"I did not go to Brook-street--not that I did not fully comprehend the change in the nature of my position since I had last seen Miss Kilsyth, not that I had not a certain half-latent feeling of hope that I might, now I had the legitimate chance, be enabled to rouse an interest in her, but because I thought it was perhaps better to stay away. If I did not see her again, I preposterously attempted to argue to myself, the feeling that I had for her might die out. I have seen her again. I have heard from you that my feelings towards your sister are known--at least to you; and now I ask you whether you still think that, under existing circumstances, it is impossible for me to ask Miss Kilsyth to be my wife at some future date?"
As Chudleigh Wilmot stopped speaking, he bent over the back of the chair by which he had been standing during the latter part of his speech, and looked long and earnestly at Ronald. It was very seldom that Captain Kilsyth dropped his eyes before anyone's gaze; but on this occasion he passed his hand hastily across them, and kept them for some minutes fixed upon the ground. A very hard struggle was going on in Ronald Kilsyth's mind. He was firmly persuaded that the decision he had originally taken, and which he had come to Charles-street for the purpose of insisting on with Wilmot, was the right one. And yet Wilmot's story, in itself so touching, had been so plainly and earnestly told, there was such evident honesty and candour in the man, that Ronald's heart ached to be compelled to destroy the hopes which he felt certain that his companion had recently cherished. Moreover, in saying that in considering Madeleine's future, his aspirations for her marriage took no heed of rank or wealth, Ronald simply spoke the truth. He had a slight tendency to hero-worship; and a man of Wilmot's talent, and, as he now found, of Wilmot's integrity and gentlemanly feeling, was just the person of whose friendship and alliance he would have been proud. Madeleine too? In his own heart Ronald felt perfectly certain that Madeleine was already gratefully fond of her preserver, and would soon become as passionately attached to him as the mildness of her nature would admit; while he knew that she would not feel that she was descending from her social position--that she was "marrying beneath her," to use the ordinarily accepted phrase, in the smallest degree. And yet--no, it was impossible! He, Ronald Kilsyth, the last man in the world to care for the talk of "on," "they," "everybody," the social scandal, and the club chatter, while it concerned himself, shrunk from it most sensitively when it threatened anyone dear to him. Physicians were all very well--everyone knew them of course, necessarily; but their wives--Ronald was trying to recollect how many physicians' wives he had ever met in society, when he recollected that it was Madeleine, who would of course hold her own position; and--and then came a thought of Lady Muriel, and the influence which she had over his father when they were both tolerably agreed upon the subject. It was impossible; and he must say so.
He looked up straightforwardly and honestly at his companion, and said, "I wish to God that I could give you a different answer, Dr. Wilmot; but I cannot. I still think it is impossible."
"I think so too," said Wilmot sadly. "I have looked at it, as you may imagine, from the most hopeful aspect; and even then I am compelled to confess that you are right. But, see here, Captain Kilsyth; whatever I make up my mind to I can go through with,--all save slow torture. My doom must be short and sharp--no lingering death. What I mean to say is," he continued, striving to repress the knot rising in his throat,--"what I mean to say is, that as I am to give up this hope of my life, I must quench it utterly and at once, not suffer it to smoulder and die out. You tell me--no!" he added, as Ronald put out his hand. "I do not mean you personally, believe me. I am told that I must abandon any idea of asking Miss Kilsyth to be my wife, and--and I agree. But--I must never see Miss Kilsyth again. I could not risk the chance of meeting her here, there, and everywhere. I would not run the chance of being thrown with her again. I should do my best to hold to the line of conduct I have marked out for myself; but I am but mortal, and, as such, liable to err."
"Then, in heaven's name, what do you intend to do with yourself?" asked Ronald, with one hand plucking at his moustache, and the other hooked round the back of the chair.
"To do with myself!" echoed Wilmot. "To fly from temptation. The thing that every sensible man does when he really means to win. It is only your braggarts who stop and vaunt the excellence of their virtue, and give in after all. Read that letter, Captain Kilsyth, and you will see that I have anticipated the object of your visit."
Ronald took the letter to Sir Saville Rowe which Wilmot handed to him, and read it through carefully. The tears stood in his eyes as he handed it back.
"You're a noble fellow, Dr. Wilmot," said he; "such a gentleman as one seldom meets with. But this will never do. You must never think of giving up your practice."
"For a time at least; it is the only way. I must cure myself of a disease that has laid firm hold upon me before I can be of any use to my patients, I fancy."
"When do you purpose going?"