Graeme did go to Mrs Roxbury's party, and it happened in this way. The
invitations had been sent out before Mr Elphinstone's short, sharp
illness, and Lilias had been made very useful by her aunt on the
occasion. She had not been consulted about the sending of Graeme's
invitation, or probably Rose would have had one too, but by good
fortune, as she declared, Graeme's refusal came first to her hand, and
the little lady did a most unprecedented thing. She put it quietly into
her pocket, and going home that night by the Elliott's, ventured to
expostulate.
"First, you must promise not to be vexed," and then she showed the note.
Graeme looked grave.
"Now you must not be angry with me. Rosie, tell her not to be vexed,
because, you know you can write another refusal, if you are determined.
But I am sure you will not be so cruel. I can't tell you any reason,
except that I have set my heart on your being there, and you'll come to
please me, will you not?"
"To please you, ought to be sufficient reasons, I know," said Graeme,
smiling. And Lilias knew she had prevailed with her friend. She saw
the acceptance written, and carried it off to place it with dozens of
others, in the hands of Mrs Roxbury. She did not say much to Graeme
about it, but to Rosie, she triumphed.
"I want Aunt Roxbury to see Graeme looking her very best. Graeme will
look like a queen among us. Aunt will see that Allan and I have good
reasons for our admiration. Fancy any of these trumpery people
patronising Graeme! But you are not to tell her what I say. You don't
think she was really vexed with me, do you? And she must wear her new
peach-blossom silk. I am so glad."
But poor little Lilias went through deep waters, before the
peach-blossom silk was worn by Graeme. Mr Elphinstone was brought very
near the gates of death, and anxious days and nights were passed by his
daughter at his bedside. Mrs Roxbury would have recalled her
invitations, and Lilias' soul sickened at the thought of the
entertainment; but when the immediate danger was over, events fell into
their usual channel, and though she gave no more assistance, either by
word or deed, her aunt counted on her presence on the occasion, and even
her father insisted that it was right for her to go.
"And so, my love," said Mrs Roxbury, "as your father and I see no
impropriety in your coming, there can be none, and you will enjoy it,
indeed you will. You are tired now."
"Impropriety! it is not that I don't wish to go. I cannot bear the
thought of going."
"Nonsense! you are overtired, that is all. And Mr Ruthven will be here
by that time, and I depend on you to bring him."
But if Allan's presence had depended on Lilias, Mrs Roxbury would not
have seen him in her splendid rooms that night. It was Mr Elphinstone
that reminded her of the note that awaited the return of her cousin, and
it was he who insisted that they should appear, for at least an hour or
two, at the party. And they went together, a little constrained and
uncomfortable, while they were alone, but to all appearance at their
ease, and content with one another when they entered the room. Graeme
saw them the moment they came in, and she saw, too, many a significant
glance exchanged, as they made their way together to Mrs Roxbury.
Lilias saw Graeme almost as soon. She was standing near the
folding-doors, seemingly much interested in what Mr Proudfute, her
brother's friend, was saying to her.
"There, aunt," said Lilias, eagerly, when the greetings were over, "did
I not tell you that my friend Miss Elliott would eclipse all here
to-night? Look at her now."
"My dear," said her aunt, "she does better than that. She is very
lovely and lady-like, and tries to eclipse no one, and so wins all
hearts."
Lilias' eyes sparkled as she looked at her cousin, but he did not catch
her look.
"My dear," continued Mrs Roxbury, "I have news for you, but perhaps it
is no news to you. Ah! he has found her."
Mr Elias Green was at the moment, making his bow to Graeme.
"There was no truth in the rumour, about him and little Miss Grove. Mr
Green has more sense. Your friend is fortunate, Lilias."
Lilias looked at her aunt in astonishment, but nothing more could be
said, for there were more arrivals, and her attention was claimed.
"Aunt Roxbury does not know what she is talking about," said she, to her
cousin, as he led her away. "The idea of Mr Green's daring to lift his
eyes to Graeme Elliott. She would not look at him."
"Mr Green is a great man in his own circle, I can assure you," said Mr
Ruthven. "Miss Elliott will be thought fortunate by people generally."
