Title: The Forlorn Hope (Vol. 1 of 2) - A Novel
Author: Yates, Edmund
Language: English
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The Forlorn Hope a Novel, (Volume 877, Vol. 1, in, Collection of
British Authors, Volume 878)



COLLECTION.
OF
BRITISH AUTHORS.
VOL. 877.

----------------
THE FORLORN HOPE BY EDMUND YATES.

IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. I.



THE FORLORN HOPE.
A NOVEL.

BY
EDMUND YATES,
AUTHOR OF "LAND AT LAST," "BROKEN TO HARNESS," ETC.


_COPYRIGHT EDITION_.


IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. I.


LEIPZIG

BERNHARD TAUCHNITZ.

1867.

_The Right of Translation is reserved_.



TO
CHARLES FECHTER.



CONTENTS
OF VOLUME I.

CHAPTER
      I.  "Sound the Alarm."
     II.  Master and Pupil.
    III.  Watching and Waiting.
     IV.  Mrs. Wilmot.
      V.  A Resolve, and its Results.
     VI.  At Kilsyth.
    VII.  Brooding.
   VIII.  Kith and Kin.
     IX.  Ronald.
      X.  Cross-examination.
     XI.  Irreparable.
    XII.  The Leaden Seal.
   XIII.  A Turn of the Screw.
    XIV.  His grateful Patient.
     XV.  Family Relations.
    XVI.  Giving up.
   XVII.  Face to Face.



THE FORLORN HOPE.



CHAPTER I.
"Sound an Alarm."


The half-hour dressing-bell rung out as Sir Duncan Forbes jumped from
the hired carriage which had borne him the last stage of his journey
to Kilsyth, and immediately followed his servant, who had put in a
pantomimically abrupt appearance at the carriage-door, to his room.
The steaming horses shook their sides, and rattled their harness
dismally, in the dreary autumnal evening; but a host of gillies and
understrappers had hurried out at the noise of the approaching wheels,
and so quickly despoiled the carriage of its luggage, that within a
very few minutes its driver--comforted by something over his fare, in
addition to a stiff glass of the incomparable Kilsyth whisky--was
slowly wending his way back, over a road which to any one but a
Highlander would have seemed impassable in the fog that had begun to
cloud the neighbouring mountains in an almost impenetrable shroud of
misty gray. From the cold, chilly, damp mountain air, from the long
solitary ride, for the last twenty miles of which he had not met a
human creature, to the airy bedroom with its French paper, the
bright wood-fire burning on its hearth, the wax candles on the
dressing-table, the drawn chintz curtains, the neat writing-table, the
little shelf of prettily-bound well-chosen books, was a transition
indeed for Duncan Forbes. One glance around sufficed to show him all
these things, and to show him in addition the steaming bath, the
warmed linen, the other various arrangements for his comfort which the
forethought of Dixon his servant had prepared for him. He was used to
luxuries, and thoroughly accustomed to rough it; he was not an
impressionable young man; but there are times, even if we be only
eight-and-twenty, good-looking, and in the Household Brigade, when we
feel a kind of sympathy with the working-man who declared that "life
was not all beer and skittles," and are disposed to look rather more
seriously than usual upon our own condition and our surroundings.
The journey from Glenlaggan--it is, it must be confessed, an awful
road--had had its effect on Duncan Forbes. Why he should have
permitted himself to be worked upon either by a sense of solitude, or
by an involuntary tribute to the wildness of the scenery, or perhaps
by dyspepsia, arising a recent change of living, to fall temporarily
into a low state of mind; to think about his duns, debts, and
difficulties; to wonder why he was not at that moment staying with his
mother in Norfolk, instead of plunging into the depths of the
Highlands; to think of his cousin Ethel Spalding, and to clench his
fists violently and mutter strong expressions as the image of a
certain Dundas Adair, commonly called Lord Adair, rose before him
simultaneously with that of his said cousin; why he then fell into a
state which was half lachrymose and half morose, impelling him to
refresh himself from a silver flask, and to make many mental
resolutions as to his future life,--why he did all this is utterly
immaterial to us, as Sir Duncan Forbes is by no manner of means our
hero, in fact has very little to do with our story. But the journey
had its effect upon him, and rendered the comfort and luxury of
Kilsyth doubly precious in his eyes. So that when he had had his bath,
and, well advanced in his dressing, was luxuriating in the comfort of
cleanliness and fresh linen, and the prospect of an excellent dinner,
he had sufficiently returned to his normal condition to ask Dixon--who
had preceded him by a couple of days--whether the house was full, and
who were there.

"House quite full, sir," replied Dixon. "Colonel Jefferson, sir, of
the First Life-guards; Capting Severn, sir, of the Second Life-guards,
and his lady; Markis Towcester, as have jist jined the Blues; Honble
Capting Shaddock, of the Eighteenth 'Ussars; Lord Roderick Douglas, of
the Scots Fusiliers; and--"

"Drop the Army List, Dixon," growled his master, at that moment
performing heavily on his head with a pair of hair-brushes; "who else
is here?"

"There's the Danish Minister, sir--which I won't try to pronounce
his name--and his lady; and there's the Dook and Duchess of
Northallerton--which the Dook has the gout that bad, his man told
me--used to be in our ridgment, Sir Duncan, and was bought out by his
mother on his father's death--as to be past bearin' sometimes; and
Lady Fairfax, sir; and Lady Dunkeld, as is Lady Muriel's cousin, sir;
and a Mr. Pitcairn, as is a distant relation of the family's; and a
Mr. Fletcher, as is, I'm told, a hartist, or something of that kind,
sir--he hasn't brought a man here, sir; so I'm unable to say; but he
seems to be well thought of, sir; quite at his ease, as they say,
among the company, sir."

"Dear me!" said Duncan Forbes, suspending the action of the
hair-brushes for a moment, while he grinned grimly; "you seem to be a
great observer, Dixon."

"Well, sir, one can't keep one's hears shut entirely, nor one's eyes,
and I noticed this gentleman took a kind of leading part in the talk
at dinner, sir, yesterday. O, I forgot, sir; Miss Kilsyth have not
been well for the last two or three days, sir; kep' her room, havin'
caught cold returnin' from a luncheon-party up at what they call a
shealing--kind of 'ut, sir, in the 'ills, where they put up when
stalkin', as I make out, sir,--and her maid says is uncommon low and
bad."

"Ill, is she?--Miss Kilsyth? Jove, that's bad! Haven't they sent for a
doctor, or that kind of thing?"

"Yes, sir, they have sent for a doctor; and he's been, sir; leastways
when I say doctor, sir, I mean to say the 'pothecary from the village,
sir. Comes on a shady kind of a cob, sir, and I shouldn't say knew
much about it. Beg your pardon, sir--dinner gong!"

Sir Duncan Forbes' toilette is happily complete at the time of this
announcement, and he sallies downstairs towards the drawing-room.
Entering, he finds most of the company already assembled; and in the
careless glance which he throws around as the door closes behind him,
he recognises a bevy of London friends, looking, with perhaps the
addition of a little bronze in the men, and a little plumpness in the
ladies, exactly as he left them at the concluding ball of the season
two months ago. Some he has not seen for a longer period, his host
among them. Kilsyth of Kilsyth, keen sportsman, whether with rod or
gun; landlord exercising influence over his tenants, not by his
position alone, but by the real indubitable interest which he takes in
their well-being; lord-lieutenant of his county, first patron and best
judge at its agricultural meetings, chairman of the bench of
magistrates, prime mover in the herring fishery,--what does Kilsyth of
Kilsyth do in London? Little enough, truth to tell; gives a very
perfunctory attendance at the House of Commons, meets old friends at
Brookes's, dines at a few of the earlier meetings of the Fox Club, and
does his utmost to keep out of the way of the Liberal whip, who dare
not offend him, and yet grieves most lamentably over his shortcomings
at St. Stephen's. See him now as he stands on the hearth-rug, with his
back to the drawing-room fire, a hale hearty man, whose fifty years of
life have never bent his form nor scarcely dimmed the fire in his
bright blue eye. Life, indeed, has been pretty smooth and pleasant to
Kilsyth since, when a younger son, he was gazetted to the 42d; and
after a slight sojourn in that distinguished regiment, was sent for by
his father to take the place of his elder brother, killed by the
bursting of a gun when out on a stalk. A shadow--deep enough at the
moment, but now mercifully lightened by Time, the grim yet kindly
consoler--had fallen across his path when his wife, whom he loved so
well, and whom he had taken from her quiet English home, where, a
simple parson's daughter, she had captivated the young Highland
officer, had died in giving birth to a second child. But he had
survived the shock; and long afterwards, when he had succeeded to the
family title and estates, and was, indeed, himself well on the way to
middle age, had married again. Kilsyth's second wife was the sister of
a Scottish earl of old family and small estate, a high-bred woman,
much younger than her husband, who had borne him two children (little
children at the time our story opens), and who, not merely in her
Highland neighbourhood, but in the best society of London, in which
she was ungrudgingly received, was looked upon as a pattern wife. With
the name of Lady Muriel Kilsyth the most inveterate scandalmongers had
never ventured to make free. The mere fact of her being more than
twenty years younger than her husband had given them the greatest hope
of onslaught when the marriage was first announced; but Lady Muriel
had calmly faced her foes, and not the most observant of them had as
yet espied the smallest flaw in her harness. Her behaviour to her
husband, without being in the least degree gushing, was so thoroughly
circumspect, they lived together on such excellent terms of something
that was evidently more than amity, though it never pretended to
devotion, that the scandalmongers were utterly defeated. Balked in one
direction, they launched out in another; they could not degrade the
husband by their pity, but they could mildly annoy the wife with
reflections on her conduct to her step-children. "Poor little things,"
they said, "with such an ambitious woman for stepmother, and children
of her own to think of! Ronald may struggle on; but as for poor
Madeleine--" and uplifted eyebrows and shrugged shoulders completed
the sentence. It is needless to say that Kilsyth himself heard none of
these idle babblings, or that if he had, he would have treated them
with scorn. "My lady" was to him the incarnation of every thing that
was right and proper, that was clever and far-seeing; he trusted her
implicitly in every matter; he looked up to and respected her; he
suffered himself to be ruled by her, and she ruled him very gently and
with the greatest talent and tact in every matter of his life save
one. Lady Muriel was all-powerful with her husband, except when, as he
thought, her views were in the least harsh or despotic towards his
daughter Madeleine; and then he quietly but calmly held his own way.
Madeleine was his idol, and no one, not even his wife, could shake him
in his adoration of her. As he stands on the hearth-rug, there is a
shadow on his bright cheery face, for he has had bad news of his
darling since he came in from shooting,--has been forbidden to go to
her room lest he should disturb her; and at each opening of the door
he looks anxiously in that direction, half wishing, half fearing Lady
Muriel's advent with the doctor's latest verdict on the invalid.

The thin slight wiry man talking to Kilsyth, and rattling on
garrulously in spite of his friend's obvious preoccupation, is Captain
Sèvern, perhaps the best steeple-chase rider in England, and
untouchable at billiards by any amateur. He is a slangy, turfy,
raffish person, hating ladies' society, and using a singular
vocabulary full of _Bell's-Life_ idioms. He is, however, well
connected, and has a charming wife, for whose sake he is tolerated; a
lovely little fairy of a woman, whose heart is as big as her body; the
merriest, most cheerful, best-tempered creature, trolling out her
little French _chansons_ in a clear bird-like voice; acting in
charades with infinite character and piquancy; and withal the idol of
the poor in the neighbourhood of their hunting-box in Leicestershire;
and the quickest, softest, and most attentive nurse in sickness, as a
dozen of her friends could testify.

That bald head which you can just see over the top of the _Morning
Post_ belongs to the Duke of Northallerton, who has been all his
life more or less engaged in politics; who has, when his party has
been in office, held respectively the important positions of
Postmaster-General and Privy Seal; and who was never so well described
as by one of his private secretaries, who declared tersely that his
grace was a "kind old pump." Outwardly he is a tall man of about
fifty-five, with a high forehead, which has stood his friend through
life, and obtained him credit for gifts which he never possessed, a
boiled-gooseberry eye, a straight nose, and projecting buck-teeth. As
becomes an old English gentleman, he wears a very high white cravat
and a large white waistcoat; indeed it is only within the last few
years that he has relinquished his blue coat and gold buttons, and
very tight pantaloons. He is reading the paper airily through his
double glasses, and uttering an occasional "Ha!" and "Dear me!" as he
wades through the movements of the travelling aristocracy; but from
time to time he removes the glasses from his nose, and looks up with a
half-peevish glance at his neighbour, Colonel Jefferson. Charley
Jefferson (no one ever called him any thing else) has a large
photograph album before him, at which he is not looking in the least;
on the contrary, his glance is directed straight in front of him; and
as he stands six feet four, his eyes, when he is sitting, would be
about on a level with a short man's head; and he is tugging at his
great sweeping grizzled moustache, and fidgeting with his leg, and
muttering between his clinched teeth at intervals short phrases, which
sound like "Little brute! break his neck! beastly little cad!" and
such-like.

The individual thus objurgated by the Colonel is highly thought of by
Sir Bernard Burke, and known to Debrett as John Ulick Delatribe,
Marquis of Towcester, eldest son of the Duke of Plymouth, who has just
been gazetted to the Blues, after some years at Eton and eighteen
months' wandering on the Continent. Though he is barely twenty, a more
depraved young person is rarely to be found; his tutor, the Rev.
Merton Sandford, who devoted the last few years of his life to him,
and who has retired to his well-earned preferment of the largest
living in the duke's gift, lifts up his eyes and shakes his head when,
over a quiet bottle of claret with an old college friend, he speaks of
Lord Towcester. The boy's reputation had preceded him to London; a
story from the Viennese Embassy, of which he was the hero, came across
in a private note to Blatherwick of the F.O., enclosed in the official
white sheep-skin despatch-bag, and before night was discussed in half
the smoking-rooms in Pall-Mall. The youngsters laughed at the anecdote
and envied its hero; but older men looked grave; and Charley
Jefferson, standing in the middle of a knot of men on the steps of the
Rag, said he was deuced glad that the lad wasn't coming into his
regiment; for if that story were true, the service would be none the
better for such an accession to it, as, if it were his business, he
should take an early opportunity of pointing out; and the listeners,
who knew that Colonel Jefferson was the best soldier and the strictest
martinet throughout the household cavalry, and who marked the
expression of his face as he pulled his moustache and strode away
after delivering his dictum, thought that perhaps it was better for
Towcester that his lot was cast in a different corps. You would not
have thought there was much harm in the boy, though, from his
appearance. Look at him now, as he bends over Lady Fairfax, until his
face almost touches her soft glossy hair. It is a round, boyish,
ingenuous face, though the eyes are rather deeply set, and there is
something cruel about the mouth which the thin downy moustache utterly
fails to hide. As Lady Fairfax turns her large dark eyes on her
interlocutor, and looks up at him, her brilliant white teeth flashing
in an irrepressible smile, the Colonel's growls become more frequent,
and he tugs at his moustache more savagely than ever. Why? If you know
any thing about these people, you will remember that ten years ago,
when Emily Fairfax was Emily Ponsonby, and lived with her old aunt,
Lady Mary, in the dull rambling old house at Kew, Charley Jefferson, a
penniless cornet in what were then the 13th Light Dragoons, was
quartered at Hounslow; danced, rode, and flirted with her; carried off
a lock of her hair when the regiment was ordered to India; and far
away up country, in utter ignorance of all that was happening in
England, used to gaze at it and kiss it, long after Miss Ponsonby had
married old Lord Fairfax, and had become the reigning belle of the
London season. Old Lord Fairfax is dead now, and Charley Jefferson has
come into his uncle's fortune; and there is no cause or impediment why
these twain should not become one flesh, save that Emily is still
coquettish, and Charley is horribly jealous; and so matters are still
in the balance.

The little old gentleman in the palpable flaxen wig and gold
spectacles, who is poring over that case of Flaxman's cameos in
genuine admiration, is Count Bulow, the Danish Ambassador; and the
little old lady whose face is so wrinkled as to suggest an idea of
gratitude that she is a lady, and consequently is not compelled to
shave, is his wife. They are charming old people, childless
themselves, but the cause of constant matchmaking in others. More
flirtations come to a successful issue in the embassy at Eaton-place
than in any other house in town; and the old couple, who have for
years worthily represented their sovereign, are sponsors to half the
children in Belgravia. They are both art-lovers, and their house is
crammed with good things--pictures from Munich and Düsseldorf, choice
bits of Thorwaldsen, big elk-horns, and quaint old Scandinavian
drinking-cups. Old Lady Potiphar, who has the worst reputation and the
bitterest tongue in London, says you meet "odd people" at the Bulows';
said "odd people" being artists and authors, English and foreign. Mr.
Fletcher, R. A., who is just now talking to the Countess, is one of
the most favoured guests at the embassy, but he is not an "odd
person," even to Lady Potiphar, for he goes into what she calls
"sassiety," and has been "actially asked to Mar'bro' House"--where
Lady Potiphar is not invited. A quiet, unpretending, gentlemanly,
middle-aged man, Mr. Fletcher; wearing his artistic honours with easy
dignity, and by no means oblivious of the early days when he gave
drawing-lessons at per hour to many of the nobility who now call him
their friend. There are three or four young ladies present, who need
no particular description, and who are dividing the homage of Captain
Shaddock; while Lord Roderick Douglas, a young nobleman to whom Nature
has been more bountiful in nose than in forehead, and Mr. Pitcairn, a
fresh-coloured, freckled, blue-eyed gentleman, lithe and active as a
greyhound, are muttering in a corner, making arrangements for the next
day's shooting.

The entrance of Sir Duncan Forbes caused a slight commotion in the
party; and every one had a look or a word of welcome for the new
comer, for he was a general favourite. He moved easily from group to
group, shaking hands and chatting pleasantly. Kilsyth, who was
specially fond of him, grasped his hand warmly; the Duke laid aside
the _Morning Post_ in the midst of a most interesting leader, in which
Mr. Bright was depicted as a pleasant compound of Catiline and Judas
Iscariot; Count Bulow gave up his cameos; and even grim Charley
Jefferson relaxed in his feverish supervision of Lord Towcester.

As for the ladies, they unanimously voted Duncan charming, quite
charming, and could not make too much of him.

"And where have you come from, Duncan?" asked Kilsyth, when the buzz
consequent on his entrance had subsided.

"Last, from Burnside," said Duncan.

"Burnside!--where's Burnside?" asked Captain Severn shortly.

"Burnside is on the Tay, the prettiest house in all Scotland, if I may
venture to say so, being at Kilsyth; of course it don't pretend to any
thing of this kind. It's a mere doll's-house of a place, nothing but a
shooting-box; but in its way it's a perfect paradise."

"Are you speaking by the card, Duncan?" said Count Bulow, with the
slightest foreign accent; "or was there some Peri in this paradise
that gave it such fascination in your eyes?"

"Peri! No indeed, Count," replied. Duncan, laughing; "Burnside is a
bachelor establishment,--rigidly proper, quite monastic, and all that
kind of thing. It belongs to old Sir Saville Rowe, who was a swell
doctor in London--O, ages ago!"

"Sir Saville Rowe!" exclaimed the Duke; "I know him very well. He was
physician to the late King, and was knighted just before his majesty's
death. I haven't seen him for years, and thought he was dead."

"He's any thing but that, Duke. A remarkably healthy old man, and as
jolly as possible; capital company still, though he's long over
seventy. And his place is really lovely; the worst of it is, it's such
a tremendous distance from here. I've been travelling all day; and as
it is I thought I was late for dinner. The gong sounded as I left my
room."

"You were late, Duncan; you always are," said Kilsyth, with a smile.
"But the Duchess is keeping you in countenance tonight, and Lady
Muriel has not shown yet. She is up with Madeleine, who is ill, poor
child."

"Ah, so I was sorry to hear. What is it? Nothing serious, I hope?"

"No, please God, no. But she caught cold, and is a little feverish
tonight: the doctor is with her now, and we shall soon have his
report. Ah, here is the Duchess."

The Duchess of Northallerton, a tall portly woman, with a heavy
ruminating expression of face, like a sedate cow, entered as he spoke,
and advancing said a few gracious nothings to Duncan Forbes. She was
closely followed by a servant, who, addressing his master, said that
Lady Muriel would be engaged for a few minutes longer with the doctor,
and had ordered dinner to be served.

The conversation at dinner, falling into its recent channel, was
resumed by Lord Towcester, who said, "Who had you at this doctor's,
Duncan? Queer sort of people, I suppose?"

"Some of his patients, perhaps," said Lady Fairfax, showing all her
teeth.

"Black draught and that sort of thing to drink, and cold compresses on
the sideboard," said Captain Severn, who was nothing if not
objectionable.

"I never had better living, and never met pleasanter people," said
Duncan Forbes pointedly. "They wouldn't have suited you, perhaps,
Severn, for they all talked sense; and none of them knew the odds on
any thing--though that might have suited you perhaps, as you'd have
been able to win their money."

"Any of Sir Saville's profession?" cut in the Duke, diplomatically
anxious to soften matters.

"Only one--a Dr. Wilmot; the great man of the day, as I understand."

"O, every body has heard of Wilmot," said half-a-dozen voices.

"He's the great authority on fever, and that kind of thing," said
Jefferson. "Saved Broadwater's boy in typhus last year when all the
rest of them had given him up."

"Dr. Wilmot remains there," said Duncan; "our party broke up
yesterday, but Wilmot stays on. He and I had a tremendous chat last
night, and I never met a more delightful fellow."

At this moment Lady Muriel entered the room, and as she passed her
husband's chair laid a small slip of paper on the table by his plate;
then went up to Duncan Forbes, who had risen to receive her, and gave
him a hearty welcome. Kilsyth took an opportunity of opening the
paper, and the healthy colour left his cheeks as he read:

"_M. is much worse tonight. Dr. Joyce now pronounces it undoubted
scarlet-fever_."

The old man rose from the table, asking permission to absent himself
for a few moments; and as he moved, whispered to Duncan, who was
sitting at his right-hand, "You said Dr. Wilmot was still at
Burnside?"

Receiving an answer in the affirmative, he hurried into the hall,
wrote a few hasty lines, and gave them to the butler, saying, "Tell
Donald to ride off at once to Acray, and telegraph this message. Tell
him to gallop all the way."



CHAPTER II.
Master and Pupil.


Duncan Forbes was given to exaggeration, as is the fashion of the day;
but he had scarcely exaggerated the beauty of Burnside, even in the
rapturous terms which he chose to employ in speaking of it. It was,
indeed, a most lovely spot, standing on the summit of a high hill,
wooded from base to crest, and with the silver Tay--now rushing over a
hard pebbly bed, now softly flowing in a scarcely fathomable depth
of still water through a deep ravine with towering rocks on either
side--bubbling at its feet. From the higher windows--notably from the
turret; and it was a queer rambling turreted house, without any
preponderating style of architecture, but embracing, and that not
unpicturesquely, a great many--you looked down upon the pretty little
town of Dunkeld, with its broad bridge spanning the flood, and the
gray old tower of its cathedral rearing itself aloft like a hoary
giant athwart the horizon, and the trim lawn of the ducal residence in
the distance--an oasis of culture in a desert of wildness, yet
harmonising sufficiently with its surroundings. Sloping down the steep
bank on which the house was placed, and overhanging the brawling river
beneath, ran a broad gravel path, winding between the trees, which at
certain points had been cut away to give the best views of the
neighbouring scenery; and on this path, at an early hour on the
morning succeeding the night on which Duncan Forbes had arrived at
Kilsyth, two men were walking, engaged in earnest conversation. An old
man one of them, but in the enjoyment of a vigorous old age: his back
is bowed, and he uses a stick; but if you remark, he does not use it
as a crutch, lifting it now and again to point his remark, or striking
it on the ground to emphasize his decision. A tall old man, with long
white hair flowing away from under the brim of his wideawake hat, with
bright blue eyes and well-cut features, and a high forehead and white
hands, with long lithe clever-looking fingers. Those eyes and fingers
have done their work in their day, professionally and socially. Those
eyes have looked into the eyes of youth and loveliness, and have read
in them that in a few months their light would be quenched for ever;
those fingers have clasped the beating pulses of seemingly full and
vigorous manhood, and have recognised that the axe was laid at the
root of the apparently tall and flourishing tree, and that in a little
time it would topple headlong down. Those eyes "looked love to eyes
that spake again;" those hands clasped hands that returned their
clasp, and that trembled fondly and confidingly within them; that
voice, professionally modulated to babble of sympathy, compassion, and
hope, trembled with passion and whispered all its human aspirations
into the trellised ear of beauty, once and once only. Looking at the
old gentleman, so mild and gentle and benevolent, with his shirt-front
sprinkled with snuff, and his old-fashioned black gaiters and his
gouty shoes, you could hardly imagine that he was the hero of a
scandal which five-and-thirty years before had rung through society,
and given the _Satirist_, and other scurrilous publications of the
time, matter for weeks and weeks of filthy comment. And yet it was so.
Sir Saville Rowe (then Dr. Rowe), physician to one of the principal
London hospitals, and even then a man of mark in his profession, was
called in to attend a young lady who represented herself as a widow,
and with whom, after a time, he fell desperately in love. For months
he attended her through a trying illness, from which, under his care,
she recovered. Then, when her recovery was complete, he confessed his
passion, and they were engaged to be married. One night, within a very
short time of the intended wedding, he called at her lodgings and
found a man there, a coarse slangy blackguard, who, after a few words,
abruptly proclaimed himself to be the lady's husband, and demanded
compensation for his outraged honour. Words ensued; and more than
words: the man--half-drunk, all bully--struck the doctor; and Rowe,
who was a powerful man, and who was mad with rage at what he imagined
was a conspiracy, returned the blows with interest. The police were
summoned, and Rowe was hauled off to the station-house; but on the
following day the prosecutor was not forthcoming, and the doctor was
liberated. The scandal spread, and ruffians battened on it, as they
ever will; but Dr. Rowe's courage and professional skill enabled him
to live it down; and when, two years after, in going round a
hospitalward with his pupils, he came upon his old love at the verge
of death, his heart, which he thought had been sufficiently steeled,
gave way within him, and once more he set himself to the task of
curing her. He did all that could be done; had her removed to a quiet
suburban cottage, tended by the most experienced nurses, never grudged
one moment of his time to visit her constantly; but it was too late:
hard living and brutal treatment had done their work; and Dr. Rowe's
only love died in his arms, imploring Heaven's blessings on him. That
wound in his life, deep as it was, has long since cicatrised and
healed over, leaving a scar which was noticeable to very few long
before he attained to the first rank in his profession and received
the titular reward of his services to royalty. He has for some time
retired from active practice, though he will still meet in
consultation some old pupil or former colleague; but he takes life
easily now, passing the season in London, the autumn in Scotland, and
the winter at Torquay; in all of which places he finds old friends
chattable and kindly, who help him to while away the pleasant autumn
of his life.

The other man is about eight-and-thirty, with keen bright brown eyes,
a broad brow, straight nose, thin lips, and heavy jaw, indicative of
firmness, not to say obstinacy; a tall man with stooping shoulders,
and a look of quiet placid attention in his face; with a slim figure,
a jerky walk, and a habit of clasping his hands behind his back, and
leaning forward as though listening; a man likely to invite notice at
first sight from his unmistakable earnestness and intellect, otherwise
a quiet gentlemanly man, whose profession it was impossible to assign,
yet who was obviously a man of mark in his way. This was Chudleigh
Wilmot, who was looked upon by those who ought to know as _the_ coming
man in the London medical profession; whose lectures were to be
attended before those of any other professor at St. Vitus's Hospital;
whose contributions on fever cases to the _Scalpel_ had given the
_Times_ subject-matter for a leader, in which he had been most
honourably mentioned; and who was commencing to reap the harvest of
honour and profit which accrues to the fortunate few. He is an old
pupil of Sir Saville Rowe's, and there is no one in whose company the
old gentleman has greater delight.

"Smoke, Chudleigh, smoke! Light up at once. I know you're dying to
have your cigar, and daren't out of deference to me. Fancy I'm your
master still, don't you?"

"Not a bit of it, old friend. I've given up after-breakfast smoking as
a rule, because, you see, that delightful bell in Charles-street
begins to ring about a quarter to ten, and--"

"So much the better. Let them ring. They were knockers in my day, and
I recollect how delighted I used to be at every rap. But there's no
one to ring or knock here; and so you may take your cigar quietly.
I've been longing for this time; longing to have what the people about
here call a 'crack' with you--impossible while those other men were
here; but now I've got you all to myself."

"Yes," said Wilmot, who by this time had lighted his cigar--"yes, and
you'll have me all to yourself for the next four days; that is to say,
if you will."

"If I will! Is there any thing in the world could give me greater
pleasure? I get young again, talking to you, Chudleigh. I mind me of
the time when you used to come to lecture, a great raw boy, with, I
should say, the dirtiest hands and the biggest note-book in the whole
hospital." And the old gentleman chuckled at his reminiscence.

"Well, I've managed to wash the first, and to profit by the manner in
which I filled the second from your lectures," said Wilmot, not
without a blush.

"Not a bit, not a bit," interposed Sir Saville; "you would have done
well enough without any lectures of mine, though I'm glad to think
that in that celebrated question of anæsthetics you stuck by me, and
enabled me triumphantly to defeat Macpherson of Edinburgh. That was a
great triumph for us, that was! Dear me, when I think of the
charlatans! Eh, well, never mind; I'm out of all that now. So, you
have a few days more, you were saying, and you're going to give them
up to me."

"Nothing will please me so much. Because, you see, I shall make it a
combination of pleasure and business. There are several things on
which I want to consult you,--points which I have reserved from time
to time, and on which I can get no such opinion as yours. I'm not due
in town until the 3d of next month. Whittaker, who has taken my
practice, doesn't leave until the 5th, which is a Sunday, and even
then only goes as far as Guildford, to a place he's taken for some
pheasant-shooting; a nice, close, handy place, where Mrs. Whittaker
can accompany him. She thinks he's so fascinating, that she does not
like to let him out of her sight."

"Whittaker! Whittaker!" said Sir Saville; "is it a bald man with a
cock-eye?--used to be at Bartholomew's."

"That's the man! He's in first-rate practice now, and deservedly, for
he's thoroughly clever and reliable; but his beauty has not improved
by time. However, Mrs. Whittaker doesn't see that; and it's with the
greatest difficulty he ever gets permission to attend a lady's case."

"You must be thankful Mrs. Wilmot isn't like that."

"O, I am indeed," replied Wilmot shortly. "By the way, I've never had
an opportunity of talking to you about your marriage, and about your
wife, Chudleigh. I got your wedding-cards, of course; but that's--ah,
that must be three years ago."

"Four."

"Four! Is it indeed so long? Tut, tut! how time flies! I've called at
your house in London, but your wife has not been at home; and as I
don't entertain ladies, you see, of course I've missed an opportunity
of cultivating her acquaintance."

"Ye-es. I've heard Mrs. Wilmot say that she had seen your cards, and
that she was very sorry to have been out when you called," said Dr.
Wilmot with, in him, a most unnatural hesitation.

"Yes, of course," said old Sir Saville, with a comical look out of the
corners of his eyes, which fell unheeded on his companion. "Well, now,
as I've never seen her, and as I'm not likely to see her now,--for
I am an old man, and I've given up ceremony visits at my time of
life,--tell me about your wife, Chudleigh; you know the interest I
take in you; and that, perhaps, may excuse my asking about her. Does
she suit you? Are you happy with her?"

Wilmot looked hard for an instant at his friend with a sudden quick
glance of suspicion, then relaxed his brows, and laughed outright.

"Certainly, my dear Sir Saville, you are the most original of men.
Who on earth else would have dreamt of asking a man such a home
question? It's worse than the queries put in the proposal papers of
insurance-offices. However, I'm glad to be able to give a satisfactory
answer. I _am_ happy with my wife, and she _does_ suit me."

"Yes; but what I mean is, are you in love with her?"

"Am I what?"

"In love with her. I mean, are you always thinking of her when you are
away from her? Are you always longing to get back to her? Does her
face come between you and the book you are reading? When you are
thinking-out an intricate case, and puzzling your brains as to how you
shall deal with it, do you sometimes let the whole subject slip out of
your mind, to ponder over the last words she said to you, the last
look she gave you?"

"God bless your soul, my dear old friend! You might as well ask me if
I didn't play leap-frog with the house-surgeon of St. Vitus's, or
challenge any member of the College of Physicians to a single-wicket
match. Those are the _délassements_ of youth, my dear sir, that you
are talking about; of very much youth indeed."

"I know one who wasn't 'very much youth' when he carried out the
doctrine religiously," said the old gentleman in reply.

"Ah, then perhaps the lady wasn't his wife," said Wilmot, without the
smallest notion of the dangerous ground on which he was treading. "No,
the fact is simply this: I am, as you know, a man absorbed in my
profession. I have no leisure for nonsense of the kind you describe,
nor for any other kind of nonsense. My wife recognises that perfectly;
she does all the calling and visiting which society prescribes. I go
to a few old friends' to dinner in the season, and sometimes show up
for a few minutes at the house of a patient where Mrs. Wilmot thinks
it necessary for me to be seen. We each fulfil our duties perfectly,
and we are in the evening excellent friends."

"Ye-es," said Sir Saville doubtfully; "that's all delightful, and--"

"As to longing to get back to her, and face coming between you and
your book, and always thinking, and that kind of thing," pursued
Wilmot, not heeding him, "I recollect, when I was a dresser at the
hospital, long before I passed the College, I had all those feelings
for a little cousin of mine who was then living at Knightsbridge with
her father, who was a clerk in the Bank of England. But then he died,
and she married--not the barber, but another clerk in the Bank of
England, and I never thought any more about it. Believe me, my dear
friend, except to such perpetual evergreens as yourself, those ideas
die off at twenty years of age."

"Well, perhaps so, perhaps so," said the old gentleman; "and I daresay
it's quite-right, only--well, never mind. Well, Chudleigh, it's a
pleasant thing for me, remembering you, as I said, a great hulking lad
when you first came to lecture, to see you now carrying away every
thing before you. I don't know that you're quite wise in giving
Whittaker your practice, for he's a deep designing dog; and you can
tell as well as I do how a word dropped deftly here and there may
steal away a patient before the doctor knows where he is, especially
with old ladies and creatures of that sort. But, however, it's the
slack time of year,--that's one thing to be said,--when everybody
that's any body is safe to be out of town. Ah, by the way, that
reminds me! I was glad to see by the _Morning Post_ that you had had
some very good cases last season."

"The _Morning Post!_--some very good cases! What do you mean?"

"I mean, I saw your name as attending several of the nobility: 'His
lordship's physician, Dr. Wilmot, of Charles Street,' et cetera; that
kind of thing, you know."

"O, do you congratulate me on those? I certainly pulled young Lord
Coniston, Lord Broadwater's son, through a stiff attack of typhus; but
as I would have done the same for his lordship's porter's child, I
don't see the value of the paragraph. By the way, I shouldn't wonder
if I were indebted to the porter for the paragraph."

"Never mind, my dear Chudleigh, whence the paragraph comes, but be
thankful you got it. 'Sweet,' as Shakespeare says,--'sweet are the
uses of advertisement;' and our profession is almost the only one to
which they are not open. The inferior members of it, to be sure, do a
little in the way of the red lamp and the vaccination gratis; but when
you arrive at any eminence you must not attempt any thing more glaring
than galloping about town in your carriage, and getting your name
announced in the best society."

"The best society!" echoed Wilmot with an undisguised sneer. "My dear
Sir Saville, you seem to have taken a craze for Youth, Beauty, and
High Life, and to exalt them as gods for your idolatry."

"For _my_ idolatry! No, my boy, for yours. I don't deny that when I
was in the ring, I did my best to gain the approbation of all three,
and that I succeeded I may say without vanity. But I'm out of it now,
and I can only give counsel to my juniors. But that my counsel is good
worldly wisdom, Chudleigh, you may take the word of an old man who
has--well, who has, he flatters himself, made his mark in life."

The old gentleman was so evidently sincere in this exposition of his
philosophy, that Wilmot repressed the smile that was rising to his
lips, and said:

"We can all of us only judge by our own feelings, old friend; and
mine, I must own, don't chime in with yours. As to Youth--well, I'm
now old for my age, and I only look upon it as developing more
available resources and more available material to work upon; as to
Beauty, its influence died out with me when Maria Strutt married the
clerk in the Bank of England; and as to High Life, I swear to you it
would give me as much pleasure to save the life of one of your
gillie's daughters, as it would to be able to patch up an old marquis,
or to pull the heir to a dukedom through his teething convulsions."

The old man looked at his friend for a moment and smiled sardonically,
then said:

"You're young yet, Chudleigh; very young--much younger than your years
of London life should permit you to be. However, that's a malady that
Time will cure you of. Saving lives of gillie's daughters is all very
well in the abstract, and no one can value more than I do the power
which Providence, under Him, has given to us; but--Well, what is it?"

This last remark was addressed to a servant who was approaching them.

"A telegram, sir, for Dr. Wilmot," said the man, handing an envelope
to Wilmot as he spoke; "just arrived from the station."

Wilmot tore open the envelope and read its enclosure--read it twice
with frowning brow and sneering mouth; then handed it to his host,
saying:

"A little too strong, that, eh? Is one never to be free from such
intrusions? Do these people imagine that because I am a professional
man I am to be always at their beck and call? Who is this Mr. Kilsyth,
I wonder, who hails me as though I were a cabman on the rank?"

"_Mr._ Kilsyth, my dear fellow!" said Sir Saville, laughing; "I should
like to see the face of any Highlander who heard you say that. Kilsyth
of Kilsyth is the head of one of the oldest and most powerful clans in
Aberdeenshire."

"I suppose he won't be powerful enough to have me shot, or speared, or
'hangit on a tree,' for putting his telegram into my pocket, and
taking no further notice of it, for all that," said Wilmot.

"Do you mean to say that you intend to refuse his request, Chudleigh?"

"Most positively and decidedly, if request you call it. I confess it
looks to me more like a command; and that's a style of thing I don't
particularly affect, old friend."

"But do you see the facts? Miss Kilsyth is down with scarlet-fever--"

"Exactly. I'm very sorry, I'm sure, so far as one can be sorry for any
one of whose existence one was a moment ago in ignorance; and I trust
Miss Kilsyth will speedily recover; but it won't be through any aid of
mine."

"My dear Chudleigh," said the old man gently, "you are all wrong about
this. It's not a pleasant thing for me, as your host, to bid you go
away; more especially as I had been looking forward with such pleasure
to these few days' quiet with you. But I know it is the right thing
for you to do; and why you should refuse, I cannot conceive. You seem
to have taken umbrage at the style of the message; but even if one
could be polite in a telegram, a father whose pet daughter is
dangerously ill seldom stops to pick his words."

"But suppose I hadn't been here?"

"My dear friend, I decline to suppose anything of the sort. Suppose I
had not been in the way when Sir Astley advised his late Majesty to
call me in; I should still have been a successful man, it's true; but
I should not have had the honour or the position I have, nor the
wealth which enables me now to enjoy my ease, instead of slaving away
still like--like some whom we know. No, no; drop your radicalism, I
beseech you. You would go miles to attend to a sick gillie or a
shepherd's orphan. Do the same for a very charming young girl, as I'm
told,--Forbes knows her very well,--and for one of the best men in
Scotland."

"Well, I suppose you're right, and I must go. It's an awful journey,
isn't it?"

"Horses to the break, Donald; and tell George to get ready to drive
Dr. Wilmot.--I'll send you the first stage. Awful journey, you call
it, through the loveliest scenery in the Highlands! I don't know what
causes the notion, but I have an impression that this will be a
memorable day in your career, Chudleigh."

"Have you, old friend?" said Wilmot, with a shoulder-shrug. "One
doesn't know how it may end, but, so far, it has been any thing but a
pleasant one. Nor does a fifty-mile journey over hills inspire me with
much pleasant anticipation. But, as you seem so determined about it
being my duty, I'll go."

"Depend on it, I am giving you good advice, as some day you shall
acknowledge to me."

And within half-an-hour Chudleigh Wilmot had started for Kilsyth, on a
journey which was to influence the whole of his future life.



CHAPTER III.
WATCHING AND WAITING.


