The room was smartened up for the occasion. At least, as much as a room furnished with cane-seated chairs, a threadbare carpet not half covering the boards, and a stained green-baize table-cover, can be smartened. It was Mrs. Raynor's birthday. Frank Raynor and his wife had come down to wish her many happy returns of it and to take tea with her; Alice had been invited; Charles had said he would be home early. But tea was over, and neither Charles nor Alice had put in an appearance; and the little fête, without them, had seemed a failure to their mother.
Mrs. Raynor was altered: worn, spiritless, always ailing, in the past year she had aged much. Disappointment and straitened circumstances told on her health as well as on her mind. It was not for herself she grieved and suffered, but for her children. For Charles especially. His prospects had been blighted; his standing in the world utterly changed. Edina's hands were full, for Mrs. Raynor could help very little now. What Mrs. Raynor chiefly did was to gather the young ones around her, and talk to them, in her gentle voice, of resignation to God's will, of patience, of that better world that they were travelling on to; where there will be neither sickness nor sorrow, neither mortification nor suffering. The children needed such lessons. It seemed very hard to them that they should sometimes have nothing but dry bread for dinner, or baked potatoes without meat. Even with all Edina's economy and with Charles's earnings, meat could not always be afforded. The joint must be carved sparingly, and made to last the best part of the week. They generally had a joint on a Sunday, and that was as much as could be said. Clothes cost so much: and Charles, at least, had to be tolerably well-dressed. But there are many items in a household's expenses besides eating and drinking; and this especially applies to fallen gentlepeople, whose habits have been formed, and who must still in a degree keep up appearances.
If the Raynors had needed discipline, as some who knew them at Eagles' Nest had declared, they were certainly experiencing it in a very marked degree. Twelve months had slipped by since they took up their abode at Laurel Cottage, and there had been no change. The days and the weeks had drifted on, one day, one week after another, in the same routine of thrift, struggle and privation. Charles was at Prestleigh and Preen's, working to that firm's satisfaction, and bringing home a sovereign a-week: Alice was teaching still in the school at Richmond. Alfred went to a day-school now. Edina had sought an interview with its principal, and by dint of some magic of her own, when she told him confidentially of their misfortunes, had persuaded him to admit the lad at an almost nominal charge. It was altogether a weary life for them, no doubt; one requiring constant patience and resignation; but, as Edina would cheerfully tell them, it might have been worse, and they had many things to be thankful for even yet.
October was passing, and the falling leaves strewed the ground. The afternoon was not sunny, but warm and dull; so sultry, in fact, as to suggest the idea of tempest in the air. They had gathered in the square patch of ground at the back of the house, called by courtesy a garden: Frank, his wife, Edina, Mrs. Raynor, and the children. Some of them stood about, looking at the bed of herbs Edina's care had planted; Mrs. Raynor was sitting on the narrow bench under the high window. For this garden had to be descended into by several steps; and as you stood in it the back-parlour window (Mrs. Raynor's bedroom) looked perched quite a long way up.
"Herbs are so useful," remarked Edina, as they praised the bed. "When a stew is nothing in itself, thyme or mint will give it quite a fine flavour. Do you remember, Frank, how poor papa liked thyme in the Irish stews?"
"And very good they used to be," said Frank. "Eve calls them ragoûts. I often tell her they are not half as good as those I had at Trennach. Remember, Daisy, it is thyme Eve's ragoûts want."
Daisy, playing with little Robert, turned round with dancing eyes. She was as pretty as ever, in spite of the distasteful existence in Lambeth. And she had put on for this occasion one of her old grand silks.
"I'll try and remember, Frank," she laughed. "I hope I shall not say rue instead of thyme. What did you plant this great bush of rue for, Edina?"
"That bush is not mine but the landlady's; it was here when we came," replied Edina. "Mrs. Fox hangs some of it at the foot of her bed, and declares that it mysteriously keeps away gnats and moths."
When Mr. Max Brown departed for the West Indies, he had thought the very utmost extent of his term of absence would be less than six months. But considerably more than twice six months had elapsed, and he had not returned. Apparently he liked the life there; apparently was quite satisfied with Frank's management of his practice at home. In writing to Frank, he put the delay down to his mother. She was dying, but very slowly: that is, her complaint was one for which there is no remedy: and she wanted to keep him with her to the end. Thus Max wrote, and it was the only excuse he gave for his prolonged stay. Frank could not help thinking there was some mystery about it; but he was quite content to remain at his post. It was very seldom indeed that he could take an hour or two's recreation, such as this. The practice was exacting, and he had no assistant.
"That's the postman's knock!" cried Kate.
The postman was not a frequent visitor at Laurel Cottage. When he did bring a letter it was always for the Raynors: Mrs. Fox never had one at all, and never seemed to expect one. Kate ran to the door and brought back the letter. It proved to be from Alice: stating why she was not able to come.
