The evening was getting on at Mrs. Raynor's. Charles, who had been detained late at the office was sitting down to his frugal supper, which had been kept warm over the fire, and little Robert was in bed. They had been saying how late Edina was. Mrs. Raynor had a very bad headache.
"Let me place that cushion more comfortably for you mamma," said Charles.
"It will do very well as it is, my dear," she answered. "Get your supper: you must want it."
"Oh, not very much," said Charles, making a pretence of eating slowly, to conceal his hunger. "Alfred, do be quiet!—don't you know mamma is ill? Kate, sit down."
"There's Edina!" cried Alfred, clattering out to meet her in the passage.
She came in, looking pleased and gay, with sundry parcels in her hand. Kate and Alfred jumped round her.
"How have you sped, Edina?" asked Mrs. Raynor. "Has George Atkinson given Robert the presentation?"
"No; he will not give it him."
"I feared so. He must be altogether a hard-hearted man. May Heaven have mercy upon us!"
"It will, it will," said Edina. "I have always told you so."
She was undoing the papers. The young eyes regarding them were opened to their utmost width. Had a fairy been out with Edina? Buns, chocolate, a jar of marmalade, a beautiful pat of butter, and—what could be in that other parcel?
"Open it, Charley," said Edina.
He had left his supper to look on with the others, and did as he was told. Out tumbled a whole cargo of mutton chops. Ah, that was the best sight of all, dear as cakes and sweets are to the young! Mrs. Raynor could see nothing clearly for her glistening tears.
"I thought you could all eat a mutton chop for supper, Mary. I know you had scarcely any dinner."
"Are weallto have one?" demanded Alfred, believing Aladdin's lamp must really have been at work.
"Yes, all. Charley and mamma can have two if they like. Don't go on with your miserable supper, Charles."
"Robert," cried Kate, flying to the door, "Edina's come home, and she has brought up so many things, and a mutton chop apiece."
Why, there he was, the audacious little Bob, peeping in in his white nightgown!
"Awholemutton chop!" cried he, amazed at the magnitude of the question.
"Yes, a whole one, dear," said Edina turning to him. "And not only for to-night. Every day you shall have a whole mutton chop, or something as good."
"And puddings too!" stammered Kate, the idea of the fairy becoming a certainty.
"And puddings too," said Edina. "Ah, children, I bring you such news! Did I not always tell you that God would remember us in His own good time? Mary, are you listening? Very soon you will all be back again at Eagles' Nest."
Charles's heart beat wildly. He looked at Edina to see if she were joking, his eyes fearfully earnest.
"I am telling you the truth, dear ones: Eagles' Nest is to be yours again, and our struggles and privations are over. George Atkinson never meant to keep it from you. You are to go down to him on Saturday, Charley, and stay over Sunday."
"I'll never abuse him again," said Charley, smiling to hide a deeper emotion. "But—my best coat is so shabby, you know, Edina. I am ashamed of it at church."
"Perhaps you may get another between now and then," nodded Edina.
"What'sthis?" cried Kate, touching the last of the parcels.
"A bottle of wine for mamma. She will soon look so fit and rosy that we shan't know her, for we shall have nothing to do but nurse her up."
"My goodness!" cried Kate. "Wine! Mamma, here's some wine for you!"
But there was no answer. Poor Mrs. Raynor lay back in her chair unable to speak, the silent tears stealing down her worn cheeks.
Charles bent over and kissed her. Little Bob, in his nightgown, crouched down by her side at the fire; whilst Edina, throwing off her shawl and bonnet, began to prepare for supper.
Lying in her darkened chamber, sick almost unto death, was Mrs. Frank Raynor. A baby, a few days old, slept in a cot by the wall. No other child had been born to her, until now, since that season of peril at Eagles' Nest: and just as her life had all but paid the forfeit then, so it had again now. She was in danger still; she, herself, thought dying.
An attentive nurse moved noiselessly about the room. Edina stood near the bed, fanning the poor pale face resting on it. The window was wide open, behind the blind: for the invalid's constant cry throughout the morning had been, "Give me air!"
A light, quick step on the stairs, and Frank entered. He took the fan from Edina's tired hand, and she seized the opportunity to go down to the kitchen, to help Eve with the jelly ordered by Dr. Tymms; a skilful practitioner, who had been in constant attendance. Daisy opened her eyes to look at her husband, and the nurse quitted the room, leaving them together.
"You will soon be about again, my darling," said Frank, in his low, earnest, hopeful tones, that were worth more than gold in a sick chamber. "Tymms assures me you are better this morning."
"I don't want to get about," faintly responded Daisy.
"Not want to get about!" cried Frank, uncertain whether it would be best to treat the remark as a passing fancy arising from weakness, or to inquire farther into it—for everything said by his wife now bore this depressing tenor.
"And you ought to know that I cannot wish it," she resumed.
"But I do not know it, Daisy, my love. I do not know why you should speak so."
"I shall be glad to die."
Frank bent a little lower, putting down the fan. "Daisy, I honestly believe that you will recover; that the turning-point has come and gone. Tymms thinks so. Why, yesterday you could not have talked as you are talking now."
