CHAPTER V.

THE MISSING DESK.

But there is something yet to relate of the afternoon. It was about five o'clock when Edina reached home. Very much to her astonishment she saw a gentleman seated by Mrs. Raynor. The tea-things were on the table. Bobby sat on the floor. Kate stood, her back to the window, gazing with some awe at the visitor--so unusual an event in the retired household. He was a scanty-haired little gentleman, with cold, light eyes, and a trim, neat dress. Edina knew him at once, and held out her hand. It was Street, the banker.

It was evident that he had come in only a minute before her, for he had not yet entered upon his business. He began upon it now. Edina silently took off her things as she listened, put them on the side-table, and made the tea. There he sat, talking methodically, and appearing to notice nothing, but in reality seeing everything: the shabby room, the scanty attire of the young children, the faded appearance of Mrs. Raynor, as she sat putting fresh cuffs on a jacket of Alfred's. Edina began to pour out the tea, and brought him a cup, handing him the sugar and milk.

"Is it cream?" asked Mr. Street. "I can't take cream."

"It is skim-milk," said Edina. "But it is good: not at all watered. We buy it at a small farmhouse."

He had come to ask Mrs. Raynor whether she remembered a small ebony desk that had been at Eagles' Nest. It had belonged to the late Mrs. Atkinson, he observed: "she kept papers in it: receipts and things of that sort."

"I remember it quite well," replied Mrs. Raynor. "My husband took it into use, and kept papers of his own in it. He used to put all the bills there."

"Do you know what became of the desk, madam?"

"It was left in the house," said Mrs. Raynor.

"Ay: we supposed it would be," nodded the banker. "But, madam, it cannot be found. I was at Eagles' Nest myself all day yesterday, searching for it. Mr. Fairfax says he does not remember to have seen it."

The name struck unfamiliarly on Mrs. Raynor's ear. "Mr. Fairfax? Who is he?"

"The land-steward, who lives in the house. He thinks that had the desk been there when he entered into possession, he should have noticed it."

"Is the desk particularly wanted?" interposed Edina, struck with the fact that so busy a man as Mr. Street should have been down in search of it.

"We should be glad to find it," was the answer, as he turned again to Mrs. Raynor. "Lamb, the butler, who remained in the house for some two or three weeks after you left it, says he does not remember to have seen it there after your departure. So I procured your address from my brother, madam, and have come to ask you about it."

Mrs. Raynor, who had put aside her work soon after Mr. Street entered, sat with her cup and saucer in her hand, looking a little bewildered. He proceeded to explain further.

On the evening of Mr. George Atkinson's arrival in London--which had only taken place on Monday, the day Charles Raynor saw him in Mr. Preen's office--he and the banker were conversing together on various matters, as would naturally be the case after his long absence. Amongst other subjects touched upon was that of the lost money and the vouchers: neither of which had ever been discovered. Whilst they were recalling, in a desultory sort of way, every probable and improbable place in which these vouchers, if they existed, could have been placed, Mr. Atkinson suddenly asked whether the ebony desk had been well examined. Of course it had, and all the other desks, was Mr. Street's answer. "But," said George Atkinson, "that ebony desk had a false bottom to it, in which things might be concealed. I wonder I never thought of that before. It may be that the Raynors never found that out; and I should not be much surprised if Mrs. Atkinson put the bonds in it, and if they are in it to this day."

Of course the suggestion was worth following up. Especially worthy of it did it appear to Street, the banker, who had a keen scent for money, whether his own or other people's. He went down himself to Eagles' Nest to search the desk: but of the desk he could find no traces. The land-agent who had since occupied the house did not remember to have seen anything of the kind. He next inquired for Lamb, the former butler, and heard that he was now living with Sir Philip Stane. To Sir Philip Stane's proceeded Mr. Street, and saw Lamb. Lamb said he knew the desk quite well; but he could not recollect seeing it after the family had left, and he had no idea what became of it. Mr. Street, feeling baffled, had returned to town without learning anything of the desk. He had now come down to question Mrs. Raynor.

"I wish, madam, I could hear that you had brought it away with you," he observed, the explanation over. It had been rather a long one for curt-speaking Mr. Street.

"We should not be likely to bring it away," said poor Mrs. Raynor, in her mild, meek voice. "We were told that we must not remove anything that had been Mrs. Atkinson's."

"True. Those instructions were issued by Mr. George Atkinson, through me, madam."

"And I can assure you, sir, that we did _not_ remove anything," she replied, a little flurried. "All that we brought away belonged strictly to ourselves. But I fancy Mr. George Atkinson must be mistaken in supposing the bonds were in that desk. Had they been there my husband could not have failed to see them."

"Did he know of the false bottom?"

