EDINA'S ROMANCE.
In the days gone by there were three of the brothers Raynor: Francis,
Henry, and Hugh. Francis entered the army; Henry the church; and Hugh
the medical profession. With the two former we have at present nothing
to do. Hugh Raynor passed his examinations satisfactorily, and took
all his degrees--thus becoming Dr. Raynor. Chance and fortune favoured
him. He was at once taken by the hand by an old doctor who had an
excellent practice in Mayfair, and became his assistant and frequent
companion. The old doctor had one only child, a daughter, who was just
as much taken with Hugh (and he with her) as was her father. They were
married; and on the death of the old doctor shortly afterwards, Dr.
Raynor succeeded to a good deal of the practice. He was quite a young
man still, thoroughly well intentioned, but not so prudent as he might
have been. He and his wife lived rather extravagantly, and the doctor
sometimes found himself short of ready-money. They resided in the
house that had been the old doctor's; and they heedlessly, and perhaps
unconsciously, made the mistake of beginning where he had left off:
that is, they continued their housekeeping on the same scale as his:
maintained the same expenses, horses, carriages and entertainments.
The result was, that Dr. Raynor in the course of four or five years
found himself considerably involved. In an evil moment, thinking to
make money by which to retrieve his fortunes, he embarked his name
(and as much money as he could scrape together) in one of the bubble
schemes of the day. A scheme which--according to its prospectus, its
promoters' assertions, and the credulous doctor's own belief--was
certain to realize an immense fortune in no time.
Instead of that, it realized poverty and ruin. The scheme failed--the
usual result--and Dr. Raynor found himself responsible for more money
than he would ever make in this world. Misfortunes, it has been too
often said, do not come singly: Dr. Raynor proved an example of it.
Just before the bubble burst, he lost his wife; and the only one
element of comfort that came to him in the midst of his bitter grief
for her, was to know that she died before the other blow fell.
A frightful blow it was, almost prostrating Dr. Raynor. The creditors
of the ruthless company took all from him: even to the gold watch upon
his person. They sold up his furniture, his books, his carriages and
horses, everything; and they told him he might thank their leniency
that they did not imprison him until he could pay up the scores of
thousands they made out he was responsible for. The fact was, the
promoters of the company, and those of its directors who possessed
funds, had gone over to the Continent; and there remained only the
poor doctor, innocent and honourable, to come upon.
Turned out of house and home, his name in the papers, his prospects
gone, Dr. Raynor felt he should be glad to die. He did not even
attempt to retain his practice, which was a great mistake; his only
care was to escape from the scene of his prosperity and hide his
humiliated head for ever. His little child, Edina, the only one he
had, was five years old; and for her sake he must try and keep a roof
over his head and find bread to eat. So he looked out for employment
after a time, as far away from London and in as obscure a corner of
the land as might be, and obtained it amidst the collieries in North
Warwickshire, as assistant to a general practitioner. After remaining
there for some years, he heard of an opening at a place in Cornwall.
The surgeon of the place, Trennach, an old man, who wanted to retire,
chanced to know Dr. Raynor, and wrote to offer him the succession upon
very easy terms. It was accepted, and the doctor removed to Trennach.
The returns from the practice were very small at first, he found,
scarcely enabling him to make way, for it lay almost entirely amongst
the poor; but subsequently Dr. Raynor dropped into a better class of
practice as well through the death of another surgeon some two or
three miles from Trennach. And here, in Trennach, he remained; a sad
and silent man ever since the misfortune of his early days; and lived
as retired a life as might be. His only care, his constant companion,
had been his beloved child, Edina. He had trained her to be all that a
woman should be: true, earnest, thoughtful, good. Mrs. Pine, who had
no children of her own, had helped him, and been to Edina almost as a
second mother. Not many women in this world were like Edina Raynor.
The only sister of the three brothers Raynor had married a London
banker, Timothy Atkinson, the junior partner in the house of Atkinson
and Atkinson. When Edina was two-and-twenty years of age, she went on
a visit to her aunt in London. Mr. and Mrs. Timothy Atkinson, who had
married rather late in life, were childless; and in these later years
Mrs. Atkinson had become an invalid. She was also eccentric and
capricious; and, for the first few days after her arrival, Edina
thought she should not enjoy her visit at all. Timothy Atkinson was a
sociable little man, but he spent all his time in the business
downstairs--for they lived at the banking-house. His cousin, the head
and chief, disabled by illness, rarely came to business now; it all
lay on Timothy's shoulders. No one seemed to have any time to give to
Edina.
But soon a change came. George Atkinson, the son of the elder partner,
found out Edina; and perhaps pitying her loneliness, or out of
courtesy, constituted himself her cavalier. He was nine or ten years
older than Edina: a good-looking, rather silent young man of middle
height and grave courtesy, with a pleasant voice and thoughtful face.
He was not strong, and there had been some talk of his having been
ordered to travel for his health; but the death of his mother had
intervened and prevented it. But, though a silent man to the world in
general, he was eloquent to Edina. At least, she found him so. As
though they had been the actual cousins that Mrs. Atkinson sometimes
called them, he was allowed to take her everywhere. To the theatres,
the opera, the gardens, all the shows and sights of London, Edina was
entrusted to the care of George Atkinson. Sometimes Mrs. Atkinson was
with them; more often she was not.
And better care he could not have taken of her, or shown himself more
solicitous for her comfort, had she been his sister or cousin.
Honourable, instinctively kind, upright and noble, there was in George
Atkinson a chivalrous devotion to women, that could only betray itself
in manner and tell upon those on whom it was exercised. It told upon
Edina. Highly educated, and possessing a fund of general information,
he was a most agreeable companion. Before one-half of their few weeks'
intercourse together had passed, she had learned to love George
Atkinson with a lasting affection.
