AN IRRUPTION ON MARK CRAY.
If anything could exceed the prosperity of the Great Wheal Bang Mine
itself, it was the prosperity of those immediately connected with it.
There was only one little drawback--ready money ran short. It had been
short a long while, and the inconvenience was great in consequence;
but the prolonged inconvenience was now approaching to such a height
that even that sanguine spirit, Barker, even Mark Cray in his
confiding carelessness, felt that something must be done to remedy it.
Of course the cause of this will be readily divined--that the Great
Wheal Bang's ore was not yet in the market. The heat of summer had
passed, September was in with its soft air and its cool breezes, and
still that valuable ore had not begun to "realise." It was obstinate
ore, and it persisted in giving the greatest possible trouble before
it would come out of its mother earth, where it had been imbedded for
ages and ages. Those who understood the matter best, and the process
of working these mines, tedious at all times, did not consider that
any time was being lost; and it is more than probable that the
impatience of Barker and Mark Cray alone caused the delay to appear
unduly long.
The money swallowed up by that mine was enormous, and Mark Cray got
half-dismayed at odd moments. The shareholders were growing tired of
the calls upon their pockets; yet they were on the whole confiding
shareholders, believing implicitly in the mine and its final results.
As a natural sequence, the mine's wants being so great, its mouth so
greedy a one, Mark Cray and his friend could have the less money to
play with on their own score: still they managed to secure a little
for absolute personal wants, and tradespeople of all denominations
were eager to supply anything and everything to the great men of the
Great Wheal Bang. How entire was the confidence placed in the mine by
these two masters of it may be seen from the fact of their depriving
themselves of money to pour it into the ever-open chasm. They might so
easily have diverted a little channel into their own pockets! True, it
might not have been quite the honest thing to do, but in these matters
few men are scrupulous. Mark had surreptitiously sent a few shares
into the market and realised the proceeds; but he had done it with
reluctance: he did not care to part with his shares; neither was it
well that the Great Wheal Bang's shares should be afloat.
Standing at the window of their drawing-room on this balmy September
afternoon were Mark Cray and his wife. The fashionable world were of
course not in London, but Mr. and Mrs. Cray formed an exception--there
is no rule without one, you know. Mark felt that he could not be
absent from those attractive offices in the City, even for a day. It
was well that one of them should be seen there, and Barker was
everlastingly running down into Wales. "Never mind, Carine," he said
to his wife. "We'll take it out next year: we'll have a three-months'
autumn trip in Germany. The money will be rolling in upon us then, and
I need not stick here to keep the shareholders in good humour, as I
have to do now." Carine obediently acquiesced; and she did it with
cheerfulness: she had not been sufficiently long in her new and
luxurious home to care about leaving it.
But she solaced herself with all the gaiety that was obtainable within
reach. Drives out of town by day, and the theatre at night, or some
other amusement accessible in September. On this day they had been to
a wedding at the house of some new friends at Richmond; and they had
but now returned. If you look out you may see the fine carriage with
its four grey horses just turning from the door, for Caroline,
capricious Caroline, wayward and whimsical as a child, had stepped out
of it undecided whether to go out again and drive in the Park before
dinner. So she kept the carriage waiting until she was pleased to
decide not to go.
"I am a little tired, Mark, and they'd be ever so long taking out
those post-horses and putting in our own," she said to her husband.
"We could never go in the Park with four horses and postboys wearing
white favours. Empty as the drive is, we should have a crowd round
us."
"Taking you for the bride; and a very pretty one!" returned Mark,
gallantly.
Caroline laughed; a little all-conscious laugh of vanity. She laid her
beautiful bonnet of real lace and marabouts--and for which the
milliner would assuredly charge £10--on a side-table, and threw off
her costly white lace mantle. The folds of her silk dress, its colour
the delicate bloom of the spring lilac, rustled as she went back to
the window.
