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- Herausgeber: Booksell-Verlag
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
In "Edina," Mrs. Henry Wood masterfully weaves a tale of love, ambition, and social dynamics set against the backdrop of Victorian England. The novel navigates its richly drawn characters through the complexities of societal expectations and personal desires, all while employing a clear yet emotive prose style that reflects the era's romantic ideals. Wood's keen observations and intricate plotting place "Edina" within the literary context of the time, contributing to the burgeoning genre of domestic fiction that emphasizes moral lessons and emotional depth. Mrs. Henry Wood, a prolific writer of the 19th century, gained fame for her keen insights into human behavior and her ability to create relatable characters. Born in 1814, her experiences as a wife and mother, along with her own struggles within the constraints of Victorian society, undoubtedly influenced her narrative choices in "Edina." Her background illuminated her understanding of social hierarchies and personal dilemmas, allowing her to craft a powerful commentary on the individual's quest for fulfillment in a restrictive world. For readers seeking a nuanced exploration of personal struggles against societal norms, "Edina" stands out as a compelling read. Wood's intricate characterizations and engaging plot invite readers to reflect on their own lives while immersing themselves in the rich tapestry of 19th-century English society. This novel is a must-read for those interested in the intersections of love, duty, and self-discovery. In this enriched edition, we have carefully created added value for your reading experience: - A succinct Introduction situates the work's timeless appeal and themes. - The Synopsis outlines the central plot, highlighting key developments without spoiling critical twists. - A detailed Historical Context immerses you in the era's events and influences that shaped the writing. - A thorough Analysis dissects symbols, motifs, and character arcs to unearth underlying meanings. - Reflection questions prompt you to engage personally with the work's messages, connecting them to modern life. - Hand‐picked Memorable Quotes shine a spotlight on moments of literary brilliance. - Interactive footnotes clarify unusual references, historical allusions, and archaic phrases for an effortless, more informed read.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019
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Edina
Table of Contents
Introduction
A young woman’s steadfast conscience is tested against the eddies of fortune and the watchful eyes of society. Mrs. Henry Wood’s Edina introduces readers to a heroine whose resolve and tenderness are measured against shifting circumstances and communal judgment. Rather than relying on sensational shocks alone, the novel builds its power through moral tension, domestic detail, and the slow revelation of character. The result is a story that invites sympathy as it asks what it costs to remain principled in a world that prizes appearances. Readers encounter not only external trials, but the inward negotiations by which dignity and duty are maintained.
Edina belongs to the tradition of Victorian domestic fiction infused with the measured suspense for which Mrs. Henry Wood—Ellen Wood—became widely known. Published during the later nineteenth century, it reflects the social textures and anxieties of its era, moving through familiar British milieus where home, work, and reputation intersect. Wood was one of the period’s most popular novelists, celebrated for East Lynne and for her long stewardship of the magazine Argosy, and she brought the same accessible prose and moral clarity to this narrative. The book’s setting and concerns place it squarely within the everyday dramas of Victorian life.
At its core, the novel follows its eponymous heroine as she negotiates family responsibilities, limited choices, and the complex expectations that surround a young woman’s conduct. Early chapters establish the pressures of household economies and the fragile networks of trust on which livelihoods and futures depend. A change in circumstances compels Edina to weigh competing claims of duty and feeling, and her responses illuminate the ethical stakes that drive the plot. Without courting sensation for its own sake, the story offers steady, cumulative tension, asking how one remains truthful and kind when public opinion, practicality, and personal loyalty do not align.
The narrative voice is characteristically omniscient and companionable, balancing calm observation with a guiding moral intelligence. Wood’s chapters proceed with unhurried confidence, pausing for social portraiture and moving ahead through carefully placed turns that keep curiosity alive without sacrificing plausibility. Dialogue reveals nuance of class, temperament, and intention; descriptive passages focus on interiors, routines, and the small signs by which characters disclose themselves. Readers familiar with Wood will recognize the blend of domestic realism and gentle mystery: revelations arrive by degrees, consequences accrue, and the suspense is anchored in character rather than spectacle, making the emotional arc both persuasive and humane.
Themes central to Victorian fiction—reputation, responsibility, and the dignity of work—are treated here with particular attention to women’s agency within constraining structures. Edina explores how kindness can be a form of courage, how prudence and compassion need not be enemies, and how truth-telling becomes complicated when livelihoods are at stake. The novel considers social mobility and its costs, the ethics of secrecy, the weight of promises, and the persistent power of community surveillance. By tracing the heroine’s choices in a world governed by propriety and precarious economics, Wood invites readers to consider how integrity is practiced not once but repeatedly, in ordinary hours.
