COMMOTION.
Meanwhile Dr. Davenal was walking along the streets of the town, lying
so calm, so still in the moonlight. Not with any hurried tread; rather
with a slow one. In his restlessness of mind, he had come out sooner
than he need have come; but bodily action is a relief to mental
anguish.
"Goodnight, doctor! or rather morning--for that's what it is."
The salutation came from one of the general practitioners of the town,
a hard-worked apothecary, whose business took him abroad a good deal
at night. He was hastening up a side street, near the town-hall, and
Dr. Davenal had not observed him.
"Ah, is it you, Smithson? A fine night, is it not?"
"All nights are pretty near the same to me," returned Mr. Smithson. "I
see too much of them. I wish folks would be so accommodating as to
choose the day to be ill in. I don't know who'd be one of us. It's not
often that we see you abroad at night, though, doctor?"
"Not often. We can't help it sometimes, you know. Goodnight."
They were bound different ways. The doctor had walked on his, when Mr.
Smithson came running back.
"Dr. Davenal, what _is_ the truth about Lady Oswald? I hear she's
dead."
"She is--unhappily."
"And the report going about is, that she died from the effects of
chloroform! Could not rally after inhaling it."
"Ah, it's a sad thing," replied the doctor; "a grievous thing. There's
the dark side in these new discoveries of our practice: sacrificing
the few while blessing the many. Goodnight, I say. I can't stop."
"It's true, then, that it was the chloroform?"
"Yes, it's true." Dr. Davenal increased his pace: he was in no mood
for questioning, and this in particular was painful to him. A short
while, and he stood before the Abbey, looking up at its windows. He
was sorry to disturb Mark, but he deemed it was necessary, and he rang
the night bell.
A new bell which Mark Cray had caused to be placed in the house since
he took it, and which rang himself up, not his household. Dr. Davenal
waited, but the ring was unanswered, and he rang again, with the like
result.
A third summons brought Mark to the window, which he threw up,
half-asleep still. "If that's the way you are going to let your night
applicants ring, Mark Cray, almost as good not put up the bell."
Mark Cray could scarcely believe his eyes when he saw who was the
speaker. "I was in a heavy sleep," he answered. "Did you ring more
than once?"
A heavy sleep! Truly Dr. Davenal marvelled at the words. He marvelled
that sleep could have visited Mark Cray that night, after his share in
its fatal work.
"What is the matter?" asked Mark. "Am I wanted?"
"It is I who want you," said the doctor. "I must say a word to you if
you'll come down. I am called out of town."
Mark attired himself sufficiently to descend, which he did in a state
of wonder. He had never received a night visit from Dr. Davenal; it
was quite out of the usual order of things, and he would about as soon
have expected to see a live kangaroo wait upon him. He opened the
front door, and they stepped into the large parlour.
"Who is ill?" inquired Mark. "Are you called out far?"
"I am going out on a little private business of my own. The train for
Merton will be through presently, and I shall take it. If"----
"Why did you not tell me last night?" interrupted Mark.
"Because I did not then know I should have to go. You must take my
patients for me. What I wished particularly to say to you was about
the inquest. They can't call it for tomorrow--that is, today--Monday;
but I think they are sure to hold it on Tuesday. If I am not back"----
"What inquest?" interrupted Mark, wonderingly.
"The inquest on Lady Oswald."
"My goodness! Do you think they'll get up an inquest over her?"
"Of course they will. What are you dreaming of? The remote cause of
her death was the accident to the train. I am not quite sure of being
back. I expect to be home on Tuesday morning early; but it is possible
I may be detained a little longer. If I am not back, Mark, you will be
the only witness--at least the only one who can speak to the facts of
the death. Let me advise you to say as little as possible. Volunteer
no information; answer their questions briefly; and don't get into a
long-winded narration, as you are apt to do, otherwise you may betray
yourself. You will not mistake me;" Dr. Davenal added. "I have always
been open, truthful, candid as the day; and if I so speak now it is in
your interest. I was thinking this over a great deal last evening
after I left you, and I see that it is essential for your good name in
your profession that the facts of the case should not be made known.
Do not suppose I advise you to a direct deviation from the truth;
nothing of the sort. 'Chloroform was exhibited with a view to lessen
her sufferings, and she never rallied from it,' is all you need say.
Similar cases are unhappily not unknown; I fear not very uncommon; and
the coroner will not be likely to exact minute particulars, or inquire
whether you gave it her, or whether I did. He will assume that we
acted in concert."
Mark Cray nodded. He was nervously and incessantly pushing back his
hair.
