"Be sure you stay until we return," had been the charge left to Edina Raynor by her uncle. But the major found himself detained longer than he had expected, and she went away from Spring Lawn without again seeing him or Charles.
During the short period of her absence from Trennach—nine days—her father had changed so much for the worse that she started when she saw him. As he came out of his house to welcome her, all Edina's pulses stood still for a moment, and then coursed on with a bound. In a gradual, wasting illness, not very apparent to those around, it is only on such an occasion as this that its progress can be judged of.
"Papa, you have been ill!"
"True, Edina, but I am mending a little now."
"Why did you not send for me?"
"Nay, my dear, there was not any necessity for that."
A substantial tea-table had been spread, and in a very few minutes Edina was presiding at it; her travelling things off, her soft brown hair smoothed, her countenance wearing its usual cheerful gravity. Not a gravity that repelled: one that insensibly attracted, for it spoke of its owner's truth, and faith, and earnestness, of her goodwill to all about her. Sitting there, dispensing cups of tea to the doctor and Frank, she was ready to hear the news of all that had transpired in the village during her absence.
Almost the first item that greeted her was the stir about Josiah Bell, of which she had previously heard nothing. It had not subsided in the least, but rather increased: the man so long missing was now supposed to be lying at the bottom of the deep shaft. But the supposition could only be traced back to a very insecure source indeed: nothing more than a dream of Mr. Blase Pellet's.
"A dream!" exclaimed Edina, in the midst of her wonder.
"So Pellet says," replied Dr. Raynor.
"But, papa, can there be any foundation for it? I mean for the fact, not the dream."
"The very question we all asked when the rumour arose, Edina. At first it could not be traced to any source at all; there was the report, but whence it came seemed a mystery. At last, by dint of close and patient investigation, chiefly on the part of Float the publican, it was traced to Blase Pellet, and he said he had dreamt it."
"Then, after all, it has no real foundation," cried Edina.
"None but that. I questioned Pellet myself, asking him how he came to spread such a report about. He replied that he did not spread the report that Bell was lying there, only that he dreamt he was there."
"I should have thought Blase Pellet a very unlikely man to have dreams, papa, and to relate them."
"So should I," assented the doctor, significantly. "So unlikely, that I cannot help suspecting he did not have this one."
Frank Raynor, who had risen and crossed to the window, as if attracted by something in the street, half turned at this remark, but immediately turned back again. Edina looked inquiringly at her father.
"I could not help fancying, as I listened to him, that Pellet was saying it with a purpose," observed the doctor. "His manner was peculiar. If I may so describe it—shuffling."
"I scarcely understand you, papa. You think he did not have the dream? That he only said he had it; and said it to answer some purpose of his own?"
"Just so, Edina."
"But what could be his purpose?"
"Ah, there I am at fault. We may discover that later. If he did say it with a purpose, I conclude it will not end here."
"Well, it sounds rather strange altogether," observed Edina. "Frank, do you mean to let your tea get quite cold?"
Frank Raynor returned to his place. He drank his tea, but declined to eat, and began to speak of Mrs. Atkinson's will.
"Did you hear any particulars about it, Edina?"
"No," replied Edina. "Excepting the one fact that she did not make a second will. There were doubts upon the point, you know."
"Uncle Francis never entertained any doubt about it, Edina; and he was the best judge, I think, of what his sister would or would not do. I am very glad, though, for his and Charley's sake."
"For all their sakes," added Edina.
"I rather wonder we have not heard from him," resumed Frank. "The funeral took place three or four days ago."
"You were not able to go to it, papa?" said Edina.
"No, child. Neither could Frank be spared. It would have taken three days, you see, to go and return comfortably."
Rising from the tea-table as soon as he could make a decent excuse for it, for he had no business calls on his time this evening, Frank set off on his usual walk to The Mount. On five evenings, since Edina left, had he so gone; but never with any success: not once had Daisy come out to him. She was being watched closer than ever.
"And I suppose I shall have my walk for nothing this evening also!" thought Frank, as he plucked a wild-rose from a fragrant roadside hedge. "This shall not go on long: but I should like to present myself to Mrs. St. Clare with an assured sum to start us in life. I wonder Uncle Francis does not write! He must know I am anxious—if he thinks about it at all. Up to his ears in his new interests, he forgets other people's."
Fortune favoured Frank this evening. As he approached the outer gate of The Mount, he saw Daisy standing at it, very much to his surprise.
