Mrs. Dorriman Volume Ii Part 8

"There is but one Margaret for me," he answered, "and in time you will love me," and yet he had an uneasy sense of inferiority, of not being able to reach her standard.

Mr. Drew found him a very troublesome and a very difficult man to deal with, and after all he could not make the arrangement he wished.

Margaret would be hemmed in with restrictions, and trustees would have much in their power; a very modest sum was secured to Grace in the event of Mr. Drayton's death. In short, it came to this; that both sisters were dependent upon him during his life, and were provided for, Margaret very amply, at his death.

Mr. Drew's objections were overruled by Margaret.

"All I wanted was a certainty in the event of being left alone. Of course, while I live, while _we_ live, Grace will share everything with me. Mr. Drayton will allow this."

He said nothing, imagining that he had promised this. In her inexperience she never dreamed of a life apart from Grace. Of course she would be with her; they would share everything; that was so completely in her mind that the poor child never dwelt upon it, she took it for granted. She received various letters from old schoolfellows when her approaching marriage was made known, but she could not answer them. She laid them aside, and would write afterwards. How could she answer congratulations? One letter from a girl she had liked particularly, remained before her for a long time.

"I am longing to know all about _him_," she wrote. "After the intimacy between us I have felt your silence hard; it is now explained; you are happy in having found your ideal already; I was always afraid that few could come up to your high standard, and you are not the sort of character to marry without both love and esteem."

Poor Margaret! Already her quick-sightedness, unblinded by love, showed her Mr. Drayton as he was--vain, and led by his vanity alone. He was good-humoured in all else and inclined to be kind, but if he was not upon good terms with himself, if he was not flattered, his good-humour vanished and he became rude and sulky. And Margaret, among other things, dreaded his rudeness, and, but for that prostrate figure so indescribably dear to her, would have died rather than have faced life with him. To her it was a moral death, and not the least painful part of the sacrifice was, that, while she could see nothing else, she fell in her own esteem.

It was a forlorn little ceremony altogether. Mrs. Dorriman, who clung faithfully to the poor child, went with her to Glasgow, where Mr.

Drayton had made all the necessary arrangements.

Nothing less like a bride ever went to the altar. All the time the ceremony went on Margaret heard nothing, thought of nothing, but was uttering fervent prayers for forgiveness and help. There was a hurried farewell. Mrs. Dorriman saw them into the train--they were going away for a little time.

As she still stood there Margaret turned her tearful eyes towards the man who was now her husband.

"When shall we return? I want to send a message to my sister."

For all answer he repeated to her the words she had just uttered,

"'Forsaking all others, cleaving only to him,'" and, as he spoke, the train started.

CHAPTER IV.

Grace lay back after parting from Margaret with a sense of having at length got her foot upon sure ground; but there was not that entire sense of satisfaction which she had expected. The remembrance of Margaret's white face and the quivering lips was not pleasant. It was quite Margaret's way to take high ground about everything--she saw everything in an exaggerated way; that came of having such a poetical temperament, which was not always a desirable thing.

In spite of these sensible reflections there was a strong sense of discomfort, and, though Grace tried to shake it off and read and talk to the nurse, that did not help her. The nurse dwelt upon the beautiful bride her sister would be; never for a moment doubting orange-blossom, white satin, and all complete.

Mrs. Dorriman came home late and went into Grace's room with signs of tears, due partly to the sadness of that wedding and partly to fatigue.

Grace's light questions jarred upon her. She felt that it had been a terrible sacrifice, and she wished that the sister who understood it so little could be made to appreciate it. "Poor darling Margaret!" said Grace, "did she send me no message?"

"She had no time. I heard her ask him when they should be home--she wished to let you know. I heard his answer. _Forsaking all others, cleaving only to him._ My mind misgives me, Grace; that poor child will not have all she hopes and expects from him."

"You must not be so doleful, Mrs. Dorriman, it is so very bad for me,"

said Grace, peevishly.

