Mrs. Dorriman Volume I Part 23

"I am cold-blooded and cruel! Oh, Paul, what have I done," said the poor woman helplessly, "that you should call me bad names like this?"

"I called your idea cruel and it is cruel," said Paul hotly, "you do not think of what you advise me to do. Heaven knows there is nothing in me to win a good girl's love, but you advise me to try and do so, and yet, while in act I am saying I love you and begging her to love me in return, I may feel free and be free because in _word_ I have said nothing. I call it shameful, mother!" He rose and walked hurriedly up and down the room, then, softening at the sight of her distress, he bent down and kissed her. "Forgive me if I seem harsh and unkind, but I am very unhappy, most miserable," and, sitting down again, he laid his face upon his arms.

Poor Lady Lyons, living in her monotonous round of small duties, never excited or allowing any interest not touching her son to disturb her, was singularly perplexed. Something seemed, all at once, different. She and her son had frequently had differences of opinion, but he had, at those times, offended, and she had complained, and she had always been so glad to forgive him. Now suddenly he blamed her! She could not at once put herself into the new position. Her feeble mind, bounded entirely by her affection for her son, saw nothing outside this horizon.

The reconciliation, when it came, was not so entirely satisfactory to her feelings, for Paul did not say he was sorry: on the contrary, he argued with her and left her to feel the burden of a defeat. She went to her room, and, as she sipped the thin gruel which solaced her evening hours, two or three tears trickled down her face, and she was conscious of a new and a very painful experience having suddenly confronted her.

At the same hour Margaret and Grace were standing watching the moonlit sea--a scene which never palled upon Margaret, and which from idleness Grace shared.

Paul Lyons's love and his appeal to Margaret was not spoken of even to her sister. Poor boy! his affection must be sacred from careless eyes.

As they watched the sea--suddenly into the most vivid light came gliding a stately yacht.

Her white sails were stretched to catch every whisper of the light wind, and she looked like some great lovely sea-bird, fluttering to her nest.

The sisters had grown familiar with the various s.h.i.+ps and yachts that made shorter or longer journeys and returned to their moorings here, but this was something new.

They watched it take up its place with a certain curiosity, watched the lights move, heard the short sharp words of command ring across the water, all unconscious of the new interest that, in all ignorance, she was bringing into their lives.

CHAPTER XI.

Mr. Sandford returned from his journey, knowing that when he arrived at home he should find no one there. He had chosen that time to leave home because it was the easiest way of avoiding an explanation, which, he half recognised to himself, must take the form of an apology.

It was perfectly true that he thought his sister took an exaggerated view of what had pa.s.sed, but that sense of right and wrong which does not desert a man for many years convicted him of blame. It was not possible for any high-spirited girl to submit to the footing he tried to put Grace upon, but he had grown to dislike her, and he did not at all mind having hurt her. The only question was about Margaret.

Yes! Margaret was different. He thought often of her expression, of the way in which she roused herself to indignation when Grace was in question; and he regretted his want of control on her account. Could things ever come quite right between them again?

There are some truths which make themselves felt without being thought out, far less spoken or put into words, and one truth was present to him then. The moment the faintest question of obligation creeps into close relations.h.i.+p between one and another person, and that the suspicion of grat.i.tude becomes _possible_, that moment the character of the subsisting love changes in a subtle way. Between friend and friend it is different; there often one receives, the other gives; but in the case of near relations the expectation of a little grat.i.tude makes the difference between them. Among sisters a sort of communism is one of the uniting ties; a common property, a right to share, and one of the disappointments of life is when from some outside influence or some change in position, this close tie drifts into a relative position of inequality.

Mr. Sandford knew that in befriending and adopting his wife's nieces, who were no kin to him, he was acting in a kind, if not a generous, way; he had helped to educate them and he had offered them a home. For these things he deserved that they should consider him and be grateful to him.

But, on the other hand, if he made the home intolerable to them, he neutralized the gift and spoiled its flavour.

Besides that fondness for power, which was part of his very character, he conceived that he had obtained by his spontaneous actions a certain right over them, and he fully intended exercising that right. Then, with all the unreasonableness of a man who never could see both sides of a question, he was thoroughly disappointed that they did not show him more affection. He wanted to be called "Uncle," but he never said so, and the girls, to whom he had always been an a "unknown quant.i.ty," had never thought of so natural an appellation.

He liked to be feared; he also wished to be loved, especially by Margaret, towards whom he had the strongest leaning.

