The surgeon's secret, by Sydney Mostyn

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THE SURGEON'S SECRET

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THE SURGEON'S SECRET

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BY SYDNEY" MOSTYN

} honiiDi Inpui' — Erasmut

LONDON

SAMUEL TINSLEY, SOUTHAMPTON ST., STRAND

1872

Mil riiillU tif fmiurafiaii aitd npmliKlbm rumid^

THE

SUEGEON'S SECEET

••o*-

I.

In the year eighteen hundred and something (rail-
ways were in existence) Mr. Henry Harlow was
living with his mother in the old family mansion
called Wilton Hall. Lady Honoria Harlow was
vastly proud of her son. There was no denying
that he was a good-looking young fellow, perfectly
well-bred, and as accomplished and clever as a
man need be whose income is some thousands.
After he had left college, he had run wild in
London for eighteen months ; at the end of which
time he had found himself weary of the diversions
of the town.

He had not, however, been a week at home
before her ladyship gave him, in a somewhat

THE SURGEON'S SECRET.

roundabout way to know ' that she had nothing
left to Uve for but to see him married/
' Mother, I don't want to marry/ said he.

* But, child, you'll have to marry some day/

* I have never thought of marrying.'

' But you will when I tell you who I have in
my mind.'
*Who?'

* Lady AmeUa Allport,' said her ladyship,
solemnly.

' What I the woman with the red hair, and Ught
eyes, and black and white teeth, like the keys of
a piano ? '

' I'll grant she isn't very handsome ; but she has
a fine figure, and a wonderfully dignified manner.
Besides, she is the daughter of a ninth earl.'

The young fellow laughed at first ; but grew
grave when he found how tenaciously her lady-
ship clung to her wish to have him married to
Lady AmeUa.

Such a marriage would, of course, have been in
perfect order, for the Harlows were as good as
the Allports any day, each going back to a period
when all was nakedness and paint, and which
found Father Time with all his hair on, and looking
rather young.

Mr. Harlow was very fond of his mother ; and
there is little that he would not have done to

THE SURGEON'S SECRET.

f

oblige her. But here was a wish so far removed
from his power to gratify, that he could not even
bring himself to think of it.

Of course there was no arguing the matter. Her
ladyship had left her young sympathies thirty
years behind her, and they had disappeared in the
distance. Her ideas of love had kept pace with
her age The god was no longer a Uttle naked
boy, shooting his arrows at random; but had
grown up into a respectable-looking old gentleman,
with a white neckcloth and a wily face, whose
business it was to point out rich ladies to poor
gentlemen, and purchasable titles to opulent
parvenus.

Mr. Harlow thought by keeping silent, or by
turning off the conversation as often as it threatened
to lead up to the impleasant subject, to extinguish
her hope. But she mistook his silence for hesita-
tion, and believed that he only needed a good deal
of persuasion to come into her way of thinking.

So she gave him no peace, but broadsided him
day after day with her views of marriage, and her
flattering opinions of dear Amy. She also con-
trived to bring them together a great deal. Balls
and garden parties were frequent at Wilton Hall ;
and it was universally remarked that Lady Amelia
AUport came in for the largest share of Lady
Harlow's kindness and civility. Indeed, her lady-

b2

THE SURGEON'S SECRET.

ship's hobby was soon openly discussed by every-
one but those it particularly concerned ; and it
was universally proclaimed that Alminster might
shortly expect to be diverted with the wedding of
Mr. Henry Harlow with Amelia, third daughter
of the Earl of Mardon.

Lady Amelia was, of course, dehghted with her
swain ; who, by the way, paid her about as much
attention as a husband pays his wife after the first
year of their married life. She knew he had a
large income, and that Wilton Hall and the
spacious grounds belonging thereto were his by
entail. She also knew that his motjier was quite
as highly connected as she was ; her ladyship being,
indeed, a daughter of Earl Granders ; and that Mr.
Henry's antecedents on the male ade (liberally
depictured in the gallery of Wilton Hall) comprised
many individuals of fame in their day. She
was not wanting in the hereditary imbecihty
that had characterised the understandings and
actions of many of her noble predecessors, and
therefore the difficult smile, the laborious civility she
sometimes received fix)m young Harlow gave her
as much satisfaction as a love-speech gives a woman
of larger appetite. But, to conceal nothing, the
only creature in the worid her ladyship had
hitherto loved, was ever likely to love, or was
capable of loving, was herself. It was enough for

THE SURGEON'S SECRET.

her that it was given out she was engaged to be
married ; for all she really cared about was to
make the other young persons of quahty in the
place envious of her. That she was envied, trust
us. Mr. Harlow had been long esteemed the most
eligible match in the county ; and had his mother
not taken care to have it rumoured that Lady
Ameha was the chosen fair, there is no teUing
what strange and horrid stratagems he might not
have fallen a victim to, through the eagerness of
at least two dozen mammas to procure him for a
son-in-law.

Our young gentleman, who well knew what was
going forward, appeared to rest very quietly under
it ; and did not even take the trouble to contradict
the rumour of his engagement, which was from
time to time repeated to him by some young sprig
of his acquaintance, who had been struck tem-
porarily dumb by the idea of so good-looking a
fellow throwing himself away on so plain a
woman. Old Lady Harlow, satisfied that matters
were merrily progressing, went about with a gay
face, protesting, in an airy way, her resolution to
die when the marriage between her son and dear
Amy had taken place ; for there would be nothing
left in the world to detain her.

HM she taken the trouble to inspect the grounds
on which she built her hopes, her gaiety would

6 THE SURGEON'S SECRET.

probably have moderated. For on the very few
occasions Mr. Harlow had spoken with her on her
wishes, he had aflSrmed himself decidedly averse
to them. But hope, which ought to be the
daughter of logic, is very often the natural child
of desire. At sixty, moreover, our hopes are apt
to become superstitions, as our opinions are apt to
become bigotries. Her ladyship had clung so
persistently to the idea of Lady Ameha as a
daughter-in-law, that had the marriage been cele-
brated, she could not have been more sure of the
gratification of her wish. Her son's infrequent
protests effected nothing ; her hope was like a fire
— the gale that would have extinguished it at the
beginning, only served to aggravate it now.

Entering one day a club-room in Pantile-street
(the handsomest street in Alminster), Mr. Harlow
was accosted by young Simius Chatter, who, after
regahng him with a prodigious quantity of smaU
talk, invited some one to hang him, ' if the hand-
somest woman he had ever set eyes on had not
come down to Uve with her aunt, old Mrs. Pen-
waggle.'

Mr. Harlow being always noted for his languid
curiosity, merely said, * Oh, indeed/ Sir Phelim
O'Kettle, who happened to be sitting near, over-
heard young Chatter, and protested that if the
young gintleman was under oath he couldn't talk

THE SURGEON'S SECRET.

more veraciously. ' I saw her only this morning/
says he,' and strike me ugly if she's not the most
beautiful creature I ever saw out of Ireland. I'll
lay she's Irish ; for this country never projuiced
such eyes and teeth as she's got. Her shape is
beautiful; and she has httle ihgant .feet that
twinkle, me boy, like stars under her petticoats.'

A fortnight went by after this conversation,
before Lady Harlow discovered that her son had
grown very abstracted in his manners. He would
give her a vacant look when she accosted him ;
would turn the rings on his fingers as meditatively
as a poet turning a couplet, and would sometimes
stare at her eagerly, as if he wished to say some-
thing, but hadn't the heart.

So blind did her ladyship's wishes make her,
that she did not guess the truth untU after Barbara
Allen had been to three assembUes at Wilton Hall.
She then charged Mr. Harlow with flirting with
Miss Allen, and begged him not to do so again,
or to wait, at least, untU after his marriage ; for
she feared Ameha would resent his behaviour, and
break off the engagement — the engagement, look
you, that had never been entered into !

To this Mr. Harlow rephed by informing his
mother that he was in love with Barbara.

My lady gave a httle scream of surprise. He
begged her to be calm. She accused him of deceit.

8 THE SURGEON'S SECRET.

He retorted by declaring that the deception was
of her own contrivance, for that he would never
consent to give his hand where he could not give
his heart. A warm discussion followed. It was
almost a quarreL My lady declared she woidd
give up Amelia if he woidd give up Barbara. He
answered that he would rather perish than do
that. He said that she was just such a woman as
he was sure he could love ; who, he knew (better
than anybody could tell him) would make him a
good wife ; and who, by her manners, her accom-
plishments and her beauty, was exactly fitted
to adorn the position to which he meant to raise
her.

In short, he was in love with her, and there
was an end.

In those days Mr. Harlow was rather simple,
though he got knowledge with surprising rapidity
afterwards. In spelling and composition he was,
indeed, superior to a great many men who set up
for wits and authors ; and if he was not a complete
master of those arts, he at all events possessed them
sufficiently to enable him to write a novel, had he
thought it worth while to try his hand at that
kind of work. He could also turn a couplet very
neatly, as some verses of his still in Somebody's
possession can testify ; and was rather a dab with
his pencil in drawing the profiles of pretty girls,

THE SURGEON'S SECRET. 9

and men with large noses. But he did not know
much of the female character.

It would take some time to describe the process
through which Lady Harlow's mind passed from
a ferment of hot rebellion to a passive and melan-
choly acquiescence. The miracle was wrought
more by her love for her son, than by any sense
of the propriety of submitting quietly to the
inevitable. The town took up the tale, and some
sneers and shrugs went the round of the place
when it was whispered that ' young Mr. Harlow
had fallen in love with one Barbara Allen, and
had jilted a ninth earl's daughter for a creature
that did not know her origin.'

During the period of courtship. Lady Harlow
was at great pains to make herself acquainted with
the character of her future daughter-in-law. Be-
neath her spectacles her ladyship carried a pair
of keen eyes. She saw, or seemed to see, some-
thing that frightened, and much that offended her :
an artificial manner disguising a perverse will ;
smiles of which the piquancy could not subdue
the uncomfortable suggestion of sneers ; glances,
veiled indeed with the shadow of long lashes, and
softened by a species of intermittent tenderness,
but amid which, at intervals, gleamed a light that
looked unholy in the sight of the meditative old
dame.

10 THE SURGEON'S SECRET.

She did not conceal her fears. She advised her
son to pause before he connected himself with a
woman of whose character he had a most imperfect
knowledge. He laughed at her. Did not he know
his Barbara ? Had not he watched her in a hun-
dred moods, and found in them aU, mingled with
a tender capriciousness that was wonderfully cap-
tivating, an undertone of sentiment and passion
which spoke a most inteUigible promise of future
happiness ?

After all, it was natural that his passion should
admit of no qualifying influence. First love rarely
does. In this woman, made shining by her beauty,
what was he to remark that should have repelled
him ? Your dispassionate gentleman may be an
excellent critic ; but your lover, if he be worth
his salt, will always throw the luminous veil of
his love over his mistress, so that under its tender
hght every asperity will be smoothed, and every
deformity softened into a grace.

n.

Some time before his marriage, young Harlow
had Barbara's portrait taken by a clever young
artist who had come to A 1 minster for what health

TEE 8URQE0IP8 SECRET. 11

and employment he could find there. Her picture
is conspicuous among the others in the gallery at
Wilton Hall. It hangs alone, over the doorway
leading into the drawing-room. She is repre-
sented with imperious black eyes, in an attitude
of impatience, with an upper hp that sneers
through the constrained smile the painter has
decorated her mouth with; a throat which a
fastidious taste would wish more slender, and a
fine head of black hair. If she is not painted as
a fascinating, she is certainly represented as a
handsome woman. But the magnetic element of
mind becomes conspicuous by its absence after
deUberate inspection has fatigued the novelty of
her beauty. Her scorn might be ravishing enough
if it were recommended by the right sort of
spirit; but it looks as though bred by a sullen
obstinacy, which in a plain woman would be called
by an uncomphmentary name. The hues in her
face are hard, and unsoftened by the sultry glow
her dark beauty throws over them. One is bound
to think that she could rarely smile, save in maUce ;
and that her laughter would be made rather
tragical by the capacity of mischief it would sound
from. One searches in vain for any ray of senti-
ment in the cloudy beauty of her eyes. At what
a heavy sacrifice does her scorn rescue her face
from insipidity !

12 THE 8URGE02r8 SECRET.

Her alienation from the group at which she
does not glance is in keeping with her history.
By her isolation accident typifies the fate of inter-
lopers. One face only, of all the other portraits,
looks at her. It is Eoger Harlow, with a coun-
tenance hke a Puritan's, though he is habited in
the Boyalist costume. Yet his frown, deep and
fierce as though it had been branded, would hardly
dismay a woman armed with the stubborn insensi-
bility of Barbara's eyes. Each looks resolute
enough to have kept the other in awe; and so
they should have been husband and wife. Two
brazen instruments may make harmony as well as
flutes. But, unfortunately, Eoger was bom two
hundred years too soon for her.

Though a woman attempt many characters,
she can only act one well, and that is her own.
Perhaps this is true of men. Barbara's imper-
sonation of a womanly nature would certainly not
have been successful had she not had her beauty
to help her, which came, hke music between the
ports of a stage-play, to fill up the pauses of her
acting. We must beheve, however, that her
mimicry of a character the reverse of her own
could not have been poor or vulgar, or Mr. Harlow's
belief in her sweetness and love must have been
loss blind.

She had not been married a month, however,

THE 8URGE02fS SECRET. 13

before she let fall her disguise and stepped forth
in her own proper character. Then you might
have seen the diiference between acting and
nature.

It is not a pleasant duty to follow the quarrels
between husband and wife. There is no need to
record the bitter words this woman would turn on
her husband with on the smallest provocation,
the irritating sullenness that would follow her
outbreaks, the cruelty of her insults. She soon
gave him to know that she had never loved him,
and that she had only married him out of a pique
against a former lover, who had proved feithless.
She boasted that she had told him hes ; that her
antecedents were not what she had represented
them; that her father was a squire, but her
mother was a waiting-woman, and that the aunt
she had lodged with had been housekeeper to a
family in the north.

This aunt died of a fever about two months
after her niece's marriage. Meeting her one day
-,-about a fortnight before her death — Mr. Harlow
asked her if it was true that his wife's mother had
been a lady's maid, and that she herself had been
• a housekeeper. The old lady, who had long
enjoyed a respectable name in the town, flushed
up with indignation, and, not content with denying
the charge, proceeded to give the most incon-

U TEE SUROEOirS SECRET.

te«table proofe of Mrs. Harlow's mother having
belonged to a very genteel femily in Lincolnshire,
and of her papa having been a naval Heutenant,
who had died shortly after his wife.

So, to degrade her husband, she tried to degrade
herself, and stooped to tell a he of her fether, and
to defame the memory of her mother.

Mr. Harlow believed her to be mad ; and mad
she was if a vile temper be madness, which it
ought to be, or how are we to excuse it ? The
servants left and were replaced by others, who in
then* turn refused to remain. But the person
whom she most hated was her mother-in-law.
She threatened her more than once with her
hands, and often had to be forcibly restrained
by her husband, and turned out of the room.
She was not what is called sudden-tempered, or
she would have been impulsive ; and impulsive
people are commonly generous at bottom. Her
radical nature was cold and hard as steel. Spite
of her coldness, though, she often fell into a fury ;
and her fury was about as degrading a spectacle
as could have been seen outside a madhouse. In
tlio olden times she would have been held tor-
mented by a devil, and drowned, or broken as
a witch.

No other reason can be given for her behaviour
than her nature; and that should be held suf-

THE SURGEON'S SECRET. 16

ficient. At all events, what better excuse can be
made for the frowns, and sneers, and hard words
and unjust jealousies which are all the kindnesses
some husbands receive from the people who have
sworn to love, honour and obey them.

The neighbours held aloof; met them at first
with mutilated civilities, and presently avoided
them. Lady AmeUa and her kinsfolk were
ravished with the reports that oozed through the
servants' hall of the miserable life Mr. and Mrs.
Harlow led. But only the vaguest reports were
current ; for Mr. Harlow's pride kept his face
composed, his manners easy, and his tongue
quiet ; a stranger would never have guessed that
the well-to-do good-looking young fellow was the
most miserable man in the county.

Still they lost their friends. The fowls of the
air do not give farmer Lubberkin's scarecrow a
wider berth than society gives a bad-tempered
wife.

For many weeks Mrs. Harlow's efforts were
addressed to the unprofitable task of thrusting
her mother-in-law out of Wilton Hall. She was
successful at last ; but not, let us hope, in the
way she either expected or desired.

The poor old lady died.

She was found dead in her bed by her maid.
That she had died of a broken heart was sug-

16 THE SUBGEOWS SECRET.

gested by the expression on her face, which death
had made candid, hke it makes most things.

Mrs. Harlow could not conceal her satisfaction
at the news. She was the first to hear it, and ran
oflf to tell her husband. The sneerii;ig smile with
which she surveyed the tears that sprang to his
eyes was the feather on the camel's back. His
nature broke down, and the fine qualities and
hearty instincts and impulses that had made hiin
everywhere liked and respected, fell into ruins.

From that moment dated his resolution to get
rid of his wife.

He gave out that Mrs. Harlow was mad. Faint
rumours to that effect had long been afloat, for
madness offered the only solution to the enigma
of her behaviour to her guests on the few occasions
they had assembled at Wilton Hall. The town
easily swallowed the report. And when the
rumour was well diffused, and substantiated by
his assurance to two or three talkative persons
whom he knew would go everywhere and ex-
aggerate those stories of his wife's insanity which
he had carefully invented, he went to Dr. Jorn-
dyce, a physician of some repute in the town, but
of Httle real abihty, and desired him to see her.

Now madness is a malady which will be very
quickly perceived in a person after the doubt of
his sanity has been once hinted by some one who has

THE SURGEON'S SECRET. 17

the credit of having his wits. A frown, a faltering
speech, a trifling hysterical outbreak have con-
victed a suspected wretch of a loss of reason ; and
Bedlam has probably detained persons who must
have thought all the world mad for questioning
their perfect sanity.

The reports that Mr. Harlow had so dihgently
diffused of his wife's madness, rendered Dr. Jorn-
dyce easily credulous of the distemper he was
called upon to prescribe for. As he could not
presume the existence of the malady by the pulse
or the tongue, all he could do was to converse
with the patient and gather as he might the state
of her mind from, the flavour and quahty of her
speech.

Mr. Harlow could hardly have hit upon a
stratagem more certain of success. Mrs. Harlow
fell into a fiiry on being questioned by the doctor,
and charged him with conspiring with her husband
against her life. The doctor shook his head
gravely at Mr. Harlow, who stood near ; and after
working her almost into the madness he fancied
he discerned, took his leave, promising to call
next day.

He came. Mrs. Harlow gave orders to have
him denied ; but her husband had anticipated
her, by instructing the servants to admit him;
hinting that their mistress was not accountable

18 TEE SURGEON'S SECRET.

for her language, and that it was necessary she
should have advice.

Here was an ingenious stroke. The servants
saw at once that their mistress was mad, now
they had been told so ; and took the news abroad,
decorating their narratives with those pleasant
exaggerations in which the invention of this
amiable class is so fertile.

Oh the doctor's second visit he was greeted with
even a wilder display of temper than that which
had saluted him before. So great was her anger,
so fierce her words, that he took Mr. Harlow
aside, and gave him instructions to have her care-
fully watched, lest she should commit some act of
violence.

If she had any suspicions of her husband's design,
they must have been confirmed by Dr. Jorndyce's
second visit. She turned upon Mr. Harlow and
accused him of the intention of making her out
mad, that he might get rid of her. He answered
coldly that he had no doubt she was mad,
but that it was not for him, but for the doctor
to decide. The servants spread the report next
day of a furious quarrel between master and
missis. They declared that Mrs. Harlow's mad
cries was shocking to hear, as was hkewise her
terrible strong words and heavy footsteps as she
stamped about the room.

THE SURGEON'S SECRET. 19

When Dr. Jorndyce called again, lie found her
with a white face, her eyes brilliant with an angry
light, but composed in her manner and cold in
her voice. The truth was, she had reflected on
her folly in giving loose to her anger before him,
which would have the efiect of making her appear
mad. She hoped by a tranquil exterior, at all
events, to convince him of her sanity. But the
very effort after composure neutrahsed the im-
pression it was intended to convey. He witnessed
in her composure nothing more than a common
artifice of madness, in which he was presently
confirmed by her breaking out into a wild torrent
of reproaches ; for she had read his opinion in
his face.

This state of things lasted for three weeks.
The Doctor repeated his visits, and continued them
after he had left himself in no doubt of Mrs.
HarloVs insanity. Meanwhile Mr. Harlow took
care to acquaint him with his wife's behavioiu- in
secret. Exaggeration was hardly needful; yet
he did exaggerate ; and to improve the Doctor's
conviction coined many starthng stories of her
conduct.

One morning Mrs. Harlow was missing. She
had gone no one knew whither. The house was
searched, the servants interrogated, in vain. Mr.
Harlow knew perfectly well the reason of her

c 2

20 THE SURGEON'S SECRET.

flight, but he had not guessed that his ruse would
end so abruptly. Only the day before he had
held Dr. Jorndyce in conversation in a room
adjoining that occupied by his wife, that she
might hear them discuss the best way of removing
her to a madhouse without exciting her suspicion
of their intention, or of letting the town know
what was become of her. He had simply hoped
by this to render her behaviour so desperate that
not the shadow of a doubt should attach to the
beUef in her madness that prevailed in his house.

It was everywhere known before the day was
gone that Mrs. Harlow had left her home in a
violent access of "madness. To save scandal,
Mr. Harlow had the neighbourhood searched for
her, though he took care to employ stupid people
in his service ; and clothed his countenance in as
decent a hvery of sorrow and sentiment as his
power of acting could contrive. Those whom he
had deputed to seek her, returned as he had
hoped and expected, without her. Inquiries were
made at the railway station ; but it could not be
gathered that anybody resembhng Mrs. Harlow
had purchased a ticket there. At least, so Mr.
Harlow said, who made the inquiries.

This action left no doubt on the part of the
gossips that Mrs. Harlow was mad. Who . but a
mad woman would leave such a place as Wilton

TEE 8URQE0IPS SECRET. 21

Hall ? Mr. Harlow's - behaviour too, satisfied
them ; and many who had not crossed the thres-
hold of his house for a long while came with their
condolences. But his reception did not induce
them to make a second visit. Nothing could be
more firigid than his manners to these callers.
They went away declaring that his wife's madness
had made him mad. The charge seemed really
well-founded, for he was a changed man. He
had stooped to a cruel artifice to rid. himself of a
woman whose conduct, had it been ten times as
extravagant, could never have sanctioned such a
reprisal. Yet, despite the reproaches of his con-
science, he was obHged to own to himself that,
such was his hatred of the woman who had broken
his mother's heart and had crowded so much
misery into so narrow a space of time, he would
not scruple to repeat the cruel stratagem rather
than have her hve with him.

For some time after her flight, he hved in great
uneasiness ; for he was by no means sure that she
would not take it into her head to return. But as
time shpped on without bringing any news of her,
his mind grew more composed. Yet he Uved now
very recluse. The most amiable of his firiends
were repelled by his cold manners and sarcastic
language. He seldom went abroad, but amused
himself with reading and making improvements

22 TEE SURGEON'S SECRET.

in his estate. But hard as. society is reputed to
be on a man who refuses to dedicate his income
to their diversion, he was rather pitied than dis-
liked, even by those whom he most affronted.
His had been a hard fate they said : and much
was to be forgiven to one whose youth had been
bUghted and whose pleasures had been rendered
tasteless by an unfortunate marriage.

He certainly was to be pitied. His short dream
of love had been but a Ught vision heralding a
dark nightmare, and making it more insupportable
by contrast. He had knelt at the feet of a woman
whom he had thought good ; and had found her,
when too late, an avatar of wickedness. In a
few short months he had lost two of God's most
precious gifts — his mother and his sentiment.
That he should have lost them both by his own
folly was harder to bear, even than his bereave-
ment.

HI.

There is some justice in the reflection that no
man can love truly who loves for the first time.
If the proposition is not self-evident, it cannot be

THE SURGEON'S SECRET. 23

argued. All that can be said is, that love must
be educated like the other emotions ; that an
undisciphned passion is soon spent, and there-
fore ceases to be love ; that in order to love not
only wisely, but well, it is requisite that the affec-^
tions should either have been chastened by
disappointment or have burnt with sufficient
brightness to illuminate the secret chambers of
the heart, and reveal its hidden capabilities.

About four months before the time this story
properly begins (which would make it nearly nine
months since Mrs. Harlow had left her home) Mr.
Harlow fell in love.

Though he had no taste for the companion-
ship of friends, nor for such pleasures as society
had to offer him, he on one occasion broke
through his rule of lonehness, and accepted an
invitation to a garden-party (given by a lady who
had lived on intimate terms with his mother)
where he met with a young girl named Cicely
Drummond, who was quite new to Alminster,
having been in the place with her father and
mother a httle over a month.

His was just such a character as would interest
and even fascinate a young girl of eighteen whose
nature was all cordiaUty, though beneath lay a
wealth of dehcate sensibihty and tender and
womanly instincts. His melancholy was wonder-

24 THE SURGEON'S SECRET.

fully taking, in an age which had not yet entirely
shaken itself free of the morbid influence of
Byron's teeth-grinding muse, and which took
its sentiment from the poetry of L. E. L. and
the sumptuous albums of Lady Blessington. It
lent a kind of dignity to his beauty, and an under-
tone of sensibihty to his voice, and tinted his
thoughts with the subdued hghts which give an
elegance to commonplace and propriety to triviah-
ties. All this, moreover, was improved by the
aroma of good breeding ; whilst his position,
fortune, and antecedents filled up very pleasantly
those intervals in his character, those pauses, so
to speak, in his nature which the girl's imperfect
knowledge of him must have otherwise left dark.

As for Mr. Harlow, he could not have put into
words the kind of beauty, of sweetness, of nature
he must meet with before he could love again ;
but when he saw Cicely Drummond, and heard
her speak, and noticed her smile, the desire
hitherto undeterminable was at once defined ; as
a strain of music will interpret a thought whose
meaning we could never have understood but for
that melody.

The attention he paid her was remarked ; and
you may be sure there were kind friends at hand
to tell Mr. and Mrs. Drummond that the elegant
young fellow was a married man. Fragments,

THE SURGEON'S SECRET, 25

indeed, of his story were repeated to them. But
they were too much flattered by the lofty civilities
of this man of figure to care about his past. They
were proud to speak of him as their friend ; and as
for his attention to Cicely they for a long time
protested they could see no more in that than the
behaviour of a person of breeding who was eager
to lay his tribute of admiration at the feet of a
girl whom everybody admired.

Cicely received his attention, his delicate com-
pliments, his well-turned speeches, and all the
rest of the behaviour, in short, of a man who is
in love with a woman to whom he dare not speak
his love, without guessing at the danger that
menaced her happiness. The little family were
invited to Wilton Hall, entertained with a high-
bred hospitaUty that was wonderfully ravishing,
and returned to their small home marveUing that
it should have been in the power of any woman
to make a man unhappy who was possessed of
such a property. He in his turn was invited to
drink tea in their drawing-room, and dehghted
them all with his ease, gentleness, and good
nature.

It was indeed most flattering to them that a
gentleman whose company had been sought by
the best people in the place, should restrict his
society almost wholly to them. The father and

86 THE SURGEON'S SECRET.

mother hid the truth from themselves as long as
they could, for they had no heart to speak the
thing which would lose them the company of a
man whose intimacy gave them a claim upon
society beyond the power of fortune to bestow,
and who never quitted them without their feeling
themselves some inches taller.

But certain symptoms in Cicely's behaviour
warned them at last that the fatal moment had
arrived, and that Mr. Harlow must be told it
was impossible for them to suffer the intimacy
that subsisted between Cicely and him to con-
tinue.

Mr. Harlow was pacing the lawn that lay in the
rear of his house, at the time Mr. Drummond was
making ready to start on his errand of plain-
speaking.

Wilton Hall stands on the high road leading
from Alminster. To view the house it is neces-
sary to enter an iron gate surmounted by a coat
of arms, and pass along an avenue rolled as
smooth as a ball-room floor. The wings of the
house are castellated ; there are many tall
windows, and a broad doorway over which some
grotesque carving has been lavished, with the
date 1509. The trees fronting the house make
a noble park, but they shut out the prospect.
From the back, however, the view is uninter-

THE SUROEOITS SECRET. 27

rupted. Here you have a terrace extending the
length of the house, decorated with six statues.
Tall windows lead on to it, and a flight of stone
steps at each end conduct to the lawn. The
lawn is nearly three-quarters of an acre in size,
and presents the appearance of an immense
green carpet. At the extremities are fountains ;
in the centre a granite colimm with a small statue
of Venus on top of it. From the terrace the eye
roams over a broad extent of land, a good por-
tion of which belongs to Wilton Hall. About a
hundred yards beyond the lawn the land begins
to slope gently and terminates in an extensive
plain, reUeved here and there by hills, and dotted
by many httle villages.

The interior of the house is very imposing.
The hall, which is most exquisitely proportioned,
is rich with basso-rehevos : one, greatly cele-^
brated, represents Curtius leaping into the gulf;
another, Jupiter holding Bacchus to be suckled by
Juno. There are also several suits of armour,
the most battered being that which belonged to
Hugh Harlow, who greatly distinguished himself
at the battle of St. Quintin. Over the left^ side
is a gallery, gained by a staircase and protected
by elaborate rails. Around the gallery are
many paintings by Lely, Eichardson, Vandyck,
Vanlo, and others ; with some drawings by Lady

28 THE SUROEOlSrS SECRET.

Betty Harlow who died in 1708, and a perspective
view of Covent Garden by Inigo Jones.

The family pictures offer a remarkable nursery
of faces. The builder of the house, in armour,
with a peaked beard, ruff, and a sinister cast in his
eye, repeats himself at intervals most curiously
— now under a cropped poll, now under a cauh-
flower wig, now under the unparted mop of hair
which was the fashion in 1800.

But the ladies differ widely. The intermittent
resemblance on the male side connects the
years ; but a pensive face in a close cap gives a
starthng importance to the fifteen decades which
separate it from the lady in the towering head-
dress and saucy eyes, brilhant with the pert
immoral wit of the days of Congreve and Vanbrugh.
In one you have the inspiration of Donne, in another
of Wycherley. The sombre face looking with
inflexible tranquiUity out of the triangular head-
dress, and palely resting on an immense ruff, like
the Baptist's head on a charger, is grave with the
fiinereal eloquence of Latuner and the quaint
invectives of Pole. The pretty head with the
sweet hat cocked on the leviathan headdress, with
the httle Eoman nose, and brown eyes made saucy
by the shadow rather than the presence of a smile,
must owe its religion to Swift and its manners to
Mrs. Oldfield.

THE SURGEOJTS SECRET. 29

Mr. Harlow was walking one May morning,
with his arms crossed upon his breast and a cigar
in his mouth, up and down his lawn. He was a
young man about eight-and-twenty, with brown
eyes, a full and speaking mouth, and hair of that
brown colour which seems as you watch it to
melt into auburn. Melancholy was in every hne
of his face. His eyes had an inexpressible softness
in them, such as the sky takes when the shadow
of night is upon it.

The morning was dewy and beautiful. The
spring-flowers were full-blown, and the air was
fragrant with their sweets and busy with the
cawing of rooks among the high trees. The soft
. wind caressed the cheek like a woman's kisses,
and swept onwards, leaving a perfiime behind it
for a memory. Not a sound, not an odour, but
was like a message from nature for all things to
rejoice.

The old-fashioned air of the ground (which had
been laid out by Mr. Harlow's great-grandmother,
Monimia) had been preserved. The beds were
in the shapes of hearts, triangles and crescents.
There were httle brawhng rivulets which fell at
intervals in mimic cascades, ending in a large
piece of water which, in its turn, flowed away in
a hundred tiny rills. Simimer-houses were mmae-
rous, variously adorned with busts, statues, or

80 THE SURGEON'S SECRET.

inscriptions in Latin, English, and Greek. Here
and there amid the bushes gleamed the statue of
a piping Faunus, a Dryad, or other personage
borrowed from the old mythology; which addi-
tions to the Arcadian scene were due to the
afore-mentioned Monimia, who had visited Mr.
Shenstone at the Leasowes, and brought thence
many improved ideas on pastoral effect. In
short, Monimia had taken care to trim nature to
the current taste as carefully as she had trimmed
her manners to the current fashion. Sure nature
could not be suffered to indulge in any underbred
luxuriance in so pohte an age. She was in conse-
quence forced into a hoop, and had her hair
powdered and her cheeks painted, hke their lady-
ships the Graces and Muses; so that what she
wanted in beauty she made up in modishness.

The house stood in the sunhght with gleaming
windows ; shadowy with the tender tints which
the years had coloured it with, and refined by
them too, hke the human countenance in old age.
Whg,t memories it stored ! Could the people that
had hved in it meet on the lawn, what a pageant
would be there seen ! But the masque of death
can only be celebrated by night ; and the moon
must make hght for those ghttering phantoms in
steel or in velvet doublets, or rich brocades, or
gold-laced coats and stately full-bottomed wigs,

THE SUROEOirS SECRET. 31

to sport in. How could the Bransle be danced in
the eye of the May sun, or the Minuet walked
with the croaking of the rooks in the wind ?

Mr. Harlow had stopped to look at the gold
fish in one of the fountains, when there came to
him a footman who said that Mr. Drummond was
in the drawing-room. On hearing the name Mr.
Harlow started. The footman went away, and
Mr. Harlow stood looking after him with an ex-
pression of irresolution and bewilderment. He
tapped the grass with his foot, shrugged his
shoulders, threw away his cigar, and tried to
assume an easy air. A httle blush came into his
face, which vanished, however, at the first step he
took towards the house. The pallor served to
intensify an earnest look in his eyes.

IV.

The drawing-room was the most striking apart-
ment in the house, not only because of its size and
the perfection of its proportions, but because of
the great elegance and richness of the furniture.
I say nothing of the contributions of the uphol-
sterer. Its splendour was due to the busts, marble-

32 THE SURGEON'S SECRET.

tables, and numerous objects of art which met the
eye on all sides. Eed Egyptian jasper on a ground
of green marble produces an agreeable effect ; there
were several pieces in these, chiefly heads or pro-
files. At the end of the room was a recess,
entered under an arch, which was supported by
two blue marble columns in one piece ; in the
wall a gothic window, the glass by Price ; in the
centre, a lapis-lazuli table, on it a statue of Ceres.
The walls were decorated by rehevos and mirrors
alternately ; and in the corners were statues.

An old gentleman stood with his back to the
mantelpiece, looking around the room with an
air of admiration. His face was plump, his eyes
small and black, his mouth with a perpetual lean-
ing towards a snule. With his shorn face and
happy expression, he looked somewhat like a
well-fed friar masquerading for the good of the
faith.

As Mr. Harlow entered the room firom the
terrace, Mr. Drummond stepped forward and
shook him by the hand.

' I must apologise for this early visit, Mr. Har-
low,' said he ; ' nothing but the urgent — ^yes, I
may call it urgent — nature of my errand would
allow me to intrude at this hour.'

' Pray be seated, Mr. Drummond.'

But Mr. Harlow remained standing.

THE SURGEON'S SECRET. ^ 88

' First, let me say,' continued Mr. Drummond,
*that this visit would never have been made of
my own free will. You know my weakness — my
faith in human nature ? I always recommend it ;
for the man, in my opinion, who suffers the most
in this world, is the man who beheves all his ac-
quaintance in a conspiracy to injure him.'

* No doubt.'

' But to be plain, my wife is a matter-of-fact
woman, charitable enough with her purse, but not
what can be called hberal in her opinions. You
will excuse her when you hear she is the daughter
of a lawyer. I'll own, her notions are a little
morbid. She sees things through the perverted
medium of her fears. Do you take me ? '

Mr. Harlow nodded.

' Put it as you will,' said Mr. Drummond, ' it is
not agreeable to be obhged to ruffle your feathers
and utter a defiant note at every shadow that flits
past. As I tell you, I have no fears. My con-
fidence embraces himianity. I distrust no man.
Stay ; I'll grant your beggar, your fellow in tat-
tered clothes is a creature not always to be trusted.
The pride of poverty is galhng, and the outcry of
hunger is apt to drown the outcry of conscience.
But from the respectable individual with the
means of filhng his stomach and clothing his
back in a good strong coat, to the nobleman de-

D

84 THE SURGEON'S SECRET.

corated with ribands and garters, your confidence,
I'll venture to say, may range with impunity,
gaining strength the higher it advances in the
scale of condition.'

' And what is to follow this preface, Mr. Drum-
mond?'

' Now I want to be plain with you, Mr. Har-
low,' cried Mr. Drummond, speaking with the
excitement of a man who desires to prolong the
approaches to an unpleasant topic. 'My visit
here is occasioned not by my timidity, but by
my wife's apprehensions. You will be too mag-
nanimous to condemn either her alarm or my
obedience. Magnanimity is inseparable from con-
dition. QuaUty will breed large and liberal
views.'

Mr. Harlow bowed.

' I wish my wife would undertake these trouble-
some duties herself,' exclaimed Mr. Drummond,
rising. ' She has a voluble tongue, and long prac-
tice has enabled her to discharge her thoughts
with wonderful precision.'

' Does your errand concern Miss Drummond ? '

' It does ; and I am obhged to you for putting
it in that way. You see, Mr. Harlow, my wife
fancies you have a sort of kindness for Qcely.
Now, though Mrs. Drummond's first cousin was
an attorney-general, and on my side we have had

THE SURGEON'S SECRET. 36

two members of parliament in four generations,
we are, for all that, perfectly plain people, with a
complete respect for our betters, but with a pro-
per sense also of what is due to ourselves. It has
been our pride to educate Cicely in a manner be-
fitting the sphere to which she belongs, and out
of which she has no claims. You take me ? '

Mr. Harlow nodded with a hght look of per-
plexity.

' You'll excuse me if I'm blunt, Mr. Harlow ;
but the truth is my wife is somewhat puzzled to
guess your intentions respecting Cicely. I am
sensible that since we had the pleasure of meeting
you at Mrs. Mortimer's garden-party, you have
done us the honour to regard our dear child with
a favourable, I beheve I may say, with an admir-
ing eye.'

Mr. Harlow waved his hand, with a very grave
face.

' Now,' continued Mr. Drummond, ' you may
conclude that the admiration of a man of your
position must be flattering to people belonging to
a sphere of life which thinks itself honoured if a
nobleman condescends to give it a nod.'

' You are too humble.'

* I am sincere. To be sure I have never worked
for a hving, for the httle money I possess came to
me from my father. Idleness is, I beheve, one

d2

36 THE SURGEON'S SECRET.

qualification of gentility. But let me tell you
that, had not my father died when I was young,
he would very probably have apprenticed me to
some city business ; so that, if I have escaped
being low, it has been by the narrowest shave in
the world.'

