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Roy Glashan's Library
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JOHN COLLET'S father was a struggling country druggist, who, after many ups and downs, made a competence by inventing and vending a patent medicine and a proprietary ointment. After his demise they were sold to a company which (by dint of vigorous advertising) made them famous as "Collet's Cure All" and "Collet's Heal All." Collet gave his boy a good education, made a doctor of him, and left him four hundred a year. John (to whom the medicine and the ointment were abominations) was an aspiring young fellow and clever withall and when he had passed the College and the Hall went to Paris, where he acquired a thorough mastery of the French tongue and the degree of M.D. By this time he was seven and twenty, but desiring to see something more of the world before settling down, he took a place as ship's surgeon, voyaged in many seas and travelled in many lands, and as he kept his eyes open and made notes, added greatly to his store of knowledge.
When Dr. Collet was thirty he bought a country practice in a town in the south of England, rather to the surprise of some of his friends, who had thought he would take up a specialty and establish himself in Harley-street. But John had a liking for a country life and rural pursuits.
In London, moreover, the Heal All and the Cure All were always staring him in the face. Their virtues were set forth in every newspaper and proclaimed in flaming posters on every boarding and dead wall within the bills of mortality. Worse still, they were described as "Dr. Collet's celebrated remedies," thereby making him look like a quack—an indignity for which the law afforded him no redress.
The name of the town was Claybury, a sleepy picturesque old place with ten thousand inhabitants, a new corn exchange, and an ancient church. The great personage of the neighbourhood was Lord Mutrie, who lived at Claybury Priory, about two miles from the town, the greater part of which he owned.
As the practice, though highly respectable and fairly lucrative, was not extensive, Collet had plenty of spare time, which he gave (according to the season) to the cultivation of roses, the collection of entomological specimens, microscopic studies, and sport. Several of his patients had hinted broadly that as Claybury folk had a prejudice against bachelor doctors, and the town possessed many eligible spinsters, he would do well to take one of them to wife. But as John was insensible to their charms, and set a good deal of store by his liberty, he decided to remain single yet a little longer. Instead of taking a wife he bought a second nag and took to hunting.
At the outset, however, he did not exactly distinguish himself. Cross-country riding is an accomplishment that has to be learnt, and John valued his neck. But when he discovered by frequent experience that an ordinary fall does not hurt much he grew bolder, and after a while began to emerge from the ruck of roadsters and riders for gaps with whom he had at first consorted, and occasionally experienced the felicity of finding himself in the same field with the hounds.
Among the members of the Claybury Hunt were Lord Mutrie's son and heir, the Hon. Edgar, and his Lordship's daughter, the Hon. Beatrice Mutrie. But as at the covert side they kept with their own set, and when hounds were running rode in the first flight, Collet only knew them by sight, and had never given them second thought, hardly indeed, a second glance. They were socially quite out of his swim, and being somewhat of a Bohemian he had no great affection for swells. The last thing he expected was exchanging a word with any of the Mutries, or becoming a visitor at the Priory. But the unexpected occasionally happens, and it happened to Collet.
One day, daring a clinking run from Ollerton Spinney, he was pounding along on a flagging horse, when, observing in the next field a group of dismounted men, he surmised—as the hounds were still running—that somebody had come to grief.
As his tired horse blundered over the next fence a man with whom he was slightly acquainted, shouted his name, and galloped towards him.
"Well met. You are wanted," said he. "Mutrie has had a bad fall, horse put his foot in a rabbit hole and rolled over him. He is lying there unconscious and looks awfully bad.... Here we are. Make way for the doctor, please. I'll hold your horse Collet."
The wounded man lay on the ground, his head pillowed on a rolled up covert coat. His garments were muddy, his face was pale and streaked with blood, and he looked like one dead. Miss Mutrie was bending over him weeping and wringing her hands.
"Are you a doctor?" she asked.
Collet bowed assent and waved back the people who were pressing round them.
"Oh, for heaven's sake—look—see—whether he is much hurt. If you save his life I shall be—we shall be so grateful. It would kill my father if—if—and my poor mother—her only son. Oh, this is terrible. Is he—still alive?"
