The windows of Spring Lawn stood open to the afternoon sun. It was a small, pretty white house, half cottage, half villa, situated about three miles from Bath. A latticed portico, over which crept the white clematis, led into a miniature hall: Major Raynor could just turn round in it. On either side was a small sitting-room, the dining-room on the left, the drawing-room on the right.
The scrambling midday dinner was over. Somehow all the meals seemed to be scrambling at the major's, from the utter want of order, and of proper attendance. Only two servants were kept, a cook and a nurse: andtheycould not always get their wages paid. When Edina was there, she strove to bring a little comfort out of the chaos: but that was only a chance event; a brief and rare occasion, occurring at long intervals in life. Some wine stood on the old table-cover, with a plate of biscuits. On one side of the table sat the major; a tall and very portly man, with a bald head and a white moustache, looking every day of his nine and-sixty years. He had been getting on for fifty when he married his young wife; who was not quite eight-and-thirty yet: a delicate, fragile-looking woman, with a small fair face and gentle voice, mild blue eyes, a pink colour, and thin light brown hair quietly braided back from it. Mrs. Raynor looked what she was: a gentle, yielding, amiable, helpless woman; one who could never be strong-minded in any emergency whatever, but somehow one to be loved at first sight.
She sat half turned from the table—as indeed did the major opposite, their faces towards the window—her feet on a footstool, and her hands busy with work, apparently a new frock she was making for one of her younger children. She wore a faded muslin gown, green its predominant colour; a score of pins, belonging to the work in process, in her waistband.
They were talking of the weather. The major was generally in a state of heat. That morning he had walked into Bath and back again, and got in late for dinner, puffing and steaming, for it was an up-hill walk. He liked to have a fly one way at least; but he had not always the money in his pocket to pay for it.
"Yes, it was like an oven in the sun, Mary," continued he, enlarging upon the weather. "I don't remember any one single year that the heat has come upon us so early."
"That's why I have a good deal of sewing to do just now," observed Mrs. Raynor. "We have had to take to our summer things before they were ready. Look at poor dear little Robert! The child must be melted in that stuff frock."
"What's the nurse about?—can't she make him one?" asked the major.
"Oh, Francis, she has so much to do. With all these children! She does some sewing; but she has not time for very much."
The major, sipping his wine just then, looked at the children, sitting on the grass-plot. Four of them, in whose ages there was evidently more than the usual difference between brothers and sisters. One looked an almost grown-up young lady. That was Alice. She wore a washed-out cotton dress and a frayed black silk apron. Alfred was the next, aged ten, in an old brown-holland blouse and tumbled hair. Kate, in another washed-out cotton and a pinafore, was eight: and Robert was just three, a chubby, fat child in a thick woollen plaid frock. They were stemming cowslips to make into balls, and were as happy as the day was long.
"I saw Mrs. Manners in Bath this morning," resumed the major. "She says she is coming to spend a long day here."
"I hope she won't come until Bobby's new frock is finished," said Mrs. Raynor, her fingers plying the needle more swiftly at the thought. "He looks so shabby in that old thing."
"As if it mattered! Who cares what children have on?"
"Oh, I forgot to tell you, Francis—the butcher asked to see me this morning: he came over for orders himself. He says he must have some money."
"Oh, does he?" returned the major, with careless unconcern. "I don't know when I shall have any for him, I'm sure. Did you tell him so?"
"I did not go to him: I sent Charley. I do hope he will not stop the supply of meat!"
"As if he would do that!" cried the major, throwing up his head with a beaming smile. "He knows I shall come into plenty of money sooner or later."
At this moment the children came rushing with one accord to the window, and stood—those who were tall enough—with their arms on the sill, Alice with the cowslips gathered up in her apron. Little Robert—often called Baby—who toddled up last, could only stretch his hands up to the edge of the sill.
"Mamma—papa," said Alice, a graceful girl, with the clearly-cut Raynor features and her mother's mild blue eyes, "we want to have a little party and a feast of strawberries and cream. It would be so delightful out here on the grass, with tables and chairs, and——"
"Strawberries are not in yet," interrupted the major. "Except those in the dearer shops."
"When they are in, we mean, papa. Shall we?"
"To be sure," said papa, as pleased with the idea as were the children. "Perhaps we could borrow a cow and make some syllabubs!"
Back ran the children to the grass again, to plan out the anticipated feast. Alice was seventeen; but in mind and manners she was still very much of a child. As they quitted the window, the room-door opened, and a tall, slender, well-dressed stripling entered. It was the eldest of them all, Charles Raynor. He also had the well-formed features of the Raynors, dark eyes and chestnut hair; altogether a very nice-looking young man.
