Mrs. Dorriman Volume I Part 20

Grace began to respect Mrs. Dorriman when they changed stations, and she saw the quiet practical way in which everything was arranged. Then they sped on their way along the banks of the Clyde, and an exclamation burst from Margaret's lips. Mrs. Dorriman's eyes were moist. The sea came in sight where the river widened; the evening light was falling over it all touching with a golden gleam the ripple of the water. Some yachts were lying at anchor. Away to the South rose faint blue hills as on the West. Even Grace, too much self-absorbed as a rule to be pa.s.sionately alive to natural beauty, felt it all, as she had never in all her life felt any scenery before. The movement and life all framed in this exquisite scene thrilled her. She forgot herself, her hopes, her ambitions, and all else, and, unconsciously holding Margaret's hand, she found herself giving back an answering and a sympathetic clasp.

The bustle of arrival came as a break to the high-strung feelings of Mrs. Dorriman. She had not been to this place since the days of her girlhood; when her father had gone for change and she had accompanied him. Can any one look at the scenes of their youth and compare the still-remembered visions of those days with the blank reality of their lives? All seems unchanged, everything seems to have stood still. We remember the gnarled trunk of that tree, its very boughs seem hardly to have lost a twig; the same wild flowers grow under and around the great grey stones, where so often we gathered them, with supple limbs that sprang across the burn as lightly as any roedeer. Now we stoop stiffly, our suppleness is gone from us, and we are afraid of even the stepping-stones; they are still there, but we are woefully changed. Mrs.

Dorriman was not old enough for so painful a contrast, and her activity was still stirring her to action, but the elasticity of her spirit was gone. She could still feel things keenly, but her powers of enjoyment had gone; she feared more than she hoped, she had lost the freshness of her feelings; she was saddened and subdued, the habit of her mind was depression, she expected evil and not good. Nothing for so long had come to her in the way of pleasure, that she had ceased to think happiness could come to her at all, and she drifted on in her life without any aim, only trying to do what was right. Even heaven seemed to her a vague and far-away dream, which was not to her a positive joy because of that uncomfortable distaste we have alluded to about her husband's perpetual companions.h.i.+p.

But when their informal but comfortable meal was over and they had separated for the night she stood long looking down on the moving lights upon the water; the black hulls of the larger s.h.i.+ps sent dark shadows in vivid contrast to the moonlight rays, the boats flying about with their twinkling lights; the splash of oars came up to her in the stillness; every now and again a hoa.r.s.e cry rang out as boats hailed each other, s.n.a.t.c.hes of song came up on the light wind that fanned her face. She could hear the cheerful unrestrained laughter ringing out. Over all, the moon shone down resplendent, and the soft wind, hurrying from the south, was warm and pure, tasting of the sea over which it had come so many many miles.

It was one of those times in her life when her whole nature protested against unhappiness. She understood but vaguely (we generally do understand it vaguely) what would give her happiness, but she craved for a higher and a fuller life; the perpetual repression, the subjection of her very ideas to a stronger mind, chafed her, and as she clasped her hands the thought that at the moment comforted her was that here she could have freedom--here it would be more like home.

How long she stood there! The lights went out as the boats came in-sh.o.r.e, the sounds died away, the feeling of being free seemed to show her all at once how much she really feared her brother, and then slowly rose before her once more the thought of those papers.

This problem always filled her with pain, the same dread of still further learning to distrust her husband, the same irresolution came over her, she turned round quickly and shut the window, shutting away that painful remembrance with a resolute determination not to think of it just now, and putting it away from her with all her power. Even as she prayed she was conscious of that something she would not think of, as a secret sin may be covered up and concealed in a corner of our mind (knowing that it is seen) and pa.s.sed over, while we confess every other.

The morning broke exquisitely fine, light clouds enhanced the suns.h.i.+ne.

The girls, with few regrets in their past lives, came to breakfast with "s.h.i.+ning morning faces" full of the happiness of a delightful change and all the pleasantest expectations of what the world held for them there.

Grace was radiant; Margaret's more composed face reflected her sister's expression. They went out, hurrying Mrs. Dorriman's slower movements with a naturalness and impatience she did not dislike as they seemed so near her; and they looked about them with the full enjoyment of girls who had never seen anything of life, except in the serried ranks of schoolgirl's fas.h.i.+on, and who now stopped to look at every shop window in the long street running round the bay, alternating this close attention by watching the boats, upon the other hand, glide to and fro.

Mrs. Dorriman was very nearly as much taken up as they were, and entered fully into their pleasure. She was not superior to the charms of caps, which she wore with a mental protest, having great quant.i.ties of hair, but which she thought frightful, and which, she was always trying to improve upon.

They had just turned away from an array of these necessary evils when she noticed a lady coming towards them leaning on the arm of a very tall young man. She was walking very slowly, and evidently was using his arm from no conventional sense, but as really requiring it.

As she drew nearer she fixed her eyes inquiringly on Mrs. Dorriman's face, made a hurried pause--moved on--turned back, and said in a voice of inquiry, "Annie Sandford?"

"Lady Lyons! Yes--I was Annie Sandford--I am Mrs. Dorriman."

"And these?" inquired Lady Lyons, turning with languid grace to Grace and Margaret.

"Miss Rivers and her sister," said Mrs. Dorriman, who never knew exactly how to put their connection with her brother concisely, and determined to explain it at her leisure.

"Oh," said Lady Lyons, evidently requiring some further explanation now, at the present moment.

"My brother's wards--he is their guardian."

