Lady Lyons was in a great state of excitement about Grace's wedding. She had large ideas as to what was the right thing to do; and she never for one moment thought that upon an occasion of this kind Grace would be wilful or obstinate. That she was peculiar she knew; but she had no idea she would indulge in peculiar ideas about a wedding, and that wedding her own.

Grace would have no wedding-cake, no breakfast (in that sense), and no fuss, no bridesmaids. It was to be by special licence, and quiet as quiet could be.

"But why, my dear?"

"Because there is no one to ask."

"We have plenty of acquaintances. I know many people, and it is unusual to have a wedding in a corner this way."

"I don't know about a corner—I am to be married in church."

"You know what I mean, Grace; and it is my only son."

"I am sorry you have not got more sons, if you wish it, Lady Lyons."

Then suddenly she knelt down beside her and said earnestly—

"Usually there are friends to rejoice; there is a mother or sisters, a father—some one who cares for a girl. They gather round her at an important moment of her life; but, Lady Lyons, in all the world there does not exist a more forlorn girl than I am. It would be mockery to summon acquaintances and call them friends. What do they know about me or about your son? I have thought, till I am tired of thinking, who there is to give me away. I can think of no one—I shall have to borrow a father for the occasion; and I cannot think where I shall find one."

"My dear Grace, you do say such odd things!"

"Do I? I am speaking the truth, perhaps that seems odd."

"I do not feel as if it would be a wedding at all."

"I hope it will be a wedding, though there are to be no guests; and, without guests to eat it, why have a wedding-cake?"

"To send some away, and the look of the thing. You don't seem to think of that."

"Who is to look? There is to be no one. I do not care for wedding-cake myself, though I love the almond-paste, and, if you eat some, you would be ill for weeks."

Lady Lyons was not to be consoled. She told Sir Albert (who was still detained in town), and he tried to sympathise with her. Then he spoke to Grace—

"If people came, not here, but to the church—you would not mind it?"

"How can I prevent people from going to church?"

"And who is to give you away?"

"I do not know; I have told Lady Lyons I intend borrowing a father for the occasion."

"How would Sir Jacob do?"

"They have never been near us, though they made such a fuss about us. Of course, it is not his fault—still I will not ask him."

"It would be kinder to think of some one, and so please Lady Lyons."

"But, kind or not kind, I cannot think of any one."

"There is some one I know; he is very kind, and it would be pleasanter for you."

"It would be much better if I knew some one. I think girls are to be envied who have relations and friends; I have none."

"If I find some one will you be nice about it?"

"I will be very nice: as nice as I know to be. Lady Lyons would like some one a little before the world. She thinks Paul's wedding a very important thing."

"If I can I will arrange about it. I was so provoked about not getting away, now I am glad."

"Yes, I am Margaret's sister."

"You say she is not coming?"

"She offered and I declined. Where was the use of a long journey? I am going north afterwards."

"And you are to write to me?"

"If Paul is not jealous," and she laughed.

Then he said good-bye.

That evening Lady Lyons sat worrying herself a good deal about everything in general, and this impending difficulty in particular, when a note to Grace was brought in. It was from the Duchess.

"Dear Miss Rivers,

"My nephew says that, owing to your sister's absence, you would like to be befriended a little on your wedding-day. The Duke begs me to say that he will give you away with pleasure, and, as Lady Lyons is the young man's mother, I will call and take you to church.

"How wise you are to have no bridesmaids or breakfast. I wish other girls were as sensible. Believe me, dear Miss Rivers,

"Yours truly,

"Katherine Mallington."

Grace gave the note to Lady Lyons without comment.

"Her Grace's servant waits to see if there is any answer," said the waiter, very respectfully.

Grace wrote,

"Dear Duchess of Mallington,

"You are very kind, and I beg to thank you and the Duke very much. Yes, I shall be very grateful to you for so befriending me; it is good of you, who know me so little; of course it is also good of your nephew.

"Yours truly,

"Grace Rivers."

"My dear Grace, now all is most delightfully arranged," said Lady Lyons; "now it will not be in a corner."

"The place is not changed," said Grace. "I told you before I did not mean a corner."

"You do take everything so much as a matter of course," said Lady Lyons, irritably.

"How ought I to take things? Ought I to laugh or cry? Tell me what is the proper thing to do?"

"You might be a little pleased."