For contemporary readers, the book resonates in its portrayal of care work, institutional pressures, and the fragile economies of trust that govern public and private life. Its questions—what we owe our families, how we balance self-respect with compassion, how a reputation can be both shield and snare—remain timely. Edina also offers the historical texture many seek in Victorian narratives: rhythms of work and rest, the intricacies of social ritual, and the material realities that shape moral choice. It is thus both a period piece and a mirror, inviting reflection on how communities judge, support, and sometimes constrain those who live within them.
To read Edina is to enter a lucid, measured world where character development is the engine of suspense and where ethical clarity emerges from lived complexity. The experience is immersive rather than frantic, attentive to the consolations of domestic affection as well as to the pressures that threaten it. Wood’s craftsmanship lies in making goodness interesting—fraught, tested, and ultimately meaningful—without resorting to cynicism. As an introduction to her broader oeuvre, the novel offers a hospitable doorway: accessible prose, moral seriousness, and a steady narrative hand. It rewards readers who appreciate patient storytelling that values empathy, consequence, and steadfast resolve.
Synopsis
The novel opens in a quiet household where Edina, a young woman of reserved warmth and practical sense, lives under the protection of relatives. Means are limited, expectations are strict, and daily life turns on small obligations and the vigilance of reputation. Mrs. Henry Wood establishes the social fabric with precise domestic scenes, showing how kinship, duty, and prudence define opportunity. A change of arrangement—an invitation to reside with wealthier connections—alters Edina’s prospects and responsibilities. As she adapts, her role as a steadying presence grows clearer, and early hints of unease appear in talk of money, legacy, and unguarded ambitions.
Settled among new surroundings, Edina learns the subtle hierarchies of a household where affection and advantage mingle. An elder patron offers kindness; younger companions pursue livelier aims; dependents and visitors measure one another by tact and usefulness. Suitors and intentions are discussed with caution, and an unobtrusive admiration for Edina’s composure arises without becoming the story’s sole pivot. The narrative stays attentive to small decisions—who is trusted with accounts, who escorts whom, who overhears a remark—that determine future consequences. Through these early chapters, Edina’s self-command and fairness mark her out as mediator, even as questions of inheritance and standing begin to press.
A sudden reversal disturbs the newly found security. An unexpected loss and the uncertainties of business affairs redirect the household’s plans and expose vulnerable places long ignored. Duties multiply, visitors arrive with advice, and private anxieties become public concerns. In the bustle, a minor incident—a misplaced paper, a loan, a misunderstanding of dates—assumes disproportionate importance, sowing the first seeds of suspicion. Wood uses the shifting domestic rhythms to introduce a problem whose meanings are not yet clear. Edina, attentive rather than assertive, observes discrepancies without forming judgment, and the story turns from comfort toward questions of trust, solvency, and personal honor.
As rumors circulate, a respected figure finds a shadow cast over reputation. The neighborhood divides into those who believe in character and those who demand immediate proof. Edina’s loyalty inclines to patience, yet duty requires vigilance. She balances her obligations within the home against the need to gather quiet facts, noting gestures and intervals others overlook. A confidant of experience counsels caution, and the tone remains restrained: conversations in parlors, chance encounters at gates, and recorded recollections in letters gradually assemble a pattern. The tension lies not in spectacle but in the danger that an error, unchallenged, could harden into guilt.
The pressure intensifies when an absence intersects with an accusation. What might be coincidence appears, to some, as confirmation, and social doors begin to close. Edina undertakes practical steps—verifying times, seeking receipts, reconciling inconsistent accounts—to separate assumption from evidence. She meets reserve and evasion, but also unexpected goodwill. The chapters trace journeys made for modest purposes and interviews conducted under courtesy’s cover, each yielding a detail that complicates the case. The question is less who is wicked than how a chain of ordinary acts could result in grave appearances. Edina’s steadiness preserves hope as reputations hang in the balance.
Formal processes follow: consultations with solicitors, inquiries before authorities, the slow arrangement of testimony. The scene broadens from private rooms to offices and public corridors, yet the pace remains measured, attentive to what can and cannot be proven. Fragments from earlier years surface—old obligations, quiet favors, overlooked grievances—casting current events in a new light. Edina’s contribution is careful recall rather than dramatic discovery; she supplies connective tissue that others have neglected. Wood maintains suspense by juxtaposing legal sufficiency with moral probability, and by allowing characters’ past choices to press upon their present, without declaring the final meaning of the facts.
As the narrative approaches its crisis, loyalties are tested and explanations begin to cohere. Edina confronts the choice between protecting appearances and insisting on clarity, aware that either course risks harm. A meeting long deferred brings candor without triumph. A document, a statement, and a remembered promise converge to narrow the field of possibilities. The decisive scene emphasizes composure and responsibility rather than bravura. Edina’s quiet insistence on exact truth steers the matter away from a bitter impasse, while the consequences of earlier concealments can no longer be postponed. The turning point arrives without spectacle, prepared by slow, truthful accumulation.
