A SPECIAL FAVOUR FOR NEAL.
The whole night subsequent to the meeting in the Abbey graveyard with
Oswald Cray, did Sara lie awake, striving to battle with her pain. It
was very sore to bear. She knew now the cause of his absenting
himself; and she knew that they were lost to each other for ever. It
is the worst pain that a woman can be called upon to endure; no
subsequent tribulation in life can equal its keen anguish.
Ten times in the night she prayed for help--for strength to support,
and live, through her mind's trouble. She did not pray that it might
be taken from her; that was hopeless; she knew that weeks and months
must elapse before even the first brunt would lose its force; that
years must roll on before tranquillity could come.
She did not blame Oswald Cray. She believed that that unhappy secret,
of the precise nature of which she was yet in ignorance, had become
known to him: how, she could not conjecture. Perhaps he knew it in all
its terrible details--and that these were terrible, she doubted less
now than ever. Were they not--ay, she fully believed it?--shortening
her father's life? What had been that awful word spoken by Oswald
Cray?--though she could not believe it to be so bad as that. But she
knew that it was something to bring disgrace and danger in its train;
and she fully justified Oswald Cray in the step he had taken. Still
she thought that he should have come to her in the first onset and
plainly said, "Such and such a thing has come to my knowledge, and
therefore we must part." He had not done this; he had left her for
weeks to the slow torture of suspense--and yet that very suspense was
more tolerable than the certainty now arrived at. Oh, the dull dead
pain that lay on her heart!--never for a long, long while to be lifted
from it.
She strove to reason calmly with herself; she essayed to mark out what
her future course should be. She knew that there was nothing at
present but to bear her burden and hide it from the world's eye; but
she would do her duty all the same, Heaven helping her, in all the
relations of life; she would strive nobly to take her full part in
life's battle, whatever the inward struggle.
There is no doubt that in that night of tribulation she looked at the
future in its very darkest aspect. It was well perhaps, that it should
be so, for the horizon might clear a little as she went on. That Mr.
Oswald Cray would in time marry, she had no right to doubt--a word or
two of his had almost seemed to hint at it: man forgets more easily
than woman.
Towards morning she dropped into a heavy sleep, and had slept longer
than usual. This caused her to be late in dressing, and brought upon
her the reproof of punctual Miss Bettina. She looked at herself in the
glass ere she went down; at her pale face, her heavy eyelids; hoping,
trusting they would escape observation. What a happy thing it is that
others cannot read our faces as we read them! Miss Bettina was at the
head of the breakfast-table. She was suffering from a cold; but, ill
or well, she was sure to be at her post and Dr. Davenal stood at the
fire, his elbow on the mantelpiece, his forehead leaning on his hand.
Sara went up to him, and he seemed to rouse himself from a reverie as
he kissed her. She noticed how ill he looked.
"Papa, I am sure you are worse!"
"I don't feel very well, child."
"If you would but stay at home for a day or two and nurse yourself!"
"Ah! I have not time. There's a great deal of sickness about, and my
patients must not be neglected."
"Mark Cray can attend to them."
"To the light cases he could. Not the serious ones; I wouldn't trust
them to him."
"Not trust them to him?" echoed Sara.
The surprised tone of the question aroused Dr. Davenal; he had spoken
out too heedlessly his real thoughts. "People dangerously ill have
naturally more confidence in me than in a young man," he said, by way
of doing away with the impression his avowal might make.
They took their places at the breakfast-table, neither of then able to
eat; the doctor from sickness of body, for he was really ill, Sara
from sickness of mind.
"Aunt Bettina, I tell papa he ought not to go out today."
"Not going out today?" repeated Miss Bettina. "Why not? What's he
going to do, then?"
"I say he ought not to go out. He is not well enough."
Miss Bettina heard this time. She raised her eyes and gazed at the
doctor. It was impossible not to see that he did look ill.
"What's the matter with you, Richard?"
"It is only my cold," said the doctor. "It has settled here," touching
his chest.
