Too Late.
That there can be such a thing as a broken heart; that love,
misguided, misdirected, fixed upon the wrong object, and never finding
"its earthly close," having to pine in secret, and to take out its
revenge in saying deteriorating and spiteful things of its successful
rival, ever kills, is nowadays generally accepted as nonsense. In the
daily round of the work-a-day life there are too many things hourly
cropping up to allow a man of any spirit to permit himself to hug to
his bosom the corpse of a dead joy, or to bemoan over the reminiscence
of vanished happiness. He must be up and doing; he must go in to his
business, read his newspaper, give his orders to his clerks, write his
letters--or at least sign them; go to his club, eat his dinner, and go
through his ordinary routine, each item of which fills up his time, and
prevents him from dwelling on the atrocious perfidy of the Being who
has deceived him. The evening has generally been considered a
favourable time for indulging in those reflections which, by their
bitterness, bring about the anatomical consequences so much to be
deplored; but your modern Strephon either forgets his own woes in
reading of the fictitious woes of others, duly supplied by Mr. Mudie,
or in witnessing them depicted on the stage, or in listening to the
cynical wisdom of the smoking-room, which, if he duly imbibe it, leads
him rather to think he has had a wonderful escape; or in the friendly
game of whist, when deference to his partner's interest, to say the
least of it, requires that he should keep his thoughts from wandering
into that subject so redolent of bitter-sweet. The heart-breaking
business is out of date, it is _rococo_, it is bygone; and one might
as well look to see the brazen greaves of bold Sir Lancelot flashing
in our English imitation of the sunshine, and to hear the knight
singing "Lirra-lirra!" as he rode up the banks of the Serpentine, as
to believe in its existence nowadays.
So that those who may have imagined that Chudleigh Wilmot had given up
all relish of and interest in life must have been grievously
disappointed. When he first went abroad, grief and rage were in his
heart, and he cared but little what became of him. When he first
received the news of Mr. Foljambe's bequest, there sprung up in him a
new feeling of hope and joy, such as he had never had before, which
lasted but a very few hours, being uprooted and cast out by the
announcement of Madeleine's marriage in the newspaper. When he
returned to London, his mind was so far made up, that he contemplated
very calmly the possibility of such an existence--without Madeleine,
that is to say--as a few hours previously he had deemed impossible;
and though on first entering on the new life the old ghosts which
"come to trouble joy" would occasionally await him; and though after
that chance meeting with Madeleine and Lady Muriel in the Park he was
for some little time much disturbed, yet, on the whole, he managed to
live his life quietly, soberly, peacefully, and not unhappily.
The man who, after years of active employment, inherits or obtains a
competency, and straightway lies upon his oars and looks round him for
the remainder of his life, immediately falls into a sad way, and comes
speedily to a bad end. Wilmot was quite sufficient man of the world to
be aware of this; and though he had retired from the active practice
of his profession, indeed from practising in any way, he still kept up
his medical studies, and now became one of the most sought-after and
most influential contributors to the best of our scientific
publications. In this way he found exercise enough for his mental
faculties, which had been somewhat burdened and overtasked with all
the hard work which he had gone through in his early life; and as for
the rest, he found he had done society a great injustice in estimating
its resources so meanly as he had been used to do. By degrees he gave
up the rule which he had at first kept so strictly, never to go into
ladies' society; and the first plunge made he felt that he enjoyed
himself therein more than in any other. He found that his reputation,
which had been considerably increased by the literary work on which he
had recently engaged, smoothed the way for him on first introduction;
and that the fact of his being a middle-aged widower secured for him
that pleasant license accorded to fogies, of which only fogies are
thoroughly conscious and appreciative. Instead of losing caste or
position, he felt that he had gained it; all the best people who had
been his patients in the old days kept up their acquaintance with him,
and asked him to their houses; and after the publication of a paper by
him on a momentous subject of the day, containing new and striking
views which at once commanded public attention and attracted public
comment, he was placed on a Royal Commission among some of the first
men of the time, and an intimation was conveyed to him that Government
would be glad to avail themselves of his services.
