by Ellen Wood
“Neal, tell me the worst,” she cried, her voice and heart alike growing faint “I must hear it now.”
“Well, Miss Sara, she says she is the wife of Captain Davenal.”
“She — says — she — is — the — wife — of — Captain Davenal!”
The words were echoed slowly in very astonishment, a pause between each. Vague as her fears had been they had not touched on this.
“It is what she says, Miss Sara. I told her it must be one of two things — either that she was deceiving me in saying it, or that she was herself deceived. But she insists upon it that she is his true and lawful wife; that she was married to him nearly twelve months before he went abroad. She says my late master, Dr. Davenal, knew of it.”
Sara stared at Neal in a sort of helpless manner. Never for a moment did it occur to her to question the truth; her mind accepted it — a terrible calamity; worse, it seemed in this moment, than all that had gone before.
“She came here this morning in consequence of hearing of the Captain’s marriage to Miss Reid. I acknowledged that news had come home to that effect. It would have been quite useless, you see, Miss Sara, to deny what’s known publicly.”
“Neal! Neal! you will not mention this?” came the feverish wish, the first uttered in her bewilderment “You will guard it faithfully? We — I — some one must see what can be done.”
“You may entirely depend on me, Miss Sara,” replied Neal, speaking more impressively than was his wont — Neal the impassive. “Of course, miss, the chief thing will be to guard against exposure.”
Sara turned into the dining-room, mind and body alike sinking. A sick, faint fear came over her that this must be the secret connected with her brother which had been disclosed that long past night to Dr. Davenal. Another moment, and she did not see how that could be. There would have been no crime in it: Captain Davenal was not married then. Her brain was in a chaos of perplexity, her mind agitated with doubt. If this young woman — lady — whatever she might be — was Edward’s wife, how could he have married Rose Reid? Was it the money tempted him? Calm, self-controlled though she was usually, a groan of despair broke from her lips.
Neal in the back room thought she called him, and came round to the dining-room door. She looked up as he stood there and stared at him, just as though she had forgotten who he was.
“Did you call, Miss Sara?”
“I — I — I did not call. Neal — do you know — what the name is? — I mean — what it was?” —
“Yes, miss, I know so much as that. Catherine Wentworth.”
He retired, leaving Sara alone. Almost a rebellious thought was stealing over her — was she never to be at rest? Not at much rest just then certainly; for Mrs Cray had driven to the door and was asking for her.
Sara tied her bonnet mechanically and went out. Mrs Cray was seated in a fly. She would not alight then, she said: she had a great deal to do. Sara stepped in. Mrs. Cray was an imperious-looking woman, fair and pale, with a handsome face. Sara thought her over-dressed and very fidgety. They were not much acquainted when at Hallingham.
“I have nothing to wear,” she said to Sara. “I want a host of things. A bonnet first Mrs. Mark Cray has given me the address of a superior dressmaker. She is a little selfish, is she not?”
“Who is?” cried Sara, in answer to the sentence, which came out rather abruptly after the rest Mrs. Mark Cray. To confess to you my opinion, I think she might have lent me the carriage this morning, instead of sending me out in a hired fly, and keeping the carriage for herself and the girls. It seems to be the way of the world nowadays — the young before the old. She is Mark’s wife, and I am only his mother.”
Whether Sara would have found a suitable answer is uncertain. Something outside completely took away all thoughts of it They were at that moment passing the War Office; and, coming from it with an angry and determined look upon her pretty face, was the person whom she had just heard called Catherine Wentworth. Sara shrunk back in the cab’s comer, dismay on her countenance, dismay in her heart Had she already denounced Captain Davenal at head-quarters?
From milliners to linen-drapers, from linen-drapers to dressmakers, one place after another continually, until Sara was tired to death, the day wore away. The afternoon was getting on when the last commission was done, and Mrs. Cray, who had put on the new bonnet just bought, had leisure to think of the horse and driver.
“Poor things, they must want some repose,” she remarked, as she came out of the Pantheon. “Well, there’s only one place more. Will you tell the man, my dear?” she added as she got in. “Parliament Street. You know the number, I suppose.”