"Do you think so? You know very little about her, if you think that,"
said Lilias, impatiently.
"I know Mr Green better than most people do, and I respect him--and he
is very rich--"
"Oh! don't talk folly," cried Lilias. "I have no patience with people
who think, because a man is rich--. But you don't know Graeme, cousin
Allan--I thought--"
They were very near Graeme by this time. She turned at the moment, and
greeted them frankly enough, as far as any one could see. She noticed
the cloud on Lilias' face, and asked her if she was quite well; she
expressed pleasure at the return of Mr Ruthven too, but she did not
meet his eye, though he told her he had seen her brother Norman at a
station by the way, and detained her to give her a message that he had
sent. He had schooled himself well, if he was really as unmoved by the
words of Mrs Roxbury and Lilias, as to his cousin he appeared to be.
But he was not a man who let his thoughts write themselves on his face,
and she might easily be deceived. It was not a pleasant moment, it was
a very bitter moment indeed, to him, when with a smile to them, Graeme
placed her hand on the willing arm of Mr Green, and walked away "like a
queen," he said to himself, but to his cousin he said--
"My friend will be a very happy man, and _your_ friend may be happy too,
let us hope."
But Lilias never answered a word. She followed them, with her eyes,
till they disappeared through the door that led to the room beyond; and
then she said only,--
"I have made a great mistake."
Had she made a mistake or had he? A mistake never to be undone, never
outlived--a mistake for Graeme, for himself, perhaps for Lilias too. It
was not a thought to be borne, and he put it from him sternly, saying it
could not have been otherwise--nothing could be changed now; and he was
very gentle and tender with his little cousin that night and afterwards,
saying to himself that she, at least, should have no cause to grieve in
the future, if his loving care for her could avail.
About this time Will was threatened with a serious illness. It did not
prove so serious as they at first feared, but it was long and tedious,
and gave his eldest sister an excuse for denying herself to many who
called, and accounted for her pale looks to those whom she was obliged
to see. In the silence of her brother's sick-room, Graeme looked a
great sorrow in the face. In other circumstances, with the necessity
laid upon her to deceive others, she might for a time have deceived
herself; for the knowledge that one's love has been given unsought, is
too bitter to be accepted willingly. But the misery of those long
silent nights made plain to her what the first sharp pang had failed to
teach her.
In the first agony of her self-scorn, she saw herself without excuse.
She was hard and bitter to herself. She might have known, she thought,
how it was with Allan and his cousin. During all those years in which
she had been a stranger to them both, they had loved each other; and
now, with no thought of her, they loved each other still. It was
natural that it should be so, and right. What was she, to think to come
between them with her love?
She was very bitter to herself and unjust in her first misery, but her
feeling changed. Her heart rebelled against her own verdict. She had
not acted an unmaidenly part in the matter. She had never thought of
harm coming to her, or to anyone, out of the pleasant intercourse of
these months--the renewal of their old friendship. If she had sinned
against Lilias, it had been unconsciously. She had never thought of
these things in those days.
If she had only known him sooner, she thought, or not so soon, or not at
all! How should she ever be able to see them again in the old
unrestrained way? How should she be able to live a life changed and
empty of all pleasure?
Then she grew bitter again, and called herself hard names for her folly,
in thinking that a change in one thing must change all her life. Would
not the passing away of this vain dream leave her as rich in the love of
brothers and sister, as ever? Hitherto their love had sufficed for her
happiness, and it should still suffice. The world need not be changed
to her, because she had wished for one thing that she could not have.
She could be freed from no duty, absolved from no obligation because of
this pain; it was a part of her life, which she must accept and make the
best of, as she did of all other things that came upon her.
As she sat one night thinking over the past and the future, wearily
enough, but without the power to withdraw her mind from what was sad in
them, there suddenly came back to her one of Janet's short, sharp
speeches, spoken in answer to a declaration half vexed, half mirthful,
made by her in the days when the mild Mr Foster had aspired to be more
to her than a friend.