As he went up to his own house, he missed the calm, sweet gaze of his sister and the gay, girlish voices; the house struck him painfully, it was so cheerless and so dull. He was expected, but not so soon. In the drawing-room was silence and chilliness; there was no fire in the grate, the rug was rolled up, all looked as though almost there had been a death; and with a s.h.i.+ver and a great sinking and depression he went to his own room--that small room downstairs where his plans were made, and his successes, and his failures, faced and mastered.

Here a fire was slowly beginning to light, and the room was cold. Anne would have seen to this, he thought, forgetting that he had returned some hours before he had intended, finding that a person he wanted to see on business, had gone South.

The room was scrupulously tidy, but so cheerless; he tried to remember how it had all been long ago (he thought it was long ago), before he had been ill, before his sister Anne and the girls had come to him; and he remembered the dreary and desolate feeling of illness creeping over him, and how he had then suffered.

A pile of letters, neatly arranged, lay upon his writing-table, and he looked them over. There was one from his sister and he took it up.

It was not very long, but it filled him with a certain uneasiness. Mrs.

Dorriman, always anxious to fulfil her trust and to show herself worthy of her responsibilities, sketched their life for his benefit, and, without laying undue stress upon the fact, let him know that another person was ready to show his appreciation for Margaret. And he so wanted Margaret to be at home with him, at any rate for some few years. She was so young, and, if her sister was only disposed of, he thought she would grow to like him.

Why was it always Margaret?

Mrs. Dorriman also mentioned the glimpse they had had of Mr. Drayton, the man he had hoped so much from, who seemed so frank and who was so reserved, and who had disappointed and baffled him in so many ways.

He also wanted Margaret. He had been there by accident. Of course he would go back again, and Mr. Sandford rose and paced the room, stopping to stir the fire violently, so violently that the newly-lit sticks collapsed, the coal smothered the flickering flame and the fire went out.

With an exclamation of annoyance, Mr. Sandford rang the bell. It was answered by Jean, nerved for the occasion, who had been matching for an opportunity to speak to him, much too greatly in awe of him to walk in upon him without an opening.

She looked at the fire and understood what had happened, went off for fresh sticks, laid and new-lit the fire in a few seconds, and then confronted him, and asked him if he wanted anything else.

"When am I to have dinner?" he asked, abruptly.

"You can have something to eat now if you please; dinner can be any time after seven," said Jean. "You look cold, sir?"

"The house is like an iceberg," he said in a grumbling and complaining tone, "quite enough to give one cold."

"It's cheerless and dull, and cold enough, sir, without any one, but just only a man," said Jean. "It's not much comfort to a man being alone."

"Have you heard from Mrs. Dorriman?" he asked.

"Oh, certainly, sir, she writes whiles to me."

"I have a letter, I suppose she is well?"

"She does not complain of ill health; not that Mrs. Dorriman's given to complaining," said Jean; "she'll put up with a great deal, will Mrs.

Dorriman, sooner than speak a word."

Did she mean anything by this? Mr. Sandford glanced keenly at her, and thought it best to say nothing.

"What time do you wish to eat your dinner, sir?" inquired Jean.

"Oh! any time after seven," he answered, and there was a certain weariness in his tone that struck her.

She said no more, but looked at the fire, now blazing, and went back to her domain.

It was still early in the afternoon, though the want of clearness in the air all round the place made it soon dark.

On a table, tidily set out and looking comfortable, was Jean's tea, though the teapot, one of those delightful brown earthenware affairs, producing somehow such superexcellent tea, was on a hot plate in front of the fire.

Jean made some delicate toast, and arranged a little tray; she poured off the first cup, resolving to give him of the best, and was soon in his room again. Her great panacea for all ill was in her hands, and Mr.

Sandford, who wanted comfort and warmth, and did not understand how much he wanted both, was sitting looking moodily at the fire, conscious that life was altogether wrong with him somehow.

He received Jean's attention without much apparent grat.i.tude, but when she had gone he did turn to it for consolation, and eat up all the toast, as Jean noted afterwards with much satisfaction.

Then he read his letters, feeling better; and one letter he held in his hand for a long while.

Mr. Sandford while known to be a rich man was never talked of as a speculative man. He was one of those people considered "very safe all round." No one took greater pains than he did to inquire into securities, no one was keener to detect a possible risk, and his investments, his financial ability, all together gave him a position he thoroughly valued.