"He never went near the pit of his own free will! He was lured to it and thrown into it. Or he was first killed, and then cruelly put there out of the way."
The speaker was Mrs. Bell: who had at last assumed the widow's dress and cap. Her audience consisted of her daughter Rosaline, the Aunt Pellet from Falmouth, Blase Pellet, and two or three neighbours. The aunt and Rosaline had arrived from Falmouth to attend the funeral. Rosaline, at first, had absolutely refused to come; she "felt afraid," she said, with much trembling and many bitter tears; she did not like to look upon the dead, even though it was her poor father: and she also felt too ill to travel. But John Pellet and his wife overruled these objections. They told her it was an "unnatural state of feeling;" one that might not be indulged: and the aunt, who was coming to Trennach herself, brought Rosaline with her, partly by persuasion, partly by force.
Her plea of illness might indeed have been allowed. Thin, white, worn, with a manner that seemed to be for ever starting at shadows, Rosaline looked little like the gay and blooming girl once known to Trennach. Trennach gazed at her with amazed eyes, wondering what Falmouth could have done to her in that short period, or whether the Seven Whistlers, which had so startled her at home, could have followed her to that populous town. Sitting in her mother's kitchen, her back to the light, her cheek resting on her hand, Rosaline listened in silence to the conversation, two of the company especially regarding her—Blase Pellet and Nancy Tomson. Nancy openly avowed that she had never seen any young woman so changed in her life; while Blase Pellet, though mentally acknowledging the change, was taking in draughts of her wondrous beauty.
"No living body of men have queerer fancies than miners, especially these Cornish miners: and poor Josiah, though he was not Cornish at all, as we know, had his," pursued Dame Bell, chiefly addressing her sister, a tall, thin woman, who had arrived fashionably attired in crape and bombazine, with a veil to her bonnet. Not that she wore her bonnet now, for this was the next morning, and the day of the funeral.
"Hardly a man about here would venture close up to that shaft at night: and if you go out and ask them one by one, Sarah, you'll find I am telling you nothing but truth," pursued the widow. "Since Dan Sandon threw himself headlong in, and was killed, the men won't go near it for fear of seeing him. Neither would Bell; and——"
"Perhaps he fell into it accidentally, Ann," interrupted Mrs. Pellet.
"I don't say but he might have done so. If he was at the edge of the pit, looking down, or anything of that sort, he might have overbalanced himself. But I do say that he was not there alone. I ask what took him there at all; and I ask who was with him?"
Pertinent questions. Rosaline, chancing to look up, met the gaze of Blase Pellet. Each started slightly, and dropped their eyes, as though to look at one another were a crime.
"Let us put it down as an accident; for argument's sake," urged the widow. "That he was too close to the pit's mouth, and fell in. It might have been so. But in that ease, I repeat, he was not alone. At least one man must have been with him—perhaps more than one. Why did he, or they, not give the alarm? Why did he not come straight away, and say, 'Poor Bell has fallen into the shaft, and what's to be done?' Can any of you answer me that question?"
"It stands to reason that that's what anybody would do," observed Mrs. Pellet. "But who could have been with him?"
"Not waun o' tha men owns to it," put in Nancy Tomson. "What should heve taaken 'em up to that there ghashly shaaft at night, they aal ask; or Bell either?"
"No, not one owns to it; and, as far as I can see, there was nothing to take them there," assented Mrs. Bell. "Therefore I say it was no accident. Bell was just carried there, living or dead, and put away out o' sight."
"What shall you do about it?" asked Mrs. Pellet, in a scared tone.
"What can I do but wait? Wait until some disclosure turns up."
"If it never does turn up."
"But it will turn up," confidently asserted Dame Bell.
"So say I," spoke Nancy Tomson. "When once a thing o' this kind es led up to by dreams, it won't stop at the beginning. They dreams es strange indexes sometimes, and Mr. Blase Pellet there didna heve his for nothing. Without that dream the poor man might just heve laid on in thaat shaaft as he faalled, and never been found i' this world."
Mr. Blase Pellet, listening to this, shot a glance of intense aggravation at the speaker. Rosaline looked up at him. It was a steady gaze this time, and one that betrayed unqualified contempt.
"Was it a very bad dream?" asked his relative from Falmouth, this being the first opportunity she had had of questioning Blase upon the subject.
"Bad enough," shortly replied Pellet; and, with the words, he made a sudden détour to the front-door, and took up his standing outside in the sunshine.
The movement led to a general dispersion. Nancy Tomson and the other neighbours departed; Mrs. Pellet went upstairs; Dame Bell passed into the back-kitchen to see about their own and her lodgers' dinner: for the ordinary day's work must go on even on the saddest occasions; and Rosaline remained in the room alone.
"I am very sorry I had that dream."
Lifting her eyes, Rosaline saw the speaker beside her—Blase Pellet.
"So am I," she shortly answered, in a significant way, that certainly gave him no encouragement to proceed.
