by Ellen Wood
“I cannot tell you anything decisive now. I will come to you if you will tell me where.”
She gave him Miss Davenal’s address. “I am so sorry to trouble you; I did not think of that. A few days and I shall go back to France.”
“No,” replied the surgeon. “You must not think of going back. It would not do.”
“But I came. And it has not hurt me.”
“You must not return.”
He spoke in a tone so quietly grave that Caroline did not like it. Could it be that he knew she would be unable to go back? What would become of Mark? what would become of her? But she could not take up his time longer then.
“Is this right?” she asked timidly, as she laid a sovereign and a shilling on the table.
“It’s quite wrong,” said he. “Doctors don’t prey upon one another. My dear lady, do you think I should take money from Dr. Davenal’s niece? — or your husband’s wife? Anything that I can possibly do for you I shall be most happy to do — and I am glad you happened to come to me.”
She went out of the house. Why it should have been she could not tell, for certainly Mr. Welch’s words had not induced it, but the conviction of a fatal termination, which had but dawned upon her before, bad taken firm possession of her now. Lost in thought as she walked, she missed the turning by which she had gained the surgeon’s house, and found herself at last in a labyrinth, far away from omnibuses and anything else available.
One directed her this way; one directed her that Weary, faint, unfit to move another step, she found herself at last in a street whose aspect seemed more familiar; but not until she caught sight of a door-plate, “Bracknell, Street, and Oswald Cray,” did she recognise it to be Parliament Street The temptation to go in and ask to be allowed to rest was strong upon her, but she did not like to do so, and walked on, longing to sit down on every door-step. A little way further and she met Oswald Cray.
When the physical strength has been taxed beyond its power, especially in a peculiar case such as hers, any little break to it of mental excitement either renovates it for the moment or destroys it utterly. It was the latter case with Caroline.
“Mrs. Cray!” exclaimed Oswald, in surprise. “I did not know you were in London.”
She caught hold of something in her faintness. Whether pillar, railings, post, she could not have told. Her brow grew moist, her lips white. Oswald hastened to support her.
“I have lost my way,” she gasped, leaning heavily upon him. “I missed it when I came out of the surgeon’s, Mr. Welch. I came over from Honfleur on Saturday, Oswald; I came to consult an English doctor. I am dying.”
“Dying!” repeated Oswald. “No, no, it is only a little faintness.”
“Not this. I shall be better of this directly. It is my side. I’ll tell you about it when the faintness has passed. I thought there was no hope for me. I know it now.”
He was leading her gently, by slow steps, towards the house. “How is Mark? Is he here too?” he asked.
“Not Mark. He cannot come, you know.”
“Is he getting on?”
“Oh, Oswald! getting on! There’s no practice; and we have not a penny-piece; and — I — I am dying. Oh, if I had not to die abroad! If Mark could but come to me.”
“Where are you staying?” he asked after a pause.
“Watton gave me shelter. It was late when the boat got up, too late to go on to my aunt Bettina’s, and I called at Watton’s, and asked her to take me in. Oswald! — Oswald!—”
“What?” he asked, for she had dropped her voice, and her utterance seemed to be impeded by emotion.
“I heard the bell toll out for Prince Albert! I was close to it!”
“Ah!”
“Oswald! can you realise the feet that he is dead?”
“Not yet; scarcely yet. It is difficult to believe that he is taken, while we are left. It seems to us, in our finite notions, that there’s hardly a man in the realm but could have been better spared. But God knows best.”
His tone of pain had changed to reverence. There was no more said until they reached his door. He assisted her up-stairs to the old sitting-room, the same sitting-room, with the same plans and charts and signs of work on its table. Oswald was a full partner now. Industry — trustful, patient, persevering, fair-dealing industry — had met with its reward. Did you ever know it fail? I never did.
Mr. Bracknell had virtually retired from the firm, leaving most of its profit to Mr. Street and Oswald Cray. Had Miss Sara Davenal been the daughter of the still-living and flourishing physician, on whom not a cloud rested, as was the case in the years gone by, Oswald could have asked for her hand now, and given her a home that even he would have deemed worthy of her.