"That's just where mine is settling," grimly returned Aunt Bettina.
"Papa's eating nothing," said Sara.
"As if I could eat, with the skin off my throat and chest!" retorted
Miss Bettina, mistaking the words, as usual. "It seems that nobody's
eating this morning; you are not: we might as well not have had the
breakfast laid. Toast was made to be eaten, Miss Sara Davenal, not to
be wastefully crumbled into bits on the plate. I suppose _you_ have
not got a cold?"
Sara began to pick up the crumbs and the pieces, and to swallow them
as she best could. Anything to escape particular observation.
"I wonder how Mrs. Cray is this morning?" she presently observed,
having ransacked her brains for a subject to speak upon. Miss Bettina
heard all awry.
"Oswald Cray! Why should you wonder how he is? Is he ill?"
"I said Mrs. Cray, aunt;" and she would have given much to hide the
sharp bright blush that the other name brought to her face. "I told
you last evening Caroline was not well. I think you always mistake
what I say."
"No, I don't mistake. But you have got into a habit of speaking most
indistinctly. My belief is, you did say Oswald Cray. He is in town,"
fiercely added Miss Bettina, as if the fact strengthened her
proposition.
"Yes, he is in town," assented Sara, for her aunt was staring so very
fixedly at her that she felt herself obliged to say something. "At
least he was in town yesterday."
"Where did you see him, Sara?" asked the doctor.
"I met him as I was leaving the Abbey last evening, papa," she
replied, not daring to look up as she said it.
"I met him yesterday also," observed Dr. Davenal. "He was passing the
gate here just its I was about to step into the carriage. He is a
puzzle to me."
Miss Bettina bent her ear. "What's a puzzle to you, doctor?"
"Oswald Cray is. I had the very highest opinion of that man. I could
have answered for his being the soul of honour, one entirely above the
petty prejudices of the world in ordinary. But he has lost caste in my
eyes: has gone down nearly cent per cent."
"It's his pride that's in fault," cried Miss Bettina. "He's the
proudest man living, old Sir Philip of Thorndyke excepted."
"What has his pride to do with it?" returned the doctor. "I should say
rather his selfishness. He has chosen to take umbrage at Lady Oswald's
having left her money to me; and very foolish it was of her, poor
thing, to do it! But why he should visit his displeasure----"
"He has not taken umbrage at that, papa," interrupted Sara.
"Yes, he has," said Dr. Davenal. "I spoke to him yesterday of the
will, and he declined in the most abrupt manner to hear anything of
the matter. His tone in its haughty coldness was half-insulting. Why
he should have taken it up so cavalierly, I cannot conceive."
Sara remained silent. She did not again dare to dissent, lest Dr.
Davenal should question her more closely. Better let it rest at that;
far better let it be thought that Mr. Oswald Cray had taken umbrage at
the disposal of the property, than that the real truth should be
known.
"I suppose Oswald Cray felt hurt at not being left executor to the
will," sagely remarked Miss Bettina. "As to the money, I never will
believe that he, with his independent spirit, wanted that."
"He wants his independent spirit shaken out of him, if it is to show
itself in this offensive manner," was the doctor's severe remark.
"What did he say to you, Sara?"
"Say----?" she stammered, the remembrance of what had really been said
between them occurring startlingly to her.
Dr. Davenal noted the hesitating words, he noted the crimsoned cheeks;
and a doubt which had once before risen up within him, rose again now.
But he let it pass in silence.
"Does he intend to come here again, Sara?" asked Miss Bettina.
"I don't know, aunt," was poor Sara's answer. "I suppose he will come
again some time."
And in good truth she did suppose he would come again "some time,"
when the pain of their separation should have worn away.
Sara quitted her seat as she spoke, throwing down a fork with the
movement, and hastened to the window.
"What's the matter?" exclaimed Miss Bettina.
"It is the postman, aunt."
"The postman!" echoed Miss Bettina, sharply, wondering what possessed
her niece that morning. "If it is the postman, you need not fly from
the breakfast-table in that way, upsetting the things. Do you call
that manners?"