"I am very much pleased. I think the Duchess is very kind."

"She must have taken a fancy to you, my dear."

"I think not. I suspect she does not know me by sight."

"Then why do this? What do you think yourself?"

"I think it is all for Margaret."

"And she has never seen her! My dear, you really are too ridiculous!"

"No, Lady Lyons; can you not see how things really are? Sir Albert knew how you lamented my want of friends and he has done this for me."

"But why, my dear, why? That's what I want to know," and Lady Lyons looked puzzled.

"Ah, that is very puzzling indeed," said Grace, gravely: and Lady Lyons, who had from the first stated that she thought she had a gown that was quite good enough, went to consult her maid upon the subject.

She found her maid in a state of ecstacy over a very handsome dark, plum-coloured silk, very fashionably though quietly made, bonnet and mantle to match, "With Grace's love" on the top of it.

"Oh, my dear, how lovely! I am so sorry I said that about a corner. Corner, indeed! how kind, how very thoughtful of you! I cannot bear taking such a handsome present from you."

"You must learn to take many presents from your new daughter," said Grace, but something in her tone struck Lady Lyons.

"You have been crying," she exclaimed; "what is it, my dear? what has happened?"

"Nothing has happened, but I have a letter from Margaret, a most dear letter, and I could not help contrasting my marriage with hers, for I love Paul, Lady Lyons, and all is different."

"Very different," said Lady Lyons, and she sighed sympathetically; "and Mr. Drayton had no position, my dear; he was only a manufacturer."

"Oh, Lady Lyons, how absurd you are!" said Grace, the tears still standing in her eyes, though she laughed heartily; "fancy, in these days, talking like that! Why, all our leading spirits in Parliament and out of it are 'only' manufacturers; they have the ball at their feet now."

"My dear, you have a way of putting things I never can follow," said poor Lady Lyons; "now you are talking about a ball, it is really very puzzling."

"Well then, I beg your pardon over and over and over again," said Grace, "and I will try not to say puzzling things."

"Thank you, my dear," said Lady Lyons, very heartily, who considered this a great concession.

"Now I am to be your daughter," said the girl, with the natural wish of having a little affection and kindness shown to her just now, "you will try and like me—love me a little bit." She looked wistfully at Lady Lyons, who was touched and quite melted by this appeal.

"I suppose," she said very naÏvely to Grace, who had turned round to leave the room, "that I also have things about me, peculiarities that require indulgence."

"You are very good," said Grace, evading the question, "and I mean to be a good wife to Paul, you believe that?"

"Oh, yes, my dear, indeed, you put that very prettily; I used to wish it was Margaret, but now I think you will like to know, that I am quite reconciled—then there is the Duchess, and my new dress!"

Grace laughed a little and left her.

She locked her door and once again read Margaret's affectionate, earnest letter.

After discussing the news of her marriage she said,

"Now, Grace, my darling, I want you to think, think more prayerfully than I did, about this. If you do not love Paul Lyons, do not mind the disagreeable speeches that may be made, but do not go on with it. Far better to bear angry words now than to marry without love. I would come to you, darling, at a moment's notice, and I could make a home for you somewhere, only do not do this. Had I had so solemn a warning I might have been saved."

There was more to the same point; each word, every line, showed by its intensity what an agony of pain, and shame, and misery she had herself gone through.

Hot tears fell on Grace's hands as she read the letter, and she threw herself upon her knees.

"Why should she suffer and not I?" she cried, "and I am looking forward to happiness. Then she prayed long and fervently, not for happiness and blessings but for forgiveness!"

"I shall only be really happy when I know she has forgotten," she said to herself, and she knew that this meant when Sir Albert Gerald had won her sister.

The sun shone brightly on Grace's wedding-day. She was quiet and composed. When Lady Lyons praised her for her demeanour she said gravely,

"I am losing nothing, leaving no one, and I am gaining much."

The Duchess kissed her, and Lady Lyons moved forward a little. She had a vague idea she might be equally honoured, but was disappointed; however, there was the register signed by the Duke and Duchess, that would go down to posterity in connection with her son, and that was always a great deal.

As the small party left the church, they were met by Lady Penryn.

"Oh, you naughty girl!" she said, playfully. "You nice thing! where have you been all this time? Does she not look sweet?" appealing to the Duchess, who, passing on, took no notice of her.

