by Ellen Wood
Dr. Davenal paced his room, his two rooms in fact, for the door was open between them, and he passed from one to the other in his restless wanderings, his mental agony. Soon after two he began to wash and dress himself; that is, he changed some of his clothes, and poured out a wash-hand basin of cold water and splashed his face with it. He put on a pair of boots; he searched for his gloves; he looked out an overcoat; and then he stood for a few minutes and thought.
Lifting the writing-desk from underneath the table, where you may remember it was kept, he unlocked it, and was for some little time examining certain papers it contained. Some of these he put in his pocket, and then he locked the desk and replaced it Next he sat down to write a note; just a line or two.
It was getting on past the half-hour then. He opened the door and went forth from his room. Neal, who had heard him coming, peeped from his pantry and saw him turn to the stairs, the candle in one hand, a note held in the other. Neal cautiously stole forward a step or two, and looked and listened.
He was down-stairs again instantly; he had only gone to the first floor, and had not opened any door, or Neal must have heard it: had not, in fact, been long enough to open one. The note was gone from his hand, and Neal wondered where he had left it.
He went into the study, and came out without the light, an overcoat on, and his hat in his hand. The moonlight shone in now through the fan-light over the front door, and Neal could see so much. He appeared to be coming towards the pantry; Neal silently closed the door and slipped the noiseless bolt Neal took very good care to keep his own locks and bolts well oiled.
Dr. Davenal essayed to open the pantry-door and found it fastened. He shook it, knocked at it, not over gently. Neal, too great a diplomatist to be taken at a loss, flung off his coat, waistcoat, and slippers, threw back his braces, rumpled his hair, and opened the door to his master with the air of a man just aroused from his bed.
“Why do you sleep with the door locked, Neal?” — and the question was put in an imperative tone.
“I — it is but very rare that I do, sir. I must have shot the bolt last night without thinking of it.”
“I won’t have it done. Nobody shall sleep in my house with a locked door. It is a dangerous habit Were a fire to take place, and the sleeper a heavy one, he might not be aroused in time. Don’t do it again. Neal,” he continued, changing his tone, “I am summoned out farther away than usual. I don’t care to disturb Miss Davenal — you can tell them to-morrow morning. I shall not be home all day.”
“Have you to go far, sir?” inquired Neal.
“Yes. I don’t expect to be home all day, I tell you, and that’s why I bid you inform them. Nobody is to sit up for me to-morrow night; I may be detained longer. Tell Miss Davenal so.”
“Very well, sir,” replied Neal. “Is the carriage ready for you?” Neal put this cunningly. He felt sure his master was not going in the carriage.
“I don’t require the carriage, That’s all, Neal; you can go to bed again. I was obliged to disturb you.”
Dr. Davenal turned, walked straight to the front door, and let himself out at it, closing it securely after him. Neal waited a moment, rearranged his attire a little, and then stepped also to the front door and drew the heavy bolt across it No danger now of his master’s coming in with his latch-key to pounce upon him.
Neal got a light, went into the study, and took a leisurely survey. He was scarcely rewarded. There was nothing whatever about, more than on other mornings: no signs remained of the stranger’s visit, not a trace that could betray any disturbance on the part of Dr. Davenal. The sherry and biscuits were put up: Neal walked across to the dining-room and found them in the sideboard, just as he had left them on the previous night. The glass, used, stood on it. Neal solaced himself with some of the sherry, and went back to the study.
The old cloth was undisturbed on the table, the blotting-book and inkstand lying on it. Neal looked through the book, but received no satisfaction. He examined the pens, and saw that in one the ink was not yet dry. In the bedroom the clothes which his master had taken off lay about; Mr. Neal en passant visited the pockets and found them empty; and the bed was pressed on the outside, but had not been slept in. That curious visit in the night might have been a dream, for all there was left to tell of it.
“But there’s that note yet,” thought Neal. “What did he take it up-stairs for, and where did he leave it?”
Stealing up the stairs in his stockinged feet, shading the light in his hand, Neal came to the vestibule, and looked on the table He looked on the stand which held a beautiful statue in marble, he looked up even at the frames of the pictures; he looked everywhere. But there was no letter.
“I’m positive he did not stop long enough to open a door!” ejaculated Neal, rather at a nonplus.
A bright thought struck him. He bent down, shading still the light with his hand, and peered under Miss Sara Davenal’s door. And then came Neal’s reward. He saw the corner of something white quite close to him, not pushed entirely beyond the door. Dr. Davenal, not to disturb his daughter, had pushed his letter to her in that way.
Neal took out his pen-knife, and, with its help, by dint of perseverance and ingenuity, succeeded in drawing back the note, which he stole down-stairs with, and into his own chamber. A little more ingenuity with the pen-knife, and the envelope, not yet fully dry, came open. Neal had obtained an insight into some secrets in his life, but never one so weighty as this, never one had touched on that ugly word “murder” which was running through Neal’s mind: and his usually impassive face grew streaked with scarlet in excitement.
