Kith and Kin.
It was a good thing for Kilsyth that he had a soft, sweet,
affectionate being like Madeleine on whom he could vent the fund of
affection stored in his warm heart, and who could appreciate and
return it. In the autumn of life, when the sad strange feeling first
comes upon us, that we have seen the best of our allotted time, and
that the remainder of our pilgrimage must be existence rather than
life; when the ears which tingled at the faintest whisper of love know
that they will never again hear the soft liquid language once so
marvellously sweet to them; when the heart which bounded at the merest
promptings of ambition beats with unmoved placidity even as we
recognise the victories of our juniors in the race; when we see the
hopes and cares and wishes which we have so long cherished one by one
losing their sap and strength and verdure, one by one losing their
hold on our being, and borne whirling away, lifeless and shrivelled,
on the sighing wind of time,--we need be grateful indeed if we have
anything so cheering and promiseful as a daughter's affection. It is
the old excitement that has given a zest to life for so many years;
administered in a very mild form indeed, but still there. The boys are
well enough, fine gentlemanly fellows, making their way in the world,
well spoken of, well esteemed, doing credit to the parent stock, and
taking--ay, there's the deuce of it!--taking the place which we have
vacated, and making us feel that we have vacated it. Their mere
presence in the world brings to us the consciousness which arose dimly
years ago, but which is very bright and impossible to blink now, that
we no longer belong to the present, to the generation by which the
levers of the world are grasped and moved; that we are tolerated
gently and genially indeed, with outward respect and with a certain
amount of real affection; but that we are in effect _rococo_ and
bygone, and that our old-world notions are to be kindly listened to,
not warmly adopted. Ulysses is all very well; in fact, was a noted
chieftain in his day, went through his wanderings with great pluck and
spirit, had his adventures, dear old boy. You recollect that story
about the Gräfin von Calypso, and that scandalous story which was
published in the Ogygian _Satirist_? But it is Telemachus who is the
cynosure of Ithaca nowadays, whom we watch, and on whom we wait. But
with a girl it is a very different matter. To her her father--until he
is supplanted by her husband--still stands on the old heroic pedestal
where, through her mother's interpretation, she saw him long since in
the early days of her childhood; in her eyes "age has not withered
him, nor custom staled his infinite variety;" all his fine qualities,
which she was taught to love,--and how easily she learned the
lesson!--have but mellowed and improved with years. Her brothers, much
as she may love them, are but faint copies of that great original;
their virtues and good qualities are but reflected lights of his--his
the be-all and end-all of her existence; and the love between him and
her is of the purest and most touching kind. No tinge of jealousy at
being supplanted by her sullies that great love with which he regards
her, and which is free from every taint of earthiness; towards her
arises a chastened remembrance of the old love felt towards her
mother, with the thousand softened influences which the old memories
invest it with, combined with that other utterly indescribable
affection of parent to child, which is one of the happiest and holiest
mysteries of life.
So the love between Kilsyth and his girl was the happiness of his
existence, the one gentle bond of union between him and the outer
world. For so large-hearted a man, he had few intimate relations with
life; looking on at it benevolently, rather than taking part even in
what it had to offer of gentleness and affection. This was perhaps
because he was so thoroughly, what is called "old-fashioned." Lady
Muriel he honoured, respected, and gloried in. On the few occasions
when he was compelled to show himself in London society, he went
through his duty as though enjoying it as much as the most foppish
Osric at the court; supported chiefly by the universal admiration
which his wife excited, and not a little by the remembrance that
another month would see him freed from all this confounded nonsense,
and up to his waist in a salmon stream. There could be no terms of
praise too warm for "my lady," who was in his eyes equally a miracle
of talent and loveliness, to whom he always deferred in the largest as
in the smallest matters of life; but it was Madeleine
"who had power
To soothe the sportsman in his softer hour."
It was Madeleine who had his deepest, fondest love--a love without
alloy; pure, selfless, and eternal.
