Mr. Sandford returned from his journey, knowing that when he arrived at
home he should find no one there. He had chosen that time to leave home
because it was the easiest way of avoiding an explanation, which, he
half recognised to himself, must take the form of an apology.
It was perfectly true that he thought his sister took an exaggerated
view of what had passed, but that sense of right and wrong which does
not desert a man for many years convicted him of blame. It was not
possible for any high-spirited girl to submit to the footing he tried
to put Grace upon, but he had grown to dislike her, and he did not at
all mind having hurt her. The only question was about Margaret.
Yes! Margaret was different. He thought often of her expression, of the
way in which she roused herself to indignation when Grace was in
question; and he regretted his want of control on her account. Could
things ever come quite right between them again?
There are some truths which make themselves felt without being thought
out, far less spoken or put into words, and one truth was present to him
then. The moment the faintest question of obligation creeps into close
relationship between one and another person, and that the suspicion of
gratitude becomes _possible_, that moment the character of the
subsisting love changes in a subtle way. Between friend and friend it is
different; there often one receives, the other gives; but in the case of
near relations the expectation of a little gratitude makes the
difference between them. Among sisters a sort of communism is one of
the uniting ties; a common property, a right to share, and one of the
disappointments of life is when from some outside influence or some
change in position, this close tie drifts into a relative position of
inequality.
Mr. Sandford knew that in befriending and adopting his wife's nieces,
who were no kin to him, he was acting in a kind, if not a generous, way;
he had helped to educate them and he had offered them a home. For these
things he deserved that they should consider him and be grateful to him.
But, on the other hand, if he made the home intolerable to them, he
neutralized the gift and spoiled its flavour.
Besides that fondness for power, which was part of his very character,
he conceived that he had obtained by his spontaneous actions a certain
right over them, and he fully intended exercising that right. Then, with
all the unreasonableness of a man who never could see both sides of a
question, he was thoroughly disappointed that they did not show him
more affection. He wanted to be called "Uncle," but he never said so,
and the girls, to whom he had always been an a "unknown quantity," had
never thought of so natural an appellation.
He liked to be feared; he also wished to be loved, especially by
Margaret, towards whom he had the strongest leaning.
As he went up to his own house, he missed the calm, sweet gaze of his
sister and the gay, girlish voices; the house struck him painfully, it
was so cheerless and so dull. He was expected, but not so soon. In the
drawing-room was silence and chilliness; there was no fire in the grate,
the rug was rolled up, all looked as though almost there had been a
death; and with a shiver and a great sinking and depression he went to
his own room--that small room downstairs where his plans were made, and
his successes, and his failures, faced and mastered.
Here a fire was slowly beginning to light, and the room was cold. Anne
would have seen to this, he thought, forgetting that he had returned
some hours before he had intended, finding that a person he wanted to
see on business, had gone South.
The room was scrupulously tidy, but so cheerless; he tried to remember
how it had all been long ago (he thought it was long ago), before he had
been ill, before his sister Anne and the girls had come to him; and he
remembered the dreary and desolate feeling of illness creeping over him,
and how he had then suffered.
A pile of letters, neatly arranged, lay upon his writing-table, and he
looked them over. There was one from his sister and he took it up.
It was not very long, but it filled him with a certain uneasiness. Mrs.
Dorriman, always anxious to fulfil her trust and to show herself worthy
of her responsibilities, sketched their life for his benefit, and,
without laying undue stress upon the fact, let him know that another
person was ready to show his appreciation for Margaret. And he so wanted
Margaret to be at home with him, at any rate for some few years. She was
so young, and, if her sister was only disposed of, he thought she would
grow to like him.
Why was it always Margaret?
Mrs. Dorriman also mentioned the glimpse they had had of Mr. Drayton,
the man he had hoped so much from, who seemed so frank and who was so
reserved, and who had disappointed and baffled him in so many ways.
He also wanted Margaret. He had been there by accident. Of course he
would go back again, and Mr. Sandford rose and paced the room, stopping
to stir the fire violently, so violently that the newly-lit sticks
collapsed, the coal smothered the flickering flame and the fire went
out.
With an exclamation of annoyance, Mr. Sandford rang the bell. It was
answered by Jean, nerved for the occasion, who had been matching for an
opportunity to speak to him, much too greatly in awe of him to walk in
upon him without an opening.
