Mrs. Dorriman Volume Iii Part 13

"Of course, Mrs. Drayton, expense is nothing to you who throw away thousands," said Lady Lyons in an injured tone.

"Do I throw away thousands?" asked Margaret, who did not know how busy rumour had been as regarded her fortune and what she had done with it.

"I think not, but I was wondering, perhaps, if the charge of a young girl like my sister was not too much for you."

"Oh, no!" exclaimed Lady Lyons, afraid of seeing all her visions fade away. "I only meant that I might at first see some one, and be put in a right way."

"Grace will want to go everywhere, to all the plays, and concerts, and every attainable thing," said Margaret, impressively. "You must not accept the position with your eyes shut."

"I a.s.sure you, dear Mrs. Drayton, I do understand it all, a young girl, and never having had any pleasure. I only mentioned about doctors, because it is, you know, one of the advantages of London--you can get, as a learned friend of mine once said, the best advice for your soul and body."

This conversation did not impress Margaret very favourably, but time was running on, and she had given up her house. With all Lady Lyons'

nonsense and absurdity she was a kind-hearted woman, and no one would ever have any real influence with Grace.

That young lady took it all very calmly. She did not object to Lady Lyons, or evince any surprise at her being ready now to do what she had proclaimed herself reluctant to do before; but she was so completely absorbed by the approaching change in her existence that Margaret was hurt to find how little she seemed to feel the separation from herself.

The sisters parted. Margaret gave her last look, and saw Grace in the celebrated brown velvet, which, in a warm June day, was singularly inappropriate, looking fragile but radiant, ordering about the porters, and quite giving herself the airs of a young person of consequence.

With a sigh, Margaret leaned back; this one close tie did not bring her much satisfaction.

As the train swept on through the rich country, however, the new expectation, the movement, and change of scene, wrought their own work.

The soft colour came into her face. For the first time she found herself looking forward instead of looking back.

Everything was pleasant to her that day. She was alone, Jean having st.u.r.dily refused to share her carriage, and she had nothing to disturb her. Never had she seen the foliage richer, she thought, and she looked at the myriads of cowslips and ox-eyed daisies with a sudden longing to be near them. She had a book with her, but she never opened it. She had had a great pleasure, in a most friendly letter from her publisher--with a substantial proof of his admiration for her book of poems, and asking for the names of those she wished to send them to.

Margaret smiled over this request. She had not a friend in the world she cared to tell about her writing. Yes! one friend, Sir Albert Gerald, and to him she would send her little book and write. He had been so kind, and he was very good.

She was roused from these reflections by the entrance of Mr. Stevens into the carriage. He had been in a smoking-carriage part of the way, and he now came in, bringing various papers to while away the tedium of the journey.

His entrance broke up her reverie. She had grown to like him, though she sometimes thought how much finer a character his would be if he could only put suspicion more on one side. His first impulse was to doubt everything and everybody; and his caution was carried to such an extreme that his friends.h.i.+ps were few, and only extended after a long period of probation.

The train stopped at York, and Margaret, under his escort, went to get some refreshment.

As she was returning to her carriage she heard her name uttered in surprise, and in another moment Sir Albert Gerald himself stood beside her.

She was unfeignedly glad to see him, and they plunged into quite an animated conversation, forgetting for the moment everything save that accident had brought them once more together.

Margaret was first recalled to the present by Mr. Stevens, who reminded her that the train would go on without her if she did not hurry. Even then she turned naturally to Sir Albert, and he hurried along with her; and, to Mr. Stevens's great dissatisfaction, got in and calmly sat down opposite to her.

Why the older man took exception to this no one can say; but his suspicions were all on the alert, and everything the young man did seemed to him significant.

Margaret, of course, introduced them to each other, explaining, as Mr.

Stevens thought, in a manner utterly unnecessary, that he was travelling down to Scotland to take care of her. But the brief words seemed only an interruption to the flow of talk. At first they both tried to bring him into the conversation, but in vain. He sat grimly in a corner, determined not to be won over by a good-looking young fellow of whom he knew nothing, and wondering at Margaret's glow of colour and animation.

Once he heard a little laugh, and he looked up surprised he could make nothing of their conversation. Some one had written a book of poetry--but what could there be said about such nonsense? Any sane man who had something to say could surely say it in good honest prose.

