On the evening of the same day, Sir Within sat alone in his grand old dining-room. The servants had withdrawn and left him in solitary splendour, for the massive plate glittered on the sideboard, and the blaze of many wax-lights illuminated the three or four great pictures of Rubens’ on the walls, and sparkled over the richly-cut glass that figured amongst the desert, and there, amidst all, sat that old man—pale, wan, and careworn—to all seeming several years older than one short week ago. A small table at his side was littered with letters and law papers; but though he had gone for them to his study, he never noticed them, so deeply was his mind bent on other thoughts. At last he looked at his watch, and then arising, he rang the bell.

“Doctor Price is still above stairs?” said he, in a tone of inquiry.

“Yes, Sir Within.”

“And you are quite certain you told him to come to me before he left the Castle?”

“Yes, Sir Within.”

“That will do,” said he, with a sigh.

Scarcely had the servant closed the door than he re-opened it to announce Doctor Price, a small pock-marked sharp-featured man, with an intensely keen eye, and a thin compressed mouth.

“Well, Doctor, well?” said Sir Within, as he came forward towards him with a manner of great anxiety.

“Well, Sir Within Wardle, it is as I suspected, a case of concussion; there’s no organic mischief—no lesion.”

“What’s a lesion?”

“There is no fracture, nor any pressure, so far as I can detect; but there is very grave injury of another sort. There is concussion of the brain.”

“And is there danger—be frank, Doctor, is there danger?”

“Certainly there is danger; but I would not pronounce it to be imminent danger.”

“London has some men of great eminence, which of them all would you select to consult with on such a case? I am certain that you would wish a consultation.”

“I have no objection to one, Sir Within, and I would name Sir Henry Morland, as the first man in his profession.”

“Then write for him, Sir—write at once. Here, in this room, here”—and he opened a door into a small cabinet—“you will find everything you want.”

“Certainly; I obey your instructions. I will write immediately; but say in what terms. The young lady is your ward—am I to style her by that title or by her name?”

Sir Within blushed, but it was more in anger than shame; the barest approach to any question of Kate’s position jarred upon his feelings like an insinuation, and he fixed a steadfast stare on the Doctor before he replied, to assure himself that there was no covert impertinence in the request. Apparently he was satisfied, for in a calm voice he said, “It will be unnecessary to say more than that his presence is requested by Sir Within Wildrington Wardle at Dalradem Castle, and with all the speed possible.”

While the Doctor was writing, Sir Within walked to and fro with short and hurried steps, his mouth twitched from time to time, and a nervous motion of his fingers betrayed the immense agitation that possessed him, and against which he struggled hard to subdue all outward signs. Had the occasion been a ministerial conference—had the event been one in which a bold front was called for, to cover a weak position, or affront a coming peril—the old envoy would have borne himself well and bravely; no one could have worn an easier look in a trying emergency, or better baffled the searching that would try to detect a secret misgiving. But where was all this subtlety now? Of what did it avail him? He bent before this blow as humbly as a school-girl, and soon even abandoned the attempt to dissimulate, and wrung his hands in passionate sorrow as he went.

“Will that do, then, Sir Within?” asked the Doctor, as he handed him the note he had just written.

“I have not my glass,” said he, hurriedly, while his fingers held it; “but of course it is all right. You will instruct me as to the fee—you will do whatever is necessary, and you will also, I trust, remain here. I wish you not to leave the Castle.”

“Impossible, Sir Within. Sir Godfrey Wynne is very ill, and I have a very anxious case at Glassnwyd.”

“But none of them, I will venture to say, so needful of watching as this. You have just told me how precarious these cases are. Remember, Sir, I have some claims upon you.”

“The very greatest, Sir Within. But for your munificent donation, I should never have been physician to the Wrexham Hospital.”

“I did not mean that,” said Sir Within, flushing scarlet; “I did not allude to that. I spoke of old family claims in your father’s time. Dalradem was always his staunch supporter.”

“I know it well, Sir; but a doctor owes allegiance to the very humblest of those who need him.”

“A doctor, I presume, is bound to accord the patient whatever of his time he can pay for?”

