CHAPTER II.

JEALOUSY.

The room was smartened up for the occasion. At least, as much as a room furnished with cane-seated chairs, a threadbare carpet not half covering the boards, and a stained green-baize table-cover, can be smartened. It was Mrs. Raynor's birthday. Frank Raynor and his wife had come down to wish her many happy returns of it and to take tea with her; Alice had been invited; Charles had said he would be home early. But tea was over, and neither Charles nor Alice had put in an appearance; and the little fête, without them, had seemed a failure to their mother.

Mrs. Raynor was altered: worn, spiritless, always ailing, in the past year she had aged much. Disappointment and straitened circumstances told on her health as well as on her mind. It was not for herself she grieved and suffered, but for her children. For Charles especially. His prospects had been blighted; his standing in the world utterly changed. Edina's hands were full, for Mrs. Raynor could help very little now. What Mrs. Raynor chiefly did was to gather the young ones around her, and talk to them, in her gentle voice, of resignation to God's will, of patience, of that better world that they were travelling on to; where there will be neither sickness nor sorrow, neither mortification nor suffering. The children needed such lessons. It seemed very hard to them that they should sometimes have nothing but dry bread for dinner, or baked potatoes without meat. Even with all Edina's economy and with Charles's earnings, meat could not always be afforded. The joint must be carved sparingly, and made to last the best part of the week. They generally had a joint on a Sunday, and that was as much as could be said. Clothes cost so much: and Charles, at least, had to be tolerably well-dressed. But there are many items in a household's expenses besides eating and drinking; and this especially applies to fallen gentlepeople, whose habits have been formed, and who must still in a degree keep up appearances.

If the Raynors had needed discipline, as some who knew them at Eagles' Nest had declared, they were certainly experiencing it in a very marked degree. Twelve months had slipped by since they took up their abode at Laurel Cottage, and there had been no change. The days and the weeks had drifted on, one day, one week after another, in the same routine of thrift, struggle and privation. Charles was at Prestleigh and Preen's, working to that firm's satisfaction, and bringing home a sovereign a-week: Alice was teaching still in the school at Richmond. Alfred went to a day-school now. Edina had sought an interview with its principal, and by dint of some magic of her own, when she told him confidentially of their misfortunes, had persuaded him to admit the lad at an almost nominal charge. It was altogether a weary life for them, no doubt; one requiring constant patience and resignation; but, as Edina would cheerfully tell them, it might have been worse, and they had many things to be thankful for even yet.

October was passing, and the falling leaves strewed the ground. The afternoon was not sunny, but warm and dull; so sultry, in fact, as to suggest the idea of tempest in the air. They had gathered in the square patch of ground at the back of the house, called by courtesy a garden: Frank, his wife, Edina, Mrs. Raynor, and the children. Some of them stood about, looking at the bed of herbs Edina's care had planted; Mrs. Raynor was sitting on the narrow bench under the high window. For this garden had to be descended into by several steps; and as you stood in it the back-parlour window (Mrs. Raynor's bedroom) looked perched quite a long way up.

"Herbs are so useful," remarked Edina, as they praised the bed. "When a stew is nothing in itself, thyme or mint will give it quite a fine flavour. Do you remember, Frank, how poor papa liked thyme in the Irish stews?"

"And very good they used to be," said Frank. "Eve calls them ragoûts. I often tell her they are not half as good as those I had at Trennach. Remember, Daisy, it is thyme Eve's ragoûts want."

Daisy, playing with little Robert, turned round with dancing eyes. She was as pretty as ever, in spite of the distasteful existence in Lambeth. And she had put on for this occasion one of her old grand silks.

"I'll try and remember, Frank," she laughed. "I hope I shall not say rue instead of thyme. What did you plant this great bush of rue for, Edina?"

"That bush is not mine but the landlady's; it was here when we came," replied Edina. "Mrs. Fox hangs some of it at the foot of her bed, and declares that it mysteriously keeps away gnats and moths."

When Mr. Max Brown departed for the West Indies, he had thought the very utmost extent of his term of absence would be less than six months. But considerably more than twice six months had elapsed, and he had not returned. Apparently he liked the life there; apparently was quite satisfied with Frank's management of his practice at home. In writing to Frank, he put the delay down to his mother. She was dying, but very slowly: that is, her complaint was one for which there is no remedy: and she wanted to keep him with her to the end. Thus Max wrote, and it was the only excuse he gave for his prolonged stay. Frank could not help thinking there was some mystery about it; but he was quite content to remain at his post. It was very seldom indeed that he could take an hour or two's recreation, such as this. The practice was exacting, and he had no assistant.

"That's the postman's knock!" cried Kate.

The postman was not a frequent visitor at Laurel Cottage. When he did bring a letter it was always for the Raynors: Mrs. Fox never had one at all, and never seemed to expect one. Kate ran to the door and brought back the letter. It proved to be from Alice: stating why she was not able to come.

"Daisy, my darling, you must put your bonnet on," whispered Frank. "I want to get home before dark: I have been away now longer than I care to be."

"I should send the practice to York for one evening," cried Alfred, who chanced to overhear the words.

"No doubt you would," laughed Frank.

"Well, Frank, I'm sure you seem to put that precious practice before everything else. One would think it was an idol, with a golden body and diamond wings."

"And so I ought to put it before everything else, Master Alfred. A steward must do his duty."

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