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Self-love, "that froward presence, like a chattering child within us," was all alert and happy. A feeling of surprise, too, which had not yet worn away. A year before he had told Marcella Boyce, and with conviction, that he was an outcast from his class.
It's surprising; you'd have thought a man like Aldous Raeburn would have looked for the pick of things." "Perhaps it was she looked for the pick of things!" said the other, with a blunt laugh. "Waiter, another bottle of champagne." Marcella was lying on the sofa in the Mellor drawing-room.
A tall, consumptive girl among the Cliff House pupils, the motherless daughter of a clergyman-friend of Miss Frederick's, had for some time taken notice of Marcella, and at length won her by nothing else, in the first instance, than a remarkable gift for story-telling. She was a parlour-boarder, had a room to herself, and a fire in it when the weather was cold.
Sometimes he would pray for courage; sometimes, cracking suddenly, he would pray for digitalis and send Marcella often at midnight with a pleading note to the doctor to give him the drug and a little soothing for his heart that was running away with him.
In Maxwell, on the contrary, after a first movement of passionate resentment which had nothing whatever in common with ordinary jealousy, that act was now generating a compelling and beneficent force, that made for healing and reparation. Marcella had foreseen it, and in her pain and penitence had given the impulse.
The factor was a man imported to the district: he had not the feudal habit of respect for decayed lordship. "Indeed he does? And why disna Andrew Lashcairn come tae dae his own begging?" Marcella stared at him and her eyes flashed with indignation though her knees were trembling. "He is not begging, Mr. Braid. But the beasts are crying for food and he's needin' the corn the night."
And with a hasty shake of the hand to the Cravens, and one more keen glance, first at Marcella and then round the little workman's room in which they had been sitting, he went. He had hardly departed before Anthony Craven, the lame elder brother, who must have passed him on the stairs, appeared. "Well any news?" he said, as Marcella found him a chair.
Vincent sank into miserable quiet again. The mother came in, and silently began to put the children to bed. Marcella pressed the wife's cold hand, and went out hanging her head. She had just reached the door when it opened, and a man entered. A thrill passed through her at the sight of his honest, haggard face, and this time she found what to say. "I have been sitting by your wife, Mr. Vincent.
I shall always feel sorry for Aldous's wife that she did not know him at college." A shock went through Marcella at the word that tremendous word wife. As Hallin said it, there was something intolerable in the claim it made! "I should like you to tell me," she said faintly. Then she added, with more energy and a sudden advance of friendliness, "But you really must come in and rest.
She had been far too much taken up with her own prospects, with Lady Winterbourne's friendship, and her village schemes. He laughed. "Of course there is. When is the great event to be?" "I didn't mean that," said Marcella, stiffly. "Lady Winterbourne and I have been trying to start some village workshops. We have been working and talking, and writing, morning, noon, and night." "Oh!
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