Armadale

Mr. Bashwood stole panic-stricken to her side. 'Go in there!' he whispered, trying to draw her toward the folding-doors which led into the next room. 'For God's sake, be quick! He'll kill you!'

She put the old man back with her hand. She looked at him with a sudden irradiation of her blank face. She answered him with lips that struggled slowly into a frightful smile.

'Let him kill me,' she said.

As the words passed her lips, he sprang forward from the wall, with a cry that rang through the house. The frenzy of a maddened man flashed at her from his glassy eyes, and clutched at her in his threatening hands. He came on till he was within arms-length of her—and suddenly stood still. The black flush died out of his face in the instant when he stopped. His eyelids fell, his outstretched hands wavered and sank helpless. He dropped, as the dead drop. He lay as the dead lie, in the arms of the wife who had denied him.

She knelt on the floor, and rested his head on her knee. She caught the arm of the steward hurrying to help her, with a hand that closed round it like a vise. 'Go for a doctor,' she said, 'and keep the people of the house away till he comes.' There was that in her eye, there was that in her voice, which would have warned any man living to obey her in silence. In silence Mr. Bashwood submitted, and hurried out of the room.

The instant she was alone she raised him from her knee. With both arms clasped round him, the miserable woman lifted his lifeless face to hers and rocked him on her bosom in an agony of tenderness beyond all relief in tears, in a passion of remorse beyond all expression in words. In silence she held him to her breast, in silence she devoured his forehead, his cheeks, his lips, with kisses. Not a sound escaped her till she heard the trampling footsteps outside, hurrying up the stairs. Then a low moan burst from her lips, as she looked her last at him, and lowered his head again to her knee, before the strangers came in.

The landlady and the steward were the first persons whom she saw when the door was opened. The medical man (a surgeon living in the street) followed. The horror and the beauty of her face as she looked up at him absorbed the surgeon's attention for the moment, to the exclusion of everything else. She had to beckon to him, she had to point to the senseless man, before she could claim his attention for his patient and divert it from herself.

'Is he dead?' she asked.

The surgeon carried Midwinter to the sofa, and ordered the windows to be opened. 'It is a fainting fit,' he said; 'nothing more.'

At that answer her strength failed her for the first time. She drew a deep breath of relief, and leaned on the chimney-piece for support. Mr. Bashwood was the only person present who noticed that she was overcome. He led her to the opposite end of the room, where there was an easy-chair, leaving the landlady to hand the restoratives to the surgeon as they were wanted.

'Are you going to wait here till he recovers?' whispered the steward, looking toward the sofa, and trembling as he looked.

The question forced her to a sense of her position—to a knowledge of the merciless necessities which that position now forced her to confront. With a heavy sigh she looked toward the sofa, considered with herself for a moment, and answered Mr. Bashwood's inquiry by a question on her side.

'Is the cab that brought you here from the railway still at the door?'

'Yes.'

'Drive at once to the gates of the Sanitarium, and wait there till I join you.'

Mr. Bashwood hesitated. She lifted her eyes to his, and, with a look, sent him out of the room.

'The gentleman is coming to, ma'am,' said the landlady, as the steward closed the door. 'He has just breathed again.'

She bowed in mute reply, rose, and considered with herself once more—looked toward the sofa for the second time—then passed through the folding-doors into her own room.

After a short lapse of time the surgeon drew back from the sofa and motioned to the landlady to stand aside. The bodily recovery of the patient was assured. There was nothing to be done now but to wait, and let his mind slowly recall its sense of what had happened.

'Where is she?' were the first words he said to the surgeon, and the landlady anxiously watching him.

The landlady knocked at the folding-doors, and received no answer. She went in, and found the room empty. A sheet of note-paper was on the dressing-table, with the doctor's fee placed on it. The paper contained these lines, evidently written in great agitation or in great haste: 'It is impossible for me to remain here to-night, after what has happened. I will return to-morrow to take away my luggage, and to pay what I owe you.'

'Where is she?' Midwinter asked again, when the landlady returned alone to the drawing-room.

'Gone, sir.'

'I don't believe it!'

The old lady's color rose. 'If you know her handwriting, sir,' she answered, handing him the sheet of note- paper, 'perhaps you may believe that?'

He looked at the paper. 'I beg your pardon, ma'am,' he said, as he handed it back—'I beg your pardon, with all my heart.'

There was something in his face as he spoke those words which more than soothed the old lady's irritation: it touched her with a sudden pity for the man who had offended her. 'I am afraid there is some dreadful trouble, sir, at the bottom of all this,' she said, simply. 'Do you wish me to give any message to the lady when she comes back?'

Midwinter rose and steadied himself for a moment against the sofa. 'I will bring my own message to-morrow,' he said. 'I must see her before she leaves your house.'

The surgeon accompanied his patient into the street. 'Can I see you home?' he said, kindly. 'You had better not walk, if it is far. You mustn't overexert yourself; you mustn't catch a chill this cold night.'

Midwinter took his hand and thanked him. 'I have been used to hard walking and cold nights, sir,' he said; 'and I am not easily worn out, even when I look so broken as I do now. If you will tell me the nearest way out of these