CHAPTER III.

CROPPING UP AGAIN.

"Why, Daisy. Out marketing, my dear?"

The salutation to Mrs. Frank Raynor came from her husband. One winter's morning, regardless of the extreme cold and the frost that made the streets partly deserted, she followed her husband when he went out after breakfast. The dwelling-place of Mrs. Bell and her daughter in West Street had become known to her long ago; and Daisy was always longing to see whether her husband's footsteps took him to it.

That most unreasoning jealousy, which had seized upon her mind, increased in force. It was growing almost into a disease. She felt as sure as if she had seen it written in letters of divination, that her husband's love had been, was, and ever would be Rosaline Bell's: that it never had been hers: and over and over again she asked herself the question--why had he married her?

It all appeared so plain to Daisy. Looking back, she could, as she fully believed, trace out the past, in regard to it, bit by bit. First of all, there was the girl's unusual and dangerous beauty; Frank Raynor's attendance at the house on the Bare Plain, under the plea of visiting the mother professionally; and the intimacy that was reported to have existed between himself and Rosaline. A great deal more frequently than was wise or necessary, Daisy recalled the evening when Frank had been dining at The Mount, and the conversation had turned upon the mysterious disappearance of Bell, the miner, and the beauty of his daughter. Frank's signs of agitation--his emotional voice, his flushings from red to white--Daisy had then been entirely unable to comprehend: she had considered them as unaccountable as was the absence of the man of whom they were speaking. Now the reason was very apparent to her: the emotion had arisen from his love of Rosaline. She remembered, as though it had been yesterday, the tales brought home by Tabitha, and repeated to herself--that this beautiful daughter of Bell the miner was Frank Raynor's best and only love, and that the girl worshipped the very ground he trod on. It was too late then to be influenced by the information, for the secret marriage had taken place in the church at Trennach. Daisy had hardly known whether to believe the story or not; but it had shaken her. Later, as time went on, and she and her husband moved far away from the scene of events, and Rosaline Bell seemed to have faded out of sight; almost, so far as they were concerned, out of existence; Daisy had suffered herself to forget the doubt and jealousy. But only to call it up with tenfold force now.

And so, Mrs. Frank Raynor had amused herself, if the word may be applied to a state of mind so painful as was hers, with the pastime of watching her husband. Not often of course; only now and then. Her steps, as of their own uncontrollable will, would take her to the quiet street in which Dame Bell lived, and she had on one or two rare occasions been rewarded by seeing him pass in or out of the house. Of course she could not watch very often. She dared not do so. She would have been ashamed to do so. As it was, she knew that Sam's eyes had taken to opening with wonder whenever she followed her husband through the surgery, and that the boy's curiosity was much exercised as to the cause. Therefore, as she was unable to make Frank's shadow frequently, and as, with all her expectation, she had been gratified so rarely by seeing what she looked for, she drew the conclusion that fortune did not favour her, and that Frank's times for going to the house were just those when she did not happen to be out herself. An ingenious inference: as all sensible people must allow, but one that jealousy would be certain to invent.

On one of those rare occasions, Frank came out of the house accompanied by Rosaline.

They turned the opposite way to where Daisy was standing, but not before she had caught a glimpse of the beautiful face. Where were they going together? she passionately asked herself. The probability was that their coming out together was only incidental; for in a very few minutes Daisy met the girl coming back alone, carrying a paper of rusks, which she had no doubt been out to buy. All the more necessary was it, thought Daisy, after this little incident, that she should continue to look after her husband.

Daisy was becoming quite an adept at the work, and might have taken service as a lady detective. Of course the chief care to be exercised was to keep herself out of her husband's view. It was not so difficult to do this as it would have been with some husbands; for Frank's time was always so precious, and his movements were in consequence obliged to be so rapid, that he went flying through the streets like a lamplighter, never looking to the right or left. More than once, though, Daisy had been obliged to dart into a doorway; and it was at those times that she especially felt the humiliation of what she was doing.

But, the pitcher that goes too often to the well gets broken at last, we are told. On this bitter January day, when of a surety no one would venture out who could keep in, Daisy came face to face with her husband. She had seen him enter Mrs. Bell's house; fortune for once had so far favoured her. She saw him make for the quiet street upon first leaving home, skim down it with long strides, and go straight in at the door. Her heart beat as though it would burst its bounds; her pulses coursed on with fever-heat. Nothing in the world can be so good for the doctors as jealousy: it must inevitably tend to bring on heart disease. "I wonder how long he will stay?" thought Daisy in her raging anger. "Half-an-hour, perhaps. Of course he does not hurry himself when he goes _there_."