Not having her, however, or any other lady, as a wife in prospective, he was content to let the home remain in abeyance, and lived in the old rooms, putting up with the comforts and agreeables Mrs. Benn chose to provide for him. The first thing Caroline did, on being placed on an easy chair, was to faint away. It was the only time she had fainted since the day in October when she walked to the Côte de Grace. Mark Cray gave fatigue the benefit of the blame then, and it was probably due to the same cause now. When Mrs. Benn came up in answer to Oswald’s summons, nothing could well exceed her amazement at seeing a lifeless lady lying in the chair, her bonnet hanging at the back by its strings, her gloves on the ground, and Mr. Oswald Cray rubbing her unconscious hands.
The first thought that occurred to Mrs. Benn was one of wonder how she got there: the second, that it was some stranger who had come to the offices on business, and had been taken ill.
“She’s married, at any rate,” remarked that lady, as she took up the left hand to chafe it. “But nobody would say so to look in her face. She’s like a girl.”
“Don’t you know her?” returned Oswald, glancing at the woman. “It is Mrs. Cray; my brothers wife.”
Mrs. Benn gave a shriek in her surprise. “Her! Why, sir, how she’s altered! She looks fit—”
“Hush!” was his interrupting caution, for Caroline began to revive. “Can’t we improvise a sofa or mattress, or something of that sort, to place her on?”
CHAPTER LVI.
NO HOPE.
IN the same house at Pimlico, and in the same attire as of yore, save that the deeper mourning had been exchanged for rich silks, and the black ribbons on the real guipure cape for white or grey, sat Miss Bettina Davenal. She was not altered. She had the same stately presence, the same pale, refined features; she was of a stamp that changes little, and never seems to grow old. Sara had changed more than her aunt, and the earnest, sweet expression, always characteristic of her face, was mingled now with habitual sadness. She wore a robe of soft grey cashmere, its white, collar tied with ribbon, and bows of the same ornamenting the lace sleeves shading her delicate wrists.
Miss Bettina stood, grandly courteous; Sara’s cheeks were flushed, and she played with a key which had happened to be in her hand as she rose. Oswald Cray had come in unexpectedly, and was telling the story of Caroline; telling it rapidly, before he took the chair offered him. What with the extraordinary nature of the news, and Miss Bettina’s inaptitude for hearing; it was a difficult business as usual.
“Come over from Honfleur in a goods-boat, and it didn’t get here?” exclaimed Miss Bettina, commenting on what she did hear — for Oswald repeated the particulars Caroline had disclosed to him on her revival. “And where do you say she’s lying, sir?”
“In my sitting-room in Parliament Street.”
“The boat is?” questioned Miss Bettina, looking at Oswald keenly, as if she thought he had lost his senses. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Oswald Cray, I must have misunderstood.”
“Caroline is lying there, not the boat. I fear she is very ill. She looks so; and she says she is suffering from some fatal complaint.”
“Fatal mistake! I should think so,” returned Miss Bettina. “If ever a man made that, it was Mark Cray when he threw up Hallingham. But what’s she co
me for? And why did she go to you instead of to me?”
But Sara had drawn near to Oswald. She had heard the explanation aright, and the words “fatal complaint” frightened her. “Do you know what it is?” she asked. “Is she very ill?”
“She is so ill, if her looks may be trusted, that I should think she cannot live long,” he answered. “I came down to you at once.
Something must be done with her; we cannot let her go back to Watton’s. If you are unable to receive her, I will get a lodging—”
“But we are not unable to receive her,” interrupted Sara. “Of course we are not. My aunt—”
“Caroline doubted whether you had room. She has just told me you were expecting Captain Davenal and his wife.”
“We are looking for their arrival daily. Perhaps the ship may be in to-day. But they will not stay with us: Lady Reid expects them there. Did you not know Edward was coming?” she continued, quitting for a moment the subject of Caroline. “His wife’s father is dead, and business is bringing them home. She has come into a large fortune.”
