MRS. DORRIMAN.
A Novel.
BY THE HON. MRS. HENRY W. CHETWYND,
AUTHOR OF "LIFE IN A GERMAN VILLAGE," "THE DUTCH COUSIN," "A MARCH
VIOLET," "BEES AND BUTTERFLIES," ETC., ETC.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. II.
LONDON: CHAPMAN and HALL
LIMITED
1886
WESTMINSTER:
PRINTED BY NICHOLS AND SONS,
25, PARLIAMENT STREET.
MRS. DORRIMAN.
CHAPTER I.
Man proposes ... and wives sometimes interfere.
John went with the single and innocent object of conveying his master's
wishes to Mr. Macrae. He found, however, that there were two sides to
this as to all other questions.
Mr. Macrae was a portly, good-humoured man, who suffered from some
perplexity as to the reason why his waistcoats had taken to hitching
themselves up in front; waistcoats being, he supposed, made on different
principles in these days. When he was younger, waistcoats had not this
evil habit. The cut probably was different. His first action on being
summoned was to pull down his waistcoat, his next to brush some
imaginary crumbs off his coat-sleeves, and then to hold his head up and
march off. But fate--and his wife--interposed. Mrs. Macrae was a slight
woman, who was kindly and good-natured, but who had a keen eye to her
own interests, and, who being more able than her husband to see those
two sides of a question, had a slight contempt for his intellectual
powers.
"If Sir Albert wants a little conversation I'll go myself," she said,
with alacrity; "especially as Mr. Macrae cannot leave the bar at the
busiest time of the day."
"But you'll do at the bar as well as myself," said her husband,
unguardedly, preparing to go and yet not quite able to assert himself so
decidedly.
"As well as yourself!" she returned, with strong contempt. "I'll do as
well and better than you in both ways. Sir Albert probably wishes to
speak about his diet, and what do you know about that?"
Mr. Macrae looked at John, who said, blandly, "I am sure master would be
glad to see you, Mrs. Macrae, but I was to be sure and say, not if you
was busy."
Mr. Macrae let things alone. He was quite able to perceive the great
inconsistency of his wife's proceedings. How often did she not say to
him that he was of no use, and she would be better without him, and yet
now he could not be spared from the bar for even a few moments. He
contented himself, however, by muttering a good deal of treason against
the sex generally, and his wife in particular; and then he turned to the
contemplation of the street and pier; watched the gambols of two dogs,
and the unlading of a cart, and allowed his waistcoat to wrinkle up
undisturbed.
John explained the situation in a hurried speech to his master, and,
having left him comfortably disposed of for the time, went out also on
the pier to look about him.
Mrs. Macrae looked at the young man with all the interest in him natural
to her as his hostess, and a woman full of kindly sympathies. His strong
constitution was pulling him through, but there was weakness and
helplessness enough left, to appeal to all the kindest part of her
nature.
"I am afraid I give a great deal of trouble, Mrs. Macrae," he began, in
soft low rich tones--tones that would go far in his favour anywhere, she
thought.
"Oh, never think of the trouble, sir. We are paid for taking trouble,"
she answered, hastily, an innate refinement making her anxious to lessen
his sense of obligation.
"Ah! but you are not paid for taking it cheerfully. My servant says
every one has been so kind and ready to help. You must allow me to feel
obliged, and let me thank you."
"I am sure you are welcome, sir. How did it happen? it was a terrible
accident. If it does not tire you to talk about it all, I should like
to know."
"I am tired of silence," he said, pleasantly, "but if you would sit
down, Mrs. Macrae, it would be very good of you. Seeing you stand gives
me a feeling of fatigue."
Mrs. Macrae obeyed and drew a chair near, upon which she placed herself
in a most uncomfortable attitude.
"There is little to tell," he said, after a moment's pause. "I went too
near the edge of a disused quarry, I think, or the rains had undermined
the ground I was on; at any rate, I took a step too near a part standing
treacherously forward, and fell a good height, taking a quantity of
loose stones and gravel with me. Then I remember nothing else."