The aftermath restores balance without erasing cost. Names are set right in the eyes of the community, arrangements of property and position are revised, and estrangements soften, though not all losses are retrievable. The household resumes its order with humbler expectations and clearer boundaries. Edina’s own future is aligned with the qualities that have guided her throughout: constancy, fairness, and a capacity to serve without self-advertisement. Relationships settle into their proper forms, with the suggestion of personal happiness shaped by duty rather than impulse. The resolution affirms the value of patience while acknowledging the weight of what has been borne.
Taken together, the book presents a study of character under pressure, showing how honest work, measured speech, and fidelity to small truths can withstand mischance and misjudgment. Wood’s narrative moves from quiet domesticity through disturbance to moral settlement, using everyday scenes to build unease and then confidence. The central message is not about sensational exposure but about the endurance of integrity in constrained circumstances. Without revealing final specifics, the story insists that justice requires memory, exactness, and charity, and that reputation, though fragile, can be rebuilt. Edina’s presence embodies this lesson, anchoring a world that wavers and then finds its level.
Historical Context
Set in mid-to-late Victorian Britain, the world of Edina unfolds amid the social codes and economic dynamism of the 1850s–1870s. The narrative environment encompasses the genteel rhythms of provincial towns linked by rail to London’s legal and financial districts, where reputations and fortunes are made or undone. Domestic interiors—drawing rooms, counting houses, solicitors’ offices—frame questions of duty, inheritance, and respectability. Expanding transport and the uniform postal system shape communication, while the press circulates scandal and fact alike. The period’s legal reforms and volatile markets press upon middle-class families, providing the backdrop against which a woman’s security, name, and property could be imperiled or defended.
The financial crises of 1857 and 1866 form the most consequential historical matrix for the novel’s anxieties about credit, trust, and social standing. The Panic of 1857, beginning with the failure of Ohio Life Insurance and Trust in the United States, spread to Britain by autumn, tightening credit, bankrupting Liverpool firms tied to Atlantic trade, and forcing the Bank of England to raise its discount rate to 10% in November. A decade later, the collapse of Overend, Gurney & Co.—a premier London discount house that had converted to a joint-stock company in 1865—exploded on 11 May 1866, remembered as Black Friday. Illiquid investments and reckless bill-discounting produced a run that cascaded through the City. The government authorized a temporary suspension of the Bank Charter Act of 1844, and the Bank Rate again soared to 10%, while institutions such as Agra and Masterman’s Bank failed in the aftermath. This shock reverberated into provincial banking and mercantile networks, precipitating business closures and sudden social descent among respectable households. Edina mirrors these tremors: its concerns with solvency, guardianship, and the fragility of reputation echo the era’s realization that a single default could collapse a family’s prospects. The novel’s attention to prudence, moral credit, and the terror of public disgrace reads as a direct response to a Britain where balance sheets and social status were inextricably entwined.
The Matrimonial Causes Act 1857 transformed marital breakdown from an ecclesiastical to a civil matter, establishing the Court for Divorce and Matrimonial Causes. Men could sue for adultery; women faced the higher bar of adultery plus aggravating offenses (cruelty, desertion, or bigamy). Earlier and later custody reforms (the Custody of Infants Act 1839 and the Guardianship of Infants Act 1873) modestly improved mothers’ rights. These changes made domestic scandals publicly litigable, and newspapers reported outcomes. Edina reflects the period’s sharpened stakes around marital reputation and legal exposure, using threatened suits, separations, or the fear of public proceedings to dramatize women’s vulnerability to male control.
The Married Women’s Property Acts (1870, 1882) altered the legal personhood of wives. In 1870, married women gained rights to their own earnings and small legacies; the 1882 Act went further, granting wives separate property in law, the capacity to sue and be sued, and protection against a husband’s creditors. These reforms were responses to notorious cases of squandered dowries and coerced transfers. Edina’s preoccupations with settlements, trustees, and the safeguarding of a heroine’s fortune track this legal shift: plots hinging on guardianship and mismanagement reflect a culture grappling with how to protect women’s assets before the law belatedly caught up.
The Second Reform Act (Representation of the People Act) 1867, steered through Parliament by Benjamin Disraeli under the Earl of Derby, doubled the English and Welsh electorate from roughly 1.36 million to about 2.48 million by enfranchising urban male householders and qualified lodgers. The Ballot Act 1872 introduced the secret ballot, tempering landlord and employer coercion. While women remained excluded, political discussion permeated urban life through newspapers and public meetings. Edina registers this changing civic atmosphere in the background—electioneering, petitions, and talk of rights—while foregrounding how female protagonists, barred from the franchise, navigate power indirectly through family, patronage, and reputation.
