Family Relations.
When the Kilsyths were in London, which, according to their general
practice, was only from February until June, they lived in a big
square house in Brook-street,--an old-fashioned house, with a
multiplicity of rooms, necessary for their establishment, which
demanded besides the ordinary number of what were known in the
house-agent's catalogue as "reception rooms," a sitting-room for
Kilsyth, where he could be quiet and uninterrupted by visitors, and
read the _Times_, and Scrope's _Salmon Fishing_, and Colonel Hawker on
_Shooting_, and _Cyril Thornton_, and Gleig's _Subaltern_, and
Napier's _History of the Peninsular War_, and one or two other books
which formed his library; where he could smoke his cigar, and pass in
review his guns and his gaiters and his waterproofs, and hold colloquy
with his man, Sandy MacCollop, as to what sport they had had the past
year, and what they expected to have the next--without fear of
interruption. This sanctuary of Kilsyth's lay far at the back of the
house, at the end of a passage never penetrated by ordinary visitors,
who indeed never inquired for the master of the house. Special guests
were admitted there occasionally; and perhaps two or three times in
the season there was a council-fire, to which some of the keenest
sportsmen, who knew Kilsyth, and were about to visit it in the autumn,
were admitted,--round which the smoke hung thick, and the conversation
generally ran in monosyllables.
Lady Muriel's boudoir--another of the extraneous rooms, which the
house-agent's catalogue wotteth not of--led off the principal
staircase through a narrow passage; and, so far as extravagance and
good taste could combine in luxury, was the room of the house. When
you are not an appraiser's apprentice, it is difficult to describe a
room of this kind; it is best perhaps to follow little Lord
Towcester's description, who, when the subject was being discussed at
mess, offered to back Lady Muriel's room for good taste against any in
London; and when asked to describe it, said,
"Lots of flowers; lots of cushions; lots of soft things to sit down
upon, and nice things to smell; and jolly books--to look at, don't you
know: needn't say I haven't read any of 'em; and forty hundred clocks,
with charming chimin' bells; and china monkeys, you know; and fellows
with women's heads and no bodies, and that kind of thing; and those
round tables, that are always sticking out their confounded third leg
and tripping a fellow up. Most charmin' place, give you my word."
Lord Towcester's description was not a bad one, though to the
initiated in his peculiar phraseology it scarcely did justice to the
room, which was in rose-coloured silk and walnut-wood; which had
_étagères_, and what-nots, and all the frivolousness of upholstery,
covered with all the most expensive and useless china; which opened
into a little conservatory, always full of sweet-smelling plants, and
where a little fountain played, and little gold-fish swam, and the
gas-jets were cunningly hidden behind swinging baskets on pendent
branches. There was a lovely little desk in one corner of the room,
with a paper-stand on it always full of note-paper and envelopes
radiant with Lady Muriel's cipher and monogram worked in all kinds of
expensive ways, and with a series of drawers, which were full of
letters and sketches and albums, and were always innocently open to
everybody; and one drawer, which was not open to everybody,--which was
closed indeed by a patent Bramah lock, and which, had it been
inspected, would have been found to contain a lock of Stewart Caird's
hair (cut from his head after death), a packet of letters from him of
the most trivial character, and a copy of Owen Meredith's _Wanderer_,
which Lady Muriel had been reading at the time of her first and only
passion, and in which all the passages that she considered were
applicable to or bearing on her own situation were thickly
pencil-scored. But it never was inspected, that drawer, and was
understood by any who had ever had the hardihood to inquire about it,
to contain household accounts. Lady Muriel Kilsyth in connection with
a lock of a dead man's hair, a bundle of a dead man's letters, a
pencil-marked copy of a sentimental poet! The idea was too absurd. Ah,
how extraordinarily wise the world is, and in what a wonderful manner
our power of reading character has developed!
Madeleine's rooms--by her stepmother's grace she had two, a
sitting-room and a bedroom--are upstairs. Small rooms, but very
pretty, and arranged with all the simple taste of a well-bred,
right-thinking girl. Her hanging book-shelves are well filled with
their row of poets, their row of "useful" works, their _Thomas à
Kempis_, their Longfellow's _Hyperion_, their _Pilgrim's Progress_,
their _Scenes of Clerical Life_--with all the Amos Barton bits
dreadfully underscored--their _Christmas Carol_, and their _Esmond_.