And the old wearing, tearing feeling of love and disappointment and
regret which had blighted so many hours of his life, and which he
thought at one time would sap life itself, was gone, was it? Well, not
entirely. It had been an era in his life which was never to be
forgotten, which was never to be otherwise renewed. Night after night
he saw pretty charming girls, all of whom would have been pleased by a
flattering word from the celebrated Dr. Wilmot, many of whom would
have listened more than complacently to anything he might have chosen
to say to them,--"he is very rich, my dear, and goes into excellent
society." But he never said anything, because he never thought
anything of the kind. Sometimes when alone, in the pauses of his work,
he would look up from off his book or his paper, and then straightway
he would see--although his thoughts had been previously engrossed with
something entirely different--a bright flushed face, with blue eyes,
and a nimbus of golden hair surrounding it. But for a moment he would
see it, and then it would fade away; but in that moment how many
memories had it evoked! Sometimes he would take from a special drawer
in his desk a small knot of blue ribbon, and a thin letter, frayed in
its folds, and bearing traces of having been for some time carried in
the pocket. Slight memorials these of the only love of a lifetime
which had now extended to some forty years; not much to show in return
for an all-absorbing passion which at one time threatened to have dire
effect on his health, on his life--yet cherished all the more,
perhaps, on account of their insignificance! These were memorials of
Miss Kilsyth, be it understood: of Mrs. Ramsay Caird Chudleigh always
rigidly repeated to himself that he knew nothing--that he never would
know anything.
But one morning Chudleigh Wilmot was sitting in his library after his
breakfast, his slippered feet resting idly on a chair, he himself in
placid enjoyment of the newspaper and a cigar, which, since he had
freed himself from professional restraint, he had taken as a pleasant
solace, when suddenly, and without being in any way led up to, the
subject of his dream of the previous night flashed suddenly across his
mind. It was about Madeleine. He remembered that he had seen her lying
outstretched on her bed dead; there were Christmas berries in her
golden hair, and the robe which covered her was embroidered with the
initial letters of his name twisted into a monogram, such as was
engraved on the binding of a present of books which he had recently
received from one of his great friends, and on the little finger of
her hand, which lay outside the coverlet, was Mabel's signet-ring. He
remembered all this vividly now; remembered too how, when he had gone
forward with the intention of taking off the ring, a female form, clad
in dark sweeping garments, but with its face shrouded, had risen by
the bedside and motioned him away. He remembered how he felt
persuaded, although the face was hidden, that the form was known to
him--was that of Henrietta Prendergast; how he had persisting in
approaching; and how at length the muffled form had spoken, saying
only these words, "It was not to be!" What followed he could not
remember: there was a kind of chaos, out of which rose figures of
Whittaker and Colonel Jefferson, the man whom he had met in Scotland,
and Ronald Kilsyth in full uniform, with his sword drawn and pointed
at his (Chudleigh's) heart; and then he had waked, and the whole
remembrance of the dream had departed from him until that moment, when
simultaneously the door of his room was thrown open, and Ronald
Kilsyth stood before him.
That was no dream. Wilmot thought at first that his waking fancies
were running in the track of his sleeping thoughts; but there was
Ronald Kilsyth, somewhat changed from the man he remembered--less grim
and stoical, a trifle less cynical, and a trifle more human,--but
still Ronald Kilsyth standing before him.
"You are surprised to see me, Dr. Wilmot," said Ronald, advancing
hesitatingly,--"surprised to see me here, after--after so long an
interval."
"On the last occasion of our meeting, Captain Kilsyth," replied
Wilmot, "you were good enough to tell me that you objected to the
ordinary set phrases of society, and preferred straightforward
answers. I have not forgotten that interview, or anything that passed
therein; and I have every desire, believe me, to accommodate you--at
least so far as that wish is concerned. My straightforward answer to
your question is, I _am_ surprised to see you in this house."
"I looked for no other reply. You seem to forget that, even so far ago
as our last meeting, you were pleased to fall in with my whim, and to
answer me with perfect candour, however painful it might have been--it
was--to you. That conversation will doubtless be remembered by you,
Dr. Wilmot."
What did this mean? Was the man come here, in the assurance of his own
cold, calm stoicism, to triumph over him? Whence this most indecorous
outrage on his privacy, this insult to his feelings? Of all men, this
man knew how he had suffered, and how he had borne his sufferings.
Why, then, was he here, at such a moment, with such words on his lips?