"Daisy, my darling, you must put your bonnet on," whispered Frank. "I want to get home before dark: I have been away now longer than I care to be."
"I should send the practice to York for one evening," cried Alfred, who chanced to overhear the words.
"No doubt you would," laughed Frank.
"Well, Frank, I'm sure you seem to put that precious practice before everything else. One would think it was an idol, with a golden body and diamond wings."
"And so I ought to put it before everything else, Master Alfred. A steward must do his duty."
Daisy went in unnoticed. She felt tired, wanted to be at home herself, and began arranging her bonnet before the glass at the window of the crowded back-room. Two beds were in the chamber, besides other furniture. In one of them slept Mrs. Raynor and Kate, in the smaller one, Edina. What a change it all was for them! Suddenly, while Daisy's attention was still given to her bonnet, certain words, spoken by Edina, broke upon her ear. She and Frank had sat down on the bench under the window, and were talking of Trennach. Mrs. Raynor and the children were at the end of the garden, bending their heads together over the untidy path, as if trying to determine what sort of coarse gravel it might be composed of.
"Do you ever hear anything of Mrs. Bell, Frank?"
"I saw her to-day," was Frank's unexpected answer. "Saw her yesterday as well."
"Where did you see her? Is she in London?" quickly repeated Edina.
"They have come to live in London. She and Rosaline."
"What has made them do that?" continued Edina quite sharply, as if she did not altogether approve of the information. Daisy's fingers, tying her bonnet-strings, could not have dropped more suddenly, had they been seized with paralysis.
"I'm sure I don't know. They have come into money, through the death of some relative at Falmouth, and thought, I believe, that they would like to live in London. Poor Mrs. Bell is worse than she used to be: the complaint, feared for her, is making progress—and must do so until the end. I am attending her."
"They live near you, then?"
"Close by."
A short silence ensued. Edina was probably busy with her thoughts. She spoke again.
"Is Rosaline as pretty as ever?"
"Not quite so pretty, perhaps: more beautiful."
"Ah, well—I would not go there too much, Frank; illness, or no illness," cried Edina.
She spoke in a dreamy tone, as if her reflections were back in the past. In her heart she believed he must have cared more or less for Rosaline. Frank laughed slightly in answer: a laugh that was somewhat constrained. His thoughts also had gone back; back to that fatal night at Trennach.
A sudden shout in Alfred's voice from the group in the garden. "Here it is! here it is, mamma!" Mrs. Raynor's thin gold ring had slipped off her slender finger, and they had been searching for it in the twilight.
Daisy seemed to see and hear no more until some of them came running into the bedroom, saying that Frank was waiting for her. She went out, said good-night in a mechanical sort of manner, and they started homewards, arm-in-arm. The old jealousy she had once felt of Rosaline Bell had sprung up again with tenfold force.
A short distance from the cottage, they met Charles. He was walking along at full speed, and greeted them in a storm of anger.
"It was an awful shame! Just because I wanted to get home an hour earlier than usual, it is an hour later. The office is full of work, and some of us had to stay behind and do it."
"Never mind, Charley," said Frank, with his genial smile. "Better luck next time."
"Yes, it's all very well to say next time; that will be next year, I suppose. You hardly ever come to see us, you know, Frank."
"I come when I can. You must come to us instead. Spend next Sunday with us, Charley. I can't stay talking now."
"All right," said Charley, vaulting off. "Good-night to you both." And neither of them had noticed that Daisy had not spoken a word.
Daisy was tormenting herself in a most unnecessary manner. Rosaline Bell in London! Living near to them;closeto them, he had said. He had seen her to-day, and yesterday as well: no doubt he saw her every day. No doubt he loved this Rosaline!—and had thrown off all affection for herself, his wife. Even Edina could see the state of affairs. What a frightful thing it was!—and how far had it gone?—and what would it end in?
After this, the ordinary fashion of a jealous woman, did Mrs. Frank Raynor reason; believing her fancies to be all true as gospel. Had some angelic messenger essayed to set her right, it would have availed nothing in her present frame of mind. Jealousy is as much a disease as intermittent fever: it may have its lighter intervals, but it must run its course.
"Daisy, I think we shall have a storm!" cried Frank. "How still and hot the air is!—and look at that great black cloud coming up! We must hasten as much as possible."
Daisy silently acquiesced. And the pace they went prevented much attempt at talking. So that he had no opportunity of noticing that she had suddenly become strangely silent.
The storm burst forth when they were within a few doors of their own home. Lightning, thunder, a heavy downpour of rain. As they turned into the surgery, where Sam stood under the gas-light, his arms on the counter, his heels kicking about underneath it, Frank caught up a note that was lying there, addressed to him.
"Who brought this note?" asked Frank as he read it.
"It was a young lady," replied Sam. "When I told her you were not at home, she asked me for a sheet o' paper and pen-and-ink, and wrote that, and said it was to be gave you as soon as you came in. And please, sir, they have been round twice from Tripp's to say the baby's worse."