"I know I am dying. And it is so much the better for me."
He put his hand under the pillow, raising it slightly to bring her face nearer his, and spoke very tenderly and persuasively. He knew that she wasnotdying; that she was, in fact, improving.
"My darling, you are getting better; and will get better. But, were it as you think, Daisy, all the more reason would exist for telling me what you mean, and why you have so long been in this depressed state of mind. Let me know the cause, Daisy."
For a few minutes she did not reply. Frank thought that she was deliberating whether or not she should answer—and he was not mistaken. She closed her eyes again, and he took up the fan.
"I have thought, while lying here, that I should like to tell you before I die," spoke Daisy at last. "But you don't need to be told."
"I do. I do, indeed."
"It is because you no longer love me. Perhaps you never loved me at all. You care for some one else; not for me."
In very astonishment, Frank dropped the fan on the counterpane. "And who is—'some one else'?"
"Oh, you know."
"Daisy, this is a serious charge, and you must answer me. I do not know."
She turned her face towards him, without speaking. Frank waited; he was ransacking his brains.
"Surelyyou cannot mean Edina!"
A petulant, reproachful movement betrayed her anger. Edina! Who was an angel on earth, and so good to them all!—and older, besides. The tears began to drop slowly from her closed lashes, for she thought he must be trifling with her.
"You will be sorry for it when I am gone, Frank.Edina!"
"Who is it, Daisy?"
A flush stole into her white cheeks, and the name was whispered so faintly that Frank scarcely caught it.
"Rosaline Bell!" he repeated, gazing at her in doubt and surprise, for the thought crossed him that her senses might be wandering. "But, Daisy, suppose we speak of this to-morrow instead of now," he added as a measure of precaution. "You——"
"We will speak of it now, or never," she interrupted, as vehemently as any one can speak whose strength is at the lowest ebb. And the sudden anger Frank's words caused her—for she deemed he was acting altogether a deceitful part and dared not speak—nerved her to tell out her grievances more fully than she might otherwise have had courage to do. Frank listened to the accusation with apparent equanimity; to the long line of disloyal conduct he had been indulging in since the early days at Trennach down to the present hour. His simple attempt at refutation made no impression whatever: the belief was too long and firmly rooted in her mind to be quickly dispelled.
"I could have borne any trial better than this," concluded she, with laboured breathing: "all our misfortunes would have been as nothing to me in comparison. Don't say any more, please. Perhaps she will feel some remorse when she hears I am dead."
"We will let it drop now then, Daisy," assented Frank. "But I have had no more thought of Rosaline than of the man in the moon."
"Will you go away now, please, and send the nurse in?"
"What on earth is to be done?" thought Frank, doing as he was ordered. "With this wretched fancy hanging over her, she may never get well; never. Mental worry in these critical cases sometimes means death."
"How is she now?" asked Edina, meeting him on the stairs.
"Just the same."
"She seems so unhappy in mind, Frank," whispered Edina. "Do you know anything about it?"
"She is low and weak at present, you see," answered Frank, evasively. And he passed on.
Frank Raynor lapsed into a review of the past. Of the admiration he had undoubtedly given to Rosaline Bell at Trennach; of the solicitude he had evinced for her (or, rather, for her mother) since their stay in London. Of his constant visits to them: visits paid every three or four days at first; later, daily or twice a day—for poor Mrs. Bell was now near her end. Yes, he did see, looking at the years carefully and dispassionately, that Daisy (her suspicions having been, as she had now confessed, first aroused by the waiting-maid Tabitha) might have fancied she saw sufficient grounds for jealousy. She could not know that his friendship and solicitude for the Bells proceeded from a widely different cause. That clue would never, as he believed, be furnished to her so long as she should live.
"What a blessing it would be if some people were born dumb!" concluded Frank, thinking of Tabitha Float.
The slight symptoms of improvement continued; and at sunset Frank Raynor knew that his wife's condition would bear the carrying out of an idea he had formed. It was yet daylight outside, though the drawn curtains made the room dark, when Daisy was conscious of a sad, beautiful face bending over her, and an entreating voice whose gentle tones told of sadness.
"Don't shrink from me, Mrs. Frank Raynor," whispered Rosaline—for she it was. "I have come to strive to put straight what I hear has been so long crooked."
And the few words she spoke, spoke earnestly and solemnly, brought peace to the unhappy wife's heart. Daisy was too ill to feel much self-reproach then, but it was with some shame she learnt how mistaken she had been.
"Oh, believe me!" concluded Rosaline, "I have never had a wrong thought of Mr. Frank Raynor; nor he one of me. Had we been brother and sister, our intercourse with each other could not have been more open and simple."
"He—he liked you at Trennach, and you liked him," murmured poor Daisy, almost convinced, but repentant and tearful. "People talked about it."
"He liked me as an acquaintance, nothing more," sighed Rosaline, passing over all mention of her own early feelings. "He was fond of talking and laughing with me, and I would talk and laugh back again. I was light-hearted then. But never, I solemnly declare it, did a word of love pass between us. And, in the midst of it, there fell upon me and my mother the terrible grief of my father's unhappy death. I have never laughed since then."
