"Knocking about the world teaches a fellow to appreciate a man like that," continued Haldane. "It's very strange to remember how one has been taken in by people. There was that ruffian Hungerford, for instance. By the bye,"--and Haldane stood still, and looked into James's face to make his words more emphatic,--"I think Baldwin is uncommonly attentive to Madge, don't you?"
"N-no," said James hesitatingly; "I can't say I noticed anything of the kind."
"Look out, then, and you will notice it. You're not an observing person, you know--not a lady's man exactly--neither am I; but I think I know the symptoms of that sort of thing when I see them; and I don't think Baldwin is staying at Davyntry altogether on account of his sister. I say, James, what a grand thing it would be, wouldn't it?"
"What a grand thing what would be?" asked Dugdale in an impatient tone.
"If Madge likes him, and he likes her, and they make a match of it. It would be a fine marriage for any girl, and it would be a great thing to have all the past put out of her mind. Fate owes her a good turn, poor girl!"
And James? Did not Fate owe him a good turn? If so, he thought sadly, the debt was not likely to be paid. The change in Margaret's manner, the increased frankness, the ready kindness she showed him now, had ceased to bring him any happiness. He did not deceive himself now as to its source.
He was nothing more to her than he had ever been; but, instead of the old bitterness, a root of sweetness was springing up in her heart, and its natural outcome was the oblivion of her former feelings, the remission of all past and gone offences from those who would but be doubly indifferent to her under the influence of this new motive in her life.
For a time James Dugdale yielded to the weakness which this new keen suffering produced. He felt that life had been always bitter for him--there was no mercy, no gentleness in it at all.
When he looked at Margaret and noted the change in her face--saw how the light had come back into the eyes, the roundness to the clear pale cheeks, the softness to the square brow and the small lips, and interpreted the change aright, notwithstanding the fits of heavy sadness which still came over her--he would feel very tired of life. Impossible not to envy the lot which was never to be his--the destiny of those who are dowered with love.
Never to be, never to have been, the first object in life to any one is a melancholy fate, he would think--one for which no general affection, or appreciation, not even the most intoxicating gift of fame, could ever compensate.