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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d3c98c5 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #60072 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/60072) diff --git a/old/60072-8.txt b/old/60072-8.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 4f79796..0000000 --- a/old/60072-8.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,7898 +0,0 @@ -Project Gutenberg's The Forlorn Hope (Vol. 1 of 2), by Edmund Yates - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: The Forlorn Hope (Vol. 1 of 2) - A Novel - -Author: Edmund Yates - -Release Date: August 8, 2019 [EBook #60072] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE FORLORN HOPE (VOL. 1 OF 2) *** - - - - -Produced by Charles Bowen from page scans provided by Google Books - - - - - - - - - - -https://books.google.com/books?id=94OTUUmRnVAC, -The Forlorn Hope a Novel, (Volume 877, Vol. 1, in, Collection of -British Authors, Volume 878) - - - - - -COLLECTION. -OF -BRITISH AUTHORS. -VOL. 877. - ----------------- -THE FORLORN HOPE BY EDMUND YATES. - -IN TWO VOLUMES. -VOL. I. - - - - - - -THE FORLORN HOPE. -A NOVEL. - -BY -EDMUND YATES, -AUTHOR OF "LAND AT LAST," "BROKEN TO HARNESS," ETC. - - -_COPYRIGHT EDITION_. - - -IN TWO VOLUMES. -VOL. I. - - -LEIPZIG - -BERNHARD TAUCHNITZ. - -1867. - -_The Right of Translation is reserved_. - - - - - - -TO -CHARLES FECHTER. - - - - - - -CONTENTS -OF VOLUME I. - -CHAPTER - I. "Sound the Alarm." - II. Master and Pupil. - III. Watching and Waiting. - IV. Mrs. Wilmot. - V. A Resolve, and its Results. - VI. At Kilsyth. - VII. Brooding. - VIII. Kith and Kin. - IX. Ronald. - X. Cross-examination. - XI. Irreparable. - XII. The Leaden Seal. - XIII. A Turn of the Screw. - XIV. His grateful Patient. - XV. Family Relations. - XVI. Giving up. - XVII. Face to Face. - - - - - - -THE FORLORN HOPE. - - - - -CHAPTER I. -"Sound an Alarm." - - -The half-hour dressing-bell rung out as Sir Duncan Forbes jumped from -the hired carriage which had borne him the last stage of his journey -to Kilsyth, and immediately followed his servant, who had put in a -pantomimically abrupt appearance at the carriage-door, to his room. -The steaming horses shook their sides, and rattled their harness -dismally, in the dreary autumnal evening; but a host of gillies and -understrappers had hurried out at the noise of the approaching wheels, -and so quickly despoiled the carriage of its luggage, that within a -very few minutes its driver--comforted by something over his fare, in -addition to a stiff glass of the incomparable Kilsyth whisky--was -slowly wending his way back, over a road which to any one but a -Highlander would have seemed impassable in the fog that had begun to -cloud the neighbouring mountains in an almost impenetrable shroud of -misty gray. From the cold, chilly, damp mountain air, from the long -solitary ride, for the last twenty miles of which he had not met a -human creature, to the airy bedroom with its French paper, the -bright wood-fire burning on its hearth, the wax candles on the -dressing-table, the drawn chintz curtains, the neat writing-table, the -little shelf of prettily-bound well-chosen books, was a transition -indeed for Duncan Forbes. One glance around sufficed to show him all -these things, and to show him in addition the steaming bath, the -warmed linen, the other various arrangements for his comfort which the -forethought of Dixon his servant had prepared for him. He was used to -luxuries, and thoroughly accustomed to rough it; he was not an -impressionable young man; but there are times, even if we be only -eight-and-twenty, good-looking, and in the Household Brigade, when we -feel a kind of sympathy with the working-man who declared that "life -was not all beer and skittles," and are disposed to look rather more -seriously than usual upon our own condition and our surroundings. -The journey from Glenlaggan--it is, it must be confessed, an awful -road--had had its effect on Duncan Forbes. Why he should have -permitted himself to be worked upon either by a sense of solitude, or -by an involuntary tribute to the wildness of the scenery, or perhaps -by dyspepsia, arising a recent change of living, to fall temporarily -into a low state of mind; to think about his duns, debts, and -difficulties; to wonder why he was not at that moment staying with his -mother in Norfolk, instead of plunging into the depths of the -Highlands; to think of his cousin Ethel Spalding, and to clench his -fists violently and mutter strong expressions as the image of a -certain Dundas Adair, commonly called Lord Adair, rose before him -simultaneously with that of his said cousin; why he then fell into a -state which was half lachrymose and half morose, impelling him to -refresh himself from a silver flask, and to make many mental -resolutions as to his future life,--why he did all this is utterly -immaterial to us, as Sir Duncan Forbes is by no manner of means our -hero, in fact has very little to do with our story. But the journey -had its effect upon him, and rendered the comfort and luxury of -Kilsyth doubly precious in his eyes. So that when he had had his bath, -and, well advanced in his dressing, was luxuriating in the comfort of -cleanliness and fresh linen, and the prospect of an excellent dinner, -he had sufficiently returned to his normal condition to ask Dixon--who -had preceded him by a couple of days--whether the house was full, and -who were there. - -"House quite full, sir," replied Dixon. "Colonel Jefferson, sir, of -the First Life-guards; Capting Severn, sir, of the Second Life-guards, -and his lady; Markis Towcester, as have jist jined the Blues; Honble -Capting Shaddock, of the Eighteenth 'Ussars; Lord Roderick Douglas, of -the Scots Fusiliers; and--" - -"Drop the Army List, Dixon," growled his master, at that moment -performing heavily on his head with a pair of hair-brushes; "who else -is here?" - -"There's the Danish Minister, sir--which I won't try to pronounce -his name--and his lady; and there's the Dook and Duchess of -Northallerton--which the Dook has the gout that bad, his man told -me--used to be in our ridgment, Sir Duncan, and was bought out by his -mother on his father's death--as to be past bearin' sometimes; and -Lady Fairfax, sir; and Lady Dunkeld, as is Lady Muriel's cousin, sir; -and a Mr. Pitcairn, as is a distant relation of the family's; and a -Mr. Fletcher, as is, I'm told, a hartist, or something of that kind, -sir--he hasn't brought a man here, sir; so I'm unable to say; but he -seems to be well thought of, sir; quite at his ease, as they say, -among the company, sir." - -"Dear me!" said Duncan Forbes, suspending the action of the -hair-brushes for a moment, while he grinned grimly; "you seem to be a -great observer, Dixon." - -"Well, sir, one can't keep one's hears shut entirely, nor one's eyes, -and I noticed this gentleman took a kind of leading part in the talk -at dinner, sir, yesterday. O, I forgot, sir; Miss Kilsyth have not -been well for the last two or three days, sir; kep' her room, havin' -caught cold returnin' from a luncheon-party up at what they call a -shealing--kind of 'ut, sir, in the 'ills, where they put up when -stalkin', as I make out, sir,--and her maid says is uncommon low and -bad." - -"Ill, is she?--Miss Kilsyth? Jove, that's bad! Haven't they sent for a -doctor, or that kind of thing?" - -"Yes, sir, they have sent for a doctor; and he's been, sir; leastways -when I say doctor, sir, I mean to say the 'pothecary from the village, -sir. Comes on a shady kind of a cob, sir, and I shouldn't say knew -much about it. Beg your pardon, sir--dinner gong!" - -Sir Duncan Forbes' toilette is happily complete at the time of this -announcement, and he sallies downstairs towards the drawing-room. -Entering, he finds most of the company already assembled; and in the -careless glance which he throws around as the door closes behind him, -he recognises a bevy of London friends, looking, with perhaps the -addition of a little bronze in the men, and a little plumpness in the -ladies, exactly as he left them at the concluding ball of the season -two months ago. Some he has not seen for a longer period, his host -among them. Kilsyth of Kilsyth, keen sportsman, whether with rod or -gun; landlord exercising influence over his tenants, not by his -position alone, but by the real indubitable interest which he takes in -their well-being; lord-lieutenant of his county, first patron and best -judge at its agricultural meetings, chairman of the bench of -magistrates, prime mover in the herring fishery,--what does Kilsyth of -Kilsyth do in London? Little enough, truth to tell; gives a very -perfunctory attendance at the House of Commons, meets old friends at -Brookes's, dines at a few of the earlier meetings of the Fox Club, and -does his utmost to keep out of the way of the Liberal whip, who dare -not offend him, and yet grieves most lamentably over his shortcomings -at St. Stephen's. See him now as he stands on the hearth-rug, with his -back to the drawing-room fire, a hale hearty man, whose fifty years of -life have never bent his form nor scarcely dimmed the fire in his -bright blue eye. Life, indeed, has been pretty smooth and pleasant to -Kilsyth since, when a younger son, he was gazetted to the 42d; and -after a slight sojourn in that distinguished regiment, was sent for by -his father to take the place of his elder brother, killed by the -bursting of a gun when out on a stalk. A shadow--deep enough at the -moment, but now mercifully lightened by Time, the grim yet kindly -consoler--had fallen across his path when his wife, whom he loved so -well, and whom he had taken from her quiet English home, where, a -simple parson's daughter, she had captivated the young Highland -officer, had died in giving birth to a second child. But he had -survived the shock; and long afterwards, when he had succeeded to the -family title and estates, and was, indeed, himself well on the way to -middle age, had married again. Kilsyth's second wife was the sister of -a Scottish earl of old family and small estate, a high-bred woman, -much younger than her husband, who had borne him two children (little -children at the time our story opens), and who, not merely in her -Highland neighbourhood, but in the best society of London, in which -she was ungrudgingly received, was looked upon as a pattern wife. With -the name of Lady Muriel Kilsyth the most inveterate scandalmongers had -never ventured to make free. The mere fact of her being more than -twenty years younger than her husband had given them the greatest hope -of onslaught when the marriage was first announced; but Lady Muriel -had calmly faced her foes, and not the most observant of them had as -yet espied the smallest flaw in her harness. Her behaviour to her -husband, without being in the least degree gushing, was so thoroughly -circumspect, they lived together on such excellent terms of something -that was evidently more than amity, though it never pretended to -devotion, that the scandalmongers were utterly defeated. Balked in one -direction, they launched out in another; they could not degrade the -husband by their pity, but they could mildly annoy the wife with -reflections on her conduct to her step-children. "Poor little things," -they said, "with such an ambitious woman for stepmother, and children -of her own to think of! Ronald may struggle on; but as for poor -Madeleine--" and uplifted eyebrows and shrugged shoulders completed -the sentence. It is needless to say that Kilsyth himself heard none of -these idle babblings, or that if he had, he would have treated them -with scorn. "My lady" was to him the incarnation of every thing that -was right and proper, that was clever and far-seeing; he trusted her -implicitly in every matter; he looked up to and respected her; he -suffered himself to be ruled by her, and she ruled him very gently and -with the greatest talent and tact in every matter of his life save -one. Lady Muriel was all-powerful with her husband, except when, as he -thought, her views were in the least harsh or despotic towards his -daughter Madeleine; and then he quietly but calmly held his own way. -Madeleine was his idol, and no one, not even his wife, could shake him -in his adoration of her. As he stands on the hearth-rug, there is a -shadow on his bright cheery face, for he has had bad news of his -darling since he came in from shooting,--has been forbidden to go to -her room lest he should disturb her; and at each opening of the door -he looks anxiously in that direction, half wishing, half fearing Lady -Muriel's advent with the doctor's latest verdict on the invalid. - -The thin slight wiry man talking to Kilsyth, and rattling on -garrulously in spite of his friend's obvious preoccupation, is Captain -Sèvern, perhaps the best steeple-chase rider in England, and -untouchable at billiards by any amateur. He is a slangy, turfy, -raffish person, hating ladies' society, and using a singular -vocabulary full of _Bell's-Life_ idioms. He is, however, well -connected, and has a charming wife, for whose sake he is tolerated; a -lovely little fairy of a woman, whose heart is as big as her body; the -merriest, most cheerful, best-tempered creature, trolling out her -little French _chansons_ in a clear bird-like voice; acting in -charades with infinite character and piquancy; and withal the idol of -the poor in the neighbourhood of their hunting-box in Leicestershire; -and the quickest, softest, and most attentive nurse in sickness, as a -dozen of her friends could testify. - -That bald head which you can just see over the top of the _Morning -Post_ belongs to the Duke of Northallerton, who has been all his -life more or less engaged in politics; who has, when his party has -been in office, held respectively the important positions of -Postmaster-General and Privy Seal; and who was never so well described -as by one of his private secretaries, who declared tersely that his -grace was a "kind old pump." Outwardly he is a tall man of about -fifty-five, with a high forehead, which has stood his friend through -life, and obtained him credit for gifts which he never possessed, a -boiled-gooseberry eye, a straight nose, and projecting buck-teeth. As -becomes an old English gentleman, he wears a very high white cravat -and a large white waistcoat; indeed it is only within the last few -years that he has relinquished his blue coat and gold buttons, and -very tight pantaloons. He is reading the paper airily through his -double glasses, and uttering an occasional "Ha!" and "Dear me!" as he -wades through the movements of the travelling aristocracy; but from -time to time he removes the glasses from his nose, and looks up with a -half-peevish glance at his neighbour, Colonel Jefferson. Charley -Jefferson (no one ever called him any thing else) has a large -photograph album before him, at which he is not looking in the least; -on the contrary, his glance is directed straight in front of him; and -as he stands six feet four, his eyes, when he is sitting, would be -about on a level with a short man's head; and he is tugging at his -great sweeping grizzled moustache, and fidgeting with his leg, and -muttering between his clinched teeth at intervals short phrases, which -sound like "Little brute! break his neck! beastly little cad!" and -such-like. - -The individual thus objurgated by the Colonel is highly thought of by -Sir Bernard Burke, and known to Debrett as John Ulick Delatribe, -Marquis of Towcester, eldest son of the Duke of Plymouth, who has just -been gazetted to the Blues, after some years at Eton and eighteen -months' wandering on the Continent. Though he is barely twenty, a more -depraved young person is rarely to be found; his tutor, the Rev. -Merton Sandford, who devoted the last few years of his life to him, -and who has retired to his well-earned preferment of the largest -living in the duke's gift, lifts up his eyes and shakes his head when, -over a quiet bottle of claret with an old college friend, he speaks of -Lord Towcester. The boy's reputation had preceded him to London; a -story from the Viennese Embassy, of which he was the hero, came across -in a private note to Blatherwick of the F.O., enclosed in the official -white sheep-skin despatch-bag, and before night was discussed in half -the smoking-rooms in Pall-Mall. The youngsters laughed at the anecdote -and envied its hero; but older men looked grave; and Charley -Jefferson, standing in the middle of a knot of men on the steps of the -Rag, said he was deuced glad that the lad wasn't coming into his -regiment; for if that story were true, the service would be none the -better for such an accession to it, as, if it were his business, he -should take an early opportunity of pointing out; and the listeners, -who knew that Colonel Jefferson was the best soldier and the strictest -martinet throughout the household cavalry, and who marked the -expression of his face as he pulled his moustache and strode away -after delivering his dictum, thought that perhaps it was better for -Towcester that his lot was cast in a different corps. You would not -have thought there was much harm in the boy, though, from his -appearance. Look at him now, as he bends over Lady Fairfax, until his -face almost touches her soft glossy hair. It is a round, boyish, -ingenuous face, though the eyes are rather deeply set, and there is -something cruel about the mouth which the thin downy moustache utterly -fails to hide. As Lady Fairfax turns her large dark eyes on her -interlocutor, and looks up at him, her brilliant white teeth flashing -in an irrepressible smile, the Colonel's growls become more frequent, -and he tugs at his moustache more savagely than ever. Why? If you know -any thing about these people, you will remember that ten years ago, -when Emily Fairfax was Emily Ponsonby, and lived with her old aunt, -Lady Mary, in the dull rambling old house at Kew, Charley Jefferson, a -penniless cornet in what were then the 13th Light Dragoons, was -quartered at Hounslow; danced, rode, and flirted with her; carried off -a lock of her hair when the regiment was ordered to India; and far -away up country, in utter ignorance of all that was happening in -England, used to gaze at it and kiss it, long after Miss Ponsonby had -married old Lord Fairfax, and had become the reigning belle of the -London season. Old Lord Fairfax is dead now, and Charley Jefferson has -come into his uncle's fortune; and there is no cause or impediment why -these twain should not become one flesh, save that Emily is still -coquettish, and Charley is horribly jealous; and so matters are still -in the balance. - -The little old gentleman in the palpable flaxen wig and gold -spectacles, who is poring over that case of Flaxman's cameos in -genuine admiration, is Count Bulow, the Danish Ambassador; and the -little old lady whose face is so wrinkled as to suggest an idea of -gratitude that she is a lady, and consequently is not compelled to -shave, is his wife. They are charming old people, childless -themselves, but the cause of constant matchmaking in others. More -flirtations come to a successful issue in the embassy at Eaton-place -than in any other house in town; and the old couple, who have for -years worthily represented their sovereign, are sponsors to half the -children in Belgravia. They are both art-lovers, and their house is -crammed with good things--pictures from Munich and Düsseldorf, choice -bits of Thorwaldsen, big elk-horns, and quaint old Scandinavian -drinking-cups. Old Lady Potiphar, who has the worst reputation and the -bitterest tongue in London, says you meet "odd people" at the Bulows'; -said "odd people" being artists and authors, English and foreign. Mr. -Fletcher, R. A., who is just now talking to the Countess, is one of -the most favoured guests at the embassy, but he is not an "odd -person," even to Lady Potiphar, for he goes into what she calls -"sassiety," and has been "actially asked to Mar'bro' House"--where -Lady Potiphar is not invited. A quiet, unpretending, gentlemanly, -middle-aged man, Mr. Fletcher; wearing his artistic honours with easy -dignity, and by no means oblivious of the early days when he gave -drawing-lessons at per hour to many of the nobility who now call him -their friend. There are three or four young ladies present, who need -no particular description, and who are dividing the homage of Captain -Shaddock; while Lord Roderick Douglas, a young nobleman to whom Nature -has been more bountiful in nose than in forehead, and Mr. Pitcairn, a -fresh-coloured, freckled, blue-eyed gentleman, lithe and active as a -greyhound, are muttering in a corner, making arrangements for the next -day's shooting. - -The entrance of Sir Duncan Forbes caused a slight commotion in the -party; and every one had a look or a word of welcome for the new -comer, for he was a general favourite. He moved easily from group to -group, shaking hands and chatting pleasantly. Kilsyth, who was -specially fond of him, grasped his hand warmly; the Duke laid aside -the _Morning Post_ in the midst of a most interesting leader, in which -Mr. Bright was depicted as a pleasant compound of Catiline and Judas -Iscariot; Count Bulow gave up his cameos; and even grim Charley -Jefferson relaxed in his feverish supervision of Lord Towcester. - -As for the ladies, they unanimously voted Duncan charming, quite -charming, and could not make too much of him. - -"And where have you come from, Duncan?" asked Kilsyth, when the buzz -consequent on his entrance had subsided. - -"Last, from Burnside," said Duncan. - -"Burnside!--where's Burnside?" asked Captain Severn shortly. - -"Burnside is on the Tay, the prettiest house in all Scotland, if I may -venture to say so, being at Kilsyth; of course it don't pretend to any -thing of this kind. It's a mere doll's-house of a place, nothing but a -shooting-box; but in its way it's a perfect paradise." - -"Are you speaking by the card, Duncan?" said Count Bulow, with the -slightest foreign accent; "or was there some Peri in this paradise -that gave it such fascination in your eyes?" - -"Peri! No indeed, Count," replied. Duncan, laughing; "Burnside is a -bachelor establishment,--rigidly proper, quite monastic, and all that -kind of thing. It belongs to old Sir Saville Rowe, who was a swell -doctor in London--O, ages ago!" - -"Sir Saville Rowe!" exclaimed the Duke; "I know him very well. He was -physician to the late King, and was knighted just before his majesty's -death. I haven't seen him for years, and thought he was dead." - -"He's any thing but that, Duke. A remarkably healthy old man, and as -jolly as possible; capital company still, though he's long over -seventy. And his place is really lovely; the worst of it is, it's such -a tremendous distance from here. I've been travelling all day; and as -it is I thought I was late for dinner. The gong sounded as I left my -room." - -"You were late, Duncan; you always are," said Kilsyth, with a smile. -"But the Duchess is keeping you in countenance tonight, and Lady -Muriel has not shown yet. She is up with Madeleine, who is ill, poor -child." - -"Ah, so I was sorry to hear. What is it? Nothing serious, I hope?" - -"No, please God, no. But she caught cold, and is a little feverish -tonight: the doctor is with her now, and we shall soon have his -report. Ah, here is the Duchess." - -The Duchess of Northallerton, a tall portly woman, with a heavy -ruminating expression of face, like a sedate cow, entered as he spoke, -and advancing said a few gracious nothings to Duncan Forbes. She was -closely followed by a servant, who, addressing his master, said that -Lady Muriel would be engaged for a few minutes longer with the doctor, -and had ordered dinner to be served. - -The conversation at dinner, falling into its recent channel, was -resumed by Lord Towcester, who said, "Who had you at this doctor's, -Duncan? Queer sort of people, I suppose?" - -"Some of his patients, perhaps," said Lady Fairfax, showing all her -teeth. - -"Black draught and that sort of thing to drink, and cold compresses on -the sideboard," said Captain Severn, who was nothing if not -objectionable. - -"I never had better living, and never met pleasanter people," said -Duncan Forbes pointedly. "They wouldn't have suited you, perhaps, -Severn, for they all talked sense; and none of them knew the odds on -any thing--though that might have suited you perhaps, as you'd have -been able to win their money." - -"Any of Sir Saville's profession?" cut in the Duke, diplomatically -anxious to soften matters. - -"Only one--a Dr. Wilmot; the great man of the day, as I understand." - -"O, every body has heard of Wilmot," said half-a-dozen voices. - -"He's the great authority on fever, and that kind of thing," said -Jefferson. "Saved Broadwater's boy in typhus last year when all the -rest of them had given him up." - -"Dr. Wilmot remains there," said Duncan; "our party broke up -yesterday, but Wilmot stays on. He and I had a tremendous chat last -night, and I never met a more delightful fellow." - -At this moment Lady Muriel entered the room, and as she passed her -husband's chair laid a small slip of paper on the table by his plate; -then went up to Duncan Forbes, who had risen to receive her, and gave -him a hearty welcome. Kilsyth took an opportunity of opening the -paper, and the healthy colour left his cheeks as he read: - -"_M. is much worse tonight. Dr. Joyce now pronounces it undoubted -scarlet-fever_." - -The old man rose from the table, asking permission to absent himself -for a few moments; and as he moved, whispered to Duncan, who was -sitting at his right-hand, "You said Dr. Wilmot was still at -Burnside?" - -Receiving an answer in the affirmative, he hurried into the hall, -wrote a few hasty lines, and gave them to the butler, saying, "Tell -Donald to ride off at once to Acray, and telegraph this message. Tell -him to gallop all the way." - - - - -CHAPTER II. -Master and Pupil. - - -Duncan Forbes was given to exaggeration, as is the fashion of the day; -but he had scarcely exaggerated the beauty of Burnside, even in the -rapturous terms which he chose to employ in speaking of it. It was, -indeed, a most lovely spot, standing on the summit of a high hill, -wooded from base to crest, and with the silver Tay--now rushing over a -hard pebbly bed, now softly flowing in a scarcely fathomable depth -of still water through a deep ravine with towering rocks on either -side--bubbling at its feet. From the higher windows--notably from the -turret; and it was a queer rambling turreted house, without any -preponderating style of architecture, but embracing, and that not -unpicturesquely, a great many--you looked down upon the pretty little -town of Dunkeld, with its broad bridge spanning the flood, and the -gray old tower of its cathedral rearing itself aloft like a hoary -giant athwart the horizon, and the trim lawn of the ducal residence in -the distance--an oasis of culture in a desert of wildness, yet -harmonising sufficiently with its surroundings. Sloping down the steep -bank on which the house was placed, and overhanging the brawling river -beneath, ran a broad gravel path, winding between the trees, which at -certain points had been cut away to give the best views of the -neighbouring scenery; and on this path, at an early hour on the -morning succeeding the night on which Duncan Forbes had arrived at -Kilsyth, two men were walking, engaged in earnest conversation. An old -man one of them, but in the enjoyment of a vigorous old age: his back -is bowed, and he uses a stick; but if you remark, he does not use it -as a crutch, lifting it now and again to point his remark, or striking -it on the ground to emphasize his decision. A tall old man, with long -white hair flowing away from under the brim of his wideawake hat, with -bright blue eyes and well-cut features, and a high forehead and white -hands, with long lithe clever-looking fingers. Those eyes and fingers -have done their work in their day, professionally and socially. Those -eyes have looked into the eyes of youth and loveliness, and have read -in them that in a few months their light would be quenched for ever; -those fingers have clasped the beating pulses of seemingly full and -vigorous manhood, and have recognised that the axe was laid at the -root of the apparently tall and flourishing tree, and that in a little -time it would topple headlong down. Those eyes "looked love to eyes -that spake again;" those hands clasped hands that returned their -clasp, and that trembled fondly and confidingly within them; that -voice, professionally modulated to babble of sympathy, compassion, and -hope, trembled with passion and whispered all its human aspirations -into the trellised ear of beauty, once and once only. Looking at the -old gentleman, so mild and gentle and benevolent, with his shirt-front -sprinkled with snuff, and his old-fashioned black gaiters and his -gouty shoes, you could hardly imagine that he was the hero of a -scandal which five-and-thirty years before had rung through society, -and given the _Satirist_, and other scurrilous publications of the -time, matter for weeks and weeks of filthy comment. And yet it was so. -Sir Saville Rowe (then Dr. Rowe), physician to one of the principal -London hospitals, and even then a man of mark in his profession, was -called in to attend a young lady who represented herself as a widow, -and with whom, after a time, he fell desperately in love. For months -he attended her through a trying illness, from which, under his care, -she recovered. Then, when her recovery was complete, he confessed his -passion, and they were engaged to be married. One night, within a very -short time of the intended wedding, he called at her lodgings and -found a man there, a coarse slangy blackguard, who, after a few words, -abruptly proclaimed himself to be the lady's husband, and demanded -compensation for his outraged honour. Words ensued; and more than -words: the man--half-drunk, all bully--struck the doctor; and Rowe, -who was a powerful man, and who was mad with rage at what he imagined -was a conspiracy, returned the blows with interest. The police were -summoned, and Rowe was hauled off to the station-house; but on the -following day the prosecutor was not forthcoming, and the doctor was -liberated. The scandal spread, and ruffians battened on it, as they -ever will; but Dr. Rowe's courage and professional skill enabled him -to live it down; and when, two years after, in going round a -hospitalward with his pupils, he came upon his old love at the verge -of death, his heart, which he thought had been sufficiently steeled, -gave way within him, and once more he set himself to the task of -curing her. He did all that could be done; had her removed to a quiet -suburban cottage, tended by the most experienced nurses, never grudged -one moment of his time to visit her constantly; but it was too late: -hard living and brutal treatment had done their work; and Dr. Rowe's -only love died in his arms, imploring Heaven's blessings on him. That -wound in his life, deep as it was, has long since cicatrised and -healed over, leaving a scar which was noticeable to very few long -before he attained to the first rank in his profession and received -the titular reward of his services to royalty. He has for some time -retired from active practice, though he will still meet in -consultation some old pupil or former colleague; but he takes life -easily now, passing the season in London, the autumn in Scotland, and -the winter at Torquay; in all of which places he finds old friends -chattable and kindly, who help him to while away the pleasant autumn -of his life. - -The other man is about eight-and-thirty, with keen bright brown eyes, -a broad brow, straight nose, thin lips, and heavy jaw, indicative of -firmness, not to say obstinacy; a tall man with stooping shoulders, -and a look of quiet placid attention in his face; with a slim figure, -a jerky walk, and a habit of clasping his hands behind his back, and -leaning forward as though listening; a man likely to invite notice at -first sight from his unmistakable earnestness and intellect, otherwise -a quiet gentlemanly man, whose profession it was impossible to assign, -yet who was obviously a man of mark in his way. This was Chudleigh -Wilmot, who was looked upon by those who ought to know as _the_ coming -man in the London medical profession; whose lectures were to be -attended before those of any other professor at St. Vitus's Hospital; -whose contributions on fever cases to the _Scalpel_ had given the -_Times_ subject-matter for a leader, in which he had been most -honourably mentioned; and who was commencing to reap the harvest of -honour and profit which accrues to the fortunate few. He is an old -pupil of Sir Saville Rowe's, and there is no one in whose company the -old gentleman has greater delight. - -"Smoke, Chudleigh, smoke! Light up at once. I know you're dying to -have your cigar, and daren't out of deference to me. Fancy I'm your -master still, don't you?" - -"Not a bit of it, old friend. I've given up after-breakfast smoking as -a rule, because, you see, that delightful bell in Charles-street -begins to ring about a quarter to ten, and--" - -"So much the better. Let them ring. They were knockers in my day, and -I recollect how delighted I used to be at every rap. But there's no -one to ring or knock here; and so you may take your cigar quietly. -I've been longing for this time; longing to have what the people about -here call a 'crack' with you--impossible while those other men were -here; but now I've got you all to myself." - -"Yes," said Wilmot, who by this time had lighted his cigar--"yes, and -you'll have me all to yourself for the next four days; that is to say, -if you will." - -"If I will! Is there any thing in the world could give me greater -pleasure? I get young again, talking to you, Chudleigh. I mind me of -the time when you used to come to lecture, a great raw boy, with, I -should say, the dirtiest hands and the biggest note-book in the whole -hospital." And the old gentleman chuckled at his reminiscence. - -"Well, I've managed to wash the first, and to profit by the manner in -which I filled the second from your lectures," said Wilmot, not -without a blush. - -"Not a bit, not a bit," interposed Sir Saville; "you would have done -well enough without any lectures of mine, though I'm glad to think -that in that celebrated question of anæsthetics you stuck by me, and -enabled me triumphantly to defeat Macpherson of Edinburgh. That was a -great triumph for us, that was! Dear me, when I think of the -charlatans! Eh, well, never mind; I'm out of all that now. So, you -have a few days more, you were saying, and you're going to give them -up to me." - -"Nothing will please me so much. Because, you see, I shall make it a -combination of pleasure and business. There are several things on -which I want to consult you,--points which I have reserved from time -to time, and on which I can get no such opinion as yours. I'm not due -in town until the 3d of next month. Whittaker, who has taken my -practice, doesn't leave until the 5th, which is a Sunday, and even -then only goes as far as Guildford, to a place he's taken for some -pheasant-shooting; a nice, close, handy place, where Mrs. Whittaker -can accompany him. She thinks he's so fascinating, that she does not -like to let him out of her sight." - -"Whittaker! Whittaker!" said Sir Saville; "is it a bald man with a -cock-eye?--used to be at Bartholomew's." - -"That's the man! He's in first-rate practice now, and deservedly, for -he's thoroughly clever and reliable; but his beauty has not improved -by time. However, Mrs. Whittaker doesn't see that; and it's with the -greatest difficulty he ever gets permission to attend a lady's case." - -"You must be thankful Mrs. Wilmot isn't like that." - -"O, I am indeed," replied Wilmot shortly. "By the way, I've never had -an opportunity of talking to you about your marriage, and about your -wife, Chudleigh. I got your wedding-cards, of course; but that's--ah, -that must be three years ago." - -"Four." - -"Four! Is it indeed so long? Tut, tut! how time flies! I've called at -your house in London, but your wife has not been at home; and as I -don't entertain ladies, you see, of course I've missed an opportunity -of cultivating her acquaintance." - -"Ye-es. I've heard Mrs. Wilmot say that she had seen your cards, and -that she was very sorry to have been out when you called," said Dr. -Wilmot with, in him, a most unnatural hesitation. - -"Yes, of course," said old Sir Saville, with a comical look out of the -corners of his eyes, which fell unheeded on his companion. "Well, now, -as I've never seen her, and as I'm not likely to see her now,--for -I am an old man, and I've given up ceremony visits at my time of -life,--tell me about your wife, Chudleigh; you know the interest I -take in you; and that, perhaps, may excuse my asking about her. Does -she suit you? Are you happy with her?" - -Wilmot looked hard for an instant at his friend with a sudden quick -glance of suspicion, then relaxed his brows, and laughed outright. - -"Certainly, my dear Sir Saville, you are the most original of men. -Who on earth else would have dreamt of asking a man such a home -question? It's worse than the queries put in the proposal papers of -insurance-offices. However, I'm glad to be able to give a satisfactory -answer. I _am_ happy with my wife, and she _does_ suit me." - -"Yes; but what I mean is, are you in love with her?" - -"Am I what?" - -"In love with her. I mean, are you always thinking of her when you are -away from her? Are you always longing to get back to her? Does her -face come between you and the book you are reading? When you are -thinking-out an intricate case, and puzzling your brains as to how you -shall deal with it, do you sometimes let the whole subject slip out of -your mind, to ponder over the last words she said to you, the last -look she gave you?" - -"God bless your soul, my dear old friend! You might as well ask me if -I didn't play leap-frog with the house-surgeon of St. Vitus's, or -challenge any member of the College of Physicians to a single-wicket -match. Those are the _délassements_ of youth, my dear sir, that you -are talking about; of very much youth indeed." - -"I know one who wasn't 'very much youth' when he carried out the -doctrine religiously," said the old gentleman in reply. - -"Ah, then perhaps the lady wasn't his wife," said Wilmot, without the -smallest notion of the dangerous ground on which he was treading. "No, -the fact is simply this: I am, as you know, a man absorbed in my -profession. I have no leisure for nonsense of the kind you describe, -nor for any other kind of nonsense. My wife recognises that perfectly; -she does all the calling and visiting which society prescribes. I go -to a few old friends' to dinner in the season, and sometimes show up -for a few minutes at the house of a patient where Mrs. Wilmot thinks -it necessary for me to be seen. We each fulfil our duties perfectly, -and we are in the evening excellent friends." - -"Ye-es," said Sir Saville doubtfully; "that's all delightful, and--" - -"As to longing to get back to her, and face coming between you and -your book, and always thinking, and that kind of thing," pursued -Wilmot, not heeding him, "I recollect, when I was a dresser at the -hospital, long before I passed the College, I had all those feelings -for a little cousin of mine who was then living at Knightsbridge with -her father, who was a clerk in the Bank of England. But then he died, -and she married--not the barber, but another clerk in the Bank of -England, and I never thought any more about it. Believe me, my dear -friend, except to such perpetual evergreens as yourself, those ideas -die off at twenty years of age." - -"Well, perhaps so, perhaps so," said the old gentleman; "and I daresay -it's quite-right, only--well, never mind. Well, Chudleigh, it's a -pleasant thing for me, remembering you, as I said, a great hulking lad -when you first came to lecture, to see you now carrying away every -thing before you. I don't know that you're quite wise in giving -Whittaker your practice, for he's a deep designing dog; and you can -tell as well as I do how a word dropped deftly here and there may -steal away a patient before the doctor knows where he is, especially -with old ladies and creatures of that sort. But, however, it's the -slack time of year,--that's one thing to be said,--when everybody -that's any body is safe to be out of town. Ah, by the way, that -reminds me! I was glad to see by the _Morning Post_ that you had had -some very good cases last season." - -"The _Morning Post!_--some very good cases! What do you mean?" - -"I mean, I saw your name as attending several of the nobility: 'His -lordship's physician, Dr. Wilmot, of Charles Street,' et cetera; that -kind of thing, you know." - -"O, do you congratulate me on those? I certainly pulled young Lord -Coniston, Lord Broadwater's son, through a stiff attack of typhus; but -as I would have done the same for his lordship's porter's child, I -don't see the value of the paragraph. By the way, I shouldn't wonder -if I were indebted to the porter for the paragraph." - -"Never mind, my dear Chudleigh, whence the paragraph comes, but be -thankful you got it. 'Sweet,' as Shakespeare says,--'sweet are the -uses of advertisement;' and our profession is almost the only one to -which they are not open. The inferior members of it, to be sure, do a -little in the way of the red lamp and the vaccination gratis; but when -you arrive at any eminence you must not attempt any thing more glaring -than galloping about town in your carriage, and getting your name -announced in the best society." - -"The best society!" echoed Wilmot with an undisguised sneer. "My dear -Sir Saville, you seem to have taken a craze for Youth, Beauty, and -High Life, and to exalt them as gods for your idolatry." - -"For _my_ idolatry! No, my boy, for yours. I don't deny that when I -was in the ring, I did my best to gain the approbation of all three, -and that I succeeded I may say without vanity. But I'm out of it now, -and I can only give counsel to my juniors. But that my counsel is good -worldly wisdom, Chudleigh, you may take the word of an old man who -has--well, who has, he flatters himself, made his mark in life." - -The old gentleman was so evidently sincere in this exposition of his -philosophy, that Wilmot repressed the smile that was rising to his -lips, and said: - -"We can all of us only judge by our own feelings, old friend; and -mine, I must own, don't chime in with yours. As to Youth--well, I'm -now old for my age, and I only look upon it as developing more -available resources and more available material to work upon; as to -Beauty, its influence died out with me when Maria Strutt married the -clerk in the Bank of England; and as to High Life, I swear to you it -would give me as much pleasure to save the life of one of your -gillie's daughters, as it would to be able to patch up an old marquis, -or to pull the heir to a dukedom through his teething convulsions." - -The old man looked at his friend for a moment and smiled sardonically, -then said: - -"You're young yet, Chudleigh; very young--much younger than your years -of London life should permit you to be. However, that's a malady that -Time will cure you of. Saving lives of gillie's daughters is all very -well in the abstract, and no one can value more than I do the power -which Providence, under Him, has given to us; but--Well, what is it?" - -This last remark was addressed to a servant who was approaching them. - -"A telegram, sir, for Dr. Wilmot," said the man, handing an envelope -to Wilmot as he spoke; "just arrived from the station." - -Wilmot tore open the envelope and read its enclosure--read it twice -with frowning brow and sneering mouth; then handed it to his host, -saying: - -"A little too strong, that, eh? Is one never to be free from such -intrusions? Do these people imagine that because I am a professional -man I am to be always at their beck and call? Who is this Mr. Kilsyth, -I wonder, who hails me as though I were a cabman on the rank?" - -"_Mr._ Kilsyth, my dear fellow!" said Sir Saville, laughing; "I should -like to see the face of any Highlander who heard you say that. Kilsyth -of Kilsyth is the head of one of the oldest and most powerful clans in -Aberdeenshire." - -"I suppose he won't be powerful enough to have me shot, or speared, or -'hangit on a tree,' for putting his telegram into my pocket, and -taking no further notice of it, for all that," said Wilmot. - -"Do you mean to say that you intend to refuse his request, Chudleigh?" - -"Most positively and decidedly, if request you call it. I confess it -looks to me more like a command; and that's a style of thing I don't -particularly affect, old friend." - -"But do you see the facts? Miss Kilsyth is down with scarlet-fever--" - -"Exactly. I'm very sorry, I'm sure, so far as one can be sorry for any -one of whose existence one was a moment ago in ignorance; and I trust -Miss Kilsyth will speedily recover; but it won't be through any aid of -mine." - -"My dear Chudleigh," said the old man gently, "you are all wrong about -this. It's not a pleasant thing for me, as your host, to bid you go -away; more especially as I had been looking forward with such pleasure -to these few days' quiet with you. But I know it is the right thing -for you to do; and why you should refuse, I cannot conceive. You seem -to have taken umbrage at the style of the message; but even if one -could be polite in a telegram, a father whose pet daughter is -dangerously ill seldom stops to pick his words." - -"But suppose I hadn't been here?" - -"My dear friend, I decline to suppose anything of the sort. Suppose I -had not been in the way when Sir Astley advised his late Majesty to -call me in; I should still have been a successful man, it's true; but -I should not have had the honour or the position I have, nor the -wealth which enables me now to enjoy my ease, instead of slaving away -still like--like some whom we know. No, no; drop your radicalism, I -beseech you. You would go miles to attend to a sick gillie or a -shepherd's orphan. Do the same for a very charming young girl, as I'm -told,--Forbes knows her very well,--and for one of the best men in -Scotland." - -"Well, I suppose you're right, and I must go. It's an awful journey, -isn't it?" - -"Horses to the break, Donald; and tell George to get ready to drive -Dr. Wilmot.--I'll send you the first stage. Awful journey, you call -it, through the loveliest scenery in the Highlands! I don't know what -causes the notion, but I have an impression that this will be a -memorable day in your career, Chudleigh." - -"Have you, old friend?" said Wilmot, with a shoulder-shrug. "One -doesn't know how it may end, but, so far, it has been any thing but a -pleasant one. Nor does a fifty-mile journey over hills inspire me with -much pleasant anticipation. But, as you seem so determined about it -being my duty, I'll go." - -"Depend on it, I am giving you good advice, as some day you shall -acknowledge to me." - -And within half-an-hour Chudleigh Wilmot had started for Kilsyth, on a -journey which was to influence the whole of his future life. - - - - -CHAPTER III. -WATCHING AND WAITING. - - -The news which she had learned from Doctor Joyce, and had in her brief -pencil-note communicated to her husband, was horribly annoying to Lady -Muriel Kilsyth. To have her party broken up--and there was no doubt -that, as soon as the actual condition of affairs was known, many would -at once take to flight--was bad enough; but to have an infectious -disorder in the house, and to be necessarily compelled to keep up a -semblance of sympathy with the patient labouring under that disorder, -even if she were not required to visit and tend her, was to Lady -Muriel specially galling; more specially galling as she happened not -to possess the smallest affection for the individual in question, -indeed to regard her rather with dislike than otherwise. When Lady -Muriel Inchgarvie married Kilsyth of Kilsyth,--the Inchgarvie estates -being heavily involved, and her brother the Earl, who had recently -succeeded to the title, strongly counselling the match,--she agreed to -love, honour, and obey the doughty chieftain whom she espoused; but -she by no means undertook any responsibilities with regard to the two -children by his former marriage. The elder of these, Ronald, was just -leaving Eton when his stepmother appeared upon the scene; and as he -had since been at once gazetted to the Life-guards, and but rarely -showed in his father's house, he had caused Lady Muriel very little -anxiety. But it was a very different affair with Madeleine. She had -the disadvantage of being perpetually _en évidence_; of being very -pretty; of causing blundering new acquaintances to say, "Impossible, -Lady Muriel, that this can be your daughter!" of riling her stepmother -in every possible way--notably by her perfect high-breeding, her calm -quiet ignoring of intended slights, her determinate persistence in -keeping up the proper relations with her father, and her invariable -politeness--nothing but politeness--to her stepmother. One is -necessarily cautious of using strong terms in these days of persistent -repression of all emotions; but it is scarcely too much to say that -Lady Muriel hated her stepdaughter very cordially. They were too -nearly of an age for the girl to look up to the matron, or for the -matron to feel a maternal interest in the girl. They were too nearly -of an age for the elder not to feel jealous of the younger--of her -personal attractions, and of the influence which she undoubtedly -exercised over her father. Not that Lady Muriel either laid herself -out for attraction, or was so devotedly attached to her husband as to -desire the monopoly of his affection. By nature she was hard, cold, -self-contained, and very proud. Portionless as she had been, and -desirable as it was that she should marry a rich man, she had refused -several offers from men more coeval with her than the husband she at -last accepted, simply because they were made by men who were wealthy, -and nothing else. Either birth or talent would, in conjunction with -wealth, have won her; but Mr. Burton, the great pale-ale brewer, and -Sir Coke Only, the great railway carrier, proffered their suits in -vain, and retired in the deepest confusion after Lady Muriel's very -ladylike, but thoroughly unmistakable, rejection of their offers. She -married Kilsyth because he was a man of ancient family, large income, -warm heart, and good repute. At no period, either immediately before -or after her marriage, had she professed herself to be what is called -"in love" with the worthy Scottish gentleman. She respected, humoured, -and ruled him. But not for one instant did she forget her duty, or -give a chance for scandal-mongers to babble of her name over their -five-o'clock tea. No woman married to a man considerably her senior -need be at any loss for what, as Byron tells us, used to be called a -_cicisbeo_, and was in his time called a _cortejo_, if she be the -least attractive. And Lady Muriel Kilsyth was considerably more than -that. She had a perfectly-formed, classical little head, round which -her dark hair was always lightly bound, culminating in a thick knot -behind, large deep liquid brown eyes, an impertinent _retroussé_ nose, -a pretty mouth, an excellent complexion, and a ripe melting figure. -You might have searched the drawing-rooms of London through and -through without finding a woman better calculated to fascinate every -body save the youngest boys, and there were many even of them who -would gladly have boasted of a kind look or word from Lady Muriel. -When her marriage was announced, they discussed it at the clubs, as -they will discuss such things, the dear genial old prosers, the -bibulous captains, the lip-smacking Bardolphs of St. James'-street; -and they prophesied all kinds of unhappiness and woe to Kilsyth. But -that topic of conversation had long since died out for want of fuel to -feed it. Lady Muriel had visited London during the season; had gone -every where; had been reported as perfectly adoring her two little -children; and had no man's name invidiously coupled with hers. Peace -reigned at Kilsyth, and the intimates of the house vied with each -other in attention and courtesy to its new mistress; while the gossips -of the outside world had never a word to say against her. I don't say -that Lady Muriel Kilsyth was thoroughly happy, any more than that -Kilsyth himself was in that beatific state; because I simply don't -believe that such a state of things is compatible with the ordinary -conditions of human life. It is not because the old stories of our -none of us being better than we should be, of our all having some -skeleton in our cupboards, and some ulcerated sores beneath our -flannel waistcoats, have been so much harped upon, that I am going to -throw my little pebble on the great cairn, and add my testimony to the -doctrine of _vanitas vanitatum_. It would be very strange indeed, if, -as life is nowadays constituted, we had not our skeleton, and a time -when we could confront him; when we could calmly untwist the button on -the door and let him out, and pat his skull, and look at his -articulated ribs, and notice how deftly his wire-hooked thigh-bones -jointed on to the rest of his carcass; and see whether there were no -means of ridding ourselves of him,--say by flinging him out of window, -when the police would find him, or of stowing him away in the -dust-bin, when he would be noticed by the contractor; and of -finally putting him back, and acknowledging ourselves compelled -to suffer him even unto the end. I do not say that in the -broad-shouldered, kind-hearted, jovial sportsman Lady Muriel had found -exactly what she dreamed upon when, in the terraced garden at -Inchgarvie, she used to read Walter Scott, and, looking over the -flashing stream that wound through her father's domain, fancy herself -the Lady of the Lake, and await the arrival of Fitzjames. I do not say -that Kilsyth himself might not, in the few moments of his daily life -which he ever spared to reflection, and which were generally when he -was shaving himself in the morning,--I do not say that Kilsyth himself -might not have occasionally thought that his elegant and stately wife -might have been a little kinder to Madeleine, a little more -recognisant of the girl's charms, a little more thoughtful of her -wants, and a little more tender towards her girlish vagaries. But -neither of them, however they may have thought the other suspected -them, ever spoke of their secret thoughts; and to the outer world -there was no more well-assorted couple than the Kilsyths. It was a -great thing for the comfort of the entire party that Lady Muriel was a -woman of nerve, and that Kilsyth took his cue from her, backed up by -the fact that it was his darling Madeleine who was ill, and that any -inconvenience that might accrue to any of the party in consequence of -her illness would be set down to her account. Lady Muriel gave a good -general answer, delivered with a glance round the table, and was -inclusive of every body, so as to prevent any further questioning. -Dr. Joyce had said that Madeleine was not so well that night; -but that was to be expected; her cold was very bad, she was slightly -feverish: any one--and Lady Muriel turned deftly to the Duchess of -Northallerton--who knew any thing, would have expected that, would -they not? The Duchess, who knew nothing, but who didn't like to say -so, declared that of course they would; and then Lady Muriel, feeling -it necessary _that_ conversation should be balked, turned to Sir -Duncan Forbes, and began to ask him questions as to his doings since -the end of the season. Forbes replied briskly,--there was no better -man in London to follow a lead, whether in talk or at cards,--and so -turned the talk that most of those present were immediately -interested. The names which Duncan Forbes mentioned were known to all -present; all were interested in their movements; all had something to -say about them; so that the conversation speedily became general, and -so remained until the ladies quitted the table. When they had retired, -Kilsyth ordered in the tumblers; and it was nearly eleven o'clock -before the gentlemen appeared in the drawing-room. Then Lady Fairfax, -with one single wave of her fan, beckoned Charley Jefferson into an -empty seat on the ottoman by her side,--a seat which little Lord -Towcester, immediately on entering the door, had surveyed with vinous -eyes,--and, while one of the anonymous young ladies was playing -endless variations on the "Harmonious Blacksmith," commenced and -continued a most vivid one-sided, conversation, to all of which the -infatuated Colonel only replied by shrugs of his shoulders, and tugs -at his heavy moustache. Then the Duchess pursued the Duke into a -corner; and rescuing from him the _Morning Post_, which his grace had -pounced upon on entering the room with the hope of further identifying -Mr. Bright with Judas Iscariot, began addressing him in a low -monotone, like the moaning of the sea; now rising into a little hum, -now falling into a long sweeping hiss, but in each variety evidently -confounding the Duke, who pulled at his cravat and rubbed his right -ear in the height of nervous dubiety. In the behaviour of the other -guests there was nothing pronounced, save occasional and unwonted -restlessness. The Danish Minister and his wife played their usual game -at backgammon; and the customary talk, music, and flirtation were -carried on by the remainder of the company; but Lady Muriel knew that -some suspicion of the actual truth had leaked out, and determined on -her plan of action. - -So that night, when the men had gone to the smoking-room, and the -ladies were some of them talking in each other's bedrooms, and others -digesting and thinking over, as is the feminine manner, under the -influence of hair-brush, the events of the day; when Kilsyth had made -a tip-toe visit to his darling's chamber, and had shaken his head -sadly over a whispered statement from her little German maid that she -was "_bien malade_," and had returned to his room and dismissed his -man, and was kicking nervously at the logs on the hearth, and mixing -his "tumbler preparatory to taking his narcotic instalment of -_Blackwood_,--he heard a tap at his door, and Lady Muriel, in a most -becoming dressing-gown of rose-coloured flannel, entered the room. The -tumbler was put down, the _Blackwood_ was thrown, aside, and in a -minute Kilsyth had wheeled an easy-chair round to the hearth, and -handed his wife to it. - -"You're tired, Alick, I know, and I wouldn't have disturbed you now -had there not been sufficient reason--" - -"Madeleine's not worse, Muriel? I was there this minute, and Gretchen -said that--" - -"O no, she's no worse! I was in her room too just now,--though I think -it is a little absurd my going,--and there does not seem to be much -change in her since I saw her, just before dinner. She is asleep just -now." - -"Thank God for that!" said Kilsyth heartily. "After all, it may be a -fright this doctor is giving us. I don't think so very much of his -opinion and--" - -"I could not say that. Joyce is very highly thought of at Glasgow, and -was selected from among all the competitors to take charge of this -district, and that, in these days of competition, is no ordinary -distinction. And it is on this very point I came to speak to you. You -got my pencil-note at dinner? Very well. Just now you contented -yourself with asking a question of Gretchen--" - -"She said Madeleine was asleep, and would not let me into the room." - -"And quite rightly; but I went in to the bedside. Madeleine is asleep -certainly; but her sleep is restless, broken, and decidedly feverish. -There is not the smallest doubt that Dr. Joyce is right in his -opinion, and that she is attacked with scarlet-fever." - -"You think so, Muriel?" said Kilsyth anxiously. "I mean not blindly -following Joyce's opinion; but do you think so yourself?" - -"I do; and not I alone, but half the house thinks so too. How do they -know it? Heaven knows how these things ever get known, but they get -wind somehow; and you will see that by to-morrow there will be a -general flight. It is on this point that I have come to speak to you, -if you will give me five minutes." - -"Of course, Muriel; of course, my lady. But I think I've done the best -that could be done; at all events, the first thing that occurred to me -after you wrote me that note. Duncan Forbes had been saying in the -drawing-room before dinner, before you came in, that the great London -fever-physician, Dr. Wilmot, was staying at Burnside, away from here -about fifty miles, with old Sir Saville Rowe, whom I recollect when I -was a boy. Duncan had left him this morning, and he was going to stay -at Burnside just a day or two longer; and I sent one of the men with a -telegram to the station, to ask Dr. Wilmot to come over at once, and -see Maddy." - -Lady Muriel was so astonished at this evidence of prompt action on her -husband's part that she remained silent for a minute. Then she said, - -"That was quite right, quite right so far as Madeleine was concerned; -but my visit related rather to other people. You see, so soon as it is -actually known that there is an infectious disorder in the house, the -house will be deserted. Now my question is this: will it not be better -to announce it to our guests, making the best and the lightest of it, -as of course one naturally would, rather than let them--" - -"Ye-es, I see what you mean, my lady," said Kilsyth slowly; "and of -course it would not do to keep people here under false pretences, and -when we knew there was actual danger. Still I think as this story of -scarlet-fever is only Joyce's opinion, and as I have telegraphed for -Dr. Wilmot, who will be here to-morrow; and as it seems strange, you -know, to think that poor darling Maddy should be the cause of any -one's leaving Kilsyth, perhaps, eh? one might put off making the -announcement until Joyce's opinion were corroborated by Dr. Wilmot." - -"I am afraid the mischief is already done, Alick, and that its results -will be apparent long before Dr. Wilmot can reach here," said Lady -Muriel. "However, let us sleep upon it. I am sure to hear whether the -news has spread in the house long before breakfast, and we can consult -again." And Lady Muriel took leave of her husband, and retired to her -room. - -Trust a woman for observation. Lady Muriel was perfectly right. The -nods and shoulder-shrugs and whisperings which she had observed in the -drawing-room had already borne fruit. On her return to her own room -she saw a little note lying on her table--a little note which, as she -learned from Pinner, her attendant, had just been brought by Lady -Fairfax's maid. It ran thus: - - -"DEAREST LADY MURIEL,--A _frightful_ attack of neuralgia (_my_ -neuralgia)--which, as you know, is so _awful_--has been hanging over -me for the last three days, and now has come upon me in its _fullest -force_. I am quite out of my mind with it. I have striven--O, how I -have striven!--to keep up and try to forget it, when surrounded by -your pleasant circle, and when looking at your _dear self_. But it is -all in vain. I am in _agonies_. The torture of the rack itself can be -_nothing_ to what I am suffering tonight. - -"Poor dear Sir Benjamin Brodie used to say that I should never be well -in a _northern_ climate. I fear he was right. I fear that the air of -this darling Kilsyth, earthly Paradise though it is--and I am sure -that I have found it so during three weeks of bliss; O, such -_happiness!_--is too bracing, too invigorating for poor me. But I -should _loathe_ myself if I were to make this an _open_ confession. So -I will steal away, dearest Lady Muriel, without making any formal -adieux. When all your dear friends assemble at breakfast to-morrow, I -shall be on my _sorrowing_ way south, and only regret that my wretched -health prevents me longer remaining where I have been so entirely -happy. - -"With kindest regards to your dear husband, I am, dearest Lady Muriel, -ever your loving - -"EMILY FAIRFAX. - -"P.S.--I have told my maid to beg some of your people to get me horses -from the Kilsyth Arms; so that I shall _speed_ away early in the -morning without disturbing any one. I hope dear Madeleine will soon be -_quite herself_ again." - - -Lady Muriel read this letter through twice with great calmness, though -a very scornful smile curled her lip during its perusal. She then -twisted the note up into a wisp, and was about to burn it in the flame -of the candle, when she heard a short solemn tap at her chamber-door. -She turned round, bade Pinner open the door, and looked with more -displeasure than astonishment at the Duchess of Northallerton, who -appeared in the entrance. The Duchess had the credit in society of -being a "haughty-looking woman." Her stronghold in life, beyond the -fact of her being a duchess, had been in her Roman nose and arched -eyebrows. But, somehow, haughty looks become wonderfully modified in -_déshabillé_, and Roman noses and arched eyebrows lose a good deal of -their potency when taken in conjunction with two tight little curls -twisted up in hairpins, and a headdress which, however much fluted and -gauffered, is unmistakably a nightcap. The Duchess's nocturnal -adornments were unmistakably of this homely character, and her white -wrapper was of a hue, which, if she had not been a duchess, would have -been pronounced dingy. But her step was undoubtedly tragic, and the -expression of her face solemn to a degree. Lady Muriel received her -with uplifted eyebrows, and motioned her to a chair. The Duchess -dropped stiffly into the appointed haven of rest; but arched her -eyebrows at Pinner with great significance. - -"You can go, Pinner. I shall not require you any more," said Lady -Muriel; adding, "I presume that was what you wished, Duchess?" as the -maid left the room. - -"Precisely, dear Muriel; but you always were so wonderfully ready to -interpret one's thoughts. I remember your dear mother used to say--but -I won't worry you with my stories. I came to speak to you about dear -Madeleine." - -"Ye-es," said Lady Muriel quietly, finding the Duchess paused. - -"Well, now, she's worse than any of them suspect. Ah, I can see it by -your face. And I know what is the matter with her. Don't start; I -won't even ask you; I won't let you commit yourself in any way; but I -know that it's measles." - -Lady Muriel kept her countenance admirably while the Duchess -proceeded. "I know it by a sort of instinct. When Madeleine first -complained of her head, I looked narrowly at her, and I said to -myself, 'Measles! undoubtedly measles!' Now, you know, Muriel, though -there is nothing dangerous in measles to a young person like -Madeleine,--and she will shake them off easily, and be all the better -afterwards,--they are very dangerous when taken by a person of mature -age. And the fact is, the Duke has never had them--never. When -Errington was laid up with them, I recollect the Duke wouldn't remain -in the house, but went off to the Star and Garter, and stayed there -until all trace of the infection was gone. And he's horribly afraid of -them. You know what cowards men are in such matters; and he said just -now he thought there was a rash on his neck. Such nonsense! Only where -his collar had rubbed him, as I told him. But he's dreadfully -frightened; and he has suggested that instead of waiting till the end -of the week, as we had intended, we had better go to-morrow." - -"I think that perhaps under all circumstances it would be the best -course," said Lady Muriel, quite calmly. - -"I knew your good sense would see it in the right light, my dear -Muriel," said the Duchess, who had been nervously anticipating quite a -different answer, and who was overjoyed. "I was perfectly certain of -your coincidence in our plan. Now, of course, we shall not say a word -as to the real reason of our departure--the Duke, I know, would not -have that for the world. We shall not mention it at Redlands either; -merely say we--O, I shall find some good excuse, for Mrs. Murgatroyd -is a chattering little woman, as you know, Muriel. And now I won't -keep you up any longer, dear. You'll kindly tell some one to get us -horses to be ready by--say twelve to-morrow. Stay to luncheon? No, -dear. I think we had better go before luncheon. The Duke, you see, is -so absurd about his ridiculous rash. _Good_night, dear." And the -Duchess stalked off to tell the Duke, who was not the least -frightened, and whose rash was entirely fictitious, how well she had -sped on her mission. - - -Lady Muriel accurately obeyed the requests made to her in Lady -Fairfax's letter, and verbally by the Duchess; and each of them found -their horses ready at the appointed time. Lady Emily departed -mysteriously before breakfast; but as the Duchess's horses were not -ordered till twelve, and as the post came in at eleven, her grace had -time to receive a letter from Mrs. Murgatroyd, of Redlands, whither -they were next bound, requesting them to postpone their arrival for a -day or two, as a German prince, who had by accident shot a stag, had -been so elated by the feat, that he had implored to be allowed to stay -on, with the chance of repeating it; and as he occupied the rooms -intended for the Duke and Duchess, it was impossible to receive them -until he left. After reading this letter, the Duchess went to Lady -Muriel, and expressed her opinion that she had been too precipitate; -that, after all, nothing positive had been pronounced; that there were -no symptoms of the Duke's rash that morning, which had been -undoubtedly caused, as she had said last night, by his collar, and -which was no rash at all; and that perhaps, after all, their real duty -was to stay and help their dear Muriel to nurse her dear invalid. But -they had miscalculated the possibility of deceiving their dear Muriel. -Lady Muriel at once replied that it was impossible that they could -remain at Kilsyth; that immediately on the Duchess's quitting her on -the previous night she had made arrangements as to the future -disposition of the rooms which they occupied; that she would not for -the world take upon herself the responsibility which would necessarily -accrue to her if any of them caught the disease; and that she knew the -Duchess's own feelings would tell her that she, Lady Muriel, however -ungracious it might seem, was in the right in advising their immediate -departure. The Duchess tried to argue the point, but in vain; and so -she and the Duke, and their servants and baggage, departed, and passed -the next three days at a third-rate roadside inn between Kilsyth and -Redlands, where the Duke got lumbago, and the Duchess got bored; and -where they passed their time alternately wishing that they had not -left Kilsyth, or that the people at Redlands were ready to receive -them. - -Very little difference was made by the other guests at Kilsyth in the -disposition of their day. If they were surprised at the sudden -defection of the Northallertons and Lady Fairfax, they were too -well-bred to show it. Charley Jefferson mooned about the house and -grounds, a thought more disconsolate than ever; but he was the only -member of the party who at all bemoaned the departure of the departed. -Lady Dunkeld congratulated her cousin Muriel on being rid of "those -awful wet blankets," the Northallertons. Captain Severn, in whispered -colloquy with his wife, "hoped to heaven Charley Jefferson would see -what a stuck-up selfish brute that Emily Fairfax was." Lord Roderick -Douglas and Mr. Pitcairn went out for their stalk; and all the rest of -the company betook themselves to their usual occupations. - - -"Where's her ladyship?" - -"In the boudoir, sir, waiting for the doctor." - -"What doctor? Dr. Joyce?" - -"And the strange gentleman, sir. They're both together in Miss -Madeleine's room." - -"Ah, Muriel! So Dr. Wilmot has arrived?" - -"Yes, and gone off straight with Joyce to Madeleine. You see I was -right in recommending you to go out as usual. Your fine London -physician never asked for you, never mentioned your name." - -"Well, perhaps you were right. I should have worried myself into a -fever here; not that I've done any good out--missed every shot. What's -he like?" - -"He! Who? Dr. Wilmot? I had scarcely an opportunity of observing, but -I should say _brusque_ and self-sufficient. He and Joyce went off at -once. I thanked him for coming, and welcomed him in your name and my -own; but he did not seem much impressed." - -"Full of his case, no doubt; these men never think of anything -but--Ah, here he is!--Dr. Wilmot, a thousand thanks for this prompt -reply to my hasty summons. Seeing the urgency, you'll forgive the -apparent freedom of my telegraphing to you." - -"My dear sir," said Wilmot, "I am only too happy to be here; not that, -if you could have engrossed the attention of this gentleman, there -would have been any necessity for the summons. Dr. Joyce has done -every thing that could possibly be done for Miss Kilsyth up to this -point." - -"_A laudato viro laudari_," murmured - -Dr. Joyce. "But, fortunately or unfortunately, as I learn from him, a -district of thirty miles in circumference looks to him for its health. -Now I am, for the next few days at least, a free man, and at liberty -to devote myself to Miss Kilsyth." - -"And you will do so?" - -"With the very greatest pleasure. In two words let me corroborate the -opinion already given. I understand by my friend here Miss Kilsyth has -an attack, more or less serious, of scarlet-fever. She must be kept -completely isolated from every one, and must be watched with -unremitting attention. Dr. Joyce will send to Aberdeen for a skilled -nurse, upon whom he can depend; until her arrival I will take up my -position in the sick-room." - -"Ten thousand thanks; but--is there any danger?" - -"So far all is progressing favourably. We must look to Providence and -our own unremitting attention for the result." - - -"I'm so hot and so thirsty, and these pillows are so uncomfortable! -Thanks! Ah, is that you, Dr. Wilmot? I was afraid you had gone. You -won't leave me--at least not just yet--will you?" - -"Not I, my dear. There--that's better, isn't it? The pillow is cooler, -and the lemonade--" - -"Ah, so many thanks! I'm very weak tonight; but your voice is so kind, -and your manner, and--" - -"There; now try and sleep.--Good heavens, how lovely she is! What a -mass of golden hair falling over her pillow, and what a soft, -innocent, childish manner! And to think that only this morning I--ah, -you must never hear the details of this case, my dear old master. When -I get back to town I will tell you the result: but the details--never." - - - - -CHAPTER IV. -Mrs. Wilmot. - - -"I wonder what sort of woman Chudleigh Wilmot's wife is," was a phrase -very often used by his acquaintances; and the sentiment it expressed -was not unnatural or inexcusable. There are some men concerning whom -people instinctively feel that there is something peculiar in their -domestic history, that their everyday life is not like the everyday -life of other people. Sometimes this impression is positive and -defined; it takes the shape of certain conviction that things are -wrong in that quarter; that So-and-so's marriage is a mistake, a -misfortune, or a calamity, just as the grade of the blunder makes -itself felt by his manner, or even by the expression of the -countenance. Sometimes the impression is quite vague, and the -questioner is conscious only that there must be something of interest -to be known. The man's wife may be dear to him, with a special -dearness and nearness, too sacred, too much a part of his inmost being -to be betrayed to even the friendliest eyes; or there may be an -estrangement, which pride and rectitude combine to conceal. At all -events--and whichever of these may be the true condition of affairs, -or whatever modification of them may be true--the man's acquaintance -feel that there is something in his domestic story different from that -of other men, and they regard him with a livelier curiosity, if he be -a man of social or intellectual mark, in consequence. - -It was in the vaguest form that the question, "What sort of a woman is -Chudleigh Wilmot's wife?" suggested itself to his acquaintances. -Naturally, and necessarily, the greater number of those to whom the -rising man became known knew him only in his professional capacity; -but that capacity involved a good deal of knowledge, and not a little -social intercourse; and there was hardly one among their number who -did not say, sooner or later, to himself, or to other people, "I -wonder what sort of woman Chudleigh Wilmot's wife is?" This question -had been asked mentally, and of each other, by several of the inmates -of the old mansion of Kilsyth; while the grave, preoccupied, and -absorbed physician dwelt within its walls, devoting all his energies -of mind and body to the battle with disease, in which he was resolved -to conquer. But no one who was there, or likely to be there, could -have answered the question, strange to say--not even Wilmot himself. - -Chudleigh Wilmot's marriage had come about after a fashion in which -there was nothing very novel, remarkable, or interesting. Mabel -Darlington was a pretty girl, who came of a good family, with which -Wilmot's mother had been connected; had a small fortune, which was -very acceptable to the young man just starting in his arduous -profession; and was as attractive to him as any woman could have been -at that stage of his life. Partly inclination, partly convenience, and -in some measure persuasion, were the promoters of the match. Wilmot -knew that a medical man had a better chance of success as a married -than as a single man; and as this was a fixed, active, and predominant -idea among his relatives and friends--in fact, an article of faith, -and a perpetual text of continual discourses--he had everything to -encourage him in the design which had formed itself, though somewhat -faintly, in his mind, when he renewed his acquaintance with Miss -Darlington, on the occasion of her appearance at his mother's house in -the character of a "come out" young lady. He had often seen her as a -child and a little girl, being himself at the time a somewhat older -child and a much bigger boy; but he had never entertained for her that -disinterested, ardent, wretchedness-producing passion known as "calf -love;" so that the impression she made upon him at a later period owed -nothing to earlier recollection. His mother liked the girl, and -praised her eloquently and persistently to Chudleigh; so eloquently -and persistently indeed, that if he had not happened to be of her -opinion from the beginning, she would probably have inspired him with -a powerful dislike to Miss Darlington, by placing that young lady in -his catalogue of bores. He was not by any means the sort of man to -marry a woman for whom he did not care at all, to please his mother, -or secure his own prosperity; but he was just the sort of man to care -all the more for a girl because his mother liked her, and to make up -his mind to marry her, if she would have him, the more quickly on that -account. - -The courtship was a short one; and even in its brief duration -Chudleigh Wilmot never felt, never tried to persuade himself, that -Mabel was his first object in life. He knew that his profession had -his heart, his brain, his ambition in its grasp; that he loved it, and -thought of it, and lived for it in a way, and to a degree, which no -other object could ever compete with. It never occurred to him for a -moment that there was any injustice to Mabel in this. He would be an -affectionate and faithful husband; but he was a practical man--not an -enthusiast, not a dreamer. If he succeeded--and he was determined to -succeed--she would share his success, the realisation of his ambition, -and would secure all its advantages to herself. A man to do real -work in the world, and to do it as a man ought--as alone he could -feel the answer of a good conscience in doing anything he should -undertake--must put his work above and before every thing. He would -do this; he would be an eminent physician, a celebrated and rich man; -a good husband too; and his wife should never have reason to find -fault with him, or to envy the wives of other men--men who might -indeed be more sentimental and demonstrative, but who could not have a -stronger sense of duty than he. Thus thought, thus resolved Mabel -Darlington's lover; and very good thoughts, very admirable resolves -his were. They had only one defect; but he never suspected its -existence. It was a rather radical defect too, being this: that they -were not those of a lover at all. - -They were married, and all went very well with the modest and -exemplary household. At first the Wilmot _ménage_ was not so -fashionably located as afterwards; but Mrs. Wilmot's house was always -a model of neatness, propriety, and the precise degree of elegance -which the rising man's income justified at each level which he -attained. Wilmot's mother continued to like her daughter-in-law, and -to regard her son's marriage as most propitious, though she had -sometimes a doubt whether she really did understand his wife quite so -thoroughly as she had understood Mabel Darlington. But Wilmot's mother -had now been dead some years. Mrs. Wilmot had no near relatives, and -she was a woman of few intimacies; her life was placid, prosperous, -conventional. She had, at the period with which this story deals, a -handsome house, a good income, an agreeable and eminently respectable -social circle; a handsome, irreproachable husband, rapidly rising into -distinction; one intimate friend, and--a broken heart. - -Chudleigh Wilmot's wife was young; if not beautiful, at least very -attractive, accomplished, ladylike, and "amiable," in the generally -accepted interpretation of that unsatisfactory word. What better or -what worse description could possibly be given? It describes a -thousand women in a breath, and it designates not one in particular. -There was only one person in existence who could have given a more -clear, intelligible, and distinct description of Mrs. Wilmot than this -stereotyped one. This person was her friend Mrs. Prendergast--a lady -somewhat older than herself, and whose natural and remarkable -quickness and penetration were aided in this instance by close -acquaintance and sleepless jealousy. If Mrs. Prendergast had been an -ordinary woman, as silly as her sisterhood and no sillier, the fact -that she was extremely jealous of Mrs. Wilmot would have so obscured -and perverted her judgment, that her opinion would not have been worth -having. But Mrs. Prendergast was very unlike her sisterhood. Not only -was she negatively less silly, but she was positively clever; and -being severe, suspicious, and implacable as well, if not precisely a -pleasant, she was at least a remarkable woman. Nothing obscured or -perverted Mrs. Prendergast's judgment; neither did anything touch her -heart. She had mind, and a good deal of it; she had experience and -tact, insight, foresight, and caution. She was a woman who might -possibly be a very valuable friend, but who could not fail to be a -very dangerous enemy. In such a nature the power of enmity would -probably be greater than the power of friendship, and the one would be -likely to crush the other if ever they came into collision. Mrs. -Prendergast was Mrs. Wilmot's friend. Whether she was the friend of -Mrs. Wilmot's husband remains to be seen. If she had been asked to say -what manner of woman the rising man's wife was, and had thought proper -to satisfy the inquirer, her portraiture might have been relied upon -as implicitly for its truthfulness as that of the most impartial -observer, which is saying at once that Mrs. Prendergast was a woman of -exceptional mental qualities, and of a temperament rare among those -charming creatures to whom injustice is easy and natural. - -The two women were habitually much together. Mrs. Prendergast was a -childless widow. Mrs. Wilmot was a childless wife. Neither had -absorbing domestic occupations to employ her,--each had a good deal of -time at the other's disposal; hence it happened that few days passed -without their meeting, and enjoying that desultory kind of -companionship which is so puzzling to the male observer of the habits -and manners of womankind. Their respective abodes were within easy -distance of each other. Mrs. Prendergast lived in Cadogan-place, and -Mrs. Wilmot lived in Charles-street, St. James's. When they did not -see one another, they exchanged notes; and in short they kept up all -the ceremonial of warm feminine friendship; and each really did like -the other better than any one else in the world, with one exception. -In Mrs. Wilmot's case the exception was her husband; in Mrs. -Prendergast's, the exception was herself. There was a good deal of -sincerity and warmth in their friendship, but on one point there was a -decided inequality. Mrs. Prendergast understood Mrs. Wilmot -thoroughly; she read her through and through, she knew her off by -heart; but Mrs. Wilmot knew very little of her friend--only just as -much as her friend chose she should know. Which was a convenient state -of things, and tended to preserve their pleasant and salutary -relations unbroken. Mrs. Prendergast had played Eleanor Galligaí to -Mrs. Wilmot's Marie de' Medicis for a considerable time, and with -uninterrupted success, when Chudleigh Wilmot was sent for, in the -perplexity and distress at Kilsyth; and as a matter of course she had -heard from his wife about his prolonged visit to Sir Saville Rowe, -whom she was well aware Mrs. Wilmot disliked with the quiet, rooted, -persistent aversion so frequently inspired in the breasts of even the -very best and most conscientious of women by their husbands' intimate -friends. Wilmot was utterly unconscious that his wife entertained any -such feeling; and Sir Saville Rowe himself would have been hardly more -astonished than Wilmot, if it had been revealed to him that the -confidence and regard which existed between the former master and -pupil were counted a grievance, and Wilmot's visit to Burnside -resented, silently indeed, in grief rather than in anger, as an -injury. - -In this fact may be found the key-note to Mrs. Wilmot's character; a -key-note often struck by her friend's hand, and never with an erring, -a faltering, or a rough touch. - -There was not much of the tragic element in Henrietta Prendergast's -jealousy of Mabel Wilmot, but there was a great deal of the mean. When -Mabel was a young girl, Henrietta was a not much older widow. She was -Mabel's cousin; had married, when very young, a man who had survived -their marriage only one year. She had more money than Mabel; their -connections were the same; she had as much education, and even better -manners. She met Chudleigh Wilmot on the occasion of his renewing his -acquaintance with Mabel Darlington, and she was as much, though -differently, fascinated with him as Mabel herself. She compared her -qualifications with those of her cousin; and she arrived at the not -unnatural conclusion that their charms were equal, supposing him -incapable of discerning how much cleverer a woman than Mabel she -was,--and hers very superior, should he prove capable of understanding -and appreciating her intellectual superiority. She forgot one simple -element in the calculation, and it made all the difference--she forgot -Mabel's prettiness. Henrietta Prendergast made very few mistakes, but -she did constantly make one blunder; she forgot her plain face, she -under-estimated the power of beauty. Perhaps no plain woman ever does -understand that power, ever does make sufficient allowance for it, -when arrayed against her in any kind of combat; it is certain that -Henrietta did not in this instance. It is certain that though -Chudleigh Wilmot thought of marrying Mabel Darlington without being -very much in love with her, he never thought of marrying Henrietta -Prendergast at all. - -And now, when she had come to the conclusion that Chudleigh Wilmot -had not loved Mabel Darlington, and did not love his wife,--was, in -short, a man to whom love was unknown, by whom it was unvalued, -undesired,--she was still steadily, sleeplessly jealous of Mabel -Wilmot. "I would have made him love _me_," she would say to herself, -as she read the thoughts of her friend; "I would have been as -ambitious for him as he is for himself; I would have shown him that -his aim was the highest and the worthiest. I would have loved him, and -sympathised with him too. She only loves him; she does not understand -him. Why did she come in between him and me?" For this very clever -woman had actually deluded herself into the belief that, but for -Mabel, Chudleigh Wilmot would have loved, or at least have married -her. She would have made him love her afterwards, as she said. So for -a long time she disliked her cousin, and hankered after her cousin's -husband, and believed that she would have been the best, the most -suitable, and the happiest of wives to the man who evidently had not a -wife of that pattern in Mabel, but who somehow did not seem to -perceive the fact. That time had come to an end long before people at -Kilsyth asked themselves and each other what sort of woman Chudleigh -Wilmot's wife was. But though Mrs. Prendergast no longer hankered -after her cousin's husband, though the love, in which her active -imagination had a large share, had given place to a much more real and -genuine hatred, she was jealous of Mabel still. This woman's brain was -larger than her heart; her intellectual was higher than her moral -nature; and a lofty feeling would be more transient than a low one. -She pitied Mabel Wilmot too, however contradictory such an assertion -may seem to shallow perceptions, which do not recognise in life that -nothing is so reasonably to be expected, so invariably to be found, as -contradictions in character. She liked her, she understood her, but -she was jealous of her--jealous because Mabel had the position she had -vainly desired. If she had had her husband's love, Mrs. Prendergast -would have been still more jealous of her, and would not have liked, -because she could not have pitied her. But she knew she had not that; -she had made the discovery as soon as Mabel, who had made it fatally -soon. - -What had the girl's ideal been? was a question none could answer, and -which it is certain her husband never asked. He was very kind to her; -she had every comfort, every luxury that he could give her; but she -lived in a world of which he knew nothing, and he in and for his -profession. He could not have been brought to recognise the -possibility of over devotion to the business of his life. He would not -have listened to the advance of any claims upon his time, attention, -or interest, beyond those which he fulfilled with enthusiasm in the -interests of his work, and the courteous observance which he never -denied to the rules of his well-regulated household. Chudleigh Wilmot -was a clever man in many ways beside that one way in which he was -eminently so; but one study had long lain near his hand, and he had -never given time or thought to it; one book was close to him, and he -had never turned its leaves--the study of his wife's character, the -book of his wife's heart. - -Mabel Wilmot was inveterately, incurably shy, extremely reserved and -reticent by nature, and rather sullen. The latter fault of temper had -made itself apparent to her husband very early in their married life; -and having rebuked it without effect, he made the great mistake of -treating it with disregard. He never noticed it now; the symptoms -escaped him, the disease did not interest him, and it grew and grew. -Proud, cold in manner, distant; scrupulously deferential and dutiful -in externals; silent, except where speech was necessary to the -management of such affairs as lay within her sphere; calmly -indifferent, to all appearance, to all that did not absolutely concern -her individually in the course of their life, her shyness and her -sullenness were not perceptible to others now--never to him. He did -not know that it was so much the worse; he did not understand that it -had been better to know and feel her faults than to be ignorant of her -and them, unconscious of their growth, or their yielding, or their -transformation into others, uglier, worse, harder of eradication, more -hopeless of cure. He did not love her. The whole story was in that one -sentence. - -And she? She loved him; certainly not wisely, all things considered, -and much too well for her own peace. She had outgrown her girlhood -since her marriage; and her character had hardened, darkened, -deepened, everything but strengthened, with her advance into -womanhood. The girl Chudleigh Wilmot had married, and the graceful -languid woman who appeared barely conscious of, and not at all -interested in, the fact of his existence, were widely different -beings. Mabel had shrunk from the knowledge of the thraldom in which -her love for her husband--her calm, cold, generous, irreproachable -husband--held her when she had first realised its strength, when the -growth of her own love had revealed to her that his was but a puny -changeling, with all the sensitiveness of a shy, sullen, and reticent -nature. She could not deny, but she could conceal the bondage in which -it held her. The qualities of her heart and the defects of her temper -had a fight for the mastery, and temper won. Chudleigh Wilmot, if he -had been obliged to think about the matter, would have unhesitatingly -declared that his wife's temper had improved considerably since the -early days of their marriage: the truth was, it had only lost -impulsiveness, and acquired sulk and secretiveness. - -All this, and the terrible pain at the young woman's unsatisfied -heart,--the pain which devoured her the more ruthlessly as success -waited more closely upon the devotion to his profession of the man -she loved, and in whose life she had but a nominal share,--was well -known to Henrietta Prendergast. It had been long in coming, that burst -of agonised confidence, which had made her friend officially aware of -all that her acute mind had long believed; but it had come, and like -all the confidences of very shy people, it had been complete and -expansive. All restraint was over. Mabel might yield to any mood now -in Henrietta's presence; she might talk of him with pride, with love, -with anger, with questioning wonder, with despair; she, whose armour -of pride and silence no other hand, not even the hand of the husband -she loved, had ever pierced, was defenceless, unarmed, at the mercy of -her friend, who fancied she had supplanted her, who was jealous of -her. - -Chudleigh Wilmot had been nearly a week at Kilsyth, when Mrs. -Prendergast, entering her cousin's drawing-room rather earlier than -usual, found her agitated, and in a state of perplexity. - -"I am so glad you have come, Henrietta," said Mrs. Wilmot, as she -kissed her visitor. "I have been in such anxiety to see you. A message -was sent early this morning from Mr. Foljambe--you know Wilmot's -friend, Mr. Foljambe the banker, of Portland-place--requesting that he -would go to him at once. The poor old man has the gout again very -badly. Since then a note has come; written by himself too, and hardly -legible. Poor creature! I'm sure he is in horrid pain. Here it is. You -see he says, 'the enemy is advancing on the citadel'--he means his -heart or his stomach, I suppose--and he entreats Wilmot to go to him -at once. What ought I to do, Henrietta?" - -"You must tell him, of course, that Mr. Wilmot is out of town. I -should not say he was so far away as Scotland; I think the mere idea -is enough to terrify a nervous old man with a superstition in favour -of a particular doctor." - -"Yes, yes, you are right; so it is. But about Wilmot. Of course he -will not like to leave Sir Saville's friends. He thinks more of Sir -Saville than of any one in the world, I do believe." - -"Hardly more, Mabel, than of his reputation and Mr. Foljambe, I should -think. Why, this Mr. Foljambe is the oldest friend he has in the -world--his godfather, his father's friend,--a childless old man, -without kith or kin in the world, who may leave him a fortune any day, -and is certain to leave him something very handsome! He would never be -so mad or so ungrateful--is he of an ungrateful disposition, Mabel?" - -"I don't know exactly," said Mrs. Wilmot, as her colour deepened, and -tears rose to her dark gray eyes. "If he _has_ any feeling, it is -certainly for his friends--at least he wastes none of it on _me_." - -"You are always brooding over that, Mabel," said her cousin, "and it -is labour and sorrow wasted. No man is worth being miserable about, -dear, and Wilmot is no more worth it than his neighbours. Besides, -this is a matter of business, you know, and we must look at it so. You -had better telegraph at once, I think. Put on your bonnet, and come to -the office; don't trust to a servant, and don't lose time. The message -will take some time to reach him, at the quickest. I fancy Kilsyth is -a long way from any station." - -Her practical tone had a beneficial effect on Mabel. Besides, she -brightened at the hope, the expectation of Wilmot's return before the -appointed time. The two ladies drove to Charing-cross, and Mabel -telegraphed to Wilmot: - -"_Mr. Foljambe is dangerously ill. Come at once_." - - - - -CHAPTER V. -A Resolve, and its Results. - - -The illness of Madeleine Kilsyth engrossed the attention and engaged -the sympathy of her father so completely, and so entirely blinded him -to other considerations, that when he chanced to encounter a servant -on his way to Wilmot's room, in whose hand he recognised the ominous -yellow cover which indicated a telegraphic despatch, he immediately -accompanied the man to the door. He then hardly gave his guest time to -peruse the message before he said impetuously: - -"Nothing to take you away from us, I trust. Pray tell me?" and the -otherwise polite gentleman did his best to peer at the pencilled -characters on the flimsy sheet of paper which Wilmot held in his hand. -For a moment his eager question remained unanswered, and his guest -stood frowning and uncertain. The next, though the frown remained, the -look of uncertainty passed away, and then Wilmot turned frankly to the -impatient questioner and said: - -"This is a message from an old friend and patient of mine. He wants me -very much, and asks me to return at once." - -"And--and what will you do? _Must_ you go?" asked the distressed -father in a tone of the keenest anxiety. - -"I shall stay here, sir, until your daughter is out of danger. There -are many who can replace me in London in Foljambe's case; there is no -one who can replace me here in Miss Kilsyth's." - -"You are very good, Wilmot. I really can't thank you sufficiently," -said Kilsyth, immensely relieved. - -"No need to thank me at all, my dear sir," said Wilmot. "And now I -will make my report to you, which no doubt you were coming to hear." - -The two gentlemen had rather a long talk, and on its completion Wilmot -returned to his room to write letters; and Kilsyth went to tell Lady -Muriel that they had had a narrow escape of losing Wilmot, but he had -determined to disregard the message, and stay by Madeleine. Did she -not think Wilmot a very fine fellow? Had she not perfect confidence in -his skill? and was not the interest he was taking in Madeleine's case -extraordinary? To all these queries the Lady Muriel made answer in the -affirmative, with heightened colour and brightened eyes, which, if -Kilsyth had happened to notice those phenomena at all, he would have -ascribed to an increase of feeling towards Madeleine; to be hailed, on -his part, with much gratitude and delight. But Kilsyth did not happen -to notice them at all. - -Chudleigh Wilmot was a man accustomed to act promptly on a resolution; -and perhaps, like many more of similar temperament, likely to act all -the more promptly when the motives of that resolution were not quite -clear or quite justifiable before his own judgment. In the present -instance he certainly did not act with perfect candour towards -himself. He made very much to himself of his apprehensions concerning -the result of Madeleine's illness, and his absolute want of confidence -in the skill of Mr. Joyce. He resolutely shut his eyes to the long and -substantial claims of Mr. Foljambe to paramount consideration on his -part, and he determined to "see this matter out," as he phrased it, in -his one-sided mental cogitation, by which he meant that he was -determined to invest the temptation in his way with the specious name -of duty, and to try to persuade himself that he had the assent of his -conscience in pursuing a course opposed to his judgment. In pursuance -of this determination, Chudleigh Wilmot wrote to his wife the -following letter. To anyone familiar with the man's habits, it -would have been suggestive, that when he had written "Kilsyth," and -the date, he paused for several minutes, fidgeted with a stick of -sealing-wax, got up and walked about the room, and, finally, began to -write with unusual haste: - - -"MY DEAR MABEL,--Your telegram came all right; but my leaving this is -quite impossible for the present. You must tell Foljambe how I am -circumstanced. Poor old fellow! I am sorry for him; but he will pull -through, as usual; and there is nothing to be done for him which -anyone else cannot do just as well as myself. He had better see -Whittaker; or, if he does not like him for any reason--and the dear -old boy _is_ whimsical--let him see Perkins: tell him I recommend -either confidently. You had better go and see him, if your cold is all -right again, and cheer him up. As for me, I am effectually imprisoned -here until this case decides itself one way or the other. Miss Kilsyth -could not possibly be left to the care of the country doctor here; and -there is no one within any _possible_ distance but Sir Saville, who -would not _stay_, supposing he would _come_, which is doubtful. The -same answer must be given in all cases for the next week or so. There -is no use in anyone telegraphing for me. The country about here is -beautiful; but of course I don't see much of it. The Kilsyths are -pleasant people in their way, and full of gratitude to me. Lady Muriel -talks of making your acquaintance when they come to town. Nothing of -consequence at home, I suppose? Tell Whittaker to look after Foljambe -very zealously, if he will have him.--Yours affectionately, -C. WILMOT. - -"P. S. The case is malignant scarlet-fever, and my patient and I are -in quarantine. Kilsyth is in great trouble--devoted to his daughter." - - -When he had sealed this letter, and left it on the table for the post, -Wilmot once more went to his patient's room. The suffering girl had -fallen into an uneasy slumber; her face, with the disfiguring flush -invading its fairness, was turned towards the door, the heavy eyes -were closed, and the parched red lips were open. With a skilful -noiseless touch, Wilmot lifted the restless head to an easier attitude -upon the pillow, and moistened the dry mouth. The girl's golden hair -had slipped out of the silken net which had confined it, and a -quantity of its thick tresses was caught in one hot hand. Wilmot -released the tangled hair, laid the hand upon the smooth coverlet, -looked long at the young face, and then, stepping gently to the window -where the nurse was sitting, asked how long the patient had been -sleeping. Ever since he had left her, it seemed. Lady Muriel had been -there, "leastways at the dressing-room door," the nurse added, and had -wanted to see him particularly, she (the nurse) thought, about sending -the children out of the way of infection. Lady Muriel also asked -whether they were not going to cut off Miss Kilsyth's hair. - -"Which it does seem a pity, poor dear!" said the nurse, speaking in -the skilful whisper which does not disturb the patient, and is the -most difficult of _tones_ to acquire; and throwing a motherly glance -at the sleeping girl, who just then moaned painfully. - -"Cut off her hair!" said Wilmot,--as if the mere notion were a horrid -barbarism, which he could not contemplate as a possibility; "certainly -not--it is entirely unnecessary." - -"Well, sir," said the nurse, "it's mostly done in fevers. Wherever -I've nursed, I've always done it, first thing." - -Wilmot turned red and hot. Why should he shrink from sanctioning or -ordering the sacrifice in this case, as he had done in a thousand -others without a thought of hesitation or regret, just like any other -detail? Why, indeed? if not because those were the _thousand_ cases, -while this was the _one_. But he did not face the question; he turned -aside from it--turned aside, with his eyes piercing the gloom of the -shaded room, in search of the gleam of the golden locks. "No, no," he -thought, "the 'little head sunning over with curls' shall 'shine on,' -if I can manage it." So he told the nurse that was a matter for after -consideration, and that she was to have him called when Miss Kilsyth -should wake; and he went out for a solitary walk. - -Lady Muriel was most grateful to Dr. Wilmot for the care and skill -which he exercised in Madeleine's case. Scarcely Kilsyth himself was -more unremitting in his inquiries after the patient, more anxious as -to the result. But husband and wife were actuated by totally different -motives. The man feared lest the hope of his life should be quenched, -the woman lest the object of her ambition should be frustrated; the -man dreaded the loss of his darling, the woman the confusion of her -scheme. For Lady Muriel had a scheme in connection with Madeleine -Kilsyth, which it may be as well at once to declare. - -It is Mr. Longfellow who informs us that no one is so accursed by -fate, no one so utterly desolate, but some heart, though unknown, -responds unto his own. When Lady Muriel Inchgarvie was running her -career of two London seasons, waiting for the arrival of the man whom -she could persuade herself into marrying, and whom she could persuade -into marrying her; while Mr. Burton and Sir Coke Only were fluttering -like moths round her brilliant light,--the world, which thinks it -marks everything, and which hugs itself in appreciation of its -wonderful sagacity and perspicacity, and which had already supremely -settled that Lady Muriel had no heart to lose, little knew that its -sentence was a just one--simply because Lady Muriel had lost her -heart. There was a connection of the house of Inchgarvie, a tall thin -Scotchman, named Stewart Caird, a barrister of Lincoln's-inn, who had -been a long time settled in London, and who, in virtue of his -aristocratic connections, his perfect gentlemanliness, and his utter -harmlessness--for everyone knew that poor Stewart merely lived from -hand to mouth, by the exercise of his profession, and by writing in -the law magazines and reviews--was asked into a good deal of society. -He was a languid, consumptive-looking man, with a high hectic colour, -and deep-violet eyes, and a soft tremulous voice; and after he had -claimed kinship with Lady Muriel, and had his claim allowed, he found -plenty of opportunities of meeting her constantly, and on every -occasion he was to be found by her side. This was the one chance which -fortune had bestowed on Muriel Inchgarvie of loving and being -simultaneously beloved; and it is but fair to say that she availed -herself of it. Not for one instant did either of them think of the -hopelessness of their passion. Lady Muriel well knew that a marriage -with Stewart Caird was simply impossible; and Stewart Caird knew it -too, possessing at the same time the additional knowledge, that even -if family affairs could have been squared by his coming into the -immediate heritage of fabulous wealth, there was yet a slight drawback -in the fact that his lungs could not possibly hold out beyond six -months. And yet they went on loving and fooling: to her the mere fact -that there could never be any ties between them was, as it always has -been, an incentive to a quasi-romantic attachment; to him, with the -perfect conviction that he was a doomed man, the love of a pretty -high-bred woman softened the terrors of death, and prevented him from -dwelling on his fate. So they went on; the world taking little heed of -them, and they ignoring the world; he growing weaker and weaker, but -always disguising his weakness, until one night in the height of the -season, when Lady Muriel, dressed for a ball, received a short -pencil-note, feebly scrawled: "If you would see me before I die, come -at once.