Madeleine awakes.
It is probable that if Chudleigh Wilmot had remained in London,
fulfilling his professional duties and leading his ordinary life, the
declaration of love and the offer of his hand which in due course he
would have made to Miss Kilsyth would have, for the first time, caused
that young lady to avow the real state of her feelings towards him to
herself. These feelings, beginning in gratitude, had passed into
hero-worship, which is perhaps about as dangerous a phase both for
adorer and adored as any in the whole category; showing as it does
that the former must be considerably "far gone" before she could
consent to exalt any man into an object of idolatry, and proving very
perilous to the latter from the impossibility of his separating himself
from the peculiar attributes which are supposed to call forth the
devotion. And Wilmot was just such an idol as a girl like Madeleine
ould place upon a pedestal and worship with constancy and fervour. The
very fact that he possessed none of those qualifications so esteemed
by and in the men by whom she was ordinarily surrounded was in her eyes
a point in his favour. He did not hunt; he was an indifferent shot; he
professed himself worse than a child at billiards, and his
whist-playing was something atrocious. But then, for the best man
across country, the straightest rider to hounds whom they knew, was
Captain Severn, a slangy wretch only tolerated in society for his
wife's sake. George Pitcairn was a splendid shot; but he had never
heard of Tennyson, and would probably think that Browning was the name
of a setter. Major Delapoche was the billiard champion at Kilsyth,
where he was never seen out of the billiard-room, except at meal-times;
and as for whist there could not be much in that when her father
declared that there were not three men at Brookes's who could play so
good a rubber as old Dr. M'Johns, the Presbyterian clergyman in the
village. Ever since she had been emancipated from her governess, she
had longed to meet some man of name and renown, who would take an
interest in her, and whom she could reverence, admire, and look up to.
She never pined for the heroes of the novels which she read, probably
because she saw plenty of them in her ordinary life, and
she was used to them and their ways. The big heavy dragoons of the
_Guy-Livingstone_ type--by his portrayal of whom Mr. Lawrence
establishes for himself such a reputation amongst the young ladies of
the middle classes, who pine after the _beaux sabreurs_ and the "cool
captains," principally because they have never met anyone in real life
like them--are by no means such sources of raving among the girls
accustomed to country-house and London-season society, who are familiar
with something like the prototype of each character. Ronald's brother
officers, Kilsyth's sporting friends, and Lady Muriel's connections,
had made this kind of type too common for Madeleine, even if her
temperament had not been very different, to elevate it into a hero;
but she had never met anyone fulfilling herideas until Chudleigh Wilmot
crossed her path. From the earliest period of her convalescence, from
the time when slowly-returning strength gave her an interest again in
life, until the time that Wilmot left London, she had indulged in this
happy dream. She was something in that man's life, something to which
his thoughts occasionally turned, as she hoped, as she believed, with
pleasure. As to "being in love" as it is phrased, Madeleine believed
that such a state as little applied to Wilmot as to herself, and of her
own entire innocence in the existence of such a feeling she was
confident. But there was established a curious relation between them
which she could not explain, but which she thoroughly understood, and
which made her very happy. Hour after hour she would sit thinking over
this acquaintance, so singularly begun, so different from anything
which she had ever previously experienced, and wondering within herself
what a bright clever man like Dr. Wilmot could see to like in a silly
girl like herself. If Wilmot had been differently constituted she could
have understood it well enough; for though very free from vanity,
Madeleine was of course conscious that she had a pretty face, and she
could perfectly understand the admiration which she received from
Ramsay Caird and the men of whom he was a type. But she imagined
Wilmot to be far too staid and serious, far too much absorbed in his
studies and his "cases," to notice anything so unimportant.
