eye, consoled himself speedily for that loss. Could he go to her and say, "I never loved my wife; I married her out of pity; my love was given to you, and you alone!"
That was his secret. To Dora Wyllard he must have seemed as fickle as the common herd of men, who change their loves as easily as they change their tailors. He could put forward no claim for past constancy. No, were she once again free, it would be by the devotion of the future that he must win her.
And then he recalled what the physician had said about Julian Wyllard's malady. It would be a slow and lingering disease—a decay of years, perhaps. He saw the dark possibility of such a martyrdom. Dora's life would be worn and wasted in the attendance upon that decaying frame, that sorely tried mind and temper. She would sacrifice health, spirits, life itself, perhaps, in her devotion to her afflicted husband. And when the end at last came—the dismal end of all her care and tenderness—would she be a woman to be wooed and won? Would not life for her be over, all possibility of happiness for ever gone? Only a little respite, a little rest remaining before the grave should close on her broken heart.
No, there was no ground for selfish rejoicing, for wicked hope, in Julian Wyllard's malady.
Heathcote ordered a simple breakfast in one of the quietest cafés in the Palais Royal, and lingered over the meal and the newspapers till he was able to present himself with a better grace at the Windsor. He had some difficulty in reading the news of the day with attention, or even comprehension, so full were his thoughts. He recalled Julian Wyllard's manner and bearing during the last few months, and wondered at the vigour, the freshness of mind, the power which had been so obvious in every look, and tone, and gesture. That such a man could suddenly be struck down without a day's warning, without any imaginable cause, had seemed almost incomprehensible. Had the nature of the attack been different, the thing would have appeared less inexplicable. An apoplectic fit striking down the strong man in his might, as if from the blow of a Nasmyth hammer, would have seemed far more in character with the nature of the patient, his vigorous manhood, his appearance of physical power.
Heathcote called at the Windsor between twelve and one o'clock, and had only a few minutes to wait in the salon before he was joined by Mrs. Wyllard.
She was very pale, but she was more composed than on the previous day. Her countenance had a rigid look, Heathcote thought; as if she had schooled herself to composure by a severe mental effort. The hand she gave him was deadly cold.
"I trust you have good news for me," he said. "Is Spencer more hopeful than your Paris physician?"