"I have been thinking these past two years that he went to West Street only to see you," sobbed Daisy.
Rosaline shook her head. "He has come entirely for my mother. Without fee, for he will not take it, he has been unremittingly kind and attentive, and has soothed her pains on the way to death. God bless him for it! A few days, and I shall never see him again in this world. But I shall not forget what he has done for us; and God will not forget it either."
"Youare not going to die, are you?" cried poor puzzled Daisy.
"I am going out to New Zealand," replied Rosaline. "As soon as I have laid my dear mother in her last home—and Death's shadow is even now upon her—I bid farewell to England for ever. We have relations who are settled near Wellington, and they are waiting to receive me. Were Mr. Raynor a free man and had never possessed any other ties on earth, there could be no question, now or ever, of love between him and me."
Daisy's delicate hand went out to clasp the not less delicate one that rested near her on the bed, and her cheeks took quite a red tinge for her own folly and mistakes in the past. A wonderful liking, fancy, admiration, esteem—she hardly knew what to call it—was springing up in her heart for this sad and beautiful young woman, whom she had so miserably misjudged.
"Forgive me my foolish thoughts," she whispered, quite a painful entreaty in her eyes. "I wish I had known you before: I would have made a friend of you."
"Thank you, thank you!" warmly responded Rosaline. "That is all I came to say; but it is Heaven's truth. I, the unconscious cause of the trouble, am more sorry for it than you can be. Farewell, Mrs. Raynor: for now I must go back to my mother. I shall ever pray for your happiness and your husband's."
"Won't you kiss me?" asked Daisy with a sob. And Rosaline bent over her and kissed her.
"Are you convinced now, Daisy?" questioned Frank, coming into the room when he had seen Rosaline out of the house. "Are you happier?"
All the answer she made was to lie on his arm and cry silently, abjectly murmuring something that he could not hear.
"I thought it best to ask Rosaline to come, as you would not believe me. When I told her of the mischief that was supposed to have been afloat, she was more eager to come than I to send her."
"Forgive me, Frank! Please don't be harsh with me! I am so ashamed of myself; so sorry!"
"It is over now; don't think about it any more," kissing her very fervently.
"I will never be so stupid again," she sobbed. "And—Frank—I think I shall—perhaps—get well now."
Rosaline had said that Death's shadow lay upon her mother even while she was talking with Mrs. Raynor. In just twenty-four hours after that, Death himself came. When the day's sunlight was fading, to give place to the tranquil stars and to the cooler air of night, Mrs. Bell passed peacefully away to her heavenly home. She had been a great sufferer: she and her sufferings were alike at rest now.
It was some two hours later. The attendant women had gone downstairs, and Rosaline was sitting alone, her eyes dry but her heart overwhelmed with its anguish, when Blase Pellet came to make a call of inquiry. He had shown true anxiety for the poor sick woman, and had often brought her little costly dainties; such as choice fruit. And once—it was a positive fact—once when Rosaline was absent, Blase had sat down and read to her from the New Testament.
"Will you see her, Blase?" asked Rosaline, as he stood quiet and silent with the news. "She looks so peaceful."
Blase assented; and they went together into the death-chamber. Very peaceful. Yes: none could look more so.
"Poor old lady!" spoke Blase. "I'm sure I feel very sorry: almost as though it was my own mother. Was she sensible to the last?"
"Quite to the very last; and collected," replied Rosaline, suppressing a sob in her throat. "Mr. Frank Raynor called in the afternoon; and I know he saw that nothing more could be done for her, though he did not say so. She was very still after he left, lying with her eyes closed. When she opened them and saw me, she put up her hand for me to take it. 'I have been thinking about your father and that past trouble, dear,' she said. 'I am going to him: and what has never been cleared here will be made clear there.' They were nearly the last words she spoke."
"It's almost a pity but it had been cleared up for her here," said Blase. "It might have set her uncertainty at rest, don't you see. Sometimes I had three parts of a mind to tell her. She'd have thought a little less of Mr. Frank Raynor if I had told."
Rosaline, standing on one side the bed, cast a steady look on the young man, standing on the other. "Blase," she said, "I think the time has come for me to ask you what you mean. As you well know, it is not your first hint, by many, in regard to what you saw that fatal night at Trennach. I have wanted to set you right; but I was obliged to avoid the subject whilst my mother lived; for had the truth reached her she might have died of it."
"Died of it! Set me right!" repeated Blase, gazing back at Rosaline.
"By the words which you have allowed to escape you from time to time, I gather that you have believed my unfortunate father owed his death to Mr. Frank Raynor."
"So he did," said Blase.
"So he didnot, Blase. It was I who killed my father."
The assertion seemed to confound him. But for the emotion that Rosaline was struggling with, her impressive tones, and the dead woman lying there, across whom they spoke, Blase might have deemed she was essaying to deceive him, and accorded her no belief.
