With the morning, Daisy lay in great danger. The illness, not anticipated for a month or two, had come on suddenly. In one sense of the word the event was over, but not the danger; and the baby, not destined to see the light, was gone.
It was perhaps unfortunate that on this same morning Frank should receive an urgent summons to Trennach. Edina wrote. Her father was very ill; ill, it was feared, unto death; and he most earnestly begged Frank to travel to him with all speed, for he had urgent need of seeing him. Edina said that, unless her father should rally, three or four days were the utmost limits of life accorded to him by the doctors: she therefore begged of Frank to lose no time in obeying the summons; and she added that her father desired her to say the journey should be no cost to him.
"What a distressing thing!" cried Frank, in blank dismay, showing the letter to the major. "I cannot go. It is impossible that I can go whilst Daisy lies in this state."
"Good gracious!" said the major, rubbing his head, as he always did in any emergency. "Well, I suppose you can't, my boy. Poor Hugh!"
"How can I! Suppose I were to go, and—and she died?"
"Yes, to be sure. You must wait until she is in less danger. I hope with all my heart Hugh will rally. And Daisy too."
Frank sat down and wrote a few words to his uncle, telling him why he could not start that day, but that he would do so the moment his wife's state allowed it. He wrote more fully, but to the same effect, to Edina. Perhaps on the morrow, he added. The morrow might bring better things.
But on the morrow Daisy was even worse. A high fever had set in. Frank wrote again to Trennach, but he could not leave Eagles' Nest. Some days went on; days of peril: Daisy was hovering between life and death. And on the first day that a very faint indication of improvement was perceptible and the medical men said she might now live, that there was a bare chance of it, but no certainty; that same day the final news came from Trennach, and it was too late for Frank to take the journey. Dr. Raynor was dead.
The tidings came by letter from Edina: written to Frank. It was only a short note, giving a few particulars. Within this note, however, was a thicker letter, sealed and marked "Private." Frank chanced to be alone at the moment, and opened it with some curiosity. On a single sheet of enveloping paper, enclosing a letter from Dr. Raynor, were the following lines from Edina.
"My poor father was so anxious to see you, dear Frank, at the last, that it disturbed his peace. Of course you could not come, under the circumstances; he saw that; but he said over and over again that your not coming was most unfortunate, and to you might be disastrous. At the hours of the day and night when a train was due, nothing could exceed the eagerness with which he looked for you, his restlessness when it grew too late to admit of hope that you had come. The day before he died, when he knew the end was approaching and he should not live to see you, he caused himself to be propped up in bed, and had pen-and-ink brought that he might write to you. He watched me seal up the letter when it was finished, and charged me to send it to you when all was over, but to be sure to enclose it privately, and to tell you to open and read it when you were alone.—E. R."
Sending Edina's short note announcing the death of her father to Major Raynor by a servant, Frank carried these lines and the doctor's letter to his chamber: thereby obeying injunctions, but nevertheless wondering at them very much. What could his uncle have to say to him necessitating secrecy? Breaking the seal, he ran his eyes over the almost illegible lines that the dying hand had traced.
"My Dear Nephew Frank,
"I wanted to see you; I ought not to have put it off so long. But this closing scene has come upon me somewhat suddenly: and now I cannot write all I ought to, and should wish: and I must, of necessity, write abruptly.
"Are you conscious of being in any danger?Have you committed any act that could bring you under the arm of the law? If so, take care of yourself. A terrible rumour was whispered in my ears by Andrew Float, connecting you with the hitherto unexplained fate of Bell the miner. I charged Float to be silent—and I think he will be, for he is a kind and good man, and only spoke to me that I might put you on your guard—and I questioned Blase Pellet, from whom Float had heard it. Pellet was sullen, obstinate, would not say much; but he did say that he could hang you, andwoulddo it if you offended him or put yourself in his way. I could not get anything more from him, and it was not a subject that I cared to inquire into minutely, or could pursue openly.
"My boy, you best know what grounds there may be for this half-breathed accusation; whether any or none. I have scarcely had a minute's peace since it reached me, now three weeks ago: in fact, it has, I believe, brought on the crisis with me somewhat before it would otherwise have come. At one moment I say to myself, It is a malicious invention, an infamous lie; I know my boy Frank too well to believe this, or anything else against him: the next moment I shudder at the tale and at the possibility of what may have been enacted. Perhaps through passion—or accident—or—I grow confused: I know not what I would say.
"Oh, my boy, my nephew, my dear brother Henry's only child! my heart is aching with dismay and doubt. I do believe you are innocent of all intention to do harm; but—My sight is growing dim.Take care of yourself. Hide yourself if need be (and you best know whether there be need, or not) from Blase Pellet. It is he who would be your enemy. I see it; and Andrew Float sees it; though we know not why or wherefore. In any obscure nook of this wide world, shelter yourself from him. Don't let him know where you are. If he does indeed hold power in his hand, it may be your only chance of safety:he said it was so. I can write no more. God bless and help you! Farewell.
"Your loving and anxious
"Uncle Hugh."
Frank Raynor may have drawn many a deep breath in his life, but never so deep a one as he drew now. Mechanically he folded the letter and placed it in an inner pocket.
"Are you there, sir?"
The question came from outside the door, in the voice of one of the servants. Frank unbolted it.
"Lunch is on the table, sir."
"Is it?" returned Frank, half bewildered. "I don't want any to-day, James. Just say so. I am going out for a stroll."
The letters from Cornwall were never delivered at Eagles' Nest until the midday post. Frank took his hat, and went out; bending his steps whithersoever they chose to take him, so that he might be alone. Strolling on mechanically, in deep thought, he plunged into a dark coppice, and asked himself what he was to do. The letter had disturbed him in no ordinary degree. It had taken all his spirit, all his elasticity out of him: and that was saying a great deal for Frank Raynor.
"I wish I could hang Blase Pellet!" he broke forth in his torment and perplexity. "He deserves it richly. To disturb my poor uncle with his malicious tongue! Villain!"