He laid his hand on Mr. Harlow's arm.

' Cicely has told her mother that on more than
one occasion you have comphmented her. You
will pardon the child's candour. She has been
bred in an old-fashioned school, whose first lesson
to every girl is to conceal nothing from her
mother.'

' A very proper lesson.'

* You will see that your poUteness must affect a
simple-minded girl like Cicely. It has affected
her. She has grown melancholy, and so absent-
minded, that only the other night when I asked
her for my pipe she handed me my walking-stick.
When she had left the room, my wife said, " I'll
tell you what's making a fool of the girl. It's the
old story, my dear." And then she told me what
she had learnt from Cicely ; the comphments you
had made her; how often you had met her
alone '

' Stop, Mr. Drummond ; your daughter and I
have sometimes met alone, but always by accident,
never by appointment.'

THE SURGEON'S SECRET. 37

* I quite believe it, Mr. Harlow.'

There was an awkward pause. Presently Mr.
Harlow said :

' You have been plain with me ; I must be
plain with you, Mr- Drummond. I do sincerely
admire your daughter. Her beauty first struck
me ; but I was more impressed by the discovery
I have made of her character, which, so far as I
can judge, is faultless/

* I beUeve,' said Mr. Drummond rather proudly,
* that few have met Cicely who have not loved
her.'

' She has had lovers ? '

' I did not say so. I had her own sex in my
mind. But — ^what can it matter to you whether
she has had lovers or not ? '

Mr. Harlow was silent-

' And you will excuse me if I ask how it was
that it did not occur to you, when you were
whispering your comphments to Miss Drummond,
that you were a married man ? '

Tor God's sake, Mr- Drummond, use me
tenderly.'

Eather confused, the old gentleman repUed :

'You know, Mr. Harlow, that we have only
been here a short time, and that our circle of
acquaintance is narrow. A version of your his-
tory — I refer to your married life — ^has indeed

38 THE SURGEON'S SECRET.

reached me ; but whilst 1 have observed an un-
willingness on the part of others to talk of your
affairs, I must take credit for having carefully
repressed any gossip amongst the few who have
thought to amuse me with their tales. Other
men's business is not mine ; and be sure, were it
not for Cicely, I should not be here intruding
subjects that must be painful upon you.'

' But it is right you should know the truth, for
these half hints resemble shadows which magnify
the proportions that cast them.'

' I don't fancy, Mr. Harlow, that you can tell
me anything of your past that I have not heard.
I therefore beg you will not refer to it, I only
ask why, being married, you should have thought
proper to present yourself before my daughter in
a character which could only be honourable in a
bachelor or a widower ? '

' I was betrayed by my feelings. I had hoped
to keep my secret ; but being with her one day —
my language did not betray me, but my eyes and
voice did. I could see by her face that she
guessed my secret. Yet I swear I never made
love to her. I may have comphmented her. One
less earnest than myself would have been more
extravagant ; my moderation only made my feel-
ings more apparent.'

THE SURGEON'S SECRET. 39

' You seem throughout to have forgotten you
were a married man.'

* Not I ! You must think my memory a poor
one at that rate. Forgotten ! ' Why my past is hke
a ghost that haunts me day and night. It is
always at my side. There is no pleasure it does
not poison, and no memory lying ouside it that it
does not sadden. With this demon on one side
it is not strange that I should wish to have an
angel on the other.'

Mr. Drummond was rather bewildered. He
heartily wished that his wife was with him, that
she might show him the way out of this com-
phcation.

' I am pained by your language, Mr. Harlow.
I can only leave it to your honour as a gentle-
man to extinguish this love. It can give you no
satisfaction, and must end in causing sorrow to
the one who would be the last in the world you
could wish to make unhappy.'

' I thank you for meeting me in this friendly

spirit, Mr. Drummond. I will try ' he

faltered, paused, and .added : ' If Mrs. Harlow
should be dead, you would not refuse to let me
make yom^ daughter my wife?'

'You would of course be sure that she was
dead before you offered for Cicely,' said Mr.
Drummond, cautiously.

40 THE SURGEOirS SECRET.

* It was only a hope ! ' exclaimed Mr. Harlow.
' But people like her never die until their mission
of breaking hearts is fidfiUed. One heart — my
mother's — she has already broken.'

' I think we understand one another,' said Mr.
Drummond, nervously. * You will see how neces-
sary it is that no further communications should
take place between you and my daughter. My
opinion of you assures me that you will respect
my wishes.'

* If my wife should be dead '

' Have you any reason to think her dead?'

' None, imless hope be a reason.'

' Ah ! if your wife be dead, you are of course
free. Yet, somehow I never could consider the
grave as a satisfactory foundation for happiness.
You wish your wife dead that you may be happy.
But is it not a pity that your happiness must be
dependent on the misfortune of a fellow-creature ?'

' You do not know her, or you would not con-
sider her death a misfortune.'

Mr. Drummond looked at the carpet.

' You ought to hear how I have been treated.
You ought to be made acquainted with the cha-
racter of that woman to understand my feeUngs
towards your daughter. You call upon me to
relinquish my love ; but if I make the sacrifice,
you should know how much it will cost me to

THE SURGEON'S SECRET. 41

part with the hope of winning one whose sweet-
ness is made more exquisite by the memory I
contrast it with.'

The lover has his hcense as well as the poet,
and Mr. Harlow was to be forgiven for any ex-
travagance of speech. But twenty-eight years
stood between Mr. Drummond and his courting,
during which time sentiment had been slowly
fossihsing into fact, while experience had been
hammering impulse into judgment. So he looked
at the young fellow with a discreet wonderment
at the passion he could not sympathise with.

But the morning was now advanced, and it was
time for him to be going.

• ' Before you leave me,' said Mr. Harlow, ' pro-
mise me that if I give you my word of honour
never to hint my love to Miss Drummond, you
will not prohibit me from seeing her ? '

* Why,' exclaimed the old gentleman, consider-
ably embarrassed, ' to be perfectly plain — my
wife — that is, I should say — ^in short, before I can
answer you, it is proper I should consult Mrs.
Drummond. My faith in human nature would
readily make me accede to your wish ; but you
see my wife has not my belief in human virtue,
and — and — the truth is, this is more a question
for the women to decide.'

42 THE SURGEON'S SECRET.

Mr. Harlow took a half-turn across the room,
and after a short silence said :

' Let it be as you wish. It is best I should not
see your daughter again.'

He extended his hand.

' Our happiness is in your hands, Mr. Harlow,'
said the old gentleman. ' You will give me your
word of honour that you will never speak with or
attempt to see Miss Drummond without our
sanction ? '

' I will give you my honour.'

' And I am certain you will keep your word/

So saying, Mr. Drummond went away. After
parting with him, Mr. Harlow entered the Ubrary
and threw himself into an arm-chair, and sat so
still, with a face so hard, that the bust of Plato
which stood over the door might have thought
him bent on mimicking its marble tranquillity.

V.

Up to the time of his meeting with Cicely, Mr.
Harlow had never cared to inquire what had
become of his wife. He was rid of her. The
dark shadow was off his home. This was enough.

THE 8URGE0IP8 SECRET. 43

, But after he had met Cicely, he found himseK
growing anxious to know whether his wife was
dead or ahve. This anxiety increased as his love
for Cicely got strength. Yet his dread lest he
should hear that his wife still Hved— and there
was no earthly reason for doubting that she
Hved — prevented him from making exertions to
ascertain where she was.

He had reason to wish her dead, but no reason
to beheve her so. Still, a superstition rather than
an idea that she was dead took possession of him ;
and this delusion, which was yet no delusion, for
he did not beheve in it, though he carefully
cherished it, was too comfortable for him to wish
it disturbed. Of course this groundless hope had
sprung from his love for Cicely.

Now what with his love for Cicely, his dream
that his wife was dead, and his sober fear that she
was ahve, his mind was a mass of contradictions.
Just as he prevented himself from taking any
trouble to find out where his wife was, so he
refused to trace to its certain issue the love he was
nursing for Cicely. The same motive served in
each case : he was afraid of the results of his
inquiry.

He hved under a kind of spell, which suspended
the useftil faculties, whilst it hberated the idle and
imaginative ones. He had the power, but not the
courage to dismiss the dream.

44 THE 8URGE0ir8 SECRET,

He would ask himself why he persevered in
loving a woman whom he could not marry, and
whom he loved too well to betray by falsehood ?

He might (he reasoned) feign that his wife was
dead, but the joy that marriage would bring him
would be clouded by the fear that at any moment
his first wife would rise to bring shame upon him
and his, and to divorce him from his true love. Yet
he could not prohibit himself from seeing Cicely.
His melancholy needed the illumination of her
companionship, and his loneliness the memory each
parting left behind it.

So, not daring to think on the consequences of
his conduct, he would continue meeting her, and
talking with her, and giving greater strength to
his love, whilst he marked with a fearftd joy the
passion that was kindling in her eyes, which she
too, hke him, dared not think on, though she had
not the courage to dismiss it.

But Mr. Drummond's visit awakened in him the
energy that had long lain dormant. He made up
his mind to try to find out what had become of
his wife.

Within a few days some of the leading news-
papers contained the following advertisement : —

* One hundred pounds reward is ofiered to any
one who can give information of a lady who has
been missing from her home since {date). She is

THE 8URGE0N*8 SECRET. 45

about five feet six inches in height, of an elegant
shape, with black eyes and dark skin, red Ups, the
under-hp full, small teeth, white and even, black
hair and eyebrows. Dressed in blue silk. linen
marked B. H. Information to be sent to Mr.
Jugg, at the Three Tims, Great Andrew Street,
Alminster/

He gave this address because it was not only
more convenient, but because he was sure of re-
ceiving any letters that came to him there. His
own house was out of the question.

Meanwhile he kept his word to Mr. Drummond,
and did not meet Cicely again. But to do this he
had almost to make a prisoner of himself ; for if
he left his house he might meet her, and he would
not risk receiving a dead cut or a distant bow,
which would be the behaviour her mother would
inspire her with.

He felt the want of her company severely. He
felt it the more because he saw that, now they
were estranged, nothing could excuse his meeting
her again but his wife's death ; and he dared not
hope she was dead. How he filled his vacant
hours is not easily guessed. No friends came near
him, and his taste did not send him to books or
art for diversion.

Day after day a servant went regularly to the
Three Tuns to inquire if any letters lay there for

46 THE SURGEON'S SECRET.

Mr. Harlow. The eagerness with which he
awaited the return of the man, and the sickness of
heart which the recurring disappointment wrought
are not to be described. He would lie awake of
nights thinking next morning must certainly bring
him a letter. And what would it contain ? News
that she hved, or that she was dead ? Ah, heaven,
how much depended on that news ! '

One morning his man brought him a letter.
He was in the hbrary, and when the footman said,
' This reached here last night, sir,' Mr. Harlow
turned white. The footman went away, and Mr.
Harlow tore the envelope in two, so great was his
agitation, and so powerless was he to control his
tremors. The enclosure had these words : —

' Little Queen Street, Cannonbury.

' In answer to the advertisement in the papers
of {date) the writer begs to say he can give in-
formation respecting a lady of whose identity .with
that of the person described he has no doubt.
1. The description is an accurate portrait of the
lady the advertiser knew. 2. Her Unen bore the
mark B. H. The advertiser will please say that
his advertisement is in good faith, and where it
will be convenient for him to see the writer.

'Ed. Matukin.'

THE SURGEOIPS SECRET. 47

When Mr. Harlow had regained his composure
he wrote thus : —

* Wilton Hall, &c.

« Sir, — ^It will save you or me the trouble of a
journey if you will inform me by return of post
whether the lady you speak of is ahve or dead.

Yours, &c.,

Henry Harlow.'

But when he had written, he saw that his cor-
respondent would expect the reward if he gave
his answer ; the objection to which was, that Mr.
Maturin might not be truthful, or that he might
have mistaken the person. Added to this, let his
answer be what it would, further proof than a
stranger's assurance would be necessary to satisfy
Mr. Drummond.

An interview was desirable. He tore up his
letter and wrote another, asking Mr. Maturin to
come to Alminster if his engagements would per-
mit him ; if not, Mr. Harlow would wait upon
him at Cannonbury. He wanted to add that Mr.
Maturin was to consider the journey as undertaken
at Mr. Harlow's expense ; but he could not word it
deUcately enough, and so left it out.

Three days passed and Mr. Harlow received no
reply. His mind became a playground for hope
.and fear.

48 THE SURGEONS SECRET.

The evening of the fourth day v^as calm and
beautiful. In the west lingered the crimson re-
flection of the sun that had set ; but the eastern
sky was of the softest blue, and already lighted
with stars. On such an evening the grounds of
Wilton Hall would be wonderfully enjoyable.
The birds sang their vespers in the trees, and the
falUng dew gave to the earth a fragrance Hke that
which follows a shower. The tumbUng fountains
made a hvely song in the marble basins ; and afex
might be heard the tinkling of the tiny streamlets
flowing from the sheet of still water. The windows
of the house took the dying light in the west,
and gilded the building with a crimson fireplay.
Overhead the rooks sailed steadily, cawing their
responses to the salutations of their partners in the
elms.

Mr. Harlow came out to enjoy the calm. Or
rather, as happiness is only the retrenchment of
sorrow, he hoped to find in this serene and solemn
mood of nature, a sympathy that might sober, at
least for the time, the habitual conflict in his heart.

He crossed the lawn and reached the sheet of
water, lying cool and dark under the gathering
shadows, scaring a flock of ducks into the chill tide
against their will — to judge from the querulous
quack they sent up as they broke the clear reflection
of the stars into fragments, making the long reeds

THE SURGEOirS SECRET. 49

tremble, and the willows whisper at the desecration.
He stood searching the dark water as though he
hoped to witness there some mystical shadowing
of his future ; as of old people gazed upon the
necromancer's burnished ball, to mark the ghostly
rehearsal by their wraiths of those coming events
which the magician's cunning could antedate.
Then he returned to the lawn and seated himself
on the edge of the fountain, tracing, but with an
abstracted eye, the phantasmal gleam of the gold
fish as they floated by.

Presently a footman came round the wing of
the house.

' Sir, a gentleman asks to see you.'

'What name?'

' Maturin, sir.'

Mr. Harlow stood up.

'Where is he?'

' In the Ubrary, sir.'

Seated near the window, though in the ftdl glare
of the candles the footman had lighted on ushering
in the visitor, was a short, thick-set man, with a
square face and rugged features, heavy lower jaw,
small eyes, and a forehead denoting power. He
was shabbily dressed, but this was not immediately
apparent in the candlelight. He leant with both
hands upon a stout silver-headed cane, but rose,

£

60 THE SURGEON'S SECRET.

when Mr. Harlow entered, with an energetic action,
and made him an awkward bow.

' I must introduce myself as Mr. Maturin, slir-
geon, of Cannonbury/ he said, in a strong voice.
' I reached Alminster half an hour ago, and thought
it wise not to delay my visit to you.'

' I was afraid,' said Mr. Harlow, with forced
composure, ' that you had not received my letter.'

' I did not think it necessary to write. I am a
man of action. Sharp has been the word with me
all my life. If I could have got away on the day
I received your letter, I should have done so.
But I couldn't.'

' You wrote that you could give me the infor-
mation I want.'

' I can. There is no mistake, sir. I am a
medical man and know that the Dromios have no
existence outside of books.'

Mr. Harlow clasped his knees firmly, and bent
forward.

' Is she alive or dead ? '

Mr. Maturin looked around him, then steadily
at Mr. Harlow.

* Before I answer you, I should like to be sure
of the reward.'

' The reward will be given to you, of course, if
you can tell me anything of the lady I advertised
after.'

THE SURQEOirS SECRET. 51

Mr. Maturin pulled out a little parcel, opened
it, and produced a pocket-handkerchief.

' Do you recognise this ? ' he inquired.

Mr. Harlow examined it. He ran his eye over
it and read in the corner, B. H. His hand . trem-
bled, but not his voice. .

' The initials here are those of the missing lady,
but there may be others having B» H. for their
initials. I could not swear to this handkerchief
having been hers.'

Mr. Maturin produced another little parcel.
It contained a small smelUng-bottle of red and
pink glass, with a sUver top.

* Give me that ! ' cried Mi; Harlow.

Mr. Maturin handed it to him. Mr. Harlow
examined it.

' I recognise this,' he exclaimed.

' It belonged to the lady I knew.'

' Before you answer the next question, please
come with me,' said Mr. Harlow. He took twa
candles from the mantelpiece, and led the way to
the gallery.

' Point me out the lady,' he said.

Mr. Maturin took a candle and went the round
of the pictures. Presently he came to the portrait
of Barbara over the door.

' There she is,' he cried at once.

e2

52 THE SURGEONS SECRET.

? — ■

^ Mr. Harlow returned to the library. His fece
was very pale.

' Now, Mr. Maturin, is she alive or dead? '
* She is dead/ rephed Mr. Maturin.
Mr. Harlow pressed his hand to his head. The
answer overwhelmed him. His mind was rendered
almost powerless to comprehend what it received.
For some moments he imagined he dreamt. The
room took a phantasmal air, and Mr. Maturin
became a ghost.

Mr. Maturin's strong, matter-of-fiictvoice brought
him quickly to.

' It is my business to acquaint you with the
manner of her death, ^nd how I got to know her.'
Mr. Harlow leaned his cheek upon his hand,
and watched him.

' I am in practice at Cannonbury, but our trade
is overdone there, and I've met with no sucq^ss.
Look at this coat : my hopes are quite as worn, I
assure you. Moreover, Cannonbury is a healthy
town ; the rate of mortality is under ten per cent. ;
it should be thirty for doctors to thrive. But this is
nothing to you. Some time ago I passed a woman
— a IMy, I beg pardon — ^in the High Street of Can-
nonbury, whose face struck me. I don't think my
inspection was rude ; I didn't mean it to be, but it
seemed to make her angry. She turned red, eyed
me scornfully and swept by. I was impressed by

THE SURGEON'S SECRET. 53

her air and beauty, and stood looking after her.
I met her a second time. She "was alone, as before.
Though I have not been long in Cannonbury, I
knew she was a stranger. I was interested by her
appearance, and made some inquiries of the trades-
people, but nobody knew her. A fortnight passed
without my meeting her, and she slipped out of
my memory. One night — I live in lodgings, I
can't afford a house, and it is this that prejudices
the people who are fools enough to judge of a
man's brains by his coat, and his practice by the
figure he cuts — I say, one night I heard the
house bell ring, and going downstairs, found a
servant maid at the door, who had come to
call me to a lady lying ill of a fever. She
took me to a well-looking house in a quiet turning,
where I found the patient to be the lady I had
taken notice of. She was down with scarlet fever,
and a bad case. I watched her that night, part
of the next day, and the night after ; but she sank
and died. Nothing could have saved her.'

Here he paused, perhaps to see if his listener
had anything to say. Mr. Harlow was silent.

'I had learnt from the woman who let the
lodgings, that the patient's name was Mrs. Hunter.
The woman said she didn't believe that to be her
name, because when she first came to her she
seemed confused on being called so, and wouldn't

54 THE SURGEON'S SECRET.

always answer to it, as a person might at first who
takes a new name. She told me that the lady-
had a most violent temper. She was mad with it
at times. She appeared like one who lived in
constant fear, and once made the landlady swear,
should she ever be inquired after, no matter by
whom, that she had no such a person lodging in
her house. The precaution of a mad woman ! '

' She was mad. She left her husband in a
mad fit.'

' Ah ! and was afraid of being caught. The
woman also told me that she had done her best to
get the lady to speak of the past, but that she
resented every attempt of this kind with fiiry —
the woman's words, sir. She was a complete
mystery, she said. I paid particular attention
when she was delirious to see if I could catch
something to help me to find out her friends —
for she was sadly in want of friends. But all she
spoke of was her mother, whom she begged come
and cool the fire in her head. It was mother!
mother! dear mother! sweet mother! over and
over repeated. She died calling for her mother.
Do you recognise your lady in this description.'

' I do. I am greatly obhged to you for your
information. You ease my mind of a great load/

THE 8URQE02P8 SECRET, 65

VI.

The conviction that he was hearing the truth
exhilarated Mr. Harlow beyond the power of self-
possession.

The faintest look of surprise gave a new intel-
ligence to the square stoUd face of Mr. Maturin.

' I am happy to have served you, sir.'

' But are those things all the proofe you have
to offer me of her death ? ' asked Mr. Harlow,
pointing to the handkerchief and smelUng bottle.

' I can show you her grave.'

' Does it bear an inscription ? '

* Yes, The little property she left, her wearing
apparel, some jewellery, and so forth, were sold
to pay the landlady, myself, and the undertaker.
A stone was set up with what was left, marked
with her name and the date of her death.'

' Have you any other proofs ? '

* What more do you require ? '

' I beg your pardon. I do not ask for my own
satisfaction, as I will prove.'

So saying Mr. Harlow went to a cabinet, and
brought forth a bundle of bank-notes.

' You see,' said he, ' I have been in readiness
for the person that was to bring me the
news/

56 THE SURGEON'S SECRET.

He handed the money to Mr. Maturin, and
rang the bell.

' You will do me the pleasure to sup with me/

* I shall be happy/

* When do you return to Cannonbury ? '

* I am in no hurry. I proposed to take the
train to-morrow.*

' You will allow me to offer you a room in my
house to-night.*

The footman appeared.

* Take my compliments to Mr. Drummond, and
tell him I particularly desire he will do me the
favour to call upon me at once.'

Whilst he gave this order the small eyes of
Mr. Maturin went roimd and round the room.

Mr. Harlow looked like one under the in-
fluence of wine. His cheeks were flushed, his
eyes sparkled, his voice was triumphant.

' Death is often the best news in the world/ said
Mr. Maturin, opening the notes.' The Achaians
did well to represent Fortuna with a winged Cupid
at her feet.*

' If you mean that you owe that money to the
fall of my love, you are in error,' answered
Mr. Harlow, gravely.

' She was your mistress, I presume ? *

' She was my wife/

THE SURGEON'S SECRET. 67

' So handsome a woman must have had your
love once.'

* Yes, and she killed it/ exclaimed Mr. Harlow.
' And you may have read that the ashes of love
make the soil fertile for the growth of hate.'

Mr. Maturin counted the notes, but paused when
he reached fifty.

' Sir,' said he, ' the subject must needs be dis-
tressing ; but to satisfy a professional curiosity,
will you tell me if the lady was really mad ? '

* I have said so.'

' You did not try to make her out mad ? '

Mr. Harlow made no reply. Mr. Maturin
counted the other fifty.

'Had she been Hving,' said he, with a smile,
' you would have foimd a himdred poimds a heavy
price for the news. But you are a free man
now.'

' I hope the money is right,' said Mr. Harlow,
haughtily.

' Quite right. You will excuse me if I do not
speak with the humility my poverty enjoins. A
hundred pounds is a considerable sum to a poor
man, and money to those who are not used to it
gives an absurd sense of importance.'

' I hope the money may benefit you.' A pause.
' You probably stand in need of refreshment. I
am really very forgetful. But the interest I take

68 THESUBOEOIPS SECRET.

in your news should excuse a greater breach of
hospitality/

He rang the bell.

He was too much pre-occupied with his' own
thoughts to attend to Mr. Maturin's manner, which
was blunt almost to rudeness. Neither did he
remark the narrow inspection with which his
visitor honoured him. The reaction from the kind
of stupid astonishment Ae news had first brought
along with it, was a joy unspeakable; but this
had its reaction too, in a doubt of the possibihty
of the thing that had happened.

Meanwhile his square-faced companion sipped
his sherry, talking, with a curiously-vigilant ex-
pression in his small eyes, and Ustening to the
commonplace remarks of Mr. Harlow with an
intentness that was certainly suspicious.

Mr. Drummond presently came into the room,
looking eagerly.

Mr. Harlow introduced the two gentlemen.
Mr. Maturin made an awkward bow, Mr. Drum-
mond a bland obeisance.

' Mr. Maturin brings me surprising intelligence,'
said Mr. Harlow.

' Indeed I ' exclaimed Mr. Drimunond.

' It concerns my — my wife.'

*Ah!'

* She is dead.'

THE SURGEON'S SECRET. 69

* Is it possible ? poor thing ! '

' Ay, poor thing ! ' said Mr. Harlow. Then,
changing his voice, ' You see that this news leaves
me a free man.'

' 1 understand,' answered Mr. Drummond, casting
his eyes down.

' Mr. Maturin,' said Mr. Harlow, * you will not
expect me to imitate the sorrow I do not feel.
You saw my wife, but only her outward nature,
and that subdued by sickness. But the woman
she lodged with gave you her character . . .'

' For my part,' interrupted Mr. Maturin,' I am
for free speaking. Human nature is always at its
best when it is candid. The man who pretends
to lament the stroke that cures his sorrow must
be something of a rogue.'

' But let us talk without anger of the dead, if
we can't speak sorrowftdly,' said Mr. Drummond.
' God's hand has been laid on a fellow-creature.
Human resentment must not follow her into the
divine Presence.'

' Oh, that is true. The dead occupy holy
ground, and it's a kind of sacrilege to enter it in
anger,' rephed Mr. Maturin, looking squarely at
the old gentleman.

' But you must know why this news gladdens
me, Drummond,' said Mr. Harlow.

' It is very sudden. It seems incredible. Are

60 THE SURGEON'S SECRET.

you sure, Mr. Maturin, you have not mistaken the
lady/

* I am convinced/ answered Mr. Harlow. ' ThoSe
were hers/ pointing to the handkerchief and
smelling-bottle.'

'But they don't prove she's dead/ said Mr.
Drummond.

' Is it necessary that Mr. Drummond should be
convinced ? ' asked Mr. Maturin.

' No, it is not necessary,' rephed Mr. Drummond,
waving his hand.

' Why will you say that ? ' cried Mr. Harlow.

* My dear Mr. Harlow — "

'My happiness,' exclaimed Mr. Harlow pas-
sionately to Mr. Maturin, 'depends upon this
gentleman being convinced. Your news should
concern him — it must concern him — as greatly as
it concerns me.'

'Mrs. Harlow was probably a relative of Mr.
Drummond ? ' said Mr. Maturin.

'No; but her successor will be!' cried Mr.
Harlow, with a triumph much out of place.

' Ah, Mr. Drummond, I give you joy.'

' It is not to be thought of, Mr. Harlow, until
we can satisfy ourselves with better testimony
than these things and the report of a stranger,'
whispered Mr. Drummond aside.

But Mr. Maturin overheard him ; he pulled the

THE SURGEON'S SECRET, 61

notes from his pocket. 'If you question my
words/ he said angrily, ' reserve these for one who
will bring you tidings better authenticated/

' Keep the money/ exclaimed Mr. Harlow,
hurriedly ; ' my friend's scruples must be borne
with. Any inaccuracy in your information would
be injurious to the happiness of one who is dear
to him.'

* Let us speak plainly,' said Mr. Maturin. " You
are in love with a lady whom you cannot marry
imtil you are sure you can make her lawfully
yours ? '

' That is the case."

' That lady would be Mr. Drummond's — '

' Daughter.'

He gave Mr. Drummond a bow.

' I applaud your caution,' said he. ' I was not
to guess at the motive of your scruples. What
further proof do you require ? '

'Why, Mr. Maturin, since Mr. Harlow has
fallen in love with my girl, I think it only proper
his love should find sure footing before it is
sufiered to proceed. For my part I have my
theories of human goodness, and never wiUingly
distrust any man. If I ask you for corroborative
proofs of Mrs. Harlow's death, it is more for my
wife's sake than my own.'

Mr. Maturin was looking at Mr. Harlow so

e2 THE SURGEON'S SECRET.

steadily and with sucli an air of abstraction, that
quite a long pause followed the old gentleman's
speech before Mr. Maturin looked around with a
start.

' I beg your pardon/ he said, drooping a Kttle
under Mr. Drummond's gaze. *I was thinking
what better proof than those I have given I could
offer you. There is the landlady who helped to
lay the body out, the undertaker who placed it
in the coffin, and the parson who buried it.^

' They should convince you, Mr. Drummond,'
said Mr. Harlow.

'I own we ought to be satisfied with their
testimony,' answered Mr. Drummond.

' I should have thought that a man possessed of
your exalted view of human nature would have
considered my plain word enough,' observed Mr.
Maturin.

'If I stood alone in this matter,' answered
Mr. Drummond, rather impetuously for so bland
a man, *your word would be enough. And so
far as I am concerned, it is enough. But I must
be frank enough to tell you that your word would
not satisfy Mrs. Drummond. Were I to go home
and tell her that Mrs. Harlow was dead, and that
my authority was Mr. Maturin, a complete stranger
to us all, a gentleman we have never seen before,
and may be so unfortunate as never to see again,
she would sneer in my face, sir.'

THE SURGEON'S SECRET. 63

Mr. Maturin sipped his wine.

' I wonder/ said he, ' you should think proper
to be so severe on a man who brings news
that ought not to gratify you less than it does
Mr. Harlow. Give me leave to tell you, that
young gentlemen hving in such houses as this are
not to be met with every day as husbands. No,
sir ; I think we have reason to be, all of us, on
very good terms with one another.'

' Supper will soon be served, Mr. Maturin,' said
Mr. Harlow, anxiously ; ' let us employ ourselves,
meanwhile, in thinking how we may satisfy our
doubts respecting Mrs. Harlow's death.' And
while he bent forpvard to pick up the handker-
chief he purposely dropped, he whispered to Mr.
Drummond—

' For God's sake do not mind him.'

The old gentleman nodded sullenly and held his
tongue.

* I am surprised my honour should be ques-
tioned,' said Mr. Maturin.

' Your honour is not questioned. Mr. Drum-
mond only fears that you may have mistaken the
lady you attended.'

* Did I not point you out her portrait ? '
' You certainly did.'

' Her initials were B. H.'
The others were silent.

64 THE SUROEOirS SECRET. .

'How could that smelling-bottle, which you
own was your wife's, come into my possession?
Is there a jury that would not find on my
evidence ? '

'I repeat that I am convinced,' said Mr.
Harlow.

' Moreover, gentlemen, the landlady, the under-
taker, and the parson can but confirm my assur-
ance.'

'That will satisfy me,' exclaimed Mr. Drum-
mond.

' I see. You have faith in the parson, but not
in the doctor.'

' Under the present circumstances, Mr. Maturin,
we should have faith in nothing but our conmion
sense.'

' I thought philanthropy left more to the heart
than the head,' remarked the other drily.

' It is a poor philanthropy that makes fools of
us,' retorted Mr. Drummond, sharply.

Mr. Maturin laughed loudly.

'Very well, gentlemen,' said he, recovering
himself: 'I return to Cannonbury to-morrow;
will you accompany me ? '

Mr. Harlow looked at the old gentleman
triumphantly.

' What do you say ? ' he asked.

' The notice is short. But I'll be happy to go
with you one day this week.'

THE SURGEON'S SECRET, 65

' That should do/ said Mr. Matiirin.

And so it was decided. For the remainder of
the evening Mr. Harlow was in wonderfully good
spirits. The servants who waited at table were
amazed to see their master with warm cheeks and
bright eyes, overflowing with merriment and con-
versation. As the wine went roimd, the talk grew
brisker and the laughter more frequent.

But it would have been noticeable to a by-
stander or to one not in the swing of the fun, that
the wine which let loose the spirits of Mr. Drum-
mond and his host, operated with a contrary result
on Mr. Maturin. He was not, indeed, silent ; but
when he spoke and when he laughed, it might
have been seen that he did so merely to obviate
the attention his reserve must have attracted.
When he was not watching Mr. Harlow his eyes
went roaming about the room — a behaviour not
unpardonable in a man who saw for the first time
the numerous objects of art which the dining-
room stored. Both he and Mr. Drummond were
on very good terms now; they took wine with
each other ; and many old stories, uneventful ex-
periences and pointless jokes were brought out
of the old gentleman's mind for the express enter-
tainment of the square-faced guest.

It was one o'clock before Mr. Drummond rose
from his arm-chair in the hbrary where the gentle-

F

66 THE SURGEON'S SECRET.

I I ---■!■ -i- - I - ■ II i_ m.

men had been smoking cigars and sipping timiblers
of strong waters. He and Mr. Harlow stood a
moment talking on the broad front steps, with the
clear moon riding high above them, while the
sweet air cooled their flushed faces and the dark
elms whispered one to another to mark the change
that had come over their master.

'That man,' said the old gentleman, 'will sit
through the night, if you don't give him a hint to
be gone.'

' He sleeps to-night in my house.'

' Too great an honour ! If there are any stray
ornaments about the room, count 'em.'

He shook hands effusively and went down the
steps ; at the bottom, he called out,

' Between you and me, 1 don't like the eye.'

' Good night ! good night ! ' returned Mr.
Harlow, thinking of the sweet girl to whom the
old man was returning.

The old gentleman walked dubiously down the
avenue, paused, and returned.

' Harlow,' he whispered, ' why did you give him
the money before ye were sure ? '

And as he strode forwards and disappeared the
night-wind seemed to take up the complaint.

THE SURGEON'S SECRET. 67

vn.

Mr. Harlow and Mr. Drummond went to Can-
nonbury three days after Mr. Maturin's visit.

It was arranged that Mr. Drummond should not
tell his wife and daughter the object of his journey*
This was Mr. Harlow's wish : and a very reason-
able one.

They found Cannonbury an old, faded town,
with a wide high-street, and a large market-
place, and full of seventeenth century houses with
angular roofs and projecting storeys, and small
square windows. They put up at The Pigeons, an
inn that had been a famous baiting-place a hundred
years before, when the quahty came from the sur-
rounding parts for the races, the annual ridotto,
and the two assemblies.

They sent for Mr. Maturin, who breakfasted
with them. Mr. Drummond had been for prose-
cuting their inquiries without that gentleman ; but
Mr. Harlow proved that they would be at great
trouble and loss of time in finding out the proper
people to call on ; and that, even if Mr. Maturin
was deceiving them, it was absurd to suppose that
he could get his witnesses to perjure themselves.
* Besides, he added, 'it is only fair he should
be present during our inquiries ; for answers

72

68 THE SURGEON'S SECRET.

I ■ ■

might be made which would mislead us, without
the witnesses designing to do so, whilst a word
from Mr. Maturin might set them right.'

Certainly Mr. Maturin's air and language were
not those of a man who had undertaken to prove
a lie to be the truth. He was more amiable,
too ; and less abrupt in his speech and manners.

Whilst they sat over their breakfast, he asked
the gentlemen what inquiry they proposed to set
about first ?

' We will leave that with you,' answered Mr.
Harlow. ' You have made your statement ; it is
for you to call your witnesses. Is it not so, Mr.
Drummond ? '

Mr. Drummond assented.

* Very well,' said Mr. Maturin. ' With your
permission, we will first visit her burial-place.'

They left the inn and walked up the high-
street. Gaining the 'top, they struck off to the
left and got among a httle cluster of houses,
behind which stood an old church — so old that
the doorway had sunk a couple of feet into the
earth through the weight of the centuries that had
pressed upon it. The walls were in a ruinous
state, though nature had done her best to repair
the injuries by running great masses of ivy ov€r
it, and carpetting the roof with moss. The build-
ing was hemmed in by a wall of wood, so that

THE SURGEOirS SECRET. 69

the graves could not be seen from the road. A
stamed clock, the hands of which had long since
rotted off, while only three of the twelve numerals
remained, stared like an eye through the ivy
around the belfry.

The graves, for the most part, looked as ancient
as the church. The grave-stones leaned to one
another, as though craving mutual support. The
grass was rankly luxuriant. There was a smell
of decay in the air that struck the mind hke a
presentiment. All was swart, and lean, and weary-
looking, as though the very memorials of death
craved the repose they celebrated. Mr. Maturin
led the way, and halted before a grave lying close
against the church and hidden under its shadow.

Mr. Harlow bit his Hp and drew his breath
quickly.

The tombstone was new and white ; the rib of
earth lay bare and brown. The inscription was
simply the name ' Barbara Hunter,' with the date
of her death.

'The person whom I attended, and whom I
solemnly beheve to have been your wife, Hes here,'
said Mr. Maturin.

' Barbara was certainly her Christian name,'
observed Mr. Drummond.

* And she took the name of Hunter to escape
detection,' said Mr. Maturin.

70 THE SURGEON'S SECRET.

Mr. Harlow stood with his eyes fastened upon
the grave, pale and silent.

' Had the name been Harlow instead of Hunter
I should have been more satisfied/ remarked Mr.
Drummond.

' But can you doubt that they belonged to the
same person ? ' exclaimed Mr. Maturin, impatiently.
' At all events she retained her Christian name ;
perhaps she could not find another to her taste
that corresponded with her initial. You observe,
she was obhged to preserve her initials because of
the marks on her hnen.'

' Let us go,' said Mr. Harlow, abruptly.

He passed his hand over his face, and walked
out of the grave-yard, followed by the others.

' You are the most sceptical man I ever encoun-
tered,' said Mr. Maturin, with a rather grim look
on his square face, to Mr. Dnmamond. ' But I
shall hope to convince you yet.'

' Where are you now taking us ? '

' To her landlady.'

They walked rapidly ; Mr. Maturin with great
impatience, Mr. Harlow silent and oppressed.

They got into the high-street, and reached
presently a turning which they took, and shortly
found themselves in a road on one side of which
were some open fields, on the other a row of small
detached houses.

THE SURGEON'S SECRET. 71

Mr. Maturin knocked at the door of the second
house.

The summons was answered by a middled-aged
woman in black. Her face was pale, her lips
thin, and her dark hair plaitfed in coils, fitting
close to the crown of her head.

They entered a parlour somewhat shabbily fur-
nished, and exhibiting unequivocal symptoms of the
landlady's poverty. Nor was her spare look greatly
iijiproved by the rusty complexion of her merino
dress. It was natural that Mr. Harlow should
examine her and her belongings with great
curiosity.

* My object in calling upon you, Mrs. Sandford,'
said Mr. Maturin, ' is to ask you to satisfy these
gentlemen that a lady named Barbara Hunter died
in your house last .'

Mrs. Sandford looked from one to the other.

'Pray be seated, ma'm,' said Mr. Drummond,
affably. ' We would ask, did a lady of that name
die in your house ? '

' Certainly she did, sir.'

* Can you describe her ? '

Mr. Maturin went to the window and looked
out, turning his back on the company.

* She had black eyes,' answered Mrs. Sandford,
* and black eyebrows, and black hair, very thick
and long.'

72 THE SURGEON'S SECRET.

* Her complexion ? * asked Mr. Harlow.

* It was like clear cream, but paler.*
' Her height ? '

The woman pondered.

