On the evening of that same day Awdrey entered the room where his wife was silently giving way to her bitter anguish. She was quite overcome by her grief—her eyelids were swollen by much weeping, her dress was disarranged, the traces of a sleepless night, and the fearful anguish through which she was passing, were visible on her beautiful face. Awdrey, who had come into the room almost cheerfully, started and stepped back a pace or two when he saw her—he then knit his brows with marked irritation.

"What can be the matter with you, Margaret?" he cried. "I cannot imagine why you are crying in that silly way."

"I'll try not to cry any more, Robert," she answered.

"Yes, but you look in such dreadful distress; I assure you, it affects me most disagreeably, and in my state of nerves!—you know, don't you, that nothing ever annoys me more than weak, womanish tears."

"It is impossible for me to be cheerful to-night," said the wife. "The pain is too great. He was our only child, and such—such a darling."

Awdrey laughed.

"Forgive me, my dear," he said, "I really would not hurt your feelings for the world, but you must know, if you allow your common sense to speak, that we never had a child. It has surely been one of our great trials that no child has been given to us to carry on the old line. My poor Maggie," he went up to her quite tenderly, put his arm round her neck, and kissed her, "you must be very unwell to imagine these sort of things."

She suddenly took the hand which lay on her shoulder between both her own.

"Come with me, Robert," she said, an expression of the most intense despair on all her features, "come, I cannot believe that this blight which has passed over you can be final. I'll take you to the room where the little body of our beautiful child is lying. When you see that sweet face, surely you will remember."

He frowned when she began to speak; now he disengaged his hand from her clasp.

"It would not be right for me to humor you," he said. "You ought to see a doctor, Maggie, for you are really suffering from a strong delusion. If you encourage it it may become fixed, and even assume the proportions of a sort of insanity. Now, my dear wife, try and restrain yourself and listen to me."

She gazed at him with wide-open eyes. As he spoke she had difficulty in believing her own ears. A case like his was indeed new to her. She had never really believed in the tragedy of his house—but now at last the suspected and dreaded blow had truly fallen. Awdrey, like his ancestors before him, was forgetting the grave events of life. Was it possible that he could forget the child, whose life had been the joy of his existence, whose last looks of love had been directed to him, whose last faltering words had breathed his name? Yes, he absolutely forgot all about the child. The stern fact stared her in the face, she could not shut her eyes to it.

"You look at me strangely, Margaret," said Awdrey. "I cannot account for your looks, nor indeed for your actions during the whole of to-day. Now I wish to tell you that I have resolved to carry out Rumsey's advice—he wants me to leave home at once. I spent a night with him—was it last night? I really forget—but anyhow, during that time he had an opportunity of watching my symptoms. You know, don't you, how nervous I am, how full of myself? You know how this inertia steals over me, and envelops me in a sort of cloud. The state of the case is something like this, Maggie; I feel as if a dead hand were pressed against my heart; sometimes I have even a difficulty in breathing, at least in taking a deep breath. It seems to me as if the stupor of death were creeping up my body, gradually day by day, enfeebling all my powers more and more. Rumsey, who quite understands these symptoms, says that they are grave, but not incurable. He suggests that I should leave London and at once. I propose to take the eight o'clock Continental train. Will you come with me?"

"I?" she cried. "I cannot; our child's little body lies upstairs."

"Why will you annoy me by referring to that delusion of yours? You must know how painful it is to listen to you. Will you come, Maggie?"

"I cannot. Under any other circumstances I would gladly, but to-night, no, it is impossible."

"Very well then, I'll go alone. I have just been up in my room packing some things. I cannot possibly say how long I shall be absent—perhaps a few weeks, perhaps a day or two—I must be guided in this matter by my sensations."

"If you come back in a day or two, Robert, I'll try and go abroad with you, if you really think it would do you good," said Margaret.

"I'll see about that," he replied. "I cannot quite tell you what my plans are to-night. Meanwhile I find I shall want more money than I have in the house. Have you any by you?"

"I have twenty-five pounds."

"Give it to me; it will be quite sufficient. I have about fifteen pounds here." He touched his breast-pocket. "If I don't return soon I'll write to you. Now good-by, Maggie. Try and conquer that queer delusion, my dear wife. Remember, the more you think of it, the more it will feed upon itself, until you will find it too strong for you. Good-by, darling."

She threw her arms round his neck.

"I cannot describe what my feelings are at this awful moment," she said. "Is it right for me to let you go alone?"

"Perfectly right, dearest. What possible harm can come to me?" he said with tenderness. He pushed back the rich black hair from her brow as he spoke.

"You love me, Robert?" she cried suddenly—"at least your love for me remains?"

