"FINANCE," THIS TIME.
An afternoon in March. The sun was drawing towards its setting amidst
gorgeous clouds, and the red light, illumining the western sky, threw
its rays into an invalid's chamber, and lighted it up with a warm hue.
Something else was drawing towards its setting; and that was the
feeble life of the chamber's chief occupant. It was a good-sized
pleasant room: the bed at the end farthest from the window; the middle
space devoted to the comfort of the invalid, a table with some books
upon its handsome cover, a sofa, easy chairs, velvet footstools, and a
few pretty ornaments to amuse the eye.
On the sofa, by the side of the fire, a coverlid of the lightest and
softest texture thrown gently over her, lay the invalid, her hands
white and attenuated, her face drawn and wan. But there was a strange
beauty in the face yet; in the eyes with their violet depths, in the
exquisite features shaded by the mass of silky hair. You do not fail
to recognise Mrs. Cray. Just now the eyes were closed, and she was
dozing peacefully.
At the opposite end of the hearth-rug, sitting restlessly in an easy
chair, was Mark. Of late Mark had been rather prone to be as still and
idle as his wife: the inert life wearied him, it chafed its spirit;
but there was no escape from it at present, and Mark Cray had perforce
resigned himself to it, as an imprisoned bird resigns itself in time
to its cage. Mark's future prospects were uncommonly vague: in fact
they were as yet bounded by the old expectation-anchor, the
"something" that was to "turn up." Any time in the past few weeks his
wife's death might have been expected, and Mark had yielded to the
idleness of the circumstances, and been tranquil. Mr. Barker was away
in Paris, and did not write; the Wheal Bang affairs were going on to a
comfortable conclusion, and Mark was letting the future take care of
itself. Strolling out for short walks; giving a quarter of an hour to
the "Times;" wandering for a few minutes into the sitting-rooms and
the presence of Miss Bettina, and lounging back in the easy chairs by
the side of his wife--thus had Mark's recent days been passed.
But on this afternoon all was changed, and Mark's forced quiescence
had given place to a fidgety restlessness, very characteristic of the
old times. The post had just brought a letter from Mr. Barker--some
accident or contrary weather having delayed the arrival of the French
mail--and Mark Cray upon reading it felt exalted into the seventh
heaven.
Barker had succeeded! He had brought out a company in Paris connected
with finance; the great work he had been striving for so long. In
three weeks' time from that date it would all be in full operation,
and if Mrs. Cray were sufficiently well to be left, and Mark came over
to Paris, he could instantly step into a post in the Company at a
salary of eight hundred a-year to begin with. In about six months'
time, according to moderate computation, the thing would be in full
swing, and the profits inaugurated certainly at not less than six
thousand per annum; the half of which splendid income should be
Mark's. Such was Mr. Barker's news.
Can you wonder at Mark's restlessness? At his brightened eye, his
flushed face, as he sits there in the chair, bolt upright, his hand
raised incessantly to push back his hair? He glances across at
Caroline--whom he really loves very much still--and thinks what a pity
it is that all this good fortune should have delayed itself until now.
Had it come too late for her? Mark Cray in his sanguine fashion
actually asks himself the question, medical man though he is. For the
last two or three days Caroline had seemed so much better! only on
this very morning she had told Mark she felt as if she were getting
well again.
Mark moved his restless legs and contrived to knock down the
fire-shovel. The noise awoke Caroline. She stirred, and turned her
opening eyes on her husband.
"What was that? Did anybody come in, Mark?"
"I threw over one of the fire-irons. I am sorry it disturbed you. They
are always sticking out, tiresome things! It's not a proper fender for
a bedroom. Caroline, I have had a letter from Barker," he continued,
rising in excitement and standing before her on the hearth-rug. "It's
the most glorious news! The thing's realised at last."
"What thing?" asked Caroline, feebly, after a pause of bewilderment.
