\ I 
 
JOHN ARMSTRONG 
 
JOHN ARMSTRONG 
 
 THE STORY 
 OF A LIFE 
 BY MAJOR 
 GREENWOOD 
 M.D., LL.B. 
 
 'The Gods are just, and of our pleasant vices 
 Make instruments to plague us.' 
 
 SECOND EDITION 
 
 LONDON: DIGBY 
 LONG & CO., 18 
 BOUVERIE ST. 
 FLEET STREET 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 CHAP. PAGK 
 
 I. THE THREE FRIENDS . * I 
 
 II. THE NURSE AND HER SISTER . II 
 
 III. AN EMERGENCY AT THE NORWICH HOSPITAL 21 
 
 IV. AN EXCURSION TO GREAT YARMOUTH 42 
 V. THE SURGEON AND HIS PATIENT , . 59 
 
 VI. TWO CHRISTMAS SCENES . 7 2 
 
 vii. JOHN'S ILLNESS . 86 
 
 VIII. JOHN BECOMES A * LOCUM TENENS ' . \. IOO 
 
 IX. WHAT JOE FOUND IN FRITTON BROAD . 115 
 
 X. JOHN COMMENCES PRACTICE AT DRIFFIELD . 140 
 
 XI. A LETTER IN THE 'MERCURY* . . 1 56 
 
 XII. WHAT TOOK PLACE AT THE ' ^ESCULAPIAN ' . 169 
 
 XIII. ARMSTRONG V. BUTCHER '. . . 185 
 
 XIV. THE REV. JAMES PAGET RETURNS FROM INDIA 2O8 
 XV. SIR JOHN ARMSTRONG MAKES HIS WILL . 228 
 
 XVI. WHAT JOHN FOUND IN HIS FATHER'S DESK . 240 
 
 XVII. ESTRANGEMENT BETWEEN MAN AND WIFE . 2$O 
 
 XVIII. WHAT HAPPENED AT ST BARNABAS . ,, 264 
 
 XIX. EMILY BURROWS HAS A STRANGE VISITOR . 278 
 
 xx. SIR JOHN ARMSTRONG'S LAST JOURNEY . 292 
 
 XXI. A VISIT TO FRITTON RECTORY . , . 3IO 
 
 492824 
 
JOHN ARMSTRONG 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 THE THREE FRIENDS 
 
 ' O day and night, but this is wondrous strange, 
 
 There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, 
 Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.' 
 
 IT was a November evening in the year of grace 1 8 , 
 and our story opens in the cathedral city of Norwich. 
 
 In the house surgeon's room in the County Hospital, 
 three young men are seated round the fire engaged in an 
 animated conversation. 
 
 As these personages have a good deal to do with our 
 story, I will introduce them in detail to the reader. 
 
 Sitting in his easy chair, and bending forward in an 
 attitude of attention, with his pipe in his hand, John 
 Armstrong, house surgeon of the Norwich Hospital, first 
 deserves our attention. 
 
 He is about twenty-six, of ruddy complexion, with 
 light hair and moustache ; well built, standing in his 
 shoes about five feet nine inches, and quite up to the 
 average in weight and general development. 
 
 He was well read as a student, and had taken an 
 interest in matters not generally studied by the medical 
 
 A 
 
; / a ,; '; ; ;. ' .' ' ,JVHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, i 
 
 aspirant, or to no greater extent than his professional 
 examination required. 
 
 But although John Armstrong had largely devoted his 
 spare time to studies outside his profession, he was yet 
 proficient in all its branches, having gained some of the 
 highest distinctions both in medicine and surgery. 
 
 He had held several public appointments, and was 
 shortly about to terminate his present office and join 
 his father in practice, who wished him to settle down 
 where he and his father before him had always been 
 doctors, and to carry to another generation the reputa- 
 tion of the family. Indeed, he hoped from the special 
 talent of this member of the race that a new era was 
 about to dawn in the north country, and that the pro- 
 fessional skill of his ancestors was about to be more than 
 eclipsed by this latest offshoot of the stock. 
 
 Such views were not altogether shared by the son. 
 Much as he respected, indeed loved, the old home and 
 all the memories associated with it, the routine of a 
 quiet country practice did not satisfy him. He had no 
 burning desire to distinguish himself, but he wanted a 
 much larger scope than he saw there, and he felt that he 
 possessed a mind that required a bigger field than a north 
 country village could afford ; and, in short, though he did 
 not see how at present he could avoid the prospect 
 sketched out by his father, he had yet made up his 
 mind that if the opportunity presented he would seek 
 out a fresh field for the active work of his life. 
 
 He felt chiefly attracted to the great metropolis, where 
 the leaders of his profession lived and taught, and where 
 most of the scientific questions of the day were debated ; 
 there he thought he might find a worthy arena, and it 
 was in this direction that his eyes were frequently turned. 
 
 He had one sister, who, since the death of their mother, 
 kept house for their father in the old home. 
 
CHAP. I] THE THREE FRIENDS 3 
 
 The second of the three, who was sitting opposite the 
 last, was a somewhat older man, of dark complexion, 
 with clean shaven face, and in clerical attire. He was 
 deep in an argument with Dr Armstrong, who was a 
 friend of some years standing, and was expounding his 
 views with considerable warmth and fluency. 
 
 James Paget for such was his name was a priest 
 of the English Church, and curate of a y neighbouring 
 parish ; being also a friend of the hospital chaplain, 
 he at times assisted him in his spiritual duties. 
 
 He was a member of a county family, and had very 
 aristocratic relations. He was highly educated, an 
 Oxford graduate, and his tenets, as might be expected 
 from the school in which he had been trained, were 
 distinctly High Church without being too ritualistic. 
 He claimed, however, to be ultra-liberal, and rather 
 liked than otherwise to argue with an atheist ; and 
 he was without holy horror of a divergence from 
 orthodox opinion ; and although he honestly and 
 devoutly believed in his religion, he was not always 
 ready to devote to everlasting destruction every 
 opponent he did not succeed in overcoming by 
 argument. 
 
 The remaining member of the trio was somewhat 
 sallow complexioned ; in build he was spare, and not 
 too well developed, and, although enjoying good health 
 usually, gave an observer the idea of physical weakness. 
 
 There was a peculiar sharpness about his eyes, which 
 were deeply set, and his expression would often deceive 
 a careless eye, for he was very observant, and frequently 
 allowed nothing to escape him, when he appeared to be 
 giving little attention to the subject in hand. 
 
 He was twenty-five, a solicitor by profession, and at 
 the present time taking a holiday in Norwich, where his 
 family resided ; but he was shortly about to commence 
 
4 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP. I 
 
 housekeeping in London, where a share in a practice had 
 been recently acquired for him by his father, who was 
 one of the surgeons to the County hospital. 
 
 The latter had been in his youth a fellow student 
 with John Armstrong's father at Guy's, and the 
 intimacy begun in those days had never been allowed 
 to lapse ; so that in the course of time Charles Dawson, 
 the son of the Norwich surgeon, became the intimate 
 friend of John Armstrong the younger, and later, the 
 accepted suitor of his sister Alice. Now the London 
 practice was purchased, it only remained for Charles 
 Dawson to settle down into his new business, put his 
 house in order, and bring home the bride. 
 
 Charles Dawson was sitting between the other two 
 with one of his elbows resting on the table, smoking a 
 cigar, and while apparently not paying much heed to 
 the conversation, was taking careful note of it. 
 
 * You say, then,' said the clergyman, ( that Science 
 knows nothing of miracles ? Do you mean to contend 
 that all Revelation in this respect is untrue ? Some of 
 you medicos, I know, are sceptical in everything, and, 
 as in your own case, I find it is often difficult in the 
 extreme to ascertain what it is you really do believe ; 
 but I don't think you are quite an infidel. Science, I 
 admit, has made in this age giant strides, but, my good 
 fellow, none the less, u There are more things in heaven 
 and earth than are dreamed of in your philosophy." ' 
 
 ' Don't mistake me, Paget,' said the other, * when I 
 said Science knows nothing of miracles, I did not say 
 though some great thinkers do that Science proves 
 them to be impossible. You have repeatedly told me 
 that a necessary element in the appreciation of miracles 
 is faith, and faith and science are somewhat antagonistic 
 principles. We medicos really know so little about 
 miracles that we feel quite incapable of discussing them, 
 
CHAP. I] THE THREE FRIENDS 5 
 
 and we leave such matters to you clerics, who appear 
 to be so much better informed on the subject. I must 
 say, however, when you approach this question, you 
 seem to have a somewhat mixed idea as to what is, 
 and what is not evidence. Much as I may respect the 
 truths of Revelation, when you say they are proved 
 by unimpeachable evidence, unless you consider faith 
 and evidence to be the same thing, I fail to follow you. 
 Come, Dawson, gather your wandering thoughts, and 
 give the court the value of your legal acumen ! In the 
 great case Science v. Miracles, what do you think of 
 the defendant's evidence ? ' 
 
 * Really, my good fellows, you must not drag me into 
 this argument,' said Dawson, taking his cigar out of his 
 mouth after one or two vigorous whiffs, and gazing 
 fixedly into the fire. * I know nothing about the 
 matter, and in such a case as Armstrong has propounded, 
 I fail to see how any costs could possibly be recovered, 
 so de minimis non curat lex. I must say, however, 
 Armstrong, I consider your behaviour unprofessional. 
 What would you say if Paget were to dispute your 
 dictum as to a medical point ; or what should I say if 
 my law were impugned ? Yet here is that exemplary 
 personage calmly allowing you to suggest doubts, and 
 actually arguing with you about them, touching the 
 very foundation of principles, which in this realm of 
 England he is specially empowered to teach by Act of 
 Parliament. If this is allowed to continue, it seems 
 to me that order itself is threatened.' 
 
 'There, Paget, now go for him/ said the previous 
 speaker, ' and give him some of your eloquence ! Did 
 you ever hear anything so sordid ? That's the character 
 of our lawyers all over. Mark you, they never trouble 
 about the scientific bearing of anything, where no costs 
 
6 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP. I 
 
 are to be got. Costs costs- costs ! They're all you 
 think about ! ' 
 
 'Good again, old man,' retorted Dawson, * who ever 
 heard of doctors^ looking after their fees ! Come, Paget, 
 give us your ecclesiastical opinion as to who are keener 
 after their fees doctors or lawyers ? ' 
 
 1 No, no, it's too bad,' said the curate. ' This is the 
 way you always behave, whether lawyers or doctors, 
 when beaten in argument. You go off on some 
 side issue ! Speaking of evidence, you can have 
 different kinds.' 
 
 'Indeed you can,' interrupted Dawson; 'don't you 
 remember old Dr Simpson, when asked by the Norwich 
 county court judge the other day what evidence he had 
 to show that Farmer Rumbal was able to pay his bill ; 
 replied that he had very good evidence, and when 
 challenged to give it, said that his coachman told him 
 that he had heard his the coachman's mother-in-law 
 say that she knew, as a fact, old Rumbal had a banking 
 account at the London and Provincial Bank. The old 
 man felt quite insulted when his honour told him he 
 was surprised to find an educated man so ignorant of 
 the nature of evidence.' 
 
 * Now, Dawson,' said Armstrong, 'just leave the Pro- 
 fession alone, can't you ! But really, Paget, dropping 
 for a moment the subject of miracles, your last apt 
 quotation from the immortal bard is very much to the 
 purpose ; there are more things in heaven and earth 
 than we poor mortals dream of, or can explain by any 
 scientific reasoning. We often see phenomena, which 
 we don't understand, although we give them big 
 sounding names phenomena which in their way are 
 sometimes as hard to explain as miracles. Now, 
 here's a queer case. About a fortnight ago a patient 
 named Gibbs, was admitted into the hospital, whose 
 
CHAP. I] THE THREE FRIENDS 7 
 
 history was briefly as follows : He is a man of about 
 forty-five years of age, a clerk in a wholesale firm in 
 the town, and he was sent here by his employers, who 
 found him one morning lying down on the floor of the 
 office in a sort of stupor. At first they thought he 
 had been drinking, as he could give no account of 
 himself. He seems to have been writing at a desk, 
 then suddenly to have fainted, and fallen off his chair 
 on to the floor. His previous history quite refuted 
 the drink theory, and on his coming here I elicited 
 the fact that some years ago he had a similar 
 attack, which, however, .soon passed off and did not 
 recur. i I found also unmistakable evidence of chronic 
 heart disease, but after the most careful physical 
 examination, and the closest scrutiny of all his 
 symptoms, I failed entirely to formulate in my 
 own mind sufficient reason for the condition he is 
 now reduced to. For although I may tell you the 
 attack has shown no tendency to return, while in the 
 hospital, my patient's general state is a most lamentable 
 one. He appears to have lost heart, and says he is 
 going to die, and has even mentioned the day, which is 
 about a week hence. There is no good combating this 
 idea ; he is quite sure, and has given directions as to the 
 settlement of a few of his affairs after death. When I 
 asked him why he had fixed on a certain day, he shook 
 his head, and said he was not quite sure, but he knew 
 he would never go back to work again. His wife is 
 greatly troubled, and comes to me about it. She is very 
 nervous, and I don't know what to tell her. There is 
 nothing in the man's condition warranting any im- 
 mediately fatal issue beyond the peculiar gloomy character 
 of his thoughts. I particularly asked Dr Barrett, our 
 senior physician, and your father, Charley, t( 
 and although they were a little struck by the"urmatural 
 
8 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP. I 
 
 persistency with which he repeated his belief, they both 
 came to the conclusion, after a careful examination, that 
 his views partook more of the nature of a delusion. 
 Now, what I want to know is, are these gloomy ideas 
 any evidence of a crisis in his present condition ? If he 
 were to die, would you call it only a coincidence? I 
 remember another case on the same lines. There I 
 thought it was a coincidence, but now I'm in doubt, and 
 am very carefully watching what will happen.' 
 
 1 But,' said Dawson, throwing the end of his cigar into 
 the fire, * don't you find patients telling you they are 
 going to die, who fail to keep their word ? I have 
 frequently heard the governor say one pet patient of his 
 is always dying whenever she sends for him though 
 I believe he is very glad the old lady does mistake her 
 condition, for otherwise he would be a good many fees 
 out of pocket.' 
 
 ( That's another sort of case altogether, Charley,' 
 replied the other, * and doctors have many such cases to 
 deal with each year. There is this distinction, which is 
 quite enough to differentiate them. My patient suffers 
 from undoubted organic disease ; the kind you refer to 
 rarely, if ever, do. I well remember the words of an 
 old hospital teacher, " If a patient suffering from organic 
 disease of a serious nature ever tells you he is going to 
 die, do not be in too great a hurry to disbelieve him." ' 
 
 Paget, who had been listening intently and evincing 
 great interest, here asked whether any clergyman had 
 seen this poor patient, that the question was one of 
 great importance from a spiritual point of view. 
 
 ' My dear fellow, you are right,' isaid Armstrong ; 
 ( there again I have been puzzled as to the proper 
 course to pursue. The patient is a Roman Catholic, 
 and only yesterday his priest came, and told me he 
 had been requested to administer the last rites of the 
 
CHAP, i] THE THREE FRIENDS 9 
 
 Church, and that he was doubtful as to his duty under 
 the circumstances. Did I think the man was so near 
 death as he purported to be ? ' 
 
 I What did you tell him ? ' eagerly asked the curate. 
 
 I 1 told him that I could take no responsibility, that 
 the patient suffered from heart disease, and therefore, as 
 was well known, might die very rapidly, but that up to 
 the present I had seen no symptoms indicating so rapid 
 a termination of his illness.' 
 
 * What did he do ? ' said Paget. * Did he comply with 
 your patient's wishes ? ' 
 
 ' After much doubt, and, I believe, after having con- 
 sulted with an ecclesiastical superior, he decided to do so.' 
 
 1 Quite right. I should have done the same. Yes, I 
 should have done the same,' said the curate. 
 
 ' But,' said Dawson, fixing his eyes on Dr Armstrong, 
 'don't you think, John, that, supposing a patient were 
 in so critical a condition, the prayers for the dying, with 
 all the paraphernalia of the Romish Church, would be 
 more likely to accelerate than to ward off a fatal 
 termination ? ' 
 
 ( Your question is a poser, Charley, I must confess,' 
 said the other. * Strictly, according to the teaching of 
 Science, the excitement likely to be produced by the 
 ceremony would rather tend to physical harm. But, 
 then, supposing the man be in the condition he ima- 
 gines himself; supposing he attribute to this religious 
 ceremony the importance, which there can be no doubt 
 many do, it is no light responsibility to take on oneself 
 the onus of opposing such rites.' 
 
 ' He ought to be anathema who would do so,' sternly 
 ejaculated Paget. ' What ! in that supreme moment, 
 when the poor wretch knows he is about to approach his 
 Maker, when he feels to the full the fearful weight of 
 his earthly transgressions, and eagerly asks for the one 
 
io JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, i 
 
 last chance of disburdening himself, then to throw- 
 obstacles in his way ! No, Armstrong is not that sort 
 of man/ 
 
 1 But that is the question,' said Dawson, 'does he, or 
 can he know ? ' 
 
 Just at this moment with a hurried knock at the 
 door, a nurse burst into the room. * Oh, Dr Armstrong, 
 Sister says, will you come at once to the patient Gibbs, 
 in Paston Ward, for she thinks he's dying ! ' 
 
 In an instant Dr Armstrong had flung down his pipe, 
 and was hurrying to the wards, followed by the nurse, 
 leaving the other two fairly startled by the episode. 
 
 1 It does look as if he's bad,' said Paget. 
 
 4 Don't you think Armstrong will find him dead ? ' 
 replied Dawson. ( I saw from the look of the nurse that 
 something had happened.' 
 
 'I'm glad the poor fellow saw the -priest yesterday,' 
 said the clergyman. ( It would have been indeed a 
 tragedy, if it had been in any way prevented.' 
 
 Dawson made no remark, but pointed out it was 
 getting late, that the event would probably occupy all 
 the spare time of their friend that evening, and that 
 it was time to depart. 
 
 Paget agreed; so, taking up their hats, the two friends 
 left the room, walked down the corridor, and silently 
 left the hospital. 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 THE NURSE AND HER SISTER 
 
 1 Tell me where is fancy bred, 
 In the heart, or in the head ? ' 
 
 WHEN Dr Armstrong reached the ward, he saw at a 
 glance that all was over. A screen had been drawn 
 round the bed, and the Sister was standing by the 
 bedside. 
 
 'It was all in a second,' she said, as he approached. 
 ' A nurse came for me, and when I got here he was dead. 
 He kept asking to get up about an hour ago, and indeed 
 in spite of being told that he could not, I thought he 
 would make the attempt, and put a nurse specially on 
 duty to watch him. She says that just before she called 
 me, the patient raised himself upon his elbows in bed, 
 gave a kind of cry, and one or two gasps, then fell back 
 dead.' 
 
 ' I don't see what more could have been done to help 
 him, Sister,' said the surgeon. ' It's very extraordinary, 
 but I don't feel altogether surprised. I half expected it.' 
 
 'You would like to see his wife, when she comes, 
 wouldn't you, sir ? Shall I send her to your room ? ' 
 
 'Yes do ' 
 
 Dr Armstrong then took a lamp from a nurse, and 
 gazed steadily on the dead man. His face was quite 
 
1 2 JOHN A RMSTRONG [CHAP, n 
 
 calm ; there was no trace of a death struggle : indeed, the 
 look was more one of composure, and to the eyes of the 
 doctor almost seemed to rebuke him for his doubt as to 
 his patient's foreknowledge of the end. The white, im- 
 passive features seemed to say, * I told you so. Now, look 
 at me. Is not this death ? ' 
 
 The surgeon bent reverentially over the body, looked 
 carefully at the widely-dilated pupils, gently raised the 
 hands, and felt at the wrists for the now motionless pulse. 
 He did it mechanically, not for a moment thinking there 
 might be a mistake, for when the nurse had appeared at 
 the door of the sitting-room, he knew his patient was 
 dead, and he seemed to think he had never doubted the 
 man's words. 
 
 He slowly left the ward and took his way to his room, 
 which had been deserted by his friends. He sat down in 
 his chair and looked into the fire. 
 
 * I wonder,' he mused to himself, ' if I shall know like 
 this man when I am to die ? How came he to know ? 
 The man who died in B ward the week before last had 
 almost an identical condition. He died suddenly, but he 
 certainly had no foreknowledge. What is it that makes 
 the difference ? I know what I shall find when I dissect 
 his heart ; I shall be able to put my finger on the precise 
 disease, and trace its effect throughout the body. But 
 shall I be able to find anything in his brain to afford 
 a clue to this wonderful foresight of his ? Will any 
 pathologist ever be able to do so ? Did the man make a 
 strange guess ? ' 
 
 So he ruminated, pondering over the recent event, 
 wondering whether it could be made to throw light on 
 the general mystery of life. 
 
 At this moment the clock struck ten, and the gate 
 porter knocked at his door, bringing two letters. After 
 handing them to him, the man said, ' If you don't mind, 
 
CHAP, ii] THE NURSE AND HER SISTER 13 
 
 sir, nurse Elliot's sister, who is just leaving the hospital, 
 wants very much to see you. I told her it was getting 
 late, but Miss Mary said she was sure you would see 
 her. 
 
 * All right, Bradford, send her in,' was the reply. 
 'What does Mary Elliot want,' thought the doctor 
 
 as the porter went out ; ' I noticed she was spending the 
 evening here with her sister.' 
 
 In another minute his door was thrown open, and two 
 young women came demurely into the apartment. The 
 elder was about twenty-six, dressed in full nurse's costume, 
 and seemed to be impelled chiefly by the younger on 
 the present mission, for she looked as if she were aware 
 she was taking a great liberty, and was not sure how 
 the house surgeon would like it. 
 
 Closely following, and urging her on, came the younger, 
 a beautiful girl of twenty-two, who, although she would 
 not have had the courage to have faced the doctor alone, 
 now, with her sister, felt bold enough for anything. 
 Advancing in front she exclaimed, ' Oh, Dr Armstrong, 
 my sister is the silliest creature imaginable ! She says 
 that we have no business to come and see you at this 
 time of night, and that she does not know what the 
 matron would say, if she came to know of it.' 
 
 * Don't talk such nonsense, Mary,' said her sister, 'just 
 tell Dr Armstrong what it is you want, and save his 
 time/ 
 
 * Sit down, nurse. Take a chair, Miss Mary,' said the 
 surgeon. ' Never mind what the matron would say.' 
 
 'How can I be of any service? I'm sure I shall be 
 most happy. 1 
 
 * There, Emily, didn't I say so ? ' said the younger. 
 4 1 knew Dr Armstrong would help us.' 
 
 1 But you haven't yet told him what you want,' said 
 her sister. 
 
I 4 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP. II 
 
 * Dr Armstrong, we are going to have such a treat on 
 Thursday ! There's to be an excursion down the Yare 
 to Yarmouth in a steamer. All the teachers of St 
 Margaret's School are going, and my sister too, and 
 several other friends. Mr Paget will conduct the party, 
 and he told me I might ask you to come. He felt sure 
 you would help, and would tell us a lot about many 
 things we should see. We're to stop specially at Burgh 
 Castle to see some old encampment, where the Romans 
 once lived. Then we shall have a splendid time at 
 Yarmouth, and a Service all to ourselves at the church 
 which, Mr Paget says, is better than many cathedrals. 
 You will come, won't you ? ' 
 
 The last sentence was said so pointedly, and the 
 speaker looked so pretty, as she gazed entreatingly on 
 the doctor, that without giving much thought to the 
 matter, he replied gaily 
 
 ' Go ? Why, of course I'll go ! I'm much obliged to 
 Mr Paget for thinking of me. Miss Mary, you are 
 sufficient attraction alone without considering the many 
 other delightful things we shall see and do. What time 
 do we start ? ' 
 
 The girl blushed at the compliment, but the elder 
 sister replied, 
 
 1 Don't quite turn her head, Dr Armstrong, Mary is 
 already giddy enough ! I'm sure we shall be glad to have 
 you in our party, and it is kind of you to come. Mr 
 Paget did tell us to ask you, and will be pleased to find 
 you can. We start at 8 o'clock from the quay.' 
 
 * You may rely on me,' said the house surgeon ; ' and 
 mind, Miss Mary, I shall expect you to give me your best 
 attention. I shall consider myself your guest.' 
 
 The girl blushed, as she said with a look of real 
 pleasure, 'I'm so glad you are coming ! ' 
 
CHAP. II] THE NURSE AND HER SISTER 15 
 
 The two sisters then departed, leaving John Armstrong 
 once more to his thoughts. 
 
 The series of ideas that their coming had interrupted 
 did not recur ; the face of Mary Elliot seemed to excite 
 quite other thoughts. 
 
 He greatly admired her beauty, which he had watched 
 developing for some time. Although it was not alto- 
 gether of the most refined type, there was a freshness 
 and innocence about it, which had repeatedly riveted his 
 attention. He had frequently met her, when she visited 
 her sister at the hospital, and could not help admiring 
 her. Her sister, too, had more than once consulted him 
 as to the health of the younger, so that a certain amount 
 of intimacy might be said to exist between them. 
 
 The Elliots were the daughters of a small Suffolk 
 farmer, who lived at Fritton, a few miles south-east of 
 Norwich. He belonged to a class of English yeomen, 
 who are, unfortunately, getting rarer every year. His 
 family had farmed the land for generations, and although 
 there had been a time when they had farmed much 
 more, and when a large part of their farm had belonged 
 to them in fee simple, yet from various causes the 
 history of the family for a long time past had been one 
 of decadence. 
 
 Farmer Elliot, the present representative of the family, 
 was a thoroughly good man, and by no means an unskil- 
 ful agriculturist, so that in the recent bad times he had 
 done quite as well as his neighbours. But it must be 
 confessed, as far as his education went, he could boast of 
 no more than a good acquaintance with the three R's, 
 and what general knowledge a lifetime's careful perusal 
 of such instructive organs as the Norwich Argus, and 
 the East Anglian Gazette, could give him. He was a 
 sturdy upholder of the rights of his class, but, so far as 
 his own particular interests were not adversely affected, 
 
1 6 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, n 
 
 he had a conservative tendency, and by no means 
 favoured the extreme radical principles of late years. 
 Indeed, it would seem that although cut down to a few 
 small fields, there yet lurked in him some of those feel- 
 ings inherited from the Elliots of long ago, which had 
 their origin when they were the lords of half the country 
 round. 
 
 Farmer Elliot, however, was shrewd enough to see the 
 value of education, and took care that his daughters 
 should not be wanting in this respect that is, as far as 
 lay in his power to prevent it. But the local schools, 
 supplemented though they might be, by a year or two 
 at Norwich, could only give a moderate grounding in all 
 the various subjects, which are now considered necessary 
 to make up a good modern education : so that Emily 
 and Mary although superior in this respect to their 
 own class generally, could not boast of more than an 
 average middle class education. 
 
 Their mother had been a personal friend of the 
 matron of the Norwich Hospital, so that as Emily at 
 an early age showed an aptitude for work of this kind, 
 it was thought that she could not do better than 
 enter the profession of nursing under the auspices of 
 her mother's old friend. 
 
 Mary's tastes on the other hand had been very 
 different, and it would be hard to say that she was 
 fond of work of any kind. She could be useful about 
 the house, but had very little application : though she 
 liked to teach at the Sunday School, visit in the parish, 
 and other occupations of this kind, which although 
 useful, can hardly be said to be remunerative. 
 
 The pleasure she took in this work was more on 
 account of the social intercourse it cultivated, than 
 from any love of the work itself. 
 
 Mary was in fact something of a butterfly, and, as she 
 
CHAP. II] THE NURSE AND HER SISTER 17 
 
 grew up, became very pretty and attractive, and like 
 others, who have natural gifts, she thought she was 
 entitled to make the most of hers : and although I 
 do not say she knowingly did so as some more designing 
 members of her sex have been known to do she acted 
 instinctively with this object, and, as is well known, 
 ars est celare artem, so her behaviour in proportion 
 as it was natural was the more captivating, and was 
 applauded by all, but the envious members of her own 
 sex, who put her down as an ' artful creature,' and ' out 
 and out flirt.' 
 
 Mary's parents first tried to make a governess of her, 
 but without success. To be a governess, nowadays, 
 means to be terribly learned, with all sorts of certificates, 
 and above all many accomplishments. Of these Mary 
 had the barest modicum, so that the governess scheme 
 had to be abandoned. 
 
 Attempts were next made to find employment as a 
 lady's companion, but there again the lack of ac- 
 complishments stood in her way, and her good looks 
 were rather adverse than otherwise ladies are apt to be 
 jealous of companions with more than their share of 
 feminine charms. 
 
 Shortly after an opportunity occurred of getting a 
 post of telegraph clerk at Norwich, and a year before 
 this period Mary Elliot had entered upon her public 
 duties, and up to the present seemed to be as satisfied 
 with her lot as she was likely to be with anything re- 
 quiring work and application. 
 
 She resided at Norwich in the house of a widow, and 
 as she assisted at the Sunday School of St Margaret, she 
 became acquainted with Mr Paget, and others, who took 
 an interest in the parish work : and among them she 
 had numerous admirers. In fact, as her sister had 
 implied to Dr Armstrong, she had no lack of sweethearts, 
 
 B 
 
18 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP. II 
 
 and could very easily have found a suitable settlement in 
 life had she so desired, but although guilty of a few 
 flirtations of a harmless character, though her head may 
 have been turned at times, she did not seem to have 
 suffered much in her heart. 
 
 She stood in great awe of Dr Armstrong, whom she 
 regarded as a sort of prodigy of understanding, and it 
 was always noticed that she was more shy in his presence 
 than at any other time. Great, too, was her pride, when 
 he singled her out, but whether any other more ambitious 
 idea concerning him had ever entered into her head is 
 exceedingly doubtful, although there were not wanting 
 among her enemies, some who asserted she had the 
 audacity to * set her cap at him.' 
 
 As to John Armstrong, there could be no doubt that 
 he regarded Mary Elliot as nothing more than an 
 acquaintance. He certainly admired her good looks, 
 and thought she had engaging ways, but where was the 
 harm in that ? It is true that at odd times for instance 
 after the recent interview he found himself thinking 
 of her with rather more interest than he displayed 
 towards any other member of the opposite sex ; and if 
 the truth were confessed, it was her presence that gave 
 the chief zest to the proposed excursion, though x he 
 would probably have denied it, and considered his going 
 an exercise of pure philanthropy. 
 
 On the other hand, the idea that he would ever 
 marry such a person as Mary Elliot had never entered 
 into his head, and, if it had been suggested, would have 
 seemed to him little short of an absurdity. What 
 possible union could there be from a mental point of 
 view between him, the highly educated man of science 
 with all his strange abstruse theories, and her, the 
 little telegraph clerk, who could not have comprehended 
 the least of them. 
 
CHAP. II] THE NURSE AND HER SISTER 19 
 
 Yet, when two young people of opposite sexes begin to 
 take interest in each other, no matter what the cause 
 may be, or what may first give rise to it, who will be 
 daring enough to say that a union little dreamt of at the 
 beginning may not be the result, though they be 
 separated mentally from each other to any extent ? 
 
 An attraction, that cannot be comprehended by the 
 outside world, may, as a matter of fact, be irresistible; 
 and circumstances, which were at one time within 
 control, may pass beyond it, and give rise to inevitable 
 consequences ; though their exact character will be 
 different, according to the peculiarity of the individual 
 temperament. 
 
 How great a thing it would be what heart-burnings 
 it would prevent, if we could only know the importance 
 of some of our actions, which at the time seem trifling ! 
 
 How often the cry the bitter cry, * Had I but known ! ' 
 escapes from us long afterwards, when the course of 
 events has brought consequences little recked of ; when 
 much as we may repent the past, we cannot alter it, and 
 sometimes, happy shall we be, if we may escape with a 
 temporary and retrievable loss, and not be bound to 
 carry to our graves an evil blight brought upon us, it 
 may be, by a single thoughtless step ! 
 
 Let no man say, ' I am so strong, I can look after 
 myself ; I can play with fire without being burnt/ or ( I 
 can go without danger to the edge of the precipice.' 
 Pride goes before a fall, and a time may come when he 
 will bitterly repent of his confidence. 
 
 John Armstrong sat down again in his easy chair, and 
 relighted his pipe. Once more his thoughts reverted to 
 the events of the day, but the vision of Mary Elliot 
 would not cease recurring, and he found himself involun- 
 tarily thinking of the following Thursday. 
 
 After a time he rose to retire for the night, and was 
 
20 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, n 
 
 opening his door, when the wife of his late patient 
 presented herself before him. 
 
 She had just been compelled on account of the lateness 
 of the hour to leave the bedside of her dead husband, and 
 she was weeping bitterly. 
 
 1 Oh, sir, can't I be allowed to stay by him during the 
 night ? He was so good, and has worked so hard for me ! 
 For twenty-five years before he came here he has never 
 been away from me, and we have never had a quarrel. 
 And now, what shall I do ? ' and the widow broke down 
 utterly. 
 
 Dr Armstrong tried to comfort her ; he led her to a 
 chair, and spoke kindly. He had a wonderfully soft 
 way with patients, and the sympathy he felt for all mis- 
 fortune, he poured forth abundantly. 
 
 1 Your husband,' he said, * had everything done for him 
 that was possible. I know how terribly distressing it is 
 to you, and I feel for you. We doctors see much of such 
 distress, for troubles of this kind are always taking place 
 somewhere. It is your husband to-day ; it will be some 
 one else's husband to-morrow.' 
 
 1 He told me he was going to die,' she sobbed, { but I 
 wouldn't believe him. Now, how I wish I had ! I would 
 never have left his side.' 
 
 1 But would that have done him any good ? ' replied the 
 other ; * and the long watching would have made you ill. 
 Perhaps it is better as it is. You know he had the 
 priest.' 
 
 The poor woman thanked the house surgeon, and 
 when leaving, implored him not to allow any post 
 mortem examination on her husband's body ; and Dr 
 Armstrong, much as he regretted it on professional 
 grounds, good naturedly acceded to her request. 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 AN EMERGENCY AT THE NORWICH HOSPITAL 
 ' The course of true love never did run smooth.' 
 
 ON the following day John Armstrong received a letter 
 from his father, who wrote that Alice was very anxious 
 about Charles Dawson, a rumour having reached her that 
 he was far from well. The letter concluded by saying 
 that the writer particularly wanted both himself and the 
 Dawsons to spend the Christmas, which was approaching, 
 in the old home in the north. 
 
 As John had not heard anything about his friend being 
 ill, later in the day he called at the house of Dr Dawson. 
 
 He found Charley in the dining-room in front of a 
 blazing fire, reclining at his ease in a dressing-gown. 
 
 ( Why, what's the matter ? ' he said ; * you were all 
 right yesterday. How on earth did Alice get to know 
 you were poorly? I have just had a letter from my 
 father to say she is quite in a way about it.' 
 
 * Yes,' replied his friend, ( I have had a letter from Alice 
 too. It's all the mater's doing. Two or three days ago 
 I had rather a troublesome cough in the night, so she 
 immediately came to the conclusion I was in consumption, 
 and made the governor knock my chest about, and listen 
 through that stethoscope of his. I don't think he heard 
 much. He said I had bronchial catarrh I suppose that 
 
22 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, in 
 
 means a cold. The mater must have written to your 
 people in fact, Alice says she did.' 
 
 1 You didn't seem to have much of a cold yesterday,' 
 said John. 
 
 1 No, it was better then,' was the reply, ' but the very 
 enlivening episode that occurred at your place last night 
 didn't do my nerves any good, and this morning I've 
 got a sore throat, and am aching all over, so the mater 
 has positively made me lie up for a few days. It's a 
 nuisance, too, for Paget wants me to go with him in that 
 excursion to-morrow, and you know, the pretty Miss 
 Elliot is goipg, and several other nice girls.' 
 
 1 Perhaps,' said John, * Alice might not be so sorry you 
 are laid by the heels temporarily, if she were to hear 
 you talk so glibly of the " pretty Miss Elliot." ' 
 
 * Rubbish ! ' replied his friend, ( Alice, I'm sure, wouldn't 
 mind my enjoying myself occasionally in an innocent 
 manner. The worst of it is everything is against me. 
 The mater ridicules the time of year as being most 
 unsuitable and it must be confessed November is late 
 but Paget has had the Coffer of a steam yacht for next 
 to nothing, and he thought the offer too good to refuse, 
 as the weather seemed to have set in so fine and mild. 
 He has, however, made arrangements for taking the 
 party by rail if wet, for of course they return that way. 
 Now, Paget wants Edith to go, and I think my sister 
 rather fancies it, and had I gone, I could have looked 
 after her, that is, the mater would have trusted her 
 with me, but she doesn't seem to like to trust her with 
 Paget. I don't know why she should suspect the Church, 
 but so it is. I say, old fellow, why don't you go ? The 
 mater would trust Edith with you, and Paget said he 
 was going to ask you, and quite forgot to do so when in 
 your room yesterday. The argument put it out of 
 his mind.' 
 
CHAP, in] AN EMERGENCY A T NOR WICH HOSPITAL 23 
 
 1 Yes,' said John, ' he did ask me, and I accepted the 
 invitation.' 
 
 * Why, when could you have seen him ? ' replied Charley, 
 with an air of astonishment. ' I know he didn't ask you 
 yesterday, for he told me so, and he left Norwich 
 early this morning to go to a special service at Ely 
 Cathedral. When did you see him ? ' 
 
 'Well,' said John, a little nonplussed by his friend's 
 
 sharpness, 'perhaps I ought to say he asked me by 
 
 deputy, but qui facit per alterum facit per se, you know.' 
 
 'And who might have been the deputy, if I may 
 
 ask ? ' inquired his friend. 
 
 ' If you must know, the Elliots asked me : they said 
 Paget told them to do so.' 
 
 Charley burst out laughing. 'Oh, it seems I'm not 
 the only one who takes interest in the "pretty Miss 
 Elliot." But I suppose you are not an engaged man. 
 Well done, John, my boy ! ' and Charley again burst 
 into a laugh. 
 
 At this moment the dining-room door opened, and 
 two ladies entered the room. One of them was an 
 elderly lady of some sixty years of age, who bore on her 
 face an anxious, care-worn, expression, that betokened an 
 invalid constitution. She had been a sufferer for years 
 with delicate health, and her son was supposed to take 
 after her. 
 
 The other was twenty-three, and although she looked 
 fragile, Edith Dawson as a rule enjoyed excellent health. 
 She was certainly beautiful, and well proportioned, but 
 her beauty was of a very different order to that of the 
 4 pretty Miss Elliot,' and one of Edith's chief attractions 
 was her highly refined cast of features. Intellect formed 
 the principal charm of her beauty, while there was more 
 than an average deficiency of that voluptuousness, which 
 was one of Mary Elliot's chief attractions. 
 
24 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, in 
 
 Yet was she truly womanly, and her mother confessed 
 that in her worst paroxysms never could any nurse be 
 found equal to her own daughter in delicacy of touch, or 
 sympathy of action ; and her father had at times playfully 
 observed that people would think she had gone through 
 a curriculum of nursing at his hospital, so skilful was she 
 in the general management of the sick room. 
 
 Her education, too, had been of a thorough character ; 
 in addition to being a consummate musician, she had 
 more than an ordinary grounding in modern science, and 
 John had on many occasions found her a by-no-means- 
 to-be-despised antagonist in a scientific argument. 
 
 John Armstrong and Edith Dawson had known each 
 other all their lives. Owing to the intimacy of their 
 parents they had been thrown not a little together, and 
 had grown up like brother and sister. When Charles 
 Dawson fell in love with, and gained the affection of, John's 
 sister, the parents on both sides had hoped that Edith 
 and John would follow their example, so that the families 
 might be still more closely drawn together. 
 
 Edith was an especial favourite of the elder Dr 
 Armstrong, and to see his son united to her had been for 
 years one of the dreams of the old man. 
 
 Apparently according to the fitness of things, this result 
 ought in some way or other to have come about, but is it 
 not in the experience of every one that this is frequently 
 not the case ? Indeed, it is more than questionable 
 whether what actually does occur is not generally the 
 reverse, and that we find fixed as consummated facts 
 more often what ought not to be than the contrary. 
 
 Be this, however, as it may, although John had grown 
 up from his earliest youth in close association with Edith, 
 he had hitherto regarded her with no other feelings than 
 those of the warmest friendship. He well recognised her 
 great qualities, that her merits were of a sterling char- 
 
CHAP, in] AN EMERGENCY A T NORWICH HOSPITAL 25 
 
 acter, and that her education fitted her to be the life 
 companion of any man, however intellectual. Still 
 strange though it may seem he had never thought of 
 her as his wife. 
 
 It is true that up to this time the idea of wife, and all 
 that it brings with it to the mature man of healthy mind 
 and healthy body had not presented itself to him : and 
 he had scarcely considered what kind of wife he would 
 choose, if called upon to do so. And, although repeatedly 
 chaffed on the subject by friends especially by his 
 brother-in-law that was to be he had paid little heed, 
 finding at present, in the mental activity in which he 
 lived, sufficient and to spare for all his energy. 
 
 He greatly admired Edith, and respected her opinion 
 on many subjects : he moreover regarded her as one on 
 the same intellectual level as himself, and had certainly 
 on many occasions found the time slip away happily in 
 her company. 
 
 But beyond that, it could not be said this lady had in 
 any other way disturbed the equilibrium of his thoughts. 
 
 With regard to Mary Elliot it was different. From 
 his acquaintance with and experience of Edith's great 
 faculties he was compelled to see the intrinsic inferiority 
 of the other. He thoroughly recognised the fact that 
 she, at least, was not his intellectual equal, that she 
 could never think as he did, or take pleasure in his 
 pleasures. 
 
 Nevertheless, with all her failings, she had an attrac- 
 tion which Edith Dawson with all her superiority did 
 not possess ; an attraction which at first he by no 
 means realised, and even at the present time might have 
 denied, had he been questioned on the subject. 
 
 To a shrewd observer who knew John intimately, 
 there might have been physical signs, which, though 
 then by no means capable of proving a settled passion, 
 
26 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, m 
 
 would at least have afforded grounds of reasonable con- 
 jecture that sparks were being struck, which might at a 
 no distant period give unmistakable evidence of its exis- 
 tence, and might doom him to a life of misery, or create 
 for him the nearest approach to happiness, which, perhaps, 
 life is capable of. 
 
 If the young doctor had noted his own sensations as 
 carefully as he did those of his patients, he might have 
 drawn important conclusions from the fact that his heart 
 beat more quickly in Mary Elliot's presence ; that 
 whatever might be the drift of his thoughts when he 
 met her, these thoughts invariably took another channel, 
 however important the problems might be they were 
 busy over. For he found himself insensibly admiring 
 her beauty, was full of a desire to prolong the interview, 
 and, when she had gone, was aware of a feeling of 
 disappointment. 
 
 Edith, on the other hand, had always admired John. 
 His depth of thought, broadness of views, and scientific 
 attainments, had great fascination. She believed that 
 some day he would be a great man, and watched his 
 career with the utmost interest. The constant associa- 
 tion with him had had its effect, and had helped to 
 develop and stimulate an attachment, which at this 
 time was well established ; although, by reason of her 
 mental discipline she was able to disguise it from the 
 eyes of nearly all the world. 
 
 She had heard rumours of Dr Armstrong being fas- 
 cinated by Mary Elliot, and had even, with the acuteness 
 of love's instinct, noticed changes in his behaviour when 
 in the presence of the latter, which made her sick at 
 heart. 
 
 That ordinary jealousy had something to do with this 
 might readily be admitted for are we not all human ? 
 but I will aver that jealousy formed but a small portion 
 
CHAP, in] AN EMERGENCY A T NOR WICH HOSPITAL 27 
 
 of the mental distress occasioned by the thought of a 
 closer association in the future between John Armstrong 
 and Mary Elliot. 
 
 It was in reality the terrible danger to her hero 
 that dismayed her. She saw that nothing but harm 
 could come of such an association, and that a promising 
 career would in all likelihood be blighted if her 
 foreboding were correct for she knew well that 
 between two such opposite individuals as John and 
 Mary there could be no true union of hearts, and 
 any other union, what could it mean but ruin for 
 one or both ? 
 
 She was able also to gauge correctly the character 
 of Mary Elliot. She saw she was beautiful, and that 
 her beauty was of a kind specially attractive to men, 
 and apt to draw attention away from the lack, or 
 poverty, of mental attainments. She had, moreover, 
 marked, as only women can, that the lady in question 
 had, in a mild way, shown a tendency to ' set her 
 cap ' at the young doctor. 
 
 She did not believe Mary was really in love with 
 John, for she had become strongly imbued with the 
 notion perhaps not always correct that true love 
 can only exist between equals. She believed Mary 
 was chiefly attracted by the doctor's reputation, and 
 by the expectation held by many that he would some 
 day occupy a distinguished position. 
 
 As a matter of fact this estimation of Mary's ambition 
 was sound, and not far from the truth. If it erred at all, 
 it was in assuming that she was quite in earnest in 
 endeavouring to captivate John, and it did not make 
 sufficient allowance for Mary's natural tendency to seek 
 for admiration, wherever she could get it : and although 
 the idea of making so important a conquest might have 
 been pleasing to her, she as yet felt no disposition to break 
 
28 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, in 
 
 her heart on John's account, and had not by any means 
 fallen in love with that gentleman in the sense which is 
 usually ascribed to the catastrophe in novels. 
 
 The flow of conversation between the two young men 
 was interrupted by the advent of Mrs Dawson and her 
 daughter. The former hoped that her son was better, 
 and with the usual custom of a chronic invalid dilated 
 on the necessity of various precautions, which could not 
 fail to be irritating to her son, who did not receive the 
 advice altogether with the respect that the motives of 
 the adviser warranted, but rather shortly replied, 
 
 * Oh, I'm all right, mother, don't worry about me.' 
 
 Then he referred to the excursion, and pointed out 
 that John was to be of the party, and that therefore there 
 could be no reason why Edith should not go with the 
 others, even if he were not there. 
 
 Edith, who had entered the room with her mother, 
 had fancied she had caught the name of Miss Elliot in 
 their conversation. She had distinctly heard her brother's 
 laugh, and as her eyes fell upon John's face, she 
 imagined his look indicated annoyance. 
 
 The sound of Miss Elliot's name in such a conversa- 
 tion was by no means agreeable, and she consequently 
 greeted the doctor somewhat coldly. 
 
 On hearing, however, her brother's proposal that John 
 should take charge of her, she could not help her face 
 expressing pleasurable surprise. Her mother observed it, 
 and at once fell in with the proposal, which John could 
 not help warmly seconding, even had the arrangement 
 displeased him, which it did not. 
 
 'I am quite willing to trust Edith with you, John,' 
 said her mother, * but with no one else, if her brother 
 is not there : although I must say it seems an odd idea 
 for folks to go out for excursions in November, and I 
 
CHAP, in] AN EMERGENCY A T NOR WICH HOSPITAL 29 
 
 can't help wondering what Mr Paget was about when he 
 thought of such a thing.' 
 
 1 Never mind the reasons, mother,' said Charley im- 
 patiently, ' the matter is settled. I'm sure Edith will 
 enjoy herself, and John will bring her home safely.' ,- B ' C: ' 
 
 With these words the younger Mr Dawson abruptly 
 closed the subject, congratulating himself on having got 
 out of an expedition which he did not much care about, 
 and that, too, without disappointing his sister, who, he 
 believed, was desirious of participating in it, and he 
 shrewdly conjectured that to the lady, John's guardian- 
 ship for the occasion would be fully as acceptable as 
 his own. 
 
 At this moment a servant opened the door and 
 announced Mr Paget. 
 
 ' What, back again already, Paget,' cried Charley. 
 * How did the Service at the cathedral go off ? ' 
 
 ' Was the bishop there ? ' asked Mrs Dawson. 
 
 ( Oh, yes,' replied the clergyman, ' everything was as it 
 should be. I should have liked your daughter to have 
 been present, Mrs Dawson, I feel sure she would have 
 appreciated it. The Service was most impressive, the 
 bishop at his best, and all the elite of the country were 
 there. Many of the dons were present from Cambridge, 
 and there was a brave show of academic splendour in the 
 choir. The Bishops of Peterborough and Rochester 
 assisted at the ceremony, and everything might be 
 considered a success.' 
 
 1 What kind of man is the new missionary bishop ? ' 
 asked Edith. 
 
 1 Dr Jackson is one of the best of men, Miss Dawson,' 
 replied the curate. 'I believe that a better worker 
 could nowhere be found. All who come across him 
 praise him. He was preaching at Norwich Cathedral a 
 
30 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, in 
 
 short time ago, and Dr Armstrong greatly admired 
 his sermons.' 
 
 1 Oh, yes, I remember him/ interpolated the latter, 
 
 * he is a man of great parts, who thoroughly believes in 
 his mission.' 
 
 * We want men like him at home, and should not send 
 them abroad : there is plenty of work for such men 
 without running after the heathen. He seems to me 
 too good for work of that kind.' 
 
 'There I disagree,' answered the curate warmly. 
 
 * What right have we to assume that in the eyes of the 
 Master the souls of the heathen are of less value than 
 those of our own people. Have not some of the greatest 
 men of the past devoted their lives to the lowest of the 
 low ? ' 
 
 'That's right, Paget,' laughed Charley, 'you always 
 land Armstrong in an argument, and as constantly get 
 the worst of it. Now, don't you think, Edith, Dr Jackson 
 is a great deal too good to go and spend his days among 
 the blackamoors ? ' 
 
 * I think, Charley,' said his mother sternly, ' the subject 
 is not one for argument at all, and Mr Paget would be 
 the last to wish to argue, Dr Jackson is very noble to 
 sacrifice his prospects at home, and it does him great 
 credit.' 
 
 ' So he is,' eagerly exclaimed Edith, ' it is, indeed, a 
 good and great work to engage in, and I will never 
 believe that Dr Armstrong really thinks otherwise.' 
 
 ' Ah, John, my boy,' laughed Charley, * the Church as 
 usual carries the ladies ! ' 
 
 Dr Dawson now arrived on the scene, and, after a few 
 words of greeting had been exchanged with the new 
 arrival, John and Mr Paget took their leave. 
 
 ' By-the-bye, Armstrong,' said the other, as the two 
 strolled away from the house, ' what do you think of my 
 
CHAP, in] AN EMERGENCY A T NOR WICH HOSPITAL 31 
 
 constitution ? Should I be able to keep my health in a 
 tropical climate ? I have some idea of going abroad, but 
 it might be as well to take professional advice before 
 deciding on the step.' 
 
 'You go abroad, Paget, why, what are you thinking 
 about, my good fellow ? ' replied the surgeon. ' I hope to 
 goodness you won't leave Norwich, for I can assure you, 
 you are the only man here who can preach a decent 
 sermon, and the whole town will miss you. They ought 
 to make you a minor canon at least, if only for the 
 superb way in which you intone the Services.' 
 
 'Well,' replied the other, 'it will be necessary to do 
 something more than my present work before long. I 
 was talking to the new bishop this morning, and he half 
 persuaded me to leave England, and accompany him as 
 his chaplain. I have known him a good many years, and 
 I think we should get on very well together. I love 
 the work, and should have every enthusiasm in it, and 
 should not be afraid of a little extra risk. I don't 
 suppose life would be as easy there as here, and there 
 must be hardships to be borne, but I should be quite 
 willing to encounter all this and more. My only fear is, 
 lest I might interfere with the success of the work, if I 
 were rashly to undertake what I have not the physical 
 power to accomplish.' 
 
 ' My dear Paget,' said the doctor, ( I admire your 
 enthusiasm, and should be the last man in the world to 
 discourage you, but if you ask me, professionally, what I 
 think your physical capacity is for work of this kind, I 
 fear my answer must be a doubtful one. In spirit you 
 are quite equal to it, but I cannot say I think you are a 
 man able to face extremes of climate without risk. You 
 do not appear to have the strength to rough it in a 
 foreign land, and might not unlikely fall a prey to 
 tropical disease. 
 
32 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, in 
 
 'But I sincerely hope, Paget, you will think twice 
 before you expatriate yourself. You are really without 
 flattery, a good preacher, and I am not by any means the 
 only one here who says so. I feel sure you can do 
 quite as good work in England as abroad. In spite 
 of our civilisation there is plenty of room still for 
 Christian work in England.' 
 
 * True,' said the clergyman, ( I had once planned 
 a very different career, but T homme propose Dieu dispose} 
 
 A cloud came over his face as his mind recalled the 
 picture he had once fondly drawn of the coming future, 
 and which each year seemed to become more and more 
 unlikely. 
 
 He was a true believer in his profession, and to fight 
 the battle of his Master with all his power, energy, and 
 devotion, had been put before everything else. 
 
 He had the feelings of a crusader of the nineteenth 
 century, and if his fancy tended more in the direction 
 of rituals, priestly dogmas, and the other accompaniments 
 of the high church spirit of the age, than after the war- 
 like paraphernalia of the mediaeval warrior, no less genuine 
 than the zeal of the latter was the fire that burnt within, 
 and bid fair to be the guiding impulse of his life. 
 
 Like the latter, also, he had a ' fayre ladye ' enshrined 
 in his inmost heart, for whose sympathy he sorely 
 yearned, and he had hoped that in the future she might 
 be his companion, and helpmate, and tread with him the 
 path he had marked out, smoothing his way, and sustain- 
 ing him, when his powers flagged, and might act as a 
 minister of God in pointing him to his ideal. 
 
 For some time past James Paget had loved Edith 
 Dawson with all the love his nature was capable of, and 
 his love was such as any woman might have been proud 
 of. Though it might be true that the young curate 
 would never for a moment have permitted any human 
 
CHAP, in] AN EMERGENCY A T NORWICH HOSPITAL 33 
 
 passion to interfere with his sacred object ; and in that 
 respect it was out of his power to give up his heart en- 
 tirely to any woman, as may be done by those with less 
 rigid ideas of duty, and living lives devoted to less lofty 
 ends. Yet the love he had to offer was for that reason in 
 some respects far superior to the other kind. 
 
 In the first place, it was more stable ; for if this higher 
 life did in a measure detract from its intensity, it made 
 ample amends by implanting in it a portion of the 
 fixity of purpose, and high moral principle, that would be 
 likely to endure, as long as the heart in which they 
 abode. Love of this kind, too, was far more likely to be 
 lasting, and a much stronger guarantee was given to the 
 woman who excited it, than by any passionate promise 
 or vow, however genuine, the outcome of superfervid 
 emotion. 
 
 Next, this kind of love has nothing degrading in it. 
 Whatever great object a man may purpose in his after 
 life will not be hindered, but rather will be assisted. 
 
 There is something debasing in giving one's self up 
 entirely to any passion, whether we call it * love/ or by 
 any other name, if the passion is in itself essentially 
 selfish, and cannot be classed with those for the advance- 
 ment of mankind. 
 
 With the eyes of love James Paget had observed that 
 Edith Dawson was indifferent to him, nay, more, he had 
 seen that she specially favoured Dr Armstrong, and his 
 idea of leaving England was not a little due to this 
 discovery. 
 
 So true and honest was his love, that he could not 
 even contemplate the notion of becoming a rival, for 
 fear that even if successful, he might injure the loved one, 
 by depriving her of him for whom he might fail to be 
 a substitute. 
 
 After a short pause he continued : 
 
 C 
 
34 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, in 
 
 * But I may take it there is nothing in my constitution 
 absolutely forbidding me to enter upon such a responsi- 
 bility ? ' 
 
 * Well, no,' replied the other, ' I cannot say there is ; 
 but I think that such a step ought to be very carefully 
 considered, and I have indicated certain risks, which in 
 my opinion you are liable to.' 
 
 They were passing the curate's abode, and John, 
 courteously bidding his companion adieu, and promising 
 to meet him without fail on Thursday at the quay, 
 here parted from him. 
 
 As he sauntered on homewards, he reflected on what 
 he had just heard. 
 
 ' I wonder,' he thought, ' is this Edith's doing ? Has 
 she turned Paget's head ? Why do the Dawsons object 
 to him ? I feel sure they do that is, all except Charley. 
 What does Edith think ? At home I know they want 
 Edith and me to make a match of it, and nothing would 
 please them better. Such an event might come to pass/ 
 he mused, ' some day, if Paget don't get her first. She 
 has never seemed specially sweet on me, though I have 
 thought Paget has looked on me as the stumbling-block 
 in his path.' 
 
 So ran his thoughts ; but John, excellent physician 
 though he might be, was but a tyro compared with the 
 curate in gauging the heart of Edith. 
 
 It is true the latter was in love, and love notoriously 
 adds greatly to the power of the wits in investigating the 
 recesses of the fair one's heart, so that here he had an 
 advantage. 
 
 But, apart from this, James Paget had a power not 
 possessed by the other of seeing more clearly into the 
 mind and thoughts of others. Whether it was of natural 
 origin, and born with him, or whether the outcome of 
 the ardour with which he had followed his special 
 
CHAP, in] AN EMERGENCY A T NORWICH HOSPITAL 35 
 
 vocation, it is not easy to determine ; but probably not 
 a little of his pulpit eloquence was due to it. John 
 Armstrong's own heart had been the subject of investiga- 
 tion on the part of the curate, who had seen that at 
 present it was by no means given up to the object of his 
 passion ; but while to an ardent lover such a fact would 
 scarcely cause disappointment, to James Paget it was far 
 from being satisfactory. 
 
 If it were fated he could not be blest with so great a 
 treasure, why should not this happiness fall to the lot 
 of the young doctor his friend too whose intelligence 
 was of so high an order ? Surely, he thought, this ought 
 to be a source of satisfaction. 
 
 In a true Christian spirit he tried to think so, and 
 ascribed to the old Adam and natural jealousy, the 
 feeling of disapprobation which rose up in his mind, 
 whenever he pictured Dr Armstrong as the husband of 
 Edith. The doctor's mind was a puzzle to him : the 
 more he probed it, the more he shrank from a certain 
 substratum, which he thought he found there. There 
 was a cynicism and flippancy with regard to moral 
 principle, which were most repugnant to his nature, and 
 against which he had often inveighed in the course of 
 his arguments. 
 
 Although such points did not seem material to an 
 observer like Charley Dawson, to James Paget they 
 were all-important, when estimating the calibre of the 
 man to whom might be indissolubly linked the lady of 
 his heart. 
 
 The clock was striking six as John entered the hospital. 
 He was immediately accosted by a nurse, who said he 
 was urgently wanted in one of the wards, to see a patient, 
 who had been admitted half-an-hour before. 
 
 'We have been sending everywhere to find you, sir. 
 Mr Jones thinks something must be done at once.' 
 
3 6 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, in 
 
 Mr Jones was the assistant house-surgeon, and a 
 nervous gentleman, who liked to take just as little 
 responsibility as was possible. 
 
 On reaching the ward, John found his colleague 
 bending over the bed of a patient. The latter ex- 
 plained that the man had been working in the fields a 
 few hours before, and, in lifting a portion of the trunk of 
 a tree into his cart, had ruptured himself. 
 
 ' He wouldn't wait for one of his mates to help him,' 
 said Mr Jones, ' because they were a little behind time, 
 and he must have been straining himself terribly.' 
 
 John looked at the patient. The face was pale and 
 clammy, and denoted intense suffering, the pulse was 
 quick and very feeble, and, while the doctor was feeling 
 it, a fit of retching seized upon the patient. 
 
 4 He has done nothing but retch since he has been 
 here,' said the Sister, who was standing near the bed. 
 
 It was obvious to any surgeon that the man was not 
 long for the world, if nothing could be done to relieve 
 him. 
 
 After carefully examining the seat of injury, John 
 came to the conclusion that a serious surgical operation 
 would have to be done at once, and in this opinion Mr 
 Jones quite coincided. 
 
 1 But who is to do it ? ' said the latter. ' I have sent to 
 every member of the staff, and it unfortunately happens 
 that all are away, and although Mr Scott and Mr 
 Palmer will be back in a few hours, do you think the 
 patient can wait ? I don't think he'll live till then/ he 
 added, looking towards the man. 
 
 John shook his head. * How about Dr Dawson ? ' he 
 asked. ' I know he was at home about half-an-hour ago.' 
 
 1 He was the last I sent to,' was the reply ; ' the servant 
 said her master had just hurried off to catch the train 
 to Cromer, where he had been called to a consultation.' 
 
CHAP, in] AN EMERGENCY A T NOR WICPf HOSPITA L 37 
 
 * Do you know, Armstrong, I think we ought to do the 
 operation, and you are the senior. What do you say ? 
 There are one or two medical men in the town who 
 would come in, and give us a helping hand/ 
 
 In spite of the gravity of the occasion, John could 
 hardly help being amused at the promptitude with 
 which his colleague had hit upon their obvious duty. 
 
 He felt sure the fact that he, and not Jones, was /the 
 senior, had something to do with the prompt decision. 
 Taking, however, a rapid survey of the state of affairs, he 
 decided that an immediate operation was necessary, and 
 that he must do it. Then, having made up his mind, he 
 at once proceeded to act. 
 
 ' Get everything ready, Jones,' he said, ' and I'll send 
 in to Hazlett ; either he, or his assistant, will give us a 
 hand.' 
 
 He then went up to the patient's bedside, and ex- 
 plained what he proposed to do, and asked his consent. 
 
 ' Is it so urgent ? ' gasped the poor fellow. 
 
 ( I'm afraid it is,' replied John, ' but I trust to be able 
 to pull you through.' 
 
 Another spasm of pain seized the patient, and he 
 cried out : 
 
 'Oh, do anything, but do give me relief for God's 
 sake.' 
 
 After a short interval all was ready, and John braced 
 himself for his work. 
 
 It was a position which required some steadiness of 
 nerve that he now found himself in. 
 
 The casualty had been bruited about, and had caused 
 excitement, especially that the house-surgeon was about 
 to operate in the absence of the regular staff, as the 
 case required to be dealt with immediately. All this 
 had created a stir, and there was more than an ordinary 
 attendance to witness the operation. 
 
3 8 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, in 
 
 Even Jones, as he gradually got the patient under the 
 anaesthetic, felt a little anxious. What if Armstrong 
 broke down : might not he be called upon to act ? 
 
 The thought made him shudder, and he looked 
 anxiously towards the other, but the sight reassured him, 
 and he intuitively felt that such a contingency was 
 little likely John did not look like failing. 
 
 It was true it was the first serious operation he had 
 hitherto performed, and he knew that the life of a 
 fellow creature in a great measure depended on his 
 skill. He knew also, that he was being closely watched 
 by many eyes, and that his future reputation might be 
 considerably affected by the day's work. All this and 
 more passed through his mind in the few minutes he 
 was preparing himself for his task. 
 
 It must be confessed, however, he paid little heed to 
 such thoughts like phantoms vague and misty they 
 flitted by. All his faculties were centred on the case. 
 What was to be done, and how he was to do it. In 
 his mind he was observing the details of his operation, 
 and saw the difficulties to be met with, and to be 
 overcome. 
 
 His colleague signified the patient was ready ; his 
 instruments were prepared, and he applied himself to 
 his work. 
 
 The case proved more than usually complicated, and 
 although without difficulty much of the mischief might 
 have been relieved, and Mr Hazlett more than once 
 expressed an opinion that the operation was successfully 
 accomplished, the younger surgeon thought otherwise, 
 steadily persevered, and finally had the satisfaction of 
 demonstrating that a more serious lesion existed, from 
 which most likely the urgent symptoms had arisen. 
 
 He had succeeded in relieving this, and was about to 
 close the operation, when a voice behind exclaimed, 
 
CHAP, in] AN EMERGENCY A T NOR WICH HOSPITAL 39 
 
 4 1 can perceive that the welfare of the patients in the 
 hospital has not suffered in my absence. Never was 
 operation more skilfully performed ! I congratulate 
 you, Armstrong.' 
 
 It was the voice of Dr Dawson, who had just returned, 
 and had hurried to the hospital. 
 
 The anaesthetic had been discontinued, and the 
 patient was rapidly recovering from its effect. Already 
 there was evidence in his aspect of the relief he had 
 obtained. 
 
 His features were no longer so pinched, and the look 
 of pain had given place to one of placidity and ease. 
 His respiration had become natural, and he was re- 
 lapsing into quiet sleep. 
 
 The bystanders looked at one another exultingly, 
 feeling they had been witnesses to a life snatched from 
 the grave, and ever and anon they glanced approvingly 
 at the operator, whispering their opinion of his skill. 
 
