Again the weeks and the months went on, bringing round the autumn season of another year. For in real life—and this is very much of a true history—time passes imperceptibly when there are no special events to mark its progress. Seasons succeed each other, leaving little record behind them.
It was a monotonous life at best—that of the Raynors'. It seemed to be spent in a quiet, constant endeavour to exist; a patient, perpetual struggling to make both ends meet: to remain under the humble roof of Laurel Cottage, and not to have to turn from it; to contrive that their garments should be decent, something like gentlepeople's, not ragged and shabby.
But for Edina they would never have done it. Even though they had her fifty pounds a-year, without her presence they would never have got on. She managed and worked, and had ever a cheerful word for them all. When their spirits failed, especially Mrs. Raynor's, and the onward way looked unusually dark and dreary, it was Edina who talked of a bright day-star to arise in the distance, of the silver lining that is sure to be in every cloud. But for Edina they might almost have lost faith in Heaven.
The one most altered of all was Charles. Altered in looks, bearing, manner; above all, in spirit. All his pride had flown; all his self-importance had disappeared as a summer mist before the sun: disappeared for ever. Had the discipline he was subjected to been transient, lasting for a few weeks, let us say, or even months, its impressions might have worn away with renewed prosperity, had such set in again, leaving no lasting trace for good. But when this sort of depressing mortification continues for years, the lesson it implants in the mind is generally permanent. Day by day, every day of his life, and every hour in the day, Charles was subjected to the humiliations (as he looked upon them, and to him they were indeed such) that attend the position of a working clerk. He who had been reared in the habits and ideas of a gentleman, had believed himself the undoubted heir to Eagles' Nest, found himself reduced by fate to this subordinate capacity, ordered about by the articled clerks, and regarded as an individual not at all to be ranked with them. He was at their beck and call, and obliged to be so; he had to submit to them as his superiors, not only his superiors in the office, but his superiors socially; above all, he had to submit to their off-hand tones, which always implied, unwittingly, perhaps, to themselves, but all too apparent to Charles, a consciousness of the distinction that existed between them.
How galling it all was to Charles Raynor, the reader may imagine; but it can never be described. At first it was all but unbearable. Over and over again he thought he must run away from it, and escape to a land where these distinctions do not exist. He might dig for gold in California; he might clear a settlement for himself in the back-woods of America: and the life in either place would be as paradise compared with this one at Prestleigh and Preen's. Nothing but the broad fact that the wages he earned were absolutely necessary to his mother's and the family's support, detained him. To give that aid was his imperative duty before God: for had it not been through him and his carelessness that they were reduced to this terrible extremity? So Charles Raynor, helped on by the ever-ready counsel of Edina,enduredhis troubles, put up with his humiliation, and bore onwards with the best resolution he could call up. Who knew, who could ever know,how muchof this wonderful change was really due to Edina?
And, as the time went on, he grew to feel the troubles somewhat less keenly: habit reconciles us in a degree to the worst of things, no matter what that worst may be. But he had learnt a lesson that would last him his whole life. Never again could he become the arrogant young fellow who thought the world was made for his especial delectation. He had gained experience; he had found his level; he saw what existence was worth, and that those who would be happy in it must first learn and perform their duties in it. His very nature had changed. Self-sufficiency, selfish indifference, had given place to modesty, to a subdued thoughtfulness of habit, to an earnest sense of other's needs as well as his own. Frank Raynor, with all his sunny-heartedness and geniality, could not be more ready with a helping hand, than was Charles. He could give nothing in money, but he could in kind. No other discipline, perhaps, would have had this effect upon Charles Raynor. It had made a man of him, and, if a subdued, a good one. And so, he went on, reconciled in a degree to the changed life after his two years' spell at it, and looking forward to no better prospect in the future. Prospect of every sort seemed so hopeless.
A little fresh care had come upon them this autumn, in the return of Alice. Changes had taken place in the school at Richmond, and her services were no longer required. Edina borrowed the advertisement sheet of theTimesevery morning, and caused Alice to write to any notice that appeared likely to suit her. As yet—a fortnight had gone on—nothing had come of it.
"No one seems to want a governess," remarked Alice one Monday morning, as they rose from breakfast, and Charles was brushing his hat to depart. "I suppose there are too many of us."
"By one half," assented Edina. "The field is too crowded. Some lady in this neighbourhood recently advertised for a governess for her daughters, directing the answers to be addressed to Jones's library, where we get these papers. Mr. Jones told me that the first day's post brought more than a hundred letters."
"Oh dear!" exclaimed Alice.
"The lady engaged one of the applicants," continued Edina, "and then discovered that she was the daughter of a small shopkeeper at Camberwell. That put her out of conceit of governesses, and she has sent her children to school."