"And I dare say you lay a long time before your man found you, sir.
Well, it might have been worse, they might not have found you so soon."
"Oh, a young lady saw me first, and she got assistance."
A young lady! Mrs. Macrae pricked up her ears at this. Why, it was going
to be a romance, she thought. "A young lady!" she said, aloud; "there
are none so many here, sir. Do you know her name, sir; was it one you
know?"
"I think I know her name," he answered, and he opened the little book
lying beside him, and held it towards her. "Do you know her? where does
she live?"
"Grace Rivers!" exclaimed Mrs. Macrae. "Why, those young ladies have
been living here for some weeks; they are here now with their aunt; they
are just going away. And how did you get that book?"
"She left it I suppose when she ran to call for help. My servant found
it, and thought it was mine, and he brought it here."
"Well, it is a providential thing some one was by, you might have been
killed, sir, and died with no one there. Miss Grace Rivers. Yes, yes. It
is her, though Miss Margaret's the one that is aye rambling."
"When I am a little better I should like to see Miss Grace Rivers," said
Sir Albert, with some hesitation, "to thank her; do you know where she
lives?"
"Indeed, I do not, sir, when she is at home; but she and her sister are
here just now."
"Here!" he exclaimed. "Do you mean in this house?"
"Yes, here, sir, and there's no need to excite yourself; they are here
with a quiet nice lady, not a real aunt, but some way kin to them, and
they're all going away soon."
"Oh, they are going away?" and Sir Albert felt unaccountably
disappointed.
"Well, sir, they came for a few weeks, and they liked the place and
liked the cooking and felt comfortable, and they stayed on."
"I am sure I do not wonder," said Sir Albert, politely, "if you make
them as comfortable as you do me."
"Hoot, sir, and you that has aye slops. How can ye tell?" and Mrs.
Macrae laughed comfortably; she was beginning to feel at her ease with
him.
"Ah, slops--are slops," he said, with a little grimace, "but there is a
right and a wrong way of sending them up. I still remember being ill at
school, and the greasy broth and cold gruel--_cold_ gruel!"
"And may be a deal paid for you there; well, I do not believe in schools
for my part."
"Now your beef tea is good, though I am getting tired of it; and has the
doctor never spoken to you about my moving? I am pining to get out."
"Ech, sir, and you all smashed--you are wonderful, and so cheerful."
"Am I cheerful? I am afraid you see your own reflection, Mrs. Macrae. I
feel dull enough now I am out of pain. But I am very thankful," he
added, in a more serious tone.
"I am sure, sir, we are all thankful too. It would have been a sair pity
if you had come here a corpse, and that is bad for an hotel at any time
too."
At that moment John entered and announced the doctor.
"I am earlier than usual, Sir Albert. I have to go some way off, but I
wanted to see you first."
"Thanks! I am getting well fast."
"And wishing to go out," put in Mrs. Macrae, hoping to see the doctor's
face express disapprobation and corroborate her old-fashioned idea of
fresh air being bad for all cases of sickness.
"Of course, as soon as the moving does not pain you, you have severe
bruises to recover from still--but fresh air. Yes, get out as soon as
you can--lying here your spirits may go down. Yes, get out as soon as
ever you can."
Sir Albert gave a triumphant smile to Mrs. Macrae, who rose and left
them, much exercised in her mind about these new-fangled ways.
Thus it happened that soon a bath-chair was conveying Sir Albert along
the level road by the sea, and that Mrs. Dorriman and Grace thus met
him.
"Miss Grace Rivers and her aunt, Sir Albert," said John, hurriedly, as
he saw them coming, and he was sent by his master to beg them to come
and speak to him.
When they came nearer Sir Albert was conscious of a great and
overwhelming disappointment. He must have dreamed of the expression in
the girl's face, even the colour of her eyes. This face was like and yet
unlike, and the cold steel-blue eyes, and the little self-satisfied
expression, repelled him and made his proffered thanks an effort, all
the time hating himself for being so ungrateful.
