"Yes," answered Marjorie. "Charity has some musical people coming down from London—and you——"
She paused, recollecting Charity's pretty air of possession when mentioning Mr. Pelham and his singing. She had said, "Mr. Pelham and I have been practising together a good deal—he sent for some new songs from town. Our voices suit perfectly—there are very few evenings, when we are disengaged, that he doesn't find his way down the hill."
She did not mention the warm and recurrent invitation of the Dean. Nor could Marjorie realise the allurement of the pretty drawing-room with its charming hostess to the lonely man. Possibly, neither would she have believed that sometimes a visionary hope that he might find her with her friend had been his lure.
Marjorie's was a home to which he did not often like to venture unasked. One evening, he had volunteered to be Charity's messenger; and he had been struck by the aloofness and quiet of the little scene into which he had been announced.
The lamp, on the minor canon's table, shining white on the scattered papers, lit up his scholarly face, as, busy with his writing and the thoughts it brought, he turned a far-away gaze on the visitor.
Another lamp, by Mrs. Bethune's sofa, shone on Marjorie's burnished head, and lighted the fragile beauty of her mother. Both were busy with needlework—the pretty smocks of the little boys. Mrs. Bethune's slender hands rested whilst she welcomed and talked to Mr. Pelham; but Marjorie's went on with their occupation. He noticed, too, the open book which lay upon the table; the quiet homeliness of this little scene, which yet Marjorie's rapidly moving fingers made part of a more strenuous life than the one he had just left; the work-a-day room in which were no luxuries, except the little table of hothouse flowers, always kept fresh and fragrant by Mrs. Bethune's many friends; and the bent, aloof figure of the student—all gave the room a totally different atmosphere from the luxurious apartment whence he had come. Its calm, and peace, and withdrawal, struck Mr. Pelham with a sense of chill. He had no part in it. Mother and child were enough for each other. Marjorie had none of Charity's pretty restlessnesses and fusses for her visitor's entertainment. As the conversation went on, she scarcely raised her eyes. He talked to Mrs. Bethune, prolonging the conversation that he might enjoy the quiet pose of Marjorie's slim figure, the pretty curves of cheek and ear, and the moving swiftness of her fingers.
Only now and then Marjorie lifted her head to meet his gaze, with the wistful look now becoming habitual. For Mr. Warde's steady wooing, although, according to his promise, unvoiced, was sufficiently assiduous; and Marjorie was unconsciously making up her mind to a future which she realised would be a great delight to her parents. She was quite matter-of-fact about it. It did not occur to her that she was of sufficient importance to revolt at such a future. She did not once say to her mother, "It is my own life I have to live. Why should I marry Mr. Warde if I don't love him?" She put aside the fancies of a far different lover which, in moments of unrest, or rare idleness, filled her day-dreams.
"Life isn't a fairy tale," she settled with a sigh, at the remembrance of an arresting look she could not banish. "He cares for Charity. Everybody says so. How can I be so silly? And yet—and yet——"
"Could you not come up and see my house some day?" Mr. Pelham had asked that evening, as he was leaving. "Oh!" as a sudden thought struck him, "I have a carriage—scarcely ever used. I believe it could be made as comfortable as your chair. Would it shake you too much? And then," turning eagerly to Marjorie, "your mother could drive every day it was fine. It would be a kindness to use it!" he pleaded.
Marjorie's face lit in response. "Mother does drive sometimes. Mr. Warde——" and with angry dismay, the looker-on beheld the mounting flush. "Oh, everybody is very kind in that way," she finished hurriedly.