Giving up.
Rage was quite a novel passion for Chudleigh Wilmot, and one which,
like most new passions, obtained for the time complete mastery over
him. In his previous career he had been so steeped in study, so
overwhelmed by practice--had had every hour of his time so completely
and unceasingly occupied, that he had had no leisure to get into a
rage, even if he had had the slightest occasion. But the truth is, the
occasion had been wanting also. During the time he had been at the
hospital he had had various tricks played upon him,--such tricks as
the idle always will play upon the industrious,--but he had not paid
the least attention to them; and when the perpetrators of the
practical jokes found they were disregarded, they turned the tide of
their humour upon some one else less pachydermatous. Ever since then
his life had flowed in an even stream, which never turned aside into a
whirlpool of passion or a cataract of rage, but continued its calm
course without the smallest check or shoal. In the old days, when
driven nearly to madness by the calm way in which her husband took
every event in life, undisturbed by public news or private worry,
finding the be-all and the end-all of life in the prosecution of his
studies, the correctness of his diagnoses, and the number of
profitable visits daily entered up in his diary, Mabel Wilmot would
have given anything if he had now and then broken out into a fit of
rage, no matter for what cause, and thus cleared the dull heavy
atmosphere of tranquil domesticity for ever impending over them. But
he never did break out; and the atmosphere, as we have seen, was never
cleared.
But Chudleigh Wilmot was in a rage at last. By nature he was anything
but a coward, was endowed with a keen sensitiveness, and scrupulously
honourable. His abstraction, his studiousness, his simple unworldly
ways--for there were few more unworldly men than the rising
fashionable physician--all prevented his easily recognising that he
was a butt for intentional ribaldry or insult; but when, as in this
case, he did see it, it touched him to the quick. As a boy he could
laugh at the practical jokes of his fellow-students; as a man he
writhed under and rebelled against the first slight that since his
manhood he had received. What was to be done? This young man, this
Captain Kilsyth, her brother, had studiously and purposely insulted
him, and insulted him before her. As this thought rushed through
Wilmot's mind, as he stood as though rooted to the spot where they had
left him in the drawing-room in Brook-street, his first feeling was to
rush after Ronald and strike him to the ground as the penalty of his
presumption. His fingers itched to do it, clenched themselves
involuntarily, as his teeth set and his nostrils dilated
involuntarily. What good would that do? None. Come of it what might,
Madeleine's name would be mixed up with it, and--Ah, good God! he saw
it all; saw the newspaper paragraph with the sensation-heading,
"Fracas in private life between a gallant Officer and a distinguished
Physician;" he saw the blanks and asterisks under which Madeleine's
name would be concealed; he guessed the club scandal which--No, that
would never do. He must give up all thoughts of avenging himself in
that manner, for her sake. Better bear what he had borne, better bear
slight and insult worse a thousandfold, than have her mixed up in a
newspaper paragraph, or given over to the genial talk of society.
He must bear it, put up with the insult, swallow his disgust, forego
his revenge. There was not enough of the Christian element in
Chudleigh Wilmot's composition to render this line of conduct at all
palatable to him; but it was necessary, and should be pursued. He had
gone through all this in his thought, and arrived at this
determination before he moved from the drawing-room. Then he walked
quietly down to Lady Muriel's boudoir, entered, chatted with her
ladyship for five minutes on indifferent topics, and took his leave,
perfectly cool without, raging hot within.
As he had correctly thought, his long absence from London had by no
means injured his practice; if anything, had improved it. In every
class of life there is such a thing as making yourself too cheap, and
the healthy and wealthy hypochondriacs, who form six-sevenths of a
fashionable physician's _clientèle_, are rather incited and stimulated
when they find the doctor unable or unwilling to attend their every
summons. So Wilmot's practice was immense. He had a very large number
of visits to pay that day, and he paid them all with thorough
scrupulousness. Never had his manner been more _suave_ and bland;
never had he listened more attentively to his patients' narratives of
their complaints; never had his eyebrow-upliftings been more telling,
the noddings of his head thrown in more _apropos_. The old ladies, who
worshipped him, thought him more delightful than ever; the men were
more and more convinced of his talent; but the truth is, that having
no really serious case on hand, Dr. Wilmot permitted himself the
luxury of thought; and while he was clasping Lady Cawdor's pulse, or
peering down General Donaldbain's throat, he was all the time
wondering what line of conduct he could best pursue towards Ronald and
Madeleine Kilsyth. In the course of his afternoon drive he passed the
carriages of scores of his brother practitioners, with whom he
exchanged hurried bows and nods, all of whom returned to the perusal of
the _Lancet_ or of their diaries, as the case might be, with envy at
their hearts, and jealousy of the successful man who succeeded in
everything, and who, if they had only known it, was quivering under
the slight and insult which he had just received.