--S.C. You know me well enough to be certain that this is no -romantic figure of speech." The writing, feeble throughout, trailed -off at last into scarcely legible characters. Lady Muriel wrote one -hasty line to the lady who was to be her chaperon, pleading illness as -her excuse for not fetching her, threw a thick cloak and hood over her -ball-dress and her ivy-wreathed hair, and told the coachman, who was -devoted to her, to drive her to Old-square, Lincoln's-inn. There, -propped up by pillows, and attended by a hired nurse, who was by no -means reluctant to take a hint, and, accompanied by a spirit-bottle, -to betake herself to a further room, she found poor Stewart Caird, -with large bistre rings round his eyes and two flaming red spots on -his hollow cheeks. Between the attacks of a racking cough, he told her -that his end was nigh; that he had long foreseen it, but that he could -not deny himself the privilege of winning her love. He acknowledged -the selfishness of the act; but trusted she would pardon him, when he -assured her that the knowledge that she cared for him had -inexpressibly lightened the last few months of his earthly career, and -that he should die more happily, knowing that he left one regretful -heart behind him. He said this in a voice which was tolerably firm at -first, but which, touched by her sobs, grew more and more tremulous, -and finally broke down, when, in an access of emotion, she flung her -arms round him, and clasped him to her heart. How long they remained -thus tranced in love and grief neither ever knew; it was the first, -the last wild access of passion that ever was to accrue to either. The -future, so imminent to one of them at least, was unthought of, and -they lived but in the then present fleeting moment, But before they -parted Stewart spoke to Muriel of his younger brother Ramsay, who had -been left to his care, and whom he was now leaving to the mercy of the -world. For Muriel there was, he said he was persuaded, a career in -life. When it fell to her, when she was enjoying it, would she, for -the sake of him who had loved her--ah, so deeply and so dearly!--whose -life she had cheered, and who with his dying breath would call upon -and bless her name--would she watch over and provide for Ramsay Caird? -With the dying man's hand in hers, with her arm round his neck, with -her eyes looking into his, even then glazed and wandering, Muriel -swore to fulfil his wishes, and to undertake this charge. Within -forty-eight hours Stewart Caird was dead; within six weeks after his -death Muriel Inchgarvie was the pledged wife of Kilsyth; and within a -fortnight of her betrothal she had hit upon a plan for the future of -her dead lover's brother. - -Ramsay Caird's future career in life was, as Lady Muriel decided, to -be one with Madeleine Kilsyth's, and his fortune was to come to him -through his wife. Madeleine's godfather, a childless, rich, old -Highland proprietor, an old friend and neighbour of Kilsyth's, had at -his death left her twenty thousand pounds, to be hers on her coming of -age, or on her marrying with her father's consent. A pleasant -competence in itself, but a princely fortune for a young man of small -ideas like Ramsay Caird, who was earning a very precarious salary, -given to him more from kindness than from any deserts of his, in the -office of the Edinburgh agent to several large estates. Soon after her -marriage Lady Muriel sent for the young man to Kilsyth, found him -gentlemanly and unassuming, sufficiently shrewd to comprehend the -extremely delicate hints which she gave him as to the course which she -wished him to adopt, and sufficiently delicate to prevent his at once -plunging _in medias res_. Since then he had been frequently at -Kilsyth, and had done his best to make himself agreeable to Madeleine. -He was a good-looking, gentlemanly, quiet young man, without very much -to say for himself, beyond the ordinary society talk, in which he was -fairly glib; he had the names of all the members of all the families -for whom his principal was agent at his tongue's end; had seen many of -them personally,--even knew the appearance of the rest by photograph; -kept himself well posted in their movements, through the medium of the -fashionable journals; and so could fairly hold his own in the -conversation of the people he was thrown amongst. Lady Muriel, who was -as clever as she was proud and ambitious, reckoned Ramsay Caird up to -a nicety; saw exactly how far he was suitable for her plans, and -thought there was little doubt of Madeleine's being captivated by the -handsome glib young man who paid her such respectful homage. But for -once in her life Lady Muriel was wrong. It is but fair to say that -Ramsay Caird never neglected one of the opportunities so frequently -thrown in his way; that he never once committed himself in any -possible manner; that he did not on every occasion seek to recommend -himself to the girl's favour; but it is certain that he failed in -making the smallest impression on her. Lady Muriel, watching the -progress of affairs with the greatest interest, soon felt this, and -was at first dispirited; afterwards consoling herself by the thought -that the girl was passionless and devoid of feeling, but so docile -withal, that it would be only necessary for her father to suggest her -acceptance of Mr. Caird for her at once to fall into the idea. -Thoroughly comforted by this notion, Lady Muriel had of late given -herself no uneasiness in the matter; contenting herself by asking -Ramsay Caird to spend a week or two now and then at Kilsyth, by -throwing him frequently into Madeleine's society when there, and by -keeping up a perpetual gently flowing perennial stream of laudation of -her young _protégé_ to her husband. - -On Wilmot's return to the house, he inquired whether it would be -convenient to Lady Muriel to receive him. - -"My lady" was in her own sitting-room, and would be very happy to see -Dr. Wilmot. So, he went thither, and found the mistress of the mansion -alone, and looking to very great advantage in the midst of all the -luxuries and refinements with which wealth--in this instance aided by -good taste--adorns life. Her rich and simple dress, her finished -graceful ease of manner, her sunny beauty, and the perfect propriety -with which she expressed interest and anxiety concerning her -stepdaughter, made her a very attractive object to Wilmot. He had not -yet discovered that she did not in the least experience the sentiments -which she glibly expressed in phrases of irreproachable _tournure_; he -did not suspect her of insincerity or want of feeling, or in fact of -any fault. Everything and everybody at Kilsyth wore the best and -fairest of aspects in the eyes of Chudleigh Wilmot, who was, -nevertheless, a very far-seeing and an eminently practical man. Thus, -he only furnished another proof of the often-proven truth, that his -most distinguishing qualities are the first to fail a man, when -judgment is superseded by passion. That is a strong word to use in -such a case as Chudleigh Wilmot's, at least to use so soon; but the -boundary between the feeling which he entertained knowingly, and the -passion which was growing out of it unconsciously, was very slight, -and was destined so soon to be destroyed that the word may pass -unblamed. - -The earlier portion of Lady Muriel Kilsyth's conversation with Wilmot -was naturally devoted to Madeleine. She thanked him, with all her own -peculiar grace and fluency, for his attention, his "priceless care," -for his resolution, which Kilsyth had communicated to her, to remain -with them in this great trouble. She asked him to tell her his "real -opinion;" and he told it. He told her Madeleine was in danger; but -that he hoped, and thought, and believed, her life would be saved. He -spoke with earnestness and feeling; and as he dwelt upon the youth, -the beauty, and the sufferings of the girl, upon her exceeding -preciousness to her father (and gave Lady Muriel credit for sharing -her husband's feelings far beyond what she deserved), the soft dark -eyes fixed themselves upon him with much interest and curiosity. Deep -feeling on any subject was unfamiliar to Lady Muriel; it was not the -habit of her society, or included in the scheme of her own -organisation, and she liked it for its strangeness. Their -conversation lasted long; for when Wilmot was summoned to see his -patient, Lady Muriel invited him to come again to her sitting-room; -and he did so. The question of sending her children away was speedily -decided in the negative; and then the talk rambled on over a great -variety of subjects, and Lady Muriel regarded Wilmot with increasing -interest and surprise, as she discovered more and more of his -originality and fertility of mind. She was not a remarkably clever -woman; but she had more brains and more cultivation than were at all -common among her "set;" and she did occasionally grow very weary of -the well-bred vapid talk, which was the only form of social -intercourse assumed in her circle. She had sometimes wondered whether -something better was not to be found in the limits within which it -would be proper for her to seek for it; but she had stopped at -wonderment; she had not followed it up by effort; and now the very -thing she had wished for had come to her, in the most unexpected form, -and through the most unlikely channel. A doctor, a man whose name she -had merely casually heard, an outsider, one whom in the ordinary -course of events she would have never met, is called in to attend her -stepdaughter in fever, and all at once a new world opens upon Lady -Muriel Kilsyth. - -She was quick to receive impressions; and she felt at once that this -day marked an epoch in her life. As this fine-looking, keen, -intelligent man, in whose deep-set eyes, on whose massive forehead -power was enthroned, bent those dark steady eyes upon her, seeming to -read her soul, the frivolity of her life fell away from her, like a -flimsy garment discarded, and she felt, she recognised the charm of -superiority of intellect and strength of character. She drew him out -on the subjects which had the deepest interest for him, as a woman -can, who has tact and perfect manners, even when her intellectual -powers are in no way remarkable; and he enjoyed the happy sociable -hours of the long, uninterrupted afternoon as much, or nearly as much, -as she did. Lady Muriel was too quick and too true an observer to fail -in discerning, before they had strayed very far into the pleasant -paths of their desultory discourse, that there was very little -sentimentality in Chudleigh Wilmot. A practical man, full of action, -of ambition, of love of knowledge, and resolve to win the highest -prizes it could bring him, he yet spoke and looked like a man whose -feelings had been but little tried, and who would be slow to try them. -Lady Muriel knew that Chudleigh Wilmot was a married man. The -circumstance had been mentioned among the people in the house when he -had first been talked of; and she was the first at Kilsyth to ask of -herself, for she had no other to whom to address it, that frequent -question, "What sort of woman is Chudleigh Wilmot's wife?" She could -not have explained, but she did not question, the instinct which led -her to say, as she went to her dressing-room, when their long colloquy -at length came to a conclusion, "I am sure he does not care for her. I -am sure it was not a love-match. I feel convinced he never was in love -in his life, not in any real sense." And then, Lady Muriel Kilsyth -sighed. Life was not yet an old story for either Lady Muriel or -hudleigh. - -That evening Wilmot devoted himself to the patient, whose state was -highly precarious; and though he sent reassuring messages to Kilsyth -from time to time, he expressed far more hopefulness than he actually -felt. He was conscious too of a strange sort of relief--a -consciousness which should have shown him how he had deceived -himself--as the conviction that his presence was indeed in the highest -degree beneficial was confirmed by every passing hour. The girl's -eyes--now bright and wandering, now dark and weary--turned in search -of him, in every phase of the fever that was gaining on her, with such -innocent trust and belief as touched him keenly to his conscious -heart. In the stillness of the night, when the very nurse slept, the -physician bent down over the flushed face, and hushed the murmuring -incoherent voice with the tenderest words, and soothed the sick -girl--little more than a child she looked in her hopelessness and -unrest--with all a woman's gentleness. What did he feel for the pretty -young creature thus thrown on his skill, his kindness, his mercy! What -revolution was the silent flight of time, during the hours of that -night, working in Chudleigh Wilmot's life? He was learning the reality -of that in which he had never believed; he was learning the truth of -love. Now, when it was too late, when every barrier of honour, of -honesty, of duty, and of principle stood between him and the object of -the long-deferred, but terribly real, passion which took possession of -him. - -When the dawn was stealing into the sick girl's room, the change, the -chill, which come with that ghastly hour to sickness and to health -alike, in wakefulness, came to Madeleine, and she called in a high -querulous tone for her father. The nurse, then beside her, tried to -soothe the girl; but vainly. She refused to lie down; she must, she -would see her father. Wilmot, who knew that she was quite sensible, -quite coherent, and who had feared to startle her by letting her see -him, now came forward, and gently laid her back upon her pillow. - -"You shall see your father in the morning," he said. "I am sure you -would not have him disturbed now, my dear; would you?" - -"No," she said, with a painful smile; "I would not--certainly not. I -only wanted to know something; and you will tell me." - -Her large blue eyes were fixed upon him; her small hand was stretched -out to him with the frankness of a child. - -"Of course, if I can, I will tell you." - -"Sit down, then," she said, in the thick difficult voice peculiar to -the disease which had hold of her. - -He did not sit down, but knelt upon the floor by the bedside, and -raised the pillows on his arm. Her innocent face was close to his. - -"Speak as low as you like; I can hear you," said Chudleigh Wilmot. - -"I will," she whispered. "I thank you. I only wanted to ask my -father--and I would rather ask you--if--if I am going to die." - -Her lips were trembling. His sight grew dim as he answered: - -"No, my dear. You are very ill; but you are not going to die. You are -going to get well--not immediately, but before long. You must be -patient, you know; and you must do everything you are desired to do." - -"I will when I am sensible," she said; "but I am not always sensible, -you know." - -"I know. You are quite sensible now, and the best patient I ever had. -A great deal depends on yourself. I don't mean about not dying; I mean -about getting well sooner. Will you try now how long, being quite -sensible, you can keep quiet?" - -"I will," she answered, looking at him with the strange solemn gaze we -see so often in the eyes of a child in mortal sickness. "I am so glad, -Dr. Wilmot, you are sure I am not going to die." - -Not a shade of doubt of him; perfect trust in him, entire calm and -serenity in the unruffled feeble voice. Her hand lay loosely in his, -undisturbed except by an occasional feverish twitch; her head was -supported by his arm, which held the pillows; his serious eyes scanned -her face. So he knelt and so she lay as the dawn came; so he knelt and -so she lay as the first rays of the sun came glancing in through the -closed window-curtains; but they found the patient sleeping, and the -steady watch of the physician umrelaxed. - - -So time passed, and Madeleine's illness took its course, and was met -and fought and beaten at every turn by the skill and judgment, the -coolness and the experience of the "rising man." So unwearied a -watcher had never been seen in a sick-room; so cheerful a counsellor -and consoler had rarely been sent to friends and relatives in anxiety -and suspense. He was appreciated at his worth at Kilsyth. As for -Kilsyth himself, he reverenced, he esteemed, he next to worshipped -Wilmot, holding him as almost superhuman. The nurse "had never seen -such a doctor as him in all her born days, never; and not severe -neither; but knowing as the best and wakefullest must have their -little bit of rest at times." He won golden opinions from all within -the old walls of Kilsyth, and more than all from its mistress. - -On the whole, and despite his close and devoted attendance on his -patient, Chudleigh Wilmot saw a great deal of Lady Muriel, and an -infinite number of topics were discussed between them. Each day -brought more extended, more appreciative comprehension of her guest to -the by no means dull intellect of Lady Muriel; and each day quickened -her womanly perception and kindled her already keen and ready -jealousy. When many days had gone by, and Lady Muriel would no longer -have dreamed of denying to herself how much she admired Wilmot,--how -utterly different he was from any other man whom she had ever known; -how much more interesting, how much more engrossing, a man to be -looked up to and respected; a man to suffice to all a woman's need of -reverence and deference,--she would still have been far from -acknowledging that she loved him; but her acknowledgment or her denial -would have made no difference in the fact. She did love him, in a -lofty and reserved kind of way, in which no slur upon her honour, -according to the world's code, which takes cognisance only of the -letter of the law and ignores its spirit, was implied; but with all -her heart she loved him. - -So now the situation was this. Chudleigh Wilmot loved one woman within -the walls of the old mansion of Kilsyth; and another woman, their -inmate, loved him. Would she--the other, the older, the more -experienced woman--discover his secret, and overwhelm him with its -disgrace? Time alone could tell that--time, of which there was not -much to run; for Wilmot had been a fortnight at Kilsyth before he -could give its master the joyful intelligence that the fever had -relaxed its grip of his child, and--barring the always present danger -in scarlet-fever of relapse, or what is technically called -"dregs"--Madeleine was safe. - -Mabel Wilmot had written to her husband occasionally during the -fortnight which had witnessed the rise and the crisis of Miss -Kilsyth's illness. In her letters, which were few and sparing of -details, she never alluded to the cause of her husband's unprecedented -absence; Wilmot did not notice the omission. She gave him few details -concerning herself; Wilmot did not observe their paucity. The glamour -was over him; the enchanted land held him. - -"I am not feeling much better," said Mabel in one of her letters; "but -I daresay--indeed I have no doubt--the weather is against me; -Whittaker thinks so too. I enclose his report. There is nothing new -here, or of importance." - -Chudleigh Wilmot accepted his wife's account of the state of things at -home, and replied to her letters in his usual strain. He had failed to -notice that she never alluded to Miss Kilsyth; or he would hardly have -dealt with so much emphasis, or at such length, on the details of a -case to which the recipient of his letters manifested such complete -indifference. - -Dr. Whittaker continued to report upon the cases to which he had been -called in; and no more telegrams interrupted the concentration of -Chudleigh Wilmot's attention upon the illness and convalescence of -Madeleine Kilsyth. - - - - -CHAPTER VI. -At Kilsyth. - - -The routine of illness and anxiety, the dull monotony of an absorbing -care, had rapidly settled down upon Kilsyth, immensely alleviated, of -course, by the confidence imposed by Wilmot's presence. The influence -of his skill, the insensible support of his calmness and -self-reliance, were felt all through the household by those members of -it to whom the life or death of Madeleine was a matter of infinite -importance, and by those who felt a decent amount of interest, but -could have commanded their feelings readily enough. As for Wilmot -himself, he would have found it difficult to account for the -absorption of feeling and interest with which he watched the case, had -he been called upon to render any account of it to others. In his own -mind he shirked the question, and simply devoted himself day and night -to his patient, leaving the house only once a day for a brief time, -during which he would stride up and down the terrace in front of the -house, gulping in all the fresh air he could inhale; and then his -place in the sick-chamber was taken by an old woman, who had years -before been Madeleine's nurse, and who was now married and settled on -the estate. Not since the old days of his house-surgeonship at St. -Vitus's had Chudleigh Wilmot had such a spell of duty as this: the -fact of his giving up his time in this manner to a girl with whom he -had not exchanged twenty words, with whose friends he had no previous -acquaintance, in whom he could have no possible interest, came upon -him frequently in his enforced exercise on the terrace, in his long -weary vigils in the sick-room; and each time that he thought it over, -he felt or pronounced it to himself to be more and more inexplicable. -In London he made it an inexorable rule never to leave his bed at -night, unless the person sending for him were a regular patient, no -matter what might be their position in life, or the exigency of their -case; and even among his own connection he kept strictly to -consultation and prescription; he undertook no practical work, there -were apothecaries and nurses for that sort of thing. He had a list of -both, whom he could recommend, but he himself never paid any attention -to such matters. And here he was acting as a combination of physician, -apothecary, and nurse, dispensing the necessary medicines from the -family medicine-chest, sitting up all night, concocting soothing -drinks, and smoothing hot and uneasy pillows. - -Why? Chudleigh Wilmot had asked himself that question a thousand -times, and had not yet found the answer to it. Beauty in distress--and -this girl, for all her mass of golden hair and her bright complexion -and her blue eyes, could only be called pretty--beauty in distress was -no more strange to Chudleigh Wilmot than to the hero of nautical -melodrama at a transpontine theatre. He was constantly being called in -to cases where he saw girls as young and as pretty as Madeleine -Kilsyth "hove down in the bay of sickness," as the said nautical -dramatic hero forcibly expresses it. Scarcely a day passed that he was -not for some few minutes by the couch of some woman of far superior -attractions to this young girl, and yet of whom he had never thought -in any but the most thoroughly professional manner, listening to her -complaints, marking her symptoms, prescribing his remedies, and -entering up the visit in his note-book, as he whirled away in his -carriage, as methodically as a City accountant. But he had never felt -in his life as he felt one bright afternoon when the wild delirium had -spent its rage and died away, and the doctor sat by the girl's -bedside, and held her hand, no longer dry and parched with fever, and -bent over her to catch the low faint accents of her voice. - -"You don't know me, Miss Kilsyth," said he gently, as he saw her dazed -by looking up into his face. - -"O yes," said Madeleine, in ever so low a voice,--"O yes; you are -Doctor--Doctor--I cannot recollect your name; but I know you were sent -for, and I saw you before--before I was--" - -"Before you were so ill; quite right, my dear young lady. I am Dr. -Wilmot, and you have been very ill; but you are better now, -and--please God--will soon be well." - -"Dr. Wilmot! O yes, I recollect. But, please, don't think because I -could not recall your name that I did not know you. I have known you -all through this--this attack. I have had an indefinable sense of your -presence about me; always kind and thoughtful and attentive, always -soothing, and--" - -"Hush, my dear child, hush! you must not talk and excite yourself just -yet. You have had, as you probably know, a very sharp attack of -illness; and you must keep thoroughly quiet, to enable us to perfect -your recovery." - -"Then I'll only ask one question and say one thing. The question -first--How is papa?" - -"Horribly nervous about you, but very well. Constant in his tappings -at this door, unremitting in his desire to be admitted; to which -requests I have been obdurate. However, when he hears the turn things -have taken, he will be reassured." - -"That's delightful! Now, then, all I have to say is to thank you, and -pray God to bless you for your kindness to me. I've known it, though -you mayn't think so, and--and I'm very weak now; but--" - -He had his strong arm round her, and managed to lay her back quietly -on her pillow, or she would have fainted. As it was, when the bright -blue eyes withdrew from his, the light died out of them, and the lids -dropped over them, and Madeleine lay thoroughly exhausted after her -excitement. - -What _was_ the reminiscence thus aroused? What ghost with folded hands -came stealing out of the dim regions of the past at the sound of this -girl's voice, at the glance of this girl's eyes? What bygone memories, -so apart from everything else, rose before him as he listened and as -he looked? He had not hit the trail yet, but he was close upon it. - -The news that the extremity of danger was past was received with great -delight by the guests at Kilsyth. With most of them Madeleine was a -personal favourite, and all of them felt that a death in the house -would have been a serious personal inconvenience. The Northallertons, -Lady Fairfax, and Lord Towcester, were the only seceders; the others -either had arranged for later visits elsewhere, or found their present -quarters far too comfortable to be given up on the mere chance of -catching an infectious disorder. Some of them had had it, and laughed -securely; others feared that from the mere fact of their having been -in the house when the attack took place, they were so "compromised" as -to prevent their being received elsewhere; and one or two actually had -the charity to think of their host and hostess, and stayed to keep -them company, and to be of any service in case they might be required. -Charley Jefferson belonged to this last class. Emily Fairfax little -knew that by her selfish flight from Kilsyth she had entirely thrown -away all her hold over the great honest heart that had so long held -her image enshrined as its divinity. She never gave a thought to the -fact that when the big Guardsman used to hum in a deep baritone voice -the refrain of a little song of hers-- - - - "Loyal je serai - Durant ma vie"-- - - -he was expressing one of the guiding sentiments of his life. Colonel -Jefferson was essentially loyal; to shrink from a friend who was in a -difficulty, to shuffle out of supporting in purse, person, or any way -in which it might be requisite, a comrade who had a claim of old -acquaintance or strong intimacy, was in his eyes worse than the -majority of crimes for which people stand at the dock of the Old -Bailey. In this matter he never swerved for an instant. He never gave -the question of infection a thought; he had had scarlet-fever at Eton, -and jungle-fever out in India, and he was as case-hardened, he said, -as a rhinoceros. He took no credit to himself for being fearless of -infection, or indeed for anything else, this brave simple-minded good -fellow; but if anyone had been able to see the working of his heart, -they would have known what credit he deserved for holding to his grand -old creed of loyalty to his friend, and for ignoring the whispers of -the siren, even when she was as fascinating and potential as Emily -Fairfax. When some one asked if he were going, he laughed a great -sardonic guffaw, and affected to treat the question as a joke. When -the disease was pronounced to be unmistakably infectious, he at once -constituted himself as a means of communication between Dr. Wilmot and -the outer world; and his honour and loyalty enabled him to face the -fact that probably little Lord Towcester had followed Lady Fairfax to -her next visiting place, and was there administering consolation to -her with great equanimity. When Dr. Wilmot came out for his -half-hour's stride up and down the terrace, he generally found the -Colonel and Duncan Forbes waiting for him; and these three would pace -away together, the two _militaires_ chatting gaily on light subjects -calculated to relieve the tedium of the doctor, and to turn his -thoughts into pleasanter channels, until it was time for him to go -back to his duty. And when the worst was over, and Chudleigh Wilmot -could have longer and more frequent intervals of absence from the -sick-room, it was Charley Jefferson who proposed that they should -establish a kind of mess in the smoking-room, where the Doctor, who -necessarily debarred himself from communion with the others at the -dinner-table, might yet enjoy the social converse of such as were -not afraid of infection. So a dinner-table was organised in the -smoking-room, and Jefferson and Duncan Forbes invited themselves to -dine with the Doctor. They were the next day joined by Mrs. Severn, -who had all along wished to devote herself to the invalid, and had -with the greatest difficulty been restrained from establishing herself -_en permanence_ as nurse in Madeleine's chamber; and Mr. Pitcairn -asked for and obtained permission to join the party, and proved to -have such a talent for imitation and such a stock of quaint Scotch -stories as made him a very valuable addition to it. So the "Condemned -Cell," as its denizens called it, prospered immensely; and by no means -the least enjoyment in the house emanated from it. - -Lady Muriel, seeing more and more of Wilmot, as the closeness of his -attendance on his patient became relaxed by her advance towards -convalescence, and studying him with increased attention, learned to -regard him with feelings such as no man of her numerous and varied -acquaintance had ever before inspired her with. The impression he had -made upon her in the first interview was not removed or weakened, and -he presented himself to her mind--which was naturally inquiring, and -possessed considerably more intelligence than she had occasion to use, -in a general way, in her easy-going, prosperous, and conventional -life--in the light of an interesting and remunerative study. - -Lady Muriel's faultlessly good manners precluded the indulgence of any -perceptible absence of mind; and she possessed the enviable faculty -which some women of the world exhibit in such perfection, of carrying, -or rather helping, on a conversation to which she was not in reality -giving attention, and in which she did not feel the smallest particle -of interest. The gallant _militaires_, the dashing sportsmen, the -_grands seigneurs_, and the ladies of distinction who were among her -associates, and the gentlemen, at least of the number of her admirers, -were accustomed to regard Lady Muriel's powers of conversation as -something quite out of the common way; and so indeed they were--only -these simpleminded and ingenuous individuals did not quite understand -the direction taken by their uncommonness. It never occurred to them -to calculate how much of her talking Lady Muriel did by means of -intelligent acquiescent looks, graceful little bows, sprightly -exclamations, a judicious expression of intense interest in the -subject under discussion when it chanced to be personal to the other -party to the discourse, and sundry other skilful and effective -feminine devices. It never dawned upon them that one half the time she -did not hear, and during the whole time she did not care, what was -said; that her graceful manner was merely manner, and her real state -of mind one of complete indifference to themselves and almost everyone -besides. Not that Lady Muriel was an unhappy woman. Far from it. She -was too sensible to be unhappy without just cause; and she certainly -had not that. She perfectly appreciated her remarkably comfortable lot -in life; she estimated wealth, station, domestic tranquillity and -respect, and the unbounded power which she exercised in her household -domain, quite as highly as they deserved to be estimated; and though -as free from vulgarity of mind as from vulgarity of manner, she was -not in the least likely to affect any sentimental humility or mistake -about her own social advantages. She could as easily have bragged -about them as forgotten them; but just because she held them for what -they were worth, and did not exaggerate or depreciate them, Lady -Muriel was given to absence of mind; and though neither unhappy, nor -imagining herself so, she was occasionally bored, and acknowledged it. -Only to herself though. Lady Muriel Kilsyth had no confidantes, no -intimacies. Hers was the equable kind of prosperous life which did not -require any; and she was the last woman in the world to acknowledge a -weakness which her truly admirable manners gave her power most -successfully to conceal. - -The touch of sorrow or anxiety is a sovereign remedy for _ennui_. It -will succeed when all the resources to which the victims of that fell -disease are accustomed to have recourse fail ignominiously. If Lady -Muriel had loved Madeleine Kilsyth, the girl's illness would have put -boredom to flight, with the first flush or shiver of fever, the first -dimness of the eyes, the first tone of complaint in the clear young -voice. But Lady Muriel did not love Madeleine, and did not pretend to -herself that she loved her. Indeed Lady Muriel never pretended to -herself. She had seen and understood that to deceive oneself is at -once much easier and more dangerous than to deceive other people, and -she avoided doing so on principle--on the worldly-wise principle, that -is, by which she so admirably regulated her life--and reaped a rich -harvest of popularity. She did not dislike the girl at all, and she -would have been very sorry if she had died, partly for the sake of -Kilsyth, whom she really liked and admired, and who would have broken -his stout simple heart for his daughter--"much sooner and more surely -than for me," Lady Muriel thought; "but that is quite natural, and as -it should be. She is the child of his first love, and I am his second -wife, and he is quite as fond of me as I want him to be;"--for she was -a thoroughly sensible woman, and would much rather not have had more -love than she could reciprocate. But she was perfectly equable and -composed. Throughout Madeleine's illness it did not cause her sorrow, -though her manner conveyed precisely the proper degree of stepmotherly -concern which was called for under the circumstances; and she did not -suffer from anxiety, being rationally satisfied that all the skill, -care, and indulgence demanded by the exigencies of the case were -liberally bestowed on Madeleine. Anxiety was quite uncalled for, and -therefore did not chase away the brooding spirit of _ennui_ from Lady -Muriel. - -The first thing that struck her particularly with regard to Chudleigh -Wilmot was that she did not experience any sense of boredom in his -presence. In fact it dissipated that ordinarily prevailing malady; she -was really interested in everything he talked about, really charmed by -the manner in which he talked, and had no need whatever to draw on the -ever-ready resources of her manner and _savoir faire_. - -When Wilmot began to make his appearance freely among the small party -at Kilsyth, and, after the usual inquiries--in which the serious and -impressive tone at first observed was gradually discarded--to enter -into general conversation, and to exercise all the very considerable -powers which he possessed of making himself agreeable, Lady Muriel -found out and admitted that this was the pleasantest time of the day. -The interval between this discovery and her finding herself longing -for the arrival of that time--dwelling upon all its incidents when she -was alone, making it a central point in her life, in fact--was very -brief. - -With this new feeling came all the keen perception, the close -observation, and the nascent suspicion which could not fail to -accompany it, in such a "thorough" organisation as that of Lady -Muriel. She began to take notice of everything concerning Wilmot, to -observe all his ways, and to watch with jealous scrutiny the degree of -interest he displayed in all his surroundings at Kilsyth. - -As Madeleine progressed in her recovery, Lady Muriel looked for some -decline in the physician's absorption in the interest of her case. He -would be less punctual, less constant in his attendance upon her; he -would be more susceptible to influences from the outside world: he -would be anxious to get away perhaps--at least he would no longer be -indifferent to professional duties elsewhere; he would begin to weigh -their respective claims, and would recognise the preponderance of -those at a distance over that which he had already satisfied more than -fully, more than conscientiously, with a fulness and expansion of -sympathy and devotion rare indeed. - -Wilmot was extremely popular among the little company at Kilsyth. -Wonderfully popular, considering how much he was the intellectual -superior of every man there; but then he was one of those clever men -who never make their talents obnoxious, and are not bent on forcing a -perpetual recognition of their superiority from their associates. He -allowed the people he was with to enjoy all the originality, wit, -knowledge, and good fellowship that was in him, and did not administer -the least alloy of mortification to their pride with it. When Lady -Muriel forcibly acknowledged to herself, and would as frankly have -acknowledged to any one else, if any one else would have asked her a -question on the subject, that she held Dr. Wilmot to be the cleverest -and most agreeable man she had ever met, she did but echo a sentiment -which had found general expression among the party assembled at -Kilsyth. - -As the days went by, Lady Muriel began to feel certain misgivings -relative to Wilmot. She did not quite like his look, his manner, when -he spoke of Madeleine. She did not consider it altogether natural that -he should never weary of Kilsyth's garrulity on the subject of his -darling daughter. The physician, taking rest from his long and anxious -watch, might well be excused if he had tired a little of questions and -replies about every symptom, every variation, and of endless stories -of the girl's childhood, and laudation of her beauty, her virtues, and -her filial love and duty. But Dr. Wilmot never tired of these things; -he would, on the contrary, bring back the discourse to them, if it -strayed away, as it would do under Lady Muriel's direction; and -moreover she noticed, that no circumstances, no social temptation had -power to detain him a moment from his patient, when the time he had -set for his return to her side had arrived. - -Taking all these things into consideration, and combining them with -certain indications which she had noticed about Madeleine herself, -Lady Muriel began to think the return of Dr. Wilmot to London -advisable, and to perceive in its being deferred very serious risk to -her scheme for the endowment of her young kinsman with the hand and -fortune of her stepdaughter. She was not altogether comfortable about -its success, to begin with. Ramsay Caird had not as yet made -satisfactory progress in Madeleine's favour. It was not because the -girl had no power of loving in her that she had listened without the -smallest shadow of emotion to Mr. Ramsay Caird, but simply because Mr. -Ramsay Caird had not had the tact, or the talent, or the requisite -qualifications, or the good fortune to arouse the power of loving him -in her. Lady Muriel was far too quick an observer, far too learned a -student of human nature, not to read at a glance all that her -stepdaughter's looks revealed; and her knowledge of life at once -informed her of the danger to her scheme. What was to be done? Wilmot -must be got rid of, must be sent away without loss of time. His -business was over, and he must go. That must be treated as a matter of -course. He was called in as a professional man to exercise his -profession; and the necessity of any further exercise of it having -terminated, his visit was necessarily at an end. No possible suspicion -of her real reason for wishing to get rid of him could arise. A -married man, of excellent reputation, accustomed to being brought into -the closest contact with women of all ages in the exercise of his -profession--why, people would shout with laughter at the idea of her -bringing forward any idea of his flirtation with a girl like -Madeleine! And Kilsyth himself--nothing, not even the influence which -she possessed over him, would induce him for an instant to believe any -such story. It was very ridiculous; it must be her own imagination; -and yet--No; there was no mistaking it, that girl's look; she could -see it even then. Even if Ramsay Caird were not in question, it was a -matter which, for Madeleine's own sake, must be quietly but firmly put -an end to. Immensely gratified by this last idea--for there is nothing -which so pleases us as the notion that we can gratify our own -inclinations and simultaneously do our duty, possibly because the -opportunities so rarely arise--Lady Muriel sought her husband, and -found him busily inspecting a new rifle which had just arrived from -London. After praising his purchase, and talking over a few ordinary -matters, Lady Muriel said shortly: - -"By the way, Alick, how much longer are we to be honoured by the -company of Dr. Wilmot?" - -The inquiry seemed to take Kilsyth aback, more from the tone in which -it was uttered than its purport, and he said hesitatingly, - -"Dr. Wilmot! Why, my dear? He must stay as long as Madeleine--I -mean--but have you any objection to his being here?" - -"Il Not the least in the world; only he seems to me to be in an -anomalous position. Very likely his social talents are very great, but -we get no advantage of them; and as for his professional skill--for -which, I suppose, he was called here--there is no longer any need of -that. Madeleine is out of all danger, and is on the fair way to -health." - -"You think so?" - -"I'm sure of it. But, at all events, any doubt on that point could be -dissipated by asking the Doctor himself." - -"My dearest Muriel, wouldn't that be a little _brusque_, eh?" - -"My dear Alick, you don't seem to see that very probably this -gentleman is wishing himself far away, but does not exactly know how -to make his adieux. A man in a practice like Dr. Wilmot's, however we -may remunerate him for his visit here, and however agreeable it may be -to him" (Lady Muriel could not resist giving way in this little bit), -"must lose largely while attending on us. He is a gentleman, and -consequently too delicate to touch on such a point; but it is one, I -think, which should be taken into consideration." - -Lady Muriel had had too long experience of her husband not to know the -points of his armour. The last thrust was a sure one, and went home. - -"I should be very sorry," said Kilsyth, with a little additional -colour in his bronzed cheeks, "to think that I was the cause of -preventing Dr. Wilmot's earning more money, or advancing himself in -his profession. We owe him a deep debt of gratitude for what he has -done; but perhaps now, as you say, Madeleine is out of danger; and may -be safely left to the care of Dr. Joyce. I'll speak to Dr. Wilmot, my -dear Muriel, and make it all right on that point." - - - - -CHAPTER VII. -Brooding. - - -The effect of her husband's letter on Mrs. Wilmot's mind, strengthened -by the view taken of its contents by Henrietta Prendergast, was of the -most serious and injurious nature. Hitherto the unhappiness which had -possessed her had been negative--had been literally unhappiness, the -absence of joy; but from the hour she read Wilmot's letter, and talked -over it with her friend, all that was negative in her state of mind -changed to the positive. Hitherto she had been jealous--jealous as -only a woman of a thoroughly proud, sensitive, secretive, and sullen -nature can be--of an abstraction. Her husband's profession was the -_bête noir_ of her existence, was the barrier between her and the -happiness for which she vainly longed and pined. She had looked around -her, and seen other women whose husbands were also working bees in the -world's great hive; but their work did not absorb them to the -exclusion of home interests, and the deadening of the sweet and -blessed sympathies which lent happiness all its glow, and robbed -sorrow of half its gloom. Her husband had never spoken an unkind word -to her in his life, had never refused her a request, or denied her a -pleasure; but he had never spoken a word to her which told her that -the first place in his life was hers; he had never cared to anticipate -a request or to share a pleasure. To a woman like Mabel Wilmot, in -whose character there was a strong though wholly unsuspected element -of romance, there was an inexhaustible source of suffering in these -facts, combined with her husband's proverbial devotion to his -profession. Not a clever woman, thoroughly conventional in all her -ideas, without a notion of the possibility of altering the routine of -her life to any pattern which might take her fancy, a dreamer, and -incurably shy, especially with him, who never discerned that there was -anything beneath the surface of her placid, equable, rather cold -manner to be understood, she had ample materials within herself for -misery; and she had always made the most of them. - -An incalculable addition had been made to her store by Wilmot's -letter, and Henrietta Prendergast's comments. Mabel wrote to Mr. -Foljambe, under the observation and by the dictation of her friend, -merely repeating the words of her husband's letter; and during that -performance, and the ensuing conversation, she had felt sufficiently -black and bitter to have satisfied any fiend who might have been -waiting about for the chance of gratifying his malignity by the coming -to grief of human affairs. But it was when she was left alone, when -her friend had gone away, and she was in her solitary room--all the -trivial occupations of the day at an end, and only the long hours of -the night, often sleepless hours to her, to be faced--that she gave -way to the intensity of the bitterness of her spirit; that she looked -into and sounded the darkness and the depth of the gulf of sorrow -which had opened before her feet. - -That her husband sought and found all his happiness in the duties of -his profession; that he had no consciousness, comprehension, or care -for the disappointed feelings which occupied her wholly, had been hard -enough to bear--how hard, the lonely woman who had borne the burden -knew; but such a state of things, the state from which only a few -hours divided her, was happy in comparison with that which now opened -suddenly before her. He had neglected her for the profession he -preferred; he was going to neglect his own interests, to depart from -his accustomed law of life, to throw the best friend he had in the -world over--for a woman: yes, a woman, a sick girl had done what she -had failed to do: she had never swayed his judgment, or turned him -aside from a purpose for a moment; and now he was changed by the touch -of a more potent hand than hers, and there was an end of the old -settled melancholy peacefulness of her life; active wretchedness had -come in, and the repose, dear-bought in its deadness of disappointment -and blight, was all gone. - -Mabel Wilmot sat opposite the long glass in her room that night, and -turned the branch-candles so as to throw a full light upon her face, -at which she gazed steadily and long, frowning as she did so. It was a -fair face, and the fresh bloom of youth was still upon it. It was a -face in which a skilful observer might have read strange matters; but -there were none curious to read the story in the face of the pretty -wife of the prosperous rising man. Her eyes were soft and dark, well -shaded by long lashes, and marked by finely-arched eyebrows; and there -were none to see that there was frequent gloom and brooding in their -darkness--a shadow from the gloominess of the soul within. She was -fair rather than pale, and had abundant dark hair; and as she sat and -gazed in the glass, she let its dusky masses loose, and caught them in -her hands. The fair face was not pleasant to look upon; and so she -seemed to think, for she muttered: - -"She is very pretty, I suppose, and a great deal younger than I am; -never looks sullen, and has no cause. And yet he's not a man I should -have thought to have been beguiled by any woman. _I_ never beguiled -him, and I was pretty in my time, ay, and _new_ too! And I have lived -in his sight all these years, and he has never sacrificed an hour of -time or thought to me. And now he leaves me without hesitation, though -I am ill. I have not talked about it, to be sure; but what is his -skill worth, if he did not see it in my face and hear it in my voice -without being told! I was not a _case_--I was only his wife; and he -never thought of looking, never thought of caring whether I was ill or -well. I appear at breakfast, and I go out every day; that's quite -enough for him. I wonder if he knew what I suspect, what I should once -have said _I hope_, is the cause; but that is a long time ago. Would -it have made any difference? I don't mean now; of course it would not -now; nothing makes any difference to a man when once his heart is -turned aside, and quite filled by another. I don't think I ever -touched his heart; I know only too well I never filled it." - -Mabel Wilmot was right. She had never filled her husband's heart. She -had touched it though, for a time and after a light holiday kind of -fashion, which had subsided when life began in earnest for them, and -which he had laid aside and forgotten, as a boy might have abandoned -and lost sight of the toys with which he had amused himself during a -school vacation. And the girl had been deceived; had built silently in -the inveterately undemonstrative recesses of her heart and fancy a -fairy palace, destined to stand for ever empty. It had been swept and -garnished; but the prince had never come to dwell there: he with busy -feet had passed by on the other side, and she had nothing to do but to -sit and mourn in the empty chambers. She had borne her grief valiantly -until now; she had only known the passive side of it. But that was all -over for ever; and the day that dawned after Wilmot's wife had -received his letter found her a different woman from what she had -been. - -"Are you sure you are not ill, Mabel?" asked Mrs. Prendergast the day -after their colloquy over the letter. "You are so black under the -eyes, and your face is so pinched, I fancy you must be ill." - -"Not more so than usual," said Mrs. Wilmot shortly. - -"Than usual, my dear! What _do_ you mean? Have you been feeling ill -lately?" - -"Yes, Henrietta, very ill." - -"And have you been doing nothing for yourself? Have you not had -advice?" - -"You know I have not. You have seen me very nearly every day, and you -know I have done nothing without your knowledge." - -"But Wilmot?" said Mrs. Prendergast. - -"O Wilmot! Much he knows and much he cares about me! Don't talk -nonsense, Henrietta. If I were dying, he would not see it while I -could keep on my feet, which, I certainly should do as long as I -could." - -"My dear Mabel," remonstrated Henrietta, "do you mean to tell me that, -feeling very ill, you have actually suffered your husband to leave -you? Is that right, Mabel? Is it right to yourself or fair to him?" - -"Fair to _him!_" returned Mrs. Wilmot with a scornful emphasis. "The -idea of anything I do being fair or unfair to _him_. I am so important -to him, am I not? His life is so largely influenced by me? Really, -Henrietta, I don't understand you." - -"O yes, you do," said her friend; and she seated herself beside her, -and took her feverish hands firmly in hers; "you understand me -perfectly. What is the illness, Mabel? How do you suffer, and why are -you concealing it?" - -"I suffer always, and in all ways," said Mabel, twitching her hands -impatiently from her friend's grasp, and averting her face, down which -tears began slowly to trickle. "I have not been well for a long time; -and would not one think that _he_ might have seen it? He can be full -of skill and perception in everyone's case but mine." - -Henrietta Prendergast was troubled. She was a woman with an odd kind -of conscience. So long as a fact did not come too forcibly before her, -so long as a duty did not imperatively confront her, she would ignore -it; but she would not do the absolutely, the undeniably wrong, nor -leave the obviously and pressingly right undone. Here was a dilemma. -She believed that Wilmot's ignorance of his wife's state of health was -solely the result of her own studious avoidance of complaint, or of -letting him see, during the short periods of every day that they were -together, that she was suffering in any way. Any man whose perceptions -were not quickened by the inspiration of love would be naturally -deceived by the calm tranquillity of Mrs. Wilmot's manner, which, if -occasionally sullen, was apparently influenced in that direction by -trivial causes,--household annoyances, and so forth. And though -Henrietta Prendergast had a grudge against Chudleigh Wilmot, which was -all the stronger and the more lasting that it was utterly -unreasonable, she could not turn a deaf ear to the promptings of her -conscience, which told her she must speak the truth on his behalf now. - -"I must say, Mabel," she began, "that I think it is your own fault that -Wilmot has not perceived your state of health. You have carefully -concealed it from him, and now you are angry at your own success. You -must not continue to act thus, Mabel; you will destroy his happiness -and your own." - -"_His_ happiness!" repeated Mrs. Wilmot with indescribable bitterness; -"_his_ happiness _and_ mine! I know nothing about his happiness, or -what he has found it in hitherto, and may find it in for the future. I -only know that it has nothing to do with mine; and that I have no -happiness, and never can have any now." - -The sullen conviction in Mabel Wilmot's voice impressed her friend -painfully, and kept her silent for a while. Then she said: - -"You are unjust, Mabel. You have concealed your suffering and illness -from me as effectually as from him." - -"Do you attempt to compare the cases?" said Mrs. Wilmot with a degree -of passion extremely unusual to her. "I deny that they admit of -comparison. However, there is an end of the subject; let us talk of -something else. If I am not better in a day or so, I can do as Mr. -Foljambe has had to do: I can call in Whittaker, or somebody else. It -does not matter. Let us turn to some more agreeable topic." And the -friends talked of something else. They lunched together, and they went -out driving; they did some very consolatory shopping, and paid a -number of afternoon calls. But Henrietta Prendergast watched her -friend closely and unremittingly; and came to the conclusion that she -was really ill, and also that it was imperatively right her husband -should be informed of the fact. Henrietta dined at Charles-street; -and when the two women were alone in the evening, and the -confidence-producing tea-tray had been removed, she tried to introduce -the interdicted subject. Ordinarily she was anything but a timid -woman, anything but likely to be turned from her purpose; but there -was something new in Mabel's manner, a sad intensity and abstraction, -which puzzled and distressed her, and she had never in her life felt -it so hard to say the things she had determined to say. - -Argument and persuasion Mrs. Wilmot took very ill; and at length her -friend told her, in an accent of resolution, that she had made up her -mind as to her own course of action. - -"It is wrong to leave Wilmot in ignorance, Mabel," she said; "wrong to -him and wrong to you. If only a little of all you have acknowledged to -me were the matter with you, it would still be wrong to conceal it -from him. If you _will_ not tell him, I _will_. If you will not -promise me to write to him tonight, I will write to him to-morrow. -Mind, Mabel, I mean what I say; and I will keep my word." - -Mrs. Wilmot had been leaning, almost lying, back in a deep -easy-chair, when her friend spoke. She raised herself slowly while she -was speaking, her dark eyes fixed upon her, and when she had finished, -caught her by the wrist. - -"If you do this thing, Henrietta, I most solemnly declare to you that -I will never speak to you or see you again. In this, in all that -concerns my husband and myself, I claim, I insist upon perfect freedom -of action. No human being--on my side at least--shall come between him -and me. I am thoroughly in earnest in this, Henrietta. Now choose -between him and me." - -"Choose between him and _you!_ What _can_ you mean, Mabel?" - -"I know what I mean, Henrietta, and I am determined in this. When you -know all, you will see that only I can speak to him; and that I must -speak, not write." - -"Then you _will_ speak?" - -"Yes, I will speak. I suppose he will return in a few days; and then I -will speak." - -Then Mabel Wilmot told her friend intelligence which surprised her -very much, and they stayed together until late; and when they parted -Mrs. Prendergast looked very thoughtful and serious. - -"This will make things either better or worse," she said to herself -that night. "If he returns soon, and receives the news well, all may -go on well afterwards; but if he stays away for this girl's sake much -longer, I don't think even the child will do any good." - -Many times within the next few days, in thinking of her friend, Mrs. -Prendergast said, "There's a desperation about her that I never saw -before, and that I don't like." - - -The days passed over, and Wilmot's patients were obliged either to -content themselves with the attendance of the insinuating Whittaker, -or to exercise their own judgment and call in some other physician of -their own choice. There was no doubt that the delay was injuring -Wilmot. He might have had his week's holiday, and passed it with Sir -Saville Rowe, and welcome; but he was not at Sir Saville's, and the -week had long been over. As for Mr. Foljambe, his indignation was -extreme. - -"Hang it!" he observed, "if Chudleigh can't come back when he might, -why does he pretend to keep up a London practice? And to send me -Whittaker too; a fellow I hate like--like colchicum. I suppose I can -choose my doctor for myself, can't I?" - -Thus the worthy and irascible old gentleman, who was more attached to -Chudleigh Wilmot than to any other living being, would discourse to -droppers-in concerning his absent favourite; and as the droppers-in to -the invalid room of the rich banker were numerous, and of the class to -whom Wilmot was especially well known, the old gentleman's talk led to -somewhat wide and varied speculation on the causes and inducements of -his absence. Mr. Foljambe had ascertained all the particulars which -Wilmot had given his wife; and Kilsyth of Kilsyth was soon a familiar -phrase in connection with the rising man. Everybody knew where he was, -and "all about it;" and when the unctuous and deprecating Whittaker -talked of the "specially interesting case" which was detaining Wilmot, -glances of unequivocal intelligence, but of somewhat equivocal -meaning, were interchanged among his hearers; and guesses were made -that Miss Kilsyth was a "doosed nice" girl, or her stepmother Lady -Muriel,--"young enough to be Kilsyth's daughter, you know, and never -lets him forget it, by Jove,"--was a "doosed fine" woman. "The -Kilsyths" began to be famous among Wilmot's clientèle and the old -banker's familiars; the _Peerage_, lying on his bookshelves, and -hitherto serenely undisturbed, with its covering of dust, was -frequently in demand; and young Lothbury, of Lombard, Lothbury, & Co., -made quite a sensation when he informed a select circle of Mr. -Foljambe's visitors that he knew Ronald Kilsyth very well--was in his -club in fact. - -"Old Kilsyth's son," he explained; "a very good fellow in his way, and -quite the gentleman, as he ought to be of course, but a queer-tempered -one, and a bit of a prig." - - -"Have you written to your husband, Mabel?" said Mrs. Prendergast with -solemn anxiety, when the third week of Wilmot's absence was drawing to -a close, and his wife's illness had increased day by day, so that now -it was a common topic of conversation among their acquaintance. - -"No," returned Mabel, "I have not. I have told you I will not write, -but speak to him; and I am resolved." - -"But Whittaker? Surely he does not know your husband is ignorant of -your state?" - -"O, dear no," returned Mrs. Wilmot, with a smile by no means pleasant -to see. "He is the jolliest and simplest of men in all matters of this -kind. Mrs. Whittaker wouldn't, in fact couldn't, have a finger ache -unknown to him; and he never suspects that things are different with -me." - -"Mabel," said her friend, "you do very, very wrong; but I will not -interfere or argue with you. Only, remember, I believe much will -depend on your reception of him." - -"Don't be alarmed, Henrietta," said Mabel Wilmot. "I promise you, -unhesitatingly, that Wilmot will not be dissatisfied with the -reception he shall have from me." - - - - -CHAPTER VIII. -Kith and Kin. - - -It was a good thing for Kilsyth that he had a soft, sweet, -affectionate being like Madeleine on whom he could vent the fund of -affection stored in his warm heart, and who could appreciate and -return it. In the autumn of life, when the sad strange feeling first -comes upon us, that we have seen the best of our allotted time, and -that the remainder of our pilgrimage must be existence rather than -life; when the ears which tingled at the faintest whisper of love know -that they will never again hear the soft liquid language once so -marvellously sweet to them; when the heart which bounded at the merest -promptings of ambition beats with unmoved placidity even as we -recognise the victories of our juniors in the race; when we see the -hopes and cares and wishes which we have so long cherished one by one -losing their sap and strength and verdure, one by one losing their -hold on our being, and borne whirling away, lifeless and shrivelled, -on the sighing wind of time,--we need be grateful indeed if we have -anything so cheering and promiseful as a daughter's affection. It is -the old excitement that has given a zest to life for so many years; -administered in a very mild form indeed, but still there. The boys are -well enough, fine gentlemanly fellows, making their way in the world, -well spoken of, well esteemed, doing credit to the parent stock, and -taking--ay, there's the deuce of it!--taking the place which we have -vacated, and making us feel that we have vacated it. Their mere -presence in the world brings to us the consciousness which arose dimly -years ago, but which is very bright and impossible to blink now, that -we no longer belong to the present, to the generation by which the -levers of the world are grasped and moved; that we are tolerated -gently and genially indeed, with outward respect and with a certain -amount of real affection; but that we are in effect _rococo_ and -bygone, and that our old-world notions are to be kindly listened to, -not warmly adopted. Ulysses is all very well; in fact, was a noted -chieftain in his day, went through his wanderings with great pluck and -spirit, had his adventures, dear old boy. You recollect that story -about the Gräfin von Calypso, and that scandalous story which was -published in the Ogygian _Satirist_? But it is Telemachus who is the -cynosure of Ithaca nowadays, whom we watch, and on whom we wait. But -with a girl it is a very different matter. To her her father--until he -is supplanted by her husband--still stands on the old heroic pedestal -where, through her mother's interpretation, she saw him long since in -the early days of her childhood; in her eyes "age has not withered -him, nor custom staled his infinite variety;" all his fine qualities, -which she was taught to love,--and how easily she learned the -lesson!--have but mellowed and improved with years. Her brothers, much -as she may love them, are but faint copies of that great original; -their virtues and good qualities are but reflected lights of his--his -the be-all and end-all of her existence; and the love between him and -her is of the purest and most touching kind. No tinge of jealousy at -being supplanted by her sullies that great love with which he regards -her, and which is free from every taint of earthiness; towards her -arises a chastened remembrance of the old love felt towards her -mother, with the thousand softened influences which the old memories -invest it with, combined with that other utterly indescribable -affection of parent to child, which is one of the happiest and holiest -mysteries of life. - -So the love between Kilsyth and his girl was the happiness of his -existence, the one gentle bond of union between him and the outer -world. For so large-hearted a man, he had few intimate relations with -life; looking on at it benevolently, rather than taking part even in -what it had to offer of gentleness and affection. This was perhaps -because he was so thoroughly, what is called "old-fashioned." Lady -Muriel he honoured, respected, and gloried in. On the few occasions -when he was compelled to show himself in London society, he went -through his duty as though enjoying it as much as the most foppish -Osric at the court; supported chiefly by the universal admiration -which his wife excited, and not a little by the remembrance that -another month would see him freed from all this confounded nonsense, -and up to his waist in a salmon stream. There could be no terms of -praise too warm for "my lady," who was in his eyes equally a miracle -of talent and loveliness, to whom he always deferred in the largest as -in the smallest matters of life; but it was Madeleine - - - "who had power - To soothe the sportsman in his softer hour." - - -It was Madeleine who had his deepest, fondest love--a love without -alloy; pure, selfless, and eternal. - -These feelings understood, it may be imagined Kilsyth had the warmest -feelings of gratitude and regard towards Dr. Wilmot for having, as -everyone in the house believed, and as was really the fact, saved the -girl's life, partly by his skill, principally by his untiring -watchfulness and devotion to her at the most critical period of her -illness. In such a man as Kilsyth these feelings could not remain long -unexpressed; so that within a couple of days of the interview between -Lady Muriel and Dr. Wilmot, Kilsyth took an opportunity of meeting the -doctor as he was taking his usual stretch on the terrace, and -accosting him. - -"Good-morning, Dr. Wilmot; still keeping to the terrace as strictly as -though you were on parole?" - -"Good-morning to you. I'm a sanitarian, and get as much fresh air as I -can with as little labour. This terrace seems to me the only level -walking ground within eyeshot; and there's no more preposterous -mistake than overdoing exercise. Too much muscularity and gymnastics -are amongst the besetting evils of the present day, depend upon it." - -"Very likely; but I'm not of the present day, and therefore not likely -to overdo it myself, or to tempt you into overdoing it. But still I -want you to extend your constitutional this morning round to the left; -there's a path that skirts the craig--a made path in the rock itself, -merely broad enough for two of us to walk, and which has the double -advantage that it gives us peeps of some of the best scenery -hereabouts; and it is so little frequented, that it will give us every -chance of uninterrupted conversation. And I want to talk to you about -Madeleine." - -Whatever might have been Chudleigh Wilmot's previous notions as to the -pleasure derivable from an extended walk with the old gentleman, the -last word decided him; and they started off at once. - -"I won't pretend to conceal from you, Dr. Wilmot," said Kilsyth, after -they had proceeded some quarter of a mile, talking on indifferent -subjects, and stopping now and then to admire some point in the -scenery,--"I won't pretend to conceal from you, that ever since your -arrival here I have had misgivings as to the manner in which you were -first summoned. I--" - -"Pray don't think of that, sir." - -"I don't--any more than, I am sure, you do. My Madeleine, who is -dearer to me than life, was, I knew, in danger. I heard of your being -in what one might almost call the vicinity from Duncan Forbes; and -without thought or hesitation I at once telegraphed to you to come on -here." - -"Thereby giving me the pleasantest holiday I ever enjoyed in my life, -and enabling me to start away, as I was on the point of doing, with -the agreeable reflection that I have been of some comfort to some most -kind and charming people." - -"I am delighted to hear you say those friendly words, Dr. Wilmot; but -I am not convinced even now. So far as--as the honorarium is -concerned, I hope you will allow me to make that up to you; so that -you shall have no reminder in your banker's book that you have not -been in full London practice; and as to the feeling beyond the -honorarium, I can only say that you have earned my life-long -gratitude, and that I should be only too glad for any manner of -showing it." - -Wilmot waited a minute before he said, "My dear sir, if there is -anything I hate, it is conventionality; and I am horribly afraid of -being betrayed into a set speech just now. With regard to the latter -part of your remarks your gratitude for any service I may have been to -you cannot be surpassed by mine for my introduction to my charming -patient and your delightful family circle. With regard to what you -were pleased to say about the honorarium, you must be good enough to -do as I shall do--forget you ever touched upon the subject. You don't -know our professional etiquette, my dear sir--that when a man is on a -holiday he does no work. Nothing on earth would induce me to take a -fee from you. You must look upon anything I have done as a labour of -love on my part; and I should lose all the pleasure of my visit if I -thought that that visit had not been paid as a friend rather than as a -professional man." - -Kilsyth must have changed a great deal from his former self if these -words had not touched his warm generous heart. Tears stood in his -bright blue eyes as he wrung Chudleigh Wilmot's hand, and said, -"You're a fine fellow, Doctor; a great fellow altogether. I'm an old -man now, and may say this to you without offence. Be it as you will. -God knows, no man ever left this house carrying with him so deep a -debt of its owner's gratitude as will hang round you. Now as to -Madeleine. You're off, you say, and I can't gainsay your departure; -for I know you've been detained here far too long for the pursuance of -your own proper practice, which is awaiting you in London; and I feel -certain you would not go if you felt that by your going you would -expose her to any danger of a relapse. But I confess I should like to -hear from your own lips just your own candid opinion about her." - -Now or never, Chudleigh Wilmot! No excuse of miscomprehension! You -have examined yourself, probed the inmost depths of your conscience in -how many midnight vigils, in how many solitary walks! You know exactly -the state of your feelings towards this young girl; and it is for you -to determine whether you will renounce her for ever, or continue to -tread that pleasant path of companionship--so bright and alluring in -its present, so dark and hopeless in its future--along which you have -recently been straying. Professional and humanitarian considerations? -Are you influenced by them alone, when you reply-- - -"My dear sir, you ask me rather a difficult question. Were I speaking -of your daughter's recovery from the disease under which she has been -labouring, I should say with the utmost candour that she has so far -recovered as to be comparatively well. But I should not be discharging -my professional duty--above all, I should not be worthy of that trust -which you have reposed in my professional skill, and of the friendship -with which you have been so good as to honour me--if I disguised from -you that during my constant attendance on Miss Kilsyth, and during the -examinations which I have from time to time made of her system, I have -discovered that--that she has another point of weakness totally -disconnected from that for which I have been treating her." - -He was looking straight into the old man's eyes as he said this--eyes -which dropped at the utterance of the words, then raised themselves -again, dull, heavy-lidded, with all the normal light and life -extinguished in them. - -"I heard something of this from Muriel, from Lady Muriel, from my -wife," muttered Kilsyth; "but I should like to know from you the exact -meaning of your words. Don't be afraid of distressing me, Doctor," he -added, after a short pause; "I have had in my time to listen to a -sentence as hard--almost as hard"--his voice faltered here--"as any -you could pronounce; and I have borne up against it with tolerable -courage. So speak." - -"I have no hard, at least no absolute, sentence to pronounce, my dear -sir; nothing that does not admit of much mitigation, properly taken -and properly treated. Miss Kilsyth is not a hoyden, you know; not one -of those buxom young women who, according to French notions, are to be -found in every English family--" - -"No, no!" interrupted the old gentleman a little querulously. - -"On the contrary, Miss Kilsyth's frame is delicate, and her -constitution not particularly strong. Indeed, in the course of my -investigation during her recent illness, I discovered that her left -lung was not quite so healthy as it might be." - -"Her lungs! Ah, good heavens! I always feared that would be the weak -spot." - -"Are any of her family so predisposed?" - -"One brother died of rapid consumption." - -"Ay, indeed! Well, well, there's nothing of that kind to be -apprehended here,--at least there are no urgent symptoms. But it is -only due to you and to myself to tell you that the lungs are Miss -Kilsyth's weak point, and that every care should be exercised to ward -off the disease which at present, I am happy to say, is only looming -in the distance." - -"And what should be the first step, Dr. Wilmot?" - -"Removal to a softer climate. You have a London house, I know; when do -you generally make a move south?" - -"Lady Muriel and the children usually go south in October,--about five -weeks from hence,--and I go down to an old friend in Yorkshire for a -month's cover-shooting. But this is an exceptional year, and anything -you advise shall be done." - -"My advice is very simple; it is, that you so far make an alteration -in your usual programme as to put Miss Kilsyth into a more congenial -climate at once. This air is beginning now to be moist and raw in the -mornings and evenings, and at its best is now unfit for anyone with -delicate lungs." - -"Would London do?" - -"London would be a great improvement on Kilsyth--though of course it's -treason to say so." - -"Then to London she shall go at once; and I hope you will allow me the -pleasure of anticipating that my daughter, when there, will have the -advantage of your constant supervision." - -"Anything I can do for Miss Kilsyth shall be done, you may depend on -it, my dear sir. And now I want to say good-bye to you, and to you -alone. I have a perfect horror of adieux, and dare not face them with -women. So you will make my farewell to Lady Muriel, thanking her -for all the kindness and hospitality; and--and you will tell Miss -Kilsyth--that I shall hope to see her soon in London; and--so God -bless you, my dear sir, _au revoir_ on the flags of Pall-Mall." - -Half an hour afterwards he was gone. He had made all his arrangements, -ordered his horses, and slipped away while all the party was engaged, -and almost before his absence from the luncheon-table was remarked. He -knew that the road by which he would be driven was not overlooked by -the dining-room where the _convives_ would be assembled; but he knew -well enough that it was commanded by one particular window, and to -that window he looked up with flashing eyes and beating heart. He -caught a momentary glimpse of a pale face surrounded by a nimbus of -golden hair; a pale face on which was an expression of sorrowful -surprise, and which, as he raised his hat, shrunk back out of sight, -without having given him the smallest sign of recognition. That look -haunted Chudleigh Wilmot for days and days; and while at first it -distressed him, on reflection brought him no little comfort, thinking, -as he did, that had Madeleine had no interest in him, her expression -of face would have been simply conventional, and she would have nodded -and bowed as to any ordinary acquaintance. So he fed his mind on that -look, and on certain kindly little speeches which she had made to him -from time to time during her illness; and when he wanted a more -tangible reminiscence of her, he took from his pocketbook a blue -ribbon with which she had knotted her hair during the earlier days of -her convalescence, and which, when she fell asleep, he had picked from -the ground and carefully preserved. - -Bad symptoms these, Chudleigh Wilmot; very bad symptoms indeed! Bad -and easily read; for there shall be no gawky lad of seventeen years of -age, fresh from the country, to join your class at St. Vitus's, who, -hearing them described, shall not be able to name the virulent disease -from which you are suffering. - - - -When Lady Muriel heard the result of her husband's colloquy with the -Doctor, she was variously affected. She had anticipated that Chudleigh -Wilmot would take the first opportunity of making his escape from -Kilsyth, where his presence was no longer professionally needed, while -his patients in London were urgent for his return. Nor was she -surprised when her husband told her that Dr. Wilmot had, when -interrogated, declared that the air of Kilsyth was far too sharp for -Madeleine in her then condition, and that it was peremptorily -necessary that she should be moved south, say to London, at once. Only -one remark did she make on this point: "Did Madeleine's removal to -London--I mean did the selection of London spring from you, Alick, or -Dr. Wilmot?" - -"From me, dear--at least I asked whether London would do; and he -said, at all events London would be infinitely preferable to Kilsyth; -and so knowing that we should have the advantage of his taking charge -of Madeleine, I thought it would be best for us to get away to -Rutland-gate as soon as possible." - -To which Lady Muriel replied, "You were quite right; but it will take -at least a week before all our preparations will be complete for -leaving this place and starting south." - -Lady Muriel Kilsyth did not join any of the expeditions which were -made up after luncheon that day; the rest of the company went away to -roaring linns or to heather-covered mountains; walked, rode, drove; -made the purple hills resound with laughter excited by London stories, -and flirted with additional vigour, though perhaps without the -subtlety imparted by the experience of the season. But Lady Muriel -went away to her own room, and gave herself up to thought. She had -great belief in the efficacy of "thinking out" anything that might be -on her mind, and she resorted to the practice on this occasion. Her -course was by no means clear or straightforward, but a little thorough -application to the subject would soon show her the way. Let her look -at it in all its bearings, and slur over no salient point. This man, -this Dr. Wilmot--well, he was wondrously fascinating, that she must -allow! His eyes, his earnestness of manner, his gravity, and the way -in which he slid from grave to gay topics, as his face lit up, and his -voice--ah, that voice, so mellow, so rich, so clear, and yet so soft, -and capable of such exquisite modulation! The remembrance of that -face, only so recently known, has stopped the current of Lady Muriel's -thoughts: she sits there in the low-backed chair, her chin resting on -her breast, her hands clasped idly before her, her eyes vaguely -looking on the fitfully flaming logs upon the hearth. Wondrously -fascinating; in his mere earnestness so different from the men, young -and old, amongst whom her life was passed; by whom, if thought were -possible to them, it was held as something to be ashamed of, while -frivolity resulting in vice ruled their lives, and frivolity garnished -with slang governed their conversation. Wondrously fascinating; in the -modesty with which he exercised the great talent he possessed, and the -possession of which alone would have turned the head of a weaker man; -in his brilliant energy and calm strength; in his unwitting -superiority to all around him, and the manner in which, apparently -unconsciously and without the smallest display, he took his place in -the front rank, and, no matter who might be present, drew rapt -attention and listening ears to himself. So much for him. Now for -herself. And Lady Muriel rose from the soft snuggery of her cushioned -chair, and folded her arms across her breast, and began pacing the -room with hurried steps. This man had established an influence over -her? Agreed. What was worse, established his influence without -intending it, without absolutely wishing it? Agreed again. Lady Muriel -was far too clever a woman to shirk any item or gloss over any replies -to her cross-examination of herself. And was she, who had hitherto -steered her way through life, avoiding all the rocks and shoals and -quicksands on which she had seen so much happiness wrecked, so much -hope ingulfed--was she now to drift on for the same perilous voyage, -without rudder or compass, without even a knowledge whether the haven -would be open to her? Not she. For her husband's, for her own sake, -for her own and her children's credit, she would hold the course she -had held, and play the part she had played. A shudder ran through her -as she pictured to herself the delight with which the thousand-and-one -tongues of London scandal would whisper and chuckle over the merest -hint that their prophecy of years since was beginning to be -fulfilled--how the faintest breath of suspicion with which a name -could be coupled would fly over the five miles of territory where -Fashion reigns. She stopped before the glass, put her hand to her -heart, and saw herself pale and trembling at the mere idea. - -And yet to be loved! Only for once in her life to know that she loved -and was loved again, not by a man whom she could tolerate, but by one -whom she could look up to and worship. Not reverence--that was not the -word; she reverenced Kilsyth--but whose intellect she could respect, -whose self she could worship. O, only for once in her life to -experience that feeling which she had read so much about and heard so -much of; to feel that she was loved heart and soul and body; loved -with wild passion and calm devotion--for such a man as this was -capable of both feelings simultaneously--loved for herself alone, -independently of all advantages of state and position; loved by the -most lovable man in the world; Loved! the word itself was tabooed -amongst the women with whom she lived, as being too strong and -expressive. They 'liked' certain men in a calm, easy, _laissez-aller_ -kind of way at the height of their passion; then married them, with -proper amount of bishop, bridesmaid, and wedding present, all duly -celebrated in the fashionable journal; and then "gave up to parties -what was meant for mankind." Ah, the difference between such an -existence and that passed as this man's wife! cheering him in his -work, taking part in his worries, lightening his difficulties, -always ready with a smiling face and bright eyes to welcome him home, -and--Jealous? Not she! there would be no such feeling with her in such -a case. Jealous! And as the thought rose in her mind, simultaneously -appeared the blue eyes and the golden hair of her stepdaughter. - -That must be nipped in the bud at once! There was nothing on Dr. -Wilmot's part--probably there might be nothing on either side; but -sentimental friendship of that kind generally had atrociously bad -results; and Madeleine was a very impressionable girl, and now, as -Kilsyth had determined, was to be constantly thrown with Wilmot, to be -under his charge during her stay in London, and therefore likely to -have all her thoughts and actions influenced by him. Such a -combination of circumstances would be necessary hazardous, and might -be fatal, if prompt measures were not taken for disposing of Madeleine -previously. This could only be done by making Ramsay Caird declare -himself. Why that young man had never prospered in his suit was -inexplicable to Lady Muriel; he was not so good-looking as poor -Stewart certainly--not one-tenth part so intense--having an excellent -constitution, and looking at life through glasses of the most roseate -hue; but Madeleine was young and inexperienced and docile--at least -comparatively docile even to Lady Muriel, who, as she knew perfectly -well, possessed very little of the girl's love; and it was through her -affection that she must be touched. Who could touch her? Not her -father: he was too much devoted to her to enter into the matter; at -least in the proper spirit. Who else then? Ah, Lady Muriel smiled -as a happy thought passed through her mind. Ronald, Madeleine's -brother,--he was the person to exercise influence in a right and -proper way over his sister; and to him she would write at once. - -That night the butler took two letters from the post-box in Lady -Muriel's hand-writing; one of them was addressed to Ramsay Caird, in -George-street, Edinburgh, and ran thus: - - -"Kilsyth." - - -"My DEAR RAMSAY,--For reasons which I have already sufficiently -explained to you, you will, I think, be disposed to admit that my -interest in you and your career is unquestionable, and you will be -ready to take any step which I may strongly urge upon you. In this -conviction, I feel sure that you will unhesitatingly adopt the -suggestion which I now make, and start for London at the very earliest -opportunity. You will be surprised at this recommendation, and at the -manner in which I press it; but, believe me, I do not act without much -reflection, and without thorough conviction of the step I am taking, -and which I am desirous you should take. I have so often talked the -matter over with you, that there is no necessity for me to enter upon -it now, even if there were no danger in my so doing. It will be -sufficient to say that we all go to London in a week's time, and that -it is specially desirable that you should be there at the same time; -otherwise you may find the ground mined beneath your feet. When you -arrive in town, I wish you to call upon Captain Kilsyth at -Knightsbridge Barracks. You will find him particularly clear-headed, -and thoroughly conversant with the ways of the world; and I should -advise you to be guided by him in everything, but specially in _the_ -matter in question. Let me have a line to say you are on the point of -starting; and believe me - - "Your sincere friend, - - "MURIEL KILSYTH." - - -The other letter was addressed to "Captain Kilsyth; First Life-guards, -Knightsbridge Barracks, London." - -"(_Confidential_.) - Kilsyth. - -"My dear Ronald,--You have heard from your father of Madeleine's -illness and convalescence. She is rapidly recovering her strength, and -will be her old self _physically_ very shortly. - -"You smile as you see that the word 'physically' is underlined; but -this is not, believe me, one of those 'unmeaning woman's dashes' which -I have so often heard you unequivocally condemn. I underlined the word -specially, because I think that Madeleine's recovery will be, so far -as she is concerned, physical, and physical only. - -"Not that I mean in the least that her reason has been affected, -otherwise than it always is most transiently in the access of fever; -but that I think that the occasion which you and I have so often -talked of has come, and come in a most undeniable manner. In a word, -Madeleine has lost her heart, if I am not much mistaken, and lost it -in a quarter where she herself, poor child, can hope for no return of -her affection, and where, even if such return were possible, it would -only bring misery on her, _and him_, and degradation to us all. - -"We are coming to London at once, and therein lies simultaneously the -danger to Madeleine and my hope of rescuing her from it, principally -through your aid. You will see that it is impossible to enter upon -this subject at length in a letter; but I could not let you be in -ignorance of what I know will possess an acute and painful interest -for you. Of course I have not hinted a word of this to your father, so -that you will be equally reticent in any of your communications with -him. You shall hear the day we expect to arrive in town, and I hope to -see you in Brookstreet on the next morning. - -"You will recollect all I said to you about Ramsay Caird. He will -probably call on you very shortly after you receive this letter. Bear -in mind the cue I gave you, when we last parted, about this young man, -and act up to it: he is a little weak, a little hesitating; but I am -more convinced than ever of the advisability of pursuing the course I -then indicated. God bless you! - - "Your affectionate - - "M.K." - - - - -CHAPTER IX. -Ronald. - - -When Ronald Kilsyth was little more than four years old his nurses -said he was "so odd;" a phrase which stuck by him through life. As a -child his oddity consisted in his curious gravity and preoccupation, -his insensibility to amusement, his dislike of companionship, his love -of solitude, his old-fashioned thoughts and manner and habits. He had -a dogged honesty which prevented him from using the smallest deception -in any way, which prevented him from ever prevaricating or telling -those small fibs which are made so much of in the child, but to which -he looks back as trivial sins indeed when compared with the duplicity -of his after-life,--which rendered him obnoxious even to the children -whom he met as playfellows in the square-garden, and who found it -impossible to get on with young Kilsyth on account of the rigidity of -his morals, displeasing to them even at their tender years. When a -delicious _guetapens_, made of string stretched from tree to tree, had -been, with great consumption of time and trouble, prepared for the -downfall of the old gardener; and when the youthful conspirators were -all laid up in ambush behind the Portugal laurels, waiting to see the -old man, plodding round with rake and leaf-basket in the early dusk of -the autumnal evening, fall headlong over the snare,--it was provoking -to see little Ronald Kilsyth, in his gray kilt, step out and go up to -the old man and show him the pitfall, and assist him in removing it. -The conspirators were highly incensed at this treachery, as they -called it, and would have sent Ronald then and there to Coventry,--not -that that would have distressed him much,--had it not been for his -magnanimity in refusing, even when under pressure, to give up the -names of those in the plot. But as in this, so in everything else; and -the little frequenters of the square soon found Ronald Kilsyth "too -good" for them, and were by no means anxious to secure his -companionship in their sports. - -At Eton, whither he was sent so soon as he arrived at the proper age, -he very shortly obtained the same character. Pursuing the strict path -of duty,--industrious, punctual, and regular, with very fair -abilities, and scrupulously making the most of them,--he never lost an -opportunity and never made a friend. All that was good of him his -masters always said; but they stopped there; they never said anything -that was kind. In school they could not help respecting him; out of -school they would as soon have thought of making Ronald Kilsyth their -companion as of taking _Hind's Algebra_ for pleasant reading. And it -was the same with his schoolfellows. They talked of his steadiness and -of his hard-working with pride, as reflecting on themselves and the -whole school. They speculated as to what he would do in the future, -and how he would show that the stories that had been told about Eton -were all lies, don't you know? and how Kilsyth would go up to -Cambridge, and show them what the best public school--the only school -for English gentlemen, you know--could do; and _Floreat Etona_, and -all that kind of thing, old fellow. But Ronald Kilsyth, during the -whole of his Eton pupilage, never had a chum--never knew what it was -to share a confidence, add to a pleasure, or lighten a grief. Did he -feel this? Perhaps more acutely than could have been imagined; but -being, as he was, proud, shy, sensitive, and above all queer, he took -care that no one knew what his feelings were, or whether he had any at -all on the subject. - -Queer! that was the word by which they called him at Eton, and -which, after all, expressed his disposition better than any other. -Strong-minded, clear-headed, generous, and brave, with an outer coating -of pride, shyness, reserve, and a mixture of all which passed current -for _hauteur_. With a strong contempt for nearly everything in which -his contemporaries found pleasure,--save in the excess of exercise, as -that he thoroughly understood and appreciated,--and with a wearying -desire to find pleasure for himself; with an impulse to exertion and -work, accountable to himself only on the score of duty, but having no -definite end or aim; with a restless longing to make his escape from -the thraldom of conventionality, and rush off and do something -somewhere far away from the haunts of men. With all the morbidness of -the hero of _Locksley Hall_, without the excuse of having been jilted, -and without any of the experience of that sweetly modulated cynic, -Ronald Kilsyth, obeying his father's wish, and thereby again following -the paths of duty, was gazetted to the Life-Guards--the exact position -for a young gentleman in his condition. - -The donning of a scarlet tunic instead of a round jacket, and the -substitution of a helmet for a pot-hat, made very little difference in -Ronald. Several of his brother officers had known him personally at -Eton, so that the character he had obtained there preceded him, -inspiring a wholesome awe of him before he appeared on the scene; and -he had not been two days in barracks before he was voted a prig and a -bore. There was no sympathy between the dry, pedantic, rough young -Scotsman and those jolly genial youths. His hard, dry, handsome -clean-cut face, with its cold gray eyes, thin aquiline nose, and tight -lips, cast a gloom over the cheery mess-table around which they sat; -their jovial beaming smiles, and curling moustaches, and glittering -shirt-studs reflected in the silver _épergne_, with its outposts of -mounted sentries and its pleasant mingling of feasting and frays at the -Temple of Mars and the London Tavern. His grim presence robbed many a -pleasant story of its point, which indeed, in deference to him, had to -be softened down or given with bated breath. The young fellows--no -younger than him in years, but with, O, such an enormous gulf between -them as regards the real elasticity and charm of youth--were afraid of -him, and from fear sprung dislike. They had not much fear of their -elders, these youths of ingenuous countenance and ingenuous modesty. -They had a wholesome awe, tempering their hearty love, of Colonel -Jefferson; but less on account of the strictness of his discipline and -of a certain _noli-me-tangere_ expression towards those whom he did -not specially favour, than on account of his age; and as for the -jolly old Major, who had been in the regiment for ever so many -years,--for him they had neither fear nor respect; and when he was in -command--which befell him during the cheerful interval between July and -December--the lads did as they liked. - -But they could not get on with Ronald Kilsyth; and though they -tolerated him quietly for the sake of his people, they never could be -induced to regard him with anything like the fraternal good fellowship -which they entertained towards each other. As it had been at Eton, so -it was at Knightsbridge, at Windsor, in Albany-street, in all those -charming quarters where the Household Cavalry spend their time for -their own and their country's advantage. Ronald Kilsyth was respected -by all, loved by none. Charley Jefferson himself, fascinated as he was -by Ronald's devotion to the mysteries of drill and by all the young -man's unswerving attention to his regimental duties--qualities which -weighed immensely with the martinet Colonel--had been heard to -confess, with a prolonged twirl at his grizzled moustache, that -"Kilsyth was a d--d hard nut to crack,"--an enigmatic remark which, -from so plain a speaker as the Colonel, meant volumes. The Major, whom -Ronald, under strong provocation, had once designated a "tipsy old -atheist," had, in the absence of his enemy and under the influence of -two-thirds of a bottle of brandy, retorted in terms which were held to -justify both Ronald's epithets; and the men had a very low opinion of -him, who at the time of writing was senior lieutenant of the regiment. -He had no sympathy with the men, no care for them; he would have liked -to have made them more domestic, less inclined for the public-house -and the music-hall; he would have subscribed to reading-rooms, to -institutes, to anything for their mental improvement; but he never -thought of giving them a kind word or an encouraging speech; and they -much preferred Cornet Bosky--who cursed them roundly for their -talking, for their silence, for their going too fast, for their going -too slow, for their anything in fact, on those horrible mornings when -he happened to be in charge of them exercising their horses, but who -off duty always had a kindly word, an open purse at their service--to -the senior Lieutenant, who never used a bad expression, and who, as -they confessed, was, after the Colonel, the best soldier in the -regiment. - -It was like going into a different world to leave the smoky -atmosphere, the wild disorder and reckless confusion of most of the -other rooms in barracks, and go into Ronald Kilsyth's trim orderly -apartment. Instead of tables ringed with stains of long-since-emptied -tumblers, and littered with yellow-paper-covered French novels, torn -playbills, old gloves, letters, unpaid bills, opera-glasses, pipes, -shreds of tobacco, heaps of cigar-ash, rolls of comic songs, trophies -from knock'em-downs at race-courses, empty soda-water bottles, -scattered packs of cards, and suchlike examples of free living--to -find perfect order and decorum; the walls covered with movable -bookcases filled with valuable books, Raphael Morghen prints, proofs -before letters after the best modern artists, and charming bits of -water-colour sketches, instead of coloured daubs of French _écuyères_ -and _lionnes_ of the Quartier Breda, photographs of Roman temple or -Pompeian excavation, and Venetian glass and delicate eggshell china, -and Chinese carving, and Indian beadwork. They used to look round at -these things in wonder, the other young fellows of the regiment, when -they penetrated into Ronald's room, and point to the pictures and ask -who "that queer old party was," and depreciate the furniture by -inquiring "what was that old rubbish?" They could not understand his -friends either; men asked to the mess by them or seen in their rooms -were generally well known in the Household Brigade, other officers in -the Blues or the Foot Regiments, or idlers and dawdlers with nothing -to do, men in the Treasury or Foreign Office, people whom they were -safe to meet in society at least every other night in the season. But -Ronald Kilsyth's guests were of a different stamp. Sometimes he -brought Wrencher the novelist or Scumble the Royal Academician to -dinner; and the fellows who knew the works of both made much of the -guests and did them due honour; but when occasionally they had to -receive Jack Flokes the journalist, who looked on washing as an -original sin, or Dick Tinto the painter, who regarded a dirty brown -velvet shooting-coat as the proper costume for the evening, or -Klavierspieler the pianist, a fat dirty German in spectacles, who made -a perfect Indian juggler of himself in trying to swallow his knife -during dinner--they were scarcely so much gratified. Innate -gentlemanliness and entire good-breeding made them receive the -gentlemen with every outward sign of hospitality; but afterwards, -round the solemn council fire in the little mess-room and midst deep -clouds of tobacco-smoke, they delivered a verdict anything but -complimentary either to guest or host. - -What possessed him? That was what they could not understand. Nicest -people in the world, sir! father, dear delightful jolly old fellow, -give you his heart's blood if you wanted it--but you don't want -it, so gives the best glass ofessed claret in London; and at home--at -Kilsyth--'gad, you can't conceive it; no country-house to be named in -the same breath with it. Perfect shooting and all that kind of thing, -and thoroughly your own master, by Jove! do just as you like, I mean -to say, and have everything you want, don't you know! Lady Muriel -quite charming; holding her own, don't you know, with all the younger -women in point of attractiveness and that sort of thing, and yet -respected and looked up to, and the best mistress of a house possible. -And Miss Kilsyth, Madeleine, deuced nice little girl; very pretty, and -no nonsense about her; meant for some big fish! Well, yes, suppose so; -but meantime extremely pleasant and chatty, and sings nice little -songs and _valses_ splendidly, and all that kind of thing. That was -what they said of the Kilsyth _ménage_ in the Household Brigade, in -which pleasant joyous assemblage of gallant freethinkers it would have -been difficult to point out one who would not have been delighted at -an autumn visit to Kilsyth. Ah! what we believe and that we know! The -humorous articles of the comic writers, the humorous sketches of the -comic artists, lead us to think that the gentlemen officers of the -regiments specially accredited for London service are, in the main, -good-looking, handsome dolts, who pull their moustaches, eliminate the -"r's" from their speech, and are but the nearest removes from the -inmates of Hanwell Asylum. But a very small experience will serve to -remove this impression, and will lead one to know that the reading and -appreciation of character is nowhere more aptly read and more shrewdly -hit upon than in the barrack-rooms of Knightsbridge or the Regent's -Park. - -People who knew, or thought they knew, Ronald Kilsyth, declared -that he was solitary and oysterlike, self-contained, and caring for no -one but himself. They were wrong. Ronald had strong home affections. -He loved and reverenced his father more than any one in the world. He -saw plainly enough the few shortcomings--the want of modern education, -the excessive love of sport, the natural indolence of his disposition, -and the intense desire to shirk all the responsibilities of his -position, and to shift the discharge of them on to some one else. But -equally he saw his father's warm-heartedness, honour, and chivalry; -his unselfishness, his disposition to look upon the bright side of all -that happened, his cheery _bonhomie_, and his unfailing good temper. -Lady Muriel he regarded with feelings of the highest respect--respect -which he had often tried to turn into affection, but had tried in -vain. With a woman's quickness, Lady Muriel had seen at a glance, on -her first entering the Kilsyth family, thamotivst her hardest task would be -to win over her stepson, and she had laid herself out for that victory -with really far more care and pains than she had taken to captivate -his father. With great natural shrewdness, quickened by worldly -experience, Lady Muriel very shortly made herself mistress of Ronald -Kilsyth's character, and laid her plans accordingly. Never was shaft -more truly shot, never was mine more ingeniously laid. Ronald Kilsyth, -boy as he was at the time of his father's second marriage, had -scarcely had three interviews with his stepmother before she found a -corroboration of the fact which had so often whispered itself in his -own bosom, that he, and he alone, was the guiding spirit of the -family; that he had knowledge and experience beyond his years; and -that if she, Lady Muriel, only got him, Ronald, to cooperate with -her, everything would be smooth, and between them the felicity and -well-being of all would be assured. It was a deft compliment, and it -succeeded. From that time forth Ronald Kilsyth was Lady Muriel's most -pliant instrument and doughtiest champion. In the circles in which -during the earlier phases of his succeeding life he found himself, -there were plenty to carp at his stepmother's conduct, to impugn her -motives,--worst of all, to drop side hints of her integrity; but to -all of these Ronald Kilsyth gave instant and immediate battle, never -allowing the smallest insinuation which reflected upon her to pass -unrebuked. He thought he knew his stepmother thoroughly: whether he -did or not time must show; but at all events he thought highly enough -of her to permit himself to be guided by her in some of the most -important steps in his career. - -And what were his feelings with regard to Madeleine? If you wanted to -find the key to Ronald Kilsyth's character, it was there that you -should have looked for it. Ronald loved Madeleine with all the love -which such a heart as his was capable of feeling; but he watched over -her with a strictness such as no duenna ever yet dreamed of Years ago, -when they were very little children, there occurred an episode which -Miss O'Grady--who was then Kilsyth's governess, and now happily -married to Herr Ohm, a wine-merchant at Heidelberg--to this day -narrates with the greatest delight. It was in Hamilton Gardens, where -the Kilsyth children and a number of others were playing at _Les -Graces_--a pleasing diversion then popular with youth--and little Lord -Claud Barrington, in picking up and restoring her hoop to Madeleine, -had taken advantage of the opportunity to kiss her hand. Ronald -noticed the gallantry, and at once resented it, asking the youthful -libertine how he dared to take such a liberty. "Well, but she liketh -it!" said Lord Claud, ingenuously pointing to Madeleine, who was -sucking and biting the end of her hoop-stick, by no means ill-pleased. -"Very likely," said Ronald; "but these girls know nothing of such -matters. _I_ am my sister's guardian, and call upon you to apologise." -Lord Claud, humiliated, said he was "wewy thorry;" and the three,--he, -Ronald, and Madeleine,--had some bath-pipe and some cough-lozenges as -a banquet in honour of the reconciliation. - -This odd watchfulness, never slumbering, always vigilant, perpetually -unjust, and generally _exigeant_, characterised Ronald's relations -with his sister up to the time of our story. When she first came out, -his mental torture was extraordinary; he, so long banished from -ball-rooms, accepted every invitation, and though he never danced, -would invariably remain in the dancing-room, ensconced behind a -pillar, lounging in a doorway, always in some position whence he could -command his sister's movements, and throughout the evening never -taking his eyes from her. His friends, or rather his acquaintances, -who at first watched his rapt attention without having the smallest -idea of its object, used to chaff him upon his devotion, and -interrogate him as to whether it was the tall person with the teeth, -the stout virgin with the shells in her hair, or the interesting party -with the shoulders, who had won his young affection. Ronald stood this -chaff well, confident in the fact that hitherto his sister had -performed her part in that grand and ludicrous mystery termed -"Society," and had escaped heart-whole. He began to realise the truth -of the axiom about the constant dropping of water. So long as -Madeleine had had sense to comprehend, he had instilled into her the -absolute necessity of consulting him before she even permitted herself -to have the smallest liking for any man. During the first two months -of her first season she had confessed to him twice: once in the case -of a middle-aged, well-preserved peer; and again when a thin, -black-bearded _attaché_ of the Brazilian embassy was in question. -Ronald's immediate and unmistakable veto had been sufficient in both -cases; and he was flattering himself that the rest of the season had -passed without any further call on his self-assumed judicial -functions. - -Imagine, then, his state of mind at the receipt of Lady Muriel's -letter! The assault had been made, the mine had been sprung, the enemy -was in the citadel, and, worst of all, the enemy was masked and -disguised, and the guardian of the fortress did not know who was his -assailant, or what measures he should take to repel him! - - - - -CHAPTER X. -Cross-Examination. - - -The hall-porter at Barnes's Club in St. James's-street, whose views of -life during the last two months had been remarkably gloomy and -desponding, began to revive and to feel himself again as the end of -October drew on apace. He had had a dull time of it, that hall-porter, -during August and September, sitting in his glazed box, cutting the -newspapers which no one came to read, and staring at the hat-pegs -which no one used. He had his manuscript book before him, but he did -not inscribe ten names in it during the day; for nearly everybody was -out of town; and the few members who per force remained,--gentlemen in -the Whitehall offices, or officers in the Household Brigade,--found -scaffolding and ladders in the hall of Barnes's, and the morning-room -in the hands of the whitewashers, and the coffee-room closed, and the -smokers relegated to the card-room, and such a general state of -discomfort, that they shunned Barnes's, and went off to the other -clubs to which they belonged. But with the end of October came a -change. The men who had been shooting in the North, the men who had -been travelling on the Continent, the men who had been yachting, and -the men who had been lounging on the sea-coast, all came through town -on their way to their other engagements; those who had no other -engagements, and who had spent all their available money, settled down -into their old way of life; all paid at least a flying visit to the -club to see who was in town, and to learn any news that might be -afloat. - -It is a sharp bright afternoon, and the morning-room at Barnes's is -so full that you might actually fancy it the season. Sir Coke Only's -gray cab horse is, as usual, champing his bit just outside the -door, and Lord Sumph's brougham is there, and Tommy Toshington's -chestnut cob with the white face is being led up and down by the -red-jacketed lad, who has probably been out of town too, as he has not -been seen since Parliament broke up, and yet is there and to the fore -directly he is wanted. Tommy Toshington himself, an apple-faced little -man, who might be any age between sixteen and sixty, but who is -considerably nearer the latter than the former, gathers his letters -from the porter as he passes, looks through them quickly, shaking his -head the while at two or three written on very blue paper and -addressed in very formal writing, and proceeds to the morning-room. -Everybody there, everybody knowing Tommy, universal chorus of welcome -from all save three old gentlemen reading evening papers, two of whom -don't know Tommy, and all of whom hate him. - -"And where have you come from, Tommy?" says Lord Sumph, who is a -charming nobleman, labouring under the slight eccentricity of -occasionally imagining that he is a steam-engine, when he whistles and -shrieks and puffs, and has to be secluded from observation until the -fit is over. - -"Last from East Standling, my lord," says Tommy; "and very pleasant it -was." - -"Must have been doosid pleasant, by all I hear," says Sir Thomas -Buffem, K.C.B., and late of the Madras army. "Dook had the gout, -hadn't he? and we all know how pleasant he is then!" - -"That feller was there of course--what's his name?