"I should not like to be hard, I'm sure, or to speak against any class of people," interposed Mrs. Raynor, in her meek, deprecating voice; "but I do think that some of the young women who came forward as governesses would do much better as servants. These inferior persons are helping to jostle the gentlewomen out of the governess field—as Edina calls it."
"Will they jostle me out of it?" cried Alice, looking up in alarm. "Oh, Charley, I wish you could hear of something for me!—you go out into the world, you know."
Charles, saying good-bye and kissing his mother, went off with a smile at the words: he was thinking how very unlikely it was that he should hear of anything. Governesses did not come within the radius of Prestleigh and Preen's. Nevertheless, it was singular that Charles did hear of a vacant situation that self-same day, and heard it in the office.
In the course of the afternoon the head-clerk had despatched Charles to Mr. Preen's room with a message. He was about to deliver it when Mr. Preen waved his hand to him to wait: a friend who had been sitting with him had risen to leave.
"When shall we see Mrs. Preen to spend her promised day with us?" asked the gentleman, as he was shaking hands. "My wife has been expecting her all the week."
"I don't know," was the reply. "The little girls' governess has left; and, as they don't much like going back to the nursery to the younger children, Mrs. Preen has them with her."
"The governess left, has she?" was the answering remark. "I fancied you thought great things of her."
"So we did. She suited extremely well. But she was summoned home last week in consequence of her mother's serious illness, and now sends us word that she will not be able to leave home again."
"Well, you will easily find a successor, Preen."
"Two or three ladies have already applied, but Mrs. Preen did not care for them. She will have to advertise, I suppose."
Charles drank in the words. He delivered the message, and took Mr. Stroud the answer, his head full of Alice. If she could only obtain the situation! Mrs. Preen seemed a nice woman, and the two little girls were nice: he had seen them occasionally at the office. Alice would be sure to be happy there.
Sitting down to his desk, he went on with his writing, making one or two mistakes, and drawing down upon him the wrath of Mr. Stroud. But his mind was far away, deliberating whether he might, or could, do anything.
Speak to Mr. Preen? He hardly liked to do it: the copying-clerks kept at a respectful distance. And yet, why should he not speak? It seemed to be his only chance. Then came a thought that made Charley's face burn like fire: wouldhissister be deemed worthy of the post? Well, he could only make the trial.
Just before the time of leaving for the night, Charles went to Mr. Preen's room, knocked at the door, and was told to enter. Mr. Preen was standing in front of his desk, in the act of locking it, and a gentleman sat close before the almost-extinguished fire in the large easy-chair which had been old Mr. Callard's. Charles could see nothing but the back of his head, for the high, well-stuffed chair hid all the rest of him. He had a newspaper in his hand, and was reading it by the light of a solitary gas-burner; the other having been put out. To see this stranger here took Charles aback.
"What is it?" questioned Mr. Preen.
Charles hesitated. "I had thought you were alone, sir."
"All the same. Say what you want."
"I have taken the liberty of coming to speak to you on a private matter, sir; but——" There he stopped.
"What is it?" repeated Mr. Preen.
"When I was in this room to-day, sir, I heard you say that your little girls were in want of a governess."
"Well?"
"What I am about to say may seem nothing but presumption—but my sister is seeking just such a situation. If you—if Mrs. Preen—would only see her!"
"Your sister?" returned the lawyer; with, Charles thought, chilling surprise. It damped him: made him feel sensitively small.
"Oh, pray do not judge of my sister by me, sir!—I mean by the position I occupy here," cried Charles, all his prearranged speeches forgotten, and speaking straight from his wounded feelings, his full heart. "You only know me as a young man working for his daily bread, and very poor. But indeed we are gentlepeople: not only by birth and education, but in mind and habits. I was copying a deed to-day: the lease of a farm on the estate of Eagles' Nest. Do you know it, sir?"
"Know what?" asked Mr. Preen. "That you were copying the deed, or the estate?"
"Eagles' Nest."
"I know it only from being solicitor to its owner. As my predecessor, Mr. Callard, was before me."
"That estate was ours, sir. When Mr. George Atkinson came into possession of it he turned us out. It had come to my father from his sister, Mrs. Atkinson, and we lived in it for a year, never dreaming it possible that it could be wrested from us. But at the year's-end a later will came to light: my aunt had left Eagles' Nest to Mr. George Atkinson, passing my father over."
Charles stopped to gather breath and firmness. The remembrance of his father, and of their subsequent misfortunes and privations, almost unnerved him. Mr. Preen listened in evident surprise.
"But—was your father Major Raynor, of Eagles' Nest?"