His visits over, he went home and dined quietly. The romantic feelings
connected with an "empty chair" troubled Chudleigh Wilmot very little.
He had never paid very much attention to the person by whom the chair
had been filled; indeed very frequently during Mabel's lifetime he had
done what he always had done since her death, taken a book, and read
during his dinner. But he could not read on this occasion. He tried,
and failed dismally; the print swam before his eyes; he could not keep
his attention for a moment on the book; he pushed it away, and gave up
his mind to the subject with which it was preoccupied.
Fair, impartial, and judicial self-examination--that was what he
wanted, what he must have. Captain Kilsyth had insulted him, purposely
no doubt; why? Not for an instant did Wilmot attempt to disguise from
himself that it was on Madeleine's account; but how could Captain
Kilsyth know anything of his (Wilmot's) feelings in regard to
Madeleine; and if he did know of them, why should he now object?
Captain Kilsyth might be standing out on the question of family; but
that would never lead him to behave in so _brusque_ and ungentlemanly
a manner; he might object to the alliance--to the alliance!--good God!
here was he giving another man credit for speculating on matters which
had only dimly arisen even in his own brain!
Still there remained the fact of Captain Kilsyth's conduct having been
as it had been, and still remained the question--why? To no creature
on earth had he, Chudleigh Wilmot, confided his love for this girl;
and so far as he knew--and he searched his memory carefully--he had
never in his manner betrayed his secret in the remotest degree. Had
his wife been alive, Ronald Kilsyth might have objected to finding him
in close converse with his sister; yet in the fact of his having a
wife lay--
It flashed across him in an instant, and sent the blood rushing to his
heart. The manner of his wife's death--was that known? The causes
which, as Henrietta Prendergast had hinted to him, had led Mabel to
the vial with the leaden seal--had they leaked out? had they reached
the ears of this young man? Did he suspect that jealousy--no matter
whether with or without foundation--of his sister had led Mrs. Wilmot
to lay violent hands upon herself? And if he suspected it, why not a
hundred others? The story would fly from mouth to mouth. This Captain
Kilsyth--no; he would not lend his aid to its promulgation; he could
not for his sister's sake; but--And yet, with or against Captain
Kilsyth's wish, it must come out. When his visits ceased in
Brook-street, as they must cease--he had determined on that; when he no
longer saw Madeleine, who, as he perfectly well knew, had been brought
to London with the view of being under his care, would not old Kilsyth
make inquiries as to the change in the intended programme, and would
not his son have to tell him all he had heard? It was too horrible to
think of. With such a rumour in existence--granting that it was a
rumour merely, and all unproved--it would be impossible for Kilsyth,
however eagerly he might wish it, to befriend him--at least in the
manner in which he could best befriend him, by encouraging his
addresses to Madeleine. Lady Muriel would not listen to it; Ronald
would not listen to it, even if those two were in some way--he could
not think how, but there might be a way of getting round those two and
winning them to his side--even if that were done, while that horrible
story or suspicion was current--and it was impossible to set it at
rest without the chance of establishing it firmly for ever--Kilsyth
would never consent to his marriage with Madeleine.
He must at once free himself from the chance of any story of this kind
being promulgated. The more he thought the matter over, the more he
saw the impossibility of again going to Brook-street, after what had
occurred; the impossibility of his absence passing without remark and
inquiry by Kilsyth; the impossibility of Ronald's withholding his
statement of his own conduct in the matter, and his reasons for that
conduct. For an instant a ray of hope shot through Chudleigh Wilmot's
soul, as he thought that perhaps the reasons might be infinitely less
serious and less damaging than he had depicted them to himself; but it
died out again at once, and he acknowledged to himself the
hopelessness of his situation. He had been indulging in a day-dream
from which he had been rudely and ruthlessly waked, and his action
must now be prompt and decisive. There was an end to it all; it was
Kismet, and he must accept his fate. No combined future for Madeleine
and him; their paths lay separate, and must be trodden separately at
once; her brother was right, his own dead wife was right--it is not to
be!
There must be no blinking or shuffling with the question now, he
thought. To remain in London without visiting in Brook-street would
evoke immediate and peculiar attention; and it was plain that Ronald
Kilsyth had determined that Dr. Wilmot's visits to Brook-street were
not to be renewed. He must leave London, must leave England at once.
