SIX MONTHS LATER.
The first scenes of this story were laid in Hallingham, and it is only
well that it should close there. Well or not, it cannot be helped; for
the chief personages you have met in its course were now gathered in
that town.
Caroline died in March, and this was the beginning of October; so you
see several months have gone on in the year. The cold ungenial summer
of 1862 had come to an end, and the Great Exhibition, characteristic
of the year, was drawing to an end also. Ah! how we plan, and plot,
and work, and a higher hand mars it! A higher wisdom than ours looks
on, and overrules, and changes all things! The one brave, earnest
spirit, who had worked with all the energy of his true heart to bring
about and perfect that exhibition, was alone not spared to see its
fruition. Was there a single heart, of all the multitudes that flocked
to it, that was not weighed down with a latent sense of the something
wanting, and of the exhibition's failure?--of its failure in a general
point of view, and of our own short-seeing helplessness? The gilt had
been taken off the gingerbread.
In the Abbey at Hallingham, settled in it, as she hoped, for life, was
Miss Bettina. With the death of Mrs. Cray all necessity for Miss
Davenal's remaining in London had ceased. In point of fact, it may be
said to have ceased from the time Mark Cray and his wife went into
Normandie; but she had stayed on. Very much disliking London, Miss
Davenal made arrangements for leaving it as soon as she could do so
with convenience, and in June had come back to Hallingham. Some
difficulty arose about a residence; Miss Davenal was not one who could
be put anywhere. She possessed some houses of her own in the town,
good ones, but they were let. Oswald Cray it was who directed her
attention to the Abbey. It had never been occupied since Mark's short
tenancy of it; and at last, after some few alterations had been made
in it, to the increase of its indoor comfort, Miss Davenal took it on
a lease and entered into possession.
So far as human foresight may anticipate in this world of changes, she
had settled down for life. The great barn of a drawing-room had been
made into two apartments--handsome both, and of good proportions;
the one was the drawing-room still, the other was Miss Davenal's
bedchamber. A quiet, tranquil life she might expect to live here with
her two handmaidens, Watton and Dorcas.
For Watton had settled down also after her rovings, and come back to
Hallingham. Watton had not lightly or capriciously resigned her
superior situation in London; but ever since the past winter, Watton
had been ailing. She tried three or four doctors; she took, as she
said, quarts of physic; but Watton could not get strong. There was no
particular disorder, and she came at length to the conclusion that it
must be London that disagreed with her; and she gave notice co quit
her place. So she was installed once more upper maid to Miss Davenal,
and seemed since the change to have got well all one way.
She would have more to do than she had in the old days at the
doctor's, for there was no Neal now. Miss Davenal declined to try
another manservant, probably from a conviction that she should never
replace the services of that finished and invaluable domestic. Miss
Davenal was by no means convinced of the treachery attributed to him
by Captain Davenal, and at odd moments was apt to look upon the charge
as emanating solely from the gallant captain's fanciful imagination.
Neal himself was flourishing. Considering the precaution he took to
keep himself right with the world, there was not much probability that
he would ever be otherwise. Neal had entered on a situation with one
of her Majesty's ministers; his lordship's own personal attendant. It
was to be hoped there'd be no opportunity afforded him of getting at
any of the state secrets! Ah, how many of these rogues are there,
besides Neal, filling confidential posts in the world! Will it be so
to the end of their career? Will it be so with Neal? I sometimes
wonder.
The Abbey was gay just now, in this same month of October, for Miss
Davenal was entertaining a party in it. Sara had left it a fortnight
past with Oswald Cray; and Captain Davenal, who had come down to give
her away, had remained since, with his wife, on a visit to Miss
Davenal. He called her Aunt Bett still: but she was more cordial with
him than she used to be, for she had learnt really to love the sweet
young wife. She was in the habit of assuring him that Rose was a
greater treasure than he deserved; and in that he did not contradict
her.
Two other visitors at the abbey were Dick and Leo. Poor Leo could not
recover his health; Mrs. Keen grew timid about him, and it was decided
that he should go back to his native place, Barbadoes, for a short
while, and see what that would do. His father and mother felt
persuaded it would effect wonders, and of course they thought nobody
could take care of him as they could; so Leo was on the point of
sailing. Mr. Dick, tolerated in the capacity of visitor as a necessary
evil for his brother's sake, had come home to Sara's wedding, and was
allowed to remain still, to see the last of Leo. Dick found the
Michaelmas holidays delightful. What with getting inside the
jam-closets, and making raids on sundry neighbouring gardens where the
pears and apples grew too abundantly, and teasing Captain Davenal's
son and heir--a noisy young gentleman, who promised to be another
wicked Dick--and taking stealthy rides on the tops of the railway
engines (lying out all tempting on the opposite side to the pears and
apples) Mr. Dick found the time pass charmingly. Captain Davenal took
him out shooting now and then, by way of a treat. One day that the
captain was otherwise engaged, the gun disappeared, and Dick also; and
Miss Bettina went all but into a real fit, expecting nothing less than
to see him brought home with his head shot off. Dick, however,
reappeared with his head on, and a pheasant and a partridge in his
hand, which he had shot and brought home in open triumph, defying the
game-laws. Miss Bettina wondered how long it would be before Dick came
to the gallows.