"Mamma's lawyer has come over on business, and she is shut up with him," began Daisy, her eyes dancing with delight. "She told me to go up to Lydia, but Lydia is asleep, and I came out here."
"I have wanted to see you so much, Daisy," said Frank, as he gave her his arm, and they passed under the broad elm-trees. "My aunt, Mrs. Atkinson, is dead."
"We saw it in the papers," answered Daisy.
"It is from her that I expect money, you know. Every day, I look for a letter from my uncle Francis, telling me what sum it is that I inherit. And then I shall present myself to your mother. I have so longed to tell you this."
"I have longed to see you," returned Daisy, her pulses beating wildly with various and very mixed feelings, her face flushing and paling. "I—I—I want to ask you something, Frank."
"Ask away, my love," was his reply. But he noticed her emotion.
"Perhaps you will not answer me?"
"Indeed I will, Daisy. Why not?"
"It is about—Rosaline Bell." She could scarcely get the words out for agitation.
Frank was startled. It was quite evident that he was unprepared for any such topic. It seemed tofrightenhim. Else why that sudden change of countenance, that sudden dropping of Daisy's arm? Her heart fell.
"What of her?" asked Frank, quite sharply. For in truth he believed Daisy was about to question him, not of Rosaline herself, but of that mysterious rumour connected with her father and the Bottomless Shaft; and it grated terribly on all his nerves.
"I see it is true," gasped Daisy. "Oh! why did you marryme?"
"What is true?" returned Frank, unpleasantly agitated.
"That you—that you—were fond of Rosaline Bell. You loved her all along. Before you loved me!"
The charge was so very different from what he had been fearing, that Frank felt for the moment bewildered: bewildered in the midst of his inexpressible relief. He stood still, turned so that Daisy faced him, and gazed into her eyes.
"Whatis that you say, my dear? I really do not understand."
Daisy shook and shivered, but did not speak.
"That I love Rosaline Bell? I never loved her. What in the name of wonder put such an idea into your head?"
For answer Daisy burst into tears. "She—she was so beautiful!"
"Beautiful! Of course she is beautiful. And I admired her beauty, Daisy, if it comes to that, as much as other people did. But as to loving Rosaline Bell, that is a mistake. I never felt a spark of love for her. What a goose you must be, Daisy! And why on earth should you have taken up the fancy just now?"
Daisy sobbed too much to answer. She almost believed what he said, for no doubt lay in his earnest tone, and she suffered herself to be soothed. She would have quite believed it but for Frank's signs of discomfiture at the introduction of the girl's name. Frank held her to him as they walked under the trees, and kissed her tear-stained face from time to time.
"You need not doubt my love, Daisy. That at least is yours."
They parted more hopefully than usual, for Frank assured her it could not be above a day or two ere he claimed her openly; and Daisy felt that she might believe him in all respects; and she resolutely flung her jealousy to the winds.
"Fare you well, my darling. A short time now—we may count it by hours—and this tantalizing life will be over."
He went home by way of the Bare Plain. And by so doing—and it was not very often now that he chose that route—fell into an adventure he had not bargained for. Round and about the Bottomless Shaft had collected a crowd of men, who were making very much of a commotion.
It appeared that the rumours, touching Josiah Bell, had this night reached what might be called a climax. Miners had gone off from various quarters to the alleged scene of Mr. Blase's dream, and were plunging into the mystery con amore. As many as could press around the pit's mouth were holding on one to another for safety and bending dangerously over it: as if by that means they could solve the problem of who and what might be lying within its depths. Others stood at a distance, momentarily taking their pipes out of their mouths to make their free comments. Mrs. Bell, hearing of the stir, had tied a yellow silk square (once Josiah's Sunday-going handkerchief) over her cap, and come out to make one of the throng. It was a very light, hot night, daylight scarcely departed, and the western sky bright with a pale amber. The rugged faces of the miners and the red glow from their pipes, coupled with the commotion that stirred them, made up a strange scene.
"Are you here, Mrs. Bell?" cried Frank, as he discerned her on the outskirts of the crowd. "What is the matter?"
"There's nothing the matter," interposed Blase Pellet. And Frank turned on his heel to face the speaker in the moment's impulse, for he had not known that he was there. "What the plague all the town has come out for like this, I can't think. Let them mind their own business."
"But we consider that it is our business, don't you see, Blase," put in Andrew Float, in his civil way. "Our poor vanished soe is either lying there in aal they stones and ashes, or he is not; and we'd like to make sure which it be."
