Daisy went in unnoticed. She felt tired,_Edina: A Novel

and began arranging her bonnet before the glass at the window of the

crowded back-room. Two beds were in the chamber, besides other

furniture. In one of them slept Mrs. Raynor and Kate, in the smaller

one, Edina. What a change it all was for them! Suddenly, while Daisy's

attention was still given to her bonnet, certain words, spoken by

Edina, broke upon her ear. She and Frank had sat down on the bench

under the window, and were talking of Trennach. Mrs. Raynor and the

children were at the end of the garden, bending their heads together

over the untidy path, as if trying to determine what sort of coarse

gravel it might be composed of.

"Do you ever hear anything of Mrs. Bell, Frank?"

"I saw her to-day," was Frank's unexpected answer. "Saw her yesterday

as well."

"Where did you see her? Is she in London?" quickly repeated Edina.

"They have come to live in London. She and Rosaline."

"What has made them do that?" continued Edina quite sharply, as if she

did not altogether approve of the information. Daisy's fingers, tying

her bonnet-strings, could not have dropped more suddenly, had they

been seized with paralysis.

"I'm sure I don't know. They have come into money, through the death

of some relative at Falmouth, and thought, I believe, that they would

like to live in London. Poor Mrs. Bell is worse than she used to be:

the complaint, feared for her, is making progress--and must do so

until the end. I am attending her."

"They live near you, then?"

"Close by."

A short silence ensued. Edina was probably busy with her thoughts. She

spoke again.

"Is Rosaline as pretty as ever?"

"Not quite so pretty, perhaps: more beautiful."

"Ah, well--I would not go there too much, Frank; illness, or no

illness," cried Edina.

She spoke in a dreamy tone, as if her reflections were back in the

past. In her heart she believed he must have cared more or less for

Rosaline. Frank laughed slightly in answer: a laugh that was somewhat

constrained. His thoughts also had gone back; back to that fatal night

at Trennach.

A sudden shout in Alfred's voice from the group in the garden. "Here

it is! here it is, mamma!" Mrs. Raynor's thin gold ring had slipped

off her slender finger, and they had been searching for it in the

twilight.

Daisy seemed to see and hear no more until some of them came running

into the bedroom, saying that Frank was waiting for her. She went out,

said good-night in a mechanical sort of manner, and they started

homewards, arm-in-arm. The old jealousy she had once felt of Rosaline

Bell had sprung up again with tenfold force.

A short distance from the cottage, they met Charles. He was walking

along at full speed, and greeted them in a storm of anger.

"It was an awful shame! Just because I wanted to get home an hour

earlier than usual, it is an hour later. The office is full of work,

and some of us had to stay behind and do it."

"Never mind, Charley," said Frank, with his genial smile. "Better luck

next time."

"Yes, it's all very well to say next time; that will be next year, I

suppose. You hardly ever come to see us, you know, Frank."

"I come when I can. You must come to us instead. Spend next Sunday

with us, Charley. I can't stay talking now."

"All right," said Charley, vaulting off. "Good-night to you both." And

neither of them had noticed that Daisy had not spoken a word.

Daisy was tormenting herself in a most unnecessary manner. Rosaline

Bell in London! Living near to them; _close_ to them, he had said. He

had seen her to-day, and yesterday as well: no doubt he saw her every

day. No doubt he loved this Rosaline!--and had thrown off all

affection for herself, his wife. Even Edina could see the state of

affairs. What a frightful thing it was!--and how far had it gone?--and

what would it end in?

After this, the ordinary fashion of a jealous woman, did Mrs. Frank

Raynor reason; believing her fancies to be all true as gospel. Had

some angelic messenger essayed to set her right, it would have availed

nothing in her present frame of mind. Jealousy is as much a disease as

intermittent fever: it may have its lighter intervals, but it must run

its course.

"Daisy, I think we shall have a storm!" cried Frank. "How still and

hot the air is!--and look at that great black cloud coming up! We must

hasten as much as possible."

Daisy silently acquiesced. And the pace they went prevented much

attempt at talking. So that he had no opportunity of noticing that she

had suddenly become strangely silent.

The storm burst forth when they were within a few doors of their own

home. Lightning, thunder, a heavy downpour of rain. As they turned

into the surgery, where Sam stood under the gas-light, his arms on the

counter, his heels kicking about underneath it, Frank caught up a note

that was lying there, addressed to him.

"Who brought this note?" asked Frank as he read it.

"It was a young lady," replied Sam. "When I told her you were not at

home, she asked me for a sheet o' paper and pen-and-ink, and wrote

that, and said it was to be gave you as soon as you came in. And

please, sir, they have been round twice from Tripp's to say the baby's

worse."

Frank Raynor went out again at once, in spite of the storm. His wife,

who had heard what passed, turned into the parlour, her brain at work.

"I wonder how long this has been going on!--how long she has been

coming here?" debated Mrs. Frank, her fingers twitching with

agitation, her head hot and throbbing. "_She_ wrote that

note--barefaced thing! When she found she could not see him, she wrote

it, and left it for him: and he has gone out to see her!"

Jealousy in its way is as exciting as wine; acting very much in the

same manner on any patient who is under its influence. Mrs. Frank's

blood was surging in her veins; her thoughts were taking a wild turn;

her trembling fingers could hardly throw off her bonnet. In point of

fact, the note concerned a worthy tradesman, who feared he was

sickening for some complaint, and "the young lady," his daughter, had

written it, in preference to leaving a message, begging for Mr.

Raynor's speedy attendance.

"Have you had your supper, Sam?" asked Mrs. Frank, appearing at the

intervening door.

"No, ma'am."

"Then go and get it."

