Works of Ellen Wood

by Ellen Wood

  “Et madame? quelles nouvelles avez-vous d’elle?”

  Mark wheeled round. It was Monsieur Le Bleu.

  Mark Cray extended his hand, and his face lighted up. In his desolation even this French doctor was inexpressively welcome.

  “I didn’t know you were back, Mr. Blue: savais pas que vous retournez, messeu,” added he, taking his customary plunge into the mysteries of French.

  “I come from return this after-midday,” said the surgeon. “I ask, sare, if you have the news from madame?”

  “She’s worse, and can’t come back,” said Mark. “Plus malade. Not to be cured at all, they say, which I don’t believe; pas croyable, messeu. I don’t believe the English médecin understands the case. Non! jamais.”

  “Do I not say two — three — four months ago, me? I know she not curable. I feel sure what it was. You call it ‘lump’ and ‘bouton’ — bah! C’est une tumeur fibreuse. I say to you, mon ami, you — tiens! c’est le facteur!”

  For the facteur had come up at an irregular hour, and this it was which had caused Monsieur Le Bleu’s remark of surprise. The bureau des postes had despatched him to offer the letter a second time to Mark.

  “Has monsieur got the money now?” he demanded in quick French, which was a vast deal more intelligible to his French auditor than his English one. “If not, our bureau won’t be at the pains to offer the letter a third time, and monsieur must get the letter from the bureau himself if he wants it.”

  What with the amount of French all at once and the embarrassment of the situation, Mark Cray devoutly wished the postman underneath the waters of the manche. That functionary, however, stood his ground where he was, and apparently had no intention of leaving it. He bent over the gate, the letter in his outstretched hand. Monsieur Le Bleu looked on him with some interest, curious to know why the letter had been refused. He inquired why of Mark, and Mark muttered some unintelligible words in answer, speaking in French so excessively obscure that the surgeon could not understand a syllable.

  So he turned for information to the facteur. “Did Monsieur dispute the charge?” he asked.

  “Not at all,” replied the man. “It was not a dispute as to charge. The English Monsieur had no money. It was a double letter: sixteen sous.”

  “Ah, no change,” said Monsieur Le Bleu, with a delicacy that many might have envied, as he turned his eyes from Mark Cray’s downcast face. “It’s a general complaint. I never knew the small change so scarce as it is: one can get nothing but gold. Hold, I’ll take the letter from you, facteur, and monsieur can repay me when he gets change.”

  The surgeon handed the sixteen sous to the postman, and gave the letter to Mark. Mark spoke some obscure words about repaying him on the morrow, and broke the seal.

  There was still light enough to see, though very obscurely, and Mark Cray’s dazed eyes fell on a bank-note for £5. The surgeon had bade him good-night, and was walking away with the postman: Mark Cray was only half-conscious of their departure. Debt did not affect Mark as it does those ultra-sensitive spirits who can but sink under its ills: nevertheless, he did feel as if an overwhelming weight had been taken from him.

  He rang at the bell, loudly now, feeling not so afraid of meeting madame, should she answer it. And he lighted his little lamp and read the letter. Read it almost in disbelief, half doubting whether its good news could indeed be true. For Mr. Barker had written all couleur de rose: and a very deep rose, too.

  The Wheal Bang had come to its senses, and the worry was over. He, Barker, was upon confidential terms with all the shareholders, shook hands with them individually thrice a-day. There would be no fuss, no bother; the affairs were being wound up in the most amicable manner, and Mark had better come over without an hour’s delay, and help. The sooner they got it done, the sooner they should be free to turn their attention to other matters, and he, Barker, had a glorious thing on hand just now, safe to realise three thousand a-year.

  Such were the chief contents of the letter. Whether Barker believed in them fully himself, or whether he had dashed on a little extra colouring as to the simplification of affairs relative to the Great Wheal Bang, cannot be told. It may be that he feared hesitation still on the part of Mark Cray, and wished to get him at once over. In point of fact, Mark’s presence was absolutely necessary to the winding-up. —

  Mark yielded without the slightest hesitation. If Mark Cray had confidence in any one living being, it was Barker. He forthwith set about the arrrangements for his departure. It would take more than the five-pound note to clear all that he owed in Honfleur; so he paid madame, and one or two trifles that might have proved productive of a little inconvenience at the time of starting, and got away quietly by the boat to Havre, and thence to London.

