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THE LIBRARY


CLASS BOOK
















MRS. L. T. MEADE.


DR. RUMSEY’S PATIENT‘
A VERY STRANGE STORY"
BY
L. T. MEA I)
Elizabs‘Hw Homasina Meade
AND
' DR. HALIFAX
mm Amons or "mums non THI mun on A nocmn '
NEW YORK
.HURST & COMPANY
PUBLISHERS.
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Oomxomn, 1&6, at
THE INTERNATIONAL NEWS COHPAIY
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED


6 DR. RUMSEY’S PATIENT.
‘This heat is tremendous and there is no air,"
said Everett, the younger of the students. “How
can you stand that sun beating on your head,
Frere? I’m for indoors.”
“Bight,” replied Frere. “It is cool enough in
the parlor.”
As he spoke he took a step forward and gazed
/ ‘down the winding village street. There was a look
of pleased expectation in his eyes. He seemed to
be watching for some one. A girl appeared, walk-
ing slowly up the street. Frere’s eye began to
dance. Everett, who was about to go into the
shady parlor, gave him a keen glance—and for
some reason his eyes also grew bright with ex-
pectation.
“There’s something worth looking at," he ex-
claimed in a laughing voice.
“ What did you say?” asked Frere grufiiy.
‘Nothing, old man—at least nothing special. I
say, doesn't Hetty look superb?”
“You've no right to call her Hetty."
Everett gave a low whistle.
“I rather fancy I have,” he answered-——“ she
gave me leave this morning.”
' “Impossible,” said Frere. He turned pale
under all his sunburn, and bit his lower lip.
‘Don’t you find the sun very hot?” he asked.
“No, it is sinking into the west—the great heat
is over. Let us go and enliven this little charmer."
“ I will,” said Frere suddenly. “ You had better
stay here where you are. It is my right," he


DR. RUMSEY’S PATIENT 7
added. “I was about to tell you so, when she
came in view.”
“Your right?" cried Everett; he looked dis-e
turbed.
Frere did not reply, but strode quickly down the
village street. A dozen strides brought him up to-
Hetty’s side. She was a beautiful girl, with a face
and figure much above her station. Her hat was
covered with wild flowers which she had picked
in her walk, and coquettishly placed there. She-
wore a pink dress covered with rosebuds—some-
wild flowers were stuck into her belt. As Frere-
advanced to meet her, her laughing eyes were
raised to his face—there was a curious mixture of
timidity and audacity in their glance.
“ I have a word to say to you,” he accosted her
in a grufl' tone. “What right had you to give.
Everett leave to call you Hetty?”
The timidity immediately left the bright eyes,
and a slight expression of anger took its place.
“Because I like to distribute my favors, Mr.
Horace.”
She quickened her pace as she spoke. Everett,
who had been standing quite still in the porch
watching the little scene, came out to meet the
pair. Hetty flushed crimson when she saw him;
she raised her dancing, charming dark eyes to his
face, then looked again at Frere, who turned sul-
lenly away.
“I hope, gentlemen, you have had good sport,”
said the rustic beauty, in her demure voice.


8 DR. FUMSEY’S PATIENT.
“ Excellent,” replied Everett.
They had now reached the porch, which was en‘
twined all over with honeysuckle in full flower. A
great spray of the fragrant flower nearly touched
the girl’s charming face. She glanced again at
Frere. He would not meet her eyes. Her whole
:face sparkled with the feminine love of teasing. _
“Why is he so jealous?” she whispered to her-
vself. “ It would be fun to punish him. I like
him better than Mr. Everett, but I’ll punish him.”
“ Shall I give you a buttonhole?” she said, look-
:ing at Everett.
“If'you’ll be so kind,” he replied.
She raised her eyes to the honeysuckle over her
.head, selected a spray with extreme care, and
handed it to him demurely. He asked her to place
it in his buttonhole; she looked again at Frere,—he
would not go away, but neither would he bring
himself to glance at her. She bent her head to
search in the bodice of her dress for a pin, found
‘one, and then with a laughing glance of her eyes
into Everett’s handsome face, complied with his
request.
The young fellow blushed with pleasure, then he
glanced at Frere, and a feeling of ’ compunction
smote him—he strode abruptly into the house.
“Hetty, what do you mean by this sort of
thing?" said-Frere the moment they were alone.
“I mean this, Mr. Horace: I am still my own
mistress.”
“Great ‘Scot! of course you are; but what do


10 DR. RUMSEY’S PATIENT
'“ To give me the flowers, and to be nice to me.”
“ Come down to the brook after supper, perhaps
T11 give them to you then. There’s aunt calling
me—don’t keep me, please.” She rushed ofl'.
“ Hetty,” said Mrs. Armitage, the innkeeper’s
wife, “did I hear you talking to Mr. Horace Frere
in the porch?”
“ Yes, Aunt Fanny, you did,” replied Hetty.
“Well, look here, your uncle and I won’t have
‘it. Just because you’re pretty——”
Hetty tossed back her wealth of black curls.
“It’s all right,” she said in a whisper, her eyes
shining as she spoke. “ He wants me to be his
wife—me asked me this morning."
“He doesn’t mean that, surely,” said Mrs.
Armitage, incredulous and pleased.
“ Yes, he does; he’ll speak to uncle to-morrow—
that is, if I’ll say ‘Yes.’ He says he has no one
to consult—he’ll make me a lady—he has plenty
of money.”
“Do you care for him, Hetty ?"
“Oh, don’t ask me whether I do or not, Aunt
F anny— -I’m sure I can’t tell you.”
Hetty moved noisily about. She put plates and
dishes on a tray preparatory to taking them into
the parlor for the young men’s supper.
“Look here,” said her aunt, “I’ll see after the
parlor lodgers to-night.” She lifted the tray as
she spoke.
Hetty ran up to her bedroom. She took a little
square of glass from its place on the wall and


DR. RUMSE'Y’S PATIENT. 11
gazed earnestly at the reflection of her own charm-
ing face. Presently she put the glass down, locked
her hands together, went over to the open window
and looked out.
“Shall I marry him?” she thought. “He has
plenty of money—he loves me right enough. If I
were his wife, I’d be a lady—I needn’t worry
about household work any more. I hate house-
hold work~—I hate drudgery. I want to have a
fine time, with nothing to do but just to think of
my dress and how I look. He has plenty of
money, and he loves me—he says he’ll make me
his wife as soon as ever I say the word. Uncle
and aunt would be pleased, too, and the people in
the village would say I’d made a good match.
Shall I marry him? I don’t love him a bit, but
what does that matter?” ,
She sighed—the color slightly faded on her
blooming cheeks—she poked her head out of the
little window.
“I don’t love him,” she said to herself. “ When
I see Mr. Awdrey my heart beats. Ever since I
was a little child I have thought more of Mr.
Awdrey than of any one else in all the world. I
never told—no, I never told, but I’d rather slave
for Mr. Robert Awdrey than be the wife of any one
else on earth. What a fool I am! Mr. Awdrey
thinks nothing of me, but he is never out of my
head, nor out of my heart. My heart aches for
him—I’m nearly mad sometimes about it all.
Perhaps I’ll see him to-night if I go down to the


12 DR RUMSEY ‘S PATIENT.
brook. He’s sure to pass the brook on his way to
the Court. Mr. Everett likes me too, I know, and
he’s a gentleman as well as Mr. F rere. Oh, dear,
they both worry me more than please me. I’d give
twenty men like them for one sight of the young
Squire. Oh, what folly all this is!”
She went again and stood opposite to her little
Looking-glass. '
“The young ladies up at the Court haven’t got
a face like mine,” she murmured. “There isn’t
any one all over the place has a face like mine. I
wonder if Mr. Awdrey really thinks it pretty‘?
Why should I worry myself about Mr. Frere? I
wonder if Mr. Awdrey would mind if I married ,
him—would it make him jealous? If I thought
that, I’d do it fast enough—yes, I declare I would.
But of course he wouldn’t mind—not one bit; he
has scarcely ever said two words to me—not since
we were little ’uns together, and pelted each other
with apples in uncle’s orchard. Oh, Mr. Awdrey,
I’d give all the world for one smile from you, but
you think nothing at all of poor Hetty. Dear,
beautiful Mr. Awdrey—rwon’t you love me even a
little—-—even as you love your dog? Yes, I’llgo
and walk by the brook after supper. Mr. Frere
will meet me there, of course, and perhaps Mr.
Awdrey will go by—perhaps he’ll be jealous. I’ll
take my poetry book and sit by the brook just
where the forget-me-nots grow. Yes, yes—oh, I
- wonder if the Squire will go by.”
These thoughts no sooner came into Hetty’s


DR. RUMSEY’S PATIENT. 13
brain than she resolved to act upon them. She
snatched up a volume of L. E. L.’s poems—their
weak and lovelorn phrases exactly suited her style
and order of mind—and ran quickly down to a
dancing rivulet which ran its merry course about
a hundred yards back of the Inn. She sat by the
bank, pulled a great bunch of forget-me-nots, laid
them on the open pages of her book, and looked
musingly down at the flowers. Footsteps were
heard crunching the underwood at the opposite
side. A voice presently sounded in her ears.
Hetty’s heart beat loudly.
“How do you do?” said the voice.
“Good-evening, Mr. Robert,” she replied.
Her tone was demure and extremely respectful.
She started to her feet, letting her flowers drop as
she did so. A blush suffused her lovely face, her
dancing eyes were raised for a quick moment, then
as suddenly lowered. She made a beautiful
picture. The young man who stood a few feet
away from her, with the running water dividing
them, evidently thought so. He had a boyish
figure—a handsome, manly face. His eyes were
very dark, deeply set, and capable of much thought.
He looked every inch the gentleman.
“ Is Armitage in?” he asked after a pause.
“I don’t know, Mr. Robert, I’ll go and inquire
if you like.”
“No, it doesn't matter. The Squire asked me to
call and beg of your uncle to come to the Court to-
morrow morning. Will you give him the message?"


14 DR. R UMSE Y ‘S PA TIENT.
“Yes, Mr. Robert.”
There was a perceptible pause. Hetty looked
down at the water. Awdrey looked at her.
“ Good-evening,” he said then.
“ Good-evening, sir,” she replied.
He turned and walked slowly up the narrow path
which led toward the Court.
“ His eyes told me to-night that he thought me
pretty,” muttered Hetty to herself, “why doesn’t
he say it with his lips? I—I wish I could make
him. Oh, is that you, Mr. Frere?”
“Yes, Hetty. I promised to come, and I am
here. The evening is a perfect one, let us follow
the stream a little way.”
Hetty was about to say “No,” when suddenly
lifting her eyes, she observed that the young Squire
had paused under the shade of a great elm-tree a
little further up the bank. A quick idea darted
into her vain little soul. She would walk past the
Squire without pretending to see him, in Frere’s
company. Frere should make love to her in the
Squire’s presence. She gave her lover a coy and
affectionate glance.
“ Yes, come,” she said: “it is pretty by the
stream; perhaps I’ll give you some forget-me-nots
presently.”
“Iwant the heart’s-ease which you have already
picked for me,” said Frere.
“ Oh, there’s time enough.”
Frere advanced a step,and laid his hand on
the girl’s arm.


DR. RUMSEY’S PATIENT. 15
“Listen,” he said: “ I was never more in earnest
in my life. I love you with all my heart and soul.
I love ‘you madly. I want you for my wife. I
mean to marry you, come what may. I have
plenty of money and you are the wife of all others
for me. You told me this morning that you loved
me, Hetty. Tell me again; say that you love me
better than any one else in the world.”
Hetty paused, she raised her dark eyes; the
Squire was almost within earshot.
“ I suppose I love you—a little,” she said, in a
whisper.
“Then give me a kiss—just one."
She Walked on. Frere followed.
“ Give me a kiss—just one,” he repeated.
“ Not to-night,” she replied, in a demure voice.
“Yes, you must—~I insist.”
-“Don’t, Mr. Frere,” she called out sharply,
uttering a cry as she spoke.
He didn’t mind her. Overcome by his passion
he caught her suddenly in his arms, and pressed
his lips many times to hers.
“Hold, sir! What are you doing?” shouted
Awdrey’s voice from the opposite side of the bank.
“By heaven, what is that to you?” called Frere
back.
He let Hetty go with some violence, and retreated
one or two steps in his astonishment. His face
was crimson up to the roots of his honest brow.
Awdrey leaped across the brook. “ You will
please understand that you iake liberties with Miss


CHAPTER 11.
THE Awdreys of “The Court” could trace their
descent back to the Norman Conquest. They
were a proud family with all the special character-
istics which mark races of long descent. Among
the usual accompaniments of race, was given to
them the curse of heredity. A strange and pecul-
iar doom hung over the house. It had descended
now from father to son during many generations.
How it had first raised its gorgon head no one
could tell. People said that it had been sent as a
punishment for the greed of gold. An old an-
cestor, more than a hundred and fifty years ago,
had married a West Indian heiress. She had
colored blood in her veins, a purse of enormous
magnitude, a deformed figure, and, what was more
to the point, a particularly crooked and obtuse
order of mind. She did her duty by her descend-
ants, leaving to each of them a gift. To one, de-
formity of person—to another, a stammering
tongue—to a third, a squint—to a fourth, imbecil-
ity. In each succeeding generation, at least one
man and woman of the house of Awdrey had cause
to regret the gold which had certainly brought a
curse with it. But beyond and above all these
2


is _ DR. RUMSEY'S PATIENT.
things, it was immediately after the West Indian 5
entrance into the family that that strange doom be-
gan to assail the male members of the house which
was now more dreaded than madness. The doom
was unique and curious. It consisted of one re-
markable phase. There came upon those on whom
it descended an extraordinary and complete lapse
of memory for the grave events of life, accompanied
by perfect retention of memory for all minor
matters. This curious phase once developed, other
idiosyncrasies immediately followed. The victim’s
moral sense became weakened—all physical energy
departed—a curious lassitude of mind and body
became general. The victim did not in the least
know that there was anything special the matter
with him, but as a rule the doomed man either be-
came idiotic, or died before the age of thirty.
All the great physicians of their time had been
consulted with regard to this curious family trait,
but in the first place no one could understand it
in the second no possible cure could be suggester
as a remedy. The curse was supposed to be due
to a brain afi'ection, but brain affections in the old
days were considered to be special visitations
from God, and men of science let them alone.
In their early life, the Awdreys were particularly
bright, clever sharp fellows, endowed with excel-
lent animal spirits, and many amiable traits of
character. They were chivalrous to women, kind
to children, full of warm affections, and each and
all of them possessed much of the golden gift of


20 DR. RUMSEY 's PATIENT.
tially reflective temperament. Had he been less
healthily brought up by his stout old grandmother.
and by his mother, he might have given way to
morbid musings. Circumstances, however, were
all in his favor, and at the time when this strange
story really opens, he was looking out at life with
a heart full of hope and a. mind filled with noble
ambitions. Robert was the only son—he had two
sisters, bright, good-natured, every-day sort of
girls. As a matter of course his sisters adored
him. They looked forward to his career with im-
mense pride. He was to stand for Parliament at
the next general election. His brains belonged to
the highest order of Intellect. He had taken a
double first at the University—there was no posi-
tion which he might not hope to assume.
Robert had all the chivalrous instincts of his
race toward women. As he walked quickly home
now with Hetty by his side, his blood boiled at
the thought of the insult which had been offered
to her. Poor, silly little Hetty was nothing what’
ever to him except a remarkably pretty village girl
Her people, however, were his father’s tenants; he
felt it his duty to protect her.‘ When he parted
with her just outside the village inn, he said a few
words.
“You ought not to allow those young men to
take liberties with you, Hetty,” he said. “Now,
go home. Don’t be out so late again in the future,
and don’t forget to give your uncle my father’s
message.”


DR RUMSEY’S PATIENT. 21
She bent her head, and left him without reply-
ing. She did not even thank him. He watched
her until she disappeared into the house, then
turned sharply and walked up the village street
home with a vigorous step.
He had come to the spot where he had parted
with Frere, and was just about to leap the brook,
when that young man started suddenly from under
a tree, and stood directly in his path.
“I must ask you to apologize to me,” he said.
Awdrey flushed.
“ What do you mean?” he replied.
“What I say. My intentions toward Miss
Armitage are perfectly honest. She promised to
marry me this morning. When you chose to inter-
fere, I was kissing my future wife.”
“If that is really the case, I beg your pardon,”
said Awdrey; “but then,” he continued, looking
full at Frere, “Hetty Armitage denies any thought
of marrying you.”
“She does, does she?” muttered Frere. His
face turned white.
“ One word before you go,” said Awdrey. “ Miss
Armitage is a pretty gir -——”
“ What is that to you?” replied Frere, “I don’t
mean to discuss her with you.”
“You may please yourself about that, but allow
me to say one thing. Her uncle is one of my
father’s oldest and most respected tenants; Hetty
is therefore under our protection, and I for one
will see that she gets fair play. Any one who


22 DR. RUMSEY’S PATIENT.
takes liberties with her has got to answer to me
That’s all. Good-evening.”
Awdrey slightly raised his hat, leaped the brook,
and disappeared through the underwood in the
direction of the Court.
Horace Frere stood and watched him.
His rage was now almost at white heat. He
was madly in love, and was therefore not quite re-
sponsible for his own actions. He was determined
at any cost to make Hetty his wife. The Squire’s
interference awoke the demon of jealousy in his
heart. He had patiently borne Everett’s marked
attentions to the girl of his choice—he wondered
now at the sudden passion which filled him. He
walked back to the inn feeling exactly as if the
devil were driving him.
“ I’ll have this thing out with Hetty before I am
an hour older,” he cried aloud. “She promised
to marry me this very morning. How dare that
jackanapes interfere! What do I care for his posi-
tion in the place? Ifhe’s twenty times the Squire
it’s nothing to me. Hetty had the cool cheek to
eat her own words to him in my presence. It’s
plain to be seen what the thing means. She’; a
heartless flirt—she’s flying for higher game than
honest Horace Frere, but I’ll put a spoke in her
wheel, and in his wheel too, curse him. He’s in
love with the girl himselffithat’s why he interferes.
Well, she shall choose between him and me to-
night, and if she does choose him it will be all the
worse for him.”


24 DR. RUMSE Y 'S PATIENT.
had brought shadows under her eyes—they added
pathos to her lovely face, giving it a look of depth
which it usually lacked. F rere gave her one glance,
then he felt his anger dropping from him like a
mantle.
“For God’s sake, Hetty, speak the truth, ’ said
the poor fellow.
“What do you want me to say, Mr. Horace?”
she asked.
Her voice was tremulous, her tears nearly broke
forth anew. Frere made a step forward. He
would have clasped her to his breast, but she would
not allow him.
“No,” she said with a sob, “I can’t have any-
thing to do with you.”
“Hetty, you don’t_know what you are saying.
Hetty, remember this morning.”
“I remember it, but I can’t go on with it. For-
get everything I said—go away—please go away.”
“No, I won’t go away. By heaven, you shall
tell me the truth. Look here, Hetty, I won’t be
humbugged—~you’ve got to choose at once.”
“ What do you mean, Mr. Horace?”
“You’ve got to choose between that fellow and
me.”
“ Between_ you and the Squire !” exclaimed
Hetty.
She laughed excitedly; the bare idea caused her
heart to beat wildly. Her laughter nearly drove
Frere mad. He strode up to her, took her hands
with force, and looked into her frightened eyes.


DR. RUMSEY’S PATIENT. 25
“Do you love him? The truth, girl, I will have
it.”
“Let me go, Mr. Horace."
“ I won’t until you tell me the truth. It is either
the Squire or me; I must hear the truth now or
neyer~which is it, Squire Awdrey or me?”
“ Oh, I can’t help it,” said Hetty, bursting into
tears—“ it’s the Squire— oh, sir, let me go."


28 DR. RUMSEY’S PATIENT.
The great solemn plain of Salisbury lay not two
miles 011'. Frere made for its broad downs with-
out knowing in the least that he was doing so. By
and by, he found himself on a vast open space,
spreading s'heer away to the edge of the horizon.
The moon, which had been bright when he had
started on his walk, was now about to set--it was
casting long shadows on the ground; his own
shadow in gigantic dimensions walked by his side
as he neared the vicinity of the plain. He walked
on and on; the further he went the more fiercely
did his blood boil within him. All his life hitherto
he had been calm, collected, reasonable. He had
taken the events of life with a certain rude philoso-
phy. He had intended to do well for himself—to
carve out a prosperous career for himself, but al-
though he had subdued his passions both at college
and at school, he had never blinded his eyes to the‘
fact that there lived within his breast, ready to be
awakened when the time came, a devil. Once, as
a child, he had given way to this mad fury. He
had flung a knife at his brother, wounding him in
the temple, and almost killing him. The sight of
the blood and the fainting form of his only brother
had awakened his better self. He had lived
through agony while his brother’s life hung in the
balance. The lad eventually recovered, to die.in
a year or two of something else, but Frere never
forgot that time of mental torture. From that
hour until the present, he had kept his “devil,”
as he used to call it. well in check.


DR. RUMSEY'S PATIENT. 29
It was rampant to-night, however—he knew it,
he took no pains _to conceal the fact from his own
heart—he rather gloried in the knowledge.
He walked on and on, across the plain.
Presently in the dim distance he heard Everett
calling him.
“ F rere, I say Frere, stop a moment, I’ll come
up to you.”
A man who had been collecting underwood, and
was returning home with a bagful, suddenly ap-
peared in Frere’s path. Hearing the voice of the
man shouting behind he stopped.
“There be some-un calling yer,” he said in his
rude dialect. .
Frere stared at the man blindly. He looked
behind him, saw Everett’s figure silhouetted against
the sky, and then took wildly to his heels; he ran -
as if something evil were pursuing him.
At this moment the moon went completely down,
and the whole of the vast plain lay in dim gray
shadow. Frere had not the least idea where he
was running. He and Everett had spent whole
days on the plain revelling in the solitude and the
splendid air, but they had neither of them ever
visited it at night before. The whole place was
strange, uncanny, unfamiliar. Frere soon lost his
bearings. He tumbled into a hole, uttered an ex-
clamation of pain, and raised himself with some
difficulty.
“Hallo!” said a voice, “you might have broken
your leg. What are you doing here?”


30 DR. RUMSE Y ‘S PA TI ENT.
Frere stood upright; a man slighter and taller
than himself faced him about three feet away.
Frere could not recognize the face, but he knew the
tone.
“ What the devil have you come to meet me for?”
he said. “You've come to meetamadman. Turn
back and go home, or it will be the worse for you.”
“ I don’t understand you,” said Awdrey.
Frere put a tremendous restraint upon himself.
“Look here,” he said, “I don’t want to injure
you, upon my soul I don’t, but there’s a devil in
me to-night, and you had better go home without
any more words.”
“I shall certainly do nothing of the kind,” an-
swered Awdrey. “ The plain is as open to me as
to you. If you dislike me take your own path.”
“ My path is right across where you are stand-
ing,” said Frere.
“Well, step aside and leave me alone I”
It was so dark the men only appeared as shadows
one to the other. Their voices, each of them
growing hot and passionate, seemed scarcely to
belong to themselves. Frere came a step nearer
to Awdrey.
“You shall have it,” he cried. “By the heaven
above, I don’t want to spare you. Let me tell you
what I think of you.”
“ Sir,” said Awdrey, “I don’t wish to have any-
thing to do with you—leave me, go about your
business.”
91 will after I’ve told You a bit of my mind-


DR. RUMSEY'S PATIENT. 31
You're a confounded sneak—you’re a liar—you’re
no gentleman. Shall I tell you why you interfered .
between me and my girl to-night—because you
want her for yourself!”
This sudden accusation so astounded Awdrey
that he did not even reply. He came to the con~
clusion that Frere was really mad.
“You forget yourself,” he said, after a long
pause. “ I excuse you, of course, I don’t even know ’
what you are talking about!”
“Yes, you do, you black-hearted scoundrel.
You interfered between Hetty Armitage and me be-
cause you want her yourself—she told me so much
to-night!”
“ She told you !—it’s you who lie.”
“ She told me—so much for your pretended
virtue. Get out of the way, or I’ll strike you to
the earth, you dog!”
Frere’s wild passion prevented Awdrey’s rising.
The accusation made against him was so pre-
posterous that it did not even rouse his anger.
“I’m sorry for you,” he said after a pause, “ you
labor under a complete misapprehension. I wish
to protect Hetty Armitage as I would any other
honest girl. Keep out of my path now, sir, I wish
to continue my wal .”
“By Heaven, that you never shall.”
Frere uttered a wild, maniacal scream. The
next instant he had closed with Awdrey, and rais-
- ing a heavy cane which he carried, aimed it full
at- the young Squire’s head.


32 DR. RUMSEY’S PATIENT.
“ I could kill you, you brute, you scoundrel, you
low, base seducer,” he shouted.
For a moment Awdrey was taken off his guard.
But the next instant the fierce blood of his race
awoke within him. Frere was no mean antagonist
-—he was a stouter, heavier, older man than
Awdrey. He had also the strength which mad-
ness confers. After amomentary struggle he flung
Awdrey to the ground. The two young men rolled
over together.’ Then with a quick and sudden
movement Awdrey sprang to his feet. He had no
weapon to defend himself with but a slight stick
which he carried. Frere let him go for a moment
to spring upon him again like a tiger. A sudden
memory came to Awdrey’s aid—a memory which
was to be the undoing of his entire life. He had
been told in his boyhood by an old prize-fighter
who taught him boxing, that the most effective way
to use a stick in defending himself from an enemy
was to use it as a bayonet.
“Prod your foe in the mouth,” old Jim had said
-~“ be he dog or man, prod him in the mouth.
Grasp your stick in both hands, and when he
comes to you, prod him in the mouth or neck.”
The words flashed distinctly now through‘
Awdrey’s brain. When Frere raised his heavy
stick to strike him he grasped his own slender
weapon and rushed forward. He aimed full at
' Frere’s open mouth. The stick went a few inches
higher and entered the unfortunate man’s right
eye. He fell with a sudden groan to the ground.


DR. RUMSEY‘S PATIENT. 33
In a moment Awdrey’s passion was over. He
bent over the prostrate man and examined the
wound which he had made. Frere lay perfectly
quiet; there was an awful silence about him. The
dark shadows of the night brooded heavily over
the place. Awdrey did not for several moments
realize that something very like a murder had been
committed. He bent over the prostrate man—he
took his limp hand in his, felt for a pulse—‘there
was none. With trembling fingers he tore open
the coat and pressed his hand to the heart—it was
strangely still. He bent his ear to listen—there
was no sound. Awdrey was scarcely frightened
yet. He did not even now in the least realize
what had happened. He felt in his pocket for a
flask of brandy which he sometimes carried about
with him. An oath escaped his lips when he
found he had forgotten it. Then taking up his
stick he felt softly across the point. The point of
the stick was wet-—wet with blood. He felt care-
fully along its edge. The blood extended up a
couple of inches. He knew then what had hap-
pened. The stick had undoubtedly entered Frere’s
brain through the eye, causing instant death.
When ths knowledge came to Awdrey he laughed.
His laugh sounded queer, but he did not notice its
strangeness. He felt again in his pocket—dis-
covered a box of matches which he pulled out
eagerly. He struck a match, and by the weird,
uncertain light which it cast looked for an instant
at the dead face of the man whose life he had taken.
1


84 DR. RUMSEY’S PATIENT.
“ I don’t even know his name,” thought Awdrey.
“ What in the world have I killed him for? Yes,
undoubtedly I’ve killed him. He is dead, poor
fellow, as a door-nail. What did I do it for?”
He struck another match, and looked at the end
of his stick. The stick had a narrow steel ferrule
at the point. Blood bespattered the end of the
stick.
“ I must bury this witness,” said Awdrey to him-
self.
He blew out the match, and began to move grop-
ingly across the plain. His step was uncertain.
He stooped as he walked. Presently he came to
a great copse of underwood. Into the very thick
of the underwood he thrust his stick.
Having done this, he resolved to go home.
Queer noises were ringing in his head. He felt as
if devils were pursuing him. He was certain that
if he raised his eyes and looked in front of him,
he must see the ghost of the dead man. It was
early in the night, not yet twelve o’clock. As he
entered the grounds of the Court, the stable clock
struck twelve. ‘
“ I suppose I shall get into a beastly mess about
this," thought Awdrey. “I never meant to kill
that poor fellow. I ran at him in self-defence.
He’d have had my blood if I hadn’t his. Shall I
see my father about it now? My father is a mag-
istrate ; he'll know what’s best to be done.”
Awdrey walked up to the house. His gait was
uncertain and shambling, so little characteristic of


86 DR. RUMSEY’S PA TIENI'.
down. He sank into a chair, took off his cap, and
wiped the perspiration from his brow.
“I wouldn’t miss Margaret for the world,” he
said to himself.
A look of pleasure filled his dark gray eyes. A
moment or two later he was in bed, and sound
asleep. He awoke at his usual hour in the morn-
ing. He rose and dressed calmly. He had for-
gotten all about the murder—the doom of house had fallen upon him.


CHAPTER IV.
" [WISH you would tell me about him, Mr. Aw»
drey,” said Margaret Douglas.
She was a handsome girl, tall and slightly made
-—her eyes were black as night, her hair had a ra-
ven hue, her complexion was a pure olive. She
was standing a little apart from a laughing, chat-
tering group of boys and girls, young men and
young ladies, with a respectable sprinkling of
fathers and mothers, uncles and aunts. Awdrey
stood a foot or two away from her—his face was
pale, he looked subdued and gentle.
“ What can I tell you?” he asked.
“ You said you met him last night, poor fellow.
The whole thing seems so horrible, and to think of
it happening on this very plain, just where we are
having our picnic. If I had known it, I would
not have come.”
“The murder took place several miles from
here,” said Awdrey. “Quite close to the Court,
in fact. I’ve been over the ground this morning
with my father and one of the keepers. The body
was removed before we came.”
“Didn’t it shock you very much?”
3'?


38 DR RUJIISEY'S PATIENT.
“ Yes; I am sorry for that unfortunate Everett.“
“Who is he? I have not heard of him.”
“He is the man whom they think must have
done it. There is certainly very grave circum-'
stantial evidence against him. He and Frere were
heard quarrelling last night, and Armitage can
prove that Everett did not return home until about
two in the morning. When he went out he said he
was going to follow Frere, who had gone away in
a very excited state of mind.
“What about, I wonder?"
“ The usual thing,” said Awdrey, giving Mar-
garet a quick look, under which she lowered her
eyes and faintly blushed.
“Tell me,” she said, almost in a whisper. “I
am interested—it is such a tragedy.”
“It is; it is awful. Sit down here, won’t you,
or shall we walk on a little way? We shall soon
get into shelter if we go down this valley and get
under those trees yonder.”
“ Come then,” said Margaret.
She went first, her companion followed her. He
looked at her many times as she walked on in front
of him. Her figure was full of supple and easy
grace, her young steps seemed to speak the very
essence of youth and springtime. She appeared
scarcely to touch the ground as she walked over it;
once she turned, and the full light of her dark eyes
made Awdrey’s heart leap. Presently she reached
the shadow caused by a copse of young trees, and
stood still until the Squire came up to her.


DR. RUMSEY’S PATIENT. 39
“Here’s a throne for you, Miss Douglas. Do
you see where this tree extends two friendly arms?
Do you observe a seat inlaid with moss? Take
your throne.”
She did so immediately and looked up at him
with a smile.
“ The throne suits you,” he said.
She looked down—her lips faintly trembled——
then she raised her eyes.
“ Why are you so pale?” he asked anxiously.
. “I can’t quite tell you,” she replied, “except
that notwithstanding the beauty of the day, and
the summer feeling which pervades the air, I can’t
get rid of a sort of fear. It may be superstitious
of me, but I think it is unlucky to have a picnic
on the very plain where a murder was committed."
“You forget over what a wide extent the plain
extends,” said Awdrey; “ but if I had known”—he
stopped and bit his lips.
“ Never mind,” she answered, endeavoring to
smile and look cheerful, “any sort of tragedy al-
ways affects me to a remarkable degree. I can’t
help it—-I’m afraid there is something in me akin
to trouble, but of course it would be folly for us to
stay indoors just because that poor young fellow
came to a violent end some miles away.”
“Yes, 'it is quite some miles from here—I am
truly sorry for him.”
“ Sit down here, Mr. Awdrey, here at my feet if
you like, and tell me about it.”
“I will sit at your feet with all the pleasure in


40 DR. RUMSE Y 'S PATIENT.
the world, but why should we talk any more on
this gruesome subject?”
“ That’s just it,” said Margaret, “if I am to get
rid of it, I must know all about it. You said you
met him last night?”
“ I did,” said Awdrey, speaking with unwilling-
ness.
“And you guess why he came by his end?”
“Partly, but not wholly.”
“Well, do tell me.”
“I will—I’ll put it in as few words as possible.
You know that little witch Hetty, the pretty niece
of the innkeeper Armitage?”
“ Hetty Armitage—of course I know her. I tried
to get her into my Sunday class, but she wouldn’t
come.”
“ She’s a silly little creature," said Awdrey.
“ She is a very beautiful little creature,” cor-
rected Miss Douglas.
“Yes, I am afraid her beauty was too much for
this unfortunate Frere’s sanity. I came across him
last night, or rather they passed me by in the un-
derwood, enacting a love scene. The fact is, he
was kissing her. I thought he was taking a liber—
ty and interfered. He told me he intended to mary
her—but Hetty denied it. I saw her back to the
Inn—she was very silent and depressed. Another
man, a handsome fellow, was standing in the porch.
It just occurred to me at the time, that perhaps he
also was a suitor for her hand, and might be the
favored one. She went indoors. On my way


DR. R UMSEY ’S PATIENT. 41
home I met Frere again. He tried to pick a quar-
rel with me, which of course I nipped in the bud.
He referred to his firm intention of marrying
Hetty Armitage, and when I told him that she
had denied the engagement, he said he would go
back at once and speak to her. I then returned
to the Court.
“The first thing I heard this morning was the
news of the murder. My father as magistrate was
of course made acquainted with the fact at a very
early hour. Poor Everett has been arrested on
suspicion, and there’s to be a coroner’s inquest
to-morrow. That is the entire story as far as I
know anything about it. Your face is whiter
than ever, Miss Douglas. Now keep your word
—forget it, since you have heard all the facts of
the case.” I
She looked down again. Presently she raised
her eyes, brimful of teirs, to his face.
“I cannot forget it,” she said. “That poor
young fellow—such a fearfully sudden end, and
that other poor fellow; surely if he did take away
a life it must have been in a moment of terrible
madness?”
“ That is true,” said Awdrey.
“They cannot possibly convict him of murder,
can they ?’: .
“ My father thinks that the verdict will be man-
slaughter, or, at the ‘worst, murder under strong
provocation; but it is impossible to tell.”
Awdrey looked again anxiously at his compan'


42 DR. RUMSEY'S PATIENT.
ion. Her pallet and distress aroused emotion in
his breast which he found almost impossible to
quiet.
“I’m sorry to my heart that you know about
this,” he said. “You are not fit to stand any of
the roughness of life.”
“What folly!” she answered, with passion.
“ What am I that I should accept the smooth
and reject the rough? I tell you what I would like
to do. I’d like to go this very moment to see that
poor Mr. Everett, in order to tell him how deeply
sorry I am for him. To ask him to tell me the
story from first to last, from his point of view. To
clear him from this awful stain. And I’d like to
lay flowers over the breast of that dead boy. Oh,
I can’t bear it. Why is the world so full of trou-
ble and pain?”
She burst into sudden tears.
“Don’t, don’t! Oh! Margaret, you’re an angel.
You’re too good for this earth,” said Awdrey.
“Nonsense,” she answered; “let me have my
cry out; I’ll be all right in a minute.”
Her brief tears were quickly over. She dashed
them aside and rose to her feet.
“I hear the children shouting to me,” she said.
“ I’m in no humor to meet them. Where shall we
go?”
“ This way,’ said Awdrey quickly; “no one
knows the way through this copse but me.” ‘1
He gave her his hand, pushed aside the trees,
and they soon found themselves in a dim little
,


DR. RUTMSEY ‘S PATIENT. *3
world of soft green twilight. There was a narrow
path on which they could not walk abreast. Aw~
drey now t ok the lead, Margaret following him.
After walking‘ _or_half a mile the wood grew thin-
ner, and they found themselves far away from
their compani ns, and on a part of the plain which
was quite new ground to Margaret.
“How lovely and enchanting it is here,” she
said, giving a low laugh  pleasure.
“I am lad you like it,” said Awdrey. “I dis-
covered that path to these heights only a week
ago. I never told a soul about it. For all you
can tell your feet may now be treading on virgin
ground.”
As Awdrey spoke he panted slightly, and put
his hand to his brow.
“Is anything the matter with you?” asked Mar-
garet. ‘'
“ Nothing; I was never better in my life."
“You don’t look well; you’re changed.”
“Don’t say that,” he answered, a faint ring of
anxiety in his voice.
She gazed at him earnestly.
“You are,” she repeated. “I don’t quite recog~
nize the expression in your eyes.”
“Oh, I’m all right,” he replied, “only—-—-"
“Only what? Do tell me.”
“I don’t want to revert to that terrible tragedy
again,” he said, after a pause. “There is some
thing, however, in connection with it which sur~
prises myself.”