Collet, who had already given his pocket handkerchief to a groom with instructions to wet it in the nearest ditch, knelt down beside his patient, and after feeling his pulse, listened to his breathing. Miss Mutrie, the while, following John's movements with eager eyes, her hands clasped, her lips tightly closed.
"He is not dead," was the verdict.
"Thank God! But will he live?"
"I hope so. But—let us see whether any bones are broken."
Collet rapidly felt the young fellow all over, and announced the result of his inspection—a broken collar bone and a broken arm. There might also be internal injuries, but as to that nothing could be determined for the present—and there was certainly concussion of the brain.
"Oh, my poor Edgar? What shall we do, how to get him home?" murmured Miss Mutrie.
"I am afraid there is no ambulance hereabout," answered Collet. "But a roomy chaise would do."
A gentleman, whose house was hard by, offered to send for his largest carriage, a small omnibus.
"Just the thing," said Collet, who with the wetted handkerchief was wiping away the blood from young Mutrie's face and head, which had been gashed by the point of his horse's hoof. Taking from his pocket a little case that he always had with him, John produced a pair of scissors, a surgical needle, and some silk thread. After cutting away the hair about the wound he stitched it up, and bound the head with an improvised compress.
"How fortunate you were out," exclaimed Miss Mutrie, warmly. "If you had not been, I don't know what we should have done. I am afraid he would have died. If my poor brother gets better we shall owe you his life. Do you think you can pull him through?"
"I hope so. Your brother is young and of sound constitution, and if there are no internal injuries," answered John, cautiously. And seeing that when a horse rolls over a man the man generally gets a good deal the worst of it there was need for caution.
WHEN the carriage came Mr. Mutrie was placed on one of the seats, and with the help of cushions made tolerably comfortable. With him were his sister and the doctor. So far, John had been too much occupied to observe Miss Mutrie, but now that the brother required less of his attention he gave some of it to the sister. It was his habit, a habit that had become almost automatic, to make a tentative diagnosis of people whom he met for the first time as though they were potential patients. And he seldom made a bad shot: his diagnosis of Lord Mutrie's daughter was something like this: "A fine young woman—blonde, sanguine temperament—complexion brilliant, but almost too delicate, indicating a slight tendency to struma, which, however, she will outgrow, probably has already outgrown. Distinctly healthy, and barring accidents and indiscretions not likely to require medical advice."
As touching her moral qualities John kept an open mind. He knew that faces are apt to be deceptive, and that a saintly countenance may mask an evil nature, or plain features connote a beautiful soul. His own square, swarthy visage was not attractive at first sight, yet he had a conscience free from the reproach of any great sin, and, if he knew himself, a kindly disposition. His impulses were good, and never in all his life had he made an enemy, or done anybody an ill turn.
As Dr. Collet came to this conclusion be glanced at his fair companion again, and perceived that her eyes were not only large and brown but lovely and expressive—full of pity and sorrow, when they rested on her brother, pensive and pathos when they were bent on himself.
"You still think he will recover doctor?" she said, in a low, tremulous, yet musical voice, which went to John's heart.
"I still hope so. More, I cannot say at present. I don't hold your brother's life in my hands, Miss Mutrie. Nothing would please me better than to be able to assure you that he is out of danger. Perhaps before long I shall have that pleasure."
"Do doctors ever hold their patients' lives in their hands?"
"Yes. In a sense that a remedy promptly applied, or an operation deftly performed, often saves a life that would otherwise be lost. The glory of a physician's calling is that he does and can save, or more correctly, prolong life."
"It is a terrible power. Do you think it is ever abused?"
"A doctor may blunder through ignorance or irresolution, of course. But I cannot imagine a doctor letting a patient die by intention. That would be sheer murder."
"All the same, do you know I have a great dread of death?"
"So have most people, else a good many of them would not make such desperate efforts to keep alive."
"I don't mean for myself merely. I am less afraid of dying than of seeing others die. I never witnessed death, and hope I never shall."
