by Ellen Wood
“Miss Davenal is quite well?”
“Yes, sir. Miss Sara has had a cold lately, and is looking ill. The captain went abroad, sir, without coming to Hallingham, and they all felt it much.”
Oswald bade the man good-night, and walked on. He did not care, in his fastidious sensitiveness, to hear the looks of Sara Davenal commented on. If she did look ill, was it for his, Oswald’s, sake? — or was she haunted with that unhappy secret which Neal had once so darkly hinted at?
Neal stood within the shade of the house looking after Mr. Oswald Cray, or rather after the young lady leaning on his arm. Neal was very curious as to this young lady, for young she looked in Neal’s eyes. While apparently his whole attention was absorbed by his conversation with Mr. Oswald Cray, he had been studying the face turned to him; a fair and sensible face, as Mr. Neal could read, though less good-looking than Miss Sara Davenal’s. What with Neal’s legitimate observation and his illegitimate ferreting habits, he had contrived to arrive at a very ingenious conjecture of the tacit relations which had existed between Mr. Oswald Cray and Dr. Davenal’s daughter; and Neal had of late been entertaining a rather shrewd guess that Mr. Oswald Cray intended those relations to cease. He judged by the fact that the gentleman had never once, since Lady Oswald’s funeral, been inside the doctor’s doors. A formal call and a left card during one of his visits to Hallingham, had comprised all the notice taken. Tolerably safe appearances these, from which Neal drew his conclusions; and it perhaps may be pardoned one of Neal’s conclusion-drawing mind, that he asked himself whether this young lady had superseded Miss Sara.
“It looks uncommonly like it,” he repeated to himself, as his gaze followed them in the distance. “I should like to be certain, and to know who she is. She looks like a lady — and he’d not take up with anybody that was not one. Suppose I just see where they go? I have nothing particular on my hands this evening.”
Gingerly treading the streets, as one who knows he is bent upon some surreptitious expedition is apt to tread them, Neal stepped along, keeping Mr. Oswald Cray and his companion sufficiently in view not to lose them. After a sufficiently long walk, they entered a house on the confines of Chelsea, bordering upon Brompton; the middle one of a row of moderate-sized houses, with small gardens before the doors. Neal saw Mr. Oswald Cray knock; and a young servant-maid admitted them.
But this left Neal as wise as before. He could see the house, could read the name of the Terrace, “Bangalore Terrace,” in large black letters at either end; but this did not tell the name of the lady, or who she was; and Bangalore Terrace, though sufficiently respectable-looking, was certainly not the class of terrace to which it might be expected Mr. Oswald Cray would go for a wife.
Neal might have remained in his ignorance until now but for a fortunate accident He was taking a last look at the house ere he turned away, at the light which shone behind the blinds of the first-floor windows, when the same servant who had opened the door came running out, her bonnet just perched on her head, its strings flying, and a jug and latch-key in her hand. As she passed Neal, the unsecured bonnet flew off, and Neal gallantly picked it up.
“I’m sure I’m much obliged to you, sir,” she said, civilly. “Nasty tilting things these new-fangled bonnets be! One doesn’t know whether to fix ’em a-top of the back hair or under it.”
“Can you tell me where a Miss — Miss — It is very unfortunate,” broke off Neal in a tone of vexation. “I am in search of a young lady on a little matter of business, and I have forgotten her number. I think 6he lives at number five, but I am not sure.”
“Number five’s our house,” said the girl, falling readily into the trap. “There ain’t no young lady living there. There’s three young ladies at number six, sir; perhaps its one o’ them.”
“No young lady living at number five?” repeated Neal. “No, there isn’t There’s only my missis, and me, and two sons, and the gentleman what’s ill on the first-floor. But perhaps you mean the sick gentleman’s sister?” she added, the thought striking her. “She came to our house to-day, after a long journey all the way from Scotland, and she’s going to stop with him.”
Neal hardly thought this could apply. The young lady did not look as though she had just come off a long journey. “I don’t know,” said he. “What is her name?”
“Her name’s the same as her brother’s — Allister. If you’d been here two minutes sooner, sir, you might have seen her, for she’s just come in with Mr. Oswald Cray. He’s a gentleman who comes to see Mr. Allister.”