 * Neatly done,' said Mr Hazlett to the assistant house- 
 surgeon ; l really Armstrong ought to be one of the sur- 
 geons here. I'm sure none of the staff could have done 
 it better.' 
 
 ( Ah,' apostrophised Mr Jones, * I told him it was his 
 duty to operate, and felt sure he would do the job well.' 
 
 As to the truth of the latter sentiment, it is at least 
 uncertain whether Jones at first did feel this confidence 
 in his colleague, but there was no doubt he did so now. 
 At the same time he felt a glow of elation at the success 
 of the operation, and thought that he had himself added 
 not a little to it. 
 
 In the meantime John, after giving all necessary 
 instruction as to the treatment of his patient, was led 
 away by Dr Dawson, who congratulated him warmly 
 on the ability and promptitude he had shown in an 
 emergency. 
 
4 o JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, m 
 
 'My boy, you were cut out for a surgeon. The world 
 will hear more of you. I was anxious when I got back 
 from Cromer, and found the message from the hospital ; 
 but I feel glad now I was away, as it has given you an 
 excellent opportunity of showing the metal you are 
 made of.' 
 
 John thanked his senior for his kind words, and 
 modestly replied that he had done no more than his 
 duty, and that he had been specially lucky in hitting on 
 the part where the mischief was. Otherwise he had 
 only done what would be expected from any competent 
 surgeon. 
 
 ( No, no, John,' said Dr Dawson, ' there was no luck 
 in the matter. When you had unravelled the difficulty, 
 I saw clearly how things were. The case was a compli- 
 cated one, and had you trusted to luck, and not to a 
 cool head, and a thorough knowledge of your art, it 
 would have been a poor look out for your patient. 
 Good heavens, what would have been the result if 
 Jones had been the operator ? Where would have been 
 his head?' 
 
 Dr Dawson was a little down on this gentleman on the 
 score of his exceeding nervousness, and had never for- 
 gotten how, on one memorable occasion during an 
 operation, he had twice handed him a retractor when 
 asked for a torsion forceps, and had behaved generally 
 as the latter expressed it as if he did not know whether 
 he was on his head or on his heels. 
 
 As Dr Dawson took his leave John muttered to him- 
 self, * The world will hear more of me. How is it pos- 
 sible, if I bury myself in a north country village ? ' 
 
 The idea of carrying out his father's wishes, of settling 
 down in the native place of the Armstrongs, had been 
 growing more and more irksome, and he felt he was cap- 
 able of fighting the battle of life in a wider arena. A 
 
CHAP, in] AN EMERGENCY A T NOR WICH HOSPITAL 41 
 
 dazzling vista of possible success seemed to tempt him to 
 the great metropolis, where he might, in one of the 
 theatres of a world-renowned hospital, repeat on a 
 larger scale the success of that day. 
 
 If he could have given himself entirely to his art, if he 
 could have lived the life of a true artist, great indeed 
 might have been his future ; but other things were to 
 have their influence on the young surgeon. 
 
 Little he then thought of what fate was preparing, or 
 how great a change the lapse of a few years might bring. 
 
 The last thing that night John went to visit his 
 patient. He found he had quite recovered from the 
 anaesthetic, was free from pain, and overflowing with 
 gratitude towards his surgeon. 
 
 'Thee hast saved my loife, doctor/ he murmured, 'oi 
 can never thank thee, a poor labouring mon, loike meself.' 
 
 John comforted him on this score, and turning to leave 
 the ward, was met by nurse Elliot. 
 
 ' Dr Armstrong ! ' exclaimed the latter, ' I must thank 
 you in my father's name for all you have done for 
 this honest fellow. He is Joe Smith, and has worked on 
 father's farm all his life, and a more industrious labourer 
 farmer never had. Do you think he will do well ? ' 
 
 1 Yes, certainly, nurse, the outlook is favourable. Your 
 father ought soon to have him back again. It is a 
 curious coincidence, and I am very glad to have been 
 able to save a good servant for your father/ 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 AN EXCURSION TO GREAT YARMOUTH 
 1 This day is big with fate.' 
 
 AT twenty minutes to eight on Thursday morning, John 
 stood at the door of Dr Dawson's house. He had 
 not long to wait, and on the door being opened he found 
 Edith already arrayed for the journey and expecting him. 
 
 Mrs Dawson was not up, but Edith said her mother had 
 specially enjoined her to ask what things she ought to 
 take, and what time they would be probably back in the 
 evening. 
 
 * Oh, you must have a few wraps/ he said, ' for it may 
 be chilly ; but of course we return by train, so we shall 
 not be on the water after nightfall. We shall be back 
 about half-past ten : a train leaves Yarmouth at 9.15. 
 Now, if you don't mind, Miss Dawson, we will be off, for 
 we have about half-a-mile to go, and Paget wants us to 
 be punctual. He said it would be necessary to start 
 punctually at eight.' 
 
 ( I am quite ready,' was the reply, and handing a rail- 
 way rug to the surgeon to carry, she tripped down 
 the steps, followed by the other. 
 
 Edith was in good spirits, and looked on the expedition 
 with unalloyed pleasure. She had for the moment for- 
 gotten about the existence of Mary Elliot, and she 
 
CHAP. IV] AN EXCURSION TO GREAT YARMOUTH 43 
 
 thought that she was about to enjoy the attention of 
 Dr Armstrong throughout the whole day, and such an 
 idea gave her great pleasure. The morning was fresh 
 and mild, and although there was a slight haze, every- 
 thing seemed to point to weather of an exceptional char- 
 acter for the time of year. 
 
 As they drew near to the quay, they caught sight of 
 the Halcyon the steamer specially chartered for the 
 occasion gay with flags, and with awnings prepared in 
 case of rain, puffing out volumes of smoke from her 
 funnel, and showing that everything was ready for a 
 start. 
 
 ( By Jove ! ' said John, * we haven't much time to 
 spare. See, there is Paget already on board with his 
 party. What a man for punctuality he is ! ' 
 
 4 But it is not eight yet,' said his companion, and she 
 pointed to an adjoining church tower, the clock of which 
 gave evidence of the truth of the remark. 
 
 In a few minutes they were all on board. 
 
 'Welcome to the Halcyon,' said Mr Paget, running 
 eagerly forward to shake hands with Edith, 'I am so 
 glad you have come, and I do hope we shall have a fine 
 day. A river excursion is so much more enjoyable under 
 a fair sky, and I am afraid we have been a little rash in 
 choosing a time so late in the year for our trip. I think 
 you had better take a seat over here,' and the curate led 
 the way to the saloon -deck of the vessel, where seats had 
 been specially arranged for the ladies of the party. Then 
 turning to John he said : 
 
 4 So glad you've come, Armstrong, you are always a 
 tower of strength ; and we feel so much safer in event of 
 accidents from having so good a surgeon on board. By- 
 the-bye, I must congratulate you on your recent exploit 
 at the hospital. I find the whole town ringing with 
 it. It will shortly be in the papers.' 
 
44 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, iv 
 
 ' Yes, Mr Paget, was it not nobly done ? ' said Edith ; 
 * the man's life was saved, and papa told me he did not 
 think any one could have done it but Dr Armstrong. 1 
 
 A flush of excitement came to the face of the speaker 
 as she uttered these words, and the curate only too 
 accurately interpreted its meaning, when he noticed the 
 look of pride with which she regarded her companion. 
 
 * Tut, tut, that is making a great deal of an ordinary 
 matter,' said John, shaking hands with the clergyman. 
 
 1 Ah, well, Miss Edith, we all know our doctor, how 
 modest he is,' and a thoughtful look came over the 
 curate's face. * But why don't we start ? ' he added, as the 
 clock struck eight, and the steamer still continued 
 motionless by the side of the wharf. 
 
 * When are we off, captain ? ' he exclaimed, as a portly 
 individual with yellow braid on his cap came bustling by. 
 
 1 I'm ready, sir,' responded the latter, * but I'm told all 
 the party are not yet aboard.' 
 
 ' They ought to be,' said Mr Paget, * and I must see 
 who the culprits are,' and he went off to make inquiries. 
 
 It turned out that Mary Elliot and her sister were 
 missing, and John explained that it was possible Mary 
 had gone to the hospital to meet her sister, who had 
 been detained in the wards. 
 
 While ^t was being discussed as to what had better 
 be done, an exclamation from one of the number gave 
 notice that they were in sight. In a few minutes they 
 were seen hurrying down to the water side, and as Mary 
 Elliot, almost in tears, rushed across the gangway, she 
 angrily exclaimed to her sister : 
 
 1 There, Emily, I have nearly lost the excursion 
 through you ! Had they gone without us I should never 
 have forgiven you ! ' 
 
 A look of mild reproof crossed the features of her 
 sister, but John and Mr Paget, who had overheard the 
 
CHAP, iv] AN EXCURSION TO GREAT YARMOUTH 45 
 
 words, came up at this juncture, and the former gaily 
 said : 
 
 ' No, Miss Mary, you must not blame your sister for 
 her zeal for duty, and indeed I'm sure it's quite needless, 
 for I know Mr Paget would never have gone without 
 you.' 
 
 There was a certain amount of gallantry about the 
 doctor's words, which the curate did not like ; especially 
 as this was said within earshot of Edith; so he answered 
 shortly, * I'm glad you are here. Now we can start at 
 once.' 
 
 Notice was accordingly given to the captain, and at 
 exactly ten minutes past eight the Halcyon parted her 
 moorings, and steamed down the river. 
 
 The party were twenty in number, and chiefly com- 
 posed of the workers in connection with the parish 
 church of St Margaret. They included various grades of 
 the society of Norwich. 
 
 There was the organist, a little fussy man, who was 
 very shortsighted, and wore spectacles j he was always 
 making mistakes by addressing the wrong person, and 
 was sometimes much in the way. Mr Middleton, how- 
 ever, was a sterling man in his vocation, and his playing 
 was one of the attractions of St Margaret's ; he was 
 going to play the organ at the special Service to be held 
 at St Nicholas, Yarmouth. 
 
 Another member of the party was Mr Aldridge, the 
 senior churchwarden. He was a popular man, who did 
 much good in the parish, and being a well-to-do merchant, 
 of a generous disposition, his purse was always open 
 to deserving calls, so that in a poor parish he was of the 
 greatest assistance to the vicar, whose income from his 
 benefice was by no means large, and out of it he had to 
 support a numerous family. 
 
 If Mr Aldridge had a fault, it was one not uncommon 
 
46 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, iv 
 
 to churchwardens, a notion that every vicar has in his 
 mind a determination to subvert the English Church 
 Service fas by law established, and that it is the duty of 
 the churchwarden to be ready to prevent it, and, that 
 he may do so, to oppose on principle the smallest change 
 in ritual suggested by the vicar, no matter how reason- 
 able that change may be. 
 
 As he had always been brought up on low church 
 principles, he sometimes came into collision with Mr 
 Paget, but owing to the tact of the latter, who recognised 
 the sterling good qualities of the churchwarden, they 
 were on the whole the best possible friends. 
 
 Lastly, we must not omit the Misses Tallboys, two 
 maiden ladies of independent means, who were inde- 
 fatigable in church work of all kinds. As they had no 
 relations, and scarcely anything to do, and were both 
 naturally of an active and industrious disposition, it was 
 a godsend to them, and to the church, when the vicar of 
 St Margaret's first found them out, and turned their 
 energies into the present direction. 
 
 As they were thoroughly high church, they regarded 
 the churchwarden as their natural enemy in all connected 
 with church ritual, and whenever the vicar did not 
 please them in his way of conducting the Services at 
 St Margaret's, they never thought of blaming him, but 
 charitably ascribed his failings to the sinister influence 
 of the churchwarden. 
 
 They were both on the wrong side of forty, and 
 although zealous workers, were not without the usual 
 faults of their class, a tendency to gossip and scandal- 
 bearing, with a proneness to be over censorious respecting 
 their younger sisters. 
 
 They were particularly punctual themselves, and were 
 not a little irritated by the delay caused by the Elliots, 
 and they took critical notice of the attire of the younger, 
 
CHAP, iv] AN EXCURSION TO GREAT YARMOUTH 47 
 
 whose get-up in the way of ornaments, and general 
 brightness of colours, contrasted a little ill with the 
 sobriety of dress displayed by the rest of the party. 
 
 The elders and the more staid seated themselves at 
 the saloon end of the boat, where an awning was put 
 up, which sheltered them pleasantly from cold draughts 
 of air. Here they conversed, knitted, read papers, and 
 amused themselves generally. The younger members 
 could not sit so quietly, but promenaded the deck, 
 chatting and laughing, and in the best of spirits. 
 
 John, who was always popular with young folks, 
 was soon in great request, and though he had at first 
 taken his seat by the side of Edith, he shortly after 
 resigned it to Mr Paget, and went to assist, by his 
 local knowledge, a group who were engaged in argument 
 over some point in the landscape they were passing. 
 
 * Yes, it does give you a good idea of Dutch scenery/ 
 said the organist ; ' all this coarse pasture-land, dotted 
 by windmills, and intersected by streams and ditches, is 
 just what you can see any day running down the Maas.' 
 
 'Well,' rejoined Mr Aldridge, 'I've been to Holland, 
 but I didn't get that impression of the scenery. Mind, 
 I don't deny the country round here is flat, nor the 
 prevalence of windmills; but my experience was that 
 you could see scarcely anything of the country from the 
 water. You might occasionally catch sight of the tops 
 of trees and the summit of a windmill, but you more 
 often than not saw nothing but the banks, for the chief 
 part of the land was so much below the sea level, that 
 it was more or less invisible from the deck of a steamer. 
 What do you say, doctor ? ' he added, as the latter 
 approached the group, ' have you been to Holland ? ' 
 
 ( Yes,' was the reply, 4 and I think you are both right. 
 What Mr Aldridge says is quite true. In many places 
 the land is considerably below the sea level, and he has 
 
48 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, iv 
 
 correctly observed the most striking features of the 
 scenery. But it must not be forgotten that the whole 
 of the Netherlands is not so low lying, and in places they 
 do resemble this landscape. When you are driving 
 along the country roads inside the dykes, the scenery is 
 also not unlike this, and the guide-books describe the 
 country about the Yare as being Dutch in character.' 
 
 4 Oh, Dr Armstrong, when you were in Holland, did 
 you see those nests for storks that I've been told every 
 Dutchman has on his housetop ? ' 
 
 The last query came from Mary Elliot, who had been 
 one of the group, and a listener to the conversation. As 
 she spoke, she looked up coquettishly at the doctor, i 
 
 ' Well, Miss Mary, I can't say I did/ he replied, ( but 
 I've no doubt there are plenty to be found.' 
 
 The steamer was making good way, and passing along 
 swiftly seaward. The day was fine, and every one of the 
 company seemed happy. 
 
 Under the awning on the saloon, Mr Paget, Miss 
 Dawson, and the Misses Tallboys were surveying the 
 prospect, and chatting gaily, but the curate observed 
 that Edith's eyes frequently wandered towards John, 
 and seemed specially to notice when he met Mary 
 Elliot. 
 
 1 That was a wonderful case of Dr Armstrong's at the 
 hospital the other day, was it not, Mr Paget ? ' said 
 the elder Miss Tallboys ; the whole town is full of 
 it.' 
 
 4 Yes,' said Mr Paget, looking in the direction of the 
 doctor, who at the moment was talking to the Elliot 
 sisters, pointing out objects of interest, 'John Arm- 
 strong knows how to do his work. He is a thorough 
 master of his profession. I'm glad he is with us to-day 
 not that we shall have any occasion for his professional 
 services but he is so good natured. Look how he is 
 
CHAP, iv] AN EXCURSION TO GREAT YARMOUTH 49 
 
 endeavouring to render the trip agreeable for those 
 Elliot girls. He shows no sign of being bored, and really 
 Mary Elliot's chatter is not intellectual.' 
 
 He had seen Edith's uneasy glances towards the Elliots, 
 and said this to reassure her, and divert her attention 
 from a too obvious fact. 
 
 1 What bold creatures those Elliots are/ said the elder 
 to the younger Miss Tallboys. * Look how Mary Elliot 
 has turned her face up to the doctor's, I shouldn't be 
 surprised to see her take his arm next.' 
 
 Poor Mary was the offender, and she certainly was a 
 good deal absorbed in John's company. 
 
 Mr Middleton and Mr Aldridge now joined the saloon 
 party. 
 
 ' You haven't brought the doctor back,' said the senior 
 Miss Tallboys. 
 
 ( No,' he replied, ( you see he has other ladies on his 
 hands.' 
 
 *Dr Armstrong,' said Mary Elliot, 'you know you 
 promised to show me all sorts of things to-day. 
 
 1 Why, I thought it was you who were to entertain me/ 
 he replied gaily, ' but I shall be happy to do what I can.' 
 
 * How can you be so rude, Mary/ said her sister. ' J 
 wonder you dare to talk to the doctor like that.' 
 
 1 Never mind, nurse, let your sister enjoy herself her 
 own way please don't reprove her/ said John, smiling. 
 ' We don't like to be formal, do we, Miss Mary, when we 
 are out for a holiday? ' 
 
 Mary Elliot only pouted slightly for a reply, and then 
 added, ' I'm sure, Emily, you would like me to go all day 
 without opening my lips. Everything I say you find 
 fault with.' 
 
 At this moment a gong gave notice that luncheon was 
 ready. 
 
 4 I'm so hungry/ said Mary Elliot, ' I should like 
 
 D 
 
50 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, iv 
 
 something to eat. Won't you take me down, and show 
 me where the refreshments are?' And she looked up 
 imploringly into John's face. 
 
 1 Come along,' he replied good naturedly, and he led 
 the way to the saloon, where preparation had been made 
 for a substantial meal. 
 
 He soon found places for the two sisters. 
 
 'Here's a nice place for you, too, doctor,' exclaimed 
 Mary, as she thanked him for finding her a seat. 
 
 But John's conscience was already reproaching him, 
 and he replied, * Thanks, no, I must go and look after 
 my charge.' 
 
 With these words he nodded and left the saloon. 
 
 ' Oh, Mary,' said her sister, when he had gone, ( how 
 could you ask Dr Armstrong to sit by your side, while 
 Miss Dawson was left on deck? He never ought to 
 have brought us down before her. I'm sure she'll be 
 offended.' 
 
 ' I quite forgot all about her,' peevishly replied Mary. 
 
 In the meanwhile John approached Edith, who had 
 not left her seat, although the group among whom she 
 had been sitting was getting thinner. 
 
 * Come, Edith,' he said, * you must want something to 
 eat. They are beginning to feed below.' 
 
 Edith had felt a little neglected, but she gave no sign 
 of displeasure, merely smiled, and rose from her seat. 
 John led her into the cabin, and soon found her a seat 
 on the opposite side of the table at which the Elliots 
 were, and he himself sat down by her side. 
 
 The change and the fresh air had given the whole 
 party an appetite, and ample justice was done to the 
 provisions. Mr Paget got much praise for the thoughtful 
 way in which he had catered for them. 
 
 By the time luncheon was over Burgh Castle was in 
 sight, and preparations were made for landing. 
 
CHAP. IV] AN EXCURSION TO GREAT YARMOUTH 51 
 
 Mr Paget, Dr Armstrong, and Edith Dawson were 
 standing together on the deck, as the Halcyon began 
 to slacken speed. 
 
 ' It's a fine old ruin, is it not ? ' said the clergyman. 
 1 For 1800 years these ramparts have towered from yonder 
 eminence.' 
 
 * Yes,' said John, ' the Romans knew how to build. 
 Look at that wonderful red tile, that lies between 
 successive layers of stones : no one can make it now. 
 Whatever they busied themselves about, in that they 
 beat the world Arms, Engineering, Jurisprudence in 
 all supreme.' 
 
 ' I wonder,' said Edith, * if all the surrounding country 
 was as it is now, when the Roman legion held that fort ? ' 
 
 * I daresay it was,' replied John ; ( there has not been 
 much alteration here, except that, perhaps, Burgh was 
 nearer the sea in those days.' 
 
 * They seem to be disembarking, Paget/ he added, as 
 he observed the steamer had stopped. 'We had better 
 follow/ 
 
 The party soon landed, and advanced to take possession 
 of the old camp ; but it was not done without climbing, 
 as the ruins were situated on a considerable eminence. 
 
 Mr Paget led the way, John and Edith followed, and 
 Mary Elliot with some of the younger members kept 
 close behind. After a little labour they gained the ruins, 
 and John, who was somewhat of a local antiquarian, 
 gave a short account of their history. 
 
 ( Ladies and gentlemen, you see here a striking 
 memorial of the past : a reminiscence of a people who 
 first civilised this island. Burgh Castle never was a 
 castle in the ordinary acceptation of the word : it was in 
 reality an old Roman camp, and antiquarians have been 
 able to point out here most of the details of the typical 
 castra^ or camp of the Romans. 
 
52 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, iv 
 
 * The date of the structure is uncertain, but it was prob- 
 ably built at an early period of Roman occupation, 
 directly the Romans advanced northward. You will 
 notice this place is a point of vantage, and commands the 
 Yare. Where we are now standing, Roman soldiers 
 have probably stood, and looked out for their ships, as 
 they came sailing up the river.' 
 
 1 The sea came nearer then, did it not ? ' said Mr 
 Aldridge. 
 
 c Yes, I should think so,' replied the doctor. ( What do 
 you say, Paget ? ' 
 
 * It is notorious,' said the latter, * that for many ages 
 past the land has been gaining at the expense of the sea. 
 Now you can only make out the sea from here on a fine 
 day. It is not unlikely this camp may have been in- 
 tended partly for coast defence.' 
 
 At this moment there was a scream in the immediate 
 vicinity, and the whole party were thrown into conster- 
 nation. 
 
 John, Mr Paget, and several others rushed to the spot 
 whence the sound came. Its cause soon was made ap- 
 parent, for they were met by one of the junior Sunday 
 school teachers in a great state of alarm, who exclaimed, 
 4 Oh, Mr Paget, what shall I do ? Mary Elliot was 
 trying to get a fern on that piece of wall, when a bush 
 gave way and let her down.' 
 
 It then appeared that these two young folks, not 
 appreciating the disquisition on the history of the place, 
 had slipped away from the others, and the accident had 
 occurred as above described. 
 
 They were soon at the spot, and, looking down, John 
 saw the prostrate form of Mary Elliot lying on the grass 
 below. He lost no time in descending the declivity, 
 which was about fifteen feet in height, and was soon by 
 her side, and began to examine her to see what injuries 
 
CHAP, iv] AN EXCURSION TO GREAT YARMOUTH 53 
 
 she had sustained. He was quickly joined by Mr Paget, 
 Mary's sister, and several others. 
 
 ' Is she much hurt ? ' sobbed the sister,' bending down 
 over the apparently lifeless form. 
 
 1 No, no, she is only in a faint she will be better 
 soon. Get some water,' said John. 
 
 Water was procured, with which John bathed the face 
 and temples, and he was soon rewarded by eliciting signs 
 of returning animation. 
 
 Mary Elliot opened her eyes, gazed wildly round, and 
 burst out crying. 
 
 * Don't cry like that/ said her sister. ' Try and tell 
 Dr Armstrong where you are hurt.' 
 
 ' Yes, try and tell me where you are hurt,' said John 
 tenderly, as he bent over her. 
 
 'I'm hurt all over,' cried the patient, 'but, oh, my 
 foot it is agony.' 
 
 John carefully examined the injured part, and found 
 the right ankle joint already much swollen, and ex- 
 quisitely tender. There was not any fracture, but all the 
 symptoms pointed to a severe sprain. 
 
 'There's nothing broken,' he said cheerfully. 'It's 
 fortunate you fell on grass and soft soil, and not on 
 one of these heaps of stones. You'll soon be right again, 
 but I think it will be as well to get you back to the 
 Halcyon as quickly as possible. Come, nurse, you 
 can give me a hand with your sister, and will you, 
 Paget, bring the rest on board when they are tired of the 
 ruins ? ' 
 
 'Then you think, Armstrong,' said the latter, 'Miss 
 Elliot has sustained no other injuries beyond a sprain, 
 and you will see her to the boat ? I will look after the 
 others, and I don't think we shall be long.' 
 
 With that he hastened back to the rest, and reported 
 that the injury was nothing more serious than a sprain, 
 
54 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP. IV 
 
 but that it was necessary for Dr Armstrong to super- 
 intend the removal of the patient to the steamer. 
 
 ' Is she much hurt ? ' said Edith, inquiringly to the 
 curate, who fancied from the tone of her voice, that 
 she wondered why a mere sprain needed such special 
 attention on the part of the doctor. 
 
 * She fainted with pain,' he replied, * but the only 
 definite injury, I believe, is a sprain.' 
 
 ( If there's mischief anywhere,' said the elder Miss 
 Tallboys emphatically, * that girl is sure to be in it. 
 First she made us late, and now she's the cause of all 
 this confusion. It's a pity she came at all.' 
 
 In the meanwhile John raised Mary Elliot from the 
 ground, and tried to see whether she could walk. She 
 screamed with pain on putting the foot to the ground. 
 
 ' I'm afraid,' he said, * it's no use trying to use that 
 foot. Lean on me, and take your sister's arm on the 
 other side.' 
 
 Mary did as directed, and a little progress was made 
 towards the boat, but not without much pain. When 
 half the distance had been travelled, John saw she was 
 nearly exhausted. 
 
 4 The best thing will be for me to carry her entirely,' 
 he said to her sister. ( You won't mind, will you, Miss 
 Mary, it will hurt much less than limping along.' 
 
 Suiting the action to his words, he lifted her like a 
 child off the ground, and advanced more quickly towards 
 the Halcyon, followed by Emily Elliot. 
 
 ( It is good of you, indeed, Dr Armstrong/ murmured 
 the patient. * It's much better like this, I hardly feel 
 any pain,' and she looked up gratefully into his face. 
 
 The rest of the party were now leaving the ruins, and 
 as they descended, Dr Armstrong and the Elliots came 
 into sight. 
 
 * Look, Miss Dawson,' said both the Miss Tallboys in a 
 
CHAP, iv] AN EXCURSION TO GREAT YARMOUTH 55 
 
 breath, * that Elliot girl must be bad, there's Dr Arm- 
 strong actually carrying her.' 
 
 Mr Paget, who overheard them, noticed a look of pain 
 on Edith's face. 
 
 On gaining the Halcyon John took his burden down 
 into the saloon, and placed her upon a couch, carefully 
 adjusting a pillow under the injured ankle. 
 
 ( You have been kind to me,' she said, * what should 
 I have done without your assistance ! My foot is much 
 better now ; ' she raised her eyes as she 'spoke, and 
 looked into John's face with such an expression of trust 
 and gratitude, that he felt more than ever fascinated by 
 her beauty. The accident brought about a greater 
 intimacy, so that the old attraction became intensified, 
 and he was nearer, perhaps, than he had ever been, to 
 confessing that his feelings towards Mary Elliot were of 
 a different nature to those likely to be excited by a mere 
 acquaintance, or even by a patient. 
 
 'It is very good of you, doctor/ said Emily Elliot, 
 who had followed them down, ' but I will take charge of 
 my sister now. I fear Miss Dawson will not thank us 
 for claiming so much of your attention.' 
 
 'Don't think of that,' said John, 'she would be the 
 first to wish me to assist your sister.' 
 
 They now heard overhead the party returning to the 
 steamer, so with a few directions as to the treatment of 
 the patient's foot, John went on deck. 
 
 He was immediately surrounded by inquirers. 
 'I should think, doctor,' said Miss Tallboys, 'your 
 patient must have fatigued you. It must have been no 
 easy matter to carry her over that rough ground. I 
 know it has made me tired. She isn't much hurt, is 
 she ? ' she added in a tone of incredulity. 
 
 * She has a nasty sprain,' was the reply, ' and won't be 
 able to walk for some time* 1 
 
5 6 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, iv 
 
 4 Can I do anything, Dr Armstrong ? ' said Edith, 
 approaching. 
 
 'No, thank you, I think she will be quite safe in 
 the hands of her sister, who understands cases of this 
 kind.' 
 
 'Ah,' remarked Mr Aldridge to the curate, 'it's as 
 well after all we carry a surgeon. How easily accidents 
 happen ! 
 
 The Halcyon was now rapidly approaching Yarmouth, 
 and before long the spire of St Nicholas Church came 
 into view, and the increase in the number and size of the 
 shipping showed that a port of some pretensions was 
 being neared. 
 
 Soon they arrived at the quay, and were gazing at the 
 curious old houses that surrounded it. 
 
 'This certainly has a Dutch look, Mr Aldridge,' said 
 John, pointing to the houses facing the quay, the ship- 
 ping, and the swing bridge. ' You see that tavern there. 
 It is said but the authority is a little doubtful that the 
 execution of Charles I. was decided on by the regi- 
 cides there/ 
 
 * Indeed,' said Mr Middleton, * what an interesting 
 scene it is ! ' 
 
 On landing it was decided that the party should 
 disperse, and wander about the town till five o'clock, 
 when they were all to meet at the parish church. It 
 was just three, so they would have two hours. 
 
 As Mary Elliot could not walk, it was necessary to 
 leave her on ' the Halycon ; and John arranged with 
 Emily, who agreed to remain with her, to bring an 
 invalid's chair to the landing stage after the conclusion 
 of the service at St Nicholas, to transport the patient to 
 the railway station. 
 
 Mr Paget, Edith, and John, strolled about the town 
 together, looking at the various points of interest, going 
 
CHAP. IV] AN EXCURSION TO GREAT YARMOUTH 57 
 
 through the quaint rows, and inspecting the splendid sea 
 front. 
 
 The day had been faultless, and it was only now begin- 
 ning to be a little chilly, so John insisted on Edith 
 putting on her wraps, because the air was much keener 
 than at Norwich. 
 
 I I'm sorry for that poor girl,' remarked John ; ' she will 
 be dreadfully dull all by herself in the boat.' 
 
 * She has got her sister,' said Mr Paget, a little irritated 
 at John again introducing the subject before Edith. * To 
 tell the truth, she has been the chief obstacle to the 
 success of the excursion. Why did she want to run 
 into danger as she did ? ' 
 
 ' I don't think she thought of what she was doing,' 
 mildly suggested Edith. 
 
 I 1 declare, Miss Dawson is more charitable than you, 
 Paget, 1 said John. ' What did the poor child care for our 
 antiquarian discussion ! What more natural than she 
 should look after the ferns ! ' 
 
 At five o'clock the party assembled at St Nicholas. 
 The Rev. Mr Robinson, the vicar, shook hands with Mr 
 Paget, who was an old friend, and kindly showed the 
 numerous interesting things about the church. 
 
 After this, Evensong was said by the two clergyman. 
 
 At the conclusion Mr Middleton played selections 
 on the fine old organ. 
 
 Edith sitting with John in that ancient parish church, 
 while the wintry evening was drawing on and the 
 sacred music rolled through the aisles, thought earnestly 
 of the future. Would the manly form by her side 
 always be her protector ? Would it be hers to call him 
 husband ? 
 
 How different, on the other hand, were John's 
 thoughts. He was thinking little of his companion, 
 little of the future. His thoughts were busy over the 
 
5 8 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, iv 
 
 events of the day, Mary Elliot's accident, and her 
 absence from the Service, which he knew she missed 
 greatly. 
 
 'Poor girl,' he thought, ( she specially alluded to it 
 at the hospital, when she asked me to come on the 
 excursion. What a disappointment women do like 
 this sort of thing ! ' 
 
 After the Service, they made their way to the railway 
 station. 
 
 A chair was obtained for Mary Elliot, and her removal 
 was superintended by John. Later in the evening the 
 whole party arrived safely at Norwich. 
 
 * Did you see the look that girl gave Dr Armstrong, 
 as he helped her out of the carriage,' said the elder 
 Miss Tallboys to her sister, as the two left the Norwich 
 railway station. ( I suppose she didn't sprain her ankle 
 on purpose?' 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 THE SURGEON AND HIS PATIENT 
 
 1 Be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as snow, thou shalt 
 not escape calumny.' 
 
 MARY ELLIOT resided with a fellow post-office clerk, 
 Janet Tomkins. They shared the expense of a sitting 
 and two bedrooms. 
 
 Mrs Smith was their landlady, the widow of an old 
 Yare bargeman, who after a long life of thrift and industry, 
 had just managed to leave his widow a house with a small 
 pittance for housekeeping, which the good woman tried 
 to eke out, by letting the best part of her home when the 
 opportunity offered. 
 
 As the two girls had their dinner out most days, and 
 were, in fact, away the greater part of the time, the 
 widow had but little trouble, and the arrangement had 
 proved satisfactory for all parties. But when, on the 
 night of the excursion, Mrs Smith and Janet Tomkins 
 saw Mary carried into the house in a generally exhausted 
 condition, both were not a little frightened. 
 
 4 What is the matter with Mary ? ' said Janet to Emily, 
 who accompanied her sister. 
 
 4 She has sprained her ankle/ was the reply, 'and 
 Dr Armstrong says she must lie in bed for a few days. 
 She met with an accident in the afternoon, and fell 
 
60 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, v 
 
 down. You might help me to get her upstairs, as her 
 foot is very painful.' 
 
 Both were at once all sympathy, and gave their best 
 assistance, and in a short time Mary was put to bed, and 
 her ankle placed in a comfortable position ; after which, 
 tired out with pain and excitement, she soon fell asleep. 
 
 Her sister descended to the sitting-room, where she 
 chatted with Janet, giving an account of all the day's 
 doings ; then after saying good -night, she went into the 
 kitchen to speak to the landlady, whom she found 
 enjoying a modest half-pint of porter before going to 
 bed. 
 
 ( I do hope, Mrs Smith/ she said, * my sister's accident 
 won't throw much extra work on you. I shall call every 
 day to attend to her ankle, and we shall soon have her 
 downstairs.' 
 
 4 Don't ye mind the extra work, dear,' said the landlady. 
 ' I'm sure I'm sorry for the poor body ; the accident must 
 have spoilt the day for her, and she was always so gay 
 and cheerylike. Why, she was on the chatter about this 
 day for weeks past. What shall I give her for breakfast ? 
 And won't ye sit down, and have a taste of something 
 before ye return to the 'ospital ? ' And she tried to induce 
 Emily to sit down at her humble table. 
 
 ' Thank you, Mrs Smith,' was the reply, ( it's very kind 
 of you, but I must get back, as it's late. Please give 
 Mary a little bread and milk, or a cup of tea with toast 
 in the morning.' Then, after a little hesitation, Emily 
 said, to the surprise of the landlady 
 
 ' Might I ask a favour, Mrs Smith ? ' 
 
 ' Certainly, my dear.' 
 
 * If Dr Armstrong calls to see my sister, will you always 
 be sure to be in the room ? ' Then noticing the land- 
 lady's look of astonishment, she continued, 'You know 
 how people do talk, and Mary is so giddy/ 
 
CHAP, v] THE SURGEON AND HIS PA TIE NT 61 
 
 4 Very well, my dear, I'll see to it,' said the good- 
 natured woman, who could not help admiring the tender 
 solicitude and maternal instinct of the elder sister. 
 
 As Emily walked back to the hospital, certain fears 
 began to be more pronounced in her mind, fears, which, 
 hardly formulated before, the events of the day had 
 clearly brought to her consciousness. 
 
 She saw there was danger, great danger, in any increase 
 of intimacy between the doctor and her sister. In his 
 treatment of the latter during the day, she thought she 
 detected an unusual tenderness, that is, something more 
 than the tenderness befitting the relation of surgeon and 
 patient. 
 
 Then as to her sister, her behaviour, whether ingenuous 
 or not, was only too calculated to attract and fix the 
 attention of any susceptible youth ; and although Dr 
 Armstrong was the last man she would have thought 
 likely to be captivated in this way, she had lately begun 
 to have doubts. 
 
 When she entered the hospital, the porter told her 
 Dr Armstrong would like to see her before she went to 
 bed, so she called at his room. 
 
 * How is your sister to-night ? ' he said. * Have you 
 got her comfortably to bed ? ' 
 
 * Yes, sir, she went to sleep almost directly/ 
 
 4 1 will call and see her to-morrow,' continued John. *I 
 don't think it will be a long job, but it's rather a nasty 
 sprain.' 
 
 * Do you think, sir/ said the nurse with some hesita- 
 tion, * there is any necessity for you to call ? If I let you 
 know how the ankle is, would not that be sufficient ? ' 
 
 * But why not call, nurse ? ' he answered, surprised 
 at her question. ' I presume you have no objection 
 to my calling.' 
 
 Emily looked as if she had an objection, but did not 
 
62 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, v 
 
 say so. Thanking the doctor, she wished him good-night, 
 and retired. 
 
 John sat down and smoked. He thought of Edith, 
 Mary Elliot, and all that had happened that day. 
 
 Did he feel any inclination to fall in love with Mary 
 Elliot ? He now began to question himself on the 
 subject. 
 
 She was very pretty. What wonderful eyes she had ! 
 What a beaming look of love and gratitude she gave him, 
 after he had eased her ankle ! What fee could compare 
 with such payment ! 
 
 On the whole he did not quite answer the question, 
 but he could not help confessing that of all the ladies he 
 knew, Mary occupied most of his thoughts. 
 
 ' I don't want to be talked about,' he thought, * people 
 are so fond of scandal. What did nurse Elliot mean by 
 almost objecting to my calling on her sister ? I've heard 
 Charley say Mary Elliot tries to flirt with me. It 
 wouldn't do for such a report to come to Mrs Dawson or 
 the doctor.' 
 
 On the following day he visited his patient, and found 
 the ankle better. Mary was profuse in her thanks, 
 and Mrs Smith, who, faithful to her promise of the 
 previous evening, took care to be present, after regarding 
 the pair, came to the conclusion that Emily's caution 
 was not altogether unnecessary ; this younger sister was 
 certainly somewhat of a flirt, and how soon these poor 
 creatures got into trouble ! Yes, she did not want harm 
 to come while under her roof. 
 
 Mary was soon downstairs on the sofa, but John called 
 every day, and although Mrs Smith used every en- 
 deavour to favour the pair with her company, it would 
 occasionally happen that a hitch took place in the 
 arrangement, and while an importunate milkman or 
 
CHAP, v] THE SURGEON AND HIS PA TIE NT 63 
 
 other tradesman engaged the attention of the worthy 
 landlady, the two were left entirely to themselves. 
 
 Then, it is to be regretted, John did not entirely 
 adhere to his character as a professional adviser only, 
 and Mary behaved with more familiarity than is usual 
 between doctor and young lady patient, and her conduct 
 was such as would certainly have brought her sister's 
 disapproval, had she been present. 
 
 The frequency, however, of the doctor's visits, and the 
 character Mary possessed, did excite comment, and one 
 evening Janet Tomkins on her return from the post- 
 office burst into the sitting-room, and startled Mary by 
 saying : 
 
 ' Well, Mary, there's nice talk going about the town ! 
 What do you think I heard to-day ? ' 
 
 c How can I tell ? ' peevishly replied the other. 
 
 ' Miss Knaggs, the superintendent, called me into her 
 office, and told me she had heard that there was nothing 
 much the matter with you, but that Dr Armstrong was 
 calling every day, and staying a long while ; that you 
 were always watching at the window, and that for a long 
 time past you had been setting your cap at him.' 
 
 * Oh, what a shame ! ' burst out the other, crying, ( what 
 a shame to try and ruin a poor girl ! Who can have been 
 telling such wicked lies ? ' and she sobbed bitterly. 
 
 'Well, Mary, don't take on so,' said her friend. 'I 
 think she mentioned a Miss Tallboys as the person who 
 spoke about your behaviour at the excursion. She said 
 she believed you pretended your ankle was bad to get 
 the doctor to carry you.' 
 
 1 Oh, the nasty, spiteful cat ! ' sobbed Mary. 
 
 At this moment her sister Emily entered the room. 
 She had just called, and was not a little surprised to see 
 Mary in tears. 
 
64 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, v 
 
 Janet explained the matter, and told her of Miss 
 Knaggs' remarks. 
 
 * Isn't it spiteful ? ' sobbed her sister. ( Would you 
 have thought it possible, Emily ? ' 
 
 1 Do you give occasion for gossip, Mary ? Does Dr 
 Armstrong come here every day ? ' asked her sister. 
 1 When he is here, Mrs Smith is always with us.' 
 Emily gave a sigh of relief, and felt very grateful to 
 the landlady. 4 But the world outside doesn't know that, 
 Mary,' she continued. ' It is so necessary to be careful. 
 I wonder Dr Armstrong is not more thoughtful.' 
 
 * Surely,' replied her sister, 'you are not going to 
 blame him for being kind to me ? ' 
 
 I Is it kind,' indignantly rejoined Emily ; * what are you 
 going to do when you return to your duties ? Miss 
 Knaggs may report you to the post-office authorities.' 
 
 * She did say,' interrupted Janet, ' she must know more 
 about this.' 
 
 I 1 will call and speak to her/ said Emiy ; ' and now, 
 Mary, something must be done to put an end to this. 
 I have just received a letter from father. He writes to 
 ask us to come to the farm before Christmas ; that he 
 expected both of us then, but would be glad to see 
 either of us earlier. Now, to-day is Wednesday : I shall 
 write and ask him to meet you at Fritton station on 
 Friday. Your ankle is much better, and a change to the 
 country would be very natural under the circumstances/ 
 
 ' I won't be sent home, as if I had misbehaved,' replied 
 Mary, with flashing eyes. 'People will think there's 
 something in these lies.' 
 
 'They certainly will if you don't go/ rejoined the 
 other. 
 
 'I should do what your sister advises, Mary,' mildly 
 suggested Janet Tomkins, ' that would most likely satisfy 
 Miss Knaggs, and all the gossip would soon subside.' 
 
CHAP, v] THE SURGEON AND HIS PA T1ENT 6g 
 
 * Of course Mary will,' said the elder sister imperi- 
 ously ; ' and I'll take care Dr Armstrong doesn't call 
 again.' 
 
 1 No, no, Emily, I won't have it,' and Mary again gave 
 way to a fit of hysterical sobbing. * You are not to go 
 to Dr Armstrong with these spiteful stories. What will 
 he think of me ? I will go home if you like, but promise 
 me you won't say anything. Promise me that, anyhow/ 
 and she stamped her foot upon the ground. 
 
 ( Well,' was the reply, * whether I say anything to Dr 
 Armstrong or not will depend entirely on your own 
 promptness in doing all you can to stop this scandal.' 
 
 Mary could get no more favourable terms, so she was 
 forced to be contented, and shortly after Mrs Smith 
 brought the tea things into the room, and the three sat 
 down to tea. 
 
 * Will you be able to leave the hospital and go home 
 for Christmas, Emily ? ' asked Janet. 
 
 4 1 think so,' was the answer. * I spoke to Dr Arm- 
 strong, and he said he would take care I had leave of 
 absence ; that he would make it his business to see to it 
 before he went home to the north to spend Christmas.' 
 
 1 Do you know, Emily,' said Mary, ' the Dawsons are 
 going to spend Christmas with Dr Armstrong's father ? ' 
 
 * Indeed,' rejoined her sister, ' I was not aware of it.' 
 ' Oh, yes, Dr Armstrong told me so.' 
 
 Emily made no further comment, but looked closely 
 at Janet, who did not, however, seem to have paid any 
 attention to this remark of Mary's. 
 
 After tea the three girls sat together chatting and 
 doing needlework for a couple of hours, and Mary's 
 good spirits returned. So much so, that she got talking 
 to her sister about their home, and the Christmas they 
 hoped to spend together. 
 
 4 1 shall be glad to see them all again,' she said. * Do 
 
 E 
 
66 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, v 
 
 you remember, Emily, George Burrows burning his 
 fingers last Christmas at snapdragon ? ' 
 
 i I thought George was a sweetheart, Mary? You 
 were much together last year.' 
 
 'Well, yes, I liked him very well. He's the best 
 dancer at Fritton.' 
 
 ' He's a most respectable man, Mary. Owns his own 
 farm, and I am quite sure is thoroughly honourable.' 
 
 Mary yawned. 'Very likely he's all that. I shall 
 see him when I go home. I daresay he won't be long in 
 finding me out.' 
 
 A little later Emily rose to return. 
 
 She thought the scandal about her sister serious, and 
 felt surprised at Dr Armstrong. How could it be 
 necessary to go every day to see her sister ? So clever 
 a man must know what people would be likely to say. 
 How could he run the risk of doing so terrible an injury 
 to Mary? 
 
 Emily was not altogether correct in her surmises. 
 Your clever men are by no means necessarily the first 
 to grasp what is often sufficiently plain to an ordinary 
 intelligence, and to do the doctor justice, Emily's view 
 of his conduct, though a true one, had never presented 
 itself in this light to his mind. 
 
 Emily thought she ought to speak to the doctor, but 
 it seemed a very difficult thing to do. 
 
 How could she, a nurse only, criticise the conduct of the 
 chief resident ocffier of the institution ? 
 
 Then the thought occurred to her that they had no 
 mother, and that it was incumbent on her to protect her 
 younger sister, and supply a mother's place. She 
 remembered her mother's delight in Mary when a child ; 
 laughing and happy, wayward and spoiled, filling the 
 house with sunshine, and bringing smiles to the faces 
 of her parents. 
 
CHAP, v] ' THE SURGEON AND HIS PA TIENT 67 
 
 1 If mother could see me/ she mused, * I think she 
 would wish me to speak.' 
 
 So she determined she would have an interview with 
 Dr Armstrong, and as no time was like the present, she 
 would see him that very night. 
 
 On reaching the hospital she ascertained that he was 
 in his room, and thither she accordingly directed her 
 steps. She hesitated for a moment before the door, and 
 then knocked boldly. When she heard his voice bidding 
 her enter, although she felt a trembling in her limbs, she 
 resolved to carry out what she had undertaken. 
 
 * What ! is it you, Nurse Elliot ? Nothing wrong, I 
 hope ? ' 
 
 ( I have just returned, Dr Armstrong, from seeing my 
 sister.' 
 
 c Well, you find her much better, don't you ? She'll 
 soon be able to get about now.' 
 
 'Yes, doctor, her ankle is much better,' said Emily, 
 ' but it was not about that I came ' 
 
 1 Why, nurse, what on earth's the matter ? ' said John, 
 in a tone of surprise. 
 
 * I hope, Dr Armstrong, you won't be offended at what 
 I say but Mary has no mother ' the tears came to her 
 eyes, and her voice was a little broken ' and I don't want 
 to write to father, so I thought I would be so bold as to 
 come and ask you why you are so regardless of my sister's 
 good name ? ' 
 
 John's face turned crimson. ' Nurse Elliot, what do 
 you mean ? I have done my best to cure your sister, 
 and now you speak to me in this way ! ' And he regarded 
 her sternly, but she replied : 
 
 1 Do you know what people are saying about Mary, and 
 how they are putting your name with hers in a way 
 which may be ruin to her ? What matters curing her 
 ankle, doctor, if her character be lost ? ' 
 
68 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, v 
 
 A change came over his face, and again the colour 
 rushed to his cheeks ; the weakness of his position was 
 apparent, and it was not so easy to answer the indignant 
 sister. 
 
 ' Is it really so ? ' he said. * How uncharitable people 
 are ! It would seem that a doctor can't visit a patient's 
 house without giving rise to scandal.' 
 
 4 But Mary has been much better for some time. Why 
 should a doctor call every day ? ' 
 
 Dr Armstrong blushed still more deeply, he felt his 
 position untenable. 
 
 ' I have been thoughtless, nurse ; can I do anything to 
 repair my fault ? ' 
 
 'Mary is going on Friday to stay with father till 
 after Christmas, but I do hope, sir, you will not call 
 again while she is in Norwich/ 
 
 Dr Armstrong promised not to do so, and with many 
 expressions of regret for the harm he had inadvertently 
 done, he wished Emily good-night. 
 
 The other retired with a feeling of relief that the 
 ordeal was over, and that she had done her duty as far 
 as lay in her power. 
 
 But John was upset by the occurrence. Was he 
 becoming the talk of Norwich ? 
 
 He must, indeed, take care. Did Dr Dawson know of 
 this, and Christmas close at hand, when they were all to 
 meet round his father's hearth ? 
 
 How could he have been so foolish ? For a moment 
 he felt angry with Mary Elliot, and it must be confessed 
 with sorrow, that most of his regret was of a selfish 
 character, and proceeded from a fear of injury to his 
 own reputation. 
 
 Dr Dawson was surgeon to the Norwich post-office, 
 and on making one of his official visits a few days later, 
 he was not a little surprised when the superintendent 
 
CHAP. V] THE SURGEON AND HIS PATIENT 69 
 
 of the female staff asked to have a few words in 
 private. 
 
 On entering her office Miss Knaggs rose to meet him, 
 and said she wished to consult him about a delicate 
 matter. Dr Dawson regarded the superintendent with 
 some astonishment. 
 
 * Do you know a Miss Mary Elliot, doctor ? ' she said. 
 
 1 No, I don't but stay,' he added, * one of our nurses 
 at the hospital is called Elliot, and I think she has a 
 sister.' 
 
 * Right,' said Miss Knaggs. ( Nurse Elliot has just been 
 to see me ; this sister is one of our clerks, and has been 
 away from her duties for some time past with a bad 
 ankle.' 
 
 * Oh, now I remember,' exclaimed the doctor, ' I heard 
 from Dr Armstrong that Nurse Elliot's sister met with 
 an accident at an excursion last month.' 
 
 4 This is the point, Dr Dawson,' said the other. 
 * I find there is scandal being talked about the town in 
 which the names of Mary Elliot and Dr Armstrong are 
 mixed up, and as the latter is your house-surgeon, and 
 I have always heard the best reports about him, I thought 
 I ought to speak to you on the subject. I never saw 
 harm in the girl ; she has struck me as flighty and 
 inclined to dress and finery, and I have thought her 
 general intelligence below the average, but she is just 
 the girl who might be led astray by an unscrupulous 
 man wanting in principle, and ' 
 
 1 Stay, madam, I must ask you to pause/ interrupted 
 Dr Dawson, sternly. ' Dr Armstrong is neither unscrupu- 
 lous nor wanting in principle, and what you are 
 suggesting is an infamous slander on him. I may 
 inform you, Miss Knaggs, I have known him all his life, 
 and his sister is going to marry my son. Who spread 
 this report ? It must be looked to ! ' 
 
70 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, v 
 
 * Oh, no offence, doctor I'm sure I meant no offence,' 
 replied the superintendent, taken aback at the other's 
 vehemence. 'I'm very glad to hear you say so, but I 
 must be so particular. These girls of mine do require 
 such looking after. Mr Johnstone ' (he was the super- 
 intendent of the male clerks) l is always complaining of 
 the trouble the men give, but his difficulties are nothing 
 to mine. You don't think, then, there is anything in 
 this ? Your nurse tells me her sister has gone home till 
 after Christmas.' 
 
 1 Nothing in it ? Of course there's nothing in it,' 
 retorted the doctor, * that is, as far as Dr Armstrong is 
 concerned. Who set this going ? ' 
 
 I Well, Miss 1 allboys gave me some rather curious 
 information as to Mary Elliot's behaviour at the 
 excursion, where the accident happened, and I heard 
 several of my clerks tittering the other day, and the 
 names of Dr Armstrong and this girl being bandied about. 
 When I made inquiries, I found that the attention the 
 doctor was paying her was the topic of conversation.' 
 
 I 1 could have sworn,' said Dr Dawson, ' that malicious 
 old woman was at the bottom of it. It is all the merest 
 chatter. Dr Armstrong has probably been attending to 
 the girl's ankle a sprain is sometimes serious as he was 
 present when the accident occurred, he has no doubt gone 
 on with the treatment.' 
 
 ' You have greatly relieved me, doctor. You have 
 taken quite a weight off my mind. I thought you were 
 the right person to consult.' 
 
 Dr Dawson said ' Good morning ' to the superin- 
 tendent, and retired. 
 
 As he drove home, however, the matter recurred again 
 to his mind, and the reasoning he had found efficacious 
 with Miss Knaggs did not seem so satisfying to himself. 
 
 Could it be possible he had made a mistake in his 
 
CHAP, v] THE SURGEON AND HIS PA TIENT 7 1 
 
 estimate of John, to whom he hoped at a no distant date 
 to give Edith ? He thought he could remember Charley 
 rallying him about some pretty girl. Could it have 
 been this Mary Elliot ? 
 
 What would his wife think ? Should he tell her ? 
 No, on the whole he thought it would be better to say 
 nothing, but he would look a little more closely after 
 John. 
 
 Probably there was very little in it after all. 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 TWO CHRISTMAS SCENES 
 ' I had a dream, which was not all a dream.' 
 
 IT was Christmas morning, and the snow was falling 
 heavily. Dawn was just breaking over Northcote Farm, 
 and Farmer Elliot, rising betimes to look after the 
 necessary work, shivered as he peeped through the 
 heavily frosted panes. 
 
 ' 'Twill be a seasonable Christmas,' he muttered. l It 
 looks snowy and the frost severe. The stock will want 
 seeing to,' and he hurried to dress himself, and was soon 
 facing the snow and the keen wind, on his way to the 
 stables to look after the young colts. 
 
 Farmer Elliot was fifty years of age, and from his 
 earliest youth had risen with the sun, and worked on 
 his own or his father's farm. 
 
 He was hale and hearty, and enjoyed to the full that 
 health which avocations of this kind are known to 
 afford. 
 
 He was well aware that at the present day, if profit is 
 to be got out of a farm, the master must see after the 
 work himself. 
 
 The noise made by the farmer in dressing aroused two 
 others who occupied adjoining rooms. Emily and Mary 
 Elliot were sleeping together, and the former, ac- 
 
CHAP, vi] TWO CHRISTMAS SCENES 73 
 
 customed to early rising, was first to hear her father 
 getting up, and at once decided to follow his example, 
 and see if she could be of any use downstairs, where the 
 supply of servants was limited. 
 
 She accordingly began to dress, and in so doing 
 aroused her sister, who in a sleepy manner endeavoured 
 to dissuade her from rising. 
 
 ' Why, it can't be six o'clock, Emily ? ' 
 
 * Oh, yes it is, Mary, I must get up. What sort of 
 breakfast will you get if we both lie abed ? You don't 
 expect father to see to it all ? ' 
 
 ' There's Betsy,' said the other. 
 
 Betsy was an old woman, who had been forty years in 
 the family, and was general servant. 
 
 ( Betsy can't do everything,' replied her sister ; ' we 
 must be reasonable, and give some help as we make 
 extra work.' 
 
 Mary made an ambiguous answer, and relapsed into 
 slumber, while Emily hastened to put on her clothes 
 and descend to assist in the general work. 
 
 She found her father returning from a visit to the 
 stables, and shaking the snow from his boots. 
 
 'What, Emily, lass, ye're early down. It looks like 
 a cold morning : the water's froze hard ; we'll have some 
 trouble with the stock.' 
 
 * A happy Christmas to you, father, a very happy one,' 
 said Emily, putting her arms round his neck, and kissing 
 him. ' Now you must let me help all I can.' 
 
 1 Ah, Emily, ye always were a useful body. The old 
 farm is quite another place when ye are here. I want 
 Betsy to make a mash for a sick horse, so ye might see 
 to the breakfast, and ease her a bit there. Mary abed, 
 I suppose ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, she's tired, father, so I left her there.' 
 
 ' Right, lass, quite right.' 
 
74 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, vi 
 
 The farmer then went into the kitchen to instruct 
 Betsy, and Emily set to work to light the parlour fire, 
 and make preparation for the morning meal. 
 
 Northcote Farmhouse was a rambling building, which 
 had once been the manor house. It was a structure of a 
 somewhat pretentious character, dating back three or 
 four centuries. The only remains of antiquity, however, 
 consisted of a curious block of chimney stacks, which 
 gave quite a feature to the house : these were hexagonal 
 in shape, and of massive stone, and looked fit to last a 
 few centuries more. 
 
 Most parts of the building had fallen to pieces from 
 time to time, and had been renovated to meet existing 
 requirements, so that the house now consisted of a good- 
 sized hall, with three rooms, each on a different level, 
 and a large kitchen on the ground floor. On the floor 
 above, to which access was gained by a central staircase, 
 were six bedrooms, which mostly communicated with one 
 another ; the windows were latticed, and the roof covered 
 with red tiles. 
 
 It was in fact a typical farmhouse, and with the 
 exception of the chimney stack, many like it are to be 
 found scattered over the eastern counties. 
 
 Emily soon had a blazing fire in the parlour, and the 
 table covered with preparations for a substantial meal. 
 When she saw that all was ready, that Betsy could 
 manage the rest, and also heard her father's voice in the 
 distance, she judged that he would shortly be ready 
 for breakfast, and ran upstairs to see if Mary were 
 getting up. 
 
 1 Come, Mary,' she cried, * father is just going to sit 
 down to breakfast. Do get up ! He'll be so disappointed 
 if we don't sit down with him on Christmas day. I 
 thought you were ready to come down. But what's 
 the matter ? Are you ill ? ' 
 
CHAP, vi] TWO CHRISTMAS SCENES 75 
 
 The last question was caused by the strange behaviour 
 of her sister. She started up in her bed with a half 
 suppressed cry, trembling all over. When Emily drew 
 up the window blind, she saw that her sister's face was 
 deathly pale, and covered with large drops of perspira- 
 tion. 
 
 * Why, Mary, what is all this ? ' she exclaimed with 
 trepidation ; * you were all right when I left you two 
 hours ago.' 
 
 I I've had such a shocking dream,' she gasped. * Don't 
 go away stay with me what shall I do ? ' 
 
 * It was a nightmare, Mary, that's what it was/ con- 
 fidently said her sister. 
 
 I 1 thought I was drowning,' continued Mary. { Oh, 
 I'm so cold ' (shivering violently and drawing the blanket 
 round her) ! * I seemed to be struggling in the broad 
 again, and George was not there to help me and 
 Emily,' here she convulsively seized her sister by the 
 arm * I thought it was Dr Armstrong who was holding 
 me under the water and making me drown.' 
 
 1 Are you in your right mind, Mary ? ' said the other 
 angrily. ( What has Dr Armstrong to do with you ? 
 The truth is, you're ill, and have not got over your 
 accident. You must have taken cold.' 
 
 ' Oh, Emily, I can't get Dr Armstrong out of my 
 thoughts since I promised to marry George.' 
 
 1 Don't mention Dr Armstrong's name again, Mary ! 
 I won't hear it ! You had better remain in bed, and I'll 
 tell father you are not well.' 
 
 She accordingly made her sister lie down again, and 
 covered her up warmly. ' I'll bring you up your break- 
 fast here,' she said soothingly, and she drew up the 
 blinds, letting in the sunshine, for the sun was now shining 
 and giving every prospect of a fine day. The bells, too, 
 of the parish church began to ring for early service, so 
 
76 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, vi 
 
 that Mary soon began to feel more cheerful, and to throw 
 off the effects of the nightmare. 
 
 Emily went down to breakfast with her father. 
 
 ( Where's the other lass ? ' he asked. l A farmer's wife 
 ought to rise betimes. What will George do when she 
 is mistress of Southwick ? He won't like to take his 
 breakfast by himself.' 
 
 * Mary's not well, father,' said Emily ; * she has had 
 a nightmare, and I've made her stay in bed. I fear she 
 has not got over that fall into the water.' 
 
 1 Perhaps I had better send Joe for Dr Ling after 
 breakfast,' said Farmer Elliot, putting down his knife 
 and fork, and looking anxious; ' she did seem to get over 
 it too easily.' 
 
 'I don't think she's as bad as that, father.' 'We 
 had better wait a bit ; she may be all right in an hour 
 or two.' 
 
 To render this conversation intelligible to our readers, 
 it will be necessary to narrate an occurrence which took 
 place a short time before. 
 
 Mary had left Norwich, as described in the last 
 chapter, and had been staying at the farm some weeks. 
 
 With her usual tendency to seek amusement wherever 
 it could be found, she had eagerly thrown herself into 
 all the local excitements, and had been a frequent visitor 
 at the neighbouring farms. As may be imagined, it was 
 not long before the flirtation between George Burrows 
 and herself was renewed. 
 
 George was a type of a healthy east Anglian farmer ; 
 strong and well-proportioned, standing five feet eight in 
 his stockings, light complexioned, and with a good word 
 for every one. He was the owner of one of the 
 best farms in the district, and a special favourite with 
 Mary's father. 
 
 When the frost set in about ten days before Christmas, 
 
CHAP. VI] TWO CHRISTMAS SCENES 77 
 
 there was a general rush to the ice as soon as it was 
 thought likely to bear, and foremost, as might be ex- 
 pected, was Mary Elliot. 
 
 Dangerous, indeed, to the community is the advent 
 of the frost for many reasons, but there is one 
 special danger too well known ; and never a frost of any 
 severity occurs, but a number of thoughtless persons loose 
 their young lives. 
 
 In and near large centres of population, public control 
 does much to lessen danger by careful supervision, and 
 by excluding all from the ice till its strength is beyond 
 suspicion ; but it is not always possible to do so in 
 country places, and there, as might be expected, 
 appalling accidents occur. 
 
 It happened that on a certain afternoon, about six days 
 before Christmas, the inhabitants of Fritton and the 
 surrounding villages had come in unusual number to a 
 portion of the broad about a mile from Northcote Farm. 
 
 Among them in more than ordinary spirits was Mary, 
 who was a good skater, and exceedingly fond of showing 
 her skill at this pastime. 
 
 The ice, on the whole, was fairly safe ; but a partial 
 thaw had set in that afternoon, and all had been warned 
 not to go near a part, where the freezing had not been so 
 complete as elsewhere. 
 
 Mary was in her element, and fortunately George 
 Burrows, who was also present, followed her with the 
 ardour of a much enamoured swain, and would not let 
 her out of his sight. 
 
 It must be acknowledged with regret that Mary, 
 although aware of his passion, was amusing herself by 
 flirting with some of the other young farmers. 
 
 An exciting game at * touch ' was in full swing, and 
 Mary with glowing cheeks was being chased all over the 
 ice, now dodging behind one of the little islets, which 
 
78 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, vi 
 
 studded the broad, now boldly shooting across the open, 
 in full view of her pursuers. 
 
 In the excitement of the game, and becoming more 
 and more hotly pressed, she forgot her proximity to the 
 dangerous portion of the ice. She had some start of the 
 others, and only became aware of the danger by their 
 shouts of warning, while at the same time she felt the 
 ice cracking beneath her feet. 
 
 She had little of Emily's presence of mind : the danger 
 seemed to paralyse her judgment, and instead of deviat- 
 ing in her course, and bearing away from the rotten ice, 
 she tried to cross it. She made the attempt, too, in a 
 nervous, hesitating manner, with the result that one 
 of her skates caught in a lump of snow, and she was 
 precipitated violently on to the weakest portion of the 
 ice. 
 
 There was a crash as the ice gave way, and Mary dis- 
 appeared beneath the surface. 
 
 A shout of terror rose from all ; and George Burrows, 
 who was only a few yards behind the ill-fated girl, at 
 once stopped, knelt down, and cautiously crawled to the 
 margin of the broken ice. At the same time he shouted 
 to those on the bank to make haste and get some ropes. 
 He then thrust his hand and arm under the water to 
 grasp Mary, if she rose to the surface. 
 
 So prompt had been his action and rapid his move- 
 ments, that he was anxiously feeling for Mary within a 
 few seconds of her immersion, and great was his joy 
 almost immediately to feel one of her arms, as she came 
 up to the surface. In a moment he got her head above 
 water, amid cheers from the bank. A strong rope was 
 drawn across from bank to bank, while George fastened 
 another round Mary just below her arms. He, then, 
 with assistance drew her out of the water and got her 
 on shore. 
 
CHAP, vi] TWO CHRISTMAS SCENES 79 
 
 Mary had evidently been conscious during the whole 
 of these proceedings, but was very frightened, and finally 
 burst out into a fit of hysterical sobbing. She was 
 taken home and put to bed ; but the following day, 
 except for a little depression of mind, she was herself 
 again. 
 
 The chief result of the accident, however, was that 
 the relations between her and George Burrows became 
 settled ; for the latter's gallant conduct was in every 
 one's mouth, and her father became his chief partisan, 
 and almost in words told her what it was incumbent 
 on her to do. 
 
 Mary felt the deepest gratitude, a feeling which at 
 that time seemed like love, although it was not so. 
 The nearest approach to this passion had been excited 
 by Dr Armstrong, and as the time for making a final 
 decision came, the thought of him kept recurring to 
 her mind. 
 
