"Dr. Rane, madam."
Mrs. North sat on a couch by the fire. In the house she was called Madam--out of the house, too, for that matter. A severely handsome woman, with a cold, pale, imperious face, the glittering jewels in her black hair looking as hard as she did. A cruel face, as some might have deemed it. When Mr. North married her, she was the widow of Major Bohun, and had one son. Underneath the chandelier, reading by its light, sat her daughter, a young lady whose face bore a strong resemblance to hers. This daughter and a son had been born since her second marriage.
"You wished to see me, Mrs. North?"
Dr. Rane so spoke because they took no manner of notice of him. Mrs. North turned then, with her dark, inscrutable eyes; eyes that Oliver Rane hated, as he hated the cruelty glittering in their depths, He believed her to be a woman unscrupulously selfish. She did not rise; merely motioned him to a seat with a haughty wave of her white arm: and the bracelets shone on it, and her ruby velvet dress gleamed with amazing richness. He sat down with perfect self-possession, every whit as independent as herself.
"You have seen this infamous letter, I presume, Dr. Rane?"
"I have."
"Who sent it?"
"I cannot tell you, Mrs. North."
"Have you no idea at all?"
"Certainly not. How should I have?"
"Could you detect no resemblance in the writing to any one's you know?"
He shook his head.
"Not to--for instance--Alexander's?" she resumed, looking at him steadfastly. But Dr. Rane saw with a sure instinct that Alexander's was not the name she had meant to speak.
"I feel sure that Mr. Alexander no more wrote the letter than--than you did, Mrs. North."
"Does it bear any resemblance to Richard North's?" she continued, after a faint pause.
"To Richard North's!" echoed the doctor, the words taking him by surprise. "No."
"Are you familiar with Richard North's handwriting?"
Oliver Rane paused to think, and then replied with a passing laugh. "I really believe I do not know his handwriting, madam."
"Then why did you speak so confidently?"
"I spoke in the impulse of the moment. Richard North, of all men, is the lest likely to do such a thing as this."
The young lady, Matilda North, turned round from her book. An opera cloak of scarlet gauze was on her shoulders, as if she were cold; she drew it closer with an impatient hand.
"Mamma, why do you harp upon Richard? He couldn't do it; papa told you so. If Dick saw need to find fault with any one, or tell tales, he would do it openly."
One angry gleam from madam's eyes as her daughter settled to her book again, and then she proceeded to close the interview.
"As you profess yourself unable to give me information or to detect any clue, I will not detain you longer, Dr. Rane."
He stood for a second, expecting, perhaps, that she might offer her hand. She did nothing of the sort, only bowed coldly. Matilda North took no notice of him whatever: she was content to follow her mother's teachings when they did not clash with her own inclination. Dr. Rane had ceased to marvel why he was held in disfavour by Mrs. North: to try to guess at it seemed a hopeless task. Neither could he imagine why she opposed his marriage with Bessy; for to Bessy and her interests she was utterly indifferent.
As he left the drawing-room, Bessy North joined him, and they went together to the hall-door. No servant had been rung for--it was one of Mrs. North's ways of showing contempt--and they stood together outside, speaking softly. Again the tears shone in Bessy's eyes: her heart was a very tender one, and she had loved her brother dearly.
"Oliver, is there any hope?"
"Do not distress yourself, Bessy. I cannot tell you one way or the other."
"How can I help distressing myself?" she rejoined, her hand resting quietly in both his. "It is all very well for you to be calm; a medical man meets these sad things every day. You cannot be expected to care."
"Can I not?" he answered; and there was a touch of passionate emotion in the usually calm tones. "If any effort or sacrifice of mine would bring back his health and life, I would freely make it. Goodnight, Bessy."
As he stooped to kiss her, quick, firm footsteps were heard approaching, and Bessy went indoors. He who came up was a rather tall and very active man, with a plain, but nevertheless an attractive face. Plain in its irregular features; attractive from its open candour and strong good sense, from the earnest, truthful look in the deep-set hazel eyes. People were given to saying that Richard North was the best man of business for miles round. It was so: and he was certainly, in mind, manners, and person, a gentleman.
"Is it you, Rane? What is all this trouble? I have been away for a few hours, unfortunately. Mark Dawson met me just now with the news that my brother was dying."
The voice would have been pleasing to a degree if only from its tone of ready decision: but it was also musical as voices seldom are, clear and full of sincerity. From the voice alone, Richard North might have been trusted to his life's end. Dr. Rane gave a short summary of the illness and the state he was lying in.
"Dawson spoke of a letter that had excited him," said Richard.
"True; a letter to Mr. North."
"A dastardly anonymous letter. Just so."
"An anonymous letter," repeated the doctor. "But the effect on your brother seems altogether disproportioned to the cause."
"Where is the letter? I cannot look upon Edmund until I have seen the letter."
Dr. Rane told him where the letter was, and went out. Richard North passed on to the parlour. Mr. North, sitting by the fire, had his face bent in his hands.
"Father, what is all this?"
"Oh, Dick, I am glad you have come!" and in the tone there sounded an intense relief, as if he who came brought with him strength and hope. "I can't make top or tail of this; and I think he is dying."
"Who is with him?--Arthur?"
"No; Arthur has been out all day. The doctors are with him still."
"Let me see the letter."
Mr. North gave it him, reciting at the same time the chief incidents of the calamity in a rambling sort of manner. Richard North read the letter twice: once hastily, to gather in the sense; then attentively, giving to every word full consideration. His father watched him.
"It was not so much the letter itself that excited him, Richard, as the notion that Alexander wrote it."
"Alexander did not write this," decisively spoke Richard.
"You think not?"
"Why, of course he did not. It tells against himself as much as against Edmund."
"Edmund said no one knew of the matter except Alexander, and therefore no one else could have written it. Besides, Dick, where is Alexander? Why is he staying away?"
"We shall hear soon, I daresay. I have faith in Alexander. Keep this letter jealously, father. It may have been right to give you the information it contains; I say nothing at present about that; but an anonymous writer is generally a scoundrel, deserving no quarter."
"And none shall he get from me," spoke Mr. North, emphatically. "It was posted at Whitborough, you see, Dick."
"I see," shortly answered Richard. He threw his coat back as if he were too hot; and moved to the door on his way to his brother's chamber.
Meanwhile Oliver Rane went down the avenue to the entrance-gates, and took the road to Dallory. He