These feelings understood, it may be imagined Kilsyth had the warmest
feelings of gratitude and regard towards Dr. Wilmot for having, as
everyone in the house believed, and as was really the fact, saved the
girl's life, partly by his skill, principally by his untiring
watchfulness and devotion to her at the most critical period of her
illness. In such a man as Kilsyth these feelings could not remain long
unexpressed; so that within a couple of days of the interview between
Lady Muriel and Dr. Wilmot, Kilsyth took an opportunity of meeting the
doctor as he was taking his usual stretch on the terrace, and
accosting him.
"Good-morning, Dr. Wilmot; still keeping to the terrace as strictly as
though you were on parole?"
"Good-morning to you. I'm a sanitarian, and get as much fresh air as I
can with as little labour. This terrace seems to me the only level
walking ground within eyeshot; and there's no more preposterous
mistake than overdoing exercise. Too much muscularity and gymnastics
are amongst the besetting evils of the present day, depend upon it."
"Very likely; but I'm not of the present day, and therefore not likely
to overdo it myself, or to tempt you into overdoing it. But still I
want you to extend your constitutional this morning round to the left;
there's a path that skirts the craig--a made path in the rock itself,
merely broad enough for two of us to walk, and which has the double
advantage that it gives us peeps of some of the best scenery
hereabouts; and it is so little frequented, that it will give us every
chance of uninterrupted conversation. And I want to talk to you about
Madeleine."
Whatever might have been Chudleigh Wilmot's previous notions as to the
pleasure derivable from an extended walk with the old gentleman, the
last word decided him; and they started off at once.
"I won't pretend to conceal from you, Dr. Wilmot," said Kilsyth, after
they had proceeded some quarter of a mile, talking on indifferent
subjects, and stopping now and then to admire some point in the
scenery,--"I won't pretend to conceal from you, that ever since your
arrival here I have had misgivings as to the manner in which you were
first summoned. I--"
"Pray don't think of that, sir."
"I don't--any more than, I am sure, you do. My Madeleine, who is
dearer to me than life, was, I knew, in danger. I heard of your being
in what one might almost call the vicinity from Duncan Forbes; and
without thought or hesitation I at once telegraphed to you to come on
here."
"Thereby giving me the pleasantest holiday I ever enjoyed in my life,
and enabling me to start away, as I was on the point of doing, with
the agreeable reflection that I have been of some comfort to some most
kind and charming people."
"I am delighted to hear you say those friendly words, Dr. Wilmot; but
I am not convinced even now. So far as--as the honorarium is
concerned, I hope you will allow me to make that up to you; so that
you shall have no reminder in your banker's book that you have not
been in full London practice; and as to the feeling beyond the
honorarium, I can only say that you have earned my life-long
gratitude, and that I should be only too glad for any manner of
showing it."
Wilmot waited a minute before he said, "My dear sir, if there is
anything I hate, it is conventionality; and I am horribly afraid of
being betrayed into a set speech just now. With regard to the latter
part of your remarks your gratitude for any service I may have been to
you cannot be surpassed by mine for my introduction to my charming
patient and your delightful family circle. With regard to what you
were pleased to say about the honorarium, you must be good enough to
do as I shall do--forget you ever touched upon the subject. You don't
know our professional etiquette, my dear sir--that when a man is on a
holiday he does no work. Nothing on earth would induce me to take a
fee from you. You must look upon anything I have done as a labour of
love on my part; and I should lose all the pleasure of my visit if I
thought that that visit had not been paid as a friend rather than as a
professional man."
Kilsyth must have changed a great deal from his former self if these
words had not touched his warm generous heart. Tears stood in his
bright blue eyes as he wrung Chudleigh Wilmot's hand, and said,
"You're a fine fellow, Doctor; a great fellow altogether. I'm an old
man now, and may say this to you without offence. Be it as you will.
