CHAPTER XIV.

IN THE CHURCHYARD.

Trennach churchyard was lonely at all times, but it looked particularly so in the twilight of a dull evening. The trees took fantastic shapes; the headstones stood out like spectres; the grave-mounds reminded you unpleasantly that you yourself must sometime lie beneath them.

Especially grey were the skies this evening; for, though it was summer weather, the day had been gloomy: and Mr. Blase Pellet, sitting in the middle of the churchyard on the stump of an old tree, looked grey and gloomy as the weather and the graves.

Since the departure from Trennach of Rosaline Bell--for whom Mr. Blase Pellet did undoubtedly entertain a fond and sincere affection, whatever might have been his shortcomings generally--he had found his evening hours, when the chemist's shop was closed for the night, hang heavily on his hands. With the absence of Rosaline, the two chief relaxations in which Mr. Blase had employed his leisure were gone: namely, the cunning contrivances to meet her, either at home or abroad; and watching the movements of Frank Raynor. The young man's jealousy of the latter and Rosaline burnt as fiercely as ever, tormenting him to a most unreasonable degree: though, indeed, when was jealousy ever amenable to reason? There was no longer any personal intercourse between Frank Raynor and Rosaline; Blase knew quite well that could not be, for Frank was at Trennach, and she was at Falmouth; but he had felt as sure, ever since she went, that their intercourse was carried on by letter, as that he was now sitting on the stump of the old tree.

Jealousy needs no proof to confirm its fancies: our great master-mind has told us that it makes the food it feeds on. And upon this airy, unsubstantial kind of food had Mr. Pellet been nourishing his suspicions of the supposed correspondence--which existed in his imagination alone. He had watched the postman in a morning, he had waylaid him, and by apparently artless questions had got him to disclose to whom the letter was addressed which he had just left at Dr. Raynor's: and the less proof he could find of the suspected postal intercourse, the brighter his jealousy burned. For it was not often that the postman could say the letter, which he might have chanced to leave at the doctor's house, was for Mr. Frank Raynor. Sometimes it would be for the doctor himself, sometimes for Miss Raynor; but very rarely for Frank. Frank's correspondence did not seem to be an extensive one. This might possibly have satisfied an ordinary young man; it only tended to strengthen Mr. Blase Pellet's raging doubts: and now, on this ill-favoured evening, those doubts had received "confirmation strong as proofs of holy writ."

Since, like Othello, he had found his occupation gone, Mr. Blase Pellet was rather at a loss to know what to do with his evenings. To render him justice, it must be admitted that he did not follow the fashion, and spend them, however soberly, at the Golden Shaft. He was a steady, well-conducted young man, superior to his apparent position, and better in some respects than many of his neighbours. Finding the hours lying on his hands, he took to looking in unceremoniously at the houses of his acquaintances, so to pass a more or less agreeable interlude. This evening he had so favoured Clerk Trim; and it was in crossing the churchyard, after quitting that functionary's dwelling, that he had come to an anchor on the tree-stump. Bitter anger was aroused within him; raging jealousy; a tumultuous thirst for revenge. For, in the clerk's house he had just been furnished, as he believed, with the confirmation yearned for.

When Frank Raynor had so lightly sent Clerk Trim to Tello, to inquire for certain imaginary letters at the post-office there, he little thought what grave consequences would arise from it in the future. Simply for the sake of getting the clerk out of the way during the ceremony of the stolen marriage, he had invented this fruitless errand. When the clerk came back in the course of the day, and reported that no letter was lying for him at the post-office at Tello, the man added, "And I've taken care not to mention to a soul, sir, where I have been, as you desired; neither will I." "Oh, thank you, but I don't in the least mind now whether you mention it or not," rejoined Frank, in the openness of his heart. For, his object attained, it did not matter to him if the whole world knew that he had sent the clerk to Tello.

