Mrs. Dorriman Volume Iii Part 32

"Why not telegraph? Mr. Stevens lives near Renton; if you telegraphed and asked him to find out if your brother is seriously ill, and if he advises you to go to him, you would have the answer much sooner. We might easily drive in ourselves with the telegram and wait for the answer, or go and wait at Mrs. Macfarlane's."

"My dear Margaret, what a practical person you are; and I know exactly where Mr. Stevens is just now. He told me how he mapped out his day, and at this moment he is in the counting-house at Renton, and will be there till three."

"Then we will lose no time," said Margaret.

They had long ago invested in a pony and pony-carriage of their own, and were soon speeding on their way, Mrs. Dorriman thoughtful and anxious, sustained by a consciousness of that help she had so recently become possessed of; Margaret silent, wondering a little what her life was really going to be, noticing, with a little pang, that even Mr.

Sandford, lonely and suffering though he was, said not one single word about her going to him.

Something in the scenery brought Sir Albert Gerald to her mind. She wondered if he ever thought of her now; it seemed strange that he had dropped so completely out of her acquaintance--for months she had heard nothing of him. More than once she had said something about him in her letters to Grace, but she never took any notice, evidently, thought Margaret, not understanding how much she was interested in him as a friend, since it was only natural after what had pa.s.sed between them.

She seemed to herself to have missed happiness all through her life. Had either her father or mother lived, or had she understood what Sir Albert meant about being free? Where was the use of this going back to old regrets? She blamed herself because she had thought he would, before now, have made some sign. After all, there were many other girls in the world, and no one could have had so sad a history; she had no right to be disappointed, and yet she knew she was bitterly disappointed.

They went straight to the little post-office, and, while Mrs. Dorriman despatched the telegram, Margaret sent the pony to the inn-stables, and then went to ask for letters.

There was one from Grace. After dwelling rapturously upon a new cloak, which, she said, she should call charity, because it covered so many sins in the shape of old-fas.h.i.+oned garments, telling of a bonnet she had fallen in love with and could not afford, recounting trifling adventures that had befallen her, she said,

"Do you know of any grand pa.s.sion Sir Albert is likely to have? I hear he has left London to go and offer himself, his fastidiousness, his fine place, and his treacherous heart, to some one he has long secretly loved. I cannot help feeling angry because, because, because.... I hoped some one I knew had attracted him. Pray do not swear at me or say anything disagreeable, but it is horrid: and I think men are a mistake generally, always excepting, of course, Paul, with the biggest P you can imagine, and I am not sure I would say that did I not feel that he may look over my letter."

A great weight settled upon poor Margaret's spirits. This was the solution she had feared, and yet how far more painful is the story told by a friend than the one we tell ourselves. The world suddenly became dark to her; she was conscious of Mrs. Dorriman's joy and satisfaction on receiving Mr. Stevens's telegram. Her brother was better, but would like them both to go to him towards the end of the week. "You cannot possibly make the troublesome journey alone, but I will go for you and Mrs. Drayton," was the substance of his telegram, and the poor little woman remembered vividly how, with far less experience, she had had to make this very journey alone, and how she felt forlorn and unhappy and received no comfort from any one.

They lunched with Mrs. Macfarlane, who was delighted Mrs. Dorriman was going to have such a nice husband. She was in such good spirits, so cheerful, and so overflowing with prosperity, that poor Margaret felt her, for the first time, oppressive. She exerted herself on the way home to enter into Mrs. Dorriman's satisfaction, but every word uttered in most innocent self-gratulation gave her companion an additional pang.

"To be so cared for, for the first time in all my life! Not possible to make that troublesome journey alone! What have I done, Margaret, to deserve it all? How can I be thankful enough?"

The afternoon was still only half over when they got home to Inchbrae.

The day's brightness was as yet undimmed, and yet on the far-off hills lay soft shadows. The sun was capricious as a youthful beauty, now s.h.i.+ning in all its glory and turning the rippling sea to gold, and then veiling himself behind those fleecy clouds that floated over the various peaks and crags. Margaret, throwing off the bonnet she only wore when she made expeditions to the little town, went bareheaded down the burn-side, anxious to face out her trouble and fight that battle with herself which her sister's letter rendered necessary.

The influences of such an afternoon should by rights have soothed her. A temperament such as hers, keenly susceptible as it was, should have become more in harmony with the glowing, peaceful, and brilliant scene around. But when the soul is deeply wounded the very fairness and serenity of lovely scenery jars upon it, and the cry is akin to one bereaved who has lost its all here, and feels the day garish and the suns.h.i.+ne a mockery.

