Grace lay back after parting from Margaret with a sense of having at length got her foot upon sure ground; but there was not that entire sense of satisfaction which she had expected. The remembrance of Margaret's white face and the quivering lips was not pleasant. It was quite Margaret's way to take high ground about everything—she saw everything in an exaggerated way; that came of having such a poetical temperament, which was not always a desirable thing.

In spite of these sensible reflections there was a strong sense of discomfort, and, though Grace tried to shake it off and read and talk to the nurse, that did not help her. The nurse dwelt upon the beautiful bride her sister would be; never for a moment doubting orange-blossom, white satin, and all complete.

Mrs. Dorriman came home late and went into Grace's room with signs of tears, due partly to the sadness of that wedding and partly to fatigue. Grace's light questions jarred upon her. She felt that it had been a terrible sacrifice, and she wished that the sister who understood it so little could be made to appreciate it. "Poor darling Margaret!" said Grace, "did she send me no message?"

"She had no time. I heard her ask him when they should be home—she wished to let you know. I heard his answer. Forsaking all others, cleaving only to him. My mind misgives me, Grace; that poor child will not have all she hopes and expects from him."

"You must not be so doleful, Mrs. Dorriman, it is so very bad for me," said Grace, peevishly.

"I am sorry," said that poor woman, who did not wish to hurt her. "I was not thinking of you, I was thinking of Margaret."

"Every one is always thinking of Margaret," went on Grace, in a fretful tone. "It is the most extraordinary thing, it is always the same thing—it is always Margaret."

"Rest now, and we can talk by-and-by," said Mrs. Dorriman. "I have much to do; and about you, Grace, have you any plans?"

"Have I any plans?" asked Grace, opening her eyes in deepest astonishment. "Why, as soon as I can move, of course, I am to go to live with Margaret—a lovely villa with trees and things, close to London!"

"Oh, then that is settled," said Mrs. Dorriman, very much relieved. "I did not know; it will be nice for you to be together."

"Yes, it will be nice," said Grace, excitedly. "If you knew how I long to go away and see the world."

"Poor child!"

"Now, Mrs. Dorriman, there you are as doleful as you can be again. I wish you would not——"

"Would not do what?"

"Speak as if I were never to be well again," and Grace, feeble and weak, burst into a violent flood of tears.

"I was not thinking of that," said Mrs. Dorriman, hastily, "but life is disappointing, and if you cling to the world too much you will feel the many disappointments overwhelmingly."

"Wait till you see," said Grace, hastily brushing her tears away.

Mrs. Dorriman left her; she had not the courage to tell her her own conviction that Mr. Drayton might be kind to her in the matter of money, but as to her living with him and with Margaret, making it in short her home, that she thought entirely unlike him to propose. However, she knew nothing really about the matter. What had passed between the sisters, or what arrangements and stipulations she had made with Mr. Drayton, were equally out of her knowledge, and she trusted from Grace's confident manner that she had something tangible to go upon.

In the meantime Mr. Sandford urged his sister's return, and the doctor was anxious to get Grace to a more congenial climate.

She had certainly been better and brighter lately, and he hoped, if she went somewhere in time, she might yet get well.

Mrs. Munro was extremely offended by his way of disparaging the climate. "What ails you that you are for aye backbiting our climate. If water goes up it's bound to come down somewhere."

"But it is all coming down here just now," he said, laughing, "and it is very damp. It is all very well for you and me, Mrs. Munro, we are both strong and healthy, but that poor young lady will never get well unless we can get her away."

"I don't know about damp," she said. "With a good house over one's head (and this is a good house), and fires, what does the weather outside matter? It's just fidgets, doctor, and nothing else."

The good doctor could not quite understand the hitch. Mrs. Dorriman had written to her brother. She was surprised at Grace's quiescence; forgetting that in the extreme languor of early convalescence we accept things without question, and the fatigue of puzzling over the future is often spared us.

Mr. Sandford was not at all stingy, but he had liked Margaret and had wished to be kind to her, and he blamed Grace for having upset all his arrangements, and most of all for this marriage.

Several things had happened lately which made him think of Mr. Drayton in a very different light; and he was angry with Margaret for having married him, and angry with himself for having once wished her to do so.

His temper did not improve with age. He was more irritable than ever. He found fault with everything, and had Jean been writing to Mrs. Dorriman she might have added with truth the word "rampageous" now.

Mrs. Dorriman appealed to him for money to take Grace south. "She is ill and you are not, and in her state of health I feel it would be cruel to send her away alone."

