Works of Ellen Wood, page 528
In vain Miss Davenal said cutting things to Mark; in vain Oswald Cray, when the real truth reached him, came hastening down from London, in doubt whether Mark had not really gone mad. They could not undo the contract. It was signed and sealed, and Mr. Berry had paid over the purchase-money.
Then Mark spoke out upon the subject of his London prospects; he enlarged upon their brilliancy until Miss Davenal herself was for the moment dazzled. She urged on Mark the justice of his resigning to Dr. Davenal’s daughter part of this purchase-money; Mark evaded it. His agreement with Dr. Davenal, he said, was to pay to his daughter three hundred pounds per annum for five years; and provided he did pay it, it could be of no consequence whether he made it by doctoring or by other means: he should fulfil his bargain, and that was enough.
Mark had had it all his own way. The money expected by his wife had been paid over to him, and he kept it. It was a great deal less than was expected, for Chancery had secured its own slice out of the pie; but it was rather more than four thousand pounds. Mark was deaf to all suggestions, all entreaties; he completely ignored the last wishes of Dr. Davenal; turned round on Oswald; and flatly told him it was no business of his; and carried the money to London in his pocket, when he and Caroline quitted Hallingham.
They quitted it in haste and hurry, long before things were ripe and ready for them in London, Mark remarking to his wife that the sooner they were out of that hornet’s nest the better — by which term he probably distinguished Miss Davenal and a few others who had considered themselves privileged to interfere, so far as remonstrance went. Caroline more than seconded all his wishes, all he did; Mark had imbued her with his own rose-coloured views of the future, and she was eager to enter on its brightness.
The next to look out for a home was Miss Bettina Davenal. Affairs of the sales and else had not been carried out so quickly and readily as Mr. Wheatley in his inexperience had anticipated, and there had been no immediate hurry for the house to be vacated. A surgeon in the town was in treaty for it, and the furniture would have to be sold by auction. Sara wondered that her aunt did not fix upon a residence, and she feared all would be scuffle and bustle when they came to leave.
But Miss Davenal had been fixing upon one in her own mind; pt least, upon the locality for one — and that was London. Never, willingly, did Bettina Davenal forego a duty, however unpalatable it might be, and she did believe it to be her duty to follow the fortunes of Caroline, and not abandon her entirely to the mercy of her imprudent, thoughtless husband. To quit Hallingham, the home of her whole life, would be a cruel trial; but she thought she ought to do so. And she bestowed a few bitter words upon the absent Mark for inducing the necessity.
Miss Bettina set about her plans. If there was one quality she was distinguishable for, above all others, it was obstinacy. Obstinate she was at all times, but in the cause of right or duty she could be unflinchingly so. Watton, their former upper-maid, was established in her new situation as housekeeper in the house of business in St. Paul’s Churchyard, and Miss Davenal wrote to her and requested her to look out for a house or for a portion of one, and let her know about it. Mr and Mrs. Cray had taken a house in Grosvenor Place, facing the Green Park, and Miss Davenal wished to be as near to them as her pocket would allow.
Watton attended to her commission. She thought that part of a handsome house would be more suitable to Miss Davenal’s former position than the whole of an inferior one, and she did her best Miss Davenal found it, as you have just seen, anything but handsome; but she had little notion of the prices asked in London, and she had limited Watton as to the house-rent she was to offer. Neal was sent up to London with the furniture, which had been warehoused for so many years; and when he returned to Hallingham Dorcas took his place in London. Discharged by Mrs. Cray, who had not chosen to take country servants with her, she had been re-engaged by Miss Davenal, whose modest household was henceforth to comprise only Dorcas and Neal. Miss Davenal would not part with Neal if she could help it; but she had been surprised at the man’s ready agreement to stay in so reduced an establishment.
And so, before things were quite in readiness for them, Miss Davenal and Sara had come up. The furniture in the house at Hallingham was being prepared for public sale, and they hastened away, not to witness the desecration. How coldly and chilly this new home struck upon both, now that they had really entered upon it, they alone could tell. Neither slept through that first night, and they arose in the morning alike unrefreshed.
Breakfast over, Sara stood at the window. In their immediate situation all the houses were private ones, but from a proximate corner she could see the bustle of the highroad and the omnibuses passing up and down. The day was bright, as the previous one had been, giving to London its best aspect, and all the world was astir.
“And now for Mark Cray and Caroline,” said Miss Bettina.
It had been Miss Davenal’s pleasure that Mark Cray and his wife should be kept in ignorance of this emigration of hers to London. Neal, during his brief sojourn there, and Dorcas afterwards, had been enjoined to keep strictly clear of the vicinity of their house. Having no motive to disobey, they had complied with the orders; and Mr and Mrs. Cray were yet in total ignorance that their relatives were so near.
She put on her things and went out, Neal, as usual in attendance. Neal was well acquainted with the geography of the place, and piloted his mistress to the house in a few minutes’ time: a handsome house, with stone steps and pillars before the door. Miss Davenal gazed at it with drawn-in lips.
“It cannot be this, Neal.”