“Not to the detriment of others who are ill, Sir Within.”

“I know of no other than those under this roof, Doctor Price. I insist, therefore, that you remain here.”

“I will return before evening, Sir Within.”

“If you leave this now, Sir, you need not return.”

“Let me entreat you to moderate your warmth, and hear me.”

“Sir, I accept no lessons on the mode in which I should comport myself. My education is not, I would hope, yet to be made in this respect. You stay now, or you never re-cross this threshold.”

“Then I most respectfully take my leave, Sir.”

As he moved towards the door, Sir Within placed himself against it.

“This is conduct, Sir,” cried he, passionately, “for which I was in no way prepared. It is the first time in my life I have been a physician refuse his services to those who had the right to call for, and the ability to requite them. I will not suffer it.”

The Doctor moved his head mournfully, and muttered a few low and indistinct words.

“No, Sir, I want no apologies. I will not listen to excuses!” cried Sir Within, whose cheek was in a flame, and his eye flashing with anger. “I have done my best—my very best—to misunderstand your ‘meaning; I have tried my utmost to persuade myself that this was no intentional slight; but, apparently, Sir, you insist that I should know it, and feel it.”

“You distress me greatly, Sir Within—and all the more, that I really cannot follow you in what you imply.”

“I never imply, Sir—I declare—I assert!” and his voice was, now shrill with passion. “It is no insinuation I make—it is an open declaration—that it is in what scandalous tongues have dared to allege against this young lady’s residence under my roof is the sole pretext you have to refuse your services here. Don’t deny it, Sir; I read it in your confusion half an hour ago. You intend to build a character for high morality on this event. You know this county better than I do, and you are a better judge how far your strict virtue will be remunerative; or perhaps you fancy that I will condescend to an explanation with you.”

“No, no, Sir Within. You are too unjust—quite too unjust in all this.”

The old Baronet never heard the interruption, but went on:

“But, Sir, if I have scorned to make explanations to the first gentry of my neighbourhood, it is not likely I will descend to them for the satisfaction of a village doctor. Go, Sir—go! but at your peril one word to gratify the slanderous temper of your clients; for if I hear that you have dared to insinuate, however faintly—”

The Doctor did not wait for him to finish, but hurried down the stairs, crossed the hall, and hastened to the stable-yard; and in a very few minutes the sharp sound of his horse’s feet on the ground declared that he was off at speed.

Sir Within had sunk into the chair beside the door from which the Doctor had just issued, powerless and overcome. The outburst of passion, what had been but one exit of an overwhelming sorrow, had run its course, and now he sat there wretched and forlorn. Of his late altercation he remembered positively nothing. Something had occurred—something that excited and agitated him. The Doctor had said, or somebody had said, he knew not what; but it shadowed forth a sort of reflection on him—for Heaven knows what; and he wiped the cold perspiration from his brow, and tried to collect himself. At last he arose and rang the bell.

“Will you tell Doctor Price I should like to speak to him,” said he, in his usual bland tone.

“The Doctor is gone, Sir Within; he left the Castle half an hour ago.”

He nodded; and the servant retired. After a little while he rang again.

“Let Doctor Price know I wish to see him before he goes away,” said he, in a faint voice.

“The Doctor left the Castle some time back, Sir Within,” said the man, in some astonishment.

“Ah!—very true—I remember: that will do.” Once more alone, he tried to remember what had just occurred—but he could not; and, with weary steps, he mounted the stairs slowly towards the corridor where the sick chamber stood.

“She is sleeping, Sir Within,” said the nurse, who sat outside the door to enforce silence—“sleeping, but dreaming and wandering on continually; and such strange things, too, she says.”

“What does she talk of, nurse?” said he, scarcely conscious of what he asked.

“She be talking, Sir, of being a-gathering seaweed on the rocks, and crying out to some one to take care—that the tide is gaining fast. ‘It will be soon in on us!’ she cries every moment; ‘make haste, Patsey, or we’ll lose it all?’ And then she’ll wring her hair, as if there was water in it, and tie it up short afterwards on the back of her head. I never see a young lady go on the same way before!”

