Mrs. Dorriman Volume Iii Part 9

"I want Margaret to get well and I mean to resign my chairmans.h.i.+p and other things. I shall give up business. I want--rest."

His manner alarmed her, but she tried to compose herself, and to accept this new turn in her affairs quietly, and not to let him see how intensely this affected her.

She subdued her emotion and spoke in a matter-of-fact tone, "It will be a long journey for Margaret and for poor Jean."

"I have thought of that. When Margaret refused to accept the arrangement Drayton had made for her, I heard from Stevens, and have been in correspondence with him ever since. I think he might bring her here; there are a great many things to arrange."

"But if we go to Inchbrae, brother, might she not come there, direct?"

"Yes, you may go there and receive her. I must see Stevens here;" and then he continued in a strange tone, "if you wish me to follow you I will go there."

"If I wish it?"

"You do not know, Anne. You know nothing," he exclaimed, with something of his old very peremptory manner.

She was startled and vexed. Why did he go on like this? why constantly talk as if she had yet much to learn?

"One thing more," he said, in a less excited tone, "I do not want every idiot in the place to gossip, and talk, and wonder; go and see the few neighbours with whom you have made acquaintance and speak of going home, and of receiving Margaret naturally. If you leave suddenly no one knows what may be said."

"And about you, brother?"

"About me? who cares?" he said; "my act in the play is nearly over. What does it all matter to me? But you can say I am ill--that is the truth, I am ill."

"If you are ill, I will not leave you."

"Nonsense! my body is well enough, but there is something that hurts far more than bodily illness."

A commotion in the hall was followed by the servant's entrance.

He announced the arrival of a box for Mrs. Dorriman.

She forgot, at the moment, that she had sent to the Macfarlanes for the famous box which held so much that was important to her, and when she saw it it gave her a little shock. Apparently it gave a greater shock to her brother, for he was white to the very lips.

"Anne," he said, and his voice was full of entreaty, "will you do me one great favour: Will you not look at the contents of this box, will you not break the seals, till you are at Inchbrae?"

Mrs. Dorriman--who had seen it arrive with a curiously mingled feeling, half dreading half anxious to know its contents--said quietly, "It shall be as you wish, brother."

CHAPTER IV.

The long July days were at hand, so much longer in the Highlands than in other parts of Great Britain, and which most people, living in that favoured spot, think more than makes up for the shorter winter days.

Over everything lay the beauty of summer. Where the heat is not too intense for enjoyment, what a delicious thing is a long, summer day!

At Inchbrae, where the sea kept the air cool, it was perfect; by the side of the burn and down by the waterfall, ferns sprinkled with spray, showed a perpetual verdure, a thousand flowers lingered within the freshness of the burn-side; honeysuckle and sweetbriar rivalled each other in fragrance.

The garden near the house was in perfection, for, though spring flowers come late, they make up for it when they arrive--and roses and geraniums made bright colour, and caught the suns.h.i.+ne to enhance their beauty.

Mrs. Dorriman had felt much on arriving at the little place where she had gone through so much sorrow. Inchbrae, to her, was second to the old home, where she had many memories, but she loved it, and it was her very own, and the fact of possession gives a certain touch of pride in everything.

Christie had welcomed her with all the heartiness of an old Highland friend and dependent. She had scrubbed and cleaned, and Mrs. Dorriman, while missing Jean at every turn, was full of grat.i.tude.

"Eh, my dear, time has stood still for you," Christie said to her, as she watched her quick movements to and fro; "you are a different woman to what you were when you went away."

"I am happier, Christie."

"Aye, you are happier, but you have to get more yet; there's more good to come to you yet."

Mrs. Dorriman laughed softly.

"Are you prophesying a husband to me at my age, and another husband too?" and then she blamed herself for laughing.

"Your age is no hindrance; but I was not thinking of marrying; I was thinking of the old house, of the old home."

"Oh, don't," said Mrs. Dorriman, raising her hands as though pus.h.i.+ng the thought from her; "do not make me unhappy by making me think of that.

The old place is sold, Christie, and gone from us, gone from me, and I mean to be happy here."

"It will come back to you," Christie said, persistently; "you will see that it will be yours again some day, and it's not a far-off day, either," she added, more to herself than to Mrs. Dorriman.

Mrs. Dorriman turned away. At that moment, with the broad sea rippling and sparkling beneath, taking a thousand hues as it reflected the moving clouds, and the sea-breeze coming upon her with its exquisite freshness, she felt horribly ungrateful for giving a lingering thought to that other home.

But here, with all its beauty, there was a charm lacking--the charm of memory.

Inchbrae had no a.s.sociations for her, and in that other home there was the dear, kind face of the father, who would doubtless have done more for her had he only had it in his power.

She stood silently trying to stifle any regrets, and to be thankful and grateful for this, the little home she had to offer Margaret.

Margaret had done a good deal, but not all she had hoped to do. She had seen sights that had made her heart sore, and she had helped in many ways, following lines already laid down, and enabling many charities to extend their action. Children learned to watch for her, and those standing round marvelled at the tenderness and skill of her way of handling them.

Knowing her to be childless they were surprised.

Margaret seldom spoke of her little one now. Deep down in her heart she cherished its memory--for a true mother never forgets--but she could not open the wound to strangers or explain why a sick child commanded her strongest compa.s.sion.

Her own name was never brought forward, and all the money arrangements were made for her by Mr. Stevens.

She found the other plan she wished to carry out with regard to Grace much more difficult.

Lady Lyons had spoken the truth as regarded finding the "great lady,"

with whom alone Grace imagined she would find perfect happiness, and be "in the swim." She could hear of no one who had the slightest ambition to chaperone a young lady who was not very beautiful, not very rich, and n.o.body in particular. Grace had more than one interview with what she called hopeful people; and she was too fond of a joke, even against herself, not to repeat them, and even act the scenes, for Margaret's benefit.

But the plain fact remained that she could hear of nothing the least like what she wanted; and Grace, at no time a miracle of patience, got extremely irritable, and accused the world in general of combining together to defeat her.

Margaret, coming home full of the terrible scenes to which she could not accustom herself, was worried beyond description. The sharp contrast between this unfulfilled longing on the part of her sister for mere amus.e.m.e.nt, and the terrible--sometimes horrible--realities, to which she had just before perhaps been standing face to face, struck her painfully. She was but human herself, and there arose between them sometimes angry words and sharp retorts that filled her with dismay afterwards.

In characters so widely apart as theirs, it was only to be expected that a day would come when some tremendous crisis would show each how strained the sisterly chords now were.