44 DIR. B UMSEY ‘S PATIENT.
" What is that?”
“I don’t seem to feel the horror of it. I feel
everything else; your sorrow, for instance—the
beauty of the day—the gladness and fulness of life,
but I don’t feel any special pang about that poor
dead fellow. It’s queer, is it not?”
“No,” said Margaret tenderly. “I know—l
quite understand your sensation. You don’t feel
it simply because you feel it too much—you are
slightly stunned.”
“Yes, you’re right——we’ll not talk about it any
more. Let us stay here f r a little while.”
“Tell me over ..gain the preparations for your
coming of age.”
Margaret seated h rself on the grass as she
spoke. Her white dress—her slim young figure—
a sort of spiritual light Ln her dark ey as, gave her
at that moment an unearthly radiance in the eyes
of the man who loved her. All of a sudden, with
an impulse he could not withstand, he resolved to
put his fortunes to the test.
“ Forgive me,” he said, emotion trembling in his
voice—“ I can only speak of one thing at this mo-
ment.”
He dropped lightly on one knee beside her. She
did not ask him what it was. She looked down.
“You know perfectly well what I am going to
say,” he continued; “ you know what I want most
when I come of age—I want my wife—I want you.
Margaret, you must have guessed my secret long
‘so?!’


DR. R UMSE Y ’S PA TIENT. 45
She did not answer him for nearly a minute—
then she softly and timidly stretched out one of
her hands—he grasped it in his.
“You have guessed—you do know—you’re not
astonished nor shocked at my words?”
“Your secret was mine, too,” she answered in a
whisper.
“You will marry me, Margaret—you’ll make me
the happiest of men?”
“I will be your wife if you wish it, Robert,” she
replied.
She stood up as she spoke. She was tall, but he
was a little taller-—he put his arms round her,
' drew her close to him, and kissed her passion-
ately.
Half-an-hour afterward they left the woods side
by side.
“ Don’t tell anybody to-day,” said Margaret.
“ Why not? I don’t feel as if I could keep it to
myself even for an hour longer.”
“Still, humor me, Robert; remember 1 am su-
perstitious.”
“ What about?”
“ I am ashamed to confess it—-I would rather
that our engagement was not known until the day
of the murder has gone by."


CHAPTER V.
MARGARET DOUGLAS lived with her cousins. the
Cuthberts. Sir John Cuthbert was the Squire of
a parish at a little distance from Grandcourt. He
was a wealthy man and was much thought of in
his neighborhood. Margaret was the daughter of
a sister who had died many years ago—she was
poor, but this fact did not prevent the county as-
signing her a long time ago to Robert Awdrey as
his future wife. The attachment between the pair
had been the growth of years. They had spent
their holidays together, and had grown up to a
great extent in each other’s company—it had never
entered into the thoughts of either to love any one
else. Awdrey, true to his promise to Margaret,
said nothing about his engagement, but the secret
was after all an open one. When the young cou-
ple appeared again among the rest of Sir John
Cuthbert’s guests, they encountered more than one
significant glance, and Lady Cuthbert even went
to the length of kissing Margaret with much fervor
in Awdrey’s presence.
“You must come back with us to Cuthbertstown
to supper,” she said to the young Squire.
46


48 DR. RUMSEY‘S PATIENT-
brought her home. Now a terrible and black dot‘
was overshadowing him. Awdrey could not help
feeling deeply interested in the unfortunate man.
He was young like himself. Perhaps he, too, had
dreamed dreams, and been full of ambition, and
perhaps he loved a girl, and thought of making her
his wife. Perhaps Hetty was the girl—if so—Aw-
drey stamped his foot with impatience.
“ What mischief some women do,” he muttered;
“ what a difference there is between one woman and
another. Who would suppose that Margaret
Douglas and Hetty Armitage belonged to the same
race? Poor Frere, how madly in love he was with
that handsome little creature! How little she cared
for the passion which she had evoked. I hope she
won’t come in my path; I should like to give her
a piece of my mind.
This thought had scarcely rushed through Aw-
drey’s brain before he was attracted by a sound in
the hedge close by, and Hetty herself stood before
him.
“ I thought you would come back this way, Mr.
Robert,” she said. “ I’ve waited here by the hedge
for a long time on purpose to see you.”
The Squire choked down a sound of indignation
-—the hot color rushed to his cheeks—it was with
difliculty he could keep back his angry words.
One glance, however, at Hetty’s face caused his
anger to fade. The lovely little face was so com-
pletely changed that he found some ditficulty in
recognizing it. Hetty’s pretty figure had always


DR. RUMSEY 'S PATIENT. 49
been the perfection of trim neatness. No London
belle could wear her expensive dresses more neatly
nor more becomingly. Her simple print frocks
fitted her rounded figure like a glove. The roses
on her cheeks spoke the perfection of perfect
health; her clear dark eyes were wont to be as
open and untroubled as a child’s. Her wealth of
coal-black hair was always neatly coiled round her
shapely head. Now, all was changed, the pretty
eyes were scarcely visible between their swollen
lids—the face was ghastly pale in parts—blotched
with ugly red marks in others; there were great
black shadows under the eyes, the lips were
parched and dry, they drooped wearily as if in ut~
ter despair. The hair was untidy, and one great
coil had altogether escaped its bondage, and hung
recklessly over the girl’s neck and bosom. Her
cotton dress was rumpled and stained, and the
belt with which she had hastily fastened it togeth-
er, was kept in its place by a large pin.
Being a man, Awdrey did not notice all these
details, but the tout ensemble, the abject depression
of intense grief, struck him with a sudden pang.
“After all, the little thing loved that poor fel-
low,” he said to himself; “she was a little fool to
trifle with him, but the fact that she loved him al-
ters the complexion of affairs.”
“What can I do for you?” he said, speaking in
a gentle and compassionate voice.
“ I have waited to tell you something for nearly
two hours, Mr. Robert.”
4


50 DR. RUMSEY’S PATIENT.
“ Why did you do it? If you wanted to say any-
thing to me, you could have come to the Court, or
I’d have called at the Inn. What is it you want to
say?”
“I could not come to the Court, sir, and I could
not send you a message, because no one must
know that we have met. I came out here unknown
to any one; I saw you go home from Cuthberts-
town with Miss Douglas." Here Hetty choked
down a sob. “I waited by the hedge, for I knew
you must pass back this way. I wished to say,
Mr. Robert, to tell you, sir, that whatever happens,
however matters turn out, I’ll be true to you.
No one shall get a word out of me. They say it’s
awful to be cross-examined, but I’ll be true. I
thought I’d let you know, Mr. Awdrey. To my
dying day I’ll never let out a word—you need
have no fear.”
“ I need have no fear,” said Awdrey, in absolute
astonishment. “ What in the world do you mean?
What are you talking about?”
Hetty looked full up into the Squire’s face. The
unconscious and unembarrassed gaze with which
he returned her look evidently took her breath
away.
“ I made a mistake,” she said in a whisper. “ I
see that I made a mistake. I’d rather not say
what I came to say.”
“But you must say it. Hetty; you have some-
thing more to tell me, or you wouldn't have taken
all this trouble to wait by the roadside on the


DR. RUMSEY‘S PATIENT. 51
chance of my passing. What is it? Out with it
now, like a good gir .”
“May I walk along a little bit with you, Mr.
Robert?"
“ You may as far as the next corner. There our
roads part, and you must go home.”
Hetty shivered. She gave the Squire another
furtive and undecided glance.
“ Shall I tell him?” she whispered to herself.
Awdrey glanced at her, and spoke impatiently.
“Come, Hetty; remember I’m waiting to hear
your story. Out with it now, be quick about it.”
“I was out last night, sir.”
“You were out—when? Not after I saw you
home?”
“ Yes, sir.” Hetty choked again. " It was after
ten o’cloc .”
“You did very wrong. Were you out alone?"
“Yes, sir. I——I followed Mr. Frere on to the
Plain.” '
“ You did?” said Awdrey. "Is that fact known?
Did you see anything?”
‘ Yes, sir.”
“Then why in the name of Heaven didn't you
come up to the Court this morning and tell my
father. Your testimony may be most important.
Think of the position of that poor unfortunate
young Everett.”
“No, sir, I don’t think of it."
“What do you mean, girl?”
“Let me tell you my story, Mr. Awdrey. If it


62 DR. RUMSEY’S PATIENT.
is nothing to you—it is nothing. You will soon
know if it is nothing or not. I had a quarrel with
Mr. Frere last night. Nobody was by; Mr. Frere
came into Aunt’s parlor and he spoke to me very
angrily, and I—-I told him something which made
him wil .”
“ What was that?”
Hetty gave a shy glance up at the young Squire;
his face looked hard, his lips were firmly set. He
and she were walking on the same road, but he
kept as far from her side as possible.
“I will not tell him—at least I will not tell him
yet,” she said to herself.
“I think I won’t say, sir,” she replied. “What
we talked about was Mr. Frere’s business and
mine. He asked me if I loved another man better
than him, and I—I said that I did, sir.”
“I thought as much,” reflected Awdrey ; ‘Ever-
ett is the favored one. If this fact is known it will
go against the poor fellow.”
“Well, Hetty,” he interrupted, ‘it’s my duty
to tell you that you behaved very badly, and are
in a great measure responsible for the awful trag~
edy that has occurred. There, poor child, don't‘
cry. Heaven knows, I don’t wish to add to your
trouble; but see, we have reached the cross-roads
where we are to part, and you have not yet told
me what you saw when you went out.”
‘I crept out of my bedroom window," said
Hetty. “Aunt and uncle had gone to bed. I can
easily get out of the window, it opens right on the


DR. RUMSEY ‘S PATIENT. 53
cow-house, and from there I can swing myself into
the laburnum-tree, and so reach the ground. I
got out, and followed Mr. Frere. Presently I saw
that Mr. Everett was also out, and was following
him. I knew every yard of the Plain well, far bet—
ter than Mr. Everett did. I went to it by a short
cut round by Sweetbriar Lane—you know the
part there—not far from the Court. I had no
sooner got on the Plain than I saw Mr. Frere—he
was running—~I thought he was running to meet
me—he came forward by leaps and bounds very
fast—suddenly he stumbled and fell. I wanted to
call him, but my voice, sir, it wouldn’t rise, it
seemed to catch in my throat. I couldn’t manage
to say his name. All of a sudden the moon went
down, and the plain was all gray with black shad—
ows. I felt frightened—awfully. I was deter-
mined to get to Mr. Frere. I stumbled on—pres-
ently I fell over the trunk of a tree. My fall
stunned me a bit—when I rose again there were
two men on the Plain. They were standing facing
each other. Oh, Mr. Awdrey, I don’t think I’ll
say any more.”
“Not say any more? You certainly must, girl,"
cried Awdrey, his face blazing with excitement.
“You saw two men facing each other—Frere and
Everett, no doubt.”
Hetty was silent. After a moment, during which
her heart beat loudly, she continued to speak in a
very low voice.
“It was so dark that the men looked like shad-


54 DR. RUMSEY'S PATIENT.
ows. Presently I heard them talking—they were
quarrelling. All of a sudden they sprang together
like—like tigers, and they—fought. I heard the
sound of blows—one of them fell, the taller one—-
he got on to his feet in a minute: they fought a
second time, then one gave a cry, a very sharp,
sudden cry, and there was the sound of a body
falling with a thud on the ground—afterward, si-
lence—not a sound. I crept behind the furze bush.
I was quite stunned. After a long time—at least
it seemed a long time to me—one of the men went
away, and the other man lay on his back with his
face turned up to the sky. The man who had
killed him turned in the direction of——-”
“In what direction?” asked Awdrey.
“In the direction of—~—~” Hetty looked full up
at the Squire; the Squire’s eyes met hers. “The
town, sir.”
“Oh, the town,” said Awdrey, giving vent to a
short laugh. “From the way you looked at me,
I thought you were going to say The Court.”
“ Sir, Mr. Robert, do you think it was Mr.
Everett?”
“ Who else could it have been?” replied Awdrey,
“Very well, sir, I’ll hold to that. Who else
could it have been? I thought I’d tell you, Mr.
Awdrey. I thought you’d like to know that I’d
hold to that. When the steps of the murderer died
away, I stole back to Mr. Frere, and I tried to
bring him back to life, but he was as dead as a
stone. I left him and I went home. I got back to


DR. RUMSEY'S PATIENT. 55
my room about four in the morning. Not a soul
knew I was out; no one knows it now but you, sir.
I thought I’d come and tell you, Mr. Robert, that
I’d hold to the story that it was Mr. Everett who
committed the murder. Good-night, sir.”
“ Good—night, Hetty. You’ll have to tell my
father what you have told me, in the morning.”
“Very well, sir, if you wish it.”
Hetty turned and walked slowly back toward
the village, and Awdrey stood where the four roads
met and watched her. For a moment or two he
was lost in anxious thought— then he turned
quickly and walked home. He entered the house
by the same side entrance by which he had come
in on the previous night. He walked down‘a long
passage, crossed the wide front hall, and entered
the drawing-room where his sister Ann was seated.
“ Is that you, Bob?” she said, jumping up when
she saw him. “I’m so glad to have you all to my
self. Of course, you were too busy with Margaret
to take any notice of us all day, but I’ve been dy-
ing to hear your account of that awful tragedy.
Sit here like a dear old fellow and tell me the
story.”
“Talk of women and their tender hearts,” said
Awdrey, with irritation.
Then the memory of Margaret came over him
and his face softened. Margaret, whose heart was
quite the tenderest thing in all the world, had also
wished to hear of the tragedy.
“To tell the truth, Ann,” he said, sinking into a



56 ER. R UMSEY’S PATIENT.
chair by his sister’s side, “you can scarcely ask
me to discuss a more uncongenial theme. Of
course, the whole thing will be thoroughly inves-
tigated, and the local papers will be filled with
nothing else for weeks to come. Won’t that con-
tent you? Must I, too, go into this painful sub-
ject?”
Ann was a very good-natured girl.
“Certainly not, dear Bob, if it worries you,”
she replied; “but just answer me one question.
Is it true that you met the unfortunate man last
night?”
“Quite true. I did. We had a sort of quar-
rel.”
“Good gracious! Why, Robert, if you had
been out late last night they might have suspected
you of the murder.”
Awdrey’s face reddened.
“ As it happens, I went to bed remarkably early,”
he said; “at least, such is my recollection.” As
he spoke he looked at his sister with knitted
brows.
“Why, of course, don't you remember, you said
you were dead heat. Dorothy and I wanted you
to sing with us, but you declared you were as
hoarse as a raven, and went off to your bedroom
immediately after supper. For my part, I was so
afraid of disturbing you that I wouldn’t even knock
when I pushed that little note about Margaret
under the door.”
Ann gave her brother a roguish glance when she


DR. RUMSEY’S PATIENT. 57
mentioned Margaret’s name. He did not notice it.
He was thinking deeply.
“ I am tired to-night, too,” he said. “I have an
extraordinary feeling in the back of my head, as if
it were numbed. I believe I want more sleep.
This horrid afl'air has upset me. Well, good-
night, Ann, I’m off to bed at once.”
“ But supper is ready.”
“I had something at Cuthbertstown; I don’t
want anything more. Good-night."


CHAPTERVI.
HE'ITY dragged herself wearily home—she had
waited to see the young Squire in a state of intense
and rapt excitement. He had received her news
with marvellous indifference. The excitement he
had shown was the ordinary excitement which an
outsider might feel when he received startling and
unlooked for tidings. There was not a scrap of
personal emotion in his manner. Was it possible
that he had forgotten all about the murder which
he himself had committed? Hetty was not a na-
tive of Grandcourt without knowing something of
the tragedy which hung over the Court. Was it
possible that the doom of the house had really
overtaken Robert Awdrey? Hetty with her own
eyes had seen him kill Horace Frere. Her own
eyes could surely not deceive her. She rubbed
them now in her bewilderment. Yes, she had seen
the murder committed. Without any doubt Aw-
drey was the man who had struggled with F rere.
Frere had thrown him to the ground; he had risen
quickly again. Once more the two men had rushed
at each other like tigers eager for blood—there had
been a scuflie—a fierce, awful wrestle. A wrestle
which had been followed by a sudden leap forward
on the part of the young Squire—~he had used his
r»:


DR. RUHSEY'S PATIENT. 59
stick as men use bayonets in battle—there had
come a groan from Frere’s lips—he had staggered
—his body had fallen to the ground with a heavy
thud—then had followed an awful silence. Yes,
Hetty had seen the whole thing. She had watched
the terrible transaction from beginning to end.
After he had thrown his man to the ground the
Squire had struck a match, and had looked hard
into the face of the dead. Hetty had seen the lu-
rid light flash up for an instant on the Squire’s
face—it had looked haggard and gray—like the
face of an old man. She had watched him as he
examined the slender stick with which he had
killed his foe. She observed him then creep across
the Plain to a copse of young alders. She had
seen him push the stick out of sight into the mid-
dle of the alders—she had then watched him as he
went quickly home. Yes, Robert Awdrey was the
guilty man—Frank Everett was innocent, as inno-
cent as a babe. All day long Hetty’s head had
been in a mad whirl. She had kept her terrible
knowledge to herself. Knowing that a word from
her could save him, she had allowed Everett to be
arrested. She had watched him from behind her
window when the police came to the house for the
purpose, she had seen Everett go away in the com-
pany of two policemen. He was a square-built
young fellow with broad shoulders—he had held
himself sturdily as an Englishman should, when
he walked off, an innocent man, to meet an awful
doom. Hetty. as she watched, crushed down the


60 DR. RUMSE'Y’S PATIEM .
cry in her heart—it had clamored to save this man.
There was a louder cry there—a fiercer instinct.
The Squire belonged to her own people—she was
like a. subject, and he was her king—to the people
of Grandcourt the king could do nothing wrong.
They were old-fashioned in the little village, and
had somewhat the feeling of serfs to their feudal
lord. Hetty shared the tradition of her race. But
over and above these minor matters, the unhappy
girl loved Robert Awdrey with a fierce passion.
She would rather die herself than see him die.
When she saw Everett arrested, she watched the
whole proceeding in dull amazement. She won-
dered why the Squire had not acted a man’s part.
Why did he not deliver himself up to the course of
justice? He had killed Frere in a moment of mad
passion. Hetty’s heart throbbed. Could that
passion have been evoked on her account? Of
course, he would own to his sin. He had not done
so; on the contrary, he had gone to a picnic. He
had been seen walking about with the young lady
whom he loved. Did Robert Awdrey really love
Margaret Douglas?
“ If that is the case, why should not I give him
up?” thought Hetty. “He cares nothing for me.
I am less than the thistle under his feet. Why
should I save him? Why should Mr. Everett die
because of him? The Squire cares nothing for me.
Why should I sin on his account?”
These thoughts, when they came to her, were
quickly hurled aside by others.


DR. RUMSEY'S PATIENT. 61
“I'd die twenty times over rather than he should
suffer,” thought the girl. “He shan’t die, he’s
my king, and I’m his subject. It does not matter
whether he loves me or not, he shan’t die. Yes,
he loves that beautiful Miss Douglas—she belong!
to his set, and she’ll be his wife. Perhaps she
thinks that she loves him. Oh, oh!” >
Hetty laughed wildly to herself.
“After all, she doesn’t know what real love is.
She little guesses what I feel; she little guesses
that I hold his life in my hands. 0 God, keep
me from going mad I”
It was dark when Hetty re-entered the Inn.
The taproom was the scene of noisy excitement.
It was crowded with eager and interested villagers.
The murder was the one and only topic of conver-
sation. Armitage was busy attending to his nu-
merous guests, and Mrs. Armitage kept going
backward and forward between the taproom and
the little kitchen at the back.
When she saw Hetty she called out to her in a
sharp tone.
“ Where have you been, girl?” she cried. “Now
just look here, your uncle won’t have you stealing
out in this fashion any more. You are to stay at
home when it is dark. Why, it’s all over the
place, it’s in every one’s mouth, that you have been
the cause of the murder. You encouraged that
poor Mr. Frere with your idle, flighty, silly ways
and looks, and then you played fast andloose with
him. Don’t you know that this is just the thing


62 DR. RUMSEY'S PATIENT.
that will ruin us? Yes, you’ll be the ruin of m
Hetty, and times so bad, too. When are we likely
to have parlor lodgers again?"
“ Oh, Aunt, I wish you wouldn’t scold me,” an-
swered Hetty. She sank down on the nearest
chair, pushed her hat from her brow, and pressed
her hand to it.
“Sakes, child I” exclaimed her aunt, “you do
look white and bad to be sure.”
Mrs. Armitage stood in front of her niece, and
eyed her with a critical gaze.
“It’s my belief, after all, that you really cared
for the poor young man,” she said. “ For all your
silly, flighty ways you gave him what little heart
you possess. If he meant honest by you, you
couldn’t have done better—they say he had lots of
money, and not a soul to think of but himself. I
don’t know how your uncle is to provide for you.
But there, you’ve learned your lesson, and I hope
you’ll never forget it.”
“Aunt Fanny, may I go up-stairs to my room?”
“ Hoity toity! nothing of the kind. You’ve got
to work for your living like the rest of us. Put on
your apron and help me to wash up the dishes.”
Hetty rose wearily from her chair. The body
of the murdered man lay out straight and still in
the little front parlor. Many people had been in
and out during the afternoon; many people had
gazed solemnly at the white face. The doctor had
examined the wound in the eye. The coroner had
come to view the dead. All was in readiness for


DR. RUMSEY ’S PATIENT. 6 3
the inquest, which was to take place at an early
hour on the following day. No one as yet had
wept a single tear over the dead man. Mrs. Armi-
tage came to Hetty now and asked her to go and
fetch something out of the parlor. A paper which
had been left on the mantelpiece was wanted by
Armitage in a hurry. '
“Go, child, be quick!” said the aunt. “You’ll
find the paper by that vase of flowers on the man-
telpiece.”
Hetty obeyed, never thinking of what she was to
see. There was no artificial light in the room.
On the centre-table, in a rude cofiin which had
been hastily prepared, lay the body. It was cov-
ered by a white sheet. The moon poured in a
ghastly light through the window. The form of
the dead man was outlined distinctly under the
sheet. Hetty almost ran up against it when she
entered the room. Her nerves were overstrung;
she was not prepared for the sight which met her
startled eyes; uttering a piercing shriek, she
rushed from the room into her Aunt Fanny’s arms.
“Now, whatever is the matter?” said the elder
woman.
“You shouldn’t have sent me in there,” panted
Hetty. “You should have told me that it was
there.”
“Well, well, I thought you knew. What a silly
little good-for-nothing you are! Stay quiet and
I’ll run and fetch the paper. Dear, dear, I’m glad
you are not my niece; it’s Armitage you belong to."


64 DR. RUMSEY ‘S PATIENT.
Mrs. Armitage entered the parlor, fetched the
required paper, and shut the door behind her. As
she Walked down the passage Hetty started quickly
forward and caught her arm.
“If I don’t tell somebody at once I’ll go mad,"
she said. “Aunt Fanny, I must speak to you at
once. “I can’t keep it to myself another minute.”
“ Good gracious mel whatever is to be done,
Hetty? How am I to find time to listen to your
silly nonsense just now? There’s your uncle nearly
wild with all the work being left on his hands.”
“ It isn’t silly nonsense, Aunt Fanny. I’ve got
to say something. I know something. I must
tell it to you. I must tell it to you at once.”
“Why, girl,” said Mrs. Armitage, staring hard
at her niece, “ you are not making a fool of me, are
you?"
“No. I'll go up to my room. Come to me as
soon as ever you can. Tell Uncle that you are
tired and must go to bed at once. Tell any lie,
make any excuse, only come to me quickly. I’m
in such a state that if you don’t come I’ll have to
go right into the taproom and tell every one what I
know. Oh, Aunt Fanny! have mercy on me and
come quickly.”
“ You do seem in a way, Hetty,” replied the
a1mt. “ For goodness sake do keep yourself calm.
There, run up-stairs and I'll be with you in a min-
ute or two.”
Mrs. Armitage went into the taproom to her hus-
band.


DR. RUMDSEI S PATIENT. b5
“Look here, John,” she sad, “I’ve got a split-
ting headache, and Hetty is fairly knocked up.
Can’t you manage to do without us for the rest of
the evening?”
“ Of course, wife, if you’re really bad,” replied
Armitage. “ There’s work here for three pairs of
hands,” he added, “ but that can’t be helped, if you
are really bad.”
“Yes, I am, and as to that child, she is fairly
done.”
“ I’m not surprised. I wonder she’s alive when
she knows the whole thing is owing to her. Little
hussy, I’d like to box her ears, that I would.”
“ So would I for that matter,” replied the wife,
“but she's in an awful state, poor child, and if I
don’t get her to bed, she’ll be ill, and there will be
more money out of pocket.”
“Don’t waste your strength sitting up with her,
wife, she ain’t worth it,” Armitage called out, as
his wife left the room.
A moment later, Mrs. Armitage crept softly
up-stairs. She entered Hetty’s little chamber,
which was also flooded with moonlight. It was a
tiny room, with a sloping roof. Its little lattice
window was wide open. Hetty was kneeling by
the window looking out into the night. The mo~
ment she saw her aunt she rose to her feet, and ran
to meet her. '
“Lock the door, Aunt Fanny,” she said, in a
hoarse whisper.
‘Oh, child, whatever has come to you?"
F3


DR. RUM'SE Y ‘S PATIENT. 6?.‘
true to him. Yes, Aunt Fanny, I’ll be true to"
him. I’m nothing to him, no more than if I were
a weed, but I love him madly, deeply, desperately;
He is all the world to me. He is my master, and
I am his slave. Of course I’m nothing to him, but
he’s everything to me, and he shan’t die. Aun
Fanny, you and I have got to be true to him. We
‘must share the thing together, for I can’t keep the
secret by myself. You must share it with me,
Aunt Funny."
Up to this point, Mrs. Armitage had regarded
Hetty’s words as merely those of a hysterical and
overwrought girl. Now, however, she began tr;
perceive method in her madness.
“ Look here, child,” she said, “ if you've got any--
thing to say, say it. and have done with it. In:
not blessed with over much patience, and I can't
stand beating round the bush. If you have a .-:.>-
cret, out with it, you silly thing. Oh, yes, of ctr-urea
I won’t betray you. I expect it’s just this, you‘a'e
gone and done something you oughtn’t to. Oh,
what have I done to be blessed with a niecc-in-law
like you?
“It’s nothing of that sort, Aunt Fanny la is
this—I don’t mind telling you now, now that you
have promised not to betray me. Aunt Fanny, I
was out last night—I saw the murder committed.”
Mrs. Armitage suppressed a sharp scream.
“Heaven preserve us!” she said, in a choking
voice. “Were'you not in lH-(l, on wicked girl?"
"bio. I was out. I had ‘.luarrelled with Mr.


68 DR. RUMSEY’S PATIENT.
Frere in the parlor, and I thought I’d follow him
and make it up. I went straight on to the Plain—
I saw him running. I hid behind a furze bush
and I saw the quarrel, and I heard the words—I
saw the awful struggle, and I heard the blows. I
heard the fall, too—and I saw the man who had
killed Mr. Frere run away.”
“ I wonder you never told all this to-day, Hetty
Armitage. Well, I’m sorry for that poor Mr.
Everett. Oh, dear, what will not our passions lead
us to; to think that two young gentlemen should
come to this respectable house, and that it should
be the case of Cain and Abel over again—one ris-
ing up and slaying the other.”
Hetty, who had been kneeling all this time, now
rose. Her face was ghastly—her words came out
in strange pauses.
“It wasn’t Mr. Everett, ’ she said.
“ Good Heavens! Hetty,” exclaimed her aunt,
springng also to her feet, and catching the girl's
two hands within her own—“ It wasn’t Mr. Everett!
—what in the world do you mean?”
“ What I say, Aunt Fanny—the man who killed
Mr. Frere was Mr. Awdrey. Our Mr. Awdrey,
Aunt Fanny, and I could die for him—~and no one
must ever know—~~and I saw him this evening, and
—and he has forgotten all about it. He doesn’t
know a bit about it—not a bit. Oh, Aunt Fanny,
I shall go quite mad. if you don’t promise to help
me to keep my secret."


70 DR. RUMSEY ‘S PATIENT.
of a slip of a giddy girl like you. You must swear
it—is there a Bible in the room?”
“Oh, don’t, Aunt, I wish you wouldn’t.”
“ Stop that silly whining of yours, Hetty; what
do your wishes matter one way or the other? If
you’ve told me the truth an awful thing has hap-
pened, but I won’t stir in the matter until I know
it’s gospel truth. Yes, there’s your Testament——
the Testament will do. Now, Hetty Armitage,
hold this book in your hand, and say before God
in heaven that you saw Mr. Robert Awdrey kill Mr.
Horace Frere. Kiss the book, and tell the truth
if you don’t want to lose your soul.”
Hetty trembled from head to foot. Her nature
"was impressionable—the hour—the terrible excite-
ment she had just lived through—the solemn,
frightened expression of her aunt’s face, irritated
her nerves to the last extent. She had the utmost
‘difficulty in keeping herself from screaming aloud.
“What do you want me to do?” she said, hold-
ing the Testament between her limp fingers.
“ Say these words: ‘ I, Hetty Armitage, saw Mr.
Robert Awdrey kill Mr. Horace Frere on Salis-
bury Plain last night. This is the truth, so help
me God.’ "
“I, Hetty Armitage, saw Mr. Robert Awdrey
kill Mr. Horace Frere on Salisbury Plain last
night. This is the truth, so help me God,” re
peated Hetty, in a mechanical voice.
“Kiss the Book now, child,” said the aunt. ,
Hetty raised it to her lips.


DR. RUMSEY'S PATIENT 71
" Give me the Testament.”
Mrs. Armitage took it in her hands.
“Aunt Fanny, what in the world do you mean.
to do now?" said the'girL
“ You are witness, Hetty ; you are witness to
what I mean to do. It is all for the sake of the
Family. What are poor folks like us and our con-
sciences, and our secrets, compared to the Family?
This book has not done its work yet. Now I am
going to take an oath on the Testament. I, Fran~
ces Armitage, swear by the God above, and the Bi-
ble He has given us, that I will never tell to mortal
man the truth about this murder.”
Mrs. Armitage finished her words by pressing
the Testament to her lips.
“ Now you swear,” she said, giving the book back
again to her niece. -
Hetty did so. Her voice came out in broken
sobs. Mrs. Armitage replaced the Testament on
the top shelf of Hetty’s little bookcase.
“ There,” she said, wiping her brow, “that’s
done. You saw the murder committed; you and ]
have sworn that we’ll never tell what we know.
We needn’t talk of it any more. Another man
will swing for it. Let him swing. He is a nice
fellow, too. He showed me the photograph of his
mother one day. She had white hair and eyes
like his; she looked like a lady every inch of
her. Mr. Everett said, ‘I am her only child, Mrs.
Armitage; I’m all she has got.’ He had a pleas~
ant smile—wonderful, and a good face. Poor lad.


72 DR. RUMSEY’S PATIENT.
if it wasn’t the Family I had to be true to I
wouldn’t let him swing. They say down-stairs that
the circumstantial evidence is black against him.”
“Perhaps, after all, they cannot convict him,
Aunt.”
“What do you know about it? I say they can
and will, but don’t let us talk of it any more. The
one thing you and I have to do is to be true to the
Family. There’ s not a second thought to be
,given to the matter. Sit down, Hetty; don’t keep
hovering about like that. I thinkIhad better send
you away from home; only I forgot, you are sure
‘to be called upon as a witness. You must see that
your face doesn’t betray you when you’re cross-
examined.”
“No, it won’t," said the girl. “ I've got you to
help me now. I can talk about it sometimes, and
it won’t lie so heavily on my heart. Aunt Fanny,
do you really think Mr. Awdrey forgets?”
“ Do I think it? I know it. I don’t trouble to
think about what I know. It’s in their blood, I
tell you. The things they ought to remember are
wiped out of their brains as clean as if you washed
3. slate after using it. My mother was cook in the
Family, and her mother and her mother before
her again. We are Perrys, and the Perry's had
always a turn for cooking. We’ve cooked the din‘
ner up at the Court for close on a hundred years.
Don’t you suppose I know their ways by this time?
Oh, I could tell you of fearful things. There have
been dark deeds done before now, and the men who


7-1 DR. RUMS'EY‘S PATIENT~
evening, Aunt Fanny, and he had forgotten all
about it, and he was jolly and happy, and they
say he was seen with Miss Douglas to-day. The
family had a picnic on the Plain, and Miss Doug-
las was there, with her uncle, Sir John Cuthbert,
and there were a lot of other young ladies. Mr.
Awdrey went back to Cuthbertstown with Miss
Douglas. It was when he was returning to the
Court I met him. All the world knows he wor-
ships the ground she walks on. I suppose he’ll
marry her by and by, Aunt—he seemed so happy
and contented to-night.”
“ Isuppose he will marry her, child—that is the
best thing that could happen to him, and she’s a
nice young lady and his equal in other ways. He
happy, did you say? Maybe he is for a bit, but
‘ he’s a gone man for all that-nothing, nor no one
can keep the doom of his house from him. What
are you squeezing my hand for, Hetty ?”
“I can’t bear to think of the Squire marrying
Miss Douglas.”
“ Stufl‘ and nonsense! What is the Squire to
you, except as one of the Family. You’d better
mind your station, Hetty, and leave your betters
to themselves. If you don’t you’ll get into awful
trouble some day. But now the night is going on,
and we've got something to do. Tell me again
how that murder was done.”
“ The Squire ran at Mr. Frere, and the point of
‘his stick ran into Mr. Frere’s eye.”
“ What did he do with the stick?"


