We have already said that Woodward was a man of personal courage, and
without fear of anything either living or dead, yet, notwithstanding
all this, he felt a terror of _Shawn-na-Middogue_ which he could not I
overcome. The escape--the extraordinary escape of that celebrated young
tory--depressed and vexed him to the heart. He was conscious, however,
of his own villany and of his conduct to Grace Davoren, whom Shawn had
loved, and, as Shakespeare says, “conscience makes cowards of us all.”
One thing, however, afforded him some consolation, which was that his
disguise prevented him from from being known as the principal person
engaged in the attempt to hunt down the outlaw. He knew that after the
solemn promise he had given Miss Riddle, any knowledge on her part of
his participation in the pursuit of that generous but unfortunate young
man would have so completely sunk him in her opinion, as an individual
professing to be a man of honor, that she would have treated his
proposals with contempt, and rejected him with disdain. At all events,
his chief object now was to lose no time in prosecuting his suit with
her. For this purpose he urged his mother to pay Lord Cockletown another
visit, in order to make a formal proposal for the hand of his niece in
his name, with a view of bringing the matter to an issue with as
little delay as might be. His brother, who had relapsed, was in a very
precarious condition, but still slightly on the recovery, a circumstance
which filled him with alarm. He only went out at night occasionally, but
still he went out, and, as before, did not return until about twelve,
but much more frequently one, two, and sometimes three o'clock. Nobody
in the house could understand the mystery of these midnight excursions,
and the servants of the family, who were well aware of them, began to
look on him with a certain undefined terror as a man whose unaccountable
movements were associated with something that was evil and supernatural.
They felt occasionally that the power of his eye was dreadful; and as
it began to be whispered about that it was by its evil influence he had
brought Alice Goodwin to the very verge of the grave for the purpose of
getting at the property, which was to revert to him in case she should
die without issue, there was not one of them who, on meeting him, either
in or about the house, would run the risk of looking him in the face. In
fact, they experienced that kind of fear of him which a person might
be supposed to feel in the case of a spirit; and this is not surprising
when we consider the period in which they lived.
Be this as it may, his mother got up the old carriage once more and
set out on her journey to Cockle Hall--her head filled with many an
iniquitous design, and her heart with fraud and deceit. On reaching
Cockle Hall she was ushered to the withdrawing-room, where she found his
lordship in the self-same costume which we have already described. Miss
Eiddle was in her own room, so that she had the coast clear--which was
precisely what she wanted.
“Well, Mrs. Lindsay, I'm glad to see you. How do you do, madam? Is your
son with you?” he added, shaking hands with her.
“No, my lord.”
“O! an embassadress, then?”
“Something in that capacity, my lord.”
“Then I must be on my sharps, for I am told you are a keen one. But tell
me--do you sleep with one eye open, as I do?”
“Indeed, my lord,” she replied, laughing, “I sleep as other people do,
with both eyes shut.”
“Well, then, what's your proposal?--and, mark me, I'm wide awake.”
“By all accounts, my lord, you have seldom been otherwise. How could you
have played your cards so well and so succassfully if you had not?”
“Come, that's not bad--just what I expected, and I like to deal with
clever people. Did you put yourself on the whetstone before you came
here? I'll go bail you did.”
“If I did not I would have little chance in dealing with your lordship,”
replied Mrs, Lindsay.
“Come, I like that, too;--well said, and nothing but the truth. In fact
it will be diamond cut diamond between us--eh?”
“Precisely, my lord. You will find me as sharp as your lordship, for the
life of you.”
“Come, confound me, I like that best of all--a touch of my own
candor;--we're kindred spirits, Mrs. Lindsay.”
“I think so, my lord. We should have been man and wife.”
“Egad, if we had I shouldn't have played second fiddle, as I'm told poor
Lindsay does; however, no matter about that--even a good second is not
so bad. But now about the negotiations--come, give a specimen of your
talents. Let us come to the point.”
“Well, then, I am here, my lord, to propose, in the name of my son
Woodward, for the hand of Miss Riddle, your niece.”
“I see; no regard for the property she is to have, eh?”
“Do you think me a fool, my lord? Do you imagine that any one of common
sense would or should overlook such an element between parties who
propose to marry? Whatever my son may do--who is deeply attached to
Miss Riddle--I am sure I do not, nor will not, overlook it; you may rest
assured of that, my lord.”