"And still more sorry that I spoke of it abroad, Rosaline: for I see that it is giving you pain."
"Pain!" she ejaculated, a whole world of anguish in her tone: ay, and of resentment also.
"But it shall be the endeavour of my life to atone to you for it, Rosaline. My best care, my truest love, shall be devoted to you. Daily and hourly——"
"Be quiet, Blase," she interrupted, the flash in her eye, the hot flush upon her cheek, rendering her for the moment almost more than beautiful. "We will understand one another at once, and finally. To talk of such a thing as 'love,' or 'care,' to me is worse than useless. My path lies one way, your path lies another: it will not be my fault if they ever cross each other again."
"You do not mean this," he said, after a pause.
"I do mean it. I used to mean it: as you know. I shall mean it always."
"Have you heard that Raynor is married?" asked Blase.
"Yes," she answered in constrained tones, her flushed cheek fading to whiteness.
"Then, perhaps, as he is out of our way, you will think of me, Rosaline. If not now——"
"Neither now nor ever, Blase. Do not deceive yourself."
With a quick movement, she evaded his outstretched hand that would have sought to detain her, and ran up the stairs. Leaving Mr. Blase Pellet excessively discomfited: but not as much so as a less hopeful swain would have been.
"It was a little too soon to speak," reasoned he with himself: "I must wait a while."
Of all the scenes connected with Bell's disappearance and his recovery, none caused more excitement than that of the funeral. It was fixed for a late hour—six o'clock in the afternoon. This was to enable the pitmen to be present. The Reverend Titus Backup made no sort of objection to it. Had they settled it for midnight, he had been equally agreeable. The hour for the interment came, and people flocked to it from far and near. Not only did the local miners attend, but also gangs of men from more distant mines. Mr. Backup had never seen such a crowd in his life. Near the grave a small space was left for Mrs. Bell and the other mourners; but in the churchyard and adjacent parts; including a portion of the Bare Plain, the spectators thronged.
Rosaline was not there. Blase was. In right of his relationship to the Pellets of Falmouth, Blase had been invited to the funeral; and made one of the mourners, with a flow of crape to his hat. Whether Rosaline had meant to make one also did not clearly appear, though no one thought of doubting it; but just before the time of starting, she was seized with a fainting-fit: not quite losing consciousness, but lying back powerless in her chair, and looking white as death. Nancy Tomson, who was to be of the procession, was the first to recognize the dilemma it placed them in.
"Whaat es to be done?" she cried. "It willna never do to keephim, and the paarson, and they folks waiting; but she caan't walk like thic!"
"Him" applied to poor Bell. At least, to what remained of him. For the convenience of the inquest and other matters, he had been placed in a shelter bordering the Bare Plain, partly room, partly shed, when first brought up from the pit, and had not been removed from it. It was there that the mourners would meet the coffin and attend it to the church.
"True," put in Mrs. Trim; who had deemed it neighbourly to look in upon the widow Bell at this sorrowful hour and see what was to be seen. "They funerals don't waait for nobody: specially when they heve been put off aalmost to sunset."
"No; it will not do to keep it waiting," breathed Rosaline, with weak and trembling lips. "Do you go on; all of you. I will follow if I am able, and catch you up."
Nancy Tomson feebly offered to remain with her, seeing that good feeling demanded as much consideration, but she did not at all mean the offer to be accepted, for she would not have missed the ceremony for the world. It was not every day she had the chance of filling a conspicuous position at a funeral; and such a funeral as this. Rosaline promptly declined her company, saying she felt much better now, and preferred to come after them alone.
So the mourners departed, followed at a respectful distance by many neighbours and others, who had collected to watch and wait for their exit. The chief crowd had gathered about that other building, for which these were making their way. Men, women and children, all went tramping towards it across the Plain: and in a few minutes Bleak Row was as absolutely deserted as though it were a city of the dead.
Rosaline slowly rose from her seat, dragged her chair outside, and sat down in the evening sunshine. Thankful was she to be alone. No eye was on her. The houses were empty; the Bare Plain, stretching out around and beyond, lay silent and still, save for that moving mass of human beings, pressing farther and farther away in the distance. The open air seemed necessary to her if she would continue to breathe. When somewhat more composed, she put up her hands in the attitude of prayer, bent forward till her forehead touched them, and sat with her eyes closed.
A Prayer-book lay on her knee. She had brought it out, intending to follow the service, soon about to begin. But she could not do so. There she sat, never once moving her attitude, scattered passages of the service recurring now and again to her memory, and ascending to heaven from the depths of her anguished heart. Poor Rosaline Bell! There were moist eyes and wrung feelings amidst those mourners standing round the grave, but none of them could know anything of the desperate distress that washerportion. None, none.