"The thing he has had on hand so long, the great scheme he has been
working for. O Carine, I wish you could get better! There's eight
hundred a year waiting for me in Paris; and there'll be an income of
at least three thousand before six months are over. Three thousand for
my share, you know. I'm sure you would like living in Paris."
She did not answer. Nothing was heard save the quick gasps of the
panting breath, the result of excessive weakness, or--of--something
else coming very near. Mark was struck with some change in her aspect,
and bent down to her.
"Don't you feel so well, Carine?"
"I--feel--weary," was all she answered, her voice ominously low.
"Where's Sara, I wonder?" said Mark. "I'll go and send her to you. You
want some beef-tea, or something, I daresay."
Mark went down the stairs, meeting Sara on them. In the drawing-room,
with Miss Bettina, was Oswald Cray, who had just come in. He was a
frequent visitor now.
The half-brothers shook hands, coldly enough. They were civil to each
other always, but there could never be cordiality between them. Not
because of the past; but because they were so essentially different in
mind, in judgment, and in conduct.
"My luck has turned at last, Oswald," exclaimed Mark impulsively.
"In what way?" asked Oswald, who was leaning over the back of a chair
while he talked to Miss Bettina.
"I have just had a letter from Barker," answered Mark, running his
hand through his hair with his restless fingers. "I told you what a
great scheme he had got on hand in Paris, but you turned the cold
shoulder on it. Well, it's bearing fruit at last."
"Oh," said Oswald, evincing a desire, if his tone and manner might be
judged by, to turn the cold shoulder on it still, metaphorically
speaking. "How is your wife this afternoon?" he continued, passing to
a different subject.
"She has been so much better the last few days that one might almost
be tempted to hope she'd get well again," rejoined Mark, volubly. "She
seems tired now--low, I thought. Sara's just gone up to her. What a
shame it is that things turn out so cross-grained and contrary!"
The concluding sentence, delivered with marked acumen, reached the ear
of Miss Bettina. She looked up from her knitting to scan Mark.
"If Barker's luck had only been realised six months ago, what a thing
it would have been!" he went on. "Caroline might have got better,
instead of worse. In the enjoyment of luxuries in a home of her own,
renewed wealth and position in prospective, with the pure air of the
balmy French capital, there's no knowing what benefit she might not
have derived. And now it comes too late! I shall ever regret it for
her sake."
"Regret what?" sharply interposed Miss Bettina.
Mark replied by giving a summary of Barker's luck. Miss Bettina
paused, knitting-needles in hand, her keen grey eyes fixed on Mark, as
she tried to understand him.
"Barker in luck!" she repeated, catching some of the words and the
general sense. "Has he come into an estate in the moon? Don't be a
simpleton, Mark Cray."
Mark Cray felt exasperated. Nothing angered him so much as for people
to pretend to see these enchanting prospects with different eyes from
his own. He had always been convinced it was done only to vex him.
Poor Mark! He turned to Oswald, and began expatiating upon the good
fortune that was drawing so near; and Oswald saw that it was of no use
to try to stop him. The fever-mania had again taken hold of Mark.
"What is the scheme, do you say?" asked Oswald, just as he would have
asked anything of a child; and perhaps it was not altogether his fault
that a sound of mockery was discernible in his tone.
"It's connected with finance."
"Oh!" said Oswald.
"It is the grandest thing that has been brought before the public for
many a year," continued Mark, his voice impressive, his light eyes
sparkling. "The very greatest--"
"Grander than the Great Wheal Bang?" inopportunely interposed Miss
Bettina, Mark's earnest tones having enabled her to hear better than
usual.
"A hundred times grander," returned Mark, his mind too completely
absorbed in the contemplation of the grandeur to detect the irony.
"That is, better, you know, Miss Bettina. The mine was very good; but
of course there _was_ a risk attending that, from water or other
causes, and the result unfortunately realised it. This is different.
Once the company is formed, and the shares are taken, it can't fail.
