A cold, drizzling rain was falling. We have wintry weather sometimes in July, as was the case now. The lovely summer seemed to have come to an abrupt end, and to have flown for good. At least, it appeared so to those who were turning out of their late happy and prosperous home, to enter on another of which they knew little. Knew nothing, in fact, except that it would have to be one of poverty and labour. For this was the day that Mrs. Raynor and her children were quitting Eagles' Nest.
All superfluous effects had been disposed off, even to their personal trinkets. Charles's watch, that he set store by because it had been his father's, and had only just come into his possession, had to go. Without the sale of these things they could not have paid all their debts and kept sufficient for pressing requirements. A fly took Mrs. Raynor, Alice, and the two younger children to the station, Charles and Alfred having walked on; and a cart conveyed the luggage. The rain beat against the windows of the fly, the wind swept by in gusts, shaking the branches of the trees. Everything looked dreary and wretched, even Eagles' Nest itself. Oh, what a change it was, inwardly and outwardly, from that day, bright with hope and sunshine, when they had entered it only twelve short months before!
Charles was at the fly door when it drew up. "What tickets am I to take?" he asked of his mother: and a blank pause ensued. They were accustomed to first-class; but that would not do now.
"Either second, or—third, Charley," spoke poor Mrs. Raynor.
"There is no third-class to this train," replied Charley, glad perhaps to have to say it, as he turned away to the ticket-office.
And so they travelled up to London, Mrs. Raynor leaning back in the carriage with closed eyes, grateful for the rest. It had been a long scuffle to get away: and every one of them had mentally reproached Edina for not coming to their help.
"It is just as though she had deserted us," said Mrs. Raynor. "I suppose she will be at the new house to receive us, as she says; but I think she might have come all the same: she knows how incapable I am."
The "new house" was situated in the southern district of London, some three miles, or so, from the heart of the bustle. It was about five o'clock when they approached it in two cabs, through the dirt and drizzle. The spirits of all were depressed. With the very utmost difficulty Mrs. Raynor kept down her tears.
"I expect to find an empty barn," she said, looking out on the dreary road. "Perhaps there will not be as much as a mattress to sleep on."
The cabs stopped before the door of a convenient, roomy, but old-fashioned-looking house, standing a little back from the road, with a garden behind it. A rosy servant-girl opened the door. She was not as fashionable-looking as the maids they had left, but she was neat and active, and very willing—a remarkably desirable quality in a maid-of-all-work. Edina came forward; a bright smile of welcome on her face as she took all the hands into hers that she could hold, and led the way to the sitting-room. It was quite furnished, and the tea-things stood on the table.
Instead of the empty barn Mrs. Raynor had expected, she found a house plainly but well furnished throughout. The schoolroom, the airy bedrooms, the sitting-rooms, the kitchen, all had their appropriate appointments. Useful furniture, and quite new. Mrs. Raynor halted in the kitchen, which was not underground, and gazed about her. The fire threw its warmth on the red bricks, a kettle was singing away, plates and dishes stood on the dresser shelves, every necessary article seemed at hand.
"I cannot understand it, Edina. You must have obtained the things on credit, after all. Oh, that the school may succeed!—so that we may soon be enabled to pay for them."
"No credit has been asked or given, Mary," was Edina's answer. "The furniture has been bought and paid for, and it is yours."
"Bought by whom?"
"By me. You will not be too proud to accept it from your poor friend, Edina!"
Mrs. Raynor sat down on the nearest wooden chair, and burst into tears.
"You thought, I am sure, that I might have come back to help you away from Eagles' Nest, Mary, but I could not: I had too much to do here," explained Edina. "I find there is an opening in this neighbourhood for a school, and I also found this house, that is so suitable for one, to be let. I took it, and with Frank's help, furnished it, plainly as you see: and then I went about amongst the neighbours, and put an advertisement or two in the papers, asking for pupils. Two boarders, sisters, will enter to-morrow; two more on Monday, and five day-pupils. This is not so bad a beginning, and I dare say others will drop in. I feel sure you will succeed; that you and Alice may get a very good school together in time: and I hope Heaven will bless and prosper you."
Mrs. Raynor was looking up in her rather helpless manner. "I—I don't understand, Edina. Did you buy the furniture, or did Frank?"
"Not Frank, poor fellow: he has need of help himself. Be at rest, Mary: I bought it, and I have made it over to you by a deed of gift. The house is taken in your name, and I am responsible for the first half-year's rent."