But now, it was perhaps a somewhat singular coincidence that just as Frank Raynor had come unexpectedly upon that excited throng, collected round the Bottomless Shaft on the Bare Plain, a few nights before his departure for London, so he should in like manner come quite as unexpectedly upon this throng, gathered at Bell's funeral. The one had not surprised him more than the other did. He had been just a fortnight absent in London; this was the day of his return, and he was now walking home from the station. All the excitement consequent upon the finding of Bell had taken place during these two weeks of Frank's absence. There had been commotion (the result of Blase Pellet's "dream") before his departure, with much talking and surmising; but all movement in the matter had taken place since then.
In a letter written to him by Edina, Frank had learnt that Bell was found. But he learnt nothing more. And he certainly had not anticipated coming upon the funeral, and this concourse of people collected at it, as he passed the churchyard on his way from the station to his uncle's, on this, the evening of his return.
Before he knew what it all meant, or could quite make out whether his eyes were not playing him false, he found himself accosted by the clerk's wife. Mrs. Trim, seeing his surprise, told all she knew, intensely gratified by the favourable opportunity, and a good deal that she did not know. Frank listened in silence.
"Yes, sir, he was found there, down deep in the pit shaaft, and they jurymen never brought et in waun way nor t'other, whether he was throwed down wilful, or faaled in accidental, but just left folks to fight out the question for their own selves. It were a dreadful thing for him, anyway, poor man; to heve been lying there aal thic while.
"I never saw so many people at a funeral in my life," observed Frank, making no special comment on her words.
He mechanically moved a step and looked over the hedge that skirted the graveyard. Mrs. Trim continued her information and remarks: detailing the mourners by name, and stating that Rosaline was seized with a faintness when they were starting, and so remained at home alone.
"Alone!" cried Frank.
"Aal alone, entirely," repeated Mrs. Trim. "Every soul from aal parts es here, Mr. Frank; as you may see. She said perhaps she'd follow ef she felt equal to't; but she's not come. She and her aunt talks o' going back to Falmouth to-morrow; but the widow, poor thing, es against it. Thaat's the aunt, sir: that tall thin woman."
Frank Raynor rapidly debated a question with himself. He very much wished to say a few words to Rosaline in private: what if he seized this occasion for doing so? If she were indeed going away on the morrow, he might find no other opportunity. Yes: at any rate he would make the attempt.
Turning somewhat abruptly from the clerk's wife, in the very middle of a sentence, Frank made a détour on the outskirts of the crowd, and strode rapidly away over the Bare Plain. Rosaline was sitting just in the same position, her head bowed, her hands raised. His footsteps aroused her.
Respecting her grief as he had never respected any grief yet, feeling for her (and for many other things connected with the trouble) from the bottom of his heart, uncertain and fearful of what the ultimate end would be, Frank took her hand in silence. She gazed up at him yearningly, almost as though she did not at once recognize him, a pitiful expression on her face. For a short time he did not speak a word. But that which he had come to say must be said, and without delay: for already the ceremony had terminated, and the procession of mourners, with the attendant crowd, might be seen slowly advancing towards them across the Bare Plain.
"It has almost killed me," moaned Rosaline. "I should be thankful that he is found, but for the fear of what may follow: thankful that he has had Christian burial. But there can be no more safety now. There was not very much before."
"Nay," spoke Frank. "I think it is just the contrary. Whilst the affair lay in uncertainty, it might be stirred up at any moment: now it will be at rest."
"Never," she answered. "Never so long as Blase Pellet lives. He has brought this much about; and he may bring more. Oh, if we could only escape from him!"
Frank, still holding her hand, in his deep compassion, spoke to her quietly and kindly for a few moments. She seemed to listen as one who hears not, as one whom words cannot reach or soothe; her eyes were fixed on the ground, her other hand hung listless by her side. But now the first faint hum of the approaching crowd struck upon her half-dulled ear; she raised her eyes and saw for the first time what caused it. First in the line walked her mother and aunt, their black robes and hoods lighted up by the setting sun. And as if the sight of those mourning garments put the finishing touch to her already distracted mind and conveyed to it some sudden terror, Rosaline gave a faint scream and fell into a fit of hysterics, almost of convulsions. Frank could not leave her, even to dash indoors for water. He put his arm round her to support her.
"Whaat on airth es it, sir?" demanded Nancy Tomson, who was the first to speak when the group of hooded women came up.
"It is only an attack of hysterics, brought on by the sight of your approach," said Frank. "It is a sad day for her, you know; and she does not seem very strong. Will you be so good as to get some water."
"I thought it must be your ghost, Mr. Frank," spoke poor Mrs. Bell, in her subdued tones, as she put back her hood. "Believing you were in London——"
"I am back again," he shortly interrupted. "Seeing your daughter sitting here, I turned aside to speak a word of sympathy to her."
The hysterics subsided as quickly as they had come on; and Rosaline, declining the water, rose and passed into the house. The women pressed in after her, leaving Blase Pellet outside. As to the crowd of voluntary attendants, they had already slackened their steps in the distance, and seemed uncertain what next to do: whether to disperse their various roads, or to remain talking with one another, and watching the house.
