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(The University of California.)
OSWALD CRAY.
[Frontispiece: "One word of sympathy."]
OSWALD CRAY.
A Novel.
BY
MRS. HENRY WOOD,
AUTHOR OF
"EAST LYNNE," "THE CHANNINGS," ETC.
_EIGHTH EDITION_.
LONDON: RICHARD BENTLEY & SON, NEW BURLINGTON STREET.
Publishers in Ordinary to Her Majesty.
1882.
[_All Rights of Translation and Reproduction are Reserved_.]
LONDON:
PRINTED BY J. OGDEN AND CO.,
172, ST. JOHN STREET, E.C.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER
I. Dr. Davenal.
II. Lady Oswald's Letters.
III. Miss Bettina Davenal.
IV. Oswald Cray.
V. Retrospect.
VI. Neal's Curiosity.
VII. An Interruption.
VIII. A Tacit Bargain.
IX. Edward Davenal.
X. A Treat for Neal.
XI. Lady Oswald's Journey.
XII. Waiting for News.
XIII. Pain.
XIV. A Whim Of Lady Oswald's.
XV. Mark Cray's Mistake.
XVI. Neal's Dismay.
XVII. The Night Visitor to Dr. Davenal.
XVIII. After the Visitor's Departure.
XIX. Commotion.
XX. Going Down to the Funeral.
XXI. The Interview with the Doctor.
XXII. The Will.
XXIII. Neal's Visit.
XXIV. Dr. Davenal's "Folly."
XXV. Company for Mr. Oswald Cray.
XXVI. More Instilled Doubt.
XXVII. An Inclement Afternoon.
XXVIII. The Last Meeting.
XXIX. A Special Favour for Neal.
XXX. The Doctor's Birthday.
XXXI. Bad News for Hallingham.
XXXII. Last Hours.
XXXIII. Sorrow.
XXXIV. Work for the Future.
XXXV. Mark's New Plans.
XXXVI. "Is Mark in his Senses?"
XXXVII. Entering on a New Home.
XXXVIII. Hope Deferred.
XXXIX. An Unpleasant Visit.
XL. A Flourishing Company.
XLI. A Slight Check.
XLII. In the Temple Gardens.
XLIII. An Irruption on Mark Cray.
XLIV. Was she never to be at Peace?
XLV. Mrs. Benn's Wrongs.
XLVI. An Unwelcome Visitor.
XLVII. Commotion.
XLVIII. Day-dreams Rudely Interrupted.
XLIX. The Evening of the Blow.
L. Hard Usage for Dick.
LI. Weary Days.
LII. Something "turned up" at Last.
LIII. A New Home.
LIV. A Bell Ringing out at Midnight.
LV. A Desolate Night.
LVI. No Hope.
LVII. Dreadful Treachery.
LVIII. The Gallant Captain home again.
LIX. The Sergeant-Major's Wife.
LX. Light.
LXI. The Bargain Sealed.
LXII. "Finance," this Time.
LXIII. Six Months Later.
OSWALD CRAY.
CHAPTER I.
DR. DAVENAL.
It was market-day at Hallingham. A moderate-sized and once beautiful
town, cut up now by the ugly railroad which had chosen to take its way
right through it, and to build a large station on the very spot where
the Abbey Gardens used to flourish. Famous gardens once; and not so
long ago the evening recreation of the townspeople, who would
promenade there at sunset, whatever the time of year. Since the
gardens had been seized upon for the railway purposes, a bitter feud
of opinion had reigned in the place; the staid old inhabitants
mourning and resenting their town's desecration; the younger welcoming
the new rail, its station, and its bustle, with all their might and
main, as a grateful inbreak on their monotonous life. The trains from
London (distant some sixty or seventy miles) would go shrieking and
whistling through the town at any hour of the day or night: and, so
far, peace for Hallingham was over.
