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 MES. HE NET WOOD, 
 
 AUTHOR OF "EAST LYNNE." 
 
 IX THREE VOLUMES. 
 Vol. I. 
 
 LONDON : 
 RICHARD BENTLEY & SOX, -New Burlington Steeet. 
 
 1876. 
 
 [_All rights rrnerved.] 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
 in 2010 with funding from 
 
 University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign 
 
 I * \j 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/edinanovel01wood 
 
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 V 
 
 
 1^ 
 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTEB 
 
 I. Heakd at Midmght 
 
 II. EosALiNE Bell. 
 
 III. On the Bare Plain 
 
 rv. Waiting for Bell . 
 V. Missing 
 
 VI. Dining at the Mount 
 Vn. Edina's Eomance 
 VIII. Rose-Coloured Dreams 
 
 IX. Planning out the Future 
 X. Major and Mrs. Raynor 
 
 XL Scheming 
 
 XII. The Wedding . 
 XIIT. Under the Evening Stars 
 
 PAGE 
 
 1 
 
 25 
 
 52 
 
 73 
 
 97 
 
 121 
 
 137 
 
 150 
 
 175 
 
 197 
 
 , 218 
 
 238 
 
 . 261 
 
 i 
 
PAEI THE FIIIST. 
 
E D I N A- 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 HEARD AT MIDNIGHT. 
 
 rriHE village, in which the first scenes of this 
 -*- history are laid, was called Trennach ; and 
 the land about it was bleak and bare and dreary 
 enough, though situated in the grand old county 
 of Cornwall. For, mines lay around, with all 
 the signs and features of miners' work ; yawn- 
 ing pit mouths, leading down to their rich beds 
 of minerals — some of the mines in all the 
 bustle of full operation, some worked out and 
 abandoned. Again, surrounding these, might 
 be seen miners' huts, and other dwelling-places, 
 and the counting-houses attached to the shafts. 
 The little village of Trennach skirted this tract 
 of labour ; for, while the mining district ex- 
 tended for some miles on the one side of the 
 hamlet ; on the other side, half an hour's 
 gentle walking brought you to a different 
 
 VOL. I. B 
 
2 EDINA. 
 
 looking country altogether — to trees, and pas- 
 ture land, and luxuriant vegetation. 
 
 The village street consisted chiefly of shops. 
 Very humble shops, most of them ; but the 
 miners and the other inhabitants, being out of 
 reach of better, found them good enough. Most 
 of the shops dealt in mixed articles, and might 
 be called general shops rather than special 
 ones. The linendraper, for instance, added 
 brushes and brooms to his cottons and stujffs ; 
 the grocer sold saucepans and gridirons ; the 
 baker did a thriving trade in home-made 
 pickles. On a dark night, the most cheery- 
 looking shop was the druggist's : the four 
 globes, red, green, blue, and amber, displayed 
 in its windows, sending forth their colours on 
 the faces of the passers-by, and tingeing the 
 jHiddles in the road. This shop had also added 
 another branch of trade to its legitimate one — 
 that of general literature : for the one sole 
 resident doctor of the place dispensed his own 
 medicines, and the sale of the chemist's drugs 
 was not great. The shop boasted of a small 
 circulating library ; or as it was called there, a 
 book-lending club : the miners and the miners' 
 wives were, like their betters, fond of sensational 
 fiction. The books consisted entirely of cheap 
 
EDINA. 8 
 
 volumes, priced at a shilling or two shillings 
 each ; some indeed at sixj)ence. The pro- 
 prietor of this mart, Edmund Float, chemist 
 and druggist, was almost a chronic invalid, 
 and would often be laid up for a week together. 
 The doctor told him that if he would give less 
 of his time to that noted hostelrie, the Golden 
 Shaft, he might escape these attacks of sickness. 
 During their continuance the business of the 
 shop, both as to its drugs and books, was 
 transacted by a young man, a native of Fal- 
 mouth ; one Blase Pellet, who had served his 
 apprenticeship in it and remained on as assist- 
 ant. 
 
 The doctor's name was Kaynor. He wrote 
 himself Hugh Eaynor, M.D., being a member 
 of the Royal College of Physicians. That he, 
 a man of fair ability in his profession and a 
 gentleman as well, should be content to live in 
 this obscure place, exercising the drudgery of a 
 general practitioner and apothecary, may seem 
 a matter of marvel — but his history shall be 
 given further on. His house stood in the 
 middle of the village, somewhat back from the 
 street-line : a low, square, detached house, with 
 a bow window on each side its entrance, and 
 three windows above. On the door, which 
 
4 EDINA. 
 
 always stood oj^en in the day-time, was a brass 
 plate announcing liis name, ** Dr. Eaynor." 
 The bow window to its left was shaded within 
 by a brown wire blind, bearing the word 
 " Sui'gery " in large white letters. The blind 
 reached about half-way up the window, and Dr. 
 Raynor's white head, or the young head of his 
 handsome nej)hew, might on occasion be seen 
 over it by the foot passengers, or by Mr. Blase 
 Pellet across the way. For the Doctor's house 
 and the druggist's shop faced each other ; and 
 Mr. Pellet, being of an inquisitive disposition, 
 seemed never to tire of peeping and peering 
 into his neighbours' doings generally, and espe- 
 cially into any that might take place at Dr. 
 Raynor's. At either end of this rather 
 straggling street were seated respectively the 
 parish church and the Wesleyan meeting-house. 
 The latter was the best attended ; for most of 
 the miners followed their fathers' faith — that 
 of Wesleyan Methodist. 
 
 It was Monday morning, and a cold clear 
 day in March. The wind came sweeping down 
 the wide street ; the dust whirled in the air ; 
 overhead, the sun was shining brightly. Dr. 
 Raynor stood by the fire in his surgery — the 
 fire-place being opposite the door — looking over 
 
EDINA. O 
 
 his day-book, in which a summary of the cases 
 under present treatment was entered. He was 
 dressed in black. A tall, grand-looking, elderly 
 man, very quiet in manner, with a pale, placid 
 face, and carefully-trimmed thin white whiskers 
 shading his cheeks. It was eight o'clock, and 
 he had just come into the surgery: his nephew 
 had been in it half an hour. Never was there 
 a more active man in his work than Dr. Eay- 
 nor had been ; up early, and to bed late ; but 
 latterly his energy had strangely failed him. 
 
 " Has any message come in this morning 
 from Pollock's wife, Frank?" he asked. 
 
 '' No, sir." 
 
 " Then I sujopose she's better," remarked 
 the Doctor, closing the book as he spoke, and 
 moving towards the window. 
 
 A square table stood at the end of the room, 
 facing the window. Behind it was Frank 
 Kaynor, making up mixtures, the ingredients 
 for which he took from some of the various 
 bottles that were ranged in rows upon the 
 shelves behind him. He was a slender, gen- 
 tlemanly young fellow of four-and-twenty, 
 rather above the middle height, and wore this 
 morning a suit of grey clothes. The thought 
 that passed through a stranger's mind on first 
 
EDINA. 
 
 seeing Frank Eaynor was, How good-looking he 
 is ! It was not, however, so much in physical 
 beauty that the good looks consisted, as in the 
 bright expression pervading his well-featured 
 face, and the sunny gladness in his laughing 
 blue eyes. The face lacked one thing — firm- 
 ness. In the delicate mouth, very sweet and 
 pleasant in form though it was, might be traced 
 his want of stability. He could not say No to 
 a petition, let it be what it might : he might be 
 swayed as easily as the wind. Most lovable 
 was Frank Eaynor ; but he would be almost 
 sure to be his own enemy as he went through 
 life. You could not help liking him ; everybody 
 did that — with the exception of Mr. Blase 
 Pellet across the road. Frank's hair was of a 
 golden brown, curling slightly, and worn rather 
 long. His face, like his uncle's, was close- 
 shaved, save for the whiskers, which were of 
 the same colour as the hair. 
 
 '^ What a number of men are standing 
 about ! " exclaimed Dr. Eaynor, looking over 
 the blind. " More even than usual on a Mon- 
 day morning. One might think none of them 
 were at work." 
 
 " None of them are at work," replied Frank. 
 ** As I hear." 
 
EDINA. 7 
 
 *'No! what's that for?" 
 
 Frank's lips parted with a smile. An ex- 
 ceedingly amused look sat in his blue eyes as 
 he answered. 
 
 '' Through some superstition, I fancy, Uncle 
 Hugh. They say the Seven Whistlers were 
 heard in the night." 
 
 Dr. Raynor turned quickly to face his nephew. 
 " The Seven Whistlers ! " he repeated. '' Why, 
 who says that ? " 
 
 '' Ross told me. He came in for some 
 laudanum for his neuralgia. As there is to be 
 no work done to-day, the overseer thought he 
 might as well lie up and doctor himself. A 
 rare passion he is in." 
 
 " Can't he get the men to work ? " 
 
 " Not one of them. Threats and promises 
 alike fail. There's safe to be an accident if 
 they go down to-day, say the men ; and they 
 won't risk it. Bell had better not come in 
 Ross's way while his present temper lasts," 
 added Frank, with a broader smile, as he began 
 to screw a cork into a bottle. '' I think Ross 
 would knock him down." 
 
 '' Why Bell in particular ? " 
 
 " Because it is Bell who professes to have 
 heard the Whistlers." 
 
8 EDINA. 
 
 " And none of the others ? " cried the 
 Doctor. 
 
 " I fancy not. Uncle Hugh, what is the 
 superstition?" added Frank. ''What does it 
 mean ? I don't understand : and Ross, when 
 I asked him, went into an explosive fit, instead 
 of answcrin.c^ me. Is it something especially 
 ridiculous ? " 
 
 Dr. Eaynor briefly replied. This supersti- 
 tion of the Seven Whistlers arose from certain 
 sounds heard in the air. They were supposed 
 by the miners, when heard — which was very 
 rare, indeed, in this neighbourhood — to bode ill 
 luck. Accident, death, all kinds of calamity, 
 in fact, might be looked for, according to the 
 popular superstition, by those who had the 
 misfortune to hear the sounds. 
 
 Frank Raynor listened to the Doctor's short 
 exj^lanation, a glow of amusement on his face. 
 It sounded to him like a bit of absurd fun. 
 
 " You don't believe in any such nonsense, 
 surely. Uncle Hugh ! " 
 
 Dr. Raynor had returned to the fire, and 
 was gazing straight out before him ; some 
 speculation, or perhaps remembrance, or it 
 may be doubt, in his grey eyes. 
 
 " All my experience in regard to the Seven 
 
EDIXA. y 
 
 Whistlers is this, Frank — and you may make 
 the most of it. Many years ago, when I was 
 staying amid the collieries in North Warwick- 
 shire, there arose one morning a commotion. 
 The men did not want to go down the pits 
 that day, alleging as a reason that the Seven 
 Whistlers had passed over the place during the 
 night, and had been heard by many of them. 
 I naturally inquired what the Seven Whistlers 
 might mean, never having heard tell of them, 
 and received in reply the same explanation I 
 have now given you. But workmen were not 
 quite so independent in those days, Frank, as 
 they are in these ; and the men were forced to 
 go down the pits as usual." 
 
 *' And what came of it ? " asked Frank. 
 
 *' Of the going down ? This. An accident 
 took place in the jDit that same morning — 
 through fire-damp, I think ; and many of them 
 never came up alive." 
 
 " How dreadful ! But that could not have 
 been the fault of the Seven Whistlers ? " 
 debated Frank. 
 
 "My second and only other experience was 
 here at Trennach," continued Dr. Eaynor, 
 passing over Frank's comment. " About six 
 years ago some of the miners professed to 
 
10 EDINA. 
 
 have heard these sounds. That same day, 
 as they were descending one of the shafts 
 after dinner, an accident occurred to the ma- 
 chinery " 
 
 "And did damage," interrupted Frank, with 
 growing interest. 
 
 *' Yes. Three of the men were precipitated 
 to the hottom of the mine, and killed ; and 
 several others were injured more or less, some 
 badly. I attended them. You ask me if I put 
 faith in the superstition, Frank. No : I do 
 not. But these experiences that I have told 
 you are facts." 
 
 A pause. Frank was recontinuing his work. 
 " Are the sounds all fancy, Uncle Hugh ? " 
 '* Oh no. The sounds are real." 
 *^ What do they proceed from ? What causes 
 them ? " 
 
 ''It is said that they proceed from certain 
 night-birds," replied Dr. Eaynor. " These 
 flocks of birds, in their nocturnal passage 
 across the country, make plaintive, wailing 
 sounds ; and when the sounds are heard, they 
 are superstitiously supposed to predict evil to 
 the hearers. Ignorant men are credulous. That 
 is all about it, Frank." 
 
EDINA. 11 
 
 *'Did yon ever bear the sounds yourself, 
 Uncle Hugh ? " 
 
 '' Never. This is only the third occasion 
 that I have been in any place at the time they 
 have been heard — or said to have been heard — 
 and I have not myself been one of the hearers. 
 — There's Bell! " added Dr. Eaynor, perceiving 
 a man leave the chemist's oj^posite and cross 
 the street in the direction of his house : for the 
 wire blind did not obstruct the view outwards, 
 though it did that inwards. '' He seems to be 
 coming here." 
 
 "And Float the miner's following him," 
 observed Frank. 
 
 Two men came in through the Doctor's open 
 front door, and thence to the surgery. The 
 one was a little, middle-aged man who carried a 
 stout stick in his hand, and walked somewhat 
 lame ; his countenance was not very pleasing 
 at the best of times, and just now it had a grey 
 tinge on it that was rather remarkable. This 
 was Josiah Bell. The one who followed him in 
 was a tall, burly man, with a i)leasant face ; his 
 cheeks were as fresh as a farm labourer's, his 
 voice was soft, and his manner meek and 
 retiring. The little man's voice was, on the 
 contrary, loud and self-asserting. Bell was 
 
12 EDINA. 
 
 given to quarrel with everyone who would 
 quarrel with him ; hardly a day passed but he, 
 to use his own words, " had it out " with some- 
 body. Andrew Float had never quarrelled in 
 his life ; not even with his quarrelsome friend 
 Bell ; but was one of the most peaceable and 
 easy-natured of men. Though only a com- 
 mon miner, he was brother to the chemist, 
 and also brother to John Float, landlord of 
 the Golden Shaft. The three brothers were 
 usually distinguished in the j^lace as Float 
 the druggist, Float the miner, and Float the 
 publican. 
 
 *' I've brought Float over to ask you just to 
 look at this arm of his, Doctor, if you'll be so 
 good," began Bell. " It strikes me his brother 
 is not doing what's right by it." 
 
 There was a refinement in the man's accent, 
 a readiness of speech, an independence of tone, 
 not at all in keeping with what might be expected 
 from one of a gang of miners. The fact was, 
 Josiah Bell had originally held a far better 
 IDOsition. He had begun life as a superior 
 clerk in the office of some large colliery works 
 in Stafi'ordshire ; but, partly owing to unsteady 
 habits, partly to an accident which had for 
 many months laid him low and lamed him for 
 
EDINA. 13 
 
 life, he had sunk down in the world to be what 
 he now was — a labourer in a Cornish mine. 
 
 ''What, won't the burn heal?" observed 
 Dr. Eaynor. "Let me see it, Float." 
 
 ''If ye'd please to be so kind, sir," replied 
 the big man, with deprecation, as he took off 
 his coat and prepared to display his arm. It 
 had' been badly burned some time before ; and 
 it seemed to get worse instead of better, in spite 
 of the doctoring of his brother the chemist, 
 and of Mr. Blase Pellet between whiles. 
 
 " I have asked you more than once to let me 
 look to your arm, you know, Float," remarked 
 Mr. Frank Eaynor. 
 
 " But I didn't like to trouble ye. Master 
 Eaynor, ye see. I thought Xed and his salves 
 could do for 't, sir." 
 
 " And so you men are not at work to-day. 
 Bell! " began the Doctor, as he examined the 
 arm. " What's this absurd story I hear about 
 the Seven Whistlers?" 
 
 Bell's aspect changed at the question. The 
 grey pallor on his face seemed to become gi'eyer. 
 It was a greyness that attracted Dr. Eaynor' s 
 attention: he had never seen it in the man's 
 face before. 
 
 " They passed over Trennach at midnight," 
 
14 EDINA. 
 
 said Bell, in low tones, from which every bit of 
 independence had gone out. " I heard them 
 myself." 
 
 *' And who else heard them ? " 
 
 *' I don't know. Nobody — that I can as yet 
 find out. The men were all indoors, they say, 
 long before midnight. The Golden Shaft shuts 
 at ten on a Sunday night." 
 
 " You stayed out later ? " 
 
 " I came on to Float the druggist's when the 
 public-house shut, and smoked a pipe with him 
 and Pellet, and sat there, talking. It was in 
 going home that I heard the Whistlers." 
 
 " You may have been mistaken — in thinking 
 you heard them." 
 
 ** No," dissented Bell. '' It was just in the 
 middle of the Bare Plain. I was stei^ping 
 along quietly " 
 
 " And soberly ? " interposed Frank, with a 
 twinkling of the eye, and in a tone that might 
 be taken for either jest or earnest. 
 
 " And soberly," asserted Bell, resentfully. 
 *' As sober as you are now, Mr. Frank Kaynor. 
 I was stepping along quietly, I say, when the 
 church clock began to strike. I stood still to 
 count, not believing it could be twelve — I didn't 
 seem to have stayed all that while at the drug- 
 
EDINA. 15 
 
 gist's. It was twelve, however, and I was still 
 standing stock still after the sound of the last 
 stroke had died awa}^ wondering how the time 
 could have passed, for I had not thought it 
 much past eleven, when those other sounds 
 broke out high in the air above me. Seven of 
 them : I counted them as I had counted the 
 clock. The saddest sound of a wailing cry I've 
 ever heard — save once before. It seemed to 
 freeze me up." 
 
 " Did you hear more ?" asked Dr. Eaynor. 
 
 *' No. And the last two sounds of the seven 
 were so faint, I should not have heard them but 
 that I was listening. The cries had broken out 
 right above where I was standing : they seemed 
 to go gradually away to a distance." 
 
 "I say that you may have been mistaken, 
 Bell," persisted Dr. Eaynor. "The sounds 
 you heard may not have been the Seven 
 Whistlers." 
 
 Bell shook his head. His manner and voice 
 this morning were more subdued than usual. 
 *' I can't be mistaken in them. No man can 
 be who has once heard them. Dr. Piaynor." 
 
 "Is it the hearing of them that has turned 
 your face so grey ? " questioned Frank, alluding 
 to the peculiar pallor noticed by his uncle ; 
 
16 EDINA. 
 
 but which the elder and more experienced man 
 had refrained from remarking upon. 
 
 " I didn't know it was grey," rejoined Bell, 
 his resentful tone cropping up again. 
 
 "It's as grey as this powder," persisted 
 Frank, holding forth a delectable compound of 
 ashen-hued stuff he was preparing for some 
 unfortunate patient's palate. 
 
 " And so, on the strength of this night ad- 
 venture of yours. Bell — or rather of your ears 
 — all you men are making holiday to-day ! " 
 resumed the Doctor. 
 
 But Bell, who seemed not to approve of 
 Frank's personal remarks on his complexion, 
 possibly taking them to be made only in ridi- 
 cule — though he might have known Frank 
 Eaynor better — stood in dudgeon, his back 
 against the counter, and vouchsafed no reply. 
 Andrew Float took up the word in his humble, 
 hesitating fashion. 
 
 " There ain't one of us. Dr. Eaynor, sir, that 
 would venture down to-day after this. When 
 Bell come up to the pit this morning, w^here us 
 men was collecting to go down, and said the 
 Seven Whistlers had passed over last night at 
 midnight, it took us all aback. Not one of us 
 would hazard it after that. Boss, he stormed 
 
EDINA. 17 
 
 and he raged, but he couldn't force us 
 down." 
 
 " And the Golden Shaft will get the benefit 
 of you instead ! " said the Doctor. 
 
 " Our lives are dear to us all, sir," was 
 the dejn-ecating rej^ly of Float, not attempting 
 to confute the arf^jument. "And I thank ve 
 kindly, sir, for it feels more comfortable like. 
 They bui'ns be nasty things." 
 
 " They are apt to be so when not properly 
 attended to. Your brother should not have let 
 it get into this state." 
 
 " Well, you see. Dr. Eaynor, sir, some days 
 he have been bad abed, and I didn't trouble 
 him with it then ; and young Pellet, he don't 
 seem to know much about they bad places." 
 
 '' You should have brought it to me. Bell, 
 how is your wife to-day ? " 
 
 " Pretty much as usual," said surly Bell. 
 '• If she's worse, it's through the Seven Whist- 
 lers. She don't like to hear tell of them." 
 
 '' Why did you tell her ? " 
 
 Josiah Bell lifted his cold light eyes in a 
 sort of wonder. " Could I keep such a thing 
 as that to myself. Dr. Ptaynor ? It comes as a 
 warning of evil, and must be guarded against. 
 That is, as far as we can guard against it." 
 
 VOL. I. c 
 
18 EDINA. 
 
 *' Has the sickness returned ? " 
 
 '' For the matter of that, she's always feeling 
 sick. I should just give her some good strong 
 doses of mustard-and-water to make her sick in 
 earnest, were I you. Doctor, and then perhaps 
 the feeling would go off." 
 
 *' Ah," remarked the Doctor, a faint smile 
 parting his lips, " we are all apt to think 
 we know other peoj)le's business best, Bell. 
 Float," added he, as the two men were about 
 to leave, '' don't you go in for a bout of 
 drinking to-day ; it would do your arm no 
 good." 
 
 " Thank ye, sir ; I'll take care to be 
 mod'rate," replied Float, backing out. 'Til 
 remember this," touching the bandage. 
 
 " The Golden Shaft will have much of his 
 company to-day, in spite of your warning, sir ; 
 and of Bell's too," observed Frank, as the 
 surgery door closed on the men. " How grey 
 and queer Bell's face looks ! Did you notice 
 it. Uncle Hugh?" 
 
 ''Yes." 
 
 *' He looks just like a man who has had a 
 shock. The Seven Whistlers gave it him, I 
 suppose. I could not have believed Bell was 
 so silly." 
 
EDINA. 19 
 
 *'I hojDe it is only the shock that has done 
 it," said the Doctor. 
 
 " Done what, Uncle Hugh ? " 
 
 *' Turned his face that peculiar colour." 
 And Frank looked u-p to his uncle as if scarcely 
 understanding. But Dr. Kaynor said no more. 
 
 At that moment the door again opened, and 
 a young lady glanced in. Seeing no stranger 
 present, she came forward. 
 
 " Papa ! do you know how late it is getting ? 
 Breakfast has heen waiting ever so long." 
 
 The voice was very sweet and gentle ; a patient 
 kind of voice, that somehow imparted the idea 
 that its owner had known sorrow. She was 
 the Doctor's only child : and to call her a 
 young lady may be regarded as a figure of 
 speech, for she was past thirty. A calm, 
 sensible, gentle girl she had ever been, of great 
 practical good sense. Her pale face was rather 
 plain than handsome : but it was a face 
 pleasant to look upon, with its expression of 
 sincere earnestness, and its steadfast, truthful 
 dark eyes. Her dark brown hair, smooth and 
 bright, was simply braided in front and plaited 
 behind on the well-shaped head. She was of 
 middle height, light and graceful ; and she 
 wore this morning a violet merino dress, with 
 
20 EDINl. 
 
 embroidered cuffs and collar of her own work. 
 Such was Edina Eaynor. 
 
 "You may pour out the coffee, my dear," said 
 her father. '' We are coming now." 
 
 Edina disappeared, and the Doctor followed 
 her. Frank stayed a minute or two longer to 
 make an end of his physic. He then adjusted 
 his coat-cuffs, which had been turned up, pulled 
 his wristbands lower, and also passed out of 
 the surgery. The sun was shining into the 
 passage through the open entrance door ; and 
 Frank, as if he would sun himself for an 
 instant in its beams, or else washing to get a 
 more comprehensive view of the street, and of 
 the miners loitering about it, stepped outside. 
 The men had collected chiefly in groups, and 
 were talking idly, shoulders slouching, hands 
 in pockets ; some were smoking. A little to 
 the left, as Frank stood, on the other side of 
 the way, was that much-frequented hostelrie, the 
 Golden Shaft : it was evidently the great point 
 of attraction to-day. 
 
 Mr. Blase Pellet chanced to be standing at 
 his shop door, rubbing his hands on his white 
 apron. He was an awkward-looking, under- 
 sized, unfortunately-plain man, with very red- 
 brown eyes, and rough reddish hair that stood 
 
EDINA. 21 
 
 up in bristles. When he saw Frank, he backed 
 into the shop, went behind the counter, and 
 peeped out at him between two of the glass 
 globes. 
 
 '' I wonder what he's come out to look at 
 now ? " debated Mr. Blase with himself. '' She 
 can't be in the street ! AYhat a proud wretch 
 he looks this morning ! — with his sleek curls 
 shining, and that ring upon his finger ! " 
 
 '' Twenty of them, at least, in front of it, 
 ready to go in!" mentally spoke Frank, his 
 eyes fixed on the miners standing about the 
 Golden Shaft. " And some of them will never 
 come out all day." 
 
 A sudden cry arose, close to Frank. Some 
 little child, in a nightcap and coloured pina- 
 fore, had overbalanced itself and fallen in the 
 road. Frank went to the rescue. 
 
 " Here we go up ! " cried he, in his loving, 
 cheery voice, as he raised the little one, gave 
 it a kiss and a halfj)enny, and sent it on its 
 way to Mrs. Stone's sweet-stuff mart, rejoicing. 
 That was exactly Frank Eaynor : he had many 
 faults, no doubt, but he was full of loving- 
 kindness to old and young, rich and poor. 
 
 Frank went in to breakfast. The meal was 
 laid in a small back parlour, behind the best 
 
22 EDINA. 
 
 sitting-room, whicli was on the opposite side of 
 the passage to the surgeiy, and faced the street. 
 This back room looked down on a square 
 yard, and thence to the bare open country : to 
 the mines and to the miners' dwelling-places. 
 They lay to the right, as you looked out. To 
 the left stretched out a barren tract of land, 
 called the Bare Plain — perhaps from its dreary 
 aspect — which we shall come to by-and-by. 
 
 Edina sat at the breakfast-table, her back to 
 the window ; Dr. Eaynor was in the seat oppo- 
 site to her. Frank took his usual i)lace between 
 them, facing the cheerful fire. 
 
 " If your coffee's cold, Frank, it is your own 
 fault," said Edina, handing him his cujo. " I 
 poured it out as soon as papa came in." 
 
 *' All right, Edina : it is sure to be warm 
 enough for me,'' was the answer, as he took it 
 and thanked her. He was the least selfish, the 
 least self-indulgent mortal in the world ; the 
 most easily satisfied. Give Frank Eaynor the 
 poorest of fare, and he would never have mur- 
 mured. 
 
 '* AYhat a pity it is about the men!" ex- 
 claimed Edina to Frank : for this report of the 
 Seven A\niistlers had become generally known, 
 and the Doctor's maid-servant had imparted the 
 
EDINA. 
 
 23 
 
 news to Miss Eaynor. *' They will make it an 
 excuse for two or three days' drinking." 
 
 " As a matter of course," replied Frank. 
 
 " It seems altogether so ridiculous. I have 
 been saying to papa that I thought Josiah Bell 
 had better sense. He may have taken more 
 than was good for him last night ; and fancied 
 he heard the sounds." 
 
 '' Oh, I think he heard them," said the 
 Doctor. " Bell rarely drinks enough to obscure 
 his faculties. And he is certainly not fanci- 
 ful." 
 
 " But now, Uncle Hugh," put in Frank, 
 *' you cannot seriously think that there's any- 
 thing in it ! " 
 
 *' Anything in what ?" 
 
 " In this superstition. Of course one can 
 readily understand that a flock of birds may 
 fly over a place by night, as well as by day ; 
 and that they may emit sounds and cries on 
 the way. But that these cries should forebode 
 evil to those who may hear them, is not to be 
 comprehended, or believed." 
 
 Dr. Eaynor nodded. He was languidly eat- 
 ing an egg. For some time past, appetite had 
 failed him. 
 
 " I say, Uncle Hugh, that you cannot believe 
 
24 EDINA. 
 
 in such a farce. The incidents you gave just 
 now were hut accidental coincidences." 
 
 '' Frank," returned the Doctor, in his quiet 
 tone, that latterly had seemed to tell of pain, 
 *' I have already said so. But when you shall 
 have lived to my age, experience will have 
 taught you that there are some things in this 
 world that cannot he fathomed. We must he 
 content to leave them. I told you that I did 
 not myself jDut faith in this popular helief of 
 the miners : hut I related to you at the same 
 time my own experiences in regard to it. I 
 don't judge : hut I cannot explain." 
 
 Frank turned a laughing look on his cousin. 
 " Suppose we go out on the Bare Plain to-night 
 and listen for the Seven Whistlers ourselves ; 
 you and I, Edina ? " 
 
 ''A watched pot never boils," said Edina, 
 quaintly, quoting a homely proverb. " The 
 Whistlers would be sure not to come, Frank, if 
 we listened for them." 
 
25 
 
 CHAP TEE II. 
 
 ROeALINE BELL. 
 
 Tj^ EAXK EAYXOR had been a qualified medical 
 -■- man for some few years : he was skilful, 
 kind, attentive, and possessed in an eminent 
 degree that cheering manner which is so valu- 
 able in a general jDractitioner. Consequently 
 he was much liked by the Doctor's patients, 
 especially by those of the better class, living at 
 a distance ; so that Dr. Eaynor had no scruple 
 in frequently making Frank his substitute in 
 the daily visits. Frank alone suspected — and 
 it was only a half suspicion as yet — that his 
 uncle was beginning to feel himself unequal to 
 the exertion of paying them. 
 
 It was getting towards mid-day, and Frank 
 had seen all the sick at present on their hands 
 near home, when he started on his walk to see 
 one or two further off. Calling at home first 
 of all, however, to give Dr. Eaynor a report of 
 his visits, and to change his grey coat for a 
 black one. Every inch of a gentleman looked 
 
2G EDINA. 
 
 Frank, as he left the honse again, turned to 
 the right, and went down the street with long 
 strides. He was followed by the envious eyes 
 of Mr. Blase Pellet : who, in the very midst of 
 weighing out some pounded ginger for a cus- 
 tomer, darted round the counter to watch him. 
 
 '' He is off there, for a guinea ! " growled 
 Mr. Pellet, as he lost sight of Frank and turned 
 back to the ginger. " What possesses Mother 
 Bell, I wonder, to go and fancy herself ill and 
 in need of a doctor ! " 
 
 The houses and the church, which stood at 
 that end of Trennach, were soon left behind ; 
 and Frank Piaynor was on the large tract of 
 land which was called the Bare Plain. The 
 first break he came to in its monotonous bleak- 
 ness was a worked-out pit, or mine, on the left 
 hand. This old pit was encompassed about by 
 mounds of earth of different heights, where 
 children would play at hide-and-seek during the 
 daylight ; but not one of them ever approached 
 close to the mouth of the shaft. Not only was 
 it dangerous in itself, being entirely unpro- 
 tected ; and children, as a rule, are given to 
 run into danger instead of avoiding it ; but 
 the place had an evil reputation. Some short 
 while back, a miner had committed suicide 
 
EDINA. 27 
 
 there : one Daniel Sandon : bad deliberately 
 jumped in to destroy bimself. Since tben, the 
 miners and their families, who were for the 
 most part very superstitious and very ignorant, 
 held a belief that the man's ghost haunted the 
 interior of the pit — that on a still night, any- 
 one listening down the shaft, might hear his 
 sighs and groans. This caused it to be 
 shunned : hardly a miner would venture close 
 to it alone after dark. There was nothing to 
 take them near it, for it lay some little distance 
 away from the broad j)ath that led through the 
 middle of the Plain. The depth of the pit had 
 given rise to its a23pellation, "The Bottomless 
 Shaft : ' ' and jDOor Daniel Sandon must have 
 died before he reached the end. For anyone, 
 falling into it, there could be no hope : escape 
 from death would have been an impossi- 
 bility. 
 
 Frank Eaynor passed it without so much as 
 a thought. Continuing his way, he came by- 
 and-by to a cluster of miners' dwellings, called 
 Bleak Eow, that lay away on the Plain to the 
 right. Not many : the miners chiefly lived on 
 the other side the village, near the mines. Out 
 of one of the most commodious of these houses, 
 there chanced to come a girl, just as he was 
 
2 8 EDINA. 
 
 approaching it ; and they met face to face. It 
 was Eosaline Bell. 
 
 Never a more beautiful girl in the world 
 than she. Two-and-twenty years of age now 
 was she, rather tall, with a light and graceful 
 form, as easy in her movements, as refined in 
 her actions as though she had been born a 
 gentlewoman, with a sweet, low voice and a 
 face of delicate loveliness. Her features were 
 of almost a perfect Grecian type ; her delicate 
 complexion was fresh as a summer rose, and 
 her deep violet eyes sparkled through their 
 long dark lashes. Eyes that, in spite of their 
 brightness, had an expression of fixed sadness 
 in them : and that sad expression of eye is 
 said, 3^ou know, never to exist but where its 
 owner is destined to sorrow. Poor Rosaline ! 
 Sorrow was on its way to her quickly, even 
 now. Her dress was of some dark kind of 
 stuff, neatly made and worn ; her bonnet was 
 of white straw ; the pink bow at her throat 
 rivalled in colour the rose of her cheek. 
 
 Far deeper in hue did those cheeks become 
 as she recognised Frank Eaynor. "With a 
 hasty movement, as if all too conscious of her 
 blushes and what they might imj^ly, she raised 
 her hand to cover them, making pretence to 
 
EDIXA. 29 
 
 push gently back her dark and beautiful hair. 
 Nature had indeed been prodigal in her gifts 
 to Eosaline Bell. Eosaline had been brought 
 up well ; had received a fairly good education, 
 and profited by it. 
 
 " How do you do, Eose ?" cried Frank, in 
 his gay voice, stopping before her. " Where 
 are you going ? " 
 
 She let her lifted hand fall. The rich bloom 
 on her face, the shy, answering glance of 
 her lustrous eyes, were charming to behold. 
 Frank Raynor admired beauty wherever he 
 saw it, and he very especially admired that of 
 Rosaline. 
 
 " I am going in to find my father ; to induce 
 him to come back with me," she said. " My 
 mother is anxious about him : and anxiety is 
 not good for her, you know, Mr. Frank." 
 
 *' Anxiety is very bad for her," returned 
 Frank. " Is she worse to-day ? " 
 
 " Not worse, sir ; only worried. Father 
 heard the Seven Whistlers last night ; and 
 I think that is rather disturbing her." 
 
 Frank Raynor broke into a laugh. " It 
 amuses me beyond ever^ihing, Rose — those 
 Whistlers. I never heard of them in all my 
 life until this morninp;." 
 
30 EDINA. 
 
 Eosaline smiled in answer — a sad smile. 
 " My father believes in tliem firmly," she 
 said; ''and mother is anxious because he is. 
 I must go on now, sir, or I shall not get back 
 by dinner-time." 
 
 Taking one of her hands, he waved it to- 
 wards the village, as if he would speed her 
 onwards, said his gay good-bye, and lifted the 
 latch of the house door. The door opened to 
 the kitchen : a clean and, so to say, rather 
 tasty apartment, with a red-tiled floor on which 
 the fire threw its glow, and a strip of carpet by 
 way of hearth-rug. A mahogany dresser was 
 fixed to the wall on one side, plates and dishes 
 of the old willow pattern were ranged on its 
 shelves ; an eight-day clock in its mahogany 
 case ticked beside the fire-place, which faced 
 the door. The window was gay with flowers. 
 Blooming hyacinths in their blue glasses stood 
 on its frame half-way up : on the ledge be- 
 neath were red pots containing other plants. 
 It was easy to be seen that this was not the 
 abode of a common miner. 
 
 Seated in an arm-chair near the round table, 
 which was covered with a red-and-grey cloth, 
 her feet on the strip of carpet, her back to the 
 window, was Mrs. Bell, who had latterly be- 
 
EDINA. 31 
 
 come an invalid. She was rubbing some dried 
 mint into po^Yder. By this, and the savoury 
 smell, Frank Eaynor guessed they were going 
 to have pea-soup for dinner. But all the signs 
 of dinner to be seen were three plates warming 
 on the fender, and an iron pot steaming away 
 by the side of the fire. 
 
 " And now, mother, how are you to-day?" 
 asked Frank, in his warm-hearted and genuine 
 tone of sympathy, that so won his patients' 
 regard. 
 
 He drew a chair towards her and sat down 
 as he spoke. The word ''mother" came from 
 him naturally. Two years before, just after 
 Frank came to Trennach, he was taken ill with 
 a fever ; and Mrs. Bell helped Edina to nurse 
 him through it. He took a great liking to 
 the quaint, well-meaning, and rather superior 
 woman, who was so deft with her fingers, and 
 ready with her tongue ; he would often then, 
 partly in jest, call her "mother; " he called 
 her so still. 
 
 Mrs. Bell was seven-and-forty now, and very 
 stout ; her short grey curls lay flat under her 
 mob cap ; her bright complexion must once 
 have been as delicately beautiful as her 
 daughter's. She put the basin of mint on the 
 
32 EDINA. 
 
 table, and smoothed down her clean white 
 apron. 
 
 " I'm no great things to-day, Master Frank. 
 Sometimes now, sir, I get to think that I never 
 shall be again." 
 
 " Just as I thought in that fever of mine," 
 said Frank, inirposely making light of her 
 words. " Why, my good woman, by this day 
 twelvemonth you'll be as strong and well as I 
 am. Only take heart and patience. Yours is 
 a case, j^ou know, that cannot be dealt with in 
 a day : it requires time." 
 
 Into the further conversation we need not 
 enter. It related to her ailments. Not a 
 word was said by either of them about that 
 disturbing element, the Seven "Whistlers : and 
 Frank went out again, wishing her a good 
 appetite for the pea-soup. 
 
 Putting his best foot foremost, he sped 
 along, fleet as the wind. The Bare Plain gave 
 place to pasture land, trees, and flowers. A 
 quarter of an hour brought him to the Mount 
 — a moderate-sized mansion, standing in the 
 midst of its own grounds, the residence of the 
 St. Clares. By the sudden death of the late 
 owner, who had not reached the meridian of life, 
 it had fallen most unexpectedly to a distant 
 
EDINA. 33 
 
 cousin : a young lieutenant serving with his 
 regiment in India. In his absence, his mother 
 had given up her house at Bath, and taken 
 possession of it ; she and her two daughters. 
 They had come quite strangers to the place 
 about two months ago. Mrs. St. Clare — it 
 should be mentioned that they chose their 
 name to be pronounced according to its full 
 spelling. Saint Clare — had four children. The 
 eldest, Charlotte, was with her husband. Captain 
 Townley, in India; Lydia was the second; the 
 lieutenant and present owner of the Mount 
 came next ; and lastly Margaret, who was 
 several years younger than the rest, and in- 
 dulged accordingly. Mrs. St. Clare was ex- 
 tremely fond of society ; and considered that 
 at this place, the Mount, she was no better 
 than buried alive. 
 
 The great entrance gates stood on the oppo- 
 site side ; Frank Eaynor never went round to 
 them, unless he was on horseback : when on 
 foot, he entered, as now, by the little postern 
 gate that was nearly hidden by clustering 
 shrubs. A minute's walk through the narrow 
 path between these shrubs, and he was met by 
 Margaret St. Clare : or, as they generally 
 called her at home, Daisy. It very frequently 
 
 VOL. I. D 
 
34 EDINA. 
 
 happened that she did meet him : and, in 
 truth, the meetings were becoming rather pre- 
 cious to both of them, very especially so to her. 
 During these two months' residence of the St. 
 Clares at the Mount, Mr. Raynor and Margaret 
 had seen a good deal of each other. Lydia was 
 an invalid — or fancied herself one — and the 
 Raynors had been in attendance from the first, 
 paying a visit to the Mount about every other 
 day. The Doctor went himself now and then, 
 but it was generally Frank. 
 
