"I cannot buy the bonnet unless you will make the alteration at once. Now: so that I may take it home with me in the carriage."
The speaker was Mrs. Townley. Daisy was spending the day with her in Westbourne Terrace, and they had come out shopping. Mrs. Townley had fallen in love with a bonnet she saw in a milliner's window in Oxford Street; she entered the shop and offered to buy the bonnet, subject to some alteration. The proprietor of the business seemed rather unwilling to make it.
"I assure you, madam, it looks better as it is," she urged. "Were we to substitute blue flowers for the grey and carry the side higher, it would take away all its style at once."
Mrs. Townley somewhat hesitated. If there was one thing she went in for, above all else, it was "style." But she liked to have her own way also, and thought a great deal of her own taste.
"Three parts of these milliners object to any suggested alteration only to save themselves trouble," she said aside to Daisy. "Don't you think it would look better as I propose?"
"I hardly know," replied Daisy. "If we could first see the alteration, we might be able to judge."
But, to make the change, unless the bonnet was first bought, Madame François, the milliner, absolutely refused. It would ruin it, she said, for another customer. Of course she would alter it, if madam insisted after purchasing the bonnet; but she must again express her opinion that it would spoil its style.
The discussion was carried on with animation, madame's accent being decidedly English, in spite of her name. Mrs. Townley still urged her own opinion, but less strenuously; for she would not have risked losing the "style" for the world.
"I will call my head milliner," said madame at length. "Her taste is very superior. Mam'selle, go and ask Miss Bell to step here."
Mam'selle—a young person, evidently French—left her place behind the counter and went into another room. Every pulse in Daisy's body seemed to tingle to her fingers' ends when she came back with Rosaline. Quiet, self-contained, without a smile on her face to betray any gladness of heart there might be within, Rosaline gave her opinion when the case was submitted to her. She took the bonnet in her hand, and kept it there, for a minute, or so, looking at it.
"I think, madame," she said to her mistress, "that if some grey flowers of a lighter shade were substituted for these, it would be prettier. Blue flowers would spoil the bonnet. As to the side, it certainly ought not to be carried higher. It is the right height as it is."
"Then take it, and change the flowers at once, Miss Bell," said madame, upon Mrs. Townley's signifying her assent to the suggestion. "The lady will wait. Miss Bell's taste is always to be depended upon," added madame, as Rosaline went away with the bonnet.
"How extremely good-looking she is!" exclaimed Mrs. Townley: who had never seen Rosaline before, and of course knew nothing about her. "Quite beautiful."
"Yes," assented madame. "When I engaged her I intended her to be in this front-room and wait on customers; for it cannot be denied that beauty attracts. But Miss Bell refused, point-blank: she had come to be in my work-room, she said, not to serve. Had I insisted, she would have left."
"Is she respectable?"
The question came from Daisy. Swelling with all sorts of resentful and bitter feelings, she had allowed her anger to get the better of her discretion; and the next moment felt ashamed of herself. Madame François did not like it at all.
"Res-pect-able!" she echoed with unnecessary deliberation. "I do not understand the question, madam."
Daisy flushed crimson. Mrs. Townley had also turned a surprised look upon her sister.
"Miss Bell is one of the best-conducted young persons I ever knew," pursued madame. "Steady and quiet in manner at all times, as you saw her now. She is very superior indeed; quite a lady in her ways and thoughts. Before she came to me, nearly two years ago, she had a business of her own down in Cornwall. That is, her aunt had; and Miss Bell was with her."
"She looks very superior indeed, to me," said Mrs. Townley, wishing to smooth away her sister's uncalled-for remark: "her tones are good. Have you any dentelle-de-Paris?"
The bonnet soon reappeared: but it was not brought by Rosaline. Mrs. Townley chose some lace; paid the bill, and left. As Daisy followed her sister into the carriage, her mind in a very unpleasant whirl, she knew that the matter which had puzzled her—never seeing her husband abroad with Rosaline—was now explained. Rosaline was here by day; but, she supposed, went home at night.
It was so. The reader may remember that one evening when Frank went in to see Dame Bell soon after she had come to London, she had told him that Rosaline had gone to Oxford Street on some mysterious errand: mysterious in so far as that Rose had not disclosed what she went for. The fact was, that Rosaline had then gone to this very milliner's by appointment, having procured a letter of introduction to her from a house of business in Falmouth, with the view of tendering her services. For she knew that her mother's income was too small to live on comfortably, and it would be well if she could increase it. Madame François, pleased with her appearance and satisfied with the letter she brought, engaged her at once. Rosaline had been there ever since: going up in a morning and returning home at night. The milliner had wished her to be entirely in the house, but she could not leave her mother.
On this day, as usual, Rosaline sat at her work in the back-room, planning out new bonnets—that would be displayed afterwards in the window as "the latest fashion from Paris:" and directing the young women under her. That she had a wonderful and innate taste for the work was recognized by all, and Madame François had speedily made her superintendent of the room. The girl, as madame thought, always seemed to have some great care upon her: when questioned upon the point, Rosaline would answer that she was uneasy respecting the decaying health of her mother.