Possibly it was because the town was famous for little else, that
these Abbey Gardens were so regretted. Hallingham Abbey had been
renowned in the ages gone by; very little of its greatness was left to
it now. The crumbling hand of time had partially destroyed the fine
old building, an insignificant portion of it alone remaining: just
sufficient to impart a notion of its style of architecture and the
century of its erection: and this small portion had been patched and
propped, and altogether altered and modernised, by way of keeping it
together. It was little more than an ordinary dwelling-house now; and
at the present moment was unoccupied, ready to be let to any suitable
tenant who would take it. But, poor as it was in comparison with some
of the modern dwellings in its vicinity, it was still in a degree
bowed down to by Hallingham. There was something high-sounding in the
address, "The Abbey, Hallingham," and none but a gentleman born and
bred must venture to treat for it.
It stood alone: the extensive gardens in front of it; the space once
occupied by the chapel behind it. All traces of the chapel building
were gone now, but its mossy gravestones were imbedded in the ground
still, and the spot remained as sacred as a graveyard. The Latin
inscriptions on some of these stones could be yet made out: and
that on one attracted as much imaginative speculation as the famed
gravestone in the cloisters of Worcester Cathedral. A few Latin words
only were on it, signifying "buried in misery:" no name, no date.
Thoughtful natures would glance at that stone as they passed it, with
an inward breath of hope--perhaps of prayer--that the misery
experienced by its unhappy tenant in this world had been exchanged for
a life of immortality. This graveyard was not a thoroughfare, and few
cared to walk there who were absorbed in the bustle and pleasures of
life; but the aged, the invalid, the mourner might be seen there on
fine days, seated on its one solitary bench, and buried in solemn
reflections. A short space of time, more or less, as it might happen,
and they would be lying under gravestones in their turn: a short space
of time, my friends, and you and I shall be equally lying there.
The broad space of the public road running along the Abbey's front
divided it from the gardens, the gardens being the public property of
the town. On the opposite side of these gardens, furthest from the
Abbey, were the buildings of the new station and the lines upon lines
of rails.
It is well to say lines upon lines of rails! Hallingham said
it--said it with a groan. Not content with a simple line, or a double
line of rails, sufficient for ordinary traffic, the railway
authorities had made it into a "junction"--"Hallingham Junction!"--and
more lines branched off from it than you would care to count. This was
at the east end of the town; beyond it was the open country. Some of
the lines made a sort of semicircle, cut off a corner of the town, and
branched off into space. It's true it was a very shabby little corner
of the town that had thus been cut off, but Hallingham did not the
less resent the invasion.
Walking down to Hallingham along the broad road leading from the Abbey,
its busiest part was soon gained. Let us look at it today: Tuesday. It
is market-day at Hallingham, and the hot July sun streams full on the
people's heads, for there's no room for the raised umbrellas, and they
afford little continuous shade. It is the large, wide, open space in
front of the town-hall where we have halted, and here from time
immemorial the market people have sat to chaffer and change, barter
and sell. Country women expose their poultry and eggs, their butter and
cream cheese, and their other wares, all on this spot. No matter what
the weather--in the dog-days of summer, in the sharp snow, the pitiless
storm of winter--here they are every Tuesday under their sea of
umbrellas, which must be put down to allow space to the jostling crowd
when the market gets full. The town had been talking the last ten years
of erecting a covered market-house; but it was not begun yet.
Still on, down the principal street, leaving this market-place to the
left, and what was called the West-end of the town was gained. Proud
Hallingham had named it West-end in imitation of London. It was nothing
but a street; its name, New Street, proclaiming that it was of more
recent date than some of the other parts. It was really a fine street,
wide and open, with broad white pavements, and its houses were mostly
private ones, their uniformity of line being broken by a detached house
here and there. It was a long street, and five or six other by-streets
and turnings branched off from it at right angles.
Lying back from the street at the corner of one of these turnings was a
handsome white house, detached, with a fine pillared-portico entrance
in its centre and a plate on the door. It was fully as conspicuous to
the street as were the other houses which abutted on the pavement. A
level lawn was before it, divided from the street by low light iron
railings, its small light gate in the midst, opposite the
entrance-door. Narrow flower-beds, filled with gay and charming
flowers, skirted the lawn before the rails; on the sides, but not in
front, flourished evergreens close to the railings behind the
flower-beds, making a sort of screen. An inclosed garden lay at the
back of the house, and beyond the garden were the stables. On the
brass plate--you could read it from the street,--was inscribed "Dr.