Sam passed her on his way to the kitchen. She stepped forward to the

counter, opened the day-book, and began searching for Dame Bell's

address. The front-door was usually kept closed now, not open as

formerly; and Daisy went to it on tiptoe, and slipped the bolt. There

was no one to hear her had she stepped ever so heavily; but we are all

apt to think that secret transactions require silent movements. Taking

up her place behind the counter, she turned the leaves of the book

again. The windows were closed in with shutters; she was quite in

privacy. But, turn and look as she would, she could not see the

address sought for. It is true she was looking in a desperate hurry,

for what if Frank were to return suddenly? Or Sam from his supper?

"No, the address is not there!"--shutting the book, and pushing back

the pretty hair from her beating temples. "He is too cautious to have

entered it. Other patients' names are there, but Dame Bell's is not.

The affair is clandestine from beginning to end."

And from that night Mrs. Frank Raynor began a course of action

that she would previously have believed herself incapable of. She

watched her husband. In her eagerness to discover where these Bells

lived--though what service the knowledge could render her she would

have been at a loss to declare--she occasionally followed him. Keeping

her bonnet downstairs in readiness, she would put it on hastily when

he went out, and steal after him. Three or four times a-week she did

this. Very contemptible indeed Daisy felt it to be, and her cheeks

blazed consciously now and again: but jealousy has driven a woman to

do more contemptible things than even this. But for the unsuitability

of her present life, as contrasted with her previous tastes and habits

and surroundings, and for its utter monotony, causing her to feel

weary unto death day after day, Margaret Raynor might never so far

have forgotten herself. The pursuit was quite exciting, bringing a

sort of relief to her; and she resolutely put away from her all

inconvenient qualms of conscience.

So, imagine that you behold them. Frank turning out at the

surgery-door, and hastening this way or that way, as if his feet were

aided by wings: and when he is a few yards off, Daisy turns out after

him. It would generally be a tedious and tormenting chase. He seemed

to have so many patients to visit, here, there, and everywhere; on

this side the street and on that side, and round the corners, and down

courts, that his pursuer was generally baffled, lost him for good, and

had to return home in despair.

Meanwhile, as time went on, Frank, unconscious of all this, was

destined to receive a shock himself. One evening, when he had been

called out to a case of emergency near home, upon quitting the sick

man's house, he entered a chemist's for the purpose of directing some

article, which it was not in his province to supply, to be sent to the

sufferer. Dashing into the shop hurriedly, for his time was not his

own, he was beginning to give his order.

"Will you send----"

And there his speech failed him. He stopped as suddenly and completely

as though his tongue had been paralyzed. The young man to whom he was

addressing himself, with the attentive red-brown eyes in which gleamed

a smile of intelligence, and the clean white apron tied round his

waist, was Blase Pellet. They looked at one another in the full glare

of the gas-light.

Blase was the first to speak. "How do you do, Mr. Raynor?"

"Is it _you?_" cried Frank, recovering himself somewhat. "Are you

living here?"

"Since a week past," replied Blase.

"Why have you left Trennach?"

"I came up to better myself," said Blase demurely. "One hears great

things of fortunes being made in London."

"And of being lost, Pellet," rejoined Frank.

"I can go back at any time," observed Blase. "Old Float would be only

too glad to have me. The young fellow he has now in my place is not

_me_, Float writes word. Float will have to attend to business a

little more himself now, and I expect it will not suit him."

Vouchsafing no answer to this, Frank left the order he had gone in to

give, and passed out of the shop, his mind in a very disagreeable

state of ferment.

"He has come up here to spy upon me; he is watching my movements,"

said Frank to himself. "How did he know I was here--in this part of

London?--how did he find it out?" A positive conviction, that it was

utterly useless to try to evade Blase Pellet, had taken sudden

possession of him; that he had been tracking him all along by the

means of spies and emissaries, and had now come to do it in person. He

felt that if he were to sail away over the seas and set up his tent in

an African desert, or on the shores of some remote fastness of the

Indian Empire, or amidst the unexplored wilds of a prairie, he should

see Blase Pellet in another tent, side by side with him, the next

morning.

For the moment, his several pressing engagements had gone out of his

head. His patients, lying in expectation of him, might lie: self was

all in all. The uneasiness that had taken hold of him amounted to

tribulation.

"I wonder what Dame Bell knows of this?" it suddenly occurred to him

to think. And no sooner did it occur than, acting on the moment's

impulse, he determined to ask her, and walked towards her lodging at

his usual quick rate. She had taken rooms in a quiet street, West

Street, where the small houses were chiefly private. It was nearly a

week since Frank had seen her, for her complaint was very fluctuating,

and latterly she had felt better, not requiring regular attendance.

Opening the front-door without knocking, as was his custom, he went

upstairs to the small sitting-room: this room and the bedchamber

behind it comprising Mrs. Bell's apartments. She had come into a

little money by the death of her sister at Falmouth, John Pellet's

wife: and this, combined with her previous small income, enabled her

to live quietly. When Mrs. Pellet died, it had been suggested that

Rosaline should take to her millinery business, and carry it on: but

Rosaline positively declined to do so. Neither Rosaline nor her mother

liked Falmouth, and they resolved to go up to London. Chance alone--or

at least, that apparently unconscious impulse that is called

chance--had caused them to choose this particular part of London for

their abode; and neither of them had the slightest idea that it was

within a stone's-throw of Frank Raynor. On the third day after

settling in it, Rosaline and Frank had met in Mark Street: and he then

learnt the news of their recent movements.

Mrs. Bell was at her old employment this evening when Frank

entered--knitting. Lifting her eyes to see who had come in, she took

the opportunity to snuff the candle near her, and gazed at Frank over

her spectacles.

