"It is difficult to know what is right sometimes," she said, thoughtfully. "I never could tell an untruth, and sometimes telling the truth does not make things smooth. Grace, my darling, I married Mr. Drayton to give you a home and comforts you so sorely needed. He knows it wasonlyfor that, and he resents it, and he willneverlet me have you, never."
She sobbed, and she was not given to tears.
Grace stared at her in stupefied astonishment.
"You do not mean to say that you let him find this out?"
"No, I told him. I told him before I married him. How could I act a lie?"
"And he married you after this frank explanation, and now turns round upon you! How like a man!" and Grace, who had a most limited acquaintance herself with any men, looked supremely scornful. "Well, my dear Margaret, I shall not go with you, but I shall follow you."
"But Grace, darling——"
"But Margaret, darling. I will not hear a single word. I shall choose my own time and arrive in my own way—but go I will."
She laughed Margaret's scruples to scorn and turned the subject.
Grace was so gay and bright, so overflowing with good-humour, that all the inmates of Renton Place were taken by surprise, save and except Jean, who answered Mrs. Dorriman's expression of satisfaction by one short sentence,
"Milk aye bubbles before it boils."
And Mrs. Dorriman felt angry, and accused her faithful old servant of prejudice and superstition, to which Jean made not the slightest reply.
Margaret was a little uneasy; her experience of Grace's wilfulness made her dread some step that would bring happiness to neither of them. But she heard no more of her projected visit, and by degrees she began to hope that it had merely been a wild way of talking.
One great change was brought about by her sister's delicacy. Mr. Sandford, talking to the doctor one day about himself—Grace refused to see any doctor there—alluded to the eldest Miss Rivers as being delicate.
"We can never get her to go out; she says it tires her; she was always indolent."
"Or delicate," said the doctor; "she should not tire herself; you should send her out driving."
"Out driving! Why there is no carriage."
"No reason there should not be," said the doctor, pleasantly.
The new idea rather took possession of Mr. Sandford, and before many days were over Grace was told that she was to go out, and that a carriage was at her service.
Mr. Sandford's gruff way of announcing this fact did not prevent her seeing the real kindness, and she thanked him, while tears glistened in her eyes and she had a jest on her lips.
Margaret saw her revive under the influence of the fresh air. She had more than once postponed her journey, greatly against her own wishes, and yielding only to Grace's urgent prayers. At length she left Renton, with a heavy heart for her sister. She had too great an affection for her not to see that the excitement and gay manner were all, in reality, part of her illness; she dreaded the worst; each time she tried to talk to her seriously Grace either laughed her to scorn or cried till she made herself ill, and no good was done.
As she went south she tried to face the duties that awaited her—to remember only that her husband was her husband.
It was late and dark when she arrived in London, and when she got to Wandsworth she tried in vain to make out her surroundings. She could see nothing but the lamp-posts; and the scanty light the lamps gave, and which spread such a little distance, served to make the gloom between them darker.
She arrived at length at the Limes, so called because a couple of lopped lime-trees stood sentinel on either side of the gate.
No one was there at the door to meet her. At length an untidy-looking woman arrived—seemed surprised to see her—waited with visible impatience whilst she paid the cabman, dragged in the slender luggage and banged the gate, showing young Mrs. Drayton the way up a flagged footway between some straggling laurels, and into a cheerless unfurnished little stone hall.
"Is Mr. Drayton here? Did he not expect me?" asked the poor young wife, her heart sinking within her.
"Oh! Mr. Drayton's here. He said nothing of your being expected."
She opened a door, and sitting in front of a table littered with papers sat her husband, his face buried in his hands.
He looked at her with a vacant smile—he did not know her.
He was terrible to look at, so unkempt and so neglected looking. He must be ill, very ill!
The fire was out and the room undusted and unswept, a close smell she did not recognise filled the room.
She persuaded him to lie down on the sofa; she got the fire lit; threw open the window, put on the kettle for hot water, and wrote a note, which she sent by the woman to the nearest doctor.
He came and looked down upon the prostrate figure.
"Is he very ill?" asked Margaret, anxiously.
"No, madam," he answered, with a strange expression on his face, "he is only very drunk."
Margaret stared at the doctor, who so calmly announced this appalling fact to her, with widely opened eyes and a blanched face.
Ignorant of her history, he was startled to find so young a creature in such a position, and he said, impelled to respect by her whole air and manner, "This is news, and very unwelcome news, to you?"
"I have this moment arrived from nursing my sister in Scotland," she said, hurriedly. "My husband has been alone.... All is very wretched; can you tell me where I could hear of a nurse, I suppose, and—servants?"
"You must have a male nurse," he said.
"I will send you in a man-servant I know of, and to-morrow things will be better." He stayed with her a little while, lost in astonishment over her beauty, her grace, and the extraordinary contrast existing between her and the man she called her husband.
"I shall be afraid—to-night. He might be ill."
"Oh! you must not be left alone with him," he answered, and then, noting her weariness and pallor, he said, "If you will go and have some refreshment I can wait here, and when I leave I will send you some one."
She thanked him, and went to see if there was any room she could take possession of. To her relief the rooms upstairs were all furnished; and when she had bathed her face and had some slight refreshment she went downstairs again.
"I may tell you that my own conviction is that this terrible business is not a habit," said the doctor, as she entered. "Mr.——" looking at her for the name which she supplied, "has not any of the signs of an habitual drunkard. He has had something now which has had a terrible effect upon him; when that effect is over he will perhaps never relapse. Of course, I speak from imperfect knowledge, but I think I am right."
Poor Margaret could not answer him. She saw him go with a feeling akin to despair. She sat looking at the fire, and then at the man she had vowed to honour—and obey.
She rose hurriedly from her seat and rushed to the open window, suffocating with the agony and horror of it all. Was this to be her life?
She had sinned, and this was her punishment; and she was so young, so very young. She had, perhaps, a long life before her. How she shrank from this prospect, and from another confronting her then. Tears came; and kneeling before the window she allowed them to fall. Never was any girl more wretched, never was any more forlorn, than this poor child; helpless, lovely, and endowed with many gifts she was as yet all unconscious of.
