Edina: A Novel

by Mrs. Henry Wood

This virtually left Frank and Blase Pellet alone. Blase took off his tall Sunday hat, and rubbed his brow with his white handkerchief, as though the heavy hat and the burning sun had left an unpleasant sensation of heat there. It was, however, neither the hat nor the sun that had put him into that access of warmth; it was the sight of Frank Raynor. Of Frank Raynor holding Rosaline's hand in his, holding herself, in fact, and bending over her with what looked like an impulse of affection.

A most disagreeable idea had flashed into Mr. Pellet's head. A dim, indistinct idea, it is true, but none the less entertained. Married man though Frank Raynor was, as the world of Trennach knew, he might not have given up his love for Rosaline! He might be intending to keep that sentiment on; keep her to himself, in short, to laugh and chatter with whenever they should meet, to the destruction of other people's hopes, including those of Blase Pellet. And Blase, in the plenitude of his wrath, could have struck him to the earth as he stood.

How mistaken people can be! How wildly absurd does jealousy make them! Nothing could be further from the thoughts of Frank Raynor: he was at honest peace with all the world, most certainly intending no harm to Rosaline, or to any one else. At peace even with that unit in it, Blase Pellet: and in the plenitude of his good-nature he addressed him cordially.

"You have made one of the followers of poor Bell, I see. The affair is altogether a sad one."

"Yes, it is," replied Blase Pellet. "We have been putting him into his grave; and matters, so far, are hushed up. But I don't say they are hushed for good. I could hang some people to-morrow, if I liked."

The intense bitterness of his tone, the steady gaze of his meaning eyes, proved that this man might yet become a subtle enemy. Frank's courage fell.

"What do you mean?" he asked. But for the very life of him he could not make his voice quite so free and independent as usual.

"It does not matter saying now what I mean, Mr. Raynor. Perhaps I never shall say it. I would rather not: and it won't be my fault if I do. You keep out of my way, and out of somebody else's way, and I dare say I shall be still, and forget it. Out of sight, out of mind, you know, sir."

Frank, deigning no reply, turned into the house to see if there was anything he could do for Rosaline. And then he walked away rapidly towards Trennach.

Mrs. St. Clare had not yet returned to the Mount, but she was expected daily. Frank had received three or four letters from Daisy, re-posted to him in London by Edina, but not one of the letters had he been able to answer in return. They were going about from place to place in obedience to Lydia's whims, Daisy said, and it was simply impossible to give any certain address where a letter would find her. Every day for a week past had her mother announced her intention of turning her steps homeward on the morrow: and every morrow, as it dawned, had her steps been turned to some fresh place instead.