"I hope you never will. Death is not a pleasant thought for the young and happy. Yet there are worse misfortunes."
"What?"
"Dishonour, the disloyalty of a friend, the treachery of a lover or a wife; and death is less to be dreaded than a ruined life.... This pillow wants raising a little—and here we are at your lodge gates."
NOT until he had stripped and thoroughly examined his patient and set his broken bones could Collet be induced to say what he thought of Mr. Mutrie's chances of recovery But his opinion, when he did give it, was favourable, being to the effect that with careful nursing and good luck Mr. Mutrie was likely to get better.
On which Lord Mutrie exclaimed "Thank God!" and asked John (in whom, he said, he had more confidence than in any other medical man in the neighbourhood) to take entire charge of the case and stay at the Priory until his son was convalescent.
To which John agreed without hesitation, and telegraphed to his agent in London to send down at once a fully qualified assistant and two trained nurses.
The next day the patient was in a state of high fever, and Collet, being extremely anxious to justify the family's confidence in his skill, had a trying time. And even when he had no further cause to be anxious about his patient he became desperately anxious about himself. With good reason, for he was falling in love with Miss Mutrie. Physically she was a splendid specimen of the genus homo; her manners were perfect, and be had decided that she was mentally and morally superior to any woman be had ever met. She hovered round her brother's bed like an angel, and nursed him with infinite tenderness. John himself she treated with a sweet deference that was simply irresistible; and in the end he came to love her as only a man of strong character who loves for the first time can love—deeply, wildly. But knowing that lord Mutrie, a proud man of high lineage and great wealth, would never consent to the marriage of his daughter with a country practitioner whose father had kept a druggist's shop, and having no reason to believe that Beatrice did or would return his passion, he tried hard to reason himself out of his folly. He might as well have bidden her brother reason himself out of his delirium. Her footsteps in the corridor made him tremble, the flutter of her gown sent the blood to his head, he thought of her by day and dreamt of her by night, and looked forward to the time when he should leave the Priory with a sickening sense of despair.
But even when the invalid was quite out of danger, Lord Mutrie would not let Collet go. His lordship gave him a cheque for £500, and many gracious words, and it was arranged that be should dine and sleep at the Priory every night until further orders, and look after his patients in the town during the day.
John and Beatrice were thus thrown much altogether. They met continually in her brother's room; he gave her lessons in botany, at which he was an adept, spent hours with her in the conservatories, and occasionally walked with her in the park; yet though she was so kind, he doubted whether she divined his secret, and had no reason to believe that he had made an impression on her heart.
When Mr. Mutrie was sufficiently recovered to travel, Dr. Collet advised that it would be well for him to go to some place with a bracing atmosphere, and suggested Switzerland, to which Lord Mutrie at once agreed, and invited Collet to accompany them as his son's medical attendant—to which Collet agreed—against his better judgment, for his passion grew with what it fed on, and he had a foreboding that in some mad moment he should reveal it to Beatrice, and then—the deluge.
The party consisted of Lord and Lady Mutrie and their family, John Collet and several servants.
They moved about, sojourned for a little while in the Oberland and at Lucerne, and July found them at Champéry, in canton Valais, when his lordship, being wanted at home, left them.
By this time Edgar had fully regained his strength, and early in August their party was to break up, he and his sister and mother going to Scotland, John, to Claybury. He did not rejoice in the prospect. As for Beatrice, though she was as gracious as ever, he could not for the life of him tell whether she affected his company because she liked to talk with him about literature and science, and other subjects in which she took an interest—because, in short, he amused her—or for some more sentimental motive, her manner being susceptible of either construction. In any case it would not be right to entrap her into an engagement which her parents would not sanction, and which could bring only misery and confusion.
Thus thought Collet in his calmer moods, yet there were times when he resolved to brush all obstacles aside and win Beatrice or die.