This virtually left Frank and Blase Pellet alone. Blase took off his tall Sunday hat, and rubbed his brow with his white handkerchief, as though the heavy hat and the burning sun had left an unpleasant sensation of heat there. It was, however, neither the hat nor the sun that had put him into that access of warmth; it was the sight of Frank Raynor. Of Frank Raynor holding Rosaline's hand in his, holding herself, in fact, and bending over her with what looked like an impulse of affection.
A most disagreeable idea had flashed into Mr. Pellet's head. A dim, indistinct idea, it is true, but none the less entertained. Married man though Frank Raynor was, as the world of Trennach knew, he might not have given up his love for Rosaline! He might be intending to keep that sentiment on; keep her to himself, in short, to laugh and chatter with whenever they should meet, to the destruction of other people's hopes, including those of Blase Pellet. And Blase, in the plenitude of his wrath, could have struck him to the earth as he stood.
How mistaken people can be! How wildly absurd does jealousy make them! Nothing could be further from the thoughts of Frank Raynor: he was at honest peace with all the world, most certainly intending no harm to Rosaline, or to any one else. At peace even with that unit in it, Blase Pellet: and in the plenitude of his good-nature he addressed him cordially.
"You have made one of the followers of poor Bell, I see. The affair is altogether a sad one."
"Yes, it is," replied Blase Pellet. "We have been putting him into his grave; and matters, so far, are hushed up. But I don't say they are hushed for good. I could hang some people to-morrow, if I liked."
The intense bitterness of his tone, the steady gaze of his meaning eyes, proved that this man might yet become a subtle enemy. Frank's courage fell.
"What do you mean?" he asked. But for the very life of him he could not make his voice quite so free and independent as usual.
"It does not matter saying now what I mean, Mr. Raynor. Perhaps I never shall say it. I would rather not: and it won't be my fault if I do.You keep out of my way, and out of somebody else's way, and I dare say I shall be still, and forget it. Out of sight, out of mind, you know, sir."
Frank, deigning no reply, turned into the house to see if there was anything he could do for Rosaline. And then he walked away rapidly towards Trennach.
Mrs. St. Clare had not yet returned to the Mount, but she was expected daily. Frank had received three or four letters from Daisy, re-posted to him in London by Edina, but not one of the letters had he been able to answer in return. They were going about from place to place in obedience to Lydia's whims, Daisy said, and it was simply impossible to give any certain address where a letter would find her. Every day for a week past had her mother announced her intention of turning her steps homeward on the morrow: and every morrow, as it dawned, had her steps been turned to some fresh place instead.
But Frank was now in a fever of impatience for their return. The legacy of five hundred pounds was ready to be paid him, and he meant to take Daisy away on the strength of it. He had no settled plans as yet: these had been delayed by the uncertainty attending the larger sum promised him; the three thousand pounds. It is true that Frank had made inquiries in London; had seen two old-established medical men who were thinking of taking a partner. But each of them wanted a good sum paid down as equivalent; and neither of them seemed to be so sanguine on the score of Frank's coming into the three thousand pounds as he himself was. With his usual candour, he had disclosed the full particulars of the doubts, as well as of the expectations. So, with the future still undecided, here he was, at Trennach again: but only to make preparations for finally leaving it.
With regard to the assistant for Dr. Raynor, he had been more fortunate, and had secured the services of one whom he judged to be in every way eligible. It was a Mr. Hatman. This gentleman was coming down on the morrow. He and Frank were to have travelled together, but Mr. Hatman could not complete his arrangements quite as soon as he had expected: and Frank dared not delay even another day, lest Mrs. St. Clare should return to the Mount. He could not leave Daisy to bear alone the brunt of the discovery of their marriage. Mr. Hatman was to have a three-months' trial. At the end of that period, if he were found to suit the doctor, and the doctor and the place suited him, he would remain for good.
It was not often that Dr. Raynor found fault or gave blame. But on the night after Frank's return, when they were shut up alone together, he took Frank severely to task. Common report had carried the news of the marriage to him; and he expressed his opinion upon it very freely.
"It was perhaps a hasty thing to do, sir, and was entered upon without much thought," admitted Frank, after he had listened. "But we did not care to lose one another."
"Well, I will say no more," returned Dr. Raynor. "The thing cannot be undone now. There's an old saying, Frank, which is perhaps more often exemplified than people think for: 'Marry in haste and repent at leisure.' I wish this case of yours may prove an exception, but I can scarcely hope it."
"We shall get along all right, Uncle Hugh."
"I trust you may."
"I told Hatman about it—he is a very nice fellow, and you will be sure to like him, uncle—and he wished me and Daisy good luck. He says his mother's was a runaway match, and it turned out famously."
On the day but one following; that is, the day after Mr. Hatman's arrival at Trennach; Mrs. St. Clare and her daughters returned to the Mount: not reaching it, however, until late at night, for they had missed the earlier train they had meant to travel by.