The neat little writing-table, with its gilt mortar inkstand, and its
pretty costly nicknacks--birthday presents from her fond father--stood
in the window; and above it hung the cage of her pet canary. There
were but few pictures on the walls: a water-colour drawing of Kilsyth,
bad enough, with impossible perspective, and a very coppery sunset
over very spotty blue hills, but dear to the girl as the work of the
mother whom she had scarcely known; a portrait of her father in his
youth, showing how gently time had dealt with the brave old
boy; a print from Grant's portrait of Lady Muriel; and a photograph
of Ronald in his uniform, looking very grim and stern and
Puritan-like. There is a small cottage-piano too, and a well-filled
music-stand,--well-filled, that is to say, according to its owner's
ideas, but calculated to fill the souls of musical enthusiasts with
horror or pity; for there is very little of the severe and the
classical about Madeleine even in her musical tastes: Gluck's _Orfeo_,
some of Mendelssohn's _Lieder ohne Worte_, and a few selections from
Mozart, quite satisfied her; and the rest of the music-stand was
filled with Bellini, Donizetti, Rossini, and Verdi, English ballads,
and even dance music. Upon all the room was the impress and evidence
of womanly taste and neatness; nothing was prim, but everything was
properly arranged; above all, neither in books, pictures, music, nor
on the dressing-table or in the wardrobe in the bedroom, was there the
smallest sign of fastness or slanginess, that almost omnipresent
drawback to the charms of the young ladies of the present day.
Nigh to Madeleine's rooms was a big airy chamber with a shower-bath,
an iron bedstead, a painted chest of drawers, and a couple of common
chairs, for its sole furniture. This was the room devoted to Captain
Kilsyth whenever he stayed with his relatives, and had been furnished
according to his exact injunctions. It was like Roland himself, grim
and stern, and was regarded as a kind of Blue Chamber of Horrors by
Lady Muriel's little children, who used to hurry past its door, and
accredited it as a perfect stronghold of bogies. This feeling was but
a reflection of that with which the little girls Ethel and Maud
regarded their elder brother. His visits to their schoolroom,
periodically made, were always looked forward to with intense fright
both by them and by their governess Miss Blathers--a worthy woman,
untouchable in Mangnall, devoted to the backboard, with a fair
proficiency in music and French, but with an unconquerable tendency
towards sentimentality of the most snivelling kind. Miss Blathers'
sentiment was of the G.P.R. James's school; she was always on the
look-out for that knight who was to come and deliver her from the
bonds of governesshood, who was to fling his arm over her, as Count
Gismond flung his round Mr. Browning's anonymous heroine, and lead her
off to some land, where Ollendorf was unknown, and Levizac had never
been heard of. A thoroughly worthy creature, Miss Blathers, but
horribly frightened of Ronald, who would come into the schoolroom,
make his bow, pull his moustache, and go off at once into the
questions, pulling his moustache a great deal more, and shrugging his
shoulders at the answers he received.
It was not often, however, that Ronald came to Brook-street, at all
events for any length of time. When he was on duty, he was of course
with his regiment in barracks; and when he had opportunities of
devoting himself to his own peculiar studies and subjects, he
generally took advantage of those opportunities with his own
particular cronies. He would ride with Madeleine sometimes, in a
morning, occasionally in the Row, but oftener for a long stretch round
the pretty suburbs; and he would dine with his father now and then;
and perhaps twice in the season would put in an appearance in Lady
Muriel's opera-box, and once at a reception given by her. But, except
perhaps by Madeleine, who always loved to see him, he was not much
missed in Brook-street, where, indeed, plenty of people came.
Plenty of people and of all kinds. Constituents up from Scotland on
business, or friends of constituents with letters of introduction from
their friends to Kilsyth; to whom also came old boys from the clubs,
who had nothing else to do, and liked to smoke a morning cigar or
drink a before-luncheon glass of sherry with the hospitable laird; old
boys who never penetrated beyond the ground-floor, save perhaps on one
night in the season, which Lady Muriel set apart for the reception of
"the House" and "the House" wives and daughters, when they would make
their way upstairs and cling round the lintels of the drawing-room,
and obstruct all circulation, and eat a very good supper, and for
three or four days afterwards wag their heads at each other in the
bow-windows of Brookes's or Barnes's, and inform each other with great
solemnity that Lady Muriel was a "day-vilish fine woman," and that
"the thing had been doosid well done at Kilsyth's the other night,
eh?" Other visitors, nominally to Kilsyth, but in reality after their
reception by him relegated to Lady Muriel, keen-looking, clear-eyed,
high-cheek-boned men, wonderfully "canny"-looking, thoroughly Scotch,
only wanting the pinch of snuff between their fingers, and the kilt
round their legs, to have fitted them for taking their station at the
tobacconists' doors,--factors from different portions of the estate,
whom Lady Muriel took in hand, and with them went carefully through
every item of their accounts, leaving them marvellously impressed with
her qualities as a woman of business.
