CHAPTER VIII.

ROSE-COLOURED DREAMS.

The sweet spring sunshine lay upon Trennach, and upon Dr. Raynor's surgery. Francis Raynor stood in it, softly whistling. Two sovereigns lay on the square table, amongst the small scales and the drugs and the bottles, and he was looking down upon them somewhat doubtfully. He wanted to convey this money anonymously to a certain destination, and hardly knew how to accomplish it. Sovereigns were not at all plentiful with Frank; but he would, in his open-heartedness, have given away the last he possessed, and never cast regret after it.

"I know!" he suddenly cried, taking up a sheet of white paper. "I'll pack them up in an envelope, direct it to her, stick a stamp on it, and get Gale the postman to deliver it on his round. Dame Bell is as unsuspicious as the day, and will think the money is sent by Rosaline--as the last was. As to Gale--he is ready to do anything for me and Uncle Hugh: he gets his children doctored for nothing. It's a shame he is so badly paid, poor fellow!"

Several weeks had gone on since the disappearance of Josiah Bell, and it was now close upon May. Bell had never returned: nothing could be heard of him. Mrs. Bell knew not what to make of it: she was a calm-natured, unemotional woman, and she took the loss more easily than some wives might have taken it. Bell was missing: she could make neither more nor less of it than that: he might come back some time, and she believed he _would_ do so: meanwhile she tried to do the best she could without him. In losing him, she had lost the good wages he earned, and they had been the home's chief support. She possessed a very small income of her own, which she received quarterly--and this had enabled them to live in a better way than most of the other miners--but this alone was not sufficient to keep her. A managing, practical woman, Mrs. Bell had at once looked out for some way of helping herself in the dilemma, and found it. She took in two of the unmarried miners as lodgers--one of them being Andrew Float, and she began to knit worsted stockings for sale. "I shall get along somehow till Bell returns," was her cheerful remark to the community.

Rosaline was still at Falmouth--and meant to remain there. She wrote that she was helping her aunt with her millinery business, was already clever at it, and received wages, which she intended to transmit to her mother. The first instalment--it was not much--had already come. Frank Raynor had just called Dame Bell unsuspicious as the day. She was so. But, one curious fact, in spite of the freedom from suspicion, was beginning to strike her: in all the letters written by Rosaline she had never once mentioned her father's name, or inquired whether he was found.

Frank Raynor, elastic Frank, had recovered his spirits. It was perhaps impossible that one of his light and sanguine temperament should long retain the impression left by the dreadful calamity of that fatal March night. Whatever the precise details of the occurrence had been, he had managed outwardly to shake off the weight they had thrown upon him, and in manner was himself again.

Perhaps one thing, that helped him to do this, was his altered opinion as to the amount of knowledge possessed by Blase Pellet. At first he had feared the man; feared what he knew, and what evil he might bring. But, as the days and the weeks had gone on, and Blase Pellet did not speak, or give any hint to Trennach that he had anything in his power to betray, Frank grew to think that he really knew nothing; that though the man might vaguely suspect that something wrong had occurred that night, he was not actually cognizant of it. Therefore Frank Raynor had become in a measure his own light and genial self again. None could more bitterly regret the night's doings than he did: but his elastic temperament could throw off all sign of remorse; ay, and often its recollection.

The thing that troubled him a little was Mrs. Bell's position. It was through him she had been deprived of the chief means which had kept her home; therefore it was only just, as he looked upon it, that he should help her now. Even with the proceeds from the lodgers and the stockings, and with what Rosaline would be enabled to send her, her weekly income would be very much smaller than it had been. Frank wished with his whole heart that he could settle something upon her, or make her a weekly allowance; but he was not rich enough to do that. He would, however, help her a little now and again in secret--as much as he was able--and this was the destination of the two sovereigns. In secret. It would not do to let her or any one else know the money came from him, lest the question might be asked, What claim has she upon you that you should send it to her? To answer that truthfully would be singularly inconvenient.

Trennach in general could of course make no more of the disappearance of Bell than his wife made. It was simply not to be understood. Many and many an hour's discussion took place over it in the pits; or at the Golden Shaft, to the accompaniment of pipes and beer; many a theory was started. The man might be here, or he might be there; he might have strolled this way, or wandered that way--but it all ended as it began: in uncertainty. Bell was missing, and none of them could divine the cause. And the Seven Whistlers, that he heard on the Sunday night or thought he heard, had certainly left no damage behind them for the miners. The men might just as well have been at work those three days for all the accident that had occurred in the mines. Perhaps better.