God knows, no man ever left this house carrying with him so deep a
debt of its owner's gratitude as will hang round you. Now as to
Madeleine. You're off, you say, and I can't gainsay your departure;
for I know you've been detained here far too long for the pursuance of
your own proper practice, which is awaiting you in London; and I feel
certain you would not go if you felt that by your going you would
expose her to any danger of a relapse. But I confess I should like to
hear from your own lips just your own candid opinion about her."
Now or never, Chudleigh Wilmot! No excuse of miscomprehension! You
have examined yourself, probed the inmost depths of your conscience in
how many midnight vigils, in how many solitary walks! You know exactly
the state of your feelings towards this young girl; and it is for you
to determine whether you will renounce her for ever, or continue to
tread that pleasant path of companionship--so bright and alluring in
its present, so dark and hopeless in its future--along which you have
recently been straying. Professional and humanitarian considerations?
Are you influenced by them alone, when you reply--
"My dear sir, you ask me rather a difficult question. Were I speaking
of your daughter's recovery from the disease under which she has been
labouring, I should say with the utmost candour that she has so far
recovered as to be comparatively well. But I should not be discharging
my professional duty--above all, I should not be worthy of that trust
which you have reposed in my professional skill, and of the friendship
with which you have been so good as to honour me--if I disguised from
you that during my constant attendance on Miss Kilsyth, and during the
examinations which I have from time to time made of her system, I have
discovered that--that she has another point of weakness totally
disconnected from that for which I have been treating her."
He was looking straight into the old man's eyes as he said this--eyes
which dropped at the utterance of the words, then raised themselves
again, dull, heavy-lidded, with all the normal light and life
extinguished in them.
"I heard something of this from Muriel, from Lady Muriel, from my
wife," muttered Kilsyth; "but I should like to know from you the exact
meaning of your words. Don't be afraid of distressing me, Doctor," he
added, after a short pause; "I have had in my time to listen to a
sentence as hard--almost as hard"--his voice faltered here--"as any
you could pronounce; and I have borne up against it with tolerable
courage. So speak."
"I have no hard, at least no absolute, sentence to pronounce, my dear
sir; nothing that does not admit of much mitigation, properly taken
and properly treated. Miss Kilsyth is not a hoyden, you know; not one
of those buxom young women who, according to French notions, are to be
found in every English family--"
"No, no!" interrupted the old gentleman a little querulously.
"On the contrary, Miss Kilsyth's frame is delicate, and her
constitution not particularly strong. Indeed, in the course of my
investigation during her recent illness, I discovered that her left
lung was not quite so healthy as it might be."
"Her lungs! Ah, good heavens! I always feared that would be the weak
spot."
"Are any of her family so predisposed?"
"One brother died of rapid consumption."
"Ay, indeed! Well, well, there's nothing of that kind to be
apprehended here,--at least there are no urgent symptoms. But it is
only due to you and to myself to tell you that the lungs are Miss
Kilsyth's weak point, and that every care should be exercised to ward
off the disease which at present, I am happy to say, is only looming
in the distance."
"And what should be the first step, Dr. Wilmot?"
"Removal to a softer climate. You have a London house, I know; when do
you generally make a move south?"
"Lady Muriel and the children usually go south in October,--about five
weeks from hence,--and I go down to an old friend in Yorkshire for a
month's cover-shooting. But this is an exceptional year, and anything
you advise shall be done."
"My advice is very simple; it is, that you so far make an alteration
in your usual programme as to put Miss Kilsyth into a more congenial
climate at once. This air is beginning now to be moist and raw in the
mornings and evenings, and at its best is now unfit for anyone with
delicate lungs."
"Would London do?"
"London would be a great improvement on Kilsyth--though of course it's
treason to say so."
"Then to London she shall go at once; and I hope you will allow me the
pleasure of anticipating that my daughter, when there, will have the
advantage of your constant supervision."