No very special visitors to Lady Muriel. Plenty of carriages with
women, young and old, elegant and dowdy, aristocratic and plebeian, on
the front seat, and the _Court Guide_ in all its majesty on the back.
Plenty of raps, preposterous in their potency, delivered with unerring
aim by ambrosial mercuries, who disengaged quite a cloud of powder in
the operation; packs of cards, delivered like conjuring tricks into
the hands of the hall-porter, over whose sleek head appeared a
charming perspective of other serving-men; kind regards, tender
inquiries, congratulations, condolence, P.P.C.'s, all the whole
formula duly gone through between the ambrosial creatures who have
descended from the monkey-board and the plethoric giant who has
extricated himself from the leathern bee-hive--one of the principals
in the mummery stolidly looking on from the carriage, the other
sitting calmly upstairs, neither taking the smallest part, or caring
the least about it. The lady visitors did not come in, as a rule, but
the men did, almost without exception. The men arrived from half-past
four till half-past six, and, during the season, came in great
numbers. Why? Well, Lady Muriel was very pleasant, and Miss Kilsyth
was "charmin', quite charmin'." They said this parrotwise; there are
no such parrots as your modern young men; they repeat whatever they
have learnt constantly but between their got-by-rote sentences they
are fatally and mysteriously dumb.
"Were you at the Duchess's last night, Lady Muriel?"
"Yes! You were not there, I think?"
"No; couldn't go--was on duty."
_Pause. Dead silence. Five clocks ticking loudly and running races
with each other_.
"Yes, by the way, knew you were there."
"Did you--who told you?"
"Saw it in the paper, 'mongst the comp'ny, don't you know, and that
kind of thing."
_Awful pause. Clocks take up the running. Lady Muriel looks on the
carpet. Visitor calmly scrutinises furniture round the room, at length
he receives inspiration from lengthened contemplation of his
hat-lining_.
"Seen Clement Penruddock lately?"
"Yes, he was here on--when was it?--quite lately--O, the day before
yesterday."
"Poor old Clem! Going to marry Lady Violet Dumanoir, they say. Pity
Lady Vi don't leave off putting that stuff on her face and shoulders,
isn't it?"
"How ridiculous you are!"
"No, but really! she does!"
"How can you be so silly!"
_Grand and final pause of ten minutes, broken by the visitor's saying
quietly_, "Well, good-bye," _and lounging off to repeat the
invigorating conversation elsewhere_.
Who? Youth of all kinds. The junior portion of the Household Brigade,
horse and foot, solemn plungers and dapper little guardsmen; youth
from the Whitehall offices, specially diplomatic and erudite, and
disposed to chaff the military as ignorant of most things, and
specially of spelling; idlers _purs et simples_, who had been last
year in Norway, and would be the next in Canada, and who suffered
socially from their perpetual motion, never being able to retain the
good graces which they had gained or to recover those they had lost;
foreign _attachés_; junior representatives of the plutocracy, who went
into society into which their fathers might never have dreamed of
penetrating, but who found the "almighty dollar," or its equivalent,
when judiciously used, have all the open-sesame power; an occasional
Scotch connection on a passing visit to London, and--Mrs. M'Diarmid.
Who was Mrs. M'Diarmid? That was the first question everyone asked on
their introduction to her; the second, on their revisiting the house
where the introduction had taken place, being, "Where is Mrs.
M'Diarmid?" Mrs. M'Diarmid was originally Miss Whiffin, daughter of
Mrs. Whiffin of Salisbury-street in the Strand, who let lodgings, and
in whose parlours George M'Diarmid, second cousin to the present
Kilsyth, lived when he first came to London, and enrolled himself as a
student in the Inner Temple. A pleasant fellow George M'Diarmid, with
a taste for pleasure, and very little money, and an impossibility to
keep out of debt. A good-looking fellow, with a bright blue eye, and
big red whiskers (beards were not in fashion then, or George would
have grown a very Birnam-Wood of hair), and broad shoulders, and a
genial jovial manner with "the sex." Deep into Mrs. Whiffin's books
went George, and simultaneously deep into her daughter's heart; and
finally, when Kilsyth had done his best for his scapegrace kinsman,
and could do no more, and nobody else would do anything, George wiped
off his score by marrying Miss Whiffin, and, as she expressed it to
her select circle of friends, "making a lady of her." It was out of
his power to do that. Nothing on earth would have made Hannah Whiffin
a lady, any more than anything on earth could have destroyed her
kindness of heart, her devotion to her husband, her hard-working,
honest striving to do her duty as his wife. Kilsyth would not have
been the large-souled glorious fellow that he was if he had failed
to see this, or seeing, had failed to appreciate and recognise it.