“Wandering?—mere wandering?” said Sir Within, faintly. “Of course it be, Sir Within; but ain’t it a strange sort of wandering for one bred and brought up as she was?”

“When people rave, they rave,” said Sir Within, curtly. “Yes, Sir, so they does; but people born to every comfort and the like seldom talks of going out to look for firewood, or to bring home the goats from the mountains; and that poor sweet dear there won’t think of anything else.”

“You are a fool, ma’am, or you would never think of attaching importance to what a patient raves about in a fever. I wonder Doctor Price could not have found a more competent person.” And with this rebuke he retraced his steps, and sought his own room.

As he sat there, a servant entered with a note Doctor Price’s servant had just brought. He tore it open impatiently, and read:

“Dear Sir,—I have accidentally heard that Sir Henry Morland will be at Wrexham this evening. If it be your wish to see him at Dalradern, pray inform me by the bearer.

“Very respectfully your Servant,

“Pritchard Price.”

Sir Within at once addressed a most curt and conciliatory note to Doctor Price, requesting to see him and his colleague as soon as would suit his convenience. That there was something for which an apology was needed, he knew; but what it was, how it occurred, or why it occurred, was totally beyond him; his note, however, was polite in every respect, and its conclusion actually friendly. Doctor Price, however, did not make his appearance, but towards midnight a post-chaise drove into the court-yard, and the great town Physician entered the castle. He was a short, stout-built, heavy-browed man, stern, and almost peremptory in his manner, reserving all his mind for his patient, and scarcely condescending to notice the friends of the sick person.

“Who is it?” asked he bluntly of Sir Within, as the old envoy politely handed him a chair.

“My ward, Sir Henry, a young lady not fully seventeen.”

“Humph! I did not know you were married.”

“I am not married, Sir. I was not aware that we were discussing that question.”

“Let me speak with your sister, then?”

“I have no sister, Sir.”

“I don’t care what the relative is—cousin, aunt, grandmother—if not too old.”

“I reject, Sir, I have no female relative here to whom I can refer you. I shall send for my housekeeper, however, who is a most intelligent person;” and he rang the bell hurriedly.

“And this ward—strange thing a ward in the house of an unmarried man—what’s her name?”

“Miss O’Hara.”

“O’Hara! O’Hara! One of the Antrim family?”

“No, Sir; no connexion even.”

“Oh, this is the housekeeper! Show me your patient, and tell me about the case as we go along;” and abruptly returning Sir Within’s salutation, he left the room, and proceeded up-stairs. “Yes, yes,” he muttered, as the housekeeper recounted the symptoms. “Yes; I know all that: but I want to hear how it began. Was there any shock—any accident? None? Mere fatigue—a long ride—over-exertion—a very hot day! Yes, yes, quite common—answers at first collectively, and then goes off raving—that’s enough!”

The rough ungracious man, abrupt of speech, and actually rude in manner, became gentle as a woman as he stole up to the bedside and laid his hand on the hot and burning forehead. She raised her hand, tremulous with fever, and placed it upon his, and said: “Yes; the pain is there!”

“Let us see if we cannot cure it,” said he softly, as he sat down beside the bed.

She turned her large lustrous eyes upon him—brightened as they were in the glow of fever—and stared at him steadfastly and long. He was counting her pulse, and she watched his lips as they faintly stirred, as though she could read her fate in their motion.

“Well?” cried she—“well?”

“Well, you are about to get better, my dear child; the fever is decreasing, and your head freer.”

“Yes,” said she, hurriedly, “the horrid fancies that torment me are passing away, and I can think now. Who are you?” asked she, after a pause.

“I am your doctor.”

“But your name? I never saw you before.”

“I know that! This is my first visit to you. My name is Morland.”

“Morland—Morland—I have read that name in the newspapers. Sir William, or Sir something.”

“Sir Henry Morland.”

“Physician to the King, I declare,” said she, raising herself on one arm to look at him; “and you have come here, all this way, to see me!”

“And very well worth my while it was. It is not every day I chance upon so interesting a patient.”