"Oh!" again said Lady Lyons, but this time in another manner; she thought she understood.

Then she introduced her son, and he dropped behind and talked to the girls. Lady Lyons slipped her hand under Mrs. Dorriman's arm and they walked on together.

"Delightful," began young Lyons, turning impartially to each sister in turn, "to find unexpected acquaintances in this dull little place."

"We only came last night, we do not think it dull," they said in a breath. Grace adding, for fear of his looking down upon her, "we have not had time to find it dull."

"What have you seen, so far?" he asked; adding in a breath, "not that there is anything really to see."

"We have seen ---- caps," said Grace laughing.

He laughed with full understanding, and quoted "The ruling pa.s.sion...."

Margaret felt annoyed, and could not quite see why she should be annoyed. Still her innate loyalty made her dislike even a covert sneer, and looking at him full in the face she said, "What is there to see here that you think interesting?"

He laughed merrily; "How severe you are,--very severe. Some people like the sea, others go into raptures about the hills; it depends upon whether you like nature or human nature. There is no choice here, there is only the sea and the hills, always the hills."

"We think the place lovely," said Margaret, "and we have seen so little, only school and then Renton. Renton is such a smoky place."

"But Renton Place is a fine place," he rejoined. "I have all my life heard of Mr. Sandford as being a millionnaire."

Margaret laughed. "We used to think it would be a fine place standing in a large park. I believe we thought (Grace and I) that there would even be deer there, but it is quite different--a square house, a short avenue, and the town just outside the gates."

Mr. Lyons looked puzzled. "How strange!" he began, when Grace interrupted him. "All very rich men have whims," she said, in a tone quite unlike any Margaret had ever heard her use before. "Mr. Sandford's whim is to live close to Renton, where he coins money, I believe."

"It will be all the better for those who succeed him," the young man said, looking more attentively at Grace than he had done as yet.

"Yes," said Margaret, in her straightforward way, "but that is a question that does not interest us."

"My dear Margaret, you should not make these very positive a.s.sertions,"

said Grace; "you know nothing, really. My sister is very young, Mr.

Lyons, and young girls always draw their own conclusions, often without anything really to go upon."

Mr. Lyons laughingly said her youth was very self-evident. "How beautiful is youth!" he exclaimed, with mock solemnity, and Mrs.

Dorriman was startled to hear them all on such a familiar footing already.

She and her friend parted with enthusiasm. Poor Lady Lyons really out of health, and having many, many troubles to bear, was unfeignedly pleased to meet Mrs. Dorriman again; and Mrs. Dorriman, while conscious of much short-coming in the matter of friends.h.i.+p, as she could look back only upon acquaintances.h.i.+p, and nothing more, was much flattered to find herself of so much importance to another.

At the dreary school where Mrs. Dorriman had been educated; Lady Lyons, then an older, stronger, and handsomer girl than herself, had been.

Mrs. Dorriman could not remember that they had been friends, but now the old familiarity made them more than acquaintances, and they met with that common ground of "old times" which bridges over so much.

As they neared their hotel a man was standing on the steps and lifted his hat. It was Mr. Drayton.

CHAPTER X.

Nothing reconciles one to a place so much as finding one's self not wholly left out in the cold as regards acquaintances.

Beautiful scenery, except to some exceptional souls, does not take the place of all human companions.h.i.+p. The interchange of thought with one's own species is an especial necessity when the small home duties that usually fill up time at home, are taken from one.

Mrs. Dorriman, who paid great attention to all the details of household matters, and had a pleasant sense of ably fulfilling those duties, would have felt stranded had she been left at Lornbay without any one of her own age and standing to talk to and nothing to do. Even in the matter of caps it was a pleasure to find an appreciative listener, and Lady Lyons, a woman whose range of interest was limited to the fluctuations of her own health and the welfare of her son, could listen and give intelligent attention.

Mrs. Dorriman was fulfilling her brother's wish in remaining at the hotel. She was filled with great doubts as to the goodness of the food, and resisted all attempts to inveigle her into preferring disguised dishes. She had a horror of anything made up except when she knew who had the task in hand; and her occupation was gone now she had to accept the dinners as they were, and had nothing to do with the ordering of them. She would have infinitely preferred lodgings (which she had never had), and had visions of wholly ideal landladies, and great powers of interference.

Once her spirits became accustomed to the scenes around her, she would have felt dull missing her Inchbrae occupations, had it not been for Lady Lyons. Lady Lyons had seen a great deal more of the world than Mrs.

Dorriman; but seeing the world does not always imply fuller understanding. It is quite possible to see a great deal and take in nothing. Lady Lyons was a woman who had arranged her ideas before she left the paternal nest, and, partly from ill-health, partly from a limited understanding, she was narrow-minded and prejudiced, and everything was measured by her own standard, and that was as small as it could be.

Her character acted fatally upon her son. She had been left a widow young (with a moderate fortune and this only son). People went into ecstacies over the way in which she gave up her life to her son, which meant that he never went to school. He was educated upon her lines--under her own eye. She was desperately afraid of the wickedness of the world, schools were full of iniquity, therefore he never went to school. Companions he had none. She was afraid of his knowing boys with school experiences. Paul Lyons was content, knowing nothing better. He grew up narrow, selfish, and consequential, his world bounded by his mother and himself, with no developed intelligence, no n.o.bility of thought, no aims, no aspirations, thinking himself in all ways superior to other men, and interested in nothing outside his little molehill.

Then came one brief terrible experience.