by Ellen Wood
Of course the cause of this will be readily divined — that the Great Wheal Bang’s ore was not yet in the market. The heat of summer had passed, September was in with its soft air and its cool breezes, and still that valuable ore had not begun to “realise.” It was obstinate ore, and it persisted in giving the greatest possible trouble before it would come out of its mother earth, where it had been imbedded for ages and ages. Those who understood the matter best, and the process of working these mines, tedious at all times, did not consider that any time was being lost; and it is more than probable that the impatience of Barker and Mark Cray alone caused the delay to appear unduly long.
The money swallowed up by that mine was enormous, and Mark Cray got half-dismayed at odd moments. The shareholders were growing tired of the calls upon their pockets; yet they were on the whole confiding shareholders, believing implicitly in the mine and its final results. As a natural sequence, the mine’s wants being so great, its mouth so greedy a one, Mark Cray and his friend could have the less money to play with on their own score: still they managed to secure a little for absolute personal wants, and tradespeople of all denominations were eager to supply anything and everything to the great men of the Great Wheal Bang. How entire was the confidence placed in the mine by these two masters of it may be seen from the fact of their depriving themselves of money to pour it into the ever-open chasm. They might so easily have diverted a little channel into their own pockets! True, it might not have been quite the honest thing to do, but in these matters few men are scrupulous. Mark had surreptitiously sent a few shares into the market and realised the proceeds; but he had done it with reluctance: he did not care to part with his shares; neither was it well that the Great Wheal Bang’s shares should be afloat.
Standing at the window of their drawing-room on this balmy September afternoon were Mark Cray and his wife. The fashionable world were of course not in London, but Mr and Mrs. Cray formed an exception — there is no rule without one, you know. Mark felt that he could not be absent from those attractive offices in the City, even for a day. It was well that one of them should be seen there, and Barker was everlastingly running down into Wales. “Never mind, Carine,” he said to his wife. “We’ll take it out next year: we’ll have a three-months’ autumn trip in Germany. The money will be Tolling in upon us then, and I need not stick here to keep the shareholders in good humour, as I have to do now.” Carine obediently acquiesced; and she did it with cheerfulness: she had not been sufficiently long in her new and luxurious home to care about leaving it.
But she solaced herself with all the gaiety that was obtainable within reach. Drives out of town by day, and the theatre at night, or some other amusement accessible in September. On this day they had been to a wedding at the house of some new friends at Richmond; and they had but now returned. If you look out you may see the fine carriage with its four grey horses just turning from the door, for Caroline, capricious Caroline, wayward and whimsical as a child, had stepped out of it undecided whether to go out again and drive in the Park before dinner. So she kept the carriage waiting until she was pleased to decide not to go.
“I am a little tired, Mark, and they’d be ever so long taking out those post-horses and putting in our own,” she said to her husband. “We could never go in the Park with four horses and postboys wearing white favours. Empty as the drive is, we should have a crowd round us.”
“Taking you for the bride; and a very pretty one!” returned Mark, gallantly.
Caroline laughed; a little all-conscious laugh of vanity. She laid her beautiful bonnet of real lace and marabouts — and for which the milliner would assuredly charge £10 — on a side-table, and threw off her costly white lace mantle. The folds of her silk dress, its colour the delicate bloom of the spring lilac, rustled as she went back to the window.
“Only think, Mark, we have been married nearly a year! It will be a year next month.”
Mark stood with his face close to the window. He was looking at the trees in the Green Park, their leaves playing in the golden light of the setting sun. Caroline flirted a few drops on her handkerchief from the miniature essence-bottle dangling from her wrist. and raised it to her carmine cheeks. The day’s excitement had Drought to them that rich bloom so suspiciously beautiful.
“I declare there’s Barker!” exclaimed Mark. “I thought he’d be in.”
