ROSE-COLOURED DREAMS.
The sweet spring sunshine lay upon Trennach, and upon Dr. Raynor's
surgery. Francis Raynor stood in it, softly whistling. Two sovereigns
lay on the square table, amongst the small scales and the drugs and
the bottles, and he was looking down upon them somewhat doubtfully. He
wanted to convey this money anonymously to a certain destination, and
hardly knew how to accomplish it. Sovereigns were not at all plentiful
with Frank; but he would, in his open-heartedness, have given away the
last he possessed, and never cast regret after it.
"I know!" he suddenly cried, taking up a sheet of white paper. "I'll
pack them up in an envelope, direct it to her, stick a stamp on it,
and get Gale the postman to deliver it on his round. Dame Bell is
as unsuspicious as the day, and will think the money is sent by
Rosaline--as the last was. As to Gale--he is ready to do anything for
me and Uncle Hugh: he gets his children doctored for nothing. It's a
shame he is so badly paid, poor fellow!"
Several weeks had gone on since the disappearance of Josiah Bell, and
it was now close upon May. Bell had never returned: nothing could be
heard of him. Mrs. Bell knew not what to make of it: she was a
calm-natured, unemotional woman, and she took the loss more easily
than some wives might have taken it. Bell was missing: she could make
neither more nor less of it than that: he might come back some time,
and she believed he _would_ do so: meanwhile she tried to do the best
she could without him. In losing him, she had lost the good wages he
earned, and they had been the home's chief support. She possessed a
very small income of her own, which she received quarterly--and this
had enabled them to live in a better way than most of the other
miners--but this alone was not sufficient to keep her. A managing,
practical woman, Mrs. Bell had at once looked out for some way of
helping herself in the dilemma, and found it. She took in two of the
unmarried miners as lodgers--one of them being Andrew Float, and she
began to knit worsted stockings for sale. "I shall get along somehow
till Bell returns," was her cheerful remark to the community.
Rosaline was still at Falmouth--and meant to remain there. She wrote
that she was helping her aunt with her millinery business, was
already clever at it, and received wages, which she intended to
transmit to her mother. The first instalment--it was not much--had
already come. Frank Raynor had just called Dame Bell unsuspicious as
the day. She was so. But, one curious fact, in spite of the freedom
from suspicion, was beginning to strike her: in all the letters
written by Rosaline she had never once mentioned her father's name, or
inquired whether he was found.
Frank Raynor, elastic Frank, had recovered his spirits. It was perhaps
impossible that one of his light and sanguine temperament should long
retain the impression left by the dreadful calamity of that fatal
March night. Whatever the precise details of the occurrence had been,
he had managed outwardly to shake off the weight they had thrown upon
him, and in manner was himself again.
Perhaps one thing, that helped him to do this, was his altered opinion
as to the amount of knowledge possessed by Blase Pellet. At first he
had feared the man; feared what he knew, and what evil he might bring.
But, as the days and the weeks had gone on, and Blase Pellet did not
speak, or give any hint to Trennach that he had anything in his power
to betray, Frank grew to think that he really knew nothing; that
though the man might vaguely suspect that something wrong had occurred
that night, he was not actually cognizant of it. Therefore Frank
Raynor had become in a measure his own light and genial self again.
None could more bitterly regret the night's doings than he did: but
his elastic temperament could throw off all sign of remorse; ay, and
often its recollection.
The thing that troubled him a little was Mrs. Bell's position. It was
through him she had been deprived of the chief means which had kept
her home; therefore it was only just, as he looked upon it, that he
should help her now. Even with the proceeds from the lodgers and the
stockings, and with what Rosaline would be enabled to send her, her
weekly income would be very much smaller than it had been. Frank
wished with his whole heart that he could settle something upon her,
or make her a weekly allowance; but he was not rich enough to do that.