"Oh, Edina! But I thought you had no money—except the small income Dr. Raynor secured to you."
"Please don't disparage my income," said Edina, gaily. "It is fifty pounds a-year: quite enough for me. As to the money, I had a hundred pounds or two by me that my dear father left me over and above the income. In laying it out for you and yours in your hour of need, Mary, I think it well spent."
"And we used to call Edina mean and stingy!" thought Mrs. Raynor in her repentant heart. "At least, Charles and Alice did."
With the next week, all the expected pupils had entered; four boarders and five day-pupils. Another day-pupil, not expected, made six. It was a very good opening, affording hope of ultimate success.
"What do you think of it, Charley?" asked Mrs. Raynor, on the third evening, as they sat together after the little boarders and Kate and Robert were in bed, Edina being out.
"Oh, I think it's first-rate," answered Charley, half seriously, half mockingly. "You and Alice will be making a fortune by-and-by."
The remark did not please Alice.She, at least, was not reconciled to the new home and its duties.
"Youmay think it first-rate," she retorted. "It is widely different from Eagles' Nest. We were gentlepeople there; we are poor governesses here."
Charley made no response. The very name of Eagles' Nest would give him an unpleasant turn.
"And it is nothing but work all day," went on Alice. "Lessons this hour, music that, writing the next. Oh, it is wearisome!"
"Don't grumble, my dears," interposed Mrs. Raynor. "It might have been so much worse. After the strange turn our affairs took, we might now be without a roof over our heads or a morsel of bread to eat. So far as I can see, we should have been, but for Edina."
The tears were raining down Mrs. Raynor's cheeks. Alice started up and threw her arms round her in repentance. "Forgive me, dear mamma, forgive me! I was wrong to speak so repiningly."
"You were wrong, dear Alice. In dwelling so much upon the advantages we have lost, you overlook the mercies remaining to us. And they are mercies. We are together under one roof; we have the prospect of making a fair living."
"Yes," acquiesced Charley, throwing regrets behind him. "It is a very nice home indeed, compared with what might have been."
"And I think we may yet be very happy in it," said Mrs. Raynor.
Alice strove to think so too, and put on a cheerful face. But the old days were ever present with her; and she never recalled the past hopes connected with William Stane, but her heart turned sick and faint in its despair.
"It will be your turn next, Charles," observed Edina, taking the opportunity of speaking to him the following morning, when they were alone.
"My turn?" repeated Charles, vaguely: conscious that he knew what she meant, but not choosing to acknowledge it.
"To do something for yourself," added Edina. "You cannot intend to live upon your mother."
"Of course I do not, Edina. How stupid you are."
"And the question is, what is that something to be?" she continued, passing over his compliment to herself.
"I should like to go into the army, Edina."
Edina shook her head. Her longer experience of life, her habits of forethought, enabled her to see obstacles that younger people did not see.
"Even if you had the money to purchase a commission, Charley——"
"But I did not think of purchasing. I should like to get one given to me."
"Is there a chance of it?"
Charles did not reply. He was standing before the window, gazing abstractedly at a young butcher boy, dashing about in a light cart for his morning orders. There was not very much chance of it, he feared, but there might be a little.
"Let us suppose that you had the commission, Charley, that it arrived here for you this very day direct from the Horse Guards—or whatever place may issue them," pursued Edina. "Would it benefit you?"
"Benefit me!"
"I mean, could you take it up? How would you find your necessary outfit? Regimentals cost a great deal: and there must be many other preliminary expenses. This is not all——"
"I could get things on credit," interrupted Charles, "and pay as I went on."
"But this would not be the only impediment, Charley. I have heard that it takes every officer more than his pay to live. I have often thought that were I an officer it should not take me more; but it may be that I am mistaken there. You would not have anything besides your pay, Charley."
"Oh, I expect I should get along."
"Taken at the best, you would have nothing to spare. I had thought you might choose some calling which would enable you to help them here at home."
"Of course. It is what I should wish to do."
"Alfred must be educated; and little Robert as he comes on. Your mother may not be able to do this. And I do not see that you will have it in your power to aid her if you enter the army."
Charles began scoring the window-pane with a pencil that he held, not knowing what to answer. In truth, his own intentions and views as to the future were so vague and purposeless, that to dwell on it gave him nightmare.
