Edina: A Novel

by Mrs. Henry Wood

For the moment, his several pressing engagements had gone out of his head. His patients, lying in expectation of him, might lie: self was all in all. The uneasiness that had taken hold of him amounted to tribulation.

"I wonder what Dame Bell knows of this?" it suddenly occurred to him to think. And no sooner did it occur than, acting on the moment's impulse, he determined to ask her, and walked towards her lodging at his usual quick rate. She had taken rooms in a quiet street, West Street, where the small houses were chiefly private. It was nearly a week since Frank had seen her, for her complaint was very fluctuating, and latterly she had felt better, not requiring regular attendance.

Opening the front-door without knocking, as was his custom, he went upstairs to the small sitting-room: this room and the bedchamber behind it comprising Mrs. Bell's apartments. She had come into a little money by the death of her sister at Falmouth, John Pellet's wife: and this, combined with her previous small income, enabled her to live quietly. When Mrs. Pellet died, it had been suggested that Rosaline should take to her millinery business, and carry it on: but Rosaline positively declined to do so. Neither Rosaline nor her mother liked Falmouth, and they resolved to go up to London. Chance alone—or at least, that apparently unconscious impulse that is called chance—had caused them to choose this particular part of London for their abode; and neither of them had the slightest idea that it was within a stone's-throw of Frank Raynor. On the third day after settling in it, Rosaline and Frank had met in Mark Street: and he then learnt the news of their recent movements.

Mrs. Bell was at her old employment this evening when Frank entered—knitting. Lifting her eyes to see who had come in, she took the opportunity to snuff the candle near her, and gazed at Frank over her spectacles.

"Hey-day!" she cried. "I thought it was Rosaline." This was the first time Frank had seen her alone. During all his previous visits Rosaline had been present. Rosaline had gone a long way that afternoon, Dame Bell proceeded to explain, as far as Oxford Street, and was not back again yet. The girl seemed to have some crotchet in her head, she added, and would not say what she went for. Frank was glad of her absence, crotchet or no crotchet: he felt an invincible distaste to naming the name of Blase Pellet in her hearing.

Seen Blase Pellet to-night!—what had Blase Pellet come to town for? repeated Dame Bell, in answer to Frank's introduction of the subject. "Well, sir," she added, "he tells us he was grown sick and tired of Trennach, and came up here to be near me and Rose. I'm sure you might have knocked me down with a feather, so surprised was I when he walked into this room last Sunday afternoon. I had dozed off in my chair here, and Rose was reading the Bible to herself, when he came in. For a minute or two I did not believe my eyes, and that's the truth. As to Rose, she turned the colour of chalk, just as if he had frightened her."

"Did he know you were living here?"

"Of course he knew that, Mr. Frank. Blase, I must say, has always been as dutiful to me as if he had been really my nephew, and he often wrote to us at Falmouth. One of his letters was sent after us from Falmouth, and I wrote to tell him where we were in return."

"Did you tell him I was here?" questioned Frank.

"Well no, I did not: but it is curious you should ask the question, Mr. Frank," cried the dame. "I was just going to add to my letter that I hoped I should get better now Mr. Raynor was attending me again, but Rosaline stopped me. Mr. Raynor was nothing to Blase, she said: better not name him at all. Upon that, I asked her why she did not write herself, if she thought she could word the letter better than me: but she never will write to him. However, you were not mentioned, sir."