Another Turn of the Screw.
If the interview which had taken place between Chudleigh Wilmot and
Henrietta Prendergast had had unfortunate results for the one, it had
been proportionably, if not equally, unpleasant to the other. It was
impossible that Henrietta could have sustained a more complete
discouragement, a more telling and unmistakable defeat, than she felt
had befallen her when, after Wilmot had left her, she went over every
point of their conversation, and considered the interview in every
possible aspect. She had at once, or at least at a very early stage,
discerned that some fresh disturbing cause existed in Wilmot's mind.
She had seen him, on the memorable occasion of their first interview
after his wife's death, horrified, confounded, and unfeignedly
distressed. However little he had loved his wife, however passing and
shallow the impression made upon him by the sudden and untimely event
might prove--and Mrs. Prendergast was prepared to find it prove
shallow and passing--it had been real, single, intelligible. He had
received the painful communication which she had been charged to make
to him with surprise, with sorrow--no doubt, in his secret soul, with
bitter, regretful, vain remorse. She could only surmise this part of
his feelings. He had not departed from the manly reticence which she
had expected from him, and for which she admired him; but she never
doubted that he had experienced such remorse,--vain, bitter, and
regretful.
All the information which had drifted to her knowledge since--and
though she was not a distinctly curious or mean-natured woman, Mrs.
Prendergast was not above cultivating and maintaining friendly
relations with Dr. Wilmot's household, to all of whom she was as
well known, and had been nearly as important, as their late
mistress--confirmed her in the belief that the conduct of the
suddenly-bereaved husband had been all that propriety, good feeling,
good taste, and good sense could possibly require. She bad not
precisely defined in her imagination what it was that she looked for
and expected in the interview which Wilmot had requested, with a
little too much formality, certainly, to be reassuring with regard to
any notions she might possibly have entertained with respect to the
freedom and intimacy of their future relations. But she did not suffer
herself to dwell on that matter of the formality. It was not
unnatural; there are persons, she knew, to whom that sort of thing
seems proper when a death--what may be called an intimate death, that
is to say--has taken place, who change all their ways and manners for
a time, just as they put on mourning and use lugubrious stationery. It
was not very like what she would have expected of Wilmot, to enrol
himself in the number of these formalists; but she did not allow the
circumstance to impress her disagreeably. She possessed patience in as
marked a degree as she possessed intelligence--patience, a much rarer
and nearly as valuable a quality--and she was satisfied to wait until
time should enable her to arrive at the free and frequent association
with Wilmot, which was the first step to the end she had in view, and
meant to keep in view. She was perfectly clear upon that point; none
the leas clear that she did not discuss it in her own thoughts, or
ponder over it; but she laid it quietly aside, to be produced and
acted on when it should be required.
Therefore Henrietta Prendergast was disquieted and disconcerted by the
tone and manner which Wilmot had assumed during their interview.
Disquieted, because there was something in and under them which she
could not fathom; disconcerted, because everything in the interview
betrayed and disappointed the expectations she had formed, and because
her intention of conveying to Wilmot, by a frank and friendly manner,
that it was within his power to continue in his own person the
intimacy which had subsisted between herself and his wife, had been
utterly routed and nullified.
"There was something in his mind with regard to Mabel," she said to
herself, as she sat at her tea in her snug drawing-room on the same
afternoon; "there certainly was something in his mind about her which
was not in it when I saw him last. I wonder what it is. I wonder
whether he has found anything? I am sure she never kept a journal; I
shouldn't think so; I fancy no one ever does in real life, except they
are so important as to be wanted for public purposes, or so vain as to
think such demand likely. Besides, Mabel's trouble was not tragical;
it was only monotonous and uneventful. No; I am sure she did not keep
a journal. So he has not found one; and he has not found any letters
either. Mabel had very few to keep, and she burnt the scanty
collection just as her illness began. I remember coming suddenly into
the room, and fluttering the ashes all over her bed and toilet-table
by opening the door. Yes, to be sure, the window was open; and she had
had a fire kindled on purpose."
Mrs. Prendergast leaned her face upon her hand, struck her teaspoon
thoughtfully against the edge of the tea-tray, and pondered deeply.
She was trying to recall every little incident connected with the dead
woman, in the endeavour to discover the secret of Wilmot's demeanour
that day.
"Yes, she was sitting by the fire; a sandal-wood box was on the floor,
and a heap of ashes in the grate. I remember looking rather surprised,
and she said, 'You know, Hettie, one never can tell what may happen.
