Volume Iii Part 9 (1/2)
”I want Margaret to get well and I mean to resign my chairmans.h.i.+p and other things. I shall give up business. I want--rest.”
His manner alarmed her, but she tried to compose herself, and to accept this new turn in her affairs quietly, and not to let him see how intensely this affected her.
She subdued her emotion and spoke in a matter-of-fact tone, ”It will be a long journey for Margaret and for poor Jean.”
”I have thought of that. When Margaret refused to accept the arrangement Drayton had made for her, I heard from Stevens, and have been in correspondence with him ever since. I think he might bring her here; there are a great many things to arrange.”
”But if we go to Inchbrae, brother, might she not come there, direct?”
”Yes, you may go there and receive her. I must see Stevens here;” and then he continued in a strange tone, ”if you wish me to follow you I will go there.”
”If I wish it?”
”You do not know, Anne. You know nothing,” he exclaimed, with something of his old very peremptory manner.
She was startled and vexed. Why did he go on like this? why constantly talk as if she had yet much to learn?
”One thing more,” he said, in a less excited tone, ”I do not want every idiot in the place to gossip, and talk, and wonder; go and see the few neighbours with whom you have made acquaintance and speak of going home, and of receiving Margaret naturally. If you leave suddenly no one knows what may be said.”
”And about you, brother?”
”About me? who cares?” he said; ”my act in the play is nearly over. What does it all matter to me? But you can say I am ill--that is the truth, I am ill.”
”If you are ill, I will not leave you.”
”Nonsense! my body is well enough, but there is something that hurts far more than bodily illness.”
A commotion in the hall was followed by the servant's entrance.
He announced the arrival of a box for Mrs. Dorriman.
She forgot, at the moment, that she had sent to the Macfarlanes for the famous box which held so much that was important to her, and when she saw it it gave her a little shock. Apparently it gave a greater shock to her brother, for he was white to the very lips.
”Anne,” he said, and his voice was full of entreaty, ”will you do me one great favour: Will you not look at the contents of this box, will you not break the seals, till you are at Inchbrae?”
Mrs. Dorriman--who had seen it arrive with a curiously mingled feeling, half dreading half anxious to know its contents--said quietly, ”It shall be as you wish, brother.”
CHAPTER IV.
The long July days were at hand, so much longer in the Highlands than in other parts of Great Britain, and which most people, living in that favoured spot, think more than makes up for the shorter winter days.
Over everything lay the beauty of summer. Where the heat is not too intense for enjoyment, what a delicious thing is a long, summer day!
At Inchbrae, where the sea kept the air cool, it was perfect; by the side of the burn and down by the waterfall, ferns sprinkled with spray, showed a perpetual verdure, a thousand flowers lingered within the freshness of the burn-side; honeysuckle and sweetbriar rivalled each other in fragrance.
The garden near the house was in perfection, for, though spring flowers come late, they make up for it when they arrive--and roses and geraniums made bright colour, and caught the suns.h.i.+ne to enhance their beauty.
Mrs. Dorriman had felt much on arriving at the little place where she had gone through so much sorrow. Inchbrae, to her, was second to the old home, where she had many memories, but she loved it, and it was her very own, and the fact of possession gives a certain touch of pride in everything.