by this declaration, "that poor thing ought to have a nurse, and I've said so over and over again but Miss Margaret she seems afraid of spending. I was quite sure, sir, myself, it would be all right, such young ladies as these are, poor things; and Miss Margaret would not buy herself a sofa—a sofa to sleep on—and I have done my best, having my own work and the house on my hands, and responsibility; night work is not in my way, sir; but the scores of times I've been up and down those stairs, they're not much to look at but they're tiresome to go up and bad to come down when it comes to being often, sir."

"Buy what is wanted and let me know what it is, for Mr. Sandford. Anything wanted you are to get at once, and you need not worry Miss Margaret or say I have had a hand in it. She might not like my meddling. I am Mr. Sandford's acquaintance more than hers and I am acting for him." He went out of the house without waiting to hear her answer.

Then he went to the doctor's house and cross-questioned him. He learned from him what was wanted, and played his part well. Dr. Burns was delighted that Mr. Sandford was now taking up their case, and telegraphed for a nurse and various things he thought necessary without loss of time.

Margaret's surprise was unbounded; she never for one moment doubted the truth of the landlady's story, and was too completely worn out to question the nurse closely when she came. She knew Mr. Sandford was really generous, and she thought that, having heard of Grace's illness from Mr. Drayton, he was trying to help her, and she expected to see Mrs. Dorriman's pleasant face appear at any moment.

The choicest fruit, the rarest flowers, everything money could procure, arrived without stint, and Grace began to revive. Margaret took the first opportunity of writing a long letter to Mrs. Dorriman; her heart overflowed, she thanked her for all her thoughtfulness and kindness, said how often she had wished herself with her sympathetic kindness to help her, and sent a message full of kindly feeling to Mr. Sandford. She had just completed her letter, written with difficulty, since Grace claimed her every moment and the interruptions, added to the trouble she had of showing her gratitude and expressing her sorrow without reflecting on her sister's shortcomings, when Mr. Drayton came in.

"You have been writing," he said, seeing what her occupation had been.

"Yes, I have been thanking dear Mrs. Dorriman for being so thoughtful and so kind about my sister. All the luxuries, the better nursing, so many comforts, are saving her life," and Margaret's eyes were softer than ever, and moist with feeling. "I can never thank her enough."

"Is there so much to be grateful for?" he asked, in a tone she could not quite understand, and did not, at the moment, pause to consider.

"Ah, you cannot know what it was before," she said, fervently; "to see my poor sister dying and not to know how to help her, and then to see her reviving; and you have been kind, too," she added, as a faint colour came into her cheek, "and I believe you told Mrs. Dorriman. Indirectly we owe it to you, and I am grateful to you."

He was thrown off his guard.

"Margaret," he said, hoarsely, "would it pain you to owe it all to me? If your letter is to thank Mrs. Dorriman then do not send it for I never wrote to her. Those things and the attendance you think so much of, trifles in themselves, are really for you from me. I would die to serve you! These seem but little things."

Margaret, startled and alarmed, looked at him with dismay and even terror in her face; she felt as though the meshes of a net were being drawn together and that she was being suddenly made to feel all efforts at escape were powerless.

Mr. Drayton still watched her keenly. Would this avowal help him or keep her further from him?

"How can I thank you?" she said at last, with white and trembling lips.

"You know how. Do not speak, for if you spoke just now you might destroy all my hopes of happiness. I know," he said, bitterly, "that not only you do not love me but that you positively shrink from being under any obligation to me. But, Margaret, think it over. I am ready to do all I can, and you have no one else. I would be content to love you; I do not expect that a young and beautiful girl like you can return my passion."

He stopped short. Margaret sat silent, cold as a very statue.

"Think it over," he repeated, and his voice was full of pathos and passion. "And, when you have decided, send me one word, come. Till then I will leave you in peace."

He rose and left her, and the poor child sat on with the dazed feeling of helplessness that sometimes follows the news of some great calamity, hardly able to think, her head in a perfect whirl.

She was roused by the nurse, who told her her sister wanted her.

Then one ray of hope came to her; she would speak of it to Grace; she thought, now Grace was better and more capable of forming an opinion, she would herself wish to prevent this way of escape and that she would think of going back and propose it. She went to her, into the larger room Mr. Drayton had insisted upon her having, and went up to the sofa where Grace lay placid, surrounded by flowers and things he had sent her.

"Grace," she said, kneeling by her and looking in her sister's face with a world of protest and anxiety in her eyes, "when you are quite well again you would not mind giving up luxuries. When you are really yourself again you will not fear poverty?"

"Margaret, what do you mean?" exclaimed Grace, in agitated tones; "these things, as you call them, are necessities to me now."