You nor I either cannot tell whether I shall ever recover; and it is
well to have all things in readiness.' I thought the observation
rather absurd particularly, however true it might be generally, and
told her so, for she was by no means seriously ill then. She still
persisted, however. What a remarkable feature of poor Mabel's illness,
by the bye, was her persistent and unalterable belief that she should
die! The wish to die, no doubt, assisted it much at the end; but the
conviction laid hold on her from the first."
Then Mrs. Prendergast remembered how Mrs. Wilmot had left everything
in readiness; every article of household property, all her own private
possessions, everything which had claimed her care, provided for; and
though she knew that instances of such a morbid state of mind were not
altogether wanting in the case of women in Mrs. Wilmot's state of
health, she did not feel that such an hypothesis accounted for this
particular case satisfactorily. In all other respects there had been
such equality of disposition, common sense, and absence of
fancifulness about her friend, that she could not accept the
explanation which suggested itself. This was not the first time that
she had thought over this circumstance. It had been brought before her
very forcibly when a packet was sent to her, with a kind but formal
note from Wilmot, a day or two after his wife's funeral; which packet
contained a few articles of jewelry and general ornament, and a strip
of paper, bearing merely the words: "I wish these to be given to Mrs.
Prendergast.--M. W."
But now it assumed a more puzzling importance and deeper interest. Had
Wilmot found anything among all her orderly possessions which had
thrown any new light upon her life? Had he had a misunderstanding with
Dr. Whittaker? Did he think his wife's life had been sacrificed by
want of care, or want of attention or of skill? Had remorse seized him
on this account, when he had succeeded in defeating its attack, in
consequence of the revelation which she had made to him? Had he
regained incredulity or indifference as regarded the years which had
passed in miscomprehension, to be roused into inquietude and stern
self-reproach by an appeal to his master passion, his professional
knowledge and attainments? If this were so, there would at least be
some measure of punishment allotted to Chudleigh Wilmot; for he was a
proud man, and sensitive on that point, if not on any other.
Henrietta Prendergast was well disposed towards Wilmot now, in the new
aspect of affairs, and contemplating as she did certain dim future
possibilities very grateful to her pertinacious disposition. But she
was not sorry to think that he had something to suffer; and that
something of a nature to oppress his spirits considerably, and render
him indifferent to the attractions of society. Before this desirable
effect should have worn off, she would have contrived to make herself
necessary to him. She had but little doubt of her power to accomplish
this, if only the opportunity were afforded her. She knew she had
plenty of ability, not of a kind which Wilmot would dislike, and
certainly of a quality for which he did not give her credit. She had
less attraction than Mabel, so far as good looks would go, but that
would not be very far, she thought, with Dr. Wilmot. He might never
care for her even so much as he had cared for Mabel; but his feelings
towards her, if evoked at all, would be different, much more
satisfactory, and to her mind, which was properly organised, quite
sufficient.
If Henrietta's daydreams were of a more sober colour, they were no
less unreal than the rosiest and most extravagant vision ever woven by
youthful fancy. She had not seen Madeleine Kilsyth. She had indeed
understood and witnessed Mabel's jealousy, aroused by the devotion of
her husband to the young Scotch girl. But she thought little of danger
from this quarter. She had always understood--having a larger
intellect and a wider perception, and above all, being an unconcerned
spectator, uninjured by it in her affections or her rights--Wilmot's
absorption in his profession much better than his wife had understood
it. Something in her own nature, dim and undeveloped, answered to this
absorption.
"If I had had any pursuit in life, I should have followed it just as
eagerly; if I had had a career, I should have devoted myself to it
just as entirely," had been her frequent mental comment upon Wilmot's
conduct. She quite understood the effect it produced on a woman of
Mabel's temperament, was perfectly convinced that it could not produce
a similar effect on a woman of her own; but also believed that no such
conduct would ever have been pursued towards her. The very something
which enabled her to sympathise with him would have secured her from
exclusion from the reality and the meaning of his life. "At least I
should interest him," she had often said to herself, when she had seen
how entirely Mabel failed to inspire him with interest; and in her
lengthened cogitations on the evening of the day which had been marked
by Wilmot's visit, she repeated the assurance with renewed conviction.