"Hey-day!" she cried. "I thought it was Rosaline." This was the first

time Frank had seen her alone. During all his previous visits Rosaline

had been present. Rosaline had gone a long way that afternoon, Dame

Bell proceeded to explain, as far as Oxford Street, and was not back

again yet. The girl seemed to have some crotchet in her head, she

added, and would not say what she went for. Frank was glad of her

absence, crotchet or no crotchet: he felt an invincible distaste to

naming the name of Blase Pellet in her hearing.

Seen Blase Pellet to-night!--what had Blase Pellet come to town for?

repeated Dame Bell, in answer to Frank's introduction of the subject.

"Well, sir," she added, "he tells us he was grown sick and tired of

Trennach, and came up here to be near me and Rose. I'm sure you might

have knocked me down with a feather, so surprised was I when he walked

into this room last Sunday afternoon. I had dozed off in my chair

here, and Rose was reading the Bible to herself, when he came in. For

a minute or two I did not believe my eyes, and that's the truth. As to

Rose, she turned the colour of chalk, just as if he had frightened

her."

"Did he know you were living here?"

"Of course he knew that, Mr. Frank. Blase, I must say, has always been

as dutiful to me as if he had been really my nephew, and he often

wrote to us at Falmouth. One of his letters was sent after us from

Falmouth, and I wrote to tell him where we were in return."

"Did you tell him _I_ was here?" questioned Frank.

"Well no, I did not: but it is curious you should ask the question,

Mr. Frank," cried the dame. "I was just going to add to my letter that

I hoped I should get better now Mr. Raynor was attending me again, but

Rosaline stopped me. Mr. Raynor was nothing to Blase, she said: better

not name him at all. Upon that, I asked her why she did not write

herself, if she thought she could word the letter better than me: but

she never will write to him. However, you were not mentioned, sir."

"What is his object in coming to London?" repeated Frank, unable to

dismiss the one important point from his mind.

"I shouldn't wonder but it's Rosaline," said Dame Bell, shrewdly.

"Blase has wanted to make up to her this many a day; but----"

"What an idiot the man must be!" struck in Frank.

"But she will not have anything to say to him, I was going to add,"

concluded Dame Bell. "Why should you call him an idiot, Mr. Frank?"

"He must be one, if he thinks he can persuade Rosaline to like him.

See how ugly he is!"

"She might do worse, sir. I don't say Blase is handsome: he is not:

but he is steady. If men and women were all chosen by their looks, Mr.

Frank, a good many would go unmarried. Blase Pellet is putting by

money: he will be setting up for himself, some day; and he would make

her a good husband."

"Do you tell your daughter that he would?" asked Frank.

"She won't let me tell her, sir. I say to her sometimes that she seems

frightened at hearing the young man's very name mentioned: just as

though it would bring some evil upon her. I know what I think."

"What?" asked Frank.

"Why, that Rosaline pressed this settling in London upon me, on

purpose to put a wider distance between herself and Blase. Falmouth

was within reach, and he now and then came over there. I did not

suspect her of this till last Sunday, Mr. Frank. When tea was over,

and Blase had gone, she just sat with her hands before her, looking

more dead than alive. 'After all, it seems we had better have stayed

at Falmouth,' said she suddenly, as if speaking to herself: and that

gave me the idea that she had come here to be farther away from him."

Frank made no remark.

"Blase has found a place at a druggist's close by," continued Mrs.

Bell: whose chatter, once in full flow, was not easily stopped. "I

don't suppose he'll like London as well as Trennach, and so I told

him. _I_ don't. Great noisy bustling place!"

It seemed that there was nothing more to ask or learn, and Frank

bethought himself of his patients. Wishing the old dame good-night, he

departed. His first visit led him past the druggist's; and his glance,

as though fascinated, turned to the window. There, amidst the sheen of

red and green and blue reflected from the brilliant globes, he saw the

face of Blase Pellet; just as he had been wont to see it amidst the

glow of the same varied colours at Trennach.

CHAPTER III.

CROPPING UP AGAIN.

"Why, Daisy. Out marketing, my dear?"

The salutation to Mrs. Frank Raynor came from her husband. One

winter's morning, regardless of the extreme cold and the frost that

made the streets partly deserted, she followed her husband when he

went out after breakfast. The dwelling-place of Mrs. Bell and her

daughter in West Street had become known to her long ago; and Daisy

was always longing to see whether her husband's footsteps took him to

it.

That most unreasoning jealousy, which had seized upon her mind,

increased in force. It was growing almost into a disease. She felt as

sure as if she had seen it written in letters of divination, that her

husband's love had been, was, and ever would be Rosaline Bell's: that

it never had been hers: and over and over again she asked herself the

question--why had he married her?

It all appeared so plain to Daisy. Looking back, she could, as she

fully believed, trace out the past, in regard to it, bit by bit. First

of all, there was the girl's unusual and dangerous beauty; Frank

Raynor's attendance at the house on the Bare Plain, under the plea of

visiting the mother professionally; and the intimacy that was reported

to have existed between himself and Rosaline. A great deal more

frequently than was wise or necessary, Daisy recalled the evening when

Frank had been dining at The Mount, and the conversation had turned

upon the mysterious disappearance of Bell, the miner, and the beauty

of his daughter. Frank's signs of agitation--his emotional voice, his

flushings from red to white--Daisy had then been entirely unable to

comprehend: she had considered them as unaccountable as was the

absence of the man of whom they were speaking. Now the reason was very

apparent to her: the emotion had arisen from his love of Rosaline. She

remembered, as though it had been yesterday, the tales brought home by

Tabitha, and repeated to herself--that this beautiful daughter of Bell

the miner was Frank Raynor's best and only love, and that the girl

worshipped the very ground he trod on. It was too late then to be

influenced by the information, for the secret marriage had taken place

in the church at Trennach. Daisy had hardly known whether to believe

the story or not; but it had shaken her. Later, as time went on, and

she and her husband moved far away from the scene of events, and

Rosaline Bell seemed to have faded out of sight; almost, so far as

they were concerned, out of existence; Daisy had suffered herself to

forget the doubt and jealousy. But only to call it up with tenfold

force now.