"Do you like poetry," asked Sir Albert, suddenly turning to him pleasantly.

"No, I don't," Mr. Stevens answered with quite unnecessary shortness. "I never see the use of it."

"If useful things only were given to us here," said Margaret, gently, "our lives would be very dull."

"I have no poetry in my life, and I do not feel dull," he answered in a softer manner to her.

"Are you sure you have no poetry in your life?" asked Sir Albert, pleasantly--he was anxious to make friends with a man Margaret liked and respected.

"It is difficult to say where it comes into my life," said Mr. Stevens, more politely, melting a little under the influence of so pleasant a voice and manner. "I am manager in a manufactory, and work is the order of the day. Till we leave off and I go out home I never breathe the fresh air or see the sun s.h.i.+ne."

"But they greet you, then," said Sir Albert, earnestly; "the play of the suns.h.i.+ne upon the river, the ripple of the brook, the endless stories found in every leaf and blossom, the song of the birds, all these sweet gifts are nature's poems given to make us better and wiser men, and happier ones too," he added in a lower voice.

"Put in that way," began Mr. Stevens; and then, a little ashamed of being influenced so soon by a man he had never seen before, he said more abruptly, "I think bringing sentiment into work is the ruin of every thing--what do we want with it? If we use our faculties, and work to the best of our ability, I conceive that is all that is expected of us. I think life is an easy enough problem, though philosophers try and make it out otherwise. We are given two paths, a right one and a wrong one; the right one is often difficult, the wrong one frequently pleasant; it is our own fault if we choose it, and it leads us to disaster."

"_If we use our faculties_," repeated Margaret, in her gentle voice, with a certain emphasis on the words. "Do we use our faculties, Mr.

Stevens, if we shut our eyes (that are given to us to make use of) and do not observe what is lovely and fair around us?"

Mr. Stevens was a little staggered by this question. "Looking at flowers and mountains and listening to birds singing, is not poetry," he said, obstinately.

"But if we read a poem and appreciate it, if we listen to music, if we see a fine painting, in short, if we see the poetry in other people's work, it has a good influence on our minds." Sir Albert spoke earnestly.

"I don't see that at all. Working people have no time for poetry and pretty things. Their lives are very different."

"You are indeed mistaken. Much of the misery and the vice amongst the very poorest people are caused by the squalor and absence of any charm or higher influence in their lives. This is so well recognised that many people are spending time and money in trying to improve the look of things for the poor. Think, Mr. Stevens," said Margaret, earnestly, "only think what it must be for a hard-working man to go home to a wretched, comfortless room, without paper on the walls, or an atom of _home_-look about the place, a tired-out wife, and children cross because their natural energies have no outlet. If he could go home to a comfortable room with cheerful colour about it and find it clean. If the children, instead of having access only to the grimy streets, could play in the squares and gardens, so selfishly shut up from them now, their lives would be better, they would take heart, and not find the one relief, the public-house afterwards."

"And a nice sight the squares and gardens would be, in a very short time," Mr. Stevens said, a little moved by Margaret's extreme earnestness, and trying to hide that it affected him.

"Why should they be? Look at the Temple gardens, look at places already open to the public! I would give anything to see all these places thrown open to all."

"And in Paris everything is open, and who shall say we are less well-behaved than the French?" said Sir Albert, backing her up.

"Two against one is hardly fair," said Mr. Stevens, the last shred of prejudice dropping from him, and beginning to find that there was something very delightful in a man who could talk of something besides work.

When after another hour Sir Albert got out of the train Mr. Stevens was quite cordial in expressing his hope that they would meet again at no distant time.

Before they parted, Sir Albert, with a glance at Margaret, promised to send him a book of poetry that would convert him.

"I am going to travel for a year or so," he continued, turning to Margaret, "then I also shall go to Scotland."

She understood what he meant. He was very kind and very thoughtful; but _that_ now--that could never be!

When he had left, and the train had started again, she was very much amused to hear Mr. Stevens say--

"There is a great deal to like in that young man. Have you known him long?"

Margaret answered, and told him the story of his most terrible accident.

"And all this happened before your marriage? Most extraordinary!" he said.

Margaret was annoyed with herself, because she felt herself grow crimson.

When he saw her colour he said, with greater emphasis--