“How kind you are—how pleasant your voice is; it soothes me to listen to it.”

“But we must not talk any more now, my child.”

“O yes, let us talk, it is so delightful; tell me of all the fine people you see daily. Do you speak to them as kindly as to me, or are you more reserved and distant? Do tell me.”

“I will tell you all about these things another time, when it will be safer for you to hear them. You must have perfect rest and quiet now.”

“It would quiet me far more to listen to you than to let me think on and on, as I have been doing. You are going away already?”

“I cannot help it, my child; I have many others waiting for me to see them.”

“But you wouldn’t hurry away from me in this fashion if I were a great person?”

“Pardon me; you are a very great person to me.”

“How so? Tell me what you mean; do tell me,” cried she; and she started up and caught his hand with both her own. “I must know what that means.”

“Listen to me, my child,” and he spoke in a graver, almost a stern manner; “I can only do the work of my daily life by being very despotic. I have replied to more questions of yours now, than I should have answered to a Royal Highness. Good-by.”

“Good-by!” said she, and pressed his hand to her hot lips. “Good-by; don’t forget me.”

As the Doctor, followed by Mrs. Simcox, left the room, he stood for a moment in the corridor, deep in thought. “Her mind is collected now,” said he, at last; “there is only excitement; there is no aberration.”

“She has those intervals every now and then, Sir, and she’ll speak as sensibly as any one; and, indeed, it’s hard to say when she is not talking rational, for she is odd and strange when she’s well.”

“Yes, I see that; she is no ordinary person.”

“And no later than last night, Sir, when we imagined that she was talking a mere gibberish of her own, our second housemaid, that was in the room, went over and answered her, and there they talked together for more than a quarter of an hour, Sir; and I asked Molly what it was, and she said it was Irish. So, when the girl came into the room this morning, I told her to talk it again; but, would you believe it, Sir, our young lady began to laugh, and asked what the creature meant by that nonsense. She did not know one word, Sir, Molly was saying, any more than ourselves.”

The Doctor nodded assentingly, as though such a case was familiar to him, and passed on. At the foot of the stairs he found Sir Within waiting for him.

“I will talk to Price,” said Sir Henry; “I shall see him to-night, and to-morrow I will take another opportunity of seeing her before I return to town.

“Are you hopeful as to the result?” asked Sir Within, with much anxiety in his look.

“She has youth in her favour,” said he, as he buttoned up his overcoat.

“And you think well of her case, then?”

“I did not say so, Sir; I don’t think any man would go so far; for it will be tedious, and consequently precarious. And there are now and then recoveries that can scarcely be called benefits. How many miles do you call it to Wrexham?”

“You speak of the effects upon the brain—the permanent effects?” said Sir Within, with trembling eagerness.

“Brain or membranes, I don’t think it signifies much which. And Wrexham—how far is it?”

“Your postboy will tell you, Sir; this case is of much more moment to me.”

Sir Henry turned a full steady look on the old envoy, as though he were contemplating an order of being wholly new and strange to him; and then turning to the housekeeper, who still stood at his side, said: “Stop the ice—apply mere cold water; don’t talk to her, and no more Irish—take care of that—no more Irish. Good night, Sir Within;” and stepping hastily down the steps, he entered his carriage and drove away.

“What did he mean by that last direction, no more Irish, Mrs. Simcox?” asked Sir Within.

“La, Sir, it was about a thing that happened last night;” and she recounted the incident, at somewhat greater length than we have given it.

“Send the girl to me,” said Sir Within, as she finished; “let me speak to her in the library.”

The interview lasted about half an hour, and at the end of it Molly was seen to hasten to her room, pack her clothes, and descend to the stable-yard, where a conveyance was in waiting for her.

“This is a hasty way to leave us, Molly,” said one of her fellow-servants, as she mounted the cart.

“It’s my mother that was sick, and sent for me,” said the girl. “Drive on,” added she to the groom, for Sir Within was leaning on the window-sill, overhead, and watching the scene.