Public health crises reshaped Victorian urban existence. Cholera epidemics in 1848–49, 1854, and 1866, along with the Great Stink of 1858, spurred sanitary reform. John Snow’s 1854 Broad Street pump investigation localized transmission; Joseph Bazalgette’s interceptor sewers, authorized by the Metropolitan Board of Works, were largely completed by the late 1860s, reducing waterborne disease in London. These events elevated anxieties about contagion, poverty, and moral duty. Edina’s concern with household management, illness, and charitable visitation mirrors a society where disease could swiftly collapse respectability and where middle-class benevolence—often female-led—was both obligation and social performance.
A communications and mobility revolution structured daily life. The Uniform Penny Post (1840) normalized frequent correspondence; the railway network expanded from a few thousand miles in the 1840s to over 15,000 miles by the early 1870s; and the electric telegraph, nationalized under the Post Office in 1870, sped news and rumor. The 1870 Elementary Education Act (Forster’s Act) created elected school boards and expanded basic schooling, with attendance becoming effectively compulsory by 1880. Edina’s plots of mislaid letters, hurried journeys, and sudden revelations rely on these systems, while its portrayal of rising clerical and professional classes reflects the literate, mobile Britain these infrastructures made possible.
As social and political critique, the book exposes the precarity of middle-class respectability under financial capitalism, the legal subordination of women, and the porous boundary between private virtue and public judgment. It indicts speculative risk-taking that imperils dependents, scrutinizes guardianship and trustee culture that too often masks self-interest, and shows how law and credit discipline women more harshly than men. By situating domestic peril within the cycles of boom and bust, and by mapping a heroine’s limited avenues for redress onto the slow pace of legal reform, Edina challenges the complacency of its age and reveals the moral costs of Victorian modernity.
Edina
PART THE FIRST.
CHAPTER I.
HEARD AT MIDNIGHT
The village, in which the first scenes of this history are laid, was called Trennach[1]; 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 about them; yawning pit mouths, leading down to rich beds of minerals—some of the mines in all the bustle of full operation, some worked out and abandoned. Again, in the neighbourhood of 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 extended for some miles on one side the hamlet; on the other side, half-an-hour's quiet walking brought you to a different country altogether—to spreading trees and rich pasture land and luxuriant vegetation.
The village street chiefly consisted of shops. Very humble shops, most of them; but the miners and the other inhabitants, out of reach of better, found them sufficiently good for their purposes. Most of the shops dealt in mixed articles, and might be called general shops. The linendraper added brushes and brooms to his cottons and stuffs; the grocer sold saucepans and gridirons; the baker did a thriving trade in home-made pickles. On a dark night, the most cheerful-looking shop was the druggist's: the coloured globes displayed in its windows sending forth their reflections into the thoroughfare. This shop had also added another branch to its legitimate trade—that of general literature[4]: for the one solitary doctor of the place dispensed his own medicines, and the sale of drugs was not great. The shop boasted a small circulating library; the miners and the miners' wives, like their betters, being fond of sensational fiction. The books consisted entirely of cheap volumes, issued at a shilling or two shillings each; some indeed at sixpence. The proprietor of this mart, Edmund Float[3], chemist and druggist, was almost a confirmed invalid, and would often be laid up for a week at a time. The doctor told him that if he would devote less of his time to that noted hostelry, the Golden Shaft, he might escape these attacks of illness. At these times the business of the shop, both as to drugs and books, was transacted by a young native of Falmouth; one Blase Pellet, who had served his apprenticeship in it and remained on as assistant.
The doctor's name was Raynor. He wrote himself Hugh Raynor, M.D., Member of the Royal College of Physicians. That he, a man of fair ability in his profession and a gentleman as well, should be contented to live in this obscure place, in all the drudgery of a general practitioner and apothecary[5], may seem a matter of surprise—but his history shall be given further on. His house stood in the middle of the village, somewhat back from the street: a low, square, detached building, a bow window on each side its entrance, and three windows above. On the door, which always stood open in the daytime, was a brass plate, bearing the name, "Dr. Raynor." The bow window to the left was screened by a brown wire blind, displaying the word "Surgery" in large white letters. Above the blind Dr. Raynor's white head, or the younger head of his handsome nephew, might occasionally be seen by the passers-by, or by Mr. Blase Pellet over 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 tired of peeping and peering into his neighbours' doings generally, and especially 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 better attended; for most of the miners followed their fathers' faith—that of the Wesleyan Methodists.
