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 CHAPTER VIII.
"You believe, do you not, that my being here is an accident?" Sir
Albert said courteously. "I have been interested in your writing, and
I am glad it has found appreciation."
She raised her head and spoke to him hurriedly, "You are kind—you
mean to be kind—but you have no idea what a bitter, bitter blow this
is to me—and what a terrible disappointment!"
"You misunderstand the whole thing," he said, moved almost beyond
his powers of control when he noted how her bloom had faded, and
how terrible the traces of anxiety in her face showed what her life
was. "It is true that I have managed the publication for you, but I
assure you that your poems have met with the highest praise, and
that, though I did bring them out for you (it seems such a little thing
to do for you), I have just now received a letter from the editor of
one of the highest class of magazines to show you. Your name is
unknown to him—he merely treats your poems as coming from a
stranger—you are a complete stranger to him. Will you read it?"
He held it towards her. While finding fault with one or two lines,
objecting to a word here and there, he acknowledged in warm terms
the beauty of imagery, the flow of thought, the purity of the lines
sent him, and considered it indicated unusual power, and that the
author should be encouraged to try a longer flight.
Poor Margaret! The present and all the trials of her life were
forgotten; the sweetness of this praise coming at a moment when
her heart was starved, and all her brilliant and glowing imagination
was pent up within the dreary walls of her most unhappy home, was
almost overpowering. She held both hands out to the man who had
proved himself so real a friend—her colour flushed into her cheek,
and tears of gratitude sparkled in her eyes.
It was the sorest trial to poor Sir Albert not to be able to tell her that
he could not bear gratitude from her. He stood gazing at her, as one
spell-bound, clasping her hands till she withdrew them, with a
struggle going on in his heart that was almost beyond him.
Then she turned to go, and her last words were at once a pang and
a reward.
"I will always trust you," she said, earnestly, "you will be my critic
and my judge; if I write nonsense you will be a real friend and say
so. I feel so grateful to you! From henceforward I shall feel I have
indeed a brother."
He muttered something, feeling miserable, and frightened of her
seeing it, and he watched her go, knowing that his life was only
cheered by the hope of befriending her—thankful that she had this
one great gift to save her from despair, and yet fully aware that, as
far as he was concerned, her utter unconsciousness of his continued
love was an additional pain to him.
Then he went into one or two business details with Mr. Skidd;
delighted that little man by corroborating his high opinion of the little
poems by showing him the letter he had—and went to London,
depressed and unhappy. He had gained nothing by this accidental
interview except the conviction that she had so entirely forgotten his
love that she proffered the brotherly tie as entirely satisfactory to
him, as to her. And yet, in his heart of hearts, he knew that this
attitude towards him was the only possible one for such as her if she
allowed him to help her and to be her friend.
Mrs. Dorriman, missing Jean at every turn, was in a measure
consoled by the gruff kindness of her brother to her.
She was so accustomed to his manner that she felt the kindness and
did not resent his roughness.
She was happier since she had seen Jean, whose letter, faithfully
detailing her adventures, was very amusing. But she asked herself
what was to be the end of it all?
Grace, who must have some settled home, and poor Margaret, who
seemed to be so completely a prisoner, and not able to go and look
after her sister, were both perplexing problems.
But as life goes on we learn not to trouble so much about things, we
feel that a Hand does guide and guard us, and bring all things right
—and Mrs. Dorriman, looking back upon her life, was every day
learning this deeper lesson.
She was surprised now to receive a good many visits, a thing she
had hitherto been unaccustomed to, at Renton Place.
The few neighbours around, living within easy distance, had hardly
realised that Mrs. Dorriman had come to Renton to live there. When
she first went to Renton, with all the kindness of heart of the
neighbours and a real wish to make acquaintance with a person of
whom all the world spoke well, there was a pardonable amount of
curiosity among some.
A man reputed to be a millionnaire, and who had a romantic
attachment for his first wife, might also make a good husband to a
second wife. Then also the question of the girls who were to have
lived with him and who did not live with him. Margaret's marriage to
a man "old enough to be her grandfather," and a certain little
mystery of where it had all been made up, gave that interest in the
doings at Renton Place which blossomed into activity in the shape of
visits.
The first person who felt a visit due from her was Mrs. Wymans, who
had the excuse of an apology to make for having handled the
domestic affairs of Mr. Sandford, with a certain freedom, before Mrs.
Dorriman.
Most people would have thought that the apology might have been
made before, or might be left alone now; but this conditional tense
in which her friends put the case was met by Mrs. Wymans with
plausible reasons. Certainly she had always thought of going—but till
now—did any one know that Mrs. Dorriman was anything more than
a visitor? Had she known that she was really to be resident.... Why
of course it would be very rude not to call.
Mrs. Dorriman was not at all inclined to despise the proffered olive-
branch. She had no distaste for acquaintances, and was so evidently
glad to see that people intended to be kind to her, that the infection
spread. From being liked she became extremely popular; a person
never sure enough of her facts to contradict anybody is always
approved of; and after being spoken of as poor Mrs. Dorriman for
many months she was now talked of as dear Mrs. Dorriman, being
one of those women who, for some inexplicable reason, is never
mentioned without an adjective.
The visits were made and returned—the only drawback being that
Mr. Sandford had never yet been seen by any one—though Mrs.
Wymans, who always posed as having done or seen a little more
than her neighbours, avowed to having seen the back of his head
upon one occasion, which, if true, certainly proved that he was
capable of being in two places at once.
Truth to tell, the rapprochement between the brother and sister was
not productive of entire satisfaction to Mr. Sandford.
If Mrs. Dorriman's conscience was so sensitive that she felt like a
traitor towards her brother, because of certain papers she knew of,
the contents of which might possibly betray something against him,
his conscience, though not sensitive, had a far far heavier weight
upon it, though it did not press upon him continually.
