Mrs. Dorriman Volume Ii Part 6

"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 pa.s.sion."

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

"Think it over," he repeated, and his voice was full of pathos and pa.s.sion. "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 haemorrhage 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 grat.i.tude 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 s.h.i.+fting 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 pa.s.sed 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, pa.s.sionately; "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."