"Why, Charley, I thought you were out!" cried his father.
"I have been lying down under the tree at the back, finishing my book," said Charley. "And now I am going into Bath to change it."
It was the greatest pity—at least most sensible people would have thought it so—to see a fine, capable young fellow wasting the best days of his existence. This, the dawning period of his manhood, was the time when he ought to have been at work, preparing himself to run his career in this working world. Instead of that, he was passing it in absolute idleness. Well for him that he had no vice in his nature: or the old proverb, about idle hands and Satan, might have been exemplified in him. All the reproach that could at present be cast on him was, that he was utterly useless, thoroughly idle: and perhaps he was not to blame for it, as nothing had been given him to do.
Charles Raynor was not brought up to any profession or business. Various callings had been talked of now and again in a desultory manner; but Major and Mrs. Raynor, in their easy-going negligence, had brought nothing to pass. As the heir to Eagles' Nest, they considered that he would not require to use his talents for his livelihood: Charles himself decidedly thought so. Gratuitous commissions in the army did not seem to be coming Major Raynor's way; he had not the means to purchase one: and, truth to tell, Charles's inclinations did not tend towards fighting. The same drawback, want of money, applied to other possibilities: and so Charles had been allowed to remain unprofitably at home, doing nothing; very much to his own satisfaction. If obliged to choose some profession for himself, he would have fixed on the Bar: but, first of all, he wanted to go to one of the universities. Everything was to be done, in every way, when Eagles' Nest dropped in:thatwould be the panacea for all present ills. Meanwhile, Major Raynor was content to let the time slip easily away, until that desirable consummation should arrive, and to allow his son to let it slip away easily too.
"Charley, I wish you'd bring me back a Madeira cake, if you are going into Bath."
"All right, mamma."
"And, Charley," added the major, "just call in at Steer's and get those seeds for the garden."
"Very well," said Charley. "Will they let me have the things without the money?"
"Oh yes. They'll put them down."
Charley gave a brush to his coat in the little hall, put on his hat, and started, book in hand. As he was passing the children, they plied him with questions: where he was going, and what to do.
"Oh, I'll go too!" cried Alfred, jumping to his feet. "Let me go with you, Charley!"
"I don't mind," said Charley. "You'll carry the book. How precious hot it is! Take care you don't get a sunstroke, Alice."
Alice hastily pulled her old straw hat over her forehead, and went on with her cowslips. "Charley, do you think you could bring me back a new crochet-needle?" she asked. "I'll give you the old one for a pattern."
"Hand it over," said Charley. "I shall have to bring back all Bath if I get many more orders. I say, youngster, you don't think, I hope, that you are going with me in that trim!"
Alfred looked down at his blouse, and at the rent in the hem of his trousers.
"What shall I put on, Charley? My Sunday clothes? I won't be a minute."
The boy ran into the house, and Charles strolled leisurely towards the little gate. He reached it just in time to meet some one who was entering. One moment's pause to gaze at each other, and then their hands were clasped.
"Frank!"
"Charley!"
"How surprised I am! Come in. You are about the last fellow I should have expected to see."
Frank laughed gaily. He enjoyed taking them by surprise in this way; enjoyed the gladness shining from their eyes at sight of him, the hearty welcome.
"I dare say I am. How are you all, Charley? There are the young ones, I see! Is that Alice? Shehasgrown!"
Alice came bounding towards him, dropping the yellow blossoms from her apron. They had not seen him since the previous Christmas twelvemonth, when he had spent a week at Spring Lawn. Little Robert did not know him, and stood back, shyly staring.
"And is this my dear little Bob?" cried Frank, catching him up and kissing him. "Does he remember brother Frank? And—why, there's mamma!—and papa! Come along."
The child still in his arms, he went on to meet Major and Mrs. Raynor, who were hastening with outstretched hands of greeting.
"This sight is better than gold!" cried the major. "How are you, my dear boy?"
"We thought we were never to see you again," put in Mrs. Raynor. "How good of you to come!"
"I have come to take just a peep at you all. It seems ages since I was here."
"Are you come for a month?"
"A month!" laughed Frank. "For two days."
"Oh! Nonsense!"
And so the bustle and the greetings continued. Major Raynor poured out a glass of wine, though Frank protested it was too hot for wine, especially after his walk from Bath. Mrs. Raynor went to see her cook about sending in something substantial with tea. Charles deferred his walk, and the young ones seduced Frank to the grass-plot to help with the cowslips.