She was roused by a man's step on the pavement leading to the house. She had not heard him ring, but he entered; a stern, grave man, with eyes accustomed to control the weak will of others, accustomed to see scenes far worse than this—far more terrible.
He asked to be shown Mr. Drayton's bedroom, and then he turned to Mrs. Drayton, who stood still watching: "You can sleep without anxiety, madam," he said, respectfully; "I will look after this poor gentleman." And Margaret thanked him, and fled to her own room, where she locked herself in and wept and prayed by turns, and finally slept.
The sun shone brightly into her room next day, when she opened her weary eyes in all the dim consciousness of a heavy trial awaiting her.
She rang, and had her breakfast brought upstairs (such as it was), and her luggage.
The Limes was a pretty place—large for a suburban villa. There was an extensive lawn behind, and flower-beds; but beyond the shrubbery, and all round the place, was a high brick wall, on the top of which, in spite of a height which seemed to forbid such a possibility, was a quantity of broken glass to keep out intruders. This wall destroyed all Margaret's happiness, she thought it made the place seem like a prison.
She dressed and went downstairs, and was met by the man who had come in the previous evening. Mr. Drayton was better, but it was wiser not to see him just yet, he said, firmly but respectfully; and poor Margaret felt afraid he might see too plainly upon her face that this prohibition was a relief.
When the doctor called, which he did soon, he told her he had been asked by his wife to say she would gladly be of use, and could recommend servants: and all that day she was busy seeing them and arranging matters a little.
In a few days her husband walked into the dining-room; greeted her laughingly, as though she had only just returned; and was apparently as well as ever.
But she noticed that the man-servant, who had replaced the first person, paid no attention to him when he called for wine, and that he provided him with a weak dilution from the side-board.
The days passed on in monotonous regularity, Margaret's happiness consisting of not seeing her husband; her misery, when she did. She got books and read, and she cultivated her flowers; and tried to resign herself to her life. But it was impossible for her fervent and passionate nature to be resigned. Though she had herself put on this yoke, her anguish was no less.
She often tormented herself by wondering whether love would have outlived this terrible experience; surely the sincerest love would have received its death-blow.
Some months had passed when Margaret lived through a time in which death seemed very close at hand, and had her baby in her arms. She had not looked forward to this happily, but when it came, all motherhood awoke in her nature; all her love, pent up, and finding no outlet in another direction, flowed to this helpless and feeble creature. She lavished endless caresses upon it; she lived for it; she worshipped it.
Her letters to Grace, so scanty and so bare of any information, were now full of her infant, its progress, and its wonderful intelligence.
Mr. Drayton showed no feeling but that of jealousy in connection with it; but Margaret did not mind. It slept in her room, and she devoted herself to it.
Up to this time Mr. Drayton had never again given her cause for fearing him.
Even the experienced servant pronounced him as well as any one, and he resumed his usual occupations.
One night Margaret was upstairs with her child—late.
There had been a thunder-storm, and the thunder was still growling in the distance. Rain came on, and as Margaret sat by her little one she felt only natural pity for any wayfarers on such a stormy night.
How it poured, and how dark the night was! She closed the shutters for fear of the baby's slumbers being disturbed by the loud splashing of the rain upon a lower roof of an outhouse, and was taking up her book again, when her husband walked into the room, looking perfectly wild, a paper in his hand. With great difficulty she got him to go downstairs with her, calling her nurse to go to the child.
Cautious, and seeing how frightfully excited he was, she sat down near the bell, and tried to speak to him quietly.
But she was frightened when she saw that the paper he held was the record of her opinion of his character, written in Germany—that she had meant to destroy, and had long forgotten.
"So, madam," her husband said furiously, "this is your candid opinion of me." He spoke in a tone of concentrated rage.
"It was written long ago," faltered Margaret.
"Oh, it was written long ago. Well, now I know your opinion of me I shall alter my conduct towards you—you sneaking...."
He came towards her. Margaret, frightened, rang the bell, and the sound was to her surprise repeated outside. There was a commotion in the hall. Before she could speak Grace, wet, wearied, but with all her accustomed nonchalance, stepped into the room.
Before the sisters could clasp each other Mr. Drayton rushed between them furious. The sight of Grace, whom he hated, drove him to frenzy, and the servant entreated her to go, as he did his utmost to restrain him.
"Yes, you had better go, darling," sobbed Margaret.
"But you will not remain here, you will come too," pleaded Grace, panting.
"Oh, Grace, my child! I cannot leave it—I cannot risk moving it."
She wrote the doctor's address in pencil, and saw her sister go, resolved that she would go and see her the next morning.
"The doctor will help you, Grace, and if you get some nice rooms I will manage for you."
She saw the frail figure in the cab, and, struck by the forlornness of her departure, she sent a servant with her. Then she went up stairs, and carefully locking the door tried to face this new and terrible complication.
What was she to do?
For the first time now she was really frightened. Her husband's expression had been so full of malice. How could she go on living in this way?
She thought long and deeply about it, and resolved that next day she would take baby to see Grace, leave it with her, and go and consult some clever lawyer as to what was possible for her to do. In her ignorance and inexperience she thought that the fact of his drinking would free her. She had yet much to learn.
Next day Mr. Drayton was not out of his room, and the discreet man-servant advised her to make haste and go out before he was up.
"He has been very troublesome and violent," he said, "and you had better not see him. He's got a turn against you just now, and how he got anything completely passes me. I have been watching him like a cat."
In a short time Margaret, with her nurse and baby, went off to see Grace, and much to her annoyance did not find her alone. Paul Lyons was there, full of sympathy, but sympathy expressed with very little tact; and while wishing to be a real friend—indeed, longing to hold that position—he wounded Margaret's pride by the way in which he allowed himself to speak to her of her husband.
She carried her point, however, and taking the train to London she went to a lawyer she had heard of, knowing no one herself. Her visit there was productive of no comfort to her.
Mr. Spratt was a busy man, and looked upon all feminine clients in the light of obstructions. This one was very pretty, but an obstructionist nevertheless.