 And Mrs. St. Clare was quite contented that 
 it should be Frank. In this dead-alive spot, 
 Frank Raynor, with his good looks, his sunny 
 presence, his attractive manners, seemed like a 
 godsend. She chanced to know that he was a 
 gentleman b}' descent, she had met members of 
 his family before : Major Raynor ; and, once, 
 old Mrs. Atkinson, of Eagles' Nest. She did 
 not know much about them, and in her proud 
 heart she secretly looked down upon Frank : 
 as she would have looked upon any other 
 general practitioner in the medical profession. 
 But she liked Frank himself, and she greatly 
 liked his society, and asked him to dinner 
 pretty often, en famille. The few visitable 
 people who lived within reach did not constitute 
 
EDINA. 35 
 
 a large party ; but Mrs. St. Clare got them 
 together occasionally, and made the best of 
 them. 
 
 Margaret St. Clare would be nineteen years 
 old to-morrow. A slight-made, light, pretty 
 girl, putting one somehow in mind of a fairy. 
 Her small feet seemed scarcely to touch the 
 ground as she walked, her small arms and 
 hands, her delicate throat and neck, were all 
 perfectly formed. The face was a fair, piquant e 
 face, quiet and rather grave when in repose. 
 Her eyes were of that remarkable shade that 
 some people call light hazel and others amber : 
 and in truth they did on occasion look as clear 
 and bright as amber. 
 
 She was fond of dress. Mrs. St. Clare's 
 daughters were all fond of it. Margaret's 
 gown this morning was of fine, light blue 
 texture, that fell in soft folds around her, 
 some narrow white lace at the throat. A thin 
 gold chain, holding a locket, was round her 
 neck. Her hat, its blue ribbons streaming, 
 hung on her arm ; her auburn hair was some- 
 what ruffled by the breeze. 
 
 As she came forward to meet Frank, her 
 whole face was lighted up with smiles of plea- 
 sure ; its blushes were nearly as deep as those 
 
36 EDINA. 
 
 that had lighted Rosaline Bell's, not half an 
 hour hefore. 
 
 Frank took both her hands within his in 
 silence. His heart was beating at the sight 
 of her : and silence in these brief moments is 
 the best eloquence. Rapidly indeed was he 
 arriving at that blissful state, described by 
 Lord Byron in a word or two, " For him there 
 was but one beloved face on earth." Ay, and 
 arriving also, was he, at its consciousness. 
 Even now it was " shining on him." 
 
 She was the first to break the silence. 
 "You are late, Mr. Eaj^nor. Lydia has been 
 all impatience." 
 
 '' I am a little late. Miss Margaret. There 
 is always plenty to do on a Monday morning." 
 
 Lydia St. Clare might be impatient, but 
 neither of them seemed impatient to hurry in 
 to her. The windows of the house could not 
 be seen from hence ; clustering evergreens 
 grew high and thick between, a very wilder- 
 ness. In fact, the grounds generally were 
 little better than a wilderness ; the late owner 
 was an absentee, and the j^hice had been 
 neglected. But it seemed beautiful as an 
 Eden to these two, strolling along side by side, 
 and lingering here, lingering there, on this 
 
EDINA. 37 
 
 bright day. The bhie sky was ahnost cloud- 
 less ; the sun gilded the budding trees ; the 
 birds sang as they hopped from branch to 
 branch, building their nests : early flo^Yers 
 were coming up ; all things spoke of the sweet 
 spring time. The sweet spring time that is 
 renewed year by year in nature when bleak 
 winter dies ; but which comes to the heart 
 but once. It was reigning in the hearts of 
 those two iiappy strollers ; and it was in its 
 very earliest dawn, when it is freshest and 
 sweetest. 
 
 " Oh, see," said Margaret, stooping ; " a 
 beautiful double-daisy, pink-fringed ! It has 
 only come out to-day. Is it not very early for 
 them?" 
 
 He took the little flower from her unresist- 
 ing hand as she held it out to him. " Will 
 you give it me, Daisy?" he asked, in a low, 
 tender tone, his eyes meeting hers with a 
 meaning. 
 
 Her eyes fell beneath his, her fingers trem- 
 bled as she resigned the blossom. He had 
 never called her by that pet name before : 
 only once or twice had he said Margaret 
 without the formal prefix. 
 
 "It is not worth your having — worth any- 
 
38 EDINA. 
 
 one's liaving," she stammered. " It is only a 
 daisy." 
 
 *• Only a daisy ! The daisy shall he my 
 favourite flower of all flowers from henceforth." 
 
 " Indeed I think you must go in to Lydia." 
 
 *' I am going in. There's a sweep of wind ! 
 You will catch cold without your hat." 
 
 "I never catch cold, Mr. Eaynor. I never 
 have anything the matter with me." 
 
 " Could you give me a pin ? " 
 
 " A pin ! Yes " — taking it out of her 
 waisthand. ^'Here's one. What is it for ? " 
 
 He put the daisy into his button-hole, so 
 that its pink-and-white head just peeped out, 
 and fastened it inside with the pin. Margaret 
 protested hotly. 
 
 '' Oh, don't ; please don't ! Mamma will 
 laugh at you, Mr. Eaynor. Such a stupid 
 little flower!" 
 
 *' Not stupid to me," he answered. " As 
 to laughing, Mrs. St. Clare can laugh at it as 
 much as she pleases : and at me too." 
 
 The house was gained at last. Crossing 
 the flagged entrance hall, they entered a very 
 pretty light morning-room, its curtains and 
 furniture of a pale green, bordered with gold. 
 Mrs. St. Clare, a large, fair woman with a 
 
EDINA. 39 
 
 Eomau nose, lay back in an easy-chair, a 
 beautifully worked screen, attached to the 
 white marble mantel-piece, shading her face 
 from the fii'e. Her gown was black and white : 
 grey and black riblions composed her head- 
 dress. She looked half dead with ennui : 
 those large women are often incorrigibly idle 
 and listless : she never took up a needle, she 
 never cared to turn the pages of a book. She 
 was indolent by nature, and she had grown 
 entirely so during her life in India before the 
 death of her husband. Colonel St. Clare. 
 
 But her face lighted up to something like 
 animation when Mr. Raynor entered and went 
 forward. Margaret fell into the background. 
 After shaking hands with Mrs. St. Clare, he 
 turned to the opposite side of the fire-place ; 
 where, in another easy-chair, enveloped in a 
 pink morning-wrapper, sat the invalid, Lydia. 
 
 She was a tall, fair, Roman-nosed young 
 woman too, promising to be in time as large 
 as her mother. As idle she was already. 
 Dr. Raynor said all she wante'd was to exert 
 herself : to walk and run, and take an interest 
 in the bustling concerns of daily life as other 
 girls did ; she need talk no more of nervous- 
 ness and chest-ache then. 
 
40 EDINA. 
 
 Frank felt her pulse, and looked at her 
 tongue, and iuquired how she had slept ; with 
 all the rest of the usual questioning routine. 
 Lydia answered fretfully, and hegan complain- 
 ing of the dulness of her life. It was this 
 wretched Cornish mining country that was 
 making her worse : she felt sure of it. 
 
 " And that silly child, Dais}', declared this 
 morning that it was the sweetest place she 
 ever was in ! " added Miss St. Clare, in wither- 
 ing contempt, meant for Daisy. " She said she 
 should like existence, as it is just at present, to 
 last for ever ! " 
 
 Frank Eaynor caught a glimj)se of a j)ainfully- 
 blushing face in the distance, and something 
 like a smile crossed his own. He took a small 
 phial, containing a tonic, from his pocket, 
 which he had brought with him, and handed it 
 to the invalid. 
 
 '' You will drive out to-day as usual, of 
 course ? " said he. 
 
 *' Oh, I suppose so," was Miss St. Clare's 
 careless answer. " I don't know how we should 
 get over the hours between luncheon and dinner 
 without the drive. Not that I care for it." 
 
 *' Talking of dinner," interposed Mrs. St. 
 Clare, '' I want you to dine with us to-day, Mr. 
 
EDINA. 41 
 
 Eaynor. Is that a daisy in your coat ? "What 
 an absurd ornament ! '' 
 
 " Yes, it is a daisy," replied Frank, looking 
 down on it. " Thank you very much for your 
 invitation. I will come if I can." 
 
 " I cannot allow you to say If." 
 
 Frank smiled, and gave a twist to the 
 lavender glove in his hand. He liked to be a 
 bit of a dandy when he called at the Mount. As 
 to dining there — in truth he desired nothing 
 better. But he was never quite sure what he 
 could do until the hour came. 
 
 " A doctor's time is not his own, you know, 
 Mrs. St. Clare." 
 
 " You must really give yours to us this 
 evening. Our dinners are insufferably dull 
 when we sit down alone." 
 
 So Frank Eaynor gave the promise — and he 
 meant to keep it if possible. Ah, that he had 
 not kept it ! that he had stayed at home ! But 
 for that unfortunate evening's visit to the 
 Mount, and its consequences, a great deal of 
 this history would not have been Avritten. 
 
 The day went on. Nothing occurred to pre- 
 vent Frank's fultilling his engagement. The 
 dinner hour at the Mount was seven o'clock. 
 
42 EDINA. 
 
 It was growing dusk when Frank, a light coat 
 thrown over his evening dress, started for his 
 sharp walk to it, but not yet dark enough to 
 obscure objects. Frank meant to get over the 
 ground in twenty minutes : and, really, his 
 long legs and active frame were capable of any 
 feat in the matter of speed. That would give 
 him ten minutes before dinner for a chat with 
 Daisy : Mrs. and Miss St. Clare rarely entered 
 the drawing-room until the last moment. 
 
 " Going off to dine again with that proud 
 lot at the Mount ! " enviously remarked Mr. 
 Pellet, as he noted Frank's attire from his 
 usual post of observation, the threshold of the 
 chemist's door. " It's fine to be him ! " 
 
 " Blase," called out his master from within, 
 " where have you put that new lot of camomile 
 blows ? " 
 
 Mr. Blase was turning leisurely to respond, 
 when his quick red-brown eyes caught sight of 
 something exceedingly disagreeable to them : a 
 meeting between Frank and Eosaline Bell. She 
 had come into the village apparently from 
 home : and she and Frank were now halting 
 to talk together. Mr. Blase felt terribly un- 
 comfortable, well-nigh splitting with wrath and 
 envy. 
 
EDINA. 
 
 43 
 
 He would have given his ears to hear what 
 they were saying. Frank was laughing and 
 chattering in that usually gay manner of his, 
 that most people found so attractive ; she was 
 listening, her pretty lips parted with a smile. 
 Even at this distance, and in spite of the fading 
 light, Mr. Blase, aided by intuition, could see 
 her sh}', half-conscious look, and the rose-blush 
 on her cheeks. 
 
 And Frank stayed there, talking and laugh- 
 ing with her as though time and the Mount 
 were nothing to him. He thought no harm, 
 he meant no wrong. Frank Eaynor never 
 7neant harm to living mortal. If he had but 
 been as cautious as he was well-intentioned ! 
 
 "Blase ! " reiterated old Edmund Float, "I 
 want to find they new camomile blows, just 
 come in. Don't you hear me ? What have 
 you done with them ? " 
 
 Mr. Blase was utterly impervious to the 
 words. They had parted now : Frank was 
 swinging on again ; Eosaline was coming this 
 way. Blase went strolling across the street to 
 meet her : but she, as if purposely to avoid 
 him, suddenly turned down an opening between 
 the houses, and was lost to sight, and to Blase 
 Pellet. 
 
44 EDINA. 
 
 " I wonder if she cut down there to avoid 
 me ? " thought he, standing still, in mortifica- 
 tion. And there was a very angry look on his 
 face as he crossed back again from his fruitless 
 errand. 
 
 Daisy was not alone in the drawing-room 
 this evening when Frank arrived. Whether 
 his gossip with Kosaline had been too long, or 
 whether he had not put on as much speed in 
 walking as usual, it was just a minute past 
 seven when Frank reached the Mount. All 
 the ladies were assembled : Lydia and Daisy in 
 blue silk ; Mrs. St. Clare in black satin. Their 
 kinsman had been dead six months, and the 
 young ladies had just put off mourning for 
 him ; but Mrs. St. Clare wore hers still. 
 
 Daisy looked radiant ; at any rate, in Frank's 
 eyes : a very fairy. The white lace on her 
 low body and sleeves was hardly whiter than 
 her fair neck and arms : one white rose nestled 
 in her hair. 
 
 *' Dinner is served, madam." 
 
 Frank offered his arm to Mrs. St. Clare : 
 the two young ladies followed. It was a large 
 and very handsome dining-room : the table, 
 with its white cloth, and its glass and silver 
 glittering under the waxlights, looked almost 
 
EDINA. 45 
 
 lost in it. Lydia faced lier mother ; Frank 
 and Daisy were opposite each other. He 
 looked well in evening dress : worthy to be 
 a prince, thought Daisy. 
 
 The conversation turned mostly on the fes- 
 tivities of the follo^Ying evening. Mrs. St. 
 Clare was to give a dance in honour of her 
 youngest daughter's birthday. It would not 
 be a large party at the best ; the neighbour- 
 hood did not afford that ; but some guests 
 from a distance were to sleej) in the house, 
 and remain for a day or two. 
 
 " Will you give me the first dance, Daisy?" 
 Frank seized an opportunity of whisj)ering to 
 her, as they were all returning to the drawing- 
 room together. 
 
 Daisy shook her head, and blushed again. 
 Blushed at the familiar word " Daisy," which 
 he had not presumed to use until that day. 
 But it had never sounded so sweet to her from 
 other lips. 
 
 " I may not," she answered. " Mamma 
 has decided that my first dance must be with 
 some old guy of a Cornish baronet — Sir Paul 
 Trellasis. — Oh, going, do you say ! Why ? 
 It is not yet nine o'clock." 
 
 "I am obliged to go," he answered: "1 
 
46 EDINA. 
 
 promised Dr. Raynor. I have to see a country 
 patient for him to-night." 
 
 Making his apologies to Mrs. St. Clare for 
 his early departure, and stating the reason, 
 Frank left the house. It was a cold and very 
 light night : the skies clear, the moon intensely 
 bright. Frank went on with his best step. 
 When about half-way across the Bare Plain 
 he met Rosaline Bell. The church clock was 
 striking nine. 
 
 '' Why, Rose ! Have you been all this time 
 at Granny Sandon's ? " 
 
 ''Yes; all the time," she answered. *' I 
 stayed to help her into bed. Poor granny's 
 rheumatism is very bad : she can scarcely do 
 anything for herself." 
 
 *' Is her rheumatism bad again ? I must 
 call and see her. A cold night, is it not ? " 
 
 '' I am nearly perished," she said. " I 
 forgot to take a shawl with me." 
 
 But Rosaline did not look perished. The 
 meeting had called up warmth and colouring 
 to her face, so inexpressibly beautiful in the 
 full, bright moonbeams. A beauty that might 
 have stirred a heart less susceptible than was 
 Frank's. 
 
 " Perished, are you!" he cried. "Let us 
 
EDINA. 47 
 
 take a dance together, Eose." And, seizing 
 her hy the two hands, he danced about with 
 her on the path, in very lightness of spirit. 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Eaynor, pray don't ! I must be 
 going home, indeed, sir. Mother will think 
 I am lost." 
 
 " There ! Are you warm now? I must go, 
 also. Just a good-night kiss, Eose." 
 
 And before she could resist — if, indeed, she 
 had meant to resist — Frank Eaynor snatched 
 a kiss from the lovely face, released her hands, 
 and went swiftly away over the Bare Plain. 
 
 There was not much harm in this : and 
 most assuredly Frank intended none. That 
 has been already said. He was apt to act 
 without thought ; to do mad things upon im- 
 pulse. He admired Eosaline's beauty amaz- 
 ingly, and he liked to talk and laugh with her. 
 He might not have chosen to steal a kiss from 
 her in the face and eyes of Trennach : but 
 what harm could there be in doing it when 
 they were alone in the moonlight ? 
 
 And if the moon had been the sole spectator, 
 no harm would have come of it. Unfortunately 
 a pair of human eyes had been looking on as 
 well : and the very worst eyes, taken in that 
 sense, that could have looked — Mr. Blase 
 
48 EDIXA. 
 
 Pellet's. After shutting up the shop that 
 night, ill luck had j^^^t it into Mr. Pellet's 
 head to take a walk over to Mrs. Bell's. He 
 "went in the hope of seeing Ptosaline : in ^vliich 
 he was disappointed : and was now on his way 
 home again. 
 
 Rosaline stood gazing after Frank Piaj^nor. 
 No one but herself knew how dear he was to 
 her ; no one ever would know. The momentary 
 kiss seemed still to tremble on her lips ; her 
 heart beat wildly. Wrapt in this ecstatic 
 confusion, it was not to be wondered at that 
 she neither saw nor heard the advance of Mr. 
 Pellet ; or that Frank, absorbed in her and in 
 the dance, had previously been equally unob- 
 servant. 
 
 With a sigh, Eosaline at length turned, and 
 found herself face to face with the intruder. 
 He had halted close to her, and was standing 
 quite still. 
 
 " Blase ! " she exclaimed, with a faint 
 scream. " How you startled me ! " 
 
 " Where have you been?" asked Blase in a 
 sullen tone. "Your mother says you've been 
 out for I don't know how many hours." 
 
 "I've been nowhere but to Granny Sandon's. 
 Good-night to you, Blase : it is late." 
 
EDINA. 49 
 
 "A little too late for honest girls," returned 
 Blase, putting himself in her way. '' Have 
 3'ou been stopping out with him?'' pointing 
 to the fast-disappearing figure of Frank Ray- 
 nor. 
 
 " I met Mr. Eaynor here, where we are 
 standing ; and was talking with him for about 
 a minute." 
 
 " It seems to me you are always meeting 
 him," growled Blase, suppressing mention of 
 the dance he had seen, and the kiss that 
 succeeded it. 
 
 *' Do you want to quarrel with me. Blase ? 
 It seems so by your tone." 
 
 " You met him at dusk this evening as you 
 were going to old Sandon's — if you were going 
 there ; and you meet him now in returning," 
 continued Blase. " It's done on purpose." 
 
 " If I did meet him each time, it was by 
 accident. Do you suppose I put myself in the 
 way of meeting Mr. Piaynor." 
 
 "Yes, I do. Come! " 
 
 " You shall not say these things to me, 
 Blase. Just because you chance to be a 
 fifteenth cousin of my mother's, you think that 
 gives you a right to lecture me." 
 
 " You are always out and about somewhere," 
 
 VOL. I. E 
 
50 EDINA. 
 
 contended Blase. " What on earth d'ye want 
 at that old Sandon's for ever ? " 
 
 " She is so sad and lonely, Blase," was the 
 pleading answer, given in a sweet tone of 
 pity. " Think of her sorrow ! Poor Granny 
 Sandon ! " 
 
 ''What do you call her 'Granny' for?" 
 demanded Blase, who was in a fault-finding 
 mood. " She's no granny of yours, Eosaline." 
 Rosaline laughed slightly. *' Indeed, I don't 
 know why we call her ' Granny,' Blase. Every- 
 body does. — Let me pass." 
 
 " Everybody doesn't. No : you are not 
 going to pass yet. I intend to have it out 
 with you about the way you favour that fool, 
 Raynor. Meeting him at all hours of the day 
 and night." 
 
 Rosalie's anger was aroused. In her heart 
 she disliked Blase Pellet. He had given her 
 trouble for some time past in trying to force 
 his attentions upon her. It seemed to her 
 that half the work of her life consisted in de- 
 vising contrivances to repress and avoid him. 
 
 " How dare you speak to me in this manner. 
 Blase Pellet ? You have not the right to do it, 
 and you never will have." 
 
 *' You'd rather listen to the false palaver of 
 
EDIN'A. 51 
 
 that stuck-ui) gentleman, Eaynor, than you 
 ^oulcl to the words of an honest man like me." 
 
 *' Blase Pellet, hear me once for all," vehe- 
 mently retorted the girl. " Whatever Mr. 
 Eaynor may say to me, it is nothing to you ; it 
 never will be anything to you. If you speak 
 in this v;si\ of him again, I shall tell him of it.'' 
 
 She eluded the outstretched arm, ran swiftly 
 by, and gained her home. Blase Pellet, stand- 
 ing to watch, saw the light within as she 
 opened the door and entered. 
 
 "Is it nothing to me!" he repeated, in a 
 chap-fallen tone. " You'll find that out before 
 we are a day older, Miss Piosaline. I'll stop 
 your fun with that proud fellow, Eaynor." 
 
 •LIBRARY 
 
 UNIV6RSITY OF ILLINOIS 
 
CHAPTER JII. 
 
 ON THE BARE PLAIN. 
 
 " In vain I look from height and tower, 
 No wished-for form I see ; 
 In vain I seek the woodbine bower — 
 He comes no more to me." 
 
 SO sang Eosaline Bell in the beams of the 
 morning sun. They came glinting through 
 the hyacinths in the window, and fell on the 
 cups and saucers. Rosaline stood at the 
 kitchen table, washing up the breakfast things. 
 She wore a light print gown, with a white linen 
 collar fastened by a small silver brooch. 
 
 An expression of intense happiness sat on 
 her beautiful face. This old song, that she 
 was singing to herself in a sweet undertone, 
 was one that her mother used to sing to her 
 when she was a child. The words came from 
 the girl half unconsciously ; for, while she sang, 
 she was living over again in thought the past 
 night's meeting with Frank Rajaior on the 
 Bare Plain. 
 
EDINA. 53 
 
 ''Rosie!" 
 
 The fond name, called out in her mother's 
 voice, interrupted her. Putting down the 
 saucer, then being di'ied, she advanced to the 
 staircase door, which opened fi'om the kitchen, 
 and stood there, tea-cloth in hand. 
 
 " Yes, mother ! Did you want me ? " 
 
 " Has your father gone out, Eose ? 
 
 *' Yes. He said he should not be long." 
 
 ''Oh, no, I daresay not I" crossly responded 
 Mrs. Bell ; her tone plainly implying that she 
 put no faith whatever in any such promise. 
 '' They'll make a day of it again, as they did 
 yesterday. Bring me up a drop of warm water 
 in half an hour. Rose, and I'll get up." 
 
 '' Very well, mother." 
 
 Rose returned to her tea-cups, and resumed 
 her song; resumed it in very gladness of heart. 
 Ah, could she but have known what this day 
 was destined to bring forth for her before it 
 should finally close, she had sunk down in all 
 the blankness of despair ! But there was no 
 foreshadowing of it on her spirit. 
 
 " 'Twas at the dawn of a summer morn 
 My false love hied away ; 
 O'er his shoulder liun^ the huntefd horn, 
 And his looks were blithe and gay. 
 
54 EDINA. 
 
 " ' Ere the evening dew-drops fall, my love,' 
 He thus to me did say, 
 * I'll be at the garden gate, my Icve " — 
 And gaily he rode away." 
 
 Another interruption. Somebody tried the 
 door — of which Rosaline had a habit of slipping 
 the bolt — and then knocked sharply. Eosaline 
 opened it. A rough-looking woman, miserably 
 attired, stood there : an inhabitant of one of 
 the poorest dwellings in this quarter. 
 
 *' I wants to know," cried this woman, in a 
 voice as rough as her words, and with a pro- 
 nunciation that needs translation for the un- 
 initiated reader, " whether they vools o' men 
 be at work to-day." 
 
 "I think not," replied Eosaline. 
 
 " There's that man o' mine gone off again to 
 tha Golden Shaaft, and he'll make hisself bad, 
 and come hoam as he did yesternight ! What 
 tha plague does your father go and fill all they 
 vools up weth lies about they Whistlers for ? 
 Now then ! that's what I'd like to know. If 
 Bell had heered they Whistlers, others 'ud hev 
 heered they." 
 
 " I can't tell you anything at all about it, 
 Mrs. Janes," returned Eosaline, civilly but 
 very distantly ; for she knew this class of 
 people to be immeasurably her inferiors, and 
 
EDINA. 5 
 
 held them at arm's length. " You can ask 
 my father about it yourself; he'll be here by- 
 and-by. I can't let you in now; mother's just 
 as poorly as ever to-day, and she cannot bear 
 a noise." 
 
 Closing the door as she spoke, and slipping 
 the bolt of it, lest rude Molly Janes should 
 choose to enter by force, Eosaline took up her 
 
 song again. 
 
 " I watched from the topmost, topmost height. 
 Till the snn's bright beams were o'er, 
 And the pale moon shed her vestal light — 
 But my lover returned no more." 
 
 "Whether the men were still incited by a 
 dread of the supposed ill-luck that the Seven 
 Whistlers had warned them of, and were really 
 afraid to descend into the mines, or whether 
 they only seized on that i)retext to make a 
 second day's holiday, certain it was, that not 
 a single man of them had gone to work. Eoss, 
 the overseer, reiterated his threats of condign 
 punishment again and again ; and reiterated in 
 vain. 
 
 As a general rule, there exists not a more 
 sober race of men than that of the Cornish 
 miners ; and the miners in question had once 
 been no exception to the rule. But some few 
 
56 EDINA. 
 
 years before this, on the occasion of a prolonged 
 dispute between masters and men, many fresh 
 workmen had been imported from distant parts 
 of England, and these had brought their habits 
 of drinking with them. The Cornish men 
 caught it up in a degree : but it was only on 
 occasions like the present that they indulged in 
 it to any extent, and therefore, when they did, 
 it was the more noticeable. 
 
 Mr. John Float at the Golden Shaft was do- 
 ing a great stroke of business these idle days. 
 As many men as could find a seat in his hos- 
 pitable house took possession of it. Amongst 
 them w^as Josiah Bell. Few persons had ever 
 seen Bell absolutely intoxicated ; but he now 
 and then took enough to render him more 
 sullen than usual ; and at such times he was 
 sure to be quarrelsome. 
 
 Turning out of the Golden Shaft on this 
 second day between twelve and one o'clock, 
 Bell went along the street towards his home, 
 together with some more men who lived in that 
 direction. Dr. Eaynor chanced to be standing 
 on the pavement outside his house, and accosted 
 Bell. The other men walked on. 
 
 " Not at work yet, Bell ! " 
 
 " Not at work 3'et," responded Bell, echoing 
 
EDINA. 57 
 
 the words as doggedly as he dared, and standing 
 still to face the Doctor while he said it. 
 
 *' How long do you mean to let this fancy 
 ahout the Seven Whistlers hinder you "? When 
 is it to end?" 
 
 Bell's eyes went out straight before him with 
 a speculative look, as if trying to foresee what 
 and where the end would he, and his tone and 
 manner lost their fierceness. This fancy in 
 regard to the Seven Whistlers — as the Doctor 
 styled it — had evidently taken a serious, nay, a 
 solemn hold U2)on him. Whether the other 
 men anticipated ill-fortune from it, or no, it 
 was most indisputable that Bell did. 
 
 *' I don't know, su%" he said, quite humbly. 
 " I should like to see the end." 
 
 "Are you feeling well, Bell?" continued 
 Dr. Eaynor, in a tone of sympathy — for the 
 strange gi*ey pallor was on the man's face still. 
 
 " I'm well enough, Doctor. Why shouldn't 
 I be?" 
 
 " You don't look well." 
 
 Bell shifted his stout stick fi'om one hand to 
 the other. " The AVhistlers gave me a turn, I 
 suppose," he said. 
 
 " Nonsense, man I You should not be so 
 superstitious." 
 
58 EDINA. 
 
 *' Look here, Dr. Eaynor," was the reply — 
 and the tone was lowered to something that 
 sounded very like fear. " You know of that 
 bad hurt I got in the pit in Staffordshire — 
 which lamed me for good ? Well, the night 
 previous to it I heard the Seven Whistlers. 
 They warned me of ill-luck then ; and now 
 they've warned me again, and I know it will 
 come. I'll not go down the mine till three 
 days have passed. The other men may do as 
 they like." 
 
 He walked on with the last words. Mr. 
 Blase Pellet, who had been looking on at the 
 passing interview from over the way, gazed idly 
 after Bell until he had turned the corner and 
 was out of sight. All in a moment, as though 
 some recollection came suddenly to him. Blase 
 tore off his white apron, darted in for his hat, 
 and ran a-fter Bell ; coming up with him just 
 beyond the parsonage. 
 
 What Mr. Blase Pellet communicated to him, 
 to put Bell's temper up as it did, and what 
 particular language he used, was best known 
 to himself. If the young man had any con- 
 science, one would think that a weight of 
 remorse, for what that communication led to, 
 must lie on it to his dying day. Its substance 
 
EDINA. 59 
 
 was connected with Eosaline and Frank Eaynor. 
 He was telling tales of them, giving his own 
 colouring to what he said, and representing the 
 latter gentleman and matters in general in a 
 very unfavourable light indeed. 
 
 ''If he dares to molest her again, I'll knock 
 his head off," threatened Bell to himself and 
 the Bare Plain, as he parted with Pellet, and 
 made his way across it, muttering and brand- 
 ishing his stick. The other men had disap- 
 peared, each within his home. Bell was about 
 to enter his, when Mrs. Molly Janes came out 
 of her one room, her hair hanging, her gown in 
 tatters, her voice shrill. She placed herself 
 before Bell. 
 
 '' I've been asking about my man. They 
 tells me he es in a-drinking at the Golden 
 Shaaft. I'll twist lies ears for him when he 
 comes out on't ! And now I'm a-going to have 
 it out with you about they Whistlers ! Ef 
 the " 
 
 Mrs. Janes' s eloquence was summarily cut 
 short. With a sharpish push of the hand, 
 Josiah Bell thrust her out of his way, strode 
 on to his own door, and shut it against her. 
 
 Piosaline was alone, laying the cloth for 
 dinner. Bell, excited by drink, abused his 
 
60 EDINA. 
 
 daughter roundly, accusing her of " lightness " 
 and all kinds of unorthodox things. Eosaline 
 stared at him in simple astonishment. 
 
 " Why, father, what can you he thinking of?" 
 she exclaimed. " Who has heen putting this 
 into your head ? " 
 
 "Blase Pellet," answered Bell, scorning to 
 equivocate. " And I'd a mind to knock him 
 down for his pains — whether it's true or whether 
 it's not." 
 
 "True! — that I could he guilty of light 
 conduct!" returned Piosaline. "Father, I 
 thought you knew me better. As to Mr. Eaynor, 
 I don't believe he is capable of an unworthy 
 thought. He would rather do good in the 
 world than evil." 
 
 And her tone was so truthful, her demeanour 
 so consciously dignified, that Bell felt his ill 
 thoughts melt away as if by magic; and he 
 wished he liad knocked Mr. Pellet down. 
 
 The day went on to evening, and tea was 
 being partaken of at Dr. Kaynor's. Five 
 o'clock was the usual hour for the meal*, and it 
 was now nearly seven : but the Doctor had 
 been some miles into the country to see a 
 wealthy patient, and Edina waited for him. 
 
EDINA. 61 
 
 They sat round the table in the best parlour ; 
 the one whose bow-window looked on the street ; 
 the other room was chiefly used for breakfast 
 and dinner. 
 
 Its warm curtains were drawn before the 
 window now, behind the small table that held 
 the beautiful stand of white coral, brought home 
 years ago by Major Eaynor ; the fire burned 
 brightly ; two candles stood near the tea-tray. 
 Behind the Doctor, who sat facing the window, 
 was a handsome cabinet, a few choice books on 
 its shelves. Frank, reading a newspaper and 
 sipping his tea, sat between his uncle and 
 Edina. 
 
 This was the night of the ball at the Mount. 
 Edina was going to it. A most unusual dissi- 
 pation for her; one she was entirely unaccus- 
 tomed to. Trennach afforded no opportunity 
 for this kind of visiting, and it would have been 
 all the same to Miss Eaynor though it had. As 
 she truly said, she had not been at a dance for 
 years and years. Frank was making merry 
 over it, asking her w4iether she could remember 
 her " dancing steps." 
 
 " I am so sorry you promised for me, papa," 
 she suddenly said. " I have been regretting it 
 ever since." 
 
62 EDINA. 
 
 *'Why, Edina?" 
 
 "It is not in my way, you know, papa. And 
 I have had the trouble of altering a dress." 
 
 *' Mrs. St. Clare was good enough to press 
 for your company, Edina — she candidly told 
 me she had not enough ladies — and I did not 
 like to refuse. She wanted me to go," added 
 Dr. Eaynor, with a broad smile. 
 
 " I'm sure, papa, you would be as much of 
 an ornament at a ball as I shall be — and would 
 be far more welcome to Mrs. St. Clare," said 
 Edina. 
 
 '' Ornament ? Oh, I leave that to Frank." 
 
 '' I daresay you could dance, even now, as 
 well as I can, papa." 
 
 Something like a spasm crossed his face. He 
 dance now ! Edina little thought how near — if 
 matters in regard to himself were as he sus- 
 pected — how very near be was to the end of all 
 things. 
 
 " You look tired, papa," she said. 
 
 " I am tired, child. That horse of mine 
 does not seem to carry me as easily as he did. 
 Or perhaps it is I who feel his action more. 
 What do you say, Frank ? " 
 
 "About the horse, uncle? I think he is 
 just as easy as he always was." 
 
EDINA. 
 
 63 
 
 Dr. Raynor suppressed a sigh, and quitted 
 the room. Frank rose, put his elbow on the 
 mantel-xnece, and glanced at his good-looking 
 face in the glass. 
 
 " What time do you mean to start, Edina?" 
 
 " At half-past eight. I don't wish to go in 
 later than the card says — nine. It is a shame 
 to invite people for so late an hour ! " 
 
 ''It is late for Trennach," acknowledged 
 Frank. " Mrs. St. Clare has brought her 
 fashionable hours with her." 
 
 At that moment, the entrance-door was pushed 
 violently open, and an ai)plicant was heard to 
 clatter in, in a desperate hurry. Frank went 
 out to see. 
 
 Mrs. Molly Janes was lying at her home, 
 half killed, in immediate need of the services 
 of either Dr. or Mr. Eaynor. Mr. Janes had 
 just staggered home from his day's enjoy- 
 ment at the Golden Shaft : his wife was un- 
 wise enough to attack him in that state ; he 
 had retaliated and nearly ''done" for her. 
 Such was the substance of the report brought 
 by the messenger — a panting lad with wild 
 eyes. 
 
 "You will have to go, Frank," said the 
 Doctor. " I am sorry for it, but I am really 
 
64 EDINA. 
 
 not able to walk there to-night. My ride shook 
 me fearfully," 
 
 * * Of course I will go, sir, ' ' replied Frank, in his 
 cheery and ready way. ** I shall be back long 
 before Edina wants me. What are Molly Janes's 
 chief injuries ? " he asked, turning to the boy. 
 
 *' He heve faaled on her like a fiend, master," 
 answered the alarmed lad. *' He've broke aal 
 her bones to lerrups, he heve." 
 
 A bad account. Frank prepared to start 
 without delay. He had left his hat in the par- 
 lour ; and while getting it he said a hasty word 
 to Edina — that he had to go off to the cottages 
 on the Bare Plain. Edina caught up the idea 
 that it was Mrs. Bell who needed him : she 
 knew of no other patient in that quarter. 
 
 " Come back as quickly as you can, Frank," 
 she said. ''You have to dress, you know. 
 Don't stay chattering with Eosaline." 
 
 " With Eosaline ! " he exclaimed, in surprise. 
 " Oh, I see. It is not Mrs. Bell who wants me ; 
 it is Molly Janes. She and her husband have 
 been at issue again." 
 
 With a gay laugh at Edina' s advice touching 
 Eosaline, and at the rather serious and certainly 
 meaning tone she gave it in, Frank hastened 
 away. The fact was, some odds and ends of 
 
EDINA. 65 
 
 joking bad been beard in tbe village lately, 
 coupling Frank's name witb tbe girl's, andtbey 
 bad reacbed tbe ears of Edina. Sbe intended 
 to talk to Frank warningly about it on tbe 
 first opportunity. 
 
 Wben about balf way across tbe Bare Plain, 
 Frank saw some man before bim, in tbe brigbt 
 moonligbt, wbo was not over steady on bis legs. 
 Tbe lad bad gone rusbing forward, tbinking to 
 come in at tbe tail of tbe figbt ; sbould it, 
 baply, be still going on. 
 
 " Wbat, is it you, Bell ! " exclaimed Frank, 
 recognising tbe staggerer as be overtook and 
 passed bim. "You've bad nearly as mucb as 
 you can carry, bave you not?" be added, in 
 ligbt good-nature. 
 
 Bell, it was. Stumbling bomewards from 
 tbe Golden Sbaft. A very early bour indeed, 
 considering tbe state be was in, for bim to quit 
 tbe seductions of tbat bostelrie. He bad been 
 unwise enougb to go back to it after bis dinner, 
 and tbere be bad sat till now. Had be cbosen 
 to keep sober, tbe matter wbispered to bim by 
 Blase Pellet would not bave returned to rankle 
 in bis mind : as be did not, it bad soon begun 
 to do so ominousl3^ Witb every cup be took, 
 tbe matter grew in bis imagination, until it 
 
 VOL. I. F 
 
66 EDINA. 
 
 assumed an ugly look, and became a fixed, black 
 picture. And he had now come blundering 
 forth with the intention of " looking out for 
 himself," as ingeniously suggested to him by 
 Blase Pellet that day when they were parting. 
 In short, to track the steps and movements of 
 the two implicated people ; to watch whether 
 they met, and all about it. 
 
 " Perhaps other folks will have as much as 
 they can carry soon," was his insolent retort to 
 Frank, lifting the heavy stick in his hand 
 menacingly. At which Frank only laughed, 
 and sped onwards. 
 
 A terribly savage mood rushed over Josiah 
 Bell. Seeing Frank strike off towards Bleak 
 Eow, he concluded that it was to his dwelling- 
 house he was bent — to see Piosaline. And he 
 gnashed his teeth in fury, and gave vent to a 
 fierce oath because he could not overtake the 
 fleet steps of the younger man. 
 
 Bursting in at his own door when he at 
 length reached it, he sent his eyes round the 
 room in search of the offenders. But all the 
 living inmates that met his view consisted of 
 his wife in her mob cap and white apron, 
 knitting, as usual, in her own chair, and the 
 cat sleeping upon the hearth. 
 
EDINA. G7 
 
 "Where's Eosaline ? " 
 
 Mrs. Bell put down her knitting — a grey 
 worsted stockinoj for himself — and si^^hed 
 
 o o 
 
 deeply as she gazed at him. He had not been 
 very sober at dinner-time : he was worse now. 
 Nevertheless she felt thankful that he had come 
 home so soon. 
 
 " She's gone out ! " he continued, before 
 Mrs. Bell had spoken : and it was evident to 
 her that the fact of Eosaline' s being out was 
 putting him into a furious passion. "Who is 
 she with?" 
 
 " Eose went over after tea to sit a bit with 
 Granny Sandon. Granny's worse to-day, poor 
 thing. I'm expecting her back every minute." 
 
 Bell staggered to the fire-place and stood 
 there lifting his stick. His wife went on with 
 her knitting in silence. To reproach him now 
 •would do harm instead of good. It must be 
 owned that his exceeding to this extent was 
 quite an exceptional case : not many times had 
 his wife known him do it. 
 