"Are you doubting my words, Blase?" she asked. "Listen. In going home from Granny Sandon's that night, I took the street way, and saw you standing outside the shop, preparing to shut it up. You nodded to me across the street, and I thought you meant to follow me as soon as you were at liberty. When I was out of your sight, I quickened my pace, and should have been at home before you could have caught me up, but for meeting Clerk Trim's wife. She kept me talking for I cannot tell how long, relating some sad tale about an accident that had happened to her sister at Pendon. I did not like to leave her in the middle of it; but I got away as soon as I could, though I dare say a quarter-of-an-hour had been lost. As I reached the middle of the Plain, I turned and saw some one following me at a distance, and I made no doubt it was you. At that same moment, Mr. Frank Raynor met me, and began telling me of a fight that had taken place between Molly Janes and her husband, and of the woman's injuries, which he had then been attending to. It did not occupy above a minute, but during that time, whilst I was standing, you were advancing. I feared you would catch me up; and I wished Mr. Frank a hurried good-night, and ran across to hide behind the mounds whilst you passed by. He did not understand the motive of my sudden movement, and followed me to ask what was the matter. I told him: I had seen you coming, and I did not want you to join me. When I thought you must have gone by, I stole out to look; and, as I could not see you, thought what good speed you had made, to be already out of sight. It never occurred to me to suppose you had come to the mounds, instead of passing on."
"But I had come to them," interrupted Blase eagerly. "My eyes are keener than most people's, and I knew you both; and I saw you dart across, and Raynor after you. So I followed."
"Well—in very heedlessness, I ran up to the mouth of the shaft, and pretended to be listening for Dan Sandon's ghost. Mr. Raynor seized hold of me; for I was too near the edge, and the least false step might have been fatal. Not a moment had we stood there; not a moment; when a shout, followed by a blow on Mr. Raynor's shoulder, startled us. It was my poor father. He was raising his stick for another blow, when I, in my terror, pushed between him and Mr. Raynor to part them. With all my strength—and a terrified woman possesses strength—I flung them apart, not knowing the mouth of the pit was so near.I flung my father into it, Blase."
"Good mercy!" ejaculated Blase.
"Mr. Frank Raynor leaped forward to save him, and nearly lost his own life in consequence; it was an even touch whether he followed my father, or whether he could balance himself backwards. I grasped his coat, and I believe—he believes—that that alone saved him."
"I saw the scuffle," gasped Blase. "I could have taken my oath that it was Raynor who pushed your father in."
"I am telling the truth in the presence of my dead mother and before Heaven," spoke Rosaline, lifting her hands in solemnity. "Do you doubt it, Blase Pellet?"
"No—no; I can't, I don't," confessed Blase. "Moonlight's deceptive. And the wind was rushing along like mad between my eyes and the shaft."
"I only meant to part them," wailed Rosaline. "And but that my poor father was unsteady in his gait that night, he need not have fallen. It is true I pushed him close to the brink, and there he tottered, in his unsteadiness, for the space of a second, and fell backwards: his lameness made him awkward at the best of times. A stronger man, sure of his feet, need not and would not have fallen in. But oh, Blase, that's no excuse for me! It does not lessen my guilt or my misery one iota. It was I who killed him: I, I!"
"Has Mr. Raynor known this all along?" asked Blase, whose faculties for the moment were somewhat confused.
Rosaline looked at him in surprise. "Known it?Why, he was an actor in it. Ah, Blase, you have been holding Mr. Raynor guilty in your suspicious heart; he knows you have; and he has been keeping the secret out of compassion for me, bearing your ill thoughts in patient silence. All these four years he has been dreading that you would bring the accusation against him publicly. It has been in your heart; I know it has; to accuse him of my father's murder."
"No, not really," said Blase, knitting his brows. "I should never have done it. I only wanted him to think I should."
"And, see you not what it would have involved? I honestly believe that Frank Raynor would never have cleared himself at my expense, whatever charge you might have brought, but he feared that I should speak and clear him. As I should have done. And that confession would have gone well-nigh to kill my poor mother. For my sake Mr. Raynor has borne all this; borne with you; and done what lay in his power to ward off exposure."
"He always favoured you," spoke Blase in crestfallen tones.
"Not for the sake ofthathas he done it," quickly returned Rosaline. "He takes his share of blame for that night's work; andwilltake it, although blame does not attach to him. Had he gone straight home as I bade him, and not followed me to the mounds, it would not have happened, he says; so he reproaches himself. And, so far, that is true. It was a dreadful thing for both of us, Blase."
"I wish it had been him instead of you," retorted Blase.
"It might have been better, far better, had I spoken at the time—or allowed Mr. Raynor to speak. To have told the whole truth—that I had done it, though not intentionally; and that my poor father was lying where he was—dead. But I did not; I was too frightened, too bewildered, too full of horror: in short, I believe I was out of my senses. And, as I did not confess at the time, I could not do so afterwards. Mr. Raynor would have given the alarm at the moment, but for me: later, when I in my remorse and distress would have confessed, he said it must not be. And I see that he was right."
Blase could only nod acquiescence to this: but his nod was a sullen one.