She looked at the fire and understood what had happened, went off for
fresh sticks, laid and new-lit the fire in a few seconds, and then
confronted him, and asked him if he wanted anything else.
"When am I to have dinner?" he asked, abruptly.
"You can have something to eat now if you please; dinner can be any time
after seven," said Jean. "You look cold, sir?"
"The house is like an iceberg," he said in a grumbling and complaining
tone, "quite enough to give one cold."
"It's cheerless and dull, and cold enough, sir, without any one, but
just only a man," said Jean. "It's not much comfort to a man being
alone."
"Have you heard from Mrs. Dorriman?" he asked.
"Oh, certainly, sir, she writes whiles to me."
"I have a letter, I suppose she is well?"
"She does not complain of ill health; not that Mrs. Dorriman's given to
complaining," said Jean; "she'll put up with a great deal, will Mrs.
Dorriman, sooner than speak a word."
Did she mean anything by this? Mr. Sandford glanced keenly at her, and
thought it best to say nothing.
"What time do you wish to eat your dinner, sir?" inquired Jean.
"Oh! any time after seven," he answered, and there was a certain
weariness in his tone that struck her.
She said no more, but looked at the fire, now blazing, and went back to
her domain.
It was still early in the afternoon, though the want of clearness in the
air all round the place made it soon dark.
On a table, tidily set out and looking comfortable, was Jean's tea,
though the teapot, one of those delightful brown earthenware affairs,
producing somehow such superexcellent tea, was on a hot plate in front
of the fire.
Jean made some delicate toast, and arranged a little tray; she poured
off the first cup, resolving to give him of the best, and was soon in
his room again. Her great panacea for all ill was in her hands, and Mr.
Sandford, who wanted comfort and warmth, and did not understand how much
he wanted both, was sitting looking moodily at the fire, conscious that
life was altogether wrong with him somehow.
He received Jean's attention without much apparent gratitude, but when
she had gone he did turn to it for consolation, and eat up all the
toast, as Jean noted afterwards with much satisfaction.
Then he read his letters, feeling better; and one letter he held in his
hand for a long while.
Mr. Sandford while known to be a rich man was never talked of as a
speculative man. He was one of those people considered "very safe all
round." No one took greater pains than he did to inquire into
securities, no one was keener to detect a possible risk, and his
investments, his financial ability, all together gave him a position he
thoroughly valued.
But, as in the most perfect characters there is a flaw, and as in armour
there is a vulnerable place, in business relations there is sometimes a
weak point.
He was not large-minded enough ever to own himself wrong. He could not
bear to be suspected of having made a mistake; and he sometimes found
himself on the horns of a dilemma, and found the horns were very
pointed.
He was so fond of power, of dictating and directing, of leading with a
hard and heavy hand, that he sometimes took a wrong view of a matter,
and then sacrificed his own interests rather than be proved wrong.
At this moment he was confronted by a terrible mistake. He thought and
thought till he was tired how to face it and get out of it. He could not
disturb his other investments, except at a ruinous loss. He had been so
certain, that he had locked up for a time the floating capital he could
generally fall back upon, and he found himself for the very first time
almost stranded.
It was not only the possibility of heavy loss, but the fact he knew so
well, that, when all was known, as it must be known--unless he could
manage to tide it all over--it would shake his position all round.
Cold drops stood out upon his forehead as he rapidly considered all
these possibilities. He saw, as in a long vista, all he cared for, all
he had toiled for, swept away, and himself standing there, without a
friend, the laughing-stock of the very people who now flattered him, and
tried to benefit by his superior understanding on financial questions.
He seized a train-book. There was just one chance--Mr. Drayton.
His sister had mentioned him, and he felt quite certain that, as he had
seen his nieces at Lornbay, he would make his way there again.
He would go there and he would manage it. There was no ruin to Mr.
Drayton, and no loss of position. Supposing he lost--all the world
looked upon him as an amiable fool as regarded business matters. He had
no position to lose; it would not be a fall such as his own would be;
and there would be no loss. It was only a temporary embarrassment.
He rang once more, and Jean saw that he was now in quite his old
peremptory, masterful mood.
"Let me have something to eat at once, and tell Robert to pack my things
again. Why he does not answer my bell I cannot make out. What is the use
of him?"
"Not knowing you would be home so soon, Robert went to do some messages;
but I expect him in in a moment or two. Then I'll not sheet your bed?"
