by Ellen Wood
“I don’t know, aunt,” was poor Sara’s answer. “I suppose he will come again some time.”
And in good truth she did suppose he would come again “some time,” when the pain of their separation should have worn away.
Sara quitted her seat as she spoke, throwing down a fork with the movement, and hastened to the window.
“What’s the matter?” exclaimed Miss Bettina.
“It is the postman, aunt.”
“The postman!” echoed Miss Bettina, sharply, wondering what possessed her niece that morning. “ If it is the postman, you need not fly from the breakfast-table in that way, upsetting the things. Do you call that manners?”
“O papa,” cried Sara, turning round, unmindful of the reproof in her flush of excitement, “I do think here are letters from Edward! Some foreign mail must be in, for the man has an unusual number of letters in his hand, and some of them look like foreign ones.”
She turned from the window, and stood gazing at the room door. But no letters appeared. The postman went out again with his quick step, and Sara, feeling grievously disappointed, returned slowly to her seat.
“Is he gone?” presently asked the doctor.
“O yes, papa. He is half-way down the street by this time. He came, I suppose, for one of the servants.”
“He didn’t ring.”
“No. He seemed to go straight to your consulting-room window. Perhaps Neal is there, putting the room to rights.”
But Dr. Davenal did not rest so easily satisfied. He opened the door and called down the passage in an imperative voice.
“Neal! Are there no letters?”
Neal came gliding into the room from his pantry, two letters in his hand.
“Why did you not bring them in at once?” somewhat sternly asked the doctor as he took them, certain past suspicions regarding Neal and such missives arising forcibly to his mind.
“I was looking for my waiter, sir: I have mislaid it somewhere. Oh, I left it here, I see.”
The silver waiter was on a side-table; not at all where it ought to be; as if it had been put down heedlessly and forgotten. Neal caught it up and retired. It might have been as he said — that the delay was caused by looking for it, and by that only; and Dr. Davenal, more inclined to be charitable than suspicious, thought no more of the matter.
In the keen disappointment which had come over him, he nearly lost sight of other things. Neither of the two letters was from his son; and he had so fully expected to hear from him by the present mail.
Sara’s heart was beating. “Are they not from Edward, papa?”
The doctor shook his head as he laid the letters down. “They are both from Dick, I expect. His holiday letters.”
The two letters were respectively addressed to Miss Davenal, and Miss Sara Davenal. The address to Miss Davenal bore evident marks of care in the writing; it was a clear, regular hand, though easily recognisable as a schoolboy’s. The address to Sara was a scrawl scarcely legible. Upon opening the letter, hers, Sara found it beautifully written. Until she came to its close she had no suspicion but that it was really written to herself; she supposed it to be a sort of general holiday letter.
“MY DEAR AND RESPECTED AUNT AND RELATIVES —
“As the joyful epoch of Christmas approaches, marking the close of another half-year, we feel how valuable is that time which the best of us are only inclined to regard too lightly. Yet I hope it will be found that I have not wholly wasted the share of it bestowed on me, but have used it to the best of my power and abilities. When you witness the progress made in each branch of my various studies, to which I have earnestly and assiduously devoted my days and hours, I trust that you will find cause to deem I have been no thoughtless pupil, but have done my best to merit your favour and the approbation of my masters. In Greek especially — which Dr. Keen saw fit to promote me to at Midsummer — I flatter myself you will be satisfied with my advancement: it is a delightful study.
“Deeply sensible of the inestimable value of the talents entrusted to me, anxious that not one of them should lie fallow through fault of mine, it has been my constant and earnest endeavour to improve them, so that they may be turned to profitable use in the after-business of life. By industry, by perseverance, and by unflagging attention I have striven to progress, and I may say that it is with regret I part with my beloved studies, even for a temporary period.