"I am not aware that he did. But still--he so often used the desk. It frequently stood in the little room, upon the low cabinet, or secretaire. I have seen him turn it upside down, when searching for some particular bill he had mislaid."

"That does not prove the bonds were not in the secret compartment," remarked the banker.

"Did you know of this secret compartment?" inquired Edina.

"I did not, Miss Raynor. Or you may be sure it would have been searched when we were first looking for the bonds. This desk George Atkinson himself brought from Ceylon the first time he went there, and gave it to Mrs. Atkinson. It was not, I believe, really of ebony, but of black wood peculiar to the country; handsomely carved, as you no doubt remember, if you made acquaintance with the desk at Eagles' Nest. Mr. George Atkinson cannot imagine how he could have forgotten the desk until now; but it had as completely slipped his memory, he says, as though it had never existed."

"I'm sure I wish it could be found!" spoke Mrs. Raynor. "It may be that the bonds are in it. That my husband never discovered the compartment you speak of, I feel assured. If he had, we should all have known it."

"And--just one more question, madam," said the banker, rising to depart. "Do you chance to remember in what room that desk was left when you quitted Eagles' Nest?"

Mrs. Raynor paused in thought; and then shook her head hopelessly. "No, I do not," she answered. "I know the desk must have been left there because we did not bring it away, but I have no especial recollection about it at all. Dear me! What a strange thing if the bonds were lying concealed in it all that time!"

"That they are lying in it I think more than likely--provided there are any to lie anywhere," observed the banker, "for it is most singular that none have come to light. It is also to be regretted that Mr. Atkinson did not think of the desk before this. Good-evening, madam."

"We heard that Mr. Atkinson was in London," remarked Edina, as she accompanied Mr. Street to the front-door.

"For a few days only."

"For a few days only! When does he intend to enter into possession of Eagles' Nest?"

"I cannot tell: he is an invalid just now," was the hurried answer, as if the banker did not care to be questioned. "Good-day, Miss Raynor." And away he went with a quick step.

Edina began to wash up the tea-things, that she might get to some ironing. Her mind was busy, and somewhat troubled. Reminiscences of George Atkinson, thoughts of the missing desk and of the lost bonds that were perhaps in it, kept rapidly chasing each other in her brain--and there seemed to be no comfort in any one of them.

"Had the desk been brought away from Eagles' Nest, I must have seen it," she remarked at length, but in doubtful tones, as if not feeling altogether sure of her assertion.

"But surely, Edina, you don't think we _should_ bring it!" cried Mrs. Raynor, looking up from her work, which she had resumed.

"Not intentionally, of course, Mary. The only chance of it would be if Charles, or any one else, inadvertently packed it up."

"I am sure he did not," said Mrs. Raynor. "Had it been brought away by accident we should certainly have seen it, and sent it back to Eagles' Nest."

"I remember that desk quite well," spoke up Kate, looking off the spelling-lesson she was learning. "I remember seeing Frank empty all the papers out of it one morning.

"Frank did?" cried Edina.

"Why, yes: it was Frank who examined the desk," said Mrs. Raynor. "I now recollect as much as that. It was the day after the funeral. You were upstairs, Edina, helping to pack Daisy's things for London. I was crying about the money we owed, not knowing whether it was much or little, and Frank said we had better examine the bills. I told him the bills were most likely all in the little ebony desk--and he went to get them.

"I saw him do it," reiterated Kate. "I was in the little room with Mademoiselle Delrue. He came and unlocked the desk, shook all the papers out of it, and took them away with him."

"And what did he do with the desk?" asked Edina. "Did he leave it there?"

"I don't know. I think he took that away too."

"I wonder whether Frank would remember anything of it?" mused Edina. "Perhaps he put up the desk somewhere for safety, after taking the papers out of it: in some cupboard or closet?"

"Perhaps he did," added Mrs. Raynor. "It is so strange a thing that it cannot be found."

"I may as well walk over to Frank's, and hear what his recollections are upon the subject," said Edina after a pause.

"But you must be so tired, Edina, after that walk to Bayswater."

"Not very. I meant to iron the boy's collars and Charley's wristbands this evening, but I can do that to-morrow."

Mrs. Raynor made no further objection; and Edina set out. The visit of the banker seemed to have saddened rather than cheered her--as so unusual a little change in the monotony of their home life might have been expected to do. They all felt faint and weary with their depressing prospects. Were things to go on for life as they now were? It was a question they often asked themselves. And, for all they could see, the answer was--Yes. Even Edina at times lost heart, and indulged in a good cry in secret.

