"There is but one Margaret for me," he answered, "and in time you will love me," and yet he had an uneasy sense of inferiority, of not being able to reach her standard.
Mr. Drew found him a very troublesome and a very difficult man to deal with, and after all he could not make the arrangement he wished. Margaret would be hemmed in with restrictions, and trustees would have much in their power; a very modest sum was secured to Grace in the event of Mr. Drayton's death. In short, it came to this; that both sisters were dependent upon him during his life, and were provided for, Margaret very amply, at his death.
Mr. Drew's objections were overruled by Margaret.
"All I wanted was a certainty in the event of being left alone. Of course, while I live, while we live, Grace will share everything with me. Mr. Drayton will allow this."
He said nothing, imagining that he had promised this. In her inexperience she never dreamed of a life apart from Grace. Of course she would be with her; they would share everything; that was so completely in her mind that the poor child never dwelt upon it, she took it for granted. She received various letters from old schoolfellows when her approaching marriage was made known, but she could not answer them. She laid them aside, and would write afterwards. How could she answer congratulations? One letter from a girl she had liked particularly, remained before her for a long time.
"I am longing to know all about him," she wrote. "After the intimacy between us I have felt your silence hard; it is now explained; you are happy in having found your ideal already; I was always afraid that few could come up to your high standard, and you are not the sort of character to marry without both love and esteem."
Poor Margaret! Already her quick-sightedness, unblinded by love, showed her Mr. Drayton as he was—vain, and led by his vanity alone. He was good-humoured in all else and inclined to be kind, but if he was not upon good terms with himself, if he was not flattered, his good-humour vanished and he became rude and sulky. And Margaret, among other things, dreaded his rudeness, and, but for that prostrate figure so indescribably dear to her, would have died rather than have faced life with him. To her it was a moral death, and not the least painful part of the sacrifice was, that, while she could see nothing else, she fell in her own esteem.
It was a forlorn little ceremony altogether. Mrs. Dorriman, who clung faithfully to the poor child, went with her to Glasgow, where Mr. Drayton had made all the necessary arrangements.
Nothing less like a bride ever went to the altar. All the time the ceremony went on Margaret heard nothing, thought of nothing, but was uttering fervent prayers for forgiveness and help. There was a hurried farewell. Mrs. Dorriman saw them into the train—they were going away for a little time.
As she still stood there Margaret turned her tearful eyes towards the man who was now her husband.