 'He would never marry me,' she thought. 'They 
 wouldn't let him. He's to marry Miss Dawson.' 
 
 Mary was, moreover, peculiarly sensitive to public 
 opinion, although from thoughtlessness she had often 
 been near outraging it, and she saw clearly that her 
 neighbours expected her to accept this young farmer, 
 so on the third day after the accident she made him 
 happy by promising to be his wife. 
 
 Emily, on arriving at the farm, heard the news with 
 great satisfaction. It was true her sister and Dr 
 Armstrong were not likely to meet in the future, but 
 she did not know how far the old flirtation had gone, and 
 it was therefore with thankfulness she learned that Mary 
 was solemnly pledged to another. ( With all her giddi- 
 ness/ she thought, ' that will keep her straight.' 
 
 The wedding was to be at the latter end of the next year, 
 and in the meanwhile Mary was to stay at Northcote 
 
8o JOHN A RMS TRONG [CHAP, vi 
 
 Farm, and to do her best to learn the duties of a farmer's 
 wife, and by helping to manage her father's household 
 prepare to be the mistress of Southwick, which was the 
 name of George's farm. 
 
 Emily and her father finished their breakfast, and an 
 hour later Mary came down. She had apparently quite 
 recovered, and expressed an intention of going to church. 
 
 Emily agreed to accompany her, and a little later the 
 two sisters set out for Fritton Church. The weather had 
 cleared, and it was a bright frosty morning, with quite a 
 brilliant sun. Everywhere nature was covered with a 
 white mantle, and the crystals of snow in countless 
 places on trees and hedges sparkled like diamonds. 
 
 The church bells, too, began to peal merrily, and as 
 they passed along the road kindly greetings were ex- 
 changed with their neighbours. 
 
 Before half the distance between the farm and the 
 church had been traversed, they were met by George 
 Burrows and his sister : the former promptly took posses- 
 sion of Mary, handing over his sister to Emily. 
 
 Jane Burrows, George's sister, was a healthy, unaf- 
 fected, and unassuming girl, and a special favourite with 
 Emily. She saw the warmth with which her brother 
 greeted his sweetheart, and said, ( Emily, George does so 
 dote on Mary. He worships the ground she walks on. 
 I really don't know how he'll be able to wait till next 
 autumn.' 
 
 1 1 trust she'll make a good wife,' was the reply ; ( but 
 she'll want quite a year to learn to be of use on a farm, 
 for unfortunately she is so slow learning, and seems to 
 dislike home work.' 
 
 * I hope,' said George tenderly, * you don't feel any ill 
 effects from that accident, Mary ? Oughtn't you to have 
 seen the doctor? What a shock it must have been, 
 dear.' 
 
CHAP, vi] TWO CHRISTMAS SCENES 81 
 
 4 Nonsense, George,' she replied, ( where's the good of 
 making a fuss about nothing. I'm quite well, so why 
 should I go to the doctor ? The worst that has come of 
 the wetting has been a nasty dream.' 
 
 ' A dream, Mary ? Why, what could you have had to 
 dream about ? ' 
 
 'I dreamt, George,' she said with a shudder, *I was 
 being drowned again, and you were not there to save 
 me. It was a terrible feeling, but only a dream. You 
 don't believe in dreams, do you ? ' 
 
 'Believe in dreams, dear? I should think not/ said 
 George. ' I don't know how often poor mother used to 
 dream the house was going to be burnt down, and would 
 eagerly look out the insurance policy to see that all was 
 right, but Southwick still remains unburnt indeed, has 
 never been afire.' 
 
 Morning Service was duly attended, and at its close 
 the Elliots returned home, bringing with them George 
 and his sister, who had been invited to spend the day at 
 Northcote Farm. 
 
 A pleasant, happy day was passed, in which the lovers 
 had plenty of time to themselves ; in the evening 
 Mary sang her songs, which Janet accompanied on the 
 piano, and which were enthusiastically received by 
 George, while the old farmer smoked his pipe, and 
 looked benignly on the others in a true Christmas feeling 
 of love and goodwill to all ; now criticising the music, 
 now poking fun at George and Mary. 
 
 So passed Christmas day at Northcote Farm. 
 
 Let us now shift the scene some 200 miles north. We 
 find ourselves before an old country mansion approached 
 by a drive, bordered by stately ^elms, and surrounded by 
 several acres of lawn and garden. 
 
 The house is old-fashioned and roomy, and was 
 originally Elizabethan in character ; but additional 
 
 F 
 
82 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, vi 
 
 building has modified the style of architecture, which 
 has had to give way to the convenience of the occu- 
 pants. 
 
 This is the home of the Armstrongs, who for many 
 generations have occupied it. It is situated in the parish 
 of Driffield, at the northern extremity of the county of 
 York. 
 
 We enter through a spacious porch into a more 
 spacious hall, where a huge fire is burning, and there are 
 stag antlers and other trophies of the chase on the walls. 
 Stuffed birds are also to be seen in cases, and the whole 
 seems to indicate that forbears of the Armstrongs have 
 been both huntsmen and sportsmen. 
 
 At this moment the dinner gong sounds, the clock is 
 striking six, so let us enter with the diners, and take a 
 survey of the company. 
 
 The dining-room is an apartment of ample proportions. 
 A great yule log is blazing in the old-fashioned fire- 
 place, roaring up the chimney, and sending up myriads 
 of sparks in a true Christmas fashion. Three large bay 
 windows on one side admit light during the day, and 
 they are surmounted by handsome cornices bearing dark 
 plush curtains. The floor is of polished oak, hand- 
 somely inlaid, before the fireplace is a tiger skin, and 
 a Turkey carpet occupies the centre. 
 
 The furniture is of dark mahogany of a massive 
 character, and upholstered in maroon-coloured morocco. 
 The whole is lighted by two large brass candelabra, which 
 hang over the middle of the table, the wax candles of 
 which throw down on the plate and glass below a mellow 
 light, just enough to show clearly the good things to be 
 consumed, and to add a pleasing sparkle to the wine, as 
 it dances merrily in the glasses. 
 
 Let us take a glance at the assembled company. 
 
 That hearty old gentleman is Dr John Armstrong the 
 
CHAP, vi] TWO CHRISTMAS SCENES 83 
 
 elder. His face is beaming, and he has taken his place 
 at the far end of the table. On his right hand sit Dr 
 and Mrs Dawson, while facing them is Alice, her father's 
 housekeeper, and close to her yes, very close her 
 betrothed, Charley Dawson. Next to Mrs Dawson is 
 Edith, and by Edith's side, John. 
 
 The latter does not look well. He has been complain- 
 ing of headache, his face is flushed, and he has little 
 appetite for dinner. 
 
 John's father gave a short grace. He then said, * My 
 dear friends, you are very welcome ; this is not the first 
 time we have spent the festive season together, and I 
 trust it will not be the last.' 
 
 ' John, my boy,' said Dr Armstrong presently, ' you're 
 not getting on with your dinner.' 
 
 4 No,' said Edith, * he has scarcely eaten anything. I'm 
 sure he's not well.' 
 
 'There, John, you hear what Dr Edith says,' and 
 Charley put on an air of great solemnity. 'Let her 
 prescribe for you. By-the-bye, old man, I hope you're 
 not moping about that pretty girl whose ankle you 
 cured so nicely, for I tell you, you're out of it yes, 
 out of it altogether.' 
 
 Edith could not help showing annoyance at this 
 allusion to Mary Elliot, and John flushed angrily as he 
 looked at the speaker. 
 
 Dr Dawson glanced suspiciously at John, and then 
 turned to his son, and asked : 
 
 * What do you mean, Charley ? ' 
 
 ' I only mean,' was the reply, ' that Miss Mary Elliot, a 
 young lady of our acquaintance in Norwich, is engaged to 
 be married to a handsome young fellow of the name of 
 4 Burrows.' 
 
 'What hadyozt to do with this Miss Elliot, Charley? ' 
 said Alice, with some severity. 
 
84 JOHN A RMSTRONG [CHAP, vi 
 
 * Oh, I ? Nothing at all I never poach on John's 
 preserves.' 
 
 1 Well, Charley,' said his mother, ' you seem to know 
 all about this engagement, while John apparently does 
 not, so Alice had better make further inquiries.' 
 
 'Well, the truth is, mother, I went over to visit a 
 friend one of our articled clerks a few days ago at 
 Fritton, and I heard quite a romantic story about this 
 lady. She has been the talk of the town.' 
 
 Dr Dawson thought he could quite understand that. 
 John leaned forward anxiously, and said, 4 What has 
 happened, Charley ? ' 
 
 4 It appears,' continued the latter, ' that when the frost 
 set in, and before the ice was strong enough, this young 
 lady ventured on, and was skating about to the admira- 
 tion of all beholders, when, lo ! on a sudden, the ice gave 
 way, and in she went ! ' 
 
 4 How very dreadful ! ' exclaimed the ladies in a breath ; 
 and Edith noticed John was deeply interested. 
 
 4 Yes,' said Charley, ' in she went, and she wouldn't 
 have come out again that is, alive if a love-sick swain, 
 who had dogged her steps all the afternoon, had not 
 pluckily gone to the rescue and pulled her out. The 
 whole village rings with his praises, and a few days 
 after the exploit the gallant youth received as the re- 
 ward of his service a promise of the lady's hand. Now, 
 Alice, is not this a nice little bit of romance ? Doesn't 
 our wooing seem tame after it ? ' 
 
 * I'm very glad,' replied Alice, laughing, * to be with- 
 out such romance. I shouldn't think it pleasant to be 
 nearly drowned, and you know, Charley, perhaps you 
 wouldn't have succeeded in pulling me out.' 
 
 4 It's a good thing,' said Dr Dawson to the elder Dr 
 Armstrong, ' the girl is likely to be settled. From what 
 I heard at Norwich she seemed a little unsteady.' 
 
CHAP. VI] TWO CHRISTMAS SCENES 85 
 
 The colour mounted to John's face as Dr Dawson 
 made this remark and looked in his direction, but he 
 said nothing. 
 
 John's father now proposed the health of the young 
 couple, soon to be made one (for the marriage had been 
 arranged to take place early in the spring). 
 
 * Ah, Charley, I cannot help regarding you somewhat 
 in the light of a robber. What am I to do when you 
 have taken away Alice ? An old man of over threescore 
 will not have a soul to look after him.' 
 
 'Make John take a wife and come here/ was the 
 prompt reply, * and a very nice thing he'll have too. 
 Think of the suburban villa that Alice and I will be 
 reduced to, and compare it with this lovely spot. Some 
 men don't know when they are well off.' 
 
 4 You hear, John ? ' said his father. 
 
 John gave a forced smile, and tried to change the 
 subject. 
 
 'He might do worse from a business point,' said his 
 father to Dr Dawson. 
 
 * It seems to me,' replied the other, * this is just the 
 place for John.' 
 
 After dinner they retired to the drawing-room, where 
 Alice and Edith played duets. Then Alice and Charley 
 tried part songs, while Dr and Mrs Dawson and the 
 Armstrongs sat down to a rubber at whist. 
 
 Early in the evening, however, Dr Armstrong insisted 
 on his son going to bed, he was so evidently unwell. 
 
 * I don't like his look to-night, John,' said Dr Dawson 
 to his old crony, when the young man had retired, * he is 
 feverish, and has been far from well all day/ 
 
 1 Let us hope it is only a cold,' was the reply, ( and that 
 he will be better to-morrow.' 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 JOHN'S ILLNESS 
 
 ' O woman, in our hours of ease, 
 Uncertain, coy, and hard to please : 
 
 When pain and anguish wring the brow, 
 A ministering angel thou.' 
 
 THE next morning John was far too unwell to rise, and 
 when the party assembled at breakfast, there was a gloom 
 upon all on account of the unforeseen entrance of sick- 
 ness into the family. 
 
 The early period of every illness is always one of grave 
 anxiety, especially when its nature is not altogether 
 known. For who can say what terrible malady may 
 not be at hand, or whether the patient may, or may 
 not, be able to bear up against the disease ? 
 
 The meal passed off almost in silence, and even the 
 irrepressible spirit of Charley was damped. 
 
 ' This is a disappointment, Alice, isn't it ? ' he whis- 
 pered. * How very unreasonable of John to choose such 
 a time to be ill!' 
 
 After breakfast John's father and Dr Dawson had a 
 consultation, and came to the conclusion that the 
 symptoms pointed to typhoid fever. 
 
 ( How could he have caught it ? ' said the latter. * He 
 
CHAP, vii] JOHN'S ILLNESS 87 
 
 must have sickened at Norwich. There were two or 
 three cases in the hospital there, I remember.' 
 
 'It may have been so,' replied the other, 'but how 
 often it happens, Dawson, that it is impossible to say 
 with any certainty where this disease is contracted. 
 Sometimes our drains may be at fault, or an improper 
 waste pipe to our bath-room may poison the whole 
 household ; in other cases the use of infected drinking 
 water may generate the disease. But both you and I 
 have seen many a case in which the outbreak could not 
 be attributed to any of these causes/ 
 
 The party did not separate till after the New Year, 
 but it was then thought advisable the Dawsons should 
 return home. 
 
 John now was delirious, and scarcely knew any one. 
 At times he would recognise his father and his sister, 
 but it was evident he was smitten very severely. 
 
 A trained nurse had been procured, but Alice and 
 Edith shared in the nursing ; the latter, indeed, displayed 
 such skill and ability that Dr Armstrong could not help 
 showing his regret when the time drew near for the 
 departure of the Dawsons. 
 
 Dr Dawson saw this, and after consulting with his wife 
 and Edith, kindly told his old friend that if he thought 
 it would advantage his son, Edith might remain. In 
 fact, she was quite anxious to do so, if she could be 
 of any good. 
 
 Dr Armstrong thankfully accepted the offer. 
 
 'It is very kind of you/ he said. 'You see Alice is 
 not' of much use in a sick-room, but Edith, upon my 
 word, seems born for a nurse.' 
 
 * My only anxiety is, lest she should take the disease. 1 
 
 'She might do so at Norwich/ replied her father. 
 ' You know, Armstrong, we don't believe much in the 
 contagious character of typhoid, if proper precaution 
 
88 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, vn 
 
 are taken, and I am sure there is no fear of omission 
 in this respect in your house/ 
 
 So it was settled that Edith should remain, and take 
 her share of nursing, when the regular nurse was off 
 duty. 
 
 For several weeks John hovered between life and 
 death, and like a guardian angel Edith watched over 
 him, taking her turn, and noting every change with 
 a keenness and accuracy, which far excelled the power 
 of observation of her trained assistant : and Dr Armstrong 
 soon began to rely more and more on Edith's report, 
 and to congratulate himself on his good fortune in being 
 able to secure such valuable services for his son. 
 
 About the end of the third week of the illness it 
 was evident that a climax was being reached, and that 
 the patient could not become much worse. 
 
 To the eye of the father it was but too clear that a 
 few days more would show whether his son would live 
 or die. Every one in the house went about with bated 
 breath, and the faces of the watchers showed clearly 
 their anxiety. 
 
 It was at this time that Dr Armstrong, visiting his 
 son about eight o'clock one evening, found Edith sitting 
 before the patient's bed in great distress, and her pallid 
 face and trembling hands showed all the signs of 
 imminent exhaustion. 
 
 4 My child,' said the doctor, 'this will never do. You 
 must go to bed at once. You are not in a fit state to 
 watch another hour. 7 
 
 ' Is he going to die, Dr Armstrong ? ' she said. ' Is 
 he going to die ? ' and the tears coursed down her 
 cheeks. 
 
 The doctor gazed long and steadily at his son, felt his 
 pulse, noted his temperature and respirations. 
 
 * There is hope yet, Edith, but you must go to bed, 
 
CHAP, vii] JOHN'S ILLNESS 89 
 
 and I will take your place till nurse relieves me. I will 
 be sure to let you know of any change, my child, he 
 added, noticing her wistful look of anxiety. 
 
 1 Thank you, thank you,' she said, as she pressed the 
 doctor's hand, and silently left the room. 
 
 * Ah/ he muttered, when he found himself alone, ' to- 
 night will clear the matter. How that dear girl loves 
 him, and he has always been so cold and impassive to- 
 wards her. Surely, if he gets well, and hears of her noble 
 devotion, he will have some gratitude. And he shall 
 hear of it ' looking towards the bed ( if he lives.' 
 
 The patient was very restless, and his face covered 
 with perspiration. Ever and anon he muttered inco- 
 herent words. Once or twice his father distinctly heard 
 the name ' Mary ' pronounced. 
 
 He started. i Surely,' he thought, * there can be 
 nothing between him and that girl Charley was aljuding 
 to on Christmas day. I hope Edith has not heard him 
 mention that name/ 
 
 He wiped his son's face with a handkerchief, moistened 
 his lips, and placed a small piece of ice in his mouth. 
 Then he renewed the cold compress to his head. 
 
 He next took out his thermometer, and proceeded to 
 take the temperature. 
 
 4 It is falling,' he said a few minutes later, on looking 
 at the register, ' and the pulse still holds. He will pull 
 through, thank God,' and the old man tottered to a chair, 
 and sank down almost overcome by his feelings. 
 
 An hour later he administered a stimulant with some 
 liquid food, and the patient sank into a calm sleep, 
 such as had not been since the commencement of the 
 illness. 
 
 When, shortly after, the nurse relieved the father, he 
 pointed out to her the favourable change, and left the 
 room with an unutterable feeling of relief. Passing by 
 
go JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, vn 
 
 Edith's room he knocked at the door, which was im- 
 mediately opened by that lady, who had evidently made 
 no attempt to go to bed. 
 
 1 All is well, Edith/ he said joyfully, ' the change has 
 come. John will get well.' 
 
 He smiled as he saw the happy look in Edith's eyes, 
 and added, * Now child, go to bed at once go to bed 
 we don't want another patient on our hands.' 
 
 Dr Armstrong was right. The change had come. 
 
 From that night John steadily improved, but his con- 
 valescence was slow, showing how the virulence of the 
 fever had undermined his constitution. Three weeks 
 later he was only able to sit up for short intervals, and 
 he looked no more than the wreck of his former strength. 
 
 During convalescence, he could not help noticing 
 Edith's tender solicitude for his welfare, the thousand 
 and one little things which showed clearly enough the 
 cause of all this care, and drew his attention to the fact 
 that such a devotion in a woman could be the outcome 
 of but one influence. 
 
 He now, for the first time, felt that there could be no 
 doubt he was loved by Edith. 
 
 On one memorable morning when his convalescence 
 was advanced, and he was beginning to get about between 
 two or three rooms, March was now half through, and in 
 April the marriage of his sister and Charley was to take 
 place, his father came into the room where he was 
 sitting with Edith and Alice, who were discussing the 
 wedding. On his entrance, Alice exclaimed, 'Now, 
 Edith, father is going to talk to John, so you need 
 not mind leaving him, and come and have a look at 
 those new dresses. I very much want you to give me 
 your opinion, for I'm not satisfied.' 
 
 ( Oh, yes,' laughed John, ( do go ! For goodness sake 
 don't let Alice remain in suspense about a dress ! ' 
 
CHAP, vii] JOHN'S ILLNESS 91 
 
 Dr Armstrong sat down by the side of his son, and 
 watched Edith as she left the room. When the door 
 closed, he looked earnestly at his son, and said : 
 
 * Ah, John, we shall soon have a wedding in the family, 
 how I wish it were going to be a double one/ 
 
 John blushed, as he could not help seeing what his 
 father had in his mind. 
 
 ' If you had only seen her, my boy,' he continued, 
 ( watching over you when you were so ill ; the tender- 
 ness, the attention, the affectionate solicitude she dis- 
 played ! Could you only appreciate all this ! Could you 
 only have seen her as I did, on the night when your 
 illness took its final turn, you could have little doubt 
 in what direction to seek for a wife ! ' 
 
 4 1 assure you, father, I do appreciate Edith's care. I 
 am deeply grateful, and I think she loves me.' 
 
 'You need have no doubt about it,' interpolated his 
 father. 
 
 'I also think/ continued his son, 'I am exceedingly 
 fond of Edith. I always used to admire her and 
 father if you approve of it I I was thinking of asking 
 her to be my wife.' 
 
 ( John, you have made me a happy man,' was the 
 glad reply. ' It is the one thing I have always desired. 
 You never could find throughout the wide world a better 
 wife than Edith will make you. It's a pity we can't 
 have the weddings together. 
 
 At this moment the girls returned. 
 
 * Well, Alice, how about the dress ? ' said her brother. 
 * Edith thinks it all right, so I suppose it will have to do.' 
 
 4 But, if it's all right,' said John, ' you wouldn't have it 
 altered, would you ? ' 
 
 1 Perhaps, when Edith is going to be married, she will 
 be more particular,' retorted his sister with some 
 asperity. 
 
92 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, vn 
 
 A day or two later John was sitting in the dining- 
 room reading a newspaper, and Edith was busy over 
 some finery for the wedding. 
 
 The former let his paper drop from his hands, and fell 
 into a reverie for a few minutes. Then looking up and 
 noticing that Edith had been observant of it, and was 
 wondering whether he was not so well, he replied to her 
 thoughts : 
 
 * Fm quite well, Edith, but I was thinking of you.' 
 His companion blushed. 
 
 ' Yes, Edith, I have been thinking that I love you 
 very dearly, and T don't think I should be alive now, if 
 it had not been for you/ 
 
 * Now, I want to ask a question a very important 
 one Charley and Alice are shortly to become one, 
 may I tell my father and your parents, that we have 
 agreed to follow their example ? Do you love me well 
 enough for that, Edith ? ' 
 
 * Yes, John, I do,' was the reply, * I love you more than 
 I can tell you.' And she came close, and placed her 
 hands in his. ( But, John,' she added after a pause, ' you 
 don't love me only for nursing you, do you ? ' and she 
 looked wistfully into his face. * You don't want to marry 
 me only because you think I saved your life ? ' 
 
 4 Oh no, dear,' he replied, 1 1 don't mean that. I must 
 have loved you for a long while. You know, I always 
 liked you.' 
 
 ' Yes/ she replied, but a little doubtfully, as she thought 
 of the excursion to Yarmouth. 
 
 ' Do you know,' continued John, * I have never thought 
 much about marriage ; during my illness I have seen 
 things in another light, and I now feel sure I must have 
 loved you all along.' 
 
 Ah ! when the poor fever-stricken patient had been 
 unconsciously murmuring the name of * Mary ' on and off 
 
CHAP, vn] JOHN'S ILLNESS 93 
 
 through that terrible interval, when life and death 
 battled for his possession, this delirium, though possibly 
 evidence of a certain sort, that he had been in love, 
 hardly proved that Edith had been the object of his 
 affection. 
 
 He remembered nothing of this, all was quite a blank 
 here and fortunately Edith had not heard the wild 
 words. Had she done so, she would have understood 
 their meaning, and very different might have been her 
 answer on this eventful morning. 
 
 But the nurse had listened to them, and so also had 
 John's father, and even now John was deceiving himself, 
 and in reality was no more in love with Edith than Mary 
 Elliot was with George Burrows. 
 
 Still he felt and he was right that Edith loved him, 
 and that no girl deserved to be loved more devotedly, and 
 that it would be wise to seize the opportunity of gaining 
 so good a wife. 
 
 Yes, there was a spice of selfishness that ran through 
 John's mental calculations, and it was more disastrous in 
 reality because it was a selfishness of which he was 
 unconscious. For had he understood he was simply 
 sacrificing Edith for his own welfare, the iniquity of the 
 action would have been palpable ; and as he was by 
 no means wanting in all principle, he might have 
 studied Edith's future, and have considered whether it 
 was right to mislead her as to the reality of his love. 
 
 There can be no doubt that if Edith had had any 
 reason to suspect the truth of his love, she would never 
 have consented to wed him. But, alas ! we all believe 
 only too easily what we wish to believe, and it did not 
 occur to her to question in the least this apparently 
 spontaneous confession. 
 
 She simply said, 'Yes, John, I will be your wife, 
 and will try to make you happy,' and in the embrace 
 
94 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, vii 
 
 that followed, John felt more than ever that the pleasing 
 delusion into which he had fallen was in fact the truth. 
 
 Vanity of vanities ! How often it happens in the 
 world that shams take the place of reality, that fiction 
 supplants truth. The professing lover is accepted at his 
 own valuation, the true one is not even listened to. 
 
 On this same day, many miles distant, Edith's true 
 lover, James Paget, was thinking of her with sadness in 
 his heart. 
 
 He had heard of John's illness, and that Edith had 
 stayed at Driffield to nurse him, and with his usual 
 shrewdness had foreseen what had happened. 
 
 His one anxiety and only care was for Edith, and he 
 had prayed earnestly that John would really love her ; for 
 his greatest fear was lest he should marry her under a 
 false impression that he loved her, and should find out his 
 mistake when too late. 
 
 But all was in God's hands. He could do nothing 
 except look on, and when a few days later he learnt of 
 Edith's engagement, he finally made his decision to go 
 abroad with Bishop Jackson. 
 
 In the afternoon, John presented Edith to his father. 
 1 Father,' he said, ( all is settled, Edith is going to be my 
 wife.' 
 
 * Why couldn't you have come to this understanding 
 quicker, John ? ' said his sister, who was sitting by her 
 father. ' It will be impossible now for Edith to be 
 married with me, as she is to be my bridesmaid, and I 
 can't possibly get another in time.' 
 
 ( Never mind, Alice,' said her father with a joyful 
 smile, ' we'll have another wedding before long, and you 
 shall have the pleasure of being at both.' 
 
 * Edith,' said Alice, * I shall be very pleased to have 
 you for a sister. You know I always thought you would 
 be my sister, but, heigh-ho ! you and John have been so 
 
CHAP, vn] JOHN'S ILLNESS 95 
 
 long making up your minds that I was beginning to 
 think he would be a confirmed old bachelor.' 
 
 Three weeks later, there was great excitement in the 
 ancestral mansion of the Armstrongs ; it was the day of 
 Charley and Alice's wedding. 
 
 All the Christmas visitors were once again under the 
 old roof. Dr Dawson warmly shook hands with John, 
 and congratulating him on his convalescence, told him 
 he would be glad to have him as a son-in-law. 
 
 Edith's mother was also well pleased, and as she kissed 
 her daughter, she exclaimed : 
 
 ' I'm so glad everything has happened as we wished, 
 after all. I was getting a little afraid about John. Do 
 you know, I actually heard there was talk about him and 
 a post-office clerk of the name of Elliot. I was sure 
 there couldn't be anything in it.' 
 
 Edith paled a little, but said nothing. Whenever this 
 girl was mentioned a cloud came across her happiness. 
 She could not forget seeing her in John's arms, when she 
 had been so maliciously pointed out by Miss Tallboys on 
 the day of the excursion. 
 
 It was a fine spring morning, and the whole neighbour- 
 hood were out of doors to see the wedding of Dr 
 Armstrong's daughter, who had lived among them all 
 her life, and was deservedly popular. 
 
 The sun was shining brightly, and the bells ringing 
 merrily as the cortege drew up at the porch of the parish 
 church. 
 
 Inside it was crowded, and the party was met by the 
 old rector, who shook hands warmly with the bride's 
 father, who introduced his son to the rector's notice, and 
 intimated that before long he would require his services 
 to tie another knot. 
 
 1 Well, doctor,' said the clergyman, ' I'm always ready 
 to serve you. I wish all happiness to the young folks.' 
 
96 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, vn 
 
 Alice was a trifle nervous, and anxious about her dress, 
 but as every one admired it she grew calmer. Charley 
 was as cool and collected as usual. 
 
 ' Aren't you ashamed of yourself,' he said with mock 
 solemnity to John, * to allow your younger brother to go 
 through this ordeal without having first set him the 
 example ? ' 
 
 ' Never mind, old man,' replied his friend, ' cheer up, 
 it'll soon be over.' 
 
 The marriage service then proceeded, and Alice and 
 Charley became man and wife. The organ peeled forth 
 the wedding march, and amid showers of rice and 
 cheering, the party returned to Dr Armstrong's house 
 for the breakfast. 
 
 This repast went off with the greatest success, and 
 after the usual toasts, John, in replying for the ' brides- 
 maids,' intimated amid cheers, that one of them was 
 shortly about to follow the example so courageously 
 set that morning. Charley and Alice retired to pre- 
 pare for their journey ; and shortly after, amid quite a 
 shower of old shoes, they were seen to gallop along the 
 drive en route for the railway station and Scarborough, 
 where the first portion of the honeymoon was to be 
 spent. 
 
 On the following day, Dr and Mrs Dawson and their 
 daughter left for Norwich, and John accompanied them 
 to make a stay at their house till he was a little stronger. 
 He then proposed to go to London to prosecute his 
 professional studies at one of the metropolitan hospitals, 
 and to take a survey of the metropolis generally, with 
 all its sights and fascinations, before returning to marry 
 Edith in the autumn. 
 
 John was to have plenty of Edith's company, for he 
 was to escort her and her mother to London, where 
 
CHAP, vn] JOHN'S ILLNESS 97 
 
 they would shortly go to make Charley's home ready 
 for the return of the pair from their honeymoon. 
 
 A suburban villa of fair size had been taken and 
 furnished at Finchley, and it was determined by mother 
 and daughter that nothing should be omitted to make 
 this home without speck or blemish. 
 
 While staying with the Dawsons at Norwich, John 
 revisited his old friends, and everywhere introduced 
 Edith as his future wife ; so that his engagement became 
 generally known, and among others who became aware 
 of it was Emily Elliot, who had returned to her duties 
 at the hospital. 
 
 She was not sorry to hear of the engagement, but in 
 writing to her sister at Fritton she did not mention 
 it, as she wished, as far as possible, to keep John's 
 name from her, hoping she might forget all about 
 him. 
 
 The Rev. James Paget had not yet resigned his 
 curacy, but was leaving in a few months. He shook 
 hands heartily with John on meeting him, and con- 
 gratulated him. 
 
 ( You have got a pearl, Armstrong, a pearl of price, 
 and I trust you will know how to prize it. God has 
 indeed been good to you. Remember me to Miss Edith, 
 and say I trust to see her before I leave Norwich.' 
 
 John thanked him, and again remonstrated with him 
 about his going abroad, but the die was cast, and the 
 curate told his friend that nothing could shake his 
 determination in that respect. 
 
 After the interview, James Paget became thoughtful. 
 He had misgivings that all was not well, and by some 
 power of intuition he seemed to see into the future. 
 If anything did go wrong affecting Edith, how hard it 
 would be to hear of it in some distant part of the 
 world, where he could render no assistance! 'Does 
 
 G 
 
98 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, vn 
 
 John really love her ? * he asked himself, and the answer 
 in his mind was far from satisfactory. 
 
 He had said he would call on Edith, but he did not 
 feel sure it would be well to do so. He would not for 
 the world that she should have any idea of his passion ; 
 but he rightly conjectured that she, absorbed in her 
 own affection for John, would not be likely to notice 
 the state of his heart, or to spy out a secret, which in 
 spite of his utmost caution, her mother had more than 
 suspected. 
 
 When just before his departure he did call, she 
 received him kindly, and told him how greatly she 
 admired his self-sacrifice, and that she would always 
 remember him as one of her oldest friends. 
 
 ' Thank you, Miss Edith,' he said, * it is very good of 
 you, but I want one favour and see, here is a little 
 Church Service, which I am going to ask you to accept 
 as a memento. If at any time you are in trouble, and 
 I could be of assistance, promise me you will give me 
 that privilege.' 
 
 ' Thank you, Mr Paget. Yes, indeed I will. But,' 
 she added smiling, ( I hope I am not going to have any 
 trouble.' 
 
 * Heaven forbid,' he replied, * but you have made me 
 happy by your promise.* 
 
 He bade her 'adieu,' and as he left, Edith observed 
 him more closely. His kind sympathetic manner had 
 a wonderful attraction, and when he was gone, it seemed 
 as if a true friend had departed. 
 
 She took up the Church Service, and opened the fly- 
 leaf, * Edith Dawson, from her sincere well-wisher, 
 James Paget,' was written in the curate's handwriting. 
 
 'I feel sure,' thought Edith, 'that if I wanted a 
 friend, he would be a true one.' 
 
 A few days before Charley and Alice were expected 
 
CHAP, vii] JOHN'S ILLNESS 99 
 
 home, Mrs Dawson, Edith, and John went to London. 
 The two former were to stay at the house at Finchley, 
 while John, who had quite recovered his health, was to 
 reside with an old college friend, who practised in a 
 West-end square. 
 
 Charley's house was found to be in apple-pie order. 
 The two servants that had been engaged, were all that 
 could be expected, and as there appeared little further to 
 be done in the way of preparation, John told them, 
 jokingly, he must take them to see some of the sights of 
 the town, or they would upset the house in order to have 
 something to do. 
 
 Mrs Dawson's health would not allow her to be out at 
 night, so that Edith only could accompany him to the 
 theatre, and other evening entertainments. 
 
 On the third day, Charley and Alice arrived home 
 apparently well satisfied with their holiday, and looking 
 the picture of happiness. 
 
 'Ah,' said that gentleman, * it will be your turn next, 
 John, but, do you know, I wish mine had to come over 
 again ! ' 
 
 He said it with a sly glance at his wife, who answered 
 with a smile, and a look of supreme satisfaction 
 
 ' I believe you would, Charley, but you know you've 
 got some work to do, you can't always be in idleness.' 
 
 * Yes, there's that confounded office ! ' murmured her 
 husband, ' thank your stars, John, you have nothing to 
 do with an office.' 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 JOHN BECOMES A ( LOCUM TENENS ' 
 
 1 How oft the sight of means to do ill deeds 
 Makes ill deeds done.* 
 
 AFTER the return of the married couple Mrs Dawson 
 went back to Norwich, but Edith stayed on at her 
 brother's house. 
 
 John busied himself during the day at the Medical 
 School of St Barnabas, but in the evening would find his 
 way to Finchley. 
 
 As time went by, however, Charley noticed he was not 
 quite so frequent a visitor, and Edith, who saw that her 
 brother was vexed on her account, became uncomfortable, 
 and shortly after returned home. 
 
 John had thrown himself again heart and soul into his 
 studies, and diligently attended in the wards of St 
 Barnabas. He was well known to the chief surgeons and 
 physicians of that institution, who gave him every 
 opportunity of pursuing his bent. 
 
 The delights of metropolitan practice once more began 
 to attract him, and he thought, with regret, that in a few 
 more months he must leave the great centre of pro- 
 fessional education to immure himself in a small country 
 town, and engage in the tiresome routine of general 
 practice. 
 
CHAP, vni J JOHN BECOMES A ' LOCUM $&$* ' : ''' ioV 
 
 But, then, as a recompense, there was Edith. At first 
 he was able to get up a sort of enthusiasm on her account, 
 and to imagine that her society would compensate for all 
 such annoyances. By degrees, however, the glamour 
 faded from the pleasant picture, and the future seemed 
 more and more distasteful. 
 
 He still pretended that he was in love with Edith, but 
 occasionally his mind reverted to Mary Elliot, and he 
 wondered if she ever thought of him now. He even 
 felt tempted to go down to Fritton, but his better 
 feelings prevailed, and he acknowledged that such a 
 step would be unjustifiable. What a scandal, too, would 
 arise, if by any chance Emily Elliot were to know 
 of it, and what would Edith think, if it came to 
 her ears. 
 
 About the middle of June, John had occasion to run 
 down to Norwich. He had got a small portmanteau 
 with necessary luggage, and intended to ask Dr Dawson 
 to let him stay with him for a few days. 
 
 As he stepped out on the platform he was accosted in 
 well known tones : 
 
 1 What ! Is it you, Armstrong ? You are the very man 
 sent by Providence at my direst need.' 
 
 The speaker was Dr Ling, an old friend, known to 
 John for many years, who was in practice at Fritton. 
 
 ' How can I serve you, my dear fellow ? ' said John. 
 * It's an age since I saw you last ! ' 
 
 ' Come and have some dinner at the hotel, Armstrong, 
 I must catch the express at 6.30, and it is just five 
 o'clock.' 
 
 John acceded, and the two were soon sitting face to 
 face at one of the tables in the grill room of the Great 
 Eastern Railway Hotel. 
 
 1 Look here, Armstrong,' said his friend, ' I'm in a fix, 
 and I want you to help me ! I've had a telegram to go 
 
''lob.' f! ' 'JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, vm 
 
 to Edinburgh at once. My father has had an apoplectic 
 seizure, and is reported to be dying. I have wired to 
 Crocker and all the other medical agents, and find I 
 cannot get a locum tenens for love or money at least 
 for a day or two. There has been a rush upon them lately 
 on account of the Medical Congress at Paris, which has 
 taken away so many English practitioners. Now, could 
 you, my dear fellow, just take my place for a day or two ? 
 You won't be overworked, as there is but little doing ; 
 only one or two important cases that want looking after.' 
 He glanced anxiously at John, who replied : 
 
 * Well, Ling, I didn't expect this, but you do seem in a 
 fix, so I'll do what I can.' 
 
 ( You always were a trump, Armstrong/ said the other 
 joyfully. ' I can't tell you how much obliged I am ! Now, 
 there's a train at 7.30 to Fritton, and I told my groom to 
 meet it with the gig, as I hoped to be able to send some 
 one back. He will drive you and your luggage to my 
 house, and I'm sure Mrs Ling will make you comfortable.' 
 
 1 There are only two patients of importance I need 
 mention. One, Sir James Scrope of Fritton Manor, who 
 has recently hurt his knee by a fall from his horse ; he 
 will require to be seen every day, not that there's much 
 the matter with the knee, but the baronet is a nervous 
 patient. The other is one of the daughters of Farmer 
 Rokeby, who is bad with pneumonia. Beyond these two 
 you will not have to make half-a-dozen visits a day, and 
 there's good fishing in the broad.' 
 
 ' By the way,' said John, ' Farmer Elliot is a neighbour 
 of yours, is he not ? ' 
 
 4 Yes, and he is one of my patients, that is, when 
 he is ill, which is not often. But I attended his 
 wife when she died. He has got a pretty daughter, 
 Mary, who is engaged to be married to another 
 patient of mine, Mr Burrows. You will very likely 
 
CHAP, vni] JOHN BECOMES A ' LOCUM TENENS* 103 
 
 run across her, for she's very thick with Agnes Rokeby 
 it is Kate who is ill and I often see her at the 
 farm when I make my visits. But how do you know 
 anything about the Elliots ? ' 
 
 * One of the girls is a nurse here at the hospital,' was 
 the reply. 
 
 ' Yes, I remember now, that's Emily.' 
 
 Dinner had been served, and the two did ample justice 
 to it, and in asking questions about mutual friends who 
 had been lost sight of, and in recalling episodes of the 
 past, the time soon slipped away. 
 
 When thefclock struck six, Dr Ling rose and said it 
 would be well to make preparations for his journey, as 
 the train was punctual. 
 
 The two friends, therefore, lighting cigars sauntered 
 back to the railway station. The express started exactly 
 at the time. 
 
 * I shall never forget your kindness, Armstrong,' cried 
 Dr Ling, waving his hand to John as the train glided 
 from the platform. 
 
 When the express had gone, John thought of the fresh 
 responsibility he had incurred. 
 
 In an hour the train for Fritton would start, what 
 should he do in the meanwhile ? 
 
 He had not written to Edith, so the Dawsons were not 
 aware of his presence at Norwich, but he might have 
 been observed since his arrival by some one who had 
 recognised him, and might mention it to one of the 
 family : so would it not be better to run round to the 
 house and explain matters, and thus avoid the risk of a 
 misunderstanding ? 
 
 This seemed the more straightforward course to adopt, 
 and he was about to call a cab, when the thought of 
 Mary Elliot occurred to his mind. 
 
 The Dawsons knew she was living at Fritton. Edith 
 
104 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, vm 
 
 was well aware of it, and had she not been a little jealous 
 already ? 
 
 Surely it would be better to go straight to Dr Ling's 
 house he had less than an hour to spare ! On his return 
 he might easily call and tell Edith where he had been : 
 and as then he would have left the district, she would 
 never trouble about the few days he had spent there. 
 
 Such reasoning showed only too clearly the danger of 
 the step he was taking. Had he calmly analysed his 
 feelings, he must have confessed that in going where he 
 might see Mary Elliot, he was approaching dangerously 
 near to a fire, which might burn him. That he was 
 wrong, was equally shown by the necessity he felt of 
 keeping it a secret from the lady he was engaged to 
 marry. 
 
 Had there been no shadow of guilt, nothing of which 
 he need have been in the least degree ashamed, there 
 can be little doubt he would have followed his first 
 impulse, and at all risks have made a call at the 
 Dawson's. 
 
 How often does it happen that the most important 
 events of our life depend upon trifles ! However in- 
 significant the business we may have in hand, we can 
 never be sure that the greatest issues of our life may 
 not be more or less involved in it. 
 
 Little did John dream what were to be the con- 
 sequences of this little episode in his life, this kindly 
 obliging of an old friend. Dr Ling had said he would 
 never forget his kindness, alas ! it was fated that John 
 himself would never forget it. By taking this step, 
 owing to his weakness of moral principle, he was in 
 reality laying the foundation of all the sin and crime 
 that was to follow. 
 
 There was in his mind then not the slightest fore- 
 shadowing of it. If he had had the vaguest presenti- 
 
CHAP, vni] JOHN BECOMES A LOCUM TENENS' 105 
 
 ment of what was about to be, he would have shrunk 
 away with horror, and hurried from Fritton. But he 
 did know that he was in a measure treading the crooked 
 path of deception, and when a man does this knowingly, 
 he must take the consequences. His blood will be upon 
 his own head. 
 
 As the Fritton train left the Norwich station, the 
 Rev. James Paget hurried along the platform. He 
 was desirous of going a few miles up the line to a 
 local station, where this train stopped, but had been 
 delayed, and was now too late, for the guard would 
 not let him enter the train as it was in motion. 
 
 As it swept by, glancing into one of the carriages he 
 thought he recognised the features of Dr Armstrong. 
 
 ( I did not know Armstrong had been in Norwich 
 lately/ he said to himself. ( Dr Dawson told me he was in 
 London, and did not seem to expect him. What a 
 nuisance to have lost this train, I shall have to wait 
 half-an-hour ! ' 
 
 When John reached Fritton he found the gig waiting. 
 It was a lovely summer's evening, and he enjoyed the 
 drive through the quiet country lanes fringed with 
 hedges sweet with May and wild roses. It was a beauti- 
 ful sunset, and the west was all aglow with its dying 
 glories as he reached his friend's house. 
 
 Mrs Ling hospitably received him, and expressed great 
 satisfaction that her husband had been able to get so 
 good a locum. l We really did not know what to 
 do, Dr Armstrong/ she said, 'and my husband could 
 never have dreamt of meeting you.' 
 
 On the day following John's arrival at Fritton, Farmer 
 Elliot and Mary were sitting at middle day dinner at 
 Northcote Farm. ( Are ye going, lass,' said the former, 
 ' to see Agnes Rokeby this afternoon ? I hear Kate is 
 worse, and Dr Ling, he's had to go to Edinburgh as his 
 
106 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, vm 
 
 father's a-dyin', so mayhap the poor thing won't have a 
 doctor.' 
 
 1 Oh yes, father,' replied Mary, ( Dr Ling will be sure 
 to get a doctor from Norwich to take his place. I shall 
 be calling this afternoon, and shall then hear all about it, 
 for Agnes is going to London to-morrow. Her situation 
 won't wait, so she's bound to go although poor Kate is 
 so bad/ 
 
 At supper, Farmer Elliot again returned to the same 
 subject. 
 
 4 Well, lass, how's Kate Rokeby? Whose the new 
 doctor in Ling's place ? ' 
 
 Mary started, and seemed disconcerted. ' Kate's 
 better, father, much better.' 
 
 * I'm glad of that,' said her father, * but how about the 
 doctor ? ' 
 
 * Yes, they have one,' abruptly replied Mary. 
 
 ' Don't ye know his name, lass ? What sort of a man 
 is he ? ' and he looked with astonishment at his daughter, 
 who blushed, and seemed so different from usual, that he 
 felt alarmed. 
 
 1 Ye haven't caught Kate's complaint, have ye, Mary ? ' 
 he continued after a pause. * If ye are going to be ill, I 
 don't want any new doctor, I prefer the old un. Ling's 
 a thorough good man. I mind how kind he was to 
 your poor mother.' 
 
 1 Oh, there's nothing the matter, father, 7 she cried 
 with an hysterical laugh. 
 
 Just then George Burrows entered the room. 
 
 * Ye'll hardly believe it, George,' said the farmer, turn- 
 ing to him, * here's our Mary has been to Rokeby's Farm, 
 and don't know the name of the new doctor who's 
 attending Kate.' 
 
 4 His name's Armstrong,' replied the latter ; ' he used 
 to be the house doctor at the Norwich Hospital, and it 
 
CHAP, vin] JOHN BECOMES A ' LOCUM TENENS* 107 
 
 was he who saved old Joe Smith's life after the accident, 
 you remember. He's a clever un, farmer.' 
 
 ' Oh, Dr Armstrong, is it,' said the farmer thoughtfully, 
 ( there never were such a doctor, according to Joe, and 
 now I think I've heard Emily speak of him.' 
 
 This last remark of her father's still more upset Mary. 
 Had Emily told her father about her previous acquain- 
 tance with John ? She grew pale with the thought, 
 and trembled all over. 
 
 * What is the matter, Mary ? ' said George, suddenly 
 looking fixedly at her. 
 
 1 I'm sure she's not well,' said her father, again turning 
 his attention to her. 
 
 Mary was in fact in a state of strange trepidation. 
 She had been much startled by meeting John, and had 
 felt all the old fascination revive in his presence. It 
 happened that her friend Agnes was not at home, 
 having gone out to see about some things she required 
 to take with her to London the next day, and Mrs 
 Rokeby had been entirely occupied with her sick 
 daughter, so that Mary was quite tete-a-tete with John 
 in the parlour : and when he left the farm, as he was 
 walking, he went a good part of the way home with 
 her. 
 
 Their path lay through fields and woodland, and was 
 very solitary, so that it afforded abundant opportunity 
 of continuing the old flirtation. She did not know 
 of John's engagement, but felt her own conscience 
 rebuke her on account of George, while John saw only 
 too clearly his self-deception, and the worthlessness 
 of his recent protestations to Edith. 
 
 And now, when Mary felt the eyes of her betrothed 
 husband, and those of her father looking steadily at 
 her, she trembled, ignorant of what knowledge the 
 latter might have of the past. 
 
io8 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, vm 
 
 It, perhaps, might have been better if Emily had told 
 her father what had occurred at Norwich. Possibly 
 in that case the ruin fast approaching might have been 
 averted; but she had reckoned on honour where honour, 
 alas ! was not, and respecting her sister's wishes, had 
 buried in her bosom the knowledge of the past indis- 
 cretion. 
 
 Mary saw that both her lover and father were getting 
 anxious, and tried to stay her agitation, and to put on 
 a forced calmness. Her one desire was to escape to 
 the privacy of her room. 
 
 *rm quite well, father, indeed I am,' she said, in 
 answer to the anxious inquiries, 'but I've got such a 
 headache, my head seems to be going round. If you 
 don't mind, I think I should like to go to bed. I shall 
 be all right to-morrow.' 
 
 * I'm sure you're not well, Mary,' said George ; ' let me 
 run round for Dr Armstrong ? ' 
 
 1 No, no, no ! Don't be foolish, George ! Good 
 night ! ' and bidding her father good night, and kissing 
 him, she hurried from the room. 
 
 'She might have given me a kiss too,' said George 
 ruefully, as the door closed behind her. 
 
 'Never mind,' replied her father, 'the lass is not 
 herself to-night.' 
 
 During the -next three days a fatal attraction drew 
 Mary to farmer Rokeby's house, nominally to inquire 
 after Kate, but in reality to meet Kate's doctor. 
 
 Fortune favoured them, for curiously none of the 
 villagers witnessed these meetings, and the two passed a 
 brief period in the proverbial fools' paradise, from which 
 there was to be so bitter an awakening. 
 
 On the evening of the third day, as John slowly took 
 his way across the fields, he was a changed man. His 
 face was flushed, his pulse beating violently, and he sat 
 
CHAP, vin] JOHN BECOMES A ' LOCUM TEN ENS' 109 
 
 down on a stile to compose himself as he drew near to 
 the high road. 
 
 He realised for the first time the difference the last 
 few days had made in his life, what a leap he had taken 
 since that day week, and in what direction. He felt 
 he could no longer be considered honourable, even as the 
 morality of the world goes. He could not now retrace 
 his way, he must follow^ it, though it led to perdition. 
 The downward path had indeed been easy, but there was 
 no turning back now. 
 
 On arriving at the surgery he found Mrs Ling in con- 
 versation with a dapper little man of about thirty-five 
 years of age, with dark hair and closely-shaven face. 
 
 'Let me introduce you, Dr Armstrong,' she said, 'to 
 Dr Benson, who has come to relieve you. I have just 
 had a letter from my husband, who tells me his father is 
 better, and he specially asks me to thank you for being a 
 friend in need.' 
 
 * You are very welcome to my services,' he answered, 
 shaking hands with the new comer ; but he could not 
 help thinking with some bitterness what had been the 
 consequences of obliging his friend, although he could 
 blame no one but himself. 
 
 ' I suppose you will be returning to Norwich ? ' said 
 Mrs Ling. 
 
 ' No, I think of running up to town.' 
 
 He felt quite unable to face Edith and the Dawsons. 
 
 1 At a quarter to ten that evening he arrived at Liver- 
 pool Street Station after an absence of four days from 
 the metropolis, but how different everything seemed ! 
 
 Reckoned by time the interval was short, but what 
 an epoch it seemed when he considered his mental 
 state then and now. His heart sank when he thought 
 of the future : he must marry Edith, carry on the 
 deception, and with all the anxiety that it involved, 
 
1 10 JOHN A RMSTRONG [CHAP, vm 
 
 what great professional work was he likely to do ? What 
 were to become of the dreams of his youth ? Would it 
 not be better to break off the engagement with Edith ? 
 No ! How could he face if he did so his father and 
 the Dawsons ? 
 
 He hailed a cab, and drove to the * Clarendon,' where 
 he usually stayed when in London, and at an early 
 hour retired to rest, but not, for a long time, to sleep. 
 When at length sleep did come, it was constantly 
 disturbed by dreams in which the phantasms of Mary, 
 Edith, and his father, seemed to be bitterly reproaching 
 him. 
 
 On the day after John's departure Mary came as 
 usual to the farmhouse, and waited to intercept the 
 doctor, as she had done the last two days on his 
 departure from the house. 
 
 She took her station a short distance up the lane that 
 led from the garden, just round a bend where she could 
 not be seen from the house, and when she saw him turn 
 the corner she hurried forward, but suddenly drew back 
 in surprise. 
 
 It was not John, but a stranger. 
 
 ( I beg your pardon,' she said, *I thought you were 
 Dr Armstrong.' 
 
 Dr Benson raised his hat and bowed. 
 
 1 Dr Armstrong left for London last night, can 
 
 I be of any service to you ? I am now doing Dr Ling's 
 work.' 
 
 She thanked him, but was wishing herself miles 
 away, and as soon as she could, hurried home with a 
 heart heavy as lead. 
 
 ( She was surprised to see me/ thought Dr Benson. 
 
 I 1 imagine she would have preferred to see Dr Arm- 
 strong.' 
 
 When Mary reached the farmhouse only Betsy was 
 
CHAP. VIII] JOHN BECOMES A ' LOCUM TEN ENS' in 
 
 in, every one else being out at work. She went into 
 her bedroom, sat down and wept bitterly. 
 
 So he had gone away, fled without a word, and she 
 was left alone. In a few months she must marry George. 
 She shuddered. Ought she to marry George? What 
 if she told Emily ? 
 
 But she dreaded her sister's severity, and felt sure 
 Emily would tell her father. No, she must try and 
 bear it somehow, and hope things would come right. 
 
 From about this time a change began to be perceptible 
 in Mary, and although no one at Fritton associated it 
 with the coming of Dr Armstrong, as his stay in the 
 village had been too short to excite attention, none the 
 less the change soon became obvious to her friends. 
 
 All her childish, playful, manner seemed to have left 
 her. She was terribly in earnest about everything, and 
 increasingly nervous, as if fearing an impending danger. 
 She aroused her father several times at night by scream- 
 ing aloud, as if under the influence of great fright. 
 
 Both her father and George became alarmed, and the 
 former consulted Dr Ling. He could make nothing of 
 her case, but advised that her marriage should be 
 hastened as much as possible, in order to distract her 
 thoughts. 
 
 Strange, however, as it seemed then, it was this 
 proposal that Mary most strenuously resisted, much to 
 George's sorrow. 
 
 * You promised to marry me/ he said, * this autumn. 
 Are you going to break your word ? ' 
 
 'It's barely August yet,' was her reply. 'Please, 
 George, don't worry me, I will marry you by-and-bye. ? 
 
 Finally, she agreed that the marriage should take place 
 in the last week of September. 
 
 As August went by Mary became worse, and the 
 neighbourhood marvelled at the change, and could 
 
1 1 2 JOHN A RMSTRONG [CHAP, vm 
 
 scarcely believe that the pallid downcast girl, who always 
 seemed to have been weeping, shunned the company of 
 her old friends, and was never known to smile, was the 
 Mary of their old acquaintance. 
 
 One morning Emily Elliot received a letter from her 
 father. It was unusual for him to write, as he was not a 
 good correspondent. She therefore opened it hurriedly, 
 fearing bad news. 
 
 * My dear Emily,' her father wrote, ' I wish you could 
 come home for a spell. There's something wrong with 
 Mary that puzzles us all. Dr Ling can't understand it, 
 and poor George, he's dreadful anxious. She's always 
 moping and crying. She didn't come home yesterday 
 evening after going for a walk, and when we went to 
 look for her, George found her asleep in Everton Wood. 
 She wouldn't say anything when we asked questions, 
 only shivered, and looked so bad. The wedding '11 be in 
 a few weeks now, so if you could get leave of absence 
 from the hospital and come home, I should be most 
 thankful, as ye are the most like person to understand 
 Mary. The crops and the stock promise well this year, 
 so I hope to give George and Mary something to begin 
 housekeeping on. Your loving father, Thomas Elliot.' 
 
 1 What can be the matter with Mary ? ' thought Emily, 
 much troubled by her father's letter. * I must speak to 
 the matron, and see Dr Dawson at once.' 
 
 She hastened away to do so, and, while passing along 
 the hospital corridor, suddenly met Mr Paget, who had 
 been on a visit to the chaplain. 
 
 He recognised her, and stopped for a minute to speak 
 to her. 
 
 'Nurse Elliot/ he said, ( I am going to do duty at 
 Fritton for a few weeks, while the rector takes his 
 holiday. I believe your father and sister are his 
 parishioners. Have you any message to send ? ' 
 
CHAP, vm] JOHN BECOMES A ' LOCUM TEN ENS' 113 
 
 4 Thank you, Mr Paget,' Emily replied, ' I've just heard 
 from home. Father wants me to return at once on 
 Mary's account, as she isn't well. Do you know, sir, 
 she continued, ' Mary has become so altered that all 
 at home are alarmed ! She was to have been married 
 at the end of the month. Would you mind seeing her 
 when you are at Fritton, as you used to know her so 
 well ? ' 
 
 Mr Paget promised he would do so, and sympathised 
 with her in his usual kindly way, and Emily, thanking 
 him heartily, went to find the matron. 
 
 That official saw at once Emily's distress, and being a 
 kind-hearted woman, after reading her father's letter, gave 
 her the leave required. 
 
 'I trust, nurse,' she said, 'all will be well. I'm very 
 sorry to hear such a report of your sister. I remember 
 her well, and she seemed light-hearted and happy 
 enough in Norwich.' 
 
 The day was Saturday, and it was arranged that 
 Emily should go to Fritton by an early train on Monday 
 morning, and she at once wrote to her father asking to 
 be met at the railway station. 
 
 On Sunday at Evensong, when the Rev. James Paget 
 ascended the pulpit at Fritton Church, before beginning 
 his sermon he glanced round at the congregation. 
 Almost immediately below him was the Elliot pew, and 
 he at once recognised Mary, who was sitting between her 
 father and George Burrows. 
 
 The clergyman gave an involuntary start when he 
 saw how altered she was. This the laughing and joyous 
 girl he had so often met tripping along the streets of 
 Norwich, whom, though giddy and simple-minded, he 
 had always regarded as the embodiment of youth and 
 innocence ? 
 
 * There is something gravely wrong,' he thought ; * I 
 
 H 
 
114 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, vin 
 
 will see her to-morrow. Perhaps I may be able to do 
 some good.' 
 
 He preached from the text, ( Come unto Me all ye that 
 are heavy laden, and I will give you rest,' and eloquently 
 dwelt upon the troubles mental and physical, that are 
 the inevitable lot of humanity. 
 
 ( Some are remediable here,' he said, l even when the 
 poor sufferer little thinks so. Even the irremediable 
 may be lightened, and it is our duty yes, our bounden 
 duty ' and he looked towards Mary, who seemed 
 listening intently ' not to give way to affliction, how- 
 ever sorely it may oppress us. Let the sufferer think 
 of others ; consider how many thousands in this great 
 world have their crosses to bear. The heart knoweth 
 its own bitterness, and if the misfortunes of others do 
 not, indeed, lighten our own, at least they help us to 
 endure them better, and every son or daughter of Eve 
 has always the one divine consolation, which is open to 
 all.' 
 
 The Rev. James Paget was an excellent preacher. 
 The little congregation in Fritton Church felt the 
 difference between his discourse and the homilies of 
 the old rector, and when they left the church the 
 merits of the new parson were the staple topic of 
 conversation. 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 WHAT JOE FOUND IN FRITTON BROAD 
 
 ' One more unfortunate, 
 
 Weary of breath, 
 Rashly importunate, 
 
 Gone to her death. 
 Lift her up tenderly, 
 
 Raise her with care, 
 Fashioned so slenderly, 
 
 Young and so fair.' 
 
 ' I cannot take thy hand. There's blood upon it ! ' 
 
 IT was the morning of Monday, September I4th, a fort- 
 night before Mary's wedding. 
 
 At daybreak, Farmer Elliot was aroused by the barking 
 of one of his dogs, and on listening, thought he heard a 
 door shut. At once he got up, and went to the top of 
 the staircase, but as the barking ceased, and everything 
 was still again, he returned to his bed. At this moment 
 he heard the clock strike three. 
 
 There was the promise of a lovely autumn day. At 
 first a mist hung over everything, giving a blurred 
 outline to all distant .objects, but as the sun made its 
 influence felt the mist disappeared, and the landscape 
 rejoiced in the morning light. 
 
 All nature seemed to smile and be glad. The feathered 
 choir in the groves were in full song, the young colts 
 were bounding over the grass and disporting themselves 
 
n6 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, ix 
 
 in playful gambols, and ever and anon the whistle of the 
 farm lads might be heard, as they walked briskly along 
 to commence their daily work. 
 
 At six o'clock Joe Smith was crossing Allan's Marsh 
 on his way to Northcote Farm. Allan's Marsh was a 
 considerable piece of pasture land, which abutted on 
 Fritton Broad, and the footpath across it at one portion 
 of its course came to within a few feet of the water, which 
 here was of some depth. The banks of the broad too at 
 this place were fringed with lofty flags and bulrushes. 
 
 As Joe walked along he noticed that the flags and 
 rushes were in one spot beaten down, as if some animal 
 had gone into the water. His curiosity was excited, and 
 he approached the margin. Great was his horror, when 
 he saw a little way from the bank a human foot covered 
 by a dainty shoe, just below the surface of the water, en- 
 tangled in the weeds, which were luxuriant there. 
 
 Joe was a man of resources, he did not at once rush off 
 for assistance, but considered the best means of getting 
 the body on shore. There were some trees growing 
 close at hand, and with his clasp knife he quickly cut off 
 a long branch, and trimmed it, leaving a little fork at one 
 end to act as a hook. 
 
 Leaning cautiously forward, he was able to insert this 
 hook in the shoe string of the exposed foot, and then he 
 carefully brought the body to land. 
 
 More and more horror stricken and dismayed he 
 gradually drew out of the water, and laid upon the grass 
 the body of a young woman, whose features he too surely 
 recognised. 
 
 Glazed were the eyes, dripping and dank the long 
 golden tresses, and livid the face, but the old servant of 
 the family felt his heart sink v/hen he found himself 
 looking on the mortal remains of his master's younger 
 daughter. 
 
CHAP, ix] WHAT JOE FOUND IN FRITTON BROAD 117 
 
 1 Whaat, Miss Mary, it canna' surely be Miss Mary ! ' 
 he exclaimed in a tone of horror. ( Oh, my poor 
 measter ! Whaat will he do, and Mr Burrows ! How 
 cam' she here ? How got she into the water ? Did her 
 fall in ? or has her been foully used ? ' A dark gleam 
 came into his eyes, and he looked carefully round, and 
 examined every inch of the ground. 
 
 Everywhere it seemed undisturbed, save where the 
 water plants had been beaten down by the impact of 
 the body. 
 
 Stay, what was that under the flags at the very brink 
 of the water, indeed, partly immersed in it ? It was 
 paper of some kind. 
 
 In an instant he had crawled down to the brink, and 
 seized the letter, for it proved to be such. It was 
 addressed to Miss Mary Elliot at the Fritton post 
 office. As he held it up in his hand a photograph 
 fell from it, and Joe recognised the features. 
 
 He seemed in deep thought for a few minutes : then 
 he replaced the photograph in the letter, and carefully 
 put it in his coat pocket. 
 
 4 Whaat's t' be done with the poor lass ? ' he said. ' I 
 can't tell her feyther.' 
 
 At this moment he saw two farm labourers a little 
 way off. He waved his arms, and whistled loudly to 
 attract their attention. They were soon beside him, 
 and the three tenderly raised Mary's body, and bore 
 it towards Northcote Farm. 
 
 Before reaching the farm it was necessary to enter 
 the highway, and to go by the rectory. 
 
 It so happened that Mr Paget was up early that 
 morning, and in the garden. He was attracted by what 
 seemed an unusual stir in the road : for those bearing 
 the body had now been joined by half-a-dozen others, 
 
n8 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, ix 
 
 and such an assembly at that time in the morning was 
 not common. 
 
 The clergyman went to the gate, and saw at once 
 that a terrible tragedy had taken place. The bearers 
 and crowd stopped when they saw him. 
 
 * What has happened ? ' he asked. 
 
 'Joe Smith has pulled Farmer Elliot's daughter out 
 of the broad,' said one of the crowd. 
 
 The clergyman's face grew pale, and he leaned against 
 the garden gate. 
 
 ( Good God ! ' he exclaimed, * Mary Elliot in the broad 
 drowned. God forgive the unhappy girl/ he muttered 
 to himself. * Why did I not see her last night, I noticed 
 how ill she looked, and now it is too late.' 
 
 1 Will ye com' wi' us, parson, to Farmer Elliot,' said 
 one of the bearers of the body, ( for Joe here is afeard 
 to face him ? It will be bad for the old farmer.' 
 
 { Yes, it will be a terrible blow,' he replied. * I will go 
 and see what I can do.' 
 
 All, then, took their way to Northcote Farm, Mr 
 Paget leading a little distance in front. 
 
 When they got near the house one of the men 
 thought he saw the farmer in the yard going to the 
 stables. Mr Paget immediately motioned to the others 
 to keep the body out of sight, while he went forward. 
 
 He soon found Mr Elliot, and going up to him, 
 said : 
 
 ' I have something to say to you, farmer, shall we go 
 into the house ? ' 
 
 The latter looked with surprise at the clergyman, 
 and was startled by the tones of his voice. 
 
 He immediately led the way to the drawing-room, 
 passing through the parlour, where breakfast was on the 
 table, and Mary's place ready laid for her. 
 
 Mr Paget softly closed the door, and turning to the 
 
CHAP, ix] WHA TJOE FOUND IN FRITTON BROAD 119 
 
 other said, 'My dear sir, I am the bearer of terrible 
 news. God has indeed afflicted you, may He in His 
 mercy comfort you in your trouble ! The body of your 
 daughter Mary has been found this morning in Fritton 
 Broad by your servant, Joe Smith. No one knows how 
 she came there, but alas ! ' Mr Paget paused, and stepped 
 forward, for at this moment the farmer tottered and 
 would have fallen, had not the arm of the clergyman 
 supported him. 
 
