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. III.
LONDON: CHAPMAN and HALL
LIMITED
1886
WESTMINSTER:
PRINTED BY NICHOLS AND SONS,
25, PARLIAMENT STREET.
MRS. DORRIMAN.
CHAPTER I.
Spring struggling through smoke and fog, dingy sparrows playing on the
grass, and a careworn face looking upon it all.
The lines left by youth deepen and become more conspicuous in age, and
one can generally read the story of the three first decades in the faces
of older people. Mrs. Dorriman, suffering in her youth from injustice
and a want of affection, bore the marks of both; nothing but her real
sweetness of temper had saved her from peevishness, for fretfulness is
as much the result of perpetual repression in one feeble by nature, as
violence and anger is the outcome of an unchecked temper in youth.
But, as Mrs. Dorriman looked upon the smoky sparrows and the grass
showing green under difficulties, she noticed that the birds were
contending and not playing, they each wanted a long straw, envied it.
Alone they could not lift it, and yet they would not combine their
efforts, and after all it had to be left there to the mercy of the wind.
Their ineffectual single efforts in so hopeless a cause seemed to the
poor little lady typical of humanity, wasting their time struggling for
the unattainable, and never seeing how perfectly fruitless are their
efforts.
She was roused from this common-place reflection by the entrance of the
servant.
Mr. Sandford, better, and busy at his writing-table, had much changed
since his last attack. He was rough in manner still, and his speech was
imperious because the habit of a lifetime is not easily broken, but in
various ways he showed his sister how much he had learned to value her.
His own consciousness of not being quite the same--which however he
never alluded to openly--the various disappointments he met with in
business, the failure of some of his most cherished plans--everything
combined to make him cling to his sister as the one object in his life
who was always the same, and who never disappointed him.
Though between them lay a secret so important to him, that he
perpetually strove to forget it, yet seeing her there by him made him
often momentarily forget that anything uncomfortable lay between them.
On her side, his harshness in old days, and the various events of her
life in which he had played a part, had been first resolutely pushed
away from her and latterly forgotten. Indeed the only feeling she had
now was in connection with her husband and that perpetual bewilderment
as to its being Christian or right to shrink back from the everlasting
companionship which every book she read dwelt upon as offering her the
deepest consolation. She had grown fond of her brother, he appreciated
her household virtues, and a woman forgives much when she meets with
appreciation in what she takes pride in. She had watched the sparrows,
and with a quick self-reproach at her own idleness she turned to the
door and saw that a telegram was in the servant's hand. One telegram!
There were two!
Anxious not to excite Mr. Sandford, she tore one open. It was from Mr.
Macfarlane.
"Disastrous fire here and great loss--your papers all safe."
The poor little woman, so suddenly reminded of what she had almost
forgotten, felt as though some explosive substance had been thrown at
her. In her bewilderment she stretched out the telegram to her brother,
forgetting, at the moment, everything except the impulse of having his
sympathy, then with a quick flash of remembrance she said, "I did not
mean to show it," and held out her hand for it.
Too late! Mr. Sandford had read it, and now with angry and indignant
eyes was watching her face.
"What papers are those referred to?" he asked in a harsh voice.
"Papers belonging to my husband--to me. I had forgotten them."
"What are they about?" His voice was harsh and reminded her painfully of
old days; something, too, of the fear that held her in such a grasp then
came to her now.
"I have not read them."
His brow cleared a little, but he was amazed to find that after all she
had not forgotten. They had been so much more to each other lately, so
he had thought, and all the time she had held this weapon in reserve to
strike him with.
There was so much treachery in this that he was thunderstruck. How
little he had sounded the depths of her character, if she was capable
of this.
"Brother," she said, "you can tell me what I have never had the courage
to find out for myself. Will anything in those papers raise my husband
in my estimation, or will they lower him in my eyes?"
"How can I tell what your estimation of your husband is?" he asked,
roughly; "he was a kind good-hearted fellow, not a man of business, but
thoughtful and good about _you_. You have nothing to complain of."
