by Ellen Wood
For a twelvemonth after Mr. Cray’s death, Mrs. Cray remained at the Abbey, and then she left it .It was too expensive a residence for her now — its rent swallowing up half her income. She removed with her daughters to a watering-place in Wales, where, as she fractiously said, she hoped they should “get along.” Marcus, who had qualified for a surgeon, became assistant to Dr. Davenal, and that gentleman at length gave him a small share in the profits. It was not a regularly-constituted firm— “Davenal and Cray nothing of the sort. Hallingham knew that he was admitted a partner so far as receiving a share went; and they knew that that was all.
He was liked in Hallingham, this young doctor, and Dr. Davenal had done it in kindness, to give him a standing. As the time went on, he would have no doubt a larger and larger share — some time succeed to the whole. He was considered a suitable partner for the doctor; the Grays of the Abbey had always been looked up to in the town; and young Cray’s skill as a medical man was in the ascendant. Lady Oswald was getting to like him very much; she evinced a desire to patronise him, to push forward his interests; and Dr. Davenal was really in hope that she would adopt him as her attendant for every-day calls instead of himself. Mr. Cray could spare the time for these useless visits better than Dr. Davenal. He, Mr. Cray, resided in lodgings in the town, and was growing in its favour daily in a professional point of view: not that he had displayed any unusual skill, but simply that Hallingham gave him credit for possessing it, because they liked him.
There was a large family of the Davenals, as there was of the Oswalds — speaking, in both cases, of the days gone by, and comprising collateral branches. Years and years ago Surgeon Davenal’s had been a noted name in Hallingham; he had a large practice, and he had several children. It is not necessary to speak of all the children. Richard (the present Dr. Davenal) was the eldest son, and had succeeded to the practice. The two other sons, Walter and John, had chosen to enter the Church, and both, when ordained, had gone out to the West Indies; one of them became chaplain to the Bishop of Barbadoes, the other obtained a church in the island.
Both had married there, and Caroline Davenal was the only child of Walter, the elder of the two.
Sara was twelve years old when her cousin Caroline arrived in England, an orphan; father and mother were both dead. A poor clergyman in the West Indies, dying young, was not likely to have amassed money, and the little child, Caroline, had literally nothing. Her father wrote an appealing letter to his brother Richard, on his deathbed, and Richard Davenal was not one to reject it.
“She shall be my child henceforth, and Sara’s sister,” said he, in the warmth of his heart, when the letter and the child arrived at Hallingham. And so she had been.
But it was by no means so certain that Caroline Davenal would not some time be rich. A very large sum of money was pending in her mother’s family, who were West Indiana. It had become the subject of dispute, of litigation, and was at length thrown into that formidable court in England — Chancery. Should it be decided in one way, Caroline would derive no benefit; if in another, she would come in for several thousand pounds. The probabilities were in her favour — but Chancery, as you all know, is a capricious court, and does not hurry itself to inconvenience.
Upon the death of Dr. Davenal’s wife, his sister Bettina came to reside with him, and to rule his children. He had but three — Richard, Edward, and Sara. There had been others between Edward and Sara, but they died young. Fine lads, those of Dr. Davenal, although they took to plaguing stem Miss Bettina, and aggravatingly called her “Aunt Bett.” Fine young men, too, they grew up — well reared, liberally educated. Richard embraced his father’s profession; for Edward a commission in the army was purchased, in accordance with his strong wish, and he was now Captain Davenal.
And Richard Davenal, the eldest son, where was he? Ah! it was a grievous story to look back upon. It had clouded the life of Dr. Davenal, and would cloud it to the end. Richard was dead, and Dr. Davenal blamed himself as the remote cause.
