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diff --git a/old/67437-0.txt b/old/67437-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index a439f45..0000000 --- a/old/67437-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,9437 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of Dr. Paull’s Theory, by Mrs. A. M. -Diehl - -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 -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: Dr. Paull’s Theory - A Romance - -Author: Mrs. A. M. Diehl - -Release Date: February 18, 2022 [eBook #67437] - -Language: English - -Produced by: Richard Tonsing and the Online Distributed Proofreading - Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from - images generously made available by The Internet Archive) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DR. PAULL’S THEORY *** - - - - - - DR. PAULL’S THEORY - _A ROMANCE_ - - - BY - - MRS. A. M. DIEHL - AUTHOR OF THE GARDEN OF EDEN, ETC. - -[Illustration] - - NEW YORK - D. APPLETON AND COMPANY - 1893 - - - - - COPYRIGHT, 1893, - BY D. APPLETON AND COMPANY. - - - ELECTROTYPED AND PRINTED - AT THE APPLETON PRESS, U. S. A. - - - - - DEDICATED TO - HENRY IRVING, ESQ. - - - - - CONTENTS. - - - CHAPTER PAGE - I. FATE 1 - - II. AN INITIAL LETTER 12 - - III. EXTRACT FROM THE DIARY OF HUGH PAULL 25 - - IV. A MORAL DUEL 56 - - V. A STARTLING PROPOSAL 82 - - VI. THE LOCKET 104 - - VII. FOUND IN AN OLD NOTEBOOK OF LILIA PYM 123 - - VIII. DIARY OF HUGH PAULL 139 - - IX. THE BEGINNING OF THE SEQUEL 155 - - X. A DISAPPOINTMENT 186 - - XI. MERCEDES 197 - - XII. “’TWIXT THE CUP AND THE LIP” 213 - - XIII. HER DREAM 224 - - XIV. A QUESTIONABLE DOCTRINE 238 - - XV. EXTRACT FROM THE DIARY OF DR. HUGH PAULL 251 - - XVI. MIZPAH 268 - - - - - DR. PAULL’S THEORY. - - - - - CHAPTER I. - FATE. - - -Hugh Paull, house-surgeon to a great City hospital, was seated at his -writing-desk. During his spare time he was working at a treatise on -nervous disease, the special subject which attracted him. It was a day -when a certain public event was disturbing the usual City routine. The -thoroughfares near to the hospital were blocked, and his room was -quieter than usual. He had almost forgotten that he was liable to be -disturbed, when a tap came at his door. - -“Wanted, sir. Accident just brought in.” - -The porter spoke, standing in the doorway. - -Hugh laid down his pen with a sigh. - -“Has Mr. Hamley taken the case?” - -“Yes, sir. They are getting him into the ward. Old gentleman—carriage -accident. Horse frightened and bolted. Two bobbies brought him in.” - -“All right, I’ll come.” - -He put aside his manuscript, and went down to the accident ward. The -“sister” of the ward, two nurses, and young Hamley, a dresser, were -standing round the recumbent figure of a fine old man, who lay on his -narrow bed still as death, his pale features composed, his grey hair -tossed upon the pillow. It was a grand face—a model for a painter. - -As Paull neared the group the two nurses moved away to bring forward and -unfold a screen. - -“Take it away,” he said. - -“I think he’s gone, or nearly so,” said the dresser, a fair young man, -his face flushing. He had asked for the screen, usually drawn around the -dying or dead. - -“Nothing of the sort,” said Hugh. He felt the patient’s pulse, listened -at his heart, opened the closed eyelids, placed his hand lightly on his -brow, which was cold and clammy, then ordered him to be undressed, -himself assisting the nurses to rip up the coat-sleeves. - -There were no injuries. It was a case of concussion of the brain. The -groom was having his slight wounds dressed in the out-patients’ -department; and Hugh learned from him that his master, whom he appeared -to hold greatly in awe, was Sir Roderick Pym, one of the partners in the -well-known banking firm of Pym, Clithero and Pym. He had a town house in -a West-end square, and a country house in Surrey, where he mostly lived. -He was staying in town for a few days, and had insisted on driving -towards the City to-day, in spite of the warning issued by the police to -the public. Moreover, he insisted on driving a thoroughbred mare, who no -sooner got among quite a small assemblage of roughs than she kicked up -her heels and was off. The groom stuck to the tilbury till the final -crash, but his master fell out shortly before. That was all he knew (or -chose to tell). He was a town groom. He never went into the country. He -would return home and tell Sir Roderick’s housekeeper. She would come -round and see about their master. - -Hugh went thoughtfully back to the ward, and standing at the foot of the -bed gazed at the solemn, set face of the unconscious man. He was -interested—unusually so. This old man’s aquiline, grave face was full of -expression. Peaceful and composed as it was now, it was the countenance -of one who had suffered, and suffered deeply. - -“His eyelids quivered a little when the ice-bag was applied, sir,” said -the nurse who was watching the patient. - -Hugh was once more gravely examining the case, when the stout, matronly -personage, in a high cap and huge white apron, who was called the -“sister” of the ward, came from the little room at its end, through the -square window of which she could see all that was going on in the long -room with the rows of beds. - -“I thought I would give you these, Mr. Paull. I would rather not have -anything to do with them,” she said, handing Hugh a massive gold watch -and chain, a purse, and some letters and papers. - -“I will see to them, sister,” he said. - -Giving directions as to the immediate treatment of Sir Roderick, he -returned to his room to lock them away in a small iron safe, where -certain of the hospital books and cases of instruments were kept. The -watch was a hunter. It struck him that the glass might be broken. It -was. He shook out the fragments; then, seeing a locket attached to the -chain, he opened that. - -The glass of this was intact, and covered the coloured photograph of a -woman’s face—sweet, bright, fair, with smiling lips and dark eyes, that -even on lifeless paper looked mischief and pretty defiance. - -He shut up the locket in a hurry—he had not meant prying—and placing the -contents of Sir Roderick’s pockets in a corner of the safe, turned the -key upon them. - -“This is my quiet day’s work,” he thought, with a sigh. It was useless -to sit down to a scientific treatise, for which the most complete -abstraction was an absolute necessity, when at any moment he might be -summoned to this unexpected and important case; so he put the scattered -sheets of manuscript together, and re-arranged the books of reference -that he had piled on chairs by his writing-table in their rightful -places on the book-shelves. Then he sat down in his American chair, and -stared at the fire. - -“A strange old face,” he was thinking, “massive, thoughtful. Quite a -Rembrandt head. I wonder how old he is—whether he will get over it? -Nasty shock, anyhow. Must have fallen on a soft bit of road; if it had -been the kerb, or cobbles even, it might have been all over with him.” - -It seemed to Paull that he must have seen that face before. Yet this -could scarcely be. He had come to the hospital from his country home. He -was the only son of the Rector of Kilby, in Derbyshire, and had seldom -gone out, except to the museums and to scientific lectures; his ambition -kept him chained to its object—his profession. - -“The sort of face one sometimes dreams of,” he concluded. “I thought I -was past nonsense of this sort. This latest thing in accidents has upset -me as if I were a girl.” - -Presently, the “gentleman’s housekeeper” was announced, and a portly -dame, handsomely dressed in dark silk and a fur-trimmed cloak, entered. -At once Hugh banished all idea of the locket and Mrs. Naylor having the -faintest connecting link. - -Sir Roderick’s housekeeper was comely, and good-looking in her buxom -way. But although there was anxiety in her enquiries, and evident relief -in her manner when Paull gave her hopes that her employer might recover, -the ruddiness did not forsake her cheeks, nor was she in the least -flurried. - -“I feared something might happen, that I did,” she said, accepting a -chair. “The groom, David, he didn’t half like going behind that mare. -Sir Roderick’s a first-rate driver; they do say at both riding and -driving he can manage anything in the way of a horse. But there, I’ve -seen that Kitty in the stable, and I know she’s that bad-tempered—but, -lor! no one daren’t say one word to Sir Roderick.” - -Paull asked if there were no near relations who might be sent for, or -informed of her master’s condition. - -“Mr. Edmund—that’s Sir Roderick’s next eldest brother—had dinner with -him last night,” she answered, doubtfully, “But he’s taken his family to -see the procession. Mr. Pym—that’s the eldest, the head of the -firm—isn’t on what you might call good terms with Sir Roderick, who has -nothing to do with the bank now.” - -“Were those all?” asked Hugh. - -Mrs. Naylor could not suggest anyone else. Sir Roderick—well, he was one -of those gentlemen that you didn’t know how to take. You might offend -him mortally, and you wouldn’t know it except by his never having -anything to do with you afterwards. - -“You would rather not take any responsibility in the matter then, Mrs. -Naylor?” asked Hugh, slightly amused. - -The character of that strange man, lying for the present dead to the -world without, was being unexpectedly revealed to him. - -“I certainly would rather not, sir,” said Mrs. Naylor, briskly. - -“But you will not object to give me his brother’s address?” - -Mrs. Naylor being quite ready to give Mr. Edmund Pym’s address, Hugh -wrote it down. Then he offered to take Mrs. Naylor to see her master. - -From this she seemed to shrink; and it was only after being adjured that -it was her duty to remain, at all events, in the hospital, until someone -else belonging to Sir Roderick came—that she consented to visit the -ward. - -Mr. Edmund Pym arrived to visit his brother about nine in the evening: a -singularly impassive personage, who showed no emotion whatever of any -kind, and who departed as soon as possible. - -Mrs. Naylor, evidently greatly relieved, slipped away after she had had -a short interview with her master’s brother. - -At ten o’clock the old man still lay on the hospital bed—breathing, -living, but apparently dead to all around him. - -“What do you think of him, Mr. Paull?” asked the Sister, as Hugh went -his last round—at least the round which was usually his last. - -“Think of him?” repeated Hugh, absently. “Oh—well—Dr. Fairlight will be -here in the morning. He will take the case. Tell the night nurse I shall -be down in an hour.” - -“You’re not going to sit up, Mr. Paull?” - -“I think I shall.” - -The Sister looked from patient to doctor, as Hugh went striding out of -the ward, and back again to the livid, solemn face on the pillow. - -“That young cabman’s case last week was a good deal worse than this,” -she mused, “and he didn’t sit up. I suppose the old gentleman’s age -makes him anxious.” - -Hugh Paull, with his odd attractiveness, his scrupulous fidelity to his -duties, and his learning, which was acknowledged by the great men who -were appointed to the hospital, as well as by his fellow-workers, was -the hero of the resident staff, both doctors and nurses; and it did not -enter the good Sister’s head to dream that any other motive but that of -devotion to duty led to this sacrifice of a night’s rest, and singular -departure from ordinary hospital routine. - -Yet when Hugh took up his position at the patient’s bedside with some -books as the possible companions of his vigil, he smiled to himself with -a cynical wonder. - -“Why am I doing this?” he asked himself. Why, indeed? He could have been -summoned if any change took place. He could have ordered an extra night -nurse for Sir Roderick. Why should he go out of his way for a strange -man? Because this old man’s brother and the housekeeper had behaved so -coolly, and his sense of humanity was aroused? Because this human -windfall in the accident ward was Sir Roderick Pym, of Pym, Clithero & -Pym? No! for neither of these reasons. Hugh Paull was in the habit of -self-interrogation. His dissatisfaction with ordinary life as ordinary -people took it had made him desperately in earnest; and being -desperately in earnest, had made— - - “To thine own self be true, - Thou canst not then be false to any man,” - -one of his governing mottoes. As he settled himself to his night watch -he grimly told himself that he was here for the sole reason that he knew -he could not without a struggle have kept away. Sir Roderick Pym -attracted him like a magnet. Why, he had still to learn. - -Alternately watching the slightest movement of the patient, and reading, -the night wore on. There was silence in the long ward. The rows of beds -loomed whitely in the distance. The fire crackled. Now and then there -was a sigh or a weary moan. The distant clatter of cab-wheels, the howl -of a restless dog, or the slow rumbling of the market-waggons, were the -only signs that not all in London slept, as did these victims of -carelessness or misadventure within the quiet stone building. - -Between one and two o’clock, Sir Roderick gave signs of returning -consciousness. As the night nurse glided from bed to bed, administering -medicine to those patients for whom it had been ordered, he opened his -eyes, and muttered something. Then he moved his head on his pillow, -turned, and gradually subsided into natural sleep. - -After Hugh was completely satisfied that this was real slumber—“tired -Nature’s sweet restorer,” indeed—he might safely have sought “balmy -sleep” for his own solace; but by this time he was so wide awake, and -his brain so fit for study, that he remained. Sir Roderick slept for -hours as placidly as an infant, while Hugh studied with all his might -and strength. - -At six o’clock the night nurse brought him a cup of tea, and -congratulated him on the changed appearance of the patient. - -“Yes; he’ll do now, I think,” said Hugh, contentedly. - -The clatter of the spoon in the saucer, or the whispering, or both, -aroused Sir Roderick. He opened his eyes, and stared at Hugh, first -wildly, then with an amazed expression. - -“Kemble, in _Hamlet_,” he muttered. Then, as Hugh bit his lip to -restrain a smile—a shaken brain must not be irritated—he frowned and -stared, stared and frowned, then jerked his head away as from an -unpleasant object. - -Since the old man had been resolutely driving into the City, against -much warning and advice, all had been a blank. Now he was awakening amid -the most unpleasant sensations: his limbs heavy as lead, his head -curiously light. At first he squinted at the strange objects around him, -struggling to focus them aright, like a semi-conscious infant. As his -sight adjusted itself, he found that there were really many beds—a row -of beds. He began to count them, but before he had reached two figures -he felt sick and faint, and instinctively turned back for help. - -A lithe strong arm was round him, a glass with some cordial was at his -lips. He swallowed the draught, and helplessly subsided. - -As he revived he began to think. - -“This is real,” was his first thought. “What has happened to me?” - -After the thought had hummed about in his mind like a spinning-top, it -subsided, tottered, and tumbled. He, as it were, picked it up. - -“Who am I?” he stammered, suddenly, to Hugh, who was sitting near, his -eyes alert. He had not meant that, but it came out higgledy-piggledy, -somehow, and he listened to his own voice wonderingly. - -“You are quite safe, Sir Roderick Pym,” said Hugh, gently. “A few hours -ago you were thrown out of your carriage, and were brought here. You -have been slightly—faint—but you will soon be all right again, and able -to go home.” - -“A—hospital!” Sir Roderick looked round with evident disgust. -“Who—knows?” he added, with a glance of alarm. - -Hugh hastened to relate details, slowly, clearly, while the nurse -administered some light nourishment. - -Sir Roderick listened attentively. The only question he asked was if his -mare, Kitty, had suffered. - -“I wouldn’t have had anything happen to Kitty,” he began, emphatically. -Then, as he glanced up at Hugh from under his shaggy grey eyebrows, he -seemed to remember that he was speaking to a stranger, and stopping -short, sank wearily back. - -“I took you for a vision of ‘Hamlet,’” he said, with a short laugh. “You -looked like it—all black against the light, bending over your books.” - -“My black clothes?” said Hugh. “I am just in mourning for my mother. I -am house-surgeon here.” - -Sir Roderick looked at him less coldly, and murmured some thanks. Then -he asked the time. - -“I want to telegraph. I was expected home—in the country—to-day,” he -said. “Perhaps—I could go this afternoon.” - -Hugh convinced him that this would be, if not impossible, the height of -imprudence. - -Sir Roderick listened to reason, but bargained that he should write a -telegram now, at once, while he was able. - -So excitedly did he plead, that Hugh reluctantly fetched a telegram form -from the secretary’s room, and propped his troublesome patient up in the -bed, that he might fill it in himself. - -But the pencil fell from Sir Roderick’s fingers, the effort made him -feel faint. - -Not till an hour after was the telegram despatched, and then it was Hugh -who had written it at Sir Roderick’s dictation:— - - “_To L. Pym, The Pinewood_, - “_Near F——, Surrey_. - - “_Am detained by important business. Will return as soon as possible. - Keep all letters, and do not see visitors._ - - _Roderick Pym._” - -“To his wife, presumably,” thought Hugh, as he left his patient to the -day nurse, who was fresh from her night’s rest; and as he thought this -he sneered: “Younger than her lord and master; very much under his -thumb, too, evidently. Married him for his money, of course! The -original of the portrait in the locket, doubtless. Fancy the jealous -prudence of the old fox! Wouldn’t write ‘Lady Pym,’ only put ‘L.’ I -wondered why he hesitated so long before yielding up the name. Poor old -fellow! A young wife, with that mischievous face! Why didn’t the -housekeeper mention her?” - -Hugh went about his day’s work strangely dissatisfied, and had never -felt more annoyed with anyone in his life than with the Sister of the -accident ward when she told Dr. Fairlight that he had kindly remained -all night by Sir Roderick’s bedside. - - - - - CHAPTER II. - AN INITIAL LETTER. - - -Sir Roderick decidedly improved on acquaintance. During the next two -days his health promised to return. He declined the offer of a private -ward. - -“I like to watch what goes on,” he said to Hugh. “Of course there is a -good deal to see that is painful. But I may not have such an opportunity -of realising certain conditions of human nature again.” - -Then he descanted upon the different cases, upon the various -characteristics of the maimed and injured men who were either inmates, -or who were brought in, upon the method and patient quietude of the -nurses, &c. - -“You are a practised observer,” said Hugh. Upon which they began a -conversation that partially showed Hugh there was a bond of sympathy -between them. Both were dissatisfied with life generally, and with -certain matters particularly. Both were prompted to study deeply, and -ponder much on the great problems which have puzzled philosophers from -Thales to Schopenhauer; and although Sir Roderick was a materialist and -pessimist, and Hugh had taken refuge in a high ideal optimism which was -to a certain extent original, they met on the common ground of mental -disquietude. - -Seen thus, Sir Roderick seemed another man. Weak though he still was, -his eyes sparkled, his face was brightened by an almost youthful -animation. Hugh was about to end the interview, fearing overfatigue for -his patient, when Sir Roderick stopped short. His countenance changed. -His brother, Mr. Edmund Pym, came into the ward with the secretary of -the hospital. - -Edmund Pym was a short, wizened little man, with pinched features and -blinking eyes, scant white hair and smooth shaven face. Greater -opposites in personal appearance than these two brothers could hardly -be. - -He glanced at Hugh through his eye-glass, nodded, somewhat awkwardly -asked the invalid how he was getting on, then stood fidgeting at the -bedside. - -Hugh offered him a chair, but Sir Roderick gave him such a look that he -would have retired precipitately but for his patient’s apologetic— - -“Pray don’t go, Mr. Paull, I want to speak to you. My brother cannot -stay long.” - -“No, I cannot stay long,” said Mr. Edmund, uncomfortably. “I only came -in to see how you were getting on, and to tell you how sorry Mary and -the girls are about this. Mary will come and see you, if you like?” - -“But I don’t like,” interrupted Sir Roderick, pettishly. “Tell -her—anything you please. I don’t mind Mary and the girls when I am well. -But they can’t come here. If they do, I sha’n’t see them.” - -Mr. Pym nervously assured his brother that “Mary and the girls” would -not dream of doing anything to displease him. They were most anxious to -show their solicitude and sympathy, that was all. - -“Tell them that as long as they hold their tongues and don’t gossip -about my infernal accident, they may do what they please,” said Sir -Roderick, surlily. “And if they must chatter about it, tell them to pray -for me. Yes, tell them that. They’ll think the black sheep is coming -into the fold at last. It’ll please them, and won’t do me any harm.” - -Mr. Edmund Pym was evidently embarrassed, and did not stay long. Hugh -pitied him, and accompanying him to the end of the ward apologised for -the irascibility of the patient, which was not only natural after the -shock, but was, if anything, a favorable symptom, &c. - -“Oh! I am accustomed to my brother, Mr. Paull,” he said, with a -gentleness that touched the young house-surgeon. “He is naturally -irritable. We take it for what it is worth. He has had a great deal of -trouble in his life, and it has soured him. And he is quite a recluse. -But he has a good heart, a wonderfully kind heart.” - -Then he thanked Hugh for his attention to the patient and hurried off, -evidently relieved that the visit was over. - -“H’m!” muttered Hugh to himself, as he slowly returned to the patient. -“H’m! It strikes me that my pessimistic friend is, like most pessimists, -a bit of a Tartar.” - -Sir Roderick welcomed him with a forced smile. - -“I daresay you think me ungracious?” he said, his long, withered hand -nervously fingering the bedclothes. “I’m not—at least, not exactly. I -can put up with my brother when I’m well, but just now I can’t. The fact -is, he is one of the most woman-ridden men on the face of the earth. His -wife is a bigot and a snob, and brings up her daughters bigots and -snobs. And they rule him. Rule him? They sit upon him. They drive him, -like the old donkey he is. He was always the same. At school they called -him Neddy, because he took everything so meekly. It used to enrage me, -youngster as I was. I used to say to him: ‘Man, why can’t you hold up -your head?’ And I’ve gone on saying it to him all through life. If -there’s one thing I despise, it’s a man who can’t hold up his head and -defend himself.” - -“Against the women?” suggested Hugh. He had seated himself in the chair -he had offered Mr. Pym. His arms were folded. He saw that he must treat -Sir Roderick boldly, if they were to be friends. And some inward feeling -told him that Fate, or Providence, had brought them together—that at -least they were to be well acquainted with each other, if nothing more. -“I am afraid, sir, that you are a woman-hater.” - -He half expected his patient to turn upon him somewhat after the manner -in which he had snubbed his brother, in which case he would have left -the old gentleman to himself, as far as conversation went, for the -future. Instead, Sir Roderick smiled, and seemed gratified. - -“No, Hamlet, my friend,” he said, with a sort of pleased chuckle, -leaning back against his pillows. “You must excuse my calling you -Hamlet, but with your serious speculative nature, the name seems to fit -you exactly. No, I am no woman-hater. I know we can’t do without them. -But I object to them out of their proper place, as I object to cats out -of the kitchen, or mastiffs and Newfoundlands in the drawing-room. The -drudge woman and the ornamental woman are necessary evils. When strictly -kept under, they serve their purpose. But bowed down to and worshipped -as my unfortunate brother fetishes his womankind, they are only fit for -extermination—as if they were so many rats.” He spoke viciously. Then -turning to Hugh, he said: “I suppose you consider me a barbarian? Like -the rest, you adore a petticoat—eh?” - -“No,” said Hugh. “But I can’t say I am with you in the extermination -idea; I have not known any domineering women. My mother was soft, -gentle—more a helpmeet than a companion to my father, who is a very -studious man. She was his right hand. His is not a mind to require a -second self. My sisters are like her.” - -“I understand,” said Sir Roderick, in a depreciatory tone. “Good -specimens of the domestic genus. But what about the lady-love, the ideal -realised, the creature apart—eh?” - -“I have so many, you see, Sir Roderick,” said Hugh. “Silent lassies, who -only speak when spoken to, and wait patiently side by side for days, -even weeks, till I throw the handkerchief. Their petticoats are -half-calf—morocco—cloth, lettered—” - -“Oh! your books,” said the old man. “Ah! well, your turn will come, your -turn will come! And the longer you wait the worse it’ll be.” - -“May your words not come true,” said Hugh, as he went off, amused, -yet—when he thought of the portrait in the locket, and of the telegram -sent to “L. Pym”—somewhat puzzled. - -During the time that Sir Roderick remained in the hospital—between three -and four days—the subject of the fair sex was mutually tabooed by doctor -and patient. They had interesting conversations, and Sir Roderick -expressing a wish to see Hugh’s treatise, the evening before the old -gentleman left the hospital he supped in the house-surgeon’s room, and -Hugh read him portions of the work, which he was pleased greatly to -approve. - -“You must come and see me in the country,” he said, when, after writing -a check for a handsome donation to the hospital fund, and insisting upon -Hugh’s acceptance of a ruby ring he had ordered to be sent from his town -house, he was taking leave of those of the staff who had been good -Samaritans to him in his weakness. “You must come and stay. They think -me an unsociable old brute, do my neighbors and people round about. But -they wouldn’t care for me if they knew me. We have nothing in common. My -friends are men of about my own age, with similar tastes. I hope you and -I will be friends. Although I am nearly old enough to be your -grandfather—minds like yours don’t count by years.” - -Hugh answered that he was grateful, obliged—hoped they would be friends, -certainly, etcetera. But as Sir Roderick leaned forward and nodded -gravely to him from his brougham window when the carriage drove off, he -felt a strange sensation—was it an uneasy feeling of aversion for this -peculiar patient who had occupied his time and his thoughts these few -days? Was he relieved by his departure? He could not tell. The ruby ring -on his finger almost annoyed him. He locked it away in his desk, and -tried to lock away the recollection of Sir Roderick with it. - -Then he went about his work with a strange oppression of mind and -weariness of body. It was an operating day. A most interesting—in fact, -a thrilling operation took place in the theatre—one which set all the -students and surgical nurses talking. But at the most critical moment he -seemed to see Sir Roderick’s face and to hear that short, cynical laugh. -He felt as if he were haunted. - -As the days and weeks went on, the sensation lessened. But when the post -came in he generally remembered Sir Roderick. At least, for the first -few weeks after the accident he looked for the large, crooked scrawl he -had noticed on the cheque, among his correspondence. When no letter, no -news came of the strange old man, he began to think of their short -acquaintance as of one of those purposeless episodes which occur in the -lives of most medical men. - -As spring blossomed into summer, he began to forget. When he had his -short holiday, and was once more in his childhood’s home among the -fields and woods, with flowers scenting the summer air and the birds -singing all around, the remembrance of the weird old Rembrandt face on -the pillow in the hospital ward came back into his mind as might some -curious dream. Alas! it would have been better for Hugh Paull if indeed -it could have been but a dream. - -Kilby was a picturesque village among the Derbyshire hills. A stream ran -through the smiling little valley. It meandered through the rectory -grounds. There was no regular village street. There were groups of -cottages clustering together about the old inn, and around the church. -The rectory was a grey stone, gabled house, in grounds that the Reverend -John Paull had enlarged and improved each year since he “read himself -in” twenty-seven years ago. In front of the house was a large, square -lawn, with spreading beeches and straight conifers on either side. -Opposite, a yew hedge divided the lawn from the beautiful flower garden -with the masses of bloom bordering the winding paths. Then came the -river, famous for its succulent trout, and beyond, grassy banks, a row -of elms, and the sloping hills. - -Although Hugh missed the genial presence of his sweet-faced little -mother, his father seemed determined to be cheery during his visit, and -his sisters Maud and Daisy had made up their minds to be bright in their -brother’s presence, so only indulged in their inevitable fits of grief -in private. - -“Do not let—Hugh—miss me,” had been their mother’s constant exhortation -during her last brief illness. “He is such a gloomy boy. Pray be -cheerful with him.” - -Mrs. Paull herself had lived cheerfully; and as she had lived, so she -died—with a smile of encouragement to those around her on her lips. To -her, life was merely one scene in the eternal drama of the human soul. - -When the rector chose the words, “She is not dead, but sleepeth,” to be -engraven on the stone at the head of her grave, he felt indeed that his -Maggie was not, could not be dead. Dead? Sometimes he believed they were -nearer and dearer to each other now than when for the first time he took -his love into his arms and kissed her lips. - -Thus it was hardly a house of mourning into which Hugh came. As soon as -he became accustomed to the empty chair, the absence of the kindly -voice, and the sombre garments of his sisters and the maids, he -successfully fought low spirits. - -The ordeal of the first visit to his mother’s grave over, he also -struggled to be unselfish, and not to add to his father’s and sisters’ -grief by a mournful presence. So he walked about the parish with the -rector as usual, drove his sisters in the pony-chaise, and fished with -them in the old haunts of the capricious trout, which sometimes suddenly -and unaccountably changed their favourite lurking-places, and as -suddenly and unaccountably returned to them again. - -In the evenings, when the Rector glanced through the papers and the -girls worked by the light of the shaded lamps, he told them stories of -the hospital: the strange beings that came under his notice, the hard, -cruel tales of some of their lives. - -About a week after his arrival, he was reminded of Sir Roderick. In the -weekly journal, _Speculative Thought_, there was a letter on some -subject that bore upon certain theories he held in regard to animal -magnetism. It was signed “R. Pym.” At dinner he inquired of his father -whether he had noticed it. He had not. So, after dinner Hugh read it -aloud. - -“Why, I should have thought you had written that,” said his father. -“That is a pet theory of yours, is it not?” - -“The old thief!” said Hugh, half to himself, but with an amused smile. -“At least, I have no right to say that. It is written by Sir Roderick -Pym. Of that I have little or no doubt. We had a discussion on the -subject. He defended the opposite view. Now, he is on my side. That is -what I can’t make out.” - -“You brought him round to your way of thinking, I suppose,” said the -rector, with a satisfied glance at his son. “You certainly have the gift -of persuasion. Many a time, in our walks and talks, you have staggered -me. I have felt that your hypotheses were uncalled for and preposterous. -But for the life of me I could not advance anything solid in the way of -refutation.” - -“You certainly haven’t got the gift of persuasion, papa,” said the -fair-haired, round-faced Daisy. “Giles was drunk again last night. Mary -Giles has a black eye to-day. I am sure I thought your sermon on Sunday -week would do something. But old Brown went to the Arms just the same -all last week, Mrs. Brown told me. I said, quite aghast: ‘What! after -papa’s sermon?’ And she said: ‘Lawk, miss, Brown do go to church, I -know, but he allers settles hisself for a good sleep while the sermon’s -a-goin’ on.’” - -“One man, single-handed, is powerless against alcohol,” said the rector, -helplessly. “I’ve fought it these seven-and-twenty years, and haven’t -scored a point. If they will drink, they will drink—an earthquake would -not stop them.” - -The conversation drifted away from Sir Roderick Pym. But next morning it -drifted back again. - -“There is a letter for you, Hugh; such a curious-looking letter,” said -Maud, a tall, dark, handsome girl, who was pouring out the tea and -coffee when her brother came down to breakfast. “A most original -handwriting. You must tell me whose it is. I have been reading up -graphology lately, and there seems to me a great deal of sense in it. At -least, my friends’ handwritings correspond wonderfully with what I know -of their characters.” - -“I warn you, Maud is getting quite a dangerous person,” said Daisy, with -wide-open eyes. “I found her reading one of your medical books the other -day, Hugh.” - -But Hugh did not hear, or heed her. He was turning over the square, grey -envelope, with a big black P stamped on the flap. The first -communication from Sir Roderick after ten weeks’ silence. There was no -mistaking the large, crooked scrawl. The stamp was stuck on corner-ways. -After turning over the closed letter once more, he replaced it by his -plate and began his breakfast. He could not bring himself to open that -letter in the presence of his sisters. Why, he could not have told. - -“You are not going to open your letter?” asked Daisy, wonderingly, as -she took her brother’s egg out of the egg-boiler. - -He was saved the reply by the entrance of his father. After breakfast, -he escaped into the garden; and there, by the river, among the flowers -and in the sunshine, the first link of the terrible life-chain which was -to crush his heart was forged. He opened the letter. If he could have -guessed, have known, would he have cast it from him into the stream to -be carried away—out of his reach and ken, for ever? In after days he -asked himself this with untold bitterness of soul, but no answer came. - -The contents of the envelope, which had been redirected and forwarded by -the secretary of the hospital, were simple enough. - -Sir Roderick wrote, dating from the Pinewood, near F——, Surrey, as -follows:— - - “My good young Friend,—It must be about time for you to claim a - holiday. Let it be spent here. You will like the place; that it will - be congenial I feel sure. Let me know day and hour, and the carriage - will meet you at F—— Station. - - “Yours, RODERICK PYM.” - -Hugh read it twice, thrice. At first, he had (so he thought) been full -of self-gratulation that he had so complete an excuse to decline the -invitation as this, that his furlough from hospital, spent in his own -home, was nearly at an end. But, as he paced the garden walk, he -wondered whether, in reality, he had won over Sir Roderick to his views -upon the subject of that letter to the weekly journal _Speculative -Thought_, or whether the baronet had written it in one of his sardonic -humours as a sort of grim jest. He would like to know. Perhaps Sir -Roderick had been laughing at him in his sleeve during those long talks -in the hospital. Gruesome thought, not to be borne! But he would like to -know. - -“I should do no harm by running down for a day,” he thought. “I could -even leave before the dinner hour, and not have to encounter Lady Pym.” - -The portrait in the locket, no less than the silence on the subject of -Sir Roderick’s young wife on the part of the housekeeper and Mr. Edmund -Pym, had prejudiced Hugh greatly against the lady to whom he had indited -that telegram. Sir Roderick’s contempt for women, too, induced the idea -that L. Pym, however charming she might be, was not a woman to deserve -either respect or love. - -Seldom vacillating, to-day Hugh was as irresolute as any woman. One -minute he resolved to accept the invitation, the next he told himself it -would be better to let it stand over for the present. At last he got -angry with himself, went into the house, asked Maud if he might use her -davenport in the drawing-room, and presently posted a letter to Sir -Roderick with his own hands, lest once more he should change his mind. -In this he accepted the invitation to the Pinewood for the following -Saturday morning. - -Why he was reluctant to enlighten his family on this subject, he could -not for the life of him make out. But whenever he neared it in -conversation, he felt uncomfortable. The days passed. He told them all -he should return to town the following Friday. But of the projected -visit to the Pinewood he said not one word. - -The sweet summer days came and went, one by one. Once more Hugh said -good-bye, perhaps for months, to the old garden; had a farewell fish in -the river, and after a reluctant parting with father and sisters, -returned—to meet his strange fate. - - - - - CHAPTER III. - EXTRACT FROM THE DIARY OF HUGH PAULL. - - - July—, 18—. - -Am I awake? Is my visit to the Pinewood a dream? No, no, it has all -happened—one of the strangest experiences that ever befell mortal man. - -It has been like a visit to some new world: the impressions have been so -strong. It is the Pinewood which seems the reality, and this, my -hospital life, a dream. To my horror, things are growing shadowy. I -cannot concentrate my thoughts upon my cases; and when the fellows or -the nurses ask me anything, I am not “all there.” At last the climax -came this morning. An epileptic case came in, and Dr. Hildyard asked my -opinion upon his diagnosis. My mind was a blank. Suddenly I could have -sworn I heard a laugh—_her_ laugh. - -I will write it all down, that is what I will do; then perhaps I may -forget. - -I left London last Saturday week morning, in the full possession of my -senses (of that I feel sure). I can remember everything—all the details -of the journey down to F——, through the heathery moorland, the firwoods, -the cornfields. - -No one waiting at F—— station. Taking my bag, I was leaving, intending -to make inquiries as to the whereabouts of the Pinewood and to walk, -when an old coachman, perched up on the driving-seat of a high dogcart, -touched his hat and said: - -“The gentleman for the Pinewood?” - -“I am going to the Pinewood,” I said. - -“The doctor, sir, what attended Sir Roderick in London?” - -“Yes.” - -I got up, and we drove off. The skittish bay (Reindeer) went like the -wind at first along the smooth highroad, through snug villages, past -outhouses, between hop-gardens, till we came to the hills covered with -pine-forest. - -“This is the Pinewood, sir,” said the old man; “as far as you can see a -tree.” - -That was much farther than I could see. The slopes were clad with the -straight, tall trees, from slim saplings to lofty giants, until the dark -green outlines of the hills melted into the lilac haze of the horizon. - -Driving less quickly uphill, he told me something about his master and -his habits. - -“You must excuse my not believin’ in you at first sight, sir,” he said; -“but so few gen’l’men comes here, and they’re not young gen’l’men, but -them as pokes about after beetles or goes butterfly catching. Some goes -out with a hammer, and knocks the stones about. And as for a lady—well, -sir, I suppose you know Sir Roderick can’t abide the sight of a -petticoat?” - -I murmured something. I was certainly not going to discuss my host with -one of his servants. Fortunately, we were now in the grounds. - -What a dream of beauty! - -Velvety, mosslike hillocks, among the stern clumps of pines; whole -glades of bracken in narrow dells, fairy sporting grounds; then, an -occasional oasis of garden, apparently growing spontaneously among the -woodland. Here and there a flight of steps, leading to the shrubbery of -high laurels and conifers, or a small white-stone temple; now and again -a stone bench, flanked by cypresses and urns on pedestals—such a bench -as one sees in the gardens in Italy. - -Then, suddenly, a dip in the land to the right, disclosing a tiny park, -with some beeches and elms, and in its centre a circular garden, -surrounding a white-domed building. - -“A chapel?” I asked. - -“It was wonst,” my conductor told me; “but not in my time. We none of us -knows nothink about wot’s inside. They do talk about that chapel, folks -do. My opinion is, that there’s nothink in it; it just amuses Sir -Roderick to tease their curiosity.” - -Then a sharp turn and a short drive between thick firwoods brought us to -a strange place. - -A long, high wall—the wall of a solid building; for there was a porch, a -door, and long, narrow windows on either side. If the whole façade had -had windows it would have looked like a museum, for on the top there was -a balustrade crowned at intervals with small, funereal-looking urns. - -The place looked mouldy and dismal even on this glorious summer day. - -“Well?” I said, for Thomas drew up before the door. - -“Well, sir, if you just give that bell hanging to the right of the door -a good pull, they’ll hear you.” - -Did Sir Roderick’s eccentricity extend to his living in a semi-tomb? As -I pulled the bell, and heard a distant, feeble clang, I looked somewhat -disconsolately after the comfortable-looking dogcart driving away, -remembering some of the ancient Greek philosophers’ predilections for -doing their work among the tombs. - -Out of perversity, I daresay, I felt utterly disinclined for -philosophical disquisitions in this tomb-like place; in fact, I yearned -for a real boyish holiday in those grounds with young, merry companions -(I had better be truthful with myself). - -What was my dismay when a solemn-looking old servitor in black (he had -white hair and a “white choker,” and looked like a _major-domo_ of State -funerals) ushered me into a vault-like crypt. There were niches in the -walls and more urns. He offered to take my bag. I clutched it tight, -expecting some grim jest on the part of my host. When he said, “Will you -please walk this way, sir,” and, opening a door, disclosed a long, -vault-like passage, I hesitated; but he slouched off at such a rate, and -the echo of his footsteps clattering on the stone pavement was so loud, -I could not stop him, so I followed in silence—down a flight of stone -steps, round a corner, down another darker and narrower staircase (all -lighted dimly by tiny yellow-glass windows in the wall), until, when I -was emerging into total darkness, I paused. - -“I can’t see!” I shouted, really annoyed. - -Sir Roderick could not be living underground—that was all nonsense. He -was playing a trick upon me, and would think it fine fun. - -“I will strike a match,” I added, crossly; but the old man pulled open a -door. - -The landing just below me was suddenly flooded with light. Stepping -down, I turned and followed him into a large conservatory. - -What a magical change! The blue clear light from the glass dome showed -up each frond of the great tree-ferns, each grand leaf of the palms, -each yellow orange and white-waxen blossom of the orange-trees. Huge -crimson blooms hung upon the thick festoons of the sub-tropical creeping -plants, and there was my friend the Cape jessamine strengthening the -warm, intoxicating perfume of the gardenias, daphnes, and, above all, of -the orange-blossom. - -It was a relief to be out of the scented atmosphere and in an ordinary, -square hall, which had a billiard-table in the centre. - -My _cicerone_ asked me to wait; but after opening various doors and -exploring several rooms, he came to me with a rueful expression. - -“They _was_ here half-an-hour ago,” he said; “but they must be out now. -Lor! why they’re on the lawn. Come along, sir!” - -He must have caught sight of “them” through a window. He opened the -hall-door, and I saw a lawn with spreading trees, under one of which Sir -Roderick was seated in a basket-chair, smoking. At his feet lay a huge -mastiff. By his side sat a lady, bending over a book, her face shaded by -a broad-brimmed hat. - -My conductor had shut the door, and left me to my fate. I walked across -the lawn, thinking to myself that under that hat was the face I had seen -in Sir Roderick’s locket. - -No—as she suddenly looked up—it was not the same! What! that wild-rose, -tender young face, with large grey eyes, the same as that saucy, -imperious minx of the portrait? No relation, I could swear it. - -“Well, Hamlet!” Sir Roderick was quite warm in his welcome. - -“I didn’t look myself. No, unmistakably I did not. Overwork, of course; -the foul atmosphere, too. Oh! I might say what I liked. Mine was a good -hospital in its way, doubtless; but all the same, the atmosphere was a -foul one. Else, why the disinfectants?” - -“You mentioned some unheard-of sum that you annually spend in -disinfectants, and you can’t deny it,” he said. “Well, here you will -have Nature’s disinfectants—pure air, and the scent of the pines and the -heather and the hay. But I have not introduced you. Lilia, this is Dr. -Paull.” - -The lovely girl, who wore white stuff with something red twisted round -her waist, had been looking at me like children taken to the Zoo for the -first time look at the wild beasts. - -She did not bow to me. I felt the blood come to my face. What on earth -was she staring at? Then she turned to him, and said slowly: - -“_Doctor_ Paull?” - -It was not flattering, but I understood. - -“You are right—not _Doctor_,” I said. “There is much work before me -before I can claim that title. I am only a medical student—” - -“Bosh!” interrupted Sir Roderick. “I know what Lilia means. I never have -any young men here; she expected one of the old fogies. That’s it, isn’t -it, child?” - -“Yes,” she said, nodding. “But—do you care for butterflies or beetles? -No? Dear me! Oh, you are a botanist!” - -I hastened to disclaim the soft impeachments. - -“Then”—she knit her brow, and looked like a child making up an old -woman’s face—“then you like geology?” - -I remembered Thomas’ mention of the visitors who went about with -hammers, and responded gravely to my catechist. - -“I prefer to look at Nature and to ask no questions,” I said. - -Then there was some talk of the covered way from the road above, which -my host informed me was built by his father. - -“He had some peculiar pleasure in startling people,” he said. “He used -to give out that he was a social hermit; and although he lived down here -much like other people live, would go about in town strangely dressed -and behave oddly. My poor father was very eccentric.” - -He made the remark so innocently that I involuntarily glanced at his -companion. She seemed unaware that there was anything _naïf_ in those -words, and met my eyes with a deep, enquiring look. I have never seen -such child eyes in a woman’s face. - -Then the luncheon bell rang, and I was conducted to my room by a -blushing youth in livery. I was burning to know who “Lilia” was—for that -brief introduction was all that I had had—but I could not ask the -_gauche_ young footman (evidently a “new hand”). So I washed my hands -and wondered, as I gazed round the quaint old room. It must be an old -house, although from the lawn it looked modern, and foreign, with its -brilliantly white walls and bright green shutters. The flooring, though -spotless, was old; the ceiling low. There was a fourposter of carved -wood black with age, and the mahogany furniture, which shone like -mirrors, was of an ancient pattern. White dimity hung about, and there -was a fresh scent of lavender. - -Going downstairs, I noticed that the shallow stairs were of old oak, -likewise the balustrade; but the dining-room, to which Sir Roderick, who -met me in the hall, escorted me, was of newer fashion—a square room with -massive furniture, and hung with paintings. - -“All Pyms,” said my host, following my eyes as, seated at “Lilia’s” -right, I ate my soup. Then ensued some talk about the various dark -visages that frowned down from the black canvases. To all appearance, -misanthropy ran in the family. Most of these bilious-looking ancestors -seemed to have done something strange; and the nearer they had drifted -to contempt of social law, the more unctuously Sir Roderick related -their exploits. Meanwhile the gentle Lilia listened with wide-open eyes -and evident interest. - -“But that? Surely that one is not a Pym!” I said, indicating a portrait -in an oval Florentine frame that hung conspicuously over the -mantelpiece—in fact, in solitary glory, while the other portraits were -somewhat huddled together. - -“And pray, why not?” asked my host dryly, after a moment’s pause. - -I looked again. A sunbeam lighted up the laughing face of a fair young -man, with large blue eyes and the very much-curved lips which always -produce the effect of a sneer. To me they are painful, recalling the -cruel _risus sardonicus_ which I have never seen without distress. - -“Why not?” I repeated, stupidly. “Oh! because he is so unlike all the -others, I suppose.” - -“Do you not see any likeness?” he quietly asked presently, after he had -carved a fowl and insisted on giving me the breast. - -I looked around. - -“Oh, not to the pictures—to Lilia!” he cried, impatiently. - -“No, I cannot say I do,” I said, glancing at my hostess. - -I smiled; but I did not feel at all like smiling. My—was it dread?