WORK FOR THE FUTURE.
The clocks were striking four when Sara Davenal was walking through
the streets of Hallingham on her return. She stepped along rapidly,
her crape veil over her face, and was molested by none with greetings
or condolences: but she stopped of her own accord on meeting the poor
market-woman, Mrs. Hundley. The woman, her face broken by sorrow,
flung up her hands before Sara could speak.
"To think that he should have been the first to go!--before my poor
boy, whose life, as may be said, he had been keeping in him! The one
a-dying for months past, the other a hale gentleman as seemed to have
health in him for a lifetime. Oh, miss! what will the sick do without
him?"
"How is your son?" was all Sara's answer.
"He has come nearly to his last, miss. Another week'll see the end.
When the news come out to us that the good Dr. Davenal was gone, we
couldn't believe it: and my boy, he says, 'Mother, it can't be; it
can't never be.' And he set on and sobbed like a child."
In spite of her efforts the tears overflowed Sara's eyes. To have it
thus brought palpably before her was more than she could bear with
equanimity. "Papa is better off," was all she murmured.
"Ay, he's better off: if ever a man had done his best in this world,
miss, it was him. But who'll be found to take his place?"
With the full sense of the last question echoing on her ear, Sara
continued her way. At the top of the lane contiguous to their
residence was Roger, standing in disconsolate idleness. With the death
of his master Roger's occupation was gone.
Sara spoke a kind word to him in passing, and met Mr. Wheatley coming
out at the gate, her father's close friend of many years. A surgeon
once, but retired from the profession now. He it was who was named the
sole executor to the doctor's will.
The will, which was causing surprise to the curious in Hallingham, had
been made in the doctor's recent illness. It directed that all
property he died possessed of should be sold, and the money realised
be paid at once to his daughter. Everything was left to her. In the
previous will, destroyed to make room for this, Edward Davenal's name
had been associated with Mr. Wheatley's: in this Mr. Wheatley was left
sole executor; in fact, Edward's name was not so much as mentioned in
it.
"Have you been calling on my aunt, Mr. Wheatley?"
"No, my visit was to you," he answered, as he turned indoors with her.
"I have been to see Dick and Leo," she explained. "My aunt thought I
ought not to go out so soon; that people might remark upon it. But I
am glad I went, poor boys!"
"People remark upon it!" echoed Mr. Wheatley. "I should like to hear
them. What is there to remark upon in that? Miss Sara, I have gone
through life just doing the thing I pleased according to my own
notions of right, without reference to what other folks might think,
and I have found it answer. You do the same, and never fear."
She led the way into the dining-room and closed the door. She
understood he wished to speak with her. The fire was burning itself
out to an empty room, Miss Davenal being upstairs. Ah, how changed the
house was only in the short week or two! It would never more be alive
with the tread of patients coming to consult Dr. Davenal; never more
be cheered with his voice echoing through the corridors. The
dwelling's occupation, like Roger's, had gone.
Mr. Wheatley sat down in the chair that had once been the doctor's,
and Sara untied her bonnet-strings, and took a seat near him. The
fresh newspapers, not unfolded, lay on the table as of yore: the
whilom readers of them, the waiting sick, had ceased their visits for
ever.
"Now, Miss Sara, I'm left sole executor to this will, as you heard
read out yesterday," he began. "It states--I daresay you noted
it--that things were to be disposed of with all convenient dispatch.
Did you observe that clause?"
"Yes."
"Very good. Besides that, in the last interview I held with my
poor friend--it was the afternoon of the day he died, as you may
remember--he enjoined the same thing upon me; no delay. There was a
necessity, he said, for your being put in possession of the money as
soon as possible." Sara had no ready answer at hand. She believed
there might be that necessity, but did not like to acknowledge it. She
took off her bonnet, and laid it beside her on the table, as if at a
loss for something to do.
"Now I don't want to inquire into reasons and motives," went on Mr.