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 near the fire in his surgery, looking over his day-book, in which a summary of the cases under 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. It was eight o'clock, and he had just entered the surgery: his nephew had already been in it half-an-hour. Never a more active man in his work than Dr. Raynor, 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 suppose 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 Raynor, making up mixtures, the ingredients for which he took from some of the various bottles ranged upon the shelves behind him. He was a slender, gentlemanly 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 minds on first seeing Frank Raynor 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 of his well-featured face, and the sunny, laughing blue eyes. The face wanted one thing—firmness. 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 was swayed as easily as the wind. Most lovable was Frank Raynor; but he would be almost sure to be his own enemy as he went through life. You could not help liking him; every one did that—with the exception of Mr. Blase Pellet across the road. Frank's hair was golden brown, curling slightly, and worn rather long. His face, like his uncle's, was close-shaved, excepting that he too wore whiskers, which were of the same colour as the hair.
"What a number of men are standing about!" exclaimed Dr. Raynor, looking over the blind. "More even than usual on a Monday morning. One might think they were not at work."
"They are not at work," replied Frank. "As I hear.
"No! what's that for?"
Frank's lips parted with a smile. An amused look sat in his blue eyes as he answered.
"Through some superstition, I fancy, Uncle Hugh. They say the Seven Whistlers[2] were heard in the night."
Dr. Raynor turned quickly towards 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 temper 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 whilst his present temper lasts," added Frank, 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."
"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, he turned away instead of answering me. Is it something especially ridiculous?"
Dr. Raynor briefly replied. This superstition of the Seven Whistlers arose from certain sounds in the air. They were supposed by the miners, when heard—which was very rarely, indeed, in this neighbourhood—to foretell ill luck. Accident, death, all sorts of calamities, in fact, might be expected, according to the popular superstition, by those who had the misfortune to hear the sounds.
Frank Raynor listened to the doctor's short explanation, a glow of amusement on his face. It sounded to him like a bit of absurd fun.
"You don't believe in such nonsense, surely, Uncle Hugh!"
Dr. Raynor had returned to the fire, and was gazing into it; some speculation, or perhaps recollection, or it might be doubt, in his grey eyes.
"All my experience in regard to the Seven Whistlers is this[1q], Frank—and you may make the most of it. Many years ago, when I was staying amongst the collieries in North Warwickshire, there arose a commotion one morning. The men did not want to go down the pits that day, giving 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 meant, never having heard of them, and received in reply the explanation I have now given you. But workmen were not 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 pit that same morning—through fire-damp, I think; and many of them never came up again alive."
"How dreadful! But that could not have been the fault of the Seven Whistlers?" debated Frank.
"My second and only other experience was at Trennach," continued Dr. Raynor, passing over Frank's comment. "About six years ago, some of the miners professed to have heard these sounds. That same day, as they were descending one of the shafts after dinner, an accident occurred to the machinery——"
"And did damage," interrupted Frank, with increasing interest.
"Yes. Three of the men fell to the bottom of the mine, and were killed; and several others were injured more or less badly. I attended them. You ask me if I place faith in the superstition, Frank. No: I do not. I am sufficiently enlightened not to do so. But the experiences that I have told you of are facts. I look upon them as mere coincidences."
A pause. Frank was going on with his work.
"Are the sounds all fancy, Uncle Hugh?"
"Oh no. The sounds are real enough."
"What do they proceed from? What causes them?"
"It is said that they proceed from certain night-birds," replied Dr. Raynor. "Flocks of birds, in their nocturnal passage across the country, making plaintive sounds; and when these sounds are heard, they are superstitiously supposed to predict evil to those who hear them. Ignorant men are always credulous. That is all I know about it, Frank."
"Did you ever hear 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. Raynor, seeing a man leave the chemist's and cross the street in the direction of his house. "He seems to be coming here."
"And Float the miner's following him," observed Frank.
Two men entered 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 and walked somewhat lame. His countenance, not very pleasing at the best of times, just now wore a grey tinge that was rather remarkable. This was Josiah Bell. The one who followed him in was a tall, burly man, with a pleasant face, as fresh as a farm-labourer's; his voice was soft, and his manner meek and retiring. The little man's voice, on the contrary, was loud and self-asserting. Bell was given to quarrel with every one who would quarrel with him; scarcely a day passed but he, to use his own words, "had it out" with some one. 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 common 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 place 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 position in life. He had begun that life as a clerk in the office of some large colliery works in Staffordshire; but, partly owing to unsteady habits, partly to an accident which had for many months laid him low and lamed him for life, he had sunk down in the world to what he now was—a workman in a Cornish mine.
"Won't the burn heal?" observed Dr. Raynor. "Let me see it, Float."
"If you'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 ago; and it seemed to get worse instead of better, in spite of the doctoring of his brother the chemist, and of Mr. Blase Pellet.