Sauntering onwards with slow steps, some idea in her head of waiting to see how long he did stay, and believing herself perfectly safe for many minutes to come, went Daisy. She longed to cross over the street and so obtain a sight of the upstairs window. But she did not dare; he might chance to look out and see her. She knew all about the position of the Bells' rooms, having, in a careless, off-hand manner, questioned Sam, who took out Mrs. Bell's medicine. In front of the closed door, her face turned towards it, was Daisy, when--she found herself confronted with her husband. He had come quickly forth, without warning, not having remained two minutes.

"Why, Daisy! Out marketing, my dear?"

The question was put laughingly. Daisy never did any marketing: she was not much of a housekeeper as yet, and the Lambeth shops did not tempt her to begin. Eve did all that. Had she been committing a crime, she could not have felt more taken aback in her surprise, or more awkward at finding an excuse.

"I--had a headache," she stammered, "and--came out for a little walk."

"But it is too cold for you, Daisy. The wind is in the north-east. I have never felt it keener."

"It won't hurt me," gasped Daisy, believing his solicitude for her was all put on. She had believed that for some time now. The kinder Frank showed himself, the more she despised him.

"You have been there to see a patient?" questioned Daisy, hardly knowing and certainly not caring what she did say.

"Yes," replied Frank. "But she is better this morning; so I am off to others who want me more than she does."

"Is it that Mrs. Bell from Trennach? I saw a bottle of medicine directed to West Street for her one day. Sam was putting it into his basket."

"It is Mrs. Bell. She is worse than she used to be, for the disorder has made progress. And I fear she will grow worse, day by day now, until the end."

"What a hypocrite he is!" thought Daisy: "I dare say there is as much the matter with her as there is with me. Of course he needs some plea of excuse--to be going there for ever after that wretched girl."

"Do you come here pretty often?" went on Daisy, coughing to conceal the spleen in her tone, which she was unable to suppress.

"I shall have to come here oftener in future, I fear," returned Frank, not directly answering the question; of which delay she took due note. Just for these few minutes, he had slackened his pace to hers, and they were walking side by side. "I am glad she is near me: I don't think any stranger would give her the care that I shall give her."

"You speak as though you were anxious about her!" resentfully cried Daisy.

"I am more than anxious. I would give half I am worth to be able to cure her."

"Well, I'm sure!" exclaimed Daisy. "One would think you and these people must possess some bond of union in common."

"And so we do," he answered.

Perhaps the words were spoken incautiously. Daisy, looking quickly up at him, saw that he seemed lost in thought.

"What is it?" she asked in a low tone: her breathing just then seeming a little difficult.

"What is what?"

"The bond of union between you and these Bells."

The question brought him out of his abstraction. He laughed lightly: laughed, as Daisy thought, and saw, to do away with the impression the words had made: and answered carelessly.

"The bond between me and Dame Bell? It is that I knew her at Trennach, Daisy, and learnt to respect her. She nursed me through a fever once."

"Oh," said Daisy, turning her head away, indignant at what she believed was an evasion. The "bond," if there were any, existed, not between himself and the mother, but between himself and the daughter.

"I dare say you attend them for nothing!"

"Of course I do."

"What would Mr. Max Brown say to that?"

"What he pleased. Max Brown is not a man to object, Daisy."

"You can't tell."

"Yes, I can. If he did, I should pay him the cost of the medicines. And my time, at least, I can give."

Daisy said no more. Swelling with resentment and jealousy, she walked by his side in silence. Frank saw her to the surgery-door, and then turned back rapidly. She went in; passed Sam, who was leisurely dusting the counter, and sat down in the parlour by the fire.

Her state of mind was not one to be envied. Jealousy, you know, makes the food it feeds on. Mrs. Frank Raynor was making very disagreeable food for herself, indeed. She gave the reins to her imagination, and it presented her with all sorts of suggestive horrors. The worst was that she did not, and could not, regard these pictured fancies as possible delusions, emanating from her own brain, and to be cautiously received; but she converted them into undoubted facts. The sounds of Sam's movements in the surgery, his answers to applicants who came in, penetrated to her through the half-open door; but, though they touched her ear in a degree, they did not touch her senses. She was as one who heard not.

Thus she sat on, until midday, indulging these visions to the full extent of her fancy, and utterly miserable. At least, perhaps not quite utterly so: for when people are in the state of angry rage that Daisy was, they cannot feel very acutely. A few minutes after twelve, Sam appeared. He stared to see his mistress sitting just as she had come in, not even her cloak removed, or her bonnet unfastened.

"A letter for you, please, ma'am. The postman have just brought it in."

Daisy took the letter from him without a word. It proved to be from her sister Charlotte, Mrs. Townley. Mrs. Townley wrote to say that she was back again at the house in Westbourne Terrace, and would be glad to see Daisy. She, with her children, had been making a long visit of several months to her mother at The Mount, and she had only now returned. "I did intend to be back for the New Year," she wrote; "but mamma and Lydia would not hear of it. I have many things to tell you, Daisy: so come to me as soon as you get this note. If your husband will join us at dinner--seven o'clock--there will be no difficulty about your getting home again. Say that I shall be happy to see him."

