George, if I told you that I have ceased to feel the serious
objections that there are to your marrying this lady. The only
difference in my way of thinking is, that I am now willing to set
my objections aside, out of regard for your happiness. I am an
old woman, my dear. In the course of nature, I cannot hope to be
with you much longer. When I am gone, who will be left to care
for you and love you, in the place of your mother? No one will be
left, unless you marry Mrs. Van Brandt. Your happiness is my
first consideration, and the woman you love (sadly as she has
been led astray) is a woman worthy of a better fate. Marry her."

I could not trust myself to speak. I could only kneel at my
mother's feet, and hide my face on her knees, as if I had been a
boy again.

"Think of it, George," she said. "And come back to me when you
are composed enough to speak as quietly of the future as I do."

She lifted my head and kissed me. As I rose to leave her, I saw
something in the dear old eyes that met mine so tenderly, which
struck a sudden fear through me, keen and cutting, like a stroke
from a knife.

The moment I had closed the door, I went downstairs to the porter
in the hall.

"Has my mother left the house," I asked, "while I have been
away?"

"No, sir."

"Have any visitors called?"

"One visitor has called, sir."

"Do you know who it was?"

The porter mentioned the name of a celebrated physician--a man at
the head of his profession in those days. I instantly took my hat
and went to his house.

He had just returned from his round of visits. My card was taken
to him, and was followed at once by my admission to his
consulting-room.

"You have seen my mother," I said. "Is she seriously ill? and
have you not concealed it from her? For God's sake, tell me the
truth; I can bear it."

The great man took me kindly by the hand.

"Your mother stands in no need of any warning; she is herself
aware of the critical state of her health," he said. "She sent
for me to confirm her own conviction. I could not conceal from
her--I must not conceal from you--that the vital energies are
sinking. She may live for some months longer in a milder air than
the air of London. That is all I can say. At her age, her days
are numbered."

He gave me time to steady myself under the blow; and then he
placed his vast experience, his matured and consummate knowledge,
at my disposal. From his dictation, I committed to writing the
necessary instructions for watching over the frail tenure of my
mother's life.

"Let me give you one word of warning," he said, as we parted.
"Your mother is especially desirous that you should know nothing
of the precarious condition of her health. Her one anxiety is to
see you happy. If she discovers your visit to me, I will not
answer for the consequences. Make the best excuse you can think
of for at once taking her away from London, and, whatever you may
feel in secret, keep up an appearance of good spirits in her
presence."

That evening I made my excuse. It was easily found. I had only to
tell my poor mother of Mrs. Van Brandt's refusal to marry me, and
there was an intelligible motive assigned for my proposing to
leave London. The same night I wrote to inform Mrs. Van Brandt of
the sad event which was the cause of my sudden departure, and to
warn her that there no longer existed the slightest necessity for
insuring her life. "My lawyers" (I wrote) "have undertaken to
arrange Mr. Van Brandt's affairs immediately. In a few hours he
will be at liberty to accept the situation that has been offered
to him." The last lines of the letter assured her of my
unalterable love, and entreated her to write to me before she
left England.

This done, all was done. I was conscious, strange to say, of no
acutely painful suffering at this saddest time of my life. There
is a limit, morally as well as physically, to our capacity for
endurance. I can only describe my sensations under the calamities
that had now fallen on me in one way: I felt like a man whose
mind had been stunned.

The next day my mother and I set forth on the first stage of our
journey to the south coast of Devonshire.

CHAPTER XXX.

THE PROSPECT DARKENS.


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