AN INCLEMENT AFTERNOON.
December came in with a drizzling rain, which lasted a day or two. A
cold, bleak, windy rain, rendering outdoor life miserable. As Sara
Davenal sat at her chamber window, looking into the street, the
shivering and uncomfortable appearance presented by the few passers-by
might have excited her compassion.
But it did not. Truth to say, Sara Davenal had too much need of
compassion herself just now to waste it upon street passengers. The
greatest blight that can possibly fall upon the inward life of a woman
had fallen upon hers. Oswald Cray was faithless. She knew not how, she
knew not why; she only judged by his conduct that it must be so. He
had been two or three times to Hallingham, and had shunned her; had
shunned them altogether. There could be no better proof. One of the
visits he had remained three days; therefore he had not want of time
to plead as his excuse. He had called at the door, inquired for Miss
Davenal, and upon Neal's answering that Miss Davenal was out, he had
handed in cards. For Sara he had not asked at all, and he had not been
near the house since.
Sara could do nothing. She could only accept this change in him and
bear it in silence. Had she been asked to pin her faith on the truth
and honour of any living man, she would have pinned it on Oswald
Cray's. Not because she loved him, not because it was to her his
allegiance was certainly due, but because she believed him to be, of
all others, the very soul of chivalrous integrity. But that he had
changed to her there could not be a shadow of doubt: his conduct
proved it. He had silently broken off all relations with her, and
given no token of what his motive could be.
That some cause, just or unjust, had led to it, she yet did him the
justice to believe; he was the last man so to act from caprice, or
from a totally unworthy motive. And she knew he had loved her. In vain
she asked herself what this cause could be; but there were moments
when a doubt of whether the terrible secret, which had been imparted
that past night to Dr. Davenal, could have become known to Oswald
Cray. If so--why, then, in his high honour, his sensitive pride, he
had perhaps decided that she was no fit wife for him. And Sara could
not say that he had so decided unjustifiably. Whatever the cause, they
were separated.
They were separated. And the sunshine of her life was over. Oh, the
bitter anguish that it cost! There is no pain, no anguish, that this
world and its many troubles can bring, like unto it--the finding one
false, upon whom love, in all the freshness of its first feeling, has
been lavished. The bright green of life's verdure is gone; the rich
blue has faded from the wintry sky.
Sara said nothing, but the doctor spoke openly of the strange conduct
of Mr. Oswald Cray.
"I know nothing that can have offended him," he observed; "unless he
has chosen to take umbrage at the money's having been left to me."
"Nonsense," said Miss Davenal; "it's not that. Mr. Oswald Cray did not
want the money for himself; would not, it is said, have accepted it.
It is not that."
And "It is not that," echoed Sarah Davenal's heart.
"What else is it, then?" said the doctor. "Nobody in this house
has done anything to offend him. _You_ have not, I suppose,
Sara,"--suddenly turning upon her, as a faint doubt flashed into his
mind, never before admitted to it.
The question brought to her she knew not what of emotion. She answered
it with an outward appearance of calmness, save for the burning red
that dyed her face.
"Nothing, papa. The last time I spoke to Mr. Oswald Cray was the night
of the accident. We parted quite good friends--as we always had
parted."
And the sweet words whispered by Oswald rose up before her as she
spoke. What a contrast! that time and this!
"Just so," replied the doctor. "There has been nothing whatever to
cause this coolness on his part, except the business of the money.
Well, as I give it back to the family, perhaps my gentleman will come
round. Rely upon it, that pride of his has been touched in some manner
or other?"
But the weeks had gone on, and December was in, and the gentleman had
not "come round" yet. Sara Davenal sat at her bedroom window, all her
shivering misery only too palpably present to her, as she watched the
cold rain falling on the wet streets, in the gloomy twilight of the
afternoon.
She saw Roger bring the carriage round. She saw her father go out from
the house and step into it. It was the open carriage, but the head was
up, and Roger and his master were sheltered from the rain. It was not
the usual hour of Dr. Davenal's going out, but the bad day had kept
patients from calling on him, and a message had just been delivered
saying that a lady whom he attended, Mrs. Scott, was worse.
Sara heard the house clock strike four, and the lamps were already
lighted in the streets. Night was coming on earlier than usual. The
gleaming of the pools of water in the rays of the gas lamps did not
tend to add to the cheerfulness of the scene; and Sara, with a shiver
that she could not suppress, quitted her room and went downstairs.
The blaze and warmth of the dining-room, as seen through the open
door, was a welcome sight. She went in, and knelt down before the fire
on the hearth-rug, and laid her aching head for shelter against the
side of the marble mantlepiece, and stayed there until disturbed by
the entrance of Miss Davenal.