"How can I serve you, madam?" were his first words, and Margaret did not quite know how to state her case.
She looked at him for some moments, and his patience, not very unnaturally, began to give way. He wore blue spectacles, a circumstance which reduced every one to the same hue as regarded complexion, which was at the same time a drawback and a safeguard. Impelled to speak by his evident impatience, Margaret asked him with a trembling voice, "If a man drinks, can a wife leave him?"
"By mutual consent. If he illtreats her she can perhaps do so—by arrangement. Madam," he said, softening a little—a very little—at the soft pleading tones of her voice, "all you say to me is confidential—state your own, and not an abstract case. Does your husband drink?"
"Yes," said poor Margaret.
"Does he illtreat you when he is drunk?"
"No," said the poor child, trembling—"he—he frightens me."
"Ah! you see the law recognizes cruelty, and another thing, as a cause for legal separation, or even a divorce, but the fact of a man's being a drunkard is not taken into account."
"Not taken into account?" said Margaret, repeating his words in strongest surprise.
"No. So little does this fact—a very terrible fact—tell against a man in the eyes of the law, that, though you are too young to have children,supposingyou had children, and that you left the father, the law gives the children to him and not to you—they remain with him, they do not go with you."
"God help me!" she murmured, fervently, her heart standing still in the great shock of this announcement. And if she had left him, as she had once thought of doing, her baby might have been kept from her.
"Then you cannot help me!"
"I am afraid not," he said, not unkindly; "the law as regards the rights of mothers is a little one-sided—a little unjust, I allow, but till they are altered——"
"Good-bye," said Margaret, seized now with a sort of terror, lest something should have happened to her infant during her absence—she felt so far from it, she must hurry back.
"Good-bye, madam," said the old lawyer, seeing before him somebody not usual in his experience. "If your husband ever strikes you we might have a case."
"And my baby!"
"Good gracious—a baby! You have an infant? you look so very young," he said, in a tone of apology. "Ah, well, you see, we need not go into that question just now."
She went downstairs utterly broken down. She had always clung to a belief that if things got very bad she would be able to go. She had had a sort of blind belief that the laws of her country—boasted of so often, and the outcome of so much intellect and ability—were there to fall back upon and to protect her.
She stopped to take breath and gather herself together for a moment, and she was just moving away from the door when some one passed in a hansom,—in another moment he had pulled up short, jumped out, and dismissed the cabman. Then he was beside her, and in the moment of her deepest anguish Sir Albert Gerald stood beside her.
She was utterly miserable, too much crushed to feel surprised. He saw that she was quite unfit to be spoken to, that she had sustained some great shock, and he tried to think rapidly what was best for her.
"I wish to go back to my sister," she said at length in a low voice. "Will you take me there?"
He called a cab and put her into it, and got in and told the man to drive to the station.
What was the meaning of all this? She said her sister, not her husband. Had she left her husband? He was longing to know all, and yet he could not ask her anything.
"You know you can depend upon my friendship," he said earnestly to her, and the kindness of his tone, the care he took of her, everything contrasted with the misery of her home, and she lay back in the railway carriage with great tears unconsciously rolling over her face. He saw her safe to her sister's door, and there he left her, anxious not to increase her difficulties, but determined to be at hand should she require help.
"Here is my address," he said, as he gave it to her. "At any moment I am ready to serve you, and I trust and hope you will not refuse me this one thing left for me to do—let me be of some use to you."
"Thank you," said Margaret, gratefully. "If I go for help to any one I will go to you." And as she left him her smile of perfect confidence went to his heart.
Grace could not understand her sister's wild rapture when she once more held her baby in her arms. "I nearly lost you, oh, my darling!" she heard her murmur, and she lavished endearments upon it; and she seemed to hear nothing, see nothing, but it.
"A round chubby-faced baby, with no particular anything to distinguish it from other babies," was Grace's way of putting it.
Margaret had sustained so severe a shock that she was neither pleased nor displeased when Mr. Lyons appeared again, ready and anxious to walk to the Limes to see her home, and to try and have leave to call upon her.
As they drew near the place, however, Mr. Drayton was on the step (with his servant) looking out for his wife.
He was horribly afraid she had gone, and now that he was himself again he could not remember what had passed. His servant could not or would not remind him of anything, and the vague feeling of fright at having said or done something terribly violent, filled him with dread. But all these remorseful feelings were swept away when he saw Mr. Paul Lyons as her escort, the nurse and baby bringing up the rear.
She turned abruptly when she came up to him, and, as he slammed the heavy gate behind the small party who entered, a thrill of fear passed through poor Margaret's heart.
She felt as though a prison door had closed upon her.
Alas! could she have looked forward and seen the real future lying before her, how far, far deeper had been her anguish—how agonized her feelings!
She went upstairs with her baby. She had seen her husband turn into his sitting-room down stairs, and she stayed till dinner was ready, then she met him.
He was silent and sullen during dinner, and she tried in vain to get him to speak.
It was a dismal meal. Margaret was tired by her unwonted exertions, and frightfully depressed by the news she had heard, and Mr. Drayton was jealous and miserable and full of plans of vindictive revenge, his wife's written opinion of him rankling in his heart.
Next day fresh complications arose. Grace sent her sister a note asking her if she could pay for the attendant and various luxuries she had had. "I don't think I told you that I had a violent tiff with old Sandford when I left him, so of course I cannot ask him for money. Will you send it to me to-day, please?"
Margaret had spent the very little she had in her yesterday's expedition; but she thought, though her husband would not have her sister in the house that he would not mind helping her. He had been generous enough when they were at Torbreck.
"Will you please give me a cheque?" she said to him when they met.
"What for?"
"I want to pay some things for my sister. You will not allow her to come here. She is not well enough to go back to Scotland. She wants the money."
"Does she?" he said. "Then she may want it! Not one single farthing of my money shall she have, that I swear!" and he thumped his hand down upon the table with violence.
"What am I to do?" asked his wife, in a tone of distress.
"What do I care? I feed and clothe you because you are my wife. I told you before I have not married your sister, and I will have nothing to do with her."