And Frank never gave the slightest intimation that he had come from Trennach for any purpose, except that of seeing them. But at night, when bedtime came and Mrs. Raynor went upstairs, leaving the major, as usual, to finish his glass and pipe, Frank drew up his chair for a conference, Charley being present.
He then disclosed the real purport of his visit—namely, to ascertain from Major Raynor the amount of money coming to him under Mrs. Atkinson's will. Explaining at the same time why he wished to ascertain this: his intention to get into practice in London, and the ideas that had occurred to him as to the best means of accomplishing it. Just as he had explained the matter to Dr. Raynor at Trennach, the previous night.
"You see, Uncle Francis, it is time I was getting a start in life," he urged. "I am half-way between twenty and thirty. I don't care to remain an assistant-surgeon any longer."
"Of course you don't," said the major, gently puffing away. "Help yourself, Frank."
"Not any more, thank you, uncle. And so, as the first preliminary step, I want you to tell me, if you have no objection, what sum Aunt Ann has put me down for."
"Can't recollect at all, Frank."
"But—don't you think this idea of mine a good one?—getting some well-established man to take me in on the strength of this money?" asked Frank, eagerly. "I cannot see any other chance of setting up."
"It's a capital idea," said the major, taking a draught of whisky-and-water.
"Well, then, Uncle Francis, I hope you will not object to tell me what the amount is."
"My boy, I'd tell you at once, if I knew it. I don't recollect it the least in the world."
"Not recollect it!" exclaimed Frank.
"Not in the least."
It was a check for Frank. His good-natured face looked rather blank. Charley, who seemed interested, sat nursing his knee and listening.
"Could you not recollect if you tried, uncle?"
"I am trying," said the major. "My thoughts are back in the matter now. Let me see—what were the terms of the will? I know I had Eagles' Nest; and—yes—I think I am right—I was also named residuary legatee. Yes, I was. That much I do remember."
Frank's face broke into a smile. "It would be strange if you forgotthat, uncle. Try and remember some more."
"Let me see," repeated the major, passing his unoccupied hand over his bald head. "There were several legacies, I know; and I think—yes, I do think, Frank—your name stood first on the list. But, dash me if I can recollect for how much."
"Was it for pounds, hundreds, or thousands?" questioned Frank.
"That's what I can't tell. Hang it all my memory's not worth a rush now. When folks grow old, Frank, their memory fails them."
"I remember your words to me at the time, Uncle Francis: they were that I came in for a good slice."
"Did I? When?"
"When you came back from London, and were telling my aunt about the will. I was present: it was in this very room. 'You come in for a good slice, Frank,' you said, turning to me."
"Didn't I say how much?"
"No. And I did not like to ask you. Of course you knew how much it was?"
"Of course I did. I read the will."
"I wish you could remember."
"I wish I could, Frank. I ought to. I'll sleep upon it, and perhaps it will come to me in the morning."
"Where is the will?" asked Charles, speaking for the first time. "Don't you hold it, papa?"
Major Raynor took his long pipe from his mouth, and turned the stem towards an old-fashioned walnut bureau that stood by the side of the fireplace. The upper part of it was his own, and was always kept locked; the lower part consisted of three drawers, which were used indiscriminately by Mrs. Raynor and the children.
"It's there," said the major. "I put it there when I brought it home, and I've never looked at it since."
As if the thought suddenly came to him to look at it then, he put his pipe in the fender, took a bunch of keys from his pocket, and unlocked the bureau. It disclosed some pigeon-holes above, some small, shallow drawers beneath them, three on each side, and one deeper drawer in the middle. Selecting another key, he unlocked this last, pulled the drawer right out, and put it on the table. Two sealed parchments lay within it.
"Ay, this is it," said the major, selecting one of them. "See, here's the superscription: 'Will of Mistress Ann Atkinson.' And that is my own will," he added, nodding to the other. "See, Charley: you'll know where to find it in case of need. Not that any of you would be much the better for it, my lad, as things are at present. They will be different with us when Eagles' Nest falls in."
Frank had taken the packet from the major's hand, and was looking at the seal: a large red seal, with an imposing impression.
"I suppose you would not like to open this will, uncle? Would it be wrong to do so?"
The major shook his head, slowly but decisively. "I can't open it, Frank. Although I know its contents—at least, I knew them once—to open it would seem like a breach of confidence. Your aunt Ann sealed the will herself in my presence, after I had read it. 'Don't let it be opened until my death,' she said, as she handed it to me. And so, you see, I should not like to do it."