“MY DEAR CHILD,
“Business connected with this most unhappy secret obliges me to go out for a day, perhaps two. I shall leave a message with Neal. Do not appear to know anything when he delivers it: hear it as though you were a stranger to everything. Don’t talk of my absence to any one if you can help it. People will conclude I have gone to see some patient at a distance, as will your aunt: it is not necessary to undeceive them. R. D.”
There was not so very much to be made out of that, and the scarlet streaks faded again from Neal’s disappointed face. “This most unhappy secret,” he repeated over twice, as if the words bore some euphonious sound. Whatever it might be, the secret, it was evident that Miss Sara Davenal had been made cognisant of it; and Neal rather rejoiced in the pill it must be for her, for he liked his young mistress not one whit better than he liked his master. He read the note again, refastened it in the envelope, stole up-stairs to push it under the door, and then retired to his late bed.
CHAPTER XIX.
COMMOTION.
MEANWHILE Dr. Davenal was walking along the streets of the town, lying so calm, so still in the moonlight Not with any hurried tread; rather with a slow one. In his restlessness of mind, he had come out sooner than he need have come; but bodily action is a relief to mental anguish.
“Good-night, doctor! or rather morning — for that’s what it is.”
The salutation came from one of the general practitioners of the town, a hard-worked apothecary, whose business took him abroad a good deal at night. He was hastening up a side street, near the town-hall, and Dr. Davenal had not observed him.
“Ah, is it you, Smithson? A fine night, is it not?”
“All nights are pretty near the same to me,” returned Mr. Smithson. “I see too much of them. I wish folks would be so accommodating as to choose the day to be ill in. I don’t know who’d be one of us. It’s not often that we see you abroad at night, though, doctor?”
“Not often. We can’t help it sometimes, you know. Goodnight.”
They were bound different ways. The doctor had walked on his, when Mr. Smithson came running back.
“Dr. Davenal, what is the truth about Lady Oswald? I hear she’s dead.”
“She is — unhappily.”
“And the report going about is, that she died from the effects of chloroform! Could not rally after inhaling it.”
“A
h, it’s a sad thing,” replied the doctor; “a grievous thing There’s the dark side in these new discoveries of our practice: sacrificing the few while blessing the many. Good-night, I say. I can’t stop.”
“It’s true, then, that it was the chloroform?”
“Yes, it’s true.”
Dr. Davenal increased his pace: he was in no mood for questioning, and this in particular was painful to him. A short while, and he stood before the Abbey, looking up at its windows. He was sorry to disturb Mark, but he deemed it was necessary, and he rang the night bell.
A new bell which Mark Cray had caused to be placed in the house since he took it, and which rang himself up, not his house-hold. Dr. Davenal waited, but the ring was unanswered, and he rang again, with the like result A third summons brought Mark to the window, which he threw up, half-asleep still. “If that’s the way you are going to let your night applicants ring, Mark Cray, almost as good not put up the bell.”
Mark Cray could scarcely believe his eyes when he saw who was the speaker. “I was in a heavy sleep,” he answered. “Did you ring more than once?”
A heavy sleep! Truly Dr. Davenal marvelled at the words. He marvelled that sleep could have visited Mark Cray that night, after his share in its fatal work.
“What is the matter?” asked Mark. “Am I wanted?”
“It is I who want you,” said the doctor. “I must say a word to you if you’ll come down. I am called out of town.”
Mark attired himself sufficiently to descend, which he did in a state of wonder. He had never received a night visit from Dr. Davenal; it was quite out of the usual order of things, and he would about as soon have expected to see a live kangaroo wait upon him. He opened the front door, and they stepped into the large parlour.
“Who is ill?” inquired Mark. “Are you called out far?”
“I am going out on a little private business of my own. The train for Merton will be through presently, and I shall take it. If” —
“Why did you not tell me last night?” interrupted Mark.
“Because I did not then know I should have to go. You must take my patients for me. What I wished particularly to say to you was about the inquest. They can’t call it for to-morrow — that is, to-day — Monday; but I think they are sure to hold it on Tuesday. If I am not back” —
“What inquest?” interrupted Mark, wonderingly.
“The inquest on Lady Oswald.”
“My goodness! Do you think they’ll get up an inquest over her?”
“Of course they will. What are you dreaming of? The remote cause of her death was the accident to the train. I am not quite sure of being back. I expect to be home on Tuesday morning early; but it is possible I may be detained a little longer. If I am not back, Mark, you will be the only witness — at least the only one who can speak to the facts of the death. Let me advise you to say as little as possible. Volunteer no information; answer their questions briefly; and don’t get into a long-winded narration, as you are apt to do, otherwise you may betray yourself. You will not mistake me,” Dr. Davenal added. “I have always been open, truthful, candid as the day; and if I so speak now it is in your interest I was thinking this over a great deal last evening after I left you, and I see that it is essential for your good name in your profession that the facts of the case should not be made known. Do not suppose I advise you to a direct deviation from the truth; nothing of the sort ‘Chloroform was exhibited with a view to lessen her sufferings, and she never rallied from it,’ is all you need say. Similar cases are unhappily not unknown; I fear not very uncommon; and the coroner will not be likely to exact minute particulars, or inquire whether you gave it her, or whether I did. He will assume that we acted in concert.”
