She had not been recognised at the village inn, where she had left Rose Moore and her scanty luggage, and the servant who had opened the door of her father's house to her was a stranger. He might fairly have hesitated to admit a lady whom he did not know; but Margaret's manner of announcing herself permitted no hesitation within his courage. His master and mistress were not at home, the man said, but she could see Mr. Dugdale when he came in. So she walked into the drawing-room, and James was sought for, but not found.
What agony of spirit the young widow underwent, when she found herself once more in the scene of the vanished past, none but she ever knew. The worst of it had passed away when James saw her leaning out of the window, a picture framed in the branches of the passion-flower.
The hours of the evening went rapidly by, though the talk of the strangely-assorted companions was constrained and bald. Margaret was resolute in her refusal to remain at Chayleigh. James Dugdale, she argued, might believe that her father would gladly receive her; but he could not know that he would, and she would await that welcome before she made her old home even a temporary abode. A few sentences sufficed to show James that this determination was not to be overcome.
"At least you are not alone," he said; and then she explained to him that Hayes Meredith had engaged an Irish girl, named Rose Moore, to act as her maid during the voyage, and that the girl, having become attached to her, was willing to defer her departure to Ireland for a few days, until she, Margaret, had made some definite arrangement about her own future.
"I got used to Irish people at Melbourne," said Margaret, "and I like them. I have half a mind to go to Ireland with Rose. I suppose people's children want governesses there, and people themselves want companions as well as here; and I fancy they are kind and cordial there."
"You must be very much altered, Margaret," returned James gravely, "if you are fit to be either a governess or a dame de compagnie. I don't think you had much in you to fit you for either function."
"I am very much altered," she said; "and what I am fit for, or not fit for, neither you nor any one can tell. There is only one thing which would come to me that would surprise or disconcert me now."
She rose as she spoke, and drew her heavy black cloak, which she had only loosened, not laid aside, closely around her.
"And that is--" said James.
"Finding myself happy again, or being deceived into thinking myself so," she said quickly and bitterly.