He would, however, help her a little now and again in secret--as much
as he was able--and this was the destination of the two sovereigns. In
secret. It would not do to let her or any one else know the money came
from him, lest the question might be asked, What claim has she upon
you that you should send it to her? To answer that truthfully would be
singularly inconvenient.
Trennach in general could of course make no more of the disappearance
of Bell than his wife made. It was simply not to be understood. Many
and many an hour's discussion took place over it in the pits; or at
the Golden Shaft, to the accompaniment of pipes and beer; many a
theory was started. The man might be here, or he might be there; he
might have strolled this way, or wandered that way--but it all ended
as it began: in uncertainty. Bell was missing, and none of them could
divine the cause. And the Seven Whistlers, that he heard on the Sunday
night or thought he heard, had certainly left no damage behind them
for the miners. The men might just as well have been at work those
three days for all the accident that had occurred in the mines.
Perhaps better.
Seated at the window of what was called the pink drawing-room at The
Mount, from the colour of its walls, were Mrs. St. Clare and her
daughter Lydia. The large window, shaded by its lace curtains, stood
open to the warm bright day. Upon the lawn was Margaret in her white
dress, flitting from flower to flower, gay as the early butterflies
that sported in the sunshine. Lydia, a peculiar expression on her
discontented face, watched her sister's movements.
Frank Raynor had just gone out from his morning visit, carrying with
him an invitation to dine with them in the evening. Lydia was really
better; she no more wanted the attendance of a doctor than her sister
wanted it: but she was devoured by ennui still, and the daily, or
almost daily, coming of Frank Raynor was the most welcome episode in
her present life. She had learned to look for him: perhaps had learned
in a very slight degree to _like_ him: at any rate, his presence was
ever welcome. Not that Lydia would have suffered herself to entertain
serious thoughts of the young surgeon--because he was a surgeon, and
therefore far beneath her notice in that way--but she did recognize
the fascination of his companionship, and enjoyed it. Latterly,
however, an idea had dawned upon her that some one else enjoyed it
also--her sister--and the suspicion was extremely unwelcome. Lydia was
of an intensely jealous disposition. She would not for the world have
condescended to look upon Frank Raynor as a lover, but her jealousy
was rising, now that she suspected Daisy might be doing so, somewhat
after the fashion of the dog-in-the-manger. That little chit, Daisy,
too, whom she looked upon as a child!--there was some difference,
she hoped, between nineteen and her own more experienced age of
five-and-twenty! She was fond of Daisy, but had not the least
intention of being rivalled by her; and perhaps for the child's own
sake, it might be as well to speak.
As Frank went out, he crossed Daisy's path on the lawn. They turned
away side by side, walking slowly, talking apparently of the flowers;
lingering over them, bending to inhale their perfume. Mrs. St. Clare,
a new magazine and a paper-knife in her hand--for she did make a
pretence of reading now and then, though it was as much a penance as a
pleasure--glanced up indifferently at them once, and then glanced down
again at her book. But Lydia, watching more observantly, saw signs and
wonders: the earnest gaze of Frank's blue eyes as they looked into
Daisy's; the shy droop in hers; and the lingering pressure of the
hands in farewell. He went on his way; and Daisy, detecting in that
moment her sister's sharp glance from the window, made herself at once
very busy with the beds and the flowers, as if they were her only
thought in life.
"Mamma!"
The tone was so sharp that Mrs. St. Clare lifted her head in surprise.
Lydia's voice was usually as supinely listless as her own.
"What is it, Lydia?"
"Don't you think that Daisy wants a little looking after?"
"In what way?"
"Of course I may be mistaken in my suspicions. But I think I am not. I
will assume that I am not."
"Well, Lydia?"
"She and Mr. Raynor are flirting desperately."
Mrs. St. Clare made no reply whatever. Her eyes fixed inquiringly on
Lydia's, kept their gaze for a moment or so, and then fell on the
magazine pages again. Lydia felt a little astonished: was this
indignation or indifference?
"Did you understand me, mamma?"
"Perfectly, my dear."