Nothing to complain of! thoughtful about her! Poor Mrs. Dorriman thought
she could not have heard aright. "He left me dependent," she said, with
a sob in her voice.
Mr. Sandford shrank, then he said, quickly,
"What have you wanted that you have not had from me?"
"Ah, brother! it is not the same; you do not know how bitter it is to
owe everything, to be under an obligation, when it ought not to have
been necessary. I should have had my own."
This cry, the outcome of months, and even years, of a perpetual grief to
Mrs. Dorriman, was an entirely new light to her brother, whose coarser
view of life was that so long as money, food, and clothes were
forthcoming it did not matter from whom they came. He was also one of
the men who imagine that a woman has no business with money; who
conceive that they are not fitted by nature for disposing of any
investment or even controlling their income beyond that portion of it
allotted to them for the payment of a butcher's bill, or the purchase of
some more or less frivolous article of wearing apparel.
He stared at her in silence, conscious that this new phase of her
character must be thought over when she was not there. Then he said:
"Write for those papers; there is nothing in them to injure your husband
in your eyes. He did think about you."
"Then why did Inchbrae not belong to me? When he told me--at least I
_think_ he told me--it was mine, and you sold it, how could he think of
me and not leave me independent? If Inchbrae was mine how could you sell
it and me never consenting?"
"Anne," said Mr. Sandford, "till the papers come we will drop the
subject--when they come you will understand. Read the other telegram."
He spoke with difficulty, and Mrs. Dorriman in haste opened the yellow
missive on her lap, conscious of neglect in another direction. It was
from Grace.
"All sorts of complications here--can you not come or send some one who
can help Margaret? Her husband ill."
Then all was forgotten but this new anxiety. Mrs. Dorriman felt as
though life just now was a great deal too much for her. Her own affairs
were of great interest to her--then the papers, her brother, and now
Margaret.
"She does not say what sort of help is wanted, and why did Margaret not
telegraph herself?"
This was Mr. Sandford; his sister sat thinking and thinking, not coming
any nearer a solution, looking helplessly straight before her.
"She has Jean," she said at length.
Mr. Sandford made no answer. He leaned back in his chair thinking, and
it was evident from the expression of his face that his thoughts were
very painful to him; then he said, slowly:
"There is a man I dislike, and, for the matter of that, he dislikes me,
but he is the only person I can think of who can help Margaret just now.
His name is Stevens. He was Drayton's manager, and left him because
Drayton would not take his advice about an investment I recommended."
"That does not say much for his wisdom," said Mrs. Dorriman, who had a
blind belief as regarded her brother's financial capabilities.
"It showed his wisdom," said Mr. Sandford, shortly.
"The investment was a risky one, if not a bad one."
Mrs. Dorriman looked at her brother with wide-open eyes of astonishment.
Mr. Sandford gave a short laugh, in which there was not any mirth. After
a moment or two he said,
"Telegraph to this man and ask him to go to Wandsworth at once."
"In your name or mine?" asked Mrs. Dorriman, as she drew a
telegraph-form towards her.
"In Margaret's name. Say, 'Mrs. Drayton implores Mr. Stevens to come to
her at once. Her husband is very ill.' Put, 'The Limes, Wandsworth.' I
think he will act on that," said Mr. Sandford, as he rang the bell and
sent the telegram off.
Mrs. Dorriman wrote to Mr. Macfarlane, going out of the room to do so.
Her brother's words about her husband were full of mystery to her, but
she clung to his saying that her husband had thought of her, and tried
not to think of it at all. Soon now she would be made to understand,
and, if understanding it all would make her happier, she longed, all the
more, for the explanations to be over.
She finished her letter, wondering whether she had said enough and not
too much, and sat with the folded and sealed letter between her hands
with something of her usual hesitation when she had taken any step of
importance. Then she rose quickly and sent it away. She felt she must go
into her brother's presence, having fulfilled his wishes. She had not a
moment for reflection then, for the front doorbell, usually so silent,
rang loudly, and in a moment a tall, broad-shouldered, middle-aged man
came into the room and went straight up to her.