"Well, then, he isnotthere," returned Blase: and he disappeared amidst the throng.
"Has anything fresh arisen?" inquired a quiet voice at this juncture—that of Dr. Raynor—addressing both Frank and Mrs. Bell, who were standing side by side. The doctor, observing from his window a number of people, evidently in excitement, making for the Bare Plain, had come forth himself to learn what the movement meant.
"I can't find out that there's anything fresh, sir," was the dame's answer. "Amid such confusion one don't easily get to the bottom of things. Andrew Float says 'twas just a thought that took a few of 'em as they sat talking of Bell at the Golden Shaft—that they'd come off and have a look down the pit's mouth; and the news spread, and others collected and followed. But I hardly think anything so simple could have brought all these."
"They must have some reason for coming," remarked the doctor, gazing at the ever-increasing crowd.
"Blase Pellet has just said there is no reason," rejoined Frank. "I should advise you not to stand out here any longer," he added, to Mrs. Bell.
"Blase Pellet's no one to go by: he says one thing to-day, and another to-morrow," rejoined Dame Bell, as she turned on the path that led to her home; they turning with her.
"I think the dreams that he says he has, are certainly not very much to go by," observed Dr. Raynor, quietly.
"Oh, but that dream was a good deal," said Dame Bell. "And I've never had a good night's rest, sir, since I heard it, and that's more than a week ago. I can't sleep at night for thinking of it."
"I am sorry to hear you say so, Mrs. Bell: I thought you possessed better sense. Pellet must have been very foolish to tell you about it."
"It wasn't him that did tell me, Dr. Raynor. Leastways, not off-hand. It was Nancy Tomson. She came into my place one morning, when I was down on my knees whitening the hearth-flag; and I saw how scared her face looked. 'Guess what they be saying now,' says she: 'they've got a tale that your husband is lying in the Bottomless Shaft.' Well, sir, I stared at her, sitting back, as I knelt, with the stone in my hand: for you see I thought she meant he was lying there asleep; I really thought no worse. 'Go along with you, Nancy,' says I; 'as if Bell would lay himself down to sleep near that shaft!' 'Oh, it's not near it, but in it,' says she; 'and he's not sleeping, but dead.' Well, doctor, though I found every soul in the place saying the same thing, for four-and-twenty hours I could not get to learn why they said it. Andrew Float told me at last. He said it was through a dream of Blase Pellet's."
Dr. Raynor, listening attentively, made no comment.
"I had Pellet before me, sir, and he made a clean breast of it. He had not intended to let me know it, he said—and I don't think he had; but I did know it, and so it was no use holding out. It was a dreadful dream, he said. He had seen my poor husband lying at the bottom of that deep shaft, dead: seen him as plain as he had ever seen anything in all his life. When he woke up, his hair was standing on end with horror."
"Ah," said the doctor quietly, his tone one of utter disbelief, though Mrs. Bell did not detect it. "Did he intimate, pray, how long Bell had been lying there?"
"It was just what I asked him, sir, when I could get my breath again. A good three months, he was sure, he said. Which must have brought it back, sir, you see, to the time of his disappearance."
"Yes, I do see," observed the doctor, rather pointedly. "Well, I do not put any faith in dreams, Mrs. Bell, and I would advise you not to put any either. Good-night. Go in as soon as you can."
Dr. Raynor turned homewards, making a circuit to avoid the throng. Frank began whistling softly to himself, as a man sometimes does when absorbed in thought.
"What is your opinion of this, Frank?" asked the doctor, abruptly.
"I can form none, sir. Why they should collect——"
"Not that," interrupted the doctor. "One fool makes many. I spoke of Blase Pellet's alleged dream. I, myself, believe he had nothing of the kind: his manner, when I spoke with him about it, was not satisfactory: but what puzzles me is, his motive for saying that he had the dream. Some men are gifted with a propensity for astounding their fellow-creatures with marvellous tales. To create a sensation they'd say they have been hung, drawn, quartered, and brought to life again. But Pellet is not one of these; he is quiet, reticent and practical."
Frank made no reply. They were very close now to the Bottomless Shaft, and to the crowd surging around it.
"I could almost think that heknowsBell is there," resumed the doctor, lowering his voice. "If so, he must have been privy to the accident—if it was an accident—that sent poor Bell down. Perhaps took part in it——"
"Oh no, no!" incautiously spoke Frank. "It is not likely that he would take part in anything of the sort, Uncle Hugh," he added in quieter tones.