What could he see in her? She asked herself this question a thousand
times without arriving at any satisfactory result. She thought that
Wilmot, whom she had exalted into her hero, would naturally not bestow
his thoughts on any but a heroine; and she knew that there was very
little of the heroine in her. Indeed I, writing this veracious
history, am often surprised at my own daring in having, in these
highly-spiced times, ventured to submit so very tame a specimen of
womanhood to public notice. Madeleine Kilsyth was neither tawny and
leopard-like, nor hideous and quaintly-fascinating. She was merely an
ordinary English girl, with about as much cleverness as girls have at
her age, when they have had no occasion to use their brains; And she
thought and argued in a girlish manner. She could not tell that the
difference in each from their ordinary acquaintance pleased them
equally. If Madeleine had been bright, clever, witty, fast, flirting,
or _blasée_, she would never have seen her physician after her
recovery. Wilmot was too thoroughly acquainted with women of all these
varieties to find any pleasure in an additional specimen. It was the
young girl's freshness and innocence, her frankness and trusting
confidence, her bright looks and happy thoughts, that touched the
heart of the worn and solitary man, and made him feel that there were
in life joys which he had never experienced, and which were yet worth
living for.
To admire and reverence him; to find the best and most valuable of
resources in his friendship, the wisest and truest guidance in his
intellect, the most exquisite of pleasures in his society; to triumph
in his fame, and to try to merit his approval--such, as we have seen,
had been Madeleine's scheme. Now this was all changed: he was gone;
the greatest enjoyment of her life, his society, was taken from her.
He was gone; he would be absent for a long time; she should not see
him, would not hear his voice, for weeks--it might be for months: it
took her a long time to realise this fact, and with its realisation
flashed across her the knowledge that she loved Chudleigh Wilmot.
Loved him! The indefinite inexplicable sentiments so long brooded over
were gone now, and she looked into her own heart and acknowledged its
condition. So long as he remained in London, so long as there was a
chance of seeing him, even though she knew that his departure had been
decided on, and was almost inevitable, she yet remained unconscious of
the state of her feelings. It was only when he was actually gone, when
she knew that the long-dreaded step had been taken, that all chance of
seeing him again for months was at an end, that the truth flashed upon
her. She loved him!--loved him with the whole warmth, truth, and
earnestness of her sweet simple nature; loved him as such a man should
be loved--deeply, fervently, and confidingly. In the first recognition
of the existence of this feeling, she was scarcely likely to inquire
psychologically into it; but she felt that her love for Wilmot had
many component parts. The admiration and reverence with which he had
originally inspired her still remained; but with them was now blended
a passion which had never before been evoked in her. She longed to see
him again, longed to throw her arms round his neck and whisper to him
how she loved him. How miserably blind she had been! What childish
folly had been hers not sooner to have comprehended the meaning of her
feelings towards this man! She loved him, and--a fearful thought
flashed across her. Had it come too late, the discovery of this
passion? Had she been dreaming when the golden chance of her life came
by, and had she let it pass unheeded? And again, what were Wilmot's
feelings with regard to her? Was he under such a delusion as had long
oppressed her? He was a man, strong-minded, clear-brained, and of
subtle intellect; he would know at once whether his liking for her
arose from professional interest, from the friendly feeling which,
situated as they had been together at Kilsyth, would naturally spring
up between them, or whether it had a deeper foundation and was of a
warmer character. His manner to her--save perhaps on that one morning
in Brook-street, when Ronald interrupted them so brusquely--had never
been marked by anything approaching to warmth; and yet--That morning
in Brook-street! there had been a difference then; she had noticed it
at the time, and, now regarded in the new light which had dawned upon
her, the thought was strengthened and confirmed. She remembered the
way in which he held her hand, and looked down at her with a soft
earnest gaze out of those wonderful eyes; such a look as she had never
had before or since. If ever love was conveyed by looks, if ever eyes
spoke, it was surely then. Ah, did he feel for her as she now knew she
felt for him, or was it merely warm friendship, fraternal affection,
that actuated him? He had gone away; would he have done that if he had
loved her? She had asked herself this question before the state of her
own real feelings had dawned upon her, only then substituting the word
"like" for love, and had decided that, if he had cared for her ever so
little, he would have remained. But her recent discovery led her now
to think very differently, and she hoped that this ardour in the cause
of science, which prompted this professional visit to Berlin, and
necessitated this lengthened absence, might be assumed, and that the
real motive of Wilmot's departure might be his desire to avoid her,
ignorant as he was of the state of her feelings towards him. Heaven
grant that it might be so! for now that she knew herself, it would be
easy to recall him. Some pretext could be found for bringing him back
to England, back to her; and once together again they would never
separate. As this thought passed through her mind her glance fell upon
her hands, which were clasped before her, and upon a ring which had
been given her by Ramsay Caird. By Ramsay Caird! The curtain dropped
as swiftly as it had risen, and Madeleine shivered from head to foot.
