 CHAPTER 1 PART 1 OF HILDER WADE In putting before the public the last work by Mr. Grant Allen, the publishers desire to express their deep regret at the author's unexpected and lamented death, a regret in which they are sure to be joined by the many thousand readers whom he did so much to entertain, a man of curiously varied and comprehensive knowledge and with the most charming personality, a writer who, treating of a wide variety of subjects, touched nothing which he did not make distinctive. He filled a place which no man living can exactly occupy. The last chapter of this volume had been roughly sketched by Mr. Allen before his final illness, and his anxiety when the barred from work to see it finished was relieved by the considerate kindness of his friend and neighbour, Dr. Conan Doyle, who, hearing of his trouble, talked it over with him, gathered his ideas, and finally wrote it out for him in the form in which it now appears, a beautiful and pathetic act of friendship which it is a pleasure to recall. CHAPTER 1 THE EPISODE OF THE PATIENT WHO DISAPPOINTED HER DOCTOR Hilda Wade's gift was so unique, so extraordinary, that I must illustrate it, I think, before I attempt to describe it. But first let me say a word of explanation about the master. I have never met anyone who impressed me so much with a sense of greatness as Professor Sebastian, and this was not due to his scientific eminence alone. The man's strength and keenness struck me quite as forcibly as his vast attainments. When he first came to St. Nathaniel's hospital, an eager, fiery-eyed, physiologist, well past the prime of life, and began to preach with all the electric force of his vivid personality that the one thing on earth worth a young man's doing was to work in his laboratory, attend his lectures, study disease, and be a scientific doctor, dozens of us were infected by his contagious enthusiasm. He proclaimed the Gospel of Germs, and the germ of his own zeal flew abroad in the hospital. It ran through the wards as if it were typhoid fever. Within a few months half the students were converted from lukewarm observers of medical routine into flaming apostles of the new methods. The greatest authority in Europe on comparative anatomy, now that Huxley was taken from us, he had devoted his later days to the pursuit of medicine proper, to which he brought a mind stored with luminous analogies from the lower animals. His very appearance held one. Tall, thin, erect, with an ascetic profile not unlike cardinal mannings, he represented that abstract form of asceticism which consists in absolute self-sacrifice to a mental idea, not that which consists in religious abnegation. Three years of travel in Africa had tanned his skin for life. His long white hair, straight and silvery as it fell, just curled in one wave-like inward sweep where it turned and rested on the stooping shoulders. His pale face was clean shaven, safer, thin and wiry grizzled moustache, which cast into stronger relief the deep-set, hawk-like eyes and the acute, intense, intellectual features. In some respects his countenance reminded me often of Dr. Martinos. In others it recalled the knife-like edge, unturnable of his great predecessor, Professor Owen. Wherever he went, men turned to stare at him. In Paris they took him for the head of the English socialists. In Russia they declared he was a nihilist emissary. And they were not far wrong, in essence. For Sebastian's stern, sharp face was above all things the face of a man absorbed and engrossed by one overpowering pursuit in life, the sacred thirst of knowledge which had swallowed up his entire nature. He was what he looked, the most single-minded person I've ever come across, and when I say single-minded I mean just that and no more. He had an end to attain, the advancement of science, and he went straight towards the end, looking neither to the right nor to the left for any one. An American millionaire once remarked to him of some ingenious appliance he was describing. Why, if you would perfect that apparatus, Professor, and take out a patent for it, I reckon you'd make as much money as I've made. Sebastian withered him with a glance. I have no time to waste, he replied, on making money. So when Hilda Wade told me on the first day I met her that she wished to become a nurse at Nathaniel's to be a near Sebastian, I was not at all astonished. I took her at her word. Everybody who amends business in any branch of the medical art, however humble, desires to be close to our rare teacher, to drink in his large thought, to profit by his clear insight, his wide experience. The man of Nathaniel's was revolutionising practice, and those who wished to feel themselves abreast of the modern movement were naturally anxious to cast in their lot with him. I did not wonder, therefore, that Hilda Wade, who herself possessed in so large a measure the deepest feminine gift, intuition, should seek a place under the famous professor who represented the other side of the same endowment in its masculine embodiment, instinct of diagnosis. Hilda Wade herself I will not formally introduce to you. You will learn to know her as I proceed with my story. I was Sebastian's assistant, and my recommendation soon procured Hilda Wade the post she so strangely coveted. Before she had belonged at Nathaniel's, however, it began to dawn upon me that her reasons for desiring to attend upon our revered master were not wholly and solely scientific. Sebastian, it is true, recognised her value as a nurse from the first. He not only allowed that she was a good assistant, but he also admitted that her subtle knowledge of temperament sometimes enabled her closely to approach his own reasoned scientific analysis of a case and his probable development. Most women, he said to me once, are quick at reading the passing emotion. They can judge with astounding correctness from a shadow on one's face, a catch in one's breath, a movement of one's hands, how their words or deeds are affecting us. We cannot conceal our feelings from them, but underlying character they do not judge so well as fleeting expression. Not what Mrs. Jones is in herself, but what Mrs. Jones is now thinking and feeling. There lies their great success as psychologists. Most men, on the contrary, guide their life by definite facts, by signs, by symptoms, by observed data. Medicine itself is billed upon a collection of such reasoned facts. But this woman, nurse Wade, to a certain extent stands intermediate mentally between the two sexes. She recognizes temperament, the fixed form of character and what it is likely to do, in a degree which I have never seen equaled elsewhere. To that extent, and within proper limits of supervision, I acknowledge her faculty as a valuable adjunct to a scientific practitioner. Still, though Sebastian started with a predisposition in favor of Hilda Wade, a pretty girl appeals to most of us, I could see from the beginning that Hilda Wade was by no means enthusiastic for Sebastian, like the rest of the hospital. He is extraordinarily able, she would say, when I gushed to her about our master. But that was the most I could ever extort from her in the way of praise. Though she admitted, intellectually, Sebastian's gigantic mind, she would never commit herself to anything that sounded like personal admiration. To call him the Prince of physiologists did not satisfy me on that head. I wanted her to exclaim, I adore him, I worship him. He is glorious, wonderful. I was also aware from an early date that, in an unapproachive way, Hilda Wade was watching Sebastian, watching him quietly with those wistful, earnest eyes as a cat watches a mouse-hole, watching him with mute inquiry as if she expected each moment to see him do something different from what the rest of us expected of him. Slowly I gathered that Hilda Wade, in the most literal sense, had come to Nathaniel's, as she herself expressed it, to be near Sebastian. Gentle and lovable as she was in every other aspect to what Sebastian she seemed like a Linkside detective. She had some object in view, I thought, almost as abstract as his own. Some object to which, as I judged, she was devoting her life quite as single-mindedly as Sebastian himself had devoted his to the advancement of science. Why did she become a nurse at all? I asked once of her friend, Mrs. Mallet. She has plenty of money and seems well enough of to live without working. Oh dear, yes, Mrs. Mallet answered. She is independent, quite, has a tight little income of her own, six or seven hundred a year, and she could choose her own society. But she went in for this mission fad early. She didn't intend to marry, she said, so she would like to have some work to do in life. Girls suffer like that nowadays. In her case, the manatee took the form of nursing. As a rule, I ventured to interpose. When a pretty girl says she doesn't intend to marry, her remark is premature. It only means, Oh yes, I know. Every girl says it. This is a stock property in the popular mask of maiden modesty. But with Hilda it is different, and the difference is that Hilda means it. You're right, I answered. I believe she means it. Yet I know one man at least. For I admired her immensely. Mrs. Mallet shook her head and smiled. It is no use, Dr. Cumberlidge, she answered. Hilda will never marry. Never, that is to say, till she has attained some mysterious object she seems to have in view, about which she never speaks to anyone, not even to me. But I have somehow guessed it. And it is. Oh, I have not guessed what it is. I am no Oedipus. I have merely guessed that it exists. But whatever it may be, Hilda's life is bounded by it. She became a nurse to carry it out. I feel confident. From the very beginning, I gather, a part of her scheme was to go to St. Nathaniel's. She was always bothering us to give her introductions to Dr. Sebastian. And when she met you at my brother Hugo's, it was a pre-concerted arrangement. She asked to sit next to you, and meant to induce you to use your influence on her behalf with the professor. She was dying to get there. It is very odd, I am used. But there, women are inexplicable. And Hilda is in that matter the very quintessence of woman, even I, who have known her for years, don't pretend to understand her. A few months later, Sebastian began his great researches on his new anaesthetic. It was a wonderful set of researches. It promised so well. All nets, as we familiarly and affectionately styled St. Nathaniel's, was in a fever of excitement over the drug for a twelfth month. The professor obtained his first hint of the new body by a mere accident. His friend, the Deputy Prosecutor of the Zoological Society, had mixed a draught for a sick raccoon at the gardens, and by some mistake