Many a half-hour did he spend talking to her in low gentle accents of
his recently dead mother. His love, his reverence, his still lively
grief for her loss, was expressed in the truest and most tender terms.
This alone would have taken Edina's heart by storm. She believed there
lived not another man in the world who was so true a gentleman, so
estimable and admirable in all respects as George Atkinson. Indeed he
was very much so, as young men go; and neither Edina nor any other
girl need feel anything but pride at being chosen by him.
Poor Edina! It was the one great mistake of her life. Whilst George
Atkinson had no ulterior thought of her, hope was whispering to her
heart the possibility that they might pass their future lives
together. And oh, what an Eden it would have been for Edina! She loved
him with all the intensity of a pure young heart; a heart in its
virgin freshness. Whilst he, though no doubt liking her very much
indeed; nay, perhaps even loving her a little just in one corner of
his heart; had no thought, no intentions beyond the present hour. He
knew he was not strong; and he meant to see what travelling far and
wide would do to make him so. Consequently the idea of marriage had
not entered his head.
It was only on the last day of her stay, the one previous to her
departure for home, that the revelation came to Edina, and her eyes
were opened all too abruptly. They were together in the drawing-room
in the half-hour before dinner. Mr. Timothy Atkinson had not come up
from the counting-house, his wife was in her chamber, dressing. It was
a lovely day in late spring. Edina stood by one of the open windows,
which had been made into a sort of small fernery. The western sunlight
was playing upon the leaves, and touching her own smooth hair and her
fair young face.
"It is very beautiful--but I think very delicate," observed Edina,
speaking of a new specimen of fern just planted, which they were both
looking at. "Do you think it will live?"
George Atkinson passed his fingers under the small leaf, and somehow
they met Edina's. He did not appear to notice the momentary contact;
_her_ pulses thrilled at it.
"Oh yes, it will live and flourish," he answered. "In six months' time
you will see what it will be."
"_You_ may see," she said, smiling. "It will be a great many more
months than six, I suppose, before I am here again. Perhaps it may be
years."
"Indeed, Edina, you are more likely to be here in six months' time
than I am. But for my mother's death and my father's failing health, I
should have left before this."
"But you will return?" said Edina.
"Some time I may do so. I cannot answer for it.
"What do you mean, George?"
"Not very much," he answered, with a grave and kindly smile in his
dark grey eyes. "An idea crosses my mind now and then, that when once
I am in those genial lands, where the skies are blue and the winds
temperate, I shall be in no hurry to quit them again. Of course I
don't say that I shall remain there for life; but--it might happen
so."
A pang, sharp as a two-edged sword, struck Edina. "What, and abandon
your country for ever, and--and home ties?"
"As to home ties, Edina, I shall have none then. There is only my
father now. Of course my future movements will be regulated with
reference to him as long as he is with us. But--I fear--that may not
be very much longer. As you know."
She made a slight movement of assent; and bent her head over the
ferns.
"And I shall not be likely to make home ties for myself," went on
George Atkinson, unconscious of the anguish he was inflicting. "I
shall never marry."
"Why?" breathed Edina.
"I scarcely know why," he replied, after a pause, as if searching for
a reason. "I have never admitted the thought. I fancy I shall like a
life of change and travel best. And so--when once we part, Edina--and
that must be to-morrow, you say, though I think you might have
remained longer--it is hard to say when we shall meet again. If ever."
"Halloa, who's here? Oh, it is you, George; and Edina! Where's your
aunt? Dinner must be nearly ready."
The interruption came from brisk little Timothy Atkinson, who bounded
into the room with quick steps and his shining bald head.
As Edina turned at his entrance, George Atkinson caught the expression
of her face; the strange sadness of its eyes, its extreme pallor. She
looked like one who has received a shock. All at once a revelation
broke upon him, as if from subtle instinct. For an instant he stood
motionless, one hand pushing back his brown hair; hair that was very
much the same shade as Edina's.
"It may be better so," he said in a whisper, meeting her yearning eyes
with his earnest gaze. "At any rate, I have thought so. Better for
myself, better for all."
The tall, portly frame of Mrs. Timothy Atkinson, clothed with rich
crimson satin, rolled into the room, and the conversation was at an
end. And with it, as Edina knew, her life's romance.
"God bless you, Edina," George Atkinson said to her the next day, as
he attended her to the station with Mr. Timothy, and clasped her hand
at parting. "When I return to England in years to come--if ever I do
return--I shall find you a blooming matron, with a husband and a flock
of children about you. Farewell."
And as Edina sat back in the swiftly-speeding railway-carriage, not
striving, in these early moments of anguished awakening to do battle
with her breaking heart, she knew that the blow would last her for all
time. Dr. Raynor thought her changed when she arrived home: he
continued to think her so as the days went on. She was more quiet,
more subdued: sad, even, at times. He little knew the struggle that
was going on within her, or the incessant strivings to subdue the
recollection of the past: and from henceforth she endeavoured to make
duty her guide.
Never a word was exchanged between father and daughter upon the
subject; but probably Dr. Raynor suspected something of the truth.
About a year after Edina's return from London, a gentleman who lived a
few miles from Trennach made her an offer of marriage. It would have
been an excellent match in all respects; but she refused him. Dr.
Raynor, perhaps feeling a little vexed for Edina's sake, asked her the
reason of her rejection. "I shall never marry, papa," she answered,
her cheek flushing and paling with emotion. "Please do not let us ever
talk of such a thing; please let me stay at home with you always."
Nothing more was said, then or later. No one else came forward for
her, and the matter dwindled down into a recollection of the past.
Edina got over the cruel blow in time, but it exercised an influence
upon her still.
And that had been Edina Raynor's romance in life, and its ending.