DINING AT THE MOUNT.
When another day dawned upon Trennach, and still Josiah Bell had not
returned, his wife's exasperation gave place to real anxiety. She
could not even guess what had become of him, or where he could be.
Suspicion was unable to turn upon any particular quarter; not a shadow
of foundation appeared for it anywhere. Had the man taken refuge in
one of the miners' houses, as she had supposed, there he would still
be; but there he was not. Had he stretched himself on the Bare Plain
to sleep off the stupidity arising from drinking, as suggested by Mr.
Pine, there he would have been found. No: the miners' dwellings and
the Plain were alike guiltless of harbouring him; and Mrs. Bell was
puzzled nearly out of her wits.
It cannot be said that as yet fear of any fatal accident or issue
assailed her. The mystery as to where her husband could be was a great
mystery, at present utterly unaccountable; but she never supposed that
it would not be solved by his reappearance sooner or later. And she
would have been quite ready to put down any hint of the kind, as she
had put down Mr. Pellet's hint the previous day. Mrs. Bell fully
believed that this day would not pass without bringing him home: and
she was up with the lark, and down before Rosaline, in anticipation of
it.
The miners had returned to their work this morning, and to their usual
habits of sobriety: all things were quiet out of doors. The world was
going on in its old groove; just as though, but for the absence of
Bell, no ill-omened flock of Whistlers had come to raise a commotion
in it.
This had been another night of sleeplessness for Rosaline, another
prolonged interval of remorse and terror. She had undressed the
previous night, and got into bed; and there she lay until morning,
living through her fits of despondency, and striving to plan out the
future. To stay at Trennach would, she felt, be simply impossible; if
she did, she should die of it; she firmly believed that only to pass
the Bottomless Shaft again, and look at it, would kill her. Discovery
must come, she supposed, sooner or later; but she dared not stay in
the place to face it.
Mrs. Bell was a native of Warwickshire. Her sister had married a
Cornish man, who kept a shop in Falmouth. His name was John Pellet,
and he was cousin to Blase Pellet's father. So that in point of fact
there was no relationship between the Bells and Blase, although Blase
enlarged upon their "cousinship," and Rosaline admitted it. They were
merely connections. Mrs. Pellet had a small business as a milliner:
she had no children, and could well attend to it. She and her husband,
what with his trade and her work, were very comfortably off. She was
fond of Rosaline, and frequently had her at Falmouth. It was to this
refuge that Rosaline's thoughts now turned. She determined to go to it
without delay. But so many neighbours came in during breakfast,
inquiring after Bell, that she found no opportunity to speak of it
then.
"Mother," she said, coming into the kitchen after attending to the
upstairs rooms, Mrs. Bell having this morning undertaken to put away
the breakfast-things: "mother, I think I shall go to Falmouth.
"Go where?" cried Dame Bell, in surprise.
"To Aunt Pellet's."
"Why, what on earth has put that into your head, Rose?" demanded Mrs.
Bell, after a prolonged pause of amazement.
Rosaline did not answer immediately. She had caught up the brass
ladle, that chanced to lie on the table, and a piece of wash-leather
from the knife-box, and was rubbing away at the ladle.
"Aunt will be glad to see me, mother. She always is."
"Glad to see you? What of that? Why do you want to go just now? And
what are you polishing up that ladle for?" went on Mrs. Bell, uniting
the grievances. "The brasses and tins had a regular cleaning last
Saturday, for I gave it 'em myself."
Again Rosaline did not speak. As Mrs. Bell glanced at her, waiting for
some rejoinder, she was struck with the girl's extreme pallor, her
look of utter misery. Rosaline burst into tears.
"Oh, mother, don't hinder me!" she cried imploringly, dropping the
ladle, and raising her hands in supplication. "I _can't_ stay here. I
must go away."
"You are afraid of hearing the Seven Whistlers again!"
"Let me go, mother; let me go!" piteously sobbed Rosaline. And her
mother thought she had never seen any one in so deplorable a state of
agitation before.
"Well, well, child, we'll see," said the dame, too much concerned to
oppose her. "I wish the Whistlers had been somewhere. It is most
unreasonable to let them take hold of your nerves in this way. A bit
of an absence will put you all right again, and drive the thought out
of your head. You shall go for a week, child, as soon as your father
comes home."
"I must go to-day," said Rosaline.
"To-day!"
"Don't keep me, mother," besought Rosaline. "You don't know what it is
for me here. These past two nights! have never closed my eyes; no, not
for a moment. Let me start at once, mother! Oh, let me go! I shall
have brain-fever if I remain."
"Well, I never!" cried Mrs. Bell, other words failing her to express
her astonishment. "I never did think you could have put yourself into
this unseemly fantigue, child; no, not for all the Whistlers in the
air. As to starting off to Falmouth to-day, why, you could not have
your things ready."