in a bottle had mixed it wrongly. I purposely refrained from mentioning the ingredients, as they are drugs which can be easily obtained in isolation at any chemists. Though when compounded, they form one of the most dangerous and difficult to detect of organic poisons. I do not desire to play into the hands of would-be criminals. The compound on which the Deputy Prosecutor had thus accidentally lighted sent the raccoon to sleep in the most extraordinary manner. Indeed, the raccoon slept for thirty-six hours on end. All attempts to awake him by pulling his tail or tweaking his hair being quite unavailing. This was a novelty in narcotics, so Sebastian was asked to come and look at the slumbering brute. He suggested the attempt to perform an operation on the somnolent raccoon by removing, under the influence of the drug, an internal growth which was considered the probable cause of his illness. A surgeon was called in. The growth was found and removed, and the raccoon, to everybody's surprise, continued to slumber peacefully on his straw for five hours afterwards. At the end of that time he awoke and stretched himself as if nothing had happened, and though he was, of course, very weak from loss of blood, he immediately displayed a most royal hunger. He ate up all the maize that was offered him for breakfast and proceeded to manifest a desire for more by most unequivocal symptoms. Sebastian was overjoyed. He now felt sure he had discovered a drug which would supersede chloroform, a drug more lasting in his immediate effects, and yet far less harmful in his ultimate results on the balance of the system. A name being wanted for it, he christened it lethadine. It was the best pain luller yet invented. For the next few weeks at Nats we heard of nothing but lethadine. Patients recovered and patients died, but their death or recoveries were as dross to lethadine, and an aesthetic that might revolutionise surgery, and even medicine. A royal rode through disease with no trouble to the doctor, and no pain to the patient. Lethadine held the field. We were all of us, for the moment, intoxicated with lethadine. Sebastian's observations of the new agent occupied several months. He had begun with the raccoon. He went on, of course, with those poor scapegoats of physiology, domestic rabbits. Not that in this particular case any painful experiments were in contemplation. The professor tried the drug on a dozen or more quite healthy young animals, with a strange result that he dozed off quietly and never woke up again. This nonplussed Sebastian. He experimented once more on another raccoon, with a smaller dose. The raccoon fell asleep and slept like a top for fifteen hours, at the end of which time he woke up as if nothing out of the common had happened. Sebastian fell back upon rabbits again, with smaller and smaller doses. It was no good. The rabbits all died with great unanimity, until the dose was so diminished that it did not send them off to sleep at all. There was no middle cause apparently to the rabbit kind. Lethadine was either fatal or else inoperative. So it proved to sheep. The new drug killed or did nothing. I will not trouble you with all the details of Sebastian's further researches. The curious will find them discussed at length in vol. 237 of the Philosophical Transactions. See also Contrandu de l'Académie de Medecine, tome 49, pages 72 and sequel. I will restrict myself here to that part of the inquiry, which immediately refers to Hilda Wade's history. If I were you, she said to the professor one morning, when he was most astonished at his contradictory results, I would test it on a hawk. If I dare venture on a suggestion, I believe you'll find that hawks recover. The Jews they do, Sebastian cried. However, he had such confidence in nurse Wade's judgment that he bought a couple of hawks and tried the treatment on them. Both birds took considerable doses, and after a period of insensibility extending to several hours woke up in the end quite bright and lively. I see your principle, the professor broke out. It depends upon diet. Carnivores and birds of prey can take Leatherdyne with impunity. Herbivores and fruit-eaters cannot recover and die of it. Man, therefore, being partly carnivorous, will doubtless be able more or less to stand it. Hilda Wade smiled her sphinx-like smile. Not quite that, I fancy, she answered. It will kill cats, I feel sure. At least most domesticated ones. But it will not kill weasels. Yet both are carnivores. That young woman knows too much, Sebastian muttered to me, looking after her as she glided noiselessly with her gentle tread down the long white corridor. We shall have to suppress her, comrades, but I'll wager my life she's right for all that. I wonder now how the dickens she guessed it. Intuition, I answered. He pouted his underlip above the upper one with a dubious acquiescence. Inferance, I called. He retorted. All woman's so-called intuition is, in fact, just rapid and half unconscious inference. He was so full of the subject, however, and so utterly carried away by his scientific ardour that I regret to say he gave a strong dose of Leatherdyne at once to each of the matron's pettid and pampered Persian cats, which lounged about her room and were the delight of the convalescents. They were two peculiarly lazy sultanas of cats, mere jewels of the harem, oriental beauties that loved to bask in the sun or crawl themselves up on the rug before the fire and dole away their lives in congenial idleness. Strange to say, Hilda's prophecy came true. Sulaika settled herself down comfortably in the professor's easy chair and fell into a sound sleep from which there was no awakening. Al-Rexana met fate on the tiger's skin she loved, crawled up in a circle, and passed from this life of dreams, without knowing it, into one where dreaming is not. Sebastian noted the facts with a quiet gleam of satisfaction in his watchful eye and explained afterwards with curt glitness to the angry matron that her favorites had been canonized in the role of science as painless martyrs to the advancement of physiology. The weasels, on the other hand, with an equal dose, woke up after six hours as lively as crickets. It was clear that carnivorous tastes were not the whole solution, for R-Rexana was famed as a notable mousel. Your principal, Sebastian asked our Sibyl in his brief quick way. Hilda's cheek were a glow of pardonable triumph. The great teacher had deigned to ask her assistance. I judged by the analogy of Indian hemp, she answered. This is clearly a similar, but much stronger narcotic. Now, whenever I've given Indian hemp by your direction to people of sluggish or even of merely bustling temperament, I've noticed that small doses produce serious effects and that the after-results are most undesirable. But when you have prescribed the hemp for nervous, over-strong, imaginative people, I've observed that they can stand large amounts of the tincture without evil results and that the after-effects pass off rapidly. I who am a curial in temperament, for example, can take any amount of Indian hemp without being made ill by it, while ten drops will send some slow and torporate rustics mad drunk with excitement, drive them into homicidal mania. Sebastian nodded his head. He needed no more explanation. You have hit it, he said. I see it at a glance. The old antithesis. All men and all animals fall, roughly speaking, into two great divisions of type. The impassant and the unimpassant. The vivid and the phlegmatic. I catch your drift now. Lethadine is poisoned to phlegmatic patients who have not active power enough to wake up from it unheard. It is relatively harmless to the vivid and impassant who can be put to sleep by it, indeed, for a few hours more or less, but are alive enough to live on through the coma and reassert their vitality after it. I recognise that he spoke that this explanation was correct. The dull rabbits, the sleepy Persian cats, and the silly sheep had died outright of lethadine. The cunning, inquisitive raccoon, the quick hawk, and the active, intense natured weasels, almost ego, wary and alert animals, full of keenness and passion, had recovered quickly. There we tried on a human subject, I asked tentatively. Hilda Wade answered at once, with that unerring rapidity of hers. Yes, certainly, on a few. The right persons. I for one am not afraid to try it. You, I cried, feeling suddenly aware, how much I thought of her. Oh, not you, please, Nurse Wade. Some other life, less valuable. Sebastian stared at me coldly. Nurse Wade volunteers, he said. It is in the cause of science. Who dares dissuade her? That tooth of yours? Ah, yes. Quite sufficient excuse. You wanted it out, Nurse Wade. Wells Dinten shall operate. Without a moment's hesitation, Hilda Wade sat down in an easy chair, and took a measured dose of the new anesthetic, proportioned to the average difference in weight between raccoons and humanity. My face displayed my anxiety, I suppose, for she turned to me, smiling with quiet confidence. I know my own constitution, she said, with a reassuring glance that went straight to my heart. I do not in the least fear. As for Sebastian, he administered the drug to her as unconcernedly as if she were a rabbit. Sebastian's scientific coolness and calmness have long been the admiration of younger practitioners. Wells Dinten gave one wrench. The tooth came out as though the patient were a block of marble. There was not a cry or a movement, such as one notes when nitrous oxide is administered. Hilda Wade was to all appearance a mass of lifeless flesh. We stood round and watched. I was trembling with terror. Even on Sebastian's pale face, usually so unmoved, saved by the watchful eagerness of scientific curiosity, I saw signs of anxiety. After four hours of profound slumber, breath hovering as it seemed between life and death, she began to come to again. In half an hour more she was wide awake. She opened her eyes and asked for a glass of hawk with beef essence or oysters. That evening by six o'clock she was quite well and able to go about her duties as usual. Sebastian is a wonderful man, I said to her, as I entered her ward on my rounds at night. His coolness astonishes me. Do you know, he watched you all the time you were lying asleep there as if nothing were the matter? Coolness, she inquired in a quiet voice? Or cruelty? Cruelty, I echoed aghast. Sebastian, cruel! Oh, nurse Wade, what an idea! Why, he has spent his whole life in striving against all odds to alleviate pain. He is the apostle of philanthropy. Of philanthropy or of science? To alleviate pain or to learn the whole truth about the human body? Come, come now, I cried. You analyzed too far. I will not let even you put me out of conceit