Again I asked him the nature of the service he demanded, but he cleverly
evaded my inquiries.
"My suggestion will, I fear, strike you as curious," he added. "But in
this matter there must be no hesitation on our part; it must be
accomplished to-day."
"Then it is, I take it, a matter of life or death?"
There was a brief silence, broken only by the low ticking of the marble
clock upon the mantelshelf.
"Of death," he answered in a low, strained tone. "Of death, rather than
of life."
I held my breath. My countenance must have undergone a change, and this
did not escape his observant eyes, for he added--
"Before we go further, I would ask you, doctor, to regard this interview
as strictly confidential."
"It shall be entirely as you wish," I stammered.
The atmosphere of the room seemed suddenly oppressive, my head was in a
whirl, and I wanted to get away from the presence of my tempter.
"Good," he said, apparently reassured. "Then we can advance a step
further. I observed just now that you were a bachelor, and you did not
contradict me."
"I am a bachelor, and have no intention of marrying."
"Not for ten thousand pounds?" he inquired.
"I've never yet met a woman whom I could love sufficiently," I told him
quite plainly.
"But is your name so very valuable to you that you would hesitate to
bestow it upon a woman for a single hour--even though you were a widower
before sunset?"
"A widower before sunset?" I echoed. "You speak in enigmas. If you
were plainer in your words I might comprehend your meaning."
"Briefly, my meaning is this," he said, in a firmer voice, after
pausing, as though to gauge my strength of character. "Upstairs in this
house my daughter is ill--she is not confined to her bed, but she is
nevertheless dying. Two doctors have attended her for several weeks,
and to-day in consultation have pronounced her beyond hope of recovery.
Before being struck down by disease, she was hopelessly in love with a
man whom I believed to be worthless--a man whose name they told me was
synonymous with all that is evil in human nature. She was passionately
fond of him, and her love very nearly resulted in a terrible tragedy.
Through the weeks of her delirium she has constantly called his name.
Her every thought has been of him; and now, in these her last moments, I
am filled with remorse that I did not endeavour to reclaim him and allow
them to marry. He is no longer in England, otherwise I would unite
them. The suggestion I have to make to you is that you should assume
that man's place and marry my daughter."
"Marry her!" I gasped.
"Yes. Not being in possession of all her faculties, she will,
therefore, not distinguish between her true lover and yourself. She
will believe herself married to him, and her last moments will be
rendered happy."