by Ellen Wood
A pause. “But — surely there was some attachment?”
“A little: in the old days. It is very long ago now. How did you know of it?”
“Oswald Cray himself told me. It was the evening we went up to town together after Caroline’s wedding. He knew I was going out immediately with the regiment, and he gave me a hint of how it was between you. Only a hint; nothing more. I suppose — I suppose,” more slowly added Captain Davenal, “that this miserable business of mine broke it off. I conclude that when Oswald found at my father’s death that you had no money he declined the compact. It’s the way of the world.”
“Not so. No. I do not think money or the want of it, would have any influence on Oswald Cray. In this case it certainly had not. We had parted before papa died.”
“What then was the cause, Sara?”
Should she tell him? — that it was his conduct broke it off? Better not, perhaps; it could do no earthly good and would be only adding pain to pain.
“It is a thing of the past now, Edward; let it remain so. The cause that parted us was one that could not be got over. We are friends still, though we do not often meet. More than that we can never be.”
Captain Davenal was sorry to hear it. Thoughtless and imprudent as he was by nature himself, he could not but be aware of the value of Oswald Cray. Such a man would make the happiness — and guard it — of any woman.
“I think I had better mention one fact to you, Edward,” she resumed, after some moments given to the matter in her own mind. “You have been assuming that no one was cognisant of that business of yours, except papa, myself, and Mr. Alfred King; but —— —”
“No other living soul was cognisant of it,” interrupted Captain Davenal. “My father’s promptitude stopped it.”
“Oswald Cray knew of it.”
“Impossible!” he said, recovering from a pause of surprise.
“He did indeed. I am not sure that he knew the exact particulars, but he knew a very great deal. I believe — I fancy — that he had gathered even a worse impression of it than the case actually warranted.”
Captain Davenal was incredulous. “From whom did he learn it?”
“I cannot tell you. I have always feared that, as he knew it, it must have been known to others.”
“I tell you, Sara, that beyond you and my father, and King, nobody in the world knew of it. You are under some mistake. Oswald Cray could not have known of it.”
“Nay then, Edward, as it has come so far I will tell you the truth. Oswald Cray did know of it, and it was that, and nothing else, that caused us to part. He — he thought, after that, that I was no fit wife for him,” she added in a low tone of pain. “And in truth I was not.”
A pause of distress. “Unfit as my sister?”
“Yes. I suppose he feared that the crime might at any time be disclosed to the world.”
“But how could he have known it?” reiterated Captain Davenal, the one surprise overwhelming every other emotion in his mind.
“King I blow would not tell; for his own sake he dared not: and we may be very sure my father did not He sacrificed himself to retain it a secret.”
“That Oswald Cray knew of it I can assure you,” she repeated.
“He must have known of it as soon — or almost as soon — as we did. From that night that you came down to Hallingham in secret his behaviour changed; and a little later, when a sort of explanation took place between us, he spoke to me of what had come to his knowledge. I know no more.”
“Well, it is beyond my comprehension,” said Captain Davenal; “it passes belief. — Good Heavens! if Oswald Cray knew it, where’s my security that others do not? I must look into this.”
He was about to go off in impulsive haste, probably to seek Oswald Cray, but Sara detained him. The uncertain doubt, the dread lying most heavy on her heart, was not spoken yet.
“Don’t go, Edward. You will regard me as a bird of ill-omen, I fear, but I have something to say to you on a subject as unpleasant as this, though of a totally different nature.”
“No crime, I hope,” he remarked in a joking tone, as he reseated himself. It was utterly impossible for Edward Davenal to remain sober and serious long.
“It would be a crime — if it were true.”
“Well, say on, Sara: I am all attention. I have been guilty of a thousand and one acts of folly in my life; never but of one crime. And that I was drawn into.”
Captain Davenal did right to bid her “say on,” for she seemed to have no inclination to say anything; or else to be uncertain in what words to clothe it. It was a decidedly unpleasant topic, and her colour went and came.
