Mrs. Dorriman Volume Iii Part 5

Doctor Plunkett looked at him in amazement.

"You do not mean to say, sir," he said, in a tone of cutting contempt, "that you allow your _wife_ to dictate to you upon a subject she can know nothing about?"

Doctor Jones felt utterly crushed.

When Doctor Plunkett was leaving the room the unhappy little man got near him and said, in a tone of abject entreaty,

"I do trust, sir, that, if you have conceived an unfavourable opinion of me in this matter, you--will--perhaps, sir, you will not speak of it anywhere. It would ruin me, sir, in the eyes of my wife."

"Sir," said Mr. Plunkett, "we medical men are supposed to stand by each other, but a man who is in subjection to his wife has no business to be a doctor, in my opinion." He added, "I think a henpecked man is an error in existence. I do not think he has any right to exist at all," and he left Dr. Jones to digest this speech as best he could.

It was getting much warmer, though the spring was not yet far on: That wonderful promise of a coming fulness, which is one of the great charms of spring, made itself felt, but as yet the days were not long, and Grace, impatient and restless, wanted Margaret to know what had pa.s.sed; she wished her to know she was free.

Now that Mr. Drayton was dead, the sister who had been, for a time, bowed with remorse, tried to shake it off. It had been terrible, and the death of the little one, that perhaps might have been saved, was too sad.

But now it was all over why should not Margaret revive? why could she not speak and break a silence that was becoming so very terrible?

Grace had not much more comprehension now than she had had in old days of the depths of her sister's nature; and she did not know in its entirety what Margaret had suffered in those months of anguish and seclusion.

Perhaps the person who best understood her was Jean, whose own deep warm feelings taught her sympathy.

And Jean in those days was invaluable. She s.h.i.+elded Margaret from every intrusion, she cared for her, tended her, and prayed for her; and she sometimes thought as she stood beside her in the stillness of the night--when with her head bowed and her hands clasped she prayed in the old Bible words so familiar to her, and so strange to the poor prostrate girl--that there was a look of tears in the dim, half-closed eyes, and she had hope.

It was a quiet place where they were, and Margaret's room looked out upon a wide flower-garden. As the trees began to show green, none of the surrounding houses could be seen, and Grace used to bring in every favourite flower she knew her sister had in old days loved.

The window was open, and as Jean sat near it, busy with her knitting, a few birds, accustomed to be fed, came to the window-sill and pecked cheerfully, if a little disdainfully, at food they no longer required.

A slight movement from the bed made her turn quickly, and she saw that Margaret's eyes were more fully opened than they had yet been, and that she was looking curiously and strangely at her.

Jean, with one of her inward and fervent prayers, went to the bed, and laid within reach and sight of her the golden curls she had treasured for her, and the photograph of the little child--then she turned away.

With the feeblest hand and a faint cry Margaret took these things up and pa.s.sed them through her fingers in an uncertain hesitating way, then she looked at the picture....

The child lay in that stiller rest as though about to awaken, flowers were around it, and on its face was the smile with which it had left her.

In a moment Jean heard the welcome sound of tears and a sob, and rising quietly she shut the window and left the room, knowing just then solitude was best.

Margaret was saved: day by day she began now to rally, her words were still whispers from the extremity of her weakness, but she began to listen and notice and answered; still, to Grace's impatient eyes, the progress was slow.

They told her of Mr. Drayton's death, but no one could fathom her thoughts about it. Grace worried Jean every hour and every moment of the day. "It seems so hard, Jean, now all is over, why can she not be as she used to be?"

"She never will be that, my bairn," said the old woman, "she will bear a scar all her days in her heart. It will heal, but there will be the mark. A wound like that is not a thing that can be blotted out altogether."

"You know, I never saw the baby," said Grace.

"It is not only the loss of the baby, that's sore, but a sense of having sinned, that's helping to keep her down," said Jean; "she feels that she has done evil that good may come, and we are commanded not to do that.

And her nerves are nearly gone. You do not realize, my dear, all that poor thing has suffered. I tremble, myself, when I think of her, month after month, in the power of the poor madman. It's awful, Miss Grace, you must just be patient and pray for her too."

Mrs. Dorriman's letters were now addressed to Margaret, and showed to no one.

But one day she said to Jean, "When the doctor next comes, Jean, we will ask him when I may go to Scotland," and the old woman was delighted, for to her to be so far from Mrs. Dorriman, and not a "kent face" near her, was a trial.

Another subject that amazed Grace a good deal was the apparent desertion of Sir Albert Gerald and Mr. Paul Lyons.

Sir Albert having effected poor Margaret's release was full of remorse because that release had been so late, though he was conscious of not having lost time when he had fully grasped the situation; he still mourned over the death of the poor child, whose life might have been saved under ordinary circ.u.mstances. He understood Margaret better than most of those round her, and he knew that if ever, in the future, he hoped to see her, he must keep away now.

Grace was exceedingly amazed when she received a letter from him--from Spain; true he entreated her to write to him, but his having gone so far off was tiresome.

Then Mr. Lyons, he neither came nor wrote, and altogether Grace thought now, as she once had done before, it is always Margaret.

Still there were consolations in her present lot; she appreciated to the full having the command of money, and this was supplied unsparingly by Mrs. Dorriman at her brother's wish.

He was not, in any way, a man who grudged money, and he was one of the men who had a vague idea that most things, even a broken heart, could be mended by a cheque.

He was more relieved by Mr. Drayton's death than any one, and horrified his sister by saying so.

"It is a terrible thing you say, Anne; now I call that humbug; what is the use of pretending to grieve?"

"He might have recovered," she said, gently; "and brother, I do not think it is right to rejoice over any one's death."

"Who says I rejoice?"

"You look as if you did."

"Well, it is a relief; and in this world so seldom the right person seems to die...."

"Oh, hus.h.!.+" she said, inexpressibly shocked and distressed.

"Anne, I know you try to be honest, but you have a crooked way of looking at things."

"I do not think I have, and," she added, plucking up a little spirit, "you have no right to say so; and the subject is so terribly painful to me, I thought it would be equally painful to you."

"You don't understand the question," he said, with something of his old violence. "I am ready to destroy myself when I think I ever gave that man an opportunity of seeing poor Margaret, and now that he is gone I cannot pretend to regret him. His death has ended a terrible complication."

"I cannot follow your way of thinking," Mrs. Dorriman said, feeling somehow that this did not sound right.

"Well, you had best leave me just now, and when you have quite disentangled your ideas we can renew the subject. I never knew such a brain as yours, it seems to be generally in a hopeless state of muddle about everything." This complimentary speech nearly reduced her to tears, and she hurried from the room only to be immediately called back.

"I am a brute and you must forgive me, Anne," he said; "and there is another thing I want to speak to you about."

His voice sounded strange to her, and looking at him she saw that he was agitated.

"Say nothing just now to distress or worry yourself, brother," she said, quickly.

He took no notice of her, he tapped the table before him with a ma.s.sive paper-cutter, then he said in an odd tone,

"What were you saying to-day about Margaret's coming to Scotland?"