It was not that the remembrance of Miss Kilsyth did not occur to her
very strongly; on the contrary, it occupied its fall share of her mind
and attention. But she disposed of the subject very comfortably and
finally by dwelling on the following points:
First, the distinction of rank and the difference in age between Miss
Kilsyth and Dr. Wilmot were both considerable, important, and likely
to form very efficient barriers against any extravagant notions on his
part. Supposing--an unlikely supposition in the case of a man who
added remarkable good sense to exceptional talent--he were to overlook
this distinction of rank and difference of age, it was not probable
that the young lady's relatives would accommodate themselves to any
such blindness; while it was extremely probable they would regard any
project on his part with respect to her as unmitigated presumption.
So far she had pursued her cogitations without regard to the young
girl herself--to this brilliant young beauty, upon whom, endowed with
youth, beauty, rank, the prestige of one of the most fashionable and
popular women in London (for Henrietta Prendergast had her relations
with the great world, though she was not of it), life was just opening
in the fulness of joy and splendour. But when she turned her attention
in that direction, she found nothing to discourage her, nothing to
fear. What could be more wildly improbable than that Chudleigh Wilmot
should have made any impression on Miss Kilsyth of a nature to lead to
the realisation of any hope which might suggest itself to the new-made
widower? Henrietta Prendergast was not a woman of much delicacy of
mind or refinement of sentiment--if she had been, such self-communing
as that of this evening would have been impossible within three weeks
of her friend's death--but she was not so coarse, or indeed so
ignorant of the nature and training of women like Madeleine Kilsyth,
as to conceive the possibility of the girl's having fallen in love
with a married man, even had that married man been of a far more
captivating type than that presented by Chudleigh Wilmot. Madeleine's
stepmother had not been restrained from such a suspicion by any
superfluous delicacy; but Lady Muriel had an incentive to
clear-sightedness which was wanting in Henrietta's case; and it must
be said in justification of the acute woman of the world, that she was
satisfied of the girl's perfect unconsciousness of the real nature of
the sentiment which her jealous quick-sightedness had detected almost
in the first hours of its existence.
The disqualification of his marriage removed, Henrietta still thought
there could be nothing to dread. The reminiscences attached to the
doctor who had attended her through a long illness, was said to have
saved her life, and had made himself very agreeable to his patient,
were no doubt frankly kind and grateful; but they were very unlikely
to be sentimental, and the opportunities which might come in his way
for rendering the tie already established stronger would be probably
limited. "If anything were to be feared in that quarter," thought
Henrietta, "and one could only manage to get a hint conveyed to Lady
Muriel, the thing would be done at once."
Henrietta pronounced this opinion in her own mind with perfect
confidence. And she was right. If Lady Muriel Kilsyth had had no more
interest in Wilmot than that which during his sojourn at Kilsyth he
might have inspired in the least important inmate of the house, she
would have acted precisely as she had done. This was her strong tower
of defence, her excuse, her justification. If Wilmot's admiration of
her stepdaughter had not had in it the least element of offence to
herself, she would at once have opposed it, have endeavoured to
prevent its growth and manifestation, just as assiduously as she had
done. Herein was her safety. So, though Henrietta Prendergast was
entirely unaware of anything that had taken place; though she had
never spoken to Lady Muriel in her life, she had, as it happened,
speculated upon her quite correctly. So her self-conference came to a
close, without any misgiving, discouragement, or hesitation.
"Mabel knew some people who knew the Kilsyths," Henrietta Prendergast
had said to Wilmot in their first interview; but she had not mentioned
that the people who knew the Kilsyths were acquaintances of hers, and
that she had been present on the occasion when Mabel had acquired all
the information which she had taken to heart so keenly. Such was,
however, the case; and Henrietta made up her mind, when she had
reasoned herself out of the first feeling of discouragement which her
interview with Wilmot had caused, though not out of the conviction
that there was something in his mind which she had not been able to
come at, that she would call on Mrs. and Miss Charlwood without delay.
She might not learn anything about Wilmot by so doing, but she could
easily introduce the Kilsyths into the conversation; and it could not
fail to be useful to her to gain a clear insight, into what sort of
people they were, and especially to know whether Miss Kilsyth had any
declared or supposed admirers as yet. So she went to bed that night
with her mind tolerably easy on the whole, though her last waking
thought was of the strange something in Chudleigh Wilmot's manner
which she had not been able to penetrate.
