Volume Iii Part 25 (1/2)
”Her father was most kind to my poor boy. I know nothing of his people, but he was a thorough gentleman. I never could understand why you would never take the slightest notice of the girl. However the thing's done now and cannot be mended.”
He did not tell his wife that he had sent Grace a magnificent bracelet, and a kind and fatherly letter, offering to be of use to her.
She understood though he said nothing about his wife; and, avoiding all mention of Lady Penryn, she thanked him warmly, and told him about the d.u.c.h.ess and her kindness. Paul Lyons took his wife to Scotland, and to Inchbrae.
Grace saw for herself the clearness of the sea, the beauty of colouring--all the fitful charm which makes the Highlands so very lovely and so dear to its people.
”I think I know why you care for me,” she said to Paul one day when they had been for a ramble, she on pony-back and he on foot beside her. ”I understand, since I came here, how delightful it is never to know what to expect. I look out of my window in the morning and I see suns.h.i.+ne and blue sky, and a sea in which a thousand delicate colours melt and blend.
Half-an-hour afterwards there are clouds, but all is still, light and the sun seem behind, and anxious to peep out again. Next comes darkness, the blue turns to indigo, the sea becomes grey and sullen. All is changed, and so it is ever new, and no one can ever be tired of it. Now, Paul, that is what I conceive to be my charm in your eyes; I am never quite the same, and therefore I hope you will never be tired of me!”
Margaret was in far better spirits, and looking so much more her old self, that Grace was happier about her; but not quite happy, she said to Paul,
”Till something happens which will happen----”
”And till that happens (which I know nothing about) I am to ask no questions?”
”You may ask hundreds--I shall answer none. Do you know, Paul, one thing in connection with our marriage weighed terribly on my mind, shall I tell you _that_?”
”Pray do, darling, unless it is something very uncomplimentary.”
”I used to wonder what two people, bound to live together always, could ever find to talk about. I was so afraid I should find your conversation monotonous, and that I should not be able to rise to the occasion.”
”I may tell you that long ago--before I knew you--I often wondered what married people could find to talk about all their lives; since I knew you I have only thought how delightful it would be to have you to talk to, all mine,” said Paul simply.
Tears came into her eyes. ”You are very good to me,” she said; and then they went in.
To Mrs. Dorriman, Grace was ”as nice as she could be,” and the quartet were happy together, but the consequence of the old days left their trace in a certain constraint. Had Grace remained ill and lonely the kind little woman's heart would have gone out to her more, but she thought (as we often do think) that there was a certain injustice in Grace's being so happy, while Margaret, all for her (because of her impatient temper and other faults) was left to feel bitterly the consequences of a great mistake, entered into entirely from a false conception of what she owed her sister.
Margaret was forgetting, but there were many terrible moments to her. It is one of the many instances of that compensation which is the rule in life, in spite of all a.s.sertions to the contrary, that with a great gift--the great gift of poetry and imagination--comes often morbidness.
The high-strung note is oftenest the one that goes most out of tune; and the very vividness and gracefulness of fancy--that combination that makes a poet live in a world of his own--has often its darker side.
Margaret still, at times, lived through the old terrors, still fancied her child's voice called her. She was silent about these things. Every pang she suffered would be a remembrance to Grace. Grace, who was so softened and yet so bright, and who seemed to her to be so completely now the sister she had at one time imagined her to be.
Mrs. Macfarlane was always a friend they were glad to see, but it was Grace who spoke with satisfaction of their having no society, and perhaps nothing more thoroughly convinced Mrs. Dorriman how completely she was altered. They were not to stay long, those two; Paul had not very long leave of absence and wanted to get his wife south. Before they left, one day, Mrs. Dorriman, who had always that feeling about Margaret and the injustice of her suffering for Grace's fault, did want to say one word. She thought it was right, and she was resolved to do it.
”I am very glad you are happy, Grace,” she began, the day before their departure.
”Thank you, auntie; you are very good to say so; I am very happy.”
”It seems strange; of course we all know that whatever is, is right, but does it not seem strange that poor Margaret?...”
”What is strange about poor Margaret?”
”That you should be happy and that she ... should so suffer.”
”Yes, every thing is strange in this world,” Grace answered; ”at least we think so.”
”I am sure, sometimes, you must feel it all very much, though you look as though care and trouble had never touched you.”