More thoughtful than usual, more buried in the inward life, for the appearance of Mrs. Frank Raynor, whom she knew by sight, had brought back old reminiscences of Trennach, Rosaline sat to-day at her employment until the hours of labour had passed. Generally speaking she went home by omnibus, though she sometimes walked. She walked this evening: for it was mild and pleasant, and she felt in great need of fresh air. So that it was tolerably late when she arrived home: very nearly half-past nine.
The first thing to be noticed was, that her mother's chair was empty: the room also. Rosaline passed quickly into the bedchamber, and saw that her mother had undressed and was in bed.
"Why, mother! what's this for? Are you not well?"
"Not very," sighed the dame. "Your supper is ready for you on the table, Rose."
"Never mind my supper, mother," replied Rose, snuffing the candle, and putting two or three things straight in the room generally, after taking off her bonnet. "Tell me what is the matter with you. Do you feel worse?"
"Not much worse—that I know of," was the answer. "But I grew weary, and thought I should be better in bed. For the past week, or more, I can't get your poor father out of my head, Rose: up or in bed, he is always in my mind, and it worries me."
"But you know, mother, this cannot be good for you—as I have said," cried Rosaline: for she had heard the same complaint once or twice lately.
"What troubles me is this, child—how did he come by his death? That's the question I've wanted answered all along; and now it seems never to leave me."
Rosaline drooped her head. No one but herself knew how terribly the subject tried her.
"Blase Pellet called in at dusk for a minute or two to see how I was," resumed Mrs. Bell. "When I told him how poor Bell had been haunting my mind lately, and how the prolonged mystery of his fate seemed to press upon me, he nodded his head like a bobbing image. 'I want to know how he came by his death,' I said to him. 'The want is always upon me.' 'I could tell, if I chose,' said he, speaking up quickly. 'Then why don't you tell? I insist upon your telling,' I answered. Upon that, he drew in, and declared he had meant nothing. But it's not the first time he has thrown out these hints, Rosaline."
"Blase is a dangerous man," spoke Rosaline, her voice trembling with anger. "And he could be a dangerous enemy."
"Well, I don't see why you should say that, Rose. He is neither your enemy nor mine. But I should like to know what reason he has for saying these things."
"Don't listen to him, mother; don't encourage him here," implored Rosaline. "I'm sure it will be better for our peace that he should keep away. And now—will you have some arrowroot to-night, or——"
"I won't have anything," interrupted Dame Bell. "I had a bit of supper before I undressed and a drop of ale with it. I shall get to sleep if I can: and I hope with all my heart that your poor father will not be haunting me in my dreams."
Rosaline carried away the candle, and sat down to her own supper in the next room. But she could not eat. Mr. Blase Pellet's reported words were quite sufficient supper for her, bringing before her all too vividly the horror of that dreadful night. Would this state of thraldom in which she lived ever cease, she asked herself; would she ever again, as long as the world should last for her, know an hour that was not tinged with its fatal remembrances and the fears connected with them.
In the morning her mother said she was better, and rose as usual. This was Saturday. When Rosaline reached home in the afternoon, earlier than on other days, she found her stirring about at some active housework. But on the Sunday morning she remained in bed, confessing that she felt very poorly. Rosaline wanted to call in Mr. Raynor: but her mother told her not to be silly; she was not ill enough for that.
The internal disorder which afflicted Mrs. Bell, and would eventually be her death, was making slow but sure progress. Frank Raynor—and his experience was pretty extensive now—had never known a similar case develop so lingeringly. He thought she might have a year or two's life in her yet. Still, it was impossible to say: a change might occur at any moment.
On this Sunday afternoon, when she and Rosaline were sitting together after dinner, Mr. Blase Pellet walked in. Rosaline only wished she could walk out. She would far rather have done so. But she forced herself to be civil to him.
"Look here," said Blase, taking a newspaper out of his pocket when he had sat some minutes. "This advertisement must concern those Raynors that you know of. I'll read it to you."
"'Lost. Lost. A small carved ebony desk. Was last seen at Eagles' Nest in the month of June more than two years ago. Any one giving information of where it may be found, or bringing it to Mr. Street, solicitor, of Lawyers' Row, shall receive ten guineas reward.'
"Those Raynors, you know, came into the Eagles' Nest property, and then had to turn out of it again," added Blase.
"Ten guineas reward for an ebony desk!" commented Mrs. Bell. "I wonder what was in it?"
Blase did not receive an invitation to stay tea this afternoon, though he probably expected it. However, he was not one to intrude unwished for, and took his departure.
"I had a great mind to ask him what he meant by the remark he made the other evening about your poor father," said Mrs. Bell to Rosaline as he went out.
"Oh, mother, let it be!" exclaimed Rosaline in piteous tones, her pale face turning hectic. "He cannot know anything that would bring peace to you or me."
"Well, I should like my tea now," said Dame Bell. "And I should have asked him to stay, Rose, but for your ungracious looks."
Rosaline busied herself with the tea, which they took almost in silence. While putting the things away afterwards, Rosaline made some remark: which was not answered. Supposing her mother did not hear, she spoke again. Still there came no reply, and Rose looked round. Mrs. Bell was lying back on the sofa, apparently insensible.