"Only think, Mark, we have been married nearly a year! It will be a
year next month." Mark stood with his face close to the window. He was
looking at the trees in the Green Park, their leaves playing in the
golden light of the setting sun. Caroline flirted a few drops on her
handkerchief from the miniature essence-bottle dangling from her
wrist, and raised it to her carmine cheeks. The day's excitement had
brought to them that rich bloom so suspiciously beautiful.
"I declare there's Barker!" exclaimed Mark. "I thought he'd be in."
Mr. Barker was dashing up the street in a cab, as fast as the horse's
legs would go. He had been at the offices all day, doing duty for
Mark. He saw them at the window, and gave them a nod as he leaped out.
Mark looked at his watch and found it wanted yet some time to dinner.
They sat down now, all three together, leaving the window to take care
of itself. There was always so much to say when Barker was there. He
talked so fast and so untiringly; present doings and future prospects
were so good; and Caroline was as much at home in it as they were.
They had had a splendid day in the City, Barker said volubly, except
for grumbling. A hundred, or so, groaning old disappointed fellows had
been in, who wanted to embark in the Wheal Bang and make their
fortunes, but there were no shares to be had for love or money, and
they were fit to bite their fingers off. Altogether, nothing could be
more smooth, more delightful than affairs, and Barker had received
news from the mines that morning promising loads upon loads of ore in
a month or so's time.
Mark rubbed his hands. "I say, Barker, what do you say to a quiet
little dinner at Blackwall tomorrow?" cried he. "I and Carine are
thinking of driving down. Will you come?"
"Don't mind if I do," returned Barker. "What, time?"
"Well, not very late. The evenings are not so light as they were.
Suppose we say"----
Before the hour had left Mark's lips he was stopped by a commotion. A
sound as of much talking and bumping of boxes in the hall below: of
boxes that appeared to be coming into the house. Caroline went to the
window and saw a cab drawn up to the door, a last trunk being taken
off it, and three band-boxes in a row on the pavement.
"Why, who can it be?" she exclaimed.
The question was soon set at rest. A lady in fashionable half-mourning
entered the room and clasped Mark round the neck. Three young ladies
entered after her and clasped Mark also, all three at once, two by the
arms, one by the coat-tails. Mr. Barker's red whiskers stood out in
wonder at the sight, and Caroline's violet eyes opened to their utmost
width.
"We thought we'd take you by surprise, darling," the elder lady was
saying. "The girls declared it would be delightful. I couldn't afford
any change for them this year, Mark, out of my poor means, and we
determined to pay you a visit for a few days. And so we have come, and
I hope you can take us in."
"Yes, but don't smother me, all of you at once," was poor Mark's
answer. "I am glad to see you mother; and I am sure my wife--Caroline,
you remember my mother and my sisters."
It was certainly an imposing number to take a house by storm, and
there was vexation in Mark's eye as he looked deprecatingly at his
wife. But Caroline rose superior to the emergency. She came forward
prettily and gracefully, and welcomed them all with a cordial smile.
Mrs. Cray the elder could not take her eyes from her face: she thought
she had never seen one grown so lovely. She withdrew them at length
and turned them on Mr. Barker.
But that gentleman scarcely needed an introduction. He was of that
free and easy nature that makes itself at home without one; and in an
incredibly short time, before indeed the strangers had taken their
bonnets off, he was chattering to them as familiarly as though he had
known them for years. They were rather pleasing girls, these sisters
of Mark--Fanny, Margaret, and Nina: very accomplished, very useless,
and bearing about them the tone of good society.
Leaving Mark to welcome them, we must turn for an instant to the house
of Miss Davenal. Sara was at rest, for she had paid Mr. Alfred King.
In her desperate need--it surely might be called such!---she wrote the
facts of the case to Mr. Wheatley. Not telling him the details, not
saying a word that might not have been disclosed to the whole body of
police themselves, but simply stating to him that she had very urgent
need of this two hundred pounds for her father's sake. The result was,
that Mr. Wheatley sent her the money. But he was not a rich man, and
he candidly told her he could not have done it but for the certainty
there existed of its speedy return to him. Sara lost not a moment in
seeking another and a final interview with Mr. Alfred King. The papers
were given up to her, the receipt signed, all was done as specified by
Dr. Davenal, and the affair and the danger to Edward were alike at an
end. The horrible nightmare on Sara Davenal's days was lifted; the
fear which had been making her old before her time was over. Her
countenance lost its look of wearing pain, and she seemed like a child
again in her freedom from care.
