Part 78 (2/2)

Now they are back once more in England. Ten days ago they arrived, and are this morning in Margaret's pretty room that is half filled with growing plants, moving about from this flower to that, and feeling unconsciously little thrills of delight in the fresh sweetness of the morning.

”Spring goeth all in white, Crowned with milk-white May; In fleecy flocks of light, O'er heaven the white clouds stray.

”White b.u.t.terflies in the air, White daisies prank the ground; The cherry and the h.o.a.ry pear Scatter their snow around.”

Well, there are no cherry-trees or h.o.a.ry pear-trees here, but the perfume of the delicate lilac comes to them from the Park, telling them that spring is reigning, even in this dusty old city, with a right royal gaiety.

Twice during these ten days Rylton has called, always asking scrupulously for Margaret; and Margaret only has he seen. Hescott had called once, but t.i.ta would not see him either, and poor Margaret had a rather dreadful interview with him. He had offered her in a frantic, foolish moment, half of all he was worth to be given from him to t.i.ta, and Margaret had a good deal of difficulty in explaining to him that t.i.ta, in reality, was as well off as any young woman need be. Margaret even exaggerated somewhat, and told him that she had a large sum lying idle in a bank--as indeed she had, considering Rylton paid in his princely allowance to her, with determined punctuality, every month, in spite of his knowledge of the fact that she would not touch it. Margaret suffered a good deal through Hescott, and was devoutly grateful when she learned the morning after his visit to her that he had started for a prolonged tour in South Africa. She learned this from himself in a somewhat incoherent letter, and a paragraph in the papers the day after set her mind at rest. Margaret was a Christian, or she might have found consolation in the thought that there are lions in South Africa!

She watched t.i.ta anxiously for a day or two after this, but could not see that the girl was distressed at Tom's departure. She talked of him, indeed, very freely--always a good sign.

”t.i.ta, do you hear the birds?” says Margaret, in quite a little excited way. ”Come here to this window. How they sing!”

”Don't they!” says t.i.ta rapturously.

Her face lights up, but presently she looks a little sad.

”It makes you long for the country?” asks Margaret gently, looking at her without seeming to do so.

”No,” says t.i.ta, shaking her head resolutely; and then: ”Yes--yes.

But I shall always hate to go to it now--now that the dear old home is gone.”

”I wish I had been able to buy it!” says Margaret regretfully.

”Oh, Meg, don't go on like that! You--you who have been everything to me!”

”I wasn't rich enough,” says Margaret ruefully; ”and, at all events, I wasn't in time. I confess now I sold out some shares a little time ago with a view to getting it, but I was too late; it was bought--a private sale, they said.”

”There is nothing I can say--nothing,” says t.i.ta, tears dimming her eyes. ”Why are you so good to me? Oh, Meg! there is one, one thing--I love you, and love you, and love you!” She slips her soft arms round Margaret's neck, and presses her cheek to hers. There is moisture on Margaret's face when this little burst of grat.i.tude has been accomplished. ”I never loved anyone as I love you,” says t.i.ta.

”There is someone else you ought to love better, t.i.ta.”

”There is someone else I _hate,”_ returns t.i.ta, with really astonis.h.i.+ng prompt.i.tude.

”Well, about Oakdean,” says Margaret quickly, appalled by this outbreak of wrath.

”There is nothing about it; it is gone,” says t.i.ta, in a forlorn sort of way; then: ”I wonder who bought it?”

”I don't know. I asked, but I could not find out. Some rich merchant, no doubt.”

”Well,” sighing, ”a rich merchant bought it before--my poor father--and to a rich merchant it has gone. That is as it should be.

Still, it was so pretty, so lovely, so homelike, that I wish----”

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