"Yes, sir."
"You never mentioned it."
"To what end?" returned Charles; while the stranger took a momentary glance over his shoulder at him, and then bent over his newspaper again, as though the matter and the young clerk were no concern of his. "Now that my position in life has so much altered, I would rather let people think I was born a copying-clerk, than that I was heir to Eagles' Nest."
"It sounds like a romance," cried Mr. Preen.
"For us it has been, and is, only too stern reality. But I do not wish to trouble you with these affairs, sir; and I should not have presumed to allude to them, but for wishing to prove to you that Alice is superior to what you might imagine her to be as my sister. She is a very excellent governess indeed, accomplished, and a thorough lady."
"And you say she is in want of a situation?"
"Yes, sir. She has been for two years teacher in a school at Richmond. If Mrs. Preen would but consent to give her a trial, I know she would prove worthy. I do not say so merely to get her the post," he continued, earnestly, "but because I really believe she could and would faithfully fulfil its duties. I would not otherwise urge it: for we have learnt not to press ourselves forward at the expense of other people's interests, whatever the need."
"Well, Raynor: I cannot say anything myself about this matter; it is Mrs. Preen's business and not mine," spoke the lawyer, upon whom Charles's story and Charles's manner had made an impression. "If your sister likes to call and see Mrs. Preen she can do so."
"Oh, thank you; thank you very much, sir," said Charles. "I am sure you will like Alice."
"Stay; not so fast"—for Charley was leaving the room in eager haste. "Do you know where my house is?"
"To be sure I do, sir—in Bayswater. I have been up there with messages for you."
"So that's young Raynor!" cried the gentleman at the fire, turning as Charles went out, and taking a look at him.
"It is young Raynor, one of our copying-clerks," acquiesced Mr. Preen. "But I never knew he was one of the Raynors who were connected with Eagles' Nest."
"Is he steady?—hardworking?"
"Quite so, I think. He keeps his hours punctually, and does his work well. He has been here nearly two years."
"Is not upstart and lazy?"
Mr. Preen laughed. "He has no opportunity of being either. I fancy he and his family have to live in a very humble, reduced sort of way. If they were the Raynors of Eagles' Nest—and of course they were, or he would not say so—they must have been finding the world pretty hard of late."
"So much the better," remarked the stranger. "By what I have heard, they needed to find it so."
"He has to make no end of shifts, for want of means. At first the clerks made fun of him; but they left it off: he took it so helplessly and patiently. His clothes are often threadbare; he walks to and fro, instead of riding as the others do, though I fancy it is close upon three miles. I don't believe he has a proper dinner one day out of the six."
The stranger nodded complacently: as if the information gave him intense satisfaction.
"I wish I could persuade you to come home and dine with me," resumed Mr. Preen, as he concluded his preparations for departure.
"I am not well enough to do so. I am fit for nothing to-night but bed. Will one of your people call a cab for me? Oh, here's Prestleigh."
As Charles had gone out, dashing along the passage from his interview, he nearly dashed against Mr. Prestleigh, who was coming up, some papers in hand.
"Take care, Raynor! What are you in such a hurry about? Is Mr. George Atkinson gone?"
"Who, sir?" asked Charles, struck with the name.
"Mr. George Atkinson. Is he still with Mr. Preen?"
"Some gentleman is with him, sir. He is sitting over the fire.
"The same, no doubt. He is a great invalid just now."
Charles felt his face flush all over. So, it was the owner of Eagles' Nest before whom he had spoken. What a singular coincidence! The only time that a word had escaped his lips in regard to their fallen fortunes,hemust be present and hear it! And Charley felt inclined to wish he had lost his tongue first. All the world might have been welcome to hear it, rather than George Atkinson.
The way home was generally long and weary, but this evening Charles found it light enough: he seemed to tread upon air. His thoughts were filled with Alice, and with the hope he was carrying to her. Never for a moment did he doubt she would be successful. He already saw her in imagination installed at Mrs. Preen's.
Edina went to Bayswater with Alice in the morning. A handsome house, well appointed. Mrs. Preen, interested in what she had heard from her husband, received them graciously. She liked them at first sight. Though very plain in dress, she saw that they were gentlewomen.
"It cannot be that I am speaking to Mrs. Raynor?" she cried, puzzled at Edina's youthful look.
Edina set her right: she wasMissRaynor. "The result of possessing no cards," thought Edina. "I never had more than fifty printed in my life, and most of those got discoloured with years. Mrs. Raynor is not strong enough to walk as far as this," she said aloud.
"But surely you did not walk?" cried Mrs. Preen.
"Yes, for walking costs nothing," replied Edina with a smile.