He apologised to Mrs. Dorriman for having ventured to detain her, but he
was so anxious to express to Miss Rivers, Miss Grace Rivers, all he
felt.
"Oh! I had nothing to do with it. It was my sister, it was Margaret,"
Grace said hurriedly.
"Yes," said Mrs. Dorriman, "poor Margaret came home quite ill from the
fright and shock."
"Ill--I am so grieved," began Sir Albert.
"She is all right now," said Grace, quickly. "After all she was not able
to help you."
"You do not know how she helped me," said Sir Albert, quietly. "But for
her courage in staying and bathing my face--even moving me--I might have
died. I do hope I shall have an opportunity of seeing her and expressing
my thanks in person."
"Of course you shall," said Grace abruptly, impatient of the subject,
one in which she played no part.
Mrs. Dorriman felt interested in the helpless figure, and the pallor
which spoke of much suffering--she would fain have lingered, but Grace
hurried her on.
"I am so disappointed," exclaimed the young lady, "Sir Albert is grave,
and not at all good-looking, so pale and cadaverous."
"It is not wonderful, having had such a terrible accident, my dear. I
think he has such a fine face. I am sure his eyes are wonderful, there
is patience written on his face."
"And he is grateful to Margaret, which is the only reason you are
interested in him," said Grace, pettishly. "It is always Margaret."
Mrs. Dorriman said no more. When Grace took this tone she exercised a
gift she possessed--a gift of greatest value--the golden gift of
silence.
It was not many days after this, Margaret, who had been disturbed and
anxious because of a scene between Mr. Sandford and Grace, had gone for
the relief of quiet and fresh air along the sea-side. All around her lay
the hush of evening, when all have rest. The sun was low and lighted up
the western sky with a soft glow of golden colour, showing himself only
behind high-fleeting clouds which but partly only veiled his glory.
Every ripple on the sea caught a quivering touch of light, all the great
hills took softening shadows, all inequalities seemed brought into one
harmonious whole, as a fine soul will sometimes blend inconsistencies
till they cease to strike one as incongruous. The light fell softly upon
Margaret's face, and the little ruffle upon her brow, the sign of
disturbance, was smoothed out.
In the midst of such a scene she felt that her irritation had been
unworthy--how could she allow herself to feel things so much? She tried
to set before herself Mr. Sandford's deeds of kindness, but she failed.
She had a strong sense of justice, and it was unjust to heap obligations
upon them upon the one hand, and make those obligations hateful on the
other. What could she do to help Grace? How act so that she might in
some way be saved from a life she hated, and out of which no good came
to her.
She had another and a deeper trouble to bear. Mr. Sandford had never
wished _her_ to be particularly friendly, or even civil, to Mr. Drayton;
but that uncongenial man had arrived that day, and Mr. Sandford had
changed in his views. He had insisted upon Margaret's remaining to
talk, and had shown great temper when she did so with evident
reluctance; and this was a terrible trouble to her.
Was there nothing that she and Grace could do alone? was there no way of
making a little home for themselves? She possessed no accomplishments,
and though Grace was so very clever, and every one admired her
performances, they had often lately tried selling something, and had
failed.
If she went out as a governess she would not help Grace. They had so
little, what could they do? What could she do? She imagined that it was
the life that was hurting Grace, and that more favourable circumstances
would raise her tone of mind, and this made all harder to bear.
She often thought with a real pang that Grace had thought her marriage
to Mr. Drayton possible. Then she blamed herself for attaching too much
importance to what was said in a moment of depression and misery.
She was losing herself in these thoughts, conceived of a passionate
longing for something to help her, praying, as she often did, to be
shown her way, and for patience, and, with her eyes fixed upon the light
and her thoughts with God, she went on her way, and so Sir Albert Gerald
met her once again.