But Frank was unconsciously unjust. It was not Blase Pellet who had disturbed Dr. Raynor. At least, he had not done it intentionally. To do Blase justice, he was vexed that the doctor should have heard it, for he held him in great respect and would not willingly have grieved him. In an evil moment, when Blase had taken rather more than was quite necessary—an almost unprecedented occurrence with him—he had dropped the dangerous words to Andrew Float.
"Yes, I must hide from him, as my uncle says," resumed Frank, referring to the advice in the letter. "There's no help for it. He could be a dangerous enemy. For my own sake; for—every one's sake, I must keep myself in some shelter where he cannot find me."
Emerging on to the open ground, Frank lifted his eyes, and saw, standing near him, the man in grey, whom they had christened the Tiger. He was leaning against the tree with bent head and folded arms, apparently in deep thought. All in a moment, just as a personal fear of him had rushed over Charles, so did it now rush over Frank. His brain grew dizzy.
For the idea somehow struck him that the man was not wanting Charles at all. But that he might be an emissary of Blase Pellet's, come hither to look after himself and his movements.
John Jetty was the local carpenter. A master in a small way. His workshop was in the village, Grassmere, near to Eagles' Nest; his dwelling-house was on the common already described. In this house he lived with his sister, Esther Jetty; a staid woman, more than ten years older than himself: he being a smart, talkative, active, and very intelligent man of two or three-and-thirty. The house, which they rented of Major Raynor, was larger than they required, and Esther Jetty was in the habit of letting a sitting and bedroom in it when she could find a desirable lodger to occupy them.
On the Thursday in Passion Week, when she was in the midst of her house-cleaning for Easter, and in the act of polishing the outside of the spare sitting-room window, in which hung a card with "Lodgings" inscribed on it, she noticed a man in grey clothes sauntering up from the direction of the railway-station, an overcoat on his arm, and a good-sized black bag in his hand.
"Some traveller from London," decided Esther Jetty, turning to gaze at him; for a stranger in the quiet place was quite an event. "Come down to spend Easter."
The thought had scarcely crossed her mind, when, somewhat to her surprise, the stranger turned out of the path, walked directly towards her, and took off his hat while he spoke.
"Have you lodgings to let?" he asked. "I see a card in your window."
"Yes, sir; I have two rooms," said she, respectfully, for the courtesy of the lifted hat had favourably impressed her, and the tones of his voice were courteous also, not at all like those of an individual in humble station. "What a fine beard!" she thought to herself. "How smooth and silky it is!"
"I want to stay in this place a few days," continued he, "and am looking for lodgings. Perhaps yours would suit me."
Esther Jetty hastened to show the rooms. They were small, but clean, comfortable, and prettily furnished: and the rent was ten shillings per week.
"It is not too much, sir, at this season of the year, when summer's coming on," she hastened to say, lest the amount should be objected to. "I always try to make my lodgers comfortable, and cook for them and wait on them well. The last I had—a sick young woman and her little girl—stayed here all the winter and spring: they only left three weeks ago."
The stranger's answer was to put down a sovereign. "That's the first week's rent in advance," said he. "With the change you can get me some mutton chops for my dinner. I shall not give you much trouble." And he took possession of the rooms at once.
As the days had gone on, only a few as yet, Esther Jetty found that his promise of not giving much trouble was kept. She had never had a lodger who gave less. He lived very simply. His dinner generally consisted of two mutton chops; his other food chiefly of eggs and bread-and-butter. It was glorious weather; and he passed nearly all his time out-of-doors.
Not a nook or corner of the immediate neighbourhood escaped his keen eye, his, as it seemed, insatiable curiosity. He penetrated into the small dwelling-houses, good and bad, asking questions of the inmates, making friends with them all. He would stand by the half-hour side by side with the out-door labourers, saying the land wanted this and that done to it, and demanding why it was not done. But, there could be no doubt that he was even more curious in regard to the Raynor family, and especially to its eldest son, than he was as to the land and its labourers: and the latter soon noticed that if by chance Charles Raynor came into sight, the stranger would stroll off, apparently without aim, towards him; and when Charles turned away, as he invariably did, the man followed in his wake at a distance. In short, it would seem that his chief business was to look surreptitiously after some of the inmates of Eagles' Nest; and that his visits to the land and the cottages, and his disparaging remarks thereupon, were probably only taken up to pass the time away. These opinions, however, grew upon people as time went on, rather than at the beginning of his stay.
Easter week passed. On the following Sunday the stranger went to church; and, after the service began, took up a place whence he had full view of the large square pew belonging to Eagles' Nest. On Easter Sunday he had sat at the back of the church, out of sight. Charles, Alice, and Frank were in the pew to-day, with the governess and little Kate: Mrs. Raynor was at home with Frank's wife, then lying dangerously ill; the major had not come. This was two days before they received news of Dr. Raynor's death. Charles was rendered miserably uncomfortable during the service by the presence of the Tiger opposite to him—as might be read by any one in the secret of his fears, and was read by Frank. Never did Charles raise his eyes but he saw those of the Tiger fixed on him. In fact, the Tiger studied the faces in Major Raynor's pew more attentively than he studied his book.
"He is taking toll of me that he may know me again: I don't suppose he knew me before, or his work would have been done and over," thought Charles. "What a precious idiot I was to come to church! Thank Heaven, he can't touch me on a Sunday." And when the service was ended, the Tiger coolly stood in the churchyard and watched the family pass him, looking keenly at Charles.
He had in like manner watched them into church. From a shady nook in the same churchyard, he had stood, himself unseen, looking at the congregation as they filed in. When the bell had ceased, and the last person seemed to have entered, then the Tiger followed, and put himself in the best place for seeing the Raynors. It was, however, the first and last time Charles was annoyed in a similar manner. On subsequent Sundays, the Tiger, if he went to church at all, was lost amidst the general congregation.