It was impossible to live with a woman so meek, so gentle, and so
unselfish, without learning to like her, but the liking produced much
acute uneasiness; and at times his rough manner was more a mask
for his uncomfortable feelings than for any other reason.
He was up and out again, though he felt that he had not quite his
old clearness of perception, he was more easily tired and he was
always thankful to get home.
That home was indeed changed to him now. The cheerfulness and
serenity, the evenness of Mrs. Dorriman's temper made him look
forward to going home, where his most trifling wishes were attended
to, and when he had that certainty of being met in the same quiet
way, of having no fluctuations in manner, which gives the real home
feeling.
Mrs. Dorriman was not perfect, she was a woman who possessed no
great gifts, and she was constitutionally timid, and not much fitted
to form an opinion about subjects outside those of domestic interest;
but she did understand that a man, tired and worried by affairs
outside his home, required rest and refreshment in it, and she knew
how to give both.
The dreariness that had once obtained had long vanished. All inside
the house was light and bright and cheerful for him now, and each
day sent him home with this recognition deeper in his heart, and
more remorseful because of certain acts of his which now never
could be undone.
Mrs. Wymans, when she made her appearance at Renton, had
rehearsed her apology, and then found that it must be put
differently.
The extreme quiet of Mrs. Dorriman's manner was a check she had
hardly counted upon. When they had that encounter in the railway
carriage the poor little lady had been troubled and nervous, her
manner was agitated; and Mrs. Wymans, who was a shrewd
observer, saw that she stopped the conversation about her brother
from a sense of right, and that she was evidently not resenting it in
a sisterly fashion.
From this she drew several inferences, everyone of which had to be
laid aside now.
"Your brother, I hear, has been so ill we did not like to intrude, and
before—you went away——" she said, which was not in the least
what she had meant to say.
"Yes," said Mrs. Dorriman, "we went away, and had you been so
kind as to call before this I could not have seen you, my brother has
been so very ill."
"And you have no nurse?" said Mrs. Wymans, betraying her
knowledge of the internal economy of the household. "You must find
the nursing very troublesome and most fatiguing. I know of an
excellent woman who could come at a moment's notice."
"Thank you, but I am happy to say that the fatigue, like the illness,
lies in the past. My brother is quite well again, and out and about his
usual business."
"Of course he likes his business, he is so successful; the trial is
where hard work is not successful," and Mrs. Wymans spoke
feelingly.
"I think my brother meets with some success and probably some
trials also, but these are only words too; we never talk of business
together, and I know nothing about his."
"Really! Forgive me, dear Mrs. Dorriman, but then where is the
sympathy? And a woman has such sharp eyes. I never rest till I
know every single thing that is going on—that is my way of showing
sympathy."
"But it must tire your husband, does it not? A woman can see only
one side, and then she cannot help in the way of advice. Her advice
cannot be useful."
"That is only a notion of yours," said Mrs. Wymans, a little nettled,
"and why should a woman only know one side of a thing?"
"Because she only hears her husband's views; of course his private
affairs cannot be talked over with another person, therefore the
wife's views must be a little one-sided."
"Oh no, mine are not. I hear a thing and see a great many sides all
at once."
"Perhaps you are cleverer than I am," said Mrs. Dorriman, in all
humility, glad that at any rate the question of the Rivers girls had not
cropped up.
Mrs. Wymans eyed her keenly, anxious to make out whether she was
speaking satirically or not. Somewhat reassured on that point by
Mrs. Dorriman's placid face, she drew a little nearer her and said
confidentially,
"What a sad thing Mrs. Drayton's position is!"
"In what way?" Mrs. Dorriman received a dreadful shock by this
sudden touch upon the subject.
"Why, her husband being poor instead of rich, and some other
things."
"Do you mind telling me what other things?" and Mrs. Dorriman was
alarmed as well as annoyed.
"Why, if you do not know of any thing, ... but if it is not true, I had
better not repeat it."
"You really must tell me what you mean," and Mrs. Dorriman, the
gentlest of women, had so to speak all her feathers ruffled now.
"People say he drinks," answered Mrs. Wymans, with that sudden
misgiving as to the wisdom of her words which made her wish them
unsaid immediately they had passed her lips.
"That I am sure is not the case," returned Mrs. Dorriman; she felt
quite convinced that had there been any truth about this she would
have heard it counted against him when her brother had been so
incensed with her and had said many bitter things.
"I am so very glad to hear it," and Mrs. Wymans lost her sense of
discomfort, since it was not true.
"It was a curious marriage for a young girl to make," she remarked
abruptly, since she found Mrs. Dorriman's silence a little oppressive.
"I think it was; but, though my brother offered them a home, he
had, of course, no real authority over them."
"Ah," said Mrs. Wymans, enchanted to have got at the root of the
matter, "people were rather puzzled at his having taken them up so
much; do you very much mind telling me, dear Mrs. Dorriman, how
it all was? What was the real bond of union?"
"Why should I mind telling you so simple a thing?" and Mrs.
Dorriman's amused face was quite a little shock to her visitor; "they
are his wife's nieces: he is their uncle by marriage, and being, as
you are probably aware, devoted to his wife's memory, he was glad
to befriend them."
"And is this really all?" exclaimed Mrs. Wymans, who could hardly
get over her disappointment. "Why we all thought—every one
thought—and people said something else."
"People are wrong," said Mrs. Dorriman, with a laugh that was a
very genuine one; "I cannot myself understand the interest taken in
these private matters, but that is the simple fact. Mr. Rivers and my
brother married two sisters, who were devoted to each other. When
Mrs. Rivers died she recommended her children to Mrs. Sandford,
and at her death my brother promised to befriend them. It seems to
me such a simple thing."