--Bawlindor the -barrister," says Sir Coke Only. "Can't bear that feller, dev'lish -low-bred feller, was a dancin'-master or something of that sort--can't -bear low-bred fellers;" and Sir Coke, whose paternal grandfather had -been a pedlar, and who himself combined the intellect of an Esquimaux -with the manners of a Whitechapel butcher on a Saturday night, cleared -his throat, and thumped his stick, and looked ferocious. - -"Yes, Mr. Bawlindor was there," says Tommy Toshington, looking round -with a queer twinkle in his little gray eyes; "and he was very -pleasant, very pleasant indeed. I hardly know how the duchess would -have got on without him. He said some doosid smart things, did Mr. -Bawlindor." - -"I hate a feller who says smart things," said Sir Coke Only; "making a -buffoon of himself." - -"Ha, ha!" said Duncan Forbes, joining the group--"the carrier is -jealous of the tumbler; it's a mere question of pigeons." - -"What do you mean, Sir Duncan? I don't understand you," said Sir Coke -angrily. - -"Don't suppose you do--never gave you credit for anything of the -sort.--How are you, all you fellows? What were the smart things that -Bawlindor said, Tommy?" - -"Well, I don't know; perhaps you wouldn't think 'em smart, Duncan, -because you're a devilish clever chap yourself, and--" - -"Yes, yes, we know all about that; but tell us some smart things that -Bawlindor said--tell us one." - -"Well, you know Tottenham? you know he gives awful heavy dinners? He -was bragging about them one day at luncheon at East Standling, and -Bawlindor said, 'There's one thing, my lord, I always envy when I'm -dining with you.' 'What's that?' says Tottenham. "I envy your gas,' -says Bawlindor, 'and it _escapes_.'" - -"Ye-es! that was not bad for Bawlindor. I hate the brute though; I -daresay he stole it from somebody else. Well, how are you all, and -what's the news?" - -"You ought to be able to tell us that," said Lord Sumph. "We're only -just back in town, and you've been here all the time, haven't you, in -the Tower or somewhere?" - -"Not I; I'm only just back too." - -"And where have you come from?" - -"Last from Kilsyth." - -"Devil you have!" growled Sir Thomas Buffem, edging away. "They've had -jungle-fever--not jungle, scarlet-fever there, haven't they?" - -"O, ah, Duncan," said Clement Walkinshaw of the Foreign Office, "tell -us all about that! It was awful, wasn't it? Towcester cut and run, -didn't he? Mrs. Severn said he turned pea-green, and sent such a -stunning caricature of him to her sister, who was staying at -Claverton! We stuck it up in the smoking-room, and had no end fun -about it." - -"I'm glad you were so much amused. It wasn't no end fun for Miss -Kilsyth, however, as she was nearly losing her life." - -"Was she, by Jove!" said Walkinshaw, who was a "beauty boy," examining -himself in the glass, and smoothing his little moustaches,--"was she, -by Jove! What! our dear little Maddy?" - -"Our dear little Maddy," said Duncan Forbes calmly, "if you are on -sufficient terms of intimacy with the young lady to speak of her in -that manner in a public room. _I_ call her Miss Kilsyth; but then we -were only brought up together as children, whereas you had the -advantage of having been introduced to her last season, I think, -Walkinshaw." - -"That was a hot 'un for that d--d little despatch-box!" said Sir -Thomas Buffem, as Walkinshaw walked off discomfited. "Serve him quite -right--conceited little brute!" - -"Well, but what was it, Duncan?" asked Lord Sumph. "It wasn't only the -gal, heaps of people were down with it, eh?--regular hospital, and -that kind of thing? I saw the Northallertons on their way south, and -the duchess said it was awfully bad up there." - -"The duchess is a--very nice person," said Forbes, checking himself, -"and, like Sir Thomas here, an old soldier." - -"But it was a great go, though, Duncan,--infection and all that, eh?" -asked Captain Hetherington, who had joined the talkers. "There's no -such thing as getting Poole's people to make you a coat; the whole -resources of the establishment are concentrated on building a new -rig-out for Towcester, who has sacrificed his entire get-up, and had -his hair cut close, and taken no end of Turkish baths, for fear of -being refused admittance at places where he was going to stay." - -"All I can say is, then--is, that it's a capital thing for Towcester's -man, or whoever gets his wardrobe," said Forbes; "Charley Jefferson -might have made a good thing by buying his tunics, only there's a -slight difference in their size--_he_ wouldn't have feared the -infection." - -"No, not in that way perhaps," said Hetherington. "Charley's like the -Yankee in Dickens's book, 'fever-proof and likewise ague;' but he -_can_ be got at, we all know. How about the widow? She bolted too, -didn't she?" - -"She did--more shame for her. No! the fact was, that at Kilsyth----" - -"_Cave canem!_" said Tommy Toshington, holding up a monitory -finger--"_Cave canem_, as we used to say at school. Here's Ronald -Kilsyth just come into the room and making towards us!" - -You can get a good view of Ronald Kilsyth now as he advances up the -room. Rather under than over the middle height, with very broad -shoulders betokening great muscular strength, and square limbs. His -head is large, and his thick brown hair is brushed off his broad -forehead, and hangs almost to his coat-collar. He has a well-moulded -but rather a stern face, with bushy eyebrows, piercing gray eyes, and -close thin lips. He is dressed plainly but in good taste, and his -whole appearance is perfectly gentlemanlike. It would have been as -hard to have mistaken Ronald for a snob as to have passed him by -without notice; and there was something about him that infallibly -attracted attention, and made those who saw him for the first time -wonder who he was. It would have been quite impossible to divine his -profession from his appearance; neither in look or bearing was there -the smallest trace of the plunger. He might have been taken for a -deep-thinking Chancery barrister, had it not been for his moustache; -or, more likely still, a shrewd long-headed engineer, a man of facts -and figures and calculation; but never a dragoon. He had been the -innocent cause of extreme disappointment to many young ladies in -various parts of the country where he had stayed--quiet -unsophisticated girls, whose visits to London had been very rare, and -who knew nothing of its society, and who hearing that a Life-Guards' -officer was coming to dinner, expected to see a gigantic creature, all -cuirass and jack-boots, an enlarged and ornamental edition of the -sentries in front of the Horse-Guards. Ronald Kilsyth in his plain -evening dress was a great blow to them; in byegone days his moustache -would have been some consolation; but now the young farmers in the -neighbourhood, the sporting surgeon, and all the volunteers wore -moustaches; and though in subsequent conversation they found Ronald -very pleasant, he neither drawled, nor lisped, nor made love to them; -all of which proceedings they had believed to be necessary attributes -of his branch of the military profession. - -And many persons who were not young ladies in the country were -disappointed in Ronald Kilsyth, more especially old friends of his -father, who expected to find his son resembling him. Ronald inherited -his father's love of honour, truth, and candour, his keen sense of -right and wrong, his manliness and his courage; but there the likeness -between the men ceased. Kilsyth's warmth of heart, warmth of temper, -and largeness of soul were not reflected by Ronald, who never lost his -self-control, who never gave anybody credit for more than they -deserved, and who--save perhaps for his sister Madeleine, and his love -for her was of a very stern and Spartan character--had never -entertained any particularly warm feelings for any human being. - -Ronald Kilsyth is not popular at Barnes's, being decidedly an -unclubbable man. The members, if ever they speak of him at all, want -to know what he joined for. He belonged to the Rag, didn't he, and -some other club, where he could sit mumchance over his mutton, or -stare at the lads from Aldershott drinking five-guinea Heidzeck -champagne. What did he want among this sociable set? He always looked -straight down his nose when Guffoon came up with a sad story, and he -never cared about any scandal that was foreign. But he was not -disliked, at least openly. It was considered that he was a doosid -clever fellow, with a doosid sharp tongue of his own; and at Barnes's, -as at other clubs, they are generally polite to fellows with doosid -sharp tongues. And his father was a very good fellow, and gave very -good dinners during the season, and Kilsyth was a very pleasant house -to stop at in the autumn; so that, for these various reasons, Ronald -Kilsyth, albeit in himself unpopular at Barnes's, was never suffered -to hear of his unpopularity. - -Not that if he had, it would have troubled him one jot. No man in the -world was more careless of what people thought of him, so long as he -had the approval of his own conscience; and by dint of a long -course of self-schooling and the presence of a certain amount of -self-satisfaction, he could generally count upon that. He could not -tell himself why he had joined Barnes's Club, unless it was that -Duncan Forbes was a member, and had asked him to join; and he liked -Duncan Forbes in his way, and wanted some place where he could be -pretty certain of finding him when in town. There were few points of -resemblance between Ronald Kilsyth and Duncan Forbes; but perhaps -their very dissimilarity was the bond of the union, such as it was, -that existed between them. Ronald knew Duncan to be weak, but believed -him, and rightly, to be thorough. Duncan Forbes would assume a languid -haw-hawism, an almost idiotic rapidity, a freezing _hauteur_ to any -one he did not know and did not care for, for the merest caprice; -but he would stand or fall by a friend, and not Charley Jefferson -himself would be firmer and truer under trial. Ronald knew this; and -knowing it, was not disposed to be hard on his friend's less stable -qualities--was rather amused indeed "by Duncan's nonsense," as he -phrased it, and showed more inclination for his society than that of -any other of his acquaintance. - -The group of talkers in the window opened as Ronald approached, and he -shook hands with its various members; Tommy Toshington, who always had -something pleasant to say to anybody out of whom there was any -possibility of his ever getting anything, complimenting him on his -appearance. - -"Look as fresh as paint, Ronald, my boy--fresh as paint, by Jove! -Where have you been to pick up such a colour and to get yourself into -such focus, eh?" - -"The marine breezes of Knightsbridge have contributed to my -complexion, Toshington, and the vigorous exercise of walking four -miles a day on the London flags has brought me into my present -splendid condition." - -"What! not been away from town at all?" asked Sir Coke Only, who would -almost as soon have acknowledged his poor relations as confessed to -having been in London in September. - -"Not at all. In the first place, I was on duty, and could not get -away; not that I think I should have moved under any circumstances. -London is always good enough for me." - -"But not when it's quite empty," said Lord Sumph. - -"It can't be quite empty with two millions and a half of people in it, -Sumph," said Ronald. - -"O, ah, cads and tradesmen, and all that sort of thing,--devilish -worthy people in their way, of course; but I mean people that one -knows." - -"_I_ know several of those 'devilish worthy people,' Sumph," said -Ronald, with a smile; "and besides, country-house life is not much in -my way." - -"Don't meet those d?-d radical fellows that he thinks so much of, -there," growled Sir Thomas Buffem to Sir Coke Only. - -"No, nor those painters and people that my boy says this chap's always -bringing to mess," replied Sir Coke. - -"There, he's gone away with Duncan now," said Toshington, "and they'll -be happy. They're too clever, those two are, for us old fellows! Not -that you're an old fellow, Sumph, my boy." - -"You're old enough for several, ain't you, Tommy?" said Lord Sumph; -"and I'm old enough to play you a game of billiards before dinner, and -give you fifteen; so come along." - -Meanwhile Ronald Kilsyth and Duncan Forbes had walked away to the far -end of the room, which happened to be deserted at the time; and -seating themselves on an ottoman, were soon engaged in earnest -conversation. - -"What on earth made you remain in town, Ronald?" asked Duncan. "I -heard what you said to those fellows; but I know well enough that you -could have got leave if you had wished. Why did you not come up to -Kilsyth?" - -"Principally because there was no particular inducement for me to do -so, Duncan." - -"You always were polite, Ronald--" - -"Ah, you were there! No, no; you know perfectly well what I mean, -Duncan. With you and the governor and Madeleine I'm always perfectly -happy; and her ladyship is very friendly, and we get on very well -together. But then I like you all quietly and by yourselves; I'm -selfish enough to want the entire enjoyment of your society. And the -life at Kilsyth would not have suited me at all." - -"Well, I don't know; it was very jolly--" - -"Yes, of course it was, and--By the way, Duncan, tell me all about it; -who were there, and what you did." - -"O, heaps of people there--the Northallertons, and the Thurlows, -and--" - -"Yes, yes; but what men--younger men, I mean?" - -"Let me see; there was Towcester--" - -"No, not he; her ladyship would not have thought him objectionable, -whatever I might." - -"What? what the deuce are you muttering, Ronald?" - -"I beg your pardon, Duncan--thinking aloud only; it's a horrible habit -I've fallen into. Well, who besides Towcester?" - -"O, Severn, and Roderick Douglas, and Charley Jefferson--" - -"Ah, Charley Jefferson; he's just the same, of course?" - -"O yes, he's as jolly as ever." - -"Yes; but I mean, is he as devoted as he was to Lady Fairfax?" - -"O, worse; most desperate case of--no, by the way, though, I forgot; I -think he has cooled off--" - -"Cooled off! since when?" - -"Since your sister's illness." - -"Since my sister's illness! Why, what could that have to do with -them?" - -"Well, you see, some of the people in the house got frightened at the -notion of infection and that kind of thing, and bolted off. Lady -Fairfax was one of the first to rush away; and Charley, who is loyalty -itself in everything, as you know, was deucedly annoyed about it. My -lady had been leading him a pretty dance for a few days previously, -playing off little Towcester against him, and--" - -"Ah, yes. No doubt Charley was right, quite right. And that was all -about him, eh? And so the people were frightened at poor Madeleine's -illness, were they?" - -"Gad, they were, and not without reason too. The poor child was -awfully bad; and indeed, if it had not been for Wilmot, I much doubt -whether she would have pulled through." - -"Hadn't been for Wilmot? Wilmot! O, yes, the London doctor who was -staying somewhere, near, and who was telegraphed for. Tell me about -Dr. Wilmot--a clever man, isn't he?" - -"Clever! He's wonderful! Keen, clear-headed fellow; sees his way -through a brick wall in a minute. Not that at Kilsyth he did not do as -much by his devotion to his patient as by his skill." - -"Devotion? O, he was devoted to his patient, eh?" said Ronald, biting -his nails. - -"Never saw such a thing in all your life. Went in a regular perisher," -said Duncan Forbes, dropping his hands to emphasise his words. "Put -himself in regular quarantine; cut himself off from all communication -with anybody else, and shut himself up in the room with his patient -for days together. It's the sort of thing you read of in poems, and -that kind of thing, don't you know, but very seldom meet with in real -life. If Wilmot had been a young man, and your sister had had any -chance of making him like her, I should have said it was a case of -smite. But Wilmot is an old married man; and these doctors don't -indulge much in being captivated, specially by patients in fevers, I -should think!" - -"No; of course not, of course not. Now, this Wilmot--what's he like?" - -"Well, he's rather a striking-looking man; looks very earnest, and -speaks with a very effectively modulated voice." - -"Ah! And he's gentlemanly, eh?" - -"O, perfectly gentlemanly. No mistake in that." - -"And he was wonderfully devoted to Madeleine, eh? Very kind of him, -I'm sure. Shut himself up in her room, and--What did Lady Muriel think -of him, by the way?" - -"I scarcely know. I never heard her say; and yet I gathered somehow -that Lady Muriel was not so much impressed in the doctor's favour as -the rest of us." - -"That's curious, for there are few keener readers of character than -Lady Muriel. And the doctor was not a favourite of hers?" - -"Well, no; I should say not. But the rest of the party were so -strongly in his favour that we looked with some suspicion on all who -did not shout as loudly as ourselves." - -"And Madeleine, was she equally enthusiastic?" - -"Poor Miss Kilsyth, she was not well enough to have much enthusiasm on -any subject, even on her doctor. Gratitude is, I imagine, the -strongest sentiment one is capable of after a long and severe -illness." - -"Exactly--yes--I should suppose so. And what aged man is Dr. Wilmot?" - -"O, what we should have called some years ago very old, but what we -now look upon as the commencement of middle age--just approaching -forty, I should think." - -"He is married, you say?" - -"Yes; so we all understood. O yes, I heard him once mention his wife -to Lady Muriel.--I say, Ronald, what an unconscionable lot of -questions you are asking about Wilmot; one would think that--" - -"Gentleman waiting to speak to you, sir," said a servant, handing a -card to Ronald; "says he won't detain you a moment, sir." - -Ronald took the card, and read on it "DR. WILMOT." - -"I will come to the gentleman at once," said he; and the servant went -away. - -"Who is it? Anyone I know?" asked Duncan Forbes. - -"He is a stranger to me," said Ronald, blinking the question. - - -He found Dr. Wilmot in that wretched little waiting-room about the -size of a warm bath, and having for its furniture a chair, a table, -and a map of England, which is dedicated at Barnes's to the reception -of "strangers." The gas was low, and the Doctor was heavily wrapped -up, and had a shawl round the lower part of his face; but Ronald made -him out to be a gentlemanly-looking man, and specially noticed his -keen flashing eyes. The Doctor was sorry to disturb Captain Kilsyth, -but his father had sent up to him just before he started a parcel -which he wished delivered personally to the Captain; so he had brought -it on his way from the Great Northern, by which he had just arrived. -It was some law-deed, about the safety of which Kilsyth was a little -particular. It would have been delivered two days since, but, passing -through Edinburgh, the Doctor had found his old friend Sir Saville -Rowe staying at the same hotel, and had suffered himself to be -persuaded to accompany him to see the new experiments in anaesthetics -which Simpson had just made, and which-- Ah! but the Captain did not -care for medical details. The Captain was very sorry that he had not a -better room to ask the Doctor into; but the regulations at Barnes's -about strangers were antediluvian and absurd. He should take an early -opportunity of thanking Dr. Wilmot for his exceeding kindness in going -to Kilsyth, and for the skill and attention which he had bestowed on -Miss Kilsyth. The Doctor apparently to Ronald, even in the dull -gas-light, with a heightened colour disclaimed everything, asserting -that he had merely done his duty. Exchange of bows and of very cold -hand-shakes, the Doctor jumping into the cab at the door, Ronald -turning back into the hall, muttering, "That's the man! Taking -what Duncan Forbes said, and that fellow's look when I named -Madeleine--taking them together, that's the man that Lady Muriel meant. -That's the man, for a thousand pounds!" - -In the cab Dr. Wilmot is thinking about Ronald. A blunt rough customer -rather, but with a wonderful look of his sister about him; not -traceable to any feature in particular, but in the general expression. -His sister!--now a memory and a dream--with the bit of blue ribbon as -the sole tangible reminiscence of her. She is among her friends now; -and probably at this moment some one is sitting close by her, close as -he used to sit, and he is forgotten already, or but thought of as--Not -a pleasant manner, Captain Kilsyth's. Studiously polite, no doubt, but -with an undercurrent of badly-veiled suspicion and reserve. What could -that mean? Dr. Wilmot knew that his conduct towards the Kilsyth -family, so far at least as its outward expression was concerned, had -merited nothing but gratitude from every member of it. Why, then, was -the young man embarrassed and suspicious? Could he--pshaw! how could -he by any possible means have become aware of the Doctor's secret -feelings towards Miss Kilsyth--feelings so secret that they had never -been breathed in words to mortal? Perfectly absurd! It is conscience -that makes cowards of us all; and the Doctor decides that it is -conscience which has made him pervert Captain Kilsyth's naturally cold -manner so ridiculously. - -Well, it is all over now! He is just back again at his old life, and -he must give up the day-dreams of the past month and fall back into -his professional habits. Looking out of the cab window at the long -monotonous row of dirty-brown houses, at the sloppy street, at the -pushing crowds on the foot-pavement, listening to the never-ceasing -roar of wheels, he can hardly believe that he has only just returned -from mountain, and heather, and distance, and fresh air, and -comparative solitude! Back again! The reception at home from "ten till -one," the old ladies' pulses and the old gentlemen's tongues, the -wearied listening to the symptoms, the stethoscopical examination and -the prescription-writing; then the afternoon visits, with the -repetition of all the morning's details; the hospital lecture; the -dull cold formal dinner with Mabel; and the evening's reading and -writing,--without one bright spot in the entire daily round, without -one cheering hope, one-- - -A smell of tan!--the street in front of his door strewed with tan! -Some one ill close by. What is this strange sickness that comes over -him--this sinking at his heart--this clamminess of his brow and hands? -The cab has scarcely stopped before he has jumped out, and has knocked -at the door. Not his usual sharp decisive knock, but feebly and -hesitatingly. He notices this himself, and is wondering about it, when -the door opens, and his servant, always solemn, but now -preternaturally grave, appears. - -"Glad to see you at last, sir," says the man, "though you're too -late!" - -"Too late!" echoes Wilmot vacantly; "too late!--what for?" - -"For God's sake, sir," says the man, startled out of his ordinary -quietude; "you got the telegram?" - -"Telegram! no--what telegram? What did it say? What has happened?" - -"Mrs. Wilmot, sir!--she's gone, sir!--died yesterday morning at eight -o'clock!" - - - - -CHAPTER XI. -Irreparable. - - -Chudleigh Wilmot was a strong man, and he possessed much of the pride -and reticence which ordinarily accompany strength of character. -Hitherto he can hardly be said to have suffered much in his life. -Affliction had come to him, as it comes to every man born of woman; -but it had come in the ordinary course of human life, unattended by -exceptional circumstances, above all not intensified, not warped from -its wholesome purposes by self-reproach. His life had been commonplace -in its joys and in its griefs alike, and he had never suffered from -any cause which was not as palpable, as apparent, to all who knew -him as to himself. His had been the sorrows, chiefly his parents' -death, which are rather gravely acknowledged and respected, than -whispered about in corners with dubious head-shaking and suggestive -shoulder-shrugging. So far the experience of the rising man had in it -nothing distinctive, nothing peculiarly painful. - -But there was an end of this now. A new phase of life had begun for -Chudleigh Wilmot, when he recoiled, like one who has received a deadly -thrust, and whose life-blood rushes forth in answer to it, from the -announcement made to him by his servant. He realised the truth of the -man's statement as the words passed his lips; he was not a man whose -brain was ever slow to take any impression, and he knew in an instant -and thoroughly understood that his wife was dead. A very few minutes -more sufficed to show him all that was implied by that tremendous -truth. His wife was dead; not of a sudden illness assailing the -fortress of life and carrying it by one blow, but of an illness that -had had time in which to do its deadly work. His wife was dead; had -died alone, in the care of hirelings, while he had been away in -attendance upon a stranger, one out of his own sphere, not even a -regular patient, one for whom he had already neglected pressing -duties--not so sacred indeed as that which he could now never fulfil -or recall, but binding enough to have brought severe reflections upon -him for their neglect. The thought of all this surged up within him, -and overwhelmed him in a sea of trouble, while yet his face had not -subsided from the look of horror with which he had heard his servant's -awful announcement. - -He turned abruptly into his consulting-room and shut the door between -him and the man, who had attempted to follow him, but who now turned -his attention to dismissing the cab and getting in his master's -luggage, during which process he informed cabby of the state of -affairs. - -"I thought there were something up," remarked that individual, "when I -see the two-pair front with the windows open and the blinds down, and -all the house shut up; but _he_ didn't notice it." An observation -which the servant commented upon later, and drew certain conclusions -from, considerably nearer the truth than Wilmot would have liked, had -he had heart or leisure for any minor considerations. Presently Wilmot -called the man; who entered the consulting-room, and found his master -almost as pale as the corpse upstairs in "the two-pair front," where -the windows were open and the blinds were down, but perfectly calm and -quiet. - -"Is there a nurse in the house?" - -"Yes, sir; a nurse has been here since this day week, sir." - -"Send her here--stay--has Dr. Whittaker been here to-day?" - -"No, sir; he were here last night, a half an hour after my missus -departed, sir; but he ain't been here since. He said he would come at -one, sir, to see your answer to the telegraft, sir." - -"Very well; send the nurse to me;" and Wilmot strode towards the -darkened window, and leaned against the wire-blind which covered the -lower compartment. He had not to wait long. Presently the man -returned. - -"If you please, sir, the nurse has gone home to fetch some clothes, -and Susan is a-watchin' the body." - -Chudleigh Wilmot started, and ground his teeth. It was perfectly true; -the proper phrase had been used by this poor churl, who had no notion -of fine susceptibilities and no intention of wounding them, who would -not have remained away from his own wife if she had been ill, not to -say dying, for the highest wages and the best perquisites to be had in -any house in London, but to whom a corpse was a corpse, and that was -all about it. The phrase did not make the dreadful truth a bit more -dreadful or more true, but it made Wilmot wince and quiver. - -"Is there no one else--upstairs?" he asked. - -"No, sir. Mrs. Prendergast were here all night, sir, and she is coming -again to meet Dr. Whittaker; but there's no one but Susan a-watchin' -now, sir. We was waiting for orders from you." - -Wilmot turned away from the man, and spoke without permitting him to -see his face. - -"Tell Susan to leave the room, if you please; I am going upstairs." - -The man went away, and returned in a few minutes with a key, which he -laid upon the table, and then silently withdrew. His master was still -standing by the window, his face turned away. A considerable interval -elapsed before the silent group of listeners, comprising all the -servants of the establishment, upon the kitchen-stairs, heard the -widower's slow and heavy step ascending the front staircase. - -The sight which Chudleigh Wilmot had to see, the strife of feeling -which he had to encounter, were none the less terrible to him that -death was familiar to him in every shape, in every preliminary of -anguish and fear, in all that distorts its repose and renders its -features terrible. It is an error surely to suppose that the -familiarity of the physician with suffering and death, with all the -ills that render the pilgrimage of life burdensome and the earthy -vesture repulsive, makes the experience of these things when brought -home to him easier to bear. The sickness that defies his skill, the -life that eludes his grasp, is as dark an enigma, as terrible a defeat -to him as to the man who knows nothing about the dissolving frame but -that it holds the being he loves and is doomed to lose. - -If Chudleigh Wilmot had had a deadly, vindictive, and relentless -enemy,--one of those creatures of romance, but incredible in real -life, who gloat over the misery of a hated object, and would increase -it by every fiendish device within their ingenuity and power,--that -fabulous being might have been satisfied with the mental torture which -he endured when he found himself within the room, so formally -arranged, so faultlessly orderly, so terribly suggestive of the -cessation of life, in which his dead wife lay. As he turned the key in -the lock, for the first time a sense of unreality, of impossibility -came over him, with a swift bewildering remembrance--rather a vision -than a recollection--of the last time he had seen her. He saw her -standing in the hall, in the low light of the autumn evening, her -pretty fresh dinner-dress lifted daintily out of the way of the -servant carrying his portmanteau to the cab; her head, with its -coronet of dark hair, held up to receive her husband's careless kiss, -as he followed the man to the door. He remembered how carelessly he -had kissed her, and how--he had never thought of it before--she had -not returned the caress. When had she kissed him last? This was a -trifling thing, that he had never thought about till now--a question -he could not answer, and had never asked till now; and in another -moment he would be looking at her dead face! - -The window-blinds fluttered in the faint autumn wind as Wilmot opened -the door, then quickly closed and locked it; and the rustling sound -added to the impressiveness of the great human silence. The hands of -the stern woman who loved her had ordered all the surroundings of the -dead tenderly and gracefully; and the tranquil form lay in its deep -rest very fair and solemn, and not terrible to look upon, if that can -ever be said of death, in its garments of linen and lace. The head was -a little bent, the face turned gently to one side, and the long dark -eyelashes lay on the cheek, which was hardly at all sunken, as if they -might be lifted up again and the light of life seen under them. Death -was indeed there, but the sign and the seal were not impressed upon -the face yet for a little while. Wilmot looked upon the dead tearless -and still for some minutes, and then a quick short shudder ran through -him, and he replaced the covering which had concealed the features, -and sat down by the bedside, hiding his face with his hands. - -Who could put on paper the thoughts that swept over him then, and -swept his mind away in their turmoil, and tossed him to and fro in a -tempest of anguish which even the majestic tranquillity of death in -presence was powerless to quell? Who could measure the punishment, the -tremendous retribution of those hours, in which, if the world could -have known anything about them, the world would have seen only the -natural, the praiseworthy grief of bereavement? Who shall say through -what purifying fires of self-knowledge and self-abasement the nature -of the erring man passed in that dreadful vigil? And yet he did not -know the truth. His conscience had been rudely awakened, but his -comprehension had not yet been enlightened. He did not yet know the -terrible depths of meaning which he had still to explore in the words -which were the only articulate sounds that had formed themselves amid -the chaos of his grief--"Too late; too late!" The failure in duty, the -poverty, the niggardliness in love, the negligence, the dallying with -right, in so far as his wife had been concerned, were all there, -keeping him ghastly company, as he sat by the side of the dead; but -the grimmest and the ghastliest phantoms which were to swarm around -him were not yet evoked. - -To do Chudleigh Wilmot justice, he had no notion that his wife had -been unhappy. That he had never rightly understood her character or -read her heart, was the soundest proof that he had not loved her; but -he had never taken himself to task on that point, and had been quite -satisfied to impute such symptoms of discontent as he could not fail -to notice to her sullenness of temper, of which he considered himself -wonderfully tolerant. So little did this wise, rising man understand -women, that he actually believed that indifference to his wife's moods -was a good-humoured sort of kindness she could not fail to appreciate. -She had appreciated it only too truly. The source of much of the -remorse and self-condemnation which tortured him now was to be traced -to his own newly-awakened feelings, to the fresh and novel -susceptibility which the experience of the past few weeks had aroused, -and in which lay the germs of some terrible lessons for the man whose -studies in all but the lore of the human heart had been so deep, whose -knowledge of that had been so strangely shallow. And now no knowledge -could avail. The harm, the wrong, the cruel ill that had been done, -was gone before him to the judgment; and he must live to learn its -extent, to feel its bitterness with every day of life, which could -never avail to lessen or repair it. - -When Dr. Whittaker arrived, he found Wilmot in his consulting-room, -quite calm and steady, and prepared to receive his professional -account of the "melancholy occurrence," on which he condoled with the -bereaved husband after the most approved models. He did not attempt to -disguise from Wilmot that he had been disagreeably surprised by his -non-return under the circumstances. "Also," he added, "by your not -sending me any instructions, though indeed at that stage nothing could -have availed, I am convinced." - -Wilmot received these observations with such unmistakable surprise -that an explanation ensued, which elicited the fact that he had never -received any letter from Dr. Whittaker, and indeed had had no -intimation of his wife's illness, beyond that conveyed in a letter -from herself a fortnight previous to her death, and in which she -treated it as quite a trifling matter. - -"Very extraordinary indeed," said Dr. Whittaker in a dry and -unsatisfactory tone. "I can only repeat that I sent you the fullest -possible report, and entreated you to return at once. I was -particularly anxious, as Mrs. Wilmot confessed to me that you were -unaware of her situation." - -"I never had the letter," said Wilmot; "I never heard of or from you, -beyond the memoranda enclosed in my wife's letters." - -"Very extraordinary," repeated Dr. Whittaker still more drily than -before. "She took the letter at her own particular request, saying she -would direct it, that the sight of her hand-writing on the envelope, -she being unable to write more, might reassure you." - -Wilmot coloured deeply and angrily under his brother physician's -searching gaze. He had not looked for his wife's infrequent letters -with any anxiety; he had had no quick, love-inspired apprehension to -be assuaged by her womanly considerateness. He felt an uneasy sort of -gladness that she had thought he had had such apprehension--better so, -even now, when all mistakes were doomed to be everlasting,--or when -they were quite cleared up. Which was it? He did not know; he did not -like to think. All was over; all was too late. - -"I never received any such letter," he said again; "and I am -astonished you did not write again when you got no answer." - -"I did not write again, because Mrs. Wilmot gave me so very decidedly -to understand that you had told her you could not, under any -circumstances, leave Kilsyth; and danger was not imminent until -Monday, when I telegraphed, just too late to catch you." - -No more was said upon the point; but on Wilmot's mind was left a -painful and disagreeable impression that Dr. Whittaker had received -his explanation with distrust. The colloquy between the two physicians -lasted long; and Wilmot was further engaged for a long time in giving -the necessary attention to the distressing details which claim a -hearing just at the time when they most disturb and jar with the tone -of feeling. A sense of shock and hurry--a difficulty of realising the -event which had occurred, quite other than the stunned feeling of -conviction which had come with the first reception of the -intelligence--beset him, while the nameless evidences of death were -constantly pressed upon his attention. He sat in his consulting-room, -receiving messages and communications of every kind, hearing the -subdued voices of the servants as they replied to inquiries, feeling -as though he were living through a terrible feverish dream, conscious -of all around him, and yet strangely, awfully conscious too of the -dead white face upstairs growing, as he knew, more stiff and stark and -awful as the hours, so crowded yet so lonely, so busy yet so dreary, -flew, no, dragged--which was it?--along. - -Many times that day, as Chudleigh Wilmot sat cold and grave, and, -although deeply sad, more composed, more like himself than most men -would have been in similar circumstances--a vision rose before his -mind. It was a vision such as has come to many a mourner--a vision of -what might have been. For it was not only his wife's death that the -new-made widower had learned that day; he had learned that which had -made her death doubly sad, far more untimely. The vision Chudleigh saw -in his day-dream was of a fair young mother and her child, a -happy wife in the summer-time of her beauty and her pride of -motherhood--this was what might have been. What was, was a dead white -face upstairs upon the bed, waiting for the coffin and the grave, and -a blighted hope, a promise never to be fulfilled, which had never even -been whispered between the living and the dead. - - -Mrs. Prendergast had been in the darkened house for many hours of that -long day. Wilmot knew she was there; but she had sent him no message, -and he had made no attempt to see her. He shrank from seeing her; and -yet he wished to know all that she, and she alone, could tell him. If -he had ever loved his wife sufficiently to be jealous of any other -sharing or even usurping her confidence, to have resented that any -other should have a more intimate knowledge of Mabel's sentiments and -tastes, should have occupied her time and her attention more fully -than he, Henrietta Prendergast's intimacy with her might have elicited -such feeling. But Chudleigh Wilmot had not loved his wife enough for -jealousy of the nobler, and was too much of a gentleman for jealousy -of the baser kind. No such insidious element of ill ever had a place -in his nature; and, except that he did not like Mrs. Prendergast, -whom he considered a clever woman of a type more objectionable than -common--and Wilmot was not an admirer of clever women generally--he -never resented, or indeed noticed, the exceptional place she occupied -among the number of his wife's friends. But there was something lurking -in his thoughts to-day; there was some unfaced, some unquestioned -misery at work within him, something beyond the tremendous shock he had -received, the deep natural grief and calamity which enshrouded him, -that made him shrink from seeing Henrietta until he should have had -more time to get accustomed to the truth. - -When the night had fallen, he heard the light tread of women's feet in -the hall and a gentle whispering. Then the street-door was softly -shut, and carriage-wheels rolled away. The gas had been lighted in -Wilmot's room, but he had turned it almost out, and was sitting in the -dim light, when a knock at the door aroused his attention. The -intruder was the "Susan" already mentioned. Mrs. Wilmot had not -boasted an "own maid;" but this girl, one of the housemaids, had been -in fact her personal attendant. She came timidly towards her master, -her eyes red and her face pale with grief and watching. - -"Well, what is it now?" said Wilmot impatiently. He was weary of -disturbance; he wanted to be securely alone, and to think it out. - -"Mrs. Prendergast desired me to give you this, sir," the girl replied, -handing him a small packet, "and to say she wants to see you, sir, -tomorrow--respecting some messages from missus." - -He took the parcel from her, and Susan left the room. Before she -reached the stairs, her master called her back. "Susan," he said, -"where's the seal-ring your mistress always wore? This parcel contains -her keys and her wedding-ring; where is the seal-ring? Has it been -left on her hand?" - -"No, sir," said Susan; "and I can't think where it can have got to. -Missus hasn't wore it, sir, not this fortnight; and I have looked -everywhere for it. You'll find all her things quite right, sir, except -that ring; and Mrs. Prendergast, she knows nothing about it neither; -for I called her my own self to take off missus's wedding-ring, -as it was missus's own wish as she should do it, and she missed the -seal-ring there and then, sir, and couldn't account for it no more -than me." - -"Very well, Susan, it can't be helped," replied Wilmot; and Susan -again left him. - -He sat long, looking at the golden circlet as it lay in the broad palm -of his hand. It had never meant so much to him before; and even yet he -was far from knowing all it had meant to her from whose dead hand it -had been taken. At last, and with some difficulty, he placed the ring -upon the little finger of his left hand, saying as he did so, "I must -find the other, and always wear them both." - - - - -CHAPTER XII. -The Leaden Seal. - - -When Chudleigh Wilmot arose on the following morning, with the -semi-stupefied feeling of a man on whom a great calamity has just -fallen, not the least painful portion of the task, not the least -difficult part of the endurance that lay before him was the inevitable -interview with his dead wife's friend. Mrs. Prendergast had requested -that he would receive her early. This he learned from the servant who -answered his bell; and he had directed that she should be admitted as -soon as she arrived. He loitered about his room; he dallied with the -time; he dared not face the cold silent house, the servants, who -looked at him with natural curiosity, and, as he thought, avoidance. -If the case had not been his own, Wilmot would have remembered that -the spectacle of a new-made widow or widower always has attractions -for the curiosity of the vulgar: strong, if the grief in the case be -very violent; and stronger, if it be mild or non-existent. Wilmot was -awfully shocked by his wife's death, terribly remorseful for his own -absence, and perhaps for another reason--at which, however, he had not -yet had the hardihood to look--almost stunned by the terrible sense, -the conviction of the irrevocable ill of the past, the utterly -irreparable nature of the wrong that had been done. But all these -warring feelings did not constitute grief. Its supreme agony, its -utter sadness, its unspeakable weariness were wanting in the strife -which shook and rent him. The thought of the dead face had terror and -regret for him; but not the dreadful yearning of separation, not the -mysterious wrenching asunder of body and spirit, almost as powerful as -that of death itself, which comes with the sentence of parting, which -makes the possibility of living on so incomprehensible and so cruel to -the true mourner. Not the fact itself, so much as the attendant -circumstances, caused Wilmot to suffer, as he undoubtedly did suffer. -He knew in his heart that had there been no self-reproach involved in -this calamity, he would not have felt it as he felt it now; and in the -knowledge there was denial of the reality of grief. - -No such thought as "How am I to live without her?" the natural -utterance of bereavement, arose in Wilmot's heart; though neither did -he profane his wife's memory or do dishonour to his own higher nature -by even the most passing reference to the object which had so fatally -engrossed him. The strong hand of death had curbed that passion for -the present, and his thoughts turned to Kilsyth only with remorse and -regret. But the wife who had had no absorbing share in his life could -not by her death make a blank in it of wide extent or long duration. - -He was still lingering in his room, when he was told that Mrs. -Prendergast had arrived and was in the drawing-room. The closely-drawn -blinds rendered the room so dark that he could not distinguish -Henrietta's features, still further obscured by a heavy black veil. -She did not rise, and she made no attempt to take his hand, which he -extended to her in silence, the result of agitation. She bowed to him -formally, and was the first to speak. Her voice was low and her words -were hurried, though she tried hard to be calm. - -"I was with your wife during her illness and at her death, Dr. -Wilmot," she said; "and I am here now not to offer you ill-timed -condolences, but to fulfil a trust." - -Her tone surprised Wilmot, and affected him disagreeably. There had -never been any disagreement between himself and Mrs. Prendergast; he -was not a man likely to interfere or quarrel with his wife's friends; -and as he was wholly unconscious of the projects she had entertained -towards him, he had not any suspicion of hidden malice on her part. -Emotion he was prepared for--would indeed have welcomed; he was ready -also for blame and reproaches, in which he would have joined heartily, -against himself; but the calm, cold, rooted anger in this woman's -voice he was not prepared for. If such a thing had been possible--the -thought flashed lightning-like across his mind before she had -concluded her sentence--he might have had in her an enemy, biding her -time, and now at length finding it. - -He did not speak, and she continued: - -"I presume you have heard from Dr. Whittaker the particulars of -Mabel's illness, its cause, and the means used to avert--what has not -been averted?--" - -"I have," briefly replied the listener. - -"Then I need not enter into that--beyond this: a portion of my trust -is to tell you that Dr. Whittaker is not to blame." - -"I have not blamed him, Mrs. Prendergast." - -"That is well. When Mabel knew, or thought, I fear hoped, that her -life was in danger, her strongest desire was that you should be kept -in ignorance of the fact." - -"Good God! why?" exclaimed Wilmot. - -"I think you must know why better than I can tell you," replied -Henrietta pitilessly. "But, at all events, such was the case. Dr. -Whittaker wrote to you, but she suppressed the letter. She gave it to -me on the night she died. Here it is." - -Chudleigh Wilmot took the letter from her hand silently. Astonishment -and distress overwhelmed him. - -"She bade me tell you that she laid her life down gladly; that she had -nothing to leave, nothing to regret; that she was glad she had -succeeded in keeping you in ignorance of her danger--for she knew, for -the sake of your reputation, you would have left even Miss Kilsyth to -be here at her death. But she preferred your absence; she distinctly -bade me tell you so. She left no dying charge to you but this, that -you should allow me to see her coffin closed on the second day after -her death, and that you should wear her wedding-ring. I sent it to you -last night, Dr. Wilmot. I hope you got it safely." - -"I did; it is here on my finger," answered Wilmot; "but, for God's -sake, Mrs. Prendergast, tell me what all this means. Why did my wife -charge you with such a message for me; how have I deserved it? Why did -she, how should she, so young, and to all appearance not unhappy, wish -to die, and to die in my absence? Did she persevere in that wish, or -was it only a whim of her illness, which, had there been any one to -remonstrate with her, would have yielded later?" - -"It was no whim, Dr. Wilmot. A wretched truth, I grant you, but a -truth, and persisted in. So long as consciousness remained, she never -changed in that." - -A dark and angry look came into Wilmot's face, and he raised his voice -as he asked the next question: - -"Do you mean to explain this extraordinary circumstance, Mrs. -Prendergast? Are you going to give me the clue to this mystery? My -wife and I always lived on good terms; we parted on the same. No man -or woman living can say with truth that I ever was unkind to her, or -that she had cause given her _by me_ to wish her life at an end, to -welcome death. I believe the communication you have just made to me is -utterly without example. I never heard, I don't believe anyone ever -heard of such a thing. I ask you to explain it, if you can." - -"You speak as though you asked, or desired me to _account_ for it -too," said Henrietta, in a cold and cutting tone, which rebuked the -vehemence of his manner, and revealed the intense, unsleeping egotism -of her disposition. "I could do so, I daresay; but I cannot see the -profitableness of such a discussion between you and me. It is too late -now; nothing can undo the wrong, no matter what it was, or how far it -extended. It is all over, and I have nothing more to do than to carry -out the last wishes of my dear friend. Have I your permission to do -so?" she asked, in the most formal possible tone, as she rose and -stood opposite him. - -Wilmot put his hands up to his face, and walked hurriedly about the -room. Then he came suddenly towards Henrietta, and said with intense -feeling: - -"I beg your pardon; I did not mean to speak roughly: but I am -bewildered by all this. I am sure you must feel for me; you must -understand how utterly I am unable to comprehend what has occurred. To -come home and receive such a shock as the news of my wife's death, was -surely enough in itself to try me severely. And now to hear what you -tell me, and tell me too so calmly, as if you did not understand what -it means, and what it must be to me to hear it! You were with her, her -chosen friend. I think you knew her better than anyone in the world." - -"And if I did," said Henrietta,--all her assumed calm gone, and her -manner now as vehement as his own,--"if I did, is not that an answer -to all you ask me? If I am to explain her motives, to lay bare her -thoughts, to tell her sorrows, _to you_, her husband, is _that_ not -your answer? Surely you have it in that fact! They are not true -husband and true wife who have closer friends. You never loved her, -and you never knew or cared what her life was; and so, when she was -leaving it, she kept you aloof from her." - -Wilmot made no sound in reply. He stood quite still, and looked at -her. His eyes had grown accustomed to the gloom, and she had raised -her veil. He could see her face now. Her pale cheeks, paler than usual -in her grief and passion, her deep angry sorrowful eyes, and her -trembling lips, made her look almost terrible, as she stood there and -told him out the truth. - -"No," she went on, "you did not know her, and you were satisfied not -to know her; you went complacently on your way, and never thought -whether hers was lonely and wearisome. You never were unkind to her, -you say; no, I daresay you never were. She had all the advantages to -which your wife was entitled, and she did you and them due honour. -Why, even I, who did, as you say, know her best, had suspected -only recently, and learned fully only since her illness began, all -she suffered; no, not all--_that_ one heart can never pour into -another--but I have only read the story of her life lately, and you -have never read it at all. You were a physician, and you did not see -that your own wife, a dweller under your own roof, whose life was lived -in your sight, had a mortal disease." - -"What do you mean?" he said; "she had no such thing." - -"_She had!_" Henrietta repeated impetuously; "she had a broken heart. -You never ill-treated her--true; you never neglected her--true,--until -she was dying, that is to say;--but did you ever love her, Dr. Wilmot? -Did you ever consider her as other or more than an appendage of your -position, an ornament in your house, a condition of your social -success and respectability? What were her thoughts, her hopes, her -disappointments to you? Did you ever make her your real companion, the -true sharer of your life? Did you ever return the love, the worship -which she gave you? Did you ever pity her jealous nature; did you ever -interpret it by any love or sensitiveness of your own, and abstain -from wounding it? Did you know, did you care, whether she suffered -when you shut yourself up in your devotion to a pursuit in which she -had no share? All women have to bear that, no doubt, and are fools if -they quarrel with the bread-winner's devotion to his work. Yes; but -all women have not her silent, brooding, jealous, sullen nature; all -women are not so little frivolous as she was; all women, Dr. Wilmot, -do not love their husbands as Mabel loved you." - -She paused in the torrent of her words, and then he spoke. - -"All this is new and terrible to me; as new as it is terrible. Mrs. -Prendergast, do me the justice to believe that." - -"It is not for me to do you justice or injustice," she made answer; -"your punishment must come from your own heart, or you must go -unpunished." - -"But"--he almost pleaded with her--"Mabel never blamed me, never tried -to keep me more with her; rarely indeed expressed a wish of any kind. -I declare, before God, I never dreamed, it never occurred to me to -suspect that she was unhappy." - -"No," she said; "and Mabel knew that. She interested you so little, -you cared so little for her, that you never looked below the surface -of her life; and her pride kept that surface fair and smooth. She -would have died before she would have complained,--she has died, in -fact, and made no sign." - -"Yes," said Wilmot suddenly and bitterly; "but she has left me this -legacy, brought me by your hands, of miserable regret and vain -repentance. She has insured the destruction of my peace of mind; she -has taken care that mine shall be no ordinary grief, sent by God and -to be dispelled by time; she has added bitterness to the bitter, and -put me utterly in the wrong by her unwarrantable concealment and -reticence." - -"How truly manlike your feelings are, Dr. Wilmot! She has hurt your -pride, and you can't forgive her even in death! She has put _you_ in -the wrong,--and all her own wrongs, so silently borne, sink into -nothing in comparison!" - -"I deny it!" Wilmot said vehemently; "she _had_ no wrongs,--no woman -of her acquaintance had a better husband. What did I ever deny her?" - -"Only your love, only a wife's true place in your life, only all she -longed for, only all she died for lack of." - -"All this is absurd," he said. "If she really had these romantic -notions, why did she conceal them? Have _I_ nothing to complain of in -this? Was she just to me, or candid with me?" - -"What encouragement did you give her? Do you think a proud, shy, -silent woman like Mabel was likely to lay her heart open to so cold -and careless a glance as yours? No; she loved you as few women can -love; but if she had much love, so she had much pride and jealousy; -and all three had power with her." - -"Jealousy!" said Wilmot in an angry tone; "in God's name, of whom did -she contrive to be jealous." - -"Her jealousy was not of a mean kind," said Henrietta. "Ever since -your marriage it had nourished itself, so far as I understood the -matter, upon your devotion to your profession, upon the complacent -ease with which you set _her_ claims aside for those which so -thoroughly engrossed you, that you had no heart, no eyes, no attention -for her. Of late--" she paused. - -"Well?" said Wilmot;--"of late?" - -"Of late," repeated Henrietta, speaking now with some more reserve of -manner, "she believed you devoted--to a degree which conquered your -devotion to your profession and to the interests of your own -advancement--to the patient who detained you at Kilsyth." - -"What madness! what utter folly!" said Wilmot; but his face turned -deeply red, and he felt in his heart that the arrow had struck home. - -"Perhaps so," said Henrietta, and her voice resumed the cutting tone -from which all through this painful interview Wilmot had shrunk. "But -Mabel was not more reasonable or less so than other jealous women. You -had never neglected your business for _her_, remember, or been turned -aside by any sentimental attraction from your course of professional -duty. Friendship, gratitude, and interest alike required you to attend -to Mr. Foljambe's summons. You did not come, and people talked. Mr. -Foljambe himself spoke of the attractions of Kilsyth, and joked, after -his inconsiderate manner." - -"In _her_ presence?" said Wilmot incautiously. - -"Yes, in _her_ presence," said Henrietta, who perfectly appreciated -the slip he had made. "She knew some people who knew the Kilsyths, and -she heard the remarks that were made. I daresay she imagined more than -she heard. No matter. Nothing matters any more. She was not sorry to -die when her time came; she would not have you troubled,--that is all. -And now I will leave you. I am going to her." - -The last sentence had a dreadful effect on Wilmot. In the agitation, -the surprise, the pain of this interview, he had almost forgotten -time; the present reality had nearly escaped him. He had been rapt -away into a world of feeling, of passion; he had been absorbed in the -sense of a discovery, and of something which seemed like an impossible -injustice. With Henrietta's words it all vanished, and he remembered, -with a start, that his wife lay dead upstairs. They were not talking -of a life long extinguished, which in former years might have been -made happier by him, but of one which had ended only a few hours ago; -a life whose forsaken tenement was still untouched by "decay's -effacing fingers." With all this new knowledge fresh upon him, with -all this bewildering conviction of irreparable wrong, he might look -upon the calm young face again. Not as he had looked upon it -yesterday; not with the deep sorrow and the irresistible though -unjustified compassion with which death in youth is always regarded, -but with an exceeding and heart-rending bitterness, in comparison with -which even that repentant grief was mild and merciful. The fixedness, -the blank, the silence, would be far more dreadful, far more -reproachful now, when he knew that he had never understood, never -appreciated her--had unwittingly tortured her; now when he knew that, -in all her youth and beauty, she had been glad to die. Glad to die! -The words had a tremendous, an unbearable meaning for him. If even the -last month could have been unlived! If only he had not had _that_ to -reproach himself with, to justify _her!_ In vain, in vain. In that one -moment of unspeakable suffering Wilmot felt that his punishment, -however grave his offence, was greater than he could bear. - -He turned away from Henrietta with the air of a man to whom another -word would be intolerable, and sat down wearily. She stood still, -looking at him, as if awaiting an answer or a dismissal. - -At length she said, "Have you forgotten, Dr. Wilmot, that I asked your -permission to carry out Mabel's wish?" - -"No," he said drearily, "I remember. Of course do as you like; I -should say, as she directed. I suppose the object of her request was, -that I should see her no more, in death either. Well, well--it is -fortunate that did not succeed too." He spoke in a patient, broken -tone, which touched Henrietta's heart. But her perverted notion of -truth and loyalty to the dead held her back from showing any sign of -softening. Just as she was leaving the room he said: - -"Such a course is very unusual, is it not?" - -"I believe so," she replied; "but the servants know it was her -desire." - -Then Henrietta Prendergast went away; and presently he heard a slight -sound in that awful room overhead, and he knew she had taken her place -beside the dead. He felt, as he sat for hours of that day quite alone, -like a banished man. His wife was doubly dead to him now. All his -married life had grown on a sudden unreal; and when he thought of the -still white face which he was to see once, and only once more, for -ever, it was with a strange sense of dread and avoidance, and not with -the tender sorrow which, even amid the shock and self-reproach of -yesterday, had come to his relief. - -Somehow, he could not have told how, with the inevitable -interruptions, the wretched necessary business of such a time, the -hours of that day passed over Chudleigh Wilmot's head, and the night -came. He had looked his last upon his wife, had taken his solemn leave -of the death-chamber. She lay now in her coffin, sealed, hidden from -sight for evermore, and there was nothing now but the long dreary -waiting. In its turn that too passed, and in due time the funeral day; -and Chudleigh Wilmot was quite alone in his silent house, and had only -to look back into the past. Forward into the future he did not dare, -he had not heart to look. A kind of blank, the reaction from intense -excitement, had set in with him, and for the first time in his life -his physical strength flagged. The claims of his business began to -press upon him; people sent for him, respectfully and hesitatingly, -but with some confidence that he would come, nevertheless. And Wilmot -went; and was received with condoling looks, which he affected not to -see, and compassionating tones, of which he took no notice. - -He had no more to do with the past--he had buried it; his sole desire -was that others should aid him in this apparent oblivion; how far from -real it was, he alone could have told. He had written to Kilsyth a few -indispensable lines, and had had a formal report of Madeleine's -health, which he had conscientiously tried to range with other -professional documents, and lay by with them. It was certainly a dark -and dreary time, endless in length, and so hopeless, so final, that it -seemed to have no outlet; a time than which Chudleigh Wilmot believed -life could never bring him a darker. But trouble was new to him. He -learned more about it later on in his day. - -When a fortnight had elapsed after Wilmot's return to London, and the -tumult of his mind had subsided, though the bitterness of his feelings -was not yet allayed, he chanced one morning to require a paper, which -he knew was to be found in a certain cabinet which filled a niche in -the wall of his consulting-room. The cabinet in question was one he -rarely opened; and the moment he attempted to turn the key, he felt -confident that the lock had been tampered with. The conviction was -singularly unpleasant; for the cabinet was a repository of private -papers, deeds, letters, and professional notes. It also contained -several poisons, which Wilmot kept there in what he supposed to be -inviolable security. Closer inspection confirmed his suspicions. The -lock had been opened by the simple process of breaking it; and the -doors, merely laid together, had caught on a jagged piece of metal, -and thus presented the slight obstacle they had offered. With a mere -shake they unclosed. - -This circumstance puzzled Wilmot exceedingly. He made a careful -examination of the contents of the cabinet. All was precisely as he -had left it; not a paper missing or disturbed. - -"Who can have been at the cabinet?" he thought, "and with what -motive?--Nothing has been taken; nothing, so far as I can discover, -has been touched. Mere curiosity would hardly tempt anyone to run such -a risk; and no one knew that there was anything of value here. Stay," -he reflected; "one person knew it. _She_ knew it; she knew that I kept -private papers here. No doubt it was she who opened the cabinet. But -with what motive? What can she possibly have wanted which she could -have hoped to find here?" - -No answer to this query presented itself to Wilmot's mind. He thought -and thought over it, painfully recurring to all Mrs. Prendergast had -told him, and trying to help himself to a solution of this mystery by -the aid of those which had preceded it. For some time he thought in -vain; at length the idea struck him that the jealous woman, restless -and miserable in her unhappy curiosity--he could understand _now_ what -she had felt, he could pity her _now_--had opened the cabinet to seek -for letters from some fancied rival in his affections. Nothing but his -belief in the perversion of mind which comes of the indulgence of such -a passion as jealousy could have led Wilmot to suspect his wife of -such an act for a moment. But he was a wise man, now that it was too -late, in that lore which he had never studied while he might have read -the book, and he recognised the transforming power of jealousy. Yes, -that was it doubtless; she had sought here for the material wherewith -to feed the flame that had tortured her. - -Chudleigh Wilmot took the paper he wanted from the place where -it had lain, and was about to close the doors of the cabinet once -more--restoring them, until he could have the lock repaired, to their -deceptive appearance of security--when his attention was caught by a -dark-coloured spot, about the size of a shilling, upon the topmost -sheet of a packet of papers which lay beside a small mahogany case -containing the before-mentioned poisons. He took the packet out and -examined it. The spot was there, and extended to every paper in the -packet. A sudden flush and expression of vague alarm crossed Wilmot's -face. He took up the case and examined the exterior. A dark mark, the -stain of some glutinous fluid, ran down the side of the box next which -the papers had lain. For a moment he held the case in his hands, and -literally dared not open it. Then in sickening fear he did so, and -found its contents apparently undisturbed. The box was divided into -ten little compartments, in each of which stood a tiny bottle, -glass-stoppered and covered with a leaden capsule. To the neck of each -was appended a little leaden seal, the mark of the French chemist from -whom Wilmot had purchased the deadly drugs. He took the bottles out -one by one, examined their seals, and held them up to the light. All -safe for nine out of the number; but as he touched the tenth, the -capsule with the leaden seal attached to it fell off, and Wilmot -discovered, with ineffable horror, that the bottle, which had -contained one of the deadliest poisons known to science, was half -empty. - -He set down the case, and reeled against the corner of the mantelshelf -near him, like a drunken man. He could not face the idea that had -taken possession of him; he could not collect his thoughts. He gasped -as though water were surging round him. Once more he took up the -bottle and looked at it. It was only too true; one half the contents -was missing. He closed the case, and pushed it back into its place. It -struck against something on the shelf of the cabinet. He felt for the -object, and drew out _his wife's seal-ring!_ - -And now Chudleigh Wilmot knew what was the terror that had seized him. -It was no longer vague; it stood before him clear, defined, -unconquerable; and he groaned: - -"My God! she destroyed herself!" - - - - -CHAPTER XIII. -A Turn of the Screw. - - -Chudleigh Wilmot had not seen Mrs. Prendergast since the day on which -his wife's funeral had taken place; and it was with equal surprise and -satisfaction that she received a brief but kindly-worded note from -him, requesting her to permit him to call upon her. - -"I wonder what it's all about," she thought, as she wrote with -deliberation and care a gracious answer in the affirmative. Mrs. -Prendergast had been thinking too since her friend's death, and her -cogitations had had some practical results. It was true that Mabel -Darlington had not been happy with Wilmot; but Mrs. Prendergast, -thinking it all over, was not indisposed to the opinion that it was a -good deal her own fault, and to entertain the very natural feminine -conviction that things would have been quite otherwise had she been in -Mabel's place. Why should she not--of course in due time, and with a -proper observance of all the social decencies--hope to fill that place -now? She was a practical, not a sentimental woman; but when the idea -occurred to her very strongly, she certainly did find pleasure in -remembering that Mabel Wilmot had been very much attached to her, and -would perhaps have liked the notion of her being her successor as well -as any woman ever really likes any suggestion of the kind, that is to -say, resignedly, and with an "it-might-be-worse" reservation. - -Henrietta Prendergast had cherished a very sound dislike to Chudleigh -Wilmot for some time; but it was, though quite real--while the fact -that he had chosen another than herself, though she had been so ready -and willing to be chosen, was constantly impressed upon her -remembrance--not of a lasting nature. Besides, she had had the -satisfaction of making him understand very distinctly that the choice -he had made had not been a wise one; and ever since her feelings -towards him had been undergoing a considerable modification. - -How much ground had Mabel had for her jealously of Miss Kilsyth? What -truth was there in the suspicions they had both entertained respecting -the influence which his young patient had exercised over Wilmot?'. She -had no means of determining these questions. It would have been -impossible for her, had she been a woman capable of such a meanness, -to have watched Wilmot during the interval which had elapsed since his -wife's death. His numerous professional duties, the constant demands -upon his time, all rendered her attaining any distinct knowledge of -his proceedings impossible; and beyond the announcement in the -_Morning Post_ that Kilsyth of Kilsyth and his family had arrived in -town, she knew nothing whatever concerning them. Henrietta Prendergast -had, on the whole, been considerably occupied with the idea of -Chudleigh Wilmot when his note reached her, and she prepared to -receive him with feelings which resembled those of long-past days -rather than those which had actuated her of late. - -It was late in the afternoon when the expected visitor made his -appearance, and Henrietta had already begun to feel piqued and angry -at the delay. His note indicated a pressing wish to see her--she had -answered it promptly. What had made him so dilatory about availing -himself of her permission? - -The first look she caught of Wilmot's face convinced her that the -motive of his visit was a grave one. He was pale and sedate, even to a -fixed seriousness far beyond that which had fallen upon him after the -shock of Mabel's death, and a painful devouring anxiety might be read -in the troubled haggard expression of his deep-set dark eyes. He -entered at once upon the matter which had induced him to ask Mrs. -Prendergast for an interview; and though her manner was emphatically -gracious, and designed to show him that she desired to maintain their -former relations intact, he took no notice of her courtesy. This was a -mistake. All women are quick to take cognisance of a slight, and -Henrietta was no slower than the rest of her sex. He showed her much -too plainly that he had an object in seeking her presence entirely -unconnected with herself. It was not wise; but the shock of the -discovery which he had made had shaken Wilmot's nerves and overthrown -his judgment for the time. He briefly informed Mrs. Prendergast that -he came for the purpose of asking her to recapitulate all the -circumstances of his wife's illness and death; to entreat her to tax -her memory to the utmost, to recall everything, however trivial, -bearing upon the progress of the malady, and in particular every -detail bearing upon her state of mind. - -Henrietta listened to him with profound astonishment. Previously he -had shunned all such details. When she had met him, prepared to supply -them, he had asked her no questions; he had been apparently satisfied -with the medical report made to him by Dr. Whittaker; he had been -almost indifferent to such minor facts as she had stated; and the -painful revelation which she had made to him had not been followed up -by any close questioning on his part. And now, when all was at an end, -when the grave had closed over the sad domestic story, as over all -the tragedies of human life, hidden or displayed, the grave must -close,--now he came to her with this preoccupied brooding face and -manner to ask her these vain and painful questions. Thus she was newly -associated with dark and dismal images in his mind, and this was -precisely what Henrietta had no desire to be. She answered him, -therefore, in her coldest tone (and no woman knew how to ice her -answers better than she did), that the subject was extremely painful -to her for many reasons. Was it absolutely necessary to revive it? -Wilmot said it was, and expressed no consideration for her feelings -nor regret for the necessity of wounding them. - -"Well, then, Dr. Wilmot," said Henrietta, "as I presume you wish to -question me in some particular direction, though I am quite at a loss -to understand why, you are at liberty to do so." - -Wilmot then commenced an interrogatory, which, as it proceeded, filled -Henrietta with amazement. Had he any theory of his wife's illness and -death incompatible with the facts as she had seen and understood them? -Did he suspect Dr. Whittaker of ignorance and mismanagement in the -case? Even supposing he did, what would it avail him now to convince -himself that such suspicion was well founded? All was inevitable, all -was irreparable now. While these thoughts were busy in her brain, she -was answering question after question put to her by Wilmot in a cold -voice, and with her steady neutral-tinted eyes fixed in pitiless -scrutiny upon him. He asked her in particular about the period at -which Mabel had suppressed Dr. Whittaker's letter to him. Had she been -particularly unhappy just then; had the "unfortunate notion she had -conceived about--about Miss Kilsyth, been in her mind before, or just -at that time?" - -This question Mrs. Prendergast could not, or would not, answer very -distinctly. She did not remember exactly when Mabel had heard so much -about Miss Kilsyth; she did not know what day it was on which Dr. -Whittaker had written. Wilmot produced the letter, and pointed out the -date. Still Mrs. Prendergast's memory refused to aid her reliably. She -really did not know; she could not answer this. Could she remember -whether Mabel had ever left her room after that letter had been -written? or whether she had been confined to her room when she had -received his (Wilmot's) letter from Kilsyth; the letter which Mrs. -Prendergast had said had distressed her so much, had brought about the -confidence between Mabel and herself relative to the feelings of the -former, and had led Mabel to say that she had no desire to live? -Wilmot awaited the reply to these questions in a state of suspense not -far removed from agony. He could not indeed permit himself to cherish -a hope that the dreadful idea he entertained was unfounded; but in the -answer awful confirmation or the germ of hope must lie. - -Henrietta replied, after a few moments' thoughtful silence. She could -remember the circumstances, though not the precise date. Mabel had -left her room on the day on which she had received Wilmot's letter; -she had been in the drawing-rooms, and even in the consulting-room on -that day. It was on the night that she had told Mrs. Prendergast all, -and had expressed her desire to die, her conviction that she could not -recover. Henrietta was not certain whether that day was the same as -that on which Dr. Whittaker's letter was written, but she was -perfectly clear on the point on which Wilmot appeared to lay so much -stress; she knew it was the day after his last letter from Kilsyth had -reached her. - -The intense suffering displayed in every line of Wilmot's face as she -made this statement touched Henrietta as much as it puzzled her. Had -she mistaken this man? Had he really deep feelings, strong -susceptibilities? Had the shock of his wife's death been far otherwise -felt than she had believed, and was he now groping after every detail, -in order to feed the vain flame of love and memory? Such a supposition -accorded very ill with all she knew and all she imagined of Chudleigh -Wilmot; but she could find no other within her not infertile brain. - -"What became of my letter to her?" Wilmot asked her abruptly. - -"It is in her coffin, together with every other you ever wrote her. I -placed them there at her own request. She had them tied up in a -packet,--the others I mean; but she gave me that one separately." - -"Why?" asked Wilmot in a hoarse whisper. - -"Why!" repeated Henrietta. "I don't know. It was only a few hours -before she died. She hardly spoke at all after, but she told me quite -distinctly then that I was to give you her wedding-ring, and to place -those letters in her coffin. 'I could not destroy those,' she said, -touching the packet in my hand; 'and this,' she drew it from under her -pillow as she spoke, 'I want to be placed with me too. It is my -justification.'" - -"My justification!" repeated Wilmot. "What did she mean? What did you -understand that she meant by that?" - -"I did not think much about it. The poor thing was near her end then, -and I thought little of it; though of course I did what she desired." - -"Yes, yes, I understand," said Wilmot. "But her -justification--justification in what--for what?" - -"In her gloomy and miserable ideas of course, and, above all, in her -desire to die. She believed that your letter contained the proof of -all she feared and suffered from, and so justified her longing to -escape from further neglect and sorrow." - -"You did not suspect that it had any further meaning?" - -Henrietta stared at him in silence. "I beg your pardon," he said; "my -mind is confused by anxiety. I am afraid, Mrs. Prendergast, there may -have been features in this case not rightly understood. Could it be -that Whittaker was deceived?" - -"I think not--I cannot believe that there was any error. Dr. Whittaker -never expressed any anxiety on _that_ point, any uncertainty, any wish -to divide the responsibility, except with yourself. I understood him -to say that he had gone into the case very fully with you, and that -you were satisfied everything had been done within the resources of -medicine." - -"Yes, he did. I don't blame him; I don't blame anyone but myself. But, -Mrs. Prendergast, that is not the point. What I want to get at is -this: did she--my wife I mean--did she hide anything from Whittaker's -knowledge?" - -"Anything? In her physical state do you mean? Of her mental sufferings -no one but myself ever had the smallest indication. Will you wrong her -dead as well as living?" said Henrietta angrily. - -"No," he answered, "I will not,--I trust I will not, and do not. I -meant, did she tell Whittaker all about her illness? Did she conceal -any symptoms from him? Did she suffer more or otherwise than he knew -of?" - -"Frankly, I think she did, Dr. Wilmot. She was extremely, almost -painfully patient; I would much rather have seen her less so. She -answered his questions and mine, but she said nothing except in answer -to questioning. She suffered, I am convinced, infinitely more than she -allowed to appear; and especially on the night of her death, just -before the stupor set in, she was in great agony." - -"Yes," said Wilmot hurriedly. "Was Whittaker there? Did he know it?" - -"He was not there; he had been sent for a little while before, when -she was tranquil; and she was quite insensible when he returned in -about three hours. He told you, of course, that we had had good hope -of her during the day,--in fact, up to the evening?" - -"Yes, he said there had been a rally, but it had not lasted. Did she -know that there was hope?" - -"She did," said Henrietta slowly and reluctantly. "You ask me very -painful questions, Dr. Wilmot,--painful to me in the extreme; and I am -sure my answers must be acutely distressing to you. I cannot -understand your motive." - -"No," he said, "I am sure you cannot; neither can I explain it. But -indeed I am compelled to put these questions; I cannot spare either -you or myself. You say she knew there was hope of her recovery on the -day before her death; and yet while the rally lasted,--before the -suffering of which you speak set in,--she gave you those solemn -charges which you fulfilled?" - -"Yes," said Henrietta--and her voice was soft now and her eyes were -full of tears--"she did. She did not trust the rally. She told me, -with such a dreadful smile, that it would not avail to keep her from -her rest. She was right. From the moment she grew worse the progress -of death was awfully rapid." - -"What medicine did you give her during the brief improvement?" - -"Only some restorative drops. Dr. Whittaker gave them to her himself -several times, and when he left I gave them to her." - -"Did she ever take this medicine of her own accord? Was she strong -enough in the interval of improvement to take medicine, or to move -without assistance?" - -Again Henrietta looked at him for a little while before she replied: - -"If you are afraid, Dr. Wilmot, that any mistake was made about the -medicine, dismiss such a fear. There was no other medicine in the room -but the bottle containing the drops; and now your strange question -reminds me that she did take them once unassisted." - -Wilmot rose and came towards her. "How? when?" he said eagerly. "How -could she do so in her weak state?" - -"The bottle was on the table, close by her bed. Only one dose was -left. She had asked me to raise the window-blind; and I was doing so, -when she stretched out her arm and took the bottle off the table. When -I turned round she was drinking the last drops, and the next moment -she dropped the bottle on the floor, and it was broken." - -"Was she fainting, then?" - -"O no," said Henrietta, "she was quite sensible, until the pain came -on. Indeed I remember that she told me to keep away from the bed until -the broken glass had been swept up." - -"Was that done?" - -"Yes, I did it myself at once." - -"One more question, Mrs. Prendergast," said Wilmot, who had put a -strong constraint upon himself, and spoke calmly now. "When did she -charge you to have her coffin closed within two days of her death? Was -it within the interval during which her recovery seemed possible?" - -"It was," answered Henrietta,--"it was when she told me that the rally -was deceitful, and was not to keep her from her rest. Then I undertook -to carry out her wish." - -"Did she give any reason for having formed it?" - -"She did--the reason you surmised when I first told you of it. I need -not repeat it." - -"I would wish you to do so--pray let me hear the exact words she -said." - -"Well, then, they were these. 'You will promise me to see it done, -Henrietta. He cannot get home, even supposing he could leave at once, -when he hears that I am dead, until late on the second day.' I told -her it was an awful thing that she should wish you not to see her -again, and she said, 'No, no, it is not. If he thinks of my face at -all, I want him to see it in his memory as it was when I thought he -liked to look at it. I could not bear him to remember it black and -disfigured.' Those were her exact words, Dr. Wilmot; and like all the -rest she said, they proved to me how much she loved you." - -Wilmot made no answer, and neither spoke for some minutes. Then Wilmot -extended his hand, which Henrietta took with some cordiality, and -said, "I thank you very much, Mrs. Prendergast, for the patience with -which you have heard me and answered me. I have no explanation to give -you. I shall never forget your kindness to my wife, and I hope we -shall always be good friends." - -He pressed her hand warmly as he spoke; and before Henrietta could -reply, he left her to cogitations as vain and unsatisfactory as they -were absorbing and unceasing. - -Chudleigh Wilmot went direct to his own house after his interview with -Henrietta, and gave himself up to the emotions which possessed him. -Not a shadow of doubt did he now entertain that his wife had destroyed -herself. In the skill and ingenuity with which he invested the act, in -his active fancy, which had read the story from the unconscious -narrative of Henrietta, he recognised a touch of insanity, which his -experience taught him was not very rare in cases similar to that of -his wife. To a certain extent he was relieved by the conviction that -when she had done the irrevocable deed she was not in her right mind. -But what had led to it? what had been the predisposing causes? His -conscience, awakened too late, his heart, softened too late, gave him -a stern and searching answer. Her life had been unhappy, and she had -made her escape from it. He was as much to blame as if he had -voluntarily and actively made her wretched. He saw this now by the -light of that keener susceptibility, that higher understanding, which -had been kindled within him. It had been kindled by the magic touch of -love. Another woman had made him see into his wife's heart, and -understand her life. What was he to do now? how was it to be with him -in the future? He hardly dared to think. Sometimes his mind dwelt on -the possibility that it might not be as he believed it was, and the -only means of resolving his doubts suggested itself. He might have -Mabel's body exhumed, and then the truth would be known. But he shrank -with horror from the thought, as from a dishonour to her memory. If he -took such a step, it must be accounted for; and could he, would he -dare to cast such a slur upon the woman who, if she had done this -deed, had resorted to it because, as his wife, she was miserable? Had -he any right, supposing it was all a dreadful delusion that she had -meddled with his poisons for some trivial motive, however -inexplicable,--had he any right to solve his own doubts at such a -price as their exposure to cold official eyes? No--a resolute negative -was the reply of his heart to these questions; and he made up his mind -that his punishment must be lifelong irremediable doubt, to be borne -with such courage as he could summon, but never to be escaped from or -left behind. - -Utter sickness of heart fell upon him and a great weariness. From the -past he turned away with vain terrible regret; to the future he dared -not look. The present he loathed. He must leave that house, he thought -impatiently--he could not bear the sight of it. It had none of the -dear and sorrowful sacredness which makes one cling to the home of the -loved and lost; it was hateful to him; for there the life his -indifference, his want of comprehension had blighted, had been -terminated--he shuddered as he thought by what means. And then he -thought he would leave England; he could not see Madeleine Kilsyth -again; or if he had to do so, he could not see her often. To think of -her, in her innocent youth and beauty, as one to be loved, or wooed, -or won--if even in his most distant dreams such a possibility were -approached by a man whose life had such a story in it, such a dreadful -truth, setting him apart from other men--was almost sacrilegious. No, -he would go away. Fate had dealt him a tremendous blow; he could not -stand against it; he must yield to it for the present, at all events. -Under the influence of the terrible truth which he was forced to -confront, all his ambition, all his energy seemed suddenly to have -deserted the rising man. - - -* * * * * - - -"But, my dear fellow, I can't bring myself to believe that you are -serious; I can't indeed, just as the ball is at your foot too. I -protest I expected you to distance them all in another year. Everybody -talks of you; and what is infinitely better, everyone is ready to call -you in if they require your services, or fancy they require them. Why, -there's Kilsyth of Kilsyth--ah, Wilmot, you threw me over in that -direction, but I don't bear malice--he swears by you. The fine old -fellow came to the bank yesterday; I met him in the hall, and he got -into my brougham, and came home with me, for no other reason on earth -than to talk about you. Wilmot's skill and Wilmot's coolness, Wilmot's -kindness and Wilmot's care--nothing but Wilmot. I should have been -bored to death by so much talking all about one man, if it had been -any man but yourself. And now to tell me that you are going away, -going to make a gap in your life, going to give up the running, and -forfeit such prospects as yours--because you must remember, my dear -fellow, you must not calculate on resuming exactly where you have left -off, in any sort of game of life; to do such a thing as this because -you have met with a loss which thousands of men have to bear, and work -on just as usual notwithstanding! Impossible, my dear Wilmot; you are -not in earnest--you have not considered the thing!" - -Thus emphatically spoke Mr. Foljambe to Chudleigh Wilmot, all the more -emphatically because his friend's resolution had astonished as much as -it had displeased and disquieted him. Mr. Foljambe had never looked -upon Wilmot at all in the light of a particularly devoted husband; and -when he alluded to the loss of a wife being one which he had to bear -in common with many other sufferers, he had done so with a shrewd -conviction that Wilmot must be trusted to find all the fortitude -necessary for the occasion. - -Mr. Foljambe, of Portland-place, was a very rich and influential -banker; gouty enough to bear out the tradition of his wealth, and -courteous and wise enough to do credit to his calling. He was not -describable as a City man, however, but was, on the contrary, a -pleasure and fashion-loving old gentleman, who was perfectly versed in -the ways of society, _au courant_ of all the gossip of "town," very -popular in the gayest and in the most select circles, an authority -upon horses, though he never rode, learned in wines, though he -consumed them in great moderation, believed not to possess a relative -in the world, and more attached to Chudleigh Wilmot than to any human -being alive, at his present and advanced period of existence. The old -gentleman and Chudleigh Wilmot's father had been chums in boyhood and -friends in manhood; and the friendship he felt for the younger man was -somewhat hereditary, though Wilmot's qualities were precisely of a -nature to have won Mr. Foljambe's regard on their own merits. He had -watched Wilmot's course with the utmost interest, pride, and pleasure. -His unflagging industry, his determined energy commanded his sympathy; -and he anticipated a triumphant career of professional success and -renown for his favourite. The intelligence that he had determined, if -not to relinquish, at least to suspend his professional labours, gave -the kind old gentleman sincere concern. He did not understand it, he -repeated over and over again; he could not make it out; it was not -like Wilmot. Of course he could not say distinctly to him that he had -never supposed his wife to be so dear to him that her death must needs -revolutionise his life. But if he did not say this, Wilmot discerned -it in his manner; but still he offered no explanation. He could not -remain in England; he must go. His health, his mind would give way, if -he did not get away into another scene, into new associations. All -remonstrance, all argument proved unavailing; and when Wilmot bade his -old friend farewell, he left him half angry and half mistrustful, as -well as altogether depressed and sorrowful. - - - - -CHAPTER XIV. -His Grateful Patient. - - -She has destroyed herself! That was the keynote to all his thoughts. -Destroyed herself, made away with herself! Destroyed herself! He was -not much of a reading man--had not time for it in all his occupations; -but what were those two lines which would keep surging up into his -beating brain, and from time to time finding expression on his -trembling tongue-- - - - "Rashly importunate, - Gone to her death!" - - -Gone to her death! He repeated the words a thousand times. Dead now; -gone to her last account, as Shakespeare says, "with all her -imperfections on her head." Gone, without chance or power of recall; -gone without a word of explanation between them, without a word of -sympathy, without a word of forgiveness on either side. He had often -pictured their parting, he dying, she dying, and had imagined the -scene; how, whichever of them found life ebbing away, would say that -they had misunderstood the other perhaps, and that perhaps life might -have been made more to each, had they been more suitable; but that -they had been faithful, and so on; and perhaps hereafter they might, -&c. He had thought of this often; but the end had come now, and his -ideas had not been realised. There had been no parting, no mutual -forgiveness, no last words of tenderness and hope. He had not been -there to soothe her dying hour; to tell her how he acknowledged all -her goodness, and how, though perhaps he had not made much outward -manifestation, he had always thoroughly appreciated the discharge of -her wifely duties to him. He had not been present to have one -whispered explanation of how each had misunderstood the other, and how -both had been in the wrong; to share in one common prayer for -forgiveness, and one common hope of future meeting. There had been no -explanation, no forgiveness; he had parted from her almost as he might -from any everyday acquaintance; he had written to her such a letter as -he might have written to Whittaker, who had taken his practice -temporarily; and now he returned to find her dead! Worse than dead! -Dead probably by her own act, by her own hand! - -Stay! He was losing his head now; his pulse was at fever-heat, his -skin dry and hot. Why had this terrible supposition taken such fast -hold upon him? There was the evidence of the ring and of the leaden -seal. Certainly practical evidence; but the motive--where was the -motive? Suppose now--and a horrible shudder ran through him as the -supposition crossed his mind--suppose now that this had become a -matter for legal inquiry? suppose--Heaven knows how--suppose that the -servants had suspected, and had talked, and--and the law had -interfered--what motive would have been put forward for Mabel's -self-destruction? He and she had never had a word of contention since -their marriage; no one could prove that there had ever been the -smallest disagreement between them; her home had been such as befitted -her station; no word could be breathed against her husband's -character; and yet-- - - - "Anywhere, anywhere, - Out of the world!" - - -that was another couplet from the same poem that was fixed in his -brain, and that he found himself constantly quoting, when he was -trying to assign reasons for his wife's suicide. Was Henrietta -Prendergast right, after all? Had his whole married life been a -mistake, a Dead-Sea apple without even the gorgeous external, a hollow -sham, a delusion, and a mockery culminating in the semblance of a -crime? "Anywhere out of the world," eh? And "out of the world" had -meant at first, in the early days, when the first faint dawnings of -discontent rose in her mind,--then "anywhere out of the world" was a -poor dejected cry of repining at her want of power to influence her -husband, to make herself the successful rival of his profession, to -wean him from the constant pursuit of science to the exclusion of all -domestic bliss, and to render him her companion and her lover. But if -Henrietta Prendergast were right, that must have been a mere fancy, -which, compared to the wild despair that prompted the heart-broken -shriek of "anywhere out of the world" at the last, and which, -according to that authority, meant--anywhere for rest and peace and -quiet, anywhere where I may stifle the love which I bear him, may be -no longer a fetter and a clog to him, and might have to suffer the -knowledge that though bound to me, he loves Madeleine Kilsyth. - -He loves Madeleine Kilsyth! As the thought rose in his mind, he found -himself audibly repeating the sentence. His dead wife thought that; -and in that thought found life insupportable to her, and destroyed -herself! His dead wife! Straightway his thoughts flew back through a -series of years, and he saw himself first married,--young, earnest, -and striving. Not in love with his wife--that he never had been, he -reflected with something like self-excuse--not in love with Mabel, but -actually proud of her. When he first commenced his connection, and -earned the gratitude of the great railway contractor's wife at -Clapham, and that great dame, who was the ruling star in her own -circle, intimated her intention of calling on Mrs. Wilmot, Wilmot -remembered how he had thanked his stars that while some of his -fellow-students had married barmaids of London taverns, or awkward -hoydens from their provincial pasture, he had had the good luck to -espouse a girl than whom the great Mrs. Sleepers herself was not more -thoroughly presentable, more perfectly well-mannered. He recollected -the first interview at his little, modest, badly-furnished house, with -the dingy maid-servant decorated with one of Mabel's cast-off gowns -(not cast off until every scrap of bloom had been ruthlessly worn off -it), and the arrival of the great lady in her banging, swinging -barouche, with her tawdry ill-got-up footman, and her evident -astonishment at the way in which everything was made the most of, and -at the taste which characterised the rooms, and her open-mouthed wonder -at Mabel herself, in her turned black-silk dress and her neat linen -cuffs and collar, and her impossibility to patronise, and her -declaration delivered to him the next day, that his wife was "the -nicest little woman in the world, and a real lady!" - -Out of the gloom of long-since vanished days came a thousand little -reminiscences, each "garlanded with its peculiar flower," each -touchingly remindful of something pleasant connected with the dead -woman whom he had lost. Long dreary nights which he had passed in -reading and working, and which she had spent in vaguely wondering what -was to be the purport and result of all his labour. No sympathy! that -had been his cry! Good God!