Frank went up betimes the next morning. His interview with Mrs. St. Clare took place alone. She was surprised and indignant at what he had to disclose—namely, that the marriage ceremony had passed between himself and her daughter Margaret. But, on the whole, she was more reasonable than might have been expected.
"I wash my hands of it altogether, Mr. Frank Raynor, of her and of you, as I said I would—though you may be sure that when I spoke I never contemplated so extreme a step as this. But that I cannot disbelieve what, as you say, is so easily proved, I should have thought it impossible to be true. Daisy has always been docile and dutiful."
"I will make her the best of husbands; she shall never know an hour's care with me," spoke Frank earnestly, his truthful blue eyes and the sincerity of his face expressing more than words could do.
"But what of your means of keeping her?" asked Mrs. St. Clare, coldly.
"By the aid of the three thousand pounds I have mentioned, I shall obtain a first-class practice in London," returned he in his most sanguine manner. "I trust you will not despise that position for her. If I am very successful, I might even some day be made a baronet, and Daisy would be Lady Raynor.
"A charming prospect!" returned Mrs. St. Clare, in mocking tones, that rather took Frank and his earnestness aback. "Well, I wash my hands of you both, Mr. Francis Raynor. As Daisy has made her bed so must she lie on it."
Daisy was summoned to the conference. She came in with timid steps; and stood, tearful and trembling, in her pretty morning dress of pale muslin. It chanced to be the one she was married in. Frank Raynor drew her arm within his, and stood with her.
"You may well shrink from me, unhappy girl!" cried Mrs. St. Clare. "What have you done with your wedding-ring?"
With trembling hands, Daisy produced it, attached to its blue ribbon. Frank took it from her, broke the ribbon, and placed the ring on its proper finger.
"Never again to be taken off, my dear," he said. "Our troubles are over."
She was to be allowed to remain at the Mount until the afternoon—which Mrs. St. Clare called a great concession—and then she and Frank would start on the first stage of their journey. Daisy might take a box of apparel with her; the rest should be forwarded to any address she might choose to give.
Back went Frank again to Dr. Raynor's to prepare for his own departure. Very busy was he that day. Now talking with his uncle, now with Edina, now with Mr. Hatman; and now running about Trennach to shake hands with all the world in his sunny-natured way. A hundred good wishes were breathed by him. Even to Blase Pellet Frank gave a kindly word and nod at parting.
It was late in the afternoon when he, in a close carriage provided for the occasion, went up to the Mount for Daisy. She was ready, and came out, attended to the door by Tabitha: Mrs. St. Clare and Lydia did not appear. Thence she and Frank drove to the station: and found they had five minutes to spare.
Frank had been seeing to the luggage, when Daisy came out of the waiting-room to meet him. It was one of those small stations that contain only one waiting-room for all classes.
"There's the most beautiful girl that I ever saw sitting inside, Frank," she said in an undertone.
"Is there?" he carelessly remarked.
"I could not keep my eyes from her, she is so lovely. But she looks very ill."
They turned into the waiting-room together. And, to Daisy's extreme surprise, she, the next moment, saw Frank go up and speak to this girl; who was sitting there with an elderly companion, both in deep mourning. Daisy, her gaze fixed on the beautiful face, wondered who they could be.
But there was no further time for waiting. The train came puffing in, and all was bustle. Daisy saw Frank again shake hands cordially with this delicate-looking girl, and whisper a few farewell words to her. She was evidently not departing by this train: probably by one going in the opposite direction.
"Who was it, Frank?" questioned Daisy, when they were at length seated in the carriage.
"It is Rosaline Bell. She and her aunt are going back to Falmouth."
"ThatRosaline Bell!" exclaimed Daisy, her face flushing deeply. "I—I—did not know she was so beautiful."
In a luxurious chamber at Eagles' Nest, where the carpet was soft as moss to the tread, and the hangings were of silk, and the toilette ornaments were rich and fragile, sat Edina Raynor. Her elbow rested on the arm of the chair, her thoughtful face was bent on her hand, her eyes were taking in the general aspect of the room and its costly appurtenances.
It was autumn weather now, and Edina had come on a short visit to Eagles' Nest. She had wished to put off the visit until the following spring, but had yielded to persuasion. One or other of them at Eagles' Nest was perpetually writing to her; and at last Dr. Raynor added his word to theirs. "There is no reason why you should not go, Edina," he said. "Hatman and I get on famously together, you know; and I am better than I was." And so Edina had made the long journey; and—here she was.
Not yet had she been two days at Eagles' Nest; but in that short time she had found much to grieve her. Grieved she was, and full of anxiety. Every one of the family, from her uncle Francis and Mrs. Raynor downwards, had greatly changed. From the simple, unaffected people they had once been, they had transformed themselves into great personages with airs and assumptions. That was not the worst. That might have been left to find its own level in time: they would no doubt have returned to common sense. What pained Edina was the rate at which they lived. Carriages, horses, servants; dinners, dressing, gaiety. Where could it all end? Had the revenues of Eagles' Nest been twice what they were, the major would still have been spending more than his income. It was this that troubled Edina.