On this same Sunday evening, John Jetty found himself invited to take a pipe with his lodger. They sat in the arbour in the back-garden, amidst the herbs, the spring cabbages, and the early flowers. Jetty never wanted any inducement to talk. He was not of a wary nature by any means, and did not observe how skilfully and easily the thread of his discourse was this evening turned on the Raynors and their affairs. No man in the place could have supplied more correct information to a stranger than he. He was often at work in the house, was particularly intimate with Lamb the butler, who had lived with Mrs. Atkinson; as had two or three of the other head servants; and they had the family politics at their fingers' ends. Mrs. Raynor had brought one servant from Spring Lawn; the nurse; the woman knew all about her branch of the family, Frank included, and had no objection to relate news for the new people's benefit, who in their turn repeated it to Jetty. Consequently Jetty was as much at home in the family archives as the Raynors were themselves.
"Is the estate entailed on the major's son?" questioned the Tiger, in a pause of the conversation.
"I don't think it's strictly entailed on him, sir, but of course he'll have it," was Jetty's answer. "Indeed, it is no secret that the major has made a will and left it to him. Mrs. Atkinson bequeathed it entirely to the major: she didn't entail it."
"Who was Mrs. Atkinson?" asked the Tiger.
"Why, the possessor of the estate before him," cried Jetty, in accents full of surprise. To him, familiar for many years with Eagles' Nest and its people, it sounded strange to hear any one asking who Mrs. Atkinson was. "She was an old lady, sir, sister to the major, and it all belonged to her. He only came into it last year when she died."
"Had she no sons?"
"No, sir; not any. I never heard that she did have any. Her husband was a banker in London; he bought this place a good many years ago. After his death Mrs. Atkinson entirely lived in it."
"Then—it is sure to come to the major's eldest son?"
"As sure as sure can be," affirmed Jetty, replenishing his pipe at his lodger's invitation. "The major would not be likely to will it away to anybody else."
"I saw two young men in the pew to-day: one quite young, scarcely out of his teens, I should say; the other some years older. Which of them was the son?"
"Oh, the youngest. The other is a nephew; Mr. Frank Raynor. He is very good-looking, he is: such a pleasant face, with nice blue eyes and bright hair. Not but what Mr. Charles is good-looking, too, in a different way."
"Mr. Charles looks to me like an insolent young puppy," freely commented the Tiger. "And has a haughty air with it: as though he were king of the country and all the rest of us were his subjects." The probability was that Charles had honoured the staring Tiger with all the haughty and insolent looks he could call up throughout the service.
"Well, he is a bit haughty sometimes," acknowledged the carpenter. "Folks have found him so. He is just home from Oxford, sir, and I fancy has been spending pretty freely there: Lamb just gave me a hint. But if you want pleasant words and cordial manners, you must go to the nephew, Mr. Frank.
"What ishedoing here?" dryly asked the stranger, after a pause.
"He is a doctor, sir."
"A doctor? Is he in practice here?"
"Oh no. He is waiting to set up in London, and staying down here till he does it."
"What is he waiting for?"
"Well, sir, for money, I guess. The Raynors are open-natured people and don't scruple to talk of things before their servants, so that there's not much but what's known. When the late Mrs. Atkinson died, a good deal of stir arose about some money of hers that could not be found: thousands and thousands of pounds, it was said. It could neither be found, nor the papers relating to it."
"Is it not found yet?" asked the Tiger, stroking his silky beard.
"Not yet. The major is anxiously waiting for it: not a day passes, Lamb says, but he is sure to remark that it may turn up the next. Mr. Frank Raynor is to have some of this money to set him up in practice."
"Did Mrs. Atkinson not leave any money to him? He must have been a relation of hers?"
"Oh yes, she left him money. I forget what it was now—a good sum, though."
"Why does he not set up with that?" questioned the Tiger, wonderingly.
"He has spent it, sir. He and his young wife went abroad, and lived away, I suppose. Any way, the money's gone, Lamb says. But Mr. Frank's as nice a fellow as ever lived."
"Did he——" began the stranger, and then broke off, as if in doubt whether or not to put the question: but in a moment went on firmly. "Did he ever live at Trennach, in Cornwall?"
"Trennach?" repeated Jetty, considering. "Yes, sir, I think that's where he did live. Yes, I'm sure that is the name. He was in practice there with another uncle, one Dr. Raynor, and might have stopped there and come into the practice after him. A rare good opening for him, it's said: but he preferred to go elsewhere."
"Preferred to travel and see the world," spoke the stranger, cynically. "Are Major Raynor's revenues good ones?"
"Well, sir, I know in Mrs. Atkinson's time this estate was said to bring in a clear two thousand a-year. And Major Raynor had of course an income before he came into it: but that, I hear, is only an annuity, and goes from him at his death."
"Then, if his revenues amount to that—from two to three thousand a-year—how is it that he does not do the repairs necessary on the estate, and keep up the land, and help to ameliorate the condition of the wretched serfs about him?" demanded the stranger.
Jetty shook his head. "I don't think it is the will that's wanting," replied he. "The major seems to be thoroughly good-hearted and Lamb says he is one of the easiest masters he could ever wish to serve. No, it is not the will, sir, that is wanting."
"What is it, then? The money?"
Jetty nodded in the affirmative. "They live at such a rate, you see, sir; and it is said the major had a lot of back-debts to pay when he came here. Altogether, he has nothing to spare."
"Then he ought to have," asserted the Tiger, tapping thoughtfully at his pipe, that lay on the table. "Does he never visit his tenements and see into things for himself?"
"No, sir, not he. 'Twould be too much exertion for him. He can't walk about much; never comes beyond his own garden gates; never."
The Tiger paused. "This young Frank Raynor's wife, who is lying ill: had she no money?"
"No, sir. Her family have plenty, I expect, for they live at some grand place down in Cornwall. But she has none. It was a runaway match that she and Mr. Frank made, so she couldn't expect any."