"What should you propose, Edina?"
"A situation," replied Edina, promptly, "in some good city house."
But for the obligations they were just now under to Edina, Mr. Charles Raynor would have abused her well for the suggestion. It suited neither himself nor his pride. A situation in some city house! That meant a clerk, he supposed. To write at desks and go on errands!
"I wish you wouldn't talk so, Edina," he peevishly said, wishing he might box her ears. "Did you ever hear of a Raynor becoming a tradesman?"
"Did you ever hear of a Raynor with no means of living?" retorted Edina. "No profession, and no money? Circumstances alter cases, Charley."
"Circumstances can't make a common man a gentleman; and they can't make a gentleman take up the rôle of a common man."
"Can't they! I think they often do. However, Charley, I will say no more just now, for I perceive you are not in the humour for it. Consider the matter with yourself.Don'tdepend upon the commission, for indeed I do not see that you have a chance of one. Put it out of your thoughts, if you can, and look to other ways and means. I shall be leaving you in a day or two, you know; by that time you will perhaps have decided on something."
Edina went into the schoolroom, and Charles stood where he was. Alfred came in with his Latin books. Mrs. Raynor was going to send Alfred to a day-school close by; but it did not open for another week or two, and meanwhile Charles made a show of keeping him to his Latin.
"What am I to do this morning, Charley?"
"Copy that last exercise over again, lad. It was so badly written yesterday that I could not read it."
Alfred's pen went scratching over the copy-book. Charles remained at the window, deep in thought. He had no more wish to be living on his mother than any other good son has; but he did not see where he could go, or what he could do. The doubt had lain on his mind during these recent days more than was agreeable to its peace. His whole heart was set upon a commission; but in truth he did not feel much more sanguine of obtaining one than Edina seemed to feel.
He wished he was something—wished it there as he stood.Anything, rather than remain in this helpless position. Wished he was a doctor, like Frank; or a banker, like that wretch, George Atkinson; or a barrister, like that other wretch, Stane. Had he been brought up to one of these callings he should at least have a profession before him. As it was, he felt incapable: he was fit for nothing, knew nothing. If he could get a commission given to him, he should be on his legs at once; andthatrequired no special training.
But for Charles Raynor's inexperience, he might have found that a candidate for a commission in the army does require a special training now. In his father's young days the case was otherwise. The major had been very fond of talking of those days; Charles had thence gathered his impressions, and they remained with him.
Yes, he said to himself, making a final score on the window-pane, he must get the commission; and the sooner the better. Not to lose time, he thought it might be well to see about it at once. An old acquaintance of his father's, one Colonel Cockburn, had (as Charles was wont to put it to himself) some interest in high quarters: his brother, Sir James Cockburn, being one of the Lords of the Admiralty. Of course, reasoned Charles, Sir James must be quite able to give away posts indiscriminately in both army and navy; and it was not likely he would refuse one to his brother, if the latter asked for it. So if he, Charles, could only get Colonel Cockburn to interest himself, the affair was done.
"Are you going out?" questioned Alfred, as Charles began to brush his coat and hat.
"Yes, I am going to see Colonel Cockburn," was the reply. "No good putting it off any longer. When you have finished copying that exercise, youngster, you can do another. And mind you stick at it: don't go worrying the mother."
Away went Charles, on the top of a passing omnibus. Colonel Cockburn's club was the Army and Navy. Charles possessed no other address of his; and to that building he found his way, and boldly entered.
"Colonel Cockburn, sir?" was the answer to his inquiry. "I don't think he is in town."
"Not in town!" cried Charles, his ardour suddenly damped. "Why do you think that?"
"He has not been here for a day or two, sir: so we conclude he is either absent or ill. The colonel is sometimes laid up with gout for a week together."
"Can you tell me where he lives? I'll go and see him."
"In St. James's Street," replied the man, giving at the same time the number of the house.
To St. James's Street proceeded Charles, found the house in which the colonel occupied rooms, and saw the landlady. Colonel Cockburn was at Bath: had gone to stay with a brother who was lying there ill.
"What a dreadful bother!" thought Charles. "Cockburn must have a whole regiment of brothers!" And he stood in indecision.
"Will the colonel be back soon?" inquired he.
"I don't know at all," was the landlady's answer. "Should he be detained in Bath, he may not come back before October. The colonel always leaves London the end of July. Sometimes he leaves earlier than that."