"I have asked you more than once to let me look to your arm, you know, Float," remarked Mr. Frank Raynor.
"But I didn't like to trouble you, Master Raynor. I thought Ned and his salves could do for it, 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 pallor on his face seemed to become greyer. It was a greyness that attracted Dr. Raynor's attention: he had never seen it in the man's face before.
"They passed over Trennach at midnight," said Bell, in low tones, from which all 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 closed, 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 in the middle of the Bare Plain. I was stepping along quietly——"
"And soberly?" interposed Frank, with a twinkling eye, and a tone that might be taken either for jest or earnest.
"And soberly," asserted Bell, resentfully. "As sober as you are now, Mr. Frank Raynor. I was stepping along quietly, I say, when the church clock began to strike. I stood to count it, not believing it could be twelve—not thinking I had stayed all that time at the druggist's. It was twelve, however, and I was still standing after the last stroke had died away, wondering how the time could have passed, 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 wail I've ever heard—save once before. It seemed to freeze me up."
"Did you hear more?" asked Dr. Raynor.
"No. And the last two sounds of the seven were so faint, I should not have heard them if I had not been listening. The cries had broken out right above where I was standing: they seemed to die away gradually in the distance."
"I say that you may have been mistaken, Bell," persisted Dr. Raynor. "The sounds you heard may not have been the Seven Whistlers at all."
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. Raynor."
"Is it this that has turned your face so grey?" questioned Frank, alluding to the pallor noticed by his uncle; but which the elder and experienced man had refrained from remarking upon.
"I didn't know it was grey," rejoined Bell, his resentful tones cropping up again.
"It's as grey as this powder," persisted Frank, holding forth a delectable compound he was preparing for some unfortunate patient.
"And so, on the strength of this night adventure of yours, Bell, all you men are making holiday to-day!" resumed the doctor.
But Bell, who did not seem to approve of Frank's remarks on his complexion, possibly taking them as ridicule—though he might have known Frank Raynor better—stood in dudgeon, and vouchsafed no reply. Andrew Float took up the retort in his humble, hesitating fashion.
"There ain't one of us, Dr. Raynor, that would venture down to-day after this. When Bell come up to the pit this morning, where 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. Ross, he stormed and raged, but he couldn't force us down, sir."
"And the Golden Shaft will have the benefit of you instead!" said the doctor.
"Our lives are dear to us all, sir," was the deprecating reply of Float, not attempting to answer the remark. "And I thank ye kindly, sir, for it feels more comfortable like already. They burns be nasty things."
"They are apt to be so when not properly attended to. Your brother should not have allowed it to get into this state."
"Well, you see, Dr. Raynor, some days he's been bad abed, and I didn't trouble him with it then; and young Pellet don't seem to know much about they bad places."
"You should have come 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 Whistlers. She don't like to hear tell of them."
"Why did you tell her?"
Josiah Bell lifted his cold light eyes in wonder. "Could I keep such a thing as that to myself, Dr. Raynor? It comes as a warning, and must be guarded against. That is, as far as we can guard against it."
"Has the sickness returned?"
"For the matter of that, she always feels sick. I should just give her some good strong doses of mustard-and-water to make her so 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 people'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.
"The Golden Shaft will have a good deal 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."
"I hope 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 up to his uncle as if scarcely understanding him. But Dr. Raynor 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 been waiting ever so long."
The voice was very sweet and gentle; a patient voice, that somehow gave one 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 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 embroidered cuffs and collar of her own work. Such was Edina Raynor.
"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 down, 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, or else wishing for a wider view of the street, and of the miners loitering about it, stepped outside. The men had collected chiefly in groups, and were talking idly, in slouching attitudes, 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 hostelry, the Golden Shaft: it was evidently the 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 up in bristles. When he caught sight of 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! What a proud wretch he looks this morning!—with his fine curls, and that ring upon his finger!"
"Twenty of them, at least, 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."
Frank went in to breakfast. The meal was laid in a small parlour, behind the best sitting-room, which was on the side of the passage opposite to the surgery, and faced the street. This back-room looked down on a square yard, and the bare open country beyond: to the mines and to the miners' dwelling-places. They lay to the right, as you looked out. To the left stretched 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. Raynor sat opposite to her. Frank took his usual place between them, facing the cheerful fire.
"If your coffee's cold, Frank, it is your own fault," said Edina, handing his cup to him. "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.
"What a pity it is about the men:" exclaimed Edina to Frank: for this report of the Seven Whistlers had become generally known, and the doctor's maid-servant had imparted the news to Miss Raynor. "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 cloud his faculties, And he is certainly not fanciful."
"But how, Uncle Hugh," put in Frank, "you cannot seriously think that there's anything 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 give out sounds and cries on the way. But that these cries should forebode evil to those who may hear them, is not to be credited for a moment."
