by Ellen Wood
“Well, I mistook the time, that’s the fact I am very sorry for it, but it can’t be helped now. Of course I should like to have attended and paid her my last respects, poor lady. Not but that I daresay there were enough without me. I was not missed.”
“But you were missed,” said Oswald, “and waited for too. It threw us pretty nearly half-an-hour behindhand. I should not like to keep a funeral waiting myself, Mark.”
“Who was there?” asked Mark.
“The two relatives of Lady Oswald, Sir Philip and his son, Dr. Davenal and myself.”
“Davenal was there, then. But of course he would be. Then he served to do duty for me and himself. And so Sir Philip came?”
“I should be surprised had he not come.”
“Should you? He is a cranky sort of gentleman: an Oswald all over. You are another of them, Oswald. I wonder if you’ll get cranky in your old age.”
“Don’t listen to him, Oswald,” interposed Mrs. Cray. “He seems ‘cranky’ himself this morning.”
Mark laughed good-humouredly, and tossed a late China rose to Caroline which he had brought home in his button-hole. “Did you hear the will read, Oswald?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Short and sweet!” cried Mark, alluding to the monosyllable, which it must be confessed was given in a curt, displeased tone, as if its speaker were himself displeased. “I think it is you who are cranky, Oswald.”
Oswald smiled. “A thought was causing me vexation, Mark.”
“Vexation at me?”
“Oh, no.”
“Well, and who comes in for the money? The Stephensons?”
“No. The Stephensons come in for a very poor portion. It is left to Dr. Davenal.”
“To Dr. Davenal!” echoed Mark in his astonishment. “No!”
“The bulk of the money is bequeathed to him. All of it, in fact, with the exception of a few trifling legacies. The Stephensons have fifty pounds each and the furniture.”
Caroline had dropped her embroidery again and was gazing at Oswald, apparently unable to take in the news. “Are you telling us this for a joke?” she asked.
“The money is left to Dr. Davenal, Mrs. Cray,” repeated Oswald, and certainly there was no sound of joking in his tone. “It surprised us all.”
“What a lucky man!” exclaimed Mark. “I wonder if he had any prevision of this yesterday? We were speaking of money, he and L It was about that field behind the doctor’s stables, the one he has so long wanted to buy. The owner’s dead, and it is for sale at last I observed to the doctor that I supposed he’d secure it at once, but he said he should not buy it at all; he had had a heavy loss, and could not afford it—”
“It is not true, Mark!” interrupted his wife.
“It is true, Caroline. But don’t you go and repeat it again. He said, moreover, he had great need himself of a thousand or two, and did not know where to turn to for it Mind you, I believe he was betrayed, as it were, out of the avowal, I had been saying so much about the field: for he brought himself suddenly up as though recollection had come to him, and said, ‘Don’t talk of this, Mark!’”
And Mark’s long tongue had talked of it! Oswald Cray listened to its every word.
“If he could but have foreseen then that this money had dropped to him! And yet — I should think he must have known it from Lady Oswald; or partially known it. How much is it, Oswald?”
“Six or seven thousand pounds. It would have been a great deal more but for certain losses. Wedderburn said she was persuaded to embark money in some speculation; and it failed.”
“How stupid of her!” exclaimed free Mark. “I wonder, now, whether the doctor did know of this! If he did he’d keep his own counsel. Did he appear surprised, Oswald?”
“He was not there. He left before the will was read, saying he had to attend a consultation.”
“Well, so he had,” said Mark; “I happen to know that much. It was for half-past twelve.”
So far, then, Dr. Davenal had spoken truth. A doubt had been crossing Oswald’s mind, amidst many other curious doubts, whether Dr. Davenal had made the excuse to get away, and so avoid hearing the will read, and himself named chief legatee.
He remained some time with Mark and his wife. They asked him to stay for dinner, but he declined. He had ordered a chop to be ready at the “Apple Tree,” and was going back to London early in the evening — by that seven o’clock train you have before heard of.