"If I don't quite think it, it is because there are one or two stumbling-blocks in the way," went on Dr. Raynor with composure. "Had Pellet been a witness to any accident—any false slip of Bell's, for instance; on the edge of the pit—he would have spoken of it at the time. Had he taken any part in it—inadvertently, of course, Pellet would not do so willingly—and hushed it up, he would not be likely to invent a dream now, and so draw attention again to what had nearly died away. Nevertheless, I am sure there is something or other in this new stir of Mr. Pellet's that does not appear on the surface."
Dr. Raynor quitted the subject, to the intense relief of his nephew; took off his hat in the warm night, and began to talk of the evening star, shining before them in all its brilliancy.
"A little while, Frank, a few more weeks, or months, or years, as may be, given to the fret and tear of this earthly life, and we shall, I suppose, know what these stars are; shall have entered on our heavenly life."
Major Raynor's anticipated letter reached Frank on the following morning. As he opened it, a bank-note for twenty pounds dropped out: which the generous-hearted major had sent as an earnest of his goodwill.
"My Dear Boy,
"I am sorry to have to tell you that the legacy left you by your aunt Ann is only five hundred pounds. I confess that I thought it would have turned out to be at least three thousand. Of course I shall make it up to you. We cannot yet put our hands upon the securities for the accumulated savings; but as soon as we do so, you shall have a cheque from me for three thousand pounds.
"I hope my brother is better, and Edina well. I wish she could be at Spring Lawn to help in the packing up, and all the rest of it. They come up to Eagles' Nest next week: and how they will get away without Edina to start them, I cannot imagine. My best affection to all.
"Ever your attached uncle,
"Francis Raynor."
"I wonder how it is," mused Frank, as he slowly folded the letter, "that in all our troubles and necessities, we instinctively turn to Edina?"
The Reverend Titus Backup, in charge just now of the spiritual welfare of Trennach, had read out the banns of marriage on three separate Sundays, between Aaron Pitt, bachelor, and Naomi Perkins, spinster. On the Monday morning following the last announcement, Aaron, who was a young miner, and Naomi, who was nothing at all, and not good for much, either, in the shape of usefulness, presented themselves at the church with their respective friends, for the purpose of being united in matrimony.
This was the second marriage ceremony that Mr. Backup had had to perform since his sojourn at Trennach. He got through it pretty much as he had got through the first: namely, with a good deal of inward doubt and hesitation, but successfully as to the result; inasmuch as he was able, at the conclusion, to pronounce the couple man and wife without having broken down.
Clerk Trim was present, flourishing in all the importance of his office. Mrs. Trim also. Being on intimate terms with the parties in private life, Mrs. Trim had smartened herself up, and stepped into the church to look on, making one with the rest at the altar-rails. After the ceremony, came the business in the vestry. Trim took out the register book, and was opening it to place it before Mr. Backup, when a fresh entry, caught his eye. The clerk knew every page of the register as well as he knew his own Sunday shoes: which were made after the fashion of pumps, adorned with big ties of black ribbon.
"Mercy 'pon us!" cried he in his astonishment. "Here's a new marriage wrote down!"
The exclamation caused the party to gather round him. Mr. Backup, remembering the circumstances of the marriage, and that he himself was in the well-kept secret, turned nervous at once.
"Why, it's—it's—it's Mr. Frank Raynor!" went on the clerk, staring at the page, and mastering its revelations slowly in his consternation. "And Miss—Miss—— Well, if ever I was so struck in my life! Did you marry them, sir?" holding out the book to the parson. "Is that your reverence's own signature?"
His reverence took the book, muttered something quite foreign to the subject, that no one in the world could hear distinctly, himself included, and proceeded to enter the present marriage. As it was upon the same page, the parties signing it after him had the satisfaction of gratifying their own curiosity; and read, plainly as ink could show it, the names of Francis Raynor and Margaret St. Clare.
Now, had Clerk Trim haply been alone when he made this discovery, he, being a reticent and prudent man, would probably have kept the news to himself. But unfortunately he was not alone. Six or eight people were present, besides the parson; and, half of them being females, the reader may be left to judge what chance there was of its being kept secret.