"You know that our old clergyman at Trennach, Mr. Pine, was in London last Easter and came here to see my mother," resumed Rosaline. "I privately asked him to let me have half-an-hour alone with him, and he said I might call on him at his lodgings. I went; and I told him what I have now told you, Blase; and at my request he got a lawyer there, who drew up this statement of mine in due form, and I swore to its truth and signed it in their presence. A copy of this, sealed and attested, has been handed to Mr. Raynor; Mr. Pine keeps another copy. I do not suppose they will ever have to be used; but there the deeds are, in case of need. It was right that some guarantee of the truth should be given to secure Mr. Raynor, as I was intending to go to the other end of the world."
"It sounds altogether like a tale," cried Blase.
"A very hideous one."
"And as to your going to the end of the world, Rosaline, you know that you need not do it. I am well off, now my father's dead, and——"
She held up her hand warningly. "Blase,youknow that this is a forbidden subject. I shall never, never marry in this world: and, of all men in it, the two whom I would least marry are you and Mr. Raynor. He takes a share of that night's blame; you may take at least an equal share: for, had you not persisted in following me from Trennach, when you knew it would be distasteful to me, I should have had no need to seek refuge in the mounds, and the calamity could not have occurred. Never speak to me of marriage again, Blase."
"It's very hard lines," grumbled Blase.
"And are not my lines hard?—and have not Mr. Frank Raynor's been hard?" she asked with emotion. "But, oh, Blase," she softly added, "let us remember, to our consolation, that these 'hard lines' are only sent to us in mercy. Without them, and the discipline they bring, we might never seek to gain heaven."
Alice Raynor was sitting in a small parlour at Mrs. Preen's, dedicated to herself and the children's studies, busily employed in correcting exercises. The afternoon sun shone upon the room, and she had drawn the table into the shade. Her head and hands were given to their work, but her deeper thoughts were far away: for there existed not a minute in the day that the anxiety caused by her uncertain prospects was not more or less present to her mind. She knew nothing of the new hopes relative to Eagles' Nest. In truth, those hopes, both to Mrs. Raynor and Edina, seemed almost too wonderful to be real; and as yet they refrained from giving them to Alice.
The corrections did not take very long, and then Alice laid down the pen and sat thinking. She felt hot and weary, and wished it was nearer tea-time. The old days at Eagles' Nest came into her thoughts. They very often did so: and the contrast they presented to these later ones always made her sad.
A slight tap at the door, and a gentleman entered: William Stane. Alice blushed through her hot cheeks when she saw who it was, and brushed the tears from her eyes. But not before he had seen them.
"I beg your pardon, Miss Raynor. Mrs. Preen is out, I hear."
"Yes, she is out with the two little girls."
"I am sorry. I have brought up some admission tickets for the Botanical flower-show: they were only given me this morning. Do you think Mrs. Preen will be back soon?"
"Not in time to use the tickets. They have gone to an afternoon-tea at Richmond."
"What a pity! It is the rose show. I—suppose you could not go with me?" added Mr. Stane in some hesitation.
"Oh dear, no," replied Alice, glancing at him in astonishment. "Thank you very much."
"Mrs. Preen would not like it, you think?"
"I am sure she would not. You forget that I am only the governess."
Down sat Mr. Stane on the other side the table, and began fingering absently one of the exercise-books, looking occasionally at Alice while he did so.
"What were you crying about?" he suddenly asked.
Alice was taken aback. "I—I don't think I was quite crying."
"You were very near it. What was the matter?"
"I am very sorry to have to leave," she truthfully answered. "Mrs. Preen is about to stay for a time in Devonshire, as perhaps you know, and the little girls are to go to school. So I am no longer wanted here."
"I should consider that a subject for laughter instead of tears. You will be spared work."
"Ah, you don't know," cried Alice, her tone one of pain. "If I do not work here, I must elsewhere. And the next place I get may be harder than this."
"And you were crying at the anticipation?"
"No. I was crying at the thought of perhaps not being able speedily to find another situation. I—suppose," she timidly added, "you do not happen to know of any situation vacant, Mr. Stane?"
"Why, yes, I believe I do. And I think you will be just the right person to fill it."
Her blue eyes brightened, her whole face lighted up with eagerness.
"Oh, if you can only obtain it for me! I shall be so thankful, for mamma's sake."
"But it is not as a governess."
"Not as a governess! What then?"
"As a housekeeper."
"Oh dear!" cried Alice in dismay. "I don't know very much about housekeeping. People would not think me old enough."
"And as a wife."
She did not understand him. He was rising from his seat to approach her, a smile on his face. Alice sat looking at him with parted lips.
"Asmywife, Alice," he said, bending low. "Oh, my dear, surely our foolish estrangement may end! I have been wishing it for some time past. I am tired of chambers, and want to set up a home for myself. I want a wife in it. Alice, if you will be that wife, well: otherwise I shall probably remain as I am for ever."
Ah, there could be no longer any doubt: he was in earnest. His tender tones, his beseeching eyes, the warm clasp of his hands, told her all the happy truth—his love was her own still. She burst into tears of emotion, and William Stane kissed them away.