There was that ever-trembling whisper of the burn, that sounded not long ago to her telling her a love story. Now she would have given worlds to stop it since it told her lies. Everything, she thought, was happy but herself; the very bees had a heartless hum as they rejoiced over a bed of golden crowsfoot and wild thyme close at hand; and when from a little fis.h.i.+ng-boat came a cheery Gaelic song, cheery and yet melancholy because of its minor key, Margaret's self-restraint gave way, and, covering her face with her hands, she cried quietly, but quite heart-brokenly.

On the hill-side came a rapid footstep, that yet was not heard on the short, well-nibbled gra.s.s; a few hill-sheep raised their heads and looked with a certain wonder at the intruder, not moving a step, since they knew no fear. Margaret only heard the slight rustle, when some one stood close to her; she had not time to wipe away her tears; startled, she rose, and there calling her softly, and with outstretched hands, was Sir Albert Gerald.

"What has distressed you?" he said, noting with quick sympathy her tearful face.

How could she tell him? He was here, and the look in his eyes, the whole expression of his face, told her that he had come to seek _her_. Grace's story was true, why had she made herself miserable? How stupid she was!

Blus.h.i.+ng, she answered part of his question, and he was content.

"I thought that you would never come again."

What change had come over everything?

Margaret thought the day brighter, softer, more enchanting than ever before known. She moved as in a dream, outwardly quiet, a whole world of pa.s.sion, and love, and grat.i.tude, swelling her heart.

"I am afraid of my happiness," she said that evening to Mrs. Dorriman, when Sir Albert had gone out with his cigar, and the two friends had gone upstairs to bed. "I am so intensely, so perfectly, happy! G.o.d is very good to me!"

"My dear," said Mrs. Dorriman, "I am nearly as happy about you as I am about myself, and I think Mr. Stevens is right (he is always right). He says we need not question why we are happy, but enjoy it, and be thankful for it. I like Sir Albert very much indeed, and if he cannot quite compare with ... older men just now, I dare say when he comes to be older----"

"He will be a second Mr. Stevens," said Margaret, laughing, as she said good-night.

Next day brought Mrs. Dorriman a letter from her brother, the contents of which puzzled her and bewildered her very nearly as much as the famous letter had done more than two years and a half ago, when we first made her acquaintance.

She was to come to Renton with Margaret, and she was also to bring Christie with her. Jean of course would be welcome, but he wished to see Christie particularly.

Mr. Stevens not having arrived, Mrs. Dorriman took her perplexities to Margaret.

"Why he should want to see Christie is so very remarkable," said she, in something of the old puzzled and plaintive tone.

"Did he know her in old days?"

"Of course he must have seen her, as a young man he must have known her, because she lived on the place, and it was our way to know everybody; but all these years she has been here and he has never taken any notice of her. I believe she would hardly know him by sight now."

"Perhaps she is connected with some memory of his youth."

"Yes! of course that may be it."

Mrs. Dorriman went herself to tell Christie about it; wis.h.i.+ng to prepare the old woman, doubtful as to her consenting to go on a railway for the first time in all her life.

But when she reached Christie's cottage she found her in her Sunday's clothes--her best mutch[1] on, and all the small possessions she wished to take with her ready packed.

[Footnote 1: Highland married woman's cap.]

"How did you know, Christie?" she asked in great amazement.

"When I heard Mr. Sandford was ill and not likely to mend, I wanted to go and see him. I made ready; I have something to say to him, for your sake, my dear!"

Mrs. Dorriman sat down to rest.

"For my sake!" she repeated. "Oh! Christie, I want nothing from him."

"But I do for you, and for myself I would die in the old place; for you, I'd best keep quiet a bit longer."

She said no more of her hopes and wishes, but her parting words were:

"When you're ready I'm ready; not but what railways are fearful things to be sent about the world, with nothing but a screech and a puff of smoke."

Mr. Stevens in the meantime entered into various details with Mrs.

Dorriman, even helping her to settle what things she would take with her or leave behind.

"There is one thing you must take, as Sandford expressly wishes you to do so." He spoke looking at her a little curiously.

A flash of recollection came to her.

"The box and papers," she exclaimed.

"_A_ box and papers. Never again shall I say that all women are full of curiosity! I know differently now."