EDWARD DAVENAL.
It was a charming evening in the month of October. The heat of summer
was over, the cool calm autumn reign ad in all its loveliness. Never
had the sun set more brilliantly than it was setting now; never did it
give token of a finer day for the morrow; and that morrow was to be
Caroline Davenal's wedding-day.
Persuasion and promises had proved stronger than Dr. Davenal and
prudence, and he had consented to the early marriage, it may be said
reluctantly. He had urged upon them the verb to wait: but neither of
them appeared inclined to conjugate it; Caroline especially, strange
as it may seem to have to say it, had turned a deaf ear. So the doctor
had yielded, and the plans and projects for the carrying the wedding
out were set on foot.
Dr. Davenal had behaved generously. He increased Mark Cray's share to
four hundred a-year, and he gave them a cheque for three hundred
pounds for furniture. "You must be content to have things at the
beginning in a plain way, if you must be in a hurry," he said to them;
"when you get on you can add costly furniture by degrees." Miss
Bettina would not give anything. Not a penny-piece. "No," she said to
Caroline; "you are flying in the face of wiser heads than yours, and I
will not encourage it. If you don't mind, you'll come to grief."
Caroline laughed at the "coming to grief." Perhaps not without cause.
Were they but commonly prudent there would be little fear of it. Four
hundred a-year to begin upon, and a great deal more in prospective,
was what many and many a couple beginning life might have envied. Even
Dr. Davenal began to think he had been over-cautious. It might have
been better to wait a year or two, but they would do well as it was,
if they chose. If they chose! it all lay in that. Perhaps what made
people think of imprudence in their case was, that both had been
reared to enjoy a much larger income.
Those prudential fears and scruples were over, however; they belonged
to the past; nobody retained them in the actual face of preparation.
When Mark Cray was looking out for a house, the Abbey, yet untenanted,
occurred to him. It had been his father's residence; it carried a
certain weight of position with it; and he thought it would be well
that it should be his. Dr. Davenal acquiesced: it was certainly rather
farther from his own residence than was convenient; and it was at the
opposite end of the town; but that fact might have its advantages as
well as its disadvantages: and Mark took the Abbey at a yearly rental.
How busy they had been, furnishing it and getting the wedding clothes
ready, they alone could tell! In this bustle, in the satisfaction of
buying the new furniture, and settling it in its appointed places, the
old prudent objections, I say, were lost sight of; completely
forgotten. Miss Bettina thawed so far as to go down two whole days to
the Abbey, and superintend; and she read Caroline lessons on domestic
management and economy from morning until night.
Oswald Cray had delicately placed a fifty-pound note in his brother's
hands. "Present-giving at these times seems to be the order of the
day, Mark," he carelessly said. "If you and Caroline will choose
something for yourselves, and save me the trouble, I shall be glad.
You know more about dressing-cases and work-boxes than I do."
Altogether, the Abbey,--what with the purchased furniture, and a few
pretty things that went down out of Dr. Davenal's house,--was quite
sufficiently well set up.
And now it was the evening preceding the wedding, and the house was in
a commotion of preparation. Servants were running hither and thither;
Miss Bettina, with her sharp voice and her deaf ears, was everywhere,
creating no end of mistakes; the breakfast-table was being laid out;
Sara was quietly helping Jessy to pack her cousin's travelling trunk;
and Caroline, useless as usual, was going into ecstasies over a
present which had just come in.
It was from Lady Oswald. A handsome tea and coffee-pot with their
stands, sugar-basin and cream-jug, all of solid silver. Caroline ran
round the house to get admirers to view it, and ran into the room of
Dr. Davenal.
Neal was coming out as she entered, a waiter in his hand, therefore it
was evident he had been bearing something to his master. Dr. Davenal
stood before the window looking at an unopened note.
"O uncle, do come and see! It is the best present I have had: a silver
tea-service. I did not expect anything like it from Lady Oswald."
"Presently, child. All in good time."
He laid down the note on the table, as he spoke, not having opened it.
Caroline thought his tone and countenance were alike sad.
"Has anything vexed you, Uncle Richard?"
"A little, Carine. When one waits for the sight of a dear face, and
the hours go by in expectation, hour after hour, from the opening of
the day to its close, the disappointment brings a chill."
Caroline wondered. She did not understand that longing waiting yet.
"Do you allude to Edward, Uncle Richard?"