"Of course not," readily spoke Frank. "I could not wish you to do so. Perhaps, uncle, you will, as you say, recollect more when you have slept upon it."
"Ay, perhaps so. I have an idea, mind you, Frank, that it was a very good slice; a substantial sum."
"What should you call substantial?" asked Frank.
"Two or three thousand pounds."
"I do hope it was!" returned Frank, his face beaming. "I could move the world with that."
But the major did not return the smile. Sundry experiences of his own were obtruding themselves on his memory.
"We are all apt to think so, my boy. But no one knows, until they try it, how quickly a sum of ready-money melts. Whilst you are saying I'll do this with it, or I'll do that—hey, presto! it is gone. And you sit looking blankly at your empty hands, and wonder what you've spent it in."
Taking the drawer, with the two wills in it, he put it back in its place, locking it and the bureau safely as before. And then he went up to bed to "sleep upon it," and try and get back his recollection as to an item that one of those wills contained.
Morning came. One of the same hot and glorious days that the last few had been: and the window was thrown open to the sun. It shone on the breakfast-table. The children, in their somewhat dilapidated attire, but with fresh, fair, healthy faces and happy tempers, sat round it, eating piles of bread-and-butter, and eggs ad libitum. Mrs. Raynor, in the faded muslin gown that she had worn the day before, presided over a dish of broiled ham, whilst Alice poured out the coffee. It seemed natural to Mrs. Raynor that she should take the part, no matter at what, that gave her the least trouble: kind, loving, gentle, she always was, but very incapable.
The major was not present. The major liked to lie in bed rather late in a morning; which was not good for him. But for his indolent habits, he need not have been quite so stout as he was. Frank Raynor glanced at the bureau, opposite to him as he sat, and wondered whether his uncle had recollected more about the one desired item of the will within it during his sleep.
"Has Uncle Francis had a good night, aunt?" asked Frank, who was inwardly just as impatient as he could be for news, and perhaps thought he might gather some idea by the question.
"My dear, he always sleeps well," said Mrs. Raynor. "Toowell, I think. It is not good for a man of his age."
"How can a man sleep too well, mamma?" cried one of the children.
"Well, my darling, I judge by the snoring. Poor papa snores dreadfully in his sleep."
"Will he be long before he's down, do you suppose, Aunt Mary?"
"I hear him getting up, Frank. He is early this morning because you are here."
And, indeed, in a minute or two the major entered: his flowery silk dressing-gown—all the worse for wear, like the children's clothes—flowing around him, his hearty voice sending forth its greeting. For some little time the children kept up an incessant fire of questions; Frank could not get one in. But his turn came.
"Have you remembered that, Uncle Francis, now that you have slept upon it?"
The major looked across the table. Just for the moment he did not speak. Frank went on eagerly.
"Sometimes things that have dropped out of our memory come back to us in a dream. I have heard of instances. Did it chance so to you last night, uncle?"
"My dear boy, I dreamt that a great big shark with open jaws was running after me, and I could not get out of the water."
"Then—have you not recollected anything?"
"I fear not, Frank. I shall see as the day goes on."
But the day went on, and no recollection upon the point came back to Major Raynor. He "slept upon it" a second night, and still with the same result.
"I am very sorry, my boy," he said, grasping Frank's hand at parting, as they stood alone together on the grass-plot for a moment. "Goodness knows, I'd tell you if I could. Should the remembrance come to me later—and I dare say it will: I don't see why it should not—I'll write off at once to you at Trennach. Meanwhile, you may safely count on one thing—that the sum's a good one."
"You think so?" said Frank.
"I more than think so; I'm next door to sure of it. It's in the thousands. Yes, I feel certain of that."
"And so will I, then, uncle, in my own mind." It would have been strange had Frank, with his sanguine nature, not felt so, thus encouraged. "I can be laying out my plans accordingly."
"That you may safely do. And look here, Frank, my boy: even should it turn out that I'm mistaken—though I know I am not," continued the open-hearted major, "I can make it up to you. As residuary legatee—and I remember that much correctly now—I should be sure to come into many thousands of ready-money; and some of it shall be yours, if you want it.''
"How good you are, uncle!" cried Frank, his deep-blue eyes shining forth their gratitude.
"And I'll tell you something more, my boy. Though I hardly like to speak of it," added the major, dropping his voice, "and I've never mentioned it at home: for it would seem as though I were looking out for poor Ann's death, which I wouldn't do for the world. Neither would you, Frank."
"Certainly not, Uncle Francis. What is it?"