"The Raynors, if I have been rightly informed, have experienced a reverse of fortune."
"A reverse that is rarely experienced," avowed Edina. "From wealth and luxury they have been plunged into trouble and poverty. If you, madam, are what, from this short interview, I judge you to be, the avowal will not tell against our application."
"Not in the least," said Mrs. Preen, cordially, for she was a warm-hearted, sensible woman. "We do not expect young ladies who are rich to go out as governesses."
The result was that Alice was engaged, and they were asked to stay luncheon. Alice played, and her playing was approved of; she sang one short song, and that was approved of also. Mrs. Preen was really taken with hor. She was to have thirty guineas a-year to begin with, and to enter the day after the morrow.
"I can buy mamma a new black silk, by-and-by, with all that money," said Alice, impulsively, with a flushed, happy face. And though Mrs. Preen laughed at the remark, she liked her all the better for it: it was so naïve and genuine.
"Oh my dear child, I am sure God is helping you!" breathed Mrs. Raynor, when they got back home and told her the news.
On the afternoon appointed, Thursday, Alice went to take up her abode at Mrs. Preen's, accompanied, as before, by Edina. Poverty makes us acquainted with habits before unknown, and necessity, it is said, is a hard taskmaster; nevertheless, it was deemed well that Alice should not walk alone in the streets of London. Edina left her in safety, and saw for a moment her pupils—two nice little girls of eight and ten years old.
Alice was taking off her bonnet in the chamber assigned her when Mrs. Preen entered it.
"We shall have a few friends with us this evening, Miss Raynor," she said. "It may give you a little pleasure to come to the drawing-room and join them."
"Oh, thank you," said Alice, her face beaming at the unexpected, and, with her, very rare treat. "If I can—if my boxes arrive. They were sent off this morning by the carrier."
The boxes arrived. Poor Alice might have looked almost as well had they been delayed, for her one best dress was an old black silk. Prettily made for evening wear, it is true; but its white lace and ribbon trimmings could not conceal the fact that the silk itself was worn and shabby.
The few friends consisted of at least thirty people, most of them in gay evening dress. Mrs. Preen introduced her to a young lady, a Miss Knox, who was chatty and pleasant, and told her many of the names of those present. But after a while Miss Knox went away into the next room, leaving Alice alone.
She felt something like a fish out of water. Other people moved about here and there talking with this acquaintance and laughing with that; but Alice, conscious of being only the governess, did not like to do so. She was standing near one of the open windows, within shade of the curtains that were being swayed about by the draught, turning her gaze sometimes upon the rooms, sometimes to the road below.
Suddenly, her whole conscious being seemed struck as by a blow. Her pulses stopped, her heart felt faint, every vestige of colour forsook her cheeks. Walking slowly across the room, within a yard of her, came William Stane.
Not until he was close up did he see her standing there. A moment's hesitation, during which he seemed to be as surprised as she, and then he held out his hand.
"It is Miss Raynor, I think?"
"Yes," replied Alice, her hand meeting his, and the hot crimson flushing her cheek again. How well he was looking! Better, far better looking than he used to be. And he was of more importance in the world, for he had risen into note as a pleader, young at the Bar though he was, and his name was often on the lips of men. His presence brought back to Alice the old Elysian days at Eagles' Nest, and her heart ached.
"Are Sir Philip and Lady Stane quite well?" she asked, in sheer need of saying something; for the silence was embarrassing.
"My mother is well; my father is very poorly indeed. He is a confirmed invalid now."
His tone was frigid. Alice felt it painfully. She stood there before him in the blaze of light, all too conscious of her shabby dress, her subdued manner, all her other disadvantages. Not far off sat a young lady in rich white silk and lace, diamond bracelets gleaming on her arms. Times had indeed changed!
"Are any of your family here to-night, Miss Raynor? I do not see them."
"No; oh no;—I am only the governess here," replied poor Alice, making the confession in bitter pain. And he might hear it in her voice.
"Oh—the governess," he assented, quite unmoved. "I hope Mrs. Raynor is well."
"Not very well, thank you."
Mr. Stane moved away. She saw him several times after that in different parts of the room; but he did not come near her again.
And that, the first night that Alice spent at her new home, was passed in the same cruel pain, her pillow wet with tears. Pain, not so much for the life of ease she had once enjoyed, the one of labour she had entered upon, not so much in regret for the changed position she held in the world, as for the loss of the love of William Stane.
But there is something yet to relate of the afternoon. It was about five o'clock when Edina reached home. Very much to her astonishment she saw a gentleman seated by Mrs. Raynor. The tea-things were on the table. Bobby sat on the floor. Kate stood, her back to the window, gazing with some awe at the visitor—so unusual an event in the retired household. He was a scanty-haired little gentleman, with cold, light eyes, and a trim, neat dress. Edina knew him at once, and held out her hand. It was Street, the banker.
