HOPE DEFERRED.
Some weeks went on. The beautiful summer weather had come, and the
June sun was upon the streets.
Sara Davenal stood at her chamber window looking out on the dusty
road. Not in reality seeing it; for the trouble and perplexity at her
heart had not lessened, and she had fallen into that habit of gazing
outwards in deep thought, noticing nothing. The same habit had
characterised Dr. Davenal; but at his daughter's age _he_ had never
known any weight of care. For years and years his path had been a
smooth one--little else than sunshine. She gazed outwards on the dusty
road, on the white pavement, glistening again with its heat, but saw
nothing. A looker-on would have said she was an idle girl, standing
there to take note of her neighbours' and the street's doings: of the
tradespeople calling at the opposite houses, of the servant girls
flirting with them as they gave their orders: of the water-cart
splashing past the corner along the public highway, but neglecting
this quiet nook: of everything, in short, there was to see and be
seen. How mistaken that looker-on was he could never know. Poor Sara
Davenal might have been the sole living object on a broad desert
plain, for all she saw of the moving panorama around her.
"Hope deferred maketh the heart sick!" When that proverb of the wise
king of Israel comes practically home to our hearts in all its stern
reality, we have learnt one of the many bitter lessons of life.
Perhaps few have realised it more intensely than Sara Davenal had
latterly been obliged to realise it. From March to April, from April
to May, from May to June, week by week, and morning by morning, she
had been waiting for something that never came.
A very short while to wait for anything some of you may be thinking;
not much more than two months at the most, for it is only the
beginning of the blooming summer month, and they had come to London
late in March. But--I believe I said the same a chapter or two ago--a
space of time is long or short according as we estimate it. Two
months' space may pass lightly over us as a fleeting summer's day; or
it may drag its slow length along, every minute of it marking its
flight upon our sick and weary hearts, with enough of agony crowded
into it to make it seem a lifetime.
Sara and Miss Bettina had come up in March, and the things at
Hallingham were to be sold within a few days of their departure; and
in a few days after that Sara had expected the money would be paid
over to her. In her inexperience, she did not sufficiently allow for
delays: yet had she been ever so experienced she would not have
supposed the delay would extend itself to this. It is not of much
moment to inquire into the precise cause of this delay: it is
sufficient to know that it did occur; and it gave as yet no signs that
it would be speedily ended.
Sara had expected the money early in April. It did not come. "It will
be up next week," she said to herself. But the next week came and did
not bring it, and she wrote to Mr. Wheatley. He hoped to realise in a
day or two was his somewhat incautious answer; but in truth he
himself, not being a man of business, anticipated no vexatious delay.
It was an unfortunate answer for Sara, for from that date she began to
look for the money daily; and you have not yet to learn what
impatience this daily waiting and expecting works in the human heart.
When one morning's post passed over and did not bring it or news of
it, Sara counted on it for the morrow. And the morrows came and went,
on and on; and Sara wrote and wrote, until she grew sick with the
procrastination and the disappointment. She had waited for this money
so anxiously that it had become with her a feverish longing; something
like that strange disease, _mal du pays_, as it is called, which
attacks the poor Swiss, exiled from their native land. Not for the
sake of the money itself was she so troubled--you know that; but from
the fear of what the evil delay might bring. In reply to the letter
she had forwarded to Mr. Alfred King, on the death of Dr. Davenal,
that unknown gentleman, whoever he might be, had replied in a short
note and a very illegible handwriting (abounding in flourishes), that
he was sorry to hear of the doctor's death, but counted on the
fulfilment of the obligations without vexatious delay. This was
addressed to Min Sara Davenal, and reached her safely at Hallingham.
Poor Sara, in her inexperience, in her dread of what this man might
have in his power touching her brother, feared he might deem two or
three weeks only a "vexatious delay:" and when the two or three weeks
went on, and two or three weeks to those, and two or three weeks
again, then it was that the dread within her grew into a living agony.
