Iconoclastic.
In this great London world of ours it is our boast that we live free
and unfettered by the opinions of our neighbours; that we may be
unacquainted with those persons who for a score of years have resided
on either side of us; that our sayings and doings, our "goings on,"
the company we keep, the lives we lead, and the pursuits we follow,
are nothing to anybody, and are consequently unnoticed. We pride
ourselves on this not a little; we shrug our shoulders and elevate our
eyebrows when we talk of the small scandal and the petty spite of
provincial towns; we are grateful that, in whatever state the larger
vices may be, the smaller ones, at all events, do not flourish among
us; and, in short, we take to ourselves enormous credit for the
possession of something which has not the slightest real existence,
and for the absence of something else which is of daily growth. It is
true that in London a man need not be particular about the shape of
his hat or the cut of his coat, so far as London itself is concerned,
any more than he need fear that his having taken too much wine at a
public dinner, or held a lengthened flirtation with a barmaid, will
appear in the public prints; but in his own circle, be it high or low,
large or small, pharisaical or liberal-minded, as much attention will
be paid to all he does, his speeches, actions, and mode of life will
be the subject of as much spiteful comment, as if he lived at Hull or
vegetated at York. The insane desire to talk about trifles, to indulge
in childish chit-chat and terrible twaddle, to erect mole-hills into
mountains, and to find spots in social suns, exists everywhere amongst
people who have nothing to do, and who carry out the doctrine laid
down by Dr. Watts by applying their "idle hands" to "some mischief
still." The Duke of Dilworth, interested in the management of his own
estates, looking after the race-horses under his trainer's care,
hunting up his political influence, and seeing that it sustains no
diminution, marking catalogues of coming picture-sales for purchases
which he has long expected must enter the market, devising alterations
in his Highland shooting-box, planning yachting expeditions, going
through, in fact, that business of pleasure which is the real business
of his life, has no time for profitless talk and ridiculous gossip,
which, as his grace says, "he leaves for women." But the women like
what is left for them. The Duchess and the Ladies Daffy have none of
these occupations to fill the "fallow leisure of their lives"--their
calls and visits, their fête-attendances and garden-parties, their
play at poor-visitings and High-Church-service frequentings, leave
them yet an enormous margin of waste time, which is more or less
filled up by tattle of a generally derogatory nature. It is the same
in nearly every class of life: men must work, and women must talk; and
when they talk, their conversation is robbed of half its zest and
point if it be not disparaging and detrimental to their dearest
friends.
It was not to be imagined that the Ramsay-Caird _ménage_, even had it
been very differently constituted, could have escaped criticism; as it
was, it courted it. The mere fact of Ramsay Caird himself having
somehow or other slipped into the society of _nous autres_ (it was
solely through the Kilsyths that he was known in the set), and having
had the audacity to carry away one of the prizes, would in itself have
attracted sufficient attention to him and his, had other inducements
been wanting. But other inducements were not wanting. The alteration
which had taken place in Madeleine since her illness in Scotland, more
especially since the time of the announcement of her engagement, was
matter of public comment; and all kinds of stories were set afloat by
her dearest friends to account for it. That she had had some dreadful
love-affair, highly injudicious, impossible of achievement, was one of
the most romantic; and being one of the most mischievous, consequently
became one of the most popular theories, the only difficulty being to
find for this desperate affair--which, it was said, had superinduced
her illness, scarlet-fever being, as is well known to the faculty,
essentially a mental disease--a hero. The list of visitors to the
house was discussed in half-a-dozen different places; but no one at
all likely to fill the character could be found, until Colonel
Jefferson was accidentally hit upon. This, coupled with the fact that
Colonel Jefferson's mad pursuit of Lady Emily Fairfax, which everyone
knew had so long existed, had ceased about that time, was extensively
promulgated, and pretty generally accepted. So extensively
promulgated, that it reached the ears of Colonel Jefferson himself,
and elicited from him an expression of opinion couched in language
rather stronger than that gallant officer usually permitted himself
the use of--to the effect that, if he found anyone engaged in the
fetching and carrying of such infernal lies, he, Colonel Jefferson,
should make it his business to inflict personal chastisement on him,
the said fetcher and carrier. A representation of this kind coming
from a very big and strong man, who in such matters had the reputation
of keeping his promise, had the effect of doing away with all
identification of Mrs. Ramsay Caird's supposed heartbroken lover, and
of restoring him his anonymity, but the fact of his existence, still
was whispered abroad; else why had one of the brightest girls of the
past season--not that there was ever anything in her very clever, or
that she was ever anything but extremely "missy," but still a
pleasant, cheerful kind of girl in her way--why had she become dull
and _triste_, and obviously uncaring for anything? That was what
society wanted to know.