It was a pretty ring, a broad hoop of gold set with three turquoises,
and the word "AEI" engraved upon it. Madeleine remembered that Ramsay
Caird had presented it to her on her last birthday, and while
presenting it had said a few words of compliment and kindness with an
earnestness and an _empressement_ such as he had never before shown.
He was not a brilliant man, but he had the society air and the society
talk; and he imported just enough seriousness into the latter when he
said something about wishing he had dared to have had the ring
perfectly plain--just enough to convey his intended hint without
making a fool of himself. Ramsay Caird! There, then, was her fate, her
future! Knowing all that had been prearranged, she had been mad enough
to dream for a few minutes of loving and being loved by Chudleigh
Wilmot, when she knew, as well as if it had been expressly stated
instead of merely implied, that Ramsay Caird was looked upon by her
family and by most of their intimate friends, as her future husband.
Ramsay Caird her future husband! She herself had occasionally thought
of him in that position, not with dissatisfaction. Knowing nothing
better, she imagined that the liking which she undoubtedly entertained
for the pleasant young man was love. She had not been brought up in a
very gushing school. She had no intimate friend, no one with whom to
exchange confidences; and her acquaintances seemed to make liking do
very well for love, at least as far as their _fiancés_ or their
husbands were concerned. Madeleine, when she had thought about the
matter, had quite convinced herself that she liked Ramsay very much
indeed; and it was only after she discovered that she loved Wilmot
that she was undeceived. She thought that she had liked him well
enough to marry him, but now she hated herself for ever having
entertained such an idea. She knew now that she had never felt love
for Ramsay Caird; and she would not marry where she did not love.
A hundred diverse and distracting thoughts and influences were at work
within the young girl's mind. Doubt as to whether she was really loved
by Wilmot, doubt as to how far she was pledged to Ramsay Caird,
comprehension of the urgent necessity at once to take some steps
towards a solution of the difficulty, inability to decide on the
fittest course to pursue, disinclination to appeal to her father
through bashfulness and timidity, to Lady Muriel through distrust, to
Ronald through absolute fear: all these feelings alternated in
Madeleine's breast; and as she experienced each and all, there hung
over her a sense of an impending dreadful something which she could
not explain, could not understand, but which seemed to crush her to
the earth.
The cause of the feeling which for some time past had induced her to
shrink from Ronald, to be silent and depressed when he was present,
and to be rather glad when he stayed away from Brook-street, was now
perfectly understood by her. In her new appreciation of herself she
saw plainly that the fact of her brother's having always been Ramsay
Caird's friend and Chudleigh Wilmot's enemy would, insensibly to
herself, have caused an estrangement between them in these later days.
And why was Ronald so hostile to Wilmot, so bitter in his depreciation
of him, so grudging in his praise even of Wilmot's professional
qualifications? Was this hostility merely a result of Ronald's normal
"oddness" and sternness, or did it spring from the fact that Ronald
had observed his sister narrowly, and had discovered, before she
herself knew of it, the state of her feelings towards Wilmot? Thinking
over this, the remembrance of her brother's manner that morning in
Brook-street, when he broke in upon her interview with Wilmot, flashed
across Madeleine's mind, and she felt convinced that her dread
suspicions were right, and that Ronald had guessed the truth.
The reason of his hatred to Wilmot was then at once apparent to
Madeleine. Ronald had always supported Ramsay's unacknowledged
position in the family very strongly, not demonstratively, but
tacitly, as was his custom in most things. He was essentially
"thorough;" and Madeleine imagined that nothing would probably annoy
him so much as the lack of thoroughness in those whom he loved and
trusted. She saw that, actuated by these feelings, her brother would
regard, had regarded what she had previously imagined to be her
admiration and reverence, but what she now knew, and what Ronald had
probably from the first recognised, to be her love for Chudleigh
Wilmot as base treachery; and he hated Wilmot for having, however
innocently, called these feelings into play. However innocently? There
was a drop of comfort even in this bitter cup for poor Madeleine.