"I know how fond you are of talking," resumed Dr. Davenal, "therefore
I deemed it well to give you this caution. To tell you the truth, I
had rather not be at the inquest, and shall not be sorry if I can't
get back."
"Are you going away on purpose?" suddenly asked Mark, who was much
given to leap to conclusions.
"Certainly not. I am going on an important matter of my own. Look
here, Mark Cray: one good turn deserves another. It will be concluded
in the town that I am called to a patient at a long distance: as I
have been before, you know, and detained out two or three days. People
will be sure to think it now, and there's no necessity to undeceive
them. You will oblige me in this. I don't want the town to concern
itself with my private affairs: let people think I am with a patient.
They don't know to the contrary at home."
"I shan't say anything to the contrary," said Mark. "Let people think
what they will; they are a set of busybodies at the best."
Dr. Davenal departed. And Mr. Cray went back to his room, sleepy
still, but wondering in the midst of it what could have called away
the doctor suddenly to a distance. No letter could have arrived in the
middle of the night, Mark argued: and a suspicion crossed his mind
that he was, in spite of his denial, going away to avoid the inquest.
The doctor walked over to the station, there to await the train. He
had given this caution, as to Mark's testimony at the inquest,
entirely in his good feeling towards him, his solicitude for his
welfare. For himself, he did hope he should not be back for it.
Inconvenient questions might be asked, and he did not relish the idea
of standing up and avowing that he had so far helped on Lady Oswald's
death as to have joined in giving her the chloroform; he could not
avow it without testifying to a deliberate falsehood: yet he must do
it, or betray Mark Cray. But he had a matter of greater importance to
think of than the inquest: a matter that was weighing down his heart
with its dread. Of all the passengers that train contained, soon to be
whirling on its way to Merton, not one had the sickening care to
battle with that was distracting the flourishing and envied physician.
The first to enter the breakfast-room that morning at his residence
was his sister. The meal was always laid in the dining-room. Miss
Davenal wore her usual morning costume, a gown of that once
fashionable but nearly obsolete material called nankin--or nankeen, as
some spell it. It was not made up fashionably, but in the old scant
style, and it made Miss Davenal's tall spare form look taller and
sparer. She wore it for breakfast only, generally dressing for the day
as soon as the meal was over. Sara followed, in a flowing dress of
delicate sprigged muslin, and she took her seat at once at the
breakfast-table.
"Is your papa out of his room yet, do you know?"
"I have not seen him," replied Sara, a faint red tinging her pale face
at the half-evasive answer. Very pale she looked: ominously pale. Had
Miss Bettina been gifted with preternatural penetration, she might
have detected that some great dread was upon her.
But Miss Bettina was on that morning especially self-occupied. On the
previous Saturday Dr. Davenal had told her that certain country
friends were coming into Hallingham on that day, Monday, and he should
invite them to dinner; or else that he had invited them: in her
deafness she did not catch which. She had replied by asking him what
he would have for dinner, and he said they would settle all that on
Monday morning. Monday morning was now come; and Miss Bettina, a
punctilious housekeeper, choosing to have everything in order and to
treat visitors liberally, was on the fidget to make the arrangements,
and waited impatiently for Dr. Davenal Watton, a fidget also in the
domestic department, liking at any rate to get her orders in time, had
come in with Miss Davenal.
Miss Davenal rang the bell: an intimation to Neal that they were ready
for the coffee. She turned to the table, and the first thing that
struck her sharp eyes in its arrangements was, that only two breakfast
cups were on it.
"What is Neal thinking of this morning?" she exclaimed.
"I don't fancy my master is stirring yet," observed Watton. "I have
not heard him."
"Nonsense!" returned her mistress. "When did you ever know your master
not stirring at eight o'clock?"
"Not often, ma'am, it's true," was Watton's answer. "But it might
happen. I know he was disturbed in the night."
Sara glanced up with a half-frightened glance. She dropped her head
again, and began making scores on the cloth with her silver fork.
"It was the oddest thing," began Watton--and she was speaking in the
low clear tones which made every word distinct to Miss Davenal. "Last
night I was undressing with the blind up, without a candle, for the
moon was light as day, when I saw a man turn in at the gate, and I
said to myself, 'Here comes somebody bothering for master!' He made a
spring to the side, and crouched himself amid the laurels that skirt
the rails by the lane, and stopped there looking at the house. 'Very
strange!' I said to myself again; 'that's not the way sick folk's
messengers come in.' After a minute he walked on, brushing close to
the shrubs, afraid I suppose of being seen, and I heard him tap at the
window of the doctor's consulting-room. Ma'am, if ever I thought of a
robber in my life, I thought of one then, and if it hadn't been for my
presence of mind, I should have rose the house with my screams"----
"Be silent, Watton!" sharply interrupted Miss Davenal. "Look there!
