by Ellen Wood
“But who else, then, could have had any counteracting influence?” she returned, after a while.
“I dare not tell you.”
“There was only Edward. I had no other brother. No one else could have done anything to bring shame upon — oh, surely you cannot mean papa!” She broke off, the improbable idea flashing over her.
“Don’t ask me, Sara! In mercy to myself.”
“Papa who was so good?” she reiterated, paying no heed to his words in her wonder. “He was so just, so kind, so honourable! I think if ever there was a good man on earth who tried to do as God would have him, it was papa. It is impossible you could suspect anything wrong in him!”
“My object in waiting to see you this evening was, first, to make my confession; secondly, to ask you to be more just, more merciful than I have been, and to forgive me,” he rejoined in a low tone. “I must add another petition yet, Sara; that you would generously allow this one point to remain as it is between us.”
“But I think you ought to tell me,” she urged. “Did you indeed suspect papa?”
“Yes.”
“But of what?”
“Ah, don’t press me further, Sara, for I cannot tell you. A singular accident led me to doubt Dr. Davenal’s conduct — honour — I hardly know what to call it — and there followed on this a chain of circumstances so apparently corroborative of the doubt that I thought I had no resource but to believe. I believed, and I acted upon the belief: I judged him harshly; I treated him coldly; I gave up you, my dearest hope and object in life; and this day only have my eyes been opened, and to my shame I learn that the whole thing, as regarded him, was a delusion. Will you — will you generously let my confession rest here?”
“Papa would not have done as Edward did” she whispered.
“No, no, it was not anything of that nature. Money and money matters had nothing to do with it. It was an entirely different thing. I am so ashamed of myself that I cannot bear to speak of this further. Surely I have said enough. It was a mistake, a misapprehension altogether: and the greatest act of kindness you can do me now is to let it rest here.”
She sat gazing at him with questioning eyes, nearly lost in wonder.
“Yes, the impression under which I acted was a false one. There existed no cause whatever for my estranging myself from you. But for my own unpardonable credulity I need never have given you up: and the past years of anguish — and I know they have been full of anguish to both of us — ought not to have had place. I was misled by an unfortunate chain of events: and nothing remains to me but shame and repentance.”
There ensued a silence. Sara was standing on the hearth-rug now, and he took his elbow from the mantelpiece, where it had been resting, and moved a step towards her.
“Can I ever hope for your forgiveness?”
“It seems to me that I have nothing to forgive,” she answered, in a low voice. “If circumstances misled you, you could not be blamed for acting upon them, according to your belief.”
“Sara!” — he laid his hand upon her shoulder, and his voice shook with the intensity of its emotion—” may I dare to hope that you will let me in my future life strive to atone for this?”
“How atone for it?” she faltered.
“Will you generously look over the past folly? — will you suffer it to be between us as it used to be? — will you be my wife at last?”
She trembled as she stood, the conscious light of love mantling in her cheek and in her drooping eye. Mr. Oswald Cray held her before him, waiting and watching for the answer, his lips parted with suspense.
“My brother’s’ crime remains still,” she whispered. “A memento of the past.”
“Your brother’s crime! Should you be punished for that? — for him? And what of my brother?” he continued, the revelation of the day imparting to his tone a whole world of remorse, of self-condemning repentance. “What disgrace has not my brother brought to me? — O Sara; should the ill wrought by these ties part us? It never ought to have done so. Let us stand alone, henceforth, you and I, independent of the world! Don’t try me too greatly! don’t punish me, as in justice you might!”
For a moment her eyes looked straight into his with a loving, earnest glance, and then dropped again. “I will be your wife, Oswald,” she simply said. “I have never, tried to forget you, for I knew I could not.”
And as if relief from the tension of suspense were too great for entire silence, a faint sound of emotion broke from Oswald Cray. And he bent to take from her lips that kiss, left upon them so long ago in the garden-parlour of the old house at Hallingham.
CHAPTER LXII.
“FINANCE,” THIS TIME.