  But, oh! the treachery of man! When the steamer reached the metropolis, Mark Cray walked boldly ashore in the full glare of day, never so much as shading his eyes from the sun with those charming blue spectacles you have heard of, never shrinking from the gaze of any mortal Londoner. Mark’s confidence in the good-fellowship of the Wheal Bang’s shareholders was restored, his trust in Barker implicit: if he felt a little timid on any score, it was connected with his clothes, which certainly did not give out quite so elegant a gloss as when they were spick and span new. Mark stood on the quay, after landing, and looked round for Barker, whom he had expected would be there to meet him.

  “Cab, sir?”

  “No,” said Mark.

  “I’ll wait here a minute or two,” decided Mark to himself. “Barker’s sure to come. I wrote him word what time we might expect to be in — though we are shamefully late. He can’t have been and gone again!”

  Somebody came up and touched him on the shoulder. “Mr. Marcus Cray, I believe?”

  Mark turned quickly. “Well?” said he to the intruder a shabby-looking man.

  “You are my prisoner, sir.”

  “What?” cried Mark.

  “You are my prisoner, sir,” repeated the stranger, making a sign to another man to come closer.

  Mark howled and kicked, and for a moment actually fought with his assailants. It was of course a senseless thing to do; but the shock was so sudden. He had felt himself as secure, stepping on those shores, as any grand foreign ambassador could have felt; and now to find himself treacherously pounced upon in this way was beyond everything bitter. No wonder that for the minute Mark was mad.

  “It can’t be!” he shrieked; “you have no warrant for this. I am free as air; they wrote me word I was.”

  “Would you like a cab, sir?” inquired the official civilly, but not deigning to answer. “You can have one if you like. Call one, Jim.”

  A cab was called; the prisoner was helped into it and driven away — he was too bewildered to know where.

  And that’s how Mr. Mark Cray was welcomed to London. His rage was great, his sense of injury dreadful.

  “Only let me come across Barker!” he foamed. “He shall suffer for this. A man ought to be hung for such treachery.”

  Mark Cray was, so far, mistaken. Barker was as innocent in the arrest as he was. An accident had prevented his going down to meet the Havre steamer.

  CHAPTER LVIII.

  THE GALLANT CAPTAIN HOME AGAIN.

  CAPTAIN DAVENAL and his wife had been expected in England in December — as you have heard; but the time went on, and February was at its close before they arrived. They had been compelled to land at the Cape in consequence of the illness of Mrs. Davenal, and had to remain there some time. She had come into a very large fortune on the death of her father; a considerable portion of it was settled upon her, and the rest, a munificent sum, lapsed to her husband. So Captain Edward Davenal was once more at his ease in this world of changes.

  Gay, handsome, free, sunny, it might have been thought that not an hour’s care had ever been upon him. No allusion to a certain dark episode of the past escaped his lips when he and his sister met: there were no signs that he so much as remembered such a trouble had ever been. The
y were the present guests of Lady Reid, and would remain so for a short time. It was Captain Davenal’s intention to take a furnished house for a term. His leave of absence was for two years; but they did not care to be stationary in London the whole of the period. Sara was charmed with his wife: a gentle, yielding, pretty thing, looking so young as to be a girl still, and dividing her love between her husband and infant son, a fine young gentleman born at the Cape. A dread fear assailed Sara Davenal’s heart as she looked upon her; for that curious matter, touching the young woman who claimed to be connected with Captain Davenal, had never been cleared up. Not since the previous December had Sara once observed her approach the house: but she had twice seen her in conversation with Neal at the end of the street, the last time being the very day of the arrival of Captain Davenal. It was altogether strange in Sara’s opinion: if the young woman fancied she really had a legal claim of the nature she mentioned on Captain Davenal, why had she not asserted it openly? If she had no such claim, if she were an impostor, for what purpose had she put the claim forth? There had been no demand for silence-money; no attempt at extortion. However it might be, Sara’s duty was plain, now Captain Davenal had arrived — to acquaint him with the circumstances.