DR. R UMSE Y '8 PA TIENT 75
“ He went to a copse of young alders and thrust
it into the middle. Oh, it’s safe enough.”
“Nothing of the kind—it isn’t safe at all. How
do you know they won’t cut those alders down and
find the stick? Mr. Robert’s walking-stick is well
known—it has a silver plate upon it with his name.
Years hence people may come across that stick,
and all the county will know at once who it belonged '
to. Come along, Hetty—you and I have our work
to do.”
“What is that, Aunt Fanny?”
“Before the morning dawns we must bury that
stick where no one will find it.”
“ Oh, Aunt, don’t ask me—I can’t go back to the
Plain again.”
“You can and must—~I wouldn’t ask you, but I
couldn’t find the exact spot myself. I’ll go down
first and have a word with Armitage, and then re-
turn to you.”
Mrs. Armitage softly unlocked the door of her
niece’s room, and going first to her own bedroom,
washed her ashen face with cold water; she then
rubbed it hard with a rough towel to take some of
the tell-tale expression out of it. Afterward she
stole softly down-stairs. Her husband was busy
in the taproom. She opened the door, and called
his name.
“Armitage, I want you a minute.”
“ Mercy on us, I thought you were in bed an
hour ago, wife,” he said. “ Why, you do look bad,
what’s the matter?”


76 DR. RUMSEY 'S PATIENT.
“It isn’t me. it’s the child—she’s hysterical.
I’ve been having no end of a. time with her; I came
down to say that I’d sleep with Hetty to-night.
Good-night, Armitage.”
“ Good-night,” said the man. “I say, wife,
though,” he called after her, “see that you are up
in good time to-morrow.”
“Never fear,” exclaimed Mrs. Armitage, as she
ascended the creaking stairs, “I’ll be down and
about at six.”
She re-entered her niece's bedroom and locked
the door.
“ How did you get out last night?” she asked.
“ Through the window.”
“ Well, you’re a nice one. This is not the time
to scold you, however, and you and I have got to
go out the same way now. They’ll think we are in
our bed—let them think it. Come, be quick—show
me the way out. t’s a goodish step from here to
the Plain; we’ve nota minute to lose, and not a
soul must see us going or returning.”
Mrs. Armitage was nearly as slender and active
as her niece. She accomplished the descent from
the window without the least difiiculty, and soon
she and Hetty were walking quickly in the direc-
tion of the Plain—they kept well in the shadow of
the road and did not meet a soul the entire way.
During that walk neither woman spoke a word to
the other. Presently they reached the Plain.
Hetty trembled as she stood by the alder copse.
“ Keep your courage up,” whispered Mrs. Anni-


CHAPTER vrn.
THE village never forgot the week when the young
Squire came of age. During that week many im-
portant things happened. The usual festivities
were arranged to take place on Monday, for on
that day the Squire completed his twenty-first year.
On the following Thursday Robert Awdrey was to
marry Margaret Douglas, and between these two
days, namely, on Tuesday and Wednesday, Frank
Everett was to be tried for the murder of Horace
Frere at Salisbury. It will be easily believed,
therefore, that the excitement of the good folks all
over the country reached high-water mark. Quite
apart from his position, the young Squire was
much loved for himself. His was an interesting
personality. Even if this had not been so, the
fact of his coming of age, and the almost more in-
teresting fact of his marriage, would fill all who
knew him with a lively sense of pleasure. The
public gaze would be naturally turned full upon
this young man. But great as was the interest
which all who knew him took in Awdrey, it was
nothing to that which was felt with regard to a
man who was a stranger in the county, but whose
awful fate now filled all hearts and minds. The
strongest circumstantial evidence was against
4?:


\ DR. RUJISEY ’S PATIENT. 79
Frank Everett, but beyond circumstantial evidence
there was nothing but good to be known of this
young man. He had lived in the past, as far as
all could tell, an immaculate life. He was the only
son of a widowed mother. Mrs. Everett had taken
lodgings in Salisbury, and was awaiting the issue
of the trial with feelings which none could fathom.
As the week of her wedding approached, Mar-
garet Douglas showed none of the happy expect-
ancy of a bride. Her face began to assume a worn
and anxious expression. She could hardly think of
anything except the coming trial. A few days be-
fore the wedding she earnestly begged her lover to
postpone the ceremony for a short time.
“I cannot account for my sensations, Robert,”
she said. “ The shadow of this awful tragedy
seems to shut away the sunshine from me. You
cannot, of course, help coming of age on Monday,
but surely there is nothing unreasonable in my
' asking to have the wedding postponed for a week.
I will own that I am superstitious—I come of a
superstitious race—my grandmother had the gift
of second sight—perhaps I inherit it also, I cannot
say. Do yield to me in the matter, Robert. Do
postpone the wedding.”
Awdrey stood close to Margaret. She looked
anxiously into his eyes; they met hers with a curi-
ous expression of irritation in them. The young
squire was pale; there were fretful lines round his
mouth.
“I told you before." he said. “that I am afl'ected


80 DR. RUMSEY’S PATIENT.
with a strange and unaccountable apathy with re-
gard to this terrible murder. I try with all my
might to get up sympathy for that poor unfortu-
nate Everett. Try as I may, however, I utterly
fail to feel even pity for him. Margaret, I would
confess this to no one in the world but yourself.
Everett is nothing to me—you are everything.
Why should I postpone my happiness on Everett’s
account?”
“ You are not well, dearest,” said Margaret, look-
ing at him anxiously.
“Yes, I am, Maggie,” he replied. “You must
not make me fanciful. I never felt better in my
life, except————” Here he pressed his hand to his
brow.
“Except?” she repeated.
“Nothing really—I have a curious sensation of
numbness in the back of my head. I should think
nothing at all about it but for the fact—”
Here he paused, and looked ahead of him stead-
ily. \
“ But for what fact, Robert?”
“ You must have heard—it must have been whis-
pered to you—every one all over the county knows
that sometimes—sometimes, Maggie, queer things
happen to men of our house.”
“Of course, I have heard of what you allude to,”
she answered brightly. “Do you think I mind?
Do you think I believe in the thing? Not I. I am
not superstitious in that way. So you, dear old
fellow, are imagining that you are to be one of the


DR. RUMSEY 's PATIEM . 81
victims of that dreadful old curse. Rest assured
that you will be nothing of the kind. I have a
cousin—he is in the medical profession—you shall
know him when we go to London. I spoke to Dr.
Rumsey once about this curious phase in your
family history. He said it was caused by an ex-
traordinary state of nerves, and that the resolute
power of will was needed to overcome it. Dr.
Rumsey is a very interesting man, Robert. He
believed in heredity; who does not? but he also
firmly believes that the power- of will, rightly
exercised, can be more powerful than heredity.
Now, I don’t mean you to be a victim to that old
family failing, so please banish the thought from
your mind once and for ever.”
Awdrey smiled at her.
“You cheer me,” he said. “I am a lucky man
to have found such a woman as you to be my wife.
You will help to bring forward all that is best in
me. Margaret, I feel that through you I shall
conquer the curse which lies in my blood.”
“ There is no curse, Robert. When your grand-
father married a strong-minded Scotch wife the
curse was completely arrested—the spell re-
moved.”
“Yes,” said Awdrey, “of course you are per-
fectly right. My father has never sufiered from a
trace of the family malady, and as for me, I didn’t
know' what nervousness meant until within the last
month. I certainly have suffered from a stupid
lapse of memory during the last month."
6


82 DR. R UMSE Y ‘8 PA TIENT '.
“ We all forget things at times,” said Margaret
“ What is it that worries you?”
“ Something so trifling that you will laugh when
I tell you. You know my favorite stick?”
“ Of course. By the way, you have not used it
lately."
“I have not. It is lost. I have looked for it
high and low, and racked my memory in vain to
know where I could have put it. When last I re-
member using it, I was talking to that unfortunate
young Frerev in the underwood. I wish I could
find it—not for the sake of the stick, but because.
under my circumstances, I don’t want to fora-y :
things."
“Well, every one forgets things at times 7' p will remember where you have put the stick wlnzz.
you are not thinking of it.”
“Quite true; I wish it didn’t worry me, how-
ever. You know that poor Frere met his death in
the most extraordinary manner. The man who
killed him ran his walking-stick into his eye. The
doctors say that the ferrule of the stick entered the
brain, causing instantaneous death. Everett car-
ried a stick, but the ferrule was a little large (or
the size of the wound made. Now my stick————"
“Really, Robert, I won’t listen to you for an~=
other moment,” exclaimed Margaret. “The next
thing you will do is to assure me that your stick
was the weapon which caused the murder.”
“No,” he replied, with a spasm of queer pain.
“Of course, Maggie. there is nothing wrong, only


84 DR. RUM-SEY ‘S PATIENT.
to Mrs. Armitage. She had been a young-looking
woman for her years, until after the night of the
murder—now she looked old, her hair was sprin-
kled with gray, her face had deep lines in it, there
was a touch of irritation also in her manner. She
and Hetty kept close together. Sometimes her
hand clutched hold of the hand of her niece and
gave it a hard pressure. Hetty’s little hand trem-
bled, and her whole frame quivered with almost un-
controllable agony when Mrs. Armitage did this.
All the gay scene was ghastly mockery to poor
Hetty. Her distress, her wasted appearance,
could not but draw general attention to her. The
little girl, however, had never looked more beauti-
ful nor lovely. She was observed by many people;
strangers pointed her out to one another.
“Do you see that little girl with the beautiful
face?” they said. “ It was on her account that the
tragedy took place.”
Presently the young Squire came down and
asked Mrs. Armitage to open the ball with him.
“You do me great honor, sir,” she said. She
hesitated, then placed her hand on his arm.
As he led her away, his eyes met those of
' Hetty.
“I’ll give you a dance later on,” he said, nod~
ding carelessly to the young girl.
She blushed and pressed her hand to her heart.
There wasn’t a village lad in the entire assembly
who would not have given a year of his life to
dance even once with beautiful little Hetty, but she


DR. RUMSEY'S PATIENT. 85
declined all the village boys’ attentions that
evening.
“ She wasn’t in the humor to dance,” she said.
“Oh, yes, of course, she would dance with the
Squire if he asked her, but she would not bestow
her favors upon any one else.” She sat down pres-
ently in a secluded corner. Her eyes followed
Awdrey wherever he went. By and by Margaret
Douglas noticed her. There was somethingabout
the childish sad face which drew out the compas-
sion of Margaret’s large heart. She went quickly
across the lawn to speak to her.
“Good-evening, Hetty,” she said, “I hope you
are well?”
Hetty stood up; she began to tremble.
“Yes, Miss Douglas, I am quite well,” she an-
swered.
“You don’t look well,” said Margaret. “Why
are you not dancing?”
“I haven’t the heart to dance,” said Hetty,
turning suddenly away. Her eyes brimmed with
sudden tears.
“Poor little girl! how could I be so thoughtless
as to suppose she would care to dance,” thought
Margaret. “ All her thoughts must be occupied
with this terrible trial—Robert told me that she
would be the principal witness. Poor little thing.”
Margaret stretched out her hand impulsively and
grasped Hetty’s.
I feel for you—I quite understand you,” she
said. Her voice trembled with deep and full sym'


86 DR. RUMSEY’S PATIENT.
pathy. “ I see that you are suffering a great deal,
but you will be better afterward—you ought to go
away afterward—you will want change.”
‘ “ I would rather stay at home, please, Miss
Douglas.” *
“ Well, I won’t worry you. Here is Mr. Aw-
drey. You have not danced once, Hetty. Would
you not like to have a dance with the Squire, just
for luck? Yes,_I see you would. Robert, come
here.”
“ What is it?” asked Awdrey. “ Oh, is that you,
Hetty? I have not forgotten our dance.”
“Dance with her now, Robert,” said Margaret.
“There is a waltz just striking up—I will meet
you presently on the terrace.”
Margaret crossed the lawn, and Awdrey gave his
arm to Hetty. She turned her large gaze upon
him for a moment, her lips trembled, she placed
her hand on his arm. “ Yes, I will dance with him
once,” she said to herself. “It will please me—I
am doing a great deal for him, and it will strength-
en me—to have this pleasure. Oh, I hope, I do
hope I’ll be brave and silent, and not let the awful
pain at my heart get the better of me. Please,
God, help me to be true to Mr. Robert.”
“Come, Hetty, why won’t you talk?” said the
Squire; he gave her a kindly yet careless glance.
They began to waltz, but Hetty had soon to
pause for want of breath.
“You are not well,” said Awdrey; “let me lead
you out of the crowd. Here, let us sit the dance


DR. RUMSEY'S PATIENT. 87
out under this tree; now you are better, are you
not?”
“Yes, sir; oh, yes, Mr. Robert, I am much bet-
ter now.” She panted as she spoke.
“How pale you are,” said Awdrey “and you
used to be such a blooming, rosy little thing.
Well, never mind,” he added hastily, “I ought
not to forget that you have a good deal to worry
you just now. You must try to keep up your
courage. All you have to do to-morrow when you
go into court is to tell the entire and exact truth.”
“ You don’t mean me to do that, you can’t," said
Hetty. She opened her eyes and gave a wild
startled glance. The next moment her whole face
I was covered with confusion. “Oh, what have I
said?” she cried, in consternation. “ Of course, I
will tell the exact and perfect truth.”
“ Of course,” said Awdrey, surprised at her man—
ner. “You will be under oath, remember.” He
stood up as he spoke. “Now let me take you to
your aunt.”
“ One moment first, Mr. Robert; I’d like to ask
you a question.”
“ Well, Hetty, what is it?” said the young man,
kindly.
Hetty raised her eyes for a moment, then she
lowered them.
“ It’s a very awful thing, the kind of thing that
God doesn’t forgive,” she said in a whisper, “for
—for a girl to tell a lie when she’s under oath?"
“ It is perjury.” Sui-l. ."W‘ in a sharp, short


88 DR. RUMSEI/ ‘S ~PATIENT.
voice. “ Why should you worry your head about
such a matter?”
“Of course not, sir, only I’d like to know. I
hope you’ll be very happy with your good lady,
Mr. Awdrey, when you’re married. I think I’ll
go home now, sir. I’m not quite well, and it
makes me giddy to dance. I wish you a happy
life, sir, and—and Miss Douglas the same. If you
see Aunt Fanny, Mr. Robert, will you tell her that
I’ve gone home?”
“Yes, to be sure I will. Good-by, Hetty.
Here, shake hands, won’t you? God bless you,
little girl. I hope you will soon be all right.”
Hetty crept slowly away; she looked like a little
gray shadow as she returned to the village, passing
silently through the lovely gardens and all the
sweet summer world. Beautiful as she was, she
was out of keeping with the summer and the time
of gayety.
Against Awdrey’s wish Margaret insisted on be-
ing present during the first day of the trial. Ever-
ett’s trial would in all probability occupy the
whole of two days. Awdrey was to appear in
court as witness. His evidence and that of Hetty
Armitage and the laborer who had seen Frere run-
ning across the plain would probably sum up the
case against the prisoner. Hetty’s evidence, how-
ever, was the most important of all. Some of the
neighbors said that Hetty would never have strength
to go through the trial. But when the little crea-
ture stepped into the witness-box, there was no


DR. RUMSEY ’S PATIENT 89
perceptible want of energy about her—her checks
were pink with the color of excitement, her lovely
eyes shone brightly. She gave her testimony in a
clear, penetrating, slightly defiant voice. That
voice of hers never once faltered. Her eyes full of
desperate courage were fixed firmly on the face of
the solicitor who examined her. Even the terrible
ordeal of cross~examination was borne without
flinching; nor did Hetty once commit herself, or
contradict her own evidence. At the end of the
cross-examination, however, she fainted off. It
was noticed afterward by eye-witnesses that Hetty’s
whole evidence had been given with her face
slightly turned away from that of the accused man.
It was after she had inadvertently met his eyes
that she turned white to the very lips, and fell
down fainting in the witness-box. She was carried
away immediately, and murmurs of sympathy fol-
lowed her as she was taken out of the court.
Hetty was undoubtedly the heroine of the occasion.
Her remarkable beauty, her modesty, the ring of
truth which seemed to pervade all her unwilling
words, told fatally against poor Everett.
She was obliged to return to court on the second
day, but Margaret did not go to Salisbury on that
occasion. After the first day of the trial Margaret
spent a sleepless night. She was on the eve of her
own wedding, but she could think of nothing but
Everett and Everett’s mother. Mrs. Everett was
present at the trial. She wore a widow’s dress and
her veil was down, but once or twice she raised it


90 1213. Rt .lLS'EY'S l'LlTl-ENT.
and looked :zt lzvl son; ‘Que son 1.1.10 glanced at his
- mother. Margaret had seen these glances, and
they wrung her heart to its depths. She felt that
she could not be in court when the verdict was
given. She was so excited with regard to the is-
sue of the tn'al that she gave no attention to those
minor matters which usually occupy the minds of
young brides.
“ It doesn’t matter,” she said to her maid; “ pack
anything you fancy into my travelling trunk. Oh,
yes, that dress will do; any dress will do. What
hats did you say? Any hats, I don’t care. I’m
going to Grandcourt now, there may be news from
Salisbury.”
“They say, Miss Douglas, that the Court won’t
rise until late to-night. The jury are sure to take
a long time to consider the case.”
“ IVell, I’m going to Grandcourt now. Mr. Aw-
drey may have returned. I shall hear the latest
news.” \
Margaret arrived at the Court just before dinner.
Her future sisters-in-law, Anne and Dorothy, ran
out on the lawn to meet her.
“ Oh, how white and tired you look!”
“I am not a bit tired; you know I am always
pale. Dorothy, has any news come yet from Salis-
bury?”
“ Nothing special,” replied Dorothy. “The
groom has come back to tell us that we are not -to
wait dinner for either father or Robert. You will
come into the house now, won’t you, Margaret?"


DR RUJISEY‘S PATIENTv 91
“No, I’d rather stay out here. I don’t want any
dinner.”
“ Nor do I. I will stay with you,” said Dorothy
“Isn't there a lovely view from here? I love this
part of the grounds better than any other spot.
You can iust get a peep of the Cathedral to the
right and the Plain to the left.”
“ I hate the Plain,” said Margaret, with a shiver
“ I wish Grandcourt didn’t lie so near it.”
Dorothy Awdrey raised her delicate brows in
surprise.
“ Why, the Plain is the charm of Grandcourt,"
she exclaimed. “ Surely, Margaret, you are not
going to get nervous and fanciful, just because a
murder was committed on the Plain.” ~ .
“ Oh, no!” Margaret started to her feet. “Ex-
cuse me, Dorothy, I see Robert coming up the
avenue."
“ So he is. Stay where you are, and I’ll run and
get the news.”
“No, please let me go.”
“ Margaret, you are ill."
“I am all right,” replied Margaret.
She ran swiftly down the avenue.
Awdrey saw her, and stopped until she came up
to him.
“ Well?" she asked breathlessly.
He put both his hands on her shoulders, and
looked steadily into her eyes.
“ The verdict,” she said. “ Quick, the verdict.”
“ Guilty, Maggie; but they have strongly recom-


94 DR. RUMSEY’S PATIENT
Rumsey that he could read motives and could also
unravel the most complex problems of the psycho~
logical 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


96 DR. R UMSEY ’S PATIENT.
twenty-six, but some white streaks were already to
be found in his thick hair, and several wrinkles
were perceptible round his dark gray eyes. He
had not gone into Parliament—he had not distin-
guished himself by any literary work. His own
ambitious dreams and his wife’s longings for him
faded one by one out of sight. He was a gentle,
kindly mannered man—generous with his money,
sympathetic up to a certain point over every tale of
woe, but there was a curious want of energy about
him, and as the .days and months flew by, Mar~
garet’s sense of trouble, which always lay near her
heart, unaccountably deepened.
The great specialist, Arthur Rumsey, was about
to give a. dinner. It was his custom to give one
once a fortnight during the London season. To
these dinners he not only invited his own friends
and the more favored among his patients, but many
celebrated men of science and literature; a few also
of the better sort of the smart people of society
were to be met on these occasions. Although there
. was no hostess, Rumsey’s dinners were popular,
his imitations were always eagerly accepted, and
the people who met each other at his house often
spoke afterward of these occasions as specially de-
lightful.
In short, the dinners partook of that intellectual
quality which makes, to quote an old-world phrase,
“the feast of reason and the flow of soul.” On
Bumsey’s evenings. the forgotten art of conversation
seemed once again to struggle to re-assert itself.


DR. RUMSEY'S PATIENT. 97
Robert Awdrey and his wife were often among
the favored guests, and were to be present at this
special dinner. Margaret was a distant cousin of
the great physician, and shortly after her arrival
\in London had consulted him about her husband.
She had told him all about the family history, and
the curious hereditary taint which had shown it-
self from generation to generation in certain mem-
bers of the men of the house. He had listened
gravely, and with much interest, saying very little
at the time, and endeavoring by every means in his
power to soothe the anxieties of the young wife.
“ The doom you dread may never fall upon your
husband,” he said finally. “ The slight inertia of
mind which he complains of is probably more due
to nervous fear than to anything else. It is a pity
he is so well off. If he had to work for his living,
he would soon use his brain to good and healthy
purpose. That fiat which fell upon Adam is in
reality a blessing in disguise. There is no surer
cure for most of the fads and fancies of the present
day than the command which ordains to man that
‘In the sweat of thy brow shalt thou eat bread.’ "
Margaret’s anxious eyes were fixed upon the
' great doctor while he was speaking.
“Your husband must make the best of his cir-
cumstances,” he continued, in a cheerful tone.
“ Crowd occupation upon him; get him to take up
any good intellectual work with strength and vigor.
If you see he is really tired out, do not over-worry
him. Get him to travel with You; get him to read
a


DR. RUMSE'Y’S PATIENT. 99
Keep him occupied, Mrs. Awdrey, keep him occu<
pied. That is my best advice to you.”
Margaret went away feeling reassured and al-
most happy, but since the date of that conversa-
tion Rumsey never forgot Awdrey’s queer case.
He possessed that extraordinary and perfect mem-
ory himself, which does not allow the smallest de-
tail, however apparently unimportant, to escape
observation, and often as he talked to his guest
across his dinner table, he observed him with a
keenness of interest which he could himself scarcely
account for.
On this particular evening more guests than
usual were assembled at the doctor’s house. Six-
teen people had sat down to dinner and several
fresh arrivals were expected in the evening.
Among the dining guests was Mrs. Everett. She
was a tall, handsome woman of about forty-five
years of age. Her hair was snow-white and was
piled high up over her head—her face was of a
pale olive hue, with regular features, and very
large, piercing, dark eyes. The eyebrows were
well arched and somewhat thickly marked—they
were still raven black, and afforded a striking con-
trast to the lovely thick hair which shone like a
mass of silver above her brow.
Everett’s mother always wore black, but, curious
to relate, she had discarded widow’s weeds soon
after her son’s incarceration. Before that date she
had been in character, and had also lived the life
of an ordinary, affectionate, and thoroughly ami-


100 DR. RUMSEY’S PATIENT.
able woman. Keen as her sorrow in parting with
the husband of her youth was, she contrived to
weave a happy nest in which her heart could take
shelter, in the passionate love which she gave to
her only son. But from the date of his trial and
verdict, the woman’s whole character, the very ex-
pression on her face, had altered. Her eyes had
now a watchful and intent look. She seemed like
some one who had set a mission before herself.
She had the look of one who lived for ahidden pur-
pose. She no longer eschewed society, but went
into it even more frequently than her somewhat
slender means afforded. She made many new ac-
quaintances and was always eager to win the con-
fidence of those who cared to confide in her. Her
own story she never touched upon, but she gave a
curious kind of watchful sympathy to others which
was not without its charm.
On this particular night, the widow’s eyes were
brighter and more restless than usual. Dr. Rum-
sey knew all about her story, and had often coun-
selled her with regard to her present attitude
toward society at large.
“My boy is innocent,” she had said many times
to the doctor. “The object of my life is to prove
this. I will quietly wait, I will do nothing rash,
but it is my firm conviction that I shall yet be per-
mitted to find and expose the man who killed
Horace Frere.”
Bumsey had warned her as to the peril which
she ran in fostering too keenly a fixed idea—he


DR. RUMSEY’S PATIENT. 101
had taken pains to give her psychological reasons
for the danger which she incurred—but nothing he
could say or do could alter the bias of her mind.
Her fixed and unwavering assurance that her boy
was absolutely innocent could not be imperilled by
any words which man could speak.
“If I had even seen my boy do the murder I
should still believe it to be a vision of my own
brain,” she had said once, and after that Rumsey
had ceased to try to guide her thoughts into a
healthier channel.
On this particular night when the doctor came
up-stairs after wine, accompanied by the rest of the
men of the party, Mrs. Everett seemed to draw him
to her side by her watchful and excited glances.
There was something about the man which could
never withstand an appeal of human need—he
went straight now to the widow’s side as a needle
is attracted to a magnet.
“Well,” he said, drawing a chair forward, and
seating himself so as almost to face her.
“You guessed that I wanted to see you?" she
said eagerly.
“I looked at you and that was sufficient,” he
said.
“When can you give me an interview?” she re-
plied.
“Do you want to visit me as a patient?”
“I do not—that is, not in the ordinary sense.
I want to tell you something. I have a story to
relate, and when it is told I should like to get


102 DR. R UMSE Y ‘S PATIENT.
your verdict on a certain peculiar case—in short, I
believe I have got a clue, if only a slight one, to
the unravelling of the mystery of my life—you
quite understand?”
“Yes, I understand,” replied Dr. Rumsey in a
gentle voice, “but, my dear lady, I am not a de-
tective.”
“ Not in the ordinary sense, but surely as far as
the complex heart is concerned.”
Dr. Bumsey held up his hand.
“ We need not go into that,” he said.
“No, we will not. May I see you to-morrow
for a few minutes?”
The doctor consulted his note-book.
“I cannot see you as a patient,” he said, “but
as a friend it is possible. Can you be here at
eight o’clock to-morrow morning? I breakfast at
eight—my breakfast generally occupies ten min-
utes—that time is at your disposal.”
“I will be with you. Thank you a thousand
times,” she replied.
Her eyes grew bright with exultation. The
doctor favored her with a keen glance and moved
aside. A few minutes later he found himself in
Margaret Awdrey’s vicinity. Margaret was now a
very beautiful woman. As a girl she had been
lovely, but her early matronhood had developed
her charms, had added to her stateliness, and had
brought out many new and fresh expressions in
her mobile and lovely face.
As Rumsey approached her side, she was in the


DR. RUMSEY’S PATIENT. 103
act of taking leave of an old friend of her hus~
band’s, who was going away early. The Doctor
was therefore able to watch‘her for a minute with-
out her observing him—then she turned slightly,
saw him, flushed vividly, and went eagerly and
swiftly to his side.
“Dr. Bumsey,” said Margaret, “I know this is
not the place to make ‘appointments, but I am aux’
ions to see you on the subject of my husband’s
health. How soon can you manage~—~—”
“ I can make an appointment for to-morrow,” he
interrupted. “ Be with me at half-past one. I can
give you half an hour quite undisturbed then.”
She did not smile, but her eyes were raised fully
to his face. Those dark, deep eyes so full of the
noblest emotions which can stir the human soul,
looked at him now with a pathos that touched his
heart. He moved away to talk to other friends,
but the thought of Margaret Awdrey returned to
him many times during the ensuing night.


CHAPTER X.
AT the appointed hour on the following morning
Mrs. Everett was shown into Dr. Bumsey’s pres-
ence. She found him in his cosy breakfast-room,
in the act of helping himself to coffee.
“Ah!” he said, as he placed a chair for her,
“what an excellent thing this punctuality is in a
woman. Sit down, pray. You shall have your
full ten minutes—the clock is only on the stroke
of eight.”
Mrs. Everett looked too disturbed and anxious
even to smile. She untied her bonnet-strings,
threw back her mantle, and stared straight at Dr.
Bumsey.
“No coffee, thank you,” she said. “I break—
fasted long ago. Dr. Rumsey, I am nearly wild
with excitement and anxiety. I told you long ago,
did I not, that a day would come when I should
get a clue which might lead to establishing my
boy’s”—she wet her lips—“ my only boy’s inno-
cence? Nothing that can happen now will ever, of
course, repair what he has lost--his lost youth,
his lost healthy outlook on life—~but to set him
free, even now! To give him his liberty once
again! To feel the clasp of his hand on mine].
Ah, I nearly go mad at times with longing, but
EH4


DR. RUMSEY’S PATIENT. 105
thank God, thank the Providence which is above
us all, I do believe I have found a clue at last.”
“ Tell me what it is,” said the doctor, in a kind
voice. “ I know,” he added, “ you will make your
story as brief as possible.”
“I will, my good friend,” she replied. She
stood up now, her somewhat long arms hung at
her sides, she turned her face in all its intense
purpose full upon the doctor. ‘
“ You know my restless nature,” she continued.
“ I can seldom or never sit still—even my sleep is
broken by terrible dreams. All the energy which
I possess is fixed upon one thought, and one only
—I want to find the real murderer of Horace
Frere.”
“ Yes," said Dr. Rumsey.
“A fortnight ago I made up my mind to do a
queer thing. I determined to visit Grandcourt—
I mean the village of that name.”
The doctor started.
. “You are surprised?” said Mrs. Everett;
“ nevertheless I can account for my longings.”
“You need not explain. I quite understand.”
“ I believe you do. I felt drawn to the place—
to the Inn where my son stayed, to the neighbor-
hood. 'I travelled down to Grandcourt without
announcing my intention to any one, and arrived at
the In just as the dusk was setting in. The land-
lord, Armitage by name, came out to interview me.
I told him who I was. He looked much disturbed,
and by no means pleased. I asked him if he


106 DR. RUMSE Y ‘S PATIENT.
would take me in. He went way to consult his
wife. She followed him after a moment into the
porch with a scared face.
“ ‘ I wonder, ma’am, that you like to come here,’
she said.
“ ‘ I come for one purpose,’ I replied. ‘ I want
to see the spot where Horace Frere met his death.
I am drawn to this place by the greatest agony
which has ever torn a mother’s heart. Will you
take me in, and will you give me the room in which
my son slept?’
“The landlady looked at me in anything but a
friendly manner. Her husband whispered some-
thing to her—after a time her brow cleared—she
nodded to him, and the next moment I was given
to understand that my son’s old room would be at
my disposal. I took possession of it that evening,
and my meals were served to me in the little par-
lor where my boy and the unfortunate Horace
Frere had lived together.
“The next day I went out alone at an early hour
to visit the Plain. I had never ventured on Salis-
bury Plain before. The day was a gloomy and
stormy one. There were constant showers of rain,
and I was almost wet through by the time I
reached my destination. I had just got upon the
borders of the Plain when I saw a young woman
walking a little ahead of me. There was some-
thing in the gait which I seemed to recognize, al-
though at first I had only a dim idea that I had
ever seen her before. Hurrying my footsteps I


DR. RUMSEY ‘S PATIENT. [07
came up to her, passed her, and as I did so looked
her full in the face. I started then and stopped
short. She was the girl who had seen the murder
committed, and who had given evidence of the most
damnatory kind against my son on the day of the
trial. In that one swift glance I saw that she was
much altered. She had been a remarkably pretty
girl. She had now nearly lost all her comeliness
of appearance. Her face was thin, her dress negli-
gent and untidy, on her brow there was a sullen
frown. When she saw me she also stood still,
her eyes dilated with a curious expression of fear.
“ ‘ Who are you?’ she said, with a pant.
“ ‘ I am Mrs. Everett,’ I replied, slowly. ‘ I am
the mother of the man who once lodged in your
uncle's house, and who is now expiating the crime
of another at Portland prison.’
“She had turned red at first, now she became
white.
“ ‘ And your name, ’ I continued, ‘ is Hetty Armi-
tage.’ '
“ ‘ Why do you say that your son is expatiating
the crime of another?’ she asked.
“ ‘ Because I am his mother. I have looked into
his heart, and there is no murder there. But tell
me, is not your name Hetty Armitage?’
“ ‘ It is not Armitage now,’ she answered. ‘ I am
married. I live about three miles from Grand-
court, over in that direction. I am going home
now. My husband’s name is Vincent. He is a
farmer.’


108 DR. RUMSEY’S PATIENT
“ ‘ You don’t look too well off,’ I said, for I
noticed her shabby dress and run-to-seed appear-
ance.
“‘ These are hard times for farmers,’ she an-
swered.
“ ‘ Have you children?’ I asked.
“ ‘ No,’ she replied fiercely, ‘ I am glad to say 1
have not.’
“ ‘ Why are you glad?’ I asked. ‘ Surely a child
is the crown of a married woman’s bliss.’
“ ‘ It would not be to me, ’ she cried. ‘ My heart
is full to the brim. I have no room for a child in
it.’
" ‘A full heart generally means happiness,’ I
said. ‘Are you happy?’
“ She gave me a queer glance.
“‘ No, ma’am,’ she answered, ‘my heart is full
of bitterness, of sorrow.’ _Her eyes looked quite
wild. She pressed one of her hands to her fore~
head,—then stepping out, she half turned round
to me.
“ ‘ I wish you good-morning, Mrs. Everett,’ she
said. ‘ My way lies across here.’
“ ‘ Stay a moment before you leave me,’ I said.
‘I am coming to this plain on a mission which you
perhaps can guess. If you are poor you will not
despise half a sovereign. I’ll give you half a
sovereign if you’ll show me the exact spot where
the murder was committed.’
“ She turned from white to red, and from red to
white again.


DR. RUMSEY'S PATIENT. 109
‘ ‘ I don’t like that spot,’ she said. ‘ That night
was a terrible night to me; my nerves ain’t what
they were—I sleep bad, and sometimes I dream.
Many and many a time I’ve seen that murder com—
mitted over again. I have seen the look on the
face of the murdered man, and the look on the face
of the man who did it—Oh, my God, I have
seen—’
She pressed her two hands hard against her eyes.
“I waited quietly until she had recovered her
emotion; then I held out the little gold coin.
“ ‘ You will take me to thespot?’ I asked.
“ She clutched the coinhuddenly in her hand.
“ ‘ This will buy what I live for,’ she cried, with
passion. ‘ I can drown thought with this. Come
along, ma’am, we are not very far from the place
here. I’ll take you, and then go on home.’
“ She started off, walking in front of me, and
keeping well ahead. She went quickly, and yet
with a sort of tremulous movement, as though she
were not quite certain of herself. We crossed the
Plain not far from the Court. I saw the house in
the distance, and the curling smoke which rose
up out of the trees. _
“ ‘ Don’t walk so fast,’ Isaid. ‘I am an old wo-
man, and you take my breath away.’ She slack-
ened her steps, but very unwillingly.
“ ‘ The family are not often at the Court?’ I
queried.
“ ‘ No,’ she answered with a start—‘ since the
old Squire died the place has been most shut up.’