"Neal's come home," announced Miss Davenal.
"Is he?" apathetically answered Sara.
"I saw him go by with his portmanteau. What are you down there for,
Sara, roasting your face? Have you no regard for your complexion?"
"I am not roasting it, aunt. My face is quite in the shade."
"But you are roasting it. What's the use of telling me that? Had I
allowed the fire to burn my face at your age, do you suppose I should
have retained any delicacy of akin? Get up from the fire."
Sara rose wearily. She sat down in a chair opposite to the one her
aunt had taken, and let her hands fall listlessly in her lap.
"Have any patients been here this afternoon?"
"I think not, Aunt Bettina. I suppose it was too wet for them to come
out."
"Have you been drawing?"
"Not this gloomy day. I like a good light for it."
"It strikes me you have become very idle lately, Miss Sara Davenal! Do
you think that time was bestowed upon us to be wasted?"
A faint blush rose to Sara's cheek. In these, the early days of her
bitter sorrow, she feared she had been idle. What with the shock
brought upon her by that ominous secret, and the cruel pain caused by
the falsity of Oswald Cray, her tribulation had been well-nigh greater
than she could bear.
"Ring the bell," said Miss Davenal.
Sara rose from her chair and rang it. It was answered by Jessy.
"Tell Neal I shall be glad to see him."
Neal appeared in answer to the summons. His London journey had been
prolonged by the permission of the doctor, and he had but now
returned. In he came, just the same as usual, his white necktie
spotless, his black clothes without a crease.
"So you are back, Neal?" said Miss Davenal. "I am very glad to see you.
And pray have you arranged all your business satisfactorily?--secured
your share of the money?"
"Entirely so, thank you, ma'am," replied Neal, advancing nearer to his
mistress that he might be heard. "I am pleased to find all well at
home, ma'am."
"You have been away longer than you intended to be, Neal."
"Yes, ma'am. I wrote to my master stating why it was necessary that I
should, if possible, prolong my stay, and he kindly permitted it. I
saw Mr. Oswald Cray, ma'am, while I was in London," Neal added as a
gratuitous piece of information.
"You did what?" asked Miss Davenal, while Sara turned and stood with
her back to them, looking at the fire.
"I saw Mr. Oswald Cray, ma'am."
"Oh, indeed. And where did you see him?"
"I met him one night in London, ma'am. He was walking with a young
lady."
"Saw him walking at night with a young lady?" repeated Miss Bettina,
in rather a snappish tone; for as a general rule she did not approve
of young ladies and gentlemen walking together, especially at night.
"She seemed a very nice young lady, ma'am, young and pretty,"
continued Neal, who was getting a little exasperated at the face at
Miss Sara Davenal being hidden from his view. "I believe it was Miss
Allister, the sister of a gentleman with whom Mr. Oswald Cray is very
intimate."
"Well, I am glad you are back, Neal," concluded Miss Davenal. "Things
have gone all at sixes and sevens without you."
Neal retired. And Sara, in her still attitude before the fire,
repeated the words over and over again to her beating heart. A lady
young and pretty! walking with him in the evening hours--the sister of
the friend with whom he was so intimate! She laid her hand upon her
bosom, if that might still the tumult within, in all the sickness of
incipient jealousy. Until that moment Sara Davenal had never known how
she had clung to hope in her heart of hearts. While saying to herself,
He is lost to me for ever, this undercurrent of hope had been ever
ready to breathe a whisper that the cloud might some time be cleared
up, that he might return. Now the scales were rudely torn from her
eyes, and reason suggested that his slighting treatment of her might
proceed from a different cause than any she had ever glanced at.
"What was it Neal said, Sara? That the pretty lady walking with Oswald
Cray was somebody's sister?"
Sara turned in her pain to answer her aunt. "Mr. Allister's sister, he
said."
"Who's Mr. Allister?"
"A sick gentleman who used to be at Bracknell and Street's. I remember
that night of the railway accident Mr. Oswald Cray was obliged to
return to town because he had promised to spend--to spend the Sunday
with him."
An idea darting into her brain had caused her to hesitate. Had Oswald
Cray's anxiety to return to town been prompted by the wish to be with
the sister as well as the brother? Sara felt her brow turn moist and
cold.
"Young and pretty!" repeated Miss Davenal. "Who knows but they may be
engaged? Ah! it's Caroline who should have had Oswald Cray."