Clerk Trim, naturally a silent man, had experienced no temptation to mention it, in spite of the release given him: but on this evening, talking with Blase Pellet of Tello, he chanced to say that he had been there not long ago. Mr. Blase expressed some surprise at this, knowing that journeys were rare events with the clerk; and then Trim mentioned what he had gone for: to inquire for a letter at the Tello post-office for Mr. Frank Raynor.

That was enough. And a great deal more than enough. Blase instantly jumped to the conclusion that it was through the Tello post-office that the correspondence with Rosaline was carried on. And perhaps it was not unnatural that he should think so. The scarcity of letters arriving for Frank at Trennach was accounted for now.

Forth he came, boiling and bursting, crossed the stile, and dropped down on the tree-stump, unable to get any farther. The very fact of the correspondence being carried on clandestinely made it more cruel for him. With his bitter indignation mingled a great deal of despair. In that one miserable moment he began to see that he might indeed lose Rosaline. To lose her would have been anguish unspeakable; but to see another gain her was simply torment--and that other the detested gentleman, Frank Raynor. Blase Pellet had not a very clear idea of social distinctions, and he saw no particular incongruity in Frank's making her his wife.

"I've kept quiet as yet about that past night's work;" said Mr. Pellet to himself, "but I'll speak now. I kept quiet for her sake, knowing what pain it would bring her; not for his; and because----"

"Well, any way," he resumed, after the long pause which succeeded his sudden break-off, "I must feel my way in it. If I could only drive him away from Cornwall for good, that would be enough; and then I'd draw in again. I heard him tell old Float that he meant to be off to London soon and settle there: let him go, and leave me and Rose and these parts alone. I'll help to start him there; and when he's gone I'll keep silent again. But now--how much will it be safe to say?--and _what_ can I say?--and how can I set about it?"

Leaning forward, his hands placed on his knees, pressing them almost to pain, his eyes fixed on the opposite hedge, he went on with his thoughts. Blase Pellet was of an extremely concentrative nature: he could revolve and debate doubts and difficulties in his own mind, until he saw his way to bringing them out straight in the end, just as patiently and successfully as a Cambridge student will work out a problem in mathematics. But the difficulty Blase was trying to solve now was not an easy one.

"I _can't_ say I saw it," debated he. "I can't say I heard it. If I did, people would ask five hundred questions as to where I was, and how it came about, and why I did not give the alarm--and I might have to tell all. I don't care to do that. I won't do it, unless I'm forced. Let him go away and leave her alone hereafter, and he shall get off scot-free for me. If I told of him, I should have to tell of her--that she was present--and she wouldn't like it; neither should I, for I'd be sorry to bring pain and exposure on her. She ought to have denounced him at the time--and she was a regular simpleton for not doing it: but still it would not be pleasant for me to be the one to complain that she was there and witnessed it all. No, no: I may not say I know _that_: I dare not say I was a witness myself. I must find some other way."

The other way seemed to be very far off. Mr. Pellet took his eyes from the hedge, and his hands from his knees; but only to fix them on the same places again. The stump of the tree was as uneasy a seat as its once green and flourishing topmost bough must have been, to judge by the restlessness that was upon him as he sat there.

"Could I say I dreamt it?" cried he, suddenly, ceasing his shuffling, and holding his head bolt upright. "_Could_ I? I don't see any other way. Let's think it out a bit."

The thinking out took a tolerably long time yet, and Mr. Pellet did not seem altogether to like his idea. It was very nearly dark when he at length rose from the stump, sighing heavily.

"I must be uncommonly cautious," said he. "But it's just one of those ticklish things that admit of no openings but one. If Rosaline got to know that I saw--and told--she'd just fling me over for ever. I think a word or two of suspicion will be enough to drive him away, and that's all I want."

Now, in the main, Blase Pellet was not a hard-hearted or vindictive young man. His resentment against Frank Raynor arose from jealousy. Even that resentment, bitter though it was, he did not intend, or wish, to gratify to anything like its full extent. Believing that certain testimony of his could place Frank's neck in jeopardy, he might surely be given credit for holding his tongue. It is true that his caution arose from mixed motives: the dread of exasperating or in any way compromising Rosaline; the dislike to mixing himself up with the doings of that past night; and the genuine horror of bringing any man to so dire a punishment, even though that man were Frank Raynor.