The first to spread it abroad was Mrs. Trim. The wedding company having dispersed—without any invitation to her to accompany them to the house of the bride's mother and partake of the feasting, of which she had cherished a slight hope—Mrs. Trim betook herself to Float the druggist's. She had no particular work on hand that morning, and thought she could not do better than consecrate it to gossip. Mrs. Float, who was so far an invalid as to be unable to do much for herself, having been crippled years ago by an attack of rheumatic-fever, was in her usual chair by the fireside in the small parlour behind the shop, and Blase Pellet was pouring out some hot milk for her. Let the weather be ever so warm, Mrs. Float would not go without her fire: and perhaps she needed it. She was a stout, easy sort of woman, who took the best and the worst sides of life equally calmly; even her husband's attachment to the Golden Shaft. Of Blase Pellet she was very fond: for he was always ready to render her little services, as he might have been to a mother. Blase Pellet had his good and his bad qualities—as most people have: it was chiefly on the subject of Rosaline Bell that he was crazed.
"I'll do that," said Mrs. Trim, taking the warming-can from him. "You are wanted in the shop, Mr. Pellet. A customer followed me in."
Putting the can within the fender, she gave the cup to Mrs. Float; and at the same time regaled her with an account of the discovery in the register. Mrs. Float, lifting the cup to her mouth with her crippled hands, listened and stared, and for once felt some surprise; whilst Blase Pellet, behind the counter, changing one volume for another, caught a word here and there.
"What's that you have been saying about Mr. Raynor?" he demanded, reappearing before Mrs. Trim, after despatching the customer. "I don't believe a word of it."
"Then you can disbelieve it," was the tart retort; for Mrs. Trim did not like cold water thrown upon her assertions. "Mr. Baackup himself maarried him; there's his reverence's own name writ to the wedding.
"Married him to Miss St. Clare?"
"To Miss Margaret St. Clare. That's the pretty one. Don't you go disputing a body's word again, Blase Pellet. Fact es fact. Did you suppose they'd write down a lie? They registers 'ud be pewerly ticklish consarns to sarve out in thaat form."
A summons at the other counter with some copper money, called Mr. Blase away again. This time he was wanted to make up a complicated prescription for hair-oil; comprising various choice ingredients. Whilst he was doing it, his thoughts ran in so deep a groove that he scented it with oil of turpentine instead of bergamot. And when the purchaser complained, Mr. Blase, after sniffing and looking, and finding out what he had done, being powerless to alter it, protested that it was a new scent just come down from London.
"What a fool I have been!" ran his reflections. "If it is Miss St. Clare that he has been in love with—and married her, too, in secret—it can't have been Rosaline Bell: and when Rosaline said, poor girl, that there was nothing between them, she must have told the truth. And there I've been and gone and stirred up all this blessed commotion about the old man!—and who is to know whether I shall be able to lay it?"
At any rate, Mr. Blase Pellet endeavoured to "lay" it. He went forth at once, and earnestly assured every one who would listen to him, that he found he had been mistaken in fancying he had had the dream.
It chanced that on this same Monday morning, Frank Raynor was about to depart for London. Whatever disorder might have fastened upon Dr. Raynor, one thing was certain—it fluctuated greatly. And though only a few days had elapsed since the return of Edina, he had so visibly improved, both in appearance and strength, that she thought he was getting well: and Frank felt less scruple in leaving him.
Frank, in his sanguine way, believed he had only to go to London to drop into some good thing; that the one and the other would be, as it were, a simultaneous process. On the spot one can do anything, he observed, when discussing the point with Dr. Raynor. Dr. Raynor did not oppose his going. Rather the contrary. If Frank went at all, now was the best time: for he knew that this spurt of health in himself, this renewed capacity of exertion, would not last long. During his stay in London, Frank was to look out for, and engage, an assistant for his uncle; a qualified medical man, who might become the partner of Dr. Raynor, and might eventually succeed to his practice. In short, it was just the same sort of thing that Frank was hoping to find for himself with some first-rate medical man in London.
On the previous day, when the congregation was pouring out of church, after Mr. Backup's sermon, Frank and Daisy had contrived to exchange a few words, under cover of the crowd. He told her that he was at length starting for town; and should only return to claim her. It might be in a week's time—if he were fortunate and found what he wanted at once; or it might be a fortnight. Longer than that it could not be; for his uncle had given that as the extreme limit of his absence. Daisy returned the brief pressure of his hand, which he managed to give unseen, and glanced at him with her bright eyes, that had a whole sea of hope in their depths. The world looked very fair to them; and they felt that they had need of patience to endure this enforced separation before they might enter on its enjoyment together.