George M'Diarmid hemmed and hawed when told to bring his wife to
Brook-street, and blushed and stuttered when he brought her; but
Kilsyth and Lady Muriel set the poor shy little woman at her ease in
an instant, and seeing all her good qualities, remained her kind and
true friends. After two years or so George M'Diarmid died in his
wife's arms, blessing and thanking her; and after his death, to the
astonishment of all who knew anything about it, his widow was as
constant a visitor to Brook-street as ever. Why? No one could exactly
tell, save that she was a shrewd, clever woman, with an extraordinary
amount of real affection for every member of the family. There was no
mistake about that. She had been tried in times of sickness and of
trouble, and had always come out splendidly. A vulgar old lady, with
curious blunt manners and odd phrases of speech, which had at first
been dreadfully trying; but by degrees the regular visitors to the
house began to comprehend her, to make allowance for her _gaucheries_
and her quaint sayings--in fact to take the greatest delight in them.
So Mrs. M'Diarmid was constantly in Brook-street; and the frequenters
of the five-o'clock tea-table professed to be personally hurt if she
absented herself.
A shrewd little woman too, with a special care for Madeleine; with a
queer old-world notion that she, being herself childless, should look
after the motherless girl. For Lady Muriel Mrs. M'Diarmid had the
highest respect; but Lady Muriel had children of her own, and,
naturally enough, was concerned about, or as Mrs. M'Diarmid expressed
it, "wropped up" in them, and Madeleine had no one to protect and
guide her--poor soul! So this worthy little old woman devoted herself
to the motherless girl, and watched over her with duenna-like care and
almost maternal fidelity.
Five o'clock in the evening, two days after Wilmot had received
Madeleine's little note; the shutters were shut in Lady Muriel's
boudoir, the curtains were drawn, a bright fire burned on the hearth,
and the tea-equipage was ready set on the little round table close by
the hostess. Not many people there. Not Kilsyth, of course, who was
reading the evening papers and chatting at Brookes's,--not Ronald, who
scarcely ever showed at that time. Madeleine, looking very lovely in a
tight-fitting high violet-velvet dress, a thought pale still, but with
her blue eyes bright, and her golden hair taken off her face, and
gathered into a great knot at the back of her pretty little head. Near
her, on an ottoman, Clement Penruddock, half-entranced at the
appearance of his own red stockings, half in wondering why he does not
go off to see Lady Violet Dumanoir, his _fiancée_. Clem is always
wondering about this, and never seems to arrive at a satisfactory
result. Next to him, and vainly endeavouring to think of something to
say, the Hon. Robert Brettles, familiarly known as "Bristles," from
the eccentric state of his hair, who is supposed to be madly in love
with Madeleine Kilsyth, and who has never yet made greater approaches
in conversation with her than meteorological observations in regard to
the weather, and blushing demands for her hand in the dance. By Lady
Muriel, Lord Roderick Douglas, who still finds his nose too large for
the rest of his face, and strokes it thoughtfully in the palm of his
hand, as though he could thereby quietly reduce its dimensions. Frank
Only, Sir Coke's eldest son, but recently gazetted to the Body Guards,
an ingenuous youth, dressed more like a tailor's dummy than anything
else, especially about his feet, which are very small and very shiny;
and Tommy Toshington, who has dropped in on the chance of hearing
something which, cleverly manipulated and well told at the club, may
gain him a dinner. In the immediate background sits Mrs. M'Diarmid,
knitting.
Lady Muriel has poured out the tea; the gentlemen have handed the
ladies their cups, and are taking their own; and the usual blank
dulness has fallen on the company. Nobody says a word for full three
minutes, when the silence is broken by Tommy Toshington, who begins to
find his visit unremunerative, as hitherto he has not gleaned one atom
of gossip. So he asks Lady Muriel whether she has seen anything of
Colonel Jefferson.