Frank Raynor went out again at once, in spite of the storm. His wife, who had heard what passed, turned into the parlour, her brain at work.
"I wonder how long this has been going on!—how long she has been coming here?" debated Mrs. Frank, her fingers twitching with agitation, her head hot and throbbing. "Shewrote that note—barefaced thing! When she found she could not see him, she wrote it, and left it for him: and he has gone out to see her!"
Jealousy in its way is as exciting as wine; acting very much in the same manner on any patient who is under its influence. Mrs. Frank's blood was surging in her veins; her thoughts were taking a wild turn; her trembling fingers could hardly throw off her bonnet. In point of fact, the note concerned a worthy tradesman, who feared he was sickening for some complaint, and "the young lady," his daughter, had written it, in preference to leaving a message, begging for Mr. Raynor's speedy attendance.
"Have you had your supper, Sam?" asked Mrs. Frank, appearing at the intervening door.
"No, ma'am."
"Then go and get it."
Sam passed her on his way to the kitchen. She stepped forward to the counter, opened the day-book, and began searching for Dame Bell's address. The front-door was usually kept closed now, not open as formerly; and Daisy went to it on tiptoe, and slipped the bolt. There was no one to hear her had she stepped ever so heavily; but we are all apt to think that secret transactions require silent movements. Taking up her place behind the counter, she turned the leaves of the book again. The windows were closed in with shutters; she was quite in privacy. But, turn and look as she would, she could not see the address sought for. It is true she was looking in a desperate hurry, for what if Frank were to return suddenly? Or Sam from his supper?
"No, the address is not there!"—shutting the book, and pushing back the pretty hair from her beating temples. "He is too cautious to have entered it. Other patients' names are there, but Dame Bell's is not. The affair is clandestine from beginning to end."
And from that night Mrs. Frank Raynor began a course of action that she would previously have believed herself incapable of. She watched her husband. In her eagerness to discover where these Bells lived—though what service the knowledge could render her she would have been at a loss to declare—she occasionally followed him. Keeping her bonnet downstairs in readiness, she would put it on hastily when he went out, and steal after him. Three or four times a-week she did this. Very contemptible indeed Daisy felt it to be, and her cheeks blazed consciously now and again: but jealousy has driven a woman to do more contemptible things than even this. But for the unsuitability of her present life, as contrasted with her previous tastes and habits and surroundings, and for its utter monotony, causing her to feel weary unto death day after day, Margaret Raynor might never so far have forgotten herself. The pursuit was quite exciting, bringing a sort of relief to her; and she resolutely put away from her all inconvenient qualms of conscience.
So, imagine that you behold them. Frank turning out at the surgery-door, and hastening this way or that way, as if his feet were aided by wings: and when he is a few yards off, Daisy turns out after him. It would generally be a tedious and tormenting chase. He seemed to have so many patients to visit, here, there, and everywhere; on this side the street and on that side, and round the corners, and down courts, that his pursuer was generally baffled, lost him for good, and had to return home in despair.
Meanwhile, as time went on, Frank, unconscious of all this, was destined to receive a shock himself. One evening, when he had been called out to a case of emergency near home, upon quitting the sick man's house, he entered a chemist's for the purpose of directing some article, which it was not in his province to supply, to be sent to the sufferer. Dashing into the shop hurriedly, for his time was not his own, he was beginning to give his order.
"Will you send——"
And there his speech failed him. He stopped as suddenly and completely as though his tongue had been paralyzed. The young man to whom he was addressing himself, with the attentive red-brown eyes in which gleamed a smile of intelligence, and the clean white apron tied round his waist, was Blase Pellet. They looked at one another in the full glare of the gas-light.
Blase was the first to speak. "How do you do, Mr. Raynor?"
"Is ityou?" cried Frank, recovering himself somewhat. "Are you living here?"
"Since a week past," replied Blase.
"Why have you left Trennach?"
"I came up to better myself," said Blase demurely. "One hears great things of fortunes being made in London."
"And of being lost, Pellet," rejoined Frank.
"I can go back at any time," observed Blase. "Old Float would be only too glad to have me. The young fellow he has now in my place is notme, Float writes word. Float will have to attend to business a little more himself now, and I expect it will not suit him."
Vouchsafing no answer to this, Frank left the order he had gone in to give, and passed out of the shop, his mind in a very disagreeable state of ferment.
"He has come up here to spy upon me; he is watching my movements," said Frank to himself. "How did he know I was here—in this part of London?—how did he find it out?" A positive conviction, that it was utterly useless to try to evade Blase Pellet, had taken sudden possession of him; that he had been tracking him all along by the means of spies and emissaries, and had now come to do it in person. He felt that if he were to sail away over the seas and set up his tent in an African desert, or on the shores of some remote fastness of the Indian Empire, or amidst the unexplored wilds of a prairie, he should see Blase Pellet in another tent, side by side with him, the next morning.