Lying back in his bath-chair, he had been looking at the soft loveliness
around him, thinking that such a sunset had more poetry and more beauty
than the blaze of gold and crimson which, as a rule, presented itself
when the sunset was not softened and veiled by clouds; and sharply
defined against the evening sky he had seen a figure full of quiet
grace, and before she drew near he recognised her, and thrilled with the
recollection of the prayer she had breathed beside him.
There was no consciousness or shyness in her manner. She was glad to see
him better, glad to meet him, and she put her hand into his outstretched
towards her, with a feeling of relief and gladness. It would have been
terrible had this powerful frame, this youth and strength, been crushed.
His eyes rested upon her with intense satisfaction, he noted the
straightforward open gaze, and the lovely smile that brought colour into
her face. He had not dreamed it--she was lovely!
"I am so glad to see you out. You will soon get well," she said, and he
thought her voice was as lovely as her face.
"You must let me thank you," he said earnestly. "You were so good and so
brave. Most girls would have been too much frightened to help. Some
would have fainted."
"I think not," she said, gravely, reddening a little under his earnest
gaze. "I was too anxious to be of use to feel afraid. I think others
would also have been anxious--others might have done more."
"Oh, no!" he said; "I am glad to have to be grateful to you. I have
thought so much about it. I have so wished to know you."
"You have seen Mrs. Dorriman--you have seen Grace, my sister, I mean,"
correcting herself.
"Yes; her name was in the book you had. I thought it belonged to you."
"Mine is a very common name--Margaret."
"I know. I think it is a beautiful name; it is my mother's name."
"Your mother has been, she must have been, very unhappy."
"Yes, but we only told her when I was getting better--poor mother! she
cannot leave her sofa. She is carried everywhere.
"How sad!"
"Yes, it is terrible for her, and she has been to me father and mother,
and brother and sister, since I am an only child."
"It must be so sad not to have a sister," said Margaret, softly. "It
must be like not having the whole of oneself."
"And yet sometimes sisters do not get on," said Sir Albert, smiling, and
thinking of episodes in his family history that pointed to a very
different state of things.
Talking still, they turned at the end of the path, the road beyond being
too rough for Sir Albert in his present condition; the faithful John
pushed the chair back again, accommodating its pace to the footsteps of
the girl who walked beside it. What is the subtle influence that makes
one feel as though to one person all may be confided, and to another as
though a visible barrier rises between you? It is not only sympathy, for
sympathy comes when full appreciation for a common object is discovered,
when the same bias of the mind is found in each; but the appreciation
must first be known. It is something more--it is apart from love between
man and woman (though love on one side or another frequently follows
it); it is an unknown force compelling us to frankness, filling us with
a sudden liking which we cannot reason about, and do not find ourselves
able to account for.
Mr. Sandford, occupied by trying to mould Mr. Drayton to his wishes,
prepared to carry his plans out at any sacrifice, little imagined that
a sudden obstacle was rising in a quarter he never dreamed of,--like
most of us, conscious of our hopes and wishes only, and never taking
into account for one moment the many combinations against us.
This first meeting between two drawn together in the beginning by an
hour of pain and anxiety, was naturally not the last. Margaret,
sometimes with the others, sometimes with Grace, at times alone, met Sir
Albert Gerald every day. Acquaintance with him did her good; his larger
views were often opposed to her narrower experience, and in argument her
prejudices and preconceived opinions gave way. She was truthful to
herself as to others, and she was forced to allow the shallowness of her
ground.
Upon his side there was a never-ending delight in the absolute freshness
of her mind. Old ideas received a new beauty from her way of seeing
them, and he was often startled by the poetry of a thought new to him.
The drawback to this pleasant acquaintance was the sense of its
finality. They did not know from day to day that Mr. Sandford might not
put a stop to it by taking the whole party home.
Sir Albert, still a little weak from his severe accident, never paused
to question himself where this delightful companionship was leading him.
He only knew that in _her_ presence he seemed to live. She drew out his
noblest, highest, and best feelings. She was to him a guiding star; he
loved her passionately, and he respected her as the purest and most
perfect of God's creatures. There were in these few days none of those
short partings which serve to teach the real nature of a similar feeling
in most cases. There was that sense of impending parting possible, but
far off, which is so different from an announced fact; there was nothing
to shake them into consciousness.