“Allister!” The name was conclusive without the other testimony. Neal had once heard Mr. Oswald Cray describe his friend Allister’s symptoms to Dr. Davenal. This fair girl with the pleasant face was Miss Allister, then!”
“Ah, it’s not the same,” said he cautiously. “I must come down by daylight and look out Good-night, young woman; I am sorry to have detained you,” he said as he walked away.
“Miss Allister!” repeated Neal to himself “And so the brother’s not dead yet! I remember Mr. Oswald Cray saying he could not live a week, and that’s three months ago.”
Frank Allister was sitting between the fire and the table, reading by the light of the lamp, when they entered. He was slight and short, with a fair skin like his sister’s, and a long thin neck. The room was very small, as the drawing-rooms (as they are called) in these unpretending suburban houses mostly are. What with the smallness of the room and the heavy closeness of the Brompton air, Jane Allister had felt stifled ever since she arrived that day. Frank, without rising from his seat, turned round and held his thin white fingers towards Oswald Cray, who grasped them.
“Jane, where have you been? I fancied you went out for but a few minutes’ walk.”
“I thought I would go as far as Mr. Oswald Cray’s, Frank, and thank him for his attention to you,” was her answer. “He has been so kind as to walk back with me.”
“But how did you find your way?” cried Frank, wonderingly.
“I inquired. But I suppose I was stupid at understanding, for I went out of my way. What a busy place London is! I should get bewildered if I lived in it long.
Oswald Cray laughed. “It would be just the contrary, Miss Allister. The longer you lived in it the less bewildered you would be.”
“Ah, yes,” she answered; “use reconciles us to most things.”
She had laid her bonnet and black shawl on a chair, and was going noiselessly from one part of the room to another, putting in order things that Frank had disturbed since her departure. He had wanted a particular book, and to get it had displaced two whole shelves of the cheffonier. The coal-box stood in the middle of the room, and a fancy china inkstand, the centre ornament of the cheffonier, lay on a chair. But the room, in its present general neatness and order, looked different from anything Oswald had ever seen it Sometimes there had not been, as the saying runs, a place to sit upon. Frank ill, perhaps careless, had paid little heed to how his room went, and his landlady and his landlady’s young maid had not much bestirred themselves in the matter. When Jane arrived she had taken in all the discomfort at the first glance, and did not sit down until it was remedied. Frank’s bedchamber was at the back, opening from it, and there was a small room — a closet, in fact — at the bend of the stairs, which was to be Jane’s.
Oswald followed her with his eyes, as she moved about in her simple usefulness. Perhaps he wished that he had such a sister to make his home a prettier place than it was made by Mrs. Benn. She was very small in figure, and the folds of her soft black dress scarcely added to its fulness. Her light hair was carried rather low on the cheeks, and twisted into a coil on her neck behind. Without her outdoor things she looked, if anything, younger than she did in them.
“And so you went to Mr. Oswald Cray’s, inquiring your way?” cried Frank. “I say, young lady, that’s not the fashion of doing things in London.”
“May be not,” answered Jane. “I daresay I and London shall not agree in our notions of fashion. Have
you taken your milk, Frank?”
“I should think so. It was smoked again.”
“Smoked!” cried Jane, turning round and looking at him.
“It generally is smoked,” continued Frank. “I think their saucepans down-stairs must be constructed on the plan of letting the smoke in.”
Jane said no more. She inwardly resolved that neither Frank’s milk nor anything else that he took should be smoked in future.
“Why don’t you sit down, Oswald. Are you afraid of Jane?”
“Not very much,” Oswald answered, looking round at her with a smile. “The fact is, Frank, I have some work to do at home tonight, and must get back.”
“Plans to go over?”
“That and other things.”
“I shall soon be well enough to come out again and go to work,” resumed Frank Allister; and his confident tone proved how firm was his belief in his own words. “Will Bracknell and Street take me on again?”
“I think you will soon be out if you go on improving at this rate,” answered Oswald, ignoring the last portion of Frank’s words. “You look better this evening than you have looked yet.”
