SORROW.
To describe the sorrow, the consternation that fell on all Hallingham
in the loss of Dr. Davenal, would be a fruitless task. People could
not believe that he was really dead. It had been asserted that the
danger was past, and he was getting better rapidly. They looked at
each other in a bewildered sort of way, and asked what he had died of?
Of a neglected cold, was the answer of those who knew best, or
supposed they knew--the medical body of Hallingham. And indeed there
was little doubt that they were correct: the immediate malady which
had deprived the town of that valuable life was a very simple thing--a
cold, neglected at the onset.
Sara Davenal was stunned: stunned with the weight of the calamity,
with the grief it brought. And yet it probably fell upon her with less
startling intensity than it would have done had she been in the full
suntide of prosperity. She had been recently living in nothing but
sorrow. The grief and terror brought to her by that night's unhappy
secret (which you now know was connected with her brother), had been
succeeded by the withdrawal of the friendship--to call it by a light
name--of Oswald Cray. She had believed that the world could bring no
other calamity that could add to her misery: she had not thought of
that most grievous one--a father's death.
In all pain there must be a reaction: the very violence of the first
grief induces it; and it came sooner to Sara Davenal than it does to
most sufferers. Or, it may be, that the grave, the _real_ nature of
the grief brought its own effects. Had it been simple mourning alone,
the natural sorrow for the loss of a good and loving father, she might
have gone on weeping for months: but there was behind it that heritage
of terror on her brother's account, there was the consciousness that
with her the heavy secret was left, and the completion of its
purchase. The blinding tears ceased, the lively grief settled down
into one long, inward, dull agony; and ere many days went over, she
had become, in manner, almost unnaturally cold and calm. "How well his
daughter bears it," the town said, when it had an opportunity of
seeing her. In her subdued manner, her still face, her low measured
tones which never trembled, they read only serene resignation. Ah! how
few of us think to remember in everyday life that it is the silent
grief that does its work within.
She was obliged so soon to set about her responsibilities. Dr.
Davenal's request to her had been to post a certain letter that she
would find in his desk within four-and-twenty hours of his decease: to
post it herself. On the afternoon of the day following the death, she
carried the desk to her own room and examined it. There was the letter
to Edward, there was the letter to Oswald Cray; both were lying where
she had placed them; and there was the packet addressed to herself.
The letter it enclosed was directed "Mr. Alfred King, care of Messrs.
Jones and Green, Essex Street, Strand, London." The directions to
herself were very clear. As soon as the money was realised she was to
write and appoint an interview with Mr. Alfred King, and pay over to
him the two thousand five hundred pounds upon his delivering up to her
certain papers, copies of which were enclosed. This interview might
take place at Hallingham if Mr. Alfred King would journey to it: if he
declined, she would be under the necessity of going to London and
meeting him at Messrs. Jones and Green's. But on no account was she to
pay the money by deputy or by letter, because it was essential that
she should examine the papers that would be delivered to her, and see
that they tallied with the copies written down. Mr. Alfred King would
then have to sign a receipt, which the doctor had written and sealed
up, and which, he added, she had better not unseal until the moment
came for signing it. The receipt and one or two of the papers she was
afterwards to re-seal and keep until the return of Edward Davenal. If
Edward died abroad, then they were to be burnt.
Sara re-locked the desk; and still she could not form any very
definite idea of what Edward's crime had been. The letter to Mr.
Alfred King and the letter to Oswald Cray she kept out, for they must
be posted ere the day should close. She went out herself at dusk and
posted them; whatever duty lay before her, she felt that she must go
about it, shrinking from none. Girl though she was in years, she was
beginning to feel old in sorrow: no teacher is like unto it. There are
woes that bring more experience to the heart in the first night of
their falling than will half a lifetime of smooth years.
It was through the letter sent to him that Oswald Cray first learnt
the death of Dr. Davenal. He was seated at his breakfast-table in
Parliament Street, eyes and thoughts buried in the "Times," when Benn
came in with the letters, a whole stack of them, and laid them down by
his side. There Oswald let them lie: and it was only in gathering them
up later to take down and open in his business-room, that his eye fell
on one in particular, rather a large envelope, with a black border and
a black seal. He knew the writing well, and a flush of emotion rose to
his face as he opened it. Two notes were enclosed.
"My Dear Mr. Oswald Cray,
"I do not knot, whether I shall be the first to tell you of the death
of my dear father. He died last night, about ten o'clock. An hour or
two previously he penned the enclosed note to you; and he bade me add
a few lines when I forwarded it, to explain that when he attempted it
he was almost past writing. But that he made this an especial request,
I would not have troubled you with anything from myself: indeed I am
scarcely capable of writing coherently today, for my grief is very,
great.
"Believe me very sincerely yours,
"Sara Davenal."