And so, Mrs. Frank Raynor had amused herself, if the word may be

applied to a state of mind so painful as was hers, with the pastime of

watching her husband. Not often of course; only now and then. Her

steps, as of their own uncontrollable will, would take her to the

quiet street in which Dame Bell lived, and she had on one or two rare

occasions been rewarded by seeing him pass in or out of the house. Of

course she could not watch very often. She dared not do so. She would

have been ashamed to do so. As it was, she knew that Sam's eyes had

taken to opening with wonder whenever she followed her husband through

the surgery, and that the boy's curiosity was much exercised as to the

cause. Therefore, as she was unable to make Frank's shadow frequently,

and as, with all her expectation, she had been gratified so rarely by

seeing what she looked for, she drew the conclusion that fortune did

not favour her, and that Frank's times for going to the house were

just those when she did not happen to be out herself. An ingenious

inference: as all sensible people must allow, but one that jealousy

would be certain to invent.

On one of those rare occasions, Frank came out of the house

accompanied by Rosaline.

They turned the opposite way to where Daisy was standing, but not

before she had caught a glimpse of the beautiful face. Where were they

going together? she passionately asked herself. The probability was

that their coming out together was only incidental; for in a very few

minutes Daisy met the girl coming back alone, carrying a paper of

rusks, which she had no doubt been out to buy. All the more necessary

was it, thought Daisy, after this little incident, that she should

continue to look after her husband.

Daisy was becoming quite an adept at the work, and might have taken

service as a lady detective. Of course the chief care to be exercised

was to keep herself out of her husband's view. It was not so difficult

to do this as it would have been with some husbands; for Frank's time

was always so precious, and his movements were in consequence obliged

to be so rapid, that he went flying through the streets like a

lamplighter, never looking to the right or left. More than once,

though, Daisy had been obliged to dart into a doorway; and it was at

those times that she especially felt the humiliation of what she was

doing.

But, the pitcher that goes too often to the well gets broken at last,

we are told. On this bitter January day, when of a surety no one would

venture out who could keep in, Daisy came face to face with her

husband. She had seen him enter Mrs. Bell's house; fortune for once

had so far favoured her. She saw him make for the quiet street upon

first leaving home, skim down it with long strides, and go straight in

at the door. Her heart beat as though it would burst its bounds; her

pulses coursed on with fever-heat. Nothing in the world can be so good

for the doctors as jealousy: it must inevitably tend to bring on heart

disease. "I wonder how long he will stay?" thought Daisy in her raging

anger. "Half-an-hour, perhaps. Of course he does not hurry himself

when he goes _there_."

Sauntering onwards with slow steps, some idea in her head of waiting

to see how long he did stay, and believing herself perfectly safe for

many minutes to come, went Daisy. She longed to cross over the street

and so obtain a sight of the upstairs window. But she did not dare; he

might chance to look out and see her. She knew all about the position

of the Bells' rooms, having, in a careless, off-hand manner,

questioned Sam, who took out Mrs. Bell's medicine. In front of the

closed door, her face turned towards it, was Daisy, when--she found

herself confronted with her husband. He had come quickly forth,

without warning, not having remained two minutes.

"Why, Daisy! Out marketing, my dear?"

The question was put laughingly. Daisy never did any marketing: she

was not much of a housekeeper as yet, and the Lambeth shops did not

tempt her to begin. Eve did all that. Had she been committing a crime,

she could not have felt more taken aback in her surprise, or more

awkward at finding an excuse.

"I--had a headache," she stammered, "and--came out for a little walk."

"But it is too cold for you, Daisy. The wind is in the north-east. I

have never felt it keener."

"It won't hurt me," gasped Daisy, believing his solicitude for her was

all put on. She had believed that for some time now. The kinder Frank

showed himself, the more she despised him.

"You have been there to see a patient?" questioned Daisy, hardly

knowing and certainly not caring what she did say.

"Yes," replied Frank. "But she is better this morning; so I am off to

others who want me more than she does."

"Is it that Mrs. Bell from Trennach? I saw a bottle of medicine

directed to West Street for her one day. Sam was putting it into his

basket."

"It is Mrs. Bell. She is worse than she used to be, for the disorder

has made progress. And I fear she will grow worse, day by day now,

until the end."

"What a hypocrite he is!" thought Daisy: "I dare say there is as much

the matter with her as there is with me. Of course he needs some plea

of excuse--to be going there for ever after that wretched girl."

"Do you come here pretty often?" went on Daisy, coughing to conceal

the spleen in her tone, which she was unable to suppress.

"I shall have to come here oftener in future, I fear," returned Frank,

not directly answering the question; of which delay she took due note.

Just for these few minutes, he had slackened his pace to hers, and

they were walking side by side. "I am glad she is near me: I don't

think any stranger would give her the care that I shall give her."

"You speak as though you were anxious about her!" resentfully cried

Daisy.

"I am more than anxious. I would give half I am worth to be able to

cure her."

"Well, I'm sure!" exclaimed Daisy. "One would think you and these

people must possess some bond of union in common."

"And so we do," he answered.

Perhaps the words were spoken incautiously. Daisy, looking quickly up

at him, saw that he seemed lost in thought.

"What is it?" she asked in a low tone: her breathing just then seeming

a little difficult.

"What is what?"

"The bond of union between you and these Bells."

The question brought him out of his abstraction. He laughed lightly:

laughed, as Daisy thought, and saw, to do away with the impression the

words had made: and answered carelessly.

"The bond between me and Dame Bell? It is that I knew her at Trennach,

Daisy, and learnt to respect her. She nursed me through a fever once."

