She caught up her muff, and went out of the room and up the stairs as she delivered this final edict. Mr. Sale rose.
“You see how it is,” said Margaret, in a low tone of emotion, and keeping her eyelids down to hide the tears. “You must go without me. I cannot leave. I can only say, God speed you.”
“There are many wrongs enacted in this world, and this is one,” he replied in a hard voice—not hard for her—as he took her hands in his, and stood before her. “I don’t know that I altogether blame you, Margaret; but it is cruel upon you and upon me. Good-night.”
He went out quite abruptly without kissing her, leaving her alone with her aching heart.
Tuesday afternoon, and the ice and the snow on the ground still. We were to dine at five o’clock—the London codfish and a prime turkey—and the Coneys were coming in as well as the Rector and his wife.
But Mrs. Coney did not come; old Coney and Tom brought in word that she was not feeling well enough; and the Tanertons only drove up on the stroke of five. As I helped Grace down from the pony-chaise, muffled up to the chin in furs, for the cold was enough to freeze an Icelander’s nose off, I told her her aunt was not well enough to come.
“Aunt Coney not well enough to come!” returned Grace. “What a pity! Have I time to run in to see her before dinner, Johnny?”
“That you’ve not. You are late, as it is. The Squire has been telling us all that the fish must be in rags already.”
Grace laughed as she ran in; her husband followed her unwinding the folds of his white woollen comforter. There was a general greeting and much laughter, especially when old Coney told Grace that her cheeks were as purple as his Sunday necktie. In the midst of it Thomas announced dinner.