They grew silent now when they were together, conscious of that full
unison of thought that requires no outward expression--a glance, a look
told all.
The trial to her was terrible just now, since she could say nothing, and
Mr. Sandford gave the man she had begun to hate (Mr. Drayton) every
opportunity of being with her; insisting upon her receiving his
attentions, more dreadful to her now than ever.
She appealed to her uncle in private against this persecution--in vain.
He knew now, though Mr. Drayton never put it into words, that the price
of his own safety was--Margaret.
In his solitary moments he ground his teeth with rage--not because of
her, poor child! but because he had unwittingly put himself into this
position. He promised Mr. Drayton that he would use his influence, but
he warned him that if he spoke now, when Margaret was full of repulsion
for him, all hope would be at an end. "She has so high a spirit, that if
she were driven to it she would go away."
Mr. Drayton laughed. "Fancy you owning yourself unable to cope with any
young lady."
Mr. Sandford started from his chair, there were many moments during
their intercourse when the whole fabric he had raised seemed likely to
fall; there were many days when he could hardly act his part--when
remorse confronted him, seeing what the man was made of to whom he
wished to consign Margaret.
Had Grace known then what she only learned afterwards!
She drove Mr. Sandford to distraction, she was so fitful, so
impertinent, and so openly regardless of any expressed wish of his.
Then he grew violent, and Margaret was miserable.
It was after heavy rain; the sullen clouds had not yet begun to clear,
and there was a grey, dull, leaden look upon the reflecting waves.
Everything had combined to make poor Margaret miserable. Mr. Sandford
had stormed, and there had been a scene before Mr. Drayton. Grace had
been in the wrong, and this was an additional sorrow. Then Mr. Drayton
had taken advantage of the family jar to pose as Margaret's defender,
and afterwards Grace had spoken bitterly. Why could Margaret not accept
this man (who had not Mr. Sandford's temper), and make a home for them
both?
Distracted, wretched, her heart oppressed by the burden placed upon it
by others--poor Margaret sped along the road where she had been when Sir
Albert had fallen. She could not meet him then--she could not bear him
to see her misery. She instinctively felt it might be an appeal to him,
and he was her friend, she could not tax his friendship. Then suddenly
she saw him for the first time walking.
"Great ideas meet," he called out, as he saw her coming. "I wanted to
see the place that made us known to each other." Then, as she came
closer he saw the traces of tears, the troubled look, and the small
mouth was quivering. He stopped short; the sight of her distress showed
him what she was to him. "Darling!" he said, softly; and then with a
great effort he drove back the words rushing to his lips.
She heard him, however, and a look of perfect happiness flashed into her
face.
He saw her turn towards him, surprised at his silence. He did not know
she had heard that word.
He broke silence after a moment or two, forcing himself to speak
calmly--while his heart was beating violently. "Are you surprised to see
me walking again?" he said, with a faint attempt at a smile. "I can walk
without pain, and I am not tired." She did not answer, she was too much
overwhelmed by the sudden emotion of his betrayal of that one word, and
the forced calm afterwards. What did it mean? Had she mistaken him? A
perfect quiver of fear, a sudden sense of having by a look answered too
readily something he had not said--or had said by accident--filled her
with dismay.
He read her thought, and he could not help her. He bit his lip angrily.
He had given his mother his solemn word of honour that never would he
tell his love to any one till he had told her first of his intention;
and it seemed to him in the great anguish of that moment that only now,
only at that moment, did the truth come to him. They stood side by side
looking out upon the sea, she dazed with the misery of having
misunderstood; he thinking how he might show her that there was a reason
for his silence, without breaking his word of honour. "Margaret," he
said, and his voice dwelt lovingly upon her name, "We are--friends, and
we may trust each other. I cannot say all--I am not free. Will you trust
me?"