Should she go, or should she not go? Mrs. Frank Raynor was in so excited a mood as not to care very much what she did. And--if she went, and he did not come in the evening, he would no doubt take the opportunity of passing it with Rosaline Bell.

She went upstairs, took her things off, and passed into the drawing-room. The fire was burning brightly. Eve was a treasure of a servant, and attended to it carefully. Frank had given orders that a fire should be always kept up there: it was a better room for his wife than the one downstairs, and more cheerful.

Certainly more cheerful: for the street and its busy traversers could be seen. The opposite fish-shop displayed its wares more plainly to this room than to the small room below. Just now, Monsieur and Madame, the fish proprietors, were enjoying a wordy war, touching some haddock that Madame had sold under cost price. He held an oyster-knife in his hand, and was laying down the law with it. She stood, in her old brown bonnet, her wrists turned back on her capacious hips, and defied his anger. Daisy had the pleasure of assisting at the quarrel, as the French say; for the tones of the disputants were loud, and partly reached her ears.

"What a frightful place this is!" ejaculated Daisy. "What people! Yes, I will go to Charlotte. It is something to get away from them for a few hours, and into civilized life again."

At one o'clock, the hand-bell in the passage below was rung: the signal for dinner. Daisy went down. Frank had only just come in, and was taking off his overcoat.

"I have hardly a minute, Daisy," he said. "I have not seen all my patients yet."

"Been hindering his time with Rosaline," thought Daisy. And she slowly and ungraciously took her place at the table. Frank, regardless of ceremony, had already begun to carve the boiled leg of mutton.

"You have _generally_ finished before one o'clock," she coldly remarked, as he handed her plate to her. For Eve, good servant though she was, had no idea of remaining in the room during meals to wait upon them.

"Yes, generally. But a good many people are ill: and I was hindered this morning by attending to an accident. A little boy was run over in the street."

"Is he much hurt?"

"Not very much. I shall get him right again soon."

The dinner proceeded in silence. Frank was eating too rapidly to have leisure for anything else; Daisy's angry spirit would not permit her to talk. As she laid down her knife and fork, Frank pressed her to take some more mutton, but she curtly refused it.

"I have said no once. This is luncheon; not dinner."

Frank Raynor had become accustomed to hearing his wife speak to him in cold, resentful tones: but to-day they sounded especially cold. He had long ago put it down in his own mind to dissatisfaction at their blighted prospects; blighted, at least, in comparison with those they had so sanguinely entertained when wandering together side by side at Trennach and picturing the future to each other. It only made him the more patient, the more tender with her.

"Mrs. Townley has written to ask me to go to her. She is back again in Westbourne Terrace. She bids me say she shall be happy to see you to dinner at seven. But I suppose you will not go."

"Yes, I will go," said Frank, rapidly revolving ways and means, as regarded the exigencies of his patients. "I think I can get away for an hour or two, Daisy. Is it dress?"

"Just as you please," was the frosty answer. "Mrs. Townley says nothing about dress; she would be hardly likely to do so; but she is accustomed to proper ways."

"And how shall you go, my dear?" resumed Frank, passing over the implication with his usual sweetness of temper. "You had better have a cab."

"I intend to have one," said Daisy.

She arrayed herself in some of her smartest things, for the spirit of bravado was upon her: if her husband did not choose to dress, _she_ should: and set out in a cab for Westbourne Terrace. Once there, she put away her troubles; outwardly at any rate: and her sister never suspected that anything was amiss.

"I shall give you a surprise, Daisy," said Mrs. Townley in the course of the afternoon. "An old beau of yours is coming to dinner."

"An old beau of mine! Who is that?"

"Sir Paul Trellasis."

"What an idea!" cried Daisy. "_He_ a beau of mine! Mamma must have put that into your head, Charlotte. Sir Paul came to The Mount once or twice; as he was a bachelor, mamma at once jumped to the conclusion that he must come for Lydia or for me. He married Miss Beauchamp that same year, you know."

"He and his wife are in London, and I asked them to come and dine with us to-day without ceremony," resumed Mrs. Townley. "Had you married Sir Paul, Daisy, you would not have been buried alive amongst savages in some unknown region of London."

"No, I should not," replied the miserable wife with stern emphasis.

But there was another surprise in store for Daisy. For Mrs. Townley as well. At dusk, a caller was ushered into the drawing-room, and proved to be the Reverend Titus Backup. The curate had never quite severed his relations with Trennach. He had taken three-months' duty there again the past autumn, when the Rector was once more laid aside by illness. He had then made the acquaintance of Mrs. Townley; and being now in London, had called upon her.

