Mrs. Dorriman Volume I Part 7

The two came to the little gate and bridge that spanned the burn and led to Mrs. Dorriman's place. She turned and took Christie's hand: "I feel it is the end," she said, speaking with that sob in the voice which is more pathetic than weeping; "you know this place is gone from me, and that I shall never, never see it again!"

"Yes, you will," said Christie, firmly; "my father said what I will tell you now--though I was not to speak of it to all. That night I told you of--when the fire-ball divided and fell--there was one corner of the house untouched; and when the fire and its great redness died away, he saw a silvery light rise, and it came from that corner and spread and spread like a flood of moonlight over everything, and the light was just above where you lay, my dear, a baby not many weeks old, and I shall live to see you do as you please, and live here or there, or in the old house, at your pleasure."

She raised Mrs. Dorriman's hands to her lips, kissed them fervently, and, uttering an impa.s.sioned prayer in Gaelic, she left her and moved up the hill. Mrs. Dorriman went home; she blamed herself for taking comfort from words which were the wild visions of a superst.i.tious woman, but she did take comfort. By nature easily impressed, easily held up and as easily lowered by pa.s.sing influences--the conversation with Christie had filled her with a sort of courage.

To live as she pleased and where she pleased, to go back to the old home, every corner of which was so dear to her! Such a dream filled her with unreasonable happiness; she threw out her hands as though she was throwing off a burden, and she said softly, though aloud: "I will believe it! I do believe it! it will help me!"

Jean announced the dinner, and was pleased to see her mistress looking brighter and happier than she had looked since she knew that she had to leave Inchbrae. Her satisfaction was extreme, for the thought, not very unnaturally, came to her, that the fact of her going with her mistress was sufficient to account for it, and she scrupulously performed the small services required of her with an increased attention. She always felt as though she had charge of her mistress--now she felt as though in some way that charge was increased.

The morning was unpromising. The wind was high, and the rain, only for that reason, was not a downpour, but blew in fitful gusts against "all corners of the house at once," Jean declared. She was meditating the possibility of putting off the journey, and spoke to Mrs. Dorriman about it.

Mrs. Dorriman was standing irresolutely at one of the windows when a dogcart appeared in the short avenue, and in another moment two men dismounted, rang the bell, and walked into the little hall.

Jean with all the air of outraged dignity appeared upon the scene, and was greeted by these words,

"We have come to take possession for the new proprietor; send some one to take the horse round and get some breakfast ready immediately."

Jean would not trust herself to speak; she went past them straight up to Mrs. Dorriman's room. She found her mistress pale but composed, dressed for her journey with her bonnet on. She began to speak but was hushed by an uplifted hand.

"Come, Jean, we will go," she said.

The noise of the two descending the wooden staircase brought the men into the hall, and Mrs. Dorriman's pale composure awed them a little.

Before they had time to speak she spoke to them.

"Sir," she said, turning to the elder of the two men, "you are here by my brother's orders, not mine. I am leaving just now, but I protest against the sale of this place, which is mine, and I intend one day returning to it."

With a slight bend of her head she went out into the rain, and before the two men could recover themselves she was seated in a waggonette which had been ready for some time, and, accompanied by Jean, was soon whirling along the road; her heart so hot with indignation that the pain and sorrow of going away was merged in that feeling.

At the station were the Macfarlanes with many a thoughtful gift for poor Mrs. Dorriman, and it was not till the train steamed out of the station, not till the last wave of the friendly hands grew dim in the distance, that the poor woman's fort.i.tude gave way, and that, seated alone with no prying eye upon her, she wept, and the soreness of her heart grew better as the tension gave way to this feminine luxury.

The journey was troublesome more than long, there were two or three changes, and at one station two travellers got in accompanied by a bright-eyed middle-aged woman. At first Mrs. Dorriman was too much wrapped up in her own sad thoughts to take heed of what was pa.s.sing, but she was at length roused by hearing her brother's name mentioned.

"John Sandford is coming out in a new light," said the lady, laughing and showing a row of pretty teeth. "Fancy his adopting two girls!"

"I am sorry for the girls. Who are they?" asked the elder of the two men.

"I have not an idea--but I should think he had some strong reason for going out of his usual way."

"I am very sorry for the girls too," laughed the lady, who looked as though she had never had any acquaintance with sorrow herself.

