fainted! a preposterous thing for a big strong man to do! fainted, as though he had been a school-girl, or a delicate miss, or a romantic woman troubled with nerves. mr. walsingham did not understand it at all. he rang the bell, and told the servant to get some water and some brandy, and something--the right sort of thing; and he picked up wilmot's head, which was gravitating towards the floor, and he bade him "hold up, my good fellow!" and then he let his friend's head fall, and gazed at him with extreme bewilderment. he was unused to this kind of performance was mr. walsingham, and felt himself eminently helpless and ridiculous. when the water and the brandy were brought, he administered a handful of the former externally, and a wine-glassful of the latter internally; and wilmot revived, very white and trembling and dazed and vacant-looking. so soon as he could gather where he was, and what had occurred, he made his apologies to mr. walsingham, and begged he would add to the kindness he had already shown by sending for a cab, and by allowing him to borrow the newspaper which he had been reading at the time of the attack; it should be carefully returned that afternoon. mr. walsingham, who wag the soul of politeness, agreed to each of these requests; the cab was fetched, and wilmot, with many thanks to his young friend, and with the packet for his young friend's mother, his own passport, and the morning post in his pocket, went away in it. mr. walsingham, who regarded this little episode in his monotonous life as quite an adventure, waxed very eloquent upon the subject afterwards to his friends, and made it his stock story for several days. "doosid awkward," he used to say, "to have a fellow, don't you know, who you don't know, don't you know, gone off into fits, and all that kind of thing! here, too, of all places in the world! if he'd gone off in my rooms, you know, it wouldn't so much have mattered; but here, where old blowhard"--for by this epithet mr. walsingham designated sir hercules shandon, k.p., her britannic majesty's minister at the court of prussia--"where old blowhard might have come in at any moment, don't you know, it might have been devilish unpleasant for a fellow. what he wanted with the post i can't make out. i've looked through every column of it since he sent it back, but i can't find anything likely to upset a fellow like that. i thought at first he must have been sinking his fees in some city company that had bust-up, but there's no such thing in the paper; or that he'd read of some chap being poisoned in mistake, and that had come home to him, but there's nothing about that either. i can't make it out.--i say, tollemache, do you see that miss kilsyth's married? married to caird, that good-looking fellow that always used to be there at brook-street--tame cat in the house--and that used to--you know--adalbert villa, omicron-road, eh? sell for you, old boy; you were very hard hit in that quarter, weren't you, tolly?"

so chudleigh wilmot went back to his hotel in the cab; and the friendly waiter, who had seen him depart so full of life and joyousness, had to help him up the steps, and thought within himself that the great english doctor would have to seek the assistance of other members of his craft. but no bodily illness had struck down chudleigh wilmot; he had not recovered his full strength, and the shock to his nerves had been a little too strong--that was all. so soon as he found himself alone, after refusing the friendly waiter's offer of sending for a physician, of getting him restoratives of a kind which came specially within the resources of the h?tel de russie, such as a roast chicken and a bottle of sparkling moselle, and after dispensing with all further assistance or companionship, wilmot locked the door of his room, and sat down at the table with the newspaper spread open before him. he read the paragraph again and again, with an odd sort of bewildering wonderment that it remained the same, and did not change before his eyes. no doubt about what it expressed--none. madeleine kilsyth, who had been worshipped by him for months past; and with whom as his companion he was looking forward to pass his future, was married to another man--that last fact was expressed in so many words. it was all over now, the hope and the fear and the longing; there was an end to it all. if he had only known this three months ago, what an agony of heart-sickness, of dull despair, of transient hope, of wearying feverish longing he had been spared! she was gone, then, so far as he was concerned--taken from him; the one star that had glimmered on his dark lonely path was quenched, and henceforward he was to stumble through life in darkness as best he might. that was a cruel trick of fortune's, a wretched cruel trick, to keep him back in his pursuit, to throw obstacles of every kind in his way, but all the time to let him see his love at the end of the avenue, as he thought, beckoning to him to overcome them all, to make his way to her, and carry her off in spite of all opposition; then for all the obstacles to melt away, for him to have naught to do but gain the temple unopposed; and when he succeeded in gaining it, for the doors to be open, the shrine abandoned, the divinity gone!