“What number?” inquired Sara. “Where to in Parliament Street?”
“To Mr. Oswald Cray’s. Bracknell and Street, I think, is the name of the firm.”
“There!” returned Sara in her discomposure. “I can’t go there.”
“Not go there! My dear, I must go there. Mr. Oswald Cray is my step-son. I shall call in for a minute to let him know I am in London.”
Opposition would be worse than acquiescence. Besides, what could be her plea? Sara, all her pulses fluttering, spoke the address to the driver, and took her place in silence opposite Mrs. Cray.
CHAPTER XLV.
MRS. BENN’S WRONGS.
“THEN, Benn, I’ll not have it done! You can’t go.”
“But I tell you I have got my orders. I am sent.”
“And who gave you the orders, pray, Joe Benn? Who sent you?”
“Mr. Oswald Cray. And the best thing for you to do is to hold your tongue and take off that there guy of a bonnet, and hide your bare arms, and put on a apron that’s clean, and otherwise make yourself decent, for you have got to do it And when folks have got to do a thing, they may as well make up their minds to do it in the best way and readiest way they can.”
Mr. Benn, in thus breathlessly telling his wife she had “got to do it,” did not allude to the little items of personal embellishment he mentioned, but to something else which Mrs. Benn abhorred above all things — that of waiting on gentlemen. It happened now and then that a luncheon or other meal would be ordered at the offices in Parliament Street for some stranger or friend stopping in London, which meal Mrs. Benn had to prepare, and her husband to wait at. On this day Mr. Street had ordered mutton-chops to be ready for two o’clock, and the tray laid for three persons; and this it was that was discomposing Mrs. Benn. In the first place, it was one of those oft-recurring periodical battles of her life — a cleaning-day; in the next place, her husband had just given her the startling information that she would have to wait at the meal as well as to cook it “And a fine object you be, to do it!” he had wound up with in a mutter to himself.
Certainly Mrs. Benn did not appear to particular advantage today, looking at her in an artistic point of view. You have had the pleasure of seeing her once before in the high costume donned for the occasion of those days specially marked in her calendar. I don’t think there’s much change. Her bonnet, black once, rusty brown now, is on, brim downwards, crown up, strings tied in a knot at the back; her apron is a piece of wrappering off a bale of goods, embellished with sundry holes and fastened round her with an iron skewer; and her gown, turned up under it, is pinned into a heap behind. She stands over the Dutch oven, her arms bare and black, and a fork in her hand; and ever and anon as she stoops to turn or touch the chops in the Dutch oven, the gathered gown sways itself up at the back, not unlike a sail. Mr. Benn is in his shirt-sleeves, having taken off his coat to brush it, preparatory to going out “It’s sure to be the case! I’ve marked it times and times again!” burst forth Mrs. Benn, trying to fling off a live coal which had intruded itself into the Dutch oven. “If ever there’s lunch or any bothering extra of that sort wanted, it’s safe to be on my cleaning-day! Mr. Street have got no more consideration nor a stalking gander; and Mr. Oswald Cray have got as little. They might remember my cleaning-days, and spare a body on ‘em.”
“And a fine
speech that is,” said Mr. Benn, in a reprimanding tone. “You’d better not let it come anigh their ears. We are here, you and me, to do what work’s required of us, at any hour, whether it’s cooking or whether it’s waiting, and your ord’nary work must give way when it’s wanted to give it They’d soon get other servants in our places.”
“He comes to the top o’ the stairs just as the clock was going one,” observed Mrs. Benn, paying no more attention to the words of her husband than if she had been deaf. “‘ Are you there? ‘ he calls out, and I looked up and see it was Mr. Street. ‘ Yes, sir,’ says I, ‘ I be;’ and I was in a cloud of dust at the moment fit to smother you, a doing out of that there wood and bottle cupboard. ‘ Oh,’ says he,’ some mutton-chops for two o’clock, and lay the tray for three. And do ’em well,’ says he, ‘ and a dish of mashed potaters.’ A nice thing that was for me to hear! — and to have to go out the figure I be, after chops, and to be hindered in my cleaning a good two hours! Ain’t that enough, Joe Benn, without having to turn to and wait?”