Wheatley. "I'd rather not inquire into them or hear them; what your
father did not see fit to tell me, I'd prefer that nobody else should
tell me. I am sure of one thing: that he kept it from me either cut of
necessity or to spare me pain. That things had not gone very straight
with him, he told me; and that, coupled with the curious will, leaving
everything to you without the protection of trustees or else, does of
course force me to see that there's something behind the scenes. But
while I admit so much, I repeat that I do not speculate upon what it
may be, even in my own mind; nor do I wish to do so. One question I
must ask you--were you in your father's confidence?"
"Yes. At least, if not quite entirely, sufficiently so to carry out
all his directions and wishes. But, indeed, I may say I was in his
confidence," she added with less hesitation. "He talked to me a great
deal the night of his death."
"And you will be at no loss what to do with the money that shall be
realised."
"None."
"That's all straight, then, and I know how to set to work. My dear, it
was necessary that I should just say so far, for it would not have
been well for us to work at cross-purposes, and I am sure you do not
misunderstand me. There's something behind which is no more your
secret than it is mine; it was the doctor's; and we need not further
allude to it. I'll carry out his will, and you'll carry out his wishes
afterwards: he hinted to me that the money would have an ulterior
destination. Any suggestion you may have to make to me, you will now
do with more ease than if you had supposed I was under the impression
that the money was only going to you. Don't you think it was better
that I should speak?"
"Indeed it was, and I thank you."
"Well, now to business. As I understand it, there's a necessity,
perhaps an imperative one--in fact, the doctor told me so, for
immediate action. The first consideration then is, when shall you be
prepared to leave the house? Measures will be taken to put it up for
sale, and there's not the least doubt of its finding a ready
purchaser, for it's one of the best houses in Hallingham, and in its
best part. That will be easy. The next thing will be the sale of the
effects. Of course the sooner you leave the house, the sooner they can
be sold." It quite wrung her heart to hear him speak of all this in
the dry tone of a man of business. She did what she could to bring her
mind to bear it equably, heedless of the pain.
"It depends upon my aunt, Mr. Wheatley. So far as I am concerned I
could be out in a few days; but she will have her home to fix upon. I
had better speak to her. Papa said, when he was dying, that he thought
Mark Cray ought to leave the Abbey and come here."
"Mark Cray! Well, he has the most right to do so: he was your father's
partner. I never thought of him. Of course he will; _he'll_ not let it
slip through his fingers. The mere taking this house would be a
certain practice for any one. Mark Cray has his practice ready cut and
dried to his hand, but he'll not let the house go by him."
"Mr. Cray has just furnished the Abbey."
"But perhaps he--however, it will be well that somebody should see
him, and ascertain what his wishes may be. It is a pity but he had
money: he might purchase the house. By the way, there's that Chancery
money come or coming to his wife."
Sara shook her head. "That money is to be settled upon her. It was one
of papa's last injunctions."
"Well; and how can that be better done than by buying freehold
property, such as this? It will be the very thing for them, I should
say. Let them buy this house and settle it upon her; it will be a
capital investment. As to the furniture, if they don't care to buy
that, it must be sold. Suppose you ask Miss Davenal when she shall be
ready to vacate it; and meanwhile I'll see Mr. Cray."
He was a man of prompt action, this old friend of Dr. Davenal's, and
he rose as he spoke, shook hands with Sara, and bustled out so hastily
that even attentive Neal did not catch him up in time to close the
hall-door behind him. Sara supposed he was going then and there to
Mark Cray's.
She took her bonnet in her hand and went slowly up the stairs. It was
not a pleasant task, this question that she had to put to her aunt,
and she was glad of the little delay of even turning first into her
own room to take her things off after her journey. Since the reading
of the will yesterday Miss Davenal had been in one of her most
chilling moods. She had asked an explanation of Sara what was the
meaning of all this, what Dr. Davenal's secret was, and where the
money had gone to. Sara could only evasively put her off; one of the
charges enjoined on his daughter by the doctor had been--not to place
Edward in the power of his aunt.
It was not that Dr. Davenal feared the loyalty and good faith of his
sister; but he knew how bitterly she would judge Edward, and he was
willing to spare blame even to his guilty son. It is possible, also,
that he deemed the secret safest left to Sara alone. Whatever his
motive, he had said to her: "I charge you, keep it from your aunt
Bettina;" and Sara had accepted the charge, and meant to act upon it.