"O papa," cried Sara, turning round, unmindful of the reproof in her
flush of excitement, "I do think here are letters from Edward! Some
foreign mail must be in, for the man has an unusual number of letters
in his hand, and some of them look like foreign ones."
She turned from the window, and stood gazing at the room door. But no
letters appeared. The postman went out again with his quick step, and
Sara, feeling grievously disappointed, returned slowly to her seat.
"Is he gone?" presently asked the doctor.
"O yes, papa. He is half-way down the street by this time. He came, I
suppose, for one of the servants."
"He didn't ring."
"No. He seemed to go straight to your consulting-room window. Perhaps
Neal is there, putting the room to rights."
But Dr. Davenal did not rest so easily satisfied. He opened the door
and called down the passage in an imperative voice.
"Neal! Are there no letters?"
Neal came gliding into the room from his pantry, two letters in his
hand.
"Why did you not bring them in at once?" somewhat sternly asked the
doctor as he took them, certain past suspicions regarding Neal and
such missives arising forcibly to his mind.
"I was looking for my waiter, sir: I have mislaid it somewhere.
Oh, I left it here, I see."
The silver waiter was on a side-table; not at all where it ought to
be; as if it had been put down heedlessly and forgotten. Neal caught
it up and retired. It might have been as he said--that the delay was
caused by looking for it, and by that only; and Dr. Davenal, more
inclined to be charitable than suspicious, thought no more of the
matter.
In the keen disappointment which had come over him, he nearly lost
sight of other things. Neither of the two letters was from his son;
and he had so fully expected to hear from him by the present mail.
Sara's heart was beating. "Are they not from Edward, papa?"
The doctor shook his head as he laid the letters down. "They are both
from Dick, I expect His holiday letters." The two letters were
respectively addressed to Miss Davenal, and Miss Sara Davenal. The
address to Miss Davenal bore evident marks of care in the writing; it
was a clear, regular hand, though easily recognisable as a
schoolboy's. The address to Sara was a scrawl scarcely legible. Upon
opening the letter, hers, Sara found it beautifully written. Until she
came to its close she had no suspicion but that it was really written
to herself; she supposed it to be a sort of general holiday letter.
"My dear and respected Aunt and Relatives--
As the joyful epoch of Christmas approaches, marking the close of
another half-year, we feel how valuable is that time which the best of
us are only inclined to regard too lightly. Yet I hope it will be
found that I have not wholly wasted the share of it bestowed on me,
but have used it to the best of my power and abilities. When you
witness the progress made in each branch of my various studies, to
which I have earnestly and assiduously devoted my days and hours, I
trust that you will find cause to deem I have been no thoughtless
pupil, but have done my best to merit your favour and the approbation
of my masters. In Greek especially--which Dr. Keen saw fit to promote
me to at Midsummer--I flatter myself you will be satisfied with my
advancement: it is a delightful study.
"Deeply sensible of the inestimable value of the talents entrusted to
me, anxious that not one of them should lie fallow through fault of
mine, it has been my constant and earnest endeavour to improve them,
so that they may be turned to profitable use in the after-business of
life. By industry, by perseverance, and by unflagging attention I have
striven to progress, and I may say that it is with regret I part with
my beloved studies, even for a temporary period.
"I am desired to present Dr. Keen's compliments to you and my uncle,
and to convey to you the intelligence that our winter recess will
commence on the 16th of this month, on which day I and Leopold shall
hope to return to Hallingham, and to meet you in good health. Leopold
regrets sensibly that he will not be able this year to write you his
vacation letter: it is a great disappointment to him. He has had a
fester on the thumb of his right hand; it is getting better, but still
painful. He begs to offer his affectionate duty to yourself, my uncle,
Sara, and Mrs. Cray. And trusting you will accept the same from me,
"I am, my dear Aunt,
"Your most sincere and respectful Nephew,
"Richard John Davenal.