The first rapid gathering-in of the general sense over, he leaned his
elbow on the table and read the words deliberately. It was just the
note that her good sense would prompt her to write, under the altered
relations between them. He felt that it was--but he had not witnessed
her hesitation and the doubt whether she should not rather address him
formally than as a friend. If those dandy clerks in the rooms below,
if those grave gentlemen with whom he would be brought in contact
during the day, had but seen him press those two words, "Sara
Davenal," to his lips! He, the reserved, self-possessed man of
business, he of the cold, proud spirit! he kissed the name as
fervently as any schoolboy kisses that in his first love-letter.
And then he recollected himself; and as his wits, which had certainly
gone wool-gathering, came back to him, another flush dyed his face far
deeper than the last had dyed it; a flush of shame that he should have
been betrayed into the folly. Besides, that was not the way to help
him to forget her; as it was imperative on him that he should forget.
He took up the note of the doctor. And he could scarcely believe that
that weak, scrawling writing was traced by the once bold, clear hand
of Dr. Davenal. It ran as follows:--
"My Dear Friend,--I call you so in spite of the coolness that has
come between us. I would that all should be friends with me in my
dying hour.
"The expected money, as you probably know, is at last to come to
Caroline. I shall not be spared to urge its settlement upon herself,
but do you urge it. As soon as it shall be paid over, let Mark secure
it to Caroline absolutely, so that she and her children may have
something to fall back upon in case of need. They are both young, both
thoughtless, and, if left to themselves in the matter, will be almost
sure to waste the money, so that it would do no real good to either.
If Mark--I cannot write more: sight is failing.
"Fare you well, My Friend,
"R. D."
And he was dead! For a few moments, Oswald forgot all his doubts and
fears of the man, and leaped back in memory to the time when he had
respected him more than anybody in the world. _Had_ he died with that
weight of guilt upon him? How weighty was it? how far did it extend?
It seemed strange that he should so soon have followed Lady Oswald.
Had remorse hastened his death? But, in spite of these thoughts, which
Oswald called not up willingly, he did feel a deep sense of regret, of
sorrow for Dr. Davenal, and wished that his life might have been
spared to him.
It was incumbent on him to answer the other note, and he sat down to
his writing-table and drew a sheet of paper towards him, and began:
"My Dear----"
There he stopped. How should he address her? My dear Miss Davenal?--or
My dear Sara? The one seemed too formal, considering how long he had
called her Sara, considering that the present moment of deep sorrow
should make all her friends especially tender to her. But yet--My dear
Sara--better perhaps that he should not. So he finally began:
"My Dear Miss Davenal,
"I do indeed heartily sympathise with you in your great affliction. I
wish for your sake and his that the doctor's life had been spared. You
do not give me any particulars--and I could not at such a moment
expect them--but I fear his death must have been sudden. Will you allow
me to exercise the privilege of a friend, in begging you to endeavour
to bear up as bravely as it is possible for you to do, in these first
keen moments of grief. When next at Hallingham I will, with your
permission, call on you and Miss Davenal, and express to you in person
my heartfelt sympathy. Meanwhile believe me now and always your truly
sincere friend,
"O. OSWALD CRAY.
"Miss Sara Davenal."
"Of course Mark must settle it upon her!" he said to himself as he
glanced again at the contents of the doctor's note to him. "It is not
to be supposed he would do otherwise. However, I'll mention it when I
go next to Hallingham."
And, gathering the papers together, he locked them in his private
desk, and went down to enter on his day's work, carrying the rest of
the letters in his hand.
On the day subsequent to the interment of Dr. Davenal, Sara told her
aunt she should go and see the two little boys. It had been her wish
that they should be sent for to attend the funeral, but Miss Davenal
objected: they were over young, she considered. Sara was too really
miserable to care about it: of what little moment do trifles seem when
the mind is ill at ease!
Miss Davenal again objected to her visit. In fact, had lookers-on been
gifted with prevision, they might have seen that the opinions and
course of herself and niece would be henceforth somewhat antagonistic
to each other. She objected to Sara's proposed visit, recommending her
to defer it for a week or two.
"But, aunt, I want to see them," urged Sara. "I know how grieved they
have been: though Dick is random and light-headed, he has a most
tender heart. And papa gave me a dying message to deliver to them."
"I say that it is too soon to go," repeated Miss Davenal. "A pretty
thing for you to be seen gadding about out of doors the very day after
your poor papa is taken from the house."
"O aunt! Gadding! I----" for a moment she struggled with her tears:
the thought of the terrible weight of sorrow she must carry out with
her wherever she went presented such a contrast to the word. At home
or out, she was ever living in her breaking heart: and it appeared of
little consequence what the world might say. She believed it was her
duty to see the boys as soon as possible, and she had fully resolved
that her duty, in all ways, should be performed to the uttermost,
Heaven helping her.
"I must go, aunt," she said; "I think I am doing right."
She walked in her deep mourning, with her crape veil over her face, to
the station. One of the porters got her ticket for her and saw her
into the carriage. Whether by the good-feeling of the man or not, she
did not know, but no one else was put into the same compartment. She
felt quite grateful to the man, as the train steamed on, and, she lay
back on the well-padded seat.
The train was express, and she reached the station where she was to
descend in less than an hour and a half. Dr. Keen's house was very
near. To gain its front entrance she had to pass the large playground.