One day Edgar, Beatrice, and the doctor, accompanied by several English tourists, who were staying at the same hotel, made an excursion to the Culet. As it was a journey of several hours they started early, taking with them a couple of porters who carried provisions on which the party lunched with good appetites in the pine-woods near the top of the mountain. There they sauntered and rested during the heat of the day, and descended to Champéry in the cool of the evening. They had gone up in a body, they went down in groups and pairs, and while some loitered by the way, others made haste, as if to see how quickly they could reach their destination.
Among the pairs were Beatrice and John; and either by accident or design they were the last to leave the pine-wood. To make matters worse—or better—they took a wrong turn and lost their way—to the lady's dismay; for though she liked Dr. Collet's society, she did not seem to like the idea of being benighted on a Swiss mountain side, with him for her sole company.
After studying his map and making enquiry of a wayfarer whom they chanced to meet, Collet decided to strike across a newly mown alp, or mountain mead, which, as the wayfarer assured him, was a near cut to the road they had wandered from. Now, the alp, besides terminating in a precipice, was as steep as the roof of a high gabled house, and the turf smooth and velvety, so that Miss Mutrie, whose boot soles had been polished by walking on grass the greater part of the day found the descent difficult, which John (whose boots were spiked) perceiving, would have had her take his arm.
"Thank you very much," said, she rather coldly, "I can manage very well with my alpenstock."
Nevertheless, Collet kept his eye on her, and well he did, for presently the alpenstock snapped, whereupon the Lady fell and glided swiftly down the slope. Collet dashed frantically after her and was barely in time to seize her hand as she hung over the precipice. Though unhurt she was faint with fear, and John raising her up, put his arms round her, and rested her head on his shoulder. Both were deeply moved, and he, forgetting that he was a druggist's son, poured forth his tale of love in a torrent of passionate words, and she, forgetting that the was a lady of high degree, and remembering only his devotion, smiled through her tears, and let him take love's guerdon from her lips.
"Oh you love me, you love me?" he cried. "I care for nothing else, I ask for nothing else."
"Yes, I love you," she murmured, and who is there so worthy of my love?"
"I hope Lord Mutrie will think the same," said John, recovering from his delirium and resolving to play fair. "Remember, my origin is very humble, and my people are common people."
"Anyhow, you are a gentleman and the cleverest man I know. My father thinks very highly of you. He has often said that but for your skill and attention Edgar would have died. And when he knows that my happiness is at stake I think he will give his consent. But you must leave this to me. I shall find a way of breaking the ice. If you were to speak first he might be angry. You will have to wait awhile."
"As long you like, darling. The joy of this moment is enough for a lifetime—and I know you will be true."
"Till death. Yes, I shall be true and you will be both true and discreet. Promise me not to reveal our secret, either by word or sign, until I give you leave—or (smiling) prove untrue."
"I promise."
Then they resumed their walk and overtook their companions.
COLLET returned to Claybury with a light heart. There were doubtless difficulties ahead, but sufficient for the day was the evil, or, rather, the good thereof. Beatrice loved him. That was enough for the present, and he had good hope that when it came to the point Lord Mutrie would not let caste prejudice and family pride stand in the way of his daughter's happiness.
John's practice had suffered somewhat from his absence, but his return very soon put matters right, for the cure of Mr. Mutrie had made him locally famous, and Lord Mutrie's favour made him fashionable.
The Mutries went from Scotland to Brighton, where Lord Mutrie had a house, then to London where he had another house, and they did not return to the Priory until Christmas Eve. When John called be was kindly received, though Beatrice seemed to keep rather aloof; but this being doubtless, a part of her plan and meant merely to put him on his guard, and other people off the scent, gave him no concern.
A few days afterwards he chanced to have a visit from a gossiping patient who, as he was going away, asked the doctor whether he had heard he news.
"What news?" demanded Collet.
"Here, read it yourself," said the other, producing a copy of the Tattler and pointing to a marked passage. The passage ran thus—
"A marriage has been arranged between the Honourable Beatrice Mutrie, only daughter of Viscount Mutrie, of Claybury Priory, and Sir Guy Darnley, of Pleasington Park. Besides being a wealthy landowner, Sir Guy is a great athlete captain of the county eleven and a mighty hunter."