As for her husband, as for Ramsay Caird, society's tongue said very
little about him; but society's shoulders, and eyebrows, and hands,
and fluttering fans, hinted a great deal. Society was divided on the
subject of Mr. Ramsay Caird. One portion of it threw out nebulous
allusions to the fascinations of Madame Favorita of the Italian Opera,
suggested the usual course pursued by beggars who had been set upon
horseback, wondered how Madeleine's relations could endure the state
of things which existed under their very eyes, and thought that the
time could not be very far distant when Captain Kilsyth--who had the
name, as you very well know, my dear, for being so very particular in
such matters, not to say strait-laced--would call his brother-in-law
to account for his goings on. The other portion of society was more
liberal, so far at least as the gentleman was concerned. What, it
asked, was the position of a man who found his newly-married wife
evidently preoccupied with the loss of some previous flirtation? What
was to be expected from a man who had found Dead-Sea apples instead of
fruit, and utter indifference instead of conjugal love and domestic
happiness? The _nous-autres_ feeling penetrated into the discussion.
It was not likely that a young man who had been brought up in a
different sphere, who had been, if what people said was correct, a
clerk or something of the kind to a lawyer in Edinburgh, could
comprehend the necessity for such a course of conduct under the
circumstances as the belonging to their class would naturally dictate.
If Mr. Caird had made a mistake--well, mistakes were often made, often
without getting the equivalent which he, in allying himself with an old
family in the position of the Kilsyths, had secured for himself. But
they were always borne _sub silentio_--at all events the sufferer,
however he might seek for distraction in private, did not let the
mistake which he had made, and the means he had adopted for his own
compensation, become such common gossip-matter for the world at large.
Such conversation as this is not indulged in without its reaching the
ears of those most concerned. When one says most concerned, one means
those likely to take most concern in it. It is doubtful if Madeleine's
ears were ever disturbed by any of the rumours in which she played so
prominent a part. It is certain that her husband never knew of the
interest which he excited in so many of his acquaintances; equally
certain that if he had known it, the knowledge thus gained would not
have caused him an emotion. Lady Muriel, however, was fully acquainted
with all that was said. The world, which did her homage as one of its
queens of fashion, took every possible occasion to remind her that she
was mortal, and found no better opportunity than in pointing out the
mistake which she had made in the marriage of her stepdaughter and the
settlement in life of her _protégé_. Odd words dropped here and there,
sly hints, innuendoes, phrases capable of double meaning, and always
receiving the utmost perversion which could be employed in their
warping, nay, in some instances, anonymous letters--the basest shifts
to which treachery can stoop,--all these ingredients were made use of
for the poisoning of Lady Muriel's cup of life, and for the
undermining of that pinnacle to which society had raised her.
Nor was Ronald Kilsyth ignorant of the world's talk and the world's
expressions. Isolate himself as much as he would, be as self-contained
and as solitary as an oyster, fend off confidence, shut his ears to
gossip,--all he could do was to exclude pleasant things from him; the
unpleasant had penetrating qualities, and invariably made their way.
He knew well enough what was said in every kind of society about Mr.
and Mrs. Ramsay Caird. When he dined away from the mess, he had a
curiously unpleasant feeling that advantage would be taken of his
absence to discuss that unfortunate _ménage_. When he dined at his
club, he had a morbid horror lest the two men seated at the next table
should begin to talk about it. The disappointment about the whole
thing had been so great as to make him morbidly sensitive on the
point, to ascribe to it far greater interest than it really possessed
for the world in general, and to allow it to prey on his mind, and
seriously to influence his health. It had been such a consummate
failure! And he, as he owned to himself,--he was primarily responsible
for the marriage! If Lady Muriel had not had his assistance, she would
never have carried her point of getting Madeleine for Ramsay Caird;
one word from him would have nipped that acquaintance in the bud,
would have stopped the completion of the project, no matter how far it
had advanced. And he had never said that word. Why? He comforted
himself by thinking that Caird had never shown himself in his real
character before his marriage; but the fact was, although Ronald would
not avow it, that he had been hoodwinked by the deference so deftly
paid to him both by his stepmother and her confederate, who had
consulted him on all points, and cajoled him and used him as a tool in
their hands. He thought over all this very bitterly now; he saw how he
had been treated, and stamped and raved in impotent fury as he
remembered how he had been led on step by step, and how weak and
vacillating he must have appeared in a matter in which he was most
deeply interested, and which, during the whole of its progress, he
thought he was managing so well.