--as though he had not been demented in -fancying that a young woman could have had sympathy with his dry -studies, his physiological experiments. No sympathy! what sympathy had -he shown to her? The mere physical struggle in the race, the hope of -winning, the dawning of success, had irradiated his life, had softened -the stony path, and pushed aside the briers, and tempered the -difficulties in his career; but how had she benefited? In sharing -them? But had he permitted her to share them? had he ever made her a -portion of himself? had he not laughed aside the notion of her -entering into the vital affairs of his career, and told her that any -assistance from her was an impossibility? That she was self-contained -and unsympathetic, he had said to himself a thousand times. Now, for -the first time, he asked himself who had made her so;--and the answer -was anything but consoling to him in his then desolate frame of mind. - -These thoughts were constantly present to him; he found it impossible -to shake them off; in the few minutes' interval between the exit of -one patient and the entrance of another, in his driving from house to -house, his mind instantly gave up the case with which it had recently -been occupied, and turned back to the dead woman. He would sit, -apparently looking vacantly before him, but in reality trying to -recall the looks, words, ways of his dead wife. He tried--O, how -hard!--to recall one look of content, of happiness, of thorough trust -and love; but he tried in vain. A general expression of quiet -suffering, which had become calm through continuance, varied by an -occasional glance of querulous impatience when he might have been -betrayed into dilating on the importance of some case in which -he happened to be engaged and the interest with which it filled -him,--these were his only recollections of Mabel's looks. Nor did his -remembrance of her words and ways afford him any more comfort. True -she had never said, certainly had never said to him, that her life was -anything but a happy one; but she had looked it often. Even he felt -that now, reading her looks by the light of memory, and wondered that -the truth had never struck him at the time. He remembered how he would -look up off his work and see her, her hands lying listlessly in her -lap, her eyes staring vacantly before, so entranced, so rapt in her -own thoughts, that she would start violently when he spoke to her. She -always had the same answer for his questions at those times. What -was the matter with her? Nothing! What should be the matter with -her?--What was she thinking of? Nothing, at least nothing that could -possibly interest him. Did her presence there annoy him, because she -would go away willingly if it did? And the voice in which this was -said--the cold, hard, dry, unsympathising voice! Good God! if he had -not been sufficiently mindful of her, if he had not bestowed such -attention and affection as is due from a husband to his wife, surely -there was some small excuse for him in the manner in which his clumsy -approaches had been received! - -At times he felt a wild inexplicable desire to have her back again -with him, and fell into a long train of thought as to what he should -do supposing all the events of the past three months were to turn out -to have been a dream--as indeed he often fancied they would; and on -his return he were to go up into the drawing-room, whither he had -never penetrated since his return, and were to find Mabel sitting -there, prim and orderly, among the prim and orderly furniture. Should -he alter his method of life, and endeavour to make it more acceptable -to her? How was it to be done? It would be impossible for him now to -give up his confirmed ways; impossible for him to give up his reading -and his work, and fritter away his evenings in taking his wife to the -gaieties to which they were invited. Perkins might do that--did it, -and found it answer; but the profession knew that Perkins was a -charlatan, and he--What wild nonsense was he thinking of? It was -done--it was over; he should never find his wife waiting for him again -when he returned: she was dead; she had destroyed herself! - -As this horrible thought burst upon him again with tenfold its -original horror, he buried his face in his hands, and bowed his head -upon the writing table in front of him in an agony of despair. He -could bear it no longer; it was driving him mad. If he only knew--and -yet he dared not inquire more closely; the presumptive evidence was -horribly strong, was thoroughly sufficient to rob him of his peace of -mind, of his clearness of intellect. Then the terrible consequences of -the discovery, the awful duty which it imposed upon him, flashed upon -his labouring consciousness. He dared not inquire more closely? No, -not he. As a physician, he knew perfectly well what the result of any -such inquiry would be. He knew perfectly well that in any other case, -where he was merely professionally and not personally interested, his -first idea for the solution of such doubts as then oppressed him, had -they existed in anyone else, would have been to suggest the exhumation -of the body, and its rigid examination. He knew perfectly well that, -harbouring such doubts as were then racking and torturing his -distracted mind, it was clearly his duty to insist on such steps being -taken. He was no squeamish woman, no nervous man, to be alarmed at the -sight of death's dread handiwork; that was familiar to him from -constant experience, from old hospital custom, from his education and -his studies. Should this dread idea of Mabel's self-destruction, now -ever haunting him, ever present to his mind--should it cross the -thoughts of anyone else, would not the necessity for exhumation be the -first notion that would present itself? Suppose he were to suggest it? -Suppose he were to profess himself dissatisfied with the accounts of -Mabel's illness given him by Whittaker, and were to insist upon -positive proof, professionally satisfactory to him, of his wife's -disease? Of course he would make a deadly enemy of Whittaker; but that -he thought but little of: his name stood high enough to bear any slur -that might be thrown upon it from that quarter, and his reputation -would stand higher than ever from the mere fact of his boldly -determining to face a disagreeable inquiry, rather than allow such a -case to be slurred over. And the inquiry made, and Whittaker's -statement proved to be generally correct, at best it would be thought -that Dr. Wilmot was somewhat morbidly anxious as to the cause of his -wife's death; an anxiety which would be anything but prejudicial to -him in the minds of many of his friends, while the relief to his own -overcharged mind would be immediate and complete. Relief! Ah, once -more to feel relief would be worth all the responsibility. He would -see about it at once; he would give the necessary information, -and--But suppose the result did not turn out as he would hope to see -it? suppose all the information given, the coroner's warrant obtained, -the exhumation made, the examination complete, and the result--that -Mabel had destroyed herself? The first step taken in such a matter -would be an immediate challenge to public attention; the press would -bear the whole matter broadcast on its wings; Dr. Wilmot and his -domestic affairs would become a subject for gossip throughout the -land; and if it proved that Mabel had destroyed herself, her memory -would, at his instance, remain ever crime-tainted. Even if the best -happened; if Whittaker's judgment were indorsed, would not people ask -whether it was not odd that a suspicion of foul play should have -crossed the husband's mind, whether Mrs. Wilmot in her lifetime may -not have used such a threat; and if so, might not the circumstances -which led to the supposed use of the threat be inquired into, the -motives questioned, the home-life discussed? Hour after hour he -revolved this in his mind, purposeless, wavering. Finally he decided -that he would leave matters as they were, saying to himself that such -a course was merely justice to his dead wife, on whose memory, were -she guilty of self-slaughter, he should be the last to bring obloquy, -or even suspicion. He felt more comfortable after having come to this -decision--more comfortable in persuading himself that he was guided by -a tender feeling towards the dead woman. He said "Poor Mabel!" to -himself several times in thinking over it, and shook his head -dolefully; and actually felt that if she had been prompted by his -neglect to take this step, his omitting to call public attention to it -was in itself some _amende_ for his neglect. But even to himself he -would not allow this soul-guiding influence in the matter. He blinked -it, and shut his eyes to it; refused to listen to it, and--was led by -it all the same. Chudleigh Wilmot tried to persuade himself, did -persuade himself that he was acting solely in deference to his dead -wife's memory; but what really influenced his conduct was the -knowledge that the arousal of the smallest suspicion as to the cause -of his wife's death, the smallest scandal about himself, would -inevitably separate him hopelessly, and for ever, from Madeleine -Kilsyth. The great question as to whether Mabel had destroyed herself -still remained unanswered. He was powerless to shake off the -impression, and under the impression he was useless; he could do -justice neither to himself nor his patients. He must get away; give up -practice at least for a time, and go abroad; go somewhere where he -knew no one, and where he himself was quite unknown--somewhere where -he could have rest and quiet and surcease of brainwork; where he could -face this dreadful incubus, and either get rid of it, or school -himself to bear it without its present dire effect on his life. - -He would do that, and do it at once. The death of his wife would -afford him sufficient excuse to the world, which knew him as a highly -nervous and easily impressible man, and which would readily understand -that he had been shattered by the suddenness of the blow. As to his -practice, he was well content to give that up for a short time: he -knew his own value without being in the least conceited--knew that he -could pick it up again just where he left it, and that his patients -would be only too glad to see him. He had felt that when he was at -Kilsyth. - -At Kilsyth! The word jarred upon him at once. To give up his practice -even for a time meant a temporary estrangement from Madeleine; meant a -shutting out, so far as he was concerned, of sun and warmth and light -and life, at the very time when his way was darkest and his path most -beset. His mind had been so fully occupied since his return, that he -had only been able to give a few fleeting thoughts to Madeleine. He -felt a kind of horror at permitting her even in his thoughts to be -connected with the dreadful subject which filled them. But now when -the question of departure was being considered by him, he naturally -turned to Madeleine. - -To leave London now would be to throw away for ever his chance with -Madeleine Kilsyth. His chance with her? Yes, his chance of winning -her! He was a free man now--free to take his place among her suitors, -and try his chance of winning her for himself. How wonderful that -seemed to him, to be unfettered, to be free to woo where he liked! Last -time he had drifted into marriage carelessly and without purpose--it -should be very different the next time. But to leave London now -would be throwing away for ever his chance with Madeleine. He knew -that; he knew that he had established a claim of gratitude on the -family, which Kilsyth himself, at all events, would gladly allow, and -which Lady Muriel would probably not be prepared to deny. As for -Madeleine herself, he knew that she was deeply grateful to him, and -thoroughly disposed to confide in him. This was all he had dared to -hope hitherto; but now he was in a position to try and awaken a warmer -feeling. Gratitude was not a bad basis to begin on, and he hoped, he -did not know it was so long since the days of Maria Strutt--and -thinking it over, he looked blankly in the glass at the crows'-feet -round his eyes and the streaks of silver in his dark hair; but he -thought then that he had the art of pleasing women, unfortunate as was -the result of that particular case. But if he were to go away, the -advantageous position he had so luckily gained would be lost, the -ground would be cut away from under his feet, and on his return he -would have great difficulty in being received on a footing of intimacy -by the family; while it would probably be impossible for him to regain -the confidence and esteem he then enjoyed from all of them. - -Was, then, Madeleine Kilsyth a necessary ingredient in his future -happiness? That was a new subject for consideration. Hitherto, while -that--that barrier existed, he had looked upon the whole affair merely -as a strange sort of romance, in which ideas and feelings of which he -had never had much experience, and that experience long ago, had -suddenly revived within him. Pleasantly enough; for it was pleasant to -know that his heart had not yet been enough trodden down and hardened -by the years which had gone over it to prevent it receiving seed and -bearing fruit;--pleasantly enough; for an exchange of the stern -reality of his work, a dry world with the bevy of cares which are -ready waiting for you as you emerge from your morning's tub, and which -only disappear--to change into nightmares--as you extinguish your -bedroom gas--an exchange of this for a little of that glamour of love -which he thought never to meet with again, could not fail to be -pleasant. But the affair was altered now; the occurrence which had -made him free had at the same time rendered it necessary that he -should use his freedom to a certain end. Under former circumstances he -could have been frequently in Madeleine's company,--happy as he never -had been save when with her,--and the world would have asked no -question, have lifted no eyebrow, have shrugged no shoulder. Dr. -Wilmot was a married man, and his professional position warranted his -visiting Miss Kilsyth, who was his patient, as often as he thought -necessary. But now it was a very different matter. Here was a -man, still young, at least quite young enough to marry again; and -if it were said, as it would be, that he was "constantly at the -house," people---those confounded anonymous persons, the on who do -such an enormous amount of mischief in the world--would begin to talk -and whisper and hint; and the girl's name might be compromised through -him, and that would never do. - -Did he love her? did he want to marry her? As he asked himself the -question, his thoughts wandered back to Kilsyth. He saw her lying -flushed and fevered, her long golden hair tossing over her pillow, a -bright light in her blue eyes, her hot hands clasped behind her -burning head--or, better still, in her convalescence, when she lay -still and tranquil, and looked up at him timidly and softly, and -thanked him in the fullest and most liquid tones for all his kindness -to her. And he remembered how, gazing at her, listening to her, the -remembrance of what Love really was had come to him out of the faraway -regions of the Past, and had moved his heart within him in the same -manner, but much more potently than it had been moved in the days of -his youth. Yes; the question that he had put to himself admitted but -of one answer. He did love Madeleine Kilsyth; he did want to marry -her! To that end he would employ all his energies; to secure that he -would defer everything. What nonsense had he been talking about giving -up his practice and going away? He would remain where he was, and -marry Madeleine! - -And Henrietta Prendergast? The thought of that woman struck him like a -whip. If he were to marry Madeleine Kilsyth, would not that woman, -Henrietta Prendergast, Mabel's intimate and only friend--would not she -proclaim to the world all that she knew of the jealousy in which the -dead woman held the young girl? Would not his marriage be a -confirmation of her story? Might it not be possible that the existence -of such a talk might create other talk; that the manner of her death -might be discussed; that it might be suspected that, driven to it by -jealousy--that is how they would put it--Mrs. Wilmot had destroyed -herself? And if "they" put it so, it would be in vain to deny it. The -mere fact of his having been successful in his profession had created -hosts of enemies, who would take advantage of the first adverse wind, -and do their best to blast his renown and bring him down from the -pedestal to which he had been elevated. Then bit by bit the scandal -would grow--would permeate his practice--would become general -town-talk. He would see the whispers and the shoulder-shrugs and the -uplifted eyebrows, and perhaps the cool manner or the possible cut. -Could he stand that? Could a man of his sensibility endure such talk? -could he bear to feel that his domesticity was being laid bare before -the world for the comment of each idler who might choose to wile away -his time in discussing the story? Impossible! No; sooner keep in his -present dreary, hopeless, isolated position, sooner give up all -chances of winning Madeleine, sooner even retrograde. He had no -children to provide for, and could always have enough to support him -in a sufficient manner. He would give it all up; he would go away; he -would banish for ever that day-dream which he had permitted himself to -enjoy, and he would-- - -A letter was brought in by his servant--an oblong note, sealed with -black wax, in an unfamiliar handwriting. He turned it over two or -three times, then opened it, and read as follows: - - -"_Brook-street, Thursday_. - -"DEAR DR. WILMOT,--We have heard with very great regret of your sad -loss, and we all, Lady Muriel, papa, and myself, beg you to receive -our sincere condolence. I know how difficult it is at such a time to -attempt to offer consolation without an appearance of intrusion; but I -think I may say that we are especially concerned for you, as it was -your attendance on me which kept you from returning home at the time -you had originally intended. I can assure you I have thought of this -very often, and it has given me a great deal of uneasiness. Pray -understand that we can none of us ever thank you sufficiently for your -kindness to us at Kilsyth. With united kind regards, dear Dr. Wilmot, -your grateful patient, - - "MADELEINE KILSYTH. - -"P.S. I have a rather troublesome cough, which worries me at night. -You recollect telling me that you knew about this?" - - -So the Kilsyths were in town. His grateful patient! He could fancy the -half-smile on her lips as she traced the words. No; he would give up -his notion of going away--at least for the present! - - - - -CHAPTER XV. -Family Relations. - - -When the Kilsyths were in London, which, according to their general -practice, was only from February until June, they lived in a big -square house in Brook-street,--an old-fashioned house, with a -multiplicity of rooms, necessary for their establishment, which -demanded besides the ordinary number of what were known in the -house-agent's catalogue as "reception rooms," a sitting-room for -Kilsyth, where he could be quiet and uninterrupted by visitors, and -read the _Times_, and Scrope's _Salmon Fishing_, and Colonel Hawker on -_Shooting_, and _Cyril Thornton_, and Gleig's _Subaltern_, and -Napier's _History of the Peninsular War_, and one or two other books -which formed his library; where he could smoke his cigar, and pass in -review his guns and his gaiters and his waterproofs, and hold colloquy -with his man, Sandy MacCollop, as to what sport they had had the past -year, and what they expected to have the next--without fear of -interruption. This sanctuary of Kilsyth's lay far at the back of the -house, at the end of a passage never penetrated by ordinary visitors, -who indeed never inquired for the master of the house. Special guests -were admitted there occasionally; and perhaps two or three times in -the season there was a council-fire, to which some of the keenest -sportsmen, who knew Kilsyth, and were about to visit it in the autumn, -were admitted,--round which the smoke hung thick, and the conversation -generally ran in monosyllables. - -Lady Muriel's boudoir--another of the extraneous rooms, which the -house-agent's catalogue wotteth not of--led off the principal -staircase through a narrow passage; and, so far as extravagance and -good taste could combine in luxury, was the room of the house. When -you are not an appraiser's apprentice, it is difficult to describe a -room of this kind; it is best perhaps to follow little Lord -Towcester's description, who, when the subject was being discussed at -mess, offered to back Lady Muriel's room for good taste against any in -London; and when asked to describe it, said, - -"Lots of flowers; lots of cushions; lots of soft things to sit down -upon, and nice things to smell; and jolly books--to look at, don't you -know: needn't say I haven't read any of 'em; and forty hundred clocks, -with charming chimin' bells; and china monkeys, you know; and fellows -with women's heads and no bodies, and that kind of thing; and those -round tables, that are always sticking out their confounded third leg -and tripping a fellow up. Most charmin' place, give you my word." - -Lord Towcester's description was not a bad one, though to the -initiated in his peculiar phraseology it scarcely did justice to the -room, which was in rose-coloured silk and walnut-wood; which had -_étagères_, and what-nots, and all the frivolousness of upholstery, -covered with all the most expensive and useless china; which opened -into a little conservatory, always full of sweet-smelling plants, and -where a little fountain played, and little gold-fish swam, and the -gas-jets were cunningly hidden behind swinging baskets on pendent -branches. There was a lovely little desk in one corner of the room, -with a paper-stand on it always full of note-paper and envelopes -radiant with Lady Muriel's cipher and monogram worked in all kinds of -expensive ways, and with a series of drawers, which were full of -letters and sketches and albums, and were always innocently open to -everybody; and one drawer, which was not open to everybody,--which was -closed indeed by a patent Bramah lock, and which, had it been -inspected, would have been found to contain a lock of Stewart Caird's -hair (cut from his head after death), a packet of letters from him of -the most trivial character, and a copy of Owen Meredith's _Wanderer_, -which Lady Muriel had been reading at the time of her first and only -passion, and in which all the passages that she considered were -applicable to or bearing on her own situation were thickly -pencil-scored. But it never was inspected, that drawer, and was -understood by any who had ever had the hardihood to inquire about it, -to contain household accounts. Lady Muriel Kilsyth in connection with -a lock of a dead man's hair, a bundle of a dead man's letters, a -pencil-marked copy of a sentimental poet! The idea was too absurd. Ah, -how extraordinarily wise the world is, and in what a wonderful manner -our power of reading character has developed! - -Madeleine's rooms--by her stepmother's grace she had two, a -sitting-room and a bedroom--are upstairs. Small rooms, but very -pretty, and arranged with all the simple taste of a well-bred, -right-thinking girl. Her hanging book-shelves are well filled with -their row of poets, their row of "useful" works, their _Thomas à -Kempis_, their Longfellow's _Hyperion_, their _Pilgrim's Progress_, -their _Scenes of Clerical Life_--with all the Amos Barton bits -dreadfully underscored--their _Christmas Carol_, and their _Esmond_. -The neat little writing-table, with its gilt mortar inkstand, and its -pretty costly nicknacks--birthday presents from her fond father--stood -in the window; and above it hung the cage of her pet canary. There -were but few pictures on the walls: a water-colour drawing of Kilsyth, -bad enough, with impossible perspective, and a very coppery sunset -over very spotty blue hills, but dear to the girl as the work of the -mother whom she had scarcely known; a portrait of her father in his -youth, showing how gently time had dealt with the brave old -boy; a print from Grant's portrait of Lady Muriel; and a photograph -of Ronald in his uniform, looking very grim and stern and -Puritan-like. There is a small cottage-piano too, and a well-filled -music-stand,--well-filled, that is to say, according to its owner's -ideas, but calculated to fill the souls of musical enthusiasts with -horror or pity; for there is very little of the severe and the -classical about Madeleine even in her musical tastes: Gluck's _Orfeo_, -some of Mendelssohn's _Lieder ohne Worte_, and a few selections from -Mozart, quite satisfied her; and the rest of the music-stand was -filled with Bellini, Donizetti, Rossini, and Verdi, English ballads, -and even dance music. Upon all the room was the impress and evidence -of womanly taste and neatness; nothing was prim, but everything was -properly arranged; above all, neither in books, pictures, music, nor -on the dressing-table or in the wardrobe in the bedroom, was there the -smallest sign of fastness or slanginess, that almost omnipresent -drawback to the charms of the young ladies of the present day. - -Nigh to Madeleine's rooms was a big airy chamber with a shower-bath, -an iron bedstead, a painted chest of drawers, and a couple of common -chairs, for its sole furniture. This was the room devoted to Captain -Kilsyth whenever he stayed with his relatives, and had been furnished -according to his exact injunctions. It was like Roland himself, grim -and stern, and was regarded as a kind of Blue Chamber of Horrors by -Lady Muriel's little children, who used to hurry past its door, and -accredited it as a perfect stronghold of bogies. This feeling was but -a reflection of that with which the little girls Ethel and Maud -regarded their elder brother. His visits to their schoolroom, -periodically made, were always looked forward to with intense fright -both by them and by their governess Miss Blathers--a worthy woman, -untouchable in Mangnall, devoted to the backboard, with a fair -proficiency in music and French, but with an unconquerable tendency -towards sentimentality of the most snivelling kind. Miss Blathers' -sentiment was of the G.P.R. James's school; she was always on the -look-out for that knight who was to come and deliver her from the -bonds of governesshood, who was to fling his arm over her, as Count -Gismond flung his round Mr. Browning's anonymous heroine, and lead her -off to some land, where Ollendorf was unknown, and Levizac had never -been heard of. A thoroughly worthy creature, Miss Blathers, but -horribly frightened of Ronald, who would come into the schoolroom, -make his bow, pull his moustache, and go off at once into the -questions, pulling his moustache a great deal more, and shrugging his -shoulders at the answers he received. - -It was not often, however, that Ronald came to Brook-street, at all -events for any length of time. When he was on duty, he was of course -with his regiment in barracks; and when he had opportunities of -devoting himself to his own peculiar studies and subjects, he -generally took advantage of those opportunities with his own -particular cronies. He would ride with Madeleine sometimes, in a -morning, occasionally in the Row, but oftener for a long stretch round -the pretty suburbs; and he would dine with his father now and then; -and perhaps twice in the season would put in an appearance in Lady -Muriel's opera-box, and once at a reception given by her. But, except -perhaps by Madeleine, who always loved to see him, he was not much -missed in Brook-street, where, indeed, plenty of people came. - -Plenty of people and of all kinds. Constituents up from Scotland on -business, or friends of constituents with letters of introduction from -their friends to Kilsyth; to whom also came old boys from the clubs, -who had nothing else to do, and liked to smoke a morning cigar or -drink a before-luncheon glass of sherry with the hospitable laird; old -boys who never penetrated beyond the ground-floor, save perhaps on one -night in the season, which Lady Muriel set apart for the reception of -"the House" and "the House" wives and daughters, when they would make -their way upstairs and cling round the lintels of the drawing-room, -and obstruct all circulation, and eat a very good supper, and for -three or four days afterwards wag their heads at each other in the -bow-windows of Brookes's or Barnes's, and inform each other with great -solemnity that Lady Muriel was a "day-vilish fine woman," and that -"the thing had been doosid well done at Kilsyth's the other night, -eh?" Other visitors, nominally to Kilsyth, but in reality after their -reception by him relegated to Lady Muriel, keen-looking, clear-eyed, -high-cheek-boned men, wonderfully "canny"-looking, thoroughly Scotch, -only wanting the pinch of snuff between their fingers, and the kilt -round their legs, to have fitted them for taking their station at the -tobacconists' doors,--factors from different portions of the estate, -whom Lady Muriel took in hand, and with them went carefully through -every item of their accounts, leaving them marvellously impressed with -her qualities as a woman of business. - -No very special visitors to Lady Muriel. Plenty of carriages with -women, young and old, elegant and dowdy, aristocratic and plebeian, on -the front seat, and the _Court Guide_ in all its majesty on the back. -Plenty of raps, preposterous in their potency, delivered with unerring -aim by ambrosial mercuries, who disengaged quite a cloud of powder in -the operation; packs of cards, delivered like conjuring tricks into -the hands of the hall-porter, over whose sleek head appeared a -charming perspective of other serving-men; kind regards, tender -inquiries, congratulations, condolence, P.P.C.'s, all the whole -formula duly gone through between the ambrosial creatures who have -descended from the monkey-board and the plethoric giant who has -extricated himself from the leathern bee-hive--one of the principals -in the mummery stolidly looking on from the carriage, the other -sitting calmly upstairs, neither taking the smallest part, or caring -the least about it. The lady visitors did not come in, as a rule, but -the men did, almost without exception. The men arrived from half-past -four till half-past six, and, during the season, came in great -numbers. Why? Well, Lady Muriel was very pleasant, and Miss Kilsyth -was "charmin', quite charmin'." They said this parrotwise; there are -no such parrots as your modern young men; they repeat whatever they -have learnt constantly but between their got-by-rote sentences they -are fatally and mysteriously dumb. - -"Were you at the Duchess's last night, Lady Muriel?" - -"Yes! You were not there, I think?" - -"No; couldn't go--was on duty." - -_Pause. Dead silence. Five clocks ticking loudly and running races -with each other_. - -"Yes, by the way, knew you were there." - -"Did you--who told you?" - -"Saw it in the paper, 'mongst the comp'ny, don't you know, and that -kind of thing." - -_Awful pause. Clocks take up the running. Lady Muriel looks on the -carpet. Visitor calmly scrutinises furniture round the room, at length -he receives inspiration from lengthened contemplation of his -hat-lining_. - -"Seen Clement Penruddock lately?" - -"Yes, he was here on--when was it?--quite lately--O, the day before -yesterday." - -"Poor old Clem! Going to marry Lady Violet Dumanoir, they say. Pity -Lady Vi don't leave off putting that stuff on her face and shoulders, -isn't it?" - -"How ridiculous you are!" - -"No, but really! she does!" - -"How can you be so silly!" - -_Grand and final pause of ten minutes, broken by the visitor's saying -quietly_, "Well, good-bye," _and lounging off to repeat the -invigorating conversation elsewhere_. - -Who? Youth of all kinds. The junior portion of the Household Brigade, -horse and foot, solemn plungers and dapper little guardsmen; youth -from the Whitehall offices, specially diplomatic and erudite, and -disposed to chaff the military as ignorant of most things, and -specially of spelling; idlers _purs et simples_, who had been last -year in Norway, and would be the next in Canada, and who suffered -socially from their perpetual motion, never being able to retain the -good graces which they had gained or to recover those they had lost; -foreign _attachés_; junior representatives of the plutocracy, who went -into society into which their fathers might never have dreamed of -penetrating, but who found the "almighty dollar," or its equivalent, -when judiciously used, have all the open-sesame power; an occasional -Scotch connection on a passing visit to London, and--Mrs. M'Diarmid. - -Who was Mrs. M'Diarmid? That was the first question everyone asked on -their introduction to her; the second, on their revisiting the house -where the introduction had taken place, being, "Where is Mrs. -M'Diarmid?" Mrs. M'Diarmid was originally Miss Whiffin, daughter of -Mrs. Whiffin of Salisbury-street in the Strand, who let lodgings, and -in whose parlours George M'Diarmid, second cousin to the present -Kilsyth, lived when he first came to London, and enrolled himself as a -student in the Inner Temple. A pleasant fellow George M'Diarmid, with -a taste for pleasure, and very little money, and an impossibility to -keep out of debt. A good-looking fellow, with a bright blue eye, and -big red whiskers (beards were not in fashion then, or George would -have grown a very Birnam-Wood of hair), and broad shoulders, and a -genial jovial manner with "the sex." Deep into Mrs. Whiffin's books -went George, and simultaneously deep into her daughter's heart; and -finally, when Kilsyth had done his best for his scapegrace kinsman, -and could do no more, and nobody else would do anything, George wiped -off his score by marrying Miss Whiffin, and, as she expressed it to -her select circle of friends, "making a lady of her." It was out of -his power to do that. Nothing on earth would have made Hannah Whiffin -a lady, any more than anything on earth could have destroyed her -kindness of heart, her devotion to her husband, her hard-working, -honest striving to do her duty as his wife. Kilsyth would not have -been the large-souled glorious fellow that he was if he had failed -to see this, or seeing, had failed to appreciate and recognise it. -George M'Diarmid hemmed and hawed when told to bring his wife to -Brook-street, and blushed and stuttered when he brought her; but -Kilsyth and Lady Muriel set the poor shy little woman at her ease in -an instant, and seeing all her good qualities, remained her kind and -true friends. After two years or so George M'Diarmid died in his -wife's arms, blessing and thanking her; and after his death, to the -astonishment of all who knew anything about it, his widow was as -constant a visitor to Brook-street as ever. Why? No one could exactly -tell, save that she was a shrewd, clever woman, with an extraordinary -amount of real affection for every member of the family. There was no -mistake about that. She had been tried in times of sickness and of -trouble, and had always come out splendidly. A vulgar old lady, with -curious blunt manners and odd phrases of speech, which had at first -been dreadfully trying; but by degrees the regular visitors to the -house began to comprehend her, to make allowance for her _gaucheries_ -and her quaint sayings--in fact to take the greatest delight in them. -So Mrs. M'Diarmid was constantly in Brook-street; and the frequenters -of the five-o'clock tea-table professed to be personally hurt if she -absented herself. - -A shrewd little woman too, with a special care for Madeleine; with a -queer old-world notion that she, being herself childless, should look -after the motherless girl. For Lady Muriel Mrs. M'Diarmid had the -highest respect; but Lady Muriel had children of her own, and, -naturally enough, was concerned about, or as Mrs. M'Diarmid expressed -it, "wropped up" in them, and Madeleine had no one to protect and -guide her--poor soul! So this worthy little old woman devoted herself -to the motherless girl, and watched over her with duenna-like care and -almost maternal fidelity. - -Five o'clock in the evening, two days after Wilmot had received -Madeleine's little note; the shutters were shut in Lady Muriel's -boudoir, the curtains were drawn, a bright fire burned on the hearth, -and the tea-equipage was ready set on the little round table close by -the hostess. Not many people there. Not Kilsyth, of course, who was -reading the evening papers and chatting at Brookes's,--not Ronald, who -scarcely ever showed at that time. Madeleine, looking very lovely in a -tight-fitting high violet-velvet dress, a thought pale still, but with -her blue eyes bright, and her golden hair taken off her face, and -gathered into a great knot at the back of her pretty little head. Near -her, on an ottoman, Clement Penruddock, half-entranced at the -appearance of his own red stockings, half in wondering why he does not -go off to see Lady Violet Dumanoir, his _fiancée_. Clem is always -wondering about this, and never seems to arrive at a satisfactory -result. Next to him, and vainly endeavouring to think of something to -say, the Hon. Robert Brettles, familiarly known as "Bristles," from -the eccentric state of his hair, who is supposed to be madly in love -with Madeleine Kilsyth, and who has never yet made greater approaches -in conversation with her than meteorological observations in regard to -the weather, and blushing demands for her hand in the dance. By Lady -Muriel, Lord Roderick Douglas, who still finds his nose too large for -the rest of his face, and strokes it thoughtfully in the palm of his -hand, as though he could thereby quietly reduce its dimensions. Frank -Only, Sir Coke's eldest son, but recently gazetted to the Body Guards, -an ingenuous youth, dressed more like a tailor's dummy than anything -else, especially about his feet, which are very small and very shiny; -and Tommy Toshington, who has dropped in on the chance of hearing -something which, cleverly manipulated and well told at the club, may -gain him a dinner. In the immediate background sits Mrs. M'Diarmid, -knitting. - -Lady Muriel has poured out the tea; the gentlemen have handed the -ladies their cups, and are taking their own; and the usual blank -dulness has fallen on the company. Nobody says a word for full three -minutes, when the silence is broken by Tommy Toshington, who begins to -find his visit unremunerative, as hitherto he has not gleaned one atom -of gossip. So he asks Lady Muriel whether she has seen anything of -Colonel Jefferson. - -"No, indeed," Lady Muriel replies; "Colonel Jefferson has not been to -see us since our return." - -"Didn't know you were in town, perhaps," suggests the peace-loving -Tommy. - -"Must know that, Toshington," says Lord Roderick Douglas, who has no -great love for Charley Jefferson, associating that stern commander -with various causes of heavy field-days and refusals of leave. - -"I don't see that," says Tommy, who has never been Lord Roderick's -guest at mess or anywhere else, and who does not see a chance of -hospitality in that quarter; consequently is by no means reticent,--"I -don't see that; how was he to know it?" - -"Same way that everybody else did--through the _Post_." - -"Tommy can't read it," said Clement Penruddock; "they didn't teach -spellin' ever so long ago, when Tommy was a boy." - -"They taught manners," growled Tommy, "at all events; but they seem to -have given that up." - -"Charley Jefferson isn't in town," said "Bristles," cutting in -quickly to stop the discussion; "he's down at Torquay. Had a letter -from him yesterday, my lady; last man in the world, Charley, to be -rude--specially to you or Miss Kilsyth." - -"I am sure of that, Mr. Brettles," said Lady Muriel; "I fancied -Colonel Jefferson must be away, or we should have seen him." - -"People go away most strangelike," observed Mrs. M'Diarmid from the -far distance. "The facilities of the road, the river, and the rail, as -I've seen it somewhere expressed, is such, that one's here today, Lord -bless you, and next week in the Sydney Isles or thereabouts." By "the -Sydney Isles or thereabouts." - -Mrs. M'Diarmid's friends had by long experience ascertained that she -meant Australia. - -"Scarcely so far as that in so short a time, Aunt Hannah," said -Madeleine with a smile. - -"Well, my dear, far enough to fare worse, as the expression is. I -don't hold with such wanderings, thinking home to be home, be it ever -so homely." - -"You would not like to go far away yourself, would you, Mrs. -M'Diarmid?" asked Lord Roderick. - -"Not I, my lord; Regent-street for me is quite very, and beyond that I -have no inspiration." - -"You've never been able to get Mrs. M'Diarmid even so far as Kilsyth, -have you, Lady Muriel?" said Clement. - -"No; she has always refused to come to us. I think she imagines we're -utter barbarians at Kilsyth." - -"Not at all, my dear, not at all," said the old lady; "but everybody -has their fancies, and knows what they can do, and where they're -useful; and fancy me at my time of life tossing my cabers, or doing my -Tullochgorums, or whatever they're called, between two crossed swords -on the top of a mountain! Scarcely respectable, I think." - -"You're quite right, Mrs. Mac, and I honour your sentiments," said -Clem with a half-grin. - -"Not but that I would have gone through all that and a good deal more, -my darling," said the old lady, putting down her work, crossing the -room, and taking Madeleine's pale face between her own fat little -hands, "to have been with you in your illness, and to have nursed you. -Duchesses indeed!" cried Mrs. Mac, with a sniff of defiance at the -remembrance of the Northallerton defection--"I'd have duchessed 'em, -if I'd had my way!" - -"You would have been the dearest and best nurse in the world, I know, -Aunt Hannah," said Madeleine; then added, with a half sigh, "though I -could not have been better attended to than I was, I think." - -Lady Muriel marked the half sigh instantly, and looked across at her -stepdaughter. Reassured at the perfect calm of Madeleine's face, on -which there was no blush, no tremor, she said, "You wrote that note, -Madeleine, according to your father's wish?" - -"Two days ago, mamma." - -"Two days ago! I should have thought that--" - -"Perhaps he is very much engaged, mamma, and knew that there was no -pressing need of his services. Dr. Wilmot told me that--" and the girl -hesitated, and stopped. - -"Is that Dr. Wilmot of Charles-street, close by the Junior? Are you -talking of him?" said Penruddock. "Doosid clever feller they say he -is. He's been attending my cousin Cranbrook--you know him, Lady -Muriel; been awfully bad poor Cranbrook has; head shaved, and holloing -out, and all that kind of thing--frightful; and this doctor has pulled -him through like a bird--splendidly, by Jove!" - -"He drives an awful pair of screws," said "Bristles," who was horsey -in his tastes; "saw 'em standing at Cranbrook's door. To look at -'em, you wouldn't think they could drag that thundering big heavy -brougham--C springs, don't you know, Clem?--and yet when they start -they nip along stunningly." - -"Ah, those poor doctors!", said Mrs. M'Diarmid; "I often wonder how -they live, for they take no exercise now all the streets are M'Adam -and wood and all sorts of nonsense! When there was good sound stone -pavement, one was bumped about in your carriage like riding a -trotting-horse, and that was all the exercise the poor doctors got. -Now they don't get that." - -"And Dr. Wilmot attended Lord Cranbrook, did he, Clem?" asked -Madeleine softly, "and brought him safely through his illness. I'm -glad of that; I'm glad--" - -"Dr. Wilmot, my lady!" said the groom of the chambers. - -"What a bore that doctor coming," said Clement Penruddock, looking -round, "just as I was going to have a pleasant talk with Maddy!" - -"You leave Maddy alone," said Mrs. M'Diarmid with a grunt, "and go off -to your financier!" - -"My financier, Aunt Hannah?" said Clem in astonishment; "I haven't -one; I wish to Heaven I had." - -"Haven't one?" retorted the old lady. "Pray, what do you call Lady -Vi?" - -And then Clement Penruddock understood that Mrs. M'Diarmid meant his -_fiancée_. - -Dr. Wilmot and Madeleine went, at Lady Muriel's request, into the -drawing-room. - -He was with her once again; looked in her eyes, heard her voice -murmuring thanks to him for all his past kindness, touched her -hand--no longer hot with fever, but tremblingly dropping into his--saw -the sweet smile which had come upon her with the earliest dawn of -convalescence. At the same time Wilmot remarked a faint flush on her -cheek and a baleful light in her eyes, which recalled to him the -discovery which he had made at Kilsyth, and which he had mentioned to -her father. His diagnosis had been short then and hurried, but it had -been true: the seeds of the disease were in her, and, unchecked, were -likely to bear fatal fruit. Could he leave her thus? could he absent -himself, bearing about with him the knowledge that she whom he loved -better than anything on earth might derive benefit from his -assistance--might indeed owe her life and her earthly salvation to his -ministering care? He knew well enough that though her father had given -him his thorough trust and confidence, his friendship and his warm -gratitude, yet there were others about her who had no share in these -feelings, by whom he was looked upon with doubt and suspicion, and who -would be only too glad to relegate him to his position of the -professional man who had fulfilled what was required of him, and had -been discharged--not to be taken up again until another case of -necessity arose. There was no doubt that his diagnosis had been -correct, and that her life required constant watching, perpetual care. -Well, should she not have it? Was not he then close at hand? Had his -talent ever been engaged in a case in which he took so deep, so vital -an interest? Had he not often given up his every thought, his day's -study, his night's repose, for the mere professional excitement of -battling the insidious advances of Disease--of checking him here, and -counterchecking him there, and finally cutting off his supplies, and -routing him utterly? and would he not do this in the present instance, -where such an interest as he had never yet felt, such an inducement as -had never yet been held out to him, urged him on to victory? - -Ah, yes; "his grateful patient" should have greater claims on his -gratitude than she herself imagined. He had seen her safely through a -comparatively trifling illness; he would be by her side in the -struggle that threatened her life. Come what might, win or lose, he -should be there, able, as he thought, to help her in danger, whatever -might be the result to himself of his efforts. - -He has her hand in his now, and is looking into her eyes--momentarily -only; for the soft blue orbs droop beneath his glance, and the bright -red flush leaps into the pale cheek. Still he retains her hand, and -asks her, in a voice which vainly strives to keep its professional -tone, such professional questions as admit of the least professional -putting. She replies in a low voice, when suddenly a shadow falls upon -them standing together; and looking up, they see Ronald Kilsyth. Dr. -Wilmot utters the intruder's name; Madeleine is silent. - -"Yes, Madeleine," says Ronald, addressing her as though she had -spoken; "I have come to fetch you to Lady Muriel.--I was not aware, -sir," he added, turning to Wilmot, "that you were any longer in -attendance on this young lady. I thought that her illness was over, -and that your services had been dispensed with." - -Constitutionally pale, Ronald now, under the influence of strong -excitement, was almost livid; but he had not one whit more colour than -Chudleigh Wilmot, as he replied: "You were right, Captain Kilsyth: my -professional visits are at an end; it is as a friend that I am now -visiting your sister." - -Ronald drew himself up as he said, "I have yet to learn, Dr. Wilmot, -that you are on such terms with the family as to justify you in paying -these friendly visits.--Madeleine, come with me." - -The girl hesitated for an instant; but Ronald placed her arm in his, -and walked off with her to the door, leaving Chudleigh Wilmot -immovable with astonishment and rage. - - - - -CHAPTER XVI. -Giving up. - - -Rage was quite a novel passion for Chudleigh Wilmot, and one which, -like most new passions, obtained for the time complete mastery over -him. In his previous career he had been so steeped in study, so -overwhelmed by practice--had had every hour of his time so completely -and unceasingly occupied, that he had had no leisure to get into a -rage, even if he had had the slightest occasion. But the truth is, the -occasion had been wanting also. During the time he had been at the -hospital he had had various tricks played upon him,--such tricks as -the idle always will play upon the industrious,--but he had not paid -the least attention to them; and when the perpetrators of the -practical jokes found they were disregarded, they turned the tide of -their humour upon some one else less pachydermatous. Ever since then -his life had flowed in an even stream, which never turned aside into a -whirlpool of passion or a cataract of rage, but continued its calm -course without the smallest check or shoal. In the old days, when -driven nearly to madness by the calm way in which her husband took -every event in life, undisturbed by public news or private worry, -finding the be-all and the end-all of life in the prosecution of his -studies, the correctness of his diagnoses, and the number of -profitable visits daily entered up in his diary, Mabel Wilmot would -have given anything if he had now and then broken out into a fit of -rage, no matter for what cause, and thus cleared the dull heavy -atmosphere of tranquil domesticity for ever impending over them. But -he never did break out; and the atmosphere, as we have seen, was never -cleared. - -But Chudleigh Wilmot was in a rage at last. By nature he was anything -but a coward, was endowed with a keen sensitiveness, and scrupulously -honourable. His abstraction, his studiousness, his simple unworldly -ways--for there were few more unworldly men than the rising -fashionable physician--all prevented his easily recognising that he -was a butt for intentional ribaldry or insult; but when, as in this -case, he did see it, it touched him to the quick. As a boy he could -laugh at the practical jokes of his fellow-students; as a man he -writhed under and rebelled against the first slight that since his -manhood he had received. What was to be done? This young man, this -Captain Kilsyth, her brother, had studiously and purposely insulted -him, and insulted him before her. As this thought rushed through -Wilmot's mind, as he stood as though rooted to the spot where they had -left him in the drawing-room in Brook-street, his first feeling was to -rush after Ronald and strike him to the ground as the penalty of his -presumption. His fingers itched to do it, clenched themselves -involuntarily, as his teeth set and his nostrils dilated -involuntarily. What good would that do? None. Come of it what might, -Madeleine's name would be mixed up with it, and--Ah, good God! he saw -it all; saw the newspaper paragraph with the sensation-heading, -"Fracas in private life between a gallant Officer and a distinguished -Physician;" he saw the blanks and asterisks under which Madeleine's -name would be concealed; he guessed the club scandal which--No, that -would never do. He must give up all thoughts of avenging himself in -that manner, for her sake. Better bear what he had borne, better bear -slight and insult worse a thousandfold, than have her mixed up in a -newspaper paragraph, or given over to the genial talk of society. - -He must bear it, put up with the insult, swallow his disgust, forego -his revenge. There was not enough of the Christian element in -Chudleigh Wilmot's composition to render this line of conduct at all -palatable to him; but it was necessary, and should be pursued. He had -gone through all this in his thought, and arrived at this -determination before he moved from the drawing-room. Then he walked -quietly down to Lady Muriel's boudoir, entered, chatted with her -ladyship for five minutes on indifferent topics, and took his leave, -perfectly cool without, raging hot within. - -As he had correctly thought, his long absence from London had by no -means injured his practice; if anything, had improved it. In every -class of life there is such a thing as making yourself too cheap, and -the healthy and wealthy hypochondriacs, who form six-sevenths of a -fashionable physician's _clientèle_, are rather incited and stimulated -when they find the doctor unable or unwilling to attend their every -summons. So Wilmot's practice was immense. He had a very large number -of visits to pay that day, and he paid them all with thorough -scrupulousness. Never had his manner been more _suave_ and bland; -never had he listened more attentively to his patients' narratives of -their complaints; never had his eyebrow-upliftings been more telling, -the noddings of his head thrown in more _apropos_. The old ladies, who -worshipped him, thought him more delightful than ever; the men were -more and more convinced of his talent; but the truth is, that having -no really serious case on hand, Dr. Wilmot permitted himself the -luxury of thought; and while he was clasping Lady Cawdor's pulse, or -peering down General Donaldbain's throat, he was all the time -wondering what line of conduct he could best pursue towards Ronald and -Madeleine Kilsyth. In the course of his afternoon drive he passed the -carriages of scores of his brother practitioners, with whom he -exchanged hurried bows and nods, all of whom returned to the perusal of -the _Lancet_ or of their diaries, as the case might be, with envy at -their hearts, and jealousy of the successful man who succeeded in -everything, and who, if they had only known it, was quivering under -the slight and insult which he had just received. - -His visits over, he went home and dined quietly. The romantic feelings -connected with an "empty chair" troubled Chudleigh Wilmot very little. -He had never paid very much attention to the person by whom the chair -had been filled; indeed very frequently during Mabel's lifetime he had -done what he always had done since her death, taken a book, and read -during his dinner. But he could not read on this occasion. He tried, -and failed dismally; the print swam before his eyes; he could not keep -his attention for a moment on the book; he pushed it away, and gave up -his mind to the subject with which it was preoccupied. - -Fair, impartial, and judicial self-examination--that was what he -wanted, what he must have. Captain Kilsyth had insulted him, purposely -no doubt; why? Not for an instant did Wilmot attempt to disguise from -himself that it was on Madeleine's account; but how could Captain -Kilsyth know anything of his (Wilmot's) feelings in regard to -Madeleine; and if he did know of them, why should he now object? -Captain Kilsyth might be standing out on the question of family; but -that would never lead him to behave in so _brusque_ and ungentlemanly -a manner; he might object to the alliance--to the alliance!--good God! -here was he giving another man credit for speculating on matters which -had only dimly arisen even in his own brain! - -Still there remained the fact of Captain Kilsyth's conduct having been -as it had been, and still remained the question--why? To no creature -on earth had he, Chudleigh Wilmot, confided his love for this girl; -and so far as he knew--and he searched his memory carefully--he had -never in his manner betrayed his secret in the remotest degree. Had -his wife been alive, Ronald Kilsyth might have objected to finding him -in close converse with his sister; yet in the fact of his having a -wife lay-- - -It flashed across him in an instant, and sent the blood rushing to his -heart. The manner of his wife's death--was that known? The causes -which, as Henrietta Prendergast had hinted to him, had led Mabel to -the vial with the leaden seal--had they leaked out? had they reached -the ears of this young man? Did he suspect that jealousy--no matter -whether with or without foundation--of his sister had led Mrs. Wilmot -to lay violent hands upon herself? And if he suspected it, why not a -hundred others? The story would fly from mouth to mouth. This Captain -Kilsyth--no; he would not lend his aid to its promulgation; he could -not for his sister's sake; but--And yet, with or against Captain -Kilsyth's wish, it must come out. When his visits ceased in -Brook-street, as they must cease--he had determined on that; when he no -longer saw Madeleine, who, as he perfectly well knew, had been brought -to London with the view of being under his care, would not old Kilsyth -make inquiries as to the change in the intended programme, and would -not his son have to tell him all he had heard? It was too horrible to -think of. With such a rumour in existence--granting that it was a -rumour merely, and all unproved--it would be impossible for Kilsyth, -however eagerly he might wish it, to befriend him--at least in the -manner in which he could best befriend him, by encouraging his -addresses to Madeleine. Lady Muriel would not listen to it; Ronald -would not listen to it, even if those two were in some way--he could -not think how, but there might be a way of getting round those two and -winning them to his side--even if that were done, while that horrible -story or suspicion was current--and it was impossible to set it at -rest without the chance of establishing it firmly for ever--Kilsyth -would never consent to his marriage with Madeleine. - -He must at once free himself from the chance of any story of this kind -being promulgated. The more he thought the matter over, the more he -saw the impossibility of again going to Brook-street, after what had -occurred; the impossibility of his absence passing without remark and -inquiry by Kilsyth; the impossibility of Ronald's withholding his -statement of his own conduct in the matter, and his reasons for that -conduct. For an instant a ray of hope shot through Chudleigh Wilmot's -soul, as he thought that perhaps the reasons might be infinitely less -serious and less damaging than he had depicted them to himself; but it -died out again at once, and he acknowledged to himself the -hopelessness of his situation. He had been indulging in a day-dream -from which he had been rudely and ruthlessly waked, and his action -must now be prompt and decisive. There was an end to it all; it was -Kismet, and he must accept his fate. No combined future for Madeleine -and him; their paths lay separate, and must be trodden separately at -once; her brother was right, his own dead wife was right--it is not to -be! - -There must be no blinking or shuffling with the question now, he -thought. To remain in London without visiting in Brook-street would -evoke immediate and peculiar attention; and it was plain that Ronald -Kilsyth had determined that Dr. Wilmot's visits to Brook-street were -not to be renewed. He must leave London, must leave England at once. -He must go abroad for six months, for a year; must give up his -practice, and seek change and repose in fresh scenes. He would spoil -his future by so doing, blow up and shatter the fabric which he had -reared with such industry and patience and self-denial; but what of -that? He should ascribe his forced expatriation and retreat to loss of -health, and he should at least reap pity and condolence; whereas now -every moment that he remained upon the scene he ran the chance of -being overwhelmed with obloquy and scorn. He could imagine, vividly -enough, how the patients whom he had refused to flatter, whose -self-imagined maladies he had laughed at and ridiculed, would turn -upon him; how his brother practitioners, who had always hated him for -his success, would point to the fulfilment of their never-delivered -prophecies, and make much of their own idleness and incompetency; how -the medical journals which he had riddled and scathed would issue -fierce diatribes over his fall, or, worse than all, sympathise with -the profession on--he could almost see the words in print before -him--"the breach of that confidence which is the necessary and sacred -bond between the physician and the patient." - -Anything better than that; and he must take the decisive step at once! -He must give up his practice. Whittaker should have it, so far at -least as his recommendation could serve him. He should have that, -and must rely upon himself for the rest. Many of his patients -knew Whittaker now, had become accustomed to him during the time -of Wilmot's absence at Kilsyth, and Whittaker had not behaved -badly during that--that horrible affair of Mabel's last illness. -Moreover, if Whittaker suspected the cause of Mabel's death--and -Wilmot shuddered as the mere thought crossed his mind--the practice -would be a sop to him to induce him to hold his tongue in the matter. -And he, Wilmot, would go away--and be forgotten. Better that, bitter -as the thought might be--and how bitter it was none but those who have -been compelled, for conscience' sake, for honour's sake, for -expediency's sake even, to give up in the moment of success, to haul -down the flag, and sheath the sword when they knew victory was in -their grasp, could ever tell;--better that than to remain, with the -chance of exposure to himself, of compromise to her. The mental -overthrow, the physical suffering consequent upon the sudden death of -his wife, would be sufficient excuse for this step to the world; and -there were none to know the real cause of its being taken. He had -saved sufficient money to enable him to live as comfortably as he -should care to live, even if he never returned to work again; and once -free from the torturing doubt which oppressed him, or rather from the -possibility of all which that torturing doubt meant to his fevered -mind, he should be himself again. - -Beyond his position, so hardly struggled for, so recently attained, he -had nothing to leave behind him which he should particularly regret. -He had been so self-contained, from the very means necessary for -attaining that position, had been so circumscribed in the pleasures of -his life, that his opportunities for the cultivation even of -friendship had been very rare. He should miss the quaint caustic -conversation, the earnest hearty liking so undeniably existing, even -under its slight veneer of eccentricity, of old Foljambe; he should -miss what he used laughingly to call his "dissipation" of attending a -few professional and scientific gatherings held in the winter, where -the talk was all "shop," dry and uninteresting to the uninitiated, but -full of delight to the listeners, and specially to the talkers; he -should miss the excitement of the lecture-theatre, where perhaps more -than anywhere else he thoroughly enjoyed himself, and where he shone -at his very brightest, and--that was all. No! Madeleine! this last and -keenest source of enjoyment in his life, this pure spring of freshness -and vigour, this revivification of early hopes and boyish dreams, this -young girl, the merest acquaintance with whom had softened and -purified his heart, had given aim and end to his career, had shown him -how dull and heartless, how unloved, unloving, and unlovely had been -his byegone time, and had aroused in him such dreams of uncensurable -ambition for the future,--she must be given up, must become a "portion -and parcel of the dreadful past," and be dead to him for ever! She -must be given up! He repeated the words mechanically, and they rang in -his ears like a knell. She must be given up! She was given up, even -then, if he carried out his intention. He should never see her again, -should never see the loving light in those blue eyes--ah, how well he -minded him of the time when he first saw it in the earliest days of -her convalescence at Kilsyth, and of all the undefined associations -which it awakened in him!--should never hear the grateful accents of -her soft sweet voice, should never touch her pretty hand again. For -all the years of his life, as it appeared to him, he had held his eyes -fixed upon the ground, and had raised them at the rustle of an angel's -wings, only to see her float far beyond his reach. For all the years -of his life he had toiled wearily on through the parching desert; and -at length, on meeting the green oasis, where the fresh well sparkled -so cheerily, had had the cup shattered from his trembling hand. - -She must be given up! She should be; that was the very keystone of the -arrangement. He had looked the whole question fairly in the face; and -what he had proposed to himself and had determined on abiding by, he -would not shrink from now. But it was hard, very hard. And then he lay -back in his chair, and in his mind retraced all the circumstances of -his acquaintance with her; last of all, coming upon their final -interview of that morning in the drawing-room at Brook-street. He was -sufficiently calm now to eliminate Ronald and his truculence from the -scene, and to think only of Madeleine; and that brought to his -remembrance the reason of their having gone into the drawing-room -together, to consult on her illness, the weakness of the lungs which -he had detected at Kilsyth. - -That was a new phase of the subject, which had not occurred to him -before. Not merely must he give her up and absent himself from her, -but he must leave her at a time when his care and attention might be -of vital importance to her. Like most leading men in his profession, -Chudleigh Wilmot, with a full reliance on himself, combined a -wholesome distrust of and disbelief in most of his brother -practitioners. There were few--half a dozen at the most, perhaps--in -whose hands Madeleine might be safely left, if they had some special -interest, such as he had, in her case. Such as he had! Wilmot could -not avoid a grim smile as he thought of old Dr. Blenkiron, with his -snuff-dusted shirt-frill, or little Dr. Prater, with his gold-rimmed -spectacles, feeling similar interest to his in this sweet girl. But -unless they had special interest--unless they could have given up a -certain amount of their time regularly to attending to her--it would -have been of little use, as her symptoms were for ever varying, and -wanted constant watching. And as for the general run of the -profession, even men so well thought of as Whittaker or Perkins, -he--stay, a good thought--old Sir Saville Rowe would probably be coming -to town for the winter; and the old gentleman, though he had retired -from active practice, would, Wilmot made sure, look after Madeleine for -him as a special case. Sir Saville's brain was as clear as ever; and -though his strength was insufficient to enable him to continue his -practice, this one case would be an amusement rather than a trouble to -him. Yes, that was the best way of meeting this part of the -difficulty. Wilmot could go away at least without the additional -anxiety of his darling's being without competent advice. So much of -his burden could be lightened by Sir Saville; and he would sit down at -once and write to the old gentleman, asking him to undertake the -charge. - -He moved to his writing-table and sat down at it. He had arranged the -paper before him and taken up his pen, when he suddenly stopped, threw -aside the pen, and flung himself back in his chair. What excuse was he -about to make to his old master for his leaving London at so critical -a period in his career? He had not sufficiently considered that. He -had intended saying that Mrs. Wilmot's sudden death had had such an -effect upon him physically and mentally, that he felt compelled to -relinquish practice, at least for the present, and to seek abroad for -that rest and change of scene which was absolutely necessary for him. -He had turned the phrases very neatly in his mind, but he had -forgotten one thing. He had forgotten his conversation with the old -gentleman on the garden walk overhanging the brawling Tay on the -morning when he received the telegram from Kilsyth. He had forgotten -how he had laughed in derision when Sir Saville had asked him whether -he was in love with his wife; how he had curtly hinted that Mabel was -all very well in her way, but holding a decidedly inferior position in -his estimation to his practice and his work. He remembered all this -now, and he saw how utterly futile it would be to attempt to put off -his old friend with such a story. What, then, should be the excuse? -That his own health had given way under pressure of work? Sir Saville -knew well how highly Wilmot appreciated his professional opinion; and -had he believed the story--which was very unlikely--would have been -hurt at his old pupil's rushing away without consulting him. In any -case he must not see Sir Saville, who would undoubtedly cross-question -him in detail about Mrs. Wilmot's illness. He must write to the old -gentleman, giving a very general statement and avoiding all -particulars, and requesting him to take Madeleine under his charge. - -He did so. He wrote fully and affectionately to his old friend. He -touched very slightly on the death of his wife, beyond hinting that -that occurrence had necessitated his departing at once for the -Continent on some law-business concerning property, by which he might -probably be detained for some time. He went on to say that he had made -arrangements for the transfer of his practice to Whittaker, who had -had it, as Sir Saville would remember, during Chudleigh's absence in -Scotland; but there was one special case, which he could only leave in -the hands of Sir Saville himself: this was Miss Kilsyth. Sir Saville -would remember his (Wilmot's) disinclination to accede to the request -contained in the telegram on that eventful morning; and indeed it -seemed curious to himself now, when he thought of the interest which -he took in all that household. Kilsyth himself was the most charming -&c., and the best specimen of an &c.; Lady Muriel was also, and her -little girls were angels. Miss Kilsyth was mentioned last of all the -family in Wilmot's letter, and was merely described as "an -interesting, amiable girl." This portion of the letter was principally -occupied with details of her threatened disease; and on reperusing it -before sending it away, Wilmot was greatly struck by, as it seemed to -him, the capital manner in which he had made his interest throughout -assume a purely professional form. But, whether professionally or not, -the interest was very earnestly put; and the desire that the old -gentleman should break through his retirement and attend to this -particular case was very strongly expressed. In conclusion, Wilmot -said that he should send his address to his old friend, and that he -hoped to be kept acquainted with Miss Kilsyth's state. - -Dr. Wilmot did not send his letter to the post that night. He read it -over the next morning after seeing his home patients, and when the -carriage was at the door to take him off on his rounds. He was quite -satisfied with the tone of the letter, which he placed in an envelope -and was just about to seal, when his servant entered and announced -"Captain Kilsyth." - - - - -CHAPTER XVII. -Face to Face. - - -"Captain Kilsyth!" No time for Chudleigh Wilmot to deny himself, if even he -had so wished; no time to recover himself from the excitement which -the announcement had aroused. He saw the broad dark outline of his -visitor behind the servant. - -"Show Captain Kilsyth in." - -Captain Kilsyth came in. Wilmot noticed that he was very pale and -stern-looking, but that there was no trace of yesterday's excitement -about him. It had become second nature to Wilmot to notice these -things; and he found himself critically examining Ronald's external -appearance, as he would that of a patient who had sought his advice. - -The men bowed to each other, and Ronald spoke first. "You will be -surprised to see me here, Dr. Wilmot," he said; "but be assured that -it is business of importance that brings me." - -Wilmot bowed again. He was fast recovering from his agitation, but -scarcely dared trust himself to speak just yet. - -"I see your carriage is at the door, and I will detain you but a very -few moments. You can give me, say, ten minutes?" - -Wilmot muttered that his time was at Captain Kilsyth's disposal; an -avowal which apparently annoyed his visitor, for he said testily, -"You, and I should be above exchanging the polite trash of society, -Dr. Wilmot. I am come here to speak on a matter which concerns me -deeply, and those very near and dear to me even more deeply still. Are -you prepared to hear me?" - -Those very near and dear to him! O yes; Wilmot was prepared to hear -him fully and said as much. Would Captain Kilsyth be seated? - -"I have come to talk to you, Dr. Wilmot, as a friend," commenced -Ronald, dropping into a chair. "I daresay you are scarcely prepared -for that avowal, considering my conduct at our interview yesterday in -Brook-street. Then I was hasty and inconsiderate; and for my conduct -then I beg to tender my apologies frankly and freely. I trust they -will be received?" There was an odd square blunt honesty even in the -manner in which he said this that prepossessed Wilmot. - -"As frankly and freely as they are offered," he replied. - -"So far agreed," said Ronald. "Now, look here. I am a very bad hand at -beating about the bush; and I have come here to say things the mere -fact of saying which is, where men of honour are not concerned, -compromising to one of the person spoken of I have every belief that -you are a man of honour, and therefore I speak." - -Dr. Wilmot bowed again, and said that Captain Kilsyth complimented -him. - -"No. I think too highly of you to do that. I simply speak what I -believe to be true, from all I have heard of your doings at Kilsyth." - -Of his doings at Kilsyth? A man of honour, from his doings at Kilsyth? -Though perfectly conscious that Ronald was watching him, narrowly, -Chudleigh Wilmot's cheeks coloured deeply at this point, and he was -silent. - -"Now, Dr. Wilmot, I must begin by talking to you a little about -myself--an unprofitable subject, but one necessary to be touched upon -in this discourse between us. The men who are supposed to know me -intimately--my own brother officers, I mean--will tell you that I am -an oddity, an extraordinary fellow, and that they know nothing about -me. Nothing is known of my likes or dislikes. I am believed not to -have any of either. Now this is an exaggerated view of the question. I -don't know that I dislike anyone in particular; but I have my -affections. I am very fond of my father; I adore my sister Madeleine." - -He spoke with such earnestness and warmth, that Wilmot looked up at -him, half in pleasure, half in wonder. Ronald noticed the glance, and -said, "If you have heard me mentioned at all, Dr. Wilmot, you have -probably heard it said that I am a man with a stone instead of a -heart, with the _Cavalry Officer's Instructions_ instead of a Bible; -and therefore I cannot wonder at your look of astonishment. But what I -have stated to you is pure and simple fact. I love these two -infinitely better than my life." - -Wilmot bowed again. He felt ashamed of his reiterated acquiescence, -but had nothing more satisfactory to proffer. - -"Now, I don't see much of my family," pursued Ronald. "Their ways of -life are different from mine; and except when they happen to be in -London we are seldom thrown together. This may be to be regretted, or -it may not; at all events the fact is so. But whether I see them or -not, my interest in them never slackens. There are people, I -know--most people, I believe--to whom propinquity is a necessary -ingredient for affection. They must be near those they love--must be -brought into constant communication, personal communication with them, -or their love dies out. That is affection of a type which I cannot -understand; it is a great deal too spaniel-or ivy-like for my -comprehension. I could go on for years without seeing those I love, -and love them all the same. Consequently, although when the eight or -nine weeks' whirl which my family calls the London season is at an -end, and I scarcely see them until it begins again, I do not take less -interest in their proceedings, nor is my keen affection for those I -love one whit diminished. You follow me?" - -"So far, perfectly." - -"I was detained here on duty in London during last August and -September; and even if I had been free, I doubt whether I should have -been with my people at Kilsyth. As I have just said, their ways of -life, their amusements and pursuits are different from mine, and I -should probably have been following my own fancies somewhere else. But -I always hear from some of them with the greatest regularity; and I -heard, of course, of my sister's illness, and of your being called in -to attend upon her. Your name was thoroughly familiar to me. What my -friends call my 'odd ways' have made me personally acquainted with -several of the leading members of your profession; and directly I -heard that you had arrived at Kilsyth, I knew that Madeleine could not -possibly be in better hands." - -To anyone else Wilmot would have said that she could not have been -under the charge of anyone who would have taken greater interest in -her case; but he had not forgotten the interview of yesterday, and he -forbore. - -"I was delighted to hear of your arrival at Kilsyth," continued -Ronald, "and I was deeply grateful to you for the unceasing care and -anxiety which, as reported to me, you bestowed upon my sister. The -accounts which I received vied with each other in doing justice to -your skill and your constant attention; and I believe, as I know all -at Kilsyth believed, that, under Providence, we owe Madeleine's life -to you." - -"You will pardon my interrupting you, Captain Kilsyth," said Wilmot, -speaking almost for the first time; "but you give me more credit than -I deserve. Miss Kilsyth was very ill; but what she required most was -constant attention and watching. The excellent doctor of the -district--I forget his name, I'm ashamed to say--Joyce, Dr. Joyce, -would have been thoroughly efficient, and would have doubtless -restored Miss Kilsyth to health as speedily as I did; only -unfortunately others had a claim upon him, and he could not devote his -time to her." - -"Exactly what I was saying. I presume it will not be doubted that Dr. -Wilmot, of Charles-street, St. James's--in his own line the principal -physician of London--had as many calls upon his time even as the -excellent doctor of the district, and yet he sacrificed all others to -attend on Miss Kilsyth." - -"Dr. Wilmot was away from his patients on a holiday, and no one had a -claim upon his time." - -"And he made the most of his holiday by spending a great portion of it -in the sick-room of a fever-stricken patient! No, no, Dr. Wilmot; you -made a great sacrifice undoubtedly. Now, why did you make it?" - -He turned suddenly upon Wilmot as he spoke, and looked him straight in -the face. Wilmot's colour came again; he moved restlessly in his -chair, pressed his hands nervously together, but said nothing. - -"I told you, Dr. Wilmot, that I was about to speak of things the mere -mention of which, were we not men of honour, would be compromising to -some of the persons spoken of. I ask you why you made that sacrifice -of your professional time. I ask you not for information, because I -know the reason. Before you left Kilsyth, I heard that my sister was -receiving attention from a most undesirable quarter--from a quarter -whence it was impossible that any good could arise. My sister is, as I -have told you, dearer to me than my life, and the news distressed me -beyond measure. I turned it over and over in my mind; I made every -possible kind of inquiry. At length, on the evening on which you -arrived in London and called on me at my club, I knew that you were -the man alluded to by my informant." - -No change in Chudleigh Wilmot. His cheek is still flushed, his eyes -still cast down; still he moves restlessly in his chair, still his -hands pluck nervously at each other. - -"I knew it, and yet I hardly could believe it. I knew that men of your -profession, specially men of such eminence in your profession, were in -the habit of being received and treated with the utmost confidence; -which confidence was never abused. I knew that bystanders and -lookers-on, unaccustomed to illness, might very easily misconstrue the -attention which a physician would pay to a young lady whose case had -excited his strong professional interest. I--well, constrained to take -the worst view of it--I knew that you were a married man, and I -thought that you might have admired Miss Kilsyth, and that--that when -you left her--there--there would be an end of the feeling." - -No change in Chudleigh Wilmot. His cheek is still flushed, his eyes -still cast down; still he moves restlessly in his chair, still his -hands pluck nervously at each other. Something in his appearance -seemed to touch Ronald Kilsyth as he looked at him earnestly, for he -said: - -"I wish to God I could think so now, Dr. Wilmot! I wish to God I could -think so now! But though I don't pretend to be versed in these -matters, I have a certain amount of insight; and when I saw you -standing by my sister's side in the drawing-room in Brook-street -yesterday, I knew that the information I had received was correct." He -paused for an instant, and passed his hand across his forehead, then -resumed. "I am a blunt man, Dr. Wilmot, but I trust neither coarse nor -unsympathetic. I want to convey to you as quietly as possible that you -have made a mistake; that for everyone's sake--ours, Madeleine's, your -own--this thing cannot, must not be." - -A change in Chudleigh Wilmot now. He does not look up; he covers his -brow with his left hand; but he says in a deep husky voice: - -"There is--as you are aware--a change in my circumstances: I am--I am -free now; and perhaps--in the future--" - -"In no future, Dr. Wilmot," interrupted Ronald gravely, but not -unkindly. "Listen to me. If, as I half suspected you would, you had -flung yourself into a rage,--denied, stormed, protested,--I should -simply have said my say, and left you to make the best or the worst of -it. But you have not done this, and--and I pity you most sincerely. -You are, as you say, free now. You think probably there is no reason -why, at some future time, you should not ask my sister to become your -wife. You would probably urge your claims upon her gratitude--claims -which you think she might possibly be brought to allow. It can never -be, Dr. Wilmot. I, who am anything but, in this sense, a worldly man, -even I know that your presence at Kilsyth, your long stay there, to -the detriment of your home interests, your devotion to my sister, have -already given matter for talk to the gossips of society, and received -the usual amount of malicious comment. And if you have real regard for -Madeleine, you would give up anything to shield her from that, -indorsed as would be the imputation and intensified as would be the -malice, if your relations with her were to be on any other footing -than--they ought to have been." - -Quite silent now, Chudleigh Wilmot; his hand still covering his brow, -his head sunk upon his breast. - -"I said I pitied you; and I do," continued Ronald. "And here, -understand me, and let me explain one point in our position, Dr. -Wilmot. What I have to say, though it may pain you in one way, will, I -think, be satisfactory to you in another. You may think that Madeleine -may be destined by her family for some--I speak without the least -offence--some higher destiny; that her family would wish for her a -husband higher in social rank. I give you my honour that, as far as I -am concerned, I could not, from all I have heard of you, wish my -sister's future confided to a more honourable man. Social rank and -dignity weigh very little with me. My life is passed generally with -those who have won their spurs, rather than inherited their titles; -and I would infinitely sooner see my sister married to a man whose -successful position in life was due to himself than to one who merely -wore the reflected glory of his ancestors. So far you would have been -a suitor entirely acceptable to me, had there not been the other -unfortunate element in the matter." - -Ronald ceased speaking, and for some minutes there was a dead silence. -Then Chudleigh Wilmot raised his head, rose from his chair, and -commenced pacing the room with long strides; Ronald, perfectly -understanding his emotion, remaining passively seated. At length -Wilmot stopped by Ronald's chair, and said: - -"When you entered this room, you told me you had come here to speak to -me as a friend. I am bound to say that you have perfectly fulfilled -that implicit promise. No one could have been more frank, more candid, -and, I may say, more tender than you have been with me. My -profession," said Wilmot with a dreary smile,--"my profession teaches -us to touch wounds tenderly, and you seem to be thoroughly imbued with -the precept. You will do me the justice to allow that I have listened -to you patiently; that I have heard without flinching almost, -certainly without complaint." - -Ronald bowed his head in acquiescence. - -"Now, then, I must ask you to listen to me. What I have to say to you -is as sacred as what you have said to me, and will not, could not be -mentioned by me to another living soul. When I received your father's -telegram summoning me to your sister's bedside, there was no more -heart-whole man in Britain than myself. When I use the word -'heart-whole,' I do not intend it to convey the expression of a -perfect content in the affections I possessed, as you, knowing I was -married and settled, might understand it. I was heart-whole in the -sense that, while I was thoroughly skilled in the physical state of my -heart, its mental condition never gave me a thought. I had, as long as -I could recollect, been a very hard-working man. I had married, when I -first established myself in practice, principally, I believe, because -I thought it the most prudent thing for a young physician to do; but -certainly not from any feeling that ever caused my heart one extra -pulsation. You must not be shocked at this plain speaking. Recollect -that you are listening to an anatomical lecture, and go through with -it. All the years of my married life passed without any such feeling -being called into existence. My--my wife was a woman of quiet domestic -temperament, who pursued her way quietly through life; and I, -thoroughly engrossed in my professional pursuits, never thought that -life had anything better to engage in than ambition, better to offer -than success. I went to Kilsyth, and for weeks was engaged in -constant, unremitting attendance upon your sister. I saw her under -circumstances which must to a certain extent have invested the most -uninteresting woman in the world with interest; I saw her deserted and -shunned, by everyone else, and left entirely to my care; I saw her in -her access of delirium, and afterwards, when prostrate and weak, she -was dependent on me for everything she wanted. And while she and I -were thus together--I now combating the disease which assailed her, -now watching the sweet womanly patience, the more than womanly -courage, with which she supported its attacks--I, witnessing how pure -and good she was, how soft and gentle, and utterly unlike anything I -had ever seen, save perhaps in years long past, began to comprehend -that there was, after all, something to live for beyond the attainment -of success and the accumulation of fees." - -Wilmot stopped here, and looked at his companion; but Ronald's head -was turned away, and he made no movement; so Wilmot proceeded. - -I--I scarcely know how to go on here; but I determined to tell you -all, and I will go through with it. You cannot tell, you cannot have -the smallest idea of what I have suffered. You were pleased to call me -a man of honour: God alone knows how I struggled to deserve that title -from you, from every member of Miss Kilsyth's family. I succeeded so -well, that until I noticed the expression of your face yesterday, I -believed no one on earth knew of the state of my feelings towards that -young lady. At Kilsyth, when I first felt the fascination creeping -over me; when I found that there was another, a better and a brighter -be-all and end-all for human existence than I had previously imagined; -when I found that the whole of my career had hitherto lacked, and -under then existent circumstances was likely to lack, all that could -make it worth running after, the want had been discovered; I did my -best to shut my eyes to what might have been, and to content myself -with what was. I knew that though my--my wife and I had never -professed any extravagant affection for each other; that though we had -never been lovers, in the common acceptation of the word, she had -discharged her duty most faithfully to me, and that I should be a -scoundrel to be untrue to her in thought--in word, of course, from -other considerations, it was impossible. I did my best, and my best -availed. I succeeded so far, that I left your father's house with the -knowledge that my secret was locked in my own breast, and that I had -never made the slightest tentative advance to your sister, to see if -she were even aware of its existence. More than this. During my -attendance on Miss Kilsyth, I had discovered that she was suffering -from a threatening of what the world calls consumption. I felt it my -duty to mention this to your father, and he requested me to attend her -professionally when the family returned to London. I agreed--to him; -but I had long reflection on the subject during my return journey, and -had almost decided to decline, on some pretext or another. - -"Hear me but a little longer. I need not dwell to you upon the event -which has occurred since I left Scotland, and which has left me a free -man--free to enjoy legitimately that happiness, a dream of which -dawned upon me at Kilsyth, and which I shut out and put aside because -it was then wrong, and almost unattainable. Circumstances are now so -altered, that it is certainly not the former, and it is yet to be -proved whether, so far as the young lady is concerned, it is the -latter. In my desire to do right, even with the feeling of relief and -release which I had, even with the hope which I do not scruple to -confess I have nourished, I kept from Brook-street until a line from -Miss Kilsyth summoned me thither. When you met me yesterday, I was -there in obedience to her summons. You know that, I suppose, Captain -Kilsyth?'" - -"I made inquiries yesterday, and heard so. I said at the outset, Dr. -Wilmot, that you were a man of honour. Your conduct since your return, -and since the return of my family, weighed with me in the utterance of -that opinion." - -"I did not go to Brook-street--not that I did not fully comprehend the -change in the nature of my position since I had last seen Miss -Kilsyth, not that I had not a certain half-latent feeling of hope that -I might, now I had the legitimate chance, be enabled to rouse an -interest in her, but because I thought it was perhaps better to stay -away. If I did not see her again, I preposterously attempted to argue -to myself, the feeling that I had for her might die out. I have seen -her again. I have heard from you that my feelings towards your sister -are known--at least to you; and now I ask you whether you still think -that, under existing circumstances, it is impossible for me to ask -Miss Kilsyth to be my wife at some future date?" - -As Chudleigh Wilmot stopped speaking, he bent over the back of the -chair by which he had been standing during the latter part of his -speech, and looked long and earnestly at Ronald. It was very seldom -that Captain Kilsyth dropped his eyes before anyone's gaze; but on -this occasion he passed his hand hastily across them, and kept them -for some minutes fixed upon the ground. A very hard struggle was going -on in Ronald Kilsyth's mind. He was firmly persuaded that the decision -he had originally taken, and which he had come to Charles-street for -the purpose of insisting on with Wilmot, was the right one. And yet -Wilmot's story, in itself so touching, had been so plainly and -earnestly told, there was such evident honesty and candour in the man, -that Ronald's heart ached to be compelled to destroy the hopes which -he felt certain that his companion had recently cherished. Moreover, -in saying that in considering Madeleine's future, his aspirations for -her marriage took no heed of rank or wealth, Ronald simply spoke the -truth. He had a slight tendency to hero-worship; and a man of Wilmot's -talent, and, as he now found, of Wilmot's integrity and gentlemanly -feeling, was just the person of whose friendship and alliance he would -have been proud. Madeleine too? In his own heart Ronald felt perfectly -certain that Madeleine was already gratefully fond of her preserver, -and would soon become as passionately attached to him as the mildness -of her nature would admit; while he knew that she would not feel that -she was descending from her social position--that she was "marrying -beneath her," to use the ordinarily accepted phrase, in the smallest -degree. And yet--no, it was impossible! He, Ronald Kilsyth, the last -man in the world to care for the talk of "_on_," "they," "everybody," -the social scandal, and the club chatter, while it concerned himself, -shrunk from it most sensitively when it threatened anyone dear to -him. Physicians were all very well--everyone knew them of course, -necessarily; but their wives--Ronald was trying to recollect how many -physicians' wives he had ever met in society, when he recollected that -it was Madeleine, who would of course hold her own position; and--and -then came a thought of Lady Muriel, and the influence which she had -over his father when they were both tolerably agreed upon the subject. -It was impossible; and he must say so. - -He looked up straightforwardly and honestly at his companion, and -said, "I wish to God that I could give you a different answer, Dr. -Wilmot; but I cannot. I still think it is impossible." - -"I think so too," said Wilmot sadly. "I have looked at it, as you may -imagine, from the most hopeful aspect; and even then I am compelled to -confess that you are right. But, see here, Captain Kilsyth; whatever I -make up my mind to I can go through with,--all save slow torture. My -doom must be short and sharp--no lingering death. What I mean to say -is," he continued, striving to repress the knot rising in his -throat,--"what I mean to say is, that as I am to give up this hope of -my life, I must quench it utterly and at once, not suffer it to -smoulder and die out. You tell me--no!" he added, as Ronald put out -his hand. "I do not mean you personally, believe me. I am told that I -must abandon any idea of asking Miss Kilsyth to be my wife, and--and I -agree. But--I must never see Miss Kilsyth again. I could not risk the -chance of meeting her here, there, and everywhere. I would not run the -chance of being thrown with her again. I should do my best to hold to -the line of conduct I have marked out for myself; but I am but mortal, -and, as such, liable to err." - -"Then, in heaven's name, what do you intend to do with yourself?" -asked Ronald, with one hand plucking at his moustache, and the other -hooked round the back of the chair. - -"To do with myself!" echoed Wilmot. "To fly from temptation. The thing -that every sensible man does when he really means to win. It is only -your braggarts who stop and vaunt the excellence of their virtue, and -give in after all. Read that letter, Captain Kilsyth, and you will see -that I have anticipated the object of your visit." - -Ronald took the letter to Sir Saville Rowe which Wilmot handed to him, -and read it through carefully. The tears stood in his eyes as he -handed it back. - -"You're a noble fellow, Dr. Wilmot," said he; "such a gentleman as one -seldom meets with. But this will never do. You must never think of -giving up your practice." - -"For a time at least; it is the only way. I must cure myself of a -disease that has laid firm hold upon me before I can be of any use to -my patients, I fancy." - -"When do you purpose going?" - -"At once, or within the week." - -"And where?" - -"I don't know. Through Germany--to Vienna, I imagine. Vienna is a -great stronghold of the _savans_ of our profession; and I should give -out that I was bound thither on a professional mission." - -"I feel as though there is nothing I would not give to dissuade you -from carrying out what only half an hour since my heart was so -earnestly set upon. But is it absolutely necessary that you should -thus exile yourself? Could you not--" - -"I can take no half measures," said Wilmot decisively. "I go, or I -stay; and we have both decided what I had better do." - - -Five minutes more and Ronald was gone, after a short and earnest -speech of gratitude and thanks to Wilmot, in which he had said that it -would be impossible ever to forget his manly chivalry, and that he -hoped they would soon meet under happier auspices. He wrung Wilmot's -hand at parting, and left, sensibly affected. - -Wilmot's servant heard the hall-door shut behind the departing -visitor, and wondered he had not been rung for. Five minutes more -elapsed, ten minutes, and then the man, thinking that his master had -overlooked the fact that the carriage was waiting for him, went up to -the room to make the announcement. When he entered the room, he found -his master with his head upon the table in front of him clasped in his -hands. He looked up at the sound of the man's voice and murmured -something unintelligible, seized his hat and gloves from the -hall-table, and jumped into his brougham. - -"He was ghastly pale when he first looked up," said the man to the -female circle downstairs, "and had great red lines round his eyes. -Sometimes I think he's gone off his 'ead! He's never been the same man -since missus's death." - - - - -END OF VOL. I. - - - -PRINTING OFFICE OF THE PUBLISHER. - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's The Forlorn Hope (Vol. 1 of 2), by Edmund Yates - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE FORLORN HOPE (VOL. 1 OF 2) *** - -***** This file should be named 60072-8.txt or 60072-8.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/0/0/7/60072/ - -Produced by Charles Bowen from page scans provided by Google Books -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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Thus, we do not -necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper -edition. - -Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search -facility: www.gutenberg.org - -This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, -including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to -subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. - diff --git a/old/60072-8.zip b/old/60072-8.zip Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 68555f5..0000000 --- a/old/60072-8.zip +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/60072-h.zip b/old/60072-h.zip Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index e0a4b26..0000000 --- a/old/60072-h.zip +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/60072-h/60072-h.htm b/old/60072-h/60072-h.htm deleted file mode 100644 index c48ea5f..0000000 --- a/old/60072-h/60072-h.htm +++ /dev/null @@ -1,7970 +0,0 @@ -<!DOCTYPE HTML PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD HTML 4.01 Transitional//EN"> -<html> -<head> -<title>The Forlorn Hope. (Vol. 1 of 2)</title> -<meta name="Subtitle" content="A Novel."> -<meta name="Author" content="Edmund Yates"> -<meta name="Publisher" content="Bernhard Tauchnitz"> -<meta name="Date" content="1867"> -<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=ISO-8859-1"> -<style type="text/css"> -body {margin-left:10%; - margin-right:10%; background-color:#FFFFFF;} - -p {text-indent:1em; text-align: justify;} - -p.right {text-align:right; margin-right:20%;} -p.center {text-align: center;} -p.continue {text-indent: 0in; margin-top:9pt;} - -h1,h2,h3,h4,h5 {text-align: center;} - -span.sc {font-variant: small-caps; font-size:110%;} - -hr.W10 {width:10%; color:black; margin-top:0pt; margin-bottom:0pt} -hr.W20 {width:20%; color:black; margin-top:12pt; margin-bottom:12pt} -hr.W50 {width:50%; color:black;} -hr.W90 {width:90%; color:black;} - -p.hang1 {margin-left:3em; text-indent:-3em;} - -</style> -</head> -<body> - - -<pre> - -Project Gutenberg's The Forlorn Hope (Vol. 1 of 2), by Edmund Yates - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: The Forlorn Hope (Vol. 1 of 2) - A Novel - -Author: Edmund Yates - -Release Date: August 8, 2019 [EBook #60072] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE FORLORN HOPE (VOL. 1 OF 2) *** - - - - -Produced by Charles Bowen from page scans provided by Google Books - - - - - -</pre> - -<br> -<br> -<br> -<br> -<br> -<br> -<p class="hang1">1. Page scan source: -https://books.google.com/books?id=94OTUUmRnVAC,<br> -The Forlorn Hope a Novel, (Volume 877, Vol. 1, in, Collection of<br> -British Authors, Volume 878)</p> -<br> -<br> -<br> -<br> -<br> -<br> -<br> -<h2>THE FORLORN HOPE.</h2> -<h5>A NOVEL.</h5> -<br> -<br> -<br> - -<h5>BY</h5> -<h4>EDMUND YATES,</h4> -<h5>AUTHOR OF "LAND AT LAST," "BROKEN TO HARNESS," ETC.</h5> -<br> -<br> -<h4><i>COPYRIGHT EDITION</i>.</h4> -<br> -<br> -<h4>IN TWO VOLUMES.<br> -VOL. I.</h4> -<br> -<br> -<br> -<br> -<h4>LEIPZIG<br> -BERNHARD TAUCHNITZ.<br> -1867.</h4> - -<h5><i>The Right of Translation is reserved</i>.</h5> -<br> -<br> -<br> -<br> -<br> -<br> -<h5>TO</h5> -<h4>CHARLES FECHTER.</h4> -<br> -<br> -<br> -<br> -<br> -<br> -<table cellpadding="10" style="width: 90%; font-weight: bold; margin-left: 5%"> -<colgroup> -<col style="width: 10%; vertical-align: top; text-align: right"> -<col style="width: 90%; vertical-align: top; text-align: left"> -</colgroup> -<tr> -<td colspan="2"> -<h4>CONTENTS</h4></td> -</tr><tr> -<td>CHAPTER</td> -<td></td> -</tr><tr> -<td><a name="div1Ref_01" href="#div1_01">I.</a></td> -<td>"Sound the Alarm."</td> -</tr><tr> -<td><a name="div1Ref_02" href="#div1_02">II.</a></td> -<td>Master and Pupil.</td> -</tr><tr> -<td><a name="div1Ref_03" href="#div1_03">III.</a></td> -<td>Watching and Waiting.</td> -</tr><tr> -<td><a name="div1Ref_04" href="#div1_04">IV.</a></td> -<td>Mrs. Wilmot.</td> -</tr><tr> -<td><a name="div1Ref_05" href="#div1_05">V.</a></td> -<td>A Resolve, and its Results.</td> -</tr><tr> -<td><a name="div1Ref_06" href="#div1_06">VI.</a></td> -<td>At Kilsyth.</td> -</tr><tr> -<td><a name="div1Ref_07" href="#div1_07">VII.</a></td> -<td>Brooding.</td> -</tr><tr> -<td><a name="div1Ref_08" href="#div1_08">VIII.</a></td> -<td>Kith and Kin.</td> -</tr><tr> -<td><a name="div1Ref_09" href="#div1_09">IX.</a></td> -<td>Ronald.</td> -</tr><tr> -<td><a name="div1Ref_10" href="#div1_10">X.</a></td> -<td>Cross-examination.</td> -</tr><tr> -<td><a name="div1Ref_11" href="#div1_11">XI.</a></td> -<td>Irreparable.</td> -</tr><tr> -<td><a name="div1Ref_12" href="#div1_12">XII.</a></td> -<td>The Leaden Seal.</td> -</tr><tr> -<td><a name="div1Ref_13" href="#div1_13">XIII.</a></td> -<td>A Turn of the Screw.</td> -</tr><tr> -<td><a name="div1Ref_14" href="#div1_14">XIV.</a></td> -<td>His grateful Patient.</td> -</tr><tr> -<td><a name="div1Ref_15" href="#div1_15">XV.</a></td> -<td>Family Relations.</td> -</tr><tr> -<td><a name="div1Ref_16" href="#div1_16">XVI.</a></td> -<td>Giving up.</td> -</tr><tr> -<td><a name="div1Ref_17" href="#div1_17">XVII.</a></td> -<td>Face to Face.</td> -</tr></table> -<br> -<br> -<br> -<br> -<br> -<br> -<h3>THE FORLORN HOPE.</h3> -<br> -<br> -<br> -<br> -<h4><a name="div1_01" href="#div1Ref_01">CHAPTER I.</a></h4> -<h5>"Sound an Alarm."