110 DR. RUMSEY ‘S PATIENT
“ ‘ I happen to know the present Squire and his
wife,’ I said.
“ She flushed when I said this, gave me a furtive
glance, and then pressing one hand to her left side,
said abruptly:
“ ‘ If you know you can tell me summ’at—he is
well, is he?’
“‘ They are both well,’ I answered, surprised at
the tone of her voice. ‘I should judge them to be
a happy couple.’
“ ‘ I thank the good God that Mr. Robert is
happy,’ she said, in a hoarse whisper.
“Once again she hurried her footsteps; at last
she stood still on a rising knoll of ground.
“‘ Do you see this clump of alders?’ she said.
‘ It was here I stood, just on this spot—I was
sheltered by the elders, and even if the night had
not been so dark they would never have noticed
me. Over there to your right it was done. You
don’t want me to stay any longer now, ma’am,
do you?’
“‘ You can go when I have asked you one or
two questions. You stood here, you say—just
here?’
“ ‘ Just here, ma’am,’ she answered.
“ ‘ And the murder was committed there?’
“ ‘ Yes, where the grass seems to grow a bit
greener—you notice it, don’t you, just there, to
your right.’
“ ‘ I see,’ I replied with a shudder, which I could
not repress. ‘ Do you mind telling me how it was


112 DR. RUMSEY’S PATIENT.
ture fell on her knees—she clung to myd',
covering her face with a portion of the mantle
which I was wearing.
“ ‘ Good God, why do you say that?’ she gasped.
‘How do you know? Who has told you? Why
do you say awful words of that sort?’
“Her excitement made me calm. I stood per-
fectly silent, but with my heart beating with the
queerest sense of exultation and victory.
“‘ Get up,’ I said. She rose trembling to her
feet. I laid my hand on her shoulder.
“ ‘ You have something to confess,’ I said. \
“ She looked at me again and burst out laughing.
“ ‘ What a fool I made of myself just now !’ she
said. ‘I have nothing to confess; what could I
have? You spoke so solemn and the place is
queer—it always upsets me. I’ll go now.’ She
backed a few steps away.
“ ‘ I saw two men on the Plain,’ she said then,
raising her voice, ‘one was Horace Frere—the
other was your son, Frank Everett.’ Before I
could add another word she took to her heels and
was quickly out of sight.
“ I returned to the Inn and questioned Armitage
and his wife. I did not dare to tell them what
Hetty had said in her excitement, but I asked for
her address and drove out early the following
morning to Vincent’s farm to visit her. I was
told on my arrival that she had left home that
morning; that she often did so to visit a relation
at a distance. I asked for the address, which was


DR. RUMSEY ‘S PATIENT. 113
given me somewhat unwillingly. That night I
went there, but Hetty had not arrived and nothing
was known about her. Since then I have tried in
vain to get any clue to her present whereabouts.
That is my story, Dr. Rumsey. What do you
think of it? Are the wild stories of an excited and
over-wrought woman worthy of careful considera-
tion? Is her sudden flight suspicious, or the re-
verse? I anxiously await your verdict.”
Dr. Rumsey remained silent for a moment.
“I am inclined to believe,” he said, then very
slowly, “that the words uttered by this young
woman were merely the result of overstrung nerves;
remember, she was in all probability‘in love with
the man who met his death in so tragic a manner.
From the remarkable change which you speak of
in her appearance, I should say that her nerves
had been considerably shattered by the sight she
witnessed, and also by the prominent place she was
obliged to take in the trial. She has probably
dreamt of this thing, and dwelt upon it year in
and year out, since it happened. Then, remember,
you spoke in a very startling manner and practi-
cally accused her of having committed perjury at
the time of the trial. Under such circumstances
and in the surroundings she was in at the time,
she would be very likely to lose her head. As to
her sudden disappearance, I confess I cannot quite
understand it, unless her nervous system is even
more shattered than you incline me to believe; but,
stay,——from words she inadvertently let drop, she
in


114 DR. RUMSEY‘S PATIENT.
has evidently become addicted to drink, to opium
eating, or some such form of self-indulgence. If
that is the case she would be scarcely responsible
for her actions. I do not think, Mrs. Everett,
unless you can obtain further evidence, that there
is anything to go upon in this.”
“ That is your carefully considered opinion?"
“ It is—I am sorry if it disappoints you."
“ It does not do that, for I cannot agree with you.”
Mrs. Everett rose as she spoke, fastened her
cloak, and tied her bonnet-strings.
“ Your opinion is the cool one of an acute
reasoner, but also of a person who is outside the
circumstances,” she continued.
Rumsey smiled.
“ Surely in such a case mine ought to be the one
to be relied upon?” he queried.
‘No, for there is such a thing as mother's in-
stinct. I will not detain you longer, Dr. Rumsey.
You have said what I expected you would say.”
I


CHAPTER Xl.
RUMSEY began the severe routine of his daily
work. He was particularly busy that day, and
had many anxious cases to consider; it was also
one of his hospital mornings, and his hospital
cases were, he considered, some of the most impor-
tant in his practice. Nevertheless Mrs. Everett’s
face and her words of excitement kept flashing
again and again before his memory.
“There is a possibility of that woman losing her
senses if her mind is not diverted into another
channel, and soon too,” he thought to himself.
“ If she allows her thoughts to dwell much longer
on this fixed idea, she will see her son’s murderer
in the face of each man and woman with whom she
comes in contact. Still there is something queer
in her story—the young woman whom she ad-
dressed on Salisbury Plain was evidently the victim
of nervous terror to a remarkable extent—can it be
possible that she is concealing something?”
Rumsey thought for a moment over his last idea.
Then he dismissed it from his mind.
“No,” he said to himself, “a village girl could
not stand cross-examination without betraying her-
self. I shall get as fanciful as Mrs. Everett if I
dwell any longer upon this problem. After all
115


116 DR. R UMSE Y ‘S PA TIENT.
there is no problem to consider. Why not accept
the obvious fact? Poor Everett killed his friend
in a moment of strong irritation—it was a very
plain case of manslaughter.”
At the appointed hour Margaret Awdrey ap-
peared on the scene. She was immediately ad~
mitted into Dr. Rumsey’s presence. He asked her
to seat herself, and took a chair facing her. It
was Margaret’s way to be always very direct. She
was direct now, knowing that her auditor’s time
was of extreme value.
“ I have not troubled you about my husband for
some years,” she began.
“ You have not,” he replied.
“Do you remember what I last told you about
him?”
“Perfectly. But excuse me one moment; to
satisfy you I will look up his case in my case-
book. Do you remember the year when you last
spoke to me about him?”
Margaret instantly named the date, not only of
year, but of month. Dr. Rumsey quickly looked
up the case. He laid his finger on the open page
in which he had entered all particulars, ran his
eyes rapidly over the notes he had made at the
time, and then turned to Mrs. Awdrey.
“I find, as I expected, that I have forgotten
nothing,” he said. “I was right in my conjec-
tures, was I not? Your husband’s symptoms were
due to nervous distress?”
“ I wish I could say so,” replied Margaret.


DR. R UMSEY’S PATIENT. 117
Dr. Rumsey slightly raised his brows.
“ Are there fresh symptoms?” he asked.
“He is not well. I must tell you exactly how
he is affected.”
The doctor bent forward to listen. Margaret
began her story.
“ Since the date of our marriage there has been
a very gradual, but also a marked deterioration in
my husband’s character,” she said. “But until
lately he has been in possession of excellent
physical health, his appetite has been good, he has
been inclined for exercise, and has slept well. In
short, his bodily health has been without a flaw.
Accompanying this state of physical well—being
there has been a very remarkable mental torpor.”
“ Are you not fanciful on that point?” asked Dr.
Rumsey.
“ I am not. Please remember thatI have known
him since he was a boy. As a boy he was particu—
larly ambitious, full of all sorts of schemes for the
future—many of these schemes were really daring
and original. He did well at school, and better
than well at Balliol. When we became engaged
his strong sense of ambition was quite one of the
most remarkable traits of his character. He always
spoke of doing much with his life. The idea was
that as soon as possible he was to enter the House,
and he earnestly hoped that when that happy event
took place he would make his mark there. One
by one all these thoughts, all these hopes and
aims, have dropped away‘ from his mind; each


118 DR. RUMSEY ’S PATIENT.
year has robbed him of something, until at last he
has come to that pass when even books fail to
arouse any interest in him. He sits for many
hours absolutely doing nothing, not even sleeping,
but gazing straight before him into vacancy. Our
little son is almost the only person who has any
power to rouse him. He is devoted to the child,
but his love even for little Arthur is tempered by
that remarkable torpor—he never plays with the
boy, who is a particularly strong-willed, spirited
child, but likes to sit with him on his knee, the
child's arms clasped round his neck. He has
trained the little fellow to sit perfectly still. The
child is devoted to his father, and would do any-
thing for him. As the years have gone on, my
husband has become more and more a man of few
words—I now believe him to be a man of few
thoughts—of late he has been subject to moods of
deep depression, and although he is my husband,
I often feel, truly as I love him, that he is more
like a log than a man.”
Tears dimmed Margaret’s eyes; she hastily
wiped them away.
“ I would not trouble you about all this,” she
continued, “but for a change which has taken place
within the last few months. That change directly
affects my husband’s physical health, and as such
is the case I feel it right to consult you about it.”
“Yes, speak—take your own time—I am much
interested,” said the doctor.
“ The change in my husband’s health of body


DR. RUMSEY’S PATIENT. ll?!
has also begun gradually,” continued Mrs. Awdrey.
“You know, of course, that he is now the owner of
Grandcourt. He has taken a great dislike to the
place—in my opinion, an unaccountable dislike.
He absolutely refuses to live there. Now I am
fond of Grandcourt, and our little boy always seems
inbetter health and spirits there than anywhere
else. I take my child down to the old family place
whenever I can spare a week from my husband.
Last autumn I persuaded Mr. Awdrey with great
difiiculty to accompany me to Grandcourt for a
week. I have never ceased to regret that visit.”
“Indeed, what occurred?” asked the doctor.
“Apparently nothing, and yet evidently a great
deal. When we got into the country Bobert’s
apathy seemed to change; he roused himself and
became talkative and even excitable. He took long
walks, and was particularly fond of visiting Salis-
bury Plain, that part which lies to the left of the
Court. He invariably took these rambles alone,
and often went out quite late in the evening, not
returning until midnight.
“ On the last of these occasions I asked him why
he was so fond of walking by himself. He said
with a forced laugh, and a very queer look in his
eyes, that he was engaged trying to find a favorite
walking-stick which he had lost years ago. He
laid such stress upon what appeared such a trivial
subject that I could scarcely refrain from smiling.
When I did so he swore a terrific oath, and said,
with blazing eyes, that life or death depended upon


120 mi RUMSEY ‘s PATIENT
the matter which I thought so trivial. Immedi~
ately after his brief blaze of passion he became
moody, dull, and more inert than ever. The next
day we left the Court. It was immediately after
that visit that his physical health began to give
way. He lost his appetite, and for the last few
months he has been the victim of a very peculiar
form of sleeplessness.”
“ Ah, insomnia would be bad in a case like his.”
said Dr. Rumsey.
“It has had a very irritating effect upon him.
His sleeplessness, like all other symptoms, came
on gradually. At the same time he became in-
tensely sensitive to the slightest noise. Against my
will he tried taking small doses of chloral, but they
had the reverse of a beneficial efl'ect upon him.
During the last month he has, toward morning,
dropped off into uneasy slumber, from which he
awakens bathed in perspiration and in a most
curious state of terror. Night after night the same
sort of thing occurs. He seizes my hand and asks
me in a voice choking with emotion if I see any-
thing in the room. ‘ Nothing,’ I answer.
“ ‘Am I awake or asleep?’ he asks next.
“ ‘ Wide awake,’ I say to him.
“‘ Then it is as I fear,’ he replies. ‘I see it, I
see it distinctly. Can't you? Look, you must see
it too. It is just over there, in the direction of the
window. Don’t you see that sphere of perfect light?
Don’t you see the picture in the middle?’ He shiv-
era; the drops of perspiration fall from his forehead.


DR. RUMSEY’S PATIENT. 121
"‘ Margaret,’ he says, ‘for God’s sake look.
Tell me that you see it too.’
“ ‘ I see nothing,’ I answer him.
‘“Then the vision is for me alone. It haunts
me. What have I done to deserve it? Margaret,
there is a circle of light over there—in the centre
a picture~—it is the picture of a murder. Two men
are in it—yes, I know now—I am looking at the
Plain near the Court—the moon is hidden behind
the clouds—there are two men—they fight. God
in heaven, one man falls—the other bends over
him. I see the face of the fallen man, but I can-
not see the face of the other. I should rest con-
tent if I could only see his face. Who is he,
Margaret, who is he?’
“ He falls back on his pillow half-fainting.
“This sort of thing goes on night after night,
Dr. Rumsey. Toward morning the vision which
tortures my unhappy husband begins to fade, he
sinks into heavy slumber, and awakens late in the
morning with no memory whatever of the horrible
thing which has haunted him during the hours of
darkness.
“ The days which follow are more full than ever
of that terrible inertia, and now he begins to look
what he really is, a man stricken with an awful
doom.
“The symptoms you speak of are certainly
alarming,” said Dr. Rumsey, after a pause.
"They point to a highly unsatisfactory state of
the nerve centres. These symptoms. joined to


122 DR. RUMSEY ‘S PATIENT.
what you have already told me of the peculiar
malady which Awdrey inherits, make his case a
grave one. Of course, I by no means give up
hope, but the recurrence of this vision nightly is a
singular symptom. Does Awdrey invariably speak
of not being able to see the face of the man who
committed the murder?”
“Yes, he always makes a remark to that effect.
He seems every night to see the murdered man
lying on the ground with his face upward, but the
man who commits the murder has his back to
him. Last night he shrieked out in absolute terror
on the subject:
“ ‘ Who is the man? That man on the ground is
Horace Frere—he has been hewn down in the first
strength of his youth—he is a dead man. There
stands the murderer, with his back to me, but who
is he? Oh, my God!’ he cried out with great
passion, ‘who is the one who has done this deed?
Who has murdered Horace Frere? I would give
all I possess, all that this wide world contains,
only to catch one glimpse of his face.’
“He sprang out of bed as he spoke, and went a
step or two in the direction where he saw the
peculiar vision, clasping his hands, and staring
straight before him like a person distraught, and
almost out of his mind. I followed him and tried
3 take his hand.
“ ‘ Robert I’ I said, ‘ you know, don't you, quite
well, who murdered Horace Frere? Poor fellow,
it was not murder in the Lllklliilill'j' sense. Frank


DR. RUMSEY’S PA TIENT- 123
Everett is the name of the man whose face you
cannot see. But it is an old story now, and you
have nothing to do with it, nothing whatever——
don’t let it dwell any longer on your mind.’
“ ‘ Ha, but he carries my stick,‘ he shrieked out,
and then he fell back in a state of unconsciousness
against the bed.”
“ And do you mean to tell me that he remembered
nothing of this agony in the morning?" queried
Dr. Itumsey.
“ Nothing whatever. At breakfast he complained
of a slight headache and was particularly dull and
moody. When I came off to you he had just started
for a walk in the Park with our little boy.”
“ I should like to see your husband, and to talk
to him,” said Dr. Rumsey, rising abruptly. “ Can
you manage to bring him here?”
“I fear I cannot, for he does not consider him-
self ill.”
“ Shall you be at home this evening?"
“ Yes, we are not going out to-night."
“ Then I’ll drop in between eight and nine on a
friendly visit, You must not be alarmed if I try
to lead up to the subject of these nightly visions,
for I would infinitely rather your husband remem-
bered them than that they should quite slip from
his memory.”
“ Thank you,” answered Margaret. “ I will
leave you alone with him when you call to-night."
“ It may be best for me to see him without any‘
one else being present."


124 DR RUMSEY’S PATIENT
Margaret Awdrey soon afterward took her leave.
That night, true to his appointment, Dr. Bum-
sey made his appearance at the Awdreys’ house in
Seymour Street. He was shown at once into the
drawing-room, where Awdrey was lying back in a
deep chair on one side of the hearth, and Mar-
garet was softly playing a sonata of Beethoven’s
in the distance. She played with great feeling and
power, and did not use any notes. The part of
the room where she sat was almost in shadow,
but the part round the fire where Awdrey had
placed himself was full of bright light.
Margaret’s dark eyes looked full of painful
thought when the great doctor was ushered into
the room. She did not see him at first, then she
noticed him and faltered in her playing. She took
her fingers from the piano, and rose to meet him.
“ Pray go on, Margaret. What are you stopping
for?” cried her husband. “Nothing soothes me
like your music. Go on, go on. I see the moon—
light on the trees, I feel the infinite peace, the
waves are beating on the shore, there is rest.” He
broke off abruptly, starting to his feet. “I beg
your pardon, Dr. Bumsey, I assure you I did not
see you until this moment.”
“I happened to have half-an-hour at my dis-
posal, and thought I would drop in for a chat,”
said Dr. Bumsey in his pleasant voice.
Awdrey’s somewhat fretful brow relaxed.
“You are heartily welcome,” he said. “Have
you dined? Will you take anything?”


DR. RUMSEY ‘S PATIENT. 125
" I have dined, and I only want one thing,” said
Dr. Rumsey.
“ Pray name it; I’ll ring for it immediately."
“ You need not do that, for the person to give it
to me is already in the room."
The doctor bowed to Margaret as he spoke.
“ I love the ‘Moonlight Sonata’ beyond all other
music,” he said. “Will you continue playing it,
Mrs. Awdrey? Will you rest a tired physician as
well as your husband with your music?”
“With all the pleasure in the world,” she re-
plied. She returned at once to her shady corner,
and the soothing effects of the sonata once more
filled the room. For a short time Awdrey sat up-
right, forced into attention of others by the fact of
Dr. Rumsey’s presence, but he soon relaxed the
slight efl'ort after self-control, and lay back in his
chair once again with his eyes half shut.
Rumsey listened to the music and watched his
strange patient at the same time.
Margaret suddenly stopped, almost as abruptly
as if she had had a signal. She walked up the
room, and stood in the bright circle of light. She
looked very lovely, and almost spiritual—her face
was pale—her eyes luminous as if lit from within
—her pathetic and perfect lips were slightly apart.
Rumsey thought her something like an angel who
was about to utter a benediction.
"I am going up now to see little Arthur,” she
said. She glanced at her husband, and left the
room.


128 DR. RUMSEY’S PATIENT.
Rumsey had not failed to observe that Awdrey
did not even glance at his wife when she stood on
the hearth. There was a full moment’s pause after
she left the room. Awdrey’s eyes were half closed,
they were turned in the direction of the bright
blaze. Rumsey looked full at him.
“ Strange case, strange man,” he muttered under
his breath. “ There is something for me to un-
ravel here. The man who is insensate enough not
to see the beauty in that woman’s face, not to revel
in the love she bestows on him—he is a log, not a
man—and yet——”
“ Are you well?” cried the doctor abruptly. He
spoke on purpose with great distinctness, and his
words had something the effect of a pistol-shot.
Awdrey sat bolt upright and stared full at him.
“ Why do you ask me that question?” he replied,
irritation in his tone.
“Because I wish to question you with regard to
your health,” said Dr. Rumsey. “Whether you
feel it or not, you are by no means we .”
“Indeed! What do I look like?”
“Like a man who sees more than he ought,” re-
plied the doctor with deliberation. “But before
we come to that may I ask you a question?”
Awdrey looked disturbed—he got up and stood
with his back to the fire.
“Ask what you please,” he said, rubbing up his
hair as he spoke. “ As there is a heaven above,
Dr. Rumsey, you see a wretched man before you
to—nigh "


DR. RUM‘SEY’S PATIENT. 127
‘My dear fellow, what strong words! Surely,
you of all people——”
Awdrey interrupted with a hollow laugh.
“Ah,” he said, “ it looks like it, does it not? In
any circle, among any concourse of people, I
should ‘be pointed out as the fortunate man. I
have money—I havea very good and beautiful wife
-—I am the father of as fine a boy as the heart of
man could desire. I belong to one of the old and
established families of our country, and I also, I
suppose, may claim the inestimable privilege to
youth, for I am only twenty-six years of age—
nevertheless—” He shuddered, looked down
the long room, and then closed his eyes.
“I am glad I came here,” said Dr. Rumsey.
“Believe me, my dear sir, the symptoms you have
just described are by no means uncommon in the
cases of singularly fortunate individuals like your-
self. The fact is, you have got too much. You
want to empty yourself of some of your abundance
in order that contentment and health of mind may
flow in.”
Awdrey stared at the doctor with lack—lustre
eyes. Then he shook his head.
“ I am past all that,” he said. “ I might at the
first have managed to make a superhuman effort;
but now I have nopenergy for anything. I have
not even energy sufl‘icient to take away my own
life, which is the only thing on all God’s earth that
I crave to do.”
“Come, come. Awdrey, you must not allow


DR. RUMSEY’S PATIENT. 129
killed my soul. I believe, before heaven, that I
have stated the casein a nutshell. You may be,
and doubtless are, a great doctor, but you have
not come across living men with dead souls before.”
“I have not Awdrey; nor is your soul dead.
You state an impossibility."
Awdrey started excitedly. His face, which had
been deadly pale, now blazed with animation and
color.
“Learned as you are,” he cried, " you will gain
some fresh and valuable experience from me to—
night. I am the strangest patient you ever at-
tempted to cure. You have roused me, and it is
good to be roused. Perhaps my soul is not dead
after all—perhaps it is struggling with a demo:
which crushes it down."
(i


CHAPTERXII.
DB. BUMSEY did not reply to this for a moment.
‘then he spoke quietly.
“Tell me everything," he said. “Nothing you
can say will startle me, but if there is any possi-
bility of my helping you I must know the case as
far as you can give it me.”
“ I have but little to say,” replied Awdrey. “ I
am paralyzed day after day simply by want of
reeling. Even a sense of pain, of irritation, is a
relief—the deadness of my life is so overpowering.
Do you know the history of my house?”
“ Your wife has told me. It is a queer story."
“ It is a damnable story,” said Awdrey. “ With
such a fate hanging over me, why was I born?
Why did my father marry? Why did my mother
bring a man-child into the world? Men with
dooms like mine ought never to have descendants.
I curse the thought that I have a child myself. It
is all cruel, monstrous.”
“ But the thing you fear has not fallen upon
you,” said Dr. Rumsey.
“ Has it not? I believe it has.”
“ How can you possibly imagine what is not the
case?”
“Dr. Bumsey,” said Awdrey. advancing a step
180


DR. RUMSEY'S PATIENT. ‘ 13V.
or two to meet him, “I don’t imagine what 1.7
know. Look at me. I am six-and-twenty. Do:
I look that age?”
“I must confess that you look older than your
years.”
“Aye, I should think so. See my hair already
mingled with gray. Feel this nerveless hand. Is
this the hand of the English youth of six-and-
twenty? Look at my eyes—how dull they are; are
they the eyes of a man in his prime? No, no, I
am going down to the grave as the other men of
my house have gone, simply because I cannot help
it. Like those who have gone before me I slip,
and slip, and slip, and cannot get a grip of life any-
where, and so I go out, or go over the precipice
into God knows what—anyhow I go.”
“Poor fellow, he is far worse than I had any
idea of,” thought the doctor. He took his patient‘s
hand, and led him to a seat.
“You are quite ill enough to see a doctor,“ he
said, “and ought to have had advice long ago. I
mean to take you up, Awdrey. From this moment
you must consider yourself my patient.”
“If you can do anything for me I shall be
glad—that is, no, I shall not be glad, for 1 am
incapable of the sensation, but I am aware it is
the right thing to put myself into your hands.
What do you advise?”
“1 cannot tell you until I know more. My pres-
ent impression is that you are simply the victim of
nerve terrors. You have dwelt upon the doom of


132 DR. RUMSEY ‘S PATIENT
your house for so long a time that you are now fully
:convinced that you are one of the victims. But
‘you must please remember that the special feature
‘of the tragedy, for tragedy it is, has not occurred in
your case, for you have never forgotten anything
of consequence.”
“ Only‘ one thing—it sounds stupid. even to speak
of it, but it worries me inconceivably. There was
a murder committed _on Salisbury Plain the night
before I got engaged to Margaret. On that night
I lost a walking-stick which I was particularly
fond of.”
“ Your wife mentioned to me that you were
“troubled on that point,” broke in Dr. Rumsey.
“Pray dismiss it at once and forever from your
mind. The fact of your having forgotten such a
‘trifle is not of the slightest consequence."
“Do you think so? The fret about it has fast-
ened itself very deeply into my mind.”
‘Well, don’t think of it again—the next time it
occurs to torment you, just remember that I, who
‘have made brain troubles like yours my special
study, think nothing at all about it.”
“Thank you, I’ll try to remember.”
“Do so. Now, I wish to talk to you about an-
other matter. You sleep badly."
“Do I?” Awdrey raised his brows. "I cannot
recall that fact.”
“Nevertheless you do. Your wife speaks of it.
Now in your state of health it is most essential
that you should have good nights."


DR. RUMSEY’S PATIENT. 133
"I always feel an added sense of depression
when I am going to bed,” said Awdrey, “but I am
unconscious that I have bad nights—what can
Margaret mean?”
“I trust that your wife’s natural nervousness
with regard to you makes her inclined to exag-
gerate your symptoms, but I may as well say
frankly that some of the things she has mentioned,
as occurring night after night, have given me un~
easiness. Now I should like to be with you during
one of your bad nights.”
“ What do you mean?”
“ Come home with me to-night, my good fellow,”
said the doctor, laying his hand on Awdrey’s
shoulder—“ we will pass this night together._
What do you say?”
“Your request surprises me very much, but it’f.
would be a relief—~I will go,” said Awdrey.
He turned and rang the bell as he spoke—a ser--
vant appeared, who was sent with a message to-
Mrs. Awdrey. She came to the drawing-room in
a few minutes. Her face of animation, wakeful-
ness of soul and feeling, made a strong contrast to‘
Awdrey’s haggard, lifeless expression. '
He went up to his wife and put his hand on her-
4 I shoulder.
“ You have been telling tales of me, Maggie,” he»
said. “ You complain of something I know noth-
ing about—my bad nights.”
“ They are very bad, Robert. very terrible,” she-
replied.


134 DR. RUMSEY’S PATIENT
“ 1 cannot recall a single thing about them."
“ I wish you could remember,” she said.
“I have made a suggestion to your husband,”
interrupted Dr. Rumsey, “which I am happy to
say he approves of. He returns with me to my
house to-night. I will promise to look after him.
If he does happen to have a bad night I shall be
witness to it. Now pray go to bed yourself and
enjoy the rest you sorely need.”
Margaret tried to smile in reply, but her eyes
filled with tears. Rumsey saw them, but Awdrey
‘took no notice—he was staring straight into va-
cancy, after his habitual fashion.
A moment later he and Rumsey left the house
"together. Ten minutes afterward Bumsey opened
his own door with a latch-key.
“ It is late,” he said to his guest. ‘He glanced at
the clock as he spoke. “At this hour I always
indulge in supper—it is waiting for me now. Will
you come and have a glass of port with me?”
Awdrey murmured something in reply—the two
men went into the dining-room, where Rumsey,
wi .hout apparently making any fuss, saw that his
guest ate and drank heartily. During the meal
th: doctor talked, and Awdrey replied in mono-
sy llables—sometimes, indeed, not replying at all.
Dr. ‘Bumsey took no notice of this. When the
meal, which really only took a few minutes, was
over, he rose.
“ I am going to take you to your bedroom now,"
be said.


01%. RUMSEY’S PATIENT. 135
“Thanks,” answered Awdrey. “ The whole
thing seems extraordinary,” he added. “ I cannot
make out why I am to sleep in your house.”
“You sleep here as my patient. I am going to
sit up with you.” i
“ You! I cannot allow it, doctor!"
“Not a word, my dear sir. Pray don’t over»
whelm me with thanks. Your case is one of great.
interest to me. I shall certainly not regret the‘
few hours I steal from sleep to watch it."
Awdrey made a dull reply. The two men went
up-stairs. Rumsey had already given orders, and
a bedroom had been prepared. A bright fire~
burned in the grate, and electric light made the
room cheerful as day. The bed was placed in an-
alcove by itself. In front of the fire was drawn up-
a deep, easy chair, a small table, a reading-lamp.
ready to be lighted, and several books.
“For me?” said Awdrey, glancing at these..
“Excuse me, Dr. Bumsey, but I do not appreciate
books. Of late months I have had a difiiculty in
centring my thoughts on what I read. Even the
most exciting story fails to arouse my attention.”
“ These books are for me,” said the doctor.
“ You are to go straight to bed. You will find
everything you require for the night in that part
of the room. Pray undress as quickly as possible
-—I shall return at the end of a quarter of an hour.”
“Will you give me a sleeping draught? I
generally take chloral.”
“My dear sir, I will give you nothing. It is my


136 DR. RUMSEY'S PATIENT.
impression you will have a good night without
having recourse to sedatives. Get into bed now—-
you look sleepy already.”
The doctor left the room. When he came back
.at the end of the allotted time, Awdrey was in bed
——he was lying on his back, with his eyes already
'Yclosed. His face looked very cadaverous and
ghastly pale; but for the gentle breathing which
~came from his partly opened lips he might almost
have been a dead man.
“Six-and-twenty,” muttered the doctor, as he
glanced at him, “six-and-forty, six-and-fifty,
rather. This is a very queer ca e. There is
something at the root of it. I can no longer make
light of Mrs. Awdrey’s fears—something is killing
that man inch by inch. He has described his own
‘condition very accurately. He is slipping out of
life because he has not got grip enough to hold it.
Nevertheless, at the present moment, no child
‘could sleep more tranquilly.”
The doctor turned off the electric light, and re-
turned to his own bright part of the room. The
bed in which Awdrey lay was now in complete
shadow. Dr. Rumsey opened a medical treatise,
but he did not read. On the contrary, the book
lay unnoticed on his knee, while he himself stared
into the blaze of the fire—his brows were contracted
in anxious thought. He was thinking of the sleeper
and his story—of the tragedy which all this meant
to Margaret. Then, by a queer chain of connec-‘
tion, his memory reverted to Mrs. Everett—her


DR. RUMSEY’S PATIENT. '13‘?
passionate life quest—her determination to consider *
her son innocent. The queer scene she had de-
scribed as taking place between Hetty and herself
returned vividly once more to the doctor’s reten~
tive memory. I ‘
“ Is it possible that Awdrey can in any way be
connected with that tragedy?” he thought. “It
looks almost like it. According to his own show-
ing, and according to his wife’s showing, the
strange symptoms which have brought him to his
present pass began about the date of that some-v
what mysterious murder. I have thought it best‘
to make light of that lapse of memory which worries.
the poor fellow so much in connection with his
walking-stick, but is there not something in it after
all? Can he possibly have witnessed the murder?‘
Would it be possible for him to throw any light
upon it and save Everett? If I really thought so?
But no, the hypothesis is too 'wild.”
Dr. Rumsey turned again to his book. He was
preparing a lecture of some importance. As he
read he made many notes. The sleeper in the dis-
tant part of the room slept on calmly—the night
gradually wore itself away—the fire smouldered in...
the grate.
“If this night passes without any peculiar mani- '
festation on Awdrey’s part, I shall begin to feel
assured that the wife has overstated the case,”
thought the doctor. He bent forward as this.
thought came to him to replenish the fire. In the-
act of doing so he made a slight noise. Whether-


138 DR. RUMSEY ‘S PATIENT.
‘this noise disturbed the sleeper or notino one can
say—Awdrey abruptly turned in bed, opened his
eyes, uttered a heavy groan, and then sat up.
“There it is again,” he cried. “Margaret, are
you there ?—Margaret, come here."
Dr. Rumsey immediately approached the bed.
“Your wife is not in the room, Awdrey,” he
said—“you remember, don’t you, that you are
passing the night with me.”
Awdrey rubbed his eyes—he took no notice of
Dr. Rumsey’s' words. He stared straight before
him in the direction of one of the windows.
“There it is," he said, “the usual thing—the
globe of light and the picture in the middle. There
lies the murdered man on his back. Yes, that is
the bit of the Plain that I know so well—the moon
drifts behind the clouds—now it shines out, and I
see the face of the murdered man—but the mur-
derer, who is he? Why will he keep his back to
me?! Good God! why can’t Isee his face? Look,
can’t you see for yourself? Margaret, can’t you
see?—do you notice the stick in his hand?—it is
my stick—and—the scoundrel, he wears my
clothes. Yes, those clothes are mine. My God,
what does this mean?"


CHAPTER XIII.
“COME, Awdrey, wake up, you don’t know what
you are talking about,” said the doctor. He
grasped his patient firmly by one arm, and shook
him slightly. The dazed and stricken man gazed
at the doctor in astonishment.
“Where am I, and what is the matter?” he
asked.
“You are spending the night in my house, and
have just had a bad dream,” said Dr. Rumsey.
“Don’t go back to bed just yet. Come and sit by
the fire for a few minutes.”
As the doctor spoke, he put a warm padded
dressing-gown of his own over his shivering and
cowed-looking patient.
Awdrey wrapped himself in it, and approached
the fire. Dr. Rumsey drew a chair forward. He
noticed the shaking hands, thin almost to emacia—
tion, the sunken cheeks, the glazed expression of
the eyes, the look of age and mental irritation
which characterized the face.
“Poor fellow? no wonder that he should be
simply slipping out of life if this kind of thing
continues night after night,” thought the doctor.
“What is to be done with him? His is one of the


l-lC DR. RUMSEY'S PATIENT.
cases which baflie Science. Well, at least, he
wants heaps of nourishment to enable him to bear
up. I’ll go downstairs and prepare a meal for him.”
He spoke aloud.
“You shiver, Awdrey, are you cold?"
“Not very,” replied Awdrey, trying to smile,
although his lips chattered. He looked into
the fire, and held out one hand to the grateful
blaze.
“ You’ll feel much better after you have taken a
prescription which I mean to make up for you.
I’ll go and prepare it now. Do you mind being
left alone?”
“ Certainly not. Why should I?"
“He has already forgotten his terrors,” thought
Dr. Ramsey. “Queer case, incomprehensible. I
never met one like it before. In these days, it is
true, one comes across all forms of psychological
distress. Nothing now ought to be new or start-
ling to medical science, but this certainly is mar-
vellous.”
The doctor speedily returned with a plate of cold
meat, some bread and butter, and a bottle of cham-
pagne.
“As we are both spending the night other than
it should be spent,” he said, “ wemust have nour-
ishment. I am going to eat, will you join me?”
“I feel hungry,” answered Awdrey. “I should
be glad of something.”
The doctor fed him as though he were an infant.
He drank off two glasses of champagne, and then


DR. RUMSEY‘S PATIENT. 141
the color returned to his cheeks, and some ani~
mation to his sunken eyes. -
“You look better,” said the doctor. “Now, you
will get back to bed, won’t you? After that cham-,
pagne a good sleep will put some mettle into you.
It is not yet four o’ clock. You have several hours
to devote to slumber.” '
The moment Rumsey began to speak, Awdrey’s
eyes dilated.
“I remember something,” he said.
“ I dare say you do~—~many things—what are you
specially alluding to?”
“ I saw something a short time ago in this room.
The memory of it comes dimly back to me. I
struggle to grasp it fully. Is your house said to
be haunted, Dr. Rumsey? ”
Dr. Rumsey laughed.
“Not that I am aware of,” he replied.
“ Well, haunted or not, I saw something.”
Awdrey rose slowly as he spoke—he pointed in the
direction of the farthest window.
“ I was sleeping soundly but suddenly found my-
self broad awake,” he began——“ I saw over there”
—-he pointed with his hand to the farthest window,
“ what looked like a perfect sphere or globe of light
—in the centre of this light was a picture. I see
the whole thing now in imagination, but the pic-
ture is dim—it worries me, I want to see it better.
No, I will not get back to bed.”
“ You had a bad dream and are beginning to re-
member it,” said Rumsey.