"It was the pain, child," she breathed, when Rosaline had revived her; but she had not quite fainted; "the sharp, sudden pain here. I never had it, I think, as badly as that."
Like a ghost she was still, with a pinched look in her face. Rosaline was frightened. Without saying anything to her mother, she wrote a hasty line to Frank, to ask if he would come round, twisted it up three-cornered fashion, and despatched it by the landlady's daughter.
The note arrived just as Frank Raynor and his wife were beginning to think of setting out for evening service. Frank chanced to have gone into a small back-room near the kitchen, where he kept his store of drugs, and Daisy was alone when Sam came in, the note held between his fingers.
"For master, please, ma'am; and it is to be given to him directly."
With an impatient word—for Daisy knew what these hastily-written, unsealed missives meant, and she did not care to go to church at night alone—she untwisted it, and read the contents.
"Dear Mr. Raynor,
"If you could possibly come round this evening, I should be very much obliged to you. My mother has been taken suddenly worse, and I do not like her looks at all.
"Very truly yours,
"R. B."
"The shameless thing!" broke forth Mrs. Frank Raynor in her rising anger. "She writes to him exactly as if she were his equal!"
Folding the note again, she threw it on the table, and went upstairs to put on her bonnet. It did not take her long. Frank was only returning to the parlour as she went down.
"Oh," said he, opening the note and reading it, "then I can't go with you to-night, Daisy. I am called out."
No answer.
"I will take you to the church-door and leave you there," he added, tossing the note into the fire.
"Of course you could not stay the service with me and attend to your patient afterwards!" cried Daisy, not attempting to suppress the sarcasm in her tone.
"No, I cannot do that. It is Mrs. Bell I am called to."
"Oh! Of all peopleshemust not be neglected."
"Right, Daisy. I would neglect the whole list of patients rather than Mrs. Bell."
He spoke impulsively, pained by her look and tone. But had he taken time to think, he would not have avowed so much. The avowal meant nothing—at least, as Daisy interpreted it. But for him, Francis Raynor, Mrs. Bell's husband might have been living now. This lay on his conscience, and rendered him doubly solicitous for the poor widow. To Frank it had always seemed that, in a degree, she had belonged to him since that fatal night.
But Daisy knew nothing of this; and the impression the words made upon her was unfortunate, for she could only see matters from her own distorted point of view. It was for Rosaline's sake he was anxious for the mother, reasoned her mind, and it had now come to the shameful pass that he did not hesitate to declare it—even to her, his wife! Perhaps the woman was not even ill—the girl had resorted to this ruse that they might spend an evening together!
She kept her face turned to the fire lest he should see her agitation: she pressed her hands upon her chest, to still its laboured breathing. Frank was putting on his overcoat, for it was a cool night, and noticed nothing. Thus they started: Daisy refusing to take his arm, on the plea of holding up her dress: refusing to let him carry her Prayer-book; giving no reply to the few remarks he made. The church bells were chiming, the stars were bright in the frosty sky.
Under the silence and gloom of the church walls, away from the lights inside and out, Frank stopped, and laid his hand upon his wife's.
"You are vexed, Daisy, because I cannot go to church; but when my patients really need me I must not and will not neglect them. For a long time now you have seemed to live in a state of constant discontent and resentment against me. What the cause is, I know not. I do not give you any, as far as I am aware. If it is that you are dissatisfied with our present position—and I am not surprised that you should be—I can only say how much for your sake I regret that I cannot alter it. But that is what I am not yet able to do; and to find your vexation constantly turned upon me is hard to bear. Let us, rather, look forward to better days, and cheer on one another with the hope."
He wrung her hand and turned away. His voice had been so loving and tender, and yet so full of pain, that Daisy found her eyes wet with sudden tears. She went into church. What with resentment against her husband, her own strong sense of misery, and this softened mood, life seemed very sad to her that night.
And as the service proceeded, and the soothing tones of the sweet chant chosen for theMagnificatfell on her ear and heart, the mood grew more and more softened. Daisy cried in her lonely pew. Hiding her face when she knelt she let the tears rain down. A vision came over her of a possible happy future: of Frank's love restored to her as by some miracle; of Rosaline Bell and these wretched troubles, lost in the memory of the past; of the world being fair for them again, and she and her husband walking hand in hand, down the stream of time. Poor Daisy let her veil fall when she rose, that her swollen eyes should not be seen.
And the sermon soothed her too. The text was one that she especially loved: "Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest." Daisy thought none had ever been so heavily laden before as she was; just as the lightly chastened are apt to think.
"If I can only be a little more pleasant with him, and have patience," said she to herself, "who knows but things may work round again."
But the heart of man is rebellious, as all the world knows; especially rebellious is the heart of woman, when it is filled with jealous fancies. The trouble to which Mrs. Frank Raynor was subjected might bear precious fruit in the future, but it was not effecting much good in the present. No sooner was she out of church, and the parson's impressive voice and the sweet singing had faded on her ear, than all the old rancour came rushing up to the surface again.