"What on earth am I to do?" cried Charles, half aloud, his vivid hopes evaporating considerably. "My business with him was urgent."
"Could you write to him?" suggested the landlady.
"I suppose I must—if you have his address. But I ought to see him."
She took an envelope from the mantelpiece, on which was written an address in the Crescent, Bath. Charles copied it down, and went out. He stood a moment, considering what he should do. The day was so fine and the town so full of life, that to go off to that pokey old southern suburb seemed a sin and a shame. So he decided to make a day of it, and began with the Royal Academy.
Time slips away in the most wonderful manner when sight-seeing, and the day was over before Charles thought it half through. When he reached home, it was past nine. The children were in bed; his mother also had gone to bed with headache; Edina and Alice were sewing by lamplight. Alice was at some fancy work; Edina was mending a torn pinafore: one of a batch that required repairing.
While taking his supper, Charles told them of his ill-luck in regard to Colonel Cockburn. And when the tray went away, he got paper and ink and began to write to him.
"He is sure to have heard of our misfortunes—don't you think so, Edina? I suppose I need only just allude to them."
"Of course he has heard of them," broke in Alice, resentfully. "All the world must have heard of them."
Charley went on writing. The first letter did not please him; and when it was nearly completed he tore it up and began another.
"It is always difficult to know what to say in this kind of application: and I don't think I am much of a letter-writer," observed he, candidly.
Alice grew tired, nodded over her embroidery, and at length said good-night and went upstairs. Edina sent the servant to bed, and stitched on at another pinafore.
"I think that will do," said Charley: and he read the letter aloud.
"It will do very well," acquiesced Edina. "But, Charley, I foresee all sorts of difficulties. To begin with, I am not at all sure that you are eligible for a commission: I fancy you ought to go first of all to Sandhurst or Woolwich."
"Not a bit of it," replied Charley, full of confidence. "What other difficulties do you foresee, Edina?"
"I wish you would give up the idea."
"I dare say! What would you have me do, if I did give it up?"
"Pocket your pride, and find a situation."
Charles tossed his head. Pride was almost as much in the ascendant with him as it ever had been. He thought how old and silly Edina was growing. But he remembered what she had done for them, and would not quarrel with her.
"Time enough to talk of that, Edina, when I have had Colonel Cockburn's answer."
Edina said no more for a few moments. She rose; shook out Robert's completed pinafore, and folded it. "I had a scheme in my head, Charley; but you don't seem inclined to hear anything I may say upon the subject."
"Yes, I will," replied Charley, opening his ears at the rather attractive word "scheme." "I will hear that."
"I cannot help thinking that if George Atkinson were applied to, he would give you a post in his bank. He ought to do it. After turning you out of Eagles' Nest——"
"I wouldn't apply to him; I wouldn't take it," interrupted Charles, fiercely, his anger aroused by the name. "If he offered me the best post in it to-morrow, I would fling it back in his face. Good-night, Edina: I'm off. I don't care to stay to hear of suggested obligations fromhim."
On the day of Edina's departure for Trennach, the morning post brought Colonel Cockburn's answer to Charles. It was very short. Edina, her bonnet on, stood to read it over his shoulder. The colonel intimated that he did not quite comprehend Charles's application; but would see him on his return to London.
"So there's nothing for it but to wait—and I hope he won't be long," remarked Charles, as he folded the briefly-worded letter. "You must see there's nothing else, Edina."
In a populous and somewhat obscure part of Lambeth, not a hundred miles away from the great hospital, Bedlam, there ran a narrow street. Amongst the shops, on the left of this street in going from London, stood a house that could not strictly be called a shop now; though it had been one recently, and the two counters within it still remained. It had formerly been a small chemist's shop. About a year ago, a young medical man named Brown had taken it, done away with the drugs and chemicals, so far as retailing them to the public went, and there set himself up as a doctor. He dispensed his own medicines, so the counters were useful still, and his jars of powders and liquids occupied the pigeon-holes above, where the chemist's jars had once stood. The lower half of the windows had been stained white; on one of them was written in black letters, "Mr. Max Brown, surgeon;" on the other, "Mr. Max Brown, general medical practitioner."