Old Cockletown looked keenly at her, and their eyes met; but, after a
long and steady gaze, the eyes of the old peer quailed, and he felt,
when put to an encounter with hers, that to which was attributed such
extraordinary influence. There sparkled in her steady black orb a
venomous exultation, mingled with a spirit of strong and contemptuous
derision, which made the eccentric old nobleman feel rather
uncomfortable. His eye fell, and, considering his age, it was decidedly
a keen one. He fidgeted upon the chair--he coughed, hemmed, then looked
about the room, and at length exclaimed, rather in a soliloquy,--
“Second fiddle! egad, I'm afraid had we been man and wife I should never
have got beyond it. Poor Lindsay! It's confoundedly odd, though.”
“Well, Mrs. Lindsay--ahem--pray proceed, madam; let us come to the
property. How does your son stand in that respect?”
“He will have twelve hundred a year, my lord.”
“I told you before, Mrs. Lindsay, that I--don't like the future
tense--the present for me. What has he?”
“It can scarcely be called the future tense, my lord, which you seem to
abhor so much. Nothing stands between him and it but a dying girl.”
“How is that, madam?”
“Why, my lord, his Uncle Hamilton, my brother, had a daughter, an only
child, who died of decline, as her mother before her did. This foolish
child was inveigled into an unaccountable affection for the daughter
of Mr. Goodwin--a deep, designing, artful girl--who contrived to gain a
complete ascendency over both father and daughter. For months before
my niece's death this cunning girl, prompted by her designing family,
remained at her sick bed, tended her, nursed her, and would scarcely
allow a single individual to approach her except herself. In short,
she gained such an undue and iniquitous influence over both parent and
child, that her diabolical object was accomplished.”
“Diabolical! Well, I can see nothing diabolical in it, for so far.
Affection and sympathy on the one hand, and gratitude on the other--that
seems much more like the thing. But proceed, madam.”
“Why, my poor brother, who became silly and enfeebled in intellect by
the loss of his child, was prevailed on by Miss Goodwin and her family
to adopt her as his daughter, and by a series of the most artful and
selfish manoeuvres they succeeded in getting the poor imbecile and
besotted old man to make a will in her favor; and the consequence was
that he left her twelve hundred a year, both to her and her issue,
should she marry and have any; but in case she should have no issue,
then, after her death, it was to revert to my son Woodward for whom it
was originally intended by my brother. It was a most unprincipled and
shameful transaction on the part of these Goodwins. Providence, however,
would seem to have punished them for their iniquity, for Miss Goodwin is
dying--at least, beyond all hope. The property, of course, will soon
be in my son's possession, where it ought to have been ever since his
uncle's death. Am I not right, then, in calculating on that property as
his?”
“Why, the circumstances you speak of are recent; I remember them well
enough. There was a lawsuit about the will?”
“There was, my lord.”
“And the instrument was proved strictly legal and valid?”
“The suit was certainly determined against us.”
“I'll tell you what, Mrs. Lindsay; I am certain that I myself would have
acted precisely as your brother did. I know the Goodwins, too, and I
know, besides, that they are incapable of reverting to either fraud or
undue influence of any kind. All that you have told me, then, is, with
great respect to you, nothing but mere rigmarole. I am sorry, however,
to hear that the daughter, poor girl, is dying. I hope in God she will
recover.”
“There is no earthly probability--nay, possibility of it--which is a
stronger word--I know, my lord, she will die, and that very soon.”
“You know, madam! How the deuce can you know? It is all in the hands of
God. I hope she will live to enjoy her property.”
“My lord, I visited the girl in her illness, and life was barely in her;
I have, besides, the opinion of the physician who attended her, and
of another who was called in to consult upon her state, and both have
informed me that her recovery is hopeless.”
“And what opinion does your son, Woodward, entertain upon the subject?”
“One, my lord, in complete keeping with his generous character. He is as
anxious for her recovery as your lordship.”
“Well, I like that, at all events; it is a good point in him. Yes,
I like that--but, in the meantime, here are you calculating upon a
contingency that may never happen. The calculation is, I grant, not
overburdened with delicacy of feeling; but still it may proceed from
anxiety for the settlement and welfare of your son. Not an improbable
thing on the part of a mother, I grant that.”