"Do you believe it?" Collet asked his visitor.
"Why not? It is there in black and white."
"Anyhow, it is a lie. You may take my word for that."
"Well, you ought to know if anybody does. But what a shame. By Jove, won't his lordship be riled! The fellow who wrote it, deserves horsewhipping. Leave you the paper? Of course I will. It isn't worth pocket room."
And the visitor went his way.
Doctor Collet spoke truly. He fell sure that the story had been evolved from the inner consciousness of some malicious penny-a-liner of the gutter. It was simply impossible, inconceivable. Beatrice had promised to be true; and to question her loyalty, were treason to their love.
And yet—
Soon, in spite of himself, the poison of jealousy and distrust began to filter into his mind. The Tattler, though a society paper, was fairly veracious. It took pains to verify its information, which, in this instance, might have some foundation in fact. Sir Guy Darnley had probably been a frequent guest at Lord Mutrie's mansion in Mayfair, or had been seen in her company at the theatre, or elsewhere. Trifles light at air are enough for purveyors of gossip to make a paragraph of.
Then he read the paragraph again, and the oftener he read the more inscrutable it seemed. At length his doubts grew so portentous that he resolved to set them at rest come what might. He would go to the Priory, he could easily find an excuse for another call. Lady Mutrie had asked him for some salicylate of soda tabloids for her rheumatism. He would take them himself.
So he put on his hat and set off on foot. A walk would do him good.
As Collet drew near the house he met one of the upper servants, for whom, a little while before, he had successfully prescribed. The man greeted him, and John inquired about his health, and asked whether Lady Mutrie was at home. Yes she was at home. Had they any visitors?
"Only Sir Guy Darnley. He came last night.
"Sir Guy Darnley—he—" gasped John.
"Yes, haven't you heard? He is engaged to our young lady. It was arranged in London, but hadn't to be made known till Christmas."
"Are you sure—they are really engaged?"
"Undoubtedly. And it is quite a love match. They are together at present, somewhere in the grounds. Good day, doctor."
No use going to the house, now. John turned into a shrubbery with winding walks, and leaning against a tree wiped sway the perspiration that was streaming down his face. Even yet he could not believe that Beatrice had deliberately played him false. She had been forced into this engagement against her will. Her father had insisted, and she had weakly yielded. He must see her, hear the truth from her own lips and then—
Here his reflections were interrupted by the sound of voices, and the next moment he caught sight of two people coming towards him—a man and a woman. His arm encircled her waist she was clinging to him fondly, the light of love in her eyes.
The sight put John beside himself; he hardly knew what he did. Had he possessed a weapon he would have killed them both.
When they were within a few yards of him he stepped into the path and confronted them.
Beatrice gave a little scream and released herself from her lover's embrace.
"You here, Dr. Collet?" she stammered.
"It is true, then."
"What?"
"That you are engaged to this gentleman?"
"Yes. I beg your pardon—Sir Guy Darnley."
"You should be off with the old love before you are on with the new, Miss Mutrie."
"What does the man mean? Is he mad?" demanded Sir Guy, haughtily.
"I mean that this lady was affianced to me—is affianced to me if there be truth in woman."
"It is not true, Guy; it is not true," cried Beatrice. "You forget yourself, Dr. Collet."
"And you add lying to treachery! As you were false to me, so will you be false to him."
"By God, sir, if you don't cease these insults and be gone, I will thrash you within an inch of your life," exclaimed Sir Guy, hotly.
"Insults!"
"What insult can be greater than the suggestion that Miss Mutrie could so far forget herself as to become engaged to a miserable vendor of quack medicines. Begone I say."
John stepped forward and made a threatening gesture, albeit his rival, an exceptionally powerful man, could have crushed him with a blow.
"No violence, for heavens sake," exclaimed Beatrice, stepping between them. "You are labouring under some dreadful delusion, Dr. Collet. In your cooler moments you will regret this—unseemly conduct; and I—we—will overlook it in consideration of your service to the family."