with Sebastian. Her face flushed at that even you. I almost fancied she began to like me. He is the enthusiasm of my life. Just consider how much he has done for humanity. She looked me through searchingly. I will not destroy your illusion, she answered after a pause. It is a noble and generous one. But is it not largely based on an ascetic face, long white hair, and a moustache that hides the cruel corners of the mouth? For the corners are cruel. Someday I will show you them. Cut off the long hair, shave the grizzled moustache, and what then will remain? She drew a profile hastily. Just that. And she showed it to me. It was a face like Robespierre's, grown harder and older and lined with observation. I recognized that it was in fact the essence of Sebastian. End of Chapter 1, Part 1 Chapter 1, Part 2 of Hilda Wade This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org, recording by Anna Simon. Hilda Wade, a woman with tenacity of purpose, by Grant Allen. Chapter 1, Part 2 Next day, as it turned out, the professor himself insisted upon testing Leatherdyne in his own person. All nets strove to dissuade him. Your life is so precious, sir, the advancement of science. But the professor was adamantine. Science can only be advanced if men of science will take their lives in their hands, he answered sternly. Besides, nurse Wade has tried, am I to lag behind a woman in my devotion to the cause of physiological knowledge? Let him try, Hilda Wade murmured to me. He is quite right. It will not hurt him. I've told him already. He has just the proper temperament to stand the drug. Such people are rare. He is one of them. We administered the dose, trembling. Sebastian took it like a man, and dropped off instantly. For Leatherdyne is at least as instantaneous in its operation as nitrous oxide. He lay long asleep. Hilda and I watched him. After it lain for some minutes senseless like a log on the couch where we had placed him, Hilda stooped over him quietly and lifted up the ends of the grizzled moustache. Then she pointed one accusing finger at his lips. I told you so, she murmured, with a note of demonstration. There is certainly something rather stern or even ruthless about the set of the face and the firm ending of the lips, I admitted reluctantly. That is why God gave men moustaches, she mused, in a low voice, to hide the cruel corners of their mouths. Not always cruel, I cried. Sometimes cruel, sometimes cunning, sometimes sensuous, but nine times out of ten best masked by moustaches. You have a bad opinion of our sex, I exclaimed. Providence knew best, she answered. It gave you moustaches. That was in order that we women might be spared from always seeing you as you are. Besides, I said, nine times out of ten, there are exceptions. Such exceptions. On second thought I did not feel sure that I could crawl with her estimate. The experiment was that time once more successful. Sebastian woke up from the comatose state after eight hours, not quite as fresh as Hilda Wade, perhaps, but still tolerably alive. Less alert, however, and complaining of dull headache. He was not hungry. Hilda Wade shook her head at that. It will be of use only in very few cases, she said to me, regretfully, and those few will need to be carefully picked by an acute observer. I see resistance to the coma is even more than I thought a matter of temperament. Why, so impassioned men as the professor himself cannot entirely recover. With more sluggish temperaments we shall have deeper difficulty. What you call him impassioned, I asked. Most people think him so cold and stern. She shook her head. He is a snow-capped volcano, she answered. The fires of his life burn bright below. The exterior alone is cold and placid. However, starting from that time, Sebastian began a course of experiments on patients, giving infinitesimal doses at first and venturing slowly on somewhat larger quantities. But only, in his own case, and Hilda's could the result be called quite satisfactory. One dull and heavy, drink-sodden nevy, to whom he administered no more than one-tenth of a grain, was drowsy for a week, and listless long after. While a fat washer-woman from Westham, who took only two-tenths, fell so fast asleep, and snored so statoriously, that we feared she was going to doze off into eternity, after the fashion of the rabbits. Mothers of large families, we noted, stood the drug very ill. On pale young girls of the consumptive tendency its effect was not marked, but only a patient here and there, of exceptionally imaginative and vivid temperament, seemed able to endure it. Sebastian was discouraged. He saw the anesthetic was not destined to fulfil his first enthusiastic, humanitarian expectations. One day, while the investigation was just at this stage, a case was admitted into the observation-cots in which Hilda Wei took a particular interest. The patient was a young girl named Isabel Huntley. Tall, dark and slender, a markedly quick and imaginative type, with large black eyes, which clearly bespoke a passionate nature. Though distinctly hysterical, she was pretty and pleasing. Her rich dark hair was as copious as it was beautiful. She held herself erect, and had a finely poised head. From the first moment she arrived, I could see Nurse Wei was strongly drawn towards her. Their souls sympathised. Number fourteen, that is our impersonal way of describing cases, was constantly on Hilda's lips. I like the girl, she said once. She is a lady in fibre. Handed tobacco-trimmer by trade, Sebastian added sarcastically. As usual, Hilda's was a truer description. It went deeper. Number fourteen's ailment was a rare and peculiar one, into which I need not enter here with professional precision. I have described the case fully for our brother-partitioners in my paper in the fourth volume of Sebastian Medical Miscellanies. It will be enough for my present purpose to say in brief that the lesion consisted of an internal growth which is always dangerous and most often fatal, but which nevertheless is of such a character that, if it be once happily eradicated by supremely good surgery, it never tends to recur and leaves the patient as strong and well as ever. Sebastian was, of course, delighted with the splendid opportunity thus afforded him. It is a beautiful case, he cried, with professional enthusiasm. Beautiful, beautiful, I never saw one so deadly or so malignant before. We are indeed in luck's way. Only a miracle can save her life. Cumberlatch, we must proceed to perform the miracle. Sebastian loved such cases. They formed his ideal. He did not greatly admire the artificial prolongation of disease and unwholesome lives which could never be of much use to their owners or anyone else. But when a chance occurred for restoring to perfect health a valuable existence which might otherwise be extinguished before its time, he positively reveled in his beneficent calling. What nobler object can a man propose to himself, he used to say, than to raise good men and true from the dead, as it were, and return them whole and sound to the family that depends upon them. Why, I at fifty times rather cure an honest coal-heaver of a wound in his leg, than give ten years more lease of life to a gouty lord, deceased from top to toe, who expects to find a month of cross-butt or humburg once every year, make up for eleven months of overeating, over-drinking, vulgar debauchery, and under-thinking. He had no sympathy with men who lived the lives of swine. His heart was with the workers. Of course, Hilda Wade soon suggested that, as an operation was absolutely necessary, number fourteen would be a splendid subject on whom to test once more the effects of Leatherdyne. Sebastian, with his head on one side, surveying the patient, promptly coincided. Nervous diethesis, he observed, very vivid, fancy, twitches her hands the right way, quick pulse, rapid perceptions, no meaningless unrest, but deep vitality. I don't doubt she'll stand it. We explained to number fourteen the gravity of the case, and also the tentative character of the operation under Leatherdyne. At first she shrank from taking it. No, no, she said, let me die quietly. But Hilda, like the angel of mercy that she was, whispered in the girl's ear, if it succeeds you will get quite well, and you can marry Arthur. The patient's dark face flushed crimson. Ah, Arthur, she cried, dear Arthur, I can bear anything you choose to do to me, for Arthur. How soon you find these things out, I cried to Hilda a few minutes later. A mere man would never have thought of that. And who is Arthur? O say, then, on a ship that trades with the South Seas, I hope he's worthy of her. Fratting over Arthur's absence has aggravated the case. He's homeward bound now. She's worrying herself to death for fear she should not live to say goodbye to him. She will live to marry him, I answered, with confidence like her own, if you say she can stand it. The Leatherdyne, oh yes, that's all right, but the operation itself is so extremely dangerous. Though Dr. Sebastian says he is called in the best surgeon in London for all such cases. They are rare, he tells me, and Nielsen has performed on six, three of them successfully. We gave the girl the duroc. She took it, trembling, and went off at once, holding Hilda's hand, with a pale smile on her face, which persisted there somewhat weirdly all through the operation. The work of removing the growth was long and ghastly, even for us who were well seasoned to such sights. But at the end Nielsen expressed himself as perfectly satisfied. A very neat piece of work, Sebastian exclaimed, looking on. I congratulate you, Nielsen. I never saw anything done cleaner or better. Her successful operation certainly, the great surgeon admitted, with just pride in the master's commendation. And the patient? Hilda asked, wavering. Ah, the patient? That patient will die, Nielsen replied, in an unconcerned voice, wiping his spotless instruments. That is not my idea of the medical art, I cried, shocked at his callousness. An operation only successful if— He regarded me with lofty scorn. A certain percentage of losses, he interrupted calmly, is inevitable, of course, in all surgical operations. We are obliged to average it. How could I preserve my precision and accuracy of hand if I were always bothered by sentimental considerations of the patient's safety? Hilda Wade looked up at me with a sympathetic glance. We'll pull her through yet, she murmured, in her soft voice. If care and skill can do it, my care and your skill. This is now our patient, Dr. Kambalic. It needed care and skill. He watched her for hours, and she showed no sign of gleam of recovery. Her sleep was deeper than either Sebastian's or Hilda's had been. She had taken a big dose, so as to