Bessy Rane

It was an intensely dark night. What with the mist below, and the unusual gloom above, Dr. Rane began to think he might have done well to bring a lantern with him, to guide his steps through Ham Lane when he should turn into it. A gentleman was lying in sudden extremity, and his services as a medical man were being waited for.

Straight down the road before him, only half-a-mile away, lay the village of Dallory; so called after the Dallory family, who had been of importance in the neighbourhood in the years gone by. This little off-shoot was styled Dallory Ham: and the name had given rise to disputes amongst antiquarians. Some maintained that the word Ham was only a contraction of hamlet, and the correct name would be Dallory Hamlet: others asserted that it arose from the circumstance that the public green, or common, was in the shape of a ham. As both sides brought logic and irresistible proof to bear on their respective opinions, contention never flagged. At no very remote period the Ham had been a grassy waste, given over to stray donkeys, geese, and gipsies. They were done away with now that houses encircled it; villas of moderate dimensions, some cottages and a few shops: the high-road ran, as it always had done, straight through the middle of it. Dallory Ham had grown to think itself important, especially since the time when two doctors had established themselves there: Dr. Rane and Mr. Alexander. Both lived in what might be called the neck of the Ham, which was nearest to Dallory proper.

If you stood looking towards Dallory the doctor's house was on your right hand. He had only now turned out of it. Dallory Hall, to which place Dr. Rane had been summoned, stood a little beyond the entrance to the Ham, lying on the right in its extensive grounds, completely hidden by trees. It was inhabited by Mr. North.

Oliver Rane had come forth in haste, unable to understand the message, beyond the one broad fact that Edmund North, Mr. North's eldest son, was supposed to be dying. The servant, who brought it, did not seem to understand it either. He spoke of an anonymous letter received by Mr. North, of ensuing disturbance, a subsequent encounter--a sharp, brief quarrel--between Edmund North and Mr. Alexander, the surgeon; and some sort of fit in which Edmund North was now lying senseless.

Dr. Rane was a gentlemanly man of middle height and slender frame, his age about thirty. The face in its small regular features might have been held slightly effeminate, but for the firm resolute mouth and pointed chin. His eyes--rather too close together--and hair were of a reddish-brown, the latter worn brushed aside from the forehead; his teeth were white and even: altogether a good-looking man; but one rather too silent in manner, and of too inscrutable a countenance, to be very pleasing.

"An anonymous letter!" Dr. Rane had repeated to himself, with a sort of groan, as he pursued his course down the Ham. Glancing across at Mr. Alexander's house, he felt a momentary temptation to call and learn particulars--if haply, the surgeon should be at home. The messenger had said that Mr. Alexander left Dallory Hall in anger, in the very middle of the quarrel; hence the summons for Dr. Rane. For Mr. Alexander, not Dr. Rane, was the Hall's medical attendant; this was the first time the latter had been so called upon.

They had come to Dallory within a day of each other, these two doctors, in consequence of the sudden death of its old practitioner; each hoping to secure the practice for himself. It was Mr. Alexander who chiefly gained it. Both were clever men; and it might have been at least an even race between them, but for the fact that Mrs. North, of Dallory Hall, set her face resolutely against Dr. Rane. The reason was inexplicable, since he had been led to believe that he should have the countenance of Mr. and Mrs. North. She did her best covertly to prevent his obtaining practice, pushing his rival--whom she did not care a tittle for--into favour. Her object might not be to drive Oliver Rane from the spot, but it certainly looked like it. So Mr. Alexander had obtained the lion's share of the practice in the best families, Dr. Rane but little; as to the poor, they were about equally divided between them. Both acted as general practitioners, and Mr. Alexander dispensed his own medicines. The rivals were outwardly cordial with each other; but Dr. Rane no doubt secretly resented his want of success.