Mr. Barker was dashing up the street in a cab, as fast as the horse’s legs would go. He had been at the offices all day, doing duty for Mark. He saw them at the window, and gave them a nod as he leaped out. Mark looked at his watch and found it wanted yet some time to dinner. They sat down now, all three together, leaving the window to take care of itself. There was always so much to say when Barker was there. He talked so fast and so untiringly; present doings and future prospects were so good; and Caroline was as much at home in it as they were. They had had a splendid day in the City, Barker said volubly, except for grumbling. A hundred, or so, groaning old disappointed fellows had been in, who wanted to embark in the Wheal Bang and make their fortunes, but there were no shares to be had for love or money, and they were fit to bite their fingers off. Altogether, nothing could be more smooth, more delightful than affairs, and Barker had received news from the mines that morning promising loads upon loads of ore in a month or so’s time.
Mark rubbed his hands. “ I say, Barker, what do you say to a quiet little dinner at Blackwall to-morrow?” cried he. “I and Carine are thinking of driving down. Will you come?”
“Don’t mind if I do,” returned Barker. “What time?”
“Well, not very late. The evenings are not so light as they were. Suppose we say” —
Before the hour had left Mark’s lips he was stopped by a commotion. A sound as of much talking and bumping of boxes in the hall below: of boxes that appeared to be coming into the house. Caroline went to the window and saw a cab drawn up to the door, a last trunk being taken off it, and three band-boxes in a row on the pavement “Why, who can it be?” she exclaimed.
The question was soon set at rest A lady in fashionable halfmourning entered the room and clasped Mark round the neck. Three young ladies entered after her and clasped Mark also, all three at once, two by the arms, one by the coat-tails. Mr. Barkers red whiskers stood out in wonder at the sight, and Caroline’s violet eyes opened to their utmost width.
“We thought we’d take you by surprise, darling,” the elder lady was saying. “The girls declared it would be delightful. I couldn’t afford any change for them this year, Mark, out of my poor means, and we determined to pay you a visit for a few days. And so we have come, and I hope you can take us in.”
“Yes, but don’t smother me, all of you at once,” was poor Mark’s answer. “I am glad to see you, mother; and I am sure my wife — Caroline, you remember my mother and my sisters.”
It was certainly an imposing number to take a house by storm, and there was vexation in Mark’s eye as he looked deprecatingly at his wife. But Caroline rose superior to the emergency. She came forward prettily and gracefully, and welcomed them all with a cordial smile. Mrs. Cray the elder could not take her eyes from her face: she thought she had never seen one grown so lovely. She withdrew them at length and turned them on Mr. Barker.
But that gentleman scarcely needed an introduction. He was of that free and easy nature that makes itself at home without one; and in an incredibly short time, before indeed the strangers had taken their bonnets off, he was chattering to them as familiarly as though he had known them for years. They were rather pleasing girls, these sisters of Mark — Fanny, Margaret, and Nina: very accomplished, very useless, and bearing about them the tone of good society.
Leaving Mark to welcome them, we must turn for an instant to the house of Miss Davenal. Sara was at rest, for she had paid Mr. Alfred King. In her desperate need — it surely might be called such! — she wrote the facts of the case to Mr. Wheatley. Not telling him the details, not saying a word that might not have been disclosed to the whole
body of police themselves, but simply stating to him that she had very urgent need of this two hundred pounds for her father’s sake. The result was, that Mr. Wheatley sent her the money. But he was not a rich man, and he candidly told her he could not have done it but for the certainty there existed of its speedy return to him. Sara lost not a moment in seeking another and a final interview with Mr. Alfred King. The papers were given up to her, the receipt signed, all was done as specified by Dr. Davenal, and the affair and the danger to Edward were alike at an end. The horrible nightmare on Sara Davenal’s days was lifted; the fear which had been making her old before her time was over. Her countenance lost its look of wearing pain, and she seemed like a child again in her freedom from care.