It was evident that he had come in only a minute before her, for he had not yet entered upon his business. He began upon it now. Edina silently took off her things as she listened, put them on the side-table, and made the tea. There he sat, talking methodically, and appearing to notice nothing, but in reality seeing everything: the shabby room, the scanty attire of the young children, the faded appearance of Mrs. Raynor, as she sat putting fresh cuffs on a jacket of Alfred's. Edina began to pour out the tea, and brought him a cup, handing him the sugar and milk.
"Is it cream?" asked Mr. Street. "I can't take cream."
"It is skim-milk," said Edina. "But it is good: not at all watered. We buy it at a small farmhouse."
He had come to ask Mrs. Raynor whether she remembered a small ebony desk that had been at Eagles' Nest. It had belonged to the late Mrs. Atkinson, he observed: "she kept papers in it: receipts and things of that sort."
"I remember it quite well," replied Mrs. Raynor. "My husband took it into use, and kept papers of his own in it. He used to put all the bills there."
"Do you know what became of the desk, madam?"
"It was left in the house," said Mrs. Raynor.
"Ay: we supposed it would be," nodded the banker. "But, madam, it cannot be found. I was at Eagles' Nest myself all day yesterday, searching for it. Mr. Fairfax says he does not remember to have seen it."
The name struck unfamiliarly on Mrs. Raynor's ear. "Mr. Fairfax? Who is he?"
"The land-steward, who lives in the house. He thinks that had the desk been there when he entered into possession, he should have noticed it."
"Is the desk particularly wanted?" interposed Edina, struck with the fact that so busy a man as Mr. Street should have been down in search of it.
"We should be glad to find it," was the answer, as he turned again to Mrs. Raynor. "Lamb, the butler, who remained in the house for some two or three weeks after you left it, says he does not remember to have seen it there after your departure. So I procured your address from my brother, madam, and have come to ask you about it."
Mrs. Raynor, who had put aside her work soon after Mr. Street entered, sat with her cup and saucer in her hand, looking a little bewildered. He proceeded to explain further.
On the evening of Mr. George Atkinson's arrival in London—which had only taken place on Monday, the day Charles Raynor saw him in Mr. Preen's office—he and the banker were conversing together on various matters, as would naturally be the case after his long absence. Amongst other subjects touched upon was that of the lost money and the vouchers: neither of which had ever been discovered. Whilst they were recalling, in a desultory sort of way, every probable and improbable place in which these vouchers, if they existed, could have been placed, Mr. Atkinson suddenly asked whether the ebony desk had been well examined. Of course it had, and all the other desks, was Mr. Street's answer. "But," said George Atkinson, "that ebony desk had a false bottom to it, in which things might be concealed. I wonder I never thought of that before. It may be that the Raynors never found that out; and I should not be much surprised if Mrs. Atkinson put the bonds in it, and if they are in it to this day."
Of course the suggestion was worth following up. Especially worthy of it did it appear to Street, the banker, who had a keen scent for money, whether his own or other people's. He went down himself to Eagles' Nest to search the desk: but of the desk he could find no traces. The land-agent who had since occupied the house did not remember to have seen anything of the kind. He next inquired for Lamb, the former butler, and heard that he was now living with Sir Philip Stane. To Sir Philip Stane's proceeded Mr. Street, and saw Lamb. Lamb said he knew the desk quite well; but he could not recollect seeing it after the family had left, and he had no idea what became of it. Mr. Street, feeling baffled, had returned to town without learning anything of the desk. He had now come down to question Mrs. Raynor.
"I wish, madam, I could hear that you had brought it away with you," he observed, the explanation over. It had been rather a long one for curt-speaking Mr. Street.
"We should not be likely to bring it away," said poor Mrs. Raynor, in her mild, meek voice. "We were told that we must not remove anything that had been Mrs. Atkinson's."
"True. Those instructions were issued by Mr. George Atkinson, through me, madam."
"And I can assure you, sir, that we didnotremove anything," she replied, a little flurried. "All that we brought away belonged strictly to ourselves. But I fancy Mr. George Atkinson must be mistaken in supposing the bonds were in that desk. Had they been there my husband could not have failed to see them."
"Did he know of the false bottom?"
"I am not aware that he did. But still—he so often used the desk. It frequently stood in the little room, upon the low cabinet, or secretaire. I have seen him turn it upside down, when searching for some particular bill he had mislaid."
"That does not prove the bonds were not in the secret compartment," remarked the banker.