"I will go. I will go," returned John, bitterly. "The only thing I have to regret is believing a woman's word. But the time will come when you will rue your treachery, and this gentleman will regret having insulted a man who is his superior in every thing but physical strength and the accident of birth."
And so he left them.
On the following day he went to London, found a purchaser for his practise and furniture, on terms very favourable to the purchaser, and shortly afterwards quitted Claybury for ever.
COLLET took to his former rambling life. Being highly qualified and well known he had no difficulty in obtaining employment, first on board an emigrant ship bound to Melbourne, next on a coolie ship bound from Madras to the West Indies. From the West Indies he sailed to England, then made the same round as before, and so continued for several years. Between his longer voyages he took occasional trips to America and the Continent. But whether on land or sea, at home or abroad, he was a prey to gloomy thoughts. Beatrice's treachery had perverted his originally fine nature, and turned into a morbid misanthrope a man who beforetime had never harboured an evil thought against a fellow creature, and in happier circumstances might have won fame, and been eminent for goodness. Now, he hated Beatrice more than be had once loved her, and dwelt continually on the thought of revenge. Yet though to this end be revolved in his mind many schemes he took no active steps toward their accomplishment, in part, perhaps because his energies were impaired by the nervous shock which he had sustained, and by drink, in which he sometimes indulged to excess. Moreover, the Darnleys lived in a world so remote from his own that it was unlikely their paths would ever cross. Nevertheless, Collet firmly believed he should meet them again and the opportunity for which he longed with savage eagerness would come.
Some four years after what he called his betrayal, he accepted an invitation from an old fellow student, with whom he had kept up a desultory correspondence, to visit him at his country place in the French Jura. Dr. Lanfrey, the gentleman in question, had won fame and fortune. Every autumn he made a long sojourn in a beautiful chalet which he had built for himself on a breezy height overlooking the valley of the Rhône.
Collet met with a warm welcome, and in his friend's company, and that of his charming wife, ceased for a while his morbid broodings; his health, physical and moral, greatly improved, and he became more like his old self than he had been since he left Claybury.
His host, who was a good fellow, had taken charge of the village doctor's practice during his temporary absence, and Collet accompanied Lanfrey on his rounds, but the mountain air was so pure, and the people so hardy, that there was little for them to do.
One wet afternoon the two friends were smoking their cigars end talking over old times, when a servant entered the room, and said that Monsieur le docteur was earnestly requested to see an English milord, who was lying seriously ill at a village inn some three miles down the valley.
"Who brings this message, Marie!" asked Dr. Lanfrey.
"A man in a char-à-banc, and he wants Monsieur to return with him."
"A rough evening to turn out in," observed Lanfrey, dubiously, "it rains comme un chien, and I daresay there is not much the matter with this gentleman."
"Let me go," put in Collet. "He is English, and you don't know English."
"That is true. Very well—if you will be so good. And it isn't far. You will drive there in fifteen minutes, and back in fifty; and I can lend you a very excellent waterproof."
Collet put a small medicine case and a case of surgical instruments into his pocket, donned his friend's very excellent waterproof and set out.
The man with a char-à-banc, who had been promised a pour-boire of ten francs if he brought the doctor quickly, drove like Jehu, the son of Nimzhi, and they were at the inn ten minutes after leaving the chalet.
"Where is the sick man?" asked Collet, as he doffed his dripping hat and divested himself of the waterproof.
"This way. Will you give yourself the trouble to come up stairs, Monsieur le docteur," answered milord's courier, who was lounging in the vestibule.
Collet followed the man, who ushered him into a salon on the first floor, bowed and withdrew. The next moment a door on the opposite side of the room opened and admitted a lady.
"Vous êtes Monsieur le docteur?" she exclaimed eagerly.
Collet recognised her at the first glance, though as he had greatly altered and wore a beard, and the room was dimly lighted, she did not recognise him.
"Yes. I understand English," said he speaking thickly to disguise his voice.
