Mrs. Dorriman Volume Ii Part 22

"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 pa.s.sive, 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 grat.i.tude 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 coa.r.s.est 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 pa.s.sed 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?"