"It certainly does," and Mrs. Wymans rose to go, and bid farewell to
Mrs. Dorriman, who was conscious only of one terrible speech; was
it true that Mr. Drayton did——that——and, if it was true, were they
right in taking all for granted and leaving Margaret at his mercy? But
for the doctor's prohibition she would have gone straight to her
brother and laid her new anxieties before him. But she remembered
that he was not to be agitated or excited, and she resolutely sat still
till all her own excited thoughts became calmer. She took up her
knitting and worked on mechanically, while this new responsibility
made her feel as though nothing in the world, of such moment, had
ever come before her. It was an evil unknown to her; in the old days
her father was a man both abstemious and refined in his
surroundings, and since her marriage, though she saw terrible
accounts in the papers, she had lived so little in any town, and had
seen so little that was evil, that she considered people made almost
unnecessary fuss about teetotalism; she could not imagine such a
fearful thing as drinking touching her order, though she knew it
obtained among some poor miserable creatures, of whom she
seldom thought without a shudder of sorrow, mingled with disgust.
To think of Margaret, with all her great love of purity and peace,
exposed to so horrible a thing, was something absolutely terrible to
her; so perfectly appalling that she started up, feeling as though
every moment was a cruel wrong to the girl she had learned to love
so dearly. She went to her brother's room; he was sitting up, and
she sat down beside him in a flutter of spirits that made her
incoherent.
"You have had a visitor," he began, with a laugh in which there was
not much mirth.
"Only Mrs. Wymans," she answered, with indifference.
"If she could hear you! She is a person of great consequence in her
own estimation."
"I wonder why she called," his sister said, absently, doubtful as to
her capability of putting the question without causing any
excitement.
"I'll tell you," he answered; "there is a great deal of curiosity about
Drayton just now; before this attack of mine I was driven wild by all
manner of questions about him. He is a great fool to make a mystery
of his address; there is no reason he should do so; he answers no
letters, he leaves every one to conjecture things, and in this
beautiful world if a thing is not fully understood, the worst
interpretation and not the best is the accepted one."
"Then you think there is no reason for his shutting himself up?"
"There can be no reason. Margaret is not likely to give him cause for
jealousy, and the man is in the possession of all his senses."
"Always, and at all times?" and Mrs. Dorriman leaned forward,
breathing quickly and watching his face very anxiously.
"Anne," said Mr. Sandford, and this name from him was an especial
sign of kindness towards her, "has any one told you anything?
Depend upon it it is only gossip."
"It may be gossip, I trust it may be untrue; but why is Margaret, so
to speak, shut up? She cannot go out even for a walk beyond the
grounds; Jean says she has not been to see Grace for ever so long,
and there must be some reason for his never answering any letter."
"I never heard this before. What do you mean about Margaret? I
think you are speaking great nonsense."
"Jean says that the poor thing never gets out. At first she went out
and he went with her—followed her like a shadow—now he does not
go himself, and she is kept a perfect prisoner. No one is allowed to
go near the house. I assure you, brother, I have been longing for
you to be well to speak about it."
"The man must be mad," exclaimed Mr. Sandford, and then he
noticed his sister's face. "You have heard something, you have
something more to say?" and his own face flushed.
"Brother, do not excite yourself. You know the doctor is afraid of your
being ill if you do."
"Well, then, don't make mysteries," he said very angrily, and with
much of his old violence.
"I am sure," said the poor woman, hurt at such an accusation, "I do
not wish to make mysteries, but Mrs. Wymans told me that she had
heard he drank. Now, I am not quite sure if she put it quite that way
or if she asked me if he drank."
"Not a bit of it. If he does, it is something quite new. He was a very
abstemious man. You might recollect his headaches, and saying
wine increased those headaches."
"So I do," exclaimed Mrs. Dorriman, joyfully; "how tiresome it is that
I forgot this when that woman was here. She spoke so meaningly,"
and Mrs. Dorriman as usual considered herself somehow altogether
to blame.
Mr. Sandford said no more, but he lay back, thinking. He blamed
himself, justly, for having been the person to bring this man to the
house for his own end—and now....
He was free of further blame; he had heard rumours in connection
with Mr. Drayton's family that had greatly disturbed him, and then he
had done his best to prevent his marrying Margaret; his conscience
had plenty to bear but not this—only he might have spoken more
plainly, he might have told her or his sister something that had come
to his knowledge. Then, when too late, he knew.
He was better, but his strength was not coming back quickly, and
business matters, the position he had held, everything connected
with the past, began to shrink in importance.
But Margaret! Something must be done at once about her; a terrible
dread came to him about her.
"One thing you must do at once," he said, aloud, following out his
own thoughts, "you must write to Jean without delay; enclose her a
cheque, and tell her it is important that she should give it, and
letters from you, to Margaret, into her own hand. Write to Margaret
and tell her she is to let you know the truth, and what her position is
—write at once," he repeated, as though his sister, who was
thoroughly alarmed, needed any second telling.
Jean was, on the whole, easier about Grace, who had made a
surprising rally. She was able to be up and enjoy her meals; she was
also able to enjoy the visits of no less a person than Paul Lyons.
Margaret being married and out of his reach, that young man had
conceived a great affection for her sister, now a very softened and
subdued likeness of herself at Lornbay.
"You are not Margaret, but you remind me of her," he said
sentimentally.
"We are sisters. I think there is a likeness."
Grace was extremely amused by his sentiment and by the little
speeches he made her. She had always rather liked him, and was
always tolerant of the little ways that had so provoked her high-
minded sister.
"I am not sure about it, personally," he said, "I meant your voice and
your manner, and something altogether."
"We have the same kind of nose," laughed Grace. "Never mind, Mr.
Lyons, I like you to be loyal to my sister; I never, never, could come
up to her, and I know it!"
