Mrs. Dorriman Volume Ii Part 20

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 did _you_ buy 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 rate _she_ knew 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 in _her_," he said, and so saying left them to themselves.

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 a.s.sure 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 cla.s.s 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 grat.i.tude 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 grat.i.tude 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 att.i.tude 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.