“I do not think so. Whoever the woman may be, you say that she was false to me. That is quite sufficient to kill my love forever.”
John Hamilton pressed his hands to his head to still his reeling brain.
“I know not what to say,” he whispered, huskily. “Just Heaven, guide me aright! Let me not make shipwreck of my child’s life! You tempt me sorely, Sir Harold, for I know not what will become of her when I am dead, and I am far from being strong! At times my heart pains me so that the fear of sudden death fills me with terror for my dear child’s sake. I know the symptoms only too well. Some day, aye, at any hour—the knife of the assassin may be turned against her, and if I am gone, who is to protect her then?”
He was silent for a minute, then went on: “I owe you a story, Sir Harold. I promised weeks ago to tell you why I lived in this secluded place, and held no communication with the world beyond. I am old now, and poor, with no hope for rest this side the grave. At thirty I was a successful man, with a brilliant future before me. The whole world was my battlefield, and I gathered fresh laurels wherever I went. At last my surgical skill attracted the attention of a Russian prince, who had for years been suffering with a malformation which made of him an object of pity. He offered me an enormous fee to operate upon him; he cared not what pain he endured; he cared not whether he lived or died unless he could mingle with his fellows, and enjoy the sweets of life. I was warned by the cleverest physicians of the day that the task was hopeless; but, fired with the enthusiasm of youth, I shook off all restraint; I turned a deaf ear to all counsel, and went to St. Petersburg. I will not weary you with a description of my anxiety—of the weeks of patient waiting while my charge lingered between life and death after the operation. Let it suffice that I was successful; my name rang through Europe, and fame and fortune met me at every turn.”
His pale cheeks flushed, and his eyes brightened with the recollections of those bygone days.
“A few months afterward I was tempted to go to Italy by the promise of an unusually large fee if I could remove a tumor from the cheek of a wealthy old count. As usual, I was careful to receive correct reports concerning the condition of my would-be patient, and I heard that no power on earth could save his life. Already had he been twice operated upon.
“This news fired me with determination, and I accepted the onerous task.
“It was a foolish decision on my part, for now I could not afford to make a mistake, or the fame that had so suddenly encircled me would fall in ruins at my feet.
“One glance at the sufferer convinced me that the days of Count Crispi were numbered—whether he was operated on or not. The taint of the tumor was in every artery of his shriveled frame.
“‘It is of no use adding fresh torture to the brief span of your life,’ I told him. ‘You have less than a month to live in any case.’