She spoke in an inquiring tone; her thrifty soul anxious not to crumple
the linen now airing, if not required.
"I have to go at once. I am going to Lornbay. I suppose you have no
message?"
"I'll no trouble you with messages. I aye use my pen when need be," she
said, very calmly, and hurried off to get him that something to eat
which is never a great difficulty in the hands of an experienced cook.
It may be said that she did write to her mistress, as she always called
Mrs. Dorriman, that very night, and gave a graphic description of Mr.
Sandford's arrival.
As frequently is the case, the pith of her letter lay in the postscript.
"You will be glad to hear, mem, that, though he was most fashious and
pernickity, he was not just very rampageous, and he drank his tea and
eat up all the toast," wrote Jean, who had never before known him
condescend to such simple fare.
After all, Mr. Sandford did not start that night. He reflected, that, as
he was anxious, he must not show his anxiety; and also that feeling of
indisposition which he did not recognise made him put off his journey
till the following day, a postponement which met with Jean's fullest
approval. Why people should spend their nights, rumbling and tumbling
along, when they might be in their beds, was one of the most surprising
things in life to her, and she thought it "wise like" not to do it.
But this postponement made one difference, instead of bursting upon them
all as a surprise, Mr. Sandford was expected. The trio were alone, and
no one, so far as he could ascertain, was staying there interesting to
him.
Mrs. Dorriman was glad he had come. She was always thankful to share any
responsibility; and she thought him looking ill--which fact always
softened her towards him.
Her feeling for him had, indeed, much changed, and she never thought
bitterly of his old misdoings towards her. Time, which softens a grief,
heals many a difference; and, though she always had the consciousness of
having been hardly used, she constantly found herself making allowances
for him, and compassion was beginning to tone down all her sources of
irritation against him.
Jean's letter, posted over-night, arrived just after breakfast; the
girls were dismayed; they had parted from him with angry feelings, and
now, how were they to meet? Margaret, calling Grace in vain to accompany
her, set off for a long expedition among the lower hills that crowned
the heights behind Lornbay. From high up she obtained a larger view,
and, with Tennyson in her hands, with whom she spent all her happiest
moments, she prepared to wander far, not sorry to be alone, and feeling
secure from the companionship of Mr. Paul Lyons or of any of those
common-place, if friendly, women who had by degrees gathered round Mrs.
Dorriman and who tried Margaret's patience sorely.
Would a day ever come to her, she often thought with girlish impatience,
when the interests of life would be narrowed to a new pattern in
cross-stitch or crewel-work, and to the want of taste in some person's
way of setting a bow on the side of a cap. These trivial matters lay so
far outside anything that contained possible interest to her, that she
despised the people who evidently considered them of consequence.
Margaret also was beginning to make another discovery, and one that
filled her with pain and even terror. She had too candid a mind not to
own a truth to herself, however unwillingly, and the truth which
frightened her and dismayed her was the wide difference existing between
her sister and herself. She had all her life looked up to Grace, admired
her and worshipped her. Every day now showed her that Grace had, in all
ways, a lower standard than she had. She was contented to spend her time
in perfect and complete idleness; she would no longer even talk upon
matters of any importance with her sister. All those questions of
religious thought which crowd upon a young girl when her mind begins to
draw its own conclusions and she shakes off those boundaries and lines
which have, up till then, been the accepted guides for all her belief,
were too evidently distasteful to Grace to be persisted in. We feel it
as irreverent to allow a careless hand to touch our holiest and highest
thoughts as we do if a scoffer enters a church with us. Poor Margaret,
often perplexed, asking herself questions that have always baffled the
wisest men, blamed her own want of perception for not understanding. She
had a high ideal, a desire for the best, and she was often miserable
because of a supposed short-coming of a faith that was not unwavering.
To turn to Grace, who was, she thought, so far her superior in point of
cleverness, would have been such an endless comfort to her.
But it was not only in these deeper things that the sisters differed.
Grace, full of vanity, was insatiable in her appetite for applause. She
took endless trouble to obtain attention, conceiving attention
invariably to mean admiration. Not all Margaret's love for her could
conceal the fact from her widely-opening eyes, and to the higher
character of the severe young sister this intense vanity was almost a
worse fault than one perhaps of a stronger type. It seemed to her to be
so absolutely beneath the dignity of a woman, and of such a woman as
Grace.