"You—you are more like than you were last year. Sometimes I think
you very like Margaret," said Mr. Lyons, consolingly.
"Thank you. I know that is a very high compliment from you."
"Don't you think, Miss Rivers, that Margaret might, she might, have
been happier with a fellow like me than with an old madman like
Drayton?—that's what hurts me so much," said the young man.
"Of course she would have been happier, but everything went
wrong," and Grace blushed vividly. "I sent everything wrong, and,
poor, poor darling, she sacrificed herself to save me. Oh, Mr. Lyons!
you never can say anything bad enough for me to feel it unjust. I
hate myself more and more every day," and, much to his
consternation, Grace, usually mocking at tears, shed them now.
"I declare you are so like Margaret that I am getting to be very fond
of you," exclaimed Paul, "please don't cry, it makes me feel so ...
funny!" and he looked unhappy, also.
"Oh, if I could do anything!" exclaimed poor Grace, who was, now
she was stronger, less able to remain passive, and who was utterly
and entirely miserable about her sister.
"If one could only shoot the fellow!" said Paul, vindictively.
"You see even if I could go out that wretched man keeps guard; he
will not let Jean see my poor Margaret. A little while ago there was a
back door, now that is shut up."
"But why does she not walk out of the house?"
"Because of her baby. She will not leave it and he will not allow her
to take it with her, and I do not quite understand about the law, but,
even if she took it, they might force her to send it back to him, so
she says."
"Grace," said young Lyons, and he looked as though he had quite
made up his mind to something, "I wish you would marry me. I am
quite in earnest," he said, getting very red at her expression of
amazement; "you see, if I was her brother I might be of some use."
Perhaps never was a proposal made so oddly, and never one so
open to offence taken in such good part.
"No, Mr. Lyons," said Grace, laughing, while tears stood in her eyes;
"you are a dear, kind-hearted boy; do you suppose I would consent
to anything of the kind? Put all nonsense out of your head and try to
see if there is anything in the world we can do. You are more able,
you are stronger than I am; think!"
Paul Lyons thought, but he could see no way of helping Margaret
unless she would help herself.
They neither of them knew what had only lately happened at the
Limes. When Margaret, her heart full of gratitude about her writing,
a glow of deep and checquered feeling making her steps lighter, as
she went homewards, had been kept at the door waiting a weary
while.
When at length the servant came Mr. Drayton was with him, and he
had been so excited and so violent that the man could hardly control
him.
"I am sure, ma'am, he is mad," he said to the terrified girl, "and I
will see and get the doctor to-morrow; I cannot well leave him just
now."
"Oh, pray, do not leave him!" said Margaret, terrified; "but to-
morrow, yes, something must be done to-morrow."
She had made up her mind, as she stood trembling before him, that
she would go, and she would take her child; surely, if he was mad—
and she knew he must be mad—no one would take her child from
her.
Next day, so soon as baby was awake, she roused the nurse. She
had great difficulty in telling her what she meant to do; she meant
to go now at once, while, as she thought, her husband slept, and
the nurse might follow later.
"He will not wish to detain you," she said, "once we are safe away."
"But who will pay my wages?" asked the nurse, who did not at all
see why she should risk her earnings or be left in the house with a
madman when her charge and her mistress were gone.
"Of course that will be all right," said Margaret, with dignity.
"Are you sure, ma'am? because they say here you had no money,
that your sister is living in a very poor way, and that you married
master for his money."
Margaret's face was one flame.
"You are quite forgetting yourself," she said, and then the sting of
these words made her turn away. Here was a truth—she had
acknowledged to herself—put in the coarsest possible way to her!
Had she a right to resent it?
She dressed her baby and herself, put up a few necessaries, and
then knelt down and asked for help and guidance. It could not be
wrong to go, for she was sure that her husband was mad; she must
go and she must take her baby, who was hers; she was sure if she
stayed that her husband would do her an injury; she had long had a
vague fear, but last night had made her tremble; supposing he broke
out in this way when the man was not by his side! She was
trembling now as she went downstairs.
"Baby must keep quiet," she whispered; but how could baby know?
As they passed her husband's door her frightened and close
embrace alarmed and hurt the child, and she set up a tremendous
roar. Margaret went to the front door; no key was there; she turned
to the drawer to look and found her husband beside her.
"Where are you going?" he thundered, holding her shoulder as in a
vice.
"I am going out," she answered, trying to speak, quivering with fear
all the time.
"You do not go out at that door! and besides how can you go out
with your precious child in the rain?"
Poor Margaret looked up and there indeed she saw that it was
raining heavily.
Her heart sank and she paused irresolute.
At that moment the key turned in the lock, and the man came in.
"I have been to the doctor and he is coming directly," he said, and
with a feeling of being baffled, though only for the time, poor
Margaret turned her weary steps upstairs.
She was over-excited, and cried with the passion that comes from
weakness, as from despair.
Then she left her child upstairs, and prepared to see the doctor.
Through him she would surely be able to arrange something.
No one, she kept saying to herself, would wish her to stay with a
madman, no one could leave a child in his keeping.
And she went to the sitting-room, and when she heard the doctor
come she fled swiftly towards him, and took him upstairs to her own
room. She would lay everything before him, and he would help her.
And he, looking at her flushed face and great excitement of manner,
wondered whether she was going to tell him about some illness of
her own; and conscious of a certain prejudice against her, because
of her marriage to this man, and a farewell he had witnessed
between her and—Sir Albert Gerald.
 CHAPTER IX.
Since that first interview Dr. Jones had had with the poor wife his
feelings of admiration and pity had changed a good deal.
The explanation of her position lowered her considerably in his eyes.
Perhaps no one sees the utter emptiness of life, and the non-
importance of wealth, more than a medical man, who sees how little
happiness it brings to any one; how little (standing by itself) it does
for poor humanity.
