THREE LETTERS FOR DR. RANE.
"You are keeping quality hours, Bessy--as our nurse used to say when
we were children," was Richard North's salutation to his sister as he
went in and saw the table laid for breakfast.
Mrs. Rane laughed. She was busy at work, sewing some buttons on a
white waistcoat of her husband's.
"Oliver was called out at seven this morning, and has not come back
yet," she explained.
"And you are waiting breakfast for him! You must be starving."
"I took some coffee when Molly had hers. How is papa, Richard?"
"Anything but well. Very much worried, for one thing."
"Madam and Matilda are back again, I hear?" continued Bessy.
"Three days ago. They have brought Miss Field with them."
"And madam has brought her usual temper, I suppose," added Bessy. "No
wonder papa is suffering."
"That of course; it will never be otherwise. But he is troubling
himself also very much about the works being stopped. I tell him to
leave all such trouble to me, but it is of no use."
"When will the strike end, Richard?"
Richard shook his head. It was an unprofitable theme, and he did not
wish to pursue it with Bessy. She had sufficient cares of her own, as
he suspected, without adding to them. Three letters lay on the table,
close to where Richard was sitting; they were addressed to Dr. Rane.
His fingers began turning them about mechanically, quite in
abstraction.
"I know the handwriting of two of them," remarked Bessy, possibly
fancying he was curious on the point; "not of the third."
"The one is from America," observed Richard, looking at the letters
for the first time.
"Yes; it's from Dr. Jones. He would like Oliver to join him in
America."
"To join him for what?" asked Richard.
Bessy looked at him. She saw no reason why her brother should not be
told. Dr. Rane wished it kept secret from the world; but this, she
thought, could not apply to her good and trustworthy Richard. She
opened her heart and told him all; not what they were going certainly
to do, for ways and means were still doubtful, but what they hoped to
be able to do. Richard, excessively surprised, listened in silence.
They had made up their minds to leave Dallory. Dr. Rane had taken a
dislike to the place; and no wonder, Bessy added in a parenthesis,
when he was not getting on at all. He intended to leave it as soon as
the practice was disposed of.
"I expect this letter will decide it," concluded Bessy, touching one
that bore the London postmark. "It is from a Mr. Lynch, who is wishing
to find a practice in the country on account of his health. London
smoke does not do for him, he tells Oliver. They have had a good deal
of correspondence together, and I know his handwriting quite well.
Oliver said he expected his decision to-day or tomorrow. He is to pay
two hundred pounds and take the furniture at a valuation."
"And then--do I understand you rightly, Bessy?--you and Rane are going
to America?" questioned Richard.
"Oh _no_," said Bessy with emphasis. "I must have explained badly,
Richard. What I said was, that Dr. Jones, who has more practice in
America than he knows what to do with, had offered a share of it to
Oliver if he would join him. Oliver declined it. He would have liked
to go, for he thinks it must be a very good thing; but Dr. Jones wants
a large premium: so it's out of the question."
"But surely you would not have liked to emigrate, Bessy?"
She glanced into Richard's face with her meek, loving eyes, blushing a
very little.
"I would go anywhere where he goes," she answered simply. "It would
cost me pain to leave you and papa, Richard; especially papa, because
he is old, and because he would feel it; but Oliver is my husband."
Richard drummed for a minute or two on the table-cloth. Bessy sewed on
her last button.
"Then where does Rane think of pitching his tent, Bessy?"
"Somewhere in London. He says there is no place like it for getting
on. Should this letter be to say that Mr. Lynch, takes the practice,
we shall be away in less than a month."
"And you have never told us!"
"We decided to say nothing until it was a settled thing, and then only
to you, and Mrs. Cumberland, and papa. Oliver does not want the world
to know it sooner than need be."
"But do you mean to say that Rane has not told his mother?" responded
Richard to this in some surprise.
"Not yet," said Bessy, folding the completed waistcoat. "It will be
sure to vex her, and perhaps needlessly; for, suppose, after all, we
do not go? That entirely depends upon the disposal of the practice
here."
Bessy was picking up the threads in her neat way, and putting the
remaining buttons in the little closed box, when Dr. Rane was heard to
enter his consulting-room. Away flew Bessy to the kitchen, bringing in
the things with her own loving hands--and, for that matter, Molly
Green was at her upstairs work--buttered toast, broiled ham, a dainty
dish of stewed mushrooms. There was nothing she liked so much as to
wait on her husband. Her step was light and soft, her eye bright.
Richard, looking on, saw how much she cared for him.
Dr. Rane came in, wiping his brow: the day was hot, and he tired. He
had walked from a farm-house a mile beyond the Ham. A strangely weary
look sat on his face.
