"You have repented and changed your mind, Vimpany?" said Lord Harry.
"I repented?" the doctor repeated, with a laugh. "You think me capable
of that, do you?"
"The man is growing stronger and better every day. You are going to
make him recover, after all. I was afraid"--he corrected himself--"I
thought"--the word was the truer--"that you were going to poison him."
"You thought I was going--we were going, my lord--to commit a stupid
and a useless crime. And, with our clever nurse present, all the time
watching with the suspicions of a cat, and noting every change in the
symptoms? No--I confess his case has puzzled me because I did not
anticipate this favourable change. Well--it is all for the best. Fanny
sees him grow stronger every day--whatever happens she can testify to
the care with which the man has been treated. So far she thought she
would have us in her power, and we have her."
"You are mighty clever, Vimpany; but sometimes you are too clever for
me, and, perhaps, too clever for yourself."
"Let me make myself clearer"--conscious of the nurse's suspicions, he
leaned forward and whispered: "Fanny must go. Now is the time. The man
is recovering. The man must go: the next patient will be your lordship
himself. Now do you understand?"
"Partly."
"Enough. If I am to act it is sufficient for you to understand step by
step. Our suspicious nurse is to go. That is the next step. Leave me to
act."
Lord Harry walked away. He left the thing to the doctor. It hardly
seemed to concern him. A dying man; a conspiracy; a fraud:--yet the
guilty knowledge of all this gave him small uneasiness. He carried with
him his wife's last note: "May I hope to find on my return the man whom
I have trusted and honoured?" His conscience, callous as regards the
doctor's scheme, filled him with remorse whenever--which was fifty
times a day--he took this little rag of a note from his pocket-book and
read it again. Yes: she would always find the man, on her return--the
man whom she had trusted and honoured--the latter clause he passed
over--it would be, of course the same man: whether she would still be
able to trust and honour him--that question he did not put to himself.
After all, the doctor was acting--not he, himself.
And he remembered Hugh Mountjoy. Iris would be with him--the man whose
affection was only brought out in the stronger light by his respect,
his devotion, and his delicacy. She would be in his society: she would
understand the true meaning of this respect and delicacy: she would
appreciate the depth of his devotion: she would contrast Hugh, the man
she might have married, with himself, the man she did marry.