"Well, I had a letter the other day on some business of my own from Street the lawyer. He chanced to mention in it that he had been down to Eagles' Nest: and he added in a postscript that he was shocked to see the change in your aunt Ann. In fact, he intimated that a very short time must bring the end. So you perceive, Frank, my boy—though, as I say, it sounds wrong and mean to speak of it—you may go back quite at your ease; for all the money you require will speedily be yours."
And Frank Raynor went back accordingly, feeling as certain of the good fortune coming to him, as though it had been told down before his eyes in golden guineas.
The light of the hot and garish day had almost faded from the world, leaving on it the cool air, the grateful hues of twilight. Inexpressibly grateful was that twilight to Frank Raynor and the pretty girl by his side, as they paced unrestrainedly, arm-in-arm, the paths of that wilderness, the garden at The Mount. The period of half-breathed vows and tender hints had passed: each knew the other's love, and they spoke together confidentially of the future.
After the unpleasant truth—that Frank was not heir to Eagles' Nest—had so unexpectedly dawned on Mrs. St. Clare, she informed her daughter Margaret that the absurd intimacy with Mr. Raynor must be put aside. Margaret, feeling stunned for a minute or two, plucked up courage to ask why. Because, answered Mrs. St. Clare, it had turned out that he was not the heir to Eagles' Nest. And Margaret, whose courage increased with exercise, gently said that that was no good reason: she liked Mr. Raynor for himself, not for any prospects he might or might not possess, and that she could not give him up. A stormy interview ensued. At least it was stormy on the mother's part: Margaret was only quiet, and inwardly firm. And the upshot was, that Mrs. St. Clare, who hated contention, as most indolent women do, finally flew into a passion, and told Margaret that if she chose to marry Mr. Raynor she must do so; but that she, her mother, and The Mount, and the St. Clare family generally, would wash their hands of her for ever after.
When once Mrs. Clare said a thing, she held to it. Margaret knew that; and she knew that from henceforth there was no probability, one might almost write possibility, of inducing her mother to consent to her marriage with Frank Raynor. Margaret was mistress of her own actions in one sense of the word: when Colonel St. Clare died he left no restrictions on his daughters. All his money; it was not much; was bequeathed to his wife, and was at her own absolute disposal; but not a word was said in his will touching the free actions of his children. Mrs. St. Clare knew this; Daisy knew it; and that, in the argument, gave the one an advantage over the other.
But Mrs. St. Clare, in the dispute, committed a fatal error. When people are angry, they often say injudicious things. Had she said to Margaret, I forbid you to marry Mr. Raynor, Margaret would never have thought of disobeying the injunction: but when Mrs. St. Clare said, "If you choose to marry him, do so, but I shall wash my hands of you," it put the idea into Margaret's head. Mrs. St. Clare had used the words because they came uppermost in her anger, never supposing that any advantage could be taken of them. To her daughter they wore a different aspect. Right or wrong—though of course it was wrong, not right—she looked upon it as a half-tacit permission: and from that moment the idea of marrying Frank with no one's approval but her own, took possession of her. To lose him seemed terrible in Margaret's eyes; she would almost as soon have lost life itself: and instinct whispered a warning that in a short time Mrs. St. Clare would contrive to separate them, and they might never meet again.
It was of this terrible prospect of separation, or rather of avoiding the prospect, that Mr. Raynor and Margaret were conversing in the twilight of the summer's evening. For once they had met and could linger together without restraint. Mrs. St. Clare and Lydia had gone to a dinner-party ten miles away: Margaret had not been invited; the card said Mrs. and Miss St. Clare; and so they could not take her. Mrs. St. Clare, divining perhaps that her absence might be thus made use of, had proposed to Lydia that Margaret should be the one to go; but Lydia, selfish as usual, preferred to go herself. Mr. Raynor was no longer a visitor at The Mount. Mrs. St. Clare, after the rupture with Margaret, wrote a request to Dr. Raynor that for the future he would attend himself; but she gave no reason. So that the lovers had not had many meetings lately.
All the more enjoyable was the one this evening. Frank had gone over on speculation. Happening to hear Dr. Raynor say that Miss St. Clare was going out to dinner with her mother, he walked over on the chance of seeing Margaret. And there they were, absorbed in each other amidst the sighing trees and the scented flowers.
Frank, open-natured, single-minded, had told her every particular of his visit to Spring Lawn: what he had gone for, what the result had been, and that his uncle the major had assured him of the large sum he might confidently reckon upon inheriting under Mrs. Atkinson's will. To this hour Frank knew not the full truth of Mrs. St. Clare's altered manner; for Margaret, in her delicacy, did not give him a hint as to Eagles' Nest. "Mamma thinks that you—that you are not rich enough to marry," poor Margaret had said, stammering somewhat in the brief explanation. But, as he was now pointing out to Margaret with all his eloquence, the time could not be very far off when he should be quite rich enough.