Whom else should he allude to? Since Richard's death, Edward Davenal
had grown dearer than ever son did to father. Dr. Davenal could
willingly have laid down his life for him, and thought it no
sacrifice. Ah! if these sons and daughters could but realise this
precious love that is lavished on them in all its strange intensity!
"Aunt Bettina's vexed that he is not here. She says it will be putting
the dinner off."
"We are too impatient, Caroline. I daresay he could not get here
sooner. Here's Mark," added the doctor.
Dr. Davenal's carriage was drawing up to the gate. The doctor had
despatched Mark in it that afternoon to see a country patient: he
waited at home for his son. Roger looked to the house as Mr. Cray got
out, wondering whether the carriage was wanted again, or whether he
might drive it round to the coach-house. Dr. Davenal raised his hand
by way of signal, and was hastening out.
"_Won't_ you come and see my teapot and things, Uncle Richard?" cried
Caroline, piteously.
"When I come back, Carine. The teapot can wait."
"And there's that note on the table," she said, resenting the slight
on the teapot. "You have never opened it."
"That can wait too. I know what it is." The doctor walked quickly on,
and Caroline followed him to the front door. Mark was coming in.
"Is the London train in, Mark?--did you notice as you came by? There's
one due."
"I did not notice," replied Mark. "I don't much think it is in. I saw
no bustle."
Dr. Davenal stepped into the carriage. "Turn round, Roger. The railway
station."
The whistle was sounding as they drew near, and Roger whipped up his
steeds. The doctor stepped on to the platform as the train dashed
in. He elbowed his way amidst the crowd, trying to peer into every
first-class carriage.
"Edward!"
"My dear father!"
Captain Davenal leaped lightly out--an upright, slender man, with the
unmistakable look of the soldier; a dark, handsome face, and a free
and ready voice.
"I have been looking for you all day, Ned."
"Not up here, surely?"
Dr. Davenal laughed. "Not likely. I just happened to come up now; so
it's all right. You have some luggage, I suppose?"
"A portmanteau. My servant's here."
"Good evening, Dr. Davenal. Ah, captain! how are you?"
The salutation came from a passenger who had likewise stepped out of a
first-class compartment. They turned to behold Oswald Cray.
"Why! you don't mean to say that you have come by this train?" cried
Captain Davenal, in his quick manner.
"Yes I have. And you?"
"I have come by it, too. Where were our eyes, I wonder?"
"In our own compartment, I expect," said Oswald Cray. "I was at the
end of the train, and did not get out during the journey."
"Neither did I. The same errand brings us, I suppose--Caroline's
wedding? It's fine to be Mark Cray! You and I must wait for our
honours: we can't afford these grand doings yet."
Dr. Davenal looked at his son. "If you can't afford them now Ned, when
are you to afford them?"
Captain Davenal's answer was to shrug his shoulders. "There may come
in a great rich ship some day," he said, with his ready laugh. "Are
you going that way, Mr. Oswald Cray? We shall see you by and by."
All the pride and affection of the father shone out in Dr. Davenal's
face as he passed through the town, sitting by the side of his brave
son, who was in Roger's place, and drove. A hundred hats were taken
off; a hundred pleased faces greeted them. The doctor remained
passive, save for smiles; but Captain Davenal's gay face was turned
from side to side, in answer to the salutations, and he had something
else to do besides attending to his horses.
"Take care, Ned."
"All right, sir," was the young officer's careless answer. But he
escaped the wheel of a meeting carriage by only half an inch; and
Roger, seated behind, said to himself that the captain had not yet
grown out of his randomness.
He pulled the horses up with a jerk when they arrived, leaped out, and
turned to give his hand to his father. Neal had the door open, and
Edward Davenal passed him with a nod and a fleet foot, for he saw his
sister's face behind, bright with joyous tears. He kissed them away.
"Sara, you foolish child! Keep the tears until I go again."
"When will that be, Edward?"
"Tomorrow evening. Hush!" he whispered, checking her startled
exclamation. "Let me take my own time for telling papa. I know he will
be vexed."
"We thought you would stay a week at least."
"I wish I could! Leave is difficult to get at all just now, on account
of---- I'll tell you more later, Sara."
Miss Bettina Davenal was at hand, waiting for her greeting. In the old
days of his boyhood, she and he were undisguised enemies. The boy was
high-spirited and rude to her, ten times worse than poor Richard: he
had been the first to call her Aunt Bett, and to persist in it, in
spite of her angry displeasure. He called it her still.
"Well, Aunt Bett! You are looking younger than ever."
"Are you quite well, Nephew Edward?"