' I couldn't give it you in figures ; but she would
be taller than me/

* Can you give us any idea of her character —
whether she was good or bad tempered — cold or
passionate ? ' asked Mr. Drummond.

* I think she was half-mad/ answered the woman
simply. ' Her temper was too violent for a person
who had her reason.'

' Tell us all about her you can, ma'm, if you
will be so good,' said Mr. Drummond.

Here Mr. Maturin left the window and seated
himself near Mr. Harlow.

' She came to me one morning,' began the
woman, ' and asked to see my lodgings. I showed
her over them, and I noticed that if I paused in a
room too long, she would grow angry, and once
she bid me let her pass in the tone of a person who
was used to command others, and not very gently
either. I doubt whether I should have let her
have my apartments if I hadn't stood in sore need
of a lodger. She beat me down four shillings in
my price before she took my rooms. She did not
treat me well, but very strangely. Sometimes she
would speak scornfully to me for days together ;

THE SURGEON'S SECRET. 73

and sometimes would come into the kitchen
and talk with me about my baby that died a
twelvemonth before, just after his father. But
afterwards she would forget how condescending
she had been, and rate me soundly if I was not
quick in my serving of her, or for any httle fault.
Once when she and me was talking in the kitchen,
I tried to get to hear who she was and where she
had come from ; but she fell into such a fury that
I ran out of the room and went upstairs, where I
could hear her stamping about below like one
that had gone mad/

Here the woman halted.

' I am bound to say, Mr. Maturin, that what
Mrs. Sandford tells us corresponds with your
story,' said Mr. Drummond.

Mr. Maturin smiled.

'You remember, Mrs. Sandford,* said he, 'I
told you that the lady who had died in your
house was being advertised for, and that I required
some proofs of her identity in order to answer the
advertisement. On which you gave me her
pocket-handkerchief and smelKng-bottle, which,
you said, you had found in one of the drawers.
Is this so ? *

' Yes, sir.'

'The smelling-bottle is recognised as hers,
but it is not considered decisive enough as a

74 THE SURGEON'S SECRET.

proof. Have you anything else that belonged
to her?'

' No, sir.'

' Are you sure ? '

The woman hung her head.

' Try to remember. If you possess anything, I
promise you on my honour, and I think I may add
on the honour of these gentlemen, that if you will
produce it, no question of any kind will be asked.'

She was silent.

' I will go further,' said Mr. Harlow ; * if you
possess any article belonging to this lady, and
will show it to us, you shall not only retain it,
but I shall be happy to give you five pounds for
the privilege of seeing it.'

He produced a five-pound note.

' Gentlemen,' exclaimed the woman entreat-

uigly? ' yo^ "^ill ^k no questions ? '

*We pledge you our honour,' replied Mr.
Drummond eagerly.

She left the room. Not a word was exchanged
until she returned.

She held a box which she handed to Mr. Ma-
turin, who, without opening it, gave it to Mr.
Harlow.

Mr. Harlow took out a bracelet.

*I gave her this,' he exclaimed, passing it to
Mr. Drummond,

THE SURGEON'S SECRET. 76

Mr. Dmmmond inspected it. It was a plain
gold circle with a clasp that fastened under a
locket.

* Open that locket/ said Mr. Harlow almost in
a whisper, * and you will read, " From Harry." '
■ Mr. Drummond read the inscription, and laid
the bracelet on the table.

' Mr. Maturin,' said he, * I am satisfied ; and I
ask your pardon for ever having doubted your
word.'

vin.

The Dnmimonds occupied a small but pretty
house that stood not very far from the south
boimdary of the grounds of Wilton Hall. Indeed
their garden and Mr. Harlow's grounds were only
separated by a few meadows. The house was
called Marion Lodge, and was built in a wonder-
fully pretty lane which ran out of the main street
like an avenue. If in the winter this lane was
bleak and muddy the summer made it beautiful,
and as the house lay shadowed by the tall trees,
with ivy mantUng its sides, and honeysuckle
twining about its porch, it looked as perfect a
retreat as the heart could desire.

re THE SURGEON'S SECRET.

The garden, about an acre, supplied Cicely
with her chief occupation. Morning and evening
she was to be found in it, hoeing and digging and
raking, with the prettiest air of labour in the
world.

So &r, for her, the work had carried the recom-
mendation of novelty ; for the house they had
Ifved in up in the north stood in a street, and
had no garden. But for this garden she would
have found the time hang heavy ; for, as Mr.
Drummond had told Mr. Harlow, their circle of
acquaintance was narrow, so that she could owe
little of her pleasures to society. Of course she
was a complete mistress of the needle ; could play
and sing moderately well, and was fond of books.
But let mammas talk as they will, girls want
something more than such diversions to make hfe
tolerable ; so that had Cicely depended upon them
she would have been infinitely dull.

But the garden was a real dehght. The excite-
ment of watching the seed burst through the
earth, rear its dehcate shoots and break into
colours, was as dehghtful to her as that of an
evening party is to most young girls. Her roses
and violets and carnations and geraniums were all
her children, whom she loved as though they
could return her affection with human sympathy.
She had also her birds, some canaries, a thrush,

THE SURGEON'S SECRET. • 77

and a solemn blackbird ; and some rabbits and
white mice, which she loved as a child would —
that is, with the kind of sympathy which gives to
such things a distinct human interest.

This refers to her hfe when her parents had
first come to hve at Marion Lodge. Filled as the
days were with active interests of her own beget-
ting, she could not feel their monotony. Every
hour had its obhgations, it^ anxieties and hopes ;
but how tender, how calm compared with the
emotions excited by human sympathies! There
was no ingratitude to be feared, no sorrows to
endure. Her birds chirped when she came to
them ; her mice ran lovingly over her hand ; the
rabbits frisked to meet her ; and the flowers
seemed to breathe a deeper perfume as she bent
over them.

But after she had met Mr. Harlow, the be-
haviour of her charges changed, the odour of her
flowers was less fragrant. Did her birds and
flowers and mice know that some one was sharing
her thoughts, or was the change in her ? A new
sympathy had crept into her hfe, a feeUng more
powerful than that which had hitherto stirred her.
She still tended her flowers and birds and ani-
mals ; but the pleasiure had grown languid as a
duty. She no longer chiruped to her birds nor
chatted with her mice ; weeds sprouted among the

78 THE 8URGE0IP8 SECRET.

flowers, and if a petal dropped its fall was un-
wept.

If she could by any manner of means have
associated her old sympathies with the new, they
would have been cherished with two-fold ardour.
But love and mice, love and rabbits were not re-
concileable to her experience. And before the
flowers could lend their perfume to her sentiment,
it was necessary that he should have seen them,
and gathered a few. So she went to music and
poetry as natural resources, and cultivated their
perilous associations when she ought to have been
cherishing her former harmless interests.

She knew that Mr. Harlow was a married man,
and that it would be something worse than un-
becoming in her to receive his attentions. But
there was something in his behaviour that had
contrived to effect for her a compromise between
her scruples and her inclinations. He never so
much as hinted his love ; his very tenderness did
not seem more to her than a qualification of
breeding and the stamp of true poUteness. Per-
haps this was due to the perfect self-possession
that characterised it, so that it might well have
seemed to her no more than the homage which
every gentleman accords to a woman. What
chiefly helped her in her process of self-deception
was the silence of her parents. It had been re-

THE SURGE0IP8 SECRET. 79

peated to her indeed that Mr. Harlow's behaviour
at Mrs. Mortimer's party had excited attention ;
but if the vigilance of the mother saw nothing to
startle at, the daughter would have a good de-
fence to plead.

But (to make an end of this), she had fallen in
love with him without knowing that she had done
so. The heart can be adroitly sophistical when
it chooses ; and Cicely's heart had certainly duped
her judgment. She hid her love away from her-
self, pretended, and, pretty fool ! thought she
believed that it had no existence. So a child in a
dark room fancies it can't open its eyes. So the
ostrich hides its head and thinks its body invisible.
Nothing could be more resistless than her elo-
quence, when she tried to make herself beheve
that black was white, simply because she wished
to beheve it. Credida res amor est^ says the
poet of love. So, like the arsenic-eaters, the
pretty thing went on feeding herself with doses
of this poisonous nutriment, until she made the
food an essential to her, not to be abstained
from but at a penalty she had not the courage
to think on.

One day her mamma told her that she could
no longer suffer the intimacy to continue that sub-
sisted between her and Mr. Harlow. She said
that Mr. Drummond had called upon Mr. Harlow

80 THE SURGEON'S SECRET.

for an explanation of his conduct, that Mr. Har-
low had none to give, and that the interview had
ended in Mr. Harlow promising that he would
never see Cicely again. The mother foolishly-
added that Mr. Harlow had declared himself
violently in love with Cicely.

*I have thought all along,' -continued Mrs.
Drummond, * that your papa had acted very in-
discreetly in suffering Mr. Harlow to be on such
famihar terms here. But that's always your papa's
way; he never minds what I say, though my
words always come true. I had to frighten him
at last into calUng on Mr. Harlow, by declaring
you were both in love with each other.'

Cicely coloured up.

* Mamma, do not talk so ; Mr. Harlow is a
married man.'

' There's the misfortune ! ' cried Mrs. Drum-
mond. ' Do you think I would object to your
being in love with him if he were single ? I pro-
mise you, a handsome young fellow like him,
owning a palace, should meet with no repulse
from me. But being married, he is no better in
my eyes than a clerk with fifty pounds a year.'

Gcely hung her head.

* I am very sorry we ever made his acquaint-
ance,' continued Mrs. Drummond. ' It is in the
worst taste for a married man to pay attention to

THE SUROEOirS SECRET. 81

a young lady ; and quite as bad for a young lady
to receive his attentions.'

Gcely's heart was busy with the sophistries
with which she had beguiled her conscience ; but
though the famihar excuses rose to her hps, she
could not utter them — ^for she saw all at once that
they were falsehoods. Her mother's assertion
that Mr. Drummond had been with Mr. Harlow,
by giving a sudd<en and new importance to the
affair, stirred her love out of its hiding-place.
Out it came, flinging blushes into her cheeks, then
leaving her pale, making her heart throb, and
filling her whole being with the sense that she
was the most miserable creature in the world.
No, her passion would consent to be hidden no
longer. It had thrown down the ingeniously
woven veil that had long concealed it, and had
come forth to take possession of the tenement
which it had been prohibited from entering by a
thousand artful pretexts.

She went to her room and had a good cry ; but
that didn't reheve her much. She was honestly
shocked to find how deeply she was in love with
Mr. Harlow. But something more than the shock
of conscience was needful to dislodge the tyrant
that sat with secure triumph upon the Kttle throne
of her heart. Oh ! why was Mr. Harlow married ?
or why did he ever make her love him ?

G

82 THE SUR0E0IP8 SECRET.

She was wrong in loving him of course. This
may be affirmed even in the face of those many
distinguished females of our own age who have
taken the trouble to write large books in defence
of bigamy ; but who, it must also be said, at least
show us how to be moral in pubhc if they teach
us how to be vicious in private. But at the same
time let us be careful not to borrow the surly
virtue of those respectable authors who write
tracts in three volumes, and who would have im-
Qjexed Miss Drummond at once by making her
dismiss Mr. Harlow with the acidulated primness
of an old maid. Sure 'tis a very unpleasing kind
of art which represents virtue as a goddess with
thin features, flat bosom, and mittened hands,
sacrificed to by a tender young nymph, whose
oblation consists of those dehghtful emotions
wliich render her the most ravishing of her sex.
Some hold that a woman's weakness is the best
part of her. It may at least be said, that she
must practise some foUies if she wants to preserve
her purity, and must be guilty now and then of
some reparable errors if she is to maintain her
powers of fieiscination unimpaired.

THE SVRQEOirS SECRET. 83

IX.

Mr. Drummond had invented a reason for his
absence from home plausible enough to satisfy
Mrs. Drummond. Being a man of leisure, with
no passion for books, and with Kttle learning,
though he was a wonderful arguer, the time hung
heavy on his hands ; and to divert himself he
would sometimes ride over to a neighbouring town
on market-day, strut among the farmers, and make
all sorts of inquiries concerning the price of cattle,
the prospects of the harvest, the value of land,
and the like; afterwards take a knife and fork
at their ordinary, lay the night at the inn, and
return leisurely next day to his home. He would
also make long excursions on foot, or go for a
two days' fishing-bout twenty miles from Al-
minster, or run over to Mudford, and take a glass
and a bed at the house of an old friend. So there
was nothing wonderftd in his absence, and nothing
to excite Mrs. Drummond's curiosity.

When he came home, however, from Cannon-
bury, there was something in his air and manners
which at once struck Mrs. Drummond, and caused
her to fasten a penetrating eye upon him. He
was oppressively jocular, laboriously humorous,
like a man who carries a weighty but a satis-

G 2

84 THE SURGEON'S SECRET,

factory secret about with him, of which he fancies
the excellence will justify any delay in the ex-
pression.

He came in very hungry, and flinging his carpet-
bag on the hall table, tripped airily into the
parlour where his wife sat knitting, and asked if
he was in time for dinner.

* It will be ready in half an hour,' said she.
And setting her work on her lap, she asked,
* What had kept him so long away ? "

' I had business with the man in the moon,' he
answered ; ' and you know, my dear, his worship
hves a long way off.'

' Mr. Drummond, I assure you this levity is
very offensive. I ask, what has kept you so long
away.'

* Guess,' he answered, with winking eyes.

' You know I was always a poor hand at guessing.
I beg you will answer my question.'

* Indeed, my dear, I am too hungry to talk now.
Besides I'll not be so cruel as to cut short your
curiosity, which is the emotion your charming
sex most loves.'

* Charming sex ! Indeed, Mr. Drummond, your
language is very unbecoming a man of your years.
If you do not answer my question, I declare I'll
leave the room.'

'What! would you be so cruel as to deprive

THE SURGEON'S SECRET. 85

•

me of the pleasure of your company after I have
missed it for two days — an eternity to one, so
fitithfiil as 1/

' Mr. Drummond,' said she, with a sour toss of
the head, * I fear you have been drinking.'

*I protest and vow I have tasted no other
liquor than coffee since eleven o'clock last night.'

* And pray, sir, what polite society have you
been enjoying yourself in, that you should bring
home such wonderfully elegant speeches ? '

*What, Mrs. Drummond! jealous of an old
man?'

* Jealous, indeed ! I am much obliged to you
for your low opinion of me. No, no ; there was
a time when I might have been jealous — ^but you
were never the cause.'

' Now I know what you're going to say ; you're
going to quote young Marshall, your father's
derk.'

*I was. And I am heartily sorry I didn't
marry him. He was a gentleman, though he
was poor ; and would have known how to con-
duct himself before his wife — ^which you never
did.'

' Why, really, do you know, I sometimes think
it's a pity you didn't marry him. But don't you
think these civihties rather unbecoming at our
timeof hfe?'

86 THE SURGEON'S SECRET.

* You will never answer my questions.'

' Because you will never give me time.*

* And I don't understand your loose manners.
God forbid that / should suspect you ; but I don't
beheve that your angUng excursions always take
you to the river's side.'

' Now, my dear, don't flatter me, or you will
make me beheve I have charms for other people
besides yourself.'

' I recommend you not to couple rne with other
people. You may • act as basely as you will,
but you shan't insult me.'

* My dear Maria — '

* I am not to be fawned on. Where have you
been ? '

' Guess.'

' Gracious heaven ! you are enough to try the
patience of a saint.'

'Won't you let me have my dinner first?'
asked Mr. Drummond, getting angry.

* Oh ! ' said she sarcastically, * if you are afraid
to say where you have- been, pray keep your
secret. / have no wish to know. I only hope
and beg that when Cicely comes, you will respect
her^ and not give yourself those loose airs, which
I assure you are as httle like a dissolute young
man's as the gamboUing of a cow is like the
frisking of a deer.'

THE SURGEON'S SECRET. 87

* Look you, Maria, enough of this.'

' Ah ! that angers you, does it ? that is not hke
the comphments of the — the people you are fresh
from?'

' Good gracious, are you mad with your cows,
and deer, and people? I have been with Mr.
Harlow.'

' And fine company, too, for an old man. What
should a man of sixty-three next birthday want
with a yoimg fellow not turned thirty ? unless you
t.Tiinlc that a fop who has run wild in London
may give you some useful hints in the art of
misbehaving yourself!'

* Now,' said Mr. Drummond, getting up, * I'll
not say another word, good or bad.'

Mrs. Drummond gave a shrill laugh.

*An excellent way, indeed, of avoiding a dis-
agreeable topic,' cried she, hoping to detain him
by putting him in a passion, when, of course, the
truth would come out.

* I tell you I have been with Mr. Harlow,' he
called out, pausing at the door.

* Well ? ' said she with a sneer, as if she should
say, ' Go on, if you dare ! '

* His wife is dead ! ' he called out again ; ' and
now, cow or bull, I'll tell no more tiU I have
dined.'

And he left the room as the servant entered to
lay the cloth

88 THE SURGEON'S SECRET.

He returned again when the dinner was on the
table, followed by Cicely. He had recovered his
temper, and so had his wife, apparently ; for she
gave him a smile, which he returned — so wonder-
ful are the ways of married people ! He accom-
panied his smUe with a significant look, fir.t at
Gcely, and next at the servant, which Mrs. Drum-
mond appeared perfectly to understand.

Of course it was proper that nothing should
be said before the servant.

Cicely looked pale and pensive. Melancholy
she had been sitice that day Mrs. Drummond told
her of Mr. Harlow's promise never to see her
again. But let her look as she would, she must
look beautiful.

We must beheve that the woman who could so
completely fascinate Mr. Harlow would possess
very superior charms. If plenty of auburn hair,
a Kttle Eoman nose, large violet eyes, and small
white teeth unevenly set (Fielding gives that per-
fection to his Fanny, and shows a surprising fine
taste in doing so), with a dehcate complexion, and
the prettiest mouth in the world — if these are the
conditions of one kind of beauty, Cicely was
beautiful. Her shape was perfectly graceful —

Shadowing more beauty in its aerj form

Than do the white breasts of the Queen of Love.

THE SUROEOirS SECRET. 89

The graces of her mind — charms of a more
lasting kind — were equally attractive with those
of her person. Her mind was not so clever as
to carry it beyond the reach of ordinary people's
sympathy, nor tremulous with sensibihties, nor
luminous with ideahties ; in short, it was not at
all like a heroine's mind, but just of the sort
every man wishes to meet with in the woman he
loves : vivacious, but not smart ; sprightly, but
not flippant ; capable of the prettiest alternations
from joy to depression, but supported by an
element of vigour that kept it perfectly consistent
with its womanliness.

During dinner she was made sensible that
something was astir, chiefly because her papa and
mamma were so particular to look unconcerned.
But whatever it might be, she guessed that it
must be unimportant, and of no interest to her.
Ah ! nothing could interest her now. She was
in love, and she loved without hope. like the
Gottingen student, she had bidden adieu to sun,
moon, and stars, and to this world which every-
body is plotting in ; for, as she had never been
in love before, so she had yet to learn that it
is a distemper which only afiects us for a short
time, attacking the spleen generally, and giving
a bihous hue to the visual ray, but which the
attentions of another, administered in proper doses,

90 TEE SUE0E0IP8 SECEET.

is almost certain to cure if the patient will only
give the medicine time.

You may have observed that whenever you
want to talk over some confidential matter at your
table, your servant shall appear an incredible time
in discharging the simplest duties of waiting. Mrs.
Drummond had begun her dinner patiently enough,
without a sign on her face of the late storm that
had passed over it ; but as the meal progressed she
grew impatient to talk over the wonderful news of
Mrs. Harlow's death and Cicely's prospects, and
began to follow the maid about with her eye.
There was no use opening the subject till the girl
had removed the table-cloth, for though she left
the room over and over again, she invariably
popped in again as Mrs. Drummond was eyeing
her husband steadily, with the design of putting
the question.

But even a housemaid will bring her work to
an end if time be given her ; and Ann at last
closed the parlour door for the last time.

Mr. Drummond seated himself in one arm-chair,
Mrs. Drummond in the other. Cicely rose to
leave the room.

' Where are you going, my dear ? ' asked Mrs.
Drummond.

* Into the garden, mamma.'

' I think your papa has something to say to you.'

THE 8URQE0IP8 SECRET. 91

Qcdy looked at her father, who extended his
hand.

'Give me a kiss/ says he, *and sit down; I
have some news for you.'

Cicely did as she was bid, looking surprised.

' You will be amazed to hear, Cissy, that Mrs.
Harlow is dead,' said Mr. Drummond.

' What ! ' exclaimed Cicely, turning very pale.

' She is dead,' repeated Mr. Drummond.

' How do you know ? ' asked his wife.

' I saw her grave."

' Are you sure it was her grave ? '

' Now, my dear, if you will give me time, and
ask no questions, I'll just tell you the whole story
from b^inning to end.' And clearing his throat,
he began.

He told them that Mr. Harlow was so greatly
in love with Cicely, that he was determined after
the visit he (Mr. Drummond) had made him, to
set to work and find out as best he could what
had become of his wife. Which resolution he had
coupled with another — that if he found his wife
living, he would lock up Wilton Hall, retire to
the Continent, and there remain until he should
have conquered his passion for the girl he could
not marry. Mr. Drummond then went on to tell
about the advertisement : how it had been answered,
how they had visited Cannonbury, the inquiries

02 THE SURGEON'S SECRET.

they had made, and the unquestionable proofs
which had been furnished them that the patient
Mr. Maturin had attended was Mrs. Harlow.

Cicely listened breathlessly to the story, which
Mr. Drummond made inordinately long by inter-
spersing the simple narrative with many reflections
of his own, by repeating the conversations which
had taken place, and by incessantly calling upon
his wife to observe the amazing penetration and
sagacity he had exhibited throughout the inquiry.

Mrs. Drummond had set out with a stubborn
face at first, intent upon questioning every as-
surance of his. But her captiousness was van-
quished by the irresistible conviction his story
carried with it; and when he paused she had
nothing to say, but

' So, then, Mr. Harlow is a free man ? '

' Yes, free to act as he pleases,' answered Mr.
Drummond, looking at his daughter. 'Well,
Cissy, what do you think ? '

' It is a pity he should be made happy at the
cost of another's life,' she answered, with her head
hung, and the pink in her cheek.

' The very thing I said,' observed Mr. Drummond,

' Nonsense ! ' cried Mrs. Drummond ; ' the
woman treated him badly and was mad. Ee-
member that. She was no good to herself, and
no good to anybody else, and death to such a

THE SURGEON'S SECRET. 93

woman is as great a boon as could be conferred
on her and those belonging to her.'

* Does Mr. Harlow seem pleased ? ' asked
Cicely.

' Pleased ! ' cried Mr. Drummond ; * the man's
beside himself. He wrung my hand until it ached,
when we got back to the inn. D'ye know. Cissy
he's madly in love with you ? '

' I am sure you ought to feel flattered, my
dear,' said Mrs. Drummond ; * for I must allow he
is one of the most genteel, well-bred, well-looking
young fellows my experience has ever encountered.
As to his fortune and house, I don't want to under-
value them, but everybody will allow that such
things are trifles compared with a well-ordered
mind and pleasing manners.'

* He is coming to pay his respects to you, to-
night, my dear,' said Mr. Drummond to his wife.

* And to me only, I suppose ? ' answered Mrs.
Drummond, with a knowing smile.

' Not exactly. Cissy, you must expect an offer
of marriage.'

' What I to-night ? ' cried Mrs. Drummond.

' No, I don't suppose he'll offer to-night, though
there's no telUng. These things escape a man
without his knowing, and he becomes conscious
of what he has done only when it's too late.'

' Any haste would certainly be indecent,' said

94 THE 8URGE0IP8 SECRET.

Mrs. Drummond, ' and I for one should certainly
oppose Cissy's giving him any encouragement
until he has worn the crape on his hat low, and
satisfied his neighbours that he has taken time to
heal his grief.'

* Well, my dear, these are matters for you to
consider. I have played my part and am tired.'

Here Cicely rose gently and went from the
room.

X.

The news was all over the town in a day or two that
Mrs. Harlow was dead. People were disposed to
be incredulous at first, though they repeated the
story as though they beUeved it, for it was too
good a bit of gossip not to pass for fact a httle
while, anyhow. But it soon found confirmation
in Mr. Harlow appearing in deep mourning, and
those who were willing to distrust their ears, foimd
it impossible to question their eyes.

Mr. Harlow very well knew that he would be
an object of special interest for some time, and
took measures for his behaviour accordingly. He
had hved so long retired that he saw, if he wanted
to keep his name out of the mouths of the gossips.

THE SUROEOirS SECRET. 96

his return to society must be made by impercepti-
ble approaches. Otherwise, people would be
saying, ' See how pleased this man is at his wife's
death ; he takes his pleasures as he used before
his marriage; surely he might have given her
time to get cold in her grave before he let the
world know how he revels in his freedom.'

It was not for himself that he cared what society
might say, but for Cicely.

That there might be no exaggerations current,
he told one of the hvehest gossips in the place the
exact story of his wife's death. But the tale that
left him quite imvamished, was soon decorated by
the various hands it passed through ; and he was
greatly disgusted to find how useless his pre-
cautions had been, when some one asked him ' if
it was really true that Mrs. Harlow had stabbed
herself in a fit of madness ? '

One secret was, however, faithfully kept — that
was his engagement to Cicely. Not a soul knew
of this in Alminster but the parents and the lovers.
Though Mrs. Drummond would have given her
left hand to have felt herself free to tell the good
news to Mrs. Dumbiggle (the envious old lady
with the vile squint, who never spoke well of any-
body but her uncle, the archdeacon, and who
would make the blood run cold in the veins of
anxious mammas by asking them how it was that

96 THE SURGEON'S SECRET.

dear Lavinia was not married yet? Why dear
Landamira took so much pains to please yoimg
Bodkins, who, it was plain to everybody, showed
himself infinitely too ungrateful to merit so many
smiles, &c., &c.) she, Mrs. Drummond, plainly
saw the necessity of silence, if she did not want to
have the whole town up in arms, crjing shame
upon her for a barefaced matchmaker, and for
being so indecently hasty as to suffer her daughter
to marry a man whose poor wife was still warm
in her grave.

It is extraordinary how long some people do
remain warm in their graves.

So she held her tongue ; and Mr. Drummond,
in whose breast the secret lay heavy, and who
panted as ardently as his wife for the hour of
deUvery, also held his tongue. No one, not even
the servants, knew what was going forward.

As a proof that the secret was well kept, people,
when the news of Mrs. Harlow's death had grown
stale, began to wonder whether Mr. Harlow would
marry again, and who would be the lady.

Opinion was divided. Some said (and they
were mostly men, though there were two old
ladies among them, and one girl made hopelessly
ugly by the small-pox) that he must have had
enough of marriage, and that he would never
dream of troubling the parson again, unless he had

THE SURGEON'S SECRET. 97

come into his wife's madness, which would pro-
bably be her only legacy.

But another party, headed by Lady Pamela
Stare, the reigning wit and beauty of the place,
prophesied that Mr. Harlow would marry before
the year was over. They would not, however,
venture to say who would be the lady. There
might have been a chance for Lady AmeUa All-
port if she had not married her cousin only a
month before ; for the people had never known
the exact truth of that story, whether her lady-
ship had jilted him or he her, and which was the
one that had been passionately in love.

It was rather surprising that they should never
have hit upon Cicely, for the nose of gossip often
points in the right direction if its scent is not keen.
The truth was, however, that the society of Al-
minster had for some time lost sight of Mr.
Harlow; and though Mr. and Mrs. Drummond
had given out that he was frequently at their
house, it had no idea that the sole attraction was
Cicely, simply because it was not there to see. It
might have also been bUnded by the conviction
that, however greatly Mr. Harlow might admire
Cicely, he would never dream of marrying so very
much a commoner's daughter as Miss Drummond,
when he might have the pick of the best families
in the coimty,

H

88 THE SURGEON'S SECRET.

But whilst society was playing its small part on
one side, Mr. Harlow was playing his dehghtfiil
part on the other. There wa^ no reason now
why Cicely should dissemble her love either from
herself or from Mr. Harlow : so she surrendered
herself up heart and soul to her passion. Mr.
Drummond's resolution that Cicely should not give
Mr. Harlow encouragement until his hat-band had
considerably diminished, had been swept hope-
lessly away before the ardour with which the
lovers had come together.

Mr. Harlow was amazed to find how great was
the love he had inspired in Cicely. His vanity
may have hinted a httle ; but his utmost hopes
could never have risen to the high attainment
that her love for him had reached. No ideal of
love that his most ambitious mood could have
furnished forth would ever have hit the character
of Cicely's passion. She hved in and for him.
The memories which climg to him, and which
might have moderated or even repelled a devotion
less absolutely complete than hers, only increased
her love. He would talk to her of his wife and
of his past without reserve ; for he remarked that
his sorrows were only so many bonds to connect
her more closely to him.

Her behaviour sometimes startled the languid
comprehension of her father. He could not be-

THE SURGEON'S SECRET. 09

lieve that she was Ms cliild. Mesh of his flesh
she was no doubt ; but that only compUcated his
wonder. He went back to the past and re-
called his wife's behaviour during his courtship,
to ascertain to what extent Cicely was repeating
it. But the remarkable dissimilarity only per-
plexed him the more. Maria's passion had always
been of a stubborn kind, made wholesome if a
little tart, by a fair admixture of salt ; very un-
compromising in its conditions and slow in its
operations. He remembered taking her to his
breast once ; and she hurt him. There was
nothing phant ; but then everything was de-
corous. In short, had Virtue clapped a straight-
jacket on her, the laws of propriety could not
have been more punctihously observed.

Now his daughter was quite the reverse of this.
All her mamma's propriety she had ; but some-
how, she expressed it differently. The virginal
robe was not starched Uke her mother's had been ;
but the exquisite modesty of its concealment was
rather improved than impaired by the graceful
way she wore it, and by the hints of the deUcate
proportions its outhnes expressed. Her behaviour
was regulated by the exactest knowledge of its
requirements and prohibitions. So subtle were
her instincts, or so consecrating was her beauty,
that whatever she did seemed a new perfection.

h2

JOO THE SURGEON'S SECRET.

Yet she was wholly natural. You would have
imagined that she had pushed the art of behaviour
to that point of excellence when it merges into
jiature.

XI.

As you have heard, Mr. . Harlow would often
talk to her of his short-Uved love for Barbara.
He would contrast his then emotion with that he
was now experiencing, that he might convince her
of its unsubstantiahty. He, at least, could tell
now how purely sensual that passion had been :
how completely due to Barbara's beauty (which
he owned was remarkable), and how totally inde-
pendent of the mind.

It was not surprising that he should have talked
to Cicely of his first wife. He had kept the me-
mory of his sorrow so long to himself, that it was
a wonderful rehef to him to impart it. It pro-
duced, moreover, an efiect which he would have
been glad to achieve even by design ; it appeased
the jealousy with which she would naturally re-
gard a predecessor in his love, by persuading
her that a man who could talk so candidly of
his passion could have never greatly felt it.

THE SURGEON'S SECRET, 101

His love for Cicely was in every sense equal to
her love for him. He was more undemonstrative
perhaps; but that pleased her, for its calmness
enabled her to search its depths. Perhaps the
most convincing proof of the purity of his love
was his patience. He agreed with Mr. and Mrs..
Drummond that some time should elapse before
his engagement was made pubhc. He waited for
the time quietly, thus illustrating his behef in
Gcely's loyalty, and his conviction that the mar-
riage-service, though it would bless them in the
sight of God, would not render their hearts more
indissoluble.

He would often think on the ruse he had
planned to rid him of his wife, always with pain,
and with mortification that he should have stooped
to such an act. Not that her lonehness and death
appealed to him; he abhorred her, hving and
dead. But Cicely's purity put his memory to
shame.

They were walking one evening in the garden
belonging to Marion Lodge. He had come, as
was his custom, through his own grounds, by the
way of the meadows. It was a tranquil autumn
night, with a pale homed moon over the trees,
and an air rich with the smell of rotting leaves and
dying flowers. Mr. Drummond was away at a
whist party ; his wife sat knitting in the parlour,

102 THE SURGEON'S SECRET.

with the window open : they could see her, but
the lamp-light prevented her seeing them.

They had been talking a good deal of the com-
monplace which love dehghts in, for it seems to
find it wonderfully interesting; perhaps because
the Uttle laughs, the quick glances, the tender
pressures of the hand which run side by side with
it, make it eloquent, as music gives a charm to
poor rhymes. He had his arm through hers, and
their hands Hnked. There was hardly hght enough
to see her face by.

' Cicely,' he said, ' you know my story by heart
now, don't you ? '

' Yes.'

' I have always had your sympathy. You have
never expressed any wonder that I should have
fiallen in love with such a woman as Barbara, but
only pity that she should have treated me so
badly. Even your httle heart, tenderest of httle
hearts, could never see any cause for lament in
her death.'

' I could never be sorry for one who had injured
you.'

* Listen, my dearest, to a Httle story : — Qnce
upon a time, a man, possessed of about as much
judgment as a two-year-old child, fell in love with
a woman. She was beautiful and cunning — she
^ept her character hidden behind her beauty. He

THE SURGEON'S SECRET. JOS

was like one who keeps his eyes fastened upon a
bright light; all around is dark. He could see
nothing more than her beauty, and she knew it,
for she took good care nothing more should be
obtruded upon his gaze until her position was
secured. He married her, and in less than a fort-
night saw that he had bound himself for life to a
creature with whom he had not a single sympathy
in common ; who was coarse in her tastes, coarse
in her thoughts, depraved in her language, and
with a temper rather brutal than fierce, and so
more ofiensive ; for, if you can understand me,
the desecration of her beauty by her disposition
made her abhorrent to him beyond the power of
words to express.'

' You are telhng me your own story.'
' Please consider this a httle fable — a miniature
romance, rather ; for it has no moral, though one
may be got from it. He bore with her patiently ;
what else could he do ? He had his pride, and
did not want his sorrows to make food for the
gossips of the place. He was silent under her
most injurious and unfounded reproaches. He
never resented her coarse abuse. And when she
fell iiito one of her furies which were shocking to
behold, he would quit her, and leave her to howl
her passion to an empty room. But the strain,
as you may imagine, upon his forbearance was enor-

104 THE SURQEOirS SECRET.

mous. It broke him down. He was unfitted for
society, which, however, gave him httle concern,
for society had akeady cut him. He tried to
account for her character by believing that she
was mad. But she was no more mad than her
husband. He watched her closely ; but the more
narrow his inspection the more persuaded he was
of her perfect sanity. He could assign no other
reason then for her behaviour but a diaboUcal
temper, and a monstrous delight in making those
she was associated with miserable. It was only
possible for her husband and his mother to know
to what inordinate lengths her wickedness reached.
A stranger might easily have seen enough to con-
vince him that her husband was the most miser-
able wretch in the county ; but it was her husband's
pecuUar privilege to mark the subtleties of her
wickedness and to appreciate the skill with which
she contrived her torments.'

* My dearest, is not this your story ? '
'Cicely,' said he, tightening his hold of her
arm, 'if her husband, broken down at last by
her conduct ; broken down by the spectacle of one
dearly loved, killed by his wife's wickedness ;
prohibited, at an age when hfe is most enjoyable,
the commonest enjoyments of life; shunned by
his friends and scandalised by the exaggerated
gossip of the tale-bearers— if this man, who had

THE SURGEON'S SECRET. 105

been really patient and calm under the heavy-
suffering he had been loaded with, had turned at
last, and conspired to procure his wife's removal
from his home by a stratagem inhuman enough in
its conception to have come from her, would you
hold him unworthy ? — could you love him ? '

' Tell me what he did,' she said in a low
voice.

' He represented her as mad. He called to his
aid a physician of whom he had no opinion, and
whose practice he knew was owing to his smiles
and blarney, and told him lies of her behaviour, n
and desired him to treat her for insanity. Her
reception of this man justified her husband's accu-
sation. The doctor pronounced her mad. The
mode of conveying her to an asylum was discussed
in her hearing, for her husband hoped when she
should find how successful his stratagem had
proved, that her ungovernable fury would break
forth, and not only confirm the general behef in
her madness, but sanction the precaution that
would be taken to have her confined. But she
left the house suddenly. She knew well enough
that she could expect no mercy from her husband,
to whom she had been merciless ; and that there
was no escape from the horrors of probably a life-
long confinement in an asylum, but flight.'

* And this is your true story ? '

106 THE SUHGJSOjrS SECRET.

* Could you love the man that did this thing ? '
.* I could not help loving you though you had

done worse than this/

*Do you not fear the man who could be so
cruel?'

* I should not fear him until I had given him
reason to treat me cruelly.*

* My darhng ! '

* It was cruel, Harry. I wish for your own
sake you had never done it. And yet she broke
your mother's heart, and would have broken yours
too. But I do not excuse your— I can only love
you.'

But this confession made her thoughtful after
they had separated. Though what more than she
had said should she have said ? Ought it to have
made her shrink from him to whom she had given
her heart, and whom she loved with a love too
deep for words, though it sometimes found ex-
pression in tears ? Surely that would be a weak
passion which a confession more starthng than
this had shaken. Should she have read him a
long lecture on his conduct ? There was no need.
She knew enough of his character to guess that
what he had done had been dictated by absolute
despair.

Yet all the same it gave for a short time a
rather sad complexion to her love. How un-

THE SURGEON'S SECRET. 107

speakably he must have suffered before he could
have brought himself to do such a thing ! And
she was sorry for unhappy Barbara too ; though
she had told him she could not pity anyone who
had injured him. But death is a pathetic appeal ;
and it was sad to think of the unfortunate woman
lying dead without a human heart in the whole
world to breathe a sigh for her.

xn.

The year was drawing to its close. It was now
November, a wretched melancholy month, when
the ground is muddy with slush instead of festal
with snow ; when the air is damp and yellow, the
wind raw and unexhilarating ; when death looks
horrible in the churchyards, and old people cough
with a sound hke the falling of the mould on the
exposed coffin.

It was the month, however, when it was de-
cided that Alminster should be put in possession
of the news of Mr. Harlow's engagement to Cicely-
Mr. Harlow had paved the way by making himself
of late more sociable. He had given two or three
little dinner-parties at Wilton Hall, to which it

103 THE SURGEON'S SECRET.

was an understood thing the Drummonds should
not be invited, and at which he assembled only a
few of his oldest acquaintances. The town did
not care who were asked and who weren't ; it
was satisfied to hear that Mr. Harlow was slowly-
emerging from his life of seclusion, and that
Wilton Hall might again renew the traditions of
its magnificent hospitahty.

On the strength of these dinner-parties, invita-
tions were sent him, a few of which he accepted.
He took care, however, to comport himself as a
widower should. He refused to dance, he was
somewhat reserved, he looked melancholy, and
commonly apphed himself to the old people instead
of raising the expectations or flattering the hopes
of the young.