The temptation to call at Mr. Alexander's passed with the thought. Dr. Rane pursued his course until he came to Ham Lane, an opening on the right, into which he turned, for it was a nearer way to the Hall. A narrow lane, green and lovely in early summer, wild flowers nestling on its banks, dog-roses and honeysuckles clustering in the hedges. Here was the need of the lantern. But Dr. Rane sped on without regard to false steps that might land him in the ditch. His state of excitement was far beyond anything that might arise from the simple fact of being called out to a gentleman in a fit; yet he was by temperament very self-possessed, and in manner one of the calmest men living. A stile in the hedge on the left, which he found almost by instinct, took him at once into the grounds of Dallory Hall; whence there came wafting to him the scent of hyacinths, daffodils, and other spring flowers in delicious sweetness, in spite of the night-air. Not that Dr. Rane derived much pleasure from the sweetness; nothing could seem delicious to him just then.

It was more open here, and not so intensely dark. Three minutes of the same heedless pace in and out of the winding walks, and the old stone mansion stood before him. A long, grey, sensible-looking house, of only two stories, suggesting spacious rooms within. Lights shone from some of the windows and through the fan-light over the entrance-door. One of the gardeners crossed Dr. Rane's path.

"Is that you, Williams? Do you know how young Mr. North is?"

"No, sir. There's something wrong with him, we hear."

"Is this blight?" called back the doctor, alluding to the curiously dark mist.

"Not it, sir. Nothing but vapour rising from the day's heat. It has been very hot for the first of May."

The door yielded to Dr. Rane's hand, and he went into the hall: of fair size, and paved with stone. On the left were the drawing-rooms, on the right the dining-room, and also a room called Mr. North's parlour; a stone staircase winding up at the back. All the doors were closed; and as Dr. Rane stood hesitating for a moment, a young lady in grey silk came swiftly and silently down the stairs. Her figure was small and slight, her face fair, pale, gentle, with the meekest look in her dove-like grey eyes. Her smooth, fine hair, of an exceedingly light brown, was worn in curls all round the head, after the manner of girls in bygone days. It made her look very young, but she was in reality thirty years of age; three months younger than Dr. Rane. Miss North was simple in tastes and habits, and adhered to many customs of her girlhood. Moreover, since an illness seven years ago, her hair had never grown very long or abundant. She saw Dr. Rane, and came swiftly towards him. Their hands met in silence.

"What is this trouble, Bessy?"

"Oh, I am so glad you are here!" she exclaimed, in the soft, subdued tones characteristic of dangerous illness in a house. "He is lying as though he were dead. Papa is with him. Will you come?"

"One moment," he whispered. "Tell me, in a word, what it all is. The reason, I mean, not the illness."

"It was caused by an anonymous letter to papa. Edmund--"

"But how could any anonymous letter to your father affect Edmund?" he interrupted. And his tones were so sharp and the hand, clasped until then, was so suddenly released, that Miss North thought he was angry with her, and glanced upwards through her tears.

"I beg your pardon, Bessy. My dear, I feel so grieved and confounded at this, that I am scarcely myself. It is utterly incomprehensible. What were the contents of the letter?" he continued, as they hastened upstairs to the sick-chamber. And Bessy North told him in a whisper as much as she knew.

The facts were these. By the six o'clock post that same evening, Mr. North received an anonymous letter, reflecting on his son Edmund. His first wife, who had died just eight-and-twenty years before, had left him three children, Edmund, Richard, and Bessy. When the letter arrived, they were sitting down to dinner, and Mr. North did not open it until afterwards. He showed it to his son Edmund, as soon as they were alone. The charges it contained were true, and Edmund North jumped to the conclusion that only one man in the whole world could have written it, and that was Alexander, the surgeon. He went into a frightful passion, as he was given to doing on occasion; and he had, besides, taken rather more wine at dinner than was good for him--to which also he was somewhat addicted. As ill fate had it, Mr. Alexander called just at the moment, and Mr. North, a timid man in nervous health, grew alarmed at the torrent of angry words, and left them together in the dining-room. There was a short, sharp storm. Mr. Alexander came out almost immediately, saying, "You are mad; you are mad. I will talk to you when you are calmer." "I would rather be mad than bad," shouted Edmund North, coming after him. But the surgeon had already let himself out at the hall door; and Edmund North went back to the dining-room, and shut himself in. Two of the servants, attracted by the sounds of dispute, had lingered in the hall, and saw and heard this. In a few minutes Mr. North went in, and found his son lying on the ground, senseless. He was carried to his chamber, and medical men were sent for: Dr. Rane (as being the nearest), and two physicians from the more distant market town, Whitborough.

