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.".