He was pretty frequent in his attendance at the
Club in Pantile Street ; and would now and then
entertain a few quiet young fellows of about his
own age with a bowl of punch and cigars at his
house. In short, he had returned to the world
which many had thought it his intention to cut
for ever : and everybody owned the way he had
stolen before the pubhc reflected creditably
on his taste ; a behaviour so different from some
widowers, who have no sooner carried the bodies
of their, wives behind the scenes, than they rush

THE SUROEOirS SECRET. 109

w«-

back again upon the stage and celebrate their
freedom with songs and dances.

It was concerted that the news of the engage^
ment should be broken by Mrs. Drummond. In-
credible as it may seem, it is certain that not a
living soul beyond the parties concerned had any
suspicion of it. The only persons likely to betray
the secret were the Drummonds' servants; but
whether they had been reticent because they were
too stupid to remark what was passing under
their noses, or that they had both received one
of Mrs. Drummond's ' cautions ' to hold their
tongues ; or that they let fall the secret in a
channel infinitely too obscure for it ever to reach
the ears of those who were not wanted to know
it; it is unquestionably true that Mr. Harlow's
engagement was utterly unsuspected.

The first person Mrs. Drummond met was the
first person who was to receive the news. This
was the envious old lady, Mrs. Dumbiggle, with
the bad squint.

They met in the street and stopped to talk.

'How d'ye do, Mrs. Drummond? Wretched
weather for the rheumatism. My maid was
rubbing me an hour last night before I could
get to sleep.'

' I am glad to say I don't sufier fi:om rheum-
atism.'

110 THE SURGEOirs SECRET.

' You axe very lucky. But perhaps you have
other complaints. Heart-disease, I am told, is
growing very common. But that's brought on
by tight lacing. Mark me, Mrs. Drummond,
Matilda Airy's waist will be the death of her. She
is losing the use of her* blood : and that's why, I
am sure, she doesn't blush to appear so very
decolLetie at evening parties.'

' And what's the news, Mrs. Dumbiggle ? '
' Nothing ; nothing. The place is quite stagnant ;
though there's enough to enhven us too, if we'd
only use our eyes. But the truth is, we live in
such immodest times, that what would have given
us a month's scandal when I was a girl, is taken as
a matter of course now. I saw Mrs. Macweazle,
the little red-headed Scotchwoman, sniggering in
Major Bearskin's face the other night at Mrs.
Charlton's, for an hour together, whilst her hus-
band did nothing but empty the creases in his
waistcoat of snuff, though he had his cairngorm
eye upon her, as I could see. Now it is perfectly
well known that the Major was divorced from his
wife not longer than six years ago. It was a most
horrid exposi; I assure you. I perfectly well
remember the evidence, particularly the cook's,
and my blood runs cold every time I look at him.
Why doesn't somebody tell that man what he is ?
I gave him a look the other night, when he

THE SURGEON'S SECRET. Ill

passed me, whicli I flatter myself kept him un-
comfortable for an hour afterwards. He must
have read the whole report of his divorce in my
eye : for I have a wonderful recollection and can
look memories when I like. I wish I had kept
the newspaper which contained the report. I
declare I'd send it to Mrs. Macweazle with three
red hues around the place.'

' I dare say she knows what she's about,' an-
swered Mrs. Drummond.

' Well, for the matter of that, I am no lover of
the Scotch, and shouldn't break my heart were she
to elope with the creature. I hear Mr. Harlow is
showing himself again. Didn't I say he'd soon
give over mourning for his wife ? For my part, I
never did beheve in men's sorrow. They wear
their melancholy like they wear their mourning,
for form's sake. Mark me, my dear, if there was
no ceremony in the world there'd be no sorrow.
Mrs. Danglecub is dying to get him for her Letitia.
I see it in every move of her body. But the
simpers she wears before him are as false as her
teeth ; they are both taken off at night. What
can she see in Letitia to dream that Mr. Harlow
would ever look at her? Why, the child's a
fright 1 She looks to be growing out of her skin :
for she is all shoulder-blade and cheek-bone. She
tried very hard, poor thing, after young Simius

112 THE SURGEOJSrS SECRET.

Chatter. I saw her fingering his shirt-studs one
day, at Mrs. Mortimer's ; I caught her eye and
shook my head. She read No hope in my glance,
and I was right. How is dear Cicely ? '

She was about to move ofi* as she said this.

* She is very well, thank you. By the way,
have you heard that she is engaged to be mar-
ried?'

' What ! ' cried Mrs. Dumbiggle. Then, guessing
that her unaffected astonishment would not seem
very pohte, she added in a changed voice, 'Indeed ! '

' I thought everybody knew it,' exclaimed Mrs.
Drummond, with a feminine disregard of truth.

' No, no ; it's quite a secret, or I should have
heard it. But what in the name of conscience has
kept you all so silent ? '

' Is Cissy's engagement such a wonderful thing
that you would have the town-crier proclaim it ? '
inquired Mrs. Drummond.

' Wonderful ? truly not. The wonder is she
was not snapped up long ago. And pray who's
the happy man ? '

'Mr. Harlow,' responded Mrs. Drummond in
a voice that shook a httle with her suppressed
triumph.

' Mr. Harlow I * exclaimed Mrs. Dmnbiggle,
after a long pause and a long sigh of surprise. ' Is
it possible ? *

THE SURGEON'S SECRET. 113

— — . — - - ■ ■ ,

«

' Why, I made sure you had heard of it/

' Not a word, not a word, on mjj honour. Mr.
Harlow I Well, you amaze me! — and so soon
after his wife's death too ? '

'If you will please recollect how long Mrs.
Harlow has been dead, you'll not call it
soon.'

' Well, this is indeed news. Mr. Harlow en-
gaged to Cicely Drummond ! I give you joy, my
dear. How you'll be hated ! I had always a
misgiving — excuse the shp, I meant a presenti-
ment that she would marry him. Was not I the
first to call your attention to his behaviour to your
daughter at Mrs. Mortimer's ? '

' I fancy I thanked you.'

' You did — ^very warmly indeed. But you were
new to the place then, and would naturally be
effusive. And when is the marriage to be ? '

' Oh, not for a long time.'

' I hope you'll keep him to his promise. The
fish that has been on the hook once, and escaped,
has learnt the trick of wrigghng off. Men are
adroit deceivers. Take the advice of an old
woman — ^if he writes letters to Cicely, keep them.
Don't let it be a long engagement— /(?r fear. My
advice to a young girl who has accepted a man
is, marry at once, if you can, for something may

I

114 THE SURGEON'S SECRET.

happen. I hope you have no objection to my
repeating this joyfiil news ? '

' None whatever, or I should hardly have told
you,' repKed Mrs. Dnmunond, who was smarting
under one or two of Mrs. Dumbiggle's remarks.

' Mrs. Danglecub must hear this, and at once,
too. It will be an act of mercy to put her out of
her hopes. Give my dear love and warm con-
gratulations to Cicely.'

And so saying, the old lady with the vile
squint walked hurriedly off in the direction of
Mrs. Danglecub's house.

xm.

For Mrs. Dumbiggle to have the news was for
the whole town to possess it within the compass
of a day.

Then people began to find out that Mr. and
Mrs. Drummond were persons whose society was
decidedly agreeable. Mrs. Drummond's manners
lost the name of gaticherie and took that of home-
Uness. Mr. Drummond was found to be a really
good fellow at bottom, and a gentleman by birth
and belongings, though it was his amusement to

THE SURGEOirS SECRET, 116

make his ancestors out less considerable than they
were. Their card-plate began to fill. Invitations
to dinner and dances were tolerably frequent, and
would be found stuck behind the pier-glass, or
lying with a used-to-this-sort-of-thing air about
the room. Several young ladies simultaneously
endeavoured to become Cicely's bosom friends.
But Cicely's bosom had no room for them; it
was completely and jealously occupied by Mr.
Harlow.

The town lay in wait for the lovers when they
should appear together. It was anxious to ob-
serve how much of the widower would be con-
fessed in the lover — ^whether his endearments
would be tempered by the recollection of his
wife, whom Mrs. Dumbiggle declared was not yet
cold in her grave ; as if the envious old lady were
a ghoul, and could speak from a professional ac-
quaintance with the body.

But Mr. Harlow disappointed the town by hardly
ever appearing before it with Cicely. Sometimes
it would catch a brief view of them as they dashed
past on horseback or in Mr. Harlow's phaeton,
with an imperturbable man behind, but they were
never to be caught about the streets. Mrs. Dum-
biggle declared that Mr. Harlow was ashamed of
the girl — a remark which came to the ear of Mrs.
Drummond, who took an early opportunity of

i2

116 THE SUROEOirS SECRET.

asking her squinting acquaintance what she meant
by it ; to which Mrs. Dumbiggle repUed, with inef-
fable effrontery, that she had never said it. ' And
I am very glad to hear you say so/ said Mrs.
Drummond, with a face Uke a lobster ; ' for
though I don't care what people say about me,
they shan't say a word against my child if I can
help it, ma'm.'

Though the town had found out that Mrs.
Drummond was homely rather than gauche^ it
didn't love her any the more ; it had only made
this discovery that it might justify the ardour with
which it sought her acquaintance.

In short, Mrs. Drummond was a great deal too
well pleased with Gcely's engagement to be
agreeable. Of course she found mothers who
listened to her talk with great sympathy ; who heard
without envy of the beautiful presents Mr. Harlow
was making to Cicely, and of his love for her.
But though everybody congratulated her, without
a spark of jealousy in their good wishes, it would
be whispered, when her back was turned, that it
would have been in better taste had she said
nothing about Mr. Harlow's surprising devotion,
for that really could interest nobody but Cicely ;
and had she incidentally referred to his presents
of jewellery, instead of detaiUng them with the
exact admiration of a jeweller.

THE SUROEOirS SECRET, 117'

Yet they were not unwilling to excuse her ; for
after all, poor thing, it was a great God-send for
people on a narrow income to be so cheaply rid
of their daughter. A man less rich and well-
connected than Mr. Harlow might easily make
them proud ; and if the good, harmless creature
talked of her daughter's presents, it was to be
considered that she had never seen such handsome
things before.

But let the town think as it would, it is un-
deniable that Mrs. Drummond did her work of
spreading the news and exaggerating her daugh-
ter's good fortune thoroughly, and with a great
deal of tact too, for you are not to judge of her
by what people said but by how people acted.
They might abuse her behind her back, but they
were wondrously civil before her face. At Sir
Humphrey Oats's, the host took her down to
dinner, and Mr. Drummond had the honour of
conducting her ladyship. Mrs. General Magpie,
eminent for her fastidiousness in choosing friends,
called upon her. Lord Shorthorns always took
Mr. Drummond's arm now in the street ; the
rector begged Mrs. Drummond's leave to put her
name down as a patroness of his annual fancy
fair ; and there was a rumour that Mr. Drummond
was to be asked to be a magistrate.

Greatly as his thoughts were occupied with hi|

118 THE SURGEON'S SECRET.

darling, Mr. Harlow yet found the leisure to ob-
serve the inordinate satisfaction of the worthy
couple, and was secretly much amused thereby.
He flattered their complacency by telUng them of
his ancestors, to what noble people he was con-
nected by such and such marriages in his family :
of the renowned feats of Hugh Harlow, of the
exquisite diplomacy of Eobert, of the splendid
dissipation of Charles, the friend of Sedley and
Buckhurst, of the genius and munificent patron-
age of Eichard. His stories excited a passion for
fame in Mrs. Drummond, and made her husband
heartily lament that he could not go back further
than the days of George HI., when the last an-
cestor he could trace up to sold vegetables some-
where in the neighbourhood of Hornsey. How-
ever, he had too much sense to openly avow his
annoyance at the low avocation of this melancholy
progenitor, but hid his humiliation under a pride
bristly with commonplace reflections, such as :
' After all, it is better to be the first than the last
of your family ; ' ' What is blood ? we make the
same kind of dust, whether we spring fi:om the
Eoman emperors or the costermongers of "Billings-
gate;' 'What is the use of blood? Look at
America ! it may be called the sewer of Europe.
But mark the luxurious growth due to that
manure. Would old blood have built New York,

THE SURGEON'S SECRET. 119

levelled the leagues of mighty trees, and converted
a universe of forest into smiling states and noble
capitals ?'

But all the same, he heartily regretted his
greengrocer.

XIV.

A year had passed since the death of Mrs.
Harlow, and the marriage of Mr. Harlow with
Gcely was fixed for the autumn. Mr. Drum-
mond was for marrying his daughter from her
own home; his wife insisted on the breakfast
being given at the Crown Hotel. He was wonder-
fully stubborn however.

' I don't care,' said he ; * if our parlour won't
hold more than ten people, don't let us ask more
than ten.'

' Ten ! ' cried Mrs. Drummond, contemptuously ;
' why, you wouldn't make it a servant's wedding,
would you ? '

'Well, ask a hundred if you like, and when
the parlour is full, shut the door.'

' My opinion is, Mr. Drummond, you haven't
got a spark of becoming pride in your nature, and

e

120 THE SURGEOJSrS SECRET. '

would as lief see your daughter drive off to church
in a butcher's cart as in a carriage and pair.'

' Pride is just what I have got. You want to
have the breakfast in the Crown Hotel; I say,
have it at home, and my reason is this : my
daughter was Uving here when Mr. Harlow met
her ; and if Marion Lodge is good enough for her
to be courted in, it's good enough for her to be
married from.'

' My daughter ! I suppose she is mine too ? '
J Besides, I am not going to have the neigh-
bours say, "That poor devil Drummond's house
is such a hovel that he was obhged to hire a
hotel for his daughter's wedding 1 " '

'And pray what will the neighbours, whose
remarks you dread so much, say to* this parlour
with its shabby pictures and worn carpet ? I tell
you it won't do.'

* I tell you it must do. What is good for the
goose is good for the gander. As for the pictures,
one is a Murillo, and worth two hundred guineas.
Wilton Hall don't hold anything finer.'

*A fig for the Muriller! You've told that-
story so long that you've got to believe it. Didn't
Mr. Pallet tell you it was rather an indifferent
copy, worth about five pounds? and didn't Mr.
Harlow smile when you pointed it out to him as
anorigmal?'

THE SURGEON'S SECRET. 121

' As to Pallet, he hardly knows the difference
between a painting in water-coloui:s and one ii^
oil. And as to Mr. Harlow, he smiled with
pleasure, as a connoisseur would before such a
gem.'

'But do you mean to say you are really in
earnest in wishing to have the breakfast here ? '

' I am. I've ascertained what the breakfast
will cost, and shall give the order when the time
comes. I'll get some artificial flowers for the
mantelpiece, and hire some new chairs. The
people who supply the breakfast will find the
plate and linen; and when you see the table
spread, you'll not know the room.'

VBut they'll be wanting to dance afterwards,'
cried Mrs. Drummond aghast; 'and if Colonel
Blubber once begins to waltz the ceiling will fall
in. Think of the size of the drawing-room ! '

' Blubber needn't be asked ; but if Blubber is
asked and must waltz, let him boimd about in the
hall. I'm a good hand at a hint, and will know
how to put the matter of the ceihng sq that it shall
reflect creditably on the house.'

But what husband ever had his way ? It was
all very well to argue in the daytime : Mr. Drum-
mond could carry his stubbornness boldly enough
in the sunhght. ' But when the night fell, when

122 THE SURGEON'S SECRET.

he had drawn on his nightcap and got between
the sheets I . . .

He must have been ignominiously beaten but
for the timely support of Mr. Harlow, who had
heard of Mrs. Drummond's wishes from Cicely.

Being in the garden one afternoon, Mr. Harlow
turned to his future mother-in-law, and said —

* I think, Mrs. Dnmamond, you propose that
the breakfast should be held in the Crown Hotel ? '

* I do,' she answered ; ' and don't you think I'm
right?'

*Why, you might be right under any other
circumstances ; but if I may express my opinion,
I must own t could wish the marriage to be as
private as possible, and that if a breakfast be
necessary at all, it should be given here.'

' My sentiments,' cried Mr. Drummond.

'But really, Mr. Harlow, our house has not
accommodation — '

* Quite enough,' interrupted Mr. Drummond.
'Your house is all the better for that,' said

Mr. Harlow. ' You will have an excuse for in-
viting a very few people.'

* My sentiments,' repeated Mr. Drummond.

* I wish you would keep your sentiments to
yourself ! ' exclaimed his wife. * You were of my
opinion just now, and here you are sneaking out
of it.'

The SURGEON'S SECRET. 123

* Ay, but when I agreed with you, what did I
say ? " Anything for peace." Didn't I say, " Any-
thing for peace ? " '

* Cicely,' said her mother, * what do you say ? *

* She'll agree with Mr. Harlow,' said Mr. Drum-
mond.

* Will you let the child speak for herself? *

* It is both Harry's and my wish that the mar-
riage should be quite private, mamma,' answered
Cicely, with a little colour in her cheeks.

* Why, if you are all against me I give up,* said
Mrs. Drummond. ' I only hope the neighboiu^
won't misinterpret our extreme modesty.'

Here Mr. Harlow, passing his arm through
Mrs. Drummond's with the easy poUte way he
had of doing that sort of thing, led her apart,
and in a few n^nutes put her into a perfectly
good temper. She was to remember, he said,
that his wife had been dead only a little over a
year, and that any extravagant rejoicings on his
second marriage would be certain to meet with
the severest animadversions from the town. This
was very just. But Mrs. Drummond was a country-
bred woman, and by no means au fait at the
usages of society ; and her anxiety to please it in
one way, had like to have made her forget that
she was certain to provoke its severe criticisms in
another.

TEX sr^Groys secret.

n^e ^Itt ct5i pe-.Tple Mrs. Drommond liad
2Ji£ zz. l»tfr nind :o ask were reduced to the

Thev were Major and

ji ■ ■■*

■ % ^

3t^. r.'wiJrFT, ibe liricrMr. Harlow's first cousm,
Ilt^^ X:!r±iter tiid Ler two daughters (bride*s-
^iajL> , iiii ny I»:.rd Shorthorns, a bachelor,
wire 1^. r*rjz::z>cod iiisi>i€d upon mviting, that
winzd :l»f zTsirrii^e-rea^r should come to be talked
X. :: niri: rej^dre icloL at all events, fix>m the

Tin: ^';&Triiu?r :>>£ place at St. Thomas's, before
ib; r£i:<c .-^-'criTt^iSon that Mr. Barnabas, the
»Hk-:i* T\cxd>:-rei s^^inff. As Mr. Harlow left
Use cii:::ri:« r^xir^ Cicely on his arm, the pro-
vVsi^^c V boaiod was stopped by the crowd in
iJji rcir:>., wb ^ were too easier to see the bride to
hiw ;lv v■tTi^lr^ lo make wav for her. While
iSe coA.l> cleared the Kiad, Mr. Harlow heard
hi> :x\rj>i prcvixvarKvd, and looking around he saw
:>v :?>.::: Arv fsce v>: Mr. Maturin.

Mr. Harlow was a good deal surprised to per-
ceive :hi> gtnitleman, whom he imagined had his
l>;5$::x>?5^ :o a::o:ivl to at Cannonbury, and grew
cxv\\\::r^':y gr^ve after having returned his salute,
ir^^:::;:o:i :}ia: Cicely pressed his arm as if to
i:\\v*^'^^ what had brought the change into his
tiuw

Tho tnnh was, the sight of Mr. Maturin had

THE SURGEON'S SECRET. 126

recalled many bitter memories. There was some-
thing ominous too, in meeting the man's square
face at that moment.

By the time Marion Lodge was reached, how-
ever, Mr. Harlow's face was again lighted up with
a smile — and no wonder ; for it would have been
a very stubborn kind of presentiment indeed that
would not have melted away before the love-
beaming eyes of the beautiful creature by his
side.

For reasons of his own Mr. Harlow was ex-
tremely reserved during the breakfast. Mr. Drum-
mond proposed his health and his wife's with
streaming eyes and a streaming wine-glass, for
his hands were as shaky as his feeUngs. The old
gentleman had looked forward to this speech
with great disquiet ; and for upwards of a week
had lain awake at night and gone about in the
day, rehearsing some well-balanced periods ex-
pressive of such feehngs as he judged would be
expected from him. But his Uttle Cissy, his only
child, sitting so pale at the end of the table next
her husband, sent all the fine things out of his
head and made him speak what he felt; which
he did so pathetically that Mrs. Drummond burst
into tears, owned to herself that she had a great
deal to answer for in being so bad-tempered, and
put up a silent prayer that, if God would give her

124 THE SURGEON'S SECRET.

The eighty odd people Mrs. Drummond had
had in her mind to ask were reduced to the
small nmnber of six. They were Major and
Mrs. Townley, the latter Mr. Harlow's first cousin,
Mrs. Mortimer and her two daughters (bride's-
maids), and my Lord Shorthorns, a bachelor,
whom Mrs. Drummond insisted upon inviting, that
when the marriage-feast should come to be talked
of, it might receive icldt^ at all events, from the
list of guests.

The marriage took place at St. Thomas's, before
the fullest congregation that Mr. Barnabas, the
clerk, remembered seeing. As Mr. Harlow left
the church, having Cicely on his arm, the pro-
cession he headed was stopped by the crowd in
the porch, who were too eager to see the bride to
have the civihty to make way for her. While
the beadle cleared the road, Mr. Harlow heard
his name pronounced, and looking around he saw
the square face of Mr. Maturin.

Mr. Harlow was a good deal surprised to per-
ceive this gentleman, whom he imagined had his
business to attend to at Cannonbury, and grew
exceedingly grave after having returned his salute,
insomuch that Cicely pressed his arm as if to
inquire what had brought the change into his
fiace.

The truth was, the sight of Mr. Maturin had

THE SURGEON'S SECRET. 125

recalled many bitter memories. There was some-
thing ominous too, in meeting the man's square
face at that moment.

By the time Marion Lodge was reached, how-
ever, Mr. Harlow's face was again hghted up with
a smile — and no wonder ; for it would have been
a very stubborn kind of presentiment indeed that
would not have melted away before the love-
beaming eyes of the beautiful creature by his
side.

For reasons of his own Mr. Harlow was ex-
tremely reserved during the breakfast. Mr. Drum-
mond proposed his health and his wife's with
streaming eyes and a streaming wine-glass, for
his hands were as shaky as his feelings. The old
gentleman had looked forward to this speech
with great disquiet ; and for upwards of a week
had lain awake at night and gone about in the
day, rehearsing some well-balanced periods ex-
pressive of such feelings as he judged would be
expected from him. But his little Cissy, his only
child, sitting so pale at the end of the table next
her husband, sent all the fine things out of his
head and made him speak what he felt; which
he did so pathetically that Mrs. Drummond burst
into tears, owned to herself that she had a great
deal to answer for in being so bad-tempered, and
put up a silent prayer that, if God would give her

126 THE SURGEON'S SECRET.

power to mend her behaviour she would never
say another word to grieve her poor old husband
again. Gssy sobbed when her father called her
^ his darling child/ and sobbed more deeply still
when Mr. Drummond, fearing that his eloquence
was growing too funereal, made an effort to be
fimny with the tears in his eyes. Mr. Harlow
replied quietly and feeUngly. His voice was more
eloquent than his words, and his eyes than his
voice ; the look of mingled tenderness and passion
he gave Cicely when he spoke of her as 'my
little wife ' must have satisfied even my Lord
Shorthorns, who was a bit of a cynic in his way,
that marriage for love had not wholly perished
off the face of this world.

Mr. and Mrs. Harlow went to Paris for their
honeymoon, and thence to Venice, but were away
altogether only two months ; for Cicely was im-
patient to get home, and enjoy those sweet dignities
of house-keeping, which she was to begin under
circumstances pecuharly auspicious. For as beau-
tiful a home awaited her as the county, rich in
fine estates, could offer.

She was united to a man who adored her.
That she merited all the love he gave her was not
the point. What a woman gets before marriage
she often finds out she has no claim to after.

THE SURGEON'S SECRET. 127

Besides, few women are loved according to their
deserts. The sweetest creature is the most apt to
be tyrannised over, whilst the strong-tempered lady
is followed about by her hen-pecked adoring hus-
band hke a note of admiration. The men and
women who Uve most comfortably together are
commonly those whose companionship reposes xm
the basis of mutual fear.

But here was a man whose passion for his wife
deepened in proportion as the passion of other
men gets shallow. The numberless tiffs, argu-
ments, reproaches, sulkinesses, and the like which
fill up the channel of love, like pebbles fill the
bed of a river, making the stream more noisy as
it becomes less deep, were completely wanting
here. Nay, so tranquil were these persons' loves,
that many husbands and wives would have been
bored by it. But they did not feel its monotony.

It was difficult to Cicely at first to reahse that
she was mistress over the fine old house and noble
grounds of Wilton Hall. But had the property
been hers by inheritance her control could not
have been more absolutely complete. Her hus-
band left her to do exactly as she pleased, and
was wise in so doing ; for few were ever possessed
of a finer taste than this young girl, as he was made
to see a very few days after their return, in the
ideas she gave him of making certain portions of

128 THE SURGEON'S SECRET.

the grounds more picturesque, and of heightening
the prevaiUng beauties by different grouping, &c.

Indoors her presence was a fragrance and a
sunbeam. There were certain old chambers in
the house, surperfluous, sombre with black fiirni-
lure and solemn tapestry-work, in whose gloomy
corners gaunt spiders sat in their cobwebs waiting
motionlessly through the long years for the fly
that never came. To these sullen rooms the
young wife brought air and sunshine and life.
The spiders were exorcised, and fled dimly and
palely into unknown regions ; the raven hue of
the furniture was rubbed until it smiled ; the suit
of armour in one room, the noble old cabinet in
another, the statue in a third, the two quaint
Holbein-like pictures in a fourth, were brought
out to be reposited in places where justice could
be done them.

This sort of work was delightful to Cissy. She
felt wonderfiiUy grateful to the first Madam Har-
low and old Lady Honoria for having left it for
her. She went at it with the curiosity of a child
and the judgment of an experienced housekeeper.

It was not surprising that the house should
have required her supervision. Many of the rooms
which offered accommodation above the wants of
the occupants of the Hall had been locked up
during Lady Honoria's reign, though the inhabited

THE SXrUGJEON'S SECRET: 129

portion had been kept with scrupulous care. But
under Barbara's reign the spiders had a festival ;
the dust accumulated ; the servants, who were
constantly leaving and being replaced, took no
interest in a home that was not to be theirs, and
shuffled through their duties drearily, laying their
brooms only to the visible dust, and then insuffi-
ciently. Mrs. Harlow, who was not naturally
a scrupulous woman, had been always too busy
in bullying her husband or the servants, or giving
her attention to matters which had no claim upon
her whatever, to notice that the house was slowly
taking the air of a residence that had not been
occupied for a century at least. And the house-
keeper that had been sixty years with the family
had died before Mr. Harlow's first marriage, and
no successor had been appointed.

Mr. Harlow watched Cicely with dehght. It
pleased him that she should take so great an
interest in her home ; and it gratified him to per-
ceive the change that had come over the old place
through her. The house was filled with the
materials of a luxurious and even splendid home,
but they had been assorted with httle judgment,
and there was a prevaihng air of inelegance through
most of the rooms.

But under Cicely, all became harmony and taste.
Every chamber that she entered seemed to take a

130 THE SURGEON'S SECRET.

new light and a new fragrance, and grow gay with
the latest and most enchanting memory it stored.
The house was musical with her voice, for she was
for ever breaking into httle melodious songs, per-
fectly artless and impremeditated, as a bird flying
from tree to tree pours its notes from every branch
it settles on.

What could be more ravishing to Mr. Harlow
than the infantine simpUcity that sweetened her
womanly perfections, hke the spirit of spring in
a full-blown flower ? It formed the regeneration
of his own nature ; a nature that had grown sere
and yellow in the gloomy autumn and chilly
winter of his happUy-vanished experience. In her
presence he respired an air wholesome and nimble
and sweet as a young May breeze, charged with
the tender perfume of her nature, musical with
the many sweetnesses of her disposition, and
illuminated by her shining love.

When their return was known, all their friends
and acquaintances pressed eagerly forward to lay
their cards at their feet. Mrs. Dimibiggle and a
few other ladies, whose mental eyes squinted if
those in their faces didn't, guessed that Mr.
Harlow would lead as quiet a life as he did before
his marriage. For this reason, said they ; he has
married a woman because he is pleased to think
her pretty ; but he is not sure of her behaviour.

THE SURGEON'S SECRET. 131

. —— — . %

and won't risk the derision of his friends by enter-
taining : mark us !

' For how/ said Mrs. Dumbiggle to Mrs.
Meagrim, ' can you expect breeding and pohte
behaviour — such behaviour as society expects —
in the daughter of a pair of old fogies Kke the
Drummonds ? No good can come from a woman
who goes to church in yellow satin, and whose
husband picks his teeth under a napkin. I once
said to Dr. Skinnem, " You are proud of your
antecedents, doctor ; but I heard your son drop
an h last night. Correct him ; for every h he
drops sinks an ancestor, and he'll wake up one
morning without a pedigree." That's much what
I should say to Mrs. Harlow : " Get your parents
to retire to the Continent, my dear ; for every
time your mamma prays in yellow satin, and your
father picks his teeth behind a napkin, you lose a
quahfication of breeding, and will one day discover
yourself to be irremediably vulgar." Society, you
see, Mrs. Meagrim, will judge of us by our be-
longings. Though a man may be never so much
a gentleman, if his brother keep a shop let him
bid adieu to society or make up his mind to be
tolerated as a poor fellow, well-conducted, indeed,
but vulgar at the core, depend upon it, or his
brother could not be a shopkeeper. We shine by
reflected hght, ma'm ; society is our sun, and if

e:2

132 THE SURGEON'S SECRET.

^ f ^ - ^ I ■ I ■ ■_ r

we don't catch its rays, we shall look vastly black,
I assure you/ Which position she advanced with
a ferocious squint.

Well, people called at Wilton Hall, and went
away declaring that nothing could be more refined
and fascinating than Cicely's manners. Even Mrs.
Danglecub vowed she could not blame Mr. Harlow
for making such a choice of a wife.

It is certain that Gcely's reception of her visitors
was marked by such elegance and taste as few
ladies can hope to achieve who have not been at
this sort of work for some years. Where she had
got her ideas of behaviour from, puzzled every-
body ; yet there they were, exquisitely expressed
and decorated by her beauty. You would have
thought from the number of people who called
at the same time that there was a conspiracy
among the ladies to bring her to shame by
embarrassing her behaviour. But if it were a
conspiracy, it produced a result very contrary
to that which had been calculated ; for, in calling
forth all her powers of pleasing, it exhibited
her in the best possible hght. Her ease and calm
were the more surprising, because those who knew
her before her marriage had always fancied her to
be shy and reserved, incapable of prolonging a
•conversation with any degree of vivacity, much
less of detaining a large party with exquisite

THE SURGEON'S SECRET. 183

address. Every question she asked was the right
one. Every remark had its own peculiar feUcity.
Had her visitors been gentlemen, some allowance
for the prejudice which beauty is sure to excite
might have been made ; but women would be
critics with a bias on the wrong side. She con-
trived to keep everybody talking, and everybody
pleased. She listened with the sweetest interest
to Mrs. Trueman's account of her daughter's illness
with the measles ; asked after Mrs. Smart's son,
Theophilus, who was in a bank at Amsterdam ;
inquired of Mrs. Danglecub after her husband's
gout ; comphmented Miss Grinley on the shape of
her bonnet ; in short, went the round of her
visitors' sympathies so delicately and easily, that
it was not until they were gone that they dis-
covered how excellent was the art which had been
so wholly unobtrusive.

Mrs. Dumbiggle and her friends were not to be
disappointed only in their expectations of Mrs.
Harlow's behaviour ; they were also to have their
prognostications of the young couple's retired life
falsified.

1B4 THE SURGEOirS SECRET.

XV.

The long seclusion Mr. Harlow had forced him-
self into never became a habit with him. It had
oppressed him at the beginning, and it had left
him heartily sick of it at the end. But he had
never cared to break from it for the reasons you
know. Now, however, the whole state of things
was reversed. Society was no longer to him a
kind of amphitheatre into which he should descend
only to be stared at, to have his past discussed,
and his behaviour criticised ; but rather a festive
crowd, whose diversions he could share without
reproach, and whose pleasures could be tasted
with a keener relish now that he had some one,
loved and admired, to share them with him.
Moreover, the impulse towards society, which
as a young man it was natural he should feel, was
increased by the pride he took in his wife. He
wished the world to applaud the judgment that
dictated his choice : he wished also that it should
be a spectator of his devotion and her love, that
it might give him credit for the passion he was
really capable of inspiring and of feeling, and
appreciate the misfortunes of his first marriage,
which had found him loveless and rendered him
miserable.

THE SURGEON'S SECRET, 135

He determined to give a ball. The rooms of
Wilton Hall were spacious, and could hold a larger
assembly than ever the town of Alminster could
send up. Invitations were not to be hmited. It
was to be their marriage celebration — the pubhc
assertion of Mr. Harlow's pride in his wife. It
was designed, also, to make him popular with his
neighbours. For, let . the people talk as they
would, he had Uttle doubt that the recollection of
his wife's flight, the mystery of their life, her lonely
death, and his subsequent sohtude, had occasioned
a prejudice against him, and for Cissy's sake he
had no wish it should remain.

It would be hard to conceive anything more
fairy-like and beautiful than the interior of Wilton
Hall on the night of the ball. Wax candles blazed
from sconces and chandehers, finding countless
reflections in the old square mirrors, and lending
a kind of spiritual beauty to the statues and marble
pieces they illuminated. The aspect of the great
hall by candlelight was exceedingly imposing, with
its basso-rehevos, its suits of armour, its wide stair-
case, and elaborately-railed gallery. The passage
from the gallery led to the drawing-room. The
fine apartment (designed in an age when men
seemed giants — an age of foho books, immense
wigs, weighty goblets, big rings ; when men
would drink a quart of strong waters without

136 THE SURGEON'S SECRET.

drawing breath, and consider a sirloin of beef an
inadequate meal for two) — this fine apartment was
cleared of much of its furniture for dancing ; but
a woman's dehcate taste was to be discerned in
the arrangement of what remained : in the blending
of white and red marble with flowers fi:om the
hothouse ; in the drapery before the recess making
a vista on either side the double blue marble
column, at the end of which stood the remarkable
statue of Ceres, with many rare flowers blushing
round her robes ; in a thousand httle touches, in
short, to appreciate which one required as dehcate
a taste as the contriver. Of the windows leading
on to the terrace, two, one at each end, were
left open ; the others draped with velvet curtains.
The terrace was covered with canvas, and formed
a dehghtfiil promenade for the dancers. Three
rows of flowers, the produce of the conservatories
and the pride of the gardeners, extended the whole
way along it; at each end was a table, where
servants dispensed a hundred dehcacies.

To play the hostess to a couple of hundred
people, most of them persons of figure and fortune,
is a task, everyone must allow, that requires some
training, whilst it implies the possession of certain
qualifications which the best book on poUte be-
haviour that was ever written must fail to impart.
But, as it was said of a great poet, that he leaped

THE SURGEON'S SECRET, 137

at once to those high perfections which it costs
other men a prodigious amount of labour to ap-
proach, so of Cicely it may be affirmed that, had
she been a woman of forty used to receiving
guests from the age of eighteen, and to whom the
usages of the best society had become a second
nature, she could not have shown herself more
thoroughly mistress of the situation and discharged
her duties with more universal admiration.

She was almost the youngest girl in the room :
yet her self-possession was as great as that of
Lady Shalot, a woman of fifty, who had passed
half her hfe in Paris, and was now esteemed one
of the most fashionable women in London. Those
who remembered Mrs. Harlow as Gcely Drum-
mond of Marion Lodge, the simple, unaffected
girl whose chief dehght lay in working in the
garden, chirping to her birds and playing with
her white mice, wondered by what magic she had
become possessed of an amount of ease and grace-
ful confidence which Lady Shalot herself might
well have coveted. We may perhaps guess that
it was her pretty artlessness which made her so
wonderfully winning ; while, as the habits of society
are wholly based on good taste and good feehng, it
would not be difficult for one whose taste was fault-
less and whose feehngs were the finest to conform
to and even to improve them. And though it is

138 THE SURGEON'S SECRET.

certain that a vulgar behaviour will convert beauty
into a character almost of ugliness ; it is equally
true that beauty helps to give a greater perfection
to refinement, and to lend an exquisite propriety
to the most trifling actions and sayings which are
dictated by good breeding.

Mr. Harlow was fascinated by her. Had he
been her lover he could not have followed, her
about with more admiring eyes. Some of his
guests spoke of her ; and his face glowed with
pleasure at their praises.

Mrs. Townley, his first cousin, was particularly
charmed.

' Harry,' said she, ' your taste does you infinite
credit. When I saw her at the breakfast, I thought
her the most beautiful girl I had ever seen ; but
her conduct to-night assures me she is the most
well-bred too.'

' Ah Lucy,' he answered, ' I knew her when
nobody else could see more in her than a pretty,
simple country girl. I knew her far better than
anyone else is ever hkely to know her. For even
before she guessed I loved her, or had thought of
me but as a poKte, attentive young gentleman,
burdened with an imcomfortable story and a very
lonesome house, she opened her pure Kttle heart
to me ; so that I could see how much I should
gain by winning and how much I should miss by

THE SURGEON'S SECRET. 139

losing her. Would to God I had met her before
I knew the other. My poor mother would have
loved her ; and I should have heard httle I dare
say of her strange fancy for Lady Ameha — a
fancy, look you, which did more to make me
marry Barbara than ever my crazy passion for
her did.'

He crossed over to his wife. Those who
watched them remarked the caressing gesture
with which he took her hand, and the love that
softened his fine eyes as they met hers.

' My darUng, everybody is praising you. All
the men here are your lovers and all the women
your imitators.'

' The love of one man is all I want, and I
have it.'

' You have it. Ah, such a love as ours is a
richer recompense than the sufferings I have gone
through deserve. Have they taken care of you ? '

' Oh yes ; Lord Shorthorns has been most
pohte : wonderfully so, considering the contempt
he is supposed to have for women.'

' Dearest, don't you know that the professed
woman-hater is the greatest slave your sex has ?
I have been trying to find your father alone to
have a chat ; but he and Sir Humphrey are on the
terrace, talking with extraordinary energy. I
overheard a portion of their conversation. Your

140 THE SURGEON'S SECRET.

father is on his hobby — human virtue : Sir Hum-
phrey on his — human wickedness. They are both
wrong, so they'll enjoy a good argument. Your
mother is with Mrs. Mortimer. In such a crowd
there is no getting near anybody. But it can't
separate us'

' It would require a great crowd to do that.'