The Tiger nodded two or three times, as if in self-commune. "I see," said he: "these Raynors are an improvident set altogether. Thoughtless, cruel, selfish, upstart and purse-proud. From what little I have noticed during the few days I have been here, that is the impression they make upon me: and what you say confirms it."
He took his pipe up from the table as he spoke, knocked the ashes out of it, and put it into its case. An intimation, John Jetty thought, that their social hour was at an end: and he went away, respectfully wishing his lodger good-evening.
Easter was over; and the time for going back to Oxford for the coming term was past. Charles Raynor had not gone up to keep it. He had to confess to the major that he did not care to go back without a good sum of money, apart from his allowance; he might have said, dared not go. It was not convenient to find the sum: so the major decided that Charles must miss that one term, and keep the next.
The weeks went on. Charles had in a degree got over his dread of the Tiger—who still remained on in his lodgings—for it was now very evident that if that mysterious man's mission at Grassmere were to take him into custody for debt, it might have been accomplished ere this. Nevertheless, so strongly do first impressions retain their hold upon us, his dislike of the man continued in all its force.
But, as Charles's alarm subsided, Frank's increased. The more evident it became that Charles was not the Tiger's object, the more surely did it seem to Frank that he himself was. It was a fear he could not speak of, but his secret uneasiness was great. Neither he nor Charles could fail to see that the man's daily business appeared to be that of watching the movements of the Raynor family, especially those of the two young men. Not watching offensively, but in a quiet, easy, unobtrusive manner. Frank fully believed that the man was a secret emissary of Blase Pellet's sent there to see that he did not escape his toils.
Major Raynor had never seen this man: and Frank and Charles, each for his own private and individual reasons, had refrained from speaking about him. Of late the major had chiefly confined himself to the gardens immediately attached to his house. There were two reasons for this: the one, that he had now grown so very stout as to render walking a trouble to him, and when he did go out it was in a carriage; the other, that he never went beyond his inner fence but he was sure to meet one or other of those wretched malcontents; who thought nothing of accosting him and asking him to do this, and to do that. So matters remained pretty stationary: the major indolently nursing himself in his easy-chair on the lawn; the young men enjoying their private discomforts; and the Tiger peering into every conceivable spot open to him, and making himself better acquainted with the general shortcomings of the Raynors, in regard to the estate and the people on it, than they were themselves.
It was Saturday evening. Alice sat at the piano in the drawing-room, singing songs in the twilight to the intense gratification of William Stane, who stood over her. The young barrister frequently ran down home the last day of the week, to remain over the Sunday with his family. As a matter of course, he spent a great part of the time at Eagles' Nest. The major sat back in the room, dozing; Charles was listlessly turning over a pile of music. Eagles' Nest had given an afternoon party that day; a fashionable kettledrum; but the guests had departed.
"I can scarcely see," said Alice, as her lover placed a new song before her. She was in the dress she had worn in the afternoon: a black gauze trimmed with white ribbons, with silver bracelets and other silver ornaments, and looked charmingly lovely. They were in mourning for Dr. Raynor.
"I'll ring for lights," said Charles. "I can't see, either."
The talking had aroused the major. "We don't want lights yet," said he. "It is pleasanter as it is."
"Sing the songs you know by heart," whispered William Stane. "After all, they are the best and sweetest."
Presently Lamb came in of his own accord, with the wax-lights. The major, waking up again, made no objection now, but forbade the shutters to be closed.
"It's a pity to shut out that moonlight," said he. Not that the moonlight could have interested him much, for in another minute he was asleep again. He had grown strangely drowsy of late. So the room was lighted up, and the moonlight streamed in at the window.
Frank entered. He had been sitting upstairs with his wife, who was still very ill. In fact, this had been an unusually prolonged and critical sickness. Taking up his position at the window, Frank listened silently to the song then in progress. Charles came up to him.
"How is she to-night, Frank?"
"No better. If—— Look there!" he suddenly exclaimed, his voice sunk to a whisper.
Some one had walked deliberately by, outside the window, gazing at what there might be to see within the room. Was it the Tiger? Frank's heart beat nineteen to the dozen.
"Did you see him, Charley?"
"Who was it?" whispered Charley.
"I'm not quite sure; he passed so quickly. The Tiger, I conclude. Yes, I feel sure of it. I know the cut of his hat."
"What consummate impudence, to be trespassing here!"
They both left the room, made their way to a side-door, and looked out. No one was in sight; and yet, whosoever it was that had passed must have come that way.
"He has turned back," said Charley: and as he spoke he advanced cautiously amidst the shrubs that skirted that end of the house, and looked round at the front.
No. Not a soul was to be seen or heard. Had he scampered straight across the lawn and made off? It seemed like it.
"I wonder what it's coming to!" cried Charley. "Could we have him warned off the estate, I wonder?"
"Hardly," spoke Frank, in a dreamy tone.
"Icannotthink what he does here," exclaimed Charles. "If he had any evil intentions, he—he would have acted upon them before now."
"You mean as to yourself, Charley. Rely upon it, you are out of the matter altogether."
"Who's in it, then?"
"Myself, perhaps."
The answer was given quietly and easily: but there was something in its tone that kept Charles from regarding it as a jest.
"Youare not in debt, are you, Frank?" he cried hastily.
"Not that I know of."
"I declare for the moment I thought you must be in earnest," said Charles, relieved. "It is uncommonly strange what the fellow can want here!"
Frank said no more. They paced about for some time, without their hats, in the bright moonlight, talking of other matters. In crossing the path to the house; they met Jetty the carpenter coming away from it, a frail in his hand, out of which a saw was standing upright. The man had been doing some repairs indoors.
"Jetty," said Charles, accosting him, and speaking upon impulse, "who is the man that lodges with you? The fellow with the great brown beard, who goes about in a suit of grey."
"I don't know who he is in particular, sir," replied Jetty. "He is a very quiet lodger, and pays regular."