To no man in London could such a _fiasco_ as his sister's marriage had
turned out be more oppressively overwhelming, productive of more
thorough disgust and annoyance than to Ronald Kilsyth. The _fiasco_
was so glaring, that at once two points on which the young man most
prided himself stood impugned. Everyone knew that dear old Kilsyth
himself would not have interfered in such a matter, and that the final
settlement of it, after Lady Muriel's light skirmishing had been done,
must have been left to Ronald, who was the sensible one of the family.
He had then, in the eyes of the world, either had so little care for
his sister's future as to sanction her marriage with a very ineligible
man, or so little natural perspicacity and sharpness as to be deceived
by such a shallow pretender as Caird. That anyone should entertain
either of these suppositions was gall and wormwood to Ronald. He whose
reputation forclear-headedness and far-seeing had only been equalled by
the esteem in which by all men he had been held for his strict honesty
and probity and the Spartan quality of his virtue,--that he should be
suspected--more than suspected, in certain quarters accused--of folly
or want of proper caution where his sister was concerned, was to him
inexpressibly painful. Perhaps the worst thing of all was to know that
people knew that he was aware of what was said, and that he suffered
under the tittle-tattle and the gossip. He tried to forget that idea,
to dispel and do away with it by changing his usual habits; he went
about; he was seen--for one week--oftener in society than he had been
for months previously: but the morbid feeling came upon him there; he
fancied that people noticed his presence, and attributed it to its
right cause; that every whisper which was uttered in the room had
Madeleine for its burden; that the whole company had their minds
filled with him, and were thinking of him either pityingly,
sarcastically, or angrily, according to their various temperaments.
He avoided Brook-street at this time as religiously as he avoided the
little residence in Squab-street. He did not particularly care about
meeting his father, though he thought Kilsyth would probably know
nothing of what so many were talking of; and he had resolutely shunned
a meeting with Lady Muriel, for Ronald in his inmost heart did his
stepmother a gross injustice. He fully believed that she was perfectly
cognisant of Ramsay Caird's real character; whereas, in truth, no one
had been more astonished at what her _protégé_ had proved himself than
Lady Muriel--and very few more distressed. Ronald, however, thought
otherwise; and being a gentleman, he carefully avoided meeting her
ladyship, lest he might lose his temper and forget himself. The
Kilsyth blood _was_ hot, and even in the heir to the name there had
been occasions when it was pretty nearly up to boiling-point.
For the same reason he avoided all chance of running across his
brother-in-law. In common with most men of strong feelings always
kept in a state of repression, Ronald Kilsyth was particularly
sensitive; and the idea of the publicity already accruing to this
wretched business being increased by any possible tattle of open
rupture between members of the family horrified him dreadfully. If he
did not dare trust himself with Lady Muriel, he should certainly have
to exercise a much stronger command over himself in the event of his
ever meeting Ramsay Caird. Every governing principle of his life rose
up within him against that young man; and on the first occasion of his
hearing--accidentally, as men often hear things of the greatest import
to themselves--of Mr. Caird's doings, Ronald Kilsyth had for the whole
night paced his barrack-room, trying in every possible form to pick
such a quarrel with Caird as might leave no real clue to its origin,
and enable him to work out his revenge without compromising anyone.