—to -find so young a girl the wife of so old a man made me flinch at any -suggestion which strengthened such a possibility. - -“They are both Pyms!” he said, quite irritably. “You have evidently no -eye for likenesses. Of course, there are dark Pyms and fair Pyms. The -fair Pyms are upstairs in a corridor.” - -“Women,” said the fair Lilia explanatorily to me. “Papa dislikes women -so much, he won’t have their portraits about him.” - -I had been on the point of calling the child Lady Pym, and she was his -daughter! Fool that I had been! - -“Because they simper and attitudinise,” said Sir Roderick. “If they -behaved as sensibly as men I should like them as well.” - -“That’s not saying very much,” said Lilia, with an amused look at me. -“Papa is not enamoured of his fellow-men.” - -“Do you want me to be hail-fellow well-met with Tom, Dick, and Harry?” -he said, frowning at the daughter who was so unlike him that I began to -think more charitably of my mistake. - -“You know I don’t. I like you just as you are!” said his daughter, -looking adorable with an infantine smile of love and trust brightening -her sweet face. - -It was like a personal sunshine. I felt it so, later, when she deigned -to shine upon me; and every time it humbled me, and made me feel coarse, -clumsy, unworthy, a very clod; and now it, or the memory of it, comes -back here—it shines suddenly upon a poor sufferer’s face upon the -pillow, and the patient vanishes and I see Lilia. - -This won’t do. I must return to my statement. - -After luncheon, Sir Roderick sent me out into the grounds with his -daughter. From first to last he purposely threw us together. What his -motive was I cannot imagine. Motive he has: I have seen enough to know -that he never acts without one. - -Lilia told me so much as we wandered, first about the Italian garden -just outside the dining-room windows, then across the lawns into the -pinewoods. It was so difficult to check her childish confidences, which -she poured out as a little creature just finding the use of its tongue -will babble as it trots along holding one’s hand. They treated me, all -of them, at the Pinewood, except one, of whom more presently, with -simple trust; even Nero, the old mastiff, slouched along at our heels -with his big tongue out, panting, as if I were an old friend. I must -never, even in thought, betray that trust. I must never forget that to -aspire would be a breach of that sacred confidence—never, never! On this -subject I pray, as the octogenarian said in Dickens’ _Haunted Man_, -“Lord, keep my memory green!” - -She talked of her father—well and good. - -“Papa has no patience with frivolity,” she said. “He only has sympathy -with people who do their duty. That is what every one ought to feel, is -it not? Ah! I thought you would say ‘Yes.’ Of course, it is much nicer -when you like doing your duty, isn’t it? Those old men who come here and -beetle-hunt and botanise, or go poring over the books in the library, -not only like what they have to do in life, they love it. I do envy -them.” - -“But you—you like your life, do you not?” I asked. - -Just then we came to a clearing in the wood. A giant pine, lately -felled, lay prone among the ferns and mosses. She stopped. - -“Let us sit down a moment,” she said; “you take my breath away.” - -She seated herself on the trunk, looking like the embodied spirit of the -pinewood in her white gown. Nero stood for a few minutes watching me as -I sat down beside her, then slouched up and lay down at his mistress’ -feet, one eye fixed on me. Evidently this proceeding was new to him. The -botanists and gentlemen of the hammer did _not_ care to sit on felled -trunks and talk with the daughter of the house. - -“I said that,” she went on, “because it was just as if you knew how -treasonable my thoughts have been lately. I have actually been wishing -to travel, and see the world!” - -I asked her what treason there was in that. - -“Such an idea, in me, is treason itself!” she said, almost -indignantly—“when my father despises the world, and would rather -anything should happen than that I should go beyond the Pinewood.” - -Then I was amazed by the disclosure that this sweet young creature had -lived all her life shut up in the Pinewood, almost as much a prisoner as -a princess in a fairy-tale immured in a high tower. Her only companions -and friends had been her nurses, the clergyman and his wife, and her -cousin Roderick, the fair young man with a sneer whose portrait I had -said to be unlike the Pyms. - -Without governesses or tutors, Lilia has managed to learn a great deal. -Latin and Greek are not dead languages to her, and she and her father -chatter away in Italian like natives. But in the ordinary affairs of -life, poor dear child, how ignorant she is! - -Sitting there with myself, still almost an absolute stranger, she spoke -out her heart as if I were a dear old friend returned after a long -separation, and actually asked my advice. Mine! - -It seemed that she had mentioned this desire to see other places to her -cousin Roderick, who was a favourite nephew of her father’s, although he -would not have anything to do with his family. She and this Roderick had -been brought up together like brother and sister playing and -sympathising and bickering in the usual fashion. Only when she had -confided her treasonable ideas to him had he shocked her by a -supplementary suggestion, which seemed to have made a terrible -impression upon her. - -“We have quarrelled, and never, never can be the same again,” she told -me in much agitation. “My father does not know it, and has asked -Roderick to dinner to meet you. What _shall_ I do?” - -She was quite tragic. I could hardly help smiling. But seeing how -sensitive she was—a natural sensibility greatly increased by a life of -unnatural seclusion—I repressed a smile, and said: - -“See your cousin before dinner, and ‘make it up,’ as the children say.” - -“Oh, I _couldn’t!_” she said, in distress. “He won’t make it up.” - -“Then you have tried him?” - -She nodded. - -“It has been a dreadful shock to me,” she said. “If you knew, you would -understand.” - -After a little coaxing, she spoke, or rather blurted out: - -“If you _must_ know—he actually—asked me—to marry him!” - -Nothing so very dreadful, I suppose; but, under the circumstances, rash, -to say the least—for Lilia admitted that her father was in total -ignorance. - -“He would never look at Roderick again,” she assured me. “Don’t say -‘nonsense.’ I tell you he would not. I am never to marry!” - -“Why not?” I asked, perversely. - -She looked at me almost with indignation. - -“Marriage means misery,” she said, oracularly. - -“You mean, that Sir Roderick thinks it does,” I suggested. - -“He knows it,” she said, with emphasis, below her breath. - -I was silent with confusion. The next word, and Lilia might unbosom -herself of secrets not her own—sacred to her father—not from any malice -aforethought, but through the spontaneity to which she was bred by that -very father. It behoved me to be cautious. - -“I really should tell Sir Roderick if I were you,” I hazarded. “It is -only what he would reasonably expect. Cousins often marry. The -contingency must have occurred to him.” - -At that moment I was inclined to think that such an issue might even -have been planned by my self-sufficient host. - -“I thought you knew him!” she cried, recoiling from me a little. - -Nero got up and stood between us, looking suspiciously at me. - -I explained, apologetically, that although Sir Roderick and I had talked -over the questions of humanity in the abstract, we had not arrived at -the domestic problems. - -“The most important of all,” she said, somewhat pompously. - -“Granted,” I said. “And problems that can, unfortunately, only be solved -by individual experience.” - -“Ah! you acknowledge that,” she said, with a sort of exultation. “You -really uphold my father’s theory—that the risk is too great. He loves -both Roderick and myself so well that he has preached the delights of -celibacy to us ever since I can recollect.” - -“His preaching has had more effect upon you than upon your cousin, -evidently,” I suggested. - -“I fear so,” she said, in a sorrowful tone which reproached me for my -feeling this talk, so seriously in her estimation, almost absurd. “Poor, -dear Roderick! I would rather do anything than ‘sneak,’ as he used to -call it. But papa will be sure to notice something.” - -“Cannot you act—pretend?” I hazarded. - -She shook her head. - -“I never tried,” she said; “it has never been necessary.” - -“I daresay he will be equal to the occasion,” I said. “Your cousin is in -the army, is he not? Oh! he is captain already? He has told you a good -deal about life in camp, in barracks?” - -“Lots,” she said. - -(Doubtless lots, Captain Pym!) - -“Well, you know, officers can be silent when necessary, and know how to -veil their opinions and feelings.” (I yearned to say, “know how to tell -lies,” but checked myself.) “If I were you, I should be just the same to -him to-night: I should ignore his unlucky suggestion, and behave exactly -as if he had never made it.” - -Lilia resolved to take my advice, and we strolled in the gardens and -into the enclosed park. I tried to find out something about the chapel -in the circular garden, but she was evidently on guard. - -I thought of her, dear child, while I was dressing. How few real friends -she could have had! These Mervyns, the rector and his wife, seemed the -only ones. I was anxious to see them. They had been invited for the -evening. Lilia told me “they never would come to dinner; it was no use -asking them.” - -I went downstairs very soon after the second dressing bell rang. The -drawing-room, which is all chocolate-colour, white, and gilding, struck -me as like a picture I had recently seen. The room was lighted by short, -thick wax-candles in wall candelabra. In the middle of the room an -enormous china bowl of white roses on a round black table perfumed the -air. The other object which attracted my attention was a huge grand -piano in ebony. - -I was just going round to ascertain the maker’s name, when someone -jumped up from an easy-chair—Captain Roderick. - -“Hulloa!” he said (he had a newspaper in his hand), “it’s Mr. Paull, -isn’t it?” - -I shook hands with him. A prodigiously good-looking fellow, this cousin, -and good company. It was a lively dinner-table. Lilia, child as she is, -soon cast aside the stately manner she had put on outside the -drawing-room door when she came sailing in to interrupt our -_tête-à-tête_; and she laughed and talked with us all till over dessert -we none of us noticed how time fled, until the footman announced that -“Mr. and Mrs. Mervyn were in the drawing-room, and coffee was served.” - -Mr. Mervyn, the clergyman of the parish, is a tall, dark man with white -hair and keen black eyes. His wife is one of those large, soft, fair -women with gentle faces and sweet manners, who can nevertheless be stern -and unflinching when there is a question of right and wrong—the very -woman for a sick nurse. - -While we men talked over our coffee, Roderick sat down to the piano and -sang: little Italian folk-songs and German _lieder_. When he was -singing, there was a simplicity about him that gave him a likeness to -_her_. She hung over the piano, and seemed almost to forget where she -was. When I remembered her confidences a few hours ago, I was puzzled. - -Did she love him—or his music? - -Presently, my question was answered. When he had sung half-a-dozen -_chansonnettes_, he rose and came across to us. - -“You like music, doctor?” he asked. - -“I like yours,” I said emphatically. - -“Has Lilia sung to you yet?” he asked. - -“No, and I do not intend to,” said the young lady, jumping up from the -sofa where she was sitting by Mrs. Mervyn, and joining us. - -“And pray why not?” asked Sir Roderick. - -She shook her head and turned aside. For a minute or two I naturally -felt embarrassed. But I saw that Mrs. Mervyn was expostulating with her, -and presently, after I had taken part in a conversation suddenly started -by Mr. Mervyn on the strange vagaries of nervous diseases, _apropos_ of -an afflicted poor person he wished me to see, Lilia rose and came back, -looking penitent. - -“Can I speak?” she began, humbly, when a pause came. “Thanks! I will -sing for you with pleasure, Mr. Paull.” - -“Not unless you tell us the reason of your extraordinary caprice,” said -Sir Roderick, half-bantering, half annoyed. “Come, out with it!” - -“You insist, papa?” She spoke pleadingly. - -“I do.” - -“Mr. Paull reminds me of that dreadful time you were ill—away. I could -not sing anything lively; I should choke.” - -It was good to see the expression on that old man’s face. There was such -a royal content on his fine old features as he looked up at his child. - -“Sing one of your morbidities, then,” he said. “Ha! I know! Sing Hamlet -that little Danish song. He ought to like that, naturally.” He was -suddenly in high good humor. - -She went obediently to the piano, took off her long mittens and -bracelets (which she handed to Roderick as a matter of course), and sang -a sweet, weird melody to Ophelia’s pitiful verses; sang it simply, with -a clear, noble voice, the voice of a human being with a great soul. - -It affected me, and I think that my emotion was the cause of my curious -nervous condition that night. - -We retired to our rooms pretty early. My old-looking chamber, with the -blackened mahogany furniture, was flooded with moonlight. I had no -intention of dreaming thoughts of the day over again all night long, as -I have done when sleep has followed some hours’ concentration of thought -on one subject; so I had borrowed a book from Sir Roderick—a treatise on -“Somnambulism and other irregular manifestations of the Nervous Force,” -translated from a work by some Dutch writer, name unknown, which he had -spoken of. - -Armed with this, I subsided into my feather-bed. (That feather-bed had -something to do with what followed, I believe. I here vow myself to -further the abolition of feather-beds; they should be taxed, and -heavily.) I placed two candles on the little table by my bed, propped -myself up against my pillows, and began to read. - -The first chapters of the ponderous tome were soon dismissed. Exploded -pathology and ancient fallacies filled Part I. of the Dutchman’s -treatise. Had I felt at all sleepy, I should have laid down the book -there and then, and have chaffed Sir Roderick next day for recommending -me such old-fashioned stuff. But I felt absurdly wideawake. So I went -on. - -The introductory page to Part II. of the volume startled me somewhat. At -first I doubted my eyesight. But there, sure enough, were the words— - - “ON THE AGE OF SOULS.” - -“What does he mean, the fool?” I thought, turning over. I soon knew. - -The man, whoever he may have been, believed in that doctrine of -transmigration, attributed in its raw state to Pythagoras, who is by -some thought to have learnt it from the Egyptians; a fantastic notion -which is still believed in by many Easterns, notably by the Buddhists. - -This Dutchman spoke of the soul (the “breath of God”) as being born -again and again, according to its moral progress; incarnations being its -rule, until it should become sufficiently purified to be reabsorbed into -the atmosphere of Divinity (something very like the Nirvana of -Buddhism). I smiled, and thought that, judging by the people I had met, -the world (according to the Dutchman) is likely to be well populated for -a good many years to come. - -“By their fruits shall ye know them,” wrote the Hollander, who was -addicted to quotations, especially from Holy Writ. The good man, in -enumerating the fatal signs of future reincarnation in individuals (whom -he spoke of compassionately, for he evidently regarded human life as the -greatest of ills), mentioned two particular signs, frivolity and -self-absorption. Frivolity he seemed to hold in special abhorrence, as -being so very far away from any attribute that might be termed eternal -or divine. - -This chapter “On the Age of Souls” was such diverting reading, that I -grew wider and wider awake. At last, when two o’clock struck, I got up -and dressed. - -Looking out of window, the garden, bathed in moonlight, was such a -ravishing sight that I thought—Why not go out for a stroll? - -I would. I blew out my candles (I am certain I did), and opening my -bedroom door as quietly as possible, crept downstairs, shoes in hand. -Did ever stairs creak like those? Certainly not in my experience. -Wondering where the dog Nero was, and whether he would be as amiably -disposed towards a midnight marauder as he was towards his master’s -guest in broad daylight, I gained the hall. - -Then I remembered the bolts and bars. Should they be in as noisy a -humour as the stairs, I should have to give up and go back—not to that -hot feather-bed, but to my room. - -Without in the least thinking it possible that the door to the garden -would be unlocked, I tried the handle. - -To my surprise, the door was unlocked. I was so astonished, that I stood -there for a whole minute thinking how foolhardy was Sir Roderick, or how -culpably careless were his servants. Open gates to the grounds, open -doors to the house! It was positively inviting burglars to do their -worst! - -I thought of this as I walked along the white path, which crackled under -my feet. I wanted to get out of sight and out of the hearing of any -wakeful member of the household, so I went on and on, disregarding the -tempting odour of the orange-blossoms in the Italian garden, the -tempting sight of the terrace, with its white marble urns, benches, -straight cypresses, and picturesque aloes, and was soon in the pinewood, -among the gloomy trees. - -It was gloomy. Standing still to listen, the silence was oppressive. -Then, all of a sudden, there was a shrill skreel that made me start; and -some bird, I suppose, came flapping out of the darkness and went -fluttering away into the shadow. It must have been a bird, although it -looked too big even to be a giant owl or a raven. - -I laughed at my scared sensation, and walked briskly onward. Presently I -came to a clearing where the grass was mown, and there was a bench -against a clump of tall laurels. - -I was going towards this with the intention of resting awhile, when I -stopped short. A lady was seated in the corner, in the shadow. - -Good heavens! It might be Lilia! She was just the girl to wander about -out of doors on a hot night. I did not know whether I was glad or sorry -when the being rose and came towards me. To my amazement, I saw a very -graceful woman, in a white gown of some stuff which shimmered in the -moonlight. A veil of black gauze or lace was about her head and neck. - -“You are not—angry?” she said in a slow way; she had a foreign accent. -“Come, I must speak.” - -As she said the word “must,” she actually placed her hand on my arm in -the most familiar way, and half led me across the grass plat. - -“We will go to the terrace and talk,” she said presently, in quite an -imperious manner. - -I was so numbed by surprise, that I had gone passively with her some -distance along the path that led away from the house or grounds before I -had made up my mind what to do. She was no ghost. As she pressed close -against my arm, I felt solidity and warmth. Then it flashed across me. -She was dressed in quite queenly fashion. Of course! An escaped lunatic -from a well-known private asylum in the neighbourhood. I stopped, -withdrew her hand gently and respectfully, and suggested that she must -be very tired. - -“Allow me to take you home, princess,” I said, haphazard. - -I had seemingly struck the right chord. - -“Do not call me that any more!” she said, passionately. “I am less than -you! Far less!” - -Once more she took my arm, and hurried me along an uphill path I had not -seen. To our left, below us, was the park, with the round chapel in the -garden; to our right was a plateau, a long, wide, grassy avenue, with -fine trees on either side. - -My strange companion turned abruptly to the right, and almost dragged me -along a grassy path that went straight to the end of the avenue, between -beds of overgrown shrubs and tangled weeds. My wits were returning. I -felt inclined to go through with the adventure. She was evidently a -lady. There was no hidden danger, I felt that. - -Half-way up this avenue there was a broken-down fountain. Around was a -circular grass plat. As we reached this the lady relinquished my arm, -stepped back, and began speaking rapidly in a language I have not yet -heard. At the end, she seized my hand, and before I could snatch it -away, kissed it. - -I felt horribly unnerved. I begged her to let me take her home. - -“It is by far too late for you to be here—alone,” I said. - -“Late?” she cried, in English. “It is not late!” - -“It must be three o’clock,” I said. - -Then I took out my watch and tried to see it in the moonlight. Just as I -did so, a clock struck three. - -“You hear?” I said, turning round. - -_She was not there!_ - -It gave me a shock. Then I remembered how swift and noiseless lunatics -can be. There had been time enough for her to slip away under the trees. -First, I listened. Not a sound; not the rustle of a falling leaf, not -the crackle of a twig. Then I searched, and called; until a sudden -uncanny sensation that I was the subject of some temporary delirium sent -me, flying almost, towards the house. - -I was thankful to see its white walls, to find the door open, and to -gain my room. - -As soon as I had done so, I felt such sudden fatigue that I got back -into bed again as quickly as I could, and fell asleep directly. - -I have set this down just as it seemed to me to be happening, neither -more nor less. - -Now comes the, to me, most curious part. - -I was awakened by the footman bringing me the hot water. After he had -gone out of the room, I turned to get up, when my attention was arrested -by the china candlesticks on the table by the bed. The candles were -burnt out, and the china rims were blackened. - -“I put those out; I could have sworn it,” I said to myself. I remembered -noticing the peculiar shape of one of the gutterings. It was like a -monkey crawling up a stick. Could I have lit them on my return? I -thought. No! I remembered throwing off my clothes in the moonlight, my -eyelids weighed down by sudden drowsiness. - -While I had my bath and dressed I pondered. No result came from my -ponderings. - -Then I heard fresh young voices, and hurried my dressing. Some feeling -urged me to interrupt a bantering _tête-à-tête_ between Roderick and -Lilia. Going down, I found them in the hall: Lilia was standing against -the billiard-table, frowning; Roderick was talking earnestly to her. He -stopped speaking when I came in. She blushed. - -Why blush? It was no business of mine, of course; but I did not wish to -find that charming young creature utterly inconsistent. And any -parleying from a lover point of view, with her cousin, after yesterday’s -confidences, would prove her undeniably inconsistent. - -But the blush faded, and she looked grave when she saw me. - -“I am afraid you have had a bad night, Dr. Paull,” she said, kindly. - -“Why?” I asked, nodding back good-morning to Captain Pym. - -“You look so tired.” - -I vouchsafed that I had an early morning stroll, and spoke of the -unfastened door. - -“The door into the garden?” - -She looked amazed; and then walked to that door and tried it. - -“It is locked and bolted now, whatever it was then,” she said. - -I joined her, and sure enough it was. - -“The omission must have been found out and rectified,” I said. - -Indeed, I was absolutely certain on that point. That door was unchained -and unbolted at two o’clock that morning. - -She was concerned, and begged me as a favour not to mention the fact to -her father. I did not. He just came into the hall then, and we went in -to breakfast. - -After breakfast, Captain Pym took leave, and started for the camp. Sir -Roderick settled, in his dogmatic way, that after church (this was -Sunday) Lilia should take me round the grounds. He seemed astonished -that I should wish to accompany her to morning service. - -“I thought you and I agreed on those subjects,” he said. “I had been -looking forward to a pipe and a chat while Lilia was on her knees trying -to propitiate her Fetishes.” - -“Just as you please,” I said. - -Glancing at Lilia, I fancied she looked disappointed. But Fancy seemed -to have got me in a vice and to shake me like a dog shakes a rat, all -the time I was at the Pinewood. - -It was settled I should accompany her. Meanwhile I went into the study -with Sir Roderick, and presently we got upon the subject of the -Dutchman’s treatise. - -“How did you like it?” he asked. - -“It is hardly a question of liking,” I said. “The man is as illogical as -Swedenborg, without the originality or the power.” - -He looked surprised. - -“How?” he said. - -“That chapter ‘On the Age of Souls’ seems to me almost an absurdity,” I -could not help saying. - -“On _what_?” he said, taking his long pipe from his mouth, and staring -curiously at me. - -I repeated what I had said, adding comments on the extravagance of that -part of the treatise. - -He shook his head, puzzled. - -“You must be dreaming,” he said. “I have no book in my library -containing stuff of that sort. Where is it?” - -I offered to fetch it, but he had already sounded his hand-gong, and -James was sent for the volume. - -He was absent but a minute, but the time seemed long to me. Sir Roderick -puffed away at his pipe, with an amused smile which was peculiarly -exasperating. - -His hand went out for the volume as soon as James appeared, and of -course the young man gave it to his master, who carefully looked it -through, then handed it to me. - -“I cannot find this redoubtable chapter,” he said; “perhaps you can. But -I flattered myself I knew the book well.” - -I began at the beginning, turning over the pages carefully one by one, -and recognising what I had read overnight. By the time I had come to the -end of the first chapter I felt more assured. But when I turned over to -the second, it was totally unfamiliar. I had certainly never read a word -of it before; and its heading was “On Ordinary Somnambulism.” - -I went on turning the pages, feeling as if I was bewitched, until I came -to the end; but there was no chapter that even alluded to any doctrine -of transmigration, and certainly no heading bearing the faintest -resemblance to that curious title, “On the Age of Souls.” - -“It is most extraordinary!” I cried. “I could swear to having read what -I told you about. I remember the very words and the quaint turning of -the phrases.” - -He asked me how I had read it; then laughed at me. - -“I hit the mark when I said you were dreaming, Hamlet,” he said. “It has -often happened to me to continue thinking after dropping asleep, and -nice bathos the thoughts are!” - -He dismissed the matter as a joke; but it was no joke to me. I was -bewildered. When I think of it now the bewilderment is greater, the -sense of confused perceptions more alarming. - -During the talk which followed, I tried to gain a clue to the strange -lady I met in the grounds. I casually alluded to the asylum in the -neighbourhood, and asked if the authorities there were not almost lax in -their vigilance. - -“I cannot help thinking that I met an escaped madwoman, when I was -taking a walk early this morning,” I said. “She looked, and I think must -be, insane.” - -“You could not have met a lady patient of Dr. Walters’, my dear Hamlet,” -said Sir Roderick. - -I asked, “Why not?” - -“For a very good reason, the best of reasons,” he replied: “he hasn’t -any. He only takes men. In which, I may add, he shows his wisdom, for -female lunatics are the most disgusting creatures on earth. Pah! let us -change the subject.” - -I was only too glad. But I was not in the least fit for a scientific -discussion with my host. I felt a dread gradually investing me—a dread -lest I should find that the deserted spot the strange lady dragged me to -last night actually existed in the grounds. - -If I should come upon it just as it was, I should believe in my -adventure as a fact. In that case, how about the missing chapter “On the -Age of Souls”? For if my adventure actually happened, I was not asleep -and dreaming immediately beforehand; at all events, it was extremely -improbable that I was. - -I was getting considerably strung up, when a tap came at the door, and -Lilia came in, fresh, sweet in her muslin summer dress, like Dawn -dispelling the dismal darkness of my thoughts. - -“A quarter-past ten, and service begins at eleven,” she said. - -“And it is about seven minutes’ walk to the church. Sit down, we are -talking,” said Sir Roderick, dictatorially. - -She looked wistfully at me. - -“I thought you wanted to see the grounds,” she said. - -“So I do, very much indeed,” I said. - -My host did not look best pleased. He little knew what was in my mind. - -Nor did she, sweet girl, as we started; and she would stop here and -there to show me some choice foreign shrub or some new plant, or the -view from this or that particular spot. All the time I was wondering how -I should introduce the subject of the neglected plateau with the -broken-down fountain. - -The opportunity came. - -“Your father does not allow any part of his shrubberies to run wild,” I -said; “but I fancied I saw a wild-looking spot among the pines, where -there were neglected flower-beds and the grass was unmown.” - -She shook her head. - -“I don’t know of any place about like that,” she said, reflectively. -“No! I am sure that none of the flower-beds have weeds. Papa hates -weeds: and weeding gives employment to people who cannot do much else.” - -I had hardly time to be reassured by this support of the theory that the -events of last night meant nightmare and nothing else, when we suddenly -came upon that clearing with the grass plat. That bench under the -laurels, where the lady had been sitting, was there. It was the same -spot I had seen by moonlight—the very same. - -“I come here and read sometimes on summer afternoons,” said Lilia, -looking up at me innocently. “Why, what is the matter, Mr. Paull? You -are frowning.” - -“I was thinking that this is rather a damp place,” I said, “and -cheerless looking.” - -“Not to me,” she said. “But I only come here on really sultry days. When -it is simply mild, I prefer the terrace. You haven’t seen the terrace. -Do come, it has a history.” - -The terrace! The terrace with a history! So it was _not_ a dream; no, -something far more disagreeable. Then and there I began to wonder -whether I had not hit upon a family mystery. As we strolled along the -path I had walked over but a few hours since with an unknown lady -hanging familiarly upon my arm, I was imagining a possible elucidation -of my mystery. Lilia’s mother—of whom I had heard absolutely -nothing—perhaps mentally afflicted, shut up in some cottage or house on -the estate, and wandering by night? Other even more extravagant ideas -occurred to me. - -No! that idea was untenable, for my moonlight acquaintance was -indisputably a very young woman, almost a girl. - -At that moment we came to the upward path leading to the plateau. I -recognised it at once. Below was the park, with the chapel. - -But—yes, it _was_ the plateau, but not as I had seen it. The trees were -pruned, the grass-walks smooth as green velvet, the flower-beds -brilliant with blossom. - -“We often have tea here, papa and I,” said Lilia. “The story goes that -this was _the_ flower-garden of the old house two hundred years ago, and -that they used to have afternoon gatherings here, like the -garden-parties people have now.” - -She must have thought me abnormally stupid that Sunday morning. When I -saw a marble fountain, with water splashing into a basin where gold-fish -were swimming, instead of the wrecked, broken-down object in my dream, I -took refuge in silence; and as soon as I could, I left the uncanny spot. -Whether I had dreamt of it, or of some place like it, of that I felt -sure—the spot was uncanny. - -While we walked through the wood towards the church, Lilia talked, but I -heard little of what she said. She was telling me some story of a duel -between the former proprietor of the Pinewood and a supposed friend, -which had taken place on the terrace, and the chapel below was erected -in memory of the event. If it was not exactly this, it was very much -like it; and really I do not care. All that I want now is to find out -whether my brain played me false that night, and whether I am likely to -be the victim of brain disease if I go on working as hard as I have -worked. - -That darling girl! How good she was to me, how patient! - -In spite of my inward anxiety, I shall always remember that Sunday with -pleasure. The little whitewashed church, with the honest rustics singing -hearty hymns to the quavering organ, while sunbeams came and went upon -the walls, and the quivering foliage of an elm in the churchyard cast -green lights upon my open prayer-book. The Mervyns are nice people. Mrs. -Mervyn is a trifle too sharp, perhaps; I saw her eyes fixed upon me now -and then with rather too scrutinising an expression. But it is very -pretty, almost touching, to see her ways with that motherless girl. She -loves her really, the good woman! When we were walking in the garden, -Lilia and Mr. Mervyn strolling on in front of us, she was so good as to -tell me she was glad I had come. - -“Lilia knows so few young people, and no girls,” she said. “It is a law -of her father’s, and always has been. Poor dear child! she is really not -fit to face the world. She knows absolutely nothing of it.” - -“Let us hope she may not be called upon to face the world,” I said. - -[Here the written pages in a notebook of Hugh Paull’s abruptly ended.] - - - - - CHAPTER IV. - A MORAL DUEL. - - -“Dr. Hildyard wishes to see you, sir.” - -“Where is the doctor?” Hugh asked, putting aside the notebook in which -he was writing. - -A short, square man, with shaggy grey hair and keen blue eyes, came -bustling in. - -“How are you, Paull? Want a few words with you on private business.” - -“Certainly,” said Hugh, bringing up a chair; but the doctor impatiently -waved his hand. - -“No, no! I ought to be miles away as it is. Do you remember that case of -Sir Roderick Pym?” - -Did he remember it? But the doctor was utterly unconscious that he was -ironical. - -“Ah! Well, you pulled him round, and watched his progress so closely -that I should be glad of your opinion in a case of mine, very like his.” - -Dr. Hildyard detailed the case, which was one of concussion similar to -Sir Roderick’s; and the next time Hugh was off duty he accompanied the -well-known specialist to see his patient, a middle-aged lady, whose -brougham had been overturned by collision with a dray-cart. - -He felt the distinction of his opinion being sought by so great a man -keenly, but kept this most unusual honour a secret, even when writing -home. Meanwhile, he gave his opinion modestly, but firmly. That opinion -was in favour of a different course of treatment to the one pursued by -Dr. Hildyard. - -Dr. Hildyard modified his treatment, and liked the young man all the -more for speaking frankly. A frank, bold man himself, he hated -sycophants. - -When, a few weeks later, the patient died, he said: - -“Perhaps, after all, Paull, your treatment might have brought her -round.” - -Events worked curiously in Hugh’s life from first to last. Sir -Roderick’s accident had brought about his meeting with Lilia, of whom he -constantly thought, although he had not written—after his first note to -announce his safe return to Sir Roderick—and he had not received any -communication from the Pinewood. It had also led to this special notice -from Dr. Hildyard; and that special notice brought about a strange -_rencontre_, which was destined to be of lasting import in his -extraordinary life. - -It had been an unusually busy time in the hospital. Still, he was so -much haunted by thoughts and memories of the Pinewood, and his -experiences there, that, to distract himself, he gave every spare hour -to the treatise he was writing when Sir Roderick’s accident changed the -current of his thoughts. - -He was at his desk one morning, when a note was brought to him from Dr. -Hildyard, asking him, as a special favour, to dine with him that evening -(one of his “evenings off”). - -Seven o’clock found him dining _tête-à-tête_ with the genial specialist, -in his house in B—— Street. The family were away. - -The doctor, never at any time a lover of social ceremony, dismissed the -servants as soon as possible, and then told Hugh what he wanted of him. - -“I have a most interesting but puzzling case,” he said. “There are some -nice people I know in the neighbourhood, the widow of a general -practitioner and her two daughters, who add to a small income by letting -lodgings. I generally send them patients of mine who come up from the -country for treatment. The other day a doctor in Stainbury, an old -friend of mine, wrote to me. A sad accident had occurred at the theatre -there, during the performance of an opera by a travelling company. A -scenic staircase, or tower, or something, had given way, and the young -lady who was singing had a remarkably awkward fall. Her spine was not -fatally injured, but the concussion had been followed by symptoms so new -to him that he wished to send the case on to me, provided he could raise -a subscription. The girl was poor and friendless, etcetera. Well, of -course, I was only too glad to do what I could. I wrote back, if he -would see to her removal here, and could get some of his rich friends -and patients to help a bit, I would see to her for nothing, and her -lodging could be paid out of a fund I keep going for poor patients. You -see, Paull, sometimes matters go very well very unexpectedly with my -special cases. (I was going to say _our_ special cases, for I see you -are doomed to nerve specialism.) Then the patient’s friends often get -gushing. Some gush in words, but some wish to ‘give me some little -token,’ as they call it. Then, when I know they can afford it, I bring -out the account book of the poor patients’ fund, and get a handsome -subscription or donation, or both. Well, the girl came up, and has been -with Mrs. Draper for the last three weeks. They are very kind to her. -She has a nurse, of course. But we make no progress. To-day I feared she -was sinking.” - -At first, Hugh excused himself, almost with a fear that Dr. Hildyard’s -opinion of his ability was a hallucination. - -Did some warning of the influence this incident was to have upon his -future make him feel so strong a disinclination to meet the doctor’s -wishes to-night, and visit his interesting patient with him? Oftentimes, -in after years, he thought back, and asked himself that question, which -none could answer. - -It was bad enough to be called upon to pronounce on a case which had -been a perplexing one to Dr. Hildyard. - -It was only after further talk on the part of the doctor, who insisted -on the fact of the peculiar insight Hugh had shown on various occasions -being no credit to its owner—in fact, being perhaps somewhat of a -drawback to the development of talents which were necessary to the -making of a sound medical man, that the young surgeon gave way. - -Almost as soon as he had reluctantly consented, the butler announced -that the carriage was at the door. - -“It is a mere stone’s-throw,” said Dr. Hildyard, as they drove through -the lamplit streets. “We might have walked; but it is raining very fast -now, and I promised to drive you back, if you remember.” Then he chatted -away very fast till the brougham turned the corner and stopped before a -tall house in a street leading out of a well-known West-end square. - -“Here we are,” said the doctor. “How is Miss Morton to-night?” he asked -of the neat parlourmaid, who opened the door. “Oh, there is nurse!” - -A tall young lady, in the dark dress and picturesque cap and apron of a -professional nurse, appeared on the first landing. - -“Come up,” said Dr. Hildyard to Hugh, running up the stairs. “Nurse, -this is the medical friend I spoke about this morning.” - -Hugh followed the nurse and doctor, feeling as if in some strange dream. -Truly, of late, his hitherto humdrum and monotonous life had changed—had -utterly changed. - -“As if Fate had overlooked me—poor insignificant unit—until now, and had -pounced upon me with a vengeance, and intent to make up for lost time,” -he thought. - -They were conducted to a second-floor sitting-room—a comfortable room -enough, with flowers and pretty knick-knacks about—while the nurse went -into the next room, the sick chamber. - -Coming back, “She is quite ready,” she said, addressing Dr. Hildyard. - -“_You_ see her,” he said, shortly, to Paull. - -“Without you?” Hugh was astonished. - -“Certainly.” - -Dr. Hildyard sat down at the table and took up a newspaper that was -lying there. There was a peremptoriness in his voice and manner which -forbade Hugh’s further questioning. He paused a moment, then turned and -followed the nurse into the next room. - -It was large, bright, airy, and cheerful, with its light maple furniture -and white hangings. Coloured engravings of pleasant subjects hung on the -walls. After the bare wards of the hospital, Hugh felt that it would be -almost a luxury to go through an illness here. - -He changed his mind when he saw his patient. No face among the many he -had watched lying on the hospital pillows had looked as pitiable as -this. The girl was beautiful, even now that the pallor of her oval face -was as the pallor of the dead, that her delicately-shaped nose was -pinched and transparent in the light of the shaded lamp at her bedside; -and her large, dark eyes had the solemn, wondering expression he had so -often seen on the faces of the dying. In health she must have -been—lovely, a “perfect woman, nobly planned.” - -She made no remark when the nurse told her it was Dr. Hildyard’s wish -that this gentleman should see her, but meekly submitted, answering -Hugh’s questions in a clear though feeble voice. In about twenty minutes -Hugh returned to Dr. Hildyard. - -“Well?” said the doctor. - -Hugh closed the door and came towards him. “I cannot find the slightest -physical cause for this extraordinary debility,” he said. Then he was -silent. - -“And that is all you can say?” asked Dr. Hildyard. - -“All—but—something very unscientific.” - -Dr. Hildyard uncrossed and recrossed his legs. “Well! but, my dear -fellow, it is just your impressions that I want,” he said, almost -impatiently. “I can form conclusions for myself. In fact, I want your -medical instinct.” - -“I—know,” said Hugh, deprecatingly. His eyes had the glaze of intense -preoccupation. “Of—course—you—have formed scientific conclusions. I—only -seem to—see. And I saw—a peculiarly delicate and sensitive temperament, -with a deep, strong _ego_ beneath. The girl has been deeply wounded, so -deeply—I am speaking of her mental nature, not of her body—that, if I -were you, I should think it cruel to keep her alive.” - -They talked in subdued tones for some minutes. They continued the -discussion while Dr. Hildyard accompanied Hugh to the hospital gates, -which he entered, pledged to the physician to watch the case for the -next few days. - -The next day he appropriated the dining hour of the hospital staff to -his visit to the sick girl. The nurse was reading to her when he entered -the room. She was an intelligent, sweet-faced woman, and spoke quite -tenderly of her charge when she followed Hugh into the sitting-room, -after he had concluded his visit to the patient. - -“I cannot understand the poor girl, Mr. Paull,” she said, -confidentially. “She seems slowly sinking. The first animation she has -shown was to-day, when I was trying to cheer her up a bit by telling her -some little family anecdotes. I was just showing her the portrait of a -scapegrace brother of mine, who ran away and enlisted, when she gave a -start—a wild look at me—and fainted.” - -Hugh asked to see the portrait. It was the photograph of a young man in -uniform—an ugly likeness of the nurse’s, his sister. He was evidently -quite young, and very uninteresting in appearance. - -“He is not much like you,” said Hugh, cautiously. “I seem to know that -uniform, though. What is his regiment?” - -“The 45th Fusiliers,” she said. “They are at Aldershot now. My brother -called here to see me the other day.” - -“Can there—could there, by any possibility, be any acquaintance between -your brother and our patient?” suggested Hugh. - -Nurse Bryant completely negatived the idea. Her brother had enlisted in -a huff. He had been very silly about his employer’s daughter, and there -had been a family row, which was the actual cause of his taking the -Queen’s shilling. - -“Has she not confided in you—I mean about her family—her affairs?” asked -Hugh. “Has she told you—nothing?” - -“Not—one—word—not even a hint,” emphatically said the nurse. - -Miss Bryant confessed herself more absolutely ignorant of the dying -girl’s antecedents, as well as of her actual thoughts and feelings, than -she had been of those of any patient up to the present time. - -“Try and gain her confidence,” was Hugh’s urgent advice to the nurse. He -returned to the hospital more than usually thoughtful. - -Next day, when he visited her, he asked her whether she had any dread as -to the termination of her illness. - -A faint colour rose to her cheek. “Oh!” she said, clutching nervously at -the sheet with her emaciated fingers, “_do_ you think I shall die?” - -It was the hopeful eagerness with which patients generally asked him, -“Do you think I shall get well?” Hugh began to see light. - -“You speak almost as if you did not wish to live,” he said gravely. -“Surely that cannot be. You are young, and neither I nor Dr. Hildyard -think that there is any real reason why you should not be restored to -your old active life, and to your friends.” - -Her eyelids drooped. “I have—no—friends,” she said, with effort. “I left -my elder sister and brother, and went on the stage. They have not -forgiven me. I have no parents. They are dead.” - -“But——” Hugh hesitated a moment. “You know I have heard all about you,” -he said. “You were making success after success in various provincial -towns—you must have already had scores of admiring friends among the -public when that unfortunate accident occurred.” - -“Accident!” she said, scornfully. “That was no accident.” - -“It could not possibly have been anything else,” said, Hugh, warmly. “No -human being could have been so brutal——” - -“No one—was—brutal,” she said; her breathing rapid with the fatigue and -excitement of speaking. “I—did it—myself. I—flung myself down—and pulled -the scene—with me. It came to me—suddenly. I felt I could not -live—any—longer.” - -Her great shining eyes were dry—but their agonising wistfulness was more -piteous than tears. Hers was evidently some incurable grief. Hugh felt -disinclined to probe further. Still, he spoke gently and comfortingly to -the poor child—the friendless, motherless girl. He said, truly, that he -felt no doubt but that her rash act was the consequence of overstrain. -Were she to die now, or later on, she would not, in his opinion, be -guilty of the frightful crime of self-murder. Then he asked her, seeing -that her troubled expression remained, whether she would like to see a -clergyman. - -“Then you do believe I shall die?” she said, a sudden light crossing her -face like a sunbeam. “Oh, thank God!” - -Hugh nearly started up from his chair. Certainly the mental state of -this poor young creature was a new experience. What should he say—or do? -She saved any hesitation by seizing his hand in her burning fingers. - -“Promise me,” she said, “that you will do something for me after I am -dead.” - -Once more Hugh hesitated. He would not promise anything, or bind himself -to anything, until he knew the whole truth about that which he might -undertake (he would even not say _would_ undertake). - -Then the truth came out. It was the old story—love, deception, and the -inevitable parting of sinner and sinned against. Olive (that was his -patient’s Christian name) had met her hero at a musical party. He had -been interested in her singing, and had become a frequent visitor at her -brother’s house. He persuaded her brother to allow her to live in London -for a time, to study, and himself recommended persons who would, he -said, care for her as their own daughter during that time. - -She went to London, and saw her lover as often as he could contrive to -come to town. She considered herself engaged to him; he even went so far -as to fix their marriage. But all was to be kept secret. Her preparation -for the stage was also kept secret, her future husband promising her -marriage immediately after her first appearance. This she made at a -theatre in Ireland. Her lover was present—but the next morning she -received a letter from him telling her that all must be over between -them. He found that their marriage would ruin his career, and he begged -her, if she had any affection for him at all, never to see or write to -him again, and, forgetting him, to accept the profession he had planned -for her instead of a husband. Brokenhearted, she wrote a long letter to -her sister, which was answered by her brother in the harshest terms, -telling her she had made her own bed and must lie on it. - -After that she roused herself, worked hard, and achieved many triumphs. -Then came bitterness, desolation of soul, and the sudden fit of -despairing frenzy during which she had attempted suicide on the stage. - -She entreated Hugh to take charge of a sealed packet after her death. -There would be no address on the outside—but she begged him, after -breaking the seals, to send the packet, unopened, to the person to whom -it was addressed on the inside envelope, and never, under any -circumstances whatever, to mention her story to anyone. - -Hugh promised. After all, it was little that she asked; and, as her -exhausted brain became confused, she forgot to exact any further -promises as to his future conduct in respect to the man who had treated -her as unscrupulous men mostly treat loving, generous, and unprotected -women. When the nurse, directed by her patient, found the sealed packet -and placed it in Hugh Paull’s hands, the dying girl’s false-hearted -lover was virtually at his mercy. - -After a long and fatiguing evening—there had been more casualties in the -district than usual—Hugh was leaning out of his bedroom window, smoking -and gazing down upon the moonlit quadrangle, when there was a knock at -his door. - -It was a special messenger with this note from Dr. Hildyard:— - - “Thursday, 9 p.m. - - “Dear Paull,—Shortly after you left to-day our patient succumbed to - syncope of the heart. I have given certificate of death. But, wiring - to Dr. Bartlett, at Stainbury, he wires back that he knows nothing of - her personally, and has no idea who she is. The theatrical manager, - now in Liverpool, was wired to and returned similar reply. The nurse - has informed me you have a sealed packet, and can doubtless give us - clue to her identity. Messenger will wait for your reply. - - “Yours always faithfully, - “CHAS. HILDYARD.” - -Hugh conducted the man who had brought the letter to his sitting-room -below, lit the gas, opened the safe, and took out the sealed packet. He -turned it over with a strange reluctance. He felt he could not open it -then and there, with strange eyes watching him; so, giving the man some -newspapers to look at, he took it upstairs with him, and by the -uncertain light of a flickering candle broke the many seals of the -packet which contained the dead girl’s secret. - -What was it? Was some demon mocking him? There, staring him in the face, -were the words—distinctly written on the packet— - - CAPTAIN RODERICK PYM, - _45th Fusiliers_. - -He mechanically whispered the name to himself as he sank into a chair, -staring at the package. - -“Captain—Roderick—Pym,” he repeated, as a horrified, stunned feeling -brought cold sweat upon his forehead. “What—how—when?” - -His eyes felt as if stiffening in his head. The candle seemed to burn a -dull red; the bed, chairs, chest of drawers to tremble and swim in the -moonlight. - -“Come, come,” he said to himself. “This will never do. It is a -coincidence, that is all. Society is made up of tiny circles. This is -the most ordinary coincidence, such as happens to everyone at least once -or twice in a lifetime.” - -Pulling himself together, he forced himself to grasp the situation. The -unidentified corpse lying, a burden to strangers, in a London -lodging-house. Dr. Hildyard, overweighted with work and all sorts of -responsibilities, awaiting the return of the messenger below before the -dead girl could be coffined. And upon himself depended the clue that -would make proceedings easy. - -Roderick—Pym! Lilia’s cousin and possible future husband, Sir Roderick’s -nephew and favourite, the dastard who ruined that fair young life? It -was impossible. Utterly impossible—an idea untenable for a moment—he -told himself, as he feverishly paced his room. - -Roderick was possibly a mutual friend of the actors in that wretched -little tragedy. He did not believe that the poor young creature who had -shown no symptoms of anger, no suspicion of revenge, would trust the -identity of the man whom she loved, although he had illtreated her, to a -mere stranger—although she might to a mutual friend. No. Roderick Pym -was most likely the confidant, the bosom friend—some evil feeling -suggested the Mephistopheles—of the love story. At all events, he must -not betray him in the affair. He must temporise. - -By the time he had arrived at this conclusion, Hugh was more himself. He -got out writing materials, and presently sent back Dr. Hildyard’s -messenger with the following note:— - - “Dear Dr. Hildyard,—It is true that your patient entrusted me with a - sealed packet, but I am in honour bound only to confide the packet, - secretly, to another person. All I can do is to communicate at once - with that person. I hope the upshot will be that I may speedily assure - you as to the identity of the deceased lady. - - Yours most faithfully, - “HUGH PAULL. - - “I will write, or see you, as soon as I have any information.” - -The messenger despatched, Hugh considered what was next to be done. His -first impulse was to take the last train to Aldershot, and see Captain -Pym. Second thoughts forbade this hasty move. - -“I know little or nothing of these military men,” he thought. - -His own code of morals and theirs must certainly differ. Still it was -essential that he should gain some knowledge by means of that package, -which most probably contained letters. After consideration, he resolved -to surprise Roderick Pym into some admission. Unpleasant though it was -to him to act, to use subterfuge, he told himself that his only course -was to be diplomatic. - -Looking at his watch, he saw that to telegraph to Aldershot that night -he must seek some central office. Fortunately, there was one not very -far distant, from which he despatched this message:— - - “_To Roderick Pym, Captain — Division_, - “_45th Fusiliers, The Camp, Aldershot_. - - “_Can I see you here to-morrow on most important and serious business? - If you cannot leave, I must go to you._ - - _Hugh Paull_, - “_The S—— Hospital_.” - -“I think that will fetch him,” he thought, as he returned through the -silent City streets. “He will think it is something connected with the -state of his uncle’s health—with Lilia.” He smiled bitterly to himself. -“Heavens! how dare I suspect him of being that villain?” he thought. -“Yet, would not any ordinary person do so? Can he be a near relation of -that poor girl’s? I must not think of it all! Come what may, I must keep -my head clear.” - -Next morning the return telegram came:— - - “_Will be at your place about ten. Must be back here at three._” - -It was well for Hugh that Friday was a busy morning, besides there being -extra work on in consequence of yesterday’s influx of accidents; for, -despite the close attention he must pay to his arduous occupation, his -nervous agitation as ten o’clock struck from the tower above the -entrance to the hospital was great. - -At ten minutes past the hour he was fetched. “The gentleman” had -arrived. - -“He is ashamed of sending in his card,” thought Hugh. “Am I not good -enough for him? Or has he an uneasy conscience?” - -Captain Pym was in the hall, standing in an easy attitude, his hands -behind him, swinging his cane, ostensibly studying the notices and -regulations on the green-baize-covered board. He turned to meet Hugh -with an amused smile. - -“What laws of the Medes and Persians!” he said, airily, as he shook -hands. “Ours in the service are mere child’s play in comparison! Well, -what does the mysterious summons portend?” - -His whole appearance—he wore a light shooting-coat and delicacies -in ties and gloves—his flippant manner, just tinged with -condescension—chilled Hugh, especially when he thought of that -pale corpse, lying straight and still, whose poor thin hand had -written the name of this human butterfly for the last time. - -“If you will come to my room, I will explain,” he said, leading the way -through the hall and up the stone staircase. - -He had intended to suddenly produce the packet of letters and watch the -effect upon Roderick. But, as he mounted the staircase, a better idea -occurred to him. - -“I suppose it is something about my uncle—poor old fellow,” said Captain -Pym, as soon as they had fairly entered Hugh’s sitting-room, throwing -himself into a chair. “Gad! How close it is to-day! Thunder about, I -should say.” - -“Very likely,” said Hugh, dryly, as he produced brandy and a siphon of -seltzer, which seemed to suit his guest’s ideas, for he assumed a less -patronising manner, even saying, “Thanks, old fellow,” quite familiarly -as Hugh handed him the tall tumbler. “No, Captain Pym; I did not -telegraph to you on the subject of Sir Roderick. The fact is, Dr. -Hildyard has a patient who has had to do with the regiment—your -regiment, I mean—and whom you can possibly identify.” - -“Well——” Captain Pym paused, evidently annoyed. “Excuse me, Paull, if I -say that I think that is about the coolest proceeding I ever heard of in -my life! I am to be wired for because some fellow in the hospital wants -identification! Why didn’t you write? I’d have sent up a non-com. to -oblige you. But—really——” - -“I think—that your friend—is an officer, Captain Pym.” - -“Oh—well!”