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..