She met with a cold reception from even Lady Lyons; but she was not to be daunted; laying a detaining hand on Grace's arm she said—

"The right thing for friends to know each other; the Duchess, my dear, introduce me."

"Let me introduce Mr. Lyons," said Grace, with much composure, and passed on to the carriage with Paul.

The discomfited lady received no comfort from her husband.

"If I had only known she was that sort of girl," she said, bitterly; "I always thought she was a nobody, and the Duchess gave her away!"

"Her father was most kind to my poor boy. I know nothing of his people, but he was a thorough gentleman. I never could understand why you would never take the slightest notice of the girl. However the thing's done now and cannot be mended."

He did not tell his wife that he had sent Grace a magnificent bracelet, and a kind and fatherly letter, offering to be of use to her.

She understood though he said nothing about his wife; and, avoiding all mention of Lady Penryn, she thanked him warmly, and told him about the Duchess and her kindness. Paul Lyons took his wife to Scotland, and to Inchbrae.

Grace saw for herself the clearness of the sea, the beauty of colouring—all the fitful charm which makes the Highlands so very lovely and so dear to its people.

"I think I know why you care for me," she said to Paul one day when they had been for a ramble, she on pony-back and he on foot beside her. "I understand, since I came here, how delightful it is never to know what to expect. I look out of my window in the morning and I see sunshine and blue sky, and a sea in which a thousand delicate colours melt and blend. Half-an-hour afterwards there are clouds, but all is still, light and the sun seem behind, and anxious to peep out again. Next comes darkness, the blue turns to indigo, the sea becomes grey and sullen. All is changed, and so it is ever new, and no one can ever be tired of it. Now, Paul, that is what I conceive to be my charm in your eyes; I am never quite the same, and therefore I hope you will never be tired of me!"

Margaret was in far better spirits, and looking so much more her old self, that Grace was happier about her; but not quite happy, she said to Paul,

"Till something happens which will happen——"

"And till that happens (which I know nothing about) I am to ask no questions?"

"You may ask hundreds—I shall answer none. Do you know, Paul, one thing in connection with our marriage weighed terribly on my mind, shall I tell you that?"

"Pray do, darling, unless it is something very uncomplimentary."

"I used to wonder what two people, bound to live together always, could ever find to talk about. I was so afraid I should find your conversation monotonous, and that I should not be able to rise to the occasion."

"I may tell you that long ago—before I knew you—I often wondered what married people could find to talk about all their lives; since I knew you I have only thought how delightful it would be to have you to talk to, all mine," said Paul simply.

Tears came into her eyes. "You are very good to me," she said; and then they went in.

To Mrs. Dorriman, Grace was "as nice as she could be," and the quartet were happy together, but the consequence of the old days left their trace in a certain constraint. Had Grace remained ill and lonely the kind little woman's heart would have gone out to her more, but she thought (as we often do think) that there was a certain injustice in Grace's being so happy, while Margaret, all for her (because of her impatient temper and other faults) was left to feel bitterly the consequences of a great mistake, entered into entirely from a false conception of what she owed her sister.

Margaret was forgetting, but there were many terrible moments to her. It is one of the many instances of that compensation which is the rule in life, in spite of all assertions to the contrary, that with a great gift—the great gift of poetry and imagination—comes often morbidness.

The high-strung note is oftenest the one that goes most out of tune; and the very vividness and gracefulness of fancy—that combination that makes a poet live in a world of his own—has often its darker side.

Margaret still, at times, lived through the old terrors, still fancied her child's voice called her. She was silent about these things. Every pang she suffered would be a remembrance to Grace. Grace, who was so softened and yet so bright, and who seemed to her to be so completely now the sister she had at one time imagined her to be.

Mrs. Macfarlane was always a friend they were glad to see, but it was Grace who spoke with satisfaction of their having no society, and perhaps nothing more thoroughly convinced Mrs. Dorriman how completely she was altered. They were not to stay long, those two; Paul had not very long leave of absence and wanted to get his wife south. Before they left, one day, Mrs. Dorriman, who had always that feeling about Margaret and the injustice of her suffering for Grace's fault, did want to say one word. She thought it was right, and she was resolved to do it.

"I am very glad you are happy, Grace," she began, the day before their departure.

"Thank you, auntie; you are very good to say so; I am very happy."