"But, if to have them, Grace, I was forced to do something I very much hate doing, that would spoil my life for always; you would do without things when you are well, Grace? And we might go back."

"You may do what you like, Margaret, just as you choose, but I never will go back to that odious man and that detestable place."

"Not if it saved me from life-long sorrow?"

"That is nonsense, Margaret. I know quite well what you mean; you mean that you do not want to marry Mr. Drayton, and you have all kinds of high-flown ideas; why, if you married him we should be happy always, and I do hate poverty!" and Grace feebly drew her quilt—one of his gifts—up to her ears.

"But, Grace," pleaded Margaret, craving for one little word of comfort or help, "I have such a strong conviction that such a marriage is a wicked thing to do. I think it is so wrong to marry when love is not there. It is such a solemn thing, Grace. It is like doing wrong deliberately."

"You make everything solemn," said Grace, in a peevish tone; "I am asking you to do nothing I would not do myself. If Mr. Drayton asked me to marry him I would say 'yes,' directly."

"But we are different."

"Yes, we are different; and now you have made me miserable. I shall do nothing now but lie still and expect to see all my comforts vanish," and a violent fit of coughing silenced her.

That afternoon she was worse; the excitement of the conversation had been too much for her. When night came on once again the terrible hÆmorrhage came on. Even the nurse upbraided Margaret.

"Your sister was doing so well till you went to talk to her," she said; "young people never can be made to understand how very quiet a person in Miss Rivers's state should be kept. Another attack like this might be fatal to her."

All night Margaret watched and prayed alternately. Her spirits were in a feverish, excited state. She was wild with remorse one moment and in despair the next. The attack was dreadful to witness in itself, and Grace's deep terror made it all the more terrible.

When morning dawned a note lay on the table addressed to Mr. Drayton. It was an appeal that might have moved any one not selfishly bent on his own end. Margaret asked him if he thought a marriage could be happy for either of them where upon her side lay no love. "I am grateful to you, but gratitude is different if you insist upon this proof. You are making me do wrong, no blessing will follow." She wrote this hoping, trusting to his generosity. But as she sent it she said to herself it was her last chance—that if her words did not move him now her sacrifice would have to be complete. Grace lay prostrate, too languid to take notice of anything, too much exhausted to be able to speak.

The doctor was distressed, and poor Margaret felt an indirect reproach was conveyed to her in the urgent words to the nurse about "Keep Miss Rivers quiet; agitation, the least excitement, will prove fatal."

"And this step, by which alone it seems I can save her, kills my life also," Margaret breathed softly to herself.

Mr. Drayton did not, in the least, understand all the poor child meant to convey in her letter; the one fact made all others of no account—Margaret would marry him, and he had gained his point.

Mr. Sandford would have seen something in his face, had he been there, which Margaret had seen long ago. His steel-blue eyes gleamed with triumph and a curious shifting light.

He went to the "Sun," as soon as he possibly could, and Margaret read her fate in his expression; and her heart seemed to die within her.

Some weeks passed away. Where had Margaret learned all the caution she showed now? She was going to make a sacrifice. The instinct of self-preservation made her write to Mr. Sandford; she insisted upon seeing him at once, and Mrs. Dorriman she entreated to come to her.

Mr. Drayton was very much annoyed when he found what she had done. "They will take you away," he said; "they will come between us."

"I have given you my promise," she said, coldly, "is not that enough?"

There was no room in the little inn for either, but Margaret took some lodgings. It was the best, as their presence would have agitated Grace too much.

Mr. Sandford found a new Margaret in the cold, calm resolute girl before him.

She told him shortly and very quietly that she had promised to marry Mr. Drayton.

"But I no longer wish it," he said eagerly, and hoping to see her soften and change. Her hard, cold expression was a terrible disappointment.

"I have promised," she answered, "and I wanted you to come because, if I do this, it is for Grace; and you must manage for me, that, if I live or die, Grace will be cared for. She must have plenty, always. You are wise about things, and clever. I give my life, and Grace must have plenty."

"But, Margaret! Is Grace worth this? A tiresome, wrong-headed, selfish creature——"

"Please spare her to me!" said Margaret, passionately; "she is my sister, and I love her."

"But surely——"

"I have promised," repeated Margaret, and Mr. Sandford controlled his temper. He said, quietly,

"Only say one thing, that I am not the cause——"

"I cannot say it," said Margaret, vehemently; "you offered us a home, and you made that home unbearable."

"You are ungenerous."

"Were you generous when you taunted us, when you said we were to go?"

"I never said so to you."

"You said it to Grace, my sister, whom I love better than my life."

Then his temper rose, and he said cruel and bitter things of Grace; and Margaret stood up, and, resuming her reserve and coldness, faced him.