 He sank into a chair, ghastly pale, and for a minute or 
 two unable to speak. Then after an interval he muttered 
 hoarsely, l Mary dead Mary drowned ? ' After a time 
 he seemed to grasp the sad import of what had happened, 
 and starting up, exclaimed in broken accents, 'What 
 have they done with the body where is my little lass ? ' 
 and he would have gone out of the room. 
 
 Mr Paget gently restrained him, saying, 'They are 
 taking her up into her bedroom.' 
 
 A scream resounded through the house. It came from 
 Betsy, who had just met the sad procession on the 
 threshold. 
 
 Mr Elliot now fairly broke down, and sobbed aloud. 
 * I must see her,' he said between sobs. 
 
 'Wait, my dear sir,' replied the other with deep com- 
 passion, ' till they have left her in her room.' 
 
 They heard the sound of footsteps descending the stair- 
 case, and Betsy came hurriedly into the room, sobbing, 
 'Oh, master master poor Miss Mary ! ' 
 
 Mr Paget asked her to compose herself for her master's 
 sake, and, giving the old man his arm, gently led him 
 towards the stairs, and so up to the bedroom, opening 
 the door of Mary's room for him. They entered, and 
 the farmer knelt down before the bed, seized his 
 daughter's cold hands, and sobbing again, exclaimed : 
 ' Thank God, her mother never lived to see this.' 
 
120 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, ix 
 
 Mr Paget silently quitted the room, thinking it might 
 be better to leave him there for a time by himself, till 
 the first violence of his grief had abated. 
 
 When he reached the hall there was George Burrows, 
 pale as death, the tears streaming from his eyes. He 
 had hurried round on hearing a rumour of what had 
 occurred. 
 
 ' Mary is dead, they say, parson. How was she 
 drowned? Don't say she drowned herself!' he added 
 imploringly. 
 
 ( Bear up, Mr Burrows, bear up like a man, 1 said Mr 
 Paget. 'Think of her father, who is just above by the 
 side of the body. If you can compose yourself, go up 
 and try and comfort him ; but, as you are, you would 
 only make him worse. 
 
 Mr Paget then left, promising to return, and George 
 by a strong effort after a time was able to control his 
 emotion. He then went upstairs, and knocked at the bed- 
 room door, and when he got no answer, softly opened it and 
 entered, and bent reverentially over Mary's body, sympa- 
 thetically pressing the hand of her father, who was sitting 
 by the bedside, silent and motionless, seeming to take no 
 notice of anything. 
 
 At 10.30 in the forenoon of that day, Emily arrived at 
 Fritton station. To her surprise no one was waiting, 
 and she wondered greatly at her father's forgetfulness, 
 for he had never forgotten her before. 
 
 It was clear, however, there was no one there from 
 the farm, so, arranging for her luggage to be sent, she 
 determined to walk on. 
 
 As she went down the road she was much surprised at 
 the public attention she was exciting ; for she was well 
 known to many, and her sister's sad fate was now the 
 talk of the village. One or two personal friends also 
 
CHAP, ix] WHAT JOE FOUND IN FRITTON BROAD 121 
 
 glanced sadly at her, and passed by without saying a 
 word of greeting. 
 
 Mr Paget caught sight of her as she was passing the 
 rectory, and hurried out. He took her inside the house, 
 and there in the rector's study, Emily sat pale and 
 breathless, every now and again showing by half sup- 
 pressed sobs the mental anguish she was suffering while 
 Mr Paget detailed the sad event of the morning. 
 
 'Your manifest duty, Emily, now, is toward your 
 father/ he said, when he had finished. ' I tremble to 
 think what may be the result of this shock, and you 
 must never think of returning to the hospital/ 
 
 After a time Emily recovered her composure, and 
 bravely determined to do her duty. 
 
 Rising to leave, she asked, ' What do you think of it all, 
 Mr Paget ? If my poor sister died by her own hand, 
 what made her destroy herself? Could she have had 
 any trouble ? ' 
 
 ( Who knows/ he replied, ( what trouble the poor girl 
 had. I'm afraid there's more behind, which the inquest 
 will bring to light : so that it is doubly necessary that 
 both you and your father should be prepared for the 
 worst.' 
 
 1 Inquest ? and worst ? Mr Paget, what could be worse ? ' 
 sobbed Emily. 
 
 The latter shook his head. ' Never mind, Emily, let 
 us wait. Sufficient for the day is the evil thereof. You 
 do your best to support your poor father, and God will 
 help you all.' 
 
 Emily proved a godsend at Northcote Farm. There 
 can be little doubt that but for her presence her father 
 must have died, or have lost his reason. 
 
 Emily, during the whole of the bitter time, scarcely ever 
 left him, and by her unremitting attention, and devoted 
 
122 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, ix 
 
 affection was able to withdraw his mind a little from 
 his great affliction. 
 
 Mr Paget called frequently, and pointed out clearly his 
 duty as a Christian. ' You have,' he said, ' one daughter 
 still of whom you may indeed be proud ; for if ever 
 daughter showed true courage, and, buoyed up by a 
 true sense of religious duty and filial affection, endea- 
 voured to do her best under the most distressing cir- 
 cumstances, Emily has done so : and her behaviour 
 throughout the whole of this trying time has been the 
 admiration of your neighbours.' 
 
 ' 1 do thank God for Emily,' replied the farmer, * and 
 confess that she is far more worthy than the poor lass I 
 have lost : but, parson, ye know, it oft happens that we 
 poor sinners put our affections on the frailer and weaker 
 vessels. Mary, too, was my dead wife's pet, and if this 
 had chanced during her life, it would have killed her, yes ! 
 it would have killed her ! ' 
 
 Mary Elliot's death caused great sensation through the 
 country, and an account of the circumstances attending 
 it appeared in many of the papers. 
 
 The inquest was held on Thursday, and it was only 
 after that inquiry had taken place, that the full extent 
 of Mary's distress became known. 
 
 Farmer Elliot, Emily, Joe Smith, George Burrows and 
 Dr Ling, had been summoned as witnesses, and Mr Paget, 
 and many others of the neighbours were present, so that 
 the room was crowded. 
 
 Mr Fisk, a well known local solicitor, and coroner for 
 that division of the county, on taking his seat remarked 
 that the inquiry was a serious one, but he sincerely 
 hoped that, whatever evidence might be given, there 
 would be no unseemly manifestation of popular feeling, 
 if only to spare the relatives of the deceased, who were 
 deservedly respected. 
 
CHAP, ix] WHA TJOE FOUND IN FRITTON BROAD 123 
 
 The jury were sworn, twelve honest Suffolk yeomen, 
 all well known to the Elliots. 
 
 * Oyez Oyez ' said the constable, l you men of this 
 county are this day summoned on behalf of our sovereign 
 lady the Queen, to say < how, or by what means, Mary 
 Elliot came to her death, and a true and impartial verdict 
 give according to the evidence, so help you God.' 
 
 The names were then called, and the jury being duly 
 sworn, chose John Hobson, a substantial farmer, as their 
 foreman. 
 
 The first witness was Joe Smith. He spoke to the 
 finding of the body. 
 
 ' You were crossing Allan's Marsh on the way to your 
 work/ said the coroner, ' and were passing near the broad. 
 What made you go down to the edge of the water ? ' 
 
 1 1 see all the flags and rushes broke down loike, and 
 thought a sheep maybe had got drownded there/ 
 
 ' When you came to the water did you see the de- 
 ceased's foot, and drag the body on shore ? ' 
 
 * I did, yer honour.' 
 
 * What time was this ? ' 
 
 * About a half after six. 1 
 
 ' Was there any mark of violence on the body, or did 
 you see anything remarkable about the ground where 
 she went in ? ' 
 
 Joe coloured a little, and thought of the letter, but 
 with some hesitation he answered : 
 
 ' No, I see no mark of violence, and the ground was 
 quite natural loike.' 
 
 * What are you frightened about, my man ? ' said the 
 coroner, noticing Joe's embarrassment. ( We shan't hurt 
 you. I suppose that's all you can tell us. You can go/ 
 
 Joe wanted no second bidding, but was off at once, 
 very glad to get away, for his conscience was uneasy on 
 the score of the letter he had concealed. 
 
124 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, ix 
 
 The next witness was Mr Elliot. 
 
 'Mr Elliot,' said the coroner, noticing the painful 
 condition of the old man, ' we all sympathise with you, 
 but it is necessary to ask a few questions, then you can 
 leave the court and go home/ 
 
 The farmer bowed his head. 
 
 1 When did you see your daughter alive last ? ' 
 
 ' On Sunday night about 10 o'clock, when she went to 
 bed.' 
 
 'Was there anything peculiar in her mental state 
 then ? ' 
 
 ' She was sad and melancholy like, but no more nor 
 usual for some time past/ 
 
 ' For how long ? ' 
 
 ' About two months/ 
 
 ' Then from ten o'clock on Sunday night till you saw 
 her dead on Monday morning you neither heard nor saw 
 anything of the deceased ? ' 
 
 1 Yes, maybe I heard her leave the house at three o'clock 
 on Monday morning. I heard my dog bark and thought 
 a door shut, but I didna knaw it was Mary,' he said with 
 a sob. 
 
 ' Was your daughter about to be married ? ' 
 
 * Yes, the wedding were fixed for next week, and the 
 banns had been put up/ 
 
 Every eye was directed towards George Burrows, who 
 was sitting pale as death in one corner of the room. 
 
 'Now, Mr Elliot,' continued the coroner, 'were you 
 putting any pressure on your daughter that is, forcing 
 her to marry against her wish ? ' 
 
 ' Na, I thought she were fond of George he saved her 
 life last year/ 
 
 The old man was evidently nearly overcome by 
 emotion. The coroner saw this, and said kindly 
 
CHAP, ix] WHAT JOE FOUND IN FRITTON BROAD 125 
 
 I There, that will do, your daughter had better see you 
 home.' 
 
 The constable, however, reminded him that Emily was 
 one of the witnesses, but Mr Paget, who saw the desira- 
 bility of the old farmer being attended by his daughter, 
 said, * With all deference, Mr Coroner, I should like to 
 point out that Miss Elliot only arrived at Fritton on 
 Monday morning, some five hours after the body was 
 found. She had not seen her sister for months pre- 
 viously, so that it is not easy to say what she can witness 
 to in this inquiry.' 
 
 ( You are right, sir/ replied the coroner, ( we will not 
 detain Miss Elliot, she can go home at once with her 
 father.' 
 
 Emily felt very thankful to get away from all this 
 bustle and publicity, and as quickly as possible she led 
 her father out of court. 
 
 ' Now, Dr Ling,' said the coroner after the Elliots had 
 gone, ( will you kindly give us your evidence ? ' 
 
 The doctor was then sworn. 
 
 * Were you called to Northcote Farm last Monday to 
 see the body of the deceased ? ' 
 
 'Yes.' 
 
 ' How long do you consider it had been in the water ? ' 
 
 * Several hours.' 
 
 ( Did you note any signs of violence about the body ? ' 
 
 I 1 did not.' 
 
 ' 1 1 believe you have since, by my order, made a post- 
 mortem examination of the body : will you tell the 
 jury what you found ? ' 
 
 Dr Ling, turning to the jury, said : 
 
 ' Gentlemen, all the internal organs were healthy, and 
 I could find no evidence of disease, but the poor girl was 
 several months gone in pregnancy.' 
 
126 JOHN ARMSTRONG ^ [CHAP, ix 
 
 There was great sensation in court when Dr Ling 
 had finished. 
 
 The eyes of all were now on George Burrows, who 
 got up in an excited manner as if to speak, but seemed 
 overcome by his feelings. 
 
 The coroner, who had been watching him, then said : 
 
 * Would you like to be sworn, Mr Burrows, and make 
 a statement to the jury ? You were the affianced husband 
 of the deceased. But I leave it entirely to your own 
 choice.' 
 
 George saw that a certain suspicion might attach to 
 him, and the thought made a man of him. Rising 
 firmly with compressed lips, and clenched hands, he 
 strode forward and took the book from the officer. 
 
 * Yes, sir, I will be sworn,' he said, and the oath was 
 accordingly administered. 
 
 * Mr Burrows,' said the coroner, ( you were engaged to 
 be married to the deceased. How long had this engage- 
 ment been going on ? ' 
 
 ' Nearly eight months/ 
 
 1 1 believe you saved her life last Christmas ? ' 
 
 'I did.' 
 
 'You have heard the evidence of the doctor. Now, 
 man, before God, are you responsible for the condition of 
 which he speaks ? ' 
 
 * Before God I am not,' replied the witness ; ( but if I 
 knew the scoundrel ' the fire flashed from his eyes, he 
 clenched his fists, and the veins seemed to start from his 
 forehead. The ill-doer might well have dreaded to meet 
 him thus. 
 
 1 Mr Burrows,* said the coroner, * that is quite enough. 
 I know of no man in the county whose word is more 
 reliable than yours.' 
 
 There was a murmur of approval from those present as 
 the coroner said these words, and the witness replied : 
 
CHAP, ix] WffA T JOE FOUND IN FRITTON BROAD 127 
 
 ' Thank you, sir, and thank you, neighbours all.' 
 
 George sat down, and buried his face in his hands, but 
 the mystery seemed deeper than ever. 
 
 Who was it had wronged Mary ? Even rumour was 
 silent ! Mary had positively been seen with no one to 
 whom suspicion could attach. 
 
 As the court was about to rise, a staid, elderly, woman 
 of about fifty asked to be sworn. She was Mrs Young, 
 the village postmistress. 
 
 There was some excitement as the oath was ad- 
 ministered. 
 
 The coroner asked her what she had to say. 
 
 ' The deceased has been several times of late to my 
 shop to inquire for letters,' she replied. ' Last Saturday 
 one was received directed to her, which she fetched on 
 that day.' 
 
 ' What has this letter got to do with us ? ' asked the 
 coroner testily. 
 
 'I thought it strange,' said the witness, 'that Mary 
 Elliot should receive letters in this way, and she so 
 anxious about them, too, as if they had been love letters, 
 and folks thinking she were going to marry Mr Burrows 
 there.' 
 
 'I don't think this comes within the scope of our 
 inquiry,' said the coroner, turning to the jury. 
 
 * Did you notice the postmark, Mrs Young ? ' said the 
 foreman. 
 
 'Yes, the letter bore the London postmark/ 'it 
 contained also a card of some kind, which I took to 
 be a photograph.' 
 
 'This postmistress/ said the coroner with a smile to 
 Mr Paget, ' evidently takes careful note of letters passing 
 through her hands/ Then addressing the jury, he 
 continued : 
 
 ' Well, gentlemen, this letter, if we had it, might or 
 
1 28 JOHN A RMSTRONG [CHAP, ix 
 
 might not throw light on the case, but as no one seems 
 to have seen it save the postmistress and the deceased, it 
 is impossible for us to deal with it. I will, therefore, ask 
 you to give your verdict on the facts. The poor girl was 
 seen alive, and in her usual health on Sunday evening 
 last, and on Monday morning she was pulled out of the 
 broad by Joseph Smith, but how she got into the water, 
 whether she fell in accidentally, or tried to take her own 
 life, there is no evidence to show, though it seems more 
 than likely she was in great distress of mind.' 
 
 After a consultation among themselves the jury signi- 
 fied they were of opinion a verdict of * Found Drowned ' 
 would best meet the facts of the case, and after some 
 hesitation the coroner agreed to accept it. 
 
 In dismissing the jury he said, 1 1 have to thank you 
 for the care and attention you have given this case. I 
 am sure we all sympathise with the family of the un- 
 fortunate girl, and condemn the villainy of her heartless 
 betrayer. But, gentlemen, his exposure is a matter quite 
 outside our duties. He cannot but be aware of the evil 
 he has done, and if the law cannot touch him, he will 
 at least always be conscious that he has caused the death 
 of one of his fellow-creatures, and brought misery and 
 desolation upon an honest home.' 
 
 The same evening the servant at the rectory told Mr 
 Paget that Miss Elliot wished to speak to him. At 
 once he had her shown into the study, where he was 
 sitting. 
 
 Emily was in a state of great agitation, and in excited 
 tones exclaimed : 
 
 ' Oh, Mr Paget, what is the meaning of this last terrible 
 news about Mary ? Who could have ruined her ? There 
 seems a dreadful mystery somewhere.' 
 
 * Alas ! ' replied the clergyman, i I cannot form an 
 opinion. Had your sister any other engagement, or do 
 
CHAP, ix] WHAT JOE FOUND IN FRITTON BROAD 129 
 
 you know of anything between Mary and another before 
 her engagement to Mr Burrows ? ' 
 
 * No,' she replied, and then hesitated ; * at least, nothing 
 that could have any bearing upon this.' 
 
 ' I don't think I understand you,' said Mr Paget. 
 
 After a little more hesitation Emily said : 
 
 ' I think, Mr Paget, I ought to tell you everything I 
 know. I was very anxious about Mary last year on 
 account of Dr Armstrong's attentions to her. He used 
 to call and see her far too often, when he was treating 
 her for the injury to her ankle. I'm sure Mary had a 
 foolish fondness for him, though I constantly warned her. * 
 As people began to talk at Norwich, I went to Dr 
 Armstrong and spoke to him.' 
 
 I You did quite right. What did he say ? ' anxiously 
 inquired the clergyman. 
 
 4 He said he was sorry for what had occurred, and 
 would take care not to compromise her in the future. 
 I think, Mr Paget, he has kept his word, and has 
 not seen her since ; for Mary went home then, and 
 he has never been to Fritton.' 
 
 Mr Paget had heard a little scandal at the time, but 
 did not think it had gone as far as Emily implied. 
 
 I 1 think, then/ he said, ' we must acquit Dr Armstrong 
 of all suspicion. Had he been down here with Mary he 
 must have been seen, so that it does not seem possible 
 he could have had anything to do with this. Be assured 
 the justice of Heaven will in its own good time find out 
 the evil-doer. I envy not that man's peace of mind, 
 when the wickedness of his conduct comes home to him; 
 he will not escape God's avenging angel's Remorse and 
 Self-reproach.' 
 
 After Emily had left the rectory, however, the Rev. 
 James Paget fell into a brown study. 
 
 According to Emily, Dr Armstrong had not been to 
 
 
1 30 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, ix 
 
 Fritton since Mary's coming there ; but he felt sure he 
 had seen him, about three months before, sitting in a 
 local train bound thither. 
 
 What a terrible thing it would be, if he were the guilty 
 one ! Would it be his duty to inform Edith's parents, if 
 knowledge of the other's guilt were to come to him ? 
 
 He had misgivings with regard to John, but he prayed 
 earnestly that if John were the offender, it might never 
 be his lot to bring him to justice. 
 
 Then he thought of the possibility of the finding of 
 the letter and photograph spoken of by the postmistress, 
 and he shuddered, for he did not know into whose hands 
 they had fallen. 
 
 About a week after the events just recorded, the Daw- 
 sons and Armstrongs were once more at Driffield. 
 
 The marriage of John and Edith had been fixed for 
 the following week. 
 
 Most of the party were assembled in the drawing-room, 
 the French windows of which faced the lawn ; and 
 as the day was hot, they had been thrown open, and 
 on the lawn outside Charley was playing tennis with his 
 wife and sister. 
 
 Inside the room, and sheltered from the sun by an 
 awning, John, his father, and Dr and Mrs Dawson were 
 sitting chatting together. John had the Times in his 
 hands, and was glancing over its columns. 
 
 ( By the way, Armstrong,' said Dr Dawson to John's 
 father, ( did you see that our old lecturer and friend 
 Professor Sylvester is dead ? ' 
 
 * No,' was the reply, ' but he must have been very old.' 
 
 'Yes, eighty-six;' then turning to his wife 'Don't 
 you remember, dear, the professor having luncheon with 
 us last year ? ' 
 
 1 Very well,' said Mrs Dawson, * but he was feeble 
 then.' " 
 
CHAP, ix] WHAT JOE FOUND IN FRITTON BROAD 131 
 
 'I suppose, John,' said Dr Armstrong, turning to 
 his son, ' you haven't had much to do with him ? ' 
 
 John looked up from the newspaper. 'I knew his 
 book very thoroughly when I went up for my degree, 
 but I never heard him lecture.' 
 
 Just then, Dr Armstrong was called away by the 
 servant. It proved to be a message, asking him to 
 visit a patient at some distance, and the doctor, who 
 was desirous of introducing his son into his practice, 
 thought this a good opportunity. 
 
 He accordingly returned to the drawing - room to 
 find his son, and as he drew near the window, he 
 heard Dr Dawson ask John the distance of Driffield 
 from a certain ruin, which was one of the sights of 
 the country. 
 
 John made no answer, and both looked at him in 
 surprise. They were thunderstruck to see the sudden 
 change that had taken place. The paper had fallen 
 from his hands, and he was glaring round with a vacant 
 stare which seemed to recognise no one ; his hands 
 were clenched, and there was an ashy pallor about 
 his face. It seemed as if some great terror had 
 suddenly beset him. 
 
 Without noticing any one, he got up hurriedly and 
 left the room. No sound had escaped from his lips, 
 so that Mrs Dawson with her eyes bent on her work 
 had seen nothing. 
 
 Dr Armstrong followed, but failed to overtake him, 
 for he seized his hat in the hall, and quickly walked 
 away from the house. 
 
 His father, therefore, ordered the carriage to be got 
 ready, and invited Dr Dawson to accompany him for 
 the drive. The invitation was accepted, the latter say- 
 ing it would be just the thing, if his old friend did not 
 
I3 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, ix 
 
 mind a cigar. Dr Armstrong reassured him, observ- 
 ing that a cigar would not shock the propriety of 
 Driffield. 
 
 The two were soon driving along the country roads, 
 but, instead of regarding the scenery, were puzzling over 
 the recent incident. 
 
 ' What could have been the matter with John just 
 now ? ' said his father. ' Did you notice his face ? 
 What does it mean ? He is out walking somewhere, 
 I almost think he ought to be followed.' 
 
 ( Et was strange,' said the other. * Do you think he 
 had a sudden pain, violent neuralgia for instance ? Has 
 he quite recovered from that attack in the spring ? ' 
 
 * Could it have affected his brain ? ' said Dr Armstrong 
 in a hoarse whisper. ( Do you know, I think he is 
 altered, he is more moody and apathetic.' 
 
 ' You mustn't imagine anything of that kind,' said his 
 companion cheerfully. * There's not the least fear, 
 John's intellect is far too stable. He'll be all right this 
 evening.' 
 
 Dr Armstrong's first instruction to his coachman had 
 been to drive to Miller's Cliff. Miller's Cliff was an 
 inland eminence about 200 feet in height, from which 
 a splendid view of the surrounding country could be 
 obtained. It was situated a mile and a half from the 
 doctor's house. 
 
 On arrival there they left the carriage and walked 
 near the edge. 
 
 l Ah,' said Dr Armstrong, as they shrank back from 
 the abyss, 'one or two people I have known fall over 
 there on to the stones below. It's a terrible fall ! ' 
 
 'Yes,' was the reply, 'it looks a tempting place to 
 commit suicide from.' 
 
 The other shivered. 
 
 ( Do you know, Charles, that two generations back, one 
 
CHAP, ix] WHAT JOE FOUND IN FRITTON BROAD 133 
 
 of my family actually jumped down at least we have 
 believed so. As John is going to marry your daughter, 
 perhaps I ought to tell you the circumstances.* 
 
 Dr Dawson looked wonderingly at his friend as he 
 replied, 'Indeed, whatever made your relative do such 
 a foolish thing ? ' 
 
 'Yes,' continued the other, 'it was somewhere about 
 the middle of last century that my great uncle, Robert 
 Armstrong, took that leap. He was a land surveyor and 
 estate agent, and was very well to do. It happened, so 
 I have heard, that on a certain day he had a quarrel 
 with a farmer about a disputed boundary. It did not 
 come to blows, but a bystander said he was pale with 
 rage looked, perhaps, as John did just now. He then 
 walked rapidly away, and was found a few hours later, 
 lying dead at the foot of this cliff. 
 
 * At the inquest a shepherd deposed that he saw him 
 deliberately jump over, but as felo de se in those days 
 meant burial at the cross roads, with a stake driven 
 through the body, and as our family was much respected, 
 the jury declined to believe the witness, and charitably 
 brought in a verdict of " accidental death." 
 
 'We have, however, always considered that he com- 
 mitted suicide, and was insane. No other member 
 of the family has shown signs of insanity since : but 
 what if this terrible disease, after missing two genera- 
 tions, were to reappear in John ? Could typhoid fever, 
 do you think, have lighted up an hereditary ten- 
 dency ? 
 
 4 You are deeply interested if Edith marries John. I 
 am at least frank, old fellow, for you know what a blow 
 it would be to me, if the marriage were not to take 
 place.' 
 
 ' My dear John,' replied his friend, ' I am certainly not 
 going to oppose the match on such grounds. Why, 
 
134 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, ix 
 
 bless my soul ! if, when there has been no more 
 insanity in a family than in yours, marriage were 
 forbidden, the world would come to a stop. Your son 
 has no tendency to insanity more than any one else. 
 He will be right enough this evening.' 
 
 In the meanwhile, after the two elders had departed, 
 Charley and his opponents became tired of their game, 
 and returned to the drawing-room. 
 
 The Times was lying on the floor just inside the 
 room, where it had fallen from John's hands. Charley 
 took up the paper, and glanced at it. 
 
 The first thing that met his eye at the top of one 
 of the columns in large type was : 
 
 'THE FRITTON TRAGEDY INQUEST 
 
 RESULT OF POST-MORTEM. 
 
 ' Hullo. What's here ? ' he muttered. 
 
 After reading the report he exclaimed : 
 
 * Oh ! what a dreadful thing this Mary Elliot we 
 knew at Norwich has drowned herself.' 
 
 ' How shocking ! ' exclaimed the three ladies in a breath. 
 
 ( It is indeed,' said the young man. * There is the 
 account, mother, if you would like to look over it ' and 
 he handed her the newspaper ( It has really made me 
 feel so miserable, that I think I'll go and have a cigar in 
 the garden. Where's John ? ' and for the first time he 
 missed the presence of his friend. 
 
 'He went out just before your father and Dr Arm- 
 strong,' replied his mother, 'and 1 haven't seen him 
 since.' 
 
 Charley strolled into the garden. 
 
 4 Poor girl,' he mused, ' who would have expected this ? 
 But she was always a flirt. I wonder who the villain is 
 that has seduced her ? That letter from London looks 
 
CHAP, ix] WHAT JOE FOUND IN FRITTON BROAD 135 
 
 queer : but Mary Elliot never seemed to me the sort of 
 girl for a farmer. She certainly used to make eyes at 
 John in Norwich. I wonder what he'll say when he 
 hears the news ? ' By Jove ! he was reading the 
 Times when we began our game. Perhaps he knows it 
 already.' 
 
 When dinner time arrived John was not there, so the 
 meal was commenced without him. He returned, how- 
 ever, when dessert was on the table, and said he had 
 had something to eat out, and would not have any 
 dinner. 
 
 * I wanted a good walk/ he remarked, ' as I had a head- 
 ache, and the walk has done me good. I hope you will 
 all excuse me for not being punctual.' 
 
 ' J6hn,' said his father, * have you heard the news about 
 that poor girl, Mary Elliot ? ' 
 
 1 News ? What news ? ' he answered in a mechanical 
 tone, and carefully avoiding the eyes of the speaker. 
 
 ' She has drowned herself. There is a whole column 
 in the Times? 
 
 John's voice became still more mechanical, as he 
 added, ' How very sad. When did it occur ? ' 
 
 * Last week,' said Charley, looking a little curiously 
 at his friend. 
 
 Little further was said, all the party being depressed 
 by the subject. 
 
 That evening Dr Dawson, meeting his son alone in the 
 garden, told him what John's father had said respecting 
 the family history of the Armstrongs, and mentioned 
 John's unaccountable behaviour that afternoon. 
 
 Charley's face clouded a little as he replied: 
 
 ' Oh, John's head's screwed on the right way : there's 
 no mistake about that.' 
 
 When his father had gone, however, he could not 
 help turning over in his mind what he had just heard. 
 
136 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP. IX 
 
 'It does seem odd/ he thought. * John's strange 
 conduct might, after all, have been due to his reading the 
 account of the inquest I'm sure he had the paper in his 
 hands. Perhaps he really was in love with that girl.' 
 
 It was the evening before the wedding day. John had 
 managed to recover some of his lost gaiety, and Edith 
 was supremely happy. 
 
 All were in the drawing-room discussing the details of 
 the morrow. 
 
 'Edith,' said her mother, 'you and John will be far 
 enough off this time to-morrow.' (Edith and John 
 were going to visit some of the continental capitals for 
 their honeymoon). * We shall miss you, dear.' 
 
 'Never mind/ said Dr Armstrong, smiling. 'When 
 they come home, Mrs Dawson, you must make us a 
 long visit, and you will be able to enjoy her company 
 as before.' 
 
 At this moment a servant knocked at the door, and 
 said that a man particularly wanted to see young Dr 
 Armstrong. 
 
 ' Who is he, Martha ? ' asked John's father. 
 
 'He's a labouring man, I think,' she replied, 'and 
 looks as if he worked in the fields.' 
 
 ' Probably it's a patient. I'll go, John.' 
 
 ' No, no, father, he asked for me/ said his son, ' so I 
 may as well see him. Ask him into the consulting-room, 
 Martha/ he added, as the servant left the room. 
 
 When John a little later went to see his patient, on 
 entering the room he started violently. 
 
 ' Why, surely I have seen you before, my man ? ' he 
 said in a tone of surprise. 
 
 'Yes, doctor, ye saved my life once, and I'm sorry 
 for't.' There was a peculiar tone about Joe's voice, and 
 a withering look upon Joe's face, for the visitor was Joe 
 Smith, as our reader may have guessed. 
 
CHAP, ix] WHAT JOE FOUND IN FRITTON BROAD 137 
 
 'Na doubt, doctor, ye're surprised t' see me,' he 
 continued, ' ye may knaw, too, it baint an easy job for 
 a working mon loike myself to gad a' this distance t* 
 see ye. But I were bound to coom, if I cam' afoot a' 
 the way.' 
 
 * Well, Smith, I remember you now,' stammered John, 
 i but I must confess I don't quite understand what you 
 mean.' 
 
 But he turned pale, as if he had a foreboding that 
 something unexpected was about to happen. 
 
 4 Do ye knaw this ? ' said the other almost fiercely, 
 drawing forth a letter and a photograph from his pocket, 
 and handing them to him, l do ye knaw where I found 
 'em ? I tell 'e I found 'em in the water close to poor Miss 
 Mary's foot. Aye, the letter were in her hand when she 
 jumped in, poor lamb. 
 
 * Ye saw most loike whaat the papers said o' the inquest, 
 and how the postmistress told coroner of a letter writ to 
 the post-office. Maybe ye wondered where that letter 
 were ? It were lucky for ye old Joe found that letter, 
 and couldna -forget ye saved his life in the hospital, tho' 
 he's sorry for't naw.' 
 
 John's face became bloodless he trembled all over. 
 He could have been bold and brave enough in a good 
 cause, but now abject fear took possession of him, and 
 paltry he seemed to the honest servant of Farmer Elliot, 
 who rose to leave. 
 
 He could say nothing. He saw that no excuse would 
 avail him in the eyes of this man, and so utter was 
 his consternation, that he actually drew out his purse 
 with the intention of making a money gift to his old 
 patient. 
 
 Joe with a contemptuous shake of his head signified 
 dissent : 
 
 * Na, na, it was naat for money Joe Smith kep' back 
 
138 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, ix 
 
 the letter from the coroner's jury. He'll touch none of 
 it. Good-night, sir, it's quits 'tween us naw, I owe ye 
 nought. Good-night.' 
 
 John as if in a dream got up and began to thank Joe 
 for his consideration, at the same time trying to grasp 
 his hand. 
 
 'Ye owe me na thanks/ said the latter. 'I told 
 ye we be quits, but I canna take your hand, sir, I 
 seem to see naw poor Miss Mary's foot floating in the 
 water.' 
 
 John sank back in his chair, and buried his face in his 
 hands. A minute later he heard the hall door shut, 
 and knew that Joe had gone. 
 
 To-morrow was his wedding day. He groaned aloud 
 So one person knew already of his baseness ; how long 
 would it be before all the world did ? 
 
 The tell-tale letter must be destroyed at all hazards. 
 He lit a taper, and setting light to the letter watched it 
 burn away on the hearth. Would that he could as 
 easily obliterate the remembrance. 
 
 He must now join the others, or they would wonder 
 what was delaying him. His hand shook like an aspen, 
 so he was afraid to present himself in the drawing-room ; 
 they would be sure to notice his altered appearance and 
 question him as to the ' patient.' 
 
 He put on his hat, went into the hall, and called 
 Martha, telling her to inform his father he had to see a 
 patient a little distance off, and if he were delayed they 
 were not to sit up. 
 
 Martha did as she was instructed. 
 
 'Why couldn't the boy let me see to this,' said his 
 father, ( the evening before his wedding, too.' 
 
 1 No, he was quite right to think of you, Dr Arm- 
 strong,' said Edith, defiantly. 
 
CHAP, ix] WHAT JOE FOUND IN FRITTON BROAD 139 
 
 * Ah, you'll have plenty of his company after to-day, 
 won't you, Edith ? ' replied the doctor, laughing. 
 
 John did not return till it was time to go to bed. He 
 at once said * Good night.' 
 
 Never did expectant bridegroom pass a more wretched 
 night. 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 JOHN COMMENCES PRACTICE AT DRIFFIELD 
 ' Thus conscience does make cowards of us all.' 
 
 AFTER a fitful and unrefreshing sleep, John awoke on 
 the morning of his wedding day. 
 
 He remembered well Charley's wedding only a few 
 months before. How different that was, and how happy 
 Charley and his sister were ! 
 
 He could not help reflecting how different the case was 
 with himself. He could not hope for their happiness. 
 
 It was true Edith loved him, but his own life was 
 doomed to be henceforth one of dissimulation : he must 
 pretend a love which he little felt, and do so in the face 
 of one whose love for him made her eyes preternaturally 
 sharp, and likely to discover the deception. 
 
 When Edith did discover the truth, as he felt sure she 
 would some day, what then ? How would he appear in 
 the eyes of her he had deceived ? 
 
 If John dreaded one thing more than another, it was 
 that Edith's love would be changed to scorn. However, 
 he must now go through with the wedding : he had 
 made his own bed, and must lie on it, and it was too 
 late to trouble about Edith's future unhappiness. 
 
 He dressed himself slowly and deliberately, carefully 
 
CHAP. X]JOHN COMMENCES PRA CTICE A T DRIFFIELD 141 
 
 noting in the glass that his features showed no signs of 
 recent agitation. 
 
 Edith was supremely happy on this her wedding day. 
 She had no distrust of John, no suspicion that the 
 love he was that day to pledge did not exist. The 
 rude awakening was bound to come, but in the mean- 
 while, it was fortunate that she was able to enjoy one of 
 the greatest pleasures of life, the feeling of faith in her 
 beloved, and knowledge she was about to have him for 
 her own. 
 
 What though the joy were unreal, it was none the 
 less true to her, and if we were to gauge by their 
 reality one-half the pleasures we each of us enjoy, it is to 
 be feared there would be a lack of these commodities in 
 the world. 
 
 She looked quite an ideal bride when John led her to 
 the altar in her bridal apparel. John was pale and 
 impassive, and there was a look on his face, which, in 
 spite of his self-control, struck his father as strange, and 
 brought a cloud to his heart, otherwise overflowing with 
 delight at beholding the fruition of his hopes. 
 
 There was a brilliant attendance at the wedding and 
 breakfast, and many of the best people of the country 
 old patients of John's father had come to do honour to 
 the family. 
 
 Sir James Feltham, the member for the North Riding, 
 proposed the health of the couple, and in his reply, John 
 expressed satisfaction at the well wishes of his numerous 
 friends, and hoped that in a short time, he and his wife 
 would be settled in their midst. 
 
 There seemed to the company a ring of insincerity in 
 his words, and several of Dr Armstrong's old patients 
 could not help contrasting unfavourably the somewhat 
 unnatural and artificial bearing of the son, with the open 
 candour of the father. 
 
142 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, x 
 
 Charley, too, regarded John a little suspiciously. He 
 had known him for many years, and felt sure he was 
 changed. He had thought that Mary Elliot's sad death 
 had had something to do with this, but he little dreamt 
 what had been John's share in the tragedy. 
 
 He was fond of his sister, and anxious for her future 
 welfare, and he had been inclined to think that John had 
 not shown Edith all a lover's attention. But then, 
 Charley was judging John's feelings by his own, and 
 he had been a very impulsive lover : and his legal 
 training had taught him that it is particularly unsafe to 
 assume that the same passions affect equally different 
 individuals. 
 
 On the whole he thought all would come right, and 
 he cheerfully bade the pair good-bye, when they started 
 for the station. 
 
 ( It's your turn now, John,' he said ; * and mark me, you 
 won't be in a hurry any more than I was, to return to 
 work, though of course you'll have to.' 
 
 ( Edith will see to that,' said his wife ; * she won't let 
 John make such a fool of himself as you did, Charley.' 
 
 * There, John, that's the way your wife will speak 
 when you have been married a month or two. That's 
 the way they sneer at well-intentioned efforts to please 
 them,' and Charley put on a look of mock severity. 
 
 4 If we do as comfortably as you seem to have done,' 
 said John smiling, ' we shan't have much to complain of, 
 shall we, Edith?' 
 
 John's father and most of the guests stood in the porch 
 to see them drive away, and they were soon speeding 
 southward to catch the continental packet at Harwich. 
 
 It was their intention to visit first the old Flemish 
 cities, then to go to Brussels, and after that to Paris. 
 They were to take a month, and Edith expected much 
 pleasure from John pointing out the places he had 
 
CHAP. x\JOHN COMMENCES PRACTICE A T DRIFFIELD 143 
 
 visited in the past, and from his showing her the old 
 pictures and relics of bygone times. 
 
 The weather proved favourable, and Edith greatly 
 enjoyed the roaming over these medieval cities with 
 John. She was quite happy, and her honeymoon passed 
 pleasantly enough. John, too, was able to forget the 
 past, and to throw off the melancholy that recent 
 events had brought. He really tried to make his wife 
 happy, and in so doing was able to dull his own re- 
 morse. 
 
 They visited Bruges, climbed the old Belfry, and 
 listened to the quaint carillon. They were present at 
 Services in the cathedrals, and wandered over the streets 
 of the ancient city. 
 
 They next visited Ghent and Malines, and stayed a 
 week at Brussels, where Edith admired the wonderful 
 Town Hall and the grand old houses adjoining, and she 
 was not a little pleased with the gaiety and elegant life of 
 the Belgian capital. She thought the ' Bois ' specially 
 delightful as she drove through it with her husband. 
 
 4 Ah, Edith,' he said, * wait till you have seen Paris, 
 you won't then think so much of this : it is Paris on a 
 small scale.' 
 
 'Brussels is very nice, John,' she answered, 'and 
 perhaps I like it all the better for being on a small scale. 
 Paris may be too big for me, but I will reserve my 
 opinion.' 
 
 The last ten days of the honeymoon were spent in 
 Paris, and Edith found the French capital a little too 
 large and bustling. The excitement of life with all its 
 anxieties were as intense in this city as anywhere. 
 
 It was true there were plenty of interesting sights ; 
 but their very number made her head ache, and she found 
 herself looking forward with a sensation of relief to the 
 time when they would return home. 
 
144 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, x 
 
 An incident, too, occurred, which threw a gloom on 
 the holiday, and which she did not for a long time 
 forget. 
 
 They were walking one afternoon along the Rue de 
 Rivoli, when suddenly they saw a crowd on the bank 
 of the river. Impelled by curiosity they approached, 
 and as they drew near the crowd divided, and two men 
 were allowed to pass bearing something on stretchers. 
 It was the body of a young woman of twenty-two just 
 drawn out of the Seine. 
 
 Edith shivered and clung to John's arm as they passed 
 by : but soon the procession was out of sight, and all 
 quiet again. 
 
 Edith breathed freely, but looking up into John's face, 
 she was surprised to see the change there. He was very 
 pale, and took no notice of her, but had his eyes fixed on 
 the direction the corpse had been taken. He stood still, 
 and made no attempt to go on. 
 
 ' What is the matter, John ? ' she exclaimed ; and when 
 he made no answer, she vehemently repeated the 
 question. 
 
 This aroused him from his reverie, and he stammered, 
 < Yes yes Edith, I'm all right, but that dreadful sight.' 
 
 1 Yes, it was a dreadful sight,' she answered, shuddering, 
 ( but why are you so pale ? ' 
 
 * Am I pale ? ' he replied, with a feeble attempt at a 
 smile. * I feel right enough ; ' but there was a tone of 
 insincerity in his voice, and he looked far from right. 
 
 The sudden appearance of the poor victim of the 
 Seine had brought back other thoughts. He could not 
 help thinking of another victim, and of the share he 
 himself had had in her fate. 
 
 They returned to the hotel, Edith alarmed at the 
 alteration in her husband, and more than ever surprised 
 at its apparent cause. All her questions he answered 
 
CHAP. x\JOHN COMMENCES PRACTICE AT DR1FFIELD 14$ 
 
 absent-mindedly, and a thorough gloom seemed to have 
 settled upon him. 
 
 1 What are you thinking of, John ? ' she more than once 
 asked. ( What makes you so miserable ? ' 
 
 Again he replied with an attempt at a smile, * I'm not 
 miserable, dear.' 
 
 ( You don't look very happy,' she retorted. 
 
 ' They had to hurry to be in time for the table cThote, 
 and Edith noticed that during the meal her husband 
 scarcely touched a morsel, and she became still more 
 anxious. 
 
 When dinner was over, an English lady, who was stay- 
 ing at the same hotel, asked Edith to stroll out to look at 
 the shops in the Rue de la Madeleine. 
 
 Edith glanced towards John, who heard the re- 
 quest. 
 
 ' Yes, do, dear, it will amuse you,' he said ; ( I have one 
 or two letters to write.' 
 
 When Edith had gone, however, instead of writing 
 letters, John put on his hat and went out, and then, 
 drawn by some fascination, walked towards Notre Dame. 
 
 But it was not the cathedral he was seeking, for when 
 almost under the shadow of that edifice he crossed the 
 road, and made for a low-roofed building bearing over the 
 doorway the inscription, 'REPUBLIQUE FRANQAISE/ and 
 standing on the edge of the river. 
 
 It was the Morgue. He pushed open the swing doors, 
 and entered. He had been to this building more than 
 once before, but his other visits had been prompted by 
 special and utilitarian objects. As a student he had been 
 desirous of seeing how the French managed institutions 
 of this kind, and of being able to form an opinion as to 
 the relative advantages of the French and English 
 mortuary. 
 
 This time he could not say why he had come, except 
 
 K 
 
146 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, x 
 
 with some half-formed desire of seeing again .the body 
 of the woman who had been borne by that afternoon 
 in the Rue de Rivoli. 
 
 And there she was straight before him. Two Parisians 
 had their noses flattened against the glass behind which 
 the bodies were arranged for recognition, but the window 
 was spacious enough to permit him to see everything. 
 
 There was the long, dripping hair, pallid face, blue lips 
 and staring eyes ; so, he felt intuitively Mary looked, 
 when Joe Smith helped to bear her to the farm. And 
 he was the cause of it all ! Was another similarly guilty 
 of the death of this woman ? 
 
 Nearly half-an-hour he lingered in the Morgue, and 
 then returned to his hotel, to' find Edith anxiously 
 inquiring for him. 
 
 ( I don't think I shall go out again .to-night, dear,' 
 he said ; 1 1 feel tired.' 
 
 'Why then, John,' she replied, 'the opera tickets 
 will be wasted.' 
 
 He remembered they held tickets for that night, and 
 it did seem a pity they should be wasted. 
 
 So he decided to go to the Opera House, and a little 
 later, he and Edith were watching a performance of 
 Gounod's Faust, done as it only can be in Paris, in which 
 some of the performers were world-famous artistes. 
 
 To Edith, who was a good musician, the performance 
 was magnificent, but to John the subject was not so 
 delightful, and seemed to still further intensify his 
 mental trouble, and it was with a sigh of relief he saw 
 the curtain descend at the close of the evening. 
 
 The next day he was in better spirits, but Edith 
 noticed that during the remainder of their stay at Paris, 
 he never quite got over the melancholy, engendered by 
 the chance meeting with the body drawn out of the 
 Seine. 
 
CHAP. X] JOHN COMMENCES PRA CTICE A T DRIFFIELD 147 
 
 At the end of the month they returned home, and 
 John settled at Driffield to help in his father's prac- 
 tice. 
 
 His father was delighted to have Edith as mistress of 
 the house. It seemed another place in her presence, 
 and as a daughter she ministered to the comfort of the 
 old man. 
 
 But John was not all the success at Driffield his father 
 had hoped he would be. As to knowledge and skill in 
 his profession, he was second to none, and could hold 
 his own with his father or any practitioner. But in that 
 address and tact with patients, the outcome of years of 
 experience, and not infrequently as much a special gift 
 to the individual as any other talent, he fell much 
 behind his father. 
 
 The latter noticed with surprise, not unmixed with 
 disappointment, that his son's entrance into the practice, 
 far from giving the universal satisfaction he had antici- 
 pated, rather diminished than increased it. 
 
 That professional address which is often lightly 
 regarded as beneath the dignity of a physician, and 
 appertaining more to quackery than to the accomplish- 
 ments of a scientific practitioner, was much wanted at 
 Driffield. 
 
 The various members of county families, and aris- 
 tocratic patients, that old Dr Armstrong had on his list, 
 often required a doctor for multifarious ailments, that had 
 no place in any scientific nomenclature of disease. 
 Under such circumstances their successful treatment de- 
 pended more on natural shrewdness, than knowledge 
 obtained from books, or picked up in the wards of a* 
 hospital. So that John was particularly at a discount in his 
 management of such cases : and if he did not in so many 
 words deny the reality of his patient's complaint, he hau' 
 a tendency to show by his manner he considered it cf 
 
i 4 8 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, x 
 
 little importance, and by so doing often destroyed all 
 confidence of the patient in his doctor. 
 
 He performed several successful operations by which 
 he gained great reputation in the district : but taking 
 everything together, his entrance into practice was not 
 an unmitigated success. 
 
 Had his father reflected, he might have perceived that 
 what had happened was what might have been expected. 
 For if he had been peculiarly successful, and he was 
 aware he had been, it was at least unlikely his son would 
 inherit exactly the talents which had given him that 
 success. 
 
 The son much excelled the father in some attainments, 
 and therefore, it was but natural he should fall behind in 
 others. 
 
 John's want of success, however, had important re- 
 sults. In the first place it intensified his dislike to this 
 kind of practice, and made him look with longing 
 eyes more and more towards the metropolis. Secondly, 
 the discontent it engendered tended to depress, and lay 
 him more open to stings of remorse. 
 
 He well knew that while his father lived, he would have 
 to remain at DrifEeld, as nothing would induce the old 
 man to leave his native place. 
 
 Edith, too, was satisfied, and had no ambition to change 
 the country for London ; but as time went on she could 
 not help noticing her husband's periodic fits of melan- 
 choly, and puzzling as to their cause. 
 
 John showed her every consideration and kindness, 
 and her domestic life was happy. If she had doubts as to 
 whether John loved her as Charley did Alice, she ascribed 
 the difference to the temperament of her husband ; and 
 she believed he gave her all the love it was possible for 
 him to give to any woman, and so she was content. 
 
 And now a change came to their Drifneld life. The 
 
CHAP. yi\JOHN COMMENCES PRACTICE AT DRIFFIELD 149 
 
 health of John's father showed signs of failing. He was 
 nearly seventy, and although his constitution had been 
 excellent, and he had never indulged in those excesses 
 which frequently play havoc with the best, yet a country 
 doctor's life is always more or less a hard one. 
 
 The constant grinding at the wheel, day and night, 
 winter and summer ; the frequent exposure to cold and 
 wet, and the terrible mental strain often associated with 
 professional responsibility ; all these are factors which 
 tend to degeneration and disease, even in the most 
 healthy. 
 
 He became too feeble to visit his old patients, and 
 could only see them at home : and after a while even 
 this was too fatiguing. 
 
 Edith was quite a daughter, and smoothed his infirm- 
 ities with the most unremitting attention. Often the 
 old man's eyes would light up with joy at her sight, and 
 he would talk proudly to his son of her good qualities, 
 and exhort him to make the most of such a wife. 
 
 John did not tire of hearing his wife's praises, and 
 would answer, * You are right, father, you are quite right, 
 Edith is too good for me/ 
 
 A year had passed, and there was reason to expect the 
 advent of a grandchild. It was the one wish of John's 
 father, to make the acquaintance of this direct descendant 
 of the Armstrongs, before he took his departure for the 
 unseen world. 
 
 It was true he had already one grandson, for Charley 
 was a happy father, and Alice had proudly brought the 
 child to receive her father's blessing. But still he 
 yearned after John's child, for that was the child to 
 link him, and the bygone Armstrongs, with the 
 future. Alice's child was all very well, but he wasn't 
 an Armstrong. 
 
 It is curious how the thoughts of age recur to the past, 
 
ISO JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, x 
 
 and how memory of the long ago seems to be rekindled, 
 to the obliteration of more recent events. 
 
 Old Dr Armstrong often spoke to Edith of his father 
 and mother, and the days when he was young : would 
 tell the story of bygone members of his family, and 
 of the respect in which his name had been held for 
 generations. 
 
 1 You will look after the young one when I am gone, 
 Edith,' he said on lone occasion, ' and train him well, for 
 we Armstrongs have always held up our heads, and 
 there have been none to point shame at us.' 
 
 Edith blushed and looked towards her husband, who 
 came into the room at this instant. She was surprised 
 to see how pained he was, and ascribed it to anxiety for 
 his father, who had lately become weaker. 
 
 Much as the old doctor longed to see his son's child, 
 it was fated not to be. Some months before the ex- 
 pected event, it was evident he was sinking. The 
 Dawsons were hurriedly summoned, and although, 
 owing to the state of the weather and their increasing 
 age, Dr and Mrs Dawson could not travel to Driffield 
 for it was midwinter Charley and his wife came to see 
 the end. 
 
 Two days after Christmas, the second Christmas from 
 that in which he had so cheerfully entertained them 
 before Alice's marriage, the old man peacefully passed 
 away with all his children round him. 
 
 John's hand was in 'his at the last, and his dying eyes 
 rested fondly and affectionately on his son. ' There at 
 least,' thought the latter, ' is no suspicion.' 
 
 Edith was alarmed by the extreme despondency in 
 her husband after his father's death, but naturally 
 ascribed it to that cause, and did her best to comfort him; 
 but she was compelled to confess he was an altered man, 
 although some of this despondency by degrees wore off. 
 
CHAP, x] JOHN COMMENCES PR A CTICE A T DRIFFIELD 151 
 
 It was true there had been no sudden change, the 
 alteration had been gradual, but none the less she was 
 beginning to recognise it. 
 
 After his father's death, John found that from a money 
 point of view he was in easy circumstances, for the 
 former had left everything to him, with the exception 
 of a bequest of ^"2000 to Alice. He was thus the 
 possessor of over ^8000, not including the value of the 
 freehold and practice at Driffield. 
 
 After the old doctor's death, the practice fell off 
 noticeably. Several influential patients, who would 
 never have gone elsewhere while John's father lived, 
 now ceased to employ the old firm. In addition, com- 
 petition had become more keen, as a popular practitioner 
 had lately joined an old-established firm about three 
 miles from Driffield. 
 
 Not that John could not always have done a good 
 practice, and if not equal to that of his father, yet 
 sufficiently good according to the times. But Driffield 
 and country life had long been distasteful, and he had 
 resolved to cut himself adrift from these associations, 
 and begin life anew in the metropolis. There he hoped 
 that amid its bustle and activity a certain aching spot 
 in his conscience might be lulled, or at least that he 
 might forget it, amid the stirring ambition of London 
 professional life. 
 
 But, alas ! John forgot his ' Horace,' Ccelum non 
 animam mutant, qui trans mare currunt, and though 
 physical or mental stimulants will for a time obscure 
 the sound of the * still, small voice/ the reaction will 
 surely come, and in proportion as it has been stifled will 
 make itself heard, so long as our moral organisation is 
 not more or less destroyed : too often, also, at times 
 when its tones are almost intolerable ! 
 
 Three months after Dr Armstrong's death the expected 
 
152 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, x 
 
 child arrived, and Edith felt all the joys and anxieties of 
 a mother. 
 
 She had got to love the old house and country 
 surrounding it, and wished for nothing better than for 
 her son to grow up amid these scenes : so that it was 
 with no little pain she learned, when the child was 
 barely twelve months old, that her husband had deter- 
 mined to sell the Driffield property, and to migrate to 
 London. 
 
 4 You see, dear/ he said, ' there is shortly to be a 
 vacancy on the staff of St Barnabas' Hospital, and Sir 
 George Hamilton, the senior surgeon, has promised me 
 his support. If I get the appointment, I have no doubt 
 I shall be able to hold my own, and with the capital we 
 have, we may safely take a house in Cavendish Square. 
 Even your father thinks the speculation safe ; and when 
 we are established in the West End of London, I can 
 find you, dear, a very different position in society to 
 that you hold here.' 
 
 1 1 should be content to stay here all my life, John,' 
 she replied. 4 I'm sure I don't want better society. But 
 of course you must do what you think necessary ' and 
 she sighed. 
 
 * Then, again, dear, how near we shall be to Charley 
 and Alice,' he pleaded. 
 
 So a house in Cavendish Square was decided on, if 
 John could get the appointment at St Barnabas. 
 
 In the meanwhile, he had been negotiating the sale 
 of his practice at Driffield, and had requested several 
 agents to send him suitable purchasers. 
 
 It happened one day, while these negotiations were 
 going on, that Martha informed him a gentleman wished 
 to see him. She handed him a card, which bore the 
 name, ( James Benson, M.D.' When he went into his 
 consulting-room the visitor rose, and held out his hand 
 
CHAP. x\JOHtf COMMENCES PRACTICE AT DRIFFIELD 153 
 
 'I think, Dr Armstrong,' he said, ( I have had the 
 pleasure of meeting you before.' 
 
 1 Indeed, Dr Benson, I can't say I remember you. 
 
 ' Oh, yes/ continued Dr Benson, * two years ago I 
 released you, when locum for Dr Ling at Fritton.' 
 
 John's heart stood still. He hurriedly sat down, and 
 endeavoured to hide his confusion. With a forced 
 smile he gasped out, To be sure to be sure.' 
 
 They then began to discuss details as to the transfer 
 of the practice, but all the while John kept saying to 
 himself, ( This man must not come here. Whoever buys 
 the practice, he shall not/ 
 
 After examining the books, and asking various 
 questions, Dr Benson said, * I think I understood from Mr 
 Crocker ' he was one of the agents ( you required 
 ^"2000 for the practice ? It seems to me that the price is 
 fair, and if I find ' 
 
 'But,' interrupted John, 'there are the house and 
 grounds, the freehold of which could not be reckoned at 
 less than ^"2000.' 
 
 * Your agent, Dr Armstrong, said nothing about that ! ' 
 * Would you not be willing to grant a lease at a rent ? 
 It will not be easy for you to find a purchaser in our 
 profession with ^"4000 to invest. 
 
 The common sense of this was obvious, and John had 
 never dreamed of insisting that his successor should 
 purchase the freehold of the property ; he had even 
 mentioned to the agent what he would consider a 
 reasonable rent. But he suddenly thought of this 
 device as a means of putting off Dr Benson. So he 
 replied he would think the matter over, and write to 
 him, but that he desired, if possible, to sell the property 
 out and out. 
 
 * What a curious man Dr Armstrong is,' thought the 
 other, as he left the house. ' Why was he so upset when 
 
154 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, x 
 
 I reminded him of our previous meeting? For some 
 reason or other he is not desirous of selling me his 
 practice.' 
 
 A week before the election, John went to London to 
 canvass actively, leaving a locum tenens at Driffield. 
 
 As the train rushed southward he carelessly glanced 
 down the columns of a newspaper. His eye caught 
 the heading, 'FOREIGN INTELLIGENCE DELHI ILLNESS 
 OF BISHOP "JACKSON.' 'Why! Bishop Jackson,' he 
 said to himself, 'was the bishop Paget was to go 
 abroad with.' His interest was aroused, and he read, 
 'We regret to have to announce that Dr Jackson is 
 lying seriously ill with malarial fever. The new bishop 
 has been indefatigable, and it is thought that his present 
 illness is not a little due to over-work. Fortunately the 
 duties of the mission are being ably undertaken by his 
 chaplain, the Rev. James Paget, who is reaping golden 
 opinions.' 
 
 ' Ah,' mused John, ' Paget is doing good work as usual. 
 He has a genius for preaching, and is doubtless able to 
 shine as a missionary ; but why didn't he stay at home ? 
 Whatever could have induced him to go abroad ? If he 
 does gain fame there, he might have done better at 
 home.' 
 
 To John it seemed almost incredible that any one on 
 account of moral duty should be willing to expatriate, 
 himself, without the inducement of great personal 
 advantages, and he had quite dismissed from his mind 
 the idea of Paget being in love with Edith, although at 
 one time he had certainly suspected it. 
 
 Such a mind as James Paget's was beyond his com- 
 prehension, and although he could admire the other's 
 genius as a preacher, he failed utterly to grasp those 
 traits in his character on which his chief merit depended, 
 his inflexible principles and inestimable moral worth. 
 
CHAP, x] JOHN COMMENCES PR A CT1CE A T DRIFFIELD 155 
 
 On arrival in London John was soon involved in all 
 the excitement of a contested election. 
 
 There were several strong candidates in the field, and 
 from a professional point of view he might indeed consider 
 himself fortunate, if he could gain the post at St Barnabas. 
 
 Dr Dawson brought before several of the influential 
 governors the reputation John had gained at the Norwich 
 Hospital. Luckily, also, a noble lord, one of his father's 
 old patients in the north, had great interest, and used it 
 on his behalf. So after a week of activity, in which 
 no stone was left unturned which might assist his efforts, 
 he found himself elected one of the assistant surgeons to 
 St Barnabas. 
 
 He at once wired the result to his wife, and at the 
 same time informed her by letter he had found a 
 purchaser for his practice, and should return to Driffield 
 to give the latter a short introduction, after which they 
 would finally bid adieu to the north. 
 
 He wrote in an exulting tone, and Edith, while she 
 felt glad to notice his unusual exuberance of spirits, could 
 not help sighing as she reflected that their home life 
 there was at an end. 
 
 She glanced sadly round at the old rooms, and the 
 garden with all the peace and restfulness, which was so 
 soon to be exchanged for the turmoil of town life. 
 
 Even Norwich had been in some respects too much 
 for her : what would London be ? But John ? s future 
 was too much involved to allow of protest, so, taking 
 the baby from the arms of the nurse who was sitting by 
 her side, she fondled it, and felt some relief in thinking 
 that his young intelligence could not comprehend the 
 loss, which to her mind seemed as much his as hers. 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 
 A LETTER IN THE 
 * Ye Gods, ye Gods, must I endure all this ? ' 
 
 THE house that the Armstrongs had taken in Cavendish 
 Square was of considerable size, and it was found 
 necessary to begin housekeeping with four servants ; so 
 John saw it would be well to look round for the means 
 of getting an income, or his capital would soon melt 
 away. 
 
 It was fortunate that his father's old patient, who had 
 helped him so effectually on to the staff of St Barnabas, 
 was also influential in certain aristocratic circles, and 
 used his efforts very generously in promoting John's 
 success in private practice. 
 
 Lord Neville, in fact, had taken a fancy to John, and 
 his feelings towards him were heightened by the respect 
 and gratitude he had always felt towards his father, who 
 had attended him successfully through more than one 
 dangerous illness. 
 
 John likewise applied all his energies to his hospital 
 appointment, and soon began to make a name for 
 himself. 
 
 St Barnabas was the chief surgical school in the 
 metropolis, and as surgery was John's strong point, his 
 skill and ability soon began to be bruited about far and 
 
CHAP, xi] A LETTER IN THE ' MERCURY 1 i$7 
 
 wide, and it became the fashion for men to come from all 
 parts to see Mr Armstrong operate at St Barnabas. 
 
 As a lecturer he also made his mark. His classes were 
 invariably crowded, and medical publishers began to 
 approach him with tempting offers to edit manuals on 
 professional subjects. 
 
 So in a short time John found himself a fashionable 
 consultant. The guineas began to pour in, and his 
 consulting-room was rarely empty in the morning. A 
 dashing carriage and pair bore him to ,all parts of the 
 town during the day, and in the evening his voice was 
 heard at meetings of learned societies, where the views 
 of the rising surgeon were listened to, with respect, by 
 his professional brethren. 
 
 John was now thoroughly immersed in the life he had 
 so often longed for. There was an absorbing excite- 
 ment which at first did come as a relief to his over- 
 strung nervous condition. The past seemed more 
 effectually banished than it ever had been, and he hoped 
 that conscience would by degrees grow quieter, and allow 
 him to devote all his powers, to promote the professional 
 success which seemed almost assured. 
 
 The change in their worldly circumstances had a 
 different effect on Edith. The increased style and luxury 
 in which they were forced to live, the social intercourse 
 required by the aristocratic clientele of a fashionable 
 London surgeon, and, in fact, all the demands of society, 
 were extremely wearying, and seemed more than ever to 
 separate her from her husband. She sighed as she 
 saw that the little rift between them, which had 
 worried her in the past, was still less likely to be effaced 
 in the future. Her fashionable duties prevented her 
 from giving the attention she would have liked to her 
 growing son, whom it had been her wish to train and 
 nurture from the first. 
 
158 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, xi 
 
 As Dr Armstrong's wife, however, Edith amply played 
 her part in promoting his professional success : and at 
 his dinner-table, and in the drawing-rooms of his more 
 important patients, her stately form and refined features 
 were not without their influence, and helped to 
 consolidate her husband's social success, on which the 
 greatness of a professional career may in no little measure 
 depend. 
 
 John had from the first devoted himself to the 
 surgical branch of his profession. It was in this he 
 distinguished himself at Norwich, and as assistant surgeon 
 to St Barnabas, he had every opportunity of applying 
 himself entirely to this practice. 
 
 Three years later he became surgeon, and he was then 
 able to give full scope to his ambitious schemes of 
 extending his art. 
 
 The world soon began to ring with reports of novel 
 operations at St Barnabas, the wonderful success of 
 which more and more extended the fame of the operator. 
 
 John was a surgeon with great talents; but Surgery 
 is an art, which often dazzles the eyes of its votaries, 
 and blinds them to the consequences of endeavouring 
 to improve too far on nature's resources. 
 
 It should never be forgotten that Surgery, unless a 
 practical science that is, unless it serves to lighten pain 
 and prolong life is of little worth. Some surgeons apply 
 the term * brilliant ' to operations, which, judged in the 
 light of common sense, are scarcely likely to benefit the 
 patient, however much they may enhance the fame of 
 the operator. 
 
 Surgery tends to lose more than to gain by work of 
 this kind, and it is the duty of the surgeon not to be led 
 away by one or two successful results, but to question 
 every detail of the operation. Although a single life 
 really saved might justify much, it would require the cure 
 
CHAP, xi] A LETTER IN THE ' MERCURY' 159 
 
 of many deformities to justify the sacrifice of one life, 
 when the cure could only be effected by an operation 
 dangerous in itself. 
 
 John was at this time in serious danger of being led 
 away by the desire of distinguishing himself as an oper- 
 ator, through underestimating his responsibility to the 
 patient. Unfortunately, too, it was the fashion then for 
 surgeons all over the world to emulate one another by 
 striving who should do the most daring operation, and 
 make the most startling innovation in Surgery. And 
 while every success was given the utmost publicity, 
 being chronicled everywhere in the lay and professional 
 press, little attention was paid to the victims, who in all 
 probability paved the way to these apparent triumphs. 
 
 As assistant surgeon it had always been customary, 
 before doing an unusual operation, to consult with the 
 seniors, and John's natural impetuosity was thus held in 
 check by their maturer judgment. 
 
 But when at an early age he himself became a senior, 
 this wholesome bar was removed, and a free hand given 
 to an operator already chafing under a restraint, that had 
 more than once been imposed on the carrying out of a 
 cherished scheme. 
 