"Miss Davenal."
A smile stole across Sara's features at the wording of the letter, so
unlike Dick, and she turned over the envelope.
"Yes, 'Miss Sara Davenal!' Dick has made a mistake in the address. It
is written to you, Aunt Bettina?"
But Miss Bettina's eyes were glued to her own letter, which she hell
open before her. Her lips had drawn themselves in ominously.
"Is it the holiday letter, Sara?" asked the doctor.
"Yes, papa: Richard's. But it is not written to me."
Dr. Davenal took up the letter. Its writing, almost as beautiful as
copper-plate, was as easily read as a book: Master Richard must have
taken the greatest pains with it. Miss Davenal's was not so easily
read, for it seemed to have been dashed off with a skewer. She threw
it on the table in considerable temper when she came to its end, and
laid her hand solemnly upon it.
"Dr. Davenal, if you do not return this letter instantly to Dr. Keen,
I shall. It is a disgrace to have come out of any respectable school."
"Who is it from?" questioned the doctor in surprise.
"Who is it from?--from that wicked nephew of yours--Dick. And _you_ to
encourage him!" she added, directing her severe glance at Sara. "It is
meant, I suppose, for you." In point of fact, Master Dick Davenal had
misdirected his letters, sending his holiday letter to Sara, and one
intended exclusively for Sara's eyes to his aunt. Dr. Davenal, in some
curiosity, drew towards him the offending letter.
"Dear Old Girl,
"We come home the end of next week hurray! old Keen was for keeping us
till the week after and shouldn't we have turned rusty but its all
fixed now, the 16th is the joyful day and on the 15th we mean to have
a bonfire out of bounds and shouldnt we like to burn up all our books
in it you cant think how sick we are of them. Jopper says hed give all
Ime sure I would, I hate learning and that's the truth and I havent
tried to get on a bit for I know its of no use trying, Greak's horrid,
and our greak master is an awful stick and keeps us to it till we feel
fit to bufett him its the most hateful bothering languidge you can
imagine and I shall never master a line of it and if it werent for
cribs I should get a caneing everyday, latin was bad enougff, but
greak caps it. We all got into a row which I'll tell you about when I
come home and we had our Wensday and saturday holidays stoped for
three weeks, it was all threw the writing master a shokking sneek who
comes four days a week and found out something and took and told Keen
but we have served him out, we have had some good games this half
taking things together and if we could berry our books and never do
another lesson Keens house wouldnt be so bad, Leo and some more of us
were trying to wrench open farmer Clupps stable to get at his poney
when he ran a rusty nale into his thumb, old clupp was off to a cattle
fair by rail and we knew hed be none the wiser if we exercised the
poney up and down the common, and a jolly time of it I can tell you we
had only we couldnt find the sadle, well leos thum got bad and he
hasnt been abel to write for ever so long and hes uncomon glad of it
now for it saves him his holiday letter, had to write mine five times
over before it did and I nearly flung it in the fire before Keens
face, I never was so sick of anything in my life, its going to aunt
Bett this time Keen said it went to uncle Richard at midsummer, good
buy till next week darling Sara love to Carry and mind you get a jolly
lot of mince pies ready for us.
"Dick Davenal.
"p. s. hows old Betts deafness, its so cold we hope all the ponds will
be froze to ice tomorrow."
Dr. Davenal burst into a fit of laughter. The contrast between the
genuine letter of the boy and the formal one dictated by the master
was so rich. Miss Davenal's brow wore its heaviest frown: the letter
was bad enough altogether, but the insult to herself, the "old Bett,"
could not be forgiven.
"I'll have this letter sent back, Dr. Davenal."
"Tush, Bettina! Send it back, indeed! We were schoolboys and
schoolgirls ourselves once. Why, what's this?--here's the postman
coming in again! He must have omitted to leave all the letters." It
was even so. The postman by inadvertence had carried away a letter
addressed to the house, and had now come back with it.
