Mrs. Dorriman Volume Ii Part 4

But, though they got a room, it was fireless, and the luggage a greater difficulty.

There were horses, but they were all busy; the little place, self-contained and prosperous enough, was not prepared for the advent of strangers.

A fire was kindled, but would not burn, the smoke insisted on searching every corner of the room, and if it went up the chimney it came out in puffs in an unexpected and distracting way altogether; the girls sitting there felt their spirits go down to the very lowest ebb, and s.h.i.+vered.

Nothing could be more cheerless than the place--one black horsehair sofa, two rather narrow arm-chairs, and six other chairs, a table that nearly filled up the room in the middle of it, upon which a dusty-coloured worsted mat reposed, three funeral cards of departed relations framed and glazed upon the chimney-piece, and a convex mirror, which reflected and distorted with strict impartiality everything that was there.

After waiting a long time in their wet things, since they had nothing to put on dry till their luggage came, they got some tea and hoped that its warmth would revive them, but the tea was tepid; an accident not unknown to history when there is nothing to keep it hot, and a peat fire, though cheerful to look at and hot enough, does not offer the convenience of a hot plate.

The bedroom close to the sitting-room was as small as it could well be, and the sisters could barely turn round in it. Grace sat looking straight before her. She was feeling very ill. At all times a little fastidious, the second-rate baker's bread (tasting of sawdust) and the uninviting tea, extinguished all wish to eat. She had the painful satisfaction of knowing that her own want of self-control had brought them to this, and yet, poor child, this was nothing to what the future held in store for her, though she did not know it!

The sisters did not speak, they both felt that it was all best endured in silence; they sat, cold and very wretched, till their luggage arrived, then soon creeping into bed they tried to sleep and to forget their misery.

Soon Margaret slept. Her calmer and less exciteable temperament always gave her this advantage, and she slept soundly.

But Grace was sleepless, the shadows of the night oppressed her; long after her sister's regular breathing told its own story she lay tossing wearily from side to side. The small room seemed to stifle her; to the intense cold and s.h.i.+vering she had suffered from, had succeeded burning heat, her head seemed too heavy to lift from her pillow, and it was very early when Margaret was startled by a sharp cry of distress and anguish, and heard Grace saying:

"I am very ill; Oh! Margaret, wake up and do something for me!"

The morning had barely come, the grey dawn, moisture-laden, grew slowly into perfect day; and poor Margaret with a cloak thrown over her, her long fair hair streaming over her shoulders, her sleepy eyes looking wonderingly round her, went downstairs to do her best.

One bare-footed girl was busy, early though it was, and to her Margaret explained herself.

With evident reluctance she went to call her mistress, who came inclined to be cross at losing an hour's much-needed rest.

But crossness vanished when she saw Margaret, and she went upstairs with her; where poor Grace, with a crimson face and panting heavily, lay tossing from side to side and calling her sister.

"How can you leave me when you see how ill I am? I shall die! I know I shall die."

She was frightened, and crying hysterically.

To her immense surprise, Mrs. Munro gave her a good scolding. The surprise was so great that it quieted her, and when that good woman saw the effect she had produced, she left her, to see and get some remedy and to send for the doctor. Before night she was worse, and both knew now that her illness was no light thing. She was suffering acutely, and her illness was p.r.o.nounced to be inflammation of the lungs.

Mrs. Munro was glad it was "no a catching thing," and was sorry for them. The women of her cla.s.s in Scotland may be rough, and have a keen eye to a bargain; but their kindness is often wonderful!

Margaret, whose courage always rose when it was needed, neither gave way or got unduly frightened. But she had all the dread of necessary expense that yet could not be met. Grace, always thoughtless and often unreasonable, wanted and asked for a thousand things difficult to obtain, and of course proportionately expensive. Money melted fast. It was impossible to worry Grace, and the burden fell with all its weight upon poor Margaret.

She took counsel with the landlady, and found that she had acted unwisely in so doing. Mrs. Munro had imagined from their appearance and all else that they had plenty of money. Margaret, in her great inexperience, talked of having none, meaning no money for heavy extra expenses. Mrs. Munro, with a sensible loss of respect in her manner, inquired sharply,

"And how am I to be paid, and me doing all I can?"

"I do not mean that," said poor Margaret; "but we are not rich enough, my sister and I, to be able to buy expensive things."

"People should say what they mean," said Mrs. Munro, slightly consoled, but not altogether easy in her mind.

She took counsel with the doctor; and he, who knew of their connection with Mr. Sandford, and indeed thought the relations.h.i.+p closer than it really was, rea.s.sured her on the subject.

"But how comes it then that these two young ladies are stravaging about the country by themselves and na a maid or a soul with them, and they come of rich folk?" asked Mrs. Munro.