 So that much as John exulted in his appointment, it 
 was by no means without pitfalls to his future success. 
 He must now stand alone, and if he made up his mind 
 to act according to the dictates of his own genius, he 
 must not forget that he was throwing away that shield so 
 valuable to a growing reputation, as a protection against 
 the criticism of enemies in event of disaster the sharing 
 of responsibility with men of older years, and more 
 assured celebrity. 
 
 When all the doubt and difficulty which envelops the 
 simplest operation is considered, when we see unfor- 
 tunate results not infrequently follow the best planned, 
 
160 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, xi 
 
 and most skilfully executed for the constitution of the 
 patient must be always, more or less, an unknown factor 
 bold, indeed, must be the surgeon, who will take 
 unshared the responsibility on his shoulders, and more 
 than doubtful will be his success, unless he either have 
 no failures or no enemies. 
 
 This was not John's case. Few men can rise in the 
 world without exciting a certain amount of ill-will in 
 others less fortunate than themselves, and he was to 
 find that : 
 
 ' He who surpasses or subdues mankind, 
 Must look down on the hate of those below.' 
 
 There were plenty of aspirants after professional fame, 
 who bitterly envied the success of the rising surgeon, and 
 were only too ready to find fault, and drag into publicity 
 any failure on his part they might discover. 
 
 Such was the state of things, when one evening John 
 was accosted at his club by a certain Lord Knowsley, who 
 was both a personal friend and a patient. 
 
 'My dear Armstrong, what have you been up to? 
 Whom have you been carving at the hospital? You 
 know, it's all very well for you surgeons, but the public 
 don't take quite so kindly to the knife.' 
 
 * My Lord,' said John, ' I don't understand you ' 
 
 'What? Haven't you seen the Mercury? You'll 
 want to see the Editor when you have ! 
 
 After a few minutes' conversation with Lord Knowsley, 
 John hurried to the reading-room, his mind full of 
 indignation that any newspaper should have dared to 
 comment on his conduct. 
 
 He soon possessed himself of a copy of the Mercury, 
 and eagerly running his eyes down the columns of that 
 paper, found among the editorials the following : 
 
 ( As will be seen from a letter we publish this morning, 
 
CHAP, xi] A LETTER IN THE < MERCURY' 161 
 
 a sad casualty has just occurred at St Barnabas. A 
 patient was recently admitted into that institution suffer- 
 ing from a minor disease which did not threaten life, 
 and only occasionally gave rise to a little inconvenience. 
 
 * Without any consultation between the members of 
 the staff a serious operation was performed, and it was 
 then found that no surgical interference was called for. 
 The patient, however, died less than twenty-four hours 
 afterwards. 
 
 4 It is much to be regretted that such an episode should 
 have occurred at so important an institution, as it will 
 be difficult to convince the public that such operations 
 are justifiable, however eminent the surgeon who per- 
 forms them. 
 
 * As not long ago we published an appeal on behalf of 
 the governors for further funds, it is only right to warn 
 them that misadventures of this kind are not calculated 
 to open the purses of the public.' 
 
 John then sought for the letter referred to. It ran as 
 follows : 
 
 Sir, 
 
 ' A poor girl was admitted into St Barnabas a few 
 days ago suffering from an ailment, which, if at times 
 painful, has never been known to be fatal. 
 
 * She was operated on last Wednesday, and was dead by 
 Thursday afternoon. Mr John Armstrong was the 
 operator, and it is worthy of note that although the 
 youngest surgeon, he did not see fit to consult his col- 
 leagues before doing an operation as dangerous as novel. 
 
 * This gentleman has, on several other occasions, distin- 
 guished himself by attempting surgical feats which no 
 other surgeon would venture upon, and if it were only his 
 own reputation that were at stake, the matter might not 
 be so grave ; but when it is no less than the reputation 
 of one of the largest medical charities in the metropolis 
 
 L 
 
162 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, xi 
 
 which is involved, it seems to me that some public 
 notice ought to be taken of this incident. 
 I am, yours truly, 
 
 F.R.C.S.' 
 
 John's first feeling on reading the letter was one of 
 unbounded indignation. 
 
 Who had dared write in this way about him ? What 
 injury might it not do his reputation ? 
 
 If there were law in England the writer should smart 
 for it for of the libellous character of the letter, he 
 thought, there could be no doubt. 
 
 'I wonder who "F.R.C.S." is,' he said to himself. 'He 
 seems to be well informed about St Barnabas, and that 
 I had no consultation in the case of that poor girl 
 Johnson. It might be Butcher himself! I know he's 
 bitterly jealous, and spites me wherever he can.' 
 
 Mr Butcher was one of John's colleagues on the staff 
 of St Barnabas, and had been not a little envious of the 
 rise into fame of the younger surgeon. 
 
 c If it should be Butcher, I'll go for him, whatever it 
 costs ! Yes, I will ! In the meanwhile, I had better see 
 Charley.' 
 
 John threw down the paper, seized his hat, and hurried 
 from the club. His first care was to purchase a copy of 
 the Mercury, then to call a cab, and order the driver to 
 take him to the nearest metropolitan railway station, 
 and he was soon on the way to Finchley. 
 
 When he arrived at Charley's house it was getting 
 late. He was shown into the drawing-room, where he 
 found his sister, who was surprised to see him at this 
 time of the day. 
 
 * How's Edith, John ? ' she asked anxiously, * there's 
 nothing wrong I hope ? And the boy, too ? You don't 
 often honour us with a visit. 1 
 
 ( All are quite well, Alice, but Edith doesn't even 
 
CHAP, xi] A LETTER IN THE ' MERCURY' 163 
 
 know I'm here. To tell the truth I come on rather 
 important business, and want especially to see Charley 
 to-night.' 
 
 ' You can see him,' replied his sister, ( but he's dread- 
 fully tired, and has only just had his dinner, as he was 
 detained at the office. In fact, he only got home half- 
 an-hour ago. Don't worry him, John, more than you 
 can help.' 
 
 John looked tired himself, and his sister noticed it. 
 
 ( You don't seem well either,' she added, ' but I will 
 go and see where Charley is.' 
 
 She left the room, but in a few minutes returned, and 
 told John that he would find her husband in the study. 
 ' But do come up into the drawing-room and have a cup 
 of tea when your business is done,' she said, as he left 
 her presence. 
 
 When John entered the room in which his brother-in- 
 law was sitting, Charley rose and greeted him warmly. 
 He had evidently been deep in business, and numerous 
 papers were scattered over his desk. 
 
 ' What ? Is it you ? ' he said. ' What on earth brings 
 you over here at this unearthly hour? You look 
 anxious, too ! Is any one bringing an action against 
 you? ' 
 
 * No, but I think of bringing an action myself, 
 and have come to consult you,' and seeing his friend 
 looked incredulous, he threw down before him the 
 copy of the Mercury -, exclaiming, ( There, read that ! 
 Isn't that libellous ? Can I be expected to stand that ? ' 
 
 Charley carefully perused the paragraph and letter. 
 He then deliberately took off his eye-glasses, re-adjusted 
 them, and read the letter through a second time. 
 
 'It is rather a nasty letter,' he remarked, 'but the 
 editor won't give you the name of " F.R.C.S.," so whom 
 are you going to bring your action against ? You can 
 
164 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, xi 
 
 go for damages against the paper if you choose! There 
 was a marked emphasis on the last word. 
 
 ' If I choose/ repeated John sharply. ( Do you advise 
 me to put up with such an attack on my professional 
 reputation ? Can I do otherwise than bring an action ? 
 Besides, I feel sure " F.R.C.S." is none other than 
 Butcher, one of my colleagues. 
 
 'What? Fred Butcher of St Barnabas?' said his 
 friend. ' By jove, that complicates matters ! An action 
 for libel between two well-known surgeons of St Barnabas 
 will be exciting, but won't tend to do that institution any 
 good. You won't please the governors by such a course. 
 Now, my dear fellow, you must think seriously over this. 
 I have heard that Fred Butcher is a cunning devil, and 
 this letter, if really written by him, looks odd. It looks,' 
 Charley hesitated for a moment, ' yes, it does look as if 
 he might be tempting you to bring an action in other 
 words, might be laying a trap.' 
 
 'Then I shall walk into it,' answered John angrily, 
 'and perhaps, by-and-bye he will find he has got into 
 a trap himself.' 
 
 ( No, no, John,' said the other, * don't lose your temper ! 
 Be reasonable, look at the matter from every point of 
 view, and above all consider your weak points. You 
 must excuse me, old man, but isn't it true that you have 
 been operating a little extensively lately? There's the 
 case " F.R.C.S." refers to ; then a week ago, when I was 
 in Norwich I saw the governor, and he particularly 
 asked after you, and spoke of your great success ; but I 
 clearly perceived, from the tenor of his remarks, he was a 
 little alarmed by the boldness of some of your operations. 
 Now, if a man so well-disposed towards you as my father 
 has his doubts, and one who is a member of your own 
 profession, what may not be the opinion of your brethren 
 here in London ? If an action is brought, all this will 
 
CHAP, xi] A LETTER IN THE ' MERCURY* 16$ 
 
 have to be gone into, and it is not pleasant ; what the 
 jury will have to decide will be in a great measure as to 
 the value of some of these recent operations ; and as 
 they can form no opinion themselves, their verdict will 
 depend on the medical evidence put before them.' 
 
 1 Your father,' replied John, * is one of the old school, 
 and naturally hesitates at modern innovations ; but the 
 new school regards these matters quite differently, and 
 you will find that all over the civilised world my opera- 
 tions are regarded as legitimate extensions of Surgery.' 
 
 * That's all very well,' said his friend, 'but may not 
 the influence of the old school be brought to bear 
 on a London jury ? Your opponent will hardly be likely 
 to seek for evidence to support his case from the new 
 school. Then, as to your colleagues, how about them ? 
 You didn't consult them about this case, and they'll 
 hardly take that as a compliment.' 
 
 ( I could not have consulted them without consulting 
 Butcher,' replied John, 'and I would rather have done 
 anything than that. But I think the others are all 
 right.' This was rather doubtfully said. 
 
 ' If ' said Charley after a long pause, ( if you insist on 
 bringing an action, I don't refuse to undertake your 
 case, but you must understand I don't recommend it. I 
 earnestly hope you will re-consider the whole matter. 
 You can't imagine what a worry it will be. I have seen 
 professional men almost brought to the grave by the 
 anxiety necessarily involved in fighting such an action. 
 In the case of us lawyers, it is our every-day work ; 
 we are used to it, and take it all in the way of business ; 
 but, you will observe, we don't often litigate among 
 ourselves ; we know better ! 
 
 ' From a business point of view, the action you propose 
 is such a one as would dazzle a young solicitor, for the 
 vista of costs that it opens out is most encouraging. As 
 
166 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, x I 
 
 we are something more than solicitor and client, I should 
 not be likely in dealing with you to be less open in my 
 advice than I should be with an ordinary client ; and I 
 can assure you honestly, old fellow, that under exactly 
 the same circumstances, I should shrink from advising 
 any client to enter into such an action as you contem- 
 plate. It is an action, that, if successful, must involve 
 great cost, terrible anxiety, and be at the end but a barren 
 triumph; for even if by way of argument we suppose you 
 win your action, and make your opponent pay heavy 
 damages, your own reputation might be seriously 
 jeopardised by the trial, and the allegations that are 
 sure to be made against you by your opponent and 
 his friends ; so that the net result may be but a small 
 recompense when the indirect loss is considered. While, 
 if you fail, you must see you are in a worse position than 
 before.' 
 
 'Charley,* said the other, 'your arguments are 
 strong, I don't deny, but I feel I must do something, 
 especially if Butcher is at the bottom of this. Surely 
 something will be expected of me? Lord Knowsley 
 was speaking about it only this evening, and I have 
 no doubt I shall be hearing it on all sides for some 
 time to come. If I do nothing, what will be 
 thought ? ' 
 
 Charley shrugged his shoulders as he answered, 'I 
 should risk that. Such remarks will be unpleasant, no 
 doubt, but that course will be far less dangerous than 
 the other.' 
 
 'Well, I'll think it over. But it's getting late 
 I'll be off. You'll write a letter, however, to the editor 
 of the Mercury ? ' 
 
 ' Yes,' replied Charley, ' there will be no harm in that. 
 It does not compel us to bring an action, and perhaps, 
 we might get an apology.' 
 
CHAP, xi] A LETTER IN THE ' MERCURY' 167 
 
 * If Butcher wrote that letter, he won't apologise,' said 
 John, * but, good-night.' 
 
 ' Do stop and have some tea, and a chat with Alice,' 
 said his brother-in-law, as the other got up to go, ( you 
 so seldom pay us a visit.' 
 
 'No, much obliged, but I must really be off, Edith 
 will be wondering what has become of me.' 
 
 He then rose, and Charley accompanied him to the 
 door, where they parted ; John hurrying away to catch 
 the last train, Charley returning slowly and thoughtfully 
 to his study. 
 
 He sat down to finish the work that his friend's 
 coming had interrupted, but it was to no purpose ; the 
 latest episode occupied his thoughts, and would not 
 allow him to think of anything else : so he put aside 
 his papers, and lighted a cigar. 
 
 At this moment his wife noiselessly entered. 
 
 ( Has John gone ? ' she said. ' I hoped he was coming 
 up for a cup of tea.' 
 
 1 No, I couldn't get him to stay,' answered her husband, 
 ( he said it was too late.' 
 
 * Whatever have you two been consulting about all this 
 time ? ' asked Alice, ' and what's the matter with John, 
 he looked quite careworn this evening ? ' 
 
 4 He will be more so before long,' was the reply, * if he 
 insists on having his own way. This is what is the 
 matter with your brother,' and he handed her the 
 newspaper, pointing out the obnoxious paragraphs. 
 
 4 What a shame ! ' burst j out Alice after reading the 
 paper, 4 surely the writer ought to be punished ? ' 
 
 4 Why, Alice,' laughed her husband, 'you are as 
 vindictive as John, who is only too eager to punish 
 him, and to do so is bent on bringing an action. But 
 the worst of it is that an action is a doubtful remedy, 
 and might hurt John more than the offender. It's an 
 
168 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, xi 
 
 unfortunate business, I fear, but I think I shall go to 
 bed now. To-morrow will be a busy day, and I must 
 be up early to finish some of this work/ and he pointed 
 to the papers on the table. 
 
 ' Yes, you poor old thing, you do look tired,' said his 
 wife. * But I'm sorry for John. I wonder whether 
 Edith knows about it, and what she thinks ? I'll call 
 to-morrow.' 
 
CHAPTER XII 
 
 WHAT TOOK PLACE AT THE 
 
 I tell thee I'll have the law of him ' 
 
 ON the day following the events recorded in our last 
 chapter, Alice called at Cavendish Square to see Edith. 
 
 It was one of the latter's * At Home ' days, and Alice 
 found the drawing-room full of visitors. She was 
 correspondingly disappointed, and determined to make 
 but a short stay. 
 
 Edith, however, whispered to her to remain, so that 
 after the callers had gone, they might have time for a 
 little gossip. 
 
 ' They won't be long/ she said, * and it seems quite an 
 age since you were here. You must stay to dinner/ 
 
 Alice, therefore, sat down patiently while all Edith's 
 attention was given to her other visitors, who, by their 
 distinguished appearance and aristocratic address, gave 
 evidence of John's social success. 
 
 1 Dear Mrs Armstrong,' lisped Lady Bellairs, ' so pleased 
 to see you looking so well ! How is the dear boy ? 
 Lady Fitzmaurice told me he was quite sadly a short 
 time ago.' 
 
 ' Better, thank you. May I give you some more tea, 
 Lady Bellairs ?' 
 
 'My dear Mrs Armstrong/ said the Honourable Mrs 
 Fortescue, ( I was so sorry to hear of that disgraceful 
 
I7o JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, xn 
 
 attack on your husband in the Mercury. Mr Fortescue 
 said the editor ought to be horsewhipped. Do you know 
 who wrote the letter ? ' 
 
 Edith blushed, and Alice looked at her inquiringly. 
 
 1 Really, Mrs Fortescue, I don't know anything about 
 it. Mr Armstrong told me something unpleasant had 
 happened, and that he had been libelled by a newspaper, 
 but I saw he was worried, and didn't question him on 
 the subject.' 
 
 I Ah/ said Lady Bellairs, ' if anything of the kind had 
 happened to my husband, I would have made him tell 
 me all about it. My dear Mrs Armstrong, I think you 
 are too easy with your husband. He ought to tell you 
 about such things. He has no business to keep you in 
 the dark.' 
 
 I 1 suppose/ said Mrs Holdfast, the wife of a fashionable 
 solicitor, ( Mr Armstrong will make the editor of the 
 Mercury pay damages. These newspaper people are 
 really getting quite intolerable.' 
 
 * Yes, it is a shame ! ' chimed in several voices. 
 
 Edith showed by a little increased reserve the topic 
 was disagreeable, and the conversation drifted into 
 another channel. 
 
 After the usual small talk, and the customary cups of 
 tea, the callers gradually dispersed, and the carriages 
 bore homewards their occupants, nearly all pleased with 
 and remarking on Edith's attractive manners. 
 
 'What a pleasure it was to call on that dear Mrs 
 Armstrong. But had her husband actually killed some 
 one at the hospital ? That really was too dreadful ! ' 
 
 When all the visitors had gone, and Alice and Edith 
 were left alone in the drawing-room, they settled down 
 to talk of themselves and their belongings. 
 
 * You know, Edith/ said Alice, ( John was at our house 
 last night, and consulted Charley about bringing an 
 
CHAP. Xii] WHAT TOOK PLACE AT ' &SCULAPIAN' 171 
 
 action against the Mercury, and the writer of that 
 letter?' 
 
 ( Yes, he mentioned when he returned last night 
 he had seen Charley, and he told me of the letter ; 
 but he seemed so depressed that I tried to get his mind 
 off the subject, and made light of it.' 
 
 ( Edith,' eagerly exclaimed her sister-in-law, * I know 
 Charley recommended him not to take any legal pro- 
 ceedings, but John is bent on doing so, and if he persists, 
 Charley can't very well refuse to act. You might use 
 your influence with John to get him to abandon the 
 notion.' 
 
 ' My influence/ sighed Edith, ' I'm afraid, isn't worth 
 much, Alice. What with company and visiting, I see 
 next to nothing of John. It was much nicer at Driffield. 
 How I wish we had never come to London ! ' 
 
 'Howi can you speak so, Edith? John could 
 never have done at Driffield what he has in London. 
 London has been the making of him. Why,' she added 
 proudly, * he'll be a baronet one of these days, and you 
 will be Lady Armstrong ! ' 
 
 The prospect did not please Edith greatly. She only 
 sighed again. 
 
 ( But you see, Edith,' said Alice, continuing the original 
 topic, 'Charley is greatly afraid that John's professional 
 reputation may suffer if he goes into court. You know 
 what nasty things counsel can say. Then what a worry 
 John makes of everything, and what a burden an action 
 hanging over him will be, and just when he is beginning 
 to make his way so nicely.' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Edith, ( he does worry. He scarcely slept 
 last night : and then he is so strange at times ; he quite 
 frightens me. Once or twice in his sleep he has called 
 me " Mary." Why should he do that, Alice ? ' 
 
 The latter looked up in surprise as she answered 
 
172 JOHN ARMSTRONG [ CHAP, xn 
 
 1 Called you " Mary." How should I know, dear ? ' 
 
 * Yes, it is always " Mary," Edith continued, ' never 
 anything else. I once asked him why he did it, but he 
 was so distressed that I was sorry I alluded to it.' 
 
 'What did he say?' 
 
 1 Oh, he only said he must have been dreaming.' 
 
 Dinner was announced, and the two ladies proceeded 
 to the dining-room, but were disappointed not to find 
 John , and a footman shortly after brought a telegram to 
 say he had been detained over an operation. 
 
 The two, therefore, were compelled to begin dinner by 
 themselves. During dessert Edith had her child brought 
 down to keep them company, and they amused them- 
 selves with his childish prattle, and the fond mother 
 anxiously inquired of Alice what she thought of his 
 looks. Was he not very delicate ? He always seemed to 
 be catching cold. 
 
 Alice thought the boy did not look strong. He was 
 tall for his age and very precocious. His complexion 
 was pale, and the veins, which appeared through the 
 skin, were prominent, while his cheeks were apt to be 
 unduly flushed of an evening. 
 
 Alice took care, however, not to mention her 
 thoughts, and only remarked that all children ailed at 
 times, and that her own Charley had a nasty cough. 
 John would grow out of his weakness. He was thin 
 because he was growing fast, perhaps a little too fast. 
 
 Shortly after dinner Alice went home. 
 
 Later in the evening John returned, and Edith made 
 up her mind to speak to him about the libel. 
 
 4 John, I have seen Alice,' she remarked. ( I under- 
 stand that Charley does not approve of your going to 
 law about that letter in the Mercury.' 1 
 
 ( You don't mean to say,' said her husband irritably, 
 
CHAP. XII] WHA T TOOK PLA CE A T ( &SCULAPIAN' 173 
 
 'that Charley has been discussing this matter with 
 Alice ? ' 
 
 1 It does not seem unnatural to me,' said Edith, ' that 
 Charley should have confidence in his wife. I wish, dear, 
 you would treat me more in the same fashion.' 
 
 John could not help noticing his wife's rebuke, and 
 his manner softened. 
 
 'Well, Edith, I told Charley I would re-consider 
 the matter. T don't think he quite grasps my situa- 
 tion. As far as the Mercury is concerned, I don't 
 want to take steps against the paper, but if Butcher is, 
 as I suspect, the author of the letter, I cannot and won't 
 stand it. I must take some steps to protect myself, and 
 if Butcher won't retract and apologise, what can I do but 
 seek redress in the law courts ? ' 
 
 ' Don't you think, John,' said his wife, ' you might 
 ignore the letter altogether? If you did so, do you 
 think you will really lose caste with any of your friends, 
 or be prejudiced in your practice ? ' 
 
 'Yes, Edith, I do. It will get about that I per- 
 form improper operations, and people will be afraid to 
 come to me.' 
 
 'Well,' said Edith sorrowfully, 'you ought to know 
 your own business best. I do hope you are right, but I 
 have such misgivings ' 
 
 There was a short pause, then John added a little 
 brusquely : ' You needn't look so gloomily at me ; I'll 
 see that your interests, Edith, don't surfer.' 
 
 ' My interests must suffer, John, if yours do/ replied 
 his wife with tears in her eyes. ' Why will you always 
 separate me from yourself, as if your welfare were nothing 
 to me ? ' 
 
 John started at this question. He turned pale, and 
 stammered : ' Separate myself from you ! Why, you 
 are my wife ' 
 
174 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, xn 
 
 1 Yes, John, I am your wife/ she said, * but how little 
 confidence you put in me ! How seldom you trust me as 
 a wife should be trusted ! You often seem as if you were 
 living a life apart one in which I had no share. Even 
 at Driffield you used to do so, but it has been worse since 
 we have lived in London. Why are you so strange ? 
 Is it because you are not well ? I know you work 
 hard perhaps too hard I'm sure, John, there's 
 something wrong.' 
 
 Her husband had quite recovered his self-possession 
 now, and tenderly soothed her, assuring her he was 
 quite well, and that what she noticed was due to his 
 nervous disposition which a little extra pressure seemed 
 to upset. 
 
 To quiet her, he gave his assurance he had by no 
 means made up his mind to take proceedings at law. 
 
 Edith was compelled to be content, and finally left her 
 husband, having extorted a promise that he would retire 
 to bed early that night, and not sit up till the small 
 hours, as he had been doing lately. 
 
 On the morning after his interview with John, Charley 
 wrote to the editor of the Mercury on John's behalf, de- 
 manding an apology, and the name of the writer of 
 the letter : threatening the usual legal penalty in event 
 of refusal. 
 
 By the last post he received a reply : 
 
 'Sir, 
 
 * In answer to yours of to-day, I beg to say we are 
 quite willing to apologise for any reflections on your 
 client, inadvertently appearing in the paragraphs to 
 which you refer. 
 
 ( With regard to disclosing the name of the writer of 
 the letter, I regret to say our custom will not permit us. 
 * I am, yours truly, 
 
 A. WAYMAN, Editor? 
 
CHAP, xii] WHA T TOOK PLA CE A T ' &SCULAPIAN' 175 
 
 1 As I expected/ mused Charley, ' they decline to give 
 the name of the writer. That doesn't make litigation 
 easier. We can only sue the paper, but what solicitor 
 could advise such a course under the circumstances ? * 
 
 Just then Alice entered the room. 
 
 ' Charley,' she said, ' I have seen Edith ; she entirely 
 disapproves of going to law, and tells me John is ill 
 already. He is so strange in his behaviour calls her 
 "Mary" in his sleep. It is very odd, Charley! Why 
 should John call Edith "Mary " ? ' 
 
 'Really, dear,' said her husband laughing, 'that is a 
 poser ! ' 
 
 'We had better take counsel's opinion at once,' he 
 continued in a bantering tone. ' But, seriously, how on 
 earth am I to explain the vagaries of John's nightmares, 
 brought on no doubt by overwork, and taking ill-advised 
 and wilful steps ? ' 
 
 When Alice had gone, however, his mind reverted to 
 the past. 
 
 'Calls his wife "Mary" in his sleep, does he,' he 
 muttered. ' It's strange. Had he really a hand in that 
 tragedy of Mary Elliot ? There was something incom- 
 prehensible in his manner that afternoon at Driffield, 
 when we first saw the account of the inquest. I don't 
 think he's quite the lover Edith expected. She ought 
 to have fallen in love with Paget. He worshipped the 
 ground she trod upon.' Then he thought of the curate 
 far away in India, whose devotion to his sister he well 
 remembered. 
 
 The next day Charley pointed out to John, who had 
 called at his office, the difficulty of compelling the editor 
 of the Mercury to divulge the name of his corre- 
 spondent. 
 
 ' My dear fellow,' he said, ' you must wait. You may 
 chance to find him out in some other way,' (he devoutly 
 
176 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, xn 
 
 hoped he wouldn't) ' and then you can take the steps you 
 desire.' 
 
 John was forced to be content, but he was far from 
 being satisfied, and an event shortly occurred which gave 
 him the opportunity he desired. 
 
 It happened a few days later, that one or two medical 
 men, among whom was Mr Butcher of St Barnabas, were 
 talking together in the smoking-room of the ( ^Escu- 
 lapian,' a professional club of which both John and he 
 were members. 
 
 The latter was reading an American professional 
 journal, and he suddenly laid down the paper, and ex- 
 claimed abruptly : 
 
 'Well, all I can say is that it's infamous the law 
 doesn't interfere ' 
 
 4 What's the matter, Butcher ? ' said one of those 
 present. (| Has any one been running off with your 
 patients ? ' 
 
 4 Professor Coulson of Harvard has just removed the 
 right kidney ! The patient died while he was being 
 carried from the operating-room.' 
 
 ' What was the operation for ? ' chimed the others. 
 
 1 Obscure pain in the back, as far as I can gather,' said 
 Mr Butcher, 'but I think the operator ought to have 
 been indicted for manslaughter.' 
 
 1 Nonsense, Butcher,' said Dr Jones, one of the 
 practitioners standing by. 'I've read that report, and 
 it gives no details as to the clinical symptoms that 
 called for the operation. The man's life may have been 
 a misery to him owing to the pain he suffered, and he 
 may have been glad to avail himself of any chance.' 
 
 1 Oh, they might as well have cut his throat at once,' 
 was the reply. ' I don't call that surgery.' 
 
 ' But, Mr Butcher,' said another, who had been listen- 
 ing to the conversation, ( though I confess I'm not a 
 
CHAP, xii] WHA T TOOK PL A CE A T ' &SCULAPIAN ' 177 
 
 specialist in surgery, I certainly thought the kidney had 
 been successfully removed many times. Why, your own 
 colleague, Mr John Armstrong, had such a case not very 
 long ago, and the medical papers considered his operation 
 a great success.' 
 
 * Patient lived nine months afterwards,' scornfully 
 rejoined the other. * Do you call that a great success ? 
 You do well to mention Armstrong as an example,' he 
 continued sneeringly. 'He's another like Professor 
 Coulson ! He would cut off your head if you would let 
 him. He and Newton, and one or two others, are ruining 
 surgery. I think, however, I've put a spoke in Arm- 
 strong's wheel, so that he won't be quite so free with 
 his operations at St Barnabas in the future.' 
 
 ' How so ? ' exclaimed several voices at once. 
 
 1 What ! haven't you heard of that case of the girl 
 Johnson at St Barnabas ? Didn't you read my letter in 
 the Mercury f ' 
 
 'You don't mean to say, Butcher,' said Dr Jones, 
 in tones expressive of great disgust, 'that you are 
 " F.R.C.S." ? ' 
 
 ' Why not ? ' replied the other defiantly. 
 
 The matter then dropped. The others smoked in 
 silence, and said nothing. 
 
 A little later, John looked in at the club, and was 
 informed by a friend of Butcher's public confession. 
 
 The news raised his indignation to boiling point, and 
 he hurried off to find and openly tax him with his 
 unprofessional conduct. 
 
 He was still in the smoking-room with about a dozen 
 others. 
 
 'So, sir,' he said, publicly accosting Mr Butcher, 
 'I am indebted to you for that infamous letter in 
 the Mercury. No gentleman could possibly have 
 written it ; but I consider your conduct in publishing 
 
 M 
 
178 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, xn 
 
 it quite on a par with your other behaviour at St 
 Barnabas.' 
 
 Mr Butcher was staggered at John's indignation, and 
 turned pale, but quickly recovering himself, angrily 
 retorted : 
 
 * What is the meaning of this public insult, Mr Arm- 
 strong ? ' 
 
 * Do you deny, sir,' said John trembling with passion, 
 'that you wrote that letter in the Mercury signed 
 " F.R.C.S." ? ' 
 
 1 1 deny nothing, sir, but your right to question my 
 actions.' 
 
 ' I'll find a means to question them ! ' fiercely exclaimed 
 John, as the other turned his back on him, and left the 
 room. 
 
 A chorus of voices at once broke out round John from 
 those present. * You're right, Armstrong ! It's scanda- 
 lous conduct ! Most unprofessional ! I should bring it 
 before the Hospital Board ! We'll have him out of this 
 club ! ' 
 
 These and such like exclamations were made on 
 every side. Butcher had evidently no sympathisers 
 there. 
 
 John thanked them for their sympathy, but after 
 a few minutes' conversation hurried away from the 
 club, home. He immediately sat down and wrote to 
 Charley : 
 
 'Dear Charley, Butcher has this evening confessed 
 publicly, at the " ^Esculapian," that he was the writer of 
 that letter. We had a little scene, and I have finally 
 made up my mind that happen what may I will drag 
 him before a public court, and make him substantiate 
 the calumny contained in his letter. I trust, my dear 
 fellow, you will not seek to alter my determination. It 
 is fixed as the law of the Medes and Persians. I know all 
 
CHAP, xn] WffA T TOOK PLACE AT &SCULA PI A N' 179 
 
 you can urge against it, and I thoroughly absolve you 
 from any harm that may be brought on my reputation 
 thereby. With love to Alice, Yours truly, 
 
 'JOHN ARMSTRONG.' 
 
 On the next morning Charley received this letter. 
 He read it carefully ; saw that John's mind was made 
 up, and that the question only remained as to whether 
 he should, or should not, act for him. 
 
 He felt he could hardly decline. It was clearly within 
 his brother-in-law's right to bring this action : and if he 
 declined to act, it would be throwing an unfair imputa- 
 tion on John. 
 
 So later in the day, he wrote to Mr Butcher, asking 
 for the name of a solicitor to accept service for him. 
 
 He showed John's letter to Alice, and they both con- 
 sidered the determination ill - advised. Charley then 
 wrote to John, and informed him he had taken the first 
 step in the action. 
 
 1 But, my dear fellow,' he said, * you must understand 
 that the responsibility of the decision you have come to, 
 must rest with yourself. I am still of the same opinion 
 as when we last discussed the matter; that it would 
 have been better for you to leave the perpetrator of 
 the libel to his conscience, and the condemnation of 
 his profession.' 
 
 Mr Butcher's public acknowledgment of the author- 
 ship of the letter to the Mercury created no little sur- 
 prise, and John's stormy interview with him got distorted 
 in many ways by rumour. 
 
 It was said by some that John had assaulted Mr 
 Butcher, and that the latter was about to have him up 
 at the police court, and there was considerable excite- 
 ment in professional circles. 
 
 The indignation aroused against Mr Butcher at the 
 
i8o JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, xn 
 
 ' ^Esculapian * for all the members there were pro- 
 fessional men made it necessary for him to resign his 
 membership. 
 
 He was himself but a mediocre operator, and on one 
 or two occasions had come under severe criticism for the 
 clumsy way in which his work had been done ; but his 
 greatest enemy could not accuse him of attempting novel 
 operations. It was as much as he could do to carry out 
 those well recognised, and it was really the manual dex- 
 terity and skill, combined with accurate knowledge, 
 which he envied in the new school, and that made him 
 so hostile to innovators in Surgery. 
 
 There was, however, one other serious result of the 
 letter to the Mercury, and that newspaper's comments ; 
 the flow of subscriptions to St Barnabas was for a time 
 considerably curtailed, and the Board were much 
 exercised about it. 
 
 When, therefore, it was understood that one of their 
 own surgeons was responsible for what had happened, 
 and that in order to injure Mr Armstrong, against whom 
 it was notorious Mr Butcher bore ill-will, the latter had 
 not scrupled to jeopardise the well-being of the hospital, 
 they were correspondingly indignant. 
 
 At the Board meeting that followed shortly after, there 
 was a strong party who would be satisfied with nothing 
 less than Mr Butcher's resignation. After much dis- 
 cussion, the matter was adjourned to a special meeting 
 a week later, and a formal notice was given to Mr 
 Butcher to be present to defend himself. 
 
 This adjourned meeting took place on the very day a 
 writ in the action Armstrong v. Butcher was issued by 
 Charley. 
 
 The meeting was largely attended, and Sir George 
 Hamilton was present, representing the medical staff of 
 the hospital. Sir George Hamilton was consulting 
 
CHAP, xii] WHA T TOOK PL A CE A 7" &SCULAPIAN' 181 
 
 surgeon to St Barnabas, and universally respected by all 
 parties. 
 
 On Mr Butcher being called into the Board room, the 
 chairman said it was their desire to hear his explanation 
 of the publication of the letter that had appeared in the 
 Mercury. He must have been aware that such a com- 
 munication was likely to cause great embarrassment 
 and harm to the institution, which would be not a little 
 aggravated by the public discovering the author to be 
 one of their own surgeons. 
 
 Already the hospital had suffered financially, and he 
 must see himself that such conduct imperatively called 
 for an explanation, which he trusted it was in his power 
 to give. 'For/ he said, 'I am bound to tell you, Mr 
 Butcher, that if such an explanation be not forthcoming, 
 the feeling that has arisen against you on this Board 
 is of so strong a character as to make it undesirable that 
 you should keep your present connection with the 
 institution.' 
 
 Mr Butcher then entered upon a rambling statement 
 as to his motives. He said he considered both his duty 
 to the public and to the institution required him to use 
 every means in his power to prevent operations such as 
 these of Mr Armstrong's from being performed at the 
 hospital. 
 
 1 Are we to understand, sir ? ' said one of the Board, 
 interrupting him, ' that you thought it your duty to 
 raise the public against us to inaugurate a reform you 
 had never brought to our notice, who are the appointed 
 guardians of the institution ? ' 
 
 'I feared, sir,' was the reply, 'that the influence of 
 some of my colleagues here ' and Mr Butcher looked in 
 the direction of Sir George Hamilton 'would be too 
 strong for me.' 
 
 'Even if that were so/ said the chairman, 'do you 
 
182 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, xn 
 
 mean to suggest that under any conceivable circum- 
 stances a trusted officer of the institution is justified in 
 appealing to the public against its lawful governors, 
 without bringing any grievance there might be first 
 to their notice, so as at least to give them the option 
 of redressing it? Your conduct, sir, seems to us very 
 unnatural, and the Board cannot feel satisfied with such 
 an explanation.' 
 
 Mr Butcher again signified that he had only acted in 
 accordance with what he considered his public duty. 
 
 ' Again, sir,' continued the chairman, ' you have made 
 a serious charge against a colleague. We members of 
 the public outside the profession do not understand 
 the rules you maintain among yourselves, and it is 
 desirable before coming to a decision on your conduct 
 as one of our officers, to be informed as to your pro- 
 fessional behaviour. Whether according to the ethics 
 of your profession you have acted as one surgeon should 
 towards another, we know of no person better fitted to 
 give us information than Sir George Hamilton, who is 
 one of your own colleagues, and a trusted member of this 
 Board.' 
 
 There was a murmur of assent from all present. 
 
 The chairman turned to Sir George Hamilton. ' Sir 
 George, may we ask you to enlighten us as to this 
 strange behaviour of Mr Butcher, that is, from a 
 professional point of view ? We can ourselves decide 
 the rest. Is such conduct regarded with approval 
 by the medical profession ? ' 
 
 1 Mr Chairman, and gentlemen,' was the reply, ' the 
 question you have put is a painful one. It is always 
 hard to condemn a colleague, but I cannot, consistently 
 with the duty I owe my profession, be silent. No 
 medical man could be justified in writing such a letter as 
 that which appeared in the Mercury, and from a profes- 
 
CHAP, xn] WHA T TOOK PLA CE A T ' &SCULAPIAN' 183 
 
 sional point of view Mr Butcher's explanation is not 
 satisfactory.' 
 
 'You hear what Sir George Hamilton says, Mr 
 Butcher ? ' and the chairman gave a contemptuous look 
 in his direction. 
 
 ' Sir George Hamilton's predilections for my opponent,' 
 bitterly replied Mr Butcher, ' are but too well known ! ' 
 
 'When, arid why did Mr Armstrong become your 
 opponent ? ' asked several voices ; and Mr Butcher did 
 not find it easy to answer the question. 
 
 ' I cannot see,' remarked the chairman, ' why the fact 
 of Mr John Armstrong performing operations of which 
 you disapprove, should make him your opponent. You 
 are not in any way responsible for these operations. What 
 private reasons you may have for attacking Mr Armstrong 
 are nothing to the Board.' There was a touch of sarcasm 
 in the latter suggestion, which Mr Butcher winced under, 
 for it implied that the reason for his conduct was not of 
 a public but a private nature. 
 
 Mr Butcher was then asked to retire, and was informed 
 that the secretary would communicate to him later the 
 Board's decision. 
 
 When he had withdrawn there was but little further 
 discussion. A large majority considered Mr Butcher's 
 conduct utterly unjustifiable, and a resolution was carried 
 requesting his resignation, Sir George Hamilton, however, 
 refusing to vote. 
 
 When a few weeks later it became publicly known of 
 the impending action, John was also summoned before 
 the Board. 
 
 'Is it true, Mr Armstrong,' asked the chairman, 
 ( that you are bringing an action against your late col- 
 league ?' 
 
 * Yes, sir,' replied John, ' it is necessary for me to do so, 
 
184 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, xn 
 
 to publicly exonerate myself from the serious charge that 
 has been made.' 
 
 ' You have been badly treated, I admit, Mr Armstrong,' 
 said the chairman, ( but do you really think such a step 
 was necessary to vindicate yourself, after being so loyally 
 supported by us and all your other colleagues ? ' 
 
 John faltered a little. He saw the force of this, and 
 could only reply deprecatingly, 'that he had been so 
 advised.' 
 
 *I can only say, then,' continued the chairman, 'we 
 are grieved at the course you have thought fit to 
 adopt. No doubt you are within your rights, but we 
 had hoped you would have the magnanimity to submit 
 to a little injustice, rather than run the risk of further 
 injury to this institution, as is only too likely to follow 
 from litigation. I may further add, that if the Board had 
 known this before, they would have postponed their de- 
 cision on the case of your late colleague till after the trial 
 of your action.' 
 
 * Ah,' thought John as he left the Board room, ( Charley 
 was right after all. If my action fails, the Board will 
 be apt to regret their treatment of Butcher.' 
 
CHAPTER XIII 
 
 ARMSTRONG V. BUTCHER 
 
 4 Let us consider the reason of the case for nothing is law that is 
 not reason.' 
 
 AT length the day of the trial drew near, and John began 
 to experience, only too truly, the worry and anxiety that 
 Charley had foretold. 
 
 His sleep became more disturbed, and Edith was 
 again alarmed at his behaviour. He would start up, 
 and talk incoherently of things she did not understand ; 
 often with his face covered with sweat, as if in a state of 
 terror. 
 
 He was also gloomy and reserved, and as his nervous 
 system became lowered, there returned with increased 
 persistency the memory of the Fritton tragedy, and the 
 part he had played in it, and he would fancy that a 
 Nemesis was at length beginning to find him out. 
 
 Mary Elliot's face, the Morgue, visions of drowning 
 people, and the finger of Butcher pointing scornfully at 
 him, were the nightmares which terrified his slumber, 
 and brought on the nervous attacks which so alarmed 
 his wife. 
 
 ' I wish,' he said on more than one occasion to himself, 
 1 1 had not been so self-willed, and had desisted from this 
 action. I did not think the Board would have required 
 
186 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, xm 
 
 Butcher's resignation. That was quite enough to set me 
 right in the opinion of the world, but now, who knows 
 what may come of it ! ' 
 
 It was in the early days of the Michaelmas sittings 
 that the action Armstrong v. Butcher came on for hear- 
 ing at the Royal Courts of Justice. 
 
 The court was crowded, as the case was of great public 
 interest, and many prominent members of the medical 
 profession were present. The Bar likewise were well 
 represented. 
 
 Mr Benjamin Robbins, Q.C., was counsel for John, 
 while his opponent's case was in the hands of Mr 
 Montague Hartley, Q.C. 
 
 Both gentlemen were noted for their forensic talents, 
 and when they were found on opposite sides great things 
 were to be expected. 
 
 As the judge, Mr 1 Justice Hammond, took his seat on 
 the bench, the usher cried ' Silence,' and the business of 
 calling the names of the special jury was commenced. 
 
 When this was concluded, Mr Robbins's junior rose and 
 opened the pleadings. He then resumed his seat, and 
 Mr Robbins proceeded with John's case. 
 
 With admirable clearness he put all the facts before 
 the jury, explaining the respective positions of the plain- 
 tiff and defendant : how the latter was the elder surgeon, 
 and was senior to the other, and had shown considerable 
 ill-feeling at the rapid rise into celebrity of his junior. 
 That his malicious attempts to injure John had culminated 
 in the letter to the Mercury of June i8th last. 
 
 He read the letter, commenting on it, and pointing 
 out the innuendoes it contained. 
 
 4 Gentlemen,' he said, ' the defendant comes before you 
 with the plea that this letter is true, and at the first sight 
 it may seem that there is a plausibility about the state- 
 ments it publishes. But as one of our great poets has 
 
CHAP, xni] ARMSTRONG v. BUTCHER 187 
 
 written, " A lie which is half a truth is ever the blackest 
 of lies," so I shall endeavour to prove that it is by false and 
 libellous suggestions, put forward upon a certain modicum 
 of truth, that my client is so deeply injured. 
 
 'For instance, it is a fact that the poor girl Mary 
 Johnson was operated on by my client on the Wednes- 
 day, and died on the Thursday ; but, from the whole 
 tenor of the letter, it is suggested that the patient was 
 improperly operated on, that the conduct of his brother 
 surgeon was rash and unjustifiable. 
 
 ' Where is the truth, too, in the allegation that the girl 
 was admitted into St Barnabas a " few days ago " ? I 
 shall show you she was under my client's care a full 
 fortnight before his operation, and during the whole 
 of this time he gave her case the utmost considera- 
 tion.' 
 
 Mr Robbins then called John into the witness box, 
 who bore out his counsel's statements. 
 
 He explained the nature of Mary Johnson's disease, 
 and described his operation. The fatal result was 
 accidental, and such a result might follow the most 
 trivial operations, without there being any fault on the 
 part of the operator. 
 
 Questioned as to the behaviour of the defendant, he 
 narrated the petty slights that had been put upon him, 
 the refusal to see patients for him at the hospital in his 
 absence, complaints to the hospital Board about his 
 alleged unpunctuality in visiting the wards, and finally 
 he recounted how the defendant had tried to take this 
 case out of his hands, although it had been specially sent 
 to him for operation. 
 
 When Mr Robbins had finished, Mr Montague Hartley 
 rose to cross-examine, and John saw from the glance he 
 gave him, as he faced round, and sharply threw back his 
 gown, that he must now look out for squalls. 
 
188 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, xm 
 
 He commenced in the blandest possible tones. 
 
 'Will you kindly tell the court, Mr Armstrong, why 
 you performed that operation.* 
 
 1 Because/ replied John, ' I thought it the best treat- 
 ment for my patient.' 
 
 With a look of incredulity, and deepening the tones 
 of his voice, the counsel continued : 
 
 ' You thought it the best treatment, sir ? What to 
 put her out of her misery, eh ? ' 
 
 ' 1 don't understand you, sir ! ' was the indignant reply. 
 
 'Oh, you don't understand me, Mr Armstrong,' said 
 the counsel with a sneer. 'I thought I was speaking 
 plainly enough. Now, sir, didn't your patient die less 
 than twenty-four hours after the operation ? What was 
 her death due to, if not to your operation ? ' 
 
 ' Death may occur after any operation.' 
 
 ' I did not ask you that ! ' thundered the counsel, ' but 
 whether the death of this girl was, or was not due to 
 your operation ? ' 
 
 John felt himself in a difficulty. It was not by any 
 means easy to rebut the presumption that his inter- 
 rogator was so vehemently pressing against him, that 
 the death of his patient had been the immediate con- 
 sequence of his operation. 
 
 So he answered with hesitation, ' That it might have 
 been/ 
 
 ' Might have been,' contemptuously echoed the other, 
 following up his advantage. 'Is that all you have to 
 say ? Come, sir, would not that unhappy girl have 
 been living now, if you had been less hasty ? ' 
 
 ' I cannot say.' 
 
 Mr Montague Hartley then bore down on another 
 quarter. 
 
 'Has the operation you performed ever been done 
 before in this country ? ' 
 
CHAP, xm] ARMSTRONG v. BUTCHER 189 
 
 ' No, it has not.' 
 
 'You stated, when my learned friend was examining 
 you, that fatal results may follow the most trivial 
 operation. Was this a trivial operation?' 
 
 'No.' 
 
 * Was it a dangerous one ? ' 
 ' Not generally speaking.' 
 
 ' What, sir ! think what you are saying ! Not a 
 dangerous operation to open the interior of the 
 body ? ' 
 
 John did not flinch, but replied deliberately 
 1 It has been done many times without the smallest ill 
 effects.' 
 
 * Now, Mr Armstrong, I put this to you : Was 
 the disease from which your patient was suffer- 
 ing likely to kill her if she had not been operated 
 upon ? ' 
 
 'No.' 
 
 ' Or to seriously shorten her life ? ' 
 
 ' Perhaps not.' 
 
 ' Yet, sir, you performed a dangerous operation ? ' 
 
 'I said, sir, that the operation was not, generally 
 speaking, a dangerous one.' 
 
 Mr Hartley at this juncture stooped down, and 
 whispered a few words to Mr Butcher, who was sitting 
 immediately below him. On receiving an answer, he 
 once more addressed himself to John : 
 
 ' You told my learned friend, Mr Armstrong, you never 
 before had had so unfortunate a case ? ' 
 
 ' I did.' 
 
 ' Do you remember Martha Roberts, a patient on 
 whom you performed a dangerous operation some time 
 ago?' 
 
 'I do.' 
 
190 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, xiri 
 
 'How long after the operation did that patient 
 live?' 
 
 ' About six months.' 
 
 Again there was a whispered colloquy between Mr 
 Hartley and his client, while John ground his teeth, for 
 he saw through the design of his opponent. 
 
 * Do you remember John Tomlin, Mr Armstrong ? ' 
 continued the counsel. 'You operated upon him like- 
 wise, did you not ? ' 
 
 'Yes.' 
 
 ' How long did he live afterwards ? ' 
 
 ' I believe about three months.' 
 
 ' Might I ask, Mr Armstrong, whether it is usual for 
 members of the hospital staff to consult with colleagues 
 before doing dangerous operations ? ' 
 
 ' It is a frequent practice.' 
 
 ' Why did not you follow this wholesome custom ? ' 
 
 ' Because,' said John with a look of scorn at Butcher, 
 ( the only one of my colleagues then available for consul- 
 tation was the defendant, and I did not choose to give 
 him an opportunity of insulting me.' 
 
 Mr Robbins then rose, and endeavoured to undo some 
 of the mischief of this cross-examination. 
 
 ' My learned friend, Mr Armstrong, alluded to the case 
 of Martha Roberts. Was her death in consequence of 
 your operation ? ' 
 
 1 Certainly not.' 
 
 1 Was it in any way accelerated by it ? ' 
 
 ' No. That case was hopeless from the first, and the 
 operation was never intended to be more than palliative, 
 and it probably lengthened her life some months.' 
 
 * Then as to the case of John Tomlin,' continued Mr 
 Robbins. 
 
 ' I successfully removed a malignant growth from the 
 
CHAP, xni] ARMSTRONG v. BUTCHER 191 
 
 patient's kidney, giving him great relief, and his death 
 was due to a recurrence of the disease.' 
 
 'I think you said, Mr Armstrong, the operation 
 on Mary Johnson had never been done before in this 
 country. Is it known abroad ? ' 
 
 * Yes, it has been frequently performed in America, 
 France, and Germany.* 
 
 During the whole of this examination and cross-ex- 
 amination, the eyes of all had been on John, who had 
 borne up bravely under the ordeal, and had found out to 
 his cost that counsel as Alice had told his wife could 
 say nasty things. 
 
 On the whole he had answered discreetly, in spite of 
 the irritating course pursued. 
 
 He retired from the witness box, and Professor Gold- 
 stein, an eminent German surgeon, and lecturer on 
 surgery at the University of Vienna, was next called. 
 
 ' I believe, Professor, you are attached to the Univer- 
 sity of Vienna,' said Mr Robbins. 'Is the operation done 
 by Mr Armstrong known to you ? ' 
 
 * Yes, we know the operation very well.' 
 
 * You have heard all about Mary Johnson's case ? ' 
 The witness nodded. ' Now, from the character and 
 history of her symptoms, do you think an operation was 
 required ? ' 
 
 4 Yes, certainly.' 
 
 * What operation would you have done ? ' 
 
 1 The operation of Mr Armstrong. That is the right 
 operation.' 
 
 'Ah, Professor, you were present, I think, and saw 
 Mr Armstrong operate. Do you think the death of the 
 patient was in any way the fault of the operator ? ' 
 
 The witness held up his hands in admiration. 
 
 1 The operation was splendid ! But the surgeon can 
 
192 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, xnl 
 
 only do the best ; the patient may die when the best 
 is done.' 
 
 Mr Hartley rose with a decidedly vicious look. 
 
 'You say, Professor, you have often performed this 
 operation at Vienna. How many times have you known 
 it done there ? ' 
 
 'One, two, three times/ said Professor Goldstein, 
 counting on his fingers. 
 
 * Did any of the patients die ? ' queried Mr Hartley, 
 with a significant look towards the jury. 
 
 * One died just as the girl here died.' 
 
 * So one out of three died ! Don't you call it a 
 dangerous operation where one out of three dies ? ' 
 
 The Professor gravely shook his head, as if not quite 
 comprehending the drift of the question, and then 
 replied : 
 
 ' The operation may be dangerous, but it is the right 
 operation.' 
 
 Mr Henry Newton was next called. He was one 
 of the surgeons to St Hilary's, and a very brilliant 
 operator. 
 
 But although he spoke highly of John's skill, and gave 
 it as his opinion that the operation was rightly done, 
 and that he would most assuredly have done it himself ; 
 the effect of his evidence was weakened by admissions 
 elicited by Mr Hartley in cross-examination, from which 
 it was made to appear to the jury that Mr Newton him- 
 self was not the most discreet of operators, but was prone 
 to operate in season and out of season in short, when- 
 ever he got the chance. 
 
 John's house-surgeon was called, who proved that he 
 informed the defendant that Mary Johnson had been 
 sent to Mr Armstrong, and that the defendant paid no 
 attention, but directed the patient to be taken into his 
 ward. He further proved that the defendant had never 
 
CHAP, xin] ARMSTRONG v. BUTCHER 193 
 
 examined Mary Johnson, and was not present at the 
 post-mortem examination. 
 
 ' I believe,' said Mr Hartley to the witness, ' that it is 
 customary at St Barnabas for patients admitted there to 
 go under the surgeon for the week. Was not Mr Butcher 
 on duty that week ? ' 
 
 I Yes,' was the reply, * but it is not customary for the 
 surgeon on duty to keep a case sent up to one of his 
 colleagues/ 
 
 The last witness for the plaintiff was Sir George 
 Hamilton, the consulting surgeon to St Barnabas. 
 
 He spoke very highly of John as a skilful surgeon, and 
 a man of justly high rank as an operator, but was guarded 
 as to expressing approval of the operation on Mary 
 Johnson. 
 
 ( Do you think, Sir George,' said Mr Robbins, 'that 
 Mr Armstrong did wrong in operating ? ' 
 
 I 1 have no doubt that Mr Armstrong acted accord- 
 ing to his conscience, and thought to benefit his 
 patient.' 
 
 John's counsel saw he was on treacherous ground, 
 and that little good was likely to be derived from 
 questions in this direction ; so he passed to another 
 point. 
 
 ' On what terms were the plaintiff and defendant ? ' 
 
 * The relations between them were not friendly.' 
 
 ' Has the defendant, to your knowledge, complained to 
 the hospital board of Mr Armstrong ? ' 
 
 * He has made several complaints.' 
 
 ( Did the board of St Barnabas hold an inquiry with 
 regard to this letter to the Mercury?' 
 
 'Yes.' 
 
 ' What was the outcome of that inquiry ? ' 
 
 ( The defendant was required to resign his connection 
 with the hospital.' 
 
 N 
 
194 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, xm 
 
 Mr Robbins finished, and Mr Hartley at once got up 
 to take advantage of some of the witness's answers. 
 
 Turning to him in tones of the greatest confidence, he 
 said, 'Sir George Hamilton, we all know you, and we 
 could not have a better opinion than yours. Now, with 
 regard to this operation on Mary Johnson, would you 
 have performed it ? ' 
 
 There was a moment's hesitation ; then came deliber- 
 ately the reply, 'No.' 
 
 * Do you approve of operations of this kind ? ' 
 
 1 1 do not.' There was an emphasis on the first word, 
 as if to indicate that he was only recording his own view 
 of the subject. 
 
 But his answer was eagerly received by defendant's 
 counsel, who continued : 
 
 * Do you consider such operations justifiable ? ' 
 ' Certainly they may be so at times.' 
 
 ' At what times ? ' 
 
 'Here again was a poser, but the witness with the 
 slightest possible hesitation replied : 
 
 I When the surgeon, in whose charge the patient is, 
 honestly thinks that good may be derived from them.' 
 
 Mr Hartley had not been quite so successful as he 
 desired, and thought it might be better to leave well 
 alone, so he shifted to another point. 
 
 'You told my learned friend, Sir George, that my 
 client was required to resign in consequence of this 
 letter. Were you a member of the board that inquired 
 into the matter ? ' 
 
 I 1 was.' 
 
 1 Do you think the board were acting fairly and justly, 
 in judging my client's case in the way they did, knowing 
 this action was going to be tried ? ' 
 
 ' The hospital board did not know of this action.' 
 
 ' Now, Sir George, I put it to you, if an officer of a 
 
CHAP, xin] ARMSTRONG v. BUTCHER 195 
 
 public institution honestly considers that its welfare is 
 being very seriously jeopardised, has he no right to appeal 
 to the public whose trustees the board are ? ' 
 
 * No, sir,' said the witness emphatically, * he can always 
 resign if he choose, and show the public he is dissatisfied 
 with its management.' 
 
 Mr Hartley sat down. He had certainly made a point, 
 for the evident dislike of the witness for the operation 
 performed had its effect on the jury. 
 
 Sir George Hamilton's reputation was long established, 
 and his name had great weight with the public. 
 
 For the defence several well-known surgeons were 
 called, who strongly condemned the operation. On 
 cross-examination, however, they admitted the operation 
 might sometimes be justifiable, according to the special 
 requirements of the case. They, moreover, confessed they 
 knew nothing, except from hearsay, about Mary Johnson 
 and the disease from which she suffered, and that the 
 surgeon in attendance was the best judge of what his 
 patient required. 
 
 At this point the court adjourned, and John returned 
 home utterly unfit for professional work. Edith eagerly 
 inquired as to the events of the day. 
 
 ( Do you think you will win, John ? ' she said anxi- 
 ously. ' How worried you look, I'm afraid this trial will 
 make you ill.' 
 
 ( Oh, no, dear, I'm just a little fagged that's all. The 
 court is in my favour, I think.' 
 
 He scarcely tasted dinner, and after the meal, retired 
 to his study, ostensibly to look over the proofs of a 
 medical book he was editing, but in reality to sit down 
 moodily, and smoke. 
 
 About nine o'clock Charley called, and was surprised 
 to see the depressed state into which his brother-in-law 
 had fallen. 
 
1 96 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, xin 
 
 ' Why, what is the matter ? ' he inquired, ' one would 
 think you had lost the action.' 
 
 'Well, old fellow,' said his friend, 'don't you think 
 the action is as good as lost? What chance have I 
 after Sir George Hamilton's evidence? I did think he 
 was my friend.' 
 
 'So he is, and I think he has acted the part of 
 a friend. I don't see how he could have done more. 
 You surely didn't expect him to perjure himself to 
 assist your case ? ' 
 
 'Oh, come, Charley, you lawyers, as a rule, are not 
 over-scrupulous/ 
 
 'Pardon me,' replied the other a little warmly, 'our 
 profession as well as your own contains honourable 
 men, and I have yet to learn that a solicitor would 
 counsel a witness to lie.' 
 
 'Well, well, Charley, I don't want to hurt your 
 feelings. How do you think the case stands ? ' 
 
 'As to that,' rejoined Charley, 'I have just left 
 Robbins, and we have been carefully considering the 
 matter. We both think Butcher won't win. The jury 
 are no doubt disgusted with his behaviour. He has not 
 dared to go into the witness box, and then his dismissal 
 from St Barnabas tells against him that was rather 
 rough on him,' he added. ' Did you notice how sore 
 Hartley was on the point, and how angry with 
 the hospital board ? We shall hear more about that 
 when he addresses the jury. But as to the result ' 
 and the speaker looked anxiously at John, who had un- 
 mistakably brightened up at his friend's words ' there's 
 one danger that must be faced. The jury may disagree. 
 You see the operation was unfortunate. Hartley is 
 sure to make a lot of that, and the average juror is just 
 the sort of man to be impressed by him. Then it can't 
 be denied the medical evidence on the whole is against 
 
CHAP, xin] ARMSTRONG v. BUTCHER 197 
 
 the operation. Professor Goldstein and Newton did not 
 do you much good, and Sir George Hamilton, anxious as 
 he was not to prejudice your case, could not approve of 
 it. So, if we fail, depend on it, it will be through dis- 
 agreement of the jury. But, cheer up, John ! Don't 
 look so confoundedly glum ! At least, wait till to- 
 morrow, and whichever way it goes, you are likely to 
 come out of it without serious injury.' 
 
 'Thanks, old fellow, for your consolation/ said the 
 other, making a not very successful attempt to rouse 
 himself from his state of despondency, * we will wait till 
 to-morrow ! ' 
 
 They then went to the drawing-room, where Charley 
 was surprised to find his wife with Edith. 
 
 'You didn't expect to find me here, did you,' she 
 remarked, 'but I had dinner with the Beechams in 
 Brook Street, and as I thought you would be calling on 
 John to-night, I came for you to escort me home. Why, 
 John,' she continued, noticing his look of worry and 
 evident depression, ' if the action is going to last long, it 
 will about kill you ! ' 
 
 ' Oh, it won't last long,' said that gentleman, making 
 an effort to smile, 'it will be all over to-morrow.' 
 
 * How's little John ? ' said Charley to his sister. 
 ' Not very well,' was the reply. 
 
 ' John not very well ? ' said her husband hastily, 
 ' what's wrong with him, dear ? ' 
 
 * He has that dreadful cough again. He was coughing 
 all night. You know he disturbed you.' 
 
 ' Yes, yes, I remember he did cough a good deal last 
 night,' said John, throwing himself down on a sofa, 'I 
 must get Noble to have a look at him.' The latter was 
 a medical friend residing in the neighbourhood. John 
 had been for some time past rather anxious about his 
 son, who had shown signs of weakness about his chest. 
 
ig8 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, xm 
 
 1 Don't worry about the boy, Edith,' said her brother 
 cheerfully, ( you pamper him too much. The last 
 recollection I have of the little man, is the healthy way 
 in which he got outside some plum cake a short time 
 ago.' 
 
 On the next day the court was more than ever crowded, 
 as it was pretty well understood the case would be 
 concluded. 
 
 The defendant wisely did not go into the box, but his 
 plea throughout was justification, one very difficult to 
 succeed upon, especially when the truth has been more 
 or less highly coloured by personal feelings. 
 
 All the witnesses had been examined, and a crowded 
 court was waiting with the greatest interest to see 
 how the two eminent counsel would put the case to 
 the jury. 
 
 A pin might almost have been heard to fall as Mr 
 Hartley rose. He laid great emphasis on the character 
 of the operation, which, according to the evidence, was 
 of a more than questionable character. 
 
 * The public,' he said, * are gravely interested in putting 
 down dangerous experiments of this kind. They are, in 
 fact, a sort of vivisection, and such as no conscientious 
 surgeon ought to perform. What would be your feelings, 
 gentlemen,' he said, with a pathetic wave of his hand to 
 the jury, *if one of your daughters had consulted the 
 plaintiff, and, influenced by the power that every 
 medical man of the plaintiff's standing has over a 
 patient and a patient's friends, you had consented to 
 such an operation, only to find death to follow within a 
 few hours ? 
 
 ( For, mark you this it was not a case in which 
 immediate danger was to be feared. The evidence 
 shows clearly that nothing more serious than in- 
 convenience, and possibly a little pain at times, was to 
 
CHAP, xin] ARMSTRONG v. BUTCHER 199 
 
 be apprehended in the future. What is Sir George 
 Hamilton's evidence on this point, whom we all know 
 so well ? In spite of his obvious predilections for the 
 plaintiff, he was compelled to condemn the opera- 
 tion. 
 
 1 As to the evidence of Mr Newton, little need be said. 
 It is fortunate there are not more of his class at large, 
 or we might all be walking about without one of our 
 limbs. 
 
 1 With regard to Professor Goldstein, we know what 
 little sympathy is too often shown towards the patient 
 at Continental hospitals, which are likewise the chief 
 centres of vivisection. 
 
 'Much has been said to the prejudice of my client, 
 respecting the unprofessional character of his letter to 
 the Mercury ; but, gentlemen, nice rules of etiquette in 
 any profession cannot be allowed to prevail when the 
 public interests are at stake. 
 
 * I must protest, also, against the conduct of the board 
 of St Barnabas in requiring my client's resignation, when 
 such an action as this was pending. Their behaviour 
 amounted almost to a contempt of court. 
 
 ( My client had been for many years connected with St 
 Barnabas, and had greatjregard for that institution. He 
 had only too good reason to fear the harm likely to be 
 brought upon it through public opprobrium, if such 
 operations were to continue to be performed without 
 protest. It has been alleged that his proper course 
 would have been to approach the board, and I do not 
 deny there is some weight in this as a general contention. 
 But my client knew too well the character of this body, 
 and the plaintiffs interest there : and in the light of what 
 has occurred since, can it be denied that his presumptions 
 were well founded ? 
 
 ( Was it unnatural, then, that under the circumstances he 
 
aoo JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, xm 
 
 should appeal to the public, who after all are the parties 
 chiefly interested in the proper administration of our 
 medical charities? It is to the public he himself, and 
 the board, are equally responsible. 
 
 4 Gentlemen, I trust I have put my client's con- 
 duct in the true light, and that you will by your verdict 
 show how much you disapprove of reckless operations 
 at our public institutions, and are ready to protect 
 those who fearlessly speak out against them.' 
 
 Some sensation was produced in court as Mr Hartley 
 finished, and John felt his blood boil at the innuendoes. 
 
