"Nothing. Nothing," Wilford answered, with evident effort. His shaking hands crumpled up the letter, and thrust it into his breast-pocket.
"But there is something," Martin persisted. "A man doesn't look like that for nothing."
"No. No. A sudden faintness—that's all."
"Was there bad news in that letter?"
"No, it is not the letter. Indeed it is not—anything but that. The letter is only—only a bill. Nothing more than a bill—quite a trifle. I'm not well—not very well, as I told you."
"I fear not. Are you in pain? What shall I give you—some brandy? Try some brandy."
"A little—a very little. Thank you, I feel better already. I'm sorry, Martin, to have to trouble you like this."
"Trouble, my dear fellow! You mustn't think of that."
"Where did I put my hat? I'll go now, while I am well."
"No. You must not go yet. Wait till you recover more. Shall I send for a doctor?"
"Not on my account. I do assure you I am better now."
"I never saw you like this before. Indeed, Wil, you must take care of yourself, or you may be in for another serious illness, such as you had some years back. I really think you had better not go—not yet, at any rate. The best thing you can do, would be to go to bed here at once. I could easily send word to Mrs. Wilford, to let her know what had happened."
"No; not on any account; it would alarm her too much."
"Perhaps you are right; but rest a little longer, at any rate; I'll see you safely home."
"No, Martin, it will not be necessary. You see I am quite well again now, and the fresh air will be the best thing for me. I can't think of taking you out. Indeed I cannot."
"You'll get a cab. Promise me that."
"Yes, I will. I promise."
"I shall come round to-morrow morning, to see how you are—"
"Not unless I don't appear here before twelve o'clock, as I fully intend to. Good night."
"Good night. Take care of yourself. Do take care of yourself. Have some more brandy? No? Well, good night, my dear Wilford. Good night."
"Good-bye until to-morrow morning."
He had in a great measure recovered himself. Still he breathed very quickly, was much excited, and as he passed down the stairs he placed his hand on his forehead to find his hair quite wet. He went out through the wicket at the top of Temple Lane, and hurried towards the Strand. He did not take a cab as he had promised he would, but he set off walking at a pace which at times nearly quickened into a run.
"That man's in a queer state of health," said Martin, alone in his chambers: he'll have to take care what he's about. He's nervous, excitable, anxious: he's been poring over his papers until, turning his eyes from them, he finds himself quite giddy, and purblind, and confused. I know what it is to suffer like that, and I know too many men who, suffering like that, have succumbed and for ever. It's very dreadful, that oppression on the brain—on the heart—that struggle with the mind, as it were,—that inability to direct our thoughts upon other than the work in hand; the waning of memory, and the terrible consciousness that it is waning; the loss of the names of men and things of the commonest nature; the awful tangle of ideas that seems to be seething in one's head; the broken sleep—the ghastly dreams at night; the painful exhaustion by day; the extreme sensitiveness of the nerves, when the slightest shock seems to result in agony the most acute. I have felt all that once—I fervently trust I never may again. It is the student's malady. Poor friend Wilford! Who would have thought of his suffering so! What changes time brings! He is a different creature to what he was years ago when we were boys—schoolfellows—together. How long ago! A long, long time it seems now. Well, well, let's hope for the best. He'll go home and take a holiday, and return quite well. His wife will nurse him. Surely she will cure him. A wife like that—"
George Martin stopped suddenly with a strange expression on his face. It was as though he did not wish to be unexpectedly launched into meditation upon such a subject. Then he seemed to smile, faintly at his own hesitation. After a slight pause, he continued.
"Violet!" he said gently, with an air that was almost devotional. "Is there another woman in the world so wholly good, and pure, and true as she is? How beautiful, how tender, how loveable! If it had ever been my fate to have met such a one, how differently would my life have been ordered. What other hopes, views, ambitions, I should have formed. But that's all past thinking about. And if I had met her, would she have heard my prayer—would she have even looked down upon me, giving glances as good as alms to a beggar, or healing to the sick? Would she not have passed on, never heeding, never dreaming of the love of one so every way unworthy of her. But this is miserable folly. I am fixed in my pose in life. I can no more move than a beetle in a museum pinned to his cork. I am stranded on the rocks, out of the reach of the water, it may be, yet past all chance of any ship coming to pick me off. I must live in the best way I can, tilling the profitless flinty soil, hardworking for every mouthful, a Crusoe in the midst of civilisation, wrecked in a Temple garret. Well, well, why should I repine? And I never have repined until I met her, and I felt my heart yearning towards her as I never felt it before. Is love the absurdity, the nonsense, the idiocy that men declare it to be? Can that be despicable which arouses all the self-sacrificing and generosity of which nature is capable? It seems to me that love takes men back to all the poetry and chivalry of the grand past. I would give my life to that woman. And I love her with all my soul. Yet, heaven knows," he went on, the colour glowing in his face, "that there is no shame in my love! No wrong for her, for Wilford, for myself. I love; but it is my heart's secret—it will never be known to living soul. It may be madness, but it is not sin. I would not harm my friend even in thought, much