But he soon saw the futility of any such proceeding, which, carried
out between _sous-officiers_, might form the basis of a French drama,
but which was impossible of execution between English gentlemen, and
elected absence from Squab-street, and total ignorance of Mr. Caird's
mode of procedure, as his best aids to a tolerably quiet life for
himself. Besides, absence from Squab-street meant absence from
Madeleine; and absence from Madeleine meant a great deal to Ronald
Kilsyth. He, in his self-examination found Madeleine's behaviour since
her marriage the one point on which he could neither satisfy himself
by a feeling of pity nor bluster himself into a fit of indignation. He
knew well enough what her abstracted manner, her dulness, her sad
weary preoccupied mind, her impossibility to join in the nonsensical
talk floating around her,--he knew well enough what all these symptoms
meant. . If he had ever doubted that his sister had a strong affection
for Wilmot--and it is due to his perspicacity to say that no such
doubt ever crossed his mind--he would have been certain of it now. If
he had ever hoped--and he had hoped very earnestly--that any girlish
predilection which his sister might have entertained for Wilmot was
merely girlish and evanescent, and would pass away with her marriage,
he could not more effectually have blighted any such chance than by
marrying her to the man whose suit he, her brother, had himself urged
her to accept Perhaps under happier circumstances that childish dream
would have passed away, merged into a more happy realisation; but as
it had eventuated, Ronald knew perfectly well that Madeleine could not
but contrast the blank loveless present with the bright past, could
not but compare the days when she now sat solitary and uncared for
with those when the man for whom she had such intense veneration--for
whom, as she doubtless had afterwards discovered, she had such honest,
earnest love--had given up everything else to attend to her and shield
her in the hour of danger. With such feelings as these at his heart,
it was but little wonder that Ronald sedulously avoided being thrown
in Madeleine's way.
He had always been so "odd;" his comings, and goings in Brook-street
had been so uncertain; it was so utterly impossible to tell when he
might or might not be expected at his father's house, that his
prolonged absence caused no astonishment to any of the members of the
family, nor to any one of their regular visitors. Lady Muriel, indeed,
with a kind of guilty consciousness of participation in his feelings,
guessed the reason why her step-son eschewed their society; but no one
else. And Lady Muriel, who from her first suspicion of Ramsay Caird's
conduct--suspicion not entertained, be it understood, until some time
after the marriage--had looked forward with great fear and trembling
to a grand _éclaircissement_, a searching explanation with Ronald, in
which she would have to undergo an amount of cross-questioning in his
hardest manner, and a judgment which would inevitably be pronounced
against her, was rather glad that this whim had taken possession of
Ronald, and that her _dies irae_ was consequently indefinitely
deferred. But it happened one day that Ronald, walking down to
Knightsbridge barracks, came upon his father waiting to cross the road
at the corner of Sloane-street, and came upon him so "plump" and so
suddenly, that retreat was impossible. The young man accordingly,
seeing how matters stood, advanced, and took his father by the hand.
In an instant he saw that one other, at all events, had suffered from
the--well, there was no other word for it--the disgrace, the
discredit, to say the least of it, which had fallen on the family
during the past few months. Kilsyth seemed aged by ten years. The
light had died out of his bright blue eyes, and left them glassy and
colourless, with red rims and heavy dark "pads" underneath each. The
bright healthy colour had faded from his cheeks, and few would have
recognised the lithe and active mountaineer, the never-tiring
pedestrian, and the keen shot, in the bent and shrunken form which
stood half-leaning on, half-idly dallying with, its stick. He
pressed his son's hand warmly, however; and something like his
well-known kind old smile lighted up his face as he exclaimed--
"Ronald, I'm glad to see you, my boy! very glad! You've not been near
us for ages! And not merely that--I can understand that--we're not
very good company for young people now in Brook-street; there's little
inducement to come there now since poor Maddy has left us. But I don't
think that I was ever half so long in London without dining with you
as your guest over there at the barracks. I used to like an outing
with your fellows there; it brisked me up, and made me forget what an
old fogie I am growing; but--but you haven't given me the chance this
time, sir,--you haven't given me the chance!"
There was something in the evidently strained attempt at cheeriness
with which his father said these words which contrasted so strongly
with the depression under which it was impossible for him to prevent
showing he was labouring, and with the marked alteration in his
personal appearance, that touched Ronald deeply. His heart sank within
him, and his tongue grew dry; he had to clear his throat before he
replied--and even then huskily--
"It _is_ a long time since we've met, sir; and I confess the fault is
mine--entirely mine. The fact is I've been very much engaged
lately--regimental duty, and--and some business in which I've been
particularly interested--business which I fear you would hardly care
about--and--"
"Likely enough, my dear boy!" said Kilsyth, coming to his rescue, as
he floundered about in a way very unusual to him. "Likely enough! I
never did care particularly for a good many of your pursuits, you
know, Ronald, though I tried very hard at one time--when you were
quite a lad, I recollect--to understand them and share in them. But
that was not to be. I was not bright enough. I'm of the old school,
and what we old fellows cared about seems to have died out with our
youth, and never to have interested anybody ever since. I don't say
this complainingly--not in the least--but it was deuced odd. However,
I'm very glad I've met you, Ronald, for I have long wished--and
lately, within the last few days more especially--to have a talk with
you, a serious talk, my boy, which will take up some little time. Have
you half-an-hour you can give me now? I shall be very glad if you
have."