</h5> -<br> - -<p>The half-hour dressing-bell rung out as Sir Duncan Forbes jumped from -the hired carriage which had borne him the last stage of his journey -to Kilsyth, and immediately followed his servant, who had put in a -pantomimically abrupt appearance at the carriage-door, to his room. -The steaming horses shook their sides, and rattled their harness -dismally, in the dreary autumnal evening; but a host of gillies and -understrappers had hurried out at the noise of the approaching wheels, -and so quickly despoiled the carriage of its luggage, that within a -very few minutes its driver--comforted by something over his fare, in -addition to a stiff glass of the incomparable Kilsyth whisky--was -slowly wending his way back, over a road which to any one but a -Highlander would have seemed impassable in the fog that had begun to -cloud the neighbouring mountains in an almost impenetrable shroud of -misty gray. From the cold, chilly, damp mountain air, from the long -solitary ride, for the last twenty miles of which he had not met a -human creature, to the airy bedroom with its French paper, the -bright wood-fire burning on its hearth, the wax candles on the -dressing-table, the drawn chintz curtains, the neat writing-table, the -little shelf of prettily-bound well-chosen books, was a transition -indeed for Duncan Forbes. One glance around sufficed to show him all -these things, and to show him in addition the steaming bath, the -warmed linen, the other various arrangements for his comfort which the -forethought of Dixon his servant had prepared for him. He was used to -luxuries, and thoroughly accustomed to rough it; he was not an -impressionable young man; but there are times, even if we be only -eight-and-twenty, good-looking, and in the Household Brigade, when we -feel a kind of sympathy with the working-man who declared that "life -was not all beer and skittles," and are disposed to look rather more -seriously than usual upon our own condition and our surroundings. -The journey from Glenlaggan--it is, it must be confessed, an awful -road--had had its effect on Duncan Forbes. Why he should have -permitted himself to be worked upon either by a sense of solitude, or -by an involuntary tribute to the wildness of the scenery, or perhaps -by dyspepsia, arising a recent change of living, to fall temporarily -into a low state of mind; to think about his duns, debts, and -difficulties; to wonder why he was not at that moment staying with his -mother in Norfolk, instead of plunging into the depths of the -Highlands; to think of his cousin Ethel Spalding, and to clench his -fists violently and mutter strong expressions as the image of a -certain Dundas Adair, commonly called Lord Adair, rose before him -simultaneously with that of his said cousin; why he then fell into a -state which was half lachrymose and half morose, impelling him to -refresh himself from a silver flask, and to make many mental -resolutions as to his future life,--why he did all this is utterly -immaterial to us, as Sir Duncan Forbes is by no manner of means our -hero, in fact has very little to do with our story. But the journey -had its effect upon him, and rendered the comfort and luxury of -Kilsyth doubly precious in his eyes. So that when he had had his bath, -and, well advanced in his dressing, was luxuriating in the comfort of -cleanliness and fresh linen, and the prospect of an excellent dinner, -he had sufficiently returned to his normal condition to ask Dixon--who -had preceded him by a couple of days--whether the house was full, and -who were there.</p> - -<p>"House quite full, sir," replied Dixon. "Colonel Jefferson, sir, of -the First Life-guards; Capting Severn, sir, of the Second Life-guards, -and his lady; Markis Towcester, as have jist jined the Blues; Honble -Capting Shaddock, of the Eighteenth 'Ussars; Lord Roderick Douglas, of -the Scots Fusiliers; and--"</p> - -<p>"Drop the Army List, Dixon," growled his master, at that moment -performing heavily on his head with a pair of hair-brushes; "who else -is here?"</p> - -<p>"There's the Danish Minister, sir--which I won't try to pronounce -his name--and his lady; and there's the Dook and Duchess of -Northallerton--which the Dook has the gout that bad, his man told -me--used to be in our ridgment, Sir Duncan, and was bought out by his -mother on his father's death--as to be past bearin' sometimes; and -Lady Fairfax, sir; and Lady Dunkeld, as is Lady Muriel's cousin, sir; -and a Mr. Pitcairn, as is a distant relation of the family's; and a -Mr. Fletcher, as is, I'm told, a hartist, or something of that kind, -sir--he hasn't brought a man here, sir; so I'm unable to say; but he -seems to be well thought of, sir; quite at his ease, as they say, -among the company, sir."</p> - -<p>"Dear me!" said Duncan Forbes, suspending the action of the -hair-brushes for a moment, while he grinned grimly; "you seem to be a -great observer, Dixon."</p> - -<p>"Well, sir, one can't keep one's hears shut entirely, nor one's eyes, -and I noticed this gentleman took a kind of leading part in the talk -at dinner, sir, yesterday. O, I forgot, sir; Miss Kilsyth have not -been well for the last two or three days, sir; kep' her room, havin' -caught cold returnin' from a luncheon-party up at what they call a -shealing--kind of 'ut, sir, in the 'ills, where they put up when -stalkin', as I make out, sir,--and her maid says is uncommon low and -bad."</p> - -<p>"Ill, is she?--Miss Kilsyth? Jove, that's bad! Haven't they sent for a -doctor, or that kind of thing?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, sir, they have sent for a doctor; and he's been, sir; leastways -when I say doctor, sir, I mean to say the 'pothecary from the village, -sir. Comes on a shady kind of a cob, sir, and I shouldn't say knew -much about it. Beg your pardon, sir--dinner gong!"</p> - -<p>Sir Duncan Forbes' toilette is happily complete at the time of this -announcement, and he sallies downstairs towards the drawing-room. -Entering, he finds most of the company already assembled; and in the -careless glance which he throws around as the door closes behind him, -he recognises a bevy of London friends, looking, with perhaps the -addition of a little bronze in the men, and a little plumpness in the -ladies, exactly as he left them at the concluding ball of the season -two months ago. Some he has not seen for a longer period, his host -among them. Kilsyth of Kilsyth, keen sportsman, whether with rod or -gun; landlord exercising influence over his tenants, not by his -position alone, but by the real indubitable interest which he takes in -their well-being; lord-lieutenant of his county, first patron and best -judge at its agricultural meetings, chairman of the bench of -magistrates, prime mover in the herring fishery,--what does Kilsyth of -Kilsyth do in London? Little enough, truth to tell; gives a very -perfunctory attendance at the House of Commons, meets old friends at -Brookes's, dines at a few of the earlier meetings of the Fox Club, and -does his utmost to keep out of the way of the Liberal whip, who dare -not offend him, and yet grieves most lamentably over his shortcomings -at St. Stephen's. See him now as he stands on the hearth-rug, with his -back to the drawing-room fire, a hale hearty man, whose fifty years of -life have never bent his form nor scarcely dimmed the fire in his -bright blue eye. Life, indeed, has been pretty smooth and pleasant to -Kilsyth since, when a younger son, he was gazetted to the 42d; and -after a slight sojourn in that distinguished regiment, was sent for by -his father to take the place of his elder brother, killed by the -bursting of a gun when out on a stalk. A shadow--deep enough at the -moment, but now mercifully lightened by Time, the grim yet kindly -consoler--had fallen across his path when his wife, whom he loved so -well, and whom he had taken from her quiet English home, where, a -simple parson's daughter, she had captivated the young Highland -officer, had died in giving birth to a second child. But he had -survived the shock; and long afterwards, when he had succeeded to the -family title and estates, and was, indeed, himself well on the way to -middle age, had married again. Kilsyth's second wife was the sister of -a Scottish earl of old family and small estate, a high-bred woman, -much younger than her husband, who had borne him two children (little -children at the time our story opens), and who, not merely in her -Highland neighbourhood, but in the best society of London, in which -she was ungrudgingly received, was looked upon as a pattern wife. With -the name of Lady Muriel Kilsyth the most inveterate scandalmongers had -never ventured to make free. The mere fact of her being more than -twenty years younger than her husband had given them the greatest hope -of onslaught when the marriage was first announced; but Lady Muriel -had calmly faced her foes, and not the most observant of them had as -yet espied the smallest flaw in her harness. Her behaviour to her -husband, without being in the least degree gushing, was so thoroughly -circumspect, they lived together on such excellent terms of something -that was evidently more than amity, though it never pretended to -devotion, that the scandalmongers were utterly defeated. Balked in one -direction, they launched out in another; they could not degrade the -husband by their pity, but they could mildly annoy the wife with -reflections on her conduct to her step-children. "Poor little things," -they said, "with such an ambitious woman for stepmother, and children -of her own to think of! Ronald may struggle on; but as for poor -Madeleine--" and uplifted eyebrows and shrugged shoulders completed -the sentence. It is needless to say that Kilsyth himself heard none of -these idle babblings, or that if he had, he would have treated them -with scorn. "My lady" was to him the incarnation of every thing that -was right and proper, that was clever and far-seeing; he trusted her -implicitly in every matter; he looked up to and respected her; he -suffered himself to be ruled by her, and she ruled him very gently and -with the greatest talent and tact in every matter of his life save -one. Lady Muriel was all-powerful with her husband, except when, as he -thought, her views were in the least harsh or despotic towards his -daughter Madeleine; and then he quietly but calmly held his own way. -Madeleine was his idol, and no one, not even his wife, could shake him -in his adoration of her. As he stands on the hearth-rug, there is a -shadow on his bright cheery face, for he has had bad news of his -darling since he came in from shooting,--has been forbidden to go to -her room lest he should disturb her; and at each opening of the door -he looks anxiously in that direction, half wishing, half fearing Lady -Muriel's advent with the doctor's latest verdict on the invalid.</p> - -<p>The thin slight wiry man talking to Kilsyth, and rattling on -garrulously in spite of his friend's obvious preoccupation, is Captain -Sèvern, perhaps the best steeple-chase rider in England, and -untouchable at billiards by any amateur. He is a slangy, turfy, -raffish person, hating ladies' society, and using a singular -vocabulary full of <i>Bell's-Life</i> idioms. He is, however, well -connected, and has a charming wife, for whose sake he is tolerated; a -lovely little fairy of a woman, whose heart is as big as her body; the -merriest, most cheerful, best-tempered creature, trolling out her -little French <i>chansons</i> in a clear bird-like voice; acting in -charades with infinite character and piquancy; and withal the idol of -the poor in the neighbourhood of their hunting-box in Leicestershire; -and the quickest, softest, and most attentive nurse in sickness, as a -dozen of her friends could testify.</p> - -<p>That bald head which you can just see over the top of the <i>Morning -Post</i> belongs to the Duke of Northallerton, who has been all his -life more or less engaged in politics; who has, when his party has -been in office, held respectively the important positions of -Postmaster-General and Privy Seal; and who was never so well described -as by one of his private secretaries, who declared tersely that his -grace was a "kind old pump." Outwardly he is a tall man of about -fifty-five, with a high forehead, which has stood his friend through -life, and obtained him credit for gifts which he never possessed, a -boiled-gooseberry eye, a straight nose, and projecting buck-teeth. As -becomes an old English gentleman, he wears a very high white cravat -and a large white waistcoat; indeed it is only within the last few -years that he has relinquished his blue coat and gold buttons, and -very tight pantaloons. He is reading the paper airily through his -double glasses, and uttering an occasional "Ha!" and "Dear me!" as he -wades through the movements of the travelling aristocracy; but from -time to time he removes the glasses from his nose, and looks up with a -half-peevish glance at his neighbour, Colonel Jefferson. Charley -Jefferson (no one ever called him any thing else) has a large -photograph album before him, at which he is not looking in the least; -on the contrary, his glance is directed straight in front of him; and -as he stands six feet four, his eyes, when he is sitting, would be -about on a level with a short man's head; and he is tugging at his -great sweeping grizzled moustache, and fidgeting with his leg, and -muttering between his clinched teeth at intervals short phrases, which -sound like "Little brute! break his neck! beastly little cad!" and -suchlike.</p> - -<p>The individual thus objurgated by the Colonel is highly thought of by -Sir Bernard Burke, and known to Debrett as John Ulick Delatribe, -Marquis of Towcester, eldest son of the Duke of Plymouth, who has just -been gazetted to the Blues, after some years at Eton and eighteen -months' wandering on the Continent. Though he is barely twenty, a more -depraved young person is rarely to be found; his tutor, the Rev. -Merton Sandford, who devoted the last few years of his life to him, -and who has retired to his well-earned preferment of the largest -living in the duke's gift, lifts up his eyes and shakes his head when, -over a quiet bottle of claret with an old college friend, he speaks of -Lord Towcester. The boy's reputation had preceded him to London; a -story from the Viennese Embassy, of which he was the hero, came across -in a private note to Blatherwick of the F.O., enclosed in the official -white sheep-skin despatch-bag, and before night was discussed in half -the smoking-rooms in Pall-Mall. The youngsters laughed at the anecdote -and envied its hero; but older men looked grave; and Charley -Jefferson, standing in the middle of a knot of men on the steps of the -Rag, said he was deuced glad that the lad wasn't coming into his -regiment; for if that story were true, the service would be none the -better for such an accession to it, as, if it were his business, he -should take an early opportunity of pointing out; and the listeners, -who knew that Colonel Jefferson was the best soldier and the strictest -martinet throughout the household cavalry, and who marked the -expression of his face as he pulled his moustache and strode away -after delivering his dictum, thought that perhaps it was better for -Towcester that his lot was cast in a different corps. You would not -have thought there was much harm in the boy, though, from his -appearance. Look at him now, as he bends over Lady Fairfax, until his -face almost touches her soft glossy hair. It is a round, boyish, -ingenuous face, though the eyes are rather deeply set, and there is -something cruel about the mouth which the thin downy moustache utterly -fails to hide. As Lady Fairfax turns her large dark eyes on her -interlocutor, and looks up at him, her brilliant white teeth flashing -in an irrepressible smile, the Colonel's growls become more frequent, -and he tugs at his moustache more savagely than ever. Why? If you know -any thing about these people, you will remember that ten years ago, -when Emily Fairfax was Emily Ponsonby, and lived with her old aunt, -Lady Mary, in the dull rambling old house at Kew, Charley Jefferson, a -penniless cornet in what were then the 13th Light Dragoons, was -quartered at Hounslow; danced, rode, and flirted with her; carried off -a lock of her hair when the regiment was ordered to India; and far -away up country, in utter ignorance of all that was happening in -England, used to gaze at it and kiss it, long after Miss Ponsonby had -married old Lord Fairfax, and had become the reigning belle of the -London season. Old Lord Fairfax is dead now, and Charley Jefferson has -come into his uncle's fortune; and there is no cause or impediment why -these twain should not become one flesh, save that Emily is still -coquettish, and Charley is horribly jealous; and so matters are still -in the balance.</p> - -<p>The little old gentleman in the palpable flaxen wig and gold -spectacles, who is poring over that case of Flaxman's cameos in -genuine admiration, is Count Bulow, the Danish Ambassador; and the -little old lady whose face is so wrinkled as to suggest an idea of -gratitude that she is a lady, and consequently is not compelled to -shave, is his wife. They are charming old people, childless -themselves, but the cause of constant matchmaking in others. More -flirtations come to a successful issue in the embassy at Eaton-place -than in any other house in town; and the old couple, who have for -years worthily represented their sovereign, are sponsors to half the -children in Belgravia. They are both art-lovers, and their house is -crammed with good things--pictures from Munich and Düsseldorf, choice -bits of Thorwaldsen, big elk-horns, and quaint old Scandinavian -drinking-cups. Old Lady Potiphar, who has the worst reputation and the -bitterest tongue in London, says you meet "odd people" at the Bulows'; -said "odd people" being artists and authors, English and foreign. Mr. -Fletcher, R. A., who is just now talking to the Countess, is one of -the most favoured guests at the embassy, but he is not an "odd -person," even to Lady Potiphar, for he goes into what she calls -"sassiety," and has been "actially asked to Mar'bro' House"--where -Lady Potiphar is not invited. A quiet, unpretending, gentlemanly, -middle-aged man, Mr. Fletcher; wearing his artistic honours with easy -dignity, and by no means oblivious of the early days when he gave -drawing-lessons at per hour to many of the nobility who now call him -their friend. There are three or four young ladies present, who need -no particular description, and who are dividing the homage of Captain -Shaddock; while Lord Roderick Douglas, a young nobleman to whom Nature -has been more bountiful in nose than in forehead, and Mr. Pitcairn, a -fresh-coloured, freckled, blue-eyed gentleman, lithe and active as a -greyhound, are muttering in a corner, making arrangements for the next -day's shooting.</p> - -<p>The entrance of Sir Duncan Forbes caused a slight commotion in the -party; and every one had a look or a word of welcome for the new -comer, for he was a general favourite. He moved easily from group to -group, shaking hands and chatting pleasantly. Kilsyth, who was -specially fond of him, grasped his hand warmly; the Duke laid aside -the <i>Morning Post</i> in the midst of a most interesting leader, in which -Mr. Bright was depicted as a pleasant compound of Catiline and Judas -Iscariot; Count Bulow gave up his cameos; and even grim Charley -Jefferson relaxed in his feverish supervision of Lord Towcester.</p> - -<p>As for the ladies, they unanimously voted Duncan charming, quite -charming, and could not make too much of him.</p> - -<p>"And where have you come from, Duncan?" asked Kilsyth, when the buzz -consequent on his entrance had subsided.</p> - -<p>"Last, from Burnside," said Duncan.</p> - -<p>"Burnside!--where's Burnside?" asked Captain Severn shortly.</p> - -<p>"Burnside is on the Tay, the prettiest house in all Scotland, if I may -venture to say so, being at Kilsyth; of course it don't pretend to any -thing of this kind. It's a mere doll's-house of a place, nothing but a -shooting-box; but in its way it's a perfect paradise."</p> - -<p>"Are you speaking by the card, Duncan?" said Count Bulow, with the -slightest foreign accent; "or was there some Peri in this paradise -that gave it such fascination in your eyes?"</p> - -<p>"Peri! No indeed, Count," replied. Duncan, laughing; "Burnside is a -bachelor establishment,--rigidly proper, quite monastic, and all that -kind of thing. It belongs to old Sir Saville Rowe, who was a swell -doctor in London--O, ages ago!"</p> - -<p>"Sir Saville Rowe!" exclaimed the Duke; "I know him very well. He was -physician to the late King, and was knighted just before his majesty's -death. I haven't seen him for years, and thought he was dead."</p> - -<p>"He's any thing but that, Duke. A remarkably healthy old man, and as -jolly as possible; capital company still, though he's long over -seventy. And his place is really lovely; the worst of it is, it's such -a tremendous distance from here. I've been travelling all day; and as -it is I thought I was late for dinner. The gong sounded as I left my -room."</p> - -<p>"You were late, Duncan; you always are," said Kilsyth, with a smile. -"But the Duchess is keeping you in countenance tonight, and Lady -Muriel has not shown yet. She is up with Madeleine, who is ill, poor -child."</p> - -<p>"Ah, so I was sorry to hear. What is it? Nothing serious, I hope?"</p> - -<p>"No, please God, no. But she caught cold, and is a little feverish -tonight: the doctor is with her now, and we shall soon have his -report. Ah, here is the Duchess."</p> - -<p>The Duchess of Northallerton, a tall portly woman, with a heavy -ruminating expression of face, like a sedate cow, entered as he spoke, -and advancing said a few gracious nothings to Duncan Forbes. She was -closely followed by a servant, who, addressing his master, said that -Lady Muriel would be engaged for a few minutes longer with the doctor, -and had ordered dinner to be served.</p> - -<p>The conversation at dinner, falling into its recent channel, was -resumed by Lord Towcester, who said, "Who had you at this doctor's, -Duncan? Queer sort of people, I suppose?"</p> - -<p>"Some of his patients, perhaps," said Lady Fairfax, showing all her -teeth.</p> - -<p>"Black draught and that sort of thing to drink, and cold compresses on -the sideboard," said Captain Severn, who was nothing if not -objectionable.</p> - -<p>"I never had better living, and never met pleasanter people," said -Duncan Forbes pointedly. "They wouldn't have suited you, perhaps, -Severn, for they all talked sense; and none of them knew the odds on -any thing--though that might have suited you perhaps, as you'd have -been able to win their money."</p> - -<p>"Any of Sir Saville's profession?" cut in the Duke, diplomatically -anxious to soften matters.</p> - -<p>"Only one--a Dr. Wilmot; the great man of the day, as I understand."</p> - -<p>"O, every body has heard of Wilmot," said half-a-dozen voices.</p> - -<p>"He's the great authority on fever, and that kind of thing," said -Jefferson. "Saved Broadwater's boy in typhus last year when all the -rest of them had given him up."</p> - -<p>"Dr. Wilmot remains there," said Duncan; "our party broke up -yesterday, but Wilmot stays on. He and I had a tremendous chat last -night, and I never met a more delightful fellow."</p> - -<p>At this moment Lady Muriel entered the room, and as she passed her -husband's chair laid a small slip of paper on the table by his plate; -then went up to Duncan Forbes, who had risen to receive her, and gave -him a hearty welcome. Kilsyth took an opportunity of opening the -paper, and the healthy colour left his cheeks as he read:</p> - -<p>"<i>M. is much worse tonight. Dr. Joyce now pronounces it undoubted -scarlet-fever</i>."</p> - -<p>The old man rose from the table, asking permission to absent himself -for a few moments; and as he moved, whispered to Duncan, who was -sitting at his right-hand, "You said Dr. Wilmot was still at -Burnside?"</p> - -<p>Receiving an answer in the affirmative, he hurried into the hall, -wrote a few hasty lines, and gave them to the butler, saying, "Tell -Donald to ride off at once to Acray, and telegraph this message. Tell -him to gallop all the way.".</p> -<br> -<br> -<br> -<h4><a name="div1_02" href="#div1Ref_02">CHAPTER II.</a></h4> -<h5>Master and Pupil.</h5> -<br> - -<p>Duncan Forbes was given to exaggeration, as is the fashion of the day; -but he had scarcely exaggerated the beauty of Burnside, even in the -rapturous terms which he chose to employ in speaking of it. It was, -indeed, a most lovely spot, standing on the summit of a high hill, -wooded from base to crest, and with the silver Tay--now rushing over a -hard pebbly bed, now softly flowing in a scarcely fathomable depth -of still water through a deep ravine with towering rocks on either -side--bubbling at its feet. From the higher windows--notably from the -turret; and it was a queer rambling turreted house, without any -preponderating style of architecture, but embracing, and that not -unpicturesquely, a great many--you looked down upon the pretty little -town of Dunkeld, with its broad bridge spanning the flood, and the -gray old tower of its cathedral rearing itself aloft like a hoary -giant athwart the horizon, and the trim lawn of the ducal residence in -the distance--an oasis of culture in a desert of wildness, yet -harmonising sufficiently with its surroundings. Sloping down the steep -bank on which the house was placed, and overhanging the brawling river -beneath, ran a broad gravel path, winding between the trees, which at -certain points had been cut away to give the best views of the -neighbouring scenery; and on this path, at an early hour on the -morning succeeding the night on which Duncan Forbes had arrived at -Kilsyth, two men were walking, engaged in earnest conversation. An old -man one of them, but in the enjoyment of a vigorous old age: his back -is bowed, and he uses a stick; but if you remark, he does not use it -as a crutch, lifting it now and again to point his remark, or striking -it on the ground to emphasize his decision. A tall old man, with long -white hair flowing away from under the brim of his wideawake hat, with -bright blue eyes and well-cut features, and a high forehead and white -hands, with long lithe clever-looking fingers. Those eyes and fingers -have done their work in their day, professionally and socially. Those -eyes have looked into the eyes of youth and loveliness, and have read -in them that in a few months their light would be quenched for ever; -those fingers have clasped the beating pulses of seemingly full and -vigorous manhood, and have recognised that the axe was laid at the -root of the apparently tall and flourishing tree, and that in a little -time it would topple headlong down. Those eyes "looked love to eyes -that spake again;" those hands clasped hands that returned their -clasp, and that trembled fondly and confidingly within them; that -voice, professionally modulated to babble of sympathy, compassion, and -hope, trembled with passion and whispered all its human aspirations -into the trellised ear of beauty, once and once only. Looking at the -old gentleman, so mild and gentle and benevolent, with his shirt-front -sprinkled with snuff, and his old-fashioned black gaiters and his -gouty shoes, you could hardly imagine that he was the hero of a -scandal which five-and-thirty years before had rung through society, -and given the <i>Satirist</i>, and other scurrilous publications of the -time, matter for weeks and weeks of filthy comment. And yet it was so. -Sir Saville Rowe (then Dr. Rowe), physician to one of the principal -London hospitals, and even then a man of mark in his profession, was -called in to attend a young lady who represented herself as a widow, -and with whom, after a time, he fell desperately in love. For months -he attended her through a trying illness, from which, under his care, -she recovered. Then, when her recovery was complete, he confessed his -passion, and they were engaged to be married. One night, within a very -short time of the intended wedding, he called at her lodgings and -found a man there, a coarse slangy blackguard, who, after a few words, -abruptly proclaimed himself to be the lady's husband, and demanded -compensation for his outraged honour. Words ensued; and more than -words: the man--half-drunk, all bully--struck the doctor; and Rowe, -who was a powerful man, and who was mad with rage at what he imagined -was a conspiracy, returned the blows with interest. The police were -summoned, and Rowe was hauled off to the station-house; but on the -following day the prosecutor was not forthcoming, and the doctor was -liberated. The scandal spread, and ruffians battened on it, as they -ever will; but Dr. Rowe's courage and professional skill enabled him -to live it down; and when, two years after, in going round a -hospitalward with his pupils, he came upon his old love at the verge -of death, his heart, which he thought had been sufficiently steeled, -gave way within him, and once more he set himself to the task of -curing her. He did all that could be done; had her removed to a quiet -suburban cottage, tended by the most experienced nurses, never grudged -one moment of his time to visit her constantly; but it was too late: -hard living and brutal treatment had done their work; and Dr. Rowe's -only love died in his arms, imploring Heaven's blessings on him. That -wound in his life, deep as it was, has long since cicatrised and -healed over, leaving a scar which was noticeable to very few long -before he attained to the first rank in his profession and received -the titular reward of his services to royalty. He has for some time -retired from active practice, though he will still meet in -consultation some old pupil or former colleague; but he takes life -easily now, passing the season in London, the autumn in Scotland, and -the winter at Torquay; in all of which places he finds old friends -chattable and kindly, who help him to while away the pleasant autumn -of his life.</p> - -<p>The other man is about eight-and-thirty, with keen bright brown eyes, -a broad brow, straight nose, thin lips, and heavy jaw, indicative of -firmness, not to say obstinacy; a tall man with stooping shoulders, -and a look of quiet placid attention in his face; with a slim figure, -a jerky walk, and a habit of clasping his hands behind his back, and -leaning forward as though listening; a man likely to invite notice at -first sight from his unmistakable earnestness and intellect, otherwise -a quiet gentlemanly man, whose profession it was impossible to assign, -yet who was obviously a man of mark in his way. This was Chudleigh -Wilmot, who was looked upon by those who ought to know as <i>the</i> coming -man in the London medical profession; whose lectures were to be -attended before those of any other professor at St. Vitus's Hospital; -whose contributions on fever cases to the <i>Scalpel</i> had given the -<i>Times</i> subject-matter for a leader, in which he had been most -honourably mentioned; and who was commencing to reap the harvest of -honour and profit which accrues to the fortunate few. He is an old -pupil of Sir Saville Rowe's, and there is no one in whose company the -old gentleman has greater delight.</p> - -<p>"Smoke, Chudleigh, smoke! Light up at once. I know you're dying to -have your cigar, and daren't out of deference to me. Fancy I'm your -master still, don't you?"</p> - -<p>"Not a bit of it, old friend. I've given up after-breakfast smoking as -a rule, because, you see, that delightful bell in Charles-street -begins to ring about a quarter to ten, and--"</p> - -<p>"So much the better. Let them ring. They were knockers in my day, and -I recollect how delighted I used to be at every rap. But there's no -one to ring or knock here; and so you may take your cigar quietly. -I've been longing for this time; longing to have what the people about -here call a 'crack' with you--impossible while those other men were -here; but now I've got you all to myself."</p> - -<p>"Yes," said Wilmot, who by this time had lighted his cigar--"yes, and -you'll have me all to yourself for the next four days; that is to say, -if you will."</p> - -<p>"If I will! Is there any thing in the world could give me greater -pleasure? I get young again, talking to you, Chudleigh. I mind me of -the time when you used to come to lecture, a great raw boy, with, I -should say, the dirtiest hands and the biggest note-book in the whole -hospital." And the old gentleman chuckled at his reminiscence.</p> - -<p>"Well, I've managed to wash the first, and to profit by the manner in -which I filled the second from your lectures," said Wilmot, not -without a blush.</p> - -<p>"Not a bit, not a bit," interposed Sir Saville; "you would have done -well enough without any lectures of mine, though I'm glad to think -that in that celebrated question of anæsthetics you stuck by me, and -enabled me triumphantly to defeat Macpherson of Edinburgh. That was a -great triumph for us, that was! Dear me, when I think of the -charlatans! Eh, well, never mind; I'm out of all that now. So, you -have a few days more, you were saying, and you're going to give them -up to me."</p> - -<p>"Nothing will please me so much. Because, you see, I shall make it a -combination of pleasure and business. There are several things on -which I want to consult you,--points which I have reserved from time -to time, and on which I can get no such opinion as yours. I'm not due -in town until the 3d of next month. Whittaker, who has taken my -practice, doesn't leave until the 5th, which is a Sunday, and even -then only goes as far as Guildford, to a place he's taken for some -pheasant-shooting; a nice, close, handy place, where Mrs. Whittaker -can accompany him. She thinks he's so fascinating, that she does not -like to let him out of her sight."</p> - -<p>"Whittaker! Whittaker!" said Sir Saville; "is it a bald man with a -cock-eye?--used to be at Bartholomew's."</p> - -<p>"That's the man! He's in first-rate practice now, and deservedly, for -he's thoroughly clever and reliable; but his beauty has not improved -by time. However, Mrs. Whittaker doesn't see that; and it's with the -greatest difficulty he ever gets permission to attend a lady's case."</p> - -<p>"You must be thankful Mrs. Wilmot isn't like that."</p> - -<p>"O, I am indeed," replied Wilmot shortly. "By the way, I've never had -an opportunity of talking to you about your marriage, and about your -wife, Chudleigh. I got your wedding-cards, of course; but that's--ah, -that must be three years ago."</p> - -<p>"Four."</p> - -<p>"Four! Is it indeed so long? Tut, tut! how time flies! I've called at -your house in London, but your wife has not been at home; and as I -don't entertain ladies, you see, of course I've missed an opportunity -of cultivating her acquaintance."</p> - -<p>"Ye-es. I've heard Mrs. Wilmot say that she had seen your cards, and -that she was very sorry to have been out when you called," said Dr. -Wilmot with, in him, a most unnatural hesitation.</p> - -<p>"Yes, of course," said old Sir Saville, with a comical look out of the -corners of his eyes, which fell unheeded on his companion. "Well, now, -as I've never seen her, and as I'm not likely to see her now,--for -I am an old man, and I've given up ceremony visits at my time of -life,--tell me about your wife, Chudleigh; you know the interest I -take in you; and that, perhaps, may excuse my asking about her. Does -she suit you? Are you happy with her?"</p> - -<p>Wilmot looked hard for an instant at his friend with a sudden quick -glance of suspicion, then relaxed his brows, and laughed outright.</p> - -<p>"Certainly, my dear Sir Saville, you are the most original of men. -Who on earth else would have dreamt of asking a man such a home -question? It's worse than the queries put in the proposal papers of -insurance-offices. However, I'm glad to be able to give a satisfactory -answer. I <i>am</i> happy with my wife, and she <i>does</i> suit me."</p> - -<p>"Yes; but what I mean is, are you in love with her?"</p> - -<p>"Am I what?"</p> - -<p>"In love with her. I mean, are you always thinking of her when you are -away from her? Are you always longing to get back to her? Does her -face come between you and the book you are reading? When you are -thinking-out an intricate case, and puzzling your brains as to how you -shall deal with it, do you sometimes let the whole subject slip out of -your mind, to ponder over the last words she said to you, the last -look she gave you?"</p> - -<p>"God bless your soul, my dear old friend! You might as well ask me if -I didn't play leap-frog with the house-surgeon of St. Vitus's, or -challenge any member of the College of Physicians to a single-wicket -match. Those are the <i>délassements</i> of youth, my dear sir, that you -are talking about; of very much youth indeed."</p> - -<p>"I know one who wasn't 'very much youth' when he carried out the -doctrine religiously," said the old gentleman in reply.</p> - -<p>"Ah, then perhaps the lady wasn't his wife," said Wilmot, without the -smallest notion of the dangerous ground on which he was treading. "No, -the fact is simply this: I am, as you know, a man absorbed in my -profession. I have no leisure for nonsense of the kind you describe, -nor for any other kind of nonsense. My wife recognises that perfectly; -she does all the calling and visiting which society prescribes. I go -to a few old friends' to dinner in the season, and sometimes show up -for a few minutes at the house of a patient where Mrs. Wilmot thinks -it necessary for me to be seen. We each fulfil our duties perfectly, -and we are in the evening excellent friends."</p> - -<p>"Ye-es," said Sir Saville doubtfully; "that's all delightful, and--"</p> - -<p>"As to longing to get back to her, and face coming between you and -your book, and always thinking, and that kind of thing," pursued -Wilmot, not heeding him, "I recollect, when I was a dresser at the -hospital, long before I passed the College, I had all those feelings -for a little cousin of mine who was then living at Knightsbridge with -her father, who was a clerk in the Bank of England. But then he died, -and she married--not the barber, but another clerk in the Bank of -England, and I never thought any more about it. Believe me, my dear -friend, except to such perpetual evergreens as yourself, those ideas -die off at twenty years of age."</p> - -<p>"Well, perhaps so, perhaps so," said the old gentleman; "and I daresay -it's quite-right, only--well, never mind. Well, Chudleigh, it's a -pleasant thing for me, remembering you, as I said, a great hulking lad -when you first came to lecture, to see you now carrying away every -thing before you. I don't know that you're quite wise in giving -Whittaker your practice, for he's a deep designing dog; and you can -tell as well as I do how a word dropped deftly here and there may -steal away a patient before the doctor knows where he is, especially -with old ladies and creatures of that sort. But, however, it's the -slack time of year,--that's one thing to be said,--when everybody -that's any body is safe to be out of town. Ah, by the way, that -reminds me! I was glad to see by the <i>Morning Post</i> that you had had -some very good cases last season."</p> - -<p>"The <i>Morning Post!</i>--some very good cases! What do you mean?"</p> - -<p>"I mean, I saw your name as attending several of the nobility: 'His -lordship's physician, Dr. Wilmot, of Charles Street,' et cetera; that -kind of thing, you know."</p> - -<p>"O, do you congratulate me on those? I certainly pulled young Lord -Coniston, Lord Broadwater's son, through a stiff attack of typhus; but -as I would have done the same for his lordship's porter's child, I -don't see the value of the paragraph. By the way, I shouldn't wonder -if I were indebted to the porter for the paragraph."</p> - -<p>"Never mind, my dear Chudleigh, whence the paragraph comes, but be -thankful you got it. 'Sweet,' as Shakespeare says,--'sweet are the -uses of advertisement;' and our profession is almost the only one to -which they are not open. The inferior members of it, to be sure, do a -little in the way of the red lamp and the vaccination gratis; but when -you arrive at any eminence you must not attempt any thing more glaring -than galloping about town in your carriage, and getting your name -announced in the best society."</p> - -<p>"The best society!" echoed Wilmot with an undisguised sneer. "My dear -Sir Saville, you seem to have taken a craze for Youth, Beauty, and -High Life, and to exalt them as gods for your idolatry."</p> - -<p>"For <i>my</i> idolatry! No, my boy, for yours. I don't deny that when I -was in the ring, I did my best to gain the approbation of all three, -and that I succeeded I may say without vanity. But I'm out of it now, -and I can only give counsel to my juniors. But that my counsel is good -worldly wisdom, Chudleigh, you may take the word of an old man who -has--well, who has, he flatters himself, made his mark in life."</p> - -<p>The old gentleman was so evidently sincere in this exposition of his -philosophy, that Wilmot repressed the smile that was rising to his -lips, and said:</p> - -<p>"We can all of us only judge by our own feelings, old friend; and -mine, I must own, don't chime in with yours. As to Youth--well, I'm -now old for my age, and I only look upon it as developing more -available resources and more available material to work upon; as to -Beauty, its influence died out with me when Maria Strutt married the -clerk in the Bank of England; and as to High Life, I swear to you it -would give me as much pleasure to save the life of one of your -gillie's daughters, as it would to be able to patch up an old marquis, -or to pull the heir to a dukedom through his teething convulsions."</p> - -<p>The old man looked at his friend for a moment and smiled sardonically, -then said:</p> - -<p>"You're young yet, Chudleigh; very young--much younger than your years -of London life should permit you to be. However, that's a malady that -Time will cure you of. Saving lives of gillie's daughters is all very -well in the abstract, and no one can value more than I do the power -which Providence, under Him, has given to us; but--Well, what is it?"</p> - -<p>This last remark was addressed to a servant who was approaching them.</p> - -<p>"A telegram, sir, for Dr. Wilmot," said the man, handing an envelope -to Wilmot as he spoke; "just arrived from the station."</p> - -<p>Wilmot tore open the envelope and read its enclosure--read it twice -with frowning brow and sneering mouth; then handed it to his host, -saying:</p> - -<p>"A little too strong, that, eh? Is one never to be free from such -intrusions? Do these people imagine that because I am a professional -man I am to be always at their beck and call? Who is this Mr. Kilsyth, -I wonder, who hails me as though I were a cabman on the rank?"</p> - -<p>"<i>Mr.</i> Kilsyth, my dear fellow!" said Sir Saville, laughing; "I should -like to see the face of any Highlander who heard you say that. Kilsyth -of Kilsyth is the head of one of the oldest and most powerful clans in -Aberdeenshire."</p> - -<p>"I suppose he won't be powerful enough to have me shot, or speared, or -'hangit on a tree,' for putting his telegram into my pocket, and -taking no further notice of it, for all that," said Wilmot.</p> - -<p>"Do you mean to say that you intend to refuse his request, Chudleigh?"</p> - -<p>"Most positively and decidedly, if request you call it. I confess it -looks to me more like a command; and that's a style of thing I don't -particularly affect, old friend."</p> - -<p>"But do you see the facts? Miss Kilsyth is down with scarlet-fever--"</p> - -<p>"Exactly. I'm very sorry, I'm sure, so far as one can be sorry for any -one of whose existence one was a moment ago in ignorance; and I trust -Miss Kilsyth will speedily recover; but it won't be through any aid of -mine."</p> - -<p>"My dear Chudleigh," said the old man gently, "you are all wrong about -this. It's not a pleasant thing for me, as your host, to bid you go -away; more especially as I had been looking forward with such pleasure -to these few days' quiet with you. But I know it is the right thing -for you to do; and why you should refuse, I cannot conceive. You seem -to have taken umbrage at the style of the message; but even if one -could be polite in a telegram, a father whose pet daughter is -dangerously ill seldom stops to pick his words."</p> - -<p>"But suppose I hadn't been here?"</p> - -<p>"My dear friend, I decline to suppose anything of the sort. Suppose I -had not been in the way when Sir Astley advised his late Majesty to -call me in; I should still have been a successful man, it's true; but -I should not have had the honour or the position I have, nor the -wealth which enables me now to enjoy my ease, instead of slaving away -still like--like some whom we know. No, no; drop your radicalism, I -beseech you. You would go miles to attend to a sick gillie or a -shepherd's orphan. Do the same for a very charming young girl, as I'm -told,--Forbes knows her very well,--and for one of the best men in -Scotland."</p> - -<p>"Well, I suppose you're right, and I must go. It's an awful journey, -isn't it?"</p> - -<p>"Horses to the break, Donald; and tell George to get ready to drive -Dr. Wilmot.--I'll send you the first stage. Awful journey, you call -it, through the loveliest scenery in the Highlands! I don't know what -causes the notion, but I have an impression that this will be a -memorable day in your career, Chudleigh."</p> - -<p>"Have you, old friend?" said Wilmot, with a shoulder-shrug. "One -doesn't know how it may end, but, so far, it has been any thing but a -pleasant one. Nor does a fifty-mile journey over hills inspire me with -much pleasant anticipation. But, as you seem so determined about it -being my duty, I'll go."</p> - -<p>"Depend on it, I am giving you good advice, as some day you shall -acknowledge to me."</p> - -<p>And within half-an-hour Chudleigh Wilmot had started for Kilsyth, on a -journey which was to influence the whole of his future life..</p> -<br> -<br> -<br> -<h4><a name="div1_03" href="#div1Ref_03">CHAPTER III.</a></h4> -<h5>Watching and Waiting.</h5> -<br> - -<p>The news which she had learned from Doctor Joyce, and had in her brief -pencil-note communicated to her husband, was horribly annoying to Lady -Muriel Kilsyth. To have her party broken up--and there was no doubt -that, as soon as the actual condition of affairs was known, many would -at once take to flight--was bad enough; but to have an infectious -disorder in the house, and to be necessarily compelled to keep up a -semblance of sympathy with the patient labouring under that disorder, -even if she were not required to visit and tend her, was to Lady -Muriel specially galling; more specially galling as she happened not -to possess the smallest affection for the individual in question, -indeed to regard her rather with dislike than otherwise. When Lady -Muriel Inchgarvie married Kilsyth of Kilsyth,--the Inchgarvie estates -being heavily involved, and her brother the Earl, who had recently -succeeded to the title, strongly counselling the match,--she agreed to -love, honour, and obey the doughty chieftain whom she espoused; but -she by no means undertook any responsibilities with regard to the two -children by his former marriage. The elder of these, Ronald, was just -leaving Eton when his stepmother appeared upon the scene; and as he -had since been at once gazetted to the Life-guards, and but rarely -showed in his father's house, he had caused Lady Muriel very little -anxiety. But it was a very different affair with Madeleine. She had -the disadvantage of being perpetually <i>en évidence</i>; of being very -pretty; of causing blundering new acquaintances to say, "Impossible, -Lady Muriel, that this can be your daughter!" of riling her stepmother -in every possible way--notably by her perfect high-breeding, her calm -quiet ignoring of intended slights, her determinate persistence in -keeping up the proper relations with her father, and her invariable -politeness--nothing but politeness--to her stepmother. One is -necessarily cautious of using strong terms in these days of persistent -repression of all emotions; but it is scarcely too much to say that -Lady Muriel hated her stepdaughter very cordially. They were too -nearly of an age for the girl to look up to the matron, or for the -matron to feel a maternal interest in the girl. They were too nearly -of an age for the elder not to feel jealous of the younger--of her -personal attractions, and of the influence which she undoubtedly -exercised over her father. Not that Lady Muriel either laid herself -out for attraction, or was so devotedly attached to her husband as to -desire the monopoly of his affection. By nature she was hard, cold, -self-contained, and very proud. Portionless as she had been, and -desirable as it was that she should marry a rich man, she had refused -several offers from men more coeval with her than the husband she at -last accepted, simply because they were made by men who were wealthy, -and nothing else. Either birth or talent would, in conjunction with -wealth, have won her; but Mr. Burton, the great pale-ale brewer, and -Sir Coke Only, the great railway carrier, proffered their suits in -vain, and retired in the deepest confusion after Lady Muriel's very -ladylike, but thoroughly unmistakable, rejection of their offers. She -married Kilsyth because he was a man of ancient family, large income, -warm heart, and good repute. At no period, either immediately before -or after her marriage, had she professed herself to be what is called -"in love" with the worthy Scottish gentleman. She respected, humoured, -and ruled him. But not for one instant did she forget her duty, or -give a chance for scandalmongers to babble of her name over their -five-o'clock tea. No woman married to a man considerably her senior -need be at any loss for what, as Byron tells us, used to be called a -<i>cicisbeo</i>, and was in his time called a <i>cortejo</i>, if she be the -least attractive. And Lady Muriel Kilsyth was considerably more than -that. She had a perfectly-formed, classical little head, round which -her dark hair was always lightly bound, culminating in a thick knot -behind, large deep liquid brown eyes, an impertinent <i>retroussé</i> nose, -a pretty mouth, an excellent complexion, and a ripe melting figure. -You might have searched the drawing-rooms of London through and -through without finding a woman better calculated to fascinate every -body save the youngest boys, and there were many even of them who -would gladly have boasted of a kind look or word from Lady Muriel. -When her marriage was announced, they discussed it at the clubs, as -they will discuss such things, the dear genial old prosers, the -bibulous captains, the lip-smacking Bardolphs of St. James'-street; -and they prophesied all kinds of unhappiness and woe to Kilsyth. But -that topic of conversation had long since died out for want of fuel to -feed it. Lady Muriel had visited London during the season; had gone -every where; had been reported as perfectly adoring her two little -children; and had no man's name invidiously coupled with hers. Peace -reigned at Kilsyth, and the intimates of the house vied with each -other in attention and courtesy to its new mistress; while the gossips -of the outside world had never a word to say against her. I don't say -that Lady Muriel Kilsyth was thoroughly happy, any more than that -Kilsyth himself was in that beatific state; because I simply don't -believe that such a state of things is compatible with the ordinary -conditions of human life. It is not because the old stories of our -none of us being better than we should be, of our all having some -skeleton in our cupboards, and some ulcerated sores beneath our -flannel waistcoats, have been so much harped upon, that I am going to -throw my little pebble on the great cairn, and add my testimony to the -doctrine of <i>vanitas vanitatum</i>. It would be very strange indeed, if, -as life is nowadays constituted, we had not our skeleton, and a time -when we could confront him; when we could calmly untwist the button on -the door and let him out, and pat his skull, and look at his -articulated ribs, and notice how deftly his wire-hooked thigh-bones -jointed on to the rest of his carcass; and see whether there were no -means of ridding ourselves of him,--say by flinging him out of window, -when the police would find him, or of stowing him away in the -dust-bin, when he would be noticed by the contractor; and of -finally putting him back, and acknowledging ourselves compelled -to suffer him even unto the end. I do not say that in the -broad-shouldered, kind-hearted, jovial sportsman Lady Muriel had found -exactly what she dreamed upon when, in the terraced garden at -Inchgarvie, she used to read Walter Scott, and, looking over the -flashing stream that wound through her father's domain, fancy herself -the Lady of the Lake, and await the arrival of Fitzjames. I do not say -that Kilsyth himself might not, in the few moments of his daily life -which he ever spared to reflection, and which were generally when he -was shaving himself in the morning,--I do not say that Kilsyth himself -might not have occasionally thought that his elegant and stately wife -might have been a little kinder to Madeleine, a little more -recognisant of the girl's charms, a little more thoughtful of her -wants, and a little more tender towards her girlish vagaries. But -neither of them, however they may have thought the other suspected -them, ever spoke of their secret thoughts; and to the outer world -there was no more well-assorted couple than the Kilsyths. It was a -great thing for the comfort of the entire party that Lady Muriel was a -woman of nerve, and that Kilsyth took his cue from her, backed up by -the fact that it was his darling Madeleine who was ill, and that any -inconvenience that might accrue to any of the party in consequence of -her illness would be set down to her account. Lady Muriel gave a good -general answer, delivered with a glance round the table, and was -inclusive of every body, so as to prevent any further questioning. -Dr. Joyce had said that Madeleine was not so well that night; -but that was to be expected; her cold was very bad, she was slightly -feverish: any one--and Lady Muriel turned deftly to the Duchess of -Northallerton--who knew any thing, would have expected that, would -they not? The Duchess, who knew nothing, but who didn't like to say -so, declared that of course they would; and then Lady Muriel, feeling -it necessary <i>that</i> conversation should be balked, turned to Sir -Duncan Forbes, and began to ask him questions as to his doings since -the end of the season. Forbes replied briskly,--there was no better -man in London to follow a lead, whether in talk or at cards,--and so -turned the talk that most of those present were immediately -interested. The names which Duncan Forbes mentioned were known to all -present; all were interested in their movements; all had something to -say about them; so that the conversation speedily became general, and -so remained until the ladies quitted the table. When they had retired, -Kilsyth ordered in the tumblers; and it was nearly eleven o'clock -before the gentlemen appeared in the drawing-room. Then Lady Fairfax, -with one single wave of her fan, beckoned Charley Jefferson into an -empty seat on the ottoman by her side,--a seat which little Lord -Towcester, immediately on entering the door, had surveyed with vinous -eyes,--and, while one of the anonymous young ladies was playing -endless variations on the "Harmonious Blacksmith," commenced and -continued a most vivid one-sided, conversation, to all of which the -infatuated Colonel only replied by shrugs of his shoulders, and tugs -at his heavy moustache. Then the Duchess pursued the Duke into a -corner; and rescuing from him the <i>Morning Post</i>, which his grace had -pounced upon on entering the room with the hope of further identifying -Mr. Bright with Judas Iscariot, began addressing him in a low -monotone, like the moaning of the sea; now rising into a little hum, -now falling into a long sweeping hiss, but in each variety evidently -confounding the Duke, who pulled at his cravat and rubbed his right -ear in the height of nervous dubiety. In the behaviour of the other -guests there was nothing pronounced, save occasional and unwonted -restlessness. The Danish Minister and his wife played their usual game -at backgammon; and the customary talk, music, and flirtation were -carried on by the remainder of the company; but Lady Muriel knew that -some suspicion of the actual truth had leaked out, and determined on -her plan of action.</p> - -<p>So that night, when the men had gone to the smoking-room, and the -ladies were some of them talking in each other's bedrooms, and others -digesting and thinking over, as is the feminine manner, under the -influence of hair-brush, the events of the day; when Kilsyth had made -a tip-toe visit to his darling's chamber, and had shaken his head -sadly over a whispered statement from her little German maid that she -was "<i>bien malade</i>," and had returned to his room and dismissed his -man, and was kicking nervously at the logs on the hearth, and mixing -his "tumbler preparatory to taking his narcotic instalment of -<i>Blackwood</i>,--he heard a tap at his door, and Lady Muriel, in a most -becoming dressing-gown of rose-coloured flannel, entered the room. The -tumbler was put down, the <i>Blackwood</i> was thrown, aside, and in a -minute Kilsyth had wheeled an easy-chair round to the hearth, and -handed his wife to it.</p> - -<p>"You're tired, Alick, I know, and I wouldn't have disturbed you now -had there not been sufficient reason--"</p> - -<p>"Madeleine's not worse, Muriel? I was there this minute, and Gretchen -said that--"</p> - -<p>"O no, she's no worse! I was in her room too just now,--though I think -it is a little absurd my going,--and there does not seem to be much -change in her since I saw her, just before dinner. She is asleep just -now."</p> - -<p>"Thank God for that!" said Kilsyth heartily. "After all, it may be a -fright this doctor is giving us. I don't think so very much of his -opinion and--"</p> - -<p>"I could not say that. Joyce is very highly thought of at Glasgow, and -was selected from among all the competitors to take charge of this -district, and that, in these days of competition, is no ordinary -distinction. And it is on this very point I came to speak to you. You -got my pencil-note at dinner? Very well. Just now you contented -yourself with asking a question of Gretchen--"</p> - -<p>"She said Madeleine was asleep, and would not let me into the room."</p> - -<p>"And quite rightly; but I went in to the bedside. Madeleine is asleep -certainly; but her sleep is restless, broken, and decidedly feverish. -There is not the smallest doubt that Dr. Joyce is right in his -opinion, and that she is attacked with scarlet-fever."</p> - -<p>"You think so, Muriel?" said Kilsyth anxiously. "I mean not blindly -following Joyce's opinion; but do you think so yourself?"</p> - -<p>"I do; and not I alone, but half the house thinks so too. How do they -know it? Heaven knows how these things ever get known, but they get -wind somehow; and you will see that by to-morrow there will be a -general flight. It is on this point that I have come to speak to you, -if you will give me five minutes."</p> - -<p>"Of course, Muriel; of course, my lady. But I think I've done the best -that could be done; at all events, the first thing that occurred to me -after you wrote me that note. Duncan Forbes had been saying in the -drawing-room before dinner, before you came in, that the great London -fever-physician, Dr. Wilmot, was staying at Burnside, away from here -about fifty miles, with old Sir Saville Rowe, whom I recollect when I -was a boy. Duncan had left him this morning, and he was going to stay -at Burnside just a day or two longer; and I sent one of the men with a -telegram to the station, to ask Dr. Wilmot to come over at once, and -see Maddy."</p> - -<p>Lady Muriel was so astonished at this evidence of prompt action on her -husband's part that she remained silent for a minute. Then she said,</p> - -<p>"That was quite right, quite right so far as Madeleine was concerned; -but my visit related rather to other people. You see, so soon as it is -actually known that there is an infectious disorder in the house, the -house will be deserted. Now my question is this: will it not be better -to announce it to our guests, making the best and the lightest of it, -as of course one naturally would, rather than let them--"</p> - -<p>"Ye-es, I see what you mean, my lady," said Kilsyth slowly; "and of -course it would not do to keep people here under false pretences, and -when we knew there was actual danger. Still I think as this story of -scarlet-fever is only Joyce's opinion, and as I have telegraphed for -Dr. Wilmot, who will be here to-morrow; and as it seems strange, you -know, to think that poor darling Maddy should be the cause of any -one's leaving Kilsyth, perhaps, eh? one might put off making the -announcement until Joyce's opinion were corroborated by Dr. Wilmot."</p> - -<p>"I am afraid the mischief is already done, Alick, and that its results -will be apparent long before Dr. Wilmot can reach here," said Lady -Muriel. "However, let us sleep upon it. I am sure to hear whether the -news has spread in the house long before breakfast, and we can consult -again." And Lady Muriel took leave of her husband, and retired to her -room.</p> - -<p>Trust a woman for observation. Lady Muriel was perfectly right. The -nods and shoulder-shrugs and whisperings which she had observed in the -drawing-room had already borne fruit. On her return to her own room -she saw a little note lying on her table--a little note which, as she -learned from Pinner, her attendant, had just been brought by Lady -Fairfax's maid. It ran thus:</p> -<br> - -<p>"<span class="sc">Dearest Lady Muriel</span>,--A <i>frightful</i> attack of neuralgia (<i>my</i> -neuralgia)--which, as you know, is so <i>awful</i>--has been hanging over -me for the last three days, and now has come upon me in its <i>fullest -force</i>. I am quite out of my mind with it. I have striven--O, how I -have striven!--to keep up and try to forget it, when surrounded by -your pleasant circle, and when looking at your <i>dear self</i>. But it is -all in vain. I am in <i>agonies</i>. The torture of the rack itself can be -<i>nothing</i> to what I am suffering tonight.</p> - -<p>"Poor dear Sir Benjamin Brodie used to say that I should never be well -in a <i>northern</i> climate. I fear he was right. I fear that the air of -this darling Kilsyth, earthly Paradise though it is--and I am sure -that I have found it so during three weeks of bliss; O, such -<i>happiness!</i>--is too bracing, too invigorating for poor me. But I -should <i>loathe</i> myself if I were to make this an <i>open</i> confession. So -I will steal away, dearest Lady Muriel, without making any formal -adieux. When all your dear friends assemble at breakfast to-morrow, I -shall be on my <i>sorrowing</i> way south, and only regret that my wretched -health prevents me longer remaining where I have been so entirely -happy.</p> - -<p>"With kindest regards to your dear husband, I am, dearest Lady Muriel, -ever your loving</p> -<p style="text-indent:50%">"<span class="sc">;Emily Fairfax</span>.</p> - -<p>"P.S.--I have told my maid to beg some of your people to get me horses -from the Kilsyth Arms; so that I shall <i>speed</i> away early in the -morning without disturbing any one. I hope dear Madeleine will soon be -<i>quite herself</i> again."</p> -<br> - -<p>Lady Muriel read this letter through twice with great calmness, though -a very scornful smile curled her lip during its perusal. She then -twisted the note up into a wisp, and was about to burn it in the flame -of the candle, when she heard a short solemn tap at her chamber-door. -She turned round, bade Pinner open the door, and looked with more -displeasure than astonishment at the Duchess of Northallerton, who -appeared in the entrance. The Duchess had the credit in society of -being a "haughty-looking woman." Her stronghold in life, beyond the -fact of her being a duchess, had been in her Roman nose and arched -eyebrows. But, somehow, haughty looks become wonderfully modified in -<i>déshabillé</i>, and Roman noses and arched eyebrows lose a good deal of -their potency when taken in conjunction with two tight little curls -twisted up in hairpins, and a headdress which, however much fluted and -gauffered, is unmistakably a nightcap. The Duchess's nocturnal -adornments were unmistakably of this homely character, and her white -wrapper was of a hue, which, if she had not been a duchess, would have -been pronounced dingy. But her step was undoubtedly tragic, and the -expression of her face solemn to a degree. Lady Muriel received her -with uplifted eyebrows, and motioned her to a chair. The Duchess -dropped stiffly into the appointed haven of rest; but arched her -eyebrows at Pinner with great significance.</p> - -<p>"You can go, Pinner. I shall not require you any more," said Lady -Muriel; adding, "I presume that was what you wished, Duchess?" as the -maid left the room.</p> - -<p>"Precisely, dear Muriel; but you always were so wonderfully ready to -interpret one's thoughts. I remember your dear mother used to say--but -I won't worry you with my stories. I came to speak to you about dear -Madeleine."</p> - -<p>"Ye-es," said Lady Muriel quietly, finding the Duchess paused.</p> - -<p>"Well, now, she's worse than any of them suspect. Ah, I can see it by -your face. And I know what is the matter with her. Don't start; I -won't even ask you; I won't let you commit yourself in any way; but I -know that it's measles."</p> - -<p>Lady Muriel kept her countenance admirably while the Duchess -proceeded. "I know it by a sort of instinct. When Madeleine first -complained of her head, I looked narrowly at her, and I said to -myself, 'Measles! undoubtedly measles!' Now, you know, Muriel, though -there is nothing dangerous in measles to a young person like -Madeleine,--and she will shake them off easily, and be all the better -afterwards,--they are very dangerous when taken by a person of mature -age. And the fact is, the Duke has never had them--never. When -Errington was laid up with them, I recollect the Duke wouldn't remain -in the house, but went off to the Star and Garter, and stayed there -until all trace of the infection was gone. And he's horribly afraid of -them. You know what cowards men are in such matters; and he said just -now he thought there was a rash on his neck. Such nonsense! Only where -his collar had rubbed him, as I told him. But he's dreadfully -frightened; and he has suggested that instead of waiting till the end -of the week, as we had intended, we had better go to-morrow."</p> - -<p>"I think that perhaps under all circumstances it would be the best -course," said Lady Muriel, quite calmly.</p> - -<p>"I knew your good sense would see it in the right light, my dear -Muriel," said the Duchess, who had been nervously anticipating quite a -different answer, and who was overjoyed. "I was perfectly certain of -your coincidence in our plan. Now, of course, we shall not say a word -as to the real reason of our departure--the Duke, I know, would not -have that for the world. We shall not mention it at Redlands either; -merely say we--O, I shall find some good excuse, for Mrs. Murgatroyd -is a chattering little woman, as you know, Muriel. And now I won't -keep you up any longer, dear. You'll kindly tell some one to get us -horses to be ready by--say twelve to-morrow. Stay to luncheon? No, -dear. I think we had better go before luncheon. The Duke, you see, is -so absurd about his ridiculous rash. <i>Good</i>night, dear." And the -Duchess stalked off to tell the Duke, who was not the least -frightened, and whose rash was entirely fictitious, how well she had -sped on her mission.</p> -<br> - -<P>Lady Muriel accurately obeyed the requests made to her in Lady -Fairfax's letter, and verbally by the Duchess; and each of them found -their horses ready at the appointed time. Lady Emily departed -mysteriously before breakfast; but as the Duchess's horses were not -ordered till twelve, and as the post came in at eleven, her grace had -time to receive a letter from Mrs. Murgatroyd, of Redlands, whither -they were next bound, requesting them to postpone their arrival for a -day or two, as a German prince, who had by accident shot a stag, had -been so elated by the feat, that he had implored to be allowed to stay -on, with the chance of repeating it; and as he occupied the rooms -intended for the Duke and Duchess, it was impossible to receive them -until he left. After reading this letter, the Duchess went to Lady -Muriel, and expressed her opinion that she had been too precipitate; -that, after all, nothing positive had been pronounced; that there were -no symptoms of the Duke's rash that morning, which had been -undoubtedly caused, as she had said last night, by his collar, and -which was no rash at all; and that perhaps, after all, their real duty -was to stay and help their dear Muriel to nurse her dear invalid. But -they had miscalculated the possibility of deceiving their dear Muriel. -Lady Muriel at once replied that it was impossible that they could -remain at Kilsyth; that immediately on the Duchess's quitting her on -the previous night she had made arrangements as to the future -disposition of the rooms which they occupied; that she would not for -the world take upon herself the responsibility which would necessarily -accrue to her if any of them caught the disease; and that she knew the -Duchess's own feelings would tell her that she, Lady Muriel, however -ungracious it might seem, was in the right in advising their immediate -departure. The Duchess tried to argue the point, but in vain; and so -she and the Duke, and their servants and baggage, departed, and passed -the next three days at a third-rate roadside inn between Kilsyth and -Redlands, where the Duke got lumbago, and the Duchess got bored; and -where they passed their time alternately wishing that they had not -left Kilsyth, or that the people at Redlands were ready to receive -them.</p> - -<p>Very little difference was made by the other guests at Kilsyth in the -disposition of their day. If they were surprised at the sudden -defection of the Northallertons and Lady Fairfax, they were too -well-bred to show it. Charley Jefferson mooned about the house and -grounds, a thought more disconsolate than ever; but he was the only -member of the party who at all bemoaned the departure of the departed. -Lady Dunkeld congratulated her cousin Muriel on being rid of "those -awful wet blankets," the Northallertons. Captain Severn, in whispered -colloquy with his wife, "hoped to heaven Charley Jefferson would see -what a stuck-up selfish brute that Emily Fairfax was." Lord Roderick -Douglas and Mr. Pitcairn went out for their stalk; and all the rest of -the company betook themselves to their usual occupations.</p> -<br> - - -<p>"Where's her ladyship?"</p> - -<p>"In the boudoir, sir, waiting for the doctor."</p> - -<p>"What doctor? Dr. Joyce?"</p> - -<p>"And the strange gentleman, sir. They're both together in Miss -Madeleine's room."</p> - -<p>"Ah, Muriel! So Dr. Wilmot has arrived?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, and gone off straight with Joyce to Madeleine. You see I was -right in recommending you to go out as usual. Your fine London -physician never asked for you, never mentioned your name."</p> - -<p>"Well, perhaps you were right. I should have worried myself into a -fever here; not that I've done any good out--missed every shot. What's -he like?"</p> - -<p>"He! Who? Dr. Wilmot? I had scarcely an opportunity of observing, but -I should say <i>brusque</i> and self-sufficient. He and Joyce went off at -once. I thanked him for coming, and welcomed him in your name and my -own; but he did not seem much impressed."</p> - -<p>"Full of his case, no doubt; these men never think of anything -but--Ah, here he is!--Dr. Wilmot, a thousand thanks for this prompt -reply to my hasty summons. Seeing the urgency, you'll forgive the -apparent freedom of my telegraphing to you."</p> - -<p>"My dear sir," said Wilmot, "I am only too happy to be here; not that, -if you could have engrossed the attention of this gentleman, there -would have been any necessity for the summons. Dr. Joyce has done -every thing that could possibly be done for Miss Kilsyth up to this -point."</p> - -<p>"<i>A laudato viro laudari</i>," murmured</p> - -<p>Dr. Joyce. "But, fortunately or unfortunately, as I learn from him, a -district of thirty miles in circumference looks to him for its health. -Now I am, for the next few days at least, a free man, and at liberty -to devote myself to Miss Kilsyth."</p> - -<p>"And you will do so?"</p> - -<p>"With the very greatest pleasure. In two words let me corroborate the -opinion already given. I understand by my friend here Miss Kilsyth has -an attack, more or less serious, of scarlet-fever. She must be kept -completely isolated from every one, and must be watched with -unremitting attention. Dr. Joyce will send to Aberdeen for a skilled -nurse, upon whom he can depend; until her arrival I will take up my -position in the sick-room."</p> - -<p>"Ten thousand thanks; but--is there any danger?"</p> - -<p>"So far all is progressing favourably. We must look to Providence and -our own unremitting attention for the result."</p> -<br> - -<p>"I'm so hot and so thirsty, and these pillows are so uncomfortable! -Thanks! Ah, is that you, Dr. Wilmot? I was afraid you had gone. You -won't leave me--at least not just yet--will you?"</p> - -<p>"Not I, my dear. There--that's better, isn't it? The pillow is cooler, -and the lemonade--"</p> - -<p>"Ah, so many thanks! I'm very weak tonight; but your voice is so kind, -and your manner, and--"</p> - -<p>"There; now try and sleep.--Good heavens, how lovely she is! What a -mass of golden hair falling over her pillow, and what a soft, -innocent, childish manner! And to think that only this morning I--ah, -you must never hear the details of this case, my dear old master. When -I get back to town I will tell you the result: but the details--never.".</p> -<br> -<br> -<br> -<h4><a name="div1_04" href="#div1Ref_04">CHAPTER IV.</a></h4> -<h5>Mrs. Wilmot.</h5> -<br> - -<p>"I wonder what sort of woman Chudleigh Wilmot's wife is," was a phrase -very often used by his acquaintances; and the sentiment it expressed -was not unnatural or inexcusable. There are some men concerning whom -people instinctively feel that there is something peculiar in their -domestic history, that their everyday life is not like the everyday -life of other people. Sometimes this impression is positive and -defined; it takes the shape of certain conviction that things are -wrong in that quarter; that So-and-so's marriage is a mistake, a -misfortune, or a calamity, just as the grade of the blunder makes -itself felt by his manner, or even by the expression of the -countenance. Sometimes the impression is quite vague, and the -questioner is conscious only that there must be something of interest -to be known. The man's wife may be dear to him, with a special -dearness and nearness, too sacred, too much a part of his inmost being -to be betrayed to even the friendliest eyes; or there may be an -estrangement, which pride and rectitude combine to conceal. At all -events--and whichever of these may be the true condition of affairs, -or whatever modification of them may be true--the man's acquaintance -feel that there is something in his domestic story different from that -of other men, and they regard him with a livelier curiosity, if he be -a man of social or intellectual mark, in consequence.</p> - -<p>It was in the vaguest form that the question, "What sort of a woman is -Chudleigh Wilmot's wife?" suggested itself to his acquaintances. -Naturally, and necessarily, the greater number of those to whom the -rising man became known knew him only in his professional capacity; -but that capacity involved a good deal of knowledge, and not a little -social intercourse; and there was hardly one among their number who -did not say, sooner or later, to himself, or to other people, "I -wonder what sort of woman Chudleigh Wilmot's wife is?" This question -had been asked mentally, and of each other, by several of the inmates -of the old mansion of Kilsyth; while the grave, preoccupied, and -absorbed physician dwelt within its walls, devoting all his energies -of mind and body to the battle with disease, in which he was resolved -to conquer. But no one who was there, or likely to be there, could -have answered the question, strange to say--not even Wilmot himself.</p> - -<p>Chudleigh Wilmot's marriage had come about after a fashion in which -there was nothing very novel, remarkable, or interesting. Mabel -Darlington was a pretty girl, who came of a good family, with which -Wilmot's mother had been connected; had a small fortune, which was -very acceptable to the young man just starting in his arduous -profession; and was as attractive to him as any woman could have been -at that stage of his life. Partly inclination, partly convenience, and -in some measure persuasion, were the promoters of the match. Wilmot -knew that a medical man had a better chance of success as a married -than as a single man; and as this was a fixed, active, and predominant -idea among his relatives and friends--in fact, an article of faith, -and a perpetual text of continual discourses--he had everything to -encourage him in the design which had formed itself, though somewhat -faintly, in his mind, when he renewed his acquaintance with Miss -Darlington, on the occasion of her appearance at his mother's house in -the character of a "come out" young lady. He had often seen her as a -child and a little girl, being himself at the time a somewhat older -child and a much bigger boy; but he had never entertained for her that -disinterested, ardent, wretchedness-producing passion known as "calf -love;" so that the impression she made upon him at a later period owed -nothing to earlier recollection. His mother liked the girl, and -praised her eloquently and persistently to Chudleigh; so eloquently -and persistently indeed, that if he had not happened to be of her -opinion from the beginning, she would probably have inspired him with -a powerful dislike to Miss Darlington, by placing that young lady in -his catalogue of bores. He was not by any means the sort of man to -marry a woman for whom he did not care at all, to please his mother, -or secure his own prosperity; but he was just the sort of man to care -all the more for a girl because his mother liked her, and to make up -his mind to marry her, if she would have him, the more quickly on that -account.</p> - -<p>The courtship was a short one; and even in its brief duration -Chudleigh Wilmot never felt, never tried to persuade himself, that -Mabel was his first object in life. He knew that his profession had -his heart, his brain, his ambition in its grasp; that he loved it, and -thought of it, and lived for it in a way, and to a degree, which no -other object could ever compete with. It never occurred to him for a -moment that there was any injustice to Mabel in this. He would be an -affectionate and faithful husband; but he was a practical man--not an -enthusiast, not a dreamer. If he succeeded--and he was determined to -succeed--she would share his success, the realisation of his ambition, -and would secure all its advantages to herself. A man to do real -work in the world, and to do it as a man ought--as alone he could -feel the answer of a good conscience in doing anything he should -undertake--must put his work above and before every thing. He would -do this; he would be an eminent physician, a celebrated and rich man; -a good husband too; and his wife should never have reason to find -fault with him, or to envy the wives of other men--men who might -indeed be more sentimental and demonstrative, but who could not have a -stronger sense of duty than he. Thus thought, thus resolved Mabel -Darlington's lover; and very good thoughts, very admirable resolves -his were. They had only one defect; but he never suspected its -existence. It was a rather radical defect too, being this: that they -were not those of a lover at all.</p> - -<p>They were married, and all went very well with the modest and -exemplary household. At first the Wilmot <i>ménage</i> was not so -fashionably located as afterwards; but Mrs. Wilmot's house was always -a model of neatness, propriety, and the precise degree of elegance -which the rising man's income justified at each level which he -attained. Wilmot's mother continued to like her daughter-in-law, and -to regard her son's marriage as most propitious, though she had -sometimes a doubt whether she really did understand his wife quite so -thoroughly as she had understood Mabel Darlington. But Wilmot's mother -had now been dead some years. Mrs. Wilmot had no near relatives, and -she was a woman of few intimacies; her life was placid, prosperous, -conventional. She had, at the period with which this story deals, a -handsome house, a good income, an agreeable and eminently respectable -social circle; a handsome, irreproachable husband, rapidly rising into -distinction; one intimate friend, and--a broken heart.</p> - -<p>Chudleigh Wilmot's wife was young; if not beautiful, at least very -attractive, accomplished, ladylike, and "amiable," in the generally -accepted interpretation of that unsatisfactory word. What better or -what worse description could possibly be given? It describes a -thousand women in a breath, and it designates not one in particular. -There was only one person in existence who could have given a more -clear, intelligible, and distinct description of Mrs. Wilmot than this -stereotyped one. This person was her friend Mrs. Prendergast--a lady -somewhat older than herself, and whose natural and remarkable -quickness and penetration were aided in this instance by close -acquaintance and sleepless jealousy. If Mrs. Prendergast had been an -ordinary woman, as silly as her sisterhood and no sillier, the fact -that she was extremely jealous of Mrs. Wilmot would have so obscured -and perverted her judgment, that her opinion would not have been worth -having. But Mrs. Prendergast was very unlike her sisterhood. Not only -was she negatively less silly, but she was positively clever; and -being severe, suspicious, and implacable as well, if not precisely a -pleasant, she was at least a remarkable woman. Nothing obscured or -perverted Mrs. Prendergast's judgment; neither did anything touch her -heart. She had mind, and a good deal of it; she had experience and -tact, insight, foresight, and caution. She was a woman who might -possibly be a very valuable friend, but who could not fail to be a -very dangerous enemy. In such a nature the power of enmity would -probably be greater than the power of friendship, and the one would be -likely to crush the other if ever they came into collision. Mrs. -Prendergast was Mrs. Wilmot's friend. Whether she was the friend of -Mrs. Wilmot's husband remains to be seen. If she had been asked to say -what manner of woman the rising man's wife was, and had thought proper -to satisfy the inquirer, her portraiture might have been relied upon -as implicitly for its truthfulness as that of the most impartial -observer, which is saying at once that Mrs. Prendergast was a woman of -exceptional mental qualities, and of a temperament rare among those -charming creatures to whom injustice is easy and natural.</p> - -<p>The two women were habitually much together. Mrs. Prendergast was a -childless widow. Mrs. Wilmot was a childless wife. Neither had -absorbing domestic occupations to employ her,--each had a good deal of -time at the other's disposal; hence it happened that few days passed -without their meeting, and enjoying that desultory kind of -companionship which is so puzzling to the male observer of the habits -and manners of womankind. Their respective abodes were within easy -distance of each other. Mrs. Prendergast lived in Cadogan-place, and -Mrs. Wilmot lived in Charles-street, St. James's. When they did not -see one another, they exchanged notes; and in short they kept up all -the ceremonial of warm feminine friendship; and each really did like -the other better than any one else in the world, with one exception. -In Mrs. Wilmot's case the exception was her husband; in Mrs. -Prendergast's, the exception was herself. There was a good deal of -sincerity and warmth in their friendship, but on one point there was a -decided inequality. Mrs. Prendergast understood Mrs. Wilmot -thoroughly; she read her through and through, she knew her off by -heart; but Mrs. Wilmot knew very little of her friend--only just as -much as her friend chose she should know. Which was a convenient state -of things, and tended to preserve their pleasant and salutary -relations unbroken. Mrs. Prendergast had played Eleanor Galligaí to -Mrs. Wilmot's Marie de' Medicis for a considerable time, and with -uninterrupted success, when Chudleigh Wilmot was sent for, in the -perplexity and distress at Kilsyth; and as a matter of course she had -heard from his wife about his prolonged visit to Sir Saville Rowe, -whom she was well aware Mrs. Wilmot disliked with the quiet, rooted, -persistent aversion so frequently inspired in the breasts of even the -very best and most conscientious of women by their husbands' intimate -friends. Wilmot was utterly unconscious that his wife entertained any -such feeling; and Sir Saville Rowe himself would have been hardly more -astonished than Wilmot, if it had been revealed to him that the -confidence and regard which existed between the former master and -pupil were counted a grievance, and Wilmot's visit to Burnside -resented, silently indeed, in grief rather than in anger, as an -injury.</p> - -<p>In this fact may be found the keynote to Mrs. Wilmot's character; a -keynote often struck by her friend's hand, and never with an erring, -a faltering, or a rough touch.</p> - -<p>There was not much of the tragic element in Henrietta Prendergast's -jealousy of Mabel Wilmot, but there was a great deal of the mean. When -Mabel was a young girl, Henrietta was a not much older widow. She was -Mabel's cousin; had married, when very young, a man who had survived -their marriage only one year. She had more money than Mabel; their -connections were the same; she had as much education, and even better -manners. She met Chudleigh Wilmot on the occasion of his renewing his -acquaintance with Mabel Darlington, and she was as much, though -differently, fascinated with him as Mabel herself. She compared her -qualifications with those of her cousin; and she arrived at the not -unnatural conclusion that their charms were equal, supposing him -incapable of discerning how much cleverer a woman than Mabel she -was,--and hers very superior, should he prove capable of understanding -and appreciating her intellectual superiority. She forgot one simple -element in the calculation, and it made all the difference--she forgot -Mabel's prettiness. Henrietta Prendergast made very few mistakes, but -she did constantly make one blunder; she forgot her plain face, she -under-estimated the power of beauty. Perhaps no plain woman ever does -understand that power, ever does make sufficient allowance for it, -when arrayed against her in any kind of combat; it is certain that -Henrietta did not in this instance. It is certain that though -Chudleigh Wilmot thought of marrying Mabel Darlington without being -very much in love with her, he never thought of marrying Henrietta -Prendergast at all.</p> - -<p>And now, when she had come to the conclusion that Chudleigh Wilmot -had not loved Mabel Darlington, and did not love his wife,--was, in -short, a man to whom love was unknown, by whom it was unvalued, -undesired,--she was still steadily, sleeplessly jealous of Mabel -Wilmot. "I would have made him love <i>me</i>," she would say to herself, -as she read the thoughts of her friend; "I would have been as -ambitious for him as he is for himself; I would have shown him that -his aim was the highest and the worthiest. I would have loved him, and -sympathised with him too. She only loves him; she does not understand -him. Why did she come in between him and me?" For this very clever -woman had actually deluded herself into the belief that, but for -Mabel, Chudleigh Wilmot would have loved, or at least have married -her. She would have made him love her afterwards, as she said. So for -a long time she disliked her cousin, and hankered after her cousin's -husband, and believed that she would have been the best, the most -suitable, and the happiest of wives to the man who evidently had not a -wife of that pattern in Mabel, but who somehow did not seem to -perceive the fact. That time had come to an end long before people at -Kilsyth asked themselves and each other what sort of woman Chudleigh -Wilmot's wife was. But though Mrs. Prendergast no longer hankered -after her cousin's husband, though the love, in which her active -imagination had a large share, had given place to a much more real and -genuine hatred, she was jealous of Mabel still. This woman's brain was -larger than her heart; her intellectual was higher than her moral -nature; and a lofty feeling would be more transient than a low one. -She pitied Mabel Wilmot too, however contradictory such an assertion -may seem to shallow perceptions, which do not recognise in life that -nothing is so reasonably to be expected, so invariably to be found, as -contradictions in character. She liked her, she understood her, but -she was jealous of her--jealous because Mabel had the position she had -vainly desired. If she had had her husband's love, Mrs. Prendergast -would have been still more jealous of her, and would not have liked, -because she could not have pitied her. But she knew she had not that; -she had made the discovery as soon as Mabel, who had made it fatally -soon.</p> - -<p>What had the girl's ideal been? was a question none could answer, and -which it is certain her husband never asked. He was very kind to her; -she had every comfort, every luxury that he could give her; but she -lived in a world of which he knew nothing, and he in and for his -profession. He could not have been brought to recognise the -possibility of over devotion to the business of his life. He would not -have listened to the advance of any claims upon his time, attention, -or interest, beyond those which he fulfilled with enthusiasm in the -interests of his work, and the courteous observance which he never -denied to the rules of his well-regulated household. Chudleigh Wilmot -was a clever man in many ways beside that one way in which he was -eminently so; but one study had long lain near his hand, and he had -never given time or thought to it; one book was close to him, and he -had never turned its leaves--the study of his wife's character, the -book of his wife's heart.</p> - -<p>Mabel Wilmot was inveterately, incurably shy, extremely reserved and -reticent by nature, and rather sullen. The latter fault of temper had -made itself apparent to her husband very early in their married life; -and having rebuked it without effect, he made the great mistake of -treating it with disregard. He never noticed it now; the symptoms -escaped him, the disease did not interest him, and it grew and grew. -Proud, cold in manner, distant; scrupulously deferential and dutiful -in externals; silent, except where speech was necessary to the -management of such affairs as lay within her sphere; calmly -indifferent, to all appearance, to all that did not absolutely concern -her individually in the course of their life, her shyness and her -sullenness were not perceptible to others now--never to him. He did -not know that it was so much the worse; he did not understand that it -had been better to know and feel her faults than to be ignorant of her -and them, unconscious of their growth, or their yielding, or their -transformation into others, uglier, worse, harder of eradication, more -hopeless of cure. He did not love her. The whole story was in that one -sentence.</p> - -<p>And she? She loved him; certainly not wisely, all things considered, -and much too well for her own peace. She had outgrown her girlhood -since her marriage; and her character had hardened, darkened, -deepened, everything but strengthened, with her advance into -womanhood. The girl Chudleigh Wilmot had married, and the graceful -languid woman who appeared barely conscious of, and not at all -interested in, the fact of his existence, were widely different -beings. Mabel had shrunk from the knowledge of the thraldom in which -her love for her husband--her calm, cold, generous, irreproachable -husband--held her when she had first realised its strength, when the -growth of her own love had revealed to her that his was but a puny -changeling, with all the sensitiveness of a shy, sullen, and reticent -nature. She could not deny, but she could conceal the bondage in which -it held her. The qualities of her heart and the defects of her temper -had a fight for the mastery, and temper won. Chudleigh Wilmot, if he -had been obliged to think about the matter, would have unhesitatingly -declared that his wife's temper had improved considerably since the -early days of their marriage: the truth was, it had only lost -impulsiveness, and acquired sulk and secretiveness.</p> - -<p>All this, and the terrible pain at the young woman's unsatisfied -heart,--the pain which devoured her the more ruthlessly as success -waited more closely upon the devotion to his profession of the man -she loved, and in whose life she had but a nominal share,--was well -known to Henrietta Prendergast. It had been long in coming, that burst -of agonised confidence, which had made her friend officially aware of -all that her acute mind had long believed; but it had come, and like -all the confidences of very shy people, it had been complete and -expansive. All restraint was over. Mabel might yield to any mood now -in Henrietta's presence; she might talk of him with pride, with love, -with anger, with questioning wonder, with despair; she, whose armour -of pride and silence no other hand, not even the hand of the husband -she loved, had ever pierced, was defenceless, unarmed, at the mercy of -her friend, who fancied she had supplanted her, who was jealous of -her.</p> - -<p>Chudleigh Wilmot had been nearly a week at Kilsyth, when Mrs. -Prendergast, entering her cousin's drawing-room rather earlier than -usual, found her agitated, and in a state of perplexity.</p> - -<p>"I am so glad you have come, Henrietta," said Mrs. Wilmot, as she -kissed her visitor. "I have been in such anxiety to see you. A message -was sent early this morning from Mr. Foljambe--you know Wilmot's -friend, Mr. Foljambe the banker, of Portland-place--requesting that he -would go to him at once. The poor old man has the gout again very -badly. Since then a note has come; written by himself too, and hardly -legible. Poor creature! I'm sure he is in horrid pain. Here it is. You -see he says, 'the enemy is advancing on the citadel'--he means his -heart or his stomach, I suppose--and he entreats Wilmot to go to him -at once. What ought I to do, Henrietta?"</p> - -<p>"You must tell him, of course, that Mr. Wilmot is out of town. I -should not say he was so far away as Scotland; I think the mere idea -is enough to terrify a nervous old man with a superstition in favour -of a particular doctor."</p> - -<p>"Yes, yes, you are right; so it is. But about Wilmot. Of course he -will not like to leave Sir Saville's friends. He thinks more of Sir -Saville than of any one in the world, I do believe."</p> - -<p>"Hardly more, Mabel, than of his reputation and Mr. Foljambe, I should -think. Why, this Mr. Foljambe is the oldest friend he has in the -world--his godfather, his father's friend,--a childless old man, -without kith or kin in the world, who may leave him a fortune any day, -and is certain to leave him something very handsome! He would never be -so mad or so ungrateful--is he of an ungrateful disposition, Mabel?"</p> - -<p>"I don't know exactly," said Mrs. Wilmot, as her colour deepened, and -tears rose to her dark gray eyes. "If he <i>has</i> any feeling, it is -certainly for his friends--at least he wastes none of it on <i>me</i>."</p> - -<p>"You are always brooding over that, Mabel," said her cousin, "and it -is labour and sorrow wasted. No man is worth being miserable about, -dear, and Wilmot is no more worth it than his neighbours. Besides, -this is a matter of business, you know, and we must look at it so. You -had better telegraph at once, I think. Put on your bonnet, and come to -the office; don't trust to a servant, and don't lose time. The message -will take some time to reach him, at the quickest. I fancy Kilsyth is -a long way from any station."</p> - -<p>Her practical tone had a beneficial effect on Mabel. Besides, she -brightened at the hope, the expectation of Wilmot's return before the -appointed time. The two ladies drove to Charing-cross, and Mabel -telegraphed to Wilmot:</p> - -<p><p>"<i>Mr. Foljambe is dangerously ill. Come at once</i>.".</p> -<br> -<br> -<br> -<br> -<h4><a name="div1_05" href="#div1Ref_05">CHAPTER V.</a></h4> -<h5>A Resolve, and its Results.</h5> -<br> - -<p>The illness of Madeleine Kilsyth engrossed the attention and engaged -the sympathy of her father so completely, and so entirely blinded him -to other considerations, that when he chanced to encounter a servant -on his way to Wilmot's room, in whose hand he recognised the ominous -yellow cover which indicated a telegraphic despatch, he immediately -accompanied the man to the door. He then hardly gave his guest time to -peruse the message before he said impetuously:</p> - -<p>"Nothing to take you away from us, I trust. Pray tell me?" and the -otherwise polite gentleman did his best to peer at the pencilled -characters on the flimsy sheet of paper which Wilmot held in his hand. -For a moment his eager question remained unanswered, and his guest -stood frowning and uncertain. The next, though the frown remained, the -look of uncertainty passed away, and then Wilmot turned frankly to the -impatient questioner and said:</p> - -<p>"This is a message from an old friend and patient of mine. He wants me -very much, and asks me to return at once."</p> - -<p>"And--and what will you do? <i>Must</i> you go?" asked the distressed -father in a tone of the keenest anxiety.</p> - -<p>"I shall stay here, sir, until your daughter is out of danger. There -are many who can replace me in London in Foljambe's case; there is no -one who can replace me here in Miss Kilsyth's."</p> - -<p>"You are very good, Wilmot. I really can't thank you sufficiently," -said Kilsyth, immensely relieved.</p> - -<p>"No need to thank me at all, my dear sir," said Wilmot. "And now I -will make my report to you, which no doubt you were coming to hear."</p> - -<p>The two gentlemen had rather a long talk, and on its completion Wilmot -returned to his room to write letters; and Kilsyth went to tell Lady -Muriel that they had had a narrow escape of losing Wilmot, but he had -determined to disregard the message, and stay by Madeleine. Did she -not think Wilmot a very fine fellow? Had she not perfect confidence in -his skill? and was not the interest he was taking in Madeleine's case -extraordinary? To all these queries the Lady Muriel made answer in the -affirmative, with heightened colour and brightened eyes, which, if -Kilsyth had happened to notice those phenomena at all, he would have -ascribed to an increase of feeling towards Madeleine; to be hailed, on -his part, with much gratitude and delight. But Kilsyth did not happen -to notice them at all.</p> - -<p>Chudleigh Wilmot was a man accustomed to act promptly on a resolution; -and perhaps, like many more of similar temperament, likely to act all -the more promptly when the motives of that resolution were not quite -clear or quite justifiable before his own judgment. In the present -instance he certainly did not act with perfect candour towards -himself. He made very much to himself of his apprehensions concerning -the result of Madeleine's illness, and his absolute want of confidence -in the skill of Mr. Joyce. He resolutely shut his eyes to the long and -substantial claims of Mr. Foljambe to paramount consideration on his -part, and he determined to "see this matter out," as he phrased it, in -his one-sided mental cogitation, by which he meant that he was -determined to invest the temptation in his way with the specious name -of duty, and to try to persuade himself that he had the assent of his -conscience in pursuing a course opposed to his judgment. In pursuance -of this determination, Chudleigh Wilmot wrote to his wife the -following letter. To anyone familiar with the man's habits, it -would have been suggestive, that when he had written "Kilsyth," and -the date, he paused for several minutes, fidgeted with a stick of -sealing-wax, got up and walked about the room, and, finally, began to -write with unusual haste:</p> -<br> - -<p>"<span class="sc">>My Dear Mabel</span>,--Your telegram came all right; but my leaving this is -quite impossible for the present. You must tell Foljambe how I am -circumstanced. Poor old fellow! I am sorry for him; but he will pull -through, as usual; and there is nothing to be done for him which -anyone else cannot do just as well as myself. He had better see -Whittaker; or, if he does not like him for any reason--and the dear -old boy <i>is</i> whimsical--let him see Perkins: tell him I recommend -either confidently. You had better go and see him, if your cold is all -right again, and cheer him up. As for me, I am effectually imprisoned -here until this case decides itself one way or the other. Miss Kilsyth -could not possibly be left to the care of the country doctor here; and -there is no one within any <i>possible</i> distance but Sir Saville, who -would not <i>stay</i>, supposing he would <i>come</i>, which is doubtful. The -same answer must be given in all cases for the next week or so. There -is no use in anyone telegraphing for me. The country about here is -beautiful; but of course I don't see much of it. The Kilsyths are -pleasant people in their way, and full of gratitude to me. Lady Muriel -talks of making your acquaintance when they come to town. Nothing of -consequence at home, I suppose? Tell Whittaker to look after Foljambe -very zealously, if he will have him.--Yours affectionately,</p> -<p style="text-indent:50%"><span class="sc">C. Wilmot.</span></p> - -<p>"P. S. The case is malignant scarlet-fever, and my patient and I are -in quarantine. Kilsyth is in great trouble--devoted to his daughter."</p> -<br> - -<p>When he had sealed this letter, and left it on the table for the post, -Wilmot once more went to his patient's room. The suffering girl had -fallen into an uneasy slumber; her face, with the disfiguring flush -invading its fairness, was turned towards the door, the heavy eyes -were closed, and the parched red lips were open. With a skilful -noiseless touch, Wilmot lifted the restless head to an easier attitude -upon the pillow, and moistened the dry mouth. The girl's golden hair -had slipped out of the silken net which had confined it, and a -quantity of its thick tresses was caught in one hot hand. Wilmot -released the tangled hair, laid the hand upon the smooth coverlet, -looked long at the young face, and then, stepping gently to the window -where the nurse was sitting, asked how long the patient had been -sleeping. Ever since he had left her, it seemed. Lady Muriel had been -there, "leastways at the dressing-room door," the nurse added, and had -wanted to see him particularly, she (the nurse) thought, about sending -the children out of the way of infection. Lady Muriel also asked -whether they were not going to cut off Miss Kilsyth's hair.</p> - -<p>"Which it does seem a pity, poor dear!" said the nurse, speaking in -the skilful whisper which does not disturb the patient, and is the -most difficult of <i>tones</i> to acquire; and throwing a motherly glance -at the sleeping girl, who just then moaned painfully.</p> - -<p>"Cut off her hair!" said Wilmot,--as if the mere notion were a horrid -barbarism, which he could not contemplate as a possibility; "certainly -not--it is entirely unnecessary."</p> - -<p>"Well, sir," said the nurse, "it's mostly done in fevers. Wherever -I've nursed, I've always done it, first thing."</p> - -<p>Wilmot turned red and hot. Why should he shrink from sanctioning or -ordering the sacrifice in this case, as he had done in a thousand -others without a thought of hesitation or regret, just like any other -detail? Why, indeed? if not because those were the <i>thousand</i> cases, -while this was the <i>one</i>. But he did not face the question; he turned -aside from it--turned aside, with his eyes piercing the gloom of the -shaded room, in search of the gleam of the golden locks. "No, no," he -thought, "the 'little head sunning over with curls' shall 'shine on,' -if I can manage it." So he told the nurse that was a matter for after -consideration, and that she was to have him called when Miss Kilsyth -should wake; and he went out for a solitary walk.</p> - -<p>Lady Muriel was most grateful to Dr. Wilmot for the care and skill -which he exercised in Madeleine's case. Scarcely Kilsyth himself was -more unremitting in his inquiries after the patient, more anxious as -to the result. But husband and wife were actuated by totally different -motives. The man feared lest the hope of his life should be quenched, -the woman lest the object of her ambition should be frustrated; the -man dreaded the loss of his darling, the woman the confusion of her -scheme. For Lady Muriel had a scheme in connection with Madeleine -Kilsyth, which it may be as well at once to declare.