"I perfectly remember that conversation, Captain Kilsyth," was all
Wilmot replied.
"You will spare me, then, a great deal of acute pain in referring to
it," said Ronald. "Refer to it I must, but my reference will be of the
most general kind. I sought that interview beseeching you"--Wilmot
gave a short half-laugh, which Ronald noticed--"Well, you stickle for
terms, it appears,--demanding of you to give up a pursuit in which you
were then engaged--a pursuit to which you attached the greatest
interest, but which I knew would not only be futile in its results to
you, but would be fraught with distress and danger to one who was very
dear to me. You acquiesced in my reasoning--at great sorrow and
disappointment to yourself, I know--and you gave up the pursuit."
"You are very good to make such large allowances for me, Captain
Kilsyth," said Wilmot in a hard dry voice. "Yes, I gave it up; at
great sorrow and disappointment to myself, as you are good enough to
say."
"I can fully understand the feelings which now influence you, Dr.
Wilmot," said Ronald, far more gently than was his wont; "and, believe
me, I do not quarrel with or take exception at the tone in which they
are now expressed. You gave up that pursuit, and you carried out the
intention you then expressed to me of leaving England."
"I did. I left England within a fortnight of that conversation. I
should not have returned when I did--I should not have returned even
now, most probably--had it not been for circumstances then utterly
unforeseen, but of which you may have heard, which compelled me to
come back at once."
Ronald bowed; he had heard of those circumstances, he said.
"And now, pardon me, Captain Kilsyth, if I just run through what has
occurred. It cannot be, you will allow, less unpleasant for me to do
so than for you; but since we have met again,--at an interview not of
my seeking, recollect,--it is as well that they should be understood.
You told me in my consulting-room in Charles-street that you had
reason to believe that your sister, Miss Kilsyth, was--let us put it
plainly--loved by me. You said that, or at least you implied that, you
had reason to believe that she was interested in me. You told me that
any question of marriage between us was impossible; first, because I
had originally made your sister's acquaintance when I was a married
man; secondly, because my station in life--you put it kindly, as a
gentleman would, but that was the gist of your argument--because my
station in life was inferior to hers. I do not know, Captain Kilsyth,"
continued Wilmot, whose voice grew harder as he proceeded, "that your
reasoning was so subtle in either case as not to admit of controversy,
perhaps even of disproof; but I felt that when a young lady's name was
in question, when there was, as you assured me there was--and you were
much more a man of the world than I--the chance of the slightest slur
being cast on her, it was my duty to sacrifice my own feelings,
however strong they might have been in the matter. I did so. To the
best of my ability I stamped out my love; I pocketed my pride; I gave
up the best feelings of my nature, and I did as you and your friends
wished. I went abroad, and remained grizzling and feeding on my own
heart for months. At length I heard of a stroke of good fortune which
had befallen me. I had previously made for myself a name which was
respected and honoured; and you, who know more of these things than
your compeers, or people in your 'set,' can appreciate the worth of
the renown which a man makes off his own bat by the exercise of his
talents; and by the chance which I have named I had now inherited a
fortune--a large fortune for any man not born to wealth. When this
news reached me, my first thought was, Now, surely, my coast is clear.
I can go back to England; I can say to Miss Kilsyth's friends, I am
renowned; I am rich; I am, I hope, a gentleman in the ordinary
acceptation of the term. If this young lady will accept my court, why
should it not be paid her? Within twenty-four hours of my learning of
my inheritance, of my determination, I heard that Miss Kilsyth was
married."
"There was no stipulation, I believe, Dr. Wilmot--at least so far as I
am concerned--no compact, no given time during which Miss Kilsyth
should keep single, in the view of anything that might happen to you?"
"None in the world; and so far as Miss Kilsyth is concerned--her name
is being bandied between us in the course of conversation, but it is
my duty to say that I have not the smallest atom of complaint to make
against her. To this hour, so far as I know, she is unacquainted with
my feelings towards her, and can consequently be held responsible for
no acts of hers at which I may feel aggrieved. But you must let me
continue. I will not tell you what effect the intelligence of Miss
Kilsyth's marriage had on me. I had been raised to the highest
pinnacle of hope, I was cast down into the lowest depths of despair.