And something else troubled her. Thetoneof their mind seemed to be changing: not so much that of Major and Mrs. Raynor, as of the children. Speaking, of course, chiefly of the elder ones. Formerly they were warm-hearted, unassuming, full of sympathy for others. Now all thought seemed to be swallowed up in self; those who wanted help, whether in word or kind, might go where they would for it: selfishness reigned supreme. A latent dread was making itself heard in Edina's heart, that they were being spoiled by sudden prosperity. As many others have been.
The first day she arrived, dinner was served at seven o'clock; a very elaborate one. Soup, fish, entrées, meats, sweets: all quite à la mode. Edina was vexed: she thought this had been done for her: but she was much more vexed when she found it was their daily style of living. To her, with the frugal notions implanted in her by her father's early straits, with her naturally simple tastes, and her conscientious judging of what was right and wrong, this profusion seemed sinful waste. And—they were all so grand! The faded cottons and washed-out muslins, had of course been discarded, but they had given place to costly gossamer fabrics and to silks that rustled in their richness. They were now just as much over-dressed as formerly they were the opposite. Alice had already put off black for her aunt Atkinson, and was in very slight mourning indeed: in lilac or white hues, with black or grey ribbons. With it all, they were acquiring a hard, indifferent tone, as though the world's changes and sorrows could never again concern them.
"All this looks new," mused Edina, referring to the appurtenances of the room. "I don't fancy Aunt Ann had anything so modern: she liked old-fashioned furniture. With all these expenses, Uncle Francis will soon be in greater embarrassment than he ever was at Spring Lawn. And it is bad for Charley. Very bad. It will give him all sorts of extravagant ideas and habits."
As if to escape her thoughts, she rose and stood at the window, looking forth on the landscape. It was very beautiful. There were hills near and far off, a wide extent of wood and snatches of gleaming water, green meadows, and a field or two of yellow corn that had ripened late. The leaves on the trees were already beginning to put on their autumn tints. On the lawn were many beds of bright flowers. Under a tree sat the major, sipping a champagne-cup, of which he was fond. Beyond, three young people were playing at croquet: Charles, Alice, and William Stane; the latter a son of Sir Philip Stane, who lived near them. Through one of the bare fields, where the corn had been already reaped and gathered, walked Mademoiselle Delrue, the French governess, and little Kate. Alfred was at school. Robert was generally with his nurse. Mademoiselle, a finished pianist, superintended Alice's music and read French with her; also took Robert for French: otherwise her duties all lay with Kate. It was, of course, well to have a resident French governess and to pay her sixty guineas a-year if they could afford it: but, altogether, one might have supposed Major Raynor had dropped into an income of five or six thousand a-year, instead of only two thousand.
A shout and a laugh from the croquet lawn caused Edina to look towards the players. The game was at an end. At the same moment Alice saw Edina. She threw down her mallet, and ran upstairs.
"Why don't you come out, Edina? It is a lovely afternoon."
"I came up for my work, dear, and stayed thinking," replied Edina, drawing Alice to her side and keeping her arm round her.
"What were you thinking about?"
"Of many things. Chiefly about you and Charley. You both seem so changed."
"Do we?"
"And not for the better."
Alice laughed. She was nearly eighteen now, and very pretty. Her head was lifted with a conscious air: she played with one of the lilac bows on her white dress.
"I know what you mean, Edina: you heard mamma telling me this morning that I was growing vain."
"No, I did not hear her." But Edina said no more just then.
"Is Mr. Stane often here?" she asked, presently.
"Oh—yes—pretty often," replied Alice with a vivid blush. "He and Charles are good friends. And—and he lives near us, you know."
The blush and the hesitation seemed to hint at a story Edina had not yet glanced at. She had but been wondering whether this young Stane was a desirable companion for Charles: one likely to encourage him in idleness and extravagance, or to turn his ideas towards better things.
"Mr. Stane is older than Charley, Alice."
"Several years older. He is a barrister, and lives at his chambers in the Temple. Just now he is down here a great deal on account of his father's illness."
"Are they rich people?"
"No, I think not. Not very rich. Of course Sir Philip has plenty of money, and he has retired from practice. He used to be a lawyer in the City of London, and was knighted for something or other."
"Is William Stane the only son?"
"He is the second son. The eldest has the law business in the City; and there are two others. One is in the army."
"I like his look," mused Edina, gazing down at the young man, who was now talking to Major Raynor. "And—I think I like his manners. His countenance has pride in it, though."
Pride it certainly had: but it was a pleasant countenance for all that. William Stane was about middle height, with a somewhat rugged, honest, intelligent face, and an earnest manner. His eyes and hair were dark.
"Won't you come down, Edina?"