Her heart seemed to die within her. She of course did not understand
him, poor child. Those words, _I am not free_ should have ended "to
speak just now;" but in moments of great agitation things are not always
made clear.
She thought he was telling her, for her sake perhaps, that he was not
free, that they could only be friends.
She turned towards him pale to her lips. "I understand," she said
faintly, "we can be friends."
She had struggled for self-command; she was afraid of saying more, but
he must let her know that he had something more to tell her--he was
turning towards her to speak when she suddenly moved away from him with
a gesture of farewell, and he was too feeble to follow her swiftly.
All along the road home her heart was throbbing with pain. She did not
understand that in so leaving him she was betraying how deeply her
affections were engaged.
He looked after her dismayed at first, and then the happy conviction of
her love filled his mind, and all else was forgotten.
He hurried home and wrote long and fully to his mother. He told her that
his promise to her had been kept, and how much it had cost him to keep
it; he tried to describe Margaret, and found his words cold and formal,
and he entreated his mother to telegraph and to write without delay. He
lay back exhausted after this, and lost himself in the happiest
day-dreams.
Soon, soon, the answer would be there, and he could go to her and tell
her something of his love for her; something, but not all. It would take
a lifetime, he thought, to prove his devotion to her. As he sat thinking
happily about it all he did not hear the deep stifled sobs of the poor
child upstairs, struggling through anguish and misery. He never dreamed
for one moment that he had been misunderstood, and that in trying to say
something, in trying to explain without departing from his promise, he
had conveyed so false an impression to her.
That parting in the grey light of a rainy day was their real
parting--for long--and then all was changed.
When Margaret went downstairs and met her sister and Mr. Sandford she
saw that a sudden decision had been come to, and that they were to go,
go back to the smoky place they so disliked.
But the great blow that had fallen upon her heart made all else sink to
littleness. She was stunned, and no change in their lives, no outside
accidents, seemed capable of affecting her.
Next day Sir Albert suffered from the exertion and agitation of the
previous one, and was feverish and unwell. The doctor was summoned by
his faithful servant, and pronounced him too unwell to rise or to see
any one. Not all the prayers of his patient moved him, and then,
resigning himself to the inevitable, the young man consoled himself. Had
he been able to see Margaret, what had he to say to her? What dared he
say till the expected telegram came to set his speech free?
How long the hours seemed! He kept watching the clock and calculating
how soon it was possible to hear. His mother was in Wales, and the
telegram station was five miles off. He saw it all in his mind's eye.
Saw the slow movements of the post-master and the unkempt Welsh pony,
and its rider with the letter-bag. Often the boy, glad of the Castle's
hospitality on a wet day, would be told to wait and take back the
telegram. The hours flew on and no response arrived. Night came and John
was sorely put to it to know what to do--his master was evidently worse,
and yet he had been annoyed at the doctor being hurried that morning,
and had spoken very sharply. What ailed him that he was so unlike
himself, so irritable, so anxious?
All this time a tall grave man was hastening to Lornbay--a man bearing
grievous tidings to poor Sir Albert Gerald.
While his telegram was speeding on its way, all the hopes and fears and
interests of life had ceased for Lady Gerald. She lay dead; having been
startled by the news of her son's terrible accident, her slight hold
upon life was not strong enough to sustain a shock so great; and that
very afternoon, when his promise to her held him back from speaking to
Margaret as he longed to speak, she had died with loving messages upon
her lips to him. It was in the morning; John, with a grave face and that
air of preparedness for coming evil, came to his master and spoke of
evil tidings.
Mercifully, the instant those words are breathed we believe the worst,
and are so made ready to bear it. Then his uncle, _her_ brother Mr.
Wynston, went up to his side and told him all.
The tidings were unexpected and terrible to him; he loved her dearly,
and all his life had taught him to expect her to be delicate. He was so
accustomed to her being an invalid, that he never thought of her as more
fragile than other people. And while he wept for her, regardless for the
time of all else, his poor little love had gone--with that weary pain of
a blighted love to make her still childish heart miserable--for ever?