That concerned no one but myself. I returned to England. Miss Kilsyth
was Mrs. Ramsay Caird--I had learned that from the public prints--no
private announcement, no wedding-cards awaited me. The story of my
vast inheritance got wind, as such things do, and all my friends--all
my acquaintance, let me say, to use a more fitting word, called on me
or sent their congratulations. From your family, from Mrs. Ramsay
Caird, I had not the slightest notice. The young lady whose life--if
you credit her father--I had saved a few months previously, and her
family, who professed themselves so grateful, ignored my existence. To
this hour I have had no communication with Kilsyth, with Lady Muriel,
with the Ramsay Cairds. I met Lady Muriel and her daughter once by the
merest accident--an accident entirely unsought by me--and they bowed
to me as though I were a tradesman who had been pestering for his
bill. What am I to gather from this treatment? One of two
things--either that I was regarded merely as the 'doctor' who was called
in when his services were needed, but who, when he had fulfilled his
functions and saved the patient, was no more to be recognised than the
butcher when he had supplied the required joint of meat; or that, by
those who knew, or thought they knew, the inner circumstances of the
case, my moral character was so highly esteemed that, guessing I had
been in love with Miss Kilsyth, it was judged expedient that I should
have no opportunity of acquaintance with Mrs. Ramsay Caird. I ask you,
Captain Kilsyth, which of these suppositions is correct?"
Wilmot spoke with great warmth. Ronald Kilsyth looked on with wonder;
he could scarcely imagine that the man who now stood erect before him
with flashing eye and curled lips, every one of whose sentences rang
with scorn, was the same being who, on the occasion of their last
interview, had urged his suit so humbly, and accepted his dismissal
with such resignation.
After a short pause Ronald said: "You speak strongly, Dr. Wilmot, very
strongly; but you have great cause for annoyance; and the fact that
you have borne it so long in silence of course adds to the violence of
your expressions now. I think I could soften your opinion--I think I
could show that my father and Lady Muriel have had some excuse for
their conduct; at all events, that they believed they were doing
rightly in acting as they did. But this is not the time for me to
enter into that discussion. I have come to you in the discharge of a
mission which is urgent and imperative. You know me to be a cold and a
proud man, Dr. Wilmot, and will therefore allow I must be convinced of
its urgency when I consented to undertake it. I have come to say to
you--leaving all things for the present unexplained, and even in the
state in which you have just described them--I have come to say to you
my sister is very ill; will you go and see her?" He was standing close
by Wilmot as he spoke, and saw him change colour, and reel as though
he would have fallen.
"Very ill?" he said, after a moment's pause, with white lips and
trembling voice. "Mad--Mrs. Caird, very ill?"
"Very ill; so ill, that my father is seriously alarmed about her; so
ill, that I have obeyed his wishes, and ask you to come to her."
Wilmot was silent for a moment, in thought; not that he had the
smallest doubt as to what he should do; but the news had come so
suddenly upon him, that he could scarcely comprehend its significance.
Then he said, "Where is she? in town?"
"She is--at her own house. I know I am asking you a great deal in
begging you to go there, but--you won't refuse us, Wilmot?"
"I will go at once to your sister, Captain Kilsyth," said Wilmot,
pressing Ronald's outstretched hand; "and God grant I may be of
service to her!"
"I won't say any thanks; but you know how grateful we shall all of us
be. Perhaps Madeleine had better be a little prepared for your visit;
if you were to meet quite unexpectedly, it might agitate her."
Wilmot agreed in this, and promised to come that afternoon.
It was three o'clock--just the hour when Squab-street woke up, and
became alive to the fact that day had dawned. The light had indeed
penetrated the little street at its usual hour, and the sun had shone;
but still Squab-street could not be considered to be fully awake.