 "Where's Eaynor ? " he broke out. 
 
 " Eaynor ! " she echoed, in surprise. "Do 
 you mean Mr. Frank Eaynor ? I don't knbw 
 where he is. 
 
 "' He came in here a few minutes ago." 
 
68 EDINA. 
 
 ** Bless you, no, not he," returned the wife, 
 in an easy tone, thinking it the best tone just 
 then. 
 
 " Tell ye, I saw him come here." 
 
 " The moonlight must have misled you, 
 Josiah. Mr. Eaynor has not been here to-day. 
 Put down your stick and take off your hat, 
 man : and sit down and be comfortable." 
 
 To this persuasive invitation, Bell made no 
 reply. Yet a minute or two he stood in silence, 
 gazing at th e fire ; then, grasping his stick 
 more firmly in his hand, and ramming his hat 
 upon his head, he staggered out again, shutting 
 the door wdth a bang. Mrs. Bell sighed 
 audibly : she supposed he was returning to the 
 Golden Shaft. 
 
 Meanwhile Frank Eaynor was with Mrs. 
 Molly Janes. Her damages were not so bad as 
 had been represented, and he proceeded to 
 treat them : which took some little time. 
 Leaving her a model of artistically-applied 
 sticking-plaster, Frank started for home again. 
 The night was most beautiful ; the sky clear, 
 save for a few fleecy clouds that now^ and then 
 passed j across it, the silvery moon riding 
 grandly amidst them. Just as Frank came 
 opposite the Bottomless Shaft he met Rosa- 
 
EDIN'A. 69 
 
 line, on her way home from Granny San- 
 don's. 
 
 They stayed to speak — as a matter of course. 
 Frank told her of the affray that had taken 
 place, and the punishment of Molly Janes. 
 While Eosaline listened, she kept her face 
 turned in the direction she had come, as though 
 she were watching for some one : and her 
 quick eyes discerned a figure ap^oroaching in 
 the hright moonlight. 
 
 ** Good night — 3'ou pass on, Mr. Frank," 
 she suddenly and hurriedly exclaimed. " I am 
 going to hide myself here for a minute." 
 
 Darting towards the Bottomless Shaft, she 
 took refuge amongst the mounds by which it 
 was surrounded : mounds which looked just 
 like great earth batteries, thrown up in time of 
 war. Instead of passing on his way, Frank 
 followed her, in sheer astonishment : and 
 found her behind the furthermost mound at 
 the back of the Shaft. 
 
 '' Are you hiding fi'om me 1 " he demanded. 
 " AVhat is it, Eosaline ? I don't under- 
 stand." 
 
 " Xot fi'om you," she whispered. " But why 
 didn't you go on ? Hush ! There's some one 
 going to pass that I don't want to see." 
 
70 EDINA. 
 
 *' "Who is it ? Your father '? I think he is 
 gone home." 
 
 *' It is Blase Pellet," she answered. " I saw 
 him at the shop door as I came hy, and I think 
 he is following me. He talks nonsense, and I 
 would rather walk home alone. Listen ! Can 
 we hear his footsteps, do j^ou think, sir ? He 
 must be just going by now." 
 
 Frank humoured her : he did not particularly 
 like Blase Pellet himself, but he had no motive 
 in being still, save that it was her wish. On 
 the contrary, he would have preferred to be 
 travelling homewards, for he had not much 
 time to lose. Whistling very softly, scarcely 
 above his breath, his back against the nearest 
 mound, he watched the white clouds coursing 
 in the sky. 
 
 " He must have passed now, Ptosaline." 
 
 She stole cautiously away, to reconnoitre ; 
 and came back with a beaming face. 
 
 ** Yes," she said, *' and he has made good 
 speed, for he is out of sight. He must have 
 set off with a run, thinking to catch me up." 
 
 " I wonder 3'ou were not afraid to go through 
 the mounds by yourself and pass close to the 
 Bottomless Shaft ! " cried Frank, in a tone of 
 raillery, and no longer dooming it necessary to 
 
EDINA. 71 
 
 lower bis voice. " Old Sandon's ghost miglit 
 have come out, you know, and eaten you up." 
 ''lam not afraid of old Sandon's ghost," 
 said Eosaline. 
 
 " I daresay not ! " laughed Frank. 
 In a sjDirit of bravado, or perhaps in very 
 lightness of heart, Eosaline ran suddenly 
 through the zig-zag turnings and windings, 
 until she stood close to the mouth of the Shaft. 
 Frank followed her, quickly too, for in truth he 
 was impatient to be gone. 
 
 " I am listening for the ghost's groans," 
 said she, her head bent forward over the yawn- 
 ing pit, her ear turned in the attitude of 
 listening. It was a dangerous position : the 
 least slip, one incautious step nearer, might 
 have been irredeemable : and Frank put his 
 arm round her waist to protect her. 
 
 Another half moment passed, when 
 
 they hardly knew what occurred. A bellow of 
 rage, a heavy stick brandished over them in the 
 air by some intruder, and Eosaline started 
 back, to see her father. Old Bell must have 
 been hiding amidst the mounds on his own 
 score, looking out for what there might be to 
 see. 
 
 Down came the stick heavily on Frank's 
 
72 EDINA. 
 
 shoulder. An instant's scuffle and a push 
 ensued : a yell from a despah'ing, falling man ; 
 a momentary glimpse of an upturned face ; a 
 shrill cry of horror in a woman's voice ; an 
 agonised word from her companion ; a heavy 
 thud, as of some dull weight dropping into 
 the earth at what sounded like a frightful dis- 
 tance, and all was over. And Francis Eaynor 
 and the unhappy Eosaline were alone ; stand- 
 ing together under the pitiless moonlight. 
 
73 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 WAITING FOR BELL. 
 
 rpHE fire threw its glow on Mrs. Bell's kitchen 
 -*-■ — kitchen and sitting-room in one — light- 
 ing up the strip of bright-coloured carpet before 
 the fender, and the red tiles of the floor ; play- 
 ing on the plates and dishes on the dresser 
 shelves, and on the blue hyacinth glasses in 
 the window, now closed in by its outside shut- 
 ters. Stout Mrs. Bell, her cheeks as red as 
 the fire, sat by the round table in her white 
 apron and mob cap, plying her knitting- 
 needles. On the other side of the hearth sat 
 a neighbour, one Xancy Tomson, a tall, thin 
 Cornish woman in a check apron, with project- 
 ing teeth and a high nose, who had come in 
 for a chat. On the table waited the supper — 
 bread and cheese — and a candle ready to be 
 lighted. 
 
 The clock struck nine. Mrs. Bell looked up 
 as though the sound half startled her. 
 
74 EDINA. 
 
 " Who'd heve thought it! " cried the visitor, 
 whose tongue had been going incessantly for 
 the last hour, causing the time to i)ass quickly. 
 "Be this clock too fast, Dame Bell?" 
 
 ''No," said the dame. "It's right by the 
 church." 
 
 " Well, I'd never heve said it were nine. 
 Your folks es late. I wonder where they be 
 that they don't come hoam." 
 
 " No need to wonder," returned Mrs. Bell, 
 in a sharp tone, meant for the absentees. 
 "Kosaline's staying with that poor Granny 
 Sandon, who seems to get nobody else to stay 
 with her. As to Bell, he is off again to the 
 Golden Shaft." 
 
 " You said he had comed in." 
 " He did come in : and I thought he had 
 come for good. But he didn't stay a minute ; 
 he must needs tramp out again. And he was 
 further gone then, Nancy Tomson, than I've 
 seen him these three years." 
 
 Dame Bell exercised her needles vigorously, 
 as if her temper had got into her fingers. The 
 visitor plunged into a renewed sea of conver- 
 sation — vhich had chiefly turned upon that 
 interesting episode, the evening light between 
 Janes and his wife. At half-past nine, Mrs. 
 
EDINA. 75 
 
 Bell put down her knitting and rose from her 
 seat. She was growing uneasy. 
 
 " What can keep Eosaline ? She'd never 
 stay out so late as this, let Granny Sandon 
 want her ever so. I'll take a look out and see 
 if I can see her." 
 
 Unbolting the door she pulled it open, ad- 
 mitting a flood of pale moonlight : pale, com- 
 pared with the ruddier glow of the fire. Mrs. 
 Bell peered out across the Bare Plain in the 
 direction of Trennach ; and Nancy Tomson, 
 who was always ready for any divertissement, 
 came forward and stretched her long neck over 
 Dame Bell's shoulder. 
 
 " It's a rare light night," she said. " But 
 I don't see nobody coming, Mother Bell. They 
 topers sticks to it." 
 
 Feeling the air cold after her place by the 
 hot fire, Nancy Tomson withdrew indoors again. 
 She was in no hurry to be gone. Her husband 
 made one of the topers to-night, and this warm 
 domicile w^as pleasanter than her own. Dame 
 Bell was about to shut the door, when a faint 
 sound, something like a suppressed moan 
 caused her to look quickly out again, and to 
 advance somewhat farther than she did before. 
 Sitting against the w^all on the other side the 
 
76 EDINA. 
 
 window ^Yas a dark object : and, to Mrs. Bell's 
 intense surprise, she discovered it to be Rosa- 
 line. 
 
 Rosaline, in ^vllat appeared to be the very 
 utmost abandonment of grief or of terror. Her 
 hands were clasping her raised knees, her face 
 was bent upon them. Every low breath she 
 took seemed to come forth with a suppressed 
 moan of anguish. 
 
 '' Why, child, what on earth's the matter ? " 
 ejaculated the mother. " What are you sitting 
 down there for ? ' ' 
 
 The words quickly brought out Nancy Tom- 
 son. Her exclamations of wonder, when she 
 saw Rosaline, might have been nearly heard at 
 Trennach. 
 
 Rosaline's moans subsided into silence. She 
 slowly got up, they putting forth their hands 
 to help her, and went indoors. Her face was 
 white as that of the dead, and appeared to 
 have a nameless horror in it. Down she sat 
 on the first chair she came to, put her arms on 
 the table, and her head upon them, so that her 
 countenance was hidden. The two women, 
 closing the front door, stood gazing at her with 
 the most intense curiosity. 
 
 " She heve been frighted," whispered Nancy 
 
EDINA. 77 
 
 Tomson. And it did indeed look like it. Mrs. 
 Bell, however, dissented from the suggestion. 
 
 '' Frighted ! "What is there to frighten her ? 
 AYhat's the matter, Eosaline ? " she continued, 
 somewhat sharply. " Be you struck mooney, 
 child?" 
 
 Nancy Tomson was one who liked her own 
 opinion, and she held to the fright. She ad- 
 vanced a step or two nearer Eosaline, dropping 
 her voice to a low key. 
 
 *' Heve you seen anything o' Dan Sandon ? 
 Mayhe hes ghost shawed itself to you as you 
 come by the Bottomless Shaaft ? " 
 
 The words sent Eosaline into a desperate 
 fit of trembling : so much so that her arms 
 caused the table, which was not very sub- 
 stantial, to shake as they lay upon it. 
 
 '' Then just you tell us whaat else it es," 
 pursued Nancy Tomson, eager for an answer 
 — for Eosaline had made a motion in the 
 negative as to Dan Sandon's ghost. *' Sure," 
 added the woman to Mrs. Bell, " sure Janes 
 and her be not a-fighting again ! Sure he 
 heven't been and killed her ! Is it that whaat 
 heve frighted you, Eosaline ? " 
 " No, no," murmured Eosaline. 
 " Well, it must be something or t'other," 
 
78 EDINA. 
 
 urged the woman, half rampant with curiosity. 
 *' One caan't be frighted to death for nothing. 
 Heve ye faaled down and hurted yerself ? " 
 
 A notion, like a flash of light, seized upon 
 Mrs. Bell. And it seemed to her so certain 
 to be the true one that she only wondered she 
 had not thought of it before. She laid her 
 hand upon her daughter's shoulder. 
 
 " Eosaline ! You have heard the Seven 
 Whistlers!" 
 
 A slight pause. Eosaline neither stirred 
 nor spoke. To Nancy Tomson the suggestion 
 cleared up the mystery. 
 
 *' Thaafs it,'' she cried, emphatically. 
 *' "Where was aal my wits, I wonder, thaat I 
 never remembered they ? Now doan't you go 
 for to deny it, Eosaline Bell : you heve been 
 hearing they Seven Whistlers, and gashly 
 things they be." 
 
 Another pause. A shiver. And then Eosa- 
 line slowly lifted her white face. 
 
 *' Yes," she answered. " The Seven Whist- 
 lers." And the avowal struck so much con- 
 sternation on her two hearers, although the 
 suggestion had first come from them, that they 
 became dumb. 
 
 " Father heard them, you know," went on 
 
EDINA. 79 
 
 Eosaline, with a look of terror in her eyes, 
 and an absent sound in her voice as though 
 she were dreaming. " Father heard them. 
 And they bode ill-luck." 
 
 "They bode death: as some says," spoke 
 Nancy Tomson, lowering her voice to an appro- 
 priate key. 
 
 ''Yes," repeated Eosaline, in a tone of 
 grievous wailing. '*' Yes : they bode death. 
 Oh mother ! mother ! ' ' 
 
 But now, Mrs. Bell, although given, like 
 her neighbours, to put some faith in the 
 Seven Whistlers ; for example is contagious ; 
 was by no means one to be overcome with the 
 fear of them. Bather was the superstition 
 regarded by her as a prolific theme for talk 
 and gossip, and she entirely disaj)proved of the 
 men's making it an excuse for idleness : had 
 she heard the Whistlers with her own ears, it 
 would not have moved her much. Of course 
 she did not particularly like the Whistlers ; 
 she was willing to believe that they were in 
 some mysterious way the harbingers of ill-luck ; 
 and the discomfort evinced by her husband on 
 Sunday night, when he returned home after 
 hearing the sounds, had in a degree imparted 
 discomfort to herself. But, for anybody to be 
 
80 EDINA. 
 
 put into an alarming state of terror by them, 
 such as this now displayed by Rosaline, she 
 looked upon as altogether absurd and unrea- 
 sonable. 
 
 " Don't take on like that, child ! " she said, 
 rebukingly. '' You must be silly. They don't 
 bode your death : never fear. I'll warm you 
 a sup o' pea-soup. There's some left in the 
 crock." 
 
 She bustled into the back kitchen after the 
 soup and a saucepan. Rosaline kept her head 
 down : deep, laboured breathings, as of one 
 who has run beyond his strength, agitating 
 her. Nancy Tomson stood looking on, her 
 arms folded in her check linen apron. 
 
 " Whereabouts did ye hear they Whistlers, 
 Rosaline ? " she at length asked. 
 
 But there was no answer. 
 
 "On the Bare Plain, I take it," resumed 
 the woman. " Were't a-nigh they mounds by 
 the Shaaft ? Sounds echoes in they zig-zag 
 paths rarely. I've heard the wind a-whistling 
 like anything there afore now. She be a 
 pewerly lonesome consarn, thaat Shaaft, for 
 waun who has to paas her at night alone." 
 
 A moan, telling of the sharpest mental 
 agony, broke from Rosaline. Dame Bell heard 
 
EDINA. 81 
 
 it as she was coming in. In the midst of her 
 pity, it angered her. 
 
 " EosaHne, I won't have this. There's 
 reason in roasting eggs. We shall have your 
 father here directly, and what will he say ? 
 I can tell vou, he was had enouojh when he 
 went out. Come ! just rouse yourself up." 
 
 " Father heard the Whistlers, and — they — 
 bode — death ! " shivered Eosaline, pausing 
 between the words. 
 
 "They don't bode yours, I say," repeated 
 Dame Bell, losing patience. " Do you sup- 
 pose death comes to every person that hears 
 the "Whistlers ? — or any ill-luck either ? " 
 
 " No, no," assented Xancy Tomson, for 
 Eosaline did not speak. " For waun that 
 faals into ill-luck after hearing they Whistlers, 
 ten escapes. I've knowed a whole crowd o' 
 they men hear the sounds, and nought heve 
 come on't to any waun on 'em." 
 
 " And that's true," said Mrs. Bell. 
 
 Eosaline could not be persuaded to try the 
 pea-soup. It was impossible that she could 
 swallow it, she said. Taking a candle, she 
 went up to her room ; to bed, as her mother 
 supposed. 
 
 " And the best place for her," remarked 
 
 VOL. I. G 
 
82 EDINA. 
 
 Dame Bell. " To tliiuk of her getting a fright 
 like this!" 
 
 But poor Rosaline did not go to bed, and 
 did not undress. Her shoes off that she might 
 not be heard, she began to i)ace the few yards 
 of space in her narrow chamber, to and fro, 
 to and fro, from wall to wall, in an anguish 
 the like of which has rarely been felt on earth. 
 She was living over again the night's meeting 
 at the Bottomless Shaft and its dreadful ending : 
 she saw the white, upturned, agonised face, 
 and heard the awful cry of despair of him who 
 was falling into its pitiless depths, and was 
 now lying there, dead : and it seemed to her 
 that she, herself, must die of it. 
 
 The clock struck ten, and Nancy Tomson 
 tore herself away from the warm and hos- 
 pitable kitchen, after regaling herself upon 
 the pea-soup rejected by Piosaline. And Dame 
 Bell sat on, knitting, and waiting for her 
 husband. 
 
 When Eosaline, her hands lifted in frantic 
 distress, tore away from the Bottomless Shaft 
 that evening and the tragedy that had been 
 enacted there, and went flying along the Bare 
 Plain towards her home, Frank Raynor, re- 
 
EDINA. 88 
 
 coverinsj from the shock of horror \Yhich had 
 well-nigh stunned all his faculties, went after 
 her, and ran with her side by side. Two or 
 three times he attempted to say a word to 
 her, but she took no notice ; only sped on 
 the quicker, if that were possible ; she never 
 answered ; it was as if she did not hear. 
 When they reached the narrow cross line that 
 branched off to the cottages from the broad 
 path, there she stopped, and turned her head 
 to him. 
 
 " We part here. Part for ever." 
 
 " Are you going home ? " he asked. 
 
 "Where else should I be going?" she 
 rejoined, with a burst of anguish. '' Where 
 else have I to go ? " 
 
 " I will see you safe to the door." 
 
 "No. No! Good-bye." 
 
 And, throwing out her hands at him, as if 
 to ward him off, she would have sped onwards. 
 But Frank Eaynor could not part thus : he 
 had something to say, and detained her, hold- 
 ing her hands tightly. A few hasty words 
 passed between them, and then she was at 
 liberty to go. He stood to watch her until 
 she di*ew near to her own door, when he 
 turned back on his way across the plain. 
 
84 EDINA. 
 
 In all his whole life Francis Eaynor had 
 never felt as he was feeling now. An awful 
 weight had settled upon his soul. His friends 
 had heen wont to say that no calamity upon 
 earth could hring down Frank's exuberant 
 spirits, or change the lightness of his ways. 
 But something had been found to do it now. 
 Little less agitated was he than Kosaline ; the 
 sense of horror upon him was the same as 
 hers. 
 
 He was now passing the fatal spot, the 
 Bottomless Shaft ; its surrounding batteries, or 
 hillocks, shone out in the moonlight. Frank 
 turned his eyes that way, and stood still to 
 gaze. Of their own accord, and as if some 
 fascination impelled him against his will, his 
 steps moved thitherwards. 
 
 "With a livid face, and noiseless feet, and 
 a heart that ceased for the moment to beat, 
 in its dread consciousness, he took the first 
 narrow zig-zag between two of the mounds. 
 And — but what was it that met his gaze ? 
 As he came in view of the Shaft, he saw the 
 figure of a man standing on its brink. It was 
 so utterly unexpected a sight, and so unlikely 
 a one, that Frank stood still, scarcely believing 
 it to be real. For one blissful moment he 
 
EDINA. 85 
 
 lost sight of impossibilities, and did indeed 
 think it must be Josiah Bell. 
 
 Only for an instant. The truth returned 
 to his mind in all its wretched nakedness, 
 together with the recognition of the intruder, 
 Mr. Blase Pellet. Mr. Blase was gingerly 
 bending his body forward, but with the utmost 
 caution, and looking down into the pit. As 
 if he were listening for what might be to be 
 heard there : just as the unhappy Rosaline 
 had professed to listen but a few minutes be- 
 fore. 
 
 k. Frank had not made any noise : and, even 
 though he had, a gust of wind was just then 
 sweeping the mounds, deadening all sound but 
 its own. But, with that subtle instinct that 
 warns us sometimes of a human presence. Blase 
 Pellet turned sharply round to look, and saw 
 him. Not a word passed. Frank drew silently 
 back — though he knevv' the man had recog- 
 nised him — and pursued his way over the Plain. 
 He i7uessed how it was. When he and 
 Ptosaline had been waiting amidst the mounds 
 for Blase Pellet to pass. Blase had not passed. 
 Blase must have seen them cross over to the 
 spot in the moonlight ; and, instead of con- 
 tinuing his route onwards, had fctealthily 
 
86 EDINA. 
 
 crossed over after them, and concealed him- 
 self in one or other of the narrow zig-zags. 
 He must have remained there until now. 
 How much had he seen ? Hoav much did 
 he know ? If anything had been capable of 
 adding to the weight of perplexity and trouble 
 that had fallen on Frank Eaynor, it would be 
 this. He groaned in spirit as he pursued his 
 way homeward. 
 
 " How late you are, Frank ! " 
 
 The words, spoken by Edina, met him as 
 he entered. Hearing him come in, she had 
 opened the door of the sitting-room. In the 
 bewildering confusion of his mind, the per- 
 plexity as to the future, the sudden shock of 
 the one moment's calamity, which might 
 change the whole current of his future life, 
 Frank Eaynor had lost all recollection of the 
 engagement for the evening. The appear- 
 ance of Edina recalled it to him. 
 
 She was in evening dress : though very 
 sober dress. A plain grey silk, its low body 
 and short sleeves trimmed with a little white 
 lace ; a gold chain and locket on her neck ; 
 and bracelets of not much value. Quite ready, 
 all but her gloves. 
 
 " Are — are you going, Edina ? " 
 
EDIXA. 87 
 
 ''Going!'' replied Edina. ''Of course I 
 am going ? You are going also, are you 
 not?" 
 
 Frank jDushed his hair off his brow. The 
 gay scene at the Mount, and the dreadful 
 scene in which he had just been an actor, 
 struck upon him as being frightfully incon- 
 gruous. Edina was gazing at him : she de- 
 tected some curious change in his manner, 
 and she saw that he was looking very pale. 
 
 ''Is anything the matter, Frank? Are you 
 not well?" 
 
 " Oh, I am quite well." 
 
 " Surely that poor woman is not dead ? " 
 
 "What woman?" asked Frank, his wits 
 still wool-gathering. Dr. Eaynor, leaving his 
 chair by the parlour fire, had also come to the 
 door, and was looking on. 
 
 " Have you been to see more than one 
 woman?" said Edina. "I meant Molly 
 Janes." 
 
 " Oh — ay — 3'es," returned Frank, passing 
 his hand over his bewildered brow. " She'll 
 be all right in a few days. There's no very 
 serious damage." 
 
 "What has made you so long, then?" 
 questioned the Doctor. 
 
88 EDINA. 
 
 ** I — (lid not know it was late," was the 
 only excuse poor Frank could call up, as he 
 turned from the fixed gaze of Edina : though 
 he might have urged that the plastering up of 
 Mrs. Molly's wounds took time. And in point 
 of fact he did not, even yet, know whether it 
 was late or early. 
 
 " Pray make haste, Frank," said Edina. 
 *' You can dress quickly when you like. I did 
 not wish, you know, to be so late as this." 
 
 He turned to the staircase to seek his room. 
 There was no help for it : he must go to this 
 revelry. Edina could not go alone : and, in- 
 deed, he had no plea to offer for declining to 
 accomj)any her. Not until he was taking his 
 coat off did he remember the blow on his 
 shoulder. When the mind is at rest, the 
 body feels its ailments : most certainly Frank 
 Eaynor, in his mind's grievous trouble, had 
 neither felt the pain left by the blow, nor 
 recollected that he had received one. 
 
 Yet it was a pretty severe stroke, and the 
 shoulder on which it fell was stiff and aching. 
 Frank, his coat off, was passing his hand ten- 
 derly over the place, perhaps to ascertain the 
 extent of damage, when the door was tapped at 
 and then opened by Edina. 
 
EDINA. 89 
 
 '' Here's a flower for your button-hole, 
 Frank." 
 
 It was a very beautiful liot-house flower, 
 looking like white wax. Dr. Eaj'nor had 
 brought it from the patient's house where he 
 had been in the afternoon, and Edina had 
 kept it until the last moment as a surprise to 
 Frank. He took it quite mechanically ; thank- 
 ing her, it is true, but very tamely, his thoughts 
 evidently far away. Edina could but note the 
 change : what had become of Frank's careless 
 light-heartedness ? 
 
 *'Is anything amiss with your shoulder ? "J 
 
 '' It has got a bit of a bruise, I think," he 
 lightly answered, beginning to splash away in 
 his basin. 
 
 She shut the door, and Frank went on 
 dressing, always mechanically. How many 
 nights, and days, and weeks, and years, would 
 it be before he could get out of his mind the 
 horror of the recently-passed scene ! 
 
 *' I wish to heaven that she-demon, Molly 
 Janes, had been there!'' he cried, stamping 
 his foot on the floor in a sudden access of grief 
 and passion. " But for her vagaries, I should 
 not have been called out this evening, and the 
 terrible calamity could not have happened ! " 
 
90 EDINA. 
 
 Edina was read}- wlieu lie went down, well 
 cloaked and shawled ; her silk gown pinned up 
 carefully, a warm hood upon her smooth brown 
 hair. The Doctor did not keep a close carriage ; 
 no such thing as a fly was to be had at Tren- 
 nach ; and so they had to walk. Mrs. St. 
 Clare had graciously intimated that she would 
 send her carriage for Miss Eaynor if the night 
 turned out to be a bad one. But the night 
 was fine and bright. 
 
 "■ You will be sure not to sit up for us, 
 papa," said Edina, while Frank was putting 
 on his overcoat. '•' It is quite uncertain what 
 time we shall come home." 
 
 " No, no, child ; I shall not sit up." 
 
 AVhen they came to the end of the village, 
 Frank turned off on the road way, at the back 
 of the parsonage. Edina, who was on his arm, 
 asked him wh}^ he did so : over the Bare Plain 
 was the nearest way. 
 
 "But this is less dreary," was his answer. 
 *' We shall soon be there." 
 
 '' Nay, I think the Bare Plain is far less 
 dreary than the road ; especially on such a 
 night as this," said Edina. " Here we are 
 over-shadowed by trees : on the Plain we get 
 the full sheen of the moonlight." 
 
EDINA. 9 1 
 
 He said no more : onlj- kept on his ^Yay. It 
 did not matter ; it would make but about three 
 minutes' difference. Edina stepped out cheer- 
 fully : she never made a fuss over trifles. 
 By-and-bj, she began to wonder at his silence. 
 It was very unusual. 
 
 " Have you the headache, Frank ?" 
 
 " No. Yes. Just a little." 
 
 Edina said nothing to the contradictory 
 answer. Something unusual and unpleasant 
 had decidedly occurred to him. 
 
 " How did YOU bruise vour shoulder ? " she 
 l)resently asked. 
 
 " Oh — gave it a knock," he said, after the 
 slightest possible pause. '* My shoulder's all 
 right, Edina : don't talk of it. A little more 
 right than that confounded Molly Janes' bruises 
 are." 
 
 And with the sharp words, sounding so 
 strange from Frank's good-natured lips, Edina 
 caught up the notion that the grievance was in 
 some way connected with Molly Janes, perhaps 
 the damaged shoulder also. Possibly she had 
 turned obstrejoerous under the young doctor's 
 hands, and had shown fight to him as well as 
 to her husband. 
 
 The Mount burst upon them in a blaze of 
 
92 EDINA. 
 
 light. Plants, festoons, music, brilliancy ! As 
 they were going into the chief reception-room, 
 out-of-door wrappings removed, Edina missed 
 that beautiful white wax flower : Frank's coat 
 was unadorned. 
 
 " Frank ! What have you done with your 
 flower ? " 
 
 His eyes wandered to the flowers decorating 
 the rooms, and then down to his button-hole, 
 all in an absent sort of way that surprised 
 Miss Eaynor. 
 
 " I fear I must have forgotten it, Edina. I 
 wish you had worn it yourself : it would have 
 been more approj^riate. How well it would 
 have looked in your hair ! " 
 
 ''Fancy me with a flower in my hair!" 
 laughed Edina. " But, Frank, I think Molly 
 Janes must have scared some of your wits 
 away." 
 
 Their greeting to Mrs. St. Clare over, Frank 
 found a seat for Edina, and stood back himself 
 in a corner, behind a remote door. Oh, how 
 terribly did this scene of worldly excitement 
 contrast with the one enacted so short a while 
 ago ! He was living it, perforce, over again ; 
 going through, bit by bit, its short-lived action, 
 that had been all over in one or two fatal 
 
EDINA. 93 
 
 moments: this, before him, seemed but a dream. 
 The gaily-robed women sweeping past him with 
 light laughter ; the gleam of jewels ; the pomp 
 and pageantry : it all seemed but the shifting 
 scenes in an imaginary panorama. Frank 
 could have groaned aloud at the bitter mockery : 
 life here ; gay, heedless, joyous life : and there, 
 Death ; death violent and sudden. Never be- 
 fore, throughout his days, had the solemn 
 responsibilities of this world and of the next so 
 painfully pressed themselves upon him in all 
 their dread, stern reality. 
 
 '' Oh, Mr. Eaynor ! I thought you were not 
 coming ! Have you been here long ? " 
 
 The emotional words, spoken in surprise, 
 came from a fair girl in a cloud of white — 
 Daisy St. Clare. Frank's hand went forward 
 to meet the one held out to him : but never a 
 smile crossed his face. 
 
 *' How long have you been here, Mr. Eay- 
 nor ? " 
 
 " How long ? I am not sure. Half an hour, 
 I think." 
 
 *' Have you been dancing ? " 
 
 " Oh, no. I have been standing here." 
 
 *' On purpose to hide yourself ? I should 
 not have seen you but that I am looking in 
 
94 EDINA. 
 
 all corners for Lydia's card, \^'hich she lias 
 lost." 
 
 He did not answer : his head was throbbing, 
 his heart beating. Daisy thought him very 
 silent. 
 
 '' I have had my dance with Sir Paul Trel- 
 lasis," said Daisy, toying with her own card, 
 a hot blush on her face, and her eyes cast 
 down. 
 
 At any other moment Frank would have 
 read the signs fast enough, and taken the hint : 
 she was ready to dance with him. But he 
 never asked her : he did not take the gilded 
 leaves and pencil into his own hands and write 
 down his name as many times as he pleased. 
 He simply stood still, gazing out with vacant 
 eyes and a sad look on his face. Daisy at 
 length glanced up at him. 
 
 *' Are you ill ? " she inquired. 
 
 " No ; only tired." 
 
 '' Too tired to dance ? " she ventured to ask, 
 after a pause, her pulses quickening a little as 
 she put the suggestive question. 
 
 " Yes. I cannot dance to-night, Miss 
 Margaret." 
 
 "Oh, but why?" 
 
 His breath was coming a little quickly with 
 
EDIXA. 95 
 
 emotion. Not caused by Daisy, and her words, 
 and her hope of dancing ; but by that dreadful 
 recollection. Stilling his tone to calmness, he 
 spoke. 
 
 " Pray forgive me, Miss Margaret: I really 
 cannot dance to-night." 
 
 And the cold demeanour, the discouraging 
 words, threw a chill upon her heart. AVhat 
 had she done to him, that he should change 
 like this ? With a bearing that sought to be 
 proud, but a quivering lip, Margaret turned 
 away. 
 
 He caught her eye as she was doing so ; 
 caught the expression of her face, and read its 
 bitter disai)pointment. The next moment he 
 was bending over her, pressing her hand within 
 his. 
 
 " Forgive me, Daisy," he whispered, in a 
 tone of pleading tenderness. " No ; indeed it 
 is not caprice : I — I cannot dance to-night. 
 Go you and dance to your heart's content, and 
 let me hide myself here until Miss Eaynor 
 shall be ready to leave. The kindest thing 
 you can do is to take no further notice of 
 me." 
 
 He released her hand as he spoke, and stood 
 back again by the wall in the dark corner. 
 
9 6 EDINA. 
 
 Margaret turned away with a shivering sigh. 
 Her delight in the evening was gone. 
 
 " And he never wished me any good wishes! 
 It might just as well not have been my birth- 
 day." 
 
97 
 
 CHAPTEPw V. 
 
 MISSING. 
 
 rFHEEE ^Yas commotion next morning at 
 -*- Trennacb, especially about the region of 
 the Bare Plain, and those cottages on it that 
 were called Bleak Row. Josiah Bell had dis- 
 appeared. Mrs. Bell had sat up half the 
 night waiting for him to come home ; then, 
 concluding that he had taken too much liquor 
 to be able to get there, and had either stayed 
 at the Golden Shaft, or found refuge with 
 Andrew Float, she went to bed. # Upon making 
 inquiries this morning, this jDroved not to be 
 the case. Nothing seemed to be known of 
 Josiah Bell. His comrades professed ignorance 
 of his movements : the Golden Shaft had not 
 got him ; neither had Andrew Float. 
 
 Mrs. Bell rose betimes. When people are 
 in a state of exasperation, they forget bodily 
 weakness : and that word exactly expresses 
 Dame Bell's state of mind. It was of course 
 
 VOL. I. H 
 
98 EDINA. 
 
 necessary she should he up, in readiness to 
 give Bell a proper trimming when he should 
 make his appearance at home. While she was 
 dressing, she saw Nancy Tomson's hushand 
 outside, apparently starting for Trennach. 
 Throwing a warm shawl over her shoulders, 
 she opened the casement window. 
 
 *' I say, Tomson ! " she called out. " Tom- 
 son ! " 
 
 The man heard at length, and looked up, 
 
 his face leaden-colour and his eyes red. The 
 
 last night's potations were hardly yet slept off. 
 
 " What was the reason my hushand did not 
 
 come home ? " 
 
 Tomson took a few minutes to digest the 
 question. Apparently his recollection on the 
 point did not readily serve him. 
 
 "I doan't know," said he. "Didn't Bell 
 come hoam ? " 
 - No, he didn't." 
 " Baan't he come hoam ? " 
 *' No, he is not come. And I think it was 
 a very unfriendly thing of the rest of you not to 
 bring him. You had to come yourselves. Did 
 you leave him at the Golden Shaft ? " 
 
 " Bell warn't at tha Golden Shaaft," called 
 hack Tomson. 
 
EDINA. 99 
 
 " Now don't you tell me any of your un- 
 truths, Ben Tomson," returned the dame. " Not 
 at the Golden Shaft ! Where else was he ? " 
 
 "I'll take my blessed dsiYj Bell were not 
 weth us at tha Golden Shaaft last evening ! " 
 said the man. " He cleared out on't at dusk." 
 
 " But he went back to it later." 
 
 ''He never did — as I saw," persisted Tom- 
 son ; who was an obstinate man in maintaining 
 his own opinion. 
 
 ''Was Andrew Float there?" asked Mrs. 
 Bell. 
 
 " Let's see. Andrew Float ? Yes, Float 
 were there." 
 
 " Then I know Bell was there too. And 
 don't 3^ou talk any more nonsense about it, 
 Ben Tomson. Bell was too bad to get home 
 himself, and none of you chose to help him 
 home ; perhaps you w^ere too bad yourselves to 
 do it. And there he has stayed till now ; 
 either at the Golden Shaft, or else with Float 
 the miner : and you'd very much oblige me, 
 Tomson, if you'd hunt him up." 
 
 She shut the casement, watched Tomson 
 start on his way to Trennach, and, presently, 
 went down to breakfast. Rosaline was getting 
 it ready as usual, looking more dead than alive. 
 
100 EDINl. 
 
 *' We'll wait a bit, Eose, to see whether your 
 father comes. Don't put the tea in yet." 
 
 Eose was kneeling before the fire at the 
 moment. She turned short round at the 
 words, with a kind of wild look in her eyes, 
 and seemed to be about to say something ; but 
 checked herself. 
 
 Half an hour passed : Dame Bell getting 
 more angry each minute, and rehearsing 
 sharper greetings for Bell in her mind. At 
 last they sat down to breakfast. Eose could 
 not eat ; she seemed very ill : but her mother, 
 quite taken up with the ill-doings of the truant, 
 did not observe her as much as she would 
 otherwise have done. Breakfast was at an 
 end, although Mrs. Bell lingered over it, when 
 Tomson returned ; and with him appeared the 
 tall ungainly form of Float the miner. 
 
 "Well?" cried the dame, rising briskly 
 from her chair in expectation, as Tomson raised 
 the latch of the door. 
 
 ''Well, 'tis as I said," said Tomson. "Bell 
 didn't come back to the Golden Shaaft last 
 night after he cleared out on't just afore dark. 
 He ain't nowheres about as we can see." 
 
 Mrs. Bell looked from one to the other : at 
 Tomson with his rather sullen countenance, at 
 
EDINA. 101 
 
 Floafs good-natured one. She might have 
 thought the men were deceiving her, hut that 
 she could not see what motive they could have 
 for doing it. Unless, indeed, Bell was lying 
 somewhere in Trennach, so had after his bout 
 that they did not like to tell her. 
 
 "Where is he, then, I should like to know?" 
 she retorted, in answer to Tomson. 
 
 *'Caan't tell," said Tomson. "None o' 
 they men heve seen him." 
 
 " Now this won't do," cried Dame Bell. 
 "You must know where he is. Do you sujd- 
 pose he's lost ? Don't you stand simpering 
 there on one leg, Andrew Float, but just tell 
 me where he is hiding himself." 
 
 "I'd tell ye if I knew, ma'am," said Andrew, 
 in his meek and simple way. " I'd like to 
 know where he is myself." 
 
 " But he was at the Golden Shaft last night : 
 he must have been," insisted the dame, unable 
 to divest herself of the belief. " What became 
 of him when the place shut up ? What state 
 was he in ? " 
 
 " No, ma'am, he was not there," said 
 Andrew, with mild deprecation, for he never 
 liked to contradict. 
 
 " Stuff! " said Mrs. Bell. " There was no- 
 
102 EDINA. 
 
 where else for him to go to. What did you do 
 ■with him, Andrew Float?" 
 
 " I heve done naught ^yith him," rejoined 
 Andrew. " He kep' I and they t'other soes 
 a-waiting all the evening for him at the Golden 
 Shaft ; but he didn't come hack to't." 
 
 " I know he was stuck at the Golden Shaft 
 in*etty nigh all day j^esterday," retorted Mrs. 
 Bell, explosively. 
 
 " He were," acknowledged Andrew. '' He 
 come hack after his dinner, and stayed there 
 along o' the rest of us : but he was pewerly 
 silent and glum ; we couldna get a word from 
 him. Just as they were a-lighting up, Bell he 
 gets off the settle, and puts on his hat ; and 
 when we asked where he was going, he said to 
 do his work. Upon that, one o' they soes — 
 old Perkins, I think it were — wanted to know 
 what work ; but Bell wouldn't answer him. 
 He'd be back by-and-by, he said ; and went 
 out." 
 
 ''And he did not go back?" reiterated Dame 
 Bell. 
 
 *' No, ma'am, he didn't. Though we aal 
 stayed a bit later than usual on the strength of 
 expecting him." 
 