Pondering upon these various doubts and difficulties, and failing to feel reassured upon them in his own mind--or rather upon the result if he moved in the matter--Mr. Pellet went slowly home through the dark and deserted street; and ascended straight to his chamber, which was an attic in the roof. There, he came to an anchor by the side of his low bed in much the same musing attitude that he had sat on the tree-stump, and "thought it out" again.

"Yes, it must be a dream," he decided at length, beginning to take off his coat preparatory to retiring. "There is no other way. I must not say I was there and saw it--they'd turn round upon me and cry, Why did you not tell at the time?--and what could I answer? Moreover, I can't, and I won't bring in Rosaline's name--which I should have to do if I stated the truth outright. But I can say I dreamt that Bell is lying at the bottom of the shaft; and keep up the commotion for a short while. They can't turn round on me for _that_. Folks do dream, as all the world knows."

With this final resolve, Mr. Blase Pellet retired to bed, to dream real dreams instead of inventing them.

As the days went on at The Mount, the lovers' meetings became more rare. Far from being able to steal out every evening, Margaret found that she could hardly get out at all. She was virtually a prisoner, as far as her evening's liberty was concerned. Either she had to remain in, reading to Lydia, or playing cards with her, or else Mrs. St. Clare would have her in the drawing-room. Upon only half a movement of Daisy's towards the open glass-doors, Mrs. St. Clare would say: "You cannot go out in the evening air, Daisy: I shall have you ill next."

Evening after evening Frank Raynor betook himself to the grounds about The Mount, and lingered in their wilderness, waiting for Daisy. Evening after evening he had to return as he came, without having seen her. But one evening, when his patience was exhausted, and he had taken the first step for departure, Daisy came flying through the trees and fell into his arms.

"I was determined to come," she said, with a nervous catching of the breath. "I am watched, Frank; I am perpetually hindered. Mamma has just gone to her room with a headache, and I ran out. Oh, Frank, this cannot go on. I have so wanted to see you."

"It has been uncommonly hard, I can tell you, Daisy, to come here, one evening after another, and to have to go back as I came."

"This is the _first_ opportunity I have had. It is indeed, Frank. And if that Tabitha should come prying into the drawing-room, as I know she will, and finds me gone out of it, I don't care. No, I don't."

He took her upon his arm and they paced together as formerly. The moon was bright to-night, and flickered through the leaves on to Daisy's head.

"Of course this cannot go on," observed Frank, in assent to what she had just said. "I should make a move at once, but for one thing."

"What sort of move?"

"Leaving Trennach. The reason I have not done so, is this, Daisy. In speaking again the other morning to my uncle, telling him that I must go to London, he made no further opposition to it: only, he begged me to remain with him until Edina returned----"

"Where is she going?" interrupted Daisy.

"To Bath. On a week or ten days' visit to Major and Mrs. Raynor. Daisy, I should not _like_ to leave my uncle alone; he is not well enough to be left; and therefore I will stay as he wishes. But as soon as Edina is back again, I will go to London, and see about our future home."

"Yes," said Daisy. "Yes."

She spoke rather absently. Indeed, in spite of the first emotion, she appeared to be less lively than usual; more preoccupied. The fact was, she wanted to ask Frank a question or two, and did not know how to do it.

"Edina goes to-morrow," he resumed. "She intends to be back in a week's time; but I give her a day or two longer, for I know how unwilling they always are at Spring Lawn to let her come away. After that, I wind up with the doctor, and go to London. And it will not be very long then, Daisy, before I return to claim you. I shall soon get settled, once I am on the spot and looking out: the grass will not grow under my feet. It won't take above a week or two."

How sanguine he was! Not a shadow of doubt rested on his mind that the "week or two" would see him well established. Daisy did not answer. Had Frank chanced to turn his head as they walked, he would have seen how white her face was.