Tradesmen had come and gone; area-bells had rung out shrilly; grooms
on horseback had followed the Amazon daughters of the natives to the
morning-ride in the Row; governesses had arrived, and had taken their
young charges into the neighbouring square garden for bodily exercise
and mental recreation; neat little broughams had deposited neat little
foreigners, whose admission into the houses had been immediately
followed by the thumping of the piano and the screaming of the female
voice; but the cream of Squab-street society had not yet been seen,
save by its female attendants. Three o'clock, however, had arrived;
luncheon was over, carriages began to rattle up and down, the street
resounded with double knocks indefinitely prolonged, and all the
little passages were redolent of hair-powder. All society's
mummers were acting away at their hardest; and all who passed up and
down Squab-street were too much engrossed with themselves or their
fellow-performers to notice a very blank and mournful face looking out
at them from the drawing-room window of the little house at the corner
of the mews. This was Kilsyth's face, which had been planted against
the window for the previous half-hour, in anxious expectation of
Wilmot's arrival. Sick at heart, and overpowered by anxiety, the old
man had taken his position where he could catch the first glimpse of
him on whom his life now solely rested; and he scanned every vehicle
that approached with eager eyes. At length a brougham, very different
from that in which he used to pay his visits in his professional days,
perfectly appointed, and drawn by horses which even Clement Penruddock
himself could not have designated as "screws," drew up at the door,
and Wilmot jumped out. Two minutes afterwards Kilsyth, with his eyes
full of tears, was holding both his friend's hands, and murmuring to
him his thanks.
"I knew you would come!" he said; "I knew you would come! No matter
what had happened in the interval--no matter that, as they told me,
you had retired from practice and went nowhere--I said, 'Let him know
that Madeleine is very ill, and he'll come! he'll be sure to come!'"
"And you said right, my dear sir," said Wilmot, returning the friendly
pressure; "and I only hope to Heaven that my coming now may be as
efficacious as it was when you summoned me to Kilsyth--ah, how long
ago that seems! Now tell me--for my conversation with Captain Kilsyth
was necessarily brief, and admitted of no details concerning the state
of his sister--the tendency to weakness on the lungs, which I spoke to
you about just before I left Scotland, has increased, I fear?"
"It has been increasing rapidly, we fancy, for the last few months;
and she is now never free from a cough, a hollow, dreadful cough, the
paroxysms of which are sometimes terrible, and leave her perfectly
exhausted. She never complains; on the contrary, she makes light of
it, and struggles to hide her pain and weakness from us. But I fear
she is very, very ill!" The old man's voice sunk as he said this, and
the tears flowed down his cheeks.
"Come, come, you must not give way, my good friend; while there's life
there's hope, you know; and what is very dreadful and hopeless to an
unprofessional eye has a very different aspect frequently to those who
have studied these diseases. I think Captain Kilsyth came here to
prepare Mrs. Caird for my visit?"
"O yes, she expects you. She was greatly excited at first; so much so
that we were afraid she would do herself harm; but I think she is
calmer now."
"Then perhaps I had better go to her at once. It is always desirable
in these cases as much as possible to avoid suspense. Will you show me
the way?"
They went upstairs together; and when they arrived at the room,
Kilsyth opened the door, and left Wilmot to enter by himself. As the
door closed behind him, he looked up, and saw the woman whom he had
loved with such devotion and yet with such bitter regret. She was
lying on a sofa drawn across the window, propped up by pillows. She
turned round at the noise of his entrance; and as soon as she
recognised her visitor, her cheeks flushed to the deepest crimson.
Wilmot advanced rapidly, with as cheerful a smile as he could assume,
and took her hand--her hot, wasted, and trembling hand--within both of
his. She was dreadfully changed--he saw that in an instant. There were
deep hollows in her cheeks, and round her blue eyes, which were now
feverishly bright and lustrous, there were large bistre circles. She
wore a white dressing-gown trimmed with blue,--such a one as was
associated with his earliest recollections of her; and as he saw her
lying back and looking up at him with earnest trusting gaze, he was
reminded of the first time he saw her in the fever at Kilsyth, but
with O what a difference in his hope of saving her!
"You see I have come back to you, Mrs. Caird," said Wilmot, seating
himself by the sofa, but still retaining her hand. "You thought you
had got rid of me for ever; but I am like the bottle-imp in the story,
impossible to be sent away. Now, own you are surprised to see me!"
"I am not indeed, Dr. Wilmot," Madeleine replied, in a voice the
hollow tones of which went to Wilmot's heart. Ah, how unlike the
sweet, clear, ringing tones which he so well remembered! "I am not
indeed surprised to see you. I had a perfect conviction," she said
very calmly, "that I should see you once again. At that time--at
Kilsyth, you remember--I thought I was going to die, you know; and
when I knew I should recover, as I lay in a dreamy half-conscious
state, I recollect having a presentiment that when I did die you would
be near me--that you would stand by my bedside, as you used to do,
and--"
"My dearest Mrs. Caird, I cannot listen to you; my--my child, for
God's sake don't talk in that way! I used to have to tell you to calm
yourself, you know; but now you must rouse up--you must indeed."