“Well, then, my lord,” asked Mrs. Lindsay, “what is to be done? Come to
the point, as you very properly say yourself.”
“In the first place bring me the written opinions of those two doctors.
They ought to know her state of health best, and whether she is likely
to recover or not. I know I am an old scoundrel in entering into a
matrimonial negotiation upon a principle so inhuman as the poor lady's
death; but still, if her demise is a certain thing, I don't see why
men of the world should not avail themselves of I such a circumstance.
Now, I wish to see poor Tom settled before I die; and, above all things,
united to a gentleman. Your son Woodward, Mrs. Lindsay, is a gentleman,
and what is more, I have reason to believe Tommy likes him. She speaks
well of him, and there is a great deal in that; because I know that if
she disliked him she would not conceal the fact. She has, occasionally,
much of her old uncle's bluntness about her, and will not say one thing
and think another; unless, indeed, when she has a design in it, and then
she is inscrutable.”
“My own opinion is this, my lord: let my son wait upon Miss Riddle--let
him propose for her--and if she consents, why the marriage settlements
may be drawn up--at once and the ceremony performed.”
“Let me see,” he replied. “That won't do. I will never marry off poor
Tommy upon a speculation which may never after all be realized. No,
no--I'm awake there; but I'll tell you what--produce me those letters
from the physician or physicians who attended her; then, should Tom give
her consent, the settlements may be drawn up, and they can lie unsigned
until the girl dies--and then let them be married. Curse me, I'm an old
scoundrel again, however, as to that the whole world is nothing but one
great and universal scoundrel, and it is nothing but to see Tom the wife
of a gentleman in feeling, manners, and bearing, that I consent even to
this conditional arrangement.”
“Well,” replied the lady, “be it so; it is as much as either of us can
do under the circumstances.”
Ay, and more than we ought to do. I never was without a conscience; but
of all the poor pitiful scoundrels of a conscience that ever existed, it
was the greatest. But why should I blame it? It loved me too well; for,
after some gentle rebukes when I was about to do a rascally act, it
quietly withdrew all opposition and left me to my own will.”
“Ah, we all know you too well, my lord, to take your own report of your
own character. However, I am glad that matters have proceeded so far.
I shall do what your lordship wishes as to the opinions of the medical
men. The lawyers, with our assistance, will manage the settlements.”
“Yes; but this arrangement must be kept a secret from Tom, because if
she knew of it she would knock up the whole project.”
“She shall not from me, my lord.”
“Nor from me, I promise you that. But now for another topic. I am glad
your son had nothing to do with the dreadful chase of that unfortunate
Shawn-na-Middogue; he pledged his honor to Tom that he would rather
protect than injure him.”
“So, my lord, he would, ever since his conversation with Miss Riddle on
the subject.”
This, indeed, was very honestly said, inasmuch as it was she herself who
had furnished him with the mask and other of the disguises.
“Well, I think so; and I believe him to be a gentleman, certainly.
This unfortunate tory saved Tom's life and mine the other night;
but, independently of that, Mrs. Lindsay, no son of yours should have
anything to do in his pursuit or capture. You understand me. It is my
intention to try what I can do to get him a pardon from government, and
rescue him from the wild and lawless life he is leading.”
Mrs. Lindsay merely said,--“If my son Woodward could render you
any assistance, I am sure he would feel great pleasure in doing so,
notwithstanding that it was this same Shawn-na-Middogue who, perhaps,
has murdered his brother, for he is by no means out of danger.”
“What--he? Shawn-na-Middogue! Have you any proof of that?”
“Not positive or legal proof, my lord, but! at least a strong moral
certainty. However, it is a subject on which I do not wish to speak.”
“By the way, I am very stupid; but no wonder. When a man approaches
seventy he can't be expected to remember everything. You will excuse me
for not inquiring after your son's health; how is he?”
“Indeed, my lord, we know not what to say; neither does the doctor who
attends him--the same, by the way, who attended Miss Goodwin. At present
he can say neither yes or no to his recovery.”