"In high feather, aunt. And mean to keep so until the wedding's over.
When is yours to be, Aunt Bett?"
"Tomorrow at eleven," was Aunt Bett's unconscious answer. "And right
glad I shall be when it has taken place."
The shout of laughter vexed Miss Davenal; she wondered what the
mistake was. But the captain turned away, for Caroline was stealing
towards them with conscious cheeks, and the new silver teapot in her
hand.
"It was unkind of you not to come before, Edward," she said. "Some of
my beautiful new dresses are packed up now, and you can't see them."
"I shan't die of the disappointment, Carry," was the ungallant
rejoinder of the captain. "What's that you are carrying? A trophy?"
"It's a teapot. It is part of Lady Oswald's present. Her's is the best
of all, and I have had so many. Come and look at them: they are laid
out in the garden-room."
"So many teapots?" inquired the captain.
"Nonsense, Edward! You know I meant presents."
He drew something covertly from his pocket, and clasped it on her
neck. It was a dazzling necklace. Caroline, loving ornaments
excessively, was wild with delight.
"O Edward! how kind you are! I never liked you as much as I do now."
"Candid!" cried the captain: and Dr. Davenal laughed outright as he
walked away to his consulting-room.
His son followed him. The doctor had taken up the note which he had
left on the table, and was about to open it when something strange in
its appearance struck upon his eye. He carried it to the window and
looked minutely at its fastening, at the claret-coloured crest stamped
in the envelope, that of the Oswald family.
"Edward," said he, "does it look to you as if this envelope had been
tampered with--opened, in fact?"
Captain Davenal examined the fastening. It was quite daylight still,
though less bright than before the sun went down. "There's not a doubt
of it, in my opinion," he said, handing the note back to his father.
"It's very strange," exclaimed the doctor. "Do you know, it has
occurred to me lately to think that two or three of my letters have
been opened."
"By their appearance?"
"By their appearance. But I could not be certain how or when it was
done. For aught I know, they might have been reopened by their writers
before forwarding them to me. I do feel, however, sure that this one
has been tampered with since it lay here. It came by the same
messenger that brought Caroline's present, and Neal brought it in to
me. I was deep in thought at the time, and I turned it about in my
fingers, looking at it, but not opening it. I knew what its contents
were--that they concerned a little matter Lady Oswald had to write to
me upon--and I did not open it, but went to the station, leaving it on
the table. Now I am fully certain that that appearance of reopening
was not on it then."
"Who can have opened it, then?" quickly cried Captain Davenal.
"Neal."
"Neal!"
"Neal--as I suspect."
"But I thought Neal was so faithful a man--so good a servant
altogether!"
"An excellent servant, though I have never liked him. And latterly I
have suspected the man's truth and honesty. I don't mean his honesty
in regard to goods and chattels, but in regard to his own nature. If
my letters have been opened, rely upon it, it is he who has done it."
"Have you spoken to him?"
"No. I shall speak now, though."
Dr. Davenal rang the bell, and Neal appeared. So calm, so quietly
unconcerned!--not in the least like a man who has just tampered with
his master's letters.
"Come forward, Neal. Shut the door for a minute. When I went out just
now I left this note on the table--the one you brought in to me from
Lady Oswald's servant I did not open it before I went out;--but it
looks to me as if it had been opened since, and closed up again."
Dr. Davenal spoke in a quiet tone. Neal, entirely unruffled, save by a
slight natural surprise, stepped close up to the table, and looked
first at Dr. Davenal and then at the note, which, however, the doctor
did not particularly show to him.
"I should think not, sir. There has been no one here to open it."
"That it has been opened I feel certain. Who has been in the room?"
"Not any one, sir," replied Neal. "It has not been entered, so far as
I know, since you left it."
There was nothing more to be said, and Dr. Davenal signed to him to
go. "I could not accuse him downright," he remarked to his son; "but
enough has been said to put him on his guard not to attempt such a
thing again."
"He does not look like a guilty man," cried Captain Davenal. "It is
next to impossible to suspect Neal of such a thing. He is too--too--I
was going to say too much of a gentlemen," broke off Captain Davenal,
laughing at his own words. "At any rate, too respectable. His manner
betrayed nothing of guilt--nothing of cognisance of the affair. I
watched him narrowly."
"True; it did not. He is an innocent man, Ned, or else a finished
hypocrite. Of course I may be wrong in my suspicions: honestly to
confess it, I have no cause to suspect Neal, beyond the powerful
feeling in my mind that he's not to be trusted--a feeling for which I
have never been able to account, although it has been upon me since
the first day I engaged him."