“I would not mention it, Edward, if I were not obliged; if I did not fear consequences for you now you have come home,” she began. “It has been weighing me down a long, long while, and I have had to bear it, saying nothing—”
“Has some private debt turned up against me?” he cried hastily. “I thought I had not one out in the European world. I’ll settle it to-morrow, Sara, whatever it may be.”
“It is not debt at all. It is—”
Sara stopped, partly with emotion, partly from her excessive reluctance to approach the topic. Should it prove to be altogether some mistake, a feeling of shame would rest upon her for having whispered it.
“It’s what? Why don’t you go on?”
“I must go on if I am to tell you,” she resumed, rallying her courage. “Did you ever, before you went out — marry anybody?”
“Did I — what?” he returned, looking up with an exceedingly amused expression on his face “O Edward, you heal’d.”
“If I heard I did not understand. What do you mean? Why do you ask me so foolish a question?”
“You have not answered it,” she continued in a low voice.
Captain Davenal noted for the first time the changing hue of her face, the troubled eye, the shrinking, timid manner. His mood changed to seriousness.
“Sara, what do you mean? Did I marry anybody before I went out, you ask? I neither married anybody, nor promised marriage. I — Halloa! you don’t mean that I am about to have a breach of promise brought against me?”
The notion was so amusing to Captain Davenal that he burst into a laugh. Sara shook her head; and when his laugh had subsided she bent her cheek upon her hand, and related to him, calmly and quietly, what had occurred. The Captain was excessively amused: he could not be brought to regard the tale in any other light than as a joke.
“What do you say the lady’s name was? Catherine what?”
“Catherine Wentworth.”
“Catherine Wentworth?” he deliberated. “I never heard the name before in my life; never knew any one bearing it Why, Sara, you do not mean to say this has seriously troubled you?”
“It has very seriously troubled me. At times, what with one dread and another, I seemed to have more upon me than I could bear. I had no one to whom I could tell the trouble and the doubt:
I dared not write it to you, lest your wife should get hold of the letter.”
“And if she had? What then?”
“If she had?” repeated Sara. “Do you forget the charge?”
“It’s too laughable for me to forget it. Rose would have laughed at it with me. Sara, my dear, rely upon it this has arisen from some queer mistake.”
His open countenance, the utter absence of all symptom of fear, the cool manner in which he treated it, caused Sara to breathe a sigh of relief. Half her doubts had vanished.
“The strange thing is, why she should make the charge — why she should say she was your wife. It was not done to extort money, for she has never asked for a farthing. She said papa knew of the marriage.” —
“Did she?” was the retort, delivered lightly. “Did she tell all this to you?”
“Not to me. I have never spoken to her; I told you so. What I have learnt, I learnt through Neal.”
Captain Davenal paused in reflection. “Who knows but that gentleman may be at the bottom of
it?” he said at length. “If he opens desks — I don’t say he does, I say if he does — he might get up this tale.”
“And his motive?” returned Sara, not agreeing with the proposition.
“Nay, I don’t know.”
“But Neal did not come forward with the tale. It was in consequence of what I accidentally heard her say that I questioned Neal; and I must do him the justice to declare that it was with very great reluctance he would answer me. I heard Neal tell her, apparently in answer to a question, that there was no doubt Captain Davenal was married; that he had married a Miss Reid, an heiress. She replied that she would have satisfaction, no matter what punishment it brought him (you) to.”
“And Neal afterwards assured you that she was Captain Davenal’s wife?”
“Neal assured me that she said she was. Neal himself said he did not believe her to be so; he thought there must be some mistake. She declared she had been married to you nearly a twelvemonth before you quitted Europe, and that Dr. Davenal knew of it.”
“The story-telling little hussy!”
“Edward, I confess to you that I never so much as thought of its not being true in that first moment! I think fear must have taken possession of me and overpowered my judgment.”