hard fate indeed! hard, hard fate! but it was not to be. his dead wife had said it; henrietta prendergast had said it: it was not to be. for him no woman's love, no happy home, no congenial spirit to share his thoughts, his ambition, his success. he sighed as he thought of this, with additional sadness as he remembered that if henrietta prendergast's story were true, all this had been his. such a companion he had had, had never appreciated, and had lost. he had entertained an angel unawares, and he was never to have the chance again. for him a drear blank future--blank save when remorse for the probable fate of the woman who had died loving him, regret for the loss of the woman whom he had loved, should goad him into new scenes of fresh action. madeleine married! was, then, his fancy that she, that madeleine, during that interview in the drawing-room in brook-street, had manifested an interest in him different from that which she had previously shown, a mere delusion? had he been so far led away by his vanity as to mistake for something akin to his own feeling the mere gratitude which the young girl had felt towards her physician? was she, indeed, "his grateful patient," and no more? wilmot's heart sunk within him, and his cheeks burned, as this view of the subject presented itself to his mind. had he, professing to be skilled in psychology, committed this egregious blunder? had he, who was supposed to know what people really were when they had put off the mummeries which they played before the world, and when they had laid by their face-makings and their posturings and their society antics, and revealed to their physician perforce what no one else was allowed to see--had he been deceived in his character study of one who to him was a mere child? the very suddenness of the inspiration had led him to believe in its truth. until that moment, just before that savage brother of hers had burst in upon them, he had acknowledged to himself the existence of his own passion indeed, but had struggled against it, fully believing it to be unreciprocated, fully believing in the mere gratitude and respect which--as it now seemed--were the sole feelings by which madeleine had been animated. but surely that day, in her downcast eyes and in her fleeting blush, he had recognised--a new idea, which rushed through his mind like a flash of light, illumining his soul with a ray of hope. had this been a forced marriage? had she been compelled by her brother, her father, lady muriel--god knows who--to accept this alliance? had it been carried out against her own free will? had his absence from england been made the pretext for urging her on to it? had that been shown to her as a sign of the mistake she had made in supposing that he, wilmot, eared for her at all? he had never been so near the truth as now, and yet he scouted the notion more quickly than any of the others which he discussed within himself. such a thing was impossible. the idea of a girl being forced to marry against her will, of her judgment being warped, and the truth perverted for the sake of warping that judgment, was incomprehensible to a man like wilmot--man of the world in so many phases of his character, but of childlike simplicity in the others. he had heard of such things as the stock-in-trade of the novelist, but in real life they did not exist. mammon-matches, forced marriages, diabolical torturings of fact--all these various combinations, neatly dovetailed together, filled the shelves of the circulating-library, but were laughed to scorn by all sensible persons when they professed to be accurate representations of what takes place in the every-day life of society.

besides, if it were so, the mischief was done, and he was all-powerless to counteract it. the marriage had taken place; there was an end of it. it could be undone by no word or deed of his. the times were changed from the old days when a sharp sword and a swift steed could nullify the priest's blessing, and leave the brave gallant and the unwilling bride to be "happy ever after." he was no young lochinvar, to swim streams and scour countries, to dance but one measure, drink one cup of wine, and bolt with the lady on his saddle-croup. he was a sober, middle-aged man, who must get back to england by the mail-train and the packet-boat; and when he got there--well, make his bow to the bride and bridegroom, and congratulate them on the happy event. it was all over. his turn in the wheel of fortune had arrived too late; the bequest which his good old friend had secured to him, had it come two months earlier, might have insured his happiness for life; as it was, it left him where it found him, so far as his great object in life, so far as madeleine kilsyth, was concerned.