But Dr. Davenal might never have left it, had he foreseen the
unpleasantness it entailed on Sara.
Very curious, very cross, very deaf was Bettina Davenal, as she sat in
the drawing-room at her usual occupation, knitting. Her clinging
mourning robes made her figure appear thinner and taller; and that, as
you are aware, need not have been. She had seen from the window Sara
come in, and she now thought she heard her footfall on the stairs; and
her neck was thrown more upright than ever, and her lips were
ominously compressed. It was this general displeasure which had
chiefly caused the objection she made to Sara's visiting the boys.
Sara had gone, defying her; at least, she looked upon it in that
light. Was she about to defy her in all things?
She just looked up when Sara entered the room, and then dropped her
eyelids again, never speaking. Sara stood near the window, her bead
shaded by the half-drawn blind.
"Well, I have been, aunt."
"Been?" grunted Miss Bettina. "Not anywhere. Where do you suppose I
have been? I know propriety better than to be seen streaming abroad
today."
Sara drew a chair to the little table on which lay her aunt's pearl
basket of wool, and sat down close to her. Her pale refined face was
ominously severe, and Sara's heart seemed to faint at her task. Not at
this one particular task before her, but at the heavy task altogether
that her life had become. It was not by fainting, however, that she
would get through it, neither was it the line of action she had carved
out for herself.
"I observed that I had been to see the boys, Aunt Bettina. They both
send their love to you."
"I daresay they do. Especially that impudent Dick."
"Mrs. Keen also desired to be remembered," continued Sara.
"You can send back my thanks for the honour," ironically spoke Miss
Davenal. "The last time she was at Hallingham she passed our house
without calling."
"She spoke of it today, Aunt Bettina. She nodded to you at the window,
she said, and pointed towards the station: she wished you to
understand that she was pressed for time."
Aunt Bettina made no answer. She was knitting vehemently. Apparently
Sara was not getting on very well.
"Mr. Wheatley has been here, aunt."
"You need not tell it me. He has been dodging in and out like a dog in
a fair. Anybody but he might have respected the quiet of the house on
the very day after its poor master had been taken from it. He came in
and went out again, and then came in again--with you. As he _had_
come, he might have been polite enough to ask for me. Neal said he
wanted you. Early times, I think, to begin showing people you are the
house's mistress!"
It was not a promising commencement. Sara could only apply herself to
her task in all deprecating meekness.
"Aunt Bettina, he came to speak about the future. I daresay he thought
you would not like to be intruded upon today, for he wished me to talk
things over with you. He was asking when we--you--when we should be
ready to vacate the house."
"To do what?" she repeated shrilly. But she heard very well, Sara was
close to her and speaking in low clear tones.
"When we shall be ready to leave the house?"
"Had he not better turn us out of it today?" was the retort of the
angry lady. "How dare he show this indecent haste?"
"Oh, aunt! You know it is only in accordance with papa's will that he
has to do it. You heard it read. You read it to yourself afterwards."
"Yes, I did read it to myself afterwards: I could not believe that my
brother Richard would have made such a will, and I chose to satisfy
myself by reading it. Everything to be sold, indeed; as if we were so
many bankrupts? Hold your tongue, Sara! Do you think I don't grieve
for the loss of the best brother that ever stepped! But there are
matters a-gate that I don't understand."
"There's a necessity for the things being sold, Aunt Bettina."
"He told me so before he died: _you_ need not repeat it to me. Where's
the money to be paid to?"
"And therefore Mr. Wheatley is desirous that there should be no
unnecessary delay," Sara continued, a faint colour tinging her cheek
at the consciousness of evading her aunt's question. "He does not ask
us to go out at once, Aunt Bettina: he only wishes to know when we
shall be ready to go out."
"Then tell him from me that _I_ will be no hindrance," retorted
Miss Bettina, her temper rising. "Tomorrow--the next day--the day
after--any day he pleases, now, or in a month to come. I can get a
lodging at an hour's notice."
"Aunt, _why_ are you so angry with me?"
The burst came from her in her pain and vexation. She could not help
feeling how unjust it was to cast this anger upon her; how little she
had done to deserve it Miss Bettina knitted on more fiercely,
declining an answer.