"Don't trouble, Bessy; I have had breakfast. Ah, Richard, how d'ye
do?"
"You have had breakfast!" repeated Bessy. "At the farm?"
"Yes; they gave me some."
"Oh dear! won't you take a bit of the ham, or some of the mushrooms,
Oliver? They are so good. And I waited."
"I am sorry you should wait. No, I can't eat two breakfasts. You must
eat for me and yourself, Bessy."
Dr. Rane sat down in his own chair at the table, turning it towards
Richard, and took up the letters. Selecting the one from Mr. Lynch, he
was about to open it when Bessy, who was now beginning her breakfast,
spoke.
"Oliver, I have told Richard about it--what we think of doing?"
Dr. Rane's glance went out for a moment to his brother-in-law's, and
met it. He made the best of the situation, smiled gaily, and put down
the letter unopened.
"Are you surprised, Richard?" he asked.
"Very much, indeed. Had a stranger told me I was going to leave
Dallory myself--and, indeed, that may well come to pass, with this
strike in the air--I should as soon have believed it. Shall you be
doing well to go, do you think, Rane?"
"Am I doing well here?" was the doctor's rejoinder.
"Not very, I fear."
"And, with this strike on, it grows worse. The wives and children fall
ill, as usual, and I am called in; but the men have no money to pay me
with. I don't intend to bring Bessy to dry bread, and I think it would
come to that if we stayed here----"
"No, no; not quite to that, Oliver," she interposed. But he took no
notice of her.
"Therefore I shall try my fortune elsewhere," continued Dr. Rane. "And
if you would return thanks to the quarter whence the blow has
originated, you must pay them to your stepmother, Richard. It is she
who has driven me away."
Richard was silent. Dr. Rane broke the seal of Mr. Lynch's letter, and
read it to the end. Then, laying it down, he took up the one from
America, and read that. Bessy, looking across, tried to gather some
information from his countenance; but Dr. Rane's face was one which,
in an ordinary way, was not more easily read than a stone.
"Is it favourable news, Oliver?" she asked, as he finished the long
letter, and folded it.
"It's nothing particular. Jones runs on upon politics. He generally
gives me a good dose of _them_."
"Oh, I meant from Mr. Lynch," replied Bessy. "Is he coming?"
"Mr. Lynch declines."
"Declines, Oliver!"
"Declines the negotiation. And he is not much better than a sneak for
giving me all this trouble, and then crying off at the eleventh hour,"
added Dr. Rane.
"It _is_ bad behaviour," said Bessy, warmly. "What excuse does he
make?"
"You can see what he says," said Dr. Rane, pushing the letter towards
her. Bessy opened it, and read it aloud for the benefit of Richard.
Mr. Lynch took up all one side with apologies. The substance of the
letter was, that a practice had unexpectedly been offered to him at
the seaside, which he had accepted, as the air and locality would
suit his state of health so much better than Dallory. If he could be
of service in negotiating with any one else, he added, Dr. Rane was to
make use of him.
It was as courteous and explanatory a letter as could be written. But
still it was a refusal: and the negotiation was at an end. Bessy Rane
drew a deep breath: whether of relief or disappointment it might have
puzzled herself to decide. Perhaps it was a mixture of both.
"Then, after all, Oliver, we shall not be leaving!"
"Not at present, it seems," was Dr. Rane's answer. And he put the two
letters into his pocket.
"Perhaps you will be thinking again, Oliver, of America, now?" said
his wife.
"Oh no, I shall not."
"Does Dr. Jones still urge you to come?"
"Not particularly. He took my refusal as final."
She went on, slowly eating some of the mushrooms. Richard said
nothing: this projected removal seemed to have impressed him to
silence. Dr. Rane took up the remaining letter and turned it about,
looking at the outside.
"Do you know the writing, Oliver?" his wife asked.
"Not at all. The postmark's Whitborough."
Opening the letter, which appeared to contain only a few lines, Dr.
Rane looked up with an exclamation.
"How strange! How very strange! Bessy, you and I are the only two left
in the tontine."
"What!" she cried, scarcely understanding him. Richard North turned
his head.
"That tontine that we were both put into when infants. There was only
one life left in it besides ourselves--old Massey's son, of
Whitborough. He is dead."
"What! George Massey? Dead!" cried Richard North.
Dr. Rane handed him the note. Yes: it was even so. The other life had
dropped, and Oliver Rane's and his wife's alone remained.
"My father has called that an unlucky tontine," remarked Richard. "I
have heard it said that if you want a child to live, you should put it
into a tontine, for the tontine lives are sure to arrive at a green
old age, to the mutual general mortification. This has been an
exception to the rule. I am sorry about George Massey. I wonder what
he has died of?"
