and I went to bed and slept soundly. Some time late in the afternoon I awoke, and then it occurred to me that it might, perhaps, set at rest the anxiety which I could not help but feel if I were to go to see Lucy's doctor. On this errand, after I had taken some dinner, I set out at the direction of the landlady. The doctor was not at home. He was at the public dispensary in the village. I learned that this dispensary was another of Lucy's charities. The outer room was filled with women and children waiting their turn to enter the room within. In the moment I stood among them while my card was taken to the doctor, I heard my dear one's name coupled with praises and blessings.
“It'll be made up to her.” said one woman.
“The Lord will pay her back,” said another.
The doctor's name was Godwin. At first sight it occurred to me that he hardly justified it. I found him a hard faced man, with a square head and gray, steely eyes. He had been educated in Germany, and I learned afterward that he took pride in being abreast of all modern developments of his science. This, and his resolute personal character, had given him a certain superiority over old fashioned country practitioners, though he was understood to be an atheist, and certainly never attended church.
I explained that I was a friend of Miss Clousedale's, and he seemed to have been aware of our relations. I inquired if her illness was at all serious, and he answered me less promptly than I had expected.
“No, not serious—not at present,” he said.
As he volunteered no further explanation, I made bold to ask if Lucy's trouble was some girlish ailment. After a moment he answered yes, and was silent again.
“Some nervous complaint, no doubt?” I said, whereupon he said “Yes” once more, repeated my words mechanically, and then looked up quickly and asked if I was making any stay in the district.
I was nettled by his reserve, and told him that Lucy was to be my wife, that I had come expressly and by old appointment from London to visit her; that, by the wish of her nurse, and, as I understood, by his own wish also, I was now staying at the inn in the village; but that I was looking forward to changing my quarters to Clousedale Hall as soon as he could assure me that my presence there would be no disadvantage to his patient.
“It will be some days still,” he said.
I thought the man was treating me with scant courtesy, and I made no disguise of my annoyance. On leaving, I went the length of hinting that perhaps I should think it necessary to telegraph for a specialist. My threat had no effect. The man saw me to the door with frigid politeness, and all but the silence of a sphinx.
Going back by the main street of the village, I passed in the gathering darkness of the winter evening a little red brick Gothic church, standing in the midst of a closely populated district of very poor cottages. It was the chapel of ease that had been built and endowed by Lucy. I recognized it by its foundation stone, which bore a gilt lettered inscription in my dear one's honor. There were lights burning, the door was open, and I glanced within. Some ladies were decorating the windows, and the timbers of the open roof, from ladders held by two or three miners.
When I got back to the Wheatsheaf, I asked if there was any message from Clousedale Hall. There was no letter, but a gentleman was waiting to see me. It was the clergyman. His name was McPherson, and he was a middle aged Scotchman of severe aspect. He had come to tell me that my letter had been received, but that Miss Clousedale was not well enough to reply to it. Then, on his own account, he proceeded to advise the postponement of my intended visit.
“Is her illness so serious?” I asked.
“I fear it is,” he answered.
“What is her illness?”
He hesitated a moment, and then said,
“I cannot rightly say.”
“Has she ever had it before?”
“Twice before.”
“And she recovered on both occasions?”
“By the grace of God, yes—for the time, at all events."
My anger was rising. This man, like the doctor, was keeping me at arm's length.
“And you advise me," I said, “to go back to London?”
“For the present,” he replied.
“Without seeing her?”
“To see her would be impossible.”
“Is it her own wish?"
He hesitated again, then answered falteringly, “Yes—I think so—that was my inference.”
My patience was well nigh exhausted before I saw the man out of the house. Another man was then coming in at the door—a big, lusty, deep chested fellow, with a game bag over his shoulder and a gun under