"I must go and see her, then, and make some arrangement for her," said Margaret, turning away.
"Not so fast," he said, while a laugh rang through the room that made her shiver again. "You do not go out again withoutme. I can tell you I am not going to allow a wretched stick of a fellow to run about with my wife any more—no, no!"
For one second, fear lest Sir Albert's escort should have been known to him—in itself so innocent, but perhaps she now thought imprudent—she coloured a little, and he noticed it, and it increased his rage.
"Mr. Lyons never shall have the pleasure of escorting you again," he said. "I will take care of that. Darby and Joan—Darby and Joan!" and another wild burst of laughter rang out.
Margaret left him to think over her next step, and to send Grace a few lines to account for her non-appearance. She resolved to write to Mrs. Dorriman, and to lay before her something of her sad position. The whole truth she could not bring herself to put down.
But time went on; she got no letter from Grace nor from Mrs. Dorriman. Her husband seemed to spend his whole time in watching her, and if she attempted to go out he was beside her. She appealed to the man-servant, but he told her he was only there to see that her husband did not go out alone, and did not drink, for nothing else; that he could not interfere. "I cannot aid and abet you, madam," he said; "itmaybe your sister, again it may not be, and if something comes of it, it will not look well forme."
Margaret's indignant young face quelled him, and he stopped short.
She was perfectly helpless. She could wander in the grounds, and see little of her husband. She could spend hours with her child, but she never could go out. She felt that this was indeed a prison, and she a prisoner!
She had not even the comfort of knowing that Grace had got her letters, since she received no answer; then she was terrified lest Grace should write and say something in her letter about Mr. Drayton.
She was utterly wretched about her; her nurse was a timid woman, and she had had one rebuff; she was afraid of altering her position towards her, and altogether the poor thing did not know what to do.
She was standing near the front door watching her baby go out into the garden when the front door bell rang violently, so loudly as to make her start. Before it could be opened the key had to be obtained from Mr. Drayton. When it was answered, Margaret, who had paused a little from curiosity, waited to see who could come to this sad and forlorn place.
To her amazement she saw Sir Albert Gerald. He saw her, and before any conventional denial could be given he sprang forward and greeted her joyfully.
She was so overwhelmed with joy now that a friendly face appeared that she forgot everything but that she saw before her one who would go for her to her sister. She clung to his hand and led him into the sitting-room, where her husband, with angry eyes, was watching her.
But he said nothing; he rose and gave his hand, and a new fear came upon Margaret. If Mr. Drayton could so control himself, was there not cunning present? She knew that he drank. Now she feared he was mad. A remembrance of her earliest instinct against him came to her, and she covered her face with her hands. She could not say a word to Sir Albert without his hearing it, and she felt so thankful to him for keeping Mr. Drayton in conversation; it gave her time to think.
Abruptly then, she spoke of her sister, and begged him to go and see her, to let her know how she was. "You are a friend," she said; "you will see if you can help her. I cannot go and see her just now, much as I long to do so!"
Tears came into her eyes; he was shocked and frightened for her. There was something sinister in Mr. Drayton's expression.
He stayed as long as he could, and then he left, promising to return; and he left Margaret happier because of his promise to see her sister.
Mr. Drayton began to move restlessly about the room after Sir Albert's departure, and came suddenly close up to his wife; looking at her with a malicious smile, he said, "You shallneverspeak to another man so long as I live!" Margaret did not answer, but she rang the bell, and left him muttering to himself vengeance upon her and her visitor.
Sir Albert, meanwhile, went to Grace's lodgings, to find her ill, nervous, and most anxious about poor Margaret. She had no comforts about her and no proper attendance; and seeing how really ill she was, and with poor Margaret full in his mind, he telegraphed to Mrs. Dorriman, and entreated her to lose no time, but to come south.
Next day he went to see Grace, and found her in one of her most excited moods, her eyes sparkling, her colour high.
She was at one moment making fun of everything, the next dwelling upon their own history.
She was full of remorse about Margaret. "It is so dreadful; I drove her to it—it is like a murder."
"I never understood it," Sir Albert said, in a low voice.
"Of course not. Poor darling! when he first proposed to her we were at Renton, and oh, it was hateful to me then, though I think it tolerable now; and I was wild to get away—anywhere from that smoky place. Poor Margaret refused him, and told me about it.... You will see why I am so heart-broken now. I was disappointed. I was so selfish, and I thought she might have done it."
"Is that when——"
"Now, do not interrupt me," she said, struggling to speak in a light tone, though her heart was heavy. "I am just like a clock, I can go on when I am wound up, and if I am put back I strike all wrong."
"I will not interrupt you—but," he said, colouring, "would your sister wish me to hear all this—think only of her—if she disliked it?"
"I am not thinking or talking of her, except with reference to my part of the story," said Grace, pettishly.
"Well, we went to Lornbay, I daresay you remember the place well, as you were laid-up there. Well, Margaret had another lover there" (she did not see him start), "and this long, lanky, would-be fast youth also wished to marry my Margaret, and, of course, she said, No; and I was not at all annoyed," she continued, naïvely, "for he had not a sixpence.
"Well—you see I begin all my sentences with that useful word—but it was anything but well now. We went off to a most detestable little village called Torbreck, and there I stupidly caught cold and coughed. I never heard of any one who coughed as I did. Then Mr. Drayton found us out, and I forget exactly what he did, but he gave us ever so many things, and grapes; and how I thanked him. Then he again wanted to marry Margaret. "Oh!" she exclaimed, the tears running down her face, "I never, never can forget one night." She came and knelt beside my bed, and she asked me if this sacrifice would really be what I wished; she said it would be giving her life, and that it was worse for her now than it had been before she had been at Lornbay. Sir Albert, do not turn away from me now. You cannot hate my deed worse than I do—you cannot have a lower opinion of me than I have of myself. I excited myself, and I bid her "do it!" and Grace lay back in her chair utterly exhausted."
What could the young man say? The deed was done and nothing could undo it. The utter selfishness of Grace's conduct could find no excuse; he tried to master his emotion; he could only succeed in saying in a broken voice something about God's forgiveness.