The news which she had learned from Doctor Joyce, and had in her brief
pencil-note communicated to her husband, was horribly annoying to Lady
Muriel Kilsyth. To have her party broken up--and there was no doubt
that, as soon as the actual condition of affairs was known, many would
at once take to flight--was bad enough; but to have an infectious
disorder in the house, and to be necessarily compelled to keep up a
semblance of sympathy with the patient labouring under that disorder,
even if she were not required to visit and tend her, was to Lady
Muriel specially galling; more specially galling as she happened not
to possess the smallest affection for the individual in question,
indeed to regard her rather with dislike than otherwise. When Lady
Muriel Inchgarvie married Kilsyth of Kilsyth,--the Inchgarvie estates
being heavily involved, and her brother the Earl, who had recently
succeeded to the title, strongly counselling the match,--she agreed to
love, honour, and obey the doughty chieftain whom she espoused; but
she by no means undertook any responsibilities with regard to the two
children by his former marriage. The elder of these, Ronald, was just
leaving Eton when his stepmother appeared upon the scene; and as he
had since been at once gazetted to the Life-guards, and but rarely
showed in his father's house, he had caused Lady Muriel very little
anxiety. But it was a very different affair with Madeleine. She had
the disadvantage of being perpetually _en évidence_; of being very
pretty; of causing blundering new acquaintances to say, "Impossible,
Lady Muriel, that this can be your daughter!" of riling her stepmother
in every possible way--notably by her perfect high-breeding, her calm
quiet ignoring of intended slights, her determinate persistence in
keeping up the proper relations with her father, and her invariable
politeness--nothing but politeness--to her stepmother. One is
necessarily cautious of using strong terms in these days of persistent
repression of all emotions; but it is scarcely too much to say that
Lady Muriel hated her stepdaughter very cordially. They were too
nearly of an age for the girl to look up to the matron, or for the
matron to feel a maternal interest in the girl. They were too nearly
of an age for the elder not to feel jealous of the younger--of her
personal attractions, and of the influence which she undoubtedly
exercised over her father. Not that Lady Muriel either laid herself
out for attraction, or was so devotedly attached to her husband as to
desire the monopoly of his affection. By nature she was hard, cold,
self-contained, and very proud. Portionless as she had been, and
desirable as it was that she should marry a rich man, she had refused
several offers from men more coeval with her than the husband she at
last accepted, simply because they were made by men who were wealthy,
and nothing else. Either birth or talent would, in conjunction with
wealth, have won her; but Mr. Burton, the great pale-ale brewer, and
Sir Coke Only, the great railway carrier, proffered their suits in
vain, and retired in the deepest confusion after Lady Muriel's very
ladylike, but thoroughly unmistakable, rejection of their offers. She
married Kilsyth because he was a man of ancient family, large income,
warm heart, and good repute. At no period, either immediately before
or after her marriage, had she professed herself to be what is called
"in love" with the worthy Scottish gentleman. She respected, humoured,
and ruled him. But not for one instant did she forget her duty, or
give a chance for scandal-mongers to babble of her name over their
five-o'clock tea. No woman married to a man considerably her senior
need be at any loss for what, as Byron tells us, used to be called a
_cicisbeo_, and was in his time called a _cortejo_, if she be the
least attractive. And Lady Muriel Kilsyth was considerably more than
that. She had a perfectly-formed, classical little head, round which
her dark hair was always lightly bound, culminating in a thick knot
behind, large deep liquid brown eyes, an impertinent _retroussé_ nose,
a pretty mouth, an excellent complexion, and a ripe melting figure.
You might have searched the drawing-rooms of London through and
through without finding a woman better calculated to fascinate every
body save the youngest boys, and there were many even of them who
would gladly have boasted of a kind look or word from Lady Muriel.
When her marriage was announced, they discussed it at the clubs, as
they will discuss such things, the dear genial old prosers, the
bibulous captains, the lip-smacking Bardolphs of St. James'-street;
and they prophesied all kinds of unhappiness and woe to Kilsyth. But
that topic of conversation had long since died out for want of fuel to
feed it. Lady Muriel had visited London during the season; had gone
every where; had been reported as perfectly adoring her two little
children; and had no man's name invidiously coupled with hers. Peace
reigned at Kilsyth, and the intimates of the house vied with each
other in attention and courtesy to its new mistress; while the gossips
of the outside world had never a word to say against her. I don't say
that Lady Muriel Kilsyth was thoroughly happy, any more than that
Kilsyth himself was in that beatific state; because I simply don't
believe that such a state of things is compatible with the ordinary
conditions of human life. It is not because the old stories of our
none of us being better than we should be, of our all having some
skeleton in our cupboards, and some ulcerated sores beneath our
flannel waistcoats, have been so much harped upon, that I am going to
throw my little pebble on the great cairn, and add my testimony to the
doctrine of _vanitas vanitatum_. It would be very strange indeed, if,
as life is nowadays constituted, we had not our skeleton, and a time
when we could confront him; when we could calmly untwist the button on
the door and let him out, and pat his skull, and look at his
articulated ribs, and notice how deftly his wire-hooked thigh-bones
jointed on to the rest of his carcass; and see whether there were no
means of ridding ourselves of him,--say by flinging him out of window,
when the police would find him, or of stowing him away in the
dust-bin, when he would be noticed by the contractor; and of
finally putting him back, and acknowledging ourselves compelled
to suffer him even unto the end. I do not say that in the
broad-shouldered, kind-hearted, jovial sportsman Lady Muriel had found
exactly what she dreamed upon when, in the terraced garden at
Inchgarvie, she used to read Walter Scott, and, looking over the
flashing stream that wound through her father's domain, fancy herself
the Lady of the Lake, and await the arrival of Fitzjames. I do not say
that Kilsyth himself might not, in the few moments of his daily life
which he ever spared to reflection, and which were generally when he
was shaving himself in the morning,--I do not say that Kilsyth himself
might not have occasionally thought that his elegant and stately wife
might have been a little kinder to Madeleine, a little more
recognisant of the girl's charms, a little more thoughtful of her
wants, and a little more tender towards her girlish vagaries. But
neither of them, however they may have thought the other suspected
them, ever spoke of their secret thoughts; and to the outer world
there was no more well-assorted couple than the Kilsyths. It was a
great thing for the comfort of the entire party that Lady Muriel was a
woman of nerve, and that Kilsyth took his cue from her, backed up by
the fact that it was his darling Madeleine who was ill, and that any
inconvenience that might accrue to any of the party in consequence of
her illness would be set down to her account. Lady Muriel gave a good
general answer, delivered with a glance round the table, and was
inclusive of every body, so as to prevent any further questioning.
Dr. Joyce had said that Madeleine was not so well that night;
but that was to be expected; her cold was very bad, she was slightly
feverish: any one--and Lady Muriel turned deftly to the Duchess of
Northallerton--who knew any thing, would have expected that, would
they not? The Duchess, who knew nothing, but who didn't like to say
so, declared that of course they would; and then Lady Muriel, feeling
it necessary _that_ conversation should be balked, turned to Sir
Duncan Forbes, and began to ask him questions as to his doings since
the end of the season. Forbes replied briskly,--there was no better
man in London to follow a lead, whether in talk or at cards,--and so
turned the talk that most of those present were immediately
interested. The names which Duncan Forbes mentioned were known to all
present; all were interested in their movements; all had something to
say about them; so that the conversation speedily became general, and
so remained until the ladies quitted the table. When they had retired,
Kilsyth ordered in the tumblers; and it was nearly eleven o'clock
before the gentlemen appeared in the drawing-room. Then Lady Fairfax,
with one single wave of her fan, beckoned Charley Jefferson into an
empty seat on the ottoman by her side,--a seat which little Lord
Towcester, immediately on entering the door, had surveyed with vinous
eyes,--and, while one of the anonymous young ladies was playing
endless variations on the "Harmonious Blacksmith," commenced and
continued a most vivid one-sided, conversation, to all of which the
infatuated Colonel only replied by shrugs of his shoulders, and tugs
at his heavy moustache. Then the Duchess pursued the Duke into a
corner; and rescuing from him the _Morning Post_, which his grace had
pounced upon on entering the room with the hope of further identifying
Mr. Bright with Judas Iscariot, began addressing him in a low
monotone, like the moaning of the sea; now rising into a little hum,
now falling into a long sweeping hiss, but in each variety evidently
confounding the Duke, who pulled at his cravat and rubbed his right
ear in the height of nervous dubiety. In the behaviour of the other
guests there was nothing pronounced, save occasional and unwonted
restlessness. The Danish Minister and his wife played their usual game
at backgammon; and the customary talk, music, and flirtation were
carried on by the remainder of the company; but Lady Muriel knew that
some suspicion of the actual truth had leaked out, and determined on
her plan of action.

So that night, when the men had gone to the smoking-room, and the
ladies were some of them talking in each other's bedrooms, and others
digesting and thinking over, as is the feminine manner, under the
influence of hair-brush, the events of the day; when Kilsyth had made
a tip-toe visit to his darling's chamber, and had shaken his head
sadly over a whispered statement from her little German maid that she
was "_bien malade_," and had returned to his room and dismissed his
man, and was kicking nervously at the logs on the hearth, and mixing
his "tumbler preparatory to taking his narcotic instalment of
_Blackwood_,--he heard a tap at his door, and Lady Muriel, in a most
becoming dressing-gown of rose-coloured flannel, entered the room. The
tumbler was put down, the _Blackwood_ was thrown, aside, and in a
minute Kilsyth had wheeled an easy-chair round to the hearth, and
handed his wife to it.

"You're tired, Alick, I know, and I wouldn't have disturbed you now
had there not been sufficient reason--"

"Madeleine's not worse, Muriel? I was there this minute, and Gretchen
said that--"

"O no, she's no worse! I was in her room too just now,--though I think
it is a little absurd my going,--and there does not seem to be much
change in her since I saw her, just before dinner. She is asleep just
now."

"Thank God for that!" said Kilsyth heartily. "After all, it may be a
fright this doctor is giving us. I don't think so very much of his
opinion and--"

"I could not say that. Joyce is very highly thought of at Glasgow, and
was selected from among all the competitors to take charge of this
district, and that, in these days of competition, is no ordinary
distinction. And it is on this very point I came to speak to you. You
got my pencil-note at dinner? Very well. Just now you contented
yourself with asking a question of Gretchen--"

"She said Madeleine was asleep, and would not let me into the room."

"And quite rightly; but I went in to the bedside. Madeleine is asleep
certainly; but her sleep is restless, broken, and decidedly feverish.
There is not the smallest doubt that Dr. Joyce is right in his
opinion, and that she is attacked with scarlet-fever."

"You think so, Muriel?" said Kilsyth anxiously. "I mean not blindly
following Joyce's opinion; but do you think so yourself?"

"I do; and not I alone, but half the house thinks so too. How do they
know it? Heaven knows how these things ever get known, but they get
wind somehow; and you will see that by to-morrow there will be a
general flight. It is on this point that I have come to speak to you,
if you will give me five minutes."

"Of course, Muriel; of course, my lady. But I think I've done the best
that could be done; at all events, the first thing that occurred to me
after you wrote me that note. Duncan Forbes had been saying in the
drawing-room before dinner, before you came in, that the great London
fever-physician, Dr. Wilmot, was staying at Burnside, away from here
about fifty miles, with old Sir Saville Rowe, whom I recollect when I
was a boy. Duncan had left him this morning, and he was going to stay
at Burnside just a day or two longer; and I sent one of the men with a
telegram to the station, to ask Dr. Wilmot to come over at once, and
see Maddy."

Lady Muriel was so astonished at this evidence of prompt action on her
husband's part that she remained silent for a minute. Then she said,

"That was quite right, quite right so far as Madeleine was concerned;
but my visit related rather to other people. You see, so soon as it is
actually known that there is an infectious disorder in the house, the
house will be deserted. Now my question is this: will it not be better
to announce it to our guests, making the best and the lightest of it,
as of course one naturally would, rather than let them--"

"Ye-es, I see what you mean, my lady," said Kilsyth slowly; "and of
course it would not do to keep people here under false pretences, and
when we knew there was actual danger. Still I think as this story of
scarlet-fever is only Joyce's opinion, and as I have telegraphed for
Dr. Wilmot, who will be here to-morrow; and as it seems strange, you
know, to think that poor darling Maddy should be the cause of any
one's leaving Kilsyth, perhaps, eh? one might put off making the
announcement until Joyce's opinion were corroborated by Dr. Wilmot."

"I am afraid the mischief is already done, Alick, and that its results
will be apparent long before Dr. Wilmot can reach here," said Lady
Muriel. "However, let us sleep upon it. I am sure to hear whether the
news has spread in the house long before breakfast, and we can consult
again." And Lady Muriel took leave of her husband, and retired to her
room.

Trust a woman for observation. Lady Muriel was perfectly right. The
nods and shoulder-shrugs and whisperings which she had observed in the
drawing-room had already borne fruit. On her return to her own room
she saw a little note lying on her table--a little note which, as she
learned from Pinner, her attendant, had just been brought by Lady
Fairfax's maid. It ran thus:


"DEAREST LADY MURIEL,--A _frightful_ attack of neuralgia (_my_
neuralgia)--which, as you know, is so _awful_--has been hanging over
me for the last three days, and now has come upon me in its _fullest
force_. I am quite out of my mind with it. I have striven--O, how I
have striven!--to keep up and try to forget it, when surrounded by
your pleasant circle, and when looking at your _dear self_. But it is
all in vain. I am in _agonies_. The torture of the rack itself can be
_nothing_ to what I am suffering tonight.

"Poor dear Sir Benjamin Brodie used to say that I should never be well
in a _northern_ climate. I fear he was right. I fear that the air of
this darling Kilsyth, earthly Paradise though it is--and I am sure
that I have found it so during three weeks of bliss; O, such
_happiness!_--is too bracing, too invigorating for poor me. But I
should _loathe_ myself if I were to make this an _open_ confession. So
I will steal away, dearest Lady Muriel, without making any formal
adieux. When all your dear friends assemble at breakfast to-morrow, I
shall be on my _sorrowing_ way south, and only regret that my wretched
health prevents me longer remaining where I have been so entirely
happy.

"With kindest regards to your dear husband, I am, dearest Lady Muriel,
ever your loving

"EMILY FAIRFAX.

"P.S.--I have told my maid to beg some of your people to get me horses
from the Kilsyth Arms; so that I shall _speed_ away early in the
morning without disturbing any one. I hope dear Madeleine will soon be
_quite herself_ again."


Lady Muriel read this letter through twice with great calmness, though
a very scornful smile curled her lip during its perusal. She then
twisted the note up into a wisp, and was about to burn it in the flame
of the candle, when she heard a short solemn tap at her chamber-door.
She turned round, bade Pinner open the door, and looked with more
displeasure than astonishment at the Duchess of Northallerton, who
appeared in the entrance. The Duchess had the credit in society of
being a "haughty-looking woman." Her stronghold in life, beyond the
fact of her being a duchess, had been in her Roman nose and arched
eyebrows. But, somehow, haughty looks become wonderfully modified in
_déshabillé_, and Roman noses and arched eyebrows lose a good deal of
their potency when taken in conjunction with two tight little curls
twisted up in hairpins, and a headdress which, however much fluted and
gauffered, is unmistakably a nightcap. The Duchess's nocturnal
adornments were unmistakably of this homely character, and her white
wrapper was of a hue, which, if she had not been a duchess, would have
been pronounced dingy. But her step was undoubtedly tragic, and the
expression of her face solemn to a degree. Lady Muriel received her
with uplifted eyebrows, and motioned her to a chair. The Duchess
dropped stiffly into the appointed haven of rest; but arched her
eyebrows at Pinner with great significance.

"You can go, Pinner. I shall not require you any more," said Lady
Muriel; adding, "I presume that was what you wished, Duchess?" as the
maid left the room.

"Precisely, dear Muriel; but you always were so wonderfully ready to
interpret one's thoughts. I remember your dear mother used to say--but
I won't worry you with my stories. I came to speak to you about dear
Madeleine."

"Ye-es," said Lady Muriel quietly, finding the Duchess paused.

"Well, now, she's worse than any of them suspect. Ah, I can see it by
your face. And I know what is the matter with her. Don't start; I
won't even ask you; I won't let you commit yourself in any way; but I
know that it's measles."

Lady Muriel kept her countenance admirably while the Duchess
proceeded. "I know it by a sort of instinct. When Madeleine first
complained of her head, I looked narrowly at her, and I said to
myself, 'Measles! undoubtedly measles!' Now, you know, Muriel, though
there is nothing dangerous in measles to a young person like
Madeleine,--and she will shake them off easily, and be all the better
afterwards,--they are very dangerous when taken by a person of mature
age. And the fact is, the Duke has never had them--never. When
Errington was laid up with them, I recollect the Duke wouldn't remain
in the house, but went off to the Star and Garter, and stayed there
until all trace of the infection was gone. And he's horribly afraid of
them. You know what cowards men are in such matters; and he said just
now he thought there was a rash on his neck. Such nonsense! Only where
his collar had rubbed him, as I told him. But he's dreadfully
frightened; and he has suggested that instead of waiting till the end
of the week, as we had intended, we had better go to-morrow."

"I think that perhaps under all circumstances it would be the best
course," said Lady Muriel, quite calmly.

"I knew your good sense would see it in the right light, my dear
Muriel," said the Duchess, who had been nervously anticipating quite a
different answer, and who was overjoyed. "I was perfectly certain of
your coincidence in our plan. Now, of course, we shall not say a word
as to the real reason of our departure--the Duke, I know, would not
have that for the world. We shall not mention it at Redlands either;
merely say we--O, I shall find some good excuse, for Mrs. Murgatroyd
is a chattering little woman, as you know, Muriel. And now I won't
keep you up any longer, dear. You'll kindly tell some one to get us
horses to be ready by--say twelve to-morrow. Stay to luncheon? No,
dear. I think we had better go before luncheon. The Duke, you see, is
so absurd about his ridiculous rash. _Good_night, dear." And the
Duchess stalked off to tell the Duke, who was not the least
frightened, and whose rash was entirely fictitious, how well she had
sped on her mission.


Lady Muriel accurately obeyed the requests made to her in Lady
Fairfax's letter, and verbally by the Duchess; and each of them found
their horses ready at the appointed time. Lady Emily departed
mysteriously before breakfast; but as the Duchess's horses were not
ordered till twelve, and as the post came in at eleven, her grace had
time to receive a letter from Mrs. Murgatroyd, of Redlands, whither
they were next bound, requesting them to postpone their arrival for a
day or two, as a German prince, who had by accident shot a stag, had
been so elated by the feat, that he had implored to be allowed to stay
on, with the chance of repeating it; and as he occupied the rooms
intended for the Duke and Duchess, it was impossible to receive them
until he left. After reading this letter, the Duchess went to Lady
Muriel, and expressed her opinion that she had been too precipitate;
that, after all, nothing positive had been pronounced; that there were
no symptoms of the Duke's rash that morning, which had been
undoubtedly caused, as she had said last night, by his collar, and
which was no rash at all; and that perhaps, after all, their real duty
was to stay and help their dear Muriel to nurse her dear invalid. But
they had miscalculated the possibility of deceiving their dear Muriel.
Lady Muriel at once replied that it was impossible that they could
remain at Kilsyth; that immediately on the Duchess's quitting her on
the previous night she had made arrangements as to the future
disposition of the rooms which they occupied; that she would not for
the world take upon herself the responsibility which would necessarily
accrue to her if any of them caught the disease; and that she knew the
Duchess's own feelings would tell her that she, Lady Muriel, however
ungracious it might seem, was in the right in advising their immediate
departure. The Duchess tried to argue the point, but in vain; and so
she and the Duke, and their servants and baggage, departed, and passed
the next three days at a third-rate roadside inn between Kilsyth and
Redlands, where the Duke got lumbago, and the Duchess got bored; and
where they passed their time alternately wishing that they had not
left Kilsyth, or that the people at Redlands were ready to receive
them.

Very little difference was made by the other guests at Kilsyth in the
disposition of their day. If they were surprised at the sudden
defection of the Northallertons and Lady Fairfax, they were too
well-bred to show it. Charley Jefferson mooned about the house and
grounds, a thought more disconsolate than ever; but he was the only
member of the party who at all bemoaned the departure of the departed.
Lady Dunkeld congratulated her cousin Muriel on being rid of "those
awful wet blankets," the Northallertons. Captain Severn, in whispered
colloquy with his wife, "hoped to heaven Charley Jefferson would see
what a stuck-up selfish brute that Emily Fairfax was." Lord Roderick
Douglas and Mr. Pitcairn went out for their stalk; and all the rest of
the company betook themselves to their usual occupations.


"Where's her ladyship?"

"In the boudoir, sir, waiting for the doctor."

"What doctor? Dr. Joyce?"

"And the strange gentleman, sir. They're both together in Miss
Madeleine's room."

"Ah, Muriel! So Dr. Wilmot has arrived?"

"Yes, and gone off straight with Joyce to Madeleine. You see I was
right in recommending you to go out as usual. Your fine London
physician never asked for you, never mentioned your name."

"Well, perhaps you were right. I should have worried myself into a
fever here; not that I've done any good out--missed every shot. What's
he like?"

"He! Who? Dr. Wilmot? I had scarcely an opportunity of observing, but
I should say _brusque_ and self-sufficient. He and Joyce went off at
once. I thanked him for coming, and welcomed him in your name and my
own; but he did not seem much impressed."

"Full of his case, no doubt; these men never think of anything
but--Ah, here he is!--Dr. Wilmot, a thousand thanks for this prompt
reply to my hasty summons. Seeing the urgency, you'll forgive the
apparent freedom of my telegraphing to you."

"My dear sir," said Wilmot, "I am only too happy to be here; not that,
if you could have engrossed the attention of this gentleman, there
would have been any necessity for the summons. Dr. Joyce has done
every thing that could possibly be done for Miss Kilsyth up to this
point."

"_A laudato viro laudari_," murmured

Dr. Joyce. "But, fortunately or unfortunately, as I learn from him, a
district of thirty miles in circumference looks to him for its health.
Now I am, for the next few days at least, a free man, and at liberty
to devote myself to Miss Kilsyth."

"And you will do so?"

"With the very greatest pleasure. In two words let me corroborate the
opinion already given. I understand by my friend here Miss Kilsyth has
an attack, more or less serious, of scarlet-fever. She must be kept
completely isolated from every one, and must be watched with
unremitting attention. Dr. Joyce will send to Aberdeen for a skilled
nurse, upon whom he can depend; until her arrival I will take up my
position in the sick-room."

"Ten thousand thanks; but--is there any danger?"

"So far all is progressing favourably. We must look to Providence and
our own unremitting attention for the result."


"I'm so hot and so thirsty, and these pillows are so uncomfortable!
Thanks! Ah, is that you, Dr. Wilmot? I was afraid you had gone. You
won't leave me--at least not just yet--will you?"

"Not I, my dear. There--that's better, isn't it? The pillow is cooler,
and the lemonade--"

"Ah, so many thanks! I'm very weak tonight; but your voice is so kind,
and your manner, and--"

"There; now try and sleep.--Good heavens, how lovely she is! What a
mass of golden hair falling over her pillow, and what a soft,
innocent, childish manner! And to think that only this morning I--ah,
you must never hear the details of this case, my dear old master. When
I get back to town I will tell you the result: but the details--never."



CHAPTER IV.
Mrs. Wilmot.


"I wonder what sort of woman Chudleigh Wilmot's wife is," was a phrase
very often used by his acquaintances; and the sentiment it expressed
was not unnatural or inexcusable. There are some men concerning whom
people instinctively feel that there is something peculiar in their
domestic history, that their everyday life is  not like the everyday
life of other people. Sometimes this impression is positive and
defined; it takes the shape of certain conviction that things are
wrong in that quarter; that So-and-so's marriage is a mistake, a
misfortune, or a calamity, just as the grade of the blunder makes
itself felt by his manner, or even by the expression of the
countenance. Sometimes the impression is quite vague, and the
questioner is conscious only that there must be something of interest
to be known. The man's wife may be dear to him, with a special
dearness and nearness, too sacred, too much a part of his inmost being
to be betrayed to even the friendliest eyes; or there may be an
estrangement, which pride and rectitude combine to conceal. At all
events--and whichever of these may be the true condition of affairs,
or whatever modification of them may be true--the man's acquaintance
feel that there is something in his domestic story different from that
of other men, and they regard him with a livelier curiosity, if he be
a man of social or intellectual mark, in consequence.

It was in the vaguest form that the question, "What sort of a woman is
Chudleigh Wilmot's wife?" suggested itself to his acquaintances.
Naturally, and necessarily, the greater number of those to whom the
rising man became known knew him only in his professional capacity;
but that capacity involved a good deal of knowledge, and not a little
social intercourse; and there was hardly one among their number who
did not say, sooner or later, to himself, or to other people, "I
wonder what sort of woman Chudleigh Wilmot's wife is?" This question
had been asked mentally, and of each other, by several of the inmates
of the old mansion of Kilsyth; while the grave, preoccupied, and
absorbed physician dwelt within its walls, devoting all his energies
of mind and body to the battle with disease, in which he was resolved
to conquer. But no one who was there, or likely to be there, could
have answered the question, strange to say--not even Wilmot himself.

Chudleigh Wilmot's marriage had come about after a fashion in which
there was nothing very novel, remarkable, or interesting. Mabel
Darlington was a pretty girl, who came of a good family, with which
Wilmot's mother had been connected; had a small fortune, which was
very acceptable to the young man just starting in his arduous
profession; and was as attractive to him as any woman could have been
at that stage of his life. Partly inclination, partly convenience, and
in some measure persuasion, were the promoters of the match. Wilmot
knew that a medical man had a better chance of success as a married
than as a single man; and as this was a fixed, active, and predominant
idea among his relatives and friends--in fact, an article of faith,
and a perpetual text of continual discourses--he had everything to
encourage him in the design which had formed itself, though somewhat
faintly, in his mind, when he renewed his acquaintance with Miss
Darlington, on the occasion of her appearance at his mother's house in
the character of a "come out" young lady. He had often seen her as a
child and a little girl, being himself at the time a somewhat older
child and a much bigger boy; but he had never entertained for her that
disinterested, ardent, wretchedness-producing passion known as "calf
love;" so that the impression she made upon him at a later period owed
nothing to earlier recollection. His mother liked the girl, and
praised her eloquently and persistently to Chudleigh; so eloquently
and persistently indeed, that if he had not happened to be of her
opinion from the beginning, she would probably have inspired him with
a powerful dislike to Miss Darlington, by placing that young lady in
his catalogue of bores. He was not by any means the sort of man to
marry a woman for whom he did not care at all, to please his mother,
or secure his own prosperity; but he was just the sort of man to care
all the more for a girl because his mother liked her, and to make up
his mind to marry her, if she would have him, the more quickly on that
account.

The courtship was a short one; and even in its brief duration
Chudleigh Wilmot never felt, never tried to persuade himself, that
Mabel was his first object in life. He knew that his profession had
his heart, his brain, his ambition in its grasp; that he loved it, and
thought of it, and lived for it in a way, and to a degree, which no
other object could ever compete with. It never occurred to him for a
moment that there was any injustice to Mabel in this. He would be an
affectionate and faithful husband; but he was a practical man--not an
enthusiast, not a dreamer. If he succeeded--and he was determined to
succeed--she would share his success, the realisation of his ambition,
and would secure all its advantages to herself. A man to do real
work in the world, and to do it as a man ought--as alone he could
feel the answer of a good conscience in doing anything he should
undertake--must put his work above and before every thing. He would
do this; he would be an eminent physician, a celebrated and rich man;
a good husband too; and his wife should never have reason to find
fault with him, or to envy the wives of other men--men who might
indeed be more sentimental and demonstrative, but who could not have a
stronger sense of duty than he. Thus thought, thus resolved Mabel
Darlington's lover; and very good thoughts, very admirable resolves
his were. They had only one defect; but he never suspected its
existence. It was a rather radical defect too, being this: that they
were not those of a lover at all.

They were married, and all went very well with the modest and
exemplary household. At first the Wilmot _ménage_ was not so
fashionably located as afterwards; but Mrs. Wilmot's house was always
a model of neatness, propriety, and the precise degree of elegance
which the rising man's income justified at each level which he
attained. Wilmot's mother continued to like her daughter-in-law, and
to regard her son's marriage as most propitious, though she had
sometimes a doubt whether she really did understand his wife quite so
thoroughly as she had understood Mabel Darlington. But Wilmot's mother
had now been dead some years. Mrs. Wilmot had no near relatives, and
she was a woman of few intimacies; her life was placid, prosperous,
conventional. She had, at the period with which this story deals, a
handsome house, a good income, an agreeable and eminently respectable
social circle; a handsome, irreproachable husband, rapidly rising into
distinction; one intimate friend, and--a broken heart.

Chudleigh Wilmot's wife was young; if not beautiful, at least very
attractive, accomplished, ladylike, and "amiable," in the generally
accepted interpretation of that unsatisfactory word. What better or
what worse description could possibly be given? It describes a
thousand women in a breath, and it designates not one in particular.
There was only one person in existence who could have given a more
clear, intelligible, and distinct description of Mrs. Wilmot than this
stereotyped one. This person was her friend Mrs. Prendergast--a lady
somewhat older than herself, and whose natural and remarkable
quickness and penetration were aided in this instance by close
acquaintance and sleepless jealousy. If Mrs. Prendergast had been an
ordinary woman, as silly as her sisterhood and no sillier, the fact
that she was extremely jealous of Mrs. Wilmot would have so obscured
and perverted her judgment, that her opinion would not have been worth
having. But Mrs. Prendergast was very unlike her sisterhood. Not only
was she negatively less silly, but she was positively clever; and
being severe, suspicious, and implacable as well, if not precisely a
pleasant, she was at least a remarkable woman. Nothing obscured or
perverted Mrs. Prendergast's judgment; neither did anything touch her
heart. She had mind, and a good deal of it; she had experience and
tact, insight, foresight, and caution. She was a woman who might
possibly be a very valuable friend, but who could not fail to be a
very dangerous enemy. In such a nature the power of enmity would
probably be greater than the power of friendship, and the one would be
likely to crush the other if ever they came into collision. Mrs.
Prendergast was Mrs. Wilmot's friend. Whether she was the friend of
Mrs. Wilmot's husband remains to be seen. If she had been asked to say
what manner of woman the rising man's wife was, and had thought proper
to satisfy the inquirer, her portraiture might have been relied upon
as implicitly for its truthfulness as that of the most impartial
observer, which is saying at once that Mrs. Prendergast was a woman of
exceptional mental qualities, and of a temperament rare among those
charming creatures to whom injustice is easy and natural.

The two women were habitually much together. Mrs. Prendergast was a
childless widow. Mrs. Wilmot was a childless wife. Neither had
absorbing domestic occupations to employ her,--each had a good deal of
time at the other's disposal; hence it happened that few days passed
without their meeting, and enjoying that desultory kind of
companionship which is so puzzling to the male observer of the habits
and manners of womankind. Their respective abodes were within easy
distance of each other. Mrs. Prendergast lived in Cadogan-place, and
Mrs. Wilmot lived in Charles-street, St. James's. When they did not
see one another, they exchanged notes; and in short they kept up all
the ceremonial of warm feminine friendship; and each really did like
the other better than any one else in the world, with one exception.
In Mrs. Wilmot's case the exception was her husband; in Mrs.
Prendergast's, the exception was herself. There was a good deal of
sincerity and warmth in their friendship, but on one point there was a
decided inequality. Mrs. Prendergast understood Mrs. Wilmot
thoroughly; she read her through and through, she knew her off by
heart; but Mrs. Wilmot knew very little of her friend--only just as
much as her friend chose she should know. Which was a convenient state
of things, and tended to preserve their pleasant and salutary
relations unbroken. Mrs. Prendergast had played Eleanor Galligaí to
Mrs. Wilmot's Marie de' Medicis for a considerable time, and with
uninterrupted success, when Chudleigh Wilmot was sent for, in the
perplexity and distress at Kilsyth; and as a matter of course she had
heard from his wife about his prolonged visit to Sir Saville Rowe,
whom she was well aware Mrs. Wilmot disliked with the quiet, rooted,
persistent aversion so frequently inspired in the breasts of even the
very best and most conscientious of women by their husbands' intimate
friends. Wilmot was utterly unconscious that his wife entertained any
such feeling; and Sir Saville Rowe himself would have been hardly more
astonished than Wilmot, if it had been revealed to him that the
confidence and regard which existed between the former master and
pupil were counted a grievance, and Wilmot's visit to Burnside
resented, silently indeed, in grief rather than in anger, as an
injury.

In this fact may be found the key-note to Mrs. Wilmot's character; a
key-note often struck by her friend's hand, and never with an erring,
a faltering, or a rough touch.

There was not much of the tragic element in Henrietta Prendergast's
jealousy of Mabel Wilmot, but there was a great deal of the mean. When
Mabel was a young girl, Henrietta was a not much older widow. She was
Mabel's cousin; had married, when very young, a man who had survived
their marriage only one year. She had more money than Mabel; their
connections were the same; she had as much education, and even better
manners. She met Chudleigh Wilmot on the occasion of his renewing his
acquaintance with Mabel Darlington, and she was as much, though
differently, fascinated with him as Mabel herself. She compared her
qualifications with those of her cousin; and she arrived at the not
unnatural conclusion that their charms were equal, supposing him
incapable of discerning how much cleverer a woman than Mabel she
was,--and hers very superior, should he prove capable of understanding
and appreciating her intellectual superiority. She forgot one simple
element in the calculation, and it made all the difference--she forgot
Mabel's prettiness. Henrietta Prendergast made very few mistakes, but
she did constantly make one blunder; she forgot her plain face, she
under-estimated the power of beauty. Perhaps no plain woman ever does
understand that power, ever does make sufficient allowance for it,
when arrayed against her in any kind of combat; it is certain that
Henrietta did not in this instance. It is certain that though
Chudleigh Wilmot thought of marrying Mabel Darlington without being
very much in love with her, he never thought of marrying Henrietta
Prendergast at all.

And now, when she had come to the conclusion that Chudleigh Wilmot
had not loved Mabel Darlington, and did not love his wife,--was, in
short, a man to whom love was unknown, by whom it was unvalued,
undesired,--she was still steadily, sleeplessly jealous of Mabel
Wilmot. "I would have made him love _me_," she would say to herself,
as she read the thoughts of her friend; "I would have been as
ambitious for him as he is for himself; I would have shown him that
his aim was the highest and the worthiest. I would have loved him, and
sympathised with him too. She only loves him; she does not understand
him. Why did she come in between him and me?" For this very clever
woman had actually deluded herself into the belief that, but for
Mabel, Chudleigh Wilmot would have loved, or at least have married
her. She would have made him love her afterwards, as she said. So for
a long time she disliked her cousin, and hankered after her cousin's
husband, and believed that she would have been the best, the most
suitable, and the happiest of wives to the man who evidently had not a
wife of that pattern in Mabel, but who somehow did not seem to
perceive the fact. That time had come to an end long before people at
Kilsyth asked themselves and each other what sort of woman Chudleigh
Wilmot's wife was. But though Mrs. Prendergast no longer hankered
after her cousin's husband, though the love, in which her active
imagination had a large share, had given place to a much more real and
genuine hatred, she was jealous of Mabel still. This woman's brain was
larger than her heart; her intellectual was higher than her moral
nature; and a lofty feeling would be more transient than a low one.
She pitied Mabel Wilmot too, however contradictory such an assertion
may seem to shallow perceptions, which do not recognise in life that
nothing is so reasonably to be expected, so invariably to be found, as
contradictions in character. She liked her, she understood her, but
she was jealous of her--jealous because Mabel had the position she had
vainly desired. If she had had her husband's love, Mrs. Prendergast
would have been still more jealous of her, and would not have liked,
because she could not have pitied her. But she knew she had not that;
she had made the discovery as soon as Mabel, who had made it fatally
soon.

What had the girl's ideal been? was a question none could answer, and
which it is certain her husband never asked. He was very kind to her;
she had every comfort, every luxury that he could give her; but she
lived in a world of which he knew nothing, and he in and for his
profession. He could not have been brought to recognise the
possibility of over devotion to the business of his life. He would not
have listened to the advance of any claims upon his time, attention,
or interest, beyond those which he fulfilled with enthusiasm in the
interests of his work, and the courteous observance which he never
denied to the rules of his well-regulated household. Chudleigh Wilmot
was a clever man in many ways beside that one way in which he was
eminently so; but one study had long lain near his hand, and he had
never given time or thought to it; one book was close to him, and he
had never turned its leaves--the study of his wife's character, the
book of his wife's heart.

Mabel Wilmot was inveterately, incurably shy, extremely reserved and
reticent by nature, and rather sullen. The latter fault of temper had
made itself apparent to her husband very early in their married life;
and having rebuked it without effect, he made the great mistake of
treating it with disregard. He never noticed it now; the symptoms
escaped him, the disease did not interest him, and it grew and grew.
Proud, cold in manner, distant; scrupulously deferential and dutiful
in externals; silent, except where speech was necessary to the
management of such affairs as lay within her sphere; calmly
indifferent, to all appearance, to all that did not absolutely concern
her individually in the course of their life, her shyness and her
sullenness were not perceptible to others now--never to him. He did
not know that it was so much the worse; he did not understand that it
had been better to know and feel her faults than to be ignorant of her
and them, unconscious of their growth, or their yielding, or their
transformation into others, uglier, worse, harder of eradication, more
hopeless of cure. He did not love her. The whole story was in that one
sentence.

And she? She loved him; certainly not wisely, all things considered,
and much too well for her own peace. She had outgrown her girlhood
since her marriage; and her character had hardened, darkened,
deepened, everything but strengthened, with her advance into
womanhood. The girl Chudleigh Wilmot had married, and the graceful
languid woman who appeared barely conscious of, and not at all
interested in, the fact of his existence, were widely different
beings. Mabel had shrunk from the knowledge of the thraldom in which
her love for her husband--her calm, cold, generous, irreproachable
husband--held her when she had first realised its strength, when the
growth of her own love had revealed to her that his was but a puny
changeling, with all the sensitiveness of a shy, sullen, and reticent
nature. She could not deny, but she could conceal the bondage in which
it held her. The qualities of her heart and the defects of her temper
had a fight for the mastery, and temper won. Chudleigh Wilmot, if he
had been obliged to think about the matter, would have unhesitatingly
declared that his wife's temper had improved considerably since the
early days of their marriage: the truth was, it had only lost
impulsiveness, and acquired sulk and secretiveness.

All this, and the terrible pain at the young woman's unsatisfied
heart,--the pain which devoured her the more ruthlessly as success
waited more closely upon the devotion to his profession of the man
she loved, and in whose life she had but a nominal share,--was well
known to Henrietta Prendergast. It had been long in coming, that burst
of agonised confidence, which had made her friend officially aware of
all that her acute mind had long believed; but it had come, and like
all the confidences of very shy people, it had been complete and
expansive. All restraint was over. Mabel might yield to any mood now
in Henrietta's presence; she might talk of him with pride, with love,
with anger, with questioning wonder, with despair; she, whose armour
of pride and silence no other hand, not even the hand of the husband
she loved, had ever pierced, was defenceless, unarmed, at the mercy of
her friend, who fancied she had supplanted her, who was jealous of
her.

Chudleigh Wilmot had been nearly a week at Kilsyth, when Mrs.
Prendergast, entering her cousin's drawing-room rather earlier than
usual, found her agitated, and in a state of perplexity.

"I am so glad you have come, Henrietta," said Mrs. Wilmot, as she
kissed her visitor. "I have been in such anxiety to see you. A message
was sent early this morning from Mr. Foljambe--you know Wilmot's
friend, Mr. Foljambe the banker, of Portland-place--requesting that he
would go to him at once. The poor old man has the gout again very
badly. Since then a note has come; written by himself too, and hardly
legible. Poor creature! I'm sure he is in horrid pain. Here it is. You
see he says, 'the enemy is advancing on the citadel'--he means his
heart or his stomach, I suppose--and he entreats Wilmot to go to him
at once. What ought I to do, Henrietta?"

"You must tell him, of course, that Mr. Wilmot is out of town. I
should not say he was so far away as Scotland; I think the mere idea
is enough to terrify a nervous old man with a superstition in favour
of a particular doctor."

"Yes, yes, you are right; so it is. But about Wilmot. Of course he
will not like to leave Sir Saville's friends. He thinks more of Sir
Saville than of any one in the world, I do believe."

"Hardly more, Mabel, than of his reputation and Mr. Foljambe, I should
think. Why, this Mr. Foljambe is the oldest friend he has in the
world--his godfather, his father's friend,--a childless old man,
without kith or kin in the world, who may leave him a fortune any day,
and is certain to leave him something very handsome! He would never be
so mad or so ungrateful--is he of an ungrateful disposition, Mabel?"

"I don't know exactly," said Mrs. Wilmot, as her colour deepened, and
tears rose to her dark gray eyes. "If he _has_ any feeling, it is
certainly for his friends--at least he wastes none of it on _me_."

"You are always brooding over that, Mabel," said her cousin, "and it
is labour and sorrow wasted. No man is worth being miserable about,
dear, and Wilmot is no more worth it than his neighbours. Besides,
this is a matter of business, you know, and we must look at it so. You
had better telegraph at once, I think. Put on your bonnet, and come to
the office; don't trust to a servant, and don't lose time. The message
will take some time to reach him, at the quickest. I fancy Kilsyth is
a long way from any station."

Her practical tone had a beneficial effect on Mabel. Besides, she
brightened at the hope, the expectation of Wilmot's return before the
appointed time. The two ladies drove to Charing-cross, and Mabel
telegraphed to Wilmot:

"_Mr. Foljambe is dangerously ill. Come at once_."



CHAPTER V.
A Resolve, and its Results.


The illness of Madeleine Kilsyth engrossed the attention and engaged
the sympathy of her father so completely, and so entirely blinded him
to other considerations, that when he chanced to encounter a servant
on his way to Wilmot's room, in whose hand he recognised the ominous
yellow cover which indicated a telegraphic despatch, he immediately
accompanied the man to the door. He then hardly gave his guest time to
peruse the message before he said impetuously:

"Nothing to take you away from us, I trust. Pray tell me?" and the
otherwise polite gentleman did his best to peer at the pencilled
characters on the flimsy sheet of paper which Wilmot held in his hand.
For a moment his eager question remained unanswered, and his guest
stood frowning and uncertain. The next, though the frown remained, the
look of uncertainty passed away, and then Wilmot turned frankly to the
impatient questioner and said:

"This is a message from an old friend and patient of mine. He wants me
very much, and asks me to return at once."

"And--and what will you do? _Must_ you go?" asked the distressed
father in a tone of the keenest anxiety.

"I shall stay here, sir, until your daughter is out of danger. There
are many who can replace me in London in Foljambe's case; there is no
one who can replace me here in Miss Kilsyth's."

"You are very good, Wilmot. I really can't thank you sufficiently,"
said Kilsyth, immensely relieved.

"No need to thank me at all, my dear sir," said Wilmot. "And now I
will make my report to you, which no doubt you were coming to hear."

The two gentlemen had rather a long talk, and on its completion Wilmot
returned to his room to write letters; and Kilsyth went to tell Lady
Muriel that they had had a narrow escape of losing Wilmot, but he had
determined to disregard the message, and stay by Madeleine. Did she
not think Wilmot a very fine fellow? Had she not perfect confidence in
his skill? and was not the interest he was taking in Madeleine's case
extraordinary? To all these queries the Lady Muriel made answer in the
affirmative, with heightened colour and brightened eyes, which, if
Kilsyth had happened to notice those phenomena at all, he would have
ascribed to an increase of feeling towards Madeleine; to be hailed, on
his part, with much gratitude and delight. But Kilsyth did not happen
to notice them at all.

Chudleigh Wilmot was a man accustomed to act promptly on a resolution;
and perhaps, like many more of similar temperament, likely to act all
the more promptly when the motives of that resolution were not quite
clear or quite justifiable before his own judgment. In the present
instance he certainly did not act with perfect candour towards
himself. He made very much to himself of his apprehensions concerning
the result of Madeleine's illness, and his absolute want of confidence
in the skill of Mr. Joyce. He resolutely shut his eyes to the long and
substantial claims of Mr. Foljambe to paramount consideration on his
part, and he determined to "see this matter out," as he phrased it, in
his one-sided mental cogitation, by which he meant that he was
determined to invest the temptation in his way with the specious name
of duty, and to try to persuade himself that he had the assent of his
conscience in pursuing a course opposed to his judgment. In pursuance
of this determination, Chudleigh Wilmot wrote to his wife the
following letter. To anyone familiar with the man's habits, it
would have been suggestive, that when he had written "Kilsyth," and
the date, he paused for several minutes, fidgeted with a stick of
sealing-wax, got up and walked about the room, and, finally, began to
write with unusual haste:


"MY DEAR MABEL,--Your telegram came all right; but my leaving this is
quite impossible for the present. You must tell Foljambe how I am
circumstanced. Poor old fellow! I am sorry for him; but he will pull
through, as usual; and there is nothing to be done for him which
anyone else cannot do just as well as myself. He had better see
Whittaker; or, if he does not like him for any reason--and the dear
old boy _is_ whimsical--let him see Perkins: tell him I recommend
either confidently. You had better go and see him, if your cold is all
right again, and cheer him up. As for me, I am effectually imprisoned
here until this case decides itself one way or the other. Miss Kilsyth
could not possibly be left to the care of the country doctor here; and
there is no one within any _possible_ distance but Sir Saville, who
would not _stay_, supposing he would _come_, which is doubtful. The
same answer must be given in all cases for the next week or so. There
is no use in anyone telegraphing for me. The country about here is
beautiful; but of course I don't see much of it. The Kilsyths are
pleasant people in their way, and full of gratitude to me. Lady Muriel
talks of making your acquaintance when they come to town. Nothing of
consequence at home, I suppose? Tell Whittaker to look after Foljambe
very zealously, if he will have him.--Yours affectionately,
C. WILMOT.

"P. S. The case is malignant scarlet-fever, and my patient and I are
in quarantine. Kilsyth is in great trouble--devoted to his daughter."