“Will you let me understand what this matter is?” interposed Miss Bettina.
It recalled them to the present But to make Miss Bettina understand — or rather hear — was a work not speedily accomplished. She even was aware of it herself.
“I am not myself to-day, sir,” she said to Oswald Cray. “I have not been myself since yesterday morning. When the tidings were brought to me that — that it was all over with that good Prince — I felt as I had never felt in my life before. It is not a common death, Mr. Oswald Cray, or a common loss, even had we been prepared for it But we were not prepared. That Royal Lady and her children were not prepared; and we can but pray God, who tempers the wind to the shorn lamb, to love and help them.”
“Amen!” responded the heart of Oswald.
When there was a real necessity for Miss Bettina Davenal’s relenting in her severity, she did relent. She returned with Mr. Oswald Cray, and Sara went with them. On her way she spoke to him about the rise in his prospects, a rumour of which she had heard from Neal.
“Is it true?” she asked, bending forward to catch his answer, as he sat opposite to her in the carriage.
“It is true that my share has been considerably increased. Mr. Bracknell has retired.”
“I suppose you will take a house now?”
“I think not,” said Oswald. “ Single men don’t care to set up a house of their own.”
“What men don’t?”
“Unmarried men.”
“Oh.” said Miss Bettina. “Do you new intend to marry?”
Oswald laughed. “I have no time to think about it, Miss Bettina.”
Miss Bettina did not catch the answer. “Some time ago we had reason given ns to think that you were about to marry. Did you change your mind?”
It was a home question. Oswald could have joked it off but for that gentle, conscious, bent face in the opposite comer. “We have to give up all kinds of fond dreams and visions, you know, Miss Bettina. Youth is very apt to indulge in such: and they mostly turn out vain.”
“Turned out vain, did she? I must say I did not think she was in a position worthy of you.”
Oswald opened his eyes. “ Of whom are you speaking, Miss Davenal?”
“Of you. I was not speaking of any one else.”
“But the lady? You alluded to a lady.”
“Oh, the lady. You don’t want me to tell you her name. You know it well enough. That young Scotch lady whose brother was ill.”
He breathed with a feeling of relief. A fear had come over him that his dearest feelings had been exposed to Miss Davenal — perhaps to others. Sara’s colour heightened, and she raised her eyes momentarily. They met Oswald’s: and she was vexed with herself.
“I shall most likely live a bachelor all my days, Miss Davenal. I believe I shall.”
“More unwise of you, Mr. Oswald Cray! Bachelors are to be pitied. They never get a cup of decent tea or a button on their shirts.”
“I am independent of buttons; I have set up studs. See,” he continued, showing his wrists. “And tea I don’t particularly care for.”
Miss Bettina thought he was serious. “You’d be happier as a married man, with somebody to take care of your comforts. It is so different with women; they are happiest single — at least, such is my belief — and their comforts are in their own hands.”
“The difficulty is to find somebody suitable, Miss Bettina. Especially to us busy men, who have no time to look out.”
“True,” she answered. But whether she heard or not was another matter. “What’s Mark Cray about?” she presently asked, somewhat abruptly. “ Doing any more harm?”
“I hear he is not doing any good. There’s no practice in Honfleur.” —
“No politics?” —
“Practice.”
“Nobody in their senses would have thought there was. Perhaps he expects to get up a mining scheme there, and dazzle the French.”
“If he is to do any good for himself, he must come over and get clear of the mining scheme here” observed Oswald.
Miss Davenal nodded her head and drew in her lips. It was not often that she condescended to make the slightest allusion to Mark Cray.
Mrs. Cray was asleep when they entered. She lay on the couch hastily improvised for her, dressed, and covered with a warm counterpane. One hand was under her wan cheek, the other lay outside, white, attenuate, cold. Miss Bettina Davenal took one look; one look only with those keen eyes of hers. It was quite enough, and an exclamation of dismay broke from her lips. Caroline opened her eyes and gazed around in bewilderment.