Seated at the window of what was called the pink drawing-room at The Mount, from the colour of its walls, were Mrs. St. Clare and her daughter Lydia. The large window, shaded by its lace curtains, stood open to the warm bright day. Upon the lawn was Margaret in her white dress, flitting from flower to flower, gay as the early butterflies that sported in the sunshine. Lydia, a peculiar expression on her discontented face, watched her sister's movements.

Frank Raynor had just gone out from his morning visit, carrying with him an invitation to dine with them in the evening. Lydia was really better; she no more wanted the attendance of a doctor than her sister wanted it: but she was devoured by ennui still, and the daily, or almost daily, coming of Frank Raynor was the most welcome episode in her present life. She had learned to look for him: perhaps had learned in a very slight degree to _like_ him: at any rate, his presence was ever welcome. Not that Lydia would have suffered herself to entertain serious thoughts of the young surgeon--because he was a surgeon, and therefore far beneath her notice in that way--but she did recognize the fascination of his companionship, and enjoyed it. Latterly, however, an idea had dawned upon her that some one else enjoyed it also--her sister--and the suspicion was extremely unwelcome. Lydia was of an intensely jealous disposition. She would not for the world have condescended to look upon Frank Raynor as a lover, but her jealousy was rising, now that she suspected Daisy might be doing so, somewhat after the fashion of the dog-in-the-manger. That little chit, Daisy, too, whom she looked upon as a child!--there was some difference, she hoped, between nineteen and her own more experienced age of five-and-twenty! She was fond of Daisy, but had not the least intention of being rivalled by her; and perhaps for the child's own sake, it might be as well to speak.

As Frank went out, he crossed Daisy's path on the lawn. They turned away side by side, walking slowly, talking apparently of the flowers; lingering over them, bending to inhale their perfume. Mrs. St. Clare, a new magazine and a paper-knife in her hand--for she did make a pretence of reading now and then, though it was as much a penance as a pleasure--glanced up indifferently at them once, and then glanced down again at her book. But Lydia, watching more observantly, saw signs and wonders: the earnest gaze of Frank's blue eyes as they looked into Daisy's; the shy droop in hers; and the lingering pressure of the hands in farewell. He went on his way; and Daisy, detecting in that moment her sister's sharp glance from the window, made herself at once very busy with the beds and the flowers, as if they were her only thought in life.

"Mamma!"

The tone was so sharp that Mrs. St. Clare lifted her head in surprise. Lydia's voice was usually as supinely listless as her own.

"What is it, Lydia?"

"Don't you think that Daisy wants a little looking after?"

"In what way?"

"Of course I may be mistaken in my suspicions. But I think I am not. I will assume that I am not."

"Well, Lydia?"

"She and Mr. Raynor are flirting desperately."

Mrs. St. Clare made no reply whatever. Her eyes fixed inquiringly on Lydia's, kept their gaze for a moment or so, and then fell on the magazine pages again. Lydia felt a little astonished: was this indignation or indifference?

"Did you understand me, mamma?"

"Perfectly, my dear."

"Then--I really do not comprehend you. Don't you consider that Daisy ought to be restrained?"

"If I see Daisy doing anything that I very much disapprove, I shall be sure to restrain her."

"Have you not noticed, yourself, that they are flirting?"

"I suppose they are. Something of the sort."

"But _surely_, mamma, you cannot approve of Mr. Raynor! Suppose a serious attachment came of it, you could not suffer her to marry him!"

Mrs. St. Clare turned her book upside down upon her knee, and spoke in the equable manner that characterized her, folding her arms idly in the light morning scarf she wore.

"It never occurred to me, Lydia, until one day, a week or two ago, that any possibility could arise of what you are mentioning. Mr. Raynor's visits here are merely professional. Even when he comes by invitation to dinner, I consider them as partaking of that nature: to look upon them in any other light never entered my mind. On this day, however, I saw something that, figuratively speaking, opened my eyes."

"What was it?" asked Lydia.

"It occurred on the day that the Faulkners were to have come to us, and did not. Mr. Raynor dined here in the evening. After dinner I dropped into a doze; there, on the sofa"--pointing to the other end of the room. "When I awoke it was quite dusk; not dark; and Mr. Raynor and Daisy were standing together at this open window; standing very close indeed to each other. Daisy was leaning against him, in fact; and he, I think, had one of her hands in his. You were not in the room."

"It was the evening I had so bad a headache, through vexation at those stupid people not coming!" cried Lydia, angrily. "I had gone upstairs, I suppose, to take my drops. But what did you do, mamma? Order Mr. Raynor from the house?"