  “I have some papers to give you,” Sara whispered to her brother at Lady Reid’s, the night of his arrival there.

  “Papers? O yes, I suppose so. I shall be with you tomorrow.”

  So he had not quite forgotten the affair. On the conclusion of the matter with Mr. Alfred King Sara had sealed up certain papers and receipts according to the written directions of Dr. Davenal; and these she waited to put into her brother’s hand.

  Mrs. Cray was with them still. She had taken to her bedroom entirely now, and was gradually dying. Mark was with her. His difficulty with the Great Wheal Bang’s shareholders, and particularly with that one cautious shareholder who had saluted Mark so impolitely on his landing from Havre, was virtually over: Mark enjoyed liberty of person again, and things were in process of adjustment. Miss Davenal so far overcame her repugnance to Mark as to allow him to be in her house, but it was only in consideration of Caroline’s dying state. They could do nothing for her. They painted her clothes with iodine as she lay on the sofa day after day before the chamber fire; it was the only thing that brought any alleviation to the pain.

  It happened that Captain Davenal’s first visit to the house was paid at an opportune moment, in so far as that his interview with his sister was free from fear of interruption. Miss Davenal had gone to Lady Reid’s, to see and welcome the travellers. Neal was in attendance upon her, and Caroline was asleep. Mark Cray was in the City; he had to go there frequently, in connection with the winding-up of the company of the Great Wheal Bang.

  Captain Davenal came in, all joyous carelessness, telling Dorcas, who admitted him, that she looked younger and handsomer than ever: and poor Dorcas — who was not young at all, and had never been handsome in her life — felt set up in vanity for a month to come. Sara was in the drawing-room. It was the first time of their being alone, and Captain Davenal held her before him and scanned her face.

  “What has made you get so thin?”

  “Am I thin?” she returned.

  “Dreadfully so. I have been telling Dorcas that she’s handsomer than ever, but I can’t say the same of you. What is the cause, Sara?”

  “I think people do get thin in London,” she replied with some evasion. “But let me be rid of my charge, Edward.”

  She went to her bedroom and brought down Dr. Davenal’s desk. To Edward’s surprise, he saw that it was bound round with a broad tape and sealed. When Sara had placed the papers in the desk, received from Mr. Alfred King, she had immediately sealed up the desk in this manner; a precaution against its being opened.

  “What’s that for?” exclaimed Captain Davenal, in his quick way, as he recognised the desk and to whom it had belonged. “Did my father leave it so?”

  Sara replied by telling him her suspicions of the desk’s having been opened; and that she had deemed it well to secure it against any future inroads when once these papers were inclosed in it “But who would touch the desk?” he asked. “For what purpose? Was young Dick at home at the time?”

  “Dick was not at home. But Dick would not touch a desk. I would not answer for Dick where a jam cupboard is concerned; but in anything of consequence Dick’s as honourable as the day. I suspected Neal, Edward.”

  “Neal!”

  “I did. I feel half-ashamed to say so. Do you remember telling me that papa had a suspicion or doubt whether Neal had not visited some of his letters?”

  “I remember it I thought my father was wrong. Neal! Why, Sara, I’d as soon suspect myself.”

  “Well, I can only tell you the truth — that when I found cause to fear this desk had been surreptitiously opened, my doubts turned to Neal. You see, we have no one about us but him and Dorcas; and Dorcas I am certain is trustworthy. But I admit that it was in consequence of what you told me that I cast any doubt on Neal. However it may have been, I deemed it well to secure the desk afterwards.”

  She had been opening the desk as she spoke, and she took from it a sealed packet and handed it to Captain Davenal. He opened it at once; glanced over its contents, two or three papers, one by one, and slightly drew in his lips. —

  “What a shame!” he burst forth.