“Had you any particular motive for absenting yourself from Lady Oswald’s funeral?” he asked of Mark, as the latter accompanied him to the street-door on his departure.
“Not I,” answered Mark, with the most apparent readiness. “It was very bungling of me to mistake the time. Not that I like attending funerals as a matter of taste: I don’t know who does. Good-afternoon, Oswald. You must give us a longer visit when you are down next.”
He stood at the Abbey door, watching his brother wind round the branching rails, for Oswald was taking the station on his way to his inn. Very cleverly, in Mark’s own opinion, had he parried the questions of his purposed absence. His absence was purposed. With that chloroform on his conscience he did not care to attend the funeral of Lady Oswald.
And the afternoon went on.
It was growing dusk, was turned half-past six, and Oswald Gray was beginning to think it time to make ready for his departure. He had not stirred from the chair where he ate his dinner, though the meal was over long ago; had not called for lights; had, in fact, waved John Hamos away when he would have appeared with them. His whole range of thought was absorbed by one topic — his doubts of Dr. Davenal.
Yes, it is of no use to deny it; it had come to that with Oswald Cray — doubts. Doubts he scarcely knew of what, or to what extent; he scarcely knew where these doubts or his own thoughts were carrying him. On the previous night he had for a few moments given the reins to imagination; had allowed himself to suppose, for argument’s sake only, that Dr. Davenal had given that chloroform knowing or fancying it might prove fatal, and he had gone so far as to ask what, then, could be his motive. There was no motive; Oswald glanced on each side of him to every point, and could discover no motive whatever, or appearance of motive. Therefore he had thrust the doubts from him, as wanting foundation.
But had the revelations of this day supplied the link that was wanting? Had they not supplied it? The death of Lady Oswald brought a fortune to Dr. Davenal.
Almost hating himself for pursuing these thoughts, or rather for the obligation to pursue them, for they would haunt him, and he could not help himself, Oswald Cray sat on in the fading light. He said to himself, how absurd, nay how wicked it was of him, and yet he could not shake them off. The more he strove to do so, the more he brought reason to his aid, telling him that Dr. Davenal was a good and honourable and upright man, as he had always believed, the less would reason hold the mastery. Imagination was all too present in its most vivid colouring, and it was chaining him to its will.
What were the simple facts? asked reason. Dr. Davenal had caused Lady Oswald to inhale chloroform, having only some hours previously avowed to Oswald his belief that she was a most unfit subject for it, was one of those few to whom the drug proves fatal. It did prove fatal. There had next been some equivocation on the part of Mark, when questioned about it, and there had been the positive refusal of Dr. Davenal to afford any explanation. Next, there had been the discovery of the day — that Dr. Davenal was the inheritor. Well, it might all be explained away, reason said; it was certainly not enough to attribute to Dr. Davenal the worst social crime contained in the decalogue. But the more Oswald Cray dwelt on this view, or tried to dwell upon it, the more persistently rose up imagination, torturing and twisting facts, and bending them as it pleased.
There had been that hint of Neal’s too! Oswald Cray honestly believed that Neal was one of those servants incapable of speaking ill for ill’s sake; and he could not help wondering what he meant. Neal was not an ignorant man, likely to be deceiv
ed, to take up fancies: he was of superior intelligence, quite an educated man for his class of life. If —
Oswald’s thoughts were interrupted by the entrance of his landlord. “I don’t want lights, John; I told you I did not I shall be going directly.”
“It is not lights, sir. Mr. Neal, Dr. Davenal’s servant, is asking to see you.”
“Neal! Let him come in.”
Neal came forward into the dusky room. He was the bearer of a note from his master. Oswald had a light brought in then, and opened it. It was written in pencil.
“MY DEAR MR. OSWALD CRAY, —
“I very much wish to see you if you can spare me an hour. I thought perhaps you would have dropped in this lonely day and taken a knife and fork with us. Will you come down this evening? — Ever sincerely yours, — RICHARD DAVENAL.”
“Neal, will you tell Dr. Davenal — he is expecting me, I find?”