"So good of you to come! My husband, Sir Guy Darnley, is terribly ill. He is better now, though he would have died. We were on our way to Divonne, but he was suffering so frightfully. Will you see him?"
She opened the door by which she had come in and led the way into a bedroom adjoining the salon.
Sir Guy Darnley lay on a couch; his face pale and drawn, his eyes haggard and anxious, his lips twitching.
"Are you in pain?" asked Collet, taking his hand and intently regarding him.
"Not so much just now; but a few minutes since I thought I was dying, and if it had lasted many seconds longer I should I have died—I felt as though I were being stabbed to the heart; I could not breathe. Can you do anything, doctor? Will it come again?"
"I hope not."
Collet made a gesture signifying that he wanted to have a word with Lady Darnley, and returned with her to the salon.
"Were you aware that your husband had organic heart disease?" asked Collet.
"Yes. Sir Dyce Dimsdale said so two years ago. He over-exerted himself in a rowing match."
"And has he over exerted himself to-day?"
"Yes, the carriage went off the road and he helped to raise it against my entreaties. He was always so proud of his strength."
"Well, his pride in this instance has brought on an attack of angina pectoris, one of the worst maladies known. How many paroxysms has he had?"
"Three."
"Of increasing intensity?"
"Yes."
"And he will have more."
"Oh my poor Guy! But you don't mean that he must die?"
"Unless something is done he will."
"And you will do it, doctor, at once?"
"Why should I do it?"
"Because—what do you mean?"
"Look at me, Lady Darnley," said Collet, in his natural voice, as he threw back the hair which had fallen over his brow.
"God help me! Dr. Collet?"
"Yes, I am the man whom you jilted and betrayed, to whom you plighted your troth; and, in the presence of his rival, gave him the lie."
"But it could not have been. My father would never have consented."
"Ah, had that been all. Or if you had said you had changed your mind, that you no longer loved me, I could have borne it. But to be fooled and deceived, to be left in the belief that you loved me while you loved another, and then to be told that I was labouring under an illusion, which meant that I was lying—"
"Oh yes, I was very cruel, and wicked, and did you a great wrong. I admit it and I entreat your forgiveness. But my husband has done you no wrong.
"He was my successful rival, and grossly insulted me—you remember the words—and threatened me with personal violence."
"They were spoken in anger. He did not know it was my fault. Oh John, forgive me."
"I told you the time would come. It is come."
"You don't want to break my heart?"
"You broke mine and wrecked my life. I would rather you had killed me outright."
"Oh, what can I do? See, I go down on my knees to you. Must he die, is there no way of saving him?"
"Unless a remedy is applied he will die."
"And you have the remedy with you?"
"I have."
"And you decline to apply it."
"I do."
"Oh John Collet, in God's name, don't, in order to punish me—though I richly deserve it—don't burden your soul with the sin of murder."
"What?"
"It will be murder, won't it, if you let my husband die? And what will it profit you? You are not a bad man. You have a conscience, and once you were as tender and compassionate as a woman."
"Once! Now I am as hard as stone, and pitiless, made so by a woman's treachery. Why should I help this husband of yours to live a few days or a few years longer?"
"Because otherwise your sin will be greater then mine. Because you are a physician. Don't you remember saying that the glory of your calling was saving human life!"
Collet bowed his head and remained for several seconds in deep thought.
Then he produced his medicine case and took from it a little glass capsule.
"What is that! asked Lady Darnley, who had been watching him with keen anxiety.
"This capsule contains nitrite of amyl, which when inhaled by a patient suffering from angina pectoris affects immediate relief."
Here an agonised voice came from the bedroom: —
"It is beginning again, Beatrice—I am suffocating—the doctor."
"Can you listen unmoved to that cry of distress? Give it to me then," and hardly knowing what she did Lady Darnley snatched the capsule from Collet's hand, but the fragile thing broke in her grasp, and the fragments dropped on the floor.
"Foolish women, what have you done!" exclaimed Collet. "I had relented, and was going to administer the remedy. Now he must take his chance; I have no more capsules."