“I can’t help it,” said Joe, civilly, as he put on his coat. “If I am ordered work out of doors I must go about it, just as you must the work in. Mr. Oswald Cray has sent me down to Limehouse, and I must be back before the office closes. Don’t I tell you I can’t even stop for my dinner?”
He went away without more words. He probably would have had a few sent after him, but for an unlucky catastrophe that occurred at the moment. The saucepan of potatoes fell on its side, and enveloped Mrs. Benn and the Dutch oven in a mass of steam. It took all that lady’s best attention to remedy it; and when she looked up Mr. Benn was gone.
Very reluctantly indeed did she set about making herself presentable; but, as Benn had said, there was no help for it. She washed her face and hands, and turned down the gown, and drew down its sleeves, and put on a white apron, and replaced the choice bonnet with a dean cap, grumbling bitterly all the time. And at the appointed hour she took up the luncheon-tray.
Three gentlemen partook of the meal — Mr. Street, Oswald Cray and a well-known contractor, who had only that day arrived in London from Spain, and was going into the country to his works by a four o’clock train. They were discussing business while they ate.
A certain projected line of rail in Spain was being organised. Bracknell and Street were the engineers, and it was proposed that Mr. Oswald Cray should go out as superintendent The details of the affair do not concern us; but it must be mentioned that the sojourn in Spain would be likely, from certain attendant circumstances, to prove of great advantage to Mr. Oswald Cray in a pecuniary point of view.
After the departure of the guest Mr. Street and Oswald remained together a few minutes talking. “You’ll not think of declining it, of course, Cray?” remarked the latter. “ I only wish I could go!”
“I don’t see how you will manage without me here,” remarked Oswald.
“We must manage in the best way we can. Bracknell must be with us more than he has been lately. Of course we could send somebody else to do the Spain business were it impossible that you could leave; but it is not impossible, and I speak in your interest when I say it is a chance you ought not to miss.”
“True. I shall like to go, if home affairs can spare me. I suppose it will involve a stay there of two years?”
“Nearer three,” remarked Mr. Street. “Then we will consider your going as settled; and things must be at once prepared at home contingent upon it.”
“Yes,” acquiesced Oswald. “Wait a moment,” he added, as Mr. Street was turning away to descend. “I want to speak to you about Allister. I wish you would take him on again.”
Mr. Street pursed his lips up. He had a round face and small light eyes, in which sat a hard look. Whether it was the hard look or not, I can’t tell, or whether it was that the look was only the index of the nature — as it generally is — certain it was that Mr. Street was not liked in the house. Oswald knew the sign of the contracted lips.
“What is your objection?” he pursued. “Allister’s quite well apparently, and—”
“Apparently! there it is,” interrupted Mr. Street “It’s a great hindrance to business, these sickly clerks — well one day, ill the next; especially in such a house as ours. We have no time for it.”
“Allister seems well. At one time I thought his lungs were fatally diseased, but I begin to believe I was entirely mistaken. It is nearly twelve months since the worst symptoms left him, and he seems now as strong as I am.”
“Pooh!” said Mr. Street. “A warm climate, if he could get to it, might set him up; but in this place of change and fogs and damp, rely upon it he’ll not keep well long.”
Oswald was silent. So far as the warm climate went, he agreed with Mr. Street. Had Frank Allister the opportunity of going to one it might set him up for a long life.
“How has he lived?” asked Mr. Street. “He has no money.”
“He has done work at home lately. We have furnished him with some to do; plans and estimates, and such like. He has had tracings also from another house or two.”
“Is that sister of his with him still?”
“Yes. She is a faithful ally. She has taken a daily situation as companion to a blind lady. It all helps to bring grist to the mill. Allister is very anxious to come back, Mr. Street. I really see no reason why he should not. I am sure of one thing — that he is as capable of doing his work here now as any clerk we employ.”