"No. Had I acted on my first impulse, I might have done that, Lydia. But instinct warned me to take time for consideration. I did so. I sat quite still, my head down on the cushion as before, they of course supposing me to be still asleep, and I ran the matter rapidly over in my mind. The decision I came to was, not to speak hastily; not _then_; to take, at any rate, the night for further reflection: so I coughed to let them know I was awake, and said nothing."

"Well?" cried Lydia, impatiently.

"I went over the affair again at night with myself, looking at it from all points of view, weighing its merits and demerits, and trying to balance one against the other," pursued Mrs. St. Clare. "The result I came to was this, Lydia: to let the matter take its course."

Lydia opened her eyes very widely. "What, to let--to let her marry him?"

"Perhaps. But you jump to conclusions too rapidly, Lydia."

"Why, he is only a common medical practitioner!"

"There of course lies the objection. But he is not a 'common' practitioner, Lydia. If he were so, do you suppose I should invite him here as I do, and make much of him? He is a gentleman, and the son of a gentleman. In point of fact," added Mrs. St. Clare, in a lower tone, as if the acknowledgment might only be given in a whisper, "our branch of the St. Clare family is little, if any, better than the Raynors----"

"Mamma, how can you say so?" burst forth Lydia. "It is not true. And the Raynors have always been as poor as church mice."

"And--I was going to say," went on Mrs. St. Clare with equanimity--"he is the heir to Eagles' Nest."

Lydia sat back in her chair, a scowl on her brow. She could not contradict that.

"In most cases of this kind there are advantages and disadvantages," quietly spoke Mrs. St. Clare, "and I tried, as I tell you, to put the one side against the other, and see which was the weightier. On the one hand there is his profession, and his want of connections; on the other, there is Eagles' Nest, and his own personal attractions. You are looking very cross, Lydia. You think, I see, that Daisy might do better."

"Of course she might."

"She might or she might not," spoke Mrs. St. Clare, impressively. "Marriage used to be called a lottery: but it is a lottery that seems to be getting as scarce now as the lotteries that the old governments put down. For one girl who marries, half-a-dozen girls do not marry. Is it, or is it not so, Lydia?"

No response. Mrs. St. Clare resumed.

"And it appears to me, Lydia, that the more eligible girls, those who are most worthy to be chosen and who would make the best wives, are generally those who are left. Have you been chosen yet?--forgive me for speaking plainly. No. Yet you have been _waiting_ to be chosen--just as other girls wait--for these six or seven years. Daisy may wait in the same manner; wait for ever. We must sacrifice some prejudices in these non-marrying days, Lydia, if we are to get our daughters off at all. If an offer comes, though it may be one that in the old times would have been summarily rejected, it is well to _consider_ it in these. And so, you see, my dear, why I am letting matters take their course with regard to Daisy and Mr. Raynor."

"He may mean nothing," debated Lydia.

"Neither of them may mean anything, if it comes to that," said Mrs. St. Clare, relapsing into her idly indifferent manner. "It may be only a little flirtation--your own word just now--on both sides; pour faire passer le temps."

"And if Daisy loses her heart to him, and nothing comes of it? You have called him attractive yourself."

"Highly attractive," composedly assented Mrs. St. Clare. "As to the rest, it would be no very great calamity that I know of. When once a girl has had a little love affair in early life, and has got over it, she is always the more tractable in regard to eligible offers, should they drop in. No, Lydia, all things considered--and I have well considered them--it is the better policy not to interfere. The matter shall be left to take its course."

"Well, I must say, Daisy ought not to be allowed to drift into love with a rubbishing assistant-surgeon."

"She has already drifted into it, unless I am mistaken," said Mrs. St. Clare, significantly; "has been deep in it for some little time past. My eyes were not opened quickly enough; but since they did open, they have been tolerably observant, Lydia. Why--do you suppose I should wink at their being so much together, unless I intended the matter to go on? Don't they stroll out alone by moonlight and twilight, in goodness knows what shady walks of the garden, talking sentiment, looking at the stars, and bending over the same flowers? Twice that has happened, Lydia, since I have been on the watch: how many times it happened before, I can't pretend to say."

Lydia remained silent. It was all true. Where had her own eyes been? Daisy would walk out through the open French window--she remembered it now--and he would stroll out after her: while Mrs. St. Clare would be in her after-dinner doze, and she, Lydia, lying back in her chair with the chest-ache, or upstairs taking her drops. Yes, it was all true. And what an idiot she had been not to see it--not to suspect it!