Mark Cray nodded. He was nervously and incessantly pushing back his hair.
“I know how fond you are of talking,” resumed Dr. Davenal, “therefore I deemed it well to give you this caution. To tell you the truth, I had rather not be at the inquest, and shall not be sorry if I can’t get back.”
“Are you going away on purpose?” suddenly asked Mark, who was much given to leap to conclusions.
“Certainly not I am going on an important matter of my own. Look here, Mark Cray: one good turn deserves another. It will be concluded in the town that I am called to a patient at a long distance: as I have been before, you know, and detained out two or three days. People will be sure to think it now, and there’s no necessity to undeceive them. You will oblige me in this. I don’t want the town to concern itself with my private affairs: let people think I am with a patient. They don’t know to the contrary at home.”
“I shan’t say anything to the contrary,” said Mark. “Let people think what they will; they are a set of busy-bodies at the best.”
Dr. Davenal departed. And Mr. Cray went back to his room, sleepy still, but wondering in the midst of it what could have called away the doctor suddenly to a distance. No letter could have arrived in the middle of the night, Mark argued: and a suspicion crossed his mind that he was, in spite of his denial, going away to avoid the inquest The doctor walked over to the station, there to await the train. He had given this caution, as to Mark’s testimony at the inquest, entirely in his good feeling towards him, his solicitude for his welfare. For himself, he did hope he should not be back for it Inconvenient questions might be asked, and he did not relish the idea of standing up and avowing that he had so far helped on Lady Oswald’s death as to have joined in giving her the chloroform. he could not avow it without testifying to a deliberate falsehood: yet he must do it, or betray Mark Cray. But he had a matter of greater importance to think of than the inquest: a matter that was weighing down his heart with its dread. Of all the passengers that train contained, soon to be whirling on its way to Merton, not one had the sickening care to battle with that was distracting the flourishing and envied physician.
The first to enter the breakfast-room that morning at his residence was his sister. The meal was always laid in the dining-room. Miss Davenal wore her usual morning costume, a gown of that once fashionable but nearly obsolete material called nankin — or nankeen, as some spell it. It was not made up fashionably, but in the old scant style, and it made Miss Davenal’s tall spare form look taller and sparer. She wore it for breakfast only, generally dressing for the day as soon as the meal was over. Sara followed, in a flowing dress of delicate sprigged muslin, and she took her seat at once at the breakfast-table.
“Is your papa out of his room yet, do you know?”
“I have not seen him,” replied Sara, a faint red tinging her pale face at the half-evasive answer. Very pale she looked: ominously pale. Had Miss Bettina been gifted with preternatural penetration, she might have detected that some great dread was upon her.
But Miss Bettina was on that morning especially self-occupied. On the previous Saturday Dr. Davenal had told her that certain country friends were coming into Hallingham on that day, Monday, and he should invite them to dinner; or else that he had invited them: in her deafness she did not catch which. She had replied by asking him what he would have for dinner, and he said they would settle all that on Monday morning. Monday morning was now come; and Miss Bettina, a punctilious housekeeper, choosing to have everything in order and to treat visitors liberally, was on the fidget to make the arrangements, and waited impatiently for Dr. Davenal. Watton, a fidget also in the domestic department, liking at any rate to get her orders in time, had come in with Miss Davenal. Miss Davenal rang the bell: an intimation to Neal that they were ready for the coffee. She turned to the table, and the first thing that struck her sharp eyes in its arrangements was, that only two breakfast cups were on it “What is Neal thinking of this morning?” she exclaimed.
“I don’t fancy my master is stirring yet,” observed Watton. “I have not heard him.”
“Nonsense!” returned her mistress. “When did you ever know your master not stirring at eight o’clock?”
“Not often, ma’am, it’s true,” was Watton’s answer. “B
ut it might happen. I know he was disturbed in the night.”
Sara glanced up with a half-frightened glance. She dropped her head again, and began making scores on the cloth with her silver fork.
“It was the oddest thing,” began Watton — and she was speaking in the low dear tones which made every word distinct to Miss Davenal. “Last night I was undressing with the blind up, without a candle, for the moon was light as day, when I saw a man turn in at the gate, and I said to myself, ‘Here comes somebody bothering for master!’ He made a spring to the side, and crouched himself amid the laurels that skirt the rails by the lane, and stopped there looking at the house. ‘Very strange!’ I said to myself again; ‘that’s not the way sick folk’s messengers come in.’ After a minute he walked on, brushing close to the shrubs, afraid I suppose of being seen, and I heard him tap at the window of the doctor’s consulting-room. Ma’am, if ever I thought of a robber in my life, I thought of one then, and if it hadn’t been for my presence of mind, I should have rose the house with my screams” —
“Be silent, Watton!” sharply interrupted Miss Davenal. “Look there! You are frightening her to death.”