—Roderick tossed off his seltzer and brandy, and smiled -somewhat sourly. “It was a curious thing to do—but you hospital fellows -have ways of your own, I expect. Can’t be expected to know what’s what, -of course. Where is the fellow? I don’t remember anyone I was -particularly friendly with, by the way.” - -“Your—acquaintance—is not here, Captain Pym,” said Hugh, hating the part -he was playing—sickened as he felt by the young man’s manner, which was -utterly different to that of the Roderick Pym he had met at the -Pinewood. “The case is being privately nursed. If you would accompany -me, a hansom will take us and bring us back within the hour.” - -Roderick’s face brightened. He glanced at the clock. - -“An hour!” he said. “I mean to make a holiday of what time I’ve got. You -must lunch with me, Paull! We ought to be chums, you know, you being -everybody at the Pinewood now. Why, my nose is quite out of joint. What -a devil of a hurry you are in, man!” (Hugh had seized his hat, and had -opened the door.) “The fellow, whoever it is, isn’t dying, I suppose?” - -“No,” said Hugh, going rapidly downstairs and feeling that at least this -was absolutely true. - -Speeding along in a hansom, his volatile companion’s spirits rose; he -laughed and chaffed and told anecdotes, rallying Hugh on his gravity. - -“You medicos seem to me to think a lot more of death than we army -fellows,” he said, as they neared the house with the lowered blinds. “I -have a horror of killing: I acknowledge that. But as for death itself, -what is a corpse, after all? A mere empty envelope. The likeness of the -human being is the address; but the contents—the letter itself—is gone.” - -Here Hugh shouted to the driver to stop, and without glancing at his -companion, paid the fare and mounted the steps of No. 99. The -sympathetic landlady had drawn down her blinds in respect to the dead -girl, but Captain Pym did not notice this, he was looking after the -departing hansom. - -“You might have kept the fellow,” he said, discontentedly, as they -entered the house. - -Hugh muttered something about hansoms being plentiful in that -fashionable quarter, and hurried upstairs, bidding Roderick follow. - -The utter unsuspiciousness of Lilia’s cousin cut him to the quick. Yet, -what was he to do? As he opened the door of the bedroom, he consoled -himself by thinking how lightly Captain Pym had but a few minutes -previously spoken of death. - -Turning to hold open the door of the darkened room, he saw Roderick -pause—his expression change. He looked sternly, distrustfully, at Hugh. - -“What does this mean?” he said, entering and glancing from the bed, -where a still, straight figure was visible under a sheet, to Paull. “The -man, whoever he may be, is dead, and you must have known it.” - -“I did know it,” said Hugh, calmly drawing up the blind of the window -nearest the bed. - -“Do you take me for a coward, then?” sneered Roderick. - -“I will answer your questions presently,” said Hugh, watching Captain -Pym closely, and throwing back the sheet to disclose the waxen, lovely -face of the girl. - -There was a calm about the large sunken eyelids, with their dark lashes -blackly defined against the ivory cheek—about the pale forehead, -surrounded by a glossy wreath of black plaits—about the arms, crossed -upon her breast over sprays of white lilies; and upon the closely-shut, -beautiful dead lips was the set, strange smile that seems to express: -“Fear not—none can harm me, now.” - -For one instant, Roderick swerved. He could not be said to shudder, or -to start—he swerved, as if he had made a false step. Then, visibly -paler, but perfectly composed, he leant forward, his arms upon the brass -rail. - -“You—recognize her?” asked Hugh. - -Either this young man was the most accomplished and hardened -hypocrite—or he was not the villain of the story. He felt puzzled. - -“I—do,” said Roderick, straightening himself and looking Hugh full in -the face. “But—excuse me—I cannot understand why it should have fallen -upon me to identify her. Where are her friends?” - -“The only person connected with her whose name we have—is yours, Captain -Pym.” - -Roderick shrugged his shoulders. - -“It is a mystery,” he said. “I knew her brother and her sister. I knew -her—also—slightly.” - -Evidently he began to feel that this was a verbal duel. He spoke -cautiously, choosing his words, and he kept his eyes fixed upon Hugh. - -“Slightly?” asked Hugh, doubtfully. “Perhaps you will be so good as to -explain?” - -“You will be so good as to explain first, if you please, Mr. Paull. I -cannot tell what this lady may have led you to understand. She was, as -far as I can judge, impulsive and imaginative to a degree.” - -“Do not asperse the dead, Captain Pym,” said Hugh, contemptuously. “A -corpse is but a poor shield for a man’s conduct. To shorten matters, let -me tell you that this young lady has told me—all.” - -“All?” said Roderick, raising his eyebrows. “Allow me to congratulate -you on your knowledge, then. I have not seen her for nearly a year—since -which she may doubtless have had an interesting history of which I am -absolutely ignorant. The last time I saw her she was acting and singing -in an Irish theatre, and I was one of the audience.” - -“And wrote her a merciless letter next morning,” said Hugh, confronting -him and speaking in a low, stern voice. “You—under promise of -marriage—oh, do not lose your temper, Captain Pym; you cannot frighten -me! Under promise of marriage you persuaded this unhappy girl to leave -her home and study, secretly, for the stage; you assisted her to make -the appearance on the stage which separated her from her family -forever—and then—you left her to her fate!” - -“I admire your romance—I mean, _the_ romance,” said Roderick, calmly, -turning his back upon the bed. “I am sorry you should be so credulous, -Mr. Paull; that is all I feel upon the subject. I will give you any -information I can. Meanwhile, as I have never given the lie to a living -woman, it is scarcely likely I shall do so to a dead one. Cannot we end -our discussion in another room? Such talk is scarcely seemly here.” - -“I will come,” said Hugh, wrathfully. “But, once more, do not insult the -dead, Captain Pym. Your—letters—to this—lady—are in my possession.” - -Roderick’s pallor assumed a greenish yellow. - -“After you, Mr. Paull,” he said, bowing slightly, and casting an -ironical glance at the sweet young corpse. “I cannot blame you. Only I -hope you may never be dragged into committing yourself out of foolish -good nature, as I appear to have done.” And replacing his hat, he walked -towards the door. - -“Good God—what a fiend!” thought Hugh, with a pitying glance towards the -corpse. “Poor—unhappy—child!” - -He had often been deeply touched by the innocent trustfulness of young -children about to undergo terrible operations that meant kill or cure; -he had frequently been shamed for his own impatience by the cheerful -resignation of the sick and dying poor. But he had never felt such -chivalrous sympathy as that which made him stoop—before he reverently -re-covered that solemn, smiling dead face—and gently touch one thin cold -hand with his lips. - -Though he was neither kith nor kin to her—not even an acquaintance—her -honour was safe with him, and he felt he would have staked his very life -upon her truth. - -He motioned Roderick to follow him, took him into the little -sitting-room, closed the door, and faced him with righteous indignation. - -“You are in my hands, Captain Pym, and at my mercy,” he said, harshly. -“Only the truth can save you from exposure. It lies with Dr. Hildyard -and myself whether there shall be an inquest or no; the cause of the -patient’s death is sufficiently obscure to warrant legal investigation. -As you know, every scrap of evidence must then be brought forward. Your -letters will be produced. You will find yourself in an awkward -position.” - -This last blow, given literally in the dark, went home. Roderick bit his -lip and looked dangerously at Hugh. For a full quarter of a minute the -men’s eyes met, unflinching, then Roderick began to pace the room. - -“One would think you had tampered with the woman yourself—at least, I -might think so—only I happen to know you have succumbed to the -fascinations of my cousin,” he said, sneeringly. “It is to this, I -suppose, I owe your zeal on behalf of this young person.” - -“Let us keep ladies’ names out of the conversation, Captain Pym,” said -Hugh, who had flinched at the bare mention of Lilia. “Tell me the truth, -like a man, and I will restore you your letters and bid you -good-morning. But one condition will I make.” - -Roderick paused, and looked full in his antagonist’s face. - -“And that?” he said. - -“You will entirely renounce all idea of marrying your cousin,” said -Hugh. - -It was his turn to pale to an ashen tint. - -“Upon my word!” Roderick threw himself into a chair, and gave a scornful -laugh. “By what right do you forbid the banns?” - -“While I live, Captain Pym, she shall not marry you.” - -“Then my promises are scarcely necessary, are they?” he asked, looking -mockingly up and tilting his chair. “You have only to tell your -wonderful tale to my uncle, and shew him your beautiful documents. Do -so, and go to the devil!” - -“As you please,” said Hugh, somewhat astonished. “Unfortunately, in -telling the news to Sir Roderick, it must be told to the world, and your -family name dragged through the mud.” - -Captain Pym had risen to go. He paused. - -“What do you want me to say?” he said, savagely. “Tell me what you -accuse me of, and I will answer.” - -“That is by far more sensible,” said Hugh, seating himself at the table, -and drawing an inkstand and blotting-case nearer to him. “Now that you -are inclined to listen to reason, the affair assumes a different aspect. -You will find that, if you confide in me, I will hold my peace, while -you hold the scheme of marriage with your cousin Lilia Pym in abeyance. -Think! Can you give me your word?” - -Roderick gazed gloomily at the one window. A canary was busily pecking -at a morsel of sugar between the bars of its cage; below, in a mews, a -man was whistling while he swept the pavement with a bass broom. - -What, thought Hugh, was passing in that mind? Was it possible for some -good to be left in that careless, cruel nature? - -“I will give you my word,” said Roderick at last, somewhat sullenly. -“You give me my letters, and I will not advance a step in the matter of -marriage with Lilia. Heavens! do you doubt my word?” - -“I will not,” said Hugh. “I will hope for better things than to find you -utterly unworthy.” - -At least, the young man had no depth of cunning; for it was he himself -who had informed Hugh that he _had_ written compromising letters to the -dead girl. - -“Come,” said Paull, more cheerfully, “tell me her name?” - -“Her name is Olivia Fenton,” said Roderick. “Her parents are dead. I met -her when I was at the Curragh. Her brother holds a living near there. -She had a fine voice, and yearned to make use of it; but her brother and -sister were against any idea of the sort. She appealed to me, and I -helped her to come to London, and got people to look after her. During -the time she was studying she, unfortunately, took a fancy to me. I -liked and admired her; but as to marrying her, I knew such a thing was -utterly out of the question. When I found that that was what she -expected of me, I was horrified. She was on the eve of going on the -stage, and I thought better to leave matters as they were until after -her _debût_. She was successful, fortunately, and then I cut the whole -thing.” - -“As you ought to have done before,” said Hugh, sternly. “The old -story—shut the stable door when the steed is stolen.” - -“You did not gather that from my letters!” he cried, the blood rushing -to his face. “The treacherous puss——” - -“Hush! We are speaking of the dead,” said Hugh. - -He was firm, composed. He knew as much now as it was necessary to know. -He obtained the address of the brother and sister, pocketed it, and they -left the house. - -The sun was shining. In the full light of day Roderick looked ghastly. -He stared vacantly at the life of the busy streets, and mechanically -followed his companion. During their rapid drive back to the hospital -[Hugh had chosen a hansom with a good horse, who covered the ground -about as quickly as it could be done] Captain Pym said not one word. - -Arrived, Hugh found himself demanded on all sides. The matron, coming -out of the accident ward, met him with a disgusted frown; one of the -ward Sisters, seeing him pass, hurried out, “Oh, Mr. Paull!” The -dispenser was waiting outside his room door with a bundle of papers. He -waved them all away. “He would be with them in a minute.” Then shutting -himself in with Roderick, he unlocked his safe, and took out the packet -of letters entrusted to him by Olivia Fenton. - -“Before I give you these,” he said, earnestly to Roderick, “you must -pledge yourself to give up all thoughts of marriage with your cousin. -Oh! I exact no formal oath. A man’s word should be as good as his bond! -Did I not still trust you to this extent, I should act very -differently.” - -Roderick held out his hand. - -“I promise,” he said, with some show of emotion; then he eyed the -letters greedily. - -For one moment Hugh faltered in his determination. His fingers closed -upon the packet; then he fulfilled his promise to his dead patient, and -handed them to the man she had so fatally loved. - -The captain glanced at the superscription, then at the seal; then he -turned upon Hugh, his blue eyes aflame with anger. - -“Good God! you have been lying!” he cried, wrathfully. “This is her -seal—I know it—unbroken, and you said you had read the letters!” - -He positively trembled with rage, and gnawed his fair moustache as he -pushed the packet down into the inner breast-pocket of his coat. - -“I made no such statement, Captain Pym,” said Hugh, calmly, leaning up -against the mantelpiece and watching the young man’s ignoble exhibition -of feeling. “I inferred that you might be the writer of them—that was -all. The cap fitted, and you yourself voluntarily acknowledged their -contents.” - -“If you had been straightforward,” said Roderick, fiercely, “I should -have been so, also. Now, look to yourself! This is my last word to you;” -and seizing his hat, he hurried from the room. - - - - - CHAPTER V. - A STARTLING PROPOSAL. - - -Whether some feeling of remorse prompted Roderick to a tardy act of -justice, Hugh could only conjecture. In any case, Olivia Fenton’s -brother-in-law appeared and claimed the remains of his wife’s sister. -There was no inquest, and the unfortunate girl was quietly buried in -Woking Cemetery. - -After those few days of excitement, Hugh’s life fell back into the daily -humdrum. His thoughts were concentrated upon his work, now augmented by -the final preparation for the coming examination for an important -degree, so that the memory of Lilia, and that peculiar feeling, half -pleasure, half pain, when he thought back upon his visit to the -Pinewood, ceased to trouble him so much. - -Weeks of quiet study, of unbroken hospital routine: then came two -startling days, two startling visits. - -It was a gusty autumn morning. Hugh was coming out of one ward and just -about to enter another, when the hall-porter brought him word that the -Rev. Mr. Paull was below and wished to speak with him. - -He hurried downstairs and found his father, who informed him that he was -paying a flying visit to town, and must have a serious talk with him on -important business. - -“It is quite clear we cannot talk here and now,” said Hugh. - -“No, no, my boy; of course not.” - -The old gentleman, who looked overwhelmed with some weighty affair or -another, asked his son to dine with him at his hotel. - - * * * * * - -“And now for the serious talk,” said Hugh, who had been slightly amused -at his father’s portentous manner and evident preoccupation during their -dinner in a private room at a quiet hotel near Piccadilly, “I can see -that something has happened. What is it?” - -“Well, it is Daisy,” said Mr. Paull. - -“Daisy! What is wrong?” - -“Oh, there is nothing exactly wrong. But I shall know better presently. -She is thinking of getting married.” - -“Daisy married!” - -Hugh smiled. - -“Why not?” - -“Somehow I can’t realise the idea of Daisy married. Who is the man?” - -“Ah!” Mr. Paull drew up his chair and stirred the fire. It was a chill -autumnal evening. “Do you remember the Danvers?” he asked. - -“Of course.” (Mr. Danvers was a neighbouring clergyman, and his wife was -a stout lady of much amiability, who, childless herself, had been fond -of entertaining children.) “If I remember rightly,” said Hugh, “one of -her juvenile parties brought about my first bilious attack.” - -“I daresay. Well, you remember they went away for his health when you -were at school, leaving a curate in charge. Since you came down last -time, they have returned. At their house Daisy met this young man. I -suppose you know that Mrs. Danvers was a Miss Clithero?” - -“Clithero?” - -Hugh gave a visible start. - -“Yes; the sister of the Clithero who is partner of the Pyms. Oh! it is -hard upon a man, Hugh, left alone as I am, when his girls begin to have -love affairs.” - -“It is,” said Hugh. “But whatever I can do, dad, shall be done. You know -that.” - -The old man was touched. For a few moments he gazed steadily at the -fire. Then he said: - -“I do; and I feel sure that you will tell me if there is any truth in -the shocking stories about those Pyms.” - -“The Pyms! What have they got to do with it?” - -“The man who wants to marry Daisy is a son of the head of the firm.” - -“Not _Captain_ Pym?” - -Hugh spoke almost fiercely. - -“Why not?” - -Mr. Paull looked at him curiously. - -“Never mind. Tell me all—everything.” - -It seemed that when Daisy Paull was staying at Mrs. Danvers’ house for a -week, there had been also staying there a newly-ordained young -clergyman, Herbert Pym, third son of Mr. Pym, the reputed millionaire. -At the end of the week he had offered himself to Daisy. - -“He is a nice young fellow,” added Mr. Paull. “Frank, no nonsense about -him. He has expectations: will share equally with his eldest brother. He -told me that his brother Roderick (the Captain Pym you mentioned) is to -inherit nothing from his father, having been adopted by his uncle, Sir -Roderick, who will leave him his whole fortune.” - -“That is, to put it mildly, a mistake,” said Hugh. “You know that I -stayed at the Pinewood, Sir Roderick’s place in Surrey, for a couple of -days. Captain Pym is a favourite nephew, but is not an adopted son. Sir -Roderick is wrapped up in his daughter.” - -“His daughter? Now, Hugh, what is the mystery about that daughter? Is -she an idiot? Don’t get angry! I have heard such queer tales.” - -“Why did you listen to them?” said Hugh, disdainfully. “I thought you -were above listening to gossip.” - -“I was compelled, in Daisy’s interests, to investigate the matter,” said -Mr. Paull, with a dignity which recalled Hugh to a sense of propriety -his anxiety was tempting him to forget. “Mrs. Danvers hinted to me that, -although Herbert was the nicest young man she knew, the family were -eccentric. She had heard all sorts of things about them—untrue, -doubtless; still, there seldom was so much smoke without some fire. Mr. -Bullock, the banker, knew how much or how little there was in the -stories. Now, Bullock being my banker, I called upon him.” - -“Bullock,” said Hugh, thoughtfully. “He always seemed an honest, -matter-of-fact sort of man. What did he say?” - -“He said much,” said Mr. Paull. “There is a painful family story. What -sort of a girl is this daughter?” - -“Simple, innocent, good,” said Hugh, shortly, and in as matter-of-fact a -manner as he could assume in his perturbation. - -“Dear me! How strange that bad women so often have good children!” -sighed his father. - -“Is Lady Pym alive?” asked Hugh. - -“I will tell you exactly what Bullock told me. Sir Roderick was quite -different from that which I understand him to be now, when he was young. -A roistering ‘young blood,’ as they termed fast young fellows then. -There was a handsome girl who was one of the Society beauties. No one -noticed Sir Roderick’s admiration. The young lady disappeared one -season. Her disappearance caused quite a talk, especially as her -relations were reticent on the subject. About two years afterwards, when -she is almost forgotten, she reappears as Sir Roderick’s wife. When, -how, and where they were married—why, and for what reason the affair was -kept dark—no one has ever known.” - -“But the child?” - -“The girl seems to have been a young infant when they returned. Well, it -appears that Sir Roderick was quite Eastern in his ideas of how a wife -should be treated. He took that lively young creature to that place of -his, the Pinewood, and shut her up. She saw no one but some of his -relations.” - -“Jealous, doubtless,” said Hugh, thinking back upon the pretty, mutinous -face, miniatured in Sir Roderick’s locket. “Well?” - -“Well, now comes the sad part. Mr. Pym, the brother, who was already a -husband and the father of several children, had then, as I daresay you -know he still has, an estate about twenty miles distant from Sir -Roderick’s. He seems to have divided his time between the two houses. No -one knows what took place there. But there was a serious family quarrel. -Sir Roderick withdrew from the firm of Pym, Clithero, and Pym, and shut -his doors against his whole family. The beautiful Lady Pym no one saw -again. Some say she ran away and hid herself abroad: at least, hid -herself from everyone but the object of her husband’s jealousy, Mr. Pym. -The other rumour is that Sir Roderick shut her up more closely than -ever, and that she died and was buried at the Pinewood.” - -Hugh thought of the chapel in the grounds. - -“That last story is more likely to be true than the other,” he said. - -“Yes,” said Mr. Paull; “if, indeed, there is any fact in the gossip at -all. Bullock said he felt positive that if Sir Roderick suspected his -brother of wronging him in regard to Lady Pym, his suspicion had been -utterly groundless. He knows Mr. Pym. He said that no doubt he pitied -his young sister-in-law for being immured in so un-English a fashion, -and did his best to brighten her life; but that this was all his part in -the affair. That Sir Roderick has come to believe so too, is, I should -think, proved by his love for his brother’s son.” - -An idea came into Hugh’s mind which took away his breath for a moment. -He unconsciously rose from his chair and straightened himself. - -“How does anyone know that he is really fond of Captain Pym?” he -suggested. “His statement that he is his heir may have been made in -revenge, to spoil the young man, to place him in an unnatural position -in his own family circle, and to leave him stranded and befooled at the -last.” - -“Impossible, Hugh! No human being could be so mean!” - -“Nothing is impossible in Sir Roderick, father. Think back on what you -have told me of his conduct to his wife! His brain is unbalanced. He is -clever enough, kind enough, in a way; but he is extravagantly eccentric. -For instance, I am sure he adores that daughter of his as far as he is -capable of adoration; yet he keeps her as much shut up as he did her -mother.” - -“Poor child!” said Mr. Paull, sympathetically. “What a good thing it -would be for her to know Maud and Daisy.” - -“To return to Daisy’s affair,” said Hugh. “It does not seem a very -bright specimen of a family to marry into.” - -“My dear boy, all families have their skeletons in the cupboard,” said -the rector, somewhat nervously. (Hugh was seemingly getting into one of -his stern humours, which would be bad for poor Daisy.) “Find me the -family that has not.” - -“Ours,” said Hugh. - -“I daresay, if the truth were known, our ancestors had their foibles.” - -“Madness has, unfortunately, the habit of going obliquely, father; it -often attacks the nephew or niece, rather than the son or daughter. This -Herbert Pym may develop into a Sir Roderick.” - -“Madness may do that, Hugh; but surely not eccentricity.” - -Hugh paced the room and thought deeply. He had felt there was some -mystery connected with Sir Roderick’s wife, Lilia’s mother. But that any -scandal was attached to her name he had not believed. For himself, he -would not care. But when his sister was in question, he felt it behoved -him to be uncompromisingly judicial. - -“I do not think mother would have liked Daisy’s marrying this young man, -father,” he said at last. - -“If you say that, you cannot have understood her, Hugh,” said the -rector, warmly. “She was the largest-hearted woman on earth. Scandal was -her greatest horror. When young Pym came to me and asked for Daisy, I -felt she would have liked him. It was just that which influenced me.” - -“Well, you know best, father. Shall I see him and talk to him? Perhaps I -might say things to him that you could scarcely say.” - -“I wish you would see him,” said his father, reassured. - -Hugh left him with the understanding that whenever it suited the Rev. -Herbert Pym to make an appointment he was ready to receive him as his -probable brother-in-law. - -But the meeting was destined to be postponed. Next morning, just before -noon, the porter came again. - -“You are wanted, sir. A lady, this time.” - -“I am engaged, you know that,” said Hugh, annoyed, for a dresser he had -had occasion to reprove was just passing, and he saw the young man grin. -“You should have asked her name.” - -“I did, sir. But she said it didn’t matter, she would not keep you a -minute. I took her into the board-room, sir.” - -She, whoever she was, had evidently known the passport to the porter’s -goodwill, thought Hugh, running downstairs. What lady could it be? If it -were Daisy, he would give her a scolding she would remember. - -Entering the board-room he was met by Mrs. Mervyn, pale, agitated. - -“Oh, Mr. Paull! How could you forsake us so?” she said, almost -indignantly. - -Then she broke down, turned away, and hid her face in her handkerchief. - -Hugh was so taken aback that for a moment or two he stood and stared. -Then he felt that something must have happened—he hardly dared think -what. - -“I—forsaken you?” he said, as Mrs. Mervyn conquered her emotion and sat -down. “I have not heard one word from the Pinewood since I spent those -two days there.” - -“You have had a letter and two telegrams,” said Mrs. Mervyn. “Sir -Roderick was taken ill a week ago. Lilia wrote and asked your advice. No -answer came. She telegraphed. No answer. Captain Pym offered to go to -town to fetch Dr. Beard, the physician our doctor asked for. Mr. Mervyn -wired to you,—silence. Captain Pym said he called here, but finding that -you had been in the hospital all the time, and that therefore you -evidently did not want to be bothered with us, or you would have taken -some notice of the letter and telegrams, he did not trouble you in the -matter.” - -Hugh repressed his impulse to anathematise Captain Pym as a liar. “My -time will come; I will bide my time,” he thought. Then he turned to Mrs. -Mervyn, and said, gently: - -“There has been some mistake. It does not matter now. How is he?” - -“Dying.” - -Mrs. Mervyn gave an account of the last trying seven days: the attention -of Dr. Beard, who gave no hope from the first; Lilia’s repressed -anguish; the goodness of the two sick nurses; the summoning of the great -Sir Edward Debenham yesterday (a mere matter of form, to state that -death had proved himself conqueror, that nothing could be done to -reverse the sentence). Then she was about to add something further, when -Hugh asked, suddenly, hoarsely: - -“If this be so, why have you come?” - -“He asked for you—he wants you,” said Mrs. Mervyn. “He will not be -pacified.” - -“Did he know I was sent for?” - -“Yes; and he knew no answer came. But it was he who said the messages -could not have reached you. I would not be the one to suggest anything -else.” - -“You thought me a wretch, Mrs. Mervyn?” - -She shrugged her shoulders. - -“What does it matter now?” she said, in agitation. “Let us go by the -next train, if we can.” - -Hugh procured a time-table. There was time to catch a fast train to F——. -He saw the secretary, arranged for a deputy, and before he hardly -realised the situation London was left far back in the distance in its -purple veil of smoke, and they were rushing through brilliant autumnal -scenes, under a breezy October sky. - -They could not talk during the journey; they had fellow-passengers. It -was painful for Hugh to think that Mrs. Mervyn had doubted him, and -still more painful to remember Lilia. Of course the non-arrival of the -letter and telegrams meant—Roderick. - -Mr. Mervyn was on the platform, looking careworn and eager. At the sight -of Hugh he brightened. He grasped his hand. - -“I knew you would come,” he said. Then, drawing him aside, he said: “You -did not get my telegram? I thought not. Say as little as you can, will -you? and be as unfathomable as a sphinx. I will explain later.” - -Evidently he knew more, in one respect, than Hugh did. - -A light dogcart was awaiting Hugh, and presently he was speeding along -the lanes between the devastated hop-gardens behind Reindeer, who was -going at full speed, while Mrs. Mervyn was following in the brougham -with her husband. - -During the uphill slackening of Reindeer’s pace, Hugh gathered that Sir -Roderick was still alive, though his death was, according to the -doctors, imminent; that none of his servants were surprised—they had -seen so great a change in their master since his accident; and that, -since he had sent for his brother, Mr. Pym, even Miss Lilia had given up -hope. - -“Miss Lilia couldn’t have believed he was agoing to die like other -folks, I don’t believe, sir, if it hadn’t ha’ been for that,” said the -sagacious Thomas. “They said as when she heard that the captain was to -fetch his father, at Sir Roderick’s wish, she fainted dead away. They -haven’t been friends, you see, sir, for many a long year; and Sir -Roderick, when he makes up his mind—well, it isn’t easy to turn him. So -I expect Miss Lilia knew, when he sent for Mr. Pym, that there wasn’t -what you might call a straw left to cling to.” - -“She is better now?” asked Hugh. - -“I can’t say, sir, I’m sure.” - -It was hard work to obey Mr. Mervyn’s recommendation to be sphinx-like. -But as the dogcart jogged down the steep incline leading to the garden -entrance of the house, Hugh rallied himself, and determined to put aside -all personal feeling, all emotions and passions, to follow no impulse, -and to bear in mind that he was here on duty, as a species of death-bed -sentinel—silent, motionless, except to salute the passing soul. - -The house looked the same, as houses will, happen what may. There was -even a greater gaiety about the place. A windy autumn day, when the -cloudlets sail joyously across the luminous blue sky, and the red and -golden trees are shaken by the fresh breezes, has a liveliness of its -own, as if Nature were at play after the hard work of the spring and -summer before the night of winter sets in, when she herself falls -asleep. And within these four walls? As Hugh alighted at the garden -door, and walked in without ringing the bell (all bells had been muffled -by the doctors’ orders), he did not think with any pleasurable -anticipation of the possible scene within. - -But he miscalculated the influence of the young girl who was so soon to -be left alone in the world. - -As he entered the hall by one door, Lilia came in by another. She looked -pale and thinner in her clinging grey gown; but she was calm, and met -him with a half-smile and clinging clasp of the hand. - -“You know?” she asked, in a hushed voice. - -“That he is doomed by the doctors, and that a letter and two telegrams -were _not_ sent to me? Yes,” he said, dryly. - -“I trusted——” She hesitated, and looked round. - -“Explanations afterwards,” she added, with a hopeless, bitter meaning in -her tones and manner. “Now we must only think of _him_. Will you have -some refreshment, or see him now?” - -“Now, at once,” said Hugh. - -Then he followed her in silence up the old oaken staircase, wondering at -her power of self-control—she, so sensitive and emotional a creature! -Until now, she had drawn his sympathies by her gift of fascination; -thus, she seized and held his respect. - -At a tap from Lilia, a nurse opened the door. - -“Mr. Paull,” whispered Lilia, gliding away. - -“I am thankful you have come,” said the nurse, who looked worn and -harassed. “There are two of us, but he has been dreadful. You are a -doctor. You will not let him over-excite himself? We are to leave you -alone.” - -Hugh satisfied the nurse, as they stood by the door behind the screen. -They whispered, but the hearing of the dying man was sharpened. - -“Who’s—that?” Hugh heard, in reedy, querulous tones he hardly -recognised. - -“You must come at once,” said the nurse. - -Then her worn, anxious expression suddenly changed to the placid, -cheerful smile that is as necessary an adjunct in the case of a -sick-room attendant as in a _danseuse_ before the public. - -Hugh, following her, saw a yellowish-white face on the pillows of a big -bed hung with dark green. The change was at hand. Sir Roderick’s -aquiline features were pinched and shrunken; the great bluish circles -round his dark eyes intensified the fixedness of his gaze; there was the -heaviness of death in his arms, stretched motionless at his sides. - -“Hamlet!” he said, in a far-away voice, and his pallid lips drew aside -in the faint mockery of a dying smile. “Come here—close. You two women, -_go_.” - -There was a slight suggestion of the living Sir Roderick in the -irritable peremptoriness of that abrupt dismissal of his faithful -nurses; in his “What on earth are they doing? Why don’t they go?” as -they arranged bottles, glasses, and gong on a table at Hugh’s elbow; and -in his “Are they gone?” when the door shut upon them so softly that he -could not hear it. - -“Of course they are gone.” Hugh bent over his former patient with a new, -real tenderness. “I am here to do everything you wish me to do, Sir -Roderick,” he said; “you have only to command.” - -“Everything!” said the invalid, hoarsely, with a searching look. - -“Everything that my conscience will allow me to do, Sir Roderick!” - -The old man laughed, or tried to laugh; but it was a curious rattling -sound, at which Hugh involuntarily bit his lip. - -“That’s a dying laugh. Funny sound, isn’t it?” said Sir Roderick. Speech -was evidently becoming more and more difficult. “Ugly sound; nasty -feeling; choked feeling, too. I shall soon cast my chrysalis, Hamlet. I -sha’n’t come to an end. No. I hope I shall be a poisonous serpent. Don’t -look shocked. I want to sting human beings. They are worse than devils, -if there were those fables. Yes, worse than devils,” he muttered, his -eyes dimming with, Hugh feared, approaching coma. “Devils would be good -if they could; men can be good, and won’t. I’m not dying, or going to -sleep, Hamlet, so don’t look like that,” he suddenly said, in a voice so -like his own, and with such reviving animation, that Hugh almost hoped -that death was not imminent, despite appearances. “You clergyman’s son, -you would like me to believe in devils, wouldn’t you? Well, I do. In -human devils. And you must help me to punish them.” - -The last words were said dispassionately, gravely. What did he mean? The -old man groped for Hugh’s hand, which was resting on the bed near to his -own. Hugh clasped the icy, clammy fingers in his warm, living grasp. - -“Did you ever wonder why I wanted you here?” - -It was a question, sudden, and to the point. With those dying eyes -riveted upon him, Hugh must answer with bare fact. - -“I did,” he acknowledged. - -“I can’t waste my minutes palavering,” said Sir Roderick, irritable as -he recognised his utter helplessness. “I read you like a book. I wanted -you for Lilia.” - -Hugh started, and flushed. The room seemed to sway and reel; he hardly -knew whether he was shocked, hurt, delighted, or horrified. The -possession of Lilia had been, so to say, hinted to him by his -inclinations as something he might possibly dare to aspire to in the -future. To have his ideal, as it were, snatched at, pounded together, -and shot at him in this fashion was like being physically assaulted. He -felt mentally wounded, but did not realise how or where. - -“I see you know what I mean,” went on the dying man. “You blush like a -girl. Love is nonsense. But you have a passion for her——” - -“I love her!” interrupted Hugh. “I would not have dared—if you had not -spoken.” - -A dreadful chuckle from the sick man seemed to freeze Hugh. If Sir -Roderick would only refrain from that ghastly, rattling laugh! - -“You say you love her, but that you would not have dared—what bosh! -Hamlet, you would be a bad witness. Never mind. The question is—to be, -or not to be? Will you marry Lilia, or _not_?” - -What a position! He was utterly unprepared, too. For some moments he -hardly knew what to do or say; then he felt he must fight Sir Roderick’s -eccentricity for _her_ sake. - -“What would your daughter say?” he asked, gently. “You must not dispose -of her. No one has a right to dispose of another. Of course, I would ask -her to marry me, if I thought she wished it.” - -“Of course she wishes it!” gasped Sir Roderick. - -His eyes shone with excitement; cold beads were on his pale forehead. - -“How can you tell?” suggested Hugh, in desperation. - -The sick man had a fit of gasping. Hugh supported him, fearing that the -end was come. But after he had swallowed a stimulating draught, he -revived somewhat, and asked that his brother, Mr. Pym, his nephew, -Roderick, and Lilia might be summoned. - -Feeling a certain dread and a thorough reluctance, Hugh fetched the -nurses, one of whom was despatched to bring in Mr. and Captain Pym and -Lilia. - -“Hold me,” said Sir Roderick. “Sit by me. Yes, that’s right; and hold -me. Goodness! why ever there are women nurses I can’t make out! They -can’t hold one like that!” - -It took all Hugh’s strength to support his host’s dead weight. Sir -Roderick’s cunning had evidently not left him. In Hugh’s position, as -prop to a dying man, he could hardly assert himself if called upon to do -so. - -The first to enter the sick chamber was Mr. Pym, a slight old man of -middle height, with a long thin face and small keen eyes. His manner was -quiet and self-contained. He accepted a chair from the nurse as calmly -as he would had she been one of his clerks and he in his own office. “An -emotionless man of business,” was Hugh’s mental comment. “The hero of a -scandal? Never!” - -Then came Roderick—pale, handsome. He inclined his head haughtily to -Hugh, then bent over his uncle. - -“You are not worse, uncle, I hope?” he said. - -“Better, according to religious people, like your father,” sneered Sir -Roderick. “You feel better every Sunday, don’t you, William? Nearer -heaven? I’m dying, so of course I’m better, nearer heaven.” - -Mr. Pym reddened. At that moment Lilia entered. Mr. Pym rose and offered -her his chair. She was declining it, and going to the bedside, when her -father querulously said, “No, no; take it!” and she accordingly seated -herself. - -“I wanted you together,” began Sir Roderick, “to tell you a few truths. -I once believed in honest men.” He looked from one to the other; then -gave a chuckle, and choked. When he recovered, he added, meaningly: -“You, William, put an end to that. You made me wiser, much wiser.” - -Lilia’s pale face flushed. Hugh met her glance of appeal, and turned -away. What could he do? - -Mr. Pym looked gravely at his brother; then, half-turning to the others, -said: - -“Pray, say what pleases you, Roderick; it will not hurt me.” - -“You made a Diogenes of me,” went on Sir Roderick. “Well, at last, I -found a _man_. This is the man—the rock I am leaning against to die!” - -There was silence. Whatever Roderick or his father may have felt, they -were silent; nor did they betray any emotion by glance or movement. But -Lilia knelt down and kissed the cold hand lying on the bed. At that -little spontaneous action Sir Roderick smiled, and Hugh began to believe -that Lilia’s heart was his. - -“I knew I was done for after the accident,” he went on; “but as I had -found an honest man I didn’t mind. Where’s Mervyn?” - -He roused himself, and struggled into a sitting posture. - -“Don’t kneel there; fetch Mervyn, can’t you?” he said to Lilia, -querulously. - -“Fetch him,” said Hugh, pleadingly. - -He felt overwhelmed by this sudden and unexpected crisis in his life. He -pitied himself and each one of them for being, as it were, called to -arms without hint or warning of war. And Lilia—he felt almost as if her -holiest feelings were to be outraged. Yet, without troubling the dying -man, he could do nothing to protect her. - -There was a hush in the sick chamber. Roderick stood leaning against a -wardrobe; Mr. Pym remained quietly seated as if he were on the -magisterial bench, or in his pew in church. Presently the door opened, -and Lilia came in, followed by Mr. Mervyn. - -At the sight of him Sir Roderick gave a sort of grunt of satisfaction. - -“You know what I want you for,” he said. - -Mr. Mervyn’s pale face flushed, and he glanced uneasily round. Then he -went up to the bed and laid his hand kindly on Sir Roderick’s. - -“Not exactly,” he said, cheerily. “You must tell me, for you said so -many things. I do not know which one of them you allude to.” - -With evident difficulty, Sir Roderick raised his hand and pointed from -Hugh to Lilia. - -“Marry them!” he gasped. “Here, now, at once!” - -Mr. Mervyn looked helplessly at Hugh. - -“What am I to do, Mr. Paull?” he said. “Lilia!” - -Lilia had evidently not heard, or hearing, had not understood. - -“What is it he wants?” she asked, coming to the bedside. - -“Will you marry her now?” asked Sir Roderick, struggling away from Hugh, -so that he could look up into his face. - -“If she consents,” said Hugh, looking fixedly at Lilia. But her eyes -were cast down: she was red as a rose—the picture of shame. - -Mr. Pym jumped up, as if suddenly awakened from a stupor of -astonishment. - -“I—I protest against this—this mad notion—this insult to my niece!” he -began, evidently angered beyond power of self-control. - -Once more Sir Roderick chuckled. - -“You protest against her money being her own, eh?” he said. “You would -like your handsome son to spend it on his women, eh? Stand back!” he -said, solemnly, raising his hand warningly as Roderick stepped forward, -white with passion. “Mervyn, marry them! Do you hear?” - -“I cannot, my dear old friend; it is impossible. Think, I have no -license. To read any service would be mere waste of words——” - -His speech was interrupted by a hoarse cry, as the dying man turned up -his glazing eyes and fell back into Hugh’s arms. - -“Take them all away, and send the nurses,” said Hugh, peremptorily. - -Mr. Pym and his son instantly retired, but Lilia pleaded to remain. - -“Have mercy on me, and let me stay!” she said, turning from Mr. Mervyn -to Hugh with a piteous expression in her distended eyes. - -“You shall stay,” said Hugh, tenderly; “only wait just a minute. Nurse!” - -Mr. Mervyn took her to the window, and said all he could think of to -comfort her. He, like Hugh, sorry though he was, felt almost thankful to -Death for putting an end to the embarrassing position. But all he could -think of saying was nothing to the poor child in her agony, he saw that. - -When the nurses had arranged the now unconscious man, under Hugh’s -direction, Hugh came across to the window. - -“Coma has set in,” he said to them; “all pain and suffering are over for -him. But as this state remains somewhat of a mystery to us doctors—I -myself believe there may sometimes remain a super-conscious state we -know nothing about—will you come quite close to him, Lilia? Hold his -hand; let your head rest by him. We never know, it might comfort him!” - -Lilia put out her hand, and, guided by him, reached the bed. Presently -the dying father and the living child were lying side by side, as -motionless as if both were dead. The nurses sat near, watching and -waiting. Mr. Mervyn and Hugh sat silently at the window, with plenty to -occupy their thoughts. The minutes were slowly ticked off by the old -clock outside the sick-room door, which presently, after some wheezing -sounds, struck one, hoarsely, in a cracked, aged tone. - -One of the nurses rose with a warning “Mr. Paull.” - -Hugh knew then what was before him. He went to the bedside, gently -roused Lilia, who seemed half-asleep, half-stupefied. Then followed the -feeling of the dead man’s pulse, the listening to the silent heart, the -mirror held over the blue lips—all in vain. - -“Kiss him, dear,” said Hugh, tenderly, to Lilia. - -She looked up at him with a wan, bewildered look—the look of a lost -child; then she flung her arms round her father, and the touch of his -icy face told her that she was an orphan. - -She flung herself back with a shriek. - -“You have let him die!” she cried, frantically, to Hugh. “How dared you? -Why did you? Oh father! come back, come back!” - -“Lilia! you forget,” said Hugh, firmly, seizing her wrist. “Remember, we -cannot dictate to God!” - -He threw all the will he was capable of into those words. To his relief, -he felt that he had some influence over his future wife. She recoiled, -he felt her stiffen; then she slowly turned her head towards him. - -“He is gone? There is no hope?” she asked, quietly. - -“No