“No, nor will not as long as he can; I know those gentry well. Curse
the thing on earth frightens one of them so much as any appearance of
convalescence in a patient. I had during my life about half a dozen fits
of illness, and whenever they found that I was on the recovery, they
always contrived to throw me back with their damned nostrums, for a
month or six weeks together, that they might squeeze all they could out
of me. O, devilish rogues! devilish rogues!”
Mrs. Lindsay now asked to see his niece, and the peer said he would send
her down, after which he shook hands with her, and once more cautioned
her against alluding to the arrangement into which they had entered
touching the matrimonial affairs already discussed. It is not our
intention to give the conversation between the two ladies, which was,
indeed, not one of long duration. Mrs. Lindsay simply stated that she
had been deputed by her son, Woodward, to have the honor of making a
proposal in his name to her uncle, in which proposal she, Miss Riddle,
was deeply concerned, but that her son himself would soon have the
greater honor of pleading his own cause with the fair object of his most
enthusiastic affection. To this Miss Riddle said neither yes nor no;
and, after a further chat upon indifferent topics, the matron took her
departure, much satisfied, however, with the apparent suavity of the
worthy peer's fair niece.
It matters not how hard and iniquitous the hearts of mothers may be,
it is a difficult thing to extinguish in them the sacred principle of
maternal affection. Mrs. Lindsay, during her son Charles's illness, and
whilst laboring under the apprehension that she was about to lose him,
went to his sick room after her return from Lord Coccletown's, and,
finding he was but slightly improving,--if improving at all,--she felt
herself much moved, and asked him how he felt.
“Indeed, my dear mother,” he replied, “I can scarcely say; I hardly know
whether I am better or worse.”
Harry was in the room at the time, having gone up to ascertain his
condition.
“O, come, Charles,” said she, “you were always an affectionate son, and
you must strive and recover. If it may give you strength and hope, I now
tell you that the property which I intended to leave to Harry here, I
shall leave to you. Harry will not require it; he will be well off--much
better than you imagine. He will have back that twelve hundred a year
when that puny girl dies. She is, probably, dead by this time, and he
will, besides, become a wealthy man by marriage.”
“But I think, my dear mother, that Harry has the best claim to it; he is
your firstborn, and your eldest son.”
“He will not require it,” replied his mother; “he is about to be married
to Miss Riddle, the niece of Lord Cockle town.”
“Are you quite sure of that, mother?” asked Harry, with a brow as black
as midnight.
“There is an arrangement made,” she replied; “the marriage settlements
are to be drawn up, but left unsigned until the death of Alice Goodwin.”
Charles here gave a groan of agony, which, for the life of him, he could
not suppress.
“She will not die, I hope,” said he; “and, mother, as for the property,
leave it to Harry. I don't think you ought to change your contemplated
arrangements on my account, even should I recover.”
“Yes, Charles, but I will--only contrive and live; you are my son, and
as sure as I have life you will be heir to my property.”
“But Maria, mother,” replied the generous young man; “Maria--” and he
looked imploringly and affectionately into her face.
“Maria will have an ample portion; I have taken care of that. I will
not leave my property to those who are strangers to my blood, as a
son-in-law must be. No, Charles, you shall have my property. As for
Harry, as I said before, he won't stand in need of it.”
“Of course you saw Miss Riddle to-day, mother?” asked. Harry.
“I did.”
“Of course, too, you mentioned the matter to her?”
“To be sure I did.”
“And what did she say?”
“Why, I think she acted just as every delicate-minded girl ought. I
told her you would have the honor of proposing to herself in person. She
heard me, and did not utter a syllable either for or against you. What
else should any lady do? You would not have her jump at you, would you?
Nothing, however, could be kinder or more gracious than the reception
she gave me.”
“Certainly not, mother; to give her consent before she was solicited
would not be exactly the thing; but the uncle is willing?”
“Upon the conditions I said; but his niece is to know nothing of these
conditions: so be cautious when you see her.”
“I don't know how it is,” replied Harry; “I have been thinking our last
interview over; but it strikes me there is, notwithstanding her courtesy
of manner, a hard, dry air about her which it is difficult to penetrate.
It seems to me as if it were no easy task to ascertain whether she is in
jest or earnest. Her eye is too calm and reflecting for my taste.”