Her letter reached him at a wrong moment. He had just had what he considered a most impertinent letter from Mr. Drayton, and he sat down, and in the roughest language told his sister plainly that the Draytons might look after Grace, he would never have anything more to do with her; and he insisted upon her returning to him immediately.

Poor Mrs. Dorriman! She went to see Grace not knowing how she was to announce her departure, imagining that the girl would feel so forlorn without her sister or herself; perplexed as to how the doctor's wishes were to be carried out, and altogether worried and annoyed.

Grace was in very high spirits. "See, Mrs. Dorriman," she called out, gaily, "I can walk quite firmly across the room!" and with a very faltering step she tottered against the opposite wall.

Her attenuated figure and glistening eyes filled Mrs. Dorriman with compassion, and it was with a great effort she said, when Grace, panting a little, was once more on her sofa, "When did you hear from Margaret last, my dear?"

"A week ago; she is so lazy about writing, and when she writes she tells me nothing," said Grace, very pettishly.

"Where did she write from?"

"Some place in Austria—just imagine what luck for her going to Vienna, Paris, Berlin, and Constantinople."

"Did she give you any address?"

"Oh, she never does, because she never has the least idea where she is going to. Mr. Drayton keeps it all to himself, I fancy. I have written to her, but I send my letters on chance. Stay, I think I have her last letter here, you may see it if you like. Poor Margaret, she always takes life so very seriously, she has no sense of fun. I am sure with her opportunities I should have written a much longer and a more amusing letter!"

Mrs. Dorriman read the letter, and her eyes filled with tears. It was a letter written by one who has lost all the spring of youth—unhappiness was on its every page, and the craving to know that Grace was well and surrounded with comforts, and that she was happy. It was a beseeching cry to know if the step she had taken had been of use to her beloved sister.

"Grace," said Mrs. Dorriman, after a moment or two, "when you move, as the doctor hopes, have you money?"

"Money! My dear Mrs. Dorriman, what an odd question. I have no money—A few shillings, that is all."

"And will Margaret send you some? Will Mr. Drayton pay all your expenses?"

"Of course he will, now Margaret has married him. I see what you mean. I had better write to her about it."

"Yes, you had better write." Mrs. Dorriman's face flushed. "I wish, my poor child, it had been otherwise, but my brother is still offended with you. I am so very sorry, but he wants me to go home to him."

"Does he?" said Grace, indifferently, and Mrs. Dorriman noticed with a pang that this news she had thought necessary to break to the invalid did not affect her at all.

"He wants me at once. I do not like leaving you alone here, Grace, without your sister; it will be dull for you and lonely."

"It would be, but you see I am going too," said Grace. "If I do not hear from Margaret soon I shall go to London to their house and wait for them there."

She spoke so confidently that Mrs. Dorriman was much relieved. With all her compassion there was so little that was congenial to her that she never could be affectionate to Grace, and she herself being of a warm-hearted nature fancied that the girl must miss it in her. She was always trying to like her, and failing.

The letter Grace wrote at intervals, and with some difficulty, reached Margaret after some delay. She was on the Rhine at Mayence, tired out with incessant travelling, and most anxious about her sister. She waited impatiently for her husband's return, he had gone out on business.

"I have heard from Grace, written after she had walked across the floor by herself. She is able to travel now. When can we get home?" she asked, as he entered the little sitting-room.

He laughed a little. "So Miss Grace is able to travel. Where does she intend going to?" he asked blandly.

Margaret's face flushed. "She is coming to us—she is to live with us."

"This is indeed news," he said, laughing—and how she had grown to hate his laugh! "There are two sides to that statement."

"You cannot surely object to my sister coming to pay me a visit."

"I am afraid I do object—between such a devoted couple as you and I," he said, with a sneer. "No third person would find it pleasant. I do not intend trying it, at any rate."

"You do not mean to say that my own and only sister may not come to me?" said Margaret, her voice faltering.

"I do mean it. I married you; I did not marry your sister also. She is not quite in my line, and the sooner you understand it the better."

"And poor child, she is ill, and ... penniless." Margaret's heart beat to suffocation. She had married for this one thing, and had not got what she had considered a certainty.

"It is cruel to keep us apart," she said, choking back her tears, feeling helpless and miserable.

"It is a sad position," he said, with his hateful little laugh. "But perhaps excellent Mr. Sandford will provide for her."

"And you know," said Margaret, indignantly, "you know that our being at Torbreck was because Grace could not bear the position he put her in. She cannot bear him!"

"How unfortunate! Well, you see, I do not like her at all. Why should I? She has never shown me decent civility, and I do not choose to have her. It is better to be frank with you. I hate all her d——d airs and graces."