He was disgusted when he saw that there was apparently no excuse
for her; and he was shocked when he saw a farewell between her
and a young man as he passed Mr. Skidd's shop, because here was
evidently a lover. Her face he could not see, but Sir Albert's
expression was unmistakable.
Margaret, having no clue to his coldness and evident disapproval,
felt speaking difficult, far more difficult than she had thought.
"I want to speak to you," she said, colouring under his searching
gaze. "I want to tell you about my husband. I am very miserable,
and I am very much frightened."
"Humph!" said Dr. Jones, "let us leave the misery upon one side, and
talk about your fears; what makes you afraid?"
"My husband's violence. He was so very violent yesterday and this
morning; I am afraid of his doing me an injury—I am afraid because
of my child," and Margaret shivered.
"What made him violent?"
"He cannot bear my going out. He never allows me to go out, I am a
prisoner here!"
He remembered having seen her out, and in his heart believed she
was deliberately telling him a lie.
"What do you want to go out for?" he asked, roughly. "What do you
mean by 'going out'?"
"I want to see my sister oftener."
Another lie he thought. "Why don't you brave him and go?" he said,
trying her; "you might leave him altogether."
"Because I am told that if I leave he can keep my child!" said
Margaret, passionately.
"Of course he can."
"It seems so hard," she said.
"Does it? I do not agree with you; why should a man be deprived of
his child any more than a woman?"
"But if a man—is—mad?" whispered poor Margaret.
"Oh, that's where you are, is it! Well, I do not think that word is
applicable here. There is temper, and there was drink. You will
forgive my saying that, as you married Mr. Drayton, you took him for
better or for worse. I do not think his health is good, and his temper
is—well, irritable—that is the worst."
"Then you cannot help me!" and poor Margaret, who had hoped
much from him, felt cruelly disappointed.
"How can I help you?" he asked, impatiently. "You wish me, for
some reason of your own, to say that your husband is mad—which I
have seen nothing to prove—and I will not say what I do not
believe."
"I do not wish you to say it; I wish nothing but what is true and
right: but I cannot understand how you, a medical man and
experienced, can think Mr. Drayton quite right," pleaded Margaret;
"if you could only see him as I have seen him!" and she stopped,
afraid of betraying emotion to one so evidently lacking in sympathy.
"Of course, if I saw him with your eyes," began the doctor, coldly, all
the more upon his guard because he was conscious that in spite of
disapproval, in spite of what he knew and what he had seen, he was
beginning to be influenced by her passionate appeal to him.
"We need not discuss this matter any longer," said Margaret, rising,
and looking very fair and very pale as she stood in the full morning
light. "For some unknown reason—unknown to me—you are not my
friend; after all, you do not know me. If I find my life unbearable, I
have friends who will help me!"
"Now, Mrs. Drayton, answer me a plain question," and the doctor,
rising also, looked at her with a curious expression of mingled
distrust and rising interest, "What have you to complain of? Is your
husband rough to you. Has he ever done you any injury?"
Poor Margaret!
"He is rough," she said, with hesitation in her voice; "he uses
language new to me. But if you can see no strangeness in his
manner...." Her voice died away, her hopes had vanished; she had a
horrible and undefinable dread—she had seen a wildness in his eyes,
which in a less degree she had seen when she had first known him;
but our own convictions, unsupported by any facts, are inconclusive
to other people—and Dr. Jones, seeing in her a very lovely woman,
but one evidently able to deceive, and who did not hesitate to say
she had no liberty, when he had seen her alone and out, was steeled
against her.
He laid down the law with all the authority of a man who is fully
aware of having right on his side.
"Madam, if you have any one tangible grievance—if your husband
ever struck you, or ill-treated you in any way—then I should see my
way to interfering in your behalf; the law protects you in such a
case."
"Yes," Margaret answered, bitterly, "you will interfere, and the law
will protect (?) me when I am injured; there is no help for me till the
necessity for help has passed away."
She bowed and left him—knowing that her words were useless, and
went to try and comfort herself, and try and bear her fate without a
murmur. Had she not sinned, and against all her convictions, with
her eyes open, and fearing this very thing!
"What a very illogical mind she has," said Dr. Jones, as he stalked
downstairs, comfortably satisfied that he had been firm, and that her
grace, the pathos of her voice, and her great beauty, had alike been
disregarded. Justice, without doubt, was on his side—he thought.
But as he stepped on the last step something made him sensible
that there might be a little truth in what she said. Though she had
told him a deliberate untruth, all might not be false.
He changed his mind about going home at once, and he went to see
Mr. Drayton instead. He found him very quiet, rather depressed,
without a trace of excitement in his manner.
Nothing during the interview transpired to give the slightest colour
to the wife's dread; and the doctor left, perfectly convinced in his
own mind that Mrs. Drayton was quite in the wrong, in more ways
than one.
Just as he reached the front door and was full of his own good
sense, he heard a sound that startled him, a loud soul-less
meaningless laugh, and as the front door shut upon him, pulled by
his own hand, a quick, sharp misgiving crossed his mind, and he
wished he had seen the man-servant. He had not thought it
necessary. But his own convictions soon banished that sudden
thought, and the result of his visit was to confirm his views and to
give rise to many moral reflections on the way in which glaring faults
may be marked by unusual personal advantages.
His wife, who was shrewd and kind-hearted, but who had not that
deep estimation for his talents which goes far to make the conjugal
relationship happy, was interested in the poor wife and mother living
in such a singularly secluded manner. She had only seen her, no one
ever being allowed an entrance to the Limes, by Margaret's own
wish and consent, when she had found that her husband had a
terrible tendency, and which she had no wish to alter had she been
able to do so, now the dread had changed.