When he had sealed this letter, and left it on the table for the post,
Wilmot once more went to his patient's room. The suffering girl had
fallen into an uneasy slumber; her face, with the disfiguring flush
invading its fairness, was turned towards the door, the heavy eyes
were closed, and the parched red lips were open. With a skilful
noiseless touch, Wilmot lifted the restless head to an easier attitude
upon the pillow, and moistened the dry mouth. The girl's golden hair
had slipped out of the silken net which had confined it, and a
quantity of its thick tresses was caught in one hot hand. Wilmot
released the tangled hair, laid the hand upon the smooth coverlet,
looked long at the young face, and then, stepping gently to the window
where the nurse was sitting, asked how long the patient had been
sleeping. Ever since he had left her, it seemed. Lady Muriel had been
there, "leastways at the dressing-room door," the nurse added, and had
wanted to see him particularly, she (the nurse) thought, about sending
the children out of the way of infection. Lady Muriel also asked
whether they were not going to cut off Miss Kilsyth's hair.

"Which it does seem a pity, poor dear!" said the nurse, speaking in
the skilful whisper which does not disturb the patient, and is the
most difficult of _tones_ to acquire; and throwing a motherly glance
at the sleeping girl, who just then moaned painfully.

"Cut off her hair!" said Wilmot,--as if the mere notion were a horrid
barbarism, which he could not contemplate as a possibility; "certainly
not--it is entirely unnecessary."

"Well, sir," said the nurse, "it's mostly done in fevers. Wherever
I've nursed, I've always done it, first thing."

Wilmot turned red and hot. Why should he shrink from sanctioning or
ordering the sacrifice in this case, as he had done in a thousand
others without a thought of hesitation or regret, just like any other
detail? Why, indeed? if not because those were the _thousand_ cases,
while this was the _one_. But he did not face the question; he turned
aside from it--turned aside, with his eyes piercing the gloom of the
shaded room, in search of the gleam of the golden locks. "No, no," he
thought, "the 'little head sunning over with curls' shall 'shine on,'
if I can manage it." So he told the nurse that was a matter for after
consideration, and that she was to have him called when Miss Kilsyth
should wake; and he went out for a solitary walk.

Lady Muriel was most grateful to Dr. Wilmot for the care and skill
which he exercised in Madeleine's case. Scarcely Kilsyth himself was
more unremitting in his inquiries after the patient, more anxious as
to the result. But husband and wife were actuated by totally different
motives. The man feared lest the hope of his life should be quenched,
the woman lest the object of her ambition should be frustrated; the
man dreaded the loss of his darling, the woman the confusion of her
scheme. For Lady Muriel had a scheme in connection with Madeleine
Kilsyth, which it may be as well at once to declare.

It is Mr. Longfellow who informs us that no one is so accursed by
fate, no one so utterly desolate, but some heart, though unknown,
responds unto his own. When Lady Muriel Inchgarvie was running her
career of two London seasons, waiting for the arrival of the man whom
she could persuade herself into marrying, and whom she could persuade
into marrying her; while Mr. Burton and Sir Coke Only were fluttering
like moths round her brilliant light,--the world, which thinks it
marks everything, and which hugs itself in appreciation of its
wonderful sagacity and perspicacity, and which had already supremely
settled that Lady Muriel had no heart to lose, little knew that its
sentence was a just one--simply because Lady Muriel had lost her
heart. There was a connection of the house of Inchgarvie, a tall thin
Scotchman, named Stewart Caird, a barrister of Lincoln's-inn, who had
been a long time settled in London, and who, in virtue of his
aristocratic connections, his perfect gentlemanliness, and his utter
harmlessness--for everyone knew that poor Stewart merely lived from
hand to mouth, by the exercise of his profession, and by writing in
the law magazines and reviews--was asked into a good deal of society.
He was a languid, consumptive-looking man, with a high hectic colour,
and deep-violet eyes, and a soft tremulous voice; and after he had
claimed kinship with Lady Muriel, and had his claim allowed, he found
plenty of opportunities of meeting her constantly, and on every
occasion he was to be found by her side. This was the one chance which
fortune had bestowed on Muriel Inchgarvie of loving and being
simultaneously beloved; and it is but fair to say that she availed
herself of it. Not for one instant did either of them think of the
hopelessness of their passion. Lady Muriel well knew that a marriage
with Stewart Caird was simply impossible; and Stewart Caird knew it
too, possessing at the same time the additional knowledge, that even
if family affairs could have been squared by his coming into the
immediate heritage of fabulous wealth, there was yet a slight drawback
in the fact that his lungs could not possibly hold out beyond six
months. And yet they went on loving and fooling: to her the mere fact
that there could never be any ties between them was, as it always has
been, an incentive to a quasi-romantic attachment; to him, with the
perfect conviction that he was a doomed man, the love of a pretty
high-bred woman softened the terrors of death, and prevented him from
dwelling on his fate. So they went on; the world taking little heed of
them, and they ignoring the world; he growing weaker and weaker, but
always disguising his weakness, until one night in the height of the
season, when Lady Muriel, dressed for a ball, received a short
pencil-note, feebly scrawled: "If you would see me before I die, come
at once.--S.C. You know me well enough to be certain that this is no
romantic figure of speech." The writing, feeble throughout, trailed
off at last into scarcely legible characters. Lady Muriel wrote one
hasty line to the lady who was to be her chaperon, pleading illness as
her excuse for not fetching her, threw a thick cloak and hood over her
ball-dress and her ivy-wreathed hair, and told the coachman, who was
devoted to her, to drive her to Old-square, Lincoln's-inn. There,
propped up by pillows, and attended by a hired nurse, who was by no
means reluctant to take a hint, and, accompanied by a spirit-bottle,
to betake herself to a further room, she found poor Stewart Caird,
with large bistre rings round his eyes and two flaming red spots on
his hollow cheeks. Between the attacks of a racking cough, he told her
that his end was nigh; that he had long foreseen it, but that he could
not deny himself the privilege of winning her love. He acknowledged
the selfishness of the act; but trusted she would pardon him, when he
assured her that the knowledge that she cared for him had
inexpressibly lightened the last few months of his earthly career, and
that he should die more happily, knowing that he left one regretful
heart behind him. He said this in a voice which was tolerably firm at
first, but which, touched by her sobs, grew more and more tremulous,
and finally broke down, when, in an access of emotion, she flung her
arms round him, and clasped him to her heart. How long they remained
thus tranced in love and grief neither ever knew; it was the first,
the last wild access of passion that ever was to accrue to either. The
future, so imminent to one of them at least, was unthought of, and
they lived but in the then present fleeting moment, But before they
parted Stewart spoke to Muriel of his younger brother Ramsay, who had
been left to his care, and whom he was now leaving to the mercy of the
world. For Muriel there was, he said he was persuaded, a career in
life. When it fell to her, when she was enjoying it, would she, for
the sake of him who had loved her--ah, so deeply and so dearly!--whose
life she had cheered, and who with his dying breath would call upon
and bless her name--would she watch over and provide for Ramsay Caird?
With the dying man's hand in hers, with her arm round his neck, with
her eyes looking into his, even then glazed and wandering, Muriel
swore to fulfil his wishes, and to undertake this charge. Within
forty-eight hours Stewart Caird was dead; within six weeks after his
death Muriel Inchgarvie was the pledged wife of Kilsyth; and within a
fortnight of her betrothal she had hit upon a plan for the future of
her dead lover's brother.

Ramsay Caird's future career in life was, as Lady Muriel decided, to
be one with Madeleine Kilsyth's, and his fortune was to come to him
through his wife. Madeleine's godfather, a childless, rich, old
Highland proprietor, an old friend and neighbour of Kilsyth's, had at
his death left her twenty thousand pounds, to be hers on her coming of
age, or on her marrying with her father's consent. A pleasant
competence in itself, but a princely fortune for a young man of small
ideas like Ramsay Caird, who was earning a very precarious salary,
given to him more from kindness than from any deserts of his, in the
office of the Edinburgh agent to several large estates. Soon after her
marriage Lady Muriel sent for the young man to Kilsyth, found him
gentlemanly and unassuming, sufficiently shrewd to comprehend the
extremely delicate hints which she gave him as to the course which she
wished him to adopt, and sufficiently delicate to prevent his at once
plunging _in medias res_. Since then he had been frequently at
Kilsyth, and had done his best to make himself agreeable to Madeleine.
He was a good-looking, gentlemanly, quiet young man, without very much
to say for himself, beyond the ordinary society talk, in which he was
fairly glib; he had the names of all the members of all the families
for whom his principal was agent at his tongue's end; had seen many of
them personally,--even knew the appearance of the rest by photograph;
kept himself well posted in their movements, through the medium of the
fashionable journals; and so could fairly hold his own in the
conversation of the people he was thrown amongst. Lady Muriel, who was
as clever as she was proud and ambitious, reckoned Ramsay Caird up to
a nicety; saw exactly how far he was suitable for her plans, and
thought there was little doubt of Madeleine's being captivated by the
handsome glib young man who paid her such respectful homage. But for
once in her life Lady Muriel was wrong. It is but fair to say that
Ramsay Caird never neglected one of the opportunities so frequently
thrown in his way; that he never once committed himself in any
possible manner; that he did not on every occasion seek to recommend
himself to the girl's favour; but it is certain that he failed in
making the smallest impression on her. Lady Muriel, watching the
progress of affairs with the greatest interest, soon felt this, and
was at first dispirited; afterwards consoling herself by the thought
that the girl was passionless and devoid of feeling, but so docile
withal, that it would be only necessary for her father to suggest her
acceptance of Mr. Caird for her at once to fall into the idea.
Thoroughly comforted by this notion, Lady Muriel had of late given
herself no uneasiness in the matter; contenting herself by asking
Ramsay Caird to spend a week or two now and then at Kilsyth, by
throwing him frequently into Madeleine's society when there, and by
keeping up a perpetual gently flowing perennial stream of laudation of
her young _protégé_ to her husband.

On Wilmot's return to the house, he inquired whether it would be
convenient to Lady Muriel to receive him.

"My lady" was in her own sitting-room, and would be very happy to see
Dr. Wilmot. So, he went thither, and found the mistress of the mansion
alone, and looking to very great advantage in the midst of all the
luxuries and refinements with which wealth--in this instance aided by
good taste--adorns life. Her rich and simple dress, her finished
graceful ease of manner, her sunny beauty, and the perfect propriety
with which she expressed interest and anxiety concerning her
stepdaughter, made her a very attractive object to Wilmot. He had not
yet discovered that she did not in the least experience the sentiments
which she glibly expressed in phrases of irreproachable _tournure_; he
did not suspect her of insincerity or want of feeling, or in fact of
any fault. Everything and everybody at Kilsyth wore the best and
fairest of aspects in the eyes of Chudleigh Wilmot, who was,
nevertheless, a very far-seeing and an eminently practical man. Thus,
he only furnished another proof of the often-proven truth, that his
most distinguishing qualities are the first to fail a man, when
judgment is superseded by passion. That is a strong word to use in
such a case as Chudleigh Wilmot's, at least to use so soon; but the
boundary between the feeling which he entertained knowingly, and the
passion which was growing out of it unconsciously, was very slight,
and was destined so soon to be destroyed that the word may pass
unblamed.

The earlier portion of Lady Muriel Kilsyth's conversation with Wilmot
was naturally devoted to Madeleine. She thanked him, with all her own
peculiar grace and fluency, for his attention, his "priceless care,"
for his resolution, which Kilsyth had communicated to her, to remain
with them in this great trouble. She asked him to tell her his "real
opinion;" and he told it. He told her Madeleine was in danger; but
that he hoped, and thought, and believed, her life would be saved. He
spoke with earnestness and feeling; and as he dwelt upon the youth,
the beauty, and the sufferings of the girl, upon her exceeding
preciousness to her father (and gave Lady Muriel credit for sharing
her husband's feelings far beyond what she deserved), the soft dark
eyes fixed themselves upon him with much interest and curiosity. Deep
feeling on any subject was unfamiliar to Lady Muriel; it was not the
habit of her society, or included in the scheme of her own
organisation, and she liked it for its strangeness. Their
conversation lasted long; for when Wilmot was summoned to see his
patient, Lady Muriel invited him to come again to her sitting-room;
and he did so. The question of sending her children away was speedily
decided in the negative; and then the talk rambled on over a great
variety of subjects, and Lady Muriel regarded Wilmot with increasing
interest and surprise, as she discovered more and more of his
originality and fertility of mind. She was not a remarkably clever
woman; but she had more brains and more cultivation than were at all
common among her "set;" and she did occasionally grow very weary of
the well-bred vapid talk, which was the only form of social
intercourse assumed in her circle. She had sometimes wondered whether
something better was not to be found in the limits within which it
would be proper for her to seek for it; but she had stopped at
wonderment; she had not followed it up by effort; and now the very
thing she had wished for had come to her, in the most unexpected form,
and through the most unlikely channel. A doctor, a man whose name she
had merely casually heard, an outsider, one whom in the ordinary
course of events she would have never met, is called in to attend her
stepdaughter in fever, and all at once a new world opens upon Lady
Muriel Kilsyth.

She was quick to receive impressions; and she felt at once that this
day marked an epoch in her life. As this fine-looking, keen,
intelligent man, in whose deep-set eyes, on whose massive forehead
power was enthroned, bent those dark steady eyes upon her, seeming to
read her soul, the frivolity of her life fell away from her, like a
flimsy garment discarded, and she felt, she recognised the charm of
superiority of intellect and strength of character. She drew him out
on the subjects which had the deepest interest for him, as a woman
can, who has tact and perfect manners, even when her intellectual
powers are in no way remarkable; and he enjoyed the happy sociable
hours of the long, uninterrupted afternoon as much, or nearly as much,
as she did. Lady Muriel was too quick and too true an observer to fail
in discerning, before they had strayed very far into the pleasant
paths of their desultory discourse, that there was very little
sentimentality in Chudleigh Wilmot. A practical man, full of action,
of ambition, of love of knowledge, and resolve to win the highest
prizes it could bring him, he yet spoke and looked like a man whose
feelings had been but little tried, and who would be slow to try them.
Lady Muriel knew that Chudleigh Wilmot was a married man. The
circumstance had been mentioned among the people in the house when he
had first been talked of; and she was the first at Kilsyth to ask of
herself, for she had no other to whom to address it, that frequent
question, "What sort of woman is Chudleigh Wilmot's wife?" She could
not have explained, but she did not question, the instinct which led
her to say, as she went to her dressing-room, when their long colloquy
at length came to a conclusion, "I am sure he does not care for her. I
am sure it was not a love-match. I feel convinced he never was in love
in his life, not in any real sense." And then, Lady Muriel Kilsyth
sighed. Life was not yet an old story for either Lady Muriel or
hudleigh.

That evening Wilmot devoted himself to the patient, whose state was
highly precarious; and though he sent reassuring messages to Kilsyth
from time to time, he expressed far more hopefulness than he actually
felt. He was conscious too of a strange sort of relief--a
consciousness which should have shown him how he had deceived
himself--as the conviction that his presence was indeed in the highest
degree beneficial was confirmed by every passing hour. The girl's
eyes--now bright and wandering, now dark and weary--turned in search
of him, in every phase of the fever that was gaining on her, with such
innocent trust and belief as touched him keenly to his conscious
heart. In the stillness of the night, when the very nurse slept, the
physician bent down over the flushed face, and hushed the murmuring
incoherent voice with the tenderest words, and soothed the sick
girl--little more than a child she looked in her hopelessness and
unrest--with all a woman's gentleness. What did he feel for the pretty
young creature thus thrown on his skill, his kindness, his mercy! What
revolution was the silent flight of time, during the hours of that
night, working in Chudleigh Wilmot's life? He was learning the reality
of that in which he had never believed; he was learning the truth of
love. Now, when it was too late, when every barrier of honour, of
honesty, of duty, and of principle stood between him and the object of
the long-deferred, but terribly real, passion which took possession of
him.

When the dawn was stealing into the sick girl's room, the change, the
chill, which come with that ghastly hour to sickness and to health
alike, in wakefulness, came to Madeleine, and she called in a high
querulous tone for her father. The nurse, then beside her, tried to
soothe the girl; but vainly. She refused to lie down; she must, she
would see her father. Wilmot, who knew that she was quite sensible,
quite coherent, and who had feared to startle her by letting her see
him, now came forward, and gently laid her back upon her pillow.

"You shall see your father in the morning," he said. "I am sure you
would not have him disturbed now, my dear; would you?"

"No," she said, with a painful smile; "I would not--certainly not. I
only wanted to know something; and you will tell me."

Her large blue eyes were fixed upon him; her small hand was stretched
out to him with the frankness of a child.

"Of course, if I can, I will tell you."

"Sit down, then," she said, in the thick difficult voice peculiar to
the disease which had hold of her.

He did not sit down, but knelt upon the floor by the bedside, and
raised the pillows on his arm. Her innocent face was close to his.

"Speak as low as you like; I can hear you," said Chudleigh Wilmot.

"I will," she whispered. "I thank you. I only wanted to ask my
father--and I would rather ask you--if--if I am going to die."

Her lips were trembling. His sight grew dim as he answered:

"No, my dear. You are very ill; but you are not going to die. You are
going to get well--not immediately, but before long. You must be
patient, you know; and you must do everything you are desired to do."

"I will when I am sensible," she said; "but I am not always sensible,
you know."

"I know. You are quite sensible now, and the best patient I ever had.
A great deal depends on yourself. I don't mean about not dying; I mean
about getting well sooner. Will you try now how long, being quite
sensible, you can keep quiet?"

"I will," she answered, looking at him with the strange solemn gaze we
see so often in the eyes of a child in mortal sickness. "I am so glad,
Dr. Wilmot, you are sure I am not going to die."

Not a shade of doubt of him; perfect trust in him, entire calm and
serenity in the unruffled feeble voice. Her hand lay loosely in his,
undisturbed except by an occasional feverish twitch; her head was
supported by his arm, which held the pillows; his serious eyes scanned
her face. So he knelt and so she lay as the dawn came; so he knelt and
so she lay as the first rays of the sun came glancing in through the
closed window-curtains; but they found the patient sleeping, and the
steady watch of the physician umrelaxed.


So time passed, and Madeleine's illness took its course, and was met
and fought and beaten at every turn by the skill and judgment, the
coolness and the experience of the "rising man." So unwearied a
watcher had never been seen in a sick-room; so cheerful a counsellor
and consoler had rarely been sent to friends and relatives in anxiety
and suspense. He was appreciated at his worth at Kilsyth. As for
Kilsyth himself, he reverenced, he esteemed, he next to worshipped
Wilmot, holding him as almost superhuman. The nurse "had never seen
such a doctor as him in all her born days, never; and not severe
neither; but knowing as the best and wakefullest must have their
little bit of rest at times." He won golden opinions from all within
the old walls of Kilsyth, and more than all from its mistress.

On the whole, and despite his close and devoted attendance on his
patient, Chudleigh Wilmot saw a great deal of Lady Muriel, and an
infinite number of topics were discussed between them. Each day
brought more extended, more appreciative comprehension of her guest to
the by no means dull intellect of Lady Muriel; and each day quickened
her womanly perception and kindled her already keen and ready
jealousy. When many days had gone by, and Lady Muriel would no longer
have dreamed of denying to herself how much she admired Wilmot,--how
utterly different he was from any other man whom she had ever known;
how much more interesting, how much more engrossing, a man to be
looked up to and respected; a man to suffice to all a woman's need of
reverence and deference,--she would still have been far from
acknowledging that she loved him; but her acknowledgment or her denial
would have made no difference in the fact. She did love him, in a
lofty and reserved kind of way, in which no slur upon her honour,
according to the world's code, which takes cognisance only of the
letter of the law and ignores its spirit, was implied; but with all
her heart she loved him.

So now the situation was this. Chudleigh Wilmot loved one woman within
the walls of the old mansion of Kilsyth; and another woman, their
inmate, loved him. Would she--the other, the older, the more
experienced woman--discover his secret, and overwhelm him with its
disgrace? Time alone could tell that--time, of which there was not
much to run; for Wilmot had been a fortnight at Kilsyth before he
could give its master the joyful intelligence that the fever had
relaxed its grip of his child, and--barring the always present danger
in scarlet-fever of relapse, or what is technically called
"dregs"--Madeleine was safe.

Mabel Wilmot had written to her husband occasionally during the
fortnight which had witnessed the rise and the crisis of Miss
Kilsyth's illness. In her letters, which were few and sparing of
details, she never alluded to the cause of her husband's unprecedented
absence; Wilmot did not notice the omission. She gave him few details
concerning herself; Wilmot did not observe their paucity. The glamour
was over him; the enchanted land held him.

"I am not feeling much better," said Mabel in one of her letters; "but
I daresay--indeed I have no doubt--the weather is against me;
Whittaker thinks so too. I enclose his report. There is nothing new
here, or of importance."

Chudleigh Wilmot accepted his wife's account of the state of things at
home, and replied to her letters in his usual strain. He had failed to
notice that she never alluded to Miss Kilsyth; or he would hardly have
dealt with so much emphasis, or at such length, on the details of a
case to which the recipient of his letters manifested such complete
indifference.

Dr. Whittaker continued to report upon the cases to which he had been
called in; and no more telegrams interrupted the concentration of
Chudleigh Wilmot's attention upon the illness and convalescence of
Madeleine Kilsyth.



CHAPTER VI.
At Kilsyth.


The routine of illness and anxiety, the dull monotony of an absorbing
care, had rapidly settled down upon Kilsyth, immensely alleviated, of
course, by the confidence imposed by Wilmot's presence. The influence
of his skill, the insensible support of his calmness and
self-reliance, were felt all through the household by those members of
it to whom the life or death of Madeleine was a matter of infinite
importance, and by those who felt a decent amount of interest, but
could have commanded their feelings readily enough. As for Wilmot
himself, he would have found it difficult to account for the
absorption of feeling and interest with which he watched the case, had
he been called upon to render any account of it to others. In his own
mind he shirked the question, and simply devoted himself day and night
to his patient, leaving the house only once a day for a brief time,
during which he would stride up and down the terrace in front of the
house, gulping in all the fresh air he could inhale; and then his
place in the sick-chamber was taken by an old woman, who had years
before been Madeleine's nurse, and who was now married and settled on
the estate. Not since the old days of his house-surgeonship at St.
Vitus's had Chudleigh Wilmot had such a spell of duty as this: the
fact of his giving up his time in this manner to a girl with whom he
had not exchanged twenty words, with whose friends he had no previous
acquaintance, in whom he could have no possible interest, came upon
him frequently in his enforced exercise on the terrace, in his long
weary vigils in the sick-room; and each time that he thought it over,
he felt or pronounced it to himself to be more and more inexplicable.
In London he made it an inexorable rule never to leave his bed at
night, unless the person sending for him were a regular patient, no
matter what might be their position in life, or the exigency of their
case; and even among his own connection he kept strictly to
consultation and prescription; he undertook no practical work, there
were apothecaries and nurses for that sort of thing. He had a list of
both, whom he could recommend, but he himself never paid any attention
to such matters. And here he was acting as a combination of physician,
apothecary, and nurse, dispensing the necessary medicines from the
family medicine-chest, sitting up all night, concocting soothing
drinks, and smoothing hot and uneasy pillows.

Why? Chudleigh Wilmot had asked himself that question a thousand
times, and had not yet found the answer to it. Beauty in distress--and
this girl, for all her mass of golden hair and her bright complexion
and her blue eyes, could only be called pretty--beauty in distress was
no more strange to Chudleigh Wilmot than to the hero of nautical
melodrama at a transpontine theatre. He was constantly being called in
to cases where he saw girls as young and as pretty as Madeleine
Kilsyth "hove down in the bay of sickness," as the said nautical
dramatic hero forcibly expresses it. Scarcely a day passed that he was
not for some few minutes by the couch of some woman of far superior
attractions to this young girl, and yet of whom he had never thought
in any but the most thoroughly professional manner, listening to her
complaints, marking her symptoms, prescribing his remedies, and
entering up the visit in his note-book, as he whirled away in his
carriage, as methodically as a City accountant. But he had never felt
in his life as he felt one bright afternoon when the wild delirium had
spent its rage and died away, and the doctor sat by the girl's
bedside, and held her hand, no longer dry and parched with fever, and
bent over her to catch the low faint accents of her voice.

"You don't know me, Miss Kilsyth," said he gently, as he saw her dazed
by looking up into his face.

"O yes," said Madeleine, in ever so low a voice,--"O yes; you are
Doctor--Doctor--I cannot recollect your name; but I know you were sent
for, and I saw you before--before I was--"

"Before you were so ill; quite right, my dear young lady. I am Dr.
Wilmot, and you have been very ill; but you are better now,
and--please God--will soon be well."

"Dr. Wilmot! O yes, I recollect. But, please, don't think because I
could not recall your name that I did not know you. I have known you
all through this--this attack. I have had an indefinable sense of your
presence about me; always kind and thoughtful and attentive, always
soothing, and--"

"Hush, my dear child, hush! you must not talk and excite yourself just
yet. You have had, as you probably know, a very sharp attack of
illness; and you must keep thoroughly quiet, to enable us to perfect
your recovery."

"Then I'll only ask one question and say one thing. The question
first--How is papa?"

"Horribly nervous about you, but very well. Constant in his tappings
at this door, unremitting in his desire to be admitted; to which
requests I have been obdurate. However, when he hears the turn things
have taken, he will be reassured."

"That's delightful! Now, then, all I have to say is to thank you, and
pray God to bless you for your kindness to me. I've known it, though
you mayn't think so, and--and I'm very weak now; but--"

He had his strong arm round her, and managed to lay her back quietly
on her pillow, or she would have fainted. As it was, when the bright
blue eyes withdrew from his, the light died out of them, and the lids
dropped over them, and Madeleine lay thoroughly exhausted after her
excitement.

What _was_ the reminiscence thus aroused? What ghost with folded hands
came stealing out of the dim regions of the past at the sound of this
girl's voice, at the glance of this girl's eyes? What bygone memories,
so apart from everything else, rose before him as he listened and as
he looked? He had not hit the trail yet, but he was close upon it.

The news that the extremity of danger was past was received with great
delight by the guests at Kilsyth. With most of them Madeleine was a
personal favourite, and all of them felt that a death in the house
would have been a serious personal inconvenience. The Northallertons,
Lady Fairfax, and Lord Towcester, were the only seceders; the others
either had arranged for later visits elsewhere, or found their present
quarters far too comfortable to be given up on the mere chance of
catching an infectious disorder. Some of them had had it, and laughed
securely; others feared that from the mere fact of their having been
in the house when the attack took place, they were so "compromised" as
to prevent their being received elsewhere; and one or two actually had
the charity to think of their host and hostess, and stayed to keep
them company, and to be of any service in case they might be required.
Charley Jefferson belonged to this last class. Emily Fairfax little
knew that by her selfish flight from Kilsyth she had entirely thrown
away all her hold over the great honest heart that had so long held
her image enshrined as its divinity. She never gave a thought to the
fact that when the big Guardsman used to hum in a deep baritone voice
the refrain of a little song of hers--


     "Loyal je serai
      Durant ma vie"--


he was expressing one of the guiding sentiments of his life. Colonel
Jefferson was essentially loyal; to shrink from a friend who was in a
difficulty, to shuffle out of supporting in purse, person, or any way
in which it might be requisite, a comrade who had a claim of old
acquaintance or strong intimacy, was in his eyes worse than the
majority of crimes for which people stand at the dock of the Old
Bailey. In this matter he never swerved for an instant. He never gave
the question of infection a thought; he had had scarlet-fever at Eton,
and jungle-fever out in India, and he was as case-hardened, he said,
as a rhinoceros. He took no credit to himself for being fearless of
infection, or indeed for anything else, this brave simple-minded good
fellow; but if anyone had been able to see the working of his heart,
they would have known what credit he deserved for holding to his grand
old creed of loyalty to his friend, and for ignoring the whispers of
the siren, even when she was as fascinating and potential as Emily
Fairfax. When some one asked if he were going, he laughed a great
sardonic guffaw, and affected to treat the question as a joke. When
the disease was pronounced to be unmistakably infectious, he at once
constituted himself as a means of communication between Dr. Wilmot and
the outer world; and his honour and loyalty enabled him to face the
fact that probably little Lord Towcester had followed Lady Fairfax to
her next visiting place, and was there administering consolation to
her with great equanimity. When Dr. Wilmot came out for his
half-hour's stride up and down the terrace, he generally found the
Colonel and Duncan Forbes waiting for him; and these three would pace
away together, the two _militaires_ chatting gaily on light subjects
calculated to relieve the tedium of the doctor, and to turn his
thoughts into pleasanter channels, until it was time for him to go
back to his duty. And when the worst was over, and Chudleigh Wilmot
could have longer and more frequent intervals of absence from the
sick-room, it was Charley Jefferson who proposed that they should
establish a kind of mess in the smoking-room, where the Doctor, who
necessarily debarred himself from communion with the others at the
dinner-table, might yet enjoy the social converse of such as were
not afraid of infection. So a dinner-table was organised in the
smoking-room, and Jefferson and Duncan Forbes invited themselves to
dine with the Doctor. They were the next day joined by Mrs. Severn,
who had all along wished to devote herself to the invalid, and had
with the greatest difficulty been restrained from establishing herself
_en permanence_ as nurse in Madeleine's chamber; and Mr. Pitcairn
asked for and obtained permission to join the party, and proved to
have such a talent for imitation and such a stock of quaint Scotch
stories as made him a very valuable addition to it. So the "Condemned
Cell," as its denizens called it, prospered immensely; and by no means
the least enjoyment in the house emanated from it.

Lady Muriel, seeing more and more of Wilmot, as the closeness of his
attendance on his patient became relaxed by her advance towards
convalescence, and studying him with increased attention, learned to
regard him with feelings such as no man of her numerous and varied
acquaintance had ever before inspired her with. The impression he had
made upon her in the first interview was not removed or weakened, and
he presented himself to her mind--which was naturally inquiring, and
possessed considerably more intelligence than she had occasion to use,
in a general way, in her easy-going, prosperous, and conventional
life--in the light of an interesting and remunerative study.

Lady Muriel's faultlessly good manners precluded the indulgence of any
perceptible absence of mind; and she possessed the enviable faculty
which some women of the world exhibit in such perfection, of carrying,
or rather helping, on a conversation to which she was not in reality
giving attention, and in which she did not feel the smallest particle
of interest. The gallant _militaires_, the dashing sportsmen, the
_grands seigneurs_, and the ladies of distinction who were among her
associates, and the gentlemen, at least of the number of her admirers,
were accustomed to regard Lady Muriel's powers of conversation as
something quite out of the common way; and so indeed they were--only
these simpleminded and ingenuous individuals did not quite understand
the direction taken by their uncommonness. It never occurred to them
to calculate how much of her talking Lady Muriel did by means of
intelligent acquiescent looks, graceful little bows, sprightly
exclamations, a judicious expression of intense interest in the
subject under discussion when it chanced to be personal to the other
party to the discourse, and sundry other skilful and effective
feminine devices. It never dawned upon them that one half the time she
did not hear, and during the whole time she did not care, what was
said; that her graceful manner was merely manner, and her real state
of mind one of complete indifference to themselves and almost everyone
besides. Not that Lady Muriel was an unhappy woman. Far from it. She
was too sensible to be unhappy without just cause; and she certainly
had not that. She perfectly appreciated her remarkably comfortable lot
in life; she estimated wealth, station, domestic tranquillity and
respect, and the unbounded power which she exercised in her household
domain, quite as highly as they deserved to be estimated; and though
as free from vulgarity of mind as from vulgarity of manner, she was
not in the least likely to affect any sentimental humility or mistake
about her own social advantages. She could as easily have bragged
about them as forgotten them; but just because she held them for what
they were worth, and did not exaggerate or depreciate them, Lady
Muriel was given to absence of mind; and though neither unhappy, nor
imagining herself so, she was occasionally bored, and acknowledged it.
Only to herself though. Lady Muriel Kilsyth had no confidantes, no
intimacies. Hers was the equable kind of prosperous life which did not
require any; and she was the last woman in the world to acknowledge a
weakness which her truly admirable manners gave her power most
successfully to conceal.

The touch of sorrow or anxiety is a sovereign remedy for _ennui_. It
will succeed when all the resources to which the victims of that fell
disease are accustomed to have recourse fail ignominiously. If Lady
Muriel had loved Madeleine Kilsyth, the girl's illness would have put
boredom to flight, with the first flush or shiver of fever, the first
dimness of the eyes, the first tone of complaint in the clear young
voice. But Lady Muriel did not love Madeleine, and did not pretend to
herself that she loved her. Indeed Lady Muriel never pretended to
herself. She had seen and understood that to deceive oneself is at
once much easier and more dangerous than to deceive other people, and
she avoided doing so on principle--on the worldly-wise principle, that
is, by which she so admirably regulated her life--and reaped a rich
harvest of popularity. She did not dislike the girl at all, and she
would have been very sorry if she had died, partly for the sake of
Kilsyth, whom she really liked and admired, and who would have broken
his stout simple heart for his daughter--"much sooner and more surely
than for me," Lady Muriel thought; "but that is quite natural, and as
it should be. She is the child of his first love, and I am his second
wife, and he is quite as fond of me as I want him to be;"--for she was
a thoroughly sensible woman, and would much rather not have had more
love than she could reciprocate. But she was perfectly equable and
composed. Throughout Madeleine's illness it did not cause her sorrow,
though her manner conveyed precisely the proper degree of stepmotherly
concern which was called for under the circumstances; and she did not
suffer from anxiety, being rationally satisfied that all the skill,
care, and indulgence demanded by the exigencies of the case were
liberally bestowed on Madeleine. Anxiety was quite uncalled for, and
therefore did not chase away the brooding spirit of _ennui_ from Lady
Muriel.

The first thing that struck her particularly with regard to Chudleigh
Wilmot was that she did not experience any sense of boredom in his
presence. In fact it dissipated that ordinarily prevailing malady; she
was really interested in everything he talked about, really charmed by
the manner in which he talked, and had no need whatever to draw on the
ever-ready resources of her manner and _savoir faire_.

When Wilmot began to make his appearance freely among the small party
at Kilsyth, and, after the usual inquiries--in which the serious and
impressive tone at first observed was gradually discarded--to enter
into general conversation, and to exercise all the very considerable
powers which he possessed of making himself agreeable, Lady Muriel
found out and admitted that this was the pleasantest time of the day.
The interval between this discovery and her finding herself longing
for the arrival of that time--dwelling upon all its incidents when she
was alone, making it a central point in her life, in fact--was very
brief.

With this new feeling came all the keen perception, the close
observation, and the nascent suspicion which could not fail to
accompany it, in such a "thorough" organisation as that of Lady
Muriel. She began to take notice of everything concerning Wilmot, to
observe all his ways, and to watch with jealous scrutiny the degree of
interest he displayed in all his surroundings at Kilsyth.

As Madeleine progressed in her recovery, Lady Muriel looked for some
decline in the physician's absorption in the interest of her case. He
would be less punctual, less constant in his attendance upon her; he
would be more susceptible to influences from the outside world: he
would be anxious to get away perhaps--at least he would no longer be
indifferent to professional duties elsewhere; he would begin to weigh
their respective claims, and would recognise the preponderance of
those at a distance over that which he had already satisfied more than
fully, more than conscientiously, with a fulness and expansion of
sympathy and devotion rare indeed.

Wilmot was extremely popular among the little company at Kilsyth.
Wonderfully popular, considering how much he was the intellectual
superior of every man there; but then he was one of those clever men
who never make their talents obnoxious, and are not bent on forcing a
perpetual recognition of their superiority from their associates. He
allowed the people he was with to enjoy all the originality, wit,
knowledge, and good fellowship that was in him, and did not administer
the least alloy of mortification to their pride with it. When Lady
Muriel forcibly acknowledged to herself, and would as frankly have
acknowledged to any one else, if any one else would have asked her a
question on the subject, that she held Dr. Wilmot to be the cleverest
and most agreeable man she had ever met, she did but echo a sentiment
which had found general expression among the party assembled at
Kilsyth.

As the days went by, Lady Muriel began to feel certain misgivings
relative to Wilmot. She did not quite like his look, his manner, when
he spoke of Madeleine. She did not consider it altogether natural that
he should never weary of Kilsyth's garrulity on the subject of his
darling daughter. The physician, taking rest from his long and anxious
watch, might well be excused if he had tired a little of questions and
replies about every symptom, every variation, and of endless stories
of the girl's childhood, and laudation of her beauty, her virtues, and
her filial love and duty. But Dr. Wilmot never tired of these things;
he would, on the contrary, bring back the discourse to them, if it
strayed away, as it would do under Lady Muriel's direction; and
moreover she noticed, that no circumstances, no social temptation had
power to detain him a moment from his patient, when the time he had
set for his return to her side had arrived.

Taking all these things into consideration, and combining them with
certain indications which she had noticed about Madeleine herself,
Lady Muriel began to think the return of Dr. Wilmot to London
advisable, and to perceive in its being deferred very serious risk to
her scheme for the endowment of her young kinsman with the hand and
fortune of her stepdaughter. She was not altogether comfortable about
its success, to begin with. Ramsay Caird had not as yet made
satisfactory progress in Madeleine's favour. It was not because the
girl had no power of loving in her that she had listened without the
smallest shadow of emotion to Mr. Ramsay Caird, but simply because Mr.
Ramsay Caird had not had the tact, or the talent, or the requisite
qualifications, or the good fortune to arouse the power of loving him
in her. Lady Muriel was far too quick an observer, far too learned a
student of human nature, not to read at a glance all that her
stepdaughter's looks revealed; and her knowledge of life at once
informed her of the danger to her scheme. What was to be done? Wilmot
must be got rid of, must be sent away without loss of time. His
business was over, and he must go. That must be treated as a matter of
course. He was called in as a professional man to exercise his
profession; and the necessity of any further exercise of it having
terminated, his visit was necessarily at an end. No possible suspicion
of her real reason for wishing to get rid of him could arise. A
married man, of excellent reputation, accustomed to being brought into
the closest contact with women of all ages in the exercise of his
profession--why, people would shout with laughter at the idea of her
bringing forward any idea of his flirtation with a girl like
Madeleine! And Kilsyth himself--nothing, not even the influence which
she possessed over him, would induce him for an instant to believe any
such story. It was very ridiculous; it must be her own imagination;
and yet--No; there was no mistaking it, that girl's look; she could
see it even then. Even if Ramsay Caird were not in question, it was a
matter which, for Madeleine's own sake, must be quietly but firmly put
an end to. Immensely gratified by this last idea--for there is nothing
which so pleases us as the notion that we can gratify our own
inclinations and simultaneously do our duty, possibly because the
opportunities so rarely arise--Lady Muriel sought her husband, and
found him busily inspecting a new rifle which had just arrived from
London. After praising his purchase, and talking over a few ordinary
matters, Lady Muriel said shortly:

"By the way, Alick, how much longer are we to be honoured by the
company of Dr. Wilmot?"

The inquiry seemed to take Kilsyth aback, more from the tone in which
it was uttered than its purport, and he said hesitatingly,

"Dr. Wilmot! Why, my dear? He must stay as long as Madeleine--I
mean--but have you any objection to his being here?"

"Il Not the least in the world; only he seems to me to be in an
anomalous position. Very likely his social talents are very great, but
we get no advantage of them; and as for his professional skill--for
which, I suppose, he was called here--there is no longer any need of
that. Madeleine is out of all danger, and is on the fair way to
health."

"You think so?"

"I'm sure of it. But, at all events, any doubt on that point could be
dissipated by asking the Doctor himself."

"My dearest Muriel, wouldn't that be a little _brusque_, eh?"

"My dear Alick, you don't seem to see that very probably this
gentleman is wishing himself far away, but does not exactly know how
to make his adieux. A man in a practice like Dr. Wilmot's, however we
may remunerate him for his visit here, and however agreeable it may be
to him" (Lady Muriel could not resist giving way in this little bit),
"must lose largely while attending on us. He is a gentleman, and
consequently too delicate to touch on such a point; but it is one, I
think, which should be taken into consideration."

Lady Muriel had had too long experience of her husband not to know the
points of his armour. The last thrust was a sure one, and went home.

"I should be very sorry," said Kilsyth, with a little additional
colour in his bronzed cheeks, "to think that I was the cause of
preventing Dr. Wilmot's earning more money, or advancing himself in
his profession. We owe him a deep debt of gratitude for what he has
done; but perhaps now, as you say, Madeleine is out of danger; and may
be safely left to the care of Dr. Joyce. I'll speak to Dr. Wilmot, my
dear Muriel, and make it all right on that point."



CHAPTER VII.
Brooding.


The effect of her husband's letter on Mrs. Wilmot's mind, strengthened
by the view taken of its contents by Henrietta Prendergast, was of the
most serious and injurious nature. Hitherto the unhappiness which had
possessed her had been negative--had been literally unhappiness, the
absence of joy; but from the hour she read Wilmot's letter, and talked
over it with her friend, all that was negative in her state of mind
changed to the positive. Hitherto she had been jealous--jealous as
only a woman of a thoroughly proud, sensitive, secretive, and sullen
nature can be--of an abstraction. Her husband's profession was the
_bête noir_ of her existence, was the barrier between her and the
happiness for which she vainly longed and pined. She had looked around
her, and seen other women whose husbands were also working bees in the
world's great hive; but their work did not absorb them to the
exclusion of home interests, and the deadening of the sweet and
blessed sympathies which lent happiness all its glow, and robbed
sorrow of half its gloom. Her husband had never spoken an unkind word
to her in his life, had never refused her a request, or denied her a
pleasure; but he had never spoken a word to her which told her that
the first place in his life was hers; he had never cared to anticipate
a request or to share a pleasure. To a woman like Mabel Wilmot, in
whose character there was a strong though wholly unsuspected element
of romance, there was an inexhaustible source of suffering in these
facts, combined with her husband's proverbial devotion to his
profession. Not a clever woman, thoroughly conventional in all her
ideas, without a notion of the possibility of altering the routine of
her life to any pattern which might take her fancy, a dreamer, and
incurably shy, especially with him, who never discerned that there was
anything beneath the surface of her placid, equable, rather cold
manner to be understood, she had ample materials within herself for
misery; and she had always made the most of them.

An incalculable addition had been made to her store by Wilmot's
letter, and Henrietta Prendergast's comments. Mabel wrote to Mr.
Foljambe, under the observation and by the dictation of her friend,
merely repeating the words of her husband's letter; and during that
performance, and the ensuing conversation, she had felt sufficiently
black and bitter to have satisfied any fiend who might have been
waiting about for the chance of gratifying his malignity by the coming
to grief of human affairs. But it was when she was left alone, when
her friend had gone away, and she was in her solitary room--all the
trivial occupations of the day at an end, and only the long hours of
the night, often sleepless hours to her, to be faced--that she gave
way to the intensity of the bitterness of her spirit; that she looked
into and sounded the darkness and the depth of the gulf of sorrow
which had opened before her feet.