"We do take up prejudices without knowing why," remarked Captain
Davenal. "I suppose sometimes they are false ones.--Here's Neal coming
in again."
"I beg your pardon, sir, for having so positively assured you that no
one had been in your room," he said, addressing his master. "I
remember now that Mr. Cray entered it. I did not think of it, sir, at
the moment you questioned me."
"If he did, he'd not touch the letter," said Dr. Davenal.
"Certainly not, sir. But I thought it right to come and mention to you
that he had been in."
Neal withdrew, and Captain Davenal looked at his father. "The man
seems quite honest in the matter. I think this is an additional proof
of it. Had he opened the letter himself he would not have forgotten
that another person had been in the room."
Very soon Neal appeared again. This time it was to say that dinner was
served. Dr. Davenal nodded to him to close the door; he and his son
were deep in conversation.
Ten minutes elapsed before they came out. Miss Bettina fidgeted and
grumbled, but it did not bring them; and when they did come, the
doctor had a strange cloud upon his brow. Edward also, or else Sara
fancied it; but he grew merry as the dinner advanced, joking and
laughing with every one.
She took the opportunity of speaking to him after dinner. He went out
on the lawn at the back to smoke his cigar in the starlight, and Sara
stole after him. He threw his arm round her, and they paced the gravel
walk.
"Were you telling papa before dinner that you should have to leave
tomorrow?" she asked.
"I was telling him worse than that, my little sister."
"Worse?"
"You loving ones at home will think it so. You will, Sara. And my
father--it's a blow to my father."
Sara Davenal's heart was beating against her side; a thousand
improbabilities rushed into her brain. "Tell it me, Edward," she said,
very calmly. Sometimes, in moments of agitation, she could be calm,
almost unnaturally so, outwardly. It is frequently the case with those
who feel the deepest.
"The regiment's ordered abroad."
"O Edward!"
For a few minutes neither spoke again. Sara's greatest thought was for
her father. She seemed to have divined how cruelly Dr. Davenal felt
the separation from his sons; Richard dead, Edward in London with his
regiment. If he had to go abroad to remote countries, thousands of
miles away--why, almost as good that he had died. They should feel it
so.
"And that explains why I could not get a long leave," he resumed.
"There's so much of preparation to be made; and we officers have to
look to everything, for the men as well as for ourselves. We sail in a
week or two."
They paced on in silence. Captain Davenal suddenly looked down at her,
and detected tears.
"Don't grieve, child. I am but a worthless sort of brother, after
all--never with you. Perhaps I shall come back a better one."
"Edward, can't you sell out?"
"Sell out!" he exclaimed, in astonishment. "Sell out because we are
ordered on active service. You are a brave soldier's sister, Miss Sara
Davenal!"
"Some time ago, when there was a question of the regiment's going out,
you were to have exchanged into another, and remained at home, Edward.
It was just after Richard's death, I remember. Can you not do that
now?"
"No, I cannot. I can neither sell out nor exchange. It is impossible."
There was so much grave meaning in his tone that Sara looked up
involuntarily. He laughed at her earnest face.
"O Edward! _must_ you go!"
"There's no help for it. We go to Malta first. India--as we
suppose--afterwards."
"Papa may be dead before you return."
"No, no! I trust not."
"It will be as though he had no children!" she exclaimed, almost
passionately, in her love for her father, in her grief. "Richard dead;
you gone: he will have none left."
"He will have you, Sara."
"I! Who am I?"
"The best of us. You have given him no grief in all your life; I and
poor Dick have: plenty. It is best as it is, Sara."
She could scarcely speak for the sobs that were rising. She strove
bravely to beat them down, for Sara Davenal's was an undemonstrative
nature, and could not bear that its signs of emotion should be
betrayed outwardly. She loved her brother greatly; even the more, as
the doctor did, for the loss of Richard; and this going abroad for an
indefinite period, perhaps for ever, rang in her ears as the very
knell of hope. He might never return: he might go away, as Richard
had, only to die.
How long they continued to pace that walk underneath the privet-hedge,
which skirted and hid the narrow side path leading from the house to
the stables, Sara scarcely knew. Captain Davenal spoke little; he
seemed buried in thought: Sara could not speak at all; her heart was
full. Rarely had the night's brilliant stars looked down on a sadness
deeper felt than was that of Sara Davenal.
"You will come down again to take leave of us?" she asked, after a
while.
"Of course I shall."