The boys were out for their midday play, and Dick Davenal's roving
eye caught sight of her. He climbed over the railings, in spite of
rules, and burst into tears as he laid hold of her. Sara had pictured
the two boys in apple-pie order in their new mourning, quiet and
subdued; but here they were in their ordinary clothes, dirty and
dusty, and Dick had a woeful rent in one knee.
"O Sara! is it all true? Is he really dead and buried? Couldn't he
cure himself?"
She subdued her own emotion--it was only in accordance with the line
she had laid down for herself. She kissed the boy in the face of the
sea of eyes peering through the rails, and held him near as they
advanced to the house. Leo, less daring than Dick, had gone round by
the gate, and Sara drew him on her other side as he came running up.
She sat down in the room to which she was shown, holding the sobbing
boys to her. As she had said to her aunt, Dick had a tender heart, and
his sobs were loud and passionate. Leo cried with him. She waited to
let their emotion have vent, holding their hands, bending now and
again her face against theirs.
"_Couldn't_ he be cured, Sara?"
"No, dears, he could not be cured. It was God's will to take him."
"Why didn't you have us home? Why didn't you let us say goodbye to
him?"
"There was no time. We thought he was getting better, and it was only
quite at the very last we knew he was dying. He did not forget you and
Leo, Dick. He bade me tell you--they were his own words--that Uncle
Richard would have sent for you to take a last farewell, but that
death came upon him too suddenly. He bade me tell you that you will
meet him in that far-off land where your toils and his will be alike
over; and--listen, children!--he charged you to be ever working on for
it."
Their sobs came forth again. Leo was the first to speak. "Have you
written to Barbadoes to tell papa?"
"Aunt Bettina has. See, dears, here are two silver pencil-cases; they
were both your Uncle Richard's. The one has his crest on it; the other
his initials, R D. I thought you would like to have some little
remembrance of him, and I brought them. Which will you choose, Dick?
You are the eldest." Dick took the pencils in his hand and decided on
the largest, the one that bore the initials. The stone was a beautiful
one, a sapphire.
"Is it real, Sara?"
"O yes. This is the best for you, as the initials would not stand for
Leo. The other stone is real, too, Leo; opal. Try and not lose them."
"I'll never lose mine," avowed Dick. Leo only shook his head in
answer, as he put the momento in his pocket.
The gifts had created a diversion, and the tears began to dry upon
their faces; schoolboys' tears are not very deep. Sara spoke of their
mourning, inquiring why it was not on.
"We wore it yesterday," said Dick. "And we had holiday, we two, and
stopped in Mrs. Keen's parlour instead of going into school. But the
housekeeper told us to put our other clothes on this morning; she said
if we wore our black suit every day, it would be done for in a week."
Not unlikely--by the specimen of the present suit Mr. Dick wore. Sara
pointed to the rent in the knee.
"I know," said Dick, looking carelessly down at it. "I did it only
just before I saw you, wrestling with a fellow. He says he's stronger
than I am, but he isn't, so we were trying which was best man. All in
good part, you know. I say, Sara, shall we come home for the holidays
now, as we used to?"
"My dears, I don't know yet much about the future. It will be Aunt
Bettina's home now. I think she will be sure to have you as usual."
"Why won't it be your home?" cried Dick, quickly.
"I shall live with Aunt Bettina. It will not be the same home for
either of us--not the same house, I mean. I think--I don't know yet,
but I think it likely Mr. Cray and Caroline will come to it. Perhaps
Aunt Bettina will go to one of her own houses."
"Why can't you and Aunt Bettina stop in that?"
"It is too large for us. And the things are going to be sold?"
"The things going to be sold!" repeated Dick, lifting his eyes and
voice in amazement "Papa has so directed in his will. You know--at
least I dare say you have heard--that Aunt Bettina has a great deal of
very nice furniture which has been lying by in a warehouse ever since
she came to live with us. I can't tell you yet how things will be
settled."
"I say, Sara, how slow and quiet you speak! And how pale you are!"
Sara swallowed down a lump in her throat. "Papa was all I had left to
me, Dick. Leo, my dear, you are quiet and pale, too!"
"I say, Sara--never mind Leo, he's all right--have you got a great
fortune left you? The boys here were saying you'd have such a lot: you
and the captain between you."
"The boys were mistaken, Dick. Papa has not died rich. He died
something else, Dick--a good man. That is better than dying rich."
"If he wasn't rich, why did he give back that money that Lady Oswald
left him?"
"O Dick! Do you know that the remembrance of having given back that
money was one of his consolations in dying. Dick, dear, he hoped you
would work on always for that better world. But the acquiring money
wrongfully, or the keeping it unjustly, would not, I think, help you
on your road to it."
They were interrupted by the entrance of Mrs. Keen, a kind, motherly
woman. She insisted on Sara's taking off her bonnet and partaking of
some refreshment. Sara yielded: choosing bread-and-butter and a cup of
coffee. And Mrs. Keen and Dick and Leo afterwards walked with her back
to the station.