For the moment, his several pressing engagements had gone out of his head. His patients, lying in expectation of him, might lie: self was all in all. The uneasiness that had taken hold of him amounted to tribulation.
"I wonder what Dame Bell knows of this?" it suddenly occurred to him to think. And no sooner did it occur than, acting on the moment's impulse, he determined to ask her, and walked towards her lodging at his usual quick rate. She had taken rooms in a quiet street, West Street, where the small houses were chiefly private. It was nearly a week since Frank had seen her, for her complaint was very fluctuating, and latterly she had felt better, not requiring regular attendance.
Opening the front-door without knocking, as was his custom, he went upstairs to the small sitting-room: this room and the bedchamber behind it comprising Mrs. Bell's apartments. She had come into a little money by the death of her sister at Falmouth, John Pellet's wife: and this, combined with her previous small income, enabled her to live quietly. When Mrs. Pellet died, it had been suggested that Rosaline should take to her millinery business, and carry it on: but Rosaline positively declined to do so. Neither Rosaline nor her mother liked Falmouth, and they resolved to go up to London. Chance alone—or at least, that apparently unconscious impulse that is called chance—had caused them to choose this particular part of London for their abode; and neither of them had the slightest idea that it was within a stone's-throw of Frank Raynor. On the third day after settling in it, Rosaline and Frank had met in Mark Street: and he then learnt the news of their recent movements.
Mrs. Bell was at her old employment this evening when Frank entered—knitting. Lifting her eyes to see who had come in, she took the opportunity to snuff the candle near her, and gazed at Frank over her spectacles.
"Hey-day!" she cried. "I thought it was Rosaline." This was the first time Frank had seen her alone. During all his previous visits Rosaline had been present. Rosaline had gone a long way that afternoon, Dame Bell proceeded to explain, as far as Oxford Street, and was not back again yet. The girl seemed to have some crotchet in her head, she added, and would not say what she went for. Frank was glad of her absence, crotchet or no crotchet: he felt an invincible distaste to naming the name of Blase Pellet in her hearing.
Seen Blase Pellet to-night!—what had Blase Pellet come to town for? repeated Dame Bell, in answer to Frank's introduction of the subject. "Well, sir," she added, "he tells us he was grown sick and tired of Trennach, and came up here to be near me and Rose. I'm sure you might have knocked me down with a feather, so surprised was I when he walked into this room last Sunday afternoon. I had dozed off in my chair here, and Rose was reading the Bible to herself, when he came in. For a minute or two I did not believe my eyes, and that's the truth. As to Rose, she turned the colour of chalk, just as if he had frightened her."
"Did he know you were living here?"
"Of course he knew that, Mr. Frank. Blase, I must say, has always been as dutiful to me as if he had been really my nephew, and he often wrote to us at Falmouth. One of his letters was sent after us from Falmouth, and I wrote to tell him where we were in return."
"Did you tell himIwas here?" questioned Frank.
"Well no, I did not: but it is curious you should ask the question, Mr. Frank," cried the dame. "I was just going to add to my letter that I hoped I should get better now Mr. Raynor was attending me again, but Rosaline stopped me. Mr. Raynor was nothing to Blase, she said: better not name him at all. Upon that, I asked her why she did not write herself, if she thought she could word the letter better than me: but she never will write to him. However, you were not mentioned, sir."
"What is his object in coming to London?" repeated Frank, unable to dismiss the one important point from his mind.
"I shouldn't wonder but it's Rosaline," said Dame Bell, shrewdly. "Blase has wanted to make up to her this many a day; but——"
"What an idiot the man must be!" struck in Frank.
"But she will not have anything to say to him, I was going to add," concluded Dame Bell. "Why should you call him an idiot, Mr. Frank?"
"He must be one, if he thinks he can persuade Rosaline to like him. See how ugly he is!"
"She might do worse, sir. I don't say Blase is handsome: he is not: but he is steady. If men and women were all chosen by their looks, Mr. Frank, a good many would go unmarried. Blase Pellet is putting by money: he will be setting up for himself, some day; and he would make her a good husband."
"Do you tell your daughter that he would?" asked Frank.
"She won't let me tell her, sir. I say to her sometimes that she seems frightened at hearing the young man's very name mentioned: just as though it would bring some evil upon her. I know what I think."
"What?" asked Frank.
"Why, that Rosaline pressed this settling in London upon me, on purpose to put a wider distance between herself and Blase. Falmouth was within reach, and he now and then came over there. I did not suspect her of this till last Sunday, Mr. Frank. When tea was over, and Blase had gone, she just sat with her hands before her, looking more dead than alive. 'After all, it seems we had better have stayed at Falmouth,' said she suddenly, as if speaking to herself: and that gave me the idea that she had come here to be farther away from him."
Frank made no remark.
"Blase has found a place at a druggist's close by," continued Mrs. Bell: whose chatter, once in full flow, was not easily stopped. "I don't suppose he'll like London as well as Trennach, and so I told him.Idon't. Great noisy bustling place!"