“You should have written to me, Sara.”
“I have told you why I did not: lest the letter should fall into the hands of your wife. And I believe that a dread of its truth made me shrink from approaching it. That very same day I saw the young person come out of the War Office. I did not know, and don’t know, whether it is the proper place to lodge complaints against officers, but I supposed she had been to lodge one against you.”
“And you have seen her here since, at the house?” —
“Occasionally. She has never been troublesome. She has come, apparently, to say a word or two to Neal. I have never questioned him upon the visits: I have dreaded the subject too much. Only yesterday I saw Neal speaking with her at the corner of, the street.”
“Well, Sara, I shall sift this.”
She lifted her head. “Yes?”
“I shall. It would not have been pleasant had the rumour reached the ears of my wife.”
He walked to the window and stood there a moment or two, a flush upon his face, a frown upon his brow. When he turned round again he was laughing.
“Did Aunt Bett hear of this?”
“O no.”
“She’d have taken it for granted it was true. Had anybody told her in the old days that I had married sixteen wives, and then set the town on fire with a lighted torch, Aunt Bett would have believed it of me. But, Sara, I am surprised at you.”
She glanced at him with a faint smile: not liking to say that the dreadful business, the secret of that past night, which had no doubt helped to send Dr. Davenal to his grave, had, at the time, somewhat shaken her faith in her gallant brother. But for that terrible blow, she had never given a moment’s credit to this.
CHAPTER LIX.
THE SERGEANT-MAJOR’S WIFE.
CAPTAIN DAVENAL had made light of the matter to his sister. Knowing how unfounded was the charge, the whole thing struck him as being so absurd, so improbable, that his mind could but receive it as a jest. Nevertheless, upon reflection, he saw that it might prove a subject of serious annoyance: such charges, especially if maliciously made and well planned, sometimes cost a world of trouble in their refutation.
He had said it was his intention to sift it. Sara suggested that he should do what she had shrunk from doing — question Neal. Captain Davenal hesitated. If there were any foundation for his suspicion that Mr. Neal might have had something to do with making the charge, it would not perhaps be policy to speak to that gentleman in the present stage of the affair. Better try by some other means to find out who the young woman was, and all about her. It is true that without the help of Neal Captain Davenal did not see his way clear to accomplish this: to seek for an unknown young woman in London, one to whom he had no clue, was something equivalent to that traditional search, the hunting for a needle in a bottle of hay.
“I wonder if Dorcas could tell us anything about her?” he exclaimed, ringing the bell upon impulse, as he did most things. And when Dorcas appeared in answer to it, he plunged into a sea of questions that had only the effect of bewildering her.
“You must know her, Dorcas,” interposed Sara. “It is a young woman, rather nice-looking, who has come here occasionally to see Neal. She generally wears large shawls that trail on the ground. Captain Davenal has a reason for wishing to know who she is.”
“You must mean Mrs. Wentworth, Miss Sara.”
“Mrs. Wentworth! Is that her name?” repeated Sara, feeling a sort of relief that the servant had not said Mrs. Davenal.
“That’s her name, Miss. She is an officer’s wife, and is in some trouble about him. I believe Neal is her uncle.”
Sara looked up. “Neal told my aunt that the young person was not his niece.”
“Well, I don’t know,” said Dorcas; “I think she is his niece: at any rate, I have heard her call him uncle. I heard her call him uncle no longer ago than last night, Miss Sara.”
“Where was that?” interposed Captain Davenal.
“It was here, sir. She called to see Neal. I was passing downstairs at the time from Mrs. Cray’s room, and it seemed to me that there was some dispute occurring between them. She asked Neal to tell her where Captain Davenal was staying, and Neal refused. He said she should not go troubling Captain Davenal.”
A pause from all. Sara’s face grew troubled again.
“What did she want with me?” asked the captain.
“I don’t know, sir,” replied Dorcas. “I only heard that much in passing. I was carrying Mrs. Cray’s tea-tray down.”