"I am sorry," said that poor woman, who did not wish to hurt her. "I was not thinking of you, I was thinking of Margaret."

"Every one is always thinking of Margaret," went on Grace, in a fretful tone. "It is the most extraordinary thing, it is always the same thing--it is always Margaret."

"Rest now, and we can talk by-and-by," said Mrs. Dorriman. "I have much to do; and about you, Grace, have you any plans?"

"Have I any plans?" asked Grace, opening her eyes in deepest astonishment. "Why, as soon as I can move, of course, I am to go to live with Margaret--a lovely villa with trees and things, close to London!"

"Oh, then that is settled," said Mrs. Dorriman, very much relieved. "I did not know; it will be nice for you to be together."

"Yes, it will be nice," said Grace, excitedly. "If you knew how I long to go away and see the world."

"Poor child!"

"Now, Mrs. Dorriman, there you are as doleful as you can be again. I wish you would not----"

"Would not do what?"

"Speak as if I were never to be well again," and Grace, feeble and weak, burst into a violent flood of tears.

"I was not thinking of _that_," said Mrs. Dorriman, hastily, "but life is disappointing, and if you cling to the world too much you will feel the many disappointments overwhelmingly."

"Wait till you see," said Grace, hastily brus.h.i.+ng her tears away.

Mrs. Dorriman left her; she had not the courage to tell her her own conviction that Mr. Drayton might be kind to her in the matter of money, but as to her living with him and with Margaret, making it in short her home, _that_ she thought entirely unlike him to propose. However, she knew nothing really about the matter. What had pa.s.sed between the sisters, or what arrangements and stipulations she had made with Mr.

Drayton, were equally out of her knowledge, and she trusted from Grace's confident manner that she had something tangible to go upon.

In the meantime Mr. Sandford urged his sister's return, and the doctor was anxious to get Grace to a more congenial climate.

She had certainly been better and brighter lately, and he hoped, if she went somewhere in time, she might yet get well.

Mrs. Munro was extremely offended by his way of disparaging the climate.

"What ails you that you are for aye backbiting our climate. If water goes up it's bound to come down somewhere."

"But it is all coming down here just now," he said, laughing, "and it is very damp. It is all very well for you and me, Mrs. Munro, we are both strong and healthy, but that poor young lady will never get well unless we can get her away."

"I don't know about damp," she said. "With a good house over one's head (and this is a good house), and fires, what does the weather outside matter? It's just fidgets, doctor, and nothing else."

The good doctor could not quite understand the hitch. Mrs. Dorriman had written to her brother. She was surprised at Grace's quiescence; forgetting that in the extreme languor of early convalescence we accept things without question, and the fatigue of puzzling over the future is often spared us.

Mr. Sandford was not at all stingy, but he had liked Margaret and had wished to be kind to her, and he blamed Grace for having upset all his arrangements, and most of all for this marriage.

Several things had happened lately which made him think of Mr. Drayton in a very different light; and he was angry with Margaret for having married him, and angry with himself for having once wished her to do so.

His temper did not improve with age. He was more irritable than ever. He found fault with everything, and had Jean been writing to Mrs. Dorriman she might have added with truth the word "rampageous" now.

Mrs. Dorriman appealed to him for money to take Grace south. "She is ill and you are not, and in her state of health I feel it would be cruel to send her away alone."

Her letter reached him at a wrong moment. He had just had what he considered a most impertinent letter from Mr. Drayton, and he sat down, and in the roughest language told his sister plainly that the Draytons might look after Grace, he would never have anything more to do with her; and he insisted upon _her_ returning to him immediately.

Poor Mrs. Dorriman! She went to see Grace not knowing how she was to announce her departure, imagining that the girl would feel so forlorn without her sister or herself; perplexed as to how the doctor's wishes were to be carried out, and altogether worried and annoyed.

Grace was in very high spirits. "See, Mrs. Dorriman," she called out, gaily, "I can walk quite firmly across the room!" and with a very faltering step she tottered against the opposite wall.