"Shall you not consider it so, Daisy? When I have joined some noted man in London, to be paid well for my present services, with the certainty of being his partner at no distant date? We should have a charming house; I would take care of that; and every comfort within it. Not a carriage; not luxuries; I could not attempt that at first; but we could afford, in our happiness, to wait for them."
"Oh yes," murmured Daisy, thinking that it would be Paradise.
"If I fully explain all this to your mother——"
"It would be of no use; she would not listen," interrupted Daisy. "I—I have not told you all she said, Frank; I have not liked to tell you. One thing we may rest assured of—she will never, never give her consent."
"But she must give it, Daisy. Does she suppose we could give each other up? You and I are not children, to be played with; to be separated without rhyme or reason."
"In a short time—I do not know how short—mamma intends to shut up The Mount and take me and Lydia to Switzerland and Italy. It may beyearsbefore we come back again, Frank; years and years. I dare say I should never see you again."
"I'm sure you speak very calmly about it, Daisy! Almost as if you liked it!"
Looking down at her he met her reproachful eyes and the sudden tears the words had called up in them.
"My darling, what is to be done? You cannot go abroad with them: you must remain in England."
"As if that would be possible!" breathed Daisy. "I have no one to stay with; no relatives, or anything. And if I had, mamma would not leave me."
"I wish I could marry you off-hand!" cried thoughtless Frank, speaking more in the impulse of the moment than with any real meaning in what he said.
Daisy sighed: and put her cheek against his arm. And what with one word and another, they both began to think it might be. Love is blind, and love's arguments, though specious, are sadly delusive. In a few minutes they had grown to think that an immediate marriage, as private as might be, was the only way to save them from perdition. That is, to preserve them one to another: and that it would be the very best mode of proceeding under their untoward lot.
"The sooner it is done, the better, Daisy," cried Frank, going in for it now with all his characteristic eagerness. "I'd say to-morrow, if I had the license, but I must get that first. I hope and trust your mother will not be very angry!"
Daisy had not lifted her face. His arm was pressed all the closer. Frank filled up an interlude by taking a kiss from the sweet lips.
"Mamma said that if I did marry you, she should wash her hands of me," whispered Daisy.
"Said that! Did she! Why, then, Daisy, she must have seen herself that it was our best and only resource. I look upon it almost in the light of a permission."
"Do you think so?"
"Of course I do. And so do you, don't you? How good of her to say it!"
With the blushes that the subject called up lighting her face, they renewed their promenade amidst the trees, under the grey evening sky, talking earnestly. The matter itself settled, ways and means had to be discussed. Frank's arm was round her; her hand was again clasped in his.
"Our own church at Trennach will be safest, Daisy; safest, and best: and the one most readily got to. You can come down at an early hour: eight o'clock, say. No one will be much astir here at home, and I don't think you will meet any one en route. The road is lonely enough, you know, whether you take the highway or the Bare Plain."
Daisy did not answer. Her clear eyes had a far-off look in them, gazing at the grey sky.
"Fortune itself seems to aid us," went on Frank, briskly. "At almost any time but this we might not have been able to accomplish it so easily. Had I gone to Mr. Pine and said, I want you to marry me and say nothing about it, he might have demurred; thought it necessary to consult Dr. Raynor first, or invented some such scruple; but with Pine away and this new man here the matter is very simple. And so, Daisy, my best love, if you will be early at the church the day after to-morrow, I shall be there waiting for you."
"What do you call early?"
"Eight o'clock, I said. Better not make it later. We'll get married, and not a soul will be any the wiser."
"Of course I don't mean it to be a real wedding," said Daisy, blushing violently, "with a tour, and a breakfast, and all that, Frank. We can just go into the church, and go through the ceremony, and come out again at different doors; and I shall walk home here, and you will go back to Dr. Raynor's. Don't you see?"
"All right," said Frank.
"And if it were not," added Daisy, bursting into a sudden flood of tears, "that it seems to be the only way to prevent our separation, and that mamma must have had some idea we should take it when she said she would wash her hands of me, I wouldn't do such a dreadful thing for the world."
Frank Raynor set himself to soothe her, kissing the tears away. A few more minutes given to the details of the plan, an urgent charge on Daisy to keep her courage up, and to be at the church in time, and then they separated.