Edmund North was not dead. Dr. Rane, bending over him, saw that. He had not been well of late, and was under the care of Mr. Alexander. Only a week ago (as was to transpire later) he had consulted a physician in Whitborough, one of those now summoned to him. This gentleman suspected heart-disease, and warned him against excitement.

But the family knew nothing as yet of this; neither did Oliver Rane. Another circumstance Edmund North had not disclosed. When sojourning in London the previous winter, he had been attacked by a sort of fit. It had looked like apoplexy more than heart; and the doctors gave him sundry injunctions to be careful. This one also, Dr. Rane thought, knowing nothing of the former, looked like apoplexy. Edmund North was a very handsome man, but much too stout.

"Is he dead, Oliver?" asked the grieving father; who, when alone with the doctor, and unrestrained by the presence of his wife, often called him by his Christian name.

"No; he is not dead."

And, indeed, a spasm at that moment passed over the prostrate face. All the means Oliver Rane could think of, and use, he tried--hoping to recall the fast-fleeting life.

But when the two doctors arrived from Whitborough, Oliver Rane found he was not wanted. They were professionals of long standing in their local arena, and showed themselves condescendingly patronizing to the young practitioner. Dr. Rane, having rather a strong objection to being patronized, withdrew, and went to Mr. North's parlour. It was a dingy room; the shaded lamp on the table not sufficing to light it up. Red curtains were drawn before the large French window that opened to the flower-garden at the side.

Mr. North was standing before the fire. He was a little shrivelled man with stooping shoulders, his scanty hair smoothed across a low, broad forehead, his lips thin and querulous; his eyes, worn and weary now, had once been mild and loving as his daughter Bessy's. Time and care, and (as some people said) his second wife, had changed him. Oliver Rane thought he had never seen him look so shrunken and timid as to-night.

"What a pity you should have mentioned the letter to him, Mr. North!" began the doctor, speaking at once of what lay uppermost in his thoughts.

"Mention the letter to him!--why, it concerned him," was the surprised answer. "And how could I imagine it would have this effect upon him?"

"What were the contents of the letter, sir?" was the doctor's next question, after a long silence.

"You can read it, Oliver."

Opening the document, he handed it to Dr. Rane: who took it to the lamp.

"MR. NORTH,

"Pardon a friend who ventures to give you a caution. Your eldest son is in some sort of embarrassment, and is drawing bills in conjunction with Alexander, the surgeon. Perhaps a word from you would arrest this; it is too frequently the first step in a man's downward career--and the writer would not like to see Edmund North enter on such."

Thus, abruptly, ended the fatal letter. Dr. Rane slowly folded it, and left it on the table.

"Who could have written it?" he murmured.

"Ah, there it is!" rejoined Mr. North. "Edmund said no one could have done so but Alexander."

Standing over the fire, to which he had turned, Dr. Rane warmed his hands. The intensely hot day had given place to a cold night. His red-brown eyes took a dreamy gaze, as he mentally revolved facts and suppositions. In his private opinion, judging only from the contents of the letter, Mr. Alexander was the last man who would have been likely to write it.

"It is not like Alexander's writing," observed Mr. North.

"Not in the least."

"But of course this is in a disguised hand."

