THE NIGHT VISITOR TO DR. DAVENAL.
The bedchamber of Sara Davenal was over the doctor's study, on the
opposite side of the landing to the drawing-room. It was not a large
room, but longer than it was wide, and the bed was placed at the far
end of the room--the back. The chamber behind it was larger, and
occupied by Miss Davenal. The room opposite Miss Davenal's, and behind
the drawing-room, had been the bedchamber of Dr. Davenal in his
wife's lifetime; since her death it had been kept as a spare room for
chance visitors.
Sara did not begin to undress immediately upon entering the room. She
put out the light, and sat down at the open window to indulge in a
little quiet thought: it was rather a habit of hers to do so when the
night was fine and she came up early. She liked to sit there and think
of many things, to glance up at the clear sky in the bright moonlight.
With all her practical good sense--and she had her full portion of
it--she was of a somewhat dreamy, imaginative temperament; and since
Richard's death she had grown to think more of that other home to
which he was gone, the same to which we are all hastening, than it is
perhaps usual for girls of Sara's age to think of it. As she had said
to Dr. Davenal in the afternoon, she would wonder whether Richard and
her lost mother--whom she but imperfectly remembered--could look down
upon her: she was fond of fancying that they were looking down upon
her: and she would lose herself in a maze of visionary imaginings.
Not on this night, however, did her thoughts turn to Richard. They
were full of Lady Oswald and her unhappy death. That this fatal
chloroform had been administered for the best, in accordance with Dr.
Davenal's experienced judgment, Sara assumed as a matter of course;
she never so much as thought of casting a doubt to it: but she knew
enough of him to be sure that the fatal termination would cause him to
repent of having given it--to blame himself bitterly, and she felt for
him to the very depth of her heart. An uncomfortable sensation, as if
her father had been guilty of some deliberate wrong, was pervading
her, and she could not shake it off.
It should be observed that although Sara sat close to the open window,
she was not liable to be seen by the passers-by in the street, did any
cast their eyes that way. A small stand or ledge had been constructed
round the window (a bay window, as was the one answering to it on the
other side, the drawing-room), and this was filled with pots in
flower. Geraniums of many species, fuchsias, heliotropes, heaths, wild
thyme, the fine flowering cactus, and many others, raised their heads
proudly, and formed a screen behind which Sara was securely sheltered
from observation, and also from the rays of the gas-lamp at the gate,
which otherwise would have lighted her up. So that, although she could
see out perfectly well, sitting as she now was, she could not be seen.
If she chose to stand at the window and lean out, her head was above
the flowers; but at the same time they entirely prevented her from
seeing anything immediately below her window. The ground for a yard or
two beyond Dr. Davenal's study window was as completely hidden from
her as though it had been a hundred miles off; and it is necessary to
mention this. The bedroom above Sara's, occupied by Watton the upper
maid, had a flat window, and its view underneath was in like manner
obstructed by the extending bow and the plants in it of Sara's. These
flowers at Miss Sara Davenal's window were quite the admiration of the
pedestrian portion of Hallingham, and many a one would halt at the
front railings to take a passing gaze at them. They were really
beautiful, and Sara took a pride in them and liked to tend them.
She liked to inhale their sweet perfume, as she was doing now, sweeter
and stronger in the night air than in the garish day. Perhaps the
heliotrope was of all the most powerful scent: and somehow that
heliotrope had become associated in her mind with Mr. Oswald Cray. She
could not have told why or wherefore; she had never attempted to
analyse the cause: she only knew that when she approached that window,
and the perfume of the heliotrope was wafted to her senses, the image
of Oswald Cray was, in like manner, by some mysterious instinct,
wafted to her mind.
Perhaps it did not require any extraneous aid to bring him to her
memory. He was already too securely seated there. For the last
twelvemonth, since Oswald Cray had become intimate at their house, her
love for him had been gradually growing into being: that subtle
understanding, never to be explained or accounted for, which draws
together two human hearts, and only those two, the one for the other,
of all the whole world, life finding life, had arisen between them.
Oswald Cray had never spoken or hinted at his feelings until the time
when Dr. Davenal honestly avowed to him that he had fancied he cared
for Caroline: that had brought forth the one word--and it was little
more--to Sara. But she had known it just as surely as though he had
spoken out all along.