"Then--I really do not comprehend you. Don't you consider that Daisy
ought to be restrained?"
"If I see Daisy doing anything that I very much disapprove, I shall be
sure to restrain her."
"Have you not noticed, yourself, that they are flirting?"
"I suppose they are. Something of the sort."
"But _surely_, mamma, you cannot approve of Mr. Raynor! Suppose a
serious attachment came of it, you could not suffer her to marry him!"
Mrs. St. Clare turned her book upside down upon her knee, and spoke in
the equable manner that characterized her, folding her arms idly in
the light morning scarf she wore.
"It never occurred to me, Lydia, until one day, a week or two ago,
that any possibility could arise of what you are mentioning. Mr.
Raynor's visits here are merely professional. Even when he comes by
invitation to dinner, I consider them as partaking of that nature: to
look upon them in any other light never entered my mind. On this day,
however, I saw something that, figuratively speaking, opened my eyes."
"What was it?" asked Lydia.
"It occurred on the day that the Faulkners were to have come to us,
and did not. Mr. Raynor dined here in the evening. After dinner I
dropped into a doze; there, on the sofa"--pointing to the other end of
the room. "When I awoke it was quite dusk; not dark; and Mr. Raynor
and Daisy were standing together at this open window; standing very
close indeed to each other. Daisy was leaning against him, in fact;
and he, I think, had one of her hands in his. You were not in the
room."
"It was the evening I had so bad a headache, through vexation at those
stupid people not coming!" cried Lydia, angrily. "I had gone upstairs,
I suppose, to take my drops. But what did you do, mamma? Order Mr.
Raynor from the house?"
"No. Had I acted on my first impulse, I might have done that, Lydia.
But instinct warned me to take time for consideration. I did so. I sat
quite still, my head down on the cushion as before, they of course
supposing me to be still asleep, and I ran the matter rapidly over in
my mind. The decision I came to was, not to speak hastily; not _then_;
to take, at any rate, the night for further reflection: so I coughed
to let them know I was awake, and said nothing."
"Well?" cried Lydia, impatiently.
"I went over the affair again at night with myself, looking at it from
all points of view, weighing its merits and demerits, and trying to
balance one against the other," pursued Mrs. St. Clare. "The result I
came to was this, Lydia: to let the matter take its course."
Lydia opened her eyes very widely. "What, to let--to let her marry
him?"
"Perhaps. But you jump to conclusions too rapidly, Lydia."
"Why, he is only a common medical practitioner!"
"There of course lies the objection. But he is not a 'common'
practitioner, Lydia. If he were so, do you suppose I should invite him
here as I do, and make much of him? He is a gentleman, and the son of
a gentleman. In point of fact," added Mrs. St. Clare, in a lower tone,
as if the acknowledgment might only be given in a whisper, "our
branch of the St. Clare family is little, if any, better than the
Raynors----"
"Mamma, how can you say so?" burst forth Lydia. "It is not true. And
the Raynors have always been as poor as church mice."
"And--I was going to say," went on Mrs. St. Clare with equanimity--"he
is the heir to Eagles' Nest."
Lydia sat back in her chair, a scowl on her brow. She could not
contradict that.
"In most cases of this kind there are advantages and disadvantages,"
quietly spoke Mrs. St. Clare, "and I tried, as I tell you, to put the
one side against the other, and see which was the weightier. On the
one hand there is his profession, and his want of connections; on the
other, there is Eagles' Nest, and his own personal attractions. You
are looking very cross, Lydia. You think, I see, that Daisy might do
better."
"Of course she might."
"She might or she might not," spoke Mrs. St. Clare, impressively.
"Marriage used to be called a lottery: but it is a lottery that seems
to be getting as scarce now as the lotteries that the old governments
put down. For one girl who marries, half-a-dozen girls do not marry.
Is it, or is it not so, Lydia?"
No response. Mrs. St. Clare resumed.