hope—_here_” said Hugh. “Now, you will be good, be worthy of him? -You will come away with me, _me_ (he trusted me, you know, dear), for a -little while? We will come back very, very soon!” - -Like a child she held out her arms, and allowed him to assist her from -the bed, and to half-support, half-carry her from the room and -downstairs to the drawing-room, where, like a tired child, she sobbed -herself into calm, then sleep. - -When she was soundly asleep upon the sofa, Hugh fetched Mrs. Mervyn. - -“It is best as it is, is it not?” she asked him, somewhat timidly, by -which Hugh gathered that the proposed death-bed marriage was no secret. - -“I hope so,” he said, ambiguously. Then, outwardly calm, inwardly racked -with mingled emotions, he turned to face his life under the new -conditions. - - - - - CHAPTER VI. - THE LOCKET. - - -“Where is Mr. Pym?” asked Hugh, meeting James in the hall. - -“Captain Pym is gone, sir. Rode off in a hurry about half-an-hour since. -If you mean the old gentleman, he’s in the library with Mr. Mervyn.” - -Sir Roderick’s brother was evidently unknown to and of little account in -Sir Roderick’s household. Hugh felt that his first duty was to show -every deference to a man who had been, whether justifiably or not, -cruelly insulted by the dying man. He knocked at the library door. It -was Mr. Mervyn who called out, “Come in.” - -The fitful sunshine and the leaping flames on the old-fashioned hearth -were brightening the room. Mr. Pym had unwittingly seated himself in Sir -Roderick’s own particular arm-chair. Mr. Mervyn stood on the hearthrug. - -“That’s right, Paull,” he said, evidently relieved. “She is better? Had -a good cry? She’ll do, then. Mr. Pym and I have had a talk, and I am -glad you should understand each other before he returns home. I have -assured him, in your behalf, that Sir Roderick’s wishes on the subject -of yourself and Lilia were more of a surprise to you than to myself.” - -“I am not a thief, Mr. Mervyn,” said Hugh, warmly. “If coming here as -Sir Roderick’s medical attendant I had even thought of Miss Pym as a -possible future wife, I should have been as much a thief as a common -burglar—aye, more so.” - -Mr. Pym’s long upper lip curved a little with more a sneer than a smile. - -“These young men now-a-days are so strangely romantic,” he said, turning -to Mr. Mervyn. “It has, I assure you, been a great difficulty in my way -in the matter of my clerks. My partner, Mr. Clithero, invariably defers -to me in the affair of our staff. This tendency has been a great -stumbling-block to me. I will not have a person in my employ who uses -tall talk.” - -Hugh bit his lip, but remembered that this man who wished to show him -that he classed him with his bank clerks, with the despised majority, -the bread-winning non-capitalists, was not only Lilia’s uncle, but -possibly his sister Daisy’s father-in-law. - -“I have assured Mr. Pym that Lilia, also, was more surprised than I -was,” said Mr. Mervyn, admiring Hugh’s self-control; for Mr. Pym’s cold, -measured tones were far more subtly insulting than his words. “This I -have learnt from Mrs. Mervyn, who at the same time assured me that the -child had a great regard for you, Paull—quite sufficient to render her -obedient to her father’s wishes, when called upon.” - -“That is all very well, Mr. Mervyn,” said Mr. Pym, dictatorially. “But, -as you are aware, until quite lately, my unfortunate brother’s pet whim -was to leave his fortune to Roderick, on the condition that he and my -niece would marry.” - -“Of that, sir, I know nothing,” said Mr. Mervyn, deferentially. - -“But you were always in the house, I understand?” said Mr. Pym, -haughtily. “My brother’s almost adoption of my son cannot have escaped -your notice.” - -Mr. Mervyn cleared his throat; and looking down at his boots, brushed -some invisible dust from the skirt of his coat. - -“I have known Sir Roderick change his mind before now; that is all I can -say, Mr. Pym,” he said. - -“Yes—when he had a mind to change,” said the banker. “The question is, -if the accident which brought about concussion of the brain did not so -seriously affect his mind as to invalidate his opinions from that -moment.” - -Hugh was about to speak, but Mr. Mervyn silenced him with a warning -glance. - -“It may be treason to my dead friend; I don’t know; I certainly hope -not,” he said, “but, if there is to be discussion or law-making on the -subject of his fortune, I must tell the truth—he had no particular -fortune to leave.” - -Hugh felt as if a heavy weight were uplifted from his heart. “Thank God -for that!” he said. - -The exclamation was so undoubtedly genuine, that Mr. Mervyn -smiled—almost laughed—but recollecting the dread presence in the house, -checked himself. Mr. Pym settled his eyeglasses on his nose, looked -curiously at Hugh as at some new specimen of unclassed animal, then -dropped his glasses. - -“Excuse me, if I think you are mistaken, Mr. Mervyn,” he said, politely. -“My brother can scarcely have dissipated so large a capital as that -which he withdrew from us when we dissolved partnership.” - -Mr. Mervyn shrugged his shoulders. - -“The reading of the Will will doubtless tend to explain matters,” he -said. “At present, we are even in the dark as to Sir Roderick’s wishes -in regard to his burial.” - -A minute’s silence, then Mr. Pym rose. - -“Understand, Mr. Mervyn,” he said, stiffly and pompously, and with -evident intention turning his back upon Hugh, “until I, as her nearest -male relative, have had several interviews with my niece, I cannot -countenance any arrangement for her future which may have been made by -my unfortunate brother when in an unsound state of mind.” - -Hugh’s impulse to resent was suddenly and strongly quelled by a strange, -almost occult, sensation. He seemed, as it were, suddenly to feel, -personally, the emotions that old Mr. Pym was enduring. These were -goodwill towards the brother who had persistently misunderstood and -quarrelled with him; an almost despair at that death-bed insult; an -irritable questioning of the motives and intentions of himself and Mr. -Mervyn, strangers except by hearsay; a yearning tenderness towards his -orphaned niece. - -“Mr. Pym!” he said, impetuously, going to the old man as he was quitting -the room, “excuse me for detaining you one moment, but I must tell you -how much your niece’s grief is increased by her father’s treatment of -you; it was harder to console her for that than for the fact that Sir -Roderick is dead!” - -At first, a slight redness flushing Mr. Pym’s withered cheeks encouraged -Hugh to fancy that his feelings were touched. But whatever transient -emotion had caused that flush, it was but transient. - -“I am sure I am very much obliged to you,” he coldly said, with a nod -such as he might have given to a saluting servant; “but really I do not -think that you, sir, and I need go into these questions. If you will -direct me to the stables, I will find my carriage.” - -Mr. Mervyn at once came to the rescue. - -“You wait here for me,” he said confidentially to Hugh. “I’ll see him -off, and come back.” - -Hugh’s sensations when left alone were scarcely pleasant. “I am an -interloper,” he thought. “Yet I love her! and if I were to wriggle out -of the situation, Roderick would step in. Roderick! No. I must deal with -the facts as they are, the best way I can.” - -At least, he thought, as Mr. Mervyn cordially held out his hand to him -as he returned to the room, Lilia’s guardian and trustee did not -misunderstand him. - -“It is a sad time for congratulations,” said Mr. Mervyn; “still, I -cannot help congratulating you. Lilia is a sweet girl, with the making -of a real woman in her. I was right when I said that Sir Roderick’s wish -you two should be married took you by surprise, eh?” - -“It was more than a surprise, Mr. Mervyn.” - -“Not an unpleasant one? No, I thought not. Mrs. Mervyn assured me that -you and Lilia liked each other weeks ago. Women are pretty reliable -judges in these matters. Still, when Sir Roderick told me at the -beginning of this last illness that he had invited you here, hoping that -the child would take a fancy to you, I was surprised, I own.” - -“What could his idea have been, Mr. Mervyn?” - -“He liked you. When Sir Roderick liked anyone, he trusted that person -blindly, I may say foolishly. Then he had just been disenchanted, -awakened to the fact that his nephew Roderick is—what I have always -thought him—a scamp.” - -“How was he enlightened?” asked Hugh, drawing a long breath of relief. - -“Oh! you know how curiously things get about. He was not a man to listen -to gossip. But since the 45th were quartered at Aldershot rumours of -Roderick’s looseness of conduct were in the air somehow.” - -“Do you think he intended those two for each other?” asked Hugh. - -“I cannot make out,” said the clergyman, slowly. “He made a fool of that -lad; sometimes so much so that I felt uncomfortable, as if it were -unreal, a cruel joke he was enjoying all to himself. You see, he hated -the father.” - -“I thought so,” said Hugh. Then he detailed the bitter speeches of the -dying man, before Mr. Mervyn was fetched by Lilia. - -“Dear, dear!” said Mr. Mervyn. “It is not to be wondered at that the old -man’s back was up just now. Curious old man, that. A bit of a Pharisee, -I fear. But not as guilty as his brother thought him, I believe.” - -“Were you here then, Mr. Mervyn? When that affair of Lady Pym happened?” - -“Who told you of the family scandal, eh, young man?” - -Hugh recounted his father’s visit and its object. - -“Do you know anything of this clergyman son who wants to marry my -sister?” he asked. - -“I met him once or twice, and thought him a prig,” said Mr. Mervyn. “But -better a prig, than like his brother Roderick.” - -“You knew Lady Pym?” asked Hugh. - -“I did,” said Mr. Mervyn. “A lovely, winsome young creature; wretchedly -unhappy. She was made for society and a lightsome life, and Sir Roderick -literally imprisoned her. If she clung to her brother-in-law—if they -were more affectionate to each other than in strict justice to him they -should have been,—I, for one, cannot cast the first stone. It was -piteous to see that poor girl. When the row came, and she disappeared, I -felt inclined to give up the living. My one attempt to interfere was met -with coldness; I could not try again. If it had not been for my wife, -who was devoted to the poor baby, and literally went on her knees to me -to stay, I should not be here talking to you now. It is this—with other -things—that makes it impossible for me to regret Sir Roderick’s death, -though he has been very kind to me, and to my wife too.” - -“And to the poor?” - -“No,” said Mr. Mervyn, energetically. “He has been their worst enemy. -Your work is cut out for you, Mr. Paull, to undo his doings. But you are -the man to do it.” - -“But—I thought—you said—he left no fortune?” - -Hugh’s ambition was certainly not to waste his energies in remedying Sir -Roderick’s mistakes. - -“No fortune, as Mr. Pym considers fortune. But you had better see Turner -and Moffatt, the solicitors, Paull, you really had,” added Mr. Mervyn, -lapsing into the familiar and confidential. “Someone must take up a -position of authority; and you are the person to do it, as matters -stand.” - -Hugh wrote off to the hospital authorities for further leave; and next -day, hearing from Mrs. Mervyn, who was acting as mistress of the house -_pro tem._, that Lilia would not come down till after luncheon, he drove -over to the quiet little town where “Messrs. Turner and Moffatt, -solicitors,” was engraved large upon a brilliant brass plate on the door -of an old red-brick house. - -This house was in a wide, quiet street of the silent country town, where -the grass sprouted about the cobbles in the roads. A parlourmaid -conducted Hugh into a prim library, where he was almost immediately -joined by a little man, dressed with extreme neatness, and wearing thick -glass spectacles, who met him with repeated little bows. - -“A friend of my late client,” he said, insisting upon Hugh’s seating -himself in a huge arm-chair, like a dentist’s. “Yes, yes.” (He referred -to Hugh’s card that he was holding between his finger and thumb.) “My -name is Moffatt. I have always acted for Sir Roderick. Dear me! Very -sad, very sad! I only heard of his death this morning.” - -He sat down and looked at Hugh through his spectacles with an inquiring, -owl-like gaze. - -“I have good reason to suppose that my client has spoken of you to me as -having treated him very successfully after his accident,” he next said, -taking off his spectacles and absently polishing them with his -handkerchief. “Quite in a friendly way—Sir Roderick was very friendly -with us; indeed he has often honoured Mrs. Moffatt by taking a bit of -luncheon with us. And how is the poor young lady?” - -To Hugh’s surprise, he found that Mr. Moffatt had never seen Lilia. - -“Our poor friend—my late client, I should say—was slightly eccentric, -you see,” said the lawyer exculpatingly, after which Hugh found it -easier to make a clean breast of affairs as they stood. - -“Mr. Mervyn advised me to come to you to tell me exactly what to do,” he -said. - -“Certainly, certainly, Mr. Paull, anything that we can do.” - -The little gentleman, who had been mentally casting up Hugh, of whose -position in Sir Roderick’s will he was well aware, was so far satisfied -with his new client. The reluctance Hugh showed, during their ensuing -interview, to accept the situation, he thought foolish. Still, he liked -the young man for it. - -Hugh left him in a more uncertain mood than when he sought him. - -He did not see Lilia till next morning. Mrs. Mervyn was kind, even -tender in her manner to him when they dined _tête-à-tête_, but they both -tacitly ignored the position of affairs. Mrs. Mervyn recalled and -recounted little anecdotes which showed Sir Roderick at his best, but -nothing further was discussed. Even on the subject of Lilia they were -equally on guard. - -“This is the most uncomfortable position a man could possibly be placed -in,” Hugh told himself, as he breakfasted alone in the dining-room next -morning, stared at by the painted eyes of the pictured effigies of -bygone Pyms. “Why will she not see me?” for by Mrs. Mervyn’s message of -excuse, that she would breakfast upstairs with Lilia, he augured that -Lilia would not face him. - -“What am I to do?” he thought, pacing the room in gloomy discomfort. “Of -course! I see it. I have been forced upon her. As a loving daughter, she -was ready to sacrifice herself to please her dying father. If he had -asked to be burnt like an Indian and she to lie down among the flames in -suttee fashion, she would have carried out his whim. She shall not be -made miserable for life. I must insist upon her accepting her release. -Of course the Mervyns and lawyer Moffatt think it best that Sir -Roderick’s ideas should be carried out. My duty plainly is, to fight for -_her_ good, and hers only.” - -While he was hotly arguing against himself Lilia was hanging -despairingly about Mrs. Mervyn in her darkened room. - -“My dear, I assure you he loves you, and would have wished to marry you -even against your father’s wish,” Mrs. Mervyn was assuring the unhappy -girl for the hundredth time. “If you only see him, you will be convinced -that I am right. You will, indeed!” - -Then Lilia said, brokenly, that she could not. If he would only go away, -she would write to him. - -“Let him take everything, and go,” she said for about the -hundred-and-first time. “Life is over for me.” - -Then once more Mrs. Mervyn said, this time somewhat indignantly, for she -was losing patience, that such a suggestion to Mr. Paull savoured of -insult. - -“You are cowardly in your grief, Lilia,” she said, sharply. “At least -tell the young man your ideas yourself, instead of saying them over and -over again to poor me, who can do nothing.” - -Perhaps it was this speech which brought about the following:— - -Hugh, impatiently pacing the dining-room, did not hear the door open, -and when once he suddenly turned round as he reached the hearthrug, he -started back in alarm at finding himself confronted by a ghostly figure. - -It was Lilia, Magdalen-like, with her hair dishevelled and hanging about -over her white dressing-gown, with her head drooping, her swollen -eyelids cast down, her arms crossed under her loose sleeves. - -“Miss Pym!” he said. Then he placed a chair for her, and set a guard -upon his emotions. - -She sat down on the edge of the chair as if she were on sufferance. -Indeed, she felt as if nothing in the world was her own now, except her -grief. - -“What can I do for you?” he said, as gently and tenderly as he could. -“Anything, anything that you wish, I will try to do.” - -She glanced up, at this. - -“Will you—go?” she said, timidly. “And forget all about us—about him, -and me? And I will write to you about everything.” - -Her head drooped again. He stood looking at her in silence for a few -moments, wondering what prompted that speech—what, indeed, she really -felt. Then he said, very gently: - -“Am I to understand that you really wish me to go?” - -She murmured “Yes.” - -“I will, then,” he said. “But you must give me your true reason for -sending me away.” - -“For your—happiness,” she said, with a sigh. - -“My—happiness?” he repeated, bitterly. “Even though you may hate me -because your father wished—_that_—I would rather stay near you, even -though you would not look at me, or speak to me—than go away—now.” - -He hoped his earnestness might have some effect in eliciting the truth. -But she still sat there dumbly, miserably. After a pause: - -“You are—very kind—he used to say so,” she murmured, with a sob. - -He felt somewhat exasperated. - -“I am _not_ kind,” he said. “And I never say anything I do not mean and -feel. Don’t you believe me?” - -“_Really_ kind people do not know when they are kind,” she said, raising -her grieved eyes and speaking more firmly. “Make no mistake, Mr. Paull. -I understand your motives, which seem good to you. But they are not the -best, or even good, for you or for me. I am positively certain of this.” - -“My motives?” he said, scornfully. “Then, I have none! I only know—that -I love you!” he added, passionately. - -She fastened, as if in perversity, on the first half of his speech. - -“If you have no motives, I have motives,” she said, slowly. “Therefore I -am the one to see clearly. And I plainly see, that the best thing for -both of us is—that you should go away.” - -“But—why?” cried Hugh. (In his life, he had never felt more inclined to -swear.) “That is all I ask you to tell me! Why?” - -“I gave you my reason,” she said. “For your happiness!” - -“My happiness! What do you know—or care—about my happiness?” he said, -scornfully. - -“More than you care for mine!” she said, rousing a little. “Or you would -go, without asking why!” - -“No, that I certainly should not,” he returned. “Oh, what waste of time -this beating about the bush is! Lilia, I plainly see what all this -means. You cannot love me!” - -He began pacing the room again. She, poor child, worn out by sleepless -nights fighting against her inclinations—as she thought, for the welfare -of this man whom she passionately loved—gazed sadly at him, a pathetic -gaze of renunciation, which, if he had seen, might have enlightened him. - -But he did not see. - -“Well?” he said, at last, almost fiercely, halting opposite to her. -“Your answer?” - -“I forget—what you asked,” she said, timidly. - -“That is answer enough!” he retorted sadly. “Poor, poor child! You shall -not be sacrificed.” (Love him, and forget his question? The two things -were incompatible. He was answered, he considered, and completely.) - -With a swelling heart she held out her limp, cold hand to him. - -“Be my brother,” she said, with a catching at her breath. “Remember—how -alone—I am!” - -He stooped and lightly touched her hand with his lips. - -“If I were your brother, I should stay,” he said, gravely. - -“If you were my brother, you would do as you like without asking me,” -she said, with an attempt at a smile. “Do as you like.” - -At that moment there was a tap at the door, and the older of the two -nurses peeped in. - -“Might I trouble you one moment, Mr. Paull?” - -He went outside. The nurse handed him a small sealed packet. - -“A locket and chain from the patient’s neck,” she said. “Mrs. Mervyn -would not take it.” - -“I will give it to Miss Pym,” he said, wondering how much or how little -Lilia knew of her father’s personal affairs. - -“Nurse came to bring me this,” he said, returning to Lilia. “She says it -contains a locket and chain she found around—his—neck.” - -“A locket—round—his—neck? It must be a mistake,” said Lilia, -confidently. “He never wore any jewellery—except, of course, his -watchchain. He did not approve of men decking themselves out with -ornaments.” - -“Well, you can soon find out if it is a mistake,” he said, handing her -the packet. - -She hesitated, took the package, then laid it down on the table as if -the touch of it had scorched her. - -“I cannot!” she said, with a sob. “It seems—such prying, such -desecration! _You_ open it.” - -There was something so childish in her change of voice as she pushed the -packet towards him, that instinctively Hugh felt comforted. All the -preceding palaver might have been partly the masquerading of a child, -suddenly called upon to act the woman. - -For a moment he hesitated; then he broke the seal, and handing her the -locket which had been in his custody at the hospital, said: - -“I have seen this before, I think.” - -“You?” she asked, recoiling. “How? When?” - -“In the hospital—your father wore it then. If I am not mistaken, the -locket contains a portrait.” - -“I have never been photographed,” she said, evidently believing that no -portrait save of herself could be so honoured. “It is not—a portrait—of -Roderick?” - -“Look and see for yourself,” suggested Hugh. - -Her fingers trembled as she opened the locket, then she stared in -amazement at the miniature. - -“I have never seen that person in my life!” she cried. “Have you? Did he -tell you anything about it? Oh, it is impossible, impossible!” - -She was roused, almost excited. She tossed the locket away from her, -then clutched at it again and devoured the portrait with her eyes. - -“Surely the face must recall some one to your mind—there must be -some—family—likeness?” he suggested, gravely. - -“I never saw any one in the least like that!” she said, with withering -contempt. “It is a horrid face!” - -Could she speak thus if the slightest suspicion that the portrait was -that of her unhappy mother had crossed her mind? Hugh thought not. - -“You once—had—a mother,” he said, not without emotion that he, a -stranger, should be called upon to remind this fatherless young creature -of the fact. - -“I know it,” she said, coldly. “Please do not allude to that—again.” - -“What is to be done with this, then?” he asked, chilled by her -unwomanliness. And he picked up the locket and once more looked at the -pretty, defiant little face pictured therein. - -“I do not see what one thing has to do with the other,” she said. - -“I feel certain that this is the portrait of your mother,” he said. -“And, that being so, what is to be done with it?” - -She glanced at him with a curious light in her grey eyes that made her -look more witchlike than angelic. - -“I will show you,” she said; and going to the hearth she stirred the -logs into a blaze, and detaching the locket from its slender chain she -dropped it into the glowing heart of the fire. - -“I will keep this,” she said, showing him the chain. “It touched his -neck. You are answered.” - -The horrified expression on Hugh’s pale features somewhat quieted her -passion. He was surprised and shocked. Was her rage pure jealousy, or -what? He stood there, pondering, with his face averted from her. - -“Now you know me!” she said, recklessly. “No—not quite. But I will tell -you. I hate the woman who dared to marry my father without loving him, -and so, poisoned his life and broke his heart!” - -Somehow Sir Roderick as Hugh had known him was scarcely to be recognised -as a man with a poisoned life and a broken heart. - -“As you have given me a brother’s privilege, I shall use it and tell you -the truth,” he said, seriously, to the young creature who was, he could -see, all panting and as it were aflame with long-repressed emotion. “You -have no right to judge another whom you have neither seen nor known, -least of all in the case of your mother, to whom you owe your life.” - -“And—my misery!” she said, passionately. “If she had not spoiled his -life, he would have been a happy man—he might be alive, now!” - -“This is a very onesided way of arguing,” he said. “Had your parents -been happy together in the ordinary way, they might have had a large -family of troublesome sons and daughters, who would have broken your -father’s heart, as you call it, a dozen times over.” - -“She was—a wretch, a wretch!” said Lilia. - -In her passion she forgot her new shyness of Hugh. She had seated -herself on the corner of the table—gracefully enough, she was always -graceful—but she was swinging her little foot impatiently, and thrust -away the breakfast things, not yet removed, with evident carelessness -whether they were broken or not. - -“Did it ever occur to you—that if we continue the mistakes those beloved -dead of ours made here on earth, we might possibly be injuring their -souls?” said Hugh, gravely. “It seems to me that real grief for the dead -should show itself in continuing the good they have done—and, perhaps, -in rectifying those mistakes.” - -“My father never made mistakes,” said Lilia, obstinately. - -“He seems to have made one, at least,” he said, somewhat bitterly—“in -thinking that you and I wished—or would consent—to marry each other!” - -She blushed and hung her head. - -“You were speaking of souls,” she said, presently, in a somewhat defiant -tone. “What do you mean by souls?” - -“You ought to know,” he returned. “Do you not go to church every Sunday, -and say your prayers?” - -“I did so while _he_ was here—but never again, never again!” she said, -in tones so despairing that Hugh’s growing hardness of humour was -melted. - -“Why not?” he asked, gently. - -“I was getting to believe that there might be a good God,” she said. -“That—is crushed—now I _know_ there is not!” - -“You do not know what you are saying, poor child!” said Hugh. - -What was he to do? What to say? Never in his life had he felt so -helpless in thought and word. - -She looked up at him with a sad, but quiet little smile. - -“Would _you_, hard as you can be, have taken my father from me?” she -said. - -“I thought your mind was larger, stronger,” said Hugh, eagerly. “That -you could distinguish between this little life and eternity; between our -poor human ideas and the Eternal Must Be. I am disappointed.” - -She sighed. - -“I knew it,” she murmured, twisting her fingers. “I knew that when you -saw me as I really am, you would despise me!” - -“Pray, pray do not misunderstand me,” said Hugh, almost hopelessly. “It -seems to me that all the trouble in life comes from people wilfully -misunderstanding each other. Will you not believe in my devotion to you, -that I am ready to do, to suffer anything for you?” - -“I am not worth it,” she sighed. “And—really it seems to me that I don’t -care whether I am or not, or indeed, what happens!” - -She was so listlessly miserable that Hugh re-assumed his professional -manner. She was suffering from the shock. She required complete rest. It -never occurred to him that if he had taken her to his heart, then and -there, without question or reserve, that complete rest would have been -hers. Instead, he sent her upstairs to Mrs. Mervyn, devoutly kissing her -hand at parting, with the kind, cool words: - -“Remember, you have a brother who is ready to serve you day or night.” - -So Lilia went wearily up the old staircase and scared Mrs. Mervyn, who -was scribbling notes at the writing-table in her room, by looking more -ghostlike than when she left her. - -“Well?” said that lady, who had quite concluded that the young people -would understand each other. - -“Well? What?” she asked languidly. “Mr. Paull said I had better lie -down. Lie down, indeed! As if I could rest!” - -“But—you understand each other?” Mrs. Mervyn asked, with a shade of -anxiety in her tone. She felt her position somewhat onerous. - -“Perfectly,” said Lilia. “We are quite agreed—we have adopted each other -as brother and sister—oh, father, father!” - -And she broke down completely, sobbing hysterically for a long time. - -When she was quieted, and was seemingly asleep, Mrs. Mervyn had time to -reflect. What were those two about? - -“They are too much in love with each other and cannot talk sense, that’s -what it is,” she told herself. “Ah, well, time enough! The brother and -sister business is really nicer during the first mourning, when there -should be no thoughts of ‘marrying, or giving in marriage.’” - - - - - CHAPTER VII. - FOUND IN AN OLD NOTEBOOK OF LILIA PYM’S. - - - _October —, 18—._ - -If I do not tell someone, or something, I shall go mad! - -Oh! father, father, I loved you so; and what have you done to me? - -You could not help dying and leaving me, I know that. The relentless -progress of atoms, whose rules no one is clear-brained or unprejudiced -enough to discover, determined your death. - -But why, why did you degrade me so? I have been wandering in the dark -among the pines, in the forlorn hope of meeting your spirit. I have been -to the place in the churchyard where they buried you, to-day. I knew I -could not see or hear you, but I thought my mind might feel your mind. I -felt nothing—but that you—are—_not_. - -You are _not_. Terrible, cruel thought! And I have not the courage to -kill myself and be _not_, as well. This man you have given me to, -without asking me, holds me, holds every bit of me—body, heart, what -they call mind and soul—everything. I feel I must do his will, and that -my own will is as _not_ as you are. - -I rage and chafe like a chained beast, and every moment I feel my chains -are getting less galling—presently, oh, father, father! they will be -pleasant, like your chains were—then I shall love them—then they will -crush me, and I shall not be your Lilia any more, but a little piece of -another identity. - -It must have been your plan from the beginning. How you used to talk -about him after that dreadful time in the hospital! You made him out a -second “Hamlet,” only larger-minded, cleverer; but never said he was -young and handsome. You must have purposely let me imagine him like your -friends, that I might be surprised, that first time he came here. How -well I remember one evening, when you and I were walking in the wood, -and you were talking about him, and said he was coming! - -“At last I shall see this ancient ‘Hamlet’ of yours,” I said, and asked -you if there had been an “Ophelia” in his story. - -“Scarcely time for that, yet,” you said, in a peculiar way of yours, -that means I am all at sea—all in the dark about something. But I was -not interested enough to think more about it. - -Then came the day, when a graceful, dark, young, prince-like creature -walked across the lawn, and when I saw him I felt all paralysed. I felt -nothing, thought nothing. He stupefied me. I only seemed to wake up when -he went away; no, some hours after he went back to London, and then my -whole being seemed to give one great cry of despair, like it did when -Mr. Mervyn told me of your accident and that you were in the hospital. - -I did not know what that feeling of despair meant then. It only -frightened me. I know what it meant, only too well, now. I despaired, -because it is impossible that he can ever love me. And no one could see -him and know him without feeling that life without his love is dry, -purposeless—a living death. - -Oh! why did you bring him here, and ask him to take me? Poor, dear -father! I thought you could not be mistaken in any one, and you are -certainly not mistaken in your estimate of _him_. But when you thought -_he_ could love _me_, how you exaggerated me, how your kind eyes saw -your poor child in a false light! - -I—his companion—his—wife! Impossible! The whole world would laugh, would -stare! and I should be sick with shame, as I was to-day. - -I told him, two days before, that he must go away. I begged him to go -away. He did not. He thinks he ought to sacrifice himself. So he stayed -for the “funeral,” as they call it. (Why not good Saxon _burial_?) -Father, you never treated me wrongly till now. Now you have wronged your -child. When you were dying, you did what you thought best for me. -But—to-day—the shame of it! - -Your brothers, Mr. Pym and Mr. Edmund Pym, came for the burial. Roderick -did not come, it was said he was ill; but his brother Herbert, the -clergyman, you used to laugh at to Roderick, and call the “family prig,” -came. They followed your coffin through the pouring rain in carriages. I -sat in my room alone—I could not even bear Mammy Mervyn with me—feeling -cold and half-dead. While they were seeing your coffin put into the -ground I was listening to the clatter of plates and dishes, and the -footsteps of the servants laying the luncheon which those people were to -eat when they came back. I heard the carriages coming back like -carriages in a dream. Then Mammy Mervyn would come in with a cup of -beef-tea. She took me in her arms and dropped tears on to me, which made -me drink the beef-tea, as the less disagreeable of the two. She told me -the will was to be read, and Mr. Moffatt said I must come down; and she -made me put on that dreadful black gown, which you would dislike, I -know, as much as I do. I went downstairs with her. She asked me if I -thought I should “break down.” I said the truth: “Mammy, I feel there is -nothing of me to break down.” - -The room was dreadfully light. I could not make out which was which of -the men in black standing about, till _he_ came up to me and took my -hand; and the touch of him fired up my life like a flaming match fires -spirits of wine. Then I again saw—heard—thought—and suffered the anguish -of your loss acutely. The lawyer, sitting at _your_ table, in _your_ -chair, read your will, and the awful shame settled about me that I shall -never be able to lift off myself, never! - -You left all your money and property to _him_, with the condition that -he married me. That was all. You never made any arrangement for anyone -else, or for anything else, should he refuse, or _I_ refuse. - -If you could have heard the desecration of your name which followed! - -Old Mr. Pym, Roderick’s father, that pinched old man like a sick weasel, -got up and said he should oppose your will, which was evidently drawn up -when you were of unsound mind. - -At this I started up, and said that I should defend it. You had never -been of unsound mind. - -Mr. Mervyn proposed that discussions, if any, should be postponed. - -I said, “Certainly.” - -This conversation made me feel all anger. - -Then Mr. Pym proposed a private interview with me. - -I said: “Yes; will you please come into the drawing-room?” - -We went. I drew up the blinds, then stood with my back to the light, -facing him. He offered me a chair. I declined. No man who has accused -you of having been of unsound mind shall be invited to seat himself in -this, your, house if I can prevent it. - -He stared at me, I stared at him. He began a speech, muddling the words -and clearing his throat. Then he accused me of being in league with -_him_—to have influenced you to disinherit Roderick. - -I said: “Excuse me; but I fail to understand what my cousin Roderick has -to do with the matter.” - -He told me that you had made Roderick your heir in a previous will, and -that you had intended us to marry. - -I laughed. That made him very angry. He stamped about the room, said -many things I could not understand; but finished off by saying that -“everything was exactly as he expected,” which was plain enough. - -I said what I felt, for I was really sorry for him. I said: “I am glad -of that. It seems to me that what one expects so seldom happens.” - -Just then Mrs. Mervyn came in, looking quite frightened. (How -frightened—or rather timid—these believers in all sorts of unseen -extraordinary things are!) He and she looked at each other; then he went -out, and she came to me and said: - -“My darling, this is dreadful for you, I am sure! But I know he meant it -well.” - -I said: “He!—who?” - -“Your poor, dear father!” she said. - -How dared she defend you, and to me! - -I said: “My father was above ordinary men. He knew—he could see farther -than we short-sighted mortals.” - -She seemed a little chidden, and I was glad. Then she asked me if I -would see—_him_. - -“I can see, poor fellow! that he had no idea of this, he seems quite -overwhelmed,” she said. - -The white-hot shame of that scorched me. I stood there and—oh, -father!—suffered an agony, to describe which there are no words—no -words! - -She called him “poor fellow!” Pityingly, she said “he had no idea of -that, that he was quite overwhelmed.” Oh! my shame, my shame! And I -never dreamt that I was good enough for him. I had never aspired, never -should have aspired to being even his friend, much less his wife. Your -goodness in overrating your child has covered her with a pall—a pall of -shame—under which she will lie buried till the end of time—if, indeed, -there should be such a thing as the end of time—which seems absurd. - -I said, “To-morrow.” I would see him to-morrow. And I begged for -solitude. I have had it—utter, complete. - - _October —._ - - [“Two days later” is written in another handwriting on the margin of the - page.] - -For once, I must try and communicate with you, dear father, before I -begin the new life you cannot blame me for living, for you willed it so. - -Did you know that you were giving me to one whose thoughts, opinions, -feelings are the very opposite of your own? This is the great, important -question I am trying to put to you—in my mind—for it is no use to cry -out to you, you cannot hear me. Oh! it is important, most important! For -why should you have educated me so carefully in the common sense -conformity of actualities, if you meant me to adopt the ordinary myths -which _he_ believes? He tells me you knew his opinions, that he -concealed nothing from you. He cannot lie. So I am to think that you -felt a secret dissatisfaction with your own explanations of the awful -mysteries of human life and the universe, and preferred I should adopt -the blind weaving of human fancies they call faith—religion. Can it be? -Can it be? I cannot, cannot understand you. - -I have sought your spirit everywhere—by your grave, in your favourite -haunts, in your room. I have knelt and grovelled, imploring you to give -me one sign, to comfort me with a passing breath. No! no! I have felt -nothing—but a blank—a silence—_death_!... - -Still, you, or what remains of you, may be dimly impressed with my -burning, fiery thoughts; so I concentrate them and write them down. If -Thought in Matter can communicate with disembodied Thought, the moment -may come when you will in some way become acquainted with these -sentences. - -So I will tell you how the fulfilling of your will has come about. - -I could not sleep last night—no, not last night, the night after your -burial. In the morning—(fancy, that was only yesterday morning, though -it seems so far away it might have been fifty years ago!)—I had no -courage left. I could not see _him_. I sent Mammy Mervyn to tell him so. -When she came back I asked her what he said. She answered, “Nothing.” I -said: “He must have said _something_.” She said: “No. He bowed his head, -and answered some question James had just asked him.” - -Somehow, this silence rebuked me, and I felt I was not behaving with due -respect to your chosen heir, for that is what he really is. So all day -long I tried to nerve myself for what I had to do, which was to tell him -I could not accept the sacrifice of himself, but that I was ready and -glad to place myself in the position of his younger sister, as you had -placed him in the position of an eldest—indeed, an only son. This would -be very hard to say truthfully, feeling, as I do, that to be his own -wife is the greatest happiness that any living woman on the face of this -earth can possibly attain. When evening came, I could not face him. I -felt worn out. I sent him a little note, telling him I would see him -to-morrow morning (_this_ morning); and locking myself into my room, -went to bed and tried to sleep. - -Sleep was impossible. The night was chill, I knew, though I was hot. The -moonlight would not be shut out. I heard the quarters chime, the hours -strike, the noises in the house cease one by one, till the last door up -above shut softly, and the house had its night hush on, which, when you -and I were reading together late, you used to call its “nightcap.” Only -that last night that we were trying to find out something of the -separate will-power, commonly called “the human soul,” you said, “We -must wait till the house has put on its nightcap;” and when the hush -came, you laid down your long pipe, and with that peculiar smile which -meant _work_, you said, “Come along!” - -Then, as I lay tossing, eleven struck, and a thought came to me as a -lightning flash. - -There is an old notion that midnight or thereabouts is the time when -disembodied spirit-essence can manifest itself in some way; and, as you -have often seriously said to me, there is always at least a spark of -fire underlying the dense smoke of these popular fallacies. - -I had not tried to find you in the dead of night yet! I got up, put on a -winter dressing-gown, wrapped my head in a veil, and, going softly -downstairs, went out into the pinewood. - -There I roamed and wandered, straining my thoughts, fixing them upon -you—yearning, longing for you. The moonlight streamed calmly down; the -dark night sky was clear and peaceful; the pines stood solemn and still, -like giant, black-clad sentinels guarding your grave. But _you_—oh, -father, father!—you were _not_. - -Now and then an owl hooted, or one of those screeching night-birds flew -out of covert. But these natural noises only deepened the stern silence -of the sleeping world. My wretched body, my miserable senses, were the -barrier between us. Embodied, we shall never meet again. Oh, father! -that thought maddened me; I could not bear the separation any longer. - -I looked up. (Why do we always _look up_?) That cold, solitary eye of -the night—the moon—glared banefully at me. To me its chill disdain -meant: “Fool, why stand there drivelling? If you will have him again, -_die_.” - -The thought steadied me. I would die. Yes; but how, when? - -Those poor Mervyns! A rush of pity for dear, good Mammy and her worthy -husband made me turn away from the idea, wrung with pain. They had been -so tender and good to me always. What a repayment—to grieve their kind -hearts! - -Overcome, I made my way to the triangle-lawn, and sat down in a corner -of the stone bench under the laurels to collect my thoughts. Then came -the most startling event of my whole life. - -I had hardly been there a minute, when a figure glided in by the path -through the shrubs by which I had come—the figure of a man. - -It stood motionless in the shadow. At first, with a throb of triumph, I -thought it was you. I was springing up to rush to you when it made a -step forward. I saw a white face in the moonlight: the face of a thin -man with grey hair, all tossed about above his forehead—a face I seemed -to know, but did not know. - -(This I declare to you that I saw, with these living eyes, and never, -never will I believe that I was deceived. _Never!_) - -At first I shivered—yes, with fright. I was afraid of that man, whose -face was familiar and strange at one and the same time. - -Then I suddenly remembered something you said to me when I was a child, -and Rob the pony ran away and I stuck on. When you came up and found us -all right you said, sharply, “Were you frightened?” Then, after I -answered “No,” you said, “That’s right. If you were frightened at -anything, I should disown you.” - -You shall never disown me for cowardice! So I conquered the nonsensical -tremor, and went across towards the man. As I got near, I saw it was -he—your Hamlet. - -He looked frightened, horrified—I think, shocked. He stared at me -without speaking while I could have counted twelve; then he said, quite -harshly: - -“Is this the first time you have been here at this hour?” - -Before I could think I naturally said “Yes,” and told him why I had -come. - -“This is most extraordinary,” he said, staring strangely at me. - -He was not like himself: he seemed dazed. I felt less shy of him. - -“I came here for two reasons,” I said. “I was too unhappy to sleep, and -I thought that if my father’s spirit is hovering about anywhere I might -find it—him—here.” - -Just then the church clock rang out so loudly that I started, and laid -my hand on his arm. He smiled, and took my hand. - -“Even the great philosopher, Miss Pym, is superstitious enough to -believe in ghosts and to be frightened when the clock strikes twelve,” -he said, in a familiar teasing way. - -“I was not frightened; I was only startled,” I said. - -“Come, we must go back to the house at once; I am answerable for you,” -he said in an authoritative way. - -“Answerable? May I ask to whom?” I said, as coldly as I could, though I -began to feel a strange joy—yes, joy just after my despair, therefore -all the keener by contrast. Oh, my father, what a paltry nature is mine -to love another when I have but just lost you! “There is no one that has -any power over me, no one who can or will ask or care what has become of -me,” I said, as he did not speak for some moments. - -“There is,” he said. - -“That is absurd; there is _not_,” I asseverated. - -“There is,” he said,—“Almighty God!” - -He drew my hand through his arm, and we walked silently towards the -house. I was wondering why I had shuddered at his sudden mention of the -Deity; I was frightened to realise that his influence had even greater -power over me than I thought. - -“You are my sacred charge,” he said, in the same serious voice. What a -voice he has—so deep, yet so mellow! “Do what you may, I shall watch -over you till I die.” - -“If you can find me,” I cried; for the battle to resist him against a -strong inclination I felt to tell him I was his slave, to do as he -pleased with, was exciting me to wildness. “Perhaps I shall die or -disappear!” - -“If I thought one thing, I should be the one to disappear; at least, you -should never be troubled with the sight of me again,” he said, stopping -when we came to an open place in the road, dropping my hand, and turning -so that he could see my face plainly in the moonlight. “And I must -really now, once for all, ask you to answer me a plain question, with -truth, absolute truth. It is my duty to ask, and your duty to reply.” - -“Well?” I said, nerving myself as if for some process of torture, -dreading, fearing I should give away suddenly, and shame myself for -ever, beyond repair, beyond recall. - -“It is a plain question, and I only want a plain Yes or No,” he went on. -“Can you love me as a husband?” - -I stood still, I gasped. Terror! I had to tell the truth, and that truth -was horrible. Suddenly I bethought me how to be true both to myself and -to him. - -“It must be plain Yes or plain No?” I asked. - -“Yes,” he said. - -“Then, _No_!” I cried, emphatically. - -He thrust his hands into his pockets, drew a deep sigh, and stared at -me. His face was in the shadow: I could not see it; but I _felt_ his -eyes fixed upon me. - -“Thank you for your frankness,” he said, just when the silence was -getting unendurable, and I dreaded giving way and flinging myself at his -knees, or something equally disgraceful. Oh, the hard, hard fight it was -to keep cool, silent! “Then the dream is over,” he went on, more to -himself than to me, beginning to walk along the road again. “I might -have known it without asking you, child; but it is best to kill a -delusion right out, at once.” - -“What delusion?” I asked. - -“The delusion that you, or, for the matter of that, any woman, could -care to be the wife of a man so totally devoid of interest and charm as -myself,” he said, bitterly. “Thank heaven! it will never come in my way -to ask any woman that question again.” - -His self-depreciation astonished me. Surely he must know what he is! -Then I remembered, dear father, how people who are born with great gifts -do not recognise the fact because it is so natural to them. Indeed, you -once told me, when that wonderful man M—— condescended to talk to me -about the beetles he had discovered, that these men of genius cannot -understand how it is everyone else has not powers similar to their own. - -“Do you know that you are telling lies without knowing it?” I said. - -“I am—— _What_ did you say?” he said, evidently startled, stopping short -and once more staring at me. - -“When you say you are devoid of charm and interest you are telling a -monstrous lie,” I cried. “If you don’t know that every woman who sees -and talks to you must think you a god among men, it is time you did know -it; for it is much better for women you should not be with them. You -make them dissatisfied with their people. Don’t misunderstand me! You -did not make me dissatisfied with my father: he, too, was perfect. But -after seeing you that time you came and stayed, everyone else seemed -coarse and common; and Roderick—oh, poor Roderick!