"It is not my fault, aunt. If you knew--if you knew what I have to
bear!"
"It _is_ your fault, Sara Davenal. What I complain of is your fault.
You are keeping this secret from me. I don't complain that they are
going to sell the chairs and tables: Richard has willed it so, and
there's no help for it: but I don't like to be kept in the dark as to
the reason, or where the money is to go. Why don't you tell it me?"
It was a painful position for Sara. She had always been dutiful and
submissive to her aunt: far more so than her brothers or Caroline had
been.
"Aunt Bettina, I cannot tell you. I wish I could."
"Do you mean to imply that you do not know it."
"No, I don't mean that. I do know it. At least, I know it partially.
Papa did not tell me quite all."
Miss Bettina's usually placid chest was heaving with indignation. "And
why could he not tell me, instead of you! I think I am more fit to be
the depositary of a disgraceful secret than you are, a child! And I
expect it is a disgraceful one."
Ah, _how_ disgraceful Sara knew only too well. She sat in silence, not
daring to acknowledge it, not knowing what to answer.
"Once for all--will you confide it to me?"
Sara believed, as it had come to this, that it would be better if she
could confide it to her; but the injunction of Dr. Davenal was a bar;
and that she felt it her duty religiously to obey. In her deep love
for her father she would not cast the onus of refusal upon him,
preferring to let it rest on herself.
"Believe me, aunt, I _cannot_ tell you. I am very sorry; I wish I did
not know it myself. It--it was papa's secret, and I must not tell it."
In the twitching of her hands Miss Bettina contrived to throw down the
ball of wool. Sara picked it up, glad of the little interlude.
"Aunt Bettina, we could not have stayed on in this large house."
"Did I say we could?" asked Miss Bettina. "Not now, when all your
money's gone in ducks and drakes."
"Papa--papa could not _help_ the money going," she returned, her heart
swelling in the eager wish to defend him. "He could not help it, Aunt
Bettina."
"I am not saying that he could. I am not casting reproach on him. It
is not to be supposed, had he been able to help it, that he would have
let it go. How touchy you are!"
A silence, and then Sara began. She mentioned what Mr. Wheatley had
said, that the house might be a good investment for the money of
Caroline; and Miss Bettina, not at all a bad woman of business, was
struck with the suggestion. She sat revolving it in silence,
apparently only intent on her knitting. She supposed it could be so
settled on Mark's wife, but she did not understand much of what the
law might be. The thought struck her that this ought to be seen about
at once.
"Mr. Wheatley thinks it would be so much better if these things could
be taken too by whoever succeeds to the house," proceeded Sara. "So as
to avoid a public auction."
Now that was one of the sore points troubling Miss Davenal--the
prospect of selling the things by public auction. She had a most
inveterate hatred to any such step, looking upon all sales of
furniture, no matter what the cause of sale, as a humiliation. Hence
the motive which had induced her to warehouse her handsome furniture
instead of selling it, when, years ago, she gave up housekeeping to
take up her abode at Dr. Davenal's.
"Others knew that, before Mr. Wheatley," she said ungraciously. "A
public auction in this house! I would not stop in the town to see it.
Has old Wheatley spoken to Mark!"
"It struck me he was going to Mark's when he left here," replied Sara.
"I am not sure."
Miss Davenal grunted as she went on with her knitting. She herself
always liked to be "sure:" so far as her deafness allowed her. Turning
to glance at the timepiece, she crossed the room and opened the door.
There stood Neal.
Neal at his eaves-dropping, of course. And the black robes of his
mistress were so soft, her footfall so noiseless on the rich carpet,
that Neal's ear for once failed him. But he was not one to allow
himself to be caught. He had the coal-box in his hand, and was
apparently stooping to pick up a bit of coal that had fallen on the
ground. Miss Davenal would as soon have suspected herself capable of
listening at doors, as that estimable servant Neal.
"Let the dinner be on the table to the moment, Neal," were her orders.
"And I shall want you to attend me abroad afterwards."
"Are you going out, Aunt Bettina?" Sara ventured to inquire.
"Yes, I am," was the sharp answer. "But not until the shades of night
shall be upon the streets."