It was a simple question that she wished to ask. And yet, she could not ask it. Her dry and quivering lips refused to frame the words. "Were you so very intimate with Rosaline Bell?--and did you really love her?" Easy words they seemed to say; but Daisy could not get them out in her terrible emotion.

And so, they parted, and she had not spoken. For the hour was late already, and she feared to remain out longer. And Frank went home unsuspecting and unconscious.

It was on the following morning that certain rumours were afloat in Trennach. They had arisen the previous day: at least, two or three people professed to have then heard them. The miners congregated in groups to discuss the news; Float the chemist and other tradesmen stood at their shop-doors, exchanging words on the subject with the passers-by. It was said that Josiah Bell was lying in the Bottomless Shaft. Instead of having walked off in some mysterious manner, to return some day as mysteriously--as his wife believed--he was lying dead in that deep pit on the Bare Plain.

But--whence arose these rumours? what was their foundation? No one could tell. Just as other unaccountable rumours that float about us and are whispered from one to another in daily intercourse, it seemed that none could trace their source. "They say so." Yes, but who are "they"?

This same morning was the morning of Edina's departure for the neighbourhood of Bath. Frank was about to drive her to the railway-station. The doctor's gig was already at the door, the small trunk strapped on behind: for she never encumbered herself with much luggage. Frank was in the surgery, busying himself until she appeared, and talking with his uncle, when the door opened, and Ross the overseer came in. He had not been well lately, and came occasionally to the surgery for advice.

"Have you heard this new tale they've got hold of now, doctor?" asked he, whilst Dr. Raynor was questioning him about his symptoms. "It's a queer one."

"I have heard no tale," said the doctor. "What is it?"

"That the missing man is lying at the bottom of the old shaft on the Plain."

"What missing man?"

"Josiah Bell."

A moment's startled pause; a rush of red to his brow; and then Frank spoke up hastily.

"What an utter absurdity! Who says so?"

"It is being said among the men," replied Ross, turning towards him. "They can talk of nothing else this morning."

The colour was receding from Frank's face, leaving it whiter than usual.

"Bell at the bottom of the shaft!" exclaimed Dr. Raynor. "But why are they saying this? Who says it?"

Ross pointed to the groups of men in the street, some of whom were in view of the window. "All of them, doctor. They are talking of nothing else."

"What are their grounds for saying this?"

"I haven't got to them yet. I don't think they know themselves."

Since the first hasty words, Frank had remained silent, apparently paying attention to his physic-bottles. He spoke again now in a sharp, grating tone; which was very unusual in him, and therefore noticeable.

"It is not likely that there are any grounds for it. I wonder, Ross, you can come here and repeat such nonsense!"

"The place is buzzing with it; that's all I know," replied Ross, rather sulkily, as he went out. He could never bear to be found fault with.

Dr. Raynor followed him to the door. After glancing up and down the street at the men collected there, he returned to the surgery.

"It is evident that something or other is exciting them," he observed to Frank. "I wonder what can have given rise to the report?"

"Some folly or other, Uncle Hugh. It will soon die away again."

Dr. Raynor stood near the window, his eyes fixed on the outer scenes, his mind far away. Frank, who had made an end of his physic, stood buttoning his coat.

"I have never believed anything but the worst, since Bell's disappearance," said the doctor. "Others have expected him to return: I never have. Where he may be, I know not: whether accident, or some other ill, may have chanced to him, I know not: but I entertain no hope that the man is still living."

There was a pause. "Have you any reason for saying that, sir?" asked Frank, somewhat hesitatingly.

"No reason in the world," replied Dr. Raynor. "At least, no sufficient reason. I am an old man, Frank, and you are a young one; and what I am about to say you will probably laugh at. I did not like Bell's look when we last saw him."

Frank was at a loss to understand: and said so.

"I did not like that grey look on his face," continued the doctor. "Do you remember it?"

"Yes, I do, Uncle Hugh. It was very peculiar. Sometimes when a person is ill, or going to be ill, the face turns quite grey from loss of colour, and we say to them, You are looking grey this morning. But the shade on Bell's face was quite different from that."