"We cannot have everything; we must, as I say, make sacrifices," resumed Mrs. St. Clare. "I could have wished that Mr. Raynor was not in the medical profession, especially in its lower branch. Of course at present he can only be regarded as altogether unsuitable for Daisy: but that will be altered when the major comes into Eagles' Nest. Frank will then no doubt quit the profession, and----"

"The singular thing to me is, that he should ever have entered it," interrupted Lydia. "Fancy the heir to Eagles' Nest making himself a working apothecary! It is perfectly incongruous."

"It seems so," said Mrs. St. Clare. "I conclude there must have been some motive for it. Perhaps the major thought it well to give him a profession; and when he had acquired it sent him to this remote place to keep him out of mischief. It will be all right, Lydia, when they come into Eagles' Nest. The major will of course make Frank a suitable allowance as his heir. The major is already getting in years: Frank will soon come into it."

"As to that old Mrs. Atkinson, she must intend to live to a hundred," remarked Lydia, tartly. "How many centuries is it since we saw her in London?--and she was old then. She ought to give up Eagles' Nest to the major and live elsewhere. If it be the beautiful place that people say it is, she might be generous enough to let some one else have a little benefit out of it."

Mrs. St. Clare laughed. "Old people are selfish, Lydia; they prefer their own ease to other people's. I dare say we shall be the same if we live long enough."

From this conversation, it will be gathered that the check thrown upon Frank Raynor's pleasant intercourse with Margaret St. Clare by the unknown calamity (unknown to the world) that had so mysteriously and suddenly happened, had been only transitory. For a week or two afterwards, Frank had paid none but strictly professional visits to The Mount; had been simply courteous to its inmates, Daisy included, as a professional man, and nothing more. He had not danced with Daisy on her birthday; he had not given her any more tender glances, or exchanged a confidential word with her. But, as the first horror of the occurrence began to lose its hold upon his mind, and his temperament recovered its elasticity, his love returned to him. He was more with Daisy than ever; he _sought_ opportunities to be with her now: formerly they had only met in the natural course of things. And so they, he and she, were living in an enchanted dream, whose rose-coloured hues seemed as if they could only have come direct from Eden.

And Frank Raynor, never famous for foresight or forethought at the best of times, fell into the belief that Mrs. St. Clare approved of him as a future aspirant for her daughter's hand and tacitly encouraged their love. That she must see they were intimate with an especial intimacy, and very much together, he knew, and in his sanguine way he drew deductions accordingly. In this he was partly right, as the reader has learnt; but it never entered into his incautious head to suppose that Mrs. St. Clare was counting upon his coming in for future wealth and greatness.

They stood once more together on this same evening, he and Daisy, gazing at the remains of the gorgeous sunset. Dinner over, Daisy had strolled out as usual into the garden; he following her in a minute or two, without excuse or apology. In his assumption of Mrs. St. Clare's tacit encouragement, he believed excuse to be no longer necessary. Clouds of purple and crimson, flecked with gold, crowded the west; lighting up Daisy's face, as they stood side by side leaning on the low iron gate, with a hue as rosy as the dream they were living in.

"I should like to see the sunsets of Italy," observed Margaret. "It is said they are very beautiful."

"So should I," promptly replied Frank. "Perhaps some time we may see them together."

Her face took a brighter tint, though there was nothing in the sky to induce it. He passed his hand along the gate, until it rested on hers.

"Mamma talks of going abroad this summer," whispered Daisy. "I do not know whether it will be to Italy."

"I hope she will not take you with her!"

"It is Lydia's fault. She says this place tires her. And possibly," added Daisy, with a sigh, "when once we get abroad, we shall stay there."

"But, my darling, you know that must not be. I could not spare you. Why, Daisy, how could we live apart?"

Her hand, clasped tenderly, lay in his. Her whole frame thrilled as the hand rested there.

"Shall you always stay on at Trennach?" she questioned in low tones.

"Stay on at Trennach!" he repeated, in surprise. "I! Why, Daisy, I hope to be very, very soon away from it. I came to my uncle two years ago, of my own accord, to gain experience. Nothing teaches experience like the drudgery of a general practice: and I was not one of those self-sufficient young students who set up after hospital work with M.D. on their door-plate, and believe themselves qualified to cure the world. It is kill or cure, haphazard, with some of them."

"And--when you leave Trennach?" she asked, her clear eyes, clear this evening as amber, gazing out, as if she would fain see into the future.

"Oh, it will be all right when I leave Trennach; I shall get along well," returned Frank, in his light, sanguine fashion. "I--I don't care to praise myself, Daisy, but I am clever in my profession; and a clever man must make his way in it. Perhaps I should purchase a share in a West-end practice in town; or perhaps set up on my own account in that desirable quarter."