Sir Henry arrived the next morning to find Kate worse than he had left her; and, though greatly pressed for time, he remained nigh an hour in consultation with Doctor Price, who had accompanied him. There was more fever, and far more of excitement than on the day before, and she talked incessantly to herself, occasionally giving way to bursts of laughter.

“How grave you both look this morning,” said she, with a derisive smile, as they arose to leave her bedside. “I think I can guess what’s passing in your mind.” Morland shook his head in dissent, and she went on: “Of course you would be reluctant to say it, but the simple truth is, Doctor, you think me very, very ill.”

“So far, you are right,” said he, gently.

“Yes, but you suspect more. You believe that I am dying.”

“You have many things in your favour, my dear child. You have youth, you have strength, and you have what is sometimes worth them both—good courage.”

“You do me justice, Doctor, I have plenty of courage, more even than you know of; and I have another thing,” added she, while her eyes flashed wildly and her lip shook with agitation—“I have no great desire to live!”

“Come, come, young lady,” broke in Price, “it is not at your age that one is weary of the world.”

“I never said I was,” cried she, impatiently; and then, turning from him as though he were not one to understand her aright, she addressed the other. “May I speak to you alone?”

“Certainly; my friend here will have no objection, I’m sure.”

“None whatever,” said Doctor Price, as he moved towards the door.

“And you, Simcox, you must go too; and take Nelly with you.”

“La, Miss——”

“Do as you are told,” said the Doctor, peremptorily.

“And now we are alone, child,” said he, as having closed the door, he returned to the bedside.

“Sit down, sit there,” said she, pointing to the chair, “and wait a moment till I collect myself. I don’t like that man; his voice jars on—there is so much in a voice. Yours, for instance, soothes me.” He smiled kindly on her, and she continued: “I was not always so captious, but illness makes one very fretful. Ain’t it so?”

“Naturally.”

“I must be very ill, then, if irritability be the measure. Do you know”—and here she spoke with immense rapidity, and with a jarring vibration in her voice—“do you know that there are times, mere moments, in which it needs all my self-control not to scream aloud? Yes, I feel as though I would give life itself to cry out—to fling this weary load off my poor heart, and tell all—all!”

“You must be calm, young lady, or I shall think I have done amiss in permitting this interview.”

“Don’t call me young lady. The other, that man I dislike, called me young lady. You must call me Kate.” He only smiled, and she took his hand in her own burning hand, and said, in a coaxing, caressing tone, “Say Kate—Kate!”

“I am very proud that you let me call you Kate.”

“Yes, that’s it; and you say it softly, as it should be spoken. It’s a pretty name, is it not? No, don’t look on me pitifully. If it be even as you fear, there is no cause for sorrow. Answer me one thing,” said she, half sternly, “but answer truly. Shall I die of this? There, there! I do not want any more. You think I shall; but I know better. Ay, Doctor, there’s a keener instinct, stronger than all your skill, and it tell’s me I have years and years before me; years of such trouble, too, it would be a mercy I were taken now!”

“Calm yourself, my child. I like your self-confidence; but be calm.”

“And am I not calm? Count my pulse;” and she bared her arm and held it towards him. “It is a pretty arm? then say so, frankly. What harm can flattery do me now?”

“I must leave you, my dear child. I have a long journey before me, and much hard work at the end of it. I am sorry, very sorry to go. Don’t shake your head, Kate, it is the simple truth.”

“Then why not stay?”

“I have told you, child, that many others are expecting me.”

“Yes, great people, titled people, people of condition, as they are called; as if we, too, had not our condition. Don’t you hate that word? Don’t you hate every vulgar sneer at the low-born?”

“I like your generosity——”

“My generosity!” cried she, with a wild hysteric laugh—“my generosity! Oh, yes; my generosity has a touch of genius in it. It reveals to me the unseen, the untasted! For, what can I know of such people?”

Her brows were knitted fast as she uttered the last words, and her lips were drawn tight, as though she spoke under the pressure of some intense constraint.

“There, there!” said he, rising. “I knew all this talking was injurious, and I am much to blame for having permitted it.”

“And you are going?”

“I must; I have no choice in the matter.”