It was now about a year since Mr. Max Brown had thus established himself; and he had done very fairly. If his practice did not afford a promise that he would speedily become a millionaire, it at least was sufficient to keep him. And to keep him well. Mr. Brown had himself been born and reared in as crowded a part of London as this, somewhere towards Clerkenwell, therefore the locality did not offend his tastes. He anticipated remaining in it for good, and had not the slightest doubt that his practice would steadily increase, and afford him a carriage and a better house in time. The tradespeople around, though far below those of Bond Street in the social scale, were tradespeople of sufficient substance, and could afford to pay Mr. Brown. He was a little dark man, of affable nature and manners, clever in his profession, liked by his patients, and winning his way more surely amongst them day by day.
In the midst of this humble prosperity a check occurred. Not to the prosperity, but to Mr. Brown's plans and projects. Several years before, his elder brother had gone to the West Indies, and his widowed mother and his sister had subsequently followed him out. The sister had married there. The brother, Kenneth Brown, was for some years successful manager of a planter's estate; he now managed one of his own. Altogether they were extremely prosperous; and the only one of the family left in England, Max, received pleasant letters from them by each fortnightly mail, and was quite at ease with regard to them. It therefore took him completely by surprise in the midst of this ease, to find himself suddenly summoned to Jamaica.
One day in this same hot summer, early in the month of June—for we must go back two or three weeks in our story—Mr. Brown, having completed his morning round of calls on patients, stood behind his counter making up the physic required by them, and waiting for his queer old maid-servant, Eve, to come and tell him his one-o'clock dinner was ready. The door stood open to the hot street, and to the foot-passengers traversing the pavement; and Sam, the young boy, was waiting at the opposite counter with his covered basket until the physic should be ready.
"That's all to-day, Sam," said his master, pleasantly, as he folded the white paper round the last bottle, and motioned to the lad to bring the basket forward. "And, look here"—showing one of the packets—"this is for a fresh place, Number 26, you see, in The Walk. It's a grocer's shop."
"All right, sir. I shall find it."
"Maximilian Brown, Esq.," interrupted a voice at this juncture. It was that of the postman. He came in at the open door, and read out the address of the letter—his usual custom—as he put it down.
"Oh, the mail's in, I see," observed the doctor to him.
"Yes, sir."
Postman and boy went out together. Mr. Brown, leisurely turning down his coat-cuffs, which were never allowed to come in contact with the physic, took up the West Indian letter, and broke the seal. By that seal, as well as by the writing, he knew it was from his mother. Mrs. Brown always sealed her letters.
The letter contained only a few shaky lines. It told her son Max that she was ill; ill, as she feared, unto death. And it enjoined him to come out to Jamaica, that she might see him before she died. A note from his brother was enclosed, which contained these words—
"Do come out, dear Max, if you can in any way manage it. Mother's heart is set upon it. There is no immediate danger, but she is breaking fast. Come by next mail if you can, the middle of June; but at any rate don't delay it longer than the beginning of July. I enclose you an order on our London bankers, that the want of funds may be no impediment to you.
"Your affectionate brother,
"Kenneth."
It took a great deal to disturb the equable temperament of Max Brown. This did disturb him. He stood staring at the different missives: now at his mother's, now at his brother's, now at the good round sum named in the order. A thunderbolt could not more effectually have taken him back. Eve, a clean old body in a flowery chintz gown, with a mob-cap and bow of green ribbon surmounting her grey hair, came in twice to say the loin of lamb waited: but she received no reply in return.
"Ican'tgo," Max was repeating to himself. "I don't see how Icango. What would become of my practice?"
But his mother was his mother: and Max Brown, a dutiful son, began to feel that he should not like her to die before he had seen her once again. She was not sixty yet. The whole of the rest of the day and part of the night he was revolving matters in his mind; and in the morning he sent an advertisement to theTimesand to a medical journal.
For more than a week the advertisement brought no result. Answers there were to it, and subsequent interviews with those who wrote them; but none that availed Max Brown. Either the applicants did not suit him, or his offer did not suit them. He then inserted the advertisement a second time.
And it chanced to fall under the notice of Frank Raynor. Or, strictly speaking, under the notice of Frank's friend Crisp. This was close upon the return of Frank from Eagles' Nest. Daisy was with her sister in Westbourne Terrace, and Frank had been taken in by Mr. Crisp, a young surgeon who held an appointment in one of the London hospitals. He occupied private rooms, and could accommodate Frank with a sofa-bedstead. Mr. Crisp saw the advertisement on the morning of its second appearance in theTimes, and pointed it out to Frank.