"Oh," said Daisy, turning her head away, indignant at what she

believed was an evasion. The "bond," if there were any, existed, not

between himself and the mother, but between himself and the daughter.

"I dare say you attend them for nothing!"

"Of course I do."

"What would Mr. Max Brown say to that?"

"What he pleased. Max Brown is not a man to object, Daisy."

"You can't tell."

"Yes, I can. If he did, I should pay him the cost of the medicines.

And my time, at least, I can give."

Daisy said no more. Swelling with resentment and jealousy, she walked

by his side in silence. Frank saw her to the surgery-door, and then

turned back rapidly. She went in; passed Sam, who was leisurely

dusting the counter, and sat down in the parlour by the fire.

Her state of mind was not one to be envied. Jealousy, you know, makes

the food it feeds on. Mrs. Frank Raynor was making very disagreeable

food for herself, indeed. She gave the reins to her imagination, and

it presented her with all sorts of suggestive horrors. The worst was

that she did not, and could not, regard these pictured fancies as

possible delusions, emanating from her own brain, and to be cautiously

received; but she converted them into undoubted facts. The sounds of

Sam's movements in the surgery, his answers to applicants who came in,

penetrated to her through the half-open door; but, though they touched

her ear in a degree, they did not touch her senses. She was as one who

heard not.

Thus she sat on, until midday, indulging these visions to the full

extent of her fancy, and utterly miserable. At least, perhaps not

quite utterly so: for when people are in the state of angry rage that

Daisy was, they cannot feel very acutely. A few minutes after twelve,

Sam appeared. He stared to see his mistress sitting just as she had

come in, not even her cloak removed, or her bonnet unfastened.

"A letter for you, please, ma'am. The postman have just brought it

in."

Daisy took the letter from him without a word. It proved to be from

her sister Charlotte, Mrs. Townley. Mrs. Townley wrote to say that she

was back again at the house in Westbourne Terrace, and would be glad

to see Daisy. She, with her children, had been making a long visit of

several months to her mother at The Mount, and she had only now

returned. "I did intend to be back for the New Year," she wrote; "but

mamma and Lydia would not hear of it. I have many things to tell you,

Daisy: so come to me as soon as you get this note. If your husband

will join us at dinner--seven o'clock--there will be no difficulty

about your getting home again. Say that I shall be happy to see him."

Should she go, or should she not go? Mrs. Frank Raynor was in so

excited a mood as not to care very much what she did. And--if she

went, and he did not come in the evening, he would no doubt take the

opportunity of passing it with Rosaline Bell.

She went upstairs, took her things off, and passed into the

drawing-room. The fire was burning brightly. Eve was a treasure of a

servant, and attended to it carefully. Frank had given orders that a

fire should be always kept up there: it was a better room for his wife

than the one downstairs, and more cheerful.

Certainly more cheerful: for the street and its busy traversers could

be seen. The opposite fish-shop displayed its wares more plainly to

this room than to the small room below. Just now, Monsieur and Madame,

the fish proprietors, were enjoying a wordy war, touching some haddock

that Madame had sold under cost price. He held an oyster-knife in his

hand, and was laying down the law with it. She stood, in her old brown

bonnet, her wrists turned back on her capacious hips, and defied his

anger. Daisy had the pleasure of assisting at the quarrel, as the

French say; for the tones of the disputants were loud, and partly

reached her ears.

"What a frightful place this is!" ejaculated Daisy. "What people! Yes,

I will go to Charlotte. It is something to get away from them for a

few hours, and into civilized life again."

At one o'clock, the hand-bell in the passage below was rung: the

signal for dinner. Daisy went down. Frank had only just come in, and

was taking off his overcoat.

"I have hardly a minute, Daisy," he said. "I have not seen all my

patients yet."

"Been hindering his time with Rosaline," thought Daisy. And she slowly

and ungraciously took her place at the table. Frank, regardless of

ceremony, had already begun to carve the boiled leg of mutton.

"You have _generally_ finished before one o'clock," she coldly

remarked, as he handed her plate to her. For Eve, good servant though

she was, had no idea of remaining in the room during meals to wait

upon them.

"Yes, generally. But a good many people are ill: and I was hindered

this morning by attending to an accident. A little boy was run over in

the street."

"Is he much hurt?"

"Not very much. I shall get him right again soon."

The dinner proceeded in silence. Frank was eating too rapidly to have

leisure for anything else; Daisy's angry spirit would not permit her

to talk. As she laid down her knife and fork, Frank pressed her to

take some more mutton, but she curtly refused it.

"I have said no once. This is luncheon; not dinner."

Frank Raynor had become accustomed to hearing his wife speak to him in

cold, resentful tones: but to-day they sounded especially cold. He had

long ago put it down in his own mind to dissatisfaction at their

blighted prospects; blighted, at least, in comparison with those they

had so sanguinely entertained when wandering together side by side at

Trennach and picturing the future to each other. It only made him the

more patient, the more tender with her.

"Mrs. Townley has written to ask me to go to her. She is back again in

Westbourne Terrace. She bids me say she shall be happy to see you to

dinner at seven. But I suppose you will not go."

"Yes, I will go," said Frank, rapidly revolving ways and means, as

regarded the exigencies of his patients. "I think I can get away for

an hour or two, Daisy. Is it dress?"

"Just as you please," was the frosty answer. "Mrs. Townley says

nothing about dress; she would be hardly likely to do so; but she is

accustomed to proper ways."

"And how shall you go, my dear?" resumed Frank, passing over the

implication with his usual sweetness of temper. "You had better have a

cab."

"I intend to have one," said Daisy.

She arrayed herself in some of her smartest things, for the spirit of

bravado was upon her: if her husband did not choose to dress, _she_

should: and set out in a cab for Westbourne Terrace. Once there, she

put away her troubles; outwardly at any rate: and her sister never

suspected that anything was amiss.