Davenal."
He was the chief _surgeon_ of Hallingham. Why he had taken his
degree--a recent accession of dignity--people were puzzled to tell.
Had he cared for high-sounding titles they could have understood it;
but he did not care for them: had he been a slave to example, that
might have accounted for it, for this degree-taking, as you must be
aware, has come into fashion of late years: had he wished to court
notoriety, he might have thought that a means to bring it to him. But
Hallingham knew Dr. Davenal better. He was a simple-minded man; he
liked to be out of the fashion instead of in it; and whether he wrote
"doctor" or "surgeon" after his name, he could not be more deservedly
renowned in his locality than he already was. He was a skilful
surgeon, a careful and successful operator, and his advice in purely
medical cases was sought in preference to that of any physician in
Hallingham. A rumour arose, untraceable to any certain source, that
his son Edward, a dashing young captain of infantry, had urged the
step upon him with a view to enhance his own standing with his brother
officers. The son of Mr. Davenal, a country surgeon, might be thought
slightingly of: the son of Dr. Davenal need not be. Be that as it
might, the rumour gained some credence, but it died away again. One
patient only ventured to question Dr. Davenal as to its truth, and the
doctor laughed heartily in his patient's face, and said he expected
handsome Ned could hold his own without reference to whether his
father might be a royal physician or a parish apothecary.
Before we go on, I may tell you that you will like Dr. Davenal. He was
a good man. He had his faults, as we all have; but he was a good man.
On this same hot July afternoon, there came careering down the street,
in its usual quick fashion, a handsome open carriage drawn by a pair of
beautiful bays. Dr. Davenal did not see why, because he was a doctor,
his carriage should be a sober one, his horses tame and rusty. Truth
to say, he was given to spend rather than to save. I have told you he
had faults, and perhaps you will call that one. He sat in his
accustomed seat, low in the carriage, his servant Roger mounted far
above him. He rarely drove, himself; never when paying professional
visits: a surgeon needs to keep his hands steady. Roger was a
favourite servant: fourteen years he had been in his present service,
and was getting fat upon it. Dr. Davenal sometimes told him jokingly
that he should have to pension him off, for his weight was getting too
much for the bays. The same could not be said of Dr. Davenal; he was a
spare man of middle height, with a broad white forehead, dark eyes,
and a careworn expression.
The carriage was bowling quickly past the market-place--Dr. Davenal's
time was too precious to allow of his being driven slowly--when a
woman suddenly descried it. Quitting her sitting-place in the market,
she set off to run towards it, flinging up her hands in agitation, and
overturning her small board of wares with the haste she made. Poor
wares!--gooseberries and white and red currants displayed on cabbage
leaves to attract the eager eyes and watering lips of juvenile
passers-by; and common garden flowers tied up in nosegays--a halfpenny
a nosegay, a halfpenny a leaf. Roger saw the movement.
"Here's Dame Hundley flying on to us, sir."
Dr. Davenal, who was very much in the habit of falling into thought,
seeing and hearing nothing as he went along, raised his head, and
turning it in the direction of the market, met her anxious
countenance.
"Pull up, Roger," he said to his servant.
The countenance was a tearful one by the time it had reached the
doctor's side; and then the woman seemed to become aware that she had
done an unwarrantable thing in thus summarily arresting Dr.
Davenal--not that there was anything in his face or manner to remind
her of it.
"Oh, sir, I beg ten thousand pardons for making thus bold! Seeing your
carriage, I started off in the moment's impulse. I've been a-fearing
all the morning as I sat there, that maybe you might be out when I
called, after market was over. He is no better, sir: he is worser and
weaker."
"Ah!" remarked the doctor. "Couldn't he come in today?"
"I don't believe there'll ever be any more coming in again for him,"
was the woman's answer, as she strove to suppress her tears.
"'Mother,' says he to me this morning, when I tried to get him up,
'it's o' no use trying. I--I'"--She fairly broke down.