"Anything I can do for Miss Kilsyth shall be done, you may depend on
it, my dear sir. And now I want to say good-bye to you, and to you
alone. I have a perfect horror of adieux, and dare not face them with
women. So you will make my farewell to Lady Muriel, thanking her
for all the kindness and hospitality; and--and you will tell Miss
Kilsyth--that I shall hope to see her soon in London; and--so God
bless you, my dear sir, _au revoir_ on the flags of Pall-Mall."
Half an hour afterwards he was gone. He had made all his arrangements,
ordered his horses, and slipped away while all the party was engaged,
and almost before his absence from the luncheon-table was remarked. He
knew that the road by which he would be driven was not overlooked by
the dining-room where the _convives_ would be assembled; but he knew
well enough that it was commanded by one particular window, and to
that window he looked up with flashing eyes and beating heart. He
caught a momentary glimpse of a pale face surrounded by a nimbus of
golden hair; a pale face on which was an expression of sorrowful
surprise, and which, as he raised his hat, shrunk back out of sight,
without having given him the smallest sign of recognition. That look
haunted Chudleigh Wilmot for days and days; and while at first it
distressed him, on reflection brought him no little comfort, thinking,
as he did, that had Madeleine had no interest in him, her expression
of face would have been simply conventional, and she would have nodded
and bowed as to any ordinary acquaintance. So he fed his mind on that
look, and on certain kindly little speeches which she had made to him
from time to time during her illness; and when he wanted a more
tangible reminiscence of her, he took from his pocketbook a blue
ribbon with which she had knotted her hair during the earlier days of
her convalescence, and which, when she fell asleep, he had picked from
the ground and carefully preserved.
Bad symptoms these, Chudleigh Wilmot; very bad symptoms indeed! Bad
and easily read; for there shall be no gawky lad of seventeen years of
age, fresh from the country, to join your class at St. Vitus's, who,
hearing them described, shall not be able to name the virulent disease
from which you are suffering.
When Lady Muriel heard the result of her husband's colloquy with the
Doctor, she was variously affected. She had anticipated that Chudleigh
Wilmot would take the first opportunity of making his escape from
Kilsyth, where his presence was no longer professionally needed, while
his patients in London were urgent for his return. Nor was she
surprised when her husband told her that Dr. Wilmot had, when
interrogated, declared that the air of Kilsyth was far too sharp for
Madeleine in her then condition, and that it was peremptorily
necessary that she should be moved south, say to London, at once. Only
one remark did she make on this point: "Did Madeleine's removal to
London--I mean did the selection of London spring from you, Alick, or
Dr. Wilmot?"
"From me, dear--at least I asked whether London would do; and he
said, at all events London would be infinitely preferable to Kilsyth;
and so knowing that we should have the advantage of his taking charge
of Madeleine, I thought it would be best for us to get away to
Rutland-gate as soon as possible."
To which Lady Muriel replied, "You were quite right; but it will take
at least a week before all our preparations will be complete for
leaving this place and starting south."
