"Please do," returned Grizel heartily. "I adore stray teas!"

Most unfeeling! the nurse decided, but then, what could one expect? A most disagreeable old woman, and such a fortune to inherit! She sighed, stifling a pang of envy.

The will of Lady Griselda Dundas was published the week after her funeral, and was the subject of comment in every large newspaper in the kingdom. The disposal of so large a fortune was in itself interesting, but the unusual conditions of the will attracted a curious attention.

Beyond a few insignificant legacies the entire property was bequeathed to her niece, and adopted daughter, Miss Grizel Dundas, for the term of her unmarried life. On her marriage she became ent.i.tled to an income of five hundred a year, with a further sum of ten thousand pounds to be paid down on her fiftieth birthday, the remainder of the vast property being divided between certain charities, and a few distant relations, scattered about the world.

Grizel Dundas was left then to decide between single blessedness and an income approaching thirty thousand a year, and marriage on a pittance of five hundred! Society wagged its tongue in excited effort to solve the reason of the mystery. Lady Griselda's own unhappy marriage had made her dread a similar experience for her niece. Grizel Dundas had been on the eve of an imprudent marriage, from which the will was designed to save her. Unsavoury facts had come to light concerning the private life of a certain t.i.tled aspirant... Numerous theories were advanced, but only one solution. Grizel Dundas was already twenty-eight, an age at which the sentimental period might be supposed to be outlived; she would accept the goods which the G.o.ds had given, and become one of the great hostesses of society. Those seemingly lazy, easy-going people were invariably the most practical at heart. Grizel Dundas was no fool. She knew well enough on which side her bread was b.u.t.tered.

And in The Glen, Martin and Katrine Beverley read the different notices in strained silence, and referred to them in terse, difficult words.

Each tried anxiously to discover the other's sentiments, and to conceal a personal verdict. Katrine discovered in Martin's depression the confirmation of her own conviction that he could never venture to ask Grizel to become his wife, at such a cost to her future prospects. The conviction brought with it a renewed sense of security, but little of the satisfaction which she had expected. A mysterious weight lay on her heart, and she struggled against an almost overwhelming sense of impatience. The routine of daily life appeared insufferably monotonous, blank, and unsatisfying. If Martin settled down again into his old, grave way, life would go on in the same old way, always the same! She had been pa.s.sing through a period of unrest and dread, but now that the dread seemed over, her heart knew no joy. "What do I want?" Katrine asked despairingly of herself. "What do I want?"

Martin had gone to town to attend the funeral, but as Grizel had not attended the ceremony had had no glimpse of her. The ordinary letter of condolence had been forwarded, but had received no reply. A week dragged by, a fortnight, almost three weeks, and Martin, strained almost beyond endurance, was tentatively suggesting to Katrine that it would be a kind action to run up to town to pay Grizel a call, when the morning post arrived, and with it a letter in the large, well-known writing.

"Will you put me up for a week?" Grizel wrote. "There is a lot of clearing away to be done here, and I must get away. Expect me to-morrow by the five o'clock train!"

CHAPTER TWELVE.

"Lebong, _August 20, 19--_.

"Dear Katrine,--

"Your grumbly letter safely to hand. You explained the reasons right enough, for all your protests, and honestly, dear, I can't sympathise!

All is going as I could have told you it would, and in the best way possible for all concerned. You've only to sit still, and await events.

"I should like to meet Miss Grizel Dundas. She doesn't sound the sort of a girl a man _would_ look at with sorrowful eyes. I shouldn't myself. I'd think small beer of Martin if he did. Dorothea says there's an erratic old aunt in the question, and that no human soul can foretell what she may do. Personally I hope she'll leave her fortune to the Home for Stray Cats, or any mad scheme which old ladies approve, rather than to fascinating Miss Grizel. A few hundreds a year to buy frocks and frills is agreeable enough, but a colossal fortune is a handicap to a girl, so far as decent, single-minded men are concerned.

_You_ are not an heiress by any chance, are you? My annual income from every source tots up to something like eight hundred a year, and as this is an expensive station, and the caste question necessitates an army of servants, it might very well be more... However! we were not talking about ourselves.

"You are wrong about Martin, dear girl, and the sooner you realise it the better. There's no stepping down from pedestals in opening the heart to love and joy--the demoralising thing is to close it, out of a mistaken sense of duty. Are these years of repression shaping him into a kinder, wider, more generous form? Think over the question, and if you answer 'no,' then what is to be his cure?