Meanwhile Dr. Davenal had been driven to the house of Mrs. Scott. It
was not very far from his own home, about two streets only. Time had
been, and not so far back, when Dr. Davenal would not have thought of
ordering his carriage for so short a distance, would have braved the
inclemencies of the weather, the drifting rain, the cutting wind, and
walked it. But the doctor had been growing ill both in body and mind;
since the night of that fatal revelation, whatever it may have been,
he seemed to have become in feelings like an old man, needing all the
care and help of one. As he had looked from his window that afternoon,
a sort of shudder at the outdoor weather came over him; a feeling as
if he could not and ought not to venture out in it. And he told Roger
to bring round the carriage.
He stepped out of the carriage and entered Mrs. Scott's, leaving Roger
snugly ensconced under the shelter of the head and the horses steaming
in the rain. But when the doctor reached his patient's bed, he found
her so considerably and alarmingly worse that he could not yet think
of leaving her. She was a great and real sufferer; not as poor Lady
Oswald had been, an imaginary one; and in the last week or two her
symptoms had assumed a dangerous character. The doctor thought of
Roger and his horses, and went down.
"I shall not be ready to come home this hour, Roger. Better go back
and put the horses up. You can come for me at five." So Roger, nothing
loth, turned his horses round and went home. And Dr. Davenal, with
another shudder, and a very perceptible one, hastened indoors from the
beating rain.
"What's the matter with me this afternoon?" he asked, half angry that
any such sort of sensation should come over him.
Is the body at times more sensitive to outward influences than it is
at others, rendering it susceptible to take any ill that may be
abroad? Is it more liable to cold, to fever, to other ailments? Or can
it be that the mind has so great an influence over the body that the
very fact of dreading these ills predisposes us to take them? If ever
Dr. Davenal sensibly shrank from an encounter with the outdoor
weather, it was on that afternoon. He could not remember so to have
shrunk from it in all his life.
Mrs. Scott's room was hot. The fire was large, every breath of air
excluded, and two large gas-burners flamed away, adding to the heat.
As Dr. Davenal sat there he became first at ease in the genial warmth,
then hot, and subsequently as moist as though he were breathing the
atmosphere of a baker's oven. He had had many a battle with this same
Mrs. Scott over the heated rooms she loved to indulge in, but he had
not conquered yet.
It was not much above half-past four when the doctor was beckoned out
of the room. He was wanted downstairs. There stood Julius Wild, and
Mr. Julius Wild was in as white a heat with running as Dr. Davenal was
with that pernicious atmosphere above.
"I have been about everywhere, sir, trying to find you," he began out
of breath. "At last I bethought myself of asking your coachman at the
stables if he knew, and he said you were at Mrs. Scott's. You are
wanted in the accident-ward, sir, as quick as you can get there."
"What has come in?" inquired Dr. Davenal.
"A young man fell on his head from the very top of that scaffolding in
High Street, sir. It is a dreadful case, and the house-surgeon does
not think he can be saved, even with the operation. The top of the
head is crushed in. Mr. Berry and Dr. Ford and some more are there,
but they wish for you." Dr. Davenal did not delay a moment. In a case
of real necessity he threw aside all thought of precaution for
himself. If human skill could save the life of this poor young man, he
knew that his could, and he knew that perhaps his was the only hand in
Hallingham which could successfully carry through the critical and
delicate operation he suspected must be performed.
He had no greatcoat with him, and he started off at once with Julius
Wild, heated as he was. The rain beat against him in a torrent, for it
poured now; the wind whirled itself in eddies about his person. No
umbrella could live in it; one which the doctor had borrowed from the
hall of Mrs. Scott was turned inside out ere he had taken many steps.
"A rough night, sir," remarked the young embryo surgeon, as he kept by
his side.
"It is that," said Dr. Davenal.
Away they splashed through the muddy pools in the streets. It was
quite dark now, with the unusually gloomy evening, and the gas lamps
only served to mislead their eyesight in the haste they had to make.
There could be no waiting to pick the way. The Infirmary was at a
considerable distance from Mrs. Scott's, and ere they reached it the
cold had struck to one of them. The one was not Julius Wild.
When they came in view of the Infirmary, Julius Wild ran forward to
give notice that the doctor was approaching. Two or three of the
medical men were in the great hall looking out for him; Mark Cray was
one of them. The news of the accident had travelled in the town, and
the surgeons attached to the Infirmary were collecting there.
"We began to despair of you," cried Dr. Ford, "and there's no time to
be lost. I was just recommending Mr. Cray to be the one to officiate."
Dr. Davenal turned his eye with an eagle glance on Mark Cray ere the
words had well left Dr. Ford's lips. The look, the warning conveyed in
it, was involuntary. Had Mark actually acceded to the recommendation,
the look could scarcely have been sterner. Mark coloured under it, and
his thoughts went back to Lady Oswald. Never, in Dr. Davenal's
presence, must he attempt to try his skill again.