Margaret's tears were falling fast. Stifling her emotion she summoned up her courage. She said, "I have never asked you for money, will you give me some now?"

"To send to her—certainly not."

"You will not give any money," she exclaimed, in despair.

"No, I will do nothing of the kind. Now, Margaret, you had better understand me once for all. When I married you I intended to win your love. I did not expect you ever to give me what I gave you. You have never once given me a spontaneous mark of affection. You look as though you were brokenhearted, and a martyr. Do you suppose that I did not know that you only married me because that precious sister of yours had chosen to quarrel with her bread and butter? But I did not care. I thought kindness and affection would win something in return. I consider that, as you fail in your side of the bargain, I have every right to fail in mine." And with one of his detestable laughs he left her to think over his words.

Margaret went to the open window and looked on the garden and the river—brilliant in the sunshine and seeming to mock at her despair.

There was that painful grain of truth in his words that filled her with humiliation. Was she not justly punished? She had done wrong; could good ever come out of evil? She might live long, and all her life she was to have this terrible companionship.

She clasped her hands together, and tried to think calmly and prayerfully what she could do now, when the silence of humanity amidst the throb and ripple of the river was broken, and a well-remembered voice was calling her by name.

"Margaret, my Margaret, I have found you! I am free to tell you the end of my story. I tried to tell you the beginning. I love you! My darling, I love you! Can you love me in return!"

A faint cry burst from Margaret's lips. For a few moments the present and all the horrors of her position fell away from her memory. He stood beside her, and, reading nothing but the flood of joy with which she heard his words in her face, he clasped her in his arms.

For one delicious moment Heaven seemed to open to her. She forgot everything but that he loved her. Then with a cry she pushed him away from her, and stood hiding her face in her hands, too wretched, too utterly miserable, for tears or any outward expression. He stood aghast; he had seen the joy in her face and now what did this mean?

She turned towards him hurriedly; he must not stand there; he must not be left for one moment in ignorance. With suppressed passion she told him all, how she had misinterpreted his words, and how she had tried to forget him; of her sister's illness, and of her own marriage. Once she began to speak the words rushed from her lips. She told him of her cruel and bitter disappointment about Grace, and she asked him wildly to help her. "What am I to do!" she cried. "Help me!"

He heard her with the bitterest feeling against the man who had used her love for her sister, only in the end to break faith with her. It was terrible to him to see Margaret, always so calm and so self-possessed, in such deep and terrible agitation. His grief for her was so powerful that his own sank into nothingness beside it. He had always thought her great unselfishness one of her greatest perfections, but the devotion to her sister was to him quite wonderful.

In calm tones that did not yet entirely hide the agitation he fain would conceal from her, he, upon his side, explained his promise to his mother, and his journey and her death. Through all her misery came the clearing away of a cloud. She had not erred, and he had loved her!

They stood side by side, silent after that lifting of the veil from both their hearts, he noting with agony the transparency which filled him with alarm.

She had asked him for help, and he would help her.

"Let me have your sister's address," he said; "there is only one thing I want now to understand, why did Mrs. Dorriman never tell you of my visit?"

"Mrs. Dorriman?"

"Yes! Finding I could get no news of you I went there and saw her. She did not know where you were, but I let her see how anxious I was to find you. I let her know I loved you, Margaret; did she never speak of me to you?"

"Never," said poor Margaret, falteringly. "Ah!" she said, as a sudden gleam came to her memory, "I remember now she tried to tell me something, and I would not listen. I did not know—how could I know—it referred to you?"

"Would it have been too late?" he asked, in a low voice.

"I do not know," she said, passing her hand across her tearless eyes. "I cannot say what I might have done; but then I had promised——Is it not hard?" she exclaimed. "Oh! it does seem hard, to have had happiness within my grasp and to have lost it!"

He was inexpressibly affected, afraid of making things harder for her; he moved to go.

"You will always be to me my highest type of womanhood," he said. "Will you trust me about your sister? I will go to England to-night."

"Let us say farewell now and for ever," she said, stretching out her hands, and then as he wrung them in his she breathed "God bless you," and so passed out of his sight.

Sir Albert lost no time; he knew it was best, and he made all his arrangements, and left by the first train he could catch.

His one comfort now would be doing something for her through her sister. But when the bustle of the departure was over and he was ensconced in his railway-carriage he had time to think of his own most cruel and terrible trial. Ever since he had begun to know Margaret his love for her increased. He had wandered to regain health and strength. Her image was never out of his mind, and he had believed he had made things so clear to her that she was somewhere waiting and expecting him. He had seen Mr. Drayton; he was just the sort of man to behave as he had done, and it was quite terrible to think of that fair and innocent girl in his power.