"Just so," assented the doctor. "And it takes a practised eye--or, I would rather say, an eye possessing innate discernment--to distinguish the one shade from the other: but it is unmistakable. The grey hue on Bell's face I have observed three times before during my life, in three different men; and in each case it was the forerunner of death."

Dr. Raynor's voice had become solemn. Frank, far from laughing, seemed to catch it as he spoke.

"Do you mean the forerunner of fatal illness, sir?"

"Only in one of the cases, Frank. The man had been ill for a long time, but his death was quite sudden and unexpected. The other two had no illness whatever: they died without it."

"From accident?"

"Yes, from accident. I should not avow as much to any one but you, Frank, and run the risk of being ridiculed: but I tell you that when I saw Bell come in that morning, with that peculiar grey on his face, it shocked me. I believed then, as firmly as I ever believed anything in my life, that the man's hours were numbered."

Frank neither stirred nor spoke. Just for the moment he might have been taken for a statue.

"Where Bell is, or where he went to, I know not; but from the time I first heard of his disappearance, I feared the man was dead," added Dr. Raynor. "The probability was, I thought, that he had fallen down in some fit, which had been, or would be, fatal. And I confess the marvel to me throughout has been that his body could not be found. If this rumour be true--that he is lying at the bottom of the used-up shaft--the marvel is accounted for."

"But--is it likely to be true, sir?" cried Frank, in remonstrance.

"Very likely, I think," replied the doctor. "Though I cannot imagine what should bring him _there_."

"Are you ready, Frank?" asked Edina, appearing in her grey plaid shawl and plain straw bonnet. "Good-bye, papa. I have been looking for you."

Dr. Raynor stooped to kiss his daughter quietly: he was not a demonstrative man. Hester was at the door: the boy held the horse's head. Frank helped Edina in; and, taking the reins, followed her.

"You will not stay too long, Edina?"

"Only the eight or nine days I am going for, papa."

They drove on. It was a lovely summer's day; and Edina, who enjoyed the sunshine, the balmy atmosphere, the blue sky, the waving trees, sat still and looked about her. Frank was unusually silent. In point of fact, the rumour he had just heard, touching Bell, had almost dumfounded him. Edina might have wondered at his prolonged silence, but that she was deep in thought herself.

"Frank," she began, as they neared the station, "I wish you would answer me a question."

He glanced quickly round at her, dread in his heart. Did the question concern the Bottomless Shaft?

"Do you know whether anything is wrong with papa?"

It was a great relief; and Frank, ever elastic, brightened up at once.

"Wrong with him? In what way, Edina?"

"With his health. In the last few weeks he seems to have changed so very much: sometimes he seems quite like a broken-down old man. Don't you see that he is ill, Frank?"

"Yes, I am sure he is," replied Frank, readily. "But I don't know what can be the matter with him."

"It seems to me that he wants rest."

"He has more rest than he used to have, Edina; I save him all I can. There are some crotchety old patients who _will_ have him, you know."

"I hope it is nothing serious! Do you think he will soon be better?"

Frank touched the horse with the whip: which perhaps made his excuse for not answering. "Had Uncle Hugh been in his usual health, I should have left him before this," he observed. "But I want to see him stronger first. He might chance to get some fellow in my place who would not be willing to take most of the work on his own shoulders."

"Left him to set up for yourself, do you mean, Frank?"

"To be sure. I ought to, you know," he added, with a slight laugh.

She understood. It was the first time Frank's stolen marriage had been alluded to by either of them, since the day it took place.

"How are you getting on, Frank?" she asked, in low tones, as he drew up outside the station. "You and Daisy?"

"Not getting on at all. She is there, and I am elsewhere. Now and then I see her for five minutes in their garden; but that's pretty nearly stopped now. Until last night, she has been unable to escape from the house for I don't know how long. Of course it is not a lively condition of things."

"It seems to me to be just the same with you as though you had not been married."

"It is precisely the same, Edina."