The Winterbourns came next day: he to the best room in the house, a temperature carefully kept up to sixty-five degrees, and the daily attentions of the excellent doctor, who, Lady Markham declared, was thrown away upon her healthy household. Mr Winterbourn was a man of fifty, a confirmed invalid, who travelled with a whole paraphernalia of medicaments, and a servant who was a trained nurse, and very skilful in all the lower branches of the medical craft. Mrs Winterbourn, however, was not like this. She was young, pretty, lively, fond of what she called “fun,” and by no means bound to her husband’s sick-room. Everybody said she was very kind to him. She never refused to go to him when he wanted her. Of her own accord, as part of her usual routine, she would go into his room three or even four times a-day to see if she could do anything. She sat with him always while Roberts the man-nurse had his dinner. What more could a woman do? She had indeed, it was understood, married him against her will; but that is an accident not to be avoided, and she had always been a model of propriety. They were asked everywhere, which, considering how little adapted he was for society, was nothing less than the highest proof of how much she was thought of; and the most irreproachable matrons did not hesitate to invite Lord Markham to meet the Winterbourns. It was a wonderful, quite an ideal friendship, everybody said. And it was such a comfort to both of them! For Markham, considering the devotion he had always shown to his mother, would probably find it very inconvenient to marry, which is the only thing which makes friendship between a man and a woman difficult. A woman does not like her devoted friend to marry: that is the worst of those delicate relationships, and it is the point upon which they generally come to shipwreck in the end. As a matter of course, any other harm of a grosser kind was not so much as thought of by any one who knew them. There were people, however, who asked themselves and each other, as a fine problem, one of those cases of complication which it pleases the human intellect to resolve, what would happen if Winterbourn died?—a thing which he was continually threatening to do. It had been at one time quite a favourite subject of speculation in society. Some said that it would not suit Markham at all,—that he would get out of it somehow; some, that there would be no escape for him; some, that with such a fine jointure as Nelly would have, it would set the little man up, if he could give up his “ways.” Markham had not a very good reputation, though everybody knew that he was the best son in the world. He played, it was said, more and otherwise than a man of his position ought to play. He was often amusing, and always nice to women, so that society never in the least broke with him, and he had champions everywhere. But the mere fact that he required champions was a proof that all was not exactly as it ought to be. He was a man with a great many “ways,” which of course it is natural to suppose would be bad ways, though, except in the matter of play, no one knew very well what they were.

Winterbourn, however, had never been so bad as he was on this occasion, when he was almost lifted out of the carriage and carried to his room, his very host being allowed no speech of him till next morning, after he was supposed to have got over the fatigue of the journey. The doctor, when he was summoned, shook his head and looked very grave; and it may be imagined what talks went on among the guests when no one of the family was present to hear. These talks were sometimes carried on before Frances, who was scarcely realised as the daughter of the house. Even Claude Ramsay forgot his own pressing concerns in consideration of the urgent question of the moment, and Sir Thomas ceased to think of Waring. Frances gleaned from what she heard that they were all preparing for flight. “Of course, in case anything dreadful happens, dear Lady Markham,” they said, “will no doubt go too.”

“What a funny thing,” said one of the Miss Montagues, “if it should happen in this house.”

“Funny, Laura! You mean dreadful,” cried her mother. “Do choose your words a little better.”

“Oh, you know what I mean, mamma!” cried the young lady.

“You must think it dreadful indeed,” said Mrs Montague, addressing Frances, “that we should discuss such a sad thing in this way. Of course, we are all very sorry for poor Mr Winterbourn; and if he had been ill and dying in his own house—— But one’s mind is occupied at present by the great inconvenience—oh, more than that—the horror and—and embarrassment to your dear mother.”

“All that,” said Sir Thomas with a certain solemnity. Perhaps it was the air of unusual gravity with which he uttered these two words which raised the smallest momentary titter,—no, not so much as a titter—a faintly audible smile, if such an expression may be used,—chiefly among the young ladies, who had perhaps a clearer realisation of the kind of embarrassment that was meant than was expected of them. But Frances had no clue whatever to it. She replied warmly—

“My mother will not think of the inconvenience. It is surely those who are in such trouble themselves who are the only people to think about. Poor Mrs Winterbourn——”

“Who is it that is speaking of me in such a kind voice?” said the sick man’s wife.

She had just come into the room; and she was very well aware that she was being discussed by everybody about—herself and her circumstances, and all those contingencies which were, in spite of herself, beginning to stir her own mind, as they had already done the minds of all around. That is one thing which in any crisis people in society may be always sure of, that their circumstances are being fully talked over by their friends.

“I hope we have all kind voices when we speak of you, my dear Nelly. This one was Frances Waring, our new little friend here.”