When Richard had completed his studies, and passed the College of Surgeons, he returned to Hallingham, and joined his father in practice, as it had been intended that he should. He grew greatly in favour: he promised to be as clever as his father: and Hallingham courted him. He was a man of attractive presence, of genial manners, and he mixed a great deal of pleasure with his life of work. Dr. Davenal spoke to him seriously and kindly. He said that too much pleasure did not agree long with work, could not agree with it, and he begged him to be more steady. Richard laughed, and said he would. A short while, and startling news reached the ears of Dr. Davenal — that Richard was thinking of marrying one who was undesirable. Richard, his fine boy, of whom he was so fond and proud, marry her l It was not against the young lady herself that so much could be urged, but against her connections. They were most objectionable. Dr. Davenal pointed out to Richard that to wed this girl would be as a blight upon his prospects, a blow to his reputation. Richard could not be brought to see it Though not equal to themselves in position, she was respectable, he said; and her connections had nothing to do with it — he did not many them, he married her. The feud continued: not an open feud, you understand, but an under-current of opposition, of coolness. Richard would not give up his project, and Dr. Davenal would not view it with anything but aversion. As to giving his consent, that Dr. Davenal never would; and Richard, hitherto dutiful, was not one to go the length of marrying in defiance.
It was at this time, or a little before it, that the dispute had arisen in Barbadoes touching the money already spoken of. Particulars of it were written to Dr. Davenal by his brother John, explaining also how Caroline’s interests were involved. He, the Reverend John Davenal, said in the same letter that he was anxious to send his two little boys to Europe for their education, and was waiting to find them a fit escort; he did not care to trust them alone in the ship. As Dr. Davenal read this letter, a sudden thought darted into his mind like a flash of lightning. What if he sent out Richard? Richard could sift the details about this fortune, could, if expedient, urge Caroline’s interests; he could bring back the two little boys, and — and — the chief thought of all lay behind — it might break off the engagement with the young girl here, Fanny Parrack! Quite a glow of satisfaction came over Dr. Davenal’s face at the thought.
He sought a conference with his son. He told him that he wished him to take a voyage to Barbadoes; that Caroline’s interests required somebody to go out; that the two little boys had no friend to bring them over. Richard hesitated. To most young men a visit to the West Indies would be a welcome distraction; but Richard Davenal seemed strangely to hold back from it — to shrink from its very mention. Did some mysterious warning of what it would bring forth for him dart unconsciously across his spirit! Or did he fear that it might in some way lead to his losing the young lady upon whom he had set his heart? It cannot be known. Certain it was, remembered, oh how remembered afterwards, that an unaccountable repugnance on Richard’s part did evince itself, and it was only to the persistent urgent persuasion of Dr. Davenal that he at length yielded. He yielded, as it were, under protest, and he said he did, sacrificing his own strong wishes against it to his father’s.
He set sail, and he wrote on his arrival at Barbadoes, after a fine passage; and the next letter they received, a fortnight afterwards, was not from him, but from his uncle, the clergyman. Richard had died of yellow fever.
It seemed to turn the current of Dr. Davenal’s life. He blamed himself as the cause: but for his scheming — and in that moment of exaggerated feeling, of intense grief, he called it scheming — Richard, his best beloved son, would be still by his side to bless him. He had never been a scheming man, but an open and straightforward one; and never, so long as he lived, would he scheme again. In his unhappiness, he began to reproach himself for having needlessly opposed Richard’s marriage — to believe that he might have done worse than in marrying Fanny Parrack. He sent for her, and he found her a pretty, modest, gentle girl, and his repent
ance heaped itself upon him fourfold. He informed her very kindly and considerately of the unhappy fact of Richard’s death, and he told her that should any memento be found left for her amidst Richard’s effects when they arrived — any letter, no matter what — it should be given to her.
But that death had changed Dr. Davenal into an old man; in the two years which had elapsed since, he had aged ten, both in looks and constitution. No wonder that a spasm of pain came over his face when Mr. Cray asked him whether he should forbid Caroline to him. You can understand his answer now: “So long as I live I shall never ‘forbid’ a marriage to any over whom I hold control and you can understand the anguish of the tone in which it was spoken.
And that ends the chapter of retrospect
CHAPTER VI.