"A qualified medical practitioner wanted, to take entire charge for a few months of a general practice in London during the absence of the principal."
"It may be worth looking after, old fellow," said Crisp.
Frank seized upon the suggestion eagerly. Most anxious was he to be relieved from his present state of inactivity. An interview took place between him and Max Brown; and before it terminated Frank had accepted the post.
To him it looked all couleur-de-rose. During the very few days he had now been in London, that enemy, the Tiger, had troubled his mind more than was pleasant. That the man had come up in the same train, and absolutely in the compartment immediately behind his own, for the purpose of keeping him in view, and of tracking out his place of abode in town, appeared only too evident to him. When Frank had deposited his wife at her sister's door, the turnings and twistings he caused the cab to take in carrying him to Crisp's, would have been sufficient to baffle a detective. Frank hoped it had baffled the Tiger: but he had scarcely liked to show himself abroad since. Therefore the obscurity of the locality in which Mr. Brown's practice lay, whilst it had frightened away one or two dandies who had inquired about it, was a strong recommendation in the eyes of Frank.
The terms proposed by Mr. Brown were these: That Frank Raynor should enter the house as he went out of it, take his place in all respects, carry on the practice for him until he himself returned, and live upon the proceeds. If the returns amounted to more than a certain sum, the surplus was to be reserved for Mr. Brown.
Frank agreed to all: the terms were first-rate; just what he should have chosen, he said. And surely to him they looked so. He was suddenly lifted out of his state of penniless dependence, had a house over his head, and occupation. The very fact of possessing a home to bring Daisy to, would have lent enchantment to the view in his sanguine nature.
"And by good luck I shall dodge the Tiger," he assured himself. "He will never think of looking for mehere. Were he to find me out, Mr. Blase Pellet would be down upon me for hush-money—for that I expect will be his move the moment he thinks I have any money in my pocket. Yes, better to be in this obscure place at present, than flourishing before the West-end world as a royal physician."
So when preliminaries were arranged he wrote to Mrs. Raynor, saying what a jolly thing he had dropped into.
But Mr. Max Brown reconsidered one item in the arrangement. Instead of Frank's coming in when he left, he had him there a week beforehand that he might introduce him to the patients. Frank was to take to the old servant, Eve, and to the boy, Sam: in short, nothing was to be altered, nothing changed excepting the master. Frank was to walk in and Mr. Brown to walk out; all else was to go on as before. Mr. Brown made no sort of objection to Frank's wife sharing the home: on the contrary, he made one or two extra arrangements for her comfort. When he sailed, the beginning of July, Frank was fully installed, and Daisy might come as soon as she pleased. But her sister wished to keep her a little longer.
On one of the hot mornings in that same month of July, a well-dressed young fellow in deep mourning might be seen picking his way through the narrow streets of Lambeth, rendered ankle-deep in mud by the prodigal benevolence of the water-cart. It was Charles Raynor. Having nothing to do with his time, he had come forth to find out Frank.
"Itcan'tbe here!" cried Charley to himself, sniffing about fastidiously. "Frank would never take a practice in a low place like this! I say—here, youngster," he cried, arresting the steps of a tattered girl, who was running out of a shop, "do you chance to know where Mark Street is?"
"First turning you comes to," promptly responded the damsel, with assured confidence.
Charles found the turning and the street, and went down it, looking on all sides for the house he wanted. As he did not remember, or else did not know, the name of Frank's predecessor, the words "Mr. Max Brown" on some window-panes on the opposite side of the way afforded him no guide; and he might have gone on into endless wilds but for catching sight within the house of a shapely head and some bright hair, which he knew belonged to Frank. He crossed the street at a bound, and entered.
"Frank!"
Standing in the identical spot in which Max Brown was standing when we first saw him, was Frank, his head bent forward over an account-book, in which he was writing. He looked up hastily.
"Charley!"
Their hands met, and some mutual inquiries ensued. They had not seen each other since quitting Eagles' Nest.
"We thought you must be dead and buried, Frank. You might have come to see us."
"Just what I have been thinking—that you might have come to see me," returned Frank. "Ican't get away. Since Brown left, and for a week before it, I have not had a moment to myself: morning, noon and night, I am tied to my post here. Your time is your own, Charley."