 He eagerly looked towards Mr Robbins, who was 
 preparing to give the jury his version of the case. 
 
 That gentleman was leaning over the desk behind 
 him, whispering to his junior, when his opponent 
 finished; but before the excitement created by the latter's 
 speech had subsided, he was on his feet facing the jury, 
 and ready for action. 
 
 ( May it please your lordship, and gentlemen of the 
 jury, my client comes before you to vindicate an honour- 
 able reputation, and to claim damages for malicious 
 aspersions on professional skill, made under the pretence 
 of performing a public duty. 
 
 4 You have all heard the way in which my learned 
 friend has not scrupled to speak of my client, whose 
 name as a surgeon is a household word, not only in 
 London, but all over England. Indeed, I should not be 
 exaggerating, if I were to say his fame is world-wide. 
 
 1 For some years he has practised in our midst, and at 
 St Barnabas has taken the position of the foremost 
 operator of the day. Gentlemen, of all professional men 
 to whom the public owe so much, to none are they more 
 indebted than to those in the position of my client. 
 Theirs is an anxious calling, a calling which only too 
 frequently lays them open to the censures and carpings 
 
CHAP, xin] ARMSTRONG v. BUTCHER 201 
 
 of malevolent criticism. Often by their skill and know- 
 ledge the life of the patient is renewed, and many a 
 home in this country has had occasion to bless the name 
 of Mr John Armstrong, for the restoration to the family 
 circle of those they had given over as lost almost beyond 
 hope. 
 
 * But, gentlemen, this ^cannot always be ! Human art 
 and skill are limited ! The greatest surgeon that ever 
 lived could not expect his operations always to be 
 successful. 
 
 * How mean and cowardly, then, is the conduct of that 
 person, who, regardless of the difficulties under which 
 the surgeon invariably labours, even where no care has 
 been spared on his part, spitefully pillories him before 
 the public on account of unavoidable disaster ! 
 
 'Gentlemen, were this done by the friends of the 
 patient, smarting under their recent loss, we might be 
 inclined to look more leniently on their injustice. Were 
 it done on some fancied ground of public duty by a 
 member of the non-professional class, ignorant of the 
 practice of surgery, extenuating circumstances might 
 possibly be imagined. 
 
 ( But what are we to think, when an attack is made on 
 an eminent surgeon by a professional brother through an 
 anonymous letter in the public press ! And at that time, 
 too, he was a colleague of my client, on the staff of the 
 same hospital. I say at that time, for the committee 
 have since required his resignation. 
 
 * Gentlemen, on May i6th last, this young woman was 
 sent up from the country, by the rector of the parish in 
 which she resided, to see my client professionally, and to 
 be admitted under his care at St Barnabas. 
 
 * The evidence has shown you how the defendant, re- 
 gardless of all professional courtesy, endeavoured to 
 secure the patient for himself, so that it is apparent there 
 
202 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, xm 
 
 is personal resentment on the defendant's part from the 
 first. 
 
 * The symptoms under which the patient was suffering 
 were obscure. It was possible she was suffering from a 
 fatal disease, and even if it were not so, that her future 
 was likely to be a miserable one, if unrelieved by opera- 
 tion. My client carefully considered her case, examined 
 her many times, and for more than a fortnight she 
 occupied one of his beds, while he deliberated as to the 
 best mode of treatment. 
 
 * When at length an operation was determined on, all 
 the risks were explained to the patient and her parents ; 
 and competent observers who were present have told you 
 how skilfully and carefully that operation was performed. 
 It was unfortunately not successful, and the patient suc- 
 cumbed on the next day to what is known as " shock," 
 and is, we are told, an accident which may occur after any 
 operation. 
 
 'You will observe, gentlemen, how in the letter the 
 defendant takes pains to depreciate the symptoms from 
 which the poor girl suffered, although it has been proved 
 in evidence that he never examined her professionally. At 
 the time he wrote that letter, too, he knew nothing, except 
 from hearsay, of the facts of \hepost-mortem examination. 
 
 1 Gentlemen, you have doubtless been much edified by 
 my learned friend's able dissertation on the public duty 
 performed by the defendant. Do you think he was 
 swayed by any thought of public duty, when he wrote 
 that letter ? 
 
 1 Is it for the public good that one officer of a public 
 institution should anonymously libel another in the press ? 
 What advantage are the public likely to gain from it ? 
 What regard could the defendant have had for truth, 
 when he made these serious allegations without troubling 
 to make himself conversant with the facts of the case ? 
 
CHAP, xrn] ARMSTRONG v. BUTCHER 203 
 
 'No, gentlemen, it has been my client's successes in 
 operating, not his disasters, which have aroused the 
 defendant's ire, and I trust you will not fail to show by 
 your verdict, that you know how to express your disap- 
 probation, when one professional man perverts truth for 
 the purpose of injuring another.' 
 
 As the counsel resumed his seat John felt happier. At 
 least, his case had been fairly put, and Mr Robbins* 
 eloquence had not been without its effect on the court. 
 
 Mr Justice Hammond summed up. He said this was 
 an action between two well-known surgeons, in which 
 one claimed damages for a letter published in the 
 Mercury, which he alleged to be libellous. 
 
 He was sorry such an action had been brought, for it 
 was calculated to injure St Barnabas, the well-being of 
 which was of the utmost importance to the public. 
 
 As to the letter, it was clearly libellous, so that it only 
 remained to consider whether justification could be made 
 out ; in other words, were the allegations contained in the 
 letter written by the defendant strictly true ? He must 
 warn the jury not to be led astray by sensational inci- 
 dents connected with the case. The rapid death of 
 Mary Johnson after the operation was a sad circumstance, 
 but if the operation were rightly done, he failed to see 
 how the operator could be held answerable for the 
 disaster. 
 
 Then as to the right of doing the operation, that was 
 entirely for the surgeon to decide, in whom the patient 
 had placed his or her trust. If the patient and the 
 patient's friends had consented, it would require exceed- 
 ingly strong reasons to warrant outsiders in interfering. 
 In his opinion, it would not be for the public good to 
 fetter the hands of the surgeon, and put obstacles in the 
 way of his using the utmost of his skill and knowledge 
 to relieve his patient. 
 
204 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, xm 
 
 There would be little encouragement to do so, if he 
 were liable to be pilloried in the press for every unsuc- 
 cessful operation that happened to be a little novel, and 
 did not meet with the approval of a rival. 
 
 He must caution the jury that when a party published 
 statements injuriously affecting another, it was very 
 necessary that they should be scrupulously true. That 
 they who departed in the least from the truth, did so at 
 their peril, when 'these statements were made the means 
 of gratifying spite. 
 
 In conclusion he said, ' It is admitted, gentlemen, that 
 the publication of this letter was a libel, so that it only 
 remains for you to say whether the statements contained 
 therein were true in substance and in fact. If, however, 
 you are of opinion that although there is a certain 
 amount of truth, the facts dealt with have been so 
 garbled and exaggerated by~the defendant, as to unfairly 
 prejudice the plaintiff's reputation, then the defendant 
 fails in his plea, and it remains for you to assess damages; 
 and there can be no doubt that if you find the libel was 
 not justified, you may award substantial damages.' 
 
 The jury left the box, and a hum of conversation 
 immediately arose. Every one wondered what the 
 verdict would be. 
 
 The summing up had been in John's favour, and he 
 eagerly watched the door through which the jurors had 
 retired, expecting their return. 
 
 Several of his friends came and spoke encouragingly. 
 
 ' It's all right, Armstrong,' said Mr James Morley, one 
 of his colleagues, ( I wonder how much they'll make that 
 cad Butcher pay ! They can only punish him through 
 his pocket. What do you think, Mr Dawson ? ' 
 
 Charley was sitting next to John. 4 It's impossible to 
 say,' he answered, 4 but I suppose it will be something 
 under ^5000.' 
 
CHAP, xin] ARMSTRONG v. BUTCHER 20$ 
 
 ' If I had the assessing of the damages I would make 
 Butcher pay every penny,' said Mr Morley emphatically. 
 
 Half-an-hour had elapsed, and the jury were still absent. 
 Charley looked significantly at John. 'I'm afraid there's 
 some difference of opinion,' he said. 'You look ill, 
 John. Why don't you go home, I'll let you know the 
 result at once.' 
 
 To John the court seemed moving up and down, and 
 he answered mechanically questions addressed to him. 
 
 ' No, I must and will stay and hear the result.' 
 
 At the end of another half-hour the foreman of the jury 
 returned into court, to know if the verdict of the majority 
 would be taken. 
 
 Mr Hartley objected. 'No, my lord,' he said, 'I 
 cannot advise my client to consent to that.' 
 
 'You see, Mr Foreman,' said the judge, 'the parties 
 are not willing to accept your proposal, so I must ask you 
 to consult a little longer.' 
 
 At the end of another half-hour the foreman once more 
 returned, and said there was no chance of the jury agree- 
 ing. The judge, therefore, ordered them back into court. 
 
 ' Is there any way in which I can assist you, gentlemen ? ' 
 he asked. 
 
 ' I fear, my lord,' replied the foreman, ' our difference 
 is too great to be got over.' 
 
 ' If that is so,' said Mr Justice Hammond, ' it only 
 remains for me to discharge you.' 
 
 ' Ah, John,' said Charley, as they left the court, ' it has 
 happened, as I feared, but I feel sure the majority of the 
 jury are with you. You'll be none the worse for the 
 trial, except a little money out of pocket, and the worry 
 you have undergone. You won't be in such a hurry to 
 litigate another time.' 
 
 John's carriage was waiting outside. They entered it, 
 and drove to Cavendish Square. 
 
2o6 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, xm 
 
 ' L suppose,' said John, as the carriage rolled along, 
 ' you wouldn't advise me to go on ? ' 
 
 ' Advise you to go on ? ' said Charley sarcastically. 
 ' Don't you think, man, you have had enough ? I can 
 assure you, you are well out of it. It would be madness 
 to proceed further in the matter.' 
 
 On arriving at the house, Charley asked to be driven 
 to Portland Road railway station. 'I shall soon be at 
 my office then. I ought not to have returned with you, 
 for I had quite forgotten some important business that 
 must be seen to at once. I put it off on account of this 
 trial.' 
 
 'Very well, old fellow, if you won't come in, good- 
 bye,' and John alighted, and directed his coachman to 
 drive Charley as he desired. 
 
 On entering the house he asked where his wife was. 
 
 1 If you please, sir,' said a servant, * she's up in Master 
 John's room. He has been very ill, and mistress sent for 
 Dr Noble.' 
 
 On entering the room, Edith cried out between sobs, 
 ( Oh, John, look there, the child has been bringing up 
 blood.' She pointed to a handkerchief deeply stained, 
 that she held in her hands. 
 
 Dr Noble was standing by the bedside with his stetho- 
 scope applied to the little patient's chest. He turned his 
 head as John entered, and exclaimed, ( Oh, you are 
 come, Armstrong, I'm glad of that. The youngster has 
 had a little haemoptysis, but I tell Mrs Armstrong, she 
 need not be so much alarmed. He will soon be better.' 
 
 1 Noble is quite right, dear,' said John, taking his wife's 
 hand, which trembled excessively. * Why, you're alto- 
 gether upset, Edith, I shall have to get a nurse to attend 
 to the child.' 
 
 * No, no, John ! I won't let any one nurse him but 
 myself!' 
 
CHAP, xin] ARMSTRONG v. BUTCHER 207 
 
 'Then, you must compose yourself, dear,' said her 
 husband, trying to calm her agitation. 
 
 1 Me better now, mother, me want to get up,' said a 
 small voice from the bed. 
 
 'So you shall by-and-bye, little man,' said Dr Noble, 
 patting the child's head. 
 
 Dr Noble, who was a personal friend, and lived close 
 by, had been summoned by Edith directly the attack 
 came on. 
 
 * It was kind of you to come so promptly, Noble,' said 
 John to the latter, as he shook hands with him at the 
 street door. * Misfortunes never come singly. I've just 
 lost my action too.' 
 
 * I'm only too glad to be of service, Armstrong,' replied 
 the other, ' but I'm sorry to hear your news. How came 
 it to happen ? I thought from the paper yesterday you 
 had by far the better case.' 
 
 ( Well, I should perhaps say,' said John, * the jury have 
 disagreed, but that is next door to losing the action.' 
 
 'Not quite so bad,' replied his friend. 'But I am 
 sorry Butcher has got off so easily. Let me know how 
 your son gets on, and command me at any time, when 
 I can be of assistance. Good afternoon.' 
 
CHAPTER XIV 
 
 THE REV. JAMES PAGET RETURNS FROM INDIA 
 
 ' Though the mills of God grind slowly, 
 
 They grind exceeding small ; 
 Though with patience He stands waiting, 
 With exactness grinds He all.' 
 
 IT is evening on the Hooghly. A cool wind has just 
 risen, which is beginning to temper the tropical day, now 
 hurrying to its close. 
 
 The Peninsular and Oriental steamer, Ceylon, is 
 rapidly getting up steam, and in half-an-hour will be 
 speeding away seawards, homeward bound. 
 
 On the right is the modern city of Calcutta, with Fort 
 William and the Government House standing out pro- 
 minently, and between the steamer and the shore 
 numerous boats are plying, bringing or carrying away 
 goods or passengers. 
 
 The Oriental jargon of the dark-skinned natives is 
 heard on all sides, and not infrequently an English oath 
 of a nautical character, as some in their desire to do 
 business trespass on forbidden parts of the ship. 
 
 On the deck two men are walking up and down, 
 engaged in earnest conversation. One, already known 
 to the reader, is the Rev. James Paget, looking more 
 sallow and thinner, but otherwise not altered from when 
 
 
CHAP, xiv] REV. J. PA GET RETURNS FROM INDIA 209 
 
 we saw him last at Norwich. The other, an older man 
 with long flowing beard rapidly becoming grey, is Bishop 
 Jackson, as whose chaplain Mr Paget had come to 
 India. 
 
 At this moment the bell of the Ceylon sounds as a 
 warning of impending departure, and the increased 
 throbbing of the engines shows that their latent energy 
 is soon to be transformed into work. 
 
 ' My dear Paget/ said the elder of the two, * I shall 
 indeed miss you. God gave me in you a helpmate I am 
 not likely to find again, and what success He has blessed 
 me with in my work here is not a little due to your 
 assistance.' 
 
 ( Thank you, my lord,' said the other, ' for your kind 
 appreciation of my humble services. I hope you do not 
 think I am willingly leaving you now. You tell me I 
 ought to be ruled by the opinion of my medical adviser, 
 and you have had the greatest influence in making me 
 agree to follow his direction.' 
 
 * True, true, Paget,' replied the bishop, ' your life is far 
 too valuable to be wantonly sacrificed, and after your 
 physician's decided opinion, I think it is your duty to 
 return to England, where, doubtless, God will find plenty 
 of work for you.' 
 
 Again the bell of the steamer sounded, and the hoarse, 
 shrill whistle, showing there would be little longer delay. 
 
 'I wish you "God speed," my dear fellow/ he con- 
 tinued, shaking him warmly by the hand, ' and I trust 
 one day, when my work is done, that I may see you 
 again in our dear native land. In the meanwhile, I 
 have written to the Bishop of Norwich, and have some 
 hope he may present you to the Rectory of Fritton, now 
 vacant by the death of your old friend, Mr Dawes.' 
 
 * My lord, it is very good of you to take such kind 
 interest in my future,' said Mr Paget warmly, as the 
 
 O 
 
2io JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, xiv 
 
 bishop stepped on to the ladder descending to the tender, 
 which took ashore those not meaning to sail in the 
 Ceylon, 1 1 shall never forget your kindness.' 
 
 The bishop smiled and waved an adieu, as the screw 
 began to revolve, and the Ceylon slowly moved down the 
 Hooghly. Soon all trace of the city was lost, hidden 
 by the luxuriant vegetation of the river banks. 
 
 James Paget paced the deck, thinking of all he had 
 gone through since he was last in England. 
 
 He had enthusiastically thrown himself into his work, 
 and during Bishop Jackson's illness, which had occurred 
 shortly after his arrival at Calcutta, he had performed 
 many of the duties of the latter. He had been very 
 popular with the natives, whose language he had ac- 
 quired, and by his own personal influence had not a little 
 contributed to the success of the mission. 
 
 His health, however, had latterly shown signs of 
 giving way, and had excited the apprehension of his 
 friends. Indeed, Surgeon-major Stanby had roundly 
 told him that he would not live another year in India. 
 It was little more than five years since he left England, 
 and he had scarcely communicated with his friends 
 during that period. 
 
 He had seen in scientific journals accounts of John's 
 rising success, and he wondered how Edith was, and 
 whether her new life had turned out a happy one. He 
 sincerely hoped it had, and far from feeling any selfish 
 regret at having lost her himself, his only fear was lest 
 she might have been mistaken in her estimate of John's 
 character, and regret it when too late. 
 
 ' She loved him well enough in those days,' he mused, 
 thinking of the old time in Norwich ; ( if ever a woman 
 loved, she loved Armstrong. But did he love her ? I 
 never felt certain on that point. He did not love her at 
 the time of that trip to Yarmouth, when the unfortunate 
 
CHAP, xiv] REV. / PAGET RETURNS FROM INDIA 211 
 
 girl Elliot met with the accident. Did he love her later, 
 when he married her ? If his love be not real, she will 
 surely find it out some day, and then f 
 
 1 It's a fine evening, Mr Paget,' said a voice at his side, 
 1 and cool, too, after the stifling heat of the morning.' 
 
 * Yes, it is pleasant, Mr Boyes,' replied the clergyman, 
 turning round to his interrogator, and recognising a 
 portly London merchant, whom he had more than once 
 met in society in Calcutta, and who had recently come 
 out to India on business, and was now returning. ( You 
 will be glad to get back to the old country, won't you, 
 although your stay here has not been long ? ' 
 
 'Quite long enough, a month or two longer and I 
 don't think I should have had a liver.' 
 
 'My dear Mr Boyes,' said Mr Paget, 'I have been 
 here five years, and still believe I possess that necessary 
 organ.' 
 
 * You don't look much the better for your stay,' 
 retorted the other, * and I should think you wouldn't be 
 sorry to be back once more in England.' 
 
 James Paget sighed as he thought that the speaker 
 had a happy home, and wife and children to return to, 
 who were anxiously expecting him, and counting the 
 days before his arrival. But, who would feel happier for 
 his return ? ( Ah, Mr Boyes,' he said, * your family will 
 be glad to have you back again.' 
 
 ( Yes, they will,' complacently replied the other, ( and 
 to tell the truth, Mr Paget, I'm a little anxious to get 
 back. Only yesterday a wire came to say my youngest 
 girl, the very darling of my heart, while crossing the 
 road, had been knocked down by a cab, and has had her 
 back severely injured.' 
 
 'My dear sir, I'm sorry to hear this,' said Mr Paget 
 sympathetically, * I do hope the matter after all will turn 
 out not to be serious.' 
 
212 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, xiv 
 
 4 The wire told me,' continued Mr Boyes, * that Arm- 
 strong had been called in, you have heard of Armstrong 
 the well-known London surgeon ? He had some doubts 
 as to the case, and thought that an operation might be 
 required. I wired back that nothing was to be done till 
 my return.' 
 
 4 But surely/ said the other, * if the surgeon think the 
 operation necessary, you might jeopardise your daughter's 
 safety by fettering his hands. I suppose you have confi- 
 dence in Mr Armstrong ? ' 
 
 Mr Boyes looked a little puzzled, and answered with 
 some hesitation, ' My poor little Polly ! I would do any- 
 thing rather than endanger her safety/ 
 
 Then drawing closer to Mr Paget, he said abruptly : 
 
 4 Did you, sir, ever know Mr Armstrong the surgeon ? ' 
 
 4 Why do you ask ? As a matter of fact I once knew 
 him intimately, but I don't see how you should know 
 that.' 
 
 4 I thought, sir, from your expression,' said Mr Boyes, 
 4 when you heard his name, you knew something about 
 him. Did you hear anything of the celebrated libel 
 action last year ? ' 
 
 'No,' replied Mr Paget, starting, 'I'm afraid I've 
 neglected the newspapers a good deal.' 
 
 4 Well, you see/ said the other, ' Armstrong was 
 publicly accused by a colleague at St Barnabas of causing 
 the death of a patient there by performing an improper 
 operation, so he brought an action against his accuser ; 
 but the jury disagreed, so that it would seem there 
 must have been some who thought Armstrong had not 
 done right. I took his part all through, and was one of 
 the governors of St Barnabas, and did my best to get 
 Mr Butcher, his maligner, off the hospital staff, for 
 we all considered that his behaviour was only prompted 
 by envy caused by Armstrong's rapid success. I was 
 
CHAP, xiv] REV. J. PAGET RETURNS FROM INDIA 113 
 
 present in court when the action was tried, and I can't 
 forget some of the remarks of the counsel who defended 
 Butcher. He asked the jury how they would feel, if 
 Mr Armstrong had operated on one of their own 
 daughters, who had died in consequence less than 
 twenty-four hours afterwards. I thought of this, sir, 
 when I heard of Polly's accident, and that Mr Arm- 
 strong had been called in. Do you think he would be 
 likely to act, as the counsel pretended he did in that 
 case? 
 
 1 My dear sir/ replied Mr Paget, ' from what I 
 remember of Armstrong, I should say certainly not ; 
 so I trust you will not worry about it any further. And 
 when we get to Aden, I should advise you to wire, and 
 say that everything is to be done according to Mr 
 Armstrong's directions.' 
 
 1 Thank you very much, Mr Paget,' said the other, 
 ' you have greatly relieved my mind. I'm glad I spoke 
 to you on the subject.' 
 
 * Has Mr Armstrong any family ? ' asked Mr Paget. 
 
 ' Yes, one son, who I believe is very delicate, for I heard 
 a bad report about him just before I came away. He 
 had an attack of blood-spitting.' 
 
 So, then, this was Edith's child. Poor girl, how she 
 must feel as a mother ! He thought he would lose no 
 time in calling on her when he got to England. 
 
 He replied, 'I'm sorry to hear this. It must be a 
 terrible trial for parents to see their first, and perhaps, 
 only child, fading before their eyes. It seems all the 
 harder too, when it is the child of a great surgeon, who 
 has often saved other people's children, and finds that 
 his own he cannot save.' 
 
 'Yes, it is,' said Mr Boyes, a little huskily. 'I 
 told Armstrong, the last time I saw him at the 
 hospital, I was sorry to hear his youngster was so badly, 
 
2i 4 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, xiv 
 
 and he thanked me, but looked so gloomy and depressed. 
 He's a wonderful man, though, and a good many think 
 him the best surgeon in London.' 
 
 4 1 always thought he had great parts,' said Mr 
 Paget sadly ; but at this moment some other friends 
 of Mr Boyes approached, and the conversation was 
 interrupted. 
 
 The passage to England was uneventful, but Mr 
 Boyes and Mr Paget became very friendly, and on 
 parting at Southampton the former warmly shook the 
 clergyman by the hand, and, giving him his card, assured 
 him how pleased he would be to entertain him at his 
 house at Richmond. 
 
 On arriving in England, Mr Paget first made his way 
 to Norwich, where his old vicar invited him to stay with 
 him as long as he found it convenient. *I think, 
 however, my dear fellow,' he said, ( you won't have to 
 wait long for a settled habitation, for I have heard some 
 news touching the appointment to the vacant Fritton 
 Rectory, and you must call at the palace.' 
 
 A few days later the Rev. James Paget called at 
 Bishopsthorpe. 
 
 He was received kindly by the bishop. 'My dear 
 sir,' said the latter, warmly shaking him by the hand, 
 1 after my old friend Jackson's report, I think it only my 
 duty to offer you the vacant living. By your steady 
 work and devotion to the church you have well-earned 
 this preferment, and by making you rector of Fritton I 
 feel I shall merit the hearty thanks of every parishioner 
 there.' 
 
 Mr Paget made a suitable acknowledgment to the 
 bishop, and a few weeks later, the name of the Rev. 
 James Paget appeared in the Times as the new rector of 
 Fritton. 
 
C.HAP. xiv] REV. J. PAGET RETURNS FROM INDIA 21$ 
 
 Both Charley and John saw the announcement, but 
 the effect on each was very different. 
 
 ( By Jove,' said the former one morning to his wife 
 at breakfast, 'Paget is back from India, and close to 
 Norwich. He is the new rector of Fritton.' 
 
 ( How I wish he were our rector, 1 replied his wife. 
 
 John did not make any remark to Edith, but thought 
 with dread of the possibility of Paget hearing from old 
 Joe an account of his former relations with Mary Elliot. 
 1 He always was High Church,' he thought, ' and in 
 favour of auricular confession. What influence may 
 he not have over that old man ! ' 
 
 Strangely enough his fears in this direction were not 
 unfounded, as will be seen by the sequel. 
 
 Edith chanced to see the announcement a little later, 
 and drew her husband's attention to it. The latter made 
 only one or two commonplace remarks, so that her 
 indignation was aroused. * How can you speak like that 
 John ? He was one of my best friends, and yours too. 
 I shall be glad to see him again.' 
 
 One of the first things Mr Paget did on becoming 
 settled, was to call on Dr and Mrs Dawson at Norwich. 
 
 They were old now, but received him kindly, and his 
 sympathy was specially grateful to the latter, who was 
 very infirm from ill-health. As her daughter was safely 
 married, and there was no chance of her being carried off 
 by a penniless curate, the former suspicion had long ago 
 subsided. 
 
 She remembered, however, he had been fond of Edith 
 in the past, and she found that he listened with the 
 greatest interest when she chatted on about her daughter. 
 
 The clergyman heard with sorrow how correct had 
 proved to be his conjectures, and that there was, and had 
 always been, some rift between John and his wife. A 
 true lover himself, he correctly divined that John had 
 
2i6 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, xiv 
 
 not really loved his wife. Had he been beloved by Edith 
 there could have been no rift. 
 
 As Mrs Dawson gossiped on, he was able to form a good 
 notion of what Edith's life had been. 
 
 l l have sometimes thought,' said Mrs Dawson peev- 
 ishly, 'that John cares more for his profession that his 
 wife, and although Edith never complains, I feel sure she 
 does not think she is rightly used. Now, poor girl, she 
 is chiefly anxious about young John. He is getting, oh, 
 so thin ! If anything happens to him, Mr Paget, it will 
 almost kill the mother ! ' 
 
 * God forbid ! ' said the clergyman, ( I hope the child will 
 grow stronger. I have heard delicate children often make 
 strong men. Is there any definite disease ? ' 
 
 ' Consumption is feared. My husband often shakes 
 his head, and wishes there were more children. You 
 know, Charley has three. Such beautiful children, 
 two boys and one girl, and nothing ailing with any of 
 them. All are as strong as little John seems weak. 
 How strange it is.' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Mr Paget, ' who shall explain the working 
 of Providence ! ' In his own mind he seemed to see the 
 personal handiwork of Divinity, for His own good purpose 
 so ordaining this difference in the families. He did not 
 sift things from a scientific point, according to the views 
 of modern evolution. Had he done so, might not the 
 result have been but little dissimilar ? 
 
 John's only child, and his delicacy may have been the 
 natural outcome of the moral distress of the father : and 
 the physical and moral health of Charley may have had a 
 corresponding effect in producing a healthy progeny. 
 
 Darwin's law, no less than the Scriptural, inculcates that 
 { the sins of the parents shall be visited on the children 
 unto the third and fourth generation.' 
 
 As the clergyman was leaving, Mrs Dawson asked him 
 
CHAP, xiv] REV. J. PA GET RETURNS FROM INDIA 217 
 
 whether he would be calling on John ? She was sure 
 Edith would be glad to see him. ' You know,' she added, 
 * you were always a favourite of hers. 1 
 
 James Paget's heart began to beat more quickly, and 
 the blood came to his face, but the eyes of age were not 
 so sharp as formerly, and it passed unnoticed. 
 
 ' I have been asked to preach at St Philip's, Mayfair, 
 next Thursday week,' he replied, 'and I shall be in 
 London for a day or two, when I will take the oppor- 
 tunity of calling.' 
 
 In the meantime, things had not been going on well 
 at Cavendish Square. The action of a year ago had not 
 greatly injured John professionally. His talents were 
 such, that his superiority in his calling was universally 
 recognised, and when this is so, professional success is 
 assured. 
 
 He had just been called to attend a member of the 
 Royal Family, and a title might be expected at a no dis- 
 tant period. But his great trouble was at home. His only 
 child, the one object in which both Edith's love and his 
 own coincided, in which alone their hearts had truly 
 come together, was too obviously treading the downward 
 path. 
 
 It was a double grief to Edith ; for she felt that through 
 the child came the chief hold on her husband's love, and 
 she had fondly hoped that by means of this magnet John's 
 heart might be drawn to hers, till all reserve was broken 
 down, and she might enter into that Elysium which she 
 had once pictured to herself in a husband's love. 
 
 As the child pined, John seemed harder than ever. 
 His silence and reserve became intensified, and Edith saw 
 that the grief he felt was another and distinct from her 
 own. 
 
 To a mother under such circumstances the warm sym- 
 pathy of her husband is everything. That alone can 
 
218 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, xiv 
 
 make endurable the anguish of seeing the one loved 
 object gradually passing away. 
 
 Several other attacks of blood-spitting had occurred 
 since that alluded to in our last chapter, and Dr Noble 
 had been forced to acknowledge that disease was devas- 
 tating the delicate pulmonary tissues ; and John's pro- 
 fessional eyes were able to read only too truly, in his 
 son's waning strength, the inevitable end. 
 
 He was himself passing into middle life childless, and 
 with apparently little hope of future offspring. He saw 
 his wife an unhappy and disappointed woman, who, 
 having lost the one thing that made it possible for her 
 to forego the love and confidence, which were her right 
 as a wife, would now in the course of nature become 
 more and more discontented. He saw that the artificial 
 life they had been leading would, in all probability, 
 cause deeper division, and it was not unlikely a time 
 might come when Edith's love would be his no longer. 
 
 True love, it is said, can never die, but none the less 
 it is wise not to put so precious a jewel to too severe a 
 test. As by the unceasing drop of the rivulet the solid 
 rock is slowly but surely worn away, so may the loving 
 heart, once so fervid and full of affection, as a conse- 
 quence of neglect, gradually lose its former fire, and 
 when once this is extinguished, it is a dead heart indeed ! 
 
 Little John was a precocious child, and one of those 
 sometimes seen, in whom, in spite of pronounced organic 
 disease, the intellect has become prematurely sharpened 
 and developed. 
 
 These little waifs of humanity are not the least wonder- 
 ful phenomena in the problem of life ; and it is sad to see 
 the little sparks of the great flame of human intelligence 
 becoming fanned into a blaze, just as death is preparing 
 to put his grim extinguisher upon them. 
 
 'Surely,' says the platonist, 'we see here evidence of 
 
CHAP, xiv] REV. J. PAGET RETURNS FROM INDIA 219 
 
 the spiritual entity of the soul apart from the body? 
 What creator of divine order, who had any regard for 
 the eternal fitness of things, would suffer such celestial 
 fire to burn but for a few short years, and then go out 
 into everlasting night ? Surely the intellectual existence 
 of that child is only postponed to a later period, when it 
 may grow up free and unfettered by terrestrial impedi- 
 ments ? ' 
 
 Such ideas might have been congenial to Mr Paget, 
 but would have been altogether scouted by John. What 
 evidence had there ever been apart from Scripture that 
 death was not final ? What reason to believe that the 
 soul did not die with the bod)-, seeing that it was an 
 integral part of the latter, and nothing more than as he 
 would put it the subjective side of brain-life of which 
 the brain cells were the objective ? 
 
 When the child was born into the world, where was 
 the soul ? Did it not grow with the growing brain ? 
 Why, then, not perish with the same ? So that he could 
 take no consolation in the idea of a future existence in 
 which he might again be with his son. His son's life 
 was everything to him, and its cessation he regarded as 
 everlasting division. 
 
 Sometimes of an evening the sick child sat up for a 
 short time, or was propped up with pillows in his bed, 
 and Edith read to him, while he listened attentively, now 
 and then interrupting by a question, which often puzzled 
 his mother to answer. 
 
 On one occasion after a pause in the reading he 
 abruptly asked, ( Mother, is father a great doctor ? ' 
 
 4 Yes, dear, he is a great doctor.' 
 
 ( Has he cured many people ? ' repeated the child. 
 
 { Yes, Johnnie, a great many people.' 
 \ ' Why doesn't he cure me, then ? ' 
 \ Edith burst into tears. * My dear child, your father 
 
220 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, xiv 
 
 would be only too glad to cure you, but God does not 
 let him cure every one.' 
 
 ( But why won't God let him ? ' said the little piping 
 voice, ( if he cures other people, and he's my father 
 too?' 
 
 So he prattled on, and at times John would be present 
 himself, and try to amuse his son by showing him 
 pictures, and bringing home toys of every description. 
 But the wasted look, his breathlessness on a little excite- 
 ment, and many other little things, which to his trained 
 eyes spoke too clearly of the advancing disease, depressed 
 him terribly, and drove him away from the bedside. 
 
 His son noticed it, and a certain amount of restraint 
 was engendered between them, Johnnie not feeling so 
 much at home with him as with his mother. 
 
 He sometimes asked his mother, when John left him 
 on these occasions, why father was angry with him, and 
 raised his large eyes so plaintively, and full of tears, 
 saying ' he had been trying to be good.' 
 
 If Edith followed her husband after his flight from the 
 sick-room, she would find him in his study, doing nothing 
 except moodily gazing into the fire, with a look almost 
 like despair on his face. 
 
 1 Oh, John, why do you leave us so ? ' she would say, 
 bursting into tears, * it is so unkind to the child, he 
 thinks you are offended, and it is so hard for me to see 
 his poor little face pinched with distress which might be 
 averted.' 
 
 ' Edith,' John would reply almost sternly, ' I can't 
 help it. I'm sorry it does pain him, but I should go 
 mad if I were to watch the little fellow longer. I shall 
 have to stay away all together, unless I leave him as 
 I do.' 
 
 ( But, John, is it not quite as painful for me ? ' cried 
 his wife through her tears. ( How many hours do I 
 
CHAP, xiv] REV. J. PAGET RETURNS FROM INDIA 221 
 
 watch by his bedside, indeed I don't seem able to leave 
 it?' 
 
 * Yes, dear, that -is true enough, but I see things you 
 cannot, and ideas come into my brain, which I am 
 happy to think would not occur to you.' 
 
 ' Do you think him so much worse ? ' said Edith, 
 starting up. * Oh, don't say that ! ' 
 
 'No, dear, I didn't say that. What does Noble 
 think ? ' 
 
 ' He has not been very encouraging lately,' was his 
 wife's reply. 
 
 On another occasion John was present when a dose of 
 medicine was being given to his son. The little fellow 
 bravely took it, but from the expression on his face it 
 seemed as if he would have done anything rather than 
 do so. 
 
 Almost immediately afterwards he began to retch, 
 and rejected the offending draught, but with such a 
 look of pain, that John, turning to the nurse, ordered 
 her not to give the patient any more of the 
 medicine. 
 
 ' But, John,' said his wife, ' that is the medicine Dr 
 Noble has just ordered.' 
 
 ' I can't help it,' he replied, ' I won't have the child 
 tortured. What is the use of these experiments on his 
 stomach ? I can see they do no good.' 
 
 'Isn't he then,' said Edith, with a perplexed look, 'to 
 have any medicine at all? I thought, John, you had 
 confidence in Dr Noble ? ' 
 
 4 Well, dear, and so I have. Ask him to see me this 
 evening before he goes, if he visits the child.' 
 
 A little later Dr Noble and John were closeted to- 
 gether in the study. ' You will excuse me, Noble, won't 
 you,' said the latter, J for interfering with your treatment ? 
 But the medicine did so upset the child, and he dislikes 
 
222 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, xiv 
 
 it so much. Besides, as you know, medicine is quite 
 useless.' 
 
 ' My dear Armstrong/ was the reply, * that may be all 
 very true, but if you take my advice you will give the 
 child some kind of medicine. You may not believe in it, 
 and perhaps, I may not expect much from it in such a 
 case ; but what a sad effect it is likely to have upon 
 your wife, if you openly give up all hope, as you will 
 seem to do, if you stop all medicine. It will also seem 
 strange to the nurse, and to every one else, and you 
 must admit, it is quite possible to give something that 
 can't possibly do harm. Come, let us alter the prescrip- 
 tion.' 
 
 So a compromise was effected, and little Johnnie had 
 another medicine, which he did not make wry faces over, 
 and which his stomach did not revolt against. 
 
 John was now one of the leading surgeons of the 
 metropolis, and numbered many aristocratic patients on 
 his list. 
 
 He was popular with the profession, and on the council 
 of his college, and in the course of a year or two would 
 in all probability be its president. 
 
 Yet in spite of all material prosperity he was far from 
 happy. His home life was the most miserable part of 
 his existence, and only in the hurry and turmoil of pro- 
 fessional work did he seem to live. 
 
 One morning he read an announcement in the Times 
 that the Rev. James Paget would preach a special sermon 
 at St Philips, Mayfair, on Thursday evening, October 
 1 5th. 
 
 It was then Tuesday, but this notice seemed to haunt 
 him all Wednesday and Thursday, and when the evening 
 of the latter day came, he seemed to feel an irresistible 
 impulse to go and hear his old friend preach once more. 
 
 A professional call delayed him when just about to 
 
CHAP, xiv] REV. /. PAGET RETURNS FROM INDIA 223 
 
 start, so that he was late for the service, and only arrived 
 at the church just as Mr Paget was ascending the 
 pulpit. 
 
 He gazed closely at the preacher, and noticed that 
 although in a measure altered by being sallower and 
 thinner, there was the same eloquent, earnest look in 
 his eyes; and when his clear and incisive voice rang 
 through the building, the old spell of his influence once 
 again came over him. 
 
 * And Nathan said unto David, " Thou art the man." 
 "The sword shall never depart from thine house." 
 "The child, also, that is born to thee shall surely 
 die." ' 
 
 Mr Paget then eloquently dwelt on the inevitable 
 consequences of sin and evil doing. ' My brethren/ said 
 he, 'as a divine punishment fell on the guilty Jewish 
 king, so in like manner a Nemesis will surely follow 
 our misdoings. It may be that no Nathan will come 
 and point out our sins : punishment by the sword, too, 
 is not the only punishment that can be meted out. 
 The eye of God is everywhere. He knows the secrets 
 of every heart, and vain would it be to suppose that He 
 knows not our secret sins. 
 
 'When He created the world He ordained in the 
 physical, as also in the moral and ethical universe, fixed 
 and unalterable laws. As surely as the stone thrown 
 upwards obedient to the law of gravity returns to the 
 thrower, so likewise, in one way or another, will punish- 
 ment, even in this world, find out the wrong-doer. 
 
 ' Brethren, some of you here/ and John thought the 
 preacher's eyes sought him out in particular, * perhaps, 
 know this too well. I sympathise with such, and pray 
 God that in His own good time He will remove the 
 burden. In the meantime, like David, you must bear 
 it, and as in his case may it be the means of drawing 
 
224 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, xiv 
 
 your hearts unto a true knowledge of your sins, and to 
 sincere repentance.' 
 
 For more than half -an -hour Mr Paget kept the 
 attention of the congregation riveted on him. Many 
 were much affected, and John himself felt not a little 
 stirred by the fervour of the preacher, who seemed to be 
 speaking to his inmost soul. 
 
 When he thought of the past, he felt compelled to 
 confess that a Nemesis in very truth had never left 
 him since the Fritton tragedy. As he came out of the 
 church he seemed to hear, with unnatural distinctness 
 beating through his brain, the echo of the text, ' The 
 child that is born to thee shall surely die.' 
 
 On entering his house he was surprised to see three of 
 his servants together in the hall, talking to one another 
 in frightened whispers. 
 
 On seeing him enter they hastily separated, and the 
 footman approached and said, 'If you please, sir, will 
 you go directly to mistress, Dr Noble is with her.' 
 
 There was a peculiar look on the man's face as he 
 spoke, and intuitively John knew what had happened. 
 
 Almost in a dream, with face pallid and with heart 
 scarce beating, he silently made his way to his son's 
 bedroom. There by the bedside sat Edith, as if in a 
 trance, with eyes fixed rigidly on the mortal remains of 
 her son, and taking no notice of aught else. Every now 
 and again she breathed with sighing respirations, 
 clenched her hands, and shivered. 
 
 She was more than half unconscious, and Dr Noble, 
 who was by her side and rather anxious, felt relieved 
 to see John enter the room. 
 
 * Ah, Armstrong, it's all over,' he said sadly. * I was 
 sent for half-an-hour ago, and when I came I found the 
 little one as you see. I'm afraid Mrs Armstrong is 
 terribly upset.' 
 
CHAP, xiv] REV. J. PAGET RETURNS FROM INDIA 225 
 
 John shuddered. What a climax this to the warning 
 he had just received ! What a ghastly dream the whole 
 evening seemed ! the crowded church, the solemn de- 
 nunciation of the preacher, and now the chamber of 
 death ; his only son there, still and motionless, with the 
 heart-broken mother by the side, and the nurse sym- 
 pathetically bending over her. 
 
 Dr Noble's words, however, broke the spell, and in 
 hollow accents he answered, 'Thank you, Noble, for 
 your kind attention. This is a great shock for my wife, 
 and* after a pause 'for myself, though, of course, it 
 is not unexpected. Good night,' he continued, as his 
 friend rose to depart, 'I must do my best to comfort 
 my wife/ 
 
 When Dr Noble had gone, John gazed for a minute 
 or two on the little wasted form. Here then was the 
 end of all his hopes for the future. What was the good 
 now of success and prosperity, when he who he had 
 fondly hoped would enjoy his wealth, and bear his 
 name, had himself gone where riches and worldly honour 
 avail nothing ? 
 
 With the greatest gentleness he tried to arouse 
 Edith. She looked at him impassively, but said nothing. 
 After an interval she burst into violent fits of sobbing ; 
 and when these had a little subsided, he rang for her 
 maid, and between them they got Edith away to her 
 bedroom, and thence to bed. 
 
 John administered a composing draught, which was 
 swallowed unresistingly, and after a time the poor 
 mother found refuge from her grief in a fitful 
 shimber. 
 
 Going to his study John saw lying on the table an 
 envelope with a large official stamp. He opened it 
 mechanically and read : 
 
 ' Dear Sir, I have the honour to inform you that Her 
 
 P 
 
226 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, xiv 
 
 Majesty has been graciously pleased to create you, by 
 Letters Patent, a Baronet of the United Kingdom. 
 
 I am, Yours truly, 
 
 BEDFROD.' 
 
 He smiled grimly as he crushed the letter contemptu- 
 ously in his hand, and threw it to the ground. 
 
 A Baronet, forsooth ! He a baronet, and his only son 
 lying dead above ! He sank into his chair, and, placing 
 his elbows on the table, clasped his hands over his 
 forehead. 
 
 How proud he could have been under other circum- 
 stances, and with what satisfaction he would have 
 carried the news to Edith L But now, would he not 
 insult the mother's grief with such a * dead sea-apple ' of 
 consolation ? 
 
 1 How different it might have been,' he muttered. 
 
 Then came a fearful cloud of remorseful thoughts a 
 sort of waking nightmare, obscuring everything but the 
 past, which was only too clear. 
 
 He felt again, as he had felt on that eventful afternoon 
 at Driffield in his father's house, when he read in the 
 Times the consequences of his sin, and the demon 
 of remorse made him rush madly from the house, and 
 walk mile after mile, till almost exhausted by physical 
 fatigue. 
 
 On that occasion had he accidentally taken his way to 
 Miller's Cliff his father's forebodings might have been not 
 unwarranted. Now, as then, self control was loosened, 
 and demon ideas seemed to take bodily shape, and urge 
 him to all kinds of desperate deeds. 
 
 For nigh three hours he sat in a sort of a stupor in 
 which he endured the most bitter mental anguish, and it 
 seemed to him he could not continue to live on. 
 
 Might he not die, and end it all ? He had never loved 
 Edith, and now the child was dead, she was farther than 
 
CHAP, xiv] REV. J. PAGET RETURNS FROM INDIA 227 
 
 ever from him. With injustice as monstrous, as incon- 
 sistent, he seemed to associate her with what chiefly 
 caused his distress, and to blame her for his treatment of 
 Mary Elliot ; deluding himself with the idea that if it 
 had not been for Edith he might never have driven that 
 unfortunate one to self-destruction. 
 
CHAPTER XV 
 
 CHARLEY GETS INTO DIFFICULTIES, AND SIR JOHN 
 ARMSTRONG MAKES HIS WILL 
 
 ' I can no other answer make, but Thanks 
 And Thanks ' 
 
 IT was on the Saturday following that Mr Paget called 
 on the Armstrongs. 
 
 He found the house in Cavendish Square in deep 
 mourning, all the blinds being down. He wondered 
 what had happened, and in a moment the thought of the 
 child, and the recent report he had heard from Mrs 
 Dawson as to the state of its health, flashed through his 
 mind. 
 
 Did it mean that Edith's child was no longer living, 
 and that what had been feared had come to pass ? Should 
 he make the proposed call, or should he defer it ? He 
 was bound to leave London on the next day, and 
 it might be some time before he was again in town, and 
 had he not promised Edith's mother to make a point of 
 seeing her daughter on the first occasion he was in 
 London ? 
 
 After a little hesitation he gently knocked at the door. 
 On the footman opening it, he asked if Mrs Armstrong 
 were able to see visitors. He was an old friend, and had 
 only lately returned from India. 
 
CHAP, xv] SIR f. ARMSTRONG MAKES HIS WILL 229 
 
 The footman said, Lady Armstrong would not be 
 able to see visitors, for her son had just died, and it 
 had been a great shock. But he would take up his card. 
 He then showed him into the library, and desired him 
 to wait. 
 
 After a short interval the footman returned, and said 
 * her ladyship ' would see him. As he entered the 
 drawing-room, a lady rose to receive him dressed in 
 deep mourning, and in a moment Mr Paget recognised 
 Edith, and saw written on her face the marks of the 
 terrible shock she had recently gone through. 
 
 She was thinner than he remembered her in the old 
 time, there was a look of pain upon her face, and it 
 was with difficulty she restrained her emotion. 
 
 For a moment he hesitated, and seemed scarcely to 
 know how to address her. His look of warm sympathy, 
 however, had a magnetic influence over Edith, and made 
 her forget her trouble for the time. 
 
 * Oh, Mr Paget, I am so glad to see you,' she exclaimed, 
 1 but I am in such distress. My only child is lying dead 
 upstairs. What shall I do, what shall I do ? ' and she 
 burst into tears. 
 
 Mr Paget came nearer, and, taking one of her hands, 
 said, ' Dear Lady Armstrong, it must indeed have been 
 a blow. I cannot tell you how I sympathise with you. 
 I heard from your mother that the child was very sickly 
 and delicate, but I did not think it was so bad. Do try 
 and bear this bravely,' he continued, as her sobbing 
 became intensified, * it is one of the troubles we must all 
 go through. Many a mother at the present time is 
 bemoaning her loss, as you are yours, and is suffering 
 the same distress. It is a little comfort to know we have 
 fellow-sufferers, and that God is not putting it all on us. 
 Then, your husband he must feel it as intensely as you. 
 You must consider him.' 
 
230 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, xv 
 
 ' John feel it as much as I ? No, no ! ' vehemently 
 exclaimed Edith. ( He is doing his work as usual, and is 
 only too glad to get away from the house. But I don't 
 know how he feels ! He never lets me know what he 
 feels. We do not share our troubles, Mr Paget,' she 
 added calmly, but with such a note of sadness that the 
 latter did not want further confirmation of what he 
 feared that there was no true sympathy between 
 them, as far as the inner life was concerned. 
 
 * It is a terrible blow,' he answered after a pause, ' and 
 only time can alleviate the bitterness. My dear madam, 
 try to do something to distract your thoughts from 
 this great calamity. Although it may seem hard, I 
 think your husband is right to go about his work as 
 usual.' 
 
 4 But what can I do, Mr Paget ? I have no profession 
 to occupy me. All the time I had to spare from social 
 duties was given to my son, and now he is gone ' again 
 the tears came to her eyes. 
 
 ( Yet, there is work in the world,' softly replied the 
 clergyman. ' Soothe the troubles of others, so shall your 
 own burden become lighter. Believe me, there are 
 terrible troubles, terrible suffering eating out the hearts 
 of many of our brethren ! Be a labourer in this field, if 
 you have time to spare from your immediate duties, 
 where the promise is so great, and the workers so few ! 
 It is in this way that you will best find relief.' 
 
 Edith ceased weeping, and looking up into the other's 
 face, said : 
 
 1 Thank you, Mr Paget, it is a great comfort to talk 
 with you. How I wish you lived nearer ! ' 
 
 James Paget's heart again beat quickly, and he felt the 
 blood surging in his cheeks. To be so addressed by 
 Edith ! He did indeed wish his cure were nearer London. 
 But if so, would the constant presence of his beloved 
 
CHAP, xv] SIR J. ARMSTRONG MAKES HIS WILL 231 
 
 make life easier, especially when she was possessed by 
 another who so lightly regarded her ? 
 
 Somewhat hesitatingly he replied, < Yes, that would be 
 nice, but still I hope I shall see you occasionally. I am 
 not far from Norwich, and you will be visiting the old 
 folks.' 
 
 ' Yes, Mr Paget,' said Edith, starting up, ' that's what I 
 must do. I will go back to Norwich, and stay with 
 mother for a time. I know John won't go, and I shall 
 be by myself, but I am as much alone here, except for 
 visitors. ' Yes, I'll go to Norwich ; perhaps the associations 
 connected with the old place will help to blot out the 
 troubles of the last year. I will write home, and if you 
 see my mother, Mr Paget, you can tell her so.' 
 
 Mr Paget was about to take his departure, and was 
 bidding adieu to Edith, when John entered. 
 
 ' What, Paget ? Back again once more ? ' he exclaimed. 
 ( Very pleased to see you. You haven't altered much, 
 and your constitution has borne the strain of a tropical 
 climate better than I thought it would. I hear you are 
 the rector of Fritton, and I congratulate both you and 
 your parishioners. You are certainly a change after the 
 late rector. 
 
 1 Thank you, Sir John, for your kind words, but 
 I am deeply grieved at your recent bereavement.'' 
 
 1 Yes, yes,' said the surgeon hastily, * we have been 
 having a sad time.' Then turning to his wife he added, 
 'I have an appointment, dear, to see Lord Glenburn 
 with Hobson at 3.30, and it only wants ten minutes to 
 that time ' (looking at his watch). ' When can you dine 
 with us, Paget ? ' 
 
 'I am afraid I must postpone that pleasure for the 
 present,' said the latter. * As I have just told your wife, 
 I am leaving town at once.' 
 
232 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP. XV 
 
 'Well, Paget, don't forget us next time you're in 
 London. Goodbye, I must be off, though I should like 
 to have a chat about old times.' 
 
 The fashionable doctor was gone, and Mr Paget, even 
 in the short interview, could not help remarking an 
 absence of sympathy with his wife's only too evident 
 prostration. 
 
 The courtesy, too, he showed her, was of a formal 
 and artificial character, and seemed wanting in reality. 
 
 He thought how different would have been his 
 conduct under such circumstances. His wife should 
 not mourn alone ! He would at least share the burden 
 with her. 
 
 I Your husband is a busy man,' he said to Edith, as the 
 door closed behind the baronet. * I'm afraid you don't 
 see much of him.' 
 
 I 1 never see him,' was the reply with some warmth. 
 * He is always busy. I used to think it was for our son's 
 sake he worked so hard, but now what is the good of it 
 all ? I used to be much happier in the country in old 
 Dr Armstrong's time than with all our grandeur here. 
 Perhaps, if we had stayed there our boy would not have 
 been taken.' 
 
 1 Don't think that,' replied the clergyman. ' Providence 
 directs our lives whether in town or country, and it was 
 God's will this should happen/ fo/jk** J 
 
 ( How kind he is,' she said to heipelf, when Mr Paget 
 had gone, and she found herself alone. ( I really feel all 
 the better for having spoken with him. I should like to 
 see mother again and the old house. John won't care 
 whether I stay here or go to Norwich, he takes no interest 
 in what I do. Perhaps, if I go away for a time he will 
 miss me a 'little, and when I return I shall be more 
 welcome.' 
 
 She sighed, for she still loved her husband, but this 
 
CHAP, xv] SIRJ. ARMSTRONG MAKES HIS WILL 233 
 
 neglect of his cut her to the heart, and she was begin- 
 ning to notice more and more his increasing apathy, and 
 might before long begin to question whether he really 
 loved her. 
 
 All the way back to Fritton the image of Edith 
 haunted the Rev. James Paget. When he reached the 
 rectory, and took the wonted chair in his study, he 
 mused over the past, and thought of the future. 
 
 What a different place the rectory would be with a wife 
 like Edith. What a pity she married John. He felt sure 
 John did not love nay, had never loved her. Edith's 
 mother had guessed only too surely the truth, and 
 maternal solicitude had strengthened the failing faculties 
 of age. 
 
 John readily consented to his wife's proposed visit. 
 
 ' 1 think, dear,' he said, ( a change will do you good. 
 You must remember me to the old folks.' 
 
 His wife looked disappointed. 'Won't you try to 
 come down for a day or two occasionally ? ' she asked. 
 
 1 I'm afraid it can't be managed just now, but noting 
 the look of pain, he added, 'I will try, however, 
 perhaps it might be done.' 
 
 John said this without seriously intending it. He did 
 not mean to go to Norwich, if he could help it. That 
 town was too much connected with a certain chapter in 
 his past to make the idea of a visit palatable. His visits 
 to Norwich since his marriage had been few and far 
 between. 
 
 His wife, however, knew not his thoughts, and rejoined, 
 ( Mother would be so pleased to see you. She has often 
 wondered why you never accompany me.' 
 
 A few days later John was told his brother-in-law 
 wanted to see him. On entering his consulting-room 
 he was surprised at the worried expression only too 
 apparent on Charley's face. 
 
234 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, xv 
 
 * Why, man,' he said, ( what on earth is the matter ? 
 Nothing wrong with the wife or young ones ? ' 
 
 ' No,' replied the other, ' they're all right, but ' here 
 he hesitated, 'something has happened, and I am at 
 my wit's end to know what to do. I thought I should 
 like to talk the matter over with you, though I don't 
 know that you can help me.' 
 
 John saw something serious had occurred, and sat 
 down facing his brother-in-law, waiting patiently for 
 his story. 
 
 * You see,' said Charley, ( we solicitors in the course 
 of our business are often called upon to occupy the 
 position of trustees. As a rule we are quite able to 
 protect ourselves, but it sometimes happens that in spite 
 of the utmost caution we are let in. 
 
 1 For some years now, I have been one of the trustees 
 of the late Sir John Caithwood's estate, and have for 
 long known Dick Caithwood, the testator's brother, who 
 has lately become an articled clerk in my office. Owing 
 to certain contingencies it became necessary to raise 
 money by the sale of a portion of the estate, and 
 accordingly it was arranged to sell part the Shipton 
 Manor part for ^"10,000. 
 
 * After the conveyance had been duly made I should 
 have -gone to Liverpool to receive the money on handing 
 over the deed at the office of the purchaser's solicitor ; 
 but on that day I was terribly busy, and I had a short 
 time before arranged with Dick that he should go in 
 my place, if I were pressed. I always considered Dick a 
 shrewd man of business and quite competent to see 
 after a matter of this kind, and I never dreamt he was 
 a rogue. 
 
 ' Well, he went to Liverpool, and the money, as luck 
 would have it, was paid in notes, the purchaser being an 
 eccentric party, who has always distrusted our modern 
 
CHAP, xv] SIRf. ARMSTRONG MAKES HtS WILL 235 
 
 system of banking. I have reason to believe that Dick 
 knew something of his weakness, and went prepared to 
 perpetrate the fraud, which he after carried out : for, on 
 receiving the notes he disappeared, and has doubtless 
 taken passage for the States under an assumed name, in 
 one of the numerous packets that sail from that port. 
 
 ' I find that six sailed within the three days following 
 the receipt of the money, but I have not as yet traced 
 him to any. I suspected nothing, and was so blinded by 
 my confidence in the man, that I only found out the 
 fraud on looking over the banking book the next day, 
 and finding to my surprise this sum had not been paid 
 in. 
 
 ' I at once wired to Caithwood and the solicitors at 
 Liverpool, and then discovered what had happened. So 
 you see, John, I am responsible for that ^10,000, and 
 must find it somehow or I am a ruined man.' Charley 
 looked gloomily on the floor. ' To tell the truth/ he 
 continued, * I don't see where it is to come from.' 
 
 John was silent for a minute, then said cheerfully : 
 
 4 Never mind, Charley, don't let this upset you. I'll 
 see you through the business.' 
 
 1 What, you, John ? ' gasped the other, * ^"10,000 ! ' and 
 he stared almost incredulously at his friend. 
 
 * Why not ? ' said the latter, calmly. ' I have not been 
 idle, Charley, during the last few years, and I don't work 
 for nothing to speak plainly, old fellow, I can spare the 
 money, and then again ' here a shadow came over his 
 face ' what is the good of money to me now ? There 
 was one to come after, and this title to be provided for, 
 but all that is at an end. The money must come to you 
 and Alice by-and-bye, and your children.' 
 
 Charley's eyes sparkled with gratitude, but he was 
 much affected by his friend's allusion to his recent loss. 
 
 ' Ah, John,' he said, ' you have had your troubles. I 
 
236 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, xv 
 
 wish you had stayed at Driffield. Perhaps the country 
 air would have been better for your son.' 
 
 * Charley, if I had not come to London, I should 
 not have been able to help you now ! Seeing his 
 brother-in-law was pained by his remark, he added, 
 ' but who knows ? Plenty of children die in the 
 country. It's a case of the chapter of accidents : 
 
 " Mere puppets we that come and go 
 At the bidding of vast, formless things, 
 That shift the scenery to and fro " 
 
 * But this is not a gay subject, old man. By the 
 way, there was one thing I was going to speak to you 
 about, and I may as well do so now. I want you to 
 draw up my will. I think you lawyers always preach 
 that every man should make his will, however young he 
 is, and here am I close upon forty, and have not done 
 so yet.' 
 
 ' If you like, John, you can give me your instructions 
 now,' said Charley. * How do you wish your estate to 
 be settled ? ' 
 
 ' I have no relations except my sister,' was the reply. 
 1 Of course, Edith must have a life interest, but subject to 
 that, with the exception of a few trifling legacies, I wish 
 the whole to be equally divided between your children.' 
 
 * But how about Edith ? ' inquired the other. ' Sup- 
 posing anything were to happen to you and she were 
 to marry again, should she still keep her life interest ? ' 
 
 John hesitated. * What is usual, Charley ? ' 
 'It is thought, a large jointure may tempt adven- 
 turers to look after a widow for the sake of her money, 
 and many testators add a clause cancelling the life 
 interest on re-marriage.' 
 
 ( That is hard on the widow,' said John. l If I am 
 dead, and have no children, why should my widow not 
 
CHAP, xv] SIR J. ARMSTRONG MAKES HIS WILL 237 
 
 marry again ? and if she does, why should she go 
 penniless to her second husband ? No, Charley, never 
 mind that clause.' 
 
 ' Anything else ? ' 
 
 John replied in the negative. 
 
 1 Well/ said Charley, Til soon have the docu- 
 ment drawn up, and I can't tell you how grateful I 
 am ! You have saved myself, Alice, and the children 
 from worse than ruin. I don't know how I can ever 
 thank you.' 
 
 * Don't try/ said the other, * and I must particularly 
 ask you not to mention this to any one. I don't want 
 to pose as a benefactor, Charley. Again, there is no 
 reason why the world should not think you quite able 
 to meet the loss.' 
 
 * I must tell Alice.' 
 
 * Very well, then don't tell any one else.' 
 
 With a hearty shake of John's hand Charley hurried 
 away, indued with new life, and the former felt a greater 
 satisfaction than he had experienced for many a day on 
 seeing the joy and happiness that he had brought to his 
 despairing friend. 
 
 On reaching home Charley at once sought his wife. 
 
 * Alice,' he said abruptly, * John has proved our good 
 genius. He has saved us. How successful he must have 
 been ! He spoke of letting us have ^"10,000, as if it were 
 a light matter.' 
 
 He then told her of the conversation with her brother. 
 
 ( Poor John,' sighed Alice, * how gloomy he seems ! 
 With all his prosperity he cannot be happy. And Edith, 
 she burst out crying when I asked her if John were 
 going to accompany her to Norwich, and exclaimed irrit- 
 ably, " Does he ever accompany me ? " I once thought 
 it would be so different if John married Edith.' 
 
 * The loss of the little one has made a difference,' replied 
 
238 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, xv 
 
 her husband. After a pause he continued, 'John has 
 also asked me to prepare his will, and all is to go to our 
 children after a life interest to Edith.' 
 
 ' John wants to make his will,' repeated the other in 
 astonishment. 'Why, Charley? He is not ill, is he? 
 Why should he suddenly think of this ? ' 
 
 ' Every one ought to make his will, whether he is ill 
 or not, dear. John is only doing what every reasonable 
 man ought to do. 7 
 
 1 Still, there's something strange about it,' said his wife. 
 
 John's will was in due time prepared, signed, sealed, 
 and witnessed. By it, in event of his predeceasing his 
 wife, the latter was to have the income derived from his 
 property during her life ; but in event of her marrying 
 again, half of the property was at once to go to Charley's 
 children ; she was to continue to enjoy the rest during 
 her life, and at her death this also was to revert to 
 Charley's family. 
 
 1 If anything were to happen to me would Edith marry 
 again ? ' mused John, the evening after signing the will. 
 'Why shouldn't she, if she cared for any one else? 
 She loved me well once, and true love is said to be for 
 ever, but who knows ! I'm afraid I've not turned out 
 quite the husband she pictured. Ah, how different 
 things might have been ! ' 
 
 He had had a busy day, and had slept little the night 
 before, and in the midst of this train of ideas he dozed. 
 
 The hour was late, so it happened that Edith came 
 to look for him. She found him lying back in his chair 
 in a terribly uneasy sleep. 
 
 She was quite frightened as she watched his face. Big 
 drops of sweat rolled down his forehead, his features 
 moved spasmodically, and he seemed to be wrestling with 
 some appalling nightmare. 
 
 ' John,' she cried, ' it's time you went to bed, you had 
 
CHAP. XV] SIR J. ARMSTRONG MAKES HIS WILL 239 
 
 no rest last night. Don't sleep like that in your chair, 
 it can't do you good ! What is the matter ? ' 
 
 She tried to raise his arm. John moved uneasily, and 
 opened his eyes, but there seemed a strange light there : 
 he did not recognise his wife, only muttered in low, heart- 
 broken tones, ' Is there no forgiveness, Mary ? What 
 more can I do ? ' 
 
 His wife's heightened tones at length thoroughly 
 aroused him, and from the look on her face he saw 
 he must have greatly alarmed her. 
 
 * What do you mean ? ' she said excitedly. ( Why do 
 you always mention that name ? ' 
 
 'I really don't know, dear, I suppose I was dream- 
 ing,' he shuddered ' one can't be responsible for what 
 one says in dreams.' 
 
 Edith, however, was not satisfied, and episodes like 
 this did not tend to close the growing estrangement. 
 She still loved her husband, but she fancied he was 
 ill, and she continued to puzzle over these attacks. 
 While John's mental unrest became aggravated, by the 
 fear that in his sleep he said more than was actually the 
 case. He thus became afraid to sleep, on account of a 
 dread that through remorse, he might unwittingly 
 divulge the past in his sleep to his hitherto unsuspect- 
 ing wife. 
 
CHAPTER XVI 
 
 WHAT JOHN FOUND IN HIS FATHER'S DESK 
 
 1 Of providence, foreknowledge, will and fate ; 
 Fixed fate, free will, foreknowledge absolute.' 
 
 A FEW weeks later, Edith went to Norwich, and there 
 spent Christmas with her parents ; while John stayed in 
 London, and continued the daily routine of his profes- 
 sional duties. 
 
 His celebrity was such that time did not hang heavily 
 on his hands, his services being required on every side. 
 
 In the case of all who reach the top of the tree in 
 their profession, the call on them is invariably more than 
 they can respond to ; so Sir John Armstrong found that 
 he could not do nearly all the work that offered. 
 