"Most anonymous letters are so, I expect. Is it true that he and your son have been drawing bills together?"

"I gather that they have drawn one; perhaps two. Edmund's anger was so fierce that I could not question him. What I don't like is Alexander's going off in the manner he did without seeing me: it makes me think that perhaps he did write the letter. An innocent man would have remained to defend himself. It might have been written from a good motive after all, Oliver! My poor son!--if he had only taken it quietly!"

Mr. North wrung his hands. His tones were feeble and complaining; his manner and bearing altogether those of a man who has been constantly put down and no longer attempts to struggle against the cares and crosses of the world, or the will of those about him.

"I must be going," said Oliver Rane, waking from a reverie. "I have to see a poor man at Dallory."

"Is it Ketler?"

"Yes, sir. Good-night. I trust you will have reason to be in better spirits in the morning."

"Good-night, Oliver."

But the doctor could not get off at once. He was waylaid by a servant, who said madam wished to see him. Crossing the hall, the man threw open the door of the drawing-room, a magnificent apartment.

"Dr. Rane, madam."

Mrs. North sat on a couch near the fire. In the house she was called Madam--out of the house, also, for that matter. A severely handsome woman, with a cold, pale, imperious face, the glittering jewels in her black hair looking as hard as she did. A cruel face, some might have deemed it. When Mr. North married her, she was the widow of Major Bohun, and had one son. Under the chandelier, her daughter Matilda sat reading, a young girl whose face bore a strong resemblance to hers. This daughter and a son had been born since her second marriage.

"You wished to see me, Mrs. North?"

Dr. Rane so spoke because they took no manner of notice of him. Mrs. North turned then, with her dark, inscrutable eyes; eyes that Oliver Rane hated, as he hated the cruelty glittering in their depths. He believed her to be a woman unscrupulously selfish. She did not rise; merely motioned him to a seat with a wave of her white arm: and the bracelets shone on it, and her ruby velvet dress gleamed with amazing richness. He sat down with perfect self-possession, every whit as independent as she.

"You have seen this infamous letter, I presume, Dr. Rane?"

"I have."

"Who sent it?"

"I cannot tell you."

"Have you no idea at all?"

"Certainly not. How should I have?"

"Could you detect no resemblance in the writing to any one's you know?"

He shook his head.

"Not to--for instance--Alexander's?" she resumed, looking at him steadfastly. But Dr. Rane saw with a sure instinct that Alexander's was not the name she had meant to speak.

"I feel sure that Mr. Alexander no more wrote the letter than--than you did, Mrs. North."

"Does it bear any resemblance to Richard North's?" she continued, after a faint pause.

"To Richard North's!" echoed the doctor, the words taking him by surprise. "No."

"Are you familiar with Richard North's handwriting?"

Oliver Rane paused, and then replied with a passing laugh. "I really believe I do not know his handwriting."

"Then why did you speak so confidently?"

"I spoke in the impulse of the moment. Richard North, of all men, is the least likely to do such a thing as this."

Matilda North looked up from her book. A scarlet opera cloak was on her shoulders, as if she were cold; she drew it closer, with an impatient hand.

"Mamma, why do you harp upon Richard? He couldn't do it; papa told you so. If Dick wished to find fault with any one, or tell tales, he would do it openly."

One angry gleam from madam's eyes as her daughter settled to her book again, and then she proceeded to close the interview.

"As you profess yourself unable to give me any information, I will not detain you longer, Dr. Rane."

He stood for a second, expecting, perhaps, that she might offer her hand. She did nothing of the sort, only bent her head coldly. Matilda North took no notice of him whatever: content to follow her mother's teachings when they did not clash with her own inclination. Dr. Rane had ceased to marvel why he was held in disfavour by Mrs. North: neither could he imagine why she opposed his marriage with Bessy; for to Bessy and her interests she was utterly indifferent.