That her husband sought and found all his happiness in the duties of
his profession; that he had no consciousness, comprehension, or care
for the disappointed feelings which occupied her wholly, had been hard
enough to bear--how hard, the lonely woman who had borne the burden
knew; but such a state of things, the state from which only a few
hours divided her, was happy in comparison with that which now opened
suddenly before her. He had neglected her for the profession he
preferred; he was going to neglect his own interests, to depart from
his accustomed law of life, to throw the best friend he had in the
world over--for a woman: yes, a woman, a sick girl had done what she
had failed to do: she had never swayed his judgment, or turned him
aside from a purpose for a moment; and now he was changed by the touch
of a more potent hand than hers, and there was an end of the old
settled melancholy peacefulness of her life; active wretchedness had
come in, and the repose, dear-bought in its deadness of disappointment
and blight, was all gone.

Mabel Wilmot sat opposite the long glass in her room that night, and
turned the branch-candles so as to throw a full light upon her face,
at which she gazed steadily and long, frowning as she did so. It was a
fair face, and the fresh bloom of youth was still upon it. It was a
face in which a skilful observer might have read strange matters; but
there were none curious to read the story in the face of the pretty
wife of the prosperous rising man. Her eyes were soft and dark, well
shaded by long lashes, and marked by finely-arched eyebrows; and there
were none to see that there was frequent gloom and brooding in their
darkness--a shadow from the gloominess of the soul within. She was
fair rather than pale, and had abundant dark hair; and as she sat and
gazed in the glass, she let its dusky masses loose, and caught them in
her hands. The fair face was not pleasant to look upon; and so she
seemed to think, for she muttered:

"She is very pretty, I suppose, and a great deal younger than I am;
never looks sullen, and has no cause. And yet he's not a man I should
have thought to have been beguiled by any woman. _I_ never beguiled
him, and I was pretty in my time, ay, and _new_ too! And I have lived
in his sight all these years, and he has never sacrificed an hour of
time or thought to me. And now he leaves me without hesitation, though
I am ill. I have not talked about it, to be sure; but what is his
skill worth, if he did not see it in my face and hear it in my voice
without being told! I was not a _case_--I was only his wife; and he
never thought of looking, never thought of caring whether I was ill or
well. I appear at breakfast, and I go out every day; that's quite
enough for him. I wonder if he knew what I suspect, what I should once
have said _I hope_, is the cause; but that is a long time ago. Would
it have made any difference? I don't mean now; of course it would not
now; nothing makes any difference to a man when once his heart is
turned aside, and quite filled by another. I don't think I ever
touched his heart; I know only too well I never filled it."

Mabel Wilmot was right. She had never filled her husband's heart. She
had touched it though, for a time and after a light holiday kind of
fashion, which had subsided when life began in earnest for them, and
which he had laid aside and forgotten, as a boy might have abandoned
and lost sight of the toys with which he had amused himself during a
school vacation. And the girl had been deceived; had built silently in
the inveterately undemonstrative recesses of her heart and fancy a
fairy palace, destined to stand for ever empty. It had been swept and
garnished; but the prince had never come to dwell there: he with busy
feet had passed by on the other side, and she had nothing to do but to
sit and mourn in the empty chambers. She had borne her grief valiantly
until now; she had only known the passive side of it. But that was all
over for ever; and the day that dawned after Wilmot's wife had
received his letter found her a different woman from what she had
been.

"Are you sure you are not ill, Mabel?" asked Mrs. Prendergast the day
after their colloquy over the letter. "You are so black under the
eyes, and your face is so pinched, I fancy you must be ill."

"Not more so than usual," said Mrs. Wilmot shortly.

"Than usual, my dear! What _do_ you mean? Have you been feeling ill
lately?"

"Yes, Henrietta, very ill."

"And have you been doing nothing for yourself? Have you not had
advice?"

"You know I have not. You have seen me very nearly every day, and you
know I have done nothing without your knowledge."

"But Wilmot?" said Mrs. Prendergast.

"O Wilmot! Much he knows and much he cares about me! Don't talk
nonsense, Henrietta. If I were dying, he would not see it while I
could keep on my feet, which, I certainly should do as long as I
could."

"My dear Mabel," remonstrated Henrietta, "do you mean to tell me that,
feeling very ill, you have actually suffered your husband to leave
you? Is that right, Mabel? Is it right to yourself or fair to him?"

"Fair to _him!_" returned Mrs. Wilmot with a scornful emphasis. "The
idea of anything I do being fair or unfair to _him_. I am so important
to him, am I not? His life is so largely influenced by me? Really,
Henrietta, I don't understand you."

"O yes, you do," said her friend; and she seated herself beside her,
and took her feverish hands firmly in hers; "you understand me
perfectly. What is the illness, Mabel? How do you suffer, and why are
you concealing it?"

"I suffer always, and in all ways," said Mabel, twitching her hands
impatiently from her friend's grasp, and averting her face, down which
tears began slowly to trickle. "I have not been well for a long time;
and would not one think that _he_ might have seen it? He can be full
of skill and perception in everyone's case but mine."

Henrietta Prendergast was troubled. She was a woman with an odd kind
of conscience. So long as a fact did not come too forcibly before her,
so long as a duty did not imperatively confront her, she would ignore
it; but she would not do the absolutely, the undeniably wrong, nor
leave the obviously and pressingly right undone. Here was a dilemma.
She believed that Wilmot's ignorance of his wife's state of health was
solely the result of her own studious avoidance of complaint, or of
letting him see, during the short periods of every day that they were
together, that she was suffering in any way. Any man whose perceptions
were not quickened by the inspiration of love would be naturally
deceived by the calm tranquillity of Mrs. Wilmot's manner, which, if
occasionally sullen, was apparently influenced in that direction by
trivial causes,--household annoyances, and so forth. And though
Henrietta Prendergast had a grudge against Chudleigh Wilmot, which was
all the stronger and the more lasting that it was utterly
unreasonable, she could not turn a deaf ear to the promptings of her
conscience, which told her she must speak the truth on his behalf now.

"I must say, Mabel," she began, "that I think it is your own fault that
Wilmot has not perceived your state of health. You have carefully
concealed it from him, and now you are angry at your own success. You
must not continue to act thus, Mabel; you will destroy his happiness
and your own."

"_His_ happiness!" repeated Mrs. Wilmot with indescribable bitterness;
"_his_ happiness _and_ mine! I know nothing about his happiness, or
what he has found it in hitherto, and may find it in for the future. I
only know that it has nothing to do with mine; and that I have no
happiness, and never can have any now."

The sullen conviction in Mabel Wilmot's voice impressed her friend
painfully, and kept her silent for a while. Then she said:

"You are unjust, Mabel. You have concealed your suffering and illness
from me as effectually as from him."

"Do you attempt to compare the cases?" said Mrs. Wilmot with a degree
of passion extremely unusual to her. "I deny that they admit of
comparison. However, there is an end of the subject; let us talk of
something else. If I am not better in a day or so, I can do as Mr.
Foljambe has had to do: I can call in Whittaker, or somebody else. It
does not matter. Let us turn to some more agreeable topic." And the
friends talked of something else. They lunched together, and they went
out driving; they did some very consolatory shopping, and paid a
number of afternoon calls. But Henrietta Prendergast watched her
friend closely and unremittingly; and came to the conclusion that she
was really ill, and also that it was imperatively right her husband
should be informed of the fact. Henrietta dined at Charles-street;
and when the two women were alone in the evening, and the
confidence-producing tea-tray had been removed, she tried to introduce
the interdicted subject. Ordinarily she was anything but a timid
woman, anything but likely to be turned from her purpose; but there
was something new in Mabel's manner, a sad intensity and abstraction,
which puzzled and distressed her, and she had never in her life felt
it so hard to say the things she had determined to say.

Argument and persuasion Mrs. Wilmot took very ill; and at length her
friend told her, in an accent of resolution, that she had made up her
mind as to her own course of action.

"It is wrong to leave Wilmot in ignorance, Mabel," she said; "wrong to
him and wrong to you. If only a little of all you have acknowledged to
me were the matter with you, it would still be wrong to conceal it
from him. If you _will_ not tell him, I _will_. If you will not
promise me to write to him tonight, I will write to him to-morrow.
Mind, Mabel, I mean what I say; and I will keep my word."

Mrs. Wilmot had been leaning, almost lying, back in a deep
easy-chair, when her friend spoke. She raised herself slowly while she
was speaking, her dark eyes fixed upon her, and when she had finished,
caught her by the wrist.

"If you do this thing, Henrietta, I most solemnly declare to you that
I will never speak to you or see you again. In this, in all that
concerns my husband and myself, I claim, I insist upon perfect freedom
of action. No human being--on my side at least--shall come between him
and me. I am thoroughly in earnest in this, Henrietta. Now choose
between him and me."

"Choose between him and _you!_ What _can_ you mean, Mabel?"

"I know what I mean, Henrietta, and I am determined in this. When you
know all, you will see that only I can speak to him; and that I must
speak, not write."

"Then you _will_ speak?"

"Yes, I will speak. I suppose he will return in a few days; and then I
will speak."

Then Mabel Wilmot told her friend intelligence which surprised her
very much, and they stayed together until late; and when they parted
Mrs. Prendergast looked very thoughtful and serious.

"This will make things either better or worse," she said to herself
that night. "If he returns soon, and receives the news well, all may
go on well afterwards; but if he stays away for this girl's sake much
longer, I don't think even the child will do any good."

Many times within the next few days, in thinking of her friend, Mrs.
Prendergast said, "There's a desperation about her that I never saw
before, and that I don't like."


The days passed over, and Wilmot's patients were obliged either to
content themselves with the attendance of the insinuating Whittaker,
or to exercise their own judgment and call in some other physician of
their own choice. There was no doubt that the delay was injuring
Wilmot. He might have had his week's holiday, and passed it with Sir
Saville Rowe, and welcome; but he was not at Sir Saville's, and the
week had long been over. As for Mr. Foljambe, his indignation was
extreme.

"Hang it!" he observed, "if Chudleigh can't come back when he might,
why does he pretend to keep up a London practice? And to send me
Whittaker too; a fellow I hate like--like colchicum. I suppose I can
choose my doctor for myself, can't I?"

Thus the worthy and irascible old gentleman, who was more attached to
Chudleigh Wilmot than to any other living being, would discourse to
droppers-in concerning his absent favourite; and as the droppers-in to
the invalid room of the rich banker were numerous, and of the class to
whom Wilmot was especially well known, the old gentleman's talk led to
somewhat wide and varied speculation on the causes and inducements of
his absence. Mr. Foljambe had ascertained all the particulars which
Wilmot had given his wife; and Kilsyth of Kilsyth was soon a familiar
phrase in connection with the rising man. Everybody knew where he was,
and "all about it;" and when the unctuous and deprecating Whittaker
talked of the "specially interesting case" which was detaining Wilmot,
glances of unequivocal intelligence, but of somewhat equivocal
meaning, were interchanged among his hearers; and guesses were made
that Miss Kilsyth was a "doosed nice" girl, or her stepmother Lady
Muriel,--"young enough to be Kilsyth's daughter, you know, and never
lets him forget it, by Jove,"--was a "doosed fine" woman. "The
Kilsyths" began to be famous among Wilmot's clientèle and the old
banker's familiars; the _Peerage_, lying on his bookshelves, and
hitherto serenely undisturbed, with its covering of dust, was
frequently in demand; and young Lothbury, of Lombard, Lothbury, & Co.,
made quite a sensation when he informed a select circle of Mr.
Foljambe's visitors that he knew Ronald Kilsyth very well--was in his
club in fact.

"Old Kilsyth's son," he explained; "a very good fellow in his way, and
quite the gentleman, as he ought to be of course, but a queer-tempered
one, and a bit of a prig."


"Have you written to your husband, Mabel?" said Mrs. Prendergast with
solemn anxiety, when the third week of Wilmot's absence was drawing to
a close, and his wife's illness had increased day by day, so that now
it was a common topic of conversation among their acquaintance.

"No," returned Mabel, "I have not. I have told you I will not write,
but speak to him; and I am resolved."

"But Whittaker? Surely he does not know your husband is ignorant of
your state?"

"O, dear no," returned Mrs. Wilmot, with a smile by no means pleasant
to see. "He is the jolliest and simplest of men in all matters of this
kind. Mrs. Whittaker wouldn't, in fact couldn't, have a finger ache
unknown to him; and he never suspects that things are different with
me."

"Mabel," said her friend, "you do very, very wrong; but I will not
interfere or argue with you. Only, remember, I believe much will
depend on your reception of him."

"Don't be alarmed, Henrietta," said Mabel Wilmot. "I promise you,
unhesitatingly, that Wilmot will not be dissatisfied with the
reception he shall have from me."



CHAPTER VIII.
Kith and Kin.


It was a good thing for Kilsyth that he had a soft, sweet,
affectionate being like Madeleine on whom he could vent the fund of
affection stored in his warm heart, and who could appreciate and
return it. In the autumn of life, when the sad strange feeling first
comes upon us, that we have seen the best of our allotted time, and
that the remainder of our pilgrimage must be existence rather than
life; when the ears which tingled at the faintest whisper of love know
that they will never again hear the soft liquid language once so
marvellously sweet to them; when the heart which bounded at the merest
promptings of ambition beats with unmoved placidity even as we
recognise the victories of our juniors in the race; when we see the
hopes and cares and wishes which we have so long cherished one by one
losing their sap and strength and verdure, one by one losing their
hold on our being, and borne whirling away, lifeless and shrivelled,
on the sighing wind of time,--we need be grateful indeed if we have
anything so cheering and promiseful as a daughter's affection. It is
the old excitement that has given a zest to life for so many years;
administered in a very mild form indeed, but still there. The boys are
well enough, fine gentlemanly fellows, making their way in the world,
well spoken of, well esteemed, doing credit to the parent stock, and
taking--ay, there's the deuce of it!--taking the place which we have
vacated, and making us feel that we have vacated it. Their mere
presence in the world brings to us the consciousness which arose dimly
years ago, but which is very bright and impossible to blink now, that
we no longer belong to the present, to the generation by which the
levers of the world are grasped and moved; that we are tolerated
gently and genially indeed, with outward respect and with a certain
amount of real affection; but that we are in effect _rococo_ and
bygone, and that our old-world notions are to be kindly listened to,
not warmly adopted. Ulysses is all very well; in fact, was a noted
chieftain in his day, went through his wanderings with great pluck and
spirit, had his adventures, dear old boy. You recollect that story
about the Gräfin von Calypso, and that scandalous story which was
published in the Ogygian _Satirist_? But it is Telemachus who is the
cynosure of Ithaca nowadays, whom we watch, and on whom we wait. But
with a girl it is a very different matter. To her her father--until he
is supplanted by her husband--still stands on the old heroic pedestal
where, through her mother's interpretation, she saw him long since in
the early days of her childhood; in her eyes "age has not withered
him, nor custom staled his infinite variety;" all his fine qualities,
which she was taught to love,--and how easily she learned the
lesson!--have but mellowed and improved with years. Her brothers, much
as she may love them, are but faint copies of that great original;
their virtues and good qualities are but reflected lights of his--his
the be-all and end-all of her existence; and the love between him and
her is of the purest and most touching kind. No tinge of jealousy at
being supplanted by her sullies that great love with which he regards
her, and which is free from every taint of earthiness; towards her
arises a chastened remembrance of the old love felt towards her
mother, with the thousand softened influences which the old memories
invest it with, combined with that other utterly indescribable
affection of parent to child, which is one of the happiest and holiest
mysteries of life.

So the love between Kilsyth and his girl was the happiness of his
existence, the one gentle bond of union between him and the outer
world. For so large-hearted a man, he had few intimate relations with
life; looking on at it benevolently, rather than taking part even in
what it had to offer of gentleness and affection. This was perhaps
because he was so thoroughly, what is called "old-fashioned." Lady
Muriel he honoured, respected, and gloried in. On the few occasions
when he was compelled to show himself in London society, he went
through his duty as though enjoying it as much as the most foppish
Osric at the court; supported chiefly by the universal admiration
which his wife excited, and not a little by the remembrance that
another month would see him freed from all this confounded nonsense,
and up to his waist in a salmon stream. There could be no terms of
praise too warm for "my lady," who was in his eyes equally a miracle
of talent and loveliness, to whom he always deferred in the largest as
in the smallest matters of life; but it was Madeleine


          "who had power
     To soothe the sportsman in his softer hour."


It was Madeleine who had his deepest, fondest love--a love without
alloy; pure, selfless, and eternal.

These feelings understood, it may be imagined Kilsyth had the warmest
feelings of gratitude and regard towards Dr. Wilmot for having, as
everyone in the house believed, and as was really the fact, saved the
girl's life, partly by his skill, principally by his untiring
watchfulness and devotion to her at the most critical period of her
illness. In such a man as Kilsyth these feelings could not remain long
unexpressed; so that within a couple of days of the interview between
Lady Muriel and Dr. Wilmot, Kilsyth took an opportunity of meeting the
doctor as he was taking his usual stretch on the terrace, and
accosting him.

"Good-morning, Dr. Wilmot; still keeping to the terrace as strictly as
though you were on parole?"

"Good-morning to you. I'm a sanitarian, and get as much fresh air as I
can with as little labour. This terrace seems to me the only level
walking ground within eyeshot; and there's no more preposterous
mistake than overdoing exercise. Too much muscularity and gymnastics
are amongst the besetting evils of the present day, depend upon it."

"Very likely; but I'm not of the present day, and therefore not likely
to overdo it myself, or to tempt you into overdoing it. But still I
want you to extend your constitutional this morning round to the left;
there's a path that skirts the craig--a made path in the rock itself,
merely broad enough for two of us to walk, and which has the double
advantage that it gives us peeps of some of the best scenery
hereabouts; and it is so little frequented, that it will give us every
chance of uninterrupted conversation. And I want to talk to you about
Madeleine."

Whatever might have been Chudleigh Wilmot's previous notions as to the
pleasure derivable from an extended walk with the old gentleman, the
last word decided him; and they started off at once.

"I won't pretend to conceal from you, Dr. Wilmot," said Kilsyth, after
they had proceeded some quarter of a mile, talking on indifferent
subjects, and stopping now and then to admire some point in the
scenery,--"I won't pretend to conceal from you, that ever since your
arrival here I have had misgivings as to the manner in which you were
first summoned. I--"

"Pray don't think of that, sir."

"I don't--any more than, I am sure, you do. My Madeleine, who is
dearer to me than life, was, I knew, in danger. I heard of your being
in what one might almost call the vicinity from Duncan Forbes; and
without thought or hesitation I at once telegraphed to you to come on
here."

"Thereby giving me the pleasantest holiday I ever enjoyed in my life,
and enabling me to start away, as I was on the point of doing, with
the agreeable reflection that I have been of some comfort to some most
kind and charming people."

"I am delighted to hear you say those friendly words, Dr. Wilmot; but
I am not convinced even now. So far as--as the honorarium is
concerned, I hope you will allow me to make that up to you; so that
you shall have no reminder in your banker's book that you have not
been in full London practice; and as to the feeling beyond the
honorarium, I can only say that you have earned my life-long
gratitude, and that I should be only too glad for any manner of
showing it."

Wilmot waited a minute before he said, "My dear sir, if there is
anything I hate, it is conventionality; and I am horribly afraid of
being betrayed into a set speech just now. With regard to the latter
part of your remarks your gratitude for any service I may have been to
you cannot be surpassed by mine for my introduction to my charming
patient and your delightful family circle. With regard to what you
were pleased to say about the honorarium, you must be good enough to
do as I shall do--forget you ever touched upon the subject. You don't
know our professional etiquette, my dear sir--that when a man is on a
holiday he does no work. Nothing on earth would induce me to take a
fee from you. You must look upon anything I have done as a labour of
love on my part; and I should lose all the pleasure of my visit if I
thought that that visit had not been paid as a friend rather than as a
professional man."

Kilsyth must have changed a great deal from his former self if these
words had not touched his warm generous heart. Tears stood in his
bright blue eyes as he wrung Chudleigh Wilmot's hand, and said,
"You're a fine fellow, Doctor; a great fellow altogether. I'm an old
man now, and may say this to you without offence. Be it as you will.
God knows, no man ever left this house carrying with him so deep a
debt of its owner's gratitude as will hang round you. Now as to
Madeleine. You're off, you say, and I can't gainsay your departure;
for I know you've been detained here far too long for the pursuance of
your own proper practice, which is awaiting you in London; and I feel
certain you would not go if you felt that by your going you would
expose her to any danger of a relapse. But I confess I should like to
hear from your own lips just your own candid opinion about her."

Now or never, Chudleigh Wilmot! No excuse of miscomprehension! You
have examined yourself, probed the inmost depths of your conscience in
how many midnight vigils, in how many solitary walks! You know exactly
the state of your feelings towards this young girl; and it is for you
to determine whether you will renounce her for ever, or continue to
tread that pleasant path of companionship--so bright and alluring in
its present, so dark and hopeless in its future--along which you have
recently been straying. Professional and humanitarian considerations?
Are you influenced by them alone, when you reply--

"My dear sir, you ask me rather a difficult question. Were I speaking
of your daughter's recovery from the disease under which she has been
labouring, I should say with the utmost candour that she has so far
recovered as to be comparatively well. But I should not be discharging
my professional duty--above all, I should not be worthy of that trust
which you have reposed in my professional skill, and of the friendship
with which you have been so good as to honour me--if I disguised from
you that during my constant attendance on Miss Kilsyth, and during the
examinations which I have from time to time made of her system, I have
discovered that--that she has another point of weakness totally
disconnected from that for which I have been treating her."

He was looking straight into the old man's eyes as he said this--eyes
which dropped at the utterance of the words, then raised themselves
again, dull, heavy-lidded, with all the normal light and life
extinguished in them.

"I heard something of this from Muriel, from Lady Muriel, from my
wife," muttered Kilsyth; "but I should like to know from you the exact
meaning of your words. Don't be afraid of distressing me, Doctor," he
added, after a short pause; "I have had in my time to listen to a
sentence as hard--almost as hard"--his voice faltered here--"as any
you could pronounce; and I have borne up against it with tolerable
courage. So speak."

"I have no hard, at least no absolute, sentence to pronounce, my dear
sir; nothing that does not admit of much mitigation, properly taken
and properly treated. Miss Kilsyth is not a hoyden, you know; not one
of those buxom young women who, according to French notions, are to be
found in every English family--"

"No, no!" interrupted the old gentleman a little querulously.

"On the contrary, Miss Kilsyth's frame is delicate, and her
constitution not particularly strong. Indeed, in the course of my
investigation during her recent illness, I discovered that her left
lung was not quite so healthy as it might be."

"Her lungs! Ah, good heavens! I always feared that would be the weak
spot."

"Are any of her family so predisposed?"

"One brother died of rapid consumption."

"Ay, indeed! Well, well, there's nothing of that kind to be
apprehended here,--at least there are no urgent symptoms. But it is
only due to you and to myself to tell you that the lungs are Miss
Kilsyth's weak point, and that every care should be exercised to ward
off the disease which at present, I am happy to say, is only looming
in the distance."

"And what should be the first step, Dr. Wilmot?"

"Removal to a softer climate. You have a London house, I know; when do
you generally make a move south?"

"Lady Muriel and the children usually go south in October,--about five
weeks from hence,--and I go down to an old friend in Yorkshire for a
month's cover-shooting. But this is an exceptional year, and anything
you advise shall be done."

"My advice is very simple; it is, that you so far make an alteration
in your usual programme as to put Miss Kilsyth into a more congenial
climate at once. This air is beginning now to be moist and raw in the
mornings and evenings, and at its best is now unfit for anyone with
delicate lungs."

"Would London do?"

"London would be a great improvement on Kilsyth--though of course it's
treason to say so."

"Then to London she shall go at once; and I hope you will allow me the
pleasure of anticipating that my daughter, when there, will have the
advantage of your constant supervision."

"Anything I can do for Miss Kilsyth shall be done, you may depend on
it, my dear sir. And now I want to say good-bye to you, and to you
alone. I have a perfect horror of adieux, and dare not face them with
women. So you will make my farewell to Lady Muriel, thanking her
for all the kindness and hospitality; and--and you will tell Miss
Kilsyth--that I shall hope to see her soon in London; and--so God
bless you, my dear sir, _au revoir_ on the flags of Pall-Mall."

Half an hour afterwards he was gone. He had made all his arrangements,
ordered his horses, and slipped away while all the party was engaged,
and almost before his absence from the luncheon-table was remarked. He
knew that the road by which he would be driven was not overlooked by
the dining-room where the _convives_ would be assembled; but he knew
well enough that it was commanded by one particular window, and to
that window he looked up with flashing eyes and beating heart. He
caught a momentary glimpse of a pale face surrounded by a nimbus of
golden hair; a pale face on which was an expression of sorrowful
surprise, and which, as he raised his hat, shrunk back out of sight,
without having given him the smallest sign of recognition. That look
haunted Chudleigh Wilmot for days and days; and while at first it
distressed him, on reflection brought him no little comfort, thinking,
as he did, that had Madeleine had no interest in him, her expression
of face would have been simply conventional, and she would have nodded
and bowed as to any ordinary acquaintance. So he fed his mind on that
look, and on certain kindly little speeches which she had made to him
from time to time during her illness; and when he wanted a more
tangible reminiscence of her, he took from his pocketbook a blue
ribbon with which she had knotted her hair during the earlier days of
her convalescence, and which, when she fell asleep, he had picked from
the ground and carefully preserved.

Bad symptoms these, Chudleigh Wilmot; very bad symptoms indeed! Bad
and easily read; for there shall be no gawky lad of seventeen years of
age, fresh from the country, to join your class at St. Vitus's, who,
hearing them described, shall not be able to name the virulent disease
from which you are suffering.



When Lady Muriel heard the result of her husband's colloquy with the
Doctor, she was variously affected. She had anticipated that Chudleigh
Wilmot would take the first opportunity of making his escape from
Kilsyth, where his presence was no longer professionally needed, while
his patients in London were urgent for his return. Nor was she
surprised when her husband told her that Dr. Wilmot had, when
interrogated, declared that the air of Kilsyth was far too sharp for
Madeleine in her then condition, and that it was peremptorily
necessary that she should be moved south, say to London, at once. Only
one remark did she make on this point: "Did Madeleine's removal to
London--I mean did the selection of London spring from you, Alick, or
Dr. Wilmot?"

"From me, dear--at least I asked whether London would do; and he
said, at all events London would be infinitely preferable to Kilsyth;
and so knowing that we should have the advantage of his taking charge
of Madeleine, I thought it would be best for us to get away to
Rutland-gate as soon as possible."

To which Lady Muriel replied, "You were quite right; but it will take
at least a week before all our preparations will be complete for
leaving this place and starting south."

Lady Muriel Kilsyth did not join any of the expeditions which were
made up after luncheon that day; the rest of the company went away to
roaring linns or to heather-covered mountains; walked, rode, drove;
made the purple hills resound with laughter excited by London stories,
and flirted with additional vigour, though perhaps without the
subtlety imparted by the experience of the season. But Lady Muriel
went away to her own room, and gave herself up to thought. She had
great belief in the efficacy of "thinking out" anything that might be
on her mind, and she resorted to the practice on this occasion. Her
course was by no means clear or straightforward, but a little thorough
application to the subject would soon show her the way. Let her look
at it in all its bearings, and slur over no salient point. This man,
this Dr. Wilmot--well, he was wondrously fascinating, that she must
allow! His eyes, his earnestness of manner, his gravity, and the way
in which he slid from grave to gay topics, as his face lit up, and his
voice--ah, that voice, so mellow, so rich, so clear, and yet so soft,
and capable of such exquisite modulation! The remembrance of that
face, only so recently known, has stopped the current of Lady Muriel's
thoughts: she sits there in the low-backed chair, her chin resting on
her breast, her hands clasped idly before her, her eyes vaguely
looking on the fitfully flaming logs upon the hearth. Wondrously
fascinating; in his mere earnestness so different from the men, young
and old, amongst whom her life was passed; by whom, if thought were
possible to them, it was held as something to be ashamed of, while
frivolity resulting in vice ruled their lives, and frivolity garnished
with slang governed their conversation. Wondrously fascinating; in the
modesty with which he exercised the great talent he possessed, and the
possession of which alone would have turned the head of a weaker man;
in his brilliant energy and calm strength; in his unwitting
superiority to all around him, and the manner in which, apparently
unconsciously and without the smallest display, he took his place in
the front rank, and, no matter who might be present, drew rapt
attention and listening ears to himself. So much for him. Now for
herself. And Lady Muriel rose from the soft snuggery of her cushioned
chair, and folded her arms across her breast, and began pacing the
room with hurried steps. This man had established an influence over
her? Agreed. What was worse, established his influence without
intending it, without absolutely wishing it? Agreed again. Lady Muriel
was far too clever a woman to shirk any item or gloss over any replies
to her cross-examination of herself. And was she, who had hitherto
steered her way through life, avoiding all the rocks and shoals and
quicksands on which she had seen so much happiness wrecked, so much
hope ingulfed--was she now to drift on for the same perilous voyage,
without rudder or compass, without even a knowledge whether the haven
would be open to her? Not she. For her husband's, for her own sake,
for her own and her children's credit, she would hold the course she
had held, and play the part she had played. A shudder ran through her
as she pictured to herself the delight with which the thousand-and-one
tongues of London scandal would whisper and chuckle over the merest
hint that their prophecy of years since was beginning to be
fulfilled--how the faintest breath of suspicion with which a name
could be coupled would fly over the five miles of territory where
Fashion reigns. She stopped before the glass, put her hand to her
heart, and saw herself pale and trembling at the mere idea.

And yet to be loved! Only for once in her life to know that she loved
and was loved again, not by a man whom she could tolerate, but by one
whom she could look up to and worship. Not reverence--that was not the
word; she reverenced Kilsyth--but whose intellect she could respect,
whose self she could worship. O, only for once in her life to
experience that feeling which she had read so much about and heard so
much of; to feel that she was loved heart and soul and body; loved
with wild passion and calm devotion--for such a man as this was
capable of both feelings simultaneously--loved for herself alone,
independently of all advantages of state and position; loved by the
most lovable man in the world; Loved! the word itself was tabooed
amongst the women with whom she lived, as being too strong and
expressive. They 'liked' certain men in a calm, easy, _laissez-aller_
kind of way at the height of their passion; then married them, with
proper amount of bishop, bridesmaid, and wedding present, all duly
celebrated in the fashionable journal; and then "gave up to parties
what was meant for mankind." Ah, the difference between such an
existence and that passed as this man's wife! cheering him in his
work, taking part in his worries, lightening his difficulties,
always ready with a smiling face and bright eyes to welcome him home,
and--Jealous? Not she! there would be no such feeling with her in such
a case. Jealous! And as the thought rose in her mind, simultaneously
appeared the blue eyes and the golden hair of her stepdaughter.

That must be nipped in the bud at once! There was nothing on Dr.
Wilmot's part--probably there might be nothing on either side; but
sentimental friendship of that kind generally had atrociously bad
results; and Madeleine was a very impressionable girl, and now, as
Kilsyth had determined, was to be constantly thrown with Wilmot, to be
under his charge during her stay in London, and therefore likely to
have all her thoughts and actions influenced by him. Such a
combination of circumstances would be necessary hazardous, and might
be fatal, if prompt measures were not taken for disposing of Madeleine
previously. This could only be done by making Ramsay Caird declare
himself. Why that young man had never prospered in his suit was
inexplicable to Lady Muriel; he was not so good-looking as poor
Stewart certainly--not one-tenth part so intense--having an excellent
constitution, and looking at life through glasses of the most roseate
hue; but Madeleine was young and inexperienced and docile--at least
comparatively docile even to Lady Muriel, who, as she knew perfectly
well, possessed very little of the girl's love; and it was through her
affection that she must be touched. Who could touch her? Not her
father: he was too much devoted to her to enter into the matter; at
least in the proper spirit. Who else then? Ah, Lady Muriel smiled
as a happy thought passed through her mind. Ronald, Madeleine's
brother,--he was the person to exercise influence in a right and
proper way over his sister; and to him she would write at once.

That night the butler took two letters from the post-box in Lady
Muriel's hand-writing; one of them was addressed to Ramsay Caird, in
George-street, Edinburgh, and ran thus:


"Kilsyth."


"My DEAR RAMSAY,--For reasons which I have already sufficiently
explained to you, you will, I think, be disposed to admit that my
interest in you and your career is unquestionable, and you will be
ready to take any step which I may strongly urge upon you. In this
conviction, I feel sure that you will unhesitatingly adopt the
suggestion which I now make, and start for London at the very earliest
opportunity. You will be surprised at this recommendation, and at the
manner in which I press it; but, believe me, I do not act without much
reflection, and without thorough conviction of the step I am taking,
and which I am desirous you should take. I have so often talked the
matter over with you, that there is no necessity for me to enter upon
it now, even if there were no danger in my so doing. It will be
sufficient to say that we all go to London in a week's time, and that
it is specially desirable that you should be there at the same time;
otherwise you may find the ground mined beneath your feet. When you
arrive in town, I wish you to call upon Captain Kilsyth at
Knightsbridge Barracks. You will find him particularly clear-headed,
and thoroughly conversant with the ways of the world; and I should
advise you to be guided by him in everything, but specially in _the_
matter in question. Let me have a line to say you are on the point of
starting; and believe me

     "Your sincere friend,

         "MURIEL KILSYTH."


The other letter was addressed to "Captain Kilsyth; First Life-guards,
Knightsbridge Barracks, London."

"(_Confidential_.)
     Kilsyth.

"My dear Ronald,--You have heard from your father of Madeleine's
illness and convalescence. She is rapidly recovering her strength, and
will be her old self _physically_ very shortly.

"You smile as you see that the word 'physically' is underlined; but
this is not, believe me, one of those 'unmeaning woman's dashes' which
I have so often heard you unequivocally condemn. I underlined the word
specially, because I think that Madeleine's recovery will be, so far
as she is concerned, physical, and physical only.

"Not that I mean in the least that her reason has been affected,
otherwise than it always is most transiently in the access of fever;
but that I think that the occasion which you and I have so often
talked of has come, and come in a most undeniable manner. In a word,
Madeleine has lost her heart, if I am not much mistaken, and lost it
in a quarter where she herself, poor child, can hope for no return of
her affection, and where, even if such return were possible, it would
only bring misery on her, _and him_, and degradation to us all.

"We are coming to London at once, and therein lies simultaneously the
danger to Madeleine and my hope of rescuing her from it, principally
through your aid. You will see that it is impossible to enter upon
this subject at length in a letter; but I could not let you be in
ignorance of what I know will possess an acute and painful interest
for you. Of course I have not hinted a word of this to your father, so
that you will be equally reticent in any of your communications with
him. You shall hear the day we expect to arrive in town, and I hope to
see you in Brookstreet on the next morning.

"You will recollect all I said to you about Ramsay Caird. He will
probably call on you very shortly after you receive this letter. Bear
in mind the cue I gave you, when we last parted, about this young man,
and act up to it: he is a little weak, a little hesitating; but I am
more convinced than ever of the advisability of pursuing the course I
then indicated. God bless you!

     "Your affectionate

          "M.K."



CHAPTER IX.
Ronald.


When Ronald Kilsyth was little more than four years old his nurses
said he was "so odd;" a phrase which stuck by him through life. As a
child his oddity consisted in his curious gravity and preoccupation,
his insensibility to amusement, his dislike of companionship, his love
of solitude, his old-fashioned thoughts and manner and habits. He had
a dogged honesty which prevented him from using the smallest deception
in any way, which prevented him from ever prevaricating or telling
those small fibs which are made so much of in the child, but to which
he looks back as trivial sins indeed when compared with the duplicity
of his after-life,--which rendered him obnoxious even to the children
whom he met as playfellows in the square-garden, and who found it
impossible to get on with young Kilsyth on account of the rigidity of
his morals, displeasing to them even at their tender years. When a
delicious _guetapens_, made of string stretched from tree to tree, had
been, with great consumption of time and trouble, prepared for the
downfall of the old gardener; and when the youthful conspirators were
all laid up in ambush behind the Portugal laurels, waiting to see the
old man, plodding round with rake and leaf-basket in the early dusk of
the autumnal evening, fall headlong over the snare,--it was provoking
to see little Ronald Kilsyth, in his gray kilt, step out and go up to
the old man and show him the pitfall, and assist him in removing it.
The conspirators were highly incensed at this treachery, as they
called it, and would have sent Ronald then and there to Coventry,--not
that that would have distressed him much,--had it not been for his
magnanimity in refusing, even when under pressure, to give up the
names of those in the plot. But as in this, so in everything else; and
the little frequenters of the square soon found Ronald Kilsyth "too
good" for them, and were by no means anxious to secure his
companionship in their sports.

At Eton, whither he was sent so soon as he arrived at the proper age,
he very shortly obtained the same character. Pursuing the strict path
of duty,--industrious, punctual, and regular, with very fair
abilities, and scrupulously making the most of them,--he never lost an
opportunity and never made a friend. All that was good of him his
masters always said; but they stopped there; they never said anything
that was kind. In school they could not help respecting him; out of
school they would as soon have thought of making Ronald Kilsyth their
companion as of taking _Hind's Algebra_ for pleasant reading. And it
was the same with his schoolfellows. They talked of his steadiness and
of his hard-working with pride, as reflecting on themselves and the
whole school. They speculated as to what he would do in the future,
and how he would show that the stories that had been told about Eton
were all lies, don't you know? and how Kilsyth would go up to
Cambridge, and show them what the best public school--the only school
for English gentlemen, you know--could do; and _Floreat Etona_, and
all that kind of thing, old fellow. But Ronald Kilsyth, during the
whole of his Eton pupilage, never had a chum--never knew what it was
to share a confidence, add to a pleasure, or lighten a grief. Did he
feel this? Perhaps more acutely than could have been imagined; but
being, as he was, proud, shy, sensitive, and above all queer, he took
care that no one knew what his feelings were, or whether he had any at
all on the subject.

Queer! that was the word by which they called him at Eton, and
which, after all, expressed his disposition better than any other.
Strong-minded, clear-headed, generous, and brave, with an outer coating
of pride, shyness, reserve, and a mixture of all which passed current
for _hauteur_. With a strong contempt for nearly everything in which
his contemporaries found pleasure,--save in the excess of exercise, as
that he thoroughly understood and appreciated,--and with a wearying
desire to find pleasure for himself; with an impulse to exertion and
work, accountable to himself only on the score of duty, but having no
definite end or aim; with a restless longing to make his escape from
the thraldom of conventionality, and rush off and do something
somewhere far away from the haunts of men. With all the morbidness of
the hero of _Locksley Hall_, without the excuse of having been jilted,
and without any of the experience of that sweetly modulated cynic,
Ronald Kilsyth, obeying his father's wish, and thereby again following
the paths of duty, was gazetted to the Life-Guards--the exact position
for a young gentleman in his condition.

The donning of a scarlet tunic instead of a round jacket, and the
substitution of a helmet for a pot-hat, made very little difference in
Ronald. Several of his brother officers had known him personally at
Eton, so that the character he had obtained there preceded him,
inspiring a wholesome awe of him before he appeared on the scene; and
he had not been two days in barracks before he was voted a prig and a
bore. There was no sympathy between the dry, pedantic, rough young
Scotsman and those jolly genial youths. His hard, dry, handsome
clean-cut face, with its cold gray eyes, thin aquiline nose, and tight
lips, cast a gloom over the cheery mess-table around which they sat;
their jovial beaming smiles, and curling moustaches, and glittering
shirt-studs reflected in the silver _épergne_, with its outposts of
mounted sentries and its pleasant mingling of feasting and frays at the
Temple of Mars and the London Tavern. His grim presence robbed many a
pleasant story of its point, which indeed, in deference to him, had to
be softened down or given with bated breath. The young fellows--no
younger than him in years, but with, O, such an enormous gulf between
them as regards the real elasticity and charm of youth--were afraid of
him, and from fear sprung dislike. They had not much fear of their
elders, these youths of ingenuous countenance and ingenuous modesty.
They had a wholesome awe, tempering their hearty love, of Colonel
Jefferson; but less on account of the strictness of his discipline and
of a certain _noli-me-tangere_ expression towards those whom he did
not specially favour, than on account of his age; and as for the
jolly old Major, who had been in the regiment for ever so many
years,--for him they had neither fear nor respect; and when he was in
command--which befell him during the cheerful interval between July and
December--the lads did as they liked.

But they could not get on with Ronald Kilsyth; and though they
tolerated him quietly for the sake of his people, they never could be
induced to regard him with anything like the fraternal good fellowship
which they entertained towards each other. As it had been at Eton, so
it was at Knightsbridge, at Windsor, in Albany-street, in all those
charming quarters where the Household Cavalry spend their time for
their own and their country's advantage. Ronald Kilsyth was respected
by all, loved by none. Charley Jefferson himself, fascinated as he was
by Ronald's devotion to the mysteries of drill and by all the young
man's unswerving attention to his regimental duties--qualities which
weighed immensely with the martinet Colonel--had been heard to
confess, with a prolonged twirl at his grizzled moustache, that
"Kilsyth was a d--d hard nut to crack,"--an enigmatic remark which,
from so plain a speaker as the Colonel, meant volumes. The Major, whom
Ronald, under strong provocation, had once designated a "tipsy old
atheist," had, in the absence of his enemy and under the influence of
two-thirds of a bottle of brandy, retorted in terms which were held to
justify both Ronald's epithets; and the men had a very low opinion of
him, who at the time of writing was senior lieutenant of the regiment.
He had no sympathy with the men, no care for them; he would have liked
to have made them more domestic, less inclined for the public-house
and the music-hall; he would have subscribed to reading-rooms, to
institutes, to anything for their mental improvement; but he never
thought of giving them a kind word or an encouraging speech; and they
much preferred Cornet Bosky--who cursed them roundly for their
talking, for their silence, for their going too fast, for their going
too slow, for their anything in fact, on those horrible mornings when
he happened to be in charge of them exercising their horses, but who
off duty always had a kindly word, an open purse at their service--to
the senior Lieutenant, who never used a bad expression, and who, as
they confessed, was, after the Colonel, the best soldier in the
regiment.

It was like going into a different world to leave the smoky
atmosphere, the wild disorder and reckless confusion of most of the
other rooms in barracks, and go into Ronald Kilsyth's trim orderly
apartment. Instead of tables ringed with stains of long-since-emptied
tumblers, and littered with yellow-paper-covered French novels, torn
playbills, old gloves, letters, unpaid bills, opera-glasses, pipes,
shreds of tobacco, heaps of cigar-ash, rolls of comic songs, trophies
from knock'em-downs at race-courses, empty soda-water bottles,
scattered packs of cards, and suchlike examples of free living--to
find perfect order and decorum; the walls covered with movable
bookcases filled with valuable books, Raphael Morghen prints, proofs
before letters after the best modern artists, and charming bits of
water-colour sketches, instead of coloured daubs of French _écuyères_
and _lionnes_ of the Quartier Breda, photographs of Roman temple or
Pompeian excavation, and Venetian glass and delicate eggshell china,
and Chinese carving, and Indian beadwork. They used to look round at
these things in wonder, the other young fellows of the regiment, when
they penetrated into Ronald's room, and point to the pictures and ask
who "that queer old party was," and depreciate the furniture by
inquiring "what was that old rubbish?" They could not understand his
friends either; men asked to the mess by them or seen in their rooms
were generally well known in the Household Brigade, other officers in
the Blues or the Foot Regiments, or idlers and dawdlers with nothing
to do, men in the Treasury or Foreign Office, people whom they were
safe to meet in society at least every other night in the season. But
Ronald Kilsyth's guests were of a different stamp. Sometimes he
brought Wrencher the novelist or Scumble the Royal Academician to
dinner; and the fellows who knew the works of both made much of the
guests and did them due honour; but when occasionally they had to
receive Jack Flokes the journalist, who looked on washing as an
original sin, or Dick Tinto the painter, who regarded a dirty brown
velvet shooting-coat as the proper costume for the evening, or
Klavierspieler the pianist, a fat dirty German in spectacles, who made
a perfect Indian juggler of himself in trying to swallow his knife
during dinner--they were scarcely so much gratified. Innate
gentlemanliness and entire good-breeding made them receive the
gentlemen with every outward sign of hospitality; but afterwards,
round the solemn council fire in the little mess-room and midst deep
clouds of tobacco-smoke, they delivered a verdict anything but
complimentary either to guest or host.