Who Mr. Alfred King might be she knew not. On that night when she had
been called down to Dr. Davenal's study and found her brother there,
she had gathered from some words dropped by the doctor, in his very
imperfect explanation to her, that some one else had been almost
equally culpable with her brother: but who this other was, whether
gentleman or swindler, whether male or female, she had no means of
knowing. She did not suppose it to be Mr. Alfred King: she rather
surmised that whoever it was must have gone away, as Edward had. Now
and then she would wonder whether this Mr. Alfred King could be
connected with the police: but that was hardly likely. Altogether, her
ideas of Mr. Alfred King were extremely vague; still she could not
help dreading the man, and never thought of him without a shiver.
She did not know what to do: whether to remain passive, or to write
and explain that the money was coming, and apologise for the temporary
delay. She felt an aversion to write, and she could not tell whether
it might do harm or good. And so she did nothing; and the time had
gone on, as you have heard, to June.
Sara stood at the window gazing into space, when her attention was
awakened to outward things by seeing the postman turn into the street
with a fleet step. Could it be the _morning_ postman? Yes, it must be,
for the second delivery did not take place until eleven, and it was
now half-past nine. Something had rendered him later than usual.
She threw up the window listlessly. So many, many mornings had she
watched for the post to bring this news from Hallingham, and been
disappointed, that a reaction had come, and she now _looked_ only for
disappointment. You will understand this. The postman was dodging from
one side of the road to the other with that unnecessary waste of time
and walking (as it seems to the uninitiated) which must help to make
postmen's legs so weary. He was at the opposite house now, superseding
the butcher boy in the good graces of the maid-servant, with whom he
stayed a rather unnecessary while to talk; and now he came striding
over. Sara leaned her head further out and saw him make for their
gate.
And her pulses suddenly quickened. Even from that height she could
discern--or fancied she could discern--that the letter was from Mr.
Wheatley. That gentleman always used large blue envelopes, and it was
certainly one such that the man had singled out from his bundle of
letters. Had it come at last? Had the joyful news of the money come?
She closed the window and ran swiftly down the stairs and met Neal
turning from the door with the letter. That official was probably not
at all obliged to her for demanding the letter from him so summarily.
But he had no resource but to give it up.
It was from Mr. Wheatley, and Sara carried it to her room, a bright
flush of hope on her cheeks, an eager trembling on her happy fingers.
Mr. Wheatley did not like letter-writing, and she knew quite well that
he would not have written uselessly. Opening the envelope she found it
a blank; a blank entirely: nothing even written inside it: it had but
enclosed a letter for herself which had apparently been sent to
Hallingham. O the bitter, bitter disappointment! there was not a line,
there was not a word from Mr. Wheatley.
A conviction arose that she had seen the other handwriting before.
Whose was it?--it seemed to be made up of flourishes. Mr. Alfred
King's! Her heart stood still in its fear, and seemed as if it would
never go on again:--
"Essex Street, June 1st.
"Madam,
"I am sorry to have to give you notice that unless the money owing to
me, and which I have been vainly expecting these several weeks, is
immediately paid, I shall be under the necessity of taking public
steps in the matter; and they might not prove agreeable to Captain
Davenal.
"I am, Madam,
"Your obedient servant,
"Alfred King.
"Miss Sara Davenal."
So the first faint realisation of the haunting shadow of the past
weeks had come! Sara sat with the letter in her hand. She asked
herself what was to be done?--and she wished now, in a fit of vain
repentance, that she had written long ago to Mr. Alfred King, as it
had been in her mind to do.
She must write now. She must write a note of regret and apology,
telling him the exact truth--that the sale of the different effects at
Hallingham and the realisation of the proceeds had taken more time
than was anticipated, but that she expected the money daily--and beg
of him to wait. In her feverish impatience it seemed as if every
moment that elapsed until this explanation should be delivered to Mr.