“But,” replied his mother, “those, surely, are two good qualities in any
woman, especially in her whom you expect to become your wife.”
“Perhaps so,” said he;'”but she is not my wife yet, my dear mother.”
“I wish she was, Harry,” observed his brother, “for by all accounts she
is an excellent girl, and remarkable for her charity and humanity to the
poor.”
His mother and Harry then left the room, and both went to her own
apartment, where the following conversation took place between them:
“Harry,” said she, “I hope you are not angry at the determination I
expressed to leave my property to Charles should he recover?”
“Why should I, my dear mother?” he replied; “your property is your own,
and of course you may leave it to whomsoever you wish. At all events, it
will remain in your own family, and won't go to strangers, like that of
my scoundrel old uncle.”
“Don't speak so, Harry, of my brother; silly, besotted, and overreached
he was when he acted as he did; but he never was a scoundrel, Harry.”
“Well, well, let that pass,” replied her son; “but the question now is,
What am I to do? What step should I first take?”
“I don't understand you.”
“Why, I mean whether should I start directly for Ballyspellan and put
this puling girl out of pain, or go in a day or two and put the
question at once to Miss Riddle, against whom, somehow, I feel a strong
antipathy.”
“Ah, Harry, that's your grandfather all over; but, indeed, our family
were full of strong antipathies and bitter resentments. Why do you feel
an antipathy against the girl?”
“Who can account for antipathies, mother? I cannot account for this.”
“And perhaps on her part the poor girl is attached to you.”
“Well, but you have not answered my question. How am I to act? Which
step should I take first--the quietus, of 'curds-and-whey,' or the
courtship? The sooner matters come to a conclusion the better. I wish,
if possible, to know what is before me: I cannot bear uncertainty in
this or anything else.”
“I scarcely know how to advise you,” she replied; “both steps are of
the deepest importance, but certainly which to take first is a necessary
consideration. I am of opinion that our best plan is simply to take a
day or two to think it over, after which we will compare notes and come
to a conclusion.” And so it was determined.
We need scarcely assure our readers that honest and affectionate
Barney Casey felt a deep interest in the recovery of the generous and
kind-hearted Charles Lindsay, nor that he allowed a single day to pass
without going, at least two or three times, to ascertain whether there
was any appearance of his convalescence. On the day following that on
which Mrs. Lindsay had declared the future disposition of her property
he went to see Charles as usual, when the latter, after having stated to
him that he felt much better, and the fever abating, he said,--
“Casey, I have rather strange news for you.”
“Be it good, bad, or indifferent, sir,” replied Barney, “you could
tell me no news that would plaise me half so much as that there is a
certainty of your gettin' well again.”
“Well, I think there is, Barney. I feel much better to-day than I have
done for a long while--but the news, are you not anxious to hear it?”
“Why, I hope I'll hear it soon, Masther Charles, especially if it's
good; but if it's not good I'm jack-indifferent about it.”
“It is good, Barney, to me at least, but not so to my brother Woodward.”
Barney's ears, if possible, opened and expanded themselves on hearing
this. To him it was a double gratification: first, because it was
favorable to the invalid, to whom he was so sincerely attached; and
secondly, because it was not so to Woodward, whom he detested.
“My mother yesterday told me that she has made up her mind to leave me
all her property if I recover, instead of to Harry, for whom she had
originally intended it.”
Barney, on hearing this intelligence, was commencing to dance an Irish
jig to his own music, and would have done so were it not that the
delicate state of the patient prevented him.
“Blood alive, Masther Charles!” he exclaimed, snapping his fingers in a
kind of wild triumph, “what are you lying there for? Bounce to your feet
like a two-year ould. O, holy Moses, and Melchisedek the divine, ay, and
Solomon, the son of St. Pettier, in all his glory, but that is news!”
“She told my brother Woodward, face to face, that such was her fixed
determination.”
“Good again; and what did he say?”
“Nothing particular, but that he was glad it was to stay in the family,
and not go to strangers, like our uncle's--alluding, of course, to his
will in favor of dear Alice Goodwin.”
“Ay, but how did he look?” asked Barney.
“I didn't observe, I was rather in pain at the time; but, from a passing
glimpse I got, I thought his countenance darkened a little; but I may be
mistaken.”