142 DR. RUMSEI”S PATIENT.
“It was not a dream at all. I was wide awake.
Stay—don’t question me—my memory becomes
more vivid instant by instant. I was wide awake
as I said—I got up—I approached the thing. It
never swerved from the one position—it was there
by the window—a sphere of light and the picture
in the middle. There were two men in the picture."
“A nightmare, a nightmare,” said the doctor.
“What did you eat for dinner last night?”
“It was not an ordinary nightmare—my memory
is now quite vivid. I recall the whole vision. I
saw a picture of something that happened. ‘ Years
ago, Dr. Itumsey—over five years ago now—there
was a murder committed on the Plain near my
place. Two men, undergraduates of Oxford, were
staying at our village inn—they fought about a girl
with whom they were both in love. One man killed
the other. The murder was committed in a mo-
ment of strong provocation and the murderer only
got penal servitude. He is serving his time now.
It seems strange, does it not, that I should have
seen a complete picture of the murder! The whole
. thing was very vivid and distinct—it has, in short,
burnt itself into my brain.”
Awdrey raised his hand as he spoke and pressed
it to his forehead. “ My pulse is bounding just
here,” he said—he touched his temple. “I have
only to shut my eyes to see in imagination what I
saw in reality half an hour ago. Why should I be
worried with a picture of a murder committed five
years ago?”


DR. RUMSEY'S PATIENT. 143
“It probably made a deep impression on you at
the time,” said Dr. Bumsey. “You are now weak
and your nerves much out of order—your brain
has simply reverted back to it. If I were you I
would only think of it as an ordinary nightmare.
Pray let me persuade you to go back to bed.”
“I could not—I am stricken by the most inde-
scribable terror.”
“Nonsense! You a man !”
“You may heap what opprobrium you like on
me, but I cannot deny the fact. I am full of
cowardly terror. I cannot account for my sensa-
tions. The essence of my torture lies in the fact
that I am unable to see the face of the man who
committed the murder.”
“Oh, come, why should you see his face—you
know who he was?”
“ That’s just it, doctor. I wish to God I did
know.” Awdrey approached close to Dr. Rumsey,
and stared into his eyes. His own eyes were queer
and glittering. He seemed instinctively to feel that
he had said too much, for he drew back a step,
putting his hand again to his forehead and staring
fixedly out into vacancy.
“You believe that I am talking nonsense,” he
said, after a pause.
“ I believe that you are a sad victim to your own
nervous fears. You need not go to bed unless you
like. Dress yourself and sit here by the fire. You
will very likely fall asleep in this arm-chair. I
shall remain close to you. "


144 DR. RUMSEY’S PATIENT.
“You are really good to me, and I would thank
you if I were capable of gratitude. Yes, I’ll get
into my clothes.”
Rumsey turned on the electric light, and Awdrey
with trembling fingers dressed himself. ‘then
he came back to his easy-chair by the warm fire
he said suddenly:
“ Give me a sheet of paper and a pencil, will you?”
The doctor handed him a blank sheet from his
own note-paper, and furnished him with a pencil.
“Now I will sketch what I saw for you,” he said.
He drew with bold touches a broad sphere of
light. In the centre was a picture, minute but
faithful.
At one time Awdrey had been fond of dabbling
in art. He sketched a night scene now, with broad
effects—a single bar of moonlight lit up everything
with vivid distinctness. A man lay on the ground
stretched out flat and motionless—another man
bent over him in a queer attitude—he held a stick
in his hand—he was tall and slender—there was a.
certain look about his figure! Awdrey dropped
his pencil and stared furtively with eyes dilated
with horror at his own production. Then he put
his sketch face downward on the table, and turned
a white and indescribably perplexed countenance
to Dr. Rumsey.
“What I have drawn is not worth looking at,”
he said, simulating a yawn as ‘he spoke. “After
all I cannot quite reproduce what I saw. I believe
I shall doze off in this chair.”


DR. RUMSEE ‘S PATIENT. 145
''Do so,” said the doctor. ,
A few minutes later, when the patient was souna
asleep, Dr. Rumsey lifted the paper on which
Awdrey had made his sketch. He looked fixedly
at the vividly worked-up picture.
“The man whose back is alone visible has an
unmistakable likeness to Awdrey," he muttered.
“Poor fellow, what does this mean l—diseased
nerves of course. The next thing he will say is
that he committed the murder himself. He cer-
tainly needs immediate treatment. But what to do
is the puzzle."


CHAPTER XIV.
WHEN he awoke Awdrey felt much better. He
expressed surprise at finding himself sitting up in-
stead of in bed, and Rumsey saw that he had once
more completely forgotten the occurrence of the
night. The doctor resolved that he should not see
the sketch he had made—he put it carefully away
therefore in one of his own private drawers, for
he knew that it might possibly be useful later on.
At the present moment the patient was better with-
out it.
The two men breakfasted together, and then
Rumsey spoke.
“ Now,” he said, “ I won’tconceal the truth from
you. I watched you last night with great anxiety——
I am glad I sat up with you, for I am now able
to make a fairly correct diagnosis of your case.
You are.certainly very far from well—you are in a
sort of condition when a very little more might
overbalance your mind. I tell you this because
I think it best for you to know the exact truth-- at
the same time pray do not be seriously alarmed,
there is nothing as yet in your case to prevent you
from completely recovering your mental equi-
librium. but, in my opinion, to do so you must


DR. RUMSEY’S PATIENT. l-Li'
have complete change of air and absolutely fresh
surroundings. I recommend therefore that you
go away from home immediately. Do not take '
your child nor yet your wife with you. If you
commission me to do so, I can get you a com-
panion in the shape of a clever young doctor who
will never intrude his medical knowledge on you,
but yet will be at hand to advise you in case the
state of your nerves requires such interference. I
shall put him in possession of one or two facts with
regard to your nervous condition, but will not tell
him too much. Make up your mind to go away at
once, Awdrey, within the week if possible. Start
with a sea voyage—I should recommend to the
Cape. The soothing influence of the sea on nerves
like yours could not but be highly beneficial.
Take a sea voyage—to the Cape by preference, but
anywhere. It does not greatly matter where you
go. The winter is on us, don’t spend it in Eng-
land. Keep moving about from one place to an-
other. Don’t over-fatigue yourself in any way, but
at the same time allow heaps of fresh impressions
to filter slowly through your brain. They will have
a healthy and salutary effect. It is my opinion
that by slow but sure degrees, if you fully take my
advice in this matter, you will forget what now as‘
sumes the aspect of monomania. In short, you
will forget yourself’, and other lives and other in-
terests mingling with yours will give you the
necessary health. and cure. I must ask you to leave
me now, for it is the hour when my patients arrive


DR. RUMSEY’S PATIENT. 14$ -
what seedy jacket which reached down to her knees,
her dress below was of a faded summer tint, and
thin in quality. Her hat was trimmed with rusty
velvet, she wore a veil which only reached half
way down her face. Her whole appearance was
odd, and out of keeping with her surroundings.
“Mr. Awdrey, you don’t know me?” she cried,
in a panting voice.
“Yes, I do,” said Awdrey. He stopped in his
walk and stared at her.
“ Is it possible,” he continued, “ that you are
little Hetty Armitage?”
“I was, sir, I ain’tnow ; I’m Hetty Vincent now.
I ventured up to town unbeknown to any one to see
you, Mr. Awdrey. It is of the greatest importance
that I should have a word with you, sir. Can you
give me a few minutes all alone?”
“Certainly I can, Hetty,” replied Awdrey, in a.
kind voice. A good deal of his old gentleness and
graciousness of manner returned at sight of Hetty.
I He overlooked her ugly attire—in short, he did
not see it. She recalled old times to him—gay
old times before he had known sorrow or trouble.
She belonged to his own village, to his own peo-
ple. He was conscious of a grateful sense of re-
freshment at meeting her again.
“ You shall come home with me,” he said. “ My
wife will be glad to welcome you. How are all the
old folks at Grandcourt?”
“ I believe they are well, sir, but I have not been
to Grandcourt lately. My husband’s farm is three


150 DR. RUMSEY’S PATIENT.
miles from the village. Mr. Robert,” dropping
her voice, “ I cannot go home with you. It would
be dangerous if I were to be seen at your
house.”
“Dangerous!” said Awdrey in surprise. “What
do you mean?”
“What I say, sir; I must not be seen talking
' to you. On no account must we two be seen to-
gether. I have come up to London unbeknown
to anybody, because it is necessary for me to tell
you something, and to ask you—to ask you—Oh,
my God!” continued Hetty, raising her eyes sky-
ward as she spoke, “ how am I to tell him?”
She turned white to her lips now; she trembled
from head to foot.
“Sir,” she continued, “there’s some one who
suspects.”
“Suspects?” said Awdrey, knitting his brows,
‘Suspects what? What have suspicious people to
do with me? You puzzle me very much by this
extraordinary talk. Are you quite well yourself?
I recall now that you always were a mysterious
little thing; but you are greatly changed, Hetty.”
He turned and gave her a long look.
“ I know I am, sir, but that don’t matter now. I
did not run this risk to talk about myself. Mr.
Robert, there’s one living who suspects.”
“ Come home with me and tell me there,” said
Awdrey—he was conscious of a feeling of irrita-
tion, otherwise Hetty’s queer words aroused no
emotion of any sort within him.


DR. RUMSEY‘S PATIENT. 151
‘I cannot go home with you, sir—I came up to
London at risk to myself in order to warn you.”
“ Qf what—of whom?”
“Of Mrs. Everett, sir.”
“ Mrs. Everett! my wife’s friend !—you must
have taken leave of your sense. See, we are close
to the Green Park; if you won’tcome to my house,
let us go there. Then you can tell me quickly
what you want to say.”
Awdrey motioned to Hetty to follow him. They
crossed the road near Hyde Park Corner, and soon
afterward were in the shelter of the Green Park.
“Now, speak out,” said the Squire. “I cannot
stay long with you, as I want to take my little son
for his customary walk. What extraordinary thing:
have you to tell me about Mrs. Everett?”
“Mr. Robert, you may choose to make light of,
but in your heart . . . there, I’ll tell you every-
thing. Mrs. Everett was down at Grandcourt lately
—she was stopping at uncle’s inn in the village.
She walked out one day to the Plain—by ill-luck
she met me on her road. She got me to show her
the place where the murder was committed. I
stood just by the clump of elders where—but of
course you have forgotten, sir. Mrs. Everett stood
with me, and I showed her the very spot. Ide-
scribed the scene to her, and showed her just where
the two men fought together.”
The memory of his dream came back to Awdrey.
He was very quiet now—his brain was quite alert.
“Go on, Hetty,” he said. “Do you know this


l 52 DR. R UMSE' Y ’S PATIENT.
interests me vastly. I have been troubled lately
with visions of that queer murder. Only last night
I had one. Now why should such visions come to
one who knows nothing whatever about it?” '
“Well, sir, they do say ”
“ What?”
“It is the old prover ,” muttered Hetty.
“ ‘Murder will out.’ ” .
“ I know the proverb, but I don’t understand
your application,” replied Awdrey, but he looked
thoughtful. “ If you were troubled,with these bad
visions or dreams I should not be surprised,” he
continued, “for you really witnessed the thing.
By the way, as you are here, perhaps you can help
me. I lost my stick at the time of the murder, and
never found it since. I would give a good deal to
find it. What is that you say?”
“You’ll never find it, sir. Thank the good God
above, you’ll never find it.”
“I am glad that you recognize the loss not to be
a trifle. Most people laugh when I speak of any-
thing so trivial as a stick. You say I shall never
find it again—perhaps so. The forgetting it so

.completely troubles me, however. Hetty, I had a
bad dream last night—no, it was not really a
dream, it was a vision. I saw that murder—I wit-
nessed the whole thing. I saw the dead man, and
I saw the back of the man who committed the
murder. I tried hard, but I could not get a. glimpse
of his face. I wanted to see his face badly. What
is the matter, girl? How white you look.”


DR. RUMS'EY’S PATIENT. 153
“Don’t say another word, sir. I have borne
much for you and for your people, but there are
limits, and if you say another word, Ishall lose
my self-control.”
“I am sorry my talk has such an effect upon
you, Hetty. You don’t look too happy, my little
girl. Your face is old—I hope your husband is
good to you.”
“He is as good as I deserve, Mr. Awdrey. I
never had any love to give him—he knew that from
the first. He married me five years ago because I
was pretty, and Aunt Fanny thought I’d best be
marriecl~-she thought it would make things safer—
but it is a mistake to marry when your heart is
given to another.”
“ Ah yes, poor Frere—you were in love with him,
were you not?”
“No, sir, that I was not.”
“I forgot—it was with Everett—poor girl, no
wonder you look old.”
Awdrey gave Hetty a weary glance—his atten-
tion was already beginning to flag.
“It was not with Mr. Everett,” whispered Hetty
in a low tone which thrilled with passion.
Awdrey took no notice. His apathy calmed her,
and saved her from making a terrible avowal.
“I’ll just tell you‘ what I came to say and then_
leave you, sir,” she said in a broken voice. “ It is
all about Mrs. Everett. She stood with me close
to the elders, and I described the scene of the
murder and how it took place, and all of a sudden


154t DR. RUMSEY’S PATIENT.
she looked me in the eyes and said something.
She said that Mr. Horace F rere was the man who
was murdered—but the man who committed the
murder was not her son, Mr. Everett. She spoke
in an awful sort of voice, and said she knew the
truth—she knew that her son was innocent. Oh,
sir, I got so awfully frightened—I nearly let‘the
‘truth out.”
“ You nearly let the truth out—the truth? What
do you mean?”
“Mr. Robert, is it possible that you do not
know?”
“I only know what all the rest of the world
knows—that Everett is guilty.”
“I see, sir, that you still hold to that, and I am
glad of it, but Mrs. Everett is the sort of woman
to frighten a body. Her eyes seem to pierce right
down to your very heart—they seem to read your
secret. Mr. Awdrey, will you do what I ask you?
Will you leave England for a bit? It would be
dreadful for me to have ‘done all that I have done
and to find it useless in the end.”
Whatever reply Awdrey might have made to this
appeal was never uttered. His attention was at
this moment effectually turned into another chan-
nel. He saw Mrs. Everett, his wife, and boy com—
ing to meet him. The boy, a splendid little fel-
low with rosy cheeks and vigorous limbs, ran down
the path with a glad cry to fling himself into his
father’s arms. He was a princely looking boy, a
worthy scion of the old race. Awdrey, absorbed


156 DR. RUMSEY ’S PATIENT.
hurried off so quickly; but she seemed in a queer,
excitable state. I don’t believe she is well.”
“I want to see her again,” continued Mrs.
Everett. “I may as well say frankly that I am
' fully convinced there is something queer about that
woman—a very little more and I should put a de-
tective on her track. I suspect her. If ever a
woman carried a guilty secret she does.”
“ Oh, come,” said Margaret, “ you must not allow
your prejudices to run away with you. Please re-
member that Hetty grew up at Grandcourt. My
husband and I have known her almost from her
birth.”
“A giddy little thing, but wonderfully pretty,”
said Awdrey.
“Well, never mind about her now,” interrupted
Margaret, a slight touch of impatience in her
manner. “Please, Robert, tell me exactly what
Dr. Rumsey ordered for you.”
“Nothing very alarming,” he replied; “the doc-
tor thinks my nerves want tone. No doubt they
do, although I feel wonderfully better this morning.
He said something about my leaving England for a
time and taking a sea voyage. I believe he intends
to call round this evening to talk over the scheme.
Now, little man, are you ready for your walk?”
“Yes,” said the child. He stamped his sturdy
feet with impatience. Awdrey took his hand and
the two went off in the direction of the Serpentine.
Mrs. Everett and Margaret followed slowly in the
background.


DR. RUMSEY’S PATIENT. 157
I
Awdrey remained out for some time with the
boy. The day, which had begun by being mild
and spring-like, suddenly changed its character.
The wind blew strongly from the north—soon it
rose to a gale. Piles of black clouds came up over
the horizon and covered the sky, then heavy sleet
showers poured down with biting intensity
Awdrey and the child were quite in the open when
they were caught by one of these, and before they
could reach any shelter they were wet through.
They hurried into the first hansom they met, but
not before the mischief was done. Awdrey took a
chill, and before the evening was ' over he was
shivering violently, huddled up close to the fire.
The boy, whose lungs were his weak point, seemed,
however, to have escaped without any serious result
—he went to bed in his usual high spirits, but his
mother thought his pretty baby voice sounded a
little hoarse. Early the next morning the nurse
called her up; the child had been disturbed in the
night by the hoarseness and a croupy sensation in
his throat; his eyes were now very bright and he
was feverish. The nurse said she did not like the
look of the little fellow; he seemed to find it dif-
licult to breathe, and he was altogether very unlike
himself. '
" I’ll send a messenger immediately for Dr.
Rumsey,” said Margaret.
She returned to her bedroom and awoke her hus-
band, who was in a heavy sleep. At Margaret's
first words he started up keen and interested.


158 DR. RUMSEY’S PATIENT.
“ What are you saying, Maggie? The boy—little
Arthur—ill?”
“Yes, he seems very ill; I do not like his look
at all,” she replied. “It is I know, very early, but
I think I’ll send a messenger round at once to ask
Dr. Rumsey to call.”
“ We ought not to lose a minute,” said Awdrey-
“I’ll go for him myself.” _
“You!” she exclaimed in surprise. “But do
you feel well enough?” I
“ Of course I do, there’s nothing the matter with
me.”
He sprang out of bed, and rushed off to his
dressing-room, hastily put on his clothes, and then
went out. As he ran quickly downstairs Marga-
ret detected an almost forgotten quality in his
steps.
“Why, he is awake again,” she cried. “How
strange that this trouble about the child should
have power to give him back his old vigorous
health!”
Bumsey quickly obeyed Awdrey’s summons,
and before eight o’clock that morning he was bend-
ing over the sick child’s cot.
It needed but a keen glance and an application
of the stethoscope to tell the doctor that there was
grave mischief at work.
“It is a pity I was not sent for last night,’ he
said. Then he moved away from the cot, where
the bright eyes of the sick baby were fixing him
with a too penetrating stare.


DR. RUMSEY’S PATIENT. 1519
He walked across the large nursery. Awdrey
followed him.
“The child is very ill,” said the doctor.
“What do you mean?” replied Awdrey. “Very
ill—do you infer that the child is in danger?”
“ Yes, Awdrey, he is undoubtedly in danger.
Double pneumonia has set in. Such a complaint
at’ his tender age cannot but mean very grave
danger. I only hope 'we may pull him through.”
“ We must pull him through, doctor. Margaret,”
continued her husband, his face was white as death,
“Dr. Rumsey says that the child is in danger.”
“ Yes,” answered ‘Margaret. She was as quiet
in her manner as he was excited and troubled.
She laid her hand now with great tenderness on his
arm. The touch was meant to soothe him, and to
assure him of her sypmathy. Then she turned her
eyes to fix them on the doctor.
“I know you will do what you can,” she said.
There was suppressed passion in her words.
“ Rest assured I will,” he answered.
“ Of course,” cried Awdrey. “Listen to me, Dr.
Bumsey, not a stone must be left unturned to pull
the child through. You know what his life means
to us—to his mother and me. We cannot possibly
spare him—he must be saved. Had we not better
get other advice immediately?”
“It is not necessary, but you must please your-
selves,” answered Bumsey. “ I am nota specialist
as regards lung afl'ections, although this case is
perfectly straightforward. If you wish to have a


160 DR. RUMSEY’S PATIENT.
specialist I shall be very glad to consult with Ed-
ward Cowley.”
“ What is his address? I’ll go for him at once,”
said Awdrey.
Dr. Rumsey sat down, wrote a short note and
gave it to Awdrey, who hurried 011' with it.
Dr. Rumsey looked at Mrs. Awdrey after her‘
husband had left the room.
“ It is marvellous,” he said, “what a change for
the better this illness has made in your husband’s
condition.”
Her eyes filled slowly with tears.
“Is his health to be won back at such a price?"
she asked—she turned once again to the sick child’s
bed.
“ God grant not,” said the doctor—“ rest satisfied
that what man can do to save him I will do.”
“I know that,” she replied.
In an hour’s time the specialist arrived and the
two doctors had their consultation. Certain reme-
dies were prescribed, and Dr. Bumsey hurried
away promising to send in two trained nurses im—
mediately. He came back again himself at noon to
find the boy, as he expected, much worse. The
child was now delirious. All during that long
dreadful day the fever rose and rose. The whole
aspect of the house in Seymour Street was altered.
There were hushed steps, anxious faces, whispered
consultations. As the hours flew by the prognos-
tications of the medical men became graver and
‘ graver. Margaret gave up hope as the evening ap-


DR. RUMS'EY’S PATIENT. 161
proached. She knew that the little life could not
long stand the strain of that all—consuming fever.
Awdrey alone was full of bustle, excitement, and
confidence.
“The child will and must recover,” he said to
his wife several times. When the night began Dr.
Rumsey resolved not to leave the child.
“A man like Rumsey must save him,” cried the
father. He forgot all about his own nervous
symptoms—he refused even to listen to his wife’s
words of anxiety.
“Pooh l” he said, “when children are ill they
are always very bad. I was at death’s door once
or twice myself as a child. Children are bad one
moment and almost themselves the next. Is not
that so, doctor?”
“ In some cases,” replied the doctor.
“ Well, in this case? You think the boy will all right in the morning—come now, your honest
opinion."
“ My honest opinion is a grave one, Mr.
Awdrey." ’
Awdrey laughed. There was a wild note in his
merriment.
“ You and Cowley can’t'be up to much if between
you you can’t manage to keep the life in a little
mite like that,” he said.
“ The issues of life and death belong to higher
than us,” answered the doctor slowly.
Awdrey looked at him again, gave an incredulous
smile, and went into the sick-room.


162 DR. RUMSEY‘S’ PATIENT.
During the entire night the father sat up with
the boy. The sick child did not know either
parent. His voice grew weaker and weaker—the
struggle to breathe became greater. When he had
strength to speak, he babbled continually of his
playthings, of his walk by the Serpentine the pre-
vious day, and the little ships as they sailed on
the water. Presently he took a fancy into his head v
that he was in one of the tiny ships, and that he
was sailing away from shore. He laughed with
feeble pleasure, and tried to clap his burning hands.
Toward morning his baby notes were scarcely dis-
tinguishable. He dozed off for a little, then woke
again, and began to talk—he talked now all the
time of his father.
“ ’Ittle boy ’ove dad,” he said. “’Ittle Arthur
’oves dad best of anybody—best of all.”
Awdrey managed to retain one of the small hands
in his. The child quieted down then, gave him a
look of long, unutterable love, and about six in the
morning, twenty—four hours after the seizure had
declared itself, the little spirit passed away.
Awdrey, who was kneeling by the child’s cot, still
holding his hand, did not know when this hap-
pened. There was a sudden bustle round the bed,
he raised his head with a start, and looked around
him.
“What is the matter? Is he better?” he ask‘ Ca
He looked anxiously at the sunken face of the dead
child. He noticed that the hurried. breathing lzatl
ceased.


DR. RUMSEY‘S PATIENT. 163
“Come away with me, Robert,” said his wife.
“ Why so?” he asked. “Do you think I will
leave the child?”
“ Darling, the child is dead.”
Awdrey tottered to his feet.
“Dead!” 'he cried. You don’t mean it—im-
possible." He bent over the little body, pulled
down the bedclothes, and put his hand to the heart,
then bending low he listened intently for any
breath to come from the parted lips.
“Dead—no, no," he said again.
“ My poor fellow, it is too true,” said Dr. Rum-
sey.
“ Then before God,” began Awdrey—he stepped
back, the words were arrest-ed on his lips, and he
fell fainting to the floor.
Dr. Rumsey had him removed to his own room,
and with some difiiculty the unhappy man was
brought back to consciousness. He was now lying
on his bed.
“ Where am I?” he asked.
“In your room, on your bed. You are better
now, dearest,” said Margaret. She bent over him,
trying valiantly to conceal her own anguish in
order to comfort him.
“But what has happened?” he asked. He sud-
denly sat up. “Why are you here, Rumsey?
Margaret, why are your eyes so red?”
Margaret Awdrey tried to speak, but the words
would not come to her lips.
.Rumsey bent forward and took Awdrey’s hand.


CHAPTER XV.
ON the evening of that same day Awdrey entered
the room where his wife was silently giving way
to her bitter anguish. She was quite overcome by
her grief—her eyelids were swollen by much weep-
ing, her dress was disarranged, the traces of a
sleepless night, and the fearful anguish through
which she was passing, were visible on her beauti-
ful face. Awdrey, who had come into the room
almost cheerfully, started and stepped back a pace
or two when he saw her—he then knit his brows
with marked irritation.
“ What can be the matter with you, Margaret?"
he cried. “I cannot imagine why you are crying
in that silly way.”
“I’ll try not to cry any more, Robert,” she an-
swered.
“Yes, but you look in such dreadful distress; I
assure you, it affects me most disagreeably, and
in my state of nerves !-—you know, don’t you, that
nothing ever annoys me more than weak, womanish
tears.”
“It is impossible for me to be cheerful to-night,”
said the wife. “ The pain is too great. He was
our only child, and such—such a darling."


100 DR. RUMSEY ‘S PATIENT-
Awdrey laughed.
‘Forgive me, my dear,” he said, “Ireally would
not hurt your feelings for the world, but you must
know, if you allow your common sense to speak,
that we never had a child. It has surely been one
of our great trials that no child has been given to
us to carry on the old line. My poor Maggie,” he
went up to her quite tenderly, put his arm round
her neck, and kissed her, “you must be very un-
well to imagine these sort of things.”
She suddenly took the hand which lay on her
shoulder between both her own.
“Come with me, Robert,” she said, an expres-
sion of the-most intense despair on all her features,
“come, I cannot believe that this blight which
has passed over you can be final. I’ll take you to
the room where the little body of our beautiful
child is lying. When you see that sweet face,
surely you will remember.”
He frowned when she began to speak; now he
disengaged his hand from her clasp.
“It would not be right for me to humor you,”
he said. “You ought to see a doctor, Maggie, for
you are really suffering from a strong delusion.
If you encourage it it may become fixed, and even
assume the proportions of a sort of insanity. Now,
my dear wife, try and restrain yourself and listen
to me.”
She gazed at him with wide-open eyes. As he
spoke she had difliculty in believing her own ears.
A case like his was indeed new to her. She had


DR. RUIIISEY’S PATIENT. 16?
never really believed in the tragedy of his house—-
but now at last the suspected and dreaded blow had
truly fallen. Awdrey, like his ancestors before
him, was forgetting the grave events of life. Was
it possible that he could forget the child, whose
life had been the joy of his existence, whose last
looks of love had been directed to him, whose last
faltering words had breathed his name? Yes, he
absolutely forgot all about the child. The stern
fact stared her in the face, she could not shut her
eyes to it.
“You look at me strangely, Margaret,” said
Awdrey. “I cannot account for your looks, nor
indeed for your actions during the whole of to-day.
Now I wish to tell you that I have resolved to carry
out Rumsey’s advice—he wants me to leave home
at once. I spent a night with him—was it last
night? I really forget—but anyhow, during that
time he had an opportunity of watching my symp-
toms. You know, don’t you, how nervous I am,
how full of myself? You know how this inertia
steals over me, and envelope me in a sort of cloud.
The state of the case is something like this, Mag-
gie; I feel as if a dead hand were pressed against
my heart; sometimes I have even a difliculty in
breathing, at least in taking a deep breath. It
seems to me as if the stupor of death were creep-
ing up my body, gradually day by day, enfeebling
all my powers more and more. Rumsey, who
quite understands these symptoms, says that they
are grave, but not incurable. He suggests that I


168 DR. RUMSEY’S PATIENT.
should leave London and at once. I propose to
take the eight o’clock Continental train. Will you
come with me?”
“I?” she cried. “I cannot; our child’s little
body lies upstairs.”
“IVhy will you annoy me by referring to that
delusion of yours? You must know how painful
it is to listen to you. Will you come, Maggie?”
“I cannot. Under any other circumstances I
would gladly, but to-night, no, it is impossible.”
“ Very well then, I’ll go alone. I have just been
up in my room packing some things. I cannot
possibly say how long I shall be absent—perhaps
a few weeks, perhaps a day or two—I must be
guided in this matter by my sensations.”
“If you come back in a day or two, Robert, I’ll
try and go abroad with you, if you really think it
would do you good,” said Margaret.
“I’ll see about that,” he replied. “I cannot
quite tell you what my plans are to-night. Mean-
while I find I shall want more money than I have
in the house. Have you any by you?”
“ I have twenty-five pounds.”
“Give it to me; it will be quite sufficient. I
have about fifteen pounds here.” He touched his
breast-pocket. “ If I don’t return soon I’ll write
to you. Now good-by, Maggie. Try and con-
quer that queer delusion, my dear wife. Remem-
ber, the more you think of it, the more it will feed
upon itself, until you will find it too strong for
you. Good-by, darling.”


170 DR. RUMSEY'S PATIENT.
any possibility be closed up again. Since the night
after her child’s death she had heard nothing from
her husband—sometimes she wondered if he were
still alive.
Dr. Rumsey tried to reassure her on this point—-
he did not consider Awdrey the sort of man to
commit suicide.
Mrs. Everett came to see Margaret every day
during this time of terrible grief, but her excited
face, her watchful attitude, proved the reverse
of soothing. She was sorry for Margaret, but
even in the midst of Margaret’s darkest grief
sh'e never forgot the mission she had set before
herself.
On the morning of the funeral she followed the
procession at a little distance. She stood behind
the more immediate group of mourners as the body
of the beautiful child was laid in his long home.
Had his father been like other men, Margaret
would never have consented to the child’s being
buried anywhere except at Grandcourt. Under ex-
isting circumstances, however, she had no energy
to arrange this.
About an hour after Mrs. Awdrey’s return, Mrs.
Everett was admitted into her presence.
Margaret was seated listlessly by one of the tables
in the drawing-room. A pile of black-edged paper
was lying near her——a letter was begun. Heaps of
letters of condolence which had poured in lay near.
She was endeavori'ng to answer one, but found the
task beyond her strength.


DR. RUMSEY’S PATIENT. 171
“My poor dear !” said Mrs. Everett. She
walked up the long room, and stooping down by
Margaret, kissed her.
Margaret mechanically returned her e1 ibrace.
Mrs. Everett untied her bonnet-strings and sat by
her side. '
“ Don’t try to answer those letters yet,” she said.
“ You are really not fit for it. Why don’t you have
a composing draught and go to bed?”
“I would rather not; the awakening would be
. too terrible,” said Margaret.
“ You will knock yourself up and get really ill if
you go on like this.”
“It does not matter, Mrs. Everett, whether I am
ill or well. Nothing matters,” said Margaret, in a
voice of despair.
“ Oh, my poor love, I understand you,” said the
widow. “ I do not know in what words to approach
your terribly grieved heart—there is only one thing
which I feel impelled to say, and which may pos-
sibly at some time comfort you. Your beautiful
boy’s fate is less tragical than the fate which has
fallen upon my only son. When Frank was a little
child, Margaret, he had a dreadful illness—I
thought he would die. I was frantic, for his father
had died not long before. I prayed earnestly to
God. I vowed a. vow to train the boy in the paths
of righteousness, as never boy had been trained
before. I vowed to do for Frank what no other
mother had ever done, if only God would leave him
to me.
My prayer was answered, and my child.


DR. RUMSEY'S PATIENT. 173
to look hideous, do so. Black, heavy black, of
that sort, does not suit you—and you are absolute-
ly in crepe—what does all this mean? It irritates
me immensely.”
“People wear crepe when those they love die,”
said Margaret.
“ Have you lost a 1'613ti011?—“7h0?”
She did not answer. A moment later she left
the room.
When she did so Awdrey got up restlessly,
walked to the fire and poked it, then he approached
the window and looked out. After a time he re-
turned to his seat. Mrs. Everett sat facing him.
It was her wont to sit very still—often nothing
seemed to move about her except her watchful eyes.
To-day she had more than ever the expression of a
person who is quietly watching and waiting. Aw-
drey, inert as he doubtlessly was, seemed to feel
her gaze—he looked at her.
“ Where have you been, Mr. Awdrey?” she asked
gently. “ Did you visit the Continent?”
He favored her with a keen, half-suspicious
glance.
“No,” he said. “I changed my mind about
that. I did not wish the water to divide me from
my quest. I have been engaged on a most impor-
tant search.”
“And what was that?” she asked gently.
“ I have been looking for a stick which I missed
some years ago.”
“I have heard you mention that before,” said


174 DR. RUMSEY‘S PATIENT.
Mrs. Everett—the color flushed hotly into her
face. “You seem to attribute a great deal of im-
portance to that trifle.”
“ To me it is no trifle,” he replied. “I regard it
as a link,” he continued slowly, “between me and
a past which I have forgotten. When I find that
stick I shall remember the past.”
As he spoke he rose again and going to the
hearth-rug stood with his back to the fire.
At that moment Margaret re-entered the room
in white—she was in a soft, flowing, white robe,
which covered her from top to toe—it swept about
her in graceful folds, and exposed some of the
lovely contour of her arms. Her face was nearly
as colorless as her dress; only the wealth of thick
dark hair, only the sombre eyes, relieved the mo-
notony of her appearance. Awdrey gave her a.
smile and a look of approval.
“ Come here,” he said: “ now you are good—how
sweet you look. Your appearance makes me re-
call, recall-——” He pressed his hand to his fore-
head. “I remember now,” he said; “I recall the
day we were engaged—don’t you remember it?—-the
picnic on Salisbury Plain; you were all in white
then, too, and you wore somewhat the same intense
expression in your eyes. Margaret, you are a
beautiful woman.” .
She stood close to him—he did not offer to kiss
her, but he laid one emaciated hand on her shoulder
and looked earnestly into her face.
“ You are very beautiful,” he said: “I wonder I


DR. RUMSEY 'S PATIENT. 175
do not love you.” He sighed heavily, and removed
his gaze to look intently into the fire.
Mrs. Everett rose.
“I’ll come again soon,” she said to Margaret.
Margaret took no notice of her, nor did Awdrey
see when she left the room. '
After a moment Margaret went up to her husband
and touched him.
“ You must have something to eat,” she said.
“ It is probably a long time since you had a proper
meal.”
“I don’t remember,” he replied, “but I am not
hungry. By the way, Maggie, I recall now what I
came back for.” His eyes, which seemed to be lit
from within, became suddenly full of excitement.
“Yes,” she said as gently as she could.
“I came back because I wanted you.”
Her eyes brightened.
“I wanted you to come with me. I do not care
to be alone, and I am anxious to leave London
again to-night.”
Before Margaret could reply the butler threw
open the door and announced Dr. Rumsey. The
doctor came quickly forward.
“ I am glad you have returned, Awdrey,” he said,
holding out his hand as he spoke. “I called to
inquire for your wife, and the man told me you
were upstairs.”
“ Yes, and I am better.” said Awdrey. “ I came
back because I thought perhaps Margaret—but by
the way, why should I speak so much about my-


,- . c DR. RUMSEY’B PATIENT.
your case. You have forgotten a very important
fact in your life.”
“ Ah, you are wrong there,” said Awdrey. “ I
certainly have forgotten my walking-stick. I know
well that I am a queer fellow. I know too that at
times my condition is the reverse of satisfactory,
but with this one exception I have never forgotten
anything of the least consequence. Don't you re-
member telling me that the lapse of memory was
not of any moment?”
“It was not, but you have forgotten something
else, Awdrey, and it is my duty now to remind you
of it.” ,
“ I have forgotten?” began Awdrey. “ Well,
speak.”
“ You had a child—a beautiful child.”
Awdrey interrupted with a laugh.
“I do declare you have got that delusion, too,”
he said. “I tell you, Dr. Rumsey, I never had a
child.”
“ Your child is no longer with you, but you had
a child. He lived for four years but is now dead.
This very afternoon he was laid in his grave. He
was a beautiful child—more lovely than most. He
died after twenty-four hours’ illness. His mother
is broken-hearted over his loss, but you, his father,
have forgotten all about it. 'Here is the picture of
your child—come to the light and look at it.”
Rumsey strode up to a table as he spoke, lifted
a large photograph from a stand, and held it before
Awdrey’s eyes.