"My dear," she had said, "bide till your time comes. You are but a
woman like the lave, and you maun thole the brunt of what life may
bring. Love! Ay will you, and that without leave asked or given. And
if you get love for love, you'll thank God humbly for one of his best
gifts; and if you do not well, He can bring you through without it, as
He has done many a one before. But never think you can escape your
fate, and make the best of it when it comes."
"And so my fate has found me," murmured Graeme to herself. "This is
part of my life, and I must make the best of it. Well, he can bring me
through, as Janet said."
"Graeme," said Will suddenly, "what are you thinking about?"
Graeme started painfully. She had quite forgotten Will. Those bright,
wakeful eyes of his had been on her many a time when she thought he was
asleep.
"What were you thinking about? You smiled first, then you sighed."
"Did I? Well, I was not aware that I was either smiling or sighing. I
was thinking about Janet, and about something that she said to me once."
She rose and arranged the pillows, stooping down to kiss her brother as
she did so, and then she said sadly,--
"I am afraid you are not much better to-night, Will."
"Yes; I think I am better. My head is clearer. I have been watching
your face, Graeme, and thinking how weary and ill you look."
"I am tired, Will, but not ill." Graeme did not like the idea of her
face having been watched, but she spoke cheerfully.
"I have been a great trouble to you," said Will.
"Yes, indeed! a dreadful trouble. I hope you are not going to try my
patience much longer."
"I don't know. I hope not, for your sake." And then in a little Will
added, "Do you know, Graeme, I am beginning to be glad of this illness
after all."
Graeme laughed.
"Well, if you are glad of it, I will try and bear it patiently a little
longer. I daresay we are taking the very best means to prolong it
chattering at this unreasonable hour."
"I am not sleepy," said Will, "and I am not restless either. I think I
am really better, and it will do me good to have a little talk; but you
are tired."
"I am tired, but I am not sleepy. Besides, if you are really better, I
can sleep for a week, if I like. So, if it be a pleasure to you, speak
on."
"What was it that Janet said that made you sigh so drearily just now?"
asked Will.
Graeme would have liked the conversation to take any other turn rather
than that, but she said, gently,--
"I think my smile must have been for what Janet said. I am sure I
laughed heartily enough when she said it to me so long ago. I suppose I
sighed to think that what she said has come true."
"What was it, Graeme?"
"Oh! I can hardly tell you--something about the changes that come to us
as we grow older, and how vain it is to think we can avoid our fate."
"Our fate?" repeated Will.
"Oh, yes! I mean there are troubles--and pleasures, too, that we can't
foresee--that take us at unawares, and we have just to make the best of
them when they come."
"I don't think I quite understand you, Graeme."
"No, I daresay not; and it is not absolutely necessary that you
should,--in the connection. But I am sure a great many pleasant things
that we did not expect, have happened to us since we came here."
"And was it thinking of these pleasant things that made you sigh?" asked
Will.
"No. I am afraid I was thinking of the other kind of surprises; and I
daresay I had quite as much reason to smile as to sigh. We can't tell
our trials at first sight, Will, nor our blessings either. Time changes
their faces wonderfully to us as the years go on. At any rate, Janet's
advice is always appropriate; we must make the best of them when they
come."
"Yes;" said Will, doubtfully; he did not quite understand yet.
"For instance, Will, you were disconsolate enough when the doctor told
you you must give up your books for an indefinite time, and now you are
professing yourself quite content with headache and water-gruel--glad
even at the illness that at first was so hard to bear."
Will made a face at the gruel she presented.
"I dare say it is good for me, though I can't say I like it, or the
headache. But, Graeme, I did not get this check before I needed it. It
is pleasant to be first, and I was beginning to like it. Now this
precious month taken from me, at the time I needed it most, will put me
back. To be sure," added he, with a deprecating glance, "it is not much
to be first among so few. But as Janet used to say, Pride is an ill
weed and grows easily--flourishes even on a barren soil; and in the
pleasure and excitement of study, it is not difficult to forget that it
is only a means to an end."
"Yes," said Graeme, "it is easy to forget what we ought to remember."
But it came into Will's mind that her sympathy did not come so readily
as usual, that her thoughts were elsewhere, and he had a feeling that
they were such as he was not to be permitted to share. In a little he
said,--
"Graeme; I should like very much to go home to Scotland."