"They can be ready in half-an-hour," returned Rosaline, eagerly, her
lips feverish with excitement. "I have already put them together."
"Well, I'm sure!--taking French leave, in that way, before you knew
whether you might go or not! There, there; don't begin to cry and
shake again. There's an afternoon train. And--and perhaps your father
will be in before that."
"It is the best train I could go by," said Rosaline, turning to hang
up the ladle on its hook by the dresser.
"It's not the best; it's the worst," contradicted Dame Bell. "Not but
what it may be as well if you do go. I'm ashamed of the neighbours
seeing you can be so silly and superstitious. The train does not get
into Falmouth till night-time."
"Oh yes, it does," said Rosaline, anxiously: "it gets in quite early
enough. Why, mother, I shall be at Aunt Pellet's soon after dark." And
she crossed the kitchen with a quicker step than had been seen since
that past miserable Tuesday night, and opened the staircase-door.
"And suppose your father does _not_ come home first?" debated Mrs.
Bell, not quite pleased with the tacit leave she had given. "How will
you reconcile yourself to going away in the uncertainty, Rose?"
Rose did not answer. She only ran up the stairs, shutting the door
behind her. "What in the world does ail the child?" exclaimed Dame
Bell, considerably put out. "It's my belief the fright has turned her
head. Until now she has always laughed at such things."
But Mrs. Bell made no further opposition to the journey. A discerning
woman in most kinds of illness, she recognized the fact that change of
some sort might be necessary for Rosaline. Still Bell did not return,
and still the day went on.
In the afternoon Rosaline was ready to start, with a bandbox and
handbag. Nancy Tomson had volunteered to accompany her to the station.
"I might perhaps have managed the walk to the train; I don't know;
it's a goodish step there and back," said Dame Bell, as Rosaline stood
before her, to say good-bye. "But you see, child, I want to wait in
for your father. I shouldn't like him to find an empty house on his
return."
Rosaline burst into a fit of sobbing, and laid hold of her mother as
if seeking protection from some visible terror. And once again Mrs.
Bell was puzzled, and could not make her out at all.
"Oh, mother dear, take care of yourself! And forgive me for all the
ill I have ever done. Forgive, forgive me!"
"Goodness bless me, child, there's nothing to forgive that I know of!"
testily cried Dame Bell, not accustomed to this sort of sensational
leave-taking. "I shall take care of myself; never fear. Mind you take
care of _your_self, Rose: those steam railways are risky things to
travel by: and give my love to your aunt and my respects to Pellet."
"And we hed better be going," put in Nancy Tomson, who had put on her
Sunday cloak and bonnet for the occasion. "They trains don't wait for
nobody."
They were in ample time for this one: perhaps Rosaline had taken care
of that: arriving, in fact, twenty minutes too soon. Rosaline entered
it when it came up, and was steamed away.
In returning, Nancy Tomson saw Frank Raynor. He was on horseback;
riding along very leisurely.
"Good-day," said he, nodding to her in passing. "Been out
gallivanting?" he added in his light way.
"I heve been a-seeing Rosaline Bell off by one o' they trains, sir,"
answered the woman. And Frank checked his horse as he heard it and sat
as still as a statue.
"Where has she gone to?"
"Off on a maggot to Falmouth. They Whistlers went and give her a prime
fright, sir: she heve hardly done shaking yet, and looks as gashly as
you please. She heve gone to her aunt's to forget it."
"Oh, to be sure," carelessly assented Frank: and rode on.
A few minutes afterwards, when near Trennach, he met Mrs. St. Clare's
carriage; herself, two ladies, and Lydia seated within it. The
coachman pulled up by orders. Of course Frank had to do the same.
"Have you been to The Mount, Mr. Raynor?"
"No, I have been across to Pendon," he answered, keeping his hat off;
and the breeze took advantage of that to stir the waves of his bright
hair.
"This makes two days that we have seen nothing of you," said Mrs. St.
Clare. "You have not been near us since Tuesday night."
A faint flush passed over his face. He murmured something about having
been very busy himself--concluded they were occupied: but he spoke
rather confusedly, not at all with the usual ready manner of Frank
Raynor.
"Well, we shall see you this evening, Mr. Raynor. You are coming to
dine with us."
Very hastily he declined the invitation. "I cannot come, thank you,"
he said. "I shall have patients to see, and must stay at home."
"But you must come; you are to come," rejoined Mrs. St. Clare. "I have
seen Dr. Raynor, and he has promised that you shall. Finally, Mr.
Raynor, you will very much oblige me by doing so."
What further objection could Frank make? None. He gave the required
assent, together with a sweeping bow, as the carriage drove on.
"What a bright-looking, handsome man!" exclaimed one of the ladies to
Mrs. St. Clare. "I really do not remember, though, to have seen him
the night of the ball, as you say I did."
"Oh, he stuck himself in a corner all the night," put in Lydia. "I
don't believe he came out of it once, or danced at all."