Mrs. Jones was not a great admirer of her husband's abilities—
indeed she had lived to find him peculiarly dull in a great many
things; but he was very kind to her, and admired her quickness
immensely, so that though the balance was on the wrong side still it
was there.
Everything passing in his mind she could generally read pretty
clearly, and he did not object to her doing so. He was always rather
relieved when she brought her mind to bear upon some perplexity;
and, though as far as medical cases went, he was very discreet,
there were occasions, of which the present was one, when it was a
substantial comfort to have his mode of action approved of by her.
Mrs. Jones was one of the women who have no inclination for
prolonged meals, and it was always a trial to her the deliberation
and great enjoyment evinced by her husband on these occasions.
Some people have no talent for eating, and except for his sake Mrs.
Jones would never have gone through that ceremony—to which so
many cling—of having a succession of dishes presented one after
another, as though you could not have one thing and finish with it,
she herself would say; and her luncheon as often as not, consisted
of an apple or two which she crunched between her fine white teeth,
and a biscuit, the hardness of which tested their capability.
But she was wise enough to understand that a good dinner was
really an essential to Mr. Jones, and, without caring about it herself,
she threw herself into the subject, and the result was eminently
satisfactory.
She bore the prolonged meals, in which her rapid demolition was a
standing grievance, with some work on her lap, work which
employed her active fingers and left her mind free to apply to any of
her husband's interests at the moment.
He had at one time considered this to be "not quite the thing," and
had questioned its propriety.
"But it is much better for you, if you could only see it," she had
answered. "The work does not prevent my talking, and my dinner
does," which argument was unassailable.
Mr. Jones had even come to consider there was great merit in the
arrangement, as his wife never hurried him now, or showed by any
little feminine indications that the time seemed long.
"I am glad, my dear," he said, when he had arrived at that pleasant
stage of affairs when his appetite was partially satisfied, and had yet
to be satiated, "I am very glad your acquaintance with Mrs. Drayton
went no further."
"Why?"
"I am afraid, my dear (speaking of course in strictest confidence),
that she is not quite a straightforward person."
"I hardly know any one I consider quite straightforward, myself,"
answered Mrs. Jones calmly. "What has she done?"
"I think you are making rather a sweeping assertion, my dear," he
said, eyeing with a momentary misgiving a roast duck; it looked
overdone.
"Never mind my assertions, but tell me what that poor thing has
done?"
"Why do you say that poor thing? I really do not see why she is to
be pitied."
"Don't you? well I do. Do you call the life she leads a proper life for a
young creature accustomed probably to all the freedom of a country
life in Scotland? I often think of her, and I declare sometimes I
should like to force my way into that dismal house, and take her and
her child out of it." Mrs. Jones spoke with a vehemence quite
surprising to her husband.
"Really, my dear," he said, "the rapid conclusions you arrive at are ...
bewildering to my slower mode of thought. You have seen Mrs.
Drayton once, and you are ready immediately to credit her with
weariness, and the house is a substantial house and very well
furnished, and...."
"Do you suppose curtains and carpets can make a woman happy?"
asked Mrs. Jones, severely.
"They do something towards it, I think, judging from your own great
anxiety upon the subject."
Mr. Jones had some reason for this statement.
"All I have to say is that that poor young creature's heart is broken—
yes, broken. I never saw any one so thoroughly and utterly
miserable as she is."
Mr. Jones was startled but not convinced.
"I saw her the other day, though not to speak to," Mr. Jones went
on. "She went to Skidd's, and I was going in also, but as you
objected to my being mixed up with her I drew back. A friend of
hers happened to go there on business, and she welcomed him, and
I saw her face, and its expression has haunted me ever since."
"As you saw her out with your own eyes, you can understand that
when she talks of never going out that is not a perfectly true
statement," and Mr. Jones, who was longing to have his own slight
misgivings set at rest by his wife, took off his spectacles, rubbed
imaginary specs off their polished surface, and replaced them.
"One swallow does not make a summer," said Mrs. Jones, with as
much contempt in her meaning as she thought befitting. "It is a fact
known to every one here that she has only been seen once, and that
she is kept exactly as though the Limes was a prison and her
husband a jailer."
"Really, my dear, in these days such expressions are quite absurd."
"Their being absurd does not make them false, and I trust that if
you can in any way help that poor thing you will."
"If she went out once she can do so again."
"Not at all a certainty; she may have managed it once, and yet
because she did so it may be made impossible for her."
"It strikes me, my dear, that you know more about it all than I
imagined," said Dr. Jones, with a sudden perception which for him
was really acute.
"I know this, that Mr. Drayton refused her sister shelter on the worst
night we have had; that the sisters are orphans devotedly attached
to each other; that one sister is ill, and that the other is a prisoner,
therefore they cannot meet. They have one or two friends, and the
only thing that puzzles me is why the friends do not interfere."
"My dear," and Dr. Jones spoke with great irritation, "how can any
one interfere? There is nothing wrong about the man. I saw him to-
day. I am not going to proclaim him mad to please his wife or any
one else."
"Then she appealed to you?"
"She told me a long story. She wanted more liberty. How can I
interfere?"
"And she asked you if her husband was—that?"
"Was what?"
"Mad."
"She said something, but as I had seen her out, and she said she
could not go out, I did not feel very much inclined to take her view
of the question," said the doctor, obstinately.
"Why are you prejudiced against her?"
"Because I saw her meet the friend you speak of, and I drew my
own conclusions."
"Well, you ought to be ashamed of yourself," said Mrs. Jones, very
warmly, "thoroughly ashamed of yourself. As it happens the meeting
was a pure accident. Mr. Skidd has been publishing some poetry; he
told me about it at first; in fact he showed the first poem to me, and
asked me what I thought," said Mrs. Jones, not without a
pardonable little glow of satisfaction. "I thought it beautiful. Then
the editor of some magazine in London came down and arranged to
have all she wrote. He called by accident and met Mrs. Drayton, and
they talked business. How you can put such an ill-natured
construction on so simple a thing I cannot make out."