 But he endeavoured to get through as much as pos- 
 sible, because he found that active occupation was his 
 greatest refuge from the morbid fancies that seemed to 
 take possession of him more and more. 
 
 Little work, however, could be done in the even- 
 ing, and he had for some time lost all interest in 
 attending the meetings of those societies he once de- 
 lighted in. All social festivities were distasteful, so he 
 found the evening and night by far the greatest trial. 
 The absence of his wife did not make matters better. 
 
CHAP. XVI] WHA TJOHN FOUND IN THE DESK 241 
 
 For if he were free from one source of fear, that she 
 might look more closely into his mind than he liked, the 
 relief was more than neutralised by the absolute mono- 
 tony of his existence ; for he practically held intercourse 
 with no one, except during his professional rounds. 
 
 It is true his brother-in-law occasionally called, and 
 Alice ; but the former was a busy man, and often had to 
 work in the evening ; and what time he had to spare was 
 taken up in his own family life. But he looked curiously 
 at John, for his sharp eyes were beginning to notice that 
 a change he had remarked for some time was getting 
 more marked. 
 
 What was the meaning of this increasing apathy and 
 listlessness ? It could not be healthy. Did not the 
 doctor himself require a doctor ? 
 
 He more than once told John he ought to consult a 
 confrere that he was quite sure he was not well. 
 
 1 Why don't you go to Norwich ? ' he said. ' It would be 
 a rest.' 
 
 John sighed he did not want a rest. What would 
 become of him if he had not his work to fall back upon ? 
 
 'Then, again, my dear fellow/ Charley continued, 
 * you ought to go. The mater is very ailing she can't 
 be here long. I'm sure she wonders why you haven't 
 been to see her.' 
 
 ' Yes, Charley,' he replied, ( I will run down. You're 
 right, I have not treated your mother quite as I should, 
 but you know how difficult it is for me to get away.' 
 
 About this time John became aware of a curious 
 symptom, which he had not noticed hitherto. Something 
 had happened to his sight ; his vision was misty in 
 the evening, and it became difficult to do literary work. 
 His eyes were always watering, flashes of light shot 
 before them, and he was liable to unaccountable fits of 
 giddiness. 
 
 Q 
 
2 4 2 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, xvi 
 
 He remembered Charley's words, and decided to speak 
 to a friend, a noted eye specialist. 
 
 Dr Goodman listened to John's account of his symp- 
 toms, and made a careful examination of his eyes. 
 With some hesitation he said, * Things are not quite 
 right, Armstrong ; you have certainly had retinitis.' 
 He then carefully tested the extent and accuracy of the 
 field of vision, which proved to be satisfactory ; so in re- 
 assuring tones he continued, * Your sight, however, does 
 not seem practically much the worse. You say it's only 
 at night you are troubled. You mustn't do night work. 
 Rest your eyes.' 
 
 John explained that he had been doing less work than 
 usual in the evening lately, but the symptoms had not 
 improved. 
 
 * Have you any great mental worry ? ' he suddenly 
 asked, looking fixedly at John. 
 
 The latter started. The sudden delineation of disease 
 he had not dreamt of had given him a shock, and the 
 vista of probable consequences darted through his mind, 
 and seemed to paralyse him for the moment. 
 
 1 No no ' he abruptly answered, and he tried to 
 force a smile, but the attempt was not successful. Then 
 in a voice which had a perceptible tremor, he said, * Do 
 you think I have Bright's disease ? ' 
 
 'It looks a little like it, Armstrong, and you 
 certainly ought to have rest and quiet mental rest 
 especially.' 
 
 Thanking Dr Goodman, John drove away with 
 another care added to his already overburdened mind. 
 For where is that son of Adam, whose mind is so strong, 
 whose nervous constitution is so firm, as not to pale at 
 the first intimation of organic disease, when he thus has 
 his mortality so palpably brought before him. 
 
 To a medical man such an announcement is doubly 
 
CHAP, xvi] WHA TJOHN FOUND IN THE DESK 243 
 
 harassing ; for he is able to map out only too clearly the 
 future ravages of the disease. The greater his knowledge, 
 the more profound his experience, the more will he have 
 cause for future unrest. 
 
 This is why so many medical men refuse to consult 
 about their own symptoms, shrinking from a fore- 
 knowledge of disease, for fear it may be irremediable. 
 
 On making further investigation, John found there 
 was reason to believe Dr Goodman was right, and his 
 mind was not made easier by picturing the usual course 
 of events in chronic Bright's disease. * My life shall 
 never wane away in that manner,' he said to himself 
 with grim determination. 
 
 But other ideas seemed to be evoked whereat he 
 shuddered, and tried to change his thoughts, and banish 
 a spectre which beckoned him along a path, the end of 
 which he could but faintly see, and which ever, as it 
 faded, threatened a re-appearance. 
 
 His appetite began to flag, and occasionally he fell 
 back upon stimulants, to fortify himself against the 
 feelings of weakness, that at these times oppressed 
 him. 
 
 Yet his constitution was such, that however feeble and 
 nervous he might seem, when the slightest noise startled 
 him, and shadows had terror for him, if he were called 
 upon to operate, he became at once the great surgeon. 
 His hand never shook when he grasped the knife, his 
 mind then at least was free and concentrated on the 
 work in hand, which invariably was brilliantly and 
 successfully performed to the admiration of onlookers. 
 
 It was for this reason he so eagerly sought after work, 
 as it was only then he really enjoyed mental peace. 
 
 Now Edith was away, the house in Cavendish Square 
 was lonely indeed. After dinner he occasionally strolled 
 out for half-an-hour, and sometimes made a short call 
 
244 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP. XVI 
 
 in the neighbourhood. But of late years he had not 
 been very sociable, so that those he visited were rather 
 acquaintances than friends. 
 
 One evening he was sitting in his study unable to read 
 or write, a prey to the usual morbid ideas, and by way 
 of distracting his thoughts, he began to turn out the 
 contents of an old desk, that had belonged to his father. 
 
 He remembered that at his father's death he had 
 looked over its contents for business purposes, and had 
 put on one side everything that had no reference to the 
 administration of his effects. Now, he thought he would 
 glance over the miscellaneous assortment he had then 
 neglected. 
 
 He first drew out several letters, written by himself to 
 his father more than twenty years before. As he read 
 them over, and noted the youthful enthusiasm and 
 happiness so apparent, he could not help contrasting his 
 then mental state with the present. 
 
 Then all was promising and rose coloured : life was 
 indeed a tempting panorama of everything that was 
 pleasant. Now he could scarcely believe he had ever 
 written such letters, and still less, that he could ever 
 have felt as the writer seemed to have felt. He tossed 
 them on one side, and turned over other papers. There 
 were letters written before he was born, by his father to 
 his grandfather, and by other departed Armstrongs more 
 than a century ago, the context of which he could not 
 understand. 
 
 One letter, however, he paused over, it was so strange, 
 and he wondered what kind of man its writer was. 
 From the signature he must have been an Armstrong, 
 one of his own kin. 
 
 It was dated from Weatherby in the county of York, 
 a town about five miles from his native place, and 
 addressed to a Dr Armstrong. It ran as follows : 
 
CHAP, xvr] WHA TJOHN FOUND IN THE DESK 245 
 
 'Dear Jack, I have again felt that terrible mental 
 depression ! I don't know what I shall do. An impulse 
 at these times seems always prompting me to some 
 dreadful crime. 
 
 If anything upsets me, and you know I am a little 
 given to outbursts of passion, I lose all control over 
 myself. 
 
 What will be the end of it ? Is there any cure ? 
 Yours, in great trouble, * R. ARMSTRONG.' 
 
 June 14^, 1740. 
 
 Why, this must have been his great-great-uncle Robert. 
 
 It was verily a voice from the grave : the blood of the 
 writer of this letter flowed in his veins ! Had the in- 
 sidious disease of his uncle found fresh life in him ? 
 
 * I have heard my father say,' he mused, ' that uncle 
 Robert suffered from some disease of his mind. He met 
 his death by falling over a cliff, that was the verdict of 
 the coroner's jury though there seems to have been 
 more than a suspicion of suicide. I wonder what was 
 the date of his death ? ' 
 
 He got down the old family Bible, and turning to the 
 register read, ' Robert Armstrong, Died Aug. I4th, 1740, 
 
 age 45-' 
 
 So he must have met his end exactly two months 
 after writing this letter. 
 
 It was more than singular ! It would seem that if he 
 really did commit suicide, he took pains to conceal it. 
 
 Was it suicide or accident ? The letter was some 
 evidence of the former. 
 
 Strange ideas began to crowd into his brain. He 
 seemed to be himself contemplating such an end, and to 
 be considering whether it could not be so managed that 
 all the world might be in the dark, and imagine he had 
 had no hand in it. 
 
 ' I must not disgrace my friends,' he thought. * But 
 
246 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, xvi 
 
 how much better this than going through lingering 
 disease, all the horror of increasing dropsy, breathless- 
 ness and failing brain. 
 
 1 Edith would be better without me. She might miss 
 me at first, but every year there is the chance of her find- 
 ing out the worst, and then I couldn't face her. 
 
 1 What will be the end of it ? * he wondered. < Can I 
 have inherited Uncle Robert's mind ? I am beginning 
 to feel impulses which I can't control, but they seem 
 dictated by reason overwhelmingly strong.' 
 
 Replacing all the papers in the desk, he went to bed, 
 and fell into a troubled sleep. 
 
 Meanwhile Edith was in Norwich, watching the de- 
 clining health of her mother. The old lady was turned 
 sixty, and had always been an invalid : now it was 
 certain the sands of her life were fast running out. 
 
 Edith nursed her tenderly, and spent many hours by 
 her bedside. At times the dying woman would speak of 
 John, and ask her daughter painful questions as to their 
 relations. 
 
 She sometimes asked querulously whether her husband 
 could not spare time from his grand patients to come 
 and see her. 
 
 1 Oh, mother,' she said, ' I have just written to him, I 
 feel sure he will be here shortly. 1 
 
 But John did not come. He received his wife's letters, 
 and went on procrastinating, and more than once Edith's 
 mother expressed surprise at his behaviour in the presence 
 of her father, and Mr Paget, who chanced to be by at 
 the time. 
 
 And now a curious circumstance happened at Fritton. 
 
 Old Joe lay on his death-bed, and became troubled 
 in his mind, as to the part he had played in the 
 past, in keeping back the letter he had found by the 
 body of the unfortunate Mary Elliot. 
 
CHAP, xvi] WHA T JOHN FOUND IN THE DESK 247 
 
 He had been greatly impressed by Mr Paget, and had 
 once or twice spoken to that gentleman in a guarded 
 manner, but had received little encouragement. 
 
 James Paget had suspected that John had been more 
 implicated in the matter than was imagined, but to what 
 extent he did not know, and he had always devoutly 
 prayed that he never might. 
 
 It was with some consternation, therefore, he heard 
 one evening that a messenger had come to the rectory 
 requesting his immediate presence. 
 
 The lad who brought the message expressed an opinion, 
 1 that the old un wos a-dyin' fast.' 
 
 When the Rev. James Paget stood by the bedside of 
 Joe, he saw the old man was sinking. He was told the 
 doctor had given no hope, and seeing from the look in 
 Joe's eyes that he evidently wished to say something 
 privately to him, he motioned to the others to leave them 
 alone together. 
 
 When all had gone save the rector, Joe said in falter- 
 ing accents, ' Parson, if a mon promised to kep a bad 
 secret, ought un to tell it before un goes to the church- 
 yard ? ' 
 
 'Have you done anything wrong, Joe,' asked the 
 clergyman, c that you wish to confess, before you die, to 
 relieve your mind ? ' 
 
 ' Na, na ; I done nought, but I know un as did, and I 
 can't forget Farmer Elliot's poor drowned lamb and, 
 parson,' whispered hoarsely the dying man, l ought na' 
 Farmer Elliot to knaw what I knaw ? ' 
 
 ' Would Farmer Elliot be any better for knowing what 
 you know, Joe? Will you cause injury to any one 
 by keeping your secret ? ' 
 
 * Na, na ; maybe na,' muttered Joe. 
 
 ' Well, Joe,' continued the clergyman, ' it is not our 
 place to judge others. They will have to answer some 
 
248 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, xvi 
 
 day for themselves ! Do not trouble your mind about this, 
 my poor fellow. It is no sin under such circumstances to 
 keep your word praiseworthy, rather ! But away with 
 these earthly thoughts, Joe ! Think of our Saviour, who 
 died for you and all of us ! ' and the rector knelt at the bed- 
 side, and prayed that the poor labour-worn toiler, who for 
 fifty years had worked honestly for his bread, winter and 
 summer, in the same fields in which his father had worked 
 before him, humbly trying to do his duty in his own 
 sphere of life, might now have peace. 
 
 The old man showed by his clasped hands and wrapt 
 attention that he was fully conscious of the clergyman's 
 devotion. Then the Rev. James Paget administered 
 the Sacrament. 
 
 A little later Joe became unconscious, but there was a 
 smile on his weather-beaten face, and his wanderings 
 seemed to refer to memories of the long ago, to happy 
 passages in his past life, and Mr Paget seemed to have 
 exorcised the shadow that had been weighing upon his 
 mind. 
 
 As he left the chamber of death he met the doctor, and 
 the latter said, ' Ah, rector, I suppose it's all over ? ' 
 
 * Yes, Dr Benson, Joe is at peace.' 
 
 Dr Benson was Dr Ling's successor, the latter having 
 retired a short time before and sold his practice to Dr 
 Benson, whom we have met once or twice before in these 
 pages. 
 
 1 1 thought,' said the doctor, * the old man would hardly 
 go through the day.' 
 
 * By-the-bye,' asked the clergyman, as the other was 
 taking his departure, ' How are they at the Manor ? 
 ' I heard you had been called in to Sir James Scrope.' 
 
 ' No,' replied Dr Benson, * my patient is Sir James 
 Scrope's son. The young man has got some abdominal 
 trouble, and the case is a little obscure, I wanted to call 
 
CHAP, xvi] WHAT JOHN FOUND IN THE DESK 249 
 
 in Sir John Armstrong, but Sir James seems to hesitate ; 
 he has some idea Armstrong is too prone to operate, for 
 he referred to that libel action. The litigation must 
 have done Armstrong a lot of harm, but I suppose he's 
 too firmly placed to care much about it. 
 
 Sir John Armstrong, moreover, is not a stranger at 
 Fritton Manor, for he attended the baronet himself some 
 seven years ago.' 
 
 ' How could that be ? ' asked the other. When has Sir 
 John Armstrong lived at Fritton ? ' 
 
 ( He was locum tenens for old Ling, at a time when 
 the baronet had a bad knee.' 
 
 Mr Paget started. So then he did see Armstrong that 
 evening more than seven years ago in the train bound 
 for Fritton. 
 
 ' 1 know this as a fact,' continued Dr Benson, ' for 
 I succeeded Armstrong as locumS 
 
 They had been walking together during the conversa- 
 tion, but as the rectory was now reached, Mr Paget 
 said ( Good-night ' to his companion. 
 
 That evening as he sat alone in his study, he could 
 not help thinking again of the incidents of the day. 
 
 It was now clear John had been residing at Fritton 
 some three months before Mary Elliot came to her 
 death. Did her sister Emily know this ? Was Sir John 
 Armstrong the guilty one ? 
 
 Had he given Joe any encouragement the matter might 
 have been made plain enough. But he did not regret 
 the course he had taken, his conscience approved it, and 
 he felt that he had done right. 
 
CHAPTER XVII 
 
 ESTRANGEMENT BETWEEN MAN AND WIFE 
 
 ' It is the little rift within the lute, 
 That by-and-bye will make the music mute, 
 And ever widening slowly silence all.' 
 
 4 CAN you come at once ? Mother is dying ! J 
 
 This was the telegram John received one morning as 
 he was sitting at breakfast in Cavendish Square. 
 
 Rising from the table he quickly indited a reply, pro- 
 mising to be at Norwich by an early train, and then, as 
 the servant left the room with it, began to reflect on his 
 various engagements, how they might be best disposed 
 of, or postponed. 
 
 1 1 shall probably be unable to return to-night,' he 
 mused. 'I have been a little remiss, and if anything 
 happens which is not unlikely it will be necessary to 
 remain with the doctor for a few days.' 
 
 At ii A.M. John was in the Great Eastern express 
 hurrying to Norwich. As he watched the telegraph 
 posts flitting by, he thought of the many times before he 
 had made this journey, and how times had changed in 
 the interval. 
 
 His own father was dead ; his wife's mother was dying, 
 and there only remained Dr Dawson now as a link to 
 connect him with his early years. 
 
CHAP, xvii] AN ESTRANGEMENT 251 
 
 His present journey seemed specially to recall his 
 father's memory and the old life at Driffield. 
 
 What if he had been able to settle down there, as his 
 father had done before him, and had made the family 
 place his home, instead of following his ambition to 
 London ? 
 
 In spite of his brilliant career might not his life have 
 been happier ? Edith would have much preferred it, 
 and there, he and his wife might have come together 
 better, and this growing estrangement might never have 
 been. His son, too, might he not have been living ? 
 
 His surgical talent would not have had the same 
 fruitful field, and to that extent humanity had profited 
 by his choice ; but personally he was not happier ; and 
 could there be any doubt that his father's life had been 
 far happier than his own ? 
 
 It was true old Dr Armstrong's life had not been 
 very exciting, and somewhat of a humdrum character. 
 He had lived from boyhood to manhood, day by day, 
 year by year, in the same locality ; seeing the same 
 sights, doing the same work, and mixing with the same 
 friends and acquaintances. By integrity and manliness 
 he had made for himself an indelible impression on the 
 minds of his neighbours, so that when he died, each felt 
 as if something had been taken out of his life, which could 
 never be replaced. 
 
 It might also be true, there was not much in all this, 
 it was mediocrity pure and simple. Yet a mediocrity 
 of this kind has been treasured by many worthy men, 
 who have wished for nothing more than 
 
 ' To fill their grave in quiet 
 And die upon the bed their fathers died.' 
 
 Had such a career always been impossible for him ? 
 It was true his inclination had always been against it, 
 
252 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, xvn 
 
 but who has not had in his youth, ideas which, though 
 strong and spirit stirring then, have vanished like mists 
 before the sun of perfect manhood ? 
 
 As he scanned his past, he saw clearly that one thing 
 alone had made such a career impossible. That one sin, 
 the burden of which had been so great, and the weight 
 of which, instead of becoming lighter by time, had never 
 ceased to grow heavier. 
 
 ' Others,' he mused, ' have been as bad as myself, and 
 they have not been so cursed ; the parsons prate about 
 forgiveness, even when atonement is impossible. Is no 
 remedy open to me ? Have I committed the one 
 unpardonable sin for which there is no forgiveness?' 
 
 He sighed as he realised the utter misery that had 
 come over his being. 
 
 Indeed, the mental; state that his reflections indicated, 
 was pitiable in the extreme. He was in the prime of 
 life, and the most successful surgeon of the day ; his 
 reputation was world-wide, and he was honoured every- 
 where. He had a loving wife, and, in fact, possessed 
 nearly everything'that in the eyes of the world is con- 
 sidered to make up happiness, yet he was unspeakably 
 miserable. 
 
 He felt no enjoyment in life, was haunted un- 
 ceasingly by morbid fancies, and only valued his work, 
 because he seemed able to find in it a refuge from heart- 
 racking reflections. 
 
 Sometimes it seemed to him almost as if he were 
 like Mephistopheles, and that he could say, like 
 the latter : 
 
 4 Where we are is hell, 
 And where hell is, there must we ever be.' 
 
 It was quite true others had sinned as deeply and 
 experienced no such retribution, but seemed happy in 
 
CHAP, xvn] AN ESTRANGEMENT 253 
 
 spite of their misdeeds. But they were not ' John 
 Armstrongs.' 
 
 The cunning Artificer that formed the protoplasm out 
 of which they developed, had otherwise moulded the 
 primordial cells, and the consequent intellectual results 
 were widely different. 
 
 Let the wretched victim of cancer ask why he has 
 been chosen to be the prey of that disease, when so 
 many others escape. Or the sufferer from hydrophobia 
 inquire, by what fortuitous arrangement of circumstances 
 it happened, that the mad dog bit him out of all the 
 other people in the busy thoroughfare. 
 
 Such problems must always remain insolvable, and 
 poor humanity will seek in vain to answer such 
 questions. 
 
 At Norwich John at once hastened to Dr Dawson's 
 house. There he found the whole family (for Charley 
 and his wife had been here for several days), and learnt 
 that the end was fast approaching. 
 
 Mrs Dawson had expressed a wish that Mr Paget 
 should administer to her the last Sacrament, and this 
 ceremony was just taking place as John entered the room. 
 
 It was a solemn scene. The dying woman raised her 
 eyes on his entrance, and there was a mild look of 
 reproof on her pain-worn features. 
 
 By the bedside knelt Dr Dawson, grasping the 
 hand of the dear life-companion so soon to leave him. 
 But although he was fully conscious of the coming 
 bereavement, his grief was tempered by the thought 
 that the parting would be but brief. 
 
 Charley and Alice knelt on the other side of the bed, 
 the latter breaking out every now and then into sobs. 
 
 By her father's side knelt Edith, almost unconscious 
 through grief, and over her bowed head Mr Paget was 
 reverentially performing his office : 
 
254 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, xvn 
 
 ' The blood of our Lord Jesus Christ, which was shed 
 for thee, preserve thy body and soul unto everlasting life.' 
 
 John instinctively knelt by his wife, and felt the 
 profound influence that the Rev. James Paget never 
 failed to excite, when engaged in his sacred ministry. 
 
 It was a wonderful gift, but there was nothing super- 
 natural about it, his bearing being simply that of man 
 officiating for man, as advocate before the Eternal Judge. 
 The essence of this power is the thorough earnestness 
 and belief of the man, who is thus able to instil into 
 his fellow-men some of that confidence so palpable to 
 himself. 
 
 At the conclusion of the service there was a hush, 
 broken only occasionally by the sobs of the women, and 
 a little later, Mrs Dawson slept the sleep everlasting. 
 
 The following day, the family were gathered together 
 in the drawing-room. There was a sense of loss in their 
 midst, a feeling of something taken away, which has left 
 a void incapable of being filled. 
 
 These little gaps in the hedge of our social life, how 
 eloquently they preach ! What sermons could so vividly 
 teach us what we are, and whither we go ! 
 
 Edith and John were both present, and the former 
 felt an estrangement from her husband she had never 
 felt before. 
 
 It could not be otherwise with her mother lying dead 
 in the house that mother, whom she believed to have 
 been so unkindly treated by John, who had abstained 
 from coming to Norwich till the very last. 
 
 How unfeeling he had been ! Professional business 
 could not indeed, it never ought to have been per- 
 mitted to have kept him away. Would he have 
 neglected his own mother as he had hers ? 
 
 John noticed his wife's coldness, and partly divined 
 the cause. But he felt certain Edith could not but 
 
CHAP, xvii] AN ESTRANGEMENT 255 
 
 draw erroneous conclusions as to the cause of his ap- 
 parent neglect ; for she could not know the nature of 
 the antipathy which kept him away from the scene 
 of the tragedy of his youth. 
 
 The knowledge he was now close to the spot, and in 
 the same town, where he had first made the acquaint- 
 ance of the ill-fated Mary Elliot, cast a still deeper gloom 
 upon him. He scarcely slept at all, and every one began 
 to notice his altered appearance. 
 
 While they were sitting together speaking in subdued 
 tones, under the influence of the recent sad event, there 
 was a knock at the door, and Mr Paget was announced. 
 
 This gentleman had not been expected, and a little 
 surprise fell on the party, and wonder as to the cause of 
 the visit. 
 
 After a sympathetic greeting to the mourners, Mr Paget 
 came at once to the object of his visit. Going up to 
 John he said, * I have come on urgent business, and much 
 as it grieves me at the present time to trouble you, the 
 circumstances are such that I thought it my duty to do 
 the best I could for a parishioner, who is in terrible 
 distress at the present time. His only son is lying at 
 death's door, and he thinks that you are the only 
 one who can save him. God has just taken a dear one 
 away, and you know the anguish of heart brought about 
 by such a loss. You may through His mercy be the 
 means of preventing a poor woman's heart from breaking 
 under a similar affliction ! ' 
 
 1 What do you mean, Paget? What can I do?' 
 replied John in astonishment, rousing himself out of the 
 gloom into which he had fallen, some of his old pro- 
 fessional fire rekindling in him. 
 
 All the others likewise looked with astonishment at 
 the clergyman. 
 
 'Sir James Scrope's only son,' continued the latter, 
 
256 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, xvn 
 
 'is in a critical condition, and Dr Benson, who is in 
 attendance, thinks the only hope is in an operation 
 Laparotomy, I think he calls it. He has also told Sir 
 James that you are the only man who would be likely to 
 do it successfully. 
 
 ( You can imagine the father's state ; he was going to 
 rush up to town himself, to implore you to come at once. 
 I informed him of what had just happened, and of your 
 presence here, and he said almost in despair that he 
 supposed his poor boy would have to die. But I pacified 
 him by saying I would run over to Norwich, and let you 
 know the details of the case.' 
 
 ' You say a Dr Benson is in charge ? ' replied John. 
 * Do I know him ? I don't seem to remember meeting 
 him before.' 
 
 4 Dr Benson,' said the clergyman, * is Dr Ling's suc- 
 cessor.' 
 
 John did know him, but for the moment he seemed an 
 absolute stranger, so, shaking his head as if to negative 
 an acquaintance, he looked at his watch and said : 
 
 ' When is the next train to Fritton ? ' 
 
 1 There is one in half-an-hour.' 
 
 'Well, Paget, you had better return by it, and tell 
 Dr Benson I will be with him prepared to operate 
 by four this afternoon. It is now just one, and I 
 will wire for my instruments to be sent down by the 
 two o'clock express, so that everything ought to be 
 ready by then. By-the-bye, Dr Benson might send 
 for me to Fritton station. What train would get there 
 between three and four ? ' 
 
 4 There is one/ replied Mr Paget, l at a quarter past 
 three which would suit.' 
 
 ' Very well/ ( let, Dr Benson have this train met. I 
 will come by it, and bring an assistant with me. Good- 
 bye for the present.' 
 
CHAP, xvn] AN ESTRANGEMENT 257 
 
 With these words John got up, and left the room to 
 make his way to the telegraph office. 
 
 The misfortunes of others do help us to bear our own 
 better ; and after John had gone, the rest found their 
 minds a little drawn away from their own sorrow, by 
 contemplating the cloud overhanging another hitherto 
 happy household. 
 
 1 Oh, how I feel for the poor mother,' said Edith with 
 tears in her eyes ! 
 
 1 John may be able to do something/ said Dr Dawson, 
 turning to the clergyman. * Your doctor, Paget, is not 
 far wrong in his estimate. Whatever surgeon can do, 
 John can do, so we will not consider the case hopeless 
 till he has tried and failed.' 
 
 ' What promptness,' murmured Mr Paget admiringly, 
 1 1 never dreamt of such despatch. Won't Sir James be 
 joyful.' 
 
 ( Ah,' interpolated Charley, 'he hasn't much time to 
 lose, has he, father, if he is to do anything ? ' 
 
 Dr Dawson shook his head. 'That,' he replied, 
 'is one of the reasons of John's great professional 
 success. Promptness in emergencies, a power of grasping 
 mentally the right course, and of following it at once 
 without delay or hesitation. 
 
 ' In surgery it frequently happens that he who hesi- 
 tates is lost, and there can be no doubt this promptness 
 has been the means of snatching not a few patients from 
 a certain grave.' 
 
 Edith sighed. ' Yes, John could show alacrity enough ; 
 yet when her own mother was dying, and she had 
 written letter after letter, what unpardonable delay there 
 had been ! ' 
 
 John in the meanwhile sent off his telegram, and then, 
 thinking of the further assistance that would be required, 
 walked round to the Norwich Hospital to see if the house 
 
 R 
 
2$8 . JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, xvn 
 
 surgeon could accompany him to Fritton, rightly judging 
 he would be only too glad of the opportunity. 
 
 When that officer was informed the great London 
 surgeon, Sir John Armstrong, desired to see him on 
 important business, and was waiting in his room, he 
 hurried thither with a sense of the most pleasurable 
 expectancy. 
 
 Sir John Armstrong could not want to be shown over 
 the hospital, for he had heard that he was once house 
 surgeon himself, and it was proudly remembered how 
 in that capacity he had performed an operation, the 
 success of which set all Norwich talking. 
 
 What a crowd of memories, too, came back to John as 
 he sat waiting in the old room he remembered so well. 
 This had been his room, when his fortune was yet to 
 make : when he was unknown and obscure, and his soul 
 was yet innocent. 
 
 Here had taken place the first interview with Mary 
 Elliot, when her elder sister brought her in all the pride 
 of her youthful beauty, fondly solicitous as to her delicate 
 health. Here, too, with all a mother's courage she had 
 rebuked him for his thoughtless conduct, and had 
 exacted a promise, which he would now have given all 
 he possessed to have kept inviolate. 
 
 ' Sir John Armstrong, what can I do for you ? ' said a 
 youthful voice, as the door opened, and Mr Freshfield, 
 the house surgeon, entered. ' This is indeed an honour/ 
 
 John explained the nature of the service he required, 
 and asked the house surgeon whether he could accom- 
 pany him, either to give the anaesthetic, or to assist, ac- 
 cording as Dr Benson might desire. 
 
 Mr Freshfield replied with alacrity, that he was sure he 
 could safely leave the institution for that purpose, 
 so an arrangement was made to meet one another 
 at the railway station at three o'clock. 
 
CHAP, xvii] AN ESTRANGEMENT 259 
 
 About twenty minutes to four, John and Mr Freshfield 
 steamed into Fritton station. 
 
 Dr Benson was waiting with a mail phaeton. 
 
 Now came a shock. John saw in a moment who 
 Dr Benson was, and recollected the occasions on which 
 he had met him previously. 
 
 For a moment he was so upset, as to be incapable of giving 
 him a civil greeting. Both Dr Benson and Mr Freshfield 
 were surprised, and thought he had been suddenly taken ill. 
 
 He recovered his presence of mind by an effort, and 
 began to discuss with Dr Benson the symptoms of the 
 patient, dismissing abruptly one or two allusions to 
 their past acquaintance. 
 
 They then drove to Scrope Hall, and on the way John 
 listened, while Dr Benson detailed the gravity of the 
 patient's condition. 
 
 ( It would have been too late to-morrow, Sir John/ he 
 concluded, ' there can be no doubt of that. It is just 
 possible something may be done to-day, and if it is to be 
 done, you are the man to do it.' 
 
 On reaching Scrope Hall, an affecting scene took place 
 between John and the parents of the patient. 
 
 1 Oh, save my boy my poor boy ' cried the mother 
 imploringly, * he is all we have ! If you had an only son, 
 you would know how I feel ! ' 
 
 John's face darkened ; he had had an only son. 
 
 Sir James Scrope with tears in his eyes warmly pressed 
 the surgeon's hands, exclaiming, ' You are the only staff 
 on which we now lean ! ' 
 
 * I will do my best, Sir James,' ( you may be sure that 
 nothing I can do shall be wanting, but ' and he took 
 the baronet aside to be out of the hearing of the 
 mother 'you must not be too sanguine, or place too 
 much confidence on success, for it may be that nothing 
 can be of service.' 
 
a6o JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP. XVH 
 
 Without losing more time they went into the sick- 
 room, and John became all himself. Dr Benson and Mr 
 Freshfield watched with awe, not unmixed with wonder, 
 the change in the man. All the abstraction and listless- 
 ness which had been so marked a short time before had 
 gone. All his natural powers seemed concentrated 
 on his task for in spite of progressive disease his hand 
 had not yet lost its cunning, although there was a 
 slight tremor in his fingers not noticeable in earlier 
 years. 
 
 He was soon master of all the details that could be 
 learnt of young Scrope's case, and with intuitive genius 
 sketched out the line that operative measures would 
 have to take to be successful. 
 
 With a few whispered directions to Mr Freshfield for 
 Dr Benson preferred to give the anaesthetic he prepared 
 to operate. 
 
 The patient himself had now gathered fresh hope 
 from the confidence of the surgeon, and Sir James 
 and Lady Scrope were anxiously awaiting the event in 
 an adjoining room, listening to every sound : the poor 
 mother picturing with anguish the ordeal her son was 
 going through. 
 
 Mr Paget was with them, endeavouring to give com- 
 fort as far as he might, by pointing out the skill of 
 the surgeon, his world-wide reputation, and by detailing 
 instances where he had snatched the sufferer from the 
 grave, when every hope seemed to be gone. 
 
 In the sick-room was silence broken only by the heavy 
 breathing of the patient, and by an occasional word from 
 the operator to the nurses, or his assistant. 
 
 There was an intense feeling of suspense as the opera- 
 tion proceeded. The crisis must soon be. Would the 
 result be success ? Would the patient live ? 
 
 John, when he got into his work and began to unravel 
 
CHAP, xvn] AN ESTRANGEMENT 261 
 
 the course of the disease, at first felt more than doubtful 
 as to the final issue : it seemed more than, human skill 
 could remedy. 
 
 As, however, he went on with consummate care, allow- 
 ing nothing to escape his eye, but steadily and skilfully 
 endeavouring to re-establish what disease had undone, 
 hope began to arise within him. What at first had 
 seemed so serious was of less gravity than he had ima- 
 gined, and in spite of the length of the operation, the 
 patient was better towards the end than at the 
 commencement. 
 
 There was a light of triumph in his eye, as he put the 
 finishing touches to his work, and it was in a tone 
 of exultation that he said to the other medical men 
 present : 
 
 1 There, I don't think anything could be better. The 
 young man will have a fair chance/ 
 
 Then turning to one of the nurses, he said 
 
 ( Go and tell Lady Scrope Sir John Armstrong has 
 good hope that her son will do well.' 
 
 Never was messenger with promise of relief to be- 
 leaguered town, or bearer of reprieve to condemned 
 captive more welcome than this message to the sad trio, 
 who were awaiting the result in the now darkening room, 
 for the evening was drawing in. Joy filled again the 
 mother's breast, and it seemed indeed as if the bitter- 
 ness of death were past. 
 
 And as he had sympathised in their distress, so now 
 was Mr Paget able to rejoice in their joy, and the 
 'Thank God' that burst from his lips had as much 
 sincerity and warmth, as if it had been his own son who 
 had been thus rescued from the jaws of death. 
 
 He shook hands with both mother and father, warmly 
 congratulating them, and said he must now leave. 
 They thanked him heartily for his support in their 
 
*6a JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, xvn 
 
 trouble, for a true friend he had been in a time of 
 need. 
 
 As the clergyman walked home along the quiet lanes 
 in the fast fading light, he could not help feeling proud of 
 John and his professional skill. 
 
 ' 'Tis a great gift,' he said, ( almost as it were bringing 
 to life again. How thankful he ought to be at being so 
 blessed beyond others.' 
 
 Then with the unselfishness which was so character- 
 istic of him, he thought how pleased Edith would be to 
 hear of the great work her husband had accomplished. 
 Looking at his watch, he saw he would have just time to 
 catch a train to Norwich, and be back by another that 
 reached Fritton at midnight. 
 
 So calling at the rectory to tell his housekeeper not 
 to sit up, he was soon on the way to the railway 
 station. 
 
 Edith's cheeks flushed, and she could not help feeling 
 proud, as she listened to Mr Paget's enthusiastic descrip- 
 tion of her husband's success. 
 
 Yes, she did love him still, and it was wrong of her to 
 feel so resentful towards him. If his absence had been 
 caused by doing such work for others, her regrets 
 were after all selfish and petty. She would speak to 
 him that very night. 
 
 At this moment there was a loud knock at the 
 door, and a minute later the servant brought her a tele- 
 gram. 
 
 She eagerly opened it. It was from John. It ran : 
 'Am returning to town by the night express Urgent 
 message Will come down to funeral ! ' 
 
 The blood ran coldly through her veins. He was not 
 coming, then ! Would only attend the funeral. 
 
 However urgent the message, why could he not have 
 come to Norwich first ? He might have gone to London 
 
CHAP, xvn] AN ESTRANGEMENT 263 
 
 by the first train in the morning. This was the way he 
 always treated her. 
 
 The clergyman noticed the icy change in her manner, 
 and she, perceiving his look of surprise, said coldly : 
 
 * Sir John has gone to London ; he will not be here 
 to-night.* 
 
CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 WHAT HAPPENED AT ST BARNABAS 
 
 ' What if some little payne the passage have 
 That makes frayle flesh to fear the bitter wave, 
 Is not short payne well borne, that brings long ease, 
 And lays the soule to sleepe in quiet grave ? ' 
 
 AFTER her mother's funeral, Edith remained with her 
 father at Norwich, while John returned to London. 
 
 Dr Dawson was quite prostrated by the loss of his 
 wife, and at first it seemed likely he would not survive 
 her many months. 
 
 His health during the last year or two had been 
 failing, and although he appeared to bear up bravely 
 in public, Edith's eye noticed the change, and saw that 
 her father would never be again the man he had been. 
 
 His practice had been but little for some time past, 
 and now he gave it up altogether, and lived strictly in 
 retirement, being only occasionally seen with his 
 daughter, walking with feeble gait through the streets of 
 the town, or sitting with her in the old family pew at 
 St Margaret's. He had sufficient means to live quietly in 
 retirement, and he steadfastly refused to leave Norwich 
 and come to London, either to live with Edith or with 
 his son. 
 
CHAP, xvin] WHA T HAPPENED AT ST BARNABAS 26$ 
 
 As the weeks and months went by, and Edith still 
 remained with her father, the latter became uneasy. 
 
 * It is kind, my dear, to look after your old father,' he 
 said, ( but how about John ? Don't you think it's a 
 little hard on him, your absence all this time ? ' 
 
 * Oh, John doesn't miss me/ was the reply. * He has 
 got his work. He lives in that.' 
 
 Edith sighed as she said this, and Dr Dawson noticed 
 the sigh and felt grieved. Edith's mother would never 
 have spoken in this way of him. He was quite sure he 
 would have missed her all these weeks. 
 
 John had always seemed kind to his daughter, and she 
 had never complained, but he felt sure everything was 
 not as it should be. Sometimes he would give voice 
 to his misgivings in the hearing of Mr Paget, who had 
 been a frequent visitor since his wife's death, and the 
 clergyman felt uncomfortable at being made a confidant 
 in the matter. Dr Dawson's doubts had been for a long 
 time his own, but he did his best to hide them from the 
 eyes of Edith's father. 
 
 * A busy professional life such as Sir John Armstrong 
 leads is not the best suited for family relations,' he said 
 on one occasion, when the old doctor had been particularly 
 importunate in pressing his doubts. 'I am sure your 
 daughter loves her husband, and only harm can come 
 of interference. I think, however, if you will excuse 
 my saying so, Dr Dawson, it might be better if Lady 
 Armstrong were to return to London shortly. It is 
 now nearly three months since her poor mother's death, 
 and Sir John may not like to ask her to return, although 
 he may possibly feel her absence.' 
 
 'You are right, Paget,' was the reply, 'and I wish 
 you would speak to her on the subject. I have noticed 
 she always has a great respect for your opinion.' 
 
 Mr Paget had not expected this. It had been a great 
 
66 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, xvm 
 
 pleasure to make these calls on the doctor, especially as 
 he nearly always saw Edith, and now he was asked to 
 do his best to deprive himself of this pleasure. 
 
 Still the suggestion had come from him that Edith's 
 place was by her husband's side, so he could not very 
 well shrink from undertaking the duty. 
 
 A few days later the opportunity occurred, as he found 
 Edith alone on making a call. With scarcely any pre- 
 liminary remarks he went boldly to the point, * My dear 
 Lady Armstrong, how is your husband ? He must miss 
 you greatly, when do you think of returning ? ' 
 
 Edith was surprised by the question, and coldly 
 replied, 'Really, Mr Paget, I don't think my husband 
 misses me, his professional work keeps him fully 
 occupied. I have only just lost my mother, and my 
 father may not be here long, so I feel I am of more 
 service here than I should be at home/ 
 
 Her words grated harshly on the other ? s ears. He 
 thought he would not like his wife to speak like this. 
 But it might be true, this that she said of Sir John. 
 Was he really so careless of her absence ? 
 
 * I feel sure you know your duty best,' he replied, ' but 
 your father would be grieved if your husband took it 
 amiss that you should be away so long.' 
 
 * My husband will let me know if he wants me, Mr 
 Paget,' she rejoined, a little sarcastically, ' and my father 
 need have no fear that he is aggrieved by my staying 
 here.' 
 
 Nothing further was said on the subject, and Mr 
 Paget could not help feeling a certain amount of satis- 
 faction that he had failed in making Edith return, for he 
 was getting quite accustomed to see her now ; he was 
 regularly in Norwich three times a week, and on most 
 of these occasions he was in the habit of calling. 
 
 He did not, however, feel sure Edith was right in her 
 
CHAP, xviii] WHA T HAPPENED AT ST BARNABAS 267 
 
 conduct, and this a little clouded his pleasure, for he could 
 not brook to think his paragon in any way fell short of 
 perfection, nor would he, even for her sake, diverge a hair's 
 breadth from his notion of what was right and honourable. 
 
 In the meantime, John lived his lonely life in London. 
 In proportion as he rose higher in professional reputa- 
 tion, the more miserable became his daily existence. He 
 tried attending again the meetings of the learned 
 societies he used to delight in ; but the celebrity he had 
 attained made him so prominent there, that they became 
 distasteful. 
 
 Often, therefore, he found himself sitting alone of an 
 evening vainly trying to read, or busy himself in scientific 
 work : in reality giving way to the morbid broodings of 
 old, which had not become weakened by time. 
 
 In vain he tried social gatherings, they palled still 
 more, as they had never been congenial to his tastes. 
 Sometimes he visited Charley, and in his sister's family 
 circle he found a certain amount of rest. Her familiar 
 face brought back the home life of long ago, when his 
 mind was free from all the troubles that had over- 
 whelmed his manhood. Alice used to question him 
 about Edith. 
 
 * When is she coming home ? ' she asked. * It must be 
 lonely for you by yourself. You ought to have some one 
 to look after you.' 
 
 He could only reply that he had plenty to keep him 
 occupied, and that he supposed Dr Dawson required 
 Edith's attendance. 
 
 * No, no, John,' rejoined his sister, * Charley was down 
 there the other day, and says his father is quite nicely 
 again.' 
 
 John, to tell the truth, was a little uneasy at the long 
 absence of his wife, but he was too proud to tell her so. 
 The slightest hint on his part would have brought her at 
 
268 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, xvm 
 
 once to his side : but the hint was never given, and so 
 time drifted on. 
 
 Certain formal letters had come from Edith formal 
 indeed, to a casual eye, but not to the eye of affection. 
 James Paget would have perceived at once the constraint 
 of the writer, and the evident fear evinced by the word- 
 ing of the letter, lest sentiments of too tender a character 
 should crop out unwittingly. 
 
 To John the letters were formal, and nothing more. 
 He could not read between the lines, and did not feel 
 any resentment at the style in which they were written. 
 It was true they were not like some he could recollect in 
 the past, but things were changed since those days ; 
 they were old married folks now, and tender sentiments 
 would be out of place. Yet there was something odd in 
 the prolonged absence which he did not understand : 
 Edith had never acted like this before, and it was one 
 more anxiety. 
 
 His health gave him increasing uneasiness. He had 
 a conviction that the disease which had been suspected 
 had made further progress : he had lately suffered from 
 more prolonged attacks of giddiness, at times associated 
 with sickness. 
 
 What if such attacks were to come on in the middle 
 of an operation ! It might be the ruin of his reputation. 
 He would soon be afraid to operate. 
 
 Very strange were the mental states he now and then 
 fell into. He seemed as it were on the brink of a preci- 
 pice, in imminent danger of falling over, and he felt as 
 if a great calamity were impending, against which all 
 precautions would be useless. 
 
 These fancies and delusions had hitherto been no bar 
 to his work, but the gradual deterioration of his health 
 was destined to have other results. 
 
 One day he had been giving a clinical lecture at St 
 
CHAP, xviii] WffA T HAPPENED AT ST BARNABAS 269 
 
 Barnabas, which had been largely attended, and he was 
 afterwards walking along the corridor of that institution 
 with several of his colleagues on his way to the entrance, 
 where his carriage was waiting. He was discussing the 
 topic he had just been expounding, when his companions 
 were startled by the sudden pallor which overspread his 
 features. 
 
 In an instant he staggered, lurched forward, and would 
 have fallen headlong, had he not been caught by Mr 
 Morley, who was one of those accompanying him. 
 
 Assisted by the others, the latter carried John into the 
 surgeons' room, and laid him on a couch, while the news 
 spread like wildfire through the hospital that Sir John 
 Armstrong had had a fit, and was lying in a precarious 
 condition. 
 
 Great excitement consequently arose, and a report of 
 what had happened soon spread to the public outside. 
 
 In the meanwhile restoratives were applied, and John 
 rapidly recovered consciousness. He was greatly sur- 
 prised on sitting up, at the anxious group round him. 
 He could not in the least tell what had happened, and 
 only remembered that he had been conversing with Mr 
 Morley. 
 
 In a moment, however, he grasped the situation, and 
 to the anxious inquiries of his colleagues he answered : 
 
 'I feel better now. It must have been a passing 
 faintness. The lecture was a little too much for me. I 
 will get home and rest.' 
 
 He drank a small quantity of brandy that had been 
 fetched, and, thanking those present for their attention, 
 was assisted to his carriage by Mr Morley. 
 
 ' That was a queer attack of Sir John Armstrong's,' 
 said a house surgeon to another officer of St Barnabas, 
 as the person alluded to passed through the doorway of 
 the hospital. * I noticed the left side of the face was 
 
270 . JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, xvm 
 
 convulsed. I wonder whether he has had epileptic 
 seizures before ? ' 
 
 { It would be awkward/ remarked the other,' if he had 
 a fit during an operation.' 
 
 1 Did you hear his clinical ? ' asked the house surgeon. 
 * It was something magnificent.' 
 
 * No,' unfortunately, I was on duty, and couldn't get 
 there.' 
 
 The house surgeon was not the only one who had 
 closely observed John during his attack. Mr Morley 
 had likewise observed the symptom referred to. He had 
 also thought that latterly John's health had been im- 
 paired, and that his hand had been noticeably unsteady 
 during operations. As he greatly admired John's genius 
 and surgical ability, he thought it his duty to call on him 
 that evening to see how he was, and to speak on the 
 subject of his health. 
 
 John when he reached home and the privacy of his 
 room, became a prey to the most gloomy thoughts. 
 
 So the blow had come! He was about to become 
 subject to fits which might occur at any moment. If 
 this were so, how should he be justified in performing 
 any operation ? 
 
 All the business of his life was at an end. Othello's 
 occupation was gone ! 
 
 What was there left to him? Nothing All was a 
 blank. 
 
 He did not call to mind the wife who loved him, and 
 whose affection he despised. He did not even think of 
 her, so utterly absorbed in himself had he become. 
 
 He paced up and down the room, and then looked out 
 of the window. It was a late autumn evening, and the 
 outlook was a little dismal ; the rain was beating 
 against the windows, and the lamps in the streets were 
 being lighted. 
 
CHAP, xviii] WHA T HAPPENED AT ST BARNABAS 271 
 
 As he looked out, a cab drove up to the door, and he 
 saw Charley and his sister alight. 
 
 They were announced by a servant, and Alice came 
 eagerly forward, and grasped John's hand. ' Oh, John, 
 what is this we hear ? ' she cried, with a nervous tremor 
 in her voice. ' The newspapers say you have had a fit. 
 We have been so frightened.' 
 
 ' Yes,' said her husband,'' a notice of your illness, John, 
 has appeared in the evening papers.' 
 
 * Rumour, Alice/ replied her brother, ' always ex- 
 aggerates. You see I am not ill. It is true I had a 
 fainting fit at the hospital, but I was overdone, and 
 wanted rest. I hadn't had anything to eat for a long 
 time either, and wanted my dinner.' 
 
 As a matter of fact he had not touched any food since. 
 
 ' I'm glad it's no worse,' said his sister, with a sigh of 
 relief. 
 
 ( I think, John,' said Charley, ( you ought to write at 
 once to Edith. These papers will get down to Norwich, 
 and may alarm her greatly.' 
 
 John promised to do so, and shortly after Charley and 
 Alice left. 
 
 A little later Mr Morley called with Dr Noble. The 
 former had been to Dr Noble, whom he knew to be 
 intimate with John, had told all about the episode 
 at the hospital, and had asked him to come that 
 evening, to add the weight of his influence to 
 induce John to take steps to prevent a break-down of 
 his health. 
 
 As the two were ushered in, John looked up with 
 surprise. 
 
 1 Armstrong/ exclaimed Mr Morley, * both Noble and 
 myself have come to urge you to take rest, and give up 
 your work for a time. After the attack to-day, we both 
 think you ought not to remain under your present 
 
272 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, xvm 
 
 pressure, at least, without a long holiday. From a 
 pecuniary point of view it can scarcely be necessary to 
 work so hard, and your health requires that you should 
 make a decided change in your habits. * You owe it, 
 we think, both to your friends and to your profession to 
 take all reasonable care of your health.' 
 
 ' Morley is quite right/ interpolated Dr Noble, ' you 
 must make a radical change. Go abroad for a month 
 or two. You have not looked up to the mark for some 
 time past.' 
 
 'You advise me kindly, no doubt,' replied John, 'but 
 if I were to go away immediately after that attack this 
 afternoon, what a confirmation it would seem of the 
 exaggerated reports that are current, I hear, about the 
 town. "Would it, therefore, be wise to adopt such a 
 course ? ' 
 
 'Then,' said Mr Morley, 'show yourself about for a 
 few days, but make preparations for a prolonged holiday. 
 Believe me, Armstrong, if you don't, the town may have 
 something to talk about before long. A medical man 
 yourself, it is your duty, surely, to do as you would 
 advise others ? ' 
 
 'Do we all do, Morley,' said John bitterly, 'as we 
 advise our patients ? ' 
 
 'It might be better for our moral weight with the 
 public,' remarked Dr Noble, ' if we did. Many of your 
 humbler brethren are differently placed to yourself. The 
 res angusta domi not infrequently prevents them from 
 following advice, which otherwise they would gladly 
 adopt. You have not their excuse.' 
 
 ' My dear fellow,' answered John, ' You can't possibly 
 tell what reason I might have for not adopting this 
 course.' 
 
 ' That may be,' was the reply, * but I cannot conceive 
 
CHAP, xvni] WHA T HA P PEN ED AT ST BA RtfA BAS 273 
 
 of any that would justify you in incurring what might 
 be a serious risk.' 
 
 Many arguments passed between the trio, but at length 
 a promise was reluctantly extorted from John, that he 
 would endeavour to take a prolonged holiday very 
 shortly, and satisfied with this, Mr Morley and Dr Noble 
 withdrew. 
 
 Left alone, John's mental storm began to rage more 
 fiercely than ever. 
 
 His colleagues then were beginning to notice his 
 health, and to picture his future breakdown. They 
 should never witness it ! They should never see the well- 
 known surgeon a helpless paralytic ! No, their last re- 
 collections of him should be very different ! 
 
 Wilder and wilder became the thoughts that flitted 
 through his brain, and closer into his being grew the 
 hereditary disease that had remained dormant for more 
 than two generations. 
 
 The idea of suicide that in the past had vaguely pre- 
 sented itself, now began to assume definite shape. 
 
 A change had come over him. His life seemed to be 
 divided into two parts, and there was a gulf between 
 them. One part his past life he saw behind with all 
 its grim recollections. The other the future he could 
 not see. 
 
 This "evening was an eventful one. He was, in fact, on 
 the brink of the Rubicon between mental health and 
 disease : once on the other side, and there would be no 
 recrossing. 
 
 Healthy impulses were still his, and they were up in 
 revolt against the contemplated self-surrender. If deaf 
 to the promptings of religious or ethical considerations, 
 might not the cold, hard logic of materialistic philosophy 
 yet restrain his rash intention. 
 
 The good angel armed himself with the weapons of the 
 
 S 
 
274 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, xvm 
 
 man's own cynicism, and thereby attempted to show the 
 vanity of self-destruction. l Is it possible,' it seemed to say, 
 'that you, a surgeon, who have so often observed the 
 vicissitudes of human life, can wish to run forward and 
 meet death half way ? 
 
 4 Foolish one ! is not death sufficiently near always ? 
 Will he not find you soon enough without being sought ? 
 
 ( Let it be granted you may please yourself as to ending 
 your being ; why should you do so ? Cut bono ? 
 
 * You may yet make a bigger reputation, and do greater 
 things. What if disease is undermining you, who is free 
 from disease ? You are not disabled. Pause while there 
 is still time.' 
 
 Said his bad angel, ' Why wait ? If you vacate your 
 place now you will at least insure yourself against suffer- 
 ing and physical degradation, which you know only too 
 surely must follow sooner or later. One of the great 
 objects of your profession is to relieve pain. May 
 you not then save yourself pain, pain it may be of a 
 cruel and protracted character, by boldly cutting the 
 knot.' 
 
 He fell into a reverie, and fitful and phantastic forms 
 seemed to present themselves. 
 
 There was his old ancestor, who looked down exult- 
 ingly and beckoned to him. There, too, was his father, 
 who appeared sadder than he had ever known him, and 
 stretched out his hands imploringly. 
 
 Then he fell into a heavy sleep, waking only in the 
 small hours of the morning to retire to his bedroom, 
 scarcely knowing what he did, and altogether forgetting 
 to write to Edith, as he had promised Charley. 
 
 The following morning Edith was walking in the High 
 Street at Norwich, when her eye caught the poster of 
 one of the London daily papers, and she saw there in 
 large letters : 
 
CHAP, xviii] WHA T HAPPENED AT ST BARNABAS 375 
 'SUDDEN ILLNESS OF A WELL-KNOWN LONDON 
 
 SURGEON.' 
 
 Impelled by an instinct of approaching misfortune, she 
 bought a copy, and turning to the paragraph indicated, 
 read : 
 
 ' Considerable anxiety was excited yesterday by the 
 sudden illness of Sir John Armstrong. As he was leaving 
 St Barnabas after the delivery of a lecture, he fainted, and 
 was carried in a state of insensibility into the surgeons' 
 room. Here restoratives were applied with the best 
 result, and we are happy to be able to report that Sir 
 John was able to drive home in his own carriage.' 
 
 Edith had in her haste opened the newspaper in the 
 shop of the newsagent, and he became alarmed at observ- 
 ing the emotion displayed on reading this announcement, 
 for he thought she had been suddenly taken ill. 
 
 Refusing, however, his proffered assistance, Edith 
 hurried out of the shop, and hastened home. 
 
 A great revulsion of feeling had taken possession of 
 her. 'If John had died,' she said to herself, 'I could 
 never have forgiven myself. Mr Paget was right, I ought 
 to have gone to London before ; my place is by my 
 husband's side, and every one would have cried shame, 
 if anything had happened to John in my absence.' 
 
 On arriving at her father's house she found that Mr 
 Paget had just called. 
 
 4 Oh, Mr Paget,' she cried, * John has been taken ill ! 
 It is in the morning paper. I must go home at 
 once.' 
 
 Mr Paget looked grave. ' Nothing serious, I trust ? ' 
 he replied. 
 
 She handed him the paper. 
 
 'It is only a little passing faintness,' he said en- 
 
276 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, xvm 
 
 couragingly, after reading the paragraph, * he is probably 
 quite well again now. But you are right to return. 
 Shall I wire to say you are coming ? ' 
 
 ' Thank you,' was the reply, ' you are very good to 
 think of everything.' 
 
 A telegram was accordingly sent to Cavendish Square 
 to say Edith would return that evening. 
 
 Mr Paget was about to go to town, as he had business 
 requiring his presence there : so it was arranged that he 
 should escort Edith home, as it made no difference 
 whether he went to London that evening or the follow- 
 ing day. 
 
 Two hours later, just as they were about to enter the 
 fly to go to the station, a telegram was brought from 
 John. It ran : ' Am quite well again. Don't come up 
 on my account.' 
 
 She handed the paper to the clergyman. 
 
 'There,' she said bitterly, 'you see I'm not wanted. 
 Perhaps I had better stay here after all.' 
 
 'No, Lady Armstrong,' replied her companion, 'I 
 think you should abide by your decision. After what 
 has occurred there can be no question what you ought 
 to do. Sir John's telegram may seem abrupt, but 
 after all, perhaps it was dictated by good motives.' 
 
 The journey to town was a gloomy one. There was 
 considerable restraint between the two. 
 
 Edith, with the usual feminine desire for sympathy, 
 resented Mr Paget taking the part of her husband and 
 endeavouring to excuse his conduct. 
 
 Mr Paget, on the other hand, was madly in love with 
 Edith, and had only too much sympathy with her 
 troubles. But he saw clearly enough his position, and 
 would have died rather than in any way obtruded him- 
 self between Edith and John. 
 
CHAP, xviii] WHA T HAPPENED AT ST BARNABAS 277 
 
 He was therefore very chary in encouraging con- 
 fidences on the part of Edith. 
 
 When Liverpool Street was reached, he saw her into 
 her carriage, and promised that he would occasionally 
 call at Cavendish Square. 
 
CHAPTER XIX 
 
 EMILY BURROWS HAS A STRANGE VISITOR 
 ( This way madness lies.' 
 
 ON her return Edith found no change for the better in 
 her husband : he was even more abrupt and thoughtless 
 towards her than before. 
 
 But she did not feel the same resentment, for she 
 noticed the alteration in his appearance, and how ill he 
 was beginning to look. This, coupled with the recent 
 occurrence at the hospital, made her terribly anxious. 
 
 What if she were going to lose her husband, as she 
 had her child ! 
 
 All the old affection, which was not dead, but only 
 dormant through John's neglect, was awakened ; and so 
 great was her devotion and tenderness, that had his 
 mind been less fatally affected, Edith must have con- 
 quered, and compelled him to make some return in 
 acknowledgment of those merits in his wife that he 
 could not fail to recognise. 
 
 She had soon learnt the tenor of the advice given by 
 his medical friends, and did her utmost to induce John 
 to carry it into effect. 
 
 He had been compelled to confess he could no longer 
 do his work as heretofore, and had begun to decline 
 numerous engagements ; and, as he had promised Dr 
 
CHAP, xix] EMILY HAS A STRANGE VISITOR 279 
 
 Noble and Mr Morley, preparations had been begun for 
 an extended holiday. 
 
 The only difficulty was as to a companion. He was 
 bent on going away by himself, and this no one approved 
 of. 
 
 Edith passionately declared it was her right and duty 
 to accompany him ; but her husband, with a sternness 
 that cut her to the heart, declared he would go by himself, 
 or not at all. 
 
 One evening in October, about three weeks after 
 Edith's return, she and John were together in the drawing- 
 room, and this subject was under discussion. 
 
 1 How cruel you are, John/ said his wife, with tears in 
 her eyes, ( to refuse to take me. What have I done to 
 merit such unkind treatment ? I have always loved you, 
 and done my best to be a good wife. How can you be 
 so unkind ? You have been more unkind since our 
 poor child was taken away. It is cruel yes, it is 
 you ought to have more feeling for me ' and she seemed 
 too heart-broken to cry. 
 
 'My dear Edith,' replied John, 'I don't reproach you. 
 You have been an excellent wife. I daresay a better one 
 than I deserved. But that is no reason why you should 
 come with me if I go away. You don't want a holiday. 
 Your only idea is to come as a nurse. Now, I won't 
 have a nurse, and don't want to be looked after. If you 
 came, it would cause me so much worry that the change 
 would do me no good.' 
 
 4 Cause you worry, John ? ' said his wife sadly, * I 
 wonder you can speak so. I am sorry you consider my 
 company under any circumstances worry. You would 
 not once have spoken like this. You know you are much 
 too poorly to go away from everybody by yourself.' 
 
 'Well, dear, 'I've told you what I shall do, and 
 that must be sufficient.' Her last words had ruffled 
 
28o JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, xix 
 
 him. He knew he was not well, and that his wife 
 spoke the simple truth, but none the less the truth was 
 objectionable to him, as it is to many, and he disliked 
 to be told < he looked ill. 1 
 
 'John,' piteously pleaded Edith, ( it will break my 
 heart if you go alone. You know you must go if your 
 health requires it. I cannot stand in the way. Do take 
 me, I might never see you again ! ' 
 
 He started. What could Edith mean? Did she 
 suspect him? He felt uneasy at her tender looks, 
 and clumsily rejoined, * You think I'm as bad as that, do 
 you? ' 
 
 ' John, how can you say so ? ' and there was a touch of 
 scorn in her voice. * But what accidents might happen 
 all those miles away, and if anything were to happen, and 
 I not there. It is cruel, indeed it is ! ' and she burst into 
 a fit of passionate sobbing. 
 
 What a brute John would have appeared to James 
 Paget had he been present ! How indignant he would 
 have been, and how readily he would have explained it 
 all. * You never loved your wife, never ! ' 
 
 He muttered to himself, * To be sure there might 
 be accidents : ' then with forced tenderness he said, 
 ' How can you be so foolish, Edith ? Am I the first 
 man who has gone to the south of France without 
 his wife? Why should you conjure up the idea 
 of accidents and other bogeys, to needlessly alarm 
 yourself ? ' 
 
 Then with a thoughtlessness that only moral disease 
 could justify, he continued : 'I'm sure you can do without 
 me for a couple of months, you have been away at 
 Norwich nearly a year.' 
 
 Edith at once ceased crying. ' Yes, John/ she said, and 
 there was a faltering in her voice, ( I was wrong to stay 
 away from you all that time, but I was in a bad temper, 
 
CHAP, xix] EMILY HAS A STRANGE VISITOR 281 
 
 and thought you had not treated poor mother as you 
 should,' and again ' her voice failed her. * Won't you 
 forgive me/ she continued ; * Mr Paget said I was wrong, 
 but I wouldn't listen to him.' 
 
 1 Oh, never mind, Edith, never mind all that,' testily 
 replied her husband, ( of course I forgive you, but I 
 don't see what Paget had to do with the matter. It's 
 just the way with all parsons, they must have their 
 fingers in everything. 
 
 * Now, do try and be reasonable, Edith. If I go away 
 now, I cannot take you with me. I want a change, 
 and have long felt' there was a listlessness in his 
 voice * that there must be a change sooner or later, and 
 that I could not go on much longer as I have done/ 
 
 * What do you mean, John ? ' interrupted his wife. 
 Why don't you alter your manner of life ? I'm sure I 
 should be glad enough if you would. John, could we 
 not live a little more* happily together,' there was an 
 eager, longing look, in her eyes 'like Charley and 
 your sister ? How glad I should be, if we could. It has 
 been so lonely all these years in London, so different 
 to when we were at Driffield in the old times/ 
 
 She came near her husband, and tried to take his hand, 
 but all her womanly tenderness was lost on him, and her 
 words seemed rather to excite unpleasant reminiscences. 
 
 Ungraciously repulsing her advances, he replied : 
 1 There, Edith, that will do. Let the dead past bury 
 its dead! Don't rake up old times. I'm sorry you've 
 not been happy, and I daresay it has been all my fault. 
 I don't blame you, but I never could have lived a 
 different life. You ought to have married some one who 
 would have made you a better husband.' 
 
 4 Don't speak so, John,' said his wife mournfully, ' I 
 never loved any one but you but how changed you 
 have become!' She thought of those bygone days 
 
282 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, xix 
 
 when John was everything to her. What happiness she 
 had pictured in her wedded life with this man, who had 
 seemed to her the ideal of all that was manly ! It 
 was true she had felt at the time she married him there 
 was not the perfect union between them for which she 
 had hoped. But in her sanguine expectation she had 
 had little doubt that this union of hearts was bound to 
 come, when it was permitted her to show how true a 
 wife she could be. 
 
 Loving and true had she always been, but the union 
 had never come. Indeed, almost heart-broken, during 
 the last year or two, she had been forced to confess that 
 they drifted apart rather than came nearer. 
 
 Now her husband was about to leave home for a 
 foreign shore on account of failing health, and he re- 
 fused her services. What a climax ! He preferred to 
 be attended by aliens rather than by the wife of his 
 bosom ! 
 
 Had he quite forgotten how she once watched night 
 and day over him, when little hope seemed to be left, 
 and the fierce fever seemed only too certain of his prey ? 
 
 But it would do no good to remind him. Her heart 
 seemed changed to stone. * He cannot love me, he never 
 could have loved me,' she thought. 
 