 " It's very strange," said she. ''He came 
 
EDINA. 103 
 
 home here about seven o'clock, or between that 
 and half-past — I can't be sure as to the exact 
 time. I thought he had come for good ; he 
 was three-parts tipsy then, and I advised him 
 to sit down and make himself comfortable. 
 Not a bit would he heed. After standing a 
 minute or so, twirling his stick about, and ask- 
 ing where Eosaline was, and this and the other, 
 he suddenly pushes his hat down a' most over 
 his eyes, and out he goes in a passion — as I 
 could tell by his banging of the door. Of 
 course he was going back to the Golden Shaft ! 
 There can't be a doubt of it." 
 
 *' He never did come to the Golden Shaft, 
 ma'am," said Float. 
 
 ''I say," cried Tomson at this junctui'e, 
 ** what's amiss with Eosaline ? " 
 
 During the above conversation, Eosaline had 
 stood at the dresser, wiping the plates one by 
 one, and keeping her back to the company, so 
 that they did not see her face. But it chanced 
 that Tomson went to the fire to light his pipe, 
 just as Eosaline's work at the shelves came to 
 an end. As she crossed the kitchen to the 
 staircase, Tomson met her and had full view of 
 her. The man stared after her in surprise : 
 even when she had disappeared up the stairs 
 
104 EDINA. 
 
 and shut the door behind her, he still stood 
 staring ; for he had never seen in all his life a 
 face to equal it for livid terror. It was then 
 that he put his question to Mrs. Bell. 
 
 " Didn't your ^yife tell you what it was that 
 frighted her, Ben Tomson ? " was the dame's 
 answering query. 
 
 " My wife have said ne'er a word to me since 
 yesterday, dinner-time, save to call me a vool," 
 confessed Tomson. " Her temper be up. 
 Kosaline do look bad, though ! " 
 
 " She heard the Seven Whistlers last night," 
 explained Mrs. Bell. " It did fright her a'most 
 to death." 
 
 '' What ! — they Whistlers here again laast 
 night?" cried Tomson, his eyes opening with 
 consternation and his pipe dropping from his 
 hand. 
 
 Dame Bell nodded. " Your wife and me 
 were sitting here, Ben Tomson, waiting for 
 Rosaline to come in, and wondering why 
 Granny Sandon kept her so late. I opened 
 the door to see if I could see her coming across 
 the Plain — or Bell, either, for the matter o' 
 that — and there she was, crouched again' the 
 wall outside, dropped down there wdth terror. 
 We got her indoors, me and Nancy Tomson, 
 
EDINA. 105 
 
 and for some time could make nothing of her ; 
 she was too frighted to speak. At last she told 
 us what it ^Yas : — she had heard the Seven 
 Whistlers as she was coming over the Plain." 
 
 But now this statement of Mrs. Bell's un- 
 consciously deviated from the strict line of 
 truth — as the reader may see by referring 
 backwards. Eosaline had not "told" them 
 that she heard the Seven Whistlers on the 
 Plain. When her mother suddenly accused 
 her of having heard the Whistlers, and was 
 backed in the suggestion by Nancy Tomson, 
 poor Piosaline nodded an affirmative, but she 
 gave it in sheer despair. She could not avow 
 what it was that had frightened her ; and the 
 Seven Whistlers — which she had certainly 7iot 
 heard — did for a plea of excuse excellently 
 well. The two women of course adopted the 
 explanation, believing it religiousl}^ and they 
 had no objection to talk of it. 
 
 " They Whistlers again ! " resumed Tomson, 
 in dismay. "Pioss, he's raaging just like a 
 rumpaageous bear this morning, threatening us 
 weth law, and what not ; but he caan't expect 
 us to go down and risk our lives while they 
 boding Whistlers be glinting about." 
 
 ** There, never mind they Whistlers," broke 
 
lOG EDINA. 
 
 in Mrs. Bell, who sometimes fell into the native 
 grammar. "Where's Bell got to? that's what 
 I want to know." 
 
 Of com'se Tomson could not say where Bell 
 had got to. Neither could Float. The latter 
 made the most sensible suggestion that the cir- 
 cumstances admitted of — namely, that they 
 should go and search for him. Mrs. Bell 
 urged them to do so at once and to make haste 
 about it. Bell would be found in Trennach 
 fast enough she said. As he had not taken 
 refuge in Float the miner's house, he had taken 
 it in somebody else's, and he was staying 
 there till he got sober. 
 
 On this day, Wednesday, Trennach was 
 again taking holiday, and laying the blame of 
 it on the Seven Whistlers. But this state of 
 things could not last. The men knew that ; 
 and they now promised the overseer, Ross, 
 whose rage was excessive, that the morrow 
 should see them at work. One wise old miner 
 avowed an opinion that three days would be 
 enough to " break the spell o' they Whistlers, 
 and avert evil." 
 
 So the village street was filled with idle men ; 
 who really, apart from smoking and drinking, 
 had nothing to do with themselves. And the 
 
EDINA. 107 
 
 drinking here was not as excessive as it might 
 have been in "England." With the Cornish 
 people Cornwall is Cornwall, and other parts 
 are England. 
 
 The men lounged about this morning as on 
 other idle days, hands in pockets, shoulders 
 slouching. It was a little early yet for the 
 Golden Shaft : and when Andrew Float and 
 Tomson arrived amidst them with the account 
 that Josiah Bell had not been seen since the 
 previous evening or been home all night, and 
 that his wife (or as Tomson phrased it in the 
 familiar local vernacular, his woman) couldn't 
 think where he had got to and had put a rod in 
 pickle : the men listened. With one accord, 
 they agreed to go and look for Bell : and they 
 set about it heartily, for it gave them some- 
 thing to do. 
 
 But Josiah Bell could not be found. The 
 miners' dwellings were searched for him, 
 perhaps without one single exception, but he 
 had not taken refuge in any of them. Since 
 quitting the Golden Shaft the previous evening 
 at dusk, as testified to by the men who were 
 there, only two persons, apart from his wife, 
 could remember to have seen him : Blase 
 Pellet, and the Piector of Trennach, the 
 
108 EDINA. 
 
 Reverend Thomas Pine. Mr. Pellet, stand- 
 ing at his shop door for recreation at the 
 twilight hour, had seen Bell pass down the 
 street on his way from the inn, and noticed 
 that he was tolerably far gone in liquor. The 
 clergyman had seen and spoken with Bell a 
 very few minutes later. 
 
 Chancing to meet the men on their search 
 this morning, Mr. Pine learnt that Josiah Bell 
 was missing. The clergyman always made 
 himself quite at home with the men, whether 
 they belonged to his flock or Avere Wesleyans. 
 He never attempted to interfere in the slightest 
 degree with their form of worship, but he con- 
 stantly strove by friendly persuasion to lead 
 them all away from evil. The Wesleyan 
 minister was obliged to him for it : he him- 
 self was lame, and he could not be so active 
 as he would have liked to be. Mr. Pine did 
 much good, no doubt : but this last affair of 
 the Whistlers, and the idleness in consequence, 
 had been too strong for him. Latterly Mr. 
 Pine had also been in very poor health ; the 
 result of many years' hard work, and no 
 holiday. Dr. Piaynor had now^ told him that 
 an entire rest of some months had become 
 essential ; if he did not take it he would break 
 
EDINA. 109 
 
 down. He was a tall, thin, middle-aged man 
 with a worn face. Particularly worn, it looked, 
 as he stood talking with the group of miners 
 this morning. 
 
 " I saw Bell last evening myself," observed 
 Mr. Pine. " And I was very sorry to see him 
 as I did, for he could hardly walk straight. I 
 was coming off the Plain and met him at its 
 entrance. He had halted, and was gazing 
 about all ways, as if looking for some one : or, 
 perhaps, in doubt — as it struck me — whether 
 he should go on home, or go back whence he 
 had come ; which I supposed was from that 
 favourite resort of yours, my men, the Golden 
 Shaft. ' You had better go^^straight home. 
 Bell,' I said to him. ' I'm going that way, 
 sir,' he answered. And he did go that way : 
 for I stood and watched him well into the Plain." 
 
 *' Well, we caan't find him nohow, sir," ob- 
 served Andrew Float. " What time might that 
 have been, sir, please ? " 
 
 *' Time ? Somewhat past seven. I should 
 think it likely that Bell lay down somewhere to 
 sleep the liquor off," added the clergyman, as 
 he prepared to continue his way. "It is not 
 often Bell exceeds as he exceeded yesterday, 
 and therefore it would take]'more effect upon 
 
110 EDINA. 
 
 him." The Bells, it may as well be said, were 
 church people. 
 
 '' Most likely he have faaled down, as tha 
 paarson says ; but he's a vool for lying there 
 still," observed the men amid themselves, as 
 they turned off to pursue the search. 
 
 Frank Eaynor was out on his round this 
 morning, as usual, and paid a visit to Molly 
 Janes — whom he found going on satisfactorily. 
 In passing Mrs. Bell's window, he saw Rosa- 
 line : hesitated, and then lifted the latch and 
 went in. He stayed there a minute or two 
 talking with her alone, the mother being up- 
 stairs ; and left her with the one word em- 
 phatically repeated, " Remember." 
 
 When Tomson went home to his mid-day meal, 
 he opened Mrs. Bell's door to inform her that 
 there were no tidings of her husband. Dame 
 Bell received the information with incredulity. 
 Much they had searched ! she observed to her 
 daughter, as Tomson disappeared : they had 
 just sat themselves down again at the Golden 
 Shaft ; that was what they had done. Which 
 accusation was this time a libel. She resolved 
 to go and look after him herself when she had 
 eaten her bit of dinner. As to Rosaline, she 
 did not know what to make of her. The girl 
 
EDINA. Ill 
 
 looked frightfully ill, did not speak, and every 
 now and then was seized with a fit of trembling. 
 
 '' Such nonsense, child, to let the Whistlers 
 frighten you into this state ! " cried Mrs. Bell, 
 tartly. 
 
 Eetiring to her room after dinner, she came 
 down by-and-by with her things on. Eosaline 
 looked surprised. 
 
 '' Where are you going, mother ? " 
 
 ''Into Trennach," said Dame Bell. "There's 
 an old saying, ' If you want a thing done, do 
 it yourself.' I shall find your father, I'll be 
 bound, if he is to be found anywhere." 
 
 *' You will be so tired, mother." 
 
 " Be what ? Tired ! Nonsense. Mind you 
 have the tea ready, Eosaline. I shall be sure 
 to bring him back with me ; I'm not going to 
 stand any nonsense : and you might make a 
 nice bit of buttered toast ; it's what he's fond 
 of." 
 
 Stepping briskly across the Plain, Mrs. Bell 
 went onwards. Nothing imparts activity of 
 motion like a little access of temper, and she 
 was boiling over with indignation at her hus- 
 band. The illness from which she was suffer- 
 ing did not deprive her of exertion : and in 
 truth it was not a serious illness yet, though it 
 
112 EDINA. 
 
 might become so. Symptoms of a slow, inward 
 complaint were manifesting themselves, and 
 Dr. Eajmor was doing his best to subdue them. 
 In his private judgment he feared for the result; 
 but Dame Bell did not suspect that yet. 
 
 Dr. Eaynor and his nephew stood in the sur- 
 gery after their mid -day dinner, the Doctor with 
 his back to the fire, Frank handing some pre- 
 pared medicines, for delivery, to the boy, who 
 waited for them. As the latter went out w4th 
 his basket, Blase Pellet ran over the road and 
 came in, apron on, and minus his hat. 
 
 *' Could you oblige us with a small portion of 
 one or two drugs, sir?" he asked of Dr. Eay- 
 nor : mentioning the names of those required. 
 *' We are quite out of them, and our traveller 
 won't be calling before next week. Mr. Float's 
 respects to you, sir, and he'll be much obliged 
 if you can do it." 
 
 '' I daresay we can," replied Dr. EajTior. 
 *' Just see, Frank, will you ? " 
 
 As Frank w^as looking out the drugs, Mr. 
 Pine came in. He was rather fond of running 
 in for a chat with the Doctor and Frank at 
 leisure moments. Frank was an especial 
 favourite of his, with his unaffected good heart 
 and his geniality of nature. 
 
EDINA. 113 
 
 *' A fine state of things, is it not ! " cried the 
 clergyman, with a general nod round, alluding 
 to the idlers in the streets. " Three daj's of it, 
 we have had now." 
 
 ''They will he at work to-morrow, I hear," 
 said the Doctor. '' Has Bell turned up yet ? " 
 
 " No. The men have just told me they don't 
 know where to look for him. They have 
 searched everywhere. It seems strange where 
 he can have got to ? " 
 
 Blase Pellet, standing before the table, wait- 
 ing for the drugs, caught Frank's eye as the 
 last words were spoken. A meaning gaze shot 
 out from Pellet, and Frank Eaynor's face fell 
 as he met it. It plainly said, " You know where 
 he is : " or it seemed to do so to Frank's guilty 
 conscience. 
 
 " The fellow must have seen all ! " thought 
 Frank. " What on earth will come of it ? " 
 
 Some one pushed back the half-open door, 
 and stepped in with a bustling gait and rather 
 sharp tongue : sharp, at least, this afternoon. 
 Dame Bell : in her Sunday Paisley shawl, and 
 green strings to her bonnet. 
 
 " If you please. Dr. Eaynor — I beg pardon, 
 gentlefolks" — catching sight of the clergj^man 
 standing there — " if you please. Doctor, could 
 
 VOL. I. I 
 
114 EDINA. 
 
 you just give me some little thing to quiet 
 Piosaline's nerves. She heard the Seven 
 Whistlers last night, and they have frightened 
 her out of her senses." 
 
 " Heard the Seven Whistlers ! " repeated the 
 clergyman, a hearty smile crossing his face. 
 
 " She did, sir. And pretty near died of it. 
 I'm sure last night I thought she would have 
 died. I'd never have supposed Eosaline could 
 be so foolish. But there ; it is so ; and to-day 
 she's just like one dazed. Not an atom of 
 colour in her face ; cowed down so as hardly 
 to be able to put one foot afore the other ; and 
 every other minute gets a fit of the shivers." 
 
 To hear this astounding account of the 
 hitherto gay, light-hearted, and self-contained 
 Eosaline Bell, surprised the surgery not a little. 
 Dr. Raynor naturally asked for further particu- 
 lars ; and Dame Bell plunged into the history 
 of the previous night, and went through with it. 
 
 "Yes, gentlefolks, those were her very words 
 — almost all we could get out of her : ' Father 
 heard them and they boded death.' I " 
 
 " But you should have tried to reason her 
 out of such nonsense," interrupted Dr. Eaynor. 
 
 *' Me have tried ! " retorted Dame Bell, 
 taking up the words. " Why, sir, it is what I 
 
EDINA. 115 
 
 did do. Me and Nancy Tomson both tried our 
 best ; but all she answered was just what I now 
 tell ye : ' Father heard the Whistlers, and they 
 boded death.' " 
 
 Mr. Blase Pellet, standing with the small 
 packet of drugs in his hand, ready to go, but 
 apparently unable to tear himself away from 
 the narrative, glanced up at Frank with the 
 last words, and again momentarily met his eye. 
 A slight shiver passed through Frank — caught 
 perhaps from hearing of Eosaline's shivers — 
 and he bent his face over a deep drawer, where 
 it could not be seen ; as if in search of some- 
 thing missing. 
 
 " Well, it is a ]Dity Eosaline should suffer 
 herself to be alarmed at anything of the sort," 
 observed Dr. Eaynor ; " but I will send her a 
 composing draught. Are you going home now, 
 Mrs. Bell?" 
 
 " As soon as I can find my husband, sir. 
 I've come in to look for him. Tomson wanted 
 to persuade me that he and Andrew Float and 
 a lot more of them had been hunting after him 
 all the morning ; but I know better. Bell has 
 got inside one of their houses, and there he's 
 sleeping the fumes of drink off." 
 
 " The men have just told me they can't find 
 
116 EDINA. 
 
 him," said the clergyman. '' I know they 
 have been searching." 
 
 " There's an old saying, sir, * If you want a 
 thing done, do it yourself.' I repeated it to 
 Eose before I came out. Fine searching, I've 
 no doubt it has been ! — the best part of it 
 inside the Golden Shaft. I'm going to look 
 him up myself — and if you please, Dr. Eaynor, 
 I'll make bold to call in, as I go back, for the 
 physic for Eosaline." 
 
 Unbelieving Mrs. Bell departed. Blase 
 Pellet followed her. Dr. Eaynor told Frank 
 what to make up for Eosaline, and then he 
 himself w^ent out with Mr. Pine. 
 
 A few minutes afterwards, Edina softly 
 opened the surgery door, and glanced in. She 
 generally came cautiously, not knowing whether 
 patients might be in it or not. But there was 
 only Frank. And Frank had his arms on the 
 desk, and his head buried on them. The 
 attitude certainly told of despondency, and 
 Edina stood in astonishment : it was so unlike 
 the gay-hearted young man. 
 
 " Why, Frank ! What is the matter ? " 
 
 He pulled himself up with a start, and 
 stared, bewildered, at Edina : as if his thoughts 
 bad been far away, and he could not all in a 
 
EDINA. 117 
 
 moment bring them back again. Edina saw 
 the trouble in his unguarded face, but he 
 smoothed it away instantly. 
 
 " You have not seemed at all yourself since 
 last night, Frank," said she in a low tone, as 
 she advanced further into the room. " Some- 
 thing or other has haj^pened, I am sure. Is it 
 anything that I can set right ? — or help you 
 in?" 
 
 " Now, Edina, don't run away with fancies," 
 rejoined he, as gaily as though he had not a 
 care in the world. " There's nothing at all the 
 matter with me. I suppose I had dropped 
 asleep over the physic. One does not stay out 
 raking till three o'clock in the morning every 
 day, you know." 
 
 " You cannot deceive me, Frank," rejoined 
 Edina, her true, thoughtful eyes fixed earnestly 
 upon him. " I — I cannot help fancying that 
 it is in some way connected with Kosaline Bell," 
 she added, lowering her voice. " I ho23e you 
 are not getting into any entanglement : falling 
 in love with her ; or anything of that kind ? " 
 
 " Not a bit of it," readily answered Frank. 
 *' Well, Frank, if I can do anything to aid 
 you in any way, you have only to ask me ; you 
 know that," concluded Edina, perceiving he was 
 
118 EDINA. 
 
 not inclined to speak. '' Always remember 
 this much, Frank : that in any trouble or per- 
 plexity, the best course is, to look it straight in 
 the face, freely and fully. The doing so takes 
 away half its sting." 
 
 Meanwhile Dame Bell was pursuing her 
 search. But she found that she could not do 
 more than the miners had done tow^ards dis- 
 covering her husband. Into this house, out of 
 that, inquiring here, seeking yonder, went she, 
 but all to no purpose. She was not uneasy, 
 only exasperated : and she gave Mr. Blase 
 Pellet a sharp set-down upon his venturing to 
 hint that there might exist cause for uneasi- 
 ness. 
 
 The setting-down occurred as she was re- 
 turning towards her home. After her unsuc- 
 cessful search, in and out, she was walking 
 back down the street of Trennach in a state of 
 much inward wonder as to where Bell could be 
 hiding himself, and had nearly reached Dr. 
 Kaynor's, when she saw Float the druggist 
 standing at his shop door, and crossed over to 
 enlarge upon the mystery to him. Mr. Blase 
 Pellet came forward, as a matter of course, 
 from his place behind the book counter to make 
 one at the conference. 
 
EDINA. 119 
 
 " Bell is safe to turn up soon," remarked the 
 druggist, who was a peaceful man, after listen- 
 ing to Mrs. Bell for a few minutes in silence. 
 
 *' Turn up ! of course he will turn up," re- 
 plied the dame. " What's to hinder it ? And 
 he will get such a dressing from me that I don't 
 think he'll be for hiding himself again in a 
 hurry." 
 
 Upon that. Blase Pellet, partially sheltered 
 behind the burly form of the druggist, spoke. 
 
 *' Suppose he never does turn up ? Suppose 
 he is dead ? — or something of that kind." 
 
 The suggestion angered Mrs. Bell. She 
 turned to face him, looking beyond Float's 
 shoulder. 
 
 " Are you a heathen. Blase Pellet, to invent 
 such a thought as that ? " she demanded in 
 wrath. " What do you suppose Bell's likely to 
 die from ? — and where ? ' ' 
 
 Leaving" Mr. Pellet to repent of his rashness, 
 she marched over to Dr. Piaynor's to get the 
 composing draught ^^^'o^ised for Piosaline. 
 And when Mrs. Bell went home with it she 
 fully expected that by that time the truant 
 would have made his appearance there. 
 
 But he had not done so. Piosaline had -pre- 
 pared the tea and toast, according to orders, 
 
120 EDINl. 
 
 Ijut no Bell was there to partake of it. Nanc}' 
 Tomson shared it instead. All the rest of the 
 evening Dame Bell was looking out for him ; 
 and exchanging suggestions with her neigh- 
 hours, w^ho kept droi:>ping in. Kosaline scarcely 
 spoke : not at all unless she was spoken to. 
 The same cold white hue sat on her face, the 
 same involuntary shiver shook momentarily at 
 times her frame. The gossips gazed at her 
 with curiosit}^ — as a specimen of the fright 
 those dreaded Whistlers had power to inflict. 
 
 They sat up again half the night, waiting 
 for Bell, hut waiting in vain ; and then they 
 went to rest. Mrs. Bell did not sleep as well 
 as usual : she was disturhed with douhts of 
 where he could be, and by repeated fancyings 
 that she heard his step outside. Once she got 
 up, ojDened the casement, and looked out ; but 
 there was nothing to be seen, save the great 
 Bare Plain lying bleak and silent under the 
 silver moonlight. 
 
121 
 
 CHAPTEE VI. 
 
 DINING AT THE MOUNT. 
 
 WHEN another day dawned upon Trennach, 
 and still the absent man, Josiah Bell, 
 had not returned, his wife's exasperation gave 
 place to real anxiety. She could not even 
 guess what had become of him, or where he 
 could be. Suspicion was unable to make itself 
 a loop-hole to creep into in any particular 
 quarter ; not a shadow of foundation did there 
 appear for it. Had the man taken refuge in 
 any of the miners' houses, as she had supposed, 
 there he would still be ; but there he was not. 
 Had he stretched himself somewhere on the 
 Bare Plain to sleep off the stupidity arising 
 from the liquor, as suggested by Mr. Pine, there 
 he would have been found. Xo : the miners' 
 dwellings and the Plain were alike guiltless of 
 harbouring him ; and Mrs. Bell was puzzled 
 nearly out of her wits. 
 
 It cannot be said that as yet fear assailed 
 
122 EDINA. 
 
 her of any fatal accident or issue. The 
 mystery of where her husband could be was a 
 great mystery, at present utterly unaccount- 
 able ; but she never supposed but that it would 
 be solved by his re-appearance sooner or later. 
 And she would have been quite ready to have 
 put down any hint of the kind, as she had put 
 down Mr. Pellet's hint the previous day. Mrs. 
 Bell fully believed that this day would not pass 
 without bringing him home : and she was up 
 with the lark, and down before Kosaline, in the 
 anticipation of it. 
 
 The miners had returned to their work again 
 this morning, and to their usual habits of 
 sobriety : all things were quiet out of doors. 
 The world was going on in its old quiet groove ; 
 just as though, save for the absence of Bell, no 
 ill-omened flock of Whistlers had come to raise 
 a commotion in it. 
 
 This had been another night of sleeplessness 
 for Eosaline, another prolonged interval of 
 remorse and terror. She had undressed the 
 previous night, and got into bed ; and there 
 she lay until morning, living through her fits 
 of despondency, and striving to plan out the 
 future. To stay at Trennach would, she felt, 
 be simply impossible ; if she did, she should 
 
EDINA. 123 
 
 die of it ; she firmly believed that only to pass 
 by the Bottomless Shaft again, and look at it, 
 would kill her. Discovery must come, she 
 supposed, sooner or later ; but she dared not 
 stay in the place to face it. 
 
 Mrs. Bell was a native of Warwickshire. 
 Her sister had married a Cornish man, who 
 kept a shop in Falmouth. His name was 
 John Pellet, and he was cousin to Blase Pellet's 
 father. So that in point of fact there was no 
 relationship between the Bells and Blase, 
 although Blase enlarged upon their ' ' cousin- 
 ship," and Eosaline admitted it. They were 
 only connections. Mrs. Pellet had a small 
 business as a milliner : she had no children, 
 and could well attend to it. She and her hus- 
 band, what with his trade and her work, were 
 very comfortably off. She was fond of Piosaline, 
 and frequently had her at Falmouth. It was 
 to this refuge that Piosaline's thoughts were 
 now turned. She determined to go to it with- 
 out delay. But so many neighbours came in 
 during breakfast, inquiring after Bell, that she 
 found no opportunity to speak of it then. 
 
 '' Mother," she said, coming into the kitchen 
 after attending to the upstairs rooms, Mrs. 
 Bell having this morning undertaken to put 
 
124 EDINA. 
 
 away the breakfast things, '' mother, I thiuk I 
 shall go to Falmouth." 
 
 " Go where?" cried Dame Bell in her sur- 
 prise. 
 
 "To Aunt Pellet's." 
 
 ** Why, what on earth has put that into your 
 head, Eose ? " demanded Mrs. Bell, after a pro- 
 longed pause of amazement. 
 
 Rosaline did not answer immediately. She 
 had caught up the brass ladle, that chanced to 
 lie on the table, and a i^iece of wash-leather 
 from the knife-box, and was rubbing away at 
 the ladle. 
 
 '' Aunt will be glad to see me, mother. She 
 alwaj^s is." 
 
 " Glad to see you ! What of that ? Why 
 do 3^ou want to go just now ? — And what are 
 you polishing up that ladle for?" went on 
 Mrs. Bell, uniting the two grievances together. 
 *' They brasses and tins had a regular cleaning 
 last Saturday, for I gave it 'em myself." 
 
 Again Rosaline did not speak. As Mrs. 
 Bell glanced at her, waiting for some rejoinder, 
 she was struck with the girl's extreme pallor, 
 her look of utter miser}'. Rosaline burst into 
 tears. 
 
 *' Oh, mother, don't hinder me ! " she cried 
 
EDINA. 125 
 
 imploringly, dropping the ladle on the bricks 
 with a clatter, and raising her hands in sup- 
 plication, "I can't stay here. I must go 
 away." 
 
 " You are afraid of hearing the Seven 
 AVhistlers again ! " 
 
 " Let me go, mother; let me go !" piteously 
 sobbed Eosaline. And her mother thought she 
 had never seen anybody in so deplorable a 
 state of agitation before. 
 
 " Well, well, child, we'll see," said the dame, 
 too much concerned to oppose. *' I wish the 
 Whistlers had been somewhere. It is most 
 unreasonable to let them take hold of your 
 nerves in this way. A bit of an absence will 
 put you all right again, and drive the thoughts 
 out of your head. You shall go for a week, 
 child, as soon as your father comes home." 
 
 '' I must go to-day," said Eosaline. 
 
 '^Go to-day ! " 
 
 *' Don't keep me, mother," besought Eosa- 
 line. " You don't know what it is for me here. 
 These past two nights I never closed my eyes ; 
 no, not for a moment. Let me start at once, 
 mother ! oh mother, let me go ! I shall have 
 brain fever if I stay." 
 
 '' Well, I never ! " cried Mrs. Bell, better 
 
126 EDINA. 
 
 words failing lier to express her astonishment. 
 *' I never did think you could have put yourself 
 into this unseemly fantigue, child ; no, not for 
 all the Whistlers in the air. As to starting off 
 to Falmouth to-day, why, you could not have 
 your things ready." 
 
 " They can he ready in half an hour," 
 returned Rosaline eagerly, her lips feverish 
 with excitement. " I have already put them 
 together." 
 
 " Well, I'm sure ! — taking French leave, in 
 that way, before you found whether you might 
 go or not ! There, there ; don't begin to cry 
 and shake again. There's an afternoon train. 
 And — and perhaps your father will be in before 
 
 that." 
 
 ''It is the best train I could go by," said 
 Rosaline, turning to hang up the pohshed brass 
 ladle on its hook by the dresser. 
 
 ''It's not the best; it's the worst," contra- 
 dicted Dame Bell. " Not but what it may be 
 as well if you do go. I'm ashamed of the 
 neighbours seeing you can be so silly and super- 
 stitious. — The train does not get into Falmouth 
 till night time." 
 
 " Oh, yes, it does," said Rosaline, anxiously : 
 " it gets in quite early enough. Why, mother, 
 
EDINA. 127 
 
 I shall be at Aunt Pellet's soon after dark." 
 And she crossed the kitchen with a quicker step 
 than had been seen since that past miserable 
 Tuesday night, and opened the staircase door. 
 
 "And suppose your father does not come 
 home first ? " debated Mrs. Bell, not much 
 pleased at the tacit leave she had given. "How 
 will you reconcile yourself to go away in the 
 uncertainty, Eose ? " 
 
 Eose did not answer. She only ran up the 
 stairs, shutting the door behind her. " What 
 in the world does ail the child ? " exclaimed 
 Dame Bell, considerably put out. " It's my 
 belief the fright has turned her head. Until 
 now she has always laughed at such things." 
 
 But Mrs. Bell made no further oi^position to 
 the journey. A discerning woman in most 
 kinds of sickness, she recognised the fact that 
 change of some sort might be necessary for 
 Eosaline. Still Bell did not return, and still 
 the day went on. 
 
 In the afternoon Eosaline was ready to start, 
 with a band-box and hand-bag. Nancy Tom- 
 son had volunteered to accompany her to the 
 station. 
 
 "I might perhaps have managed the walk 
 to the train ; I don't know ; it's a goodish step 
 
128 EDINl. 
 
 there and back," said Dame Bell, as Eosaline 
 stood before her, to say good-bj^e. " But you 
 see, child, I want to wait in for your father, 
 rd not like him to find an empty house on 
 his return." 
 
 Eosaline burst into a fit of sobbing, and laid 
 hold of her mother as if she were seeking pro- 
 tection from some terror. And once again 
 Mrs. Bell was puzzled, and could not make her 
 out at all. 
 
 " Oh, mother dear, take care of yourself ! 
 take care of yourself ! And forgive me for all 
 the ill I have ever done. Forgive, forgive me ! " 
 
 " Goodness bless me, child, there's nothing 
 to forgive that I know of ! " testily cried Dame 
 Bell, not accustomed to this kind of sensational 
 leave-taking. " I shall take care of myself ; 
 never fear. Mind you take care of yourseli, 
 Kose : them steam railways be risky things to 
 travel by : and give my love to your aunt and 
 respects to Pellet." 
 
 " And we hed better be going," put in Nancy 
 Tomson, who had got on her Sunday cloak and 
 bonnet for the occasion. " They trains don't 
 waait for nobody." 
 
 They were in ample time for this one : per- 
 haps Eosaline had taken care of that: arriving, 
 
EDINA. 129 
 
 in fact, twenty minutes too soon. Eosaline 
 got into it when it came up, and was steamed 
 away. 
 
 In returning, Nancy Tomson saw Frank 
 Eaynor. He was on horseback; riding along 
 very leisurely. 
 
 " Good day," said he, nodding to her in 
 passing. '' Been out gallivanting ?" he added 
 in his light way. 
 
 *' I heve been a-seeing Eosaline Bell off by 
 one o' they trains, sir," answered the woman. 
 And Frank checked his horse as he heard it 
 and sat as still as a statue. 
 
 " Where has she gone to ? " 
 
 " Off on a maggot to Falmouth. They 
 "Whistlers went and give her a prime fright, 
 sir : she heve hardly done shaking yet, and 
 looks as gashly as you please. ' She heve 
 gone to her aunt's to forget it." 
 
 " Oh, to be sure," carelessly assented Frank : 
 and rode on. 
 
 A few minutes afterwards, '^hen near Tren- 
 nach, he met Mrs. St. Clare's carriage ; her- 
 self, two ladies, and Lydia seated within it. 
 The coachman pulled up by orders. Of course 
 Frank had to do the same. 
 
 '* Have you been to the Mount, Mr. Eaynor?" 
 
 VOL. I. K 
 
130 EDINA. 
 
 "No, I have been across to rendon," he 
 answered, keeping his hat off ; and the breeze 
 took advantage of that to stir the waves of his 
 bright hair. 
 
 " This makes two days that we have seen 
 nothing of you," said Mrs. St. Clare. " You 
 have not been near us since Tuesday night." 
 
 A faint flush passed over his face. He 
 murmured something about having been very 
 busy himself — concluded they were occupied : 
 but he spoke in a rather confused manner, 
 not at all like the usual ready one of Frank 
 Eaynor. 
 
 "Well, we shall see you this evening, Mr. 
 Raynor. You are coming to dine with us." 
 
 Very hastily he declined the invitation. 
 "I cannot come, thank you," he said. "I 
 shall have patients to see, and must stay at 
 home." 
 
 "But you must come; j^ou are to come," 
 rejoined Mrs. St. Clare. " I have seen Dr. 
 Eaynor, and he has promised that you shall. 
 Finally, Mr. Eaynor, you will very much oblige 
 me by doing so." 
 
 AYhat further objection could Frank make ? 
 None. He gave the required assent, together 
 with a sweeping bow, as the carriage drove on. 
 
EDINA. , 131 
 
 " What a bright-looking, handsome man ! " 
 exclaimed one of the ladies to Mrs. St. Clare. 
 " I really do not remember, though, to have 
 seen him the night of the ball, as you say I 
 did." 
 
 " Oh, he stuck himself in a corner all the 
 night," put in Lydia. '*' I don't believe he 
 came out of it once, or danced at all." 
 
 "He is too good-looking for a doctor. I 
 should tremble for my daughters' hearts." 
 
 " Being a doctor, there is, I hope, no cause 
 for me to tremble for the hearts of mine," 
 haughtily rejoined Mrs. St. Clare. " Xot but 
 that he is of fairly good family and expecta- 
 tions : the eldest son of Major Eaynor and the 
 heir to Eagles' Nest. 
 
 Mrs. St. Clare, unconsiciousl}- to herself, was 
 not altogether correct in this statement. But 
 it may go for the present. 
 
 Frank rode home. Dr. Eaynor was out ; 
 and he went into the parlour to Edina. She 
 sat in the bow window, darning stockings. 
 
 " Why did Uncle Hugh i^romise Mrs. St. 
 Clare that I should dine at the Mount to- 
 night •? Do you know, Edina ? " 
 
 '•' Because she invited you, I suppose. I 
 saw the carriage at the door and papa stand- 
 
132 EDINA. 
 
 ing at it as he talked to them. Don't you 
 care to go ? " 
 
 '' Not this evening — particularly." 
 
 '* Pai3a just looked in here afterwards and 
 said would I tell you that you were to dine at 
 the Mount. I thought you w^ere fond of dining 
 there, Frank." 
 
 " So I am sometimes. Where is Uncle 
 Hugh?" 
 
 " He has been sent for to the parsonage. 
 Mr. Pine is not well." 
 
 Again Frank Eaynor — and this time sorely 
 against his will — sat at Mrs. St. Clare's bril- 
 liant dinner table. He could see why she had 
 made so great a point of his coming : but one 
 gentleman was present besides himself. In 
 fact, there was only Frank in all Trennach to 
 fall back upon. Dr. Eaynor never dined out : 
 the Rector pleaded ill-health. Most of the 
 guests who had been staying in the house had 
 left it this morning after their two nights' 
 sojourn : those remaining — General Sir Arthur 
 Beauchamp, Lady Beauchamp, and Miss Beau- 
 champ, and a young married woman, Mrs. 
 Fox — were to leave on the morrow. It fell 
 to Frank's lot to take in Lady Beauchamp : 
 
EDINA. 133 
 
 she it Vi^as \\"bo had expressed doubts of the 
 stability of young bidies' hearts, if exposed to 
 the attractions of Mr. Raynor. Margaret, as 
 it chanced, sat on Frank's left hand ; and 
 Margaret, for the time being, ^Yas supremely 
 happy. 
 
 *' Are you better than you were on Tuesday 
 night, Mr. Eaynor ? " she took occasion to 
 ask him in a whisper, when there was a great 
 buzz of conversation going on. 
 
 '' Better ? I was not " not ill, Frank 
 
 was going to respond in sur^^rise, and then 
 recollected himself. " Oh, thank you, yes, 
 Margaret. I was rather out of sorts that 
 night." 
 
 " Mr. Eaynor, what is this story about some 
 man being lost?" asked Mrs. St. Clare, from 
 the head of the table. '' One of the miners, 
 we hear, has disappeared mysteriously and can- 
 not be found." 
 
 Frank's face flushed hotly, and he would 
 have given the world to avoid the subject. But 
 he could not : he had to relate the particulars. 
 
 " But where is it suj)posed that he can be, this 
 Josiah Bell?" asked the General. "Where 
 should you think he is, Mr. Eaynor ? " 
 
 Perhaps no one at the table, with the excep- 
 
134 EDINA. 
 
 tion of Margaret, noticed that the j^oung sur- 
 geon was somewhat agitated by the topic : 
 that his breath seemed a little laboured as he 
 answered the repeated questions, and that his 
 complexion changed from red. to pale. Mar- 
 garet silently wondered why the disappearance 
 of a miner should affect liim. 
 
 " Are there any old pits, used out and 
 abandoned, that the man could have fallen 
 into?" asked the sensible General. 
 
 A strangely-dark flush now on Frank Eay- 
 nor's face. A strange hesitation in his voice, 
 as he replied. 
 
 " Not — not any — easy of access, I fancy, 
 Sir Arthur." 
 
 " Well, the man must be somewhere, dead 
 or alive. You say it is not at all thought that 
 he would run away." 
 
 *' Oh, no ; his friends say he would not be 
 likely to do that." 
 
 " He has a very beautiful daughter, has he 
 not ? " spoke Lydia to Frank, from the oppo- 
 site side of the table. 
 
 " Yes, she is nice-looking." 
 " Nice-looking is not the word for it, Mr. 
 Raynor — as we are told," persisted Lydia. 
 '* We hear she is strictly, faultlessly beautiful. 
 
EDINA. 135 
 
 Fancy that, for the daughter of a common 
 mining man ! ' ' 
 
 Miss St. Clare's tone seemed to savour of 
 mockery — as her tones often did. Frank, 
 straightforward himself and true-hearted to 
 the core, ans\yered rather warmly. 
 
 " The man has come down in life ; he was 
 not always a common miner : and Eosaline is 
 superior in all ways to her station. She is 
 very beautiful." 
 
 *' You seem to know her well." 
 
 ^' Oh, very well," carelessly replied Frank. 
 
 *' ^Ye should not have been likely to hear of 
 the affair at all : of the man's disappearance, 
 or that he had a daughter who was celebrated 
 for her fine looks : but for mamma's maid," 
 said Lydia, more scornfully ; for in truth she 
 considered it a condescension even to speak of 
 such people. '' Tabitha has relatives in Tren- 
 nach : she paid them a visit this morning, 
 heard the news of the man's being missing, 
 and entertained us with it on her return." 
 
 " I should like to see this Eosaline," spoke 
 Lady Beauchamp. " I am a passionate ad- 
 mirer of beauty. You do, by some rare 
 chance, now and again, find it wonderfully 
 developed in a girl of the lower classes." 
 
136 EDINA. 
 
 ''Well, it is to be hoped the poor man will 
 be found all right," concluded Sir Arthur. 
 
 And, with that, the conversation turned to 
 some other topic — to Frank's intense relief. 
 But Margaret St. Clare still marvelled at the 
 interest he had betrayed : and she was fated 
 to remember it, to her cost, in the time to 
 comCc 
 
137 
 
 CHAPTEK VII. 
 
 edina's romance. 
 