"You don't despise me because I have been a governess?" she sobbed.
"My darling, I only love you the better for it. And shall prize you more."
He sat down by her side and quietly told her all. That for a considerable period after their parting, he had steeled his heart against her, and done his best to drive her from it. He thought he had succeeded. He believed he should have succeeded but for meeting her again at Mrs. Preen's. That showed him that she was just as dear to him as ever. Still he strove against his love; but he continued his visits to the Preens, who were old friends of his and each time, that he chanced to see Alice, served to convince him more and more that he could not part with her. He was about to tell his father that he had made up his mind to marry Miss Raynor, when Sir Philip died, and then he did not speak to Alice quite immediately. All this he explained to her.
"And but for your coming into this house, Alice, and my opportunities of seeing you in it, we should in all human probability have remained estranged throughout life. So, you see that I would not have had you not become a governess for the world."
She smiled through her tears. "It was not in that light I spoke."
"I am aware of it. But you are more fitted to make a good wife now, after your experiences and your trials, than you would have been in the old prosperous days at Eagles' Nest. I shall be especially glad for one thing—that when you are mine I shall have a right to ease your mother's straits and difficulties. She has deemed me very hard-hearted, I dare say: but I have often and often thought of her, and wished I had a plea for calling on and helping her."
His intention showed a good heart. But William Stane and Alice were both ignorant of one great fact—that Mrs. Raynor no longer needed help. She would shortly be back again at Eagles' Nest, all her struggles with poverty over.
The hot sun still streamed into the little room, but Alice wondered what had become of its oppression, what of her own weariness. The day and all things with it, without and within, had changed to Elysium.
Frank Raynor attended the funeral of old Mrs. Bell. He chose to do so: and Rosaline felt the respect warmly, and thanked him for it. He would have been just as well pleased not to have Mr. Blase Pellet for his companion mourner: but it had to be. On his return home from the cemetery, Frank's way led him through West Street, and he called in just to see Rosaline, who had been too disturbed in health, too depressed in spirits, to attend herself. Not one minute had he been there when Mr. Blase Pellet also came in. On the third day from that, Rosaline was to sail for New Zealand.
"And I say that it is a very cruel thing of her to sail at all," struck in Blase, when Frank chanced to make some remark about the voyage. "As my wife, she would——"
"Blase, you know the bargain," quietly interrupted Rosaline, turning her sad eyes upon him. "Not a word of that kind must ever be spoken by you to me again. I will not hear it, or bear it."
"I'm not going to speak of it; it's of no use speaking," grumbled Blase. "But a fellow who feels his life is blighted can't be wholly silent. And you might have been so happy at Trennach! You liked the place once."
"Are you going back to Trennach?" asked Frank in some surprise.
"Yes," said Blase. "I only came to London to be near her; and I shan't care to stay in it, once she is gone. Float, the druggist, has been wanting me for some time. I am to be his partner; and the whole concern will be mine after he has done with it."
"I wish you success, Blase;" said Frank heartily. "You can make a better thing of the business than old Float makes, if you will."
"I mean to," answered Blase.
"I will take this opportunity of saying just a word to you, Blase," again spoke up Rosaline, smoothing down the crape of her gown with one hand, in what looked like nervousness. "I have informed Mr. Raynor of the conversation I had with you the night my mother died, and that you are aware of the confession he and Mr. Pine alike hold."
Frank turned quickly to Blase. "You perceive now that you have been lying under a mistake from the first, with regard to me."
"I do," said Blase. "I am never ashamed to confess myself in the wrong, once I am convinced of it. But I should never have brought it against you, Mr. Frank Raynor; never; and that, I fancy, is what you have been fearing. In future, the less said about that past night the better. Better for all of us to try and forget it."
Frank nodded an emphatic acquiescence, and took up his hat to depart. Yes, indeed, better forget it. He should have to allude to it once again, for he meant to tell the full truth to Edina; and then he would put it from his mind.
He went home, wondering whether any urgent calls had been made upon him during this morning's absence; and was standing behind the counter, questioning Sam, when a sunburnt little gentleman walked in. Frank gazed at him in amazement: for it was Mr. Max Brown.
"How are you, Raynor?" cried the traveller, grasping Frank's hand cordially.
"My goodness!" exclaimed Frank. "Have you dropped from the moon?"
"I dropped last from the Southampton train. Got into port last night."
"All well?"
"Verywell. And my good old mother is not dead yet."
There was no mistaking the stress upon the first word: no mistaking the perfectly contented air that distinguished Mr. Max Brown's whole demeanour. Whatever cause might have detained him so long from his home and country, it did not appear to be an unpleasant one.
"There was a young lady in the case," he acknowledged, entering on his explanation with a smile on his bronzed face. "Lota Elmaine; old Elmaine the planter's only daughter. The old man would not let us be married: Lota was too young, he said; the marriage should not take place until she was in Europe. Will you believe it, Raynor, old Elmaine has kept me on like that all the blessed time I have been away, perpetually saying he was coming over here, and never coming! Never a month passed but he gave out he should sail the next."