“Well, I hope so,” said Barney. “I hope so--but--well, I am glad to find
you are betther, Masther Charles, and to hear the good piece of
fortune you have mentioned. I trust in God your mother will keep her
word--that's all.”
“As for myself,” said Charles, “I am indifferent about the property; all
that presses upon my heart is my anxiety for Miss Goodwin's recovery.”
“Don't be alarmed on that account,” said Casey! “they say the waters
of Ballyspellan would bring the dead to life. Now, good-by, Masther
Charles; don't be cast down--keep up your spirits, for something tells
me that's there's luck before you, and good luck, too.”
After leaving him Barney began to ruminate. He had remarked an
extraordinary change in the countenance and deportment of Harry
Woodward during the evening before and the earlier part of that day. The
plausible serenity of his manner was replaced by unusual gloom, and that
abstraction which is produced by deep and absorbing thought. He seemed
so completely wrapped up in constant meditation upon some particular
subject, that he absolutely forgot to guard himself against observation
or remark, by his usual artifice of manner. He walked alone in the
garden, a thing he was not accustomed to do; and during these walks he
would stop and pause, then go on slowly and musingly, and stop and pause
again. Barney, as we have said before, was a keen observer, and
having watched him from a remote corner of the garden in which he
was temporarily engaged among some flowers, he came at once to the
conclusion that Woodward's mind was burdened with something which
heavily depressed his spirits, and occupied his whole attention.
“Ah,” exclaimed Barney, “the villain is brewing mischief for some one,
but I will watch his motions if I should pass sleepless nights for it.
He requires a sharp eye after him, and it will go hard with me or I
shall know what his midnight wanderings mean; but in the meantime I must
keep calm and quiet, and not seem to watch him.”
Whilst Barney, who was unseen by Woodward, having been separated from
him by a fruit hedge over which he occasionally peeped, indulged in this
soliloquy, the latter, in the same deep and moody meditation, extended
his walk, his brows contracted, and dark as midnight.
“The damned hag,” said he, speaking unconsciously aloud, “is this the
affection which she professed to bear me? Is this the proof she gives of
the preference which she often expressed for her favorite son? To leave
her property to that miserable milksop, my half-brother! What devil
could have tempted her to this? Not Lindsay, certainly, for I know he
would scorn to exercise any control over her in the disposition of her
property, and as for Maria, I know she would not. It must then have been
the milksop himself in some puling fit of pain or illness; and ably must
the beggarly knave have managed it when he succeeded in changing the
stern and flinty heart of such a she-devil. Yes, unquestionably that
must be the true meaning of it; but, be it so for the present; the
future is a different question. My plans are laid, and I will put them
into operation according as circumstances may guide me.”
Whatever those plans were, he seemed to have completed them in his own
mind. The darkness departed from his brow; his face assumed its usual
expression; and, having satisfied himself by the contemplation of his
future course of action, he walked at his usual pace out of the garden.
“Egad,” thought Barney, “I'm half a prophet, but I can say no more than
I've said. There's mischief in the wind; but whether against Masther
Charles or his mother, is a puzzle to me. What a dutiful son, too! A
she-devil! Well, upon my sowl, if he weren't her son I could forgive him
for that, because it hits her off to a hair--but from the lips of a son!
O, the blasted scoundrel! Well, no matther, there's a sharp pair of eyes
upon him; and that's all I can say at present.”
When the medical attendant called that day to see his patient he found,
on examining Charles, and feeling his pulse, that he was decidedly and
rapidly on the recovery. On his way down stairs he was met by Woodward,
who said,
“Well, doctor, is there any chance of my dear brother's recovery?”
“It is beyond a chance now, Mr. Wood-ward; he is out of danger; and
although his convalescence will be slow, it will be sure.”
“Thank God,” said the cold-blooded hypocrite; “I have never heard
intelligence more gratifying. My mother is in the withdrawing-room, and
desired me to say that she wishes to speak with you. Of course it is
about my brother; and I am glad that you can make so favorable a report
of him.”
On going down he found Mrs. Lindsay alone, and having taken a seat and
made his daily report, she addressed him as follows:
“Doctor, you have taken a great weight off my mind by your account of my
son's certain recovery.”