The bright hope of anticipation lighted Daisy's beautiful eyes. Frank changed his tone to one of the sweetest melody. At least, it sounded so to her ear.

"And with one gentle spirit at my hearth to cheer and guide me, the world will be to me as a long day in Paradise. My best and dearest you know what spirit it is that I covet. Will she say me nay?"

She did not say anything just now; but the trembling fingers, lying in his hand, entwined themselves confidingly within his.

"I know you will get on," she murmured. "You will be great sometime."

"Of course I shall, Daisy. And keep carriages and horses for my darling wife; and the queen will knight me when I have gained name and fame; and--and we shall be happier than the live-long day."

The bright colours in the sky faded by degrees, leaving the grey twilight in their stead. Before them lay the sloping landscape, not a living soul to be seen on it; immediately behind them was the grove of laurels, shutting them out from view. In this favourable isolation, Frank passed his arm around Daisy's waist, and drew her face to his breast.

"Nothing shall ever separate us, Daisy. Nothing in this world."

"Nothing," she murmured, speaking between his passionate kisses. "I will be yours always and for ever."

"And there will be no trouble," remarked he, in sanguine impulse, as they turned reluctantly from the gate to regain the house. "I mean no opposition. I am my own master, Daisy, accountable to none; and your mother has seen our love and sanctions it."

"Oh, do you think she does sanction it?" exclaimed Daisy, drawing a deep breath.

"Why, of course she does," replied Frank, speaking in accordance with his belief. "Would Mrs. St. Clare let us linger out together, evening after evening, if she did not see and sanction it? No, there will be neither trouble nor impediment. Life lies before us, Daisy, fair as a happy valley."

Tea waited on the table when they got in. Mrs. St. Clare was sleeping still; Lydia looked very cross. Frank glanced at his watch, as if doubting whether he could stay longer.

Daisy's pretty hands, the lace meant to shade them falling back, began to busy themselves with the tea-cups. It awoke Mrs. St. Clare. She drew her chair at once to the tea-table. Frank pushed Lydia's light couch towards it.

"We were speaking to-day of Eagles' Nest," observed Mrs. St. Clare--and she really did not introduce the subject with any ulterior view; simply as something to talk about. "It's a very nice place, is it not?"

"Very--by all accounts," replied Frank. "I have not seen it."

"Indeed! Is not that strange?"

"My aunt Atkinson has never invited me there. None of us have been invited, except the major. And he has not been there for several years."

"How is that? Major Raynor is the next heir."

"Well, I scarcely know how it is. He and Mrs. Atkinson are not very good friends. There was some quarrel, I fancy."

"Mrs. Atkinson must be very old."

"About seventy-four, I believe."

"Not more than that! I thought she was ninety at least."

"I was saying to-day," put in Lydia, "that those old people ought to give up their estates to the heir. It is unreasonable to keep Major Raynor so long out of his own."

Frank smiled. "He would be very glad if she did give it up, I dare say; but I don't know about the justice of it. Elderly people, as a rule, cling to their homes. I once knew an old lady who was unexpectedly called upon to give up the home in which she had lived for very many years, and it killed her. Before the day for turning out came, she was dead."

"At any rate, Mr. Raynor, _you_ will not be kept out of it so long when it comes to your turn," remarked Mrs. St. Clare: "for I suppose the major is very nearly as old as Mrs. Atkinson."

Frank's honest blue eyes went straight into those of the speaker with a questioning glance.

"I beg your pardon: kept out of what?"

"Of Eagles' Nest."

His whole face lighted up with amusement at the mistake she was making.

"I shall never come into Eagles' Nest, Mrs. St. Clare."

"Never come into Eagles' Nest! But the major comes into it."

"The major does. But----"

"And you are his eldest son."

Frank laughed outright. Freely and candidly he answered--with never a thought of reserve.

"My dear lady, I am not Major Raynor's son at all. His eldest son is my cousin Charley. It is he who will succeed to Eagles' Nest."

Mrs. St. Clare stared at Frank. "Good Heavens!" she murmured under her breath. "You are not the son of Major Raynor?"

"No, I am his nephew. My father was the clergyman."

"I--I have heard Major Raynor call you his son!" she debated, hardly believing her own ears. "He has called you so to my face."

"He often does call me so," laughed Frank. "I fear--he is--proud of me--dear, fond old uncle!"

"Well, I never was so deceived in all my life!" ejaculated Mrs. St. Clare.