Oliver Rane was in his bedchamber; a front apartment facing the road. It will be as well to give a word of description to this first floor, for it may prove needed as the tale goes on. It consisted of a large landing-place, its boards white and bare, with a spacious window looking to the side of the other house, as the dining-room beneath it did. Wide, low and curtainless was this window; giving, in conjunction with the bare floors and walls, a staring appearance to the place. Mrs. Cumberland\'s opposite landing (could you have seen it) presented a very different aspect, with its rich carpet, its statues, vases, bookcases, and its pretty window-drapery. Dr. Rane could not afford luxuries yet; or, indeed, superfluous furniture of any sort. The stairs led almost close to this window, so that in coming down from any of the bedrooms, or the upper floor, you had to face it.

To get into Dr. Rane\'s chamber--the best in the house--an ante-room had to be passed through, and its door was opposite the large window. Two chambers opened from the back of the landing: they faced the back lane that ran along beyond the garden wall. Above, in the roof, were two other rooms, both three-cornered. Phillis, the old serving-woman, slept on that floor in one of them, Dr. Rane on this: the house had no other inmates.

The ante-room had no furniture: unless some curious-looking articles lying on the floor could be called so. They seemed to consist chiefly of glass: jars covered in dust, a cylindrical glass-pump, and other things belonging to chemistry, of which science the doctor was fond. Certainly the architect had not made the most of this floor, or he would never have given so much space to the landing. But if this ante-room was not furnished, Dr. Rane\'s chamber was; and well furnished too. The walls were white and gold, the dressing-table and glass stood before the window and opposite the door. On the left was the fireplace; the handsome white Arabian bedstead was picked out with gold, and its hangings of green damask, matched the window drapery and the soft colours of the carpet.

Seated at the round table in the middle of the room, his hand raised to support his head, was Dr. Rane. He had only just come in, and it was now one o\'clock--his usual dinner hour. It was that same morning mentioned in the last chapter, when he had quitted Mrs. Gass\'s house with that dangerous piece of paper weighing upon his pocket and his heart. He had been detained out. As he was entering the house of the sick man, Ketler, whom he had proceeded at once to see, a bustle in the street, and much wild running of women, warned him that something must have happened. Two men had fallen into the river at the back of the North Works; and excited people were shouting that they were drowned. Not quite: as Dr. Rane saw when he reached the spot: not beyond hope of restoration. Patiently the doctor persevered in his endeavours. He brought life into them at length; and stayed afterwards caring for them. After that, he had Ketler and other patients to see, and it was nearly one when he bent his steps towards home. In the morning he had said to himself that he would call at the Hall on his return; but he passed its gates; perhaps because it was his dinner hour, for one o\'clock was striking.

Hanging up his hat in the small hall, leaving his cane in the corner--a pretty trifle with a gold stag for its handle--he was making straight for the stairs, when the servant, Phillis, came out of the kitchen. A little woman of some five-and-fifty years, with high shoulders, and her head carried forward. Her chin and nose were sharp now, but the once good-looking face was meek and mild, the sweet dark eyes were subdued, and the hair, peeping from beneath the close white cap, was grey. She wore a dark cotton gown and check apron. A tidy-looking, respectable woman, in spite of her unfashionable appearance.

"Is that you, sir? Them folks have been over from the brick-kilns, saying the woman\'s not so well to-day, if you\'d please to go to her."

Dr. Rane nodded. He went on up the stairs and into his own room, the door of which he locked. Why? Phillis was not in the habit of intruding upon him, and there was no one else in the house. The first thing he did was to take the paper received from Mrs. Gass out of his pocketbook, and read it attentively twice over. Then he struck a match, set fire to it, and watched it consume away in the empty grate. A dangerous memento, whosesoever hand had penned it; and the physician did well, in the interests of humanity, to put it out of sight for ever. The task over, he leaned against the window-frame, and lapsed into thought. He was dwelling upon the death at Dallory Hall, and what it might bring forth.