</p> - -<p>It is Mr. Longfellow who informs us that no one is so accursed by -fate, no one so utterly desolate, but some heart, though unknown, -responds unto his own. When Lady Muriel Inchgarvie was running her -career of two London seasons, waiting for the arrival of the man whom -she could persuade herself into marrying, and whom she could persuade -into marrying her; while Mr. Burton and Sir Coke Only were fluttering -like moths round her brilliant light,--the world, which thinks it -marks everything, and which hugs itself in appreciation of its -wonderful sagacity and perspicacity, and which had already supremely -settled that Lady Muriel had no heart to lose, little knew that its -sentence was a just one--simply because Lady Muriel had lost her -heart. There was a connection of the house of Inchgarvie, a tall thin -Scotchman, named Stewart Caird, a barrister of Lincoln's-inn, who had -been a long time settled in London, and who, in virtue of his -aristocratic connections, his perfect gentlemanliness, and his utter -harmlessness--for everyone knew that poor Stewart merely lived from -hand to mouth, by the exercise of his profession, and by writing in -the law magazines and reviews--was asked into a good deal of society. -He was a languid, consumptive-looking man, with a high hectic colour, -and deep-violet eyes, and a soft tremulous voice; and after he had -claimed kinship with Lady Muriel, and had his claim allowed, he found -plenty of opportunities of meeting her constantly, and on every -occasion he was to be found by her side. This was the one chance which -fortune had bestowed on Muriel Inchgarvie of loving and being -simultaneously beloved; and it is but fair to say that she availed -herself of it. Not for one instant did either of them think of the -hopelessness of their passion. Lady Muriel well knew that a marriage -with Stewart Caird was simply impossible; and Stewart Caird knew it -too, possessing at the same time the additional knowledge, that even -if family affairs could have been squared by his coming into the -immediate heritage of fabulous wealth, there was yet a slight drawback -in the fact that his lungs could not possibly hold out beyond six -months. And yet they went on loving and fooling: to her the mere fact -that there could never be any ties between them was, as it always has -been, an incentive to a quasi-romantic attachment; to him, with the -perfect conviction that he was a doomed man, the love of a pretty -high-bred woman softened the terrors of death, and prevented him from -dwelling on his fate. So they went on; the world taking little heed of -them, and they ignoring the world; he growing weaker and weaker, but -always disguising his weakness, until one night in the height of the -season, when Lady Muriel, dressed for a ball, received a short -pencil-note, feebly scrawled: "If you would see me before I die, come -at once.--S.C. You know me well enough to be certain that this is no -romantic figure of speech." The writing, feeble throughout, trailed -off at last into scarcely legible characters. Lady Muriel wrote one -hasty line to the lady who was to be her chaperon, pleading illness as -her excuse for not fetching her, threw a thick cloak and hood over her -ball-dress and her ivy-wreathed hair, and told the coachman, who was -devoted to her, to drive her to Old-square, Lincoln's-inn. There, -propped up by pillows, and attended by a hired nurse, who was by no -means reluctant to take a hint, and, accompanied by a spirit-bottle, -to betake herself to a further room, she found poor Stewart Caird, -with large bistre rings round his eyes and two flaming red spots on -his hollow cheeks. Between the attacks of a racking cough, he told her -that his end was nigh; that he had long foreseen it, but that he could -not deny himself the privilege of winning her love. He acknowledged -the selfishness of the act; but trusted she would pardon him, when he -assured her that the knowledge that she cared for him had -inexpressibly lightened the last few months of his earthly career, and -that he should die more happily, knowing that he left one regretful -heart behind him. He said this in a voice which was tolerably firm at -first, but which, touched by her sobs, grew more and more tremulous, -and finally broke down, when, in an access of emotion, she flung her -arms round him, and clasped him to her heart. How long they remained -thus tranced in love and grief neither ever knew; it was the first, -the last wild access of passion that ever was to accrue to either. The -future, so imminent to one of them at least, was unthought of, and -they lived but in the then present fleeting moment, But before they -parted Stewart spoke to Muriel of his younger brother Ramsay, who had -been left to his care, and whom he was now leaving to the mercy of the -world. For Muriel there was, he said he was persuaded, a career in -life. When it fell to her, when she was enjoying it, would she, for -the sake of him who had loved her--ah, so deeply and so dearly!--whose -life she had cheered, and who with his dying breath would call upon -and bless her name--would she watch over and provide for Ramsay Caird? -With the dying man's hand in hers, with her arm round his neck, with -her eyes looking into his, even then glazed and wandering, Muriel -swore to fulfil his wishes, and to undertake this charge. Within -forty-eight hours Stewart Caird was dead; within six weeks after his -death Muriel Inchgarvie was the pledged wife of Kilsyth; and within a -fortnight of her betrothal she had hit upon a plan for the future of -her dead lover's brother.</p> - -<p>Ramsay Caird's future career in life was, as Lady Muriel decided, to -be one with Madeleine Kilsyth's, and his fortune was to come to him -through his wife. Madeleine's godfather, a childless, rich, old -Highland proprietor, an old friend and neighbour of Kilsyth's, had at -his death left her twenty thousand pounds, to be hers on her coming of -age, or on her marrying with her father's consent. A pleasant -competence in itself, but a princely fortune for a young man of small -ideas like Ramsay Caird, who was earning a very precarious salary, -given to him more from kindness than from any deserts of his, in the -office of the Edinburgh agent to several large estates. Soon after her -marriage Lady Muriel sent for the young man to Kilsyth, found him -gentlemanly and unassuming, sufficiently shrewd to comprehend the -extremely delicate hints which she gave him as to the course which she -wished him to adopt, and sufficiently delicate to prevent his at once -plunging <i>in medias res</i>. Since then he had been frequently at -Kilsyth, and had done his best to make himself agreeable to Madeleine. -He was a good-looking, gentlemanly, quiet young man, without very much -to say for himself, beyond the ordinary society talk, in which he was -fairly glib; he had the names of all the members of all the families -for whom his principal was agent at his tongue's end; had seen many of -them personally,--even knew the appearance of the rest by photograph; -kept himself well posted in their movements, through the medium of the -fashionable journals; and so could fairly hold his own in the -conversation of the people he was thrown amongst. Lady Muriel, who was -as clever as she was proud and ambitious, reckoned Ramsay Caird up to -a nicety; saw exactly how far he was suitable for her plans, and -thought there was little doubt of Madeleine's being captivated by the -handsome glib young man who paid her such respectful homage. But for -once in her life Lady Muriel was wrong. It is but fair to say that -Ramsay Caird never neglected one of the opportunities so frequently -thrown in his way; that he never once committed himself in any -possible manner; that he did not on every occasion seek to recommend -himself to the girl's favour; but it is certain that he failed in -making the smallest impression on her. Lady Muriel, watching the -progress of affairs with the greatest interest, soon felt this, and -was at first dispirited; afterwards consoling herself by the thought -that the girl was passionless and devoid of feeling, but so docile -withal, that it would be only necessary for her father to suggest her -acceptance of Mr. Caird for her at once to fall into the idea. -Thoroughly comforted by this notion, Lady Muriel had of late given -herself no uneasiness in the matter; contenting herself by asking -Ramsay Caird to spend a week or two now and then at Kilsyth, by -throwing him frequently into Madeleine's society when there, and by -keeping up a perpetual gently flowing perennial stream of laudation of -her young <i>protégé</i> to her husband.</p> - -<p>On Wilmot's return to the house, he inquired whether it would be -convenient to Lady Muriel to receive him.</p> - -<p>"My lady" was in her own sitting-room, and would be very happy to see -Dr. Wilmot. So, he went thither, and found the mistress of the mansion -alone, and looking to very great advantage in the midst of all the -luxuries and refinements with which wealth--in this instance aided by -good taste--adorns life. Her rich and simple dress, her finished -graceful ease of manner, her sunny beauty, and the perfect propriety -with which she expressed interest and anxiety concerning her -stepdaughter, made her a very attractive object to Wilmot. He had not -yet discovered that she did not in the least experience the sentiments -which she glibly expressed in phrases of irreproachable <i>tournure</i>; he -did not suspect her of insincerity or want of feeling, or in fact of -any fault. Everything and everybody at Kilsyth wore the best and -fairest of aspects in the eyes of Chudleigh Wilmot, who was, -nevertheless, a very far-seeing and an eminently practical man. Thus, -he only furnished another proof of the often-proven truth, that his -most distinguishing qualities are the first to fail a man, when -judgment is superseded by passion. That is a strong word to use in -such a case as Chudleigh Wilmot's, at least to use so soon; but the -boundary between the feeling which he entertained knowingly, and the -passion which was growing out of it unconsciously, was very slight, -and was destined so soon to be destroyed that the word may pass -unblamed.</p> - -<p>The earlier portion of Lady Muriel Kilsyth's conversation with Wilmot -was naturally devoted to Madeleine. She thanked him, with all her own -peculiar grace and fluency, for his attention, his "priceless care," -for his resolution, which Kilsyth had communicated to her, to remain -with them in this great trouble. She asked him to tell her his "real -opinion;" and he told it. He told her Madeleine was in danger; but -that he hoped, and thought, and believed, her life would be saved. He -spoke with earnestness and feeling; and as he dwelt upon the youth, -the beauty, and the sufferings of the girl, upon her exceeding -preciousness to her father (and gave Lady Muriel credit for sharing -her husband's feelings far beyond what she deserved), the soft dark -eyes fixed themselves upon him with much interest and curiosity. Deep -feeling on any subject was unfamiliar to Lady Muriel; it was not the -habit of her society, or included in the scheme of her own -organisation, and she liked it for its strangeness. Their -conversation lasted long; for when Wilmot was summoned to see his -patient, Lady Muriel invited him to come again to her sitting-room; -and he did so. The question of sending her children away was speedily -decided in the negative; and then the talk rambled on over a great -variety of subjects, and Lady Muriel regarded Wilmot with increasing -interest and surprise, as she discovered more and more of his -originality and fertility of mind. She was not a remarkably clever -woman; but she had more brains and more cultivation than were at all -common among her "set;" and she did occasionally grow very weary of -the well-bred vapid talk, which was the only form of social -intercourse assumed in her circle. She had sometimes wondered whether -something better was not to be found in the limits within which it -would be proper for her to seek for it; but she had stopped at -wonderment; she had not followed it up by effort; and now the very -thing she had wished for had come to her, in the most unexpected form, -and through the most unlikely channel. A doctor, a man whose name she -had merely casually heard, an outsider, one whom in the ordinary -course of events she would have never met, is called in to attend her -stepdaughter in fever, and all at once a new world opens upon Lady -Muriel Kilsyth.</p> - -<p>She was quick to receive impressions; and she felt at once that this -day marked an epoch in her life. As this fine-looking, keen, -intelligent man, in whose deep-set eyes, on whose massive forehead -power was enthroned, bent those dark steady eyes upon her, seeming to -read her soul, the frivolity of her life fell away from her, like a -flimsy garment discarded, and she felt, she recognised the charm of -superiority of intellect and strength of character. She drew him out -on the subjects which had the deepest interest for him, as a woman -can, who has tact and perfect manners, even when her intellectual -powers are in no way remarkable; and he enjoyed the happy sociable -hours of the long, uninterrupted afternoon as much, or nearly as much, -as she did. Lady Muriel was too quick and too true an observer to fail -in discerning, before they had strayed very far into the pleasant -paths of their desultory discourse, that there was very little -sentimentality in Chudleigh Wilmot. A practical man, full of action, -of ambition, of love of knowledge, and resolve to win the highest -prizes it could bring him, he yet spoke and looked like a man whose -feelings had been but little tried, and who would be slow to try them. -Lady Muriel knew that Chudleigh Wilmot was a married man. The -circumstance had been mentioned among the people in the house when he -had first been talked of; and she was the first at Kilsyth to ask of -herself, for she had no other to whom to address it, that frequent -question, "What sort of woman is Chudleigh Wilmot's wife?" She could -not have explained, but she did not question, the instinct which led -her to say, as she went to her dressing-room, when their long colloquy -at length came to a conclusion, "I am sure he does not care for her. I -am sure it was not a love-match. I feel convinced he never was in love -in his life, not in any real sense." And then, Lady Muriel Kilsyth -sighed. Life was not yet an old story for either Lady Muriel or -hudleigh.</p> - -<p>That evening Wilmot devoted himself to the patient, whose state was -highly precarious; and though he sent reassuring messages to Kilsyth -from time to time, he expressed far more hopefulness than he actually -felt. He was conscious too of a strange sort of relief--a -consciousness which should have shown him how he had deceived -himself--as the conviction that his presence was indeed in the highest -degree beneficial was confirmed by every passing hour. The girl's -eyes--now bright and wandering, now dark and weary--turned in search -of him, in every phase of the fever that was gaining on her, with such -innocent trust and belief as touched him keenly to his conscious -heart. In the stillness of the night, when the very nurse slept, the -physician bent down over the flushed face, and hushed the murmuring -incoherent voice with the tenderest words, and soothed the sick -girl--little more than a child she looked in her hopelessness and -unrest--with all a woman's gentleness. What did he feel for the pretty -young creature thus thrown on his skill, his kindness, his mercy! What -revolution was the silent flight of time, during the hours of that -night, working in Chudleigh Wilmot's life? He was learning the reality -of that in which he had never believed; he was learning the truth of -love. Now, when it was too late, when every barrier of honour, of -honesty, of duty, and of principle stood between him and the object of -the long-deferred, but terribly real, passion which took possession of -him.</p> - -<p>When the dawn was stealing into the sick girl's room, the change, the -chill, which come with that ghastly hour to sickness and to health -alike, in wakefulness, came to Madeleine, and she called in a high -querulous tone for her father. The nurse, then beside her, tried to -soothe the girl; but vainly. She refused to lie down; she must, she -would see her father. Wilmot, who knew that she was quite sensible, -quite coherent, and who had feared to startle her by letting her see -him, now came forward, and gently laid her back upon her pillow.</p> - -<p>"You shall see your father in the morning," he said. "I am sure you -would not have him disturbed now, my dear; would you?"</p> - -<p>"No," she said, with a painful smile; "I would not--certainly not. I -only wanted to know something; and you will tell me."</p> - -<p>Her large blue eyes were fixed upon him; her small hand was stretched -out to him with the frankness of a child.</p> - -<p>"Of course, if I can, I will tell you."</p> - -<p>"Sit down, then," she said, in the thick difficult voice peculiar to -the disease which had hold of her.</p> - -<p>He did not sit down, but knelt upon the floor by the bedside, and -raised the pillows on his arm. Her innocent face was close to his.</p> - -<p>"Speak as low as you like; I can hear you," said Chudleigh Wilmot.</p> - -<p>"I will," she whispered. "I thank you. I only wanted to ask my -father--and I would rather ask you--if--if I am going to die."</p> - -<p>Her lips were trembling. His sight grew dim as he answered:</p> - -<p>"No, my dear. You are very ill; but you are not going to die. You are -going to get well--not immediately, but before long. You must be -patient, you know; and you must do everything you are desired to do."</p> - -<p>"I will when I am sensible," she said; "but I am not always sensible, -you know."</p> - -<p>"I know. You are quite sensible now, and the best patient I ever had. -A great deal depends on yourself. I don't mean about not dying; I mean -about getting well sooner. Will you try now how long, being quite -sensible, you can keep quiet?"</p> - -<p>"I will," she answered, looking at him with the strange solemn gaze we -see so often in the eyes of a child in mortal sickness. "I am so glad, -Dr. Wilmot, you are sure I am not going to die."</p> - -<p>Not a shade of doubt of him; perfect trust in him, entire calm and -serenity in the unruffled feeble voice. Her hand lay loosely in his, -undisturbed except by an occasional feverish twitch; her head was -supported by his arm, which held the pillows; his serious eyes scanned -her face. So he knelt and so she lay as the dawn came; so he knelt and -so she lay as the first rays of the sun came glancing in through the -closed window-curtains; but they found the patient sleeping, and the -steady watch of the physician umrelaxed.</p> -<br> - -<p>So time passed, and Madeleine's illness took its course, and was met -and fought and beaten at every turn by the skill and judgment, the -coolness and the experience of the "rising man." So unwearied a -watcher had never been seen in a sick-room; so cheerful a counsellor -and consoler had rarely been sent to friends and relatives in anxiety -and suspense. He was appreciated at his worth at Kilsyth. As for -Kilsyth himself, he reverenced, he esteemed, he next to worshipped -Wilmot, holding him as almost superhuman. The nurse "had never seen -such a doctor as him in all her born days, never; and not severe -neither; but knowing as the best and wakefullest must have their -little bit of rest at times." He won golden opinions from all within -the old walls of Kilsyth, and more than all from its mistress.</p> - -<p>On the whole, and despite his close and devoted attendance on his -patient, Chudleigh Wilmot saw a great deal of Lady Muriel, and an -infinite number of topics were discussed between them. Each day -brought more extended, more appreciative comprehension of her guest to -the by no means dull intellect of Lady Muriel; and each day quickened -her womanly perception and kindled her already keen and ready -jealousy. When many days had gone by, and Lady Muriel would no longer -have dreamed of denying to herself how much she admired Wilmot,--how -utterly different he was from any other man whom she had ever known; -how much more interesting, how much more engrossing, a man to be -looked up to and respected; a man to suffice to all a woman's need of -reverence and deference,--she would still have been far from -acknowledging that she loved him; but her acknowledgment or her denial -would have made no difference in the fact. She did love him, in a -lofty and reserved kind of way, in which no slur upon her honour, -according to the world's code, which takes cognisance only of the -letter of the law and ignores its spirit, was implied; but with all -her heart she loved him.</p> - -<p>So now the situation was this. Chudleigh Wilmot loved one woman within -the walls of the old mansion of Kilsyth; and another woman, their -inmate, loved him. Would she--the other, the older, the more -experienced woman--discover his secret, and overwhelm him with its -disgrace? Time alone could tell that--time, of which there was not -much to run; for Wilmot had been a fortnight at Kilsyth before he -could give its master the joyful intelligence that the fever had -relaxed its grip of his child, and--barring the always present danger -in scarlet-fever of relapse, or what is technically called -"dregs"--Madeleine was safe.</p> - -<p>Mabel Wilmot had written to her husband occasionally during the -fortnight which had witnessed the rise and the crisis of Miss -Kilsyth's illness. In her letters, which were few and sparing of -details, she never alluded to the cause of her husband's unprecedented -absence; Wilmot did not notice the omission. She gave him few details -concerning herself; Wilmot did not observe their paucity. The glamour -was over him; the enchanted land held him.</p> - -<p>"I am not feeling much better," said Mabel in one of her letters; "but -I daresay--indeed I have no doubt--the weather is against me; -Whittaker thinks so too. I enclose his report. There is nothing new -here, or of importance."</p> - -<p>Chudleigh Wilmot accepted his wife's account of the state of things at -home, and replied to her letters in his usual strain. He had failed to -notice that she never alluded to Miss Kilsyth; or he would hardly have -dealt with so much emphasis, or at such length, on the details of a -case to which the recipient of his letters manifested such complete -indifference.</p> - -<p>Dr. Whittaker continued to report upon the cases to which he had been -called in; and no more telegrams interrupted the concentration of -Chudleigh Wilmot's attention upon the illness and convalescence of -Madeleine Kilsyth..</p> -<br> -<br> -<br> -<h4><a name="div1_06" href="#div1Ref_06">CHAPTER VI.</a></h4> -<h5>At Kilsyth.</h5> -<br> - -<p>The routine of illness and anxiety, the dull monotony of an absorbing -care, had rapidly settled down upon Kilsyth, immensely alleviated, of -course, by the confidence imposed by Wilmot's presence. The influence -of his skill, the insensible support of his calmness and -self-reliance, were felt all through the household by those members of -it to whom the life or death of Madeleine was a matter of infinite -importance, and by those who felt a decent amount of interest, but -could have commanded their feelings readily enough. As for Wilmot -himself, he would have found it difficult to account for the -absorption of feeling and interest with which he watched the case, had -he been called upon to render any account of it to others. In his own -mind he shirked the question, and simply devoted himself day and night -to his patient, leaving the house only once a day for a brief time, -during which he would stride up and down the terrace in front of the -house, gulping in all the fresh air he could inhale; and then his -place in the sick-chamber was taken by an old woman, who had years -before been Madeleine's nurse, and who was now married and settled on -the estate. Not since the old days of his house-surgeonship at St. -Vitus's had Chudleigh Wilmot had such a spell of duty as this: the -fact of his giving up his time in this manner to a girl with whom he -had not exchanged twenty words, with whose friends he had no previous -acquaintance, in whom he could have no possible interest, came upon -him frequently in his enforced exercise on the terrace, in his long -weary vigils in the sick-room; and each time that he thought it over, -he felt or pronounced it to himself to be more and more inexplicable. -In London he made it an inexorable rule never to leave his bed at -night, unless the person sending for him were a regular patient, no -matter what might be their position in life, or the exigency of their -case; and even among his own connection he kept strictly to -consultation and prescription; he undertook no practical work, there -were apothecaries and nurses for that sort of thing. He had a list of -both, whom he could recommend, but he himself never paid any attention -to such matters. And here he was acting as a combination of physician, -apothecary, and nurse, dispensing the necessary medicines from the -family medicine-chest, sitting up all night, concocting soothing -drinks, and smoothing hot and uneasy pillows.</p> - -<p>Why? Chudleigh Wilmot had asked himself that question a thousand -times, and had not yet found the answer to it. Beauty in distress--and -this girl, for all her mass of golden hair and her bright complexion -and her blue eyes, could only be called pretty--beauty in distress was -no more strange to Chudleigh Wilmot than to the hero of nautical -melodrama at a transpontine theatre. He was constantly being called in -to cases where he saw girls as young and as pretty as Madeleine -Kilsyth "hove down in the bay of sickness," as the said nautical -dramatic hero forcibly expresses it. Scarcely a day passed that he was -not for some few minutes by the couch of some woman of far superior -attractions to this young girl, and yet of whom he had never thought -in any but the most thoroughly professional manner, listening to her -complaints, marking her symptoms, prescribing his remedies, and -entering up the visit in his note-book, as he whirled away in his -carriage, as methodically as a City accountant. But he had never felt -in his life as he felt one bright afternoon when the wild delirium had -spent its rage and died away, and the doctor sat by the girl's -bedside, and held her hand, no longer dry and parched with fever, and -bent over her to catch the low faint accents of her voice.</p> - -<p>"You don't know me, Miss Kilsyth," said he gently, as he saw her dazed -by looking up into his face.</p> - -<p>"O yes," said Madeleine, in ever so low a voice,--"O yes; you are -Doctor--Doctor--I cannot recollect your name; but I know you were sent -for, and I saw you before--before I was--"</p> - -<p>"Before you were so ill; quite right, my dear young lady. I am Dr. -Wilmot, and you have been very ill; but you are better now, -and--please God--will soon be well."</p> - -<p>"Dr. Wilmot! O yes, I recollect. But, please, don't think because I -could not recall your name that I did not know you. I have known you -all through this--this attack. I have had an indefinable sense of your -presence about me; always kind and thoughtful and attentive, always -soothing, and--"</p> - -<p>"Hush, my dear child, hush! you must not talk and excite yourself just -yet. You have had, as you probably know, a very sharp attack of -illness; and you must keep thoroughly quiet, to enable us to perfect -your recovery."</p> - -<p>"Then I'll only ask one question and say one thing. The question -first--How is papa?"</p> - -<p>"Horribly nervous about you, but very well. Constant in his tappings -at this door, unremitting in his desire to be admitted; to which -requests I have been obdurate. However, when he hears the turn things -have taken, he will be reassured."</p> - -<p>"That's delightful! Now, then, all I have to say is to thank you, and -pray God to bless you for your kindness to me. I've known it, though -you mayn't think so, and--and I'm very weak now; but--"</p> - -<p>He had his strong arm round her, and managed to lay her back quietly -on her pillow, or she would have fainted. As it was, when the bright -blue eyes withdrew from his, the light died out of them, and the lids -dropped over them, and Madeleine lay thoroughly exhausted after her -excitement.</p> - -<p>What <i>was</i> the reminiscence thus aroused? What ghost with folded hands -came stealing out of the dim regions of the past at the sound of this -girl's voice, at the glance of this girl's eyes? What bygone memories, -so apart from everything else, rose before him as he listened and as -he looked? He had not hit the trail yet, but he was close upon it.</p> - -<p>The news that the extremity of danger was past was received with great -delight by the guests at Kilsyth. With most of them Madeleine was a -personal favourite, and all of them felt that a death in the house -would have been a serious personal inconvenience. The Northallertons, -Lady Fairfax, and Lord Towcester, were the only seceders; the others -either had arranged for later visits elsewhere, or found their present -quarters far too comfortable to be given up on the mere chance of -catching an infectious disorder. Some of them had had it, and laughed -securely; others feared that from the mere fact of their having been -in the house when the attack took place, they were so "compromised" as -to prevent their being received elsewhere; and one or two actually had -the charity to think of their host and hostess, and stayed to keep -them company, and to be of any service in case they might be required. -Charley Jefferson belonged to this last class. Emily Fairfax little -knew that by her selfish flight from Kilsyth she had entirely thrown -away all her hold over the great honest heart that had so long held -her image enshrined as its divinity. She never gave a thought to the -fact that when the big Guardsman used to hum in a deep baritone voice -the refrain of a little song of hers--</p> - -<pre> - "Loyal je serai - Durant ma vie"-- -</pre> - -<p class="continue">he was expressing one of the guiding sentiments of his life. Colonel -Jefferson was essentially loyal; to shrink from a friend who was in a -difficulty, to shuffle out of supporting in purse, person, or any way -in which it might be requisite, a comrade who had a claim of old -acquaintance or strong intimacy, was in his eyes worse than the -majority of crimes for which people stand at the dock of the Old -Bailey. In this matter he never swerved for an instant. He never gave -the question of infection a thought; he had had scarlet-fever at Eton, -and jungle-fever out in India, and he was as case-hardened, he said, -as a rhinoceros. He took no credit to himself for being fearless of -infection, or indeed for anything else, this brave simple-minded good -fellow; but if anyone had been able to see the working of his heart, -they would have known what credit he deserved for holding to his grand -old creed of loyalty to his friend, and for ignoring the whispers of -the siren, even when she was as fascinating and potential as Emily -Fairfax. When some one asked if he were going, he laughed a great -sardonic guffaw, and affected to treat the question as a joke. When -the disease was pronounced to be unmistakably infectious, he at once -constituted himself as a means of communication between Dr. Wilmot and -the outer world; and his honour and loyalty enabled him to face the -fact that probably little Lord Towcester had followed Lady Fairfax to -her next visiting place, and was there administering consolation to -her with great equanimity. When Dr. Wilmot came out for his -half-hour's stride up and down the terrace, he generally found the -Colonel and Duncan Forbes waiting for him; and these three would pace -away together, the two <i>militaires</i> chatting gaily on light subjects -calculated to relieve the tedium of the doctor, and to turn his -thoughts into pleasanter channels, until it was time for him to go -back to his duty. And when the worst was over, and Chudleigh Wilmot -could have longer and more frequent intervals of absence from the -sick-room, it was Charley Jefferson who proposed that they should -establish a kind of mess in the smoking-room, where the Doctor, who -necessarily debarred himself from communion with the others at the -dinner-table, might yet enjoy the social converse of such as were -not afraid of infection. So a dinner-table was organised in the -smoking-room, and Jefferson and Duncan Forbes invited themselves to -dine with the Doctor. They were the next day joined by Mrs. Severn, -who had all along wished to devote herself to the invalid, and had -with the greatest difficulty been restrained from establishing herself -<i>en permanence</i> as nurse in Madeleine's chamber; and Mr. Pitcairn -asked for and obtained permission to join the party, and proved to -have such a talent for imitation and such a stock of quaint Scotch -stories as made him a very valuable addition to it. So the "Condemned -Cell," as its denizens called it, prospered immensely; and by no means -the least enjoyment in the house emanated from it.</p> - -<p>Lady Muriel, seeing more and more of Wilmot, as the closeness of his -attendance on his patient became relaxed by her advance towards -convalescence, and studying him with increased attention, learned to -regard him with feelings such as no man of her numerous and varied -acquaintance had ever before inspired her with. The impression he had -made upon her in the first interview was not removed or weakened, and -he presented himself to her mind--which was naturally inquiring, and -possessed considerably more intelligence than she had occasion to use, -in a general way, in her easy-going, prosperous, and conventional -life--in the light of an interesting and remunerative study.</p> - -<p>Lady Muriel's faultlessly good manners precluded the indulgence of any -perceptible absence of mind; and she possessed the enviable faculty -which some women of the world exhibit in such perfection, of carrying, -or rather helping, on a conversation to which she was not in reality -giving attention, and in which she did not feel the smallest particle -of interest. The gallant <i>militaires</i>, the dashing sportsmen, the -<i>grands seigneurs</i>, and the ladies of distinction who were among her -associates, and the gentlemen, at least of the number of her admirers, -were accustomed to regard Lady Muriel's powers of conversation as -something quite out of the common way; and so indeed they were--only -these simple-minded and ingenuous individuals did not quite understand -the direction taken by their uncommonness. It never occurred to them -to calculate how much of her talking Lady Muriel did by means of -intelligent acquiescent looks, graceful little bows, sprightly -exclamations, a judicious expression of intense interest in the -subject under discussion when it chanced to be personal to the other -party to the discourse, and sundry other skilful and effective -feminine devices. It never dawned upon them that one half the time she -did not hear, and during the whole time she did not care, what was -said; that her graceful manner was merely manner, and her real state -of mind one of complete indifference to themselves and almost everyone -besides. Not that Lady Muriel was an unhappy woman. Far from it. She -was too sensible to be unhappy without just cause; and she certainly -had not that. She perfectly appreciated her remarkably comfortable lot -in life; she estimated wealth, station, domestic tranquillity and -respect, and the unbounded power which she exercised in her household -domain, quite as highly as they deserved to be estimated; and though -as free from vulgarity of mind as from vulgarity of manner, she was -not in the least likely to affect any sentimental humility or mistake -about her own social advantages. She could as easily have bragged -about them as forgotten them; but just because she held them for what -they were worth, and did not exaggerate or depreciate them, Lady -Muriel was given to absence of mind; and though neither unhappy, nor -imagining herself so, she was occasionally bored, and acknowledged it. -Only to herself though. Lady Muriel Kilsyth had no confidantes, no -intimacies. Hers was the equable kind of prosperous life which did not -require any; and she was the last woman in the world to acknowledge a -weakness which her truly admirable manners gave her power most -successfully to conceal.</p> - -<p>The touch of sorrow or anxiety is a sovereign remedy for <i>ennui</i>. It -will succeed when all the resources to which the victims of that fell -disease are accustomed to have recourse fail ignominiously. If Lady -Muriel had loved Madeleine Kilsyth, the girl's illness would have put -boredom to flight, with the first flush or shiver of fever, the first -dimness of the eyes, the first tone of complaint in the clear young -voice. But Lady Muriel did not love Madeleine, and did not pretend to -herself that she loved her. Indeed Lady Muriel never pretended to -herself. She had seen and understood that to deceive oneself is at -once much easier and more dangerous than to deceive other people, and -she avoided doing so on principle--on the worldly-wise principle, that -is, by which she so admirably regulated her life--and reaped a rich -harvest of popularity. She did not dislike the girl at all, and she -would have been very sorry if she had died, partly for the sake of -Kilsyth, whom she really liked and admired, and who would have broken -his stout simple heart for his daughter--"much sooner and more surely -than for me," Lady Muriel thought; "but that is quite natural, and as -it should be. She is the child of his first love, and I am his second -wife, and he is quite as fond of me as I want him to be;"--for she was -a thoroughly sensible woman, and would much rather not have had more -love than she could reciprocate. But she was perfectly equable and -composed. Throughout Madeleine's illness it did not cause her sorrow, -though her manner conveyed precisely the proper degree of stepmotherly -concern which was called for under the circumstances; and she did not -suffer from anxiety, being rationally satisfied that all the skill, -care, and indulgence demanded by the exigencies of the case were -liberally bestowed on Madeleine. Anxiety was quite uncalled for, and -therefore did not chase away the brooding spirit of <i>ennui</i> from Lady -Muriel.</p> - -<p>The first thing that struck her particularly with regard to Chudleigh -Wilmot was that she did not experience any sense of boredom in his -presence. In fact it dissipated that ordinarily prevailing malady; she -was really interested in everything he talked about, really charmed by -the manner in which he talked, and had no need whatever to draw on the -ever-ready resources of her manner and <i>savoir faire</i>.</p> - -<p>When Wilmot began to make his appearance freely among the small party -at Kilsyth, and, after the usual inquiries--in which the serious and -impressive tone at first observed was gradually discarded--to enter -into general conversation, and to exercise all the very considerable -powers which he possessed of making himself agreeable, Lady Muriel -found out and admitted that this was the pleasantest time of the day. -The interval between this discovery and her finding herself longing -for the arrival of that time--dwelling upon all its incidents when she -was alone, making it a central point in her life, in fact--was very -brief.</p> - -<p>With this new feeling came all the keen perception, the close -observation, and the nascent suspicion which could not fail to -accompany it, in such a "thorough" organisation as that of Lady -Muriel. She began to take notice of everything concerning Wilmot, to -observe all his ways, and to watch with jealous scrutiny the degree of -interest he displayed in all his surroundings at Kilsyth.</p> - -<p>As Madeleine progressed in her recovery, Lady Muriel looked for some -decline in the physician's absorption in the interest of her case. He -would be less punctual, less constant in his attendance upon her; he -would be more susceptible to influences from the outside world: he -would be anxious to get away perhaps--at least he would no longer be -indifferent to professional duties elsewhere; he would begin to weigh -their respective claims, and would recognise the preponderance of -those at a distance over that which he had already satisfied more than -fully, more than conscientiously, with a fulness and expansion of -sympathy and devotion rare indeed.</p> - -<p>Wilmot was extremely popular among the little company at Kilsyth. -Wonderfully popular, considering how much he was the intellectual -superior of every man there; but then he was one of those clever men -who never make their talents obnoxious, and are not bent on forcing a -perpetual recognition of their superiority from their associates. He -allowed the people he was with to enjoy all the originality, wit, -knowledge, and good fellowship that was in him, and did not administer -the least alloy of mortification to their pride with it. When Lady -Muriel forcibly acknowledged to herself, and would as frankly have -acknowledged to any one else, if any one else would have asked her a -question on the subject, that she held Dr. Wilmot to be the cleverest -and most agreeable man she had ever met, she did but echo a sentiment -which had found general expression among the party assembled at -Kilsyth.</p> - -<p>As the days went by, Lady Muriel began to feel certain misgivings -relative to Wilmot. She did not quite like his look, his manner, when -he spoke of Madeleine. She did not consider it altogether natural that -he should never weary of Kilsyth's garrulity on the subject of his -darling daughter. The physician, taking rest from his long and anxious -watch, might well be excused if he had tired a little of questions and -replies about every symptom, every variation, and of endless stories -of the girl's childhood, and laudation of her beauty, her virtues, and -her filial love and duty. But Dr. Wilmot never tired of these things; -he would, on the contrary, bring back the discourse to them, if it -strayed away, as it would do under Lady Muriel's direction; and -moreover she noticed, that no circumstances, no social temptation had -power to detain him a moment from his patient, when the time he had -set for his return to her side had arrived.</p> - -<p>Taking all these things into consideration, and combining them with -certain indications which she had noticed about Madeleine herself, -Lady Muriel began to think the return of Dr. Wilmot to London -advisable, and to perceive in its being deferred very serious risk to -her scheme for the endowment of her young kinsman with the hand and -fortune of her stepdaughter. She was not altogether comfortable about -its success, to begin with. Ramsay Caird had not as yet made -satisfactory progress in Madeleine's favour. It was not because the -girl had no power of loving in her that she had listened without the -smallest shadow of emotion to Mr. Ramsay Caird, but simply because Mr. -Ramsay Caird had not had the tact, or the talent, or the requisite -qualifications, or the good fortune to arouse the power of loving him -in her. Lady Muriel was far too quick an observer, far too learned a -student of human nature, not to read at a glance all that her -stepdaughter's looks revealed; and her knowledge of life at once -informed her of the danger to her scheme. What was to be done? Wilmot -must be got rid of, must be sent away without loss of time. His -business was over, and he must go. That must be treated as a matter of -course. He was called in as a professional man to exercise his -profession; and the necessity of any further exercise of it having -terminated, his visit was necessarily at an end. No possible suspicion -of her real reason for wishing to get rid of him could arise. A -married man, of excellent reputation, accustomed to being brought into -the closest contact with women of all ages in the exercise of his -profession--why, people would shout with laughter at the idea of her -bringing forward any idea of his flirtation with a girl like -Madeleine! And Kilsyth himself--nothing, not even the influence which -she possessed over him, would induce him for an instant to believe any -such story. It was very ridiculous; it must be her own imagination; -and yet--No; there was no mistaking it, that girl's look; she could -see it even then. Even if Ramsay Caird were not in question, it was a -matter which, for Madeleine's own sake, must be quietly but firmly put -an end to. Immensely gratified by this last idea--for there is nothing -which so pleases us as the notion that we can gratify our own -inclinations and simultaneously do our duty, possibly because the -opportunities so rarely arise--Lady Muriel sought her husband, and -found him busily inspecting a new rifle which had just arrived from -London. After praising his purchase, and talking over a few ordinary -matters, Lady Muriel said shortly:</p> - -<p>"By the way, Alick, how much longer are we to be honoured by the -company of Dr. Wilmot?"</p> - -<p>The inquiry seemed to take Kilsyth aback, more from the tone in which -it was uttered than its purport, and he said hesitatingly,</p> - -<p>"Dr. Wilmot! Why, my dear? He must stay as long as Madeleine--I -mean--but have you any objection to his being here?"</p> - -<p>"Il Not the least in the world; only he seems to me to be in an -anomalous position. Very likely his social talents are very great, but -we get no advantage of them; and as for his professional skill--for -which, I suppose, he was called here--there is no longer any need of -that. Madeleine is out of all danger, and is on the fair way to -health."</p> - -<p>"You think so?"</p> - -<p>"I'm sure of it. But, at all events, any doubt on that point could be -dissipated by asking the Doctor himself."</p> - -<p>"My dearest Muriel, wouldn't that be a little <i>brusque</i>, eh?"</p> - -<p>"My dear Alick, you don't seem to see that very probably this -gentleman is wishing himself far away, but does not exactly know how -to make his adieux. A man in a practice like Dr. Wilmot's, however we -may remunerate him for his visit here, and however agreeable it may be -to him" (Lady Muriel could not resist giving way in this little bit), -"must lose largely while attending on us. He is a gentleman, and -consequently too delicate to touch on such a point; but it is one, I -think, which should be taken into consideration."</p> - -<p>Lady Muriel had had too long experience of her husband not to know the -points of his armour. The last thrust was a sure one, and went home.</p> - -<p>"I should be very sorry," said Kilsyth, with a little additional -colour in his bronzed cheeks, "to think that I was the cause of -preventing Dr. Wilmot's earning more money, or advancing himself in -his profession. We owe him a deep debt of gratitude for what he has -done; but perhaps now, as you say, Madeleine is out of danger; and may -be safely left to the care of Dr. Joyce. I'll speak to Dr. Wilmot, my -dear Muriel, and make it all right on that point.".</p> -<br> -<br> -<br> -<h4><a name="div1_07" href="#div1Ref_07">CHAPTER VII.</a></h4> -<h5>Brooding.</h5> -<br> - -<p>The effect of her husband's letter on Mrs. Wilmot's mind, strengthened -by the view taken of its contents by Henrietta Prendergast, was of the -most serious and injurious nature. Hitherto the unhappiness which had -possessed her had been negative--had been literally unhappiness, the -absence of joy; but from the hour she read Wilmot's letter, and talked -over it with her friend, all that was negative in her state of mind -changed to the positive. Hitherto she had been jealous--jealous as -only a woman of a thoroughly proud, sensitive, secretive, and sullen -nature can be--of an abstraction. Her husband's profession was the -<i>bête noir</i> of her existence, was the barrier between her and the -happiness for which she vainly longed and pined. She had looked around -her, and seen other women whose husbands were also working bees in the -world's great hive; but their work did not absorb them to the -exclusion of home interests, and the deadening of the sweet and -blessed sympathies which lent happiness all its glow, and robbed -sorrow of half its gloom. Her husband had never spoken an unkind word -to her in his life, had never refused her a request, or denied her a -pleasure; but he had never spoken a word to her which told her that -the first place in his life was hers; he had never cared to anticipate -a request or to share a pleasure. To a woman like Mabel Wilmot, in -whose character there was a strong though wholly unsuspected element -of romance, there was an inexhaustible source of suffering in these -facts, combined with her husband's proverbial devotion to his -profession. Not a clever woman, thoroughly conventional in all her -ideas, without a notion of the possibility of altering the routine of -her life to any pattern which might take her fancy, a dreamer, and -incurably shy, especially with him, who never discerned that there was -anything beneath the surface of her placid, equable, rather cold -manner to be understood, she had ample materials within herself for -misery; and she had always made the most of them.</p> - -<p>An incalculable addition had been made to her store by Wilmot's -letter, and Henrietta Prendergast's comments. Mabel wrote to Mr. -Foljambe, under the observation and by the dictation of her friend, -merely repeating the words of her husband's letter; and during that -performance, and the ensuing conversation, she had felt sufficiently -black and bitter to have satisfied any fiend who might have been -waiting about for the chance of gratifying his malignity by the coming -to grief of human affairs. But it was when she was left alone, when -her friend had gone away, and she was in her solitary room--all the -trivial occupations of the day at an end, and only the long hours of -the night, often sleepless hours to her, to be faced--that she gave -way to the intensity of the bitterness of her spirit; that she looked -into and sounded the darkness and the depth of the gulf of sorrow -which had opened before her feet.</p> - -<p>That her husband sought and found all his happiness in the duties of -his profession; that he had no consciousness, comprehension, or care -for the disappointed feelings which occupied her wholly, had been hard -enough to bear--how hard, the lonely woman who had borne the burden -knew; but such a state of things, the state from which only a few -hours divided her, was happy in comparison with that which now opened -suddenly before her. He had neglected her for the profession he -preferred; he was going to neglect his own interests, to depart from -his accustomed law of life, to throw the best friend he had in the -world over--for a woman: yes, a woman, a sick girl had done what she -had failed to do: she had never swayed his judgment, or turned him -aside from a purpose for a moment; and now he was changed by the touch -of a more potent hand than hers, and there was an end of the old -settled melancholy peacefulness of her life; active wretchedness had -come in, and the repose, dear-bought in its deadness of disappointment -and blight, was all gone.</p> - -<p>Mabel Wilmot sat opposite the long glass in her room that night, and -turned the branch-candles so as to throw a full light upon her face, -at which she gazed steadily and long, frowning as she did so. It was a -fair face, and the fresh bloom of youth was still upon it. It was a -face in which a skilful observer might have read strange matters; but -there were none curious to read the story in the face of the pretty -wife of the prosperous rising man. Her eyes were soft and dark, well -shaded by long lashes, and marked by finely-arched eyebrows; and there -were none to see that there was frequent gloom and brooding in their -darkness--a shadow from the gloominess of the soul within. She was -fair rather than pale, and had abundant dark hair; and as she sat and -gazed in the glass, she let its dusky masses loose, and caught them in -her hands. The fair face was not pleasant to look upon; and so she -seemed to think, for she muttered:</p> - -<p>"She is very pretty, I suppose, and a great deal younger than I am; -never looks sullen, and has no cause. And yet he's not a man I should -have thought to have been beguiled by any woman. <i>I</i> never beguiled -him, and I was pretty in my time, ay, and <i>new</i> too! And I have lived -in his sight all these years, and he has never sacrificed an hour of -time or thought to me. And now he leaves me without hesitation, though -I am ill. I have not talked about it, to be sure; but what is his -skill worth, if he did not see it in my face and hear it in my voice -without being told! I was not a <i>case</i>--I was only his wife; and he -never thought of looking, never thought of caring whether I was ill or -well. I appear at breakfast, and I go out every day; that's quite -enough for him. I wonder if he knew what I suspect, what I should once -have said <i>I hope</i>, is the cause; but that is a long time ago. Would -it have made any difference? I don't mean now; of course it would not -now; nothing makes any difference to a man when once his heart is -turned aside, and quite filled by another. I don't think I ever -touched his heart; I know only too well I never filled it."</p> - -<p>Mabel Wilmot was right. She had never filled her husband's heart. She -had touched it though, for a time and after a light holiday kind of -fashion, which had subsided when life began in earnest for them, and -which he had laid aside and forgotten, as a boy might have abandoned -and lost sight of the toys with which he had amused himself during a -school vacation. And the girl had been deceived; had built silently in -the inveterately undemonstrative recesses of her heart and fancy a -fairy palace, destined to stand for ever empty. It had been swept and -garnished; but the prince had never come to dwell there: he with busy -feet had passed by on the other side, and she had nothing to do but to -sit and mourn in the empty chambers. She had borne her grief valiantly -until now; she had only known the passive side of it. But that was all -over for ever; and the day that dawned after Wilmot's wife had -received his letter found her a different woman from what she had -been.</p> - -<p>"Are you sure you are not ill, Mabel?" asked Mrs. Prendergast the day -after their colloquy over the letter. "You are so black under the -eyes, and your face is so pinched, I fancy you must be ill."</p> - -<p>"Not more so than usual," said Mrs. Wilmot shortly.</p> - -<p>"Than usual, my dear! What <i>do</i> you mean? Have you been feeling ill -lately?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, Henrietta, very ill."</p> - -<p>"And have you been doing nothing for yourself? Have you not had -advice?"</p> - -<p>"You know I have not. You have seen me very nearly every day, and you -know I have done nothing without your knowledge."</p> - -<p>"But Wilmot?" said Mrs. Prendergast.</p> - -<p>"O Wilmot! Much he knows and much he cares about me! Don't talk -nonsense, Henrietta. If I were dying, he would not see it while I -could keep on my feet, which, I certainly should do as long as I -could."</p> - -<p>"My dear Mabel," remonstrated Henrietta, "do you mean to tell me that, -feeling very ill, you have actually suffered your husband to leave -you? Is that right, Mabel? Is it right to yourself or fair to him?"</p> - -<p>"Fair to <i>him!</i>" returned Mrs. Wilmot with a scornful emphasis. "The -idea of anything I do being fair or unfair to <i>him</i>. I am so important -to him, am I not? His life is so largely influenced by me? Really, -Henrietta, I don't understand you."</p> - -<p>"O yes, you do," said her friend; and she seated herself beside her, -and took her feverish hands firmly in hers; "you understand me -perfectly. What is the illness, Mabel? How do you suffer, and why are -you concealing it?"</p> - -<p>"I suffer always, and in all ways," said Mabel, twitching her hands -impatiently from her friend's grasp, and averting her face, down which -tears began slowly to trickle. "I have not been well for a long time; -and would not one think that <i>he</i> might have seen it? He can be full -of skill and perception in everyone's case but mine."</p> - -<p>Henrietta Prendergast was troubled. She was a woman with an odd kind -of conscience. So long as a fact did not come too forcibly before her, -so long as a duty did not imperatively confront her, she would ignore -it; but she would not do the absolutely, the undeniably wrong, nor -leave the obviously and pressingly right undone. Here was a dilemma. -She believed that Wilmot's ignorance of his wife's state of health was -solely the result of her own studious avoidance of complaint, or of -letting him see, during the short periods of every day that they were -together, that she was suffering in any way. Any man whose perceptions -were not quickened by the inspiration of love would be naturally -deceived by the calm tranquillity of Mrs. Wilmot's manner, which, if -occasionally sullen, was apparently influenced in that direction by -trivial causes,--household annoyances, and so forth. And though -Henrietta Prendergast had a grudge against Chudleigh Wilmot, which was -all the stronger and the more lasting that it was utterly -unreasonable, she could not turn a deaf ear to the promptings of her -conscience, which told her she must speak the truth on his behalf now.</p> - -<p>"I must say, Mabel," she began, "that I think it is your own fault that -Wilmot has not perceived your state of health. You have carefully -concealed it from him, and now you are angry at your own success. You -must not continue to act thus, Mabel; you will destroy his happiness -and your own."</p> - -<p>"<i>His</i> happiness!" repeated Mrs. Wilmot with indescribable bitterness; -"<i>his</i> happiness <i>and</i> mine! I know nothing about his happiness, or -what he has found it in hitherto, and may find it in for the future. I -only know that it has nothing to do with mine; and that I have no -happiness, and never can have any now."</p> - -<p>The sullen conviction in Mabel Wilmot's voice impressed her friend -painfully, and kept her silent for a while. Then she said:</p> - -<p>"You are unjust, Mabel. You have concealed your suffering and illness -from me as effectually as from him."</p> - -<p>"Do you attempt to compare the cases?" said Mrs. Wilmot with a degree -of passion extremely unusual to her. "I deny that they admit of -comparison. However, there is an end of the subject; let us talk of -something else. If I am not better in a day or so, I can do as Mr. -Foljambe has had to do: I can call in Whittaker, or somebody else. It -does not matter. Let us turn to some more agreeable topic." And the -friends talked of something else. They lunched together, and they went -out driving; they did some very consolatory shopping, and paid a -number of afternoon calls. But Henrietta Prendergast watched her -friend closely and unremittingly; and came to the conclusion that she -was really ill, and also that it was imperatively right her husband -should be informed of the fact. Henrietta dined at Charles-street; -and when the two women were alone in the evening, and the -confidence-producing tea-tray had been removed, she tried to introduce -the interdicted subject. Ordinarily she was anything but a timid -woman, anything but likely to be turned from her purpose; but there -was something new in Mabel's manner, a sad intensity and abstraction, -which puzzled and distressed her, and she had never in her life felt -it so hard to say the things she had determined to say.</p> - -<p>Argument and persuasion Mrs. Wilmot took very ill; and at length her -friend told her, in an accent of resolution, that she had made up her -mind as to her own course of action.</p> - -<p>"It is wrong to leave Wilmot in ignorance, Mabel," she said; "wrong to -him and wrong to you. If only a little of all you have acknowledged to -me were the matter with you, it would still be wrong to conceal it -from him. If you <i>will</i> not tell him, I <i>will</i>. If you will not -promise me to write to him tonight, I will write to him to-morrow. -Mind, Mabel, I mean what I say; and I will keep my word."</p> - -<p>Mrs. Wilmot had been leaning, almost lying, back in a deep -easy-chair, when her friend spoke. She raised herself slowly while she -was speaking, her dark eyes fixed upon her, and when she had finished, -caught her by the wrist.</p> - -<p>"If you do this thing, Henrietta, I most solemnly declare to you that -I will never speak to you or see you again. In this, in all that -concerns my husband and myself, I claim, I insist upon perfect freedom -of action. No human being--on my side at least--shall come between him -and me. I am thoroughly in earnest in this, Henrietta. Now choose -between him and me."</p> - -<p>"Choose between him and <i>you!</i> What <i>can</i> you mean, Mabel?"</p> - -<p>"I know what I mean, Henrietta, and I am determined in this. When you -know all, you will see that only I can speak to him; and that I must -speak, not write."</p> - -<p>"Then you <i>will</i> speak?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, I will speak. I suppose he will return in a few days; and then I -will speak."</p> - -<p>Then Mabel Wilmot told her friend intelligence which surprised her -very much, and they stayed together until late; and when they parted -Mrs. Prendergast looked very thoughtful and serious.</p> - -<p>"This will make things either better or worse," she said to herself -that night. "If he returns soon, and receives the news well, all may -go on well afterwards; but if he stays away for this girl's sake much -longer, I don't think even the child will do any good."</p> - -<p>Many times within the next few days, in thinking of her friend, Mrs. -Prendergast said, "There's a desperation about her that I never saw -before, and that I don't like."</p> -<br> - -<p>The days passed over, and Wilmot's patients were obliged either to -content themselves with the attendance of the insinuating Whittaker, -or to exercise their own judgment and call in some other physician of -their own choice. There was no doubt that the delay was injuring -Wilmot. He might have had his week's holiday, and passed it with Sir -Saville Rowe, and welcome; but he was not at Sir Saville's, and the -week had long been over. As for Mr. Foljambe, his indignation was -extreme.</p> - -<p>"Hang it!" he observed, "if Chudleigh can't come back when he might, -why does he pretend to keep up a London practice? And to send me -Whittaker too; a fellow I hate like--like colchicum. I suppose I can -choose my doctor for myself, can't I?"</p> - -<p>Thus the worthy and irascible old gentleman, who was more attached to -Chudleigh Wilmot than to any other living being, would discourse to -droppers-in concerning his absent favourite; and as the droppers-in to -the invalid room of the rich banker were numerous, and of the class to -whom Wilmot was especially well known, the old gentleman's talk led to -somewhat wide and varied speculation on the causes and inducements of -his absence. Mr. Foljambe had ascertained all the particulars which -Wilmot had given his wife; and Kilsyth of Kilsyth was soon a familiar -phrase in connection with the rising man. Everybody knew where he was, -and "all about it;" and when the unctuous and deprecating Whittaker -talked of the "specially interesting case" which was detaining Wilmot, -glances of unequivocal intelligence, but of somewhat equivocal -meaning, were interchanged among his hearers; and guesses were made -that Miss Kilsyth was a "doosed nice" girl, or her stepmother Lady -Muriel,--"young enough to be Kilsyth's daughter, you know, and never -lets him forget it, by Jove,"--was a "doosed fine" woman. "The -Kilsyths" began to be famous among Wilmot's clientèle and the old -banker's familiars; the <i>Peerage</i>, lying on his bookshelves, and -hitherto serenely undisturbed, with its covering of dust, was -frequently in demand; and young Lothbury, of Lombard, Lothbury, & Co., -made quite a sensation when he informed a select circle of Mr. -Foljambe's visitors that he knew Ronald Kilsyth very well--was in his -club in fact.</p> - -<p>"Old Kilsyth's son," he explained; "a very good fellow in his way, and -quite the gentleman, as he ought to be of course, but a queer-tempered -one, and a bit of a prig."</p> -<br> - -<p>"Have you written to your husband, Mabel?" said Mrs. Prendergast with -solemn anxiety, when the third week of Wilmot's absence was drawing to -a close, and his wife's illness had increased day by day, so that now -it was a common topic of conversation among their acquaintance.</p> - -<p>"No," returned Mabel, "I have not. I have told you I will not write, -but speak to him; and I am resolved."</p> - -<p>"But Whittaker? Surely he does not know your husband is ignorant of -your state?"</p> - -<p>"O, dear no," returned Mrs. Wilmot, with a smile by no means pleasant -to see. "He is the jolliest and simplest of men in all matters of this -kind. Mrs. Whittaker wouldn't, in fact couldn't, have a finger ache -unknown to him; and he never suspects that things are different with -me."</p> - -<p>"Mabel," said her friend, "you do very, very wrong; but I will not -interfere or argue with you. Only, remember, I believe much will -depend on your reception of him."</p> - -<p>"Don't be alarmed, Henrietta," said Mabel Wilmot. "I promise you, -unhesitatingly, that Wilmot will not be dissatisfied with the -reception he shall have from me.".</p> -<br> -<br> -<br> -<h4><a name="div1_08" href="#div1Ref_08">CHAPTER VIII.</a></h4> -<h5>Kith and Kin.</h5> -<br> - -<p>It was a good thing for Kilsyth that he had a soft, sweet, -affectionate being like Madeleine on whom he could vent the fund of -affection stored in his warm heart, and who could appreciate and -return it. In the autumn of life, when the sad strange feeling first -comes upon us, that we have seen the best of our allotted time, and -that the remainder of our pilgrimage must be existence rather than -life; when the ears which tingled at the faintest whisper of love know -that they will never again hear the soft liquid language once so -marvellously sweet to them; when the heart which bounded at the merest -promptings of ambition beats with unmoved placidity even as we -recognise the victories of our juniors in the race; when we see the -hopes and cares and wishes which we have so long cherished one by one -losing their sap and strength and verdure, one by one losing their -hold on our being, and borne whirling away, lifeless and shrivelled, -on the sighing wind of time,--we need be grateful indeed if we have -anything so cheering and promiseful as a daughter's affection. It is -the old excitement that has given a zest to life for so many years; -administered in a very mild form indeed, but still there. The boys are -well enough, fine gentlemanly fellows, making their way in the world, -well spoken of, well esteemed, doing credit to the parent stock, and -taking--ay, there's the deuce of it!--taking the place which we have -vacated, and making us feel that we have vacated it. Their mere -presence in the world brings to us the consciousness which arose dimly -years ago, but which is very bright and impossible to blink now, that -we no longer belong to the present, to the generation by which the -levers of the world are grasped and moved; that we are tolerated -gently and genially indeed, with outward respect and with a certain -amount of real affection; but that we are in effect <i>rococo</i> and -bygone, and that our old-world notions are to be kindly listened to, -not warmly adopted. Ulysses is all very well; in fact, was a noted -chieftain in his day, went through his wanderings with great pluck and -spirit, had his adventures, dear old boy. You recollect that story -about the Gräfin von Calypso, and that scandalous story which was -published in the Ogygian <i>Satirist</i>? But it is Telemachus who is the -cynosure of Ithaca nowadays, whom we watch, and on whom we wait. But -with a girl it is a very different matter. To her her father--until he -is supplanted by her husband--still stands on the old heroic pedestal -where, through her mother's interpretation, she saw him long since in -the early days of her childhood; in her eyes "age has not withered -him, nor custom staled his infinite variety;" all his fine qualities, -which she was taught to love,--and how easily she learned the -lesson!--have but mellowed and improved with years. Her brothers, much -as she may love them, are but faint copies of that great original; -their virtues and good qualities are but reflected lights of his--his -the be-all and end-all of her existence; and the love between him and -her is of the purest and most touching kind. No tinge of jealousy at -being supplanted by her sullies that great love with which he regards -her, and which is free from every taint of earthiness; towards her -arises a chastened remembrance of the old love felt towards her -mother, with the thousand softened influences which the old memories -invest it with, combined with that other utterly indescribable -affection of parent to child, which is one of the happiest and holiest -mysteries of life.</p> - -<p>So the love between Kilsyth and his girl was the happiness of his -existence, the one gentle bond of union between him and the outer -world. For so large-hearted a man, he had few intimate relations with -life; looking on at it benevolently, rather than taking part even in -what it had to offer of gentleness and affection. This was perhaps -because he was so thoroughly, what is called "old-fashioned." Lady -Muriel he honoured, respected, and gloried in. On the few occasions -when he was compelled to show himself in London society, he went -through his duty as though enjoying it as much as the most foppish -Osric at the court; supported chiefly by the universal admiration -which his wife excited, and not a little by the remembrance that -another month would see him freed from all this confounded nonsense, -and up to his waist in a salmon stream. There could be no terms of -praise too warm for "my lady," who was in his eyes equally a miracle -of talent and loveliness, to whom he always deferred in the largest as -in the smallest matters of life; but it was Madeleine</p> -<div style="font-size:smaller;"> -<p class="center">"who had power</p> -<p class="center">To soothe the sportsman in his softer hour."</p> -<br> -</div> - -<p class="continue">It was Madeleine who had his deepest, fondest love--a love without -alloy; pure, selfless, and eternal.</p> - -<p>These feelings understood, it may be imagined Kilsyth had the warmest -feelings of gratitude and regard towards Dr. Wilmot for having, as -everyone in the house believed, and as was really the fact, saved the -girl's life, partly by his skill, principally by his untiring -watchfulness and devotion to her at the most critical period of her -illness. In such a man as Kilsyth these feelings could not remain long -unexpressed; so that within a couple of days of the interview between -Lady Muriel and Dr. Wilmot, Kilsyth took an opportunity of meeting the -doctor as he was taking his usual stretch on the terrace, and -accosting him.</p> - -<p>"Good-morning, Dr. Wilmot; still keeping to the terrace as strictly as -though you were on parole?"</p> - -<p>"Good-morning to you. I'm a sanitarian, and get as much fresh air as I -can with as little labour. This terrace seems to me the only level -walking ground within eyeshot; and there's no more preposterous -mistake than overdoing exercise. Too much muscularity and gymnastics -are amongst the besetting evils of the present day, depend upon it."</p> - -<p>"Very likely; but I'm not of the present day, and therefore not likely -to overdo it myself, or to tempt you into overdoing it. But still I -want you to extend your constitutional this morning round to the left; -there's a path that skirts the craig--a made path in the rock itself, -merely broad enough for two of us to walk, and which has the double -advantage that it gives us peeps of some of the best scenery -hereabouts; and it is so little frequented, that it will give us every -chance of uninterrupted conversation. And I want to talk to you about -Madeleine."</p> - -<p>Whatever might have been Chudleigh Wilmot's previous notions as to the -pleasure derivable from an extended walk with the old gentleman, the -last word decided him; and they started off at once.</p> - -<p>"I won't pretend to conceal from you, Dr. Wilmot," said Kilsyth, after -they had proceeded some quarter of a mile, talking on indifferent -subjects, and stopping now and then to admire some point in the -scenery,--"I won't pretend to conceal from you, that ever since your -arrival here I have had misgivings as to the manner in which you were -first summoned. I--"</p> - -<p>"Pray don't think of that, sir."</p> - -<p>"I don't--any more than, I am sure, you do. My Madeleine, who is -dearer to me than life, was, I knew, in danger. I heard of your being -in what one might almost call the vicinity from Duncan Forbes; and -without thought or hesitation I at once telegraphed to you to come on -here."</p> - -<p>"Thereby giving me the pleasantest holiday I ever enjoyed in my life, -and enabling me to start away, as I was on the point of doing, with -the agreeable reflection that I have been of some comfort to some most -kind and charming people."</p> - -<p>"I am delighted to hear you say those friendly words, Dr. Wilmot; but -I am not convinced even now. So far as--as the honorarium is -concerned, I hope you will allow me to make that up to you; so that -you shall have no reminder in your banker's book that you have not -been in full London practice; and as to the feeling beyond the -honorarium, I can only say that you have earned my lifelong -gratitude, and that I should be only too glad for any manner of -showing it."</p> - -<p>Wilmot waited a minute before he said, "My dear sir, if there is -anything I hate, it is conventionality; and I am horribly afraid of -being betrayed into a set speech just now. With regard to the latter -part of your remarks your gratitude for any service I may have been to -you cannot be surpassed by mine for my introduction to my charming -patient and your delightful family circle. With regard to what you -were pleased to say about the honorarium, you must be good enough to -do as I shall do--forget you ever touched upon the subject. You don't -know our professional etiquette, my dear sir--that when a man is on a -holiday he does no work. Nothing on earth would induce me to take a -fee from you. You must look upon anything I have done as a labour of -love on my part; and I should lose all the pleasure of my visit if I -thought that that visit had not been paid as a friend rather than as a -professional man."</p> - -<p>Kilsyth must have changed a great deal from his former self if these -words had not touched his warm generous heart. Tears stood in his -bright blue eyes as he wrung Chudleigh Wilmot's hand, and said, -"You're a fine fellow, Doctor; a great fellow altogether. I'm an old -man now, and may say this to you without offence. Be it as you will. -God knows, no man ever left this house carrying with him so deep a -debt of its owner's gratitude as will hang round you. Now as to -Madeleine. You're off, you say, and I can't gainsay your departure; -for I know you've been detained here far too long for the pursuance of -your own proper practice, which is awaiting you in London; and I feel -certain you would not go if you felt that by your going you would -expose her to any danger of a relapse. But I confess I should like to -hear from your own lips just your own candid opinion about her."</p> - -<p>Now or never, Chudleigh Wilmot! No excuse of miscomprehension! You -have examined yourself, probed the inmost depths of your conscience in -how many midnight vigils, in how many solitary walks! You know exactly -the state of your feelings towards this young girl; and it is for you -to determine whether you will renounce her for ever, or continue to -tread that pleasant path of companionship--so bright and alluring in -its present, so dark and hopeless in its future--along which you have -recently been straying. Professional and humanitarian considerations? -Are you influenced by them alone, when you reply--</p> - -<p>"My dear sir, you ask me rather a difficult question. Were I speaking -of your daughter's recovery from the disease under which she has been -labouring, I should say with the utmost candour that she has so far -recovered as to be comparatively well. But I should not be discharging -my professional duty--above all, I should not be worthy of that trust -which you have reposed in my professional skill, and of the friendship -with which you have been so good as to honour me--if I disguised from -you that during my constant attendance on Miss Kilsyth, and during the -examinations which I have from time to time made of her system, I have -discovered that--that she has another point of weakness totally -disconnected from that for which I have been treating her."</p> - -<p>He was looking straight into the old man's eyes as he said this--eyes -which dropped at the utterance of the words, then raised themselves -again, dull, heavy-lidded, with all the normal light and life -extinguished in them.</p> - -<p>"I heard something of this from Muriel, from Lady Muriel, from my -wife," muttered Kilsyth; "but I should like to know from you the exact -meaning of your words. Don't be afraid of distressing me, Doctor," he -added, after a short pause; "I have had in my time to listen to a -sentence as hard--almost as hard"--his voice faltered here--"as any -you could pronounce; and I have borne up against it with tolerable -courage. So speak."</p> - -<p>"I have no hard, at least no absolute, sentence to pronounce, my dear -sir; nothing that does not admit of much mitigation, properly taken -and properly treated. Miss Kilsyth is not a hoyden, you know; not one -of those buxom young women who, according to French notions, are to be -found in every English family--"</p> - -<p>"No, no!" interrupted the old gentleman a little querulously.</p> - -<p>"On the contrary, Miss Kilsyth's frame is delicate, and her -constitution not particularly strong. Indeed, in the course of my -investigation during her recent illness, I discovered that her left -lung was not quite so healthy as it might be."</p> - -<p>"Her lungs! Ah, good heavens! I always feared that would be the weak -spot."</p> - -<p>"Are any of her family so predisposed?"</p> - -<p>"One brother died of rapid consumption."</p> - -<p>"Ay, indeed! Well, well, there's nothing of that kind to be -apprehended here,--at least there are no urgent symptoms. But it is -only due to you and to myself to tell you that the lungs are Miss -Kilsyth's weak point, and that every care should be exercised to ward -off the disease which at present, I am happy to say, is only looming -in the distance."</p> - -<p>"And what should be the first step, Dr. Wilmot?"</p> - -<p>"Removal to a softer climate. You have a London house, I know; when do -you generally make a move south?"</p> - -<p>"Lady Muriel and the children usually go south in October,--about five -weeks from hence,--and I go down to an old friend in Yorkshire for a -month's cover-shooting. But this is an exceptional year, and anything -you advise shall be done."</p> - -<p>"My advice is very simple; it is, that you so far make an alteration -in your usual programme as to put Miss Kilsyth into a more congenial -climate at once. This air is beginning now to be moist and raw in the -mornings and evenings, and at its best is now unfit for anyone with -delicate lungs."</p> - -<p>"Would London do?"</p> - -<p>"London would be a great improvement on Kilsyth--though of course it's -treason to say so."</p> - -<p>"Then to London she shall go at once; and I hope you will allow me the -pleasure of anticipating that my daughter, when there, will have the -advantage of your constant supervision."</p> - -<p>"Anything I can do for Miss Kilsyth shall be done, you may depend on -it, my dear sir. And now I want to say good-bye to you, and to you -alone. I have a perfect horror of adieux, and dare not face them with -women. So you will make my farewell to Lady Muriel, thanking her -for all the kindness and hospitality; and--and you will tell Miss -Kilsyth--that I shall hope to see her soon in London; and--so God -bless you, my dear sir, <i>au revoir</i> on the flags of Pall-Mall."</p> - -<p>Half an hour afterwards he was gone. He had made all his arrangements, -ordered his horses, and slipped away while all the party was engaged, -and almost before his absence from the luncheon-table was remarked. He -knew that the road by which he would be driven was not overlooked by -the dining-room where the <i>convives</i> would be assembled; but he knew -well enough that it was commanded by one particular window, and to -that window he looked up with flashing eyes and beating heart. He -caught a momentary glimpse of a pale face surrounded by a nimbus of -golden hair; a pale face on which was an expression of sorrowful -surprise, and which, as he raised his hat, shrunk back out of sight, -without having given him the smallest sign of recognition. That look -haunted Chudleigh Wilmot for days and days; and while at first it -distressed him, on reflection brought him no little comfort, thinking, -as he did, that had Madeleine had no interest in him, her expression -of face would have been simply conventional, and she would have nodded -and bowed as to any ordinary acquaintance. So he fed his mind on that -look, and on certain kindly little speeches which she had made to him -from time to time during her illness; and when he wanted a more -tangible reminiscence of her, he took from his pocketbook a blue -ribbon with which she had knotted her hair during the earlier days of -her convalescence, and which, when she fell asleep, he had picked from -the ground and carefully preserved.</p> - -<p>Bad symptoms these, Chudleigh Wilmot; very bad symptoms indeed! Bad -and easily read; for there shall be no gawky lad of seventeen years of -age, fresh from the country, to join your class at St. Vitus's, who, -hearing them described, shall not be able to name the virulent disease -from which you are suffering.</p> -<br> - -<p>When Lady Muriel heard the result of her husband's colloquy with the -Doctor, she was variously affected. She had anticipated that Chudleigh -Wilmot would take the first opportunity of making his escape from -Kilsyth, where his presence was no longer professionally needed, while -his patients in London were urgent for his return. Nor was she -surprised when her husband told her that Dr. Wilmot had, when -interrogated, declared that the air of Kilsyth was far too sharp for -Madeleine in her then condition, and that it was peremptorily -necessary that she should be moved south, say to London, at once. Only -one remark did she make on this point: "Did Madeleine's removal to -London--I mean did the selection of London spring from you, Alick, or -Dr. Wilmot?"</p> - -<p>"From me, dear--at least I asked whether London would do; and he -said, at all events London would be infinitely preferable to Kilsyth; -and so knowing that we should have the advantage of his taking charge -of Madeleine, I thought it would be best for us to get away to -Rutland-gate as soon as possible."</p> - -<p>To which Lady Muriel replied, "You were quite right; but it will take -at least a week before all our preparations will be complete for -leaving this place and starting south."</p> - -<p>Lady Muriel Kilsyth did not join any of the expeditions which were -made up after luncheon that day; the rest of the company went away to -roaring linns or to heather-covered mountains; walked, rode, drove; -made the purple hills resound with laughter excited by London stories, -and flirted with additional vigour, though perhaps without the -subtlety imparted by the experience of the season. But Lady Muriel -went away to her own room, and gave herself up to thought. She had -great belief in the efficacy of "thinking out" anything that might be -on her mind, and she resorted to the practice on this occasion. Her -course was by no means clear or straightforward, but a little thorough -application to the subject would soon show her the way. Let her look -at it in all its bearings, and slur over no salient point. This man, -this Dr. Wilmot--well, he was wondrously fascinating, that she must -allow! His eyes, his earnestness of manner, his gravity, and the way -in which he slid from grave to gay topics, as his face lit up, and his -voice--ah, that voice, so mellow, so rich, so clear, and yet so soft, -and capable of such exquisite modulation! The remembrance of that -face, only so recently known, has stopped the current of Lady Muriel's -thoughts: she sits there in the low-backed chair, her chin resting on -her breast, her hands clasped idly before her, her eyes vaguely -looking on the fitfully flaming logs upon the hearth. Wondrously -fascinating; in his mere earnestness so different from the men, young -and old, amongst whom her life was passed; by whom, if thought were -possible to them, it was held as something to be ashamed of, while -frivolity resulting in vice ruled their lives, and frivolity garnished -with slang governed their conversation. Wondrously fascinating; in the -modesty with which he exercised the great talent he possessed, and the -possession of which alone would have turned the head of a weaker man; -in his brilliant energy and calm strength; in his unwitting -superiority to all around him, and the manner in which, apparently -unconsciously and without the smallest display, he took his place in -the front rank, and, no matter who might be present, drew rapt -attention and listening ears to himself. So much for him. Now for -herself. And Lady Muriel rose from the soft snuggery of her cushioned -chair, and folded her arms across her breast, and began pacing the -room with hurried steps. This man had established an influence over -her? Agreed. What was worse, established his influence without -intending it, without absolutely wishing it? Agreed again. Lady Muriel -was far too clever a woman to shirk any item or gloss over any replies -to her cross-examination of herself. And was she, who had hitherto -steered her way through life, avoiding all the rocks and shoals and -quicksands on which she had seen so much happiness wrecked, so much -hope ingulfed--was she now to drift on for the same perilous voyage, -without rudder or compass, without even a knowledge whether the haven -would be open to her? Not she. For her husband's, for her own sake, -for her own and her children's credit, she would hold the course she -had held, and play the part she had played. A shudder ran through her -as she pictured to herself the delight with which the thousand-and-one -tongues of London scandal would whisper and chuckle over the merest -hint that their prophecy of years since was beginning to be -fulfilled--how the faintest breath of suspicion with which a name -could be coupled would fly over the five miles of territory where -Fashion reigns. She stopped before the glass, put her hand to her -heart, and saw herself pale and trembling at the mere idea.</p> - -<p>And yet to be loved! Only for once in her life to know that she loved -and was loved again, not by a man whom she could tolerate, but by one -whom she could look up to and worship. Not reverence--that was not the -word; she reverenced Kilsyth--but whose intellect she could respect, -whose self she could worship. O, only for once in her life to -experience that feeling which she had read so much about and heard so -much of; to feel that she was loved heart and soul and body; loved -with wild passion and calm devotion--for such a man as this was -capable of both feelings simultaneously--loved for herself alone, -independently of all advantages of state and position; loved by the -most lovable man in the world; Loved! the word itself was tabooed -amongst the women with whom she lived, as being too strong and -expressive. They 'liked' certain men in a calm, easy, <i>laissez-aller</i> -kind of way at the height of their passion; then married them, with -proper amount of bishop, bridesmaid, and wedding present, all duly -celebrated in the fashionable journal; and then "gave up to parties -what was meant for mankind." Ah, the difference between such an -existence and that passed as this man's wife! cheering him in his -work, taking part in his worries, lightening his difficulties, -always ready with a smiling face and bright eyes to welcome him home, -and--Jealous? Not she! there would be no such feeling with her in such -a case. Jealous! And as the thought rose in her mind, simultaneously -appeared the blue eyes and the golden hair of her stepdaughter.</p> - -<p>That must be nipped in the bud at once! There was nothing on Dr. -Wilmot's part--probably there might be nothing on either side; but -sentimental friendship of that kind generally had atrociously bad -results; and Madeleine was a very impressionable girl, and now, as -Kilsyth had determined, was to be constantly thrown with Wilmot, to be -under his charge during her stay in London, and therefore likely to -have all her thoughts and actions influenced by him. Such a -combination of circumstances would be necessary hazardous, and might -be fatal, if prompt measures were not taken for disposing of Madeleine -previously. This could only be done by making Ramsay Caird declare -himself. Why that young man had never prospered in his suit was -inexplicable to Lady Muriel; he was not so good-looking as poor -Stewart certainly--not one-tenth part so intense--having an excellent -constitution, and looking at life through glasses of the most roseate -hue; but Madeleine was young and inexperienced and docile--at least -comparatively docile even to Lady Muriel, who, as she knew perfectly -well, possessed very little of the girl's love; and it was through her -affection that she must be touched. Who could touch her? Not her -father: he was too much devoted to her to enter into the matter; at -least in the proper spirit. Who else then? Ah, Lady Muriel smiled -as a happy thought passed through her mind. Ronald, Madeleine's -brother,--he was the person to exercise influence in a right and -proper way over his sister; and to him she would write at once.</p> - -<p>That night the butler took two letters from the post-box in Lady -Muriel's handwriting; one of them was addressed to Ramsay Caird, in -George-street, Edinburgh, and ran thus:</p> -<br> -<p style="text-indent:60%">"Kilsyth."</p> -<br> - -<p>"<span class="sc">My Dear Ramsay</span>,--For reasons which I have already sufficiently -explained to you, you will, I think, be disposed to admit that my -interest in you and your career is unquestionable, and you will be -ready to take any step which I may strongly urge upon you. In this -conviction, I feel sure that you will unhesitatingly adopt the -suggestion which I now make, and start for London at the very earliest -opportunity. You will be surprised at this recommendation, and at the -manner in which I press it; but, believe me, I do not act without much -reflection, and without thorough conviction of the step I am taking, -and which I am desirous you should take. I have so often talked the -matter over with you, that there is no necessity for me to enter upon -it now, even if there were no danger in my so doing. It will be -sufficient to say that we all go to London in a week's time, and that -it is specially desirable that you should be there at the same time; -otherwise you may find the ground mined beneath your feet. When you -arrive in town, I wish you to call upon Captain Kilsyth at -Knightsbridge Barracks. You will find him particularly clear-headed, -and thoroughly conversant with the ways of the world; and I should -advise you to be guided by him in everything, but specially in <i>the</i> -matter in question. Let me have a line to say you are on the point of -starting; and believe me</p> - -<p style="text-indent: 40%">"Your sincere friend,</p> -<p style="text-indent: 45%">"<span class="sc">Muriel Kilsyth</span>."</P> -<br> - -<p>The other letter was addressed to "Captain Kilsyth; First Life-guards, -Knightsbridge Barracks, London."</p> -<br> -<p class="continue">"(<i>Confidential</i>.)</p> -<p style="text-indent:60%">Kilsyth.</p> - -<p>"<span class="sc">>My dear Ronald</span>,--You have heard from your father of Madeleine's -illness and convalescence. She is rapidly recovering her strength, and -will be her old self <i>physically</i> very shortly.</p> - -<p>"You smile as you see that the word 'physically' is underlined; but -this is not, believe me, one of those 'unmeaning woman's dashes' which -I have so often heard you unequivocally condemn. I underlined the word -specially, because I think that Madeleine's recovery will be, so far -as she is concerned, physical, and physical only.</p> - -<p>"Not that I mean in the least that her reason has been affected, -otherwise than it always is most transiently in the access of fever; -but that I think that the occasion which you and I have so often -talked of has come, and come in a most undeniable manner. In a word, -Madeleine has lost her heart, if I am not much mistaken, and lost it -in a quarter where she herself, poor child, can hope for no return of -her affection, and where, even if such return were possible, it would -only bring misery on her, <i>and him</i>, and degradation to us all.</p> - -<p>"We are coming to London at once, and therein lies simultaneously the -danger to Madeleine and my hope of rescuing her from it, principally -through your aid. You will see that it is impossible to enter upon -this subject at length in a letter; but I could not let you be in -ignorance of what I know will possess an acute and painful interest -for you. Of course I have not hinted a word of this to your father, so -that you will be equally reticent in any of your communications with -him. You shall hear the day we expect to arrive in town, and I hope to -see you in Brook-street on the next morning.</p> - -<p>"You will recollect all I said to you about Ramsay Caird. He will -probably call on you very shortly after you receive this letter. Bear -in mind the cue I gave you, when we last parted, about this young man, -and act up to it: he is a little weak, a little hesitating; but I am -more convinced than ever of the advisability of pursuing the course I -then indicated. God bless you!</P> -<br> -<p style="text-indent:45%">"Your affectionate</p> - -<p style="text-indent:60%">"M.K."</p> -<br> -<br> -<br> -<h4><a name="div1_09" href="#div1Ref_09">CHAPTER IX.</a></h4> -<h5>Ronald.</h5> -<br> - -<p>When Ronald Kilsyth was little more than four years old his nurses -said he was "so odd;" a phrase which stuck by him through life. As a -child his oddity consisted in his curious gravity and preoccupation, -his insensibility to amusement, his dislike of companionship, his love -of solitude, his old-fashioned thoughts and manner and habits. He had -a dogged honesty which prevented him from using the smallest deception -in any way, which prevented him from ever prevaricating or telling -those small fibs which are made so much of in the child, but to which -he looks back as trivial sins indeed when compared with the duplicity -of his after-life,--which rendered him obnoxious even to the children -whom he met as playfellows in the square-garden, and who found it -impossible to get on with young Kilsyth on account of the rigidity of -his morals, displeasing to them even at their tender years. When a -delicious <i>guetapens</i>, made of string stretched from tree to tree, had -been, with great consumption of time and trouble, prepared for the -downfall of the old gardener; and when the youthful conspirators were -all laid up in ambush behind the Portugal laurels, waiting to see the -old man, plodding round with rake and leaf-basket in the early dusk of -the autumnal evening, fall headlong over the snare,--it was provoking -to see little Ronald Kilsyth, in his gray kilt, step out and go up to -the old man and show him the pitfall, and assist him in removing it. -The conspirators were highly incensed at this treachery, as they -called it, and would have sent Ronald then and there to Coventry,--not -that that would have distressed him much,--had it not been for his -magnanimity in refusing, even when under pressure, to give up the -names of those in the plot. But as in this, so in everything else; and -the little frequenters of the square soon found Ronald Kilsyth "too -good" for them, and were by no means anxious to secure his -companionship in their sports.</p> - -<p>At Eton, whither he was sent so soon as he arrived at the proper age, -he very shortly obtained the same character. Pursuing the strict path -of duty,--industrious, punctual, and regular, with very fair -abilities, and scrupulously making the most of them,--he never lost an -opportunity and never made a friend. All that was good of him his -masters always said; but they stopped there; they never said anything -that was kind. In school they could not help respecting him; out of -school they would as soon have thought of making Ronald Kilsyth their -companion as of taking <i>Hind's Algebra</i> for pleasant reading. And it -was the same with his schoolfellows. They talked of his steadiness and -of his hard-working with pride, as reflecting on themselves and the -whole school. They speculated as to what he would do in the future, -and how he would show that the stories that had been told about Eton -were all lies, don't you know? and how Kilsyth would go up to -Cambridge, and show them what the best public school--the only school -for English gentlemen, you know--could do; and <i>Floreat Etona</i>, and -all that kind of thing, old fellow. But Ronald Kilsyth, during the -whole of his Eton pupilage, never had a chum--never knew what it was -to share a confidence, add to a pleasure, or lighten a grief. Did he -feel this? Perhaps more acutely than could have been imagined; but -being, as he was, proud, shy, sensitive, and above all queer, he took -care that no one knew what his feelings were, or whether he had any at -all on the subject.</p> - -<p>Queer! that was the word by which they called him at Eton, and -which, after all, expressed his disposition better than any other. -Strong-minded, clear-headed, generous, and brave, with an outer coating -of pride, shyness, reserve, and a mixture of all which passed current -for <i>hauteur</i>. With a strong contempt for nearly everything in which -his contemporaries found pleasure,--save in the excess of exercise, as -that he thoroughly understood and appreciated,--and with a wearying -desire to find pleasure for himself; with an impulse to exertion and -work, accountable to himself only on the score of duty, but having no -definite end or aim; with a restless longing to make his escape from -the thraldom of conventionality, and rush off and do something -somewhere far away from the haunts of men. With all the morbidness of -the hero of <i>Locksley Hall</i>, without the excuse of having been jilted, -and without any of the experience of that sweetly modulated cynic, -Ronald Kilsyth, obeying his father's wish, and thereby again following -the paths of duty, was gazetted to the Life-Guards--the exact position -for a young gentleman in his condition.</p> - -<p>The donning of a scarlet tunic instead of a round jacket, and the -substitution of a helmet for a pot-hat, made very little difference in -Ronald. Several of his brother officers had known him personally at -Eton, so that the character he had obtained there preceded him, -inspiring a wholesome awe of him before he appeared on the scene; and -he had not been two days in barracks before he was voted a prig and a -bore. There was no sympathy between the dry, pedantic, rough young -Scotsman and those jolly genial youths. His hard, dry, handsome -clean-cut face, with its cold gray eyes, thin aquiline nose, and tight -lips, cast a gloom over the cheery mess-table around which they sat; -their jovial beaming smiles, and curling moustaches, and glittering -shirt-studs reflected in the silver <i>épergne</i>, with its outposts of -mounted sentries and its pleasant mingling of feasting and frays at the -Temple of Mars and the London Tavern. His grim presence robbed many a -pleasant story of its point, which indeed, in deference to him, had to -be softened down or given with bated breath. The young fellows--no -younger than him in years, but with, O, such an enormous gulf between -them as regards the real elasticity and charm of youth--were afraid of -him, and from fear sprung dislike. They had not much fear of their -elders, these youths of ingenuous countenance and ingenuous modesty. -They had a wholesome awe, tempering their hearty love, of Colonel -Jefferson; but less on account of the strictness of his discipline and -of a certain <i>noli-me-tangere</i> expression towards those whom he did -not specially favour, than on account of his age; and as for the -jolly old Major, who had been in the regiment for ever so many -years,--for him they had neither fear nor respect; and when he was in -command--which befell him during the cheerful interval between July and -December--the lads did as they liked.</p> - -<p>But they could not get on with Ronald Kilsyth; and though they -tolerated him quietly for the sake of his people, they never could be -induced to regard him with anything like the fraternal good fellowship -which they entertained towards each other. As it had been at Eton, so -it was at Knightsbridge, at Windsor, in Albany-street, in all those -charming quarters where the Household Cavalry spend their time for -their own and their country's advantage. Ronald Kilsyth was respected -by all, loved by none. Charley Jefferson himself, fascinated as he was -by Ronald's devotion to the mysteries of drill and by all the young -man's unswerving attention to his regimental duties--qualities which -weighed immensely with the martinet Colonel--had been heard to -confess, with a prolonged twirl at his grizzled moustache, that -"Kilsyth was a d--d hard nut to crack,"--an enigmatic remark which, -from so plain a speaker as the Colonel, meant volumes. The Major, whom -Ronald, under strong provocation, had once designated a "tipsy old -atheist," had, in the absence of his enemy and under the influence of -two-thirds of a bottle of brandy, retorted in terms which were held to -justify both Ronald's epithets; and the men had a very low opinion of -him, who at the time of writing was senior lieutenant of the regiment. -He had no sympathy with the men, no care for them; he would have liked -to have made them more domestic, less inclined for the public-house -and the music-hall; he would have subscribed to reading-rooms, to -institutes, to anything for their mental improvement; but he never -thought of giving them a kind word or an encouraging speech; and they -much preferred Cornet Bosky--who cursed them roundly for their -talking, for their silence, for their going too fast, for their going -too slow, for their anything in fact, on those horrible mornings when -he happened to be in charge of them exercising their horses, but who -off duty always had a kindly word, an open purse at their service--to -the senior Lieutenant, who never used a bad expression, and who, as -they confessed, was, after the Colonel, the best soldier in the -regiment.</p> - -<p>It was like going into a different world to leave the smoky -atmosphere, the wild disorder and reckless confusion of most of the -other rooms in barracks, and go into Ronald Kilsyth's trim orderly -apartment. Instead of tables ringed with stains of long-since-emptied -tumblers, and littered with yellow-paper-covered French novels, torn -playbills, old gloves, letters, unpaid bills, opera-glasses, pipes, -shreds of tobacco, heaps of cigar-ash, rolls of comic songs, trophies -from knock'em-downs at race-courses, empty soda-water bottles, -scattered packs of cards, and suchlike examples of free living--to -find perfect order and decorum; the walls covered with movable -bookcases filled with valuable books, Raphael Morghen prints, proofs -before letters after the best modern artists, and charming bits of -water-colour sketches, instead of coloured daubs of French <i>écuyères</i> -and <i>lionnes</i> of the Quartier Breda, photographs of Roman temple or -Pompeian excavation, and Venetian glass and delicate eggshell china, -and Chinese carving, and Indian beadwork. They used to look round at -these things in wonder, the other young fellows of the regiment, when -they penetrated into Ronald's room, and point to the pictures and ask -who "that queer old party was," and depreciate the furniture by -inquiring "what was that old rubbish?" They could not understand his -friends either; men asked to the mess by them or seen in their rooms -were generally well known in the Household Brigade, other officers in -the Blues or the Foot Regiments, or idlers and dawdlers with nothing -to do, men in the Treasury or Foreign Office, people whom they were -safe to meet in society at least every other night in the season. But -Ronald Kilsyth's guests were of a different stamp. Sometimes he -brought Wrencher the novelist or Scumble the Royal Academician to -dinner; and the fellows who knew the works of both made much of the -guests and did them due honour; but when occasionally they had to -receive Jack Flokes the journalist, who looked on washing as an -original sin, or Dick Tinto the painter, who regarded a dirty brown -velvet shooting-coat as the proper costume for the evening, or -Klavierspieler the pianist, a fat dirty German in spectacles, who made -a perfect Indian juggler of himself in trying to swallow his knife -during dinner--they were scarcely so much gratified. Innate -gentlemanliness and entire good-breeding made them receive the -gentlemen with every outward sign of hospitality; but afterwards, -round the solemn council fire in the little mess-room and midst deep -clouds of tobacco-smoke, they delivered a verdict anything but -complimentary either to guest or host.</p> - -<p>What possessed him? That was what they could not understand. Nicest -people in the world, sir! father, dear delightful jolly old fellow, -give you his heart's blood if you wanted it--but you don't want -it, so gives the best glass ofessed claret in London; and at home--at -Kilsyth--'gad, you can't conceive it; no country-house to be named in -the same breath with it. Perfect shooting and all that kind of thing, -and thoroughly your own master, by Jove! do just as you like, I mean -to say, and have everything you want, don't you know! Lady Muriel -quite charming; holding her own, don't you know, with all the younger -women in point of attractiveness and that sort of thing, and yet -respected and looked up to, and the best mistress of a house possible. -And Miss Kilsyth, Madeleine, deuced nice little girl; very pretty, and -no nonsense about her; meant for some big fish! Well, yes, suppose so; -but meantime extremely pleasant and chatty, and sings nice little -songs and <i>valses</i> splendidly, and all that kind of thing. That was -what they said of the Kilsyth <i>ménage</i> in the Household Brigade, in -which pleasant joyous assemblage of gallant freethinkers it would have -been difficult to point out one who would not have been delighted at -an autumn visit to Kilsyth. Ah! what we believe and that we know! The -humorous articles of the comic writers, the humorous sketches of the -comic artists, lead us to think that the gentlemen officers of the -regiments specially accredited for London service are, in the main, -good-looking, handsome dolts, who pull their moustaches, eliminate the -"r's" from their speech, and are but the nearest removes from the -inmates of Hanwell Asylum. But a very small experience will serve to -remove this impression, and will lead one to know that the reading and -appreciation of character is nowhere more aptly read and more shrewdly -hit upon than in the barrack-rooms of Knightsbridge or the Regent's -Park.