On that same Sunday evening, Dr. Raynor spoke finally to Frank. They were sitting together, talking of this approaching sojourn in town: and of the great things it was to accomplish.
"Frank," said the doctor, rousing himself from a reverie, "has it ever occurred to you that in carrying out the idea of settling in London, you may be throwing away the substance for the shadow?"
Frank Raynor's gay blue eyes took a wondering expression as they went out to the speaker.
"In what way, Uncle Hugh?"
"It seems to me that the very thing you are about to seek there is lying ready to your hand here."
Frank understood now. "You mean that I should remain with you, Uncle Hugh?"
"Yes. As my partner now, Frank. As my successor hereafter."
Frank Raynor slightly shook his head, but made no other answer.
"I say to you, Frank, what I would say to no one else: that the time before some one must succeed to my place and practice is growing limited. It may be only a few weeks; it may be a few months: more than twelve months I do not think it can be. If——"
"Oh, Uncle Hugh!"
"Let me finish. I know I have your sympathy, my boy, and your best wishes, but all the sympathy and the good wishes in the world cannot alter the fiat which I fear has gone forth. Hear me, Frank. This has become a good practice now: it is a thousand pities that you should reject it and let it fall to a stranger."
"But, if I get a better practice than this in London, Uncle Hugh?" he argued. "I mean, a more lucrative one."
"But that is uncertain."
"Not very uncertain," said sanguine Frank.
"At any rate, you will have to pay for it. Pay in proportion to its merits."
"Of course. But I can do that. Uncle Francis is going to make up my legacy to three thousand pounds, you know."
"I know that he says so."
"But—you can't doubt his word!" cried Frank, his eyes lifted again in genuine amazement.
"Not his word, Frank: no, nor his intention: both are honest as the day. I only doubt his power."
"His power! What, with all that accumulated money just dropped into his hands!"
"But it has not yet dropped into them. It seems that a doubt exists as to where the money is, or even whether any exists at all."
"Oh, Uncle Hugh, it is sure to be found. I dare say it has already turned up."
"Well, I hope it has, Frank, and that you will reap all you expect. Let it pass so. Still, you must spend the money to ensure a practice; and the practice may not turn out as lucrative as you may be led to expect. The practice here is certain; you need not spend any money in securing it; and in a short time, a little sooner or a little later, it will be all in your hands."
"Uncle Hugh, you are very generous, very thoughtful for me; but indeed I could not settle at Trennach. There are reasons——"
Frank pulled up hastily. He was going on to say that for certain reasons this one small spot, in the whole length and breadth of the world's surface, was barred to him. Rather would he pass his life in some desert unfrequented by man, than within sight and sound of the Bare Plain.
"I do not like Trennach," he went on. "I could not remain here. For the last two or three months," he added, in his candour, "I have been as restless as possible, wanting to get away from it."
"You want to be amongst a more civilized community," said the doctor, good-naturedly.
"Well—yes, Uncle Hugh. I do—when one is setting up for life."
"Then there's nothing more to be said," concluded Dr. Raynor.
So Frank held to his plan and his journey, and this morning was starting in pursuance of it. Never again, as he hoped, should he be living at Trennach. Just a few days, as it was arranged, he would remain to introduce the new doctor—who would probably come down when he did—to people and places; and then he would bid it farewell for ever, carrying Daisy with him.
Taking leave of his uncle and Edina, he set out to walk to the station, his light overcoat thrown back, and greeting every one he met with a kindly word and a gay smile. The sky overhead was blue and calm, giving promise that the day would be fair to its end; just as Frank's hopeful heart seemed to assume that his life's journey would be fair throughout its course.
"Good-morning, Mr. Raynor."
The salutation came from the young parson. He stood leaning on the stile of the Rectory garden, which overlooked the high-road. Frank, answering cordially, was intending to pass onwards. But Mr. Backup motioned to retard him.
"I am off to London," said Frank, gaily. "Can I do anything for you?"
"I will not detain you a moment; I want to say just a word," spoke the clergyman, feeling already uncommonly shy and nervous at the thought of what that word was. "Mr. Raynor, I—I—I beg you to believe that I have implicitly kept secret that—that matter which you requested me to keep. But——"
"I know you have," cried Frank, extending his hand in token of gratitude, "and I thank you heartily. Not a soul knows of it."
"But—I was about to say that I fear it is a secret no longer. Another wedding took place in the church this morning, and the clerk read the entry of yours in it. Other people read it. They saw it in signing the book."