As he left the drawing-room, Bessy North joined him, and they went together to the hall-door. No servant had been rung for--it was one of Mrs. North's ways of showing contempt--and they stood together outside, speaking softly. Again the tears shone in Bessy's eyes: her heart was a very tender one, and she had loved her brother dearly.

"Oliver, is there any hope?"

"Do not distress yourself, Bessy. I cannot tell you one way or the other."

"How can I help it?" she rejoined, her hand resting quietly in both his. "It is all very well for you to be calm: a medical man meets these sad things every day. You cannot be expected to care."

"Can I not?" he answered; and there was a touch of passionate emotion in the usually calm tones. "If any effort or sacrifice of mine would bring him back to health and life, I would freely make it. Good-night, Bessy."

As he stooped to kiss her, quick, firm footsteps were heard approaching, and Bessy went indoors. He who came up was a rather tall, very active man, with a plain, yet attractive face. Plain in its irregular features; attractive from its candour and strong good sense, the earnest look in the deep-set hazel eyes. People were given to saying that Richard North was the best man of business for miles round. It was so: and he was certainly, in mind, manners, and person, a gentleman.

"Is it you, Rane? What is all this trouble? I have been away for a few hours, unfortunately. Mark Dawson met me just now with the news that my brother was dying."

The voice would always have been very pleasing if only from its clear, decided tones but it was also musical as voices seldom are, and full of sincerity. From the voice alone, Richard North might have been trusted to his life's end. Dr. Rane gave a short summary of the illness and present condition.

"Dawson spoke of a letter that had excited him," said Richard.

"True; a letter to Mr. North."

"A contemptible anonymous letter. Just so."

"An anonymous letter," repeated the doctor. "But the effect on your brother seems altogether disproportioned to the cause."

"Where is the letter? I cannot look upon Edmund until I have seen the letter."

Dr. Rane told him where to find the letter, and went out. Richard North passed on to the parlour. Mr. North was sitting near the fire, his face bent in his hands.

"Father, what is all this?"

"Oh, Dick, I am glad you have come back!" and in the tone there sounded an intense relief, as if he who came brought with him strength and hope. "I can't make head or tail of this; and I fear he is dying."

"Who is with him?--Arthur?"

"No; Arthur has been out all day. The doctors are with him still."

"Let me see the letter,"

Mr. North gave it him, reciting at the same time the chief incidents in a rambling sort of manner. Richard North read the letter twice: once hastily, to gather in the sense; then attentively, giving to every word full consideration. His father watched him.

"It was not so much the letter that excited him, Richard, as the idea that Alexander wrote it."

"Alexander did not write this," decisively spoke Richard.

"You think not?"

"Why, of course he did not. It tells against himself as much as against Edmund."

"Edmund said no one else knew of the matter, and therefore no one else could have written it. Besides, Dick, where is Alexander? Why does he stay away?"

"We shall hear soon, I daresay. I have faith in Alexander. Keep this letter jealously, father. It may have been right to give you the information it contains; I say nothing at present about that; but an anonymous writer is generally a scoundrel, deserving no quarter."

"And none shall he get from me," said Mr. North, emphatically. "It was posted at Whitborough, you see, Dick."

"I see," shortly answered Richard, throwing his coat back as if he felt hot, and moving to the door on his way to his brother's chamber.

Meanwhile Oliver Rane went down the avenue and took the road to Dallory. He had to see a patient there: a poor man who was lying in danger. He threw his coat back, in spite of the chilling fog, and wiped his brow, as though the weather or his reflections were too much for him.

"What a fool! what a fool!" murmured he, half aloud, apostrophizing, doubtless, the anonymous writer. Or, perhaps, the unfortunate young man who had allowed it to excite him so fatally.

The road was smooth and broad: a well-kept highway. For a short distance there were no houses, but they soon began. Dallory was a bustling village, both poor and rich inhabiting it. The North Works, as they were familiarly called, from the fact that Mr. North was their chief proprietor, lay a little further on, and Dallory Church yet beyond. It was a straggling parish at best.