What possessed him? That was what they could not understand. Nicest
people in the world, sir! father, dear delightful jolly old fellow,
give you his heart's blood if you wanted it--but you don't want
it, so gives the best glass ofessed claret in London; and at home--at
Kilsyth--'gad, you can't conceive it; no country-house to be named in
the same breath with it. Perfect shooting and all that kind of thing,
and thoroughly your own master, by Jove! do just as you like, I mean
to say, and have everything you want, don't you know! Lady Muriel
quite charming; holding her own, don't you know, with all the younger
women in point of attractiveness and that sort of thing, and yet
respected and looked up to, and the best mistress of a house possible.
And Miss Kilsyth, Madeleine, deuced nice little girl; very pretty, and
no nonsense about her; meant for some big fish! Well, yes, suppose so;
but meantime extremely pleasant and chatty, and sings nice little
songs and _valses_ splendidly, and all that kind of thing. That was
what they said of the Kilsyth _ménage_ in the Household Brigade, in
which pleasant joyous assemblage of gallant freethinkers it would have
been difficult to point out one who would not have been delighted at
an autumn visit to Kilsyth. Ah! what we believe and that we know! The
humorous articles of the comic writers, the humorous sketches of the
comic artists, lead us to think that the gentlemen officers of the
regiments specially accredited for London service are, in the main,
good-looking, handsome dolts, who pull their moustaches, eliminate the
"r's" from their speech, and are but the nearest removes from the
inmates of Hanwell Asylum. But a very small experience will serve to
remove this impression, and will lead one to know that the reading and
appreciation of character is nowhere more aptly read and more shrewdly
hit upon than in the barrack-rooms of Knightsbridge or the Regent's
Park.

People who knew, or thought they knew, Ronald Kilsyth, declared
that he was solitary and oysterlike, self-contained, and caring for no
one but himself. They were wrong. Ronald had strong home affections.
He loved and reverenced his father more than any one in the world. He
saw plainly enough the few shortcomings--the want of modern education,
the excessive love of sport, the natural indolence of his disposition,
and the intense desire to shirk all the responsibilities of his
position, and to shift the discharge of them on to some one else. But
equally he saw his father's warm-heartedness, honour, and chivalry;
his unselfishness, his disposition to look upon the bright side of all
that happened, his cheery _bonhomie_, and his unfailing good temper.
Lady Muriel he regarded with feelings of the highest respect--respect
which he had often tried to turn into affection, but had tried in
vain. With a woman's quickness, Lady Muriel had seen at a glance, on
her first entering the Kilsyth family, thamotivst her hardest task would be
to win over her stepson, and she had laid herself out for that victory
with really far more care and pains than she had taken to captivate
his father. With great natural shrewdness, quickened by worldly
experience, Lady Muriel very shortly made herself mistress of Ronald
Kilsyth's character, and laid her plans accordingly. Never was shaft
more truly shot, never was mine more ingeniously laid. Ronald Kilsyth,
boy as he was at the time of his father's second marriage, had
scarcely had three interviews with his stepmother before she found a
corroboration of the fact which had so often whispered itself in his
own bosom, that he, and he alone, was the guiding spirit of the
family; that he had knowledge and experience beyond his years; and
that if she, Lady Muriel, only got him, Ronald, to cooperate with
her, everything would be smooth, and between them the felicity and
well-being of all would be assured. It was a deft compliment, and it
succeeded. From that time forth Ronald Kilsyth was Lady Muriel's most
pliant instrument and doughtiest champion. In the circles in which
during the earlier phases of his succeeding life he found himself,
there were plenty to carp at his stepmother's conduct, to impugn her
motives,--worst of all, to drop side hints of her integrity; but to
all of these Ronald Kilsyth gave instant and immediate battle, never
allowing the smallest insinuation which reflected upon her to pass
unrebuked. He thought he knew his stepmother thoroughly: whether he
did or not time must show; but at all events he thought highly enough
of her to permit himself to be guided by her in some of the most
important steps in his career.

And what were his feelings with regard to Madeleine? If you wanted to
find the key to Ronald Kilsyth's character, it was there that you
should have looked for it. Ronald loved Madeleine with all the love
which such a heart as his was capable of feeling; but he watched over
her with a strictness such as no duenna ever yet dreamed of Years ago,
when they were very little children, there occurred an episode which
Miss O'Grady--who was then Kilsyth's governess, and now happily
married to Herr Ohm, a wine-merchant at Heidelberg--to this day
narrates with the greatest delight. It was in Hamilton Gardens, where
the Kilsyth children and a number of others were playing at _Les
Graces_--a pleasing diversion then popular with youth--and little Lord
Claud Barrington, in picking up and restoring her hoop to Madeleine,
had taken advantage of the opportunity to kiss her hand. Ronald
noticed the gallantry, and at once resented it, asking the youthful
libertine how he dared to take such a liberty. "Well, but she liketh
it!" said Lord Claud, ingenuously pointing to Madeleine, who was
sucking and biting the end of her hoop-stick, by no means ill-pleased.
"Very likely," said Ronald; "but these girls know nothing of such
matters. _I_ am my sister's guardian, and call upon you to apologise."
Lord Claud, humiliated, said he was "wewy thorry;" and the three,--he,
Ronald, and Madeleine,--had some bath-pipe and some cough-lozenges as
a banquet in honour of the reconciliation.

This odd watchfulness, never slumbering, always vigilant, perpetually
unjust, and generally _exigeant_, characterised Ronald's relations
with his sister up to the time of our story. When she first came out,
his mental torture was extraordinary; he, so long banished from
ball-rooms, accepted every invitation, and though he never danced,
would invariably remain in the dancing-room, ensconced behind a
pillar, lounging in a doorway, always in some position whence he could
command his sister's movements, and throughout the evening never
taking his eyes from her. His friends, or rather his acquaintances,
who at first watched his rapt attention without having the smallest
idea of its object, used to chaff him upon his devotion, and
interrogate him as to whether it was the tall person with the teeth,
the stout virgin with the shells in her hair, or the interesting party
with the shoulders, who had won his young affection. Ronald stood this
chaff well, confident in the fact that hitherto his sister had
performed her part in that grand and ludicrous mystery termed
"Society," and had escaped heart-whole. He began to realise the truth
of the axiom about the constant dropping of water. So long as
Madeleine had had sense to comprehend, he had instilled into her the
absolute necessity of consulting him before she even permitted herself
to have the smallest liking for any man. During the first two months
of her first season she had confessed to him twice: once in the case
of a middle-aged, well-preserved peer; and again when a thin,
black-bearded _attaché_ of the Brazilian embassy was in question.
Ronald's immediate and unmistakable veto had been sufficient in both
cases; and he was flattering himself that the rest of the season had
passed without any further call on his self-assumed judicial
functions.

Imagine, then, his state of mind at the receipt of Lady Muriel's
letter! The assault had been made, the mine had been sprung, the enemy
was in the citadel, and, worst of all, the enemy was masked and
disguised, and the guardian of the fortress did not know who was his
assailant, or what measures he should take to repel him!



CHAPTER X.
Cross-Examination.


The hall-porter at Barnes's Club in St. James's-street, whose views of
life during the last two months had been remarkably gloomy and
desponding, began to revive and to feel himself again as the end of
October drew on apace. He had had a dull time of it, that hall-porter,
during August and September, sitting in his glazed box, cutting the
newspapers which no one came to read, and staring at the hat-pegs
which no one used. He had his manuscript book before him, but he did
not inscribe ten names in it during the day; for nearly everybody was
out of town; and the few members who per force remained,--gentlemen in
the Whitehall offices, or officers in the Household Brigade,--found
scaffolding and ladders in the hall of Barnes's, and the morning-room
in the hands of the whitewashers, and the coffee-room closed, and the
smokers relegated to the card-room, and such a general state of
discomfort, that they shunned Barnes's, and went off to the other
clubs to which they belonged. But with the end of October came a
change. The men who had been shooting in the North, the men who had
been travelling on the Continent, the men who had been yachting, and
the men who had been lounging on the sea-coast, all came through town
on their way to their other engagements; those who had no other
engagements, and who had spent all their available money, settled down
into their old way of life; all paid at least a flying visit to the
club to see who was in town, and to learn any news that might be
afloat.

It is a sharp bright afternoon, and the morning-room at Barnes's is
so full that you might actually fancy it the season. Sir Coke Only's
gray cab horse is, as usual, champing his bit just outside the
door, and Lord Sumph's brougham is there, and Tommy Toshington's
chestnut cob with the white face is being led up and down by the
red-jacketed lad, who has probably been out of town too, as he has not
been seen since Parliament broke up, and yet is there and to the fore
directly he is wanted. Tommy Toshington himself, an apple-faced little
man, who might be any age between sixteen and sixty, but who is
considerably nearer the latter than the former, gathers his letters
from the porter as he passes, looks through them quickly, shaking his
head the while at two or three written on very blue paper and
addressed in very formal writing, and proceeds to the morning-room.
Everybody there, everybody knowing Tommy, universal chorus of welcome
from all save three old gentlemen reading evening papers, two of whom
don't know Tommy, and all of whom hate him.

"And where have you come from, Tommy?" says Lord Sumph, who is a
charming nobleman, labouring under the slight eccentricity of
occasionally imagining that he is a steam-engine, when he whistles and
shrieks and puffs, and has to be secluded from observation until the
fit is over.

"Last from East Standling, my lord," says Tommy; "and very pleasant it
was."

"Must have been doosid pleasant, by all I hear," says Sir Thomas
Buffem, K.C.B., and late of the Madras army. "Dook had the gout,
hadn't he? and we all know how pleasant he is then!"

"That feller was there of course--what's his name?--Bawlindor the
barrister," says Sir Coke Only. "Can't bear that feller, dev'lish
low-bred feller, was a dancin'-master or something of that sort--can't
bear low-bred fellers;" and Sir Coke, whose paternal grandfather had
been a pedlar, and who himself combined the intellect of an Esquimaux
with the manners of a Whitechapel butcher on a Saturday night, cleared
his throat, and thumped his stick, and looked ferocious.

"Yes, Mr. Bawlindor was there," says Tommy Toshington, looking round
with a queer twinkle in his little gray eyes; "and he was very
pleasant, very pleasant indeed. I hardly know how the duchess would
have got on without him. He said some doosid smart things, did Mr.
Bawlindor."

"I hate a feller who says smart things," said Sir Coke Only; "making a
buffoon of himself."

"Ha, ha!" said Duncan Forbes, joining the group--"the carrier is
jealous of the tumbler; it's a mere question of pigeons."

"What do you mean, Sir Duncan? I don't understand you," said Sir Coke
angrily.

"Don't suppose you do--never gave you credit for anything of the
sort.--How are you, all you fellows? What were the smart things that
Bawlindor said, Tommy?"

"Well, I don't know; perhaps you wouldn't think 'em smart, Duncan,
because you're a devilish clever chap yourself, and--"

"Yes, yes, we know all about that; but tell us some smart things that
Bawlindor said--tell us one."

"Well, you know Tottenham? you know he gives awful heavy dinners? He
was bragging about them one day at luncheon at East Standling, and
Bawlindor said, 'There's one thing, my lord, I always envy when I'm
dining with you.' 'What's that?' says Tottenham. "I envy your gas,'
says Bawlindor, 'and it _escapes_.'"

"Ye-es! that was not bad for Bawlindor. I hate the brute though; I
daresay he stole it from somebody else. Well, how are you all, and
what's the news?"

"You ought to be able to tell us that," said Lord Sumph. "We're only
just back in town, and you've been here all the time, haven't you, in
the Tower or somewhere?"

"Not I; I'm only just back too."

"And where have you come from?"

"Last from Kilsyth."

"Devil you have!" growled Sir Thomas Buffem, edging away. "They've had
jungle-fever--not jungle, scarlet-fever there, haven't they?"

"O, ah, Duncan," said Clement Walkinshaw of the Foreign Office, "tell
us all about that! It was awful, wasn't it? Towcester cut and run,
didn't he? Mrs. Severn said he turned pea-green, and sent such a
stunning caricature of him to her sister, who was staying at
Claverton! We stuck it up in the smoking-room, and had no end fun
about it."

"I'm glad you were so much amused. It wasn't no end fun for Miss
Kilsyth, however, as she was nearly losing her life."

"Was she, by Jove!" said Walkinshaw, who was a "beauty boy," examining
himself in the glass, and smoothing his little moustaches,--"was she,
by Jove! What! our dear little Maddy?"

"Our dear little Maddy," said Duncan Forbes calmly, "if you are on
sufficient terms of intimacy with the young lady to speak of her in
that manner in a public room. _I_ call her Miss Kilsyth; but then we
were only brought up together as children, whereas you had the
advantage of having been introduced to her last season, I think,
Walkinshaw."

"That was a hot 'un for that d--d little despatch-box!" said Sir
Thomas Buffem, as Walkinshaw walked off discomfited. "Serve him quite
right--conceited little brute!"

"Well, but what was it, Duncan?" asked Lord Sumph. "It wasn't only the
gal, heaps of people were down with it, eh?--regular hospital, and
that kind of thing? I saw the Northallertons on their way south, and
the duchess said it was awfully bad up there."

"The duchess is a--very nice person," said Forbes, checking himself,
"and, like Sir Thomas here, an old soldier."

"But it was a great go, though, Duncan,--infection and all that, eh?"
asked Captain Hetherington, who had joined the talkers. "There's no
such thing as getting Poole's people to make you a coat; the whole
resources of the establishment are concentrated on building a new
rig-out for Towcester, who has sacrificed his entire get-up, and had
his hair cut close, and taken no end of Turkish baths, for fear of
being refused admittance at places where he was going to stay."

"All I can say is, then--is, that it's a capital thing for Towcester's
man, or whoever gets his wardrobe," said Forbes; "Charley Jefferson
might have made a good thing by buying his tunics, only there's a
slight difference in their size--_he_ wouldn't have feared the
infection."

"No, not in that way perhaps," said Hetherington. "Charley's like the
Yankee in Dickens's book, 'fever-proof and likewise ague;' but he
_can_ be got at, we all know. How about the widow? She bolted too,
didn't she?"

"She did--more shame for her. No! the fact was, that at Kilsyth----"

"_Cave canem!_" said Tommy Toshington, holding up a monitory
finger--"_Cave canem_, as we used to say at school. Here's Ronald
Kilsyth just come into the room and making towards us!"

You can get a good view of Ronald Kilsyth now as he advances up the
room. Rather under than over the middle height, with very broad
shoulders betokening great muscular strength, and square limbs. His
head is large, and his thick brown hair is brushed off his broad
forehead, and hangs almost to his coat-collar. He has a well-moulded
but rather a stern face, with bushy eyebrows, piercing gray eyes, and
close thin lips. He is dressed plainly but in good taste, and his
whole appearance is perfectly gentlemanlike. It would have been as
hard to have mistaken Ronald for a snob as to have passed him by
without notice; and there was something about him that infallibly
attracted attention, and made those who saw him for the first time
wonder who he was. It would have been quite impossible to divine his
profession from his appearance; neither in look or bearing was there
the smallest trace of the plunger. He might have been taken for a
deep-thinking Chancery barrister, had it not been for his moustache;
or, more likely still, a shrewd long-headed engineer, a man of facts
and figures and calculation; but never a dragoon. He had been the
innocent cause of extreme disappointment to many young ladies in
various parts of the country where he had stayed--quiet
unsophisticated girls, whose visits to London had been very rare, and
who knew nothing of its society, and who hearing that a Life-Guards'
officer was coming to dinner, expected to see a gigantic creature, all
cuirass and jack-boots, an enlarged and ornamental edition of the
sentries in front of the Horse-Guards. Ronald Kilsyth in his plain
evening dress was a great blow to them; in byegone days his moustache
would have been some consolation; but now the young farmers in the
neighbourhood, the sporting surgeon, and all the volunteers wore
moustaches; and though in subsequent conversation they found Ronald
very pleasant, he neither drawled, nor lisped, nor made love to them;
all of which proceedings they had believed to be necessary attributes
of his branch of the military profession.

And many persons who were not young ladies in the country were
disappointed in Ronald Kilsyth, more especially old friends of his
father, who expected to find his son resembling him. Ronald inherited
his father's love of honour, truth, and candour, his keen sense of
right and wrong, his manliness and his courage; but there the likeness
between the men ceased. Kilsyth's warmth of heart, warmth of temper,
and largeness of soul were not reflected by Ronald, who never lost his
self-control, who never gave anybody credit for more than they
deserved, and who--save perhaps for his sister Madeleine, and his love
for her was of a very stern and Spartan character--had never
entertained any particularly warm feelings for any human being.

Ronald Kilsyth is not popular at Barnes's, being decidedly an
unclubbable man. The members, if ever they speak of him at all, want
to know what he joined for. He belonged to the Rag, didn't he, and
some other club, where he could sit mumchance over his mutton, or
stare at the lads from Aldershott drinking five-guinea Heidzeck
champagne. What did he want among this sociable set? He always looked
straight down his nose when Guffoon came up with a sad story, and he
never cared about any scandal that was foreign. But he was not
disliked, at least openly. It was considered that he was a doosid
clever fellow, with a doosid sharp tongue of his own; and at Barnes's,
as at other clubs, they are generally polite to fellows with doosid
sharp tongues. And his father was a very good fellow, and gave very
good dinners during the season, and Kilsyth was a very pleasant house
to stop at in the autumn; so that, for these various reasons, Ronald
Kilsyth, albeit in himself unpopular at Barnes's, was never suffered
to hear of his unpopularity.

Not that if he had, it would have troubled him one jot. No man in the
world was more careless of what people thought of him, so long as he
had the approval of his own conscience; and by dint of a long
course of self-schooling and the presence of a certain amount of
self-satisfaction, he could generally count upon that. He could not
tell himself why he had joined Barnes's Club, unless it was that
Duncan Forbes was a member, and had asked him to join; and he liked
Duncan Forbes in his way, and wanted some place where he could be
pretty certain of finding him when in town. There were few points of
resemblance between Ronald Kilsyth and Duncan Forbes; but perhaps
their very dissimilarity was the bond of the union, such as it was,
that existed between them. Ronald knew Duncan to be weak, but believed
him, and rightly, to be thorough. Duncan Forbes would assume a languid
haw-hawism, an almost idiotic rapidity, a freezing _hauteur_ to any
one he did not know and did not care for, for the merest caprice;
but he would stand or fall by a friend, and not Charley Jefferson
himself would be firmer and truer under trial. Ronald knew this; and
knowing it, was not disposed to be hard on his friend's less stable
qualities--was rather amused indeed "by Duncan's nonsense," as he
phrased it, and showed more inclination for his society than that of
any other of his acquaintance.

The group of talkers in the window opened as Ronald approached, and he
shook hands with its various members; Tommy Toshington, who always had
something pleasant to say to anybody out of whom there was any
possibility of his ever getting anything, complimenting him on his
appearance.

"Look as fresh as paint, Ronald, my boy--fresh as paint, by Jove!
Where have you been to pick up such a colour and to get yourself into
such focus, eh?"

"The marine breezes of Knightsbridge have contributed to my
complexion, Toshington, and the vigorous exercise of walking four
miles a day on the London flags has brought me into my present
splendid condition."

"What! not been away from town at all?" asked Sir Coke Only, who would
almost as soon have acknowledged his poor relations as confessed to
having been in London in September.

"Not at all. In the first place, I was on duty, and could not get
away; not that I think I should have moved under any circumstances.
London is always good enough for me."

"But not when it's quite empty," said Lord Sumph.

"It can't be quite empty with two millions and a half of people in it,
Sumph," said Ronald.

"O, ah, cads and tradesmen, and all that sort of thing,--devilish
worthy people in their way, of course; but I mean people that one
knows."

"_I_ know several of those 'devilish worthy people,' Sumph," said
Ronald, with a smile; "and besides, country-house life is not much in
my way."

"Don't meet those d?-d radical fellows that he thinks so much of,
there," growled Sir Thomas Buffem to Sir Coke Only.

"No, nor those painters and people that my boy says this chap's always
bringing to mess," replied Sir Coke.

"There, he's gone away with Duncan now," said Toshington, "and they'll
be happy. They're too clever, those two are, for us old fellows! Not
that you're an old fellow, Sumph, my boy."

"You're old enough for several, ain't you, Tommy?" said Lord Sumph;
"and I'm old enough to play you a game of billiards before dinner, and
give you fifteen; so come along."

Meanwhile Ronald Kilsyth and Duncan Forbes had walked away to the far
end of the room, which happened to be deserted at the time; and
seating themselves on an ottoman, were soon engaged in earnest
conversation.

"What on earth made you remain in town, Ronald?" asked Duncan. "I
heard what you said to those fellows; but I know well enough that you
could have got leave if you had wished. Why did you not come up to
Kilsyth?"

"Principally because there was no particular inducement for me to do
so, Duncan."

"You always were polite, Ronald--"

"Ah, you were there! No, no; you know perfectly well what I mean,
Duncan. With you and the governor and Madeleine I'm always perfectly
happy; and her ladyship is very friendly, and we get on very well
together. But then I like you all quietly and by yourselves; I'm
selfish enough to want the entire enjoyment of your society. And the
life at Kilsyth would not have suited me at all."

"Well, I don't know; it was very jolly--"

"Yes, of course it was, and--By the way, Duncan, tell me all about it;
who were there, and what you did."

"O, heaps of people there--the Northallertons, and the Thurlows,
and--"

"Yes, yes; but what men--younger men, I mean?"

"Let me see; there was Towcester--"

"No, not he; her ladyship would not have thought him objectionable,
whatever I might."

"What? what the deuce are you muttering, Ronald?"

"I beg your pardon, Duncan--thinking aloud only; it's a horrible habit
I've fallen into. Well, who besides Towcester?"

"O, Severn, and Roderick Douglas, and Charley Jefferson--"

"Ah, Charley Jefferson; he's just the same, of course?"

"O yes, he's as jolly as ever."

"Yes; but I mean, is he as devoted as he was to Lady Fairfax?"

"O, worse; most desperate case of--no, by the way, though, I forgot; I
think he has cooled off--"

"Cooled off! since when?"

"Since your sister's illness."

"Since my sister's illness! Why, what could that have to do with
them?"

"Well, you see, some of the people in the house got frightened at the
notion of infection and that kind of thing, and bolted off. Lady
Fairfax was one of the first to rush away; and Charley, who is loyalty
itself in everything, as you know, was deucedly annoyed about it. My
lady had been leading him a pretty dance for a few days previously,
playing off little Towcester against him, and--"

"Ah, yes. No doubt Charley was right, quite right. And that was all
about him, eh? And so the people were frightened at poor Madeleine's
illness, were they?"

"Gad, they were, and not without reason too. The poor child was
awfully bad; and indeed, if it had not been for Wilmot, I much doubt
whether she would have pulled through."

"Hadn't been for Wilmot? Wilmot! O, yes, the London doctor who was
staying somewhere, near, and who was telegraphed for. Tell me about
Dr. Wilmot--a clever man, isn't he?"

"Clever! He's wonderful! Keen, clear-headed fellow; sees his way
through a brick wall in a minute. Not that at Kilsyth he did not do as
much by his devotion to his patient as by his skill."

"Devotion? O, he was devoted to his patient, eh?" said Ronald, biting
his nails.

"Never saw such a thing in all your life. Went in a regular perisher,"
said Duncan Forbes, dropping his hands to emphasise his words. "Put
himself in regular quarantine; cut himself off from all communication
with anybody else, and shut himself up in the room with his patient
for days together. It's the sort of thing you read of in poems, and
that kind of thing, don't you know, but very seldom meet with in real
life. If Wilmot had been a young man, and your sister had had any
chance of making him like her, I should have said it was a case of
smite. But Wilmot is an old married man; and these doctors don't
indulge much in being captivated, specially by patients in fevers, I
should think!"

"No; of course not, of course not. Now, this Wilmot--what's he like?"

"Well, he's rather a striking-looking man; looks very earnest, and
speaks with a very effectively modulated voice."

"Ah! And he's gentlemanly, eh?"

"O, perfectly gentlemanly. No mistake in that."

"And he was wonderfully devoted to Madeleine, eh? Very kind of him,
I'm sure. Shut himself up in her room, and--What did Lady Muriel think
of him, by the way?"

"I scarcely know. I never heard her say; and yet I gathered somehow
that Lady Muriel was not so much impressed in the doctor's favour as
the rest of us."

"That's curious, for there are few keener readers of character than
Lady Muriel. And the doctor was not a favourite of hers?"

"Well, no; I should say not. But the rest of the party were so
strongly in his favour that we looked with some suspicion on all who
did not shout as loudly as ourselves."

"And Madeleine, was she equally enthusiastic?"

"Poor Miss Kilsyth, she was not well enough to have much enthusiasm on
any subject, even on her doctor. Gratitude is, I imagine, the
strongest sentiment one is capable of after a long and severe
illness."

"Exactly--yes--I should suppose so. And what aged man is Dr. Wilmot?"

"O, what we should have called some years ago very old, but what we
now look upon as the commencement of middle age--just approaching
forty, I should think."

"He is married, you say?"

"Yes; so we all understood. O yes, I heard him once mention his wife
to Lady Muriel.--I say, Ronald, what an unconscionable lot of
questions you are asking about Wilmot; one would think that--"

"Gentleman waiting to speak to you, sir," said a servant, handing a
card to Ronald; "says he won't detain you a moment, sir."

Ronald took the card, and read on it "DR. WILMOT."

"I will come to the gentleman at once," said he; and the servant went
away.

"Who is it? Anyone I know?" asked Duncan Forbes.

"He is a stranger to me," said Ronald, blinking the question.


He found Dr. Wilmot in that wretched little waiting-room about the
size of a warm bath, and having for its furniture a chair, a table,
and a map of England, which is dedicated at Barnes's to the reception
of "strangers." The gas was low, and the Doctor was heavily wrapped
up, and had a shawl round the lower part of his face; but Ronald made
him out to be a gentlemanly-looking man, and specially noticed his
keen flashing eyes. The Doctor was sorry to disturb Captain Kilsyth,
but his father had sent up to him just before he started a parcel
which he wished delivered personally to the Captain; so he had brought
it on his way from the Great Northern, by which he had just arrived.
It was some law-deed, about the safety of which Kilsyth was a little
particular. It would have been delivered two days since, but, passing
through Edinburgh, the Doctor had found his old friend Sir Saville
Rowe staying at the same hotel, and had suffered himself to be
persuaded to accompany him to see the new experiments in anaesthetics
which Simpson had just made, and which-- Ah! but the Captain did not
care for medical details. The Captain was very sorry that he had not a
better room to ask the Doctor into; but the regulations at Barnes's
about strangers were antediluvian and absurd. He should take an early
opportunity of thanking Dr. Wilmot for his exceeding kindness in going
to Kilsyth, and for the skill and attention which he had bestowed on
Miss Kilsyth. The Doctor apparently to Ronald, even in the dull
gas-light, with a heightened colour disclaimed everything, asserting
that he had merely done his duty. Exchange of bows and of very cold
hand-shakes, the Doctor jumping into the cab at the door, Ronald
turning back into the hall, muttering, "That's the man! Taking
what Duncan Forbes said, and that fellow's look when I named
Madeleine--taking them together, that's the man that Lady Muriel meant.
That's the man, for a thousand pounds!"

In the cab Dr. Wilmot is thinking about Ronald. A blunt rough customer
rather, but with a wonderful look of his sister about him; not
traceable to any feature in particular, but in the general expression.
His sister!--now a memory and a dream--with the bit of blue ribbon as
the sole tangible reminiscence of her. She is among her friends now;
and probably at this moment some one is sitting close by her, close as
he used to sit, and he is forgotten already, or but thought of as--Not
a pleasant manner, Captain Kilsyth's. Studiously polite, no doubt, but
with an undercurrent of badly-veiled suspicion and reserve. What could
that mean? Dr. Wilmot knew that his conduct towards the Kilsyth
family, so far at least as its outward expression was concerned, had
merited nothing but gratitude from every member of it. Why, then, was
the young man embarrassed and suspicious? Could he--pshaw! how could
he by any possible means have become aware of the Doctor's secret
feelings towards Miss Kilsyth--feelings so secret that they had never
been breathed in words to mortal? Perfectly absurd! It is conscience
that makes cowards of us all; and the Doctor decides that it is
conscience which has made him pervert Captain Kilsyth's naturally cold
manner so ridiculously.

Well, it is all over now! He is just back again at his old life, and
he must give up the day-dreams of the past month and fall back into
his professional habits. Looking out of the cab window at the long
monotonous row of dirty-brown houses, at the sloppy street, at the
pushing crowds on the foot-pavement, listening to the never-ceasing
roar of wheels, he can hardly believe that he has only just returned
from mountain, and heather, and distance, and fresh air, and
comparative solitude! Back again! The reception at home from "ten till
one," the old ladies' pulses and the old gentlemen's tongues, the
wearied listening to the symptoms, the stethoscopical examination and
the prescription-writing; then the afternoon visits, with the
repetition of all the morning's details; the hospital lecture; the
dull cold formal dinner with Mabel; and the evening's reading and
writing,--without one bright spot in the entire daily round, without
one cheering hope, one--

A smell of tan!--the street in front of his door strewed with tan!
Some one ill close by. What is this strange sickness that comes over
him--this sinking at his heart--this clamminess of his brow and hands?
The cab has scarcely stopped before he has jumped out, and has knocked
at the door. Not his usual sharp decisive knock, but feebly and
hesitatingly. He notices this himself, and is wondering about it, when
the door opens, and his servant, always solemn, but now
preternaturally grave, appears.

"Glad to see you at last, sir," says the man, "though you're too
late!"

"Too late!" echoes Wilmot vacantly; "too late!--what for?"

"For God's sake, sir," says the man, startled out of his ordinary
quietude; "you got the telegram?"

"Telegram! no--what telegram? What did it say? What has happened?"

"Mrs. Wilmot, sir!--she's gone, sir!--died yesterday morning at eight
o'clock!"



CHAPTER XI.
Irreparable.


Chudleigh Wilmot was a strong man, and he possessed much of the pride
and reticence which ordinarily accompany strength of character.
Hitherto he can hardly be said to have suffered much in his life.
Affliction had come to him, as it comes to every man born of woman;
but it had come in the ordinary course of human life, unattended by
exceptional circumstances, above all not intensified, not warped from
its wholesome purposes by self-reproach. His life had been commonplace
in its joys and in its griefs alike, and he had never suffered from
any cause which was not as palpable, as apparent, to all who knew
him as to himself. His had been the sorrows, chiefly his parents'
death, which are rather gravely acknowledged and respected, than
whispered about in corners with dubious head-shaking and suggestive
shoulder-shrugging. So far the experience of the rising man had in it
nothing distinctive, nothing peculiarly painful.

But there was an end of this now. A new phase of life had begun for
Chudleigh Wilmot, when he recoiled, like one who has received a deadly
thrust, and whose life-blood rushes forth in answer to it, from the
announcement made to him by his servant. He realised the truth of the
man's statement as the words passed his lips; he was not a man whose
brain was ever slow to take any impression, and he knew in an instant
and thoroughly understood that his wife was dead. A very few minutes
more sufficed to show him all that was implied by that tremendous
truth. His wife was dead; not of a sudden illness assailing the
fortress of life and carrying it by one blow, but of an illness that
had had time in which to do its deadly work. His wife was dead; had
died alone, in the care of hirelings, while he had been away in
attendance upon a stranger, one out of his own sphere, not even a
regular patient, one for whom he had already neglected pressing
duties--not so sacred indeed as that which he could now never fulfil
or recall, but binding enough to have brought severe reflections upon
him for their neglect. The thought of all this surged up within him,
and overwhelmed him in a sea of trouble, while yet his face had not
subsided from the look of horror with which he had heard his servant's
awful announcement.

He turned abruptly into his consulting-room and shut the door between
him and the man, who had attempted to follow him, but who now turned
his attention to dismissing the cab and getting in his master's
luggage, during which process he informed cabby of the state of
affairs.

"I thought there were something up," remarked that individual, "when I
see the two-pair front with the windows open and the blinds down, and
all the house shut up; but _he_ didn't notice it." An observation
which the servant commented upon later, and drew certain conclusions
from, considerably nearer the truth than Wilmot would have liked, had
he had heart or leisure for any minor considerations. Presently Wilmot
called the man; who entered the consulting-room, and found his master
almost as pale as the corpse upstairs in "the two-pair front," where
the windows were open and the blinds were down, but perfectly calm and
quiet.

"Is there a nurse in the house?"

"Yes, sir; a nurse has been here since this day week, sir."

"Send her here--stay--has Dr. Whittaker been here to-day?"

"No, sir; he were here last night, a half an hour after my missus
departed, sir; but he ain't been here since. He said he would come at
one, sir, to see your answer to the telegraft, sir."

"Very well; send the nurse to me;" and Wilmot strode towards the
darkened window, and leaned against the wire-blind which covered the
lower compartment. He had not to wait long. Presently the man
returned.

"If you please, sir, the nurse has gone home to fetch some clothes,
and Susan is a-watchin' the body."

Chudleigh Wilmot started, and ground his teeth. It was perfectly true;
the proper phrase had been used by this poor churl, who had no notion
of fine susceptibilities and no intention of wounding them, who would
not have remained away from his own wife if she had been ill, not to
say dying, for the highest wages and the best perquisites to be had in
any house in London, but to whom a corpse was a corpse, and that was
all about it. The phrase did not make the dreadful truth a bit more
dreadful or more true, but it made Wilmot wince and quiver.

"Is there no one else--upstairs?" he asked.

"No, sir. Mrs. Prendergast were here all night, sir, and she is coming
again to meet Dr. Whittaker; but there's no one but Susan a-watchin'
now, sir. We was waiting for orders from you."

Wilmot turned away from the man, and spoke without permitting him to
see his face.

"Tell Susan to leave the room, if you please; I am going upstairs."

The man went away, and returned in a few minutes with a key, which he
laid upon the table, and then silently withdrew. His master was still
standing by the window, his face turned away. A considerable interval
elapsed before the silent group of listeners, comprising all the
servants of the establishment, upon the kitchen-stairs, heard the
widower's slow and heavy step ascending the front staircase.

The sight which Chudleigh Wilmot had to see, the strife of feeling
which he had to encounter, were none the less terrible to him that
death was familiar to him in every shape, in every preliminary of
anguish and fear, in all that distorts its repose and renders its
features terrible. It is an error surely to suppose that the
familiarity of the physician with suffering and death, with all the
ills that render the pilgrimage of life burdensome and the earthy
vesture repulsive, makes the experience of these things when brought
home to him easier to bear. The sickness that defies his skill, the
life that eludes his grasp, is as dark an enigma, as terrible a defeat
to him as to the man who knows nothing about the dissolving frame but
that it holds the being he loves and is doomed to lose.

If Chudleigh Wilmot had had a deadly, vindictive, and relentless
enemy,--one of those creatures of romance, but incredible in real
life, who gloat over the misery of a hated object, and would increase
it by every fiendish device within their ingenuity and power,--that
fabulous being might have been satisfied with the mental torture which
he endured when he found himself within the room, so formally
arranged, so faultlessly orderly, so terribly suggestive of the
cessation of life, in which his dead wife lay. As he turned the key in
the lock, for the first time a sense of unreality, of impossibility
came over him, with a swift bewildering remembrance--rather a vision
than a recollection--of the last time he had seen her. He saw her
standing in the hall, in the low light of the autumn evening, her
pretty fresh dinner-dress lifted daintily out of the way of the
servant carrying his portmanteau to the cab; her head, with its
coronet of dark hair, held up to receive her husband's careless kiss,
as he followed the man to the door. He remembered how carelessly he
had kissed her, and how--he had never thought of it before--she had
not returned the caress. When had she kissed him last? This was a
trifling thing, that he had never thought about till now--a question
he could not answer, and had never asked till now; and in another
moment he would be looking at her dead face!

The window-blinds fluttered in the faint autumn wind as Wilmot opened
the door, then quickly closed and locked it; and the rustling sound
added to the impressiveness of the great human silence. The hands of
the stern woman who loved her had ordered all the surroundings of the
dead tenderly and gracefully; and the tranquil form lay in its deep
rest very fair and solemn, and not terrible to look upon, if that can
ever be said of death, in its garments of linen and lace. The head was
a little bent, the face turned gently to one side, and the long dark
eyelashes lay on the cheek, which was hardly at all sunken, as if they
might be lifted up again and the light of life seen under them. Death
was indeed there, but the sign and the seal were not impressed upon
the face yet for a little while. Wilmot looked upon the dead tearless
and still for some minutes, and then a quick short shudder ran through
him, and he replaced the covering which had concealed the features,
and sat down by the bedside, hiding his face with his hands.

Who could put on paper the thoughts that swept over him then, and
swept his mind away in their turmoil, and tossed him to and fro in a
tempest of anguish which even the majestic tranquillity of death in
presence was powerless to quell? Who could measure the punishment, the
tremendous retribution of those hours, in which, if the world could
have known anything about them, the world would have seen only the
natural, the praiseworthy grief of bereavement? Who shall say through
what purifying fires of self-knowledge and self-abasement the nature
of the erring man passed in that dreadful vigil? And yet he did not
know the truth. His conscience had been rudely awakened, but his
comprehension had not yet been enlightened. He did not yet know the
terrible depths of meaning which he had still to explore in the words
which were the only articulate sounds that had formed themselves amid
the chaos of his grief--"Too late; too late!" The failure in duty, the
poverty, the niggardliness in love, the negligence, the dallying with
right, in so far as his wife had been concerned, were all there,
keeping him ghastly company, as he sat by the side of the dead; but
the grimmest and the ghastliest phantoms which were to swarm around
him were not yet evoked.

To do Chudleigh Wilmot justice, he had no notion that his wife had
been unhappy. That he had never rightly understood her character or
read her heart, was the soundest proof that he had not loved her; but
he had never taken himself to task on that point, and had been quite
satisfied to impute such symptoms of discontent as he could not fail
to notice to her sullenness of temper, of which he considered himself
wonderfully tolerant. So little did this wise, rising man understand
women, that he actually believed that indifference to his wife's moods
was a good-humoured sort of kindness she could not fail to appreciate.
She had appreciated it only too truly. The source of much of the
remorse and self-condemnation which tortured him now was to be traced
to his own newly-awakened feelings, to the fresh and novel
susceptibility which the experience of the past few weeks had aroused,
and in which lay the germs of some terrible lessons for the man whose
studies in all but the lore of the human heart had been so deep, whose
knowledge of that had been so strangely shallow. And now no knowledge
could avail. The harm, the wrong, the cruel ill that had been done,
was gone before him to the judgment; and he must live to learn its
extent, to feel its bitterness with every day of life, which could
never avail to lessen or repair it.

When Dr. Whittaker arrived, he found Wilmot in his consulting-room,
quite calm and steady, and prepared to receive his professional
account of the "melancholy occurrence," on which he condoled with the
bereaved husband after the most approved models. He did not attempt to
disguise from Wilmot that he had been disagreeably surprised by his
non-return under the circumstances. "Also," he added, "by your not
sending me any instructions, though indeed at that stage nothing could
have availed, I am convinced."

Wilmot received these observations with such unmistakable surprise
that an explanation ensued, which elicited the fact that he had never
received any letter from Dr. Whittaker, and indeed had had no
intimation of his wife's illness, beyond that conveyed in a letter
from herself a fortnight previous to her death, and in which she
treated it as quite a trifling matter.

"Very extraordinary indeed," said Dr. Whittaker in a dry and
unsatisfactory tone. "I can only repeat that I sent you the fullest
possible report, and entreated you to return at once. I was
particularly anxious, as Mrs. Wilmot confessed to me that you were
unaware of her situation."

"I never had the letter," said Wilmot; "I never heard of or from you,
beyond the memoranda enclosed in my wife's letters."

"Very extraordinary," repeated Dr. Whittaker still more drily than
before. "She took the letter at her own particular request, saying she
would direct it, that the sight of her hand-writing on the envelope,
she being unable to write more, might reassure you."

Wilmot coloured deeply and angrily under his brother physician's
searching gaze. He had not looked for his wife's infrequent letters
with any anxiety; he had had no quick, love-inspired apprehension to
be assuaged by her womanly considerateness. He felt an uneasy sort of
gladness that she had thought he had had such apprehension--better so,
even now, when all mistakes were doomed to be everlasting,--or when
they were quite cleared up. Which was it? He did not know; he did not
like to think. All was over; all was too late.

"I never received any such letter," he said again; "and I am
astonished you did not write again when you got no answer."

"I did not write again, because Mrs. Wilmot gave me so very decidedly
to understand that you had told her you could not, under any
circumstances, leave Kilsyth; and danger was not imminent until
Monday, when I telegraphed, just too late to catch you."

No more was said upon the point; but on Wilmot's mind was left a
painful and disagreeable impression that Dr. Whittaker had received
his explanation with distrust. The colloquy between the two physicians
lasted long; and Wilmot was further engaged for a long time in giving
the necessary attention to the distressing details which claim a
hearing just at the time when they most disturb and jar with the tone
of feeling. A sense of shock and hurry--a difficulty of realising the
event which had occurred, quite other than the stunned feeling of
conviction which had come with the first reception of the
intelligence--beset him, while the nameless evidences of death were
constantly pressed upon his attention. He sat in his consulting-room,
receiving messages and communications of every kind, hearing the
subdued voices of the servants as they replied to inquiries, feeling
as though he were living through a terrible feverish dream, conscious
of all around him, and yet strangely, awfully conscious too of the
dead white face upstairs growing, as he knew, more stiff and stark and
awful as the hours, so crowded yet so lonely, so busy yet so dreary,
flew, no, dragged--which was it?--along.

Many times that day, as Chudleigh Wilmot sat cold and grave, and,
although deeply sad, more composed, more like himself than most men
would have been in similar circumstances--a vision rose before his
mind. It was a vision such as has come to many a mourner--a vision of
what might have been. For it was not only his wife's death that the
new-made widower had learned that day; he had learned that which had
made her death doubly sad, far more untimely. The vision Chudleigh saw
in his day-dream was of a fair young mother and her child, a
happy wife in the summer-time of her beauty and her pride of
motherhood--this was what might have been. What was, was a dead white
face upstairs upon the bed, waiting for the coffin and the grave, and
a blighted hope, a promise never to be fulfilled, which had never even
been whispered between the living and the dead.