The information was about as complete a damper for Frank Raynor as could have been administered to him. He stood perfectly still, his lips settling into a grave expression. Not that Frank cared very much that the fact itself should transpire: he had thought lately that if it did so, it might be a stroke of good luck for him, by giving him Daisy, who was now kept from him. But what struck him was, that if this were true, it would stop his journey to London. Instead of going there, he must bend his steps to The Mount; for he could not leave Daisy to bear the brunt of the discovery alone.
"I knew Aaron Pitt was to be married this morning, but I declare that I never gave a thought to the register," spoke he aloud. "They saw it, you say. Did they make any comment?"
"A few comments were made. Clerk Trim was so much surprised that he asked whether it was really my signature, and whether I married you. It crossed my mind to say you did not wish it talked about just at present, and to beg them to keep it secret. But as so many people were there I thought it would be quite useless to do so."
"Quite useless," decided Frank. "Well, this has come upon me unexpectedly, and—and it will change my immediate plans. I must go on to The Mount now, instead of to the station."
"I am very sorry," began the clergyman, as nervously as though it were through some fault of his own. "There are not two registers, you see, Mr. Raynor, and——"
"Oh, don't be sorry," interrupted Frank, recovering his spirits and his lightness of heart and tone. "I'm not sure but it may turn out for the best. Upon my return from London, a few days hence, I was going to declare it myself."
Shaking hands warmly, Frank continued his way, striding over the ground at a great rate. Instead of branching off at the turning that led to the railway, he strode straight on towards The Mount.
"All for the best," he repeated to himself, referring to his parting words to the parson. "It may end in my taking Daisy up with me to-day. It shall end so, if my will is worth anything."
Boldly went he to The Mount, knocking and ringing freely. Far from feeling small for having, so to say, run away with the prettiest daughter of the house, for which act he might expect reproach and obloquy, he seemed to think he had come on some errand that merited reward. One of the men-servants threw open the door.
"Can I see Mrs. St. Clare?"
"Mrs. St. Clare is not at home, sir."
"Indeed!" returned Frank, in surprise. For it was not her habit to go out so early.
"My mistress and the young ladies have left home this morning, sir," explained the man. "They have gone for a week or so."
"Where to?"
"I don't know, sir. It was uncertain. Perhaps as far as Malvern: Miss Lydia likes Malvern: or perhaps only to one of the seaside places on this coast."
"You cannot tell me where a letter would find Mrs. St. Clare?"
"No, sir. My mistress said that all letters might wait here until she came back."
So there was no help for it: he could not make the communication to Mrs. St. Clare. But in all probability she would hear nothing of the news before her return. Daisy would be sure to write to him, and Edina had been requested to forward his letters to town.
"It must have been rather a sudden thought of Mrs. St. Clare's, this going from home: was it not?"
"Quite so, sir. It was Miss Lydia who started it, while the ladies were sitting in the drawing-room yesterday afternoon. Tabitha never heard a word about packing up, sir, till she was at her tea."
Frank looked at his watch. There might still be time to catch his train if he started at once for the station. He set out; and just accomplished it. But that he did so was owing to the fact that the train, as usual, came up considerably behind its time.
It is a great deal easier in this world to raise a storm than to allay one: and so Mr. Blase Pellet found to his cost. He had thoroughly aroused the public mind on the subject of the missing miner; and the public mind refused to be calmed again.
Day by day, since the discovery in the register, did the astounding news of Frank's private marriage make a deeper impression upon Blase Pellet. He saw things now with very different eyes from what he had formerly seen them. He told himself that Rosaline's version of her intimacy with Mr. Raynor—namely, that it bore no particular intimacy, and had nothing hidden beneath its surface—was the truth. The relief to himself was wonderfully great. All his love for her, that he had been angrily trying to repress, increased tenfold: and he began to see that the love might indeed go on to fruition. At least, that if it did not do so, the fault would lie in his own insensate folly. If he could only stop this commotion about Bell, so that the man might rest where he was, undiscovered, he should make his way with Rosaline. But the public seemed anything but inclined to let it stop there: and Blase Pellet gave many a hard word to the said public. Just at present Trennach appeared to have nothing to do but to go about suggesting disagreeable surmises.
One story led to a second; one supposition to another. From the first startling rumour, that Bell might be lying at the bottom of the shaft (as shown to Mr. Pellet in a remarkable dream), Trennach passed on to believing that he was there; and, next, to say that he must be searched for.