"I expect the truth of it is that like most dear women the religious question troubles you. How, you ask yourself, would Martin feel, if he married again, and died, and met Juliet in another sphere? What would happen when the two wives met?--I should laugh over that question, if I did not guess that it bites deep, for what sort of a spiritual world could it be in which jealousy and self-seeking counted before love! I can imagine Juliet meeting Grizel with open arms, and blessing her for having brought back joy to the beloved's heart; I can imagine them united by the very fact of their mutual love; what is utterly beyond my imagination is that having reached a higher plane of thought and vision, there should be any grudge, any envy, any question of who comes first!

"We've got to _grow_, little girl! Plants _can_ grow in the dark; sickly, pale-coloured things, but they cannot flower. Think that over too. You'll find I am right.

"I'm hanged if I am not preaching, after all. Sorry! You'll have to forgive me this time.

"Dorothea and I have had 'words.' She represents that as she allowed me to hear extracts from your letters for years past, she might now be treated to occasional extracts from mine. From a logical point of view there's nothing to be said, only--it can't be done. My letters are my own. Not so much as a comma can be shared. It appears also that a certain photograph has disappeared from her mantelpiece, and that she blames me. I took it right enough, _but it looked as if it wanted to come_! Give you my word it did. And it lives _perdu_ in a drawer, where no eye can see it but mine own, and I say good-night to it every night, and good-morning when I'm not too late, and an occasional salaam during the day, just to see that she's there all right!

"We have just been giving a big send-off to a fellow in the regiment, Bedford by name, who is taking a few months' sick leave. His people are to meet him in Egypt as he can't stand an English winter, and he hopes to get back in spring. A bad case of rheumatism, which will play the d.i.c.kens with his work if it is not stopped in time. The desert air is the best cure he can have, and he ought to put in a pretty good time.

You'd like Bedford. A big, bony chap, rather after your own description of the fortunate orphan, with a curt, shy manner, which the women seem to approve. With men he is as straight as a die, and a splendid soldier. It gives one a choke in the throat to see Bedford hobble.

"I've told him that I know a spinster lady in England who collects bra.s.ses, and asked him to keep a look-out for old specimens, so I expect you'll hear from him one of these days. It will give him an interest in poking about, and besides--Christmas is coming!

"Well, good-bye, little girl. Take care of yourself, and look forward as I do to a good time coming!

"Yours ever,

"Jim Blair."

CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

Grizel in a grey dress, with a hat wreathed with violets, was a shock to Katrine's sensibilities. In theory she disapproved of conventional mourning, and approved of fulfilling the wishes of the dead; in reality she was still under the thraldom of public opinion, and the prospect of walking down the High Street with a mourner in colours a.s.sumed the dimensions of a dread. "They" would say,--what would "they" say?

The unchanged demeanour of the mourner was likewise a shock. There was every reason why Lady Griselda's death should be regarded as a relief, but an a.s.sumption of regret and gravity were customary under the circ.u.mstances, and Grizel was not even subdued. She smiled, and jested, preserved her lazy, untroubled air, and to an outside eye was in no respect altered by the happenings of the last weeks. Katrine waited impatiently for some reference to the dramatic will, and when none came, was driven to open the subject herself.

"Isn't it glorious," she questioned curiously, "to be mistress of that enormous fortune? To know that you can practically get anything in the whole world which you happen to fancy?"

Grizel stroked her nose, her eyes asking the question which would have been too ba.n.a.l in words. _Anything_? Katrine understood the reference, and flushed brightly. She hurried to add a clause:

"Of course, if you had been sentimentally disposed, it would have been different, but you have never--"

"No," responded Grizel amiably, "I never have."

Voice and manner were all that is friendly; there was not a particle of resentment, nevertheless the subject was closed, and Katrine knew that she could never refer to it again. That Martin would not do so on his own accord she felt convinced, for though Grizel herself was unchanged, there was an unmistakable difference between his present behaviour to his guest, and that during her recent visit. Now he was merely the courteous host, concerned with the comfort and amus.e.m.e.nt of his sister's guest, but making no personal claim for attention. By day he shut himself in his study; in the evening he sedulously avoided _tete-a-tetes_. A still, set look had come back to his face, which brought with it a haunting memory of the past. Katrine had not realised how far from the desert of sorrow he had travelled until she recognised that look, and at the sight her heart contracted with a pang of protective tenderness, startling in its intensity. At that moment, and for the first time in her life, Self was wiped out, and her own welfare ceased to weigh in the balance. "Not again! Not again!" cried the inner voice. "He has suffered enough!" It was intolerable to think of living to see Martin pa.s.s through a second period of despair!