"Mrs. Dorriman, I believe? I am told Mr. Sandford is ill, so I asked for
you. My name is Stevens," and he shook hands with her and sat down as
though sure of his welcome.
"I--we have just telegraphed to you, Mr. Stevens."
"Hah! What about?"
"Mr. Drayton is very ill, and Margaret--we wanted you to go to her."
"Just what I feared," he said; "I had a letter from Sir Albert Gerald,
who has been corresponding with me about some Welsh property, some
mines, &c.; he said he felt sure Mr. Drayton was too ill to be looked
after only by his wife; that he was convinced, from the way he was
behaving, that his mind was affected. I came here because I thought I
should get full particulars. I am ready to go at once and see if I can
be of use."
"Thank you," said Mrs. Dorriman, warmly; "shall I show you the telegram,
and would you like to see my brother?"
"I need not disturb your brother. Yes, show me the telegram."
Mrs. Dorriman left the room, leaving Mr. Stevens pacing up and down the
room.
"What a horrible shame it was letting any young girl marry him!" he
muttered; "and Sandford knew it, for I myself told him."
He took the telegram from Mrs. Dorriman's hand as she entered, and,
crumpling it up, he said, "Good-bye," and, before Mrs. Dorriman had
fairly realised he was there, he had gone.
She sat down for a moment or two to recover herself, conscious that a
powerful help had suddenly been given her in Mr. Stevens.
There was a quickness and decision in his manner which was inexpressibly
comforting to her. Knowing very little about him, there was still a
mixture of kindness and shrewdness in his face, and a straightforward
honesty that impressed her.
She rose to join her brother with half her trouble gone.
"Who has been here?" he asked, as she entered the room.
"Oh, brother, such a wonderful thing! No sooner had my telegram to Mr.
Stevens gone than he himself appeared. He had heard something and came
to find out what we knew."
Mrs. Dorriman gave a sigh of relief as she sat down.
"Who wrote to him?" asked Mr. Sandford; "does Grace know him?"
"I do not think so; but Sir Albert Gerald wrote. He was corresponding
with him on business."
"Sir Albert Gerald?" exclaimed Mr. Sandford; "isn't he the man who was
nearly killed at Lornbay?"
"And that Margaret found? Yes," said Mrs. Dorriman.
"What in the world can he be doing there?" said Mr. Sandford; "he had
better have kept away."
"But if he helps Margaret?" said Mrs. Dorriman; "it is a great thing for
her to have a friend near her."
"That may or may not be," said Mr. Sandford, gloomily; and then, fixing
his eyes on his sister, he said, "You are very innocent, Anne, but do
you think a young fellow like Sir Albert Gerald a safe friend for a
beautiful young girl like Margaret, who is unhappily married?"
"But her marriage was not your doing, you tried to persuade her against
it. I said all I could, she has only herself to blame," said Mrs.
Dorriman, severely.
"Do not make me more ashamed of myself than I am already," he said,
bitterly. "I liked Margaret, and wished to keep her with me. She is
like ... but Grace. I did originally persuade him to come here, I did
not care about _her_; and I should not have minded her unhappiness.
Then I was so angry that I made life unbearable for her; and if evil
comes of this can I hold myself blameless?"
He spoke with great agitation, and Mrs. Dorriman felt powerless to say a
word to comfort him. She knew that there was truth in his way of putting
it, and that in this way he was to blame.
"One thing more," he said, turning suddenly towards her, "and there is
no reason now why you should not know it. When I asked Drayton here I
did not know what I learnt afterwards from Stevens, and when he told me
it was too late; I did not know that his mother died insane, and that he
himself had been under restraint. I only knew this after that poor
child's marriage, and what could I do?"
A cry of horror burst from Mrs. Dorriman.
"Ah, Anne! You may well be horrified, but can you not see that all this
makes me absolutely hate myself? I assure you when I lie down at night,
and when I unclose my eyes in the morning, this is the first miserable
thought that haunts me, and will haunt me to my dying day."