"No, indeed," Lady Muriel replies; "Colonel Jefferson has not been to
see us since our return."
"Didn't know you were in town, perhaps," suggests the peace-loving
Tommy.
"Must know that, Toshington," says Lord Roderick Douglas, who has no
great love for Charley Jefferson, associating that stern commander
with various causes of heavy field-days and refusals of leave.
"I don't see that," says Tommy, who has never been Lord Roderick's
guest at mess or anywhere else, and who does not see a chance of
hospitality in that quarter; consequently is by no means reticent,--"I
don't see that; how was he to know it?"
"Same way that everybody else did--through the _Post_."
"Tommy can't read it," said Clement Penruddock; "they didn't teach
spellin' ever so long ago, when Tommy was a boy."
"They taught manners," growled Tommy, "at all events; but they seem to
have given that up."
"Charley Jefferson isn't in town," said "Bristles," cutting in
quickly to stop the discussion; "he's down at Torquay. Had a letter
from him yesterday, my lady; last man in the world, Charley, to be
rude--specially to you or Miss Kilsyth."
"I am sure of that, Mr. Brettles," said Lady Muriel; "I fancied
Colonel Jefferson must be away, or we should have seen him."
"People go away most strangelike," observed Mrs. M'Diarmid from the
far distance. "The facilities of the road, the river, and the rail, as
I've seen it somewhere expressed, is such, that one's here today, Lord
bless you, and next week in the Sydney Isles or thereabouts." By "the
Sydney Isles or thereabouts."
Mrs. M'Diarmid's friends had by long experience ascertained that she
meant Australia.
"Scarcely so far as that in so short a time, Aunt Hannah," said
Madeleine with a smile.
"Well, my dear, far enough to fare worse, as the expression is. I
don't hold with such wanderings, thinking home to be home, be it ever
so homely."
"You would not like to go far away yourself, would you, Mrs.
M'Diarmid?" asked Lord Roderick.
"Not I, my lord; Regent-street for me is quite very, and beyond that I
have no inspiration."
"You've never been able to get Mrs. M'Diarmid even so far as Kilsyth,
have you, Lady Muriel?" said Clement.
"No; she has always refused to come to us. I think she imagines we're
utter barbarians at Kilsyth."
"Not at all, my dear, not at all," said the old lady; "but everybody
has their fancies, and knows what they can do, and where they're
useful; and fancy me at my time of life tossing my cabers, or doing my
Tullochgorums, or whatever they're called, between two crossed swords
on the top of a mountain! Scarcely respectable, I think."
"You're quite right, Mrs. Mac, and I honour your sentiments," said
Clem with a half-grin.
"Not but that I would have gone through all that and a good deal more,
my darling," said the old lady, putting down her work, crossing the
room, and taking Madeleine's pale face between her own fat little
hands, "to have been with you in your illness, and to have nursed you.
Duchesses indeed!" cried Mrs. Mac, with a sniff of defiance at the
remembrance of the Northallerton defection--"I'd have duchessed 'em,
if I'd had my way!"
"You would have been the dearest and best nurse in the world, I know,
Aunt Hannah," said Madeleine; then added, with a half sigh, "though I
could not have been better attended to than I was, I think."
Lady Muriel marked the half sigh instantly, and looked across at her
stepdaughter. Reassured at the perfect calm of Madeleine's face, on
which there was no blush, no tremor, she said, "You wrote that note,
Madeleine, according to your father's wish?"
"Two days ago, mamma."
"Two days ago! I should have thought that--"
"Perhaps he is very much engaged, mamma, and knew that there was no
pressing need of his services. Dr. Wilmot told me that--" and the girl
hesitated, and stopped.
"Is that Dr. Wilmot of Charles-street, close by the Junior? Are you
talking of him?" said Penruddock. "Doosid clever feller they say he
is. He's been attending my cousin Cranbrook--you know him, Lady
Muriel; been awfully bad poor Cranbrook has; head shaved, and holloing
out, and all that kind of thing--frightful; and this doctor has pulled
him through like a bird--splendidly, by Jove!"
"He drives an awful pair of screws," said "Bristles," who was horsey
in his tastes; "saw 'em standing at Cranbrook's door. To look at
'em, you wouldn't think they could drag that thundering big heavy
brougham--C springs, don't you know, Clem?--and yet when they start
they nip along stunningly."