"I shall give you a surprise, Daisy," said Mrs. Townley in the course

of the afternoon. "An old beau of yours is coming to dinner."

"An old beau of mine! Who is that?"

"Sir Paul Trellasis."

"What an idea!" cried Daisy. "_He_ a beau of mine! Mamma must have put

that into your head, Charlotte. Sir Paul came to The Mount once or

twice; as he was a bachelor, mamma at once jumped to the conclusion

that he must come for Lydia or for me. He married Miss Beauchamp that

same year, you know."

"He and his wife are in London, and I asked them to come and dine with

us to-day without ceremony," resumed Mrs. Townley. "Had you married

Sir Paul, Daisy, you would not have been buried alive amongst savages

in some unknown region of London."

"No, I should not," replied the miserable wife with stern emphasis.

But there was another surprise in store for Daisy. For Mrs. Townley as

well. At dusk, a caller was ushered into the drawing-room, and proved

to be the Reverend Titus Backup. The curate had never quite severed

his relations with Trennach. He had taken three-months' duty there

again the past autumn, when the Rector was once more laid aside by

illness. He had then made the acquaintance of Mrs. Townley; and being

now in London, had called upon her.

Mrs. Frank Raynor flushed red as a rose when he entered. The sight

brought back to her memory the old time at Trennach, and its doings,

with vivid intensity. She seemed to see herself once more standing

with Frank Raynor before him at the altar, when he was making them

_One_ together, until death should part them. Mr. Backup had lost

somewhat of his former nervousness, but he was shy still, and held out

his hand to Mrs. Frank Raynor with timidity.

"Ah, I remember--it was you who married Daisy," observed Mrs. Townley.

"My mother at first would not forgive you, I believe, Mr. Backup,

until she found you did not know it was a stolen match. And for how

long are you in town?"

"I am not sure," replied the parson. "I have come up to see about a

curacy."

"Well, you must stay and dine with us," returned Mrs. Townley.

"Nonsense! You must. I shall not let you say no. Sir Paul and Lady

Trellasis are coming--you know them--and Mr. Raynor."

The curate, perhaps lacking courage to press his refusal, stayed. In

due time Sir Paul and his wife arrived; and, as the clock was striking

seven, Frank: dressed.

All this need not have been noticed, for in truth Mrs. Townley and

her visitors have little to do with the story, but for an incident

that occurred in the course of the evening. Mrs. Townley was on the

music-stool, playing some scientific "morceau" that was crushingly

loud, and seemed interminable, with Sir Paul at her elbow turning over

for her, and Daisy on the other side. Lady Trellasis, a pretty young

woman with black hair, sat talking with Mr. Backup on the sofa near

the fire: and Frank stood just behind them, looking at photographs. In

a moment, when he was least thinking of trouble, certain words spoken

by the curate caught his ear.

"Josiah Bell: that was his name. No; the particulars have never come

to light. He was found eventually, as of course you know, and buried

in the churchyard at Trennach."

"The affair took great hold on my imagination," observed Lady

Trellasis. "I was staying at The Mount with papa and mamma at the

time the man was lost. It was a story that seemed to be surrounded

with romance. They spoke, I remember, of the daughter, saying she was

so beautiful. Papa thought, I recollect, that the poor man must have

fallen into some pit or other; and so it proved."

"Yes," said Mr. Backup, "a pit so deep that the miners call it the

Bottomless Shaft. The mystery of course consisted in how he got

there."

"But why should that be a mystery? Did he not fall into it?"

"The fact is, that some superstition attaches to the place, and not a

single miner, it is said, would willingly approach it. Bell especially

would not go near it: for in all matters of superstition he was

singularly weak-minded."

"Then how did he get in?" quickly asked Lady Trellasis.

"There was a suspicion of foul play. It was thought the man was thrown

in."

"How very dreadful! Thrown in by whom?"

"I cannot tell you. A faint rumour arose later--as I was told by Mr.

Pine--that some one in a higher walk of life was supposed to have been

implicated in the matter: some gentleman. The Rector tried to trace

the report to its source, and to ascertain the name of the suspected

man. He could get at nothing: but he says that an uncomfortable

feeling about it remains still on his mind. I should not be surprised

at the affair cropping up again some day."

The "morceau" came to an end with a final crash, and the conversation

with it. Frank woke up with a start, to find a servant standing before

him with a tray and tea-cups. He took one of the cups, and drank the

tea quite scalding, never knowing whether it was hot or cold. Certain

of the words, which he could not help overhearing, had startled all

feeling out of him.

"Is it not time to go, Daisy?" he asked presently.

"If you think so," she freezingly answered.

"Then will you put on your bonnet, my dear," he said, never noticing

the ungraciousness of her reply. After those ominous words, all other

words, for the time being, fell on his ear as though he heard them

not.

Not a syllable was exchanged between them as they sat together in the

cab, speeding homewards. Frank was too unpleasantly absorbed to speak;

Daisy was indulging resentment. That last sentence of Mr. Backup's, "I

should not be surprised at the affair cropping up again," kept surging

in his mind. He asked himself whether it was spoken prophetically;

and, he also asked, what, if it did crop up, would be the consequences

to himself?

"He is thinking of _her_," concluded Daisy, resenting the unusual

silence, although she herself by her manner invoked it. And, in good

truth, so he was.

Handing Daisy out of the cab when it stopped, Frank opened the

surgery-door for her, and turned to pay the driver. At that self-same

moment some man came strolling slowly along the pavement. He was

wrapped up in a warm coat, and seemed to be walking for pleasure.

He looked at the cab, looked at the open door of the house, looked at

Frank. Not straightforwardly; but by covert sidelong glances.

"Good-night, Mr. Raynor," said he at length, as he was passing.

"Good-night to you," replied Frank.