Alfred King was fraught with danger, and she hastened to the room
below, the drawing-room.
Her desk was there. It was generally kept in her own chamber, but she
had had it down the previous evening. Neal was quitting the room as
she entered: he had been putting it in order for the day. Miss Davenal
was in the parlour below, where she generally remained an hour or two
after breakfast.
The letter--Mr. Alfred King's letter--was spread open before Sara, and
she sat pen in hand deliberating how she should answer it, when her
aunt's voice startled her. It sounded on the stairs. Was she coming
up? Sara hastily placed the open letter in the desk, closed and locked
it, and opened the drawing-room door. But in her flurry she left the
key in the desk.
Miss Davenal was standing on the mat at the foot of the stairs "Can't
you hear me call?" she asked.
"I did hear, aunt. What is it?"
"Then you ought to have heard!" was the retort of Miss Davenal, at
cross-purposes as usual. "_You_ are not turning deaf, I suppose?"
"What is it, aunt?" repeated Sara, going half-way down the stairs.
Instead of answering, Miss Davenal turned and went into the
breakfast-room again. Sara could only follow her. Her aunt's manners
had never relaxed to her from the sternness assumed at the time of Dr.
Davenal's death: cold and severe she had remained ever since; but she
looked unusually cold and severe now.
"Shut the door," said Miss Davenal.
Sara hesitated for a moment, more in mind than action, and then she
obeyed. She had left her desk, and wanted to get back to it.
"Hold this," said Miss Davenal.
She had taken her seat in her own chair, and was cutting out some
articles of linen clothing that looked as long as the room. Her income
was a very moderate one now, and she did a good deal of sewing instead
of putting it out. Sara took the stuff in her hand, and held it while
her aunt cut: an interminable proceeding to an impatient helpmate, for
Miss Davenal cut only about an inch at a time, and then drew a short
thread and cut again.
"Won't it tear?" asked Sara.
"It _will_ wear. Did you ever know me buy linen that wouldn't wear? I
have too good an eye for linen to buy what won't wear."
"I asked, aunt, if it would not tear."
"Tear!" repeated Miss Davenal, offended at the word--at the ignorance
it betrayed. "No, it will not tear; and I should think there's hardly
a parish school child in the kingdom but would know that, without
asking."
Sara, rebuked, held her part in silence. Presently Miss Davenal lifted
her eyes and looked her full in the face.
"Who was that letter from this morning?"
"It was a private letter, aunt."
"A what?" snapped Miss Davenal.
Sara let fall the work, and stood fearlessly before Miss Davenal. The
most gentle spirit can be aroused at times. "The letter was from a
gentleman, aunt. It was a private letter to myself. Surely I am not so
much of a child that I may not be trusted to receive one?"
"A pri-vate let-ter!--A gentleman!" was the amazed reiteration of Miss
Bettina. "_What_ do you say?"
Sara stood quite still for a moment, while the faint flush that was
called up died away on her cheeks, and then she bent close to her
aunt's ear, her low voice unmistakably clear and distinct.
"Aunt Bettina, you knew there was some unhappy business that papa was
obliged to meet--and bear--just before he died. The letter I have
received this morning bears reference to it. It is from a Mr. King,
but I don't know him. I should be thankful if you would not force me
to these explanations: they are very painful."
Miss Bettina picked up the work and drew at a thread until it broke.
"Who is Mr. King?" she asked.
"I do not indeed know. I never saw him in my life. He had to write to
me just a word about the business, and I must answer him. In telling
you this much, Aunt Bettina, I have told all I can tell. Pray, for
papa's sake, do not ask me further."
"Well, this is a pretty state of things for the enlightened nineteenth
century!" grunted Miss Bettina. "We have read of conspiracies and
Rye-House plots, and all the rest of it: _this_ seems a plot, I think!
Have you nothing more to say?"
"No, aunt," was the low, firm answer.