"It is nothing to you," she began, in low tones, "you say these things, and expect me to hear them. I do not value your love for me—if you do love me as you say—because you will extend no forbearance to my sister. You cannot separate us—in feeling. She is part of myself, and—for her sake—things can be met that would otherwise be impossible."

Mr. Sandford was silent. He never realised the effect of his violence, and he was conscious of so much liking for Margaret that he thought her ungrateful for not returning his affection in some degree.

"I will have neither act nor part in this marriage," he said, rising.

"You will not help me, so far, then?" she asked, wearily, "and I have no one else."

Mr. Sandford wrote an address down.

"This man will help you," he said, hiding his uncomfortable feelings under an increase of gruffness. "He is a lawyer, and will arrange matters. As for me, I am of no use, and I wash my hands of all your concerns hence-forward."

He left her feeling more forlorn than before. She was conscious now of having had a vague hope, in some way, of his arranging things for her and Grace, of having received kindness. She felt that loyalty to her sister demanded that she should resent his words; and she resolutely pushed away any regrets from her.

Then she sat down, and began to write to the address given to her. She found it difficult to write, most difficult to express herself; and as she sat thinking how best she could give—that most dangerous thing—a half-confidence, the door was pushed open gently, and Mrs. Dorriman, her face working with suppressed agitation, entered and took her in her arms.

Mrs. Dorriman had gone to Torbreck thinking that she had some news to give which would change matters very much for Margaret, and, therefore, not so overwhelmed by the news of her engagement to Mr. Drayton as she would otherwise have been.

After tearful inquiries about Grace, and many gentle exclamations of sorrow and wonder, she thought she would say something to Margaret about Mr. Drayton; she would be cautious. She was too timid to act upon her own conviction, she would be guided by her answer.

"Are you really engaged to Mr. Drayton, my dear Margaret, quite engaged to him?"

"I have promised," said poor Margaret.

"But, perhaps, my dear, I could tell you something."

"You must tell me nothing," she exclaimed, quickly. "I have promised—and—you must not make it harder for me."

"Then it is hard?"

"I am giving up my life!"

"But perhaps, Margaret, what I have to say may change——"

"Nothing can change things now," and Margaret spoke firmly; "I cannot go back, and he has done so much."

"It is such a miserable mistake," and poor Mrs. Dorriman thought how she could say a word, "others would do as much——"

"But Grace will not have it. No! do you think I should have consented, do you think I would consent, if it had been possible.... Oh!" she exclaimed and a look of terror came into her eyes, "even this is wrong. I should not speak of it so. Dear!" she continued, turning to poor bewildered Mrs. Dorriman, "you must help me, and not let me feel that you do not understand me. I have thought about it and prayed about it, and I must go through with it." She paused to regain her self-command, and then added, "and there is no one else."

"There is no one else," repeated Mrs. Dorriman, vaguely; "I thought there was somebody else."

Had she too seen that dawning passion which Margaret had stifled so vehemently? A burning flush rose to her face, and she answered angrily, "There is no one else."

And then they talked of other things.

After this Mrs. Dorriman held her peace. She wisely felt that in telling Margaret of Sir Albert's visit, and dwelling, as she intended to have dwelt upon, his anxiety to find her—she might be doing no good, and only making mischief.

Mr. Drew, the lawyer to whom Margaret wrote, was accustomed to the vaguest statements possible, made him, from time to time, by his feminine clients. But he thought that in the whole course of his experience he had never read anything so impossible to understand as poor Margaret's effusion.

He could only make out two facts. She wanted a good deal of money made safe in some way (as she had none herself), she was going to be married; then she contradicted this and said she wanted no money. It was only her sister.

As she named Mr. Sandford, and Mr. Drew had a slight business acquaintance with him, he wrote to him, and received enlightenment.

"Miss Margaret Rivers has made up her mind to marry a man for his money, and wishes to make sure that his part of the bargain is put beyond business losses; the money is wanted for her sister, Miss Grace Rivers, and you had better take good care what you are about, as Mr. Drayton, the man in question, is as slippery as an eel."

Luckily poor Margaret knew nothing of this explanation. Mr. Drew came to Torbreck to see her. He expected to find an elderly shrewd woman, and he was more surprised than he could say, when he was suddenly confronted with Margaret.

His astonishment was so great that he stood before her speechless for a little while.

"Miss Margaret Rivers?" he said, inquiringly.

"Yes, Margaret Rivers is my name. I wrote to you. I am sorry you have had to take the trouble of coming."

"Your letter was a little difficult to understand," he said, smiling, and no longer wondering at its vague nature. How could this young girl enter into explanations with a stranger? and he was so amazed to think she was going to marry Mr. Drayton he could not get over it. What was the motive?