But Grace was past all the anguish of seeing this horror in his face. She had exerted herself to tell him the story, and put Margaret right in his eyes; and she had given way to exhaustion, and was deaf and blind to all that passed round her—for the time.
He stayed a little while, and left her, shocked at the violence of his own feeling against her.
The image of his poor childish love—kneeling beside the bedside of the sister she adored, who sacrificed her remorselessly—for what? A few luxuries.
It was absolutely terrible to think of, and he forgot to take into account the feebleness of health that might have impaired judgment. He waited in London till he thought Mrs. Dorriman had time to answer, whence for fear of any mistakes he had dated his telegram. Her answer came, and was not fully satisfactory.My brother is very ill, and I cannot leave him, but I send my maid Jean.
He went again to Grace's lodgings, and he told the landlady that an old family servant was on her way. Then he tried to think how best to convey this news to Margaret.
He felt that his having been admitted was a chance, and he was afraid of making things worse for her by going there too often; but he must risk something, she must know in some way about her sister, she must have her mind set at rest.
Unable to make up his mind he was wandering about when he was attracted by a curious-looking book in a bookseller's shop. It was something more than a shop, for he read there that it was no less a place than the office of the "Industrious Workman," a paper he knew by name.
He went in to ask the price of the book, and the intelligent little man, who was tearfully reading a poem, put it down to attend to him, saying as he did so, "I beg pardon for being so absorbed, but I have something very lovely here;" and handing him the paper Sir Albert recognised in the neatly-written lines—Margaret's handwriting.
When Margaret left Renton Place, and that Grace had seen her off, the first real sense of having been to blame came to disturb her mind. That intense belief in herself which, as a rule, shielded her from uncomfortable feelings, deserted her now; she tried to argue herself into some more cheerful vein, but found it hopeless. Was it that she was weaker, and that her illness had shaken her nerves? When night fell and the household slept, memory came to confront her. Her selfishness filled her with remorse; how many things she could look back upon now, when Margaret, her sweetness, and her devotion never failing, had been counted as so little, tested by her own all-absorbing love of having her own way?
After all, how petty a thing she had urged her sacrifice for, and how easily the self-will that had in the end been obliged to give in might have done so before, and saved her!
A recognition, dim as yet, came to her of the beauty of her sister's character. How far apart they stood in feeling! How Margaret insisted on not only truth, but the highest expression of truth, as the only thing she cared for.
Tears chased each other down her face, and each morning found her pale and unrefreshed.
Want of sleep and the incessant torment of a newly awakened conscience made Grace unusually irritable, her gay spirits were fitful, and, indeed, were only used as a mask to hide the perpetual pain she had to bear, a pain so far, far, more agonizing than any bodily pain.
Mr. Sandford—who was, himself, out of health—had no affection to enable him to support her provoking ways.
He was terribly annoyed and concerned about Margaret, he was upset and mortified by other things.
It was impossible for Mr. Drayton to have lost, as he had lost, without the fact being known far and wide, and Mr. Sandford's share was universally condemned. He was accused openly of having made a cat's-paw of the man whose genial laugh and careless ways had gained him the epithet of a "good fellow" from men who had neither suffered through him or known his counter-balancing want of attraction.
Mr. Sandford knew that had he not been a fool and a timid fool, just when he ought to have been bold, he would not have lost, but there was just that grain of truth in the accusation which made it sting.
The reputation of a man in business—who has not the root of honesty where honesty must be asine quâ non—if respect is to be given; is like graceful species of fir trees to be found on Scottish hills and in many a wood, where, instead of sending their roots well down into the earth, as do the other kinds, they spread close to the surface, and the first rough wind throws them over and exposes the shallow hold they have of mother earth. Mr. Sandford's name, once holding so high a place, began to be mentioned with a little reticence. A shake of the head or a shrug of the shoulders says a good deal, though it cannot be repeated. It has weight; gestures are often remembered when words, especially vague words, are forgotten.
Once a little beginning is made how easy is it to go on! People began again to remember that there was a great deal about poor Mr. Dorriman's affairs that had never been properly understood.
This feeling made itself felt. The first time Mr. Sandford wanted to carry through some measure with his usual heavy hand, the members of the Company, of which he was chairman, demurred. No one accused him openly, but there were certain things insinuated.
His quick sense of any failing towards himself made him instantly grasp the position of matters; and, though he mastered himself sufficiently to show no outward sign, he went home with rage in his heart, all the more terrible that it had had no outlet. It was at this inopportune time that Grace provoked him.
Mrs. Dorriman, in vain, tried to counsel the wilful girl, in private. She heard her unmoved. Day after day there were scenes, in which her provoking words stung him.
"Why should I not say what I think, my dear Mrs. Dorriman? I really cannot hold my tongue."
"I do not believe you are saying what you think. You speak on purpose to provoke my brother."
"And why should he not be provoked? Life gives me a great many trials. I should, myself, prefer another home; but if I am obliged to live here I am not going to speak or be silent according to Mr. Sandford's wishes, and I do not intend being a hypocrite."
"No one wishes you to be a hypocrite, but you need not say what you have to say disagreeably. You always make him angry, not so much by your words but by the way you speak the words."
"Mr. Sandford is a tyrant, and the more you give in to him the less you are likely to get. I hope I may never live to be as frightened and timid as you are!"
"I am not too timid to say what I think, if it is right to say it."
"Yes, you are! you look frightened, and that is enough for a man like your brother. Now I cannot really look frightened, because a man in a rage is to me a ridiculous object. It amuses me."
"I cannot help saying you have had one lesson! You once provoked my brother in such a way that you and Margaret went away, and poor Margaret has now to suffer; you might see that you do harm and not good;" and Mrs. Dorriman felt so angry she did not measure her words. "You do not suffer, but she does, and but for you, but for your way of speaking to my brother, she would be safe with us, poor child!"
She had effectually stopped her for the moment, and, herself moved by this statement in words of thoughts often present to her, she rose and left the room.
She had said nothing that Grace had not remorsefully said to herself, but the very truth in her speech made her angry.