"And it appears to me, Lydia, that the more eligible girls, those who
are most worthy to be chosen and who would make the best wives, are
generally those who are left. Have you been chosen yet?--forgive me
for speaking plainly. No. Yet you have been _waiting_ to be
chosen--just as other girls wait--for these six or seven years. Daisy
may wait in the same manner; wait for ever. We must sacrifice some
prejudices in these non-marrying days, Lydia, if we are to get our
daughters off at all. If an offer comes, though it may be one that in
the old times would have been summarily rejected, it is well to
_consider_ it in these. And so, you see, my dear, why I am letting
matters take their course with regard to Daisy and Mr. Raynor."
"He may mean nothing," debated Lydia.
"Neither of them may mean anything, if it comes to that," said Mrs.
St. Clare, relapsing into her idly indifferent manner. "It may be only
a little flirtation--your own word just now--on both sides; pour faire
passer le temps."
"And if Daisy loses her heart to him, and nothing comes of it? You
have called him attractive yourself."
"Highly attractive," composedly assented Mrs. St. Clare. "As to the
rest, it would be no very great calamity that I know of. When once a
girl has had a little love affair in early life, and has got over it,
she is always the more tractable in regard to eligible offers, should
they drop in. No, Lydia, all things considered--and I have well
considered them--it is the better policy not to interfere. The matter
shall be left to take its course."
"Well, I must say, Daisy ought not to be allowed to drift into love
with a rubbishing assistant-surgeon."
"She has already drifted into it, unless I am mistaken," said Mrs. St.
Clare, significantly; "has been deep in it for some little time past.
My eyes were not opened quickly enough; but since they did open, they
have been tolerably observant, Lydia. Why--do you suppose I should
wink at their being so much together, unless I intended the matter to
go on? Don't they stroll out alone by moonlight and twilight, in
goodness knows what shady walks of the garden, talking sentiment,
looking at the stars, and bending over the same flowers? Twice that
has happened, Lydia, since I have been on the watch: how many times it
happened before, I can't pretend to say."
Lydia remained silent. It was all true. Where had her own eyes been?
Daisy would walk out through the open French window--she remembered it
now--and he would stroll out after her: while Mrs. St. Clare would be
in her after-dinner doze, and she, Lydia, lying back in her chair with
the chest-ache, or upstairs taking her drops. Yes, it was all true.
And what an idiot she had been not to see it--not to suspect it!
"We cannot have everything; we must, as I say, make sacrifices,"
resumed Mrs. St. Clare. "I could have wished that Mr. Raynor was not
in the medical profession, especially in its lower branch. Of course
at present he can only be regarded as altogether unsuitable for Daisy:
but that will be altered when the major comes into Eagles' Nest. Frank
will then no doubt quit the profession, and----"
"The singular thing to me is, that he should ever have entered it,"
interrupted Lydia. "Fancy the heir to Eagles' Nest making himself a
working apothecary! It is perfectly incongruous."
"It seems so," said Mrs. St. Clare. "I conclude there must have been
some motive for it. Perhaps the major thought it well to give him a
profession; and when he had acquired it sent him to this remote place
to keep him out of mischief. It will be all right, Lydia, when they
come into Eagles' Nest. The major will of course make Frank a suitable
allowance as his heir. The major is already getting in years: Frank
will soon come into it."
"As to that old Mrs. Atkinson, she must intend to live to a hundred,"
remarked Lydia, tartly. "How many centuries is it since we saw her in
London?--and she was old then. She ought to give up Eagles' Nest to
the major and live elsewhere. If it be the beautiful place that people
say it is, she might be generous enough to let some one else have a
little benefit out of it."
Mrs. St. Clare laughed. "Old people are selfish, Lydia; they prefer
their own ease to other people's. I dare say we shall be the same if
we live long enough."