Katrine set her wits to work to puzzle out the problem before her, and at each point in her reflections the same question recurred with ever-increasing force. _Why had Grizel come back_? Realising as any woman must have done the depth of Martin's love, why, at this moment of all others, had she deliberately put herself in his way? Grizel was not heartless, her numerous flirtations had been of an open and innocent nature, stopping well short of the danger point; it was inconceivable to believe that she would deliberately increase Martin's pain. Then--could it be possible that she was _willing_ to sacrifice all; was but waiting for a word, a sign? It was almost impossible to believe, but at least, Katrine determined, the opportunity should be given. Now that the critical moment had arrived all other dreads dwindled before that of failing to do her share to secure Martin's happiness.

That very day at lunch she made her attempt.

"I have to be out this afternoon, Grizel," she announced. "A committee meeting, and a tea. Martin must amuse you. The study is cool in the afternoon, you might sit there, or have tea in the garden."

Martin's start of surprise held no sign of pleasure. He appeared to be on the point of an objection, when Grizel's calm acquiescence closed his lips:

"Yes--I'd like to! We'll try the study first."

"We shan't need a fire to-day... I'm afraid it will be dull for you, but I can give you a good book."

The words fell mechanically from Martin's lips, but it was Katrine who flushed with resentment; Grizel smiled on, unperturbed. An hour afterwards she was sleeping like a child on her bedroom sofa, and Katrine peeping in to say good-bye, asked herself amazedly if such composure could exist side by side with any deep feeling. "If I--" the very suggestion made her heart leap, she looked on the sleeping face with a stirring of indignation. Martin's life, and her own, shaken to their foundations, while Grizel slept! For a moment she wrestled with the temptation to shake the still form into consciousness, then turning slowly, left the room.

Half an hour later Grizel opened her eyes, and sat up on her couch.

There was no intermediary stage of heaviness and confusion, with the very opening of her lids she was vividly, composedly awake. She rose, sauntered to the gla.s.s, and surveyed herself with critical detachment.

Her cheeks were flushed with sleep, her hair ruffled into a disorder undeniably becoming. Her lips parted in a smile of transparent pleasure, then deliberately she took the brush and smoothed back the curling ends, which being done she seated herself by the open window, took up a book, and read composedly until the pink had faded from her cheeks. It was a pale, orderly, infinitely less attractive Grizel who tapped at Martin's door, and seated herself by his desk.

"I've come, you see! You didn't want me, but I wanted to come, and I always do what I want--"

"Grizel! that's not true," protested Martin hastily. He was still sitting in his swivel writing-chair, turned sideways from the desk so that he could see her face. A few scattered sheets of MS lay before him, but the ink was dry on the last words. When Grizel had entered the room, it had been to find him gazing blankly into s.p.a.ce. It was not obvious against which part of Grizel's declaration his protest was directed, nor did she trouble to enquire. Folding her hands she looked in his eyes with childlike directness and said simply:

"Martin--I want to talk! You have said nothing about my position, but I am waiting to hear what you think! I came down on purpose to talk."

"But, Grizel, what is there to say?" Martin spoke in quick practical accents, his eyes sedulously avoiding hers. "I have not congratulated you, because it hardly seemed that congratulations were deserved. On the other hand, I cannot condole. Lady Griselda's mind had been failing for years. I cannot believe that she was fully responsible when she concocted--"

"You are wrong there. She was perfectly clear. I have always expected some arrangement of the sort. She loved me; she was anxious for my happiness. If it could be happily arranged she wished me to inherit the money, but she had been an heiress herself, and had suffered by it, and she was sharp enough to estimate the sincerity of the men who hung around me. It's quite simple, Martin, if you remember the clue. If I choose to remain single, I enjoy everything that her money can give; if I marry, I marry a man who wants _me_, not my wealth; Grizel Dundas,-- herself--not what she can bring."

"He would be a bold man who could ask a girl to give up thirty thousand a year, for the sake of his love!"

"Yes! He would need to be brave!"