It seemed that there was nothing more to ask or learn, and Frank bethought himself of his patients. Wishing the old dame good-night, he departed. His first visit led him past the druggist's; and his glance, as though fascinated, turned to the window. There, amidst the sheen of red and green and blue reflected from the brilliant globes, he saw the face of Blase Pellet; just as he had been wont to see it amidst the glow of the same varied colours at Trennach.
"Why, Daisy. Out marketing, my dear?"
The salutation to Mrs. Frank Raynor came from her husband. One winter's morning, regardless of the extreme cold and the frost that made the streets partly deserted, she followed her husband when he went out after breakfast. The dwelling-place of Mrs. Bell and her daughter in West Street had become known to her long ago; and Daisy was always longing to see whether her husband's footsteps took him to it.
That most unreasoning jealousy, which had seized upon her mind, increased in force. It was growing almost into a disease. She felt as sure as if she had seen it written in letters of divination, that her husband's love had been, was, and ever would be Rosaline Bell's: that it never had been hers: and over and over again she asked herself the question—why had he married her?
It all appeared so plain to Daisy. Looking back, she could, as she fully believed, trace out the past, in regard to it, bit by bit. First of all, there was the girl's unusual and dangerous beauty; Frank Raynor's attendance at the house on the Bare Plain, under the plea of visiting the mother professionally; and the intimacy that was reported to have existed between himself and Rosaline. A great deal more frequently than was wise or necessary, Daisy recalled the evening when Frank had been dining at The Mount, and the conversation had turned upon the mysterious disappearance of Bell, the miner, and the beauty of his daughter. Frank's signs of agitation—his emotional voice, his flushings from red to white—Daisy had then been entirely unable to comprehend: she had considered them as unaccountable as was the absence of the man of whom they were speaking. Now the reason was very apparent to her: the emotion had arisen from his love of Rosaline. She remembered, as though it had been yesterday, the tales brought home by Tabitha, and repeated to herself—that this beautiful daughter of Bell the miner was Frank Raynor's best and only love, and that the girl worshipped the very ground he trod on. It was too late then to be influenced by the information, for the secret marriage had taken place in the church at Trennach. Daisy had hardly known whether to believe the story or not; but it had shaken her. Later, as time went on, and she and her husband moved far away from the scene of events, and Rosaline Bell seemed to have faded out of sight; almost, so far as they were concerned, out of existence; Daisy had suffered herself to forget the doubt and jealousy. But only to call it up with tenfold force now.
And so, Mrs. Frank Raynor had amused herself, if the word may be applied to a state of mind so painful as was hers, with the pastime of watching her husband. Not often of course; only now and then. Her steps, as of their own uncontrollable will, would take her to the quiet street in which Dame Bell lived, and she had on one or two rare occasions been rewarded by seeing him pass in or out of the house. Of course she could not watch very often. She dared not do so. She would have been ashamed to do so. As it was, she knew that Sam's eyes had taken to opening with wonder whenever she followed her husband through the surgery, and that the boy's curiosity was much exercised as to the cause. Therefore, as she was unable to make Frank's shadow frequently, and as, with all her expectation, she had been gratified so rarely by seeing what she looked for, she drew the conclusion that fortune did not favour her, and that Frank's times for going to the house were just those when she did not happen to be out herself. An ingenious inference: as all sensible people must allow, but one that jealousy would be certain to invent.
On one of those rare occasions, Frank came out of the house accompanied by Rosaline.
They turned the opposite way to where Daisy was standing, but not before she had caught a glimpse of the beautiful face. Where were they going together? she passionately asked herself. The probability was that their coming out together was only incidental; for in a very few minutes Daisy met the girl coming back alone, carrying a paper of rusks, which she had no doubt been out to buy. All the more necessary was it, thought Daisy, after this little incident, that she should continue to look after her husband.
Daisy was becoming quite an adept at the work, and might have taken service as a lady detective. Of course the chief care to be exercised was to keep herself out of her husband's view. It was not so difficult to do this as it would have been with some husbands; for Frank's time was always so precious, and his movements were in consequence obliged to be so rapid, that he went flying through the streets like a lamplighter, never looking to the right or left. More than once, though, Daisy had been obliged to dart into a doorway; and it was at those times that she especially felt the humiliation of what she was doing.
But, the pitcher that goes too often to the well gets broken at last, we are told. On this bitter January day, when of a surety no one would venture out who could keep in, Daisy came face to face with her husband. She had seen him enter Mrs. Bell's house; fortune for once had so far favoured her. She saw him make for the quiet street upon first leaving home, skim down it with long strides, and go straight in at the door. Her heart beat as though it would burst its bounds; her pulses coursed on with fever-heat. Nothing in the world can be so good for the doctors as jealousy: it must inevitably tend to bring on heart disease. "I wonder how long he will stay?" thought Daisy in her raging anger. "Half-an-hour, perhaps. Of course he does not hurry himself when he goesthere."