In the room they shared together every candle was brought to bear upon
the glass, and the time Grace took to curl and crimp and crisp her hair
left Margaret none. Luckily, by chance, her long, thick hair was simply
smoothed back and twisted in a coil that required but a few moments to
arrange.
Those moments, during which Margaret's grave young eyes were fixed
wonderingly upon her sister, were full of grief to her. Then Grace's
habit of laughing off a question, her little transparent caprices and
deceits, filled the younger sister with apprehension. Imaginative as she
was, the truth exaggerated itself to her inexperienced eyes, and she saw
her sister drifting from her and slipping each day down to a lower
level, while she stood by helpless. These thoughts filled her mind, to
the exclusion of other things; she tried to read, she tried to enjoy
the great stretch of water, the faint, blue hills with the varying
lights, but her heart was heavy, and she sat down at the foot of a sharp
and rocky gorge and gave herself up to melancholy reflections.
Then something happened--what, she never rightly knew--but there was a
sudden shout, a rushing and falling of the rock under which she was
sitting, and a figure vainly endeavouring to protect itself came
crashing down and lay helpless a few yards from where, with the instinct
of self-preservation, Margaret had sprung. For one second she stood
breathless, trembling all over with the sudden shock and fright, then
she rallied and went quickly up to the prostrate form, lying so still
that she was afraid death would confront her.
She took courage, and moved the checked deer-stalker's cap that had
fallen over the face, and she saw a man, not very young, his eyes closed
and his teeth clenched, a look of agony impressed upon his features.
With the necessity for help came strength; she flew down to the burn
and dipped her handkerchief in water, bathed his mouth and eyes and
forehead, and then, seeing how he lay, all of a heap, she gently moved
him so that he might breathe more easily, then she knelt and prayed with
all her heart. It seemed long before he showed any signs of life, and
the poor child was getting very nervous and very anxious; she could not
leave him alone there, she thought, till she knew how it would be; and
she went on dabbing his face and hands, with a very faint hope of his
responding to her efforts. But at last life, that had been so nearly
shaken out from the great massive frame, began to tingle once more
through his veins, and, after a long shuddering sigh and a smothered
exclamation of pain, his eyes opened and stared back at hers in complete
bewilderment. He had heard her praying.
"I saw you fall; there was no one else; are you very much hurt?" said
Margaret, anxiously, all in one breath.
"I am afraid I am," he answered, and the deep tones of his voice were
full of suppressed pain.
"Can you move at all? Should you be afraid of being left? Shall I go for
help?"
He struggled for self-command; it was evident the pain was almost
overmastering him, and Margaret's heart was so full of compassion she
had no longer room for nervousness. She was touched beyond measure when
she noticed that in the midst of all his suffering he thought of her,
and that he was trying to suppress all signs of what he was enduring. He
could not speak for a moment or two, then he said hurriedly,
"My men are looking out for me. If you can, tie a handkerchief to my
stick. They were to pick me up here." In a moment or two he said, "If
you do not mind staying--till--they come--" and to poor Margaret's
dismay he went off again into insensibility.
She acted as he had told her and had the comfort of seeing a boat
come off. She did not notice from which ship it came, but she hurried
back to his side, and renewed her efforts with her dripping
pocket-handkerchief.
Then, when the men were landing, she went down to the shore towards them
and told them there had been an accident; and, in a moment or two, the
unfortunate hero of the adventure was surrounded by strong arms, and
evidently anxious helpers, and Margaret glided away. She felt very tired
as she walked homewards. Anxiety is always a much greater fatigue than
physical exertion, and she drooped as she reached the hotel. Then she
dragged herself upstairs and was pleased to find herself alone with Mrs.
Dorriman.
Mrs. Dorriman was placidly engaged in doing up her accounts, and was
satisfied to find that her brother, if he wished to do so, might inspect
them without being able to find fault. But Mr. Sandford was not at all
either stingy or exacting, as far as money matters went; and Mrs.
Dorriman, as she wrote out the conclusion, could not help giving a sigh
when she thought how entirely the method and neatness of it all was
thrown away, since no other eye would probably ever see this well-kept
book save her own.
She looked up to see Margaret--pale to her lips--sink wearily into a
chair; and she was up and alarmed directly.
"An accident," murmured poor Margaret. "Oh, no, not to me," she went on
as Mrs. Dorriman's alarm increased; and then the fright and fatigue and
all else broke her down, and she cried; and the poor bewildered woman
was even more at her wit's end than usual.