secure immobility. The question now was, would she recover at all from it? Hour after hour, we waited and watched, and not a sign of movement. Only the same deep, slow, hampered breathing, the same feeble, jerky pulse, the same deadly pallor on the dark cheeks, the same corpse-like rigidity of limb and muscle. At last our patient stirred faintly as in a dream. Her breath faltered. We bent over her. Was it death, or was she beginning to recover? Very slowly a faint trace of color came back to her cheeks. Her heavy eyes half opened. They stared first with a white stare. Her arms dropped by her side. Her mouth relaxed its ghastly smile. We held our breath. She was coming to again. But her coming to was slow. Very, very slow. Her pulse was still weak. Her heart pumped feebly. We feared she might sink from inination at any moment. Hilda weighed, knelt on the floor by the girl's side, and held a spoonful of beef essence coaxingly to her lips. Number fourteen gasped, drew a long, slow breath, then gulped and swallowed it. After that she lay back with her mouth open, looking like a corpse. Hilda pressed another spoonful of the soft jelly upon her, but the girl waved it away with one trembling hand. Let me die, she cried. Let me die. I feel dead already. Hilda held her face close. Isabelle, she whispered, and I recognized in her tone the vast moral difference between Isabelle and number fourteen. Isabelle, you must take it. For Arthur's sake, I say, you must take it. The girl's hand quivered as it lay on the white coverlet. For Arthur's sake, she murmured, lifting her eyelids dreamily. For Arthur's sake, yes, nurse dear. Call me Hilda, please. Hilda. The girl's face lighted up again. Yes, Hilda, dear, she answered, in an unearthly voice, like one raised from the dead. I will call you what you will. Angel of light, you've been so good to me. She opened her lips with an effort, and slowly swallowed another spoonful. Then she fell back, exhausted. But her pulse improved within twenty minutes. I mentioned the matter with enthusiasm to Sebastian later. It is very nice in its way, he answered. But it is not nursing. I thought to myself that that was just what it was. But I did not say so. Sebastian was a man who thought meanly of women. A doctor, like a priest, he used to declare, should keep himself unmarried. His bride is medicine. And he disliked to see what he called philandering going on in his hospital. Had may have been on that account, that I avoided speaking much of Hilda Wade thence forth before him. He looked in casually next day to see the patient. She will die, he said, with perfect assurance, as we pass down the ward together. Operation has taken too much out of her. Still she has great recuperative powers, Hilda answered. They all have in her family, Professor. You may perhaps remember Joseph Huntley, who occupied No. 67 in the accident ward some nine months since, compound fracture of the arm, a dark, nervous, engineer's assistant, very hard to restrain. Well, he was her brother. He caught typhoid fever in the hospital, and you commented at the time on a strange vitality. Then there was her cousin again, Alan Stubbs. We had her for stubborn chronic laryngitis, a very bad case. Anyone else would have died, yielded at once to your treatment, and made, I recollect, a splendid convulsions. What a member you have, Sebastian cried, admiring against his will. It is simply marvellous, I never saw anyone like you in my life, except once. He was a man, a doctor, a colleague of mine, dead long ago. Why, he mused and gazed hard at her. Hilda shrank before his gaze. This is curious, he went on slowly at last. Very curious. You, why, you resemble him. Do I, Hilda replied, with forced calm, raising her eyes to his? Their glances met. That moment I saw each had recognised something, and from that day forth I was instinctively aware that a jewel was being waged between Sebastian and Hilda, a jewel between the two ablest and most singular personalities I had ever met, a jewel of life and death, though I did not fully understand its purpose till much, much later. Every day after that, the poor, wasted girl in No. 14 grew feebler and fainter. Her temperature rose, her heart throbbed weakly. She seemed to be fading away. Sebastian shook his head. Lethargyne is a failure, he said, with a mournful regret. One cannot trust it. The case might have recovered from the operation, or recovered from the dark, but she could not recover from both together. Yet the operation would have been impossible without the drug, and the drug is useless except for the operation. It was a great disappointment to him. He hid himself in his room, as was his want when disappointed, and went on with his old work at his beloved microbes. I have one hope still, Hilda murmured to me by the bedside when our patient was at a worst. If one contingency occurs, I believe we may save her. What is that? I asked. She shook her head way whittly. You must wait and see, she answered. If it comes off, I'll tell you. If not, let it swell the limbo of lost inspirations. Next morning early, however, she came up to me with a radiant face, holding a newspaper in her hand. Well, it has happened, she cried, rejoicing. We shall save poor Isabel. Number fourteen, I mean. Our way is clear, Dr. Cumberlidge. I followed her blindly to the bedside, little guessing what she could mean. She knelt down at the head of the cot. The girl's eyes were closed. I touched her cheek. She was in a high fever. Temperature, I asked. 103. I shook my head. Every symptom of fatal relapse. I could not imagine what card Hilda held in reserve. But I stood there, waiting. She whispered in the girl's ear. Arthur's ship is sighted off the lizard. The patient opened her eyes slowly, and rolled them for a moment, as if she did not understand. Too late, I cried. Too late! She's delirious, insensible. Hilda repeated the words slowly, but very distinctly. Do you hear, dear? Arthur's ship. It is sighted. Arthur's ship at the lizard. The girl's lips moved. Arthur. Arthur. Arthur's ship. A deep sigh. She clenched her hands. He is coming. Hilda nodded and smiled, holding her breath with suspense. Up the channel now. He'll be at Southampton tonight. Arthur, at Southampton. It is here in the papers. I've telegraphed him to hurry on at once to see you. She struggled up for a second. A smile flittered across the worn face. Then she fell back wearily. I thought all was over. Her eyes stared wide. But ten minutes later she opened her lids again. Arthur is coming. She murmured. Arthur. Coming. Yes, dear. Now sleep. He is coming. All through that day in the next night she was restless and agitated, but still her pulse improved a little. Next morning she was again a trifle better. Temperature falling. A hundred and one point three. At ten o'clock Hilda came into her, radiant. Well, Isabelle, dear, she cried, bending down and touching her cheek, kissing as forbidden by the rules of the house. Arthur has come. He is here, down below. I've seen him. Seen him? The girl gasped. Yes, seen him. Talked with him. Such a nice manly fellow, and such an honest good face. He is longing for you to get well. He says, yes, come home this time to marry you. The wan lips quivered. He will never marry me. Yes, yes, he will. If you will take this jelly. Look here. He wrote these words to you before my very eyes. Dear love to my Isa. If you're good and will sleep, he may see you to-morrow. The girl opened her lips and ate the jelly greedily. She ate as much as she was desired. In three minutes more her head had fallen like a child's upon her pillow, and she was sleeping peacefully. I went up to Sebastian's room, quite excited with the news. He was busy among his bestseller. They were as hobby his pets. Well, what do you think, Professor? I cried. That patient of nurse waits. He gazed up at me, abstractedly, his brow contracting. Yes, yes, I know, he interrupted. The girl in fourteen. I've discounted her case long ago. She has ceased to interest me. That, of course, nothing else was possible. I laughed a quick little laugh of triumph. No, sir. Not that. Recovering. Just fallen just now into a normal sleep. Her breathing is natural. He wheeled his revolving chair away from the germs and fixed me with his keen eyes. Recovering, he echoed, impossible. Rallying, you mean, am I a flicker? I know my trade. She must die this evening. Forgive my persistence, I replied. But her temperature has gone down to ninety-nine in the trifle. He pushed away the bacilli in the nearest watch-glass, quite angrily. To ninety-nine, he exclaimed, knitting his brows. Cumberlatch, this is disgraceful. A most disappointing case. A most provoking patient. But surely, sir, I cried. Don't talk to me, boy. Don't attempt to apologize for her. Such conduct is unpardonable. She ought to have died. It was her clear duty. I said she would die, and she should have known better than to fly in the face of the faculty. Her recovery is an insult to medical science. What is the staff about? Nurse Wade should have prevented it. Still, sir, I exclaimed, trying to touch him on a tender spot. Dear aesthetic, you know. Such a triumph for Leatherdyne. This case shows clearly that on certain constitutions it may be used with advantage under certain conditions. He snapped his fingers. Leatherdyne? Puh! I've lost interest in it. Impracticable. It is not fitted for the human species. Why so? Number fourteen proves. He interrupted me with an impatient wave of his hand. Then he rose and paced up and down the room testily. After a pause he spoke again. The weak point of Leatherdyne is this. Nobody can be trusted to say when it may be used, except Nurse Wade, which is not science. For the first time in my life I had a glimmering idea that I distrusted Sebastian. Hilda Wade was right. The man was cruel. But I'd never observed his cruelty before, because his devotion to science had blinded me to it. End of chapter one. Chapter two, part one of Hilda Wade. This is a LibriVox recording, or LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org, reading by Lars Rolander. Hilda Wade, a woman with tenacity of purpose, by Grant Allen. Chapter two, part one. The episode of the gentleman who had failed for everything. One day, about those times I went round to call on my aunt Lady Tipping. And lest you accuse me of the vulgar desire to flaunt my fine relations in your face, I hasten to add that my poor dear old aunt is a very ordinary specimen of the common army widow. Her husband, Sir Malcolm, a crusty old gentleman of the ancient school, was knighted in Burma or the airbots for a successful raid upon naked natives on something that is called the shan frontier. When he had grown gray in the service of his queen