He knit his brows.

"If there is any one I love, it is you," he said, "but I do not know that I love any one—it is this inertia, dearest"—he touched his breast—"it buries love beneath it, it buries all emotion. You are not to blame. If I could conquer it my love for you would be as full, as fresh, and strong as ever. Good-by now. Take care of yourself. If those strange symptoms continue pray consult Dr. Rumsey."

He went out of the room.

Margaret was too stricken and stunned to follow him.

A few days later a child's funeral left the house in Seymour Street. Margaret followed her child to the grave. She then returned home, wondering if she could possibly endure the load which had fallen upon her. The house seemed empty—she did not think anything could ever fill it again. Her own heart was truly empty—she felt as if there were a gap within it which could never by any possibility be closed up again. Since the night after her child's death she had heard nothing from her husband—sometimes she wondered if he were still alive.

Dr. Rumsey tried to reassure her on this point—he did not consider Awdrey the sort of man to commit suicide.

Mrs. Everett came to see Margaret every day during this time of terrible grief, but her excited face, her watchful attitude, proved the reverse of soothing. She was sorry for Margaret, but even in the midst of Margaret's darkest grief she never forgot the mission she had set before herself.

On the morning of the funeral she followed the procession at a little distance. She stood behind the more immediate group of mourners as the body of the beautiful child was laid in his long home. Had his father been like other men, Margaret would never have consented to the child's being buried anywhere except at Grandcourt. Under existing circumstances, however, she had no energy to arrange this.

About an hour after Mrs. Awdrey's return, Mrs. Everett was admitted into her presence.

Margaret was seated listlessly by one of the tables in the drawing-room. A pile of black-edged paper was lying near her—a letter was begun. Heaps of letters of condolence which had poured in lay near. She was endeavoring to answer one, but found the task beyond her strength.

"My poor dear!" said Mrs. Everett. She walked up the long room, and stooping down by Margaret, kissed her.

Margaret mechanically returned her embrace. Mrs. Everett untied her bonnet-strings and sat by her side.

"Don't try to answer those letters yet," she said. "You are really not fit for it. Why don't you have a composing draught and go to bed?"

"I would rather not; the awakening would be too terrible," said Margaret.

"You will knock yourself up and get really ill if you go on like this."

"It does not matter, Mrs. Everett, whether I am ill or well. Nothing matters," said Margaret, in a voice of despair.

"Oh, my poor love, I understand you," said the widow. "I do not know in what words to approach your terribly grieved heart—there is only one thing which I feel impelled to say, and which may possibly at some time comfort you. Your beautiful boy's fate is less tragical than the fate which has fallen upon my only son. When Frank was a little child, Margaret, he had a dreadful illness—I thought he would die. I was frantic, for his father had died not long before. I prayed earnestly to God. I vowed a vow to train the boy in the paths of righteousness, as never boy had been trained before. I vowed to do for Frank what no other mother had ever done, if only God would leave him to me. My prayer was answered, and my child was saved. Think of him now, Margaret. Margaret, think of him now."

"I do," answered Margaret. "I have always felt for you—my heart has always been bitter with grief for you—don't you know it?"

"I do, I do—you have been the soul of all that could be sweet and dear to me. Except Frank himself, I love no one as I love you. Ah!"—Mrs. Everett suddenly started to her feet—the room door had been slowly opened and Awdrey walked in. His face was very pale and more emaciated looking than ever—his eyes were bright, and had sunk into his head.

"Well," he said, with a sort of queer assumption of cheerfulness, "here I am. I came back sooner than I expected. How are you Maggie?" He went up to his wife and kissed her. "How do you do, Mrs. Everett?"

"I am well," said Mrs. Everett. "How are you, are you better?"

"Yes, I am much better—in fact, there is little or nothing the matter with me."

He sat down on a sofa as he spoke and stared at his wife with a puzzled expression between his brows.

"What in the world are you in that heavy black for?" he said suddenly.

"I must wear it," she said. "You cannot ask me to take it off."

"Why should I ask you?" he replied. "Do not excite yourself in that way, Maggie. If you like to look hideous, do so. Black, heavy black, of that sort, does not suit you—and you are absolutely in crÊpe—what does all this mean? It irritates me immensely."

"People wear crÊpe when those they love die," said Margaret.

"Have you lost a relation?—Who?"

She did not answer. A moment later she left the room.

When she did so Awdrey got up restlessly, walked to the fire and poked it, then he approached the window and looked out. After a time he returned to his seat. Mrs. Everett sat facing him. It was her wont to sit very still—often nothing seemed to move about her except her watchful eyes. To-day she had more than ever the expression of a person who is quietly watching and waiting. Awdrey, inert as he doubtlessly was, seemed to feel her gaze—he looked at her.