“I am desired to present Dr. Keen’s compliments to you and my uncle, and to convey to you the intelligence that our winter recess will commence on the 16th of this month, on which day I and Leopold shall hope to return to Hallingham, and to meet you in good health. Leopold regrets sensibly that he will not be able this year to write you his vacation letter: it is a great disappointment to him. He has had a fester on the thumb of his right hand; it is getting better, but still painful. He begs to offer his affectionate duty to yourself, my uncle, Sara, and Mrs. Cray. And trusting you will accept the same from me,
“I am, my dear Aunt,
“Your most sincere and respectful Nephew,
“RICHARD JOHN DAVENAL.
“Miss Davenal.”
A smile stole across Sara’s features at the wording of the letter, so unlike Dick, and she turned over the envelope.
“Yes, ‘Miss Sara Davenal!’ Dick has made a mistake in the address. It is written to you, Aunt Bettina.”
But Miss Bettina’s eyes were glued to her own letter, which she held open before her. Her lips had drawn themselves in ominously.
“Is it the holiday letter, Sara?” asked the doctor.
“Yes, papa: Richard’s. But it is not written to me.”
Dr. Davenal took up the letter. Its writing, almost as beautiful as copper-plate, was as easily read as a book: Master Richard must have taken the greatest pains with it Miss Davenal’s was not so easily read, for it seemed to have been dashed off with a skewer. She threw it on the table in considerable temper when she came to its end, and laid her hand solemnly upon it “Dr. Davenal, if you do not return this letter instantly to Dr. Keen, I shall. It is a disgrace to have come out of any respectable school.”
“Who is it from?” questioned the doctor in surprise.
“Who is it from? — from that wicked nephew of yours — Dick. And you to encourage him!” she added, directing her severe glance at Sara. “It is meant, I suppose, for you.”
In point of fact, Master Dick Davenal had misdirected his letters, sending his holiday letter to Sara, and one intended exclusively for Sara’s eyes to his aunt. Dr. Davenal, in some curiosity, drew towards him the offending letter.
“DEAR OLD GIRL,
“We come home the end of next week hurray! old Keen was for keeping us till the week after and shouldn’t we have turned rusty but its all fixed now, the 16th is the joyful day and on the 15th we mean to have a bonfire out of bounds and shouldn’t we like to burn up all our books in it you cant think how sick we are of them. Jopper says hed give all his tin for next half if books and studies had never been invented and I’m sure I would, I hate learning and that’s the truth and I haven’t tried to get on a bit for I know its of no use trying, Greak’s horrid, and our greak master is an awful stick and keeps us to it till we feel fit to bufett him its the most hateful bothering languidge you can imagine and I shall never master a line of it and if it weren’t for cribs I should get a caneing every day, latin was bad enougff, but greak caps it We all got into a row which I’ll tell you about when I come home and we had our Wensday and Saturday holidays stoped for three weeks, it was all threw the writing master a shokking sneek who comes four days a week and found out something and took and told Keen but we have served him out, we have had some good games this half taking things together and if we could berry our books and never do another lesson Keens house wouldn’t be so bad, Leo and some more of us were trying to wrench open farmer Clupps stable to get at his poney when he ran a rusty nale into his thumb, old clupp was off to a cattle fair by rail and we knew hed be none the wiser if we exe
rcized the poney up and down the common, and a jolly time of it I can tell you we had only we couldn’t find the sadle, well leos thum got bad and he hasnt been abel to write for ever so long and hes uncomon glad of it now for it saves him his holiday letter, I had to write mine five times over before it did and I nearly flung it in the fire before Keens face, I never was so sick of anything in my life, its going to aunt Bett this time Keen said it went to uncle Richard at mid-summer, good buy till next week darling Sara love to Carry and mind you get a jolly lot of mince pies ready for us.
“DICK DAVENAL.
“p s. bows old Betts deafness, its so cold we hope all the ponds will be froze to ice tomorrow.”
Dr. Davenal burst into a fit of laughter. The contrast between the genuine letter of the boy and the formal one dictated by the master was so rich. Miss Davenal’s brow wore its heaviest frown: the letter was bad enough altogether, but the insult to herself, the “old Bett,” could not be forgiven.