AN afternoon in March. The sun was drawing towards its setting amidst gorgeous clouds, and the red light, illumining the western sky, threw its rays into an invalid’s chamber, and lighted it up with a warm hue.
Something else was drawing towards its setting; and that was the feeble life of the chamber’s chief occupant It was a good-sized pleasant room: the bed at the end farthest from the window; the middle space devoted to the comfort of the invalid, a table with some books upon its handsome cover, a sofa, easy chairs, velvet footstools, and a few pretty ornaments to amuse the eye.
On the sofa, by the side of the fire, a coverlid of the lightest and softest texture thrown gently over her, lay the invalid, her hands white and attenuated, her face drawn and wan. But there was a strange beauty in the face yet; in the eyes with their violet depths, in the exquisite features shaded by the mass of silky hair. You do not fail to recognise Mrs. Cray. Just now the eyes were closed, and she was dozing peacefully.
At the opposite end of the hearth-rug, sitting restlessly in an easy chair, was Mark. Of late Mark had been rather prone to be as still and idle as his wife: the inert life wearied him, it chafed his spirit; but there was no escape from it at present, and Mark Cray had perforce resigned himself to it, as an imprisoned bird resigns itself in time to its cage. Mark’s future prospects were uncommonly vague: in fact they were as yet bounded by the old expectation-anchor, the “something” that was to “turn up.” Any time in the past few weeks his wife’s death might have been expected, and Mark had yielded to the idleness of the circumstances, and been tranquil. Mr. Barker was away in Paris, and did not write; the Wheal Bang affairs were going on to a comfortable conclusion, and Mark was letting the future take care of itself. Strolling out for short walks; giving a quarter of an hour to the “Times”; wandering for a few minutes into the sitting-rooms and the presence of Miss Bettina, and lounging back in the easy chairs by the side of his wife — thus had Mark’s recent days been passed.
But on this afternoon all was changed, and Mark’s forced quiescence had given place to a fidgety restlessness, very characteristic of the old times. The post had just brought a letter from Mr. Barker — some accident or contrary weather having delayed the arrival of the French mail — and Mark Cray upon reading it felt exalted into the seventh heaven.
Barker had succeeded! He had brought out a company in Paris connected with finance; the great work he had been striving for so long. In three weeks’ time from that date it would all be in full operation, and if Mrs. Cray were sufficiently well to be left, and Mark came over to Paris, he could instantly step into a post in the Company at a salary of eight hundred a-year to begin with. In about six months’ time, according to moderate computation, the thing would be in full swing, and the profits inaugurated certainly at not less than six thousand per annum; the half of which splendid income should be Mark’s. Such was Mr. Barker’s news.
Can you wonder at Mark’s restlessness? At his brightened eye, his flushed face, as he sits there in the chair, bolt upright, his hand raised incessantly to push back his hair? He glances across at Caroline — whom he really loves very much still — and thinks what a pity it is that all this good fortune should have delayed itself until now. Had it come too late for her? Mark Cray in his sanguine fashion actually asks himself the question, medical man though he is. For the
last two or three days Caroline had seemed so much better! only on this very morning she had told Mark she felt as if she were getting well again.
Mark moved his restless legs and contrived to knock down the fire-shovel. The noise awoke Caroline. She stirred, and turned her opening eyes on her husband.
“What was that? Did anybody come in, Mark?”
“I threw over one of the fire-irons. I am sorry it disturbed you. They are always sticking out, tiresome things! It’s not a proper fender for a bedroom. Caroline, I have had a letter from Barker,” he continued, rising in excitement and standing before her on the hearth-rug. “It’s the most glorious news! The thing’s realised at last.”
“What thing?” asked Caroline, feebly, after a pause of bewilderment.
“The thing he has had on hand so long, the great scheme he has been working for. O Carine, I wish you could get better! There’s eight hundred a year waiting for me in Paris; and there’ll be an income of at least three thousand before six months are over. Three thousand for my share, you know. I’m sure you would like living in Paris.”