' The thing is going off very well, thanks to
you. The old flooring stands the bumping nobly,
though I really think Mrs. Colhns might leave
dancing to her daughters. She struck against
httle White just now, and I left him trying to pull
his head out of his shirt-collars, where I fear it is
hopelessly jammed. Mrs. CoUins is perfectly
amiable, but is too fat to feel the mischief she
does. Her partner's arm looked astride on her
waist, hke a httle boy on a dray-horse. He clung
as though he would strangle her. Such a dancer
is mischievous.'

' Did you dance that gallop ? '

' No ; I was engaged to Miss Grinley : but her
beau let faU a raspberry ice in the place where
your rose is (pointing to her breast), and I found
her trying to get rid of it with a spoon. I molh-
fied her by saying that her partner evidently liked
his beauty iced, hke wine. She said a rather good
thing to him whilst he stood danghng a napkin over
her: "Pray leave me alone; our chief troubles

THE SURGEON'S SECRET. 141

always come from those who wish to do us
good." '

' These accidents are very unfortunate/ said
Cicely with concern ; * some men are so awkward/

As she said this a lady called her attention,
and Mr. Harlow turning, was accosted by Major
O'Cutler.

' Me dear boy, I was going to ask you to do
me a great favour. I have been looking over the
pictures in the gallery, and want you to tell me
who the httle lady is with the high hair and the
side long oies.'

' Let me go and see,' answered Mr. Harlow.
And he went out, followed by the Major.

The passage from one of the drawing-room doors
led straight to the gallery. There were two or three
couples, flushed with the recent dance, enjoying
the cool and criticising the paintings.

' There,' said the Major pointing.

' Oh, that is Letitia Harlow, wife to the gentle-
man in the tyewig, just over her/

' Indade ! a very interesting face, Harlow. And
who's that gintleman with the natural hair and
the wart on the left hand of his nose ? '

' That is the portrait of Douglas Harlow, a
gentleman who began by practising the law, and
ended by sufiering it. He joined the Pretender,
and lost his head in 1748.'

142 THE SURGEON'S SECRET.

' A very interesting collection indade/ said the
Major, looking around him.

' Very/ answered Mr. Harlow, drily.

' Pray, Mr. Harlow,' said a young lady leaving
her partner, 'will you kindly tell me who that
beautiful woman is there ? '

And she pointed to the portrait of Barbara
Harlow over the door.

Mr. Harlow looked at it a httle before he
spoke, then turned with a grave face to his pretty
questioner.

' It is my wife, Miss Murray.'

' Your wife ? ' she exclaimed with a httle laugh.
' Why your wife is fair. Ah, I suppose you have
christened the picture My Wife'

But as she said this the truth broke on her ;
she blushed, stammered, and said, * I was really
unaware — ^I should have known — '

' She has fine eyes, has she not ? Major, she is
looking scornfully at you.'

As he said this a httle crack was heard : Miss
Murray gave a cry: the Major called out, 'Moind,
sir, moind ! ' and sprang aside, as the pictiure fell,
making the hall echo as it struck the hollow floor
of the gallery.

Mr. Harlow clapped his hand to his shoulder.

' Harlow, you're hurt,' said the Major.

THE SURGEON'S SECRET, 143

' Only sKghtly. Hush, my dear Major. Don't
say it struck me.'

He turned his face away to conceal the expres-
sion of pain that the violent blow caused him.

The girl's cry and the sound of the picture's
fall had reached the drawing-room. A crowd
of people ' streamed out to know what had
happened.

' A simple accident,' said Mr. Harlow, forcing a
smile. 'The wall is old and rotten, and the
weight of the picture pulled the nail out.'

He called to a footman.

'Eemove this. We'll hang it again in the
morning.'

There was nothing to detain the people ; they
returned to the drawing-room. The music struck
up ; the loitering couples left the gallery.

Mr. Harlow went down the staircase and
entered the hbrary. He pulled off his coat,
groaning a httle as he moved his arm and bared
his shoulder. The edge of the heavy frame had
struck and peeled the skin from the point of the
shoulder to about three inches down the arm.
The injury was trifling enough, but the smart was
keen. He rang the bell, and was answered by a
maid, whom he bade tie his arm with a pocket-
handkerchief. She looked rather scared by the
sight of blood on his shirt-sleeve, but did as she

144 THE SVROEOirS SECRET,

was ordered. He then replaced his coat, and re-
turned to the drawing-room.

Cicely met him. She had heard of the fall of
the picture, and had been looking for him to ask
him about it. He could not move his arm, so he
kept his thumb hooked in his waistcoat.

He answered, with a smile, that the accident
was one that ought to have happened before.

* The picture had no business there,' said he ;
'and it had the good sense to know it. Your
behaviour is infectious ; even 8he has learnt how
to behave properly.'

• She looked inlo his face. If his smile was
somewhat hard, there was no indication of suffer-
ing. She whispered softly that she did not Kke
to hear him speak so harshly of one who was
dead; and then, with a look of deep love, left
him.

Mr. Harlow did not dance again that night.
When his wife asked him why, he answered that
he was suffering from a twinge of rheumatism in
the shoulder, which prevented him from using his
arm freely. He was as good company, however,
as ever he had been. Nay, he was even gayer .
than before the accident, talking and laughing in-
cessantly, so that he was more than once comph-
mented on his good spirits. Indeed the very last
thing that would have been guessed was^ that all

THE SURGEON'S SECRET. 145

this merriment was artificial, that it might mask
from his own comprehension the unpleasant feel-
ings which the fall of Barbara's picture had aroused
in him.

Yet there were some old people, and Major
O^Culter among them, who manifested an uncom-
monly strong disposition to treat the accident as
an occurrence mysterious enough to merit a
superstitious interpretation.

' It sthrook him,' said the Major.

* Did it now,' cried Mrs. Allears.

^ Eight on the shoulder, ma'm. He made a
WToy face, and called " 0." He had been abusing
her an instant before. It looked like a special
interposition of Providence. You may have heard
of the Latin proverb — nil neese. Anyway, the
picture sthrook him in a new light.'

' If such a thing was to happen to me,' quavered
old Mrs. Henbane, ' it would make me vastly un-
easy. There was a cousin of mine' — ^here she
told a story to which the Major hstened for ten
minutes, then exclaimed : ' What can he be
beckoning me for ? ' and disappeared.

146 THE SURGEON'S SECRET.

XVI.

Mr. Harlow accounted for the grin of pain that
came into his face next morning, when, on
awakening, he put forth his arm forgetful of last
night's injury, by declaring that the rheumatism
had grown worse in the night, and that he would
ask his fiiend Jomdyce for an embrocation.

He would have been extremely annoyed had
his wife found out that the picture had struck
him ; and he particularly ordered the maid that
had bandaged his arm not to speak of what she
had done.

Now what need for all this mighty secresy?
Nothing in the world, but that Mr. Harlow was
very much disposed to be superstitious, and had
no wish to have his own thoughts made more
morbid than they were by having them discussed
by others. He was also afraid, or pretended to
be, that Cicely would attach an undue importance
to the fall of the picture and the injiuy it had
done him. He did her a great injustice by thi^
suspicion, for she had twenty times his resolution
of character and vigour of judgment, and was as
likely to make an omen out of the accident as the
picture was of asking to be re-hung.

Yet this simple circumstance weighed upon Mr.

THE SURGEON'S SECRET. 147

s ' ■ ' ■ .... — . — ,

Harlow's mind, and made him pensive and ab-
stracted when he was alone, though he* was gay
to his wife, and made her a hundred neat comph-
inents on her behaviour the night before.

When he left the breakfast-room, he went to
the gallery, and saw by the daylight what he had
suspected by the candlehght, that the portion of
brick into which the nail had been driven had
grown too rotten to hold it. He walked moodily
about the gallery some time.

' Strange it should fall at the moment when /
was there ! ' he mused ; ' that it should have struck
me only when others were by ; and that the nail
should have shpped too at such a time. Why not
in the morning, or afternoon, or even five minutes
before the first guest arrived ? Does this herald
some trouble ? God forbid ! ' .

The agitation his thoughts bred emphasised the
thoughts themselves. Imagination laid hold of
fear, and worked it into a presentiment. We
should never be so often and so completely the
dupes of our passions would we but take the
trouble to watch their jugglery. They have all-
their tricks like other conjurors ; and we are awe-
struck, pleased, or alarmed by them in proportion
as we are incapable of comprehending the mean-
ness of the tricks which produce such surprising
results. Imagination was at its old game with

L 2

14?^ THE SURGEOirS SECRET.

Mr. Harlow ; raising from this narrow incident of
tlu» piotiire olouds marked with weird, startling,
oonfustHl shajx^s. Why had he not the sense to
l(H>k over the juggler's shoulder and observe the
ap})aratus by which these dreadful forms were
l)rtKUiced? Nothing is easier, or ought to be
t»asier, than to make Presto hang his head and
(Iroj) his dangerous foohng.

Mr. Harlow went to the hbrary, where the
jui'ture of Barbara leant against the wall, so
j)lai*cKl there by the ser\'ant the night before. He
stood before it, watching the dark face until it
s(»enied to be ahve. The hate for him he fancied
\\v could see in her eyes, grew fierce as it used to
1h» in life ; the sneer hardened ; he turned from
it sharply.

' I must check these feeUngs whilst I can,' he
tliought, ' or they will grow too violent for me.'
1 It; put a cigar in his mouth, and went into the
gardciu, where he found Cicely dropping little
ciiinibs of bread into one of the fountains for the
fish. He passed his arm through hers, and they
patrolled the lawn.

They talked of the ball. Cicely was naively
proud of having won so much admiration, especi-
ally from certain ladies, of whose criticism (to
conceal nothing) she had been a httle afraid
a short time previously.

THE SURGEON'S SECRET. 149

■ I i - i III ■ I »i , -

' One reason,' said Mr. Harlow, ' for giving that
ball was my wish that the world — our world —
should see you and judge for itself how far I was
to be condemned for loving you. I guessed you
would achieve a victory ; but I did not beheve it
would be so great. If any came to scoff, all re-
mained to admire. I almost wish you would not
give me cause for loving you so well,' he said,
suddenly ; ' one condition of deep love is melan-
choly.'

' Oh, I can beheve that, Harry. But all true
sentiment should be pathetic. Would you be
content to lose your melancholy on condition of
your love moderating ? '

' No, no ; but the greater the love the greater
must be the shadow it casts. It is the contin-
gencies which menace life that make human
affection painful : the fear of separation — of alien-
ation — of death. Eehgion teaches us that this
world is a mere halting-place on the road to
eternity. Yet see how busy we are all in striking
new roots into it, in estabhshing new ties and
bonds to keep us to it. Well, we are not per-
mitted to be always happy or always miserable*
Thank God for that I Joy and sorrow have their
revolutions. I often think, we occupy a globe
that alternately turns us to the sun and to the
night/

160 THE SURGEON'S SECRET.

' You are certainly in a melancholy mood. You
over-fatigued yourself last night/

' I'll own to being morbid. But it is inex-
cusable I should be so with you. Yet I cannot
help talking to you of my love ; and when I
speak of my love, you must take its sadness along
with it.'

' But what is there in our love to sadden you ?
Only death can separate us, Harry I '

' Only death,' he repeated. ' What else ?'

' Do you fear anything else ? '

' Not I. What should I fear ?'

' Yet you seem to fear.'

' I fear to suffer ; and so I suffer from that
fear.'

' What suffering do you fear ? '

' I am in a thoroughly depressed mood, Cissy.
In such a mood a man is apt to think like a fool/

'Do you know, Harry, I am afraid you are
troubled by that picture having fallen? Are
you?*

' How should such an accident trouble me?'

' It should not. But you have a strong imagi-
nation.'

' Ay, but not an old woman's. You must not
think me so weak-minded. . . . Now who
wants me ? '

A servant was crossing the lawn. He ap^

THE SUEGEOJTS SECRET, 151

proached Mr. Harlow and handed him a card.
Mr. Harlow looked at it, and read, ' Mr. Maturin.'

Cicely waa looking at him. He knew it, and
mastered with a powerful will the sudden agi-
tation the sight of that name had awakened.

* Where is he?'

' In the library, sir.'

' Very well.' The servant withdrew.

'Is not this the name of the gentleman who
attended Mrs. — , Mrs. Harlow ? ' asked Cicely,
faltering in her voice as she looked at the card.

' Yes. I hardly know what he wants, unless he
is come to borrow money.'

He pressed her hand and walked to the house.
But the moment his back was turned on her he
grew pale and grave. To the morbid humour
that then possessed • him the smallest accident
would take the form of a startling coincidence.
Certainly the last man whom he would have ex-
pected to see just then was Mr. Maturin. The
name had a most unpleasant sound to his ears,
coupled as it was with associations the most bitter
and hara^Bg.

The surgeon sat exactly in the place, that is,
with his back to the window, where Mr. Harlow
had found him on the first meeting. He leant
upon his cane quite still, with his square face
inclined forwards ; so that he might never have

J

152 THE SURGEOirS SECRET.

moved since that day when he had brought the
news of Mrs. Harlow's death.

Though Mr. Harlow was mwardly much dis-
turbed by this man's visit, not knowing what un-
pleasant errand had brought him to his house (and
the humoiu: he was in went feir to persuade him
that the errand was unpleasant), he so fer dis-
sembled his apprehensions as to meet him with a
J3teady face and composed manners. He extended
Jiis hand, but remarked that Mr. Maturin would
not appear to notice the action in the ponderous
and awkward bow he saluted him with. Mr.
Harlow sank into a chair, and during the few
moments' pause that followed inspected his visitor.
It must be owned, Mr. Maturings appearance was
not very inviting — as httle as the dogged expres-
sion on his square face was reassuring. His clothes
were old and soiled. The soles of his shoes had
holes in them ; his hat upon the floor had a
very brown tint. He looked like one of those
respectable beggars whose claims upon your
charity are founded on recollections of a period
when they spent their thousands, and who will tell
you of the cost of their education in language
which seems in its poverty to have pawned
its li's, and which is too humble to be gram-
matical.

He was eyeing Mr. Harlow without offering to

THE SURGEOirS SECRET. 163

speak: so Mr. Harlow, by way of opening the
conversation, said —

' Have you been long in Alminster, Mr.
Maturin ? '

' Oh, sir, I have to ask you not to consider my
visit as one of ceremony,' repUed Mr. Maturin.
* These clothes are not, you observe, sucH as I
should choose to wear for making calls.'

' Will you kindly explain your motive in calling
upon me ? '

'Certainly. But you must bear with me.
Poverty sets us upon doing actions which a
balance at our banker's would make us blush to
think of.'

*WeU?'

' I have reflected a good while on this course
before I resolved to take it. I was bom a gentleman,
and the superstitions which cUng to that calling
are apt to obstruct the judgment. I left you with
a good impression of me ; and so unwilling was I
to disturb it, that I held out day after day, till
absolute beggary at last left me no alternative but
to travel to Alminster and see you.'

* Oh, you did me a service once and made me
happy by doing it. You have a claina upon me.'

' You are wrong. I am here on another errand
than that of borrowing money,*

'What is it?'

154 THE SUnOEOIPS SECRET.

* I have come to tell you that I have deceived

you.'

Mr. Ilurlow turned white.

* What is tliat you say ? ' he asked in a low
voice;.

* You rcrnember that you offered a hundred
pounds U) anyone who could give you information
of your wife. To procure that sum, I came to you
and told you a lie.'

*Oo<HlGodI'

* You lijul no right to offer such a temptation.
Your rtiward mmle me a Uar, and the kn6wledge
of* the truth bids fair to make me something
worni!.'

Mr. Harlow did not hear the last part of his
riiuutrk. Ho got up from his chair, and leaning
with both luinds on the table, said —

* Do you moan to tell me that your story of
attending Mrs. Harlow was a fabrication designed
only to secure the reward I offered?'

* Yes — on my part.'

* And that Mrs. Harlow is alive ? '

* Yes.'

There was a dead pause. Then a sickly smile
overspread Mr. Harlow's face.

'What do you expect to gain by this con-
spiracy ? ' he asked.

THE SURGEON'S SECRET. 165

* Sir,' said the other doggedly, ' hard words of
that kind won't alter the truth.'

' The truth ! did not I see her grave ? did not I
hear the landlady? .... Now I perceive the
value of Mr. Drummond's caution,' he added in
another voice. \ne distrusted you — I did not.
Mr. Maturin, if you are really the beggar you
represent yourself, why do you not ask me for
assistance honestly? do you hope to get any-
thing by terrifying me with this impudent false-
hood?'

' I can't be surprised at anything you may say,'
responded the other coldly ; * I can't expect you
will receive my statement calmly ; though I should
advise you to be calm, for you will get nothing by
your passion, and it won't alter the truth.'

' Do you still adhere to what you say ? '

' Assuredly. I tell you, sir, your first wife is
hving — ^is aUve and well : that the story of her
death was contrived between us.'

It was difficult to hear him and not feel con-
vinced.

' Great heaven ! ' cried Mr. Harlow, clenching
his hand, ' if this be true, what have you done,
sir? what have you made me do? But it is
impossible — it is incredible. I have the land-
lady to prove to the contrary ; and then, there
is her grave.'

#

VM THE HVnOEOyS SECRET.

* Mr. Ifurlow, control yourself. The secret is
niiri<r, urid it r(;.Hts with you that it should remain

only niifM'/

Mr, UhHow f(?11 bar^k in his chair.

* Hlmll I v\n\i tlio bell for some brandy?'

* No hit no one come near us/

* You yonPHijIf avowed that yoiu" wife was mad,
and that hIic \vSi your house one day in a mad fit.
Hut hIm! wan not mml. And you knew it, and
why hIm! \{*\X your house. Not because she was
fnad, hut b<H!aus(; she knew it was yoiu" design to
lork h<!r u|) in an asylum. She told me this
h^Twdf. It was a desperate device on your part,
nir—- afid rath(»r inhuman. You have not to thank
yourMcIf that this unfortunate woman is not at
thin nioUM^nt wcMirin^ away her hfe among a herd
of hniaticH. Hut I don't condemn you. It is not
my hunincHH. You doubtless had good reasons for
fwitinj^ as you did — though there are few who
would not pronounce; sucli a stratagem cruel."

* This in not your business. You are here for a
])urpom% proclaim it. But remember the law
<lealM Mutnniarily with such as you.'

*r]l not retort; though I ask you, supposing I
am what you are pleased to hint, which is the
worse — you or me? Your wife when she left
your house took up her abode at Cannonbury. I
told you that. I also spoke the truth when I told

THE SURGEOirS SECRET, 167

— - - - ^ -- - - B

you that I met her once or twice in the street,
before I was called to her, and that I was greatly
struck with her appearance — ^which, let me tell
you, was certainly not that of a mad woman. All
that I told you about being sent for by her land-
lady to attend her in a sickness was true ; but she
did not die. She had a fever, but in a very mild
form. My behaviour, which she was kind enough
to think considerate and polite, won her gratitude.
She asked me to visit her, declaring that she had
not a fiiendin the world. We became intimate,
I found her a woman of a sudden temper, indeed,
yet not without many good points, I fell in love
with her. My love was not unreasonable. I had
no idea she was married ; she called herself Mrs.
Hunter it is true — but she wore no wedding-ring.
I believed she had good reasons for the prefix.
I saw in her a beautiful woman, of a nature
in many respects congenial to my own ; and of
the respectabihty of her past, her manners and
conversation, which were certainly those of a lady,
were an ample guarantee. I ofiered marriage ;
she refused me, but with so much agitation, that
my vanity whispered her rejection was due to
some other cause than that of indifference. I
questioned her delicately, and she eventually made
me acquainted with the whole of her history/
He spoke with a kind of dictatorial air.

IW THE SUROEOirS SECRET.

* I confess her story gave me pain. My love

for luT found it very pathetic, and I was struck

by the spcH't^u^le of a woman, accustomed to such

hjxurit\s xxA this liouse and yoiu" income could

aflbnl hiT, reduced to a mean lodging and living

in (•()nst4int terror of your pursuit. She allowed

that she had not treated you well, and therefore

eon Id not expect any mercy at your hands. I

c'aine to luT one day with the paper containing

your tulviTtiseinent, and pointed it out to her. I

nhall not ejusily forget her terror. She was firmly

jii'i-suacleil it was yoiu: intention to recapture and

eonsitrn her to the terrible imprisonment she

had narn)wly escaped. Of course she recognised

luT own description, and identified you as the

writiT by the address you gave. She besought

\\\i\ to advise her how to act, but I could not say.

One lunuh'iHl pounds, I told her, was a reward

that would corrupt integrity itself. Her landlady

niij^ht give information. There was no one in the

j)laee who liad seen her — and her fece was too

Htriking not to bo easily recalled — who would

not answer the advertisement for the sake of the

money. I called the same night and found her

in great distress. She heard my knock and had

locked herself in her bedroom, not knowing

but that it might be some one sent to conduct her

back to Alminster. I hinted, as a good expedient,

THE SURQEOirS SECRET. 150

that she should give herself out as dead. She
jumped eagerly at the notion, but I soon saw an
objection. Should her husband, I s^d, start
a detective after her, or anyone accustomed to
prosecuting inquiries of the kind, it would infallibly
appear that the report of her death was fabricated :
for where was the registry of her death ? the doc-
tor that attended her ? her grave ? " The only sure
way," I said, "of effectually ending this cruel
pursuit, is for you to act a dead woman, to be
placed in a coffin, and for that coffin to be buried.
But such a scheme would make demands upon you
above your powers." Her fear made her equal
to any adventure. She asked me how such a
scheme could be carried out ? I repKed that the
landlady must first be bribed, who would give
orders for her coffin and prepare her for the
undertakers ; that I would write the certificate
of her death ; that we should contrive that her
body be placed in the coffin during the evening,
when the small light in the room would prevent
the undertaker and his man fi-om observing her
closely, and that when they were gone, I would
unscrew the Kd and fill the coffin with stones and
earth. She professed herself perfectly capable
of going through the masquerade, but desired that
the coffin-Ud should be perforated. This was done.
The landlady was bribed with several presents —

160 THE SVRGEOirS SECRET.

■ — — ^ — ■ »< I ■

the bracelet amongst them, to do her part ; your
wife counterfeited death to perfection ; by the
dim light of the candles I myself should have
easily been deceived into thinking her motionless
form a corpse ; the Ud was screwed on, and the
coflSn left for interment in the morning ; but soon
as the undertaker had left the room, I unscrewed
the lid, she stepped forth, and the coffin was filled
with some bricks and mould, which had been
brought by me for that purpose/

Though it was plain from the expression in Mr*
Harlow's eyes that he was listening with close
attention, not a sound escaped him ; only now and
then he drew a deep breath.

' She left the house that night,* continued Mr^
Maturin. ' Before parting, I told her what I had
done had been from love of her, that my honour
and reputation, such as they were, were in her
hands, for if she betrayed me I should be ruined.
She told me she would write to me from the town
in which she settled, and made me a promise that
should she ever find herself a widow she would
become my wife.'

A grim smile, as he said this, fluttered a moment
on his hps.

' Before answering your advertisement, I pro-
cured a gravestone to be erected over her grave,
inscribed with the name she had gone under ; for

THE SUROEOirS SECRET. 161

I was satisfied I could convince you by testimony
wholly irrespective of the inscription over the
grave, of the identity of Barbara Hunter with
the person advertised for. I also concerted with
the landlady, whom I terrified by threats into a ftdl
acquiescence with my commands, that when called
upon, she should endorse the story I was to
relate to you, and produce the bracelet under
a kind of protest, as though she had stolen it
from your wife; all which she faithfully pro-
mised to do, being assured by me that, should our
stratagem be discovered, her punishment would
probably be a long term of imprisonment.'

' What reason have you in coming here to tell
me this ? * asked Mr. Harlow.

' I am poor.'

' And you want me to buy your silence ? '

Mr. Maturin bowed.

' Suppose, instead of paying you to hold your
tongue, I charge you before a magistrate with
conspiring to extort money from me ? '

' You won't do that. PubUcity is what you'd
rather shun than court. You don't want it known
that you attempted to lock your wife up in a
madhouse ; and I dare say you are too happy with
your present lady to wish her to know that her
marriage with you is void, and that though she

M

162 THE 8URGE02r8 SECRET.

may remain here as your mistress, she can never
be received as your wife.'

' You villain ! ' cried Mr. • Harlow, starting fix)m
his chair.

' You had best not anger me ! * called out the
other, hotly.

Mr. Harlow took several turns about the
room.

' This interview must end,' he said. ' I refuse
to believe a word of your statement. I will not
give you a single farthing of money. And I now
order you to leave this house.'

' I pretty well expected this ; so I made up my
mind to tell you that I will give you a week to
make any inquiries into the truth of my story you
may think proper. At the end of the week I
shall be here : and, since I know that I speak the
truth, I shall expect to be handsomely paid to
keep the secret, or I shall write to Mrs. Harlow,
inform her that her fear of you is groundless, and
recommend her to avenge herself upon you by
coming forward and proclaiming herself your
wife.'

Mr. Harlow was staggered by the man's cool,
resolute manner.

' I'll now add something which I omitted telling
you before, Mr. Harlow. I foresaw in a measure
the hold I should have upon you by your accepting

THE SURGEON'S SECRET. 163

my story of your wife's death, and judged there-
fore, that should she come forward, my scheme
would be disappointed. So I resolved to keep
her in the background, by persuading her that it
was quite possible for you to carry out your design
to confine her, since all you needed was the tes-
timony of a medical man to her insanity, and there
were many unscrupulous enough to be ready to
swear falsely if they were paid to do so. I
promise you she will prove quite obedient to my
wishes. She beUeves that I love her, and knows,
therefore, I would not dream of smnmoning her
from her retreat to imperil her safety.'

Mr. Harlow looked hke one stunned. The
consistency of the man's story, his candour in
avowing his design, his confession of the poverty
that had set him upon this unworthy work, left
him hopeless. However incredible the story had
appeared at first, his mind was now beginning to
receive it, to weigh, examine, criticise it. Mon-
strous as it was, it could yet be true ; nay, its very-
horror helped to increase its probability.

•The composure he had regained by the exercise
of his will, ebbed away.

'Mr. Maturin,' he cried, in a broken voice,
' poverty may make lis often desperate, but it need
not make us cruel. Is this story true ? Before
you answer, consider what its truth involves — the

V 2

164 THE SUBGEOyS SECEET.

happiness of my wife, whose heart would break
under such a blow — my name and character, and
witli them my happiness. Tell me that this is a
mere fiction ! I will reward you — *

^It is true, Mr. Harlow; and I wish it vrexe
not, for I am not wholly heartless, and yonr
desjiair touches me. But if I told you a lie in
the first instance, I speak the truth now/

* God help me/

* You have desired that this interview should
end,' continued Mr. Maturin, rising; *you have a
week before you to make inquiries respecting
tlie truth of my story. Meanwhile I remain at
Alminster, and am quite at your service if you
tliink I can be of any use in proving my state-
ment/

He bowed and quitted the room, leaving Mr.
Harlow standing at the table, looking, with a white
face and a vacant eye, at the grounds through the
window.

xvn.

In that mood, with that face, Mr. Harlow could
not meet his wife. He went to the stables, ordered
a groom to saddle a horse, and left the house.

THE SUROEOirS SECRET. 166

I -r "^-Ti-- — ■-» — I I

He gained the open country, and started the
animal into a gallop. They dashed forward at a
mad pace, up hills, over fences, across level plains,
until the horse was white with sweat. Mr. Harlow
rode as if he were fleeing from a fiend. But the
ride, which would have exhilarated him under any
other circumstances, only served to stir into a
brisker operation the faculties of his mind, and to
make him more completely grasp the narrative he
had heard.

He turned his horse's head homewards; the
reins drooped slack on the animal's neck; Mr.
Harlow fell to thinking. What should he do?
If the story were true what a future lay before
him ! his character and hopes at the mercy of a
rascal; his sweet Cicely, a wife only in name;
the child that was promised them illegitimate!
But though he tried to think it false, he beUeved
it true. As a spider works with nervous Kmbs
to disconnect from its web the wasp that has flown
into it, so Mr. Harlow's mind strove to cast from
itself the horrible story that was lodged there.
But he could not overcome its tenacious hold ;
each movement rendered it more inextricable.

Indeed, Mr. Maturin could hardly have chosen
a better time in which to disclose his story. Since
the preceding night Mr. Harlow's mind had been
greatly clouded with a superstitious feeling — an

166 THE SURGEON'S SECRET,

— ~— »fc III - I

apprehension of danger of a nature undeterminable
up to that moment. A narrative far more in-
credible would have found a reception, and fear
would have emphasised it as fear now emphasised
Mr. Maturin's story.

The one improbable point in the relation was
the part in which Mr. Maturin had told him how
Mrs. Harlow had counterfeited death. This was
a device which might be made to look probable
enough in the pages of a romance, but which he
beUeved impracticable in real life.

Here then was a hope.

How was he to ascertain that the story of the
coffin having been filled with stones was an
invention ?

The coffin must be opened.

How was this to be done? If he applied to
the authorities to disinter the coffin, he would
have to give satisfactory reasons for his request,
and those reasons would involve the relation
of the whole story. That relation would not
signify should the coffin be foimd to contain the
body of Mrs. Harlow, for the conspiracy woidd
then be proved. But if the coffin should be found
to contain stones and earth, then it would be
certain that Mrs. Harlow was Uving ; the public
would hear the story, spnd it would be imme-
diately known that Cicely was not hi^ wife.

THE SURGEON'S SECRET. 167

K it was certain that the only way to prove or
disprove Mr. Maturin's statement was by opening
the coffin, it was equally certain that the ex-
humation must be performed privately. He alone
therefore, if he desired secresy, must conduct the
inquiry from beginning to end.

He was a Uttle cheered by the belief that he
had hit upon a certain way of proving Mr. Ma-
turin's statement a Ue. He was pretty sure that
Mr. Maturin would never expect that his inquiry
would lead him to disinter the coffin. It would
be easy enough, when he should discover that his
wife's remains had been really buried, for him
to leave the grave as he found it, acquaint the
' authorities ' with his suspicion of Mr. Maturin's
conspiracy, and have the exhumation formally
conducted, and as if it were being done for the
first time.

He had shaped the difficulty now into some-
thing sohd but. not impracticable ; he could take
courage to look upon it. He had a strong will
when he chose to exert it, and contrived to
control himself and keep his voice under his
command when he met Cicely. His exer-
cise had fi-eely circulated his blood and flushed his
face.

*Why, Harry,' she exclaimed, throwing her
arms around him, ' I thought Mr. Maturin had

168 THE SUROEOirS SECRET.

carried you off, and that I should never see you
again.'

' I suppose you thought the Tempter had taken
the name of Maturin. The Devil certainly does
take man's shape now and then. However, you
see he has let me revisit the sweet glimpses of
your beauty.'

' Have you been with him all this time ? '

*Not I. He left me two hours ago. I have
been as far as Cherston for a ride ; and a de-
lightful ride I have had.'

' Why did you not ask me to go ? '

' To tell you the truth, my temper was a very
unsociable one. You noticed the mood I was in
this morning ? I made " Sir Walter " rattle me
through the air, hoping the breeze would sweep
the vapours out of me, and make me fit company
for you. Here I am in good spirits, you see.'

'No, not in good spirits. Your eyes are a
little languid, and there is an underlook of melan-
choly, as there used to be when I first knew
you.'

'Then the breeze has not done its business.
But you must not mind me. Fits of the spleen
are common amongst men. I find I have a httle
business to transact at a place called Cannonbury,
and shall go there to-morrow. I think a change
for a day won't do me any harm ; and I am

THE SURGEON'S SECRET. 169

epicure enough to desire a brief absence from you
that I may relish your company the more when
I return/

' Now it is this Mr. Maturin who is going to
make you leave me.'

*What, Cissy 1 will a day's separation grieve
your'

' We have never been apart yet.'

'But husband and wife must separate some-
times.^

' Yes, I know ; but it's our first separation.
What shall I do without you for one whole
day?'

' Suppose it were a year.'

' I could not Hve through it.'

'Then of your own accord you would never
separate from me ? '

' How can you ask ? '

'Suppose the parson who married us should
turn out to be an impostor, never ordained — our
marriage null and void ? '

' Poor Mr. Davison,' she said, laughing. ' He
would not thank you for your fancy.'

'But imagine our marriage illegal,' he con-
tinued, an earnestness colouring his tone of banter ;
' imagine our marriage rendered void by an ob-
jection beyond human power to foresee and
obviate.'

170 THE SUROEOirS SECRET,

* You want to frighten me.'
' What then, little one ? '

' I should still be yours, should not I ? '
' In heart. But would you remain with me, and
defy the suspicion of the world ? '

* What would be the opinion of the world com-
pared to the loss of you? But we could be
married a second time.'

' Yes ; but don't you know the world would be
prejudiced against you for Hving with a man who
was not your husband ? '

* But I should be guiltless. It would not con-
demn me for an action done in good faith.'

' It might not condemn ; but it would pity, and
cut you. It is with society as with the law,
Ignorantia legis non excusat Now, how should
we act ? We should lock up Wilton Hall, and
retire to Lausanne, say, or any sweet retreat you
might choose —

For if the world hath loved thee not,
Its absence may be borne.

I could bear it. Could you ? '

' I care nothing for the world — only for you.'

* We are man and wife before God — ^I mean,
we should be, supposing my hypothesis were real.
What should we care for the world ? Would not
some httle house, standing near the lake, fenned

THE SVRQEON'S SECRET. 171

— - - - ' —

by an air sweetened with acacias, make us a plea-
sant retreat ? I picture us two in a boat in the
centre of the lake, the western edge of the water
crimsoned by the sun, the eastern sky dappled
with stars, the huge mountains frowning into the
heavens, no human voice but our own to break
the universal calm, no human eye to mark our
caresses. Cannot you hear the ripple of the water
under the bows, and see the lustre which the small
white moon is throwing over the edge of the
mountains, before it floods the lake with silver,
and makes your beauty spiritual as Undine's ? '

' Do you wish our marriage void that you may
test my devotion ? '

'God forbid!'

'Ah, your morbid humour is still on you.
Come, I will sing you a song ; what shall it be ?
" I wish I was by that dim lake " ? '

Mr. Harlow left for Cannonbury next day. He
gave his wife no other reason for his journey than
the excuse of ' a Kttle business.' She did not
question him ; whatever his object was, she saw
he did not want it known.

He kept his composure well before her. She
remarked his melancholy, but attributed it to the
mood that had not left him since the night of the
ball. Assuredly she had no conception of the

172 THE SURGEON'S SECRET.

heavy load of sorrow and fear that lay upon his
heart.

He was glad when the time for leaving came.
His imposture of ease and even gaiety was making
demands upon him he felt he could not long meet.
His smiles seemed to crack his heart-strings. He
burst into tears when he was in the railway car-
riage ; the strain of his behaviour, when he relaxed
it, found him utterly unmanned.

But it was a long journey to Cannonbury, and
before he reached there meditation had disci-
pKned his mind and marshalled its forces for his
bidding. .

Indeed, a task lay before him which needed
his utmost energies, coolness, self-possession, reso-
lution, in the highest degree. His despair made
a capital overseer for his mind ; there must have
been mutiny, disorder, vacillation with a less
exacting taskmaster.

It was after five when the train halted at his
destination. He went to a hotel and ordered
dinner. He drank pretty well of wine, for his
spirits were low and threatened to hamper his
energy. When he had dined, he left the hotel,
and walked to Mrs. Sandford's house. He knocked
at the door ; it was presently opened by the land-
lady.

The evening had already fallen. She did not

THE SURGEON'S SECRET. 173

recognise him by the uncertain Kght, if indeed
she remembered him at all. She thought him a
person in want of lodgings, dropped him a curtsey,
and invited him to enter.

' You ate Mrs. Sandford, I think.'

' Yes, sir.'

' Can I have some conversation with you ? '

She regarded him steadfastly.

* What might you want, sir ? '

a will tell you.'

He entered, following her into the little dingy
parlour into which he had been shown before
with his companions.

' My name is Mr. Harlow. I called here some
time since with two gentlemen, to inquire after the
lady who formerly Hved here under the name of
Mrs. Himter.'

' I recollect,' she answered.

'On that occasion you informed us that the
lady was dead ? '

' I did, sir.'

' You produced a bracelet as a proof of her
identity?'

' I remember.'

'You gave us a most circumstantial account
of her death, confirming in every particular the
story that Mr. Maturin had previously related.
Was that story true or false ? '

174 THE SURGEON'S SECRET.

' False, sir.'

' What made you tell it to us as true, knowing
it to be false ? '

' It was Mrs. Hunter's wish. She was afraid
of her husband, and of being caught by him.'

'WeU?'

' I should like to know,' exclaimed the woman
querulously, ' why I'm to be questioned about a
person I have nothing more to do with ? '

' But you lent yourself to a wicked deception.'

' I did it out of kindness for her,' answered
the woman, hanging her head.

' And Mrs. Hunter is alive ? '

' Yes, sir.'

' You answer reluctantly. Perhaps you will
have less objection to be plain if I tell you that
I am that lady's husband.'

' Oh, indeed ! ' but she did not raise her head,
nor utter the exclamation with the surprise Mr.
Harlow had expected.

' Will you tell me why you stated she was dead
when you knew she was aUve ? '

' Dr. Maturin can answer you better than me.'

' I have seen Dr. Maturin, and he has told me a
story which I disbeheve. I have called to ascer-
tain your version of it. Here are five pounds,
Mrs. Sandford. Tell me the truth, and you shall
have them.'

THE SURQEOirS SECRET. 175

- I II ■" ...

' What am I to tell ? ' she asked, not looking up.

' Tell me your motive in speaking falsely in the
first instance.

' Why, sir, the lady was afraid of you. She
had no friend but Dr. Maturin; and when she
saw your advertisement she feared you was de-
termined to capture her at any price. So she and
the doctor laid their heads together, and she
determined to make it appear that she was dead.
She bribed me to help her. I laid her out as
though she was dead, and afterwards she was put
in the coffin. Then the Doctor unscrewed
the Hd and she came out, dressed herself, and
went away that night. I have never seen her
since, and I am sorry I ever had a hand in the
business.'

She began to sob.

' And what after ? '

' The doctor came to me, and told me to tell
the story I gave you when you called along with
him and another gent ; saying if I didn't, I should
be had up before the magistrate for conspiracy,
and imprisoned, perhaps for hfe. So I promised
to hold my tongue as to the truth, and tell what
he bid me say, should I ever be asked about it.'