“I’ll have this letter sent back, Dr. Davenal.”
“Tush, Bettina! Send it back, indeed! We were schoolboys and schoolgirls ourselves once. Why, what’s this? — here’s the postman coming in again! He must have omitted to leave all the letters.”
It was even so. The postman by inadvertence had carried away a letter addressed to the house, and had now come back with it But that mistake was a great piece of good luck for Neal; and in truth its occurring on this morning was a singular coincidence. You will agree with me in saying that it was quite a different sort of luck from any deserved by Neal. Poor Dick Davenal’s “sneek” of a writing-master could not stand for honours beside the real sneak, Neal.
Neal had not been at Dr. Davenal’s window when the postman came in the first time, as Sara had surmised; Neal was standing in his favourite corner outside, amid the shrubs, having a mind to give himself an airing. It was to this corner the postman had gone, and he delivered three letters into his hands. Neal carried them to his pantry and proceeded to examine the outside with his usual curiosity. Two of them were those he subsequently carried into the breakfast-room; on the third he saw the foreign post-mark, and recognised the handwriting of Captain Davenal. And, as Neal turned this about in his hand, he became aware of a curious fact — that it was open. The envelope was not fastened down. The captain’s seal was upon it in wax, but it did not serve to fasten it Whether that young officer, who was given to carelessness, had sealed it in this insecure manner, or whether it had come open in the transit, was of no consequence: it was certainly not closed now.
The temptation proved too strong for Mr. Neal. It happened that he had a motive, a particular motive, apart from his ordinary curiosity, for wishing to see the contents of this letter. He had chanced to overhear a few words spoken between the doctor and his daughter some days previously — words which Neal could, as he expressed himself, make neither top nor tail of; but they referred to Captain Davenal, and created the strongest possible wish in Neal’s mind to take a peep at the first letter that should arrive from the gallant officer. Neal had not seen his way to do this at all dear; but it appeared now that fortune had graciously dropped the means into his hands. And the temptation was too strong to be resisted.
Hastily reasoning within himself (the best of us are too prone to reason on our own side of the question, ignoring the other) that in all probability the breakfast-room had not seen or heard the postman, as the man had kept on his side the garden, and had not rung the door-bell, Neal risked it, and carefully drew the letter from the envelope.
A small thin note, addressed to Miss Sara Davenal, dropped out of it. Neal was too busy to pick it up; his eyes were feasting on the opening words of Captain Davenal’s letter to his father.
“Neal, are there no letters?”
The interrupting voice was the doctor’s: and Neal, in an awful fluster, popped the open letter and the thin one tinder a dish-cover. There was no help for it; he might not delay; he dared not take the letter in open. So he carried in the other two in his hand, having looked in vain for his customary waiter.
It passed off well enough. Neal returned to the pantry, and finished the perusal of the captain’s letter. Then he refolded it, placed the note, which he had not opened, inside as before, and amended the fastening with a modicum of sealing-wax, dropped artistically underneath the old seal.
He was at his wit’s end how to convey the letter to the doctor, so that no suspicion might rest upon himself Suppress it he dare not, for the postman could have testified to its delivery when inquiries were made. He was coming to the conclusion that the best way would be to put it amidst the shrubs, as if he or the postman had dropped it, and let somebody find it and convey it to Dr. Davenal, when the postman’s knock at the hall door aroused him.
“I don’t know how I came to overlook this,” said the man, handing in a letter. “It had got slipped among the others somehow, and I didn’t find it till I was ever so far down the street.”
If ever Neal believed in the descent of special favours from the clouds, he believed in it then. The letter brought back by the postman was directed to Watton. Neal carried it to his pantry, deposited the other upon his silver waiter, and took it to the breakfast-room.
“How’s this?” cried the doctor.
“The letter-man carried it away with him, sir, by some mistake, he says,” answered Neal with a steady tongue and unflinching eye.