Yes, the dreadful nightmare was over, and Sara was at rest. In her immunity from pain, in her renewed happiness, it almost seemed as if the world might still have charms for her. You can look at her as she stands in the drawing-room by Miss Davenal’s side. It is the same evening as the one spoken of above, when Mrs. Cray and her daughters made that irruption upon Mark. Sara is in evening dress — a black gauze, with a little white net quilling on the low body and sleeves. Her white cloak lies on the sofa, and she is drawing on some new lavender gloves. But look at her face! at her cheek’s rich colour! at the sweet smile on the lips, at the bright eye! Is it the anticipated evening’s enjoyment that is calling these forth? No, no; the pleasant signs spring from a heart at rest: a heart that had long been aching, worn, terrified with a secret care.
It was very rare indeed that Miss Davenal went out, but she had accepted an invitation for dinner that evening. She had a few friends in London, not new ones (of new ones she had made none); but old acquaintances of her earlier days. The friend she was going to this evening, Lady Reid, had been her schoolfellow at Hallingham; they had grown up together, and Bettina Davenal was her bridesmaid when she married young Lieutenant Reid, who had then his fortune to make. He made it out in India, and he came home a colonel and a K.C.B.; came home only to die, as is the case with too many who have spent their best days in the Indian empire. His widow lived at Brompton, and Miss Davenal and she liked nothing better than to spend an hour together and talk of the days when they were so young and hopeful. How different, how different to them was the world now! Could it be the same world? Many of you, my readers, have asked the very question.
Neal had gone to the livery stables to order round a carriage, for Miss Bettina had a horror of cabs, and had not put her foot inside one since the evening of her arrival in London. She stood in her rich black silk and her cap of that fine white lace called point d’Angleterre, glancing from the window and talking with Sara. They had had news from Bombay that afternoon from Edward. Great news! and perhaps Sara’s cheeks owed some of their unusual colour to this.
Captain Davenal was married. He had fallen in love with a pretty girl in India, or she had fallen in love with him, and they were married. She was an only child, he wrote them word, and an heiress; her name Rose Reid, now Rose Davenal. Miss Davenal felt nearly sure it must be a niece of her old friend to whom she was that evening engaged. Lady Reid’s late husband had a brother in the civil service at Bombay, reported to be a rich man, and it was probable this was his daughter.
“It is just like Edward,” she said tartly to Sara, as she watched for the carriage. “To think that he should marry after a month or two’s acquaintance! He can’t have known her much longer.”
“But he says she is so pretty, aunt; so lovable!” was Sara’s pleading answer. “And — if she is an heiress, I am very glad for Edward’s sake.”
“Ah,” grimly returned Miss Bettina, having as usual heard all awry, “that’s it, no doubt, the money’s sake. I don’t forget a good old proverb: ‘ Marry in haste and repent at leisure!’ Here comes the carriage.”
They went down to it Neal, all perfection as usual, assisted them in and took his place by the side of the driver. They were nearly at their journey’s end when, in passing a row of houses, Sara, who happened to be looking out, saw Oswald Cray at one of the windows: and by his side a fair face half-hidden by the crimson curtain; the face of Jane Allister.
A mist gathered over her eyes and her heart She looked out still, mechanically; she saw the name written up as they left the houses behind them, “Bangalore Terrace she answered her aunt’s remarks as before; but the change within her was as if sunshine had given place to night Why, could she still be cherishing those past hopes? No; never for an instant She knew that all was over between her and Oswald Cray; that he was entirely lost to her. But she could not put away from her the old feelings and the old love; she could not see him thus in familiar companionship with another without bitter pangs and wild emotion. Perhaps Jane Allister was to be his wife!
Neal left them at Lady Reid’s, his orders being to return with the carriage a quarter before eleven. When he reached home it was dusk; and Dorcas, attired in her bonnet and shawl, came to him in the passage, and said she was going out to do a little shopping.