"Where have you been, Mr. Awdrey?" she asked gently. "Did you visit the Continent?"

He favored her with a keen, half-suspicious glance.

"No," he said. "I changed my mind about that. I did not wish the water to divide me from my quest. I have been engaged on a most important search."

"And what was that?" she asked gently.

"I have been looking for a stick which I missed some years ago."

"I have heard you mention that before," said Mrs. Everett—the color flushed hotly into her face. "You seem to attribute a great deal of importance to that trifle."

"To me it is no trifle," he replied. "I regard it as a link," he continued slowly, "between me and a past which I have forgotten. When I find that stick I shall remember the past."

As he spoke he rose again and going to the hearth-rug stood with his back to the fire.

At that moment Margaret re-entered the room in white—she was in a soft, flowing, white robe, which covered her from top to toe—it swept about her in graceful folds, and exposed some of the lovely contour of her arms. Her face was nearly as colorless as her dress; only the wealth of thick dark hair, only the sombre eyes, relieved the monotony of her appearance. Awdrey gave her a smile and a look of approval.

"Come here," he said: "now you are good—how sweet you look. Your appearance makes me recall, recall——" He pressed his hand to his forehead. "I remember now," he said; "I recall the day we were engaged—don't you remember it?—the picnic on Salisbury Plain; you were all in white then, too, and you wore somewhat the same intense expression in your eyes. Margaret, you are a beautiful woman."

She stood close to him—he did not offer to kiss her, but he laid one emaciated hand on her shoulder and looked earnestly into her face.

"You are very beautiful," he said; "I wonder I do not love you." He sighed heavily, and removed his gaze to look intently into the fire.

Mrs. Everett rose.

"I'll come again soon," she said to Margaret. Margaret took no notice of her, nor did Awdrey see when she left the room.

After a moment Margaret went up to her husband and touched him.

"You must have something to eat," she said. "It is probably a long time since you had a proper meal."

"I don't remember," he replied, "but I am not hungry. By the way, Maggie, I recall now what I came back for." His eyes, which seemed to be lit from within, became suddenly full of excitement.

"Yes," she said as gently as she could.

"I came back because I wanted you."

Her eyes brightened.

"I wanted you to come with me. I do not care to be alone, and I am anxious to leave London again to-night."

Before Margaret could reply the butler threw open the door and announced Dr. Rumsey. The doctor came quickly forward.

"I am glad you have returned, Awdrey," he said, holding out his hand as he spoke. "I called to inquire for your wife, and the man told me you were upstairs."

"Yes, and I am better," said Awdrey. "I came back because I thought perhaps Margaret—but by the way, why should I speak so much about myself? My wife was not well when I left her. I hope, doctor, that she consulted you, and that she is now much better."

"Considering all things, Mrs. Awdrey is fairly well," said Rumsey.

"And she has quite got over that delusion?"

"Quite." The doctor's voice was full of decision.

Margaret shuddered and turned away.

Rumsey seated himself at a little distance from the fire, but Awdrey remained standing. He stood in such a position that the doctor could get a perfect view of him. Rumsey did not fail to avail himself of so excellent a moment for studying this queer case. He observed the wasted face of his patient; the unnaturally large and bright eyes; the lips which used to be firm as a line, and which gave considerable character to the face, but which had now become loose and had a habit of drooping slightly open; the brows, too, worked at times spasmodically, and the really noble forehead, which in old times betokened intelligence to a marked degree, was now furrowed with many lines. While Rumsey watched he also made up his mind.

"I must tear the veil from that man's eyes at any cost," he said to himself. He gave Margaret a glance and she left the room. The moment she did so the doctor stood up.

"I am glad you have returned," he said.

"How strange of you to say that," answered Awdrey. "Do you not remember you were the man who ordered me away?"

"I do remember that fact perfectly, but since I gave you that prescription a very marked change has taken place in your condition."

"Do you think me worse?"

"In one sense you are."

Awdrey laughed.

"How queer that you should say that," he said, "for to tell you the truth, I really feel better; I am not quite so troubled by inertia."

"I must be frank with you, Awdrey. I consider you very ill."

Awdrey started when Rumsey said this.

"Pray speak out, doctor, I dislike riddles," he replied.

"I mean to speak out very plainly. Awdrey, my poor fellow, I am obliged to remind you of the strange history of your house."

"What do you mean?" said Awdrey—"the history of my house?" he continued; "there is a psychological history, which I dislike to think of; is it to that you refer?"