Mrs. Prendergast had been in the darkened house for many hours of that
long day. Wilmot knew she was there; but she had sent him no message,
and he had made no attempt to see her. He shrank from seeing her; and
yet he wished to know all that she, and she alone, could tell him. If
he had ever loved his wife sufficiently to be jealous of any other
sharing or even usurping her confidence, to have resented that any
other should have a more intimate knowledge of Mabel's sentiments and
tastes, should have occupied her time and her attention more fully
than he, Henrietta Prendergast's intimacy with her might have elicited
such feeling. But Chudleigh Wilmot had not loved his wife enough for
jealousy of the nobler, and was too much of a gentleman for jealousy
of the baser kind. No such insidious element of ill ever had a place
in his nature; and, except that he did not like Mrs. Prendergast,
whom he considered a clever woman of a type more objectionable than
common--and Wilmot was not an admirer of clever women generally--he
never resented, or indeed noticed, the exceptional place she occupied
among the number of his wife's friends. But there was something lurking
in his thoughts to-day; there was some unfaced, some unquestioned
misery at work within him, something beyond the tremendous shock he had
received, the deep natural grief and calamity which enshrouded him,
that made him shrink from seeing Henrietta until he should have had
more time to get accustomed to the truth.

When the night had fallen, he heard the light tread of women's feet in
the hall and a gentle whispering. Then the street-door was softly
shut, and carriage-wheels rolled away. The gas had been lighted in
Wilmot's room, but he had turned it almost out, and was sitting in the
dim light, when a knock at the door aroused his attention. The
intruder was the "Susan" already mentioned. Mrs. Wilmot had not
boasted an "own maid;" but this girl, one of the housemaids, had been
in fact her personal attendant. She came timidly towards her master,
her eyes red and her face pale with grief and watching.

"Well, what is it now?" said Wilmot impatiently. He was weary of
disturbance; he wanted to be securely alone, and to think it out.

"Mrs. Prendergast desired me to give you this, sir," the girl replied,
handing him a small packet, "and to say she wants to see you, sir,
tomorrow--respecting some messages from missus."

He took the parcel from her, and Susan left the room. Before she
reached the stairs, her master called her back. "Susan," he said,
"where's the seal-ring your mistress always wore? This parcel contains
her keys and her wedding-ring; where is the seal-ring? Has it been
left on her hand?"

"No, sir," said Susan; "and I can't think where it can have got to.
Missus hasn't wore it, sir, not this fortnight; and I have looked
everywhere for it. You'll find all her things quite right, sir, except
that ring; and Mrs. Prendergast, she knows nothing about it neither;
for I called her my own self to take off missus's wedding-ring,
as it was missus's own wish as she should do it, and she missed the
seal-ring there and then, sir, and couldn't account for it no more
than me."

"Very well, Susan, it can't be helped," replied Wilmot; and Susan
again left him.

He sat long, looking at the golden circlet as it lay in the broad palm
of his hand. It had never meant so much to him before; and even yet he
was far from knowing all it had meant to her from whose dead hand it
had been taken. At last, and with some difficulty, he placed the ring
upon the little finger of his left hand, saying as he did so, "I must
find the other, and always wear them both."



CHAPTER XII.
The Leaden Seal.


When Chudleigh Wilmot arose on the following morning, with the
semi-stupefied feeling of a man on whom a great calamity has just
fallen, not the least painful portion of the task, not the least
difficult part of the endurance that lay before him was the inevitable
interview with his dead wife's friend. Mrs. Prendergast had requested
that he would receive her early. This he learned from the servant who
answered his bell; and he had directed that she should be admitted as
soon as she arrived. He loitered about his room; he dallied with the
time; he dared not face the cold silent house, the servants, who
looked at him with natural curiosity, and, as he thought, avoidance.
If the case had not been his own, Wilmot would have remembered that
the spectacle of a new-made widow or widower always has attractions
for the curiosity of the vulgar: strong, if the grief in the case be
very violent; and stronger, if it be mild or non-existent. Wilmot was
awfully shocked by his wife's death, terribly remorseful for his own
absence, and perhaps for another reason--at which, however, he had not
yet had the hardihood to look--almost stunned by the terrible sense,
the conviction of the irrevocable ill of the past, the utterly
irreparable nature of the wrong that had been done. But all these
warring feelings did not constitute grief. Its supreme agony, its
utter sadness, its unspeakable weariness were wanting in the strife
which shook and rent him. The thought of the dead face had terror and
regret for him; but not the dreadful yearning of separation, not the
mysterious wrenching asunder of body and spirit, almost as powerful as
that of death itself, which comes with the sentence of parting, which
makes the possibility of living on so incomprehensible and so cruel to
the true mourner. Not the fact itself, so much as the attendant
circumstances, caused Wilmot to suffer, as he undoubtedly did suffer.
He knew in his heart that had there been no self-reproach involved in
this calamity, he would not have felt it as he felt it now; and in the
knowledge there was denial of the reality of grief.

No such thought as "How am I to live without her?" the natural
utterance of bereavement, arose in Wilmot's heart; though neither did
he profane his wife's memory or do dishonour to his own higher nature
by even the most passing reference to the object which had so fatally
engrossed him. The strong hand of death had curbed that passion for
the present, and his thoughts turned to Kilsyth only with remorse and
regret. But the wife who had had no absorbing share in his life could
not by her death make a blank in it of wide extent or long duration.

He was still lingering in his room, when he was told that Mrs.
Prendergast had arrived and was in the drawing-room. The closely-drawn
blinds rendered the room so dark that he could not distinguish
Henrietta's features, still further obscured by a heavy black veil.
She did not rise, and she made no attempt to take his hand, which he
extended to her in silence, the result of agitation. She bowed to him
formally, and was the first to speak. Her voice was low and her words
were hurried, though she tried hard to be calm.

"I was with your wife during her illness and at her death, Dr.
Wilmot," she said; "and I am here now not to offer you ill-timed
condolences, but to fulfil a trust."

Her tone surprised Wilmot, and affected him disagreeably. There had
never been any disagreement between himself and Mrs. Prendergast; he
was not a man likely to interfere or quarrel with his wife's friends;
and as he was wholly unconscious of the projects she had entertained
towards him, he had not any suspicion of hidden malice on her part.
Emotion he was prepared for--would indeed have welcomed; he was ready
also for blame and reproaches, in which he would have joined heartily,
against himself; but the calm, cold, rooted anger in this woman's
voice he was not prepared for. If such a thing had been possible--the
thought flashed lightning-like across his mind before she had
concluded her sentence--he might have had in her an enemy, biding her
time, and now at length finding it.

He did not speak, and she continued:

"I presume you have heard from Dr. Whittaker the particulars of
Mabel's illness, its cause, and the means used to avert--what has not
been averted?--"

"I have," briefly replied the listener.

"Then I need not enter into that--beyond this: a portion of my trust
is to tell you that Dr. Whittaker is not to blame."

"I have not blamed him, Mrs. Prendergast."

"That is well. When Mabel knew, or thought, I fear hoped, that her
life was in danger, her strongest desire was that you should be kept
in ignorance of the fact."

"Good God! why?" exclaimed Wilmot.

"I think you must know why better than I can tell you," replied
Henrietta pitilessly. "But, at all events, such was the case. Dr.
Whittaker wrote to you, but she suppressed the letter. She gave it to
me on the night she died. Here it is."

Chudleigh Wilmot took the letter from her hand silently. Astonishment
and distress overwhelmed him.

"She bade me tell you that she laid her life down gladly; that she had
nothing to leave, nothing to regret; that she was glad she had
succeeded in keeping you in ignorance of her danger--for she knew, for
the sake of your reputation, you would have left even Miss Kilsyth to
be here at her death. But she preferred your absence; she distinctly
bade me tell you so. She left no dying charge to you but this, that
you should allow me to see her coffin closed on the second day after
her death, and that you should wear her wedding-ring. I sent it to you
last night, Dr. Wilmot. I hope you got it safely."

"I did; it is here on my finger," answered Wilmot; "but, for God's
sake, Mrs. Prendergast, tell me what all this means. Why did my wife
charge you with such a message for me; how have I deserved it? Why did
she, how should she, so young, and to all appearance not unhappy, wish
to die, and to die in my absence? Did she persevere in that wish, or
was it only a whim of her illness, which, had there been any one to
remonstrate with her, would have yielded later?"

"It was no whim, Dr. Wilmot. A wretched truth, I grant you, but a
truth, and persisted in. So long as consciousness remained, she never
changed in that."

A dark and angry look came into Wilmot's face, and he raised his voice
as he asked the next question:

"Do you mean to explain this extraordinary circumstance, Mrs.
Prendergast? Are you going to give me the clue to this mystery? My
wife and I always lived on good terms; we parted on the same. No man
or woman living can say with truth that I ever was unkind to her, or
that she had cause given her _by me_ to wish her life at an end, to
welcome death. I believe the communication you have just made to me is
utterly without example. I never heard, I don't believe anyone ever
heard of such a thing. I ask you to explain it, if you can."

"You speak as though you asked, or desired me to _account_ for it
too," said Henrietta, in a cold and cutting tone, which rebuked the
vehemence of his manner, and revealed the intense, unsleeping egotism
of her disposition. "I could do so, I daresay; but I cannot see the
profitableness of such a discussion between you and me. It is too late
now; nothing can undo the wrong, no matter what it was, or how far it
extended. It is all over, and I have nothing more to do than to carry
out the last wishes of my dear friend. Have I your permission to do
so?" she asked, in the most formal possible tone, as she rose and
stood opposite him.

Wilmot put his hands up to his face, and walked hurriedly about the
room. Then he came suddenly towards Henrietta, and said with intense
feeling:

"I beg your pardon; I did not mean to speak roughly: but I am
bewildered by all this. I am sure you must feel for me; you must
understand how utterly I am unable to comprehend what has occurred. To
come home and receive such a shock as the news of my wife's death, was
surely enough in itself to try me severely. And now to hear what you
tell me, and tell me too so calmly, as if you did not understand what
it means, and what it must be to me to hear it! You were with her, her
chosen friend. I think you knew her better than anyone in the world."

"And if I did," said Henrietta,--all her assumed calm gone, and her
manner now as vehement as his own,--"if I did, is not that an answer
to all you ask me? If I am to explain her motives, to lay bare her
thoughts, to tell her sorrows, _to you_, her husband, is _that_ not
your answer? Surely you have it in that fact! They are not true
husband and true wife who have closer friends. You never loved her,
and you never knew or cared what her life was; and so, when she was
leaving it, she kept you aloof from her."

Wilmot made no sound in reply. He stood quite still, and looked at
her. His eyes had grown accustomed to the gloom, and she had raised
her veil. He could see her face now. Her pale cheeks, paler than usual
in her grief and passion, her deep angry sorrowful eyes, and her
trembling lips, made her look almost terrible, as she stood there and
told him out the truth.

"No," she went on, "you did not know her, and you were satisfied not
to know her; you went complacently on your way, and never thought
whether hers was lonely and wearisome. You never were unkind to her,
you say; no, I daresay you never were. She had all the advantages to
which your wife was entitled, and she did you and them due honour.
Why, even I, who did, as you say, know her best, had suspected
only recently, and learned fully only since her illness began, all
she suffered; no, not all--_that_ one heart can never pour into
another--but I have only read the story of her life lately, and you
have never read it at all. You were a physician, and you did not see
that your own wife, a dweller under your own roof, whose life was lived
in your sight, had a mortal disease."

"What do you mean?" he said; "she had no such thing."

"_She had!_" Henrietta repeated impetuously; "she had a broken heart.
You never ill-treated her--true; you never neglected her--true,--until
she was dying, that is to say;--but did you ever love her, Dr. Wilmot?
Did you ever consider her as other or more than an appendage of your
position, an ornament in your house, a condition of your social
success and respectability? What were her thoughts, her hopes, her
disappointments to you? Did you ever make her your real companion, the
true sharer of your life? Did you ever return the love, the worship
which she gave you? Did you ever pity her jealous nature; did you ever
interpret it by any love or sensitiveness of your own, and abstain
from wounding it? Did you know, did you care, whether she suffered
when you shut yourself up in your devotion to a pursuit in which she
had no share? All women have to bear that, no doubt, and are fools if
they quarrel with the bread-winner's devotion to his work. Yes; but
all women have not her silent, brooding, jealous, sullen nature; all
women are not so little frivolous as she was; all women, Dr. Wilmot,
do not love their husbands as Mabel loved you."

She paused in the torrent of her words, and then he spoke.

"All this is new and terrible to me; as new as it is terrible. Mrs.
Prendergast, do me the justice to believe that."

"It is not for me to do you justice or injustice," she made answer;
"your punishment must come from your own heart, or you must go
unpunished."

"But"--he almost pleaded with her--"Mabel never blamed me, never tried
to keep me more with her; rarely indeed expressed a wish of any kind.
I declare, before God, I never dreamed, it never occurred to me to
suspect that she was unhappy."

"No," she said; "and Mabel knew that. She interested you so little,
you cared so little for her, that you never looked below the surface
of her life; and her pride kept that surface fair and smooth. She
would have died before she would have complained,--she has died, in
fact, and made no sign."

"Yes," said Wilmot suddenly and bitterly; "but she has left me this
legacy, brought me by your hands, of miserable regret and vain
repentance. She has insured the destruction of my peace of mind; she
has taken care that mine shall be no ordinary grief, sent by God and
to be dispelled by time; she has added bitterness to the bitter, and
put me utterly in the wrong by her unwarrantable concealment and
reticence."

"How truly manlike your feelings are, Dr. Wilmot! She has hurt your
pride, and you can't forgive her even in death! She has put _you_ in
the wrong,--and all her own wrongs, so silently borne, sink into
nothing in comparison!"

"I deny it!" Wilmot said vehemently; "she _had_ no wrongs,--no woman
of her acquaintance had a better husband. What did I ever deny her?"

"Only your love, only a wife's true place in your life, only all she
longed for, only all she died for lack of."

"All this is absurd," he said. "If she really had these romantic
notions, why did she conceal them? Have _I_ nothing to complain of in
this? Was she just to me, or candid with me?"

"What encouragement did you give her? Do you think a proud, shy,
silent woman like Mabel was likely to lay her heart open to so cold
and careless a glance as yours? No; she loved you as few women can
love; but if she had much love, so she had much pride and jealousy;
and all three had power with her."

"Jealousy!" said Wilmot in an angry tone; "in God's name, of whom did
she contrive to be jealous."

"Her jealousy was not of a mean kind," said Henrietta. "Ever since
your marriage it had nourished itself, so far as I understood the
matter, upon your devotion to your profession, upon the complacent
ease with which you set _her_ claims aside for those which so
thoroughly engrossed you, that you had no heart, no eyes, no attention
for her. Of late--" she paused.

"Well?" said Wilmot;--"of late?"

"Of late," repeated Henrietta, speaking now with some more reserve of
manner, "she believed you devoted--to a degree which conquered your
devotion to your profession and to the interests of your own
advancement--to the patient who detained you at Kilsyth."

"What madness! what utter folly!" said Wilmot; but his face turned
deeply red, and he felt in his heart that the arrow had struck home.

"Perhaps so," said Henrietta, and her voice resumed the cutting tone
from which all through this painful interview Wilmot had shrunk. "But
Mabel was not more reasonable or less so than other jealous women. You
had never neglected your business for _her_, remember, or been turned
aside by any sentimental attraction from your course of professional
duty. Friendship, gratitude, and interest alike required you to attend
to Mr. Foljambe's summons. You did not come, and people talked. Mr.
Foljambe himself spoke of the attractions of Kilsyth, and joked, after
his inconsiderate manner."

"In _her_ presence?" said Wilmot incautiously.

"Yes, in _her_ presence," said Henrietta, who perfectly appreciated
the slip he had made. "She knew some people who knew the Kilsyths, and
she heard the remarks that were made. I daresay she imagined more than
she heard. No matter. Nothing matters any more. She was not sorry to
die when her time came; she would not have you troubled,--that is all.
And now I will leave you. I am going to her."

The last sentence had a dreadful effect on Wilmot. In the agitation,
the surprise, the pain of this interview, he had almost forgotten
time; the present reality had nearly escaped him. He had been rapt
away into a world of feeling, of passion; he had been absorbed in the
sense of a discovery, and of something which seemed like an impossible
injustice. With Henrietta's words it all vanished, and he remembered,
with a start, that his wife lay dead upstairs. They were not talking
of a life long extinguished, which in former years might have been
made happier by him, but of one which had ended only a few hours ago;
a life whose forsaken tenement was still untouched by "decay's
effacing fingers." With all this new knowledge fresh upon him, with
all this bewildering conviction of irreparable wrong, he might look
upon the calm young face again. Not as he had looked upon it
yesterday; not with the deep sorrow and the irresistible though
unjustified compassion with which death in youth is always regarded,
but with an exceeding and heart-rending bitterness, in comparison with
which even that repentant grief was mild and merciful. The fixedness,
the blank, the silence, would be far more dreadful, far more
reproachful now, when he knew that he had never understood, never
appreciated her--had unwittingly tortured her; now when he knew that,
in all her youth and beauty, she had been glad to die. Glad to die!
The words had a tremendous, an unbearable meaning for him. If even the
last month could have been unlived! If only he had not had _that_ to
reproach himself with, to justify _her!_ In vain, in vain. In that one
moment of unspeakable suffering Wilmot felt that his punishment,
however grave his offence, was greater than he could bear.

He turned away from Henrietta with the air of a man to whom another
word would be intolerable, and sat down wearily. She stood still,
looking at him, as if awaiting an answer or a dismissal.

At length she said, "Have you forgotten, Dr. Wilmot, that I asked your
permission to carry out Mabel's wish?"

"No," he said drearily, "I remember. Of course do as you like; I
should say, as she directed. I suppose the object of her request was,
that I should see her no more, in death either. Well, well--it is
fortunate that did not succeed too." He spoke in a patient, broken
tone, which touched Henrietta's heart. But her perverted notion of
truth and loyalty to the dead held her back from showing any sign of
softening. Just as she was leaving the room he said:

"Such a course is very unusual, is it not?"

"I believe so," she replied; "but the servants know it was her
desire."

Then Henrietta Prendergast went away; and presently he heard a slight
sound in that awful room overhead, and he knew she had taken her place
beside the dead. He felt, as he sat for hours of that day quite alone,
like a banished man. His wife was doubly dead to him now. All his
married life had grown on a sudden unreal; and when he thought of the
still white face which he was to see once, and only once more, for
ever, it was with a strange sense of dread and avoidance, and not with
the tender sorrow which, even amid the shock and self-reproach of
yesterday, had come to his relief.

Somehow, he could not have told how, with the inevitable
interruptions, the wretched necessary business of such a time, the
hours of that day passed over Chudleigh Wilmot's head, and the night
came. He had looked his last upon his wife, had taken his solemn leave
of the death-chamber. She lay now in her coffin, sealed, hidden from
sight for evermore, and there was nothing now but the long dreary
waiting. In its turn that too passed, and in due time the funeral day;
and Chudleigh Wilmot was quite alone in his silent house, and had only
to look back into the past. Forward into the future he did not dare,
he had not heart to look. A kind of blank, the reaction from intense
excitement, had set in with him, and for the first time in his life
his physical strength flagged. The claims of his business began to
press upon him; people sent for him, respectfully and hesitatingly,
but with some confidence that he would come, nevertheless. And Wilmot
went; and was received with condoling looks, which he affected not to
see, and compassionating tones, of which he took no notice.

He had no more to do with the past--he had buried it; his sole desire
was that others should aid him in this apparent oblivion; how far from
real it was, he alone could have told. He had written to Kilsyth a few
indispensable lines, and had had a formal report of Madeleine's
health, which he had conscientiously tried to range with other
professional documents, and lay by with them. It was certainly a dark
and dreary time, endless in length, and so hopeless, so final, that it
seemed to have no outlet; a time than which Chudleigh Wilmot believed
life could never bring him a darker. But trouble was new to him. He
learned more about it later on in his day.

When a fortnight had elapsed after Wilmot's return to London, and the
tumult of his mind had subsided, though the bitterness of his feelings
was not yet allayed, he chanced one morning to require a paper, which
he knew was to be found in a certain cabinet which filled a niche in
the wall of his consulting-room. The cabinet in question was one he
rarely opened; and the moment he attempted to turn the key, he felt
confident that the lock had been tampered with. The conviction was
singularly unpleasant; for the cabinet was a repository of private
papers, deeds, letters, and professional notes. It also contained
several poisons, which Wilmot kept there in what he supposed to be
inviolable security. Closer inspection confirmed his suspicions. The
lock had been opened by the simple process of breaking it; and the
doors, merely laid together, had caught on a jagged piece of metal,
and thus presented the slight obstacle they had offered. With a mere
shake they unclosed.

This circumstance puzzled Wilmot exceedingly. He made a careful
examination of the contents of the cabinet. All was precisely as he
had left it; not a paper missing or disturbed.

"Who can have been at the cabinet?" he thought, "and with what
motive?--Nothing has been taken; nothing, so far as I can discover,
has been touched. Mere curiosity would hardly tempt anyone to run such
a risk; and no one knew that there was anything of value here. Stay,"
he reflected; "one person knew it. _She_ knew it; she knew that I kept
private papers here. No doubt it was she who opened the cabinet. But
with what motive? What can she possibly have wanted which she could
have hoped to find here?"

No answer to this query presented itself to Wilmot's mind. He thought
and thought over it, painfully recurring to all Mrs. Prendergast had
told him, and trying to help himself to a solution of this mystery by
the aid of those which had preceded it. For some time he thought in
vain; at length the idea struck him that the jealous woman, restless
and miserable in her unhappy curiosity--he could understand _now_ what
she had felt, he could pity her _now_--had opened the cabinet to seek
for letters from some fancied rival in his affections. Nothing but his
belief in the perversion of mind which comes of the indulgence of such
a passion as jealousy could have led Wilmot to suspect his wife of
such an act for a moment. But he was a wise man, now that it was too
late, in that lore which he had never studied while he might have read
the book, and he recognised the transforming power of jealousy. Yes,
that was it doubtless; she had sought here for the material wherewith
to feed the flame that had tortured her.

Chudleigh Wilmot took the paper he wanted from the place where
it had lain, and was about to close the doors of the cabinet once
more--restoring them, until he could have the lock repaired, to their
deceptive appearance of security--when his attention was caught by a
dark-coloured spot, about the size of a shilling, upon the topmost
sheet of a packet of papers which lay beside a small mahogany case
containing the before-mentioned poisons. He took the packet out and
examined it. The spot was there, and extended to every paper in the
packet. A sudden flush and expression of vague alarm crossed Wilmot's
face. He took up the case and examined the exterior. A dark mark, the
stain of some glutinous fluid, ran down the side of the box next which
the papers had lain. For a moment he held the case in his hands, and
literally dared not open it. Then in sickening fear he did so, and
found its contents apparently undisturbed. The box was divided into
ten little compartments, in each of which stood a tiny bottle,
glass-stoppered and covered with a leaden capsule. To the neck of each
was appended a little leaden seal, the mark of the French chemist from
whom Wilmot had purchased the deadly drugs. He took the bottles out
one by one, examined their seals, and held them up to the light. All
safe for nine out of the number; but as he touched the tenth, the
capsule with the leaden seal attached to it fell off, and Wilmot
discovered, with ineffable horror, that the bottle, which had
contained one of the deadliest poisons known to science, was half
empty.

He set down the case, and reeled against the corner of the mantelshelf
near him, like a drunken man. He could not face the idea that had
taken possession of him; he could not collect his thoughts. He gasped
as though water were surging round him. Once more he took up the
bottle and looked at it. It was only too true; one half the contents
was missing. He closed the case, and pushed it back into its place. It
struck against something on the shelf of the cabinet. He felt for the
object, and drew out _his wife's seal-ring!_

And now Chudleigh Wilmot knew what was the terror that had seized him.
It was no longer vague; it stood before him clear, defined,
unconquerable; and he groaned:

"My God! she destroyed herself!"



CHAPTER XIII.
A Turn of the Screw.


Chudleigh Wilmot had not seen Mrs. Prendergast since the day on which
his wife's funeral had taken place; and it was with equal surprise and
satisfaction that she received a brief but kindly-worded note from
him, requesting her to permit him to call upon her.

"I wonder what it's all about," she thought, as she wrote with
deliberation and care a gracious answer in the affirmative. Mrs.
Prendergast had been thinking too since her friend's death, and her
cogitations had had some practical results. It was true that Mabel
Darlington had not been happy with Wilmot; but Mrs. Prendergast,
thinking it all over, was not indisposed to the opinion that it was a
good deal her own fault, and to entertain the very natural feminine
conviction that things would have been quite otherwise had she been in
Mabel's place. Why should she not--of course in due time, and with a
proper observance of all the social decencies--hope to fill that place
now? She was a practical, not a sentimental woman; but when the idea
occurred to her very strongly, she certainly did find pleasure in
remembering that Mabel Wilmot had been very much attached to her, and
would perhaps have liked the notion of her being her successor as well
as any woman ever really likes any suggestion of the kind, that is to
say, resignedly, and with an "it-might-be-worse" reservation.

Henrietta Prendergast had cherished a very sound dislike to Chudleigh
Wilmot for some time; but it was, though quite real--while the fact
that he had chosen another than herself, though she had been so ready
and willing to be chosen, was constantly impressed upon her
remembrance--not of a lasting nature. Besides, she had had the
satisfaction of making him understand very distinctly that the choice
he had made had not been a wise one; and ever since her feelings
towards him had been undergoing a considerable modification.

How much ground had Mabel had for her jealously of Miss Kilsyth? What
truth was there in the suspicions they had both entertained respecting
the influence which his young patient had exercised over Wilmot?'. She
had no means of determining these questions. It would have been
impossible for her, had she been a woman capable of such a meanness,
to have watched Wilmot during the interval which had elapsed since his
wife's death. His numerous professional duties, the constant demands
upon his time, all rendered her attaining any distinct knowledge of
his proceedings impossible; and beyond the announcement in the
_Morning Post_ that Kilsyth of Kilsyth and his family had arrived in
town, she knew nothing whatever concerning them. Henrietta Prendergast
had, on the whole, been considerably occupied with the idea of
Chudleigh Wilmot when his note reached her, and she prepared to
receive him with feelings which resembled those of long-past days
rather than those which had actuated her of late.

It was late in the afternoon when the expected visitor made his
appearance, and Henrietta had already begun to feel piqued and angry
at the delay. His note indicated a pressing wish to see her--she had
answered it promptly. What had made him so dilatory about availing
himself of her permission?

The first look she caught of Wilmot's face convinced her that the
motive of his visit was a grave one. He was pale and sedate, even to a
fixed seriousness far beyond that which had fallen upon him after the
shock of Mabel's death, and a painful devouring anxiety might be read
in the troubled haggard expression of his deep-set dark eyes. He
entered at once upon the matter which had induced him to ask Mrs.
Prendergast for an interview; and though her manner was emphatically
gracious, and designed to show him that she desired to maintain their
former relations intact, he took no notice of her courtesy. This was a
mistake. All women are quick to take cognisance of a slight, and
Henrietta was no slower than the rest of her sex. He showed her much
too plainly that he had an object in seeking her presence entirely
unconnected with herself. It was not wise; but the shock of the
discovery which he had made had shaken Wilmot's nerves and overthrown
his judgment for the time. He briefly informed Mrs. Prendergast that
he came for the purpose of asking her to recapitulate all the
circumstances of his wife's illness and death; to entreat her to tax
her memory to the utmost, to recall everything, however trivial,
bearing upon the progress of the malady, and in particular every
detail bearing upon her state of mind.

Henrietta listened to him with profound astonishment. Previously he
had shunned all such details. When she had met him, prepared to supply
them, he had asked her no questions; he had been apparently satisfied
with the medical report made to him by Dr. Whittaker; he had been
almost indifferent to such minor facts as she had stated; and the
painful revelation which she had made to him had not been followed up
by any close questioning on his part. And now, when all was at an end,
when the grave had closed over the sad domestic story, as over all
the tragedies of human life, hidden or displayed, the grave must
close,--now he came to her with this preoccupied brooding face and
manner to ask her these vain and painful questions. Thus she was newly
associated with dark and dismal images in his mind, and this was
precisely what Henrietta had no desire to be. She answered him,
therefore, in her coldest tone (and no woman knew how to ice her
answers better than she did), that the subject was extremely painful
to her for many reasons. Was it absolutely necessary to revive it?
Wilmot said it was, and expressed no consideration for her feelings
nor regret for the necessity of wounding them.

"Well, then, Dr. Wilmot," said Henrietta, "as I presume you wish to
question me in some particular direction, though I am quite at a loss
to understand why, you are at liberty to do so."

Wilmot then commenced an interrogatory, which, as it proceeded, filled
Henrietta with amazement. Had he any theory of his wife's illness and
death incompatible with the facts as she had seen and understood them?
Did he suspect Dr. Whittaker of ignorance and mismanagement in the
case? Even supposing he did, what would it avail him now to convince
himself that such suspicion was well founded? All was inevitable, all
was irreparable now. While these thoughts were busy in her brain, she
was answering question after question put to her by Wilmot in a cold
voice, and with her steady neutral-tinted eyes fixed in pitiless
scrutiny upon him. He asked her in particular about the period at
which Mabel had suppressed Dr. Whittaker's letter to him. Had she been
particularly unhappy just then; had the "unfortunate notion she had
conceived about--about Miss Kilsyth, been in her mind before, or just
at that time?"

This question Mrs. Prendergast could not, or would not, answer very
distinctly. She did not remember exactly when Mabel had heard so much
about Miss Kilsyth; she did not know what day it was on which Dr.
Whittaker had written. Wilmot produced the letter, and pointed out the
date. Still Mrs. Prendergast's memory refused to aid her reliably. She
really did not know; she could not answer this. Could she remember
whether Mabel had ever left her room after that letter had been
written? or whether she had been confined to her room when she had
received his (Wilmot's) letter from Kilsyth; the letter which Mrs.
Prendergast had said had distressed her so much, had brought about the
confidence between Mabel and herself relative to the feelings of the
former, and had led Mabel to say that she had no desire to live?
Wilmot awaited the reply to these questions in a state of suspense not
far removed from agony. He could not indeed permit himself to cherish
a hope that the dreadful idea he entertained was unfounded; but in the
answer awful confirmation or the germ of hope must lie.

Henrietta replied, after a few moments' thoughtful silence. She could
remember the circumstances, though not the precise date. Mabel had
left her room on the day on which she had received Wilmot's letter;
she had been in the drawing-rooms, and even in the consulting-room on
that day. It was on the night that she had told Mrs. Prendergast all,
and had expressed her desire to die, her conviction that she could not
recover. Henrietta was not certain whether that day was the same as
that on which Dr. Whittaker's letter was written, but she was
perfectly clear on the point on which Wilmot appeared to lay so much
stress; she knew it was the day after his last letter from Kilsyth had
reached her.

The intense suffering displayed in every line of Wilmot's face as she
made this statement touched Henrietta as much as it puzzled her. Had
she mistaken this man? Had he really deep feelings, strong
susceptibilities? Had the shock of his wife's death been far otherwise
felt than she had believed, and was he now groping after every detail,
in order to feed the vain flame of love and memory? Such a supposition
accorded very ill with all she knew and all she imagined of Chudleigh
Wilmot; but she could find no other within her not infertile brain.

"What became of my letter to her?" Wilmot asked her abruptly.

"It is in her coffin, together with every other you ever wrote her. I
placed them there at her own request. She had them tied up in a
packet,--the others I mean; but she gave me that one separately."

"Why?" asked Wilmot in a hoarse whisper.

"Why!" repeated Henrietta. "I don't know. It was only a few hours
before she died. She hardly spoke at all after, but she told me quite
distinctly then that I was to give you her wedding-ring, and to place
those letters in her coffin. 'I could not destroy those,' she said,
touching the packet in my hand; 'and this,' she drew it from under her
pillow as she spoke, 'I want to be placed with me too. It is my
justification.'"

"My justification!" repeated Wilmot. "What did she mean? What did you
understand that she meant by that?"

"I did not think much about it. The poor thing was near her end then,
and I thought little of it; though of course I did what she desired."

"Yes, yes, I understand," said Wilmot. "But her
justification--justification in what--for what?"

"In her gloomy and miserable ideas of course, and, above all, in her
desire to die. She believed that your letter contained the proof of
all she feared and suffered from, and so justified her longing to
escape from further neglect and sorrow."

"You did not suspect that it had any further meaning?"

Henrietta stared at him in silence. "I beg your pardon," he said; "my
mind is confused by anxiety. I am afraid, Mrs. Prendergast, there may
have been features in this case not rightly understood. Could it be
that Whittaker was deceived?"

"I think not--I cannot believe that there was any error. Dr. Whittaker
never expressed any anxiety on _that_ point, any uncertainty, any wish
to divide the responsibility, except with yourself. I understood him
to say that he had gone into the case very fully with you, and that
you were satisfied everything had been done within the resources of
medicine."

"Yes, he did. I don't blame him; I don't blame anyone but myself. But,
Mrs. Prendergast, that is not the point. What I want to get at is
this: did she--my wife I mean--did she hide anything from Whittaker's
knowledge?"

"Anything? In her physical state do you mean? Of her mental sufferings
no one but myself ever had the smallest indication. Will you wrong her
dead as well as living?" said Henrietta angrily.

"No," he answered, "I will not,--I trust I will not, and do not. I
meant, did she tell Whittaker all about her illness? Did she conceal
any symptoms from him? Did she suffer more or otherwise than he knew
of?"

"Frankly, I think she did, Dr. Wilmot. She was extremely, almost
painfully patient; I would much rather have seen her less so. She
answered his questions and mine, but she said nothing except in answer
to questioning. She suffered, I am convinced, infinitely more than she
allowed to appear; and especially on the night of her death, just
before the stupor set in, she was in great agony."

"Yes," said Wilmot hurriedly. "Was Whittaker there? Did he know it?"

"He was not there; he had been sent for a little while before, when
she was tranquil; and she was quite insensible when he returned in
about three hours. He told you, of course, that we had had good hope
of her during the day,--in fact, up to the evening?"

"Yes, he said there had been a rally, but it had not lasted. Did she
know that there was hope?"

"She did," said Henrietta slowly and reluctantly. "You ask me very
painful questions, Dr. Wilmot,--painful to me in the extreme; and I am
sure my answers must be acutely distressing to you. I cannot
understand your motive."

"No," he said, "I am sure you cannot; neither can I explain it. But
indeed I am compelled to put these questions; I cannot spare either
you or myself. You say she knew there was hope of her recovery on the
day before her death; and yet while the rally lasted,--before the
suffering of which you speak set in,--she gave you those solemn
charges which you fulfilled?"

"Yes," said Henrietta--and her voice was soft now and her eyes were
full of tears--"she did. She did not trust the rally. She told me,
with such a dreadful smile, that it would not avail to keep her from
her rest. She was right. From the moment she grew worse the progress
of death was awfully rapid."

"What medicine did you give her during the brief improvement?"

"Only some restorative drops. Dr. Whittaker gave them to her himself
several times, and when he left I gave them to her."

"Did she ever take this medicine of her own accord? Was she strong
enough in the interval of improvement to take medicine, or to move
without assistance?"

Again Henrietta looked at him for a little while before she replied:

"If you are afraid, Dr. Wilmot, that any mistake was made about the
medicine, dismiss such a fear. There was no other medicine in the room
but the bottle containing the drops; and now your strange question
reminds me that she did take them once unassisted."

Wilmot rose and came towards her. "How? when?" he said eagerly. "How
could she do so in her weak state?"

"The bottle was on the table, close by her bed. Only one dose was
left. She had asked me to raise the window-blind; and I was doing so,
when she stretched out her arm and took the bottle off the table. When
I turned round she was drinking the last drops, and the next moment
she dropped the bottle on the floor, and it was broken."

"Was she fainting, then?"

"O no," said Henrietta, "she was quite sensible, until the pain came
on. Indeed I remember that she told me to keep away from the bed until
the broken glass had been swept up."

"Was that done?"

"Yes, I did it myself at once."

"One more question, Mrs. Prendergast," said Wilmot, who had put a
strong constraint upon himself, and spoke calmly now. "When did she
charge you to have her coffin closed within two days of her death? Was
it within the interval during which her recovery seemed possible?"

"It was," answered Henrietta,--"it was when she told me that the rally
was deceitful, and was not to keep her from her rest. Then I undertook
to carry out her wish."

"Did she give any reason for having formed it?"

"She did--the reason you surmised when I first told you of it. I need
not repeat it."

"I would wish you to do so--pray let me hear the exact words she
said."

"Well, then, they were these. 'You will promise me to see it done,
Henrietta. He cannot get home, even supposing he could leave at once,
when he hears that I am dead, until late on the second day.' I told
her it was an awful thing that she should wish you not to see her
again, and she said, 'No, no, it is not. If he thinks of my face at
all, I want him to see it in his memory as it was when I thought he
liked to look at it. I could not bear him to remember it black and
disfigured.' Those were her exact words, Dr. Wilmot; and like all the
rest she said, they proved to me how much she loved you."

Wilmot made no answer, and neither spoke for some minutes. Then Wilmot
extended his hand, which Henrietta took with some cordiality, and
said, "I thank you very much, Mrs. Prendergast, for the patience with
which you have heard me and answered me. I have no explanation to give
you. I shall never forget your kindness to my wife, and I hope we
shall always be good friends."

He pressed her hand warmly as he spoke; and before Henrietta could
reply, he left her to cogitations as vain and unsatisfactory as they
were absorbing and unceasing.

Chudleigh Wilmot went direct to his own house after his interview with
Henrietta, and gave himself up to the emotions which possessed him.
Not a shadow of doubt did he now entertain that his wife had destroyed
herself. In the skill and ingenuity with which he invested the act, in
his active fancy, which had read the story from the unconscious
narrative of Henrietta, he recognised a touch of insanity, which his
experience taught him was not very rare in cases similar to that of
his wife. To a certain extent he was relieved by the conviction that
when she had done the irrevocable deed she was not in her right mind.
But what had led to it? what had been the predisposing causes? His
conscience, awakened too late, his heart, softened too late, gave him
a stern and searching answer. Her life had been unhappy, and she had
made her escape from it. He was as much to blame as if he had
voluntarily and actively made her wretched. He saw this now by the
light of that keener susceptibility, that higher understanding, which
had been kindled within him. It had been kindled by the magic touch of
love. Another woman had made him see into his wife's heart, and
understand her life. What was he to do now? how was it to be with him
in the future? He hardly dared to think. Sometimes his mind dwelt on
the possibility that it might not be as he believed it was, and the
only means of resolving his doubts suggested itself. He might have
Mabel's body exhumed, and then the truth would be known. But he shrank
with horror from the thought, as from a dishonour to her memory. If he
took such a step, it must be accounted for; and could he, would he
dare to cast such a slur upon the woman who, if she had done this
deed, had resorted to it because, as his wife, she was miserable? Had
he any right, supposing it was all a dreadful delusion that she had
meddled with his poisons for some trivial motive, however
inexplicable,--had he any right to solve his own doubts at such a
price as their exposure to cold official eyes? No--a resolute negative
was the reply of his heart to these questions; and he made up his mind
that his punishment must be lifelong irremediable doubt, to be borne
with such courage as he could summon, but never to be escaped from or
left behind.

Utter sickness of heart fell upon him and a great weariness. From the
past he turned away with vain terrible regret; to the future he dared
not look. The present he loathed. He must leave that house, he thought
impatiently--he could not bear the sight of it. It had none of the
dear and sorrowful sacredness which makes one cling to the home of the
loved and lost; it was hateful to him; for there the life his
indifference, his want of comprehension had blighted, had been
terminated--he shuddered as he thought by what means. And then he
thought he would leave England; he could not see Madeleine Kilsyth
again; or if he had to do so, he could not see her often. To think of
her, in her innocent youth and beauty, as one to be loved, or wooed,
or won--if even in his most distant dreams such a possibility were
approached by a man whose life had such a story in it, such a dreadful
truth, setting him apart from other men--was almost sacrilegious. No,
he would go away. Fate had dealt him a tremendous blow; he could not
stand against it; he must yield to it for the present, at all events.
Under the influence of the terrible truth which he was forced to
confront, all his ambition, all his energy seemed suddenly to have
deserted the rising man.


*     *     *     *     *


"But, my dear fellow, I can't bring myself to believe that you are
serious; I can't indeed, just as the ball is at your foot too. I
protest I expected you to distance them all in another year. Everybody
talks of you; and what is infinitely better, everyone is ready to call
you in if they require your services, or fancy they require them. Why,
there's Kilsyth of Kilsyth--ah, Wilmot, you threw me over in that
direction, but I don't bear malice--he swears by you. The fine old
fellow came to the bank yesterday; I met him in the hall, and he got
into my brougham, and came home with me, for no other reason on earth
than to talk about you. Wilmot's skill and Wilmot's coolness, Wilmot's
kindness and Wilmot's care--nothing but Wilmot. I should have been
bored to death by so much talking all about one man, if it had been
any man but yourself. And now to tell me that you are going away,
going to make a gap in your life, going to give up the running, and
forfeit such prospects as yours--because you must remember, my dear
fellow, you must not calculate on resuming exactly where you have left
off, in any sort of game of life; to do such a thing as this because
you have met with a loss which thousands of men have to bear, and work
on just as usual notwithstanding! Impossible, my dear Wilmot; you are
not in earnest--you have not considered the thing!"

Thus emphatically spoke Mr. Foljambe to Chudleigh Wilmot, all the more
emphatically because his friend's resolution had astonished as much as
it had displeased and disquieted him. Mr. Foljambe had never looked
upon Wilmot at all in the light of a particularly devoted husband; and
when he alluded to the loss of a wife being one which he had to bear
in common with many other sufferers, he had done so with a shrewd
conviction that Wilmot must be trusted to find all the fortitude
necessary for the occasion.

Mr. Foljambe, of Portland-place, was a very rich and influential
banker; gouty enough to bear out the tradition of his wealth, and
courteous and wise enough to do credit to his calling. He was not
describable as a City man, however, but was, on the contrary, a
pleasure and fashion-loving old gentleman, who was perfectly versed in
the ways of society, _au courant_ of all the gossip of "town," very
popular in the gayest and in the most select circles, an authority
upon horses, though he never rode, learned in wines, though he
consumed them in great moderation, believed not to possess a relative
in the world, and more attached to Chudleigh Wilmot than to any human
being alive, at his present and advanced period of existence. The old
gentleman and Chudleigh Wilmot's father had been chums in boyhood and
friends in manhood; and the friendship he felt for the younger man was
somewhat hereditary, though Wilmot's qualities were precisely of a
nature to have won Mr. Foljambe's regard on their own merits. He had
watched Wilmot's course with the utmost interest, pride, and pleasure.
His unflagging industry, his determined energy commanded his sympathy;
and he anticipated a triumphant career of professional success and
renown for his favourite. The intelligence that he had determined, if
not to relinquish, at least to suspend his professional labours, gave
the kind old gentleman sincere concern. He did not understand it, he
repeated over and over again; he could not make it out; it was not
like Wilmot. Of course he could not say distinctly to him that he had
never supposed his wife to be so dear to him that her death must needs
revolutionise his life. But if he did not say this, Wilmot discerned
it in his manner; but still he offered no explanation. He could not
remain in England; he must go. His health, his mind would give way, if
he did not get away into another scene, into new associations. All
remonstrance, all argument proved unavailing; and when Wilmot bade his
old friend farewell, he left him half angry and half mistrustful, as
well as altogether depressed and sorrowful.