180 DR. RUMSEY ‘S PATIENT.
yet so inert that you cannot bring it to bear upon
the matter. I observe that Mrs. Awdrey has taken
off her mourning. She must put it on again. It
would be the height of all that is heartless for her
to go about now without showing proper respect to
your beautiful child. You also, Awdrey, must
wear mourning. You must allow your wife to
speak of the child. In short, even though you
have no belief, you must allow those who are in a
healthy mental condition to act for you in this
matter. By doing so you may possibly arrest the
malady.”
“ I see what you mean,” said Awdrey, “ but I do
not know how it is possible for me to act on your
suggestions.”
“For your wife’s sake you must try, and also
because it is necessary that you should show re—
spect to the dead heir of your house.”
“ Then I am to put a band on my hat and all that
sort of thing?”
“ Yes. ”
“ It is a trifle, doctor. If you and Margaret wish
it, I cannot reasonably refuse. To come back to
myself, however, you consider that I am quite
doomed?”
“ Not quite yet, although your case is a bad one.
I believe you can be saved if only you will exert
yourself."
“ Do wishes go for anything in a case like mine?”
“Assuredly. To hear you express a wish is a
capital sign. What do you want to do?"


DR. R UMSE Y ' S PA TIENT. l 81
"I have a strange wish to go down to the Court.
I feel as if something or some one, whether angel
or demon I do not know, were drawing me there.
I have wished to be at the Court for some days.
I thought at first of taking Margaret with me.”
“Do so. She would be glad to accompany you.
She is a wife in a thousand.”
“But on second thoughts,” continued Awdrey,
“if I am obliged to listen to her bitter distress over
the death of a child who never, as far as I can re-
call, existed, I should prefer not having her.”
“Very Well then, go alone.”
“I cannot go alone. In the condition which I
am now in, a complete vacuum in all my thoughts
may occur, and long before I reach the Court I may
forget where I am going.”
“ That is possible.”
“Then, Rumsey, will you come with me?”
The doctor thought a moment. “ I’ll go with
you this evening,” he said, “but I must return to
town early to-morrow.”
“ Thanks,” said Awdrey. “I’ll ring the bell.
We shall be in time, if we start at once, to catch the
five o’clock train.”
“Remember, Awdrey, that I shall treat you as
the child’s father. You will find all your tenantry
in a state of poignant grief. That dear little fellow
was much loved.”
Awdrey pursed up his lips as if he would whistle.
A smile dawned in his eyes and vanished.


CHAPTER XVI.
AT a late hour that evening Rumsey and his pap
tient arrived at Grandcourt. A telegram had been
sent to announce their visit, and all was in readi-
ness for their reception. The old butler, Hawkins,
who had lived in the family for nearly fifty years,
rcame slowly down the steps to greet his master.
Hawkins’ face was pale, and his eyes dim, as if he
had been indulging in silent tears. He was very
much attached to little Arthur. Awdrey gave him
a careless nod.
“I hope all is in readiness, Hawkins,” he said,
“I have brought my friend, Dr. Bumsey, with me;
we should like supper—has it been prepared?”
“ Yes, Mr. Robert—I beg your pardon, Squire-—
all is in readiness in the library.”
“ We’ll go there after we have washed our hands,”
said Awdrey. “What room have you got ready
for Dr. Rumsey?”
“ The yellow room, Squire, in the west wing.”
“That will do nicely. Rumsey, you and I will
inhabit the same wing to-night. I suppose I am
to sleep in the room I always occupy, eh, Hawkins?”
“Yes, sir; Mrs. Burnett, the housekeeper,
thought you would wish that.”
" It does not matter in the least where I sleep;


DR. RUMSEY'S IATIENT. 183
I
now order up supper, we shall be down directly.
Follow me, doctor, will you?”
Dr. Bumsey followed Awdrey to the west wing.
A few moments later the two men were seated be-
fore a cheerful meal in the library—a large fire
burned in the huge grate, logs had been piled on,
and the friendly blaze and the fragrance of the
wood filled the room. The supper table was drawn
into the neighborhood of the fire, and Awdrey
lifted the cover from the dish which was placed
before him with a look of appetite on his face.
“I am really hungry,” he said—“ we will have
some champagne—Hawkins, take some from”—he '
named a certain bin. The man retired, coming
back presently with some dusty-looking bottles.
The cork was quickly removed from one, and the
butler began to fill the glasses.
Supper came to an end. Hawkins brought in
pipes and tobacco, and the two men sat before the
fire. Awdrey, who had taken from two to three
glasses of champagne, was beginning to feel a little
drowsy, but Bumsey talked in his usual pleasant
fashion. Awdrey replied by fits and starts; once
he nodded and half fell asleep in his chair.
“You are sleepy,” said Itumsey suddenly; “if
you go to bed now you may have a really good
night, which will do wonders for you—what do you
say?”
“That I am quite agreeable,” said Awdrey, ris-
ing as he spoke——“ but is it not too early for you,
doctor?”


184 DR. RUMSE' Y ‘S PATIENT.
“Not at all—an undisturbed night will be a treat
to me.”
“Well, then, I’ll take you to your room.”
They went upstairs together, and a moment later
Rumsey found himself in the palatial chamber
which had been prepared for him. He was not
really sleepy and decided to sit up for a little. A
fire burned in the grate, some books lay about—he
drew his easy-chair forward and taking up a volume
of light literature prepared to dip into it—he found
that it was Stevenson’s “ Treasure Island,” a book
which he had not. yet happened to read; the story
interested him, and he read on for some time.
Presently he closed the book, and laying his head
against the cushion of the chair dropped fast asleep.
The events of the day made him dream; all his
dreams were about his queer patient. He thought
that he had followed Awdrey on to the Plain—that
Awdrey’s excitement grew worse and worse, until
the last lingering doubt was solved, and the man
was in very truth absolutely insane.
In the midst of his dream the doctor was awak-
ened by a hand being laid on his shoulder—he
started up suddenly—Awdrey, half-dressed and
looking ghastly pale, stood before him.
“ What is it?” said Bumsey. “Do you want
anything?”
“I want you,” said Awdrey. “Will you come
with me?”
“Certainly—where am I to go? Why are you
not in bed?"


DR. RUMSEY’S PATIENT. 185
Awdrey uttered a hollow laugh. There was a
ring of horror in it.
“ You could not sleep if you were me,” he said.
‘Will you come with me now, at once?"
“In a moment or two when you are better—sit
down, won’t you—here, take my chair~where do
you want me to go?”
“ Out with me, doctor—out of doors. I want you
to accompany me on to the Plain.”
“ All right, my dear fellow-but just allow me to
get on my boots.”
The doctor retired to a back part of the room to
change his house shoes. While he was doing
so, Awdrey sank down on a chair and laid his
hands on his knees, took no notice of Rumsey, but
stared straight before him into the centre of the
room. ~
“I wish you’d be quick, doctor,” he said at last.
“I don’t want to go alone, but I must follow
it.”
“ Follow what?” said Rumsey.
“It—the queer vision—I have told you of it
before.”
“Oh, yes, that bad dream you are subject to.
Well, I am at your service now.”
Awdrey rose slowly. He pointed with one of his
hands.
“Do you see that?” he said suddenly.
Rumsey following the direction of his eyes per-
ceived that he was staring into the part of the room
which was in deepest shadow.


186 DR. RUMSEY’S PATIENT.
“I see nothing, Awdrey,” he replied in a kind
and soothing voice, “ but I perceive by your manner
that you do. What is it?”
“I wonder you cannot 'see it,” replied Awdrey ;
“it is plain, too plain—it seems to fill all that part
of the room.”
“The old thing?” asked the doctor.
“Yes, the old thing but with a certain difl'erence.
There is the immense globe of light and thepicture
in the middle.”
“The old picture, Awdrey?”
“Yes, yes, but with a difference. The two men
are fighting. As a rule they stand motionless in
the picture, but to-night they seem to have come
alive—they struggle, they struggle hard; one stands
with his back to me. The face of the other I can
recognize distinctly. It is the face of that young
fellow who stayed a few years ago at the inn in
our village. Ah! yes, of course, I know his name,
Frere—Horace Frere. He has met some one on
Salisbury Plain. It is night; the moon is hidden
behind clouds. Ha! now it comes out. Now I
can see them distinctly. Dr. Rumsey, don’t you
hear the blows? I do. They seem to beat on my
brain. That man who stands with his back to us
carries my stick in his hand. I know it is mine,
for the whole thing is so intensely plain that I can
even see the silver tablet on which my name is en-
graved. My God! the man also wears my clothes.
I would give all that I possess to see his face. Let
us get on the Plain as fast as we can. I may be


188 DR. R UMSEY'S PATIENT.
of the picture. I must get to the left. I am going
to follow it on to the Plain—I am going to trace it
to the exact spot where that murder was committed.
Will you come with me?”
“Yes, only first you must return to your room,
and get into the rest of your clothes. At present
you are without a coa .”
“Am I? And yet I burn with heat. Well, I’ll
do what you want. I will do anything which gives
me a chance of seeing that man’s face.”
A few moments later Rumsey and his patient
found themselves in the white moonlight of the
outer world. Awdrey was now quite silent, but
Rumsey noticed that his footsteps faltered once or
twice, and that he often paused as if to get his
breath. He appeared to be like a man in a frantic
hurry; he gazed straight before him, as if he were
looking intently at one fixed object.
“It goes before me, and guides me to the spe ,”
he said at last, in a choking voice. He panted
more violently than ever. Heavy sighs came from
him—these seemed to be wrung from his very heart.
In about ten minutes the men got upon the bor-
ders of the Plain. Awdrey then turned abruptly
to his left; each moment he walked faster and
faster; the doctor had now almost to run to keep
up with him. At last they reached the rise of
ground. A great clump of alder-trees stood to the
left; at the right, a little way off, was a dense belt
of undergrowth. On the rising ground itself was
short grass and no other vegetation. A little way


DR. RUlllSEY’S PATIENT. 159
off, nearly one hundred feet lower down, was a
pond. The light of the moon was fully reflected
here; across the smooth surface of the pond was a
clear path as if of silver. When they reached the
brow of this slight elevation, Awdrey stood still.
“ There—it was done there,” he said, pointing
with his finger. “See, the picture does not move
any more, but settles down upon the ground. Now
we shall see the whole thing. Good God, Rumsey,
fancy looking at a murder which was committed
five years ago! It is going on there now all over
again. There stand the two men life-size. Can’t
we stop them? Can we do nothing?”
“No, it is only a vision,” said the doctor; “but
tell me exactly what you see.”
“ It is too marvellous,” said Awdrey. “ The men
move, and I hear the sound of the blows. It is ex-
traordinary how that fellow keeps his back to me.
Ican’t see his face if I stand here. Come, let us
go downhill—if we get near the pond we can look
up, and I shall get a view of him in another posi-
tion.”
_“ Come,” said Rumsey. He took Awdrey’s arm,
and they went down the slope of ground until they
almost reached the borders of the pond.
“ Now is it any better?” asked the doctor. “Can
you see the man’s face now?”
“No, he has turned; he still keeps his back to
me, the scoundrel. But oh, for God’s sake see—
he fights harder than ever. Ha! He has thrown
Horace Frere t0 the around. Now Frere is up—


1,0 DR. RUMSEY 's PATIENT.
what a strong chap he is! Now the other man is
down. No, he has risen again. Now they both
stand and fight, and—Dr. Rumsey, did you see
that? The man with his back to us uses his stick,
straight in front of him like a bayonet, and—oh,
my God!”
Awdrey covered his face with his shaking hands
In a moment he looked up again.
“Can’t you see for yourself?” he cried. “Frere
is on his back—in my opinion he is dead. What
has happened?”
Awdrey swayed from side to side. His excite-
ment was so intense that he would have fallen if
Dr. Rumsey had not caught him. The night was
a chilly one, but the terrified and stricken man was
bathed in perspiration.
“Come, Awdrey, you have told me everything,
and it is fully time to return home,” said the
doctor.
“I vow I won’t go back until I see that man’s
face, Dr. Rumsey. What name did they give him
at the trial? Frank—Frank Everett—was he the
man convicted of the murder?”
“ Yes, of course, you must remember that—he is
serving his time now in Portland.”
Awdrey faced round suddenly, and looked into
the doctor’s eyes. '
“It is all a mistake then,” he said, in a queer
sort of whisper. “I swear that before God. I
saw Everett once—he was a thickly made man—
that fellow is slighter, taller, younger. He carries


DR. RUMSEY ’S PATIENT. 191
my stick and wears my clothes. Why in the name
of Heaven can’t I see his face? What are you say-
ing, doctor?”
“ Only that I must take you home, my good fel-
low. You are my patient, and I cannot permit this
excitement any longer.”
“ But the murder is still going on. Can’t you
see the whole thing for yourself? That fellow with
his back to us is the murderer. He uses his stick
as a bayonet. What did I once hear about that?
Oh that I could remember! There is a cloud
before my mind—oh, God in Heaven, that I could
rend it! Do not speak to me for a moment, doctor,
I am struggling with a memory.”
Awdrey flung himself on the ground—he pressed
his hands before his eyes—he looked like a de-
mented man. Suddenly he sprang to his feet.
“ I have it,” he said with a laugh, which sounded
hollow. “ If I look in the pond I shall see the man’s
face. His face must be reflected in it. Stay where
you are, doctor, I’ll be back with you in a minute.
I am getting at it—light is coming—it is all return-
ing to me. He uses his stick as a bayonet, prod-
dinghim in the mouth. Old, old—what am I say-
ing?—-—who told me that long ago? Yes I shall see
his face in the pond.” /‘
Awdrey ran wildly to the edge of the water. He
paused just where the silver light fell full across the
dark pond. Itumsey followed him in hot haste.
He knew that his patient was in the condition when
he might leap into the pond at any moment.


l f3 ‘3 DR. R UMSE Y ’S PATIENT.
Catching on to an alder-tree, Awdrey now bent
forward until he caught the reflection in the water
—--he slid down on his knees to examine it more
carefully.
“ Take care, Awdrey, you’ll slip in if you are not
careful,” cried Bumsey.
Awdrey was silent for a moment—his own re-
flection greeted him—he looked straight down at
his own face and figure. Suddenly he rose to his
feet: a long shiver ran through his frame. He
went up to Rumsey with a queer unsteady laugh.
“I have seen the man’s face,” he said.
“ It was your own face, my dear fellow,” said the
doctor. “ I saw it reflected distinctly in the water.”
“I am satisfied,” said Awdrey, in a changed and
yet steady voice. “We can go home now.”
“ Well, have you really seen what you wanted to
see? Who was the murderer?”
“Frank Everett, who is serving his time in Port‘
land prison. Dr. Rumsey, I believe I have been
the victim of the most horrible form of nightmare
which ever visited living man. Anyhow it has van-
ished—~the vision has completely disappeared.”
“I am glad to hear you say so, Awdrey.”
“I do not see it any longer—I know what I
wanted to know. Let us go back to the Court.”


I CHAPTER XVII.
‘WELL, Het, what do you say to a bit 0’ news
that’ll wake you up?” said Farmer Vincent one
fine morning in the month of May to his young
wife.
Hetty was in her dairy with her sleeves turned
up busily skimming cream. She turned as her
husband spoke and looked up into his face. He
was a roughly built man on a huge scale. He
chucked her playfully under the chin.
“There are to be all kinds of doings,” he said.
“I’ve just been down to the village and the whole
place is agog. What do you say to an election,
and who do you think is to be put up for the vacant
seat?”
“I don’t know much about elections, George,”
said Hetty, turning again to her cream. “If that's
all it won’t interest me.”
“Ay, but ’tain’t all—there’s more behind it.”
“ Well, do speak out and tell the news. I’m go-
ing down to see aunt presently.”
“ I wonder how many days you let pass without
being off to see that aunt of yours,” said the farmer,
frowning perceptibly. “Well, then, the news is
this. Squire and Mrs. Awdresr and a lot of com-


194 DR. RUMSEY’S PATIENT.
pany with them came back to the Court this even-
ing. Squire and Madam have been in foreign parts
all the winter, and they say that Squire’s as well
as ever a man was, and he and madam mean to live
at the Court in future. Why, you have turned
white, lass! What a lot you think of those grand
folks!”
“No, I don’t, George, not more than anybody
ought. Of course I’m fond of Squire, seeing I
know him since he was a little kid—and we was
always great, me and mine, for holding on to the
Family.”
“I’ve nothing to say agin’ the Fam’ly,’
7
said
_ farmer Vincent, “and for my part,” he continued,
“I’m glad Squire is coming to live here. I
don’t hold with absentee landlords, that I don’t.
There are many things vI’ll get him to do for me on
the farm. I can’t move Johnson, the bailifi', one
bit, but when Squire’s to home ’twill be another
matter. Then he’s going to stand for Grandcourt.
He’s quite safe to be returned. So, Het, what with
an election and the Fam’ly back again at the Court,
there’ll be gay doings this summer, or I’m much
mistook.”
“ To be sure there will,” said Hetty. She pulled
a handkerchief out of her pocket as she spoke and
wiped some moisture from her brow.
“You don’t look too well, my girl. Now don’t
you go and overdo things this morning—the
weather is powerful hot for the time 0’ year, and
‘you never can stand heat. I thought it ’ud cheer


DR. RUMSEY’S PATIENT. 1 (it?!
I
you up to tell you about Squire, for any one cans
see with half an eye that you are as proud of him:
and the Fam’ly as woman can be.”
“ I’m very glad to hear your news, George,” re‘r
plied Hetty. “Now if you won’t keep me any
longer I’ll make you some plum dufl' for dinner.”
“ That’s a good girl—you know my weakness."
The man went up to her where she stood, and
put one of his great arms round her neck. i
“Look at me, Hetty,” he said.
“What is it, George?” She raised her full, dark
eyes.
He gazed down into their depths, anxiously.
“Are you a bit better, lass?” he asked, a tender
intonation in his gruff voice. “Pain in the side.
any less bad?”
“Yes; George, I feel much better.”
“ Well, I’m glad of that,” he said slowly. “ Now-
you look well at me. Don’t you take your eyes off
me while I’m a-speaking. I’ve been counting the‘
days. I mark ’em down on the back of the fowl-
house door with a bit of chalk; and it’s forty days
and more since you gave me the least little peek of‘
a kiss, even. Do you think you could give me one
now?”
She raised her lips, slowly. He could not but
perceive her unwillingness, and a wave of crimson
swept up over his face.
“I don’t want that sort,” he said, flinging his
arm away and moving a step or two back from her.
“ There, I ain’t angry; I ain’t no call to be angry;


DR. RUMSEY 'S PATIENT. 1 97
Any day or any hour I may see him. He’s coming
back to live. What do folks mean by saying he is
well? If he is well, does he remember? And if he
remembers— oh, my God, I shall go mad if I think
much of that any longer! Squire back again at the
Court and me here, and I knowing what I know,
and Aunt Fanny knowing what she knows! I must
go and speak to aunt to-day. To-night, too, so
soon; he’ll be back to-night. My head is giddy
with the thought. What does it all mean? Is he
really well, and does he remember? Oh, this awful
pain in my side! I vowed I’d not take another
drop of the black medicine; but there’s nothing
else keeps me steady.”
Glancing furtively behind her, although them
was not a soul in sight, Hetty opened a cupboartf.
in the wall. From a back recess she produced at
small bottle ; it was half full of a dark liquid. Tak-
ing up a spoon which lay near she poured some-‘-
drops into it, and adding a little water, drank it.
off. She then put the bottle carefully back into its i.
place, locked the cupboard, and slipped the key’
into her pocket.
“In a minute, dreams will come, and I’ll be much
better,” she‘ said to herself. “ It seems as if I could'
hear anything a’most after I’d taken a little of that"
black stuff; it’s a sight better than gin, and I know
what I’m doing all the time. I’ll go and see aunt
the minute I’ve swallowed my dinner; but now I
must hurry to make the plum dufl' for George.”
She ran briskly off to attend to her numeroua


198 DR. RUMSEY ‘S PATIENT.
duties. ‘She was now bright and merry; the look
of gloom and depression had completely left her
face; her eyes shone with a contented and happy
light. As she hustled about her kitchen opening
and shutting her oven, and filling up the different
pots, which were necessary for cooking the dinner,
with hot water, her white teeth gleamed, and smiles
‘came and went over her face.
“To think of Aunt Fanny’s toothache mixture
doing this for me,” she said to herself. “Aunt
Fanny ’ud put a bit on cotton wool and put it into
the hole of her tooth, and the pain ’ud be gone in a
jiffy; and now I swallow a few drops, and some-
how it touches my heart, and my pain goes.
Aunt Fanny wonders where her toothache cure is;
‘she ain’t likely to hear from me. Oh, it’s quite
wonderful how contented it makes me feel i"
Hetty was a good housewife, and there was noth-
ing slatternly nor disorderly about her kitchen.
The dinner, smoking hot and comfortable, was
'upon the _table when Vincent came in at twelve
o’clock to partake of it. There was a great piece
\of bacon and some boiled beans. These were im-
mediately followed by the plum duff. The farmer
.ate heartily, and Hetty piled up his plate whenever
it was empty.
“ You scarcely take a pick yourself, little girl,“
he said, seizing one of her hands as she passed and
squeezing it affectionately.
“I ain’t hungry, George.”
'“ Excited ’bout Squire, I guess.“


DR. RUMSEY’S PATIENT. 199
“Well, p’raps I am a bit; you don’t mind if I
go and talk it all over with aunt?”
“That I don’t; when you smile at me so cheer~
ful like that there’s nought I wouldn’t give yer.
Now you look here, Grifliths, the steward, is going
to get up a sort of display at the Court, and the
villagers are going; there is talk of a supper after-
ward in the barns, but that may or may not be.
What do you say to you and me going into the.
avenue and seeing Squire and Madam drive in.
What do you say, Het?”
“Oh, George, I’d like it.”
“ You would not think of giving a body a kiss for
it, eh?”
“ Yes, that I would.”
She ran behind him, flung her soft arms round
his neck, and pressed a kiss against his cheek just
above his whiskers. _
“ That won’t do,” he said. “ I won’t take yer for
that—I must have it on my lips.”
She gave him a shy peck something like a robin,
He caught her suddenly in his arms, squeezed her
to his heart, and kissed her over and over again.
“I love thee more than words can say,” he cried.
“I am mad to get your love in return. Will the
day ever come, Het?”
“ I don’t know, George ; I’d like to saysoto please
you, but I can’t tell a lie about a thing like that.”
“ To be sure, you can’t,” he said, rising as he.
spoke. “ You’d soon be found out.”
“ I'd like well to love you,” she continued. “for


200 DR. RUMSEY ‘s PATIENT
you’re good to’ me; but now I must be off to see
Aunt Fanny.”
Vincent left the kitchen, and Hetty hurried to her
room to dress herself trimly. Ten minutes later
vshe was on her way to the village.
The pretty little place already were a festive air.
Bunting had been hung across the streets, flags
were flying gayly from many upper windows. The
vshop-keepers stood at their doors chatting to one
.another; several of them nodded to Hetty as she
passed bv.
“That you, Hetty Vincent?” called out one
"woman. “ You’ve heard the news, I guess.”
“Yes, about Squire and Madam,” said Hetty.
“It has come unexpected,” said the woman.
“We didn’t know until this morning that Squire
was to be back to-night. Mr. Grifliths got the
letter by the first post, and he’s been nearly off his
head since; there ain’t a man in the village though
that hasn’t turned to help him with a will, and
there are to be bonfires and all the rest. They say
Squire and Madam are to live at the Court now.
Pity the poor child went off so sudden. Hewere
a main fine little chap; pity he ain’t there to return
home with his father and mother. You look better,
Hetty Vincent—not so peaky like. Pain in the
side less?”
“Sometimes it is, and sometimes it isn’t,"
answered Hetty; “ it’s much better to-day. I can’t
stay talking any longer though, Mrs. Martin, for I
want to catch Aunt Fanny."


DR. R UIL'ISE Y ‘S PA TIENT. 20 17?.
“Well, you’ll find her at home, but as busy as a..
bee, the whole place is flocking to the inn to learn
the latest news. We’re a-going up to the Court
presently to welcome ’em home. You and your
good man will come, too, eh, Hetty?”
“ Yes, for sure,” answered Hetty. She continued
her walk up the village street.
Mrs. Armitage was cooling herself in the porch
of the little inn when she saw her niece approach—
ing. '
Hetty hurried her steps, and came panting to.
her side.
“Aunt Fanny, is it true?” she gasped.
“True? Yes, child, it’s true,” said Mrs. Ar'mi'»
tage. “They’re coming home. You come along
in and stand in the shelter, Hetty. Seems to me
you grow thinner and thinner.”
“ Oh, aunt, never mind about my looks just now;
have you heard anything else? How is he?”
Mrs. Armitage looked behind her and lowered
her voice.
“They do say that Squire’s as well as ever he
Wor,” she remarked. “Why, he’s going to stand
for Grandcourt. In one way that’s as it should be.
We always had Awdreys in the House—we like tm.
be represented by our own folk.”
“ Will any one_ oppose him?” asked Hetty.
‘ “How am I to say? there’s nothing known at"
present. He is to be nominated to-morrow; andv
that’s what’s bringing ’em home in double quick.
time.”


202- DR RUMSEY‘S PATIENT
I
"Are you going to the Court to-night, aunt?”
“I thought I’d run round for an hour just to see
* the carriage roll by, and get a glimpse of Squire and
Madam, but I must hurry back, for there’ll be a lot
to be done here."
“ Shall I come and help you and uncle to-night?”
Mrs. Armitage looked her niece all over.
“ That’s a good thought,” she said, “ if your man
will spare you.”
“ Oh, I can ask him; I don’t think he’ll refuse.”
“ Well, you’re spry enough with your fingers and
legs when you like. I can’t stay out here talking
.any more, Het.”
Hetty came up close to her aunt, and lowered
.her voice to a whisper.
“Aunt Fanny,” she said, “one word afore you
goes in—Do you think it is safe, him coming back
like this?” _
“ Safe,” echoed the elder woman in a tone hoarse
with a queer mixture of crossness and undefined
fear. “ Squire’s safe enough ef you can keep things
to yourself.”
“Me?” echoed Hetty. “Do you think I can’t
hold my tongue?”
“ Your tongue may be silent, but there are other
ways of letting out a secret. Ef ever there was a
tell-tale face yours is one. You’re the terror of my
life with your aches and your pains, and your start-
ings, as if you saw a shadow behind yer all the
time. It’s a good thing you don’t live in the vil-
#1886. As to Vincent, pore man, he’s as blind as a


DR. RUMSEY 'S PATIENT. 2",‘?!
bat; he don’t see, or he won’t see, what’s staring
him in the face.”
“For God’s sake, Aunt Fanny, what do you
mean?”
“I mean this, girl. Vincent’s wife carries a
secret, and she loves one she ought not to love.”
“Oh ! Aunt Fanny, you rend my heart when you
talk like that.”
“ I won’t again,” said Mrs. Armitage, “ but I had
to speak out when you came to-day. It was my
opportunity, and I had to take it. Queer stories
will be spread ef you ain’t very careful. You’ve
nought to do with the Squire, Hetty. Go and
see him to-night with the rest of ’em, and then be
satisfied. You keep quiet at the farm now he’s at
the Court; don’t you be seen a-talking to him or
a-follerin’ him about.”
“ I won’t, I won’t.”
“ Well, I thought I’d warn yer—now I must get
back to my wor .”
“One minute first, aunt—you know there ain’t
a soul I can speak to but you, and I’m near mad
with the weight of my secret at times.”
“You should take it quiet, girl—you fret o’er
much. I really must leave you, Hetty ; there’s
your uncle calling out to me.”
“One minute—you must answer my question
first.”
“ Well, well—what a girl you are! I'm glad you
ain’t my niece. Coming, Armitage. Now, Hetty,
be quick. My man’s temper ain’t what it wor and


DR. RUMSEY’S PATIENT.
as the hours went by. High good humor was the
order of the day. Squire and Madam were return-
ing. Things must go well in the future.
Griffiths was seen riding ,up and down altering
the plan of the decorations, giving orders in a sten-
torian voice. At last the time came when the vil~
lagers were to assemble, some of them outside their
houses, some along the short bit of road which
divided the village from the Court, some to line
the avenue up to the Court itself.
Hetty and Mrs. Armitage managed to keep
together. George Vincent and Armitage preceded
them at a little distance. They walked solemnly
through the village street, Armitage pleased but
anxious to return to the inn, Vincent thinking of
Hetty, and vaguely wondering by what subtle
means he could get her to love him, Hetty and
Mrs. Armitage weighed down by the secret which
had taken the sunshine out of both their lives.
They made straight for the avenue, and presently
stationed themselves just on the brow of a rising
slope which commanded a view of the gates on one’
side and of the Court itself on the other.
Hetty’s excitable heart beat faster and faster.
Dreadful as her secret was, she was glad, she re-
joiced, at the fact that the Squire was coming home.
She would soon see him again. To look at him
was her pleasure; it was the breath of her highest
life; it represented Paradise to her ignorant and
unsophisticated mind. Her eyes grew bright as
stars. A great deal of her old loveliness returned


200 DR. RUMSEY ‘s PATIENT.
to her. Vincent, who with Armitage had taken up
his position a few steps further down the avenue,
kept looking back at her from time to time.
“ Why, man, ” said the landlord of the village inn,
with a hoarse laugh, “ you’re as much in love with
that wife of your’n as if you hadn’t been wedded
for the last five years.”
“Ay, I am in love with her,” said Vincent. “ I’ve
got to win her yet, that’s why. Strikes me she
looks younger and more spry than I’ve seen her
for many a year, to-night.”
“ She’s mortal fond of Squire and Madam,” said
the landlord. “ She always wor.”
“Maybe,” replied Vincent, in a thoughtful tone.
He looked again at his wife’s blooming face; a
queer uncomfortable sense of suspicion began
slowly to stir in his heart.
The sound of wheels was at last distinctly audi'
ble ; bonfires were lit on the instant; cheers echoed
up from the village. The welcoming wave of sound
grew nearer and nearer, each face was wreathed
with smiles. Into the avenue, with its background
of eager, welcoming faces, dashed the spirited
grays, with their open landau.
Awdrey and his wife sat side by side. Other
carriages followed, but no one noticed their occu-
pants. All eyes were turned upon Awdrey. He
was bending forward in the carriage, his hat was
off, he was smiling and bowing; now and then he
uttered a cheerful word of greeting. Some of the
men, as he passed, darted forward to clasp his out-


CHAPTER XVIII.
A HASTY supper had been got up in some large
barns at the back of the Court. When the Squire’s
carriage disappeared out of sight, Grifliths rode
hastily down to invite the villagers to partake of
the hospitality which had been arranged for them.
He passed Hetty, was ‘.ttracted by her blooming
face, and gave her a warm invitation.
“ Come along, Mrs. Vincent,” he said, “ we can’t
do without you. Your husband has promised to
stay. I’ll see you in the west barn in a few min-
utes’ time.”
Vincent came up at this moment and touched
Hetty on her shoulder.
“I thought we might as well go in for the whole
thing,” he said, “and I’m a bit peckish. You’d
like to stay, wouldn’t you, Het?”
“ That I would,” she replied. “ You’ll come too,
aunt?” she continued, glancing at Mrs. Armitage.
“No, I can’t be spared,” replied Mrs. Armitage;
“me and Armitage must hurry back to the inn.
We’ve been away too long as it is.”
“Oh, George, I promised to help Aunt Fanny
to-night,” said Hetty, torn by her desire to remain


210 DR. RUMSEY'S PATIENT.
his boyhood. Yes, the Squire was back, astrong
man in his prime, and the people of Grandcourt
had good reason for rejoicing.
“ He‘ll be as good a Squire as his father before
him," said an old man of nearly eighty years, hob-
bling up close to Hetty as he spoke. “They did
whisper that the curse of his house had took ’im,
but it can’t be true—there ain’t no curse on his
face, bless ’im. He’s good to the heart’s core, and
strong too and well. He’ll be as good a Squire as
his father; bless ’im, say I, bless ’im.”
“Bet, you look as white as a sheet,” said Vin-
cent, turning at that moment and catching his wife’s
eye. “ There girl, eat you must. I’ll squeeze right
into the barn and you come in ahind me. I’m big
enough to make way for a little body like you."
Vincent squared his shoulders and strode on in
front. ‘ After some pushing he and Hetty found
themselves inside the barn. The tables which had
been laid from one end to the other, were crowded
with eager, hungry faces. Griffiths and other ser-
vants from the Court were flying here and there,
pressing hospitality on every one. Vincent was
just preparing to ensconce himself in a vacant
corner, and to squeeze room for Hetty close to him,
when the door at the other end of the long barn
was opened, and Awdrey, Margaret, and some visi-
tors came in. .
Immediately all the villagers rose from their
seats. and an enthusiastic cheer resounded among
the rafters of the old barn. Hetty standing on tin-


DR. RUMSEY’S PATIENT. 311
toe, and straining her neck, could see Awdrey shak~
ing hands right and left. Presently he would come
to her, he would take her hand in his. She could
also catch a glimpse of Margaret’s stately figure,
of her pale, high-bred face, of the dark waves of
her raven black hair. Once again she looked at
the Squire. How handsome he was, how manly,
and yet—and yet—something seemed to come up
in Hetty’s throat and almost to choke her.
“You ain’t well, Het,” said her husband. He
had also risen from his seat, and pushing out, had
joined Hetty in the crowd. “ The air in this place
is too close for you, Hetty. Drat that supper, we’ll
get into the open air once again.”
“No, we won’t,” answered Hetty. “ I must wait
to speak to Squire, happen what may.”
“ Why, it’ll be half an hour before he gets as far
as here,” said Vincent. “Well,” he added, look-
ing back regretfully at his plate, which was piled
with pie and other good things; “ if we must stay
I’m for a bit of supper. There’s a vacant seat at
last; you slip in by me, Het. Ah, that cold pie is
just to my taste. What do you say to a tiny
morsel, girl?” '
“I could not eat, George, it would choke‘ me,” ,
said Hetty, “I’m not the least bit hungry. I had
tea an hour ago down at the inn. You eat, George,
do, George; do go down and have some supper.
I’ll stand her and wait for Squire and Madam.”
“ You are daft on Squire and Madam,” said the
man angrily.


