Dr. Mosgrave bowed again. A little sternly, perhaps, this time.
“I am all attention, Mr. Audley,” he said coldly.
Robert Audley drew his chair nearer to that of the physician, and in a low voice began the story which my lady had told upon her knees in that same chamber upon the previous night. Dr. Mosgrave’s listening face, turned always toward the speaker, betrayed no surprise at that strange revelation. He smiled once, a grave, quiet smile, when Mr. Audley came to that part of the story which told of the conspiracy at Ventnor; but he was not surprised. Robert Audley ended his story at the point at which Sir Michael Audley had interrupted my lady’s confession. He told nothing of the disappearance of George Talboys, nor of the horrible suspicions that had grown out of that disappearance. He told nothing of the fire at the Castle Inn.
Dr. Mosgrave shook his head, gravely, when Mr. Audley came to the end of his story.
“You have nothing further to tell me?” he said.
“No. I do not think there is anything more that need be told,” Robert answered, rather evasively.
“You would wish to prove that this lady is mad, and therefore irresponsible for her actions, Mr. Audley?” said the physician.
Robert Audley stared, wondering at the mad doctor. By what process had he so rapidly arrived at the young man’s secret desire?
“Yes, I would rather, if possible, think her mad; I should be glad to find that excuse for her.”
“And to save the esclandre of a Chancery suit, I suppose, Mr. Audley,” said Dr. Mosgrave.
Robert shuddered as he bowed an assent to this remark. It was something worse than a Chancery suit that he dreaded with a horrible fear. It was a trial for murder that had so long haunted his dreams. How often he had awoke, in an agony of shame, from a vision of a crowded courthouse, and his uncle’s wife in a criminal dock, hemmed in on every side by a sea of eager faces.
“I fear that I shall not be of any use to you,” the physician said, quietly; “I will see the lady, if you please, but I do not believe that she is mad.”
“Why not?”
“Because there is no evidence of madness in anything she has done. She ran away from her home, because her home was not a pleasant one, and she left in the hope of finding a better. There is no madness in that. She committed the crime of bigamy, because by that crime she obtained fortune and position. There is no madness there. When she found herself in a desperate position, she did not grow desperate. She employed intelligent means, and she carried out a conspiracy which required coolness and deliberation in its execution. There is no madness in that.”
“But the traits of hereditary insanity—”
“May descend to the third generation, and appear in the lady’s children, if she have any. Madness is not necessarily transmitted from mother to daughter. I should be glad to help you, if I could, Mr. Audley, but I do not think there is any proof of insanity in the story you have told me. I do not think any jury in England would accept the plea of insanity in such a case as this. The best thing you can do with this lady is to send her back to her first husband; if he will have her.”
Robert started at this sudden mention of his friend.
“Her first husband is dead,” he answered, “at least, he has been missing for some time—and I have reason to believe that he is dead.”
Dr. Mosgrave saw the startled movement, and heard the embarrassment in Robert Audley’s voice as he spoke of George Talboys.
“The lady’s first husband is missing,” he said, with a strange emphasis on the word—“you think that he is dead?”
He paused for a few moments and looked at the fire, as Robert had looked before.
“Mr. Audley,” he said, presently, “there must be no half-confidences between us. You have not told me all.”
Robert, looking up suddenly, plainly expressed in his face the surprise he felt at these words.
“I should be very poorly able to meet the contingencies of my professional experience,” said Dr. Mosgrave, “if I could not perceive where confidence ends and reservation begins. You have only told me half this lady’s story, Mr. Audley. You must tell me more before I can offer you any advice. What has become of the first husband?”
He asked this question in a decisive tone, as if he knew it to be the keystone of an arch.
“I have already told you, Dr. Mosgrave, that I do not know.”
“Yes,” answered the physician, “but your face has told me what you have withheld from me; it has told me that you suspect.”
Robert Audley was silent.
“If I am to be of use to you, you must trust me, Mr. Audley,” said the physician. “The first husband disappeared—how and when? I want to know the history of his disappearance.”
Robert paused for some time before he replied to this speech; but, by and by, he lifted his head, which had been bent in an attitude of earnest thought, and addressed the physician.
“I will trust you, Dr. Mosgrave,” he said. “I will confide entirely in your honor and goodness. I do not ask you to do any wrong to society; but I ask you to save our stainless name from degradation and shame, if you can do so conscientiously.”
He told the story of George’s disappearance, and of his own doubts and fears, Heaven knows how reluctantly.
Dr. Mosgrave listened as quietly as he had listened before. Robert concluded with an earnest appeal to the physician’s best feelings. He implored him to spare the generous old man whose fatal confidence in a wicked woman had brought much misery upon his declining years.
It was impossible to draw any conclusion, either favorable or otherwise, from Dr. Mosgrave’s attentive