CHAPTER XIV.
His Grateful Patient.


She has destroyed herself! That was the keynote to all his thoughts.
Destroyed herself, made away with herself! Destroyed herself! He was
not much of a reading man--had not time for it in all his occupations;
but what were those two lines which would keep surging up into his
beating brain, and from time to time finding expression on his
trembling tongue--


     "Rashly importunate,
      Gone to her death!"


Gone to her death! He repeated the words a thousand times. Dead now;
gone to her last account, as Shakespeare says, "with all her
imperfections on her head." Gone, without chance or power of recall;
gone without a word of explanation between them, without a word of
sympathy, without a word of forgiveness on either side. He had often
pictured their parting, he dying, she dying, and had imagined the
scene; how, whichever of them found life ebbing away, would say that
they had misunderstood the other perhaps, and that perhaps life might
have been made more to each, had they been more suitable; but that
they had been faithful, and so on; and perhaps hereafter they might,
&c. He had thought of this often; but the end had come now, and his
ideas had not been realised. There had been no parting, no mutual
forgiveness, no last words of tenderness and hope. He had not been
there to soothe her dying hour; to tell her how he acknowledged all
her goodness, and how, though perhaps he had not made much outward
manifestation, he had always thoroughly appreciated the discharge of
her wifely duties to him. He had not been present to have one
whispered explanation of how each had misunderstood the other, and how
both had been in the wrong; to share in one common prayer for
forgiveness, and one common hope of future meeting. There had been no
explanation, no forgiveness; he had parted from her almost as he might
from any everyday acquaintance; he had written to her such a letter as
he might have written to Whittaker, who had taken his practice
temporarily; and now he returned to find her dead! Worse than dead!
Dead probably by her own act, by her own hand!

Stay! He was losing his head now; his pulse was at fever-heat, his
skin dry and hot. Why had this terrible supposition taken such fast
hold upon him? There was the evidence of the ring and of the leaden
seal. Certainly practical evidence; but the motive--where was the
motive? Suppose now--and a horrible shudder ran through him as the
supposition crossed his mind--suppose now that this had become a
matter for legal inquiry? suppose--Heaven knows how--suppose that the
servants had suspected, and had talked, and--and the law had
interfered--what motive would have been put forward for Mabel's
self-destruction? He and she had never had a word of contention since
their marriage; no one could prove that there had ever been the
smallest disagreement between them; her home had been such as befitted
her station; no word could be breathed against her husband's
character; and yet--


     "Anywhere, anywhere,
      Out of the world!"


that was another couplet from the same poem that was fixed in his
brain, and that he found himself constantly quoting, when he was
trying to assign reasons for his wife's suicide. Was Henrietta
Prendergast right, after all? Had his whole married life been a
mistake, a Dead-Sea apple without even the gorgeous external, a hollow
sham, a delusion, and a mockery culminating in the semblance of a
crime? "Anywhere out of the world," eh? And "out of the world" had
meant at first, in the early days, when the first faint dawnings of
discontent rose in her mind,--then "anywhere out of the world" was a
poor dejected cry of repining at her want of power to influence her
husband, to make herself the successful rival of his profession, to
wean him from the constant pursuit of science to the exclusion of all
domestic bliss, and to render him her companion and her lover. But if
Henrietta Prendergast were right, that must have been a mere fancy,
which, compared to the wild despair that prompted the heart-broken
shriek of "anywhere out of the world" at the last, and which,
according to that authority, meant--anywhere for rest and peace and
quiet, anywhere where I may stifle the love which I bear him, may be
no longer a fetter and a clog to him, and might have to suffer the
knowledge that though bound to me, he loves Madeleine Kilsyth.

He loves Madeleine Kilsyth! As the thought rose in his mind, he found
himself audibly repeating the sentence. His dead wife thought that;
and in that thought found life insupportable to her, and destroyed
herself! His dead wife! Straightway his thoughts flew back through a
series of years, and he saw himself first married,--young, earnest,
and striving. Not in love with his wife--that he never had been, he
reflected with something like self-excuse--not in love with Mabel, but
actually proud of her. When he first commenced his connection, and
earned the gratitude of the great railway contractor's wife at
Clapham, and that great dame, who was the ruling star in her own
circle, intimated her intention of calling on Mrs. Wilmot, Wilmot
remembered how he had thanked his stars that while some of his
fellow-students had married barmaids of London taverns, or awkward
hoydens from their provincial pasture, he had had the good luck to
espouse a girl than whom the great Mrs. Sleepers herself was not more
thoroughly presentable, more perfectly well-mannered. He recollected
the first interview at his little, modest, badly-furnished house, with
the dingy maid-servant decorated with one of Mabel's cast-off gowns
(not cast off until every scrap of bloom had been ruthlessly worn off
it), and the arrival of the great lady in her banging, swinging
barouche, with her tawdry ill-got-up footman, and her evident
astonishment at the way in which everything was made the most of, and
at the taste which characterised the rooms, and her open-mouthed wonder
at Mabel herself, in her turned black-silk dress and her neat linen
cuffs and collar, and her impossibility to patronise, and her
declaration delivered to him the next day, that his wife was "the
nicest little woman in the world, and a real lady!"

Out of the gloom of long-since vanished days came a thousand little
reminiscences, each "garlanded with its peculiar flower," each
touchingly remindful of something pleasant connected with the dead
woman whom he had lost. Long dreary nights which he had passed in
reading and working, and which she had spent in vaguely wondering what
was to be the purport and result of all his labour. No sympathy! that
had been his cry! Good God!--as though he had not been demented in
fancying that a young woman could have had sympathy with his dry
studies, his physiological experiments. No sympathy! what sympathy had
he shown to her? The mere physical struggle in the race, the hope of
winning, the dawning of success, had irradiated his life, had softened
the stony path, and pushed aside the briers, and tempered the
difficulties in his career; but how had she benefited? In sharing
them? But had he permitted her to share them? had he ever made her a
portion of himself? had he not laughed aside the notion of her
entering into the vital affairs of his career, and told her that any
assistance from her was an impossibility? That she was self-contained
and unsympathetic, he had said to himself a thousand times. Now, for
the first time, he asked himself who had made her so;--and the answer
was anything but consoling to him in his then desolate frame of mind.

These thoughts were constantly present to him; he found it impossible
to shake them off; in the few minutes' interval between the exit of
one patient and the entrance of another, in his driving from house to
house, his mind instantly gave up the case with which it had recently
been occupied, and turned back to the dead woman. He would sit,
apparently looking vacantly before him, but in reality trying to
recall the looks, words, ways of his dead wife. He tried--O, how
hard!--to recall one look of content, of happiness, of thorough trust
and love; but he tried in vain. A general expression of quiet
suffering, which had become calm through continuance, varied by an
occasional glance of querulous impatience when he might have been
betrayed into dilating on the importance of some case in which
he happened to be engaged and the interest with which it filled
him,--these were his only recollections of Mabel's looks. Nor did his
remembrance of her words and ways afford him any more comfort. True
she had never said, certainly had never said to him, that her life was
anything but a happy one; but she had looked it often. Even he felt
that now, reading her looks by the light of memory, and wondered that
the truth had never struck him at the time. He remembered how he would
look up off his work and see her, her hands lying listlessly in her
lap, her eyes staring vacantly before, so entranced, so rapt in her
own thoughts, that she would start violently when he spoke to her. She
always had the same answer for his questions at those times. What
was the matter with her? Nothing! What should be the matter with
her?--What was she thinking of? Nothing, at least nothing that could
possibly interest him. Did her presence there annoy him, because she
would go away willingly if it did? And the voice in which this was
said--the cold, hard, dry, unsympathising voice! Good God! if he had
not been sufficiently mindful of her, if he had not bestowed such
attention and affection as is due from a husband to his wife, surely
there was some small excuse for him in the manner in which his clumsy
approaches had been received!

At times he felt a wild inexplicable desire to have her back again
with him, and fell into a long train of thought as to what he should
do supposing all the events of the past three months were to turn out
to have been a dream--as indeed he often fancied they would; and on
his return he were to go up into the drawing-room, whither he had
never penetrated since his return, and were to find Mabel sitting
there, prim and orderly, among the prim and orderly furniture. Should
he alter his method of life, and endeavour to make it more acceptable
to her? How was it to be done? It would be impossible for him now to
give up his confirmed ways; impossible for him to give up his reading
and his work, and fritter away his evenings in taking his wife to the
gaieties to which they were invited. Perkins might do that--did it,
and found it answer; but the profession knew that Perkins was a
charlatan, and he--What wild nonsense was he thinking of? It was
done--it was over; he should never find his wife waiting for him again
when he returned: she was dead; she had destroyed herself!

As this horrible thought burst upon him again with tenfold its
original horror, he buried his face in his hands, and bowed his head
upon the writing table in front of him in an agony of despair. He
could bear it no longer; it was driving him mad. If he only knew--and
yet he dared not inquire more closely; the presumptive evidence was
horribly strong, was thoroughly sufficient to rob him of his peace of
mind, of his clearness of intellect. Then the terrible consequences of
the discovery, the awful duty which it imposed upon him, flashed upon
his labouring consciousness. He dared not inquire more closely? No,
not he. As a physician, he knew perfectly well what the result of any
such inquiry would be. He knew perfectly well that in any other case,
where he was merely professionally and not personally interested, his
first idea for the solution of such doubts as then oppressed him, had
they existed in anyone else, would have been to suggest the exhumation
of the body, and its rigid examination. He knew perfectly well that,
harbouring such doubts as were then racking and torturing his
distracted mind, it was clearly his duty to insist on such steps being
taken. He was no squeamish woman, no nervous man, to be alarmed at the
sight of death's dread handiwork; that was familiar to him from
constant experience, from old hospital custom, from his education and
his studies. Should this dread idea of Mabel's self-destruction, now
ever haunting him, ever present to his mind--should it cross the
thoughts of anyone else, would not the necessity for exhumation be the
first notion that would present itself? Suppose he were to suggest it?
Suppose he were to profess himself dissatisfied with the accounts of
Mabel's illness given him by Whittaker, and were to insist upon
positive proof, professionally satisfactory to him, of his wife's
disease? Of course he would make a deadly enemy of Whittaker; but that
he thought but little of: his name stood high enough to bear any slur
that might be thrown upon it from that quarter, and his reputation
would stand higher than ever from the mere fact of his boldly
determining to face a disagreeable inquiry, rather than allow such a
case to be slurred over. And the inquiry made, and Whittaker's
statement proved to be generally correct, at best it would be thought
that Dr. Wilmot was somewhat morbidly anxious as to the cause of his
wife's death; an anxiety which would be anything but prejudicial to
him in the minds of many of his friends, while the relief to his own
overcharged mind would be immediate and complete. Relief! Ah, once
more to feel relief would be worth all the responsibility. He would
see about it at once; he would give the necessary information,
and--But suppose the result did not turn out as he would hope to see
it? suppose all the information given, the coroner's warrant obtained,
the exhumation made, the examination complete, and the result--that
Mabel had destroyed herself? The first step taken in such a matter
would be an immediate challenge to public attention; the press would
bear the whole matter broadcast on its wings; Dr. Wilmot and his
domestic affairs would become a subject for gossip throughout the
land; and if it proved that Mabel had destroyed herself, her memory
would, at his instance, remain ever crime-tainted. Even if the best
happened; if Whittaker's judgment were indorsed, would not people ask
whether it was not odd that a suspicion of foul play should have
crossed the husband's mind, whether Mrs. Wilmot in her lifetime may
not have used such a threat; and if so, might not the circumstances
which led to the supposed use of the threat be inquired into, the
motives questioned, the home-life discussed? Hour after hour he
revolved this in his mind, purposeless, wavering. Finally he decided
that he would leave matters as they were, saying to himself that such
a course was merely justice to his dead wife, on whose memory, were
she guilty of self-slaughter, he should be the last to bring obloquy,
or even suspicion. He felt more comfortable after having come to this
decision--more comfortable in persuading himself that he was guided by
a tender feeling towards the dead woman. He said "Poor Mabel!" to
himself several times in thinking over it, and shook his head
dolefully; and actually felt that if she had been prompted by his
neglect to take this step, his omitting to call public attention to it
was in itself some _amende_ for his neglect. But even to himself he
would not allow this soul-guiding influence in the matter. He blinked
it, and shut his eyes to it; refused to listen to it, and--was led by
it all the same. Chudleigh Wilmot tried to persuade himself, did
persuade himself that he was acting solely in deference to his dead
wife's memory; but what really influenced his conduct was the
knowledge that the arousal of the smallest suspicion as to the cause
of his wife's death, the smallest scandal about himself, would
inevitably separate him hopelessly, and for ever, from Madeleine
Kilsyth. The great question as to whether Mabel had destroyed herself
still remained unanswered. He was powerless to shake off the
impression, and under the impression he was useless; he could do
justice neither to himself nor his patients. He must get away; give up
practice at least for a time, and go abroad; go somewhere where he
knew no one, and where he himself was quite unknown--somewhere where
he could have rest and quiet and surcease of brainwork; where he could
face this dreadful incubus, and either get rid of it, or school
himself to bear it without its present dire effect on his life.

He would do that, and do it at once. The death of his wife would
afford him sufficient excuse to the world, which knew him as a highly
nervous and easily impressible man, and which would readily understand
that he had been shattered by the suddenness of the blow. As to his
practice, he was well content to give that up for a short time: he
knew his own value without being in the least conceited--knew that he
could pick it up again just where he left it, and that his patients
would be only too glad to see him. He had felt that when he was at
Kilsyth.

At Kilsyth! The word jarred upon him at once. To give up his practice
even for a time meant a temporary estrangement from Madeleine; meant a
shutting out, so far as he was concerned, of sun and warmth and light
and life, at the very time when his way was darkest and his path most
beset. His mind had been so fully occupied since his return, that he
had only been able to give a few fleeting thoughts to Madeleine. He
felt a kind of horror at permitting her even in his thoughts to be
connected with the dreadful subject which filled them. But now when
the question of departure was being considered by him, he naturally
turned to Madeleine.

To leave London now would be to throw away for ever his chance with
Madeleine Kilsyth. His chance with her? Yes, his chance of winning
her! He was a free man now--free to take his place among her suitors,
and try his chance of winning her for himself. How wonderful that
seemed to him, to be unfettered, to be free to woo where he liked! Last
time he had drifted into marriage carelessly and without purpose--it
should be very different the next time. But to leave London now
would be throwing away for ever his chance with Madeleine. He knew
that; he knew that he had established a claim of gratitude on the
family, which Kilsyth himself, at all events, would gladly allow, and
which Lady Muriel would probably not be prepared to deny. As for
Madeleine herself, he knew that she was deeply grateful to him, and
thoroughly disposed to confide in him. This was all he had dared to
hope hitherto; but now he was in a position to try and awaken a warmer
feeling. Gratitude was not a bad basis to begin on, and he hoped, he
did not know it was so long since the days of Maria Strutt--and
thinking it over, he looked blankly in the glass at the crows'-feet
round his eyes and the streaks of silver in his dark hair; but he
thought then that he had the art of pleasing women, unfortunate as was
the result of that particular case. But if he were to go away, the
advantageous position he had so luckily gained would be lost, the
ground would be cut away from under his feet, and on his return he
would have great difficulty in being received on a footing of intimacy
by the family; while it would probably be impossible for him to regain
the confidence and esteem he then enjoyed from all of them.

Was, then, Madeleine Kilsyth a necessary ingredient in his future
happiness? That was a new subject for consideration. Hitherto, while
that--that barrier existed, he had looked upon the whole affair merely
as a strange sort of romance, in which ideas and feelings of which he
had never had much experience, and that experience long ago, had
suddenly revived within him. Pleasantly enough; for it was pleasant to
know that his heart had not yet been enough trodden down and hardened
by the years which had gone over it to prevent it receiving seed and
bearing fruit;--pleasantly enough; for an exchange of the stern
reality of his work, a dry world with the bevy of cares which are
ready waiting for you as you emerge from your morning's tub, and which
only disappear--to change into nightmares--as you extinguish your
bedroom gas--an exchange of this for a little of that glamour of love
which he thought never to meet with again, could not fail to be
pleasant. But the affair was altered now; the occurrence which had
made him free had at the same time rendered it necessary that he
should use his freedom to a certain end. Under former circumstances he
could have been frequently in Madeleine's company,--happy as he never
had been save when with her,--and the world would have asked no
question, have lifted no eyebrow, have shrugged no shoulder. Dr.
Wilmot was a married man, and his professional position warranted his
visiting Miss Kilsyth, who was his patient, as often as he thought
necessary. But now it was a very different matter. Here was a
man, still young, at least quite young enough to marry again; and
if it were said, as it would be, that he was "constantly at the
house," people---those confounded anonymous persons, the on who do
such an enormous amount of mischief in the world--would begin to talk
and whisper and hint; and the girl's name might be compromised through
him, and that would never do.

Did he love her? did he want to marry her? As he asked himself the
question, his thoughts wandered back to Kilsyth. He saw her lying
flushed and fevered, her long golden hair tossing over her pillow, a
bright light in her blue eyes, her hot hands clasped behind her
burning head--or, better still, in her convalescence, when she lay
still and tranquil, and looked up at him timidly and softly, and
thanked him in the fullest and most liquid tones for all his kindness
to her. And he remembered how, gazing at her, listening to her, the
remembrance of what Love really was had come to him out of the faraway
regions of the Past, and had moved his heart within him in the same
manner, but much more potently than it had been moved in the days of
his youth. Yes; the question that he had put to himself admitted but
of one answer. He did love Madeleine Kilsyth; he did want to marry
her! To that end he would employ all his energies; to secure that he
would defer everything. What nonsense had he been talking about giving
up his practice and going away? He would remain where he was, and
marry Madeleine!

And Henrietta Prendergast? The thought of that woman struck him like a
whip. If he were to marry Madeleine Kilsyth, would not that woman,
Henrietta Prendergast, Mabel's intimate and only friend--would not she
proclaim to the world all that she knew of the jealousy in which the
dead woman held the young girl? Would not his marriage be a
confirmation of her story? Might it not be possible that the existence
of such a talk might create other talk; that the manner of her death
might be discussed; that it might be suspected that, driven to it by
jealousy--that is how they would put it--Mrs. Wilmot had destroyed
herself? And if "they" put it so, it would be in vain to deny it. The
mere fact of his having been successful in his profession had created
hosts of enemies, who would take advantage of the first adverse wind,
and do their best to blast his renown and bring him down from the
pedestal to which he had been elevated. Then bit by bit the scandal
would grow--would permeate his practice--would become general
town-talk. He would see the whispers and the shoulder-shrugs and the
uplifted eyebrows, and perhaps the cool manner or the possible cut.
Could he stand that? Could a man of his sensibility endure such talk?
could he bear to feel that his domesticity was being laid bare before
the world for the comment of each idler who might choose to wile away
his time in discussing the story? Impossible! No; sooner keep in his
present dreary, hopeless, isolated position, sooner give up all
chances of winning Madeleine, sooner even retrograde. He had no
children to provide for, and could always have enough to support him
in a sufficient manner. He would give it all up; he would go away; he
would banish for ever that day-dream which he had permitted himself to
enjoy, and he would--

A letter was brought in by his servant--an oblong note, sealed with
black wax, in an unfamiliar handwriting. He turned it over two or
three times, then opened it, and read as follows:


"_Brook-street, Thursday_.

"DEAR DR. WILMOT,--We have heard with very great regret of your sad
loss, and we all, Lady Muriel, papa, and myself, beg you to receive
our sincere condolence. I know how difficult it is at such a time to
attempt to offer consolation without an appearance of intrusion; but I
think I may say that we are especially concerned for you, as it was
your attendance on me which kept you from returning home at the time
you had originally intended. I can assure you I have thought of this
very often, and it has given me a great deal of uneasiness. Pray
understand that we can none of us ever thank you sufficiently for your
kindness to us at Kilsyth. With united kind regards, dear Dr. Wilmot,
your grateful patient,

     "MADELEINE KILSYTH.

"P.S. I have a rather troublesome cough, which worries me at night.
You recollect telling me that you knew about this?"


So the Kilsyths were in town. His grateful patient! He could fancy the
half-smile on her lips as she traced the words. No; he would give up
his notion of going away--at least for the present!



CHAPTER XV.
Family Relations.


When the Kilsyths were in London, which, according to their general
practice, was only from February until June, they lived in a big
square house in Brook-street,--an old-fashioned house, with a
multiplicity of rooms, necessary for their establishment, which
demanded besides the ordinary number of what were known in the
house-agent's catalogue as "reception rooms," a sitting-room for
Kilsyth, where he could be quiet and uninterrupted by visitors, and
read the _Times_, and Scrope's _Salmon Fishing_, and Colonel Hawker on
_Shooting_, and _Cyril Thornton_, and Gleig's _Subaltern_, and
Napier's _History of the Peninsular War_, and one or two other books
which formed his library; where he could smoke his cigar, and pass in
review his guns and his gaiters and his waterproofs, and hold colloquy
with his man, Sandy MacCollop, as to what sport they had had the past
year, and what they expected to have the next--without fear of
interruption. This sanctuary of Kilsyth's lay far at the back of the
house, at the end of a passage never penetrated by ordinary visitors,
who indeed never inquired for the master of the house. Special guests
were admitted there occasionally; and perhaps two or three times in
the season there was a council-fire, to which some of the keenest
sportsmen, who knew Kilsyth, and were about to visit it in the autumn,
were admitted,--round which the smoke hung thick, and the conversation
generally ran in monosyllables.

Lady Muriel's boudoir--another of the extraneous rooms, which the
house-agent's catalogue wotteth not of--led off the principal
staircase through a narrow passage; and, so far as extravagance and
good taste could combine in luxury, was the room of the house. When
you are not an appraiser's apprentice, it is difficult to describe a
room of this kind; it is best perhaps to follow little Lord
Towcester's description, who, when the subject was being discussed at
mess, offered to back Lady Muriel's room for good taste against any in
London; and when asked to describe it, said,

"Lots of flowers; lots of cushions; lots of soft things to sit down
upon, and nice things to smell; and jolly books--to look at, don't you
know: needn't say I haven't read any of 'em; and forty hundred clocks,
with charming chimin' bells; and china monkeys, you know; and fellows
with women's heads and no bodies, and that kind of thing; and those
round tables, that are always sticking out their confounded third leg
and tripping a fellow up. Most charmin' place, give you my word."

Lord Towcester's description was not a bad one, though to the
initiated in his peculiar phraseology it scarcely did justice to the
room, which was in rose-coloured silk and walnut-wood; which had
_étagères_, and what-nots, and all the frivolousness of upholstery,
covered with all the most expensive and useless china; which opened
into a little conservatory, always full of sweet-smelling plants, and
where a little fountain played, and little gold-fish swam, and the
gas-jets were cunningly hidden behind swinging baskets on pendent
branches. There was a lovely little desk in one corner of the room,
with a paper-stand on it always full of note-paper and envelopes
radiant with Lady Muriel's cipher and monogram worked in all kinds of
expensive ways, and with a series of drawers, which were full of
letters and sketches and albums, and were always innocently open to
everybody; and one drawer, which was not open to everybody,--which was
closed indeed by a patent Bramah lock, and which, had it been
inspected, would have been found to contain a lock of Stewart Caird's
hair (cut from his head after death), a packet of letters from him of
the most trivial character, and a copy of Owen Meredith's _Wanderer_,
which Lady Muriel had been reading at the time of her first and only
passion, and in which all the passages that she considered were
applicable to or bearing on her own situation were thickly
pencil-scored. But it never was inspected, that drawer, and was
understood by any who had ever had the hardihood to inquire about it,
to contain household accounts. Lady Muriel Kilsyth in connection with
a lock of a dead man's hair, a bundle of a dead man's letters, a
pencil-marked copy of a sentimental poet! The idea was too absurd. Ah,
how extraordinarily wise the world is, and in what a wonderful manner
our power of reading character has developed!

Madeleine's rooms--by her stepmother's grace she had two, a
sitting-room and a bedroom--are upstairs. Small rooms, but very
pretty, and arranged with all the simple taste of a well-bred,
right-thinking girl. Her hanging book-shelves are well filled with
their row of poets, their row of "useful" works, their _Thomas à
Kempis_, their Longfellow's _Hyperion_, their _Pilgrim's Progress_,
their _Scenes of Clerical Life_--with all the Amos Barton bits
dreadfully underscored--their _Christmas Carol_, and their _Esmond_.
The neat little writing-table, with its gilt mortar inkstand, and its
pretty costly nicknacks--birthday presents from her fond father--stood
in the window; and above it hung the cage of her pet canary. There
were but few pictures on the walls: a water-colour drawing of Kilsyth,
bad enough, with impossible perspective, and a very coppery sunset
over very spotty blue hills, but dear to the girl as the work of the
mother whom she had scarcely known; a portrait of her father in his
youth, showing how gently time had dealt with the brave old
boy; a print from Grant's portrait of Lady Muriel; and a photograph
of Ronald in his uniform, looking very grim and stern and
Puritan-like. There is a small cottage-piano too, and a well-filled
music-stand,--well-filled, that is to say, according to its owner's
ideas, but calculated to fill the souls of musical enthusiasts with
horror or pity; for there is very little of the severe and the
classical about Madeleine even in her musical tastes: Gluck's _Orfeo_,
some of Mendelssohn's _Lieder ohne Worte_, and a few selections from
Mozart, quite satisfied her; and the rest of the music-stand was
filled with Bellini, Donizetti, Rossini, and Verdi, English ballads,
and even dance music. Upon all the room was the impress and evidence
of womanly taste and neatness; nothing was prim, but everything was
properly arranged; above all, neither in books, pictures, music, nor
on the dressing-table or in the wardrobe in the bedroom, was there the
smallest sign of fastness or slanginess, that almost omnipresent
drawback to the charms of the young ladies of the present day.

Nigh to Madeleine's rooms was a big airy chamber with a shower-bath,
an iron bedstead, a painted chest of drawers, and a couple of common
chairs, for its sole furniture. This was the room devoted to Captain
Kilsyth whenever he stayed with his relatives, and had been furnished
according to his exact injunctions. It was like Roland himself, grim
and stern, and was regarded as a kind of Blue Chamber of Horrors by
Lady Muriel's little children, who used to hurry past its door, and
accredited it as a perfect stronghold of bogies. This feeling was but
a reflection of that with which the little girls Ethel and Maud
regarded their elder brother. His visits to their schoolroom,
periodically made, were always looked forward to with intense fright
both by them and by their governess Miss Blathers--a worthy woman,
untouchable in Mangnall, devoted to the backboard, with a fair
proficiency in music and French, but with an unconquerable tendency
towards sentimentality of the most snivelling kind. Miss Blathers'
sentiment was of the G.P.R. James's school; she was always on the
look-out for that knight who was to come and deliver her from the
bonds of governesshood, who was to fling his arm over her, as Count
Gismond flung his round Mr. Browning's anonymous heroine, and lead her
off to some land, where Ollendorf was unknown, and Levizac had never
been heard of. A thoroughly worthy creature, Miss Blathers, but
horribly frightened of Ronald, who would come into the schoolroom,
make his bow, pull his moustache, and go off at once into the
questions, pulling his moustache a great deal more, and shrugging his
shoulders at the answers he received.

It was not often, however, that Ronald came to Brook-street, at all
events for any length of time. When he was on duty, he was of course
with his regiment in barracks; and when he had opportunities of
devoting himself to his own peculiar studies and subjects, he
generally took advantage of those opportunities with his own
particular cronies. He would ride with Madeleine sometimes, in a
morning, occasionally in the Row, but oftener for a long stretch round
the pretty suburbs; and he would dine with his father now and then;
and perhaps twice in the season would put in an appearance in Lady
Muriel's opera-box, and once at a reception given by her. But, except
perhaps by Madeleine, who always loved to see him, he was not much
missed in Brook-street, where, indeed, plenty of people came.

Plenty of people and of all kinds. Constituents up from Scotland on
business, or friends of constituents with letters of introduction from
their friends to Kilsyth; to whom also came old boys from the clubs,
who had nothing else to do, and liked to smoke a morning cigar or
drink a before-luncheon glass of sherry with the hospitable laird; old
boys who never penetrated beyond the ground-floor, save perhaps on one
night in the season, which Lady Muriel set apart for the reception of
"the House" and "the House" wives and daughters, when they would make
their way upstairs and cling round the lintels of the drawing-room,
and obstruct all circulation, and eat a very good supper, and for
three or four days afterwards wag their heads at each other in the
bow-windows of Brookes's or Barnes's, and inform each other with great
solemnity that Lady Muriel was a "day-vilish fine woman," and that
"the thing had been doosid well done at Kilsyth's the other night,
eh?" Other visitors, nominally to Kilsyth, but in reality after their
reception by him relegated to Lady Muriel, keen-looking, clear-eyed,
high-cheek-boned men, wonderfully "canny"-looking, thoroughly Scotch,
only wanting the pinch of snuff between their fingers, and the kilt
round their legs, to have fitted them for taking their station at the
tobacconists' doors,--factors from different portions of the estate,
whom Lady Muriel took in hand, and with them went carefully through
every item of their accounts, leaving them marvellously impressed with
her qualities as a woman of business.

No very special visitors to Lady Muriel. Plenty of carriages with
women, young and old, elegant and dowdy, aristocratic and plebeian, on
the front seat, and the _Court Guide_ in all its majesty on the back.
Plenty of raps, preposterous in their potency, delivered with unerring
aim by ambrosial mercuries, who disengaged quite a cloud of powder in
the operation; packs of cards, delivered like conjuring tricks into
the hands of the hall-porter, over whose sleek head appeared a
charming perspective of other serving-men; kind regards, tender
inquiries, congratulations, condolence, P.P.C.'s, all the whole
formula duly gone through between the ambrosial creatures who have
descended from the monkey-board and the plethoric giant who has
extricated himself from the leathern bee-hive--one of the principals
in the mummery stolidly looking on from the carriage, the other
sitting calmly upstairs, neither taking the smallest part, or caring
the least about it. The lady visitors did not come in, as a rule, but
the men did, almost without exception. The men arrived from half-past
four till half-past six, and, during the season, came in great
numbers. Why? Well, Lady Muriel was very pleasant, and Miss Kilsyth
was "charmin', quite charmin'." They said this parrotwise; there are
no such parrots as your modern young men; they repeat whatever they
have learnt constantly but between their got-by-rote sentences they
are fatally and mysteriously dumb.

"Were you at the Duchess's last night, Lady Muriel?"

"Yes! You were not there, I think?"

"No; couldn't go--was on duty."

_Pause. Dead silence. Five clocks ticking loudly and running races
with each other_.

"Yes, by the way, knew you were there."

"Did you--who told you?"

"Saw it in the paper, 'mongst the comp'ny, don't you know, and that
kind of thing."

_Awful pause. Clocks take up the running. Lady Muriel looks on the
carpet. Visitor calmly scrutinises furniture round the room, at length
he receives inspiration from lengthened contemplation of his
hat-lining_.

"Seen Clement Penruddock lately?"

"Yes, he was here on--when was it?--quite lately--O, the day before
yesterday."

"Poor old Clem! Going to marry Lady Violet Dumanoir, they say. Pity
Lady Vi don't leave off putting that stuff on her face and shoulders,
isn't it?"

"How ridiculous you are!"

"No, but really! she does!"

"How can you be so silly!"

_Grand and final pause of ten minutes, broken by the visitor's saying
quietly_, "Well, good-bye," _and lounging off to repeat the
invigorating conversation elsewhere_.

Who? Youth of all kinds. The junior portion of the Household Brigade,
horse and foot, solemn plungers and dapper little guardsmen; youth
from the Whitehall offices, specially diplomatic and erudite, and
disposed to chaff the military as ignorant of most things, and
specially of spelling; idlers _purs et simples_, who had been last
year in Norway, and would be the next in Canada, and who suffered
socially from their perpetual motion, never being able to retain the
good graces which they had gained or to recover those they had lost;
foreign _attachés_; junior representatives of the plutocracy, who went
into society into which their fathers might never have dreamed of
penetrating, but who found the "almighty dollar," or its equivalent,
when judiciously used, have all the open-sesame power; an occasional
Scotch connection on a passing visit to London, and--Mrs. M'Diarmid.

Who was Mrs. M'Diarmid? That was the first question everyone asked on
their introduction to her; the second, on their revisiting the house
where the introduction had taken place, being, "Where is Mrs.
M'Diarmid?" Mrs. M'Diarmid was originally Miss Whiffin, daughter of
Mrs. Whiffin of Salisbury-street in the Strand, who let lodgings, and
in whose parlours George M'Diarmid, second cousin to the present
Kilsyth, lived when he first came to London, and enrolled himself as a
student in the Inner Temple. A pleasant fellow George M'Diarmid, with
a taste for pleasure, and very little money, and an impossibility to
keep out of debt. A good-looking fellow, with a bright blue eye, and
big red whiskers (beards were not in fashion then, or George would
have grown a very Birnam-Wood of hair), and broad shoulders, and a
genial jovial manner with "the sex." Deep into Mrs. Whiffin's books
went George, and simultaneously deep into her daughter's heart; and
finally, when Kilsyth had done his best for his scapegrace kinsman,
and could do no more, and nobody else would do anything, George wiped
off his score by marrying Miss Whiffin, and, as she expressed it to
her select circle of friends, "making a lady of her." It was out of
his power to do that. Nothing on earth would have made Hannah Whiffin
a lady, any more than anything on earth could have destroyed her
kindness of heart, her devotion to her husband, her hard-working,
honest striving to do her duty as his wife. Kilsyth would not have
been the large-souled glorious fellow that he was if he had failed
to see this, or seeing, had failed to appreciate and recognise it.
George M'Diarmid hemmed and hawed when told to bring his wife to
Brook-street, and blushed and stuttered when he brought her; but
Kilsyth and Lady Muriel set the poor shy little woman at her ease in
an instant, and seeing all her good qualities, remained her kind and
true friends. After two years or so George M'Diarmid died in his
wife's arms, blessing and thanking her; and after his death, to the
astonishment of all who knew anything about it, his widow was as
constant a visitor to Brook-street as ever. Why? No one could exactly
tell, save that she was a shrewd, clever woman, with an extraordinary
amount of real affection for every member of the family. There was no
mistake about that. She had been tried in times of sickness and of
trouble, and had always come out splendidly. A vulgar old lady, with
curious blunt manners and odd phrases of speech, which had at first
been dreadfully trying; but by degrees the regular visitors to the
house began to comprehend her, to make allowance for her _gaucheries_
and her quaint sayings--in fact to take the greatest delight in them.
So Mrs. M'Diarmid was constantly in Brook-street; and the frequenters
of the five-o'clock tea-table professed to be personally hurt if she
absented herself.

A shrewd little woman too, with a special care for Madeleine; with a
queer old-world notion that she, being herself childless, should look
after the motherless girl. For Lady Muriel Mrs. M'Diarmid had the
highest respect; but Lady Muriel had children of her own, and,
naturally enough, was concerned about, or as Mrs. M'Diarmid expressed
it, "wropped up" in them, and Madeleine had no one to protect and
guide her--poor soul! So this worthy little old woman devoted herself
to the motherless girl, and watched over her with duenna-like care and
almost maternal fidelity.

Five o'clock in the evening, two days after Wilmot had received
Madeleine's little note; the shutters were shut in Lady Muriel's
boudoir, the curtains were drawn, a bright fire burned on the hearth,
and the tea-equipage was ready set on the little round table close by
the hostess. Not many people there. Not Kilsyth, of course, who was
reading the evening papers and chatting at Brookes's,--not Ronald, who
scarcely ever showed at that time. Madeleine, looking very lovely in a
tight-fitting high violet-velvet dress, a thought pale still, but with
her blue eyes bright, and her golden hair taken off her face, and
gathered into a great knot at the back of her pretty little head. Near
her, on an ottoman, Clement Penruddock, half-entranced at the
appearance of his own red stockings, half in wondering why he does not
go off to see Lady Violet Dumanoir, his _fiancée_. Clem is always
wondering about this, and never seems to arrive at a satisfactory
result. Next to him, and vainly endeavouring to think of something to
say, the Hon. Robert Brettles, familiarly known as "Bristles," from
the eccentric state of his hair, who is supposed to be madly in love
with Madeleine Kilsyth, and who has never yet made greater approaches
in conversation with her than meteorological observations in regard to
the weather, and blushing demands for her hand in the dance. By Lady
Muriel, Lord Roderick Douglas, who still finds his nose too large for
the rest of his face, and strokes it thoughtfully in the palm of his
hand, as though he could thereby quietly reduce its dimensions. Frank
Only, Sir Coke's eldest son, but recently gazetted to the Body Guards,
an ingenuous youth, dressed more like a tailor's dummy than anything
else, especially about his feet, which are very small and very shiny;
and Tommy Toshington, who has dropped in on the chance of hearing
something which, cleverly manipulated and well told at the club, may
gain him a dinner. In the immediate background sits Mrs. M'Diarmid,
knitting.

Lady Muriel has poured out the tea; the gentlemen have handed the
ladies their cups, and are taking their own; and the usual blank
dulness has fallen on the company. Nobody says a word for full three
minutes, when the silence is broken by Tommy Toshington, who begins to
find his visit unremunerative, as hitherto he has not gleaned one atom
of gossip. So he asks Lady Muriel whether she has seen anything of
Colonel Jefferson.

"No, indeed," Lady Muriel replies; "Colonel Jefferson has not been to
see us since our return."

"Didn't know you were in town, perhaps," suggests the peace-loving
Tommy.

"Must know that, Toshington," says Lord Roderick Douglas, who has no
great love for Charley Jefferson, associating that stern commander
with various causes of heavy field-days and refusals of leave.

"I don't see that," says Tommy, who has never been Lord Roderick's
guest at mess or anywhere else, and who does not see a chance of
hospitality in that quarter; consequently is by no means reticent,--"I
don't see that; how was he to know it?"

"Same way that everybody else did--through the _Post_."

"Tommy can't read it," said Clement Penruddock; "they didn't teach
spellin' ever so long ago, when Tommy was a boy."

"They taught manners," growled Tommy, "at all events; but they seem to
have given that up."

"Charley Jefferson isn't in town," said "Bristles," cutting in
quickly to stop the discussion; "he's down at Torquay. Had a letter
from him yesterday, my lady; last man in the world, Charley, to be
rude--specially to you or Miss Kilsyth."

"I am sure of that, Mr. Brettles," said Lady Muriel; "I fancied
Colonel Jefferson must be away, or we should have seen him."

"People go away most strangelike," observed Mrs. M'Diarmid from the
far distance. "The facilities of the road, the river, and the rail, as
I've seen it somewhere expressed, is such, that one's here today, Lord
bless you, and next week in the Sydney Isles or thereabouts." By "the
Sydney Isles or thereabouts."

Mrs. M'Diarmid's friends had by long experience ascertained that she
meant Australia.

"Scarcely so far as that in so short a time, Aunt Hannah," said
Madeleine with a smile.

"Well, my dear, far enough to fare worse, as the expression is. I
don't hold with such wanderings, thinking home to be home, be it ever
so homely."

"You would not like to go far away yourself, would you, Mrs.
M'Diarmid?" asked Lord Roderick.

"Not I, my lord; Regent-street for me is quite very, and beyond that I
have no inspiration."

"You've never been able to get Mrs. M'Diarmid even so far as Kilsyth,
have you, Lady Muriel?" said Clement.

"No; she has always refused to come to us. I think she imagines we're
utter barbarians at Kilsyth."

"Not at all, my dear, not at all," said the old lady; "but everybody
has their fancies, and knows what they can do, and where they're
useful; and fancy me at my time of life tossing my cabers, or doing my
Tullochgorums, or whatever they're called, between two crossed swords
on the top of a mountain! Scarcely respectable, I think."

"You're quite right, Mrs. Mac, and I honour your sentiments," said
Clem with a half-grin.

"Not but that I would have gone through all that and a good deal more,
my darling," said the old lady, putting down her work, crossing the
room, and taking Madeleine's pale face between her own fat little
hands, "to have been with you in your illness, and to have nursed you.
Duchesses indeed!" cried Mrs. Mac, with a sniff of defiance at the
remembrance of the Northallerton defection--"I'd have duchessed 'em,
if I'd had my way!"

"You would have been the dearest and best nurse in the world, I know,
Aunt Hannah," said Madeleine; then added, with a half sigh, "though I
could not have been better attended to than I was, I think."

Lady Muriel marked the half sigh instantly, and looked across at her
stepdaughter. Reassured at the perfect calm of Madeleine's face, on
which there was no blush, no tremor, she said, "You wrote that note,
Madeleine, according to your father's wish?"

"Two days ago, mamma."

"Two days ago! I should have thought that--"

"Perhaps he is very much engaged, mamma, and knew that there was no
pressing need of his services. Dr. Wilmot told me that--" and the girl
hesitated, and stopped.

"Is that Dr. Wilmot of Charles-street, close by the Junior? Are you
talking of him?" said Penruddock. "Doosid clever feller they say he
is. He's been attending my cousin Cranbrook--you know him, Lady
Muriel; been awfully bad poor Cranbrook has; head shaved, and holloing
out, and all that kind of thing--frightful; and this doctor has pulled
him through like a bird--splendidly, by Jove!"

"He drives an awful pair of screws," said "Bristles," who was horsey
in his tastes; "saw 'em standing at Cranbrook's door. To look at
'em, you wouldn't think they could drag that thundering big heavy
brougham--C springs, don't you know, Clem?--and yet when they start
they nip along stunningly."

"Ah, those poor doctors!", said Mrs. M'Diarmid; "I often wonder how
they live, for they take no exercise now all the streets are M'Adam
and wood and all sorts of nonsense! When there was good sound stone
pavement, one was bumped about in your carriage like riding a
trotting-horse, and that was all the exercise the poor doctors got.
Now they don't get that."

"And Dr. Wilmot attended Lord Cranbrook, did he, Clem?" asked
Madeleine softly, "and brought him safely through his illness. I'm
glad of that; I'm glad--"

"Dr. Wilmot, my lady!" said the groom of the chambers.

"What a bore that doctor coming," said Clement Penruddock, looking
round, "just as I was going to have a pleasant talk with Maddy!"

"You leave Maddy alone," said Mrs. M'Diarmid with a grunt, "and go off
to your financier!"

"My financier, Aunt Hannah?" said Clem in astonishment; "I haven't
one; I wish to Heaven I had."

"Haven't one?" retorted the old lady. "Pray, what do you call Lady
Vi?"

And then Clement Penruddock understood that Mrs. M'Diarmid meant his
_fiancée_.

Dr. Wilmot and Madeleine went, at Lady Muriel's request, into the
drawing-room.