"My dear, I really—putting two and two together—I thought——"
"I shall be afraid of speaking to any one now for fear of your seeing
evil in it—Mr. Paul Lyons, for instance—I shall refuse to shake hands
with him."
"My dear, I wish you would not go off at a tangent like that. It is a
very different thing. You are not in her position; you are not young
and beautiful, and.... What in the world is the matter now?"
His wife rushed out of the room, and disdained answering him.
In the meantime Jean was bravely facing all her difficulties. Her
principal difficulty was that she had a woman to deal with in the
shape of a landlady who was what Jean termed a "slithery" creature.
When she found that Jean looked after things she was impertinent;
but that had no effect. Jean looked over her head and ignored her
altogether.
Then she took to being disobliging, and would neither answer a bell
nor give any help. Her next move was to let the kitchen fire out
perpetually, and when Jean wanted to heat some soup and get
anything hot there was no fire.
She calculated that as Grace was very ill and could not be moved,
she would get the best of it in the long run.
But Jean was not a woman who would allow herself to be put out of
it without giving her opinion and trying to remedy matters. She had
a great contempt for the "wishy-washy" voice and untidy ways of
Mrs. Cripps, a woman who lived in a black cap, and knew nothing of
any but baker's bread, and could neither make "a scone or even oat-
bread, let be bannocks," Jean said to Grace when she was dwelling
upon the shortcomings of the house one day.
"I am glad," said Grace, laughing. "I never cared for oat-bread. I
always feel, if I ever try to eat it, that I am eating sand; please do
not be offended."
"I'll take no offence where none is meant," said Jean, quietly; "and
people are not a' born wi' a good taste."
The landlady tried in vain to speak her high-bred English, and to put
herself above her. There are a good many like her that cannot
distinguish between provincialism and vulgarity. Jean had a ready
tongue, and, though she assured Grace that she kept it well
between her teeth, the landlady heard it occasionally, and felt it in
all its roughness.
The skirmishes were invariably amusing to Grace, who used to lie in
her chair and laugh over the scenes afterwards, and tell them to
Paul Lyons, who showed how little any real love had existed for her
by the way in which he still came to see her and to hear of
Margaret.
She could not help asking herself what she gained in all this
unhappiness; she was as badly off as ever. She was still dependent
on Mr. Sandford. She was living in a tiny lodging. She disliked the
doctor, and never would see him if she could help it, and the sister,
who had all their lives been her one great stay and support, had no
liberty to come and see her.
She had planned her life so differently, and it came vividly before
her. How proud she had always been of the cleverness, which tested
at length, had failed in every particular. But once she rallied, hers
was not at all the nature to dwell upon unpleasant things. The first
day she went out she drove to the Limes, taking Jean with her, and
they asked for Mrs. Drayton.
"Mrs. Drayton is out," said the man-servant, who did not dare say
otherwise.
"Hoot! man," said Jean, "you need not tell me that. Why, Mrs.
Drayton is never out."
"Shut that door immediately," called out an angry voice, and Mr.
Drayton, looking very haggard and wild, came to the door.
"My sister! I want to see my sister," and Grace held out her hands
imploringly.
Mr. Drayton came down the steps and looked at her; then he made a
perfectly diabolical face, burst into a roar of laughter, and slammed
the door in her face.
Grace, weak and terrified, clung to Jean as they went home. "What
shall we do? What shall we do?" she sobbed. "Oh, Jean! that man is
mad, and she, my poor Margaret, is in his power!"
"Whist, my dear bairn," said Jean, who was nigh upon tears herself.
"Whist! I think we will be guided," she said, reverently, and she sat
silent for a few minutes. "I doubt we will have to speak to the
police," she added, as that brilliant idea came to console her.
Grace wrote a letter to Mrs. Dorriman that night, in which she told
her all she knew, all she feared, for the first time; she expressed her
gratitude for all the kindness she had received; for the first time she
acknowledged that she was to blame, and she asked to express
something of her feeling to Mr. Sandford.
This done she felt more happy than she had done lately, and rose
next day trusting that in some way her sister's freedom would be
brought about.
Mr. Lyons called early, and was delighted to receive her confidence.
Might he go and call? Surely there could be no harm, he asked,
anxiously; it might save time.
"It would only make matters worse for my sister," Grace said, "and
you would do no good."
"But it will show that she—that your sister—has friends near her."
"That very fact might rouse him to more violence, and my sister
would suffer."
"I might go and call on him. I do not believe he would be violent if I
asked for him. I am afraid he knows me, otherwise I might take
some circulars and call upon him about business."
"As if you know anything about business."
"I assure you I have been very hard at work lately. I have gone into
the question of employment very seriously."
"I doubt your having done anything seriously," laughed Grace.
"That is rather hard on a fellow, when a fellow has really tried."
"Come, Mr. Lyons, what have you tried?"
"I have offered myself as an agent to begin with. Agency is a very
good thing. You spend no money yourself, and other people's money
sticks to your fingers; it is really a very simple thing."
"And what are you agent for, may I ask?"
"Oh! the appointment is not confirmed, but I think I am on the high
road to it. It does not much matter what it is as long as you can get
people to buy. I have at this moment two things before me, of which
I have really a very fair chance."
"Have you?"
"Are you sufficiently interested, Miss Rivers, to hear what they are?"
"I am doing my best to show my interest by listening to you with
both my ears."
"Ah! but you are not giving me your undivided attention. You are
knitting, and just now I quite distinctly heard you count five. A fellow
cannot talk of his prospects to a girl while she counts five," Mr. Lyons
said, in a tone of disgust, and looking round the room appealing to
an imaginary audience.