"It seems strange; of course we all know that whatever is, is right, but does it not seem strange that poor Margaret?..."

"What is strange about poor Margaret?"

"That you should be happy and that she ... should so suffer."

"Yes, every thing is strange in this world," Grace answered; "at least we think so."

"I am sure, sometimes, you must feel it all very much, though you look as though care and trouble had never touched you."

"Do you count that to me as a crime?" Grace asked in a peculiar tone.

"I sometimes wonder if you ever blame yourself." Mrs. Dorriman's tone was, for her, severe.

"I suppose we all do at times."

"Well, it seems hard."

"That we should blame ourselves?"

"You know I do not mean that."

"No," answered Grace very slowly, and looking at her with a sort of surprise in her face; "I know what all this means; you beat about the bush very badly, Mrs. Dorriman."

"Now I have offended you since you call me Mrs. Dorriman."

"You have offended me," said Grace, vehemently, "because you give me credit for being utterly heartless and cruel, and wanting in affection; you think that, because I am happy now, I have forgotten. I have forgotten nothing! I do blame myself! I know as well as you can tell me that my selfishness and impatience and everything else made Margaret wretched! Up till lately I was very very unhappy, and all her sufferings weighed upon me terribly, but now that I see happiness for her looming in the distance I do allow myself to be happy. It was not till I saw that quite clearly that I consented to marry Paul and to be happy myself!"

"Happiness for Margaret! I see nothing before her but the perpetual grief for her child."

"I see something more. She will always regret her child, but, though there is so much bitterness mixed up with the recollection of its death, she will learn to think more happily even about its loss. Has it never struck you that, had it lived, there must have been a horrible anxiety about it."

"She will never see it in that light."

"You are wrong, for last night I saw her reading something, and I saw it moved her strangely." Grace's own voice faltered for a moment; recovering herself quickly she said, "It was about the short-sightedness of mourning a loss too deeply and not reflecting that it was a veiled mercy, as it was often taken from the evil to come. We talked about it afterwards at night, and I know her thoughts, auntie, now."

"I hope you may be right," said Mrs. Dorriman, and let the conversation drop.

Grace thought she should never forget the night before, when she and Margaret had stood together in something of their old fashion. It had been wonderfully calm and still; the moon, so bright that they might have read by its light, was shining down upon the sea, turning its rippling surface to silver; the soft light, which yet makes such sharp, dark shadows, was on the hills. Every now and again came the curious little grumbling sound from below, where the waves lapped and splashed quietly against the rocks. These waves seemed held by a restraining hand, they were so quiet. A night-hawk gave its weird cry, and some owls hooted; the trees seemed to have nothing to say, their usual rustle was, for the time, stilled. The sisters, in their different ways, felt the great beauty of it all. Margaret had drawn closer to Grace, and the latter gave an affectionate caress. These nights touched a responsive chord in Margaret, that wonderful sympathy that exists between a poet and nature filled her heart to overflowing; and Grace, softened by the affection of her husband, a happier future to look forward to, was sufficiently enthusiastic to draw her out a little.

She began to talk of heaven and of her child.

"On such a night, Grace, there is undescribable peace, and yet these influences pass away and regrets press upon one."

"That is natural," said Grace, softly; "but I do sometimes feel that, in thinking of a little child, regrets must be softened to one. To leave the world before it has been tempted, before it has sinned, with the future in this world, the trials all unknown; you do not know, darling, what it may have been saved."

"You do not know how often that thought comforts me," said Margaret, very earnestly; "if it had lived there might have been perpetual dread of an hereditary curse. No, what troubles me now, in my sad moments, in those darker moods that I sometimes have to fight against, is my own self-reproach."

"And my own dear Margaret, if you suffer from self-reproach what must I do?" asked Grace, with the sincerest sorrow.

"Not about my marriage, Grace; wrong as it was, it brought its own retribution: but I reproach myself bitterly now for not having struggled against the position I was put into. Looking back now I cannot help seeing that there were many things I might have done. I was so afraid of my child being taken from me. I allowed that fear to paralyse my senses. I might have appealed to Mr. Sandford, and done many things I know now I might have done: and it would have been better for him; but I simply lived for my little one; my senses seemed numbed in all directions except in that one. I made it my idol; I prayed for it alone; I dreaded things for it; I worshipped it, and it was taken from me.... If only I knew that the little life had not been sacrificed to neglect I could remember it more happily; but in that fear lies the bitterness of my loss."