He never rested till he got to Scotland. He went straight to Torbreck, where he interviewed the landlady. Miss Rivers had gone. She had gone to London to stay with her sister.

Sir Albert did not choose to say that her sister was not there, but he made many minute inquiries about her health, and left Mrs. Munro much impressed by his manner, and the thoughtful remarks he made.

"He is a real bonny man," she said afterwards, "and, my certie, he kens how to put questions. He was as particular as he could be. Miss Rivers this and Miss Rivers that. She's a straight nose has Miss Rivers. I'm no denying it, but she does not follow it. Miss Margaret's a deal friendlier; weel-a-weel, its a' ordered for the best."

Mrs. Dorriman was much taken aback when once more Sir Albert was shown into the drawing-room at Renton. She was too timid not to be alarmed by the arrival of a man who had made no secret of his admiration for Margaret.

Did he know anything, and what did he know? Her expression was so distinctly interrogatory that he answered it, and advancing towards her, and not waiting for the usual conventional greeting, he said, "I know all, Mrs. Dorriman; I have seen her—I have seen Margaret!"

"Ah!" said the poor little woman, with a deep sigh of relief.

"It has been cruel work," he said, passionately. "Why could you not have saved her?"

"I never knew till too late. How could I save her?" She spoke startled, and for a moment thinking that he was right. Then she remembered—"That unfortunate sister of hers, Grace, would not allow her to send for us. I did not know where she was. And when you left me, you gave me no address; even if I had had it I am not sure I should have written to you. It was then too late. Nothing could have been done.... How is Margaret?" she asked, after a moment's pause.

He did not answer her at once. Then he said in a broken voice, "I never saw any one so changed; she is only a shadow of her former self."

"God help her!" murmured Mrs. Dorriman.

"It has been terrible for us both," he said, hurriedly, in a tone he vainly endeavoured to make calm; "we will speak of it once and never again. She, poor darling, misunderstood something I said to her at Lornbay. It seems so strange to think that she did not see how I adored her. I was not free to speak to her quite openly, because when I was very young, little more than a schoolboy, I got into a foolish scrape, and my mother made me promise never to confess my love to any one without first letting her know it. She understood the word 'free' to mean that I was in some way bound to some one else. Her pride was in arms, and she seems to have fancied that she had not rightly understood me. You can imagine that such an idea worked together with her passionate wish to help Grace, and has ruined our happiness."

"God help her!" again ejaculated Mrs. Dorriman.

"All that I can now do is to work for her sister. Mr. Drayton refuses all help, and will not receive her, and Margaret is nearly frantic. I have been to Torbreck. She has gone from there."

"But where?" said Mrs. Dorriman. "You must not judge my brother hardly, Sir Albert, but, as Grace is at the bottom of poor Margaret's sacrifice, my brother would not have her here; he would not help her, understanding that Mr. Drayton had agreed to do so."

"And he refuses also. Well, my first business must be to find the poor girl, and yet, Mrs. Dorriman, I may do harm instead of good, if I make the search in person. Can you think of no one who would undertake it?"

Mrs. Dorriman thought in vain. She knew of no one, and she feared greatly for Grace, who had little money, no experience, and who was so self-willed—she would probably injure her health, already so delicate, by doing a thousand imprudent things.

"Let us ask Jean," she said, with a hasty explanation of her position; and Jean, summoned to give her advice, which she dearly loved doing—came upon the scene, the picture of an old Highland servant of the best type, full as much of respect as of self-respect.

"Jean," said Mrs. Dorriman, "Mrs. Drayton, Miss Margaret I mean, is anxious about her sister. She has left Torbreck, and we do not know where she has gone. I think you may help us. Do you know of any one she could go to in the South?"

"How is Miss Margaret? I cannot give her that other name yet," said Jean, addressing herself directly to Sir Albert Gerald.

"She is pretty well," he answered, absently; he was thinking of the pale face, and trusting that he might trace her sister, and bring a little comfort and happiness to her heart, and that the sad wistful look might be softened and cheered.

"Well, ma'am," said Jean, turning to Mrs. Dorriman, "as regards Miss Grace, I am inclined to think they will know where she is at the railway station here."

"The railway station? Has she been here?"

"No, ma'am, she has not been here, but she directed me to send her boxes there a while ago, and I did so; and it is my belief that once she was well, she's not long been parted from her boxes."