"Can we do nothing?" she sobbed; "it is so dreadful to think of her so
far from us and so helpless."
"If I went there, he would probably be worse, and I confess that his
virulent hatred of me is the one fact that reconciles me to being unable
to go. Now this man Stevens has gone, he will do more than any one, he
has very great influence. I have not the health nor the strength," and,
as he sank breathless into a chair, Mrs. Dorriman recognised that this
was indeed only too true, and that her place was by his side.
For this agitation brought on one of his worst attacks, and when he was
again easier he was as usual feeble and completely prostrated; and
sitting beside him, once again as often before, the poor little woman
had to bear anxiety patiently, and to fold her hands while all her fears
and terrors for Margaret urged her to rush to the scene of action.
Grace neither wrote nor telegraphed, and altogether, perhaps, Mrs.
Dorriman had never gone through such a time of trial before.
It seemed to her that her duty lay in two opposite directions, or was it
that she could not see quite clearly which was her chief duty?
Things were not much mended by a letter from Jean, who had great pride
in her powers of language, and who had the habit of wrapping her meaning
in many involved sentences.
"My dear and honoured lady," she wrote, "I am in great distress and
anxiety, and Miss Grace is much better and well to do with, and we
agree wonderful; and the landlady she is not to be mentioned for
meanness and using the oil we pay for, and cooks too bad for any lady to
eat, much less a young lady with a high stomach and not strong like Miss
Grace, but I don't mind, and I just do things myself and she is well
content poor thing, but Miss Margaret's husband has taken a bad turn,
and mischief will come and is sure to come if the police will not
interfere, and they say they will not because of a law no one
understands, and as I have explained this to you, my dear lady, I hope
you will forgive me, but I wish you were here, or even Mr. Sandford, as
he might show some temper and make them do their duty. I hope Mr.
Sandford is well and not very troublesome to do with, though well I know
that illness makes everyone a trouble. Look at myself, and a man's
worse, so no more from your humble servant, JEAN."
"We hear this bad news from every side," said Mrs. Dorriman, "and I am
very anxious, brother."
"There is cause for anxiety, but now Stevens has gone we need not be
afraid."
"If he only manages to get in."
"Trust him; besides, you must remember that after all it is only Grace
who has been refused admittance."
"That is all we _know_ of, but how I wish, how I wish, Margaret was safe
here with us!"
"There is no use wishing anything," he said, impatiently. Mrs. Dorriman
sighed.
"Is it not true that no good comes of doing anything wrong from however
good a motive?"
"What _do_ you mean," he said, angrily.
"I mean," she said, hopelessly, "that if Margaret had not wanted to give
Grace a home she would not have married Mr. Drayton."
"Do you suppose I do not know that?" he said. "Can you not see that the
horror of it all is almost overwhelming me? I have already told you this
myself!"
"Oh, brother," said Mrs. Dorriman, remorsefully, "I did not mean ..."
Mrs. Dorriman looked ready to cry.
"It is because you do not mean it that it makes it worse. Anne," he
said, suddenly raising himself and looking at her, "if any one knew what
the word remorse meant, I think there would be less wrong-doing in the
world. _It_ is the worm that never dies, and the fire that never is
quenched." He spoke in a tone of despair and despondency, and Mrs.
Dorriman endeavoured to console him.
"You know nothing of this, brother," she said, "you should not speak so.
You never did any grievous wrong." She stopped short as a cruel pang of
recollection came to her, the haunting fear that once had possessed her.
Her face flushed and she trembled visibly.
He looked at her in silence, unable to reconcile to himself the words
she spoke, implying trust in him and the doubt expressed in her face. At
length he said in a feeble tone, which betrayed the great prostration he
was suffering from--
"We will talk another day, Anne. Perhaps when we do have that
conversation then you will feel you are free to leave me, to go to
Margaret, or any one else."