“Oh, I am all right. But of course I look better, now Jane’s here. Nearly the first thing she did was to part and brush my hair, and make me put on a clean collar. Only fancy her coming upon me to-day without warning! When the girl came up to say there was a lady at the door in a cab for Mr. Allister, I thought of anybody rather than Jane.”
Oswald Cray wished them good-night, and walked leisurely home. He really had some work to do: but he could have remained longer with them, only that he thought they might prefer to be alone on this the first evening of the sister’s arrival. They had been apart for so many years.
Oswald let himself in with his latch-key. It must be supposed that Mrs. Benn heard him; for she came running up the kitchen stairs, and held out something to him under the light of the hall lamp. It appeared to be a piece of narrow black ribbon, about a third of a yard in length.
“When I had got the tea-tray down in the kitchen, sir, I found this a-hanging to it. I suppose the young lady that was with you up-stairs left it here.”
There was little doubt that Jane had left it A wrist-ribbon probably, inadvertently untied in pulling off her glove. Oswald looked at the woman — at her crusty face, where the pert curiosity induced by the visit was not yet subdued. A curiosity he judged it well to satisfy.
“Did you know who that lady was, Mrs. Benn?”
“No, sir.”
“It was poor Mr. Allister’s sister. She has come all the way from Scotland to nurse him.”
The crustiness disappeared; the face lighted up with a better feeling. Mr. Allister had been a favourite of Mrs. Benn’s, and if she could be sorry for anybody’s illness, she was sorry for his.
“Mr. Allister’s sister! If I had but known it, sir! What a pleasant-speaking young lady she is.”
Following his wife up the kitchen stairs, had come Benn. He waited until this colloquy was over, and then began to speak on his own account.
“A gentleman is waiting for you in your sitting-room, sir.”
“Who is it?” asked Oswald.
“I think he’s a stranger, sir. I don’t remember to have seen him before.”
Oswald proceeded up-stairs. Standing at the side of the room, facing the door as he opened it, his gloves on and his hat in his hand, was Neal. And so much like a gentleman did he really look that Mr. Joseph Benn’s mistake was a perfectly natural one.
“I have taken the liberty of intruding upon you, sir, and of asking to wait until you returned, to inquire whether I can convey anything for you to Hallingham. You had hardly left me, sir, in the street, when I remembered how very remiss it was in me not to ask you. Unless I have a letter from the doctor to-morrow morning, according me a day or two’s more grace, which I have written for, I shall leave to-morrow evening. If I can do anything there for you, sir, or be of use to you in any way, you may command me.”
“Thank you, Neal; there’s nothing I want done. I expect to go down myself next week. Come to the fire and warm yourself this cold night. Sit down.”
Neal came forward nearer the fire; but he did not avail himself of the invitation to sit Oswald inquired if he would like some refreshment, but he declined.
“Have they heard from Captain Davenal yet, do you know?” Oswald asked.
“I think not, sir. I believe they were expecting letters from Malta when I left.”
“I wish he could have gone down for a short while. I am sure the doctor felt it.”
“There’s no doubt he did, sir, very much,” returned Neal, with warm sympathy in his low, respectful tone. “I grieve to say, sir, that the doctor appears to be very much changed. He is more like one suffering from some inward painful illness than anything else.”
“Of body or of mind?” involuntarily asked Oswald, speaking on the moment’s impulse. And however he may have regretted the question, he could not recall it.
“I should say of mind, sir. Since the night of — of Lady Oswald’s death, he has been a changed man.”
Mr. Oswald Cray made no answer whatever to the allusion; he evidently declined to enter upon that unsatisfactory topic. Neal resumed.
“There are going to be changes in our house, sir; it is to be conducted with more regard to economy. Watton is to leave, and I am not sure but I am also. Miss Davenal does not wish any changes to be made, but the doctor says it is necessary.”
“On the score of economy?”
“Yes, sir, on the score of economy. I heard him talking of it to Miss Sara; he said if the present rate of expense was to go on, together with the heavy sum that must now go from him yearly as hush-money, he should not keep his head above water. Miss Davenal, who does not understand why any retrenchment should be made, opposes it entirely.”