Matters were not in a much better state at Frank Raynor's. It is true no poverty was there, no privation; but the old happiness that existed between him and his wife had disappeared. Daisy was much changed. The once warm-hearted girl had become cold and silent, and frightfully apathetic. Her husband never received a kindly look from her, or heard a loving tone. She did not complain. She did not reproach him. She did not find fault with any earthly thing. She just went through life in a listless kind of manner, as if all interest had left her for ever. Frank put it down to dissatisfaction at their changed circumstances; to the obscure manner in which they lived. Ever and anon he would try to breathe a word of hope that things would be different sometime: but his wife never responded to it.

Steeped in her miserable jealousy, was Mrs. Frank Raynor. All through this past year had she been silently indulging it. It had become a chronic ailment; it coloured her mind by day and her dreams by night. The most provoking feature of it all was, that she could not obtain any tangible proof of her husband's delinquency, anything very special to make a stir about: and how intensely aggravating that is to a jealous woman, let many confess. That her husband did go to Mrs. Bell's frequently, was indisputable: but then, as a counterbalance to that, there was the fact that he went in his professional capacity. No end of pills and potions were entered in Mrs. Bell's name in the medicine-book, and Daisy was therefore unable to assert that the plea for his visits was a mere pretence. But she believed it was so. Once, chance had given her an opportunity of speaking of these visits. A serious accident happened in the street just opposite their door, through a vicious horse. Daisy watched it from the drawing-room window; saw the injured man brought into the surgery. She ran down in distress. Frank was not at home. The boy flew one way in search of him, Eve ran another: but Frank could not be found, and the poor man had to be carried insensible elsewhere. "I'm very sorry," said Frank, when he returned, speaking rather carelessly; "I was at Mrs. Bell's." "You appear to be pretty often there," retorted Daisy, an angry sound in her usually cold tones. "I go every two or three days," said he. And how much oftener, I wonder! thought Daisy: but she said nothing more.

No, there was no tangible proof of bad behaviour to be brought against him. Not once, during the whole past twelvemonth, had she even seen them abroad together. She did not watch Frank as at first; she had grown ashamed of that, perhaps a little weary; and she had not once been rewarded by the sight of Rosaline. Had that obnoxious individual been a myth, she could not have more completely hidden herself from her neighbours and from Daisy on a week-day. On Sundays Daisy generally saw her at church. The girl would be sitting quietly in her pew wearing a plain black silk gown; still, devout, seeming to notice no one: had she been training for a nun, the world could not have appeared to possess less interest for her. Her black lace veil was never lifted from her face: but it could not hide that face's beauty. As soon as church was over Rosaline seemed to glide away before any one else stirred, and was lost to sight.

In this unsatisfactory manner the seasons had passed, Frank and his wife living in an estranged atmosphere, without any acknowledged cause for the unhappy state of affairs.

On this self-same evening when Edina was on her way to them, the West Indian mail brought a letter to Frank from Mr. Max Brown. That roving individual wrote regularly once a month, all his letters being filled, more or less, with vague promises of return. Vague, because no certain time was ever given. Frank called Eve to light the lamp, and stood by the fire in the little parlour whilst he read his letter. It was a genial autumn, and very few people had taken to fires; but Daisy ever seemed chilly, and liked one lighted at twilight.

"He says he is really coming, Daisy," cried Frank in quick tones as he looked over the letter. "Listen: 'I am now positively thinking of starting for home, and may be with you soon after the beginning of the new year. I know that you have thought my prolonged absence singular, but I will explain all in person. My mother is, I fear, sinking!'"

Mrs. Frank Raynor made no reply of any sort. For days together she would not speak to her husband, unless something he might say absolutely demanded an answer.

"And when Brown comes, we shall have to leave," went on Frank. "You will be glad of it, I am sure."

"I don't care whether we leave or not," was the ungracious retort.

And she really did not seem to care. Life, for her, had lost its sweetness. Nay, she probably would prefer, of the two, to remain where she was. If away, the field would be so free and open for her husband and that obnoxious young woman, Rosaline Bell.

"I shall be at liberty, once Brown is here again to take to his own practice," continued Frank; "and I will try to place you in a more genial atmosphere than this. I know you have felt it keenly, Daisy, and are feeling it still; but I have not been able to help myself."

His tone was considerate and tender; he stooped unexpectedly and kissed her forehead. Daisy made no response: she passively endured the caress, and that was all. The tears sprang to her eyes. Frank did not see them: he carried his letter into the surgery, where very much of his home time was passed.

His thoughts were far away. Would Mr. Blase Pellet tolerate this anticipated removal when it came? Or, would he not rather dodge Frank's footsteps and establish himself where he could still keep him in view? Yes: Frank felt certain that he would. Unconscious though Frank was of his wife's supervision, he felt persuaded in his mind that he was ever subjected to that of Blase Pellet. It was not, in one sense of the word, offensive; for not once in three months did he and Pellet come into contact with each other: but Frank felt always as a man chained--who can go as far as the chain allows him, but no farther. With all his heart he wished that he could better his position for Daisy's sake; had long wished it; but in his sense of danger he had been contented to let things go on as they were, dreading any attempt at change. Over and over again had he felt thankful for the prolonged wanderings of Mr. Max Brown, which afforded him the plea for putting up with his present lot.