"Brother," said Mrs. Dorriman, rising and standing beside him with her
hands clasped, "I have learned to care for you now--and if in the past
anything exists that may part us--let it alone--unless," she added,
hastily, "it may be doing my husband's memory a wrong."
She spoke solemnly, and he gazed at her, earnestly.
"I believe you are a good woman, Anne, but you cannot right the one
without----"
He waved her away from him, and she, disturbed and agitated, fearing and
hoping at one and the same moment, stooped suddenly and kissed him, an
unwonted demonstration on her side, but meant as a seal to the promise
she had intended to make, and so he understood it.
Mrs. Dorriman, reserved and reticent, had one great hope in all this.
She trusted that the story which was so painful in every detail was not
known to outsiders. Nothing would seem so painful to her if only they
could keep it to themselves. She was one of those people who like to
draw her mantle round her and not show her wounds. It is the misfortune
of characters like hers that no event ever happens in connection with
their home history of an unhappy nature that they do not begin to
reproach themselves either for doing or not doing things, or for saying
or not saying something in connection with it. A want of self-confidence
often leads to a good deal of self-torment, and when she had left her
brother's room she was very unhappy, clinging to this one belief of
privacy as the one bright spot.
No one need know, and she said these words to herself, and found that
they gave her comfort. How long she had sat thinking she did not know,
but the twilight was coming on when the servant came to her and asked
her if she would receive Mrs. Wymans.
"I am not out, of course, if any one calls; you can show them in," she
said, surprised by his tone.
Mrs. Wymans came in with that prepared expression of sympathy that some
people feel right to show on all occasions when sorrow may properly be
supposed to be in question.
"This is indeed kind," she said, nestling up to Mrs. Dorriman. "I call
it real friendship to allow me to see you at such a moment."
"My brother is so much better," said Mrs. Dorriman, with her little air
of gentle dignity, "that there is no reason why I should deny myself to
any one."
"Ah, so good of you; but then, dear Mrs. Dorriman, I am so deeply
interested in you ever since that day we met in the railway-carriage. I
have felt so much sympathy and real interest."
"You are very good."
"Oh no! I am not good at all. But your brother, how does he bear it?"
"He is better and in fair enough spirits, considering all things."
"Ah!" and Mrs. Wymans heaved a sigh that might have almost sent a ship
across the sea.
The scene was curious--the one woman burning with curiosity and an
intense anxiety to know what would put her in the position (in the
society of Renton) of being really intimate with Mrs. Dorriman; and the
other alarmed, anxious, yet standing bravely up and concealing by a
wonderful exertion that she was at all nervous about anything.
"Will he be tried? Of course he will," and Mrs. Wymans heaved another
sigh, which was cut short in the middle by want of breath.
Poor Mrs. Dorriman's heart seemed to stand still. Who was meant? Her
brother? Still she showed a composed front to Mrs. Wymans, who was
perplexed, annoyed, and began to be half afraid her information might
not have been correct in every particular.
"You are talking riddles, Mrs. Wymans," and Mrs. Dorriman was
unmistakeably annoyed.
"Such strange, such very strange stories spread, one never knows what to
believe," Mrs. Wymans answered, "but I heard it on what seemed to be
very good authority."
"Would you be so kind as to tell me what you have heard, and in what way
it refers to me?" and Mrs. Dorriman felt the suspense was very terrible
to her.
"Be prepared, for you evidently have heard nothing," and Mrs. Wymans
felt to the full the importance of being the first to tell important
news; "Mrs. Drayton's baby is dead, and, Mrs. Dorriman, _the child did
not die a natural death_!"
Mrs. Dorriman started--for a moment she lost her self-control.
"Take care, Mrs. Wymans! Oh, do you know what you are saying!"
"You know nothing?"
"I know nothing about the child, and," taking sudden courage at the
thought, "Jean, my old servant, wrote to me, and Grace--Miss
Rivers--telegraphed, 'Mr. Drayton is ill,' that is all. There is nothing
more."