He was with her once again; looked in her eyes, heard her voice
murmuring thanks to him for all his past kindness, touched her
hand--no longer hot with fever, but tremblingly dropping into his--saw
the sweet smile which had come upon her with the earliest dawn of
convalescence. At the same time Wilmot remarked a faint flush on her
cheek and a baleful light in her eyes, which recalled to him the
discovery which he had made at Kilsyth, and which he had mentioned to
her father. His diagnosis had been short then and hurried, but it had
been true: the seeds of the disease were in her, and, unchecked, were
likely to bear fatal fruit. Could he leave her thus? could he absent
himself, bearing about with him the knowledge that she whom he loved
better than anything on earth might derive benefit from his
assistance--might indeed owe her life and her earthly salvation to his
ministering care? He knew well enough that though her father had given
him his thorough trust and confidence, his friendship and his warm
gratitude, yet there were others about her who had no share in these
feelings, by whom he was looked upon with doubt and suspicion, and who
would be only too glad to relegate him to his position of the
professional man who had fulfilled what was required of him, and had
been discharged--not to be taken up again until another case of
necessity arose. There was no doubt that his diagnosis had been
correct, and that her life required constant watching, perpetual care.
Well, should she not have it? Was not he then close at hand? Had his
talent ever been engaged in a case in which he took so deep, so vital
an interest? Had he not often given up his every thought, his day's
study, his night's repose, for the mere professional excitement of
battling the insidious advances of Disease--of checking him here, and
counterchecking him there, and finally cutting off his supplies, and
routing him utterly? and would he not do this in the present instance,
where such an interest as he had never yet felt, such an inducement as
had never yet been held out to him, urged him on to victory?

Ah, yes; "his grateful patient" should have greater claims on his
gratitude than she herself imagined. He had seen her safely through a
comparatively trifling illness; he would be by her side in the
struggle that threatened her life. Come what might, win or lose, he
should be there, able, as he thought, to help her in danger, whatever
might be the result to himself of his efforts.

He has her hand in his now, and is looking into her eyes--momentarily
only; for the soft blue orbs droop beneath his glance, and the bright
red flush leaps into the pale cheek. Still he retains her hand, and
asks her, in a voice which vainly strives to keep its professional
tone, such professional questions as admit of the least professional
putting. She replies in a low voice, when suddenly a shadow falls upon
them standing together; and looking up, they see Ronald Kilsyth. Dr.
Wilmot utters the intruder's name; Madeleine is silent.

"Yes, Madeleine," says Ronald, addressing her as though she had
spoken; "I have come to fetch you to Lady Muriel.--I was not aware,
sir," he added, turning to Wilmot, "that you were any longer in
attendance on this young lady. I thought that her illness was over,
and that your services had been dispensed with."

Constitutionally pale, Ronald now, under the influence of strong
excitement, was almost livid; but he had not one whit more colour than
Chudleigh Wilmot, as he replied: "You were right, Captain Kilsyth: my
professional visits are at an end; it is as a friend that I am now
visiting your sister."

Ronald drew himself up as he said, "I have yet to learn, Dr. Wilmot,
that you are on such terms with the family as to justify you in paying
these friendly visits.--Madeleine, come with me."

The girl hesitated for an instant; but Ronald placed her arm in his,
and walked off with her to the door, leaving Chudleigh Wilmot
immovable with astonishment and rage.



CHAPTER XVI.
Giving up.


Rage was quite a novel passion for Chudleigh Wilmot, and one which,
like most new passions, obtained for the time complete mastery over
him. In his previous career he had been so steeped in study, so
overwhelmed by practice--had had every hour of his time so completely
and unceasingly occupied, that he had had no leisure to get into a
rage, even if he had had the slightest occasion. But the truth is, the
occasion had been wanting also. During the time he had been at the
hospital he had had various tricks played upon him,--such tricks as
the idle always will play upon the industrious,--but he had not paid
the least attention to them; and when the perpetrators of the
practical jokes found they were disregarded, they turned the tide of
their humour upon some one else less pachydermatous. Ever since then
his life had flowed in an even stream, which never turned aside into a
whirlpool of passion or a cataract of rage, but continued its calm
course without the smallest check or shoal. In the old days, when
driven nearly to madness by the calm way in which her husband took
every event in life, undisturbed by public news or private worry,
finding the be-all and the end-all of life in the prosecution of his
studies, the correctness of his diagnoses, and the number of
profitable visits daily entered up in his diary, Mabel Wilmot would
have given anything if he had now and then broken out into a fit of
rage, no matter for what cause, and thus cleared the dull heavy
atmosphere of tranquil domesticity for ever impending over them. But
he never did break out; and the atmosphere, as we have seen, was never
cleared.

But Chudleigh Wilmot was in a rage at last. By nature he was anything
but a coward, was endowed with a keen sensitiveness, and scrupulously
honourable. His abstraction, his studiousness, his simple unworldly
ways--for there were few more unworldly men than the rising
fashionable physician--all prevented his easily recognising that he
was a butt for intentional ribaldry or insult; but when, as in this
case, he did see it, it touched him to the quick. As a boy he could
laugh at the practical jokes of his fellow-students; as a man he
writhed under and rebelled against the first slight that since his
manhood he had received. What was to be done? This young man, this
Captain Kilsyth, her brother, had studiously and purposely insulted
him, and insulted him before her. As this thought rushed through
Wilmot's mind, as he stood as though rooted to the spot where they had
left him in the drawing-room in Brook-street, his first feeling was to
rush after Ronald and strike him to the ground as the penalty of his
presumption. His fingers itched to do it, clenched themselves
involuntarily, as his teeth set and his nostrils dilated
involuntarily. What good would that do? None. Come of it what might,
Madeleine's name would be mixed up with it, and--Ah, good God! he saw
it all; saw the newspaper paragraph with the sensation-heading,
"Fracas in private life between a gallant Officer and a distinguished
Physician;" he saw the blanks and asterisks under which Madeleine's
name would be concealed; he guessed the club scandal which--No, that
would never do. He must give up all thoughts of avenging himself in
that manner, for her sake. Better bear what he had borne, better bear
slight and insult worse a thousandfold, than have her mixed up in a
newspaper paragraph, or given over to the genial talk of society.

He must bear it, put up with the insult, swallow his disgust, forego
his revenge. There was not enough of the Christian element in
Chudleigh Wilmot's composition to render this line of conduct at all
palatable to him; but it was necessary, and should be pursued. He had
gone through all this in his thought, and arrived at this
determination before he moved from the drawing-room. Then he walked
quietly down to Lady Muriel's boudoir, entered, chatted with her
ladyship for five minutes on indifferent topics, and took his leave,
perfectly cool without, raging hot within.

As he had correctly thought, his long absence from London had by no
means injured his practice; if anything, had improved it. In every
class of life there is such a thing as making yourself too cheap, and
the healthy and wealthy hypochondriacs, who form six-sevenths of a
fashionable physician's _clientèle_, are rather incited and stimulated
when they find the doctor unable or unwilling to attend their every
summons. So Wilmot's practice was immense. He had a very large number
of visits to pay that day, and he paid them all with thorough
scrupulousness. Never had his manner been more _suave_ and bland;
never had he listened more attentively to his patients' narratives of
their complaints; never had his eyebrow-upliftings been more telling,
the noddings of his head thrown in more _apropos_. The old ladies, who
worshipped him, thought him more delightful than ever; the men were
more and more convinced of his talent; but the truth is, that having
no really serious case on hand, Dr. Wilmot permitted himself the
luxury of thought; and while he was clasping Lady Cawdor's pulse, or
peering down General Donaldbain's throat, he was all the time
wondering what line of conduct he could best pursue towards Ronald and
Madeleine Kilsyth. In the course of his afternoon drive he passed the
carriages of scores of his brother practitioners, with whom he
exchanged hurried bows and nods, all of whom returned to the perusal of
the _Lancet_ or of their diaries, as the case might be, with envy at
their hearts, and jealousy of the successful man who succeeded in
everything, and who, if they had only known it, was quivering under
the slight and insult which he had just received.

His visits over, he went home and dined quietly. The romantic feelings
connected with an "empty chair" troubled Chudleigh Wilmot very little.
He had never paid very much attention to the person by whom the chair
had been filled; indeed very frequently during Mabel's lifetime he had
done what he always had done since her death, taken a book, and read
during his dinner. But he could not read on this occasion. He tried,
and failed dismally; the print swam before his eyes; he could not keep
his attention for a moment on the book; he pushed it away, and gave up
his mind to the subject with which it was preoccupied.

Fair, impartial, and judicial self-examination--that was what he
wanted, what he must have. Captain Kilsyth had insulted him, purposely
no doubt; why? Not for an instant did Wilmot attempt to disguise from
himself that it was on Madeleine's account; but how could Captain
Kilsyth know anything of his (Wilmot's) feelings in regard to
Madeleine; and if he did know of them, why should he now object?
Captain Kilsyth might be standing out on the question of family; but
that would never lead him to behave in so _brusque_ and ungentlemanly
a manner; he might object to the alliance--to the alliance!--good God!
here was he giving another man credit for speculating on matters which
had only dimly arisen even in his own brain!

Still there remained the fact of Captain Kilsyth's conduct having been
as it had been, and still remained the question--why? To no creature
on earth had he, Chudleigh Wilmot, confided his love for this girl;
and so far as he knew--and he searched his memory carefully--he had
never in his manner betrayed his secret in the remotest degree. Had
his wife been alive, Ronald Kilsyth might have objected to finding him
in close converse with his sister; yet in the fact of his having a
wife lay--

It flashed across him in an instant, and sent the blood rushing to his
heart. The manner of his wife's death--was that known? The causes
which, as Henrietta Prendergast had hinted to him, had led Mabel to
the vial with the leaden seal--had they leaked out? had they reached
the ears of this young man? Did he suspect that jealousy--no matter
whether with or without foundation--of his sister had led Mrs. Wilmot
to lay violent hands upon herself? And if he suspected it, why not a
hundred others? The story would fly from mouth to mouth. This Captain
Kilsyth--no; he would not lend his aid to its promulgation; he could
not for his sister's sake; but--And yet, with or against Captain
Kilsyth's wish, it must come out. When his visits ceased in
Brook-street, as they must cease--he had determined on that; when he no
longer saw Madeleine, who, as he perfectly well knew, had been brought
to London with the view of being under his care, would not old Kilsyth
make inquiries as to the change in the intended programme, and would
not his son have to tell him all he had heard? It was too horrible to
think of. With such a rumour in existence--granting that it was a
rumour merely, and all unproved--it would be impossible for Kilsyth,
however eagerly he might wish it, to befriend him--at least in the
manner in which he could best befriend him, by encouraging his
addresses to Madeleine. Lady Muriel would not listen to it; Ronald
would not listen to it, even if those two were in some way--he could
not think how, but there might be a way of getting round those two and
winning them to his side--even if that were done, while that horrible
story or suspicion was current--and it was impossible to set it at
rest without the chance of establishing it firmly for ever--Kilsyth
would never consent to his marriage with Madeleine.

He must at once free himself from the chance of any story of this kind
being promulgated. The more he thought the matter over, the more he
saw the impossibility of again going to Brook-street, after what had
occurred; the impossibility of his absence passing without remark and
inquiry by Kilsyth; the impossibility of Ronald's withholding his
statement of his own conduct in the matter, and his reasons for that
conduct. For an instant a ray of hope shot through Chudleigh Wilmot's
soul, as he thought that perhaps the reasons might be infinitely less
serious and less damaging than he had depicted them to himself; but it
died out again at once, and he acknowledged to himself the
hopelessness of his situation. He had been indulging in a day-dream
from which he had been rudely and ruthlessly waked, and his action
must now be prompt and decisive. There was an end to it all; it was
Kismet, and he must accept his fate. No combined future for Madeleine
and him; their paths lay separate, and must be trodden separately at
once; her brother was right, his own dead wife was right--it is not to
be!

There must be no blinking or shuffling with the question now, he
thought. To remain in London without visiting in Brook-street would
evoke immediate and peculiar attention; and it was plain that Ronald
Kilsyth had determined that Dr. Wilmot's visits to Brook-street were
not to be renewed. He must leave London, must leave England at once.
He must go abroad for six months, for a year; must give up his
practice, and seek change and repose in fresh scenes. He would spoil
his future by so doing, blow up and shatter the fabric which he had
reared with such industry and patience and self-denial; but what of
that? He should ascribe his forced expatriation and retreat to loss of
health, and he should at least reap pity and condolence; whereas now
every moment that he remained upon the scene he ran the chance of
being overwhelmed with obloquy and scorn. He could imagine, vividly
enough, how the patients whom he had refused to flatter, whose
self-imagined maladies he had laughed at and ridiculed, would turn
upon him; how his brother practitioners, who had always hated him for
his success, would point to the fulfilment of their never-delivered
prophecies, and make much of their own idleness and incompetency; how
the medical journals which he had riddled and scathed would issue
fierce diatribes over his fall, or, worse than all, sympathise with
the profession on--he could almost see the words in print before
him--"the breach of that confidence which is the necessary and sacred
bond between the physician and the patient."

Anything better than that; and he must take the decisive step at once!
He must give up his practice. Whittaker should have it, so far at
least as his recommendation could serve him. He should have that,
and must rely upon himself for the rest. Many of his patients
knew Whittaker now, had become accustomed to him during the time
of Wilmot's absence at Kilsyth, and Whittaker had not behaved
badly during that--that horrible affair of Mabel's last illness.
Moreover, if Whittaker suspected the cause of Mabel's death--and
Wilmot shuddered as the mere thought crossed his mind--the practice
would be a sop to him to induce him to hold his tongue in the matter.
And he, Wilmot, would go away--and be forgotten. Better that, bitter
as the thought might be--and how bitter it was none but those who have
been compelled, for conscience' sake, for honour's sake, for
expediency's sake even, to give up in the moment of success, to haul
down the flag, and sheath the sword when they knew victory was in
their grasp, could ever tell;--better that than to remain, with the
chance of exposure to himself, of compromise to her. The mental
overthrow, the physical suffering consequent upon the sudden death of
his wife, would be sufficient excuse for this step to the world; and
there were none to know the real cause of its being taken. He had
saved sufficient money to enable him to live as comfortably as he
should care to live, even if he never returned to work again; and once
free from the torturing doubt which oppressed him, or rather from the
possibility of all which that torturing doubt meant to his fevered
mind, he should be himself again.

Beyond his position, so hardly struggled for, so recently attained, he
had nothing to leave behind him which he should particularly regret.
He had been so self-contained, from the very means necessary for
attaining that position, had been so circumscribed in the pleasures of
his life, that his opportunities for the cultivation even of
friendship had been very rare. He should miss the quaint caustic
conversation, the earnest hearty liking so undeniably existing, even
under its slight veneer of eccentricity, of old Foljambe; he should
miss what he used laughingly to call his "dissipation" of attending a
few professional and scientific gatherings held in the winter, where
the talk was all "shop," dry and uninteresting to the uninitiated, but
full of delight to the listeners, and specially to the talkers; he
should miss the excitement of the lecture-theatre, where perhaps more
than anywhere else he thoroughly enjoyed himself, and where he shone
at his very brightest, and--that was all. No! Madeleine! this last and
keenest source of enjoyment in his life, this pure spring of freshness
and vigour, this revivification of early hopes and boyish dreams, this
young girl, the merest acquaintance with whom had softened and
purified his heart, had given aim and end to his career, had shown him
how dull and heartless, how unloved, unloving, and unlovely had been
his byegone time, and had aroused in him such dreams of uncensurable
ambition for the future,--she must be given up, must become a "portion
and parcel of the dreadful past," and be dead to him for ever! She
must be given up! He repeated the words mechanically, and they rang in
his ears like a knell. She must be given up! She was given up, even
then, if he carried out his intention. He should never see her again,
should never see the loving light in those blue eyes--ah, how well he
minded him of the time when he first saw it in the earliest days of
her convalescence at Kilsyth, and of all the undefined associations
which it awakened in him!--should never hear the grateful accents of
her soft sweet voice, should never touch her pretty hand again. For
all the years of his life, as it appeared to him, he had held his eyes
fixed upon the ground, and had raised them at the rustle of an angel's
wings, only to see her float far beyond his reach. For all the years
of his life he had toiled wearily on through the parching desert; and
at length, on meeting the green oasis, where the fresh well sparkled
so cheerily, had had the cup shattered from his trembling hand.

She must be given up! She should be; that was the very keystone of the
arrangement. He had looked the whole question fairly in the face; and
what he had proposed to himself and had determined on abiding by, he
would not shrink from now. But it was hard, very hard. And then he lay
back in his chair, and in his mind retraced all the circumstances of
his acquaintance with her; last of all, coming upon their final
interview of that morning in the drawing-room at Brook-street. He was
sufficiently calm now to eliminate Ronald and his truculence from the
scene, and to think only of Madeleine; and that brought to his
remembrance the reason of their having gone into the drawing-room
together, to consult on her illness, the weakness of the lungs which
he had detected at Kilsyth.

That was a new phase of the subject, which had not occurred to him
before. Not merely must he give her up and absent himself from her,
but he must leave her at a time when his care and attention might be
of vital importance to her. Like most leading men in his profession,
Chudleigh Wilmot, with a full reliance on himself, combined a
wholesome distrust of and disbelief in most of his brother
practitioners. There were few--half a dozen at the most, perhaps--in
whose hands Madeleine might be safely left, if they had some special
interest, such as he had, in her case. Such as he had! Wilmot could
not avoid a grim smile as he thought of old Dr. Blenkiron, with his
snuff-dusted shirt-frill, or little Dr. Prater, with his gold-rimmed
spectacles, feeling similar interest to his in this sweet girl. But
unless they had special interest--unless they could have given up a
certain amount of their time regularly to attending to her--it would
have been of little use, as her symptoms were for ever varying, and
wanted constant watching. And as for the general run of the
profession, even men so well thought of as Whittaker or Perkins,
he--stay, a good thought--old Sir Saville Rowe would probably be coming
to town for the winter; and the old gentleman, though he had retired
from active practice, would, Wilmot made sure, look after Madeleine for
him as a special case. Sir Saville's brain was as clear as ever; and
though his strength was insufficient to enable him to continue his
practice, this one case would be an amusement rather than a trouble to
him. Yes, that was the best way of meeting this part of the
difficulty. Wilmot could go away at least without the additional
anxiety of his darling's being without competent advice. So much of
his burden could be lightened by Sir Saville; and he would sit down at
once and write to the old gentleman, asking him to undertake the
charge.

He moved to his writing-table and sat down at it. He had arranged the
paper before him and taken up his pen, when he suddenly stopped, threw
aside the pen, and flung himself back in his chair. What excuse was he
about to make to his old master for his leaving London at so critical
a period in his career? He had not sufficiently considered that. He
had intended saying that Mrs. Wilmot's sudden death had had such an
effect upon him physically and mentally, that he felt compelled to
relinquish practice, at least for the present, and to seek abroad for
that rest and change of scene which was absolutely necessary for him.
He had turned the phrases very neatly in his mind, but he had
forgotten one thing. He had forgotten his conversation with the old
gentleman on the garden walk overhanging the brawling Tay on the
morning when he received the telegram from Kilsyth. He had forgotten
how he had laughed in derision when Sir Saville had asked him whether
he was in love with his wife; how he had curtly hinted that Mabel was
all very well in her way, but holding a decidedly inferior position in
his estimation to his practice and his work. He remembered all this
now, and he saw how utterly futile it would be to attempt to put off
his old friend with such a story. What, then, should be the excuse?
That his own health had given way under pressure of work? Sir Saville
knew well how highly Wilmot appreciated his professional opinion; and
had he believed the story--which was very unlikely--would have been
hurt at his old pupil's rushing away without consulting him. In any
case he must not see Sir Saville, who would undoubtedly cross-question
him in detail about Mrs. Wilmot's illness. He must write to the old
gentleman, giving a very general statement and avoiding all
particulars, and requesting him to take Madeleine under his charge.

He did so. He wrote fully and affectionately to his old friend. He
touched very slightly on the death of his wife, beyond hinting that
that occurrence had necessitated his departing at once for the
Continent on some law-business concerning property, by which he might
probably be detained for some time. He went on to say that he had made
arrangements for the transfer of his practice to Whittaker, who had
had it, as Sir Saville would remember, during Chudleigh's absence in
Scotland; but there was one special case, which he could only leave in
the hands of Sir Saville himself: this was Miss Kilsyth. Sir Saville
would remember his (Wilmot's) disinclination to accede to the request
contained in the telegram on that eventful morning; and indeed it
seemed curious to himself now, when he thought of the interest which
he took in all that household. Kilsyth himself was the most charming
&c., and the best specimen of an &c.; Lady Muriel was also, and her
little girls were angels. Miss Kilsyth was mentioned last of all the
family in Wilmot's letter, and was merely described as "an
interesting, amiable girl." This portion of the letter was principally
occupied with details of her threatened disease; and on reperusing it
before sending it away, Wilmot was greatly struck by, as it seemed to
him, the capital manner in which he had made his interest throughout
assume a purely professional form. But, whether professionally or not,
the interest was very earnestly put; and the desire that the old
gentleman should break through his retirement and attend to this
particular case was very strongly expressed. In conclusion, Wilmot
said that he should send his address to his old friend, and that he
hoped to be kept acquainted with Miss Kilsyth's state.

Dr. Wilmot did not send his letter to the post that night. He read it
over the next morning after seeing his home patients, and when the
carriage was at the door to take him off on his rounds. He was quite
satisfied with the tone of the letter, which he placed in an envelope
and was just about to seal, when his servant entered and announced
"Captain Kilsyth."



CHAPTER XVII.
Face to Face.


"Captain Kilsyth!" No time for Chudleigh Wilmot to deny himself, if even he
had so wished; no time to recover himself from the excitement which
the announcement had aroused. He saw the broad dark outline of his
visitor behind the servant.

"Show Captain Kilsyth in."

Captain Kilsyth came in. Wilmot noticed that he was very pale and
stern-looking, but that there was no trace of yesterday's excitement
about him. It had become second nature to Wilmot to notice these
things; and he found himself critically examining Ronald's external
appearance, as he would that of a patient who had sought his advice.

The men bowed to each other, and Ronald spoke first. "You will be
surprised to see me here, Dr. Wilmot," he said; "but be assured that
it is business of importance that brings me."

Wilmot bowed again. He was fast recovering from his agitation, but
scarcely dared trust himself to speak just yet.

"I see your carriage is at the door, and I will detain you but a very
few moments. You can give me, say, ten minutes?"

Wilmot muttered that his time was at Captain Kilsyth's disposal; an
avowal which apparently annoyed his visitor, for he said testily,
"You, and I should be above exchanging the polite trash of society,
Dr. Wilmot. I am come here to speak on a matter which concerns me
deeply, and those very near and dear to me even more deeply still. Are
you prepared to hear me?"

Those very near and dear to him! O yes; Wilmot was prepared to hear
him fully and said as much. Would Captain Kilsyth be seated?

"I have come to talk to you, Dr. Wilmot, as a friend," commenced
Ronald, dropping into a chair. "I daresay you are scarcely prepared
for that avowal, considering my conduct at our interview yesterday in
Brook-street. Then I was hasty and inconsiderate; and for my conduct
then I beg to tender my apologies frankly and freely. I trust they
will be received?" There was an odd square blunt honesty even in the
manner in which he said this that prepossessed Wilmot.

"As frankly and freely as they are offered," he replied.

"So far agreed," said Ronald. "Now, look here. I am a very bad hand at
beating about the bush; and I have come here to say things the mere
fact of saying which is, where men of honour are not concerned,
compromising to one of the person spoken of I have every belief that
you are a man of honour, and therefore I speak."

Dr. Wilmot bowed again, and said that Captain Kilsyth complimented
him.

"No. I think too highly of you to do that. I simply speak what I
believe to be true, from all I have heard of your doings at Kilsyth."

Of his doings at Kilsyth? A man of honour, from his doings at Kilsyth?
Though perfectly conscious that Ronald was watching him, narrowly,
Chudleigh Wilmot's cheeks coloured deeply at this point, and he was
silent.

"Now, Dr. Wilmot, I must begin by talking to you a little about
myself--an unprofitable subject, but one necessary to be touched upon
in this discourse between us. The men who are supposed to know me
intimately--my own brother officers, I mean--will tell you that I am
an oddity, an extraordinary fellow, and that they know nothing about
me. Nothing is known of my likes or dislikes. I am believed not to
have any of either. Now this is an exaggerated view of the question. I
don't know that I dislike anyone in particular; but I have my
affections. I am very fond of my father; I adore my sister Madeleine."

He spoke with such earnestness and warmth, that Wilmot looked up at
him, half in pleasure, half in wonder. Ronald noticed the glance, and
said, "If you have heard me mentioned at all, Dr. Wilmot, you have
probably heard it said that I am a man with a stone instead of a
heart, with the _Cavalry Officer's Instructions_ instead of a Bible;
and therefore I cannot wonder at your look of astonishment. But what I
have stated to you is pure and simple fact. I love these two
infinitely better than my life."

Wilmot bowed again. He felt ashamed of his reiterated acquiescence,
but had nothing more satisfactory to proffer.

"Now, I don't see much of my family," pursued Ronald. "Their ways of
life are different from mine; and except when they happen to be in
London we are seldom thrown together. This may be to be regretted, or
it may not; at all events the fact is so. But whether I see them or
not, my interest in them never slackens. There are people, I
know--most people, I believe--to whom propinquity is a necessary
ingredient for affection. They must be near those they love--must be
brought into constant communication, personal communication with them,
or their love dies out. That is affection of a type which I cannot
understand; it is a great deal too spaniel-or ivy-like for my
comprehension. I could go on for years without seeing those I love,
and love them all the same. Consequently, although when the eight or
nine weeks' whirl which my family calls the London season is at an
end, and I scarcely see them until it begins again, I do not take less
interest in their proceedings, nor is my keen affection for those I
love one whit diminished. You follow me?"

"So far, perfectly."

"I was detained here on duty in London during last August and
September; and even if I had been free, I doubt whether I should have
been with my people at Kilsyth. As I have just said, their ways of
life, their amusements and pursuits are different from mine, and I
should probably have been following my own fancies somewhere else. But
I always hear from some of them with the greatest regularity; and I
heard, of course, of my sister's illness, and of your being called in
to attend upon her. Your name was thoroughly familiar to me. What my
friends call my 'odd ways' have made me personally acquainted with
several of the leading members of your profession; and directly I
heard that you had arrived at Kilsyth, I knew that Madeleine could not
possibly be in better hands."

To anyone else Wilmot would have said that she could not have been
under the charge of anyone who would have taken greater interest in
her case; but he had not forgotten the interview of yesterday, and he
forbore.

"I was delighted to hear of your arrival at Kilsyth," continued
Ronald, "and I was deeply grateful to you for the unceasing care and
anxiety which, as reported to me, you bestowed upon my sister. The
accounts which I received vied with each other in doing justice to
your skill and your constant attention; and I believe, as I know all
at Kilsyth believed, that, under Providence, we owe Madeleine's life
to you."

"You will pardon my interrupting you, Captain Kilsyth," said Wilmot,
speaking almost for the first time; "but you give me more credit than
I deserve. Miss Kilsyth was very ill; but what she required most was
constant attention and watching. The excellent doctor of the
district--I forget his name, I'm ashamed to say--Joyce, Dr. Joyce,
would have been thoroughly efficient, and would have doubtless
restored Miss Kilsyth to health as speedily as I did; only
unfortunately others had a claim upon him, and he could not devote his
time to her."

"Exactly what I was saying. I presume it will not be doubted that Dr.
Wilmot, of Charles-street, St. James's--in his own line the principal
physician of London--had as many calls upon his time even as the
excellent doctor of the district, and yet he sacrificed all others to
attend on Miss Kilsyth."

"Dr. Wilmot was away from his patients on a holiday, and no one had a
claim upon his time."

"And he made the most of his holiday by spending a great portion of it
in the sick-room of a fever-stricken patient! No, no, Dr. Wilmot; you
made a great sacrifice undoubtedly. Now, why did you make it?"

He turned suddenly upon Wilmot as he spoke, and looked him straight in
the face. Wilmot's colour came again; he moved restlessly in his
chair, pressed his hands nervously together, but said nothing.

"I told you, Dr. Wilmot, that I was about to speak of things the mere
mention of which, were we not men of honour, would be compromising to
some of the persons spoken of. I ask you why you made that sacrifice
of your professional time. I ask you not for information, because I
know the reason. Before you left Kilsyth, I heard that my sister was
receiving attention from a most undesirable quarter--from a quarter
whence it was impossible that any good could arise. My sister is, as I
have told you, dearer to me than my life, and the news distressed me
beyond measure. I turned it over and over in my mind; I made every
possible kind of inquiry. At length, on the evening on which you
arrived in London and called on me at my club, I knew that you were
the man alluded to by my informant."

No change in Chudleigh Wilmot. His cheek is still flushed, his eyes
still cast down; still he moves restlessly in his chair, still his
hands pluck nervously at each other.

"I knew it, and yet I hardly could believe it. I knew that men of your
profession, specially men of such eminence in your profession, were in
the habit of being received and treated with the utmost confidence;
which confidence was never abused. I knew that bystanders and
lookers-on, unaccustomed to illness, might very easily misconstrue the
attention which a physician would pay to a young lady whose case had
excited his strong professional interest. I--well, constrained to take
the worst view of it--I knew that you were a married man, and I
thought that you might have admired Miss Kilsyth, and that--that when
you left her--there--there would be an end of the feeling."

No change in Chudleigh Wilmot. His cheek is still flushed, his eyes
still cast down; still he moves restlessly in his chair, still his
hands pluck nervously at each other. Something in his appearance
seemed to touch Ronald Kilsyth as he looked at him earnestly, for he
said:

"I wish to God I could think so now, Dr. Wilmot! I wish to God I could
think so now! But though I don't pretend to be versed in these
matters, I have a certain amount of insight; and when I saw you
standing by my sister's side in the drawing-room in Brook-street
yesterday, I knew that the information I had received was correct." He
paused for an instant, and passed his hand across his forehead, then
resumed. "I am a blunt man, Dr. Wilmot, but I trust neither coarse nor
unsympathetic. I want to convey to you as quietly as possible that you
have made a mistake; that for everyone's sake--ours, Madeleine's, your
own--this thing cannot, must not be."

A change in Chudleigh Wilmot now. He does not look up; he covers his
brow with his left hand; but he says in a deep husky voice:

"There is--as you are aware--a change in my circumstances: I am--I am
free now; and perhaps--in the future--"

"In no future, Dr. Wilmot," interrupted Ronald gravely, but not
unkindly. "Listen to me. If, as I half suspected you would, you had
flung yourself into a rage,--denied, stormed, protested,--I should
simply have said my say, and left you to make the best or the worst of
it. But you have not done this, and--and I pity you most sincerely.
You are, as you say, free now. You think probably there is no reason
why, at some future time, you should not ask my sister to become your
wife. You would probably urge your claims upon her gratitude--claims
which you think she might possibly be brought to allow. It can never
be, Dr. Wilmot. I, who am anything but, in this sense, a worldly man,
even I know that your presence at Kilsyth, your long stay there, to
the detriment of your home interests, your devotion to my sister, have
already given matter for talk to the gossips of society, and received
the usual amount of malicious comment. And if you have real regard for
Madeleine, you would give up anything to shield her from that,
indorsed as would be the imputation and intensified as would be the
malice, if your relations with her were to be on any other footing
than--they ought to have been."

Quite silent now, Chudleigh Wilmot; his hand still covering his brow,
his head sunk upon his breast.

"I said I pitied you; and I do," continued Ronald. "And here,
understand me, and let me explain one point in our position, Dr.
Wilmot. What I have to say, though it may pain you in one way, will, I
think, be satisfactory to you in another. You may think that Madeleine
may be destined by her family for some--I speak without the least
offence--some higher destiny; that her family would wish for her a
husband higher in social rank. I give you my honour that, as far as I
am concerned, I could not, from all I have heard of you, wish my
sister's future confided to a more honourable man. Social rank and
dignity weigh very little with me. My life is passed generally with
those who have won their spurs, rather than inherited their titles;
and I would infinitely sooner see my sister married to a man whose
successful position in life was due to himself than to one who merely
wore the reflected glory of his ancestors. So far you would have been
a suitor entirely acceptable to me, had there not been the other
unfortunate element in the matter."

Ronald ceased speaking, and for some minutes there was a dead silence.
Then Chudleigh Wilmot raised his head, rose from his chair, and
commenced pacing the room with long strides; Ronald, perfectly
understanding his emotion, remaining passively seated. At length
Wilmot stopped by Ronald's chair, and said:

"When you entered this room, you told me you had come here to speak to
me as a friend. I am bound to say that you have perfectly fulfilled
that implicit promise. No one could have been more frank, more candid,
and, I may say, more tender than you have been with me. My
profession," said Wilmot with a dreary smile,--"my profession teaches
us to touch wounds tenderly, and you seem to be thoroughly imbued with
the precept. You will do me the justice to allow that I have listened
to you patiently; that I have heard without flinching almost,
certainly without complaint."

Ronald bowed his head in acquiescence.

"Now, then, I must ask you to listen to me. What I have to say to you
is as sacred as what you have said to me, and will not, could not be
mentioned by me to another living soul. When I received your father's
telegram summoning me to your sister's bedside, there was no more
heart-whole man in Britain than myself. When I use the word
'heart-whole,' I do not intend it to convey the expression of a
perfect content in the affections I possessed, as you, knowing I was
married and settled, might understand it. I was heart-whole in the
sense that, while I was thoroughly skilled in the physical state of my
heart, its mental condition never gave me a thought. I had, as long as
I could recollect, been a very hard-working man. I had married, when I
first established myself in practice, principally, I believe, because
I thought it the most prudent thing for a young physician to do; but
certainly not from any feeling that ever caused my heart one extra
pulsation. You must not be shocked at this plain speaking. Recollect
that you are listening to an anatomical lecture, and go through with
it. All the years of my married life passed without any such feeling
being called into existence. My--my wife was a woman of quiet domestic
temperament, who pursued her way quietly through life; and I,
thoroughly engrossed in my professional pursuits, never thought that
life had anything better to engage in than ambition, better to offer
than success. I went to Kilsyth, and for weeks was engaged in
constant, unremitting attendance upon your sister. I saw her under
circumstances which must to a certain extent have invested the most
uninteresting woman in the world with interest; I saw her deserted and
shunned, by everyone else, and left entirely to my care; I saw her in
her access of delirium, and afterwards, when prostrate and weak, she
was dependent on me for everything she wanted. And while she and I
were thus together--I now combating the disease which assailed her,
now watching the sweet womanly patience, the more than womanly
courage, with which she supported its attacks--I, witnessing how pure
and good she was, how soft and gentle, and utterly unlike anything I
had ever seen, save perhaps in years long past, began to comprehend
that there was, after all, something to live for beyond the attainment
of success and the accumulation of fees."

Wilmot stopped here, and looked at his companion; but Ronald's head
was turned away, and he made no movement; so Wilmot proceeded.

I--I scarcely know how to go on here; but I determined to tell you
all, and I will go through with it. You cannot tell, you cannot have
the smallest idea of what I have suffered. You were pleased to call me
a man of honour: God alone knows how I struggled to deserve that title
from you, from every member of Miss Kilsyth's family. I succeeded so
well, that until I noticed the expression of your face yesterday, I
believed no one on earth knew of the state of my feelings towards that
young lady. At Kilsyth, when I first felt the fascination creeping
over me; when I found that there was another, a better and a brighter
be-all and end-all for human existence than I had previously imagined;
when I found that the whole of my career had hitherto lacked, and
under then existent circumstances was likely to lack, all that could
make it worth running after, the want had been discovered; I did my
best to shut my eyes to what might have been, and to content myself
with what was. I knew that though my--my wife and I had never
professed any extravagant affection for each other; that though we had
never been lovers, in the common acceptation of the word, she had
discharged her duty most faithfully to me, and that I should be a
scoundrel to be untrue to her in thought--in word, of course, from
other considerations, it was impossible. I did my best, and my best
availed. I succeeded so far, that I left your father's house with the
knowledge that my secret was locked in my own breast, and that I had
never made the slightest tentative advance to your sister, to see if
she were even aware of its existence. More than this. During my
attendance on Miss Kilsyth, I had discovered that she was suffering
from a threatening of what the world calls consumption. I felt it my
duty to mention this to your father, and he requested me to attend her
professionally when the family returned to London. I agreed--to him;
but I had long reflection on the subject during my return journey, and
had almost decided to decline, on some pretext or another.

"Hear me but a little longer. I need not dwell to you upon the event
which has occurred since I left Scotland, and which has left me a free
man--free to enjoy legitimately that happiness, a dream of which
dawned upon me at Kilsyth, and which I shut out and put aside because
it was then wrong, and almost unattainable. Circumstances are now so
altered, that it is certainly not the former, and it is yet to be
proved whether, so far as the young lady is concerned, it is the
latter. In my desire to do right, even with the feeling of relief and
release which I had, even with the hope which I do not scruple to
confess I have nourished, I kept from Brook-street until a line from
Miss Kilsyth summoned me thither. When you met me yesterday, I was
there in obedience to her summons. You know that, I suppose, Captain
Kilsyth?'"

"I made inquiries yesterday, and heard so. I said at the outset, Dr.
Wilmot, that you were a man of honour. Your conduct since your return,
and since the return of my family, weighed with me in the utterance of
that opinion."

"I did not go to Brook-street--not that I did not fully comprehend the
change in the nature of my position since I had last seen Miss
Kilsyth, not that I had not a certain half-latent feeling of hope that
I might, now I had the legitimate chance, be enabled to rouse an
interest in her, but because I thought it was perhaps better to stay
away. If I did not see her again, I preposterously attempted to argue
to myself, the feeling that I had for her might die out. I have seen
her again. I have heard from you that my feelings towards your sister
are known--at least to you; and now I ask you whether you still think
that, under existing circumstances, it is impossible for me to ask
Miss Kilsyth to be my wife at some future date?"

As Chudleigh Wilmot stopped speaking, he bent over the back of the
chair by which he had been standing during the latter part of his
speech, and looked long and earnestly at Ronald. It was very seldom
that Captain Kilsyth dropped his eyes before anyone's gaze; but on
this occasion he passed his hand hastily across them, and kept them
for some minutes fixed upon the ground. A very hard struggle was going
on in Ronald Kilsyth's mind. He was firmly persuaded that the decision
he had originally taken, and which he had come to Charles-street for
the purpose of insisting on with Wilmot, was the right one. And yet
Wilmot's story, in itself so touching, had been so plainly and
earnestly told, there was such evident honesty and candour in the man,
that Ronald's heart ached to be compelled to destroy the hopes which
he felt certain that his companion had recently cherished. Moreover,
in saying that in considering Madeleine's future, his aspirations for
her marriage took no heed of rank or wealth, Ronald simply spoke the
truth. He had a slight tendency to hero-worship; and a man of Wilmot's
talent, and, as he now found, of Wilmot's integrity and gentlemanly
feeling, was just the person of whose friendship and alliance he would
have been proud. Madeleine too? In his own heart Ronald felt perfectly
certain that Madeleine was already gratefully fond of her preserver,
and would soon become as passionately attached to him as the mildness
of her nature would admit; while he knew that she would not feel that
she was descending from her social position--that she was "marrying
beneath her," to use the ordinarily accepted phrase, in the smallest
degree. And yet--no, it was impossible! He, Ronald Kilsyth, the last
man in the world to care for the talk of "_on_," "they," "everybody,"
the social scandal, and the club chatter, while it concerned himself,
shrunk from it most sensitively when it threatened anyone dear to
him. Physicians were all very well--everyone knew them of course,
necessarily; but their wives--Ronald was trying to recollect how many
physicians' wives he had ever met in society, when he recollected that
it was Madeleine, who would of course hold her own position; and--and
then came a thought of Lady Muriel, and the influence which she had
over his father when they were both tolerably agreed upon the subject.
It was impossible; and he must say so.

He looked up straightforwardly and honestly at his companion, and
said, "I wish to God that I could give you a different answer, Dr.
Wilmot; but I cannot. I still think it is impossible."

"I think so too," said Wilmot sadly. "I have looked at it, as you may
imagine, from the most hopeful aspect; and even then I am compelled to
confess that you are right. But, see here, Captain Kilsyth; whatever I
make up my mind to I can go through with,--all save slow torture. My
doom must be short and sharp--no lingering death. What I mean to say
is," he continued, striving to repress the knot rising in his
throat,--"what I mean to say is, that as I am to give up this hope of
my life, I must quench it utterly and at once, not suffer it to
smoulder and die out. You tell me--no!" he added, as Ronald put out
his hand. "I do not mean you personally, believe me. I am told that I
must abandon any idea of asking Miss Kilsyth to be my wife, and--and I
agree. But--I must never see Miss Kilsyth again. I could not risk the
chance of meeting her here, there, and everywhere. I would not run the
chance of being thrown with her again. I should do my best to hold to
the line of conduct I have marked out for myself; but I am but mortal,
and, as such, liable to err."

"Then, in heaven's name, what do you intend to do with yourself?"
asked Ronald, with one hand plucking at his moustache, and the other
hooked round the back of the chair.

"To do with myself!" echoed Wilmot. "To fly from temptation. The thing
that every sensible man does when he really means to win. It is only
your braggarts who stop and vaunt the excellence of their virtue, and
give in after all. Read that letter, Captain Kilsyth, and you will see
that I have anticipated the object of your visit."

Ronald took the letter to Sir Saville Rowe which Wilmot handed to him,
and read it through carefully. The tears stood in his eyes as he
handed it back.

"You're a noble fellow, Dr. Wilmot," said he; "such a gentleman as one
seldom meets with. But this will never do. You must never think of
giving up your practice."

"For a time at least; it is the only way. I must cure myself of a
disease that has laid firm hold upon me before I can be of any use to
my patients, I fancy."

"When do you purpose going?"

"At once, or within the week."

"And where?"

"I don't know. Through Germany--to Vienna, I imagine. Vienna is a
great stronghold of the _savans_ of our profession; and I should give
out that I was bound thither on a professional mission."

"I feel as though there is nothing I would not give to dissuade you
from carrying out what only half an hour since my heart was so
earnestly set upon. But is it absolutely necessary that you should
thus exile yourself? Could you not--"

"I can take no half measures," said Wilmot decisively. "I go, or I
stay; and we have both decided what I had better do."


Five minutes more and Ronald was gone, after a short and earnest
speech of gratitude and thanks to Wilmot, in which he had said that it
would be impossible ever to forget his manly chivalry, and that he
hoped they would soon meet under happier auspices. He wrung Wilmot's
hand at parting, and left, sensibly affected.

Wilmot's servant heard the hall-door shut behind the departing
visitor, and wondered he had not been rung for. Five minutes more
elapsed, ten minutes, and then the man, thinking that his master had
overlooked the fact that the carriage was waiting for him, went up to
the room to make the announcement. When he entered the room, he found
his master with his head upon the table in front of him clasped in his
hands. He looked up at the sound of the man's voice and murmured
something unintelligible, seized his hat and gloves from the
hall-table, and jumped into his brougham.

"He was ghastly pale when he first looked up," said the man to the
female circle downstairs, "and had great red lines round his eyes.
Sometimes I think he's gone off his 'ead! He's never been the same man
since missus's death."



END OF VOL. I.



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