Hepburn, the undertaker, was right. There was to be no inquest. So much Dr. Rane had learned from Richard North: who had hastened to the works on hearing of the accident to his men. The two Whitborough doctors had given the certificate of death: apoplexy, to which there had been a previous tendency, though immediately brought on by excitement: and nothing more was required by law. From a word spoken by Richard, Dr. Rane gathered that it was madam who had set her veto against an inquest. And quite right too; there was no necessity whatever for one, had been the comment made by Oliver Rane to Richard. But now--now when he was alone with himself and the naked truth: when there was no man at hand whose opinion it might be well to humour or deceive: no eye upon him save God\'s, he could not help acknowledging that had he been Mr. North, had it been his son who was thus cut off from life, he should have caused an inquest to be held. Ay, ten inquests, an\' the law would have allowed them; if by that means he might have traced the letter home to its writer.

Quitting the window, he sat down at the table and bent his forehead upon his hand. Never in his whole life had anything so affected him as this death: and it was perhaps natural that he should set himself to see whether, or not, any sort of excuse might be found for the anonymous writer.

He began by putting himself in idea in the writer\'s place, and argued the point for him: for and against. Chiefly for; it was on that side his bias leaned. It is very easy, as the world knows, to find a plea for those in whom we are interested or on whom misfortune falls; it is so natural to indulge for their sakes in a little sophistry. Such sophistry came now to the help of the physician.

"What need had Edmund North to fly into a furious passion?" ran the self-argument. "Only a madman might have been expected to do so. There was nothing in the letter that need have excited him, absolutely nothing. It was probably written with a very harmless intention; certainly the writer never could have dreamt that it might have the effect of destroying a life."

Destroying a man\'s life! A flush passed into Oliver Rane\'s face at the thought, dyeing neck and brow. And, with it, recurred the words of Hepburn--that the writer was a murderer and might come to be tried for it. A murderer! There is no other self-reproach under heaven that can bring home so much anguish to the conscience. But--could a man be justly called a murderer if he had never had thought or intention of doing anything of the kind?

"Halt here," said Dr. Rane, suddenly speaking aloud, as if he were a special pleader arguing in a law court. "Can a man be called a murderer who has never had the smallest intention of murdering--who would have flown in horror from the bare idea? Let us suppose it was--Mrs. North--who wrote the letter? Alexander suspects her, at any rate. Put it that she had some motive for writing it. It might have been a good motive--that of stopping Edward North in his downward career, as the letter intimated--and she fancied this might be best accomplished by letting his father hear of what he, in conjunction with Alexander, was doing. According to Alexander, she does not interfere openly between the young men and their father; it isn\'t her policy to do so: and she may have considered that the means she took were legitimate under the circumstances. Well, could she for a moment imagine that any terrible consequences would ensue? A rating from Mr. North to his son, and the matter would be over. Just so: she was innocent of any other thought. Then how could she be thought guilty?"

Dr. Rane paused. A book lay on the table: he turned its leaves backwards and forwards in abstraction, his mind revolving the subject. Presently he resumed.

"Or--take Alexander\'s view of the letter--that it was written to damage him with Mr. North and the neighbourhood generally. Madam--say again--had conceived a dislike to Alexander, wished him dismissed from the house, but had no plea for doing it, and so took that means of accomplishing her end. Could she suspect that the result would be fatal to Edmund North? Would she not have shrunk with abhorrence from writing the letter, had she foreseen it? Certainly. Then, under these circumstances, how can a man--I mean a woman--be responsible, legally or morally, for the death? It would be utterly unjust to charge her with it. Edmund North is alone to blame. Clearly so. The case is little better than one of unintentional suicide."

Having arrived at this view of the subject--so comforting for the unknown writer--Dr. Rane rose briskly, and began to wash his hands and brush his hair. He took a note-case from his pocket, in which he was in the habit of entering his daily engagements, to see at what hour he could most conveniently visit the brick-fields, in compliance with the message received. The sick woman was in no danger, as he knew, and he might choose his own time. In passing through the ante-room--a room, by the way, generally distinguished as the Drab Room, from the unusual colour of the hideous walls--he took up one of the glass jars, requiring it for some purpose downstairs. And then he noticed something that displeased him.

"Phillis!" he called, going out to the landing: "Phillis!" And the woman, a very active little body, came running up.

"You have been sweeping the Drab Room?"

"It was so dirty, sir."

"Now look here," he cried, angrily. "If you sweep out a room again, when I tell you it is not to be swept, I\'ll keep every place in the house locked up. Some of the glass here is valuable, and I won\'t run the risk of having it broken with your brooms and brushes."