“I think so, sir. He said to me before dinner that he thought you might be coming in. When he found you did not, and they were sitting down to table, he wrote this in pencil, and bade me call one of the maids to wait, while I brought it up to you.”
“Tell the doctor that I am quite unable to come down. I have to return to London by the seven o’clock train.”
“Very well, sir.”
Neal was leaving the room, but Mr. Oswald Cray stopped him. He had taken a sudden resolution, and he spoke on the spur of the moment, without reflection. The perplexity of his mind may be his excuse.
“Neal, have you any objection to tell me what you meant last night by hinting that Lady Oswald had not come fairly by her death?”
Neal paused. He was a man of caution; he liked to calculate his words and his ways before entering on them. Neal would certainly speak if he dared. He was in a very bitter mood, for the day’s doings had not pleased him. The news had reached him that her ladyship’s money had been all left to Dr. Davenal; that he, Neal, was not so much as named in the will. And Neal had looked forward as confidently as had the Reverend Mr. Stephenson to the hope of some little remembrance being left to him. In his terrible anger, it seemed to him that the one enemy to prevent it had been the great inheritor, Dr. Davenal.
“Sir, if I speak, would you give me your promise first, to hold what I say sacred to yourself; to let it go no further? I know, sir, it is not the place of a servant to ask this confidence of a gentleman, but I should be afraid to speak without it.”
“I will give it you,” said Mr. Oswald Cray. “ You may rely upon me.”
And Neal knew that if there was one man more than another on the face of the earth who would never forfeit his word, upon whom implicit trust might be placed, it was Oswald Cray. Neal set him self to his task. First of all opening the door to make sure they were entirely alone, he dropped his voice to a safe whisper, and described what he had seen and heard on the Sunday night. It was certainly a startling narration, and as Oswald Cray listened to it in that darkened room, — for the one candle, now placed on a side-table behind, only served to throw out the shadows, — listened to the hushed tones, the unexplainable words, a curious feeling of dread began to creep over him. Neal, you may be very sure, did not disclose anything that could bear against himself; he contrived to come out well in it He was standing outside for a moment before going to bed, hoping the air would remove the sad headache which had suddenly seized him upon hearing of the death of his late lady, when he saw the man come in in the extraordinary manner he had just described. Believing him to be nothing less than a housebreaker (and Watton, who had seen the man from her room up-stairs, had come to the same conclusion), or an evil character of some sort, getting in plausibly on false pretences to work harm to Dr. Davenal, he had gone to the window to look in out of anxiety for his master’s safety, and there had heard what he had stated, for the window was thrown open. He could not see the visitor, who was seated in the shade: he only heard sufficient to tell him that the business he had come on was Lady Oswald’s death; and he heard Dr. Davenal acknowledge that it was murder, and that it must be hushed up at any price, even if it cost him his fortune. He, Neal, described the utterly prostrate condition of his master that night; both before and after the interview with the visitor, he was like one who has some dreadful secret upon the mind, some heavy guilt; Neal had thought so before ever the man, whoever he might have been, entered the house.
Will it be forgiven to Oswald Cray if in that brief confused moment he believed the worst — believed all that Neal said to him? His mind was in a chaos of perplexity, almost, it may be said, of terror. Nothing was-clear. He could not analyse, he could not reason: Neal’s words, and the doings of the night which the man was describing, seemed to dance before his mind in confused forms, ever changing, as do the bits of coloured glass in a kaleidoscope. Neal continued to speak, but he did not hear him distinctly now; the words reached his senses certainly, but more as if he were in a mazy dream. He heard the man reiterate that, wherever it was his master had gone to that night, remaining away until the Wednesday, it was connected with the death of Lady Oswald; he heard him say that, whatever the mystery and the guilt, Miss Sara Davenal had been made the confidant of it by her father, he, Neal, supposed from some imperative motive which he did not pretend to understand.
Oswald heard like one in a dream, the words partially glancing off his mind even as they were spoken, only to be recalled afterwards with redoubled force.