“Stupid fellow!” cried the doctor. But he spoke in a good-natured tone. None, save he, knew how welcome a sight was the handwriting of his son.
And when Neal carried down the breakfast-things he coolly told Watton there was a letter for her lying in his pantry, which had come by the morning post.
“You might have brought it down,” was Watton’s answer.
“So I might,” civilly remarked Need. “I laid it there and forgot it.”
CHAPTER XXX.
THE DOCTOR’S BIRTHDAY.
THE dead of the winter passed. That is, Christmas was turned, and January had come in, and was drawing to a close.
Dr. Davenal’s state of health was beginning to attract attention. It cannot be said that absolute fears were excited, but people said to each other and to him that he ought to take more care. Especial care of himself he certainly did not take, and he seemed to take cold upon cold. It must not be thought that Dr. Davenal was recklessly neglectful, supinely careless. It was not that at all. But he was one of the many who seemed to have an assured trust in their own constitution; almost believing their state of good health immutable. Other folks are liable to ailments, but they have no fear of themselves. This is sometimes notably the case with those who have never experienced illness, who have passed an active life with neither an ache nor a pain.
As had Dr. Davenal. Of a naturally good constitution, temperate in his habits, taking a good deal of exercise one way or another, his mind always occupied, he did not know what it was to have a day’s illness. The great blow which had fallen upon him in the death of his son told upon his mind more than upon his body. If it had bent his shoulders and left lines of care upon his face, it had not made him ill. It was reserved for the later calamity to do that — that terrible secret whose particulars none save the doctor knew. That had nearly prostrated him — it had re-acted on the body; and when the cold fastened on him the day he had to hasten from Mrs. Scott’s hot room to the Infirmary, it laid hold of him for ever.
He could not shake it of! Miss Davenal told him somewhat crossly that he kept catching cold upon cold; but the doctor himself knew that it was that first cold hanging about him. He apprehended no real danger: he did not pay much attention to it Had he possessed a mind at rest, he might have thought more of the body’s ailments, but with that great burden of despair — and, in truth, it was little else — weighing him down, what in comparison was any sickness of body? As to lying by, he never so much as gave it a thought So long as he could go about, he would go about He thought of others before himself; he was one who strove hard to do his duty in the si
ght of God; and he would have deemed it little else than a sin selfishly to stop indoors to nurse himself, when there might be fellow-creatures dying for the want of his aid. It was very easy to say other doctors might attend for him; we all know how valuable in illness is the presence of the physician we trust; and none in Hallingham was trusted as was Dr. Davenal.
And so, with his aching mind and his aching body, he went about his work. It is just possible that a fortnight or so’s rest might have saved him, but he did not take it. He went about his work as usual — nay, with more than his wonted activity, for it was a season of much sickness at Hallingham, as it was that winter in many other places. He bore on, never flagging; but he grew weaker day by day, and everybody remarked how poorly the doctor was looking. No fears for his state were aroused indoors. Sara attributed all she saw amiss in him to the burden of that great secret, of which she had had only partial cognisance; and Miss Davenal felt cross with him.
For Bettina Davenal suspected neither illness of body nor illness of mind. How should she connect the latter with the prosperous physician? She knew that he had been grieved at the going abroad of his son Edward, a grief in which she by no means joined, deeming that a little roughing it out in the world would be found of wholesome benefit to the indulged son and brave captain; and she rather despised the doctor for regretting him. He was silent, and thin, and worn; he had no appetite; his spirits seemed gone; she saw all this, but never supposed it was caused by anything but the departure of his son.
His not eating was made the worst grievance of by Miss Bettina. Once before, in an unusual season of sickness, the doctor had — not, perhaps, lost his appetite, but allowed himself no time for his meals. Miss Bettina believed that this was a similar case; that his patients were absorbing his appetite and his energies; and she gave him a good sound lecturing! as she might have given to Dick. Get what she would for the table, plain food or dainties, it seemed all one to the doctor: he would taste, perhaps, to please her, but he could not eat.