She did not answer. Nothing was heard save the quick gasps of the panting breath, the result of excessive weakness, or — of — something else coming very near. Mark was struck with some change in her aspect, and bent down to her.
“Don’t you feel so well, Carine?”
“I — feel — weary,” was all she answered, her voice ominously low.
“Where’s Sara, I wonder?” said Mark. “I’ll go and send her to you. You want some beef-tea, or something, I daresay.”
Mark went down the stairs, meeting Sara on them. In the drawing-room, with Miss Bettina, was Oswald Cray, who had just come in. He was a frequent visitor now.
The half-broth ere shook hands, coldly enough. They were civil to each other always, but there could never be cordiality between them. Not because of the past; but because they were so essentially different in mind, in judgment, and in conduct “My luck has turned at last, Oswald,” exclaimed Mark impulsively.
‘“In what way?” asked Oswald, who was leaning over the back of a chair while he talked to Miss Bettina.
“I have just had a letter from Barker,” answered Mark, running his hand through his hair with his restless fingers. “I told you what a great scheme he had got on hand in Paris, but you turned the cold shoulder on it. Well, it’s bearing fruit at last.”
“Oh,” said Oswald, evincing a desire, if his tone and manner might be judged by, to turn the cold shoulder on it still, metaphorically speaking. “How is your wife this afternoon?” he continued, passing to a different subject.
“She has been so much better the last few days that one might almost be tempted to hope she’d get well again,” rejoined Mark, volubly. “She seems tired now — low, I thought. Sara’s just gone up to her. What a shame it is that things turn out so cross-grained and contrary!” —
The concluding sentence, delivered with marked acumen, reached the ear of Miss Bettina. She looked up from her knitting to scan Mark.
“If Barkers luck had only been realised six months ago, what a thing it would have been!” he went on. “Caroline might have got better, instead of worse. In the enjoyment of luxuries in a home of her own, renewed wealth and position in prospective, with the pure air of the balmy French capital, there’s no knowing what benefit she might not have derived. And now it comes too late! I shall ever regret it for her sake.”
“Regret what?” sharply interposed Miss Bettina.
Mark replied by giving a summary of Barker’s luck. Miss Bettina paused, knitting-needles in hand, her keen grey eyes fixed on Mark, as she tried to understand him.
“Barker in luck!” she repeated, catching some of the words and the general sense. “Has he come into an estate in the moon? Don’t be a simpleton, Mark Cray.”
Mark Cray felt exasperated. Nothing angered him so much as for people to pretend to see these enchanting prospects with different eyes from his own. He had always been convinced it was done only to vex him. Poor Mark! He turned to Oswald, and began expatiating upon the good fortune that was drawing so near; and Oswald saw that it was of no use to try to stop him. The fever-mania had again taken hold of Mark.
“What is the scheme, do you say?” asked Oswald, just as he would have asked anything of a child; and perhaps it was not altogether his fault that a sound of mockery was discernible in his tone.
“It’s connected with finance.”
“Oh!” said Oswald.
“It is the grandest thing that has been brought before the public for many a year,” continued Mark, his voice impressive, his light eyes sparkling. “The very greatest—” —
“Grander than the Great Wheal Bang?” inopportunely interposed Miss Bettina, Mark’s earnest tones having enabled her to heal better than usual.
“A hundred times grander,” returned Mark, his mind too completely absorbed in the contemplation of the grandeur to detect the irony. “That is, better, you know, Miss Bettina. The mine was very good; but of course there was a risk attending that, from water or other causes, and the result unfortunately realised it. This is different. Once the company is formed, and the shares are taken, it can’t fail. Barker and I went through the thing together over and over again when he was in London; we had it all down before us in black and white. We allowed for every possible risk and contingency, and we proved that the thing could not fail, if once organised.”
Oswald listened quietly. Miss Bettina had lost the thread again.