You are frightening her to death."
She had extended her finger, pointing at Sara. Sara, her face more
like death than life, in its ghastly whiteness, was gazing at Watton,
her eyes strained, her lips apart, as one under the influence of some
great terror. Was she afraid of what might be coming? It looked so.
"There's nothing to be alarmed at, Miss Sara"----
"Don't tell it; don't tell it," gasped Sara, putting up her hands. "It
does frighten me."
"But indeed there is nothing to be frightened at, as you'll hear, Miss
Sara," persisted the woman. "It's a fact that I was a little
frightened myself; one does hear of housebreakers getting into houses
in so strange a manner; and I went out of my room and leaned over the
banisters and listened. It was all right, for I heard the doctor open
the hall door and take the man into his consulting-room, and shut
himself in with him. How long the man stopped, and who he was, I can't
tell; he did not go away while I was awake--but, ma'am, that's how I
know my master was disturbed in the night."
"Watton!"--and as Sara spoke her cheeks became crimson, her voice
imperative,--"do you deem it lies in your service here to watch the
movements of your master, and to comment upon them afterwards?"
The moment the words had left her lips she felt how unwise they were;
but she had so spoken in her perplexity, her soreness of heart. Watton
turned her eyes on her young mistress in sheer amazement.
"Watch my master's movements! Why, Miss Sara, you can't think I'd do
such a thing. I watched to--if I may so express it--protect my master;
to protect the house, lest harm should be meant it. Decent folk don't
come in at night as that man came in."
Neal had entered, and was disposing his eatables on the table. Miss
Davenal drew his attention to the shortness of the cups.
"It is quite right; ma'am. The doctor went out in the middle of the
night; at least about two in the morning; and he charged me to tell
you he should not be at home all day; perhaps not all night. Nobody is
to sit up for him."
"Where's he gone?" asked Miss Bettina.
Neal could not tell. His master had said he was going to a distance.
But Miss Bettina could not make it out at all, and she asked question
upon question. How had he gone?--the carriage was not out. Walked away
on foot, and said he was going to a distance, and might not be home
for a day and a night? It was the most mysterious, extraordinary
proceeding she ever heard of. "Did you see or hear anything of a
strange man coming in in the night?" she asked of Neal.
"No, ma'am," replied Neal, with his usual impassability. "I see my
master's bed has not been slept in; and he has taken an overcoat with
him."
Sara lifted her burning face. It was as one stricken with fever.
"Let it rest; let it rest, Aunt Bettina! Wait until papa is home, and
ask particulars of _him_. If patients require him at a distance, it is
his duty to go to them."
The last words were spoken defiantly; not at her aunt, but at the
servants. She felt on the very verge of desperation. What disastrous
consequences might not this proclamation of the night's work bring
forth!
"Let it rest!" retorted Miss Bettina. "Yes, that is what you young and
careless ones would like to do. Look at my position! The responsible
mistress of this house, and left at an uncertainty whether people are
coming to dinner or whether they are not. Your papa must have gone
clean out of his wits to go off and not leave word."
"You can fix upon a dinner as well as papa can, Aunt Bettina."
"Fix upon a dinner! It's not that. It is the not knowing whether
there's to be a dinner fixed upon; whether people are invited, or not,
to eat it."
When Miss Davenal was put out about domestic arrangements, it took a
great deal to put her in again. Neal and Watton were questioned and
cross-questioned as to the events of the night, and breakfast was got
over in a commotion. Sara shivered with a nameless fear, and wondered
whether that dreadful secret might not become known.
A secret which bore for Sara Davenal all the more terror from the fact
that she was but imperfectly acquainted with its nature. Dr. Davenal
had seen fit for certain reasons to call her down to his room, and she
had there seen the ominous visitor: but the particulars had been kept
from her. That there existed a secret, and a terrible one, which might
burst at any hour over their heads, bringing with it disgrace as well
as misery, she had been obliged to learn; but its precise nature she
was not told; was not allowed, it may be said, to guess at. Dr.
Davenal so far spared her. He spared her from the best of motives,
forgetting that suspense is, of all human pain, the worst to bear.
With the exception of what that little note told her, which she saw
lying inside her door when she rose in the morning, she knew nothing
of the motives of her father's journey; where he had gone, or why he
had gone. She only knew it was imperative that that night's visit to
the house should remain a secret, uncommented upon, unglanced at. And
now the servants knew of it--had seen the stranger come in--might talk
about it indoors and out! No wonder that Sara Davenal shivered!--that
she grew sick at heart!