"What is he down here for?"
"Well, I think for his health," said Jetty. "He told us he had not been well for some time before he came to Grassmere."
"What is his name?"
"That I don't know, sir——"
"Not know his name?" interrupted Charles, impatiently.
"Well, sir, I was going to say that I don't know it from himself. He is uncommonly close as to his own affairs: though he likes well enough to hear about other people's. As to his name, he did not mention it when he first came in, and my sister said she did not like to ask him. But——"
"I never knew such a thing as not knowing a lodger's name," went on Charles, getting excited over it, whilst Frank stood by in perfect silence. "Does the man not get any letters?"
"Yes, sir. But they don't come to the house; they are left at the post-office in Grassmere, and he fetches them himself. The other morning, when Esther went into his parlour, he was reading one of these letters, and the cover lay on the table, address upwards. She was not quick enough to read the name on it, for he took it up, but she saw it was a short name and began with a G."
"Grim, no doubt," said Charles.
"'Mr. G——, Post Office, Grassmere.' That was it, sir."
"I must say I should like to know who he is and what he is doing here," continued Charles. "Good-night, Jetty."
Jetty touched his cap and went away with rapid strides. Drawing near to his home, he overtook the Tiger, sauntering along with slow steps.
"You are late to-night, Jetty."
"Yes, sir," replied the carpenter, suiting his pace to that of the speaker. "I had to put some new shelves into one of the kitchen cupboards at Eagles' Nest, and it has taken me longer than I thought for."
"All going on well there?" continued the Tiger.
"First rate," said Jetty. "They had a great party this afternoon; one of those new-fashioned kettledrums. Such an entertainment it was! such fine dresses!"
"I thought the son, Charles Raynor, was keeping his terms at Oxford," resumed the Tiger, after giving himself time to digest the information touching the kettledrum. "Why is he not keeping this term?"
"Well, sir," said Jetty, beginning to answer in his usual favourite mode, and lowering his voice, though they were quite alone on the common: "I believe Mr. Charles can't show his face at Oxford until he is better up in funds; so he is omitting this term."
"Debts—eh?" cried the Tiger, but without any appearance of surprise. "And the major has not the funds to spare for them?"
"Well, sir, that's to be inferred."
"Meanwhile the lad fills up his days and hours at home with dancing, and smoking, and kettledrums, and other good-for-nothing amusements. A nice way of spending one's life!"
"Young men will be young men, sir—though they are but lads," spoke Jetty, deprecatingly.
"Yes; young men will be young men: some of them, at any rate," came the mocking retort. "But in all my days I never saw a young man who appeared more likely to go straight down to ruin than Charles Raynor."
Major Raynor sat in his favourite seat on the lawn at Eagles' Nest, at drowsy peace with himself and with the world. Of late the major had always been drowsy: morning, noon, and night, no matter what company he was in, he might be seen nodding. Frank, as a medical man, did not like the signs. He spoke to his uncle of the necessity of rousing himself, of taking more exercise, of indulging somewhat less in good luncheons and dinners. The major made an effort to obey: for two days he actually walked about the lawn for twenty minutes, refused two rich entrées, took at each meal one glass less of wine. But the efforts ended there, and on the third day the major gave up reformation as a bad job.
"It's of no use, Frank, my boy. You young folk can be upon the run all day if you choose, and live upon bread-and-cheese and beer; but we old ones require ease; we can't be put about."
So the major sat at ease this day as usual, lazily thinking, and dropping into a doze. A letter had been received that morning from Edina, in answer to an invitation from Major and Mrs. Raynor to come and make her home with them now that she was alone in the world. Edina declined it for the present. She was staying at Trennach parsonage with Mr. and Mrs. Pine: her plans were not decided upon; but the clergyman and his wife would not yet spare her. She had many affairs to settle at Trennach. Mr. Hatman had taken to the practice, as had been arranged, and to the house; but Edina could not leave the place at present. She hoped to pay Eagles' Nest a visit in the course of the summer.
Thinking of this, and subsiding into dozing, sat the major. The hum of the insects sounded in his ears, the scent of the rich flowering hawthorn was heavy in the air. Though not yet summer by the calendar, for May was still reigning, the season was unusually premature, and the weather was, to all intents and purposes, that of summer. Bees were sipping at the honey-blossoms, butterflies fluttered from flower to flower. All nature seemed conducive to repose, and—the major was soon fast asleep, and choking as though he were being strangled.
"You are wanted, if you please, sir."
The words aroused him. Opening his eyes, and sitting upright in his chair, he saw his butler by his side.
"What do you say, Lamb? Wanted? Who is it?"
"Sir Philip Stane, sir. He is in the drawing-room."
The major took a draught of his champagne-cup, standing on the table by his side. Which cup, it must be confessed, was much more innocent than its name would imply. A quart or two of it would not have hurt any one: and the major was always thirsty. Crossing the lawn, he went into the drawing-room. Sir Philip Stane, a little man with a white shirt-frill, a cold face, and a remarkably composed manner, rose at his entrance. Major Raynor shook hands with him in his hearty way, and they sat down together.
For some few minutes the conversation turned on general topics; but soon the knight gave the major to understand that he had come to speak upon a particular subject: the attachment of his son to Miss Raynor.
"It has for some time been observable that they are thinking of one another," remarked he.
"Well, yes, I suppose it has," said the major. "We have noticed it here."
"William is getting on fairly well; he calculates that he will make at least seven-hundred pounds this year. Quite enough, he thinks, to begin housekeeping upon, with help. With help, major."
"I should have thought it unbounded riches in my marrying days," observed the major.
"William considers that he would be justified in setting up a home, provided he can be met," continued Sir Philip in his deliberate, sententious way, presenting a direct contrast to the major's heartiness. "Young people do not of course expect to begin as they may hope to end: riches must come by degrees."
"Quite right," said the major.