 T N the days gone by there were three of the 
 •^ brothers Piaynor : Francis, Henry, and 
 Hugh. Francis entered the army ; Henry, the 
 Church ; and Hugh, the medical profession. 
 With the two former we have at present nothing 
 to do. Hugh Piaynor passed his examinations 
 satisfactorily, and took all his degrees — thus 
 becoming Dr. Paynor. Chance and fortune 
 favoured him. He was at once taken by the 
 hand by an old doctor who had an excellent 
 practice in May Fair, and became his assistant 
 and his frequent companion. The old doctor 
 had one only child, a daughter, who was just 
 as much taken with Hugh (and he with her) as 
 was her father. They were married ; and on 
 the death of the old doctor shortly afterwards, 
 Dr. Piaynor succeeded to a good deal of the 
 practice. He was quite a 3^oung man still, 
 thoroughly well intentioned, but not so prudent 
 
138 EDINA. 
 
 as he might have been. He and his wife Kved 
 rather extravagantly, and the Doctor sometimes 
 found himself short of ready money. They 
 resided in the same house that had been the 
 old doctor's ; and they, heedlessly, and perhaps 
 unconsciously, made the mistake of beginning 
 where he had left off : that is, they continued 
 their housekeeping on the same scale as his ; 
 maintained the same expenses, horses, car- 
 riages, and entertainments. The result was, 
 that Dr. Eaynor in the course of four or five 
 years found himself considerably involved. In 
 an evil moment, thinking to make money by 
 which to retrieve his fortunes, he embarked his 
 name (and as much money as he could scrape 
 together) in one of the bubble schemes of the 
 day. A scheme which (according to its pro- 
 spectus, and its promoters' stout assertions, and 
 the credulous Doctor's own belief) was safe and 
 sure to realise an immense fortune in no time. 
 Instead of that, it realised poverty and ruin. 
 The scheme failed — the usual result — and Dr. 
 Eaynor found himself responsible for more 
 money than he would ever make in this world. 
 Misfortunes, it has been too often said, do not 
 come alone : Dr. Eaynor proved an example of 
 it. Just before the bubble burst, he lost his 
 
EDINA. 139 
 
 wife ; and the only one element of comfort that 
 crept to him in the midst of his bitter grief for 
 her, was to know that she died before the other 
 blow fell. 
 
 A frightful blow it was, tending well-nigh to 
 utterly prostrate Dr. Eaynor. The angry cre- 
 ditors of the ruthless company took all from 
 him : even to the gold watch upon his person. 
 They sold up his furniture, his books, his car- 
 riages and horses, and everything ; and they told 
 him he might thank their leniency that they did 
 not put him in prison until he could pay up 
 the scores of thousands of pounds they made 
 out he was resj)onsible for. The fact was, the 
 promoters of the company, and those of its 
 directors who possessed funds, had gone over 
 to the Continent ; and there remained only the 
 poor Doctor, innocent and honourable, to pitch 
 upon. 
 
 Turned out of house and home, his name in 
 the public papers, his prospects gone. Dr. Eay- 
 nor felt as though he should be glad to die. He 
 did not even attempt to retain his jDractice, 
 which was a great mistake ; his only care was 
 to get away from the scene of his i)rosperity 
 and hide his humiliated head for ever. His 
 little child, Edina, the onlv one he had, was five 
 
140 EDINA. 
 
 years old ; and for her sake be must try and 
 get a roof over his head and a bit of bread to 
 eat. So he looked out for employment after 
 a while, as far away from London and in as 
 obscure a corner of the land as might be, and 
 obtained it amidst the collieries in North War- 
 wickshire, as assistant to a general practitioner. 
 After remaining there for some years, he heard 
 of an opening at a i)lace in Cornwall. The sur- 
 geon of the place, Trennach, an old man, who 
 wanted to retire, chanced to know Dr. Eaj^nor, 
 and wrote to offer him the succession upon very 
 easy terms. It was accepted, and the Doctor 
 removed to Trennach. The returns from the 
 practice were very small at first, he found, 
 scarcely enabling him to get along, for it lay 
 almost entirely among the poor ; but subse- 
 quently Dr. Eaynor droj^ped into a better class 
 of practice as well, through the death of another 
 surgeon some two or three miles from Trennach. 
 And here, in Trennach, he remained ; a sad and 
 silent man ever since the misfortune of his 
 early days ; and lived as retired a life as might 
 be. His only care, his constant companion, 
 had been his beloved child, Edina. He had 
 trained her to be all that a woman should be : 
 true, earnest, thoughtful, good. ^Mr.i". Pine, 
 
EDINA. 141 
 
 who had no children of her own, [had aided 
 him, and been to Edina ahnost like a second 
 mother. Not many ^yomen in this world were 
 like Edma Eaynor. 
 
 The only sister of the three brothers Eaynor 
 had married a London banker, Timothy Atkin- 
 son, the junior partner in the house of Atkinson 
 and Atkinson. When Edina was two-and- 
 twenty years of age, she w-ent on a visit to 
 her aunt in London. Mr. and Mrs. Timothy 
 Atkinson, who had married rather late in life, 
 were childless ; and in these later years Mrs. 
 Atkinson had become an invalid. She was also 
 eccentric and capricious; and, for the first few 
 days after her arrival, Edina thought she 
 could not enjoy her visit at all. Timothy 
 Atkinson was a sociable little man, but he 
 spent all his time in the business downstah's — 
 for they lived at the banking-house. His 
 cousin, the head and chief, disabled by illness, 
 rarely came to business now; it all lay on 
 Timothy's shoulders. Nobody seemed to have 
 any time to give to Edina. 
 
 But soon a change came. George Atkinson, 
 the son of the elder partner, found out Edina ; 
 and perhaps pitying her loneliness, or out of 
 courtesy, he constituted himself her cavalier. 
 
142 EDINA. 
 
 He was nine or ten years older than Eclina: a 
 good-looking, rather silent young man of middle 
 height and grave courtesy, with a pleasant voice 
 and thoughtful face. He was not strong, and 
 there had been some talk of his having been 
 ordered to travel for his health ; but the death 
 of his mother had intervened and prevented 
 it. But, though a silent man to the world in 
 general, he was eloquent to Edina. At least, she 
 found him so. As though they had been the 
 real cousins that Mrs. Atkinson sometimes 
 called them, he was allowed to take her every- 
 where. To the theatres, the oiDcra, the gardens, 
 to all the shows and sights of London, Edina 
 was entrusted to the care of George Atkinson. 
 Sometimes Mrs. Atkinson was with them; more 
 often she was not. 
 
 And better care he could not have taken 
 of her had she been his cousin or sister, or 
 shown himself more solicitous for her comfort. 
 Honourable in principle, instinctively kind, 
 upright in character, noble in sentiment, there 
 was in George Atkinson a chivalrous devotion 
 to women, that could but betray itself in man- 
 ner and tell upon those on whom it was exer- 
 cised. It told upon Edina. Highly educated, 
 and possessing a fund of general information. 
 
EDINA. 143 
 
 he was a most agreeable companion. Before 
 one half of their few weeks' intercourse to- 
 gether had passed, she had learned to love 
 George Atkinson with a lasting love. 
 
 Many a half hour did he spend talking to 
 her in low, gentle accents of his recently dead 
 mother. His love, his reverence, his still 
 lively grief for her loss, was expressed in the 
 truest and most tender terms. This alone 
 would have taken Edina's heart by storm. She 
 believed there lived not another man in the 
 world who was so true a gentleman, so esti- 
 mable and admirable in all respects as George 
 Atkinson. Indeed he was rather much so, as 
 young men go ; and neither Edina nor any 
 other girl need feel aught but pride at being 
 chosen by him. 
 
 Poor Edina ! It was the one great mistake 
 of her life. While George Atkinson had no 
 ulterior thought of her, hope was whisjDering 
 to her heart the possibility that they might 
 pass their future lives together. And oh, 
 what an Eden it would have been for Edina ! 
 She loved him with all the intensity of a pure 
 young heart ; a heart in its virgin freshness. 
 While he, though no doubt liking her very much 
 indeed ; nay, perhaps even loving her a little 
 
144 EDINA. 
 
 bit just in one corner of his waistcoat ; had no 
 thought, no intentions beyond the present hour. 
 He knew he was not strong ; and he meant to 
 see what travelHng, far and wide, would do to 
 make him so. Consequently the idea of mar- 
 riage had not entered his head. 
 
 It was only the last day of her stay, the one 
 previous to her departure for home, that the 
 revelation came to Edina, and her eyes were 
 opened all too abruptly. They were together 
 in the drawing-room in the half-hour before 
 dinner. Mr. Timothy Atkinson had not come 
 up from the counting-house, his wife was dress- 
 ing in her chamber. It was a lovely day in 
 late spring. Edina stood by one of the open 
 windows, which had been made into a sort of 
 small fernery. The western sunlight was play- 
 ing upon the leaves, and touching her own 
 smooth hair and her fair young face. 
 
 ''It is very beautiful — but I think very 
 delicate," observed Edina, speaking of a new 
 specimen of fern just planted, which they 
 were both looking at. " Do you think it will 
 live?" 
 
 George Atkinson passed his fingers under- 
 neath the small leaf, and somehow they met 
 Edina's ; which were also there. He did not 
 
EDINA. 14 5 
 
 seem to notice tlie momentary contact ; her 
 pulses thrilled at it. 
 
 " Oh yes, Edina, it will live and flourish," 
 he answered. " In six months' time you will 
 see what it will be." 
 
 " You may," she said, smiling. '' It will be 
 a great many more months than six, I suppose, 
 before I am here again. Perhaps it may be 
 years." 
 
 *' Indeed, Edina, you are more likely to be 
 here in six months' time than I am. But for 
 my mother's death and my father's break- 
 ing health, I should have been gone before 
 this." 
 
 " But you will return ? " said Edina. 
 
 " Some time I may. I cannot answer for 
 it." 
 
 " What do you mean, George ? " 
 
 " Not very much," he answered, with a grave 
 and kindly smile in his dark grey eyes. '' An 
 idea crosses my mind now and then, that when 
 once I get into those genial lands, where the 
 skies are blue and the winds temperate, I shall 
 be in no hm*ry to quit them. Of course I don't 
 say that I shall remain there for life ; but — it 
 might happen." 
 
 A pang, sharp as a two-edged sword, struck 
 
 VOL. I. L 
 
146 EDINA. 
 
 Etlina. " What, and abandon 3'our country 
 for ever, and — and home ties ? " 
 
 " As to home ties, Edina, I shall have none 
 then. There is only my father now. Of 
 course my future movements will he regulated 
 with reference to him as long as he is with us. 
 But — I fear — that may not he very much longer. 
 As you know." 
 
 She made a slight movement of assent ; and 
 bent her head lower over the ferns. 
 
 " And I shall not he likely to make home 
 ties for myself," went on George Atkinson, un- 
 conscious of the anguish he was inflicting. " I 
 shall never marry." 
 
 '' Why ? " breathed Edina. 
 
 '' I scarcely know why," he replied after a 
 pause, as if he were searching for the reason. 
 " I have never admitted the thought. I fancy 
 I shall like a life of travel best. And so — when 
 once we part, Edina — and that must be to- 
 morrow, you say, though I think you might 
 have remained longer — it is hard to say when 
 we shall meet again. If we ever do." 
 
 " Halloa, who's here ? Oh, it is jou, George ; 
 and Edina ! Where's your aunt ? Dinner 
 must be nearly ready." 
 
 The . interruption to the silence came from 
 
EDINA. 147 
 
 brisk little Timothy Atkinson, who bounded 
 into the room with quick steps and his shining 
 bald head. 
 
 As Edina turned at his entrance, George 
 Atkinson caught the expression of her face : 
 the strange sadness in its eyes, its hue of 
 pallor. She looked like one who has received 
 a shock. All at once a revelation broke upon 
 him, as if from subtle instinct. For an instant 
 he stood motionless, one hand pushing back 
 his brown hair ; hair that was very much the 
 same shade as Edina's. 
 
 '' It may be better so," he said in a whisper, 
 meeting her yearning eyes with his earnest 
 gaze. " At any rate, I have thought so. Better 
 for myself, better for all." 
 
 The tall, large, portly frame of Mrs. Timothy 
 Atkinson, clothed with rich crimson satin, 
 rolled into the room, and the conversation 
 was at an end. And with it, as Edina knew, 
 her life's romance. 
 
 " God bless you, Edina," George Atkinson 
 said to her the next day, as he attended her to 
 the station with Mr. Timothy, and clasped her 
 hand at parting. " When I return to England 
 in years to come — if ever I do return — I shall 
 find you a blooming matron, with a husband 
 
148 EDINA. 
 
 and a flock of children about you. Fare- 
 well." 
 
 And as Edina sat back in the swiftly-speed- 
 ing railway carriage, not striving, in these the 
 early moments of anguished awaking, to do 
 battle with her breaking heart, she knew that 
 the blow would last her for all time. Dr. 
 Eaynor thought her changed when she arrived 
 at home : he continued to think her so as the 
 days went on. She was more quiet, more 
 subdued : sad, even, at times. He little knew 
 the struggle that was going on within her, or 
 the incessant strivings to subdue the recol- 
 lection of the past : and from henceforth she 
 strove to make duty her guide. 
 
 Never a word was exchanged between father 
 and daughter upon the subject ; but probably 
 Dr. Eaynor suspected somewhat of the truths 
 About a year after Edina' s return from London, 
 a gentleman who lived some few miles from 
 Trennach made her an offer of marriage. It 
 would have been an excellent match for her in 
 all respects ; but she refused him. Dr. Eaynor, 
 perhaps feeling a little vexed for Edina's sake, 
 asked her the cause of her rejection. '' I 
 shall never marry, papa," she answered, her 
 cheek flushing and paling with emotion. 
 
EDINA. 149 
 
 '* Please do not let us ever talk of such a 
 thing ; please let me stay always at home 
 "with you." 
 
 Nothing more was said, then or later. 
 Nobody else came forward to ask for her, and 
 the matter dwindled down into one of the 
 recollections of the past. Edina got over the 
 cruel blow in time, but it exercised an influence 
 upon her still. 
 
 And that had been Edina Eaynor's romance 
 in life, and its ending. 
 
150 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 KOSE-COLOURED DREAMS. 
 
 rFHE sweet spring sunshine lay uiDon Tren- 
 -^ nach, and upon Dr. Eaynor's surgery. 
 Francis Eaynor stood in it, softly whistling. 
 Two sovereigns lay on the square table, amidst 
 the small scales and the drugs and the bottles, 
 and he was looking down upon them inTsome 
 doubt. He wanted to convey this money 
 anonymously to a certain destination, andjhe 
 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 cast no regret 
 after it. 
 
 " I know ! " he suddenly cried, taking up a 
 
 sheet of white paper. '' I'll pack them up in 
 an envelope and direct it to her, and stick a 
 
 stamp on, and get Gale the postman to deliver 
 it on his round. Dame Bell is unsuspicious 
 
 as the diy, a nd will think the money is sent 
 
EDINA. 151 
 
 by Eosaline — as the last was. As to Gale ? — 
 oh, be is ready to do anything for me and 
 Uncle Hugh : be gets bis chilclren doctored for 
 nothing. It's a shame he is paid so badly, 
 poor fellow ! ' ' 
 
 Several weeks bad gone on since the dis- 
 appearance of Josiah Bell, and it was now 
 close upon May. Bell had nes'er 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 sometime, and she believed 
 he would : meanwhile she tried to do the best 
 she could without him. In losing him, she 
 bad lost the benefit of his good wages, and 
 they bad 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 superior way to 
 most of the other miners — but this was not 
 sufficient to keep her of itself. 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 
 
152 EDINA. 
 
 the unmarried miners to lodge, — one of them 
 being Andrew Float, and she began to knit 
 worsted stockings for sale. '* I shall get along 
 till Bell returns," was her cheerful remark to 
 the communit3\ 
 
 Eosaline was still at Falmouth — and meant 
 to remain there. She wrote word that she 
 was helping her aunt with her millinery busi- 
 ness, was already a good hand at it, and 
 received wages, which she intended to transmit 
 to her mother. The first instalment — it was 
 not much — had already come. Frank Piaynor 
 had just called Dame Bell unsusjncious as the 
 day. She was so. But, one curious fact, in 
 spite of the non-tendency to suspicion, was 
 beginning to strike her : that in all the letters 
 written by Eosaline, she had never once men- 
 tioned her father's name, or inquired whether 
 he was found. 
 
 Frank Eaynor, elastic Frank, had recovered 
 his spirits. It was perhaps impossible that 
 one of his light nature and sanguine temj^era- 
 ment 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 to 
 shake off outwardly the weiglrt they had 
 
EDINA. 153 
 
 thrown upon liim, and in manner was himself 
 again. 
 
 Perhaps one thing, that helped him very 
 considerahly to do this, was his changed 
 oj)inion as to the amount of knowledge pos- 
 sessed hy 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 an}" hint to Trennach that he 
 had aught in his power to betray, Frank grew 
 to think that he really jDOssessed it not ; that 
 though the man might vaguely suspect some- 
 thing wrong had occurred that night, he had 
 not witnessed it, and was not actually cog- 
 nisant 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 its signs ; 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. 
 Even with the profits from the two lodgers and 
 
154 EDINA. 
 
 the stockings, and with what Eosaline would 
 be enabled to send, her weekly income would 
 be very much smaller than it used to be. 
 Frank wished with his whole heart that he 
 could settle some money uj^on her, or make 
 her a weekly allowance ; but he was not rich 
 enough for it. He would, however, help her a 
 little now and again in secret — as much as he 
 was able — and hence the destination of the 
 two sovereigns. In secret. It would not do 
 to let her or anyone else know the money 
 came from him, lest the question might be 
 asked. What claim has she u^^on you that you 
 should send it ? 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 under- 
 stood. 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 — 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 
 
EDINA. 155 
 
 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 move- 
 ments. 
 
 Frank Eaynor 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 attend- 
 ance of a doctor than her sister wanted it : but 
 she was eaten up with ennui still, and the dail}', 
 or nearly daily, coming of Frank Piaynor 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 Ulce him : at 
 
156 EDINA. 
 
 any rate his presence was ever welcome. Not 
 that Lydia would have suffered herself to enter- 
 tain any serious thoughts of the young surgeon 
 — hecause he was a surgeon, and therefore far 
 beneath her notice in that way — hut she did 
 recognise the fascination of his companionship, 
 and enjoyed it. Latterly, however, an idea had 
 dawned upon her that somebody else enjoyed it 
 also — her sister — and the suspicion was ex- 
 tremely unwelcome. Lydia was of an intensely 
 jealous dis2)osition. She would not for all the 
 world have condescended to look ujDon Frank 
 Eaynor as a lover, but her jealousy was rising 
 up, 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 nine- 
 teen and her own more experienced age of 
 five-and-twent}" ! She was fond of Daisy, but 
 had not the least intention of being rivalled by 
 her ; and perhaps for the little one'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 
 
EDINA. 157 
 
 their sweet 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, speaking 
 gaze of Frank's blue eyes as they looked into 
 Daisy's ; the shy droop in hers ; and the 
 clinging 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 a one that Mrs. St. 
 Clare lifted her head in surprise. L3-dia's yoice 
 was usually as sui)inely 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 Ije mistak.-n in my sus- 
 picions. But I think I am not. I will assume 
 that I am not." 
 
158 EDINA. 
 
 ''Well, Lydia?" 
 
 '' She and Mr. Eaynor are flirting des- 
 perately." 
 
 Mrs. St. Clare made no reply whatever. 
 Her eyes, fixed on Lydia' s inquiringly, kept 
 their gaze for a moment or so, and then fell 
 on the magazine's pages again. Lydia felt a 
 little astonished : was this indignation or in- 
 difference ? 
 
 " 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 do anything that I 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 
 
 kind." 
 
 " But surely, mamma, you cannot approve 
 of Mr. Eaynor ! Suppose a serious attach- 
 ment 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 
 
EDINA. 159 
 
 that characterised 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. 
 Eaynor's visits here are professional ones. 
 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. 
 Eaynor dined here in the evening. After din- 
 ner 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. Eaynor and Daisy were standing to- 
 gether 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 head- 
 ache, through vexation at those stupid people 
 
160 EDINA. 
 
 not coming!" cried Lydia, angrily. "I had 
 gone upstairs, I suppose, to take my drops. 
 But what did you do, mamma ? Order Mr. 
 Kaynor from the house ? " 
 
 " No. Had I acted on my first impulse, I 
 might have done that, Lydia. But some in- 
 stinct 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 sjoeak hastily; not tlien ; 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 its demerits, and tr}^- 
 ing to balance them, 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." 
 
EDINA. 161 
 
 *' 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, 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 are the Raynors " 
 
 '' Mamma, how can you say so ? " burst 
 forth Lydia. "It is not true. And the Eaynors 
 have always been as poor as church mice." 
 
 "And — I was going to say," went on Mrs. 
 St. Clare with calm 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 ad- 
 vantages 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 weightiest. On the one hand 
 there is his profession, and his want of high 
 connections ; on the other, there is Eagles' 
 
 VOL. I. M 
 
162 EDINA. 
 
 Nest, and there are 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 real 
 lotteries that the old governments put down. 
 For one girl that marries, half a dozen girls 
 do not marry. Is it so, or is it not, 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 jet ? — forgive me for speaking 
 plainly. No. Y^et you have been icait'mg 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 sacri- 
 fice some prejudices in these non-marrjdng 
 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 of pick and choose 
 would have been summarily rejected, it is well 
 to consider it in these. And so, you see, my 
 
EDINA. 163 
 
 dear, why I am letting matters take their course 
 with regard to Daisy and Mr. Eaj'nor." 
 
 " He may mean nothing," dehated 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 
 just 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. AYhen 
 once a girl has had a little love affair in early 
 life, and has got over it, she is alwaj's the 
 more tractable in regard to eligible offers, 
 should they drop in. Xo, 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 di-ift into love with a rubbishing 
 assistant-surgeon." 
 
 " She has already drifted into it, unless I 
 am mistaken," said Mrs. St. Clare, significantly; 
 " has been down deep in it for some little time 
 
164 EDINA. 
 
 past. My eyes were not oi^ened quickly enough ; 
 but since they did oj)en, they have been tole- 
 rably observant, Lydia. Why — do you sujipose 
 I should ^yink at their being so much toge- 
 ther, 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 flower ? 
 Twice that has happened, Lydia, since I have 
 been on the watch : how many times it hap- 
 pened 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 up- 
 stairs taking her drops. Yes, it was all true. 
 And what an idiot she had been not to see it — 
 not to suspect ! 
 
 " We cannot have everything ; we must, as I 
 say, make sacrifices," resumed Mrs. St. Clare. 
 '' I could have wished that Mr. Eaynor was 
 not in the medical profession, especially in the 
 lower branch of it. Of course at present he 
 
EDIXA. 165 
 
 can only be regarded as entirely 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 into a \yorking aiDothecary ! It is per- 
 fectly incongruous." 
 
 " It seems so," said Mrs. St. Clare. " I 
 conclude there must have been some particular 
 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 and successor. 
 The Major is already getting in years : Frank 
 will soon come in." 
 
 "As to that old Mrs. Atkinson, she must 
 intend to live to be a hundred," remarked 
 Lydia, tartly. '' How many centuries is it 
 since we saw her in London ? — and she was 
 aged 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 
 
166 EDINA. 
 
 be generous enough to let somebody 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 daresay we shall be the same 
 if we live." 
 
 From this conversation, it will be gathered 
 that the check thrown upon Frank Eaynor's 
 pleasant intercourse with Margaret St. Clare 
 b}' the unknown calamity (unknown to the 
 world) that had so mysteriously and suddenly 
 hai:)pened, had been but transitory. For a 
 week or two afterwards, Frank had paid none 
 b it strictly professional visits to the Mount ; 
 had just been 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 temj)erament recovered its elasticity, 
 and his sanguine spirits resumed their sway, 
 his lightness and 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 
 
EDINA. 107 
 
 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 Kaynor, never famous for fore" 
 sight 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 de- 
 ductions 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 
 leaving excuse or apology behind him. In his 
 assumption of Mrs. St. Clare's tacit encourage- 
 ment, he believed excuse to be no longer 
 necessary. Clouds of purple and crimson, 
 flecked with gold, crowded the west ; lighting 
 
168 EDINA. 
 
 up Daisy's face, as they stood side by side lean- 
 ing 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 sometime we may see them to- 
 gether." 
 
 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 sum- 
 mer," whispered Daisj'. "1 do not know 
 whether it will be to Italy." 
 
 *' I hope she will not take you ! " 
 
 "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, tiaspod tenderly, lay in his. 
 Her whole frame thrilled as the hand rested 
 there. 
 
EDINA. 169 
 
 " Shall you always stay on at Trennach ? " 
 she questioned, in a low tone. 
 
 '' Stay on at Trennach ! " he rej^eated, in 
 surprise. " I ! Why, Dais}-, I hope to he 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 study with M.D. on 
 their door-plate, and believe themselves qualified 
 to cure the world. It is kill or cure, ha^:)- 
 hazard, with some of them." 
 
 "And — when you leave Trennach?" she 
 asked, her clear eyes, clear this evening as any 
 amber, gazing out afar, as if she would fain see 
 into the future. 
 
 "Oh, it will be all right when I leave Tren- 
 nach ; I shall get along well," returned Frank, 
 in his light, sanguine fashion. " I — I don't 
 care to praise myself, Dais}^ 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 per- 
 haps set up on my own account in that de- 
 sirable quarter." 
 
 The bright hope of anticipation lighted 
 
170 EDINA. 
 
 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 Sj^irit 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 car- 
 riages 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 de- 
 grees, leaving the grey twilight in their stead. 
 Before them lay the sloj)ing landscape, not a 
 living soul to be seen on it ; immediately be- 
 hind them was the grove of laurels, shutting 
 themselves out from view. In this favour- 
 able isolation, Frank passed his> arm around 
 Daisy's waist, and drew^ her face to his 
 breast. 
 
EDINA. 171 
 
 '' Nothing shall ever separate us, Dais3\ 
 Nothing in this world." 
 
 "Nothing," she murmured, speaking be- 
 tween 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 reluc- 
 tantly away 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 vou think she does sanction it '? " 
 exclaimed Daisy, drawing a deep breath. 
 
 " Why, of course she does," replied Frank, 
 speaking in accordance with his assured 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." 
 
 The 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 them- 
 
172 EDINA. 
 
 selves with the tea-cups. It awoke Mrs. St. 
 Chare. She drew her chah' at once to the tea- 
 tahle. Frank pushed Lydia's light couch to- 
 wards it. 
 
 '* We were speaking to-day of Eagles' Nest," 
 ohserved Mrs. St. Clare — and she really did not 
 introduce the suhject with any ulterior view; 
 simply as something to talk of. " It's a very 
 nice place, is it not ? " 
 
 ''Very — hy 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 heen invited, except 
 the Major. And he has not heen 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 he very old." 
 
 "About seventy-four, I believe." 
 
 " Not more than that ! I thought she w^as 
 ninety." 
 
 " I was saying to-day," put in L^-dia, " that 
 those old people ought to give up their estates 
 
EDINA. 173 
 
 to the heir. It is unreasonable to kee-p Major 
 Eaynor so long out of his own." 
 
 Frank smiled. " He would be very glad if 
 she did give it up, I daresay ; but I don't know 
 about the justice of it. Elderly j^eople, as a 
 rule, cling to their homes. I once knew an old 
 lady, who was unexpectedly called upon to give 
 up her 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. Eaynor, j/ou will not be 
 kept out of it so long when it comes to your 
 turn," remarked Mrs. St. Clare : '' for I sup- 
 pose the Major is nearly as old as Mrs. Atkin- 
 son." 
 
 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 vou are his eldest son." 
 
174 EDINA. 
 
 Frank laughed outright. Freely and can- 
 didly he answered — with never a thought of 
 reserve. 
 
 *' My dear lady, I am not Major Eaynor'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 Eaynor ? " 
 
 " No, I am his nephew. My father was the 
 clergyman." 
 
 " I — I have heard Major Eaynor 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. 
 
175 
 
 CHAPTEE IX. 
 
 PLANNING OUT THE FUTURE. 
 
 TT has been already said that there were 
 -*- originally three of the brothers Raynor : 
 Francis, who was an officer in Her Majesty's 
 service ; Henry the clergj'man ; and Hugh the 
 doctor. The youngest of these, Hugh, was the 
 first to marry by several years ; the next to 
 marry was Henry. Henry might have married 
 earlier, but could not afford it : he waited until 
 a living was given to him. In the pretty 
 country rectory attached to his church, he and 
 his wife lived for one brief year of their married 
 life : and then she died, leaving him a little 
 boy-baby, who was named Francis after the 
 clergyman's eldest brother. Some ten years 
 subsequently the Eeverend Henry Ea^'nor him- 
 self died : and the little boy was an orphan, 
 possessed of just sufficient means to educate 
 him and give him a start in life in some not 
 too costly profession. "When the time came, he 
 
176 EDINA. 
 
 chose that of medicine, as his Uncle Hugh had 
 done before him. 
 
 The eldest of the three brothers was the last 
 to marry : Captain Eaynor. He and his young 
 wife led rather a scrambling sort of life for 
 some years afterwards, always in a puzzle how 
 to make both ends of their straitened income 
 meet : and then a slice of good fortune (as the 
 Captain regarded it) befell him. Some distant 
 relative left him an annuity of five hundred a 
 year. Five hundred a year certain, in addition 
 to his pay, seemed like riches to the Captain : 
 while his unsophisticated and not too-well- 
 managing wife thought they were clear of shoals 
 for life. 
 
 Very close upon this, the Captain shot up a 
 step in rank, and obtained his majority. This 
 was succeeded by a very long and severe attack 
 of illness ; and the Major, too hastily deciding 
 that he should never be again fit for active ser- 
 vice, sold out. He and his wife settled down 
 in a pretty cottage-villa, called Spring Lawn, in 
 the neighbourhood of Bath, living there and 
 bringing up their children in much the same 
 scrambling sort of fashion that they had pre- 
 viously lived. No order, no method ; all good- 
 hearted carelessness, good-natured improvi- 
 
EDINA. 177 
 
 (lence. Just as it had been in their earlier 
 days, so it was now : thev never knew where to 
 look for a shilling of ready money. That it 
 would be so all through life with Major Eaynor, 
 whatever might be the amount of his income, 
 was pretty certain : he was sanguine, off-hand, 
 naturally improvident. The proceeds from the 
 sale of his commission had all vanished, chiefly 
 in paying back debts ; the five hundred a year 
 was all they had to live upon, and that five 
 hundred would die with the Major : and, in 
 short, they seemed to be worse off' now than 
 before the annuity came. Considering that 
 they spent considerably more than the five 
 hundred yearly, and yet had no comfort to 
 show for it, and that debts had gathered again 
 over the Major's head, it was little to be won- 
 dered at that they were not well off. The 
 Major never gave a thought to consequences : 
 debt sat as lightly upon him as though it had 
 been a wreath of laurel leaves. If he did feel 
 slightly worried at times, what mattered it : he 
 should, sooner or later, come into Eagles' Nest, 
 when all things would be smooth as glass. A 
 more prudent- minded man than the Major 
 might have seen cause to entertain a doubt of 
 the absolute certainty of the estate coming to 
 
 VOL. I. ' N 
 
178 EDINA. 
 
 liirn. lie did not ; he looked upon the inherit- 
 ance of it as sure and certain. 
 
 The reader has probahly not forgotten Mr. 
 and Mrs. Timothy Atkinson — at whose house 
 Edina had stayed so many years ago. Changes 
 had taken place since then. Both the partners 
 in the bank, Timothy and his cousin (they 
 were but second cousins) were dead : and the 
 firm had long been Atkinson and Street. For, 
 upon the death of the two old men, Mr. George 
 Atkinson, their sole successor, took his manag- 
 ing clerk, Edwin Street, into partnership. The 
 bank was not one of magnitude — I think this 
 has been already said — only a small, safe, 
 private one. The acting head of it was, to all 
 intents and purposes, Edwin Street : for Mr. 
 George Atkinson passed the greater portion of 
 his time abroad, making a visit home only 
 every two or three years. George Atkinson 
 was well off, and did not choose to worry him- 
 self with the cares of business : had the bank 
 been given up to-morrow, he would have had 
 plenty of money without it. 
 
 During his later life, Mr. Timothy Atkinson 
 had invested the chief portion of his savings 
 in the purchase of an estate in Kent, called 
 Eagles' Nest. He was not a rich man, as 
 
EDINA. 179 
 
 bankers go, never having been an equal i^artner 
 in the firm ; drawing from it in fact but a 
 small share. His death at the last was some- 
 what sudden, and occurred during one of his 
 sojourns at Eagles' Nest. Mrs. Atkinson, his 
 widow ; not less portly than of yore, and still 
 much of an invalid ; summoned her two 
 brothers to attend the funeral : Major Raynor 
 from Bath, Dr. Eaynor from Trennach. The 
 Major went up at once : Dr. Eaynor sent a re- 
 fusal ; his plea of excuse, no idle one, being 
 that he could not leave his patients. The 
 season was one of unusual sickness, and he had 
 not anyone to take his place. This refusal 
 Mrs. Atkinson, never a very genial-natured 
 woman, or at all cordial with her brothers, 
 resented. 
 
 When Mr. Timothy Atkinson's will was 
 opened, it was found that he had left every- 
 thing he possessed to his wife unconditionally. 
 Consequently the estate was now at her own 
 disposal. Though a pretty, compact property, 
 it was not a large one : worth some two 
 thousand a year, but capable of great improve- 
 ment. 
 
 On the day following the funeral, Mrs. 
 Atkinson went up to her house in London, the 
 
180 EDINA. 
 
 Major accompan^'ing her. There she found 
 George Atkinson, who had just arrived in 
 Enghmd ; which was to her an agreeable sur- 
 prise. He had always been a favourite of hers, 
 and he would be useful to her just now. 
 
 " I shall leave it to you, George," she sud- 
 denly observed one morning, a few days subse- 
 quent to this, as they sat together looking over 
 letters and papers. 
 
 '* Leave what to me, aunt ? " For he had 
 called! her " aunt " in the old days, and often 
 did so still. 
 
 '^ Eagles' Nest." 
 
 George Atkinson laid down the bundle of 
 letters he was untying, and looked questioningly 
 at the old lady, almost as though he doubted 
 her words. 
 
 " I am sure you cannot mean that." 
 
 " Why can't I mean it, pray ? " 
 
 " Because it is a thing that you must not 
 think of doing. You have near relatives in your 
 brothers. It is they who should benefit by 
 your will." 
 
 " My brothers can't both inherit the place," 
 retorted the old lady. 
 
 '' The elder of them can — Major Eaynor." 
 
 " I* like you better, George, than I like him." 
 
EDINA. 181 
 
 " I am very glad you like me — but not that 
 your liking for me should render you unjust to 
 your family," he returned, firmly hut gently. 
 *' Indeed, dear Mrs. Atkinson, to prefer me to 
 them, -^ouldhe an act of the greatest injustice." 
 
 " My will ought to be made at once," said the 
 old lady. 
 
 " Certainly. And I hope you will not as 
 much as mention my name in it," he added 
 with a smile. " I have so very much of my 
 own, you know, that a bequest from you would 
 be altogether superfluous." 
 
 The conversation decided Mrs. Atkinson. 
 She sent for her lawyer, Mr. John Street, and 
 had her will drawn up in favour of Major 
 Raynor. Legacies to a smaller or larger 
 amount were bequeathed to a few people, but 
 to Major Raynor was left Eagles' Xest. Her 
 brother Hugh, poor Dr. Raynor of Trennach, 
 was not mentioned in it : neither was Edina. 
 
 The will was made in duplicate : Mrs. 
 Atkinson desired her solicitor to retain posses- 
 sion of one copy ; the other she handed to 
 Major Raynor. She affixed her own seal to the 
 envelope in which the will was enclosed, but 
 allowed him first to read it over. 
 
 '' I don't know how to thank you, Ann, for 
 
182 EDINA. 
 
 this," said the Major, the tears of genuine 
 emotion resting on his eyelashes. " It "will be 
 good news for Mary and the young ones." 
 
 " Well, I'm told it's the right thing to do, 
 Frank," answered the old lady : who was older 
 than any of her brothers, and had liked to 
 domineer over them in early life. " I suppose 
 it is." 
 
 So Major Eaynor went home to Spring Lawn 
 with the will in his jDOcket ; and he considered 
 that from that hom^ all his embarrassments were 
 over. And Mrs. Atkinson gave up her house in 
 London, and stationed herself for life at Eagles' 
 Nest. \ While George Atkinson, after a month's 
 sojourn, went abroad again. 
 
 But now, as ill-fortune had it. Major Eaynor 
 had chanced, since that lucky day, to offend 
 his sister. The year following the making of 
 the will, being in London on some matter of 
 business, he took the opportunity to go down 
 to Eagles' Nest — and went without asking per- 
 mission, or sending word. Whether that fact 
 displeased Mrs. Atkinson, or whether she really 
 did not care to see him at all, certain it was 
 that she was very cross and crabbed with him, 
 her temper almost unbearable. The Major had 
 a hot temper himself on occasion, aud they 
 
EDINA. 183 
 
 came to an issue. A sharp quarrel ensued ; 
 and the Major, impulsive in all he did, quitted 
 Eagles' Nest that same hour. When he reached 
 Spring Lawn, after staying another week in 
 London to complete his business, he found a 
 letter awaiting him from his sister, telling him 
 that she had altered her will and left Eagles' 
 Nest to George Atkinson. 
 
 " Stupid old thing ! " exclaimed the Major, 
 laughing at what he looked upon as an idle 
 threat. '' As if she'd do such a thing as that ! " 
 For the Major had never had the remotest idea 
 that she had once intended to make George 
 Atkinson her heir. 
 
 And from that hour to this, the Major had 
 not once seriously thought of the letter again. 
 He had never since seen Mrs. Atkinson ; had 
 never but once heard from her ; but he looked 
 upon Eagles' Nest as being as certainly his, as 
 though it were already in his possession. Once 
 every year, at Christmas time, he wrote his 
 sister a letter of good wishes ; to which she did 
 not respond. *'Ann never went in for civil- 
 ities," would observe the Major. 
 
 The one exception was this. When his 
 eldest son, Charles, had attained his sixteenth 
 year, the Major mentioned the fact in his 
 
18-1 EDINA. 
 
 annual letter to his sister. A few days after- 
 wards, down came an answer from her of some 
 half-dozen lines : in which she briefly offered 
 Charles an opening (as she called it) in life : 
 meaning, a clerkship in the hank of Atkinson 
 and Street, which her interest would procure 
 for him. Master Charles, who had far higher 
 notions, as befitted the heir to Eagles' Nest, 
 threw up his head in disdain : and the Major 
 wrote a letter of non-acceptance, as brief as the 
 old lady's offer. With that exception, they had 
 never heard from her. 
 
 The Major and his wife were both incredibly 
 improvident ; he in sjoending money ; she in 
 not knowing how to save it. Yielding and 
 gentle, Mrs. Eaynor fell in with anything and 
 everything done by her husband, thinking that 
 because he did it, it must be right. She never 
 suggested to him that they might save cost 
 here, and cut it off there ; that this outlay 
 would be extravagant, or that unneeded. There 
 are some women really not capable of fore- 
 thought, and Mrs. Eaynor was one of them. 
 A.S to doing anything to advance their own 
 Belf-interest, by cultivating Mrs. Atkinson's 
 favour, both were too single-minded for such an 
 act ; it may be said too strictly honourable. 
 