It was coming at last. He had but put off the evil day, and now it was
upon him. Well--better to hear himself condemned by his father than by
anyone else. Let it come.
"My time is yours, sir," said Ronald, almost echoing Wilmot, as he
remembered, on the day of that eventful interview in Charles-street.
"I shall of course be delighted to give my best attention to anything
you may have to say."
"Well, then, let's take a turn in the Park opposite," said Kilsyth,
hooking his arm into his son's. "Not among the people there, where we
should be perpetually interrupted by having to speak to those folks
who bail one so good-naturedly at every step, but away on the grass
there, by ourselves."
The two men passed through the Albert Gate, and turning to the right,
struck on to the piece of turf lying between the Row and the Drive. A
few children were playing about, a few nurse-maids were here and there
gossiping together; else they had it all to themselves.
"I want to talk to you," commenced Kilsyth, "about your sister--about
Maddy. I have been a good deal to Squab-street in the last few weeks,
and I've thought Maddy looks anything but as I should wish her to
look. Has that struck you, Ronald?"
"I--I'm sorry to say that I haven't seen Madeleine for some little
time, sir. The business which, as I just explained to you, has
prevented my coming to Brook-street has equally prevented me from
calling on her."
"Of course, yes! I beg pardon--I forgot! Well, Maddy looks anything
but well. For a long time past--indeed ever since her marriage--she
has been singularly low-spirited and dull; very unlike her usual
self."
"I don't know that that is much to be wondered at. Madeleine was
always a peculiar girl, in the sense that she had an extraordinary
attachment for her home; and the fact of being parted from you, with
whom all her life has been passed, and to whom she is devotedly
attached, may explain the cause of any little temporary lowness of
spirits."
"Ye-es, that's true so far; but it's not that; I wish I could think it
was. What you say, though, Ronald, I think gets somewhat near the real
cause. Maddy has been unlike most other girls of her class; much more
home-y and domestic, thinking much more of those around her with whom
she has been brought into daily contact than of the outside pleasures,
if I may so call them. And she's had a great deal of love. She's
accustomed to it, and can't get on without it. Love's just as
essential to Madeleine as light to the flowers, or the keen clear air
to the stags. She's had it all her life, and she would die without it.
And, Ronald, I'll say to you what I'd not say to another soul upon
earth, but what's lying heavy on my heart this month past--I doubt
much whether she gets it, my boy; I doubt much whether she gets it."
The old man stopped suddenly in his walk, and clutched his son's arm,
and looked up earnestly into his son's fade. There was so much sharp
agony in the glance, hurried and fleeting though it was, that Ronald
scarcely knew what to say in reply to the quivering jerky speech.
His father saved him from his embarrassment by continuing: "I don't
think she gets the love that she's been accustomed to, and that she
had a right to expect. I tell you that Maddy is not happy, Ronald;
that her little heart aches and pines for want of sympathy, for want
of appreciation, for want of love. I'm an old fellow; but in this case
I suppose my affection for my darling has opened my eyes, and I can
see it all plainly."
"Don't you think, sir, that your undoubted devotion to Madeleine may,
on the other hand, have had the effect of warping your judgment a
little, and prejudicing you in the matter? Though I've not seen my
sister very lately, when I did see her I confess I did not observe any
marked difference in her--any difference at all from what she has been
during the last few months."
"The last few months! That's just it; that's just what--however, we'll
come to that presently. I _know_ you're wrong, Ronald; I _know_ that
Madeleine is thoroughly changed and altered from the bright darling
girl of the old days. And I know why, my boy! God help me, I know
why!"
Again Ronald essayed to speak, and again he only muttered
unintelligibly.
"Because her home is unhappy," said Kilsyth, stopping short in his
walk, and dropping his voice to a whisper; "because the marriage into
which she was--was persuaded--I will use no harsh words--has proved a
wretched one for her; because her husband has proved himself to
be--God forgive me--a scoundrel!"
"You speak strongly, sir, notwithstanding your professions," said
Ronald, on whom warm words of any kind had always the effect of
rendering him even more cold and stoical than was his wont.