—I was very unkind to -him. I did not want him at all.” - -Once more he stopped. - -“Do you mean all this?” he said. “Good God! Why, of course you do! I -forgot how innocent, how ignorant you are! _What_ shall I do with you?” - -We stood staring at one another like cats before they begin to fight. - -“_Do_ with me?” I said, thinking as I spoke; for I felt very sorry for -him, burdened with me. “Take my advice, my first advice: have nothing to -do with me. Go away, and forget my father and me as soon as you can.” - -“But why should I? No, no; that is not the question,” he said, sternly, -like you used to speak sometimes. “Lilia, be sensible! If you think far -more of me than I deserve, why cannot you consent to be my wife?” - -“You never asked me!” I said. - -“I have done nothing else but ask you!” he cried. - -“You are mistaken,” I said, and with truth. “You did not ask me to be -your wife; you asked me if I could love you as a husband.” - -“And you said ‘_No._’ Such a No!” - -“I meant it.” - -“You are the greatest puzzle I have ever come across,” he said, almost -angrily. “I know you mean to speak the truth. But one moment you tell me -decidedly, in a manner that admits of no doubt, no hope, that you cannot -love me as a husband, and the next you say extravagant things about -me—that I am a god among men—things which would be insults from any lips -but yours. What am I to think? Both cannot be true.” - -“Both things _are_ true,” I said. “I cannot love you as, for instance, -Mrs. Mervyn loves her husband. She doesn’t mind much where he is. She is -quite contented to stay with me while he is at the Vicarage. But the -woman who marries you will weary her heart out all the time you are away -from her; or, perhaps, you might find a girl who would not. I can only -speak for myself. If you love yourself, and I suppose you do—everyone -does, more or less—save yourself from me! I cannot love you unselfishly. -I should be a burden to you; you would get to hate me.” - -He took my hands, then took me in his arms—like you used to, father, -when you said “Good-night”—and he said to me: - -“I should prefer to risk hating you, then. Lilia, let us talk sense. You -are mine—doubly mine, as your father’s dying gift—I am yours. Only -listen to my advice as you listened to his, and we shall be happy in -life and death.” - -Already, under his influence, I began to see things in a different -light. What a fool I am! Oh, dear father, what a great, grand thing your -patience with me has been! - -We have talked over everything. He is resolved to let no consideration -interfere with his working out of whatever talent he has. So for six -months or so, until he has passed certain important examinations, he -will work hard in London, and I shall see but little of him. Mr. and -Mrs. Mervyn will live here; and for the present the Vicarage will be -shut up. - -This, my dear father, is how your will—that our lives should be -united—will be carried out. I will work on faithfully to improve myself, -as far as I can be improved. May the end of these months of probation -find me more worthy of the great honour of being your daughter and his -wife! - - * * * * * - -Note in another handwriting: “This ended her diary.” - - * * * * * - -Extract from the first column of _The Times_, in the June following the -dates of above extracts: - - “On the 24th inst., at the Parish Church of the Pinewood, F——, Surrey, - Hugh Paull, M. D. Lond., M. R. C. S., etc., to Lilia, only child of - the late Sir Roderick Pym, Knt.” - - - - - CHAPTER VIII. - DIARY OF HUGH PAULL. - - - _May, 18—._ - -It is positively terrible! to-day I have been married eleven months, and -during that time my work has been at a dead standstill. - -It is rather my poor darling’s misfortune than her fault. For one with a -temperament of passionate concentration such as hers, a totally -different up-bringing was called for. School, for instance, and plenty -of cheerful, natural society afterwards; she should have mixed freely -with girls of her own age, girls like Daisy. This might have balanced -her tendency to dwell on one idea to the exclusion of all others. - -Week after week, month after month, I have tried to wean her from the -one theme—our mutual affection. I see, I feel more bitterly each hour -that she is not in love with _me_, but with her love for me. I may wrong -her affection: God forgive me if I do! But true love is unselfish. Even -her love for her father was unselfish. - -To-day I have determined to look into the matter. The resolve formed -itself in my mind during our walk. - -She has an embarrassing habit of multiplying wedding-days: I don’t know -what else to call it. For instance, I had to keep the day week of our -marriage in a semi-solemn way: in recalling all our sentiments during -our betrothal, in reading our old letters, in rejoicing that we had met, -etcetera. A charming idea, especially when supplemented by plans for our -future management of the Pinewood, our poor people, the tenants and -labourers. But, like other habits of inspection and classification, not -good when treated with “vain repetitions.” That day fortnight, that day -month, the function was not to be cavilled at. But when, the “day five -weeks” after our marriage, she raised her eyes in that earnest way when -she gave me my first cup of tea at breakfast, and said: “It is five -weeks to-day since we were married——” - -Well, I had planned to do some work—in fact, to begin my work again; and -I said, as gently as I could: - -“Yes, dear; and to-day we must give up mooning over the past, and begin -to live real, sensible lives.” - -I cannot blame myself for the words, nor for my way of saying them. But -their effect upon her alarmed me. She became deadly pale, and looked at -me as if at the very least I had threatened to kill her. - -“Did you say ‘_mooning over the past_’?” she stammered. - -I confessed that I did. - -“What do you mean by ‘_mooning_’?” she asked, imploringly. - -“What you are doing now,” I said bravely, for I felt I must begin to -bring my darling down to earth a bit. (It was for all the world like -pulling a string attached to the foot of some fluttering and unwilling -bird.) “You have some romantic idea in your mind. You want to square my -life and your life with it. It cannot be done. Life is not a poem in so -many cantos. It is work; hard, dry, but honest _work_.” - -“Did I ever say that it was not?” she said, reproachfully. - -“No, dear. But——” - -Then I explained, as carefully as I could, how essential it was that we -should settle down; that while I continued to study, I should commence -practising my profession; a thing as essential to a medical man as -theoretical study. - -“You are going to _practise_?” she asked, in evident horror. - -“Certainly,” I said, firmly. - -“Where? Here?” (This was at the Pinewood.) - -“Scarcely here, I think,” I said. “In London.” - -She said no more. For days after she was gentle, affectionate, but a -very drooping lily indeed. Everything seemed an effort to her. - -I persisted. Sir Roderick’s town house had been sold to pay off some -mortgages on the Pinewood. So I saw my good friend Dr. Hildyard about a -house. After discussion, he offered me a floor in his house (which he -only used for business, having taken a country house near Finchley as -his place of residence). - -“By-and-by we may take it into our heads to be partners, Paull,” he -said. “Then you will be on the premises.” - -It was a brilliant prospect, and my poor girl rejoiced with me. In -theory, it was delightful; in practice, impossible. - -Day by day I would return to find the spectre of a wife, instead of the -living, breathing entity I had married. I soon found out that although -Lilia occupied each hour according to a plan we had drawn up together; -although she managed her household cleverly, visited her people, taught -in the school, and studied chemistry and physiology, as she wished, as -she termed it, to be able at any moment to help me in minor matters if -called upon, she seemed to _rust_, as it were, working and living alone. - -At first I thought it was loneliness, and Daisy came and spent the last -days of her single life with us, Herbert Pym coming occasionally. (An -abominable prig, that!) But after a few weeks, my sister came to me with -a serious face. - -“I must speak to you, Hugh,” she said, with an evident struggle; -“Herbert said it was my duty. My dear boy, do you _know_ about Lilia?” - -“Know?” I repeated, slightly nettled by Mr. Herbert’s -Jack-in-office-ship. “Of course I know everything my wife says and does. -I almost flatter myself she tells me her secret thoughts.” - -“That is just _it_,” said my sister, who seemed quite unlike her usual -bright self. “We cannot help seeing, Hugh, that if this sort of thing -goes on, Lilia will ruin your life.” - -“And pray why do _we_ think so?” I asked. - -“If you were to see her when you are away! She does what she sets -herself to do. But in such a way! As soon as you are gone, she changes. -She gets pale, and a sort of film comes over her eyes. She doesn’t -really seem to understand what one says to her; and I can see that the -poor people we go to see are beginning to think that you beat her, or -something. The other day, old Dame Ashwell (that wonderful old woman who -lives in the thatched cottage at the end of Swain’s Lane) looked quite -disgustedly at me, and when she condescended to speak to me, was very -dignified indeed; and yesterday, when I met her in the wood picking up -fir-cones and determined to have it out with her, I found out that not -only she but most of your people are noticing how miserable Lilia looks, -and how different she was when the ‘old gentleman was alive,’ as they -call it.” - -It was this talk with Daisy which determined me to give up all idea of -practising my profession for the present; and the very day after Daisy -left us (I would not allow Herbert the satisfaction of knowing that his -interference had influenced me, so sure I am that he has a secret grudge -against me because he thinks I was the means of ousting his brother -Roderick)—the very day after I was well quit of my sister and her -betrothed, I went to Dr. Hildyard and told him how matters stood. - -He was more taken back and affected than I could understand. He was -silent for awhile; then he said: - -“You had better let me see your wife, Paull. She must not stand in your -way in this fashion.” - -For him to see Lilia while entirely in the dark as to the peculiarities -of her past life would never do. But we made a compromise. Shortly he -would take a holiday, and spend it at the Pinewood. - -He came, he saw, and was conquered. As I had been for some days entirely -at home, Lilia was in the most brilliant of humours. She treated our -distinguished guest with all the consideration and respect which Sir -Roderick had known so well how to lavish on his favourites; and to this -was added a womanly tenderness and reverence under the influence of -which Dr. Hildyard expanded and, as it were, blossomed out into a -geniality I had not before known in him. - -It seemed to me that he told my wife the whole story of his life. She -was intensely interested, and made so many apt and pertinent remarks -that I began to see more than ever that if I pursued my profession, and -left her to herself and her hopeless mood, between the two stools I -should probably fall to the ground. Thus, she was a perfect woman. Away -from me, she was literally _non est_. - -An embarrassing position. Dr. Hildyard decided me. We had the matter out -the day he left us. He said, warmly: - -“Paull, I confess that from what I heard of your wife, I came here -prepared to find her one of three things: mad, a fool, or a victim to -hysteria. From what I have seen and observed, I think her one of the -sweetest women alive, but a perfect baby.” - -I told him my growing fear that she was becoming too absorbed in my -companionship, that it might in time become almost a monomania. - -He smiled. - -“I think that will cure itself,” he said, “by the homœopathic system. -You will find two babies less trouble than one.” - - _Friday, May —._ - -I was interrupted after that last word (I was writing late, in the -study) by quick footsteps down the staircase, and Lilia came in in her -dressing-gown. - -“I was dreadfully frightened!” she said. “I must have fallen asleep, -although I _thought_ I was awake, listening for you; and I woke up and -you were not there! And the clock struck one!” - -“And if it did?” I said, taking her on my knee, after shutting this book -into a drawer. Her heart was beating, she was trembling. “Oh, Lilia!” I -said. “I thought I had married a woman who would bravely face life at my -side, not shrink and cower at shadows like a nervous horse.” - -Then I talked seriously to her. Many husbands in my position would have -been able to use the argument of maternal responsibility to urge her to -be more matter-of-fact, less absurd in her fancifulness, and I said so. - -“You dislike giving me pain, dear, I know,” I said. “And your horror of -the poor little one God may give to us is a great pain to me. Other -women rejoice at such a prospect.” - -She drew herself away from my arm and looked fixedly at me. - -“What other women do you mean?” she said. - -“All women, at least most women,” was my answer. “Lilia, I cannot -understand this feeling, or rather this want of feeling, in you. Tell me -truly, frankly, darling, why do you hate the idea of a child—our child?” - -She took my face between her hands and kissed me. - -“Because,” she spoke passionately, “you may love it—would love it; and I -cannot spare one thought, one word, one look of yours!” - -I sighed, I could not help it. Then I reminded her of a great oak we had -seen during an expedition with Dr. Hildyard into the adjacent county. We -had paused to look at the giant, around whose spreading branches ivy had -climbed and twisted until bough after bough was dying. - -She had said: - -“That ivy clings to the tree like I cling to you.” - -“The ivy is choking the life out of the oak,” said I; “it is to be hoped -you will not do the same by me.” - -I said it, and she took it, jestingly. But, as I told her, if matters do -not mend—if I cannot at least have freedom for study, or to go to town -now and then on business and to look people up, my end may be the same -as the oak’s. - -She was all penitence, all promises; nor would she leave the study until -I had given her my word that I would for the future go on my own way -regardless of her feelings, which she would try to modify by degrees. - -Before we retired for the night, I had promised to go to town to-day for -some scientific works I particularly want, and to transact neglected -business. - - _Sunday, May —._ - -Only two days! It seems weeks—weeks of horror, anxiety—since I wrote -those last words. - -I went to town, got my books, saw Dr. Hildyard, etcetera, and returned -by the seven o’clock train. Thomas was to meet me at the station with -the dogcart. He was there. At first I noticed nothing unusual, but the -instant I reached my seat he drove off at a tremendous rate. - -“Gently, gently!” I cried. “What’s wrong with Firefly?” - -“Nothing’s wrong with the _hoss_, sir,” he said, gruffly; “but we’ve had -visitors to-day, and whether it’s them or not I don’t know, but the -missus is upset, like.” - -“Is your mistress ill?” I cried, startled, dreading I knew not what. - -“I dunno, sir,” was all I could get out of Thomas for some minutes, -until I was really angry, when he blurted out that “one of them Pyms—the -old ’un, he thought,” had come and had had a long interview with my -wife, since which no one had seen her or had been able to find her. - -Distracted, I had poor Firefly driven home at racing speed, and -searched, first the house, then the grounds, with lanterns. - -No result. I feared calling her name, for the cottagers might hear, and -there would be fresh talk such as that Daisy repeated to me. - -May I never, never have to go through such a time again! I was getting -mad with anxiety and fear when something seemed to _say_ to me—not in my -ear, but in my mind: - -“Her father’s grave.” - -With a flash of hope, I bade the men who accompanied me stay where they -were; and taking a lantern went on into the churchyard alone. - -The lantern sent a flicker upon a black heap on the grass: Lilia, -asleep—or dead? - -Her dress was wet to the touch, drenched with dew. Feeling half crazy -with dread, I gently shook her. - -She started, and staring with dazed eyes, sat up, rubbed her eyes (thank -God! she had only been asleep, but that was bad enough!). Then she said, -“Oh, dear!” looked at me, first with sharp inquiry, then with a smile, -and held out her hands to be lifted up. - -“How _could_ you?” I said, as she clung to me. - -“My uncle Pym came and said cruel things; said your inhuman treatment of -me was the talk of the countryside: that I owed it to myself to leave -you and go and live with him; and when I told him what I thought of him, -got in a fearful rage, told me I was a fool and a dupe, and I should rue -it, and went away,” she said, in her direct, childish manner. “Then I -felt very bad—so lonely—and came here. I could not help crying, and I -expect I cried myself to sleep. But I am not sorry!” she added, -triumphantly, “for you look so ill, that I see you have really cared; -that you really do love me!” - -If I had not been so thankful to find and hold my darling to my heart -once more, this would have been exasperating. - -“Lilia, your absurd want of faith will be your ruin,” I told her. “Do -you know that since our first meeting my experience of you has taught me -that Faith is not only necessary to people’s happiness, but to their -soundness in mind and body?” - -Then I cautioned her to be careful what she said and did before those -men—there would be talk enough of to-day’s incidents as it was,—and we -went back to the house. - -But the shock of that malignant old man’s visit had its natural result. -Before morning my darling was suffering greatly. As soon as the -telegraph-office was open I wired to Dr. Taylor (the specialist to whom -Dr. Hildyard had introduced me, and who had promised to come to us if -necessary). By midday he came. Towards evening a pale, delicate little -boy was taken to his mother to be kissed. She was quite revived by the -fact that he was a boy. - -“You may say I am selfish! I am,” she said, wistfully, to me afterwards. -“But if it had been a girl, and you had loved her like my father loved -me, what room would there have been in your heart for me?” - - _June —._ - -The little one is a week old to-day. It is very sweet to see mother and -son together. I could sit and look at them by the hour. But “Life is -real, life is earnest!” as the great author of that incomparable “Psalm -of Life” says; and all the more that the boy has come upon the scene, I -must be “up and doing, with a heart for any fate!” - -Any fate! what fate can I fear, with those two precious ones to love and -work for? - - _July —._ - -Can I, this wretched, hopeless wreck, groping in a thick darkness, where -not the faintest gleam of hope tells me what I am, where I am, how I am -to bear my life—can I be the _fool_ who wrote that last entry? - -Fool, fool! I boasted of a to-morrow. If ever any eyes see this—man or -woman,—I solemnly warn you, never, NEVER, whatever happens, however you -may have been blessed, look upon to-morrow with anything approaching to -the feeling (was it confidence or presumption?) with which I wrote those -last words. - -It was all sunshine that day; next day the storm was down upon me with a -vengeance. - -My darling was lying on the sofa (it was a sultry afternoon) by the -window. We were looking over a map together, discussing where we should -all go for change of air as soon as she might travel, when suddenly she -asked me “if I would mind shutting the window.” - -“I think the wind must have changed,” she said, pulling her little shawl -together over her shoulders; “I feel quite cold.” - -She could not possibly have had a chill; the air itself was like that -which comes from a heated oven. However, I closed the window. I had -hardly done so when she was seized with shivering. - -I called Nurse, who is a kind, but highly-experienced woman. I called -her in fear. I saw her look swiftly at Lilia, then at me. - -_Then I knew._ We both pretended to Lilia to think nothing of the -rigours which shook her and turned her lips blue over her chattering -teeth; but I stole my opportunity, rushed downstairs, sent off a -telegram to Dr. Taylor, despatched a messenger for the Mervyns. I could -not face this alone: I turned coward. I “groaned in my anguish, and the -thorn fastened in me.” - -And when I went back—the pity of it—Nurse struggling to lift the pale, -suffering darling into bed, and baby crying piteously in the next room; -while _she_ said piteously to me, “He might be quiet till I get warm, -mightn’t he?” - -Poor infant! if he were quiet till his mother got warm, he would never -cry again. - -I sent Nurse to quiet him, and waited on her myself. I did everything, I -hazarded everything I dared, to bring about a reaction. But presently -she complained of her chest. - -“I feel as if they had taken one of those hideous flat stones off a -grave and laid it on my chest,” she said, gazing at me with eyes that -looked bluer and more staring than those dear grey eyes had ever looked. -“What is it? Is there anything wrong with my heart, Hugh! Tell me, is it -my _heart_?” (with alarm). - -“Stuff!” I said. “I let you sit up too long, and you are chilly, that’s -all.” - -Then I began, watching her stealthily, to talk as easily as I could. - -Her features were paling into an ugly yellow, her eyes were sinking, and -her nose looked pinched. Nurse, coming to the bed with a cheerful “Well, -dear, are you all right now?” gave me a look that, knowing well enough -what was happening, stabbed my very soul. - -“Rather quick, don’t you think so?” she managed to whisper to me. - -She need not have whispered. I knew my wife was sinking away from me as -fast as any human being has ever sunk from time into eternity. - -And _how—how_ was she going? - -“What is making that buzzing noise? I can’t hear you two,” she said -presently. “And, Hugh, raise me, or I shall choke!” - -She was gasping. I raised her. She did not feel cold now. Nurse was -fanning her. - -No hope for anyone to come! I felt desperate. Just then she said, “_You_ -fan me; Nurse—baby.” So Nurse gave me the fan and went away. The dying -must be obeyed. - -As I held her—a dead weight—on one arm and fanned her with my disengaged -hand, she looked up at me with a terrible look—the most hopeless, yet -defiant and angered, look I have ever seen in human eyes. I once saw it -in a celebrated picture of “Lucifer at His Condemnation,” and, -remembering this, it was hell to see it in my wife’s eyes now. - -“I must know,” she said, in her altered voice. “Is this _death_?” - -“It may be,” I faltered. I dared not withhold the awful truth. - -She smiled—a sneering, derisive smile. - -“And you still believe in a good God?” she said. - -“More than ever!” I said, my very life in my words. “Darling, how could -I live and see you like this if God did not hold me, help me? I should -be like a dead thing—helpless—and you know I am holding you up. I am -calm, I can talk, by the mercy of God——” - -“Hush!” she said, violently, with a tremendous effort raising herself -(she was gradually slipping down, hold her how I might). “Do not say any -more about _that_. Tell me, how long have I——” - -“My darling, I have sent for Dr. Taylor; we must not give up hope,” I -said. In my agony of despair the words mocked me like so many separate -and distinct lies. “He may do something. Why should you die? You are so -young——” - -“I asked you, _how long_?” she repeated. “I have something to say.” - -“Days—I mean hours,” I stammered, lying hard and fast in my misery. - -She feebly shook her head. - -“No, no!” she said; “perhaps in a minute. I want you to promise your -dying wife something. Will you—whatever I ask?” - -“Anything! anything!” I said. “Your will is my will now!” - -“_Anything?_” she repeated. - -Drops, those last cold drops, were on her brow. - -“I swear—anything,” I said, recklessly. - -“Ah!” she laughed. - -Yes, let me remember that, in her hour of agony, I pleased her so—that -once more, for the last time, I heard that sweet little joyous laugh. - -“Well,” she said, “as soon as I am dead, go downstairs. In the -right-hand drawer of my father’s writing-table you will find a small -revolver. I have kept it loaded. Shoot yourself! We shall then be as -much together as we are now. You will?” - -It was an awful struggle—her dying eyes gazing into mine. At last I -said: - -“I—will.” - -“Now I don’t hate this God of yours quite so much,” she began, when -suddenly her face was convulsed, a rattle came in her throat, her eyes -glazed. - -Minutes passed—half-an-hour; then (she had been dead a -quarter-of-an-hour) I left her body, her beautiful young lifeless body, -to Nurse, after kissing those dear lips for the last time, and I went to -fulfil my promise. - -I locked the library door, and, opening the drawer, found not only a -revolver, but a case of pistols. The revolver seemed to me -untrustworthy, so I cleaned one of the pistols, and loaded it. Did I -feel remorse, anxiety, as to my future? I did not. I felt absolutely -apathetic, commonplace, as a body, I imagine, might feel without its -soul, if its life could continue under those conditions. - -I had just completed the loading to my satisfaction when there was a -knock at the door. - -“I will come presently,” I said. - -“Please, let me in,” said Mrs. Mervyn. “Baby fell off the sofa and is -hurt. I have brought him.” - -Her child! For an instant the room whirled; then an agony of grief -welled up within me. The poor, innocent child!—our child! - -Senselessly, I staggered to the door, opened it, and took the babe from -Mrs. Mervyn. He was not much hurt—a wound on the head of but slight -importance. - -Turning to reassure Mrs. Mervyn, I saw her gazing at the pistols as if -she were petrified. - -“You meant _this_?” she said to me, her face aflame like the face of the -accusing Angel. “What a love God must have had for you, for you to have -been saved!” - -Walking to me, she took baby’s hand and laid it on mine. - -“He has saved you,” she said. “Oh, never, never forget it!” - - - - - CHAPTER IX. - THE BEGINNING OF THE SEQUEL. - - -At first Hugh felt and seemed crushed. He had thought of many -difficulties and troubles that might await him in his married life, but -the one thing which had not entered into his calculations—Lilia’s -death—was the unexpected occurrence which happened. - -He had sometimes felt, from the first beginning of their married life, -that something was hanging over him—some fatality. The whole story of -his acquaintance with the Pyms was so strange, that the memory of it -oppressed him. Perhaps this accounted for the feeling of discomfort -which was now and then almost a dread of the future. - -There were moments when he had thought that perhaps he was destined to -die early; and he had made his will carefully, after much consultation -with Mr. Mervyn, who was always, as it were, ready to hand during his -short married life. Never, never once did he think he was to lose his -beautiful tormentor, and so tragically. - -At first he was prostrate. No one could rouse him. His father came to -him and stayed. Dr. Hildyard spent his Sundays at the Pinewood. But -efforts to coax and even startle him out of his gloom were fruitless. -For a whole year he could not shake off the vivid recollection of what -none but himself knew—the crowning horror of Lilia’s death-bed, her -awful request, and his promise. - -But through all this darkness of soul his faith did not waver. He -reproached himself bitterly that he had not insisted more, struggled -more, to help Lilia in her uncertainty, her unbelief. He blamed himself -for her dying blasphemy, and for what he considered his cowardice in -promising to kill himself. He went through their short life together -over and over again, telling himself that at this juncture he ought to -have said and done this thing, at such another that. He spent his days -in listless wanderings about the Pinewood; his nights, or the best part -of them, in feverish study, which availed him little or nothing. Thus -passed the first year of his widowerhood. - -Then came another sharp shock—the death of his good, kind friend, Dr. -Hildyard, after a short illness of ten days. - -During those ten days of close attendance upon his patron, Hugh’s eyes -were opened. He saw that, the existence of which in a human being he had -never suspected, never believed possible, a lofty soul. - -Doctors are proverbially the worst patients. Dr. Hildyard, well aware -that this was the end of his career, was a little impatient, perhaps, as -to remedies which could not possibly reverse the _fiat_. In a few days -his soul would be required of him, he knew that. He bore his physical -agony with stoicism; his anxiety to leave his affairs in perfect order -was so intense, it was a greater soporific than any narcotic. He talked -much and often, between the paroxysms, to the young man in whose genius -his faith had never wavered. He told his life—the difficulties he had -successfully fought against and overcome, the awful temptations he had -struggled with to the bitter end, the enmities which had dogged his -footsteps and poisoned his simplest enjoyments—to Hugh. Each day of Dr. -Hildyard’s existence, each day of that man who was supposed to be one of -the most enviable beings in creation, who was in receipt of splendid -fees, courted by all classes, the much-lauded hero of the medical press -and the secretly hated of all the unsuccessful of the faculty (and their -name is legion), was a miniature martyrdom; and he was awaiting his -release with eager joy—a joy only damped by remorse that he had not done -better, had not been a more faithful servant of the Giver of All. - -“The miserable way in which I have crawled through my difficulties!” he -wailed to his _protégé_. “Paull, never, never, _fly low_! Soar over your -temptations and troubles, or when you come to die you will be ashamed of -yourself, like I am!” - -It was Dr. Hildyard’s exalted opinion of what a man should be, that -first abashed, then roused, Hugh to cast aside self and live a new life. - -Very soon after his friend’s death he set himself resolutely to a fresh -beginning. - -He had been strongly recommended by Dr. Hildyard to the influential men -who came to shake his hand for the last time; and his start in practice -as a specialist in nerve cases was made easy to him. - -He took a house recently vacated by a well-known physician in a street -frequented by doctors near Regent Street, and soon had plenty of -patients, mostly former patients of Dr. Hildyard’s, who already knew him -by repute. Before five years were over he had made some remarkable -cures, had contributed some original and, in certain cases, startling -papers on obscure nervous diseases to the leading medical journals, and -was elected to appointments in four metropolitan hospitals. - -Then he was consulted by royalty, and his private practice doubled -itself. Ten years passed away, fifteen—it was now nineteen years since -the awful day of Lilia’s death—and Dr. Hugh Paull was not only known -throughout the English-speaking world, but his works were translated -into French, German, and Italian, and his name was honoured by the -medical profession in all countries. - -His private life might be summed up in one word—_Ralph_. - -Ralph was the name he had allotted to the puny pale babe who had been -the unconscious instrument of his salvation from self-murder. - -Ralph had been the name of an invalid uncle, his father’s younger -brother, of whom he had pleasant childish recollections—a gentle, -white-faced young man stretched on a couch in a pretty garden, who had -seemed to know exactly what little boys liked, and to let them have it. -So when he stood, one of the little group of black-garmented persons at -the old stone font in the Pinewood church, and Mr. Mervyn said, “Name -this child,” he remembered his uncle and said “Ralph.” - -The delicate babe with the thoughtful blue eyes grew slowly and -painfully from babyhood into childhood, from childhood into youth. At -first Hugh felt the responsibility of being father and mother in one to -the fragile boy—a heavy care. The child was always in his mind, an -anxiety that never left him. - -One day he had gone to a well-known educationist almost in despair. -After detailing his experiments in nursery training, which up to then -seemed a failure, he said, “What am I to do?” - -“Leave the child alone, like I left mine,” said the authority. “Get him -a good nurse, and don’t interfere with her without necessity. When you -have done with the nurse, get him a good governess; then send him to -school.” - -To Hugh, who had hitherto acted as a head-gardener devoted to one sickly -plant, the advice seemed rough. But he plucked up courage, and acted -upon it. - -The boy grew up without many complications; but he was a strange, silent -lad. His two characteristics were an unappeasable love of study and a -concentrated, but undemonstrative, devotion to his father. - -From the beginning of the change in Hugh, when he first began his -professional life in London, it was his custom to spend Saturday and -Sunday at the Pinewood. The trio—the tall, now gaunt and -careworn-looking, man; the thin, effeminate boy, and the mastiff Nero, -who always dogged their heels (an immediate descendant of Hugh’s first -acquaintance at the Pinewood)—were familiar figures to the country folk, -who were attached to Dr. Paull with an attachment born of his unvarying -justice and kindliness. - -Following the advice given by the authority, Ralph’s instruction in -matters of faith and dogma was strictly ordinary and orthodox; and -remembering the result of Lilia’s peculiar up-bringing, Hugh was careful -to throw his son into the company of others of his own age as much as -possible. He failed to see what others saw—that the boy could not endure -the companionship of his fellows, and only suffered it because it was -his father’s will. - -Meanwhile, Ralph showed great aptitude for science, and at nineteen was, -to his great delight, appointed secretary to the famous geologist W——, -who had been one of his grandfather Sir Roderick’s intimate friends. At -the time of the second storm that shook Dr. Paull’s life to its -foundations, Ralph was away on a walking tour with the great scientist. -Hugh Paull was alone in his town house. - -He was sitting at the large dining-table in the big, silent room. The -thin, dark-eyed man, whose prematurely white hair added a dignity to the -pensive beauty of his face, would have been a suggestive figure to an -imaginative painter. As he slowly ate his frugal dinner, his eyes fixed -as he continued some important train of thought, now and then leaning -back in his chair, and absently crumbling his bread, while the old -butler Jones hovered noiselessly about in the background, this picture -of well-appointed solitude might have been named “Successful, but -alone.” Perhaps never, until Ralph went on this tour, had Hugh so -realised his desolation. - -It was the height of the London season, and that very day he had had -three important consultations beside hospital and other work. But the -silence of the huge, quiet house oppressed him. He found it tiresome to -eat. He was planning to tire himself further by preparing a paper on a -recent case for the _Lancet_ when a carriage drove up to the door, and -there was a somewhat violent peal of the hall bell. - -Jones, who had been butler to Dr. Hildyard till his death, and then -accepted service with Hugh in preference to any other, knew his rules -thoroughly. He was a spare little man, well fitted for his vocation; for -he had a respectful, almost soothing manner, which softened the denials -he had so often to give to nerve-patients wild to obtain the immediate -attendance of the great authority, Dr. Paull. - -He went silently out, and gently opened the street door. The smart -single brougham and pair drawn up before the house was as unfamiliar to -him as were the two gentlemen standing on the doorstep, one of whom was -tall and fair, the other being short and dark, with piercing black eyes -and a thick black moustache. Both were dressed in the height of fashion; -in fact, were evidently _petits-maîtres_. - -It was the tall, fair man who, slightly lifting his hat, said in good -English, but with a foreign accent: - -“Can we see Dr. Hugh Paull at once?” - -The bold demand—for Hugh was now a “consulting physician,” to be -approached through the patient’s ordinary medical attendant—nearly -deprived poor Jones of breath. He gave but one gasp only though, and -remembering these were foreigners and ignoramuses in medical etiquette, -recovered himself, and said politely, but in a somewhat shocked tone of -voice: - -“I am very sorry, sir, but that is quite impossible.” - -The fair man turned to the dark one with a smile, and said something -rapidly in a foreign tongue, upon which the dark young man produced a -cardcase and presented Jones with his card, saying, “Please, you will -give the docteur,” in broken and very foreign-sounding English. - -Jones, seeing the word “Prince” prefixed to a, to him, unreadable and -unpronounceable name, was somewhat startled, for the title meant royalty -to his British mind. For a moment he was puzzled; then, saying, “Please, -will you step this way?” he hurried along the bare stone hall, and -ushering the distinguished visitors into the cheerless waiting-room, -with the skylight, rows of dining-room chairs against the walls, and an -old dining-table, whose dingy cloth was strewn with as dingily-covered -volumes of illustrated journals, hurried to his master with the card. - -Hugh glanced at it listlessly, read “_Le Prince Andriocchi_,” and laid -it aside. Stray patients, arriving at odd moments, were always dismissed -with a certain formula, and Hugh was not giving a second thought to the -Prince Andriocchi or his card when an anxious voice piped at his elbow, -“What am I to say, sir?” and turning, he saw Jones watching him in -evident dismay. - -“Say?” he asked. “To whom?” - -“To the prince, sir! I took him into the waiting-room.” - -“You took him into the _waiting-room_?” repeated Hugh, hardly believing -his own ears. - -For a patient to be admitted outside regular hours and against all rule -was a most unwonted occurrence, and by Jones the impregnable, the -unassailable! Had a golden talisman—No! such an idea was a treason to -the faithful old servant. - -“I thought as he was a prince, sir,” stammered Jones. - -“Oh, well, never mind! I will explain to him that I cannot see him now,” -said Dr. Paull, good-naturedly, rising and going to the waiting-room. - -The two men were seated, but rose and bowed as he entered. The tall fair -man, who had candid blue eyes and an insinuating smile, informed Hugh, -in laboured but fairly correct English, that they had been recommended -to consult him by the Spanish ambassador, whose son had been cured by -him last season in so marvellous a manner. - -“But your highness is surely not Spanish?” asked Hugh, glancing at the -card he still held between his fingers. - -“The prince,” said the fair man, bowing deferentially in the direction -of the dark little gentleman, who was watching them while he nervously -twisted his moustache, “is from Italy—is Italien. It is madame la -princesse who is from the land of chivalry. It is for madame la -princesse that we come to visit you.” - -Hugh bowed. - -“She is not very ill, I hope?” he said, awkwardly. - -He had had but little experience of the denizens of other countries, and -this had been of their learned men, who have a family likeness no matter -in what latitude they are born. These two _élégants_ embarrassed him. - -“How shall I explain?” said the fair man, knitting his brow and gazing -at the skylight. “You speak French? No? My friend the prince speak -French as Italien. I am sorry. But I tell you, monsieur le docteur, best -way I can: you so clever, you understand me with all my faults. M. le -prince here, he marry this lady, who is the daughter of the Duke de -Saldanhés. You know his name, of course? He is great at the Court of -Spain. You must surely hear that the princesse is one of the most -beautiful ladies in all the world; for the papers _de Société_, as you -call them, tell everyone that. The princesse adore M. le prince; he -adore her. But soon after the _noces_ madame becomes more delicate, and -she likes not to walk or drive; she shows no inclination for the world; -she goes much to the church, and gets _pâle, maigre_. In the truth, -monsieur le docteur, she shows symptoms of being, what you call, a -_sainte_.” - -The fair man raised his eyebrows, and looked so oddly at Dr. Paull as he -half-whispered the last sentence, that Hugh felt inclined to laugh. - -“I fear I cannot presume to cure a disposition to sanctity, sir,” he -said. His voice sounded rough, in contra-distinction to the suave, -delicately-pitched tones of his interlocutor. “I try to cure nervous -diseases; I cannot cure a tendency which the most exacting husband can -scarcely disapprove.” - -“Monsieur is Catholique?” insinuated the fair man, sweetly. - -“I—_what_? I beg your pardon, sir, but you took me by surprise,” added -Hugh, his thin face flushing. - -Then he explained that if there were any symptoms of physical disease he -would see the princesse with pleasure, but that he did not prescribe for -the mind. - -The fair man, whose white satin manners and womanish grace were -peculiarly repugnant to Hugh, rapidly translated Dr. Paull’s speech to -the prince in Italian (a language with which Hugh had a slight -acquaintance), and the prince made a voluble reply, which touched Hugh -as being the earnest appeal of a man who was in considerable anxiety on -the subject of his wife. - -“I have understood his highness,” he said, somewhat dryly, when the -count (he had been addressed as such by the prince) turned towards him -to interpret; “and I will willingly see the lady and prescribe for her -if it be in my power to do her any good, which I doubt.” - -“Ah! sir; but we do not doubt it,” said the count with enthusiasm. “Nor -did le Docteur Fosterre, who saw her it is two days ago, but whose -medicine the princesse will not accept.” - -“Dr. Foster saw her?” asked Hugh, puzzled. (Dr. Foster was a -nerve-doctor with a large fashionable practice, much in favour with lady -patients.) “I fear if Dr. Foster has been unsuccessful, I can do -nothing.” - -Further persuasions on the part of the count, who interpreted everything -to his princely friend, led to Hugh’s provisional promise that after two -days he would see the lady. He was to meet Dr. Foster in consultation on -the morrow, and intended to talk with him on the subject. Then a -difficulty was explained to him: the princess objected to doctors _in -toto_. The meeting must be brought about by stratagem. The great Dr. B—— -S—— had fallen in with this arrangement, and had had a long interview -with the princess one evening at the Italian Embassy in Paris without -her realising that he was one of the obnoxious faculty until it was -over. - -“But could _he_ do nothing?” asked Hugh, astonished. - -“Monsieur, he said the same as the Docteur Z. in Rome, and your Docteur -Fosterre here in Londres. The princesse has a disease which is rare in -one who has all the world at her charming feet. She likes not life, she -longs for death, or, let us say, the heavens.” - -“Which, interpreted, means the lady is a spoilt creature, and is -thoroughly discontented,” thought Hugh, with a smile of amusement, after -his visitors had oppressed him with a profusion of thanks, had bowed -themselves out, and driven off in the carriage. At first the interview -amused him; but after the novelty had worn off, he felt a distaste for -the task he had undertaken, neither an onerous nor an unpleasant one, -the interviewing of a beautiful and evidently amiable Spanish lady. But -Hugh disliked women as patients even more than he disliked them as -companions. His liking for the sex lay buried in Lilia’s grave. - -After his consultation with Dr. Foster next day, he took him aside and -told him of the prince’s visit and request. - -“I thought they would come to you,” said Dr. Foster, a short, stout -little man, his eyes twinkling. “Curious fellow, that count, isn’t he? I -can’t make him out. Means well, though, I daresay. A sort of cousin of -the prince’s, I understand. You know all about the family, don’t you? -No? Well, the Andriocchis are one of the most ancient Italian families. -He came into everything a couple of years ago, at his father’s death. He -is only six-and-twenty, though he looks older. I saw him here the first -season. He got into a fast set, and did no good. Last year his family -married him. Families in those countries always sort the young folks and -couple them, you know. Wonderful match—a great beauty—daughter of one of -those awfully blue-blooded Spanish grandees, Duke de Saldanhés, great -favourite at Court. She’s a charming woman, but——” Dr. Foster shook his -head, and looked whole volumes of wisdom. - -“But?” asked Hugh, suddenly interested and sorry. He did not know why. - -“Well, perhaps you’ll find out. She baffled me; that’s all I know. First -I thought there might be a suicidal tendency, or simple melancholia. -Soon gave up that idea—one of the keenest-witted women I ever met. She -gives you one look out of those lamps of eyes of hers, and tots you up -pretty correctly, I can tell you. No, no! She’s as sane as you or -I—saner perhaps, if the truth were known! But there’s something wrong -somewhere. Whether it’s fretting, or remorse—well, it’s no use -speculating. My opinion is this—she’s wretchedly ill; and before she can -get any better, the cause of it must be got at, and treated. Perhaps -you’ll do it. B—— S—— seems to have failed, and I confess myself -nowhere.” - -Dr. Paull felt less distaste for his task after this interview with his -colleague: in fact, his professional interest was awakened; and when -three, then four days passed without his being summoned by the prince, -his surprise was flavoured with something akin to a feeling of -disappointment. - -On the fifth day, when he was snatching a hasty breakfast, the prince’s -brougham drove up to the door, and the count alighted alone, and sent in -a message—might he see the doctor for one minute? - -“Show him in here,” said Hugh. - -Accordingly the count entered, apologising for his intrusion. - -“It was necessaire that I find you early, docteur,” he said. “An -opportunity comes that you see madame la princesse to-night. She has -consented to visit the Covent Theatre, to see the new opera.” - -“But, excuse me, I do not understand,” said Dr. Paull, somewhat dryly. -“I do not go to theatres and operas. I have no time, still less should I -go there to see patients.” - -The count explained, almost pathetically, that the prince had naturally -feared that this was the case. “And, in anticipation of your refusal, -monsieur, I just paid visit to the Lady Forwood, to ask her to join in -our appeal.” - -He drew a note from his breast-pocket. It was from Lady Forwood, the -wife of the popular baronet, Sir David Forwood, who had been Hugh’s -friend for many years. Lady Forwood was the only woman, with the -exception of his sisters, with whom Dr. Paull was at all familiar. She -was not only a good woman, but was possessed of the feminine gift of -tact in a marked degree. - - “My dear Doctor” (she wrote),—“I am quite thankful to hear you have - consented to see my old friend Mercedes. As I know you always like to - have a good look at your patients, I venture to propose that you - should spare us half-an-hour, and come to our box at Covent Garden - to-night. It is exactly opposite the Prince Andriocchi’s, and you will - be able to judge of my poor friend all the better, because she will - not know you are looking at her. Afterwards, we can introduce you to - her. - - “Yours most truly, - “MARGARET FORWOOD. - - “P. S.