‘212 DR. RUMSEY 'S PATIENT.
Hetty did not answer. It is to be doubted if she
heard him. One fact alone was filling her horizon
She felt quite certain now that the Squire remem—
bered. What then was going to happen? Was he
going to be an honorable man? Was he going to
use the memory which had returned to him to re-
move the cruel shame and punishment from
another? If so, if indeed so, Hetty herself would
be lost. She would be arrested and charged with
the awful crime of perjury. The horrors of the law
would fall upon her; she would be imprisoned, she
would—-—”
“No matter,” she whispered stoutly to herself,
“it is not of myself I think now, it is of him. He
also will be tried. Public disgrace will cling to his
name. The people who love him so will not be
able to help him; he would suffer even, even to
death: the death of the gallows. He must- not tell
what he knew. He must not be allowed to be
carried away by his generous impulses. She,
Hetty, must prevent this. She had guarded his
secret for him during the long years when the cloud
was over his mind. He must guard it now for him-
self. Doubtless he would when she had warned
him. Could she speak to him to-night? Was it
possible?”
“ Hetty, how you do stand and stare, ” said George
Vincent; he was munching his pie as he spoke.
Hetty had been pressed up against the table where
he was eating.
“ I’m all right, George,” she said, but she spoke


DR. RUMSE Y ’S PATIENT. 213
as if she had not heard the words addressed to
her.
“If you’re all right, come and have a bit of
sur per.”
"I don’t want it. I’m not hungry. Do eat
whJe you can and let me be.”
“ I’ll let you be, but not out of my sight,” mut-
tered the man. He helped himself to some more
pie, but he was no longer hungry. The jealous
fiend which had always lain dormant in his heart
from the day when he had married pretty Hetty
Armitage and discovered that she had no love to
give to him was waking up now into full strength
and vigor. What was the matter with Hetty?
How queer she looked to-night. She had always
been queer after a certain fashion—she had always
been different from other girls, but until to-night,
Vincent, who had watched her well, had never
found anything special to lay hold of. But to-night
things were different. There must be a reason for
Hetty’s undue excitement, for her changing color,
for her agitation, for the emotion on her face. Now
what was she doing?”
Vincent started from his seat to see his wife mov-
ing slowly up the room, borne onward by the pres-
sure of the crowd. Several of the villagers,'im-
patient at the long delay, had struggled up the
barn to get a hand-shake from the Squire and his
wife. Hetty was carried with the rest out of her
husband’s sight. Vincent jumped on a bench in
order to get a view. He saw Hetty moving for-


‘114 D" RUMSEY’S PATIENT.
ward, he ha--‘ a good glimpse of her profile, the
color on the Bheek nearest to him was vivid as a
damask rose Her whole little figure was alert,
full of determination, of a queer impulsive longing
which the man saw without understanding. Sud-
denly he saw his wife fall backward against some
of the advancing crowd; she clasped her hands
tcgethcr, than uttered a shrill, piercing cry.
“ Take me out of this for the love of God, Squire,"
she pantet'
“Is that young woman Mrs. Vincent?” suddenly
cried another voiceZ “Then, if so, I’ve something
to say to her.”
It was Mrs. Everett who had spoken. Hetty had
not seen ner until this moment. She was walking
up the re \m accompanied by Awdrey’s sisters, Ann
and Dorv thy.
“I can t stay—~I won’t meet her—take me away,
take mo away, into the air, Squire,” said Hetty.
“Oh, I a‘ n suffocating,” she continued. “the room
is rising up as if it would choke me.”
“Open that door there to your right. Gnfliths,"
said Aw.‘ rey, in a tone which rose above the tumult.
“Come, Ylrs. ‘Vincent, take my arm.”
He drew Hetty’s hand into his, and led her out
by a side door. The crowd made way for them.
In another instant the excited girl found the cool
evening; air blowing on her hot cheeks.
"I am sorry you found the room too close,"
begun Awdrey.
“ Oh, it was not that, sir, not really. Just wait


DR. RUMSEY'S PATIEA .
a minute, please, MrnRobert, until I got my All.
I did not know that she—that she was coming 1 are. ”
“ Who do you mean?” asked Awdre 7.
“Mrs. Everett. I can’t hear her. It was the
sight of her, sudden-like, that took the breath from
me.” '
Awdrey did not speak for a moment.
“You are better now,” he said then, in a stony
tone. “Is your husband here?”
“Yes, but I don’t want him.”
Hetty, in her excitement, laid both hands on the
Squire’s arm.
“Mr. Robert, I must see you, and alone,” she
panted.
Awdrey stepped back instinctively.
“You don’t want me to touch you, you don’t
want to have anything to do with me, and yet—~and
yet, Mr. Robert, I must see you by yourself.
When I can see you alone?”
“I cannot stay with you now,” said Awdrey, in
a hurried voice. “ Come up to the house to-mor-
row. No, though, I shall have no time to attend
to you to-morrow.”
“ It must be to-morrow, sir. It is life or death;
yes, it is life or death.”
“Well, to-morrow let it be,” said Awdrey, after
a pause, “ six o’clock in the evening. Don’t call at
the house, come round to the office. I’ll be there
and I’ll give you a few minutes. Now I see you
are better,” he continued, “ I’ll go back to the barn
and fetch Vincent.”


218 DR. RUIISEY’S PATIENT
‘I say nought about that. The hour is late, and
my wife ain’t well. You’ll excuse me now, but I
must foller ’er."
Vincent walked quickly away. He strode with
long strides across the grass. After a time he
stopped, and looked to right and left of him.
l'here was a rustling sound in a shrub near by.
Hetty stole suddenly out of the deep shadow.
“Take me home, George, I’ve been waiting for
you,” she said.
“ Well, these are queer goings-on,” said the man.
“There was a lady, Mrs. Everett, and she said—-
never mind now what she said. Tell me, Het, as
, you would speak the truth ef you were a-dying,
what did yer want with Squire?"
“Nothing. What should I want with him? I
was just glad to see him again.”
“Why did you turn faint?”
“It was the heat of the room.”
“ Come on. Take my arm. Let’s go out 0’ this."
The farmer’s tone was very fierce. He dragged
Hetty’s hand through his big arm, and strode away
so quickly that she could scarcely keep up with
him. '
“It hurts my side,” she said, at last panting.
“You think nothing hurts but your side,” said
the man. “ There are .worse aches than that.”
“What do you mean, George? How queer and
rough you-speak!”
“Maybe I know more'n you think, young
woman."


DR. RUMSEY‘S PATIENT. 19
“ Know more than I think,” she said. “ There’s
nothing more to know.”
"Ain’t there? P’raps I’ve found out the reason
why your ’eart’s been closed to me——p’raps I’ve
got the key to that secret.”
“Oh, George, George, you know I’d love you of
I could.”
“ P’raps I’ve got the key to that secret,” repeated
the farmer. “ I’m not a bad feller—not bad to look
at nor bad to live with—and I gived yer all I got—
but never, God above is witness, never from the day
I took yer to church, ’ave yer kissed me of your
own free will. No, nor ever said a lovin’ word to
me ——the sort of words that come so glib to the lips
0’ other young wives. You’re like one who carries
sum’mat at her heart. Maybe I guess to-night.”
“ But there’s nothing to guess,” said Hetty. She
was trembling, a sick fear took possession of her.
“Ain’t there? Why did you make an appoint-
ment to meet Squire alone?”
“ What in the world do you mean?”
“None 0’ your soft sawder, now, Hetty. I know
what I’m a-talking of. I crep’ out of barn t’other
way, and I ’eard what you said.”
“You heard,” said Hetty, with a little scream.
Then she suppressed it, and gave a little hysterical
laugh. “You’re welcome to hear,” she continued.
“There was nothing in it.”
“ Worn’t there? You seemed mighty eager to
have a meetin’ with ’im; much more set on it, I
take it, than he wor to have a meetin’ wi’ you.


220 DR. RUMSEY’S PATIENT.
Gents 0’ that sort don’t care to be reminded o‘ the
follies 0’ their youth. I seed a big frown coming
up between his eyes when you wor so masterful,
and when you pressed and pressed to see 'im. Why
did yer say t’was life or death? I’ve got my clue
at last, and look you ’ere, you meet Squire at your
peril. There, that’s my last word. You under-
stand me?”


DR. RUMSEY ‘S PATIENT.
“Drat it,” he muttered, “ef I thought it I’d
kill ’im.”
At this moment the sound of footsteps approach-
ing caused him to raise his head; he had drawn up
close to a five-barred gate. He saw a woman’s
bonnet above the hedgerow—a woman dressed in
black was coming in his direction—she turned the
corner and he recognized Mrs. Everett. He stared
at her for a full moment without opening his lips.
He felt he did not like her; a queer sensation of,
possible danger stirred at his heart. What was she
doing at this hour? Vincent knew nothing of the
ways of women of quality; but surely they had no
right to be out at this hour in the morning.
The moment Mrs. Everett saw him she quickened
her footsteps. No smile played round her lips,
but there was a look of welcome and of gratified
longing in her keen, dark eyes.
“ I had a presentiment that I should find you,"
she said. “ I wanted to have a talk with you when
no one was by. Here you are, and here am I."
“ Mornin’, ma’am.” said Vincent awkwardly.
“ Good-morning, ” answered, Mrs. Everett. “ The
day is a beautiful one,” she continued; “it will be
hot by and by.”
Vincent did not think it necessary to reply to
this.
“ I’m due in the five-acre field,” he said, after a
long pause. “I beg pardon, ma’am, but I must be
attending to my dooties.”
“ If you wish /to cross that field,” said Mrs.


DR. RUMSEY 'S PATIENT
Everett, “I have not the least objection to accomv
panying you.”
Vincent hesitated. He glanced at the five-barred
gate as if he meant to vault over it, then he looked
at the lady; she was standing perfectly motionless,
her arms hanging straight at her sides; she came
a step or two nearer to him.
“ Look you ’ere,” he said then, suddenly. “I’m
a plain body—a man, so to speak, of one idee.
There are the men yonder waitin’ to fall to with
the spring turnips, and ’ere am I waitin’ to give
’em orders, and ’ere you are, ma’am, waitin’ to say
sum’mat. Now I can’t attend to the men and to
you at the same time, so p’raps you’ll speak out,
ma’am, and go.”
“I quite understand your position,” said Mrs.
Everett. “ I would much rather speak out. I have
come here to say something about your wife.”
“Ay,” said Vincent, folding his arms, “it’s
mighty queer what you should ’ave to say ’bout
Hetty.” ‘
“Not at all, for I happen to know something
about her.”
“And what may that be?”
“I’ll tell you if you will give me time to speak.
I told you last night who I am-—I am Mrs. Everett,
the mother of a man who has been falsely accused
of murder.”
“Falselyl” echoed Vincent, an incredulous ex-
pression playing round his lips.
“Yes, falsely. Don‘t interrupt me, please.
Your wife witnessed tlm‘. murder "


DR. RUMSEY 'S PATIENT.
Mrs. Everett watched him until he was out of
sight. Then she turned slowly, and went back to
the Court. She entered the grounds a little before
the breakfast hour. Ann, now Mrs. Henessey, was
out in the avenue gathering daffodils, which grew
in clumps all along a great border. She raised her
head when she saw Mrs. Everett approaching.
“You out?” she cried. “I thought I was the
only early bird. Where have you been?”
“ For a walk,” replied the widow. “ The morn-
ing is a lovely one, and I was not sleepy.” She did
not wait to say anything more to Ann, but went
into the house.
The breakfast-room at the Court had French
windows. The day was so balmy that, early as it
was still in the year, these ‘windows stood open.
As Mrs. Everett stepped across the threshold, she
was greeted by Margaret.
“How pale and tired you look I” said Mrs. Aw-
drey, in a compassionate voice.
Mrs. Everett glanced round her, she saw that
there was no one else present.
“I am sick at heart, Margaret,” she said, fixing
her sad eyes on her friend’s face.
Margaret went up to her, put her slender hand
on her shoulder, and kissed her.
“Why won’t you rest?” she said; "‘ you never
rest; even at night you scarcely sleep; you will
kill yourself if you go on as you have been doing
of late, and then——”
“ Why do you stop, Margaret?” said Mrs Everett.


DR. RUMSEY'S PATIENT. 227
“When he comes out you won’t be there,” said
Margaret—tears brimming into her eyes. “ I often
see the meeting between you and him,” she con—
tinued. “When he comes out; when it is all over;
he won’t be old, as men go, and he’ll want you.
Try and think of the very worst that can happen—-
his innocence never being proved; even at the
worst he’ll want you sorely when he is a free man
again."
“ He won’t have me. I shall be dead long, long
before then; but I must prove his innocence. I
have an indescribable sensation that I am near the
truth while I am here, and that is why I came.
Margaret, my heart in on fire—the burning of that
fire consumes me.”
At this moment the Squire entered the room; he
looked bright, fresh, alert, and young. He was
now a man of extremely rapid movements; he came
up to Mrs. Everett and shook hands with her.
“You have your bonnet on,” he said.
“ Yes, I have been out for a walk,” she replied.
“And she has come in dead tired,” said Marga-
ret, glancing at her husband. “Please go to your
room now, Mrs. Everett,” she continued, “ and take
off your things. We are just going to breakfast,
and I shall insist on your taking a good mea .”
Mrs. Everett turned toward the door. When
she had left the room Margaret approached her
husband’s side.
“I do believe she is right,” she cried suddenly;
“I believe her grief will kill her in the end.”


0R. RUMSEY -s PATIENT.
“Whose grief, dearest?” asked Awdrey, in an
absent-minded manner.
“ Whose grief, Robert? Don’t you know? Mrs.
Everett’s grief. Can’t you see for yourself how
she frets, how she wastes away? Have you no
eyes for her? In your own marvellous resurrection
ought you, ought either of us, to forget one who
suffers so sorely?” '
“I never forget,” said Awdrey. He spoke
abruptly; he had turned his back on his wife; a
picture which was hanging slightly awry needed
straightening; he went up to it. Ann came in at
the open window.
“What possesses all you women to be out at
cockcrow in this fashion?” said her brother, sub-
mitting to her embrace rather than returning it.
Ann laughed gleefully.
“It’s close on nine o’clock,” she replied; “here
are some daffodils for you, Margaret”-—she laid a
great bunch by Mrs. Awdrey’s plate. “You have
quite forgotten your country manners, Robert; in
the old days breakfast was long over at nine
o’clock."
“ Well, let us come to table now," said the Squire
The rest of the party trooped in by degrees.
Mrs. Everett was the last to appear. Awdrey
pulled out a chair near himself; she dropped into
it. He began to attend to her wants; then entered
into conversation with her. He talked well, like
the man of keen intelligence and education he really
was. As he spoke the widow kept watching him


DR. RUMSEY‘S PATIENT 229
with her bright, restless eyes. He never avoided
her glance. His own eyes, steady and calm in their
expression, met hers constantly. Toward the end
of breakfast the two pairs of eyes seemed to chal-
lenge each other. Mrs. Everett’s grew fuller than
ever of puzzled inquiry; Awdrey’s of a queer defi-
ance. In the end she looked away with a sigh.
He was stronger than she was; her spirit recognized
this fact; it also began to be dimly aware of the
truth that he was her enemy.
The Squire rose suddenly from his seat and
addressed his wife.
“I’ve just seen Griffiths pass the window,” he
said. “I’m going out now; don’t expect me to
lunch. "


DR. RUMSEY 'S PATIENT. 233
be true, she holds a secret, and it’s a-killing of her.
She ain’t what she wor when we married. I’ll get
that secret out 0’ her; but not for no thousand
pounds, ’andy as it ’ud be.”
“Hetty,” he said suddenly.
- "' What in the world is the matter with you,
George? You look so moody,” said Hetty.
“Well, now, I may as well return the compli_
ment,” he replied, “so do you.”
“Oh, I’m all right,” she answered, with a pert
toss of her head. “Maybe, George,” she con-
tinued, “ you’re bilious; you ate summat that dis-
agreed wi’ you last night.” .
“Yes, I did,” he replied fiercely. “I swallered
a powerful lot 0' jealousy, and it’s bad food and
hard to digest.”
“Jealousy?” she answered, bridling, and her
cheeks growing a deep rose. “Now what should
make you jealous?”
“ You make me jealous, my girl," he answered.
“I! what in the world did I do?”
“ You talked to Squire—you wor mad to see ’im.
Het, you’ve got a secret, and you may as well out
wi’ it.”
The imminence of the danger made Hetty quite
cool and almost brave. She uttered a light laugh,
and bent forward to help herself to some more
butter.
“You must be crazy to have thoughts 0’ that
sort, George,” she said. “Ain’t I been your wife
for five years, and isn’t it likely that ef I had a


‘234. DR. RUMSEY‘S PATIENT.
secret you'd have discovered it, sharp feller as you
are? No, I was pleased to see Squire. I was
always fond 0’ ’im; and I ain't got no secret ex-
cept the pain in my side.”
She turned very pale as she uttered the last
words and pressed her hand to the neighborhood
of her heart.
Vincent was at once all tenderness and concern.
“I’m a brute to worry yer, my little gell,” he
said. “Secret or no secret, you’re all I ’as got.
It’s jest this way, Het, ef you’drlove me a bit, I
wouldn’t mind ef you had fifty secrets, but it’s the
feelin’ that you don’t love me, mad as I be about
you, that drives me stark, staring wild at times.”
“ I’ll try hard to love you ef you wish it, George,”
she said.
He left his seat and came toward her. The
next moment he had folded her in his arms. She
shivered under his embrace, but submitted.
“Now that’s better,” he said. “Tryin’ means
succeedin’, ’cording to my way 0’ thinking of it.
But you don’t look a bit well, Het; you change
color too often—red one minute, white the next—
you mustn’t do no sort 0’ work this morning. You
jest put your feet up this minute on the settle and
I’ll fetch that novel you’re so took up with. You
like readin’, don’t yer, lass?”
“At times I do,” said Hetty, “but I ain’t in the
mood to read today, and there’s a heap tobe done."
“You’re not to do it; Susan will manage.”
“ George, she can't: shes got the dairy ”


DR. RUMSE'Y'S PATIENT. 237
Squire. But that appointment must be kept; if in
no other way, by guile.
Hetty thought and thought. She was too excited
to do little more than pick her food, and Vincent
showered attentions and affectionate words upon
her. At last he rose from his seat.
“Well, I’ve ’ad a hearty meal,” he cried. “I’ll
be in again about four o’clock; you might have a
cup 0’ tea ready for me.”
“ No, I won’t,” said Hetty; “ tea is bad for you;
you’re up so early, and you’re dead for sleep, and.
it’s sleep you ought to have. You come home
about four, and I’ll give you a glass 0’ stout.”
“ Stout?" said the farmer—he was particularly
partial to that beverage—“ I didn’t know there was
any stout in the house,” he continued.
“Yes,” she replied, laughing gayly, “the little
cask which we didn’t open at Christmas; it’s in the
pantry, and you shall have a foaming glass when
you come in at four; go ofi' now, George, and I’ll
have it ready for you.” ‘
“All right,” he said; “why, you’re turning into
a model wife; quite anxious about me—at least, it
seems like it. Well, I’ll turn up for my stout,
more particular of you’ll give me a kiss along
wi’ it.”
He went away, and Hetty watched him as he
crossed the farmyard; her cheeks were flushed, and
her heart beat high. She had made up her mind:-
She would drug the stout.
Vincent was neither a lazy nor a sleepy man; he


25).‘ DR. RUMSEY S PATIENT.
worked hard from early morning until late at night,
indulging in no excesses of any kind, and preferring
tea as a rule to any other beverage; but stout, good
stout, such as Hetty had in the little cask, was his
one weakness; he did like a big draught of that.
“He shall have a sleep,” said Hetty to herself.
“It’ll do him a power of good. The first time I
swallered a few drops of aunt’s toothache cure I
slept for eight hours without moving. Lorl how
bad I felt afore I went off, and how nice and
soothed when I awoke. Seemed as if I coulcln’t be
cross for ever so long. George shall sleep while
I’m away. I’ll put some of the nice black stuff in
his stout—the stuff that gives dreams—he’ll have
a long rest, and I can go and return and he’ll never
know nothing about it.”
She made all her preparations with promptitude
and cunning. First, she opened the cask, and
threw away the first glass she drew from it. She
then tasted the beverage, which turned out, as she
expected it would, to be of excellent quality. Hetty
saw in imagination her husband draining off one
or two glasses. Presently she heard his step in the
passage, and ran quickly to the pantry where the
stout was kept, concealing the little bottle of lauda-
num in her pocket. She poured what she thought
a small but safe dose into the jug, and then filled it
up with stout. Her face was flushed, and her eyes
very bright, when she appeared in the kitchen with
the jug and glass on a tray. Vincent was hot and
dead tired.


DR R UMSE Y ’S PATIENT 339
“Here you are, little woman,” he cried. “ Why,
if you ain’t a sort 0’ ministering angel, I don’t know
who is. Well, I’m quite ready for that ere drink
0’ your’n.”
Hetty filled his glass to the brim. It frothed
slightly, and looked, as Vincent expressed it, prime.
He raised it to his lips, drained it to the dregs, and
returned it to her. She filled it again.
“Come, come,” he said, smiling, and half-wink-
ing at her, and then casting a longing glance at the
stout, “ain’t two glasses o’er much.”
“ Not a bit of it,” she answered. “You’re to go
to sleep, you know.”
“Well, p’raps I can spare an hour, and I am a.
bit drowsy.”
“You’re to lie right down on the settle, and go
off to sleep. I’ll wake you when it is time.”
He drank off another glass.
“You won’t run away to that aunt o’ your’n
while I’m drowsing?” he said.
“No,” she replied. “I would not do a shabby
sort of trick like that.”
He took her hand in his, and a moment later had
closed his eyes. Once or twice he opened them to
gaze fondly at her, but presently the great, roughly
hewn face settled down into repose. Hetty bent
over him,’laid her cheek against his, and felt his
forehead. He never stirred. She then listened to
his breathing, which was perfectly quiet and light.
“ He’s gone off like a baby. That’s wonderful
stuff in aunt’s bottle,” muttered Hetty. Finally,


CHAPTER XXI.
AWDBEY’s cure was complete; he had passed right
through the doom of his house, and got out on the
other side. He was the first man of his race who
had ever done that; the others had forgotten as he
forgot, and had pined, and dwindled, and slipped
and slipped lower and lower down in the scale of life
until at last they had dropped over the brink into the
Unknown beyond. Awdrey’s downward career had
been stopped just in time. His recovery had been
quite as marvellous as his complaint. When he
saw his own face reflected in the pond on Salisbury
Plain the cloud had risen from his brain and he re-
membered what he had done. In that instant his
mental sky grew clear and light. He himself had
murdered Horace Frere; he had not done it inten~
tionally, but he had done it; another man was suf~
fering in his stead; he himself was the murderer.
He knew this absolutely, completely, clearly, but
at first he felt no mental pain of any sort. A natural
instinct made him desirous to keep his knowledge
to himself, but his conscience sat light within him,
and did not speak at all. He was now anxious to
conceal his emotions from the doctor; his mind
had completely recovered its balance, and he found


DR. RUMSEY'S PATIENT. 24-3
Brandcourt died, and Awdrey put up for the con-
stituency. He was obliged to return suddenly to
England on this account, and to Margaret’s delight
elected to come back at once to live at the Court.
The whole thing was arranged quickly. Awdrey
was to be nominated as the new candidate for
Grandcourt; he was to have, too, his rightful posi-
tion as the Squire on his own property. Friends
from all round the country rejoiced in his recovery,
as they had sincerely mourned over his strange and
inexplicable illness. He was welcomed with re-
joicing, and came back something as a king would
to take possession of his kingdom.
On the night therefore, that he returned to the
Court, the higher part of his being began to stir
uneasily within him. He had quite agreed to Mar-
garet’s desire to invite Mrs. Everett to meet them
on their return, but he read a certain expression in
the widow’s sad eyes, and a certain look on Hetty’s
face, which stirred into active remorse the con-
science which had suffered more severely than any-
thing else in the ordeal through which he had
lived. It was now awake within him, and its voice
was very poignant and keen; its notes were clear,
sharp, and unremitting.
In his excellent physical and mental health his
first impulse was to defy the voice of conscience,
and to live down the deed he had committed. His
first wish was to hide its knowledge from all the
world, and to go down to his own grave in the
course of time with his secret unccufessed. He did.
I


DR. RUMSEY 'S PATIENT.
not believe it possible, at least at first, that the
moral voice within could not be easily silenced;
but even on the first night of his awakening he was
conscious of a change in himself. The sense of
satisfaction, of complete enjoyment in life and all
its surroundings which had hitherto done so much
for his recovery, was now absent; he was conscious,
intensely conscious, of his own hypocrisy, and he
began vehemently to hate and detest himself. All
the same, his wish was to hide the thing, to allow
Mrs. Everett to go down to the grave with a broken
heart—to allow Everett to drink the cup of suffering
and dishonor to the dregs.
Awdrey slept little during the first night of his
return home. In the morning he arose to the full
fact that he must either carry a terrible secret to
his grave, or must confess all and bear the punish-
ment which was now awarded to another. -His
strong determination on that first morning was to
keep his secret. He went downstairs, putting a
full guard upon himself. Margaret saw nothing
amiss with him—his face was full of alertness, keen-
ness, interest in life, interest in his fellow-creatures.
Only Mrs. Everett, at breakfast that morning, with-
out understanding it, read the defiance, the veiled
meaning in his eyes. He went away presently,
and spent the day in going about his property, see-
ing his constituents, and arranging the different
steps he must take to insure his return at the head
of the poll. As he went from house to house, how-
ever, the new knowledge which he now possessed


246 DR. RUMSEY’S PATIENT.
generations men of his name and family had sat in
the House and done good work there—men of his
name and family had also fought for their country
both on land and sea. Yes, it was his bounden
duty now to live for the honor of the old name;
to throw up the sponge now, to admit all now
would be madness—the worst folly of which a man
could be capable. It was his duty to think of Mar-
garet, to think of his property, his tenants, all that
was involved in his own life.
Everett and Mrs. Everett would assuredly sufl'er;
but what of that if manyothers were saved from
sufl'ering? Yes, it was his bounden duty to live
now for the honor of the old name; he had also
his descendants to think of. True his child was
gone, but other children would in all probability
yet be his—he must think of them. Yes, the
future lay before him; he must carry the burden
of that awful secret, and he would carry it so close-
ly pressed to his innermost heart that no one should
guess by look, word, manner, by a gloomy eye, by
an unsmiling lip, that its weight was on him. He
would be gay, he would be brave, he would banish
grief, he would try to banish remorse, he would
live his life as best he could.
“I must pay the cost some day,” he muttered to
himself. “ I put off the payment, and that is best.
There is a tribunal, at the bar of which I shall
doubtless receive full sentence; but that is all in
the ‘uture; I accept the penalty; I will reap the
wages by and by. Yes, I’ll keep my secret to the


8R. RUMSEY ‘S PATIENT. 24'?
death. The girl, Hetty, knows about it, but she
must be silenced.”
Awdrey rode quickly home in the sweet fresh~
ness of the lovely spring evening. He remembered
that he was to meet Hetty; the meeting would be
diflicult and also of some importance, but he would
be guarded, he would manage to silence her, to
quiet her evident fears. Hetty was a guileless,
affectionate, and pretty girl; she had been wonder-
fully true to him; he must be good to her, for she
had suffered for his sake. It would be best to
make an excuse to send Hetty ‘and her husband to '
Canada; Vincent, who was a poor man, would
doubtless be glad to emigrate with good prospects.
Yes, they must go; it would be unpleasant meeting
Hetty, knowing what she knew. Mrs. Everett must
also not again be his guest; her presence irritated
him, he disliked meeting her eyes; and yet he
knew that while she was in the house he dared not
shirk their glance; her presence and the knowledge
that her pain was killing her made the sharp voice
within him speak more loudly than he could quite
bear. Yes, Mrs. Everett must go, and Hetty must
go, and—what was this memory which made him
draw up his horse abruptly .?—his lost walking-
stick. Ridiculous that such a trifle should worry as
man all through his life; how it had haunted him
all during the six years when the cloud was over his
brain. Even now the memory of it came up again
to torment him.. He had murdered his man with
that stick; the whole thing was the purest accldent.


DR. RUMSEY’S PATIENT. 249
“There you are; we are waiting for you,” she
called out.
“Come in, Robert, and have a cup,” called out
Dorothy, putting her head out of the window.
Dorothy was his favorite sister. Under other
circumstances he would have sprung from his horse,
given it to the charge of a groom who stood near,
and joined his wife and friends. Now he called
back in a clear, incisive voice:
“I have to attend to some business at my office,
and will be in presently. Here, Davies, take my
horse.”
The man hurried forward and Awdrey strode
round to the side entrance where his office was.
Hetty, looking flushed and pretty in her rustic
hat with a bunch of cowslips pinned into the front
of her jacket, stood waiting for him.
Awdrey took a key out of his pocket. The oflice
had no direct communication with the house, but
was always entered from outside. He unlocked
the door and motioned Hetty to precede him into
the room. She did so, he entered after her, locked
the door, and put the key into his pocket. The
next thing he did was to look at the windows.
There were three large windows to the oflice, and
they all faced on to a grass lawn outside. Any one
passing by could have distinctly seen the occupants
of the room.
Awdrey went and deliberately pulled down one
of the blinds.
“Come over here,” he said to Hetty. ‘Take


250 DR RUMSEY’S PATIENT.
this chair.” He took another himself at a little
distance from her. So seated his face was in
shadow, but the full light of the westering sun fell
across hers. It lit up her bright eyes until they
shone like jewels, and gave a bronze hue to her
dark hair. The flush on her cheeks was of the
damask of the rose; her brow and the rest of her
race was milky white.
Long ago, as a young man, Awdrey had ad-
mired Hetty’s real beauty, but no thought other
than that of simple admiration had entered his
brain. His was not the nature to be really at-
tracted by a woman below himself in station.
Now, however, his pulse beat a little faster than
its wont as he glanced at her. He remembered with
a swift, poignant sense of regret all that she had
done for him and suffered for him. He could see
traces of the trouble through which she had lived
in her face; that trouble and her present anxiety
gave a piquancy to her beauty which differentiated
it widely from the ordinary beauty of the rustic
village girl. As he watched her he forgot for a
moment what she had come to speak to him about.
Then he remembered it, and he drew himself
together, but a pang shot through his heart. He
thought of t e small deceit which he was guilty of
in drawing own the blind and placing himself and
his auditor where no one from the outside could
observe them.
“You want to speak to me,” he said abruptly.
‘What about?"


252 DR. RUMSEY '8 PATIENT
“You were present and you saw everything?”
“I was, sir, I saw everything. You killed him
because he provoked you.”
“ I killed him through an accident. I did so in
self-defence."
“ Yes, sir.”
Hetty also stood up. She sighed deeply.
“The knowledge of it has nearly killed me,"
she said at last, sinking back again into her seat.
“I am not surprised at that,” said the Squire.
“You did what you did out of consideration for
me, and I suppose I ought to be deeply indebted
to you”—he paused and looked fixedly at her—
“all the same,” he continued, “I fully believe it
would have been much better had you not sworn
falsely in court~had you not given wrong evi-
dence."
“Did you think I’d let you swing for it?” said
the girl with flashing eyes.
“ I should probably not have swung for it, as you
express it. You could have proved that the as-
sault was unprovoked, and that I did what I did
in self-defence. I wish you had not concealed the
truth at the time.” .
“ Sir, is that all the thanks you give me? You
do not know what this has been to me. Aunt
Fanny and I—-——”
“Does your aunt, Mrs. Armitage, know the
truth?”
“ I had to tell Aunt Fanny or I’d have gone mad,
sir. She and me, we swore on ‘the Bible that we


on RUMSEY ‘s PATIENT. 2v I‘
didn't see it done. It don’t wear her like it wears
me. But I think, sir, now that you have come
back, and I am quite certain that I know your true
mind, and when I know, too, that you are carrying
the burden as well as me, and that we two,”—she
paused, her voice broke—“ I think, sir,” she added,
“that it won’t wear me so much in the future.”
“ You must on no account be tried. If I resolve
to keep the secret of my guilt from all the rest of
the world, you must leave the country.”
“Me leave the country I” cried Hetty—her face
became ghastly pale, her eyes brimmed again with
tears. “ Then you would indeed kill me,” she
said, with a moan-—“ to leave you—Mr. Robert,
you must guess why I have done all this.”
“ Hush, ” he said in a harsh tone. He approached
the window, where the blind was drawn up. He '
saw, or fancied he saw —-Mrs. Everett’s dark figure
passing by in the distance. He retreated quickly
into the shaded part of the room.
“ I cannot afford to misunderstand your words,”
he said, after a pause, “ but listen to me, Hetty, you
must never allude to that subject again. If I keep
this thing to myself I can only do it on condition
that you and your husband leave the country. I
have not fully made up my mind yet. Nothing
can be settled to-night. You had better not stay
any longer.”
Hetty rose totteringly and approached the door.
Awdrey tool; the key from his pocket, and unlocked
it for her. As he did so he asked her a question.


CHAPTER XXII.
THERE was a short cut at the back of the oflice _
which would take Hetty on to the high road with-
out passing round by the front of the house. It so
happened that no one saw her when she arrived,
and no one also saw her go. When she reached the
road she stopped still to give vent to a deep sigh
of satisfaction. Things were not right, but they
were better than she had darea hope. Of course
the Squire remembered—he could not have looked
at her as he had done the night before, if memory
had not fully come back to him. He remembered
—he told her so, but she was also nearly certain.
that he would not confess to the world at large the
crime of which he was guilty.
“I’ll keep him to that,” thought Hetty. “He
may think nought o’ himself—it’s in his race not
to think 0’ theirselves—but he’d think 0’ his. wife
and p’raps he’d think a bit 0’ me. There’s Mrs.
Everett and there’s her son, and they both suffer
and suffer bad, but then agen there’s Mrs. Awdrey
and there’s me—there’s two on us agen two,” con-
tinued Hetty, rapidly thinking out the case, and
ranging the pros and cons in due order in her
mind, “yes, there’s two agen two,” she repeated.