"Did you know of this secret compartment?" inquired Edina.
"I did not, Miss Raynor. Or you may be sure it would have been searched when we were first looking for the bonds. This desk George Atkinson himself brought from Ceylon the first time he went there, and gave it to Mrs. Atkinson. It was not, I believe, really of ebony, but of black wood peculiar to the country; handsomely carved, as you no doubt remember, if you made acquaintance with the desk at Eagles' Nest. Mr. George Atkinson cannot imagine how he could have forgotten the desk until now; but it had as completely slipped his memory, he says, as though it had never existed."
"I'm sure I wish it could be found!" spoke Mrs. Raynor. "It may be that the bonds are in it. That my husband never discovered the compartment you speak of, I feel assured. If he had, we should all have known it."
"And—just one more question, madam," said the banker, rising to depart. "Do you chance to remember in what room that desk was left when you quitted Eagles' Nest?"
Mrs. Raynor paused in thought; and then shook her head hopelessly. "No, I do not," she answered. "I know the desk must have been left there because we did not bring it away, but I have no especial recollection about it at all. Dear me! What a strange thing if the bonds were lying concealed in it all that time!"
"That they are lying in it I think more than likely—provided there are any to lie anywhere," observed the banker, "for it is most singular that none have come to light. It is also to be regretted that Mr. Atkinson did not think of the desk before this. Good-evening, madam."
"We heard that Mr. Atkinson was in London," remarked Edina, as she accompanied Mr. Street to the front-door.
"For a few days only."
"For a few days only! When does he intend to enter into possession of Eagles' Nest?"
"I cannot tell: he is an invalid just now," was the hurried answer, as if the banker did not care to be questioned. "Good-day, Miss Raynor." And away he went with a quick step.
Edina began to wash up the tea-things, that she might get to some ironing. Her mind was busy, and somewhat troubled. Reminiscences of George Atkinson, thoughts of the missing desk and of the lost bonds that were perhaps in it, kept rapidly chasing each other in her brain—and there seemed to be no comfort in any one of them.
"Had the desk been brought away from Eagles' Nest, I must have seen it," she remarked at length, but in doubtful tones, as if not feeling altogether sure of her assertion.
"But surely, Edina, you don't think weshouldbring it!" cried Mrs. Raynor, looking up from her work, which she had resumed.
"Not intentionally, of course, Mary. The only chance of it would be if Charles, or any one else, inadvertently packed it up."
"I am sure he did not," said Mrs. Raynor. "Had it been brought away by accident we should certainly have seen it, and sent it back to Eagles' Nest."
"I remember that desk quite well," spoke up Kate, looking off the spelling-lesson she was learning. "I remember seeing Frank empty all the papers out of it one morning.
"Frank did?" cried Edina.
"Why, yes: it was Frank who examined the desk," said Mrs. Raynor. "I now recollect as much as that. It was the day after the funeral. You were upstairs, Edina, helping to pack Daisy's things for London. I was crying about the money we owed, not knowing whether it was much or little, and Frank said we had better examine the bills. I told him the bills were most likely all in the little ebony desk—and he went to get them.
"I saw him do it," reiterated Kate. "I was in the little room with Mademoiselle Delrue. He came and unlocked the desk, shook all the papers out of it, and took them away with him."
"And what did he do with the desk?" asked Edina. "Did he leave it there?"
"I don't know. I think he took that away too."
"I wonder whether Frank would remember anything of it?" mused Edina. "Perhaps he put up the desk somewhere for safety, after taking the papers out of it: in some cupboard or closet?"
"Perhaps he did," added Mrs. Raynor. "It is so strange a thing that it cannot be found."
"I may as well walk over to Frank's, and hear what his recollections are upon the subject," said Edina after a pause.
"But you must be so tired, Edina, after that walk to Bayswater."
"Not very. I meant to iron the boy's collars and Charley's wristbands this evening, but I can do that to-morrow."
Mrs. Raynor made no further objection; and Edina set out. The visit of the banker seemed to have saddened rather than cheered her—as so unusual a little change in the monotony of their home life might have been expected to do. They all felt faint and weary with their depressing prospects. Were things to go on for life as they now were? It was a question they often asked themselves. And, for all they could see, the answer was—Yes. Even Edina at times lost heart, and indulged in a good cry in secret.
Matters were not in a much better state at Frank Raynor's. It is true no poverty was there, no privation; but the old happiness that existed between him and his wife had disappeared. Daisy was much changed. The once warm-hearted girl had become cold and silent, and frightfully apathetic. Her husband never received a kindly look from her, or heard a loving tone. She did not complain. She did not reproach him. She did not find fault with any earthly thing. She just went through life in a listless kind of manner, as if all interest had left her for ever. Frank put it down to dissatisfaction at their changed circumstances; to the obscure manner in which they lived. Ever and anon he would try to breathe a word of hope that things would be different sometime: but his wife never responded to it.