"He is too good-looking for a doctor. I should tremble for my
daughters' hearts."
"_Being_ a doctor, there is, I hope, no cause for me to tremble for
the hearts of mine," haughtily rejoined Mrs. St. Clare. "Not but that
he is of fairly good family and expectations: the eldest son of Major
Raynor and the heir to Eagles' Nest."
Mrs. St. Clare, unconsciously to herself, was not altogether correct
in this statement. But it may pass for the present.
Frank rode home. Dr. Raynor was out; and he went into the parlour to
Edina. She sat in the bow window, prosily darning stockings.
"Why did Uncle Hugh promise Mrs. St. Clare that I should dine at The
Mount to-night? Do you know, Edina?"
"Because she invited you, I suppose. I saw the carriage at the door
and papa standing at it as he talked to them. Don't you care to go?"
"Not this evening--particularly."
"Papa just looked in here afterwards and said would I tell you that
you were to dine at The Mount. I thought you were fond of dining
there, Frank."
"So I am sometimes. Where is Uncle Hugh?"
"He has been sent for to the parsonage. Mr. Pine is not well."
Again Frank Raynor--and this time sorely against his will--sat at Mrs.
St. Clare's brilliant dinner-table. He could see why she had made so
great a point of his coming: only one gentleman was present besides
himself. In fact, there was only Frank in all Trennach to fall back
upon. Dr. Raynor never dined out: the Rector pleaded ill-health. Most
of the guests who had been staying in the house had left it this
morning after their two nights' sojourn: those remaining--General Sir
Arthur Beauchamp, Lady and Miss Beauchamp, and a young married woman,
Mrs. Fox--were to leave on the morrow. It fell to Frank's lot to take
in Lady Beauchamp: she it was who had expressed doubts as to the
stability of young ladies' hearts, if exposed to the attractions of
Mr. Raynor. Margaret, as it chanced, sat on Frank's left hand; and
Margaret, for the time being, was supremely happy.
"Are you better than you were on Tuesday night, Mr. Raynor?" she took
occasion to ask him in a whisper, when a buzz of conversation was
going on.
"Better? I was not----" not ill, Frank was about to respond in
surprise, and then recollected himself. "Oh, thank you, yes, Margaret.
I was rather out of sorts that night."
"Mr. Raynor, what is this story about some man being lost?" asked Mrs.
St. Clare, from the head of the table. "One of the miners, we hear,
has mysteriously disappeared and cannot be found."
Frank's face flushed hotly, and he would have given the world to avoid
the subject. But he could not: and he related the particulars.
"But where is it supposed that he can be, this Josiah Bell?" asked the
general. "Where should _you_ think he is, Mr. Raynor?"
Perhaps no one at the table, with the exception of Margaret, noticed
that the young surgeon was somewhat agitated by the topic: that his
breath seemed a little laboured as he answered the repeated questions,
and that his complexion changed from red to pale. Margaret silently
wondered why the disappearance of a miner should so affect him.
"Are there any old pits, used out and abandoned, that the man could
have fallen into?" asked the sensible general.
A strangely-vivid flush now on Frank Raynor's face. A marked
hesitation in his voice, as he replied.
"Not--not any--that are easy of access, I fancy, Sir Arthur."
"Well, the man must be somewhere, dead or alive. You say it is not at
all thought that he would run away."
"Oh no; his friends say he would not be likely to do that."
"He has a very beautiful daughter, has he not?" spoke Lydia to Frank,
from the opposite side of the table.
"Yes, she is nice-looking."
"Nice-looking is not the word for it, Mr. Raynor--as we are told,"
persisted Lydia. "We hear she is strictly, faultlessly beautiful.
Fancy that, for the daughter of a common miner!"
Miss St. Clare's tone seemed to savour of mockery--as her tones often
did. Frank, straightforward and true-hearted to the core, answered
rather warmly.
"The man has come down in life; he was not always a common miner: and
Rosaline is superior in all ways to her station. She _is_ very
beautiful."
"You seem to know her well."
"Oh, very well," carelessly replied Frank.
"We should not have been likely to hear of the affair at all: of the
man's disappearance, or that he had a daughter who was celebrated for
her looks; but for mamma's maid," said Lydia, more slightingly; for in
truth she considered it a condescension even to speak of such people.
"Tabitha has relatives in Trennach: she paid them a visit this
morning, heard the news about the missing man, and entertained us with
it on her return."
"I should like to see this Rosaline," spoke Lady Beauchamp. "I am a
passionate admirer of beauty. You do, by some rare chance, now and
again, find it wonderfully developed in a girl of the lower orders."
"Well, it is to be hoped the poor man will be found all right,"
concluded Sir Arthur.
And, with that, the conversation turned to some other topic--to
Frank's intense relief. But Margaret St. Clare still marvelled at the
interest he had betrayed: and she was fated to remember it, to her
cost, in the time to come.