“Ah, that explains,” said Mrs Winterbourn; and she went on, without saying more, to the conservatory, which opened from the drawing-room in which the party was seated. They were silenced, though they had not been saying anything very bad of her. The sudden appearance of the person discussed always does make a certain impression. The gentlemen of the group dispersed, the ladies began to talk of something else. Frances, very shy, yet burdened with a great desire to say or do something towards the consolation of those who were, as she had said, in such trouble, went after Mrs Winterbourn. She had seated herself where the big palms and other exotic foliage were thickest, out of sight of the drawing-room, close to the open doorway that led to the lawn and the sea. Frances was a little surprised that the wife of a man who was thought to be dying should leave his bedside at all; but she reflected that to prevent breaking down, and thus being no longer of any use to the patient, it was the duty of every nurse to take a certain amount of rest and fresh air. She felt, however, more and more timid as she approached. Mrs Winterbourn had not the air of a nurse. She was dressed in her usual way, with her usual ornaments—not too much, but yet enough to make a tinkle, had she been at the side of a sick person, and possibly to have disturbed him. Two or three bracelets on a pretty arm are very pretty things; but they are not very suitable for a sick-nurse. She was sitting with a book in one hand, leaning her head upon the other, evidently not reading, evidently very serious. Frances was encouraged by the downcast face.

“I hope you will not think me very bold,” she said, the other starting and turning round at the sound of her voice. “I wanted to ask if I could help you in any way. I am very good for keeping awake, and I could get you what you wanted. Oh, I don’t mean that I am good enough to be trusted as nurse; but if I might sit up with you—in the next room—to get you what you want.”

“What do you mean, child?” the young woman said in a quick, startled, half-offended voice. She was not very much older than Frances, but her experiences had been very different. She thought offence was meant. Lady Markham had always been kind to her, which was, she felt, somewhat to Lady Markham’s own advantage, for Nelly knew that Markham would never marry so long as her influence lasted, and this was for his mother’s good. But now it was very possible that Lady Markham was trembling, and had put her little daughter forward to give a sly stroke. Her tone softened, however, as she looked up in Frances’ face. It was perhaps only that the girl was a little simpleton, and meant what she said. “You think I sit up at night?” she said. “Oh no. I should be of no use. Mr Winterbourn has his own servant, who knows exactly what to do; and the doctor is to send a nurse to let Roberts get a little rest. It is very good of you. Nursing is quite the sort of thing people go in for now, isn’t it? But, unfortunately, poor Mr Winterbourn can’t bear amateurs, and I should do no good.”

She gave Frances a bright smile as she said this, and turned again towards the scene outside, opening her book at the same time, which was like a dismissal. But at that moment, to the great surprise of Frances, Markham appeared without, strolling towards the open door. He came in when he saw his little sister, nodding to her with a look which stopped her as she was about to turn away.

“I am glad you are making friends with Frances,” he said. “How is Winterbourn now?”

“I wish everybody would not ask me every two minutes how he is now,” cried the young wife. “He doesn’t change from one half-hour to another. Oh, impatient; yes, I am impatient. I am half out of my senses, what with one thing and another; and here is your sister—your sister—asking to help me to nurse him! That was all that was wanting, I think, to drive me quite mad!”

“I am sure little Fan never thought she would produce such a terrible result. Be reasonable, Nelly.”

“Don’t call me Nelly, sir; and don’t tell me to be reasonable. Don’t you know how they are all talking, these horrible people? Oh, why, why did I bring him here?”

“Whatever was the reason, it can’t be undone now,” said Markham. “Come, Nelly! This is nothing but nerves, you know. You can be yourself when you please.”

“Do you know why he talks to me like that before you?” said Mrs Winterbourn, suddenly turning upon Frances. “It is because he thinks things are coming to a crisis, and that I shall be compelled——” Here the hasty creature came to a pause and stared suddenly round her. “Oh, I don’t know what I am saying, Geoff! They are all talking, talking in every corner about you and me.”

“Run away, Fan,” said her brother. “Mrs Winterbourn, you see, is not well. The best thing for her is to be left in quiet. Run away.”

“It is you who ought to go away, Markham, and leave her to me.”

“Oh!” said Markham, with a gleam of amusement, “you set up for that too, Fan! But I know better how to take care of Nelly than you do. Run away.”

The consternation with which Frances obeyed this request it would be difficult to describe. She had not understood the talk in the drawing-room, and she did not understand this. But it gave her ideas a strange shock. A woman whose husband was dying, and who was away from him—who called Markham by his Christian name, and apparently preferred his ministrations to her own! She would not go back as she came, to afford the ladies in the drawing-room a new subject for their comments, but went out instead by the open door, not thinking that the only path by which she could return indoors led past the window of her mother’s room, which opened on the lawn round the angle of the house. Lady Markham was standing there looking out as Frances came in sight. She knocked upon the window to call her daughter’s attention, and opening it hurriedly, called her in. “Have you seen Markham?” she said, almost before Frances could hear.