But Margaret, having got over the hardest part of all, her own consent, in a grave, matter-of-fact way, tried to say what she had to say plainly.

"Mr. Drayton has promised——my sister must be safe——" this was all she had to say.

"And you yourself, Miss Rivers?"

"I want nothing, nothing for myself, but for her—it must be made safe."

"I do not see how that can be done unless she marries Mr. Drayton. Any money arrangement must take the form of a marriage settlement."

She looked at him blankly.

"Is this so? is this quite true?"

"It is quite true. There may be a stipulation, a promise, but, forgive me, Miss Rivers, that would look like a bargain and might lead to misconception."

"It is a bargain," said poor Margaret, while her face crimsoned under his gaze; "my sister, in some way, must be made secure."

"I think I had better see Mr. Drayton's man of business," he said, finding that she cared for nothing but what could be done for her sister.

"A clear case of being bought and sold," he said to himself as he left her; "what a pretty, attractive girl! Well, I shall take care to look sharply after her interests."

It was, however, very difficult indeed to get Mr. Drayton to come to any arrangement. He was entirely taken by surprise. Had Mr. Sandford done this of course it would have been only right and what might have been expected; but Margaret, to give instructions to a lawyer and to stipulate about money matters! He went to her, angry and annoyed.

"You might trust me," he said.

"How can I trust life?" she said, with a solemn, grave look; "death is always there, and if you died——my sister might suffer. I may die.... It must be so."

He shivered a little.

"How you go on, talking of death, Margaret; and you never smile; you are not like any bride I ever saw, you look so mournful, so sad; do you know you are paying a very bad compliment? Will it satisfy you if I arrange for that precious sister of yours to have something at my death?"

"No," said Margaret, firmly, "you know that I am only marrying you because I cannot help myself and her. I have never hidden the truth from you, never; if you insist on marrying me I have concealed nothing from you.... It is not yet too late."

He looked steadily at her.

"I cannot imagine why I love you so much," he said, bitterly, "in spite of your scorn, your coldness, and all else. I think I am indeed a fool."

"Why do you care so much?" she said; "there are many who might learn to love you, many girls fairer than I am. I am not so very fair."

"There is but one Margaret for me," he answered, "and in time you will love me," and yet he had an uneasy sense of inferiority, of not being able to reach her standard.

Mr. Drew found him a very troublesome and a very difficult man to deal with, and after all he could not make the arrangement he wished. Margaret would be hemmed in with restrictions, and trustees would have much in their power; a very modest sum was secured to Grace in the event of Mr. Drayton's death. In short, it came to this; that both sisters were dependent upon him during his life, and were provided for, Margaret very amply, at his death.

Mr. Drew's objections were overruled by Margaret.

"All I wanted was a certainty in the event of being left alone. Of course, while I live, while we live, Grace will share everything with me. Mr. Drayton will allow this."

He said nothing, imagining that he had promised this. In her inexperience she never dreamed of a life apart from Grace. Of course she would be with her; they would share everything; that was so completely in her mind that the poor child never dwelt upon it, she took it for granted. She received various letters from old schoolfellows when her approaching marriage was made known, but she could not answer them. She laid them aside, and would write afterwards. How could she answer congratulations? One letter from a girl she had liked particularly, remained before her for a long time.

"I am longing to know all about him," she wrote. "After the intimacy between us I have felt your silence hard; it is now explained; you are happy in having found your ideal already; I was always afraid that few could come up to your high standard, and you are not the sort of character to marry without both love and esteem."

Poor Margaret! Already her quick-sightedness, unblinded by love, showed her Mr. Drayton as he was—vain, and led by his vanity alone. He was good-humoured in all else and inclined to be kind, but if he was not upon good terms with himself, if he was not flattered, his good-humour vanished and he became rude and sulky. And Margaret, among other things, dreaded his rudeness, and, but for that prostrate figure so indescribably dear to her, would have died rather than have faced life with him. To her it was a moral death, and not the least painful part of the sacrifice was, that, while she could see nothing else, she fell in her own esteem.

It was a forlorn little ceremony altogether. Mrs. Dorriman, who clung faithfully to the poor child, went with her to Glasgow, where Mr. Drayton had made all the necessary arrangements.

Nothing less like a bride ever went to the altar. All the time the ceremony went on Margaret heard nothing, thought of nothing, but was uttering fervent prayers for forgiveness and help. There was a hurried farewell. Mrs. Dorriman saw them into the train—they were going away for a little time.

As she still stood there Margaret turned her tearful eyes towards the man who was now her husband.

"When shall we return? I want to send a message to my sister."

For all answer he repeated to her the words she had just uttered,

"'Forsaking all others, cleaving only to him,'" and, as he spoke, the train started.