Steeped in her miserable jealousy, was Mrs. Frank Raynor. All through this past year had she been silently indulging it. It had become a chronic ailment; it coloured her mind by day and her dreams by night. The most provoking feature of it all was, that she could not obtain any tangible proof of her husband's delinquency, anything very special to make a stir about: and how intensely aggravating that is to a jealous woman, let many confess. That her husband did go to Mrs. Bell's frequently, was indisputable: but then, as a counterbalance to that, there was the fact that he went in his professional capacity. No end of pills and potions were entered in Mrs. Bell's name in the medicine-book, and Daisy was therefore unable to assert that the plea for his visits was a mere pretence. But she believed it was so. Once, chance had given her an opportunity of speaking of these visits. A serious accident happened in the street just opposite their door, through a vicious horse. Daisy watched it from the drawing-room window; saw the injured man brought into the surgery. She ran down in distress. Frank was not at home. The boy flew one way in search of him, Eve ran another: but Frank could not be found, and the poor man had to be carried insensible elsewhere. "I'm very sorry," said Frank, when he returned, speaking rather carelessly; "I was at Mrs. Bell's." "You appear to be pretty often there," retorted Daisy, an angry sound in her usually cold tones. "I go every two or three days," said he. And how much oftener, I wonder! thought Daisy: but she said nothing more.
No, there was no tangible proof of bad behaviour to be brought against him. Not once, during the whole past twelvemonth, had she even seen them abroad together. She did not watch Frank as at first; she had grown ashamed of that, perhaps a little weary; and she had not once been rewarded by the sight of Rosaline. Had that obnoxious individual been a myth, she could not have more completely hidden herself from her neighbours and from Daisy on a week-day. On Sundays Daisy generally saw her at church. The girl would be sitting quietly in her pew wearing a plain black silk gown; still, devout, seeming to notice no one: had she been training for a nun, the world could not have appeared to possess less interest for her. Her black lace veil was never lifted from her face: but it could not hide that face's beauty. As soon as church was over Rosaline seemed to glide away before any one else stirred, and was lost to sight.
In this unsatisfactory manner the seasons had passed, Frank and his wife living in an estranged atmosphere, without any acknowledged cause for the unhappy state of affairs.
On this self-same evening when Edina was on her way to them, the West Indian mail brought a letter to Frank from Mr. Max Brown. That roving individual wrote regularly once a month, all his letters being filled, more or less, with vague promises of return. Vague, because no certain time was ever given. Frank called Eve to light the lamp, and stood by the fire in the little parlour whilst he read his letter. It was a genial autumn, and very few people had taken to fires; but Daisy ever seemed chilly, and liked one lighted at twilight.
"He says he is really coming, Daisy," cried Frank in quick tones as he looked over the letter. "Listen: 'I am now positively thinking of starting for home, and may be with you soon after the beginning of the new year. I know that you have thought my prolonged absence singular, but I will explain all in person. My mother is, I fear, sinking!'"
Mrs. Frank Raynor made no reply of any sort. For days together she would not speak to her husband, unless something he might say absolutely demanded an answer.
"And when Brown comes, we shall have to leave," went on Frank. "You will be glad of it, I am sure."
"I don't care whether we leave or not," was the ungracious retort.
And she really did not seem to care. Life, for her, had lost its sweetness. Nay, she probably would prefer, of the two, to remain where she was. If away, the field would be so free and open for her husband and that obnoxious young woman, Rosaline Bell.
"I shall be at liberty, once Brown is here again to take to his own practice," continued Frank; "and I will try to place you in a more genial atmosphere than this. I know you have felt it keenly, Daisy, and are feeling it still; but I have not been able to help myself."
His tone was considerate and tender; he stooped unexpectedly and kissed her forehead. Daisy made no response: she passively endured the caress, and that was all. The tears sprang to her eyes. Frank did not see them: he carried his letter into the surgery, where very much of his home time was passed.
His thoughts were far away. Would Mr. Blase Pellet tolerate this anticipated removal when it came? Or, would he not rather dodge Frank's footsteps and establish himself where he could still keep him in view? Yes: Frank felt certain that he would. Unconscious though Frank was of his wife's supervision, he felt persuaded in his mind that he was ever subjected to that of Blase Pellet. It was not, in one sense of the word, offensive; for not once in three months did he and Pellet come into contact with each other: but Frank felt always as a man chained—who can go as far as the chain allows him, but no farther. With all his heart he wished that he could better his position for Daisy's sake; had long wished it; but in his sense of danger he had been contented to let things go on as they were, dreading any attempt at change. Over and over again had he felt thankful for the prolonged wanderings of Mr. Max Brown, which afforded him the plea for putting up with his present lot.