“I have left him, this moment.”

“You have left him. Is he alone, then? Who is with him? Is Nelly Winterbourn there?”

Frances could not tell why it was that she disliked to answer. She made a little assenting movement of her head.

“It ought not to be,” cried Lady Markham—“not at this moment—at any other time, if they like, but not now. Don’t you see the difference? Before, nothing was possible. Now—when at any moment she may be a free woman, and Markham—— Don’t you see the difference? They should not, they should not, be together now!”

Frances stood before her mother, feeling that a claim was made upon her which she did not even understand, and feeling also a helplessness which was altogether foreign to her ordinary sensations. She did not understand, nor wish to understand—it was odious to her to think even what it could mean. And what could she do? Lady Markham was agitated and excited—not able to control herself.

“For I have just seen the doctor,” she cried, “and he says that it is a question not even of days, but of hours. Good heavens, child! only think of it,—that such a thing should happen here; and that Markham—Markham!—should have to manage everything. Oh, it is indecent—there is no other word for it. Go and call him to me. We must get him to go away.”

“Mamma,” said Frances, “how can I go back? He told me to go and leave them.”

“He is a fool,” cried Lady Markham, stamping her foot. “He does not see how he is committing himself; he does not mind. Oh, what does it matter what he said to you! Run at once and bring him to me. Say I have something urgent to tell him. Say—oh, say anything! If Constance had been here, she would have known.”

Frances was very sensible to the arrow thus flung at her in haste, without thought. She was so stung by it, that she turned hastily to do her mother’s commission at all costs. But before she had taken half-a-dozen steps, Markham himself appeared, coming leisurely, easily, with his usual composure, round the corner. “What’s wrong with you, little un?” he asked. “You are not vexed at what I said to you, Fan? I couldn’t help it, my dear.”

“It isn’t that, Markham. It is—mamma.”

And then Lady Markham, too much excited to wait, came out to join them. “Do you know the state of affairs, Markham? Does she know? I want you to go off instantly, without losing a moment, to Southampton, to fetch Dr Howard. Quick! There is just time to get the boat.”

“Dr Howard? What is wrong with the man here?”

“He is afraid of the responsibility—at least I am, Markham. Think—in your house! Oh yes, my dear, go without delay.”

Markham paused, and looked at her with his keen little eyes. “Mother, why don’t you say at once you want to get me out of the way?”

“I do. I don’t deny it, Markham. But this too. We ought to have another opinion. Do, for any favour, what I ask you, dear; oh, do it! Oh yes, I would rather you sent him here, and did not come back with him. But come back, if you must; only, go, go now.”

“You think he will be—dead before I could get back? I will telegraph for Dr Howard, mother; but I will not go away.”

“You can do no good, Markham—except to make people talk. Oh, for mercy’s sake, whatever you may do afterwards, go now.”

“I will go and telegraph—with pleasure,” he said.

Lady Markham turned and took Frances’ arm, as he left them. “I think I must give in now altogether,” she cried. “All is going wrong with me. First Con, and then my boy. For now I see what will happen. And you don’t know, you can’t think what Markham has been to me. Oh, he has been everything to me! And now—I know what will happen now.”

“Mamma,” said Frances, trembling. She wanted to say that little as she herself was, she was one who would never forsake her mother. But she was so conscious that Lady Markham’s thoughts went over her head and took no note of her, that the words were stifled on her lips. “He said to me once that he could never—leave you,” she said, faltering, though it was not what she meant to say.

“He said to you once——? Then he has been thinking of it; he has been discussing the question?” Lady Markham said with bitterness. She leant heavily upon Frances’ arm, but not with any tender appreciation of the girl’s wistful desire to comfort her. “That means,” she said, “that I can never desert him. I must go now and get rid of all this excitement, and put on a composed face, and tell the people that they may go away if they like. It will be the right thing for them to go away. But I can’t stay here with death in the house, and take a motherly care of—of that girl, whom I never trusted—whom Markham—— And she will marry him within the year. I know it.”

Frances made a little outcry of horror, being greatly disturbed—“Oh no, no!” without any meaning, for she indeed knew nothing.

“No! How can you say No?—when you are quite in ignorance. I can’t tell you what Markham would wish—to be let alone, most likely, if they would let him alone. But she will do it. She always was headstrong; and now she will be rich. Oh, what a thing it is altogether—like a thunderbolt out of a clear sky. Who could have imagined, when we came down here so tranquilly, with nothing unusual—— If I thought of any change at all, it was perhaps that Claude—whom, by the way, you must not be rude to, Frances—that Claude might perhaps—— And now, here is everything unsettled, and my life turned upside down.”

What did she hope that Claude would have done? Frances’ brain was all perplexed. She had plunged into a sudden sea of troubles, without knowing even what the wild elements were that lashed the placid waters into fury and made the sky dark all around.