Mrs. Dorriman Volume I Part 22

"It must be such a comfort, my dear Anne, to have a very rich brother to fall back upon," said Lady Lyons to her one day, watching her face a little eagerly as she spoke.

"I suppose so," said Mrs. Dorriman, dubiously, reflecting that, when she was in need of anything, it was always very hard to ask him for it.

"What an immense thing for those girls, unless, indeed, he were to marry."

Mrs. Dorriman looked up, much puzzled by her friend's tone.

"I suppose it is a good thing for them," she said, slowly. "I never think my brother will marry again; he did so love his wife--poor thing!"

"Very nice, very proper," said Lady Lyons, "and, for the girls' sake, let us hope this frame of mind may continue. I am sure, my dear Anne, for their sakes, you would throw your influence against such a step. At his time of life----"

"He is not an old man," said Mrs. Dorriman, very hastily, "and, as for influence--my dear, if my brother wished to marry any one I should probably hear nothing about it till he introduced his wife to me. When he makes up his mind he acts," said Mrs. Dorriman, thinking with a little s.h.i.+ver of her own marriage and other things.

"I am not sure that I think that quite nice in a man," and Lady Lyons unclasped a narrow bracelet that she wore, and clasped it with great care; anxious not to look too much interested, and longing to know more, all the same.

"My brother is not dependent upon women's society; he never has been.

His own mother died young, and then he went away--I never was much to him."

"Poor man! But now, my dear Anne, you should humanize him a little. If once he grows accustomed to having you and the girls, he will miss you all, and he will miss the girls whenever they marry."

Mrs. Dorriman did not answer. Yes, he would miss Margaret--he was anxious to keep her.

Like all people with a motive, Lady Lyons was very much afraid of her motive being discovered; and she hesitated now, impelled by her great desire to be able to guide her son, and to find out, before it was too late, something definite about "those Rivers girls."

"The girls are I suppose so well off that his marrying or remaining unmarried can hardly affect them," she said, taking up her knitting again, and narrowly watching Mrs. Dorriman's placid face.

"Oh dear no!" said that poor little lady, taken by surprise, "my brother has helped them very much--they really owe him a great deal."

"Ah! then he is sure to provide for them," said Lady Lyons, "comfortably, especially for Margaret."

Mrs. Dorriman looked up at her a little startled. Had she said anything?

"We know nothing. He is fond of Margaret. He was fond----" She stopped short, she could not say that this move, originated by Grace and followed up by Margaret, had hurt and offended him. She knew he was offended, but all that pa.s.sed belonged to the sanct.i.ty of home. She felt guilty in some way. Reticent and reserved generally, how came she to have allowed Lady Lyons to touch upon these matters? With a little movement of her head and shoulders, expressive of resolution, she faced Lady Lyons and said calmly:

"I would prefer not discussing my brother's intentions, which I do not know. I know really nothing, and conjecture is useless."

"We will not discuss his intentions," said Lady Lyons, with a cheerfulness she did not feel; "a man who has shown himself so good and so kind is not likely to throw these poor girls penniless upon the world--I can safely prophesy that Margaret will be his heiress." She smiled at Mrs. Dorriman, who had no answering smile to give back. She was startled and vexed with herself. She had no right to speak about her brother. She was confident that his actions would be governed entirely by the feeling of the moment. He liked Margaret; if Margaret offended him, his liking would not save her from the effects of his displeasure.

She was beginning to understand him, to see that everything had to be subservient to his will, that the greatest and strongest trait in his character was his love of power.

After this conversation, Lady Lyons lost no time in giving her son warning.

"Nothing is settled," she said. "It may be Margaret, but he is a younger man than I thought, and he may marry; my dear boy, you must do nothing rashly."

He turned the subject with a laugh, in which to speak the truth there was not much merriment. His pa.s.sion for Margaret was at any rate sincere, and with his frequent opportunities of meeting it became utterly impossible for him to conceal his feelings from her.

Before she could stop him, he was hurriedly telling her his story, looking in her face, which showed vexation and regret, but no pa.s.sion, no love, no response to his devotion.

He read his answer there, and his despair moved her. She was grieved and dismayed; to her he had always seemed so inconsequent, such a trifler, how could she ever have believed that he was capable of so strong a love?

But her great comfort through it all was the very foundation he put himself upon; he would be guided in all things by her, she would be his good genius, his conscience. He would always do as she wished. She would be his guardian angel! This made refusal easier.

She shrank from his outstretched hands.

"I cannot," she said. "I cannot! It is impossible. I can never never give you the love you ask."

"You think so now, Margaret--I may call you Margaret--you are so young you do not know; will you not try, can you not let me hope?"

"Do you not see," she said, with the soft rebuke in her eyes that an angel might have had, "that love must come? And there is something else."

"Will you not tell me?" he spoke in a lower voice.

"I shall offend you."

"You cannot offend me."

"When I love--if I love--it must be a man," she said, and her face glowed, "a man who does not require the guidance of a weak girl, but who does what he has to do from a high sense of right, who has high aims, who is above me in all things."

"This is folly!" he exclaimed angrily; "you would ruin all my happiness from some vague and ideal sense of right. You will never meet with this ideal. All men will look up to you, beautiful Margaret. You will never find one above you."

"Perhaps not," she said, "but then I will never love."

They parted, she grieved but firm, and he miserable and dispirited. He felt the truth of much that she said, and was sufficiently in love to think her just while he deemed her cruel.

"Had my mother acted differently," he thought, with bitterness, "had she made me play a man's part!" and then a blush of shame rose to his face.

"Why blame her? Was this worthy?" He strode off and sought in rapid motion to still his disappointment. No one must ever know, and Margaret was so young. At some future time, perhaps.

Thus it happened that when poor Lady Lyons gave him her well-meant caution his laugh was full of bitterness.

She noticed, however, and took great credit to herself for having so influenced him that her son avoided Margaret; and not in the least understanding, simply thinking that he was following her advice, she thought that his avoidance was perhaps too marked. Mother-like she must interfere a little, he should draw back but not so pointedly as to make going forward impossible; supposing....

"You are a dear, good boy," she said fondly to him in the evening, when, with a book before him and his gloomy eyes fixed on the fire, he was sitting, dreading her observation of his countenance; "you are always so good in following your poor old mother's advice. I see you leave the Rivers girls alone. You must not overdo it, dear. If there is money--if it would not be an imprudence it would not be a bad thing, and then, you know, they might resent your having given them _quite_ up. Could you not keep friends without----"

"Without what, mother?" he asked, in a hoa.r.s.e voice which startled her a little.

"I am hunting for a word, my dear," she answered candidly; "I want a word to express my meaning and that would not sound too strong."

Paul laughed ironically.

"Hunt on, mother, and when you have found the word you can tell me again."

"It is so tiresome of you to laugh, but what I want to say is, that there would be no harm in your paying a certain amount of attention, always providing you did not _quite_ commit yourself."

"And if the girl got fond of me," asked Paul, looking at her with glowing eyes, "what then, if I had not committed myself?"

"My dear Paul! No well-brought-up girl would think of getting fond of you, would be in love with you, till you had said something. At least,"

said Lady Lyons, drawing herself up and looking very virtuous, "in my younger days girls would have thought it very wrong."

"Now it strikes me, mother, that this idea of yours is very cold-blooded and cruel; does your love for me so blind you that you cannot see this?"