Daisy set on with her discontented face. A very pretty face still; prettier, if anything, than of yore; with the clear eyes and their amber light, the delicate bloom on the lovely features, the sunny, luxuriant hair. She often dressed daintily, wishing in her secret heart, in spite of her resentment, to win back her husband's allegiance. This evening she wore a dark blue silk, one of the remnants of better days, with some rich white lace falling at the throat, on which rested a gold locket, attached to a thin chain. Very, very pretty did Edina think her when she arrived, and was brought into the room by Frank.
"You never come to see me now," began Daisy, in fretful tones of complaint. "I might be dead and buried, for all you or any one else would know of it, Edina."
"Ah, no, Margaret, you might not," was Edina's answer. "Not while you have Frank at your side. If you really needed us, he would take care that we should be sent for."
"All the same, every one neglects me," returned Daisy. "I am glad you have thought of me at last."
"I came this evening with a purpose," said Edina: who would not urge in excuse the very little time she had to give to visiting, for Daisy must be quite aware of it. And she forthwith, loosening her bonnet-strings, told Frank of Mr. Street's visit, of its purport, and of their own conjectures at Laurel Cottage after the banker had departed.
"Why, yes, it was I who emptied that ebony desk," said Frank. "A false bottom! I really can't believe it, Edina. Some of us would have found it out."
"We cannot doubt Mr. Street. He knew nothing of it himself, you hear, until Mr. George Atkinson spoke about it."
"But why in the world did not Atkinson speak about it before? When he was last in England these bonds were being hunted for, high and low."
"He says, I tell you, that he forgot all about the desk and its secret compartment. But, Frank, we cannot remedy the omission if we talk of it for ever; what I wanted to ascertain from you is, whether you remember where you left the desk."
"No, that I don't. I remember turning the bills and papers out of it wholesale, and carrying them into the room where Mrs. Raynor was sitting. As to the desk, I suppose it remained upon the table."
"You are sure you emptied it of all the papers?"
"Quite sure," replied Frank. "I turned the desk upside down and shook the papers out, and saw that the desk was quite empty."
"Kate says she saw you do it. But she does not recollect what became of the desk."
"Neither do I. No doubt it was left in the room. I dare say it still remained there when you all came away from the house."
"Well, it cannot be found," concluded Edina. "I think the probability is, that the desk was packed up by the servants and brought away in one of the large boxes, and was lost in the fire. If it had remained at Eagles' Nest, it would no doubt be there still?"
"Then I suppose they will never find the lost money as long as oak and ash grow," observed Frank. "It is a very unsatisfactory thing. George Atkinson ought to have remembered and spoken in time."
He was called away into the surgery, and Edina began to retie her bonnet-strings. Daisy had picked up some crochet-work.
"Why don't you take your bonnet off, Edina, and stay?"
"Because I must go home, dear."
"Not before you have had some supper. Not stay for it! Why can't you stay?"
"I do not like going back so late."
"As if any one would hurt you!"
"I do not fear that. But I am not London bred, you know, Margaret, and cannot quite overcome my dislike to London streets at night."
"Oh, very well. No one cares to be with me now."
Edina looked at her. It was not the first indication by several that Mrs. Frank Raynor had given of a spirit of discontent.
"Will you tell me what is troubling you, Margaret? Something is, I know."
"How do you know?"
"Because I perceive it. I detect it every time I see you."
"It's nothing at all," returned Daisy—who would not have spoken of her jealousy for the world. "That is, nothing that any one could help or hinder."
"My dear," said Edina, bending nearer to her, her sweet voice sounding like music, "that some grievance or other is especially trying you, I think I cannot mistake. But oh, remember one thing, and take comfort. In the very brightest and happiest lot, lurks always some sorrow. Every rose, however lovely, must have its thorn. We ought not, in the true interest of our lives, to wish it otherwise. God sends clouds, Margaret, as well as sunshine. He will guard you whilst trouble lasts, if you only bear patiently and put yourself under His care; and He will bring you out of trouble in His own good time.Trust to Him, my dear, for He is a sure refuge."
And when Edina had left, Frank escorting her through the more narrow streets, Daisy burst into tears, and sobbed bitterly. Indulging this jealousy might be very gratifying to her temper; but it had lasted long, and at times she felt ill and weak.
"If God cared for me He would punish that Rosaline Bell," was her comment on Edina's words. "Lay her up with a broken leg, or something."