He must go abroad for six months, for a year; must give up his
practice, and seek change and repose in fresh scenes. He would spoil
his future by so doing, blow up and shatter the fabric which he had
reared with such industry and patience and self-denial; but what of
that? He should ascribe his forced expatriation and retreat to loss of
health, and he should at least reap pity and condolence; whereas now
every moment that he remained upon the scene he ran the chance of
being overwhelmed with obloquy and scorn. He could imagine, vividly
enough, how the patients whom he had refused to flatter, whose
self-imagined maladies he had laughed at and ridiculed, would turn
upon him; how his brother practitioners, who had always hated him for
his success, would point to the fulfilment of their never-delivered
prophecies, and make much of their own idleness and incompetency; how
the medical journals which he had riddled and scathed would issue
fierce diatribes over his fall, or, worse than all, sympathise with
the profession on--he could almost see the words in print before
him--"the breach of that confidence which is the necessary and sacred
bond between the physician and the patient."
Anything better than that; and he must take the decisive step at once!
He must give up his practice. Whittaker should have it, so far at
least as his recommendation could serve him. He should have that,
and must rely upon himself for the rest. Many of his patients
knew Whittaker now, had become accustomed to him during the time
of Wilmot's absence at Kilsyth, and Whittaker had not behaved
badly during that--that horrible affair of Mabel's last illness.
Moreover, if Whittaker suspected the cause of Mabel's death--and
Wilmot shuddered as the mere thought crossed his mind--the practice
would be a sop to him to induce him to hold his tongue in the matter.
And he, Wilmot, would go away--and be forgotten. Better that, bitter
as the thought might be--and how bitter it was none but those who have
been compelled, for conscience' sake, for honour's sake, for
expediency's sake even, to give up in the moment of success, to haul
down the flag, and sheath the sword when they knew victory was in
their grasp, could ever tell;--better that than to remain, with the
chance of exposure to himself, of compromise to her. The mental
overthrow, the physical suffering consequent upon the sudden death of
his wife, would be sufficient excuse for this step to the world; and
there were none to know the real cause of its being taken. He had
saved sufficient money to enable him to live as comfortably as he
should care to live, even if he never returned to work again; and once
free from the torturing doubt which oppressed him, or rather from the
possibility of all which that torturing doubt meant to his fevered
mind, he should be himself again.
Beyond his position, so hardly struggled for, so recently attained, he
had nothing to leave behind him which he should particularly regret.
He had been so self-contained, from the very means necessary for
attaining that position, had been so circumscribed in the pleasures of
his life, that his opportunities for the cultivation even of
friendship had been very rare. He should miss the quaint caustic
conversation, the earnest hearty liking so undeniably existing, even
under its slight veneer of eccentricity, of old Foljambe; he should
miss what he used laughingly to call his "dissipation" of attending a
few professional and scientific gatherings held in the winter, where
the talk was all "shop," dry and uninteresting to the uninitiated, but
full of delight to the listeners, and specially to the talkers; he
should miss the excitement of the lecture-theatre, where perhaps more
than anywhere else he thoroughly enjoyed himself, and where he shone
at his very brightest, and--that was all. No! Madeleine! this last and
keenest source of enjoyment in his life, this pure spring of freshness
and vigour, this revivification of early hopes and boyish dreams, this
young girl, the merest acquaintance with whom had softened and
purified his heart, had given aim and end to his career, had shown him
how dull and heartless, how unloved, unloving, and unlovely had been
his byegone time, and had aroused in him such dreams of uncensurable
ambition for the future,--she must be given up, must become a "portion
and parcel of the dreadful past," and be dead to him for ever! She
must be given up! He repeated the words mechanically, and they rang in
his ears like a knell. She must be given up! She was given up, even
then, if he carried out his intention. He should never see her again,
should never see the loving light in those blue eyes--ah, how well he
minded him of the time when he first saw it in the earliest days of
her convalescence at Kilsyth, and of all the undefined associations
which it awakened in him!--should never hear the grateful accents of
her soft sweet voice, should never touch her pretty hand again. For
all the years of his life, as it appeared to him, he had held his eyes
fixed upon the ground, and had raised them at the rustle of an angel's
wings, only to see her float far beyond his reach. For all the years
of his life he had toiled wearily on through the parching desert; and
at length, on meeting the green oasis, where the fresh well sparkled
so cheerily, had had the cup shattered from his trembling hand.
She must be given up! She should be; that was the very keystone of the
arrangement. He had looked the whole question fairly in the face; and
what he had proposed to himself and had determined on abiding by, he
would not shrink from now. But it was hard, very hard. And then he lay
back in his chair, and in his mind retraced all the circumstances of
his acquaintance with her; last of all, coming upon their final
interview of that morning in the drawing-room at Brook-street. He was
sufficiently calm now to eliminate Ronald and his truculence from the
scene, and to think only of Madeleine; and that brought to his
remembrance the reason of their having gone into the drawing-room
together, to consult on her illness, the weakness of the lungs which
he had detected at Kilsyth.
