She flung her arms round his neck, and hid her trembling face against his breast.
"I can't help it," she said. "It is the eve of our wedding-day. Oh, I feel sick with terror—sick with sorrow."
CHAPTER IX.
Arthur Rumsey, M.D., F.R.C.S., was one of the most remarkable men of his time. He was unmarried, and lived in a large house in Harley Street, where he saw many patients daily. He was on the staff of more than one of the big London hospitals, and one or two mornings in each week had to be devoted to this public service, which occupies so much of the life of a busy and popular doctor. Rumsey was not only a clever, all-round man, but he was also a specialist. The word nerve—that queer complex word, with its many hidden meanings, its daily and hourly fresh renderings—that word, which belongs especially to the end of our century, he seized with a grip of psychological intensity, and made it his principal study. By slow degrees and years of patient toil he began to understand the nerve power in man. From the study of the nerves to the study of the source of all nerves, aches and pains, joys and delights, the human brain, was an easy step. Rumsey was a brain specialist. It began to be reported of him, not only in the profession, but among that class of patients who must flock to such a man, when he had performed wonderful and extraordinary cures, that to him was given insight almost superhuman. It was said of Rumsey that he could read motives and could also unravel the most complex problems of the psychological world.
Five years had passed since Margaret Douglas found herself the bride of Robert Awdrey. These five years had been mostly spent by the pair in London. Being well off, Awdrey had taken a good house in a fashionable quarter. He and Margaret began to entertain, and were popular from the very first, in their own somewhat large circle. They were now the parents of one beautiful child, a boy, and the outside world invariably spoke of them as a prosperous and a very happy couple.
Everett did not expiate his supposed crime by death. The plea of the jury for mercy resulted in fourteen years' penal servitude. Such a sentence meant, of course, a living death; he had quite sunk out of ken—almost out of memory. Except in the heart of his mother and in the tender heart of Margaret Awdrey, this young man, whose career had promised to be so bright, so satisfactory, such a blessing to all who knew him, was completely forgotten.
In his mother's heart, of course, he was safely enshrined, and Margaret also, although she had never spoken to him, and never saw his face until the day of the trial, still vividly remembered him.
When her honeymoon was over and she found herself settled in London, one of her first acts was to seek out Mrs. Everett, and to make a special friend of the forlorn and unhappy widow.
Both Margaret and Mrs. Everett soon found that they had a strong bond of sympathy between them. They both absolutely believed in Frank Everett's innocence. The subject, however, was too painful to the elder woman to be often alluded to, but knowing what was in Margaret's heart she took a great fancy to her, always spoke to her with affection, took a real interest in her concerns, and was often a visitor at her home.