"I wonder if he is there still?" she thought. "Most likely. I wish I could find out!"
Instead of turning her steps homeward, she turned them towards West Street, and paced twice before the house that contained Dame Bell and her daughter. A light shone behind the white window blind, indicating the probability that the room had inmates; but Daisy could not see who they were. She turned towards home, and had almost reached it when Frank came hastily out of the surgery, a bottle of medicine in his hand.
"Is it you, Daisy? I began to think you were late. I meant to come to the church and fetch you, but found I could not."
"Shall I walk with you?" asked Daisy, trying to commence carrying out the good resolutions she had made in church, and perhaps somewhat pacified by his words. "It is a fine night."
For answer he took her hand, and placed it within his arm. Ah, never would there have been a better husband than Frank Raynor, if she had only met him kindly.
"Who is the medicine for?" asked Daisy.
"For Dame Bell. I am walking fast, Daisy, but she ought to have it without delay."
"Have you been with her all this time?"
"Yes. I was coming away when she had a sort of fainting-fit, the second this evening; and it took more than half-an hour to get her round."
"She is really ill, then?"
"Really ill!" echoed Frank in surprise. "Why, Daisy, she is dying. I do not mean dying to-night," he added; "or likely to die immediately; but that which she is suffering from will gradually kill her. My uncle suspected from the first what it would turn out to be."
Daisy said no more, and the house was gained. As Frank rang the bell, she left his arm and went a few steps away; beyond sight of any one who might open the door, but not beyond hearing of any conversation that might take place.
Rosaline appeared. Frank put the bottle into her hand.
"I brought it round myself, Rosaline, that I might be sure it came quickly. Has there been another fainting-fit?"
"No, not another, Mr. Frank," replied Rosaline. "She is in bed now and seems tranquil."
"Well, give her a dose of this without delay."
"Very well, sir. I—I wish you would tell me the truth," she went on in a somewhat agitated voice.
"The truth as to what?"
"Whether she is much worse? Dangerously so."
"No, I assure you she is not: not materially so, if you mean that. Of course—as you know yourself, Rosaline, or I should not speak of it to you—she will grow worse and worse with time."
"I do know it, sir, unfortunately."
"But I think it will be very gradual; neither sudden nor alarming. This evening's weakness seems to me to be quite exceptional. She must have been either exerting or exciting herself: I said so upstairs."
"True. It is excitement. But I did not like to say so before her. For the past few days she has been complaining that my father worries her," continued Rosaline, dropping her voice to a whisper. "She says he seems to be in her mind night and day: asleep, she dreams of him; she dwells on him. And oh, what a dreadful thing it all is!"
"Hush, Rosaline!" whispered Frank in the same cautious tones: and as Daisy's ears could not catch the conversation now, she of course thought the more. "The fancy will subside. At times, you know, she has had it before."
"Blase Pellet excites her. I know he does. Only the other day he said something or other."
"I wish Blase Pellet was transported!" cried Frank quickly. "But it—it cannot be helped, Rosaline. Give your mother half a wine-glass of this mixture at once."
"I am so much obliged to you for all, sir," she gently said, as he shook hands with her. "Oh, and I beg your pardon for asking another question," she added as he was turning away. "I have been thinking that I ought perhaps to leave my situation and stay at home with my mother. I always meant to do so when she grew worse. Do you see any necessity for it?"
"Not yet. Later of course you must do it: and perhaps it might be as well that you should be at home to-morrow, though the people of the house are attentive to her. You may rely upon me to tell you when the necessity arrives."
"Thank you, Mr. Frank. Good-night."
"Good-night, Rose."
Frank held out his arm to his wife. She took it, and they walked home together. But this time she was very chary in answering any remark he made, and did not herself volunteer one. The interview she had just witnessed had only served to augment the sense of treason that filled the heart of Mrs. Frank Raynor.
Time flew on. Summer had come round again: and it was now close upon three years since Mrs. Raynor and her children had quitted Eagles' Nest. Certainly, affairs could not be said to be progressing with them. The past winter and spring had again brought trouble. The three younger children were attacked with scarlatina, and it had left Kate so long ill that much care had to be taken with her. Mrs. Raynor was laid up at the same time for several weeks with bronchitis; and the whole nursing fell upon Edina.
With so much on her hands, and Mrs. Raynor invalided, Edina could not continue to do the work which helped to keep them. A little of it she continued to take, but it was very little: and she had to sit up at night and steal hours from her rest to accomplish even so much. This did not please the people who supplied her with it; they evidently did not care to continue to supply her at all; and when things came round again, and she and Mrs. Raynor would have been glad to do the same quantity of work as before, the work was not forthcoming. Their employment failed.
Such, in these early days of June, was the state of affairs: the family pinching and starving more than ever, Charles wearing out his days at the office, Alice teaching at Mrs. Preen's. Never had the future looked so dark as it was looking now.
One day when they were at dinner, Alice came in. Perhaps the little pinched faces around the scanty board—and both Kate's and Robert's looked pinched—struck unpleasantly upon Alice, for she was evidently in less good spirits than usual. She had come down by the omnibus, and taken them by surprise.