"And therefore, with a view to the consideration of the matter—to finally deciding whether my son may be justified, or not, in settling this year—I have come to ask you, Major Raynor, what portion you intend to bestow upon your daughter."
"Not any," replied the plain-speaking major. "I have none to bestow."
Sir Philip looked at him blankly. He did not appear to understand.
"My will is good, Sir Philip. I would give a portion to Alice heartily if I possessed it. Thousands, I'm sure, the young people should be welcome to, if they needed it."
"Do you mean to say that you—that you will not bestow any portion whatever upon your daughter when she marries?" asked Sir Philip, in a tone of cold astonishment.
"I'm sorry that I can't do it," said the major. "I wish I could. If that lost money of mine would only turn up——"
"Then, I am afraid, I—cannot say what I had come to say," returned Sir Philip, with the air of a man who deliberates aloud, and quite ignoring the major's interrupted sentence. "I could not advise my son to settle upon the few hundreds a-year that make up his present income."
"Why, it's abundance," cried the candid major. "You have just said yourself that young people cannot expect to begin as they will end. Your son's is a rising income: if he makes seven-hundred this year, he may expect to make ten next, and double the seven the year after. It is ample to begin upon, Sir Philip."
"No," dissented Sir Philip. "Neither he nor I would consider it so. Something should be put by for a rainy day. This communication has completely taken me by surprise, Major Raynor. We took it for granted that your daughter would at least add her quota to the income: had it been only three or four hundred a-year. Without money of her own, there could be no settlement on her, you see, my son's not being real property."
The major was growing a little heated. He did not at all like the turn the conversation was taking, or Sir Philip's dictatorial tone.
"Well, you hear, Sir Philip, that Alice has nothing. Those who wish to take her, must take her as she is—portionless—or not at all."
Sir Philip Stane rose. "I am sorry, then, major, that I cannot ask what I was about to ask for—herself. Your daughter——"
"You are not wanted to ask it, sir," hotly interrupted the major.
"The fact of your daughter's being portionless debars it," quietly went on the knight. "I am very sorry indeed to have troubled you, and subjected myself to pain. William must consider his pretensions at an end."
"They are at an end," fired the major. "If it is money he has been thinking of all this time, he ought to be ashamed of himself for a calculating, mercenary young rascal. Were he to come to me on his knees, after this, begging for my daughter, he should not have her. That's my answer, Sir Philip Stane, and you can take it away with you."
The major's tug at the bell-rope sent a peal echoing through the house. But Sir Philip Stane's hand was already on the door-handle, letting himself out with a short "good-morning."
Away went the major, hunting for Alice. He found her with her mother. Hotly and explosively he gave an account of the interview; of what he called the mercenary conduct of Sir Philip and William Stane. Poor Alice turned hot and cold: red and white by turns. She took the indignity—as she was pleased to think it—quite as resentfully as the major.
"I forbid you to have anything to do with him after this, Alice. I forbid you to see him again."
"You need not forbid me, papa," was the answer. "I should not think of it."
Major Raynor was one who could not keep in anything, good or bad, especially any grievance. He went about the house, looking for Charles and Frank, that he might impart the news, and so let off a little of his superfluous anger. But he could not find either of them.
Matters were going on much as usual. Daisy was progressing so far towards recovery that she could sit at the open window of her chamber and revel in the balmy air, while feasting her eyes upon the charming landscape. Charles was in a little extra trouble; for he had been written to twice upon the subject of the fifty-pound bill that was overdue. And Frank, outwardly gay as the flowers of May, was inwardly on thorns and nettles.
That that mysterious personage, the Tiger, was wasting his days and hours at Grassmere on Frank Raynor's account, Frank felt persuaded of. To him it seemed an indisputable fact. The man did not molest him: did not appear to take particular notice of him; he had not yet accosted him: but Frank knew that all the while he was craftily watching his movements, to see that he did not escape. It needed not a conjuror to tell him that the Tiger was the spy of Blase Pellet.
The espionage was growing intolerable to Frank. And on this very day, just about the time that Sir Philip Stane was at Eagles' Nest, he flung prudence to the winds, and questioned the enemy. The Tiger had wandered as near to the house as he could, without being guilty of a positive trespass: and Frank, chancing to turn out of what was called Beech Walk, came face to face with him. It was the first time they had thus closely met. For half-a-minute they gazed at each other. The Tiger stood his ground, and quietly took from his pocket a small note-case of brown morocco leather, with the initials "C.R." stamped upon it in gilt.
"Does this belong to you?" questioned the Tiger.
"Not to me," replied Frank. "But I believe it belongs to my cousin, Mr. Raynor.
"I picked it up a few minutes ago as I was strolling along. Perhaps you will be so good us to give it to its owner."
Frank took the case from the Tiger, and thanked him. Even to this man, suspecting him as he did for a despicable spy, he could only be courteous. And, indeed, but for this suspicion, Frank would rather have liked the man's face, now he saw it closely; the thought passed through his mind that, for a Tiger, he was a civilized one. There was a tone of pleasant freedom in the voice; the dark grey eyes, gazing steadily into Frank's, were earnest and good.
"You come from Trennach," said Frank suddenly, speaking upon impulse.
"From Trennach?" repeated the stranger, vaguely, and evincing no surprise.
"Or from some one there," continued Frank. "Employed by him to—to look after his villainous interests here."
"I am my own employer, young man."
"What is your name, pray?"
"If I thought it concerned you to know it, I might, perhaps, inform you," was the answer, civilly delivered.
"But suppose it does concern me?"
"It is my opinion that it does not."
"At any rate your business here does."
"Does it?"
"Will you deny that you have business here? Business of a private nature?"
"I cannot deny that, for it is true."
"And that your business consists in peeping, and watching, and spying?"
"You are partly right."
"And," continued Frank, growing warm, "don't you think that to peep and to spy is a despicable proceeding?"
"In some cases it may undoubtedly be so regarded," was the calm, cool answer. "In other cases it is perfectly justifiable. When some good end, for instance, has to be obtained: or, let us say, a problem worked out."