Daisy stood at the gate and watched him down the slight incline from The Mount, until he disappeared. She remained where she was, dwelling upon the momentous step she had decided to take; now shrinking from it instinctively, now telling herself that it was her sole chance of happiness in this world, and now blushing and trembling at the thought of being his wife, though only in name, ere the setting of the day-after-to-morrow's sun. When she at length turned with slow steps indoors, the lady's-maid, Tabitha, was in the drawing-room.
"Is it not rather late for you to be out, Miss Margaret? The damp is rising. I've been in here twice before to see if you wouldn't like a cup of tea."
"It is as dry as it can be—a warm, lovely evening," returned Margaret. "Tea? Oh, I don't mind whether I take any or not. Bring it, if you like, Tabitha."
With this semi-permission, the woman withdrew for the tea. Margaret looked after her and knitted her brow.
"She has been watching me and Frank—Ithink. I am sure old Tabitha's sly—and fond of interfering in other people's business. I hope she won't go and tell mamma he was here—or Lydia."
This woman, Tabitha Float, had only lived with them since they had come to The Mount: their former maid, at the last moment, declining to quit Bath. Mrs. St. Clare had made inquiries for one when she reached The Mount, and Tabitha Float presented herself. She had recently left a family in the neighbourhood, and was staying at Trennach with her relatives, making her home at the druggist's. Mrs. St. Clare engaged her, and here she was. She proved to be a very respectable and superior servant, but somewhat fond of gossip; and in the latter propensity was encouraged by Lydia. Amidst the ennui which pervaded the days of Miss St. Clare, and of which she unceasingly complained, even the tattle of an elderly serving-maid seemed an agreeable interlude.
Not a word said Frank Raynor of the project in hand. Serious, nay solemn, though the step he contemplated was, he was entering upon it in the lightest and most careless manner—relatively speaking—and with no more thought than he might have given to the contemplation of a journey.
He had remarked to Margaret—who, in point of prudence, was not, in this case, one whit better than himself—that fortune itself seemed to be aiding them. In so far as that circumstances were just now, through the absence of the Rector of Trennach, more favourable to the accomplishment of the ceremony than they could have been at another time, that was true. The Reverend Mr. Pine had at length found himself obliged to follow the advice of Dr. Raynor, and had gone away with his wife for three months' rest. A young clergyman named Backup was taking the duty for the time; he had only just arrived, and was a stranger to the place. With him, Frank could of course deal more readily in the affair than he would have been able to do with Mr. Pine.
Morning came. Not the morning of the wedding, but the one following the decisive interview between Frank and Margaret. In the afternoon, Frank made some plea at home for visiting a certain town, which we will here call Tello, in search of the ring and the marriage license. It happened that the Raynors had acquaintances there; and Edina unsuspiciously bade Frank call and see them. Frank went by rail, and was back again before dusk.
Taking his tea at home, and reporting to Edina that their friends at Tello were well and flourishing, Frank went out later to call at the Rectory. It was a gloomy sort of dwelling, the windows looking out upon the graves in the churchyard. Mr. Backup was seated at his early and frugal supper when Frank entered. He was a very shy and nervous young man; and he blushed at being caught eating, as he started up to receive Frank.
"Pray don't let me disturb you," said Frank, shaking hands, and then sitting down in his cordial way. "No, I won't take anything, thank you"—as the clergyman hospitably asked him to join him. "I haven't long had tea. I have come to ask you to do me a little service," continued Frank, plunging headlong into the communication he had to make.
"I'm sure I shall be very happy to—to—do anything," murmured Mr. Backup.
"There's a wedding to be celebrated at the church tomorrow morning. The parties wish it to be got over early—at eight o'clock. It won't be inconvenient to you, will it, to be ready for them at that hour?"
"No—I—not at all," stammered the young divine, relapsing into a state of inward tumult and misgiving. Not as to any doubt of the orthodoxy of the wedding itself, but as to whether he should be able to get over his part of it satisfactorily. He had never married but one couple in his life: and then he had made the happy pair kneel down at the wrong places, and contrived to let the bridegroom put the ring on the bride's right-hand finger.
"Not at all too early," repeated he, striving to appear at his ease, lest this ready-mannered, dashing young man should suspect his nervousness on the score of his sense of deficiency. "Is it two of the miners' people?"
"You will see to-morrow morning," replied Frank, laughing, and passing over the question with the most natural ease in the world. "At eight o'clock, then, please to be in the church. You will be sure not to keep them waiting?"
"I will be there before eight," said Mr. Backup, rising as Frank rose.
"Thank you. I suppose it is nothing new to you," lightly added Frank, as a passing remark. "You have married many a couple, I dare say."