and country, besides earning himself incidentally a very decent pension, he acquired goat and went to his long rest in Kensel Green Cemetery. He left his wife with one daughter and the only pretends to title in our otherwise blameless family. My cousin Daphne is a very pretty girl, with those quite sedate manners, which often develop later in life into genuine self-respect and real depth of character. Fools do not admire her, the accuser of being heavy, but she can do without fools. She has a fine, strongly built figure, an upright carriage, a large and broad forehead, a firm chin, and features which, though well marked and well moulded, are yet delicate in outline and sensitive in expression. Very young men seldom take to Daphne, she lacks the desired inanity, but she has mind, repose, and womanly tenderness. Indeed, if she had not been my cousin, I almost think I might once have been tempted to fall in love with her. When I reached Gloucester Terrace on this particular afternoon, I found Hilda Wade there before me. She had lunched at my aunt's, in fact. It was her day out at St Nathaniel's, and she had come round to spend it with Daphne tipping. I had introduced her to the house some time before, and she and my cousin had struck up a close acquaintance immediately. Their temperaments were sympathetic. Daphne admired Hilda's death and reserve, while Hilda admired Daphne's grace and self-control, her perfect freedom from current affections. She neither jiggled nor ate epsonism. A third person stood back in the room when I entered, a tall and somewhat yeary-built young man with a rather long and solemn face, like an early stage in the evolution of a donkey shot. I took a good look at him. There was something about his air that impressed me as both lugubrious and humorous, and in this I was right, for I learned later that he was one of those rare people who can sing a comic song with immense success, while preserving a sour countenance like a puritan preacher's. His eyes were a little sunken, his fingers long and nervous, but I fancied he looked a good fellow at heart for all that, though foolishly impulsive. He was a punctilious gentleman, I felt sure. His face and manner grew upon one rapidly. Daphne rose as I entered and waved the stranger forward with an imperious little wave. I imagined indeed that I detected in the gesture a faint touch of half-unconscious proprietorship. Good morning, you but, she said, taking my hand, but turning towards the tall young man. I don't think you know, Mr. Cecil Hallsworthy. I've heard you speak of him, I answered, thinking him in with my glance. I added internally, not half good enough for you. Hilda's eyes met mine and read my thought. They flashed backward in the language of eyes. I do not agree with you. Daphne, meanwhile, was watching me closely. I could see she was anxious to discover what impression her friend, Mr. Hallsworthy, was making on me. Till then I had no idea she was fond of anyone in particular, but the way her glance wandered from him to me, and from me to Hilda, showed clearly that she thought much of this gawky visitor. We sat and talked together, we four, for some time. I found the young man with the illugubrus countenance improved immensely on closer acquaintance. His talk was clever. He turned out to be the son of a politician high in office in the Canadian government, and he had been educated at Oxford. The father I gathered was rich, but he himself was making an income of nothing a year, just then as a briefless barrister, and he was hesitating whether to accept a post of secretary that had been offered him in the colony, or to continue his negative career at the inner temple for the honor and glory of it. Now, which would you advise me, Mr. Tepping? He inquired after we had discussed the matter some minutes. Duffness face flushed up. It's so hard to decide, she answered. To decide to your best advantage, I mean of course, for naturally all your English friends would wish to keep you as long as possible in England. No, do you think so? The gawky young man jerked out with evident pleasure. Now that's awfully kind of you. Do you know if you tell me I ought to stay in England? I have half a mind. I'll cable over this very day and refuse the appointment. Duffness flushed once more. Oh, please don't, she exclaimed looking frightened. I should be quite distressed if a stray word of mine should debaure you from accepting a good offer of a secretaryship. Why, your least wish, though young man began, then checked himself hastily, must be always important. He went on in a different voice to every one of your acquaintance. Duffness rose hurriedly. Look here, Hilda, she said a little tremously, biting her lip. I have to go out into Westbourne Grewd to get those gloves for tonight and a spray for my hair. Will you excuse me for half an hour? Hulsworthy rose too. Maint I go with you? he asked eagerly. Oh, if you like, how very kind of you, Duffness answered, a cheek a blush rose. You but will you come to and you, Hilda? It was one of those invitations which are given to be refused. I did not need Hilda's warning glance to tell me that my company would be quite superfluous. I felt those two were best left together. It's no use, though, Dr. Cumberlidge, Hilda put in as soon as they were gone. He won't propose, though he has had every encouragement. I don't know what's the matter, but I've been watching them both for weeks, and somehow things seem never to get any forwarder. You think he's in love with her? I asked. In love with her? Well, you have eyes in your head. I know. Where could they have been looking? He's madly in love. A very good kind of love, too. He genuinely admires and respects and appreciates all Duffness's sweet and charming qualities. Then what do you suppose is the matter? I have an inkling of the truth. I imagine Mr. Cecil must have let himself in for a prior attachment. If so, why does he hang about Duff, no? Because he can't help himself. He's a good fellow and a chivalrous fellow. He admires your cousin, but he must have got himself into some foolish entanglement elsewhere, which he is too honorable to break off, while, at the same time, he's far too much impressed by Duffness's fine qualities to be able to keep away from her. It's the ordinary case of love versus duty. Is he well off? Could he afford to marry Duffness? Oh, his father's very rich. He has plenty of money. A Canadian millionaire, they say. That makes it all the likelier that some undesirable young woman somewhere may have managed to get hold of him. Just the sort of romantic, impressionable hobble-dehoy such women angle for. I drum my fingers on the table. Presently Hilda spoke again. Why don't you try to get to know him and find out precisely what's the matter? I know what's the matter. Now you told me, I answered. It's as clear as day. Duffness very much smitten with him, too. I'm sorry for Duffness. Well, I'll take your advice. I'll try to have some talk with him. Do please. I feel sure I have hit upon it. He has got himself engaged in a hurry to some girl he doesn't really care about, and he's far too much of a gentleman to break it off, though he's in love quite another way with Duffness. Just at that moment the door opened, and my aunt entered. Why, where's Duffness? She cried looking about her and arranging her black lace shawl. She's just run out into Westbourne Group to get some gloves and a flower for the feet this evening, Hilda answered. Then she added significantly, Mr. Halsworthy has gone with her. What? That boy's been here again? Yes, Lady Tipping. He called to see Duffness. My aunt turned to me with an aggrieved tone. It's a peculiarity of my aunts. I have met it elsewhere, that if she's angry with Jones and Jones is not present, she assumes a tone of injured asparity on his account towards Brown or Smith, or any other innocent person whom she happens to be addressing. No, this is really too bad, Ubert. She burst out as if I were the culprit. Disgraceful, abominable, I'm sure I can't make out what the young fellow means by it. He comes dangling after Duffness every day and all day long, and never once says whether he means anything by it or not. In my young days such conduct as that would not have been considered respectable. I nodded and been benignly. Well, why don't you answer me? My aunt went on, warming up. Do you mean to tell me you think his behavior respectful to a nice girl in Duffness position? My dear aunt, I answered. You confound the persons. I'm not Mr. Halsworthy. I decline responsibility for him. I meet him here in your house for the first time this morning. Then that shows how often you come to see your relations, Ubert. My aunt burst out obliquely. The man's been here to my certain knowledge every day these six weeks. Really, aunt Fanny? I said. You must recollect that a professional man? Oh yes, that's the way. Lay it all down to your profession, do, Ubert. Though I know you were at the Thorntons on Saturday, sorting the papers. The morning post, among the guests were Sir Edward and Lady Burns, Professor Sebastian, Dr. Ubert Cumberledge, and so forth, and so forth. You think you can conceal these things, but you can't. I get to know them. Conceal them, my dearest aunt. Why? I dance twice with Duffne. Duffne? Yes, Duffne. They all run after Duffne. My aunt exclaimed, altering the venue once more. But there's no respect for age left. I expect to be neglected. However, that's neither here nor there. The point is this. You were the one man now living in the family. You ought to behave like a brother to Duffne. Why don't you board this wholesome person and ask him his intentions? Goodness gracious, I cried. Most excellent of aunts. That epoch has gone past. The late lamented Queen Anne is now dead. It's no use asking the young man of today to explain his intentions. He will refer you to the works of the Scandinavian dramatists. My aunt was speechless. She could only gurgle out the words, Well, I can safely say that of all the monstrous behavior. Then language failed her, and she relapsed into silence. However, when Duffne and Jungholsworthy returned, I had as much talk with him as I could, and when he left the house, I left also. Which way are you walking? I asked as we turned out into the street, towards my rooms in the temple. Oh, I'm going back to Saint Nathaniel's, I continued. If you'll allow me, I'll walk partway with you. How very kind of you! We strode side by side a little distance in silent. Then a thought seemed to strike the lugubrious young man. What a charming girl your cousin is, he exclaimed abruptly. You seem to think so, I answered smiling. He flushed a little, the land and yoke grew longer. I admire her, of course, he answered. Who