"They are probably in some way a charge upon him. John Sandford's not a man to do anything for nothing, it's not in him."

Mrs. Dorriman knew she ought to say something, but she literally had not the courage to throw such discomfiture among them.

"He's had a nasty illness, and the doctor thinks he may have more attacks of the kind. He does not think him the strong man he looks."

"Then perhaps he is doing some act of charity as a compromise with Providence," said the lady; "just as some men who have never been charitable or even just leave their wealth to some charity, as a sort of make-up."

So her brother was ill! This, perhaps, was why he had sent for her. But the two girls, who could they be? These two new ideas so suddenly presented to her made Mrs. Dorriman oblivious to all that was going on.

She would have young girls with her and so she would not be alone, and none but those who have tried it, know how depressing long-continued loneliness is, especially to one who (like Mrs. Dorriman) was by temperament, one of the women who cling to others, and to whom acting and thinking for herself was perpetual grief and pain.

From the bewilderment of this future, which looked so much brighter to her with those figures in the foreground, she was once more roused by hearing, this time, not her brother's but her own name mentioned.

"About Mrs. Dorriman; no one really knows the rights of that story.

Dorriman was as good a man as ever lived, and he had heaps of money when Sandford lost his. How it all changed hands is more than any one knows, but Dorriman died poor, and Sandford lives rich. One day the truth may get known."

"The widow lives, does she not? I think some one said so," and the lady smiled as though there was something amusing in the fact of Mrs.

Dorriman's existence.

Poor Mrs. Dorriman, shrinking from it and yet impelled by a sense of right to speak, feeling that she ought to have spoken before, now leaned forward and said in her sweet, clear, timid voice, "I am sorry; I should have told you before. I am Mrs. Dorriman. I am going to my brother Mr.

Sandford's house."

Then, with a heightened colour, she leaned back again.

The three talkers, who were a neighbouring manufacturer, his wife, and a friend, were naturally taken aback and made profuse apologies to her.

Then the lady, a Mrs. Wymans, said, with her usual smile,

"It was really your own fault; it was really very wrong of you to let us talk, really wrong. I hope we have not said anything bad."

And Mrs. Dorriman made no answer. She gave a slight bow, feeling too heart-sore and too unhappy to speak. Yes, how did all that money change hands? How was it that she was left so poor and allowed to drift wherever her brother chose to make her drift? For the hundredth time this question, which she now heard asked in a careless voice by a stranger, started up before her. Was it true that one day she would know? This last conversation drove the words of Christie into the background for a time, and when she arrived at the station she was in a whole whirl of mingled feelings, in which doubt and grief and indignation and hope all seemed struggling together.

Jean, helpful and alert, saw her into a cab and her luggage arranged on it and then bravely said,

"Only for to-day. I will be down seeing you to-morrow."

Then the tie between her and her mistress seemed quite broken as she lost sight of her, and, sitting down upon her kist, heedless of the curious looks of the "fremd folk" she had come amongst, good-hearted, brave Jean burst into bitter tears and _would_ cry, she said, to herself. Yes, now Mrs. Dorriman was not there to see it she would cry, it would do her good.

She was sitting on her big box--the kist that contained all her worldly wealth--the tears streaming down her face and her pocket-handkerchief crammed into her mouth, when a porter came to her, too busy to be fully sympathetic, and yet with a certain gruff friendliness that was very comforting to her.

"And where are you bound for, my bonny woman?" he said, wisely ignoring her tears; "are you going to bide in the toon or are you going on by another train?"

Jean, called back to self-command, rose, and, fumbling in the bosom of her gown, where she kept her birth certificate, her money, her keys, and other valuables, drew out, after some false attempts, the address of the place she was going to, and, in a short s.p.a.ce of time, her kist was put upon a hurly and she was following it thither.

CHAPTER V.

In the meantime, had the four people who were now to meet known anything about each other's thoughts they would have been spared something upon the one hand, and on the other they would have seen cause for much greater anxiety.

Mr. Sandford knew nothing--but he feared a great deal, and when he saw the fly appearing he was surprised himself at the sensations he was conscious of.

Afraid of nothing as a rule, it was quite incomprehensible to him that he should feel uncomfortable; his sister had always been afraid of him, what was changed?

Why did one momentary look in her face so disturb him? It must be that his illness was still affecting him.