It chanced, however, that Mrs. Prendergast did not fulfil her
intention so soon as she had purposed. On awaking the following
morning, she found that she had taken cold, a rather severe cold. She
was habitually careful of her health, and as the business on which she
had intended to go out was not pressing, she thought it wiser to
remain at home. The next day she was no better; the day after a little
worse. On the fourth day she thought she should be justified in asking
Wilmot to give her a call. On the very rare occasions when she had
required medical attendance she had had recourse to her friend's
husband; and it occurred to her that the present opportunity was
favourable for impressing him with a sense that she desired to
maintain the former relation unbroken. To increase and intensify it
would be her business later.
So Mrs. Prendergast sent for Dr. Wilmot; but in answer to the summons
Dr. Whittaker presented himself.
They had not met since they had stood together by Mabel's deathbed,
and the recollection softened Henrietta, though she felt at once
surprised and angry at the substitution.
"I am doing Wilmot's work, except in the very particular cases," Dr.
Whittaker explained.
"Indeed! Then Dr. Wilmot knew, in some strange way, that mine was not
a particular case!" Henrietta answered, with an exhibition of pique as
unusual in her as it was unflattering to Dr. Whittaker.
"My dear Mrs. Prendergast," expostulated the doctor mildly, "your
note--I saw it in the regular way of business--said 'merely a cold;'
and Wilmot and I both know you always say what you mean--no more and
no less."
Henrietta smiled rather grimly as she replied, "I must say, you are
adroit in turning a slight into a compliment. And now we will talk
about my cold."
They did talk about her cold, and Dr. Whittaker duly prescribed for
it, emphatically forbidding exposure to the weather. Just as he rose
to take leave, Henrietta asked him what sort of spirits Wilmot
appeared to be in.
"Very low indeed," said Dr. Whittaker; "but I think the change of air
will do him good."
The change was likely to be sufficiently profitable to Dr. Whittaker
to make it only natural that he should regard it with warm
approbation, without reflecting very severely upon his sincerity
either; he was but human, and not particularly prosperous.
"What change?" asked Henrietta in a tone which had not all the
indifference which she had desired to lend it. (Dr. Whittaker had seen
and guessed enough to make it just that he should not look for much
warmth from Mabel's friend in speaking of Mabel's husband; and Mrs.
Prendergast never overlooked the relative positions in any situation.)
"What! don't you know, then? He is going abroad--going to Paris, and
then to Berlin, partly to recruit, and partly to inquire into some new
theory about fever they've got there. I don't generally think much of
their theories myself, especially in Berlin."
But Dr. Whittaker's opinions had no interest for Henrietta. His news
occupied her. She did not altogether like this move. She did not
believe in either of the reasons assigned; she felt certain there was
something behind them both, and that that something had been in
Wilmot's mind when she last saw him. What was it? Was he flying from a
memory or a presence? If the former, then something more than she was
in possession of had come to his knowledge concerning Mabel; for much
as he had been shocked, and intensely as he had felt all she had told
him, Henrietta knew Wilmot too well to believe for a moment that the
present resolution was to be traced to that source. If the latter, the
presence must be that of Miss Kilsyth; and there must be dangers in
her way, complications in this matter, she did not understand, some
grave error in her calculation. True, he might be flying away in
despair; but that could hardly be. In so short an interval of time it
was impossible he could have dared or even tried his fate. It was the
unexpectedness of this occurrence that gave it so much power to
trouble Henrietta. She had made a careful calculation; but this was
outside it, and it puzzled her. She took leave of Dr. Whittaker, while
these and many more equally distracting thoughts passed through her
mind, in a sufficiently absent manner, and listened to his expression
of a sanguine hope of finding her much better on the morrow through a
sedulous observance of his advice, with as much indifference as though
he had been talking about somebody else's cold. When he had left her,
she sat still for a while; then put on her warmest attire, sent for a
cab, and, utterly regardless of Dr. Whittaker's prohibition, drove
straight to Mrs. Charlton's house in South-street, Park-lane.
Mrs. Prendergast's cab drew up behind a carriage which had just
stopped before Mrs. Charlton's door, at that moment opened in reply to
the defiant summons of the footman, who was none other than one of the
ambrosial Mercuries in attendance on Lady Muriel Kilsyth. An elderly
lady, rather oddly dressed, descended from the equipage, bestowed a
familiar nod upon its remaining occupant from the steps, and walked
into the house. Mrs. Prendergast was then admitted; and as the
carriage which made way for her was displaced, she recognised in the
face of the lady who sat in it Lady Muriel Kilsyth.