From this conversation, it will be gathered that the check thrown upon
Frank Raynor's pleasant intercourse with Margaret St. Clare by the
unknown calamity (unknown to the world) that had so mysteriously and
suddenly happened, had been only transitory. For a week or two
afterwards, Frank had paid none but strictly professional visits to
The Mount; had been simply courteous to its inmates, Daisy included,
as a professional man, and nothing more. He had not danced with Daisy
on her birthday; he had not given her any more tender glances, or
exchanged a confidential word with her. But, as the first horror of
the occurrence began to lose its hold upon his mind, and his
temperament recovered its elasticity, his love returned to him. He was
more with Daisy than ever; he _sought_ opportunities to be with her
now: formerly they had only met in the natural course of things.
And so they, he and she, were living in an enchanted dream, whose
rose-coloured hues seemed as if they could only have come direct from
Eden.
And Frank Raynor, never famous for foresight or forethought at the
best of times, fell into the belief that Mrs. St. Clare approved of
him as a future aspirant for her daughter's hand and tacitly
encouraged their love. That she must see they were intimate with an
especial intimacy, and very much together, he knew, and in his
sanguine way he drew deductions accordingly. In this he was partly
right, as the reader has learnt; but it never entered into his
incautious head to suppose that Mrs. St. Clare was counting upon his
coming in for future wealth and greatness.
They stood once more together on this same evening, he and Daisy,
gazing at the remains of the gorgeous sunset. Dinner over, Daisy had
strolled out as usual into the garden; he following her in a minute or
two, without excuse or apology. In his assumption of Mrs. St. Clare's
tacit encouragement, he believed excuse to be no longer necessary.
Clouds of purple and crimson, flecked with gold, crowded the west;
lighting up Daisy's face, as they stood side by side leaning on the
low iron gate, with a hue as rosy as the dream they were living in.
"I should like to see the sunsets of Italy," observed Margaret. "It is
said they are very beautiful."
"So should I," promptly replied Frank. "Perhaps some time we may see
them together."
Her face took a brighter tint, though there was nothing in the sky to
induce it. He passed his hand along the gate, until it rested on hers.
"Mamma talks of going abroad this summer," whispered Daisy. "I do not
know whether it will be to Italy."
"I hope she will not take you with her!"
"It is Lydia's fault. She says this place tires her. And possibly,"
added Daisy, with a sigh, "when once we get abroad, we shall stay
there."
"But, my darling, you know that must not be. I could not spare you.
Why, Daisy, how could we live apart?"
Her hand, clasped tenderly, lay in his. Her whole frame thrilled as
the hand rested there.
"Shall you always stay on at Trennach?" she questioned in low tones.
"Stay on at Trennach!" he repeated, in surprise. "I! Why, Daisy, I
hope to be very, very soon away from it. I came to my uncle two years
ago, of my own accord, to gain experience. Nothing teaches experience
like the drudgery of a general practice: and I was not one of those
self-sufficient young students who set up after hospital work with
M.D. on their door-plate, and believe themselves qualified to cure the
world. It is kill or cure, haphazard, with some of them."
"And--when you leave Trennach?" she asked, her clear eyes, clear this
evening as amber, gazing out, as if she would fain see into the
future.
"Oh, it will be all right when I leave Trennach; I shall get along
well," returned Frank, in his light, sanguine fashion. "I--I don't
care to praise myself, Daisy, but I am clever in my profession; and a
clever man must make his way in it. Perhaps I should purchase a share
in a West-end practice in town; or perhaps set up on my own account in
that desirable quarter."
The bright hope of anticipation lighted Daisy's beautiful eyes. Frank
changed his tone to one of the sweetest melody. At least, it sounded
so to her ear.
"And with one gentle spirit at my hearth to cheer and guide me, the
world will be to me as a long day in Paradise. My best and dearest you
know what spirit it is that I covet. Will she say me nay?"
She did not say anything just now; but the trembling fingers, lying in
his hand, entwined themselves confidingly within his.
"I know you will get on," she murmured. "You will be great sometime."
"Of course I shall, Daisy. And keep carriages and horses for my
darling wife; and the queen will knight me when I have gained name and
fame; and--and we shall be happier than the live-long day."