DI:v RUMSEY .‘F PATIENT
“ Mrs. Everett and her son are suffering now—then
it ’ud be Mrs. Awdrey and me—and surely Mrs.
Awdrey is nearer to Squire, and maybe I’m a bit
nearer to Squire than the other two. Yes, it is
but fair that he should keep the secret to himself.”
The sun had long set and twilight had falter; over
the land. Hetty had to walk uphill to reach the
Gables, the name of her husband’s farm. It would
therefore take her longer to retiu'n home than it did
to come to the Court. She was anxious to get back
as quickly as possible. It would never do for Vin-
cent to find out that she had deceived him. If he
slept soundly, as she fully expected he would, there
was not the least fear of her secret being discovered.
Susan never entered the house after four in the
afternoon. The men who worked in the fields
would return to the yard to put away their tools,
but they would have nothing to do in connection
with the house itself—thus Vincent would be left
undisturbed during the hours of refreshment and
restoration which Hetty hoped he was enjoying.
“ Yes, I did well,” she murmured to herself,
quickening her steps as the thought came to her.
“ I’ve seen Squire and there's nought to be dreaded
for a bit, anyway. The more he thinks o’ it the
less he’ll like to see himself in the prisoner’s dock
and me and Mrs. Awdrey and aunt as witnesses
agen ’im—-and knowing, too, that me, and, perhaps,
aunt, too, will be put in the dock in our turn.
He’s bound to think 0’ us, for we thought 0’ him
—he won’t like to get us into a hole, and he’s safe


DR. RUMSEY "S PATIENT. 261
not to do it. Yes, things look straight enough for
a bit, anyway. I’m glad I saw Squire—he looked
splendid, too, stronger than I ever see ’im. He
don’t care one bit for me, and I—his eyes flashed
so angry when I nearly let out—yes, I quite let out.
He said, ‘I can’t affect to misunderstand you.’
Ah, he knows at last, he knows the truth. I’m
glad he knows the truth. There’s a fire inside 0’
me, and it burns and burns—it’s love for him—all
my life it has consumed within me. There’s
nought I wouldn’t do for ’im. Shame, I’d take it
light for his sake—it rested me fine to see ’im, and
to take a real good look at ’im. Queer, ain’t it,
that I should care so much for a man what never
give me a thought, but what is, is, and can’t be
helped. Poor Vincent, he worships the ground I
walk on, and yet he’s nought to me; he never can
be anything while Squire lives. I wonder if Squire
thought me pretty to-night. I wonder if he noticed
the wild flowers in the bosom of my jacket—I
wonder. I’m glad I’ve a secret with ’im; he must
see me sometimes, and he must talk on it; and
then he’ll notice that I’m pretty—prettier than
most girls. Oh, my heart, how it beats!” ,
Hetty was struggling up the hill, panting as she
went. The pain in her side got worse, owing to
the exercise. She had presently to stop to take
breath.
“ He said sum’mat ’bout going away,” she mur-
mured to herself; “he wants me and Vincent to
leave the country, but W1 ""‘-'\’t go. No, I draw


262 DR. RUMSEY -s PATIENT.
the line there. He thinks I’ll split on ’im. I!
Little he knows me. I must manage to show him
that I can hold my secret, so as no one in all the
world suspects. Oh, good God, I wish the pain in
my side did not keep on so constant. I’ll take
some of the black stuff when I get in; it always
soothes me; the pain will go soon after I take it,
and I’ll sleep like a top to-night. Poor George,
what a sleep he’s havin’; he’ll be lively, and in the
best 0’ humors when he wakes; you always are
‘when you’ve taken that black stufl'. Now, I must
hurry on, it’s getting late.”
She made another effort, and reached the summit
of the hill.
From there the ground sloped away until it
reached the Gables Farm. Hetty now put wing to
her feet and began to run, but the pain in her side
stopped her again, and she was obliged to proceed
more slowly. She reached home just when it was
dark; the place was absolutely silent. Susan, who
did not sleep in the house, had gone away; the men
had evidently come into the yard, put their tools
'by, and gone off to their respective homes.
“ That’s good,” thought Hetty. “ Vincent’s still
asleep—I’m safe. Now, if I hurry up he’ll find
the place lighted and cheerful, and everything nice,
and his supper laid out for him, and he’ll never
guess, never, never.”
She unlatched the gate which led into the great
yard; the fowls began to rustle on their perches,
and the house dog, Rover, came softly up to her,


264 DR. RUMSEY ‘S PATIENT.
see, his face was pale, though he was as a rule a
florid man.
“ He’s sleepin’ beautiful,” thought Hetty,
‘everything has been splendid. I’ll run upstairs
now and take off my hat and jacket and make my-
self look as trim as I can, for he do like, poor
George do, to see me look pretty. Then I’ll come
down and lay the supper on the table, and then
when everything is ready I think I’ll wake him.
He fell asleep soon after four, and it’s a good bit
after eight now. I slept much longer than four
hours after my first dose of the nice black stuff,
but I think I’ll wake ’im when supper is ready.
It’ll be real fun when he sees the hour and knows
how long he ’as slept.”
Holding her candle in her hand Hetty left the
kitchen and proceeded to light the different lamps
which stood about in the passages. She then went
to her own nice bedroom and lit a pair of candles
which were placed on each side of her dressing
glass. Having done this, she drew down the blinds
and shut the windows. She then carefully removed
her hat, took the cowslips out of the bosom of her
dress, kissed them, and put them in water.
“Squire looked at ’em,” she said to herself.
“He didn’t touch ’em, no, but he looked at ’em,
and then he looked at me and I saw in his eyes
that he knew I were pretty. I was glad then.
Seemed as if it were worth living just for Squire to
know that I were really pretty.”
She placed the flowers in a jug of water, folded


DR. RUMSEY‘S PATIENT 2657.
up her jacket and gloves, and put them away with-
her hat in the cupboard in the wall. She then,
with the candle still in her hand, went downstairs.
The kitchen felt chilly, and Hetty shivered as
she entered it. All of a sudden a great feeling of
weakness seemed to tremble through her slight
frame; her heart fluttered too, seeming to bob up
and down within her. Then it quieted down again,
but the constant wearing pain grew worse and aclied
so perceptibly that she had to catch her breath now
and then.
“I’ll be all right when I can have a good dose," \
she thought. She went to the window, farthest
from the one near which Vincent was lying, and
drew down the blind; then going to the coal cellar
she brought out some firewood and large knobs of
coal. She fed the range and the fire soon crackled
and roared. Hetty stood close to it, and warmed
her hands by the blaze.
“ What a noise it do make,” she said to herself.
“ It ought to wake him ; it would if he worn’t sleep-
in’ so sound from that lovely black stuff. Well,
he can keep on for a bit longer, for he were dead
tired, poor man. I’ll get his supper afore I wake
’im.,’
She went out to the scullery, turned on the tap
and filled the kettle with fresh cold water. She set
it on the stove to boil, and then taking a coarse
white cloth from a drawer laid it on the centre
table. She took out plates, knives and forks and
glasses for two, put them in their places, laid a


DR. RUMSEY'S PATIENT. 26?
“maybe he has slept long enough. I think I’ll
Wake him now, for supper’s ready.”
Then came a scratching at the window outside,
and the fretful howl of a dog.
“ There’s Rover; what’s the matter with him? I
wish he wouldn’t howl like that,” thought the
wife. “ I hate dogs that howl. Maybe I had best
let ’im in.”
She ran to the kitchen door, flew down the pas-
sage, and opened the door which led into the yard.
“ Rover, stop that noise and come along in,” she
called.
The great dog shnt'fled up to her and thrust his
head into her hand. She brought him into the
kitchen. The moment she did so he sat down on
his haunches, threw up his head, and began to
howl again.
“Nonsense, Rover, stop that noise,” she said.
She struck him a blow on his forehead, he cowered,
looked at her sorrowfully, and then tried to lick her
hand. She brought him to the fire; he came un-
willingly, slinking down at last with his back to
I the still figure on the settle.
“Queer, what’s the matter with him?” thought
Hetty. “ They say, folks do, that dogs see things
we don’t; some folks say they see sperrits. Aunt
would be in a fuss if Rover went on like that.
Dear, I am turning nervous; fancy minding the
howl of a dog. It’s true my nerves ain’t what they
wor. Well, cocoa will spoil, and eggs will spoil,
and time has come for me to wake Vincent. What


CHAPTER XXIII.
THE twilight darkened into night, but Awdrey
still remained in the office. After a time he groped
for a box of matches, found one, struck a match,
took a pair of heavy silver candlesticks from a cup-_
board in the wall, lit the candles which were in
them, and then put them on his office table. The
room was a large one, and the light of the two can-
dles seemed only to make the darkness visible.
Awdrey went to the table, seated himself in the
old chair which his father and his grandfather had
occupied before him, and began mechanically to
arrange some papers, and put a pile of other things
in order. His nature was naturally full of system;
from his childhood up he had hated untidiness of all
sorts. While he was so engaged there came a
knock at the ofiice door. He rose, Went across the
room, and opened it; a footman stood without.
“ Mrs. Awdrey has sent me to ask you, sir, if you
are ready for dinner.” _
“ Tell your mistress that I am not coming in to
dinner,” replied Awdrey. “Ask her not to wait
for me; I am particularly busy, and will have some-
thing later.” '
The man, with an immoval'ale countenance, turned


DR. R UMSEY ’S PATIENT. 271
away. Awdrey once more locked the ofiice door.
He now drew down the remaining blinds to the
other two windows, and began to pace up and down
the long room. The powers of good and evil were
at this moment fighting for his soul—~he knew it;
there was a tremendous conflict raging within him;
it seemed to tear his life in two; beads of perspi-
ration stood on his brow. He knew that either the
God who made him or the devil would have won
the victory before he left that room.
“ I must make my decision once for all,” he said
to himself. “I am wide awake; my whole intel-
lectual nature is full of vigor; I have‘ no excuse
whatever; the matter must be finally settled now.
If I follow the devil——” he shrank as the words
formed themselves out of his brain; he had natur-
ally the utmost loathing for evil in any form, his
nature was meant to be upright; at school he had
been one of the good boys ; one of the boys to whom
low vices, dishonorable actions of any kind, were
simply impossible; he had had his Weaknesses, for
who has not?—but these weaknesses were all more
or less akin to the virtues.
“If I choose the devil!” he repeated. Once
again he faltered, trembling violently; he had come
to the part of the room where his father’s old desk
was situated, he leaned up against it and gazed
gloomily out into the darkness which confronted
him.
“ I know exactly what will happen if I follow the
downward path.” he said again. “ I must force


272 DR. RUMSEY 'S PATIENT! '\
myself to think wrong right, and right wrong.
There is no possible way for me to live this life of
deception except by deceiving myself. Must I
decide to-night?”
He staggered into the chair which his father used
to occupy. His father had been a man full of rec-
titude; the doom of the house had never overtaken
him; he had been a man with an almost too severe
and lofty code of honor. Awdrey remembered all
about his father as he sat in that chair. He sprang
again to his feet. '
“ There is no use in putting off the hour, for the
hour has come,” he thought. “ This is the state of
the case. God and the devil are with me to-night.
I cannot lie in the presence of such awful, such
potent Forces. I must face the thing as it is.
This is what has happened to me. I, who would
not willingly in my sober senses, hurt the smallest
insect that crawls on the earth, once, nearly six years
ago, in a sudden moment of passion killed a man.
He attacked me, and I defended myself. I killed
him in self-defence. I no more meant to kill him
than I mean to commit murder to-night. Notwith-
standing that fact I did it. Doubtless the action
came over me as a tremendous shock—immediately
after the deed the doom of my house fell on me,
and I forgot all about what I myself had done—for
five years the memory of it never returned to me.
Now I know all about it. At the present moment
another man is suffering in my stead. Now if I
follow the devil I shall be a brute and a scoundrel;


DR. RUMSEI S PATIENT 1'73
the other man will go on suffering, and his mother,
whose heart is already broken, may die before he
recovers his liberty. Thus I shall practically kill
two lives. No one will know—no one will guess
that I am leading a shadowed life. I feel strong
enough now to cover up the deed, to hide away the
remorse. I feel not the least doubt that I shall be
outwardly successful—the respect of my fellow-men
will follow me—the love of many will be given to
me. By and by I may have children, and they
will love me as I loved my father, and Margaret
will look up to me and consult nm as my mother
looked up to and consulted my father, and my
honor will be considered above reproach. My
people too will rejoice to have me back with them.
I can serve them if I am returned for this constit-
uency—in short, I can live a worthy and respected
life. The devil will have his way, but no one will
guess that it is the devil’s way—I shall seem to
live the life of an angel.”
Awdrey paused here in his own thought.
“I feel as if the devil were laughing at me,” he
said, speaking half aloud, and looking again into
the darkness of the room—-“ he knows that his hour
will come—by and by my span of life will run out
—eventually I shall reach the long end of the long
way. But until that time, day by day, and hour
by hour, I shall live the lifla of the hypocrite. Like
a whited sepulchre shall I be truly, for I shall carry
hell here. By and by I shall have to answer for
all at a Higher Tribunal, and meanwhile I shall


274 DR. RUMSEY '8 PATIENT
carry hell here.” He pressed his hand to his
breast—his face was ghastly. “ Shall I follow the
devil? Suppose I do not, what then?”
There came another tap at the oflice door. Aw-
drey went across the room and opened it. He
started and uttered a smothered oath, for Margaret
stood on the threshold.
“Go away now, Maggie, I can’t see you; I am
very much engaged," he said.
Instead of obeying him she stepped across the
threshold.
“But you have no one with you,” she said, look~
ing into the darkness of the room. “ What are you
doing, Robert, all by yourself? You look very
white and tired. \Ve have finished dinner—my
uncle has come over from Cuthbertstown, and.
would like to see you—they all think it strange
your being away. What is the matter? \Von’t
you return with me to the house?”
“ I cannot yet. I am particularly engaged.” .
“But what about? Uncle James will be much
disappointed if he does not see you.”
“ I’ll come to him presently when I have thought
out a problem.”
Margaret turned herself now in such a position
that she could see her husband’s face. Something
'11 his eyes seemed to speak straight to her sy m-
pathies,——she put her arms round his neck. ,
“Don’t think any more now, my darling,” she
said. “Remember, though you are so well, that
you were once very ill. You have had no dinner.


DR. RUMSEY ’S PATIENT. 275
it is not right for‘you to starve yourself and tire
yourself. Come home with me, Robert, come
home!” '
“ Not yet,” he replied. “ There is a knot which
I must untie. I am thinking a very grave problem
out. I shall have no rest, no peace, until I have
made up my mind.”
“ What can be the matter?” inquired Margaret
“Can I help you in any way?”
“ No, my dearest,” he answered very tenderly,
“ except by leaving me.”
“ Is it anything to do with accounts?” she asked.
She glanced at the table with its pile of letters and
papers. “If so, I could really render you assist-
ance; I used to keep accounts for Uncle James in
the old days. Two brains are better than one.
Let me help you.”
“It is a mental problem, Maggie; it relates to
morals.”
“ Oh, dear me, Robert, you are quite mysterious, ”
she said with a ghost of a smile; but then she met
his eyes and the trouble in them startled her.
“I wish I could help you,” she said. “Do let
me.”
“You cannot," he replied harshly, for the look
in her face added to his tortures. “I shall come
to a conclusion presently. When I come to it I
will return to the house.”
“ Then we are not to wait up for you? It is get-
ting quite late, long past nine o’clock.”
“Do not wait up for me; leave the side door on


278 DR. RUMSEY S PATIENT.
when the cloud was over his brain he refused to
read, and lost grip of all passing events. There is
no subject now of general interest that he cannot
talk about—all matters of public concern arouse
his keenest sympathies. To-day he has been
nominated to stand for his constituency, vacant by
he death of our late member. I have no doubt
that he will represent us in the House when Par-
liament next sits.”
“ Or perhaps before this one rises,” said the doc
tor. “Well, Mrs. Awdrey, all this sounds most
encouraging, but your ‘but’ leads to something not
so satisfactory, does it not?”
“ That is so; at the present moment I do not like
his state. He was out and about all day, but in-
stead of returning home to dinner went straight to
his office, where he now is. As far as I can see,
he is doing no special work, but he will not come
into the house. He tells me that he is facing a
problem which he also says is a moral one. He
refuses to leave the oflice until he has come to a
satisfactory conclusion.” '
“ Come, he is overdoing it,” said the doctor.
“ I think so. I told him just now that you had
arrived; he asked me to bring you to him; will
you come?”
“ With pleasure.”
“ Can you do without a meal until you have seen
him ?”
“ Certainly; take me to him at once.”
Mrs. Awdrey left the house. and took Dr. Bum~


DR. RUMSEY’S PATIENT. ‘379
sey round by the side walk which led to the oifice.
The door was now slightly ajar; Margaret entered
the doctor following behind her.
“Well, my friend,” said Dr. Rumsey, ‘in his
cheerful voice, “it is good to see you back in your
old place again. Your wife’s letter was so satis-
factory that I could not resist the temptation of
coming to see you for myself."
“ I am in perfect health,” replied Awdrey. “ Sit
down, won’t you, Bumsey? Margaret, my dear,
do you mind leaving us?”
“No, Robert,” she answered. “I trust to Dr.
Rumsey to bring you back to your senses.”
“She does not know what she is saying,” mut-
tered Awdrey. He followed his wife to the door,
and when she went out turned the key in the
look.
“It is a strange thing,” he said, the moment he
found himself alone with his guest, “that you,
Bumsey, should be here at this moment. You
were with me during the hour of my keenest and
most terrible physical and mental degradation;
you have now come to see ‘me through the hour of
my moral degradation—or victory.”
‘ “Your moral degradation or victory?” said the‘
doctor; “what does this mean?”
“It simply means this, Dr. Bumsey; I am the
unhappy possessor of a secret.”
)“Ah!!!
“Yes—a secret. Were this secret known my
wife‘s heart would be ljl'fili'”). ‘Ami. this honorable


DR. RUMSEY ’s PATIENT. 281
‘ I’ll listen.”
“Well, the fact is this,” said Awdrey, rising,
"either God or the devil take possession of me
tonight.”
“ Come, come,” said Rumsey, “ you are exagger-
ating the state of the case.”
“ I am not. I am going through the most des-
perate fight that ever assailed a man. I may get
out on the side of good, but at the present moment
I must state frankly that all my inclinations tend
to getting out of this struggle on the side which
will put me into the Devil’s hands.”
“Come,” said the doctor again, “if that is so
there can be no doubt with regard to your position.
You must close with right even though it is a.
struggle. You confess to possessing a secret; that
secret is the cause of your misery; there is a right
and a wrong to it?”
“Undoubtedly; a very great right and a very
grave wrong.”
“ Then, Awdrey, do not hesitate; be man enough
to do the right.”
Awdrey turned white.
,I “You are the second person who has come here
to-night and advised me on the side of God," he
said.
“Out with your trouble, man, and relieve your
mind.”
“When I relieve my mind,” said Awdrey, ‘my
wife’s heart will break, and our house will be
ruined.”


282 DR. RUMSE Y ‘S PATIENT.
“ What about you?"
“I shall go under.”
“I doubt very much if your doing right would
ever break a heart like your wife’s,” said Rumsey,
“but doing wrong would undoubtedly crush her
spirit.”
“ There you are again—will no one take the
Devil's part? Dr. Bumsey, I firmly believe that
it is much owing to your influence that I am now
in my sane mind. I believe that it is owing to
you that the doom of my house has been lifted from
my brain. When Ithink of the path which you
now advocate, I could curse the day when you
brought me back to health and sanity. A very
little influence on the other side, a mere letting me
alone, and I should now either be a madman or in
my grave; then I would have carried my secret to
the bitter end. As it is—-—”
There was a noise heard outside—the sound
made by a faltering footstep. The brush of a
woman‘s dress was distinctly audible against the
door; this was followed [by a timid knock.
“ Who is disturbing us now?” said Awdrey, with
irritation.
“ I’ll open the door and see,” said the doctor.
He crossed the room as he spoke and opened the
door. An untidily dressed girl with a ghastly white
face stood without. When the door was opened
she peered anxiously into the room.
“Is Mr. Awdrey in?-—yes, I see him. I must
speak to him at once "


DR. RUMSEY’S PATIENT. 283
She staggered across the threshold.
“ I must see you alone, Squire," she said-—
“ quite alone and at once."
“ This has to do with the matter under consider-
tion,” said the Squire. “ Come in, Hetty ; sit
down. Rumsey. you had best leave us."


@‘JHAPTER XXIV.
A REAL faint, or suspension of the heart’s action,
is never a long afl'air. When Hetty fell in an un-
conscious state against the body of her dead hus-
band she quickly recovered herself. Her intellect
was keen enough, and she knew exactly what had
happened. The nice black stuff which gave such
pleasant dreams had killed Vincent. She had there-
fore killed him. Yes, he was stone dead—she had
seen death once or twice before, and could not pos-
sibly mistake it. She had seen her mother die long
ago, and had stood by the deathbed of more than
one neighbor. The cold, the stiffness, the gray-
white appearance, all told her beyond the possibil-
ty of doubt that life was not only extinct, but had
been extinct for at least a couple of hours. He:
husband was dead. When she had given him that
fatal dose he had been in the full vigor of youth
and health—now he was dead. She had never loved
him in life; although he had been an affectionate
husband to her, but at this moment she shed a few
tears for him. Not many, for they were completely
swallowed up in the fear and terror which grew
greater and greater each moment within her. He
was dead, and she had killed him. Long ago she


DR. RUMSEY ’S PATIENT. 285
had concealed the knowledge of a murder because
she loved the man who had committed it. Now
lhe had committed murder herself—not intention‘
ally, no, no. N o more had she intended to kill Vin-
cent than Awdrey when he was out that night had
intended to take the life of Horace F rere. But
Frere was dead and now Vincent was dead, and
Hetty would be tried for the crime. No, surely
they could not try her—they could not possibly
bring it home to her. How could a little thing like
she was be supposed to take the life of a big man?
She had never meant to injure him, too—she had
only meant to give him a good sleep, to rest him
thoroughly—to deceive him, of course—to do a
thing which she knew if he were aware of would
break his heart; but to take his life, no, nothing
was further from her thoughts. Nevertheless the
deed was done.
Oh, it was horrible, horrible—she hated being so
close to the dead body. It was no longer Vincent,
the man who would have protected her at the risk
of his life, it was a hideous dead body. She would
get away from it—she would creep up close to
Rover. No wonder Rover hated the room; per-
haps he saw the spirit of her husband. Oh, how
frightened she was! What was the matter with her
side ?—why did her heart beat so strangely, gallop-
ing one, two, three, then pausing, then one, two,
three again?——and the pain, the sick, awful pain.
Yes, she knew—she was sick to death with terror.
She got up presently from where she had been


286 DR. hQMSEr ‘s PATIENT.
kneeling by her dead husband’s side and staggered
across to the fireplace. She tried wildly to think,
but she found herself incapable of reasoning.
Shivering violently, she approached the table,
poured out a cup of the cocoa which was still hot,
and managed to drink it off. The warm liquid re-
vived her, and she felt a shade better and more
capable of thought. Her one instinct now was to
save herself. Vincent was dead—no one in all the
world could bring him back to life, but, if possible,
Hetty would so act that not a soul in all the
country should suspect her. How could she make
things safe? If it were known, known every-
where, that she was away from him when he died,
then of course she would be safe. Yes, this fact
must be known. Once she had saved the Squire,
now the Squire must save her. It must be known
everywhere that she had sought an interview with
him—that at the time when Vincent died she was
in the Squire’s presence, shut up in the ofiice
with him, the door locked—she and the Squire
alone together. This secret, which she would
have fought to the death to keep to herself an
hour ago, must now be blazoned abroad to a criti-
cising World. The lesser danger to the Squire
must be completely swallowed up in the greater
danger to herself. She must hurry to him at once
and get him to tell what he knew. Ah, yes, if he
did this she would be safee—she remembered the
right word at last, for she had heard the neigh-
bors speak of it when it a celebrated trial was go-


DR RUIMS'E! b l-ATlENT. 287
ing on in Salisbury—she must prove an alibi—then
it would be known that she had been absent from
home when her husband died.
The imminence of the danger made her at last
feel quiet and steady. She took up the lighted
candle and went into the dairy—she unlocked the
mpboard in the wall and took out the bottle of
laudanum. Returning to the kitchen she emptied
the contents of the bottle into the range and then
threw the bottle itself also into the heart of the fire
-—she watched it as it slowly melted under the in-
fluence of the hot fire—the laudanum itself was also
licked up by the hungry flames. That tell-tale and
awful evidence of her guilt was at least removed.
She forgot all about Susan having seen the liquid in
the morning—she knew nothing about the evidence
which would be brought to light at a coroner’s in-
quest—~about the facts which a doctor would be sure
to give. Nothing but the bare reality remained
prominently before her excited brain. Vincent was
dead—she had killed him by an overdose of laudas
num which she had given him in all innocence to
make him sleep—but yet, yet in her heart of hearts,
she knew that her motive would not bear explana—
tion.
“Squire will save me,” she said to herself-“ if
it’s proved that I were with‘Squire I am safe. I’ll
go to him now—I’ll tell ’im all at once. It’s late,
very late, and it’s dark outside, but I’ll go.”
Hetty left the room, leaving the dog behind her—Q
he uttered a frightful howl when she did so and


DR. RUMSEY'S PATIENT. 289
her, but behind him she saw Awdrey. She tottered
into the room.
The comparative light and warmth within, after
the darkness and chilly damp of the spring even-
ing, made her head reel, and her eyes at first could
take in no object distinctly. She was conscious of
uttering excited words, then she heard the door
shut behind her. She looked round—she was
alone with the Squire. She staggered up to him,
and fell on her knees.
“You must save me as I saved you long ago,”
she panted.
“What is it? Get up. What do you mean?"
said Awdrey.
“ I mean, Squire—oh! I mean I wanted to come
to you to-day, but Vincent,”—her voice faltered—
“ Vincent were mad wi’ jealousy. He thought that
I ought not to see you, Squire; he had got summat
in his brain, and it made him mad. He thought
that, perhaps, long ago, Squire, I loved you—long
ago. I’m not afeared to say anything to-night, the
truth will out to-night—I loved you long ago, I love
you still; yes, yes, with all my heart, with all my
heart. You never cared nothin’ for me, I know
that well. You never did me a wrong in thought
or in deed, I know that well also; but to me you
were as a god, and Iloved you, I love you still, and
Vincent, my husband, he must have seen it in my
face; but you did me no wrong—never, in word or
in deed—only loved you—and I love you still.”
“You must be mad, girl,” said Awdrey. “ Why


290 DR. RUMSEY' S PATIENT.
have you come here to tell me that? Get up at
once; your words and your actions distress me
much. Get up, Hetty; try to compose yourself.”
“ What I have come to say had best be said kneel-
ing,” replied Hetty; “it eases the awful pain in
my side to kneel. Let me be, Squire; let me
meel up against your father's desk. Ah! that’s
better. It is my heart—I think it’s broke; anyhow,
it beats awful, and the pain is awf .”
“If you have come for any other reason than to
say the words you have just said, say them and go, "
replied Awdrey.
Hetty glanced up at him. His face was hard,
she thought it looked cruel, she shivered from head .
to foot. Was it for this man she had sacrificed her
life? Then the awful significance of her errand
came over her, and she proceeded to speak.
“Vincent saw the truth in my face,” she con-
tinued. “Anyhow, he was mad wi’ jealousy, and
he said that I worn’t to come and see yer. He
heard me speak to yer last night, he heard me say
it’s a matter 0’ life and death and he wor mad. He
said I worn’t to come; but I wor mad too, mad to
come, and I thought I’d get over him by guile. I
put summat in his stout, and he drank it—summat,
I don’t know the name, but I had took it myself
and it always made me a sight better, and I gave
it to ’im in his stout and he drank it, and then he
slept. He lay down on the settle in the kitchen,
and he went off into a dead sleep. When he slept
real sound I stole away and I come to you. I saw


292 DR. RUMSEY'S mum
“ I’ll do better than that,” said Awdrey suddenly.
“What do you mean?” Hetty started back and
gazed at him with a queer mixture of hope and
terror in her face. “ Better—but there ain’t no
better,” she cried. “Ef you don’t tell the simple
truth I’ll be hanged; hanged by the neck until I
die—I, who saved you at the risk of my own soul
nearly six years gone.”
“I’ll not let you be hanged," said Awdrey, ris-
ing. “Get up, Hetty; do not kneel to me. You
don’t quite know what you have done for me to-
night. Sit on that chair—compose yourself—try
to be calm. Hetty, you just came in the nick of
time. God and the devil were fighting for my soul.
In spite of all the devil’s efi'orts God was getting
the better of it, and I—~I didn’t want him to get the
best. I wanted the devil to help me, and, Hetty,
I even prayed to him that he might come and help
me. When I saw you coming into the room I
thought at first that my prayer was answered. I
seemed to see the devil on your face. Now I see
differently—your presence has lifted a great cloud
from before my mind—I see distinctly, almost as
distinctly as if I were in hell itself, the awful con-
sequences which must arise from wrong-doing.
Hetty, I have made up my mind; you, of all peo-
ple, have been the most powerful advocate on the
side of God to-night. We will both do the right,
child—we will confess the simple truth.”
“No, Squire, no; they’ll kill me, they'll kill me,
if you don’t help me in the only way you can help


294 DR. RUMSEY’S PATIENT.
She gave it timidly; the Squire’s fingers closed
over it.
“ Where are we to go?” she asked. “ Where are
you taking me?”
“Come with me. I’ll speak. Presently it will
be your turn—after they know all, all the worst, it
will be your turn to speak.”
“ Who are to know all, Squire?”
“My wife, my sisters, Mrs. Everett, my friends."
“Oh, God, God, why was I ever born I” moaned
Hetty.
“ You'll feel better afterward,” said Awdrey.
‘Try and remember that in the awful struggle and
ordeal of the next few minutes your soul and mine
will be born again—~they will be saved—saved from
the power of evil. Be brave, Hetty. You told me
to-night that you loved me—prove the greatness of
your love by helping me to save my own soul and
yours.”
“I wonder if this is true,” said Hetty. “You
seem to lift me out of myself.” She spoke in a
sort of dull wonder. \
“ It is true—it is right—it is the only thing;
come at once.”
She did not say any more, nor make the least re~
sistance. They left the office together. They trod
softly on the gravel path which led to the main
entrance of the old house. They both entered the
hall side by side. Hetty looked pale and untidy;
her hair fell partly down her back; there were un-
dried tears on her cheeks; her eyes had a wild and


DR. RUMSEY’S PATIENT. 297
Still holding Hetty’s hand, Awdrey came into
the great space in front of the fireplace; he was
about to speak when Rumsey came suddenly for-
ward.
“ One moment," he said. “This young woman
is very ill; will some one fetch brandy?” He took
Hetty’s slight wrist between his finger and thumb,
and felt the fluttering pulse.
Anne rushed away to get the brandy. The doc~
tor mixed a small dose, and made Hetty swallow
it. The stimulant brought back a faint color to
her cheeks, and her eyes looked less dull and dazed.
“ I have come into this room to-night with Hetty
Vincent, who used to be Hetty Armitage, to make
a very remarkable statement,” said Awdrey.
Rumsey backed a few steps. He thought to him-
self: “ We shall get now to the mystery. He has
made up his mind on the side of the good—brave
fellow I What can all this mean? What is the
matter with that pretty girl? She looks as if she
were dying. What can be the connection between
them?”
“ What can be the connection between them?"
was also the thought running in the minds of every
other spectator. Margaret shared it, as her uncle’s
hand rested a little heavier moment by moment on
her slight shoulder. Squire Cuthbert was swear-
ing heavily under his breath. The sisters and their
husbands stood in the background, prepared for
any “denouement”—all was quietness and expec~
tancy. Mrs. Everett, who up to the present instant


DR. RUMSEY'S PATIENT.
“It was for that,” said Hetty again. ‘I can tell
exactly what I saw.”
The excited people who were listening to this
narrative now began to move about and talk eager~
ly and rapidly. Rumsey alone altogether kept his
head. He saw how ill Hetty was, and how all-im—
portant her story would be if there was any chance
of saving Awdrey. It must be put in writing with—
out delay.
“Come and sit here,” he said, taking the girl’s
hand and leading her to a chair. All the others
shrank away from her, but Mrs. Everett, whose
eyes were blazing with a curious combination of
passionate anger and wild, exultant joy, came close
up to her for a moment. -
“ Little hypocrite—little spy!” she hissed.
Don’t forget that you have committed perjury.
Your sentence will be 'a severe one.”
“ Hush,” said Rumsey, “is this a moment—‘3"
A look in his eyes silenced the widow—she shrank
away near one of the windows to relieve her over-
charged feelings in a burst of tears.
“Sit here and tell me exactly what you saw,”
said Rumsey to Hetty. “ Mr. Outhbert, you are
doubtless a magistrate?”
“ Bless my stars, I don’t know what I am at the
present moment,” said the worthy Squire, mopping
his crimson brow.
“ Try to retain your self-control—remember how
much hangs on it. This young woman is very ill
-—it will be all important that we get her deposition


302 DR. RUMSEY ‘S PATIENT.

before ” Rumsey paused; Hetty’s eyes were
fixed on his face, her lips moved faintly.
“You may save the Squire after all if you tell
the simple truth,” said Bumsey kindly, bending
toward her and speaking in a low voice. “ Try and
tell the simple truth. I know you are feeling ill,
but you will be better afterward. Will you tell me
exactly what happened? I shall put it down in
writing. You will then sign your own deposition.”
“ I’ll tell the truth,” said Hetty—“ is it the case
that if I tell just the truth I may save Squire?”
“It is his only chance. Now begin.”
The others crowded round when Hetty began to
speak; all but Mrs. Everett, who still eat in the
window, her face buried in her handkerchief.
Hetty began her tale falteringly, often trembling
and often pausing, but Rumsey managed to keep
her to the point. By and by the whole queer story
was taken down and was then formally signed and
sworn to. Bumsey finally folded up the paper and
gave it to Squire Cuthbert to keep.
“ I have a strong hope that we may clear Awdrey,"
he said. “ The case is a clear one of manslaughter
which took place in self-defence. Mrs. Vincent’s
deposition is most important, for it not only shows
that Awdrey committed the unfortunate deed under
the strongest provocation, but explains exactly why
Frere should have had such animosity to the Squire.
Now, Mrs. Vincent, you have rendered a very valu~
able service, and as you are ill we cannot expect
you to do anything further to-night."


DR. RUMSEY’S PATIENT. 303
Here Rumsey looked full at Margaret.
“I think this young woman far too unwell to
leave the house,” he said—“ can you have a room
prepared for her here?”
“Certainly,” said Margaret; she went up to
Hetty and laid one of her hands on her shoulder.
“Before Hetty leaves the room, there is some
thing to be said on her own account,” said the
Squire.
He then related in a few words the tragedy which
had taken place at the Gable Farm. While he was
speaking, Hetty suddenly staggered to her feet and
faced them.
“If what I have told to-night will really save
you, Squire, then nothing else matters,” she said;
“I’m not afeared now, for ef I ’ave saved you at
last, nothing matters,”——her face grew ghastly
white, she tumbled in a heap to the floor.
The doctor, Margaret, and the Squire rushed to
her assistance, but when they raised her up she
was dead.
“Heart disease,” said Rumsey, afterward, “ac-
celerated by shock."
A few more words can finish this strange story.
At the Squire’s own request, Mr. Outhbert took
the necessary steps for his arrest, and Rumsey
hurried to town to get the interference of the Home
Secretary in the case of Everett, who was suffering
for Awdrey’s supposed crime in Portland prison.
The doctor had a long interview with one of the


‘304 DR. RUMSEY’S PATIENT.
oflicials at the Home Ofiice, and disclosed all the
queer circumstances of the case. Everett, accord—
ing to the Queen's Prerogative, received in due
course a free pardon for the crime he had never
committed, and was restored to his mother and his
friends once again.
Awdrey’s trial took place almost immediately
afterward at Salisbury. The trial was never for-
gotten in that part of the country, and was the one
topic of conversation for several days in the length
and breadth of England. S0 remarkable and
strange a case had never before been propounded
for the benefit of the jury, but it was evident that
the very learned Judge who conducted the trial was
from the first on the side of the prisoner.
Hetty’s all-important deposition made a great
sensation; her evidence was corroborated by Mrs.
Armitage, and when Rumsey appeared as a witness
he abundantly proved that Awdrey had completely
forgotten the deed of which he had been guilty.
His thrilling description of his patient’s strange
case was listened to with breathless attention by a
crowded court. The trial lasted for two days, dur-
ing which the anxiety of all Awdrey’s friends can
be better imagined than described. At the end of
the‘ trial, the jury returned, a verdict of “Not
Guilty." In short, his strange case had been
abundantly proved: he had done what he did with-
out intent to kill and simply as a means of self-
defence.
On the evening of his return to Grandcourt, he