“Yes, ma’am, it is. Shall I ring?”
Miss Davenal pushed forward and rang herself, an imperative peal. What right had they, she was mentally asking, to venture on so expensive a house as this must be? A footman flung open the door.
“Does Mr. Cray live here?”
“Yes,” said the footman with a lofty air: as of course it was incumbent on him to put on to anybody so dead to good manners as to call at that early hour. “What might your business be?” None could put down insolence more effectually than Bettina Davenal. She gave the man a look, and swept past him.
“Show me to your mistress, man.” —
And somehow the man was subdued to do as he was bid, and to ask quite humbly, “What name, ma’am?”
“Miss Davenal.”
He opened the door of a room on the right, and Miss Davenal, never more haughty, never more stately, stepped into it. She saw it was of good proportions, she saw it was elegantly furnished; and Caroline, in a flutter of black ribbons on her pretty morning toilette, was sitting toying with a late breakfast She started up with a scream. Believing that the lady before her was safe at Hallingham, perhaps the scream was excusable.
“Aunt! Is it really you? Whatever brings you in London?” Miss Bettina neglected the question to survey the room again. She had surveyed the hall as she came in; she caught a glimpse of another room at the back: all fitted up fit for a duke and duchess.
“Where’s Mark Cray?” she cried.
“Mark has been gone out ages ago, aunt. He is deep in business now. The operations have begun.”
“Who took this house?” grimly asked Miss Bettina.
“I and Mark.”
“And what did the furniture cost?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I don’t think Mark has had the bills in yet. Why, aunt?”
“Why!” returned the indignant lady, in a blaze of anger. “You and your husband are one of two things, Caroline; swindlers or idiots. If you think that strong language, I cannot help it.”
“Aunt Bettina!” echoed the startled girl, “what are you saying?”
“The truth,” solemnly replied Miss Bettina.
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
HOPE DEFERRED.
SOME weeks went on. The beautiful summer weather had come, and the June sun was upon the streets.
Sara Davenal stood at her chamber window looking out on the dusty road. Not in reality seeing it; for the trouble and perplexity at her heart had not lessened, and she had fallen into that habit of gazing outwards in deep thought, noticing nothing. The same habit had characterised Dr. Davenal; but at his daughter’s age he had never known any weight of care: for years and years his path had been smooth one — little else than sunshine. She gazed outwards on the dusty road, on the white payment, glistening again with its heat, but saw nothing. A looker-on would have said she was an idle girl, standing there to take note of her neighbours’ and the street’s doings: of the trades-people calling at the opposite houses, of the servant girls flirting with them as they gave their orders: of the water-cart splashing past the corner along the public highway, but neglecting this quiet nook: of everything, in short, there was to see and be seen. How mistaken that looker-on was he could never know. Poor Sara Davenal might have been the sole living object on a broad desert plain, for all she saw of the moving panorama around her.
“Hope deferred maketh the heart sick!” When that proverb of the wise king of Israel comes practically home to our hearts in all its stem reality, we have learnt one of the many bitter lessons of life. Perhaps few have realised it more intensely than Sara Davenal had latterly been obliged to realise it. From March to April, from April to May, from May to June, week by week, and morning by morning, she had been waiting for something that never came.
A very short while to wait for anything some of you may be thinking; not much more than two months at the most, for it is only the beginning of the blooming summer month, and they had come to London late in March. But — I believe I said the same a chapter or two ago — a space of time is long or short according as we estimate it. Two months’ space may pass lightly aver us as a fleeting summers day; or it may drag its slow length along, every minute of it marking its flight upon our sick and weary hearts, with Enough of agony crowded into it to make it seem a lifetime.
Sara and Miss Bettina had come up in March, and the things at Hallingham were to be sold within a few days of their departure; and in a few days after that Sara had expected the money would be paid over to her. In her inexperience, she did not sufficiently allow for delays: yet had she been ever so experienced she would not have supposed the delay would extend itself to this. It is not of much moment to inquire into the precise cause of this delay: it is sufficient to know that it did occur; and it gave as yet no signs that it would be speedily ended.
Sara had expected the money early in April. It did not come. “It will be up next week,” she said to herself. But the next week came and did not bring it, and she wrote to Mr. Wheatley. He hoped to realise in a day or two was his somewhat incautious answer; but in truth he himself, not being a man of business, anticipated no vexatious delay. It was an unfortunate answer for Sara, for from that date she began to look for the money daily; and you have not yet to learn what impatience this daily waiting and expecting works in the human heart When one morning’s post passed over and did not bring it or news of it, Sara counted on it for the morrow. And the morrows came and went, on and on; and Sara wrote and wrote, until she grew sick with the procrastination and the disappointment She had waited for this money so anxiously that it had become with her a feverish longing; something like that strange disease, mal du pays, as it is called, which attacks the poor Swiss, exiled from their native land. Not for the sake of the money itself was she so troubled — you know that; but from the fear of what the evil delay might bring. In reply to the letter she had forwarded to Mr. Alfred King, on the death of Dr. Davenal, that unknown gentleman, whoever he might be, had replied in a short note and a very illegible handwriting (abounding in flourishes), that he was sorry to hear of the doctor’s death, but counted on the fulfilment of the obligations without vexatious delay. This was addressed to Miss Sara Davenal, and reached her safely at Hallingham.