</p> - -<p>People who knew, or thought they knew, Ronald Kilsyth, declared -that he was solitary and oysterlike, self-contained, and caring for no -one but himself. They were wrong. Ronald had strong home affections. -He loved and reverenced his father more than any one in the world. He -saw plainly enough the few shortcomings--the want of modern education, -the excessive love of sport, the natural indolence of his disposition, -and the intense desire to shirk all the responsibilities of his -position, and to shift the discharge of them on to some one else. But -equally he saw his father's warm-heartedness, honour, and chivalry; -his unselfishness, his disposition to look upon the bright side of all -that happened, his cheery <i>bonhomie</i>, and his unfailing good temper. -Lady Muriel he regarded with feelings of the highest respect--respect -which he had often tried to turn into affection, but had tried in -vain. With a woman's quickness, Lady Muriel had seen at a glance, on -her first entering the Kilsyth family, thamotivst her hardest task would be -to win over her stepson, and she had laid herself out for that victory -with really far more care and pains than she had taken to captivate -his father. With great natural shrewdness, quickened by worldly -experience, Lady Muriel very shortly made herself mistress of Ronald -Kilsyth's character, and laid her plans accordingly. Never was shaft -more truly shot, never was mine more ingeniously laid. Ronald Kilsyth, -boy as he was at the time of his father's second marriage, had -scarcely had three interviews with his stepmother before she found a -corroboration of the fact which had so often whispered itself in his -own bosom, that he, and he alone, was the guiding spirit of the -family; that he had knowledge and experience beyond his years; and -that if she, Lady Muriel, only got him, Ronald, to cooperate with -her, everything would be smooth, and between them the felicity and -well-being of all would be assured. It was a deft compliment, and it -succeeded. From that time forth Ronald Kilsyth was Lady Muriel's most -pliant instrument and doughtiest champion. In the circles in which -during the earlier phases of his succeeding life he found himself, -there were plenty to carp at his stepmother's conduct, to impugn her -motives,--worst of all, to drop side hints of her integrity; but to -all of these Ronald Kilsyth gave instant and immediate battle, never -allowing the smallest insinuation which reflected upon her to pass -unrebuked. He thought he knew his stepmother thoroughly: whether he -did or not time must show; but at all events he thought highly enough -of her to permit himself to be guided by her in some of the most -important steps in his career.</p> - -<p>And what were his feelings with regard to Madeleine? If you wanted to -find the key to Ronald Kilsyth's character, it was there that you -should have looked for it. Ronald loved Madeleine with all the love -which such a heart as his was capable of feeling; but he watched over -her with a strictness such as no duenna ever yet dreamed of Years ago, -when they were very little children, there occurred an episode which -Miss O'Grady--who was then Kilsyth's governess, and now happily -married to Herr Ohm, a wine-merchant at Heidelberg--to this day -narrates with the greatest delight. It was in Hamilton Gardens, where -the Kilsyth children and a number of others were playing at <i>Les -Graces</i>--a pleasing diversion then popular with youth--and little Lord -Claud Barrington, in picking up and restoring her hoop to Madeleine, -had taken advantage of the opportunity to kiss her hand. Ronald -noticed the gallantry, and at once resented it, asking the youthful -libertine how he dared to take such a liberty. "Well, but she liketh -it!" said Lord Claud, ingenuously pointing to Madeleine, who was -sucking and biting the end of her hoop-stick, by no means ill-pleased. -"Very likely," said Ronald; "but these girls know nothing of such -matters. <i>I</i> am my sister's guardian, and call upon you to apologise." -Lord Claud, humiliated, said he was "wewy thorry;" and the three,--he, -Ronald, and Madeleine,--had some bath-pipe and some cough-lozenges as -a banquet in honour of the reconciliation.</p> - -<p>This odd watchfulness, never slumbering, always vigilant, perpetually -unjust, and generally <i>exigeant</i>, characterised Ronald's relations -with his sister up to the time of our story. When she first came out, -his mental torture was extraordinary; he, so long banished from -ball-rooms, accepted every invitation, and though he never danced, -would invariably remain in the dancing-room, ensconced behind a -pillar, lounging in a doorway, always in some position whence he could -command his sister's movements, and throughout the evening never -taking his eyes from her. His friends, or rather his acquaintances, -who at first watched his rapt attention without having the smallest -idea of its object, used to chaff him upon his devotion, and -interrogate him as to whether it was the tall person with the teeth, -the stout virgin with the shells in her hair, or the interesting party -with the shoulders, who had won his young affection. Ronald stood this -chaff well, confident in the fact that hitherto his sister had -performed her part in that grand and ludicrous mystery termed -"Society," and had escaped heart-whole. He began to realise the truth -of the axiom about the constant dropping of water. So long as -Madeleine had had sense to comprehend, he had instilled into her the -absolute necessity of consulting him before she even permitted herself -to have the smallest liking for any man. During the first two months -of her first season she had confessed to him twice: once in the case -of a middle-aged, well-preserved peer; and again when a thin, -black-bearded <i>attaché</i> of the Brazilian embassy was in question. -Ronald's immediate and unmistakable veto had been sufficient in both -cases; and he was flattering himself that the rest of the season had -passed without any further call on his self-assumed judicial -functions.</p> - -<p>Imagine, then, his state of mind at the receipt of Lady Muriel's -letter! The assault had been made, the mine had been sprung, the enemy -was in the citadel, and, worst of all, the enemy was masked and -disguised, and the guardian of the fortress did not know who was his -assailant, or what measures he should take to repel him!.</p> -<br> -<br> -<br> -<h4><a name="div1_10" href="#div1Ref_10">CHAPTER X.</a></h4> -<h5>Cross-Examination.</h5> -<br> - -<p>The hall-porter at Barnes's Club in St. James's-street, whose views of -life during the last two months had been remarkably gloomy and -desponding, began to revive and to feel himself again as the end of -October drew on apace. He had had a dull time of it, that hall-porter, -during August and September, sitting in his glazed box, cutting the -newspapers which no one came to read, and staring at the hat-pegs -which no one used. He had his manuscript book before him, but he did -not inscribe ten names in it during the day; for nearly everybody was -out of town; and the few members who per force remained,--gentlemen in -the Whitehall offices, or officers in the Household Brigade,--found -scaffolding and ladders in the hall of Barnes's, and the morning-room -in the hands of the whitewashers, and the coffee-room closed, and the -smokers relegated to the card-room, and such a general state of -discomfort, that they shunned Barnes's, and went off to the other -clubs to which they belonged. But with the end of October came a -change. The men who had been shooting in the North, the men who had -been travelling on the Continent, the men who had been yachting, and -the men who had been lounging on the sea-coast, all came through town -on their way to their other engagements; those who had no other -engagements, and who had spent all their available money, settled down -into their old way of life; all paid at least a flying visit to the -club to see who was in town, and to learn any news that might be -afloat.</p> - -<p>It is a sharp bright afternoon, and the morning-room at Barnes's is -so full that you might actually fancy it the season. Sir Coke Only's -gray cab horse is, as usual, champing his bit just outside the -door, and Lord Sumph's brougham is there, and Tommy Toshington's -chestnut cob with the white face is being led up and down by the -red-jacketed lad, who has probably been out of town too, as he has not -been seen since Parliament broke up, and yet is there and to the fore -directly he is wanted. Tommy Toshington himself, an apple-faced little -man, who might be any age between sixteen and sixty, but who is -considerably nearer the latter than the former, gathers his letters -from the porter as he passes, looks through them quickly, shaking his -head the while at two or three written on very blue paper and -addressed in very formal writing, and proceeds to the morning-room. -Everybody there, everybody knowing Tommy, universal chorus of welcome -from all save three old gentlemen reading evening papers, two of whom -don't know Tommy, and all of whom hate him.</p> - -<p>"And where have you come from, Tommy?" says Lord Sumph, who is a -charming nobleman, labouring under the slight eccentricity of -occasionally imagining that he is a steam-engine, when he whistles and -shrieks and puffs, and has to be secluded from observation until the -fit is over.</p> - -<p>"Last from East Standling, my lord," says Tommy; "and very pleasant it -was."</p> - -<p>"Must have been doosid pleasant, by all I hear," says Sir Thomas -Buffem, K.C.B., and late of the Madras army. "Dook had the gout, -hadn't he? and we all know how pleasant he is then!"</p> - -<p>"That feller was there of course--what's his name?--Bawlindor the -barrister," says Sir Coke Only. "Can't bear that feller, dev'lish -low-bred feller, was a dancin'-master or something of that sort--can't -bear low-bred fellers;" and Sir Coke, whose paternal grandfather had -been a pedlar, and who himself combined the intellect of an Esquimaux -with the manners of a Whitechapel butcher on a Saturday night, cleared -his throat, and thumped his stick, and looked ferocious.</p> - -<p>"Yes, Mr. Bawlindor was there," says Tommy Toshington, looking round -with a queer twinkle in his little gray eyes; "and he was very -pleasant, very pleasant indeed. I hardly know how the duchess would -have got on without him. He said some doosid smart things, did Mr. -Bawlindor."</p> - -<p>"I hate a feller who says smart things," said Sir Coke Only; "making a -buffoon of himself."</p> - -<p>"Ha, ha!" said Duncan Forbes, joining the group--"the carrier is -jealous of the tumbler; it's a mere question of pigeons."</p> - -<p>"What do you mean, Sir Duncan? I don't understand you," said Sir Coke -angrily.</p> - -<p>"Don't suppose you do--never gave you credit for anything of the -sort.--How are you, all you fellows? What were the smart things that -Bawlindor said, Tommy?"</p> - -<p>"Well, I don't know; perhaps you wouldn't think 'em smart, Duncan, -because you're a devilish clever chap yourself, and--"</p> - -<p>"Yes, yes, we know all about that; but tell us some smart things that -Bawlindor said--tell us one."</p> - -<p>"Well, you know Tottenham? you know he gives awful heavy dinners? He -was bragging about them one day at luncheon at East Standling, and -Bawlindor said, 'There's one thing, my lord, I always envy when I'm -dining with you.' 'What's that?' says Tottenham. "I envy your gas,' -says Bawlindor, 'and it <i>escapes</i>.'"</p> - -<p>"Ye-es! that was not bad for Bawlindor. I hate the brute though; I -daresay he stole it from somebody else. Well, how are you all, and -what's the news?"</p> - -<p>"You ought to be able to tell us that," said Lord Sumph. "We're only -just back in town, and you've been here all the time, haven't you, in -the Tower or somewhere?"</p> - -<p>"Not I; I'm only just back too."</p> - -<p>"And where have you come from?"</p> - -<p>"Last from Kilsyth."</p> - -<p>"Devil you have!" growled Sir Thomas Buffem, edging away. "They've had -jungle-fever--not jungle, scarlet-fever there, haven't they?"</p> - -<p>"O, ah, Duncan," said Clement Walkinshaw of the Foreign Office, "tell -us all about that! It was awful, wasn't it? Towcester cut and run, -didn't he? Mrs. Severn said he turned pea-green, and sent such a -stunning caricature of him to her sister, who was staying at -Claverton! We stuck it up in the smoking-room, and had no end fun -about it."</p> - -<p>"I'm glad you were so much amused. It wasn't no end fun for Miss -Kilsyth, however, as she was nearly losing her life."</p> - -<p>"Was she, by Jove!" said Walkinshaw, who was a "beauty boy," examining -himself in the glass, and smoothing his little moustaches,--"was she, -by Jove! What! our dear little Maddy?"</p> - -<p>"Our dear little Maddy," said Duncan Forbes calmly, "if you are on -sufficient terms of intimacy with the young lady to speak of her in -that manner in a public room. <i>I</i> call her Miss Kilsyth; but then we -were only brought up together as children, whereas you had the -advantage of having been introduced to her last season, I think, -Walkinshaw."</p> - -<p>"That was a hot 'un for that d--d little despatch-box!" said Sir -Thomas Buffem, as Walkinshaw walked off discomfited. "Serve him quite -right--conceited little brute!"</p> - -<p>"Well, but what was it, Duncan?" asked Lord Sumph. "It wasn't only the -gal, heaps of people were down with it, eh?--regular hospital, and -that kind of thing? I saw the Northallertons on their way south, and -the duchess said it was awfully bad up there."</p> - -<p>"The duchess is a--very nice person," said Forbes, checking himself, -"and, like Sir Thomas here, an old soldier."</p> - -<p>"But it was a great go, though, Duncan,--infection and all that, eh?" -asked Captain Hetherington, who had joined the talkers. "There's no -such thing as getting Poole's people to make you a coat; the whole -resources of the establishment are concentrated on building a new -rig-out for Towcester, who has sacrificed his entire get-up, and had -his hair cut close, and taken no end of Turkish baths, for fear of -being refused admittance at places where he was going to stay."</p> - -<p>"All I can say is, then--is, that it's a capital thing for Towcester's -man, or whoever gets his wardrobe," said Forbes; "Charley Jefferson -might have made a good thing by buying his tunics, only there's a -slight difference in their size--<i>he</i> wouldn't have feared the -infection."</p> - -<p>"No, not in that way perhaps," said Hetherington. "Charley's like the -Yankee in Dickens's book, 'fever-proof and likewise ague;' but he -<i>can</i> be got at, we all know. How about the widow? She bolted too, -didn't she?"</p> - -<p>"She did--more shame for her. No! the fact was, that at Kilsyth----"</p> - -<p>"<i>Cave canem!</i>" said Tommy Toshington, holding up a monitory -finger--"<i>Cave canem</i>, as we used to say at school. Here's Ronald -Kilsyth just come into the room and making towards us!"</p> - -<p>You can get a good view of Ronald Kilsyth now as he advances up the -room. Rather under than over the middle height, with very broad -shoulders betokening great muscular strength, and square limbs. His -head is large, and his thick brown hair is brushed off his broad -forehead, and hangs almost to his coat-collar. He has a well-moulded -but rather a stern face, with bushy eyebrows, piercing gray eyes, and -close thin lips. He is dressed plainly but in good taste, and his -whole appearance is perfectly gentlemanlike. It would have been as -hard to have mistaken Ronald for a snob as to have passed him by -without notice; and there was something about him that infallibly -attracted attention, and made those who saw him for the first time -wonder who he was. It would have been quite impossible to divine his -profession from his appearance; neither in look or bearing was there -the smallest trace of the plunger. He might have been taken for a -deep-thinking Chancery barrister, had it not been for his moustache; -or, more likely still, a shrewd long-headed engineer, a man of facts -and figures and calculation; but never a dragoon. He had been the -innocent cause of extreme disappointment to many young ladies in -various parts of the country where he had stayed--quiet -unsophisticated girls, whose visits to London had been very rare, and -who knew nothing of its society, and who hearing that a Life-Guards' -officer was coming to dinner, expected to see a gigantic creature, all -cuirass and jack-boots, an enlarged and ornamental edition of the -sentries in front of the Horse-Guards. Ronald Kilsyth in his plain -evening dress was a great blow to them; in byegone days his moustache -would have been some consolation; but now the young farmers in the -neighbourhood, the sporting surgeon, and all the volunteers wore -moustaches; and though in subsequent conversation they found Ronald -very pleasant, he neither drawled, nor lisped, nor made love to them; -all of which proceedings they had believed to be necessary attributes -of his branch of the military profession.</p> - -<p>And many persons who were not young ladies in the country were -disappointed in Ronald Kilsyth, more especially old friends of his -father, who expected to find his son resembling him. Ronald inherited -his father's love of honour, truth, and candour, his keen sense of -right and wrong, his manliness and his courage; but there the likeness -between the men ceased. Kilsyth's warmth of heart, warmth of temper, -and largeness of soul were not reflected by Ronald, who never lost his -self-control, who never gave anybody credit for more than they -deserved, and who--save perhaps for his sister Madeleine, and his love -for her was of a very stern and Spartan character--had never -entertained any particularly warm feelings for any human being.</p> - -<p>Ronald Kilsyth is not popular at Barnes's, being decidedly an -unclubbable man. The members, if ever they speak of him at all, want -to know what he joined for. He belonged to the Rag, didn't he, and -some other club, where he could sit mumchance over his mutton, or -stare at the lads from Aldershott drinking five-guinea Heidzeck -champagne. What did he want among this sociable set? He always looked -straight down his nose when Guffoon came up with a sad story, and he -never cared about any scandal that was foreign. But he was not -disliked, at least openly. It was considered that he was a doosid -clever fellow, with a doosid sharp tongue of his own; and at Barnes's, -as at other clubs, they are generally polite to fellows with doosid -sharp tongues. And his father was a very good fellow, and gave very -good dinners during the season, and Kilsyth was a very pleasant house -to stop at in the autumn; so that, for these various reasons, Ronald -Kilsyth, albeit in himself unpopular at Barnes's, was never suffered -to hear of his unpopularity.</p> - -<p>Not that if he had, it would have troubled him one jot. No man in the -world was more careless of what people thought of him, so long as he -had the approval of his own conscience; and by dint of a long -course of self-schooling and the presence of a certain amount of -self-satisfaction, he could generally count upon that. He could not -tell himself why he had joined Barnes's Club, unless it was that -Duncan Forbes was a member, and had asked him to join; and he liked -Duncan Forbes in his way, and wanted some place where he could be -pretty certain of finding him when in town. There were few points of -resemblance between Ronald Kilsyth and Duncan Forbes; but perhaps -their very dissimilarity was the bond of the union, such as it was, -that existed between them. Ronald knew Duncan to be weak, but believed -him, and rightly, to be thorough. Duncan Forbes would assume a languid -haw-hawism, an almost idiotic rapidity, a freezing <i>hauteur</i> to any -one he did not know and did not care for, for the merest caprice; -but he would stand or fall by a friend, and not Charley Jefferson -himself would be firmer and truer under trial. Ronald knew this; and -knowing it, was not disposed to be hard on his friend's less stable -qualities--was rather amused indeed "by Duncan's nonsense," as he -phrased it, and showed more inclination for his society than that of -any other of his acquaintance.</p> - -<p>The group of talkers in the window opened as Ronald approached, and he -shook hands with its various members; Tommy Toshington, who always had -something pleasant to say to anybody out of whom there was any -possibility of his ever getting anything, complimenting him on his -appearance.</p> - -<p>"Look as fresh as paint, Ronald, my boy--fresh as paint, by Jove! -Where have you been to pick up such a colour and to get yourself into -such focus, eh?"</p> - -<p>"The marine breezes of Knightsbridge have contributed to my -complexion, Toshington, and the vigorous exercise of walking four -miles a day on the London flags has brought me into my present -splendid condition."</p> - -<p>"What! not been away from town at all?" asked Sir Coke Only, who would -almost as soon have acknowledged his poor relations as confessed to -having been in London in September.</p> - -<p>"Not at all. In the first place, I was on duty, and could not get -away; not that I think I should have moved under any circumstances. -London is always good enough for me."</p> - -<p>"But not when it's quite empty," said Lord Sumph.</p> - -<p>"It can't be quite empty with two millions and a half of people in it, -Sumph," said Ronald.</p> - -<p>"O, ah, cads and tradesmen, and all that sort of thing,--devilish -worthy people in their way, of course; but I mean people that one -knows."</p> - -<p>"<i>I</i> know several of those 'devilish worthy people,' Sumph," said -Ronald, with a smile; "and besides, country-house life is not much in -my way."</p> - -<p>"Don't meet those d?-d radical fellows that he thinks so much of, -there," growled Sir Thomas Buffem to Sir Coke Only.</p> - -<p>"No, nor those painters and people that my boy says this chap's always -bringing to mess," replied Sir Coke.</p> - -<p>"There, he's gone away with Duncan now," said Toshington, "and they'll -be happy. They're too clever, those two are, for us old fellows! Not -that you're an old fellow, Sumph, my boy."</p> - -<p>"You're old enough for several, ain't you, Tommy?" said Lord Sumph; -"and I'm old enough to play you a game of billiards before dinner, and -give you fifteen; so come along."</p> - -<p>Meanwhile Ronald Kilsyth and Duncan Forbes had walked away to the far -end of the room, which happened to be deserted at the time; and -seating themselves on an ottoman, were soon engaged in earnest -conversation.</p> - -<p>"What on earth made you remain in town, Ronald?" asked Duncan. "I -heard what you said to those fellows; but I know well enough that you -could have got leave if you had wished. Why did you not come up to -Kilsyth?"</p> - -<p>"Principally because there was no particular inducement for me to do -so, Duncan."</p> - -<p>"You always were polite, Ronald--"</p> - -<p>"Ah, you were there! No, no; you know perfectly well what I mean, -Duncan. With you and the governor and Madeleine I'm always perfectly -happy; and her ladyship is very friendly, and we get on very well -together. But then I like you all quietly and by yourselves; I'm -selfish enough to want the entire enjoyment of your society. And the -life at Kilsyth would not have suited me at all."</p> - -<p>"Well, I don't know; it was very jolly--"</p> - -<p>"Yes, of course it was, and--By the way, Duncan, tell me all about it; -who were there, and what you did."</p> - -<p>"O, heaps of people there--the Northallertons, and the Thurlows, -and--"</p> - -<p>"Yes, yes; but what men--younger men, I mean?"</p> - -<p>"Let me see; there was Towcester--"</p> - -<p>"No, not he; her ladyship would not have thought him objectionable, -whatever I might."</p> - -<p>"What? what the deuce are you muttering, Ronald?"</p> - -<p>"I beg your pardon, Duncan--thinking aloud only; it's a horrible habit -I've fallen into. Well, who besides Towcester?"</p> - -<p>"O, Severn, and Roderick Douglas, and Charley Jefferson--"</p> - -<p>"Ah, Charley Jefferson; he's just the same, of course?"</p> - -<p>"O yes, he's as jolly as ever."</p> - -<p>"Yes; but I mean, is he as devoted as he was to Lady Fairfax?"</p> - -<p>"O, worse; most desperate case of--no, by the way, though, I forgot; I -think he has cooled off--"</p> - -<p>"Cooled off! since when?"</p> - -<p>"Since your sister's illness."</p> - -<p>"Since my sister's illness! Why, what could that have to do with -them?"</p> - -<p>"Well, you see, some of the people in the house got frightened at the -notion of infection and that kind of thing, and bolted off. Lady -Fairfax was one of the first to rush away; and Charley, who is loyalty -itself in everything, as you know, was deucedly annoyed about it. My -lady had been leading him a pretty dance for a few days previously, -playing off little Towcester against him, and--"</p> - -<p>"Ah, yes. No doubt Charley was right, quite right. And that was all -about him, eh? And so the people were frightened at poor Madeleine's -illness, were they?"</p> - -<p>"Gad, they were, and not without reason too. The poor child was -awfully bad; and indeed, if it had not been for Wilmot, I much doubt -whether she would have pulled through."</p> - -<p>"Hadn't been for Wilmot? Wilmot! O, yes, the London doctor who was -staying somewhere, near, and who was telegraphed for. Tell me about -Dr. Wilmot--a clever man, isn't he?"</p> - -<p>"Clever! He's wonderful! Keen, clear-headed fellow; sees his way -through a brick wall in a minute. Not that at Kilsyth he did not do as -much by his devotion to his patient as by his skill."</p> - -<p>"Devotion? O, he was devoted to his patient, eh?" said Ronald, biting -his nails.</p> - -<p>"Never saw such a thing in all your life. Went in a regular perisher," -said Duncan Forbes, dropping his hands to emphasise his words. "Put -himself in regular quarantine; cut himself off from all communication -with anybody else, and shut himself up in the room with his patient -for days together. It's the sort of thing you read of in poems, and -that kind of thing, don't you know, but very seldom meet with in real -life. If Wilmot had been a young man, and your sister had had any -chance of making him like her, I should have said it was a case of -smite. But Wilmot is an old married man; and these doctors don't -indulge much in being captivated, specially by patients in fevers, I -should think!"</p> - -<p>"No; of course not, of course not. Now, this Wilmot--what's he like?"</p> - -<p>"Well, he's rather a striking-looking man; looks very earnest, and -speaks with a very effectively modulated voice."</p> - -<p>"Ah! And he's gentlemanly, eh?"</p> - -<p>"O, perfectly gentlemanly. No mistake in that."</p> - -<p>"And he was wonderfully devoted to Madeleine, eh? Very kind of him, -I'm sure. Shut himself up in her room, and--What did Lady Muriel think -of him, by the way?"</p> - -<p>"I scarcely know. I never heard her say; and yet I gathered somehow -that Lady Muriel was not so much impressed in the doctor's favour as -the rest of us."</p> - -<p>"That's curious, for there are few keener readers of character than -Lady Muriel. And the doctor was not a favourite of hers?"</p> - -<p>"Well, no; I should say not. But the rest of the party were so -strongly in his favour that we looked with some suspicion on all who -did not shout as loudly as ourselves."</p> - -<p>"And Madeleine, was she equally enthusiastic?"</p> - -<p>"Poor Miss Kilsyth, she was not well enough to have much enthusiasm on -any subject, even on her doctor. Gratitude is, I imagine, the -strongest sentiment one is capable of after a long and severe -illness."</p> - -<p>"Exactly--yes--I should suppose so. And what aged man is Dr. Wilmot?"</p> - -<p>"O, what we should have called some years ago very old, but what we -now look upon as the commencement of middle age--just approaching -forty, I should think."</p> - -<p>"He is married, you say?"</p> - -<p>"Yes; so we all understood. O yes, I heard him once mention his wife -to Lady Muriel.--I say, Ronald, what an unconscionable lot of -questions you are asking about Wilmot; one would think that--"</p> - -<p>"Gentleman waiting to speak to you, sir," said a servant, handing a -card to Ronald; "says he won't detain you a moment, sir."</p> - -<p>Ronald took the card, and read on it "DR. WILMOT."</p> - -<p>"I will come to the gentleman at once," said he; and the servant went -away.</p> - -<p>"Who is it? Anyone I know?" asked Duncan Forbes.</p> - -<p>"He is a stranger to me," said Ronald, blinking the question.<p> -<br> - -<p>He found Dr. Wilmot in that wretched little waiting-room about the -size of a warm bath, and having for its furniture a chair, a table, -and a map of England, which is dedicated at Barnes's to the reception -of "strangers." The gas was low, and the Doctor was heavily wrapped -up, and had a shawl round the lower part of his face; but Ronald made -him out to be a gentlemanly-looking man, and specially noticed his -keen flashing eyes. The Doctor was sorry to disturb Captain Kilsyth, -but his father had sent up to him just before he started a parcel -which he wished delivered personally to the Captain; so he had brought -it on his way from the Great Northern, by which he had just arrived. -It was some law-deed, about the safety of which Kilsyth was a little -particular. It would have been delivered two days since, but, passing -through Edinburgh, the Doctor had found his old friend Sir Saville -Rowe staying at the same hotel, and had suffered himself to be -persuaded to accompany him to see the new experiments in anaesthetics -which Simpson had just made, and which-- Ah! but the Captain did not -care for medical details. The Captain was very sorry that he had not a -better room to ask the Doctor into; but the regulations at Barnes's -about strangers were antediluvian and absurd. He should take an early -opportunity of thanking Dr. Wilmot for his exceeding kindness in going -to Kilsyth, and for the skill and attention which he had bestowed on -Miss Kilsyth. The Doctor apparently to Ronald, even in the dull -gas-light, with a heightened colour disclaimed everything, asserting -that he had merely done his duty. Exchange of bows and of very cold -hand-shakes, the Doctor jumping into the cab at the door, Ronald -turning back into the hall, muttering, "That's the man! Taking -what Duncan Forbes said, and that fellow's look when I named -Madeleine--taking them together, that's the man that Lady Muriel meant. -That's the man, for a thousand pounds!"</p> - -<p>In the cab Dr. Wilmot is thinking about Ronald. A blunt rough customer -rather, but with a wonderful look of his sister about him; not -traceable to any feature in particular, but in the general expression. -His sister!--now a memory and a dream--with the bit of blue ribbon as -the sole tangible reminiscence of her. She is among her friends now; -and probably at this moment some one is sitting close by her, close as -he used to sit, and he is forgotten already, or but thought of as--Not -a pleasant manner, Captain Kilsyth's. Studiously polite, no doubt, but -with an undercurrent of badly-veiled suspicion and reserve. What could -that mean? Dr. Wilmot knew that his conduct towards the Kilsyth -family, so far at least as its outward expression was concerned, had -merited nothing but gratitude from every member of it. Why, then, was -the young man embarrassed and suspicious? Could he--pshaw! how could -he by any possible means have become aware of the Doctor's secret -feelings towards Miss Kilsyth--feelings so secret that they had never -been breathed in words to mortal? Perfectly absurd! It is conscience -that makes cowards of us all; and the Doctor decides that it is -conscience which has made him pervert Captain Kilsyth's naturally cold -manner so ridiculously.</p> - -<p>Well, it is all over now! He is just back again at his old life, and -he must give up the day-dreams of the past month and fall back into -his professional habits. Looking out of the cab window at the long -monotonous row of dirty-brown houses, at the sloppy street, at the -pushing crowds on the foot-pavement, listening to the never-ceasing -roar of wheels, he can hardly believe that he has only just returned -from mountain, and heather, and distance, and fresh air, and -comparative solitude! Back again! The reception at home from "ten till -one," the old ladies' pulses and the old gentlemen's tongues, the -wearied listening to the symptoms, the stethoscopical examination and -the prescription-writing; then the afternoon visits, with the -repetition of all the morning's details; the hospital lecture; the -dull cold formal dinner with Mabel; and the evening's reading and -writing,--without one bright spot in the entire daily round, without -one cheering hope, one--</p> - -<p>A smell of tan!--the street in front of his door strewed with tan! -Some one ill close by. What is this strange sickness that comes over -him--this sinking at his heart--this clamminess of his brow and hands? -The cab has scarcely stopped before he has jumped out, and has knocked -at the door. Not his usual sharp decisive knock, but feebly and -hesitatingly. He notices this himself, and is wondering about it, when -the door opens, and his servant, always solemn, but now -preternaturally grave, appears.</p> - -<p>"Glad to see you at last, sir," says the man, "though you're too -late!"</p> - -<p>"Too late!" echoes Wilmot vacantly; "too late!--what for?"</p> - -<p>"For God's sake, sir," says the man, startled out of his ordinary -quietude; "you got the telegram?"</p> - -<p>"Telegram! no--what telegram? What did it say? What has happened?"</p> - -<p>"Mrs. Wilmot, sir!--she's gone, sir!--died yesterday morning at eight -o'clock!".</p> -<br> -<br> -<br> -<h4><a name="div1_11" href="#div1Ref_11">CHAPTER XI.</a></h4> -<h5>Irreparable.</h5> -<br> - -<p>Chudleigh Wilmot was a strong man, and he possessed much of the pride -and reticence which ordinarily accompany strength of character. -Hitherto he can hardly be said to have suffered much in his life. -Affliction had come to him, as it comes to every man born of woman; -but it had come in the ordinary course of human life, unattended by -exceptional circumstances, above all not intensified, not warped from -its wholesome purposes by self-reproach. His life had been commonplace -in its joys and in its griefs alike, and he had never suffered from -any cause which was not as palpable, as apparent, to all who knew -him as to himself. His had been the sorrows, chiefly his parents' -death, which are rather gravely acknowledged and respected, than -whispered about in corners with dubious head-shaking and suggestive -shoulder-shrugging. So far the experience of the rising man had in it -nothing distinctive, nothing peculiarly painful.</p> - -<p>But there was an end of this now. A new phase of life had begun for -Chudleigh Wilmot, when he recoiled, like one who has received a deadly -thrust, and whose life-blood rushes forth in answer to it, from the -announcement made to him by his servant. He realised the truth of the -man's statement as the words passed his lips; he was not a man whose -brain was ever slow to take any impression, and he knew in an instant -and thoroughly understood that his wife was dead. A very few minutes -more sufficed to show him all that was implied by that tremendous -truth. His wife was dead; not of a sudden illness assailing the -fortress of life and carrying it by one blow, but of an illness that -had had time in which to do its deadly work. His wife was dead; had -died alone, in the care of hirelings, while he had been away in -attendance upon a stranger, one out of his own sphere, not even a -regular patient, one for whom he had already neglected pressing -duties--not so sacred indeed as that which he could now never fulfil -or recall, but binding enough to have brought severe reflections upon -him for their neglect. The thought of all this surged up within him, -and overwhelmed him in a sea of trouble, while yet his face had not -subsided from the look of horror with which he had heard his servant's -awful announcement.</p> - -<p>He turned abruptly into his consulting-room and shut the door between -him and the man, who had attempted to follow him, but who now turned -his attention to dismissing the cab and getting in his master's -luggage, during which process he informed cabby of the state of -affairs.</p> - -<p>"I thought there were something up," remarked that individual, "when I -see the two-pair front with the windows open and the blinds down, and -all the house shut up; but <i>he</i> didn't notice it." An observation -which the servant commented upon later, and drew certain conclusions -from, considerably nearer the truth than Wilmot would have liked, had -he had heart or leisure for any minor considerations. Presently Wilmot -called the man; who entered the consulting-room, and found his master -almost as pale as the corpse upstairs in "the two-pair front," where -the windows were open and the blinds were down, but perfectly calm and -quiet.</p> - -<p>"Is there a nurse in the house?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, sir; a nurse has been here since this day week, sir."</p> - -<p>"Send her here--stay--has Dr. Whittaker been here to-day?"</p> - -<p>"No, sir; he were here last night, a half an hour after my missus -departed, sir; but he ain't been here since. He said he would come at -one, sir, to see your answer to the telegraft, sir."</p> - -<p>"Very well; send the nurse to me;" and Wilmot strode towards the -darkened window, and leaned against the wire-blind which covered the -lower compartment. He had not to wait long. Presently the man -returned.</p> - -<p>"If you please, sir, the nurse has gone home to fetch some clothes, -and Susan is a-watchin' the body."</p> - -<p>Chudleigh Wilmot started, and ground his teeth. It was perfectly true; -the proper phrase had been used by this poor churl, who had no notion -of fine susceptibilities and no intention of wounding them, who would -not have remained away from his own wife if she had been ill, not to -say dying, for the highest wages and the best perquisites to be had in -any house in London, but to whom a corpse was a corpse, and that was -all about it. The phrase did not make the dreadful truth a bit more -dreadful or more true, but it made Wilmot wince and quiver.</p> - -<p>"Is there no one else--upstairs?" he asked.</p> - -<p>"No, sir. Mrs. Prendergast were here all night, sir, and she is coming -again to meet Dr. Whittaker; but there's no one but Susan a-watchin' -now, sir. We was waiting for orders from you."</p> - -<p>Wilmot turned away from the man, and spoke without permitting him to -see his face.</p> - -<p>"Tell Susan to leave the room, if you please; I am going upstairs."</p> - -<p>The man went away, and returned in a few minutes with a key, which he -laid upon the table, and then silently withdrew. His master was still -standing by the window, his face turned away. A considerable interval -elapsed before the silent group of listeners, comprising all the -servants of the establishment, upon the kitchen-stairs, heard the -widower's slow and heavy step ascending the front staircase.</p> - -<p>The sight which Chudleigh Wilmot had to see, the strife of feeling -which he had to encounter, were none the less terrible to him that -death was familiar to him in every shape, in every preliminary of -anguish and fear, in all that distorts its repose and renders its -features terrible. It is an error surely to suppose that the -familiarity of the physician with suffering and death, with all the -ills that render the pilgrimage of life burdensome and the earthy -vesture repulsive, makes the experience of these things when brought -home to him easier to bear. The sickness that defies his skill, the -life that eludes his grasp, is as dark an enigma, as terrible a defeat -to him as to the man who knows nothing about the dissolving frame but -that it holds the being he loves and is doomed to lose.</p> - -<p>If Chudleigh Wilmot had had a deadly, vindictive, and relentless -enemy,--one of those creatures of romance, but incredible in real -life, who gloat over the misery of a hated object, and would increase -it by every fiendish device within their ingenuity and power,--that -fabulous being might have been satisfied with the mental torture which -he endured when he found himself within the room, so formally -arranged, so faultlessly orderly, so terribly suggestive of the -cessation of life, in which his dead wife lay. As he turned the key in -the lock, for the first time a sense of unreality, of impossibility -came over him, with a swift bewildering remembrance--rather a vision -than a recollection--of the last time he had seen her. He saw her -standing in the hall, in the low light of the autumn evening, her -pretty fresh dinner-dress lifted daintily out of the way of the -servant carrying his portmanteau to the cab; her head, with its -coronet of dark hair, held up to receive her husband's careless kiss, -as he followed the man to the door. He remembered how carelessly he -had kissed her, and how--he had never thought of it before--she had -not returned the caress. When had she kissed him last? This was a -trifling thing, that he had never thought about till now--a question -he could not answer, and had never asked till now; and in another -moment he would be looking at her dead face!</p> - -<p>The window-blinds fluttered in the faint autumn wind as Wilmot opened -the door, then quickly closed and locked it; and the rustling sound -added to the impressiveness of the great human silence. The hands of -the stern woman who loved her had ordered all the surroundings of the -dead tenderly and gracefully; and the tranquil form lay in its deep -rest very fair and solemn, and not terrible to look upon, if that can -ever be said of death, in its garments of linen and lace. The head was -a little bent, the face turned gently to one side, and the long dark -eyelashes lay on the cheek, which was hardly at all sunken, as if they -might be lifted up again and the light of life seen under them. Death -was indeed there, but the sign and the seal were not impressed upon -the face yet for a little while. Wilmot looked upon the dead tearless -and still for some minutes, and then a quick short shudder ran through -him, and he replaced the covering which had concealed the features, -and sat down by the bedside, hiding his face with his hands.</p> - -<p>Who could put on paper the thoughts that swept over him then, and -swept his mind away in their turmoil, and tossed him to and fro in a -tempest of anguish which even the majestic tranquillity of death in -presence was powerless to quell? Who could measure the punishment, the -tremendous retribution of those hours, in which, if the world could -have known anything about them, the world would have seen only the -natural, the praiseworthy grief of bereavement? Who shall say through -what purifying fires of self-knowledge and self-abasement the nature -of the erring man passed in that dreadful vigil? And yet he did not -know the truth. His conscience had been rudely awakened, but his -comprehension had not yet been enlightened. He did not yet know the -terrible depths of meaning which he had still to explore in the words -which were the only articulate sounds that had formed themselves amid -the chaos of his grief--"Too late; too late!" The failure in duty, the -poverty, the niggardliness in love, the negligence, the dallying with -right, in so far as his wife had been concerned, were all there, -keeping him ghastly company, as he sat by the side of the dead; but -the grimmest and the ghastliest phantoms which were to swarm around -him were not yet evoked.</p> - -<p>To do Chudleigh Wilmot justice, he had no notion that his wife had -been unhappy. That he had never rightly understood her character or -read her heart, was the soundest proof that he had not loved her; but -he had never taken himself to task on that point, and had been quite -satisfied to impute such symptoms of discontent as he could not fail -to notice to her sullenness of temper, of which he considered himself -wonderfully tolerant. So little did this wise, rising man understand -women, that he actually believed that indifference to his wife's moods -was a good-humoured sort of kindness she could not fail to appreciate. -She had appreciated it only too truly. The source of much of the -remorse and self-condemnation which tortured him now was to be traced -to his own newly-awakened feelings, to the fresh and novel -susceptibility which the experience of the past few weeks had aroused, -and in which lay the germs of some terrible lessons for the man whose -studies in all but the lore of the human heart had been so deep, whose -knowledge of that had been so strangely shallow. And now no knowledge -could avail. The harm, the wrong, the cruel ill that had been done, -was gone before him to the judgment; and he must live to learn its -extent, to feel its bitterness with every day of life, which could -never avail to lessen or repair it.</p> - -<p>When Dr. Whittaker arrived, he found Wilmot in his consulting-room, -quite calm and steady, and prepared to receive his professional -account of the "melancholy occurrence," on which he condoled with the -bereaved husband after the most approved models. He did not attempt to -disguise from Wilmot that he had been disagreeably surprised by his -non-return under the circumstances. "Also," he added, "by your not -sending me any instructions, though indeed at that stage nothing could -have availed, I am convinced."</p> - -<p>Wilmot received these observations with such unmistakable surprise -that an explanation ensued, which elicited the fact that he had never -received any letter from Dr. Whittaker, and indeed had had no -intimation of his wife's illness, beyond that conveyed in a letter -from herself a fortnight previous to her death, and in which she -treated it as quite a trifling matter.</p> - -<p>"Very extraordinary indeed," said Dr. Whittaker in a dry and -unsatisfactory tone. "I can only repeat that I sent you the fullest -possible report, and entreated you to return at once. I was -particularly anxious, as Mrs. Wilmot confessed to me that you were -unaware of her situation."</p> - -<p>"I never had the letter," said Wilmot; "I never heard of or from you, -beyond the memoranda enclosed in my wife's letters."</p> - -<p>"Very extraordinary," repeated Dr. Whittaker still more drily than -before. "She took the letter at her own particular request, saying she -would direct it, that the sight of her handwriting on the envelope, -she being unable to write more, might reassure you."</p> - -<p>Wilmot coloured deeply and angrily under his brother physician's -searching gaze. He had not looked for his wife's infrequent letters -with any anxiety; he had had no quick, love-inspired apprehension to -be assuaged by her womanly considerateness. He felt an uneasy sort of -gladness that she had thought he had had such apprehension--better so, -even now, when all mistakes were doomed to be everlasting,--or when -they were quite cleared up. Which was it? He did not know; he did not -like to think. All was over; all was too late.</p> - -<p>"I never received any such letter," he said again; "and I am -astonished you did not write again when you got no answer."</p> - -<p>"I did not write again, because Mrs. Wilmot gave me so very decidedly -to understand that you had told her you could not, under any -circumstances, leave Kilsyth; and danger was not imminent until -Monday, when I telegraphed, just too late to catch you."</p> - -<p>No more was said upon the point; but on Wilmot's mind was left a -painful and disagreeable impression that Dr. Whittaker had received -his explanation with distrust. The colloquy between the two physicians -lasted long; and Wilmot was further engaged for a long time in giving -the necessary attention to the distressing details which claim a -hearing just at the time when they most disturb and jar with the tone -of feeling. A sense of shock and hurry--a difficulty of realising the -event which had occurred, quite other than the stunned feeling of -conviction which had come with the first reception of the -intelligence--beset him, while the nameless evidences of death were -constantly pressed upon his attention. He sat in his consulting-room, -receiving messages and communications of every kind, hearing the -subdued voices of the servants as they replied to inquiries, feeling -as though he were living through a terrible feverish dream, conscious -of all around him, and yet strangely, awfully conscious too of the -dead white face upstairs growing, as he knew, more stiff and stark and -awful as the hours, so crowded yet so lonely, so busy yet so dreary, -flew, no, dragged--which was it?--along.</p> - -<p>Many times that day, as Chudleigh Wilmot sat cold and grave, and, -although deeply sad, more composed, more like himself than most men -would have been in similar circumstances--a vision rose before his -mind. It was a vision such as has come to many a mourner--a vision of -what might have been. For it was not only his wife's death that the -new-made widower had learned that day; he had learned that which had -made her death doubly sad, far more untimely. The vision Chudleigh saw -in his day-dream was of a fair young mother and her child, a -happy wife in the summer-time of her beauty and her pride of -motherhood--this was what might have been. What was, was a dead white -face upstairs upon the bed, waiting for the coffin and the grave, and -a blighted hope, a promise never to be fulfilled, which had never even -been whispered between the living and the dead.</p> -<br> - -<p>Mrs. Prendergast had been in the darkened house for many hours of that -long day. Wilmot knew she was there; but she had sent him no message, -and he had made no attempt to see her. He shrank from seeing her; and -yet he wished to know all that she, and she alone, could tell him. If -he had ever loved his wife sufficiently to be jealous of any other -sharing or even usurping her confidence, to have resented that any -other should have a more intimate knowledge of Mabel's sentiments and -tastes, should have occupied her time and her attention more fully -than he, Henrietta Prendergast's intimacy with her might have elicited -such feeling. But Chudleigh Wilmot had not loved his wife enough for -jealousy of the nobler, and was too much of a gentleman for jealousy -of the baser kind. No such insidious element of ill ever had a place -in his nature; and, except that he did not like Mrs. Prendergast, -whom he considered a clever woman of a type more objectionable than -common--and Wilmot was not an admirer of clever women generally--he -never resented, or indeed noticed, the exceptional place she occupied -among the number of his wife's friends. But there was something lurking -in his thoughts to-day; there was some unfaced, some unquestioned -misery at work within him, something beyond the tremendous shock he had -received, the deep natural grief and calamity which enshrouded him, -that made him shrink from seeing Henrietta until he should have had -more time to get accustomed to the truth.</p> - -<p>When the night had fallen, he heard the light tread of women's feet in -the hall and a gentle whispering. Then the street-door was softly -shut, and carriage-wheels rolled away. The gas had been lighted in -Wilmot's room, but he had turned it almost out, and was sitting in the -dim light, when a knock at the door aroused his attention. The -intruder was the "Susan" already mentioned. Mrs. Wilmot had not -boasted an "own maid;" but this girl, one of the housemaids, had been -in fact her personal attendant. She came timidly towards her master, -her eyes red and her face pale with grief and watching.</p> - -<p>"Well, what is it now?" said Wilmot impatiently. He was weary of -disturbance; he wanted to be securely alone, and to think it out.</p> - -<p>"Mrs. Prendergast desired me to give you this, sir," the girl replied, -handing him a small packet, "and to say she wants to see you, sir, -to-morrow--respecting some messages from missus."</p> - -<p>He took the parcel from her, and Susan left the room. Before she -reached the stairs, her master called her back. "Susan," he said, -"where's the seal-ring your mistress always wore? This parcel contains -her keys and her wedding-ring; where is the seal-ring? Has it been -left on her hand?"</p> - -<p>"No, sir," said Susan; "and I can't think where it can have got to. -Missus hasn't wore it, sir, not this fortnight; and I have looked -everywhere for it. You'll find all her things quite right, sir, except -that ring; and Mrs. Prendergast, she knows nothing about it neither; -for I called her my own self to take off missus's wedding-ring, -as it was missus's own wish as she should do it, and she missed the -seal-ring there and then, sir, and couldn't account for it no more -than me."</p> - -<p>"Very well, Susan, it can't be helped," replied Wilmot; and Susan -again left him.</p> - -<p>He sat long, looking at the golden circlet as it lay in the broad palm -of his hand. It had never meant so much to him before; and even yet he -was far from knowing all it had meant to her from whose dead hand it -had been taken. At last, and with some difficulty, he placed the ring -upon the little finger of his left hand, saying as he did so, "I must -find the other, and always wear them both.".</p> -<br> -<br> -<br> -<h4><a name="div1_12" href="#div1Ref_12">CHAPTER XII.</a></h4> -<h5>The Leaden Seal.</h5> -<br> - -<p>When Chudleigh Wilmot arose on the following morning, with the -semi-stupefied feeling of a man on whom a great calamity has just -fallen, not the least painful portion of the task, not the least -difficult part of the endurance that lay before him was the inevitable -interview with his dead wife's friend. Mrs. Prendergast had requested -that he would receive her early. This he learned from the servant who -answered his bell; and he had directed that she should be admitted as -soon as she arrived. He loitered about his room; he dallied with the -time; he dared not face the cold silent house, the servants, who -looked at him with natural curiosity, and, as he thought, avoidance. -If the case had not been his own, Wilmot would have remembered that -the spectacle of a new-made widow or widower always has attractions -for the curiosity of the vulgar: strong, if the grief in the case be -very violent; and stronger, if it be mild or non-existent. Wilmot was -awfully shocked by his wife's death, terribly remorseful for his own -absence, and perhaps for another reason--at which, however, he had not -yet had the hardihood to look--almost stunned by the terrible sense, -the conviction of the irrevocable ill of the past, the utterly -irreparable nature of the wrong that had been done. But all these -warring feelings did not constitute grief. Its supreme agony, its -utter sadness, its unspeakable weariness were wanting in the strife -which shook and rent him. The thought of the dead face had terror and -regret for him; but not the dreadful yearning of separation, not the -mysterious wrenching asunder of body and spirit, almost as powerful as -that of death itself, which comes with the sentence of parting, which -makes the possibility of living on so incomprehensible and so cruel to -the true mourner. Not the fact itself, so much as the attendant -circumstances, caused Wilmot to suffer, as he undoubtedly did suffer. -He knew in his heart that had there been no self-reproach involved in -this calamity, he would not have felt it as he felt it now; and in the -knowledge there was denial of the reality of grief.</p> - -<p>No such thought as "How am I to live without her?" the natural -utterance of bereavement, arose in Wilmot's heart; though neither did -he profane his wife's memory or do dishonour to his own higher nature -by even the most passing reference to the object which had so fatally -engrossed him. The strong hand of death had curbed that passion for -the present, and his thoughts turned to Kilsyth only with remorse and -regret. But the wife who had had no absorbing share in his life could -not by her death make a blank in it of wide extent or long duration.</p> - -<p>He was still lingering in his room, when he was told that Mrs. -Prendergast had arrived and was in the drawing-room. The closely-drawn -blinds rendered the room so dark that he could not distinguish -Henrietta's features, still further obscured by a heavy black veil. -She did not rise, and she made no attempt to take his hand, which he -extended to her in silence, the result of agitation. She bowed to him -formally, and was the first to speak. Her voice was low and her words -were hurried, though she tried hard to be calm.</p> - -<p>"I was with your wife during her illness and at her death, Dr. -Wilmot," she said; "and I am here now not to offer you ill-timed -condolences, but to fulfil a trust."</p> - -<p>Her tone surprised Wilmot, and affected him disagreeably. There had -never been any disagreement between himself and Mrs. Prendergast; he -was not a man likely to interfere or quarrel with his wife's friends; -and as he was wholly unconscious of the projects she had entertained -towards him, he had not any suspicion of hidden malice on her part. -Emotion he was prepared for--would indeed have welcomed; he was ready -also for blame and reproaches, in which he would have joined heartily, -against himself; but the calm, cold, rooted anger in this woman's -voice he was not prepared for. If such a thing had been possible--the -thought flashed lightning-like across his mind before she had -concluded her sentence--he might have had in her an enemy, biding her -time, and now at length finding it.</p> - -<p>He did not speak, and she continued:</p> - -<p>"I presume you have heard from Dr. Whittaker the particulars of -Mabel's illness, its cause, and the means used to avert--what has not -been averted?--"</p> - -<p>"I have," briefly replied the listener.</p> - -<p>"Then I need not enter into that--beyond this: a portion of my trust -is to tell you that Dr. Whittaker is not to blame."</p> - -<p>"I have not blamed him, Mrs. Prendergast."</p> - -<p>"That is well. When Mabel knew, or thought, I fear hoped, that her -life was in danger, her strongest desire was that you should be kept -in ignorance of the fact."</p> - -<p>"Good God! why?" exclaimed Wilmot.</p> - -<p>"I think you must know why better than I can tell you," replied -Henrietta pitilessly. "But, at all events, such was the case. Dr. -Whittaker wrote to you, but she suppressed the letter. She gave it to -me on the night she died. Here it is."</p> - -<p>Chudleigh Wilmot took the letter from her hand silently. Astonishment -and distress overwhelmed him.</p> - -<p>"She bade me tell you that she laid her life down gladly; that she had -nothing to leave, nothing to regret; that she was glad she had -succeeded in keeping you in ignorance of her danger--for she knew, for -the sake of your reputation, you would have left even Miss Kilsyth to -be here at her death. But she preferred your absence; she distinctly -bade me tell you so. She left no dying charge to you but this, that -you should allow me to see her coffin closed on the second day after -her death, and that you should wear her wedding-ring. I sent it to you -last night, Dr. Wilmot. I hope you got it safely."</p> - -<p>"I did; it is here on my finger," answered Wilmot; "but, for God's -sake, Mrs. Prendergast, tell me what all this means. Why did my wife -charge you with such a message for me; how have I deserved it? Why did -she, how should she, so young, and to all appearance not unhappy, wish -to die, and to die in my absence? Did she persevere in that wish, or -was it only a whim of her illness, which, had there been any one to -remonstrate with her, would have yielded later?"</p> - -<p>"It was no whim, Dr. Wilmot. A wretched truth, I grant you, but a -truth, and persisted in. So long as consciousness remained, she never -changed in that."</p> - -<p>A dark and angry look came into Wilmot's face, and he raised his voice -as he asked the next question:</p> - -<p>"Do you mean to explain this extraordinary circumstance, Mrs. -Prendergast? Are you going to give me the clue to this mystery? My -wife and I always lived on good terms; we parted on the same. No man -or woman living can say with truth that I ever was unkind to her, or -that she had cause given her <i>by me</i> to wish her life at an end, to -welcome death. I believe the communication you have just made to me is -utterly without example. I never heard, I don't believe anyone ever -heard of such a thing. I ask you to explain it, if you can."</p> - -<p>"You speak as though you asked, or desired me to <i>account</i> for it -too," said Henrietta, in a cold and cutting tone, which rebuked the -vehemence of his manner, and revealed the intense, unsleeping egotism -of her disposition. "I could do so, I daresay; but I cannot see the -profitableness of such a discussion between you and me. It is too late -now; nothing can undo the wrong, no matter what it was, or how far it -extended. It is all over, and I have nothing more to do than to carry -out the last wishes of my dear friend. Have I your permission to do -so?" she asked, in the most formal possible tone, as she rose and -stood opposite him.</p> - -<p>Wilmot put his hands up to his face, and walked hurriedly about the -room. Then he came suddenly towards Henrietta, and said with intense -feeling:</p> - -<p>"I beg your pardon; I did not mean to speak roughly: but I am -bewildered by all this. I am sure you must feel for me; you must -understand how utterly I am unable to comprehend what has occurred. To -come home and receive such a shock as the news of my wife's death, was -surely enough in itself to try me severely. And now to hear what you -tell me, and tell me too so calmly, as if you did not understand what -it means, and what it must be to me to hear it! You were with her, her -chosen friend. I think you knew her better than anyone in the world."</p> - -<p>"And if I did," said Henrietta,--all her assumed calm gone, and her -manner now as vehement as his own,--"if I did, is not that an answer -to all you ask me? If I am to explain her motives, to lay bare her -thoughts, to tell her sorrows, <i>to you</i>, her husband, is <i>that</i> not -your answer? Surely you have it in that fact! They are not true -husband and true wife who have closer friends. You never loved her, -and you never knew or cared what her life was; and so, when she was -leaving it, she kept you aloof from her."</p> - -<p>Wilmot made no sound in reply. He stood quite still, and looked at -her. His eyes had grown accustomed to the gloom, and she had raised -her veil. He could see her face now. Her pale cheeks, paler than usual -in her grief and passion, her deep angry sorrowful eyes, and her -trembling lips, made her look almost terrible, as she stood there and -told him out the truth.</p> - -<p>"No," she went on, "you did not know her, and you were satisfied not -to know her; you went complacently on your way, and never thought -whether hers was lonely and wearisome. You never were unkind to her, -you say; no, I daresay you never were. She had all the advantages to -which your wife was entitled, and she did you and them due honour. -Why, even I, who did, as you say, know her best, had suspected -only recently, and learned fully only since her illness began, all -she suffered; no, not all--<i>that</i> one heart can never pour into -another--but I have only read the story of her life lately, and you -have never read it at all. You were a physician, and you did not see -that your own wife, a dweller under your own roof, whose life was lived -in your sight, had a mortal disease."</p> - -<p>"What do you mean?" he said; "she had no such thing."</p> - -<p>"<i>She had!</i>" Henrietta repeated impetuously; "she had a broken heart. -You never ill-treated her--true; you never neglected her--true,--until -she was dying, that is to say;--but did you ever love her, Dr. Wilmot? -Did you ever consider her as other or more than an appendage of your -position, an ornament in your house, a condition of your social -success and respectability? What were her thoughts, her hopes, her -disappointments to you? Did you ever make her your real companion, the -true sharer of your life? Did you ever return the love, the worship -which she gave you? Did you ever pity her jealous nature; did you ever -interpret it by any love or sensitiveness of your own, and abstain -from wounding it? Did you know, did you care, whether she suffered -when you shut yourself up in your devotion to a pursuit in which she -had no share? All women have to bear that, no doubt, and are fools if -they quarrel with the bread-winner's devotion to his work. Yes; but -all women have not her silent, brooding, jealous, sullen nature; all -women are not so little frivolous as she was; all women, Dr. Wilmot, -do not love their husbands as Mabel loved you."</p> - -<p>She paused in the torrent of her words, and then he spoke.</p> - -<p>"All this is new and terrible to me; as new as it is terrible. Mrs. -Prendergast, do me the justice to believe that."</p> - -<p>"It is not for me to do you justice or injustice," she made answer; -"your punishment must come from your own heart, or you must go -unpunished."</p> - -<p>"But"--he almost pleaded with her--"Mabel never blamed me, never tried -to keep me more with her; rarely indeed expressed a wish of any kind. -I declare, before God, I never dreamed, it never occurred to me to -suspect that she was unhappy."</p> - -<p>"No," she said; "and Mabel knew that. She interested you so little, -you cared so little for her, that you never looked below the surface -of her life; and her pride kept that surface fair and smooth. She -would have died before she would have complained,--she has died, in -fact, and made no sign."</p> - -<p>"Yes," said Wilmot suddenly and bitterly; "but she has left me this -legacy, brought me by your hands, of miserable regret and vain -repentance. She has insured the destruction of my peace of mind; she -has taken care that mine shall be no ordinary grief, sent by God and -to be dispelled by time; she has added bitterness to the bitter, and -put me utterly in the wrong by her unwarrantable concealment and -reticence."</p> - -<p>"How truly manlike your feelings are, Dr. Wilmot! She has hurt your -pride, and you can't forgive her even in death! She has put <i>you</i> in -the wrong,--and all her own wrongs, so silently borne, sink into -nothing in comparison!"</p> - -<p>"I deny it!" Wilmot said vehemently; "she <i>had</i> no wrongs,--no woman -of her acquaintance had a better husband. What did I ever deny her?"</p> - -<p>"Only your love, only a wife's true place in your life, only all she -longed for, only all she died for lack of."</p> - -<p>"All this is absurd," he said. "If she really had these romantic -notions, why did she conceal them? Have <i>I</i> nothing to complain of in -this? Was she just to me, or candid with me?"</p> - -<p>"What encouragement did you give her? Do you think a proud, shy, -silent woman like Mabel was likely to lay her heart open to so cold -and careless a glance as yours? No; she loved you as few women can -love; but if she had much love, so she had much pride and jealousy; -and all three had power with her."</p> - -<p>"Jealousy!" said Wilmot in an angry tone; "in God's name, of whom did -she contrive to be jealous."</p> - -<p>"Her jealousy was not of a mean kind," said Henrietta. "Ever since -your marriage it had nourished itself, so far as I understood the -matter, upon your devotion to your profession, upon the complacent -ease with which you set <i>her</i> claims aside for those which so -thoroughly engrossed you, that you had no heart, no eyes, no attention -for her. Of late--" she paused.</p> - -<p>"Well?" said Wilmot;--"of late?"</p> - -<p>"Of late," repeated Henrietta, speaking now with some more reserve of -manner, "she believed you devoted--to a degree which conquered your -devotion to your profession and to the interests of your own -advancement--to the patient who detained you at Kilsyth."</p> - -<p>"What madness! what utter folly!" said Wilmot; but his face turned -deeply red, and he felt in his heart that the arrow had struck home.</p> - -<p>"Perhaps so," said Henrietta, and her voice resumed the cutting tone -from which all through this painful interview Wilmot had shrunk. "But -Mabel was not more reasonable or less so than other jealous women. You -had never neglected your business for <i>her</i>, remember, or been turned -aside by any sentimental attraction from your course of professional -duty. Friendship, gratitude, and interest alike required you to attend -to Mr. Foljambe's summons. You did not come, and people talked. Mr. -Foljambe himself spoke of the attractions of Kilsyth, and joked, after -his inconsiderate manner."</p> - -<p>"In <i>her</i> presence?" said Wilmot incautiously.</p> - -<p>"Yes, in <i>her</i> presence," said Henrietta, who perfectly appreciated -the slip he had made. "She knew some people who knew the Kilsyths, and -she heard the remarks that were made. I daresay she imagined more than -she heard. No matter. Nothing matters any more. She was not sorry to -die when her time came; she would not have you troubled,--that is all. -And now I will leave you. I am going to her."</p> - -<p>The last sentence had a dreadful effect on Wilmot. In the agitation, -the surprise, the pain of this interview, he had almost forgotten -time; the present reality had nearly escaped him. He had been rapt -away into a world of feeling, of passion; he had been absorbed in the -sense of a discovery, and of something which seemed like an impossible -injustice. With Henrietta's words it all vanished, and he remembered, -with a start, that his wife lay dead upstairs. They were not talking -of a life long extinguished, which in former years might have been -made happier by him, but of one which had ended only a few hours ago; -a life whose forsaken tenement was still untouched by "decay's -effacing fingers." With all this new knowledge fresh upon him, with -all this bewildering conviction of irreparable wrong, he might look -upon the calm young face again. Not as he had looked upon it -yesterday; not with the deep sorrow and the irresistible though -unjustified compassion with which death in youth is always regarded, -but with an exceeding and heart-rending bitterness, in comparison with -which even that repentant grief was mild and merciful. The fixedness, -the blank, the silence, would be far more dreadful, far more -reproachful now, when he knew that he had never understood, never -appreciated her--had unwittingly tortured her; now when he knew that, -in all her youth and beauty, she had been glad to die. Glad to die! -The words had a tremendous, an unbearable meaning for him. If even the -last month could have been unlived! If only he had not had <i>that</i> to -reproach himself with, to justify <i>her!</i> In vain, in vain. In that one -moment of unspeakable suffering Wilmot felt that his punishment, -however grave his offence, was greater than he could bear.</p> - -<p>He turned away from Henrietta with the air of a man to whom another -word would be intolerable, and sat down wearily. She stood still, -looking at him, as if awaiting an answer or a dismissal.</p> - -<p>At length she said, "Have you forgotten, Dr. Wilmot, that I asked your -permission to carry out Mabel's wish?"</p> - -<p>"No," he said drearily, "I remember. Of course do as you like; I -should say, as she directed. I suppose the object of her request was, -that I should see her no more, in death either. Well, well--it is -fortunate that did not succeed too." He spoke in a patient, broken -tone, which touched Henrietta's heart. But her perverted notion of -truth and loyalty to the dead held her back from showing any sign of -softening. Just as she was leaving the room he said:</p> - -<p>"Such a course is very unusual, is it not?"</p> - -<p>"I believe so," she replied; "but the servants know it was her -desire."</p> - -<p>Then Henrietta Prendergast went away; and presently he heard a slight -sound in that awful room overhead, and he knew she had taken her place -beside the dead. He felt, as he sat for hours of that day quite alone, -like a banished man. His wife was doubly dead to him now. All his -married life had grown on a sudden unreal; and when he thought of the -still white face which he was to see once, and only once more, for -ever, it was with a strange sense of dread and avoidance, and not with -the tender sorrow which, even amid the shock and self-reproach of -yesterday, had come to his relief.</p> - -<p>Somehow, he could not have told how, with the inevitable -interruptions, the wretched necessary business of such a time, the -hours of that day passed over Chudleigh Wilmot's head, and the night -came. He had looked his last upon his wife, had taken his solemn leave -of the death-chamber. She lay now in her coffin, sealed, hidden from -sight for evermore, and there was nothing now but the long dreary -waiting. In its turn that too passed, and in due time the funeral day; -and Chudleigh Wilmot was quite alone in his silent house, and had only -to look back into the past. Forward into the future he did not dare, -he had not heart to look. A kind of blank, the reaction from intense -excitement, had set in with him, and for the first time in his life -his physical strength flagged. The claims of his business began to -press upon him; people sent for him, respectfully and hesitatingly, -but with some confidence that he would come, nevertheless. And Wilmot -went; and was received with condoling looks, which he affected not to -see, and compassionating tones, of which he took no notice.</p> - -<p>He had no more to do with the past--he had buried it; his sole desire -was that others should aid him in this apparent oblivion; how far from -real it was, he alone could have told. He had written to Kilsyth a few -indispensable lines, and had had a formal report of Madeleine's -health, which he had conscientiously tried to range with other -professional documents, and lay by with them. It was certainly a dark -and dreary time, endless in length, and so hopeless, so final, that it -seemed to have no outlet; a time than which Chudleigh Wilmot believed -life could never bring him a darker. But trouble was new to him. He -learned more about it later on in his day.</p> - -<p>When a fortnight had elapsed after Wilmot's return to London, and the -tumult of his mind had subsided, though the bitterness of his feelings -was not yet allayed, he chanced one morning to require a paper, which -he knew was to be found in a certain cabinet which filled a niche in -the wall of his consulting-room. The cabinet in question was one he -rarely opened; and the moment he attempted to turn the key, he felt -confident that the lock had been tampered with. The conviction was -singularly unpleasant; for the cabinet was a repository of private -papers, deeds, letters, and professional notes. It also contained -several poisons, which Wilmot kept there in what he supposed to be -inviolable security. Closer inspection confirmed his suspicions. The -lock had been opened by the simple process of breaking it; and the -doors, merely laid together, had caught on a jagged piece of metal, -and thus presented the slight obstacle they had offered. With a mere -shake they unclosed.</p> - -<p>This circumstance puzzled Wilmot exceedingly. He made a careful -examination of the contents of the cabinet. All was precisely as he -had left it; not a paper missing or disturbed.</p> - -<p>"Who can have been at the cabinet?" he thought, "and with what -motive?--Nothing has been taken; nothing, so far as I can discover, -has been touched. Mere curiosity would hardly tempt anyone to run such -a risk; and no one knew that there was anything of value here. Stay," -he reflected; "one person knew it. <i>She</i> knew it; she knew that I kept -private papers here. No doubt it was she who opened the cabinet. But -with what motive? What can she possibly have wanted which she could -have hoped to find here?"</p> - -<p>No answer to this query presented itself to Wilmot's mind. He thought -and thought over it, painfully recurring to all Mrs. Prendergast had -told him, and trying to help himself to a solution of this mystery by -the aid of those which had preceded it. For some time he thought in -vain; at length the idea struck him that the jealous woman, restless -and miserable in her unhappy curiosity--he could understand <i>now</i> what -she had felt, he could pity her <i>now</i>--had opened the cabinet to seek -for letters from some fancied rival in his affections. Nothing but his -belief in the perversion of mind which comes of the indulgence of such -a passion as jealousy could have led Wilmot to suspect his wife of -such an act for a moment. But he was a wise man, now that it was too -late, in that lore which he had never studied while he might have read -the book, and he recognised the transforming power of jealousy. Yes, -that was it doubtless; she had sought here for the material wherewith -to feed the flame that had tortured her.</p> - -<p>Chudleigh Wilmot took the paper he wanted from the place where -it had lain, and was about to close the doors of the cabinet once -more--restoring them, until he could have the lock repaired, to their -deceptive appearance of security--when his attention was caught by a -dark-coloured spot, about the size of a shilling, upon the topmost -sheet of a packet of papers which lay beside a small mahogany case -containing the before-mentioned poisons. He took the packet out and -examined it. The spot was there, and extended to every paper in the -packet. A sudden flush and expression of vague alarm crossed Wilmot's -face. He took up the case and examined the exterior. A dark mark, the -stain of some glutinous fluid, ran down the side of the box next which -the papers had lain. For a moment he held the case in his hands, and -literally dared not open it. Then in sickening fear he did so, and -found its contents apparently undisturbed. The box was divided into -ten little compartments, in each of which stood a tiny bottle, -glass-stoppered and covered with a leaden capsule. To the neck of each -was appended a little leaden seal, the mark of the French chemist from -whom Wilmot had purchased the deadly drugs. He took the bottles out -one by one, examined their seals, and held them up to the light. All -safe for nine out of the number; but as he touched the tenth, the -capsule with the leaden seal attached to it fell off, and Wilmot -discovered, with ineffable horror, that the bottle, which had -contained one of the deadliest poisons known to science, was half -empty.</p> - -<p>He set down the case, and reeled against the corner of the mantelshelf -near him, like a drunken man. He could not face the idea that had -taken possession of him; he could not collect his thoughts. He gasped -as though water were surging round him. Once more he took up the -bottle and looked at it. It was only too true; one half the contents -was missing. He closed the case, and pushed it back into its place. It -struck against something on the shelf of the cabinet. He felt for the -object, and drew out <i>his wife's seal-ring!</i></p> - -<p>And now Chudleigh Wilmot knew what was the terror that had seized him. -It was no longer vague; it stood before him clear, defined, -unconquerable; and he groaned:</p> - -<p>"My God! she destroyed herself!".</p> -<br> -<br> -<br> -<h4><a name="div1_13" href="#div1Ref_13">CHAPTER XIII.</a></h4> -<h5>A Turn of the Screw.</h5> -<br> - -<p>Chudleigh Wilmot had not seen Mrs. Prendergast since the day on which -his wife's funeral had taken place; and it was with equal surprise and -satisfaction that she received a brief but kindly-worded note from -him, requesting her to permit him to call upon her.</p> - -<p>"I wonder what it's all about," she thought, as she wrote with -deliberation and care a gracious answer in the affirmative. Mrs. -Prendergast had been thinking too since her friend's death, and her -cogitations had had some practical results. It was true that Mabel -Darlington had not been happy with Wilmot; but Mrs. Prendergast, -thinking it all over, was not indisposed to the opinion that it was a -good deal her own fault, and to entertain the very natural feminine -conviction that things would have been quite otherwise had she been in -Mabel's place. Why should she not--of course in due time, and with a -proper observance of all the social decencies--hope to fill that place -now? She was a practical, not a sentimental woman; but when the idea -occurred to her very strongly, she certainly did find pleasure in -remembering that Mabel Wilmot had been very much attached to her, and -would perhaps have liked the notion of her being her successor as well -as any woman ever really likes any suggestion of the kind, that is to -say, resignedly, and with an "it-might-be-worse" reservation.</p> - -<p>Henrietta Prendergast had cherished a very sound dislike to Chudleigh -Wilmot for some time; but it was, though quite real--while the fact -that he had chosen another than herself, though she had been so ready -and willing to be chosen, was constantly impressed upon her -remembrance--not of a lasting nature. Besides, she had had the -satisfaction of making him understand very distinctly that the choice -he had made had not been a wise one; and ever since her feelings -towards him had been undergoing a considerable modification.</p> - -<p>How much ground had Mabel had for her jealously of Miss Kilsyth? What -truth was there in the suspicions they had both entertained respecting -the influence which his young patient had exercised over Wilmot?'. She -had no means of determining these questions. It would have been -impossible for her, had she been a woman capable of such a meanness, -to have watched Wilmot during the interval which had elapsed since his -wife's death. His numerous professional duties, the constant demands -upon his time, all rendered her attaining any distinct knowledge of -his proceedings impossible; and beyond the announcement in the -<i>Morning Post</i> that Kilsyth of Kilsyth and his family had arrived in -town, she knew nothing whatever concerning them. Henrietta Prendergast -had, on the whole, been considerably occupied with the idea of -Chudleigh Wilmot when his note reached her, and she prepared to -receive him with feelings which resembled those of long-past days -rather than those which had actuated her of late.</p> - -<p>It was late in the afternoon when the expected visitor made his -appearance, and Henrietta had already begun to feel piqued and angry -at the delay. His note indicated a pressing wish to see her--she had -answered it promptly. What had made him so dilatory about availing -himself of her permission?</p> - -<p>The first look she caught of Wilmot's face convinced her that the -motive of his visit was a grave one. He was pale and sedate, even to a -fixed seriousness far beyond that which had fallen upon him after the -shock of Mabel's death, and a painful devouring anxiety might be read -in the troubled haggard expression of his deep-set dark eyes. He -entered at once upon the matter which had induced him to ask Mrs. -Prendergast for an interview; and though her manner was emphatically -gracious, and designed to show him that she desired to maintain their -former relations intact, he took no notice of her courtesy. This was a -mistake. All women are quick to take cognisance of a slight, and -Henrietta was no slower than the rest of her sex. He showed her much -too plainly that he had an object in seeking her presence entirely -unconnected with herself. It was not wise; but the shock of the -discovery which he had made had shaken Wilmot's nerves and overthrown -his judgment for the time. He briefly informed Mrs. Prendergast that -he came for the purpose of asking her to recapitulate all the -circumstances of his wife's illness and death; to entreat her to tax -her memory to the utmost, to recall everything, however trivial, -bearing upon the progress of the malady, and in particular every -detail bearing upon her state of mind.</p> - -<p>Henrietta listened to him with profound astonishment. Previously he -had shunned all such details. When she had met him, prepared to supply -them, he had asked her no questions; he had been apparently satisfied -with the medical report made to him by Dr. Whittaker; he had been -almost indifferent to such minor facts as she had stated; and the -painful revelation which she had made to him had not been followed up -by any close questioning on his part. And now, when all was at an end, -when the grave had closed over the sad domestic story, as over all -the tragedies of human life, hidden or displayed, the grave must -close,--now he came to her with this preoccupied brooding face and -manner to ask her these vain and painful questions. Thus she was newly -associated with dark and dismal images in his mind, and this was -precisely what Henrietta had no desire to be. She answered him, -therefore, in her coldest tone (and no woman knew how to ice her -answers better than she did), that the subject was extremely painful -to her for many reasons. Was it absolutely necessary to revive it? -Wilmot said it was, and expressed no consideration for her feelings -nor regret for the necessity of wounding them.</p> - -<p>"Well, then, Dr. Wilmot," said Henrietta, "as I presume you wish to -question me in some particular direction, though I am quite at a loss -to understand why, you are at liberty to do so."</p> - -<p>Wilmot then commenced an interrogatory, which, as it proceeded, filled -Henrietta with amazement. Had he any theory of his wife's illness and -death incompatible with the facts as she had seen and understood them? -Did he suspect Dr. Whittaker of ignorance and mismanagement in the -case? Even supposing he did, what would it avail him now to convince -himself that such suspicion was well founded? All was inevitable, all -was irreparable now. While these thoughts were busy in her brain, she -was answering question after question put to her by Wilmot in a cold -voice, and with her steady neutral-tinted eyes fixed in pitiless -scrutiny upon him. He asked her in particular about the period at -which Mabel had suppressed Dr. Whittaker's letter to him. Had she been -particularly unhappy just then; had the "unfortunate notion she had -conceived about--about Miss Kilsyth, been in her mind before, or just -at that time?"</p> - -<p>This question Mrs. Prendergast could not, or would not, answer very -distinctly. She did not remember exactly when Mabel had heard so much -about Miss Kilsyth; she did not know what day it was on which Dr. -Whittaker had written. Wilmot produced the letter, and pointed out the -date. Still Mrs. Prendergast's memory refused to aid her reliably. She -really did not know; she could not answer this. Could she remember -whether Mabel had ever left her room after that letter had been -written? or whether she had been confined to her room when she had -received his (Wilmot's) letter from Kilsyth; the letter which Mrs. -Prendergast had said had distressed her so much, had brought about the -confidence between Mabel and herself relative to the feelings of the -former, and had led Mabel to say that she had no desire to live? -Wilmot awaited the reply to these questions in a state of suspense not -far removed from agony. He could not indeed permit himself to cherish -a hope that the dreadful idea he entertained was unfounded; but in the -answer awful confirmation or the germ of hope must lie.</p> - -<p>Henrietta replied, after a few moments' thoughtful silence. She could -remember the circumstances, though not the precise date. Mabel had -left her room on the day on which she had received Wilmot's letter; -she had been in the drawing-rooms, and even in the consulting-room on -that day. It was on the night that she had told Mrs. Prendergast all, -and had expressed her desire to die, her conviction that she could not -recover. Henrietta was not certain whether that day was the same as -that on which Dr. Whittaker's letter was written, but she was -perfectly clear on the point on which Wilmot appeared to lay so much -stress; she knew it was the day after his last letter from Kilsyth had -reached her.</p> - -<p>The intense suffering displayed in every line of Wilmot's face as she -made this statement touched Henrietta as much as it puzzled her. Had -she mistaken this man? Had he really deep feelings, strong -susceptibilities? Had the shock of his wife's death been far otherwise -felt than she had believed, and was he now groping after every detail, -in order to feed the vain flame of love and memory? Such a supposition -accorded very ill with all she knew and all she imagined of Chudleigh -Wilmot; but she could find no other within her not infertile brain.</p> - -<p>"What became of my letter to her?" Wilmot asked her abruptly.</p> - -<p>"It is in her coffin, together with every other you ever wrote her. I -placed them there at her own request. She had them tied up in a -packet,--the others I mean; but she gave me that one separately."</p> - -<p>"Why?" asked Wilmot in a hoarse whisper.</p> - -<p>"Why!" repeated Henrietta. "I don't know. It was only a few hours -before she died. She hardly spoke at all after, but she told me quite -distinctly then that I was to give you her wedding-ring, and to place -those letters in her coffin. 'I could not destroy those,' she said, -touching the packet in my hand; 'and this,' she drew it from under her -pillow as she spoke, 'I want to be placed with me too. It is my -justification.'"</p> - -<p>"My justification!" repeated Wilmot. "What did she mean? What did you -understand that she meant by that?"</p> - -<p>"I did not think much about it. The poor thing was near her end then, -and I thought little of it; though of course I did what she desired."</p> - -<p>"Yes, yes, I understand," said Wilmot. "But her -justification--justification in what--for what?"</p> - -<p>"In her gloomy and miserable ideas of course, and, above all, in her -desire to die. She believed that your letter contained the proof of -all she feared and suffered from, and so justified her longing to -escape from further neglect and sorrow."</p> - -<p>"You did not suspect that it had any further meaning?"</p> - -<p>Henrietta stared at him in silence. "I beg your pardon," he said; "my -mind is confused by anxiety. I am afraid, Mrs. Prendergast, there may -have been features in this case not rightly understood. Could it be -that Whittaker was deceived?"</p> - -<p>"I think not--I cannot believe that there was any error. Dr. Whittaker -never expressed any anxiety on <i>that</i> point, any uncertainty, any wish -to divide the responsibility, except with yourself. I understood him -to say that he had gone into the case very fully with you, and that -you were satisfied everything had been done within the resources of -medicine."</p> - -<p>"Yes, he did. I don't blame him; I don't blame anyone but myself. But, -Mrs. Prendergast, that is not the point. What I want to get at is -this: did she--my wife I mean--did she hide anything from Whittaker's -knowledge?"</p> - -<p>"Anything? In her physical state do you mean? Of her mental sufferings -no one but myself ever had the smallest indication. Will you wrong her -dead as well as living?" said Henrietta angrily.</p> - -<p>"No," he answered, "I will not,--I trust I will not, and do not. I -meant, did she tell Whittaker all about her illness? Did she conceal -any symptoms from him? Did she suffer more or otherwise than he knew -of?"</p> - -<p>"Frankly, I think she did, Dr. Wilmot. She was extremely, almost -painfully patient; I would much rather have seen her less so. She -answered his questions and mine, but she said nothing except in answer -to questioning. She suffered, I am convinced, infinitely more than she -allowed to appear; and especially on the night of her death, just -before the stupor set in, she was in great agony."</p> - -<p>"Yes," said Wilmot hurriedly. "Was Whittaker there? Did he know it?"</p> - -<p>"He was not there; he had been sent for a little while before, when -she was tranquil; and she was quite insensible when he returned in -about three hours. He told you, of course, that we had had good hope -of her during the day,--in fact, up to the evening?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, he said there had been a rally, but it had not lasted. Did she -know that there was hope?"</p> - -<p>"She did," said Henrietta slowly and reluctantly. "You ask me very -painful questions, Dr. Wilmot,--painful to me in the extreme; and I am -sure my answers must be acutely distressing to you. I cannot -understand your motive."</p> - -<p>"No," he said, "I am sure you cannot; neither can I explain it. But -indeed I am compelled to put these questions; I cannot spare either -you or myself. You say she knew there was hope of her recovery on the -day before her death; and yet while the rally lasted,--before the -suffering of which you speak set in,--she gave you those solemn -charges which you fulfilled?"</p> - -<p>"Yes," said Henrietta--and her voice was soft now and her eyes were -full of tears--"she did. She did not trust the rally. She told me, -with such a dreadful smile, that it would not avail to keep her from -her rest. She was right. From the moment she grew worse the progress -of death was awfully rapid."</p> - -<p>"What medicine did you give her during the brief improvement?"</p> - -<p>"Only some restorative drops. Dr. Whittaker gave them to her himself -several times, and when he left I gave them to her."</p> - -<p>"Did she ever take this medicine of her own accord? Was she strong -enough in the interval of improvement to take medicine, or to move -without assistance?"</p> - -<p>Again Henrietta looked at him for a little while before she replied:</p> - -<p>"If you are afraid, Dr. Wilmot, that any mistake was made about the -medicine, dismiss such a fear. There was no other medicine in the room -but the bottle containing the drops; and now your strange question -reminds me that she did take them once unassisted."</p> - -<p>Wilmot rose and came towards her. "How? when?" he said eagerly. "How -could she do so in her weak state?"</p> - -<p>"The bottle was on the table, close by her bed. Only one dose was -left. She had asked me to raise the window-blind; and I was doing so, -when she stretched out her arm and took the bottle off the table. When -I turned round she was drinking the last drops, and the next moment -she dropped the bottle on the floor, and it was broken."</p> - -<p>"Was she fainting, then?"</p> - -<p>"O no," said Henrietta, "she was quite sensible, until the pain came -on. Indeed I remember that she told me to keep away from the bed until -the broken glass had been swept up."</p> - -<p>"Was that done?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, I did it myself at once."</p> - -<p>"One more question, Mrs. Prendergast," said Wilmot, who had put a -strong constraint upon himself, and spoke calmly now. "When did she -charge you to have her coffin closed within two days of her death? Was -it within the interval during which her recovery seemed possible?"</p> - -<p>"It was," answered Henrietta,--"it was when she told me that the rally -was deceitful, and was not to keep her from her rest. Then I undertook -to carry out her wish."</p> - -<p>"Did she give any reason for having formed it?"</p> - -<p>"She did--the reason you surmised when I first told you of it. I need -not repeat it."</p> - -<p>"I would wish you to do so--pray let me hear the exact words she -said."</p> - -<p>"Well, then, they were these. 'You will promise me to see it done, -Henrietta. He cannot get home, even supposing he could leave at once, -when he hears that I am dead, until late on the second day.' I told -her it was an awful thing that she should wish you not to see her -again, and she said, 'No, no, it is not. If he thinks of my face at -all, I want him to see it in his memory as it was when I thought he -liked to look at it. I could not bear him to remember it black and -disfigured.' Those were her exact words, Dr. Wilmot; and like all the -rest she said, they proved to me how much she loved you."</p> - -<p>Wilmot made no answer, and neither spoke for some minutes. Then Wilmot -extended his hand, which Henrietta took with some cordiality, and -said, "I thank you very much, Mrs. Prendergast, for the patience with -which you have heard me and answered me. I have no explanation to give -you. I shall never forget your kindness to my wife, and I hope we -shall always be good friends."</p> - -<p>He pressed her hand warmly as he spoke; and before Henrietta could -reply, he left her to cogitations as vain and unsatisfactory as they -were absorbing and unceasing.</p> - -<p>Chudleigh Wilmot went direct to his own house after his interview with -Henrietta, and gave himself up to the emotions which possessed him. -Not a shadow of doubt did he now entertain that his wife had destroyed -herself. In the skill and ingenuity with which he invested the act, in -his active fancy, which had read the story from the unconscious -narrative of Henrietta, he recognised a touch of insanity, which his -experience taught him was not very rare in cases similar to that of -his wife. To a certain extent he was relieved by the conviction that -when she had done the irrevocable deed she was not in her right mind. -But what had led to it? what had been the predisposing causes? His -conscience, awakened too late, his heart, softened too late, gave him -a stern and searching answer. Her life had been unhappy, and she had -made her escape from it. He was as much to blame as if he had -voluntarily and actively made her wretched. He saw this now by the -light of that keener susceptibility, that higher understanding, which -had been kindled within him. It had been kindled by the magic touch of -love. Another woman had made him see into his wife's heart, and -understand her life. What was he to do now? how was it to be with him -in the future? He hardly dared to think. Sometimes his mind dwelt on -the possibility that it might not be as he believed it was, and the -only means of resolving his doubts suggested itself. He might have -Mabel's body exhumed, and then the truth would be known. But he shrank -with horror from the thought, as from a dishonour to her memory. If he -took such a step, it must be accounted for; and could he, would he -dare to cast such a slur upon the woman who, if she had done this -deed, had resorted to it because, as his wife, she was miserable? Had -he any right, supposing it was all a dreadful delusion that she had -meddled with his poisons for some trivial motive, however -inexplicable,--had he any right to solve his own doubts at such a -price as their exposure to cold official eyes? No--a resolute negative -was the reply of his heart to these questions; and he made up his mind -that his punishment must be lifelong irremediable doubt, to be borne -with such courage as he could summon, but never to be escaped from or -left behind.</p> - -<p>Utter sickness of heart fell upon him and a great weariness. From the -past he turned away with vain terrible regret; to the future he dared -not look. The present he loathed. He must leave that house, he thought -impatiently--he could not bear the sight of it. It had none of the -dear and sorrowful sacredness which makes one cling to the home of the -loved and lost; it was hateful to him; for there the life his -indifference, his want of comprehension had blighted, had been -terminated--he shuddered as he thought by what means. And then he -thought he would leave England; he could not see Madeleine Kilsyth -again; or if he had to do so, he could not see her often. To think of -her, in her innocent youth and beauty, as one to be loved, or wooed, -or won--if even in his most distant dreams such a possibility were -approached by a man whose life had such a story in it, such a dreadful -truth, setting him apart from other men--was almost sacrilegious. No, -he would go away. Fate had dealt him a tremendous blow; he could not -stand against it; he must yield to it for the present, at all events. -Under the influence of the terrible truth which he was forced to -confront, all his ambition, all his energy seemed suddenly to have -deserted the rising man.</p> -<br> -<p style="letter-spacing:2em; text-align:center">* * * * *</p> -<br> - -<p>"But, my dear fellow, I can't bring myself to believe that you are -serious; I can't indeed, just as the ball is at your foot too. I -protest I expected you to distance them all in another year. Everybody -talks of you; and what is infinitely better, everyone is ready to call -you in if they require your services, or fancy they require them. Why, -there's Kilsyth of Kilsyth--ah, Wilmot, you threw me over in that -direction, but I don't bear malice--he swears by you. The fine old -fellow came to the bank yesterday; I met him in the hall, and he got -into my brougham, and came home with me, for no other reason on earth -than to talk about you. Wilmot's skill and Wilmot's coolness, Wilmot's -kindness and Wilmot's care--nothing but Wilmot. I should have been -bored to death by so much talking all about one man, if it had been -any man but yourself. And now to tell me that you are going away, -going to make a gap in your life, going to give up the running, and -forfeit such prospects as yours--because you must remember, my dear -fellow, you must not calculate on resuming exactly where you have left -off, in any sort of game of life; to do such a thing as this because -you have met with a loss which thousands of men have to bear, and work -on just as usual notwithstanding! Impossible, my dear Wilmot; you are -not in earnest--you have not considered the thing!"</p> - -<p>Thus emphatically spoke Mr. Foljambe to Chudleigh Wilmot, all the more -emphatically because his friend's resolution had astonished as much as -it had displeased and disquieted him. Mr. Foljambe had never looked -upon Wilmot at all in the light of a particularly devoted husband; and -when he alluded to the loss of a wife being one which he had to bear -in common with many other sufferers, he had done so with a shrewd -conviction that Wilmot must be trusted to find all the fortitude -necessary for the occasion.</p> - -<p>Mr. Foljambe, of Portland-place, was a very rich and influential -banker; gouty enough to bear out the tradition of his wealth, and -courteous and wise enough to do credit to his calling. He was not -describable as a City man, however, but was, on the contrary, a -pleasure and fashion-loving old gentleman, who was perfectly versed in -the ways of society, <i>au courant</i> of all the gossip of "town," very -popular in the gayest and in the most select circles, an authority -upon horses, though he never rode, learned in wines, though he -consumed them in great moderation, believed not to possess a relative -in the world, and more attached to Chudleigh Wilmot than to any human -being alive, at his present and advanced period of existence. The old -gentleman and Chudleigh Wilmot's father had been chums in boyhood and -friends in manhood; and the friendship he felt for the younger man was -somewhat hereditary, though Wilmot's qualities were precisely of a -nature to have won Mr. Foljambe's regard on their own merits. He had -watched Wilmot's course with the utmost interest, pride, and pleasure. -His unflagging industry, his determined energy commanded his sympathy; -and he anticipated a triumphant career of professional success and -renown for his favourite. The intelligence that he had determined, if -not to relinquish, at least to suspend his professional labours, gave -the kind old gentleman sincere concern. He did not understand it, he -repeated over and over again; he could not make it out; it was not -like Wilmot. Of course he could not say distinctly to him that he had -never supposed his wife to be so dear to him that her death must needs -revolutionise his life. But if he did not say this, Wilmot discerned -it in his manner; but still he offered no explanation. He could not -remain in England; he must go. His health, his mind would give way, if -he did not get away into another scene, into new associations. All -remonstrance, all argument proved unavailing; and when Wilmot bade his -old friend farewell, he left him half angry and half mistrustful, as -well as altogether depressed and sorrowful..</p> -<br> -<br> -<br> -<h4><a name="div1_14" href="#div1Ref_14">CHAPTER XIV.</a></h4> -<h5>His Grateful Patient.</h5> -<br> - -<p>She has destroyed herself! That was the keynote to all his thoughts. -Destroyed herself, made away with herself! Destroyed herself! He was -not much of a reading man--had not time for it in all his occupations; -but what were those two lines which would keep surging up into his -beating brain, and from time to time finding expression on his -trembling tongue--</p> -<br> -<div style="font-size: smaller; margin-left: 20%"> -<p class="t1">"Rashly importunate,<br> -Gone to her death!"