“Now. Will you guarantee that he shall continue capable of doing it?”
“I wish I could guarantee it.”
“Of course. If wishes were horses — you know the old adage. Were I to take him on now, perhaps in winter he would get ill, and have to leave again. We can’t afford those interruptions.”
“I trust indeed he would not. He passed well through last winter; improving in it every day.”
“Last winter was a mild one, except for a little extreme cold we had in November. Next winter may be a severe one. I tell you, Cray, there’s only one safeguard for Allister; and that’s a warmer climate. At any rate, a more settled one. Such is my opinion.”
Oswald would not give in. “Considering that Allister is now in health and strength—”
“Strength for him,” put in Mr. Street.
“Well, strength for him if you like to put it so. But I am sure you would be surprised to see how strong he does appear to be. Considering this, and that he believes himself to be permanently and radically cured, it will sound very hard to him if I tell him that we cannot take him back again.”
“If your wish is to have him back — that is, if you make a personal matter of it — have him,” said Mr. Street. “I see you want it.”
“Yes, I do,” said Oswald. “I wish him back, both as a matter of personal liking and that his services are efficient. This departure of mine for Spain will involve the taking on of at least one more clerk. Let it be Allister.”
“Have it as you like, then,” said Mr. Street. “Let Allister come back at once. Tell him to come on Monday.”
So it was settled. They went down talking together, and encountered Mrs. Benn on the lower passage with a hearth-broom in her hand.
“May I take the tray away, gentlemen?”
Oswald nodded, and the woman went up-stairs, her face and her temper as crusty as they could be.
“I wonder the world’s let go on!” she ejaculated, as she flung the broom on a chair and began to put the things together on the tray. “ I wonder how they’d like to have a day’s cleaning to do, and to be called off for three mortal hours in the midst of it? It’s four o’clock if it’s a minute, and I was stopped in my work at one; and if that’s not three hours, I’d like to know what is. I’ve set to nothing since; how can I, dressed up to please them? and I’m sure — my! what cormorants!”
The subjoined sentence, given utterance to by Mrs. Benn in her surprise, had reference to the mutton-chop dish, on which her eyes had just rested. She stood a moment gazing at it, her hands uplifted
.
“If they haven’t gone and ate ’em all! Nine thick chops, and only the tails of two of ’em left! Well, I’d not own to such famine if I was gentlefolks. I sent ’em up for show — for I don’t forget the trimming I got for skimping the number last time chops was ordered — never supposing they’d eat ‘em. I meant two of them chops to come up again for Mr. Oswald Cray’s dinner; they’d have done for him, warmed up. And now they’re demolished! — and I must dance out again to that butcher’s — and Benn a-wanting something with his tea, as he’s sure to do, going out without his dinner! — and me with all the lower part of the house to do yet! — and got my things to change again. It’s a wonder the world do go on!”
She carried the tray down; but what with glasses and other things, she could not carry all at once, and had to make two journeys of it. It did not add to her geniality of mood. Arrived in the kitchen the second time, she took the things off the tray, folded the cloth carefully — for in such matters she was very particular — and laid it in the dresser-drawer. Then putting the other things in a stack to be washed by and by, she began to make preparations for resuming the interrupted work. As a preliminary to this, she slowly turned her gown up over the white apron, and looked round for the broom. After casting her eyes in all directions, and casting them in vain, recollection returned to her.
“Drat the broom! If I haven’t gone and left it up-stairs. I wish their luncheons and their bother was far enough!”
She turned down her gown again, possibly lest she might encounter either of her masters on the way, and proceeded up the kitchen stairs. The broom lay on the chair where she had flung it, in Oswald’s sitting-room. As she took it up she espied some crumbs under the table, and stooped down to brush them carefully into her hand, grumbling all the while.
“It’s just like ‘em! dropping their crumbs down like so many children! The trouble I’d used to have with that when old Bracknell was here! He’d shake his table-napkin on the carpet, he would; and Benn, he’d come away and never—”