"I have been about at the West-end, finding out Colonel Cockburn, and doing one thing or another," said Charley, by way of excusing his laziness. "Edina left us only yesterday."
"For Trennach?"
"Yes, for Trennach. We fancy she means to take up her abode for good in the old place. She does not feel at home anywhere else, she says, as she does there. It was good of her, though, was it not, Frank, to set us up in the new home?"
"Very good—even for Edina. And I believe few people in this world are so practically good as she is. I did a little towards helping her choose the furniture; not much, because I arranged with Brown. How is the school progressing?"
"All right. It is a dreadful come-down: but it has to be put up with. Alice cries every night."
"And about yourself? Have you formed any plans?"
"I am waiting till Cockburn returns to town. I expect he will get me a commission."
"A commission!" exclaimed Frank, dubiously; certain doubts and difficulties crossing his mind, as they had crossed Edina's.
"It will be the best thing for me if I can only obtain it. There is no other opening."
Frank remained silent. His doubts were very strong indeed; but he never liked to inflict thorns where he could not scatter flowers, and he would not damp Charley's evident ardour. Time might do that quickly enough.
Charley was looking about him. He had been looking about him ever since he entered, somewhat after the fastidious manner that he had looked at the streets, but more furtively. Appearances were surprising him. The small shop (it seemed no better) with the door standing open to the narrow street; the counters on either side; the glass jars above; the scales lying to hand, and sundry packets of pills and powders beside them: to him, it all savoured of a small retail chemist's business. Charley thought he must be in a sort of dream. He could not understand how or why Frank had condescended to so inferior a position as this.
"Do youlikethis place, Frank?"
"Uncommonly," answered Frank: and his honest blue eyes, glancing brightly into Charley's, confirmed the words. "It is a relief to be in harness again; and to have a home to bring Daisy to."
"Will Daisy like it?" questioned Charles. And the hesitation in his tone, which he could not suppress, plainly betrayed his opinion—that she would not like it.
Frank's countenance fell. It was the one bitter drop in the otherwise sufficiently palatable cup.
"IwishI could have done better for her. It is only for a time, you know, Charley."
"I see," said Charley, feeling relieved. "You are only here whilst looking out for something better."
"That's it, in one sense. I stay here until Brown comes back. By that time I hope to—to pick myself up again."
The slight pause was caused by a consciousness that he did not feel assured upon the point. That Mr. Blase Pellet and his emissary, the Tiger, and all their unfriendly machinations combined, would by that time be in some way satisfactorily disposed of, leaving himself a free agent again, Frank devoutly hoped and most sanguinely expected. It was only when his mind dipped into details, and he began to consider how and by what means these enemies were likely to be subdued, that he felt anxious and doubtful.
"Something good may turn up for you, Frank, before the fellow—Brown, if that's his name—comes home. I suppose you'll take it if it does."
"Not I. My bargain with Brown is to remain here until he returns. And here I shall remain."
"Oh, well—of course a bargain's a bargain. How long does he expect to be away?"
"He did not know. He might stay four or six months with his people, he thought, if things went on well here."
"I say, why do you keep that street-door open?"
"I don't know," answered Frank. "From habit, I suppose. Brown used to keep it open, and I have done the same. I like it so. It gives a little liveliness to the place."
"People may take the place for a shop, and come in."
"Some have done so," laughed Frank. "It was a chemist's shop before Brown took to it. I tell them it is only a surgery now."
"When do you expect Daisy?" asked Charles, after a pause.
"This evening."
"This evening!"
"I shall snatch a moment at dusk to fetch her," added Frank. "Mrs. Townley is going into Cornwall on a visit to The Mount, and Daisy comes home."
"Have the people at The Mount forgiven Daisy yet?"
"No. They will not do that, I expect, until I am established as a first-rate practitioner, with servants and carriages about me. Mrs. St. Clare likes show."
"She wouldn't like this, I'm afraid," spoke Charles, candidly, looking up at the low ceiling and across at the walls.
Frank was saved a reply. Sam, the boy, who had been out on an errand, entered, and began delivering a message to his master.
"Would you like some dinner, Charley?" asked Frank. "Come along, I don't know what there is to-day."
Passing through a side-door behind him, Frank stepped into an adjoining sitting-room. It was narrow, but comfortable. The window looked to the street. The fireplace was at the opposite end, side by side with the door that led to the house beyond. A mahogany sofa covered with horsehair stood against the wall on one side; a low bookcase and a work-table on the other. The chairs matched the sofa; on the centre table the dinner-cloth was laid.