another long pause for reflection, a prolonged pacing up and down the room, revolving all the circumstances in his mind. was his whole life bound up in this young girl? did his whole future so entirely hang upon her? here was he in his prime, with fame such as few men ever attained to, with fortune newly accruing to him--large fortune, leaving him his own master to do as he liked, free, unfettered, with no ties and no responsibilities; and was he to give up this splendid position, or, not giving it up, to forego its advantages, to let its gold turn into withered leaves and its fruits into dead-sea apples, because a girl, of whose existence he had been ignorant twelve months before, preferred to accept a husband of her choice, of her rank, of her family connection, rather than await in maidenhood a declaration of his hitherto unspoken love? he was pining under his solitude, the want of being appreciated, the lack of someone to confide in, to cherish, to educate, to love. was his choice so circumscribed by fate that there was only one person in the world to fulfil all these requirements? was it preordained that he must either win madeleine kilsyth or pass the remainder of his days helplessly, hopelessly celibate? was his heart so formed as to be capable of the reception of this one individual and none other, to be impressionable by her and her alone? his pride revolted at the idea; and when a man's pride undertakes the task of combating his passion, the struggle is likely to be a severe one, and none can tell on which side the victory may lie.

he would test it, at all events, and test it at once. the kind old man now gone to his rest had hoped that the fortune which he had bequeathed might be of service to the son of his old friend "and to mrs. wilmot;" and why should it not, although mrs. wilmot might not be the person whom mr. foljambe had intended, nor, as chudleigh had madly hoped on reading his benefactor's letter, madeleine kilsyth? he would go back to england at once; he would show these people that--even if they entertained the idea which had been so plainly set before him by ronald kilsyth--he was not the man to sink under an injury, however much he might suffer under an injustice. "love flows like the solway, but ebbs like its tide," so far he would say to them with lochinvar; they should not imagine that he was going to pine away the remainder of his life miserably because miss kilsyth had chosen to marry someone else. he had been a fool, a weak pliable fool, to make such a statement as he had done in that interview with ronald kilsyth. his cheeks tingled with shame as he remembered how he had confessed the passion which he had nurtured, and which he acknowledged beset him even at the time of speaking. and that cool, calculating young man, with his cursed priggish, pedantic airs, his lack of anything approaching enthusiasm, and his would-be frank manner, was doubtless at that moment grinning to himself at the successful result of his calm diplomacy. chudleigh wilmot stamped his foot on the floor and ground his teeth in the impotence of his rage.

married to ramsay caird, eh? ramsay caird! well, they had not made such a great catch after all! to hear them talk, to see the state they kept up at kilsyth, to listen to or look at my lady muriel, one would have thought that an earl, with half england in estates at his back, was the lowest they would have stooped to for their daughter's husband. and now she was married to an untitled scotchman, without money, and--well, if he remembered club-gossip aright, rather a loose fish. had not captain kilsyth been a little too hurried in the clinching of the nail, in the completion of the bargain? as mr. foljambe's heir, he, chudleigh wilmot, would have been worth a dozen such men as ramsay caird; and as to the question of former intimacy, of acquaintance formed during his wife's lifetime, the world would have forgotten that speedily enough.

he would go back to england at once, but when there he would show them he was not the kind of man which, from ronald kilsyth's behaviour, that family apparently imagined him. still the border song rang in his head--

"there were maidens in scotland more lovely by far would gladly be bride to the young lochinvar."

not more lovely, and probably never to be anything like so dear to him; but there were other maidens in england besides madeleine kilsyth. and why should the remainder of his life be to him utterly desolate because this girl either did not love him, or, loving him, was weak enough to yield to the interference of others? was he to pine in solitude, to renounce all the pleasures of wifely companionship, to remain, as he had hitherto been, self-contained and solitary, because he had placed his affections unworthily, and they had not been understood, or cast aside? no; he had existed, he had vegetated long enough; henceforward he would live. wealth and fame were his; he was not yet too old to inspire affection or to requite it; by his old friend's death he had obtained an additional claim upon society, which even previously was willing enough to welcome him; he should have the entrée almost where he chose, and he would avail himself of the privilege. so thus it stood. chudleigh wilmot left london broken-hearted at having to give up his love, and full of remorse for a crime, not of his commission indeed, but which he imagined had arisen out of his own egotism and selfish preoccupation. he was about to start on his return, with stung sensibility and wounded pride--feelings which rendered him hostile rather than pitying towards the woman to whom he had imagined himself sentimentally attached, and which had completely obliterated and driven into oblivion all symptoms of his remorse.