' But if you are afraid of being punished, how
comes it you do not stick to your first assertion,
instead of telling me what you say is the truth ? '

176 THE SURGEON'S SECRET.

* You told me I should have nothing to fear,'
answered the woman, looking up.

* Did I? I do not remember.'

* I didn't want to tell you ; but you bribed me,
and I am too poor not to stand in need of five
pounds.'

Here she sobbed again.

'I beheve you have told me a falsehood,' ex-
claimed Mr. Harlow, sternly.

' Sir, you can't be a gentleman or you wouldn't
say such a thing,' said the woman. ' Keep your
money, and may my curse hght on the moment
that found me meddhng in afiairs that don't
concern me.'

*I beg your pardon for speaking so rudely,'
said Mr. Harlow, gently. ' But I must tell you, if
your last story be true, you have made me the
most unhappy man in England.'

* I am sorry, sir,' answered the woman, hanging
her head again.

* Will you swear your story is true ? '

*0h, sir, you won't believe me if I swear,
having deceived you once.'

* And Mrs. Hunter is stUl living?'

' How should I know. I haven't seen her for
over a year.'

*But her death didn't take place in your
house?'

THE SURGEON'S SECRET. 177

' I have told you that, sir. I'll swear to
nothing more. You have called me as good as
a liar, and so my word won't be of any use.'

' Here is your money. If you are deceiving
me, may God forgive you.'

He took his hat and left the house.

xvin.

This interview left Mr. Harlow still uncertain.
There had been something in the woman's manner
extremely suspicious. Yet might not that manner
be due to her having already deceived him ? It
was true that having once sworn to a lie she was
perfectly untrustworthy as a witness ; yet, it was
not because she had told a lie once that she might
not be telling the truth now.

Yet he was wholly unsatisj&ed. The mystery
that surrounded the afiair was thickened instead
of illuminated by her statements. There was
only one way in which he could convince himself,
either that Mr. Maturin and this woman were
deceiving him, or that their last story was the
true story, that his wife still Hved, and that his
marriage with Cicely was void.

N

178 THE SURGEON'S SECRET.

He must open her grave.

This he had proposed to do from the beginning.
But he had looked upon it as an end without con-
sidering how it was to be achieved. Now, as he
left Mrs. Sandford's house, he began to think how
he should set about this difficult undertaking.

As he walked, lost in thought, he entered a
lonely road. One house only stood on his right,
beyond were hedges and fields. In his abstraction
he had taken a turning leading from instead of to
the town. Presently he heard footsteps behind
\\\m ; he looked behind, and halted.

A big man in a white blouse and leathern
gaiters, knuckling his forehead, accosted him.

' I ax your parding, sir, but could you give a
poor fellow out o' work a trifle to get him a
night's lodgin'?'

Mr. Harlow eyed him.

' How long have you been out of work ? '

The man began a story. He was a tramp from
Huddlestone, in search of work. He had inquired
at every town he passed through for a job, but
hands were plentiful, and he was not wanted.
He had lain four nights running under hedges.
He had not tasted food since the previous morn-
ing, when a ploughman shared his loaf with
him.

Mr. Harlow appeared to listen attentively, but

THE SUROEOirS SECRET. 179

in reality his mind was occupied with a thought
that was working in it.

' Are you disposed to earn a couple of sove-
reigns ? ' he asked.

The man stared.

' I am in earnest. I can give you a job to-
night, and will give you two pounds for doing it.'

' What might be the job, master?'

' You will have to dig.'

' Oh, I can dig. I've dug all day for a
shiUing.'

' Have you a spade ? '

' No, sir.'

' I'll buy you one. You'll require nothings
more. Have you any courage ? '

' I'se not afeard of no man.'

' You will have to handle the dead.'

The man fell back.

'The what, sir?'

' There is a coffin buried in a churchyard which
I shall want you to dig up. We stand no chance
of being seen. This is the job I want you for.'

The man pulled off his hat and scratched his
head. like most ignorant people, he thought
aloud.

'Two poun'. 'Tis a rare sum. Dig oop a
coffin ? who's to know ? Two poun' ? 'T'U keep
me a moonth.'

N 2

180 THE SURGEON'S SECRET,

So he debated, and presently said,

* Master, I'm your man.'

* Very well,' said Mr. Harlow. ' Follow me^
now.'

He walked down the road and got into the
High Street. He looked for an ironmonger's shop,
and presently found one. He beckoned the man
and bade him enter the shop with him. He pur-
chased a spade which he gave to the man ; he
also bought a screw-driver, which he put in his
pocket.

' That spade will do for the small beds,' said he
to the man, for the edification of the woman who
served him. The man looked puzzled, and
handled the spade as he might a new invention.
Mr. Harlow did not take the trouble to explain
his reason for making this remark; but when
they were in the street gave the man five shilhngs
to procure him a supper, advising him at the
same time to abstain from drink. Then, bidding
him be at the top of High Street at twelve, walked
to his hotel.

He sat in the smoking-room until an advanced
hour in the night. An old gentleman bore him
company until eleven o'clock, a mild old fellow,
who spoke in a gentle voice, talked of his dead
children, and recurred to certain hardships in his
younger days with a pathos that made Mr. Har-

THE SURGEON'S SECRET. 181

low a sympathetic Kstener. When his companion
bade him good night, Mr. Harlow' asked the
waiter if there was a night-porter at the hotel,
and was answered in the affirmative. He waited
until a quarter to twelve, and then he went into
the street.

The night was chilly, but j&ne. There was a
full moon, which bowed now and then to smoke-
hke clouds which swept over it. The wind made
a sound as of a sea amid the high trees, stiff
with autumn leaves and rotten twigs; a tipsy
voice sometimes broke from some obscure pubhc-
house, but in his walk up the High Street, Mr.
Harlow encountered no hving creature.

Gaining the top of the street, he paused and
looked around him. Presently a shadow stirred
by the roadside. The man he waited for rose
and approached him.

' Here I am, sir.'

' Come along,' said Mr. Harlow ; and they
walked forward, side by side.

Mr. Harlow hardly spoke. He just asked the
man if he had made a good supper ; told him that
the churchyard was not half a mile distant, and
tliat it was lucky there was a moon, as they would
not need a lantern. After this he said no more
until they reached the church.

The gate leading into the graveyard was

182 THE SURGEON'S SECRET,

closed, but not locked. There was a lock, but
time had crammed it full of rust. Some one had
tried to use it, by turning the handle of the key
with a lever ; this had merely twisted the handle
off without turning the bolt ; and there the
broken key was jammed in the rusty hole.

The trees by the narrow road sounded con-
tinuously like the creaming of surf on a beach.
The moon glanced a keen clear hght ; behind, and
some distance beyond the trees, stood a cluster of
houses, sombre, reposeful, and lampless as the
old church.

Mr. Harlow raised the latch of the gate and
passed in, followed by the man, who moved with
a kind of consternation.

The scene was indeed a weird one. The
worn, leaf-covered church stood against the
sky, stars winking behind it. The clock. Ugh ted
by the moon, resembled a dim eye bent frown-
ingly upon the intruders. The long grass about
the graves was dank and heavy with dew. The
grave-stones stood like spectres, some gleaming
white, some melting in the gloom. The plaining
wind crept among them, making them stir with
the shadowy of the long grass, the lean bushes,
and spare creepers. Over all brooded the un-
utterable horror of death.

Mr. Harlow walked unfalteringly to the grave

THE SUROEOirS SECRET. 183

that Mr. Maturin had pointed out as his wife's.
The moon's eye was turned full and clear upon it.
The dayhght could not have more sharply de-
fined it.

We must first remove the gravestone,' said Mr.
Harlow. ' Dig cautiously.'

The man did as he was told. Whilst he worked,
Mr. Harlow accurately surveyed the proportions
of the grave, and noted, by a Kne against the wall
of the church, the exact position the stone was
placed in.

The man laboured carefully, making a clean
mound of the earth he shovelled up. Presently
he dropped his spade, bent his chest to the stone,
and drew it out.

* Well done,' said Mr. Harlow, approvingly.
The stone was set against the church wall, and

the man resumed his digging. Now and then
T^r. Harlow desired him to pause while he hstened ;
but nothing more was ever audible than the
lamentable sound of the wind in the trees, and the
sharp rustUng of the ivy. The man dug regularly
and cautiously. He threw the earth on the walk,
not on the grass where its traces would remain.
Presently he stepped into the grave, for the cavity
was deepening.

* 'Twas a bad sexton as did this job, anyways,
for the mould's never been stamped,' he said.

184 THE SURGEON'S SECRET.

After a Kttle his spade struck the coffin; the
hollow echo was hideous.

* You'll soon have done,' said Mr. Harlow,
encouragingly. He handed a small brandy-flask
to the man, who took a long pull.

Five minutes after, the coffin lay exposed.

' Great God ! ' ejaculated Mr. Harlow, involun-
tarily, looking at the coffin, * and this is what we
must all come to ! '

He told the man to get out of the grave, and
then descended into it himself. He knelt and
examined the coffin at the head ; one thing he
saw at once, that the hd was perforated, but
clumsily perforated.

*The holes were probably made by Maturin
when the coffin was brought to the house,' he
reflected. He pulled the screwdriver from his
pocket, and a box of wax matches, struck one,
and whilst he held the small light with one hand,
worked the screwdriver with the other. As he
withdrew the screws, he placed them for security
in his waistcoat pocket. Meanwhile, from time
to time, he exhorted the man who watched
him from above, to keep a sharp look out,
and to Usten attentively to any sounds from the
road.

In ten minutes the screws were extracted, and
he stepped out of the grave.

THE SURGEON'S SECRET. 185

* Your arm is longer than mine/ said lie to the
man. ' Try if you can Uft the hd.'

The man laid himselfflat on his breast, stretched
his arm down, and raised the Ud. Mr. Harlow
also knelt, struck a match inside the grave, and
held it down.

There was no corpse in the coflSn. At the
bottom lay some bricks, packed loosely, with
mould between them.

Mr. Harlow could not beUeve his eyes. The
match went out suddenly, hke the poor hope that
had supported him. He struck another Kght,
and peered into the dark grave again. There
could be no doubt; the coffin held nothing but
bricks and earth. .

* That will do,' he said, in a faint voice. The
man let fall the Hd. There was nothing more to be
done but to leave the grave as they had found it.
Mr. Harlow descended and screwed the lid on ;
and then the man began to shovel in the earth.
It was nearly three quarters of an hour before
their task was concluded, for the utmost care was
needed to preserve the aspect of the grave, and to
disperse from the gravel walk every fragment of
the soil that had been heaped on it.

They left the churchyard and walked towards
the town. At the top of the High Street, Mr,
Harlow paid the man two sovereigns.

186 THE SURGEON'S SECRET.

' Don't speak of what you have seen and done
to-night, for it would get us both into great
trouble/ he said.

The man, knuckling his forehead as he took the
money, said, * He'd never peach ; not he. What
was he to get by peachin ? Happen next day he'd
be ten moile off.'

So they separated.

XIX.

Mr. Harlow went back next day to Alminster.
His wife received him as though they had been
parted five years. He looked pale and worn.
She thought he was fatigued. When a woman
chooses, with what exquisite tact and foresight can
she design our comfort! Qcely brooded over
her husband, soothed and cherished him, sped
swiftly on Kttle missions, kissing him now and
then as one kisses an infant to keep it smihng, and
infusing into him the deUcious sense of home, and
warmth and love.

He watched her as she hovered about him
and essayed to fill his mind with her idea, that it
might banish thence the thoughts that pained and
fretted it. But her smiles and kisses, and cheery

THE SURGEON'S SECRET. 187

little speeches struck pang after pang to his heart.
Our love for those who are dear to us, is always
deeper and purer when sorrow Ues heavy upon us,
as the night deepens the radiance of the moon
which shines but feebly in the day. With the
bitter knowledge that pained his heart, Mr. Harlow
could not mark the great love of his wife and
feel his own, without his despair growing more
poignant. She was dishonoured through him.
What though he was guiltless of her dishonour,
would that hinder the day from coming w^hen
the truth should out, when she should hear
that she was not his wife, when she should be
taught what her connection with him signified, by
the coldness of those who were now her humble,
obedient friends ? Would that prevent the truth
from rankhng in her heart, and narrowing and
spoiling her sympathies and hopes ?

He might paint a pretty picture of a home in
some distant country, tint it with the hghts and
graces of fancy, represent love as an eternal bilhng
and cooing, and call upon her to pronounce the
whole as hef ideal of human feHcity. She, in her
ignorance, would applaud the pretty sketch, call
it beautiful, and declare that its realisation would
give her joy.

But when she should be told that she was not
his wife, that their pretty idyUic retreat was only

188 THE SURGEON'S SECRET.

a refuge from the sneers and shrugs of the world —
how then ? He at least knew enough of human
nature to beheve this: that though love may
exist independently of conventional laws, happiness
in love is impossible, if the airy structure be not
built after the rules laid down by society. There
are few types of lawless love that appeal to us
successfully. The poet may swear his Haidee was
happy — we believe him; for she owes society
nothing, she has no artificial prejudice. But let
a woman bred under the laws of society love a
man never so wonderfully, she may preserve her
passion, but not her happiness, if her love is in
defiance of prejudice.

Mr. Harlow quite believed that the confession
of the truth would only make Cicely cUng all the
more passionately to him ; he did not fear that
her love would fall ofi* — no ; but that all its hap-
piness would go out of it. Nor would it make
her happier to feel that the secret was theirs.
Her self-respect would never suffer her to accept
society under any other conditions than its own.

But how long would the truth remain a secret ?
Is not every home crowded with invisible intelli-
gences which carry the fireside whisper abroad
and drop it among crowds ? How else shall you
account for the Sneerwells and Backbites and
Candours knowing so much of what goes on among

THE SUROEOirS SECRET. 189

friends and strangers ? Le Sage's demon-gift is
not theirs ; yet they contrive to hear secrets which
no unroofing of houses would make them ac-
quainted with ; though I'll allow, the secrets of
the family often He near the roof, for the servants
generally occupy the attics. Well, people would
soon get to hear the truth, heaven knows how !
Mrs. Dumbiggle would be whispering before a
week was over, and whenever Cicely passed she
would find Alminster looking hard another way.

So Mr. Harlow held his tongue. He brought
the utmost effort of his will to bear upon his
behaviour, hid his care under smiles and smart
remarks, and kept his melancholy as ijauch as
possible locked away out of his wife's sight.

On the day Mr. Maturin had appointed for his
visit, that gentleman presented himself. His face
looked very square and grim, nor was its expression
improved by the seedy air of his clothes, and the
bihous complexion of his linen.

Mr. Harlow, who expected him, had given
orders to the footman to conduct him to the
library, and to apprise him at once of his presence,
but not to mention his name should Mrs. Harlow
be within hearing. He knew well enough that a
second visit from this gentleman would cause her
to question him ; and his soul abhorred the thought
of teUing her a falsehood.

190 THE SURGEON'S SECRET.

' Well, Mr. Harlow, I hope you are persuaded
that I have spoken the truth/ was the first remark
Mr. Maturin let fall.

' After the deception you have practised on me/
repUed Mr. Harlow/ ' it would be a perversion of
language to apply the word truth to any statement
you might make.'

' I am poor enough to be able to endure any
indignity, Mr. Harlow. I beg you will not spare
me.'

' I wish this interview to be short — as short as
you can make it. What do you want of me ? '

' Oh, I like expedition. Sharp was always the
word with me. I have told you I am poor.'

'WeU?'

' I have given up my practice at Cannonbury.
I should prefer to say it has given me up. I pro-
pose to reside at Alminster.'

' That you must not do,' exclaimed Mr. Harlow,
sharply.

' Am I not free to choose my own residence ? '

' Why do you choose Alminster ? '

' Because I hope to get your patronage. Your
name is greatly respected in the county. You
command, of course, a large circle of acquaintance.
I dare say you can direct the course of fashion.
So you have only to take me by the hand, and I

THE SURGEON'S SECRET. 191

shall have half the town my patients before the
year is out.'

' You mistake/ said Mr. Harlow, calmly. ' I
have not the influence you beheve. Moreover,
there are several doctors here, long-estabUshed,
who divide the practice among them. A more
influential man than myself would fail to make a
single patient leave the medical man he employs.
The people here are old-fashioned, with immovable
prejudices.'

' At any rate, I am willing to see what your
patronage can do for me.'

' Is this the price of your secresy ? '

* Hardly,' repUed Mr. Mjaturin, with a smile.

* Will you please make your demand ? '

* You will not think a cheque for one hundred
pounds unreasonable to begin with.'

' Pray go on.'

* As I have told you, I am absolutely without
money. You might have noticed that, when I
called here last week, I had a cane with a silver
knob ; I have had to pawn it, together with a
favourite old snuff*-box, which I did not think I
could ever have brought myself to part with. But
poverty rules us with iron laws, and makes us sad
victims — '

* And great rascals.'

192 . THE SURGEON'S SECRET.

' I agree with you. But how should you know?
You were never poor.'

' Never poor, until now. But you have beg-
gared me — beggared me of my hopes, my spirits,
and my self-respect. Had I any self-respect, could
I converse with you ? '

' Your loss makes me none the richer.'

' I beg your pardon — I interrupted the state-
ment of your claim.'

' A hundred pounds will enable me to equip
myself like a gentleman, to buy clothes, to furnish
some apartments, and to put a brass plate on my
door.'

'And after?'

' I shall then trust to you to introduce me to
your circle and recommend me.'

* That you must not expect.'

' Sir — '

' Dismiss that, I say, from your mind. Eather
than breathe your name 'to a single friend, or
appear to know more of you than that you were
the person who attended my wife, I will quit
Alminster and leave you to tell your story as you
please."

Mr. Harlow was pale ; but his eyes flashed, his
nostrils quivered, he looked very daring and
defiant.

' Well,' said Mr. Maturin, after a pause, ' we'll

THE SURGEON'S SECRET. 193

let that rest. Perhaps you will give me the one
hundred pounds ? '

' But I want to understand — is this to be your
first and final demand, or the first of many ? '

* At what price do you value your secret ? '

' That is not the point. By a very rascally
scheme you have made yourself master — '

' Pray excuse me ; you put the thing unfairly.
This is no scheme, but an accident. I began by
serving your wife ; and I end by serving myself.'

' You told me a falsehood ! ' exclaimed Mr.
Harlow, his voice trembling with passion, 'in
order to procure the reward of one hundred
pounds : and you seize upon the consequences of
that falsehood as a means to plunder me.'

' It was not a scheme,' said the other coolly,
shaking his head.

* Will one hundred pounds satisfy you ? '
' Give it me, Mr. Harlow. I will see.'
Mr. Harlow wrote a draft for the amount.

' Here is your money : and now leave me.'
Mr. Maturin read the cheque and put it in his
pocket.

* Before I go,' said he, ' I shall be glad to hear
that you have confidence in my secresy.'

' I accept your secresy as a matter of course.'
'You think that it will be better worth my
while to keep than to part with the secret ? '

o

104 THE SUROEOirS SECRET.

' I beKeve this interview is ended ? ' and Mr.
Harlow opened the door.

Mr. Maturin looked at him very grimly as he
passed. Outside the door he turned and bowed.
Mr. Harlow took no notice.

Left alone, his mind went to work once more to
see how he could disengage himself from the web
into which he had fallen. He liked this visit
of Mr. Maturin so Kttle that he did not want it
repeated. Yet it was not the fellow's manners,
nor the exceeding coolness with which he made
his demands ; but the sense that, by acceding to
the man's claim, he had fallen almost as low as
the rascal himself, that made him smart.

Yet, when he had got rid of his anger and fell
to review the matter coolly, he saw that" what he
had done could not have been helped if he wanted
his secret kept hid. Indeed, he took credit for the
manner in which he had passed through the inter-
view. He had flatly decKned to carry out the
man's wishes in one respect, and he had treated
him as the rascal he was. Yet he got no satis-
faction from this reflection. Nay, after thinking
a Httle, he began to see that the poKcy of his
behaviour had been wrong, that he should have
met Mr. Maturin civilly, and, at least, have tried
whether an artificial kindness might not have
brought the man into a mood in which a com-

THE SUBGJBOJrS SECRET. 196

promise would have been possible, before he fell
upon him with hard words and made his rascality-
more dogged by filKng him with resentment.

It was not too late yet. If he could only suc-
ceed in inducing Mr. Maturin to leave the country,
his secret might be safe. Safe ? he shook his head
at the word. Was Mr. Maturin the only person
he had to dread? Was not his wife Uving?
Suppose she should be told or should discover
herself that he, her husband, could not carry out
his scheme of confining her in a madhouse ? Sup-
pose that some one who knew he was married
again should advise her to charge him with con-
spiring against her hberty, hoping that she would
die in the hateful atmosphere of a madhouse,
that he might marry Cicely Drummond! He
could, indeed, prove such a charge groundless,
but what would become of his character and name
during the investigation ? And waiving all such
considerations, it was at least most probable that
her fear of her husband would leave her, and
that she would return to claim her rights as a
wife.

His brain was in a whirl. Let him think as he
would the entanglement grew more comphcated.
His position was the one thing sharply defined ;
the rest was in a haze. He saw no prospect of
rehef unless his wife should die ; and even then

o2

106 THE SURGEON'S SECRET.

his secret would still be known to Mr. Maturin,
and a second marriage with Cicely would be
necessary before she could be called his wife.

As he paced the library, the door was opened,
and Mr. Drummond was admitted. The old gen-
tleman greeted him cheerily, and Mr. Harlow had
to crush his trouble with the fiill grasp of his will
in order to respond in the tone and manner that
were usual in him.

' So you have- had a visit from Mr. Maturin,'
said Mr. Drummond. ' I met him as I was coming
here. On my soul, I was almost ashamed to be
seen talking with him ; though he was overpower-
ingly civil. He tells me he is going to start in
practice here.'

' That is his intention, I beheve.'

' I suppose he came to borrow money, eh ? and
you lent him some, I know, because he spoke of
you with that particular kind of warmth of which
the inspiration always comes from the purse. You
know what I mean.'

' He spoke well of me, did he ? '

^ He said he was too unpoUshed a man to be a
flatterer, so he hoped I'd beheve him sincere when
he assured me that in all his experience he never
met anyone with more of the thoroughbred
gentleman about him than you. Thought I, my
friend, you would never have observed this had

THE SURGEOirS SECRET. 197

you not been borrowing his money. When the
time comes for repayment, your opinion won't be
so flattering.'

' His opinion is certainly flattering.'

'I really don't think you have done him a
kindness in helping him to start here. The place
is overrun with doctors, and I told him so. Still,
I can understand you were touched by his shabby
appearance. He asked me to speak for him
among my friends, and of course I promised.
Now what brings him to Alminster, of all places ? '

Mr. Harlow shrugged his shoulders.

' I suppose he fancied he had a claim upon you.
I dare say he thinks if he settles here you'll pro-
mote his interests.'

* He makes a great mistake if he imagines any
such thing. I would much rather he were out
of the town. It will soon be known he attended
my wife, and we shall have the people here
talking again.'

'Yes, it is unfortunate. But after all, what
does it matter? He can't tell more than is
known ; and if people talk, let them. For my
part, I never valued gossip a fig. How's Cissy
this morning ? I haven't seen her.'

' You'll find her in the grounds somewhere.'

' Won't you come ? '

* No. I have some letters to write.'

198 THE SURGEON'S SECRET.

The old gentleman went out, and Mr. Harlow
was left alone again. He asked himself, why
should not he tell Mr. Drummond the truth ? He
could not be condemned for what he had done.
He had married Gcely, truly beheving his first
wife dead, and Mr. Drummond had consented to
the marriage, beheving in her death as fiilly. K
he was to blame, so was Mr. Drummond.

But if he thought of speaking to Mr. Dnmimond,
why should not. he tell Cicely ? There was his
true friend ; there the pure gentle heart that would
advise, comfort, and help him to hold up against
the trouble which promised to overwhelm him if
he met it singly.

" But then, at what sacrifice would he win her
sympathy and counsels? Had he not before de-
bated the result of her hearing the truth, traced
the almost certain consequence of it upon her
love and happiness ? No ; the trouble must be
his — not hers as well. He had brought it upon
himself, not she upon him. She was his hope
and his passion, and all that made life joyous to
him. The shadow of his grief must not touch
her.

THE SURGEON'S SECRET. 199

XX.

One effect of Mr. Maturin's presence in the
town was in a great measure to force Mr. Harlow
back again upon the recluse life he had formerly
led- His judgment told him that it was the
interest of the man to keep his secret; but his
fear whispered that in some loose mood the sur-
geon might blurt out the truth, and that already
some half-guessed story was current in the place.

It was impossible that his love for Cicely should
deepen, but its expression grew more remarkable
in proportion as the sense of the unsubstantial
bond that united them made itself more felt. His
pleasure was to be with her. If he had letters
to write she would follow him to the hbrary, and
take a seat near the table. If he went into the
grounds, she was at his side, their hands linked.
If his horse was saddled, hers was too. Such
devotion as this would satisfy all the requirements
of life so far as its pleasures were concerned.
The perfect fehcity imphed in their passion would
render almost insipid those diversions with which
society amuses those who cannot make or find
enjoyments at home. Cicely therefore saw no-
thing unreasonable in his avowed indifference to
society. It was at least Jd, gratifying tribute to

200 THE SURGEON'S SECRET.

her own powers of pleasing. For her part, she
had brought the simple tastes of her maiden life
into that of her marriage. Her flowers and birds
had been her old companions; and the life of
comparative seclusion which her husband now got
her to enter upon, was only a happy return to
those old habits which association had endeared
to her.

It is surprising, considering their inseparable
companionship, that Cicely should never have
guessed at the cause which had produced the
change apparent in his behaviour. Carefully as
he might hide his sorrow, it could not fail to find
an expression in melancholy.

Such sympathy, however, as Cicely had with
her husband is not often penetrating. It is
passive rather than active, through the great
strength of its sensibiUty. It takes its colour
and tone from the character that excites it,
blends, and by transfusion loses its identity,
so that it feels with another without questioning
the source whence its feehng springs. The
emotions it feels, though borrowed from
another, become a portion of its own nature,
as when you smile at your mistress you will
find your smile reflected in her face, though
her smile is sympathetic and unconscious, and
therefore unquestioning.

THE SURGEON'S SECRET. 201

We must at least conceive some such reason for
Cicely's ignorance of her husband's trouble, unless
we are to suppose that he was so consummate an
actor as to effectually dissemble his sorrow ; and
this cannot be supposed.

His retirement was soon remarked, and the
town charged him with uxoriousness. Mrs. Dum-
biggle declared that Mrs. Harlow was making her
husband effeminate, that she had shorn him of
his manhood, and asked, with her vile squint, who
were the Philistines the poor fond wretch was to
be dehvered to ? All agreed that connubial dotage
Was very well in its way, but that it might be
carried too far ; that a man had duties to perform
to others besides his wife ; that if every man should
act like Mr. Harlow what a horridly selfish world
this would be ; and so forth. Yet the recollection
of the grand ball the young people had given
was too recent to suffer the town to consider it-
self affronted. No one else had ever given such a
rout in the memory of Alminster. Besides, did
not Mrs. Dumbiggle prophesy that Mr. Harlow
would soon drop his absurd passion, behave like
other people, and celebrate his freedom by another
ball? So their acquaintances kept on calling,
bowed graciously, made the tenderest inquiries of
one another after Mr. and Mrs. Harlow, and told
the Drummonds that they hoped their charming

202 THE SURGEON'S SECRET.

daughter did not mean to turn Wilton Hall into a
retreat or monastery.

Now Mr. and Mrs. Dnmunond were capital
parents-in-law. Their daughter being married,
what she did was her business, not theirs. They
seldom intruded themselves on Mr. Harlow, so
that whenever they called they were always wel-
come. When they dined at the Hall, Mr. Harlow
never caught Mrs. Dnmunond looking at her
daughter as if the poor thing were a martyr, ex-
claiming at the smallness of her appetite, hinting
that she wanted a change, or wondering that her
paleness should have escaped her husband. In
short, Mrs. Dnmunond was as httle like a mother-
in-law as Mr. Dnmunond could make her. It is
all the pleasanter to record this, because we have
not seen her temper to be of the best, and might
.from that have feared she would assert her claims
to her daughter to the destruction of Mr. Harlow's
peace. It must be confessed that she owed her
behaviour a good deal to the admonitions of her
husband, a man of sense. He had been made to
suffer in his day. His mother-in-law had once
pursed him with a fork round the dinner-table.
He who had* been made a martyr of, had been
called brute and tyrant. But he had rebelled,
turned, swept his mother-in-law out of the house,
threatened to pull his father-in-law's nose, if it

THE SURGEON'S SECRET. 203

ever darkened his threshold — and it was large
enough to have filled the doorway — -and had
hideously sworn all sorts of terrible threats to
his Maria if ever she admitted her mamma into
his house again. With these memories fresh in
his mind he had warned Maria against meddling
with the young couple. ' If Cissy looks pale/
said he, ' let Mr. Harlow tell you —don't tell him.
If Cissy has a baby, keep clear of the house, and
don't show your nose until you are sent for ;
young husbands are jealous at such a time. Never
make any comments on the household arrange-
ments; never say, That servant might be more
respectful, or. Does the cook sell the dripping ?
or. There is too much water in the gravy. Never
say anything like this. It's a hberty. It's a re-
flection upon Mr. Harlow. He will think you im-
pudent and intrusive, blame you to his wife, who
wiU feel obUged to defend you, and then there'll
be a row.' ^

In such homely phrases the sensible old gentle-
man lectured her. She asked him if he thought
her a fool ; gave him to know that he was a good
deal more likely to meddle than she, and took
his advice. So that if most men discover that
marriage may be forgiven everythiiig but its re-
lations, Mr. Harlow found that he not only had
the luck to be possessed of the most fascinating

204 THE SURGEON'S SECRET.

little woman in the world, but of model parents-
in-law as well.

He heard of Mr. Maturin before long jfrom
Mr. Drummond. The surgeon had taken apart-
ments in a large house in Winstanley-street, a
very fashionable street indeed, and had furnished
them in a style fit for the best man of figure in
the county. A brass plate was at the door, and
there was an advertisement current in the local
journal for a page.

' We shaU hear of him driving a brougham
soon,' said Mr. Drummond. ' He has come out
in a full rig of black cloth, and a white handker-
chief round his throat. I saw him coming out of
a house yesterday in St. George's Street, but I
afterwards noticed that it was to be let. Other-
wise, I should have thought he had been visiting a
patient. Not a bad make-beheve, eh ? I do hope
you haven't been lending the man money enough
to start in this fashion. Two hundred pounds
wouldn't pay for it.'

'I assure you he must be indebted to other
sources besides me, then, if that's the case.'

' I promised to recommend him, but I'll not do
so. I agree with you, he's not a desirable neigh-
bour. You know I never Uked his eye. Nature
has stamped a sign upon that square face of his
which makes me uneasy in his presence. But he

THE SURGEON'S SECRET. 205

can't hold out here. All the doctors will be up
in arms against him, and drive him out of the
town.'

' I hope so,' answered Mr. Harlow.

A fortnight passed without Mr. Harlow hearing
of or seeing Mr. Maturin. One morning a letter
reached him.

* Alminster.

' Dear Sir, — It would be very convenient to
me if you could let me have a couple of hundred
pounds. I have incurred some heavy expenses in
furnishing my chambers, and equipping myself
for practice ; the bills have come in, and I wish
to discharge them, for I want to concihate the
tradespeople by prompt payment.

' Yours truly,

' Ed. Matuein.

' P.S. I wish you would call and see my place.'

* Preposterous,' exclaimed Mr. Harlow. ' Two
hundred pounds! what does the fellow think —
that I am made of money ? At this rate twice
my income would not meet his demands.'

He wrote the man a passionate letter, which he
tore up. He wrote a cool reply, saying that such
a sum was out of the question ; that if Mr. Ma-
turin would put a reasonable demand in a definite

206 THE SURGEON'S SECRET.

form, so that Mr. Harlow miglit know at what
price his secret jvas to be valued, he might enter-
tain it ; and was going to point out that nothing
but his devotion for his wife would suffer him to
hold any communication with such a rascal, when
he lost his temper, flung the letter into the fire,
and made up his mind not to answer Mr. Maturin
at all.

' My silence may alarm him,' he reasoned. ' He
will think he is going too far. He may offer
to come to terms, and if I oppose him skilftdly I
may perhaps be able to buy him out of Alminster
and rid the country of him.'

Two days passed. Mr. Harlow had awaited
every post with apprehension of a letter filled
with threats. When no answer came he began
to hope that his conjecture was verified : that Mr.
Maturin was really alarmed, and was debating the
best mode of action.

But on the morning of the third day, Mr.
Harlow being in the hbrary with his wife, a ser-
vant entered, and whispered that a gentleman was
in the hall who wished to speak to him.

' I will see him here,' said Mr. Harlow ; and
turning to Gcely: 'My darhng, you had best
leave. I will joia you presently in the drawing-
room.'

Gcely went, suspecting nothing fi:om her hus-

THE SURGEON'S SECRET. 207

band's manner. She left by the door leading into
th^ cube-room ; a few minutes after she was gone,
Mr. Maturin was shown in by the door leading
from the hall.

' Good morning, Mr. Harlow.'

' Good morning/ rephed Mr. Harlow, standing.
* Pray be seated.'

' I have called respecting a letter I wrote you.'

' Yes.'

' You did not answer it.'

' I did not.'

' May I ask why ? '

Mr. Harlow was about to reply angrily. He
reflected, and said coldly,

' The letter was unanswerable.'
^ ' How? it contained a request put in the plainest
Enghsh.'

' Do you mean to say you are serious in asking
me for two hundred pounds ? '

' You would think so indeed if you saw my
bills.'

' What are your bills to me ? '

' I hoped I should be so fortunate as to get you
to pay them.'

' You are mistaken.'

' I think not.'

Mr. Harlow bit his hps. He saw that he must
not lose his temper.

208 THE SURGEON'S SECRET.

' You must think me a ricli man to possess so
much money, and a hberal one to pay it.'

' I cannot but think that two hundred pounds
to the possessor of Wilton Hall must be a very
insignificant sum.'

' But you have already received one hundred.'

' I hardly want you to remind me. Money is
so great a novelty that I am not hkely to forget
what httle I get. But I wonder you should re-
member what it is impossible you can miss.'

' I cannot give you two hundred pounds.'

' Sir, I must have it.'

Mr. Harlow looked at him. Mr. Maturin met
his gaze with an expression on his face that was
almost a smile.

'What hmit/ asked Mr. Harlow, struggling
with his voice, ' do you propose to assign to your
demands ? '

' I cannot fix any hmits until my necessities are
more defined. It is quite plain I must live. You
would think me unreasonable indeed, if I should
ask you for such a sum as, properly invested,
would enable me to live on the interest. I will
not ask that ; I propose to act more generously :
I propose to work for a livelihood. But I must
have money in order that I may estabhsh myself.
Your secret is worth a good deal to you. You
know what its betrayal would mean. Yet I must

THE SUROEOirS SECRET. 209

►■■■II '

confess I cannot think you value that secret very
highly, when I find you objecting to the small
vdemand I make.'

* If I give you two hundred pounds, how long
do you propose to remain satisfied with that
sum?'

' I cannot tell you. A medical practitioner has
to give long credit. Before he can get people to
go into debt with him, he must persuade them by
an appearance of wealth which stands the world
in good stead for skill and practice.'

' It is very plain that you want to drive me out
of Alminster.'

' Indeed you mistake. I have no wish to do
anything of the kind : for it would put me to the
expense of having to follow you.'

Mr. flarlow sat down, and rested his cheek
upon his hand. Presently he looked up.

' It is impossible that you can be so hard-
hearted as to wish to break down a man who has
done you no injury. You belong to a profession
of which humanity is not the least of its best cha-
racteristics. You say you are a gentleman. I
entreat you, consider what you are doing. Having
acted unworthily, why do you use the consequences
of that act to strike at my happiness ? You know
I am powerless — powerless because I have not
the courage to see the woman whom I love cut

p

210 THE SURGEOirS SECRET.

by the world and humbled by the sense of the
position your assurance caused me to place her in.
I ask you to meet me as a man. What will you
take to leave this place ? '

' If it were not that I am utterly poor, I would
own to being moved by your appeal. But my
prospects are too hopeless to allow me to be sen-
timental. I cannot alter my scheme. I see a
means of earning a Kving here ; and the condition
of my advance must be the price of my secresy/

' How long will the two hundred pounds you
ask for last you f '

' I would tell you if I could.'

* Do you not see there must be a limit to your
demands ? '

' I will do my best to get a practice and try
to limit them so. I asked you to help me to pro-
cure patients. You refused. If I can't get
patients I must get money. So it is as long as it
is short.'

' Suppose,' said Mr. Harlow after a pause, ' I
refuse you this money ? '

' You will not.'

' Suppose I give orders to my servants not to
admit you? Suppose I burn your letters? and
if you continue to molest me, give you into
custody ? '

THE SURGEON'S SECRET. 211

*Why then, I should feel myself under no
obligation to keep your secret.'

' And then ? '

' I should consider myself badly used. I should
probably lose my temper. I should be induced
to repeat the whole story of your treatment of
Mrs. Harlow, and call her as a witness to confirm
my statement.'

' How would that story injure me ? I, on the
other hand, could call up another witness — a
respectable witness — a well-known doctor, to prove
that she was mad at the time of making her
escape.'

' At all events,' said Mr. Maturin quickly, ' your
present wife would have to resume her maiden
name ; and that, I take it, is what you wish to
avoid.'

Mr. Harlow muttered something between his
teeth, went to the writing-desk, and hastily wrote
a cheque.

' There,' cried he, tossing the draft from him,
' take your money and go.'

If Mr. Harlow's action was unexpected, Mr.
Maturin did not look surprised. The cheque
fluttered to his feet. He picked it up, pocketed
it, and left his chair.

' I am much obKged to you,' he said.

p2

212 THE SURGEON'S SECRET,

Mr. Harlow threw open the door. This time
Mr. Maturin made him no bow.

'Great God!' exclaimed Mr. Harlow, raising
his eyes, and wiping the cold sweat from his fore-
head, * how is this to end ? how is this to end ? '

XXI.

* There is a new doctor come to settle here,'
said the people of Alminster one to another ; * his
name is Maturin.'

But beyond this for a short time Mr. Maturin
excited no curiosity. There was Uttle hkelihood
of his being employed by those who talked about
him : for Mr. Harlow had spoken truly when he
said that Alminster was old-fashioned, and clung
to its prejudices, and would stick to its own doctors.
Apart from this, however, Mr. Maturin was ugly
and awkward. As to his ughness, that might not
indeed have told very heavily against him amongst
women, whose opinions on beauty very wonder-
fiilly differ, and the most fascinating of whom
• generally marry the plainest men. But his man-
ners were more serious ; his voice was loud and
coarse ; his bow awkward as Punch's ; he had large

THE SUROEOirS SECRET. 213

feet and hands, and dressed his throat untidily.
How should such a man prevail against those of
his own profession already established ? men for
the most part suave and sleek, soft and har-
monious, fluent and white-handed, with nimble
minds, and a larger knowledge of woman's heart
than medicine ?