"I will not count again—only just this once. I have made a mistake
already;" and Grace wrinkled her forehead and became absorbed in
her work for a few moments.
"Miss Rivers, will you really let a fellow talk to you? life and death
does not hang upon a few stitches more or less."
"No, but a sock does; and dear Mrs. Dorriman took such pains to
teach me to make one."
"You are always knitting," the young man said, discontentedly.
"No; only when I feel very good," she answered, gravely; "then I
knit all kinds of things into my sock."
"What sort of things—colours? that thing looks all the same colour to
me."
"Oh, I do not mean material things, but sorrow and penitence—and
the bitterest repentance," she added the last words in a lower tone,
and her eyes were concealed under lowered lids; then she sighed.
Mr. Lyons sighed also, he had a very good idea what she referred to.
"To return to your wishes," said Grace, laughing a little, to carry off a
feeling of awkwardness at having shown emotion; "what do you
wish to tell me?"
"It—it sounds a little frivolous now. I only wanted to say I have tried
to get into every agency you can think of. I have gone steadily down
the alphabet and picked out everything you can think of. It is quite
astonishing how many things there are to be canvassed for. I did the
W's yesterday, and the X's and Y's to-day. I took the W's out of their
turn because of wine; there are such an enormous number of firms
who sell or want to sell the only drinkable wine; and it is a subject I
know a little about."
"And you got nothing?"
"Considerably less than nothing. One question was asked—
introductions—references, and, as I had never thought of an
introduction, and could refer to no one as to my ability—I was
bowed out. I met with civility, I will say; I had on my best coat, and
that tells," he said, in a tone of satisfaction.
"Perhaps something may turn up," Grace answered brightly.
"I hope so; you see, I never could do much more than sign my
name—my handwriting is simply abominable. It has happened to me
to have my address and signature cut out of my own letter and
pasted on as the only way of solving the problem of where I lived,
and then it sometimes wandered about a good deal before it
reached me;" and he laughed at the recollection. Grace laughed with
him.
"But what is your plan as regards Margaret, my poor darling sister?"
she asked, and her countenance changed.
"If I was agent to something in which Mr. Drayton was interested I
could ask to see him on business, and if I could only get a
recommendation or introduction to him all would be easy; once in
the house I am not afraid." The young man drew up his head and
looked quite ready for anything that might happen.
Grace clasped her hands. "I think it is a very good plan," she
exclaimed, "and I can help you a little myself. What do you call a
manufactory that turns out horrible smells, and kills trees and plants
and things."
"Artificial manures?" he said, pulling a list out of his pocket and
referring to it.
"Oh, dear no," said Grace, impatiently, "it makes all the trees look
like skeletons. Who ever heard of manure killing anything? it makes
them grow."
"I spoke without thinking, only remembering that that made an
appalling smell, quite enough to kill everything."
"Well, think, with all your might, or, still better, think, and give me
your list—and if I saw the name I should know it—and you can think
in the meantime," said Grace, speaking very quickly.
"I have it!" she exclaimed, joyfully pointing with her finger to it and
holding out the paper to him. "Chemical works! now do not forget,
chemical, chemical, chemical—say it over and over again, for fear of
forgetting it. Well, Mr. Lyons, at Renton there is a huge large
chemical work, and Mr. Drayton used to go there constantly. I
remember his saying one day that he had invested money—a
quantity of money—in these things."
"That will do then," he said. "I will boldly ask for Mr. Drayton to-
morrow morning, and ask if he is still interested in the Renton
chemical works. You will see, all will go well."
"I pray that it may. I shall write a long letter to my poor darling and
entreat her to tell me exactly the state of the case. She has so much
cleverness that I cannot understand her not coming to see me. She
must have some difficulty to contend with we know nothing of."
"Ask her to suggest some plan herself, if she requires help of any
kind," said young Lyons.
"Yes, only she is so horribly conscientious, she may make difficulties.
Her spirit seems so broken."
"Hearing that man laugh is quite enough to make one wish never to
laugh again. However, now that I have something definite to do I
feel happier. Oh! if all only goes well.
"I hope Lady Lyons is not uneasy about your being so much away."
"No, she is quite accustomed to my erratic movements. Good-bye,
and if...."
He stopped, turned very red, and went swiftly out of her presence.
 CHAPTER X.
Margaret found the days pass on with a monotony which was very
terrible to her. At times her husband joined her at dinner, but she
never knew when to expect him. Sometimes he came into the
nursery, when he would sit watching her and the child, in whom her
love (starved in every other direction) centred so completely.
She learned to be horribly afraid of him. She could not understand
how the doctor could reconcile it to his conscience to speak of him
as sane; there was such a wildness in his eyes, and a vagueness in
his laughter, which made her shiver with fright.
She forgot the great cunning that forms so great a feature in some
kind of insanity, and, always viewing him with nervous eyes, she
heard him speak rationally at times without noticing it, because her
mind was always on the stretch, and mental anxiety is apt to distort
everything. He had generally, however, fits of silence when she was
only conscious of his eyes gleaming at her from under the shaggy
eyebrows, and these prolonged periods of silence were far, far more
acceptable to her than his terrible laugh. Each day she prayed with
all her soul for health and strength—she tried, poor child, to do her
duty, and, sometimes full of pity for his evident supreme
unhappiness, she tried to talk to him and to interest him in their
child. He watched her unceasingly. In the garden, where now spring
flowers were coming out, where the birds began to chirp and twitter,
and where the trees showed green, and another spring had come to
gladden the earth.
It brought no rejoicing to her heart, because there must be a
responsive chord somewhere, and to enter into the fair happiness of
spring the pulses must be able to beat a little quickly, and some
sympathy between the great new birth of the year and the soul must
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