She heard Mr. Sandford's voice. He was calling his sister's name. He met her on the stairs in tears.
She passed him quickly, and indignant, and in a mood full of irritability, he strode into the drawing-room to Grace.
"I will have you know," he said in his angriest and loudest voice, "that I will not allow you to bully my sister."
"No," said Grace, languidly, "you like to monopolise that privilege!"
"How dare you speak to me in that way?"
"I dare speak in any way to you. Why are you to be always studied? and why is every one to treat you as though you were a being of another sphere? You do bully your sister, and you would bully me if I were to be in the very least afraid of you. But I am not. Your sister has been trying to make me see that you ought to be humoured—she drew an affecting picture and then wept over it."
He was white now, pale with rage.
"What do you know about my conduct to my sister? There is no one I more respect."
"Well, you have the oddest way of showing it I ever knew," and Grace made a provoking gesture of astonishment, and gave a laugh of derision.
This completely exhausted Mr. Sandford's very slight stock of patience. He went into a most fearful rage and said things that made Grace shiver. Pale in her turn she left the room, and for a second time left his house in anger.
She left without her things, wrapping herself up in her cloak, and resolved to go to her sister, and not to make a sign. She was quite, quite sure Mr. Drayton would receive her at any rate for a time, and she must make some new arrangement. Return here she never would.
Mrs. Dorriman heard the loud voice, and as soon as she had recovered her composure she hurried to the scene of action, to find Mr. Sandford ill, as he always was when passion got the mastery of him.
In her anxiety about him Grace was forgotten, and it was not till dinner-time that her departure was discovered, and poor Mrs. Dorriman felt as though troubles were indeed her portion.
Mr. Sandford did not rally as he usually did, and she on her own responsibility sent for the doctor.
He came and administered remedies. Then he told her privately that her brother had a serious complaint, and that agitation would one day be fatal to him.
"You must keep him quiet; he really must not be either worried or disturbed about anything," said the doctor, not unkindly, but anxious professionally, and determined to insist on his patient's having the only chance of living.
"If I can keep him quiet!" began poor Mrs. Dorriman, "but nothing I can do is of any use. Oh! indeed it is not my fault."
"Of course I do not mean to say it is," he answered hastily, "but I merely give you warning. This attack has been brought on by some violent emotion, and a repetition of it,anymental excitement, will put an end to his life."
Mrs. Dorriman went to his side when the doctor had gone, a whole world of remorse and pain in her heart.
She had been several months with him now, and, though she had never really forgotten the unspoken suspicion, it had been put into a remote corner of her memory. As she looked upon him and marked the careworn face and look of struggle his attack had left, she had a sense of having been treacherous towards him. What did it really matter? Supposing those papers contained some proof against him, would it be of any use confronting him with them?
She was conscious of two things—that the whole attitude of her mind had changed towards him, and that it had also altered towards her husband.
The various scenes she had gone through at Renton had had the effect of turning her thoughts gratefully towards the affection and the peace she had had with her husband.
She began to think of him more tenderly, and to see other possible conclusions than those she had arrived at.
This awakened tenderness, which could never comfort him now, made her feel as though, if she did read those papers, she would see nothing against her husband, and this conviction took a heavy load off her mind. Then came the other part of the problem—If her husband had been blameless what was her brother?
All the long years of neglect at school, all the harshness with which he had treated her in former years, seemed to have faded now, she had softened to him so much, and now as he slowly recovered she acknowledged this.
It was just when she had recognised him as her first duty now that the telegram imploring her, to go at once to Grace was put into her hand.
She was distressed beyond measure, but she could not do it, she could not agitate or annoy him now. Shecouldnot leave him.
It was indeed hard to her to send Jean from her but she had no confidence in other help, and she had the strongest feeling of a neglected duty if she now gave up helping the wayward girl.
Jean went unwilling. She had never been out of Scotland, and looked upon London as a sink of iniquity. She had some misgivings about her journey, and she went off with an idea fixed in her head that she was to be always upon her guard against plausible pick-pockets, extortionate cabmen, and civilities which might mean robbery in the end.
She pinned Grace's address inside her dress, concealed her purse there, and was put into the train by Robert, who gave the guard charge of her, very much to her own indignation, "as though I was a little parcel," she said to herself.
She was in a second-class carriage and met with a few adventures; she was so "stand-off" to the two or three strangers who got in or out that they thought her a most disagreeable old woman, but Jean was only on her guard.
When they changed carriages and Jean was once more seated, a young woman passed and re-passed and finally got into the carriage and sat down opposite to her. She was very fair and had a lovely pink colour in her cheeks. She fidgeted a good deal, got up and shook her dress, and finally said, in accents of dismay,
"Oh, what shall I do? I have lost my ticket and I have no money with me!"
Jean, who was alone in the carriage, eyed her attentively but spoke not a word.
The young woman began to cry.
"Help me!" she said; "help me! I am alone and friendless!"
Jean still said nothing; she noticed that as they stopped at a station her sobs subsided and that she drew back into a corner and avoided observation. This roused her suspicions, and, when they started again, the person, hitherto in such despair, began to grow not a little impertinent.
"I wonder if people pay by weight in this train?" she said, airily, determined to unlock the silent lips of the stout and much wrapped-up figure in front of her.
This taunt about her size did rouse Jean.
"If you'vepaidfor your ticket you probably know," she said, in her best English, and extremely indignant.
This answer completely extinguished all wish for conversation on the part of her opposite neighbour, but she still fidgeted about, trying first one seat and then another, and, sitting down beside Jean, she fumbled about and pressed against her, altogether making herself most objectionable.
The journey came to an end; the ticket-collector came to the door and Jean put her hand in her pocket—her purse was safe, luckily, in the front of her dress—the ticket was gone! Greatly to her surprise the young woman immediately produced one.
Jean hunted in vain, her ticket was nowhere to be found, and her dismay was great. She had a confused notion that she was in some way breaking the law, and, though outwardly she kept calm, she was in a most fearful state really, and she did not know what to do.
The guard fortunately came up to see what the stoppage was, and was accompanied by a policeman.
"What was the matter?" he asked.