An idea, like a fear, flashed into the mind of Mrs. Raynor. It was so very unusual for Alice to come down in this unexpected manner. "You have brought bad news, child!" she faintly said. "What is it?"
And, for answer, Alice burst into tears. The knowledge of their home privations was to her as a very nightmare, for she had a warm heart. What with that and other thoughts, her spirits were always more or less subdued.
"I don't know how to tell you," she cried; "but it is what I have come to do. Mamma, I am going to leave Mrs. Preen's."
Mrs. Raynor sank back in her chair. "Oh, child! For what reason?"
Alice explained as she dried her eyes. Mrs. Preen, who had not been in strong health lately, was ordered for a lengthened term to her native place, Devonshire, where she would stay with her mother. She could not take her two elder children with her, neither did she care to leave them at home during her absence. So they were to be placed at school, and Alice had received notice to leave at the end of a month.
"If I were sure of getting another situation at once, I would not mind it so much," she said. "But it is the uncertainty that frightens me. I cannot afford to be out of a situation."
"Misfortunes never come alone," sighed Mrs. Raynor.
"Let us hope for the best," said Edina. "A whole month is a good while, Alice, and we can make inquiries for you at once. Perhaps Mr. Jones at the library can hear of something. I will speak to him: he is very kind and obliging."
"Do you ever come across that Bill Stane now, Alice?" cried Alfred, as he picked up his cap to go off to school. "We saw in the paper that Sir Philip was dead. That is, we saw something about his will."
"He comes now and then to Mrs. Preen's," replied Alice, blushing vividly, for she could not hear William Stane's name without emotion. "What did you see about Sir Philip's will?" she added, as carelessly as she could speak.
"Oh, I don't know—how his money was left, I think Charley reckoned up that Bill Stane would have ten thousand pounds to his share. Charley says he is getting on at the Bar like a house on fire."
"Shall you not be late, Alfred?"
"I am off now. Good-bye; Alice. It will be jolly, you know, if you come home."
"Not jolly for the dinners," put in poor Katie, who had learnt by sad experience what a difference an extra one made.
"Oh, bother the dinners!" cried Alfred, with all a schoolboy's improvidence. "I'll eat bread-and-cheese. Goodbye, Alice."
"Did you chance to hear what Sir Philip died of, Alice?" questioned Mrs. Raynor, when the doors had done banging after Alfred.
"No, mamma."
"But you see William Stane sometimes, don't you?"
"Yes, I see Mr. Stane now and then. Not often. He has not said anything about his father in my hearing. When I first went to Mrs. Preen's he was very cold and distant; but lately he has been much more friendly. But we do not often meet."
"Well, child, I can only say how unfortunate it is that you should lose your situation. It may be so difficult to get another."
Another matter, that had been giving Mrs. Raynor and Edina concern for some little time, was the education of the children. Alfred ought now to go to a better school; Robert ought to be at one. The child was eight years old. Sometimes it had crossed Edina's mind to wish he could be got into Christ's Hospital: she thought it high time, now that Alice was coming home, to think about it practically. If poor little Bob could be admitted there, it would make room for Alice.
Talking it over with Mrs. Raynor and Charles that same evening, it was decided that the first step towards it must be to obtain a list of the governors. It might be that one of that body had known something of Major Raynor in the days gone by, and would help his little son. How was the list to be procured? They knew not, and went to bed pondering the question.
"I will go to the library and ask Mr. Jones," said Edina the next morning. "Perhaps he has one."
Mr. Jones had not a list, but thought he knew where he could borrow one. And he did so, and left it at the door in the after-part of the day. Edina sat down to study it.
"Here is a name almost at the beginning that we know," she said, looking up with a smile.
"Is there!" exclaimed Charles, with animation, and taking an imaginative view of Robert, yellow-stockinged and bareheaded. "Whose name is it, Edina?"
"George Atkinson, Esquire, Eagles' Nest," read out Edina.
"How unfortunate!" exclaimed Mrs. Raynor. "The very man to whom we cannot apply."
"The very man to whom we will apply," corrected Edina. "If you will not do so, Mary, I will."
"Would you ask a favour ofhim?"
"Yes," said Edina emphatically. "Mr. Atkinson has not behaved well to you: let us put it in his power to make some slight reparation."
"Edina, I—I hope I am not uncharitable or unforgiving, but I do not feel that Icanask him," breathed poor Mrs. Raynor.
"But I don't want you to ask him, Mary; I will do that," returned Edina. "Perhaps I shall notlikedoing it more than you would; but the thought of poor little Robert will give me courage."
"Those governors have only a presentation once in three years, I fancy," observed Charles. "George Atkinson may have given away his next turn."
"We can only ascertain, Charley. And now—I wonder how we are to find his address? I hope he is in England!"
"He is at Eagles' Nest, Edina."
"At Eagles' Nest!" repeated Edina.
"He took possession of it six months ago, and gave Fairfax, who was in it, a house close by. And I know he is there still, for only a day or two ago I saw Preen address a letter to him."