And Mr. Blase Pellet sauntered on, enjoying the icicles of the winter

night. Frank went in, and barred and bolted his door.

"I wish to Heaven it needed nothing but bars and bolts to keep the

fellow out!" spoke Frank in his dismay. "How long he will be kept out,

I know not. Talk of whether the affair will crop up again!--why, it

_is_ cropping up. And I have a bitter enemy in Blase Pellet."

CHAPTER IV.

HUMILIATION.

Again the weeks and the months went on, bringing round the autumn

season of another year. For in real life--and this is very much of a

true history--time passes imperceptibly when there are no special

events to mark its progress. Seasons succeed each other, leaving

little record behind them.

It was a monotonous life at best--that of the Raynors'. It seemed to

be spent in a quiet, constant endeavour to exist; a patient, perpetual

struggling to make both ends meet: to remain under the humble roof of

Laurel Cottage, and not to have to turn from it; to contrive that

their garments should be decent, something like gentlepeople's, not

ragged and shabby.

But for Edina they would never have done it. Even though they had her

fifty pounds a-year, without her presence they would never have got

on. She managed and worked, and had ever a cheerful word for them all.

When their spirits failed, especially Mrs. Raynor's, and the onward

way looked unusually dark and dreary, it was Edina who talked of a

bright day-star to arise in the distance, of the silver lining that is

sure to be in every cloud. But for Edina they might almost have lost

faith in Heaven.

The one most altered of all was Charles. Altered in looks, bearing,

manner; above all, in spirit. All his pride had flown; all his

self-importance had disappeared as a summer mist before the sun:

disappeared for ever. Had the discipline he was subjected to been

transient, lasting for a few weeks, let us say, or even months, its

impressions might have worn away with renewed prosperity, had such set

in again, leaving no lasting trace for good. But when this sort of

depressing mortification continues for years, the lesson it implants

in the mind is generally permanent. Day by day, every day of his life,

and every hour in the day, Charles was subjected to the humiliations

(as he looked upon them, and to him they were indeed such) that attend

the position of a working clerk. He who had been reared in the habits

and ideas of a gentleman, had believed himself the undoubted heir to

Eagles' Nest, found himself reduced by fate to this subordinate

capacity, ordered about by the articled clerks, and regarded as an

individual not at all to be ranked with them. He was at their beck and

call, and obliged to be so; he had to submit to them as his superiors,

not only his superiors in the office, but his superiors socially;

above all, he had to submit to their off-hand tones, which always

implied, unwittingly, perhaps, to themselves, but all too apparent to

Charles, a consciousness of the distinction that existed between them.

How galling it all was to Charles Raynor, the reader may imagine; but

it can never be described. At first it was all but unbearable. Over

and over again he thought he must run away from it, and escape to a

land where these distinctions do not exist. He might dig for gold in

California; he might clear a settlement for himself in the back-woods

of America: and the life in either place would be as paradise compared

with this one at Prestleigh and Preen's. Nothing but the broad fact

that the wages he earned were absolutely necessary to his mother's and

the family's support, detained him. To give that aid was his

imperative duty before God: for had it not been through him and his

carelessness that they were reduced to this terrible extremity? So

Charles Raynor, helped on by the ever-ready counsel of Edina,

_endured_ his troubles, put up with his humiliation, and bore onwards

with the best resolution he could call up. Who knew, who could ever

know, _how much_ of this wonderful change was really due to Edina?

And, as the time went on, he grew to feel the troubles somewhat less

keenly: habit reconciles us in a degree to the worst of things, no

matter what that worst may be. But he had learnt a lesson that would

last him his whole life. Never again could he become the arrogant

young fellow who thought the world was made for his especial

delectation. He had gained experience; he had found his level; he saw

what existence was worth, and that those who would be happy in it must

first learn and perform their duties in it. His very nature had

changed. Self-sufficiency, selfish indifference, had given place to

modesty, to a subdued thoughtfulness of habit, to an earnest sense of

other's needs as well as his own. Frank Raynor, with all his

sunny-heartedness and geniality, could not be more ready with a

helping hand, than was Charles. He could give nothing in money, but he

could in kind. No other discipline, perhaps, would have had this

effect upon Charles Raynor. It had made a man of him, and, if a

subdued, a good one. And so, he went on, reconciled in a degree to the

changed life after his two years' spell at it, and looking forward to

no better prospect in the future. Prospect of every sort seemed so

hopeless.

A little fresh care had come upon them this autumn, in the return of

Alice. Changes had taken place in the school at Richmond, and her

services were no longer required. Edina borrowed the advertisement

sheet of the _Times_ every morning, and caused Alice to write to any

notice that appeared likely to suit her. As yet--a fortnight had gone

on--nothing had come of it.

"No one seems to want a governess," remarked Alice one Monday morning,

as they rose from breakfast, and Charles was brushing his hat to

depart. "I suppose there are too many of us."

"By one half," assented Edina. "The field is too crowded. Some lady in

this neighbourhood recently advertised for a governess for her

daughters, directing the answers to be addressed to Jones's library,

where we get these papers. Mr. Jones told me that the first day's post

brought more than a hundred letters."

"Oh dear!" exclaimed Alice.

"The lady engaged one of the applicants," continued Edina, "and then

discovered that she was the daughter of a small shopkeeper at

Camberwell. That put her out of conceit of governesses, and she has

sent her children to school."

"I should not like to be hard, I'm sure, or to speak against any class

of people," interposed Mrs. Raynor, in her meek, deprecating voice;

"but I do think that some of the young women who came forward as

governesses would do much better as servants. These inferior persons

are helping to jostle the gentlewomen out of the governess field--as

Edina calls it."

"Will they jostle me out of it?" cried Alice, looking up in alarm.

"Oh, Charley, I wish you could hear of something for me!--you go out

into the world, you know."