Lady Muriel Kilsyth did not join any of the expeditions which were
made up after luncheon that day; the rest of the company went away to
roaring linns or to heather-covered mountains; walked, rode, drove;
made the purple hills resound with laughter excited by London stories,
and flirted with additional vigour, though perhaps without the
subtlety imparted by the experience of the season. But Lady Muriel
went away to her own room, and gave herself up to thought. She had
great belief in the efficacy of "thinking out" anything that might be
on her mind, and she resorted to the practice on this occasion. Her
course was by no means clear or straightforward, but a little thorough
application to the subject would soon show her the way. Let her look
at it in all its bearings, and slur over no salient point. This man,
this Dr. Wilmot--well, he was wondrously fascinating, that she must
allow! His eyes, his earnestness of manner, his gravity, and the way
in which he slid from grave to gay topics, as his face lit up, and his
voice--ah, that voice, so mellow, so rich, so clear, and yet so soft,
and capable of such exquisite modulation! The remembrance of that
face, only so recently known, has stopped the current of Lady Muriel's
thoughts: she sits there in the low-backed chair, her chin resting on
her breast, her hands clasped idly before her, her eyes vaguely
looking on the fitfully flaming logs upon the hearth. Wondrously
fascinating; in his mere earnestness so different from the men, young
and old, amongst whom her life was passed; by whom, if thought were
possible to them, it was held as something to be ashamed of, while
frivolity resulting in vice ruled their lives, and frivolity garnished
with slang governed their conversation. Wondrously fascinating; in the
modesty with which he exercised the great talent he possessed, and the
possession of which alone would have turned the head of a weaker man;
in his brilliant energy and calm strength; in his unwitting
superiority to all around him, and the manner in which, apparently
unconsciously and without the smallest display, he took his place in
the front rank, and, no matter who might be present, drew rapt
attention and listening ears to himself. So much for him. Now for
herself. And Lady Muriel rose from the soft snuggery of her cushioned
chair, and folded her arms across her breast, and began pacing the
room with hurried steps. This man had established an influence over
her? Agreed. What was worse, established his influence without
intending it, without absolutely wishing it? Agreed again. Lady Muriel
was far too clever a woman to shirk any item or gloss over any replies
to her cross-examination of herself. And was she, who had hitherto
steered her way through life, avoiding all the rocks and shoals and
quicksands on which she had seen so much happiness wrecked, so much
hope ingulfed--was she now to drift on for the same perilous voyage,
without rudder or compass, without even a knowledge whether the haven
would be open to her? Not she. For her husband's, for her own sake,
for her own and her children's credit, she would hold the course she
had held, and play the part she had played. A shudder ran through her
as she pictured to herself the delight with which the thousand-and-one
tongues of London scandal would whisper and chuckle over the merest
hint that their prophecy of years since was beginning to be
fulfilled--how the faintest breath of suspicion with which a name
could be coupled would fly over the five miles of territory where
Fashion reigns. She stopped before the glass, put her hand to her
heart, and saw herself pale and trembling at the mere idea.
And yet to be loved! Only for once in her life to know that she loved
and was loved again, not by a man whom she could tolerate, but by one
whom she could look up to and worship. Not reverence--that was not the
word; she reverenced Kilsyth--but whose intellect she could respect,
whose self she could worship. O, only for once in her life to
experience that feeling which she had read so much about and heard so
much of; to feel that she was loved heart and soul and body; loved
with wild passion and calm devotion--for such a man as this was
capable of both feelings simultaneously--loved for herself alone,
independently of all advantages of state and position; loved by the
most lovable man in the world; Loved! the word itself was tabooed
amongst the women with whom she lived, as being too strong and
expressive. They 'liked' certain men in a calm, easy, _laissez-aller_
kind of way at the height of their passion; then married them, with
proper amount of bishop, bridesmaid, and wedding present, all duly
celebrated in the fashionable journal; and then "gave up to parties
what was meant for mankind." Ah, the difference between such an
existence and that passed as this man's wife! cheering him in his
work, taking part in his worries, lightening his difficulties,
always ready with a smiling face and bright eyes to welcome him home,
and--Jealous? Not she! there would be no such feeling with her in such
a case. Jealous! And as the thought rose in her mind, simultaneously
appeared the blue eyes and the golden hair of her stepdaughter.
That must be nipped in the bud at once! There was nothing on Dr.