"Then you may go," said Miss Bettina, twitching the work out of Sara's
hand. "I can do this myself."
And Sara knew that no amount of entreaty would induce her aunt to
admit of help in her cutting after that. She went upstairs, and met
Neal coming out of the drawing-room.
"I thought you had finished the room, Neal," she said, a sudden fear
stealing over her as she remembered that her desk was left with the
key in it.
"So I had, Miss. I came up now for this vase. My mistress said it was
to be washed."
He went downstairs carrying it: a valuable vase of Sèvres porcelain,
never intrusted to the hands of anybody but Neal. It had belonged to
poor Richard--was presented to him just before he went out on his
unfortunate voyage. Sara walked to her desk; it stood on the centre
table. What with vases and other ornaments, and superfluous articles
of furniture, the room was somewhat inconveniently full. It was a
good-sized room, too; nearly square, the window facing you as you
entered it, and the fireplace on the right. Opposite the fireplace
was a beautiful inlaid cabinet with a plate-glass back: it had never
cost less than forty pounds: but Miss Bettina had not spared money
when she bought her furniture years ago. Look at the girandoles on the
walls!--at the costly carpet, soft as velvet! Opposite the window
stood Sara's piano, a fine instrument, the gift of her loving father
on her eighteenth birthday. Altogether the room was an elegant one,
but Miss Bettina could not have reconciled herself to any other. The
parlour below was a nice room also, with its handsome sideboard and
its glittering mirrors: but it was smaller than the drawing-room.
Sara stood for a moment before her desk: it _looked_ exactly as she
left it. She turned the key and raised the lid, and saw that had
anybody else done the same Mr. Alfred King's letter was lying face
upwards, and might have been read without the slightest trouble in an
instant of time. Had Neal seen the letter? Would he be likely to do
such a thing as raise her desk surreptitiously? Many a servant would
be in a room with an unlocked desk times and again, and never attempt
to peer inside it. Was it probable that Neal had any propensity for
prying into affairs that did not concern him? It all lay in that.
Vexed with herself for having allowed the chance to any one, Sara
carried her desk to her chamber, and sat down and wrote her note
there. But she could not get the thought quite so readily out of
her head: it was most inexpedient that Neal, or any one else, should
see that letter of Mr. Alfred King's. There occurred to her mind
something her brother Edward had once told her--about a doubt of Dr.
Davenal's--as to whether Neal had not opened a note of Lady Oswald's.
Suddenly she thought of the doctor's desk. If that had been opened In
an impulse of fear he put the key into the lock.
It would not turn. Something was the matter with the lock. Had it been
tampered with? Sara's face grew hot.
Turning and twisting and pulling, but all gently, she worked the key
about in the lock. No, it would not open it. In the previous summer's
holidays a certain cupboard in Watton's room downstairs declined to be
opened in just the same way, and when inquiries came to be made,
Master Dick Davenal boldly avowed that, wanting some jam one day, he
had opened it with another cupboard key, and so had spoiled the lock.
Had this lock been put out of order in the same way? The proper key to
it was always about herself.
A locksmith had to be brought in to the desk. He speedily opened it
and put the lock to rights. "It was only a ward bent," he said. Sara
inquired whether he thought it had been done through a strange key
being put into the lock, but she did not get much satisfaction. "Like
enough it might," he said, but "sometimes them wards got out of order
with their own key."
"It seems quite a common lock," remarked Sara, as she paid him.
"Laws, yes! A'most any key might open that."
"What was the matter with the desk?" questioned Miss Bettina, who met
the man in the passage as he was going away.
"I don't know, aunt. It would not open: such a thing has never
happened to it before. Do you remember last midsummer holidays Dick
spoiled Watton's cupboard through undoing it with a false key? The man
says it may have been the same case here." And Neal, who was standing
immediately opposite his young mistress, and met her eye as she spoke
heard the words with unruffled composure; not so much as a shade of
change disturbing the equanimity of his impassive countenance.