"Last long, in general, do you say?" returned Dr. Rane musingly. "I
don't know much about tontines myself."
"Neither do I," said Richard. "I remember hearing of one tontine when
I was a boy: five or six individuals were left in it, all over eighty
then, and in flourishing health. Perhaps that was why my father and
Mr. Gass took up with one. At any rate, it seems that you and Bessy
are the only two remaining in this."
"I wonder if a similar condition of things ever existed before as for
a man and his wife to be the two last in a tontine?" cried Dr. Rane,
slightly laughing. "Bessy, practically it can be of no use to us
conjointly; for before the money can be paid, one of us must die. What
senseless things tontines are!"
"Senseless indeed," answered Bessy. "I'd say something to it if we
could have the money now. How much is it?"
"Ay, by the way, how much is it? What was it that each member put in
at first, Richard? I forget. Fifty pounds, was it? And then there's
the compound interest, which has been going on for thirty years. How
much would it amount to now?"
"More than two thousand pounds," answered Richard North, making a
mental calculation.
Dr. Rane's face flushed with a quick hot flush: a light shone in his
eye: his lips parted, as with some deep emotions. "More than two
thousand pounds!" he echoed under his breath. "Two thousand pounds!
Bessy, it would be like a gold-mine."
She laughed slightly. "But we can't get it, you see, Oliver. And I am
sure neither of us wishes the other dead."
"No--no; certainly not," said Dr. Rane.
Richard North said good-day and left. Just before turning in at the
gates of Dallory Hall, he met a gig containing Lawyer Dale of
Whitborough, who was driving somewhere with his clerk; no other than
Timothy Wilks. Mr. Dale pulled up, to speak.
"Can it be true that George Massey is dead?" questioned Richard as
they were parting.
"It's true enough, poor fellow. He died yesterday: was ill but two
days."
"I've just heard it at Dr. Rane's. He received a letter this morning
to tell him of it."
"Dr. Rane did? I was not aware they knew each other."
"Nor did they. But they were both in that tontine. Now that George
Massey's gone, Dr. Rane and his wife are the only two remaining in it.
Rather singular that it should be so."
For a minute Mr. Dale could not recollect whether he had ever heard of
this particular tontine; although, being a lawyer, he made it his
business to know everything; and he and Richard talked of it together.
Excessively singular, Lawyer Dale agreed, that a tontine should be
practically useless to a man and his wife--unless one of them died.
"Very mortifying, I must say, Mr. Richard North; especially where the
money would be welcome. Two thousand pounds! Dr. Rane must wish the
senseless thing at Hanover. I should, I know, if it were my case.
Good-morning."
And quiet Timothy Wilks, across whom they talked, heard all that was
said, and unconsciously treasured it up in his memory.
Richard carried home the news to his father. Mr. North was seated at
the table in his parlour, some papers before him. He lifted his hands
in dismay.
"Dead! George Massey dead! Dick, as sure as we are here, there must be
something wrong about that tontine! Or they'd never drop off like
this, one after another."
"It's not much more than a week ago, sir, that I met George Massey in
Whitborough, and was talking to him. To all appearance he was as
healthy and likely to live as I am."
"What took him off?"
"Dale says it was nothing more than a neglected cold."
"I don't like it; Dick, I don't like it," reiterated Mr. North, "Bessy
may be the next to go; or Rane."
"I hope not, father."
"Well--I've had it in my head for ever so long that that tontine is an
unlucky one; I think it is going to be so to the end. We shall see.
Look here, Dick."
He pointed to some of the papers before him; used cheques apparently;
pushing them towards his son.
"They sent me word at the bank that my account was overdrawn. I knew
it could not be, and asked for my cheques. Dick, here are four or five
that I never drew."
Richard took them in his fingers. The filling up was in madam's
handwriting: the signature apparently in Mr. North's.
"Do you give Mrs. North blank cheques ready signed, sir?"
"No, never, Dick. I was cured of that, years ago. When she wants
money, I sometimes let her fill in the cheque, but I never sign it
beforehand."
"And you think you have not signed these?"
"Think! I know I have not. She has imitated my signature, and got the
money."
Richard's face grew dark with shame; shame for his stepmother. But
that Mr. North was her husband, it would have been downright forgery.
Probably the law, if called upon, might have accounted it so now. He
took time for consideration.
"Father, I think--pardon me for the suggestion--I think you had better
let your private account be passed over to me. Allow it to lie in my
name; and make my signature alone available--just as it is with our
business account. I see no other safe way."
"With all my heart; and be glad to do it," acquiesced Mr. North, "but
there's no account to pass. There's no account to pass, Dick; it's
overdrawn."