Save for that shrinking reticence which would fain hide the secret, as
the modest snowdrop hides its head, and which must always accompany
the feeling if it be genuine, there was nothing to be ashamed of in
this love. It is true that it had become entwined with every fibre
of her heart, was a part and parcel of her very being. It would
perhaps have been impossible--at least, it would have been very
improbable--for Sara Davenal, with her right feeling, her powers of
discernment, which she possessed in a high degree, and her sound good
sense, to fall in love with an unworthy man. She could not have met
with a more worthy one than Oswald Cray. He had his faults--ay, who
has not?--but they were faults of what may be called a high order; not
mean, drivelling, scandalising faults, that abound in the world. Each
was suited and suitable to the other, in taste, in position, in moral
goodness: and their love had been given for aye; beyond the power of
circumstances or time to change. They might never be more to each than
they were now. Untoward fate might separate them; the world's bitter
tongues, expediency, the poison of misunderstanding; any one of these
separating causes might part them; Sara's unbending principle,
Oswald's wrong-headed pride--it was impossible to foretell: but of one
thing both might rest assured, that unto their dying day that love
could never be wholly extinguished in either heart, so as to give
place to another.
Somehow the thoughts of Sara Davenal had wandered from the painful
subject of Lady Oswald to this brighter one: wandered unwittingly,
against her will. She would not have _chosen_ to dwell upon her love
that sad night, or on the one sweet word of Oswald when he last parted
from her: but there it was, sounding in her ears and her heart: and
she lost herself in one of the sweetest reveries that ever maiden
pictured of the future.
Suddenly she was aroused from it. Not by any thought of poor Lady
Oswald, or of her father's sorrow, or of the minutes that were
hurrying on, or that it was time she prepared for bed; but by the
sight of some one coming in at the front gate. It was nothing unusual
for that gate to be invaded at night, by messengers summoning Dr.
Davenal to some urgent bed of sickness. But this intruder had
something peculiar about him, or about his movements, which attracted
her eye.
He was a tall man, wearing a cap and a grey Scotch plaid scarf. The
cap, which had a peak to it, appeared to be tied down over his ears,
and the scarf was worn in a droll fashion, one at least that Sara had
never seen in Hallingham. It was put lengthways over the shoulders, as
a lady puts on a scarf; it came down to the waist behind, and was held
very much up to the neck in front. Sara naturally looked at the man,
looked keenly with a view of distinguishing his features. In her
sympathy with the sick, she thought to learn, by him, who was ill that
night and wanted her father. But she was unable to do this, and the
first thought that struck upon her as curious was, that a man should
be so completely wrapped up on that genial night. The next curious
thing that struck her was--the man's movements.
He had come up to the gate with very quick steps--as messengers from
the sick often did come--opened it, and gave a sort of dart or spring
to his right, which brought him under the shade of the laurels and hid
him from the moonlight. There he stopped, reconnoitring the house, so
far as could be seen, but really it required a quick eye to
distinguish him at all from the dark shrubs. That was not precisely
the way in which night applicants came to Dr. Davenal's house; and
Sara, very much astonished, rose quietly from her seat, to see the
better.
He came on at last, creeping close to the shrubs, stooping under their
shade, until he gained Dr. Davenal's window. With all Sara's
endeavours to look, she there lost sight of him, because he was
beneath, but she heard a gentle tapping at the window. Not the quick
imperative noise of one in haste, demanding instant attention, but a
covert, stealthy tapping, which seemed afraid of being heard. More and
more astonished, Sara leaned out further; but she could not lean far
enough to see.
The window was opened instantly; therefore it was to be supposed that
Dr. Davenal had not retired from the room; that his light had probably
guided the stranger to apply at the window, instead of at the door.
The first sound, after the opening of the window, was a warning
hush-sh-sh-sh! but whether it came from the applicant or from her
father she could not tell. A short colloquy followed, only a word or
two in the most covert tones, and then Dr. Davenal went to the front
door and admitted the visitor. Sara sat down overwhelmed with
amazement.
Somebody else was overwhelmed with amazement unfortunately--or perhaps
the better word for _him_ would be curiosity--and that was Mr. Neal.