Edina turned at the appeal, and took up some work that lay on the table. "I was getting short of pocket-handkerchiefs," she said, in reference to it, "so I bought half-a-dozen new ones before I left home, and am now hemming them."
Alice shrugged her pretty shoulders. "Let one of the maids hem them for you, Edina. The idea of your troubling yourself with plain work!"
"The idea of mynottroubling myself!" returned Edina. "Was life made only for play, Alice, think you? At Spring Lawn hemming handkerchiefs was looked upon as a pastime, compared with the heavier work there was to do."
"Oh, but those days have all passed," said Alice, somewhat resentfully, not at all pleased at having them recalled.
"Yes; and you have all changed with them. By the way, Alice, I was thinking what a beautiful room this is. Is not the furniture new?"
"All of it," replied Alice. "It was quite dingy when we came here; and papa and mamma thought that, as it was to be the state-room for visitors, they would have it done up properly."
Edina sighed. "It is very nice; very; too good for me. I am not used to such a room."
She sat down near Major Raynor under the weeping elm, and went on with her work. Charles, Alice, and young Stane began another game of the everlasting croquet. The major looked on and sipped his champagne-cup, the very image of intense satisfaction. Though he must have known that he was living at a most unjustifiable rate, and that it must again bring upon him the old enemy, debt, he looked as free from thought and care as any one can look in this world. Ay, and felt so, too. Not long yet had he been at this delightful place, Eagles' Nest; the time might be counted by weeks; but he had already flourished upon it. He had been stout enough before, but he was stouter now. The lost bonds or vouchers for the supposed accumulated savings left by Mrs. Atkinson, were depended upon by the major as a certain resource for any little extra expenses not justified by his present means. The bonds had not turned up yet, but he never doubted their coming to light some fine day. Hope, that most precious of our gifts, deceitful though it sometimes proves, was always buoyantly active in Major Raynor.
It was on this very subject of the lost bonds that Edina began to speak. The conversation was led up to. She had scarcely sat down, when a servant came from the house and approached his master, saying that "Tubbs" had come again, and particularly wished his little account settled, if quite convenient to the major, as he had a payment to make up.
"But it's not convenient," was the major's reply. "Tell Tubbs to come again next week."
"Is it any matter of a few shillings or so?" asked Edina, looking up, really thinking it might be so, and that the major did not care to trouble himself to go indoors for the money. "I have my purse in my pocket, Uncle Francis, and——"
"Bless you, my dear, it's a matter of fifteen or twenty pounds," interrupted the major, complacently watching his servant, who was carrying away the message. "For new harness and saddles and things. Tubbs is a saddler in the village, and we thought we would give him a turn. Your aunt Ann employed the tradespeople of the neighbourhood, and we think it right to do the same."
"Perhaps he wants his money, Uncle Francis?"
"No doubt of it, my dear. I'll pay him when I can. But as to ready-money, I seem to be shorter of it than ever. All the spare cash that came to me at your aunt Ann's death has run away in a wonderful manner. Sometimes I set myself to consider what it can have gone in; but I might as well try to count the leaves on that walnut-tree."
"I am very sorry," said Edina. "And you are living at so much expense!"
"Oh, it will be all right when the bonds turn up," cried the major, cheerfully. "Street says, you know, there must be at least fifteen or twenty thousand pounds somewhere."
"But he is not sure that there are any bonds to turn up, Uncle Francis. He does notknowthat the money exists still. Aunt Ann may have speculated and lost it."
"Now, my dear, is that likely?" cried the major. "Ann was never a speculating woman. And, if she had lost the money in any way, she would have been sure to say so. Street tells me she gave him all sorts of injunctions during the last year for the proper keeping-up of this estate, involving no end of cost; she wouldn't have done that if there hadn't been a substantial accumulation to draw upon."
"And do you keep it up well, uncle?"
"Why, how can I, Edina? I've no means to do it with."
"But are the revenues of the estate not sufficient to keep it up?"
"Well, they would be; but then you see I have so many expenses upon me."
Edina did quite two inches of her hemming before speaking again. The course they had embarked upon at Eagles' Nest seemed to be a wrong one altogether: but she felt that it was not her place to take her uncle to task.
"I'm sure I hope the money will be found, Uncle Francis."
"So do I, my dear, and soon too. It shall be better for you when it is. Why Ann should have left my brother Hugh and you unmentioned in her will, I cannot tell; but it was very unjust of her, and I will make it up to you, Edina, in a small way. Frank is to have three thousand pounds when the money turns up, and you shall have the same."
Edina smiled. She thought the promise very safe and very hopeless: though she knew the good-hearted speaker meant what he said.
"Thank you all the same, Uncle Francis, but I do not want any of the money; and I am sure you will have ways and means for every shilling of it, however much it may prove to be. How long does Frank mean to remain abroad?"
"Well, I conclude he is waiting for the money to turn up," said the major.
"Is it wise of him to stay so long, do you think?"
"I'm sure I don't know. When he receives the money he will return to London and settle down."