“Do you know where she lives, this Mrs. Wentworth?”
“Not at all, sir. I have never known that.”
“Edward, she is evidently looking out for you!” exclaimed Sara, as Dorcas retired.
“I hope and trust she is, and that she’ll speedily find me,” was the retort of Captain Davenal. “Nothing should I like better than to find her. I have a great mind to ask Neal openly what it all is, and insist upon an answer.”
There was no opportunity for further conversation then. Mark Cray came in. Captain Davenal did not think him improved in any way. There was less of openness in his manner than formerly, and he rather appeared to evade Captain Davenal, quitting his presence as soon as he conveniently could. The next to enter was Miss Bettina. It was the first time she had met her nephew, and she was disposed to be cordial. Miss Bettina had gone forth that morning to visit his young wife, entertaining a secret prejudice against her, and she returned home liking her. The little baby had been named Richard, too, and that gratified her.
A short while later, and Captain Davenal and his sister stood in the presence of this very young woman, Catherine Wentworth. In a room in Lady Reid’s house, when they reached it — for Sara walked home with him — she was waiting. She had gone there inquiring for Captain Davenal, and upon being told Captain Davenal was out, she asked to be allowed to wait for him.
The sequel of this episode is so very matter-of-fact, so devoid of romance, that some of you, my readers, may think it might have been as well never to have introduced it. But in that case what would become of the closing history of Neal? It was quite necessary, if that gentleman was to have a faithful biographer.
Sara Davenal sat, the white strings of her bonnet untied, wiping the drops of moisture from her relieved brow. So intense was the relief that when the first few moments of thankfulness were past, she looked back with a feeling of anger that her mind’s peace, for long long months, should have been disturbed so unnecessarily.
They were talking fast, this young woman and Captain Davenal. She had gone to Miss Davenal’s house over and over again to inquire after him; she had handed Neal more than one letter to forward to him to India; she had been at the house the previous night, demanding to know where the captai
n was staying, and saying that she would see him; and she had this morning found out his address at Lady Reid’s, and had waited until he came in.
But all for an innocent and legitimate purpose. Mrs. Wentworth — and she was Mrs. Wentworth — had never seen Captain Davenal in her life before; had never pretended that she had; she was only seeking him now to get from him some information of her real husband, Sergeant-Major Wentworth, of Captain Davenal’s regiment One train of thought leads to another. Captain Davenal remembered now to have heard that the sergeant-major, a very respectable man, had voluntarily separated himself from his wife, and left her behind him in England when their regiment sailed for India, in consequence of some misconduct on her part. He stood there face to face with the young woman, trying to reconcile this plain statement of facts with the account of past assertions related to him by Sara.
“You are Sergeant-Major Wentworth’s wife, you say,” observed Captain Davenal, regarding her narrowly, watching every word that fell from her lips. If there had been any conspiracy between her and Neal to undermine his sister’s peace, he felt that he should like to punish both of them. Sara had had enough of real troubles to bear, without having false ones brought upon her.
“Yes, I am,” she replied. She had a wonderfully pretty face, now that it could be seen without her veil, and her manners were pleasing — nay, ladylike. But still there was the look of general untidiness about her that Sara had noticed before, though she did not wear a shawl to-day, but a black cloth mantle, cut in the mode.
“May I ask if you ever allowed it to be understood that you were anybody else’s wife?” rejoined Captain Davenal, putting the question in the most convenient form he could, and in a half-jesting tone.
“Anybody else’s wife?” she repeated, as if not understanding.
“Ay; mine, for instance?”
“Why, of course I never did. I don’t know what you mean, sir.”
“Does Neal know you are Sergeant-Major Wentworth’s wife?”
“O dear, yes. I have done nothing a long while but beseech of him to write to you, sir, and ask if you would speak in my behalf to Wentworth, and make him allow me more, or else let me go out to him in India.”