he wrote a hurried line to messrs. lambert and lee, informing them of his satisfaction with their proceedings hitherto, and notifying his immediate return; and he told the friendly waiter that he should start by that night's mail, and get as far as hanover. but this the friendly waiter would not hear of. the herr doctor must know perfectly well--for had not he, the friendly waiter, heard the german doctors speak of the english doctor's learning?--that he was in no condition to travel that night. if he, the friendly waiter, might in his turn prescribe for the english doctor, he should say, "wait here to-night; dine, not at the table d'h?te, where there is hurry and confusion, but in the smaller speise-saal, where you usually breakfast; and the cook shall be instructed to send up to you of his very best; and the herr oberkellner, a great man, but to be come over by tact, and specially kind in cases of illness, shall be persuaded to go to the cellar and fetch you johannisberg--not that zeltinger or marcobrünner, which, under the name of johannisberg, they sell to you in england, but real johannisberg, of prince metternich's own vintage--pfa!" and the friendly waiter kissed his own fingers, and then tossed them into the air as a loving tribute to the excellence of the costly drink.

so wilmot, knowing that there was truth in all the man had said; feeling that he was not strong, and that what little strength he had had gone out of him under the ordeal of the morning at the embassy, gave way, and consented to remain that night. but the next morning he started on his journey, and on the evening of the third day he arrived in london. he drove straight to his house in charles-street, and saw at once by the expression of his servant's face that the news of his inheritance had preceded him. there was a struggle between solemnity and mirth on the man's countenance that betrayed him at once. the man said he expected his master back, was not in the least surprised at his coming; indeed most people seemed to have expected him before. what did he mean? o, nothing--nothing; only there had been an uncommon number of callers within the last few days. "not merely the reg'lars," the man added; "them of course; but there have been many people as we have not seen here these two years past a-rat-tattin', and leavin' reg'lar packs of cards, with their kind regards, and to know how you were, sir." the cards were brought, and wilmot looked through them. the man was right; scores of his old acquaintance, whom he had not seen or heard of for years, were there represented; people whom he had only known professionally, and who had never been near him since he wrote their last prescription and took their last fee months before, had sought him out again. to what could this be accredited? either to the earnest desire of all who knew him to console him in the affliction of having lost his friend, or to the information sown broadcast by that diligent contributor to the illustrated news, who had given exact particulars of the will of the late john foljambe, esq., banker, of lombard-street and portland-place. but there was no card from any member of the kilsyth family in the collection. wilmot searched eagerly for one, but there was none there.

he had a hurried meal--hurried, not because he had anything to do, and wanted to get through with it, but because he had no appetite, and what was placed before him was tasteless and untempting--and sat himself down in his old writing-chair in his consulting-room to ponder over his past and his future. he should leave that house; he must. though mr. foljambe had made no binding requirement, the expression of his wish was enough. wilmot must leave that house, and obey his benefactor's behests by taking up his residence in portland-place. he had never thought much of it before, but now he felt that he loved the place in which so much of his life had been passed, and felt very loth to leave it. he recollected when he had fire moved into it, when his practice began to increase and his name began to be known. he remembered how his friends had said that it was necessary he should take up his position in a good west-end street, and how alarmed he was, when the lease was signed and the furniture--rather scanty and very poor, but made to look its best by mabel's disposition and taste--had been moved in, lest he should be unable to pay the heavy rent. he recollected perfectly the first few patients who had come to see him there: some sent by old foljambe, some droppers-in from the adjacent military club, allured by the bright door-plate; old gentlemen wishing to be young again, and young gentlemen in constitution rather more worn and debilitated than the oldest of the veterans. he remembered his delight when the first great person ever sent for him; how he had treasured the note requesting his visit; how he had gone to his club and slily looked up the family in the peerage; and how when he first stood before lady hernshaw, and listened to her account of her infant's feverish symptoms, he could, if he had been required, have gone through an examination in the origin and progress of the hawke family, with the names of all the sons and daughters extant, and come out triumphantly. his well-loved books were ranged in due order on the walls round him; on the table before him stood the lamp by whose light he had gathered and reproduced that learning which had gained him his fame and his position. in that house all is early struggles had been gone through; he remembered the first dinner-parties which had been given under mabel's superintendence, her diffidence and fright, his nervousness and anxiety. and now that was all of the past; mabel had vanished for ever and aye; and soon the old house and its belongings, its associations and traditions, would know him no more. what had he gained during those few years? fame, position, men's good word, the envy of his brother-professionals, and, recently, wealth. what had he lost? youth, spirit, energy, the at one time all-sufficing love of study and progress in his science, content; and, latterly, the day-spring of a new existence, the hope of a new world which had opened so fairly and so promisingly before him. the balance was on the per-contra side, after all.