There was one more visitor at the Abbey. And that was Mark Cray. Mark,
however, had been there but for a day or two, not for the wedding. He
had come to bear off Leo Davenal: for the _compagnon de voyage_ and
protector of Leo to the West Indies was to be no other than Mark.
Mark Cray was down in feather. Dreadfully so. After his wife's death
Mark had made his way to Paris, to enter upon the brilliant career he
supposed to be in readiness for him. Not _quite_ ready, however, he
found when he got there; some trifling preliminaries had to be
completed yet. Mark thought nothing of the check: he was sanguine:
Barker was sanguine; it was only a little delay: and Mark amused
himself most agreeably, looking at the houses in the Champs Elysées,
against the time came that he should require to fix upon one.
Mark's friends in England heard nothing of him until the middle of the
summer; and then Mark himself appeared among them uncommonly
crestfallen. That something was wrong, appeared evident. Mark gave
little explanation, but news was gathered from other sources. It
appeared that Mr. Barker's grand project, with "finance" for its
basis, had come to grief. At the very hour of its (expected) fruition
the thing had in some ingenious manner dropped through, and thereby
entailed some temporary inconvenience, not to say embarrassment, on
its two warm supporters, Barker and Mark. Of course it was entirely
undeserved; a most cruel stroke of adverse, ill-natured fate; but
nevertheless both of them had to bow to it. Mark Cray came over to
England; and Barker was compelled to go into ignoble hiding, nobody
but himself knew where, while he smoothed his ruffled plumes, and
gathered his forces for a fresh campaign.
Reposing in quiet was all very well for Barker, who appeared to have
some perpetual fund to draw upon somewhere: though, in point of fact,
the man had not a penny in the world, and how he managed to get along
in his tumbles down from luck, he alone could tell: but it was not
well for Mark Cray. Mark had not the plead genius of Barker--or
whatever you may please to call it--the talent of extracting funds
from some quarter or other for daily wants. If Mark was not "in luck,"
Mark stood a chance of starving. When Mark went back to London he had
no home, no money, it may be said no friends; and, but for his meeting
Captain Davenal one day accidentally, Mark could not, that he saw,
have gone on at all. Later, some real luck did come to Mark. His late
wife's friends--who had never been made acquainted with the grand
expectations of the great Paris scheme--wrote to tell Mark that
through the unexpected death of one of the medical men in Barbadoes,
an excellent practice might be secured by him if he chose to go out
and step into it.
Be you very sure, Mark Cray did not hesitate. Hating the profession
though he did, feeling an innate conviction within himself that he was
ill-qualified for it, he yet decided to embrace it again as his
calling and occupation in life. When it comes to starving with a man,
there's not much choice. So the decision was made, and Mark Cray was
going out immediately to Barbadoes, and was to take charge of Leopold
Davenal.
Once before you saw Miss Davenal waiting in that Abbey for the return
of a bridegroom and bride from their wedding-tour. She was so waiting
in like manner now. Oswald Cray and his wife had stopped at Thorndyke
for a day or two on their return, as they were now about to stop at
Hallingham, on their way to their new home in London.
Not as the guests of Sir Philip Oswald. Sir Philip had gone to that
place where visiting is not; and Sir Henry was the master of
Thorndyke. He had wanted Oswald and Sara to stay the whole of their
holiday there; but they had preferred a greater change.
Miss Davenal sat in her drawing-room. The October sun was getting low,
but still the expected guests had not arrived. Near to Miss Davenal,
nursing a dancing baby that would not be coaxed to stillness, was a
pretty, gentle woman--Mrs. Davenal. Leo stood at the window, looking
out, and Mark Cray sat in a distant chair, restless, and pushing back
his hair as usual. Mark did not altogether relish the expected
presence of his half-brother but there was no help for it. They had
not met since Mark went off to Paris in the spring, largely telling
Oswald that his debt to him would be paid with interest ere the year
was out.
"Is not that a carriage, Leo?"
"No, Aunt Bettina, it's a baker's cart going by."
Miss Davenal caught enough of the reply to know that it was not what
she asked after. "Where's Richard?" she presently said.
"I saw him over there on an engine just now," was Leo's answer,
pointing towards the station.
"He'll be brought home on one some day, blown up. Rose, my dear, that
baby is tiring you. Let Leo ring for the nurse."