"Does the parish doctor see him regularly?"
"He comes, sir, about every third day. He caught his eye on that
bottle of physic that you wrote for and told me to get made up, and he
laid hold of it and asked where I got that, and I told him I had made
bold to take my poor boy in to Dr. Davenal. So then he was put up
about it, and said if we was going to be grand patients of Dr.
Davenal's we didn't want him. And I thought perhaps he mightn't come
again. But he did: he came in last night at dusk."
"Has your son taken the physic?"
"Yes, sir. I gave him the last dose afore I come away this morning.
But he's worse; he's a deal worse, sir: maybe it's these hot days
that's trying him."
Dr. Davenal could have told her that he never would be anything but
worse in this world; a little better, a little worse, according to the
phases of the disease, and then would come the ending.
"I shall, I expect, be driving out of Hallingham your way this
evening, Mrs. Hundley, and I'll call and see him. Should anything
prevent it this evening, you may look for me tomorrow. I'll be sure to
come."
The same good, considerate man that he had ever been, sparing no
trouble, no kindness, when life or health was at stake. "I'll be sure
to come!" and the woman knew that he would be sure to come. How few
medical men in his position would have condescended to say to this
poor woman, "I'll be sure to come!" to say it in the kind tone, with
the promise in his eyes as they looked straight into here, as well as
on his lips! He had fellow-practitioners in that town, their time not
half taken up as his was, who would have loftily waved off poor Dame
Hundley, a profitless patient in every sense, and sent her sorrow to
the winds.
Roger drove quickly on down the street between the rows of gay shops,
and Dr. Davenal sat thinking of that poor woman's sorrow. She was a
widow, and this was her only son. Did the anticipated loss of that son
strike on the chords of his own heart, and send them vibrating? _He_
had lost a son, and under unhappy auspices. Save that woman's son he
knew he could not: his death fiat had gone forth in the fell disease
which had attacked him: but he might possibly, by the exertion of his
skill, prolong the life by a trifle, and certainly lighten its
sufferings. Mrs. Hundley had toiled for this son, and brought him up
well, in her poor way, and had looked brightly forward to his helping
her on in her old age: as he would have done, for he was steady,
loving, and dutiful. But it was not to be: God was taking him: and the
mother in her alarm and grief scarcely saw why this should be. Not at
the time that affliction falls, in its first brunt, can we see or
believe in the love and wisdom that are always hidden within it.
Roger pulled up at the doctor's house, set his master down, and turned
his horses round into the side lane--for it could not be called a
street--to drive them to the stables. Dr. Davenal went through the
gate, and wound round the grass-plat to the house. As he was about to
open the door with his latch-key, it was drawn open for him by his
attentive indoor manservant.
You never saw so respectable a servant in all your life: a very model
of a servant in looks, voice, and manner. About forty years of age,
his tall, slim, active figure gave him the appearance of being a
younger man. His hair, brushed smooth and flat, was of a shiny black,
and his white necktie and orthodox black clothes were without a
spot. But--in spite of his excessive respectability as a man and a
servant--there was something in the sharp features of his white face,
in the furtive black eyes, that would lose their look of slyness when
flung boldly into yours, which had never been cordially liked by Dr.
Davenal.
"You saw me, Neal?"
"I was in your room, sir, speaking to Mr. Cray," was the man's answer:
and in his low, respectful tones, his superior accent, there was
really a sound of refinement pleasant to the ear. That refinement of
voice and manner that may be caught from associating with the
educated; not the refinement springing from the mind where it is
innate.
"Has anybody been here?"
"Lady Oswald, sir. She apologised for coming when it was not your day
for receiving town-patients, but she said she particularly wished to
see you. I think she scarcely believed me, sir, when I said you were
out."
Dr. Davenal took his gold repeater from his pocket, where it lay
loose, unattached to any chain, and glanced at it. A valuable watch:
the grateful present of a rich man years ago, who believed that he
owed his life, humanly speaking, to Richard Davenal's care and skill.