“Aunt Bettina! Have they brought you to see me? Will you take me in for a day or two until I can go back?”
“I have come for you,” said Miss Bettina.
Until I can go back! Poor thing! what had she to go back to? A lodging in a foreign land that they might be turned from at any hour, for the rent could not be paid up; scanty nourishment, care, trouble, almost despair. Only Mark to lean upon, with his wavering instability: his vague chatter of the something that was to “turn up.” Better depend upon a reed than upon Mark Cray.
Sara Davenal had drawn back for a moment, that the shock on her own face might be subdued before presenting it to Caroline. Oswald passed round to her.
“Is she dying?” came the frightened whisper.
“Do not be alarmed,” he answered. “She looked worse than this when I first brought her in. She has had a good deal of excitement and fatigue these last few days, and that tells upon her appearance.”
“Yes — but — do you know there’s a look in her face that puts me in mind of papa’s. Of papa’s as it was the night he died.”
It was not often that Sara gave way to emotion. The moisture had gathered on her brow, and her hands were trembling. Oswald gently laid his hand upon her shoulder.
“You are not going to faint, surely, Sara!”
“No, no” — and the slightest possible smile parted her trembling lips. “I used to think I was very brave, but lately — at times — I have found myself a coward. I seem to become afraid at trifles,” she continued in a dreamy tone, as if debating the question with herself why it should be so. —
“Where’s Sara? I thought I saw her.”
Sara moved forward at the words. She suppressed all sign of emotion as she stooped over her cousin. Caroline was the one to show it now. She burst into tears and sobbed hysterically.
“If Uncle Richard were but alive! He could cure me.”
“Don’t, Caroline, don’t distress yourself. There are doctors as clever as papa was.”
“I kept thinking” — she turned her colourless face to Sara as she spoke—” I kept thinking at Honfleur of Uncle Richard; that if the old days could come back again, and I were at home with him at Hallingham in the old house as it used to be, I should be well soon. The thought kept haunting me. And, Sara, I am sure if my uncle were alive he could cure me. I shall never be
lieve otherwise.”
She paused. Sara knew not what reply to make. Miss Davenal did not catch the words, and Oswald leaned on the back of a chair in silence, only looking at her as she lay.
“Why should this conviction have haunted me? Uncle Richard was gone. Mark kept dinning in my ears that there were other doctors as good as Dr. Davenal, and at last I grew to think so too, because they were English. So I came over; I should have had a fever or died if I had not come; and now I see how foolish the hope was, for they can’t cure me. Nobody could do it but Uncle Richard.”
Miss Bettina had been bending her ear close to the invalid, and caught the sense of the words. “Why do you think nobody can cure you?”
“I feel that they can’t. No: Uncle Richard’s gone, and there’s no chance for me.”
They got her ready, Oswald helped her down to the carriage, and she was conveyed home. The only home she would henceforth know in this world. Dorcas stood in the passage, and looked on askance as she entered the house. That the blooming young bride whom she had received into the Abbey at Hallingham little more than two short years before!
Sara gave up her room to her as the most commodious one in the house, herself taking the chamber at the back of it, which had been occasionally occupied by Dick and Leo. Caroline looked round the room as she lay in bed, a curious, inquiring sort of gaze in her eyes.
“Have I been in this room before?” she suddenly asked.
She had never been in it. Her visits to Miss Bettina’s, during the prosperity in Grosvenor Place, were not sufficiently familiar to allow of her entering the bedrooms. Sara told her she had never yet been in it.
“I seem to know it all; I seem to have seen it before. I suppose it’s a sign that I shall die in it.”
She spoke dreamily, alluding to a foolish superstition that she had heard in her childhood, and probably had never thought of since. It was not a very promising beginning.
Miss Davenal wrote a line to Mr. Welch, the surgeon, and he called in the evening. Caroline was better then, calm and cheerful. Her spirits had revived in a wonderful manner; but it was in her nature to be subject to these sudden fluctuations.