“Well, give me a minute more. Sit down again, and I will not detain you more than a minute or two. When I asked to speak with you alone, Doctor, it was to beg of you to make my will. You need not be afraid that it will take long. I have only one legacy and one heir. Now, mind what I shall say to you. It may happen—I myself think it will happen—that I shall get better of this fever. Much of my raving—what they call my raving—was such wandering as passes through my head any day; so that it may easily be I have never been so ill as I seemed to be, and all the wonderful stories Mrs. Simcox told you in the window last night—my strange fancies about my bare feet bleeding with the sharp stones—no matter, fact or fancy, it was in my head before this. You are attending to me?”

“I am.”

“I was afraid you thought that this explanation was only ‘wandering’ of another sort; but I see you do not. I see you follow me.”

He nodded.

“If, however, your skill be better than my second sight—if I can call it so—I have a task for you to do. When it shall be all over, before I am buried, you will take care but wait, let us do it regularly.” She raised herself on one arm as she spoke, and with the other hand she pointed to a small writing-table at the farther part of the room. “Open that desk, and take out an envelope. It ought to be black-edged for the occasion,” said she, with a sad smile, “but I don’t think it matters much. Yes, that one will do very well. Write now the address I shall give you: Mr. Peter Malone.’ Show it to me—is it large and plain? No; take another. It must be clear, bold writing. I think I ought to write it myself—of course I ought, and I will.”

“All this excitement is wrong.”

“Then don’t prolong it. Give me the pen and that book to write on. I declare it is you that are nervous, Doctor. What makes your hand shake?”

“If I am nervous, it is because I feel much self-reproach for all this—this——”

“This—what?” asked she, smiling. “Do give it a name. I am sure you are not angry at my detaining you. You are too kind and too considerate to reckon minutes against one who may have so few of them; and then, as to this task I impose on you,” and she smiled again—“do confess you never heard of so short a will. There, it is all written now. Read it out, that I may see if it be legible.”

“‘Mr. Peter Malone, to the care of Mr. T. O’Rorke, Vinegar Hill, Cush-ma-Creena, Ireland.’”

“Your pronunciation is not quite faultless, Doctor; but, luckily, you will not be the postman. Mind, now, this is to be posted so soon as all is over. No, no—not as it is. I have not yet enclosed my legacy. Take that scissors you see yonder. Open the shutter—a little more still—yes, that will do. Now come here. Cut off the longest and the brightest lock you can find here,” and she unbound her golden hair, and sent it floating in heavy masses over her shoulders and her back, and even her face. “Don’t spare it. I mean my last legacy to be munificent. There!” said she, taking the long tress from his fingers, “how soft and silky it is—see, too, if it has not that golden radiance the Venetian painters raved about! The old man to whom that envelope is addressed once asked me to give him a lock of my hair; he begged for it very eagerly, as a parting gift, and I refused him. I can give it now—yes, I can give it now! Ask me nothing—I will tell nothing. I thought to have told you all—the whole long, dreary story—but I cannot. There, you are impatient to be away. I release you; only remember, that if I do not die you are to return that paper to me. Do you understand me?”

“Perfectly, and will obey you to the letter, my dear child, if you will not give me this tress as my fee for having cured you. Perhaps I have as good a claim to it as that other to whom you would bequeath it.”

“No, no, no!” cried she, impetuously. “You never cared for me, you never could care for me, as he does; but keep it if you will. Good-by, good-by! One instant more. There is another old man to whom I would send a message.”

“Your guardian?”

A scornful curl of her lip and an impatient gesture of her head stopped him.

“Tell Sir Within that I was very grateful to him. He did much to make my life a very happy one, and yet I am so glad to leave it! Speak kindly to him and comfort him; tell him, if you will, that if he would continue to love me, it were best I should die; for if I were to live, Doctor”—and here her eyes grew full and wide, and her gaze steadfast—“if I were to live, I should lose that love.”

The wild look she gave, the strange vibration of her voice, and her words themselves, warned the Doctor that a period of excitement was approaching, and he drew the curtain and moved away.