"Then you may remember it more happily," said Grace, feelingly, "because that London doctor said to me that the little child could not have been saved; there was something very delicate about it, and it had a very oddly-shaped head."

"Then I can say God is very good," said Margaret, so low that Grace could hardly hear her.

She began to talk again soon, about the scenery round them, and of Mrs. Dorriman.

"There is something—some dread she has. I have no idea what it is, but the curious thing is that she so entirely forgets at times; then something brings it before her again. I love her dearly, and I wish she was perfectly happy."

"I think she is a dear old thing," answered Grace; "but she always puts me in mind of some ivy or creeper that the wind has blown away from its support. She is one of the women who must have somebody to cling to, even if that somebody be tyranical and harsh like her brother."

"Yet, in his own way, he has been kind to us."

"Very much in his own way," said Grace, resentfully.

"I have a fancy about Mr. Sandford," Margaret said rather dreamily.

"You have generally nice fancies about most people, darling; tell your fancy to me."

"You will only laugh?"

"I swear not to laugh."

"You dislike him more than I do."

"I suppose I do, but do you know, Margaret, that since I am happier, I mean since I have had so much affection from my husband and not felt like a boat without oars or rudder, or whatever the thing is that steers it, I feel ever so much kinder about every body—even about him. I am quite convinced that if somebody left me a large fortune I should become a striking instance of overpowering amiability."

"It is a problem I never can solve. I often wonder whether trial or prosperity softens people best."

"It depends upon the material; nothing would hurt you; but for me, I am a sort of acid, and more acid makes me into an explosive."

"My fancy about Mr. Sandford is that at one time in his life, perhaps when he was quite young, he has suffered, and cruelly suffered, from some terrible injustice."

"Another case of acids mixing and blowing up," said Grace, laughing; "he is in a perpetual state of effervescence."

"No, but seriously, Grace, he has a great deal of good in him, and his devotion to his wife shows he has warm affections somewhere, and he has always been kind to me."

"You win every one, even Paul. I know well that you were his first grand passion, and curiously enough I am not jealous."

"Who talks of jealousy?" said a voice from below, and Paul, his cigar nearly ended, came under the window.

"I am merely saying, dear," said Grace in her most melting accents, "that, though you once were madly in love with Margaret, I am not jealous."

And laughing, Grace escaped to her own room. Margaret remained at the window. She was moved by what Grace had repeated to her about her child; yes, better to have lost it here than to have seen it that....

And Grace was really very happy. Paul was most kind and good, and there was more manliness about him now than she had ever thought him capable of; and yet, she said to herself, that for her to give her whole heart, to have such an affection for any one, such as Grace had for her husband, there must be higher qualities.

She must look up more, she must have help, and some one in whom she could find a better and a nobler self.

And in the softening influences of that hour and that scene a vivid blush rose to her face, and she told herself that already one was there; and that her heart, crushed as it had been, and cruelly as she had suffered, was not hopelessly embittered. She knew that she could love, and then she sighed. Large tears came into her eyes and rolled slowly down unchecked over her face, a sudden thrill of passion and of hope went through her frame, and she knew she did love!

Next morning came parting with Grace, but it was a parting in which she allowed no sorrow to appear.

She utterly bewildered Mrs. Dorriman by saying to her, "You will, I hope, soon have very good news to send me."

"About what, my dear?" and poor Mrs. Dorriman's face was expressive of blankest bewilderment.

"About every thing, generally," said Grace; "never mind about understanding now, you will some day; and it will be all right."

When she and Paul had waved a last farewell Mrs. Dorriman stood looking out of the window till the carriage became a speck upon the horizon.

"I wonder what Grace meant, Margaret my love? she does say such odd things, sometimes. Did you hear what she said to me just now?"

"I do not think I know which particular thing you mean, dear auntie; Grace says so many odd things."

"She hoped I should soon have very good news to send her. Now, my dear, what news can I have to send her from here? It really is a very odd saying and I am quite puzzled."

"Do not puzzle yourself; Grace often says things that have no meaning."

"But what do you think, Margaret? You know her so much better than I do. What are you thinking about, just now?"

"I am wondering if it is going to rain," Margaret said, and turned away laughing.

"As if I had spoken about the weather," the poor little woman said. But Margaret had left the room.