Mrs. Dorriman Volume Iii Part 26

Dorriman.

"There is something--some dread she has. I have no idea what it is, but the curious thing is that she so entirely forgets at times; then something brings it before her again. I love her dearly, and I wish she was perfectly happy."

"I think she is a dear old thing," answered Grace; "but she always puts me in mind of some ivy or creeper that the wind has blown away from its support. She is one of the women who must have somebody to cling to, even if that somebody be tyranical and harsh like her brother."

"Yet, in his own way, he has been kind to us."

"Very much in his own way," said Grace, resentfully.

"I have a fancy about Mr. Sandford," Margaret said rather dreamily.

"You have generally nice fancies about most people, darling; tell your fancy to me."

"You will only laugh?"

"I swear not to laugh."

"You dislike him more than I do."

"I suppose I do, but do you know, Margaret, that since I am happier, I mean since I have had so much affection from my husband and not felt like a boat without oars or rudder, or whatever the thing is that steers it, I feel ever so much kinder about every body--even about him. I am quite convinced that if somebody left me a large fortune I should become a striking instance of overpowering amiability."

"It is a problem I never can solve. I often wonder whether trial or prosperity softens people best."

"It depends upon the material; nothing would hurt you; but for me, I am a sort of acid, and more acid makes me into an explosive."

"My fancy about Mr. Sandford is that at one time in his life, perhaps when he was quite young, he has suffered, and cruelly suffered, from some terrible injustice."

"Another case of acids mixing and blowing up," said Grace, laughing; "he is in a perpetual state of effervescence."

"No, but seriously, Grace, he has a great deal of good in him, and his devotion to his wife shows he has warm affections somewhere, and he has always been kind to me."

"You win every one, even Paul. I know well that you were his first grand pa.s.sion, and curiously enough I am not jealous."

"Who talks of jealousy?" said a voice from below, and Paul, his cigar nearly ended, came under the window.

"I am merely saying, dear," said Grace in her most melting accents, "that, though you once were madly in love with Margaret, I am _not_ jealous."

And laughing, Grace escaped to her own room. Margaret remained at the window. She was moved by what Grace had repeated to her about her child; yes, better to have lost it here than to have seen it that....

And Grace was really very happy. Paul was most kind and good, and there was more manliness about him now than she had ever thought him capable of; and yet, she said to herself, that for her to give her whole heart, to have such an affection for any one, such as Grace had for her husband, there must be higher qualities.

She must look up more, she must have help, and some one in whom she could find a better and a n.o.bler self.

And in the softening influences of that hour and that scene a vivid blush rose to her face, and she told herself that already one was there; and that her heart, crushed as it had been, and cruelly as she had suffered, was not hopelessly embittered. She knew that she could love, and then she sighed. Large tears came into her eyes and rolled slowly down unchecked over her face, a sudden thrill of pa.s.sion and of hope went through her frame, and she knew she did love!

Next morning came parting with Grace, but it was a parting in which she allowed no sorrow to appear.

She utterly bewildered Mrs. Dorriman by saying to her, "You will, I hope, soon have very good news to send me."

"About what, my dear?" and poor Mrs. Dorriman's face was expressive of blankest bewilderment.

"About every thing, generally," said Grace; "never mind about understanding now, you will some day; and it will be all right."

When she and Paul had waved a last farewell Mrs. Dorriman stood looking out of the window till the carriage became a speck upon the horizon.

"I wonder what Grace meant, Margaret my love? she does say such odd things, sometimes. Did you hear what she said to me just now?"

"I do not think I know which particular thing you mean, dear auntie; Grace says so many odd things."

"She hoped I should soon have very good news to send her. Now, my dear, what news can I have to send her from here? It really is a very odd saying and I am quite puzzled."

"Do not puzzle yourself; Grace often says things that have no meaning."

"But what do you think, Margaret? You know her so much better than I do.

What are you thinking about, just now?"

"I am wondering if it is going to rain," Margaret said, and turned away laughing.

"As if I had spoken about the weather," the poor little woman said. But Margaret had left the room.

CHAPTER IX.

In these days unless adventures take the disagreeable form of accidents, nothing is likely to arise in a journey between the north of Scotland and the south of England to mar the serenity of one's temper.

Grace, carefully cherished all the way, travelled with supreme satisfaction. She saw in the distance, not very far off, happiness for Margaret. She grew more fond of her husband each day, in return for the affection he lavished upon her, and she had none of the anxieties to which she had once been no stranger.

There was but one cloud upon the horizon, and the one drawback to her perfect happiness lay in that fact. If it grew larger it might mar her happiness to a certain extent, and the fear that it might do so troubled her when she remembered it.

It may be recollected that neither Margaret or herself had conceived a very high opinion of Mr. Paul Lyons on first acquaintance; indeed, Margaret had had a good deal to do to bring herself to think happily about his being Grace's husband; then, on further acquaintance, she grew not only to like him but to recognise that there was much merit in the young man, and she was thankful her sister had fallen into such excellent and kindly hands.

Grace had been won by his affection for herself, and by the amount of admiration she inspired, but she did not take a very high view of his character, and that fact did not trouble her in the least. She always took exception to her sister's ideas as "high-flown," and, if she had been asked, would have answered that her husband aspired to nothing very great in the way of intellect or sentiment, but that he had quite enough for this work-a-day world, and more than enough for _her_. It was a daily surprise to her, therefore, to find that, even in little things, her husband had a very much higher standard than she had. This discovery was startling; she felt she must take care lest she forfeited his good opinion. Then one day he was talking about Margaret, and of her having divested herself of every farthing of her husband's money, and Grace laughed a little about it. She was astonished at the view he took of it; he was quite vehement about it.

"I cannot see it in your way," Grace had said. "It seems to me that, as poor Margaret married the man, she had every right to whatever he chose to leave her."

"I am sorry to hear you say that, even in fun (I know you are not in earnest). I should never have been able to think of Margaret in the same way if she had acted differently."

"But, Paul, _why_? Margaret suffered horribly and behaved like an angel.

Why should she not reap any benefit?"

"It is not a thing to argue about, it is a thing one feels," he answered; "and I am quite grieved, darling, that you should pretend to think differently." This was pleasant; then Paul went on, "I cannot myself fathom her motives: but the way I read the story of her life is, that she was, for some reason, anxious to make a home for you--so you have told me--rushed into the sc.r.a.pe, and has repented ever since. Girls are so curious. I suppose she had the independence you have; so where the good of it all was I cannot see. Then, when she found what she had done, her better, higher nature prevailed, and she gave the money away."

"You really think it wrong to benefit in any way by that man's money?"

asked Grace, horribly conscious, and feeling most uncomfortable; "supposing, Paul--only supposing--I had benefitted, would you have blamed me?"

"Do not put such absurd questions," he answered, sharply; "it is not the least like you to have done such a thing. Can you not see that, in one sense, in a sort of way, it is almost like blood-money? Imagine being the better for anything of the kind! I believe the money would bring a curse and not a blessing!"