Mrs. Frank Raynor flushed red as a rose when he entered. The sight brought back to her memory the old time at Trennach, and its doings, with vivid intensity. She seemed to see herself once more standing with Frank Raynor before him at the altar, when he was making them _One_ together, until death should part them. Mr. Backup had lost somewhat of his former nervousness, but he was shy still, and held out his hand to Mrs. Frank Raynor with timidity.

"Ah, I remember--it was you who married Daisy," observed Mrs. Townley. "My mother at first would not forgive you, I believe, Mr. Backup, until she found you did not know it was a stolen match. And for how long are you in town?"

"I am not sure," replied the parson. "I have come up to see about a curacy."

"Well, you must stay and dine with us," returned Mrs. Townley. "Nonsense! You must. I shall not let you say no. Sir Paul and Lady Trellasis are coming--you know them--and Mr. Raynor."

The curate, perhaps lacking courage to press his refusal, stayed. In due time Sir Paul and his wife arrived; and, as the clock was striking seven, Frank: dressed.

All this need not have been noticed, for in truth Mrs. Townley and her visitors have little to do with the story, but for an incident that occurred in the course of the evening. Mrs. Townley was on the music-stool, playing some scientific "morceau" that was crushingly loud, and seemed interminable, with Sir Paul at her elbow turning over for her, and Daisy on the other side. Lady Trellasis, a pretty young woman with black hair, sat talking with Mr. Backup on the sofa near the fire: and Frank stood just behind them, looking at photographs. In a moment, when he was least thinking of trouble, certain words spoken by the curate caught his ear.

"Josiah Bell: that was his name. No; the particulars have never come to light. He was found eventually, as of course you know, and buried in the churchyard at Trennach."

"The affair took great hold on my imagination," observed Lady Trellasis. "I was staying at The Mount with papa and mamma at the time the man was lost. It was a story that seemed to be surrounded with romance. They spoke, I remember, of the daughter, saying she was so beautiful. Papa thought, I recollect, that the poor man must have fallen into some pit or other; and so it proved."

"Yes," said Mr. Backup, "a pit so deep that the miners call it the Bottomless Shaft. The mystery of course consisted in how he got there."

"But why should that be a mystery? Did he not fall into it?"

"The fact is, that some superstition attaches to the place, and not a single miner, it is said, would willingly approach it. Bell especially would not go near it: for in all matters of superstition he was singularly weak-minded."

"Then how did he get in?" quickly asked Lady Trellasis.

"There was a suspicion of foul play. It was thought the man was thrown in."

"How very dreadful! Thrown in by whom?"

"I cannot tell you. A faint rumour arose later--as I was told by Mr. Pine--that some one in a higher walk of life was supposed to have been implicated in the matter: some gentleman. The Rector tried to trace the report to its source, and to ascertain the name of the suspected man. He could get at nothing: but he says that an uncomfortable feeling about it remains still on his mind. I should not be surprised at the affair cropping up again some day."

The "morceau" came to an end with a final crash, and the conversation with it. Frank woke up with a start, to find a servant standing before him with a tray and tea-cups. He took one of the cups, and drank the tea quite scalding, never knowing whether it was hot or cold. Certain of the words, which he could not help overhearing, had startled all feeling out of him.

"Is it not time to go, Daisy?" he asked presently.

"If you think so," she freezingly answered.

"Then will you put on your bonnet, my dear," he said, never noticing the ungraciousness of her reply. After those ominous words, all other words, for the time being, fell on his ear as though he heard them not.

Not a syllable was exchanged between them as they sat together in the cab, speeding homewards. Frank was too unpleasantly absorbed to speak; Daisy was indulging resentment. That last sentence of Mr. Backup's, "I should not be surprised at the affair cropping up again," kept surging in his mind. He asked himself whether it was spoken prophetically; and, he also asked, what, if it did crop up, would be the consequences to himself?

"He is thinking of _her_," concluded Daisy, resenting the unusual silence, although she herself by her manner invoked it. And, in good truth, so he was.

Handing Daisy out of the cab when it stopped, Frank opened the surgery-door for her, and turned to pay the driver. At that self-same moment some man came strolling slowly along the pavement. He was wrapped up in a warm coat, and seemed to be walking for pleasure.

He looked at the cab, looked at the open door of the house, looked at Frank. Not straightforwardly; but by covert sidelong glances.

"Good-night, Mr. Raynor," said he at length, as he was passing.

"Good-night to you," replied Frank.

And Mr. Blase Pellet sauntered on, enjoying the icicles of the winter night. Frank went in, and barred and bolted his door.

"I wish to Heaven it needed nothing but bars and bolts to keep the fellow out!" spoke Frank in his dismay. "How long he will be kept out, I know not. Talk of whether the affair will crop up again!--why, it _is_ cropping up. And I have a bitter enemy in Blase Pellet."