Yes, the dreadful nightmare was over, and Sara was at rest. In her
immunity from pain, in her renewed happiness, it almost seemed as if
the world might still have charms for her. You can look at her as she
stands in the drawing-room by Miss Davenal's side. It is the same
evening as the one spoken of above, when Mrs. Cray and her daughters
made that irruption upon Mark. Sara is in evening dress--a black
gauze, with a little white net quilling on the low body and sleeves.
Her white cloak lies on the sofa, and she is drawing on some new
lavender gloves. But look at her face! at her cheek's rich colour! at
the sweet smile on the lips, at the bright eye! Is it the anticipated
evening's enjoyment that is calling these forth? No, no; the pleasant
signs spring from a heart at rest: a heart that had long been aching,
worn, _terrified_ with a secret care.
It was very rare indeed that Miss Davenal went out, but she had
accepted an invitation for dinner that evening. She had a few friends
in London, not new ones (of new ones she had made none); but old
acquaintances of her earlier days. The friend she was going to this
evening, Lady Reid, had been her schoolfellow at Hallingham; they had
grown up together, and Bettina Davenal was her bridesmaid when she
married young Lieutenant Reid, who had then his fortune to make. He
made it out in India, and he came home a colonel and a K.C.B.; came
home only to die, as is the case with too many who have spent their
best days in the Indian empire. His widow lived at Brompton, and Miss
Davenal and she liked nothing better than to spend an hour together
and talk of the days when they were so young and hopeful. How
different, how different to them was the world now! Could it be the
same world? Many of you, my readers, have asked the very question.
Neal had gone to the livery stables to order round a carriage, for
Miss Bettina had a horror of cabs, and had not put her foot inside one
since the evening of her arrival in London. She stood in her rich
black silk and her cap of that fine white lace called point
d'Angleterre, glancing from the window and talking with Sara. They had
had news from Bombay that afternoon from Edward. Great news! and
perhaps Sara's cheeks owed some of their unusual colour to this.
Captain Davenal was married. He had fallen in love with a pretty girl
in India, or she had fallen in love with him, and they were married.
She was an only child, he wrote them word, and an heiress; her name
Rose Reid, now Rose Davenal. Miss Davenal felt nearly sure it must be
a niece of her old friend to whom she was that evening engaged. Lady
Reid's late husband had a brother in the civil service at Bombay,
reported to be a rich man, and it was probable this was his daughter.
"It is just like Edward," she said tartly to Sara, as she watched for
the carriage. "To think that he should marry after a month or two's
acquaintance! He can't have known her much longer."
"But he says she is so pretty, aunt; so lovable!" was Sara's pleading
answer. "And--if she is an heiress, I am very glad for Edward's sake."
"Ah," grimly returned Miss Bettina, having as usual heard all awry,
"that's it, no doubt, the money's sake. I don't forget a good old
proverb: 'Marry in haste and repent at leisure!' Here comes the
carriage."
They went down to it. Neal, all perfection as usual, assisted them in
and took his place by the side of the driver. They were nearly at
their journey's end when, in passing a row of houses, Sara, who
happened to be looking out, saw Oswald Cray at one of the windows: and
by his side a fair face half-hidden by the crimson curtain; the face
of Jane Allister.
A mist gathered over her eyes and her heart. She looked out still,
mechanically; she saw the name written up as they left the houses
behind them, "Bangalore Terrace;" she answered her aunt's remarks as
before; but the change within her was as if sunshine had given place
to night.
Why, could she still be cherishing those past hopes? No; never for an
instant. She knew that all was over between her and Oswald Cray; that
he was entirely lost to her. But she could not put away from her the
old feelings and the old love; she could not see him thus in familiar
companionship with another without bitter pangs and wild emotion.