That was a new phase of the subject, which had not occurred to him
before. Not merely must he give her up and absent himself from her,
but he must leave her at a time when his care and attention might be
of vital importance to her. Like most leading men in his profession,
Chudleigh Wilmot, with a full reliance on himself, combined a
wholesome distrust of and disbelief in most of his brother
practitioners. There were few--half a dozen at the most, perhaps--in
whose hands Madeleine might be safely left, if they had some special
interest, such as he had, in her case. Such as he had! Wilmot could
not avoid a grim smile as he thought of old Dr. Blenkiron, with his
snuff-dusted shirt-frill, or little Dr. Prater, with his gold-rimmed
spectacles, feeling similar interest to his in this sweet girl. But
unless they had special interest--unless they could have given up a
certain amount of their time regularly to attending to her--it would
have been of little use, as her symptoms were for ever varying, and
wanted constant watching. And as for the general run of the
profession, even men so well thought of as Whittaker or Perkins,
he--stay, a good thought--old Sir Saville Rowe would probably be coming
to town for the winter; and the old gentleman, though he had retired
from active practice, would, Wilmot made sure, look after Madeleine for
him as a special case. Sir Saville's brain was as clear as ever; and
though his strength was insufficient to enable him to continue his
practice, this one case would be an amusement rather than a trouble to
him. Yes, that was the best way of meeting this part of the
difficulty. Wilmot could go away at least without the additional
anxiety of his darling's being without competent advice. So much of
his burden could be lightened by Sir Saville; and he would sit down at
once and write to the old gentleman, asking him to undertake the
charge.
He moved to his writing-table and sat down at it. He had arranged the
paper before him and taken up his pen, when he suddenly stopped, threw
aside the pen, and flung himself back in his chair. What excuse was he
about to make to his old master for his leaving London at so critical
a period in his career? He had not sufficiently considered that. He
had intended saying that Mrs. Wilmot's sudden death had had such an
effect upon him physically and mentally, that he felt compelled to
relinquish practice, at least for the present, and to seek abroad for
that rest and change of scene which was absolutely necessary for him.
He had turned the phrases very neatly in his mind, but he had
forgotten one thing. He had forgotten his conversation with the old
gentleman on the garden walk overhanging the brawling Tay on the
morning when he received the telegram from Kilsyth. He had forgotten
how he had laughed in derision when Sir Saville had asked him whether
he was in love with his wife; how he had curtly hinted that Mabel was
all very well in her way, but holding a decidedly inferior position in
his estimation to his practice and his work. He remembered all this
now, and he saw how utterly futile it would be to attempt to put off
his old friend with such a story. What, then, should be the excuse?
That his own health had given way under pressure of work? Sir Saville
knew well how highly Wilmot appreciated his professional opinion; and
had he believed the story--which was very unlikely--would have been
hurt at his old pupil's rushing away without consulting him. In any
case he must not see Sir Saville, who would undoubtedly cross-question
him in detail about Mrs. Wilmot's illness. He must write to the old
gentleman, giving a very general statement and avoiding all
particulars, and requesting him to take Madeleine under his charge.
He did so. He wrote fully and affectionately to his old friend. He
touched very slightly on the death of his wife, beyond hinting that
that occurrence had necessitated his departing at once for the
Continent on some law-business concerning property, by which he might
probably be detained for some time. He went on to say that he had made
arrangements for the transfer of his practice to Whittaker, who had
had it, as Sir Saville would remember, during Chudleigh's absence in
Scotland; but there was one special case, which he could only leave in
the hands of Sir Saville himself: this was Miss Kilsyth. Sir Saville
would remember his (Wilmot's) disinclination to accede to the request
contained in the telegram on that eventful morning; and indeed it
seemed curious to himself now, when he thought of the interest which
he took in all that household. Kilsyth himself was the most charming
&c., and the best specimen of an &c.; Lady Muriel was also, and her
little girls were angels. Miss Kilsyth was mentioned last of all the
family in Wilmot's letter, and was merely described as "an
interesting, amiable girl." This portion of the letter was principally
occupied with details of her threatened disease; and on reperusing it
before sending it away, Wilmot was greatly struck by, as it seemed to
him, the capital manner in which he had made his interest throughout
assume a purely professional form. But, whether professionally or not,
the interest was very earnestly put; and the desire that the old
gentleman should break through his retirement and attend to this
particular case was very strongly expressed. In conclusion, Wilmot
said that he should send his address to his old friend, and that he
hoped to be kept acquainted with Miss Kilsyth's state.
Dr. Wilmot did not send his letter to the post that night. He read it
over the next morning after seeing his home patients, and when the
carriage was at the door to take him off on his rounds. He was quite
satisfied with the tone of the letter, which he placed in an envelope
and was just about to seal, when his servant entered and announced
"Captain Kilsyth."