"I speak strongly because I feel strongly, Ronald! I don't expect you
to share my feelings in this matter, but I do expect you to have some
of your own, although you may not show them. For God's sake cast aside
for a few minutes that cloak of frost in which you always shroud
yourself, and let us talk as father and son about one who is daughter
to the one and sister to the other!"
Ronald looked up in surprise. He had never seen his father so much
excited before.
"I have no doubt about this," continued Kilsyth. "I have hoped against
hope, and I have shut my eyes against what I have seen, hoping they
might be fancies; and my ears against what I have heard, hoping they
might be lies. But I can befool myself in this manner no longer. Ah!
to think of my darling thus--to think of my darling thus!" Tears
started to the old man's eyes, and he smote fiercely with his stick
upon the ground.
"If you are really persuaded of this, sir," said Ronald, "it is our
duty to take immediate measures. Mr. Caird must be taught--"
"Who brought him to our house?" asked Kilsyth in a storm of passion;
"or rather--not that--but when he was brought, who backed him up and
encouraged him in every way? You, Ronald! you--you--you! By your
advice he was permitted free access to the house, was constantly
thrown in Madeleine's company, and gave the world to understand that
he was going to marry her. I postponed the settling of the engagement
once; but the second time, when--when I fancied that the child might
have had some other views--might have formed some other fancy--you
persuaded me to agree, and--"
"You should apportion the blame properly, sir," said Ronald in his
coldest tones. "I did not introduce Caird to your house, nor was I the
principal advocate of his cause."
"You're quite right, Ronald, quite right--and I've been hasty and
passionate and inconsiderate, I know; but if you knew how utterly
heartbroken I am--"
"I think, with regard to Mr. Caird," interrupted Ronald, "the best
plan will be--"
"No, no; not Caird now--leave him for the present; afterwards we'll do
for him. Now about Maddy--nothing but about Maddy--and not about her
dulness, or anything of that kind, nor--worse, much worse--you
recollect--no, you didn't know; I think you weren't there--what
Wilmot, Dr. Wilmot, said to me at Kilsyth about her chest? He told me
that one of her lungs was threatened--that the lungs were her weak
point; and he asked me whether any of our family had suffered from
such disease."
"Well, sir," said Ronald, anxiously now.
"This disease has been gaining ground for months past; I'm sure of it.
I have had my opinions for some time; but Maddy never complains, you
know, and I didn't like to ask her about her symptoms, lest she might
be frightened. But within the last few days she has been so bad that
It has been evident to us all, to myself and--and Lady Muriel that the
disease was on the increase. She caught cold at the theatre the other
night, and her cough is now frightful. I have seen her just now, poor
darling! She was on the sofa, but very weak--all they could do to get
her there--and when the paroxysms of coughing come on it's awful to
see her--she hardly seems to have the strength to live through them.
My poor darling Maddy!"
"What do the doctors say, sir? Who is attending her?"
"Whittaker--Dr. Whittaker--a very good man in his way, I daresay
but--I don't know--somehow I don't think much of him. Now that is the
very point I wanted to talk to you about. Somehow--how, I never
understood--somebody--I don't know who--offended Dr. Wilmot, a man to
whom we were under the greatest obligation for kindness rendered; and
though he has been back in England for some time, he has never called
in Brook-street, nor on Madeleine even, since his return. There is no
one in whom I have such faith; there is no one, I am convinced, who
understands Madeleine's constitution like Wilmot; and I want to know
what is the best method for us to put our pride in our pockets and
implore him to come and see her."
"You were not thinking of asking Dr. Wilmot to visit Madeleine?"
"I was indeed. What objection could there possibly be?"
"I suppose you know that he has retired from practice, that he even
declines to attend consultations, since he inherited Mr. Foljambe's
money?"
"I know that; but I am perfectly certain, from what I saw of him at
Kilsyth, that if I were to go to him and tell him the state of
affairs, he would overlook anything that may have annoyed him, and
come and see Maddy at once."
"That would be a condescension!" said Ronald. "Perhaps it might be on
the other side that the 'overlooking' might be required. However,
there are other reasons, sir, why I, for one, should think it highly
inadvisable that Dr. Wilmot should be requested to visit my sister."
"What are they, then, in Heaven's name, man?" said Kilsyth petulantly.
"You don't seem to see that the matter is of the utmost urgency."