Sauntering onwards with slow steps, some idea in her head of waiting to see how long he did stay, and believing herself perfectly safe for many minutes to come, went Daisy. She longed to cross over the street and so obtain a sight of the upstairs window. But she did not dare; he might chance to look out and see her. She knew all about the position of the Bells' rooms, having, in a careless, off-hand manner, questioned Sam, who took out Mrs. Bell's medicine. In front of the closed door, her face turned towards it, was Daisy, when—she found herself confronted with her husband. He had come quickly forth, without warning, not having remained two minutes.
"Why, Daisy! Out marketing, my dear?"
The question was put laughingly. Daisy never did any marketing: she was not much of a housekeeper as yet, and the Lambeth shops did not tempt her to begin. Eve did all that. Had she been committing a crime, she could not have felt more taken aback in her surprise, or more awkward at finding an excuse.
"I—had a headache," she stammered, "and—came out for a little walk."
"But it is too cold for you, Daisy. The wind is in the north-east. I have never felt it keener."
"It won't hurt me," gasped Daisy, believing his solicitude for her was all put on. She had believed that for some time now. The kinder Frank showed himself, the more she despised him.
"You have been there to see a patient?" questioned Daisy, hardly knowing and certainly not caring what she did say.
"Yes," replied Frank. "But she is better this morning; so I am off to others who want me more than she does."
"Is it that Mrs. Bell from Trennach? I saw a bottle of medicine directed to West Street for her one day. Sam was putting it into his basket."
"It is Mrs. Bell. She is worse than she used to be, for the disorder has made progress. And I fear she will grow worse, day by day now, until the end."
"What a hypocrite he is!" thought Daisy: "I dare say there is as much the matter with her as there is with me. Of course he needs some plea of excuse—to be going there for ever after that wretched girl."
"Do you come here pretty often?" went on Daisy, coughing to conceal the spleen in her tone, which she was unable to suppress.
"I shall have to come here oftener in future, I fear," returned Frank, not directly answering the question; of which delay she took due note. Just for these few minutes, he had slackened his pace to hers, and they were walking side by side. "I am glad she is near me: I don't think any stranger would give her the care that I shall give her."
"You speak as though you were anxious about her!" resentfully cried Daisy.
"I am more than anxious. I would give half I am worth to be able to cure her."
"Well, I'm sure!" exclaimed Daisy. "One would think you and these people must possess some bond of union in common."
"And so we do," he answered.
Perhaps the words were spoken incautiously. Daisy, looking quickly up at him, saw that he seemed lost in thought.
"What is it?" she asked in a low tone: her breathing just then seeming a little difficult.
"What is what?"
"The bond of union between you and these Bells."
The question brought him out of his abstraction. He laughed lightly: laughed, as Daisy thought, and saw, to do away with the impression the words had made: and answered carelessly.
"The bond between me and Dame Bell? It is that I knew her at Trennach, Daisy, and learnt to respect her. She nursed me through a fever once."
"Oh," said Daisy, turning her head away, indignant at what she believed was an evasion. The "bond," if there were any, existed, not between himself and the mother, but between himself and the daughter.
"I dare say you attend them for nothing!"
"Of course I do."
"What would Mr. Max Brown say to that?"
"What he pleased. Max Brown is not a man to object, Daisy."
"You can't tell."
"Yes, I can. If he did, I should pay him the cost of the medicines. And my time, at least, I can give."
Daisy said no more. Swelling with resentment and jealousy, she walked by his side in silence. Frank saw her to the surgery-door, and then turned back rapidly. She went in; passed Sam, who was leisurely dusting the counter, and sat down in the parlour by the fire.
Her state of mind was not one to be envied. Jealousy, you know, makes the food it feeds on. Mrs. Frank Raynor was making very disagreeable food for herself, indeed. She gave the reins to her imagination, and it presented her with all sorts of suggestive horrors. The worst was that she did not, and could not, regard these pictured fancies as possible delusions, emanating from her own brain, and to be cautiously received; but she converted them into undoubted facts. The sounds of Sam's movements in the surgery, his answers to applicants who came in, penetrated to her through the half-open door; but, though they touched her ear in a degree, they did not touch her senses. She was as one who heard not.
Thus she sat on, until midday, indulging these visions to the full extent of her fancy, and utterly miserable. At least, perhaps not quite utterly so: for when people are in the state of angry rage that Daisy was, they cannot feel very acutely. A few minutes after twelve, Sam appeared. He stared to see his mistress sitting just as she had come in, not even her cloak removed, or her bonnet unfastened.
"A letter for you, please, ma'am. The postman have just brought it in."