"That is very odd," she thought; "I wonder who she has set down here,
and why she has not come in herself."
Immediately afterwards she was exchanging the customary _fadeurs_ with
Mrs. Charlton, and had been presented by that lady to Mrs. M'Diarmid.
Wonderfully voluble was Mrs. M'Diarmid, to be sure, and communicative
to a degree which, if her audience did not happen to be vehemently
interested in the matter of her discourse, must have been occasionally
a little overpowering and wearisome. Mrs. M'Diarmid, being at present
staying with the Kilsyths, could not talk of anything but the
Kilsyths; a state of things rather distressing to Mrs. Charlton, who
was an eminently well-bred person, and perfectly aware that Mrs.
Prendergast was not acquainted with the people under discussion. But
to arrest Mrs. M'Diarmid in the full tide of her discourse was a feat
which a few adventurous spirits had indeed attempted, but in which no
one had ever succeeded. Mrs. Charlton's was not an adventurous spirit;
she merely suffered, and was not strong, but derived sensible
consolation after a while from observing that Mrs. Prendergast either
had the tact and the manners to assume an aspect of perfect
contentment, or really did feel an interest in the affairs of
strangers, which to her, Mrs. Charlton, was inexplicable. She had much
regard for Henrietta, and considerable respect for her intellect; so
she preferred the former hypothesis, and adopted it.
"And she told me to tell you how sorry she was that she could not
possibly come in to-day; but she had to fetch Kilsyth at his club, and
then go home and dress for a ride with him, and send the carriage for
me. I must run away the moment it comes, and get back to Maddy." This,
after Mrs. M'Diarmid had run on uninterruptedly for about a quarter of
an hour, with details of every kind concerning the house and the
servants, the health, spirits, employments and engagements of the
family.
"Miss Kilsyth is still delicate, I think you said?" Mrs. Chariton at
length contrived to say.
"Yes, indeed, very delicate. My dear, the child mopes--she really
mopes; and I can't bear to see young people moping, though it seems
the fashion nowadays for all the young people to think themselves not
only wiser but sadder than their elders. Just to see Ronald beside his
father, my dear! The difference! And to think he'll be Kilsyth of
Kilsyth some day; and what will the poor people do then? He'll make
them go to school, and have 'em drilled, I'm sure he will; not that he
is not a fine young man, my dear, and a good one--must all admit that;
but he is not like his father, and never will be--never. And, for my
part, I don't wonder Maddy's afraid of him, for I am sure I am."
"But I thought Miss Kilsyth and her brother were so particularly
attached to each other," said Mrs. Charlton, yielding at length to the
temptation to gossip.
"So they are, so they are.--I'm sure, Mrs. Prendergast," said Mrs.
M'Diarmid, turning to Henrietta, "a better brother than Ronald Kilsyth
never lived; but then he _is_ dictatorial, I _must_ say that; and he
never will believe or remember that Madeleine is not a child now, and
that it is absurd and useless to treat a woman just as one would treat
a child. He makes such a fuss about everyone Maddy sees, and
everywhere she goes to, and is positively disagreeable about anyone
she seems to fancy."
"Well," said Mrs. Charlton, "but I'm not sure that he is wrong to be
particular about his sister's fancies. The fancies of a young lady of
Miss Kilsyth's beauty and pretensions are not trifling matters. Has
she any _very_ strongly pronounced?"
"Bless your heart, no!" exclaimed Mrs. M'Diarmid, her vulgarity evoked
by her earnestness. "The girl is fonder of himself and her father than
of anyone in the world, and I really don't think she ever had a
thought hid from them. But Ronald _will_ interfere so; he bothered
about the silliness of young ladies' correspondence until he worried
her into giving up writing to Bessy Ravenshaw; and he lectured for ten
minutes because she wrote to poor Dr. Wilmot on her own account."
"How very absurd!" said Mrs. Charlton; "he had better take care he
does not worry her by excess of brotherly love and authority into
finding her home so unbearable, that she may make a wretched hurried
marriage in order to get away from it. Such things _have_ been;" and
Mrs. Charlton sighed, as if she spoke from some close experience of
"such things."