"And so you stayed also!"
"I stayed also. I would not leave Lota to be snapped up by some covetous rascal in my absence. Truth to tell, I could not part with her on my own score."
"And where is Miss Lota Elmaine?"
"No longer in existence. She is Mrs. Max Brown.
"Then you have brought her over with you!"
"Poor Elmaine died a few months ago; and Lota had a touch of the native fever, which left her thin and prostrate: so I persuaded her to marry me off-hand that I might bring her here for a change. She is better already. The voyage has done her no end of good."
"Where is she?"
"At a private hotel in Westminster. We have taken up our quarters there for the time being."
"Until you can come here," assumed Frank. "I suppose you want me to clear out as soon as possible. My wife is ill——"
"I want you to stay for good, if you will," interrupted Mr. Brown. "The business is excellent, you know, better than when I left it. If you will take to it I shall make it quite easy for you."
"What are you going to do yourself?" questioned Frank.
"Nothing at present," said Mr. Max Brown. "Lota's relatives on the mother's side live in Wales, and she wants to go amongst them for a time. Perhaps I shall set up in practice there. Lota's fortune is more than enough for us, but I should be miserable with nothing to do. Will you take to this concern, Raynor?"
"I think not," replied Frank, shaking his head. "My wife does not like the neighbourhood."
"Neither would my wife like it. Well, there's no hurry; it is a good offer, and you can consider it. And, look here, Raynor: if you would like a day or two's holiday now, take it: you have been hard at work long enough. I will come down and attend for you. I should like to see my old patients again: though some of them were queer kind of people."
"Thank you," said Frank mechanically.
Thought after thought was passing through his mind. No, he would not stay here. He had no further motive for seeking obscurity, thank Heaven, and Daisy should be removed to a more congenial atmosphere. But—what could he do for means? He must be only an assistant yet, he supposed; but better luck might come in course of time.
And better luck, though Frank knew it not, was on his way to him even then.
What with one thing and another, that day seemed destined to be somewhat of an eventful day to Frank Raynor. In the evening a letter was delivered to him from Mr. George Atkinson, requesting him to go down to Eagles' Nest on the morrow, as he wished particularly to see him.
"What can he want with me?—unless he is about to appoint me Surgeon-in-Ordinary to his high and mighty self!" quoth Frank, lightly. "But I should like to go. I should like to see the old place again.CanI go? Daisy is better. Max Brown has offered me a day or two's rest. Yes, I can. And drop Max a note now to say his patients will be waiting for him to-morrow morning."
"A parcel for you, sir."
"A parcel for me!" repeated Mr. Atkinson to his servant, some slight surprise in his tone. For he was not in the habit of receiving parcels, and wondered what was being sent to him.
The parcel was done up rather clumsily in brown paper, and appeared, by the label on it, to have come by fast train from Hereford. Mr. George Atkinson looked at the address with curiosity. It did not bear his name, but was simply directed to "The Resident of Eagles' Nest.
"Undo it, Thomas," said he.
Thomas took off the string and unfolded the brown paper. This disclosed a second envelope of white paper: and a sealed note, similarly superscribed, lying on it. Mr. Atkinson took the note in his hand: but Thomas was quick, and in a minute the long-lost ebony desk stood revealed to view, its key attached to it.
"Oh," said Mr. Atkinson. "What does the letter say?"
The letter proved to be from Mademoiselle Delrue, the former governess at Eagles' Nest. In a long and rather complicated explanation, written partly in French, partly in English, the following facts came to light.
When about to leave Eagles' Nest; things and servants being at that time at sixes-and-sevens there; the kitchen-maid, one Jane—or, as mademoiselle wrote it, Jeanne—a good-natured girl, had offered to assist her to pack up. She had shown Jeanne her books piled ready in the small study, and Jeanne had packed them together in several parcels: for mademoiselle's stock of books was extensive. After leaving Mrs. Raynor's, Mademoiselle Delrue had gone into a family who spent a large portion of their time in travelling on the Continent and elsewhere: much luggage could not be allowed to mademoiselle, consequently her parcels of books had remained unpacked from that time to this. She had now settled down with the family in Herefordshire, had her parcels forwarded to her, and unpacked them. To her consternation, her grief, her horror—mademoiselle dashed all three of the words—in one of these parcels she discovered not books, but the black desk, one that she well remembered as belonging to Major Raynor: that stupid Jeanne must have taken it to be hers, and committed the error of putting it up. Mademoiselle finished by asking whether she could be forgiven: if one slight element of consolation could peep out upon her, she observed, it was to find that the desk was empty. She had lost not an instant in sending it back to Eagles' Nest, and she begged the resident gentleman there (whose name, she had the pain of confessing, had quite escaped her memory) to be so kind as to forward it, together with this note of contrition and explanation, to Mrs. Raynor—whose present residence she was not acquainted with. And she had the honour to salute him with respectful cordiality.
"Don't go away, Thomas," said his master. "I want you to stay while I search the private compartment of this desk: I fancy those missing papers may be in it. Let me see? Yes, this is the way—and here's the spring."