Barker and I went through the thing together over and over again when
he was in London; we had it all down before us in black and white. We
allowed for every possible risk and contingency, and we proved _that
the thing could not fail, if once organised_."
Oswald listened quietly. Miss Bettina had lost the thread again.
"The job was to organise the thing," resumed Mark. "It could not be
done without money, and Barker--to speak the truth--found a difficulty
in getting that. The money market was tight here, and men don't care
to speculate when money's not plentiful. He also required the
co-operation of some French capitalist, who would put his name to
it--some good man on the Bourse, and _that_ was hard to get. Those
Frenchmen are all so narrow-minded, fight so shy. He knows two or
three good Englishmen in Paris who were willing to go into it, and who
helped Barker immensely with advice and introductions, and that; but
they had no funds at command. However, it's all accomplished now.
Barker has fought his way through impediments, and surmounted them.
The company's formed, the preliminary arrangements are successfully
carried out, and fortune is at hand."
"What's at hand?" asked Miss Bettina.
"Fortune," repeated Mark. "I shall take one of those nice little boxes
in the Champs Elysées. Some of them are charming. Or perhaps only part
of one if--if Carine--O dear! it is hard for her that this luck did
not fall in a year ago! I wonder," broke off Mark, passing to another
phase of his future visions, "I wonder whether, if it were possible to
get Caroline over to Paris now, the change might benefit her?"
"You think of residing in Paris?" said Oswald.
"Of course I do. Paris will be the centre of operations. Barker wants
me over there at once; and the minute I join him I begin to draw at
the rate of eight hundred a-year. Just to go on with, you know, until
the money falls in."
"Mark," said Oswald, after a pause, "will it be of _any_ use my saying
a word of warning to you?"
"On what subject?" returned Mark, looking up with surprise.
"On this subject. It seems to me that you are falling into another
delusion; that the--"
"No, it will not be of any use," burst forth Mark in strange
excitement "I might have known beforehand that you'd turn out my enemy
upon the point. If gold and diamonds were dropping down in a shower
from the skies you'd not stretch forth your hand to catch them.
There's a mist before your eyes, Oswald, that prevents you seeing
these things in their proper aspect."
He began to pace the room as he spoke, chafing considerably _Why_ was
it that these little hints of warning awoke the irritation of Mark's
spirit? Could there be an undercurrent of doubt in his mind whether
Oswald was right and he wrong? However it might be, one thing was
certain--that no warning, let it come from whom it would, could do any
good with Mark.
As he turned to face them again, Sara entered. An expression of alarm
was on her face, and she closed the door before speaking. She had come
to say that Caroline appeared worse; altogether different from usual.
Mark ran up the stairs; Miss Bettina put down her knitting to follow.
Sara turned to Oswald Cray.
"She knows you are here, Oswald, and would like to see you. She wants
to bid you goodbye. I think her saying that alarmed me more than
anything."
Caroline was on the sofa as before. Very quiet, save for her panting
breath. Her white hands lay listless, her face, dreadfully worn though
it was, was calm, tranquil. She looked at them one by one, and
slightly raised her hand as Oswald entered. He bent down to her,
taking it in his.
"Thank you for all," she whispered.
The change in her countenance struck them. It so far frightened Mark
as to take from him his self-possession. He pushed Oswald away.
"O Carine, what is it? You cannot be going to die! You must not die,
now that all this good luck is coming upon me!"
She glanced up at him, her eyes wide open, as if she scarcely
understood.
"There's the most beautiful home getting ready for you in Paris
Carine," he resumed, his voice sounding as if he were on the verge of
tears. "We'll live in the Champ Elysées; it is the loveliest spot, and
you can't fail to grow better there, if we can only get your disease
to turn. O Carine! don't leave me just when I am able to surround you
with wealth and luxury again! This will be a greater and a surer thing
than the Great Wheal Bang."
"Don't, Mark! I am going to a better home."
"But I can't let you go until I have atoned for the past! I----"
"Hush, hush!" she interrupted. "O Mark! if you only knew how welcome
it is to me! I am going to be at peace after all the turmoil. I am
going to rest."