"Well, I am glad to hear it, for now I shall go to him instead of writing," concluded Edina. "In these cases a personal application is generally of more use than a written one. And, Mary, you will, at any rate, wish me God speed."
"With my whole heart," replied Mrs. Raynor.
Once mere Edina Raynor stood before the gates of Eagles' Nest. As she walked from the station, the great alteration in the place struck her. Not in Eagles' Nest itself: that looked the same as ever: but in its surroundings. The land was well-cared for and flourishing; the cottages had been renovated into decent and healthy tenements; the row of ugly skeletons had been completed; all were filled with contented inhabitants; and the men and women that Edina saw about as she passed, looked respectable and happy. None could look on the estate of Eagles' Nest as it was now, and not see how good and wise was its ruler.
"Is Mr. Atkinson at home?" asked Edina, as a servant whom she did not know answered her ring.
"He is at home, ma'am, but I do not think you can see him," was the answer. "Mr. Atkinson is very unwell, and does not see visitors."
"I think he will perhaps see me," said Edina. And she took a leaf from her pocket-book, and wrote down her name, adding that she wished to see him very much.
The man showed her to a room. He came back immediately, and ushered her into his master's presence. As she entered, George Atkinson rose from a sofa on which he had been lying near the window, and went forward to meet her.
"Edina!"
The old familiar name from the once loved lips—nay, perhaps loved still: who knew?—in the old familiar voice, brought a tremor to her heart and a tear to her eye. Mr. Atkinson handed her to a chair and sat down in another. The window stood open to the delicious summer air, the morning sunshine—for Edina had come early, and it was not yet much past eleven—to the charming landscape that lay stretched around in the distance. But the impulse that had prompted the warm greeting seemed to die away again, and he addressed her more coldly and calmly.
"Your coming here this morning seems to me to be a very singular coincidence. You see that letter on the table, just ready for the post: have the kindness to read the address."
Edina did so. It bore her own name: and was addressed to the "Care of Charles Raynor, Messrs. Prestleigh and Preen's."
"I did not know your address. That it was somewhere in or near London, I did know, but not the exact locality. The letter contains only a request that you would kindly come down to me here."
"I!" exclaimed Edina.
"Yes. I wanted to see you. But I will ring for my housekeeper to show you to a room where you can take your bonnet off.
"I have not come to remain," replied Edina. "Half-an-hour will be more than enough to transact my business with you.
"But half-an-hour will not transact mine with you. Remain the day with me," he pleaded, "and enliven a poor invalid for a short time." And Edina made no further objection.
When she returned to the room, looking cool and fresh in her summer muslin, old though it might be, with her brown hair braided from her pleasant face, and the brown eyes sweet and earnest as of yore, George Atkinson thought how little, how very little she was altered. It is these placid faces that do not change. Neither had he changed very much. He looked ill, and wore a beard now; a silky brown beard; but his face and eyes and voice were the same. And somehow, now that she was in his presence, heard that musical voice, and met the steadfast, kindly look in the grey eyes, she almost forgot her resentment against him for his conduct to the Raynors.
"You are a governor of Christ's Hospital, I believe," she began, entering upon her business at once as she resumed her seat.
"I am."
"I came here to ask for your next presentation to it. Is it promised?"
"Not yet. It falls due next year."
"Then will you promise it to me?" continued Edina. "It is for the youngest child of Mrs. Raynor. Will you give it to him?"
"No."
"No!" she repeated, tone and spirit falling with the disappointment. "But why not?"
"I have a boy in my eye who is badly in want of it: more than Mrs. Raynor's son will be."
"It is almost impossible that any boy can want it more than poor Robert does."
"In that matter our opinions differ, Miss Raynor."
"And it would be making some trifling reparation to the family."
"Reparation for what?"
"For—what you did," answered Edina, hesitating for a moment and then speaking up bravely. "For turning them out of Eagles' Nest."
"What would you have done in my place?" questioned Mr. Atkinson good-humouredly. "Have left them in quiet possession of Eagles' Nest?"
"I—don't—know—whether I should, or not," hesitated Edina, for the question puzzled her. "Of course Eagles' Nest was legally yours, and I cannot say you were wrong to take it. But I think you might in some way have softened the blow.Icould not have turned a family from their home and not inquired how they were to live in the future."
"I am aware you could not: for, unless I am mistaken, it was you who provided them with another. The Raynors wanted a lesson read to them, and it was well they should have it. What did I find when I came home; what did I hear? Was there a single good act done by any one of them whilst they were at Eagles' Nest? How did they use the property they came into: well?—or disgracefully? Yes, I repeat it, disgracefully. Things were going to rack and ruin. The poor tenants were ground down to the dust, the uttermost farthing of rent was exacted from them, whilst they were uncared for; body and soul alike abandoned, to get through life as they could, or to perish. And all for what?—to add to the pride, the folly and the prodigality of the Raynors. Could you approve of all this, Edina, or find excuse for it?"
She shook her head in the negative. He seemed to have called her Edina again unconsciously.
