CHAPTER XVI.

COMMOTION.

"Be sure you stay until we return," had been the charge left to Edina Raynor by her uncle. But the major found himself detained longer than he had expected, and she went away from Spring Lawn without again seeing him or Charles.

During the short period of her absence from Trennach--nine days--her father had changed so much for the worse that she started when she saw him. As he came out of his house to welcome her, all Edina's pulses stood still for a moment, and then coursed on with a bound. In a gradual, wasting illness, not very apparent to those around, it is only on such an occasion as this that its progress can be judged of.

"Papa, you have been ill!"

"True, Edina, but I am mending a little now."

"Why did you not send for me?"

"Nay, my dear, there was not any necessity for that."

A substantial tea-table had been spread, and in a very few minutes Edina was presiding at it; her travelling things off, her soft brown hair smoothed, her countenance wearing its usual cheerful gravity. Not a gravity that repelled: one that insensibly attracted, for it spoke of its owner's truth, and faith, and earnestness, of her goodwill to all about her. Sitting there, dispensing cups of tea to the doctor and Frank, she was ready to hear the news of all that had transpired in the village during her absence.

Almost the first item that greeted her was the stir about Josiah Bell, of which she had previously heard nothing. It had not subsided in the least, but rather increased: the man so long missing was now supposed to be lying at the bottom of the deep shaft. But the supposition could only be traced back to a very insecure source indeed: nothing more than a dream of Mr. Blase Pellet's.

"A dream!" exclaimed Edina, in the midst of her wonder.

"So Pellet says," replied Dr. Raynor.

"But, papa, can there be any foundation for it? I mean for the fact, not the dream."

"The very question we all asked when the rumour arose, Edina. At first it could not be traced to any source at all; there was the report, but whence it came seemed a mystery. At last, by dint of close and patient investigation, chiefly on the part of Float the publican, it was traced to Blase Pellet, and he said he had dreamt it."

"Then, after all, it has no real foundation," cried Edina.

"None but that. I questioned Pellet myself, asking him how he came to spread such a report about. He replied that he did not spread the report that Bell was lying there, only that he dreamt he was there."

"I should have thought Blase Pellet a very unlikely man to have dreams, papa, and to relate them."

"So should I," assented the doctor, significantly. "So unlikely, that I cannot help suspecting he did not have this one."

Frank Raynor, who had risen and crossed to the window, as if attracted by something in the street, half turned at this remark, but immediately turned back again. Edina looked inquiringly at her father.

"I could not help fancying, as I listened to him, that Pellet was saying it with a purpose," observed the doctor. "His manner was peculiar. If I may so describe it--shuffling."

"I scarcely understand you, papa. You think he did not have the dream? That he only said he had it; and said it to answer some purpose of his own?"

"Just so, Edina."

"But what could be his purpose?"

"Ah, there I am at fault. We may discover that later. If he did say it with a purpose, I conclude it will not end here."

"Well, it sounds rather strange altogether," observed Edina. "Frank, do you mean to let your tea get quite cold?"

Frank Raynor returned to his place. He drank his tea, but declined to eat, and began to speak of Mrs. Atkinson's will.

"Did you hear any particulars about it, Edina?"

"No," replied Edina. "Excepting the one fact that she did not make a second will. There were doubts upon the point, you know."

"Uncle Francis never entertained any doubt about it, Edina; and he was the best judge, I think, of what his sister would or would not do. I am very glad, though, for his and Charley's sake."

"For all their sakes," added Edina.

"I rather wonder we have not heard from him," resumed Frank. "The funeral took place three or four days ago."

"You were not able to go to it, papa?" said Edina.

"No, child. Neither could Frank be spared. It would have taken three days, you see, to go and return comfortably."

Rising from the tea-table as soon as he could make a decent excuse for it, for he had no business calls on his time this evening, Frank set off on his usual walk to The Mount. On five evenings, since Edina left, had he so gone; but never with any success: not once had Daisy come out to him. She was being watched closer than ever.

"And I suppose I shall have my walk for nothing this evening also!" thought Frank, as he plucked a wild-rose from a fragrant roadside hedge. "This shall not go on long: but I should like to present myself to Mrs. St. Clare with an assured sum to start us in life. I wonder Uncle Francis does not write! He must know I am anxious--if he thinks about it at all. Up to his ears in his new interests, he forgets other people's."

Fortune favoured Frank this evening. As he approached the outer gate of The Mount, he saw Daisy standing at it, very much to his surprise.

"Mamma's lawyer has come over on business, and she is shut up with him," began Daisy, her eyes dancing with delight. "She told me to go up to Lydia, but Lydia is asleep, and I came out here."

"I have wanted to see you so much, Daisy," said Frank, as he gave her his arm, and they passed under the broad elm-trees. "My aunt, Mrs. Atkinson, is dead."

"We saw it in the papers," answered Daisy.

"It is from her that I expect money, you know. Every day, I look for a letter from my uncle Francis, telling me what sum it is that I inherit. And then I shall present myself to your mother. I have so longed to tell you this."