Before Jean could answer, the policeman stretched out his hand and touched the young woman, who had been vainly trying to get out. She turned pale—through what Jean now saw was paint.
"You are wanted," and, turning to Jean, he said, "has she taken anything of yours, ma'am?"
Looking at the ticket the guard laughed and answered,
"She has taken your ticket, old lady. 'From Renton to London.' She only got in an hour ago."
Poor Jean! all her life long she will believe in policemen from henceforward. Indeed, when she went from St. Pancras to the station for Wandsworth she refused to pay her cab till the policeman standing near told her what the fare was, amusing the bystanders not a little by her determined attitude and the suspicious look she gave the cabman.
When she reached Grace, her fatigue, her adventures, everything gave way to compassion. For Grace was very ill, and needed good nursing and care, and, to poor Jean's eyes, the lodging and all belonging to it was not fit for any Christian, certainly not for a Scotchwoman.
She wondered a good deal that Margaret never came near her sister, and made up her mind to go and look her up: Mrs. Dorriman had charged her to be a mother to both bairns, and she fully intended keeping her promise.
In the meantime Margaret's little poem had been published, and she had received three golden sovereigns for her work. She knew so little of the value of literary work that she was not in the very least surprised; she felt only the deepest thankfulness that, if she had a gift, she could turn it to account for her beloved sister.
Her poem was very touching, full of the faults of one whose education had never been extensive, but when she saw it in print she noticed a few alterations she considered improvements, and took for granted that these alterations were made as a matter of course by the editor. This was evidently the use of having an editor. Then she began calculating how many of these poems she could write in a week. Say she wrote four. Why there was at once twelve guineas a week; a livelihood, a large income! Why, oh why, had she not thought of this before?
The impressions of her mind flowed naturally into rhyme. There was great beauty of thought, though much sameness in its delivery on paper. Her reading with Mrs. Dorriman had not been thrown away, and she began to be able to concentrate her thoughts on her work. The happiness of her life which she had missed, set all to a minor key, but it made her poems more beautiful. To touch the feelings of others, to appeal to their hearts, there must be reality, and reality only can exist from personal experience.
Sometimes the extraordinary dreariness of her life appalled her. To rise day after day, knowing that a secret dread of a possible tragedy, enacted in her house, pursued her; to see no one, to go nowhere, since she was not allowed to cross the threshold. She had no idea that these facts, told to any one, would have immediately brought her release, and that any one, knowing what her life was, would have formed a juster conclusion of the state her husband was in.
But the fear of having to leave, and to be parted from her child, made all else nothing to her, and when she met her husband, he hardly spoke to her. She never saw him without his servant being present, and she could not bear appealing to her husband before him. She could not bear discussing her sister's illness in his hearing.
Every possible opportunity she tried to get that key of the front door, or permission to go out, but each time was met by peals of laughter, ofsenselesslaughter, and refusal.
Her husband's last idea was the most frantic jealousy of the doctor, who had been a little won over by Mrs. Drayton's youth and grace and charm of manner.
Before him Mr. Drayton was always perfectly quiet, and even well-bred, a little sullen, which was, the doctor thought, natural since he must resent the deprivation of any stimulants; but he was satisfied from his observations that he was really kept from them, and saw nothing to point suspicion in another direction.
He regretted never seeing the young wife now, and expressed his regret to Mr. Drayton.
He was surprised to see an angry flush rise in his face, but concluded that perhaps there had been some conjugal difference, and that she did not choose to appear.
When Margaret first contrived to send her little poem to good Mr. Skidd, the editor of the "Industrious Workman," she had done it through her nurse, who had grown warmly attached to her mistress. She was quite young—this was her first place, and she came to the conclusion that if this was the life led by rich people, the poor had many more pleasures.
Margaret read her poem to her, which she but vaguely took in, and she also read her the note she wrote to the editor.
She had no knowledge of him except that at first the doctor had told her she could get books there, when she had asked him, he had also spoken highly of him as a cultivated and intellectual man, who had done a great deal towards spreading wholesome cheap literature, and that he edited a weekly paper of much merit.
Her idea, now, was to write something longer and more important. She had two great incentives to write: she had that something to say, without which all writing falls so flat; and she wished to get money for her sister.
Mr. Skidd received her proposal to write a book of poetry with some amusement.
The unknown gentleman who brought out her little poems at his own expense, after they had appeared in the paper, and who received for her the few shillings Mr. Skidd considered them worth, might not stretch his generosity so far as to embark in a larger book—but he would see. He spoke, therefore, rather vaguely to the young woman who came as messenger, so vaguely that Margaret imagined shemusttry, in some way, and have an interview with the man herself.
But how to accomplish this? True, there was a back door, but she could not bear going out through the connivance of the servant, who was cook and who was a disagreeable woman at all times. Fortune favoured her, however, in a few days. She was walking in the garden one afternoon with her nurse and baby when some one came to the front door with a message, which caused the grumpy man-servant to go into the house for a few seconds. Quick as thought, Margaret slipped out of her prison, and hurried along the road.
She was dizzy with excitement and the sense of freedom—to see Grace—and to arrange about her book.
Her face was glowing as she moved along. She must first see Grace, and then hurry on to do her business.
When she reached Grace's lodgings she was met by a homelike, kindly face; and Jean, forgetting everything but that she had a hard life of it, took her to her arms as though she had been a bairn of her own.
Margaret's tears were never very near the surface, but she had lived a life so unnatural and so repressed, she had been so entirely without kindness or sympathy for so long, that she broke down now, and sobbed upon good, honest, Jean's broad shoulder, sensible only of the sweetness and comfort of the relief.
"My poor bairn, my poor bairn!" Jean kept on saying, and then, recollecting that she ought not to allow her to give way, she said, "but you'll no be fit to see Miss Grace, and you just a blurred objick," and this reflection also stopped Margaret's tears and caused her to lift up her head and try to compose herself.
"How is my sister? How is Grace, dear Jean?"
"She's no just fit to dance the houlachan," said Jean, gaily, who had her own private way of pronouncing most words, "but she's not that bad. Eh, my dear, come and see her; she's been wearying for you, sair, sair."