However innocently? Ronald was a man of the world, eminently
clear-headed and far-seeing--might not his hatred of Wilmot arise from
his having perceived that Wilmot himself was aware of Madeleine's
feelings, and reciprocated them? He had never said so--never hinted at
it; but then that soft fond look into her eyes when they were alone
together in the drawing-room in Brook-street rose in the girl's
memory, and almost bade her hope.
These mental anxieties, these vacillations between hope and fear,
doubt and despair, which furnished Madeleine with constant food for
reflection, were not without their due effect on her bodily health.
Her fond father, watching her ever with jealous care, noticed the
hectic flush upon her cheek more frequent, her spirits lower, her
strength daily decreasing: he became alarmed, and confessed his alarm
to Lady Muriel.
"Madeleine is far from well," he said; "very far from well. I notice
an astonishing difference in her within the last few months. After her
first recovery from the fever, I thought she would take a new lease of
life. But Wilmot was right throughout; she is very delicate; the last
few weeks have made a perceptible difference in her; and Wilmot is not
here to come in and cheer us after seeing her."
"I think you are over-anxious about Madeleine," said Lady Muriel. "I
must confess, Alick, she is not strong; she never was before her
illness; and I do not believe that she ever recovered even her
previous strength; but I do not think so badly of her as you do. As
you say, we have not Dr. Wilmot to send for. For reasons best known to
himself, but which I confess I have been unable, so far as I have
troubled myself, to fathom, Dr. Wilmot has chosen to absent himself,
and to put himself thoroughly out of any chance of his being sent for.
But so far as advice goes, I suppose Sir Saville Rowe is still
unequalled; and Dr. Wilmot must have full confidence in him, or he
would never have begged him to break through his retirement and attend
upon Madeleine."
"Yes; that is all very well. Of course Sir Saville Rowe's opinion is
excellent and all that, but he comes here but seldom; and one can't
talk to him as one could to Wilmot; and he does not stop and talk and
all that sort of thing, don't you know? Maddy's is a case where
particular interest should be taken, it strikes me; and I think Wilmot
did take special interest in her."
"I don't think there can be any doubt of that," said Lady Muriel, with
the slightest touch of dryness in her accent. "Dr. Wilmot's devotion
to his patient was undeniable; but Dr. Wilmot's away, and not
available, and we must do our best to help ourselves during his
absence. My own feeling is that the girl wants thoroughly rousing; she
gets moped sitting here day after day with you and me and Mrs.
M'Diarmid; and Ronald, when he comes, does not tend much to enliven
her. Ramsay Caird is the only one with any life and spirits in the
whole party."
"He's a good fellow, Ramsay," said Kilsyth; "a genial, pleasant, brisk
fellow."
"He is; and he's a true-hearted fellow, Alick, which is better still.
By the way, Alick, he spoke to me again the other day upon that
subject which I mentioned to you before--about Madeleine, you
recollect?"
"I recollect perfectly, Muriel," said Kilsyth slowly.
"You said then, if you remember, that there was no reason for pressing
the matter then--no reason for hurrying it on; that Madeleine was full
young, and that it would be better to wait and let us see more of
Ramsay. You were perfectly right in what you said. I agreed with you
thoroughly, and what you suggested has been done. We have waited now
for several months; Madeleine has gone through a crisis in her life."
(Lady Muriel looked steadily at her husband as she said these words to
see if he detected any double meaning in them; but Kilsyth only nodded
his head gravely.) "We have seen more, a great deal more, of Ramsay
Caird; and from what you just said, I conclude you like him?"
"I was not thinking of him in that light when I spoke, my dear
Muriel," said Kilsyth; "but indeed I see no reason to alter my
opinion. He's a pleasant, bright, good-tempered fellow, and I think
would make a good husband. He has seen plenty of life, and will be all
the better for it when he settles down."
"Exactly. Well, then, having settled that point, I think you will
agree with me that now the matter does press, and there is reason for
hurrying it on. Not the marriage,--there is no necessity for hastening
with that; but it is both necessary and proper that it should be
understood that Madeleine and Ramsay Caird are regularly engaged. As I
said before, Madeleine wants rousing. She is _fade_ and weary and a
little lackadaisical. You remember how she burst out crying about that
book the other night. She wants employment for her thoughts and her
mind; and if she is engaged, and we then find her occupation in
searching for a house, then in furnishing it, choosing _trousseau_,
brougham, jewels, the thousand-and-one little things that we can find
for her to do, you may depend upon it you will soon see her a
different being."