"Well—not so many. In my late curacy, the Rector liked to take the marriages himself. I chiefly did the christenings: he was awkward at holding the babies."
"By the way, I have another request to make," said Frank, pausing at the front-door, which the clergyman had come to open for him. "It is that you would kindly not mention this beforehand."
"Not mention? I don't quite understand," replied the bewildered young divine. "Not mention what?"
"That there's going to be a wedding to-morrow. The parties would not like the church to be filled with gaping miners; they wish it to be got over quite privately."
"I will certainly not mention it," readily assented Mr. Backup. "For that matter, I don't suppose I shall see any one between now and then. About the clerk——"
"Oh, I will see him: I'll make that all right," responded Frank. "Good-evening."
He went skimming over the grave-mounds to the opposite side of the churchyard, with little reverence, it must be owned, for the dead who lay beneath: but when a man's thoughts are filled with weddings, he cannot be expected to be thinking about graves. Crossing a stile, he was then close to the clerk's dwelling: a low, one-storied cottage with a slanting roof, enjoying the same agreeable view as the Rectory. The clerk's wife, a round, rosy little woman, was milking her goat in the shed, her gown pinned up round her.
"Halloa, Mrs. Trim! you are doing that rather late, are you not?" cried Frank.
"Late! I should think it is late, Master Frank," answered Mrs. Trim, in wrath. She was familiar enough with him, from the fact of going to the doctor's house occasionally to help the servant. "I goes over to Pendon this afternoon to have a dish o' dea with a friend there, never thinking but what Trim would attend to poor Nanny. But no, not a bit of it. Draat all they men!—a set o' helpless vools. I don't know whaat work Trim's good for, save to dig tha graves."
"Where is Trim?"
"Indoors, sir, smoking of his pipe."
Frank stepped in without ceremony. Trim, who was sexton as well as clerk, sat at the kitchen-window, which looked towards the field at the back. He was a man of some fifty years: short and thin, with scanty locks of iron-grey hair, just as silent as his wife was loquacious, and respectful in his manner. Rising when Frank entered, he put his pipe down in the hearth, and touched his hair.
"Trim, I want to send you on an errand," said Frank, lowering his voice against any possible eavesdroppers, and speaking hurriedly; for he had patients still to see to-night, "Can you take a little journey for me to-morrow morning?"
"Sure I can, sir," replied Trim. "Anywhere you please."
"All right. I went to Tello this afternoon, and omitted to call at the post-office for some letters that may be waiting there. You must go off betimes, by the half-past seven o'clock train; get the letters—if there are any—and bring them to me at once. You'll be back again long before the sun has reached the meridian, if you make haste. There's a sovereign to pay your expenses. Keep the change."
"And in what name are the letters lying there, sir?" asked the clerk, a thoughtful man at all times, and saluting again as he took up the gold piece.
"Name? Oh, mine: Francis Raynor. You will be sure not to fail me?"
The clerk shook his head emphatically. He never failed any one.
"That's right. Be away from here at seven, and you'll be in ample time for the train, walking gently. Don't speak of this to your wife, Trim: or to any one else."
"As good set the church-bell clapping as tell her, sir," replied the clerk, confidentially. "You need not be afraid of me, Mr. Frank. I know what women's tongues are: they don't often get any encouragement from me."
And away went Frank Raynor, over the stile and the mounds again, calling back a good-evening to Mrs. Trim; who was just then putting up her goat for the night.
Scheming begets scheming. As Frank found. Open and straightforward though he was by nature and conduct, he had to scheme now. He wanted the marriage kept absolutely secret at present from every one: excepting of course from the clergyman who must of necessity take part in it. For this reason he was sending Clerk Trim out of the way, to inquire after some imaginary letters.
Another little circumstance happened in his favour. Eight o'clock was the breakfast-hour at Dr. Raynor's. It was clear that if Frank presented himself to time at the breakfast-table, he could then not be standing before the altar rails in the church. Of course he must absent himself from breakfast, and invent some excuse for doing so. But this was done for him. Upon quitting the clerk's and hastening to his patients, he found one of them so much worse that it would be essential to see him at the earliest possible hour in the morning. And this he said later to the doctor. When his place was found vacant at breakfast, it would be concluded by his uncle and Edina that he was detained by the exigencies of the sick man.
But, if Fortune was showing herself thus kind to him in some respects, Fate was preparing to be less so. Upon how apparently accidental and even absurd a trifle great events often turn. Or, rather, to what great events, affecting life and happiness, one insignificant incident will lead! The world needs not to be told this.