Wilmot's part--probably there might be nothing on either side; but
sentimental friendship of that kind generally had atrociously bad
results; and Madeleine was a very impressionable girl, and now, as
Kilsyth had determined, was to be constantly thrown with Wilmot, to be
under his charge during her stay in London, and therefore likely to
have all her thoughts and actions influenced by him. Such a
combination of circumstances would be necessary hazardous, and might
be fatal, if prompt measures were not taken for disposing of Madeleine
previously. This could only be done by making Ramsay Caird declare
himself. Why that young man had never prospered in his suit was
inexplicable to Lady Muriel; he was not so good-looking as poor
Stewart certainly--not one-tenth part so intense--having an excellent
constitution, and looking at life through glasses of the most roseate
hue; but Madeleine was young and inexperienced and docile--at least
comparatively docile even to Lady Muriel, who, as she knew perfectly
well, possessed very little of the girl's love; and it was through her
affection that she must be touched. Who could touch her? Not her
father: he was too much devoted to her to enter into the matter; at
least in the proper spirit. Who else then? Ah, Lady Muriel smiled
as a happy thought passed through her mind. Ronald, Madeleine's
brother,--he was the person to exercise influence in a right and
proper way over his sister; and to him she would write at once.
That night the butler took two letters from the post-box in Lady
Muriel's hand-writing; one of them was addressed to Ramsay Caird, in
George-street, Edinburgh, and ran thus:
"Kilsyth."
"My DEAR RAMSAY,--For reasons which I have already sufficiently
explained to you, you will, I think, be disposed to admit that my
interest in you and your career is unquestionable, and you will be
ready to take any step which I may strongly urge upon you. In this
conviction, I feel sure that you will unhesitatingly adopt the
suggestion which I now make, and start for London at the very earliest
opportunity. You will be surprised at this recommendation, and at the
manner in which I press it; but, believe me, I do not act without much
reflection, and without thorough conviction of the step I am taking,
and which I am desirous you should take. I have so often talked the
matter over with you, that there is no necessity for me to enter upon
it now, even if there were no danger in my so doing. It will be
sufficient to say that we all go to London in a week's time, and that
it is specially desirable that you should be there at the same time;
otherwise you may find the ground mined beneath your feet. When you
arrive in town, I wish you to call upon Captain Kilsyth at
Knightsbridge Barracks. You will find him particularly clear-headed,
and thoroughly conversant with the ways of the world; and I should
advise you to be guided by him in everything, but specially in _the_
matter in question. Let me have a line to say you are on the point of
starting; and believe me
"Your sincere friend,
"MURIEL KILSYTH."
The other letter was addressed to "Captain Kilsyth; First Life-guards,
Knightsbridge Barracks, London."
"(_Confidential_.)
Kilsyth.
"My dear Ronald,--You have heard from your father of Madeleine's
illness and convalescence. She is rapidly recovering her strength, and
will be her old self _physically_ very shortly.
"You smile as you see that the word 'physically' is underlined; but
this is not, believe me, one of those 'unmeaning woman's dashes' which
I have so often heard you unequivocally condemn. I underlined the word
specially, because I think that Madeleine's recovery will be, so far
as she is concerned, physical, and physical only.
"Not that I mean in the least that her reason has been affected,
otherwise than it always is most transiently in the access of fever;
but that I think that the occasion which you and I have so often
talked of has come, and come in a most undeniable manner. In a word,
Madeleine has lost her heart, if I am not much mistaken, and lost it
in a quarter where she herself, poor child, can hope for no return of
her affection, and where, even if such return were possible, it would
only bring misery on her, _and him_, and degradation to us all.
"We are coming to London at once, and therein lies simultaneously the
danger to Madeleine and my hope of rescuing her from it, principally
through your aid. You will see that it is impossible to enter upon
this subject at length in a letter; but I could not let you be in
ignorance of what I know will possess an acute and painful interest
for you. Of course I have not hinted a word of this to your father, so
that you will be equally reticent in any of your communications with
him. You shall hear the day we expect to arrive in town, and I hope to
see you in Brookstreet on the next morning.
"You will recollect all I said to you about Ramsay Caird. He will
probably call on you very shortly after you receive this letter. Bear
in mind the cue I gave you, when we last parted, about this young man,
and act up to it: he is a little weak, a little hesitating; but I am
more convinced than ever of the advisability of pursuing the course I
then indicated. God bless you!
"Your affectionate
"M.K."