EDINA. 185 
 
 It was with them, his uncle and aunt, that 
 Frank Eaynor had spent his hoKdays when a 
 boy, and all his subsequent intervals of leisure. 
 They were just as fond of Frank as they were 
 of their own children : he was ever welcome. 
 The Major sometimes called him "my son 
 Frank," when speaking of him with strangers; 
 very often indeed "my eldest boy." As to 
 taking people in by so doing, the Major had no 
 such thought ; but there is no doubt that it did 
 cause many a one, not acquainted with the 
 actual relationship, to understand and believe 
 that Frank was bona fide the Major's son. 
 Possibly their names being the same — Francis 
 — contributed to add to the impression. 
 Amongst those who had caught up the belief, 
 was Mrs. St. Clare. She had occasionally met 
 the Major and Mrs. Piaynor in Bath, though the 
 acquaintanceship was of the slightest. When 
 her son, young St. Clare, came into possession 
 of the Mount, and it was known that she was 
 going to remove there, the Major, meeting her 
 one day near the old pump-room, said to her, in 
 the openness of his heart, " I'll write to Tren- 
 nach to my boy Frank, and tell him to make 
 himself useful to you."' " Oh," returned Mrs. 
 St. Clare, "have you a boy at Trennach ? " 
 
186 EDIXA. 
 
 *' Yes, the eldest of them : he is with his uncle 
 the Doctor," concluded the Major, unsuspi- 
 ciousl}'. Had he thought it would have created 
 mischief, or even a false impression, he would 
 have swallowed the pump-room, pump and all, 
 before he had spoken it. That the Major was 
 the presumptive heir to Eagles' Nest was well 
 known : and Mrs. St. Clare may be excused for 
 having, under the circumstances, carried with 
 her to her new abode the undoubted belief that 
 Frank would succeed him in the estate. 
 
 On the night that the enlightenment took 
 place — when Frank, so candidly and carelessly, 
 disabused Mrs. St. Clare's mind of the impres- 
 sion existing there — he perceived not the chill 
 that the avowal evidently threw upon her. 
 That it should affect her cordiality to him he 
 never could have feared. A more worldly man, 
 or one of a selfish nature, would have seen in a 
 moment that his non-heirship to Eagles' Nest 
 rendered him a less eligible parti for Margaret; 
 but Frank Eaynor was in worldliness, as in 
 selfishness, singularly deficient. And he quitted 
 the Mount when tea was over, quite unconscious 
 that anything had occurred to diminish the 
 favour in which he was held by its mistress. 
 
 Not with that was his mind occupied as he 
 
EDINA. 187 
 
 walked home ; but rather with thoughts of the 
 future. Daisy was to be his ; she had promised 
 it ; and Frank would have taken her to himself 
 to-morrow, could he have provided her with 
 bread ^and cheese. How to do this — at least, 
 what would be the best means of doing it — 
 was puzzling his brain now. 
 
 He took the road home over the Bare Plain. 
 Never, since the enactment of that fatal tragedy, 
 had Frank Piaynor taken it by choice : he 
 always chose the highway. But to-night he 
 had a patient lying ill in the cottages on the 
 Plain ; and Dr. Pia^-nor had said to him, Call 
 in and see Weston, Frank, as you return. The 
 visit paid, he continued his wa}^ homewards. It 
 was a light night : there were neither stars nor 
 moon : but a white haze seemed to shade the 
 sky, and served to light up objects. Frank 
 looked towards the Bottomless Shaft as he 
 passed it ; his fascinated ej^es turning to it of 
 their own accord. Bringing them back with 
 an effort and a shudder, he went onwards at a 
 quicker pace, with his burthensome secret. 
 
 " Will it He there hidden for ever ? " he said 
 to himself, half aloud. " Pray Heaven that it 
 may!" 
 
 Dr. Piaynor was sitting in the small room 
 
188 EDINA. 
 
 behind his surgery, a room chiefly for private 
 consultations with i)atients ; in his hand was 
 a medical journal, which he was reading by 
 lamplight. He put it down when Frank entered. 
 *' I want to ask you something, Uncle Hugh," 
 began Frank, imjDulsively, as though what he 
 was about to say was some glad thing. '' Should 
 I have any difficult}^ do you think, in dropping 
 into a practice when I leave you ? " 
 
 "You do mean to leave me, then, Frank?" 
 returned Dr. Eaynor, without immediately 
 replying to the question. 
 
 " Why, of course I do, Uncle Hugh," said 
 Frank, in slight surprise. " It was always so 
 intended. I came here, you know, for two years, 
 and I have stayed longer than that." 
 
 " And you would not like to stay altogether, 
 and be my partner and successor?" 
 
 *'No," replied Frank, very promptly. "It 
 would be but a poor living for two people ; my 
 share of it very poor, for I could not expect you 
 to give me half. And there are other reasons 
 against it. No, Uncle Hugh, what I want to do 
 is, to jump into some snug little practice in a 
 place where I shall get on. Say in London." 
 
 A smile crossed the more experienced Doctor's 
 lips. Young men are so sanguine. 
 
EDINA. 189 
 
 ''It is not very easy to 'jump into a snug 
 little practice,' Frank." 
 
 " I know that, sir : but there are two ways 
 in which it may be done. One way is, to 
 purchase a share in an established practice ; 
 another, to set up well in some likely situation, 
 with a good house and a plate on the door, and 
 all that, and wait for patients to drop in." 
 
 "But each of those ways requires money, 
 Frank." 
 
 " Oh, of course," acquiesced Frank, with 
 light carelessness, as though money were the 
 most ordinary commodity on earth. 
 
 " Well, Frank, where would you get the 
 money ? You have not saved much, I take 
 it, out of the salary you have from me." 
 
 "I have not saved any: I am never a 
 pound to the good," answered Frank, candidly. 
 *' Clothes cost a good deal, for one thing." 
 
 " When gentlemen dress as you do, and 
 buy their kid gloves by the dozen," said the 
 Doctor, archly. " Well, whence would you get 
 the means to put yourself into practice ? " 
 
 " That's what I want to ask you about, Uncle 
 Hugh. I daresay you remember, when there 
 was so much talk about that will of my Aunt 
 Ann's, that it was said I had a share in it." 
 
190 EDIXA. 
 
 ''Indeed, Frank, I don't. I remember I was 
 told that she bad not left anything to me ; and 
 I really remember no more." 
 
 " Then you cannot tell me what the amount 
 was?" exclaimed Frank, in an accent of 
 disapjDointment. '' I thought perhaps Uncle 
 Francis might have told you." 
 
 Dr. Eaynor shook his head in the negative. 
 '^ I have no idea, Frank, whether it was one 
 pound or. one thousand. Or many thousands." 
 
 " You see, sir, if I knew the exact amount 
 of the sum, I could think upon my plans with 
 more certainty." 
 
 " Just so, Frank. As it is, your plans must 
 be somewhat like castles in the air." 
 
 " I recollect quite well Uncle Francis telling 
 me that I came in for a good slice. That was 
 the phrase : ' in for a good slice.' He had 
 read the will, you know. I wonder he did not 
 mention it to you." 
 
 ''All I recollect, or know, about it is, that 
 Francis wrote me word that nothing was left to 
 me. He said he had remonstrated with Ann 
 — with your aunt — at leaving my name out of 
 the will, and that she ordered him, in return, 
 to mind his own business. I do not care for it 
 myself; I do not, I am sure, covet any of the 
 
EDINA. 191 
 
 money Ann may leave ; though I could have 
 wished she had not quite passed over Edina." 
 
 '' She must have a good deal of money, 
 Uncle Hugh, apart from Eagles' Xest." 
 
 " I daresay she has." 
 
 " And, if Uncle Francis comes in for that 
 money, I should think he would make over the 
 half of it to you. I should, were I in his 
 place." 
 
 '' Ah, Frank," smiled the Doctor, '' people 
 are not so chivalrously generous in this world : 
 even brothers." 
 
 "I should call it justice, not generosity, sir." 
 
 *' If you come to talk of justice, you would 
 also be entitled to your share, as Hem-y's son. 
 He was equally her brother." 
 
 " But I don't expect anything of the kind," 
 said Frank. " Provided I have enough to set 
 me up in practice, that's all I care for." 
 
 " You would not have that until your aunt 
 dies." 
 
 " To be sure not. I am not expecting it 
 before. But what has struck me is this, Uncle 
 Hugh — I have been turning the thing over in 
 my mind as I walked home — that I might, 
 without any dishonour, reckon upon the money 
 now." 
 
192 
 
 EDINA. 
 
 *•' In wluit way "? How do you mean ? " 
 
 *' Sui')pose I go to some old-established man 
 in London who, from some cause or other — 
 advancing years, say — requires some one to 
 relieve him of a portion of his daily work. I 
 say to him, ' "Will you take me at present as 
 your assistant, at a fair salarv, and when I 
 come into my money ' — naming the sum — ' I 
 w^ill hand that over to you and become your 
 partner?' Don't you think that seems feasible, 
 sir?" 
 
 '' I daresay it does, Frank." 
 
 *' But then, you see, to do this, I ought to 
 know the exact sum that is coming to me. 
 Unless I were able to state that, I should not 
 be listened to. That's why, sir, I was in hopes 
 that you could tell me what it was." 
 
 "And so I would tell you if I knew it my- 
 self, Frank. I do not think Francis mentioned 
 to me that you would come in for anything. I 
 feel sure, if he had done so, I should remem- 
 ber it." 
 
 " That's awkward," mused Frank, thought- 
 fully balancing on his right-hand fingers the 
 paper-knife which he had caught up from the 
 table. '' I wonder he did not tell you, Uncle 
 Hugh." 
 
EDINA. 193 
 
 '' To say the truth, so do I," replied Dr. 
 Raynor. " It would have been good news : 
 and he knows that I am equally interested with 
 himself in the welfare of Henry's orphan son. 
 Are you sure, Frank, that you are making no 
 mistake in this ? " 
 
 " I don't think I am. I was staying at 
 Spring Lawn when the Major came home from 
 Aunt Atkinson's after her husband's death, and 
 he brought her will with him. He was telling 
 us all about it — that Eagles' Nest was to be 
 his, and that there were several legacies to 
 different people, and he turned to me and said, 
 ' You come in for a good slice, Frank.' I re- 
 collect it all, sir, as though it had taken place 
 but yesterday." 
 
 " Did he mention what the ' slice ' was ? 
 How much ? " 
 
 " No, he did not. And I did not like to ask 
 him." 
 
 There was a pause. Dr. Eaynor began put- 
 ting the papers straight on the table, his usual 
 custom before retiring for the night. Frank 
 had apparently fallen into a reverie. 
 
 " Uncle Hugh," he cried, briskly, lifting his 
 head, his face glowing with some idea, his 
 frank blue eyes bright with it, " if you can 
 
 VOL. I. o 
 
194 EDINA. 
 
 spare me for a couple of claj^s, I will go to 
 Spring Lawn and ask Uncle Francis. I should 
 like to be at some certainty." 
 
 " I could spare you, Frank : there's nothing 
 particular on hand that I cannot attend to my- 
 self for that short time. But " 
 
 '•^ Thank you, Uncle Hugh," interrujoted 
 Frank, impetuously. " Then svippose I start 
 to-morrow morning ? " 
 
 " But — I was about to inquire — what is it 
 that has put all this into your head so sud- 
 denly ? " 
 
 Frank's eager eyes, raised to the Doctor's 
 face, fell at the question. A half-conscious 
 smile parted his lips. 
 
 *' There's no harm, sir, in trying to plan out 
 one's futui'e." 
 
 '' None in the world, Frank. I only ask the 
 reason of your setting about it in this — as it 
 seems to me — sudden manner." 
 
 '' Well — you know, Uncle Hugh — I — I may 
 be marrying sometime." 
 
 "And you have been fixing on the lady, I 
 see, Frank ! " 
 
 A whole smile now shone upon Frank's face. 
 He was sending the paper-knife round in circles 
 on the table, with rather an unnecessary noise. 
 
EDINA. 195 
 
 Dr. Eaynor's thoughts were going hither and 
 thither ; he could not recal any individual in 
 all the neighbourhood of Trennach likely to be 
 honoured by Frank's choice. In an instant an 
 idea flashed over him — an idea that he did not 
 like. 
 
 " Frank ! can it be that you are thinking of 
 one of the Miss St. Clares ? " 
 
 " And if I were, sir ?" 
 
 " Then — I fear — that there may be trouble 
 in store for you," said the Doctor, gravely. 
 '' Mrs. St. Clare would never sanction it." 
 
 " But she has sanctioned it. Uncle Hugh. 
 She sanctions it every day of her life." 
 
 " Has she told you so ? " 
 
 *' Not in words. But she sees how much I 
 and Daisy are together, and she allows it. 
 That will be all right. Uncle Hugh." 
 
 '* Daisy ? Let me see ? Oh, that is the 
 young one : she is a nice little girl. I cannot 
 say I like the elder. But " 
 
 ''But what, sir?" 
 
 " You are by nature over-sanguine, Frank ; 
 and I cannot help thinking that you are so in 
 this. Piely upon it, there is some mistake : 
 Mrs. St. Clare is a proud, haughty woman, re- 
 markably alive, unless I am mistaken, to self- 
 
196 EDINA. 
 
 interest. She would not be likel}' to give a 
 daughter to one whose jn-ospects are so uncer- 
 tain as yours." 
 
 " But I am wishing to make my prospects 
 more certain, you see, uncle. And I can assure 
 you she approves of me for Daisy." 
 
 *' Well, well ; if so I am glad to hear it. 
 Nevertheless it surprises me. I should have 
 supposed she would look in a higher rank for 
 suitors for her daughters. The little girl is a 
 nice girl, I say, Frank, and you have my best 
 wishes." 
 
 *' Thank you. Uncle Hugh," warmly repeated 
 Frank, rising, his whole face flushing with 
 pleasure as he met the Doctor's hand. '' Of 
 course 3'ou understand that it must not yet be 
 talked of: I must first of all speak to Mrs. St. 
 Clare." 
 
 *' I shall not be likely to talk of it," replied 
 Dr. Eaynor. 
 
197 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 MAJOR AND MRS. RAYXOR. 
 
 rpHE windows of Spring Lawn stood open to 
 -*- the afternoon sun. It was a small, pretty 
 white house, half cottage, half villa, situated 
 about three miles from Bath. A latticed 
 portico, over which crept the white-blossomed 
 clematis, led into a miniature hall : Major 
 Eaynor could just turn round in it. On either 
 side was a small sitting-room, the dining-room 
 on the left, the drawing-room on the right. 
 
 The scrambling mid-day dinner was over. 
 Somehow all the meals seemed to be scrambling 
 ones at the Major's, from the utter want of 
 order, and the lack of proper attendance. But 
 two servants were kept, a cook and a nui'se : 
 and they could not always get their wages paid. 
 When Edina was there, she strove to bring a 
 little comfort out of the chaos : but that was 
 but a chance event ; a brief and rare interlude, 
 occurring at long intervals in life. Some wine 
 
198 EDINA. 
 
 stood on the old red-and-blue checked table- 
 cover, with a iDlate of biscuits. On one side of 
 the table sat the Major ; a tall and very portly 
 man with a bald head and a white moustache, 
 looking every day of his nine-and-sixty years. 
 He had been getting on for fifty when he married 
 his young wife ; who was not quite eight-and- 
 thirty yet : a delicate, fragile-looking woman, 
 with a small fair face and gentle voice, mild 
 blue eyes, a -pink colour, and thin light brown 
 hair quietly braided back from it. Mrs. 
 Eaynor looked what she was : a gentle, yield- 
 ing, amiable, helpless woman ; one who could 
 never be strong-minded in any emergency what- 
 ever, but somehow one to be loved at first sight. 
 
 She sat sideways at the table — as indeed 
 did the Major opposite, their faces turned to 
 the window — her feet on a footstool, and her 
 hands busy with work, aj)parently a new frock 
 she was making for one of her younger children. 
 She wore a faded muslin gown, green its pre- 
 dominant colour ; a score of pins, pertaining to 
 the work in process, sticking in her waistband. 
 
 They were talking of the weather. The 
 Major was generally in a state of heat. That 
 morning he had walked into Bath and back 
 again, and got in late for dinner, pufting and 
 
EDINA. 199 
 
 steaming, for it was up-liill. He liked to have 
 a fly one way at least ; but he had not always 
 the money in his pocket to pay for it. 
 
 " Yes, it was like an oven in the sun, Mar}'," 
 continued he, enlarging upon the weather. " I 
 don't remember any one single year that the 
 heat has come upon us so early." 
 
 '' That's why I have a good deal of sewing 
 to do just now," observed Mrs. Eaynor. " We 
 have had to take to our summer things before 
 they were ready. Look at poor dear little 
 Eobert ! The child must be melted in that 
 stuff frock." 
 
 ** What's the nurse about ? — can't she make 
 him one ? " asked the Major. 
 
 *' Oh, Francis, she has so much to do. With 
 all these children ! She does some sewing; 
 but she has not time for much." 
 
 The Major, sipping his wine just then, looked 
 over the rim of his glass at the children, sitting 
 on the grass-plat. Four of them, in whose ages 
 there was evidently more than the ordinary 
 difference between brothers and sisters. One 
 looked like a nearly grown-up young lady. 
 That was Alice. She wore a washed-out 
 cotton dress and a frayed black silk apron. 
 Alfred was the next, aged ten, in an old brown- 
 
200 EDINA. 
 
 liOlland blouse and tumbled hair. Kate, in 
 another washed-out cotton and a pinafore, 
 was eight : and Kobert was just turned three, 
 a chubby, fat child in a thick woollen plaid 
 frock. They were stemming cowslips to make 
 balls, and were as happy as the day was long. 
 
 " I saw Mrs. Manners in Bath this morn- 
 ing," resumed the Major. " She says she is 
 coming to spend a long day here." 
 
 '' I hope she'll not come until Bobby's new 
 frock is finished," said Mrs. Pvaynor, her fingers 
 plying the needle more swiftly at the thought. 
 " He looks so shabby in that old thing." 
 
 "As if it mattered ? Who cares what 
 children have on ? " 
 
 ** Oh, I forgot to tell you, Francis — the 
 butcher asked to see me this morning : he 
 came over for orders himself. He says he 
 must have some money." 
 
 '* Oh, does he ? " returned the Major, with 
 careless unconcern. " I don't know when I 
 shall have any for him, I'm sure. Did you 
 tell him so?" 
 
 " I did not go to him : I sent Charley. I do 
 hope he will not stop the meat ! " 
 
 '' As if he would do that ! " cried the Major, 
 throwing up his head with a beaming smile. 
 
EDINA. 201 
 
 *' He knows I shall come into plenty of money 
 sooner or later." 
 
 At this moment the children came rushing 
 with one accord to the ^Yindow, and stood — 
 those who were tall enough — with their arms 
 on its sill, Alice with the cowslips gathered 
 up in her apron. Little Eobert — often called 
 Baby — who toddled up last, could only stretch 
 his hands up to the edge of the sill. 
 
 "Mamma — papa," said Alice, a graceful 
 girl, with the clearly-cut Eaynor features and 
 her mother's mild blue eyes, " ^\e want to have 
 a little party and a feast of strawberries and 
 cream. It would be so delightful out here on 
 the grass, with tables and chairs, and " 
 
 " The straw^berries are not in yet," inter- 
 rupted the Major. " Except those in the 
 expensive shops." 
 
 *' When they are in, we mean, papa. Shall 
 we ? " 
 
 "To be sure," said papa, as pleased with the 
 idea as were the children. " Perhaps we could 
 borrow a cow and make some syllabubs ! " 
 
 Back ran the children to fall on the grass 
 again, and plan out pleasure for the anticipated 
 feast. Alice was seventeen ; but in mind and 
 manners she was still very much of a child. 
 
202 EDINA. 
 
 As they quitted the window, the room door 
 opened, and a tall, slender, well-dressed strip- 
 ling entered. It was the eldest of them all, 
 Charles Eaynor. He also had the well-formed 
 features of the Eaynor family, dark eyes and 
 chestnut hair ; altogether a very nice-looking 
 3'Oung man. 
 
 "Why, Charley, I thought you were out ! " 
 cried his father. 
 
 "I have been lying down under the tree at 
 the back, finishing my book," said Charley. 
 '' And now I am going into Bath to change 
 it." 
 
 It was the greatest pity — at least most 
 sensible people would have deemed it so — to 
 see a fine, caj)able young fellow wasting the 
 best days of his existence. This, the period of 
 his dawning manhood, was the time when he 
 ought to have been at work, preparing himself 
 to run his career in this working world. Instead 
 of that, he was passing it in absolute idleness. 
 Well for him that he had no vice in his nature : 
 or the old proverb, about idle hands and Satan 
 and mischief, might have been exemplified in 
 him. All the reproach that could at present 
 be cast on him was, that he was utterly useless, 
 thoroughly idle : and perhaps he was not to 
 
EDINA. 
 
 203 
 
 blame for it, as notliing had been given him 
 to do. 
 
 Charles Eaynor was not brought up to any 
 profession or business. Various callings had 
 been talked of now and again in a desultory 
 manner ; but Major and Mrs. Eaynor, in their 
 easy-going negligence, had brought nothing to 
 pass. As the heir to Eagles' Nest, they deemed 
 he would not require to exercise his talents on 
 the score of means : Charles himself decidedly 
 deemed so. Gratuitous commissions in the 
 army did not seem to be coming Major Eay- 
 nor's way; he had not the means to purchase 
 one : and, truth to tell, Charles's inclinations 
 did not tend to fighting. The same drawback, 
 want of money, applied to other possibilities : 
 and so Charles had been allowed to remain 
 unj)rofitably at home, doing nothing ; very 
 much to his own satisfaction. If obliged to 
 choose some profession for himself, he would 
 have fixed on the Bar : but, first of all, he 
 wanted to go to one of the two universities. 
 Everything was to be done, in every way, when 
 Eagles' Nest dropped in : that would be the 
 panacea for all present ills. Meanwhile, Major 
 Eaynor was content to let the time slip easily 
 away unheeded, until that desirable consum- 
 
20-1 EDINA. 
 
 mation should arrive, and to allow his son to 
 let it slip away easily too. 
 
 " Charley, I wish you'd bring me back a 
 Madeira cake, if you are going into Bath." 
 
 '* All right, mamma." 
 
 ** And, Charley," added the Major, "just 
 call in at Steer's and get those seeds for the 
 garden." 
 
 " Very well," said Charley. " Will they let 
 me have the things without the money ? ' ' 
 
 " Oh yes. They'll put them down." 
 
 Charley gave a brush to his coat in the little 
 hall, put on his hat, and started, book in hand. 
 As he was passing the children, they plied him 
 ^\illl questions : where he was going, and what 
 to do. 
 
 " Oh, I'll go too ! " cried Alfred, jumping to 
 his feet. '' Let me go with you, Charley ! " 
 
 '' I don't mind," said Charley. '' You'll 
 carry the book. How precious hot it is ! Take 
 care you don't get a sunstroke, x\lice." 
 
 x\lice hastily pulled her old straw hat over 
 her forehead, and went on with her work at the 
 cowslips. " Charley, do you think you could 
 bring me back a new crochet-needle?" she 
 asked. '' I'll give you the old one for the 
 size." 
 
EDINA. 205 
 
 ''Hand it over," said Charley. ''I shall 
 have to bring back all Bath if I get many more 
 orders. I say, youngster, you don't think, I 
 hope, that you are going with me in that 
 trim ! " 
 
 Alfred looked down at his blouse, and at the 
 rent in the hem of his trousers. 
 
 '' What shall I put on, Charley ? My Sun- 
 day clothes ? I won't be a minute." 
 
 The boy ran into the house, and Charles 
 strolled leisurely towards the little gate. He 
 reached it just in time to meet some one who 
 was entering. One moment's pause to gaze 
 at each other, and then their hands were 
 clasped. 
 
 ''Frank!" 
 
 " Charley ! " 
 
 " How surprised I am ! Come in. You are 
 about the last fellow I should have expected to 
 see." 
 
 Frank laughed gaily. He enjoyed taking 
 them by surprise in this way; enjoyed the 
 gladness shining from their eyes at sight of 
 him, the hearty welcome. 
 
 " I daresay I am. How are you all, Charley ? 
 There are the- young ones, I see ! Is that 
 Alice ? She has grown ! " 
 
206 EDINA. 
 
 Alice came bounding to meet him, dropping 
 the yellow blossoms from her apron. They 
 had not seen him since the previous Christmas 
 twelvemqnth, when he had spent a week at 
 Spring Lawn. Little Kobert did not know 
 him, and stood back, shyly staring. 
 
 *' And is this my dear little Bob ? " cried 
 Frank, catching him up and kissing him. 
 *' Why, he has grown into a man ! Does he 
 remember brother Frank ? And — why, there's 
 mamma ! — and papa ! come along." 
 
 The child still in his arms, he went on to 
 meet IMajor and Mrs. Eaynor, who were has- 
 tening forth with outstretched hands of greet- 
 ing. 
 
 " This sight is better than gold ! " cried the 
 Major. " How are you, my dear boy ? " 
 
 " We thought we were never to see you 
 again," put in Mrs. Eaynor. " How good of 
 you to come ! " 
 
 " I am come to take just a peep at you all. 
 It seems ages since I was here." 
 
 " Are you come for a month ? " 
 
 ''A month!" laughed Frank. ''For two 
 days." 
 
 " Oh ! Nonsense ! " 
 
 And so the bustle and the greetings con- 
 
EDINA. 207 
 
 tinned. Major Raynor poured him out a glass 
 of wine, though Frank protested it was too hot 
 for wine, especially after his walk from Bath. 
 Mrs. Raynor went to see her cook ahout sending 
 in something substantial with the tea. Charles 
 put off his walk, and the young ones seduced 
 Frank to the grass -plat to help with the cowslip 
 balls. 
 
 And Frank never gave the slightest intimation 
 that he had come from Trennach for any pur- 
 IDOse, save that of seeing them. But at night, 
 when bed-time came and Mrs. Raynor went up- 
 stairs, leaving the Major, as usual, to finish his 
 glass and pipe, Frank drew his chair up for a 
 conference, Charley being present. 
 
 He then disclosed the real purport of his 
 visit — namely, the ascertaining from Major 
 Raynor what was the amount of money coming 
 to him under Mrs. Atkinson's will. Exj)laining 
 at the same time why he wished to ascertain 
 this : his intention to get into practice in Lon- 
 don, and the ideas that had occurred to him of 
 the best means of accomplishing it. Just as 
 he had explained the matter to Dr. Raynor at 
 Trennach, the previous night. 
 
 '' You see. Uncle Francis, it is time I was 
 getting a start in life," he urged. '' I am mid'- 
 
208 EDINA. 
 
 way between twenty and thirty. I don't care 
 to remain an assistant-surgeon longer." 
 
 " Of course you don't," said the Major, gently 
 puffing away. " Help yourself, Frank." 
 
 *' Not any more, thank you, uncle. And so, 
 as the first preliminary step, I want you to tell 
 me, if 3'ou have no objection, what the sum is 
 that Aunt Ann has put me down for." 
 
 "Can't recollect at all, Frank." 
 
 " But — don't you think this idea of mine is 
 a good one ? — the getting some well-established 
 man to take me in on the strength of this 
 money?" asked Frank, eagerly. "I cannot 
 see any other chance of setting up." 
 
 '' It's a capital idea," said the Major, taking 
 a good draught of whisky-and-water. 
 
 " Well, then. Uncle Francis, I hope you 
 will not object to tell me what the amount 
 is." 
 
 "My boy, I'd tell you at once if I knew it. 
 I don't recollect it the least in the world." 
 
 " Not recollect it ! " exclaimed Frank. 
 
 " No, I don't." 
 
 It was a check for Frank. His good- 
 natured face looked rather blank. Charley, 
 who seemed much interested, sat nursing his 
 knee, and listening. 
 
EDINA. 201> 
 
 " Could you not recollect it if you tried, 
 uncle?" 
 
 *'I am trying," said the Major. "My 
 thoughts are back in the matter now. Let 
 me see — what were the terms of the will. I 
 know I had Eagles' Nest ; and — yes — I think 
 I am right — I was also named residuary 
 legatee. Yes, I was. That much I do re- 
 member." 
 
 Frank's face broke into smiles. " It would 
 be strange if you forgot tliat, uncle. Try and 
 remember some more." 
 
 "Let me see," repeated the Major, passing 
 his unoccupied hand over his bald head. 
 "There were several legacies, I know; and I 
 think — yes, I do think, Frank — your name 
 stood first on the list of them. But, dash 
 me, if I can recollect for how much." 
 
 " Was it for pounds, or hundreds, or thou- 
 sands ? " questioned Frank. 
 
 " That's what I can't tell. Hang it all ! my 
 memory's not worth a rush now. When folks 
 get old, Frank, their memory fails them." 
 
 " I remember the words you said to me at 
 the time. Uncle Francis : they were that I 
 came in for a good slice." 
 
 "Did I ? When?" 
 
 VOL. I. P 
 
210 EDINA. 
 
 ** When 3'ou came back from London, and 
 ^Yere telling my aunt about the will. I was 
 present : it was in this very room. * You 
 come in for a good slice, Frank,' you said, 
 turning round to me." 
 
 " Didn't I say how much ? " 
 
 "No. And I did not much like to ask you. 
 Of course you knew how much it was ? " 
 
 " Of course I did. I read the wdll." 
 
 " I wish you could remember." 
 
 " I wish I could, Frank. I ought to. I'll 
 sleep upon it, and perhaps it will come to me 
 in the morning." 
 
 "Where is the will?" asked Charles, 
 speaking for the first time. " Don't j'ou hold 
 it, papa ? " 
 
 Major Ptaynor took his long pipe from his 
 mouth, and turned the end towards an old- 
 fashioned, imitation walnut bureau, that stood 
 Dy the side of the fireplace. The upper part 
 of it was his own, and was always kept locked ; 
 the lower part consisted of three drawers, 
 which w^ere used indiscriminately by Mrs. 
 Kaynor and the childi'en. 
 
 "It's there," said the Major. " I put it in 
 there when I brought it home, and I've never 
 looked at it since." 
 
EDIXA. 211 
 
 As if the thought suddenly came to him to 
 look at it tlien, he put his pipe in the fender, 
 took a hunch of keys from his pocket, and un- 
 locked the hureau. It disclosed some pigeon- 
 holes ahove, some small, shallow drawers 
 beneath them, three on each side, and one 
 deeper drawer in the middle. Selecting another 
 key, he unlocked this last, pulled the drawer 
 quite out, and put it on the table. Two sealed 
 IDarchments lay within it. 
 
 "Ay, this is it," said the Major, selecting 
 one of them. " See, here's the superscrip- 
 tion : ' Will of Mistress Ann Atkinson.' And 
 that is my own will," he added, nodding to 
 the other. " See, Charley : you'll know where 
 to find it in case of need. Not that any of 
 you would be much the better for it, my lad, 
 as things are at present. They will be dif- 
 ferent with us when Eagles' Nest comes in." 
 
 Frank had taken the packet from the Major's 
 hand, and was looking at the seal : a large 
 red seal, with an imposing impression. 
 
 " I suppose you would not like to open this 
 will, uncle ? Would it be wrong to do so ? " 
 
 The Major shook his head, slowly but de- 
 cisively. "I can't open it, Frank. Although 
 I know its contents — at least, I did once know 
 
212 EDINA. 
 
 them — to open it would seem like a breach of 
 confidence. Your Aunt Ann sealed the will 
 herself in my presence, after I had read it. 
 * Don't let it be opened, Francis, until my 
 death,' she said, as she handed it to me. And 
 so, you see, I should not like to do it." 
 
 "Of course not," readily spoke Frank, "I 
 could not wish you to do so. Perhaps, uncle, 
 you will, as you say, recollect more when you 
 have slept upon it." 
 
 " Ay, perhaps so. I have an idea, mind 
 you, Frank, that it was a very good slice ; a 
 substantial sum." 
 
 " What should you call substantial ? " asked 
 Frank, with a smile. 
 
 " Two or three thousand pounds." 
 
 "I do hope it was ! " returned Frank, his 
 face beaming. " I could move the world with 
 all that." 
 
 But the Major did not return the smile. 
 Sundry experiences of his own were obtruding 
 themselves on his memory. 
 
 " We are all apt to think so, my boy. But 
 nobody knows, until they try it, how quickly a 
 sum of ready money melts. While you are 
 saying I'll do this with it, or I'll do that — 
 hey, presto ! it is gone. And you sit looking 
 
EDIXA. 213 
 
 blankly at your empty hands, and wonder what 
 you've spent it in." 
 
 Taking the drawer, with the two wills in it, 
 he put it back in its place, locking it and the 
 bureau safely as before. And then he went 
 up to bed to " sleep upon it," and try and get 
 back his recollection as to an item that one of 
 those wills contained. 
 
 Morning came. One of the same hot and 
 glorious days that the few last had been : and 
 the window was thrown open to the sun. It 
 shone on the breakfast -table. The children, 
 in their somewhat dilapidated attire, but with 
 their fresh, fair, healthy faces and happy tem- 
 pers, sat round it, eating piles of bread-and- 
 butter, and eggs ad libitum. Mrs. Raynor, in 
 the same faded muslin gown that she had 
 worn the day before, presided over a dish of 
 sliced ham, while Alice poured out the coffee. 
 It seemed natural to Mrs. Eaynor that she 
 should take the part, no matter at what, that 
 gave her the least trouble : kind, loving, gentle, 
 she always was, but very incapable. 
 
 The Major was not present. The Major 
 liked to lie in bed rather late in a morning ; 
 which was not good for him. Dut for his 
 indolent habits, he need not have been quite 
 
214 EDINA. 
 
 SO stout. Frank Eaynor glanced at the 
 bureau, opposite to him as he sat, and won- 
 dered whether his uncle had recollected more 
 about the one desired item of the will within 
 it during his sleep. 
 
 ** Has Uncle Francis had a good night, 
 aunt?" asked Frank, who was inwardly just 
 as impatient as he could be for news, and 
 perhaps thought he might gather some idea 
 by the question. 
 
 " My dear, he always sleeps well," said 
 Mrs. Eaynor. " Too well, I think. It is not 
 good for a man of his age." 
 
 " How can a man sleep too w^ell, mamma ?" 
 cried one of the children. 
 
 " Well, my darlings, I judge by the snoring. 
 Poor papa snores dreadfully in his sleep." 
 
 '* Will he be long before he's down, do 3'ou 
 suppose, Aunt Mary ? " 
 
 " I hear him getting up, Frank. He is 
 early this morning because you are here." 
 
 And, indeed, in a minute or two the Major 
 entered : his flowery silk dressing-gown — all 
 the worse for wear, like the children's clothes 
 — flowing around him, his hearty voice send- 
 ing forth its greeting. For some little time 
 the children kept up an incessant lire of ques- 
 
EDINA. 215 
 
 tions ; Frank could not get one in. But his 
 turn came. 
 
 " Have you remembered that, Uncle Francis, 
 now that you have slept ujaon it ? " 
 
 The Major looked across the table. Just 
 for the moment he did not speak. Frank 
 went on eagerly. 
 
 " Sometimes things that have droj^ped out 
 of our memory come back to us in a dream. 
 I have heard of instances. Did it chance so 
 to you last night, uncle ? " 
 
 *' My dear boy, I dreamt a great big shark 
 with open jaws was running after me, and I 
 could not get out of the water." 
 
 " Then — have you not recollected any- 
 thing?" 
 
 " I fear not, Frank. I shall see as the day 
 goes on." 
 
 But the day went on, and no recollection 
 upon the point came back to Major Eaynor. 
 He "slept upon it " a second night, and still 
 with the same result. 
 
 " I am very sorry, my boy," he said, grasp- 
 ing Frank's hand at parting, as they stood 
 alone together on the grass-plat for a moment. 
 *' Goodness knows, I'd tell you if I could. 
 Should the remembrance come to me later — 
 
216 EDINA. 
 
 and I daresay it will : I don't see why it 
 should not — I'll write off at once to you at 
 Trennach. Meanwhile, you may safely count 
 on one thing — that the sum's a large one." 
 
 *' You think so ? " said Frank. 
 
 *' I do more than think so : I'm next door 
 to sure of it. It's in the thousands. Yes, I 
 feel certain of that." 
 
 *' And so will I, then, uncle, in my own 
 mind." It would have been strange had 
 Frank, with his ultra-sanguine nature, not 
 felt so, thus encouraged. " I can be laying 
 out my plans accordingly." 
 
 " That you may safely do. And look here, 
 Frank, my boy : even should it turn out that 
 I'm mistaken — though I know I am not," 
 continued the open-hearted Major, '' I can 
 make it up to you. As residuary legatee — and 
 I do remember that much correctly now — I 
 shall be sure to come into many thousands of 
 ready money ; and some of it shall be yours 
 if you want it." 
 
 '* How good 3'ou are, uncle ! " cried Frank, 
 his deep blue eyes shining forth their gratitude. 
 
 " And I'll tell you something more, my boy. 
 Though I hardly like to speak of it," added 
 the Major, dropping his voice, " and I've never 
 
EDINA. 217 
 
 mentioned it at home : for it would seem as 
 though I were looking out for poor Ann's 
 death, which I'd not do for the world. Neither 
 would you, Frank." 
 
 " Certainly not, Uncle Francis. What is 
 it?" 
 
 " Well, I had a letter the other day on some 
 business of my own from Street the lawj^er. 
 He chanced to mention in it that he had been 
 down to Eagles' Xest : and he added in a 
 postscript that he was shocked to see the 
 change in your Aunt Ann. In fact, he inti- 
 mated that a very short j^c-riod of time must 
 bring the end. So you perceive, Frank, my 
 boy — though, as I say, it sounds wrong and 
 mean to speak of it — you may go back quite 
 at your ease ; for all the money you require 
 will speedily be yours." 
 
 And Frank Piaynor went back accordingly, 
 feeling as certain of the good fortune coming 
 to him, as though it had been told down before 
 his eyes in golden guineas. 
 
218 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 SCHEMING. 
 
 riIHE light of the hot and garish day had 
 -^ nearly faded from the world, leaving on 
 it the cool air, the gi'ateful hues of twilight. 
 Inexi^ressibly grateful was that twilight to 
 Frank Eaynor and the pretty girl by his side, 
 as they paced unrestrainedly, arm in arm, the 
 paths of that wilderness, the garden at the 
 Mount. The period of half-breathed vows and 
 murmured tender hints had passed : each knew 
 the other's love, and they spoke out together 
 conj&dentially of the future. 
 
 After the unpleasant truth — that Frank was 
 not the heir to Eagles' Nest — had so unex- 
 pectedly dawned on Mrs. St. Clare, she informed 
 her daughter Margaret that the absurd intimacy 
 with Mr. Eaynor must be put aside. Margaret, 
 feeling stunned for a minute or two, plucked up 
 the courage to ask why. Because, answered 
 Mrs. St. Clare, it had turned out that he was 
 not the heir to Eagles' Nest. And Margaret, 
 
EDINA. 219 
 
 whose courage increased with exercise, gently 
 said that that was no good reason : that she 
 liked Mr. Eaynor for himself, not for any 
 prospects he might or might not possess, and 
 that she could not give him uj). A stormy 
 interview ensued. At least, on the mother's 
 part it was stormy : Margaret was only quiet, 
 and inwardly firm. And the upshot was, that 
 Mrs. St. Clare, who hated contention, as most 
 indolent women do, finally got into a passion, 
 and told Margaret that if she chose to marry 
 Mr. Kaynor she must ; hut that she, her 
 mother, and the Mount, and the St. Clare 
 family generally, would wash their hands of 
 her for ever afterwards. 
 