"Ah, those poor doctors!", said Mrs. M'Diarmid; "I often wonder how
they live, for they take no exercise now all the streets are M'Adam
and wood and all sorts of nonsense! When there was good sound stone
pavement, one was bumped about in your carriage like riding a
trotting-horse, and that was all the exercise the poor doctors got.
Now they don't get that."
"And Dr. Wilmot attended Lord Cranbrook, did he, Clem?" asked
Madeleine softly, "and brought him safely through his illness. I'm
glad of that; I'm glad--"
"Dr. Wilmot, my lady!" said the groom of the chambers.
"What a bore that doctor coming," said Clement Penruddock, looking
round, "just as I was going to have a pleasant talk with Maddy!"
"You leave Maddy alone," said Mrs. M'Diarmid with a grunt, "and go off
to your financier!"
"My financier, Aunt Hannah?" said Clem in astonishment; "I haven't
one; I wish to Heaven I had."
"Haven't one?" retorted the old lady. "Pray, what do you call Lady
Vi?"
And then Clement Penruddock understood that Mrs. M'Diarmid meant his
_fiancée_.
Dr. Wilmot and Madeleine went, at Lady Muriel's request, into the
drawing-room.
He was with her once again; looked in her eyes, heard her voice
murmuring thanks to him for all his past kindness, touched her
hand--no longer hot with fever, but tremblingly dropping into his--saw
the sweet smile which had come upon her with the earliest dawn of
convalescence. At the same time Wilmot remarked a faint flush on her
cheek and a baleful light in her eyes, which recalled to him the
discovery which he had made at Kilsyth, and which he had mentioned to
her father. His diagnosis had been short then and hurried, but it had
been true: the seeds of the disease were in her, and, unchecked, were
likely to bear fatal fruit. Could he leave her thus? could he absent
himself, bearing about with him the knowledge that she whom he loved
better than anything on earth might derive benefit from his
assistance--might indeed owe her life and her earthly salvation to his
ministering care? He knew well enough that though her father had given
him his thorough trust and confidence, his friendship and his warm
gratitude, yet there were others about her who had no share in these
feelings, by whom he was looked upon with doubt and suspicion, and who
would be only too glad to relegate him to his position of the
professional man who had fulfilled what was required of him, and had
been discharged--not to be taken up again until another case of
necessity arose. There was no doubt that his diagnosis had been
correct, and that her life required constant watching, perpetual care.
Well, should she not have it? Was not he then close at hand? Had his
talent ever been engaged in a case in which he took so deep, so vital
an interest? Had he not often given up his every thought, his day's
study, his night's repose, for the mere professional excitement of
battling the insidious advances of Disease--of checking him here, and
counterchecking him there, and finally cutting off his supplies, and
routing him utterly? and would he not do this in the present instance,
where such an interest as he had never yet felt, such an inducement as
had never yet been held out to him, urged him on to victory?
Ah, yes; "his grateful patient" should have greater claims on his
gratitude than she herself imagined. He had seen her safely through a
comparatively trifling illness; he would be by her side in the
struggle that threatened her life. Come what might, win or lose, he
should be there, able, as he thought, to help her in danger, whatever
might be the result to himself of his efforts.
He has her hand in his now, and is looking into her eyes--momentarily
only; for the soft blue orbs droop beneath his glance, and the bright
red flush leaps into the pale cheek. Still he retains her hand, and
asks her, in a voice which vainly strives to keep its professional
tone, such professional questions as admit of the least professional
putting. She replies in a low voice, when suddenly a shadow falls upon
them standing together; and looking up, they see Ronald Kilsyth. Dr.
Wilmot utters the intruder's name; Madeleine is silent.
"Yes, Madeleine," says Ronald, addressing her as though she had
spoken; "I have come to fetch you to Lady Muriel.--I was not aware,
sir," he added, turning to Wilmot, "that you were any longer in
attendance on this young lady. I thought that her illness was over,
and that your services had been dispensed with."
Constitutionally pale, Ronald now, under the influence of strong
excitement, was almost livid; but he had not one whit more colour than
Chudleigh Wilmot, as he replied: "You were right, Captain Kilsyth: my
professional visits are at an end; it is as a friend that I am now
visiting your sister."
Ronald drew himself up as he said, "I have yet to learn, Dr. Wilmot,
that you are on such terms with the family as to justify you in paying
these friendly visits.--Madeleine, come with me."
The girl hesitated for an instant; but Ronald placed her arm in his,
and walked off with her to the door, leaving Chudleigh Wilmot
immovable with astonishment and rage.