NEAL’S CURIOSITY.
THEY sat around the dinner-table; Dr. Davenal, Miss Bettina, Sara, and Caroline. It was an unusually silent table. Dr. Davenal could not digest the demand of Mr. Cray for Caroline; Caroline was conscious and timid; Sara scented something not altogether comfortable in the air, and did not raise her eyes from her plate; and it was one of the unusually deaf days of Miss Bettina.
Neal moved about noiselessly. Being a treasure of a servant, of course he always did move noiselessly. Quite an artistic performance was Neal’s waiting; in his own person he did the waiting of three; and so tranquilly assiduous was his mode of accomplishing it, so perfect indeed were Neal’s ways in the household, that Miss Bettina rarely let a day pass without sounding his praise.
Strange to say, the doctor did not like him. Why it was, or how it was, he could not tell, but he had never taken heartily to Neal. So strong was the feeling, that it may almost be said he hated Neal; and yet the man fulfilled all his duties so well that there was no fault to be found with him, no excuse invented for discharging him. The doctor’s last indoor man had not been anything like so efficient a servant as Neal, was not half so fine a gentleman, had ten faults where Neal did not appear to have one. But the doctor had liked him, good rough honest old Giles, had kept him for many years, and only parted with him when he got too old to work. Then Neal presented himself. Neal had once lived with Lady Oswald; he had been groom of the chambers at Thorndyke in Sir John’s time, and Lady Oswald kept him for a twelvemonth after Sir Johns death, and nearly cried when she parted with him; but Neal refused point-blank to go out with the carriage, and Lady Oswald did not wish to keep on three men-servants. Neal found a place in London, and they lost sight of him for some years; but he made his appearance at Lady Oswald’s again one day — having come down by the new railroad to see what change it had made in the old place, and to pay his respects to my lady. My lady was gratified by the attention, and inquired what he was doing. He had left his situation, he answered, and he had some thoughts of trying for one in the country; my lady was aware, no doubt, how close and smoky London was, and he found that it had told upon his health; if he could hear of a quiet place in the country he believed he might be induced to take it, however disadvantageous it might be to him in a pecuniary point of view. Did my lady happen to know of one? My lady did happen to know of one: Dr. Davenal’s, who was then parting with old Giles. She thought it would be the very place for Neal; Neal the very man for the place; and in the propensity for managing other people’s business, winch was as strong upon Lady Oswald as it is upon many more of us, she ordered her carriage and drove to Dr. Davenal’s, and never left him until he had promised Neal the situation.
In good truth, Dr. Davenal deemed that Neal would suit him very well, provided he could bring his notions down to the place; and that, as Lady Oswald said, Neal intended to do. But to be groom of the chambers to a nobleman who kept his score or so of servants (for that was understood in the town to have been Neal’s situation), and to be sole indoor man-servant to a doctor, keeping three maids only besides, and the coachman in the stables, would be a wide gulf of difference. Neal, however, accepted the place, and Dr. Davenal took him on the recommendation of Lady Oswald, without referring to the nobleman in town.
But even in the very preliminary interview when the engagement was made, Dr. Davenal felt a dislike steal over him for the man. Instinct would have prompted him to say, “You will not suit me reason overpowered it, and whispered, “He will prove an excellent servant and Dr. Davenal engaged him. That was just before Richard went out to Barbadoes, and ever since then the doctor had been saying to himself how full of prejudice was his dislike, considering the excellent servant that Neal proved to be. But he could not overget the prejudice.
Neal cleared the table when the dinner was over, and placed the dessert upon it. Dr. Davenal did not care for dessert; deemed it waste of time to sit at it; waste of eating to partake of it: but Miss Bettina, who favoured most of the customs and fashions of her girlhood, would as soon have thought of dispensing with her dinner. Dr. Davenal generally withdrew with the cloth; sometimes, if not busy, he stayed a few minutes to chat with his daughter and Caroline; but calls on his time and services were made after dinner as well as before it On this day he did not leave his place. He sat at the foot of the large table, Miss Davenal opposite him at its head, the young ladies between them, one on each side. Interrupted by Lady Oswald in the afternoon, he had not yet spoken to Caroline; and that he was preparing to do now.