Sara understood the covert reproach. Her aunt's manners towards her
had settled into a cold, chilling reserve. Sara wondered if they would
ever thaw again.
Miss Davenal made her dinner deliberately: she never hurried over
anything: and went out afterwards on foot, attended by Neal. Sara
judged that she was going to the Abbey, but she did not dare to ask.
She, Sara, went to the drawing-room, from old custom; shivering as she
stepped up the wide staircase: not from cold, but from the loneliness
that seemed to pervade the house. She had not got over that sense of
strange nameless dread which the presence of the dead imparts and
leaves behind it. The drawing-room was lighted as usual: no alteration
had been made in the habits of the house; but as Sara glanced round
its space, a nervous superstition began to creep over her. Perhaps the
bravest of us have at times experienced such. A moment after, Watton
appeared showing in a visitor: Mr. Oswald Cray.
Every pulse of her body stood still, and then bounded onwards; every
thrill of her heart went out to him in a joyous greeting. In this
dreadful sorrow and sadness he had but been growing all the dearer.
He was still in deep mourning for Lady Oswald. He looked taller,
finer, more noble than of yore, or she fancied it, as he bent a little
to her and took her hand, and kept it. He saw the quiver of the slight
frame; he saw the red rose that dyed the pale cheeks with blushes, and
Mr. Oswald Cray knew that he was not forgotten by her, any more than
she was by him. But he knew also that both of them had only one thing
to do--to bury these feelings now, to condemn them to oblivion for the
future. The daughter of Dr. Davenal dead could be no more a wife for
him, Oswald Cray, than the daughter of Dr. Davenal living, and most
certainly he was the last man to be betrayed into forgetting that
uncompromising fact.
The rose-blush faded away, and he saw how weak and worn was her cheek;
young, fragile, almost childish she looked in her evening dress of
black, the jet chain on her white shoulders. Insensibly his voice
assumed a tenderness rarely used to her, as he apologised for calling
at that hour: but he was only passing through the town and would leave
it again that night. "I see how it is;" he cried, "you are suffering
more than is good for you."
But for the very greatest effort, the tears she had believed to have
put under permanent control would have dropped then. A moment's pause
for calmness, and she remembered that her hand was lying in his,
withdrew it, and sat down quietly in a chair, pointing to one for him.
But the forced calmness brought a sickness to her heart, a pallor to
her aching brow.
"How shall I tell you of my sympathy in your deep sorrow? I cannot
express it; but you will believe me when I say that I feel it almost
as you can do. It is indeed a trying time for you; a grief which has
come to you all too early."
"Yes," she gently answered, swallowing the lump that kept rising in
her throat. "I have a good deal to bear."
"There is only one comfort to be felt at these times--and that the
mourner can but rarely feel," he said, drawing his chair near to her.
"It lies in the knowledge, the recollection, that Time, the great
healer, will bind up the sorest wounds."
"It can never bind up mine," she said, speaking in the moment's
impulse. "But you are very kind; you are very kind to try to cheer
me."
"I wish I could cheer you, I wish I could remove every sorrow under
which you suffer! No one living would be a truer friend to you than I
should like to be. How is Miss Davenal?" he continued, possibly
fancying he might be saying too much, or at least that a construction
he never intended might appear to belong to his words. "Watton said
she was out. I suppose, in point of fact, she will not see me tonight.
I know what war I wage with etiquette in being here so soon, and at
this hour, and Miss Davenal is a close observer of it. Will you
forgive me?"
"Indeed I am glad to see you," said Sara, simply. "I am doubly glad,
for I feel almost ashamed to confess I was getting too nervous to be
alone. My aunt is out; she went to the Abbey as soon as dinner was
over. I am glad to see you thus early," she added, "because I have a
word to say to you from--from papa."
"Yes," said Oswald, lifting his head with slight eagerness, an unusual
thing for him to do.
"In the letter he wrote to you, and which I sent--the letter you
received," she continued, looking at him and pausing.
"Yes?"