"It was self with them all; nothing but self, from Major Raynor downwards," he continued. "Show, extravagance, and vanity! Not a sound moral, or prudent, or worthy aim was inculcated on the children, not a penny given away in charity. Charles Raynor, the supposed heir, was an apt pupil in all this. He even had writs out against him, though he was under age."
Edina could not gainsay a word. It was all too true. "You had this reported to you on your return, I presume, Mr. Atkinson?"
"I had. But I did not take the report uncorroborated. I came down here, and saw for myself I was here for many weeks, watching."
Edina felt surprised. "How could that have been? The Raynors did not see you?"
"I came down unknown. No one knew me in the place, and I stayed on in my lodgings at Jetty the carpenter's and looked about me. The natives took me for an inquisitive man who was fond of poking himself into matters that did not concern him; a second Paul Pry. Mr. Charles Raynor, I heard, christened me the Tiger," added the speaker, with a smile.
Edina held her breath. What a singular revelation it was!
"I was in Australia when I heard that Mrs. Atkinson had left Eagles' Nest to me," he resumed. "The news reached me in a letter from herself, written only a day or two before her death; written chiefly to tell me where her will would be found—in the hands of my solicitors, Callard and Prestleigh. She also stated that a duplicate copy of the will was kept in this, her own house. But that, I think, must have been a mistake."
"Had one been here, it would have been found at the time of her death," remarked Edina.
"Just so. When this letter of hers arrived at Sydney," continued Mr. Atkinson, "I was travelling in the more remote and unfrequented parts of the country, and I did not receive it for some six months afterwards, on my return to Sydney. Rather an accumulation of letters awaited me at Sydney, as you may suppose; and I found, by those from my partner, Street, and his brother the lawyer, that the former will was alone known to exist, and that Major Raynor had entered into possession of Eagles' Nest. Now what did I at once resolve to do? Why, to leave him in possession of it; never to speak of this later will, but destroy it when I got back to England, and say nothing about it. The major had a right to Eagles' Nest; I had not any right at all to it: and the resolve did not cost me a moment's thought——"
"It is just as I should have expected you to act," put in Edina, her cheeks flushing.
"Don't give me more credit than I deserve, Miss Raynor. I cannot tell what I might have done had I been a poor man. Kept the estate, perhaps. But I was a rich one, and I did not want it. I sailed for England; and, on landing, went direct to London, to Street the banker's, arriving there at night. He chanced to be at home alone; his wife and children were at Brighton, and we had a few hours' quiet chat. The first thing I heard of, was the miserable state of affairs down here. Eagles' Nest was going to ruin, Street said, and the major and his son were probably going to ruin with it. 'I will go down incog. and see for myself,' I said to Street, 'and you need not tell any one of my return at present.' I did go down, as I have told you: went down the next day; and Street kept counsel as to my having returned to Europe, and when he wrote to me at Grassmere, addressed his letters to 'Mr. George.' There I stayed, looking about at my leisure."
"How was it my uncle Francis did not recognize you?"
"He never saw me. At first I kept out of his way lest he should do so; but I soon learnt that there was little chance of our meeting, as he never went beyond his own gates. Had he met me, I don't think he would have known me, my beard altered me so much; and I always pulled my broad-brimmed hat well on. No, I felt quite easy, and remained on until my purpose was answered."
He paused, as if recalling the scenes of that past time. Edina made no remark. Presently he resumed.
"What I saw here shocked me. I could not detect one redeeming point in the conduct of Major Raynor and his family, though I assure you I should have been glad to do so. To leave the estate in their hands would be little less than a sin, as I looked upon it, and a cruel wrong upon the poor people who lived on it. So I deliberated on my measures, and finally took them. Edwin Street announced my speedy return, and conveyed a letter from me (apparently written in Australia) to Callard and Prestleigh, informing them that they held the will, and ordering them to produce it, that it might be proved and acted upon. I was more than justified in what I did, as I thought then," emphatically concluded Mr. Atkinson, "and as I think now."
"Well—yes, I cannot say you were not," acquiesced Edina. "But it seemed to us so bitterly hard—never to inquire what became of the Raynors; never to offer them any help."
"Stay," said he. "I did inquire. I heard that Miss Edina Raynor had come forward from Trennach with her help, and had established Mrs. Raynor in a school in which she was likely to do well. I heard that Charles Raynor was about to be taken by the hand by an old friend of his father's, one Colonel Cockburn, who meant to put him forward in the world. In short, I left England again in the belief that the Raynors were, in a smaller way, as prosperous as they had been at Eagles' Nest."
"What misapprehensions exist!" exclaimed Edina. "That home was soon lost again through a fire, and Colonel Cockburn only saw Charles to tell him he could not help him. Their life for the last three years has been one long course of humiliation, poverty and privation."
"Ay! and you have voluntarily shared it with them," he answered, looking straight into her eyes. "Well, they needed the lesson. But I would have been a friend to Charles Raynor had he allowed me, and not shown himself so haughtily upstart; and to his cousin the doctor also. When Charles was in a mess at Eagles' Nest, in danger of being arrested for debt, I asked him to confide his trouble to me and let me help him. Not a bit of it. He flung my words back in my face with as much scorn as if I had been a dog. So I let him go his own way: though I privately settled the debt for him. Had he known who I was, and that I had power to eject him and his family from their heritage, I could have understood his behaviour: but that was impossible, and I think I never met with so bad an example of conduct shown to a stranger. Yes: Charles Raynor needed a lesson read to him, and he has had it."
