Oswald Cray: A Novel

by Mrs. Henry Wood

"About a week. I have come for advice only, not to stay to be cured. Aunt Bettina's is no house for me; and perhaps I cannot even stay there at all. Captain Davenal and his wife may have arrived."

She heaved a sigh of weary despondency. Watton urged her to retire; but Caroline felt at rest in the easy chair, and still sat on. It was so long since she had seen a home face, or conversed with a home tongue.

"Who was that gentleman who passed us as I was coming in?" she asked, "he who spoke of the Prince?" And Watton replied that it was Mr. Comyng, a junior partner of the house, and the only one of the partners who resided there.

It wanted scarce a quarter to twelve when Caroline at length went upstairs to a very high bedroom. Whether it was Watton's room, or not Caroline did not know, but it had been made cheery. The curtains and bed were white and pleasant-looking, and a fire sparkled in the grate. Watton would have stayed with her to help her undress, but Caroline preferred to be alone.

When left to herself, she drew aside the window-curtains, and saw that the room faced the front: there stood old St Paul's, grim and formidable, and apparently so close to her that she might have fancied it within a leap. Letting the curtain remain open, she sat down at the fire, before which was drawn a chair as easy as the one downstairs.

She sat with her head pillowed on the high arm, gazing at the blaze, and musing over present events. Their strangely uncertain life at Honfleur, poor Mark's position and poverty, her own malady and the curious manner in which she had lost that eager faith in the result of her journey, her reception on the morrow by Miss Davenal--and with all these thoughts were mingled more prominently the tidings which had greeted her since her entrance.

Unconsciously to herself she dropped into a doze. It was a very foolish thing to do, of course, for she would have been much better in bed; but none of us are wise always. She dozed placidly; and the first thing that in the least aroused her, and that only partially, was the booming out in her ear of a deep-toned bell.

"St. Paul's clock striking twelve," was the supposition that crossed her mind in its state of semi-sleep. But ere many minutes had gone by she became alive to the fact that the striking did not cease, that the strokes of the bell were tolling out fast and loud as--as--a death-bell strikes out.

It has not been the fate of many to hear the bell of St. Paul's Cathedral strike out at midnight. Those who have will never forget it during life. Never, never, will it be forgotten by those few who heard it as it went booming into the air on that still December night, bearing forth its message of woe to the startled hearts of the metropolis.

For a brief moment Mrs. Cray wondered what was the matter. She sprang out of her chair and stood staring at the edifice, as if in mute inquiry of what it meant. And then--when she remembered what had been said that night--and the recollection flashed on her with that heart-sickness that generally accompanies some awful terror--she opened the window and leaned out.