"The devil can quote Scripture, we are told, to serve his own purposes," muttered Frank to himself as he turned away, afraid of pursuing the subject, half afraid of what revelation the man might make, and of his fearless grey eyes and their steadfast gaze.
They strode apart one from another at right angles. The stranger with careless, easy steps, with profound composure: Frank less easy than usual.
"I wonder," soliloquized he, "whether Pellet has let him into that unhappy night's secret, or whether he has only given him general instructions to look after me, and has kept him in the dark? Any way, I wish Blase Pellet was——"
The wish, whatever it might have been, was left unspoken. For the Tiger had changed his course. Had turned to follow Frank at a fleet pace, and now came up with him.
"Will you tell me, sir, what induced you to assume that I had come here from Trennach? And for what purpose I am 'spying'?—and upon whom?"
"There's no need to tell you," rejoined Frank. "You know too well already."
"And if I tell you that I do not know?"
"I hope you don't. It's all the same," returned Frank, indifferently, believing he was being played with.
"Perhaps you have run up debts at Trennach, and are mistaking me for a sheriff's officer?" proceeded the Tiger, once more gazing steadfastly at Frank as he spoke. "Your cousin, the major's son, has been taking me for one."
"How on earth did he get to know that?" thought Frank. And it seemed to be so confirmatory of the Tiger's accomplishments in the prying line, that Frank felt as much exasperated as his sweet-tempered nature was capable of feeling.
"Your road lies that way, and mine this," spoke Frank, with a wave of the hand. "Good-morning."
The Tiger stood still, looking after his receding footsteps. A very peculiar expression sat on his face, not altogether complimentary to Frank.
"A curious lot, these Raynors," concluded he to himself, as he turned to pursue his own way.
It was perhaps rather remarkable that Charles Raynor should also, on this same day, be brought into contact with the Tiger for the first time. Charley's troubles were culminating to a point: at least, in so far that he was about to be pressed for one of his debts, though he knew it not. It would come upon Charley something like a shock. Since fear, on the score of the Tiger, had subsided, he had enjoyed a complete immunity frompersonalannoyance; and this had lulled his apprehensions to rest; so that he went about here, there, and everywhere, feeling free as air.
He had been out in the dog-cart all the morning. Upon going indoors on his return, by the entrance that was nearest to the stables, in passing the butler's pantry he saw Lamb standing in it. The man made a sudden movement as though he would speak to him, and it arrested Charley.
"Do you want me, Lamb?" he asked, halting on his way.
Lamb dropped his voice to a mysterious whisper, and Charley instinctively moved inside, and shut the door. Lamb knew nearly as much about his young master's embarrassments as he himself knew.
"A party has been here this morning who wanted to see you, Mr. Charles. When I said you were out—gone up to London, I thought—he seemed as if he hardly believed me. I began to think I shouldn't get rid of him."
"Who was it?" asked Charles.
"It was a respectable-looking man, sir. Highly respectable, one might be tempted to call him, if his errand had not been to bother people for money. Being near the neighbourhood, he had turned aside to Grassmere to see you, he said, and his business with you was particular. Of course I knew what it all meant, Mr. Charles, and I declared you were gone out for the day and couldn't be seen though he waited till night."
"I wonder which of them it was?" mused Charley. "Did he give his name?"
"Yes, sir; Huddles. He——"
"Oh, Huddles, is it?" interrupted Charley, his mouth falling. "I'm glad I didn't see him. Is he gone for good, do you think, Lamb?"
"I should say so, sir. I fully impressed upon him that his waiting would be no earthly use. I even said, Mr. Charles, that there was no answering for your return when you went to London, and that you might be there a week, for all I could say. I told him he had better write to you, sir. 'Very well,' he said in answer, and went off with a quick step: no doubt to catch the next train."
"That's all right then," said Charley, completely reassured. "Any visitors been here, Lamb?"
"Sir Philip Stane called, sir. And some ladies are in the drawing-room now. Would you like some refreshment, Mr. Charles?"
"No, I'll wait till dinnertime."
But it still wanted some two or three hours to dinnertime. Presently Charles went strolling out on foot, digesting the unpleasant item of news that his father had just hastened to impart to him—the sneaking behaviour, as he called it, of William Stane. Charles felt greatly vexed and annoyed at it for Alice's sake. He was sure there was a mutual attachment, and had believed that they understood each other.
Lost in reflections on this subject, and never giving a thought to the matter imparted to him by Lamb, his eyes never raised, his footsteps wandering on almost as they would, Charley found himself passing along the common, on the side of the better houses. Words of salutation greeted him.
"Good-afternoon, sir. A hot day again, is it not?"
They came from Miss Jetty, the carpenter's sister. She was sitting at work at her open window. Charles lifted his eyes to nod to her; and that enabled him to see some one who was approaching at a short distance.Huddles. Charley recognized him; and on the spur of the moment darted into the carpenter's to hide.
"I hope and trust he did not see me!"
But Mr. Huddles had seen him. Mr. Huddles came up with a long stride, and was inside the house almost as soon as Charley was. Charley could not pretend to be blind then. He stood just within Esther Jetty's sitting-room; and the applicant stood in the passage facing him.
"I called at Eagles' Nest to-day, Mr. Charles Raynor, and could not see you. You know of course what it was I wanted?"
Charles was taken aback. What with the unpleasantness of the surprise, the consciousness of the helpless state of his finances, and the proximity of Miss Esther Jetty's eyes and ears, raised in curiosity, he was turning frightfully cross. A few sharp, haughty words greeted Huddles, apparently causing him astonishment. This application concerned one of the two "bills" given by Charley; the one on which no proceedings had as yet been taken.
"Can you meet that bill, Mr. Charles Raynor?"
"No, I can't," replied Charles. "I wrote you word that I would meet it as soon as I could; that bill and the other also; and so I will. You must wait."
