Volume Ii Part 22 (1/2)

”The man must be mad,” exclaimed Mr. Sandford, and then he noticed his sister's face. ”You have heard something, you have something more to say?” and his own face flushed.

”Brother, do not excite yourself. You know the doctor is afraid of your being ill if you do.”

”Well, then, don't make mysteries,” he said very angrily, and with much of his old violence.

”I am sure,” said the poor woman, hurt at such an accusation, ”I do not wish to make mysteries, but Mrs. Wymans told me that she had heard he drank. Now, I am not quite sure if she put it quite that way or if she asked me if he drank.”

”Not a bit of it. If he does, it is something quite new. He was a very abstemious man. You might recollect his headaches, and saying wine increased those headaches.”

”So I do,” exclaimed Mrs. Dorriman, joyfully; ”how tiresome it is that I forgot this when that woman was here. She spoke so meaningly,” and Mrs.

Dorriman as usual considered herself somehow altogether to blame.

Mr. Sandford said no more, but he lay back, thinking. He blamed himself, justly, for having been the person to bring this man to the house for his own end--and now....

He was free of further blame; he had heard rumours in connection with Mr. Drayton's family that had greatly disturbed him, and _then_ he had done his best to prevent his marrying Margaret; his conscience had plenty to bear but not this--only he might have spoken more plainly, he might have told her or his sister something that had come to his knowledge. Then, when too late, he _knew_.

He was better, but his strength was not coming back quickly, and business matters, the position he had held, everything connected with the past, began to shrink in importance.

But Margaret! Something must be done at once about her; a terrible dread came to him about her.

”One thing you must do at once,” he said, aloud, following out his own thoughts, ”you must write to Jean without delay; enclose her a cheque, and tell her it is important that she should give it, and letters from you, to Margaret, into her own hand. Write to Margaret and tell her she is to let you know the truth, and what her position is--write _at once_,” he repeated, as though his sister, who was thoroughly alarmed, needed any second telling.

Jean was, on the whole, easier about Grace, who had made a surprising rally. She was able to be up and enjoy her meals; she was also able to enjoy the visits of no less a person than Paul Lyons.

Margaret being married and out of his reach, that young man had conceived a great affection for her sister, now a very softened and subdued likeness of herself at Lornbay.

”You are not Margaret, but you remind me of her,” he said sentimentally.

”We are sisters. I think there is a likeness.”

Grace was extremely amused by his sentiment and by the little speeches he made her. She had always rather liked him, and was always tolerant of the little ways that had so provoked her high-minded sister.

”I am not sure about it, personally,” he said, ”I meant your voice and your manner, and something altogether.”

”We have the same kind of nose,” laughed Grace. ”Never mind, Mr. Lyons, I like you to be loyal to my sister; I never, _never_, could come up to her, and I know it!”

”You--you are more like than you were last year. Sometimes I think you _very_ like Margaret,” said Mr. Lyons, consolingly.

”Thank you. I know that is a very high compliment from you.”

”Don't you think, Miss Rivers, that Margaret _might_, she might, have been happier with a fellow like me than with an old madman like Drayton?--that's what hurts me so much,” said the young man.

”Of course she would have been happier, but everything went wrong,” and Grace blushed vividly. ”I sent everything wrong, and, poor, poor darling, she sacrificed herself to save me. Oh, Mr. Lyons! you never can say anything bad enough for me to feel it unjust. I hate myself more and more every day,” and, much to his consternation, Grace, usually mocking at tears, shed them now.

”I declare you are so like Margaret that I am getting to be very fond of you,” exclaimed Paul, ”please don't cry, it makes me feel so ... funny!”

and he looked unhappy, also.

”Oh, if I could _do_ anything!” exclaimed poor Grace, who was, now she was stronger, less able to remain pa.s.sive, and who was utterly and entirely miserable about her sister.

”If one could only shoot the fellow!” said Paul, vindictively.