"What a fool! what a fool!" murmured he, half aloud, apostrophizing, doubtless, the writer of the anonymous letter. Or, it might be, the unfortunate young man who had allowed it to excite within him so fatal an amount of passion.
The road was smooth and broad: a fine highway, well kept. For a short distance there were no houses, but they soon began. Dallory was a bustling village, both poor and rich inhabiting it. The North Works, as they were familiarly called, from the fact of Mr. North's being their chief proprietor, lay a little further on, and Dallory Church still beyond. It was a straggling parish at best.
Amidst the first good houses that Dr. Rane came to was one superior to the rest. A large, square, handsome dwelling, with a pillared portico close to the village pathway, and a garden behind it.
"I wonder how Mother Gass is to-night?" thought the doctor, arresting his steps. "I may as well ask."
His knock was answered by the lady herself, whom he had so unceremoniously styled "Mother Gass." A stout, comfortable-looking dame, richly dressed, with a face as red as it was good-natured, and a curiously-fine lace cap, standing on end with yellow ribbon. Mrs. Gass possessed neither birth nor breeding; she had made an advantageous match, as you will hear further on: she owned many good qualities, and was popularly supposed to be rich enough to buy up the whole of Dallory Ham. Her late husband had been uncle to Oliver Rane, but neither she nor Oliver presumed upon the relationship in their intercourse with each other. In fact they had never met until two years ago.
"I knew your knock, Dr. Rane, and came to the door myself. Step into the parlour. I want to speak to you."
The doctor did not want to go in by any means, and felt caught. He said he had no time to stay; had merely called, in passing, to ask how she was.
"Well, I'm better this evening: the swimming in the head is less. You just come in, now. I won't keep you two minutes. Shut the door, girl, after Dr. Rane."
This was to a smart housemaid, who had followed her mistress down the wide, handsome passage. Dr. Rane perforce stepped in, very unwillingly. He felt instinctively convinced that Mrs. Gass had heard of the calamity at the Hall and wished to question him. To avoid this he would have gone a mile any other way.
"I want to get at the truth about Edmund North, doctor. One of the maids from the Hall called in just now and said he had been frightened into a fit through some letter; and that you were fetched to him."
"Well, that is true," said the doctor, accepting the situation.
"My patience!" ejaculated Mrs. Gass. "What was writ in the letter? She said it was one of them enonymous things."
"So it was."
"Was it writ to himself?"
"No. To Mr. North."
"Well, now,"--dropping her voice--"was it about that young woman he got acquainted with? You know."
"No, no; nothing of that sort." And Dr. Rane, as the shortest way of ending the matter, gave her the details.
"There was not much in the letter," he said, in confidential tones. "No harm would have come of it but for Edmund North's frightful access of passion. If he dies, mind,"--the doctor added this in a dreamy tone, gazing out as if looking into the future--"if he dies, it will not be the letter that has killed him, but his own want of self-control."
"Don't talk of dying, doctor. It is to be hoped it won't come to that."
"It is, indeed."
"And Mr. Richard was not at home, the girl said!"
"Neither he nor Captain Bohun. Richard has just come in now."
Mrs. Gass would fain have kept him longer, but he told her the sick man Ketler was waiting for him. This man was one of the North workmen, who had been terribly injured in the arm; Dr. Rane hoped to save both arm and life.
"That receipt for the rhubarb jam Mrs. Cumberland promised: is it ever coming?" asked Mrs. Gass as Dr. Rane was quitting the room.
Turning back, he put his hat on the table and took out his pocketbook. Mrs. Cumberland had sent it at last. He selected the paper from amongst several others and handed it to her.
"I forgot to leave it when I was here this morning, Mrs. Gass. My mother gave it me yesterday."
Between them they dropped the receipt. Both stooped for it, and their heads came together. There was a slight laugh; in the midst of which the pocketbook fell on the carpet. Some papers fluttered out of it, which the doctor picked up and replaced.
"Have you got them all, doctor? How is the young lady's cold?"
"What young lady's?" he questioned.
"Miss Adair's."
"I did not know she had one."
"Ah, them lovely girls with their bright faces never show their ailments; and she is lovely, if ever one was lovely in this terrestial world. Goodnight to you, doctor; you're in a mortal hurry."
He strode to the street-door and it closed sharply after him. Mrs. Gass looked out of her parlour and saw the same smart maid hastening along the passage: a little too late.
"Drat it, wench! is that the way you let gentlefolk show themselves out?--scuttering to the door when they've got clean away from it. D'you call that manners?"
CHAPTER II.
ELLEN ADAIR
The day promised to be as warm as the preceding one. The night and morning mists were gone; the sun shone hot and bright. Summer seemed to have come in before its time.
Two white gothic villas stood side by side just within the neck of Dallory Ham, a few yards of garden and some clustering shrubs between them. They were built alike. The side windows, facing each other over this strip of ground, were large projecting bay-windows, and belonged to the dining-rooms. These houses were originally erected for two maiden sisters. A large and beautiful garden lay at the back, surrounding the two villas, only a slender wire fence, that a child might have stepped over, dividing it. Entering the Ham from the direction of Dallory, these houses stood on the left; in the first of them lived Mrs. Cumberland, the mother of Oliver Rane. She had been married twice: hence the difference in name. The second house was occupied by Dr. Rane himself. They lay back with a strip of grass before them, the entrance-doors being level with the ground.
Let us go into the doctor's: turning the handle of the door without ceremony, as Dr. Rane's more familiar patients are wont to do. The hall is small, narrowing off at the upper end to a passage, and lighted with stained glass. On the left of the entrance is the consulting-room, not much larger than a closet; beyond it is the dining-room, a spacious apartment, with its bay-window, already spoken of, looking to the other house. Opposite the dining-room across the passage is the white-flagged kitchen; and the drawing-room lies in front, on the right of the entrance. Not being furnished it is chiefly kept shut up. A back-door opens to the garden.
Oliver Rane sat in his consulting-room; the Whitborough Journal, damp from the press, in his hand. It was just twelve o'clock and he had to go out, but the newspaper was attracting him. By seven o'clock that morning he had been at the Hall, and learnt that there was no material change in the patient lying there: he had then gone on, early though it was, to see the man, Ketler. The journal gave the details of Mr. North's seizure with tolerable accuracy, and concluded its account in these words: "We have reason to know that a clue has been obtained to the anonymous writer."
"A clue to the writer!" repeated Dr. Rane, his eyes appearing glued to the words. "I wonder if it's true?--No, no; it is not likely," came the quiet, contemptuous decision. "How should any clue----"
He stopped suddenly; rose from the chair, and stood