And so they chatted on. Mrs. Raynor, who had been lying down with a headache, came out and joined them. The afternoon wore on, and croquet came to an end. Mr. Stane approached to say good-bye.
"Won't you stay dinner?" asked the major.
"I should like to very much indeed, but I must go home," replied the young man: and once more, as Edina watched the sincere face and heard the earnest tone, she decided that she liked him. "My father particularly desired me to be at home to dinner: he was feeling less well again."
"Then you must stay with us next time," spoke the hospitable major. And Mr. Stane shook hands all round, leaving Alice to the last, and being somewhat longer over it with her than he need have been.
His departure was the signal for a general break-up. Major and Mrs. Raynor went indoors, Charles strolled across the lawn with William Stane. Edina retained her place and went on with her work. Charles soon came back again, and sat down by her.
"What a pity you don't play croquet, Edina! The last game was a good one."
"If I had all my time on my hands as you have, Charley, and nothing to do with it, I might perhaps take up croquet. I can't tell."
"I know what that tone means, Edina. You want to find fault with me for idleness."
"I could find fault with you for a good many things, Charles. The idleness is not the worst of it."
"What is the worst?" asked Charles, amused.
"You have so changed in these few weeks that I ask myself whether you can be the same single-minded, simple-hearted young people who lived at Spring Lawn. I speak of you and Alice, Charley."
"Circumstances have changed," returned Charles. "Alice"—for the girl at that moment came up to them—"Edina's saying we have so changed since leaving Bath that she wonders whether we are ourselves or not. How have we changed, pray, Edina?"
"Your minds and manners are changing," coolly spoke Edina, beginning to turn down the hem on the other side of the handkerchief. "Do you know what sort of people you put me in mind of now?"
"No. What?"
"Of nouveaux riches."
"For shame, Edina!"
"You do. And I think the world must judge you as I judge. You are haughty, purse-proud, indifferent."
"Go on," said Charley. "I like to hear the worst."
Edina did go on. "Youare the worst, Charles. You seem to think the world was made for you alone. When that poor man came yesterday, a cottager, asking for some favour or assistance, or complaining of some hardship—I did not quite catch the words—you just flung him off as though he were not of the same species of created being as yourself. Have you a bad heart, Charles?"
Charles laughed. "I think I have a very good heart—as hearts go. The man is troublesome. His name's Beck. He has been here three times, and wants I don't know what done to his wretched cottage; says Mrs. Atkinson promised it. My father can't afford to listen to these complaints, Edina: and if he did it for one, he must do it for all. The fact is, Aunt Ann did so much for the wretches that she spoilt them."
"But you might have spoken kindly to the man. Civilly, at any rate."
"Oh, bother!" cried Charley: who was much of a boy still in manner. "Only think of all those years of poverty, Edina: we ought to enjoy ourselves now. Why, we had to look at a shilling before we spent it. And did not often get one to spend."
"But, Charley, you thinkonlyof enjoyment. Nothing is thought of at Eagles' Nest but the pleasure and gratification of the present hour, day by day, as the days come round."
"Well, I shall have enough work to do by-and-by, Edina. I go to Oxford after the long vacation."
"And you go without any preparation for it," said Edina.
"Preparation! Why, I am well up in classics," cried Charley, staring at Edina.
"I was not thinking of classics. You have had no experience, Charles; you are like a child in the ways of the world."
"I tell you, Edina, I am a very fair scholar. What else do you want at Oxford? You don't want experience there."
"Well for you, Charley, if it shall prove so," was Edina's answer, as she folded her work to go indoors; for the evening was drawing on, and the air felt chilly. Changed they all were, more than she could express. They saw with one set of eyes, she with another.
"What a tiresome thing Edina is getting!" exclaimed Alice to her brother, as Edina disappeared.
"A regular croaker."
"A confirmed old maid."
The only one who could not be said to have much changed, was Mrs. Raynor. She was gentle, meek, simple-mannered as ever: but even she was drawn into the vortex of visiting and gaiety, of show and expense, of parade and ceremony that had set in. She seemed to have no leisure to give to anything else. This day was the only quiet day Eagles' Nest had during Edina's visit. Mrs. Raynor, with her yielding will, could not help herself altogether. But Edina was grieved to see that she neglected the religious training of her young children. Even the hearing of their evening prayers was given over to the governess.
"Mademoiselle Delrue is a Protestant," said Mrs. Raynor; when, on this same evening, Edina ventured to speak a word upon the subject, as Kate and Robert said good-night and left the drawing-room.
"I know she is," said Edina. "But none but a mother should, in these vital matters, train her children. You always used to do it, Mary."
"If you only knew how fully my time and thoughts are occupied!" returned Mrs. Raynor, in a tone of great deprecation. "We live in a whirl here: and it is rather too much for me. And, to tell you the truth, Edina, I sometimes wonder whether the old life, with all its straitened means, was not the happier; whether we have in all respects improved matters, in coming to Eagles' Nest."