“The job was to organise the thing,” resumed Mark. “It could not be done without money, and Barker — to speak the truth — found a difficulty in getting that. The money market was tight here, and men don’t care to speculate when money’s not plentiful. He also required the co-operation of some French capitalist, who would put his name to it — some good man on the Bourse, and that was hard to get. Those Frenchmen are all so narrow-minded, fight so shy. He knows two or three good Englishmen in Paris who were willing to go into it, and who helped Barker immensely with advice and introductions, and that; but they had no funds at command. However, it’s all accomplished now. Barker has fought his way through impediments, and surmounted them. The company’s formed, the preliminary arrangements are successfully carried out, and fortune is at hand.”
“What’s at hand?” asked Miss Bettina.
“Fortune,” repeated Mark. “I shall take one of those nice little boxes in the Champs Elysées. Some of them are charming. Or perhaps only part of one if — if Carine — O dear! it is hard for her that this luck did not fall in a year ago! I wonder,” broke off Mark, passing to another phase of his future visions, “I wonder whether, if it were possible to get Caroline over to Paris now, the change might benefit her?”
“You think of residing in Paris?” said Oswald.
“Of course I do. Paris will be the centre of operations. Barker wants me over there at once; and the minute I join him I begin to draw at the rate of eight hundred a-year. Just to go on with, you know, until the money falls in.”
“Mark,” said Oswald, after a pause, “will it be of any use my saying a word of warning to you?”
“On what subject?” returned Mark, looking up with surprise.
“On this subject. It seems to me that you are falling into another delusion; that the—”
“No, it will not be of any use,” burst forth Mark in strange excitement. “I might have known beforehand that you’d turn out my enemy upon the point. If gold and diamonds were dropping down in a shower from the skies you’d not stretch forth your hand to catch them. There’s a mist before your eyes, Oswald, that prevents you seeing these things in their proper aspect.”
He began to pace the room as he spoke, chafing considerably Why was it that these little hints of warning awoke the irritation of Mark’s spirit? Could there be an under-current of doubt in his mind whether Oswald was right and he wrong? However it might be, one thing was certain — that no warning, let it come from whom it would, could do an
y good with Mark.
As he turned to face them again, Sara entered. An expression of alarm was on her face, and she closed the door before speaking. She had come to say that Caroline appeared worse; altogether different from usual.
Mark ran up the stairs; Miss Bettina put down her knitting to follow. Sara turned to Oswald Cray.
“She knows you are here, Oswald, and would like to see you. She wants to bid you good-bye. I think her saying that alarmed me more than anything.”
Caroline was on the sofa as before. Very quiet, save for her panting breath. Her white hands lay listless, her face, dreadfully worn though it was, was calm, tranquil. She looked at them one by one, and slightly raised her hand as Oswald entered. He bent down to her, taking it in his.
“Thank you for all,” she whispered.
The change in her countenance struck them. It so far frightened Mark as to take from him his sell-possession. He pushed Oswald away.
“O Carine, what is it? You cannot be going to die! You must not die, now that all this good luck is coming upon me!”
She glanced up at him, her eyes wide open, as if she scarcely understood.
“There’s the most beautiful home getting ready for you in Paris, Carine,” he resumed, his voice sounding as if he were on the verge of tears. “We’ll live in the Champ Elysées; it is the loveliest spot, and you can’t fail to grow better there, if we can only get your disease to turn. O Carine! don’t leave me just when I am able to surround you with wealth and luxury again! This will be a greater and a surer thing than the Great Wheal Bang.”
“Don’t, Mark! I am going to a better home.”
“But I can’t let you go until I have atoned for the past! I”
“Hush, hush!” she interrupted. “ O Mark! if you only knew how welcome it is to me! I am going to be at peace after all the turmoil. I am going to rest.”
“Do you want to go?” pursued Mark, half-resentfully. “ Don’t you care to get well?”
“I have not cared to get well since I came to England. That is, I have not thought I should,” she returned between the gasps of her laboured breath. “When I heard the bell toll out for Prince Albert, I asked who was I that I should be spared when he was taken? The next world has seemed very near to me since then. As if the doors of it had been brought down to earth, and stood always open.”