Daisy took the letter from him without a word. It proved to be from her sister Charlotte, Mrs. Townley. Mrs. Townley wrote to say that she was back again at the house in Westbourne Terrace, and would be glad to see Daisy. She, with her children, had been making a long visit of several months to her mother at The Mount, and she had only now returned. "I did intend to be back for the New Year," she wrote; "but mamma and Lydia would not hear of it. I have many things to tell you, Daisy: so come to me as soon as you get this note. If your husband will join us at dinner—seven o'clock—there will be no difficulty about your getting home again. Say that I shall be happy to see him."
Should she go, or should she not go? Mrs. Frank Raynor was in so excited a mood as not to care very much what she did. And—if she went, and he did not come in the evening, he would no doubt take the opportunity of passing it with Rosaline Bell.
She went upstairs, took her things off, and passed into the drawing-room. The fire was burning brightly. Eve was a treasure of a servant, and attended to it carefully. Frank had given orders that a fire should be always kept up there: it was a better room for his wife than the one downstairs, and more cheerful.
Certainly more cheerful: for the street and its busy traversers could be seen. The opposite fish-shop displayed its wares more plainly to this room than to the small room below. Just now, Monsieur and Madame, the fish proprietors, were enjoying a wordy war, touching some haddock that Madame had sold under cost price. He held an oyster-knife in his hand, and was laying down the law with it. She stood, in her old brown bonnet, her wrists turned back on her capacious hips, and defied his anger. Daisy had the pleasure of assisting at the quarrel, as the French say; for the tones of the disputants were loud, and partly reached her ears.
"What a frightful place this is!" ejaculated Daisy. "What people! Yes, I will go to Charlotte. It is something to get away from them for a few hours, and into civilized life again."
At one o'clock, the hand-bell in the passage below was rung: the signal for dinner. Daisy went down. Frank had only just come in, and was taking off his overcoat.
"I have hardly a minute, Daisy," he said. "I have not seen all my patients yet."
"Been hindering his time with Rosaline," thought Daisy. And she slowly and ungraciously took her place at the table. Frank, regardless of ceremony, had already begun to carve the boiled leg of mutton.
"You havegenerallyfinished before one o'clock," she coldly remarked, as he handed her plate to her. For Eve, good servant though she was, had no idea of remaining in the room during meals to wait upon them.
"Yes, generally. But a good many people are ill: and I was hindered this morning by attending to an accident. A little boy was run over in the street."
"Is he much hurt?"
"Not very much. I shall get him right again soon."
The dinner proceeded in silence. Frank was eating too rapidly to have leisure for anything else; Daisy's angry spirit would not permit her to talk. As she laid down her knife and fork, Frank pressed her to take some more mutton, but she curtly refused it.
"I have said no once. This is luncheon; not dinner."
Frank Raynor had become accustomed to hearing his wife speak to him in cold, resentful tones: but to-day they sounded especially cold. He had long ago put it down in his own mind to dissatisfaction at their blighted prospects; blighted, at least, in comparison with those they had so sanguinely entertained when wandering together side by side at Trennach and picturing the future to each other. It only made him the more patient, the more tender with her.
"Mrs. Townley has written to ask me to go to her. She is back again in Westbourne Terrace. She bids me say she shall be happy to see you to dinner at seven. But I suppose you will not go."
"Yes, I will go," said Frank, rapidly revolving ways and means, as regarded the exigencies of his patients. "I think I can get away for an hour or two, Daisy. Is it dress?"
"Just as you please," was the frosty answer. "Mrs. Townley says nothing about dress; she would be hardly likely to do so; but she is accustomed to proper ways."
"And how shall you go, my dear?" resumed Frank, passing over the implication with his usual sweetness of temper. "You had better have a cab."
"I intend to have one," said Daisy.
She arrayed herself in some of her smartest things, for the spirit of bravado was upon her: if her husband did not choose to dress,sheshould: and set out in a cab for Westbourne Terrace. Once there, she put away her troubles; outwardly at any rate: and her sister never suspected that anything was amiss.
"I shall give you a surprise, Daisy," said Mrs. Townley in the course of the afternoon. "An old beau of yours is coming to dinner."
"An old beau of mine! Who is that?"
"Sir Paul Trellasis."
"What an idea!" cried Daisy. "Hea beau of mine! Mamma must have put that into your head, Charlotte. Sir Paul came to The Mount once or twice; as he was a bachelor, mamma at once jumped to the conclusion that he must come for Lydia or for me. He married Miss Beauchamp that same year, you know."
"He and his wife are in London, and I asked them to come and dine with us to-day without ceremony," resumed Mrs. Townley. "Had you married Sir Paul, Daisy, you would not have been buried alive amongst savages in some unknown region of London."
"No, I should not," replied the miserable wife with stern emphasis.
But there was another surprise in store for Daisy. For Mrs. Townley as well. At dusk, a caller was ushered into the drawing-room, and proved to be the Reverend Titus Backup. The curate had never quite severed his relations with Trennach. He had taken three-months' duty there again the past autumn, when the Rector was once more laid aside by illness. He had then made the acquaintance of Mrs. Townley; and being now in London, had called upon her.