"Indeed he has. They all have. Charles Raynor is as true and good a young man now as he was once thoughtless and self-sufficient. There will be no fear of his lapsing in this life."
"I saw him a year ago in Preen's office," remarked Mr. Atkinson, "and liked his tones. Preen gives me an excellent account of him and his sister."
"They deserve it," said Edina. "But oh, you do not know what a struggle it is for us all," she added, her voice almost broken by emotion, "or what a boon it would be to get Robert into the Bluecoat School. If you did, I think you would grant it me."
"No, I should not," persisted he, smiling. "The presentation falls due next year; and by that time little Raynor will not want it. He may be back here again at Eagles' Nest."
Edina gazed at him. "What do you mean?" she gasped.
"I have not had particularly strong health—as you know; but a couple of months ago I was so ill as to fear the worst. It caused me to wish to revise my will, and to consider certain of its provisions. I think I shall leave Eagles' Nest to you."
"I won't have it," cried Edina, bursting into tears. "I will not. How can you be so unjust, Mr. Atkinson? What right have I to Eagles' Nest?"
"Right! You have shared your home with the Raynors when it was a humble one—for the home is virtually yours, I am told: you can do the like, you know, when you become rich."
"I will not have Eagles' Nest," she cried. "It is of no use to think of such a thing, for I will not. I have told you the Raynors are worthy of it themselves."
He almost laughed at her alarm; at the frightened earnestness with which she spoke.
"Well, well, the bequest is not made," he said in a changed tone; and an idea flashed over Edina that he had only been joking with her. "Very thankful I am to say that health and strength appear to be returning to me; the doctors think I have taken a turn, and shall soon be quite well again; better than I have been for years. So, as my death seems improbable, I have thought of making over Eagles' Nest to Charles Raynor by deed of gift. That request for your presence here," glancing at the letter on the table, "was to ask you whether he was so changed in heart and conduct that it might safely be done."
"Oh yes, indeed he is," responded Edina, drying her happy tears. "I told you so before I knew of this, and I told you only the truth."
"I fully believe you. But I must have an interview with him. Let him come down here on Saturday and remain with me until Monday morning. If I find that he may be fully trusted for the future, in a short time he and his mother will be back at Eagles' Nest. London will be hereafter my chief home. They shall come and see me there when they please: and I shall doubtless be welcome to come here occasionally."
"And you do not intend to go wandering again?"
"Never again. I have had enough of it. It may be, that I should have enjoyed better health had I been contented to take more rest. I have purchased the lease of a house in London, to which I shall remove on quitting Eagles' Nest. I am also looking out for some snug little property in this neighbourhood—which I have learned to like—and, when I can find it, shall purchase that."
"How was it," asked Edina, "that you did not take possession of Eagles' Nest when the Raynors left it? We were told you would do so."
George Atkinson smiled. "I had seen enough of Eagles' Nest while staying at Jetty's. And perhaps I did not care to be recognized immediately by the community for that same prying individual."
"Have the lost bonds been found?"
"No. I feel more than ever convinced that they are in the ebony desk. Unless, indeed, your aunt left no money behind her; in which case there would of course be no bonds anywhere. I begin to think that whoever has the desk must have found and used the bonds."
"You have not heard of the desk?"
"No. The advertisements Street inserted in the newspapers brought forth no more result than the previous inquiries."
"Perhaps if a larger reward had been offered?" said Edina. "We thought the sum small."
"Ten guineas was the sum offered first; twenty afterwards. I suggested increasing it to fifty, or a hundred: but the cautious lawyers said no. Such a reward offered for a desk, would have betrayed that it contained something of value—if the possessor of the desk had not already found that out for himself. It was certainly singular that I should not have thought to ask whether the secret compartment of that desk had been searched when I first knew the bonds were being looked for; but I did not. It altogether escaped my memory."
A servant came in to lay the cloth for dinner: since his illness Mr. Atkinson had taken that meal at one o'clock. The tears rose to Edina's eyes as she sat down to the abundant table, and a choking sensation to her throat. George Atkinson noticed her emotion.
"What is it, Edina?"
"I was only wishing I could transport some of this to London," she answered, glancing at him through her wet eyelashes with a smile.
They sat at the open window again after dinner, talking of the past and the future, and Edina stayed to make tea for him—which came in early. As she put her hand into his, on saying farewell, he left a small case of money in it.
"Shall you be too proud to accept it for them?"
"I have not any pride," answered Edina with a grateful smile. "If I ever had any, the experience of the past three years has taken it out of me."
"I never intended to keep Eagles' Nest," he whispered. "I think you might have divined that, Edina. You knew me well once."
"And suppose Charles Raynor had continued to be unworthy?"
"Then Eagles' Nest would have passed away from him for ever. Its inheritor would have been Edina."