It was whispered, however, before very long, that
this Mr. Maturin was a friend of Mr. Harlow : that
he had attended Mrs. Harlow in her last sickness ;
and that it was he who had brought the news of
her death to Mr. Harlow.

He became an object of interest ; though when
people fell sick, they still sent for Dr. Jorndyce,
or Dr. Syrup, or Dr. Pulse, as the case might be
— not for Mr. Maturin.

It was Mrs. Dumbiggle who chiefly helped to
make him an object of interest. Her ingenious
mind fancied it could witness in Mr. Maturin's
residence at Alminster a mystery, the secret of
which it would wonderftdly please her to get
possession of, that she might deal it out in bits,
and so preserve or improve her useful reputation
of knowing more of other people's afiairs than the
people themselves.

Nay, so resolved was she that there should be a
mystery about Mr. Maturin and Mr. Harlow, that

214 THE SURGEON'S SECRET.

she took a vow if she couldn't find it, she'd
make it.

She called at Marion Lodge before long, and
had a talk with Mrs. Drummond.

' You have heard, I suppose, my dear,' said
she, ' of this new person — this new doctor — ^who
styles himself Mr. Maturin ? '

' Yes, and I am told he is not likely to procure
any patients.'

' Oh, I said that from the beginning, as soon as
I heard he meant to settle here. Yet he must
have known this, for he doesn't look a fool —
though he has a queer face, indeed, and I must
say, an animal mouth, and an unsatisfactory eye.
For my part, I hate people who don't look you
in the face when they speak or meet you. Not
that / have ever spoken to Mr. Maturin.'

' Some can't help not looking one in the face,*
said Mrs. Drummond, referring to herself rather
than to her visitor ; for when she conversed with
Mrs. Dumbiggle she seldom looked at her, for her
squint was of so sharp an angle, that in order to
catch her eye it was requisite to fix the gaze
wholly on the point of her nose.

' No, some can't help it, as you say. And Mr.
Maturin may be one of them. However, it's not
to be supposed that he settled here without an
invitation. Now, who could have invited him ? '

THE SURGEON'S SECRET. 216

' I really cannot say.'

' It is rumoured that lie is a friend of Mr.
Harlow.'

'Mrs. Dumbiggle, you drive me out of patience
with your rumours. Why don't people attend to
their own affairs ? '

' That's what I often think. I can assure you
I was very near getting into hot water some time
ago through one of these busybodies. A lady,
who shall be nameless, told me that a certain
young person was to be seen walking sometimes
after dark with a certain Colonel, whose name
you must guess, for I really cannot tell it. I
went to her mamma, and, knowing there should
be no reserve between old people like her and
me, told her that as I couldn't see any prospect
of her daughter marrying, the best thing she could
do was to give the girl her way, await the con-
sequences, and then commence a lawsuit against
the Colonel, the issue of which would either be to
make him marry her, or to pay such a sum of
money as would entice another man into an offer.
But, judge my horror when I found that my
informant had mistaken Lady Singer's maid for the
young lady ; and that the young lady herself had
been stopping a month with some friends in
London !• I promise you, I took a vow never to

216 THE SURGEON'S SECRET.

give advice again, until I knew the ground I trod
on was quite steady.'

' A very wise resolve, ma'm/

' Concerning this Dr. or Mr. Maturin, by the
way, there is a foolish report that he attended the
death-bed of your son-in-law's first wife. Is
it so?'

' I beheve it is, though I can't see why the
report should be called foohsh.'

' Well, Mrs. Drummond, you know I'm a plain-
spoken woman, and hke to show myself a true
friend whenever I can. I therefore think it right
to put you on your guard — should any maUcious
or disagreeable reports reach you, treat them with
the contempt they'll be sure to deserve.'

' What reports have I to fear ? '

' Don't you see, my dear, that Mr. Maturin's
coming here to practise his profession at Mr.
Harlow's invitation — '

' But this is false.'

' That won't prevent people from beheving it.
Only yesterday a certain person said to me, " If
Mrs. Harlow were my daughter, I'd not rest until
I knew exactly what relations existed between
her husband and this doctor. It is said that this
man attended Mrs. Harlow. She died. Mr.
Harlow married again. Then comes Mr. Maturin
to Alminster.

...

THE SURGEON'S SECRET. 217

' Mrs. Dumbiggle/ cried Mrs. Drummond un-
easily, ' I don't understand what you are talking
about. I beg you will let the subject drop.'

' The very words, Mrs. Drummond, I used to
my friend. " Hush ! " I said ; " you have no right
to breathe such things. Do you think Mr. Maturin
did anything to Mrs. Harlow that her husband
might marry Cicely Drummond? Go! I'm
ashamed. But," said I, " this I must tell you :
Mrs. Drummond is a particular friend of mine,
and I shall make it my business to acquaint her
with this odious report." '

' Gracious goodness ! ' exclaimed Mrs. Drum-
mond ; ' is it possible that there are people wicked
enough to hint such things ? They are no friends
of mine, I hope ? '

' I am sorry to say the lady was an intimate
friend of yours. But didn't I tell you that Cicely's
marriage would make you hated ? '

' This is the worst town for scandal in England.'

' I am sure of it. No person is safe. You
would think that an old woman like me would be
left alone. But no ; I co^e in for my share along
with the rest.'

' Indeed you do ; and it is only fair you should
be told so.'

' Ah ! and they talk against me, eh ? he ! he !
he ! and pray, my dear, what do they say ? '

218 THE SURGEON'S SECRET.

' Why, they say you ought to be the last person
to breathe a word against any living creature,
here or elsewhere.'

' He ! he ! and pray why ? '

* One reason I heard was, but of course it is a
malicious report, that you were separated from
your husband/

' Ha ! ha ! and what next, my dear ? '

' They say that the separation from your husband
would not oblige you to relinquish the society of
the under player for whom he left you/

' Good, very good. Eeally, you are very kind
to be so plain. Anything more ? '

' It is also asserted, that never having had a
character of your own, you are resolved that
nobody else shall have one.'

' On my word, there is some humour in all this.
And what else ? '

' To tell you the truth, I should be sorry to go
on. The catalogue of your sins would make a
pamphlet. The simplest of course begins it, as at
a sale they generally commence with the kitchen.
They profess to have found you out only by de-
grees. My whole time is passed in defending you.
I only wish, for your own sake, that those who
argue against you wouldn't argue so reasonably.'

' Well, I am sincerely obliged to you for your
candour,' said Mrs. Dumbiggle, rising with a red

THE SURGEON'S SECRET. 219

— • 1 r-ii 1 !-■ m^ II _i _ , L I 11- ^m ■■■If

face, ' though as for your defence, I think I can
defend myself. Indeed I had rather; for some
people's advocacy is more damaging to the cause
they maintain, than the severest remarks from the
other side. I felt that myself the other day when
I was trying to persuade a friend that neither you
nor dear Mr. Drummond had the least hand in
bringing about your daughter's marriage.'

' I am glad to think, Mrs. Dumbiggle, that your
friends are so kind as to allow you time to defend
others as well as yourself.'

They parted, not with a very great air of kind-
ness ; Mrs. Dumbiggle to an acqaintance, to tell
her that, from a conversation she just had with
Mrs. Drummond, she was satisfied there was a
dark mystery enshrouding the death of the first
Mrs. Harlow, which Mr. Maturin, Mr. Harlow,
and the Drummonds could explain if they chose ;
and Mrs. Drummond to find her husband, to re-
peat the disagreeable hints Mrs. Dumbiggle
had let fall, and to pronounce her one of the
most dangerous and wicked women she had
ever met.

Mrs. Dumbiggle's hint did not take root at once
in Mrs. Drummond's mind. But when it began
to sprout its growth was quick.

She said to her husband,

' It is strange that Mr. Maturin should have

f>20 THE SUROEOirS SECRET.

come to reside here. He can't have any practice4
How does he live ? '

' That's his business, my dear.'

' But do you think Mr. Harlow assists him ? '

' If you mean with money, I think not. If by
recommendation, emphatically no.'

' Yet he would never have thought of settling
here, where there are so many doctors, had he
not been sure of Mr. Harlow's help some way or
other.'

'Well, I beheve Mr. Harlow has lent him
money, but not much. After all, you must re-
member it was Mr. Maturin who first brought
him news of his wife's death. Cissy would have
been still single, but for this man.'

* But do you fancy there is any secret between
them ? I mean — '

* Now you are going to talk Dumbiggleishly/

' No ; but it does seem strange that Mr. Maturin.
should come here, furnish rooms, and Uve like a
gentleman, when he was so poor as to stand in
need of the one hundred pounds Mr. Harlow
offered.'

'As to his wanting the one hundred pounds,
that's no particular sign of poverty. Could I have
earned such a sum as easily, I'd have done it*
His dress and furniture, I grant you, might look
suspicious if there were no such thing as credit

THE SURGEON'S SECRET. 221

in the world. But, depend upon it, it is his
tradesmen, and not Mr. Harlow, who pay for his
fine things.'

But Mrs. Drummond wasn't satisfied. Mrs,
Dumbiggle's odious hint worked in her mind in-
cessantly. She would ask herself a himdred
horrible questions, and tremble at the answers.
Suppose Mrs. Harlow had died under Mr. Maturin's
treatment ? Suppose Mr. Maturin and Mr. Harlow
had been formerly acquainted, and that the medical
gentleman had volunteered, for a hberal sum, to
become the tool of Mr. Harlow to rid him of his
wife. She nearly hit the truth once : Suppose,
she asked herself, Mrs. Harlow wasn't dead, and
that the report of her death was nothing but a
conspiracy between the two gentlemen? But
this was only one of a crowd of speculations, all
of them equally improbable and unjustifiable ; and
which would never have entered her head but for
that hateful Mrs. Dumbiggle.

Being at Wilton Hall one day, alone with
Cicely, she thought she would ask a few ques-
tions.

' My dear, do you know Mr. Maturin ? '

' By name, mamma.'

^ Have you never met him ? '

' Never.'

' Does he ever call here ? '

122 THE SURGEON'S SECRET.

* He called here once. Why do you ask ? Do
you want to know him ? '

* Xot I. Does your husband ever talk to you
about him ? '

* No.'

'Has he ever expressed any surprise at his
settUng here ? '

* He expressed his annoyance when I told him
that a lady had said that a new doctor had come
into the town called Maturin.'

'How do you mean, dear, he expressed his
annoyance ? '

* I mean that he seemed angry, and hoped he
would get no patients that he might soon leave
here. Can't you understand Harry's annoyance ?'

' I confess I can't. What is Mr. Maturin to
Harry?'

' Don't you know,' said Cicely gravely, ' that
he attended Mrs. Harlow on her death-bed, and
that his presence, and perhaps his gossip, are likely
to stir up memories which Harry wishes for-
gotten.'

'I cannot for the life of me see what your
husband has to mind in the gossip of the people
here,' exclaimed Mrs. Drummond, impatiently.
' Is there anything so very extraordinary in a
man's losing his first wife that her death must by
no manner of means be talked of ? '

THE SURGEOirS SECRET. 228

' But the whole circumstance was a very sad
one, and I for one thoroughly appreciate Harry's
dishke to have the matter adverted to. I don't
like it myself. No, no ; I don't say that it makes
me jealous to hear atoout a woman whom my
husband once loved. I dislike it because it gives
him pain.'

'Well, to be sure Mr. Drummond saw her
grave,' said Mrs. Drummond, abstractedly.

' What do you say, mamma ? '

' I say there can be no doubt that Mrs. Harlow
is dead.'

' Good heaven ! did you ever doubt it ? '

' Well now. Cissy, I'm your mother ; and
though your papa would be angry if he heard me
talk to you like this, I can't help telling you what
I think. I don't at all like Mr. Maturin taking
up his abode here.'

' But what is there in it ? ' asked Cicely, looking
anxiously at her mother.

' Mr. Maturin is a poor man, and would never
dream of doing what he's done, furnishing rooms
and setting up against the doctors here, if he
wasn't backed by some friend, or by some one
whom he was making useful.'

' But do you think Harry his friend ? '

' What other person in the place would help
him?'

224 THE SURGEONS SECItJET.^

' But Harrv does not like him/

* And that's what I am sorry to hear ; for if he
is helping him without liking him, there's a reason
at the bottom/

Cicely looked at her mother earnestly.

'Mamma, what do you suspect?'

'I have no suspicions — settled suspicions, I
mean. But there can be no harm our talking
the matter over. I'll own this, that if your
husband has anything to do with Mr. Maturin it
is stmnge that you should not know. Do you
really say he has only called here once ? '

' Only once to my knowledge.'

' To your knowledge ! Perhaps he might have
called when you were out. Have you ever
thought to ask the servants if he comes to see
your husband ? '

' I have had no suspicions. Besides I wonder
you should think I could condescend to question
the servants about their master. The love he
believes in would be a poor love if it would suffer
me to do that.'

'But I'll tell you what's crossed my mind.
Cicely ; ever since Mr. Maturin has been here
your husband has withdrawn himself from society.
Does he ever go out now ? you know he doesn't.
Neither do you.'

'Dear mamma, do put an end to your sus-

TME SURGEON'S SECRET. 225

picions, Harry is the soul of honour. He would
not hide any secret from me. I know he wouldn't,
and could give you reasons too ; but his secrets, if
they are mine, must be nobody else's, not even
yours,' she added, thinking how frank he had
been in telling her of his scheme to get rid of his
wife.

' I am sure I don't want to meddle in any
secrets between husband and wife,' cried Mrs.
Drummond. ' But my persuasion is he has a
secret which is not yours ; and though your papa
would storm were he to know I spoke to you hke
this, say it I must.'

' I wish you would not say it, mamma.'

' Have I ever busied myself with your affairs
before ? '

' I do not say you have.'

' I have seen things — ^but I have held my
tongue. I have remarked a waste going on that
would support all the poor in the parish, but I
have said nothing. To prove how completely I
have abstained from meddling, I could take a
piece of paper, go over the house with you, and
write down a thousand things that want altering.
No, no ; don't say I meddle.'

Just then Mr. Harlow came in. Gcely sprang
forward, her face hghted by a smile. She caught
him by the hand and drew him to a chair.

Q

228 TSE aURGEOJTS SECRET.

* Sit down, Harry,' she said, ' and clear yourself
of a charge mamma has brought against you/

^ Gcely I' cried Mrs. Drummond, reprovingly.
*And what is mammals charge?' asked Mr.
Harlow, looking at Mrs. Drunmiond with a smile.

* She says you have a secret which you have
not told me/

The smile faded from Mr. Harlow's face, but
not with such abruptness as to cause it to be
observed.

' And what would that secret be ?' he asked.

' Oh, Mr. Harlow,' said Mrs. Drummond, ' really
there is no need to continue the subject.'

' It is all about Mr. Maturin,' remarked Cicely.
' Mamma wonders what should have brought him
to Alminster.'

' I think that is easily answered. Mr. Maturin
was in practice in Cannonbury, where he found no
patients. He became acquainted with me through
my advertisement, and having called and judged
from the house that I must be a man of means
and injBiuence, fancied that he might be sure of
my interest. I have undeceived him. He will
get no patients through me.'

' There, mamma ! ' exclaimed Cicely, trium-
phantly.

' But how did he get the money to fiirnish his
rooms?' said Mrs. Drummond.

THE SURGEON'S SECRET. 227

' Must we suppose him so absolutely poor as to
be without money enough to purchase a few
trifling articles of furniture ? '

Having put this question, Mrs. Drummond saw
she had no right to ask any more. She rose to
go. Cicely asked her to stay to dinner, but she
declined. Mr. Harlow went to the hall-door with
her, which he opened, and discovered Mr. Maturin
outside in the act of raising his hand to knock.

xxn.

Mr. Harlow held his breath. Mr. Maturin
stepped aside to let Mrs. Drummond pass, who
went down the steps with a glance at the surgeon
that satisfied Mr. Harlow she did not know who
he was.

He waited until she had disappeared round the
bend of the avenue to speak to Mr, Maturin.

' What do you want with me, sir?'

* A few words, if you please.'

' If you please.'

' Must we converse here ?'

' A few words can be as well spoken here as
elsewhere.'

a2

228 THE SURGEOirS SECRET.

A footstep sounded behind ; Mr. Harlow turned
and saw Cicely. She came up to him and placed
her hand on his shoulder, not seeing Mr. Matuim
for the moment.

' I want you, darhng,' she began, but stopped
short seing her darUng with a companion. She
blushed Ughtly and went away.

' Now, sir,' said Mr. Harlow.

* Is that your wife, Mr. Harlow ? '

* Your few words, if you please.'

* I must comphment you first on the possession
of the most beautiful girl it was ever my fortune
to see. I can understand your reluctance to lose
her or give her pain.'

* What do you want, Mr. Maturin ? '

' If Mrs. Harlow were to know her successor
was so beautifiil she would go mad indeed with
jealousy. You would have her here in twenty-
four hours.'

' If you will not acquaint me with your business
I must leave you,' said Mr. Harlow, retreating a
step and holding the door.

' Mr. Harlow, I consider you very rude to treat
me in this manner. It is a manifest breach of
hospitaUty for a gentleman to hold a visitor in
conversation on his doorstep. I refuse to talk to
you here.'

' The alternative is simple.'

THE SURGEON'S SECRET. 229

' I would advise you to be cautious/ exclaimed
the other, with the blood in his cheeks and a hot
gleam in his eye. ' You are treating me Uke a
dog, and you will compel me to act like a dog.
I demand your pohteness.'

Mr. Harlow restrained a violent impulse to
take the man by the throat and pitch him down
the steps.

' Can you not explain the object of this visit ? '
he asked in a voice that trembled.

* Not here. Conduct me to a room ; give me a
chair, for I have been walking some time and am
tired, then I will tell you what I want.'

In spite of his rage, Mr. Harlow had the sense
to see that any concessions Mr. Maturin might
choose to demand he would be obhged to yield,
and that a loss of temper therefore was a mistake,
for it could only end in still further mortifying
his pride. Yet how Qould he, young, impulsive,
sudden-tempered, meet this man and not go
almost wild with the impudence of his demands,
the offensiveness of his half-implied, half-ex-
pressed familiarity, and the insolence of his lan-
guage?

He had to bite his hp before he could trust
himself to speak.

' My reason,' he said, * for not asking you to
walk in is my wish that the servants should not

230 THE SUROEOIPS SECRET.

see you so often here. There are other ways
of keeping a secret besides not speaking it. If
you are known to be a constant visitor here,
people will be couphng my name with yours ;
the probable reasons of your settling in this
town will be discussed, and if once you give
occasion for suspicion you will never know
how far it may go or what discoveries it may light
on/

* If you had said this at first I should have been
satisfied. But I know the treatment that is due
to me, and I must insist on having it/

' Now, sir, will you walk or will you explain
.your errand ? *

* I do not rehsh holding a conversation on a
doorstep. Let us walk among the trees.*

They went down the steps.

The winter was near at hand. The trees stood
gaunt and naked; and the crows' nests looked
bare and black on the high leafless branches.

' I have come to tell you,* said Mr. Maturin
bluntly, * that I must either have more money or
you must introduce me to some of your friends.
I can get no patients, strive as I will. I don't
know what there is about me, but I find the same
ciursed ill-luck attending me here that drove me
out of Cannonbury. Of course I never expected
that people would come to me at once ; but I

THE SURGEON'S SECRET. 231

fancied, in a large place like this, that I should
have been able to make a beginning during the
time I have been here/

* Why do you remain ?'

'Because it suits me. If I cannot prosper
here where else should I prosper ?*

*Why do you not abandon a profession that
has proved so ungenerous, and hunt fortune in
another capacity and in another country ? *

* Mr. Harlow, don't think I can mistake your
suggestions for any interest you take in me. It
is quite natural you should wish to get me out of
the way ; but it is also natural that the more you
desire me to go the more plain it becomes to me
that I should remain.*

* You may rest assured, Mr. Maturin, that the
time will come when you will have to leave here.
I have lived in Alminster all my life, and should
know the temper of the people better than you.
I have told you that they are satisfied with the
doctors they have, and even were they discon-
tented, their prejudices would still prefer them to
a stranger.*

* Their prejudices would yield to your influence.'

* I have no influence.*

' But will you not try whether you have or
not ? If I reaUy find that I overrate the value of
your patronage, then I should probably consider

232 THE SUROEOirS SECRET.

your advice that I had best try my luck else-
where/

' I have told you that I have no influence. But
even if I had, no menaces that you could hold
out would drive me into using it for you. My
name must not be coupled with yours.'

* But how shoidd any association of our names
betray our secret ? What is more reasonable or
likely than that you should have taken an in-
terest in me through my having attended your
wife?'

' It is out of the question. Your presence here
is already regarded with suspicion, and the very
last person whose suspicions I could wish to
excite, asked me only to-day how it happened
that you, who confessed your poverty by hasten-
ing to earn the hundred pounds reward I offered,
should have found the money to furnish chambers
in a fashionable street and start with all the ap-
pearance of a man of capital. I can't assist you in
that way. And now hear me — ^whilst I have been
talking to you I have made up my mind to this :
to give you a cheque for two hundred and fifty
pounds on condition of your leaving Alminster
and of my never seeing you again. I see that
from a man of your character I can have no
security that you will keep your word. If then,
after giving me your word, and receiving the

THE SURGEON'S SECRET. 233

money, you should at any future time come upon
me with your threats, I swear before God — and I
never break my word — that I will anticipate the
worst you can do by telling the story myself. If
you like to accept this condition the money is at
your service. K you refuse, I promise you that
you will never receive another shilling from me.' '

' Why do you not do that now which you
threaten to do if I break my word ? Why do you
not tell your story at once and save your two
hundred and fifty pounds ? '

The question was an audacious one for a man
who had everything to gain by Mr. Harlow keep-
ing his secret. But the sense of triumph made
him reckless. Its audacity was not lessened by
the sneer that accompanied it.

' You may well ask why,' returned Mr. Harlow,
looking at him. 'I can answer you. For the
sake of my wife's happiness I am willing to make
the sacrifice. It may happen that you will keep
your word when you know that its betrayal will
gain you nothing. The money may start you in
life, and place you in a position which would
make any kind of villany impohtic. At all events,
I am willing to risk it. So you know your alter-
native.'

Mr. Maturin eyed his companion narrowly.
He imagined that some subtle design must lie hid

234 THE SURGEON'S SECRET.

beliind the seeming folly that could dictate a pro-
posal so insecure and insufficient. Yet Mr. Har-
low was in earnest. He would give the man two
himdred and fifty pounds to leave the town, and
take his bare promise that he would no longer
trouble him ; if that promise was broken, then it
was his unalterable intention to tell Cicely the
truth, quit Alminster, and not return until the
persons he should employ to seek out and watch
his wife should acquaint him with her death — if
she should die.

He remarked Mr. Maturin's hesitation and re-
peated his ofier, capping his resolution with an
oath, which gave the surgeon to know that his
victim was very much in earnest then, however
his resolution might falter afterwards.

There was a long pause. Mr. Maturin's walk
seemed to take the character of his thoughts,
and become stealthy and sneaking. Presently he
stopped.

' Will you make it five hundred ? '

* No. I have named the amount.'

Another pause.

' I agree,' said Mr. Maturin.

' Very well,' answered Mr. Harlow, * come now
to the house.'

They retraced their steps, entered the hall, and
passed into the hbraxy.

THE SURGEOirS SECRET. 235

'Do you believe in the Bible?' asked Mr.
Harlow.

' I suppose you want me to swear upon it/
answered Mr. Maturin with a grim smile.

' K you are a Christian, swear by your Saviour ;
if a deist, by your God; if an infidel, by the
material world you beHeve in — ^it matters not.'

* I am a Christian, and I beheve in the Bible.'
Mr. Harlow handed him a Bible, and dic-
tated an oath of a most solemn kind, that Mr.
Maturin On receipt of the money would leave
the country and never attempt to see him again,
nor speak the secret he knew.

Mr. Maturin repeated the vow with fervour and
pressed his square face upon the book.

* You will leave Alminster to-morrow.'
' Very well,' answered Mr. Maturin.

* Where will you go ? '
' I shall consider.'

'Eemember, you have sworn to leave the
country.'

* I am not hkely to forget the terms of an oath
still warm in my mouth.'

* Before I give you the money, I must ask you
a question : Where is Mrs. Harlow now hving ? '

' I took an oath to her quite as solemn as the
oath you have just made me take, that I would
never inform you of her whereabouts. If you

236 THE SURGEON'S SECRET.

obliged me to break one oath I shall consider
myself to be under no obhgation to keep the
other/

' Is she in England ? '

' She is/

' In what part ? '

Mr. Maturin was silent.

' If you will name the county, I will not ask
the town.'

' I will tell you no more. But if I flourish in
the place I settle in, I will write to her to come
to me — and she will come.'

' You will marry her ? '

'How can I marry a woman whose husband
is ahve? You probably think an action for
bigamy woidd he ? But two wrongs don't make
a right. My prosecution would not save the
reputation of Miss Drummond.'

Mr. Harlow's eyes flashed ; he said nothing,
turned on his heel, and sat down to write a
cheque.

' The money you have had from me in less than
two months should satisfy even you,' he said
whilst he wrote.

' The bargain is ofi*,' exclaimed Mr. Maturin
suddenly. 'The terms don't suit me. I have
furnished rooms in Alminster, and here I'll re-
main.'

THE SURGEON'S SECRET. 237

* It is a pity/ said Mr. Harlow coldly, ' that you
did not know your mind before. You woidd
have saved me much useless trouble.'

He tore the unfinished cheque jfrom the book
and burnt it.

' You want to make a fugitive of me as you've
made your wife, but I'll not have it. Why should
I be hunted out of the country because I know
more about you than you care I should know ? '

' There can be no use in prolonging this inter-
view, Mr. Maturin; you have rejected my pro-
posal, let us part. There is nothing more to be
said.'

* I called to ask you to obHge me with a
cheque.'

' Not a shilling.'

* Sir, I would advise — '

* Hold I do not threaten me.'

* I do not ask for a large sum. The half of
what you have just ofiered.'

' Not a shilling.'

' I pledge you my honour I will allow a long
interval to elapse before I ask you for more, or
attempt to see you again.'

' Not a shilling.'

* Are you serious in refusing to give me any
more money ? '

' I have made you a proposal. I am willing to

238 THE SURGEON'S SECRET.

renew it. If you will accept two hundred and
fifty pounds on the terms I name, you shall have
my cheque for that amount/

* I dechne your proposal. I can see my way
to doing better here than elsewhere. Now,
Mr. Harlow, you will advance me two hundred
pounds.'

' I will advance you not a halfpenny.'

' Sir, I will be satisfied with one hundred, and
promise you a long interval.'

' You are hard to convince. Do you not see
that I am in earnest ? '

' By G — ! ' exclaimed Mr. Maturin, with a
world of bad passions crimsoning his face, 'if
you do not give me money I will betray you.'

' Go and betray me — and at once ; for if you
are not out of this house in two minutes' time I
will kick you out.'

It was the first time Mr. Harlow had lost all
control over himself before Mr. Maturin. His
face was white with rage. He flung open the
door, and approached Mr. Maturin with one hand
clenched, the other pointing to the hall.

'Be ofi*!' he said, through his teeth. 'Be off
before I do you a mischief ! I knew this would
come I '

' I will write to Mrs. Harlow, and by this time
to-morrow the whole town shall know the truth,'
exlaimed Mr. Maturin as he left the room.

THE SURGEON'S SECRET. 239

xxin.

Mr. Harlow listened to liis footsteps crossing
the hall, and heard him bang the heavy house
door. He stepped to the window. The shadow
of the evening lay bleak upon the forlorn pros-
pect of leafless trees and leaden sky. Upon
the distant hills rested a sombre night of
cloud, charged with a shrill wind and cheerless
sleet.

He lighted some candles and looked at his
watch. It was a httle past four; nearly two
hours before dinner. He set ofi* pacing the room.
A first lord of the Treasury rehearsing the speech
that is to keep his party in office ; a city trader
meditating by what arts he is to evade bank-
ruptcy ; an alderman considering what behaviour
he shall carry when presented for a knight-
hood to Her Majesty, could not wear a more
concerned face, a more restless eye, nor walk
with a step more characteristic of the struggle
in his mind, than Mr. Harlow as he restlessly
strode up and down, up and down the room. At
times he would look at the bell-rope, advance to
seize it, pause with an air of consternation, and
resume his walk. His Ups worked, his eye waa

240 THE SUROEOirS S^ECRET.

dull; he looked like one suffering from some
cruel internal malady.

At last his expression hardened. He walked
to the bell-rope and pulled it with a resolute
hand ; then threw himself into an armchair. A
footman came into the room.

'Will you please ask Mrs. Harlow to come
to me?'

Five minutes elapsed, then a footstep sounded,
the door opened, and Cicely entered. The hght
upon the windows was pale, and the candles gave
but a dim reflection. For the moment, the room
looked empty to her.

* Come here, my darhng,' said Mr. Harlow.
She went to his side.

' What makes you sit all alone in this dull dark
room ? '

He placed a chair for her close beside his own.
His manner or quietude struck her. She tried to
see his face, and peering close saw that he was
very pale.

' Are you ill, Harry ? ' she asked hurriedly,
peizing his hand.

* No, no, not at all, but sick at heart, very sick
at heart, Cissy.'

' What has happened ? '

* Press your cheek to mine, and tell me how
much you love me.'

k

THE SURGEOirS SECRET. 241

» ■ ■ ■■ ■■■■■II" ■ I ■ I ■- ■ ■ ■■■^ ■ ■^ ■^l . ■■ ,, MM M^^^p^ i^

^ Oh do not frighten me. What has happened ? '

' Nothing has happened. We are as we have
ever been, true lovers, inseparable in heart, in-
separable in hfe, and God willing, inseparable in
eternity. Is it not so ? '

* What makes you talk so strangely ? You look
shockingly pale. Have you had a fright ? You
know your imagination is a terribly active one.
If I had known you were here, I should have
come. You have no business sitting here all
alone, nursing horrid fancies, and I know not
what. Have you made yourself beheve that I do
not love you ? '

' God forbid ! If I was not sure of the depth of
your love I should not have sent for you.'

*But what is it, dearest? is it only my com-
pany that you wanted ? '

' Gssy, God give me strength to tell you what
I have to say,^ and give you strength to hear it.'

She covered her face with her hands. She be-
heved that something awful had happened. Her
thoughts flew to her mother and father. Could
any accident have befallen them ? No — she had
not long parted with her mother.

' Do not keep me in suspense, Harry. Tell me
what it is.'

' Cissy, my first wife — Barbara — she is not dead.'

For a moment this statement filled her with no

242 THE SURGEOirS SECRET.

other feeling than intense surprise, accompanied
with a kind of reUef, so fax at least as the super-
abounding emotion of astonishment would allow,
that the news was not terrible as she had feared
it would be. For the moment, I say, her mind
could not perceive any reference to her involved
in Mr. Harlow's statement. She merely echoed
with wide open eyes, and a startled, but not a
frightened look, * Not dead ! '

But even as she pronounced these words the
truth flashed, like a broad glare of hght, upon
her, and made her stirless as a statue of stone.

' Cissy ! ' cried her husband, seizing her hand
and drawing her to him.

She passed her disengaged hand over her eyes,
and looked at him like one in a sleep.

* Not dead,' she repeated ; and added, ' then
I am not your wife.'

He passionately drew her to him, clasped her
to his breast, and kissed her.

' You are my wife,' he cried. * Be brave — ^for
my sake I for my sake ! Look into my eyes —
they are your husband's ! We have both been
deceived — wickedly, inhumanly deceived. My
heart has been breaking under the secret. 0, give
me courage to tell it, by showing you have the
courage to hear it.'

She raised her head from his breast.

THE SURGEON'S SECRET. 248

' And tliis,' she said in a voice so faint that it
was almost a whisper, ' this has been the cause of
your melancholy ? This is why you have with-
drawn yourself from society? Oh, I see it aU
now. Did not you once ask me what I should
think if the clergyman who married us — '

She broke off, burst into a passion of tears, and
leant her head upon his shoulder, crying, ' It has
been breaking his heart ! it has been breaking his
heart ! '

He caressed her with a wonderfiil tenderness ;
he put back her hair, and kissed her forehead ;
he sobbed as he pressed her to his heart with
a look of sorrow on his young face that was far
more moving than any words he could have
spoken.

The dark shadow upon the hills was rapidly
overspreading the sky ; the wind plained against
the window, on whose darkling surface was mir-
rored the figures of the husband and the wife.
For a little time neither of them spoke. Presently
she disengaged herself from his arms, and sat up-
right on her chair, taking and holding his hand
with both of hers.

' Did you know she was alive when you married
me, Harry ? '

' As God is my witness, I did not. I beheved
her dead, and so did your &ther. The evidence

b2

244 THE SURGEONS SECBET.

that (lereived me deceived him. The scomidrel
who <fave mo the story of her death, waited mitil
I liad made you my wife before he told me that
he had lied.'

'Do you mean Mr. Maturin? '
' Y(\s. He has been the dark ahadow that has
}iauntiMl me since I married you. It is he who
lias driven me out of society, who has forced a
frri(»f into my heart which the masquerade of
hai)i)iiiL'ss I carried on has but poorly concealed.
When your mother mentioned his name to me
this afternoon, my heart seemed to stop its
Ixiatiiig. I feared — I feared she had guessed the
truth, or that lie had told her.'

* What could be his object in deceiving you? '
' lie knew her in Cannonbury. She professed to
live in dread of my pursuit. He fell in love with
her— such is his story — ^was often with her, and
one day showed her my advertisement. This
confirmed her in the belief that I designed to
rec.'apt ure her in order to confine her in an asylum.
They hatched this scheme between them: she
(M)uuterfeited death, the coffin was ordered, her
body was placed in it, but afterwards removed,
and the coffin filled with stones was buried. She
left Cannonbury, and he answered my advertise-
ment in order to get the reward.'
* Oh dreadful ! My poor Harry I '

THE SURGE0:N'8 SECRET. 246

* You cannot tell what I have suffered. I be-
lieved that the fellow lied ; that he had designed
this conspiracy to extort money by threatening to
denounce me to you and my firiends. I not only
believed it a conspiracy, but a clumsy conspiracy :
for the story of her counterfeiting death and of
the coffin being filled with stones, appeared to me
absurd and incredible. Do you remember when
I went to Cannonbury ? '

' Yes.'

* I did not go on the business I half impKed. I
say half-implied, for I thank God that throughout
this cruel affair I have never told you a falsehood.
Only my behaviour was false. I looked cheerful
when my heart was breaking. ... I went to
Cannonbury to prove for myself that the fellow
had told me a he. Oh, how can I speak it ? I had
her coffin dug up — I opened it myself — and with
my own eyes saw that he had told me the truth —
that his fiirst story only was a He.'

All pity seemed sunk in the share of astonish-
ment she fixed on him.

' You had her coffin dug up I '

* Yes. I was half mad, and would have done
anything to prove that she was dead. When I
look back upon that act I cannot persuade myself
that it was real. It resembles a nightmare, some-
thing ghostly and belonging to sleep. Yet I did

248 THE 8URQE01P8 SECRET.

it. I went to work deliberately. I opened the
grave and looked into the coffin, under the eye of
the moon, with my feet wet with dew that seemed
like the death-sweat oozing from the graves : and
aided by one companion only.'

She clung to him, she could not speak.

'From that day to this Mr. Maturin has
haunted me. I gave him a hundred pounds
when he first came. I gave him shortly after
two hundred pounds more. He held his menace
to betray the secret like a knife to my heart. It
is not three quarters of an hour since he left
me. It was he who stood at the door when you
came to call me away. Your mother saw him ,
but she did not know him, at least I beheve so.
This last interview with him has decided me. I
could endure his threats and extortions no longer.
I gave him an alternative : he dechned it. I
reftised to pay him another shiUing, and he has
gone away threatening to expose me and to set
the whole town talking of us before another day
is gone.'

' Are we not innocent ? ' she asked. * What
have we to fear ? '

' I feared no one but you.'

* You wronged me ; you should have told me
before.'

* I had no fear of your love. I dreaded that the

THE SURGEON'S SECRET. 247

knowledge that you were not legally mine — ah
God ! only not legally mine ! — would affect you, I
could not, I dared not think how/

* Oh, Harry, it is my place to suffer with
you/

* How shall I act ? It is not too late yet. A
hundred pounds will prevent that man from
betraying me for some time. No one can guess
the truth, and in the interval we will leave the
country.'

' Give him no more money. I can guess how
much you must have suffered before you could
bribe such a man to keep silent. Have nothing
more to do with him. Far better the whole truth
should be known than that you should continue
suffering under his threats.'

' My brave girl ! do you fear the world ? '

' I do not fear it ; but we will not face it. Can
we not retire to some such pretty spot as you once
painted? Ah, how little I knew you were in
earnest then I '

' But my poor pet, will you care to leave this
pleasant home and your friends and parents ? will
you not feel sad and lonely in a strange place ? I
have thought of taking you abroad : but I have
also reflected that we could live nowhere more
secludedly than here. There are memories, be-
sides, which make the place dear to you. They

248 THE 8UR0E01P8 SECRET.

will be like friends. And you will have your
father and mother.'

She clasped her hands as she thought of her
parents. Her eyes were ftdl of tears, though she
looked bravely through them at him.

'We will tell them the truth/ he continued.
' Mr. Drummond must see that I have been made
the victim of a scoundrel's scheme for getting
money. Was not he deceived as well as I ? He
was as fiilly convinced that she was dead as that
you are now my wife. You are my wife,' he cried
passionately, ' who wiU dare refuse you that title
when the story of how we have been deceived is
known?'

She shook her head sadly. In the dim candle-
light her face looked like marble. But though
the tears coursed down her cheeks, her expression
was exquisitely serene, as though her spirit soared
above and out of the reach of the calamity and
that it was only her body that sorrowed.

' I am not your wife,' she said faintly. ' Do
not let us deceive one another. Your true wife
lives : she may come at any moment to assert her
rights. Oh, Harry, I fear — I fear I have not the
strength of heart to remain at Alminster. We
had better leave, dearest. I would never have
the courage to quit the house ; our story would
be freely discussed ; the people here are curious.

THE SURGEON'S SECEJET. 249

and would be calling under the pretence of sym-
pathy to get the true story from my own Hps.'

' It is true/ he cried ; ' they would break your
heart.'