Mrs. Frank Raynor flushed red as a rose when he entered. The sight brought back to her memory the old time at Trennach, and its doings, with vivid intensity. She seemed to see herself once more standing with Frank Raynor before him at the altar, when he was making themOnetogether, until death should part them. Mr. Backup had lost somewhat of his former nervousness, but he was shy still, and held out his hand to Mrs. Frank Raynor with timidity.
"Ah, I remember—it was you who married Daisy," observed Mrs. Townley. "My mother at first would not forgive you, I believe, Mr. Backup, until she found you did not know it was a stolen match. And for how long are you in town?"
"I am not sure," replied the parson. "I have come up to see about a curacy."
"Well, you must stay and dine with us," returned Mrs. Townley. "Nonsense! You must. I shall not let you say no. Sir Paul and Lady Trellasis are coming—you know them—and Mr. Raynor."
The curate, perhaps lacking courage to press his refusal, stayed. In due time Sir Paul and his wife arrived; and, as the clock was striking seven, Frank: dressed.
All this need not have been noticed, for in truth Mrs. Townley and her visitors have little to do with the story, but for an incident that occurred in the course of the evening. Mrs. Townley was on the music-stool, playing some scientific "morceau" that was crushingly loud, and seemed interminable, with Sir Paul at her elbow turning over for her, and Daisy on the other side. Lady Trellasis, a pretty young woman with black hair, sat talking with Mr. Backup on the sofa near the fire: and Frank stood just behind them, looking at photographs. In a moment, when he was least thinking of trouble, certain words spoken by the curate caught his ear.
"Josiah Bell: that was his name. No; the particulars have never come to light. He was found eventually, as of course you know, and buried in the churchyard at Trennach."
"The affair took great hold on my imagination," observed Lady Trellasis. "I was staying at The Mount with papa and mamma at the time the man was lost. It was a story that seemed to be surrounded with romance. They spoke, I remember, of the daughter, saying she was so beautiful. Papa thought, I recollect, that the poor man must have fallen into some pit or other; and so it proved."
"Yes," said Mr. Backup, "a pit so deep that the miners call it the Bottomless Shaft. The mystery of course consisted in how he got there."
"But why should that be a mystery? Did he not fall into it?"
"The fact is, that some superstition attaches to the place, and not a single miner, it is said, would willingly approach it. Bell especially would not go near it: for in all matters of superstition he was singularly weak-minded."
"Then how did he get in?" quickly asked Lady Trellasis.
"There was a suspicion of foul play. It was thought the man was thrown in."
"How very dreadful! Thrown in by whom?"
"I cannot tell you. A faint rumour arose later—as I was told by Mr. Pine—that some one in a higher walk of life was supposed to have been implicated in the matter: some gentleman. The Rector tried to trace the report to its source, and to ascertain the name of the suspected man. He could get at nothing: but he says that an uncomfortable feeling about it remains still on his mind. I should not be surprised at the affair cropping up again some day."
The "morceau" came to an end with a final crash, and the conversation with it. Frank woke up with a start, to find a servant standing before him with a tray and tea-cups. He took one of the cups, and drank the tea quite scalding, never knowing whether it was hot or cold. Certain of the words, which he could not help overhearing, had startled all feeling out of him.
"Is it not time to go, Daisy?" he asked presently.
"If you think so," she freezingly answered.
"Then will you put on your bonnet, my dear," he said, never noticing the ungraciousness of her reply. After those ominous words, all other words, for the time being, fell on his ear as though he heard them not.
Not a syllable was exchanged between them as they sat together in the cab, speeding homewards. Frank was too unpleasantly absorbed to speak; Daisy was indulging resentment. That last sentence of Mr. Backup's, "I should not be surprised at the affair cropping up again," kept surging in his mind. He asked himself whether it was spoken prophetically; and, he also asked, what, if it did crop up, would be the consequences to himself?
"He is thinking ofher," concluded Daisy, resenting the unusual silence, although she herself by her manner invoked it. And, in good truth, so he was.
Handing Daisy out of the cab when it stopped, Frank opened the surgery-door for her, and turned to pay the driver. At that self-same moment some man came strolling slowly along the pavement. He was wrapped up in a warm coat, and seemed to be walking for pleasure.
He looked at the cab, looked at the open door of the house, looked at Frank. Not straightforwardly; but by covert sidelong glances.
"Good-night, Mr. Raynor," said he at length, as he was passing.
"Good-night to you," replied Frank.
And Mr. Blase Pellet sauntered on, enjoying the icicles of the winter night. Frank went in, and barred and bolted his door.
"I wish to Heaven it needed nothing but bars and bolts to keep the fellow out!" spoke Frank in his dismay. "How long he will be kept out, I know not. Talk of whether the affair will crop up again!—why, itiscropping up. And I have a bitter enemy in Blase Pellet."