"For how long, Mr. Raynor? It is inconvenient to wait."
Charles flew into a passion. But for Esther Jetty's presence, he would have managed much better; that of course behoved him to carry matters with a high hand, and he showered abuse on Mr. Huddles in haughty language, forgetful of diplomacy. Mr. Huddles, not at all the sort of man to be dealt with in this manner, repaid him in his own coin. Had Charles met him civilly, he would have been civil also; ay, and forbearing. The bills—he held them both—had only come into his hands in the course of business. He was really respectable, both as a man and a tradesman, not accustomed to be spoken to in such a fashion, and most certainly in this instance did not deserve it. His temper rose. A short, sharp storm ensued, and Mr. Huddles went out of the house in anger, leaving a promise behind him.
"I have been holding the two bills over for you, Mr. Charles Raynor, and staying proceedings out of consideration to you and at your request. And this is the gratitude I get in return! The affair is none of mine, as you know; and what I have done has been simply out of good-nature, for I was sorry to see so young a man in danger of exposure, perhaps of a debtor's prison. I will not delay proceedings another day. The bills shall pass out of my hands, and you must do the best you can for yourself."
Whilst Charles stood knitting his brow and looking very foolish, staring at the front-door, which still vibrated with the bang Mr. Huddles gave it, and not half liking to turn and face Esther Jetty, the parlour-door on the other side of the passage, which had been ajar all the time, opened, and the Tiger appeared at it. He must have been an ear-witness to the whole. It did not tend to decrease Charley's annoyance: and, in truth, the sudden appearance of this man upon the scene, in conjunction with the visit of Huddles, revived Charley's suspicions of him. The Tiger's face wore quite a benevolent aspect.
"Can I be of any use to you?" he asked. "I will be if I can. Step in here, Charles Raynor, and let us talk it over."
Charley lost his head. The words only added fuel to fire. Coming from this sneak of a sheriff's officer, or whatever other disreputable thing he might be, they sounded in his ears in the light of an insult—a bit of casuistry designed to entrap him. And he treated them accordingly.
"Yoube of use to me!" he contemptuously retorted, with all the scorn he could call up. "Mind your own business, man, if you can. Don't presume to interfere with mine."
And out of the house strode Charley, banging the door in his turn, and sending a good-afternoon to Esther Jetty through the open window. The Tiger shrugged his shoulders with a disdainful gesture: as much as to say that the young man was not worth a thought and that he washed his hands of him and his concerns. Taking up his slouching hat, he put it well over his forehead, stood for a few minutes at the outer door, and then passed through the little gate.
"Wouldn't you like your tea, sir?" called Esther Jetty from the window. "I was just about to get it."
"Presently," replied the Tiger.
Meanwhile Charles Raynor was striding towards home, full of bitter repentance. All the folly of his recent conduct was presenting itself before him.
"I wish I had met the fellow differently!" he soliloquized, alluding to Huddles. "There can be no more putting-off now. A day or two and they will be down upon me. I think I was a fool! What a to-do there'll be at home! How on earth will the money be found?—and what will be the upshot of it all?"
Indeed, it seemed that, with one thing and another, Eagles' Nest was not altogether comfortable. Most of its inmates had some secret trouble upon them. And yet not twelve months ago they had entered upon it, all glee and joy, believing their days would henceforth be delightful as a second Paradise!
The next afternoon but one, Saturday, brought William Stane. Alice chanced to be in the shrubbery, and met him. His countenance proved that he felt vexed, doubtful, ill at ease. Instead of the tender glance and smile that had been wont to greet Alice, he had a grave eye and knitted brow. The look angered her, even more than had the reported words of Sir Philip on the Thursday before.
What precisely passed between them perhaps neither could afterwards clearly recall. He said something about how sorry he was that their happy intercourse should have been marred; Alice interrupted him with a sharp and haughty retort. William Stane retorted in his turn; and things were spoken between them, in the moment's ill-feeling, that could neither be unsaid nor qualified. Prejudiced by his father's account of the unsatisfactory interview with the major, he had come, naturally inclined to espouse his father's side; Alice on her part upheld their own cause. Very short indeed was the scene, but it was decisive.
"I am sorry to have been so mistaken in you, Miss Raynor," he said, turning to depart. "No great harm has, however, been done."
"None," returned Alice. "Fare you well."
He raised his hat without speaking, and the echoes of his retreating footsteps died away in the shrubbery.
Thus they parted. The fault being at least as much Alice's as his. Whether he had come to straighten matters, to repudiate the fiat Sir Philip had pronounced, Alice knew not, but she did not allow him the opportunity. If the possession of Eagles' Nest had taught nothing else to Major Raynor's children, it had certainly taught them to be arrogant. The world seemed made for them, and for them alone.
Alice went upstairs humming a gay song, and passed into Daisy's room. She halted at the glass, glancing at her pretty face, at the brightness of the blue eyes, at the unusual flush on her cheeks. Frank's wife turned round.
"You are gay this afternoon, Alice."
"Gay as a fairy," replied Alice. "It is lovely out-of-doors. The sun's shining and the birds are singing."
A few days went on. Charley was in a state of mental collapse. For, not one single minute of those days came and went but he was on the look-out for some dreadful shock, emanating from the enemy, Huddles. Each night, as darkness fell, he felt not at all thankful that the blow had kept off, concluding that the morrow would bring it. It seemed to him at times that its falling would bring relief, by ending his almost unbearable suspense.
Alice continued gay; gay as a lark. Was it assumed, this gaiety, or was it real? Perhaps she herself did not know.
"You could not have cared very much for William Stane, Alice, or he for you," one day remarked her mother, to whom the affair had given pain, interrupting Alice in the carolling of a song, sung to an impromptu dance.
"Cared for him, mamma!" she returned, in her spirit of bravado. "I am well rid of him."
Mrs. Raynor sighed. Alice had so changed: not, she feared, for the better. So had Charles. Good fortune had ruined them all.