doesn't? She is so extraordinarily handsome. Well, not exactly handsome, I replied, with more critical and kinsmanlike deliberation. Pretty, if you will, and decidedly pleasing and attractive in manner. He looked me up and down, as if he found me a person singularly deficient in taste and appreciation. Ah, but then you are her cousin, he said at last, with a compassionate tone. That makes a difference. I quite see all Duffne's strong points, I answered still smiling, for I could perceive he was very far gone. She is good-looking, and she is clever. Clever, he echoed, profound! She has a most unusual intellect. She stands alone. Like her mother's silk dresses, I murmured harp under my breath. He took no notice of my flippant remark, but went on with his rhapsody. Such depth! Such penetration! And then, how sympathetic! Why, even to mere casual acquaintance, like myself, she is so kind, so discerning! Are you such a casual acquaintance? I inquired with a smile. It might have shocked Aunt Fanny to hear me, but that is the way we ask a young man his intentions nowadays. He stopped short and hesitated. Oh, quite casual, he replied, almost stammering. Most casual, I assure you. I have never ventured to do myself the honor of supposing that Miss Tepping could possibly care for me. There is such a thing as being too modest and unassuming, I answered. It sometimes leads to unintentional cruelty. No, do you think so? he cried his face, falling all at once. I should blame myself bitterly if that were so. Dr. Cumberlidge, you are her cousin. Do you gather that I have acted in such a way as to lead Miss Tepping to suppose I felt any affection for her? I laughed in his face. My dear boy, I answered, laying one hand on his shoulder. May I say the plain truth? A blind bat could see you are madly in love with her. His mouth twitched. That's very serious, he answered gravely. Very serious. It is, I responded, with my best paternal manner, gazing blankly in front of me. He stopped short again. Look here, he said, facing me. Are you busy? No? Then come back with me to my rooms, and I'll make a clean breast of it. By all means, I sent it. When one is young and foolish, I have often noticed as a medical man that a drachm or clean breast is a magnificent prescription. He walked back by my side, talking all the way of dupness many adorable qualities. He exhausted the dictionary for laudatory adjectives. By the time I reached his door, it was not his fault, if I had not learned that the angelic hierarchy were not in the running with my pretty cussing for graces and virtues. I felt that faith, hope, and charity ought to resign at once in favor of misdapna-tipping promoted. He took me into his comfortably furnished rooms, the luxurious rooms of a rich young bachelor, with taste as well as money, and offered me a partaga. Now I have long observed in the course of my practice that a choice of cigar assists a man in taking a philosophic outlook on the question and discussion. So I accepted the partaga. He sat down opposite me and pointed to a photograph in the center of his mantelpiece. I am engaged to that lady, he put in shortly. So I anticipated, I answered, lightening up. He started and looked surprised. Why, what made you guess it? He inquired. I smiled the calm smile of superior age. I was some eight years or so his senior. My dear fellow, I murmured, what else could prevent you from proposing to Daphne when you are so undeniably in love with her? A great deal, he answered. For example, the sense of my own utter unworthiness. Once own unworthiness, I replied, though doubtless real, is a barrier that most of us can readily get over when our admiration for a particular lady waxes strong enough. So this is the prior attachment. I took the portrait down and scanned it. Unfortunately, yes. What do you think of her? I scrutinized the features. Seems a nice enough little thing? I answered. It was an innocent face, I admit, very frank and girlish. He leaned forward eagerly. That's just it. A nice enough little thing. Nothing in the world to be said against her. While Daphne, mistepping I mean, his silence was ecstatic. I examined the photograph still more closely. It displayed a lady of twenty or thereabouts with a weak face, small vacant features, a feeble chin, a good humored simple mouth, and a wealth of golden hair that seemed to strike a keynote. In the theatrical profession, I inquired at last looking up. He hesitated. Well, not exactly, he answered. I pursed my lips and blew a ring. Music hall stage? I went on dubiously. He nodded. But a girl is not necessarily any the less a lady, because she sings at a music hall. He added with waltz, displaying an evident desire to be just to his betrothed, however much he admired Daphne. Certainly not, I admitted. A lady is a lady. No occupation can in itself unladify her. But on the music hall stage, the odds, one must admit, are on the whole against her. Now there you show prejudice. One may be quite unprejudiced, I answered, and yet allow that connection with the music hall does not a such afford clear proof that a girl is a compound of all the virtues. I think she is a good girl, he retorted slowly. Then why do you want to throw her over? I inquired. I don't, that's just it. On the contrary, I mean to keep my word and marry her. In order to keep your word? I suggested. He nodded. Precisely, it is a point of honor. That's a poor ground for marriage, I went on. Mind, I don't want for a moment to influence you as Daphne's cousin. I want to get at the truth of the situation. I don't even know what Daphne thinks of you. But you promised me a clean breast, be a man and bear it. He bared it instantly. I thought I was in love with this girl, you see, he went on, till I saw me stepping. That makes a difference, I admitted, and I couldn't bear to break her heart. Heaven forbid, I cried. It is the one unpardonable sin, better anything than that. Then I grew practical. Father's consent? My father's? Is it likely? He expects me to marry into some distinguished English family. I harmed a moment. Well, out with it, I exclaimed pointing my cigar at him. He leaned back in his chair and told me the whole story. A pretty girl, golden hair, introduced to her by a friend, nice simple little thing, mind and heart about the regular stage onto which she had been driven by poverty alone, father dead, mother in reduced circumstances. To keep the home together, poor Sissy decided. Precisely so, I murmured, knocking off my ash. The usual self-sacrifice, case quite normal, everything unrightly. You don't mean to say you doubt it? He cried, flushing up, and evidently regarding me as a hopeless cynic. I do assure you, Dr. Cumberlidge, the poor child, though miles of course below mistepping's level, is as innocent and as good. As a flower in May, oh yes, I don't doubt it. How did you come to propose to her, though? He reddened a little. Well, it was almost accidental, he said sheepishly. I called there one evening, and her mother had a headache and went up to bed. And when we two were left alone, Sissy talked a great deal about her future and how hard her life was, and after a while she broke down and began to cry, and then I cut him short with the wave of my hand. You need say no more. I put in with a sympathetic face. We have all been there. We paused a moment while I puffed smoke at the photograph again. Well, I said at last. Her face looks to me really simple and nice. It is a good face. Do you see her often? Oh no, she's on tour. In the provinces? Yes, just at present at Scarborough. But she writes to you? Every day. Would you think it an unpardonable impertinence if I made bold to ask whether it would be possible for you to show me a specimen of her letters? He unlocked a drawer and took out three or four. Then he read one through carefully. I don't think, he said in a deliberative voice, it would be a serious breach of confidence in me to let you look through this one. There's really nothing in it, you know, just the ordinary average everyday love letter. I glanced through the little note. He was right. The conventional hearts and darts epistol. It sounded nice enough. Longing to see you again, so lonely in this place. Your dear sweet letter, looking forward to the time. You're ever devoted sissy. Hmm, that seems straight, I answered. However, I'm not quite sure. Will you allow me to take it away with the photograph? I know I'm asking much. I want to show it to a lady in host's tact and discrimination. I have the greatest confidence. What Daphne? I smiled. No, not Daphne, I answered. Our friend Miss Wade. She has extraordinary insight. I could trust anything to Miss Wade. She is true as steel. You're right, I answered. That shows that you two are a judge of character. He hesitated. I feel a brute, he cried, to go on writing every day to sissy Montague, and yet calling every day to see Miss Tepping. But still I do it. I grasped his hand. My dear fellow, I said, nearly 90 percent the men, after all, are human. Hilda Wade This is a LibriVox recording, or LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org, reading by Lars Rolander. Hilda Wade, A Woman with Tenacity of Purpose by Grant Allen, Chapter Two, Part Two I took both letter and photograph back with me to Nathaniel's. When I had gone my rounds that night, I carried them into Hilda Wade's room and told her the story. Her face grew grave. We must be just, she said at last. Daphne is deeply in love with him, but even for Daphne's sake, we must not take anything for granted against the other lady. I produced the photograph. What do you make of that? I asked. I think it is an honest face, myself. I may tell you. She scrutinized it long and closely with a magnifier. Then she put her head on one side and mused very deliberately. Madeleine Shaw gave me her photograph the other day, and said to me as she gave it, I do so like these modern portraits. They show one what might have been. You mean they are so much touched up? Exactly. That as it stands is a sweet innocent face, an honest girl's face, almost babish in its transparency, but the innocence has all been put into it by the photographer. You think so? I know it. Look here at those lines just visible on the cheek. They disappear nowhere at impossible angels, and the corners of that mouth. They couldn't go so with that nose and those puckers. The thing is not real. It has been atrociously edited. Part is nature's, part the photographer's, part even possibly paint and powder. But the underlying face is a minx. I handed her the letter. This next, I asked fixing my eyes on her as she looked. She read it through. For a minute or two she examined it. The letters write enough, she answered after a second reading. Though