—The number of our box is 9. I will leave word at the door that - you are coming.” - -Hugh wavered; but before he knew that he had consented to the fair -letter-writer’s proposition, the count had left him, and he could hardly -withdraw his half-reluctant consent. - -“I suppose I must go,” he told himself. - -He disliked the proceeding altogether. The sense that he was doing that -which he reprehended in others, acting for the great of this world in a -manner he would certainly not act for the lowly, oppressed him -throughout the day. - -“It is a step in the wrong direction,” he told himself, as he stood -before the glass, arranging that conventional white tie which he -professed to disdain, with “the rest of men’s enforced toggery,” as he -called the swallowtails and chimneypots, “but I have let myself in for -it somehow, and must go through with it.” - -He would not have out his carriage; he took a hansom to the opera house. -On entering, he stood amazed! There had been a drawing-room that day, -and the ladies who were alighting from their carriages and sailing and -sweeping through the entrance-hall and up the staircase were in all the -bravery of silk, satin, and velvet, and literally ablaze with jewels. -The heated air was scented with the perfumes they used, and with the -odour of the Court bouquets they carried. The scene of excessive luxury -was foreign to the severe simplicity of Dr. Paull’s hard-working life. - -“I suppose all this is good for trade,” he thought, as he made his way -through the glittering throng to box 9, “but it seems a queer way for -mortals to spend their time.” - -He was ushered into the box just as the final bars of the National -Anthem were being played, for it was a semi-State performance in honour -of a foreign potentate. Lady Forwood, a fair young dame with a bright -face, was standing in front of the box. She turned to welcome him. - -“It is very good, indeed, of you to come,” she said, as she warmly shook -hands. “Don’t say, No! David and I flatter ourselves we understand you -pretty well. I know that nothing but a sense of duty brings you here. -However, now that you _are_ here, you may as well have a good look at it -all. Take that chair. David is at the House. He may look in, but not -till late; there is some important debate on to-night. Now, tell me, it -is a fine sight, isn’t it?” - -“It certainly is,” said Hugh. - -The orchestra had struck up the spirited introduction to the new opera, -and the unaccustomed sounds of bright music insensibly raised his -spirits. The _coup-d’œil_ of the gigantic horseshoe of tiers of -crimson-curtained boxes filled with ladies in brilliant attire, white -and the palest tints predominating, was magnificent. - -“I never imagined women could look so like flowers,” said he, honestly. - -“I thought you would think better of us when you knew a little more -about us!” laughed Lady Forwood, who was scanning the house through her -_lorgnettes_. “There! Mercedes has just come in! How lovely she looks! -What a magnificent dress! I suppose she was at the drawing-room. I went -last time, so I was not there to-day.” - -“Where?” said Hugh, drawing back a little, and feeling like a -conspirator. - -“Not in the chandelier! and not exactly in the pit,” said Lady Forwood, -laughingly. “Don’t be shocked at me! I positively can’t help teasing -people. Look at the third from the royal box. There, she is just -settling herself, and throwing off her mantilla—the lady in white.” - -Hugh was looking at the third box to the left of the royalties. - -“Take my glass,” said Lady Forwood, “and look at the third box to the -right of the royal people. Make haste, for in another minute she may -settle herself behind the curtain and stay there the whole evening. It -would be just like her.” - -Hugh focussed the glass, and with a singular sensation that was almost a -thrill, he gazed at a lovely girl who was leaning forward glancing round -the house. She was pale with a waxen pallor; her black hair was dressed -high, and studded with pearls. She wore a white velvet gown, a shade -whiter than her beautifully moulded bust and arms, and this appeared to -be sewn with pearls. So youthful was her slender form that, had Hugh not -recognized the Prince Andriocchi and his friend the count hovering in -the background, he would hardly have believed this could be the new -patient about whom so much fuss had been made. - -“She is quite a girl!” he said, in surprise, turning to Lady Forwood. - -“Why not?” asked she. “She was only married a year ago. Spanish girls -marry young.” - -“But, from what you said, I fancied you had been girl friends,” said -Hugh, without thinking. - -“How like you, to say that!” said Lady Forwood, with a good-natured -laugh, as Hugh, forgetting his dislike to the _rôle_ of “spy,” -scrutinised her highness closely through the glasses. “That is almost on -a par with your speech to the Princess M——, one of the stories she -always tells to show what a bear you are, sir!” - -“I do not remember saying anything to the Princess M——,” said Hugh, -laying down the lorgnette. - -“You don’t remember her playing to you, and your saying that you had -never cared for any playing except that of a relation of yours?” - -“No,” said Hugh, who was beginning to think deeply on the subject of his -new “case;” and his thoughts were curious, and to him utterly -unexpected. “But what did I say to you that was bearish just now, Lady -Forwood? I don’t care if her Royal Highness tells anecdotes about me or -not—it amuses her, and doesn’t harm me. But I cannot be misunderstood by -_you_.” - -“That pretty speech makes up for the rude one,” said Lady Forwood, -smiling. “You seemed surprised that Mercedes and I were girl friends. Of -course I am her senior by some years. I will tell you how it was. Her -parents were anxious about her as a child, she was such a delicate, mopy -little thing. So they sent her to a convent school at the seaside in -England. I was what you might call a sixth-form girl when she came; and, -as the nuns thought me steady-going, they gave her to me to look after -specially. I was to be a sort of deputy-mamma; and she grew very fond of -me, poor little thing!” - -“Why do you say ‘poor little thing’?” asked Hugh. - -“Oh, Mercedes has always been peculiar,” said Lady Forwood. “The nuns -thought her cold and apathetic. I knew very differently! There is fire -underneath that cold manner of hers—she is the most passionate girl, I -think, I ever met! And her parents have been idiots enough to marry her -to that man!” - -“You do not approve of the prince?” asked Hugh. - -“Hush! We really must not talk any more, people will notice us,” said -Lady Forwood, directing her _lorgnettes_ towards the stage, where the -prima-donna had just finished an air which was evidently greatly to the -taste of the pit and gallery. - -Hugh leaned back and during the remainder of the first act watched the -Princess Andriocchi as narrowly as he could without being specially -noticed. - -She sat perfectly still at first, leaning back, her white profile -cameo-like against the crimson curtain, her hands lying listlessly in -her lap. She appeared to be watching the stage, but in reality her eyes -were more than half veiled by their heavy lids. Through the glass he -could see that her exquisite little ears were transparent as wax. - -“Poor child!” thought Hugh, compassionately. He thought he knew now why -the great B—— S—— and the clever Dr. Foster could neither of them -relieve the little princess of her _malaise_. The cause was mental. - -He had almost arrived at a resolution to “get out of the affair,” if he -possibly could, when (to his absent mind, with a strange suddenness) -down came the curtain upon the first act among the plaudits of the -house, and people began to move and stand up; there was a general air of -awakening to life of the attentive audience. - -“Well,” said Lady Forwood, turning to him, “you must confess it is a -charming opera! The next thing to be done is to take me over to see -Mercedes.” - -But this Hugh steadily refused to do. - -Lady Forwood was still endeavouring to persuade him by all the arguments -at her command, when the box-door opened, and the count entered. - -He bowed profoundly to Lady Forwood, and offered his hand deferentially -to Hugh, who scrutinised him with a new misgiving. Was this man who -shadowed the young pair in any way connected with that young creature’s -unhappiness? He was, certainly, the sort of man that some women would -consider fascinating, with his persuasive manners and his fair, handsome -face. - -He had brought a message to Lady Forwood: the princess wished to come -round to her box—would it be convenient? - -Lady Forwood clapped her hands with evident delight. - -Hugh had not known her in this childlike, unaffected mood. - -“Convenient? Splendid!” she said to the count, who at once vanished. - -“_Could_ anything be better?” she asked Hugh. “You will see her just as -she really is when she is talking to her ‘mammy,’ as she calls me. What -is the matter?” she said, suddenly, in a changed voice, for she saw her -pale friend wince and bite his lip. - -“Nothing, I assure you,” he said, earnestly, recovering himself. That -word “mammy” had not been heard by him since Lilia had last addressed -Mrs. Mervyn by the tender nickname in his presence. - -What seeming trifles are the feather-weights that balance human -destinies! But for the effect produced upon Hugh by that one word, he -would have made an excuse, and missed—— - -What? As he stood hesitating, the box-door opened, and the princess came -in. - -A girl, with the carriage of a young queen. - -Hugh stood back, and stared at the beautiful, dark young creature, in -her magnificent robe of white velvet, embroidered with seed pearls, with -but one feeling—amazement. - -The princess gave him a careless glance, with a half-nod, in return for -his obeisance, as Lady Forwood introduced him, and seated herself by her -friend. - -She murmured something in a low voice to Lady Forwood, upon which the -English lady blushed and looked annoyed. After some whispering, Lady -Forwood turned to Hugh with a beseeching look. - -“I am going to test your friendship to the utmost,” she said, -pleadingly. “I am half afraid to ask you, but you will understand,” she -added, meaningly. “I want you to go down and see if Sir David has -arrived; there is nothing particular to hear for the next ten minutes.” - -“With pleasure,” said Hugh, understanding that the little princess had -some secret to tell her friend, and that he was not wanted for the next -quarter-of-an-hour. - -“A spoilt beauty,” he thought, as he strolled along the lobbies. “I -should like to know how any physician can cure _that_, unless he -inoculates her with the smallpox!” - -He had hardly left the box before the princess’ manner changed. She -clasped her friend’s hand, and with her lovely face all quivering, the -corners of her lips drooping, and her great eyes full of tears, she -almost sobbed: - -“Oh, mammy, mammy! It is true!—it is _true_!” - -“My dear, what is true? You have been thinking such strange things!” -said Lady Forwood, distressed and worried, for she loved the unhappy -little creature. “You have got some silly notions into your head, and -you imagine all sorts of nonsense.” - -“Listen!” said Mercedes, glancing round and speaking low. “To-day he -told me that he and the count would go on the river. I had to go to the -Court alone. Well, I thought I would ask the ambassadress to take me—it -would be not so long—she has the entrée, as you call it. She did take -me. Coming back, my carriage got into a number of other carriages, and I -saw—_him_.” - -“The prince? Well, why not?” asked Lady Forwood. - -“I saw _him_—and _her_—the woman whose portrait I found!” said Mercedes, -in a tone of anguish. - -“Well, my dear,”—Lady Forwood spoke in a matter-of-fact manner, although -she was anathematising the prince for his flagrant conduct in being -publicly seen with the beautiful French actress whose name had been -coupled with his in society gossip—“I daresay he will be able to explain -it all to you, if, indeed, you were not mistaken.” - -“How—_explain_?” asked Mercedes, bitterly. “How explain a _lie_, mammy?” - -“Hush!” said Lady Forwood, uneasily. “My dear, I never should have -worried David if I had seen him with fifty women!” - -“That—is different!” said the princess. “Mammy, you love each other!” - -Lady Forwood began a brisk lecture: - -“My child, you are not fit to be out in the world at all,” she said. -“You ought to have come to me for a year’s instruction before you were -married, instead of going straight to the altar from the convent. You -know absolutely nothing about men. Men’s ways are not women’s ways. The -world allows them their liberty; and if their wives don’t allow it them -also, they will neglect their wives for the world, and the wives will be -to blame.” - -And she held forth on this somewhat loose doctrine so subtly that the -princess’ expression gradually changed from grieved perplexity to a sort -of placid resignation. - -“A man is not _bad_ who allows a lady acquaintance to take him some -distance in her carriage,” went on Lady Forwood, didactically. “You will -be wiser by-and-by, darling. You will take it for granted that men are -better than they seem.” - -“The _count_ is good,” said Mercedes, sorrowfully. “He is so kind to -me!” - -“The count is no better than his neighbours,” said Lady Forwood, -sharply, feeling that from Scylla she was nearing Charybdis. “Mercedes, -you must rouse yourself, and go into society. Then you will not brood on -the subject of your husband. You can’t change him, at least, not all of -a sudden, so you must put up with him.” - -“The count says——” began Mercedes. - -“Don’t talk about the count to me! You know my opinion of Italians, my -dear. You shall be introduced to some Englishmen. You must know this -friend of ours, that you made me turn out of the box just now. David -says he is the best man he ever met.” - -At this moment Hugh knocked at the box-door. He had been outside in the -cool night. He had not seen Sir David; he had not expected to do so. He -had watched the arrival of some late comers, and, unnoticed by them, had -seen the Prince Andriocchi and his friend the count come out of the -opera house, light their cigarettes, and remain in close conversation -for a few minutes, after which they interchanged a glance of -intelligence; the prince hailed a hansom and drove off, and the count -reentered the theatre. - -So he interpreted the steady gaze which Mercedes fixed upon him as he -told Lady Forwood there was no sign of her husband’s arrival as a mute -questioning as to the whereabouts of the prince, the count having -established himself alone in the opposite box. - -And the next occurrence startled him. The curtain was rising; he was -turning to take his seat at the back of the box, when the princess -suddenly leant towards Lady Forwood: - -“Mammy, I have seen this—gentleman—before!” she said. “Where?” she -added, turning to Hugh. - -He smiled, amused at the startled look in her gazelle eyes. - -“You have the advantage of me, princess,” he said. “I do not think I -have had the honour of meeting you before to-night. And yet——” - -He was puzzled. Looking at her steadily, there was something in the -wistful, childish beauty of Mercedes’ oval face which was familiar. She -had some resemblance to someone he had seen somewhere. But, even as he -ransacked his memory, the likeness eluded him, as a forgotten name will -refuse to repeat itself when the thinker struggles to recall it. - -“You two had better talk over your previous acquaintance behind the -curtain, I think,” said Lady Forwood. - -Hugh took the hint. He drew his chair nearer to the princess, and asked -her where they possibly could have met, while Lady Forwood became -absorbed in the performance. - -“You have been much in England; anyone can tell that who hears you -speak,” he said. “But have you been in London?” - -“Never, till now,” said Mercedes, still scrutinising him with a feeling -of uneasiness, for she felt that this worn-looking but attractive man, -with the prematurely white hair, was no stranger to her, yet she could -not recall how or when she had seen him. “I have lived seven—no, eight -years in the convent at B——. That is where mammy and I were together” -(with an affectionate look towards her friend); “but to London I -came—not—once! When I returned to Spain, we went by Newhaven. This is -the first time I see—London.” - -“Curious!” said Hugh, half to himself. - -The resemblance to someone he had known was stronger while she was -speaking, and yet there was nothing definite about it. It stirred him -strangely; but what the emotion was which disturbed him and quickened -his ordinarily sluggish pulses, he could not tell. - -“Were you ever in Surrey?” he suggested, after a few minutes’ fruitless -mental searching. - -“Never in any place here but the convent,” she said, decidedly. “But -you, sir. Perhaps you were in B—— sometime?” - -“Never,” said Hugh. - -“Then you have, perhaps, been in my country—in Spain?” - -“Not yet,” said Hugh. - -They both smiled; and then, suddenly remembering that they were -strangers, talked more reservedly of the music, which the princess -appeared to know well. - -“I had the pianoforte score for a week,” she informed Dr. Paull. “The -composer lent me his manuscript. I played it for him when he was in -Madrid.” - -She was telling Hugh of what was to come during the ensuing acts, when -the box-door opened, and the count came in. - -“The prince requested me to escort you home at the end of the act, -madame la princesse,” he said in English, bowing very slightly to Dr. -Paull. - -“But my husband? Where is he, monsieur?” - -The count shrugged his shoulders, with an appealing smile, to Lady -Forwood. - -“He must go to the club for an hour, madame. When you arrive at the -house, he will without doubt be there.” - -Mercedes sat silent till the close of the act, then she rose abruptly, -held out her hand to Lady Forwood, said “Adieu, monsieur,” with a -melancholy little smile, to Hugh, and left the box on the count’s arm. - -“Well?” said Lady Forwood, eagerly, when the two were alone. - -“Well?” he repeated, coolly. - -Some glamour, under the influence of which he had unbent—had forgotten -his ordinary almost apathy to his surroundings—had passed away. He was -on guard again. - -“Tell me frankly what you think of her. I love her so much!” said Lady -Forwood, eagerly and honestly. - -“There is nothing the matter with her—physically,” said Hugh. - -“But—mentally?” - -“As I told her husband, I do not profess to cure the mind.” - -“Do you not see how miserable she is, Dr. Paull? We must do something -for her,” said Lady Forwood, energetically. “You can, even more than I. -She wants friends. She wants some powerful mind to control hers, and -lead her to live her own life, without reference to the prince. That -wretched young man! He neglects her shamefully; and how he can throw her -with that count as he does—everyone is talking about it!” - -“My dear Lady Forwood, what can _I_ do?” asked Hugh, helplessly. Had she -spoken to him thus before he had met Mercedes, he would have thought she -was taking leave of her senses. Oddly enough, now, her appeal did not -strike him as in any way peculiar. “I could see her professionally, and -give her a few hints; but I could not talk to her openly, as you could,” -he added, hesitatingly. - -“What I want is for her to take an interest in something, Dr. Paull. I -don’t mean an ordinary interest—but something that will occupy her -energies, will distract her from brooding over her wrongs. Oh, she is -wronged, poor child! David thinks very badly of the prince. I would not -believe anything so dreadful of a fellow-creature. Oh, dear me, here -_is_ David!” - -A portly, pleasant-looking man, who seemed as if the world suited him, -and he it, came in with a “Hulloa! You don’t look best pleased to see -me, my dear! I don’t wonder. It isn’t often she gets you all to herself, -is it, Paull? Well, we’ve won. Majority of seventeen for our motion.” - -Sir David talked away about the debate just over; and as soon as he -could take leave, Hugh quitted the theatre. - -Walking through the streets, under the dark night sky, he seemed -awakening from some vivid dream, in which he had behaved in a manner in -which he would certainly not have behaved when awake. - -Letting himself in with his key, he rang for Jones. - -“You can go to bed. I shall sit up to do some work,” he said. - -“You will find the letters in the library, sir,” said Jones, with extra -gravity. - -“Very well,” said Hugh. Then he flung himself into a chair, and began to -think. - -“That girl and I have met before,” he mused. “But how?—when? When I -looked into her eyes, I felt she understood me ... and—I understand her. -What on earth induced Lady Forwood to ask me to look after her?” - -He almost laughed. Here, in the big, lonely house, which for years had -been as a hermitage to him, the idea of his being asked to become mentor -to a lovely Spanish princess seemed an absurdity. - -“Let me see what Grantley has to say about Spain and the Spaniards,” he -said to himself, going to the book-shelves and taking down a volume. - -Captain Grantley was a patient of his, who had travelled in Spain, and -recorded his experiences in print. For the next half-hour Hugh was -reading about bullfights, romantic ruins seen by moonlight, mantillas, -dark-eyed beauties, unpleasant railway journeys, and stuffy hostelries -where the diet appeared to be garlic fried in oil. Nothing seemed to -remind him of his princess; but he was still reading on, when a cab -drove up, and there was a ring at the hall bell. - -“At this hour!” (It was nearly midnight.) He went into the hall, -unbarred and opened the door: - -“Father?” His lanky son stepped joyfully in. “Why, you look surprised! -Surely you got my letter?” he said, after depositing bags and hampers in -the hall. - -“Your letter? No,” said Dr. Paull. Somehow, Ralph’s unexpected arrival -was a slight shock to him. “I thought you were not coming back for a -week yet,” he said, after they went into the dining-room. - -“We were away more than the fortnight, father,” said the pale lad, with -a smile as sad as his dead young mother’s had been when her morbid -sensitiveness was wounded. “But—you don’t look well! You have been -worried into going to some dinner-party or another” (with a glance at -his father’s evening dress). “I must not go away again! They will do for -you among them!” - -“I’m not dead yet, you see,” said Hugh, feeling a new embarrassment. - -Until now there had been a confidence between him and the delicate lad, -who looked at him with his lost Lilia’s eyes, which was more like the -mutual understanding between attached brothers than that of father with -son. For the first time Dr. Paull felt reluctant to speak of his doings -to Ralph. - -“But you must want some supper,” he suggested. “I will call up one of -the servants—” - -Ralph protested that he was not in the least hungry, and that he had had -some sandwiches at Derby Station, which was literally true, although on -his way from the terminus he had thought pleasantly of the snug supper -with his father, which he fully expected was in store for him. His -reception had effectually satisfied his youthful appetite. - -“By the way, Jones said something about letters in the library; just get -them, will you? Perhaps yours may be among them. I have had an -extra-busy day—was interrupted at breakfast—hadn’t time to open my -letters,” said Hugh, uneasily. - -Ralph hastened to execute his father’s command, and returned with a -bundle of letters in his hand. - -“Here is yours—unopened—as you see,” said Dr. Paull, showing Ralph his -own letter, which he had neglected with the rest of his morning’s -correspondence. “It was a fortunate thing I had not gone to bed.” - -Ralph looked astonished. His father, the acmé of punctiliousness in -business, speaking so carelessly of a whole batch of unopened letters! -What could it mean? - -“I have something to show you, father,” he said, gently. The poor boy -thought that the fortnight’s loneliness had wrought this change in his -beloved parent, whom he understood about as much as a beetle understands -an eagle. And he fetched in two small packing-cases with -lightly-fastened lids. - -“There,” he said, “are they not beautiful? I made the ivy one myself.” - -He opened the cases and removed some wadding. Dr. Paull stared with some -perplexity at two wreaths—one of ivy, the other of white lilies. Then he -bit his lip—he remembered! For the first time since Lilia’s death, he -had not noted the approach of the anniversary of that terrible day when -his son’s baby-hand had held him back from the one unforgivable -sin—self-murder. On that day it had been his custom to take Lilia’s son -to her grave, and talk to him of his mother: of what was best in her, -that the memory of a mother should be even more to the boy than the -influence of that mother, had she lived. - -This time—he had forgotten! - -“They are beautiful, Ralph,” he said, placing his hand affectionately on -his boy’s shoulder. “Let us put them in a cool place, and go to bed. We -must be up early to-morrow.” - -He had not counted these last days as days of the month. He had made -careless engagements for Tuesdays or Wednesdays, or other days in the -week; and to-morrow he had appointments with important patients, and a -consultation. - -“It looks like decadence—strangely like decadence,” he told himself, -bitterly, as, looking in the glass, he noted the deep lines on his face, -the haggard look in his eyes. “I did not remember the twenty-first; and -now I must cancel everything to-morrow—for the boy’s sake, I must be -consistent—I must take him to his mother’s grave. But—to let everything -go to the wall! Well, it must be done. But this shall be a lesson. No -more fooling with princes and princesses—solid, sensible work.” - -A brave determination, Dr. Paull! But, when you made it, did Fate smile, -or shed a tear? - - - - - CHAPTER X. - A DISAPPOINTMENT. - - -Dr. Paull and his son left Waterloo with their cases of flowers at an -early hour next morning. Hugh was in a severe humour. Out of temper with -himself, he was inclined to be out of temper with the rest of mankind. -The first incident did not improve his humour. Like other travellers, he -was in the habit of buying papers, to beguile the tedium of the railway -journey. He had partially read his _Times_, when Ralph, who sat -opposite, leant over, and, showing him an illustration in a well-known -weekly, said: - -“Is it like her, father?” - -It was the portrait of the Princess Andriocchi, after a painting in the -Paris _Salon_. - -For a moment he hardly realised the extraordinary fact that his boy -should ask him such a question, then recovering himself: - -“Like whom?” he asked. - -“Like the princess. Jones told me you had a new patient—a princess—and -showed me the prince’s card. Poor old fellow! He does think a lot of -royalty, father.” - -“These people do not happen to be royal,” said Dr. Paull, as coldly as -he ever spoke to his son. “But I am sorry that Jones is getting old and -garrulous. I thought he would last my time out.” - -“He meant no harm——” began Ralph; but his father gave him a _Times_ -leader on the recent death of a celebrated geologist to read, and -glanced at the memoir attached to the portrait. - -This, after stating that the Princess Andriocchi was the daughter of the -Duke and Duchess of Saldanhés, who were high in favor at the Court of -Spain, enlarged upon the sensation her beauty had created in Paris, how -her carriage had been mobbed, how great portrait painters had made -interest in influential quarters to have the privilege of taking her -portrait, not knowing, until the picture by a celebrated Spanish artist -was on the walls of the _Salon_, that they had been forestalled. After -some further complimentary remarks, the article ended with the statement -that although the princess was Spanish by birth, she had been educated -in England. - -“And this is the fulsome adulation with which the world ruins its -sweetest women!” thought Hugh, intensely disgusted and annoyed. “What -can be done against that? How can anyone or anything make an honest, -God-fearing woman out of the object of that sort of stuff?” - -He tried to occupy his mind with general subjects until they reached F—— -Station, where Mr. and Mrs. Mervyn met them, beaming with smiles. - -“Granny!” - -“My dearest boy!” - -Ralph was rapturously embraced by Mrs. Mervyn, who was stouter and -greyer than twenty years before, while Mr. Mervyn, a handsome old man, -with hair as white as Hugh’s prematurely blanched locks, shook hands -with Dr. Paull, who this year had been absent from the Pinewood for six -months. - -“You must be glad to get away for a peep at the dear old place,” said -Mrs. Mervyn, warmly, as she sat opposite Hugh in the waggonette. “You -will find the garden a little neglected, I fear. You see, the men have -had no direct orders, and we did not like to interfere.” - -To Hugh, the peeps of the grounds through the clumps of pines as they -drove along produced an effect of desolation. There was the still, -overgrown, neglected look about the place which even the best kept -estate will assume after the protracted absence of its owner. They were -all to lunch together at the Pinewood. As they neared the house, Hugh’s -spirits fell lower and lower. - -“It is like a big churchyard with one grave in it,” he thought. To him -the house looked mausoleum-like. Its windows stared blankly at him like -so many reproachful eyes. - -Within, he fancied there was a smell of damp. Mrs. Mervyn and the old -housekeeper assured him, as they accompanied him through the unused -rooms where the furniture was carefully shrouded in holland and the -carpets rolled up, that during the wet weather there had been fires -everywhere, and that at a couple of days’ notice the house would be -ready for occupation. - -“You could invite any number of people, sir. I’d undertake to be ready -for them,” said Mrs. Gray, who had been housemaid at the Pinewood when -Sir Roderick was a young man. “The parties as old Mr. Pym had here -during the shooting! And how they used to enjoy theirselves! I only wish -as how those times would come again, sir. As I said before, I’d be ready -for ’em, as long as you’d let me have two housemaids and a man as knew -something of his business.” - -Hugh looked sharply at her—as if the tempter himself had spoken through -her lips. - -“If I had people here—the whole place would have to be refurnished,” he -said, turning to Mrs. Mervyn. “It all looks—so faded—so worn out.” - -Last night’s splendid scene was in his mind. Not for one moment had his -memory failed to reproduce it. Even as he looked at the good old -furniture—(they were standing in the drawing-room, he, Mrs. Mervyn, and -the housekeeper)—he seemed to see the opera house as background to the -central figure of the princess in her pearl-embroidered robe, wearing -priceless gems on her fair neck and arms and in her black hair as -carelessly as if they were glass. - -“I daresay it does all look poor after the houses you are accustomed to -see,” said Mrs. Mervyn, indulgently. Good, untiringly faithful in -well-doing as she was, her woman’s natural instincts remained; she daily -witnessed by far too much squalor and poverty, and at the faint promise -of something that would “brighten up the place,” as she termed it, she -revived as an old war-horse pricks up his ears at the sound of the -trumpet. “But, you know, all these things are solid and good, and at a -comparatively small expense you could make the house look utterly -different,” she added, persuasively. - -Then, while Mrs. Gray stood by, intensely interested, she unfolded the -poor old chocolate-coloured draperies, and showing Hugh how threadbare -and faded they were, suggested numberless little plans for beautifying -the rooms at a comparatively trivial outlay. - -He listened with seeming interest. But he hardly heard what she was -saying. He was building a castle in the air. He was reorganising the -whole place on a far grander scale than would ever have occurred to Mrs. -Mervyn’s frugal mind—he was preparing it for the entertainment of such -guests as Sir David and Lady Forwood. (Sir David and Lady Forwood—his -thoughts presumed no further. Hugh Paull, hitherto sincere, true to -himself, had taken the first plunge into the bottomless waters of -self-deception!) - -“It seems a shame that a house with such capacities should be allowed to -be in this state, doesn’t it?” he said to Mrs. Mervyn. - -“It seems a shame so beautiful a place should ‘waste its sweetness on -the desert air,’” she said, half-laughingly, half-earnestly. “But we -know you will not leave it as it is,” she went on, in a low voice, to -Hugh, as they followed the inwardly-elated housekeeper out of the room. -“You see, Ralph is getting to be a young man, and should meet people. We -have thought you would come to see this in its right light before very -long.” - -As Mrs. Mervyn was saying these words, they were passing through the -hall, and Mrs. Gray, in her exuberance of spirits at the prospect of -liveliness to come, went up to the gong and sounded the summons to -luncheon in quite a joyous fashion. - -Hugh, following Mrs. Mervyn into the dining-room, was struck by the bare -and empty appearance of the room, but he was still more impressed by -something else. This was Lilia’s portrait in pastel, which he had had -painted by a celebrated French artist after her death, to be hung over -the mantelshelf where Roderick Pym’s portrait in oils used to hang. This -portrait, which had been somewhat of an abstraction, a study in grey and -lilac, had lost whatever life the artist had put into it. - -“It might be a portrait of her ghost,” he thought, with an eerie -feeling. - -In truth, as he sat at luncheon, and afterwards, when he and Ralph laid -the wreaths on the grave, there was no longer that old sensation of her -presence lingering about the place. It was all empty as a husk. - -“The old life has gone for ever,” he thought. To make the Pinewood -bearable, he felt he must live a new life. - -They took tea at the Rectory with the Mervyns. - -As he was strolling in the garden with his hostess afterwards, he said -to her, suddenly: - -“If I should invite people here later on, would you consent to be -hostess for a time?” - -Mrs. Mervyn was slightly startled, but acquiesced. After the father and -son had left, she broached the matter to her husband. - -“Do you think he means to marry again?” suggested Mr. Mervyn, who had -noticed some change in Hugh. - -“Marry again!” - -Mrs. Mervyn’s indignation made her husband smile. - -“Well, we shall see,” he said. “My belief is, he will.” - -Arrived home, by far more cheerful than when he started, Hugh went at -once to his library for letters. There were a few, manifestly business -communications. He looked at these somewhat blankly, then rang the bell. - -“Are these all the letters?” he asked. - -“Yes, sir.” - -“Who called?” - -“No one, sir.” - -“You are _sure_?” - -He looked somewhat sternly at old Jones (the prattler). - -“I am positive certain, sir,” said the old domestic, aggrieved, casting -a reproachful look at his master as he retired. Dr. Paull had never -spoken so sharply to him before. - -“What a curious thing,” Hugh was telling himself. “Lady Forwood made all -that fuss about my seeing the girl—and I am not sent for!” - -It was only twenty-four hours since he was sitting in the box talking to -the princess, but this fact did not occur to him. So many thoughts had -passed through his mind, he had made such startling resolutions during -those twenty-four hours that they seemed a week. - -The next day passed, and the day after, in the usual routine. Rarely had -that routine seemed so dull. - -“What is the matter with my father, do you think, Jones?” asked Ralph of -his old crony, who had been his secret playfellow since he first spun -tops and made kite-tails for him. “He seems so strange. Has he been ill, -and kept it to himself?” - -“How can I tell, Master Ralph? How can the likes o’ me understand the -likes o’ _him_?” answered Jones. In his heart of hearts, Jones feared -that “much learning” was making his master certainly inclined to -madness. - -A few days later came a note from Lady Forwood. - -“At last,” muttered Dr. Paull, who considered himself somewhat -peculiarly treated by “a couple of women,” and attributed his irritable -humour to annoyance thereat. But the letter merely asked him to dine -to-morrow, and contained no mention of the princess. - -“But it is pretty certain she is to be there, or I should scarcely have -been invited,” he thought. - -Apart from his profession, he thought very lightly of himself. Since -Lilia died he had merged the man in the physician; if one had told him -people liked or disliked him as the man, without reference to the -professional healer, he would scarcely have believed it. - -He put the note into his breast-pocket—he was just going to deliver a -lecture—said a few words to Ralph, and, stopping the carriage at a -telegraph office, wired “With pleasure” to Lady Forwood. - -He lectured brilliantly that day. The students were astonished at the -youthful enthusiasm of their ordinarily calm and logical professor. - -Returning, he found a letter from Mrs. Mervyn, who was anxious to keep -him up to his new good resolutions. Mrs. Mervyn offered to come to town -any day and “do his shopping for him.” - -He talked of his idea of embellishing the Pinewood to Ralph that -evening. - -“You both, you and granny, have more artistic taste than I have,” he -said to his son. “Suppose I were to give you _carte blanche_ to -refurnish the house—both houses, this is a great deal too shabby—and I -will not grumble at the bills?” - -Ralph acceded to his father’s suggestion joyfully, as he invariably did. -But in private he wondered, and pondered. This man, all elation one day -and moody abstraction the next, was not the father he had loved and -revered. He was metamorphosed. - -Sir David Forwood lived in one of the fashionable squares. When Hugh’s -carriage drove up, it had to wait—another equipage was “setting down” at -the hall-door, where there was an awning. - -“A large party?” he asked the footman who took his hat. - -“My lady receives after dinner, this evening,” said the man. - -There were two or three ladies seated near Lady Forwood, and a few men -were standing about in the big front drawing-room. One of these was the -count, who bowed to him with what he considered an ironical smile. - -“I want you particularly to take in Lady Boisville,” Lady Forwood said -to him after she had said a few nothings. “She is dying to talk to you. -You know she is a bit blue—and she positively raves about your -‘Commentaries on Psychological Facts.’ Did I pronounce that properly? -Yes? For the first time, I assure you!” - -Then she introduced him to the lady in question. - -Lady Boisville was the wife of a millionaire who had been recently -created a baron for some good reason best known to the title creators of -the period. She was a stout lady in the sixties, who worshipped brains, -as she said, and took a motherly interest in her juniors. She was fond -of a little bit of gossip, and Hugh listened to her monologue half -interested, half dreading that he might hear something—what, he hardly -knew—that would unpleasantly affect him. - -“You know Count Tornelli?” she said to him, after she had chattered -about most of the persons present not strictly within earshot. “The man -who is always with the Prince Andriocchi? I am very much interested in -him.” - -“Indeed?” remarked Hugh, coldly. - -“You speak as if—do you know anything about him that is not quite nice?” -asked her ladyship, alarmed by his manner. “Because, if you do, you must -tell me at once! That dark girl sitting by him is my niece, and we quite -think that it will be a match—if everything should be suitable, of -course.” - -Hugh felt quite sorry for having excited Lady Boisville’s suspicions. He -became suddenly sympathetic in her regard, and thinking she was a good -motherly soul, he assured her quite warmly that during his slight -acquaintance with the count he had seen nothing at all at which she -might take exception. - -“I hear that the prince is dreadfully _fast_” said she. “But that the -count does his utmost to lead him away from his temptations.” - -“A sort of Mentor,” said Hugh, with a smile. - -He felt amused now, and discussed the advantages of the possible -marriage with Lady Boisville with as much interest as if he had been a -lady matchmaker. - -The dinner over, he established himself in a corner of the back -drawing-room and watched the arrivals to the “At Home.” - -These were many; people he knew, people he did not know. Every gown as -it flitted past the doorway set him on the alert—he felt that each dark -head or pair of snowy shoulders might be hers. - -As the quarters were chimed by a clock on a cabinet near him, as ten -o’clock came, then eleven—he began to feel a peculiar sensation of -uneasiness. It annoyed him. What was there to be uneasy about? he asked -himself. Was he uneasy because he was wasting his time? Had he thought -he was there in the cause of science, to see a patient that had baffled -greater nerve-doctors than himself? Yes, that was it. Men came up to him -and talked, and he conversed with them, still watching the doorway. Then -guests began to depart, and feeling as if he had been made a fool of, he -sought out his hostess and somewhat reproachfully told her he must -leave, now. - -“I am sorry I cannot wait any longer to see my _patient_,” he said with -emphasis. - -“Your patient?” repeated Lady Forwood. “Oh, dear! You expected to meet -Mercedes!” she said. “You thought I was arranging something like they -did with the Paris doctor. No! I wanted you particularly to know Lady -Boisville. Mercedes and her husband are with the Arrans in Wales. I had -a more cheerful letter from her than I have had for a long time. Her -husband seems to like Wales, and all is _couleur de rose_.” - -“I am happy to hear it,” said Hugh. Then he made his way out of the -house and walked home, utterly disgusted with himself—ashamed of himself -to himself for the first time in his life. - - - - - CHAPTER XI. - MERCEDES. - - -For the first time in his life Dr. Paull felt that he had considerably -lost in his respect for himself, and he set himself to inquire into his -mental and moral condition. - -“I have lowered myself in some way,” he thought. (He was thinking of -self in a strictly professional sense, be it understood.) “It has been -the doctor running after the patient, not the patient seeking the -doctor. It must not occur again. I know I _meant_ well—but it must not -occur again.” - -After this neat little compromise with his conscience, which perhaps was -rusty for want of work and therefore not equal to the occasion, he as it -were shook hands with himself, and set to work again, ignoring the -question of unhappy young princesses with neglectful husbands and -doubtful counts in dangerous proximity. - -It was the old life again. Patients at home in the morning, hospital -work later, later still consultations or sudden calls. Then evenings -spent quietly with Ralph, talking over his late tour with the geologist -and helping him to arrange his specimens. - -The boy was never so happy as when his father was sharing his life, -thus. But he loved him unselfishly, and the seed of doubt whether that -father was as well or as happy as he should be was sown, and had already -fructified. - -“Father,” he said suddenly, one evening, “why have you given up going -out?” - -“My dear boy, I cannot give up what I never began,” said Dr. Paull, -startled so that his pale face flushed. - -“You went to the opera and to parties,” persisted Ralph. “And you looked -so jolly then. You don’t now. You are quite different.” - -“Don’t let us talk nonsense,” said Hugh, annoyed. - -Could it be true that he looked brighter after mixing with a crowd of -silly people, who lived to waste time in amusing themselves? - -The very next morning he was down to breakfast somewhat earlier, to keep -an appointment with a patient, when Ralph came in, all eagerness. A -letter was in his hand. - -“From the princess, father,” he said. “A footman brought it, and is -waiting for an answer.” - -“Well, let him wait,” said Hugh, once more flushing with annoyance. (Why -his son’s _empressement?_) - -“He says one word will do,” said Ralph, pleadingly. - -“What is the matter with you?” asked his father, with an embarrassed -laugh, taking up the dainty little note addressed to “Monsieur le -Docteur Paull,” in a weak but pretty handwriting. “There,” he said, -suddenly, by some curious impulse handing the open note to the lad. “I -don’t know what to do. You shall decide.” - -The note contained but a few words: - - “Cher Monsieur,—I will ask you as a great kindness to me to give me - your advice, when and how it pleases you. Receive my compliments. - - “MERCEDES (PRINCESS ANDRIOCCHI).” - -“Decide?” Ralph stared at his father. - -“Shall I go, or not?” said Hugh. - -“What else would you do, father?” said his son, astonished. - -He scarcely understood—he had never known his father refuse advice to a -patient. - -“Look here,” said Dr. Paull, throwing himself back in his chair. “This -is a fashionable, selfish woman, who has really nothing the matter with -her. If I go, it is merely truckling to her position and wealth.” - -“Has she consulted you before, then?” said the boy, seriously. - -He was naturally serious, and in the most minor matters, which had any -reference to his father, he was preternaturally so. - -“No, I have not seen her professionally, exactly,” admitted Hugh. - -“You once told me, father, that no man, however gifted in diagnosis, -should pronounce upon a patient without making an—what was the word?—an -exhaustive examination.” - -“Does that mean I ought to go?” - -“Why not?” - -Hugh looked into the earnest blue eyes which, despite the lad’s years, -had still an almost infantine expression. - -“Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings one often hears the truth,” he -thought. - -“I suppose I must go, then,” he said, “although it is most -inconvenient,” and abruptly rising he went into the hall, spoke to the -man, and returned pledged to see the princess. - -He was set down for a clinical lecture at noon. At eleven he started in -his brougham and drove to one of the new roads in South Kensington where -the Prince Andriocchi rented a furnished house for the season. - -An English groom of the chambers came forward as the door opened. - -The princess was at home. - -Hugh followed the man, who wore a dress something akin to ordinary levée -costume, up the wide staircase, through the large, silent drawing-rooms -which were furnished in the Parisian style rather than according to -British taste, into a boudoir where he left him. - -It was a circular room lighted from above. The ceiling was a dome draped -in a peculiar fashion with some soft white stuff in cloud-like puffings; -the narrow windows were of pink glass. The carpet was rose-pink with a -white flower pattern, the walls were lined with puffings of white and -pale pink satin, while the furniture was of pink and white brocade and -gilded wood. A few engravings of celebrated pictures stood about on -easels; and everywhere, wherever he looked, Hugh saw the choicest -flowers; cut flowers in bowls, plants in jardinières. It was a room -which was unlike all other rooms he remembered, yet, as he looked -around, it struck him that he had seen some room like it somewhere, -once. When? How? In a dream? - -The sound of a door opening behind him made him turn round, and he saw -the princess coming towards him through a conservatory which lay beyond -a curtained arch opposite the door by which he had entered. - -She was dressed in some floating girlish dress of softly tinted stuffs: -she seemed lost in thought—Hugh fancied she was unaware that he was -there: she walked slowly and wearily, her eyes cast down—then paused to -pick off a dying blossom as she passed between the banks of bloom. - -But—she knew! For as she came in she raised her eyes, and the colour -rising to her pale cheek she said: - -“Ah, I knew you would come!” - -It was a strange thing to say; but it was said simply, earnestly, -without the slightest tinge of vanity. As for coquetry, no man, looking -at that sad, beautiful young face, would have been so lost to all sense -of chivalry as to dream of the detestable quality in the presence of -this gentle, modest woman. - -She did not offer Hugh her hand. She seated herself on a settee, and -motioned him to occupy an easy-chair opposite. - -“My husband is away,” she said, in her foreign English, looking -wistfully at Dr. Paull. “He sent to me the count late last night, to say -it was impossible that he should return.” - -She was evidently watching for the effect of her communication. But Dr. -Paull maintained his professional sphinx-like calm. - -“Indeed!” he said. “But you have friends staying with you? You are not -alone?” - -“I am quite alone,” she said. “But I have always been alone, so that is -nothing.” - -There was an awkward pause. Hugh hardly knew how to meet these naïve -confidences. - -“You sent for me?” he began, suggestively. - -She looked at him with a peculiar, scrutinising glance for quite half a -minute. Then she said: - -“Lady Forwood told me you are a _good_ man.” - -This was somewhat disconcerting. - -“Lady Forwood is a charming, kind woman,” he said, warmly; “and I am -glad that you are such friends.” - -“She told me I should tell you everything!” said the girl, clasping her -jewelled hands nervously. - -“Naturally, of course,” said Hugh, who had rapidly determined to treat -the princess’ case, whatever it might prove to be, with bare -matter-of-fact common sense: and, as in the case of hysterical subjects, -to be unsympathetic—even, if necessary, rough. “A doctor should hear the -whole truth, and nothing but the truth, from a patient. Otherwise, he is -working in the dark, and might do more harm than good.” - -The princess was evidently in earnest about herself. She fixed her eyes -intently upon Hugh as he was speaking, listened with all her ears, and -when he had ended his somewhat didactic little speech, sighed a little -sigh of relief. - -“It is a long story,” she began, apologetically. - -“We medical men are accustomed to long stories,” said Hugh, “especially -from ladies.” - -“You do not like ladies?” said the princess, with a smile. (She seemed -rather pleased than otherwise.) “I did not like the ladies of my country -when I was a child. My mother and father were every day at the Court. -Their own palace was a little Court. I was very unhappy. It was there I -began to _dream_.” - -She hesitated and gave a nervous glance around before she said the word, -which, indeed, she spoke with bated breath. - -“To dream?” said Dr. Paull, beginning to set down his new patient among -the hysterical category. (When his hysterical patients could find -nothing else to complain of, they invariably grumbled about their bad -dreams, which were beyond anyone’s power to verify.) “Why, dreams are -only imagination. Everyone has bad dreams. Dreams are nothing.” - -“Do you think so?” asked the girl, with intense anxiety, with a strained -look in her big eyes. “Tell me that again! Tell me dreams are -_nothing!