"I have longed to see you," returned Daisy, her pulses beating wildly with various and very mixed feelings, her face flushing and paling. "I--I--I want to ask you something, Frank."

"Ask away, my love," was his reply. But he noticed her emotion.

"Perhaps you will not answer me?"

"Indeed I will, Daisy. Why not?"

"It is about--Rosaline Bell." She could scarcely get the words out for agitation.

Frank was startled. It was quite evident that he was unprepared for any such topic. It seemed to _frighten_ him. Else why that sudden change of countenance, that sudden dropping of Daisy's arm? Her heart fell.

"What of her?" asked Frank, quite sharply. For in truth he believed Daisy was about to question him, not of Rosaline herself, but of that mysterious rumour connected with her father and the Bottomless Shaft; and it grated terribly on all his nerves.

"I see it is true," gasped Daisy. "Oh! why did you marry _me?_"

"What is true?" returned Frank, unpleasantly agitated.

"That you--that you--were fond of Rosaline Bell. You loved her all along. Before you loved me!"

The charge was so very different from what he had been fearing, that Frank felt for the moment bewildered: bewildered in the midst of his inexpressible relief. He stood still, turned so that Daisy faced him, and gazed into her eyes.

"_What_ is that you say, my dear? I really do not understand."

Daisy shook and shivered, but did not speak.

"That I love Rosaline Bell? I never loved her. What in the name of wonder put such an idea into your head?"

For answer Daisy burst into tears. "She--she was so beautiful!"

"Beautiful! Of course she is beautiful. And I admired her beauty, Daisy, if it comes to that, as much as other people did. But as to loving Rosaline Bell, that is a mistake. I never felt a spark of love for her. What a goose you must be, Daisy! And why on earth should you have taken up the fancy just now?"

Daisy sobbed too much to answer. She almost believed what he said, for no doubt lay in his earnest tone, and she suffered herself to be soothed. She would have quite believed it but for Frank's signs of discomfiture at the introduction of the girl's name. Frank held her to him as they walked under the trees, and kissed her tear-stained face from time to time.

"You need not doubt my love, Daisy. That at least is yours."

They parted more hopefully than usual, for Frank assured her it could not be above a day or two ere he claimed her openly; and Daisy felt that she might believe him in all respects; and she resolutely flung her jealousy to the winds.

"Fare you well, my darling. A short time now--we may count it by hours--and this tantalizing life will be over."

He went home by way of the Bare Plain. And by so doing--and it was not very often now that he chose that route--fell into an adventure he had not bargained for. Round and about the Bottomless Shaft had collected a crowd of men, who were making very much of a commotion.

It appeared that the rumours, touching Josiah Bell, had this night reached what might be called a climax. Miners had gone off from various quarters to the alleged scene of Mr. Blase's dream, and were plunging into the mystery con amore. As many as could press around the pit's mouth were holding on one to another for safety and bending dangerously over it: as if by that means they could solve the problem of who and what might be lying within its depths. Others stood at a distance, momentarily taking their pipes out of their mouths to make their free comments. Mrs. Bell, hearing of the stir, had tied a yellow silk square (once Josiah's Sunday-going handkerchief) over her cap, and come out to make one of the throng. It was a very light, hot night, daylight scarcely departed, and the western sky bright with a pale amber. The rugged faces of the miners and the red glow from their pipes, coupled with the commotion that stirred them, made up a strange scene.

"Are you here, Mrs. Bell?" cried Frank, as he discerned her on the outskirts of the crowd. "What is the matter?"

"There's nothing the matter," interposed Blase Pellet. And Frank turned on his heel to face the speaker in the moment's impulse, for he had not known that he was there. "What the plague all the town has come out for like this, I can't think. Let them mind their own business."

"But we consider that it is our business, don't you see, Blase," put in Andrew Float, in his civil way. "Our poor vanished soe is either lying there in aal they stones and ashes, or he is not; and we'd like to make sure which it be."

"Well, then, he is _not_ there," returned Blase: and he disappeared amidst the throng.

"Has anything fresh arisen?" inquired a quiet voice at this juncture--that of Dr. Raynor--addressing both Frank and Mrs. Bell, who were standing side by side. The doctor, observing from his window a number of people, evidently in excitement, making for the Bare Plain, had come forth himself to learn what the movement meant.

"I can't find out that there's anything fresh, sir," was the dame's answer. "Amid such confusion one don't easily get to the bottom of things. Andrew Float says 'twas just a thought that took a few of 'em as they sat talking of Bell at the Golden Shaft--that they'd come off and have a look down the pit's mouth; and the news spread, and others collected and followed. But I hardly think anything so simple could have brought all these."

"They must have some reason for coming," remarked the doctor, gazing at the ever-increasing crowd.

"Blase Pellet has just said there is no reason," rejoined Frank. "I should advise you not to stand out here any longer," he added, to Mrs. Bell.

"Blase Pellet's no one to go by: he says one thing to-day, and another to-morrow," rejoined Dame Bell, as she turned on the path that led to her home; they turning with her.

"I think the dreams that he says he has, are certainly not very much to go by," observed Dr. Raynor, quietly.