its skill and simplicity is perhaps under the circumstances just a little overdone, but the handwriting, the handwriting is duplicity itself, a cunning serpentine hand, no openness or honesty in it. Depend upon it, that girl is playing a double game. You believe then there is character in handwriting? Undoubtedly. When we know the character we can see it in the writing. The difficulty is to see it and read it before we know it, and I have practiced a little at that. There is character in all we do, of course. Our walk, our calf, the very wave of our hands. The only secret is not all of us have always skill to see it. Here, however, I feel pretty sure. The curves of the D's and the tails of the Y's, how full they are a while of low, underhand trickery. I looked at them as she pointed. That is true, I exclaimed. I see it when you show it. Lines meant for effect, no straightness or directness in them. Hilda reflected a moment. Poor Daphne, she murmured. I would do anything to help her. I'll tell what might be a good plan. Her face brightened. My holiday comes next week. I'll run down to Scarborough. It's as nice a place for a holiday as any, and I'll observe this young lady. It can do no harm, and good may come of it. How kind of you, I cried. But you are always all kindness. Hilda went to Scarborough and came back again for a week before going to Brug, where she proposed to spend the greater part of her holidays. She stopped a night or two in town to report progress, and finding another nurse ill, promised to feel her place till a substitute was forthcoming. Well, Dr. Cambridge, she said when she saw me alone. I was right. I have found out a fact or two about Daphne's rival. You have seen her, I asked. Seen her? I have stopped for a week in the same house. A very nice lodging house on the spa front, too. The girls well enough off. The poverty plea fails. She goes about in good rooms and carries a mother with her. That's well, I answered. That looks all right. Oh, yes, she's quite presentable, has the manners of a lady whenever she chooses. But the chief point is this. She laid her letters every day on the table in the passage outside her door for post. Lay them all in a row, so that when one claimed one's own, one couldn't have seen them. Well, that was opened and above board, I continued beginning to fear with hastily misjudge Ms. Sissy Montague. Very open, too much so, in fact, for I was obliged to note the fact that she wrote two letters regularly every day of her life. To my two mages, she explained one afternoon to a young man, was with her as she laid them on the table. One of them was always addressed to Cecil Holtzworthy, a squire. And the other? Wasn't. Did you note the name? I asked, interested. Yes, here it is. She handed me a slip of paper. I read it. Reginald Nettlecraft, a squire, 427 staples in London. What Reginald Nettlecraft? I cried amused. Why? He was a very little boy at Charterhouse when I was a big one. He afterwards went to Oxford and got sent down from Christchurch for the party took in burning a Greek bust in Tomquat, an antique Greek bust after a bump supper. Just the sort of man I should have expected, Hilda answered with a suppressed smile. I have a sort of inkling that Ms. Montague likes him best. He is nearer her type, but she thinks Cecil Holtzworthy the better match. Has Mr. Nettlecraft money? Not a penny, I should say. An allowance from his father, perhaps, who is Lincolnshire Parson, but otherwise nothing. Then, in my opinion, the young lady is playing for Mr. Holtzworthy's money, failing which she will decline upon Mr. Nettlecraft's heart. We talked it all over. In the end, I said abruptly, Nurse Wade, you have seen Ms. Montague or whatever she calls herself. I have not. I won't condemn her unheard. I have half a mind to run down one day next week to Scarborough and have a look at her. Do. That will suffice. You can judge them for yourself whether or not I'm mistaken. I went, and what is more, I heard Ms. Sissi sing at her hall, a pretty domestic song, most childish and charming. She impressed me not unfavorably, in spite of what Hilda said. Her peach blossom cheek might have been art, but looked like nature. She had an open face, a baby smile, and there was a frank girlishness about her dress and manner that took my fancy. After all, I thought to myself, even Hilda Wade is fallible. So that evening, when her turn was over, I made up my mind to go round and call upon her. I had told Cecil Hallsworthy my intentions beforehand, and it rather shocked him. He was too much of a gentleman to wish to spy upon the girl he had promised to marry. However, in my case, there need be no such scruples. I found the house and asked for Ms. Montague. As I mounted the stairs to the drawing-room floor, I heard a sound of voices, the murmur of laughter, idiotic guffaws, suppressed diggles, the masculine and feminine varieties of tomfoolering. You would make a splendid woman of business, you would, a young man was saying. I gathered from his straw that he belonged to that subspecies of the human race, which is known as the chappy. Wouldn't I just? a girl's voice answered tittering. I recognized it as Sissi's. You ought to see me at it. Why, my brother set up a place once for mending bicycles, and I used to stand about the door as if I had just returned from a ride. And when fellows came in with a nut or loose or something, I'd begin talking with them while Bertie tightened it. Then, when they went looking, I dabbed the business end of a darning needle, so just plump into their tires, and of course, as soon as they went off, they were back again in a minute to get a puncture mended. I called that business. A roar of laughter greeted the recital of this brilliant incident in a commercial career. As it subsided, I entered. There were two men in the room beside Ms Montague and her mother and a second young lady. Excuse this late call, I said quietly bowing, but I have only one night in Scarborough, Ms Montague, and I wanted to see you. I am a friend of Mr Halsworthis. I told him I'd look you up, and this is my sole opportunity. I felt rather than saw that Ms Montague darted a quick glance of hidden meaning at her friends the chapis. Their faces in response ceased to snigger and grew instantly sober. She took my card then in her alternative manner as the perfect lady. She presented me to her mother, Dr Cumberlidge Mama. She said in a faintly warning voice, a friend of Mr Halsworthis, the old lady half-rose. Like me say, she said staring at me. Which is Mr Halsworthis? Is it Cecil or Reggie? One of the chapis burst into a fatuous laugh once more at this remark. Now you've given away the whole show, Ms Montague. He exclaimed with a chuckle. A look from his sissy immediately checked him. I am bound to admit, however, that after these untoward incidents of the first minute, Ms Montague and her friends behaved throughout with distinguished propriety. Her manners were perfect. I may even say demure. She asked about Cecil with charming naivety. She was frank and girlish. Lots of innocent fun in her, no doubt. She sang us a comic song in excellent taste, which is a severe test, but not a suspicion of double-dealing. If I had not overheard those few words as I came up the stairs, I think I should have gone away believing the poor girl an injured child of nature. As it was, I went back to London the very next day, determined to renew my slight acquaintance with Reggie Nettlcraft. Fortunately, I had a good excuse for going to visit him. I had been asked to collect among old Cartusians for one of those endless testimonials, which pursue one through life, and are perhaps the worst nemesis which follows the crime of having wasted one's youth at a public school. A testimonial for a retiring master or professional cricketer or washerwoman or something, and in the course of my duties as collector it was quite natural that I should call upon all my fellow victims, so I went to his rooms in Staples Inn and reintroduced myself. Reggie Nettlcraft had grown up into an unwholesome, spotty, indeterminate young man, with a speckled necktie and cuffs of which he was inordinately proud, and which he insisted on flashing every second minute. He was also evidently self-satisfied, which was odd, for I have seldom seen anyone who afforded less course for rational satisfaction. Hello! he said when I told him my name. So it's you, is it, Kamalitch? he glanced at my card. Saint Nathaniel's Hospital, what rot! Why blow me tight if you haven't turned sore bones? That is my profession, he answered unashamed. And you? Oh, I don't have any luck, you know, old man. They turned me out of Oxford because I had too much sense of humor for the authorities there. Beastly set of old fogus. Objected to my chucking oister-shells at the tutor's windows. Good old English custom, fast becoming obsolete. Then I crammed for the army. But bless your heart. A gentleman has no chance for the army nowadays. A pack of blooming cats. With what they call intellect read up for the exams. And don't give us a look in. I call it sheer piffle. Then the governor sent me on electrical engineering. Electrical engineering's played out. I put no stock in it. Besides, it's such beastly fag. And then you get your hands dirty. So now I'm reading for the bar. And if only my coach can put me up to tips enough to dodge the examiners, I expect to be called sometime next summer. And when you have failed for everything, I inquired just to test his sense of humor. He swallowed like a roach. Oh, when I've failed for everything, I shall stick up to the governor. Hang it all. A gentleman can't be expected to earn his own livelihood. England's going to the dogs. That's where it is. No snug little sinecures left for chaps like you and me. All this beastly competition. And no respect for the feelings of gentleman either. Why would you believe it? Cumberground. We used to call your Cumberground a charter house, I remember, or was it fig tree? I happened to get a bit lively in the hay market last week after a rattling good supper. And the chap at the police court, old co with a squint, positively proposed to send me to prison without the option of a fine. I'll trouble you for that. Send me to prison just for knocking down a common brute of a bobby. There's no mistake about it. England's not a country now for a gentleman to live in. Then why not mark your sense of the fact by leaving it? I inquired with a smile. He shook his head. What? Emigrate. No, thank you. I'm not taking any. None of your column is for me, if you please. I shall stick to the old ship. I'm too much attached to the empire. And yet imperialists, I said, generally gush over the colonies, the empire on which the sun never