Margaret could not go down to luncheon; as usual with her whenever
unduly excited, her head throbbed violently, but she refused to go to
bed. "I have had no accident, I am not hurt," she said, laughing a
little hysterically, "but I thought he had been killed. It was so
dreadful."
Mrs. Dorriman petted her, and made her have some soup, and left her on
the sofa, while she went to find Grace and go downstairs.
Later on, there was a commotion downstairs, a bustle as of a new
arrival. Margaret heard it without connecting it with her adventure.
That apathetic feeling of languor which generally succeeds excitement
had come over her, and she lay quiet, not sleeping, not even thinking,
all her senses lulled into absolute repose. Into this came Grace,
excited, bubbling over with news.
"Margaret!" she exclaimed, rushing up to her sister's side, and speaking
in her high clear treble voice, "a poor man, the owner of that lovely
yacht we saw come in last night, has been nearly smashed to pieces, and
they have brought him here. His name is Sir Albert Gerald, and I saw him
carried in. He is wonderfully handsome, and it was quite romantic to see
him on his boat-cushions all carefully arranged, and carried
shoulder-high by his boatmen."
"I know," said Margaret, putting her hand up to her aching head, "I saw
him fall, Grace. He fell beside me, where I was sitting, and I thought
he was killed."
"You saw him fall! Margaret, what an adventure, and did he speak to you?
Did he see you? Who was there?"
"His boat's crew brought him home, you said?" and Margaret, who could
not enter into all the particulars, just turned wearily over as though
anxious to be left alone.
And Grace turned away. Margaret had seen him fall, but this was all, she
thought.
That evening brought Mr. Sandford to Lornbay. Grace was the first to
greet him, and any emotion that might have marked the meeting was
entirely swept away by her coolness.
Margaret felt more, but she was struck by a look of worry and ill health
visible in his face, and she was sorry for him, and her sorrow gave her
manner a kindness he was not prepared for. He did not trouble them much
with his society, but went off to discover when Mr. Drayton was likely
to arrive; an unexpected smoothness had characterized his meeting with
the girls, for which he felt duly thankful.
There were numbers of letters awaiting Mr. Drayton's arrival. Several in
the well-known hand of his manager, the man who so steadily opposed all
schemes, such as the very one Mr. Sandford was there to press upon him.
Not unnaturally, the landlord, and every one else connected with the
place, was full of the terrible accident which had brought Sir Albert
Gerald to the hotel, and it was also feared to his grave, for he was
very ill. One arm was broken in two places, and he had sustained, it was
feared, some internal injuries, which rendered his recovery
problematical.
Mr. Sandford heard without more than a passing interest the story of the
accident, told with that minute attention to unimportant details, that
characterises a narration in the hands of those to whom all strange
events appear in an exaggerated form. He did not know this man's name,
though one day he was destined to know it well. He was sorry for him and
that was all.
The person who felt Mr. Sandford's arrival to be of very real importance
was Lady Lyons--next to her, her son. Lady Lyons, who always saw less or
considerably more in every action which touched her in any way, and of
course her son, came to a conclusion immediately.
"This I consider good," she said to the amazed young man, continuing a
thought aloud as she sometimes did, and thereby somewhat bewildering
him.
"Mother! What do you consider good?"
"Mr. Sandford's arrival; is it possible, my dear Paul, you do not
understand the full importance of this. Have you not realized what this
means?"
"Certainly not."
"Men are so dreadfully dense," said the mother, with a gesture of
impatience.
"Will you enlighten me, since I am only a man and so dense." He spoke in
a tone of good-humoured banter.
"My dear Paul," she began, looking at him with much affection, "you have
been a dear good son, a dutiful son, and in this instance I am sure a
wise one--you have kept away from Margaret Rivers till something was
known. Do you not see now in the arrival of Mr. Sandford an anxiety to
see--not his nieces, from whom he parted not so long ago--but you, Paul,
_you_! He has probably heard something from Mrs. Dorriman (in that
quarter, my boy, I have not left a stone unturned), and he _may_ have
heard that Margaret is inclined to respond. Eh! Paul? You see therefore
he comes himself to know if you are worthy!"
"My poor, dear mother," said Paul, "if men are dense as you say, still
the imagination of women is quite beyond belief."