“I can say with confidence, as I have already said to his anxious
brother, madam, that it is certain, although it will be slow. He is out
of danger at last. The wound is beginning to cicatrize, and generates
laudable pus. His fever, too, is gone; but he is very weak still,--quite
emaciated,--and it will require time to place him once more on his legs.
Still, the great fact is, that his recovery is certain. Nothing unless
agitation of mind can retard it; and I do not see anything which can
occasion that.”
“Nothing, indeed, doctor; but, doctor, I wish to speak to you on another
subject. You have been attending Miss Goodwin during her very strange
and severe illness. You have visited her, too, at Ballyspellan.”
“I have, madam. She went there by my directions.”
“How long is it since you have seen her?”
“I saw her three days ago.”
“And how was she?”
“I am afraid beyond hope, madam. She is certainly not better, and I can
scarcely say she is worse, because worse she cannot be. The complaint
is on her mind; and in that case we all know how difficult it is for a
physician to minister to a mind diseased.”
“You think, then, she is past recovery?”
“Indeed, madam, I am certain of it, and I deeply regret it, not only for
her own sake, but for that of her heart-broken parents.”
“My dear doctor--O, by the way, here is your fee; do not be surprised at
its amount, for, although your fees have been regularly paid--”
“And liberally, madam.”
“Well, in consequence of the favorable and gratifying report which
you have this day made, you must pardon an affectionate mother for the
compensation which she now offers you. It is far beneath the value of
your skill, your anxiety for my son's recovery, and the punctuality of
your attendance.”
“What! fifty pounds, madam! I cannot accept it,” said he, exhibiting it
in his hand as he spoke.
“O, but you must, my dear doctor; nor shall the liberality of the mother
rest here. Come, doctor, no remonstrance; put it in your pocket, and
now hear me. You say Miss Goodwin is past all hope. Would you have any
objection to write me a short note stating that fact?”
“How could I, madam?” replied the good-natured, easy man, who, of
course, could never dream of her design in asking him the question.
Still, it seemed singular and unusual, and quite out of the range of
his experience. This consideration startled him into reflection, and
something like a curiosity to ascertain why she, who, he felt aware, was
of late at bitter feud with Miss Goodwin and her family--the cause of
which was well known throughout the country--should wish to obtain such
a document from him.
“Pardon me, madam; pray, may I inquire for what purpose you ask me to
furnish such a document?”
“Why, the truth is, doctor, that there are secrets in all families, and,
although this is not, strictly speaking, a secret, yet it is a thing
that I should not wish to be mentioned out of doors.”
“Madam, you cannot for a moment do me such injustice as to imagine
that I am capable of violating professional confidence. I consider
the confidence you now repose in me, in the capacity of your family
physician, as coming under that head.”
“You will have no objection, then, to write the note I ask of you?”
“Certainly not, madam.”
“But there is Dr. Lendrum, who joined you in consultation in my son's
case, as well I believe, as in Miss Goodwin's. Do you think you could
get him to write a note to me in accordance with yours? Speak to him,
and tell him that I don't think he has been sufficiently remunerated for
his trouble in the consultations you have had with him here.”
“I shall do so, madam, and I think he will do himself the pleasure of
seeing you in the course of to-morrow.”
Both doctors could, with a very good conscience, furnish Mrs. Lindsay
with the opinions which she required. She saw the other medical
gentleman on the following day, and, after handing him a handsome
douceur, he felt no hesitation in corroborating the opinion of his
brother physician.
Having procured the documents in question, she transmitted them,
enclosed in a letter, to Lord Cockletown, stating that her son Woodward,
who had been seized by a pleuritic attack, would not be able, she
feared, to pay his intended visit to Miss Biddle so soon as he had
expected; but, in the meantime, she had the honor of enclosing him the
documents she alluded to on the occasion of her last visit. And this
she did with the hope of satisfying his lordship on the subject they
had been discussing, and with a further hope that he might become an
advocate for her son, at least until he should be able to plead his own
cause with the lady herself, which nothing but indisposition prevented
him from doing. The doctor, she added, had advised him to try the waters
of the Spa of Ballyspellan for a short time, as he had little doubt that
they would restore him to perfect health. She sent her love to dear Miss
Riddle, and hoped ere long to have the pleasure of clasping her to her
heart as a daughter.