"Scarcely believed you! Why, she knows I am never home much before
three o'clock. It wants two minutes now. Mr. Cray, if he is here,
might have seen her."
"Mr. Cray has but just come, sir. I was showing him in when your
carriage drove to the door. Lady Oswald said she would call again
later, sir."
Two minutes more, when three o'clock should strike, and Dr. Davenal's
door would be beset by patients. By country patients today; on
Tuesdays he would be very busy with them, and the townspeople did
not intrude unnecessarily upon him on that day; all the rest of the
week-days were for them. They would come, these patients, and lay down
their fee of a guinea to the surgeon, as they laid it down for a
physician. Dr. Davenal would see them twice for that; sometimes
more--several times more; he was not a covetous man, and he
distinguished between those who could well afford to pay him, and
those who could not. When these last would timidly put down the
sovereign and shilling, rarely in paper, he would push it back to
them. "No, you paid me last time or so; you don't owe me anything
yet."
Of far and wide reputation, he had scarcely a minute in the day that
he could call his own, or that was not in some way or other devoted to
his profession. Chief visiting surgeon to the Hallingham Infirmary,
always taking the operations there in difficult cases, part of every
day had to be spent at it. Early in the morning he saw patients at
home, twice a week gratuitously; at a quarter to ten he went out, and
between that time and three o'clock paid his round of calls and
visited the Infirmary. At three he was at home to receive patients
again; at six he dined; and it very rarely happened that he had not
second visits to pay afterwards. Of course this usual routine of duty
was often varied; visits at a distance had to be paid, necessitating
post-horses to his close carriage, if no rail conducted to the place;
patients hovering between life and death must be seen oftener than
once or twice in the day, perhaps in the night; and sometimes a
terrible case of accident would be brought into the Infirmary,
demanding the utmost skill that the most perfect operator could give.
In those cases of accident it was Dr. Davenal who was sent for by the
house-surgeon; none other of the visiting surgeons were so sure as he:
and Dr. Davenal, though he had a whole dining-room full of patients
waiting their turn to go in to him, guinea in hand, abandoned them
all, and strode away to the Infirmary with his fleetest step.
The dining-room was on the left of the entrance-hall: it wan of large
proportions. Opposite to it, on the right, was a much smaller
apartment, called by way of distinction "Dr. Davenal's room." It was
in this last the doctor saw his patients, who would go into it from
the dining-room, one by one, each in his turn. The two rooms looked to
the front, on either side the door, and the window in each was very
large. They were not bay windows, but were divided into three
compartments, all of which might be opened separately. Dwarf Venetian
blinds were carried up to the first pane in both windows, for the
house was not sufficiently removed from the street to prevent curious
passers-by from gazing in. Behind the doctor's room was another room,
opening from it, the windows of which looked on the evergreens
skirting the very narrow path that ran between the side of the house
and the railings bordering the lane: a path so narrow that nobody was
supposed ever to go down it. This second room was Dr. Davenal's
bedchamber, used by him as such ever since the death of his wife. At
the back of this chamber was another apartment, partially partitioned
into two, one portion being used as a butler's pantry, the other as
Neal's sleeping-closet, which looked to the garden at the rear of the
house.
Neal had an uncommon partiality for that pantry, and would be in it
all hours of the day or night, though it was never meant that he
should sit in it. It was to all intents and purposes a pantry only,
and a very scantily lighted one. It had a high window of four
square panes, looking dead on the evergreens, very dense just there,
and on nothing else. There was a door by its side, opening on the
evergreens also; and one with a slim figure--as slim as Neal's, for
instance--could go out at that door if so disposed, and entwine
himself along the narrow path, braving the shrubs, past the windows of
Dr. Davenal's bedchamber, and emerge in front of the house. It was
not at all, however, in Neal's stipulated duties to do so. Quite the
contrary. When Neal entered Dr. Davenal's service, he was expressly
ordered to keep that pantry door always fastened. It was impressed
upon him by Miss Davenal that there was no necessity ever to unlock
it: his plate was there, she observed, and light-fingered beggars
frequented Hallingham, as they frequent most other places.