"Not a bad room, this," said Charley, thinking it an improvement on the shop.
"There's a better sitting-room upstairs," observed Frank.
"Well furnished, too. Brown liked to have decent things about him; and his people, he said, helped him liberally when he set up here. That work-table he bought the other day for Daisy's benefit."
"He must be rather a good sort of a fellow."
"He's a very good one. What have you for dinner, Eve? Put a knife and fork for this gentleman."
"Roast beef, sir," replied the old woman, who was carrying in the dishes, and nodded graciously to Charles, as much as to say he was welcome. "I thought the new mistress might like to find a cut of cold meat in the house."
"Quite right," said Frank. "Sit down, Charley."
Charley sat down, and did ample justice to the dinner, especially the Yorkshire pudding, a dish of which he was particularly fond, and had not lost his relish for amidst the dainties of the table at Eagles' Nest. He began to think Frank's quarters were not so bad on the whole, compared with no quarters at all, and no dinner to eat.
"Have you chanced to see that man, Charley, since you came to London?" inquired Frank, putting the question with a certain reluctance, for he hated to allude to the subject.
"What man?" returned Charley.
"The Tiger."
"No, I have not seen him. I learnt at Oxford that I had been mistaken in thinking he was looking after me——"
"He was not looking after you," interrupted Frank.
"My creditors there all assured me—— Oh, Frank, how could I forget?" broke off Charley. "What an ungrateful fellow I am! Though, indeed, not really ungrateful, but it had temporarily slipped my memory. How good it was of you to settle those two bills for me! I would not write to thank you: I preferred to wait until we met. How did you raise the money?"
Frank, who had finished his dinner, had nothing to do but to stare at Charles. And he did stare, "I don't know what you are talking about, Charley. What bills have I settled for you?"
"The two wretched bills I had accepted and went about in fear of. You know. Was it not you who paid them?"
"Are they paid?"
"Yes. All paid and done with. It must have been you, Frank. There's no one else that it could have been."
"My good lad, I assure you I know nothing whatever about it. Where should I get a hundred pounds from? What could induce you to think it was I?"
Charles told the tale—all he knew of it. They wasted some minutes in conjectures, and then came to the conclusion that it must have been Major Raynor himself who had paid. He had become acquainted in some way with Charles's trouble and had quietly relieved it. A lame conclusion, as both felt: for setting aside the fact that the poor major was short of money himself, to pay bills for his son secretly was eminently uncharacteristic of him: he would have been far more likely to proclaim it to the whole house, and reproach Charley in its hearing. But they were fain to rest in the belief, from sheer want of any other benefactor to fix upon. Not a soul was there in the wide world, as far as Charley knew, to come forth in this manner, excepting his father.
"I think it must have been so," concluded Charles. "Perhaps the dear old man got to know, through Lamb, of Huddles's visit that day."
"And what of Eagles' Nest?" asked Frank, as he passed back into the surgery with Charles, and sent the boy into the kitchen to his dinner. "Has George Atkinson taken possession yet?"
"We have heard nothing of Eagles' Nest, Frank; we don't care to hear anything. Possession? Of course he has. You may depend upon it he would make an indecent rush into it the very day after we came out of it, the wretch! If he did not the same night."
Frank could not help a smile at the outburst of indignation. "Atkinson ought to do something for you, Charley," he said. "After turning you out of one home, the least he could do would be to find you another. I dare say he might put you into some post or other."
"And do you suppose I'd take it!" fired Charles, his eyes blazing. "What queer ideas you must have, Frank! You are as bad as Edina. As if——"
"Oh, please, Dr. Brown, would you come to mother," interrupted a small child, darting in at the open door. "She have fell through the back parlour window a-cleaning of it, and her arm be broke, she says."
"Who is your mother, little one?"
"At the corner shop, please, sir. Number eleven."
"Tell her I will come directly."
Charles was taking up his hat, to leave. "Why does she call you Dr. Brown?" he questioned, as the child ran off, and Frank was making ready to follow her and summoning Sam to the surgery.
"Half the people here call me so. It comes more readily to them than the new name. Good-bye, Charley. My love to all at home. Come again soon."
He sped away in the wake of the child. Charley turned the other way on his road homewards, carrying with him a very disparaging opinion of Lambeth.