"It is because of its urgency that I speak of it at all; it is by no
means a pleasant topic for me or for any of us. You spoke to me just
now, sir, in warm words of the part I took in pressing Ramsay Caird to
visit at your house, and supporting his claims for Madeleine. I don't
know that I was at all eager for it at first; I'm certain I never
cared particularly for Ramsay Caird; but I freely own that latterly I
did my best for him, convinced that a speedy alliance with him was the
only chance of rescuing Madeleine from another offer which I was sure
was impending--which would have been far more objectionable, and yet
which she would have accepted."
"Another offer?--from whom?"
"From the gentleman of whom you entertain so high an opinion--from Dr.
Wilmot."
"From Wilmot! An offer from Wilmot to Madeleine! You must be mad,
Ronald!"
"I never was more sane in my life, sir. I repeat, I am perfectly
certain Dr. Wilmot was in love with Madeleine, that he would have made
her an offer, and that she would have accepted him."
"And why should she not have accepted him? God knows I would have
welcomed him for a son-in-law, and--"
"I scarcely think this is the time to enter into that subject, sir;
but now that I have enlightened you, I presume you see the objection
to calling in Dr. Wilmot to my sister."
"I see the difficulty, Ronald; but the objection and the difficulty
shall be overcome. You shall yourself go and see Wilmot; and I know
he'll not refuse you."
"Don't you think, sir, before I take upon myself to do that, it would
be, to say the least of it, desirable that we should consult
Madeleine's husband?"
"Indeed I do not, Ronald," said Kilsyth; "indeed I do not. In giving
up my daughter to Mr. Caird I yielded privileges which I alone had
enjoyed from her birth, and which I would gladly have retained until
her death or mine. But I did not give up the privilege of watching
over her health, more especially when it has been so shamefully
neglected; and I shall claim the power to use it now."
"And you think, after all I have told you, that there is no objection
to asking Dr. Wilmot to visit Madeleine?"
"See here, Ronald!--I will be very frank with you in this matter--I
think that if I had known all you have told me now seven or eight
months ago, we should never have had this conversation. For I firmly
believe that--granting your ideas were correct--if my darling had
married Wilmot, he would have taken care both of her health and her
happiness, both of which have been so grossly neglected."
The father and son took their way in silence back across the grass,
each filled with his own reflections. They had only reached the Albert
Gate, and were about to pass through it into the street, when a
brougham passed them, and a gentleman sitting in it gravely saluted
them.
"Good heavens!" exclaimed Kilsyth; "there's Wilmot!"
"Yes," said Ronald. He was surprised, and secretly agitated by the
sight of the man towards whom his feelings had insensibly changed, and
was hardly master of his emotion.
The carriage had passed on, but Kilsyth was standing still at the
crossing.
"What an extraordinary chance--what a wonderful Providence, I should
say!" said Kilsyth; "the only man I have confidence in--fancy his
passing by just at this time! Thank God! No chance of his calling at
Brook-street before he goes home, as he used to do; we must go on to
his house at once and leave a message for him." Here the impetuous old
gentleman hailed a hansom, which drew up abruptly in dangerous
proximity to his toes.
"Stop a moment," said Ronald. "You had better get home, in case I can
persuade Dr. Wilmot to call, and tell Lady Muriel; it will save time.
I will go on to his house."
"All right," said Kilsyth in a voice of positive cheerfulness. The
mere sight of Wilmot had acted like a strong cordial upon him--had
restored his strength and his confidence.
"Don't I recollect how he saved her before, when she was much worse,
when she was actually in the clutch of a mortal disease? And he will
save her again! he will save her again!" said the old man to himself
as he drove homewards. He went directly to Lady Muriel's boudoir, and
communicated to her the glad tidings of Ronald's mission, which had
filled him with hope and joy.
The rich red colour flew to Lady Muriel's cheek, and the light shone
in her dark eyes. To her too the news was precious, delicious; but not
so the intelligence which formed its corollary. What! Ronald Kilsyth
gone to solicit Dr. Wilmot's attendance on his sister! Ronald Kilsyth
bringing about the renewal of this danger which she, apparently ably
assisted by fate, had put far from her! What availed Wilmot's return,
if he might see Madeleine again--might be with her? What availed it
that Madeleine was no longer in the house with him, that she was free
to see him, to enjoy his society undisputed? As Kilsyth saw how her
face lighted up, how her colour rose, he rejoiced in her sympathy with
his feelings; with his hope and relief, he blessed her in his heart
for her love for his Madeleine. And she listened to him, dominated in
turn by irresistible joy and by burning anger.