Margaret went upstairs, and in another moment the sisters were once more together.
Grace was lying on the sofa, and Margaret found her looking better than she expected. She was a softened edition of the old Grace, still fitful, capricious, but full of tenderness for her sister, whose life she had so completely spoiled.
"Why, darling, have you never been here before?" she asked; "I have sent you so many notes and have had such scanty answers. You never tell me of yourself; you never tell me what I want to know."
"I have so little to say of myself. My husband has been ill, and, since his illness, he cannot bear my going out, and I came to-day because I could slip away."
"But tell me one thing, darling, only one. Why stay with him? Why not leave him?"
"Because of baby; I cannot desert my little one, Grace: and if I left him merely because he is unkind and allows me no liberty and is 'odd,' he would have the right to keep baby, not I, its mother."
"Then if that is the law it is abominable!" exclaimed Grace.
"I think itisterrible," said Margaret; "even if he was cruel, if he struck me, if he were in other ways infamous, I might leave him; I should be free; but even then it is doubtful if I might have my child."
"And we boast of English justice!" exclaimed Grace.
"It is cruelly unjust," said Margaret. "Oh darling, how often we have laughed at women wanting their 'rights,' and made fun of those who made a stir about having votes: but this one thing, this one frightful injustice, makes me feel that women should, in some way, be able to make their great needs felt; surely a mother should have equal rights with the father, and have something to say in a child's destiny!"
"And we have to submit, and I,Ihave brought you into this position!" and Grace burst into tears.
Jean hurried into the room.
"Bairns, my dear bairns, whist, for any sake. You'll make me feel I did wrong in leaving the two of you together."
"We were talking of an unjust law," said Margaret; "we were talking of my child, Jean, and thatifI ever left my husband, he would have it probably, and not me."
"It's a man made that law," said Jean, "and it's a real cruel one and not Christian. I never had any opinion of men, they're just poor creatures all round, poor selfish creatures—except, maybe, the police," she added, with a sense of ingratitude for the way in which a policeman had helped her in her hour of need.
"Tell me of your baby, Margaret," said Grace, turning with real interest to her sister; "it is more than a year old now, is it not?"
"My little darling is a year and almost three months old, in five days now it will be fifteen months old. It can run about, and calls me so prettily. Oh, darling, I wish, I wish it were with me at this moment. I feel so anxious if I am away from it; only once before, since its birth, have I been away."
"And does that man shut you up, darling? Do you mean to say that those smoky trees and that walled-in place, looking like a prison, is all you have? Oh, your life is one long trial!"
Margaret did not speak; her life was so utterly wretched, so utterly devoid of hope, that she could not speak of it.
"I have baby," she said, softly, "and, Gracie, dearest, when one is very wretched God is very near."
The sisters parted with all the anguish of a vagueness about their next meeting, which filled them both with a sense of having nothing to look forward to, and Margaret tore herself away and hurried into Mr. Skidd's presence.
Mrs. Dorriman had boldly authorised Jean to look to Mr. Sandford for all expenses, so that she no longer cared about the money so much.
But this lessened sense of requirement did not in any way make her gratitude to the editor for his kindness, less. With no real knowledge to guide her she did not know that everything must bear the test of criticism, and that it would have been false kindness to encourage her to write without any merit in sight.
But Mr. Skidd had discovered real merit in all Margaret did; there was the impress of truth, and no fictitious feeling. The cry was the cry of a starved, human soul pining for sympathy and an outlet, under a life of great misery and repression, haunted by a never-ending fear.
He was so amazed when Margaret stood before him—at her youth and the graceful way she expressed her thanks, that he was dumb before her.
Next a vivid colour blushed over his bald head, for he remembered that he stood in his shirt-sleeves.
He was too honest a man to accept her thanks for more than he had done, and he puzzled her considerably by his allusion to the great appreciation of a gentleman from London.
"But you published my little poem," she asked, not a little perplexed by his statements.
"Certainly, madam! In the first instance I did, but this gentleman, a literary gentleman, happened to call the very day I was reading your first poem, and he liked it, and he brought it out afterwards and took charge of the trifle I sent you for it; I hope that was all right and that you received it. I hold his receipt, and I imagined he was authorised by you."
"Oh, thank you! Yes. I got the money all right," said Margaret, much bewildered, and wondering who this could have been.
She found also that Mr. Skidd could not promise anything about her poem in an enlarged form till he had seen it, and had time to consult this mysterious friend, who by his account appreciated her short poems so much.
It was delightful to think she might have a larger audience and command a public who might be equally appreciative. Mr. Skidd began to discuss her poetry with her, and he gave her many useful hints.
"The fault of your poetry, madam, is that it wants variety. People get tired of perpetual sorrow and all that sort of thing. You write very prettily. Give us something cheerful, make the birds twitter and the sun shine, cultivate brightness, people do not like always being in mourning."
"But if I am not happy I cannot write what I do not feel," objected Margaret.
"Oh, yes you can; you get the trick of the thing and you will easily do it."
Margaret knew this to be impossible, but before she had time to repeat her negative a well-remembered face came before her, and Sir Albert Gerald, filled with happiness at meeting her so unexpectedly, came up with an outstretched hand. Mr. Skidd was immensely annoyed.
"And you make believe not to know who buys your poem," he exclaimed; "I call that humbug—and you," he said sharply, turning to Sir Albert, "why could you not be open about it?"
"But didyoubuy my poems? Are you the literary man from whose appreciation I have received so much encouragement?" and Margaret, mortified and disappointed, turned to go away.
At any ratesheknew nothing, and Mr. Skidd was ashamed of the momentary suspicion that had filled him.
"No, this lady was acting on the square; as for the man...."
The little man felt as he looked at them that a whole drama was being played out before his eyes, the air was full of some secret thing in connection with these two.
Sir Albert, deferential and respectful, was evidently quite absorbed in the tall, graceful figure before him, who stood cold and apparently determined to show no satisfaction in his presence.
Mr. Skidd was a good judge of character.
"I'll be bound there is no harm inher," he said, and so saying left them to themselves.