Edina: A Novel

by Mrs. Henry Wood

That was enough. And a great deal more than enough. Blase instantly jumped to the conclusion that it was through the Tello post-office that the correspondence with Rosaline was carried on. And perhaps it was not unnatural that he should think so. The scarcity of letters arriving for Frank at Trennach was accounted for now.

Forth he came, boiling and bursting, crossed the stile, and dropped down on the tree-stump, unable to get any farther. The very fact of the correspondence being carried on clandestinely made it more cruel for him. With his bitter indignation mingled a great deal of despair. In that one miserable moment he began to see that he might indeed lose Rosaline. To lose her would have been anguish unspeakable; but to see another gain her was simply torment—and that other the detested gentleman, Frank Raynor. Blase Pellet had not a very clear idea of social distinctions, and he saw no particular incongruity in Frank's making her his wife.

"I've kept quiet as yet about that past night's work;" said Mr. Pellet to himself, "but I'll speak now. I kept quiet for her sake, knowing what pain it would bring her; not for his; and because——"

"Well, any way," he resumed, after the long pause which succeeded his sudden break-off, "I must feel my way in it. If I could only drive him away from Cornwall for good, that would be enough; and then I'd draw in again. I heard him tell old Float that he meant to be off to London soon and settle there: let him go, and leave me and Rose and these parts alone. I'll help to start him there; and when he's gone I'll keep silent again. But now—how much will it be safe to say?—and what can I say?—and how can I set about it?"

Leaning forward, his hands placed on his knees, pressing them almost to pain, his eyes fixed on the opposite hedge, he went on with his thoughts. Blase Pellet was of an extremely concentrative nature: he could revolve and debate doubts and difficulties in his own mind, until he saw his way to bringing them out straight in the end, just as patiently and successfully as a Cambridge student will work out a problem in mathematics. But the difficulty Blase was trying to solve now was not an easy one.

"I can't say I saw it," debated he. "I can't say I heard it. If I did, people would ask five hundred questions as to where I was, and how it came about, and why I did not give the alarm—and I might have to tell all. I don't care to do that. I won't do it, unless I'm forced. Let him go away and leave her alone hereafter, and he shall get off scot-free for me. If I told of him, I should have to tell of her—that she was present—and she wouldn't like it; neither should I, for I'd be sorry to bring pain and exposure on her. She ought to have denounced him at the time—and she was a regular simpleton for not doing it: but still it would not be pleasant for me to be the one to complain that she was there and witnessed it all. No, no: I may not say I know that: I dare not say I was a witness myself. I must find some other way."

The other way seemed to be very far off. Mr. Pellet took his eyes from the hedge, and his hands from his knees; but only to fix them on the same places again. The stump of the tree was as uneasy a seat as its once green and flourishing topmost bough must have been, to judge by the restlessness that was upon him as he sat there.

"Could I say I dreamt it?" cried he, suddenly, ceasing his shuffling, and holding his head bolt upright. "Could I? I don't see any other way. Let's think it out a bit."

The thinking out took a tolerably long time yet, and Mr. Pellet did not seem altogether to like his idea. It was very nearly dark when he at length rose from the stump, sighing heavily.

"I must be uncommonly cautious," said he. "But it's just one of those ticklish things that admit of no openings but one. If Rosaline got to know that I saw—and told—she'd just fling me over for ever. I think a word or two of suspicion will be enough to drive him away, and that's all I want."