Sir Albert seized his hat, then he remembered that supposing they had her address, he must still arrange about some one communicating with her.

"If we find her address, what can we do next? I will, of course, take any trouble; but some one had better go, who might be of some use to her."

Mrs. Dorriman coloured. She had no means of her own, and she was not sure that her brother would furnish any; otherwise, she was quite prepared to go any distance, or do any thing she conceived to be helpful.

Sir Albert saw the hesitation, and he said, anxiously, "I hope whoever does undertake this errand of charity will allow me to help—in the only way in my power."

"Sir," said Jean, "we will allow you to help if we find help necessary. Mrs. Dorriman has plenty of everything to fall back upon if she needs it in that way. She does not trail about in velvet, but she has it if she wants it."

"Hush, Jean," said her mistress; "will you go yourself to the railway station and make inquiries, and Sir Albert will wait till you return, at any rate."

Jean obeyed, and Mrs. Dorriman, turning to the young man, said, with a heightened colour and a little pathetic gesture,

"It may seem strange to you, but, though I have everything I can possibly want given me by my brother, I have no command of money. You are no kin, only a friend, but somehow I do not feel it so hard to be beholden to you as I ought."

"Thank you for those words," he said, earnestly; "you will be doing me a very real service if you will use my money for this. It is the only thing I can do," he added sadly.

Jean soon returned from the station, wearing a little air of triumph.

"'Deed, and was I no just quite right?" she said; "Miss Grace sent for her things only yesterday, and I got the man to put the address down on paper for me: these uncanny English names are hard to mind on."

Mrs. Dorriman and Sir Albert read it together.

"The Limes, Wandsworth."

"Mr. Drayton's place," said Mrs. Dorriman; "how strange! and you are quite sure? he refused to allow her to go there."

She spoke in a lowered tone but Jean heard the words.

"That would not stop Miss Grace," she said, with a short laugh; "if she's minded to do anything she's not easy stopped."

Mrs. Dorriman thoughtfully passed the paper through her hands. How could she put the case before Mr. Sandford so as to win it? Each time she spoke of either Grace or Margaret to him, he lost his temper, and created a scene that made her ill and nervous for days. If it would do good she would brave it, but if it did no good——

Sir Albert watched her anxiously. He felt that, to be of real use to Grace, to her sister, there must be a womanly hand, and he saw that he was not sufficiently behind the scenes to appreciate all the difficulties of this kind, but timid woman.

He felt so more than ever when Mr. Sandford came in. He was in such a towering passion that he could hardly speak: he barely noticed Sir Albert, but threw himself into a chair and glared straight before him. He was in that phase of temper when a man is anxious to make all his belongings uncomfortable, and, if possible, put them out of temper also.

Sir Albert would have left, but Mrs. Dorriman saw that something worse than usual had happened; she was always frightened when her brother was with her alone, and when he was out of temper she was simply terrified. She made a gesture of entreaty, which checked the young man's impulse to go away.

There was a silence which fell like a terrible weight upon the two, who looked at each other unconscious of their mutual attraction, but the look was seen by the master of the house, and it set his passion alight. He sprang from his chair, he poured out a volley of abuse, upon his sister, Grace, and Margaret, swearing and using the most terrible language, reducing poor Mrs. Dorriman to a helpless state of terror and dismay.

Sir Albert looked at him with the most supreme astonishment. He now understood the whole thing; Grace had been exposed to this and she had gone, and he could not wonder at it. He could quite understand now that Margaret had felt any life was better than this. In his compassion for them he spoke aloud his thoughts.

"No wonder they fled from this," he said, all unconsciously, as he looked at Mr. Sandford's wild gestures, with an overpowering sense of indignation.

Mr. Sandford heard him and understood. He turned round upon him, and said,

"You do not know what cause I have for anger; it is a just anger. The man who has married Margaret is a scoundrel and a swindler, and he is ruined, and he has nearly ruined me!"

Before another word could be spoken there was the sound of an arrival, and, while the three stood breathless, with all their emotions of rage and compassion, on either side, held for the moment in check, there glided into the room, her head as high as ever, but looking fatigued and troubled,—Grace Rivers!

"I have come back," she said, as she sank into a chair; "I am too tired just now to explain everything; and," turning to Mrs. Dorriman, "will somebody pay the cab, for I have no money."

There was a pause. Mr. Sandford's rage had exhausted itself, fortunately for Grace, and she sat leaning back in her chair and surveying them all with a keen look of inquiry.

"I cannot enter into everything now, but I have been to Mr. Drayton's house; he has sold it, and I have come here because I have nowhere else to go."