Amidst the first good houses Dr. Rane came to was one superior to the rest: a large, square dwelling, with an imposing pillared portico close to the village pathway, and a garden behind it.

"I wonder how Mother Gass is to-night?" thought the doctor, arresting his steps. "Suppose I ask."

His knock was answered by the lady herself, whom he had so unceremoniously apostrophized. A stout comfortable-looking dame, richly dressed, with a face as red as it was good-natured, and a curiously-fine lace cap, standing on end with yellow ribbon. Mrs. Gass possessed neither birth nor breeding; she had made an excellent match, as you will hear further on: owned many good qualities, and was popularly supposed to be sufficiently rich to buy up the whole of Dallory Ham. Her late husband had been uncle to Oliver Rane, but neither she nor Oliver presumed upon the relationship. In fact they had never met until two years ago.

"I knew your knock, Dr. Rane, and came to the door myself. Step into the parlour. I want to speak to you."

The doctor did not at all want to go in, and felt caught. He said he had no time to stay; had merely called, in passing, to ask how she was.

"Well, I'm better this evening: the giddiness is less. You just come in, now. I won't keep you two minutes. Shut the door, Anne, after Dr. Rane."

This to a smart maid, who had followed her mistress down the wide passage. Dr. Rane perforce stepped in, very unwillingly: instinctively convinced that Mrs. Gass had heard of the trouble at the Hall and wished to question him about it. To avoid this he would have gone a mile any other way.

"I want to get at the truth about Edmund North, doctor. One of the Hall maids called in just now and said he had been angered into a fit through some letter, and that you were fetched to him."

"Well, that is true," said the doctor, accepting the situation.

"My patience!" ejaculated Mrs. Gass. "What was written in the letter? She said it was one of them enonymous things."

"So it was."

"Was it written to himself?"

"No. To Mr. North."

"Well, now,"--dropping her voice--"was it about that young woman he got acquainted with? You know."

"No, no; nothing of that sort." And Dr. Rane, as the shortest way of ending the matter, gave her the details.

"There was not much in the letter," he said, in confidential tones. "No harm would have come of it but for Edmund North's frightful access of passion. If he dies, mind,"--the doctor added this in dreamy tones, gazing out as though looking into the future--"if he dies, it will not be the letter that killed him, but his own want of self-control."

"Don't talk of dying, doctor. It is to be hoped it won't come to that."

"It is indeed."

"And Mr. Richard was not at home, the girl said!"

"Neither he nor Captain Bohun. Richard has just come in now."

Mrs. Gass would fain have kept him longer, but he told her the sick man Ketler was waiting for him. This man was one of the North workmen, who had been terribly injured in the arm; Dr. Rane hoped to save both arm and life.

"That receipt for the rhubarb jam Mrs. Cumberland promised: is it ever coming?" asked Mrs. Gass as Dr. Rane was leaving the room.

Turning back, he put his hat on the table and took out his pocket-book. Mrs. Cumberland had sent it at last. Selecting the paper from amongst several others, he handed it to her.

"I forgot to leave it when I was here this morning, Mrs. Gass. My mother gave it me yesterday."

Between them they dropped the receipt. Both stooped for it, and their heads touched. There was a slight laugh; in the midst of which the pocket-book fell on the carpet. Some papers fluttered out of it, which the doctor picked up and replaced.

"Have you got them all, doctor? How is the young lady's cold?"

"What young lady's?" he questioned.

"Miss Adair's."

"I did not know she had one."

"Ah, those lovely girls with their bright faces never show their ailments; and she is lovely, if ever one was lovely in this terrestial world. Good-night to you, doctor; you're in a mortal hurry."

He strode to the street-door and it closed sharply after him. Mrs. Gass, looking out of her parlour, saw the same smart maid hastening along the passage: a little too late to attend to her duty.