On the opposite side, behind the dining-room, was the prettiest
apartment in the house. It was called the garden-parlour, and
opened to the garden at the back by means of glass doors. The state
drawing-room was above, over the hall and dining-room, and the
kitchens were downstairs.
Davenal's room was scantily furnished. A shabby Kidderminster carpet,
a square table, some horsehair chairs, and a writing-desk. Nothing
else, except some books ranged round the walls, and a plaster bust or
two. On the table, which was covered with a green-baize cloth bordered
with yellow, lay some writing and blotting paper by the side of a
large inkstand, and the desk was underneath the table on the carpet.
It was the doctor's habit to keep the desk there; he could not have
told why. If he required to open it, which was very seldom--for he
never used it for writing on--he would lift it to the table and put it
back when he had done with it. Some of his patients sitting at the
table waiting for the doctor to come in, or enlarging on their
complaints as he sat before them, had surreptitiously used it as
a footstool, and the result was a considerably scratched surface of
the polished mahogany; but Dr. Davenal did not move it from its
abiding-place.
Tilting himself on a chair, in a fashion that threatened an overthrow
backwards, with his feet on the edge of this very desk, sat a young
man, carelessly humming a popular song. You heard Neal tell his master
he was there--Mr. Cray. His face was a sufficiently pleasing one, its
complexion fair, its eyes a light blue. It was not a remarkable face
in anyway; might have been a somewhat insipid one, but for these same
blue eyes that lighted it up, and a gay smile that was ever ready on
it. All that Mr. Cray appeared likely to be remarkable for as yet, was
a habit of pushing his hair back--rather light hair, of a shade
between brown and flaxen, and he pushed it off his forehead
inveterately, at all times and seasons. But what with the blue eyes,
the winning smile, and a very taking voice and manner, he was
beginning to win his way in Hallingham. Dr. Davenal was glad that it
should be so. He had taken this young man, Marcus Cray, by the hand,
had made him his partner, and he desired nothing better than that he
should win his way.
But to win a way in a town is one thing; to win hearts in it is
another; and Dr. Davenal was certainly not prepared to hear, as he was
about to do, that Mr. Cray had gained one particular heart, and had
come then to ask his, Dr. Davenal's, approbation to his having done
it.
Neal threw open the door of this room for his master, bowed him in
with the air of a groom of the chambers, and Mr. Cray started from his
tilting position to find his feet. As they stood together his height
was somewhat under the doctor's, and _his_ only reached the middle
height.
"Is it you, Mark?" said the doctor, quietly, rather surprised that he
should be there at that hour of the day; for Mr. Cray's routine of
duties did not lie at the house of Dr. Davenal. "Any bad report for
me?"
Mr. Cray had no bad report. He entered upon a different sort of
report, speaking rapidly, but not in the least agitatedly. He wanted
the doctor's consent to his marriage with Miss Caroline Davenal.
Perhaps it was the knowledge that they must so soon be interrupted by
three o'clock and the doctor's country patients, that prompted Mr.
Cray to enter upon the subject at that not over-seasonable hour.
There would be less time for the doctor's objections, he may have
deemed--not that Mr. Cray was one to anticipate objections to any
project he set his fancy on, or to pay much attention to them if they
came.
Dr. Davenal stood against the wall near the window, looking very grave
in his surprise and, it may be said, vexation. He had never dreamt of
this. Mr. Cray had certainly been intimate with his family; many an
evening when the doctor had been out professionally, Mr. Cray had
spent with them; but he had never given a thought to anything of this
sort arising from it. His connection with Mr. Cray was a professional
connection, and perhaps that fact had blinded his eyes and kept his
thoughts from glancing to the possibility that anything different
might supervene.
"You look grave, Dr. Davenal," said Mr. Cray, breaking the silence,
and retaining, in a remarkable degree, his self-possession.
"Yes," replied the doctor, "for Caroline's sake. Mark, I believe I had
cherished more ambitious dreams for her."
"Ambitious dreams!" repeated Mr. Cray. "She will at least occupy a
position as good as yours, sir."
"As good as mine!" echoed the doctor. "But when, Mark?--when?" he
added after a pause.