Every fibre in Oswald Cray’s heart resented the words — he could not bear that such should be spoken out boldly to him, no matter what their truth might be. Neal’s innocent eyes noticed the sudden flush upon his face.
“I think you must be mistaken, Neal. Hush-money! Dr. Davenal would scarcely use the term to his daughter.”
“Not that precise term, perhaps, sir, but certainly something equivalent to it. There is a rumour in the town, sir, that he intends to resign to the relatives the legacy left to him by my lady, or part of it.”
“Indeed!”
“People have talked a great deal, I fancy, sir, and it has reached the doctor’s ears. Perhaps, sir, if I may venture to say it to you, he may be afraid to keep it. The injustice of the bequest might lead to some investigation which — which would be inconvenient to Dr. Davenal.”
“Neal, I’d rather not enter upon these topics,” said Oswald, in a clear, resolute tone. “Things which appear dubious to us may be explainable by Dr. Davenal. At any rate, it is neither your business nor mine.”
And by those firm words Neal knew that Mr. Oswald Cray had, so to say, washed his hands of the affair, and did not mean to take it up in any way. Neal’s hopes had tended to the contrary, and it was a little checkmate.
“I thought I would presume to ask you, sir, whether you might not be soon requiring a personal attendant,” he resumed, sliding easily out of his disappointment, and giving no token of it. “Should I be leaving the doctor, it would afford me greater pleasure to serve you, sir, than any one else, now my late lady’s gone.”
Oswald laughed — he could not help it. “A valet for me, Neal? No, that would never do under present circumstances. You will be at no fault for a good place, rely upon it, should you leave Dr. Davenal. The good places will be only too glad to contend for you.”
Neal did not dispute the assertion What his precise motive might have been for wishing to serve Mr. Oswald Cray, when he could no doubt dispose of himself so much more advantageously, was best known to himself. He made his adieu in his usual quiet and respectful fashion, and took his departure, leaving Oswald Cray to the reminiscences of the
interview. Oswald sat over the fire as oblivious of the work he had to do as he had been of the dinner-things earlier in the evening. Will it be believed that the hint dropped by Neal — that Dr. Davenal might be giving up the money because he dared not risk the danger of any investigation — was grating unpleasantly on the brain of Oswald? To do Neal justice so far, he himself fully believed that such was the motive of Dr. Davenal, and he had spoken for once with an earnest truthfulness that is never without its weight.
It was unfortunate that this aspect of the affair should have been the first given to Oswald Cray. Had he simply heard that Dr. Davenal was declining the bequest in his generous consideration for the Stephensons, it might perhaps have shaken his doubts of that other dark story, since the only motive the doctor could possibly have had throughout (as Oswald’s mind had argued), was the acquirement of the money. But if he was declining the money through fear, it only served to make these doubts the greater. It was most unfortunate, I say, that this aspect of the affair should have been imparted to him; for we all know how little, how very little, will serve to strengthen suspicions once aroused.
He sat on with his unhappy thoughts far into the night, the image of Sara Davenal ever before him. Never had his love for her been more ardently tender, never had the cruelty of their obligatory separation been so keenly present to his soul.
CHAPTER XXVII.
AN INCLEMENT AFTERNOON.
DECEMBER came in with a drizzling rain, which lasted a day or two. A cold, bleak, windy rain, rendering out-door life miserable. As Sara Davenal sat at her chamber window, looking into the street, the shivering and uncomfortable appearance presented by the few passers-by might have excited her compassion.
But it did not. Truth to say, Sara Davenal had too much need of compassion herself just now to waste it upon street passengers. The greatest blight that can possibly fall upon the inward life of a woman had fallen upon hers. Oswald Cray was faithless. She knew not how, she knew not why; she only judged by his conduct that it must be so. He had been two or three times to Hallingham, and had shunned her; had shunned them altogether. There could be no better proof. One of the visits he had remained three days; therefore he had not want of time to plead as his excuse. He had called at the door, inquired for Miss Davenal, and upon Neal’s answering that Miss Davenal was out, he had handed in cards. For Sara he had not asked at all, and he had not been near the house since.