Margaret laughed gently. “We are both young,” she said, “and we shall be faithful to each other. Nor shall we have long to wait. Let us do the right and leave it. But, John, I must show you that money which your mother thinks, and I think, ought to be yours. Come and see where it is; and I hope you will agree with me as to what should be done with it. You do not want to see it? But you must, please.”
But John would not be persuaded; and his face flushed with anger. “I will not see it,” he said. “I want to know nothing whatever about it. I am sick of it. You ought to put it away in a bank; it is absurd of you to keep it in the house. If it became known that you had it on the premises you might be robbed or murdered on account of it. But I don’t care what becomes of it so long as I never hear of it again. Sometimes it seems that the only reason why you consent to marry me at all is that that detestable money may be forced upon me.”
Margaret turned away with tears in her eyes. John had never spoken to her so angrily before; and at that moment she felt also as if she did not care what became of the money.
“Since we have to part so soon you might be kind to me,” she said; and, of course, John called himself a brute, and begged her pardon.
A few days later, Margaret and Ann Johnson locked up the house, and went into Yorkshire to open the Home which was already prepared for its purpose.
Mr. Smart met them at High Seathorpe, a station between Scarborough and Whitby, and took them to the house. It stood upon the moors, in a sheltered hollow, with a few brave trees surrounding it, and from its grounds, as well as from its windows, magnificent sea-views were to be obtained.
“I am glad to welcome you, for my client’s sake, Miss Miller,” said Mr. Smart. “I am afraid he will never be able to see for himself how the work on which he has set his heart progresses, for he is ill; but it is a comfort to him that you have consented to come. I think you will like your surroundings, and High Seathorpe is exceedingly bracing.”
But Margaret was weary from her journey, and the place looked bleak and cold in the grey of the evening. Her thoughts went back regretfully to John, and also to her own cosy little home at Darentdale, so that for a time she felt sad and fearful of the future, and her powers to endure it. But when she reached the house a pleasant surprise awaited her.
Mr. Smart ushered her into a large room, well warmed and lighted, and a lady came forward, with both hands extended in greeting.
“Miss Wentworth!” cried Margaret, in surprise. “Is it possible that you are here! How can that have been brought about?”