Poor Sara, in her inexperience, in her dread of what this man might have in his power touching her brother, feared he might deem two or three weeks only a “vexatious delay and when the two or three weeks went on, and two or three weeks to those, and two or three weeks again, then it was that the dread within her grew into a living agony. Who Mr. Alfred King might be she knew not. On that night when she had been called down to Dr. Davenal’s study and found her brother there, she had gathered from some words dropped by the doctor, in his very imperfect explanation to her, that some one else had been almost equally culpable with her brother: but who this other was, whether gentleman or swindler, whether male or female, she had no means of knowing. She did not suppose it to be Mr. Alfred King: she rather surmised that whoever it was must have gone away, as Edward had. Now and then she would wonder whether this Mr. Alfred King could be connected with the police: but that was hardly likely. Altogether, her ideas of Mr. Alfred King were extremely vague; still she could not help dreading the man, and never thought of him without a shiver.
She did not know what to do: whether to remain passive, or to write and explain that the money was coming, and apologise for the temporary delay. She felt an aversion to write, and she could not tell whether it might do harm or good. And so she did nothing; and the time had gone on, as you have heard, to June.
Sara stood at the window gazing into space, when her attention was awakened to outward things by seeing the postman turn into the street with a fleet step. Could it be the morning postman I Yes, it must be, for the second delivery did not take place until eleven, and it was now half-past nine. Something had rendered him later than usual.
She threw up the window listlessly. So many, many mornings had she watched for the post to bring this news from Hallingham, and been disappointed, that a reaction had come, and she now Looked only for disappointment. You will understand this. The postman was dodging from one side of the road to the other with that unnecessary waste of time and walking (as it seems to the uninitiated) which must help to make postmen’s legs so weary. He was at the opposite house now, superseding the butcher boy in the good graces of the maid-servant, with whom he stayed a rather unnecessary while to talk; and now he came striding over. Sara leaned her head further out and saw him make for their gate.
And her pulses suddenly quickened. Even from that height she could discern — or fancied she could discern — that the letter was from Mr. Wheatley. That gentleman always used large blue envelopes, and it was certainly one such that the man had singled out from his bundle of letters. Had it come at last? Had the joyful news of the money come?
She closed the window and ran swiftly down the stairs and met Neal turning from the door with the letter. That official was probably not at all obliged to her for demanding the letter from him so summarily. But he had no resource but to give it up.
It was from Mr. Wheatley, and Sara carried it to her room, a bright flush of hope on her cheeks, an eager trembling on her happy fingers. Mr. Wheatley did not like letter-writing, and she knew quite well that he would not have written uselessly. Opening the envelope she found it a blank; a blank entirely: nothing even written inside it: it had but enclosed a letter for herself which had apparently been sent to Hallingham. O the bitter, bitter disappointment! there was not a line, there was not a word from Mr. Wheatley!
A conviction arose that she had seen the other handwriting before. Whose was it? — it seemed to be made up of flourishes. Mr. Alfred King’s! Her heart stood still in its fear, and seemed as if it would never go on again: —
“MADAM, —— — “Essex Street, June 1st
“I am sorry to have to give you notice that unless the money owing to me, and which I have been vainly expecting these several weeks, is immediately paid, I shall be under the necessity of taking public steps in the matter: and they might not prove agreeable to Captain Davenal.
“I am, Madam,— “Your obedient servant, —— — — “ALFRED KING.
“Miss Sara Davenal.”
So the first faint realisation of the haunting shadow of the past weeks had come! Sara sat with the letter in her hand. She asked herself what was to be done? — and she wished now, in a fit of vain repentance, that she had written long ago to Mr. Alfred King, as it had been in her mind to do.
She must write now. She must write a note of regret and apology, telling him the exact truth — that the sale of the different effects at Hallingham and the realisation of the proceeds had taken more time than was anticipated, but that she expected the money daily — and beg of him to wait. In her feverish impatience it seemed as if every moment that elapsed until this explanation should be delivered to Mr. Alfred King was fraught with danger, and she hastened to the room below, the drawing-room.
Her desk was there. It was generally kept in her own chamber, but she had had it down the previous evening. Neal was quitting the room as she entered: he had been putting it in order for the day. Miss Davenal was in the parlour below, where she generally remained an hour or two after breakfast.
The letter — Mr. Alfred King’s letter — was spread open before Sara, and she sat pen in hand deliberating how she should answer it, when her aunt’s voice startled her. It sounded on the stairs. Was she coming up? Sara hastily placed the open letter in the desk, closed and locked it, and opened the drawing-room door. But in her flurry she left the key in the desk.
Miss Davenal was standing on the mat at the foot of the stairs “Can’t you hear me call?” she asked.
“I did hear, aunt. What is it?”