 There had been a long pause after Edith's last word, 
 which was broken by John saying abruptly, 'Well, 
 Edith, what is it to be ? Am I to go, or to stay at 
 home ? ' 
 
 * I have said all I shall ever say on the subject,' was 
 her reply. * You know that I would never stand in the 
 way of anything that might be for your good.' 
 
 Could she have seen into the future she might have 
 wished to have done anything to prevent his going. 
 But had she prevented it, who shall say it would have 
 been for his good, or for hers ? 
 
CHAP, xixj EMILY HAS A STRANGE VISITOR 183 
 
 It was finally decided that John should go to the 
 south of France for two months, and that he should start 
 the following week. 
 
 That last week was terribly sad for Edith ; John was so 
 altered, and as he did less professional work, he was more 
 with her, and she was better able to note the change. 
 All cheerfulness had gone out of his life, and a complete 
 melancholy had settled down upon him. In vain she 
 tried to rouse him to a more healthy state of mind, 
 he seemed to resent attention being directed towards 
 him. 
 
 She anxiously spoke to her brother. 
 
 ( You know, Charley,' she said, * John is so strange : I 
 don't think he ought to go away by himself. Last night 
 I found him in his study looking over his will.' 
 
 ( Looking over his will ? ' replied her brother, l are you 
 sure it was his will ? ' 
 
 4 Yes,' ( I caught sight of the word " Will " printed 
 on the outside, as he folded up the paper and put 
 it away hastily.' 
 
 Charley was a little troubled, and did not know quite 
 what to say ; but he tried to cheer his sister, seeing how 
 unhappy she was. 
 
 1 I think, Edith,' he said, * it is better that John should 
 go away for a holiday, even if he goes by himself. All his 
 colleagues recommend it, and they ought to know best. 
 Let us hope we shall see him come back quite another 
 man.' 
 
 ' Oh, Charley, I do hope it will be so ! ' replied his sister 
 with tears in her eyes. 
 
 Two days before his departure, John said to his wife, 
 4 1 shall be away, dear, most of to-day, and possibly 
 not return to-night. I have promised to call on Sir 
 James Scrope to see his son before I leave England, 
 and shall therefore go to Fritton this afternoon. I 
 
284 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, xix 
 
 may then go on to Norwich, if the return trains do not 
 suit.' 
 
 ( If you do, John,' replied Edith, ' don't forget to call 
 and see father.' 
 
 John promised he would not forget, and the afternoon 
 found him on his way to Fritton. Arrived there, how- 
 ever, he did not make for Scrope Hall, but turned in 
 quite another direction. 
 
 It was past five o'clock, and getting dusk ; he seemed 
 to try to escape observation as he walked through the 
 village. 
 
 He sought the church which was just outside the village. 
 On reaching the lych-gate of the churchyard he first 
 looked round to see if any one were in sight, and then 
 quietly raised the latch and entered. 
 
 He sought one particular grave, which was not easy to 
 find in the fast fading daylight. 
 
 Instinct seemed to guide his footsteps, and after a 
 short search he stopped before one on which were some 
 faded wreaths, showing that it was not altogether for- 
 gotten. 
 
 On the headstone might have been read the follow- 
 ing : 
 
 SACRED TO THE MEMORY 
 
 OF 
 
 MARY ELLIOT 
 
 The beloved daughter of William Elliot of Northcote Farm, who was 
 
 found drowned in Fritton Broad on August . . 1 8 . . 
 
 in the twentieth year of her age. 
 
 For more than half-an-hour John stood by the side of 
 this grave, his mind the field of conflicting emotions. 
 
 He could scarcely tell why he had come here to this 
 place of all others but some irresistible impulse seemed 
 to have been guiding his footsteps. 
 
CHAP, xix] EMILY HAS A STRANGE VISITOR 285 
 
 It was a false excuse he had made for his journey, as he 
 had no intention of calling on Sir James Scrope, neither 
 had he promised to see the baronet's son. A day or two 
 before, he had not dreamt of making this excursion, and 
 it was only suggested by a sudden impulse of his mind. 
 
 But it was a fact, only too significant, that he had now 
 reached a stage where impulses, which might be irre- 
 sistible, were beginning to make themselves felt, and to 
 rule his conduct. 
 
 A mental pathologist, had he recognised this symptom, 
 would have been more than doubtful of the wisdom of 
 the solitary holiday about to be taken abroad. 
 
 As John stood by the grave the past rose terribly 
 clear before him. He saw again the bright, laughing 
 girl, his one and only love, whom he had betrayed more 
 than ten years before. 
 
 Some Nemesis seemed to have been following him in 
 spite of his prosperity. 
 
 * Joe is dead,' he muttered, ' and he said nothing. No 
 living-soul knows of the part I played ; ' andia voice within 
 his own breast seemed to answer mockingly, ' But you 
 know. That it is which causes all your trouble. It is 
 that knowledge which is driving you on to destruction.' 
 
 He shuddered and turned away, and groped blindly 
 along the path to the gate. It was now quite dark, and 
 a drizzling rain had begun to fall. 
 
 As he passed under the lamp suspended over the gate, 
 the Rev. James Paget was leaving the rectory garden, 
 and caught sight of his face, faintly illumined by the 
 light which fell from above. 
 
 He started. Surely he saw Sir John Armstrong ? fi^ 
 
 But the figure rapidly disappeared, and he reflected / 
 how impossible it would be that Sir John Armstrong 
 should be taking a walk at such an hour in Fritton 
 churchyard. 
 
286 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, xix 
 
 In the meanwhile John stumbled blindly on. Another 
 impulse had taken possession of him. He had an irre- 
 sistible desire to see Emily, the sister of the unhappy 
 girl, and confess his own part in the ruin of the latter. 
 
 This was a strange proceeding ! At the grave he 
 had just been reflecting that his past handiwork was 
 known to no one living, and now he was about to 
 publish it afresh. How could such inconsistency be 
 explained ? 
 
 Alas ! only in one way ; John had ceased to be 
 accountable for his actions. 
 
 Emily was no longer Emily Elliot, but Emily Burrows. 
 She had stayed with her father till his death a few years 
 before, and then after some persuasion had consented to 
 marry George, who had been struck by the care and 
 attention with which she had nursed her father, as 
 well as by her homely and thriftful ways. He had never, 
 however, quite got over his former sweetheart's sad 
 end. 
 
 Emily was now the happy mother of several children, 
 and probably made George a better wife than her sister 
 would ever have done, but she could never quite get over 
 the feeling that she was usurping poor Mary's place. 
 
 On reaching Southwick Farm John inquired for Mrs 
 Burrows. 
 
 It chanced that her husband was out, and Emily was 
 alone in the parlour. She was older than when we saw 
 her last, but a look of health and happiness was on her 
 face. She sat before a bright fire, with a lamp on the 
 table in front of her ; and there was a litter of articles 
 upon the table, that showed the mother was busy with 
 her children's wardrobe. 
 
 As John entered Emily rose to receive him, and in 
 spite of the alteration in his features she recognised him 
 at once. 
 
CHAP, xix] EMILY HAS A STRANGE VISITOR 287 
 
 With face glowing with pride at his visit, and forgetting 
 his title, so strong was the recollection of the past, she 
 said, * Dr Armstrong ! This is indeed a surprise ! My 
 husband will be proud to see you.' 
 
 Then noticing his pale face and nervous trepidation, 
 she added in a lower tone, 'But you don't look well, 
 sir.' 
 
 1 Mrs Burrows,' began John, pausing between his words, 
 and with a perceptible stammer, as if his tongue had some 
 difficulty in formulating the words he was about to utter, 
 ( I wanted particularly to see you by yourself, and it 
 fortunately happens that you are alone' he stopped, 
 and looked furtively round the room, as if to be sure of 
 this fact, while Emily glanced up with astonishment, not 
 altogether free from a certain uneasiness as to what was 
 about to follow : ' I come on a sad errand,' continued 
 her visitor, ' and it refers to the past,' Emily now turned 
 pale, and felt her heart beating wildly ' I come to speak 
 of your poor sister Mary.' 
 
 He paused, and Emily rose up from her chair and 
 stretched out her hands imploringly towards him, crying, 
 1 Oh, Dr Armstrong, Dr Armstrong, for God's sake don't 
 recall that time, the most miserable of my whole life. 
 It killed my father,' and she covered her face with her 
 hands, as if to hide a vision of the past. 
 
 * I know it is painful,' said John, ' but I must speak. 
 Have you ever thought, Mrs Burrows, who the wretched 
 man might be, who betrayed Mary ? ' 
 
 ( No,' she replied, with a shudder, ( May God forgive 
 him, for I never could ! ' 
 
 ( I come to speak of that man. I can tell you who he 
 was.' 
 
 A horrible fear came over Emily a sudden light 
 flashed through her mind ten years slipped away 
 and she once more stood in the house-surgeon's 
 
288 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, xix 
 
 room at the Norwich hospital, listening to the solemn 
 promise of him that stood before her. But she could 
 not bear to hear the confession of his perfidy, so with 
 calm dignity she said, 'No, Dr Armstrong, do not tell 
 me. I charge you in my dead sister's name not to tell 
 me.' 
 
 John had a little recovered himself, and said slowly, 
 and deliberately, ' Ah, well, you said you never could 
 forgive him, let us hope God may. Good-night ! ' 
 
 He held out his hand mechanically, but saw the other 
 shrinking from his touch. 
 
 A minute later Emily heard his footsteps on the gravel 
 outside. 
 
 A great excitement now came upon her. What was 
 she to do ? 
 
 Sir John Armstrong the cowardly betrayer of her 
 sister ! What would happen if she told George ? 
 Ought she not to tell him? She must have some 
 advice. 
 
 Instinctively she thought of Mr Paget, and a few 
 minutes later she had her bonnet on, and was struggling 
 through the rain on her way to the rectory. 
 
 Mr Paget had just returned from visiting a parishioner, 
 when he was told that Mrs Burrows wished to see him. 
 
 1 What can she want ? ' thought the clergyman. ' Noth- 
 ing wrong at Southwick, I hope. Show her in here, 
 Lucy,' he said to the maid. 
 
 A minute later Emily was sitting in the rectory study 
 almost as breathless and excited as she had been in this 
 same room on another memorable occasion. 
 
 Time had brought its changes, but in the passionate 
 and resolute matron, Mr Paget recognised in a moment 
 the Emily of those days, and almost by intuition knew 
 that her errand that night had reference to the tragedy 
 of the past, that it was in truth Sir John Armstrong he 
 
CHAP, xix] EMILY HAS A STRANGE VISITOR 289 
 
 had seen coming forth from the churchyard, and now 
 it was not unlikely the past was about to be made 
 manifest. 
 
 His task, too, as a spiritual counsellor might be by no 
 means an easy one. 
 
 'Mr Pager.,' said his visitor, 'something very dreadful 
 has happened to-night. I have come for your advice, 
 which I need sorely, as I do not know what to do. 
 Mr Paget, my sister's murderer is living, I have seen 
 him this evening, he is ' the clergyman's heart seemed 
 to stand still ' Sir John Armstrong ! What am I to 
 do ? ' she exclaimed passionately. * Shall I tell George ? ' 
 
 ' Are you sure this is so ? ' 
 
 ' Only too sure, sir/ ' I could not bear to hear him 
 confess it in so many words, and told him to desist, but 
 there could be no mistake no mistake ' and a sob 
 burst from her lips. ' Oh, Mr Paget, I once thought,' she 
 continued, * I should like to know who ruined my sister, 
 that I might see him punished, but now I wish ten 
 times over I might never have known ! The knowing 
 seems nearly as dreadful as poor Mary's death/ 
 
 ' Yes, Mrs Burrows,' said the clergyman sympathetically, 
 ' you are feeling now what many another has felt before, 
 how unnecessary it is for us to seek to punish the 
 ill-doings of others. God's ways are not our ways, but 
 how terribly relentless they not infrequently are towards 
 the evil-doer. 
 
 ' The betrayer of your sister was guilty of a heartless and 
 wicked action, but think what Sir John Armstrong must 
 have gone through before he could have been driven to 
 act as he has done this evening I How the proud heart 
 must have been crushed and broken ! 
 
 'Mrs Burrows, an hour ago I saw Sir John leaving 
 the churchyard yonder. I thought I recognised him, 
 but was not quite sure. What you have told me, how- 
 
 T 
 
ago JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, xix 
 
 ever, makes it certain. Where do you think he had been ? 
 Can you have any doubt ? 
 
 * Mrs Burrows, I charge you in God's name to let this go 
 no further ! Think of his innocent wife ! None but the 
 innocent can suffer by making public such a revelation. 
 The guilty one is suffering, as you can see, only too 
 severely : and no court, no public opprobrium could 
 award retribution equal to his own remorse. It is easy 
 to see that God has determined that he himself shall be 
 the minister of his own punishment.' \fJJ^ ' 
 
 She listened with bowed head to trie, / Vector, and 
 when he had concluded, said, 'The course you bid 
 me follow, sir, is the easier one. None can shrink 
 more from publicity than I, and I would far rather tell 
 no one no, not even George. I feel sure Mary would 
 wish it so, and I think/ after a pause, * father too/ 
 
 * I thank God, Mrs Burrows/ said the other, ( that you 
 have such feelings, and I cannot but regard them as 
 heaven-sent. Let us both pray for this wretched man, 
 one of the most gifted surgeons of the day. Only quite 
 recently I heard that he had had a fit, while visiting one 
 of the London hospitals. It may be that before long he 
 will have to meet your sister, and plead his cause before 
 another Tribunal.' 
 
 There was a look of consolation on Emily's face as she 
 left the rectory. She felt sure the clergyman's advice 
 was good, and when she remembered the sad tones of 
 Sir John Armstrong's voice, and the look of pain 
 on his facie as she shrank away from him, a wave of 
 compassion surged up within her. She thought, too, of 
 Lady Armstrong Edith Dawson that was and old Dr 
 Dawson, so well remembered by her, and so respected at 
 Norwich ; and she devoutly thanked God that she was 
 not called upon to take steps, which might be fraught 
 with unspeakable sorrow to them. 
 
CHAP, xix] EMILY HAS A STRANGE VISITOR 291 
 
 Left alone, the rector thought long and anxiously of 
 what he had just heard. The vague suspicions floating 
 through his mind for so many years, were after all 
 only too true ; and he sighed when he reflected on the 
 cloud that was fast gathering over Edith's head. 
 
 As to the advice he had given Emily Burrows, was it 
 altogether honest ; or had his love for Edith more than 
 strict equity prompted him, in advising the poor victim's 
 sister to abstain from taking steps to brand the betrayer ? 
 
 ' No, no,' he said to himself. ' God knows I feel only 
 too keenly anything that may even remotely affect Edith's 
 welfare, but I am persuaded I have done right in this, 
 and were Sir John Armstrong and his wife strangers, 
 my counsel would have been still the same.' 
 
 His mind then reverted to the old times at Norwich, 
 when he was curate at St Margaret's : to the meetings 
 and arguments in John's room at the hospital in those 
 days, and to his own presentiment as to the moral 
 calibre of the young surgeon. How terribly true had this 
 presentiment been ! 
 
 He could not see into the future, but he felt that 
 evening as if some greater evil were impending ; be- 
 fore retiring to rest his soul went up in prayer to his 
 Master, to have compassiorfon his ill-fated friend, and to , 
 guard Edith in the dark time coming on. ;j fX /#* <*/ 
 
CHAPTER XX 
 
 SIR JOHN ARMSTRONG'S LAST JOURNEY 
 
 ' Though this be madness, yet, 
 There's method in it ' 
 
 IT was the evening of the 3ist of October. There had 
 been a heavy fall of rain in the morning, and now a fog 
 hung over the city. 
 
 Sir John Armstrong's carriage was at the door, and all 
 ready for his departure to catch the Continental express 
 at Cannon Street. 
 
 John was in the drawing-room taking a farewell of his 
 wife, who with tears in her eyes was clinging to him, and 
 lamenting his going. 
 
 * What if I were never to see you again ! ' she said. 
 ' John, I don't like your going away. Oh, why would 
 you not take me with you ? ' 
 
 ' Now, dear,' was the reply, ' please don't go over that 
 again. I daresay you will see me when I return. If an 
 accident were to happen, the same accident might happen 
 anywhere else. No one can insure against accidents, 
 only against their consequences, and in that respect 
 you're quite safe.' 
 
 ( How strangely you speak, John,' said his wife in a 
 
CHAP, xx] SIR J. ARMSTRONGS LAST JOURNEY 393 
 
 frightened voice. ( Why do you lay this stress on acci- 
 dents ? One would think you expected one.' 
 
 1 Don't be foolish, Edith ; how can I expect an acci- 
 dent ? Goodbye, I must be off, or I shall lose the train. 
 
 Edith felt a kiss upon her forehead, then she heard 
 the drawing-room door shut, and was alone. Alone ! 
 destined never more to see him, who, during the greater 
 part of her life, had been the centre' of her existence, 
 whom in spite of coldness and indifference she yet 
 loved as dearly as ever wife loved husband. 
 
 But her love now differed from her earlier love. 
 Then there was the hope that it might be mutual ; but 
 latterly she had become more and more certain that this 
 love of hers had never been felt by John, that however 
 dearly she might love him, there could be no return. 
 
 Yet she loved on, hoping against hope, as every true 
 woman does, that her own fervour might in time breathe 
 warmth into the coldest heart. 
 
 She walked to the window. There in the square 
 below she saw the lamps of the carriage, and a gleam of 
 light from the hall lit up for an instant the pale face of 
 her husband, as the footman opened the carriage door. 
 Then came the rumble of the wheels, and all was 
 swallowed up in the fog. 
 
 In the meanwhile, John was driven quickly eastwards. 
 He had crossed the threshold of his house for the last 
 time, had taken his last look at a home, which but for 
 his own fault might have been a happy one. 
 
 Outwardly there was not much change ; inwardly, 
 there was a terrible alteration. Indeed, it was more 
 than a change, it was a revolution; the remorse-stricken 
 mind had at last given way, and a disease, dormant 
 in his family for generations, had claimed another 
 victim. 
 
 But subtle and obscure was the malady, and it 
 
*94 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, xx 
 
 would have been a master mind that could have de- 
 tected it. 
 
 All John's faculties to the outside world seemed as true 
 as ever : no delusions were to be observed : but all the 
 natural ability and genius that he possessed in so signal 
 a degree, were being directed to the undoing of their lord. 
 
 He had determined to destroy himself, but he contem- 
 plated doing so in such a manner, that no living soul 
 should understand the manner of his end. 
 
 His life had been honourable in the sight of the world, 
 and death should not dim the reputation he had won, 
 nor afford a means of tarnishing his fame. 
 
 When he ceased to be, Mary would be appeased, and 
 no further evil would result from his sin. It was true he 
 had played a reckless part in his interview with Emily 
 Burrows : she could scarcely misunderstand him, and it 
 must be confessed the ingenuity with which he had laid his 
 plans was somewhat marred in this respect. But if in 
 the case of the most intelligent and healthy intellects, 
 the best laid schemes not infrequently fail owing to a 
 trifling omission, is it wonderful that the scheming of a 
 diseased mind should be likewise faulty in some of its 
 details ? 
 
 Cunning and specious as was John's design, it would 
 in all likelihood have failed, had it depended entirely 
 upon himself. For he could not in the least have fore- 
 seen that the sister of the woman he had wronged, instead 
 of following the first and most natural impulse of an 
 ordinary mind, would have sought the council of such 
 an adviser as Mr Paget. 
 
 Except for that circumstance, it is more than probable 
 that rumours, not altogether wanting in truth, would 
 have got abroad rumours that might have been damag- 
 ing in the extreme, and have thrown light on events that 
 happened subsequently. 
 
CHAP, xxj SIR f. ARMSTRONG'S LAST JO URNEY 29$ 
 
 On through the darkness went the express. 
 
 John sat in one corner of the carriage, muffled in a 
 travelling coat, for it was a cold evening. He had 
 mechanically lighted a cigar, but such was his abstraction 
 that it soon went out. The fact that he was not aware 
 of this, but still held the cigar between his lips, excited 
 the attention of some of his fellow travellers. 
 
 Two young men were seated opposite in high spirits : 
 they were clerks in a banking house, who had to wait 
 for their holiday till this late season of the year, and they 
 were bubbling over with good spirits in anticipation of 
 the gay time about to be had in the French Capital. 
 
 Every now and again they cast curious glances at the 
 strange man in the corner with the extinguished cigar 
 in his mouth. 
 
 One of them getting up to stretch himself, caught 
 sight of John's portmanteau on the luggage rest above, 
 and read with awe : 
 
 SIR JOHN ARMSTRONG, 
 Hotel Bristol, 
 Paris. 
 
 Sitting down he nudged his companion. f That 
 gentleman in the corner,' he whispered, * is Sir John 
 Armstrong, the surgeon ; he is going to the " Bristol." 
 Cook's tickets won't run to that, will they ? ' 
 
 His companion laughed. ' Oh, the Bristol is a stuck-up 
 sort of place where they fleece you awfully. We shall 
 be much more comfortable at the u St Petersburgh." ' 
 
 ' He's not getting much out of his cigar,' remarked the 
 other. ' Shall I offer him a light ? ' 
 
 ( Hush, don't speak so loud.' 
 
 John in a dreamy way heard them conversing, and 
 marked their happy tones and glowing faces, but they 
 seemed strange and unnatural to him. 
 
 At length Newhaven was reached, and leaving the rail- 
 
296 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, xx 
 
 way station, he saw the smoke rising from the funnels 
 of the packet, which was to carry him on his last 
 voyage. 
 
 This did not occur to him, for he could not be said to 
 be thinking of anything. His mind was more like that 
 of the condemned man, who must die at daybreak, and 
 who in his prison cell counts the hours as they go by 
 with a feeling that he is powerless to avert his fate ; or 
 like the sick man, who has been told by his physician 
 that life is ebbing, and he will not look upon another 
 sunrise. 
 
 Could John be regarded as a free agent ? Self-control 
 in one respect was utterly in abeyance, and nothing could 
 have saved him but physical restraint, and that under the 
 circumstances was impossible. 
 
 After a short delay the packet started, and John 
 watched the lights of Newhaven receding from view. 
 
 It was a cold, foggy night, and the wind was rising. 
 The sea was rough, and the motion of the vessel soon 
 drove the few passengers into the cabin. 
 
 John walked to the stern, and looked down at the 
 white, seething waters beneath, as they were churned up 
 by the screw. He then tossed into the sea a periodical 
 he held in his hand, and saw it instantly disappear. 
 
 After leaning against the side for a few minutes he 
 slowly turned away, retraced his steps along the deck, 
 and descended into the saloon. 
 
 * A nasty night, Sir John,' said a voice in his ear. He 
 started, and looked in the direction from whence it 
 came, and at once recognised the speaker. 
 
 1 Good evening, Dr Benson,' he said, ' you are crossing 
 to-night ! ' 
 
 ( Yes, I have been summoned to an old patient who 
 was taken ill at the Hotel Scribe in Paris. So I believe 
 we are fellow travellers. 1 
 
CHAP, xx] SIR J. ARMSTRONGS LAST JOURNEY 297 
 
 A sickly smile stole over the face of the other. Fellow 
 travellers they ? Their ways were widely apart ! But 
 how strange that this man who had looked upon his 
 face immediately after the commission of his sin, should 
 cross his path now ! 
 
 Dr Benson was a little alarmed at John's look. There 
 was something wild about the expression of his features ; 
 an unnatural light seemed to gleam from his eyes. 
 
 He had read in the papers of his sudden illness at St 
 Barnabas, and knew of his proposed holiday. 
 
 'I hope/ he added, 'you will return the better for 
 your change, and that your health will be re-established. 
 We can't afford to lose you for long.' 
 
 1 Oh, my health is all right,' said John, a little testily, 
 1 but I don't like the motion of the boat, so I shall turn in. 1 
 
 So saying, he abruptly left the other, and sought his 
 berth, in which he lay down, not to sleep, but only to 
 listen to the fog signals above, for the packet had now 
 entered a dense mist. 
 
 Dr Benson watched him into his berth, and then sat 
 down and ordered a light supper. 'What a strange 
 man the baronet is,' he thought. ' He was again quite 
 startled at seeing me. One would think I had done him 
 some harm, he seems to shun me so. I've sent him good 
 patients, so he ought to be civil. But there's something 
 odd about him I don't understand.' 
 
 Shortly after, he also retired to his berth. 
 
 About an hour later, the two clerks, who had been 
 John's fellow travellers in the railway carriage, after staying 
 as long as they could hold out on the deck, returned to 
 the saloon for shelter. 
 
 They sat down to partake of a little refreshment, and 
 while it was being brought, observed John muffled in 
 the same coat he had worn in the railway carriage, and 
 
398 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, xx 
 
 with a smoking cap on his head, making his way to the 
 saloon staircase. 
 
 Almost immediately after the steward brought their 
 refreshments, and they remarked what they had just 
 seen. 
 
 1 He'll find it a rough night, steward, won't he ? ' said 
 one of them. * The fog was so thick just now we couldn't 
 see a foot in front.' 
 
 ( I expect the gent feels ill,' was the reply, * that's why 
 he's gone above. It's foolish. I always tell gents to lie 
 still if they feel sick. He'll soon be down again.' 
 
 John was indeed sick, but his was a sickness that they, 
 like the rest of the world, but little comprehended. 
 
 When he reached the deck one bell was being struck. 
 
 The sound rang like a knell : it was the last 
 bell he was to hear : but what mattered limitation 
 of time to him, who so soon was to be a part of the 
 eternal ! 
 
 The packet was in the centre of a sea-fog ; the hooter 
 was giving every few minutes its harsh warning ; a 
 drenching rain was falling, and scarcely anything could 
 be conceived more miserable than the general appearance 
 of the deck. 
 
 The officers and sailors appeared as dark forms with 
 large slouching tarpaulin hats, and waterproofs, and at 
 intervals they flitted by like ghosts, being almost im- 
 mediately swallowed up in the fog. 
 
 Not a passenger was on deck as John groped his way 
 towards the stern. Having gained it, he leaned over the 
 bulwarks, and tried to peer into the depths below. 
 
 He could not see the water, but he could hear it hissing 
 and boiling beneath. It was bitterly cold. He shivered, 
 and his teeth chattered, but he did not draw his coat 
 closer. 
 
 No one was by, he was quite alone. 
 
CHAP, xx] SIR J. ARMSTRONGS LAST JOURNEY 299 
 
 But had there been an observer his attention would 
 have been riveted by John's next step. There was a 
 coil of rope, which formed an elevation just behind the 
 wheel, and by the side of the stern bulwarks. Carefully 
 mounting it he steadied himself, by grasping the pole 
 on which the flag with the name of the packet was 
 flying. He then stepped on to the bulwark itself, still 
 grasping firmly the same support. 
 
 Except for the fog he might now have been seen by 
 the man on the look-out ; but the fog was so thick, that 
 it was impossible for the look-out man to see more than 
 a few feet in front, and his attention was directed to 
 the course in which the vessel was moving. 
 
 For about the space of a minute, John stood like a 
 statue, glaring wildly into the darkness. The outer 
 world was quite shut out, he heard and saw nothing. 
 
 But there in the abyss below was the form of the 
 drowned Mary Elliot, and in the roar of the waters he 
 heard her calling. 
 
 It was a brief but awful interval that he stood thus, 
 looking into the black gulf below with all the frenzy of 
 death in his eyes. 
 
 What a wicked deed was that about to be perpetrated ! 
 This self-murder, how could it be justified ? The great 
 surgeon, whose genius had given life to so many 
 sufferers, whose peer could hardly be found, about to 
 destroy that divine gift, to make it so that none of his 
 brethren among suffering humanity should ever again 
 be the better for what God had bestowed for their 
 service. 
 
 Unless all were blind chance unless there were no 
 Creator, no retribution for sin surely he might expect 
 to answer for this deed in the great hereafter ! 
 
 What was his 'own selfish trouble and pain, compared 
 with the duties which were his in proportion to his 
 
300 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, xx 
 
 talents ? To whom much has been given, of them shall 
 be much required ! 
 
 What right had he to forestall disease ? How should 
 he atone for one sin by the commission of a greater sin ? 
 
 Alas ! there was little room for reason : the only 
 defence that might be urged for the rash act, was that 
 reason was in abeyance ; that the guiding impulses of 
 the frail human vessel that had been freighted with such 
 precious metal, had given place to the delusions of a 
 madman, and that the responsibility of health had given 
 place to the irresponsibility of disease. 
 
 In this supreme moment there was a reaction to a 
 more healthy state, and there seemed to rise within, a 
 sense of the enormity of the act contemplated. But he 
 had gone too far for repentance : the fiat had gone forth 
 from a higher power, and it was too late. 
 
 At the same instant what had occurred at St Barnabas 
 was repeated, and conscious life departed. But now 
 no kind friends were in attendance to bear him into 
 a place of safety, so with a gasp and a convulsive 
 movement of his body he pitched headlong into the sea. 
 
 On went the packet. The noise of the fall attracted 
 no attention, as the sound was more than covered by the 
 roar of the sea surging up from the screw, and not a 
 soul in the ship knew of the tragedy that had been 
 enacted. 
 
 The clerks who had seen John leave the cabin had 
 gone to lie down in their berths ; and the steward, busy 
 with his duties, thought no more of the matter. 
 
 Indeed, except for the presence of Dr Benson on board, 
 it is not unlikely that considerable doubt might have 
 remained as to the fate of the baronet. 
 
 For if his disappearance had not been discovered before 
 the passengers disembarked at Dieppe in the dark early 
 
CHAP, xx] SfX J. ARMSTRONG'S LAST JOURNEY 301 
 
 morning, attention might only have been drawn to him 
 by the fact that no one came to claim his luggage ; as it 
 might have been thought that he had left the packet 
 with the other passengers, intending later on to send for 
 his things. 
 
 About an hour, however, before the boat arrived at 
 Dieppe, Dr Benson saw John's watch, a valuable gold 
 one with a ponderous seal attached, hanging over 
 the edge of his berth. Thinking to rescue it from a 
 dangerous position, he crossed over to the baronet's 
 berth. 
 
 He was surprised to find it empty ; but thinking John 
 might be taking a stroll on deck, he took possession of 
 the watch and went up to find him. 
 
 The fog had now cleared a little, and it was possible to 
 see better. 
 
 Dr Benson went carefully over the boat, but failed to 
 find the object of his search. He became alarmed, and 
 reported to the steward that the baronet was missing. 
 
 The news at once spread over the packet. The 
 captain was informed, and a rigorous search made every- 
 where without success. 
 
 The steward reported that his attention was drawn to 
 the baronet's going on deck by some of the passengers, 
 and that this was just before one bell sounded. 
 
 There could be little doubt, that in some way or other 
 he had fallen overboard, and there were many curious 
 surmises as to how the accident happened, as it was 
 difficult to conceive that he could have put himself into 
 a position in which it would be possible. 
 
 There was not, however, the remotest suspicion of the 
 real circumstances of the case. 
 
 Dr Benson felt in a painful position, for it devolved 
 on him to wire to Sir John Armstrong's friends to inform 
 them of the sad news. On arriving at Dieppe he found 
 
3 o JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, xx 
 
 it too early to telegraph, and instead of going on by the 
 tidal train, he decided to wait for a later, and in the 
 meanwhile considered anxiously how to send the tidings 
 of Sir John Armstrong's death. 
 
 Well he knew that directly the office was open, 
 telegrams would rapidly be sent to London, and be 
 published in the morning papers. He was aware that 
 Sir John had a brother-in-law who was a solicitor, but 
 did not know his address. 
 
 He likewise knew that the Rev. James Paget, the 
 rector of his parish, was a very old friend of the 
 family. 
 
 Finally, rather than telegraph direct to Lady Arm- 
 strong, he determined to wire first to Mr Paget, trusting 
 the latter would have time to send the information to 
 the wife's brother, before the news of her husband's death 
 was rudely reported in the newspapers. 
 
 At the earliest possible moment, therefore, he dispatched 
 the following telegram to Fritton Rectory : 
 
 'Sad accident crossing to Dieppe Sir John Arm- 
 strong missing drowned. Please inform friends. Dr 
 Benson.' 
 
 Had a thunderbolt fallen into the rectory parlour, it 
 could not have dismayed Mr Paget more than did the 
 receipt of this telegram. 
 
 Sir John Armstrong dead drowned ? What did it all 
 mean ? He had never in the remotest degree expected 
 this. 
 
 It was true he had had misgivings that further trouble 
 was brewing in that quarter, and had become anxious 
 when reflecting on Edith's future. But that her un- 
 happy husband was so soon to be hurried out of the 
 world, had not for a moment entered into his calcula- 
 tions. 
 
 But it was no time to be idle. He must act at once. 
 
CHAP, xx] SIR J, ARMSTRONGS LAST JOURNEY 303 
 
 The news would soon be all over London, if it were not 
 so already. He must wire to Charles Dawson, and then 
 himself hurry up to London by the first train. 
 
 Sitting in the railway carriage, many and conflicting 
 were his thoughts. 
 
 He was about to try to comfort a wife for the loss of 
 her husband : a woman whom he had loved all his life, 
 and who was by that loss rendered free to be wooed in 
 the future. 
 
 The loss, therefore, in one sense was an incalculable 
 gain ; yet he was about to condole with that woman, to 
 pretend grief for the loss of the man, who had stood in 
 his way, and whose treatment of Edith he had over and 
 over again condemned. Was he not in a measure play- 
 ing the part of a hypocrite ? 
 
 1 No,' he said, * this is not the right way of regarding it. 
 I cannot help my natural feelings, and have no need to 
 be ashamed of them. My sacred office is to comfort the 
 afflicted, and that Lady Armstrong will be terribly 
 stricken by this blow, I have no doubt. I may be able to 
 soothe her grief, and if God permit me to comfort her, I 
 am no hypocrite. My own feelings are altogether beside 
 the question.' 
 
 On reaching Liverpool Street he hurried to Cavendish 
 Square. On the way he caught sight of posters outside 
 the newspaper shops with the announcement, * RE- 
 PORTED DEATH OF SIR JOHN ARMSTRONG.' 
 
 ' It is known, then,' he said to himself, ( ill news does 
 not take long to travel,' and he stopped and purchased a 
 copy of the newspaper. 
 
 When he arrived at the house, he found there Charley 
 and his wife. They had forestalled the newspapers, but 
 were in a terrible state of anxiety. 
 
 ' It has nearly killed Edith,' whispered Charley to the 
 clergyman, while Alice sobbed bitterly. 'I have sent 
 
304 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, xx 
 
 for Dr Noble, as my poor sister fainted, and I got 
 alarmed. I don't know what to do. It's shocking ! ' 
 
 Charley was pale and trembling, and looked greatly 
 affected by the terrible event. 
 
 1 You don't know how it occurred, do you ? ' he said. 
 
 1 Mr Paget shook his head, and handed him the 
 telegram received from Dr Benson. He also showed 
 him the newspaper. 
 
 'It would appear from the report,' he answered, 
 referring to the newspaper, * no one saw him fall over- 
 board. He was simply found missing. But there will be 
 fuller details, it may be, later.' 
 
 Dr Noble entered the room. 
 
 He looked grave, and approaching the anxious group, 
 said, * Lady Armstrong ought not to be left by herself, 
 she has had a severe shock.' 
 
 ' Would it be wise for this gentleman* to see her, 
 doctor ? ' asked Charley, pointing to Mr Paget. * He is a 
 very old friend, and has come up from Norwich this 
 morning.' 
 
 * It would do no harm/ replied the doctor, glancing at 
 the clergyman. He then added, ' Are you not Mr 
 Paget?' and finding his conjecture correct, continued, 
 ' Lady Armstrong mentioned your name just now. She 
 was reproving herself for not having been guided by 
 your advice. I surmised you were a clergyman.' 
 
 Mr Paget bowed, and Charley said hastily, 'Yes, Paget, 
 you had better see her. I know you have some influence 
 over her.' 
 
 Mr Paget's heart was again wildly beating. She had 
 thought of him then in her distress. How she loved 
 John Armstrong ! How mad he must have been not 
 to have valued more so priceless a possession ! 
 
 He at once proceeded to Edith's apartment, accom- 
 panied by Alice, while the doctor, after giving a few more 
 
CHAP, xx] SSX /. ARMSTRONG'S LAST JOURNEY 305 
 
 directions, and promising to call again in the evening, 
 hastened to his carriage. 
 
 Edith was sitting before the fire in the drawing-room, 
 her face buried in her hands, and taking no notice of 
 anything, as Mr Paget entered with Alice. 
 
 It was the same room in which the clergyman had had 
 his interview with her not so long ago, when her child 
 was lying dead, and he could not help recalling that 
 occasion. She was sad then, but altogether prostrated 
 now. 
 
 4 Edith/ said Alice, * Dr Noble has ordered you rest 
 and quiet, and here is Mr Paget, who has just called. 
 We thought you would like to see him.' Then she 
 somewhat rashly added, * It was he who first learnt the 
 dreadful news.' 
 
 Edith started up, raised her pale face, and stared wildly 
 at Mr Paget, saying in tones broken by emotion : 
 
 'How was it, Mr Paget, you came to hear of poor 
 John ? ' 
 
 'It was through one of my parishioners, Lady 
 Armstrong, a medical man who lives at Fritton, and 
 happened to be a fellow traveller with your husband. 
 It devolved on him to send home the sad tidings. He 
 did not like to wire directly to you, and as he knew I was 
 a friend of your family, he sent me the telegram. It was 
 through me your brother heard of the sad event. 
 
 Edith got up from her chair, walked towards the 
 clergyman, and held out her hand. 
 
 'Thank you thank you/she said. 'It was kind to 
 come up this morning, and leave everything on my 
 account.' 
 
 Then she trembled, and would have fallen, but Alice 
 came to her assistance, and with Mr Paget's help led her 
 back to a chair. 
 
 ' Yes,' she said, ' you have always been a friend. John 
 
 U 
 
306 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, xx 
 
 is dead ! How strange it all seems ! Don't you remem- 
 ber long ago, how kind you were, when you thought 
 John was neglecting me on that excursion we once 
 made together to Yarmouth. It was in November, this 
 very month. You thought John was too attentive to a 
 girl who was with us, who met with an accident. That 
 girl, too, was drowned,' she shuddered, ( and now John 
 is drowned.' 
 
 4 What does it all mean, Mr Paget ? ' and her highly- 
 wrought feelings came to a climax in a fit of hysterical 
 sobbing. 
 
 Mr Paget did not know how to answer her, and was 
 shocked to find there was in Edith's mind so strong a 
 remembrance of the past a remembrance which might 
 yet unveil the nature of her husband's sin. But he urged 
 her to do as Dr Noble advised to give quiet to her 
 nerves, and allow the shock she had received to subside. 
 
 ' But, Mr Paget,' she sobbed, * you will let me know 
 anything more you discover if my poor husband be 
 found ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, yes, Lady Armstrong, I will take care to let you 
 know all.' 
 
 Alice then led Edith away, and Mr Paget went down- 
 stairs to Charley. 
 
 1 1 will try and see the captain of the packet/ he said 
 to the latter, ' and ascertain, if possible, further particulars 
 of this sad affair.' 
 
 ' You are very kind,' answered Charley, ' it does seem 
 remarkable ! How could John have got overboard ? If 
 he did take a walk on deck at a late hour, and even in a 
 fog, I don't see how it could have happened, unless he 
 jumped over.' 
 
 The other shook his head. ' God alone knows,' he said ; 
 ( perhaps this is one of those mysteries that never will be 
 unravelled.' 
 
CHAP, xx] SIR J. ARMSTRONG'S LAST JOURNEY 307 
 
 The following day Mr Paget proceeded to Newhaven, 
 and was able to see the captain of the packet. Very little 
 satisfaction, however, could he obtain from all his inquiries. 
 
 1 Yes, sir,' said the captain, ' it were a very foggy night ; 
 the sea, too, was rough, and all of us were engaged in the 
 look-out ahead. None of us saw the gentleman on deck, 
 and if he'd fallen overboard anigh the starn, what with 
 the noise from the screw, and the sea, we could na' have 
 heard the fall. If we had seen him fall, we could na' 
 have saved him.' 
 
 { But, captain,' asked Mr Paget, ' if Sir John Arm- 
 strong did go on deck that night, how came he to fall 
 overboard ? Can you imagine any way in which the 
 accident could have happened ? ' 
 
 The other shook his head in a mystified manner. * No, 
 sir/ he replied, ' that's what puzzles me ; I should ha' 
 thought it impossible for him to ha' got into the sea 
 unless he jumped overboard which, of course, he 
 couldna' ha' done ' he added after a pause. 
 
 Mr Paget interrogated the steward likewise, but could 
 get no further information. He had noticed nothing 
 peculiar in the baronet ; he might have been somewhat 
 quiet and depressed, but he (the steward) had ascribed 
 it to sea-sickness, and had thought that was the cause of 
 his going on deck so late. 
 
 4 Had John been sick in the cabin ?' 
 
 * No, he had no reason to believe he had. 1 
 
 Mr Paget then walked all over the deck of the vessel. 
 In the stern there was still piled up the roll of rope on 
 which John had mounted to his fate ; but the clergy- 
 man paid no particular attention to it, and wondered 
 more and more how the accident happened. 
 
 A week later Dr Benson called at the rectory. He 
 had returned from abroad, and now told the rector all 
 the circumstances he was acquainted with. 
 
308 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, xx 
 
 1 It was quite by accident/ he said, * I recognised him. 
 He kept himself aloof from the other passengers, and he 
 seemed by no means at his ease with me. Do you know, 
 Mr Paget, he always had a sort of antipathy to me 
 why, I can't say but it has always been so. When I 
 first met him years ago, that day I came as a locum to 
 my predecessor, I distinctly remember how startled he 
 was to see me. A few years later he practically refused 
 to sell me his practice, and when he came down to that 
 operation at Scrope Hall last summer, the curious way 
 in which he received me was remarked by Mr Freshfield, 
 his companion. Yes, he was a strange man, and apt to 
 give you the idea he was eccentric but what a splendid 
 surgeon ! It will be a long while before the world finds 
 his equal.' 
 
 1 You didn't see him on deck ? ' asked Mr Paget. 
 
 ( No. We conversed for a short time, then he 
 evidently wanted to get rid of me at least, I thought 
 so said he wanted to lie down. I watched him go 
 to his berth at the far end of the saloon, then I went 
 to mine, and soon fell asleep. There were two young 
 men who saw him leave the saloon, and one told me 
 the baronet had a wild and startled look, and walked 
 unsteadily, and that he stumbled at the foot of the stairs. 
 But of course this might have been due to the motion 
 of the boat.' 
 
 ( Well,' replied Mr Paget, * this mystery, it seems, is 
 not to be explained. How Sir John Armstrong died 
 can never be known, as no human eye witnessed his 
 end.' 
 
 After Dr Benson had gone, the clergyman fell into a 
 reverie. 
 
 His forebodings in the case of Sir John Armstrong had 
 come to pass in a way he little reckoned -on. But there 
 was a mystery he could not understand. 
 
CHAP, xx] SIR J. A RMSTRONGS LA ST JO URNEY 309 
 
 Had the unhappy man been guilty of self-murder ? 
 
 It was strange that visit of his to Fritton ; the seeking 
 out of Mary Elliot's grave ; then the confession to 
 Mary's sister, to be followed so soon by the seeming 
 accident. 
 
 The more he thought the more perplexed he became ; 
 but of one thing he was resolved, that come what might, 
 he would breathe to no human soul his doubt. 
 
 Then came a pleasanter train of thoughts. Edith was 
 free, and might possibly be his some day. God might 
 yet bless him with the dearest wish of his whole life. 
 
 What a paradise the rectory would be with Edith for 
 its mistress ! 
 
 The old order was changing, giving place to new, 
 in which there might yet be happiness both for Edith 
 and himself, when time had softened, and in a measure 
 toned down the discord of the past. 
 
CHAPTER XXI 
 
 A VISIT TO FRITTON RECTORY 
 
 ' I cannot give thee what is mine no more, 
 I cannot love again, as once of yore, 
 But what is mine to give is freely thine.* 
 
 FOR several weeks Edith was seriously ill. A species of 
 brain fever was induced by this shock, and convalescence 
 only slowly re-established. 
 
 Christmas had gone by, and another year begun before 
 she was able to busy herself once more with the affairs of 
 life. 
 
 John's body was never found, although every effort was 
 made to recover it, and his last resting place will never be 
 known, till that day when the sea shall give up its dead. 
 
 When health was fairly restored, Edith determined to 
 leave London, and to live with her father at the old 
 house in Norwich. 
 
 ' I have little to bind me to London now, ' she said to 
 Mr Paget on one occasion, when he had called, after her 
 recovery ; 'my chief unhappiness has been associated with 
 London, and my only happy days have been those I have 
 passed away from it.' 
 
 Shortly afterwards Edith went to Norwich. The house 
 in Cavendish Square was sold, and the name of the great 
 surgeon disappeared from the chief centre of London 
 professional life. 
 
CHAP, xxi] A VISIT TO FRITTON RECTORY 3 n 
 
 There were several obituary notices dealing with Sir 
 John Armstrong's life. All were unanimous in the 
 opinions they expressed of his great attainments, and 
 lamented his premature loss. 
 
 The details of his life were dealt with from the suc- 
 cessful operation, when house surgeon at the Norwich 
 Hospital, to the famous achievements of more recent 
 years. 
 
 Considerable importance was attributed to the seizure 
 at St Barnabas. 
 
 4 It is to be feared,' said the writer of the notice in the 
 Scalpel, ( that Sir John Armstrong may have suffered from 
 a similar attack on that fatal night on the steamboat, and 
 may have been in a dangerous position at the time. 
 This seems to be a not unlikely explanation of the 
 catastrophe, and if this conjecture be correct, it affords 
 another illustration of the dangers that may be incurred 
 by epileptics, who put themselves in situations of peril.' 
 
 Mr Paget, when this notice came under his observa- 
 tion, considered carefully the suggestion. 
 
 * It may have been so,' he said, and in his heart he 
 hoped it had been ; for it seemed to lift from John's 
 memory a great weight of moral guilt. 
 
 But he could not shut out from his mind what he had 
 seen on the deck of the steamer, and his conversation 
 with the officers ; in the light of this it was difficult to 
 picture Sir John Armstrong getting into any position 
 in which an accident of the kind would be possible. 
 
 A subscription was made to perpetuate John's memory 
 at St Barnabas, and large sums were given by aristocratic 
 patients of former years. Conspicuous among whom, 
 for the amount of his donation, was Sir James Scrope. 
 
 So the world went on as before. A new surgeon was 
 appointed at St Barnabas, and Charley Dawson con- 
 tinued to make way in his profession, watching with 
 
312 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, xxi 
 
 his faithful helpmate, Alice, his children growing up to 
 take their place in the world. 
 
 Edith in the quiet of Norwich, with all her care devoted 
 to her father, tried to forget the sadness of her former life. 
 While the mortal remains of him to whom these pages 
 have been chiefly devoted, lay many fathoms deep, hidden 
 evermore from the eyes of men. 
 
 Requiescat in pace ! Who shall dare to mete out to 
 him his personal responsibility, but the great Judge of 
 all ? Who shall say what free will John really had in 
 the moulding of his own sad life, or how far it may have 
 been shaped for him generations before his birth ? 
 
 That he always had dormant hereditary disease there 
 could be little doubt ; but that under all circumstances 
 that disease was bound to develop and wreck his life, 
 is by no means so certain. 
 
 The teaching of science every day more and more 
 confirms this, that although disease, physical or mental, 
 may be born in us, by proper training and care it may 
 be held in check, and the individual go through a healthy 
 life without let or hindrance therefrom. 
 
 Although ( The sins of the fathers ' may be * visited 
 on the children,' the latter are allowed a means of 
 escaping from their hereditary curse, and out of their 
 own inherent good to create an ark of refuge for 
 themselves. 
 
 No doubt it will be said, Who is to detect this disease ? 
 How shall we know of its presence ? Forewarned is 
 forearmed ! if we are not aware of its presence, how 
 are we to take precautions against its ravages ? 
 
 Reader, for your own sake assume that you inherit 
 the evil tendencies of a long succession of ancestors. 
 The blood that flows in your veins has come from 
 progenitors of the most diverse character. Could you 
 see them all, what a shock it might be ! What a 
 
CHAP, xxi] A VISIT TO FRITTON RECTORY 313 
 
 terrible outrage on your feelings could you look into 
 the recesses of the mind of a remote ancestor ! 
 
 Take it for granted there is always evil, moral or 
 physical, to be fought against and overcome ; that the 
 laws of health cannot be set aside with impunity, and 
 that by so doing, you may give a fatal advantage to 
 disease born in you, which, better advised, you might 
 have controlled. You should never forget it is the evil 
 that must be looked to, that the good will look after 
 itself; or more correctly, that by resisting the former, 
 you cannot fail to nourish and develop the latter. 
 
 Life went along smoothly enough for Edith now. 
 Her health had returned, but she was changed. She 
 was more womanly, if anything, than before, but she 
 felt a certain sadness and reserve in her most joyous 
 moments, as if conscious of the sorrows she had gone 
 through. 
 
 She made it her first duty to attend to her father ; but 
 happily his health had much improved, so that she had 
 considerable time to devote to those good objects that 
 had been pointed out by Mr Paget. 
 
 In some of the poorest parts of Norwich she was a very 
 angel of God, carrying love and charity wherever she 
 went. 
 
 By her husband she had been left in full control of 
 large means, so that she was able to play the Lady 
 Bountiful in a material manner. 
 
 If in the winter a soup kitchen was to be started ; if a 
 poor widow required assistance, or orphans were to be fed ; 
 if a small provision were wanted to keep a respectable, 
 but unfortunate tradesman from the poorhouse, Edith 
 was always in request : it being well known she never 
 turned a deaf ear, when asked to help in any worthy 
 enterprise. 
 
 She personally assisted, too, in extending the higher 
 
314 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, xxi 
 
 education of her poorer sisters, and was able to super- 
 vise with considerable success a large night-school. 
 As her experience in work of this kind was not great, she 
 found Mr Paget's help valuable. He could always point 
 out her mistakes, and show how success might be attained 
 under the most unpromising circumstances. 
 
 Edith and Mr Paget were thus thrown a good deal 
 together, and the latter watching her patience and self- 
 denial, her success with her pupils, and the pleasure so 
 invariably manifested at her presence by those among 
 whom she worked, became if anything more madly in 
 love than before, and wondered whether a time would 
 come, when he might dare to ask her to spend the 
 evening of life with him. 
 
 Dr Dawson was well pleased with the intimacy of the 
 two. He had always liked the clergyman, and it occurred 
 to him, as a by no means undesirable contingency, 
 that Edith might become the mistress of Fritton 
 Rectory. 
 
 He had even on one occasion vaguely hinted at it, by 
 an allusion to the possibility of Edith marrying again ; 
 but had been discouraged by the way in which his 
 daughter received the suggestion, so that he had decided 
 it would be better to leave her to be guided by her own 
 feelings. 
 
 One day about two years after John's death, Mr Paget 
 sought an interview with Dr Dawson. 
 
 ' I love your daughter dearly, doctor,' he said, c and I 
 should esteem it an inestimable blessing to make her my 
 wife. Have I your approval? Would you be willing 
 to accept me as a son ? ' 
 
 Dr Dawson pressed his hand. ( Nothing I should like 
 better, James. To no man would I more willingly trust 
 Edith.' 
 
 Both, however, agreed that the time was scarcely ripe, 
 
CHAP, xxi] A VISIT TO FR1TTON RECTORY 315 
 
 and that it would be better to wait rather than be pre- 
 cipitate. 
 
 In the summer of the following year, a patient of Dr 
 Dawson's, who resided at Fritton, requested his old 
 doctor as a special favour to come and see his wife, who 
 was suffering from disease of an obscure character. 
 
 Dr Dawson was able to get about a little in the 
 summer, and having been under an obligation to the 
 applicant in the past, was desirous of acceding to his 
 request. 
 
 So it was arranged, that on a certain day in July, he 
 should make the visit accompanied by his daughter. He 
 had further been induced by Mr Paget to have tea at the 
 rectory afterwards, and in fact to stay till the next morn- 
 ing. 
 
 Edith had not in the least demurred to the arrange- 
 ment, and Mr Paget felt that a crisis was approaching. 
 
 It was a lovely afternoon when Edith and her father 
 arrived at Fritton Station. 
 
 They were met by the rector with a fly, and driven to 
 the house of the patient. Mr Paget and Edith then 
 drove on to the rectory, and it was arranged the fly 
 should be sent back half-an-hour later, to fetch the doctor. 
 
 As they drove down a lane leading to the road that 
 passed the rectory, Emily Burrows went by. She curt- 
 sied to the rector and Edith, and the latter seemed to 
 recall her face. 
 
 * Surely I have seen her before ? ' she remarked to her 
 companion. 
 
 * Yes,' answered the other smiling, * that was Emily 
 Elliot, that used to be the nurse in the old days at the 
 Norwich Hospital. Your father must remember her well/ 
 
 ' Poor thing/ said Edith sympathetically, * then it was 
 her sister who was drowned. She has had her share of 
 trouble.' 
 
3 i6 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, xxi 
 
 A shade of uneasiness passed over Mr Paget's face. 
 It were better that these two should not come together, 
 and exchange their mutual knowledge. He thought he 
 could rely on Emily, but what a terrible re-opening of 
 the past it might be to Edith ! 
 
 They were now at the rectory, and giving directions 
 to the fly driver to fetch Dr Dawson at the proper time, 
 Mr Paget led Edith into his domain. 
 
 She was very pleased with the old house and 'garden, 
 and thought its aspect quiet and beautiful, with the old 
 Norman church lying just behind. 
 
 The house was covered with green from the ground to 
 the roof, and over the porch roses and clematis had been 
 tastefully trained. The garden was old-fashioned, with 
 all the familiar flowers, a good lawn, and fine old trees. 
 
 * I think,' said the clergyman after Edith had rested 
 for a short time, c you might like to look over my school. 
 The mistress, I'm sure, will be pleased to show it you.' 
 
 Edith expressed her pleasure, so the two strolled 
 together a few hundred yards down the .road, to where 
 the school was situated. 
 
 Mr Paget introduced Edith to the mistress, and being 
 told a parishioner close by was in need of him, he left 
 her in the latter's charge, promising to return. 
 
 Miss Wallis, the school-mistress, showed Edith all over 
 the institution, pointing out the promising pupils, and 
 telling how the school had grown under the rector's 
 skilful management that it was now one of the chief 
 village church-schools in the county. 
 
 She then introduced her to the under-mistress, who 
 exclaimed, ( Yes, Lady Armstrong, we have often heard 
 of you, and your praise is a great compliment.* 
 
 Edith had been expressing approval of what she saw, 
 but she looked inquiringly at the speaker as she made this 
 remark. 
 
CHAP, xxi] A VISIT TO FRITTON RECTORY 317 
 
 4 The rector,' continued the latter, ' is never tired of 
 talking about you, and what you have done in your 
 school at Norwich.' 
 
 Edith blushed slightly, and at the same moment Mr 
 Paget returned, and nothing further was said. 
 
 When they got back to the rectory, Dr Dawson was 
 there, and the three sat down to tea, forming quite a family 
 party. Mr Paget could not help feeling what a change 
 Edith's presence made. It did not seem like the old 
 familiar room in which he took his solitary meals. 
 
 There was Evening Service, but the doctor expressed 
 himself tired by the unusual exertion of the day, and 
 remained at the rectory. Edith, however, accompanied 
 Mr Paget to church. 
 
 As they walked through the churchyard the clergyman 
 caught sight of a little Church Service Edith was carrying. 
 
 * I think,' he said gravely, ' I remember that book.' 
 
 'Yes,' answered the other, blushing, 'you gave it me 
 many years ago, and then you promised to be a true 
 friend. You have indeed kept your promise.' 
 
 Other words were on Mr Paget's lips, but at this 
 moment they entered the church. 
 
 There was a sense of thankfulness, and a joyous tone 
 in the Rev. James Paget's voice, as he said the Evening 
 Service, and the congregation wondered a little at his 
 lightheartedness. 
 
 It is true the congregation was not large, but the 
 church was far from empty. 
 
 Edith, as she sat in the rector's pew, thought of 
 another Evening Service many years before. Not in the 
 summer time that, with the setting sun peacefully throw- 
 ing his declining rays through the western windows, but 
 in gloomy winter, when the huge proportions of St 
 Nicholas, Great Yarmouth, were dimly lit up by a few 
 gas branches. 
 
3i8 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, xxi 
 
 Then she was, as it were, beginning life, and there was 
 one by her side who was everything to her, and in whom 
 her future seemed bound up. How little she thought 
 then that life could be as bitter as it afterwards proved ! 
 
 She was fortunately ignorant then of the troubles in 
 store, and her dream had been of happiness, not of 
 sorrow. 
 
 Now John was dead, but she still lived on, and had 
 yet other duties to perform. 
 
 It was very peaceful that evening in Fritton Church, 
 in spite of the small congregation and humble choir. 
 Edith had always loved a country life, and it had been a 
 pang to her to leave Driffield. 
 
 She began to fancy that here was a spot she might 
 take an interest in, that the rectory was a dear old 
 place, and Mr Paget so kind. What if but no, why 
 should he ever care to marry her ? 
 
 She listened with heightened interest when he ascended 
 the pulpit, and in strong and eloquent language preached 
 from the text, ' Darkness endureth but for the night, 
 joy cometh in the morning,' and urged on his hearers, 
 that it was the Christian's duty not to be overcast by 
 misfortune nor to give way to despair, however great the 
 burden of sorrow might be. * It is your duty,' he said, 
 4 to strive after happiness in this world if it may be right- 
 eously yours. There is a great law of compensation ever 
 present, always working. Those who to-day are op- 
 pressed by grief, to-morrow may rejoice.' 
 
 Then after a pause he continued, ' We all of us have 
 our dreams,' and there was an emphasis on the first word. 
 * Who knows, but they may some day be realised ? If 
 not, as dreams they have been not without happiness, 
 and we can never be the worse for them, be they pure 
 and unsullied in their origin.' 
 
 That evening in the rectory garden James Paget 
 
CHAP. XXI] A VISIT TO FRITTON RECTORY 319 
 
 hazarded his fate, and asked Edith if she could suffi- 
 ciently forget the past to be his wife. 
 
 ' Lady Armstrong Edith ' he murmured, ' I have 
 always loved you, and may honestly tell you so now. 
 You have never loved me ; I know where your great 
 love went. I know that it is not possible for such a love 
 to be given twice, but none the less I ask you to be my 
 wife. Your father wishes it, and I Ithink I could, 
 indeed, make your life happier.' 
 
 They had been strolling along one of the garden paths, 
 as the rector made this declaration. 
 
 Edith stood still a moment, and then with a slight 
 tremor replied : 
 
 1 You are right, Mr Paget, I can never love again as 
 once I did, and I would never marry you without telling 
 you so. There is no one in the world I respect as much 
 as you. Nay, love more than you,' she added, as she 
 saw a shade cross his face, * and if you can be content 
 with what love is mine to bestow, then you are very 
 welcome to it. No woman could wish for a worthier 
 husband.' 
 
 Mr Paget clasped Edith in his arms and kissed her. 
 He then led her into the rectory drawing-room, where 
 they found Dr Dawson about to retire to rest. 
 
 'Doctor,' he said, leading Edith forward, 'your 
 daughter has promised to be my wife. Won't you 
 congratulate me ? ' 
 
 The old man's face beamed with satisfaction. 
 
 ' I'm so pleased, Edith ; you have been a good daughter, 
 but James is quite worthy of you.' 
 
 But one scene more before we close this history. 
 
 It was the following Christmas day. 
 
 Edith, her father, and Mr Paget, are spending the 
 holidays at Charley's house not the old one that has 
 been mentioned in past pages, but a much larger and 
 
320 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, xxr 
 
 grander one. Charley has gone west, and is a leading 
 London solicitor, and has invited the three to spend 
 Christmas with him and his family, which now consists 
 of three sons and three daughters. 
 
 Mr Paget has consented, on the understanding that all 
 the party will spend the next Christmas at Fritton 
 Rectory with himself and Edith, who is to become his 
 wife in the spring. 
 
 Charley and James Paget are closeted together in the 
 former's sanctum, and Charley is explaining to his friend 
 the nature of John's settlement on Edith. 
 
 ' It seems strange, Paget, old fellow, that you should 
 now be about to marry my sister. I thought you were 
 in love with her in the old days, when we were all 
 young together, and so I suppose you were. Indeed, at 
 one time it seemed to me likely you would get her before 
 John came on the field, in spite of the poor mater's 
 maneuvering.' 
 
 * Dawson,' replied the other, * don't rake up the past. 
 I feel unutterably sad when I think of your brother-in- 
 law's wasted life.' 
 
 4 Wasted life,' echoed Charley. l Well, not altogether 
 that. I don't know where we should be, if it had not 
 been for John. He turned away ruin from our doors,' 
 and grateful tears glistened in his eyes. * You, too, 
 Paget, will owe something to John. Your wife won't 
 have a bad jointure. My father couldn't have given 
 Edith what John has/ 
 
 4 You mistake me,' sadly replied the other, ' I was not 
 thinking of Sir John's worldly success, which was un- 
 doubtedly great. I used the term "wasted life," as 
 applied to his own personal existence. Do you think his 
 life was a happy one ? ' 
 
 Charley looked gloomy. 'To be sure,' he answered, 
 ' he was strange at times. I couldn't always understand 
 
CHAP, xxr] A VISIT TO FRITTON RECTORY 321 
 
 him. I once thought he was in love with that post- 
 office girl at Norwich years ago. Don't you remember 
 Mary Elliot? He was terribly upset one afternoon at 
 Driffield, when the news of her suicide first appeared in 
 the papers. His behaviour was so queer, that old Dr 
 Armstrong was alarmed, and actually warned my father 
 of a history of insanity in John's family, and gave him 
 the option of withdrawing his consent to the marriage. 
 Of course, my father laughed at him. Do you think he 
 was really in love with this girl, and that she was false 
 to him ? You know there was fine scandal at the inquest.' 
 
 ' God knows/ replied the other, ' what were John's 
 relations with the poor girl of whom you speak, but oh 
 be careful never to breathe a word in Edith's hearing ! 
 I fear those two were bound together by a chain 
 which neither could break a chain which hung as 
 a fetter on John to the last hour of his life. Not only 
 was his life wasted in this sense, but so also has been 
 your sister's. What a life she must have led, feeling 
 there was a secret between her and her husband, which 
 raised an impermeable wall between them, a wall that 
 even her love could never pierce. That secret she has 
 never learnt, and please God she never shall ! But 
 what about the jointure you spoke of?' 
 
 ' It is this, Paget : When drawing up John's 
 will I advised him, as any solicitor would have done, 
 to protect his widow from adventurers by making the 
 money revert from her on marrying again. Of course, I 
 didn't think of the possibility of her marrying you. 
 He, however, called the arrangement unjust, and said 
 that if Edith ever had another husband, as she had been 
 his wife, he would not like her to go penniless, and so 
 he refused to disendow her on re-marriage. Seeing 
 how things have turned out I am glad he did so, for it 
 would have made a considerable difference to you.' 
 
 X 
 
322 JOHN ARMSTRONG [CHAP, xxi 
 
 * Dawson,' replied Mr Paget, ( it is your sister I want, 
 I have enough and to spare, in my living at Fritton, and 
 I should not have cared if Edith had had nothing ; but 
 I am glad she will be provided for in event of my death. 
 I always shrank from Sir John of late years, not so 
 much because I loved his wife, as because I distrusted 
 him, and felt sure he never valued Edith as she merited. 
 I want none of his money. I wish you and your 
 family had it all now, instead of having to wait for it 
 
 At this moment their privacy was invaded. 
 
 Alice opened the door, and loudly upbraided them for 
 keeping dinner waiting. 
 
 'It is too bad, Charley/ she said reproachfully, 'on 
 Christmas day you can't say you've got important business. 
 Didn't you hear the gong ? I would have begun dinner 
 without you, but Edith refuses to sit down till Mr Paget 
 says grace.' 
 
 ' There, Paget,' said Charley playfully, * this time next 
 year you will have a wife, who won't allow you to have 
 a moment's peace, even on Christmas day. Then you'll 
 be able to sympathise with me.' 
 
 THE END 
 
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