"O no, Dr. Wilmot; not rouse myself to any action, not wake up again
to the dreary struggle of life! O no; let me sink quietly into my
grave, but--"
His hand trembled with emotion as he laid his finger lightly on her
lip, and his voice was choked and husky as he said: "I must insist!
You used to obey me implicitly, you recollect; and you must show that
you have not forgotten your old ways. And now tell me all about
yourself."
Half an hour afterwards, as Wilmot was descending the stairs, he met
Kilsyth at the drawing-room door, with haggard looks and trembling
hands, waiting for him. They went into the drawing-room together; and
the old man, carefully closing the door behind him, turned to his
friend, and said in broken accents; "Well, what do you say? what--what
do you think?"
Wilmot's face was very grave, graver than Kilsyth had ever seen it,
even at the worst time of the fever, as he said: "I think it is a very
serious case, my dear friend--a very serious case."
"Has the--the mischief increased much since you detected it--up in
Scotland?"
"The disease has spread very rapidly--very rapidly indeed."
"And you--you think that she is--in danger?"
"I think--it would be useless, it would be unmanly in me to withhold
the truth from you; I fear that Mrs. Caird's state is imminently
dangerous, and that--"
Wilmot stopped, for Kilsyth reeled and almost fell. Recovering himself
after a moment, he said, in a low hoarse whisper: "Change of
climate--Madeira--Egypt--anywhere?"
"No; she has not sufficient strength to bear the journey. If she had
spent last winter at Cannes, and had gone on in the spring to
Egypt--but it is too late."
"Too late!" shrieked Kilsyth, bursting into an agony of grief; "too
late! My darling child! my darling, darling child!"
"My poor friend," said Wilmot, himself deeply affected, "what can I
say to comfort you in this awful trial? what can I do?"
"One thing!" said the old man, rising from the sofa on which he had
thrown himself, "there is one thing you can do--visit her, watch her,
attend her; you'll see her again, won't you, Wilmot?"
"Constantly--and to the end. She knows that. I made her that promise
just now;" and he wrung his friend's hand and left him.
"Dr. Wilmot, I believe? Will you oblige me by two minutes'
conversation? You don't remember me? I am Mr. Caird. In this room, if
you please."
Wilmot, thus inducted into the dining-room, bowed, and took the chair
pointed out to him. He had not recognised Mr. Caird at the first
glance in the dim little passage; but he knew him again now, albeit
Mr. Caird's style of dress and general bearing were very different
from what they had been in the old days. Mr. Caird had just come in,
and brought a great quantity of tobacco-smoke in with him; and a
decanter of brandy, an empty soda-water bottle, and a fizzing tumbler,
were on the table before him.
"I beg your pardon for troubling you, Dr. Wilmot; but I didn't know
you were expected, or I should of course have been here to meet you.
The people in Brook-street manage all these matters in--well, to say
the least of it, in a curious way. You have seen Mrs. Caird--what is
your opinion of her?"
What Wilmot knew of this man was that he was courteous, gentlemanly,
and good-tempered--all in his favour. He had heard the rumours current
in society about Caird, but they had passed unheeded by him; men of
Wilmot's calibre pay little attention to rumours. So he said, "Do you
wish me to tell you my real opinion, Mr. Caird?"
"Your real, candid opinion."
Then Wilmot repeated what he had said to Kilsyth.
The young man looked at him earnestly for a moment; shook his head as
though he had been struck a sudden, stunning blow; then muttered
involuntarily, as it were, "Poor Maddy!"
Wilmot rose to go, but Caird stopped him. "One question more, Dr.
Wilmot--how long may--may the end be deferred?"
"I should fear not more than a few--three or four--months."
When Wilmot was gone, Ramsay Caird, having lit a fresh cigar, said
"Poor Maddy!" again; but this time he added, "since it was to be, it
will be, about the time;" and for the next hour he occupied himself
with arithmetical calculations in his pocketbook.