Neal watched her fairly off and then went indoors. He closed the shutters of the dining parlour, went up to the drawing-room, where he set the candle on the table, and closed those shutters also. He took a leisurely survey of the room, apparently searching for something, and reading, en passant, a note or two left upon the mantelpiece, and then he took his seat before Sara’s desk.
That little episode, the spoiled lock of the doctor’s desk, had taught him caution; he would not make the same mistake with this. Neal was an adept at his work: and, by the ingenious use of a penknife and a piece of wire, the desk was opened. It may be a question how long Neal had waited for this opportunity. Such a one had not occurred for months: his ladies out, and Dorcas out; and the house wrapped in the silence of night, and not likely to be invaded. —
And now a word to my readers. Should there be any among you who may feel inclined to cavil at this description of Neal’s treachery, deeming it improbable, let me tell you that it is but the simple truth — a recital of an episode in real life. The reading of the letters, the opening of the desks, the ferreting propensities, the treachery altogether, were practised by a retainer in a certain family, and the mischief wrought was incalculable. It separated those in spirit who had never been separated before; it gave rise to all sorts of misconception and ill-feeling; it caused animosity to prevail between relatives for years: and the worst was — the worst, the worst! — that ‘some of those relatives were never reconciled again in this world, for before the troth came to light death had been busy. As Coleridge says,
“Whispering tongues can poison truth.”
What Neal’s motive was I cannot tell you. What the motive of that other one was, was as little to be traced. There was nothing to be gained by it, so far as could be seen. It may have been that the prying propensities were innate in both natures; the love of working mischief inherent in their hearts. Certainly it was the ruling passion of their lives. The most extraordinary inventions, the strangest stories, were related by the one: you will find, before you have done with the other, that they were not abjured by him.
The first letter Neal came to in the desk — at least, the first he opened — happened to be one from Mr. Wheatley. By that he learned that two hundred pounds had been lent to Sara in the summer for the “completion of the payment she spoke of.” Coupled with his previously-acquired knowledge, Neal came to the conclusion that the trouble as regarded Captain Davenal was over, and the money paid. The precise nature of the trouble Neal had never succeeded in arriving at, but he did know that money had to be paid in secret on his account The next letter he came upon was the one received from the Captain that day: and if Neal had hoped to find groans and trouble and difficulty in it, he was most completely disappointed. It was one of the sunniest letters ever read; it spoke of his girl-wife and his own happiness: not a breath was there in it of care in any shape. Neal was nonplussed: and the letters did not afford him pleasure.
“The thing all settled! — the money
paid!” he repeated to himself, revolving the various items of news. “No wonder she has looked sprightly lately. Why, for months after the doctor’s death she seemed fit to hang herself! I thought some change had come to her. And he is married, is he! — and has picked up an heiress! I don’t like that Some folks do have the luck of it in this world. It’s a great shame! And she has no right to be happy, for I know she hates me. I know she suspects me, that’s more. I’ll try — I’ll try and deal out a little small coin in exchange. There’s always that other thing, thank goodness; the break with Mr. Oswald Cray. I wonder if she saw him this evening at that window? I did; and I saw the young lady too. I hope it’s going to be a match, if only to serve out this one!”
With this charitable wish Mr. Neal resumed his research of the desk. But nothing more of particular moment turned up, and he soon made it fast again in his own artistic manner, which defied detection.
And when Dorcas came in she found Neal, his supper eaten, stretched comfortably before the kitchen fire, taking a dose.
CHAPTER XLIV.
WAS SHE NEVER TO BE AT PEACE?
NEWS of an unpleasant nature was on its way to Miss Davenal and Sara; but they sat at breakfast unconscious of its nearness, waited upon by Neal the immaculate, in all confiding security, and entirely unsuspicious of that gentleman’s desk researches of the previous evening. A letter came in; it was directed to Miss Davenal in the handwriting of Dr. Keen.
“What’s agate now?” exclaimed Miss Davenal, as she opened it. For it was not very usual for the doctor to write in the middle of a quarter.