He drew his chair near to her, and began in a low tone. Sara rose soon, and quitted the room; Miss Davenal was deaf; they were, so to say, alone.
“My dear, Mr. Cray is not the man I would have preferred to choose for you. Are you aware how very small is the income he derives from his partnership with me?”
Caroline caught up the glistening damask dessert napkin, and began pulling out the threads of its fringe. “His prospects are very fair, Uncle Richard.”
“Fair enough, insomuch as that he may enjoy the whole of this practice in time. But that time may be long in coming, Caroline; twenty years hence, for all we know. I shall be but seventy then, and my father at seventy was as good a man as I am now.”
Her fingers pulled nervously at the fringe, and she did not raise her eyes. “I hope you will live much longer than that, Uncle Richard.”
“So long as I live, Caroline, and retain my health and strength, so long shall I pursue my practice and take its largest share of profits. Mr. Cray understood that perfectly when I admitted him to a small share as a partner. I did it for his sake, to give him a standing. I had no intention of taking a partner: I wished only for an assistant; but out of regard to his prospects, to give him a footing, I say, I let him have a trifling share, suffered it to be known in Hallingham that he was made a partner of by Dr. Davenal. He has but two hundred a-year from me.”
“It does not cost much to live,” said Caroline. “We need not keep many servants.”
Dr. Davenal paused, feeling that she was hopelessly inexperienced.
“My dear, what do you suppose it costs us to live as we do? — here, in this house?”
“Ever so much,” was Caroline’s lucid answer.
“It costs me something like twelve hundred a-year, Caroline, and I have no house-rent to pay.”
She did not answer. Miss Davenal’s sharp eyes caught sight of Caroline’s damaging fingers, and she called out to know what she was doing with the dessert napkin. Caroline laid it on the table beside her plate.
“I cannot afford to increase Mr. Cray’s salary very much,” continued Dr. Davenal. “To reduce my own style of living I do not feel inclined, and Edward draws largely upon me. Extravagant chaps are those young officers!” added the doctor, falling into abstraction. “There’s not one of them, as I believe, makes his pay suffice.”
He paused. Caroline took up a biscuit and began crumbling it on her plate.
“The very utmost that I could afford to give him would be four hundred per annum,” resumed Dr. Davenal: “and I believe that I shall inconvenience myself to do this. But that’s not it. There” —
“Oh, Uncle Richard, it is ample. Four hundred a-year! We could not spend
it.”
He shook his head at the impulsive interruption; at its unconscious ignorance. “Caroline, I was going to say that the mere income is not all the question. If you marry Mr. Cray, he can make no settlement upon you; more than that, he has no home, no furniture. I think he has been precipitate; inconsiderately so: few men would ask a young lady to be their wife until they had a house to take her to; or money in hand to procure one.”
Caroline’s eyes filled with tears. She had hard work to keep them from dropping.
“Carine,” he said caressingly, “is it quite irrevocable, this attachment?”
The tears went down on the crumbled biscuit She murmured some words which the doctor but imperfectly caught; only just sufficiently so to gather that it was irrevocable — or that at any rate the young lady thought so. He sighed.
“Listen to me, child. I should never attempt to oppose your inclinations; I should not think of forbidding any marriage that you had set your heart upon. If you have fixed on Mr. Cray, or he on you — it comes to the same — I will not set my will against it. But one thing I must urge upon you both — to wait.”
“Do you dislike Mr. Cray, Uncle Richard?”
“Dislike him! no, child. Have I not made him my partner? I like him personally very much. I don’t know whether he has much stability,” continued the doctor, in a musing tone, as though he were debating the question with himself. “But let that pass. My objection to him for you, Caroline, is chiefly on a pecuniary score.”