sets. The empire in Leicester Square, he responded, gazing at me with unspoken contempt. Have a whisk and soda, old chap. What now? Never drink between meals? Well, you do surprise me. I suppose that comes of being a sorebones, don't it? Possibly, I answered. We respect our livers. Then I went on to the ostensible reason of my visit, the Charter House Testimonial. He slapped his thighs metaphorically by way of suggesting the depleted condition of his pockets. Stony broke, Cumberlatch, he murmured. Stony broke. Honor bright. Unless Bluebird pulls off the Prince of Wales stakes, I really don't know how I'm to pay the benches. It's quite unimportant, I answered. I was asked to ask you, and I have asked you. So I twinked, my dear fellow. Sorry to have to say no, but I'll tell you what I can do for you. I can put you upon a straight thing. I glanced at the mantelpiece. I see you have a photograph of Miss Sissy Montague. I broke in casually, taking it down and examining it. With an autograph, too. Ready from Sissy. You are a friend of hers? A friend of hers? I'll trouble you. She is a clinker, Sissies. You should see that girl's smoke. I give you my word of honour, Cumberlatch. She can consume cigarettes against any fellow I know in London. Hang it all. A girl like that, you know. Well, one can't help admiring her. Ever seen her? Oh yes, I know her. I called on her, in fact, night before last at Scarborough. He whistled a moment, then broke into an imbecile laugh. My gum! He cried. This is a start. This is. You don't mean to tell me you are the other Johnny? What are the Johnny? I asked, feeling we were getting near it. He leaned back and laughed again. Well, you know that girl's Sissy. She's a clever one. She is. He went on after a minute staring at me. She's a regular clinker. Got two strings to her bow. That's where the trouble comes in. Me and another fellow. She likes me for love and the other fellow for money. Now don't you come and tell me that you are the other fellow. I have certainly never aspired to the young lady's hand, I answer cautiously. But don't you know your rival's name, then? The Sissy's blooming cleverness. She's a corker. Sissy is. You don't take a rise out of Sissy in a hurry. She knows that if I knew who the other bloke was, I'd blow up on her little game to him and put him off her. And I would, sip me taters, for I'm nuts on that girl. I tell you, come on, she is a clinker. You seem to me admirably adapted for one another. I answered truthfully. I had not the slightest compunction in handing Reggie Nettlecraft over to Sissy, nor in handing Sissy over to Reggie Nettlecraft. Adapted for one another? That's just it. There you hit the right-nade plump on the coconut. Cumberground. But Sissy's an artful one, she is. She's playing for the other Johnny. He's got the dips, you know. And Sissy wants the dips even more than she wants yours truly. Got what? I inquired not quite catching the phrase. The dips old man, the chink, the oof, the ready Rhino. He rolls in it, she says. I can't find out the chap's name. But I know his governor's something or other in the millionaire trade, somewhere across in America. She writes to you, I think? That's so. Every blooming day. But how the dummy did you come to know it? She lays letters addressed to you on the whole table at her lodgings in Scarborough. The dickens she does. Careless little beggar. Yes, she writes to me pages. She's awfully gone on me, really. She'd marry me if it wasn't for the Johnny with the dips. She doesn't care for him. She wants his money. He dresses badly, don't you see? And after all, the clothes make the man. I'd like to get at him. I'd spoil his pretty face for him. And he assumed a playfully pugilistic attitude. You really want to get rid of this other fellow? I ask, seeing my chance. Get rid of him? Why, of course, chuck him into the river some nice dark night if I could once get a look at him. As a preliminary step, would you mind letting me see one of Miss Montague's letters? I inquired. He drew a long breath. They are a bit affectionate, you know. He murmured, stroking his beard as chin in hesitation. She's a hot one, sissies. She pitches it pretty warm on the affection stop, I can tell you. But if you really think you can give the other Johnny cut on the head with her letters, well, in the interests of true love, which never does run smooth, I don't mind letting you have a squint, as my friend, at one of her charming billydoos. He took a bundle from a drawer, ran his eye over one or two with a mordlin air, and then selected a specimen not fully unsuitable for publication. There's one in the eye for sea, he said, chuckling. What could sea say to that, I wonder. She always calls him sea, you know. It's so jolly non-committing, she says. I only wish that beastly old boy sea were at Halifax, which is where he comes from, and then I would fly it once to my own dear Reggie. But hang it, all Reggie boy. What's the good of true love if you haven't got the dips? I must have my comforts, love in a cottage is all very well in its way, but who's to pay for the fish, Reggie? That's her refinement, don't you see? Cis is awfully refined, she was brought up with the tastes and habits of a lady. Clearly so, I answered, both her literary style and her liking for champagne abundantly have demonstrated. His acute sense of humor did not enable him to detect the irony of my observation. I doubt if it extended much beyond oyster shells. He handed me the letter. I read it through with equal amusement and gratification. If Mississie had written it on purpose in order to open Cecil Hall's worthy eyes, she couldn't have managed the matter better or more effectually. It breathed ardent love tempered by a determination to sell her charms in the best and highest matrimonial market. Now, I know this man's sea, I said when I had finished, and I want to ask whether you will let me show him Miss Montague's letter. It would set him against the girl who, as a matter of fact, is fully unworth, I mean totally unfitted for him. Let you show it to him? Like a bird! Why, Sissie promised me herself that if she couldn't bring that solemn ass sea up to the scratch by Christmas, she'd chuck him and marry me. It's here in writing, and he handed me another gem of epistolary literature. You have no compunctions? I asked again after reading it. Not a blessed compunction to my name! Then neither have I, I answered. I felt they both deserved it. Sissie was a minx, as he'd rightly judged, while as for nettlecraft, well, if a public school and an English university leave a man a cad, a cad he will be, and there is nothing more to be said about it. I went straight off with the letters to Cecil Hall's worthy. He read them through half incredulously. At first, he was too honest-natured himself to believe in the possibility of such double dealing, that one could have innocent eyes and golden hair, and yet be a trickster. He read them twice, then he compared them word for word, with a simple affection and childlike tone of his own last letter received from the same lady. Her versatility of style would have done honour to a practiced literary craftsman. At last he handed them back to me. Do you think, he said, on the evidence of these I should be doing wrong in breaking with her? Wrong in breaking with her, I exclaimed. You would be doing wrong if you didn't, wrong to yourself, wrong to your family, wrong if I may venture to say so, to Daphne, wrong even in the long run to the girl herself, for she is not fitted for you, and she is fitted for Reggie nettlecraft. Now do as I bid you, sit down at once and write her a letter from my dictation. He sat down and wrote much relief that I took the responsibility of his shoulders. Dear Miss Montague, I began. The enclosed letters have come into my hands without my seeking it. After reading them, I feel that I have absolutely no right to stand between you and the man of your real choice. It would not be kind or wise of me to do so. I release you at once and consider myself released. You may therefore regard our engagement as irrevocably cancelled, faithfully yours, Cecil Halsworthy. Nothing more than that, he asked looking up and biting his pen. Not a word of regret or apology? Not a word, I answered. You are really too lenient. I made him take it out and post it before he could invent conscientious scruples. Then he turned to me irresolutely. What shall I do next? he asked with a comical air of doubt. I smiled. My dear fellow, that is a matter for your own consideration. But do you think she will laugh at me? Miss Montague? No, Duffner. I am not in Duffner's confidence, I answered. I don't know how she feels, but on the face of it I think I can venture to assure you that at least she won't laugh at you. He grasped my hand hard. You don't mean to say so, he cried. Well, that's really very kind of her. A girl of Duffner's high type, and I who feel myself so utterly unworthy of her. We are all unworthy of a good woman's love, I answered. But, thank heaven, the good women don't seem to realize it. That evening, about ten, my new friend came back in a hurry to my room at St. Nathaniel's. Nurse Wade was standing there, giving her report for the night when he entered. His face looked some inches shorter and broader than usual. His eyes beamed, his mouth was radiant. Well, you won't believe it, Dr. Cumberlidge, he began but? Yes, I do believe it, I answered. I know, I have read it already. Read it? he cried. Where? I weighed my hand towards his face. In a special edition of the evening papers, I answered smiling. Duffner has accepted you. He sank into an easy chair beside himself with rapture. Yes, yes, that angel, thanks to you, she has accepted me. Thanks to Miss Wade, I said, correcting him. It is really all her doing. If she had not seen through the photograph to the face and through the face to the woman and the base little heart of her, we might never have found her out. He turned to Hilda with eyes all gratitude. You have given me the dearest and best girl on earth, he cried, ceasing both her hands. And I have given Duffner a husband who will love and appreciate her, Hilda answered, flushing. You see, I said maliciously, I told you they never find us out, Halsworthy. As for Reginettelcraft and his wife, I should like to add that they are getting on quite as well as could be expected. Regi has joined his CC on the music hall stage, and all those who have witnessed his immensely popular performance of the drunken gentleman before the Bow Street Police Court acknowledged without reserve that, after failing for everything, he has dropped at last into his true vocation. His impersonation of the part is said to be nature itself. I see no reason to doubt it.