Dr. Raynor nodded. He was languidly eating an egg. For some time past, appetite had failed him.
"I say, Uncle Hugh, that you cannot believe in such nonsense. You admitted that the incidents you gave just now were mere 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 be fathomed or explained. We must be content to leave them. I told you that I did not myself place faith in this popular belief of the miners: but I related to you at the same time my own experiences in regard to it. I don't judge: but 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."
CHAPTER II.
ROSALINE BELL
Frank Raynor 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 valuable in a general practitioner. Consequently he was much liked by the doctor's patients, especially by those of the better class, living at a distance; so that Dr. Raynor 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 midday, and Frank had seen all the sick near home at present on their hands, when he started on his walk to see one or two living further away. But he called in at home first of all, to give Dr. Raynor a report of his visits, and to change his grey coat for a black one. Every inch a gentleman looked Frank, as he left the house 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 customer, 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 his ginger. "What possesses Mother Bell, I wonder, to go and fancy herself ill and in want of a doctor!"
The houses and the church, which stood at that end of Trennach, were soon left behind; and Frank Raynor was on the wide tract of land which was called the Bare Plain. The first break he came to in its bleak monotony was a worked-out mine on the left. 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 the mouth of the shaft. Not only was it dangerous, from being unprotected; and children, as a rule are given to running into danger instead of avoiding it; but the place had an evil reputation. Some short time ago, a miner had committed suicide there: one Daniel Sandon: had deliberately jumped in and destroyed himself. Since then, the miners and their families, who were for the most part very superstitious and ignorant, held a belief that the man's ghost haunted 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: scarcely 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 path that led through the centre of the Plain. The depth of the pit had given rise to its appellation, "The Bottomless Shaft:" and poor Daniel Sandon must have died before he reached the end. For any one falling into it there could be no hope: escape from death was impossible.
Frank Raynor passed it without so much as a thought. Keeping on his way, he came by-and-by to a cluster of miners' dwellings, called Bleak Row, lying on the Plain, away to the right. Not many of them: the miners for the most part lived on the other side the village, near the mines. Out of one of the best of these small houses, there chanced to come a girl, just as he was approaching it; and they met face to face. It was Rosaline Bell.
Never a more beautiful girl in the world than she. Two-and-twenty years of age now, 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 complexion was fresh as a summer rose, and her deep violet eyes sparkled beneath their long dark lashes. Eyes that, in spite of their brightness, had an expression of settled sadness in them: and that sad expression of the eye is said, you know, only to exist 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 stuff, neatly made and worn; her bonnet was of white straw; and the pink bow at her throat rivalled in colour the rose of her cheek.
Far deeper in hue did those cheeks become as she recognized Frank Raynor. With a hasty movement, as if all too conscious of her blushes and what they might imply, she raised her hand to cover them, making pretence gently to put back her dark and beautiful hair. Nature had indeed been prodigal in her gifts to Rosaline Bell. Rosaline had been brought up well; had received a fairly good education, and profited by it.
"How do you do, Rose!" cried Frank, in his gay voice, stopping before her. "Where are you going?"
She let her 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 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 everything, Rose—those Whistlers. I never heard of them in all my life until this morning."
Rosaline smiled in answer—a sad smile. "My father firmly believes in them," she said; "and mother is anxious because he is. I must go on now, sir, or I shall not get back by dinnertime."
Taking one of her hands, he waved it towards the village, as if he would speed her onwards, said his gay good-bye, and lifted the latch of the door. It opened to the kitchen: a clean and, it might almost be said, rather tasty apartment, with the red-tiled floor on which the fire threw its glow, and a strip of carpet by way of hearthrug. 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 fireplace, which faced the door. The window was gay with flowers. Hyacinths in their blue glasses stood on the frame half-way up: beneath 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 cloth, her back to the window, was Mrs. Bell, who had latterly become an invalid. She was rubbing some dried mint into powder. By this, and the savoury smell, Frank Raynor guessed they were to have pea-soup for dinner. But all signs of dinner to be seen were three plates warming on the fender, and an iron pot steaming by the side of the fire.
"And now, mother, how are you to-day?" asked Frank, in his warm-hearted and genuine tones of sympathy, that so won his patients' regard.
He drew a chair towards her and sat down. The word "mother" came from him naturally. Two years ago, 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 so 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 still bright complexion must once have been as delicately beautiful as her daughter's. She put the basin of mint on the 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, purposely 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 have patience. Yours is a case, you 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 about that disturbing element, the Seven Whistlers: and Frank went out again, wishing her a good appetite for her dinner.