Neal had been a witness to it all. When it struck half-past ten--and
this mysterious visit occurred some five minutes subsequent to that
time--Dr. Davenal had opened his study door, called to Neal, and told
him to put the gas out. Which was equivalent to telling him to go to
bed: the putting out of the gas being the last service usually
required of Neal. Neal came forward and did as he was bid--he put out
the hall-lamp and any other burners that might be alight, with the
exception of the one in the doctor's study. Dr. Davenal always took
that upon himself, and he put out the burner as he spoke to Neal, and
lighted his candle for bed, no gas being laid on in the bedrooms.
Neal then went downstairs and turned the gas off at the main; so the
house was safe.
But Neal, as a matter of taste was not fond of retiring early. And
when he came up again, and had shut himself into his pantry, instead
of passing into his sleeping-room he blew out his candle, opened the
door on the side, and, dexterously avoiding contact with the shrubs,
he stole to the front. There he stood, amidst the shrubs, near the
doctor's window, with a view possibly of giving himself a little fresh
air.
He glanced at the window; the half-shutters were not drawn up, a thing
the doctor did himself the very last thing, and he could see the wax
candle on the table through the Venetian blinds. The upper shutters of
the window were closed; Neal always closed those when he lighted the
gas; but his orders were to leave the lower ones open. It was a fancy
of the doctor's the being able to take a look out at the street until
the last, if he chose to do so. The upper shutters being closed did
not prevent the window being opened at will. It is as well to give
these details, for this was an eventful night in the existence of Dr.
Davenal: and of others besides.
Neal could see the candle, and he could see his master. Dr. Davenal
was seated at the table, his head leaning on his hand. Whether he was
reading, or whether he had merely bent his head in thought, Neal could
not discern, but he thought he had never in his life seen a
countenance so troubled.
There was nothing in all that, however, to afford particular
gratification to Neal's curiosity, and he drew cautiously away from
the window, and turned his attention on the street. It was necessary
to be cautious, for the least stir of the shrubs would have been heard
by Dr. Davenal on that still night; sitting as he did with the window
a little open, his custom until he retired. Neal stood watching the
passers-by. Stay; watching _for_ any passers-by; but he had not seen
one yet. Sunday evening hours were early at Hallingham, and people
were mostly indoors and abed. Now, in point of fact, Neal had no
particular motive in stealing out and standing there; he was not
expecting any one or anything; but he had a habit of peering about him
a great deal more than most people have, and Neal rarely went finally
to rest without coming out to take a general glance round, and see
anything there might be to see.
Little did Neal anticipate the reward his curiosity was to receive
this night. He was taking a last look previous to retreating, thinking
it rather slow work standing there with nothing to see, not even a
passing passenger on that quiet Sunday night, when the man who had so
surprised Sara Davenal darted in at the gate. Neal strained his eyes
in a vain attempt to discover who it was, and backed into safe
quarters.
He heard the covert tapping at the window; he heard the warning hush
when the doctor opened it, and he could not say for certain, any more
than Sara could, which of the two it was who had given that warning
hush; and then after a short whispering, the purport of which he was
entirely unable to make out, the doctor's tones were a little raised:
"I will open the door for you."
The stranger made his way to the front door. Neal, in the swift,
unerring, covert manner which practice had rendered facile, stole back
to his pantry with incredible speed, and was in time to peep out of
it, and to see the visitor admitted.
But he gained nothing by his movement. The hall was in the dark: Dr.
Davenal had not brought his candle out, and Neal could not see more
than the very faintest outline of their forms. They passed into the
room in silence, and Neal heard the door closed quietly and
cautiously; another minute and the bolt was slipped. He took off his
shoes and stole on tiptoe in his stockings to the door, and put his
ear to it.
No, not a word could he hear. That door was a sound door, a
close-fitting one: Neal had tried it before in his life, and obtained
no more result than he was obtaining now. He made his way back through
the pantry to the window again, and there Neal could have groaned in
impotent rage had he dared, for Dr. Davenal had shut it.
But he had not closed the shutters. Neal, if it was any good to him,
could still get a glimpse in through the upright staves of the green
dwarf blinds. It was but a glimpse, for they were turned all but close
together, the one stave nearly lying on the other, and it did not
afford him satisfaction, for he could see neither Dr. Davenal nor his
visitor, who were seated at the side of the room close together where
the angle of view obtainable by Neal would not reach them. A very
faint hum of voices penetrated his ear, and he was not sure whether
that was not fancy. Their conversation was being carried on in the
lowest tones.