</p> -</div> - -<p>Gone to her death! He repeated the words a thousand times. Dead now; -gone to her last account, as Shakespeare says, "with all her -imperfections on her head." Gone, without chance or power of recall; -gone without a word of explanation between them, without a word of -sympathy, without a word of forgiveness on either side. He had often -pictured their parting, he dying, she dying, and had imagined the -scene; how, whichever of them found life ebbing away, would say that -they had misunderstood the other perhaps, and that perhaps life might -have been made more to each, had they been more suitable; but that -they had been faithful, and so on; and perhaps hereafter they might, -&c. He had thought of this often; but the end had come now, and his -ideas had not been realised. There had been no parting, no mutual -forgiveness, no last words of tenderness and hope. He had not been -there to soothe her dying hour; to tell her how he acknowledged all -her goodness, and how, though perhaps he had not made much outward -manifestation, he had always thoroughly appreciated the discharge of -her wifely duties to him. He had not been present to have one -whispered explanation of how each had misunderstood the other, and how -both had been in the wrong; to share in one common prayer for -forgiveness, and one common hope of future meeting. There had been no -explanation, no forgiveness; he had parted from her almost as he might -from any everyday acquaintance; he had written to her such a letter as -he might have written to Whittaker, who had taken his practice -temporarily; and now he returned to find her dead! Worse than dead! -Dead probably by her own act, by her own hand!</p> - -<p>Stay! He was losing his head now; his pulse was at fever-heat, his -skin dry and hot. Why had this terrible supposition taken such fast -hold upon him? There was the evidence of the ring and of the leaden -seal. Certainly practical evidence; but the motive--where was the -motive? Suppose now--and a horrible shudder ran through him as the -supposition crossed his mind--suppose now that this had become a -matter for legal inquiry? suppose--Heaven knows how--suppose that the -servants had suspected, and had talked, and--and the law had -interfered--what motive would have been put forward for Mabel's -self-destruction? He and she had never had a word of contention since -their marriage; no one could prove that there had ever been the -smallest disagreement between them; her home had been such as befitted -her station; no word could be breathed against her husband's -character; and yet--</p> -<br> -<div style="margin-left:20%"> -<p class="t1">"Anywhere, anywhere,</p> -<p class="t1">Out of the world!"</p> -</div> -<p class="continue">that was another couplet from the same poem that was fixed in his -brain, and that he found himself constantly quoting, when he was -trying to assign reasons for his wife's suicide. Was Henrietta -Prendergast right, after all? Had his whole married life been a -mistake, a Dead-Sea apple without even the gorgeous external, a hollow -sham, a delusion, and a mockery culminating in the semblance of a -crime? "Anywhere out of the world," eh? And "out of the world" had -meant at first, in the early days, when the first faint dawnings of -discontent rose in her mind,--then "anywhere out of the world" was a -poor dejected cry of repining at her want of power to influence her -husband, to make herself the successful rival of his profession, to -wean him from the constant pursuit of science to the exclusion of all -domestic bliss, and to render him her companion and her lover. But if -Henrietta Prendergast were right, that must have been a mere fancy, -which, compared to the wild despair that prompted the heart-broken -shriek of "anywhere out of the world" at the last, and which, -according to that authority, meant--anywhere for rest and peace and -quiet, anywhere where I may stifle the love which I bear him, may be -no longer a fetter and a clog to him, and might have to suffer the -knowledge that though bound to me, he loves Madeleine Kilsyth.</p> - -<p>He loves Madeleine Kilsyth! As the thought rose in his mind, he found -himself audibly repeating the sentence. His dead wife thought that; -and in that thought found life insupportable to her, and destroyed -herself! His dead wife! Straightway his thoughts flew back through a -series of years, and he saw himself first married,--young, earnest, -and striving. Not in love with his wife--that he never had been, he -reflected with something like self-excuse--not in love with Mabel, but -actually proud of her. When he first commenced his connection, and -earned the gratitude of the great railway contractor's wife at -Clapham, and that great dame, who was the ruling star in her own -circle, intimated her intention of calling on Mrs. Wilmot, Wilmot -remembered how he had thanked his stars that while some of his -fellow-students had married barmaids of London taverns, or awkward -hoydens from their provincial pasture, he had had the good luck to -espouse a girl than whom the great Mrs. Sleepers herself was not more -thoroughly presentable, more perfectly well-mannered. He recollected -the first interview at his little, modest, badly-furnished house, with -the dingy maid-servant decorated with one of Mabel's cast-off gowns -(not cast off until every scrap of bloom had been ruthlessly worn off -it), and the arrival of the great lady in her banging, swinging -barouche, with her tawdry ill-got-up footman, and her evident -astonishment at the way in which everything was made the most of, and -at the taste which characterised the rooms, and her open-mouthed wonder -at Mabel herself, in her turned black-silk dress and her neat linen -cuffs and collar, and her impossibility to patronise, and her -declaration delivered to him the next day, that his wife was "the -nicest little woman in the world, and a real lady!"</p> - -<p>Out of the gloom of long-since vanished days came a thousand little -reminiscences, each "garlanded with its peculiar flower," each -touchingly remindful of something pleasant connected with the dead -woman whom he had lost. Long dreary nights which he had passed in -reading and working, and which she had spent in vaguely wondering what -was to be the purport and result of all his labour. No sympathy! that -had been his cry! Good God!--as though he had not been demented in -fancying that a young woman could have had sympathy with his dry -studies, his physiological experiments. No sympathy! what sympathy had -he shown to her? The mere physical struggle in the race, the hope of -winning, the dawning of success, had irradiated his life, had softened -the stony path, and pushed aside the briers, and tempered the -difficulties in his career; but how had she benefited? In sharing -them? But had he permitted her to share them? had he ever made her a -portion of himself? had he not laughed aside the notion of her -entering into the vital affairs of his career, and told her that any -assistance from her was an impossibility? That she was self-contained -and unsympathetic, he had said to himself a thousand times. Now, for -the first time, he asked himself who had made her so;--and the answer -was anything but consoling to him in his then desolate frame of mind.</p> - -<p>These thoughts were constantly present to him; he found it impossible -to shake them off; in the few minutes' interval between the exit of -one patient and the entrance of another, in his driving from house to -house, his mind instantly gave up the case with which it had recently -been occupied, and turned back to the dead woman. He would sit, -apparently looking vacantly before him, but in reality trying to -recall the looks, words, ways of his dead wife. He tried--O, how -hard!--to recall one look of content, of happiness, of thorough trust -and love; but he tried in vain. A general expression of quiet -suffering, which had become calm through continuance, varied by an -occasional glance of querulous impatience when he might have been -betrayed into dilating on the importance of some case in which -he happened to be engaged and the interest with which it filled -him,--these were his only recollections of Mabel's looks. Nor did his -remembrance of her words and ways afford him any more comfort. True -she had never said, certainly had never said to him, that her life was -anything but a happy one; but she had looked it often. Even he felt -that now, reading her looks by the light of memory, and wondered that -the truth had never struck him at the time. He remembered how he would -look up off his work and see her, her hands lying listlessly in her -lap, her eyes staring vacantly before, so entranced, so rapt in her -own thoughts, that she would start violently when he spoke to her. She -always had the same answer for his questions at those times. What -was the matter with her? Nothing! What should be the matter with -her?--What was she thinking of? Nothing, at least nothing that could -possibly interest him. Did her presence there annoy him, because she -would go away willingly if it did? And the voice in which this was -said--the cold, hard, dry, unsympathising voice! Good God! if he had -not been sufficiently mindful of her, if he had not bestowed such -attention and affection as is due from a husband to his wife, surely -there was some small excuse for him in the manner in which his clumsy -approaches had been received!</p> - -<p>At times he felt a wild inexplicable desire to have her back again -with him, and fell into a long train of thought as to what he should -do supposing all the events of the past three months were to turn out -to have been a dream--as indeed he often fancied they would; and on -his return he were to go up into the drawing-room, whither he had -never penetrated since his return, and were to find Mabel sitting -there, prim and orderly, among the prim and orderly furniture. Should -he alter his method of life, and endeavour to make it more acceptable -to her? How was it to be done? It would be impossible for him now to -give up his confirmed ways; impossible for him to give up his reading -and his work, and fritter away his evenings in taking his wife to the -gaieties to which they were invited. Perkins might do that--did it, -and found it answer; but the profession knew that Perkins was a -charlatan, and he--What wild nonsense was he thinking of? It was -done--it was over; he should never find his wife waiting for him again -when he returned: she was dead; she had destroyed herself!</p> - -<p>As this horrible thought burst upon him again with tenfold its -original horror, he buried his face in his hands, and bowed his head -upon the writing table in front of him in an agony of despair. He -could bear it no longer; it was driving him mad. If he only knew--and -yet he dared not inquire more closely; the presumptive evidence was -horribly strong, was thoroughly sufficient to rob him of his peace of -mind, of his clearness of intellect. Then the terrible consequences of -the discovery, the awful duty which it imposed upon him, flashed upon -his labouring consciousness. He dared not inquire more closely? No, -not he. As a physician, he knew perfectly well what the result of any -such inquiry would be. He knew perfectly well that in any other case, -where he was merely professionally and not personally interested, his -first idea for the solution of such doubts as then oppressed him, had -they existed in anyone else, would have been to suggest the exhumation -of the body, and its rigid examination. He knew perfectly well that, -harbouring such doubts as were then racking and torturing his -distracted mind, it was clearly his duty to insist on such steps being -taken. He was no squeamish woman, no nervous man, to be alarmed at the -sight of death's dread handiwork; that was familiar to him from -constant experience, from old hospital custom, from his education and -his studies. Should this dread idea of Mabel's self-destruction, now -ever haunting him, ever present to his mind--should it cross the -thoughts of anyone else, would not the necessity for exhumation be the -first notion that would present itself? Suppose he were to suggest it? -Suppose he were to profess himself dissatisfied with the accounts of -Mabel's illness given him by Whittaker, and were to insist upon -positive proof, professionally satisfactory to him, of his wife's -disease? Of course he would make a deadly enemy of Whittaker; but that -he thought but little of: his name stood high enough to bear any slur -that might be thrown upon it from that quarter, and his reputation -would stand higher than ever from the mere fact of his boldly -determining to face a disagreeable inquiry, rather than allow such a -case to be slurred over. And the inquiry made, and Whittaker's -statement proved to be generally correct, at best it would be thought -that Dr. Wilmot was somewhat morbidly anxious as to the cause of his -wife's death; an anxiety which would be anything but prejudicial to -him in the minds of many of his friends, while the relief to his own -overcharged mind would be immediate and complete. Relief! Ah, once -more to feel relief would be worth all the responsibility. He would -see about it at once; he would give the necessary information, -and--But suppose the result did not turn out as he would hope to see -it? suppose all the information given, the coroner's warrant obtained, -the exhumation made, the examination complete, and the result--that -Mabel had destroyed herself? The first step taken in such a matter -would be an immediate challenge to public attention; the press would -bear the whole matter broadcast on its wings; Dr. Wilmot and his -domestic affairs would become a subject for gossip throughout the -land; and if it proved that Mabel had destroyed herself, her memory -would, at his instance, remain ever crime-tainted. Even if the best -happened; if Whittaker's judgment were indorsed, would not people ask -whether it was not odd that a suspicion of foul play should have -crossed the husband's mind, whether Mrs. Wilmot in her lifetime may -not have used such a threat; and if so, might not the circumstances -which led to the supposed use of the threat be inquired into, the -motives questioned, the home-life discussed? Hour after hour he -revolved this in his mind, purposeless, wavering. Finally he decided -that he would leave matters as they were, saying to himself that such -a course was merely justice to his dead wife, on whose memory, were -she guilty of self-slaughter, he should be the last to bring obloquy, -or even suspicion. He felt more comfortable after having come to this -decision--more comfortable in persuading himself that he was guided by -a tender feeling towards the dead woman. He said "Poor Mabel!" to -himself several times in thinking over it, and shook his head -dolefully; and actually felt that if she had been prompted by his -neglect to take this step, his omitting to call public attention to it -was in itself some <i>amende</i> for his neglect. But even to himself he -would not allow this soul-guiding influence in the matter. He blinked -it, and shut his eyes to it; refused to listen to it, and--was led by -it all the same. Chudleigh Wilmot tried to persuade himself, did -persuade himself that he was acting solely in deference to his dead -wife's memory; but what really influenced his conduct was the -knowledge that the arousal of the smallest suspicion as to the cause -of his wife's death, the smallest scandal about himself, would -inevitably separate him hopelessly, and for ever, from Madeleine -Kilsyth. The great question as to whether Mabel had destroyed herself -still remained unanswered. He was powerless to shake off the -impression, and under the impression he was useless; he could do -justice neither to himself nor his patients. He must get away; give up -practice at least for a time, and go abroad; go somewhere where he -knew no one, and where he himself was quite unknown--somewhere where -he could have rest and quiet and surcease of brainwork; where he could -face this dreadful incubus, and either get rid of it, or school -himself to bear it without its present dire effect on his life.</p> - -<p>He would do that, and do it at once. The death of his wife would -afford him sufficient excuse to the world, which knew him as a highly -nervous and easily impressible man, and which would readily understand -that he had been shattered by the suddenness of the blow. As to his -practice, he was well content to give that up for a short time: he -knew his own value without being in the least conceited--knew that he -could pick it up again just where he left it, and that his patients -would be only too glad to see him. He had felt that when he was at -Kilsyth.</p> - -<p>At Kilsyth! The word jarred upon him at once. To give up his practice -even for a time meant a temporary estrangement from Madeleine; meant a -shutting out, so far as he was concerned, of sun and warmth and light -and life, at the very time when his way was darkest and his path most -beset. His mind had been so fully occupied since his return, that he -had only been able to give a few fleeting thoughts to Madeleine. He -felt a kind of horror at permitting her even in his thoughts to be -connected with the dreadful subject which filled them. But now when -the question of departure was being considered by him, he naturally -turned to Madeleine.</p> - -<p>To leave London now would be to throw away for ever his chance with -Madeleine Kilsyth. His chance with her? Yes, his chance of winning -her! He was a free man now--free to take his place among her suitors, -and try his chance of winning her for himself. How wonderful that -seemed to him, to be unfettered, to be free to woo where he liked! Last -time he had drifted into marriage carelessly and without purpose--it -should be very different the next time. But to leave London now -would be throwing away for ever his chance with Madeleine. He knew -that; he knew that he had established a claim of gratitude on the -family, which Kilsyth himself, at all events, would gladly allow, and -which Lady Muriel would probably not be prepared to deny. As for -Madeleine herself, he knew that she was deeply grateful to him, and -thoroughly disposed to confide in him. This was all he had dared to -hope hitherto; but now he was in a position to try and awaken a warmer -feeling. Gratitude was not a bad basis to begin on, and he hoped, he -did not know it was so long since the days of Maria Strutt--and -thinking it over, he looked blankly in the glass at the crows'-feet -round his eyes and the streaks of silver in his dark hair; but he -thought then that he had the art of pleasing women, unfortunate as was -the result of that particular case. But if he were to go away, the -advantageous position he had so luckily gained would be lost, the -ground would be cut away from under his feet, and on his return he -would have great difficulty in being received on a footing of intimacy -by the family; while it would probably be impossible for him to regain -the confidence and esteem he then enjoyed from all of them.</p> - -<p>Was, then, Madeleine Kilsyth a necessary ingredient in his future -happiness? That was a new subject for consideration. Hitherto, while -that--that barrier existed, he had looked upon the whole affair merely -as a strange sort of romance, in which ideas and feelings of which he -had never had much experience, and that experience long ago, had -suddenly revived within him. Pleasantly enough; for it was pleasant to -know that his heart had not yet been enough trodden down and hardened -by the years which had gone over it to prevent it receiving seed and -bearing fruit;--pleasantly enough; for an exchange of the stern -reality of his work, a dry world with the bevy of cares which are -ready waiting for you as you emerge from your morning's tub, and which -only disappear--to change into nightmares--as you extinguish your -bedroom gas--an exchange of this for a little of that glamour of love -which he thought never to meet with again, could not fail to be -pleasant. But the affair was altered now; the occurrence which had -made him free had at the same time rendered it necessary that he -should use his freedom to a certain end. Under former circumstances he -could have been frequently in Madeleine's company,--happy as he never -had been save when with her,--and the world would have asked no -question, have lifted no eyebrow, have shrugged no shoulder. Dr. -Wilmot was a married man, and his professional position warranted his -visiting Miss Kilsyth, who was his patient, as often as he thought -necessary. But now it was a very different matter. Here was a -man, still young, at least quite young enough to marry again; and -if it were said, as it would be, that he was "constantly at the -house," people---those confounded anonymous persons, the on who do -such an enormous amount of mischief in the world--would begin to talk -and whisper and hint; and the girl's name might be compromised through -him, and that would never do.</p> - -<p>Did he love her? did he want to marry her? As he asked himself the -question, his thoughts wandered back to Kilsyth. He saw her lying -flushed and fevered, her long golden hair tossing over her pillow, a -bright light in her blue eyes, her hot hands clasped behind her -burning head--or, better still, in her convalescence, when she lay -still and tranquil, and looked up at him timidly and softly, and -thanked him in the fullest and most liquid tones for all his kindness -to her. And he remembered how, gazing at her, listening to her, the -remembrance of what Love really was had come to him out of the faraway -regions of the Past, and had moved his heart within him in the same -manner, but much more potently than it had been moved in the days of -his youth. Yes; the question that he had put to himself admitted but -of one answer. He did love Madeleine Kilsyth; he did want to marry -her! To that end he would employ all his energies; to secure that he -would defer everything. What nonsense had he been talking about giving -up his practice and going away? He would remain where he was, and -marry Madeleine!</p> - -<p>And Henrietta Prendergast? The thought of that woman struck him like a -whip. If he were to marry Madeleine Kilsyth, would not that woman, -Henrietta Prendergast, Mabel's intimate and only friend--would not she -proclaim to the world all that she knew of the jealousy in which the -dead woman held the young girl? Would not his marriage be a -confirmation of her story? Might it not be possible that the existence -of such a talk might create other talk; that the manner of her death -might be discussed; that it might be suspected that, driven to it by -jealousy--that is how they would put it--Mrs. Wilmot had destroyed -herself? And if "they" put it so, it would be in vain to deny it. The -mere fact of his having been successful in his profession had created -hosts of enemies, who would take advantage of the first adverse wind, -and do their best to blast his renown and bring him down from the -pedestal to which he had been elevated. Then bit by bit the scandal -would grow--would permeate his practice--would become general -town-talk. He would see the whispers and the shoulder-shrugs and the -uplifted eyebrows, and perhaps the cool manner or the possible cut. -Could he stand that? Could a man of his sensibility endure such talk? -could he bear to feel that his domesticity was being laid bare before -the world for the comment of each idler who might choose to wile away -his time in discussing the story? Impossible! No; sooner keep in his -present dreary, hopeless, isolated position, sooner give up all -chances of winning Madeleine, sooner even retrograde. He had no -children to provide for, and could always have enough to support him -in a sufficient manner. He would give it all up; he would go away; he -would banish for ever that day-dream which he had permitted himself to -enjoy, and he would--</p> - -<p>A letter was brought in by his servant--an oblong note, sealed with -black wax, in an unfamiliar handwriting. He turned it over two or -three times, then opened it, and read as follows:</p> -<br> - -<p style="text-indent:50%">"<i>Brookstreet, Thursday</i>.</p> -<br> -<p>"<span class="sc">Dear Dr. Wilmot</span>,--We have heard with very great regret of your sad -loss, and we all, Lady Muriel, papa, and myself, beg you to receive -our sincere condolence. I know how difficult it is at such a time to -attempt to offer consolation without an appearance of intrusion; but I -think I may say that we are especially concerned for you, as it was -your attendance on me which kept you from returning home at the time -you had originally intended. I can assure you I have thought of this -very often, and it has given me a great deal of uneasiness. Pray -understand that we can none of us ever thank you sufficiently for your -kindness to us at Kilsyth. With united kind regards, dear Dr. Wilmot, -your grateful patient,</p> -<p style="text-indent:50%">"<span class="sc">Madeleine Kilsyth.</span></p> -<br> - -<p>"P.S. I have a rather troublesome cough, which worries me at night. -You recollect telling me that you knew about this?"</p> -<br> - -<p>So the Kilsyths were in town. His grateful patient! He could fancy the -half-smile on her lips as she traced the words. No; he would give up -his notion of going away--at least for the present!.</p> -<br> -<br> -<br> -<h4><a name="div1_15" href="#div1Ref_15">CHAPTER XV.</a></h4> -<h5>Family Relations.</h5> -<br> - -<p>When the Kilsyths were in London, which, according to their general -practice, was only from February until June, they lived in a big -square house in Brook-street,--an old-fashioned house, with a -multiplicity of rooms, necessary for their establishment, which -demanded besides the ordinary number of what were known in the -house-agent's catalogue as "reception rooms," a sitting-room for -Kilsyth, where he could be quiet and uninterrupted by visitors, and -read the <i>Times</i>, and Scrope's <i>Salmon Fishing</i>, and Colonel Hawker on -<i>Shooting</i>, and <i>Cyril Thornton</i>, and Gleig's <i>Subaltern</i>, and -Napier's <i>History of the Peninsular War</i>, and one or two other books -which formed his library; where he could smoke his cigar, and pass in -review his guns and his gaiters and his waterproofs, and hold colloquy -with his man, Sandy MacCollop, as to what sport they had had the past -year, and what they expected to have the next--without fear of -interruption. This sanctuary of Kilsyth's lay far at the back of the -house, at the end of a passage never penetrated by ordinary visitors, -who indeed never inquired for the master of the house. Special guests -were admitted there occasionally; and perhaps two or three times in -the season there was a council-fire, to which some of the keenest -sportsmen, who knew Kilsyth, and were about to visit it in the autumn, -were admitted,--round which the smoke hung thick, and the conversation -generally ran in monosyllables.</p> - -<p>Lady Muriel's boudoir--another of the extraneous rooms, which the -house-agent's catalogue wotteth not of--led off the principal -staircase through a narrow passage; and, so far as extravagance and -good taste could combine in luxury, was the room of the house. When -you are not an appraiser's apprentice, it is difficult to describe a -room of this kind; it is best perhaps to follow little Lord -Towcester's description, who, when the subject was being discussed at -mess, offered to back Lady Muriel's room for good taste against any in -London; and when asked to describe it, said,</p> - -<p>"Lots of flowers; lots of cushions; lots of soft things to sit down -upon, and nice things to smell; and jolly books--to look at, don't you -know: needn't say I haven't read any of 'em; and forty hundred clocks, -with charming chimin' bells; and china monkeys, you know; and fellows -with women's heads and no bodies, and that kind of thing; and those -round tables, that are always sticking out their confounded third leg -and tripping a fellow up. Most charmin' place, give you my word."</p> - -<p>Lord Towcester's description was not a bad one, though to the -initiated in his peculiar phraseology it scarcely did justice to the -room, which was in rose-coloured silk and walnut-wood; which had -<i>étagères</i>, and what-nots, and all the frivolousness of upholstery, -covered with all the most expensive and useless china; which opened -into a little conservatory, always full of sweet-smelling plants, and -where a little fountain played, and little gold-fish swam, and the -gas-jets were cunningly hidden behind swinging baskets on pendent -branches. There was a lovely little desk in one corner of the room, -with a paper-stand on it always full of note-paper and envelopes -radiant with Lady Muriel's cipher and monogram worked in all kinds of -expensive ways, and with a series of drawers, which were full of -letters and sketches and albums, and were always innocently open to -everybody; and one drawer, which was not open to everybody,--which was -closed indeed by a patent Bramah lock, and which, had it been -inspected, would have been found to contain a lock of Stewart Caird's -hair (cut from his head after death), a packet of letters from him of -the most trivial character, and a copy of Owen Meredith's <i>Wanderer</i>, -which Lady Muriel had been reading at the time of her first and only -passion, and in which all the passages that she considered were -applicable to or bearing on her own situation were thickly -pencil-scored. But it never was inspected, that drawer, and was -understood by any who had ever had the hardihood to inquire about it, -to contain household accounts. Lady Muriel Kilsyth in connection with -a lock of a dead man's hair, a bundle of a dead man's letters, a -pencil-marked copy of a sentimental poet! The idea was too absurd. Ah, -how extraordinarily wise the world is, and in what a wonderful manner -our power of reading character has developed!</p> - -<p>Madeleine's rooms--by her stepmother's grace she had two, a -sitting-room and a bedroom--are upstairs. Small rooms, but very -pretty, and arranged with all the simple taste of a well-bred, -right-thinking girl. Her hanging book-shelves are well filled with -their row of poets, their row of "useful" works, their <i>Thomas à -Kempis</i>, their Longfellow's <i>Hyperion</i>, their <i>Pilgrim's Progress</i>, -their <i>Scenes of Clerical Life</i>--with all the Amos Barton bits -dreadfully underscored--their <i>Christmas Carol</i>, and their <i>Esmond</i>. -The neat little writing-table, with its gilt mortar inkstand, and its -pretty costly nicknacks--birthday presents from her fond father--stood -in the window; and above it hung the cage of her pet canary. There -were but few pictures on the walls: a water-colour drawing of Kilsyth, -bad enough, with impossible perspective, and a very coppery sunset -over very spotty blue hills, but dear to the girl as the work of the -mother whom she had scarcely known; a portrait of her father in his -youth, showing how gently time had dealt with the brave old -boy; a print from Grant's portrait of Lady Muriel; and a photograph -of Ronald in his uniform, looking very grim and stern and -Puritan-like. There is a small cottage-piano too, and a well-filled -music-stand,--well-filled, that is to say, according to its owner's -ideas, but calculated to fill the souls of musical enthusiasts with -horror or pity; for there is very little of the severe and the -classical about Madeleine even in her musical tastes: Gluck's <i>Orfeo</i>, -some of Mendelssohn's <i>Lieder ohne Worte</i>, and a few selections from -Mozart, quite satisfied her; and the rest of the music-stand was -filled with Bellini, Donizetti, Rossini, and Verdi, English ballads, -and even dance music. Upon all the room was the impress and evidence -of womanly taste and neatness; nothing was prim, but everything was -properly arranged; above all, neither in books, pictures, music, nor -on the dressing-table or in the wardrobe in the bedroom, was there the -smallest sign of fastness or slanginess, that almost omnipresent -drawback to the charms of the young ladies of the present day.</p> - -<p>Nigh to Madeleine's rooms was a big airy chamber with a shower-bath, -an iron bedstead, a painted chest of drawers, and a couple of common -chairs, for its sole furniture. This was the room devoted to Captain -Kilsyth whenever he stayed with his relatives, and had been furnished -according to his exact injunctions. It was like Roland himself, grim -and stern, and was regarded as a kind of Blue Chamber of Horrors by -Lady Muriel's little children, who used to hurry past its door, and -accredited it as a perfect stronghold of bogies. This feeling was but -a reflection of that with which the little girls Ethel and Maud -regarded their elder brother. His visits to their schoolroom, -periodically made, were always looked forward to with intense fright -both by them and by their governess Miss Blathers--a worthy woman, -untouchable in Mangnall, devoted to the backboard, with a fair -proficiency in music and French, but with an unconquerable tendency -towards sentimentality of the most snivelling kind. Miss Blathers' -sentiment was of the G.P.R. James's school; she was always on the -look-out for that knight who was to come and deliver her from the -bonds of governesshood, who was to fling his arm over her, as Count -Gismond flung his round Mr. Browning's anonymous heroine, and lead her -off to some land, where Ollendorf was unknown, and Levizac had never -been heard of. A thoroughly worthy creature, Miss Blathers, but -horribly frightened of Ronald, who would come into the schoolroom, -make his bow, pull his moustache, and go off at once into the -questions, pulling his moustache a great deal more, and shrugging his -shoulders at the answers he received.</p> - -<p>It was not often, however, that Ronald came to Brook-street, at all -events for any length of time. When he was on duty, he was of course -with his regiment in barracks; and when he had opportunities of -devoting himself to his own peculiar studies and subjects, he -generally took advantage of those opportunities with his own -particular cronies. He would ride with Madeleine sometimes, in a -morning, occasionally in the Row, but oftener for a long stretch round -the pretty suburbs; and he would dine with his father now and then; -and perhaps twice in the season would put in an appearance in Lady -Muriel's opera-box, and once at a reception given by her. But, except -perhaps by Madeleine, who always loved to see him, he was not much -missed in Brook-street, where, indeed, plenty of people came.</p> - -<p>Plenty of people and of all kinds. Constituents up from Scotland on -business, or friends of constituents with letters of introduction from -their friends to Kilsyth; to whom also came old boys from the clubs, -who had nothing else to do, and liked to smoke a morning cigar or -drink a before-luncheon glass of sherry with the hospitable laird; old -boys who never penetrated beyond the ground-floor, save perhaps on one -night in the season, which Lady Muriel set apart for the reception of -"the House" and "the House" wives and daughters, when they would make -their way upstairs and cling round the lintels of the drawing-room, -and obstruct all circulation, and eat a very good supper, and for -three or four days afterwards wag their heads at each other in the -bow-windows of Brookes's or Barnes's, and inform each other with great -solemnity that Lady Muriel was a "day-vilish fine woman," and that -"the thing had been doosid well done at Kilsyth's the other night, -eh?" Other visitors, nominally to Kilsyth, but in reality after their -reception by him relegated to Lady Muriel, keen-looking, clear-eyed, -high-cheek-boned men, wonderfully "canny"-looking, thoroughly Scotch, -only wanting the pinch of snuff between their fingers, and the kilt -round their legs, to have fitted them for taking their station at the -tobacconists' doors,--factors from different portions of the estate, -whom Lady Muriel took in hand, and with them went carefully through -every item of their accounts, leaving them marvellously impressed with -her qualities as a woman of business.</p> - -<p>No very special visitors to Lady Muriel. Plenty of carriages with -women, young and old, elegant and dowdy, aristocratic and plebeian, on -the front seat, and the <i>Court Guide</i> in all its majesty on the back. -Plenty of raps, preposterous in their potency, delivered with unerring -aim by ambrosial mercuries, who disengaged quite a cloud of powder in -the operation; packs of cards, delivered like conjuring tricks into -the hands of the hall-porter, over whose sleek head appeared a -charming perspective of other serving-men; kind regards, tender -inquiries, congratulations, condolence, P.P.C.'s, all the whole -formula duly gone through between the ambrosial creatures who have -descended from the monkey-board and the plethoric giant who has -extricated himself from the leathern bee-hive--one of the principals -in the mummery stolidly looking on from the carriage, the other -sitting calmly upstairs, neither taking the smallest part, or caring -the least about it. The lady visitors did not come in, as a rule, but -the men did, almost without exception. The men arrived from half-past -four till half-past six, and, during the season, came in great -numbers. Why? Well, Lady Muriel was very pleasant, and Miss Kilsyth -was "charmin', quite charmin'." They said this parrotwise; there are -no such parrots as your modern young men; they repeat whatever they -have learnt constantly but between their got-by-rote sentences they -are fatally and mysteriously dumb.</p> - -<p>"Were you at the Duchess's last night, Lady Muriel?"</p> - -<p>"Yes! You were not there, I think?"</p> - -<p>"No; couldn't go--was on duty."</p> - -<p><i>Pause. Dead silence. Five clocks ticking loudly and running races -with each other</i>.</p> - -<p>"Yes, by the way, knew you were there."</p> - -<p>"Did you--who told you?"</p> - -<p>"Saw it in the paper, 'mongst the comp'ny, don't you know, and that -kind of thing."</p> - -<p><i>Awful pause. Clocks take up the running. Lady Muriel looks on the -carpet. Visitor calmly scrutinises furniture round the room, at length -he receives inspiration from lengthened contemplation of his -hat-lining</i>.</p> - -<p>"Seen Clement Penruddock lately?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, he was here on--when was it?--quite lately--O, the day before -yesterday."</p> - -<p>"Poor old Clem! Going to marry Lady Violet Dumanoir, they say. Pity -Lady Vi don't leave off putting that stuff on her face and shoulders, -isn't it?"</p> - -<p>"How ridiculous you are!"</p> - -<p>"No, but really! she does!"</p> - -<p>"How can you be so silly!"</p> - -<p><i>Grand and final pause of ten minutes, broken by the visitor's saying -quietly</i>, "Well, good-bye," <i>and lounging off to repeat the -invigorating conversation elsewhere</i>.</p> - -<p>Who? Youth of all kinds. The junior portion of the Household Brigade, -horse and foot, solemn plungers and dapper little guardsmen; youth -from the Whitehall offices, specially diplomatic and erudite, and -disposed to chaff the military as ignorant of most things, and -specially of spelling; idlers <i>purs et simples</i>, who had been last -year in Norway, and would be the next in Canada, and who suffered -socially from their perpetual motion, never being able to retain the -good graces which they had gained or to recover those they had lost; -foreign <i>attachés</i>; junior representatives of the plutocracy, who went -into society into which their fathers might never have dreamed of -penetrating, but who found the "almighty dollar," or its equivalent, -when judiciously used, have all the open-sesame power; an occasional -Scotch connection on a passing visit to London, and--Mrs. M'Diarmid.</p> - -<p>Who was Mrs. M'Diarmid? That was the first question everyone asked on -their introduction to her; the second, on their revisiting the house -where the introduction had taken place, being, "Where is Mrs. -M'Diarmid?" Mrs. M'Diarmid was originally Miss Whiffin, daughter of -Mrs. Whiffin of Salisbury-street in the Strand, who let lodgings, and -in whose parlours George M'Diarmid, second cousin to the present -Kilsyth, lived when he first came to London, and enrolled himself as a -student in the Inner Temple. A pleasant fellow George M'Diarmid, with -a taste for pleasure, and very little money, and an impossibility to -keep out of debt. A good-looking fellow, with a bright blue eye, and -big red whiskers (beards were not in fashion then, or George would -have grown a very Birnam-Wood of hair), and broad shoulders, and a -genial jovial manner with "the sex." Deep into Mrs. Whiffin's books -went George, and simultaneously deep into her daughter's heart; and -finally, when Kilsyth had done his best for his scapegrace kinsman, -and could do no more, and nobody else would do anything, George wiped -off his score by marrying Miss Whiffin, and, as she expressed it to -her select circle of friends, "making a lady of her." It was out of -his power to do that. Nothing on earth would have made Hannah Whiffin -a lady, any more than anything on earth could have destroyed her -kindness of heart, her devotion to her husband, her hard-working, -honest striving to do her duty as his wife. Kilsyth would not have -been the large-souled glorious fellow that he was if he had failed -to see this, or seeing, had failed to appreciate and recognise it. -George M'Diarmid hemmed and hawed when told to bring his wife to -Brook-street, and blushed and stuttered when he brought her; but -Kilsyth and Lady Muriel set the poor shy little woman at her ease in -an instant, and seeing all her good qualities, remained her kind and -true friends. After two years or so George M'Diarmid died in his -wife's arms, blessing and thanking her; and after his death, to the -astonishment of all who knew anything about it, his widow was as -constant a visitor to Brook-street as ever. Why? No one could exactly -tell, save that she was a shrewd, clever woman, with an extraordinary -amount of real affection for every member of the family. There was no -mistake about that. She had been tried in times of sickness and of -trouble, and had always come out splendidly. A vulgar old lady, with -curious blunt manners and odd phrases of speech, which had at first -been dreadfully trying; but by degrees the regular visitors to the -house began to comprehend her, to make allowance for her <i>gaucheries</i> -and her quaint sayings--in fact to take the greatest delight in them. -So Mrs. M'Diarmid was constantly in Brook-street; and the frequenters -of the five-o'clock tea-table professed to be personally hurt if she -absented herself.</p> - -<p>A shrewd little woman too, with a special care for Madeleine; with a -queer old-world notion that she, being herself childless, should look -after the motherless girl. For Lady Muriel Mrs. M'Diarmid had the -highest respect; but Lady Muriel had children of her own, and, -naturally enough, was concerned about, or as Mrs. M'Diarmid expressed -it, "wropped up" in them, and Madeleine had no one to protect and -guide her--poor soul! So this worthy little old woman devoted herself -to the motherless girl, and watched over her with duenna-like care and -almost maternal fidelity.</p> - -<p>Five o'clock in the evening, two days after Wilmot had received -Madeleine's little note; the shutters were shut in Lady Muriel's -boudoir, the curtains were drawn, a bright fire burned on the hearth, -and the tea-equipage was ready set on the little round table close by -the hostess. Not many people there. Not Kilsyth, of course, who was -reading the evening papers and chatting at Brookes's,--not Ronald, who -scarcely ever showed at that time. Madeleine, looking very lovely in a -tight-fitting high violet-velvet dress, a thought pale still, but with -her blue eyes bright, and her golden hair taken off her face, and -gathered into a great knot at the back of her pretty little head. Near -her, on an ottoman, Clement Penruddock, half-entranced at the -appearance of his own red stockings, half in wondering why he does not -go off to see Lady Violet Dumanoir, his <i>fiancée</i>. Clem is always -wondering about this, and never seems to arrive at a satisfactory -result. Next to him, and vainly endeavouring to think of something to -say, the Hon. Robert Brettles, familiarly known as "Bristles," from -the eccentric state of his hair, who is supposed to be madly in love -with Madeleine Kilsyth, and who has never yet made greater approaches -in conversation with her than meteorological observations in regard to -the weather, and blushing demands for her hand in the dance. By Lady -Muriel, Lord Roderick Douglas, who still finds his nose too large for -the rest of his face, and strokes it thoughtfully in the palm of his -hand, as though he could thereby quietly reduce its dimensions. Frank -Only, Sir Coke's eldest son, but recently gazetted to the Body Guards, -an ingenuous youth, dressed more like a tailor's dummy than anything -else, especially about his feet, which are very small and very shiny; -and Tommy Toshington, who has dropped in on the chance of hearing -something which, cleverly manipulated and well told at the club, may -gain him a dinner. In the immediate background sits Mrs. M'Diarmid, -knitting.</p> - -<p>Lady Muriel has poured out the tea; the gentlemen have handed the -ladies their cups, and are taking their own; and the usual blank -dulness has fallen on the company. Nobody says a word for full three -minutes, when the silence is broken by Tommy Toshington, who begins to -find his visit unremunerative, as hitherto he has not gleaned one atom -of gossip. So he asks Lady Muriel whether she has seen anything of -Colonel Jefferson.</p> - -<p>"No, indeed," Lady Muriel replies; "Colonel Jefferson has not been to -see us since our return."</p> - -<p>"Didn't know you were in town, perhaps," suggests the peace-loving -Tommy.</p> - -<p>"Must know that, Toshington," says Lord Roderick Douglas, who has no -great love for Charley Jefferson, associating that stern commander -with various causes of heavy field-days and refusals of leave.</p> - -<p>"I don't see that," says Tommy, who has never been Lord Roderick's -guest at mess or anywhere else, and who does not see a chance of -hospitality in that quarter; consequently is by no means reticent,--"I -don't see that; how was he to know it?"</p> - -<p>"Same way that everybody else did--through the <i>Post</i>."</p> - -<p>"Tommy can't read it," said Clement Penruddock; "they didn't teach -spellin' ever so long ago, when Tommy was a boy."</p> - -<p>"They taught manners," growled Tommy, "at all events; but they seem to -have given that up."</p> - -<p>"Charley Jefferson isn't in town," said "Bristles," cutting in -quickly to stop the discussion; "he's down at Torquay. Had a letter -from him yesterday, my lady; last man in the world, Charley, to be -rude--specially to you or Miss Kilsyth."</p> - -<p>"I am sure of that, Mr. Brettles," said Lady Muriel; "I fancied -Colonel Jefferson must be away, or we should have seen him."</p> - -<p>"People go away most strangelike," observed Mrs. M'Diarmid from the -far distance. "The facilities of the road, the river, and the rail, as -I've seen it somewhere expressed, is such, that one's here to-day, Lord -bless you, and next week in the Sydney Isles or thereabouts." By "the -Sydney Isles or thereabouts."</p> - -<p>Mrs. M'Diarmid's friends had by long experience ascertained that she -meant Australia.</p> - -<p>"Scarcely so far as that in so short a time, Aunt Hannah," said -Madeleine with a smile.</p> - -<p>"Well, my dear, far enough to fare worse, as the expression is. I -don't hold with such wanderings, thinking home to be home, be it ever -so homely."</p> - -<p>"You would not like to go far away yourself, would you, Mrs. -M'Diarmid?" asked Lord Roderick.</p> - -<p>"Not I, my lord; Regent-street for me is quite very, and beyond that I -have no inspiration."</p> - -<p>"You've never been able to get Mrs. M'Diarmid even so far as Kilsyth, -have you, Lady Muriel?" said Clement.</p> - -<p>"No; she has always refused to come to us. I think she imagines we're -utter barbarians at Kilsyth."</p> - -<p>"Not at all, my dear, not at all," said the old lady; "but everybody -has their fancies, and knows what they can do, and where they're -useful; and fancy me at my time of life tossing my cabers, or doing my -Tullochgorums, or whatever they're called, between two crossed swords -on the top of a mountain! Scarcely respectable, I think."</p> - -<p>"You're quite right, Mrs. Mac, and I honour your sentiments," said -Clem with a half-grin.</p> - -<p>"Not but that I would have gone through all that and a good deal more, -my darling," said the old lady, putting down her work, crossing the -room, and taking Madeleine's pale face between her own fat little -hands, "to have been with you in your illness, and to have nursed you. -Duchesses indeed!" cried Mrs. Mac, with a sniff of defiance at the -remembrance of the Northallerton defection--"I'd have duchessed 'em, -if I'd had my way!"</p> - -<p>"You would have been the dearest and best nurse in the world, I know, -Aunt Hannah," said Madeleine; then added, with a half sigh, "though I -could not have been better attended to than I was, I think."</p> - -<p>Lady Muriel marked the half sigh instantly, and looked across at her -stepdaughter. Reassured at the perfect calm of Madeleine's face, on -which there was no blush, no tremor, she said, "You wrote that note, -Madeleine, according to your father's wish?"</p> - -<p>"Two days ago, mamma."</p> - -<p>"Two days ago! I should have thought that--"</p> - -<p>"Perhaps he is very much engaged, mamma, and knew that there was no -pressing need of his services. Dr. Wilmot told me that--" and the girl -hesitated, and stopped.</p> - -<p>"Is that Dr. Wilmot of Charles-street, close by the Junior? Are you -talking of him?" said Penruddock. "Doosid clever feller they say he -is. He's been attending my cousin Cranbrook--you know him, Lady -Muriel; been awfully bad poor Cranbrook has; head shaved, and holloing -out, and all that kind of thing--frightful; and this doctor has pulled -him through like a bird--splendidly, by Jove!"</p> - -<p>"He drives an awful pair of screws," said "Bristles," who was horsey -in his tastes; "saw 'em standing at Cranbrook's door. To look at -'em, you wouldn't think they could drag that thundering big heavy -brougham--C springs, don't you know, Clem?--and yet when they start -they nip along stunningly."</p> - -<p>"Ah, those poor doctors!", said Mrs. M'Diarmid; "I often wonder how -they live, for they take no exercise now all the streets are M'Adam -and wood and all sorts of nonsense! When there was good sound stone -pavement, one was bumped about in your carriage like riding a -trotting-horse, and that was all the exercise the poor doctors got. -Now they don't get that."</p> - -<p>"And Dr. Wilmot attended Lord Cranbrook, did he, Clem?" asked -Madeleine softly, "and brought him safely through his illness. I'm -glad of that; I'm glad--"</p> - -<p>"Dr. Wilmot, my lady!" said the groom of the chambers.</p> - -<p>"What a bore that doctor coming," said Clement Penruddock, looking -round, "just as I was going to have a pleasant talk with Maddy!"</p> - -<p>"You leave Maddy alone," said Mrs. M'Diarmid with a grunt, "and go off -to your financier!"</p> - -<p>"My financier, Aunt Hannah?" said Clem in astonishment; "I haven't -one; I wish to Heaven I had."</p> - -<p>"Haven't one?" retorted the old lady. "Pray, what do you call Lady -Vi?"</p> - -<p>And then Clement Penruddock understood that Mrs. M'Diarmid meant his -<i>fiancée</i>.</p> - -<p>Dr. Wilmot and Madeleine went, at Lady Muriel's request, into the -drawing-room.</p> - -<p>He was with her once again; looked in her eyes, heard her voice -murmuring thanks to him for all his past kindness, touched her -hand--no longer hot with fever, but tremblingly dropping into his--saw -the sweet smile which had come upon her with the earliest dawn of -convalescence. At the same time Wilmot remarked a faint flush on her -cheek and a baleful light in her eyes, which recalled to him the -discovery which he had made at Kilsyth, and which he had mentioned to -her father. His diagnosis had been short then and hurried, but it had -been true: the seeds of the disease were in her, and, unchecked, were -likely to bear fatal fruit. Could he leave her thus? could he absent -himself, bearing about with him the knowledge that she whom he loved -better than anything on earth might derive benefit from his -assistance--might indeed owe her life and her earthly salvation to his -ministering care? He knew well enough that though her father had given -him his thorough trust and confidence, his friendship and his warm -gratitude, yet there were others about her who had no share in these -feelings, by whom he was looked upon with doubt and suspicion, and who -would be only too glad to relegate him to his position of the -professional man who had fulfilled what was required of him, and had -been discharged--not to be taken up again until another case of -necessity arose. There was no doubt that his diagnosis had been -correct, and that her life required constant watching, perpetual care. -Well, should she not have it? Was not he then close at hand? Had his -talent ever been engaged in a case in which he took so deep, so vital -an interest? Had he not often given up his every thought, his day's -study, his night's repose, for the mere professional excitement of -battling the insidious advances of Disease--of checking him here, and -counterchecking him there, and finally cutting off his supplies, and -routing him utterly? and would he not do this in the present instance, -where such an interest as he had never yet felt, such an inducement as -had never yet been held out to him, urged him on to victory?</p> - -<p>Ah, yes; "his grateful patient" should have greater claims on his -gratitude than she herself imagined. He had seen her safely through a -comparatively trifling illness; he would be by her side in the -struggle that threatened her life. Come what might, win or lose, he -should be there, able, as he thought, to help her in danger, whatever -might be the result to himself of his efforts.</p> - -<p>He has her hand in his now, and is looking into her eyes--momentarily -only; for the soft blue orbs droop beneath his glance, and the bright -red flush leaps into the pale cheek. Still he retains her hand, and -asks her, in a voice which vainly strives to keep its professional -tone, such professional questions as admit of the least professional -putting. She replies in a low voice, when suddenly a shadow falls upon -them standing together; and looking up, they see Ronald Kilsyth. Dr. -Wilmot utters the intruder's name; Madeleine is silent.</p> - -<p>"Yes, Madeleine," says Ronald, addressing her as though she had -spoken; "I have come to fetch you to Lady Muriel.--I was not aware, -sir," he added, turning to Wilmot, "that you were any longer in -attendance on this young lady. I thought that her illness was over, -and that your services had been dispensed with."</p> - -<p>Constitutionally pale, Ronald now, under the influence of strong -excitement, was almost livid; but he had not one whit more colour than -Chudleigh Wilmot, as he replied: "You were right, Captain Kilsyth: my -professional visits are at an end; it is as a friend that I am now -visiting your sister."</p> - -<p>Ronald drew himself up as he said, "I have yet to learn, Dr. Wilmot, -that you are on such terms with the family as to justify you in paying -these friendly visits.--Madeleine, come with me."</p> - -<p>The girl hesitated for an instant; but Ronald placed her arm in his, -and walked off with her to the door, leaving Chudleigh Wilmot -immovable with astonishment and rage..</p> -<br> -<br> -<br> -<h4><a name="div1_16" href="#div1Ref_16">CHAPTER XVI.</a></h4> -<h5>Giving up.</h5> -<br> - -<p>Rage was quite a novel passion for Chudleigh Wilmot, and one which, -like most new passions, obtained for the time complete mastery over -him. In his previous career he had been so steeped in study, so -overwhelmed by practice--had had every hour of his time so completely -and unceasingly occupied, that he had had no leisure to get into a -rage, even if he had had the slightest occasion. But the truth is, the -occasion had been wanting also. During the time he had been at the -hospital he had had various tricks played upon him,--such tricks as -the idle always will play upon the industrious,--but he had not paid -the least attention to them; and when the perpetrators of the -practical jokes found they were disregarded, they turned the tide of -their humour upon some one else less pachydermatous. Ever since then -his life had flowed in an even stream, which never turned aside into a -whirlpool of passion or a cataract of rage, but continued its calm -course without the smallest check or shoal. In the old days, when -driven nearly to madness by the calm way in which her husband took -every event in life, undisturbed by public news or private worry, -finding the be-all and the end-all of life in the prosecution of his -studies, the correctness of his diagnoses, and the number of -profitable visits daily entered up in his diary, Mabel Wilmot would -have given anything if he had now and then broken out into a fit of -rage, no matter for what cause, and thus cleared the dull heavy -atmosphere of tranquil domesticity for ever impending over them. But -he never did break out; and the atmosphere, as we have seen, was never -cleared.</p> - -<p>But Chudleigh Wilmot was in a rage at last. By nature he was anything -but a coward, was endowed with a keen sensitiveness, and scrupulously -honourable. His abstraction, his studiousness, his simple unworldly -ways--for there were few more unworldly men than the rising -fashionable physician--all prevented his easily recognising that he -was a butt for intentional ribaldry or insult; but when, as in this -case, he did see it, it touched him to the quick. As a boy he could -laugh at the practical jokes of his fellow-students; as a man he -writhed under and rebelled against the first slight that since his -manhood he had received. What was to be done? This young man, this -Captain Kilsyth, her brother, had studiously and purposely insulted -him, and insulted him before her. As this thought rushed through -Wilmot's mind, as he stood as though rooted to the spot where they had -left him in the drawing-room in Brook-street, his first feeling was to -rush after Ronald and strike him to the ground as the penalty of his -presumption. His fingers itched to do it, clenched themselves -involuntarily, as his teeth set and his nostrils dilated -involuntarily. What good would that do? None. Come of it what might, -Madeleine's name would be mixed up with it, and--Ah, good God! he saw -it all; saw the newspaper paragraph with the sensation-heading, -"Fracas in private life between a gallant Officer and a distinguished -Physician;" he saw the blanks and asterisks under which Madeleine's -name would be concealed; he guessed the club scandal which--No, that -would never do. He must give up all thoughts of avenging himself in -that manner, for her sake. Better bear what he had borne, better bear -slight and insult worse a thousandfold, than have her mixed up in a -newspaper paragraph, or given over to the genial talk of society.</p> - -<p>He must bear it, put up with the insult, swallow his disgust, forego -his revenge. There was not enough of the Christian element in -Chudleigh Wilmot's composition to render this line of conduct at all -palatable to him; but it was necessary, and should be pursued. He had -gone through all this in his thought, and arrived at this -determination before he moved from the drawing-room. Then he walked -quietly down to Lady Muriel's boudoir, entered, chatted with her -ladyship for five minutes on indifferent topics, and took his leave, -perfectly cool without, raging hot within.</p> - -<p>As he had correctly thought, his long absence from London had by no -means injured his practice; if anything, had improved it. In every -class of life there is such a thing as making yourself too cheap, and -the healthy and wealthy hypochondriacs, who form six-sevenths of a -fashionable physician's <i>clientèle</i>, are rather incited and stimulated -when they find the doctor unable or unwilling to attend their every -summons. So Wilmot's practice was immense. He had a very large number -of visits to pay that day, and he paid them all with thorough -scrupulousness. Never had his manner been more <i>suave</i> and bland; -never had he listened more attentively to his patients' narratives of -their complaints; never had his eyebrow-upliftings been more telling, -the noddings of his head thrown in more <i>apropos</i>. The old ladies, who -worshipped him, thought him more delightful than ever; the men were -more and more convinced of his talent; but the truth is, that having -no really serious case on hand, Dr. Wilmot permitted himself the -luxury of thought; and while he was clasping Lady Cawdor's pulse, or -peering down General Donaldbain's throat, he was all the time -wondering what line of conduct he could best pursue towards Ronald and -Madeleine Kilsyth. In the course of his afternoon drive he passed the -carriages of scores of his brother practitioners, with whom he -exchanged hurried bows and nods, all of whom returned to the perusal of -the <i>Lancet</i> or of their diaries, as the case might be, with envy at -their hearts, and jealousy of the successful man who succeeded in -everything, and who, if they had only known it, was quivering under -the slight and insult which he had just received.</p> - -<p>His visits over, he went home and dined quietly. The romantic feelings -connected with an "empty chair" troubled Chudleigh Wilmot very little. -He had never paid very much attention to the person by whom the chair -had been filled; indeed very frequently during Mabel's lifetime he had -done what he always had done since her death, taken a book, and read -during his dinner. But he could not read on this occasion. He tried, -and failed dismally; the print swam before his eyes; he could not keep -his attention for a moment on the book; he pushed it away, and gave up -his mind to the subject with which it was preoccupied.</p> - -<p>Fair, impartial, and judicial self-examination--that was what he -wanted, what he must have. Captain Kilsyth had insulted him, purposely -no doubt; why? Not for an instant did Wilmot attempt to disguise from -himself that it was on Madeleine's account; but how could Captain -Kilsyth know anything of his (Wilmot's) feelings in regard to -Madeleine; and if he did know of them, why should he now object? -Captain Kilsyth might be standing out on the question of family; but -that would never lead him to behave in so <i>brusque</i> and ungentlemanly -a manner; he might object to the alliance--to the alliance!--good God! -here was he giving another man credit for speculating on matters which -had only dimly arisen even in his own brain!</p> - -<p>Still there remained the fact of Captain Kilsyth's conduct having been -as it had been, and still remained the question--why? To no creature -on earth had he, Chudleigh Wilmot, confided his love for this girl; -and so far as he knew--and he searched his memory carefully--he had -never in his manner betrayed his secret in the remotest degree. Had -his wife been alive, Ronald Kilsyth might have objected to finding him -in close converse with his sister; yet in the fact of his having a -wife lay--</p> - -<p>It flashed across him in an instant, and sent the blood rushing to his -heart. The manner of his wife's death--was that known? The causes -which, as Henrietta Prendergast had hinted to him, had led Mabel to -the vial with the leaden seal--had they leaked out? had they reached -the ears of this young man? Did he suspect that jealousy--no matter -whether with or without foundation--of his sister had led Mrs. Wilmot -to lay violent hands upon herself? And if he suspected it, why not a -hundred others? The story would fly from mouth to mouth. This Captain -Kilsyth--no; he would not lend his aid to its promulgation; he could -not for his sister's sake; but--And yet, with or against Captain -Kilsyth's wish, it must come out. When his visits ceased in -Brook-street, as they must cease--he had determined on that; when he no -longer saw Madeleine, who, as he perfectly well knew, had been brought -to London with the view of being under his care, would not old Kilsyth -make inquiries as to the change in the intended programme, and would -not his son have to tell him all he had heard? It was too horrible to -think of. With such a rumour in existence--granting that it was a -rumour merely, and all unproved--it would be impossible for Kilsyth, -however eagerly he might wish it, to befriend him--at least in the -manner in which he could best befriend him, by encouraging his -addresses to Madeleine. Lady Muriel would not listen to it; Ronald -would not listen to it, even if those two were in some way--he could -not think how, but there might be a way of getting round those two and -winning them to his side--even if that were done, while that horrible -story or suspicion was current--and it was impossible to set it at -rest without the chance of establishing it firmly for ever--Kilsyth -would never consent to his marriage with Madeleine.</p> - -<p>He must at once free himself from the chance of any story of this kind -being promulgated. The more he thought the matter over, the more he -saw the impossibility of again going to Brook-street, after what had -occurred; the impossibility of his absence passing without remark and -inquiry by Kilsyth; the impossibility of Ronald's withholding his -statement of his own conduct in the matter, and his reasons for that -conduct. For an instant a ray of hope shot through Chudleigh Wilmot's -soul, as he thought that perhaps the reasons might be infinitely less -serious and less damaging than he had depicted them to himself; but it -died out again at once, and he acknowledged to himself the -hopelessness of his situation. He had been indulging in a day-dream -from which he had been rudely and ruthlessly waked, and his action -must now be prompt and decisive. There was an end to it all; it was -Kismet, and he must accept his fate. No combined future for Madeleine -and him; their paths lay separate, and must be trodden separately at -once; her brother was right, his own dead wife was right--it is not to -be!</p> - -<p>There must be no blinking or shuffling with the question now, he -thought. To remain in London without visiting in Brook-street would -evoke immediate and peculiar attention; and it was plain that Ronald -Kilsyth had determined that Dr. Wilmot's visits to Brook-street were -not to be renewed. He must leave London, must leave England at once. -He must go abroad for six months, for a year; must give up his -practice, and seek change and repose in fresh scenes. He would spoil -his future by so doing, blow up and shatter the fabric which he had -reared with such industry and patience and self-denial; but what of -that? He should ascribe his forced expatriation and retreat to loss of -health, and he should at least reap pity and condolence; whereas now -every moment that he remained upon the scene he ran the chance of -being overwhelmed with obloquy and scorn. He could imagine, vividly -enough, how the patients whom he had refused to flatter, whose -self-imagined maladies he had laughed at and ridiculed, would turn -upon him; how his brother practitioners, who had always hated him for -his success, would point to the fulfilment of their never-delivered -prophecies, and make much of their own idleness and incompetency; how -the medical journals which he had riddled and scathed would issue -fierce diatribes over his fall, or, worse than all, sympathise with -the profession on--he could almost see the words in print before -him--"the breach of that confidence which is the necessary and sacred -bond between the physician and the patient."</p> - -<p>Anything better than that; and he must take the decisive step at once! -He must give up his practice. Whittaker should have it, so far at -least as his recommendation could serve him. He should have that, -and must rely upon himself for the rest. Many of his patients -knew Whittaker now, had become accustomed to him during the time -of Wilmot's absence at Kilsyth, and Whittaker had not behaved -badly during that--that horrible affair of Mabel's last illness. -Moreover, if Whittaker suspected the cause of Mabel's death--and -Wilmot shuddered as the mere thought crossed his mind--the practice -would be a sop to him to induce him to hold his tongue in the matter. -And he, Wilmot, would go away--and be forgotten. Better that, bitter -as the thought might be--and how bitter it was none but those who have -been compelled, for conscience' sake, for honour's sake, for -expediency's sake even, to give up in the moment of success, to haul -down the flag, and sheath the sword when they knew victory was in -their grasp, could ever tell;--better that than to remain, with the -chance of exposure to himself, of compromise to her. The mental -overthrow, the physical suffering consequent upon the sudden death of -his wife, would be sufficient excuse for this step to the world; and -there were none to know the real cause of its being taken. He had -saved sufficient money to enable him to live as comfortably as he -should care to live, even if he never returned to work again; and once -free from the torturing doubt which oppressed him, or rather from the -possibility of all which that torturing doubt meant to his fevered -mind, he should be himself again.</p> - -<p>Beyond his position, so hardly struggled for, so recently attained, he -had nothing to leave behind him which he should particularly regret. -He had been so self-contained, from the very means necessary for -attaining that position, had been so circumscribed in the pleasures of -his life, that his opportunities for the cultivation even of -friendship had been very rare. He should miss the quaint caustic -conversation, the earnest hearty liking so undeniably existing, even -under its slight veneer of eccentricity, of old Foljambe; he should -miss what he used laughingly to call his "dissipation" of attending a -few professional and scientific gatherings held in the winter, where -the talk was all "shop," dry and uninteresting to the uninitiated, but -full of delight to the listeners, and specially to the talkers; he -should miss the excitement of the lecture-theatre, where perhaps more -than anywhere else he thoroughly enjoyed himself, and where he shone -at his very brightest, and--that was all. No! Madeleine! this last and -keenest source of enjoyment in his life, this pure spring of freshness -and vigour, this revivification of early hopes and boyish dreams, this -young girl, the merest acquaintance with whom had softened and -purified his heart, had given aim and end to his career, had shown him -how dull and heartless, how unloved, unloving, and unlovely had been -his byegone time, and had aroused in him such dreams of uncensurable -ambition for the future,--she must be given up, must become a "portion -and parcel of the dreadful past," and be dead to him for ever! She -must be given up! He repeated the words mechanically, and they rang in -his ears like a knell. She must be given up! She was given up, even -then, if he carried out his intention. He should never see her again, -should never see the loving light in those blue eyes--ah, how well he -minded him of the time when he first saw it in the earliest days of -her convalescence at Kilsyth, and of all the undefined associations -which it awakened in him!--should never hear the grateful accents of -her soft sweet voice, should never touch her pretty hand again. For -all the years of his life, as it appeared to him, he had held his eyes -fixed upon the ground, and had raised them at the rustle of an angel's -wings, only to see her float far beyond his reach. For all the years -of his life he had toiled wearily on through the parching desert; and -at length, on meeting the green oasis, where the fresh well sparkled -so cheerily, had had the cup shattered from his trembling hand.</p> - -<p>She must be given up! She should be; that was the very keystone of the -arrangement. He had looked the whole question fairly in the face; and -what he had proposed to himself and had determined on abiding by, he -would not shrink from now. But it was hard, very hard. And then he lay -back in his chair, and in his mind retraced all the circumstances of -his acquaintance with her; last of all, coming upon their final -interview of that morning in the drawing-room at Brook-street. He was -sufficiently calm now to eliminate Ronald and his truculence from the -scene, and to think only of Madeleine; and that brought to his -remembrance the reason of their having gone into the drawing-room -together, to consult on her illness, the weakness of the lungs which -he had detected at Kilsyth.</p> - -<p>That was a new phase of the subject, which had not occurred to him -before. Not merely must he give her up and absent himself from her, -but he must leave her at a time when his care and attention might be -of vital importance to her. Like most leading men in his profession, -Chudleigh Wilmot, with a full reliance on himself, combined a -wholesome distrust of and disbelief in most of his brother -practitioners. There were few--half a dozen at the most, perhaps--in -whose hands Madeleine might be safely left, if they had some special -interest, such as he had, in her case. Such as he had! Wilmot could -not avoid a grim smile as he thought of old Dr. Blenkiron, with his -snuff-dusted shirt-frill, or little Dr. Prater, with his gold-rimmed -spectacles, feeling similar interest to his in this sweet girl. But -unless they had special interest--unless they could have given up a -certain amount of their time regularly to attending to her--it would -have been of little use, as her symptoms were for ever varying, and -wanted constant watching. And as for the general run of the -profession, even men so well thought of as Whittaker or Perkins, -he--stay, a good thought--old Sir Saville Rowe would probably be coming -to town for the winter; and the old gentleman, though he had retired -from active practice, would, Wilmot made sure, look after Madeleine for -him as a special case. Sir Saville's brain was as clear as ever; and -though his strength was insufficient to enable him to continue his -practice, this one case would be an amusement rather than a trouble to -him. Yes, that was the best way of meeting this part of the -difficulty. Wilmot could go away at least without the additional -anxiety of his darling's being without competent advice. So much of -his burden could be lightened by Sir Saville; and he would sit down at -once and write to the old gentleman, asking him to undertake the -charge.</p> - -<p>He moved to his writing-table and sat down at it. He had arranged the -paper before him and taken up his pen, when he suddenly stopped, threw -aside the pen, and flung himself back in his chair. What excuse was he -about to make to his old master for his leaving London at so critical -a period in his career? He had not sufficiently considered that. He -had intended saying that Mrs. Wilmot's sudden death had had such an -effect upon him physically and mentally, that he felt compelled to -relinquish practice, at least for the present, and to seek abroad for -that rest and change of scene which was absolutely necessary for him. -He had turned the phrases very neatly in his mind, but he had -forgotten one thing. He had forgotten his conversation with the old -gentleman on the garden walk overhanging the brawling Tay on the -morning when he received the telegram from Kilsyth. He had forgotten -how he had laughed in derision when Sir Saville had asked him whether -he was in love with his wife; how he had curtly hinted that Mabel was -all very well in her way, but holding a decidedly inferior position in -his estimation to his practice and his work. He remembered all this -now, and he saw how utterly futile it would be to attempt to put off -his old friend with such a story. What, then, should be the excuse? -That his own health had given way under pressure of work? Sir Saville -knew well how highly Wilmot appreciated his professional opinion; and -had he believed the story--which was very unlikely--would have been -hurt at his old pupil's rushing away without consulting him. In any -case he must not see Sir Saville, who would undoubtedly cross-question -him in detail about Mrs. Wilmot's illness. He must write to the old -gentleman, giving a very general statement and avoiding all -particulars, and requesting him to take Madeleine under his charge.</p> - -<p>He did so. He wrote fully and affectionately to his old friend. He -touched very slightly on the death of his wife, beyond hinting that -that occurrence had necessitated his departing at once for the -Continent on some law-business concerning property, by which he might -probably be detained for some time. He went on to say that he had made -arrangements for the transfer of his practice to Whittaker, who had -had it, as Sir Saville would remember, during Chudleigh's absence in -Scotland; but there was one special case, which he could only leave in -the hands of Sir Saville himself: this was Miss Kilsyth. Sir Saville -would remember his (Wilmot's) disinclination to accede to the request -contained in the telegram on that eventful morning; and indeed it -seemed curious to himself now, when he thought of the interest which -he took in all that household. Kilsyth himself was the most charming -&c., and the best specimen of an &c.; Lady Muriel was also, and her -little girls were angels. Miss Kilsyth was mentioned last of all the -family in Wilmot's letter, and was merely described as "an -interesting, amiable girl." This portion of the letter was principally -occupied with details of her threatened disease; and on reperusing it -before sending it away, Wilmot was greatly struck by, as it seemed to -him, the capital manner in which he had made his interest throughout -assume a purely professional form. But, whether professionally or not, -the interest was very earnestly put; and the desire that the old -gentleman should break through his retirement and attend to this -particular case was very strongly expressed. In conclusion, Wilmot -said that he should send his address to his old friend, and that he -hoped to be kept acquainted with Miss Kilsyth's state.</p> - -<p>Dr. Wilmot did not send his letter to the post that night. He read it -over the next morning after seeing his home patients, and when the -carriage was at the door to take him off on his rounds. He was quite -satisfied with the tone of the letter, which he placed in an envelope -and was just about to seal, when his servant entered and announced -"Captain Kilsyth.".</p> -<br> -<br> -<br> -<h4><a name="div1_17" href="#div1Ref_17">CHAPTER XVII.</a></h4> -<h5>Face to Face.</h5> -<br> - -<p>"Captain Kilsyth!" No time for Chudleigh Wilmot to deny himself, if even he -had so wished; no time to recover himself from the excitement which -the announcement had aroused. He saw the broad dark outline of his -visitor behind the servant.</p> - -<p>"Show Captain Kilsyth in."</p> - -<p>Captain Kilsyth came in. Wilmot noticed that he was very pale and -stern-looking, but that there was no trace of yesterday's excitement -about him. It had become second nature to Wilmot to notice these -things; and he found himself critically examining Ronald's external -appearance, as he would that of a patient who had sought his advice.</p> - -<p>The men bowed to each other, and Ronald spoke first. "You will be -surprised to see me here, Dr. Wilmot," he said; "but be assured that -it is business of importance that brings me."</p> - -<p>Wilmot bowed again. He was fast recovering from his agitation, but -scarcely dared trust himself to speak just yet.</p> - -<p>"I see your carriage is at the door, and I will detain you but a very -few moments. You can give me, say, ten minutes?"</p> - -<p>Wilmot muttered that his time was at Captain Kilsyth's disposal; an -avowal which apparently annoyed his visitor, for he said testily, -"You, and I should be above exchanging the polite trash of society, -Dr. Wilmot. I am come here to speak on a matter which concerns me -deeply, and those very near and dear to me even more deeply still. Are -you prepared to hear me?"</p> - -<p>Those very near and dear to him! O yes; Wilmot was prepared to hear -him fully and said as much. Would Captain Kilsyth be seated?</p> - -<p>"I have come to talk to you, Dr. Wilmot, as a friend," commenced -Ronald, dropping into a chair. "I daresay you are scarcely prepared -for that avowal, considering my conduct at our interview yesterday in -Brook-street. Then I was hasty and inconsiderate; and for my conduct -then I beg to tender my apologies frankly and freely. I trust they -will be received?" There was an odd square blunt honesty even in the -manner in which he said this that prepossessed Wilmot.</p> - -<p>"As frankly and freely as they are offered," he replied.</p> - -<p>"So far agreed," said Ronald. "Now, look here. I am a very bad hand at -beating about the bush; and I have come here to say things the mere -fact of saying which is, where men of honour are not concerned, -compromising to one of the person spoken of I have every belief that -you are a man of honour, and therefore I speak."</p> - -<p>Dr. Wilmot bowed again, and said that Captain Kilsyth complimented -him.</p> - -<p>"No. I think too highly of you to do that. I simply speak what I -believe to be true, from all I have heard of your doings at Kilsyth."</p> - -<p>Of his doings at Kilsyth? A man of honour, from his doings at Kilsyth? -Though perfectly conscious that Ronald was watching him, narrowly, -Chudleigh Wilmot's cheeks coloured deeply at this point, and he was -silent.</p> - -<p>"Now, Dr. Wilmot, I must begin by talking to you a little about -myself--an unprofitable subject, but one necessary to be touched upon -in this discourse between us. The men who are supposed to know me -intimately--my own brother officers, I mean--will tell you that I am -an oddity, an extraordinary fellow, and that they know nothing about -me. Nothing is known of my likes or dislikes. I am believed not to -have any of either. Now this is an exaggerated view of the question. I -don't know that I dislike anyone in particular; but I have my -affections. I am very fond of my father; I adore my sister Madeleine."</p> - -<p>He spoke with such earnestness and warmth, that Wilmot looked up at -him, half in pleasure, half in wonder. Ronald noticed the glance, and -said, "If you have heard me mentioned at all, Dr. Wilmot, you have -probably heard it said that I am a man with a stone instead of a -heart, with the <i>Cavalry Officer's Instructions</i> instead of a Bible; -and therefore I cannot wonder at your look of astonishment. But what I -have stated to you is pure and simple fact. I love these two -infinitely better than my life."</p> - -<p>Wilmot bowed again. He felt ashamed of his reiterated acquiescence, -but had nothing more satisfactory to proffer.</p> - -<p>"Now, I don't see much of my family," pursued Ronald. "Their ways of -life are different from mine; and except when they happen to be in -London we are seldom thrown together. This may be to be regretted, or -it may not; at all events the fact is so. But whether I see them or -not, my interest in them never slackens. There are people, I -know--most people, I believe--to whom propinquity is a necessary -ingredient for affection. They must be near those they love--must be -brought into constant communication, personal communication with them, -or their love dies out. That is affection of a type which I cannot -understand; it is a great deal too spaniel-or ivy-like for my -comprehension. I could go on for years without seeing those I love, -and love them all the same. Consequently, although when the eight or -nine weeks' whirl which my family calls the London season is at an -end, and I scarcely see them until it begins again, I do not take less -interest in their proceedings, nor is my keen affection for those I -love one whit diminished. You follow me?"</p> - -<p>"So far, perfectly."</p> - -<p>"I was detained here on duty in London during last August and -September; and even if I had been free, I doubt whether I should have -been with my people at Kilsyth. As I have just said, their ways of -life, their amusements and pursuits are different from mine, and I -should probably have been following my own fancies somewhere else. But -I always hear from some of them with the greatest regularity; and I -heard, of course, of my sister's illness, and of your being called in -to attend upon her. Your name was thoroughly familiar to me. What my -friends call my 'odd ways' have made me personally acquainted with -several of the leading members of your profession; and directly I -heard that you had arrived at Kilsyth, I knew that Madeleine could not -possibly be in better hands."</p> - -<p>To anyone else Wilmot would have said that she could not have been -under the charge of anyone who would have taken greater interest in -her case; but he had not forgotten the interview of yesterday, and he -forbore.</p> - -<p>"I was delighted to hear of your arrival at Kilsyth," continued -Ronald, "and I was deeply grateful to you for the unceasing care and -anxiety which, as reported to me, you bestowed upon my sister. The -accounts which I received vied with each other in doing justice to -your skill and your constant attention; and I believe, as I know all -at Kilsyth believed, that, under Providence, we owe Madeleine's life -to you."</p> - -<p>"You will pardon my interrupting you, Captain Kilsyth," said Wilmot, -speaking almost for the first time; "but you give me more credit than -I deserve. Miss Kilsyth was very ill; but what she required most was -constant attention and watching. The excellent doctor of the -district--I forget his name, I'm ashamed to say--Joyce, Dr. Joyce, -would have been thoroughly efficient, and would have doubtless -restored Miss Kilsyth to health as speedily as I did; only -unfortunately others had a claim upon him, and he could not devote his -time to her."</p> - -<p>"Exactly what I was saying. I presume it will not be doubted that Dr. -Wilmot, of Charles-street, St. James's--in his own line the principal -physician of London--had as many calls upon his time even as the -excellent doctor of the district, and yet he sacrificed all others to -attend on Miss Kilsyth."</p> - -<p>"Dr. Wilmot was away from his patients on a holiday, and no one had a -claim upon his time."</p> - -<p>"And he made the most of his holiday by spending a great portion of it -in the sick-room of a fever-stricken patient! No, no, Dr. Wilmot; you -made a great sacrifice undoubtedly. Now, why did you make it?"</p> - -<p>He turned suddenly upon Wilmot as he spoke, and looked him straight in -the face. Wilmot's colour came again; he moved restlessly in his -chair, pressed his hands nervously together, but said nothing.</p> - -<p>"I told you, Dr. Wilmot, that I was about to speak of things the mere -mention of which, were we not men of honour, would be compromising to -some of the persons spoken of. I ask you why you made that sacrifice -of your professional time. I ask you not for information, because I -know the reason. Before you left Kilsyth, I heard that my sister was -receiving attention from a most undesirable quarter--from a quarter -whence it was impossible that any good could arise. My sister is, as I -have told you, dearer to me than my life, and the news distressed me -beyond measure. I turned it over and over in my mind; I made every -possible kind of inquiry. At length, on the evening on which you -arrived in London and called on me at my club, I knew that you were -the man alluded to by my informant."</p> - -<p>No change in Chudleigh Wilmot. His cheek is still flushed, his eyes -still cast down; still he moves restlessly in his chair, still his -hands pluck nervously at each other.</p> - -<p>"I knew it, and yet I hardly could believe it. I knew that men of your -profession, specially men of such eminence in your profession, were in -the habit of being received and treated with the utmost confidence; -which confidence was never abused. I knew that bystanders and -lookers-on, unaccustomed to illness, might very easily misconstrue the -attention which a physician would pay to a young lady whose case had -excited his strong professional interest. I--well, constrained to take -the worst view of it--I knew that you were a married man, and I -thought that you might have admired Miss Kilsyth, and that--that when -you left her--there--there would be an end of the feeling."</p> - -<p>No change in Chudleigh Wilmot. His cheek is still flushed, his eyes -still cast down; still he moves restlessly in his chair, still his -hands pluck nervously at each other. Something in his appearance -seemed to touch Ronald Kilsyth as he looked at him earnestly, for he -said:</p> - -<p>"I wish to God I could think so now, Dr. Wilmot! I wish to God I could -think so now! But though I don't pretend to be versed in these -matters, I have a certain amount of insight; and when I saw you -standing by my sister's side in the drawing-room in Brook-street -yesterday, I knew that the information I had received was correct." He -paused for an instant, and passed his hand across his forehead, then -resumed. "I am a blunt man, Dr. Wilmot, but I trust neither coarse nor -unsympathetic. I want to convey to you as quietly as possible that you -have made a mistake; that for everyone's sake--ours, Madeleine's, your -own--this thing cannot, must not be."</p> - -<p>A change in Chudleigh Wilmot now. He does not look up; he covers his -brow with his left hand; but he says in a deep husky voice:</p> - -<p>"There is--as you are aware--a change in my circumstances: I am--I am -free now; and perhaps--in the future--"</p> - -<p>"In no future, Dr. Wilmot," interrupted Ronald gravely, but not -unkindly. "Listen to me. If, as I half suspected you would, you had -flung yourself into a rage,--denied, stormed, protested,--I should -simply have said my say, and left you to make the best or the worst of -it. But you have not done this, and--and I pity you most sincerely. -You are, as you say, free now. You think probably there is no reason -why, at some future time, you should not ask my sister to become your -wife. You would probably urge your claims upon her gratitude--claims -which you think she might possibly be brought to allow. It can never -be, Dr. Wilmot. I, who am anything but, in this sense, a worldly man, -even I know that your presence at Kilsyth, your long stay there, to -the detriment of your home interests, your devotion to my sister, have -already given matter for talk to the gossips of society, and received -the usual amount of malicious comment. And if you have real regard for -Madeleine, you would give up anything to shield her from that, -indorsed as would be the imputation and intensified as would be the -malice, if your relations with her were to be on any other footing -than--they ought to have been."</p> - -<p>Quite silent now, Chudleigh Wilmot; his hand still covering his brow, -his head sunk upon his breast.</p> - -<p>"I said I pitied you; and I do," continued Ronald. "And here, -understand me, and let me explain one point in our position, Dr. -Wilmot. What I have to say, though it may pain you in one way, will, I -think, be satisfactory to you in another. You may think that Madeleine -may be destined by her family for some--I speak without the least -offence--some higher destiny; that her family would wish for her a -husband higher in social rank. I give you my honour that, as far as I -am concerned, I could not, from all I have heard of you, wish my -sister's future confided to a more honourable man. Social rank and -dignity weigh very little with me. My life is passed generally with -those who have won their spurs, rather than inherited their titles; -and I would infinitely sooner see my sister married to a man whose -successful position in life was due to himself than to one who merely -wore the reflected glory of his ancestors. So far you would have been -a suitor entirely acceptable to me, had there not been the other -unfortunate element in the matter."</p> - -<p>Ronald ceased speaking, and for some minutes there was a dead silence. -Then Chudleigh Wilmot raised his head, rose from his chair, and -commenced pacing the room with long strides; Ronald, perfectly -understanding his emotion, remaining passively seated. At length -Wilmot stopped by Ronald's chair, and said:</p> - -<p>"When you entered this room, you told me you had come here to speak to -me as a friend. I am bound to say that you have perfectly fulfilled -that implicit promise. No one could have been more frank, more candid, -and, I may say, more tender than you have been with me. My -profession," said Wilmot with a dreary smile,--"my profession teaches -us to touch wounds tenderly, and you seem to be thoroughly imbued with -the precept. You will do me the justice to allow that I have listened -to you patiently; that I have heard without flinching almost, -certainly without complaint."</p> - -<p>Ronald bowed his head in acquiescence.</p> - -<p>"Now, then, I must ask you to listen to me. What I have to say to you -is as sacred as what you have said to me, and will not, could not be -mentioned by me to another living soul. When I received your father's -telegram summoning me to your sister's bedside, there was no more -heart-whole man in Britain than myself. When I use the word -'heart-whole,' I do not intend it to convey the expression of a -perfect content in the affections I possessed, as you, knowing I was -married and settled, might understand it. I was heart-whole in the -sense that, while I was thoroughly skilled in the physical state of my -heart, its mental condition never gave me a thought. I had, as long as -I could recollect, been a very hard-working man. I had married, when I -first established myself in practice, principally, I believe, because -I thought it the most prudent thing for a young physician to do; but -certainly not from any feeling that ever caused my heart one extra -pulsation. You must not be shocked at this plain speaking. Recollect -that you are listening to an anatomical lecture, and go through with -it. All the years of my married life passed without any such feeling -being called into existence. My--my wife was a woman of quiet domestic -temperament, who pursued her way quietly through life; and I, -thoroughly engrossed in my professional pursuits, never thought that -life had anything better to engage in than ambition, better to offer -than success. I went to Kilsyth, and for weeks was engaged in -constant, unremitting attendance upon your sister. I saw her under -circumstances which must to a certain extent have invested the most -uninteresting woman in the world with interest; I saw her deserted and -shunned, by everyone else, and left entirely to my care; I saw her in -her access of delirium, and afterwards, when prostrate and weak, she -was dependent on me for everything she wanted. And while she and I -were thus together--I now combating the disease which assailed her, -now watching the sweet womanly patience, the more than womanly -courage, with which she supported its attacks--I, witnessing how pure -and good she was, how soft and gentle, and utterly unlike anything I -had ever seen, save perhaps in years long past, began to comprehend -that there was, after all, something to live for beyond the attainment -of success and the accumulation of fees."</p> - -<p>Wilmot stopped here, and looked at his companion; but Ronald's head -was turned away, and he made no movement; so Wilmot proceeded.</p> - -<p>I--I scarcely know how to go on here; but I determined to tell you -all, and I will go through with it. You cannot tell, you cannot have -the smallest idea of what I have suffered. You were pleased to call me -a man of honour: God alone knows how I struggled to deserve that title -from you, from every member of Miss Kilsyth's family. I succeeded so -well, that until I noticed the expression of your face yesterday, I -believed no one on earth knew of the state of my feelings towards that -young lady. At Kilsyth, when I first felt the fascination creeping -over me; when I found that there was another, a better and a brighter -be-all and end-all for human existence than I had previously imagined; -when I found that the whole of my career had hitherto lacked, and -under then existent circumstances was likely to lack, all that could -make it worth running after, the want had been discovered; I did my -best to shut my eyes to what might have been, and to content myself -with what was. I knew that though my--my wife and I had never -professed any extravagant affection for each other; that though we had -never been lovers, in the common acceptation of the word, she had -discharged her duty most faithfully to me, and that I should be a -scoundrel to be untrue to her in thought--in word, of course, from -other considerations, it was impossible. I did my best, and my best -availed. I succeeded so far, that I left your father's house with the -knowledge that my secret was locked in my own breast, and that I had -never made the slightest tentative advance to your sister, to see if -she were even aware of its existence. More than this. During my -attendance on Miss Kilsyth, I had discovered that she was suffering -from a threatening of what the world calls consumption. I felt it my -duty to mention this to your father, and he requested me to attend her -professionally when the family returned to London. I agreed--to him; -but I had long reflection on the subject during my return journey, and -had almost decided to decline, on some pretext or another.</p> - -<p>"Hear me but a little longer. I need not dwell to you upon the event -which has occurred since I left Scotland, and which has left me a free -man--free to enjoy legitimately that happiness, a dream of which -dawned upon me at Kilsyth, and which I shut out and put aside because -it was then wrong, and almost unattainable. Circumstances are now so -altered, that it is certainly not the former, and it is yet to be -proved whether, so far as the young lady is concerned, it is the -latter. In my desire to do right, even with the feeling of relief and -release which I had, even with the hope which I do not scruple to -confess I have nourished, I kept from Brook-street until a line from -Miss Kilsyth summoned me thither. When you met me yesterday, I was -there in obedience to her summons. You know that, I suppose, Captain -Kilsyth?'"</p> - -<p>"I made inquiries yesterday, and heard so. I said at the outset, Dr. -Wilmot, that you were a man of honour. Your conduct since your return, -and since the return of my family, weighed with me in the utterance of -that opinion."</p> - -<p>"I did not go to Brook-street--not that I did not fully comprehend the -change in the nature of my position since I had last seen Miss -Kilsyth, not that I had not a certain half-latent feeling of hope that -I might, now I had the legitimate chance, be enabled to rouse an -interest in her, but because I thought it was perhaps better to stay -away. If I did not see her again, I preposterously attempted to argue -to myself, the feeling that I had for her might die out. I have seen -her again. I have heard from you that my feelings towards your sister -are known--at least to you; and now I ask you whether you still think -that, under existing circumstances, it is impossible for me to ask -Miss Kilsyth to be my wife at some future date?"</p> - -<p>As Chudleigh Wilmot stopped speaking, he bent over the back of the -chair by which he had been standing during the latter part of his -speech, and looked long and earnestly at Ronald. It was very seldom -that Captain Kilsyth dropped his eyes before anyone's gaze; but on -this occasion he passed his hand hastily across them, and kept them -for some minutes fixed upon the ground. A very hard struggle was going -on in Ronald Kilsyth's mind. He was firmly persuaded that the decision -he had originally taken, and which he had come to Charles-street for -the purpose of insisting on with Wilmot, was the right one. And yet -Wilmot's story, in itself so touching, had been so plainly and -earnestly told, there was such evident honesty and candour in the man, -that Ronald's heart ached to be compelled to destroy the hopes which -he felt certain that his companion had recently cherished. Moreover, -in saying that in considering Madeleine's future, his aspirations for -her marriage took no heed of rank or wealth, Ronald simply spoke the -truth. He had a slight tendency to hero-worship; and a man of Wilmot's -talent, and, as he now found, of Wilmot's integrity and gentlemanly -feeling, was just the person of whose friendship and alliance he would -have been proud. Madeleine too? In his own heart Ronald felt perfectly -certain that Madeleine was already gratefully fond of her preserver, -and would soon become as passionately attached to him as the mildness -of her nature would admit; while he knew that she would not feel that -she was descending from her social position--that she was "marrying -beneath her," to use the ordinarily accepted phrase, in the smallest -degree. And yet--no, it was impossible! He, Ronald Kilsyth, the last -man in the world to care for the talk of "<i>on</i>," "they," "everybody," -the social scandal, and the club chatter, while it concerned himself, -shrunk from it most sensitively when it threatened anyone dear to -him. Physicians were all very well--everyone knew them of course, -necessarily; but their wives--Ronald was trying to recollect how many -physicians' wives he had ever met in society, when he recollected that -it was Madeleine, who would of course hold her own position; and--and -then came a thought of Lady Muriel, and the influence which she had -over his father when they were both tolerably agreed upon the subject. -It was impossible; and he must say so.</p> - -<p>He looked up straightforwardly and honestly at his companion, and -said, "I wish to God that I could give you a different answer, Dr. -Wilmot; but I cannot. I still think it is impossible."</p> - -<p>"I think so too," said Wilmot sadly. "I have looked at it, as you may -imagine, from the most hopeful aspect; and even then I am compelled to -confess that you are right. But, see here, Captain Kilsyth; whatever I -make up my mind to I can go through with,--all save slow torture. My -doom must be short and sharp--no lingering death. What I mean to say -is," he continued, striving to repress the knot rising in his -throat,--"what I mean to say is, that as I am to give up this hope of -my life, I must quench it utterly and at once, not suffer it to -smoulder and die out. You tell me--no!" he added, as Ronald put out -his hand. "I do not mean you personally, believe me. I am told that I -must abandon any idea of asking Miss Kilsyth to be my wife, and--and I -agree. But--I must never see Miss Kilsyth again. I could not risk the -chance of meeting her here, there, and everywhere. I would not run the -chance of being thrown with her again. I should do my best to hold to -the line of conduct I have marked out for myself; but I am but mortal, -and, as such, liable to err."</p> - -<p>"Then, in heaven's name, what do you intend to do with yourself?" -asked Ronald, with one hand plucking at his moustache, and the other -hooked round the back of the chair.</p> - -<p>"To do with myself!" echoed Wilmot. "To fly from temptation. The thing -that every sensible man does when he really means to win. It is only -your braggarts who stop and vaunt the excellence of their virtue, and -give in after all. Read that letter, Captain Kilsyth, and you will see -that I have anticipated the object of your visit."</p> - -<p>Ronald took the letter to Sir Saville Rowe which Wilmot handed to him, -and read it through carefully. The tears stood in his eyes as he -handed it back.</p> - -<p>"You're a noble fellow, Dr. Wilmot," said he; "such a gentleman as one -seldom meets with. But this will never do. You must never think of -giving up your practice."</p> - -<p>"For a time at least; it is the only way. I must cure myself of a -disease that has laid firm hold upon me before I can be of any use to -my patients, I fancy."</p> - -<p>"When do you purpose going?"</p> - -<p>"At once, or within the week."</p> - -<p>"And where?"</p> - -<p>"I don't know. Through Germany--to Vienna, I imagine. Vienna is a -great stronghold of the <i>savans</i> of our profession; and I should give -out that I was bound thither on a professional mission."</p> - -<p>"I feel as though there is nothing I would not give to dissuade you -from carrying out what only half an hour since my heart was so -earnestly set upon. But is it absolutely necessary that you should -thus exile yourself? Could you not--"</p> - -<p>"I can take no half measures," said Wilmot decisively. "I go, or I -stay; and we have both decided what I had better do."</p> - -<p> -Five minutes more and Ronald was gone, after a short and earnest -speech of gratitude and thanks to Wilmot, in which he had said that it -would be impossible ever to forget his manly chivalry, and that he -hoped they would soon meet under happier auspices. He wrung Wilmot's -hand at parting, and left, sensibly affected.</p> - -<p>Wilmot's servant heard the hall-door shut behind the departing -visitor, and wondered he had not been rung for. Five minutes more -elapsed, ten minutes, and then the man, thinking that his master had -overlooked the fact that the carriage was waiting for him, went up to -the room to make the announcement. When he entered the room, he found -his master with his head upon the table in front of him clasped in his -hands. He looked up at the sound of the man's voice and murmured -something unintelligible, seized his hat and gloves from the -hall-table, and jumped into his brougham.</p> - -<p>"He was ghastly pale when he first looked up," said the man to the -female circle downstairs, "and had great red lines round his eyes. -Sometimes I think he's gone off his 'ead! He's never been the same man -since missus's death."</p> -<br> -<br> -<br> -<br> -<h4>END OF VOL. I.</h4> -<br> -<br> -<br> -<h5>PRINTING OFFICE OF THE PUBLISHER.</h5> -br/> -<br> -<br> - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's The Forlorn Hope (Vol. 1 of 2), by Edmund Yates - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE FORLORN HOPE (VOL. 1 OF 2) *** - -***** This file should be named 60072-h.htm or 60072-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/0/0/7/60072/ - -Produced by Charles Bowen from page scans provided by Google Books -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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