With one touch, the false bottom was lifted out. Beneath, quietly lay the lost bonds; also a copy of Mrs. Atkinson's last will—the one made in favour of George Atkinson, and a few words written by her to himself.
"You see them, Thomas? See that I have found them here?"
"Indeed I do, sir."
"That's all, then. People are fond of saying that truth is stranger than fiction," said Mr. Atkinson to himself with a smile, as the man withdrew. He examined the bonds; ascertained, to his astonishment, that the money they related to had been invested in his name, and in one single profitable undertaking. And it appeared that Mrs. Atkinson had given directions that the yearly interest, arising, should remain and be added to the principal, until such time as he, George Atkinson, should come forward to claim the whole.
"Little wonder we could not find the money," thought he. "And now—what is to be done with it?" And taking only a few minutes for consideration, he addressed the letter spoken of in the foregoing chapter, to Frank Raynor. Which brought the latter down in person.
"I never heard of so romantic a thing!" cried Frank with his sweet smile and gay manner, that so won upon everybody; and was now winning upon George Atkinson, as he listened to the narrative on his arrival at Eagles' Nest. "I am sure I congratulate you very heartily. The hunts that poor Uncle Francis used to have over those very bonds! And to think that they were lying all the time close under his hand!"
"I expect that very little of the money would have been left for me had he found them," significantly remarked Mr. Atkinson.
Frank laughed. "To speak the truth, I don't think it would. Is it very much?"
"A little over twenty-one thousand pounds. That is what I make it at a rough calculation—of course including the interest to this date."
"What a heap of money!" exclaimed Frank. "You can set up a coach-and-six," added he, joking lightly.
"Ay. By the way, Mr. Francis Raynor, how cameyouto treat me so cavalierly when I was playing 'Tiger' here?—the name you and Charles were pleased to bestow——"
"Oh, Charley gave you that name," interrupted Frank, his blue eyes dancing with merriment. "He took you for a sheriff's officer about to capture him. I'm sure I never was so astonished in all my life as when Charley told me the other day that the Tiger had turned out to be, not a Tiger, but Mr. George Atkinson.
"I can understand his shunning me, under the misapprehension. But why, I ask, did you do it? You were not in fear, I presume, of a sheriff's officer?"
Frank's face grew grave at once. "No, I was not in fear of that," he said, dropping his voice, "but I had fears on another score. I had reason to fear that I was being watched—looked after—tracked; and I thought you were doing it. I am thankful to say," he added, his countenance brightening again, "that I was under a misapprehension altogether: but I only learnt that very lately. It has been a great trouble to me for years, keeping me down in the world—and yet I had done nothing myself to deserve it. I—I cannot explain further, and would be glad to drop the subject," he continued, raising his eyes ingenuously to George Atkinson's. "And I heartily beg your pardon for all the discourtesy I was guilty of. It is against my nature to show any—even to a Tiger."
"As I should fancy. It gave me a wrong impression of you. Made me think all you Raynors were alike—worthless. It's true, Frank. I was ready to be a good friend to you then, had you allowed me. And now tell me of your plans."
Frank, open-natured, full of candour, told freely all he knew about himself. That he did not intend to remain at Mr. Max Brown's, for Daisy disliked the neighbourhood, and he should look out for a more desirable situation at the West End as assistant-surgeon.
"Why not set up in practice for yourself at the West End?" asked George Atkinson.
"Because I have nothing to set up upon," answered Frank. "That has been a bar all along. We must live, you see, whilst the practice is coming in."
"You could do it on seven thousand pounds."
"Seven thousand pounds!" echoed Frank. "Why, yes on half of it; on a quarter. But I have no money at all, you understand."
"Yes, you have, Frank. You have just that sum. At least you will have it in the course of a few days!"
Frank's Frank's pleasant lips were parting with a smile. He thought it was meant as a joke.
"Look here. This money that has come to light, of your aunt Atkinson's—you cannot, I hope, imagine for a moment that I should keep it. By law it is mine, for she willed it to me; but I shall divide it into three portions, and give them to those who are her rightful heirs: her brothers' families. One portion to Mrs. Raynor; one to that angel of goodness, Edina——"
"And she is an angel," interrupted Frank hotly, carried away by the praise. "How we should all have got on without Edina, I don't know. But, Mr. Atkinson, you must not do this that you are talking of: at least as far as I am concerned. It would be too chivalrously generous."
"Why not to you?"
"I could not think of taking it. I have no claim upon you. Who am I, that you should benefit me?"
"I benefit you as your father's son. Were he living, this money would be his: it will now be yours. There, say no more, Frank; you cannot talk me out of doing bare justice. You will own seven thousand pounds next week, and you can lay your plans accordingly."
"I shall not know how to thank you," cried Frank, with a queer feeling in his throat. "Eagles' Nest first, and twenty-one thousand pounds next! You must have been taking a lesson from Edina. And what will Max Brown say when he hears that I shall leave him for certain? He does not believe it yet."
"Max Brown can go promenading."