“Who is he?”
“Dr. Dayrell. He will stay here, and will see my patients until I return.”
Tarbot left the room, and Clara found herself alone. She still stood near the fire. Something glittered in her eye. She raised a cobwebby lace handkerchief to wipe it away—it was a tear. Then she sank into the nearest chair.
“I have heard the truth at last,” she said to herself. “I shall never win his love. He has paid me what he considers a good price—he has made me his lawful wife. To the longest day he lives, unless I die first, I shall be his wife. He is rich and great, and I can share both his riches and his greatness, only I never married him for them. He will not believe me, but it is true. He thinks that for the sake of riches and greatness I shall be his tool and accomplice, but with all his cleverness he has not read my woman’s heart. If he loved me I would go with him wherever he chose to lead, but as he doesn’t love me, I am undecided—love like mine has been known to change to hate. If such a thing should happen, Luke Tarbot had better beware.”
She rose from her seat now in her agitation, and as she did so a pang sharp as a knife went through her chest. She paused as if she were stricken with death, and her breath came short and sharp. After a moment she went up to the glass and examined her face carefully.
“Thin, thin to emaciation,” she said to herself. “The bones protrude. Ah, how ugly I grow! No wonder he cannot love me. And this cough which I am always trying to suppress, and the burning thirst, and the fever at night, and the cold sweat—oh, great heaven! I know the truth, but I will have my fears confirmed, and now at this moment. I will be a coward no longer. My friend, Dr. Mary Murchison, will tell me the truth, and I would rather hear it from the lips of a woman than a man.”
Clara left the drawing-room, went to her bedroom, put on her bonnet and warm mantle, and went out. Walking quickly, she soon reached Dr. Mary Murchison’s house in Queen Anne Street. The lady doctor was at home, and when Clara was ushered into her consulting-room came at once to see her.
“Mrs. Tarbot,” she cried, shaking hands with her. “I am glad you have come, but what can I do for you?”
“I am here on a painful business,” said Clara. “I am, as you know, a doctor’s wife, but I would rather have the opinion of one who is not related to me. I have been unwell for some time.”
“You look very bad.”