"In time."
"Ay--in time. There it is. How long must you wait for it?"
"We shall rub on until then, doctor. As others do."
"Mark, I do not think Caroline is one to rub on, as you call it, so
smoothly as some might, unless fortune is smooth about her. Remember
what your income is."
"It is two hundred a-year," said Mark, pushing his hair from his brow,
and speaking with as much equanimity as though he had said two
thousand. "But I thought perhaps you might be induced to increase
it--for her sake."
Dr. Davenal pulled open the green Venetian blind and threw the window
higher up, as if the air of the room were growing too hot for him. It
was the window--or rather the compartment of it--nearest to the lane,
and the doctor was fond of keeping it a little raised. Summer and
winter would the passers-by see that window raised behind the green
staves of the blind.
"Were I to double your income, Mark, and make it four hundred
a-year--a thing which you have no right to expect me to do at present,
or to ask me to do--it would still be an inadequate income for
Caroline Davenal," resumed the doctor, closing the blind again, and
setting his back against it. "I don't believe--it is my opinion, Mark,
and I only give it you as such--that she is one to make the best of a
small income, or to be happy on it."
Mr. Cray had caught up one of the doctor's pens, and stood opposite to
him picking the feather-end of it off bit by bit. His attitude was a
careless one, and his eyes were bent upon the pen, as if to pick those
pieces off and litter the carpet were of more consequence than looking
at Dr. Davenal. Mr. Cray was inclined to be easy over most things, to
take life coolly, and he was characteristically easy over this.
"Four hundred a-year is not so small an income," he observed.
"That depends," said Dr. Davenal. "Incomes are large or small in
comparison; in accordance with the requirements, the habits, the
notions if you will, of those who have to live upon them. Caroline has
enjoyed the advantages derivable from one amounting to three times
four."
"She may come into that fortune yet," said Mr. Cray.
The first gleam of real displeasure shone now in the eyes of the
doctor as he threw them searchingly on his partner. "Have you been
counting upon that?--Is it the inducement which has called forth this
proposal?"
"No," burst forth Mr. Cray, feeling vexed in his turn and speaking
impulsively, as he flung the dilapidated pen back in the inkstand and
drew nearer the doctor. "I declare that I never thought of the money
or the suit; it did not so much as cross my mind; and were Carine
never to have a penny-piece to the end of her life, it would make no
difference. It is her I want; not money."
Dr. Davenal drew in his lips. "Carine!" They must have become
tolerably intimate for him familiarly to call her that. "Pretty
Carine" was her fond name in the household.
"It was Caroline herself who spoke of the money," resumed Mark Cray.
"We were consulting together as to how far my two hundred a-year would
keep us, and she remembered the Chancery suit. 'Mark,' she said, 'that
fortune may come to me, and then we should have no care.' It was not I
who thought of it, Dr. Davenal. And I am sure I don't count upon it:
Caroline herself would be wise not to do so. Chancery suits generally
absorb the oyster and leave the shell for the claimants."
"You have spoken to Caroline, then?" questioned Dr. Davenal.
Mark pushed off his hair again. "O dear yes."
"May I ask when?"
"Well--I don't know," answered Mr. Cray, after considering the point.
"I have been--I have been"--
"What?" cried Dr. Davenal, surprised at the unusual hesitation, "Speak
out, Mark."
"I was going to say I have been making love to her ever so long,"
continued Mark, with a laugh. "In fact, sir, we have understood each
other for some time past; but as to the precise period that I actually
spoke out to her by words, I am not sure when it was."
The contrast between the two men was observable in the silence that
ensued. Dr. Davenal grave, absorbed, full of thought and care; Mr.
Cray self-satisfied, looking as if neither thought nor care had ever
come to him, or could come. He lightly watched the passers-by in the
street, over the Venetian blind of the middle window, nodding and
smiling to any acquaintances that happened to appear. Mr. Cray had
made up his mind to marry Miss Caroline Davenal, and it was entirely
out of his creed to suppose that any insurmountable objection could
supervene.