Unsatisfactory as was this result as a whole, Neal waited with
patience. Such men as Neal are always patient The clock struck eleven,
and the clock struck half-past eleven, and Neal was still there.
Then there occurred a change. Dr. Davenal rose from his seat and began
pacing the room. His whole face was working with agitation. Neal
caught a sight of it occasionally as he paced, and was struck by the
troubled expression, nay, by the _dread_ that pervaded it. Neal had
long ago made up his mind as to the purport of the visit--that it was
in some way connected with the catastrophe of the evening, the death
of Lady Oswald.
Suddenly Neal was startled. His nose was uncommonly close to the
window, and the window was abruptly raised; raised without the
slightest warning some half-dozen inches. Neal believed his nose was
off.
When he came to himself, which he really did not for a few minutes,
some words in a wailing tone were issuing from the lips of Dr.
Davenal. "Silence must be purchased at any price; at any price. If it
takes the whole of my fortune, I must purchase silence." Neal pricked
up his ears.
Dr. Davenal was walking still; the visitor, whoever he might be, never
moved from his seat. It was only when the doctor came near the window
that Neal caught an occasional word. "Yes, Lady Oswald herself. She
wished it," were the next words he heard, and then there was another
temporary lull.
"I am aware of that. Murder? yes, the world would look upon it as
such. I felt certain that Lady Oswald was one to whom chloroform, if
administered, would prove fatal. Heaven help me! What have I done that
the trials of this day should fall upon my head?"
Dr. Davenal was standing at the window as he said this, had halted
there with his voice close to Neal's face, and Neal's hair stood on
end as he heard it. From that moment the man believed--fully believed
in his inmost heart--that his master had purposely destroyed Lady
Oswald. Perhaps the belief, judging from these disconnected and
certainly ominous words, was excusable.
For a short while Neal heard no more. His master had halted opposite
the stranger and was talking fast, but nothing came to Neal but a
confused sound. Then he advanced again.
"I tell you it shall be done. If it costs every penny piece that I
have saved, this horrible secret must be bought up--if money will buy
it. I shall never know another happy moment: I shall live as with a
sword of disgrace hanging over me, ever expecting it to fall."
Some murmured words came from the stranger, and Neal stretched his ear
to its utmost tension. Whether in doing so he made the least noise,
touched the window, rustled the shrubs, he could not tell, but Dr.
Davenal turned and shut the window down as swiftly and suddenly as he
had put it up.
So, hearing was cut off. But Neal could see still--just a glimpse. He
saw Dr. Davenal go out of the room with the candle and bring back a
plate of biscuits and a decanter of wine. He knew he must have gone to
the dining-room sideboard for them. A wish crossed Neal's mind to go
indoors, make the excuse that he had heard his master stirring, and
dash into the study on the pretence of inquiring if he could do
anything. But he did not dare. Neal would have given a whole year's
wages to get one good look at the visitor. Presently all sight was cut
off. Barely had Dr. Davenal put down the decanter and biscuits than he
turned to the window and pulled up the shutters.
It was a checkmate for Neal. He went in and stood just outside his
pantry, hesitating whether to go close to the room door or not. A good
thing he did not, for Dr. Davenal came out almost immediately, and
went upstairs to his daughter's room.
Neal heard him knock at it very softly; he heard him ask in a whisper
whether she was in bed yet. That she was not in bed the immediate
opening of the door proved.
Dr. Davenal went in and closed the door. Neal could hear the murmur of
his voice, as if he were explaining something to his daughter, and
then they came down together, treading softly, not to arouse the
house. Neal could see that she was fully dressed, in the same silk she
had worn in the day. They went in, and the door was closed, and the
bolt slipped as before.
Ten minutes, and Sara came out again alone. Neal could tell who it was
by the rustling of the silk, but there was no light. She returned
upstairs to her room, but not before Neal thought he had caught the
sound of a sob.
The next to come forth was the visitor, without a candle still. Dr.
Davenal opened the hall door and let him out. Neal, with his quick
movements, glided round to his post of observation in the front
garden, and was just in time to see him go through the gate, the cap
drawn over his face, and the grey woollen scarf muffled around him.