"Imagination founded on fact, my dear Paul."
"Mother," he began, in a tone of which she could not comprehend the
bitterness, "will it wound you to know that in this matter I was not so
dutiful a son? Forgive me, but love was stronger than duty. I tried hard
to win Margaret, I pleaded with her, she must have seen that I was in
earnest, she must have known I loved her.... She refused me, mother,
refused me as one beneath her, and she was right, she said I was a boy
and a trifler. I have told you, as you were building false hopes, but I
cannot speak of it again."
He turned away, and his mother sat upright in her great astonishment.
All mortification at his not having after all taken her advice was
forgotten in her supreme surprise at her son's having actually been
refused.
Naturally her motherly view of the question made this strange to her;
she was so astounded that she lost the power of speech for the moment
and gave vent to little helpless exclamations which required no answer.
Then abruptly he left her, feeling too deeply to bear to hear her
discuss it. At this moment Mr. Drayton was returning to Lornbay,
trusting to find Margaret still there, and not anticipating the arrival
of Mr. Sandford, or, in short, any change in their arrangements.
It was natural that Margaret should ask, from day to day, how the poor
wounded man was getting on. In a life in which no great incidents had
occurred, such an adventure, in itself, was full of intense and painful
interest, but she always remembered the wonderful self-command and the
thought of her; at such a moment, the pain must have been frightful, and
yet how he had tried to suppress all outward signs of it. The expression
in his dark eyes haunted her; such a glimpse of the man's real nature
had been given her. Should they ever meet again? She thought not;
already something was said about their going home, and perhaps they
might go before he was well. She was utterly unconscious, upon her side,
of having done anything worthy of thanks, and she was not quite sure
whether, if they met, that short but agonized hour would constitute
acquaintanceship.
After fluctuating between life and death, however, for many weary hours,
Sir Albert Gerald rallied. He was thirty-two, in the very prime of his
youth and strength; unfavourable symptoms disappeared one by one, and he
began to rally. His first thought, as he was returning to full
consciousness, and that all his pain and agony were gradually yielding
to his strong powers of recovery, was of the girl, who, looking like a
pitying angel, had bravely sat alone with him, and had, by her presence
of mind, saved him; and he had seen her tears. Had she not been
there.... There would have been a late search; his men might have
thought it strange that his expected signal was not made and might have
looked for him. Then he told himself it would have been too late. He lay
wondering who she was, where she lived, and how he could ever thank her,
not knowing her name, when one day his servant was arranging his books,
and he asked him to put one or two beside him, he might feel inclined to
read. He lay still, however; terribly weakened as he was, he dreaded
moving. He was so bruised and so battered it seemed impossible he should
ever stride across the hills and follow any of his old occupations
again. His eye dwelt idly on the binding of the books before him, and he
wondered if it would bring back suffering if he looked into one.
Thoughts become monotonous when they are full of a certain fear; then,
with that quick recognition of small facts that often accompanies great
prostration of strength, he saw a strange book lying amongst his own.
With great caution and not without some pain he drew the book towards
him, and, with all the difficulty of a man accustomed to use his right
hand, now so useless, he opened it. "Tennyson!" he said softly to
himself; then he looked at the fly-leaf and saw written, in an unformed
girlish sprawl, Grace Rivers. "How did that book get among mine?" he
thought, perplexed and puzzled. The attentive John came in again and his
master asked him the question.
"It was lying by you when you fell, Sir Albert. I did not know it was
not yours."
"Ah, I see," said his master, pleased by the conviction that he now
knew the name of the girl who lived in his memory so distinctly. A
little later he called his servant to him and complained of the dulness
he felt lying there.
"Perhaps the landlord would come and talk to me; that would be better
than nothing."
"Yes, Sir Albert."
"Unless he is busy. I have nothing particular to say to him. You will
explain this to him."
"Yes, Sir Albert."
"Mind you make it clear," continued the sick man, but John was out of
hearing.
Time seemed to pass more slowly now a certain expectancy weighted its
wings, but Sir Albert ruled his spirit in patience. It was very pleasant
to have a clue; never had he felt so much interested in a young lady
before. This was natural; he had never required such assistance before.
It was altogether exceptional. There was quite the foundation of a
romance, supposing him to be younger than he was and not so sensible. A
younger and more susceptible man might have fallen in love there and
then. And then he laughed a little. That was indeed absurd!
END OF VOL. I.