"Mark," said Dr. Davenal, interrupting the gentleman as he was
flourishing his hand to somebody, "you must be aware that
circumstances render it imperative upon me to be more than commonly
watchful over the interests of Caroline."
"Do you think so? But, Dr. Davenal, I would be sure to make her happy.
I would spend my life in it: none would make her as happy as I."
"How do you know that?" asked Dr. Davenal.
A smile hovered on the young surgeon's lips. "Because she cares for
me, sir; and for none other in the wide world."
"I had thought--I had thought that another cared for her," returned
Dr. Davenal, speaking impulsively. "At least, a doubt of it has
sometimes crossed me."
Mark Cray opened his eyes widely in his astonishment. "Who?" he asked.
But Dr. Davenal did not satisfy him: not that he had any particular
motive for observing reticence on the point. "It is of no consequence.
I must have been mistaken," was all he said.
"You will not forbid her to me, sir?" pleaded Mr. Cray.
A spasm of pain passed across the face of Dr. Davenal; the words had
called up bitter recollections.
"So long as I live I shall never forbid a marriage to any over whom I
hold control," he said, in a tone of subdued anguish; and Mark Cray
knew where the sting had pointed, and wished in his good-nature he had
not put the question. "I will urge all reflection, caution, prudence
in my power to urge; but I will not forbid. Least of all have I a
right to do so by Caroline."
The younger man's face lighted up. "Then you will give her to me, Dr.
Davenal?"
"I give you no promise," was the doctor's answer. "I must have leisure
to reflect on this; it has taken me entirely by surprise. And I must
speak to Caroline. There's plenty of time. To marry yet would indeed
be premature."
"Premature!" echoed Mr. Cray.
"Premature in the extreme. A man who does not know how to wait for
good things, Mark, does not deserve them."
A lady, with a slow walk and pale face, turned in at the front gate.
It was patient the first. Dr. Davenal made no observation; he scarcely
saw her, so deeply had he plunged into thought. Mr. Cray, who stood
closer to the window than a doctor expecting patients generally does
stand, smiled and bowed.
"It is Mrs. Scott," he observed, as the knocker sounded. "She looks
very ill today."
Attentive Neal was heard to come forth instantly from his pantry, open
the door, and show the lady into the dining-room. Then he made his
appearance in his master's room.
"Mrs. Scott, sir!"
Instead of the "Show her in," as Neal expected, Dr. Davenal merely
nodded. Mr. Cray made a movement to depart, glancing as he did so, at
the very grave face of his senior partner.
"I have vexed you, sir!"
"I feel vexed in this first moment, Mark; I can't deny it," was the
candid answer. "It is not altogether that Caroline might have been
expected to do better; it is not exclusively that I think her
peculiarly unfitted for a making-shift life, or that with regard to
her I feel my responsibility is weighty: but it is a mixture of all
three."
"You consider, perhaps, I have done wrong to ask for her!"
"I consider you have done wrong to ask for her so prematurely. In your
place, I think I should have waited a little while, until
circumstances had been more propitious."
"And perhaps have lost Caroline!"
"Nay," said the doctor; "a girl that cannot wait, and be true while
she waits, is not worth a brass button."
He quitted the room as he spoke. At the risk of keeping his patients
waiting, he must find and question Caroline. His mind was not at ease.
Mr. Cray went out at the hall-door. Before Neal, who was on the
alert, had shut it, a carriage drove up to the gate, and stopped
with a clatter. A well-appointed close carriage, its servants in
claret-coloured livery, and its claret-coloured panels bearing the
insignia of England's baronetage--the bloody hand.
The footman leaped down for his orders. Mr. Cray, stepping across the
lawn, in too much haste to wind round it by means of the gravel-path,
held out his hand with a smile to its only inmate--a little, grey,
nervous-looking woman, in an old-fashioned purple silk dress.
"How are you today, Lady Oswald?"
And Neal, with his quiet, cat-like steps, had followed in the wake of
Mr. Cray, unseen by that gentleman, and stood behind him in his
respectful attention: there might be some message to carry in to his
master--leaving three patients, who had entered the gate together, to
show themselves in alone.