Mrs. Dorriman Volume Ii Part 18

He was white now, pale with rage.

"What do you know about my conduct to my sister? There is no one I more respect."

"Well, you have the oddest way of showing it I ever knew," and Grace made a provoking gesture of astonishment, and gave a laugh of derision.

This completely exhausted Mr. Sandford's very slight stock of patience.

He went into a most fearful rage and said things that made Grace s.h.i.+ver.

Pale in her turn she left the room, and for a second time left his house in anger.

She left without her things, wrapping herself up in her cloak, and resolved to go to her sister, and not to make a sign. She was quite, quite sure Mr. Drayton would receive her at any rate for a time, and she must make some new arrangement. Return here she never would.

Mrs. Dorriman heard the loud voice, and as soon as she had recovered her composure she hurried to the scene of action, to find Mr. Sandford ill, as he always was when pa.s.sion got the mastery of him.

In her anxiety about him Grace was forgotten, and it was not till dinner-time that her departure was discovered, and poor Mrs. Dorriman felt as though troubles were indeed her portion.

Mr. Sandford did not rally as he usually did, and she on her own responsibility sent for the doctor.

He came and administered remedies. Then he told her privately that her brother had a serious complaint, and that agitation would one day be fatal to him.

"You must keep him quiet; he really must not be either worried or disturbed about anything," said the doctor, not unkindly, but anxious professionally, and determined to insist on his patient's having the only chance of living.

"If I can keep him quiet!" began poor Mrs. Dorriman, "but nothing I can do is of any use. Oh! indeed it is not my fault."

"Of course I do not mean to say it is," he answered hastily, "but I merely give you warning. This attack has been brought on by some violent emotion, and a repet.i.tion of it, _any_ mental excitement, will put an end to his life."

Mrs. Dorriman went to his side when the doctor had gone, a whole world of remorse and pain in her heart.

She had been several months with him now, and, though she had never really forgotten the unspoken suspicion, it had been put into a remote corner of her memory. As she looked upon him and marked the careworn face and look of struggle his attack had left, she had a sense of having been treacherous towards him. What did it really matter? Supposing those papers contained some proof against him, would it be of any use confronting him with them?

She was conscious of two things--that the whole att.i.tude of her mind had changed towards him, and that it had also altered towards her husband.

The various scenes she had gone through at Renton had had the effect of turning her thoughts gratefully towards the affection and the peace she had had with her husband.

She began to think of him more tenderly, and to see other possible conclusions than those she had arrived at.

This awakened tenderness, which could never comfort him now, made her feel as though, if she did read those papers, she would see nothing against her husband, and this conviction took a heavy load off her mind.

Then came the other part of the problem--If her husband had been blameless what was her brother?

All the long years of neglect at school, all the harshness with which he had treated her in former years, seemed to have faded now, she had softened to him so much, and now as he slowly recovered she acknowledged this.

It was just when she had recognised him as her first duty now that the telegram imploring her, to go at once to Grace was put into her hand.

She was distressed beyond measure, but she could not do it, she could not agitate or annoy him now. She _could_ not leave him.

It was indeed hard to her to send Jean from her but she had no confidence in other help, and she had the strongest feeling of a neglected duty if she now gave up helping the wayward girl.

Jean went unwilling. She had never been out of Scotland, and looked upon London as a sink of iniquity. She had some misgivings about her journey, and she went off with an idea fixed in her head that she was to be always upon her guard against plausible pick-pockets, extortionate cabmen, and civilities which might mean robbery in the end.

She pinned Grace's address inside her dress, concealed her purse there, and was put into the train by Robert, who gave the guard charge of her, very much to her own indignation, "as though I was a little parcel," she said to herself.

She was in a second-cla.s.s carriage and met with a few adventures; she was so "stand-off" to the two or three strangers who got in or out that they thought her a most disagreeable old woman, but Jean was only on her guard.

When they changed carriages and Jean was once more seated, a young woman pa.s.sed and re-pa.s.sed and finally got into the carriage and sat down opposite to her. She was very fair and had a lovely pink colour in her cheeks. She fidgeted a good deal, got up and shook her dress, and finally said, in accents of dismay,

"Oh, what shall I do? I have lost my ticket and I have no money with me!"

Jean, who was alone in the carriage, eyed her attentively but spoke not a word.

The young woman began to cry.

"Help me!" she said; "help me! I am alone and friendless!"

Jean still said nothing; she noticed that as they stopped at a station her sobs subsided and that she drew back into a corner and avoided observation. This roused her suspicions, and, when they started again, the person, hitherto in such despair, began to grow not a little impertinent.

"I wonder if people pay by weight in this train?" she said, airily, determined to unlock the silent lips of the stout and much wrapped-up figure in front of her.

This taunt about her size did rouse Jean.

"If you've _paid_ for your ticket you probably know," she said, in her best English, and extremely indignant.

This answer completely extinguished all wish for conversation on the part of her opposite neighbour, but she still fidgeted about, trying first one seat and then another, and, sitting down beside Jean, she fumbled about and pressed against her, altogether making herself most objectionable.

The journey came to an end; the ticket-collector came to the door and Jean put her hand in her pocket--her purse was safe, luckily, in the front of her dress--the ticket was gone! Greatly to her surprise the young woman immediately produced one.

Jean hunted in vain, her ticket was nowhere to be found, and her dismay was great. She had a confused notion that she was in some way breaking the law, and, though outwardly she kept calm, she was in a most fearful state really, and she did not know what to do.

The guard fortunately came up to see what the stoppage was, and was accompanied by a policeman.

"What was the matter?" he asked.

Before Jean could answer, the policeman stretched out his hand and touched the young woman, who had been vainly trying to get out. She turned pale--through what Jean now saw was paint.

"You are wanted," and, turning to Jean, he said, "has she taken anything of yours, ma'am?"

Looking at the ticket the guard laughed and answered,

"She has taken your ticket, old lady. '_From Renton to London._' She only got in an hour ago."

Poor Jean! all her life long she will believe in policemen from henceforward. Indeed, when she went from St. Pancras to the station for Wandsworth she refused to pay her cab till the policeman standing near told her what the fare was, amusing the bystanders not a little by her determined att.i.tude and the suspicious look she gave the cabman.

When she reached Grace, her fatigue, her adventures, everything gave way to compa.s.sion. For Grace was very ill, and needed good nursing and care, and, to poor Jean's eyes, the lodging and all belonging to it was not fit for any Christian, certainly not for a Scotchwoman.

She wondered a good deal that Margaret never came near her sister, and made up her mind to go and look her up: Mrs. Dorriman had charged her to be a mother to both bairns, and she fully intended keeping her promise.

In the meantime Margaret's little poem had been published, and she had received three golden sovereigns for her work. She knew so little of the value of literary work that she was not in the very least surprised; she felt only the deepest thankfulness that, if she had a gift, she could turn it to account for her beloved sister.

Her poem was very touching, full of the faults of one whose education had never been extensive, but when she saw it in print she noticed a few alterations she considered improvements, and took for granted that these alterations were made as a matter of course by the editor. This was evidently the use of having an editor. Then she began calculating how many of these poems she could write in a week. Say she wrote four.

Why there was at once twelve guineas a week; a livelihood, a large income! Why, oh why, had she not thought of this before?