But that mistake was a great piece of good luck for Neal; and in truth
its occurring on this morning was a singular coincidence. You will
agree with me in saying that it was quite a different sort of luck
from any deserved by Neal. Poor Dick Davenal's "sneek" of a
writing-master could not stand for honours beside the real sneak,
Neal.
Neal had not been at Dr. Davenal's window when the postman came in the
first time, as Sara had surmised; Neal was standing in his favourite
corner outside, amid the shrubs, having a mind to give himself an
airing. It was to this corner the postman had gone, and he delivered
three letters into his hands. Neal carried them to his pantry and
proceeded to examine the outside with his usual curiosity. Two of them
were those he subsequently carried into the breakfast-room; on the
third he saw the foreign postmark, and recognised the handwriting of
Captain Davenal. And, as Neal turned this about in his hand, he became
aware of a curious fact--that it was open. The envelope was not
fastened down. The captain's seal was upon it in wax, but it did not
serve to fasten it. Whether that young officer, who was given to
carelessness, had sealed it in this insecure manner, or whether it had
come open in the transit, was of no consequence: it was certainly not
closed now.
The temptation proved too strong for Mr. Neal. It happened that he had
a motive, a particular motive, apart from his ordinary curiosity, for
wishing to see the contents of this letter. He had chanced to overhear
a few words spoken between the doctor and his daughter some days
previously--words which Neal could, as he expressed himself, make
neither top nor tail of; but they referred to Captain Davenal, and
created the strongest possible wish in Neal's mind to take a peep at
the first letter that should arrive from the gallant officer. Neal had
not seen his way to do this at all clear; but it appeared now that
fortune had graciously dropped the means into his hands. And the
temptation was too strong to be resisted.
Hastily reasoning within himself (the best of us are too prone to
reason on our own side of the question, ignoring the other) that in
all probability the breakfast-room had not seen or heard the postman,
as the man had kept on _his_ side the garden, and had not rung the
door-bell, Neal risked it, and carefully drew the letter from the
envelope.
A small thin note, addressed to Miss Sara Davenal, dropped out of it.
Neal was too busy to pick it up; his eyes were feasting on the opening
words of Captain Davenal's letter to his father.
"Neal, are there no letters?"
The interrupting voice was the doctor's: and Neal, in an awful
fluster, popped the open letter and the thin one under a dish-cover.
There was no help for it; he might not delay; he dared not take the
letter in open. So he carried in the other two in his hand, having
looked in vain for his customary waiter.
It passed off well enough. Neal returned to the pantry, and finished
the perusal of the captain's letter. Then he refolded it, placed the
note, which he had _not_ opened, inside as before, and amended the
fastening with a modicum of sealing-wax, dropped artistically
underneath the old seal.
He was at his wit's end how to convey the letter to the doctor, so
that no suspicion might rest upon himself. Suppress it he dare not,
for the postman could have testified to its delivery when inquiries
were made. He was coming to the conclusion that the best way would be
to put it amidst the shrubs, as if he or the postman had dropped it,
and let somebody find it and convey it to Dr. Davenal, when the
postman's knock at the hall door aroused him.
"I don't know how I came to overlook this," said the man, handing in a
letter. "It had got slipped among the others somehow, and I didn't
find it till I was ever so far down the street." If ever Neal believed
in the descent of special favours from the clouds, he believed in it
then. The letter brought back by the postman was directed to Watton.
Neal carried it to his panty, deposited the other upon his silver
waiter, and took it to the breakfast-room.
"How's this?" cried the doctor.
"The letter-man carried it away with him, sir, by some mistake, he
says," answered Neal with a steady tongue and unflinching eye.
"Stupid fellow!" cried the doctor. But he spoke in a good-natured
tone. None, save he, knew how welcome a sight was the handwriting of
his son.
And when Neal carried down the breakfast-things he coolly told Watton
there was a letter for her lying in his pantry, which had come by the
morning post.
"You might have brought it down," was Watton's answer.
"So I might," civilly remarked Neal. "I laid it there and forgot it."