the fashionable journals found out his return (how, his servant of all men alone knew), and proclaimed it to the world at large. the world at large, consisting of the subscribers to the said fashionable journals, acknowledged the information, and the influx of cards was redoubled. some of these performers of the card-trick lingered at the door, and entered into conversation with the presiding genius in black to whom their credentials were delivered. whether the doctor were well, whethe he intended continuing the practice of his profession, whether the rumour that he intended giving up that house and removing to portland-place had any substantial foundation; whether it were true that he, the presiding genius, was about to have a new mistress, a lady from abroad--for some even went so far as to make that inquiry--all these different points were put, haughtily, confidentially, jocosely, to the presiding genius of the street-door, and all were answered by him as best he thought fit. only one of the queries, the last, had any influence on that great man. he fenced with it in public with all the coolness and the dexterity of an angelo, but in private, in the sacred confidence of the pantry engendered by the supper-beer, he was heard to declare that "the guv'nor knew better than that; or that if he didn't, and thought to introduce furreners, with their scruin' ways, to sit at the 'ead of his table and give horders to them, he'd have to suit himself, and the sooner he knew that the better."

some of the callers on seeking admittance were admitted--among them dr. whittaker. perhaps amongst the large circle of wilmot's acquaintances calling themselves wilmot's friends, that eminent practitioner was the only one who had a direct and palpable feeling of annoyance at wilmot's return.

dr. whittaker's originally good practice had been considerably amplified by the patients who, under wilmot's advice, had yielded themselves up to dr. whittaker's direction during wilmot's absence, and the substitute naturally looked with alarm upon the reappearance of the great original. so dr. whittaker presented himself at an early date in charles-street, and being admitted, had a long and, on his side at least, an earnest talk with his friend. after the state and condition of various of the leading patients had been discussed between then, whittaker began to touch upon more dangerous, and, to him more interesting, ground, and said, with an attempt at jocosity,--and whittaker was a ponderous man, in whom humour was as natural and as easy as it might have been in sir isaac newton,--

"and now that i have given account of my stewardship, i suppose my business is ended, and all i have to do is to return my trust into the hands of him from whom i received it."

he said this with a smile and a smirk, but with an anxious look in his eyes notwithstanding.

"i don't clearly understand you," said wilmot. "if you mean to ask me whether i intend to take up my practice again, my answer is clear and distinct--no. if you wish to inquire whether those patients whom you have been attending in my absence will continue to send for you, i am in no position to say. all i can say is, that if they send for me, i shall let them know that i have retired from the profession, and that you are taking my place."

dr. whittaker was in ecstasies. "of course that is all i could expect," he replied; "and i flatter myself that--hum! ha! well, a man does not boast of his own proceedings--ha! well then, and so what the little birds whispered is true, eh?"

"i--i beg your pardon," said wilmot absently--"the--the little birds--"

"cautious!" murmured dr. whittaker in his blandest tone--that tone which had such an influence with female patients--"we are quite right to be cautious; but between friends one may refer to the little birds which have whispered," he continued with surprising unction, "that a certain friend of ours, whom the world delights to honour, has succeeded to wealth and station, and is about to exchange that struggle in which the--the, if i may so express it--the pulverem olympicum is gathered, for a soft easy seat in the balcony, whence he can look on at the contention with a smiling conjux by his side."

"little birds have peculiar information, whittaker, if they have been so communicative as all that," said wilmot with a rather dreary smile; "they know more than i do, at all events."

"ha, ha! my dear friend," said whittaker, in a gushing transport of delight at the thought of his own good fortune; "we are deep, very deep; but we must allow a little insight into human affairs to others. why did we fly from the world, dear bessy, to thee? as the poet moore, or milton--i forget which--has it. why did we give up our practice, and hurry off so suddenly to foreign parts, hum?" dr. whittaker gave this last "hum" in his softest and most seductive tones, such as had never failed with a patient. but perhaps because wilmot was not a patient, and was indeed versed in the behind-scenes mechanism of the profession, it had no effect on him, and he merely said: "not for the reason you name. indeed, you never were farther out in any surmise."