The bright colours in the sky faded by degrees, leaving the grey
twilight in their stead. Before them lay the sloping landscape, not a
living soul to be seen on it; immediately behind them was the grove of
laurels, shutting them out from view. In this favourable isolation,
Frank passed his arm around Daisy's waist, and drew her face to his
breast.
"Nothing shall ever separate us, Daisy. Nothing in this world."
"Nothing," she murmured, speaking between his passionate kisses. "I
will be yours always and for ever."
"And there will be no trouble," remarked he, in sanguine impulse, as
they turned reluctantly from the gate to regain the house. "I mean no
opposition. I am my own master, Daisy, accountable to none; and your
mother has seen our love and sanctions it."
"Oh, do you think she does sanction it?" exclaimed Daisy, drawing a
deep breath.
"Why, of course she does," replied Frank, speaking in accordance with
his belief. "Would Mrs. St. Clare let us linger out together, evening
after evening, if she did not see and sanction it? No, there will be
neither trouble nor impediment. Life lies before us, Daisy, fair as a
happy valley."
Tea waited on the table when they got in. Mrs. St. Clare was sleeping
still; Lydia looked very cross. Frank glanced at his watch, as if
doubting whether he could stay longer.
Daisy's pretty hands, the lace meant to shade them falling back, began
to busy themselves with the tea-cups. It awoke Mrs. St. Clare. She
drew her chair at once to the tea-table. Frank pushed Lydia's light
couch towards it.
"We were speaking to-day of Eagles' Nest," observed Mrs. St.
Clare--and she really did not introduce the subject with any ulterior
view; simply as something to talk about. "It's a very nice place, is
it not?"
"Very--by all accounts," replied Frank. "I have not seen it."
"Indeed! Is not that strange?"
"My aunt Atkinson has never invited me there. None of us have been
invited, except the major. And he has not been there for several
years."
"How is that? Major Raynor is the next heir."
"Well, I scarcely know how it is. He and Mrs. Atkinson are not very
good friends. There was some quarrel, I fancy."
"Mrs. Atkinson must be very old."
"About seventy-four, I believe."
"Not more than that! I thought she was ninety at least."
"I was saying to-day," put in Lydia, "that those old people ought to
give up their estates to the heir. It is unreasonable to keep Major
Raynor so long out of his own."
Frank smiled. "He would be very glad if she did give it up, I dare
say; but I don't know about the justice of it. Elderly people, as a
rule, cling to their homes. I once knew an old lady who was
unexpectedly called upon to give up the home in which she had lived
for very many years, and it killed her. Before the day for turning out
came, she was dead."
"At any rate, Mr. Raynor, _you_ will not be kept out of it so long
when it comes to your turn," remarked Mrs. St. Clare: "for I suppose
the major is very nearly as old as Mrs. Atkinson."
Frank's honest blue eyes went straight into those of the speaker with
a questioning glance.
"I beg your pardon: kept out of what?"
"Of Eagles' Nest."
His whole face lighted up with amusement at the mistake she was
making.
"I shall never come into Eagles' Nest, Mrs. St. Clare."
"Never come into Eagles' Nest! But the major comes into it."
"The major does. But----"
"And you are his eldest son."
Frank laughed outright. Freely and candidly he answered--with never a
thought of reserve.
"My dear lady, I am not Major Raynor's son at all. His eldest son is
my cousin Charley. It is he who will succeed to Eagles' Nest."
Mrs. St. Clare stared at Frank. "Good Heavens!" she murmured under her
breath. "You are not the son of Major Raynor?"
"No, I am his nephew. My father was the clergyman."
"I--I have heard Major Raynor call you his son!" she debated, hardly
believing her own ears. "He has called you so to my face."
"He often does call me so," laughed Frank. "I fear--he is--proud of
me--dear, fond old uncle!"
"Well, I never was so deceived in all my life!" ejaculated Mrs. St.
Clare.