"He spoke of Mrs. Cray's money in it, as he told me. He wished you to
interest yourself and see that it was settled upon her. When he wrote
that letter he was almost past exertion, and had to conclude it
abruptly, not having said so much as he wished to say. Therefore he
enjoined me to urge it upon you from him. He thought--I believe he
thought that Mark Cray was inclined to be careless, and that the money
might be wasted unless some one interfered. That was all."
"I shall speak to Mark. Most certainly I will urge the settlement of
the money on his wife, should there be occasion for it; but I imagine
Mark will naturally so settle it without any urging. It is quite
incumbent on him to do so, both as a matter of prudence and that it is
his wife's money, not his."
"I don't think Mark has much notion of prudence," she rejoined.
"I don't think he has, in a general way. But the most careless would
surely act in accordance with its dictates in a case like this. I am
going to tie Abbey presently."
"I fancy that papa thought--or wished--that you would be one of the
trustees, should trustees be required."
"I should have no objection," said Oswald, after a pause. "But--to go
to another subject, if you can bear me to touch upon it--was not Dr.
Davenal's death sudden at the last?"
"Quite at the last it was. He had some days of dangerous illness, and
he rallied from it, as we all supposed. It was thought he was out of
danger, and he sat up: he sat up for several hours--and died."
She spoke the words quietly, almost as she might have told of the
death of one not related to her, her hands clasped on her lap, her
face a little bent, her eyelids drooping. But Oswald Cray saw that it
was the calmness that proceeds from that stern schooling of the heart
which can only be enforced by those heavy-laden with hopeless pain.
"He died sitting up?"
"Yes. It was getting late, but he would not return to bed. He had been
talking to me about many things; I was on a low seat, my head leaning
against him. He died with his arm round me."
"What a trial! What a shock it must have been!"
"I had no idea he was dead. He ceased talking, and I remained quiet,
not to disturb him. My aunt Bettina came in, and saw what had
happened."
He scarcely knew what to say in answer. All comments at such a time
are so grievously inadequate. He murmured some words of pity for the
fate of Dr. Davenal, of compassion for her.
"It is Hallingham that deserves, perhaps, most of real pity," she
resumed, speaking in this matter-of-fact way that she might succeed in
retaining her composure. "I do not know who will replace my father: no
one, I fear, for a long while. If you knew how he is mourned----"
She stopped, perhaps at a loss for words.
"Did he suffer much?" asked Mr. Oswald Cray.
"He suffered here"--touching her chest--"but the pain ceased the last
day or two, and the breathing got better. He had a great deal of pain
of mind--as--perhaps--you--know. He was quite resigned to die: he said
God was taking him to a better home."
Still at cross-purposes. Sara's hesitating avowal pointed to a
different cause of mental pain from that assumed by Oswald Cray.
"Yes," he at length said, abstractedly, for neither spoke for a few
minutes, "it is a loss to Hallingham. This will be sad news to write
to your brother."
"It is already written. The mail has been gone a day or two. O yes! it
will be grievous news for Edward."
The last two words were spoken in a tone of intense pain. She checked
it, and began talking of her aunt, of Caroline, of anything; almost as
if she doubted herself. She told him she had been out that day to see
the two little boys. At length he rose to leave.
"Will you not stay and take some tea? I do not suppose my aunt will be
long."
He declined. He seemed to have grown more cold and formal. Until he
took her hand in leaving, and then the tender tone of voice, the
pleasant look of the eye shone out again.
"May Heaven be with you, Miss Davenal!--and render your future days
happier than they can be just now. Fare you well! I hope to hear good
news of you from time to time."
Which was of course equivalent to saying that he should not be a
visitor. She had not expected that he would be. He turned back ere he
gained the door.
"If I can be of service to you at any time or in anyway, I hope you
will not hesitate to command me. Nothing would give me so much
gratification as the being of use to you, should need arise."
It was very polite, it was very kind, and at the same time very
formal. Perhaps the strangest part throughout the interview to Sara's
ears was that when he had called her "Miss Davenal," for it presented
so great a contrast to the past: the past which was at an end for
ever.
He went out, shown through the hall by Jessy, and leaving his card on
the standing waiter for Miss Davenal. All _en règle_. And Sara in the
large drawing-room, so dreary now, remained on in her pain, alone.