Mrs. Dorriman Volume Iii Part 15

"It is a grief to me," she said, gently, "that you never saw my child. I should like to tell of it, if my speaking of it does not trouble you."

"Oh! my dear," said Mrs. Dorriman, and her voice trembled a little. "Is it wise for you?"

"It is wise," answered Margaret. "I often wish I had a friend near me to whom I could sometimes speak of it--it hurts me to feel that it is not to be mentioned before me, while I feel it still so near me."

Mrs. Dorriman, her anxiety checked about giving Margaret pain, could only answer by a tighter grasp of the arm she clung to.

"Yes, at first it was very dreadful to me. Now at times tears still come, but I am beginning to think of it as waiting for me, not as lying here and leaving me childless and alone. It was very fair, auntie, and had winning ways...." She stopped for a moment and went on in the subdued voice which was her characteristic. "At first I was so selfish and I prayed for death, I, who have still much to do."

"You have seen much illness lately?"

"I have seen many terrible things," she answered, earnestly. "I have seen troubles and trials that dwarf mine; I try to help; it is a great blessing to be able to help. When I stroke the little faded cheek of another child I still think of mine, for I am still selfish in my grief; but the joy of seeing a child recover kills the selfishness, and I begin more to do things for G.o.d's sake and theirs, than for the sweet little face always present to me. I am happier since I have learned how to make others happy!"

She paused, folding her hands, and looking to Mrs. Dorriman like some fair saint, with her unclouded eyes and the sweet folded lips that were both grave and tender.

"Here there is poverty, sickness, and often sorrow," said Mrs. Dorriman; "but somehow, with these surroundings, poverty does not seem so grim."

"Here there are springs of water, fresh air and _this_," said Margaret, pointing to the river; "but in London, water is taxed even to the very poor, the very kindling of their fires is a difficulty. Here the people have at any rate kindling," and she added, pointing to a woman in the distance, who was carrying a bundle of furze,

"And peat for the cutting; and yet the ambition of many is to leave the country and flock to the towns."

"The sound of higher wages is tempting, but what I hope to live to see one day is the middle-man done away with."

"The middle-man!" exclaimed Mrs. Dorriman; "I do not understand you, my dear."

"I mean those who pay the manufacturer so little that he often cannot raise wages, or do what he would like to do, and who grasp from the rich as well; and the working cla.s.s I think of do not understand the question, and not understanding are unjust. They blame the rich, but the rich are not to blame; they pay often a hundred per cent. where the workman does not get ten. It is the middle-man who grows rich grasping on either side, and who spend their money in eating and drinking. They help no art or science, and they are indignant if they are appealed to for charitable aid. You do not know how bad it is!" and Margaret's cheek flushed with her earnest, almost pa.s.sionate, speech.

"I never thought of it before," said Mrs. Dorriman, "and now I do not quite understand. Shopkeepers have to pay high rents and rates and things."

"Oh, I do not mean the better cla.s.s of shopkeepers," said Margaret, "and I am talking of small shops I know about in London where coals are sold by the pound and tea in ounces, and those places where shirts are made, literally _made_, for twopence. It is this misery that should be attacked, these things should be made impossible!"

"Why can it not be done?" said Mrs. Dorriman.

"Because ours is such a free country that interference is not often possible. Oh, there is so much to put right it does not bear thinking about," and the two turned up the river-side and home.

CHAPTER VI.

Grace was much too excited to feel keenly the parting with Margaret; indeed, the gravity of her young sister, while, of course, to be accounted for, she felt altogether as a drag upon her energies.

Like other girls of her peculiarly thoughtless nature she hated having to think of anything that was not what she considered cheerful; and she had not the power of throwing herself into the sorrows of any one, even of a sister, whose one fault it was, that she had allowed her clear instincts to be obscured and darkened by her pa.s.sionate love for Grace, and her wish to give what she thought her very life depended upon at that moment.

Accustomed to be considered, it was new to her to find that she had twice to change her place to suit Lady Lyons, who was one of the women who imagine that, whatever happens to belong to another, from a husband to a corner in a railway-carriage, must be superior to anything they have themselves.

Grace was good-humoured, and changed her seat cheerfully, although she felt the difference. Margaret would have borne any discomfort rather than disturb her. But the thought that she was going to join the world in London and form one of the giddy throng was too enchanting to her not to support her under any surprises--she was so determined to be happy.

She was surprised beyond measure that Margaret's marriage should have left her the winner in the race; but it was satisfactory that, as she cared for money and Margaret did not, she should have it, and Margaret would soon forget that horrible man, who was, however, not all horrible, since he had done this.

"Pray see about your luggage, Miss Rivers," said Lady Lyons, very languidly, when they arrived at the station.

"Surely your maid can do that," said Grace, with a little toss of her head.

"How can she possibly know your luggage when she has never seen it?"

asked Lady Lyons, fretfully, but not without a show of reason.

"Maids should have instincts," said Grace, as she sailed along the platform to point out her boxes.

This difficulty overcome they got into a cab, the maid following in another. But, as Lady Lyons was always afraid of being cold, she took a bearskin of some standing, a roll of rugs, and a bottle of lavender-water. She gave the man unnecessarily minute directions, and pulled up her window. It was the last days of a hot June.

Grace let her window down with a bang that very nearly shivered it to atoms.

"My _dear_ Miss Rivers, pray put up the window. I have such a languid circulation, and I am ordered by my medical men to be careful about draughts."

"There really cannot be a draught when one window is hermetically closed," said Grace very coolly; "be as stuffy as you like on your side of the carriage, but I must have fresh air."

Lady Lyons was a little daunted, and said nothing. In a moment or two she began to cough, a short cough improvised for the occasion. Grace took no notice.

"If I am very ill you will have to send to Wandsworth for Mr. Jones,"

she said, at length.

"Why should you be ill? Fresh air is what you want, Lady Lyons. You are coughing on purpose."

"My _dear_ Miss Rivers."

"Wait till you hear me cough; then you will know a real cough when you hear one," said Grace laughing and putting up a little bit of window.

She did not want to quarrel with Lady Lyons, but she did intend to a.s.sert her independence from the first.

They went to a private hotel, where again Grace interfered. She would have nothing but the best rooms, and all the little arrangements put forward in an economical form by poor Lady Lyons were ruthlessly swept upon one side.

"I did not come here to economise," said Grace, with a grand air, as they took the rooms in Brook Street.

For the first few days Grace was content, and more than content. She did not care about being seen till she was what she called properly dressed, and she certainly knew what she wanted, and got it, as people usually do when they have the command of money.

Then came the grand question of society, and poor Lady Lyons was completely at a standstill.

"Surely you know a few people, Lady Lyons; some one to make a beginning?"

Lady Lyons reflected.

"I have been out of it so long," she murmured; "yes, there is a very kind friend; I wonder if she is in London?"

"Let us find out," said Grace, ringing for the book, and turning over the leaves rapidly. "What is her name?"

"I--I think it begins with a P," said Lady Lyons; "but, dear me, it is so stupid of me. I cannot remember her name at this moment."

"Your kind friend and you have evidently not been corresponding lately,"