 When once Mrs. St. Clare said a thing, she 
 held to it. Margaret knew that ; and she 
 knew that from henceforth there was no pro- 
 bability, one might almost write possibility, of 
 inducing her mother to consent to her marrying 
 Frank Eaynor. Margaret was mistress of her 
 own actions in one sense of the word : when 
 Colonel St. Clare died he left no restrictions on 
 his daughters. All his money ; it was not 
 much ; was bequeathed to his wife, and was at 
 her own absolute disposal ; but not a word was 
 said in his will touching the free actions of his 
 
220 EDINA. 
 
 children. Mrs. St. Clare knew this ; Daisy 
 knew it ; and that, in the argument, gave the 
 one an advantage over the other. 
 
 But Mrs. St. Clare, in the dispute, committed 
 a fatal error. When people are in a passion, 
 they often say injudicious things. Had she 
 said to Margaret, I forbid you to marry Mr. 
 Eaynor, Margaret would never have thought of 
 disobeying the injunction : but when Mrs. St. 
 Clare said, If you choose to marry him, do so, 
 but I shall wash my hands of you, it put the 
 idea into Margaret's head. Mrs. St. Clare had 
 used the words because they came uppermost 
 in her anger, attaching no real meaning to 
 them, never supposing that any advantage could 
 be taken of them. To her daughter they wore 
 a different aspect. Eight or wrong — though of 
 course it was wrong, not right — she looked 
 upon it as a half-tacit permission : and from 
 that moment the contemplation of marrying 
 Frank with nobody's consent but her own, took 
 possession of her. To lose him seemed terrible 
 in Margaret's eyes ; she would almost as soon 
 have lost life : and instinct whispered to her a 
 warning that in a short while Mrs. St. Clare 
 would contrive to separate them, and they 
 might never meet more. 
 
EDINA. 221 
 
 It was of this terrible prospect — separation 
 — or, rather, of avoiding the prospect, that 
 Mr. Eaynor and Margaret were conversing in 
 the twilight of the summer's evening. For 
 once they had met and could linger together 
 without restraint. Mrs. St. Clare and Lydia 
 had gone to a dinner party ten miles away : 
 Margaret had not been invited ; the card said 
 Mrs. and Miss St. Clare ; and so they could 
 not take her. Mrs. St. Clare, divining perhaps 
 that her absence might be thus made use of, 
 had proposed to Lydia to allow Margaret to be 
 the one to go ; but Lydia, selfish as usual, 
 preferred to go herself. Mr. Eaynor was no 
 longer a visitor at the Mount. Mrs. St. Clare, 
 after the rupture with Margaret, wrote a request 
 to Dr. Eaynor, that for the future he would at- 
 tend himself ; but she gave no reason. So that 
 the lovers had not had many meetings lately. 
 
 All the more enjoyable was the one of this 
 evening. Frank had gone over on speculation. 
 Happening to hear Dr. Eaynor say that Miss 
 St. Clare was going out to dinner with her 
 mother, he walked over on the chance of seeing 
 Margaret. And there they were, clinging to 
 each other amid the sighing trees and the scent 
 of the night flowers. 
 
222 EDIXA. 
 
 Frank, open-natured, single-minded, had told 
 lier every particular of his visit to Spring 
 Lawn : Avhat he had gone for, what the result 
 had been, and what his uncle the Major had 
 assured him of — the large sum he might con- 
 fidently reckon upon inheriting under Mrs. 
 Atkinson's will. To this hour Frank knew not 
 the full truth of Mrs. St. Clare's changed man- 
 ners ; for Margaret, in her deUcacy, did not 
 give him a hint as to Eagles' Nest. " Mamma 
 thinks that you — that you are not rich enough 
 to marry," poor Margaret had said, stammering 
 somewhat in the brief explanation. But, as 
 he was now pointing out to Margaret with all 
 his eloquence, the time could not be very far 
 off when he should be rich enough. 
 
 *' Shall you not consider it so, Daisy? When 
 I shall join some noted man in London, to be 
 paid well for my services temporarily, and with 
 the certainty of being his partner at no distant 
 date ? We should have a nice house ; I would, 
 take care of that ; and every comfort in it. 
 Not a carriage ; not luxuries ; I could not 
 attempt that at first ; but we could afford, in 
 our happiness, to wait for them." 
 
 " Oh, yes," murmured Daisy, thinking to 
 herself that it w^ould be Paradise. 
 
EDINA. 223 
 
 *' If I fully explain all this to 3'onr mother 
 
 *' It would be of no use : she would not 
 listen," inteiTui)ted Daisy. ''I — I have not 
 told you all she said, Frank ; I have not liked 
 to tell. One thing we may rest assured of — 
 that she will never, never give her consent." 
 
 *' But she must give it, Daisy. Does she 
 suppose we could give each other up ? You 
 and I are not children, to be played with — 
 divided without rhyme or reason." 
 
 '' In a short while — I do not know how 
 short — mamma intends to shut up the Mount 
 and take me and Lydia to Switzerland and 
 Italy. It may be years before we come back, 
 Frank ; years, and years, and years. I dare- 
 say I should never see 3'ou again." 
 
 '^ I'm sure you speak calmly enough about 
 it, Daisy ! As if you liked it ! " 
 
 Calmly enough ! Liked it ! Looking down 
 at her he met her reproachful eyes and the 
 sudden tears the words called up in them. 
 
 " My darling, what is to be done ? You can- 
 not go abroad with them : you must stay in 
 England." 
 
 "As if that would be possible ! " breathed 
 Daisy. " I have no one to stay with ; no 
 
224 KDINA. 
 
 relatives, or anything. And if 1 had, mamma 
 would not leave me." 
 
 ** I wish I could marry you off hand ! " cried 
 thoughtless Frank, speaking more in the im- 
 pulse of the moment than attaching any real 
 meaning to what he said. 
 
 Daisy sighed : and put her cheek against his 
 arm. And what v>ith one word and another, 
 they both began to think it might be. Love 
 is blind, and love's arguments, though sweetly 
 specious, are sadly delusive. In a few minutes 
 they had got to think that an immediate 
 marriage, as private as might be, was the only 
 way to save them from perdition. That is, 
 to preserve them one for another : and that 
 it would be the very best mode of proceeding 
 under their untoward lot. 
 
 " The sooner it is done, the better, Daisy," 
 cried Frank, going in for it now with all his 
 characteristic eagerness. " I'd say to-morrow, 
 if I had the license, but I must get that first. 
 I hope and trust your motlier will not be very 
 angry! " 
 
 Daisy had not lifted her face. It pressed 
 his arm all the closer. Frank filled up an 
 interlude by taking a kiss from it. 
 
 ** Mamma said that if I did marry you, she 
 
EDIXA. 225 
 
 should wasli her hands of me," whispered 
 Daisy. 
 
 '' Said that ! Did she ! ^Yhy, then, Daisy, 
 she must have seen for herself that it was our 
 best and only resom'ce. I look upon it almost 
 in the light of a permission." 
 
 " Do you think so ? " 
 
 "Of course I do. And so do you, don't you ? 
 How good of her to say it ! " 
 
 With the blushes, that the subject called up, 
 lighting her face, they renewed their promenade 
 amid the trees, under the grey light of the even- 
 ing sky, talking earnestly. The matter itself 
 settled, ways and means had to be discussed. 
 Frank's arm was round her ; her hand was 
 again 13'ing in his. 
 
 " Our own church at Trennach will be the 
 safest, Daisy ; the safest, and best ; and the 
 one most readily got to. You can come down to 
 it at an early hour : eight o'clock, say. Nobody 
 will be much astir here at home, and I don't 
 think you will meet anybody en route. The 
 road is lonely enough, you know, whether you 
 take the highway or the Bare Plain." 
 
 Daisy did not answer. Her clear eyes had a 
 far-off look in them, gazing at the grey sky. 
 
 " Fortune itself seems to aid us," went on 
 
 VOL. I. Q 
 
226 EDINA. 
 
 Frank, briskly. *' At almost any time but this 
 we might have not been able to accomplish it 
 so deftly. Had I gone to Mr. Pine and said, 
 I want you to marry me and say nothing about 
 it, he might have demurred ; thought it neces- 
 sary to consult Dr. Eaynor first, or invented 
 some such scruple ; but with Pino away and 
 this new man here the matter is easy. And so, 
 Daisy, my best love, if you will be early at the 
 church the day after to-morrow, I shall be there 
 waiting for you." 
 • " What do you call early ? " 
 
 '' Eight o'clock, I said. It had better not 
 be later. We'll get married and not a soul 
 will be any the wiser." 
 
 *' Of course I don't mean it to be a real 
 
 wedding," said Daisy, blushing violently, 
 
 ** with a tour, and a breakfast, and all that, 
 
 Frank. We can just go into the church, and 
 
 go through the ceremony, and come out 
 
 again at different doors ; and I shall walk 
 
 home here, and you will go back to Dr. 
 
 Piaynor's. Don't you see ? " 
 
 " All right," said Frank. 
 
 " And if it were not," added Daisy, bursting 
 
 into a sudden flood of tears, " that it seems to 
 
 be the only way to ensure our non- separation, 
 
EDINA. 227 
 
 and that mamma must have had some idea we 
 should take it when she said she should wash 
 her hands of me, I'd not do such a dreadful 
 thing for the world." 
 
 Frank Eaynor set himself to soothe her, 
 kissing the tears away. A few more minutes 
 given to the details of the plan, an urgent 
 charge to Daisy to keep her courage up, and to 
 be at the church in time, and then they sepa- 
 rated. 
 
 Daisy stood at the gate and watched him 
 down the slight incline from the Mount, until 
 he disappeared. She remained where she was, 
 dwelling upon the momentous step she had 
 decided to take ; now shrinking from it in- 
 stinctively, now telling herself that it was her 
 sole chance of happiness in this world, and 
 now blushing and trembling at the thought of 
 being his wife, though only in name, ere the 
 setting of the day-after-to-morrow's sun. When 
 she at length turned with a slow step indoors, 
 the lady's-maid, Tabitha, was in the drawing- 
 room. 
 
 ''Is it not rather late for you to be out, 
 Miss Margaret ? The damp is rising. I've 
 been in here twice before to see if you'd not 
 like a cup of tea." 
 
228 EDINA. 
 
 *' It is as dry as it can be — a warm, lovely 
 evening," returned Margaret. "Tea? Oh, I 
 don't mind whether I take any or not. Bring 
 it if you like, Tabitha." 
 
 With this semi-permission, the woman with- 
 drew to bring the tea. Margaret looked after 
 her and knitted her brow. 
 
 ** She has been watching me and Frank — I 
 think. I am sure old Tabitha's sly — and fond 
 of interfering in other people's business. I 
 hope she will not go and tell mamma he was 
 here — or Lydia." 
 
 This woman, Tabitha Float, had only lived 
 with them since they were at the Mount : their 
 former maid, at the last moment, having 
 declined to quit Bath. Mrs. St. Clare had 
 made inquiries for one when she reached the 
 Mount, and Tabitha Float presented herself. 
 She had recently left a family in the neighbour- 
 hood and was staying at Trennach with her 
 relatives, making her home at the druggist's. 
 Mrs. St. Clare engaged her, and here she was. 
 She proved to be a very respectable and 
 superior servant, but somewhat fond of gossip : 
 and in that latter propensity was encouraged 
 by Lydia. Amid the ennui pervading the days 
 of Miss St. Clare, and which she unceasingly 
 
EDINA. 220 
 
 complained of, even the tattle of an elderly 
 serving-maid seemed an agreeable interlude. 
 
 Not a word said Frank Raynor of the project 
 in hand. Serious, nay solemn, though the 
 step he contemplated was, he was entering 
 upon it in the lightest and most careless 
 manner (speaking relatively), with no more 
 thought than he might have given to the con- 
 templation of a journey. 
 
 He had remarked to Margaret — who, in 
 point of prudence, was not, in this case, one 
 whit better than himself — that fortune itself 
 seemed to be aiding them. In so far as that 
 circumstances were just now, through the ab- 
 sence of the Rector of Trennach, more favour- 
 able to the safe and easy accomplishment of 
 the ceremony than they could have been at 
 another time, that was true. The Reverend 
 Mr. Pine had at length found himself obliged 
 to follow the advice of Dr. Raynor, and was 
 gone away with his wife for three months' rest. 
 A young clergyman, named Backup, was taking 
 the duty for the time ; he had but just arrived, 
 and was a stranger to the place. With him, 
 Frank could of course deal more readily in the 
 affair than he would have been able to do with 
 Mr. Pine. 
 
230 EDINA. 
 
 • Morning came. Not the morning of the 
 wedding, hut the one follo^Ying the decisive in- 
 terview between Frank and Margaret. In the 
 afternoon Frank made some plea at home for 
 going to a certain town, which we will here call 
 Tello, in search of the ring and the marriage 
 license. It happened that the Eaynors had 
 acquaintances there ; and Edina unsuspiciously 
 bade Frank call and see them. Frank went by 
 rail, and was back again before dusk. 
 
 Taking his tea at home, and reporting to 
 Edina that their friends at Tello were well and 
 flourishing, Frank went out later to call at the 
 rectory. It was a gloomy kind of dwelling, 
 the windows looking out upon the graves in the 
 churchyard. Mr. Backup was seated at his 
 early and frugal supper of bread-and-butter and 
 milk when Frank entered. He was a very shy 
 and nervous 3'Oung man ; and he blushed scarlet 
 at being caught eating, as he started up to re- 
 ceive Frank. 
 
 " Pray don't let me disturb you," said Frank, 
 shaking hands, and then sitting down in his 
 cordial way. " No, I won't take anything, 
 thank you," — as the clergyman hospitably 
 handed him the plate of bread-and-butter. "I've 
 not long had tea. Well, just a slice, then." 
 
EDINA. 231 
 
 His taking the bread-and-buttor and eating 
 it with great relish, and then, in pure good 
 fellowship, helping himself to another slice, 
 23ut Mr. Backup considerably at ease : and the 
 two talked and eat simultaneously. 
 
 " I am come to ask you to do me a little 
 service, Mr. Backup," began Frank, plunging 
 headlong into the communication he had to 
 make. 
 
 " I'm sure I shall be very happy to — to — do 
 anything," murmured Mr. Backup. 
 
 " There's a wedding to be celebrated at the 
 church to-morrow morning. The parties wish 
 it to be got over early — at eight o'clock. It 
 won't be inconvenient to you, will it, to be 
 ready for them at that hour ? " 
 
 ** No — I — not at all," stammered the young 
 divine,*relapsing into a state of inward tumult 
 and misgiving. Xot as to any doubt of the 
 orthodoxy of the wedding itself, but as to 
 whether he should be able to get over his part 
 of it satisfactorily. He had never married but 
 one couple in his life : and then he had made 
 the happy pair kneel down at the wrong places, 
 and contrived to let the bridegroom put the ring 
 on the bride's right-hand finger. 
 
 " Xot at all too early," repeated he, striving 
 
232 EDINA. 
 
 to appear at his ease, lest this readj'- 
 mannered, dashing young man should suspect 
 his nervousness on the score of his sense of 
 deficiency. "Is it two of the miners' people ? " 
 
 ** You will see to-morrow morning," replied 
 Frank, laughing, and passing over the question 
 with the most natural ease in the world. " At 
 eight o'clock, then, please to be in the church. 
 You will be sure not to keep them waiting '? " 
 
 ''I will be there before eight," said Mr. 
 Backup, rising as Frank rose. 
 
 *' Thank you. I suppose it is nothing new 
 to you," lightly added Frank, as a passing re- 
 mark. " You have married many a couple, I 
 daresay." 
 
 "■ Well — not so many. In my late curacy, 
 the rector liked to take the marriages himself. 
 I mostly did the christenings : he was awkward 
 at holding the babies." 
 
 " By the way, I have another request to 
 make," said Frank, pausing at the front door, 
 which the clergyman had come to open for him. 
 " It is, that you would kindly not mention this 
 beforehand." 
 
 " Not mention ? — I don't quit'^ understand," 
 replied the bewildered young divine. " Not 
 mention what ? " 
 
EDINA. 
 
 233 
 
 " That there's going to be a wedding to- 
 morrow. The parties would not like the church 
 to be filled with gaping miners ; they wish it 
 to be got over quite privately." 
 
 '' I will be sure not to mention it," readily 
 assented Mr. Backup. '• For that matter, I 
 don't suppose I shall see anybody between now 
 and then. About the clerk " 
 
 " Oh, I will see him : 1 11 make that all 
 right," responded Frank. " Good evening." 
 
 He went skimming over the grave-mounds to 
 the opposite side of the churchyard, with little 
 reverence, it must be owned, for the dead who 
 lay beneath : but when a man's thoughts are 
 tilled with weddings, he cannot be expected to 
 regard graves. Crossing a stile, he was then 
 close to the clerk's dwelling : a low, one-storied 
 cottage with a slanting roof, enjoying the same 
 agreeable view as the rectory. The clerk's 
 wife, a round, rosy little woman, was milking 
 her goat in the shed, her gown pinned up 
 around her. 
 
 " Halloa, Mrs. Trim ! you are doing that 
 rather late, are you not ?" cried Frank. 
 
 " Late ! I should think it is late for't, Master 
 Frank," answered Mrs. Trim in wrath. She was 
 familiar enough with him, from the fact of 
 
234 EDINA. 
 
 going to the Doctor's house occasionally to 
 help the servant. "1 goes over to Pendon this 
 afternoon to have a dish o' tea with a friend 
 there, never thinking but what Trim would 
 attend to ])00y Nanny. But no, not a bit of it. 
 Draat all they men ! — a set o' helpless vools. 
 I don't know whaat work Trim's good for, save 
 to dig tha graves." 
 
 *' Where is Trim?" 
 
 "Indoors, sir, smoking ef his pipe." 
 
 Frank stepped in without ceremony. Trim, 
 wdio was sexton as well as clerk, sat at the 
 kitchen window, which looked to the field at 
 the back. He was a man of some fifty years : 
 short and thin, with scanty locks of iron-grey 
 hair, just as silent as his wife was loquacious, 
 and respectful in his manner. Pdsing when 
 Frank entered, he put his pipe down in the 
 hearth, and touched his hair. 
 
 '' Look here, Trim ; I want to send you on 
 an errand," said Frank, lowering his voice 
 against any possible eavesdroppers, and speak- 
 ing in a hurry ; for he had patients to see yet 
 to-night. " Can you go a little journey for me 
 to-morrow morning ? " 
 
 "Sure I can, sir," replied Trim. "Any- 
 where you please." 
 
EDINA. 235 
 
 " All right. I went to Tello this afternoon, 
 and omitted to call at the post-office for some 
 letters that may be waiting there. You must 
 go off betimes, by the half-past seven o'clock 
 train ; get the letters — if there are any — and 
 bring them to me at once. You'll be back 
 again long before the sun has reached the 
 meridian, if you make haste. There's a sove- 
 reign to pay your expenses. Keep the change." 
 "And in what name are the letters lying 
 there, sir? " asked the clerk, a thoughtful man 
 at all times, and touching his hair again as he 
 took up the gold piece. 
 
 . " Name ? Oh, mine : Francis Eaynor. You 
 will be sure not to fail me ? " 
 
 The clerk shook his head emphatically. He 
 never did fail anyone. 
 
 " That's right. Be away fi'om here at seven, 
 and you'll be in ample time for the train, walk- 
 ing gently. Do not speak of this to your wife, 
 Trim : or to anybody else." 
 
 " As good set yonder church bell clapping as 
 tell her, sir," replied the clerk, confidentially. 
 *' You need not be afraid of me, Mr. Frank. I 
 know what women's tongues are : they don't 
 often get any oiling from me." 
 
 And away went Frank Eaynor, over the 
 
236 EDINA. 
 
 stile and the mounds again, calling back a good 
 evening to Mrs. Trim ; who was just then 
 putting up her goat for the night. 
 
 Scheming begets scheming. As Frank found. 
 Open and straightforward though he was by 
 nature and by conduct, he had to scheme now. 
 He wanted the marriage kept absolutely secret 
 at present from everybody : save of course from 
 the clergyman who must, of necessity, take part 
 in it. For this reason he was sending Clerk 
 Trim out of the way, to inquire after some 
 imaginary letters. 
 
 Another little circumstance happened in his 
 favour. Eight o'clock was the breakfast holir 
 at Dr. Eaj^nor's. It was clear that if Frank 
 presented himself to time at the breakfast table, 
 he could not be standing before the altar rails 
 in the church. Of course he must absent 
 himself from breakfast, and invent some plea 
 of excuse for doing so. But this was done for 
 him. Upon quitting the clerk's and hastening 
 to his patients, he found one of them so much 
 worse that it would be essential to see him at 
 the earliest convenient hour in the morning. 
 And this he said later to the Doctor. When 
 his place was seen vacant at breakfast, it would 
 be concluded by his uncle and Edina that he 
 
EDINA. 237 
 
 was detained abroad by the exigencies of the 
 sick man. 
 
 But, if Fortune was showing herself to be 
 thus kind to him in some respects, Fate was 
 preparing to be less so. Upon how apparently 
 accidental and even absui'd a trifle great events 
 often turn. Or, rather, to what great events, 
 affecting life and happiness, one insignificant 
 incident will lead ! The world does not need 
 to be told it. 
 
238 
 
 CHAPTEK XI I. 
 
 THE WEDDING. 
 
 '' "F)APA, will you come to breakfast? — Oh 
 -t dear ! what is the matter ? " 
 Edina might well ask. She had opened the 
 door of the small consulting-room as the clock 
 was chiming eight — the knell of Frank Piaynor's 
 bachelorhood — to tell her father that the meal 
 was waiting, when she saw not only the heai-th 
 and the hearth-rug, but the Doctor himself 
 enveloped in a cloud of soot, and looking as 
 black as Erebus. 
 
 " I said yesterday the chimney wanted sweep- 
 ing, Edina.'* 
 
 " Yes, papa, and it was going to be done 
 next week. Have you been burning more 
 paper in the chimney ? " 
 
 '' Only just a letter : but the wind took it 
 from the top of the fire, and carried it uj). 
 Well, this is a pretty pickle ! " 
 
 " The room shall be done to-day, papa. It 
 
EDINA. 239 
 
 ■will be all right and ready for you again by 
 night." 
 
 Dr. Eaynor took off his coat and shook it, 
 and then went up to his room to get the soot 
 out of his whiskers. The fact was, seeing the 
 letter go roaring up the chimney, he stooped 
 hastily to tr}" to get it back again, remembering 
 what a recent blazing piece of paper had done; 
 when at that moment down came a shower .of 
 soot, and enveloped him. 
 
 As he was descending the stairs again, the 
 front door was opened with a burst and a bang 
 (there are no other words so fit to exj^ress the 
 mad way in which excited messengers did enter), 
 and told the Doctor that he was wanted, there 
 and then, by somebody who was taken ill and 
 appeared to be dying. Drinking a cup of 
 coffee standing, and eating a crust as he went, 
 the Doctor followed the messenger. It had all 
 passed so rapidly that Edina had not 3^et com- 
 menced her own breakfast. 
 
 "Hester," she said, calling to the servant 
 maid, " papa has had to go out, and Mr. Frank 
 is not yet in. You shall keep the coffee warm, 
 and I will run at once to Mrs. Trim and see if 
 she can come to-day. We must breakfast later 
 this morning." 
 
240 EDINA. 
 
 Hastily putting on her bonnet and mantle, 
 Edina went down the street towards the church- 
 yard. The entrance to the church was at the 
 other end, facing the open country, the parson- 
 age was there also : on this side, near to her, 
 stood the clerk's house. She could go to it with- 
 out entering the graveyard ; and did so. Trying 
 the door, she found it fastened — which was 
 rather unusual at that hour of the morning. 
 It was nothing for the door to be fastened 
 later, when the clerk and his wife were alike 
 abroad ; the one on matters connected with his 
 post, the other doing errands in the village, or 
 perhaps at some house helping to clean. Edina 
 gave a good sharp knock with the handle of 
 her umbrella, which she had brought with her; 
 for dark clouds, threatening rain, were coursing 
 fiercely about the sky. But the knock brought 
 forth no response. 
 
 *' Now I do hope she is not out at work to- 
 day ! " ejaculated Edina, referring to Mrs. 
 Trim. " The sweep must come to the room ; 
 and Hester cannot well clean up after him 
 herself with all her other work. There's the 
 ironing about. If she has to do the cleaning 
 to-day, I must do that." 
 
 Another knock brou<];ht forth the same result 
 
EDINA. 241 
 
 — nothing. Edina turned round to face the 
 churchyard, and stood to think. The goat was 
 browsing on the green patch close by. 
 
 '' If I could find Trim, he would tell me at 
 once whether she's away at work or not. She 
 may have only run out on an errand. It is 
 curious he should be out : this is their break- 
 fast time." 
 
 All in a moment, as she stood there in 
 indecision, an idea struck Edina : Mrs. Trim 
 was no doubt dusting the church. She generally 
 did it on Satui'day, and this was Thursday : 
 but, as Edina knew, if the woman was likely 
 to be occupied on the Saturday, she took an 
 earlier day for the duty. 
 
 Lightly crossing the stile, Edina went through 
 the churchyard and round the church to the 
 entrance porch. Her quick eyes saw that, 
 though apparently shut, the door was not 
 latched ; and she pushed it open. 
 
 " Yes, of course : Mary Trim expects to be 
 otherwise busy to-morrow ^nd Satm-day, and 
 is doing the dusting to-day," spoke Edina to 
 herself, deeming the ai^pearances conclusive. 
 "Well, she will have to make haste here, and 
 come to us as soon as she can." 
 
 But it was no Mrs. Trim with her gown 
 
 TOL. I. n 
 
242 EDINA. 
 
 turned up about' her waist, a round apron on, 
 and a huge black bonnet perched forward on 
 her head — for that was her usual church- 
 cleaning costume — that Edina saw as she 
 went gently through the inner green baize 
 door. A very different sight met her eyes ; a 
 soft murmur of reading broke upon her ears. 
 The church was not large, as compared with 
 some churches, though of fairly good size for 
 a country parish : and she seemed to come 
 direct upon the solemn scene that was being 
 enacted. At the other end, before the altar, 
 stood, side by side, Frank and Margaret St. 
 Clare : facing them was the new clergyman, 
 Mr. Backup, book in hand. 
 
 Edina was extremely j)ractical ; but at first 
 she could really not believe her eyesight. She 
 stood perfectly motionless, gazing at them like 
 one in a trance. They did not see her ; could 
 not have seen her without turning round ; and 
 Mr. Backup's eyes were fixed on his book — 
 which, by the way, seemed to tremble a little 
 in his hands, as though he were being married 
 himself. Coming to a momentary pause, he 
 went on again in a raised voice ; and the 
 words fell thrillingly on the ear of Edina. 
 *' I require and charge you both, as ye will 
 
EDINA. 243 
 
 answer at the dreadful day of judgment, when 
 the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed, 
 that if either of you know any impediment, 
 why ye may not be lawfully joined together in 
 Matrimony, ye do now confess it. For be ye 
 well assured, that so many as are coupled 
 together otherwise than God's word doth allow 
 are not joined together by God ; neither is 
 their Matrimony lawful." 
 
 The words, word by word, fell not only on 
 Edina's ear ; they touched her soul. Oh, was 
 there no impediment ? Ought these two silly 
 people, wedding one another in this stolen 
 fashion, and in defiance of parental authority — 
 ought they to stand silent under this solemn 
 exhortation, letting it appear that there was 
 none ? Surely this deceit ought, of itself, to 
 constitute grave impediment ! Just for the 
 moment it crossed Edina's mind to stand 
 forward, and beg them to reflect, to reflect 
 well, ere this ceremony went on to the end. 
 But she remembered how unfitting it would 
 be : she knew that she possessed no manner 
 of right to interfere with either the one or the 
 other. 
 
 Drawing softly back within the door, she let 
 it close again without noise, and made her 
 
244 EDINA. 
 
 way out of the churchyard. It appeared 
 evident that neither the clerk nor his wife was 
 in the church : and, if they had been, Edina 
 could not have attempted then to speak to 
 them. 
 
 Like one in a dream, went she, up the 
 street again towards home. The clouds had 
 become darker, and seemed to chase each other 
 more swiftly and wildly. But Edina no longer 
 heeded the wind or the weather. They might, 
 in conjunction with burning paper, send the 
 soot down every chimney in the house, for all 
 the moment it was to her just now. She was 
 deeply plunged in a most unpleasant reverie. 
 A reverie which was showing her many future 
 complications for Frank Eaynor. 
 
 '' Good morning. Miss Edina ! You be 
 abroad early, ma'am." 
 
 The voice was Mrs. Trim's : the black bonnet, 
 going down with the rest of her in a curtsey, 
 was hers also. She carried a small brown 
 jug in her hand, and had met Edina close to 
 the Doctor's house. Edina came out of her 
 dream. 
 
 " 1 have been to see after you, Mrs. Trim, 
 and could not get in. The door was locked." 
 
 "Dear, now, and I be sorry. Miss Edina! 
 
EDINA. 245 
 
 I just went to carry a drop o' coffee and a 
 morsel of hot toast to poor Granny Sandon : 
 who heve got nobody much to look aafter her 
 since EosaHne Bell left. So I just locked tha 
 door, and brought tha key away weth me, as 
 much to keep the Xannygoat out as for safety. 
 She heve got a way of loosing herself, Miss 
 Edina, clever as I thinks I ties her, and of 
 coming into the house : and they goats butts 
 and bites at things, and does no end o' mis- 
 chief." 
 
 " Your husband is out, then ? " 
 
 *' He heve gone off somewhere by rail, Miss 
 Edina. I couldna get out of him where 'twas, 
 though, nor whaat it were for. They men be 
 closer nor waax when they want to keep things 
 from ye ; and Trim, he be always close. It 
 strikes me, though, he be went somewhere for 
 Mr. Eaynor." 
 
 ''^Yhy do you think that?" cried Edina, 
 quickly. 
 
 " Well, I be sure o' one thing. Miss Edina 
 
 that Trim had no thought o' going off" any- 
 where when I come hoam last evening from 
 Pendon ; for after we had had a word or two 
 about his not seeing to tha goat, he said he 
 was going to do our garden up to-day : which 
 
24 G EDINA. 
 
 woulclua be afore it wants it. Mr. Frank, he 
 come in then, and was talking to Trim in tlia 
 kitchen, they two together ; and, a-going to 
 bed, Trim asks for a clean check shirt, and 
 said he was a-staarting out in the morning on 
 business. And, sure enough, he heve went. 
 Miss Edina, and I found out as he heve went 
 by one o' they trains." 
 
 Edina said no more. She marshalled the 
 talkative woman indoors to look at the state 
 of the Doctor's room, and to tell her it must 
 be cleaned that day. Mrs. Trim took off her 
 shawl there and then, and began to get ready 
 for the work. 
 
 The Doctor had returned, and Hester was 
 carrying the breakfast in. Edina took her 
 place at the table, and poured out her father's 
 coffee. 
 
 ''Is Frank not in yet?" he asked, as she 
 handed it to him. 
 '' Not yet, papa." 
 
 *' AVhy, where can he be? He had only 
 AVilliamson to see." 
 
 Edina did not answer. She aj^peared to be 
 intent on her plate. Fresh and fair and good 
 she looked this morning, in her new gingham 
 dress, purple spots on a cream-coloured ground; 
 
EDINA. 247 
 
 but she seemed to be lost in thought. The 
 Doctor observed it. 
 
 " You are troubling yourself about that mess 
 in my study, child ! " 
 
 " Oh no, indeed I am not, papa. Mary 
 Trim is here." 
 
 " Are you sure Frank's not in the surgery, 
 Edina?" said Doctor Raynor again presently. 
 
 Knowing where Frank was, and the moment- 
 ous ceremony he was taking part in — though 
 by that time it had probably come to an end — 
 Edina might with safety assure the Doctor that 
 he was not in the surgery. Dr. Eaynor let the 
 subject drop : Frank had called in to see some 
 other patient, he supposed, on his way home 
 from Williamson's ; and Edina, perhaps dread- 
 ing to be further questioned, speedily ended her 
 breakfast, and went to look after Mrs. Trim and 
 the household matters. 
 
 When the Eeverend Titus Backup awoke 
 from his slumbers that morning, the un- 
 pleasant thought flashed on his mind that he 
 had a marriage ceremony to perform. Looking 
 at his watch, he found it to be half-past seven, 
 and up he started in a flurry. Having lain 
 awake half the night, he had over-slept 
 himself. 
 
248 EDINA. 
 
 * •' Has the clerk been here for the key of the 
 church, Betsey ? " he called out to the old 
 servant, just before he went out. 
 
 " No, sh'." 
 
 It wanted only about eight minutes to eight 
 then. Mr, Backup, feeling somewhat surprised, 
 for he had found Clerk Trim particularly atten- 
 tive to his duties, walked along the passage to 
 the kitchen, and took the church key from the 
 nail where it was kept. Opening the church 
 himself, he then went round to the clerk's 
 house, and found it locked up. 
 
 Quite a hot tremor seized him. Without the 
 clerk and his experience, it would be next door 
 to impossible for him to get through the ser- 
 vice. Alone, he might break down. He should 
 not know^ what to say, or where to place the 
 couple ; or when to tell them to kneel down, 
 when to stand up ; or where the ring came in, 
 or anything. 
 
 Where ivas the clerk ? Could he have made 
 some mistake as to the time fixed ? However, 
 it wanted yet some minutes to eight. Crossing 
 the churchyard, he entered the church, put on 
 his surplice, fetched the prayer-book into the 
 vestry, and began studying the marriage service 
 as therein written. 
 
EDINA. 249 
 
 Frank Eaynor came up to the church a 
 minute after the clergyman entered it, and 
 waited in the porch, looking out for his in- 
 tended bride. Eight o'clock struck ; and she had 
 promised to be there before eight. Why did 
 she not come ? Was her courage failing her ? 
 Did the black clouds, which were gathering 
 overhead, appal her ? Had Mrs. St. Clare dis- 
 covered all, and was preventing her ? Frank 
 thought it must be one or other of these 
 calamities. 
 
 There he stood, within the shelter of the 
 porch, glancing out to the right and to the 
 left. He could not go to meet her because he 
 did not know which way she would come : 
 whether by the sheltered road-way, or across 
 the Bare Plain. That was one of the minor 
 matters they had forgotten to settle between 
 themselves. 
 
 As Frank was gazing this way and that, 
 and getting into as much of a flurry as it 
 was possible for one of his easy temperament 
 to get, light, hasty steps were heard approach- 
 ing ; and Margaret, nervous, panting, agitated, 
 fell into his arms. 
 
 " My darling ! I thought you must be 
 lost." 
 
250 EDINA. 
 
 *' I could not get a-vvay before, Frank. Of 
 all mornings, Lydia must needs choose this 
 one to send Tabitha to my room for some 
 books fi*om the shelves. Now, these did not 
 do ; then, the others did not do : the woman 
 did nothing but run in and out. And the 
 servants were about the passages : and oh, 
 I thought I should never get away!" 
 
 A moment given to soothe her, to still her 
 beating heart, and they entered the church 
 together. Margaret threw off the thin cloak 
 she had worn over her pretty morning dress of 
 white-and-peach S2:)rigged muslin, almost as 
 delicate as white. She went up the church, 
 flushing and paling, on Frank's arm : Mr. 
 Backup came out of the vestry to meet them. 
 In a few flowing and plausible words, Frank 
 explained that it was himself who required the 
 parson's services, handed him the license, and 
 begged him to get the service over as soon as 
 possible. 
 
 " The clerk is not here," answered the be- 
 wildered man, doubly bewildered now. 
 
 *' Oh, never mind him," said Frank. " We 
 don't want the clerk." 
 
 An older and less timid clerg3'man might 
 have said, I cannot marry you under these 
 
EDINA. 251 
 
 circumstances : all Mr. Backup thought of was, 
 the getting through his o^Yn jmrt in it. It 
 certainly did strike him as being altogether 
 very strange : the question even crossed him 
 -whether he was doing right and legally : hut 
 the license was in due form, and in his inex- 
 perience and his nervousness he did not make 
 inquiries, or raise objections. '\\'hen he came 
 to the question, Who giveth this "Woman to be 
 married to this Man, and there was no re- 
 sponse, nobody indeed to resjDond, he visibly 
 hesitated : but he did not dare to refuse to go 
 on with the service. An assumption of autho- 
 rity, such as that, was utterly beyond the 
 Eeverend Titus Backup. He supposed that 
 the clerk was to have acted as the giver away : 
 but the clerk, fi'om some inexplicable cause, 
 was not present. Perhaps he had mistaken 
 the hour. So the service proceeded to its close, 
 and Francis Eaynor and Margaret St. Clare 
 were made man and wife. 
 
 They proceeded to the vestry ; the clergyman 
 leading the way, Frank leading his bride, her 
 arm within his, the ring that bound her to him 
 encircling her finger. After a hunt for the 
 register book, for none of them knew where it 
 was kept, Mr. Backup found it, and entered the 
 
252 EDINA.. 
 
 record of the marriage. Frank affixed his sig- 
 nature, Margaret hers ; and then the young 
 clerg3^man seemed at a stand-still, looking 
 about him helplessly. 
 
 ** I — ah — there arc no witnesses to the 
 marriage," said he. *' It is customary " 
 
 " We must do ^vithout them in this case," 
 interrupted Frank, as he laid a fee of five 
 guineas quietly down. " It does not require 
 witnesses to make it legal." 
 
 " Well — no — I — I conclude not," hesitated 
 the clergyman, blushing as he glanced at the 
 gold and silver, and thinking how greatly too 
 much it was, and how rich this Mr. Eaynor 
 must be. 
 
 "■ And will you do me and my wife a good 
 turn, Mr. Backup," spoke Frank, ingenuously, 
 as he clasped the clergyman's hand, and an 
 irresistible smile of entreaty shone on his 
 attractive face. " Keep it secret. I may tell 
 you, now it is done and over, that nobody 
 knows of this marriage. It is, in fact, a stolen 
 one ; and just at present we do not wish it 
 to be disclosed. We have oiir reasons. In a 
 very short while, it will be openly avowed ; but 
 until then, we should be glad for it not to be 
 
EDINA. 253 
 
 spoken of. I know we may depend upon your 
 kindness." 
 
 Leaving the utterly bewildered parson to 
 digest the information, to put off his surplice 
 and to lock up the register book, Frank escorted 
 his bride down the aisle. When she stopped 
 to take up her cloak and parasol, he, knowing 
 there were no lookers-on, save the ancient and 
 empty pews, folded her in his arms and kissed 
 her fervently. 
 
 " Oh Frank ! Please ! — please don't ! — we 
 are in church, remember." And there, what 
 with agitation and nervous fear, the bride 
 burst into a fit of hysterical tears. * 
 
 " Daisy ! For goodness' sake ! — not here. 
 Compose yom'self, my love. Oh, pray do not 
 sob like that! " 
 
 A moment or two, and she was tolerably 
 calm again. No wonder she had given way. 
 She had literally shaken from head to foot all 
 through the service. A dread of its being in- 
 terrupted, a nervous terror at what she was 
 doing, held possession of her. Now that it 
 was over, she saw she had done wrong, and 
 wished it undone. Just like all the rest of us ! 
 We do wrong first, and bewail it afterwards. 
 
 " You remam m here, please, Frank; let me 
 
254 EDIXA. 
 
 go out alone," she said, a sob catching her 
 breath. '' It would not do, you know, for us 
 to go out together, lest we might be seen. 
 Good-bye," she added, timidly holding up her 
 hand. 
 
 They were between the green baize door now 
 and the outer one. Frank knew as well as she 
 did that it would be imprudent to leave the 
 church together. He took her hand and herself 
 once more to him, and kissed her fifty times. 
 
 " God bless and keep you, my darling ! I 
 wish I could see you safely home." 
 