Kilsyth said he hoped so; but his tone had little buoyancy in it, and
was almost despondent as he added:
"What about Maddy herself? Has she any notion of--of what you have
just said to me, Muriel?"
"Any notion, my dear Alick? Madeleine, though backward in some things,
has plenty of common sense; and she must be perfectly aware what
Ramsay's intentions mean and point to. Indeed my own observation leads
me to believe that she not merely understands them, but is favourably
disposed towards their object."
"Yes; but what I mean to say is, Maddy has never been plainly spoken
to on the subject."
"No, no; not that I know of."
"But, she should be, eh?"
"Of course she should be--and at once. It is not fair to Mr. Caird to
keep him longer in suspense; and there are other reasons which render
such a course highly desirable."
Again Lady Muriel looked steadfastly at her husband, and again he
evaded her glance, and contented himself with nodding acquiescence at
her suggestion.
"This should be done," continued Lady Muriel, "by some one who has
influence with dear Madeleine, whom she regards with great affection,
and whose opinion she is likely to respect. I have never said as much
to you, my dear Alick, because I did not want to worry you, in the
first place; and in the second, because the thing sits very lightly on
me, and the feeling is one which is natural, and which I can perfectly
understand; but the fact is that I am Madeleine's stepmother only, and
she regards me exactly in that light."
"Muriel!" cried Kilsyth.
"My dear Alick, it is perfectly natural and intelligible, and I make
no complaint. I should not have alluded to the subject if it were not
necessary, you may depend upon it. But I thought perhaps that you
might expect me to broach the matter which we have been recently
discussing to Madeleine; and for the reasons I have given, I think
that would be wholly unadvisable. You did think so, did you not?"
"Well," said Kilsyth, who felt himself becoming rapidly 'cornered,' "I
confess I was going to ask you to do it; but of course if you--and I
feel--of course--that you're right. But then the question comes--as it
must be done--who is to do it? I'm sure I could not."
Lady Muriel's brow darkened for a few moments as she heard this, but
it cleared again ere she spoke. "There is only one person left then,"
said she; "and I am not sure that, after all, he is not the most
fitting in such a case as this. I mean, of course, Ronald. He is
perfectly straightforward and independent; he will see the matter in
its right light; and, above all, he has great influence with
Madeleine."
"Ronald's a little rough; isn't he?" said Kilsyth doubtfully; "he
don't mean it, I know; but still in a matter like this he might--what
do you think?"
"_I_ think, as I have said, that he is the exact person. His manner
may be a little cold, somewhat _brusque_ to most people; but he has
Madeleine's interest entirely at heart, and he has always shown her,
as you know, the most unswerving affection. He has a liking for Ramsay
Caird; he appreciates the young man's worth; and he will be able to
place affairs in their proper position."
So Kilsyth, with an inexpressible feeling that all was not quite
right, but with the impossibility of being able to better it, vividly
before him, agreed to his wife's proposition; and the next day Ronald
had a long interview with Lady Muriel, when they discussed the whole
subject, and settled upon their plan of action. Ronald undertook the
mission cheerfully; he and his stepmother fully understood each other,
and appreciated the necessity of immediate steps. Neither entered into
any detail, so far as Chudleigh Wilmot was concerned; but each knew
that the other was aware of the existence of that stumbling-block, and
was impressed with the expediency of its removal.
Two days afterwards Ronald knocked at the door of Lady Muriel's
boudoir at a very much earlier hour than he was usually to be found in
Brook-street. When he entered the room he looked a thought more
flushed and a thought less calm and serene than was his wont. Lady
Muriel also was a little agitated as she rose hastily from her chair
and advanced to greet him.
"Have you seen her?" she asked; "is it over? what did she say?"
"She is the best girl in the world!" said Ronald; "she took it quite
calmly, and acquiesced perfectly in the arrangement. I think we must
have been wrong with regard to that other person--at least so far as
Madeleine's caring for him is concerned."
O, of course: Madeleine cared nothing for "that other person," the
loss of whose love she was at that moment bewailing, stretched across
her bed, and weeping bitterly.