"Oh, but that dream was a good deal," said Dame Bell. "And I've never had a good night's rest, sir, since I heard it, and that's more than a week ago. I can't sleep at night for thinking of it."

"I am sorry to hear you say so, Mrs. Bell: I thought you possessed better sense. Pellet must have been very foolish to tell you about it."

"It wasn't him that did tell me, Dr. Raynor. Leastways, not off-hand. It was Nancy Tomson. She came into my place one morning, when I was down on my knees whitening the hearth-flag; and I saw how scared her face looked. 'Guess what they be saying now,' says she: 'they've got a tale that your husband is lying in the Bottomless Shaft.' Well, sir, I stared at her, sitting back, as I knelt, with the stone in my hand: for you see I thought she meant he was lying there asleep; I really thought no worse. 'Go along with you, Nancy,' says I; 'as if Bell would lay himself down to sleep near that shaft!' 'Oh, it's not near it, but in it,' says she; 'and he's not sleeping, but dead.' Well, doctor, though I found every soul in the place saying the same thing, for four-and-twenty hours I could not get to learn why they said it. Andrew Float told me at last. He said it was through a dream of Blase Pellet's."

Dr. Raynor, listening attentively, made no comment.

"I had Pellet before me, sir, and he made a clean breast of it. He had not intended to let me know it, he said--and I don't think he had; but I did know it, and so it was no use holding out. It was a dreadful dream, he said. He had seen my poor husband lying at the bottom of that deep shaft, dead: seen him as plain as he had ever seen anything in all his life. When he woke up, his hair was standing on end with horror."

"Ah," said the doctor quietly, his tone one of utter disbelief, though Mrs. Bell did not detect it. "Did he intimate, pray, how long Bell had been lying there?"

"It was just what I asked him, sir, when I could get my breath again. A good three months, he was sure, he said. Which must have brought it back, sir, you see, to the time of his disappearance."

"Yes, I do see," observed the doctor, rather pointedly. "Well, I do not put any faith in dreams, Mrs. Bell, and I would advise you not to put any either. Good-night. Go in as soon as you can."

Dr. Raynor turned homewards, making a circuit to avoid the throng. Frank began whistling softly to himself, as a man sometimes does when absorbed in thought.

"What is your opinion of this, Frank?" asked the doctor, abruptly.

"I can form none, sir. Why they should collect----"

"Not that," interrupted the doctor. "One fool makes many. I spoke of Blase Pellet's alleged dream. I, myself, believe he had nothing of the kind: his manner, when I spoke with him about it, was not satisfactory: but what puzzles me is, his motive for saying that he had the dream. Some men are gifted with a propensity for astounding their fellow-creatures with marvellous tales. To create a sensation they'd say they have been hung, drawn, quartered, and brought to life again. But Pellet is not one of these; he is quiet, reticent and practical."

Frank made no reply. They were very close now to the Bottomless Shaft, and to the crowd surging around it.

"I could almost think that he _knows_ Bell is there," resumed the doctor, lowering his voice. "If so, he must have been privy to the accident--if it was an accident--that sent poor Bell down. Perhaps took part in it----"

"Oh no, no!" incautiously spoke Frank. "It is not likely that he would take part in anything of the sort, Uncle Hugh," he added in quieter tones.

"If I don't quite think it, it is because there are one or two stumbling-blocks in the way," went on Dr. Raynor with composure. "Had Pellet been a witness to any accident--any false slip of Bell's, for instance; on the edge of the pit--he would have spoken of it at the time. Had he taken any part in it--inadvertently, of course, Pellet would not do so willingly--and hushed it up, he would not be likely to invent a dream now, and so draw attention again to what had nearly died away. Nevertheless, I am sure there is something or other in this new stir of Mr. Pellet's that does not appear on the surface."

Dr. Raynor quitted the subject, to the intense relief of his nephew; took off his hat in the warm night, and began to talk of the evening star, shining before them in all its brilliancy.

"A little while, Frank, a few more weeks, or months, or years, as may be, given to the fret and tear of this earthly life, and we shall, I suppose, know what these stars are; shall have entered on our heavenly life."

Major Raynor's anticipated letter reached Frank on the following morning. As he opened it, a bank-note for twenty pounds dropped out: which the generous-hearted major had sent as an earnest of his goodwill.

"My Dear Boy,

"I am sorry to have to tell you that the legacy left you by your aunt Ann is only five hundred pounds. I confess that I thought it would have turned out to be at least three thousand. Of course I shall make it up to you. We cannot yet put our hands upon the securities for the accumulated savings; but as soon as we do so, you shall have a cheque from me for three thousand pounds.

"I hope my brother is better, and Edina well. I wish she could be at Spring Lawn to help in the packing up, and all the rest of it. They come up to Eagles' Nest next week: and how they will get away without Edina to start them, I cannot imagine. My best affection to all.

"Ever your attached uncle,

"Francis Raynor."

"I wonder how it is," mused Frank, as he slowly folded the letter, "that in all our troubles and necessities, we instinctively turn to Edina?"