"No more! No more!" she cried, wildly. "I think I shall go mad. Can nothing be done? He is calling again. In a moment, dear. Can nothing be done?"
"I will send to Dr. Lanfrey for more capsules. The man who brought me can go, I suppose?"
"Yes, yes. Write a note to Dr. Lanfrey; I will see about the messenger."
"No, I shall go myself. It will be better. Tell them to saddle the fleetest horse in the stable. I can do it in forty minutes."
"And you will come back?" asked lady Darnley, dubiously.
"Certainly, if I live another hour."
Lady Darnley rang the bell and ordered a horse to be saddled forthwith.
"You are a good man," she said, humbly, taking Collet's hand. "The best man I know. You are heaping coals of fire upon my head."
"Don't make a false deduction, Lady Darnley. If I renounce my revenge it is only because you reminded me, what I was forgetting, that mine is a noble profession—a profession which it were treason to disgrace—that the duty of the physician is to heal regardless of persons. I am doing no more for your husband than I would do for his lackey. In forty minutes expect me."
Lady Darnley went to the window and watched him go The rain was still coming down; the mountain tops were shrouded in a white mist end their sides seamed with foaming torrents. Sighing deeply she returned to her husband, who was in sore anguish, and comforted him with the assurance that in little more then half an hour, the doctor would return and give him something to relieve his pain.
The minutes sped on, end every minute Sir Guy Darnley gasped: "The doctor; how soon—when—tell me when?"
And his wife would answer: "Presently, very soon," and at last "in a few minutes."
Yet, though the full forty were gone, he came not. She went to the window and looked down the rain-swept road, but could see naught of him. Then, fearing that he was false, that he would never return, she wrote a passionate, hurried missive to Dr. Lanfrey, entreating him for God's sake to come to her husband and bring with him nitrite of amyl, or whatever was the approved remedy for angina pectoris. This she gave to the courier, bade him drive with a carriage and pair to the chalet, and promised to divide five hundred francs between himself and the coachman if they brought back Dr. Lanfrey within the hour.
This done, Lady Darnley resumed her vigil. The paroxysm was over. Yet, though Sir Guy had survived the attack, it seemed impossible for him to survive another. His face was death-like, and covered with a clammy sweat, and he had only just enough strength to ask in a scarcely audible whisper, whether the doctor was come.
"Soon, dear," answered his wife wearily, "he will here soon."
And ever and anon she glanced anxiously at the clock on the mantelpiece, listening with agonised impatience to its monotonous ticking, and wondering how and when her ordeal would end. But time goes on whatever betides; everything passes. The clock chimed the quarter, then the half hour. In thirty minutes more—forty at the outside—Dr. Lanfrey must come; and Sir Guy still lived.
Hark! The rattle of wheels and the tramp of horses' hoofs in the road. They are back already.
Lady Darnley runs to the window, the carriage stops at the inn door, and out of it steps the courier. Only the courier! What could it mean? She goes to meet him. The man looks pale and frightened.
"What is it? What has happened?" she cries.
"Oh, madam, such a dreadful misfortune. A waterspout has fallen on the mountains, or a lake burst its banks—nobody knows which—and the flood has come down like an avalanche, and overwhelmed men and houses, and made a great breach in the road, through which it is pouring like a mill stream. Dr. Collet, in returning from the chalet, tried to cross it, though the people on this side warned him back. But he would not heed—it was a case of life and death he said—and though his horse breasted the stream nobly both were swept away. Such a terrible misfortune. And it is impossible to reach the chalet even on foot. What is to be done?"
Lady Darnley sank into a fauteuil and buried her face in her hands.
"John Collet has sacrificed his life to save Guy's, and the sacrifice has been in vain," she murmured. "My punishment is greater than I can bear."
"What is to be done?" repeated the courier.
Lady Darnley looked up.
"Nothing can be done," she said despairingly. "Nothing. It is God's will. That cry again! Another paroxysm. I am coming dear; I am coming."
An hour later, Lady Darnley knelt by the bedside of what had been her husband, and looked for the first time on the face of the dead.
Roy Glashan's Library
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