"Young ladies have often independent ideas," said Mr. Burns; "but when I was staying with a friend, not far from Renton, the talk there was about the arrival of these young ladies, indeed, I myself saw them there one day walking in the town."

"Well! well! and so I need not be anxious," said Mrs. Munro, much relieved; "but what with gaseous waters and fruits there will be something big to pay; and dear me, Miss Margaret's a nice young lady, she ought to have some one to help, she's nigh worn out already, and it's like to be a time yet before she can see her sister out of bed."

"Her sister is very seriously ill," said the doctor, with a graver face; "I am afraid she is const.i.tutionally delicate. I wonder what her mother died of."

"Oh! I think that will have been a natural-like death, for Miss Margaret said she died in India, and that's a country that kills many folks," she said, comfortably; "they that live come home yellow, and when they don't turn yellow they die."

"Come, come," said Dr. Burns, "I know many that neither turn yellow nor die, that is merely a prejudice."

"It is no prejudice, doctor. I had an uncle once, and he was like one of they dried things they call mummies and show in museums; and people said if you could see his inside it would be all shrivelled up like an old walnut, and I am sure that never was in our family. It was all India; he was a soldier, poor man, and had gone through a deal."

Dr. Burns had no time to carry on the discussion: he was professionally anxious about Grace, she was still so feverish, and, though the acute pain was lessened, her cough was most distressing, and her weakness very great.

"Have you no one to come and help you?" he asked Margaret one day when he had found her worn out, suffering acutely from headache, and in a very depressed state.

"No one," she answered, in a low voice. "I did propose some one to my sister, but she says if she came she would get much worse."

"It is really thoughtless, and, I may say, selfish of her," he said, earnestly. "If my wife were at home I should send her to help you; let me try and get a nurse for you?"

"Oh, no!" said Margaret, earnestly and very eagerly. "I cannot--we cannot afford the expense. I am doing my best, my sister does not suffer from my want of experience," and she looked up very fearfully.

"I am not thinking of her so much as of you," he said, bluntly. Then he went on, in a matter-of-fact tone--"Your sister is better; the pain is lessened, but the fever still runs high. I do not think she is so strong as you are. What did your mother die of? do you know? She died when you were a baby in India, Mrs. Munro tells me, probably of some fever, did she not?"

"She died of consumption," said Margaret, who did not for a moment see the connection of ideas. Then it flashed across her, and she said, clasping her hands, and in a perfect agony of feeling--"You do not--you cannot--think Grace so ill. Oh! tell me, tell me;" and, weakened by her long watching and hastily-taken meals, she lost her self-command, and cried pitifully.

"I am sorry to have frightened you," said Dr. Burns, who understood her tears, and who, while full of sympathy, spoke in that calm tone which quelled her excitement better than a show of kindness might have done.

"There is no danger at present, absolutely none; but there is great weakness, and very great delicacy."

"What should we do? What ought she to do?" asked Margaret, struggling for her self-command, ashamed of having so completely lost it.

"When she is able for it, she ought to go to some drier climate," he said, looking at the window, where, every now and again, the raindrops came with a vicious splash, "and, forgive me Miss Rivers, but you cannot command many comforts here. Why do you not write to Mr. Sandford."

"That we cannot do, least of all for Grace!" poor Margaret said unguardedly.

"Of course, I have no right to interfere, but I cannot help feeling interested in the case, and your sister ought to be moved soon; that room is too small for an invalid; the surroundings are too depressing.

To be of full use to her you should be cheerful and well; and, bless me!

this is not the place for either of you. I would get out of it as soon as I could--if you will forgive my saying so."

He left the room downstairs, where she went with him each day, to learn, without Grace's overhearing, all he had to say. Margaret stood like a statue after his departure, looking blankly before her, seeing nothing.

What could she do? What was to become of them? She resolved to make one final appeal to her sister about writing to Mrs. Dorriman. If she would consent to this--if she would allow her to endeavour to make friends with Mr. Sandford, all would be well.

If not ... Margaret came to herself with a start. A horrible conviction began to pierce through all her anxiety. The end would have to be her marriage with Mr. Drayton.

There was nothing else. These two courses alone were open to her. After all, as _he_ was not free, did it matter so much what became of her? In all good women's natures there is a vein of self-sacrifice. Her life, she thought, would not have been in vain if she could save her sister.

And she did not in the least comprehend Mr. Drayton's character.

She thought him unrefined, noisy, but probably good-hearted and generous. She thought of Grace so completely as a bit of herself that it never for a moment crossed her mind that any one would think of them apart. The absence of all close ties, save that one, made it all in all to her.