In the midst of it he suddenly looked at his watch, suspecting — as he found — that he had barely time to catch the train.
And he went out in a sort of blind confusion, his brain echoing the words of Dr. Davenal, only too accurately remembered and repeated by Neal. “Murder? Yes, the world would look upon it as such. I felt certain that Lady Oswald was one to whom chloroform, if administered, would prove fatal.”
CHAPTER XXIV.
DR. DAVENAL’S “FOLLY.”
IT was startling news to go forth to Hallingham — one of the nine days’ wonders read of in social history. Lady Oswald had bequeathed her fortune to her physician, Dr. Davenal! Such things had been known before in the world’s experiences, but Hallingham made as much of the fact as if that were the first time it had ever been enacted.
Upon none did the news fall with more complete astonishment than upon the doctor himself. Lady Oswald had more than once in the past few months mysteriously hinted to him that he would be rewarded some time for his care and attention to her; and it must be supposed that she had these hints in her mind when she said to Mr. Oswald Cray that “he” (the named inheritor of her money) knew that he would be rewarded. Upon Dr. Davenal the hints had never made any impression. Of a nature the very reverse of covetous, simple-minded, single-hearted, it never so much as crossed his imagination that she would be leaving her money to him. He would have been the first to repudiate it; to point out to her the injustice of the act It is surely not necessary to premise that you, my intelligent and enlightened readers, cannot have fallen into the mistake made by Neal, or drawn that respected domestic’s very absurd, though perhaps to a fanciful and prejudiced mind not unnatural deduction, that the night-visit to Dr. Davenal had reference to Lady Oswald’s death. Being in the secret of who really did administer that fatal dose of chloroform to Lady Oswald, you will not connect it with Dr. Davenal’s trouble. A heavy secret, involving disgrace, much misery, perhaps ruin, had indeed fallen that night on Dr. Davenal, but it was entirely unconnected with the death of Lady Oswald. The words which Neal had heard — and he heard them correctly — would have borne to his mind a very different interpretation had he been enabled to hear the whole — what had preceded them and what followed them. But he did not.
Yes, this unhappy secret, this great misfortune, had nothing to do with Lady Oswald. Far from Dr. Davenal’s having caused her to inhale an extra dose of chloroform as an experiment, on the strength that it might prove fatal, and so enable him to drop at once into that very desirable legacy named in her will, and which supposition, I am sure you will agr
ee with me in thinking, belongs rather to the world of idealic wonders than of real life, the doctor had not the faintest suspicion that he should inherit a shilling. When the news was conveyed to him he could not believe it to be true, — did not believe it for some little time.
It was Mr. Wedderburn who carried it to him. When the lawyer’s business was over at Lady Oswald’s, he proceeded to Dr. Davenal’s, and found him just come home from the consultation, to attend which he had hurried away before the reading of the will. Mr. Wedderburn told him the news.
“Left to me!” exclaimed the doctor. “Her money left to me! Nonsense!”
“It is indeed,” affirmed Mr. Wedderburn. “After the legacies are paid you take everything — you are residuary legatee.”
“You are joking,” said the doctor. “What have I to do with the money? I have no right to it.”
With some difficulty Dr. Davenal was convinced that he, and he alone, was named the inheritor. It did not give him pleasure. Quite the contrary; he saw in it only a good deal of trouble and law business, which he much disliked at all times to engage in.
Richard Davenal was one of those thoroughly conscientious men — and there are a few such in the world — who could not be content to enjoy money to which another has more right. It was a creed of his — it is not altogether an obsolete one — that money so enjoyed could not bring pleasure in the spending, or good in the end. Lady Oswald had legitimate relations, who had looked for the money, who needed the money, needed it with a far deeper need than Dr. Davenal, and who possessed a claim to it, so far as relationship could give it them. Even as the conviction slowly arose to him that the news was true that he had been made the inheritor, so there arose another conviction, or rather a resolution, with it, — that he would never accept the money, that it should go over to its legitimate owners, no matter what trouble it involved. A resolution from which he never swerved.