"is that really so?" said whittaker blandly. "well, well, you surprise me! it is only a fortnight since that i was discussing the subject at a house where you seem often spoken of, and i said i fully believed the report to be true."

"and where was that, pray?" asked wilmot, more for the sake of something to say than for any real interest he took in the matter.

"ah, by the way, you remind me! i intended to speak to you about that case before you left. the young lady whom you attended in scotland--where you were when poor mrs. wilmot died, you know--"

"in scotland--where i was when--good god! what do you mean?"

"miss kilsyth, you know. well, you left her in charge of poor old rowe as a special case, didn't you? yes, i thought so. well, the poor old gentleman got a frightful attack of bronchitis, and was compelled to go back to torquay--don't think he'll last a month, poor old fellow!--and before he went, he asked me to look after miss kilsyth. thought she had phthisis--all nonsense, old-fashioned nonsense; merely congestion, i'm sure. i've seen her half-a-dozen times; and about a fortnight ago--yes, just before her intended marriage was announced--she's married since, you know--we were talking about you and i mentioned this rumour, and--and we had a good laugh over your enthusiasm."

"it is a pity, dr. whittaker," said wilmot, quivering with suppressed rage, "it is a pity; and it is not the first time that it has been remarked, both professionally and socially, that you offer opinions and volunteer information on subjects of which you are profoundly ignorant. good-morning!"

just before the announcement of her intended marriage! had the vile nonsense talked by that idiot whittaker had any influence in inducing her to take that step? he thought of that a hundred times, coming at last to the conclusion--what did it matter now? the irrevocable step was taken. ah, for him it was not to be! his dead wife had said so--henrietta prendergast had said so. it was not to be!

what was to be was soon carried out according to his old friend's expressed wish. wilmot removed from charles-street to portland-place, and materially changed his manner of life. all his old patients flocked round him directly his return was announced; but, as he had promised whittaker, he let it be understood that he had entirely retired from practice. he even declined to attend consultations, alleging as an excuse that his health was delicate, and that for some time at least be required absolute repose. he had determined to take as much enjoyment out of life as he could find in it; and that, truth to tell, was little enough. the growth and development of his love for madeleine kilsyth had lessened his thirst for knowledge and his desire for fame; and when the fierce flames of that love had burned out, there was still enough fire in the ashes to wither up and destroy any other passion that might seek to occupy his heart. he tried to find relief for the dead weariness of spirit, the blank desolation always upon him, in society. he gathered around him brilliant men of all c lasses; and "wilmot's dinners" were soon spoken of as among the pleasantest bachelor réunions in london. he dined out at clubs, he joined men's dinner-parties; but he resolutely declined to enter into ladies' society. the resolution which he had formed at the berlin hotel of proving to the kilsyth people that there were families equal to theirs into which he could be received, and girls equal to madeleine who were willing to marry him, never was brought to the test. many ladies no doubt asked their husbands about wilmot; but from the answers they received they regarded him as never likely to marry again; and save from hearsay report, they had no opportunity of evidence.

he went about constantly, rode on horseback a great deal, visited theatres, and sat with a melancholy face at nearly all the public exhibitions. the few persons who had sufficient interest in him to discuss the reason for this change attributed it to the impossibility of his ever recovering the shock of his wife's sudden death; and he was quoted perpetually before many husbands, who sincerely wished they had the opportunity of showing how they would conduct themselves under similar circumstances. so his life passed on, monotonous, blank, aimless, for about three weeks after his installation in portland-place; when one evening returning from a long ride round the western suburbs, as he turned his horse through the albert-gate, hecame full upon a carriage containing lady muriel and madeleine. they were so close, that it was impossible to avoid a recognition. wilmot raised his hat mechanically, lady muriel gave him a chilling bow, and then turned rapidly to her companion. madeleine turned dead-white, and sank back as though she would have fainted; but lady muriel's look recalled her, and she recovered herself in time to bow. then they were gone. not much hope in that, chudleigh wilmot! not much chance of bridging that gulf which is fixed between you!