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 moderately-sized mansion, standing in 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 unexpectedly to a distant 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 to give their name its full pronunciation, Saint Clare—had four children. The eldest, Charlotte, was with her husband, Captain Townley, in India; Lydia was second; the lieutenant and present owner of The Mount came next; and lastly Margaret, who was several years younger than the rest, and indulged accordingly. Mrs. St. Clare was extremely fond of society; and considered that at The Mount she was simply buried alive.
The great entrance-gates were on the opposite side; Frank Raynor never went round to them, unless he was on horseback: when on foot, he entered, as now, by the small postern-gate that was almost hidden by clustering shrubs. A short walk through the narrow pathway between these shrubs, and he was met by Margaret St. Clare: or, as they generally called her at home, Daisy. It frequently happened that she did meet him: and, in truth, the meetings were becoming rather precious to both, most 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 visits to The Mount almost every other day. The doctor himself now and then, but it was generally Frank who went.
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 to her. She chanced to know that he was a gentleman by birth, having 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 secretly looked down upon Frank: as she would have looked upon any other general practitioner. But she liked Frank himself, and she very much liked his society, and often asked him to dinner, en famille. The few visiting people who lived within reach did not form a large party; but Mrs. St. Clare brought them together occasionally, and made the best of them.
Margaret St. Clare would be nineteen to-morrow. A slight-made, fair, pretty girl, putting one somehow in mind of a fairy. Her small feet scarcely seemed to touch the ground as she walked, her small arms and hands, her delicate throat and neck, were all perfectly formed. The face was fair and piquante, 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 occasionally looked 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, of fine, light blue texture, 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 somewhat ruffled by the breeze. As she came forward to meet Frank, her face was lighted up with smiles of pleasure; its blushes were almost as deep as those that had lighted up Rosaline Bell's not half-an-hour ago. Frank took both her hands in silence. His heart was beating at the sight of her: and silence in these brief moments is the finest 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 at its consciousness. Even now it was "shining on him."
She was the first to break the silence. "You are late, Mr. Raynor. Lydia has been all impatience."
"I am a little late, Miss Margaret. There is always a good deal to do on a Monday morning."
Lydia St. Clare might be impatient, but neither of them seemed anxious to hurry in to her. The windows of the house could not be seen from here; evergreens grew high and thick between them, a very wilderness. In fact, the grounds generally were little better than a wilderness; the late owner was an absentee, and the place had been neglected. But it seemed beautiful as Eden to these two, strolling along side by side, and lingering on this bright day. The blue sky was almost cloudless; the sun gilded the budding trees; the birds sang as they built their nests: early flowers 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 happy strollers; and it was in its very earliest dawn, when it is freshest and sweetest.
"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 flower from her unresisting hand as she held it out to him. "Will you give it me, Daisy?" he asked, in low, tender tones, his eyes meeting hers with a meaning she could not misunderstand.
Her eyes fell beneath his, her fingers trembled 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," she stammered. "It is only a daisy."
"Only a daisy! The daisy shall be my favourite flower of all flowers from henceforth."
"Indeed, I think you must go in to Lydia."
"I am going in. How the wind blows! You will catch cold without your hat."
"I never catch cold, Mr. Raynor. I never have anything the matter with me."
He put the daisy into his button-hole, its pink and white head just peeping out. Margaret protested hotly.
"Oh, don't; please don't! Mamma will laugh at you, Mr. Raynor. Such a stupid little flower!"
"Not stupid to me," he answered. "As to laughing, Mrs. St. Clare may 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 morning-room, its curtains and furniture of pale green, bordered with gold. Mrs. St. Clare, a large, fair woman with a Roman nose, lay back in an easy-chair, a beautifully-worked screen attached to the white marble mantelpiece shading her face from the fire. Her gown was black and white: grey and black ribbons 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, never cared to turn the pages of a book. She was indolent by nature, and had grown more 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 fireplace; 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 wanted was to exert herself: to walk and take an interest in the bustling concerns of daily life as other girls did; she would talk no more of nervousness and chest-ache then.
Frank felt her pulse, looked at her tongue, and inquired how she had slept; with all the rest of the usual medical routine. Lydia answered fretfully, and began complaining 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, Daisy, declared this morning that it was the sweetest place she was ever in!" added Miss St. Clare, in withering contempt meant for Daisy. "She said she should like existence, as it is just at present, to last for ever!"
Frank Raynor caught a glimpse of a painfully-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 live through the hours between luncheon and dinner without driving. Not that I care for it."
"Talking of dinner," interposed Mrs. St. Clare, "I want you to dine with us to-day, Mr. Raynor. 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 possibly can."
"I cannot allow you any 'If' in the matter."
Frank smiled, and gave a flick 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 us yours this evening. Our dinners are insufferably dull when we sit down alone."