_” - -“I do not exactly mean that they are _nothing_, that is merely an -expression to be taken for what it is worth,” said he, impressed by her -intensity. “But come, tell me all about these dreams; I am interested in -dreams. I wish I could have met you when I was writing a little book -about the brain. Your experiences might have been of great use to me. -They still will be, if you will tell me all about them.” - -She knitted her brow, considered for some moments, then said, with -evident effort: - -“Tell me, doctor, tell me truly. Do you think there could be two souls -in one body, and one soul could be awake when the other was asleep?” - -“Is such a wild, horrible idea allowed by your Catholic religion?” asked -Hugh, somewhat brusquely. “Do you know, princess, that allowing yourself -to think of such things probably causes you these bad dreams?” - -She looked at him with a sad smile, and shook her head slowly. - -“Ah! you do not know!” she said. He had heard that plaintive tone of -voice before from patients suffering acute anguish from deadly disease. -“But you are right, monsieur le docteur, I am wrong to say such a thing. -It is against my holy faith.” - -Her proud humility touched him. - -“And I was wrong to ask you such a question,” he said. Then he coaxed -her to speak freely to him. - -“You dreamt these dreams as a child?” he began. “They ought to be -forgotten—dead.” - -Then she told him simply, in her imperfect English, what her trouble -really was. As a young child, she had been much like other children, -without their life and cheerfulness when awake. But no sooner did she -sleep than she felt herself surrounded by terrors, vague but horrible; a -sense of impending doom seemed to suffocate her, yet some interior -feeling made her believe that the doom was just. She heard weeping and -lamenting among the dark shadows that surrounded her; and sometimes -great eyes, with an expression of frantic appeal, appeared amid the -gloom, and haunted her waking thoughts. - -“I did think the souls in Purgatory were near me,” she said. “I told the -Reverend Mother of the Convent. We children could any of us go to her -when we liked, just as to a real mother. Oh, much more! I could never -have talked to my mother, the Marquesa, like that.” - -“And what did the Reverend Mother say?” asked Hugh, with a suggestion of -sarcasm, for he had a good honest British distaste for the conventual -system. - -“Oh! she laughed at me, and said little children had nothing to do with -Purgatory; and she showed me a picture-book, _The Cats’ Tea Party_, and -when a lay sister brought her some _bouillon_, I had some in a pretty -cup.” - -“Altogether the bad dreams were rather a good thing than otherwise?” -suggested Hugh, almost banteringly, thinking that at least that nun had -some common sense, whatever dreamers the rest may have been. - -“I had holidays, and the doctor came, and I had more things to eat,” -said Mercedes; “and everyone was so kind to me.” - -“Did not all that send away the bad dreams?” asked Hugh, still speaking -lightly. - -“No,” she said, sadly. “Nothing has ever altered them. It is so—always. -And I cannot care for my life!” - -She spoke with such despair that Hugh was touched. His determination to -be harsh wavered, although he was unaware of the fact. - -“But, for instance, lately,” he said, thinking of Lady Forwood’s account -of a cheery letter, “you have been away in the country, I understand. -How did you sleep there?” - -“Not at all,” she said. “And it was beautiful! First came the quiet, -dark night, with the scent of roses coming in with the cool air, and -just a little rustle of the trees outside. Then a grey light, and the -young birds twitting (is that the word?) little questions to their -parents. Then the old birds began to sing sweet, happy songs, and the -day came, first with blue light, then white, then pale rose. Then I got -up, and from my window saw the rise of the glorious sun—ah! that waking -is better than the sleep you doctors say is good. It is _not_ good, to -be asleep!” - -Her eyes sparkled; her dejection had lifted. - -“I cannot agree with you,” said Hugh. “And sleep—good sleep, mind—you -must have. But last night—here, in London,—you had no rest?” - -“I had my worst-of-all dream!” she said, bitterly. “It has come to me -these last years: at first—years back—I waked up crying and miserable, -but could not remember. Then I remembered something about _pistolets_. I -do not know your English word.” - -“Pistols?” said Hugh. He never used the word, or thought of the weapon, -without a shudder. - -“That is it,” she assented. - -“Were you ever frightened by firearms, do you think?” asked Dr. Paull, -resolutely suppressing the commencement of the hopelessly wretched mood -which inevitably succeeded any suggestion of that past terrible -experience. “Sometimes a fright in infancy will reproduce unpleasant -impressions.... Do you understand me?” - -“I never saw pistolets before that dream,” she said, slowly and -solemnly. “I could swear it to you before the _bon Dieu_, monsieur!” - -“I quite believe you,” said Hugh, hurriedly. “There are strange -incidents in the lives of young children, and they have curious -ideas—science is yet in the dark about these things. But——” He paused -and looked almost tenderly at the great, childish, anxious eyes raised -to his. “I want to help you,” he said; “but, frankly, it is difficult.” - -Then he questioned her as to the drugs physicians had ordered her, and -she brought him a pile of prescriptions which proved to him how futile -the greatest scientists’ efforts had been to alleviate the torture -suffered by this envied, but in reality most pitiable young creature. - -She looked so lovely, such a rare blossom of sweet womanhood; and, -glancing at her amid her luxurious surroundings, anyone would have -derided the idea of pitying her. But, as Hugh looked at her a strong -belief arose in his mind that she was not, in some way, like other -people; and that—how or why, he dared not imagine—some blight was upon -that fair young head. Possibly some ante-natal occurrence, however -remote, might have produced her morbid condition. - -As he sat looking at her, thinking deeply, casting about how he could -help her, she was watching him hopefully. At their first meeting she had -felt a calmed sensation, an access of strength, while talking to him, -and since—even when merely remembering or speaking of him. - -“Well, monsieur?” she asked at last, with a smile. - -He sighed, almost impatiently. - -“You expect me to give you medicine?” he asked. - -“If you do, monsieur le docteur, I think I could not take it,” she said. -“I have had so much _médécine_, and never, never did it take away one -dream; no, not one!” - -“Then what am I to do for you?” asked Hugh, in his perplexed mood -unaware how strange a question this was from an eminent physician to a -patient. - -She looked at him earnestly, and leaning forward she said, slowly: - -“See me—every—day!” - -Hugh started. Then he laughed, then checked himself. Was she mad, or -only eccentric? - -“Why?” he asked. “Why see you every day, especially as you tell me that -if I prescribe for you, you will not take my medicine?” - -She opened her lips; evidently she would have told him—had not some -secondary thought arisen to check her confidence, whatever it might be. - -“Will you see me every day for one week? then I will tell you,” she -said, imploringly. “Lady Forwood said you would be my good friend. Be my -good friend, monsieur, and do this!” - -It was an embarrassing position; and although Hugh was deeply moved by -the girl’s pathetic tone of entreaty, by this almost desperate appeal to -him—for that was really what it seemed to be,—he wondered what was -behind this strange request. Was Mercedes in the power of one of those -two men—the prince and the count,—and unconsciously aiding in some bet -or frivolous conspiracy? Or was she herself whimsical and -capricious—“hysterical”? No! Those last ideas were treason. Having -harboured them for an instant brought back his instinctive faith in the -simple young creature. - -“I would do what you ask, but really it is not possible, princess,” he -said, gently, respectfully. Then he explained how his time was occupied, -and gave her a list, jotted down hastily upon a leaf torn out of his -pocket-book, of the engagements for the next few days, which could not -be cancelled. - -She took the list and went over it carefully, in a practical manner, -quite unlike that of a hysterical woman. - -“I see,” she said. “But, monsieur, the evenings? There is nothing for -the evenings.” - -Hugh told her that his evenings were sacred to his son. - -“I am all that he has,” he said, “both mother and father. His mother -died when he was born.” - -She asked his age, and Hugh told her. - -“Nineteen!” she said, with a little laugh of surprise. “How funny! That -is my age. But your son, when is he nineteen? You say, a few days ago? -Why, he is older than I am, monsieur? You could be my father.” - -“Certainly,” said Hugh, relieved, somehow, of part of the uneasy -sensation excited by the situation by this suggestion. “But I confess I -thought you older.” - -“I was eighteen last March,” she said, gravely. “And my friend, Lady -Forwood, was twenty-four.” - -Eighteen—and a wife! Hugh looked pityingly at her. It seemed to him that -parents who could wed a child of seventeen to a young _roué_ of -twenty-six were almost criminal in their rashness—or worse than -rashness. - -“But, your son, he would like to go out?” said the princess. “Monsieur, -you and he, can you not come sometimes to Lady Forwood—to Lady -Boisville? Then I could see you.” - -“Impossible,” said Hugh, suddenly rising. This curious interview had -lasted long enough. - -“You will _not_?” - -She sat back on the settee, and to his astonishment, a deathlike pallor -spread over her face. A shrunken look aged her sweet youthful features, -her eyes seemed to harden and recede beneath her dark eyebrows. His -conscience smote him. - -“I will try and see you again soon,” he said, lamely. - -She raised her eyes languidly. He could not bear to see such abject -misery on so young a face.... Young? This girl was younger than Ralph, -more than young enough to be his own child. And so alone—and he could -help her; he saw, he felt that there was some strong bond of sympathy -between them. - -Without further thought, he almost flung himself down upon the settee at -her side. - -“Suppose I were to see you every day for five days,” he said, with an -affectation of amusement, “what good would that do you?” - -“You shall see,” she said, reviving somewhat; “I promise you, you shall -be astonished.” - -“Pleasantly astonished?” he asked. He determined to treat her in a -fatherly, indulgent way, as a spoilt child. - -“You will see,” she said, nodding her head. “But,”—she seized his hand -in hers in a familiar, innocent way which took his breath away for the -moment—“you _promise_?” - -“Promise! What?” he asked, uneasily. Something in the clinging touch of -those slender fingers moved him deeply, recalled—what? Sensations long -passed and gone, almost forgotten; sensations that stirred his heart to -feel the pain of loss. - -“Promise to accept the invitations you will receive this week,” she -said. - -“But where?” he asked. - -“Here, to Lady Forwood, to Lady Boisville,” she said. - -“Nowhere else?” he asked, gazing wonderingly into her upturned eyes. Had -there ever been such beautiful dark eyes in this world before? He -believed not. In any case, if such existed, he had never seen them. - -“Nowhere else,” she said, earnestly. - -“I do not quite understand, but I promise,” he said, rising. “And now -_au revoir_, princess.” - -He bowed low, and hurried away without looking back. He felt shamefaced -and guilty: running downstairs more actively than he had run for years -past, he came full tilt against the count, who was standing at the foot -of the staircase. - -Bows, apologies. Then the count asked tenderly about the princess. - -“We may hope, now that you have seen her, that our beautiful lady will -be better, docteur,” he said, obsequiously. “But how, how do you find -her?” - -“There is nothing much the matter,” said Hugh, dryly. Then, wondering -where the prince was, and how he could “let that fellow come hanging -about at all hours,” he hurried out to his carriage. - -“Where to, sir?” asked the coachman, leaning over as he came up. - -“Where to? The hospital, of course,” said Hugh, getting into his -brougham and pulling the door to. What did Fuller, his coachman, mean? -He knew his hours well enough. And what was the matter? He was tapping -at the glass. Hugh let down a front window, impatiently. - -“Did you say to the hospital, sir?” - -“Of course!” shouted Hugh. - -“It’s half-past twelve, sir,” said the coachman, reproachfully. Had he -not sat on his box wondering what had become of his master for five -mortal quarters-of-an hour? - -“Half-past eleven, you mean!” said Dr. Paull, sternly. - -For reply, Fuller pulled out a turnip silver watch. - -“It don’t never vary a second, sir, _it_ don’t,” he said, conclusively. - -A glance at his own watch, and Hugh, saying, “You’re right, _home_,” -drew up the window, and threw himself back in consternation. - -“Am I mad, or dreaming?” he asked himself. He had missed a lecture for -the first time since his appointment ten years ago! - - - - - CHAPTER XII. - “’TWIXT THE CUP AND THE LIP.” - - -“Incredible! Preposterous!” - -That was Dr. Paull’s mental attitude: he could not understand how that -hour, or more, had slipped away in the princess’ boudoir. - -His annoyance, and his difficulty in accounting for his absence from his -post, made him half-forgetful of the princess’ expressed determination -to see him every day. Next morning, when Sir David Forwood was -announced, he had no idea of his old friend’s errand. - -“No one ill, I hope?” he said, with concern; he left his consulting-room -to join his visitor in the dingy old drawing-room, a melancholy -apartment. He was fond of the Forwood children, one or two of whom were -weakly. - -“No,” said Sir David, who looked as he felt, uncomfortable. “Really I am -ashamed to come on such an errand to a man like you, Paull. But you must -blame my wife and Lady Boisville, rather than myself. Lady Boisville -gives a concert to-night in honour of the young French prince, and she -has set her heart on your being there. She actually came herself about -it, and the two ladies packed me off to secure you. I am afraid you will -have to come, Paull, or I shall never be forgiven.” - -Dr. Paull smiled. He remembered. His new patient evidently understood -how to carry out her whims. - -“I am pledged to go, or I certainly would not. These things are not at -all in my line,” he said. - -“Pledged to go?” Sir David looked astonished. “Lady Boisville must have -been mistaken, then. She said it was an afterthought of hers, and was so -afraid you would be offended at being asked so late in the day.” - -“I knew nothing of the entertainment; still, I am pledged to go,” said -Hugh, amused at Sir David’s innocence. “I will be there.” - -Then Sir David departed, perplexed, as he would not have been had his -wife been a society _intrigante_. - -Going into the dining-room to luncheon, Hugh was startled to see Mrs. -Mervyn, without her bonnet and shawl. - -“Good heavens!” he said, startled. What brings _you_ to town?” - -“You, of course,” said Mrs. Mervyn, amused. “How do you think the -Pinewood is to be restored, and all that, without some one working -pretty hard? Ralph and I have our work cut out for us this next week, I -can tell you. Ralph arranged for my staying here. I won’t be in your -way, I promise you.” - -“As if that were possible,” said Hugh, affectionately. He was always -glad to see poor Lilia’s “mammy.” Her round placid face and kind eyes -were dear to him. But as he presided at the luncheon table, and talked -to her and to Ralph, who appeared in the seventh heaven with delight and -importance, he hardly knew what they said, or how he answered them, -except that the words carpets, curtains, furniture, were frequently -repeated. He was wondering how he should explain his absence that -evening to “mammy,” who regarded him as an incorrigible recluse. - -“I fear I must seem rude, and leave you to-night for an hour or two,” he -said, as they rose from table. - -“Patients make doctors’ laws,” said Mrs. Mervyn, sagely. “I know -_that_.” - -“But this is a private concert at Lady Boisville’s,” said Hugh, -uneasily. “Nothing to do with business. In an evil hour I promised to -go.” - -“My dear, I am so glad that you are coming out of your shell,” said Mrs. -Mervyn, warmly. “And that reminds me. When am I to be ready to play -hostess at the Pinewood? It is necessary that I should know, to have -everything in order.” - -Hugh looked at her in consternation. He had forgotten his wild, fleeting -ideas that day at the Pinewood. Evidently Mrs. Mervyn had not. - -“Oh! I have not thought any more about that,” he said. - -“Then I am glad I have reminded you,” said “mammy.” “And really you men -of science are so unpractical in ordinary life, that the best thing one -can do with you, I think, is to help you a bit. I suppose you mean to -ask your friends for the partridge shooting? There are plenty of birds -about; and old Cæsar has been taking pains with them since he knew for -certain you were coming down.” - -Before they parted, Hugh was aware that this was before him: he was to -entertain the princess at the Pinewood. It was his own fault. When he -had persuaded himself that day in the country that he was planning to -entertain Sir David Forwood and his wife, he was deceiving himself. - -“I wanted _her_ there,” he told himself, in consternation. “What -influence has that girl over me, and how in Heaven’s name did she get -it?” - -He felt like some ponderous fly may feel entangled in the fine web of a -seemingly insignificant spider. That delicate creature! How came it that -he, a strong man, was subject to her will, or rather, her caprice? - -“It must not be,” he told himself, sternly; “although, of course, I must -fulfil my promise. I must see her, when and how she plans for these few -days. But after that, _no more_.” - -His determination seemed to him so strong, that he grew quite cheerful, -and after a pleasant chat with Mrs. Mervyn during and after dinner, he -sent her to the opera with Ralph and dressed for Lady Boisville’s -concert quite as if these new doings had been his rule of life. - -Lady Boisville’s house was well known. Its tapestries, picture-gallery, -and new French ball-room were much talked of in society. When Dr. Paull -arrived, the picture-gallery was already nearly filled by a brilliant -crowd who were seated or standing about in groups, awaiting the young -French prince. Hugh took up his position in the background. He had been -forced into this gathering, he determined to remain a spectator of the -interesting living picture as much as possible. At first it seemed as if -his intention would be fulfilled. The concert began. Celebrated Italian -singers warbled delicious music. The ladies smiled and fluttered their -fans. The men conversed in snatches between the pieces, while the -Boisville ancestors frowned darkly or smiled blankly from among the -celebrated black canvases of the old Dutch painters or the gay -Canalettis for which the Boisville collection was famous. One or two men -he knew, the most celebrated portrait painter of the day, two of the -foremost members of the Cabinet, and the physician dearest to reigning -royalty, came up and talked with him. All seemed surprised to see him. -One of the statesmen, a man of constitutional vigour and renowned for -his honest joviality, told him he was taking a step in the right -direction. - -“You preach at your patients not to shut themselves up,” he said. “But -hitherto you have not followed your own prescription.” - -Just after that the portrait painter came up to him. - -“I have just seen the loveliest woman in the world,” he said, -enthusiastically; “and Lady Boisville tells me you are her doctor. Lucky -fellow!” - -And forthwith he questioned Hugh with what Dr. Paull considered -execrable taste, until at last he made some excuse and came out of his -corner to avoid the man. - -Then he saw Mercedes, an exquisite picture in some silvery gossamer -stuff, with pearls round her girlish throat and a long trail of lilies -from her beautiful shoulder to the hem of her dress. Her large eyes were -travelling restlessly from face to face, her lips were apart, she was -nervously playing with her fan, yet the French prince was talking to -her, and in the knot of people around them were some of the celebrities -of the day. Their eyes met, her face lit up with pleasure, his heart -seemed to swell with some emotion. He was touched, yet was angry with -himself for being so. - -“I suppose I must speak to her,” he told himself; “but that must -suffice. After that, I go home.” - -He waited until the French prince moved away, then went up to her and -asked her how she was. - -“Very well, _now_,” she said. “Not before, for you had not come.” - -“I have been here all the evening,” said Hugh, as coolly as he could, -for her sweet face lifted to his actually stirred his steady pulses, and -he rebelled against these new, involuntary sensations. “I must go, now. -Good-bye! I am glad you are looking so well.” - -“You will stay? Just a little while?” she pleaded. - -“I am sorry that I cannot possibly do so,” he said. “My time is not my -own.” - -Her blank look of disappointment startled him. What was this violent -fancy of hers for him? Was he wise, was he, indeed, doing right to -encourage it? He began to fear that he had taken some dangerous step on -that flowery way to destruction that he had hitherto succeeded in -avoiding. - -Still, as he argued to himself walking home under the calm night sky, -why should he think there was anything approaching to danger in the -kindly feeling this young, beautiful creature entertained for him? - -“I am absurdly vain to think of such a thing,” he told himself with a -scornful laugh. “I, more than middle-aged, white-haired, awkward, stupid -in women’s society, she can only feel a mixture of pity and confidence. -How absurd it is of me to make a mountain out of a molehill!” - -He went to bed with a heavy heart, accusing himself of ingratitude to -the princess. - -“I ought to feel flattered at it all, I suppose,” he said when he awoke, -his spirits oppressed with the feeling of something going wrong in his -life. Instead of this, he felt utterly wretched. - -Had he expected to hear from Mercedes? He did not know. He only knew -that he turned over his letters with a sense of disappointment, and -although he talked with Mrs. Mervyn about the opera, and listened to her -and to Ralph’s hints of some pleasant surprise in store for him in the -arrangements at the Pinewood, he could not have given an account of the -conversation afterwards had his life depended upon it. He had hard work -to concentrate his energies upon his work that day. When he returned -home he found a letter—a letter with the Andriocchi arms on the flap of -the envelope, with his name in that graceful, sloping writing. - -It lay among many others on his library table. If he had really doubted -the girl’s power over his emotions, the eagerness with which he pounced -upon it would have told him the truth. - -Before he read it he locked the door. Another desperate symptom, had he -been reflecting on his own case. But he was not. He had but one feeling, -intense relief. He had been fearing he had offended her, and he had not -done so. - -He opened the envelope. The enclosed sheet of notepaper contained but a -few words: - - “I release you from your promise. Farewell. - - “MERCEDES.” - -The date; her address; those few words. No more. - -In his present frame of mind, it was a shock. At first he paced the -room, his old habit when perturbed. Then after gloomy self-chidings, -during which he thought of himself as an inhuman bear who had trampled -on the generous nature of one of the sweetest women God had ever -created—he stopped short, consoled by a new thought. - -“What did I do, or say?” he asked himself. “I only made excuses to get -away from a fashionable entertainment. I did not slight _her_ -personally. She is a child! She has jumped to some conclusion or -another—I must write at once and disabuse her of it, whatever it is.” - -He sat down, and wrote:— - - “Dear Princess,—It grieves me to find that you have lost confidence in - me as your medical adviser, because I have given much consideration to - your case. Allow me to assure you that if you permit me a further - trial, you will be satisfied with the result. At the same time, if you - conclude that you are better without my advice, I sincerely hope you - will allow me to talk over your next medical adviser with you, as the - selection is a matter of importance to your health. - - “I am, faithfully yours, - “HUGH PAULL.” - -“Whether this is too warm, or too cold—whatever it is, _it shall go_,” -he said to himself decidedly, as he rang the bell. - -“When did this letter come?” he asked of Jones, who came in response to -his summons. - -“That, sir? Oh, the princess! The fair, foreign gentleman brought it. He -wanted to see you, sir. He came about two.” - -“_Which_ gentleman?” asked Hugh—nettled to find that the letter had been -recognised. - -“The count, sir; not the prince.” - -“Send this by a hansom at once,” he directed. “And send round to the -stables. I want the brougham directly after dinner.” - -He had given this order, spurred by a feeling he had not hitherto known: -he wished to conceal his movements from his own servants. Hitherto, they -might have known all that he did, and spoke, and thought, for all he -cared. - -Now, the idea of his patient the princess being commented upon by any -one of his household, even by Ralph, was unbearable to him. He had -ordered his carriage to elude remark. No sooner had he done so, than he -wondered what he should do with it—where he should go. - -“I will take mammy to the theatre,” he suddenly thought. - -Upstairs he bounded—she was not in the drawing-room. Once more he rushed -up the stairs three steps at a time and bounced up against Mrs. Mervyn. - -“My dear boy!” Mrs. Mervyn was astonished, but not disconcerted. - -It did her good to see the long disconsolate widower “alive again,” as -she said afterwards to her husband. - -“I came to see if you would come to the theatre, to-night,” he said, in -a low voice. “Don’t say anything before the servants—but after dinner, -we three can just go and see anything good that you would care to see.” - -Mrs. Mervyn was enchanted. - -“All the same, I would just as soon spend a quiet evening with you and -Ralph,” she said. “You must not fatigue yourself on my account, dear.” - -“Don’t be alarmed! I am purely selfish!” he said, going off disgusted -with himself. - -What had happened to him? He was unstrung—his emotions were in revolt. -He felt as if he could not sit quietly at home that evening, waiting for -a reply to his note. He must have change of scene, excitement, to -balance him. If mammy could only know! Poor “mammy!” - -Perhaps “mammy” knew more than he thought. Mrs. Mervyn, finding him -changed, had certainly been on the watch these days. She had discovered -no clue to the feminine influence which, woman-like, she believed to be -the root of Dr. Paull’s alternate high spirits and absence of -mind—still, she believed that the feminine influence was _there_, and -that in time she would “know everything.” - -Poor “mammy!” - -Meanwhile, she enjoyed herself that evening, as she, Dr. Paull, and -Ralph sat together in a box to see a new piece, a serious comedy with -both humorous and pathetic interest which was having a steady “run” at -one of the principal theatres. Hugh exerted himself to be amusing, or, -at least, to pay the undivided attention to Lilia’s dearest friend which -he considered her due; and Mrs. Mervyn thought, more than once during -the performance, “If there really _is_ some love affair, it is going on -favorably.” - -So hoped Hugh. At least, so he hoped of this new acquaintance which he -mentally designated his and Mercedes’ “friendship.” He believed his -letter had “made it all right” between him and his offended patient. - -But the next day passed, and the day after that, and no answer came. - -Then Mrs. Mervyn departed, with the promise that he would send her full -particulars of his house party at the Pinewood next month. She assured -him at parting that everything would be ready for next month in a few -days. - -Good soul!—she journeyed home somewhat heavy-hearted on the subject of -Hugh, of whom she was genuinely fond. When he returned from the -bookstall with the newspapers he had bought to beguile her homeward -journey, she noticed that he was deadly pale and looked very ill. - -“He has been overfatiguing himself for me,” she dismally thought as the -fields and hedges seemed to fly by the compartment in which she sat -alone. “Poor, dear boy! I have been very thoughtless.” - -She might have spared herself her misgivings. The cause of Dr. Paull’s -pallor was a short paragraph in a society column his eyes rested upon as -he brought her the papers: - -“The Prince and Princess Andriocchi, who have been making a brief stay -in the Metropolis, intend to take their departure for Madrid to-day. For -the future they will reside in the well-known palace of the Duke and -Duchess of Saldanhés, the parents of the princess, where an extensive -suite of apartments has been magnificently re-decorated for their -reception. One of the objects of the Prince Andriocchi’s recent visit to -the Palazzo Andriocchi, in Florence, is said to have been the -organisation for the removal of the most celebrated among the many -renowned works of art accumulated by his ancestors to his new abode in -the Spanish capital.” - -So Mercedes had left him—without one word! - - - - - CHAPTER XIII. - HER DREAM. - - -He left the station as in a trance. He felt nothing but that something -had happened to him that had mortally wounded him. - -Mechanically, he got rid of Ralph’s companionship by leaving him at the -scientist’s house. Then he gave the order “Home.” - -He was going up the steps of his house when the door opened, and the -count came out. - -“Ah!” The count’s exclamation was one of satisfaction. - -“But I am glad to find you, monsieur le docteur! The prince is terribly -anxious about madame! She is very ill. You will come to her at once?” - -The revulsion of feeling was acute. The blood rushed to Dr. Paull’s -cheek. He turned abruptly from the count, and opened the street door -with his key. - -“Will you come in?” he said coldly. - -At that moment some instinct suggested aversion to this man. He had met -those seraphic blue eyes fixed upon him with a mocking expression that -was anything but seraphic, and in his present humour he would have -doubted anyone. - -“I understood that the prince had left town,” he said, after he had led -the way into the library and closed the door. “Was it he who sent you, -or the princess?” - -The count explained that the princess was too ill to give directions, -and was proceeding to make further explanations when Hugh cut him short, -and explained that the princess having dismissed him, he could attend at -her summons alone. - -He was desperately angry—was it with Mercedes, or with himself? This -anger nerved him to write the names and addresses of certain physicians -and to hand them to the count. - -“Any of these gentlemen will attend at the prince’s request,” he said. -“Under the circumstances, you will quite understand that it is -impossible for me to do so except at the princess’ special desire.” - -The count was compelled to retreat. He was surprised. Perhaps he had -expected that Hugh had only to hear that he was wanted by his beautiful -patient to fly to her. - -During that short interview Hugh felt triumphant. No sooner was he alone -than the agreeable sense of self-vindication fled. He began to doubt -whether he had acted rightly. - -“I have been selfish—hard,” he told himself. “I ought to have remembered -what a child she is—and so tender and sensitive—and so utterly -friendless, with that man for a husband, and that fellow for a -go-between!” - -However, he had no time for further self-reproach. Patients arrived and -had to be interviewed. Later in the day he had to visit a hospital, and -in the evening Ralph was full of his day’s work. He had written a -chapter at the professor’s dictation which had opened out a new vista of -science to him. As the boy sat eagerly expatiating upon his day’s -experiences, his flushed cheek and glistening eyes made him strangely -like his dead mother. As Dr. Paull noticed the likeness he shuddered. As -soon as he could, he made an excuse to be alone. - -“I have work to do—can you amuse yourself without me?” he said. - -Ralph’s affectionate glance recalled Lilia still more. Was it his fancy -that to-night, of all nights, the lad bore a startling resemblance to -his mother that Hugh had not observed before? - -“It is not,” he thought, as he lowered the lamp in the library, and -opening the window, drew an easy-chair near it and lighting his pipe, -settled himself to think. “He is growing like her.” - -It was a dark night—moonless, but clear. The stars were brilliant. -Obscurity lent a charm to the blackened shrubs in the so-called gardens -at the back of the house. The forms of the opposite houses were vaguely -defined against the ebon blue. Hugh tried to recall nights such as this, -when he and his wife strolled into the pinewoods, and Lilia talked love -to him as she leant upon his arm. He tried to recall the tones of her -voice, but could not. He tried to remember the expression of her eyes, -but, to his horror—for to-day he would have sacrificed much for a keen -recollection of the past—when he thought of Lilia’s face, he seemed to -see the pathetic beauty of Mercedes; when he thought of Lilia’s voice, -he seemed to hear Mercedes when she last spoke to him. - -“I am a fickle wretch!” he told himself, bitterly. “I have forgotten the -child who loved me better than she loved her God!” - -He was attempting to do what he had never since dared to attempt—to -recall in all its torturing details the closing rebellious scene of -Lilia’s short life—when he heard a tap at the door, and “May I come in?” -in Ralph’s familiar tones. - -He laid down his pipe with a sigh, and went to the door. He would send -Ralph away—he was not in a humour to talk. - -On opening the door, he saw Ralph—and two women, one of whom turned to -her companion and said a few words in a low voice, then coolly passed -him and walked into his room. - -He recognised her at once, cloaked and veiled though she was. Still, he -stood at the door, hesitating; his heart seemed to stand still at such -unparalleled audacity. Only when, removing her veil, she said, almost -impatiently, “Please shut the door,” did he seem to recover the right -use of his senses. - -“I thought—you were very ill,” he said, coming towards her. - -“I am,” said Mercedes, throwing up her veil. - -She certainly looked like death: her face pallid, her features sunken, -her great eyes dimmed. - -“This is terrible—you should not have come!” said Hugh, passionately, -stirred by the sight of the face which had bewitched him, bereft of its -exquisite beauty. “This is worse than imprudence!” - -He drew a chair for her near the writing-table, turned up the lamp, and -pulled down the blind, half indignant that his love—oh! when he saw her -he felt she was his love, and nothing else—that this cruel love of his, -who had caused him such throes, should have lowered herself thus, and -have forgotten her high estate and womanly dignity to come to him! But -half despairing—for he saw nothing but an abyss—an abyss of shame for -her, of dishonour for him, in this. - -“_Why_ did you come?” he asked her, when his emotion permitted him to -think. “It is madness—madness—for you to come here! And at this hour!” - -“Why did you not come—to me?” she gasped, rising in her chair. “My -husband sent for you—and you would not come!” - -“You wrote me my dismissal,” said Hugh, bitterly. “You felt a whim, a -fancy, not to see me any more. You gratified it. You did not think what -suffering it would cause me. You only pleased your vanity. It pleased -your vanity to think you could hurt a man who has not been hurt by a -woman before.” - -He stopped short, for a sudden light came upon her face. - -“What?” she whispered, leaning forward, her features losing their -contraction, her pallor lessening. “No woman _hurt_ you before! I was -told you loved your wife!” - -She said the word “wife” reluctantly. Hugh gazed at her wonderingly. His -eyes travelled eagerly over her countenance. Every line was dear to him. -The dimples about her mouth—how sweet they were! - -But suddenly he remembered himself—his position—and her, his patient. He -recalled himself to a sense of propriety, and assumed a calm which he -did not feel. - -“I was very sorry to receive your dismissal,” he began, in as ordinary a -tone of voice as he could command, leaning up against the book-shelves -in the shadow opposite to her, and folding his arms with a vague -instinct to repress the turbulent beating of his heart. “But I am still -more sorry that you, princess, should have stooped to come to me.” - -Then he tried to explain why he had not gone to her at the count’s -bidding. He spoke of professional etiquette, of the duty imposed upon -members of his craft to support the rules that upheld their dignity. She -leant back in her chair listening, with a curious smile on her pale -lips. - -He spoke confidently at first; indeed, almost with firmness. But as he -looked at her, sitting like some exquisite waxen figure in the old -leathern chair, a delicacy and royal daintiness about her, even to every -fold of her glistening evening gown, her eyes fixed upon him with an -expression of sad reproach, faintly tinged with disdain, he felt a wild -impulse to throw himself at her feet and tell her he was hers—her slave, -to be hers till death. Astonished at his own feelings—alarmed,—he -violently repressed them; but his voice first faltered, then lost its -resonance; he stammered, forgot what he wanted to say; in fact, failed -miserably in his attempt to assert himself. He was thankful to her when -she spoke, although she reproached him. - -“You were not only my _docteur_,” she said, and her sweet, reproachful -voice seemed dearer, more familiar, than before. “You said—you promised -to be my friend.” - -“Friendship cannot be all on one side,” said Hugh bitterly, -relinquishing the pretence of doctor speaking to patient. “You told me -you did not want me. You wrote as cruelly as ever woman wrote to man. I -could not believe in your wish for my friendship after that.” - -She looked at him, surprised. - -“Think,” she said; “remember, remember! How did you be to me that -night—that night at Lady Boisville’s? The good count he did come -afterwards to console me. He said to me, ‘Excuse him, because he is so -clever a man, and he understands _les nerfs_ as no other man does -understand them.’ Then he tells me more——” - -“The count is extremely kind,” said Hugh. “He appears to know me very -well. And pray what more did the count tell you about me?” - -“He tells me” (she closed her eyes and spoke with hesitation and in a -stifled voice) “how beautiful was your young wife, and how your poor -heart is buried in her grave.” - -There was silence in the big, shabby old room, where the Princess -Andriocchi, seated in the lamplight, was the spot of light among the -shadows. The princess had not spoken mockingly; she spoke like a true -woman, sympathetically, although a cool listener would have gathered -from her tone and manner how deeply she loved the man to whom she -addressed those words. - -But Hugh was no cool listener; he was excited to the utmost pitch, -beyond the point where he could recognise that he was not himself. - -“That is true in a way,” he said, roughly, with a half laugh. “It is -true as far as this: if I had a heart, it might be buried in a grave. -But I have none, princess. All women and men are alike to me. If they -are ill and want me, then, of course, they are my patients, and I am -interested in them as such. Otherwise—well, I wish good to everyone; but -I am content to live alone—aye, and to die alone.” - -He had paced the room while venting that speech. Turning abruptly, as he -somewhat savagely enunciated those last words, he saw a smile on -Mercedes’ sweet face. - -“Ah!” she said, shaking her head, “you think you feel that. But——” - -She looked incredulity. He and his sentiments had evidently not -impressed her or depressed her spirits in the least. On the contrary, -she looked far more human, far better in a physiological sense, than -when she first came into the room. - -“How good it is to be here!” she said, almost ecstatically, glancing -above at the dingy ceiling, and around at the rows of book-shelves -filled with plain bound volumes. “How much good it does me to be here!” -and she heaved a sigh, a sigh of relief and contentment, sinking back in -the old chair. - -There was so true a ring in her voice, such a reality about her, that -Dr. Paull was subdued by a sense of awe, or the beginning of awe. The -situation was unnatural, yet Mercedes, more than at her ease, was making -him feel as if it were not only natural that he and she should be here -alone together thus, but even right and proper. - -She was evidently completely at her ease. While he stood uncomfortably -wondering what he should do or say next, she promptly solved the -difficulty. - -“Come here,” she said, not exactly with imperiousness, but certainly -with the confidence of one in command. “Come here” (she drew one of the -chairs near her own), “and I will tell you—all.” - -He hesitated for a moment. A disagreeable feeling that some shock was -awaiting him in this threatened revelation made him almost inclined to -refuse to hear it, now and for always. - -What if he had refused? What if he had left her there and then, -unconfessed of her secret, whatever it might be? Would it have changed -his after life? would it have averted his fate? Often afterwards he -asked himself this question, in wonder, in awe: that question which none -on earth could answer. - -He did not refuse. He seated himself by her, and said: - -“You are mysterious.” - -“Yes,” she said, simply. “It is all a dreadful mystery. You know, every -time I have seen you, you have made me feel stronger. That is why I ask -you to see me for five days, and then I tell you all! I tell you—you -will be frightened when you hear what I have to say!” - -There was no lightness about her voice and manner. Indeed, she spoke -with reluctance, almost with pain. - -“I do not think there is much which can frighten me now,” said Hugh, -reassuringly. “You can tell me everything, anything you please.” - -A nervous tremor shook her whole frame. - -“I _will_ tell you,” she said, almost convulsively. “I dreamed a dream -once, when I was a child. I was sitting on a stone bench, such as we -have in our country. But round me were dark trees, dark bushes of the -sort we do not have there. It was dark. I dreamed I was in the -expectation of some one to come to me. I was sitting there, waiting. -Then I saw the moon, and just as I saw the moon, I saw some one who -came—a man; and I knew that the man was the one I loved before -everything, and as I did not love anyone else.” - -“Yes,” said Hugh, encouragingly. - -The words brought back some unpleasantly suggestive recollection, but -indistinctly. - -“I woke from that dream,” she went on, musingly; “and I knew it was not -like other dreams. I knew that it meant something. I had been not fond -of people like my girl friends were fond of people; but that man, oh! I -loved _him_!” - -“Did you recognise him?” asked Dr. Paull, feeling uncomfortable, he -hardly knew why. - -She shook her head. - -“No,” she said, “not _then_.... I will tell you. I did not dream that -dream again. It made me think; I told my confessor. It was not like -other dreams. If ever I see the place I shall know it; of that I am -sure.” - -“And the man?” asked Hugh. - -“I did not see his face,” she went on. “Only from what I felt did I -guess him to be the same.” - -“As what?” His heart beat quick. - -“As the man of the dreams which made me so—so unhappy.” - -She spoke almost piteously. - -“And what were they?” asked Hugh. - -Pale as she had been when she came, she grew paler still. - -“They,” she said, in a hushed voice, “they were many, many; time after -time, but always the same dream.” She paused, drew a sobbing breath, -then went on: “It was of a room. At first when I had the dream I could -only notice that it was a room with a table, all the other was dark. But -two things I could see quite plain: one was a _pistolet_ lying upon the -table, the other was a man sitting like this.” (She leaned her arms upon -the table and buried her face in her hands.) “And I—I, even in the -dream, wanted that man to kill himself! yes, to take that pistol and -shoot himself! Ah! monsieur!” she started and exclaimed. Hugh had -uttered an exclamation. - -“I said I should frighten you!” she said, sinking back and looking at -him concerned. - -He was pale to lividity, but, with a ghastly attempt at a smile, he once -more folded his arms, and said, coolly: - -“Go on. Did the gentleman of your dream take your advice?” - -“You must not mock or sneer,” she said, somewhat defiantly. “Monsieur, I -do not think you should sneer at my suffering! I have been in torment -with that dream; when I woke up I have felt that I was wicked, just as -if it were the truth. I have cried and groaned. Oh! I have prayed to -die!” - -“Sneer? I wish I _could_ sneer!” said Hugh, bitterly. - -She fixed her eyes upon him, seriously, earnestly; then went on: - -“After I had that dream many times each year, I see that room plainer. -It is a room” (she stopped and looked round) “something like this. Books -everywhere, on the walls like those, on the table. But while I dream -that I ask that man—I beg him, indeed, more and more each time—to kill -himself, never once in all those years did he move or look at me; never -once did I see his face!” - -Hugh could not speak; he was dumb with horror. He could not doubt that -this dream of Mercedes’ was a dream of the terrible crisis in his life; -of that hour when Lilia had, dying, tempted him to commit self-murder, -and he had been saved from the crime by the accidental appearance of -Mrs. Mervyn. But why should this Spanish girl have dreamt of him -throughout her young life, far away in a foreign land? Could it be—but -of course it must be—a coincidence? The thought of a coincidence was a -relief. - -“Dreams are strange things,” he stammered. “Go on, you interest me -much!” (Interest him—good God!) - -“Then,” she said, “came the strangest thing of all. When I was away in -the country I dreamed that—once more. But it was more like real life -than before; the room, oh! I saw it plain, even as I see this now. But -the man—this time he looked at me—and—it was _you_!” - -He did not speak. He did not think. It seemed as if his whole life had -come to a halt. - -It was Mercedes who spoke first. She had watched him wonderingly after -her revelation. His dark face, stern and set, told her nothing. - -“What—you think about it?” she said, at last. Her voice made him shiver -like the touch of cold steel before the cut. - -“I? I do not know,” he stammered. “Of course, it all seems very strange -to you. But you must not think about it.” - -In his perturbation, the instinct to protect this weak woman, who by -some law not understood by science had suffered in dreams on his -account, mastered all selfish emotion. - -“I assure you,” he said, with a valiant attempt at a smile, “that the -best thing you can do is to forget all about these dreams. I will give -you a book about dreams, a book dry and hard to read perhaps, but which -will make you feel happier on the subject.” - -“But”—she began—“why—why—should I like _you_ so much—why should the man -of my dream be _you_?” - -How could the wife of Prince Andriocchi and the constant companion of -his friend the count, contrive, being no actress, to look into his face -with infantine innocence as Mercedes looked now? That look made him -think better of those two men. - -“That—belongs to a branch of a subject I have not studied,” he said, -hoping she did not notice the guilty flush which suddenly rose to his -face. “I will think over all you have said to me to-night, and will tell -you my opinion next time I see you,” he added, rising. - -“Oh!” She looked disappointed. “When—when will that be?” She spoke -anxiously. “You see how well being with you makes me! Let it be soon!” -she urged. - -What was he to say? To follow the promptings of his passionate feeling -for her would have been madness. No, no; duty, duty alone—— - -That pause of a few seconds when he summoned all his force to subdue -himself, a pause which seemed to him hideously long, was broken by a -neighbouring, a friendly church clock, which struck ten. - -“Do you hear?” he exclaimed, seeming to be horrified although nothing -could have horrified him just then. He sprang up. “I had no idea it was -this hour,” he said, truthfully enough. “Have you your carriage? Who was -that with you?” - -“My maid,” she said. “Emma—a German. Lady Boisville sent her to me. Such -a kind person!” - -“But your carriage?” he asked, anxiously. It was farthest from his -thoughts to compromise her. - -“It is there,” she added, with a certain assertion of dignity, rising. -“Perhaps you will tell—that I am coming?” - -Hugh hastened to the door and called “Ralph.” A voice from the -dining-room answered “Yes,” and Ralph came hurrying to the door. - -“Where is the princess’ maid?” asked his father, as coldly as he could. - -“She has been sitting in the dining-room with me, father.” - -“That was right. Call up the carriage yourself, will you? Don’t bother -Jones.” - -“Yes.” - -Hugh returned to the room. She was standing thoughtfully at the table. - -What should he say to her? As he stood undecided, Ralph came hurrying -back; he ceremoniously offered her his arm, and presently he was -standing alone on the pavement, the stars shining mockingly down upon -him as he gazed after her departing carriage. - - - - - CHAPTER XIV. - A QUESTIONABLE DOCTRINE. - - -Dr. Paull had but little sleep that night. He spent it reading a book -which had been presented to him by its author a few months ago, and -which he had then shelved at the top of his bookcases among works not -likely to be required. - -The author was an old man, a Mr. Helven, who had been a celebrated -analytical chemist, but who had retired from active practice to pursue -certain fantastic theories which had taken possession of his mind. He -had been a frequent visitor at the Pinewood during Sir Roderick’s -lifetime. Hugh had seen him once since at a learned conversazione, and -they had had some discussion, the result of which was that Mr. Helven -sent him a copy of his book, “The result,” he wrote in the accompanying -note, “of the research of a lifetime.” - -Dr. Paull had thoughts which he chose to hide, not only from the whole -world, but even, if possible, from himself. He took the book to his -bedroom and only began to read when the last sounds of daily life had -ceased within and without the house. - -The title of the work was: “_On Certain Ancient Doctrines._ By a Modern -Pythagorean.” - -While cutting the pages Hugh’s attention was arrested by certain words -on the flyleaf: - - “BOOK II. - - ON THE AGE OF SOULS.” - -“Where have I seen that before?” he asked himself. - -The words were familiar, and recalled sensations the reverse of -pleasant. - -He pondered for a few minutes: then he recollected. Memory carried his -mind back to the night at the Pinewood when, after the day spent with -Lilia, Sir Roderick had lent him a treatise written by a Dutch author. -He had, so he afterwards believed, fallen asleep while reading it—and -had dreamt that he read a chapter or chapters of its second part (which -was entitled, “On the Age of Souls”). - -This finding in black and white that of which he had dreamt years ago -was weird. He turned over the pages that followed, and the sense of the -uncanny was intensified. Here, almost word for word, was the strange -treatise which he had read in his vision long ago; here was the history -of the old doctrine of Metempsychosis, or the passage of the Soul -through many bodies in various lives. There was also the speculation of -the author (or commentator), that the object of all life upon the planet -was to develop high spiritual force: gradually, slowly, through its -friction with material frames. The speculator assumed this plan to be a -merciful idea of a beneficent Creator, by which the Soul, when finally -attaining to its eternal grandeur, might not be overwhelmed with the -magnitude of its obligations, because it would recognise glory as -principally earned by its long course of suffering and struggle. - -Meanwhile, the author suggested that while the spiritual essence called -the Soul, being eternal, could have no age, there being no such thing as -Time in Eternity, the duration of its inhabitance of matter was of -different length in different cases. Courageous souls that fought -bravely for perfection would attain it sooner than the less -enterprising. Those who lent themselves to evil would retrograde—would, -like Sisyphus, be perpetually at work at the same step-in-advance. And -those who failed to believe in the Eternal might revolve in fleshly -forms even while the globe itself continued in the Universe in its -present form. - -Hugh read and re-read. Certain ideas he had vaguely felt floating among -his troubled thoughts of late were assuming definite shape. - -Throughout that hardest, most perplexed reverie of his life he -remembered certain facts. Lilia’s unbelief during life: her rebellion -against the law of Death at the last. The strange knowledge the Princess -Mercedes had had from her earliest years of the awful scene in his -life—Mercedes, who was born nine months after Lilia’s death. - -“If I tell Helven this,” he said to himself, with a ghastly laugh at his -own thoughts, “he will say that Mercedes is Lilia re-embodied. Did ever -a romantic dreamer on subjects beyond our mortal powers of comprehension -find such a case in point to bear out his wild imaginings?” - -Lilia’s death—Mercedes’ birth—Lilia’s wild love for him—Mercedes’ -feeling that his presence was necessary to her wellbeing. - -“Bah! I am trying to justify my passion for that girl—that is what I am -doing!” he cried to himself in an excess of self-anger. “I want to -justify my unfaithfulness to Lilia, whom, if _this_ is love, I never -loved! God! I would die a thousand times for this girl—she has me, soul, -body, _all_!” - -No more would he deceive himself. He knew now—he knew that he was in the -grasp of the one great passion of his whole life. - -What should he do? Fly? To-morrow, if he chose, he could cancel all -engagements, cast off all responsibilities, leave all arrangements to -his lawyer, and start for—anywhere—without detriment to his one duty in -life—Ralph. His father was dead, his sisters absorbed in their husbands -and families. He had no ties. Would it not be best to turn his back upon -his great temptation? - -He resisted the thought. The fact was, he shrank from the daily and -hourly struggle against the longing for Mercedes’ presence which he felt -would arise when he had cut himself adrift. - -“I am exaggerating the situation,” he told himself, summoning his -ordinary common sense to his aid. “It throws one off one’s mental -balance to be confronted by such a coincidence as my dreaming of that -fantastic stuff years before the man wrote it.” - -Meanwhile he felt as if he would like to see Helven again. The feeling -was so strong next morning that after he had finished his hospital work -he drove to the publishers of the book his thoughts had so curiously -anticipated, to obtain its author’s address. - -The address was a street in Bloomsbury. With the new instinct to hide -his doings dominating him, Dr. Paull would not drive there in his own -carriage. - -He telegraphed to Helven asking him for an audience that evening. The -reply arrived during the afternoon: - - “_With pleasure—at eight.