"Yes, I refer to the queer condition of brain which men of your house have inherited for several generations. It is a queer doom; I am forced to say it is an awful doom. Robert Awdrey, it has fallen upon you."

"I thought as much," said Awdrey, "but you never would believe it before."

"I had not cause to believe it before. Now I fully believe it. That lapse of memory, which is one of its remarkable symptoms, has taken place in your case. You have forgotten a very important fact in your life."

"Ah, you are wrong there," said Awdrey. "I certainly have forgotten my walking-stick. I know well that I am a queer fellow. I know too that at times my condition is the reverse of satisfactory, but with this one exception I have never forgotten anything of the least consequence. Don't you remember telling me that the lapse of memory was not of any moment?"

"It was not, but you have forgotten something else, Awdrey, and it is my duty now to remind you of it."

"I have forgotten?" began Awdrey. "Well, speak."

"You had a child—a beautiful child."

Awdrey interrupted with a laugh.

"I do declare you have got that delusion, too," he said. "I tell you, Dr. Rumsey, I never had a child."

"Your child is no longer with you, but you had a child. He lived for four years but is now dead. This very afternoon he was laid in his grave. He was a beautiful child—more lovely than most. He died after twenty-four hours' illness. His mother is broken-hearted over his loss, but you, his father, have forgotten all about it. Here is the picture of your child—come to the light and look at it."

Rumsey strode up to a table as he spoke, lifted a large photograph from a stand, and held it before Awdrey's eyes.

Awdrey favoured it with a careless glance.

"I do not know that face," he said. "How did the photograph get here? Is Margaret's delusion really so bad? Does she imagine for a moment that the little boy represented in that picture has ever had anything to do with us?"

"The photograph is a photograph of your son," repeated Rumsey, in a slow, emphatic voice. As he spoke he laid the picture back again on its ebony stand. "Awdrey," he continued, "I cannot expect impossibilities—I cannot expect you to remember what you have absolutely forgotten, but it is my duty to tell you frankly that this condition of things, if not immediately arrested, will lead to complete atrophy of your mental system, and you, in short, will not long survive it. You told me once very graphically that you were a man who carried about with you a dead soul. I did not believe you then. Now I believe that nothing in your own description of your case has been exaggerated. In some way, Awdrey, you must get back your memory."

"How?" asked Awdrey. He was impressed in spite of himself.

"Whether you remember or not, you must act as though you remembered. You now think that you never had a child. It is your duty to act as if you had one."

Awdrey shrugged his shoulders.

"That is impossible," he said.

"It is not. Weak as your will now is, it is not yet so inert that you cannot bring it to bear upon the matter. I observe that Mrs. Awdrey has taken off her mourning. She must put it on again. It would be the height of all that is heartless for her to go about now without showing proper respect to your beautiful child. You also, Awdrey, must wear mourning. You must allow your wife to speak of the child. In short, even though you have no belief, you must allow those who are in a healthy mental condition to act for you in this matter. By doing so you may possibly arrest the malady."

"I see what you mean," said Awdrey, "but I do not know how it is possible for me to act on your suggestions."

"For your wife's sake you must try, and also because it is necessary that you should show respect to the dead heir of your house."

"Then I am to put a band on my hat and all that sort of thing?"

"Yes."

"It is a trifle, doctor. If you and Margaret wish it, I cannot reasonably refuse. To come back to myself, however, you consider that I am quite doomed?"

"Not quite yet, although your case is a bad one. I believe you can be saved if only you will exert yourself."

"Do wishes go for anything in a case like mine?"

"Assuredly. To hear you express a wish is a capital sign. What do you want to do?"

"I have a strange wish to go down to the Court. I feel as if something or some one, whether angel or demon I do not know, were drawing me there. I have wished to be at the Court for some days. I thought at first of taking Margaret with me."

"Do so. She would be glad to accompany you. She is a wife in a thousand."

"But on second thoughts," continued Awdrey, "if I am obliged to listen to her bitter distress over the death of a child who never, as far as I can recall, existed, I should prefer not having her."

"Very well then, go alone."

"I cannot go alone. In the condition which I am now in, a complete vacuum in all my thoughts may occur, and long before I reach the Court I may forget where I am going."

"That is possible."

"Then, Rumsey, will you come with me?"

The doctor thought a moment. "I'll go with you this evening," he said, "but I must return to town early to-morrow."

"Thanks," said Awdrey. "I'll ring the bell. We shall be in time, if we start at once, to catch the five o'clock train."

"Remember, Awdrey, that I shall treat you as the child's father. You will find all your tenantry in a state of poignant grief. That dear little fellow was much loved."

Awdrey pursed up his lips as if he would whistle. A smile dawned in his eyes and vanished.