Mrs. Davenal laughed, and was about to say that the baby did not tire
her and she would rather keep him, when Dick burst in.
"It's coming down the road; it will be here in a minute. Look, Aunt
Bett!"
He dashed across the room to the window as he spoke. Example is
contagious, and they all followed him. One of the Thorndyke carriages
was drawing up to the door. Excitable Dick quitted the window and flew
down again.
They were soon in the room. Sara, with her sweet face at rest now, and
Oswald behind her. A few moments given to greeting, and Sara had taken
the baby, and Oswald was shaking hands with his brother.
"I had no idea we should find you here, Mark."
Mark answered something which nobody could catch, and Captain Davenal
came in.
"Is Henry Oswald with you?"
"No," said Oswald. "He will be in Hallingham tomorrow. He sadly wanted
us to stay longer with him, Miss Bettina, and go on straight to London
from Thorndyke. What would you have said to that?"
"Thank you," said Miss Davenal, hearing it was impossible to say what.
"I shall be happy to see him."
"Have you seen your old friends, Mark?" asked Oswald; "have you been
out much?"
"I have not been out at all, and I have seen none of them," responded
Mark, gloomily. "I don't want to see them."
"How's Mr. Barker? Have you heard from him lately?"
"I heard the day before I came here," replied Mark, a shade of
brightness rising to his countenance. "Barker has all the luck of it
in this world. He is in something good again."
"Again!" repeated Oswald, suppressing his strong inclination to laugh.
"So he writes me word. It's something he has taken in hand and is
going to perfect. If it comes to anything I shall return from
Barbadoes and join him."
"Oh," said Oswald. "Well, Mark, I hope you will have a pleasant voyage
out there, and that you will find your journey all you can wish."
Dinner would soon be ready, and Sara was shown to her room. It
overlooked the Abbey graveyard. She took off her bonnet and stood
there, lost in many reminiscences of the past, in the changes that
time had wrought, in the uncertain contemplation of the future. What
would be poor Mark Cray's future? Would he abide at Barbadoes,
applying himself as well as his abilities allowed him to the pursuit
of his legitimate profession?--or would his unstable, weak mind be
dazzled with these illegitimate and delusive speculations to the end,
until they engulfed him?
How strangely, how wonderfully had they been brought through changes
and their accompanying trials! In this very room, where she now stood,
Oswald had been born. The poor little boy, sent adrift as may be said
without a home, motherless, as good as fatherless, had worked out his
own way in the world, striving always to make a friend of God. Ah,
when did it ever fail? It is the only sure help in life.
And what had her own later troubles been; her cares, anxieties,
sorrows? Looking back, Sara saw great cause to reproach herself: why
had she so given way to despair? It is true that she had never, in a
certain sense, a degree, lost her trust in God: but she had not
believed there could be this bright ending. A little ray of the
setting sun was reflected on the tombstone formerly noticed; it fell
on the significant inscription, "Buried in misery." Sara wondered
whether he, the unhappy tenant, had never learned to abide in God.
So absorbed was she in thought that she did not notice any one had
come into the room, until a hand was laid upon her shoulder. It was
her husband's. He put some letters down in the broad, old-fashioned
window-seat.
"They have been sent on to me here from the office," he explained, as
Sara glanced at them. "Business letters, all. In one there's a bit of
gossip, though: in Allister's."
"Is one of them from Allister?"
"Yes. Jane's going to be married. They have met with some Scotch
gentleman out there, an old acquaintance of Jane's, and things are
settled. Frank says his tongue is broad Scotch, and he can't
understand half he says. Jane does, however, so it's all right."
A smile played upon Sara lips, as she thought of the past jealousy.
She might tell her husband of it some time. "Does Mr. Allister keep
well!" she asked.
"He has been quite well ever since he went there: _he_ says very
strong. I hope it has set him up for life. What were you thinking of
so deeply, Sara, that you did not hear me come in?"
"At the moment, I was thinking of that evening when you and I met
there, in the graveyard," she answered, pointing down to it. "What a
miserable evening it was!"
"Don't dwell on it, love. _I_ cannot, without a pang of shame."
"Nay, but it is pleasant to look back upon it now, Oswald. It is
pleasant to contrast that time with this."
He shook his head with a sort of shiver, and relapsed into silence,
his hand thrown round her.
"Oswald," she resumed in a low tone, "_won't_ you tell me what your
suspicion was?"
"I will tell you some time, Sara; not now. Oh, my wife, my wife, how
much is there in the past for many of us to repent of!" he continued
in what seemed an uncontrollable impulse. "And it is only through
God's mercy that we do repent."
She laid her head upon his shoulder and let it rest there. Its safe
abiding-place, so long as the world, for them, should last.
Only through God's mercy. My friends, may it be shed on us all
throughout our pilgrimage in this chequered life, and ever abide with
us unto the end! Fare you well.
THE END.