  She did not like to ask questions. She only looked at him. “That they should have bled my father in this manner. Scoundrels! I was away, therefore the game was in their own hands. Did you read these papers, Sara?”

  “I was obliged to read them; to see that they tallied with copies that papa had left. He left written instructions that I should do so.”

  “To whom was this money paid?”

  “To Mr. Alfred King. Don’t you see the receipts?”

  “I’d walk ten miles before breakfast any morning to see the fellow hung. It’s what he’ll come to.”

  “He told me that he and you had once been friends,” she said in a half-whisper.

  “And so we were. I believed in the fellow: I had no suspicion that he was a villain, and I let him draw me into things from which I could not extricate myself. I was a fool; and I had to pay for it.”

  In Sara’s inmost heart there arose unbidden a rebellious thought: that others had had to pay for it; not Captain Davenal.

  “Did it affect my father’s health, this business?” he inquired in a low tone.

  “I fear it did,” she replied, feeling that she could not avoid the confession. “I am sure it affected him mentally. There was a great change in him from that night.”

  Captain Davenal folded the papers slowly, and pushed them into his waistcoat pocket in his usual careless fashion. “What a fool I was!” he muttered; “and what a rogue was that other!”

  “Are they safe there, Edward?”

  “Safe enough until I get home. They will be burnt then, except this final receipt. Oh, if my father had but lived! I could at least have repaid him his pecuniary loss. It took all he left behind him, I suppose, to satisfy it?”

  “Yes; all.”

  “He told me he feared it would, or nearly all, in the letter he wrote me when he was dying. Did things realise well?”

  “No, very badly. There was not enough to satisfy the claim by two hundred pounds. Finally, Aunt Bettina advanced that.”

  “Does she know of this?” he exclaimed, in a startled tone.

  “No, I kept it from her. It was difficult to do, but I contrived it.”

  “You were a brave girl, my sister! I don’t know who would have acted as you have! All this trouble upon you, and never to worry me with it in your letters! — never to ask me for money to help in the need!”

  “I thought you had none to give,” she simply said.

  “True enough: I had none; but most sisters would have asked for it I shall repay at once Aunt Bettina; I shall repay, more gradually, to you the half of what my father possessed before this trouble was brought by me upon
him. What do you say? — my wife’s money? Tush, child! Do you know the amount of the fortune we have come into? It will be but a drop of water in the ocean of that amount If I did not repay it to you, she would.” Sara looked up.

  “My wife knows all. I told her every word.”

  “O Edward! Before your marriage!”

  “Not before. I suppose I ought to have done so, but it would have taken a greater amount of moral courage than I possessed. I couldn’t risk the losing her. I told her, partially, a short time after our marriage: the full particulars I did not give her until last night.” Last night! Sara was surprised.

  “She fell in love with you yesterday, Sara, and I thought well to let her know what you really were — how true you had been to me.”

  Sara was silent It was in her nature to be true; and, as she believed, it was in her nature to be able to suffer.

  “There were times when I felt tempted to wish I had stayed at home and battled with it,” resumed Captain Davenal, after a pause. “But in that case the scandal would probably have gone forth to the world. As it was, no living being knew of it, save you and my father.”

  “And Mr. Alfred King,” she said. Another name also occurred to her, but she did not mention it — that of Oswald Cray.

  “Alfred King? Sara, my dear, I don’t care to enter into particulars with you, but he was with me in the mess; more morally guilty, though less legally so, than I was. He has never told it, I can answer for, for his own sake.”

  “He always spoke to me of being only a sort of agent in the affair,” she said. “He intimated that the money was due to other parties.”

  “Was due from himself, then. But it is over and done with: let it drop. And now, Sara, you must allow me to ask you a personal question: are you still engaged to Oswald Cray?”

  The demand was so unexpected, the subject so painful, that Sara felt the life-blood leave her heart for her face. “I am not engaged to Oswald Cray,” she said in a low tone. “I — I cannot say that I ever was engaged to him.”