 Daisy's suggestion, a night or two ago, of 
 their leaving the church by different doors, 
 had to turn out but a pleasant fiction, since 
 the church possessed but one door. She 
 lightly glided through it when Frank released 
 her, and went towards home the way she had 
 come, that of the shady road, her veil drawn 
 over her face, her steps fleet. He remained 
 where he was, not showing himself until she 
 should be at a safe distance. 
 
 " If I can but get in without being seen ! " 
 thought poor Daisy, her heart beating as she 
 sped along. " Mamma and Lydia will not be 
 downstairs yet, I know ; and all may pass over 
 happily. — What a high wind it is ! " 
 
EDINA. 255 
 
 The \Yind was high indeed, carrying Daisy 
 nearly off her feet. It took her cloak and 
 whirled it over her head in the air. As ill- 
 luck had it, terrible ill-luck Daisy thought, 
 ■Nvho should meet her at that moment but the 
 Trennach dressmaker. She had been to the 
 Mount to try dresses on. 
 
 " Mrs. St. Clare is quite in a way about yon, 
 Miss Margaret," sj^oke Mrs. Hunt, who was 
 not pleased at having had her walk partly for 
 nothing. " They have been searching every- 
 where for you." 
 
 " I did not know 3'ou were expected this 
 morning," said poor Daisy, after murmuring 
 some explanation of having "come out for a 
 walk." 
 
 " Well, Miss Margaret, your mamma was 
 good enough to say I might come whenever it 
 was most convenient to me : and that's early 
 morning, or late in the evening, so as not to 
 take me out of my work in the day-time. I 
 thought I might just catch you and Miss St. 
 Clare when you were dressing, and could have 
 tried on my bodies without much trouble to 
 you." 
 
 " What bodies are they ? " asked Margaret. 
 " I did not know that anything was being made." 
 
25 G EDINA. 
 
 " They are dresses for travelling, miss. Mrs. 
 St. Clare gave me a pattern of the material she 
 Avould like, and I have been getting them." 
 
 "Oh, for travelling," repeated Margaret, 
 whose mind, what with one thing and another, 
 was in a perfect whirl. " Will you like to go 
 back, and try mine on now." 
 
 But the dressmaker declined the proposition. 
 She was nearer Trennach now than she was to 
 the Mount, and her apprentice had no work to 
 go on with till she got home to set it for her. 
 Appointing the following morning, she continued 
 her way. 
 
 Daisy continued hers. It was a most un- 
 lucky thing that the dressmaker should have 
 gone to the Mount that morning, of all others ! 
 What a fuss there would be ! and what excuse 
 could she make for her absence from home ? 
 There was but one, as it seemed to Daisy, that 
 she could make — out for a walk. 
 
 But the shifting clouds had now gathered in 
 one dense black mass overhead, and the rain 
 came pouring down. Daisy had brought no 
 umbrella : nothing but a fashionable parasol 
 about large enough for a doll : one cannot be 
 expected on such an occasion to be as provident 
 as was the renowned Mrs. MacStinger. The 
 
EDINA. 257 
 
 wind took Daisy's cloak, as before ; the drifting 
 rain-storm half blinded her. Before she 
 reached home, her pretty muslin dress, and 
 her dainty parasol, and herself also, were 
 wringing wet. 
 
 *' Now where have you been ? " demanded 
 Mrs. St. Clare, j^ouncing upon Daisy in the 
 hall, and backed by Tabitha ; while Lydia, who 
 had that morning got up betimes, thanks to 
 the exacting dressmaker, looked on from the 
 door of the breakfast-room. 
 
 "I went for a walk," gasped Daisy, fully 
 believing all was about to be discovered. " The 
 rain overtook me." 
 
 " What a i)ickie you are in," commented 
 Lydia. 
 
 '' Jlliere h^\e you been for a walk?" pro- 
 ceeded Mrs. St. Clare, who was evidently 
 angry. 
 
 ''Down the road," said Daisy, with a kind 
 of sobbing jerk, the result of emotion and fear. 
 *' It — it is pleasant to walk a little before the 
 heat comes on. I — I did not know it was 
 going to rain." 
 
 " Pray, how long is it since you found out 
 that it is pleasant to walk a little before the 
 heat comes on ? " retorted Mrs. St. Clare, with 
 
 VOL. I. s 
 
258 EDINA. 
 
 severe sarcasm. " How many mornings have 
 you tried it ? " 
 
 " Never before this morning, mamma," re- 
 plied Daisy, with ready earnestness, for it was 
 the truth. 
 
 ^' And j^ray icith lohom have you been icalk- 
 ing ? " put in Lydia, with astounding emphasis. 
 " Who brought you home ? " 
 
 *' Not anyone," choked Daisy, swallowing 
 down her tears. " I walked home by myself. 
 You can ask Mrs. Hunt: she met me. Mamma, 
 may I go up and change my things ? " 
 
 Mrs. St. Clare said neither yes nor no, but 
 gave tacit permission by stretching out her 
 hand to point to the staircase. Daisy ran the 
 gauntlet of the three faces as she passed on : 
 her mother's w^as stern, Lydia' s supremely 
 scornful, Tabitha's discreetly prim. The two 
 ladies turned into the breakfast parlour, and 
 the maid retired. 
 
 *' It is easy enough to divine what Daisy has 
 been up to," spoke Lydia, whose speech was 
 not always braced a la mode. She sat back 
 in an easy chair, si^Dping her chocolate, a pink 
 cloak trimmed with swan's-down drawn over her 
 shoulders ; for the rain and the early rising 
 had made her feel chilly. 
 
EDINA. 259 
 
 '' Oil, I don't know," said Mrs. St. Clare, in 
 a cross tone. She detested these petty annoy- 
 ances. 
 
 " I do, though," returned Lydia. '^ Daisy 
 has been out to meet Frank Eaynor. Were I 
 you, mamma, I should not allow her so much 
 liberty." 
 
 " Give me the sugar, Lydia, and let me 
 have my breakfast in peace." 
 
 Daisy, locking her door, burst into a fit of 
 hysterical tears. Her nerves were utterly un- 
 strung. It was necessary to change her wet 
 garments, and she did so, sobbing wofully 
 all the while. She wished she had not done 
 what she had done ; she washed that Frank 
 could be by her side to encourage and shield 
 her. When she had comjDleted her toilet, 
 she took the wedding ring from her finger, 
 attached it to a bit of ribbon, and hid it in 
 her bosom. 
 
 " Suppose I should never, never be able to 
 wear it openly?" thought Daisy, with a sob 
 and a sigh. " Suppose Frank and I should 
 never see each other again ! — never be able to 
 be together ? If mamma carries me off abroad, 
 and he stays here, one of us might die before 
 I came back again." 
 
260 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 UNDER THE EVENING STARS. 
 
 ** /^AN you spare me a moment, Frank ?" 
 
 ^ " Fifty moments if you like, Edina," 
 was the ready answer in the ever-pleasant tone. 
 ''Come in." 
 
 The day had gone on to its close, and Edina 
 had found no opportunity of speaking to Frank 
 alone. The secret, of which she had unex- 
 pectedly gained cognizance that morning, was 
 troubling her mind. To be a party to it, and 
 to keep that fact from Frank, was impossible 
 to Edina. Tell him, she must : and the 
 sooner the better. After tea, he and the 
 Doctor had sat persistently talking together 
 until dusk, when Frank had to go out to visit 
 a fever-patient in Bleak Row. Running up- 
 stairs to change his coat, Edina had thought 
 the opportunity had come, and followed him to 
 his chamber. 
 
 She went in after his hearty response to her 
 
EDINA. 261 
 
 knock. Frank, quick in all his movements, 
 already had his coat off, and was taking the 
 old one from the peg where it hung. Edina 
 sat down hy the dressing-table. 
 
 "Frank," she said, in a low tone — and she 
 disliked very much indeed to have to say it, ** I 
 chanced to go into the church this morning 
 soon after eight o'clock. I — I saw you there." 
 "Did you?" cried Frank, coming to a 
 pause with his coat half on. '' And — did you 
 see anything else, Edina ? " 
 
 " I believe I saw all there was to see, Frank. 
 I saw you standing with Margaret St. Clare at 
 the altar rails, and Mr. Backup marrying you." 
 " Well, I never ! " cried Frank, with amazing 
 ease and equanimity, just the same that he 
 might have maintained had she said she saw 
 him looking on at a christening. " Were you 
 surprised, Edina ? " 
 
 '' Surprised, and a great deal more, Frank. 
 Shocked. Grieved." 
 
 " I say, though, whatever took you to the 
 church at that early hour, Edina ? " 
 
 " Chance : it may be said. Though I am 
 one of those people, you know, who do not 
 believe such a thing as chance exists. I went 
 after Mrs. Trim, found her house shut up, and 
 
202 EDINA. 
 
 thought she might be in the church, cleaning. 
 Oh, Frank, how could you do anything so 
 desperately imprudent ? " 
 
 " Well, I hardly know. Don't scold me, 
 Edina." 
 
 " I have no right to scold you," she answered. 
 " And scolding would he of no use now the 
 thing is done. Nevertheless, I must tell you 
 w^hat a very wrong step it was to take ; lament- 
 ably imprudent : and I think you must, yourself, 
 know that it was. I could never have believed 
 it of Margaret St. Clare." 
 
 " Do not blame Daisy, Edina. I persuaded 
 her to take it. Mrs. St. Clare has been talking 
 of marching her off abroad ; and we wanted, 
 you see, to secure ourselves against separation." 
 
 '' And what are you going to do, Frank ? " 
 
 " Oh, nothing," said easy Frank. " Daisy's 
 gone back to the Mount, and I am here as usual. 
 As soon as I can make a home for her, I shall 
 fetch her away." 
 
 " Make a home where ? " 
 
 " In some place where there's a likelihood of 
 a good practice. London, I daresay." 
 
 " But how are you to live ? A good practice 
 does not spring up in a night, like a mushroom.'' 
 
 ** That's arranged," replied Frank, as per- 
 
EDINA. 263 
 
 fectly confident himself that it ^Yas arranged 
 as that Edina was sitting on the low chair, 
 and he settling his shoulders into his coat. 
 " My plans are all laid, Edina, and Uncle Hugh 
 knows what they are — and it was in pursuance 
 of them that I went over to Spring Lawn. I 
 will tell you all ahout it to-morrow : there's no 
 time now." 
 
 " Papa does not know of what took place 
 this morning ? " 
 
 " Not that. Nobody knows of that. "We 
 don't want it known, if we can help it, until 
 the time comes when all the world may know." 
 
 " Meaning until you have gained the home, 
 Frank?" 
 
 " Meaning until I and Daisy enter upon it," 
 said sanguine Frank. 
 
 Edina' s hand — her elbow resting on her 
 knee — was raised to support her head : her 
 fingers played absently with her soft brown 
 hair : her dark, thoughtful eyes, gazing before 
 her, seemed to see nothing. Whether it might 
 arise from the fact that in her early days of 
 privation, when Dr. Piaj'nor's means were so 
 narrow, she had become practically acquainted 
 with some dark phases of existence, or whether 
 it was the blight that had been cast on her 
 
'264 EDINA. 
 
 heart in its sweet spring-time, certain it was, 
 that Edina Ra^'nor was no longer of a sanguine 
 nature. Where Frank saw only sunshine in 
 prospective, she saw shadow. And a great deal 
 of it. 
 
 '•' You should have made sure of the home 
 first." 
 
 " Before making sure of Daisy '? Not a hit 
 of it, Edina. We shall get along." 
 
 '' That's just like you, Frank," she exclaimed, 
 petulantly, in her vexation. " You would as 
 soon marr}^ ten wives as one, the law- allowing 
 it, so far as never giving a thought to what 
 you were to do with them." 
 
 " But the law would not allow it," laughed 
 Frank. 
 
 "It is your great fault — never to think of 
 consequences." 
 
 " Time enough for that, Edina, when the 
 consequences come." 
 
 She did not make any rejoinder. To what 
 use ? Frank Raynor would he Frank Baynor 
 to the end of time. It was his nature. 
 
 " It is odd, though, is it not, that you, of all 
 Trennach, should just happen to have caught 
 us ! " he exclaimed, alluding to the ceremony 
 of the morning. " But you'll not hetray us. 
 
EDIN'A. 2 Go 
 
 will you, Edina ? I must be off down, or 
 
 Uncle Hugh will be calling to know what I'm 
 doing." 
 
 Edina rose, with a sigh. " No, I will not 
 betra}^ you, Erank : you know there is no danger 
 of that : and if I can help you and Daisy in 
 any way, I will do it. I was obliged to tell 
 you what I had seen. I could not keep from 
 you the fact that it had come to my knowledge." 
 As Frank leaped downstairs, light-hearted 
 as a boy. Dr. Eaynor was crossing from the 
 sitting-room to the surgery. He halted to 
 speak. 
 
 " I forgot to tell you, Frank, that you may 
 as well call this evening on Dame Bell : you 
 will be passing her door." 
 
 " Is Dame Bell ill again ? " asked Frank. 
 " I fear so. A woman came for some medi- 
 cine for her to-day." 
 
 '' I thought she was at Falmouth." 
 
 '' She is back again, it seems. Call and see 
 
 her as you go along : you have plenty of time." 
 
 " Very well. Uncle Hugh." 
 
 The Bare Plain might be said to deserve its 
 
 name very especially this evening as Erank 
 
 traversed it. In the morning the wind had 
 
 been high, but nothing to what it was now. It 
 
26 G EDINA. 
 
 played amid the openings surrounding the Bot- 
 tomless Shaft, going in with a whirr, coming 
 out with a rush, and shrieked and moaned 
 fearfully. The popular helief indulged in by 
 the miners was, that this unearthly shrieking 
 and moaning, which generally disturbed the 
 air on these boisterous nights, proceeded not 
 from the wind, but from Dan Sandon's ghost. 
 Frank Eaynor had no faith in the ghost — Dan 
 Sandon's, or any other — but he shuddered as 
 he hastened by. 
 
 The illness (more incipient than declared) 
 from which Mrs. Bell was suffering, had seemed 
 to cease with her trouble. Her husband's 
 mysterious disappearance was followed by much 
 necessary exertion, both of mind and body, on 
 her own part ; and her ailments nearly left her. 
 Dr. Piaynor suspected — perhaps knew — that 
 the improvement was but temj^orary : but he 
 did not tell her so. Dame Bell moved briskly 
 about her hpuse during this time, providing for 
 the comforts of her lodgers, and waiting for 
 the husband who did not come. 
 
 Eosaline did not come, either. And her 
 prolonged absence seemed to her mother most 
 unaccountable, her excuses for it unreasonable. 
 As the days and the weeks had gone on, and 
 
EDINA. 267 
 
 Kosaline's return seemed to be no nearer than 
 ever, Dame Bell grew angry. She, at length, 
 made up her mind to go to Falmouth, and 
 bring back the runaway with her own hands. 
 
 Easier said than done, that : as Mrs. Bell 
 found. When she, after two days' absence, 
 returned to her home on the Bare Plain, she 
 returned alone : her daughter was not with her. 
 This was only a few days ago. The dame had 
 been ailing ever since, some of the old symptoms 
 having come back again — the result jDerhaps of 
 the travelling — and she had that day sent a 
 neighbour to Dr. Eaynor's for some medicine. 
 
 Frank Eaynor made the best of his way 
 across the windy plain, leaving the moans and 
 shrieks behind him, and lifted the latch of 
 Dame Bell's door. She stood at the table, 
 ironing by candle-light, her feet upon an old 
 thick mat to keep them from the di'aught of the 
 door. Frank, making himself at home as 
 usual, sat down by the ironing-board, telling 
 her to go on with her occupation, and inquired 
 into her ailments. 
 
 " You ought not to have taken the journey, 
 mother," said Frank, promptly, when the ques- 
 tions and answers were over. " Travelling is 
 not good for you." 
 
268 EDINA. 
 
 "But I could not help taking it," returned 
 Dame Bell, shaking out a whitey-brown shirt 
 belonging to one of her lodgers, and beginning 
 upon its wristbands. "When Eosaline never 
 came home, and paid no attention to my 
 ordering her to come, it was time I went to see 
 after her." 
 
 " She has not come back ? " 
 
 "No, she has not," retorted Dame Bell, 
 ironing away at so vicious a rate that it seemed 
 a marvel the wristband did not come off the 
 shirt. " I couldn't get her to come, Mr. Frank. 
 Cords would not have dragged her. Of all the 
 idiots ! — to let those Whistlers frighten her 
 away from a place for good, like that ! " 
 
 "The Whistlers?" mechanically repeated 
 Frank, his eyes, just as mechanically, fixed on 
 the progress of the ironing. 
 
 " It's they Whistlers, and nothing else," said 
 Mrs. Bell. "I didn't send word to her or her 
 aunt that I was on the road to Falmouth : I 
 thought I'd take 'em by surprise. And I de- 
 clare to you, Mr. Frank, I hardly believed my 
 eyes when I saw Eosaline. It did give me a 
 turn. I was that shocked " 
 
 "But why?" interrupted Frank. 
 
 " She's just as thin as a herring. You 
 
EDINA. 269 
 
 wouldn't Imow her, sir. When I got to the 
 place, there was John Pellet's shop-window all 
 alight with a big gas flame inside, a-lighting up 
 the tins and fire-irons, and that, which he shows 
 in it. I opened the side door, and went straight 
 up the stairs to the room overhead, knowing I 
 should most likely find Eosaline there, for it's 
 the room where my sister (Pellet's wife) does 
 her millinery work. My sister was there, stand, 
 ing with her back to me, a bonnet lodged on 
 each of her two outstretched hands, as if she 
 was comparing the blue bows in one with the 
 pink bows in t'other ; and close at the middle 
 table, putting some flowers in another bonnet, 
 was a young woman in black. I didn't know 
 her at first. The gas was right on her face, 
 but I didn't know her. She looked straight 
 over at me, and I thought what a white and 
 thin and pretty face it was, with large violet 
 eyes and dark circles round 'em : but as true as 
 you are there, Mr. Frank, I didn't know her for 
 Eosaline. ' Mother ! ' says she, starting up : 
 and I a'most fell down on the nearest chair. 
 * Whatever has come to you, child ? ' I says, as 
 she steps round to kiss me; 'you look as 
 though you had one foot in the grave, and the 
 other out of it.' At that she turns as red as a 
 
270 EDINA. 
 
 rose : and what with the hright colour, and the 
 smile she gave, she looked a little more like 
 herself. But there : if I talked till I tired you, 
 sir, I could make out no more than that : she's 
 looking desperately ill and wretched, and she 
 won't come home again." 
 
 Frank made no rejoinder. The ironing 
 went on vigorously : and Mrs. Bell's narrative 
 with it. 
 
 " All I could say was of no use : back with 
 me she'd not consent to come. All her aunt 
 could say was of no use. For, when she found 
 how lonely I was at home here, and how much 
 I wanted Eosaline, my sister, though loth to 
 part with her, said nature was nature, and a 
 girl should not go against her mother. But no 
 persuasion would bring Piosaline to reason ; 
 she'd live with me, and glad to, she said, if I'd 
 go and stay at Falmouth, but she could not 
 come back to Trennach. Pellet and Pellet's 
 wife both tried to turn her : all in vain." 
 
 '' Did she give any reason for not coming? " 
 questioned Frank : and one, more observant 
 than Dame Bell, might have been struck with 
 the low, subdued tone he spoke in. 
 
 " She didn't give any reason of her own 
 accord, Mr. Frank, but I got it out of her. 
 
• EDINA. 271 
 
 ' What lias Trennach done to you, and what has 
 the old house on the Plain done to j^ou, that 
 you should be frightened at it ? ' I said to her. 
 For it's easy enough to be gathered that she is 
 frightened in her mind, Mr. Frank, and Pellet's 
 wife had noticed the same ever since she went 
 there. * Don't say such things, mother,' says 
 she, 'it is nothing.' ' But I will say it,' says I 
 to her, ' and I know what the cause of it is — 
 just the shock you got that Tuesday night from 
 the Seven Whistlers, and a fear that you might 
 hear them again if you came back ; and a fine 
 simpleton you must be for your pains ! ' And 
 so she is." 
 
 "Ah, yes, the Seven Whistlers," repeated 
 Frank, absently. 
 
 " She could not contradict me. She only 
 bursts into tears and begs of me not to talk of 
 them. Not talk, indeed! I could have shook 
 her, I could!" 
 
 ''We cannot help our fears," said Frank. 
 
 *' But for a girl to let they sounds (which 
 nobody yet has found out the top or the tail of, 
 or what they be) scare her out of house and 
 home and country, is downright folly," pursued 
 Dame Bell, unable to relinquish the theme, and 
 splitting the button of the shirt collar in two 
 
272 EDINA. 
 
 at one stroke of the hasty iron. '' And she 
 must fri<];ht and fret herself into a skeleton be- 
 sides ! — Bother take these bone buttons ! they be 
 always a-snapping. — But there," she resumed, 
 in an easier tone, after folding the shirt, " I 
 suppose she can't help it. Her father was just 
 as much afraid of 'em. He never had an atom 
 o' fresh colour in his face from the Sunday 
 night he heard the Whistlers till the Tuesday 
 night when he disappeared. It had a curious 
 grey look on it all the while." 
 
 Frank rose. He remembered the grey look 
 well enough. "If Rosaline likes Falmouth 
 best she is better there, Mrs. Bell. I should 
 not press her to return." 
 
 " If pressing would do any good, she'd get 
 her share of it," rejoined Mrs. Bell, candidly. 
 " But it won't. I did press, for the matter of 
 that. When I'd done pressing on my own 
 score, I put it on the score of her father. 
 * Don't you care to be at home to welcome your 
 poor lost father when he gets back to it — for 
 back he's sure to come,' says I, ' sooner or 
 later : ' and I'm sure my eyes ran down tears 
 as I spoke. But no : she just turned as white 
 as the grave, Mr. Frank, and shook her head 
 in a certain solemn way of hers, which she 
 
EDINA. 273 
 
 must have picked up at Falmouth : and I saw 
 it was of no use, though I talked till dooms- 
 day. There she stops, and there she will 
 stop, and I must make the hest of it. And 
 I wish those evil "Whistlers had been in the 
 sea ! " 
 
 Frank was in a hurry to depart : but she 
 went on again, after taking breath. 
 
 '' She is earning money there, and her aunt 
 is glad to have her, and takes care of her, and 
 she says she never saw any girl so expert with 
 her fingers and disj)lay so much taste in bonnets 
 as Eosaline. But that does not mend the 
 matter here, Mr. Frank, and is no excuse for 
 her being such a goose. ' Come and take a 
 room at Falmouth, mother,' were her last 
 words to me when I was leaving. But I'd like 
 to know what a poor lone body like me could 
 do in that strange place." 
 
 " Well, good evening, Mrs. Bell," said Frank, 
 escaping to the door. But the loquacious 
 tongue had not finished yet. 
 
 " When I was coming back in the train, Mr. 
 Frank, the thought kept running into my mind 
 that perhaps Bell would have got home while 
 I'd been away : and when I looked round the 
 empty house, and saw he was not here, I had 
 
 VOL. I. T 
 
274 EDINA. 
 
 a queer feeling of disappointment. Do you 
 think he ever will come, sir ? " 
 
 Some " queer feeling " seemed to take Frank 
 at the question, and stop his breath. He spoke 
 a few words indistinctly in answer. Mrs. Bell 
 did not catch them. 
 
 " And whether it was through that — the ex- 
 pecting to see him and the consequent dis- 
 appointment — I don't know% Mr. Frank ; but 
 since then I can't get him out of my mind. 
 Day and night, Bell is in it. I am beginning 
 to dream of him; and that's what I have not 
 done yet. Nancy Tomson says that it's a 
 good sign. Should you say it was, sir?" 
 
 " I — really don't know," was Frank's un- 
 satisfactory reply. And he succeeded in making 
 his exit with the words. 
 
 "I wish she'd not bring wp her husband to 
 me ! " he cried to himself, lifting his hat that 
 his brow might get a little of the fresh wind, 
 which blew less fiercely under these cottages. 
 '* Somehow she nearly always does it. I hate 
 to cross the threshold." 
 
 A week or two went on : a week or two of 
 charming weather and calm blue skies. The 
 day fixed for the departure of Mrs. St. Clare 
 
EDINA. 275 
 
 from the Mount, came and passed, and she was 
 still in her home, and likely to be in it for 
 some time to come. " Man proposes, but 
 Heaven disposes." Every day of our lives, we 
 learn fresh proofs of that great fact. 
 
 On the very day of Daisy's impromptu wed- 
 ding, her sister Lydia showed herself more than 
 usually ailing and grumbling. She felt cold 
 and shivery, and sat in the pink cloak all day. 
 The next morning she seemed really ill, not 
 fancifully so, was hot and cold alternately : 
 Dr. Eaynor was sent for. The attack turned 
 out to be one of fever. Xot as yet of infectious 
 fever — and Dr. Eaynor hoped he should pre- 
 vent its going on to that. But it was rather 
 severe, and required careful watching and 
 nursing. 
 
 Of course their departure for foreign lands 
 was out of the question. They could not leave 
 the Mount. Mrs. St. Clare, who was very 
 anxious, for she dreaded a visitation of infec- 
 tious fever more than anything else, spent most 
 of her time in Lydia' s room. Once in a way, 
 Frank Eaynor appeared at the Blount in his 
 uncle's place. Dr. Eaynor was given fully to 
 understand that his own attendance was re- 
 quested, not his nephew's : but he was himself 
 
276 EDIXA. 
 
 getting to feel worse da}- by day ; he could not 
 always get over, walking or riding; and on those 
 occasions Frank w^nt instead. Mrs. St. Clare 
 allowed what, as it appeared, there was no 
 remedy for, and was coldly civil to the young 
 doctor. 
 
 But this illness of Lj'dia's, and Mrs. St. Clare's 
 close attendance in her room, gave more liberty 
 to Daisy. Scarcely an evening passed but she, 
 unsuspected and unwatched, was pacing the 
 shrubberies and the secluded parts of that 
 wilderness of a garden with him — Frank Eay- 
 nor. There, arm-in-arm, they walked, and 
 talked together of the hopeful future ; and the 
 hours seemed to be enchanted, and to fly on 
 golden wings. 
 
 " Love took up the glass of time, and turned it in his 
 
 glowing hands, 
 Every moment, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden 
 
 sands. 
 Love took np the harp of life, and smote on all its 
 
 chords with might, 
 Smote the chord of self, which, trembling, passed with 
 
 music out of sight." 
 
 Whatever of reality, of fruition, the future 
 might bring, it could never be to them what 
 this present time was, when they wandered 
 together in the sweet moonlight, with the scent 
 
EDINA. 277 
 
 of the night flowers around them, and the soft 
 sighing wind, and the heart's romance. 
 
 Never an evening but Daisy stole out to 
 watch from the sheltered gate for the coming 
 of her lover ; scarcely an evening that Frank 
 failed to come. When he did fail, it was 
 through no fault of his. Daisy would linger 
 and linger on, waiting and watching, even when 
 all sensible hope of his coming must have died 
 out ; and when compelled to return indoors 
 with a reluctant step, she would think fate 
 cruel to her, and sigh heavily. 
 
 " The time may come when we shall live 
 with each other and be together always, in 
 place of just this little evening walk up and 
 down the i)aths — and oh ! how I wish the time 
 was come ! " would say poor Daisy to her own 
 heart. 
 
 One evening it was Daisy who failed to be at 
 the try sting-place. Lydia was getting better, 
 was able to sit up a little, morning and evening. 
 The greater danger, feared for her, had been 
 prevented : and under her own good constitu- 
 tion — for she had one, in spite of her 
 grumblings and her imaginary ailments — and 
 Dr. Eaynor's successful treatment, she was 
 recovering rapidly. This evening, lying back 
 
278 EDINA. 
 
 iu au casy-cliair, it had pleased her to order 
 Daisy to read to her. Daisy complied will- 
 ingly : she was ever more ready to help Lydia 
 than Lydia was to accept her help : but when 
 a considerable spell of reading had been got 
 through, and the room was growing dim, Daisy, 
 coming to the end of a chapter, closed the 
 
 book. 
 
 ''What's that for?" asked Lydia, gharpl}^ 
 whose fractiousness was coming back to her 
 with her advance towards convalescence. "Eead 
 on, please." 
 
 ''It is getting dusk," said Daisy. 
 
 " Dusk for that large print ! — nonsense," 
 retorted Lydia. The book was a popular novel, 
 and she felt interested in it. 
 
 " I am tired, Lydia : you don't consider how 
 long I have been reading," cried Daisy, fretting 
 inwardly : for the twilight hour was her lover's 
 signal for approach, and she knew he must be 
 already waiting for her. 
 
 " You have only read since dinner," debated 
 Lydia : " not much more than an hour, I'm 
 sure. Go on." 
 
 So Daisy w^as obliged to go on. She dared 
 not display too much anxiety to get away, lest 
 it might betray to them that she had some 
 
EDINA. 27 9 
 
 motive for wishing it. A secret makes us 
 terribly self-conscious. But by-and-by it did 
 really become too dark to see even the large 
 print of the fashionable novel of the present 
 day, and Lydia exhibited signs of weariness ; 
 and Mrs. St. Clare, who had been dozing in 
 another arm-chair, woke up and said Lydia 
 must not listen longer. Daisy ran down to 
 the yellow-room, and sped swiftly through the 
 open glass doors. 
 
 It was nearly as dark as it would be. The 
 stars were shining ; a lovely opal colour, fading 
 below into green, lingered yet in the west. 
 Frank Raynor, hands in pockets, and whistling 
 softly under his breath, stood in the sheltered 
 walk. A broadish walk, where the trees met 
 overhead. Daisy flung herself into his arms, 
 and burst into tears. Tried almost beyond 
 bearing by her forced detention, it was thus her 
 emotion, combined perhaps with a little temper, 
 expended itself. 
 
 " Why, Daisy ! What in the world is the 
 matter?" 
 
 " I could not get to you, Frank. Lydia kei)t 
 me in, reading to her, all this while." 
 
 " Never mind, my darling, now you have 
 come." 
 
280 KDINA. 
 
 ** I thought you would go away ; I feared 
 3'ou might think I forgot, or something," sighed 
 Daisy. 
 
 '' As if I could think that! Dry your eyes, 
 my dear one." 
 
 Placing her arm within his, Frank led her 
 forward, and they began, as usual, to pace the 
 walk. It was their favourite i^romenade ; for 
 it was so retired and sheltered that they felt 
 pretty safe from intruders. There, linked arm- 
 in-arm, or with Frank's arm round her waist, 
 as might be, they paced to and fro ; the friendly 
 stars, like twinkling silver, shining down upon 
 them through the branches overhead. 
 
 Their theme was ever the same — the future. 
 The hopeful future, that to their eyes looked 
 brighter than those glistening stars. What was 
 it to be for them, and how might they, in their 
 enthusiasm, plan it out ? In what manner 
 could Frank best proceed, so as to secure 
 speedily a home-tent, and be able to declare 
 to the world that he and Margaret St. Clare 
 had spent a quarter of an hour in the grey old 
 church at Trennach one windy morning, when 
 he had earned the right to take her away with 
 him and cherish her for life ? 
 
 To this end the whole of their consultations 
 
EDIXA. 281 
 
 tended ; on this one desirable project all their 
 deliberations centred. The sooner Frank could 
 get away from Trennach, the sooner (as they 
 both so cheerily believed) it would be realised. 
 Never a shadow of doubt crossed either of them 
 in regard to it. Frank was too sanguine, Daisy 
 too inexperienced, to see any dubious clouds. 
 The days to come were to be days of brightness: 
 and both of them were supremely unconscious 
 that such days never come back after the swift 
 passing of life's fair first morning. 
 
 '* You see, Daisy, the delay is not my fault," 
 spoke Frank. " My uncle has been so very 
 unwell this last week or two, so much worse, 
 that I don't like to urge the change upon him. 
 Only to-day I said to him, ' You know I am 
 wanting to leave you, Uncle Hugh,' and his 
 reply was, ' Do not speak of it just immediately, 
 Frank : let things be as they are a very little 
 longer.' While he is feeling so ill, I scarcely 
 like to worry him." 
 
 '' Of course not," said Daisy. " And as 
 long as I can walk about here with you every 
 evening, Frank, I don't care how long things 
 go on as they are now. It was different when 
 I feared mamma was going to carry me off to 
 the end of the world. It was only that fear, 
 
282 EDINA. 
 
 you know, Frank, that made me consent to do 
 what I did that morning. I'm sure I tremble 
 yet when I think how wrong and hazardous 
 it was. Anybody might have come into the 
 church." 
 
 *' Where's 3'our wedding-ring, Daisy?" he 
 asked : and it may as well be said that he 
 had never told her somebody did come in. 
 
 " Here," she answered, touching the bosom 
 of her dress. ''It is always there, Frank." 
 
 " I have written to-day to a friend of mine 
 in London, Daisy, asking him if he knows of 
 any good opening for me — or of an}^ old prac- 
 titioner in a first-class quarter who may be 
 likely to want some younger man to help him. 
 I daresay I shall get an answer with some 
 news in it in a day or two." 
 
 " I daresay you will. Who is he, Frank ? " 
 
 " A young fellow named Crisp, who has the 
 best heart in the world. He " 
 
 A sudden clutching of his arm by Daisy, 
 just after they had turned in their walk ; a 
 visible shrinking of her frame, as if she would 
 hide herself behind him ; and a faint idea that 
 he saw some slight movement of the foliage at 
 the other end of the avenue, stopped Frank's 
 further words. 
 
EDINA. 
 
 283 
 
 ''Did you see, Frank?" she whispered. 
 *'Did you see?" 
 
 " I fancied something stirred, down yonder. 
 What was it?" 
 
 " It was Tabitha. I am certain of it. I 
 saw her the moment we turned. She might 
 have been watching us ever so long ; all the 
 way up the walk ; I dare say she was. Oh, 
 Frank, what shall I do ? She will go in and 
 tell mamma." 
 
 '•'Let her," said Frank. '-'The worst she 
 can say is, that we were walking arm-in-arm 
 together. I cannot think why you need be 
 so fearful, Daisy. Youi' mother must know 
 that we do meet out here, and she must 
 tacitly sanction it. She used to know it, and 
 sanction it, too." 
 
 Daisy sighed. Yes, she thought, her mother 
 might, at any rate, suspect that they met. It 
 was not so much that which Daisy feared. But, 
 the one private act she had been guilty of lay 
 heavily on her conscience ; and she was ever 
 haunted with the dread that any fresh move- 
 ment would lead to its betrayal. 
 
 Saying good night to each other, for it was 
 growing late, Frank departed, and Daisy went 
 in. Her mother was shut up in the drawing- 
 
284 EDINA. 
 
 room, and she went on straight to her sister's 
 chamber. There an unpleasant scene awaited 
 her. Lydia, not yet in bed — for she had re- 
 fused to go, and had abused Tabitha for urging 
 it — lay back still in the easy-chair. Could 
 looks have annihilated, Daisy would certainly 
 have sunk from those cast on her by Lydia, as 
 she entered. 
 
 And then the storm began. Lydia re- 
 proached her in no measured terms, and with 
 utter scorn of tone and manner, for the *' clan- 
 destine intimacy," as she was pleased to call 
 it, that she, Daisy, was carrying on with Frank 
 Priynor. 
 
 It appeared that after the candles were 
 lighted, and Mrs. St. Clare had gone down, 
 Lydia, declining to go to bed, and wanting to 
 be amused, required Daisy to read to her 
 again. Tabitha was sent in search of Daisy, 
 and came back saying she could not find her 
 anywhere : she was not downstairs, she was 
 not in her chamber. *' Go and look in the 
 garden, you stupid thing," retorted Lydia : 
 *' you know Miss Daisy's for ever out there." 
 Tabitha — who was a meek woman in de- 
 meanour, and took abuse humbly — went to 
 the garden as directed, searched about, and at 
 
EDINA. 285 
 
 length came upon Miss Daisy in the avenue, 
 pacing it on the arm of Mr. Eaynor. Back 
 she went, and reported it to Lydia. And 
 now Lydia was reproaching her. 
 
 " To suffer yourself to meet that man clan- 
 destinely after night has fallen ! " reiterated 
 Lydia. " And to stay out with him ! — and to 
 take his arm ! You disgraceful girl ! And 
 when, all the while, he does not care one jot 
 for f/ou ! He loves somebody else." 
 
 Daisy had received the tirade on herself in 
 silence, hut she fired up at this. '*' You 
 have no right to say that, Lydia," she cried. 
 *' Whether he loves me, or not, I shall not say ; 
 but, at any rate, he does not love anyone 
 else." 
 
 *' Yes, he does," affirmed Lydia. 
 
 *' He does not," fired Daisy. " If he does, 
 who is it ? " 
 
 *' Nobody in his own station — more shame 
 to him ! — It is that girl they call so beautiful 
 — who lost her father. Rose — Rose — what's 
 the name ? — Rosaline Bell. Frank Raynor 
 loves her with his whole heart and soul." 
 
 " Lydia, how dare you say such a thing ? " 
 
 " I don't say it. I only repeat it. Ask 
 Trennach. It is known all about the place. 
 
286 EDINA. 
 
 They used to be always together — walking on 
 the Bare Plain by night. The girl is gone 
 away for a time ; and the gentleman, during 
 her absence, amuses himself with you. Makes 
 love to you to keep his hand in." 
 
 Daisy's heart turned sick and faint withiii 
 her. Not at Lydia's supreme sarcasm, but at 
 the horrible conviction that there must be 
 something in the tale. She remembered the 
 past evening at the dinner-table — and the 
 recollection came rushing into her mind like 
 a barbed dart — when Sir Arthur Beauchamp 
 and others were questioning Frank about this 
 very girl and her beauty, and she — Daisy — 
 had been struck with the emotion he betrayed ; 
 with his evidently shrinking manner, wdth the 
 changing hue of his face. Did he in truth 
 love this girl, Eosaline Bell ? — and was she 
 so very beautiful ? 
 
 " How did you hear this, Lydia ? " asked 
 Daisy, in a tone from which all spirit was 
 quenched. 
 
 *' I heard it from Tabitha. She knows 
 about it. You can ask her for yourself." 
 
 And Daisy did ask. As it chanced, the 
 maid at that moment entered the room with 
 some beef -tea for Lydia ; and Daisy, suppress- 
 
EDINA. 287 
 
 ing her pride and lier reticence, condescended 
 to question her. Tabitha answered freely and 
 readily, as if there were nothing in the subject 
 to conceal, and with a palpable belief in its 
 truth that told terribly upon Daisy. In fact, 
 the woman did herself implicitly believe it. 
 Mr. Blase Pellet had once favoured her with 
 his version of the story, and Tabitha never 
 supposed that that version existed in Mr. 
 Pellet's own suspicious imagination, and in 
 that alone. 
 
 "1 — don't think it can be true, Tabitha," 
 faltered j)oor Daisy, her heart beating wildly. 
 " She was not a lady." 
 
 ''It's true enough. Miss Margaret. Blase 
 Pellet wanted her for himself, but she'd have 
 nothing to say to him — or to anybody else 
 except Mr. Piaynor. Pellet is related to the 
 Bells, and knew all about it. What he said 
 to me was this : ' Eaynor is after her for ever, 
 day and night, and she worships the ground 
 he treads on ! ' Those were his very words. 
 Miss Margaret." 
 
 Margaret, turning hot and cold, and red and 
 white, made her escape from the room, and 
 took refuge in her own. In that first moment 
 of awakening, she felt as though her heart 
 
288 EDINA. 
 
 must burst with its bitter pain. Jealousy, 
 baleful jealousy, had taken possession of her : 
 and there is no other passion in this life that 
 can prey upon our bosoms so relentlessly, or 
 touch them with so keen a sting. 
 
 END OF VOLUME I. 
 
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