Charles, saying good-bye and kissing his mother, went off with a smile

at the words: he was thinking how very unlikely it was that he should

hear of anything. Governesses did not come within the radius of

Prestleigh and Preen's. Nevertheless, it was singular that Charles did

hear of a vacant situation that self-same day, and heard it in the

office.

In the course of the afternoon the head-clerk had despatched Charles

to Mr. Preen's room with a message. He was about to deliver it when

Mr. Preen waved his hand to him to wait: a friend who had been sitting

with him had risen to leave.

"When shall we see Mrs. Preen to spend her promised day with us?"

asked the gentleman, as he was shaking hands. "My wife has been

expecting her all the week."

"I don't know," was the reply. "The little girls' governess has left;

and, as they don't much like going back to the nursery to the younger

children, Mrs. Preen has them with her."

"The governess left, has she?" was the answering remark. "I fancied

you thought great things of her."

"So we did. She suited extremely well. But she was summoned home last

week in consequence of her mother's serious illness, and now sends us

word that she will not be able to leave home again."

"Well, you will easily find a successor, Preen."

"Two or three ladies have already applied, but Mrs. Preen did not care

for them. She will have to advertise, I suppose."

Charles drank in the words. He delivered the message, and took Mr.

Stroud the answer, his head full of Alice. If she could only obtain

the situation! Mrs. Preen seemed a nice woman, and the two little

girls were nice: he had seen them occasionally at the office. Alice

would be sure to be happy there.

Sitting down to his desk, he went on with his writing, making one or

two mistakes, and drawing down upon him the wrath of Mr. Stroud. But

his mind was far away, deliberating whether he might, or could, do

anything.

Speak to Mr. Preen? He hardly liked to do it: the copying-clerks kept

at a respectful distance. And yet, why should he not speak? It seemed

to be his only chance. Then came a thought that made Charley's face

burn like fire: would _his_ sister be deemed worthy of the post? Well,

he could only make the trial.

Just before the time of leaving for the night, Charles went to Mr.

Preen's room, knocked at the door, and was told to enter. Mr. Preen

was standing in front of his desk, in the act of locking it, and a

gentleman sat close before the almost-extinguished fire in the large

easy-chair which had been old Mr. Callard's. Charles could see nothing

but the back of his head, for the high, well-stuffed chair hid all the

rest of him. He had a newspaper in his hand, and was reading it by the

light of a solitary gas-burner; the other having been put out. To see

this stranger here took Charles aback.

"What is it?" questioned Mr. Preen.

Charles hesitated. "I had thought you were alone, sir."

"All the same. Say what you want."

"I have taken the liberty of coming to speak to you on a private

matter, sir; but----" There he stopped.

"What is it?" repeated Mr. Preen.

"When I was in this room to-day, sir, I heard you say that your little

girls were in want of a governess."

"Well?"

"What I am about to say may seem nothing but presumption--but my

sister is seeking just such a situation. If you--if Mrs. Preen--would

only see her!"

"Your sister?" returned the lawyer; with, Charles thought, chilling

surprise. It damped him: made him feel sensitively small.

"Oh, pray do not judge of my sister by me, sir!--I mean by the

position I occupy here," cried Charles, all his prearranged speeches

forgotten, and speaking straight from his wounded feelings, his full

heart. "You only know me as a young man working for his daily bread,

and very poor. But indeed we are gentlepeople: not only by birth and

education, but in mind and habits. I was copying a deed to-day: the

lease of a farm on the estate of Eagles' Nest. Do you know it, sir?"

"Know what?" asked Mr. Preen. "That you were copying the deed, or the

estate?"

"Eagles' Nest."

"I know it only from being solicitor to its owner. As my predecessor,

Mr. Callard, was before me."

"That estate was ours, sir. When Mr. George Atkinson came into

possession of it he turned us out. It had come to my father from his

sister, Mrs. Atkinson, and we lived in it for a year, never dreaming

it possible that it could be wrested from us. But at the year's-end a

later will came to light: my aunt had left Eagles' Nest to Mr. George

Atkinson, passing my father over."

Charles stopped to gather breath and firmness. The remembrance of his

father, and of their subsequent misfortunes and privations, almost

unnerved him. Mr. Preen listened in evident surprise.

"But--was your father Major Raynor, of Eagles' Nest?"

"Yes, sir."

"You never mentioned it."

"To what end?" returned Charles; while the stranger took a momentary

glance over his shoulder at him, and then bent over his newspaper

again, as though the matter and the young clerk were no concern of

his. "Now that my position in life has so much altered, I would rather

let people think I was born a copying-clerk, than that I was heir to

Eagles' Nest."

"It sounds like a romance," cried Mr. Preen.

"For us it has been, and is, only too stern reality. But I do not wish

to trouble you with these affairs, sir; and I should not have presumed

to allude to them, but for wishing to prove to you that Alice is

superior to what you might imagine her to be as my sister. She is a

very excellent governess indeed, accomplished, and a thorough lady."

"And you say she is in want of a situation?"

"Yes, sir. She has been for two years teacher in a school at Richmond.

If Mrs. Preen would but consent to give her a trial, I know she would

prove worthy. I do not say so merely to get her the post," he

continued, earnestly, "but because I really believe she could and

would faithfully fulfil its duties. I would not otherwise urge it: for

we have learnt not to press ourselves forward at the expense of other

people's interests, whatever the need."

"Well, Raynor: I cannot say anything myself about this matter; it is

Mrs. Preen's business and not mine," spoke the lawyer, upon whom

Charles's story and Charles's manner had made an impression. "If your

sister likes to call and see Mrs. Preen she can do so."

"Oh, thank you; thank you very much, sir," said Charles. "I am sure

Daisy went in unnoticed. She felt tired, wanted to be at home herself,