' I could be happy, very happy, dearest, with
you alone, in some quiet spot where we should
have no friends.' She paused and suddenly ex-
claimed, ' What will mamma say ? '

What indeed ? He was going to advise her to
keep the secret from her mother until they were
abroad, and then she could write a full account
of the wrong that had been done. But he had
not the heart. What more natural, what more
proper, than the child in the dark time of sorrow
should turn to its mother, to the being who had
watched over and cherished it from the hour of
its birth ?

They remained a long while together in the
dim Kght, he caressing and reassuring her, she
bearing bravely up against the sudden great
trouble that had come upon her, and which
pressed more heavily on her heart as the magni-
tude of its proportions slowly developed before
her.

I say, he reassured her; rather, he tried to
reassure her by tender words of love and by Kttle
pictures of their future. But his heart was against
him. He spoke from his sorrow not from his

260 THE SURGEON'S SECRET.

hope : for hope, just then, he had none ; the
coming time seemed to promise him only the
grief of seeing his dear Cicely paUng under the
deep-rooted sorrow which she would love him
too well to express. He talked on, but his words
carried no conviction to her ears. Yet she smiled
sometimes, to let him think that his sorrow was
not so deep as it was, and to make him believe
that she was comforted by the half-hearted hopes
he whispered to her.

During their long communion it was resolved
that they should leave Alminster and retire to
Switzerland. Wilton Hall was to be locked up
and placed in the hands of an agent, who should
look after the property. Mr. Harlow was a rich
man, and could well afford to have such an estate
lying unoccupied. He was also rich enough to
prosecute another design, which he told Cicely
should be carried out so soon as his arrangements
for leaving Alminster were completed ; that was
to employ detectives, or men used to such work,
to discover his wife's whereabouts, to watch her
closely, and to keep him constantly informed as to
her health, &c.

Shortly before dinner Mr. Harlow received a
note. He looked at the envelope, and said to
Cicely,

' This is from Mr. Maturin.'

THE SURGEON'S SECRET. 261

The enclosure was as follows : —

' Sir, — I can make every allowance for the
temper you were pleased to display before me this
afternoon ; and though you treated me with ex-
traordinary rudeness, yet I have Uved long enough
in the world to appreciate the maxim which says
" Forgive and forget."

' I left you, affirming my resolution to betray
your secret ; but having got rid of the temper
which your violent behaviour provoked in me, I
have reconsidered my threat, and have made up
my mind to give you a week to think the matter
over.

' I'll be plain enough to tell you, that it won't
serve me, any more than it will benefit you, to
carry the story about the town ; for if the news
wUl lose you the respect and firiendship of the
people here, break down the spirits of your lovely
partner, and end in driving you from Alminster,
it will only leave me as badly off as it foimd me.

' Therefore, let me entreat you wiU not force
me into making public the fact that your wife is
alive ; but that you will meet me fairly, and by a
donation of £100, say next Tuesday, force me to
see that it is quite as much my interest to keep
the secret as yours.

' I will take an oath not to ask you for more

262 THE SURGEON'S SECRET.

money for a considerable time ; and, if I only

prosper in my practice, I faithfully promise to

return you every penny of the money which we

are now considering as gifts, as let this letter

testify.

' Your obedient servant,

' Ed. Maturin.
* P.S. I will call at four o'clock, Tuesday.'

' He gives me a week's grace,' said Mr. Harlow,
with a sad smile ; ' shall I pay him the hundred
pounds and continue as we have done ? '

' No,' exclaimed Cicely, passionately ; ' tear the
letter up. He is a wicked man. Not to save me
froin death would I suffer you to have anything
further to do with him.'

The letter was torn up.

XXIV.

The next day Mr. Harlow inserted an advertise-
ment in the papers, inquiring for a house, and
stating the part of Switzerland he wished it situ-
ated in.

He penned the advertisement with a heavy
heart, and most irresolute mood. After he had

THE SURGEON'S SECRET. 263

written it, he read it to Cicely, and asked her to
reflect before she resolved to leave Alminster.
He repeated the arguments he had made use of
the preceding day ; he said that they could not
live more retired abroad than at Wilton Hall;
that as to the people, they would talk of them
wherever they should be ; but that their gossip
would not trouble them more at Wilton Hall
than were they to hide themselves a thousand
miles off*.

But Cicely quietly answered that she could not
live in a town where they were so well known.
It would be a terrible kind of imprisonment to
her, she said, to feel that she durst not stir abroad
lest she should be stared at or cut, or, what was
worse, be saluted with faint civihties.

It gave him infinite pain to mark the sadness
with which she reasoned. But he had only to
live for her ; her wishes were his ; and so he
posted the advertisement.

He watched her closely. Short as had been
the interval since he told her the story, the efiect
of it upon her was already discernible. . He had
certainly foreseen with accuracy the consequences
of his confession, and once or twice he deplored
ever having told her the truth. She was so per-
fectly happy before. Every day had been a Uttle
festival. It is true that she had taken no pleasures

264 THE SURGEON'S SECRET.

out of her own home ; but the pleasures she had
found or made there were all-sufficmg. Her life
had been a sweet dream — ^why had he rudely
disturbed it ?

Had it not been for Mr. Maturin's threat that
day, there is no doubt he would not have told
her, but have gone on, hoping that God in His
mercy would end his inward suffering, and put it
in his power to make Cicely his lawful wife. But
that threat had promised to make discovery of
the truth immediate ; and not for his life would
Mr. Harlow have had his wife brought acquainted
with the truth from any other Kps than his.

He watched her now, and marked the sombre
hue of the melancholy he had feared, tinging the
tender expression of her love. Her beautiful eyes
took a shy and startled air ; a sort of scared look
at times came into her face. Her caresses were
more clinging, her love more eager, as though she
felt she had no honour now but what her husband
chose to give her. He had taken another signifi-
cance than he had formerly had. The feeling
of equaUty was gone. She loved him more than
she had ever loved him before ; but she could not
meet him as she used. There was no longer a
perfect freedom about her. She moved like one
under a restraint. Her eyes, which used to look
so fearlessly at him out of the fulness of their love.

THE SURGEON'S SECRET. 265

sought his now diffidently. A sense of wrong
was upon her, not less bitter, not less hard to bear,
because she was one of the most guiltless of God's
creatures.

She went about her occupations mechanically.
The pleasures that had made her home-duties so
inviting, were fled. Yet she carried a brave face.
When her eyes met her husband's, she smiled.
But the ache in her heart was greater than her
capacity of acting ; and even as she smiled she
would sometimes turn her head sharply aside that
he might not see the sudden tear.

He noticed all this ; yet he dared not appear to
notice it. What use baring the wound you cannot
heal ? Yet if he would not speak to her of her
sorrow, he could not help showing by his behaviour
that he remarked it, and that he sujQfdred deeply
through it.

His love, which had been tranquil before, became
demonstrative. He wanted the deUcate perception
to observe that this more defined expression of his
love would err by its excess; that the change
would bring the sense of her position more home
to her. She was used to his one mood; the
alteration, though it was designed to make her
more happy, only completed her sorrow ; for it
made her see that he was as sensible as she was of
the altered relation between them.

256 THE SURGEON'S SECRET.

Had their positions been reversed, her own
exquisite tact would have saved him the pang
which his behaviour was causing her. Yet she
was wonderfully grateful to him for doing his
utmost to soothe her. Never in those dark days
did she feel that his love was less, or that it
would become so, in spite of his eflTorts to con-
vince her that it was greater than ever it was.

Mr. Drummond had called twice since that
night when Mr. Harlow had told Cicely his secret ;
but the young husband had never found the
courage to tell him the truth. The mother had
also been; but neither father nor mother had
remarked anything unusual in the girl. It was
not difficult for Cicely to appear cheerful for a
short time. It was the preservation of her old
gaiety all day long before her husband she found
hard, and at times impossible. Once her mother
told her she was looking pale. She gave a laugh
and turned shyly towards a glass, and was herself
struck with the great contrast the sound of her
laughter made with her pensive face.

Mrs. Drummond did not renew the subject of
Mr. Maturin before her daughter. In the fulness
of her heart she had repeated the conversation she
had with Cicely that day to Mr. Drummond.
On which Mr. Drummond had turned upon her,
and rated her with surprising energy for her folly

THE SUROEOJSrS SECRET. 267

in interfering between husband and wife ; asked
her what business it was of hers whether Mr.
Maturin was Mr. Harlow's firiend or enemy ; and,
in a word, conducted himself so intemperately
that Maria had taken refuge in tears, and amid
numberless sobs hoped 'that she might perish
miserably if ever she troubled herself again with
Cicely, though Heaven knew what she had done
was for her child's sake and not for her own.'
But it was not owing so much to her husband as
to Cicely that Mrs. Drummond resolved to abstain
from interfering. She saw how her daughter had
taken her hints, and, being a reaUy kind-hearted
creature at bottom, judged she would be acting
very unwisely if she attempted to loosen the
wonderful behef Cicely had in Mr. Harlow's honour
and sincerity.

Monday came. The next day Mr. Maturin had
promised to pay his visit. Mr. Harlow told the
servants on no consideration to admit him ; they
were not to say that he was out, but that he was
engaged. This decided course he beheved would
determine Mr. Maturin, and he therefore felt that
if Mr. Drummond was to be told at all he should
be told at once.

'Dearest,' he said to Cicely, 'if your father
comes to-day I shall tell him.'

' It is best he should know.'

S

268 THE SURQEOirS SECRET.

' I have not received any answer to my adver-
tisement. I have written this morning to an
agent to make inquiries for me. But instead of
troubhng others, shall we close this house and
start ourselves in search of the sort of place we
want ? '

' If you like.'

* Oh, Cissy, why is there such a weary tone in
your voice? Why will you let this misfortune
press upon you as though it were irreparable?
In my heart, in my conscience, before God, I
have no wife but you/

M think I shall be easier when papa is told.
Do not be angry with me, Harry.'

* Angry ! what would I do to take away your
trouble ! What would I not give to be able to
bear it for you ! '

' I shall be more cheerful after I have left Al-
minster. The knowledge of what I am and what
I ought to be is forced upon me here by every-
thing I look at. It will be otherwise abroad.'

' Poor darling ! you are so uncomplaining, so
patient, so gentle ; never once have you uttered a
reproach ; your bearing it so bravely and lovingly
makes me feel as though I were as wicked as the
author of our trouble.'

' I think of — our child sometimes, Harry ; that
thought grieves me more than all things else.'

k

THE 8URQE0IP8 SECRET. 269

' I know — I know/
' 'It may die — that is my hope. Would you
wish it to live ? Oh, the shame that would come
upon its innocence when it grew up and learnt its
mother's secret ! '

Yet what she hoped now she had feared before.
How often had she whispered, with her head on
her husband's breast, how proud she should be
when God should put a little baby into her arms ;
how great would be her dehght in nursing it, in
working clothes for it; how it would Unk her
husband to her. with a new bond of love. There
was a Uttle chest of drawers in her dressing-room,
wholly dedicated to baby who was coming. Her
husband, looking in upon her unawares as she sat
at the window of this room, would find her busy
over a baby's gown, knitting Uttle shoes, or hem-
ming a tiny chemise. Now all that work was put
away. The pleasure and pride had gone out of it.
Per baby would embody sorrow, not joy. Her
needle was laid aside along with the snatches of
melody she would sing as she pKed it. A silence
and a grief had come upon her. Sometimes she
hoped she might die.

Mr. Drummond called that afternoon. He
came into the Kbrary with his cheery face, where
he found Mr. Harlow alone. A few sentences
.vere exchanged, and then Mr. Harlow said —

8 2

260 THE SUJRGEOirS SECRET.

' I am thinking of taking Cicely abroad.'

* It will do her good. She'll enjoy the journey
and sightseeing.'

* Yes ; but when we get abroad, I don't think
we'll return for a long time.'

* You don't mean to live abroad, do you ? '
'Yes.'

' Leave Wilton Hall I what will you do with
the house ? '

* Lock it up.'

*What a pity! I mean — ^it is no business of
mine, and you know very well what you are
about. No doubt Cicely likes the notion, or I
don't think you'd do it. But surely she doesn't
want to leave this beautiful place altogether ? '

* It is her wish.'

* Her wish ! my dear Harry, reason her out of
it. Women are apt to be capricious — ^heml at
certain periods of their hves, you know.'

' Mr. Drummond, I have a sad story to tell
you.'

Mr. Drummond looked grave and surprised.

'Mr. Maturin deceived us,' said Mr. Harlow,
hurriedly. ' My first wife is ahve.'

Mr. Drummond heard what his mind could
hardly receive. He thought Mr. Harlow mad or
dreaming.

'.We saw her grave,' he cried.

THE SURQEOirS SECRET. 261

* Yes, but she does not lie there/

* But you recognised the bracelet.'

* That bracelet was a portion of some jewellery
with which she bribed the woman to counterfeit
death and to keep the secret/

Mr. Drummond stared blankly. Mr. Harlow
mused a Kttle, and then unfolded the whole story
to him. Mr. Drummond looked stunned.

' And what does Cicely say ? ' he asked.

*She has begged me to take her away from
Alminster ; for this man has threatened to spread
the whole story, and to simamon Barbara Allen
as a witness, if I do not meet his claims.'

Mr. Drummond took some time to get over
the shock. Then his practical common sense
came to the rescue, and prevented his mind from
being wholly carried away by amazement.

'It is the most startHng thing that has ever
encountered my experience,' he said. ' We must
keep the secret from Mrs. Drummond; it will
kiU her/

' You will act as you think proper. I can tell
you it has nearly killed me ; and I now dread
that it will break Cicely's heart.'

' My poor girl ! Good heaven, what a scoun-
drel ! He must be prosecuted.'

' For doing what ? '
. ' For extorting money/

262 THE SURGEON'S SECRET.

'His prosecution won't do me any good. It
will only spread the story when it might be con-
fined to one small town.'

' But do you think his story true ? '

' Her coffin was empty.'

* All, heaven ! I forgot. But do you know where
your — your — where Barbara is ? '

'I asked him to tell me. He resolutely de-
clined. He professes to be in love with her, and
may be ; tliey are well matched. Drummond,
as God is my witness, this man has nearly broken
my heart.'

' It is firightfiil. I can't conceive it. Qcely not
your wife? is it possible that she knows the
meaning of this ? '

' She knows it too weU. The importance she
gives it is almost cruel to me. It imphes distrust.
She thinks I cannot love her as I used ; I adore
her. She fancies that she is not my wife; so
much is she my wife that nothing but God's hand
can part us.'

' I believe you, Harry. I know how much you
love her. She cannot blame you; no, no, we
were both of us deceived. The villain ! and this
is his reason for starting in practice here ? Oh,
you are quite right in having nothing more to do
with him. Let him be defied.'

' I wish I could prevail on Cicely to stop here.

THE SURGEON'S SECRET. 263

We should be quite as retired as abroad. She
would have you and her mother to talk with, and
any day may bring the news of that woman's
death.'

' But if you do not know where she is how will
you be ablQ to tell when she dies ? '

' I will have her residence found out and her-
self watched. I am only waiting until I am out
of Alminster to set men after her.'

' Why do you wait ? '

* I do not know. There is no reason.'

* She may be dead now.'

There was no question that Mr. Harlow's judg-
ment had been greatly impaired by his suffering.
He looked eagerly at Mr. Drummond, as an irre-
solute man would who covets another's power of
reasoning and asks to be directed.

They debated how they should set to work.
Mr. Drummond suggested that Mr. Harlow should
apply to a certain well-known individual, who
made this sort of inquiry his business. What was
worth considering, the whole affair would be kept
a secret by entrusting it to him.

' Place yourself in communication at once with
the man,' said Mr. Drummond ; ' give him time,
and don't leave Alminster until you are pretty
sure she is not to be discovered.'

* But Cicely is miserable here.'

\

264 THE SURGEON'S SECRET.

'Will you let me talk to her?'

* Certainly.'

* I think I can convince her that she will be
acting unwisely in leaving home. She desires to
escape observation, but she will be doing the very
thing to make her behaviour remarkable. By
waiting she may hear of her predecessor's death.
By the way, had your first wife any private pro-
perty?'

' No.'

' How would she live ? '

' I cannot guess.'

* If she has to work for her hving, her poverty
will feiciUtate our researches. She will not be
able to flit from one place to the other. Thinking
of her poverty makes the story seem incredible-
Surely she would ask you for help rather than
stoop to drudgery ? '

' Mr. Maturin declares that she is afraid of being
confined in a lunatic asylum if I find her.'

' Why, she must be mad to fear this.'

' She was mad.'

He could not tell Mr. Drummond the truth.
He added —

' You forget, in offering to advise Gcely to
remain here, that Mr. Maturin has threatened to
divulge the whole story.'

Mr. Drummond pondered.

THE 8UR0E0IP8 SECRET. 266

1 ■ 1 1 ■ ^m ■ ■ " *

* I doubt if' he will/ he said presently. * The
moment he betrays you, any lingering hope he
may have of frightening you into giving him
more money must die. He means to make a
Uvelihood out of your secret ; it is his only chance,
and I do not think he will be in a hurry to let it
go. He does not hate you. This is no scheme
of revenge. He has no resentment to appease in
betraying you. All he wants is your money.
I fiilly beUeve he will hold by your secret a long
time rather than rehnquish the probabihty of
making money out of you by it.'

' I think that very likely.'

' At all events you must hope that he will hold
his tongue. I did wrong in advising you to defy
him. Your best course will be to treat him as
poKtely as you can. And since it is necessary to
have time whilst our detective pushes his inquiries,
I am not sure that it might not be useful to put
the fellow off now and then with a small sum.
So that you won't greatly lose by him, whilst he,
on the other hand, will be encouraged to keep
quiet by the idea that he will one day be able to
make you part more freely.'

'Be it so; I think your advice good,' said
Mr. Harlow, his face brightening a Uttle under
the prospect of a reprieve from the necessity of
immediate departure ; for though he had been the

266 THE SURGEOirS SECRET.

firHt to counsel their withdrawal to the Contineiit,
when it vawwh to the point he found his home ties
wonderfully strong, and not to be sundered with-
out an effort greater almost than he thought he
could exert.

* I shall say nothing to Mrs. Drummond. 9ie
must be kept out of this as long as possible,' said
Mr. Drummond.

* The fewer that are in the secret the better/

* I shall also advise Cicely to hold her tongue.
• . . I am talking collectedly, but my head is
in a whirl. Wliat a cruel, dishonourable, abomin-
able conspiracy ! Poor Cicely ! And how much
are you to be pitied. To think your marriage,
which began so happily, should be so soon sad-
dened. If tliis story be true, and your first wife
be alive — '

*We shall have to hide ourselves, and wait
until she dies. If she survives us — ^well, we are
one in heart. Cicely should be as happy in my
love as I am in hers. We must bow to God's
will. There will be a great want in her dear
heart, I know; I must try to satisfy it by the
overflowing of my love. At least trust me ; she
shall never know any other sorrow than this.
Perhaps she may find some small amends in my
devotion ; I will do my best.'

* I believe you,' said the old gentleman, with

THE SURGEON'S SECRET. 267

the tears in his eyes, clasping the other's hand.
* May God bless you for your love.' Then making
an effort to brighten up, though his mouth worked
like one who has not his tears under his control,
he said, * I'll go to Cicely now ; she loves her old
fitther, and I will prepare the way for you to
follow. Meanwhile, I advise that you should write
a letter to the detective in London at once.' And
he went out, trying his utmost to subdue the
shocked expression in his face.

XXV.

Mr. Harlow turned to his writing materials^
He dipped his pen in the ink, but whilst he con-
sidered how he should begin the letter the ser-
vant entered.

' Sir,' said the man, ' Mr. Maturin is at the
door. I told him you were engaged and couldn't
be seen ; but he looks very distrest, and begged
me to say he had something of great consequence
to tell you, which you'd not miss hearing for a
great deal. I thought I'd let you know, sir ; but
I told him I was sure you wasn't to be seen/

268 THE SUBOEOirS SECRET.

* Show him in,' said Mr. Harlow, putting down
his pen and turning his chair.

He was determined to take Mr. Dnunmond's
advice and meet the man civilly.

In a few moments Mr. Maturin entered the
room. There was a look of disorder in his dress
and a scared expression in his face. He glanced
rapidly around him as he advanced. His manner
was hurried, though he tried to appear composed.

' You are a day before your time, Mr. Maturin,'
said Mr. Harlow.

' I have come to tell you, sir, that if you vrill
give me your cheque for two hundred and fifty
poimds I will leave the coimtry. I pledge my
soul and honour, sacredly, to be on my way to
Liverpool to-night, to take ship for -America.'

'Your resolution is abrupt,' remarked Mr.
Harlow, looking at him suspiciously.

'I'll be honest with you. I see there is no
practice to be had here, and I am sick of waiting
and hoping. You won't assist me in the way I
want. And, to teU you the truth, I'm beginning
to detest the game I'm obhged to play to get
money. Give me your cheque and let me go.
As God is my judge, you shall never see me
again.'

' So your conscience is turning traitor at last;
Mr. Maturin.'

THE SURGEON'S SECRET. 269

' Will you oblige me, sir ? I own I've wronged
you. But I have been very secret. Not a living
creature knows the truth through me. You
made me the offer once ; I've thought over it,
and have resolved to accept it.'

He held out his hand.

' Eeally, Mr. Maturin, you are very impatient.
Two hundred and fifty poimds is a large sum of
money.'

' You made me the offer,' answered the other,
quickly.

' I did ; but I have since reflected, and find that
your simple promise is no guarantee that you will
not return to — to — How shall I put it, Mr.
Maturin ? '
. Mr. Maturin got up.

' Give me the money, sir. I can catch the six
o'clock train, and will be on my way to Liverpool
to-night.'

' Your resolution is very abrupt.'

' Sir, all my life I have been an einergetic man.
You are making me lose time.'

He strode towards Mr. Harlow.

' How comes it you make this discovery that
Alminster has no chances for you in so violent a
hurry ? You were sanguine last week.'

' Why do you argue ? ' cried Mr. Maturin, pas-
sionately. * You made me an offer : it was my

870 THE SUROEOirS SECRET.

humour to dec;linc it ; I have thooglit bettar and
VA)n\i) U) accept it/

* Hut I may have thought better too ; I may
chcKwe to withdraw that oflTer/

* Do you P ' His eagerness made his ni5fcTi¥M»r
very imperious, and therefore particularlj oflfen-

*When I made you that offer, Mr. Matnnn,
the secret was yours and mine. Since then I
have told it to others. The one whom I most
Icivriul to toll it to knows it — ^knows how you
(IcMHMVcd me, how you have preyed upon me. My
wife knows that your friend of Cannonbury is
living. Wljy should I give you two hundred
and llfty pounds to keep that secret which being
told my wife, I care not who knows it?'

Mr. Maturin seemed to be listening for some
Hounds outeidc. He looked at Mr. Harlow, and
said —

' Nobody but your wife and ourselves knows the
truth. Is not the secret worth something still?'

' I'll allow that I have no wish to become the
subject of the townspeople's gossip. But I value
two hundred and fifty pounds more than their
talk/

' Wliat will you give me ? '

'Why,' responded Mr. Harlow leisurely, for
there was something about the man's eagerness

THE SUROEOirs SECRET. 27l

that struck him, and he was resolved to balk
the demand for haste implied in his air, ' I have
no objection to give you ten pounds ; but you
must tell me why you want it, and how long it
will be before you return for more.'

Mr. Maturin uttered a rather strong oath.

' Ten pounds ! ' he cried ; * that will not get me
across the Atlantic'

''Oh, it is not your intention to cross the
Atlantic'

' I swear it ! ' he exclaimed almost furiously.
' Give me one hundred pounds — that will content
me. It will enable me to feel money in my
pocket after landing, and — ' He repeated his reso-
lution to trouble Mr. Harlow no more, capping it
with an oath or two rather too strong to write.

Mr. Harlow reflected; Mr. Maturin watched
him with eyes steadfast as an animal's.

' I will give you twenty pounds, Mr. Maturin,
but not a shilling more. You seem in earnest —
perhaps you are. Will that satisfy you ? '

' Give it me.'

Mr. Harlow took a couple of banknotes from
his pocket-book.

Mr. Maturin seized them, thrust them into his
breeches' pocket, and muttering ' Good day,*
almost ran from the room.

What had happened ? This was something very

273 THE SUROEOirS SECRET.

different from Mr. Maturin's usual behaviour. Was
Mrs. Harlow dead ?

The thought violently agitated Mr. Harlow.
He tried to subdue the impression, for he dreaded
the bitterness of disappointment. He would like
to have called the man back and asked him — no,
that would have been a folly : for how could he
believe the scoundrel who had deceived hiTn
already so outrageously? He tiu^ned with the
design of continuing the letter he had been about
before Mr. Maturin came in, but found he could
not collect his thoughts; moreover, his hand
shook to a degree that rendered it difficult for him
to hold his pen.

He tried to reason himself into a sober mood ;
to account for the strange feehng of lightness and
easiness that inspired him by considering it due
to the conviction that Mr. Maturin was about to
leave the country, and that he might never see or
hear from him again. But the poor fellow had
suffered so long that, greatly as his judgment
strove to limit and subdue the hope that had
sprung in him, his heart would not yield up the
new and deHcious emotion.

He took some turns about his room, and then
recollecting that Mr. Drummond was upstairs with
his wife, was in the act of going to them to give
them the particulars of this last, and as he hoped

THE SURGEON'S SECRET. 273

final interview, when the footman again presented
himself to say that there was a woman in the hall
who wished to speak to him.

He went out,, and saw a decent, plainly-attired
person standing near the door. She dropped
him a low curtsey.

* Oh, if you please, sir. Dr. Santon has sent me
to ask you to come round to my house at once.'

' What's the matter ? '

* A woman there has been half killed by Dr.
Maturin, the man that lodged with me. She's
dying. Dr. Santon says, and wants to see you. If
you please, sir, you're to be quick.'

Mr. Harlow took his hat from the hall. * Come
along,' he said, and ran down the steps. As they
walked hastily, he questioned her.

' Who is this woman ? '

' I don't know, sir. She called upon Dr.
Maturin over an hour ago. I heard high words
between them, and then there was a silence which
lasted some time. After that the house door
banged, and I thought she was gone away ; but
it was Dr. Maturin who left ; for on going upstairs
to lay the cloth for dinner, I saw the woman lying
on the hearthrug, with her face covered with
blood. I thought she was dead, and screamed to
my girl to run for a doctor. When Dr. Santon
came, she was laid on Dr. Maturin's bed, and

274 THE SURGEON'S SECRET.

when she was brought to, the first thing she asks
is to see you.'

She appeared too much excited to exhibit
horror. She rattled this through hurriedly, but
collectedly.

* Did you hear her name ? '

'No, air; but she comes from the place Dr.
Maturin formerly Uved in.'

Mr. Harlow was very white. The idea that he
was about to confront his wife almost unmanned
him. As they entered one of the principal streets
they saw a crowd in the distance, and a gentleman
who knew Mr. Harlow stopped him to say ' that
the new medical man, Mr. Maturin, had just passed
in charge of two constables. What had he been
doing?' But Mr. Harlow would not pause to
answer; he nodded with a shrug, and hastened
on, led by the woman, who presently brought
him to her house.

There was a mob around the door, and the
landlady's girl was holding forth to it. The people
made way for Mr. Harlow to pass, for everybody
in Alminster knew him. There was a policeman
at the foot of the staircase, who touched his hat
to him as he went upstairs.

On the first landing Dr. Santon, whom he knew,
hearing his tread, came out of a room to meet
him.

THE SURGEON'S SECRET. 276

' I am glad you have lost no time/ said the
doctor ; ' she has been waihng and moaning for
you in a way dreadful to hear. She can't hve.
The ruflSan struck her down with the poker, and
I am amazed to think she could have breathed a
moment after the blow.'

So saying, he pushed open the door of a bed-
room, and entered, followed by Mr. Harlow.

The chamber was darkened by the window-
blinds. A woman lay on the outside of the bed,
her head bandaged in a wrapper, stained with
blood. Her face was ghastly, her hair lay loose
upon the pillow, her arms stretched nerveless by
her side. Mr. Harlow held his breath whilst he
looked at her.

She was not his wife.

Who she was he knew not. The ghastly face
was strange to him. She looked at him with dim
eyes, then, in a faint voice, asked him to approach
her. He stepped up close to the bed.

' You are Mr. Harlow ? '

* I am.'

' Thank God ! ' she exclaimed ; presently, in the
same faint voice, said —

* Ask the doctor to go.'

The doctor overheard her, and nodding at Mr.
Harlow, who had turned to convey her request,
stole from the room, closing the door after him.

T 2

270 THE SUBGEOy^S SECRET,

^ I am Mrs. Sandford/ said the wcmdsul

He recognised her at once on heurii^ the name.

* I remember you/ he rephed.

* I told you a he/ she went on; 'I told you

your wife was hving. She is dead/

She stopped, breathing heavily. Mr. Harlow
clenched his hands together, but did not speak.

' It wjis Mr. Maturin s scheme,' she presently
continuiid. ' Wlien he took you the real news of
licr death, lie saw you were rich, and heard that
you were in love, and only waited to hear of
your wife's death that- you might marry. He
cnine back to me and offered to give me half
of what he should make out of you, if I woidd
licl|) him to keep up the lie. I stole the bracelet
I sIiowcmI you from your wife. He knew that,
and guessed that I would have no conscience, and
would serve him as he wanted.'

She j)aused again, for the oppression of breathing
was frightful, and every word seemed shaped by
pain.

' lie told me word for word the story he meant
to tell you, when he thought he was sure of me.
Ue guessed you might have the coffin opened,
and so he removed the body himself and buried it
in the field facing the graveyard, near the hedge.
You'll find it there. I helped him ; I held the
lantern, and kept watch. He dug and did all the
work. He left Cannonbury, saying he would be

THE SURGEON'S SECRET. 277

more sure of you if he lived near you ; and lie
promised to send me one hundred pounds within
the fortnight. I received twenty-five, and wrote
to him for the rest. He did not answer, and I
was for coming to him, when I received fifty
pounds. That satisfied me, for he said you'd given
him no viore. I never heard from him again,
though I wrote often. But I heard from a friend
who had been staying here that he had beautifully
furnished rooms and was doing well, and I resolved
to have my rights. So I came to him this after-
noon and asked him why he didn't keep his word.
He swore at me and angered me, and I threatened
to go straight to you and tell you how you had
been wronged; on which he snatched up the
poker, and before I could put up my arm struck
me on the head with it.'

She raised her hand and seemed to fight for
breath, while she moaned and called, 'Oh, the
cruel wretch to strike me ! He has killed me,
the cruel wretch ! ' Then she burst into tears ;
after which she was quiet.

* And you have told me the truth ? ' said Mr*
Harlow.

' God's truth,' she replied. * You'll find the
body — you'll know it.'

'She died in your house of a fever, as Mr.
Maturin first told me. ?

*Yes, sir.'

^H THE SURGEOjrS KECRET.

* Did nhc; tc'll him that it wa« my intentkm to

vAm^wat her in an auylmn?'

* No, nir ; but «he 8[>oke pf it wh«i die was

wild with th« fever/

* In thercj anything more you have to say to me ? '

* I hojHi you'll forgive me, sir/ said the poOT

wreU'Ji,

* I forgiv(5 you/ he replied, and he opened the

d(M>r,

The dcK:tor was on the landing. He came

forward.

* Do not l(jt the unfortunate creature want for
iinythiiif^/ Miiid Mr. Ilarlow. * You will consider
all \\\K\ vwxKs Hlie receives as at my expense/

* Hhci will not prove costly, Mr. Harlow. She
will \%s (Unid before the hour. I have just heard
h(»r nmrderer him been taken.'

* I Hiiw the crowd following him.'.

* They luid a run for it, I hear. The constables
\\i\XKs are not over sharp, but they deserve credit
ior thiM. The girl wlio called me told me what
had happened, and who had done it; and as I
ciurj(5 along I started a policeman I met in pursuit,
llu and a coin[)anion overtook Mr. Maturin running
along the London road. If she dies he will be
hanged^-and die she must.'

Mr. llarhw loft the house. He reached his
homo and entered the library, and burying his

THE SURGEON'S SECRET. 279

face in his hands, sobbed hke a child. The long
nightmare was over. The horrible fear, the dark
sense of wrong and injustice, were at an end. The
sombre cloud that had so long obscured his present
and thrown its black shadow on the future had
fled ; and the gracious, vivifying sunshine was at
last streaming its benignant light upon him.

There is room for another scene ; room for a
new tale of Qcely's tears and joy, of Mr. Drum-
mond's ungovernable transport, and of his good
wife's profound amazement, indignation that the
truth had been kept from her, and secret satisfac-
tion that she had always guessed ' something was
wrong.' But the Uttle play is played out ; the
story is told ; and these pagds had best end here.

Oinnis migrayit ab aure voluptas.

Mrs. Sandford died within the hour, as Dr.
Santon had predicted. Mr. Maturin was brought
up before the ma^trates, and committed to take
his trial for murder at the assizes. He was tried
on this charge, found guilty, and sentenced to be
hanged ; but the jury having recommended him
to mercy, on the ground that he had not designed
to kill the woman by striking her, his sentence
was commuted into one of penal servitude.

Mr. Harlow went to Cannonbury and instituted

280 THE SURGEOirS SECRET.

a seiinJi for liis wife's body. It was found in the
spot the woman had indicated. The remains were
carefully collected and handsomely buried in the
same grave whence they had been removed ; but
another stone was placed over her, inscribed with
her real name.

Tlu-ough this search and reburial the story that
has been told came to be known.

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'^^The Mistress of Langdale Hall" is a bright and attractive
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* The story itself is really well told, and some of the characters
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*Tho book is a model of what a cheap novel should he.'—
Puhluhers' Circular,

* A circular from the publisher precedes the opening of the novel,
wherein the existing conditions of novel-publishing are concisely
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Samuel Tinsley's Ne-w Publications.

PUTTYPUT'8 PROTEGEE;

or, Boad, Bail, and Biver : a Humorous Story, in Three Books.
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1 yoL crown 8vo. (uniform with * The Mistress of Langdale Hall '),
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Second Edition.

THE 70TTBTEEK FTTLL-PAOE ILLTTSTBATIOKS.

1. The Voyage of Discovery (Frontispiece).

2. The Escape firom Bortonbuook Asylum (Vignette).

3. In a G-arret near the Sky.

4. The Happy Family.

6. The Eoad I Hunt^ Down I Gone Away I

6. The Lucky Number.

7. Bob Bembrow's Party.

8. Bob and Dollops.

9. The Devonsherry Brothers.

10. A Waif from the Ocean.

11. Slitherem thinks Half a Loaf better than no Bread.

12. The Dissolution of Partnership.

13. The Particular Purpose.

14. The Biver I AU's WeU that Ends Well

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* A tale which is not of a frivolous or ordinary character. We must,
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prevented from visiting their favourite place of amusement will find in
this book very satisfactory compensation for their privation, and it
ought to be exceedingly popular with that large body of novel readers
who are now *' on the sands." ' — Blcho,

Samuel Tinslet, Southampton Street, Strand.

i

Samuel Tinsley's Ne-w Publications.

lironCE.-TO PROMOTERS OF THE TEMPERANCE CAUSE

THE INSIDIOUS THIEF:

A Tale for Humble Folks.

BY ONE OF THEMSELVES. ^

Crown 8vo. ba. Second Edition.

* " The Iniddiani Thief *' is a protent ngainst the preralent abtue of strong drinks.
Wo see on the title-page that it is a Tal*- for Humble Folks, written by One of Them-
selves ; and, we think, the simple eameHtness of the style will bring its advice borne
to its readers among the lower claMhes. The author does not fall into the common
error of condemning every man |who drink't a glass of beer — ^that wholesale con-
demnation does a great deal m<jre harm thiin good. He simply insists on the evils
of drinking too much, and he shows us how the habit gains ground. The thief is
not so easily shaken off when once he has got a grip of you. He will assume every
conoeivable form, and resort to every conceivable art to further his ends. Says tlM
author :

* " Kick him : ho will lick yonr boot, and drag his slinking, slimy length over it,
and twine scrpcnt-like aiiout your IcgK. He w U wriggle and twist, anid turn and
creep, and fawn and flatter, and cringe and crawl, until he gets again on friendly
terms with you. No, not until be hHs got } ou nearer and nearer, and closer yet to
the edge of the gaping gulf —not until he has got yon on the very brink, and then he
will seize you and demoniacally drag you into the abyss of black desi>air for ever.
What I you never did it? Incorrigible liar I Cnn we not »e your victims writhing
in agony there now? Do you ast where? Why, evt-rywherel In the highway
and byways ; in the town, and in the country ; in high places, and in low places ; m
the east, in the west, in the north, in the eoiith ; at home and abroad ; on islands,
on continents, on rivers, on the high s(*aH ; everywhere, you iNSiDions Thibp! we
see yonr infernal handicraft, working desolation, desolation — desolation to the bitter
endl"

* The reader must not imagine that the book consists of nothing but vituperation,
however. There are some humorous touch* s in it, and the character of Uncle

Wood, the sailor, is excellently drawn Wo recommend this voltmie warmly

to oiur readers. It is excellently printed and elegantly boimd.'— X»/oy<f « Weekly
IfetoMpapfr,

* Ought to be in the hands of every Temperance lecturer and missionary in the
kingdom, and in every Mechanics* Institute librnry, for it is an able, interesting,
and pcrsua»ive volume on the evils of btrong drink, that cannot tail to do much
good.' — Court Circular.

' Have we here a new writer or a practised hand turned to a new subject ? In
either case we congratulate ourselves upon our good fortune. We do notl^sitate to

chAracterise the " Insidious Thief " as a moRt original and powerful book. The

only diitappointanent felt on concluding the perusal of the last chapter was that a
story BO humorous and pathetic, so powerful and absorbing, had come to an end.* —
The Templar,

* Few will take it up without going right through it with avidity, and withoat
being converted to Teetotalism— feeling a deeper hatred to that frightful and

damnable vice which wotks such tcrtible results Our Temperance xeadera

ought to get this book and lend it to all tbeir friends.'— Z>t/erary World.

* The power with which this story is wrought out is very remarkable, and its
pages literally sparkle with home truths and loving sympathies. From the first
chapter to the last the interest of the reader is unflaggingly sustained. The
characters are full of life, energy, and reality. We take to our hearts, aa it vrere,
the eccentric old sailor, Uncle Wood. . .We heartily reoommend "The Insidions
Thief " to all who wish to do battle with the iniquitous and evil-propagating drinking
customs of our age. It will arm them wich many a keen and trenchant weiqjwn
for the battle that must be tovight.'—£nylish Good Templar,

Samuel Tinslet, Southampton Street, Strand.