Perhaps Jane Allister was to be his wife!
Neal left them at Lady Reid's, his orders being to return with the
carriage a quarter before eleven. When he reached home it was dusk;
and Dorcas, attired in her bonnet and shawl, came to him in the
passage, and said she was going out to do a little shopping.
Neal watched her fairly off and then went indoors. He closed the
shutters of the dining parlour, went up to the drawing-room, where he
set the candle on the table, and closed those shutters also. He took a
leisurely survey of the room, apparently searching for something, and
reading, _en passant_, a note or two left upon the mantelpiece, and
then he took his seat before Sara's desk.
That little episode, the spoiled lock of the doctor's desk, had taught
him caution; he would not make the same mistake with this. Neal was an
adept at his work: and, by the ingenious use of a penknife and a piece
of wire, the desk was opened. It may be a question how long Neal had
waited for this opportunity. Such a one had not occurred for months:
his ladies out, and Dorcas out; and the house wrapped in the silence
of night, and not likely to be invaded.
And now a word to my readers. Should there be any among you who may
feel inclined to cavil at this description of Neal's treachery,
deeming it improbable, let me tell you that it is but the simple
truth--a recital of an episode in real life. The reading of the
letters, the opening of the desks, the ferreting propensities, the
treachery altogether, were practised by a retainer in a certain
family, and the mischief wrought was incalculable. It separated those
in spirit who had never been separated before; it gave rise to all
sorts of misconception and ill-feeling; it caused animosity to
prevail between relatives for years: and the worst was--the worst, the
worst!--that some of those relatives were never reconciled again in
this world, for before the truth came to light death had been busy. As
Coleridge says,
"Whispering tongues can poison truth."
What Neal's motive was I cannot tell you. What the motive of that
other one was, was as little to be traced. There was nothing to be
gained by it, so far as could be seen. It may have been that the
prying propensities were innate in both natures; the love of working
mischief inherent in their hearts. Certainly it was the ruling passion
of their lives. The most extraordinary inventions, the strangest
stories, were related by the one: you will find, before you have done
with the other, that they were not abjured by him.
The first letter Neal came to in the desk--at least, the first he
opened--happened to be one from Mr. Wheatley. By that he learned that
two hundred pounds had been lent to Sara in the summer for the
"completion of the payment she spoke of." Coupled with his
previously-acquired knowledge, Neal came to the conclusion that the
trouble as regarded Captain Davenal was over, and the money paid. The
precise nature of the trouble Neal had never succeeded in arriving at,
but he did know that money had to be paid in secret on his account.
The next letter he came upon was the one received from the Captain
that day: and if Neal had hoped to find groans and trouble and
difficulty in it, he was most completely disappointed. It was one of
the sunniest letters ever read; it spoke of his girl-wife and his own
happiness: not a breath was there in it of care in any shape. Neal was
nonplussed: and the letters did not afford him pleasure.
"The thing all settled!--the money paid!" he repeated to himself,
revolving the various items of news. "No wonder _she_ has looked
sprightly lately. Why, for months after the doctor's death she seemed
fit to hang herself! I thought some change had come to her. And he is
married, is he!--and has picked up an heiress! I don't like that. Some
folks do have the luck of it in this world. It's a great shame! And
she has no right to be happy, for I know she hates me. I know she
suspects me, that's more. I'll try--I'll _try_ and deal out a little
small coin in exchange. There's always that other thing, thank
goodness; the break with Mr. Oswald Cray. I wonder if she saw him this
evening at that window? I did; and I saw the young lady too. I hope
it's going to be a match, if only to serve out this one?"
With this charitable wish Mr. Neal resumed his research of the desk.
But nothing more of particular moment turned up, and he soon made it
fast again in his own artistic manner, which defied detection.
And when Dorcas came in she found Neal, his supper eaten stretched
comfortably before the kitchen fire, taking a dose.