"There is a great deal more. But, my dear Mrs. Dorriman, pray compose
yourself; pray do not excite yourself. Mr. Drayton is ill, that is true,
but has no one told you anything else?"
"What more can any one have to say?" Mrs. Dorriman asked, struggling for
self-command, and feeling as though it was beyond her.
Mrs. Wymans paused; she had believed her authority to be good, and she
had so completely credited every word she heard--we are all of us so apt
to believe the very worst part of a friend's misfortune--that now,
finding that Mrs. Dorriman knew nothing, she began to ask herself, when
it was too late, if the story could be altogether true; perhaps it had
been exaggerated.
"Perhaps," she said slowly, "as you have heard nothing----"
Mrs. Dorriman turned upon her with a fire and vivacity that fairly
astonished her.
"Mrs. Wymans, you have said enough to fill me with apprehension; you say
the child is dead. It is strange we do not know this, my brother and I;
and you add, in a tone of great meaning, it did not die a natural death.
What do you mean?"
Thus brought to bay, Mrs. Wymans blurted out suddenly what she had
heard.
"It is said Mr. Drayton is mad, and that he killed the child. For
goodness sake, Mrs. Dorriman, do not faint!" she exclaimed, noticing the
deadly pallor of the poor little woman before her.
"I----am not going to faint," said poor Mrs. Dorriman, in that far-away
voice that speaks of the cruellest mental agitation; "but you have told
me a horrible story. I do not believe it!" she continued, with a sob;
"but it is horrible, and I must go--I must telegraph at once."
"Yes, do telegraph," said Mrs. Wymans, eagerly; "can I not take the
telegram with me? It will hardly be a moment out of my way."
"Thank you, no," said Mrs. Dorriman, coldly.
How little we love the bearer of bad tidings!
"What will you do about Mr. Sandford?" continued the obtuse woman,
anxious to be in the way of whatever there was, and not seeing that Mrs.
Dorriman was dying to get rid of her; "do make me of use. Shall I go to
him? A stranger sometimes breaks bad news better than a very near
relation."
Mrs. Dorriman's patience was at an end.
"You must prove that your news is true," she said, "before venturing to
condole with my brother or with me; and Mrs. Wymans--we know each other
very slightly, and I must ask you to be so very kind as to leave me."
Mrs. Wymans, a woman upon whom it was very difficult indeed to make any
impression, was, for once in her life, completely taken aback by the
sudden assertion of herself in a woman she had looked upon as an amiable
fool. Her farewells were uttered with rapidity, and she left the room
and the house quite unable to comprehend how her visit had failed, or
why it was she was made to feel that her intrusion was an impertinence.
Mrs. Dorriman, left alone, tried to collect her thoughts and not to take
this story for granted. If it was true, even that the child was dead,
why did not Grace or Jean or some one telegraph?
All at once what she had dreaded and expected came to her--once again a
telegram was brought to her.
"Poor Margaret in frightful distress--her child is dead--scarlet fever."
The relief of this last information, after all she had dreaded, broke
her down. She sobbed for some moments very piteously.
Then she went to Mr. Sandford and astonished him by the way she put the
matter before him.
"It is such a relief!" she began, incoherently, and not telling him what
the relief was: then she added, the tears rolling over her face, "Poor
Margaret's child is dead!"
Mr. Sandford was shocked, but failed to understand why this news, which
affected him so slightly, was a relief.
"Was anything wrong about the child?" he asked.
"Wrong with it?"
"Yes; why is its death a relief to you?"
"Oh, brother!" she answered, hysterically, "Not its death--but the way
it died."
He understood that some worse fate had been suggested to her, and he
tried to console her--
"I have seen copies of all the correspondence that took place when
Drayton was under restraint before," he said, "and it distinctly says
that he was obstinate and very troublesome, but never violent."
Mrs. Dorriman tried hard to think this was consoling but failed to do
so.
The horror of it was almost unbearable, and she left the room unable to
face any discussion about it, even with her brother; utterly and
entirely wretched, and longing to be able to see any one element of
consolation in the position, for Margaret's sake.