"Do you _want_ to go?" pursued Mark, half-resentfully. "Don't you
_care_ to get well?"
"I have not cared to get well since I came to England. That is, I have
not thought I should," she returned between the gasps of her laboured
breath. "When I heard the bell toll out for Prince Albert, I asked who
was I that I should be spared when he was taken? The next world has
seemed very near to me since then. As if the doors of it had been
brought down to earth, and stood always open."
That the death of the Prince, brought so palpably, as may be said,
before her, had taken a great hold on the mind of Mrs. Cray there was
no doubt. Several times during her later weeks of illness she had
alluded to it. Her principal feeling in relation to it appeared to be
that of _gratitude_. Not gratitude for his death; there was only
sorrow for that; but for the strange impression it had left upon her
own mind, the vista of the Hereafter. For the good and great prince to
be taken suddenly from the earthly duties so much needing him was only
an earnest, had one been wanting, that he had entered upon a better
and higher sphere. It seemed that he had but been removed a step; a
step on the road towards heaven; and it most certainly in a measure
had the effect of reconciling her to her own removal, of
tranquillising her weary heart, of bringing her thoughts and feelings
into that state most fitting to prepare for it. Often and often had
she awoke from a deep sleep, starting suddenly up and calling out, "I
thought I heard St. Paul's bell again?"
"I wish the Great Wheal Bang had been in the sea!" gloomily exclaimed
Mark Cray, who was no more calculated for a scene such as this than a
child, and had little more control over his tongue. "But for that mine
turning out as it did your illness might never have come on."
"Don't regret it, Mark," she feebly said. "God's hand was in it all. I
look back and trace it. But for the trouble brought to me then, I
might never have been reconciled to go. It is so merciful! God has
weaned me from the world before removing me from it."
Mark Cray drew a little back and stood gazing at his wife a gloomy
helpless sort of expression on his countenance as his right hand
nervously pushed back his hair. Oswald was at the head of the sofa,
Sara near to him, and Miss Bettina was at the far end of the room,
looking after some comforting medicine drops. Thus there was a clear
space before the sofa, and the red light from the fire played on
Caroline's wasted features. That she was dying--dying suddenly, as may
be said--there could be no doubt.
"If things had not turned out so crossly!" began Mark again. "I knew I
should redeem the misfortunes of that Wheal Bang. I always told you I
should extricate myself, Caroline."
"We shall all be extricated from our misfortunes here," came from her
dying lips. "A few years more or less of toil, and strife, and daily
care, and then redemption comes. Not the redemption that _we_ work. O
Mark, if you could see things as I now see them! When we are on the
threshold of the next world our eyes are opened to the poor value
of this. Its worst cares have been but petty trials, its greatest
heartache was not worth the pang. They were but hillocks that we had
to pass in our journey upwards, and God was always leading us. If we
could but trust to Him! If we did but learn to resign our hands
implicitly to his and be led as little children!"
Mark Cray felt somewhat awed. He began to doubt whether it were
exactly the time and place to pour forth regrets after the misfortunes
of the Great Wheal Bang, or enlarge on the future glories opening to
him in the French capital.
"It is so much better for me to be at rest! God is taking me to the
place where change and sickness cannot enter. I shall see Uncle
Richard: I shall see poor Richard who went before him: I shall see
papa and mamma, whom I have nearly forgotten. We all go, some sooner,
some later. This world lasts but a little minute; that one is the
home, the gathering-place. Mark, dear Mark! the troubles here are of
so little moment; they are only trifling hindrances through which we
must bear on to Eternity. Oh, trust God! They are all sent by him."
There occurred an interruption. Mr. Welch, who had not been able to
call before that day, came in, and the solemn feeling that had been
stealing over those in the chamber gave place to the ordinary routine
of everyday event.
"Before the morning," the surgeon said when he left, in answer to a
grave question put to him by Miss Bettina.