Daisy set on with her discontented face. A very pretty face still; prettier, if anything, than of yore; with the clear eyes and their amber light, the delicate bloom on the lovely features, the sunny, luxuriant hair. She often dressed daintily, wishing in her secret heart, in spite of her resentment, to win back her husband's allegiance. This evening she wore a dark blue silk, one of the remnants of better days, with some rich white lace falling at the throat, on which rested a gold locket, attached to a thin chain. Very, very pretty did Edina think her when she arrived, and was brought into the room by Frank.

"You never come to see me now," began Daisy, in fretful tones of complaint. "I might be dead and buried, for all you or any one else would know of it, Edina."

"Ah, no, Margaret, you might not," was Edina's answer. "Not while you have Frank at your side. If you really needed us, he would take care that we should be sent for."

"All the same, every one neglects me," returned Daisy. "I am glad you have thought of me at last."

"I came this evening with a purpose," said Edina: who would not urge in excuse the very little time she had to give to visiting, for Daisy must be quite aware of it. And she forthwith, loosening her bonnet-strings, told Frank of Mr. Street's visit, of its purport, and of their own conjectures at Laurel Cottage after the banker had departed.

"Why, yes, it was I who emptied that ebony desk," said Frank. "A false bottom! I really can't believe it, Edina. Some of us would have found it out."

"We cannot doubt Mr. Street. He knew nothing of it himself, you hear, until Mr. George Atkinson spoke about it."

"But why in the world did not Atkinson speak about it before? When he was last in England these bonds were being hunted for, high and low."

"He says, I tell you, that he forgot all about the desk and its secret compartment. But, Frank, we cannot remedy the omission if we talk of it for ever; what I wanted to ascertain from you is, whether you remember where you left the desk."

"No, that I don't. I remember turning the bills and papers out of it wholesale, and carrying them into the room where Mrs. Raynor was sitting. As to the desk, I suppose it remained upon the table."

"You are sure you emptied it of all the papers?"

"Quite sure," replied Frank. "I turned the desk upside down and shook the papers out, and saw that the desk was quite empty."

"Kate says she saw you do it. But she does not recollect what became of the desk."

"Neither do I. No doubt it was left in the room. I dare say it still remained there when you all came away from the house."

"Well, it cannot be found," concluded Edina. "I think the probability is, that the desk was packed up by the servants and brought away in one of the large boxes, and was lost in the fire. If it had remained at Eagles' Nest, it would no doubt be there still?"

"Then I suppose they will never find the lost money as long as oak and ash grow," observed Frank. "It is a very unsatisfactory thing. George Atkinson ought to have remembered and spoken in time."

He was called away into the surgery, and Edina began to retie her bonnet-strings. Daisy had picked up some crochet-work.

"Why don't you take your bonnet off, Edina, and stay?"

"Because I must go home, dear."

"Not before you have had some supper. Not stay for it! Why can't you stay?"

"I do not like going back so late."

"As if any one would hurt you!"

"I do not fear that. But I am not London bred, you know, Margaret, and cannot quite overcome my dislike to London streets at night."

"Oh, very well. No one cares to be with me now."

Edina looked at her. It was not the first indication by several that Mrs. Frank Raynor had given of a spirit of discontent.

"Will you tell me what is troubling you, Margaret? Something is, I know."

"How do you know?"

"Because I perceive it. I detect it every time I see you."

"It's nothing at all," returned Daisy--who would not have spoken of her jealousy for the world. "That is, nothing that any one could help or hinder."

"My dear," said Edina, bending nearer to her, her sweet voice sounding like music, "that some grievance or other is especially trying you, I think I cannot mistake. But oh, remember one thing, and take comfort. In the very brightest and happiest lot, lurks always some sorrow. Every rose, however lovely, must have its thorn. We ought not, in the true interest of our lives, to wish it otherwise. God sends clouds, Margaret, as well as sunshine. He will guard you whilst trouble lasts, if you only bear patiently and put yourself under His care; and He will bring you out of trouble in His own good time. _Trust to Him_, my dear, for He is a sure refuge."

And when Edina had left, Frank escorting her through the more narrow streets, Daisy burst into tears, and sobbed bitterly. Indulging this jealousy might be very gratifying to her temper; but it had lasted long, and at times she felt ill and weak.

"If God cared for me He would punish that Rosaline Bell," was her comment on Edina's words. "Lay her up with a broken leg, or something."