In vain Blase Pellet, mortified, agitated, and repentant, sought to prove that Bell was not there; that no foundation could exist for the notion; that he was now fully convinced his dream had not been a dream at all, but the baseless fabric of a fancy. Trennach did not listen to him. Excitement had gone too far for that. It was just possible, of course, that poor Bell might not be in the pit; but they thought he was there; and, at any rate, they meant to see for themselves. As simple-minded, well-meaning Andrew Float expressed it: "Dreams didna come for nought." Blase Pellet could have bitten out his false tongue. How easy the future would now have seemed but for this storm! Frank Raynor removed from his path by marriage, his own success with Rosaline could only be a question of time: but if this stir, which he had invoked, could not be stilled, and it went on to any discovery, Rosaline would probably make it an excuse for throwing him off for ever. That it would in any case grieve and anger her frightfully, and that she would detect the falsity of his "dream," he knew by instinct; and Blase felt tempted to wish he had been born dumb.
When we go out of our way to delude the world from interested motives, and do it, moreover, by a lie, the chances are that the step recoils unpleasantly upon us. In some way or other we are repaid in our own coin. It may not be immediately; it may not be for years to come; but rely upon it, it does come home to us sooner or later. We see the blind folly we were guilty of: not to speak of the sin: and we cry out in our flood-tide of repentance, Oh, that I had not quitted the straightforward path! As Blase Pellet was crying now.
The owner of the land, one of those mine-owners whose wealth is fabulous, became interested in the case. He came forward, and gave orders that the pit should be examined, to ascertain whether or not the missing man was there. The necessary machinery was soon brought into requisition—where wealth commands, difficulties are lightened—and the Bottomless Shaft was searched.
Yes. Josiah Bell was brought up to the surface. His attire was recognized as that which he had worn the day of his disappearance: and there remained no doubt that he had met his death that same night by falling down the pit.
Amidst startling commotion, an inquest was called. Of course the question now was, how he got down there: a question that puzzled his friends and the world in general. For it was a well-known fact that Bell gave way to superstitious fancies, and would not be likely to approach the shaft alone at night.
But no evidence came forward that could throw light on the mystery. Those who had seen him last in life—the pitmen with whom he had been drinking at the Golden Shaft, and his wife at home, who had been the last person, so far as was known, to exchange a word with him—told what they had to tell. Their testimony amounted to nothing. Neither, for that matter, did Mr. Blase Pellet's. Very much to his dismay, Mr. Pellet was summoned as a witness, and was sharply questioned by the coroner about his dream.
And Blase, in sheer helplessness and some terror, took up the dream again; the dream which he had been trying lately to repudiate. No other course than to take it up seemed open to him, now that matters had come to this pass and Bell had been actually found. If he disowned the dream, the next inquiry would be, How then did you come to know anything of the matter: what told you that the man was lying there? So, with clouded face and uneasy voice, Mr. Blase gave the history of his dream: and when asked by a juryman why he had gone about lately protesting that he was sure he had not had any dream, he replied that, seeing the public were growing so excited, he had deemed it better to disavow it, thinking it might calm them down again. The coroner, who seemed to be unfortunately sceptical as to dreams in general, eyed the witness keenly, and made him repeat the dream—at least what he remembered of it—three times over. Blase declared he had never been able to recollect much of it, except the fact that he had seen Bell lying at the foot of the pit, dead. And then he had awakened in a state of inconceivable fright.
"Had you any animosity against the deceased during his life?" questioned the coroner, still regarding the witness intently.
"Oh dear, no, sir," returned Blase. "We were always the best of friends. He was a sort of relation of mine. At least his wife is."
That no animosity had existed between them could be testified to by the community in general, as the coroner found. He was looking at Blase still.
"And you positively state, young man, that you had no grounds whatever, except this dream, for suspecting or knowing that the deceased was down the shaft?"
Blase coughed. "None."
"You do not know how he got down?"
"Good gracious I know! Not I, sir."
Blase had answered readily, and with much appearance of earnestness. The coroner was conscious that dim doubts of Mr. Blase Pellet's strict veracity were floating in his own mind, chiefly arising from his incredulity as to dreams; but the doubts were not sufficient to act upon, neither did he perceive that they could be in any way supported. So he released the witness. And the inquest came to an end, the jury returning an open verdict—
"That Josiah Bell met with his death through falling down the pit; but that what caused his fall there was no evidence to show."