"Very true, very true--I am sure I often wish the poor dear child was
well married. I must say for Lady Muriel, I think she is an admirable
stepmother. It is such a difficult position, Mrs. Prendergast, so
invidious; still, you know, it never can be exactly the same thing;
and then, you know, there are the little girls to grow up, and there
will be the natural jealousy--about Maddy's fortune, you know; and
altogether _I do_ think it would be very nice."
"I should think a good many others think it would be very nice also,"
said Mrs. Charlton.
"Well, I don't know--it is hard to say--young men are so different
nowadays from what they were in my time; they seem to be afraid of
marrying. I really don't think Maddy has ever had an offer."
"Depend on it that story will soon be changed. She is, to my
knowledge, immensely admired. Her illness made quite a sensation, and
the romantic story of the famous Dr. Wilmot's devotion to the
patient."
"I think you should say to the _case_," struck in Henrietta. "I know
Dr. Wilmot very well, and I can fancy any amount of devotion to the
fever and its cure; but Wilmot devoted to a patient I cannot
understand."
Something in her voice and manner conveyed an unpleasant impression to
both her hearers. Mrs. Charlton looked calmly surprised; Mrs.
M'Diarmid looked distressed and rather angry. She wished she had been
more cautious in telling of the Kilsyths before this lady, who did not
know them, but who did know Dr. Wilmot. She felt that Mrs. Prendergast
had put a meaning into what Mrs. Charlton had said, in which there was
something at least indirectly slighting and derogatory to Madeleine;
and the feeling made her hot and angry. Mrs. Charlton's suavity
extricated them from the difficulty, which all felt, and one intended.
"I. didn't quite understand the distinction," she said; "of course I
understand it as you put it, but mine was merely a _façon de parler_.
Dr. Wilmot's devotion to his profession has long been known, and he
has succeeded as such devotion deserves."
"Yes, indeed, Mrs. Charlton," said Henrietta heartily, and slipping
with infinite ease into the peculiar manner which implies such
intimacy with the person complimented as to make the praise almost a
personal favour. "He has paid dearly indeed for his devotion, in the
very instance you mention, Mrs. M'Diarmid."
"How so?" said Mrs. M'Diarmid, off her guard, and rather huffily.
"Ah, poor fellow! I can hardly bear to talk of it; but as I was his
poor wife's closest friend, and with her when she died, I think it is
only fair and just to him to tell the truth. Of course he had no
notion of his wife's danger--no one could have had; but he never can
or will forgive himself for his absence from her. You will not wonder
that he should feel it dreadfully, and that his self-reproach is
intolerable. 'I suppose,' he said, in one of his worst fits of grief,
'people will think I stayed at Kilsyth because Kilsyth is a great man;
but you, Henrietta, you know me better. If she had been his dairymaid,
instead of his daughter, it would have been all one to me.' And that
was perfectly true; he knows no distinction in the pursuit of his
duties. It was a terrible coincidence; but nothing can persuade him to
regard it merely as a coincidence. It is fortunate your young friend
is restored to health, Mrs. M'Diarmid."
"Yes," said that lady, now pale, and looking the image of disconcerted
distress.
"Fortunate for her, of course; but also fortunate for him. You will
exctuse my telling you, of course; nothing in the whole matter
reflects in the least on the Kilsyth family--and I cannot forbear from
saying what must exalt him still more in your esteem, but you cannot
conceive how painful to him any reference to that fatal time is. He
has wonderful self-control and firmness; but they were severely taxed,
I assure you, when he had to make a call on Lady Muriel and Miss
Kilsyth. I daresay he didn't show it."
"Not in the least," said Mrs. M'Diarmid.
"O no; he is essentially a strong man. But he suffered. You would know
how much, if you had seen him when he had finally made up his mind to
go abroad, and get out of the remembrance of it all, so far as he
could. Poor Miss Kilsyth! one pities a young girl to have been even
the perfectly innocent cause of such a calamity to any man, and
especially to one who rendered her such a service. However, people who
talk about it now will have forgotten it all long before he comes
back."
At this juncture Miss Charlton entered the room and warmly greeted
Henrietta. Mrs. Prendergast was an authority in the art of
illuminating, to which Miss Charlton devoted her harmless life.
Presently Lady Muriel's carriage came for Mrs. M'Diarmid, and that
good woman went away, and might have been heard to say many times
during the silent drive:
"My poor Maddy! my poor dear child!"
Chudleigh Wilmot had entertained, it has been seen, vague fears that
Mrs. Prendergast might talk about him; but of all possible shapes they
had never taken this one.