—Helven._” - -So, with an excuse for his absence to Ralph, at twenty minutes to eight -Hugh strolled out of the house, and hailing a hansom in Oxford street, -drove to Blank street, Bloomsbury. - -It was a large, old, neglected house, smelling of damp and stale tobacco -smoke. A maid ushered Dr. Paull up the blackened staircase into the -large drawing-rooms, once, in their early days, the reception-rooms of -fashionable dames, and doubtless gorgeous with tapestries and crystal -chandeliers; now dismal with dirt and dingy books, papers, and dusty -odds and ends of crazy furniture. - -There was one bright spot in the room—a large lamp on the centre table, -where Mr. Helven was bending over his papers, a long pipe in his mouth. - -“Ah!” he said, in a pleased tone, looking up from his work over his -spectacles and laying aside his pipe, “I am glad to see you, Dr. Paull. -A chair for Dr. Paull, Margaret, if you please. Allow me, I will help -you;” and as courteously as if the dirtily-dressed servant girl had been -a refined lady, the old man assisted her to remove some twenty or so -large volumes from a chair, and bowing her out of the room, invited Hugh -to be seated. - -“This is unexpected,” he said, beaming at his guest. “I remember meeting -you about ten years ago. You were then a confirmed materialist, doctor.” - -“Scarcely that,” said Hugh. “I have never altogether given up the simple -tenets I learned in my mother’s lap.” - -Now that he was here, burning to tell his story and to see the effect it -would produce on the Pythagorean, a certain awkwardness made him preface -his disclosures by ordinary talk. For some minutes the two scientists -spoke of the recent discoveries in physiology and other of Nature’s -storehouses, and of the careers or deaths of well-known scholars who had -been present at the conversazione where they had met. Then old Helven -grew absent in manner, and suddenly interrupted Hugh in the middle of a -sentence. - -“Dr. Paull, you have something to tell me,” he said. “What is it?” - -Their eyes met, they smiled. - -“I have a strange story to tell you,” said Hugh. “But first you must -understand that, without my express permission, it must go no further -than your memory. You will remember, no fear of that!” - -Then he told him of his last night’s perusal of his work _On Certain -Ancient Doctrines_, and of his strange dream of the part “On the Age of -Souls,” twenty years ago, at the Pinewood. - -Helven was amazed. - -“I cannot doubt your impressions,” he said, after hearing details. “But, -visionary though people think me, I confess to but small belief in -dreams. I can believe that there may appear to be a strong similarity in -a vivid dream to facts that afterwards ensue. But you, in your own book -_On the Physiology of Sleep_, refute the idea of impressions we receive -in dreams and our waking memory of those impressions coinciding. The -fact is, that when you thought you dreamt of those chapters I headed ‘On -the Age of Souls,’ I had not even planned out their synopsis.” - -“But you knew the doctrines then, Mr. Helven,” said Hugh. - -“The doctrines are as old as the hills, Dr. Paull,” said Helven. “But is -your story a story of dreams?” - -“I wish it were!” said Hugh. “No, what I have to tell you is simple -fact. I trust you; so I will not disguise identities. The tale is of my -own life.” - -He briefly recounted his acquaintance with Sir Roderick, his affection -for Lilia, and their marriage, not omitting his dream of a strange lady -who spoke strange words to him with a foreign accent: the dream which he -believed now to have been a prevision of Mercedes. - -“My wife loved me unreasonably,” he said. “At times I feared the feeling -might become a monomania. Poor child! when I had to tell her that she -must resign herself to die, there was a terrible scene.” - -He recounted the awful hour of his life, when Lilia exacted a promise -that as soon as she was dead he would commit self-murder, and how he was -saved by the accident to the babe, and Mrs. Mervyn’s consequent -interruption with the child in her arms. - -“I was sitting at the table in the library when this friend, with my -child in her arms, suddenly appeared,” he said. “Pistols were on the -table before me. I was resting my arms on the table and my head was bent -down upon them. I am telling you these details because they bear upon -the extraordinary part of my story. - -“Well, I was saved. Then followed nineteen years of hard work and -solitude. I have shunned society; I went weekly to the Pinewood, to my -wife’s grave. I did all I could to prevent my poor child from feeling -her loss; and in this sort of life I hoped to atone to my wife’s spirit -for breaking the terrible promise she forced from me on her death-bed. I -had many hours of wretchedness when I remembered her frame of mind when -she passed into the Infinite. Often and often I reproached myself that I -had not taken her atheism more seriously, that I had not made her -realisation of Eternity my constant work. Since her death I have tried -constantly, in all possible ways, to communicate with her soul, wherever -it may be. But pray, struggle, do what I might, I failed.” - -“You, with your knowledge, believed it possible for an embodied spirit -to communicate with the immaterial?” asked Helven, leaning back in his -chair, surprised. - -“I did not believe, but I—shall I say, hoped? No, scarcely that. Mr. -Helven, when loss and grief and anxiety are brought close home to us, to -our very hearts, where are we? Where are theories, beliefs?” - -Helven looked at Hugh, whose pale cheeks were flushed with excitement, -as he might have looked at a newly-found specimen of a rare _genus_. - -“I have never married,” he said, dryly. “I do not understand these -family feelings.” - -“Would you understand a being who rose from the dead to bear witness to -your theories?” asked Hugh. - -“When it happens, I will tell you my opinion,” said Helven. - -“It has happened to me,” said Dr. Paull. “At least, when you hear what I -have to tell you, you will, I think, be glad that we have met—years ago -and now.” - -Helven assured him he was not credulous, nor easily convinced. - -“Hear me before you say more,” said Hugh. Then he recounted his meeting -with the princess, the attraction she had felt for him, the deep, almost -terribly strong affection that he had discovered to exist for her in his -mind, and the mystery of her visions of the crucial hour of his life. - -“What you say is peculiar, and would certainly bear favourably upon the -development of a case of transmigration,” Helven admitted. “But there -are other theories to be considered. We do not at present understand the -influence that embodied spirits have upon each other.” - -Then he discoursed learnedly about natural affinities, of the attraction -between certain human beings of opposite sexes, even at a first most -cursory meeting. - -“When material law meets spiritual law, it is difficult, almost -impossible, to detect which of the two is at work,” he concluded by -saying. “I can assure you, doctor, I could have filled volumes with -cases of possible metempsychosis as plausible, as well authenticated as -yours, had I believed that the record would further faith in that which -I believe to be a fundamental truth.” - -“The most staggering fact of all I have not yet told you,” said Hugh, -somewhat repelled by the cool and calculating reception of his -experiences by the philosopher. “My wife died on a certain date. Nine -months, less two days afterwards, this girl, who is conversant with my -life story without ever having learned it, who knows more of my true -history than any one alive, was born.” - -Helven looked curiously at him. - -“That is certainly strange,” he said, more interested. Then he entered -notes, in a shorthand of his own invention, in one of the manuscript -volumes devoted to cases of this sort, and Hugh, somewhat astonished, -took leave. - -He could not understand Helven’s apathy. Placing himself in imagination -in the old scientist’s place, he fancied that he would have been excited -to enthusiasm at the statement of a case such as his. - -If he could have seen and heard Helven as he left him! - -The old philosopher looked after him with a smile and a sigh. - -“Fifty years old at least,” he muttered to himself, “and as much in -love, as they call it, with a girl as if he were a boy!” - -Then he took a few notes of the interview, and resuming his work -speedily forgot Hugh and his throes as if no one existed but himself. - -Hugh, dissatisfied, a trifle disgusted too, he hardly knew why, strolled -westward. A fresh breeze met him as he walked up Oxford Street. It made -him think yearningly of the country, of the heathery hills lying purple -under a wind-blown sky, of the pine-clad valley where the solemn trees -stood as sentinels about—a grave. - -The busy thoroughfare was comparatively still: only a few passengers -were strolling west or east. The street lamps twinkled redly in the -clear summer night in contrast to the white glimmer of the stars in the -fathomless dark blue above. Deep in thought, Hugh, without noticing, -wended his way homewards through the square where Lady Forwood lived. - -As he passed he saw her brougham waiting and the half-door open. He was -hurrying past to avoid a meeting—he was in no humour for ordinary -talk—but Lady Forwood, just as she was coming out, had seen him, and -called out “Dr. Paull!” so eagerly, there was no escape. He reluctantly -turned back. - -“I am going to a concert at Lady M——’s,” she said; “positively the last -entertainment this season, and very few are in town to go, so my absence -would be noticed. But you must come in; I have something most important -to ask you.” - -She caught the long train of her dress over her arm and preceded him to -the dining-room. There was something new in her manner to him which was -half annoyed, half-bantering. - -“Now, sir, perhaps you will explain,” she said, half-laughingly. “The -first intimation we had that we are to be your guests next month was a -newspaper paragraph, and you must acknowledge that that is hardly fair.” - -Hugh stared at her. - -“You—a newspaper paragraph—I do not understand,” he stammered. - -“Surely——” she began; then, with a glance at his face, on which there -was a comical expression of horror, she turned aside and, repressing a -laugh, fetched a newspaper from a side-table, and, opening it, showed -him a paragraph in a column headed “Fashionable Intelligence.” - - “The Prince and Princess Andriocchi and Sir David and Lady Forwood - will be the guests of Dr. Paull at his residence, the Pinewood, - Surrey, next month.” - -Hugh read it twice, thrice, before he believed that this experience was -a reality. Then he turned to Lady Forwood with a laugh—a laugh of a -strange exhilaration which was produced by the surprise, the shock -almost, following upon his interview with Helven. - -“Do you mean to say you have not received my letter?” he had said, -before he had even had the idea of speaking. It seemed to him as if some -other entity was speaking through his lips, while his will remained -passive. And what the other entity uttered was a falsity! - -“Not a line, not a word!” said Lady Forwood, becoming serious. “Whose -fault can it be? If the servants——” - -“Whatever fault there is in the matter is mine, and mine only,” said -Hugh, reckless with a feeling which was half delirious joy, half -despair. “But do you think, when the princess’ name has been taken in -vain like this, that they will come?” - -“Come?” Lady Forwood looked blank surprise with her beautiful blue eyes. -“You don’t mean to say you have not asked _her_?” she cried. - -“I had hoped _you_ would arrange it with her,” he said in desperation. -“I thought—I fancied—the change and the quiet might be good for her, so -I was having the place done up.” - -“I think myself I should have made sure of the birds before I got the -cage ready,” said Lady Forwood, demurely (although her inward comment -was an amused “It is really high time the poor man had a woman to look -after him”). “However, you know, you and I are old friends, as friends -go now-a-days, and I should so much enjoy invading you in your Surrey -hermitage, that I will undertake to make it all right with the -Andriocchis. Only tell me exactly _when_ you want us.” - -“You saw—next month,” said Hugh, half-savagely. He would investigate the -affair of the paragraph. He would find out whose hand had precipitated -his fate, had cast the last straw to balance his destiny. - -“Any day?” asked Lady Forwood, smiling. - -“Any day,” he said, somewhat brusquely. - -Just then Sir David’s voice was audible in the hall asking where “my -lady” was. - -“Here,” she called out. “It is all settled,” she said, as her husband -appeared. “An important letter miscarried—thus the mistake.” - -Then she entered into a voluble explanation which astonished Hugh, but -appeared perfectly intelligible to Sir David, who shook his hand quite -warmly as he stepped into the brougham after his wife. - -Who had done this thing? Who was it who had fathomed not only his secret -thoughts, but had dared to publish them to the world? - -“I will know some day,” he promised himself. - -Then he went home, and wrote to Mrs. Mervyn. The gist of the letter was -that he and the house party might arrive any day after the 1st of -September. - - - - - CHAPTER XV. - EXTRACT FROM THE DIARY OF DR. HUGH PAULL. - - - _The Pinewood, October, 18—._ - -They say lookers-on see more of the game than the players. I shall write -down all that has happened, and review it as a third person might before -sending a brief statement to Helven. I do not think myself that when he -reads it he will retain any reasonable doubt of the reincarnation of -Lilia’s soul. - -I know now who instigated _that paragraph_; but more of that in its -proper place. - -Was I glad when my life was unexpectedly taken out of my own hands, and -my wild dream of entertaining Mercedes and inviting the Forwoods at the -same time, was suddenly realised? I cannot tell. I have felt emotions -called forth by an extraordinary position, therefore cannot classify -them. - -My first step when I received a few words from Mercedes, that she and -her husband would come here, was to come down myself and see to things, -after sending off Ralph a few days in advance. - -A surprise awaited me. I had certainly given mammy _carte blanche_ to -pledge my credit to any reasonable amount, but hardly considered how -thoroughly she would set to work. I scarcely recognised the old brougham -under its new paint and varnish, nor Andrew the groom in his brand-new -livery. As I drove through the wood, the roads were in capital -condition, the young trees were flourishing, the desolate look had gone. -The same with the garden—the beds bright with flowers, the turf close -shaven. The house? The house looked as when I first saw it—the veranda -and shutters bright green, the creepers carefully trailed. - -Rover, poor old Nero’s descendant after I don’t know how many -generations, came leaping about me quite delighted at the change about -him; and there, at the hall-door, stood mammy in a very becoming cap, -quite the mistress of the mansion. Ralph came springing out more like -other lads than I have yet seen him. Poor boy! I felt a pang of remorse. -Has my barren life overshadowed his? Heaven forgive me if it has! I -thought I was doing my best. - -The hall had been modernised, the billiard-table renovated. But the -drawing-room! Could it be the room where I saw Lilia leaning against the -piano? The brown draperies, the neutral tints had disappeared. It was -gold and white everywhere: the room had positively a bridal look, and -even the plants in the white flower-stands were white and yellow. - -“This looks a thorough woman’s den,” I remarked. “If I were left to -myself, I should not set my foot across the threshold.” - -“Don’t be churlish,” mammy said. “You have invited a princess, and you -must entertain her properly, especially as it is only for once.” - -“Why only for once?” I asked. - -Poor innocent mammy! how little she suspected _who_ it was she was to -play hostess to. - -“I thought they lived in Spain?” she said, looking curiously at me. - -I hurried her upstairs, where the arrangements for the guests were -wonderfully managed. Then I felt a sudden uneasiness. Coming down in the -train I had determined to give Lilia—God pardon me if I dare to call -Mercedes by her old name!—to give the one who is really my own darling -the opportunity of showing herself to me in gleams of recognition of her -old home. I had planned that some day she should come into the library -and find me seated at the table—those pistols before me—then, then, when -I am convinced of her soul’s identity, my love for her and hers for me -could not be sinful or even faulty, it would be the most natural thing -in the world. Now, her old home was changed, scarcely recognisable. - -“You have not done anything to the library?” I cried, almost fiercely, I -fear; for poor mammy seemed dreadfully “upset,” as women call it, until -I pacified her. - -The library furniture had been recovered and the position of the chairs -and tables altered, that was all. I soon had all the things back in -their places. The books were untouched. Standing at the door, the room -looked so much the same I could almost conjure up the figure of Sir -Roderick, seated in his chair, his long pipe in his mouth. - -Oh the misery of recalling the past! Yet, yet, had they not died, would -Lilia’s soul and my soul have ever known each other as they do now? - -I went to meet her at the station. They were all to have a saloon -carriage—the prince and princess, the Forwoods, and Lady Boisville. I -had invited the count, much against my wish, but in deference to Lady -Forwood’s advice. “If you did _not_, the prince might make an excuse at -the last moment, in which case it would hardly do for Mercedes to come,” -she said. And recognising that she was right in her suggestion, I wrote -to the fellow. Fortunately he had accepted an invitation to deer-stalk, -and was going to the Lakes on his way (or _said_ he was, which amounted -to the same thing). - -Driving to the station in the brougham (the waggonette followed for the -men), I felt a dread that she would not come. It seemed too glorious a -crown to my wasted, weary life that she would live under my roof, that -every hour of each day I could look at her and listen to her voice, that -morning and night I should touch her hand. - -“Impossible!” I said to myself. “It cannot happen, it will not happen; -something will prevent it all at the last moment.” - -Shall I ever forget waiting on the platform that September evening? The -houses and trees growing dark against a yellow sunset, people coming out -of the booking-office and buying papers (travellers by the incoming -train), porters trundling the luggage to the end of the platform. How -could they all go on in this senseless, mechanical way when the one -great event of my life was happening—when Joy was coming for the first -time to my tired, thirsty soul? - -Then came an awful minute. The signal was down. The electric bell had -sounded, “ding-dong, ding-dong” went the porter’s handbell. “Andrew!” I -shouted (it seemed to me a shill, frantic cry, but it can scarcely have -been, for he only said, “All right, sir,” and no one else looked round), -then I saw the steam-cloud and the black engine-front, and rattle-rattle -the train came slowly nearer and alongside, how slowly! Was tortoise -ever so abominably languid in its creepings? - -No one there! That was my first belief. I went up and down by the -first-class carriages, then someone touched me on the shoulder—Sir -David. - -“They put us at the wrong end,” he said. How jovial he looked in his -shooting suit! “Oh, yes, we’ve all come.” What more he said I don’t -know. I turned and saw _her_ wrapped up in a cloak, her face so pale, -sweet and wistful under a heavy black hat; just a little colour came to -her lips as our eyes met, and I took her hand upon my arm. Her touch -strengthened me. I cooled down and was able to behave decently, -respectably. Ralph appeared—Mrs. Mervyn had sent him, I suppose—and Mr. -Mervyn came out of the booking-office. I never was more delighted to see -them in my life; for Lady Forwood preferred the waggonette, and I gave -her and the prince and the other men over to Mervyn, and was thus able -to drive home opposite _her_ and Lady Boisville. - -Lady Boisville, good-natured soul, was pleased with everything. - -“What white sand, what purple heather, what very _majestic_ pines, Dr. -Paull!” she said, looking at the dear old trees through her eye-glass. - -But, my _darling_, what did _she_ say, or think? Would she recognise? -Would some gleam of a soul-memory beyond our knowledge and power of -understanding show itself? I watched her narrowly, breathlessly. As the -shadows flitted across her face, I fancied I saw a troubled expression -in her eyes. - -It vanished as she looked at me. She smiled. “Can I walk here, some -day?” she asked me. - -I replied that “she must do exactly as she pleased.” I wished her to -understand that while she was in my domain, she was its queen. - -She laughed—a laugh which chilled me, for it was Lilia’s laugh. Those -two women, so utterly unlike in outline, feature, colouring, laughed -alike. One physical detail in common—one only! - -Arrived home, mammy welcomed her so warmly, in so motherly a way, I felt -grateful. The ladies disappeared to their rooms. A cloud obscured the -sunshine. Then came the prince, and Forwood, and the valets and maids, -and the rest of the inevitable paraphernalia. Well! if you have the -pearl, I suppose you must take the oystershell as well. - -Was this my old bachelor, or rather widower domain, which used to look -so grim and forlorn, all echoes and musty odours, where Ralph and I used -to stroll about together in an aimless fashion, always, I fancy, feeling -a certain amount of relief when we got back to bustling London, which, -however noisy and grimy, is life-full? This pleasant, well-lighted -house, where, thanks to mammy’s arrangements, bright patches of colour -met the eye at every turn; deftly placed bits of china, or banks of -plants glowing with bloom. I felt self-reproach. No, I have not lived as -I ought to have lived. I have taught my boy to live beside a tomb. - -I went down to the drawing-room. I was gazing at the fading sunset out -of the open window, after wondering at the pretty effects of light made -by lamps set about the room with coloured shades, when I started—it was -_Lilia’s_ laugh again. - -_She_ came into the room; she was dressed in glistening white, with -lilies at her breast, and Rover was leaping about her. - -“Your dog is very friendly,” she said, and she patted the obtrusive -animal, which was panting with pleasure. - -“He is not generally so,” I said, with a scared sensation. In the dim -light it recalled Lilia and her Nero too forcibly. “He is mostly surly -to strangers.” - -“He reminds me of some dog, but I cannot remember where I have seen the -dog,” she said, thoughtfully, coming to me at the window, but her -attention was arrested by the sunset. What happy minutes those were, as -we stood side by side gazing at the monarch of the sky sinking into his -purple bed! (Those were her words, not mine.) - -It was delightful to see her look bright as she sat by my side at -dinner. In the evening she played her guitar, and sang to it. It was a -peep into the country of her birth. I could imagine the hidalgos and -donnas pacing amid the picturesque buildings, and many other things. -When Mercedes, during this visit to me, was purely Spanish, I almost -ceased to believe in the identity I so firmly hold in my own mind as -hers. - -Next morning I took my guests about the place; carefully avoiding the -terrace. I had a plan about the terrace. - -In the afternoon Mercedes and I, Lady Forwood and the prince, drove in -the waggonette. I took them to see the ruins of an ancient abbey. Lady -Forwood absorbed the prince’s attention—(for such a born boor as he is, -I must say he behaved very decently)—and I was able to tell my love the -old tales of the bygone monastery, and to watch the changing expressions -that flit across her pure face, like the clouds across a summer sky. -What intense reverence this child-woman has for all that is holy! As we -walked through the ruins of the monkish chapel I was shamed by her -hushed, almost awestruck manner. - -“_God_ has lived here,” she said, casting a longing look back as I -removed the hurdle, placed to keep out the sheep, for her to pass out. -“And it is a ruin!” - -“God is everywhere,” I said. - -“Yes,” she said. “But it makes me sad that those monks, they are all -gone from your land.” - -Then she told me of all that the nuns had been to her in her haunted -childhood; of their cheerfulness, their patience with the child who was -unlike other children. I did not wonder she reverenced religious orders. -For my part, realising as I did that Lilia’s love for me was the cause -of Mercedes’ sad life, I blessed them. - -Returning home, my chastened mood was roughly dispelled by a significant -incident. - -A fine barouche and pair drove past us: in it sat Colonel Roderick Pym, -his wife, Lady Carnwood—(how objectionable is that fashion of re-married -widows retaining their late husband’s name!)—and his pretty -stepdaughters. I cut him dead, as I have steadily done. To my -astonishment he bowed low, raising his hat, and the prince did the same. - -I looked at Mrs. Mervyn. She got very red. The prince explained. - -“Who is that gentilman?” he asked me. “I see him with my fren, the -count. I not know at all that he live here.” - -This explained the paragraph in the paper. Roderick Pym and the count in -league! Without absolute confirmation I would swear those two are our -enemies. - -_Our_ enemies? How natural it has been to class myself with my twin -soul; but to what will it lead? How will our spiritual union end? That -spiritual union which came about this-wise. - -First of all, after some bright days spent almost entirely with her—days -made up of long strolls in the part of the garden which had been best -kept up since Lilia’s death (the flower-gardens in the Pinewood, -including the terrace, I had let go; it would have been useless expense -to keep them trim and fair as in Sir Roderick’s time)—after our drives, -our chats at dinner, rendered livelier by little sparrings between Lady -Forwood and Mrs. Mervyn, and our talks in the softly lighted -drawing-room, peace was disturbed by a telegram which arrived one day at -luncheon for the prince. - -He turned a yellowish white, and a remarkably nasty expression changed -his face from moderately pleasant to cowardly hang-dog. Still, he was -well-bred enough to conceal further emotion. - -I saw Mercedes look uneasy. After luncheon he evidently asked her for a -_tête-à-tête_, quite an event between those two. I was sitting in the -library, anxious, when a tap came at the door, and enter Sir David and -the prince. - -“The prince, not feeling his English equal to the occasion, Paull, -wishes me to explain to you that some bad news about a recent -speculation obliges him to return to town at once,” said Sir David; -then, evidently noticing my dismayed look, he added, hurriedly: “He asks -a continuance of your hospitality for the princess.” - -Of course, I said I should be delighted. I was not sorry to be rid of -the man; but somehow I augured ill for Mercedes for the future. Heaven -avert the evil, whatever it may be! - -No drive that afternoon. The prince departed, luggage, valet, and all. I -did not see Mercedes till just before dinner. She looked pale, but not -unhappy. As I took her in to dinner, she said: - -“Can I see you, alone, this evening?” - -During dinner the wild idea flashed across me to take her to the spot -she had dreamed of, the spot where I had seen her in that strange vision -twenty years ago. - -The very thought of it exhilarated me. I was excited. I felt as if each -moment that passed a year was slipping from my shoulders. I was -rejuvenating. I hurried the men over their wine. Then I went into the -drawing-room and got mammy away into a corner. - -“Don’t look surprised at what I am going to say,” I said in an -undertone. “And don’t exclaim, or look round. You must do something for -me.” - -She stared at me. I must have looked wild, but very quietly she said: - -“If I can.” - -“It is the merest trifle,” I said. “I wish to show the princess a -certain spot in the grounds by moonlight. Keep them all amused till we -come back.” - -She said something, but I did not listen. I left her at once. I made -Lady Forwood sit down at the piano, and when everyone was attentive (she -plays well) I told Mercedes to slip away, quietly, soon after I left the -room, and I went into the hall. - -It was a glorious night, with a brilliant golden moon that bathed -everything in a warm light. Presently she came gliding into the hall and -up to me like a ghost, and would have seated herself on the divan, but I -said, “No, the garden,” and wrapping her light cloak, which was hanging -near, round her shoulders, I took her out. - -Out into the stillness. It was so still, we could hear the voices of the -people in the drawing-room, and the sound of our footsteps on the gravel -was so loud I fancied that it must be audible in the house. - -We walked on for some time, side by side, in silence. Presently we came -to the pine grove. The light fell through the straight rows of slender -trunks as the sunlight falls by day, only it was a yellowish white that -silvered the sandy water tracks, glimmered upon the pebbles, and made -fairy dells of the clumps of bracken. By common accord we halted here. -As we stood still, a soft night wind arose and went sighing among the -pine-tops; the feathered crests of the slim trees nodded to one another -as if, so it seemed to me, they mourned my folly. - -And she? She drew a long breath. - -“This beautiful scent!” she said. “How I love it!” - -“Have you pinewoods in Spain?” I asked. - -“Such as this? No,” she said, beginning to walk again. There was not a -shadow of embarrassment at being alone with me, in almost a forest, at -this hour. She is too simple-minded for that. “But this perfume, it is -like a room in our (I mean my father’s) castle in the country in Spain.” - -She explained that the Duque’s drawing-rooms, as we call them, were each -furnished in some luxurious material. One was all malachite, from the -doors to the table furniture; another was silver, another cedar. - -“In the cedar room I was most happy,” she said; “it seemed that I knew -that odour, it was like _home_, and this scent of your pines is the -same.” - -Then I asked her what she wished to say to me. She hesitated for a few -moments. Then she put her hand on my arm with the childlike _abandon_ so -peculiarly hers. - -“Tell me what I must do,” she said. “The prince he has gone away to see, -someone else he should not go to see.” - -_She_ asked _me_ such a question! Anger, jealousy! I have been angry -often, too often—but jealousy? I have condemned others for that meanest -passion in human nature, and now I am punished. I know what it is! - -“What do you mean?” I said. “I do not understand.” - -“Ah!” (It was a sob rather than a sigh.) “Monsieur, I am sure you do not -understand,” she said, once more standing still, but this time -confronting me. “You were good to your wife, I know that!” - -“I was _not_ good to my wife,” I said, bitterly. “You must not come to -me for advice. Ask Lady Forwood, Mrs. Mervyn, anyone, not me!” - -At that moment I forgot my theory, that Mercedes’ soul and Lilia’s are -one and the same; this was the wife of the Prince Andriocchi, and I, -daring to love her as no man should dare to love another man’s wife, was -burning with jealousy, and was false to Lilia’s memory. - -“Never tell me you are not good,” she said; “I know better.” - -The words were ordinary enough. But at the end of her speech she gave a -little satisfied laugh—_Lilia’s_ laugh. - -I felt less human—the ghostly, creepy sensation reasserted itself. - -“How can you know better?” I said. - -“I know you are good,” she said. “You are an angel among other men: and -I ask you what I am to do. I should feel sorry, should I not, when the -prince does wrong?” - -I felt my breath go—as after a blow. - -“Certainly,” I said. - -“Do not think me wicked,” she said, her voice trembling. “Oh, I knew I -ought to be sorry when he was going away—and I knew well that he would -see someone that he ought not to see while he is away—but I did not feel -sorry, I am glad!” - -“_Glad?_” I said, assuming as shocked a tone as I -could—(sinner—liar—when I was transported with joy and relief!). “Surely -not _glad_?” - -“Yes, _glad_,” she said. “Because I should be glad if everyone would go -and leave me alone—with you.” - -“This is foolish,” I said, chidingly. “You will know better when you -have seen more of me.” - -Then I changed the conversation to the subject of her dreams. We were -nearing the spot where I meant to test her identity. - -There was a narrow path between clumps of laurels. This was the path I -had traversed alone in my dream years ago—when I emerged into the open I -had seen this very woman—this woman I loved—seated on the stone seat -opposite to me. - -Now—she was by my side. As we came across the grass plat I summoned all -my courage. I did not know whether I wished to be convinced that she was -Lilia—or that she was not. I only felt abject fear—for the first time in -my life I was an entire coward: I sickened, I was in a cold sweat. - -“Will you sit here a minute?” I asked. “I want to see what time it is. I -must strike a match under the bushes—there is too much wind here.” - -I slipped away, and going round came slowly into the moonlight opposite -to her. Ah! it was terrible to see her seated there, then to see her -spring up and come to me—for once in my life, to experience a realised -dream. - -“Let us go,” she said, passionately—I had never seen her so disturbed. -“I remember—come—!” - -I accompanied her, passively. She went along the path between the -laurels, then, after but a moment’s hesitation, she took the path -leading to the terrace. - -A few swift steps and she turned back to see if I followed. - -“Come!” she said, in a voice of pain. “Come!” - -Then, after one more poise—like a bird before it takes flight—she -hurried up the slope and was at the end of the terrace. The wide, grassy -avenue was before us. - -I joined her. It was a long time since I had visited the spot. The long -grass was rank and weedy, the beds were unkempt—I could see that much in -this light. The scene by moonlight, that light which chastens and -beautifies, was desolate—what would it be by the light of day? - -The shame that I had neglected this favourite resort of Lilia’s -partially levelled emotions, brought me back in some degree to ordinary -common sense. But my practical mood did not last long. I followed -Mercedes across the grass, blaming myself that I had let her come here, -to a spot which was a disgrace to its proprietor in its neglected -state—when to my astonishment she flung her arm about the stone fountain -and turned upon me. - -Her face, in the moonlight, looked drawn—I should scarcely have -recognised her, nor indeed should I have recognised her sweet, dear -voice. - -Oh! what was it she said, in those hard, shrill tones? I was so -unnerved, I can hardly recall those terrible words. - -But she spoke with reproach. - -“Where is the water here?” she asked. “There were fish—gold fish, silver -fish—where are _they_? Where are the _flowers_? There were roses, red -roses there,” and, pointing to a bed where Sir Roderick by careful -expenditure had cultivated some hardy rose trees, she fell prone at my -feet. - -I had my token—she knew the place as it was of old, before she had -awakened in this world. - -Perhaps the greatest mystery among these many mysteries is this—I can -write it all down, just as it happened, calmly, coolly, as I should -record an exceptional case in medicine. - -I took her in my arms and carried her back through the wood into the -flower garden of the house. She was a dead weight, but I was impervious -to ordinary impressions. Then I laid her upon a wide wooden bench in the -Italian garden, and by slow degrees she recovered. Before the clock -struck ten, she was able to join them all in the drawing-room. - -I have a great power over her. I found that when I had sufficiently -rallied from my emotions to exercise my will, that _willing_ her to be -her ordinary self (while her hands were in mine and my eyes fixed upon -her face) “brought her to,” as the nurses say, at once. - -This had opened up another aspect of affairs. If I have this power over -her, may not that possibly be the cause of her liking for me—even of her -impressions of her dreams? I must investigate, search, leave no stone -unturned to unearth the truth. Too much is at stake. - -Next day, I willed her to be cheerful and happy, and she was so. -(Another symptom, which I duly recorded.) - -I found she had not as perfectly clear a recollection of that terrible -evening as I have myself. I was thankful for this. I was as commonplace -as I could possibly be during those days before the prince’s return. I -took care she should have no time to meditate, and mammy, Lady Forwood, -and good Lady Boisville helped me. I don’t know what they have thought -of it all, but they have consciously or unconsciously abetted me with -that woman’s own gift of tact which is worth a king’s—no, an -emperor’s—ransom, aye, and far more! - -The prince returned, unexpectedly, one rainy afternoon. He came in a -station fly. When he entered the hall we men were playing billiards. - -I fancied he looked sulky, but during the short time that followed -before the general departure he was amiability itself, and has declared -his intention of remaining in England the winter, also to look out for a -country house near here for the—— - - * * * * * - -Dr. Paull was seated in his library a misty autumn morning writing the -above, when a tap at his door disturbed him. - -The servant brought him a telegram: - - “_Come at once to London. This evening at half-past nine I will be at - your house_. - - “_Mercedes._” - - - - - CHAPTER XVI. - MIZPAH. - - -What was there in that telegram to cause Hugh Paull misgiving? - -Ostensibly, but little. Many things could have occurred, simple in -themselves, to give Mercedes an excuse to summon him. That she would -take advantage of an excuse to shorten their separation, he well knew. -As he turned over and re-read the telegram, he chided himself for the -chill sense of impending trouble which was unnerving him; but his -efforts came to nothing. He started for London at once, in irrepressible -perturbation of mind. - -Arrived home, the commonplace aspect of the familiar old house somewhat -relieved him of his mental oppression. The housekeeper had had notice of -his return in a week or ten days, and charwomen were about; there was a -clatter of pails and the homely sound of busy brooms and -scrubbing-brushes. - -He spent the hours till Mercedes should arrive in superintending the -arrangement of the library, and pretending to dine. His study lamp -smoked. Just as he and the housekeeper had succeeded in coaxing it to -burn with its wonted urbanity, one quarter chimed from the nearest -church clock-tower. - -A quarter-past nine! In a quarter-of-an-hour _she_ would be here—and the -big, dingy room seemed to him full of the ill-savoured fumes of lamp -oil. He dismissed the housekeeper, who knew he expected a patient, and -threw open the windows. - -It was a clear night. The stars shone, brilliant specks in the -dark-blue. He leaned out of the window, listening for the roll of -wheels—for that peal of the hall bell which he longed for, yet dreaded. -He would always long for her presence with an intense longing: yet this -longing would be tempered by the dread that he would betray himself in -some unguarded moment, would betray the passionate character of his -love. - -He mentally forecast the interview. Leaning out in the sharpened -autumnal air, he braced himself to endure: to keep himself at a -completely respectful distance from the woman whose soul he believed to -be the soul of his lost wife, and part of his own soul, but whose -physical being belonged to the lazy voluptuary, the Prince Andriocchi. - -“It is hard,” he told himself. “Oh, God! Thou alone knowest _how_ hard!” - -The wild apostrophe brought a calm, a sudden peace—as if indeed his -guardian angel had laid its holy hand upon his heated head; and as he -took courage from the sense of occult help in his sore need, the clock -slowly, warningly—it seemed to him with some knowledge of what was to -come—chimed the half-hour. - -Would she come? What was it all about? Perhaps the next few minutes’ -silence and suspense were the worst of his life. Often afterwards, -looking back into his past with a shudder, he thought so. - -Yet the ring of the bell, sudden, impetuous, when it did come, was -horrible. The sound of _her_ voice, the slow footsteps along the hall—he -clenched his hands as he listened, and cold drops of sweat were on his -brow. - -He went slowly to the door and opened it—for his limbs were stiff and -heavy, disobedient to his will. Had he expected to see her also -unnerved, trembling? He did not know—but the calm with which she entered -was a shock to him. - -“Please—shut—lock the door,” she said quietly, but with a desperate -calm—imperiously, but in a tone of voice in which command was mingled -with respect. “I have come,” she said, throwing aside her cloak and -seating herself by the table, “to tell you, my friend, what will cause -you grief, what will make you angry. But I must tell you, for your sake, -and for mine.” - -He stood, facing her, wondering at the extraordinary change in her, in -her whole outward self. Her lovely face was pale and delicately -beautiful as ever; but there was a new sternness about her sweet mouth, -a look of absolute will in her dark, lustrous eyes which completely -altered her. The clinging, tender girl had given place to the determined -woman. - -“What—is it?” he asked. “What has happened?” - -“I—will tell you,” she began, evidently nerving herself for some -disclosure, “just as it happened. You know that the prince”—(a look of -pain contracted her features, and she blushed slightly as she said the -word)—“my husband—liked the Pinewood. You know”—(she stopped and looked -pleadingly up into his face)—“he liked you, liked our—friendship.” - -Some warning of what was to come arose in his mind. Ah! at last some -good-natured friend—some meddler—had stepped in between him and his -long-waited-for happiness in life. - -“Go on,” he said, in a hard tone, turning away from her. - -“The prince knows you, and he knows me,” she went on, proudly. “Well, I -must tell you what happened. Last night, we—the prince, the count, and -myself—we went to the new play. The prince did not like it, and went -away to his club. I was sitting, not talking, the count was silent also, -when I heard the voices of men (it was between the acts) in the next -box. They spoke of you—and of me. What they said, was an infamy. Ah! do -not look so, monsieur. You and I, we have a champion. The count, he did -hear it also, and his anger against these men was great. He at once took -me away down the staircase, procured my carriage, and I came back to my -house. He told me he would avenge my honour—your honour. At eleven -o’clock he came in. He told me he had challenged the man who said that -infamy; that to-day they would fight, not here in England, but in -France; and he said good-bye.... This” (she drew a case from her bosom), -“this is the name of the man who separates us, monsieur, for I also have -come to say good-bye. To-morrow I go home with the prince to Spain.” - -It was so abrupt, her calm yet confused statements were so unexpected, -that for a moment Hugh’s head swam, he had to steady himself by placing -his hand on the back of a chair. Then he took a slip of paper that she -held out to him, and holding it near the lamp, saw in her handwriting— - - “_Colonel Roderick Pym._” - -As he gazed upon that familiar, distasteful name, he seemed to have -known all along that this must come, this moment, this interview; that -this was what had cast a shadow on their relations, and that this was -_the end_. - -“Once,” he said, half to himself, half to her—it seemed to him as if her -mind ought to recognise his thoughts without the outward expression of -words,—“once I robbed this man of someone he loved; and now he robs me -of _you_!” - -As he sighed out that last word he recollected. Perhaps at that moment -Roderick Pym was dead, his revenge had cost him his life; for the count -would be a dangerous antagonist, he was a skilled swordsman and a dead -shot. - -“How, when do they fight?” he asked breathlessly, with the instinct to -stay that duel at any cost. - -“Fight!” she spoke almost indignantly. “Do you think I would let the -good count kill himself for me—even for _you_?” Tears stood in her eyes. -“I knelt and prayed him,” she said. “I begged him, but he would not hear -me. He said: ‘Would you have me be a coward?’ Then at last he said to -me: ‘If you will promise me that to-morrow you will go home to Spain -with the prince, and will never see or speak to _him_ again, I too will -go with you, and will sacrifice my _honneur_.’” She paused and hung her -head. “So, as I have promised, I have come to say good-bye,” she -faltered. - -Yes; he had known this all along, he felt he had. This was the end—the -end of a promised passionate joy—the end of delights of eye and ear—of -heart, soul, mind, body—all! - -“Yes,” he said, meekly bowing his head, “I understand. We part; it is -all over for ever.” - -“Oh no!” she cried, with sudden life, and her face was alight with love -and hope, “only for here! You know—who should know better than you?—how -short is this life, you who always see the dead and dying! Is it death, -that which we call death?” she asked him, passionately. “Do you think -it? Do you not rather think that _this_ is dying, this living in a place -where you must not love, where people hate and torture each other, and -happiness cannot be, for no one will let another one be happy?” - -He went to her and took her slender, cold hands in his—for the last -time. - -“It does not matter,” he said, bitterly, yet feeling, with a strange -joy, that this sacrifice of love ennobled their love, raised it from a -common thing to divinity. “No one can separate us after death, if God -wills us to be soul to soul—one for ever.” - -A strange expression flitted across her face. For one instant it seemed -to him that this was not Mercedes, but Lilia. Then came the memory of -that awful death-bed, when Lilia defied the will of her Creator, and -would have forced him, her husband, to die with her, and he contrasted -that hour of rebellion with this hour of humble renunciation. - -“This is _her soul_,” he thought, in mingled awe and gratitude. -“Roderick would have caused our misery; instead, he has saved us from an -evil life together for here, in this painful world, to be united in -eternity.” - -This was his actual death, he felt, as he silently gazed into her eyes, -this parting. Physical death, after this, would be nothing—would, -indeed, be welcome. - -For a moment he thought to take her, just this once, into his arms: to -let her heart beat against his breast, to feel her lips upon his mouth; -but before the thought was really born in his mind he killed it and -flung it from him. - -“Risk eternity for a moment?” he said to himself. “No!” - -He dropped her hands and smiled at her, the smile she might have seen -with the eyes of her soul upon the face of her angel guardian. - -“There is no more for us to say _now_,” he said, “but to pray for each -other. By-and-by we shall have time to see what this means—this you and -I being but one soul.” - -She rose and kept her eyes steadily fixed upon him. Then she slowly -walked to the door. How slowly she passed from the room he never knew. -Their eyes dwelt upon each other, and till she was gone he felt that -never, even in infinite glory, could they be more really wedded than -now. - -The door was half open. The room was empty, save for himself and the -shadows. The hall-door was gently shut. He heard the sound of -carriage-wheels. All was over! - -He sat down stupefied. This dead future which loomed blankly before him -was stupefying—a dense blackness, a hopeless nothingness. - -The hours passed. The lamp flickered and went out. Still he sat there -gazing at vacancy, his mind groping about in this dreary cloud of -fathomless misery. - -He thought nothing tangible, felt neither cold nor fatigue. At last he -began to wonder vaguely whether this was all that really existed—this -dull, senseless apathy. - -As he began to wonder, his attention was attracted by a brilliant speck -of light at his feet. Tiny at first, it seemed to grow larger and -brighter as he looked. A mere pin’s-point of light at first, in a few -minutes it was a disc of some size. Then he saw an object he knew well—a -steel urn at the end of his library fender. - -With a flush of pain, he was alive again; alive, conscious of anguish, -of separation from her, his darling, his adored. He seemed to see her -retreating from him, steadily, hopelessly. - -With a cry, he sprang up. That light was a mocking sunbeam. He saw it -now, creeping in between the shutters. He went to the window, he flung -open the shutters and defied the day, or would have defied it. - -But he was face to face with the glory of the sunrise. The whole sky was -golden, and crimson clouds floated upward, stately attendants upon the -magnificence of the young day. Soft, white rounded masses were like -smiles upon the clear blue sky: all meant life and hope and love. - -And as he gazed he felt abashed at his own littleness. What was he but a -speck upon the bosom of the earth? That little steel urn was greater in -the shine of the world’s sun than was he in the Light that streams from -the Eternal. - -“I must reach it,” he told himself. “I must be more than a speck of -dust. What is suffering, what is dull commonplace, but the ladder by -which we climb to immortality?” - -That was his crucial hour, the bridge over which he passed from unrest -to peace. - -None who knew him ever guessed the secret motives of his afterlife. They -thought him more energetic, larger-minded, gentler, and more -sympathetic. But he was envied as a man who seemed to have fathomed the -mystery of “peace on earth.” - -He died suddenly. A month before his death he received a letter from a -Spanish priest, who informed him of the death of the Princess -Andriocchi, and enclosed him a sealed envelope addressed to him in -Mercedes’ handwriting. He recognised the writing at once, though in -character it was larger and firmer. - -It contained a slip of paper, on which was inscribed one word—“_Come!_” - -That word seemed to pierce his heart like an arrow. From that day his -strength waned, his health failed. His household were hardly astonished -when, one morning, he was found sitting in his chair by the library -window, the early sunlight hovering about his dead, smiling face. - -He passed away, smiling—a joyful smile that none had ever seen upon his -face before. - - - THE END. - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES - - - 1. P. 240, changed “If tell Helven this,” to “If I tell Helven this”. - 2. Silently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in - spelling. - 3. Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed. - 4. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_. - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DR. 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