Down went Phillis, taking the reproof in silence. As Dr. Rane crossed the landing to follow her, his eyes fell on his mother\'s house through the large window. The window opposite was being cleaned by one of the servants: at the window of the dining-room underneath, his mother was sitting. It reminded Dr. Rane that he had not been in to see her for nearly two days; not since Edmund North----

Suddenly a sense of the delusive nature of the sophistry he had been indulging, flashed into his brain, and the truth shone out distinct and bare. Edmund North was dead; had been killed by the anonymous letter. But for that fatal letter he had been alive and well now. A sickening sensation, as of some great oppression, came over Oliver Rane, and his nerveless fingers dropped the jar.

Out ran Phillis, lifting her hands at the crash of glittering particles lying in the passage. "He has broken one himself now," thought she, referring to the recent reproof.

"Sweep the pieces carefully into a dust-pan, and throw them away," said her master as he passed on. "The jar slipped out of my fingers."

Phillis stared a minute, exhausting her surprise, and then turned away for the dust-pan. The doctor went on to the front-door, instead of into the dining-room, as Phillis expected.

"Sir," she called out, hastening after him, "your dinner\'s waiting. Will you not take it now?"

But Dr. Rane passed on as though he had not heard her, and shut the door loudly.

He turned into his mother\'s house. Not by the open window; not by stepping over the slight fence; but he knocked at the front-door, and was admitted as an ordinary visitor. Whether it was from having lived apart for so many years of their lives, or that a certain cordiality was wanting in the disposition of each, certain it was that Dr. Rane and his mother observed more ceremony with each other than usually obtains between mother and son.

Mrs. Cumberland sat at the open dining-room window just as he had seen her from his staircase landing; a newspaper lay behind her on a small table, as if just put down. Ellen Adair, as might be heard, was at the piano in the drawing-room, playing, perhaps from unconscious association, and low and softly as it was her delight to play, the "Dead March in Saul." The dirge grated on the ears of Dr. Rane.

"What a melancholy performance!" he involuntarily exclaimed; and Mrs. Cumberland looked up, there was so much irritation in his tone.

He shook hands with his mother, but did not kiss her, which he was not accustomed to do, and stood back against the broad window, his face turned to it.

"You are a stranger, Oliver," she said. "What has kept you away?"

"I have been busy. To-day especially. They had an accident at the works--two men were nearly drowned--and I have been with them all the morning."

"I heard of it. Jelly brought me in the news; she seems to hear everything. How fortunate that you were at hand!"

He proceeded, rather volubly for him, to give particulars of the accident and of the process he adopted to recover the men. Mrs. Cumberland looked and listened with silent, warm affection; but that she was a particularly undemonstrative woman, she would have betrayed it in her manner. In her eyes, there was not so fine and handsome and estimable a man in all Dallory as this her only son.

"Oliver, what a dreadful thing this is about Edmund North! I have not seen you since. Why did you not come in and tell me the same night?"

He turned his eyes on her for a moment in surprise, and paused.

"I am not in the habit of coming in to tell you when called out to patients, mother. How was I to know you wished it?"

"Nonsense, Oliver! This is not an ordinary thing: the Norths were something to me once. I have had Edmund on my knee when he was a baby; and I should have liked you to pay me the attention of bringing in the news. It appears to be altogether a more romantic event than one meets with every day, and such things, you know, are of interest to lonely women."

Dr. Rane made no rejoinder, possibly not having sufficient excuse for his carelessness. He stood looking dreamily from a corner of the window. Phillis, as might be seen from there, was carrying away the fowl prepared for his dinner, and a tureen of sauce. Mrs. Cumberland probably thought he was watching with critical curiosity the movements of his handmaid. She resumed:

"They say, Oliver, there has been no hope of him from the first."

"There was very little. Of course, as it turns out, there could have been none."

"And who wrote the letter? With what motive was it written?" proceeded Mrs. Cumberland, her grey face bent slightly forward, as she waited for an answer.

"It is of no use to ask me, mother. Some people hold one opinion, some another; mine would go for little."

"They are beginning now to think that it was not written at all to injure Edmund, but Mr. Alexander."

"Who told you that?" he asked, a sharper accent discernible in his tone.

"Captain Bohun. He came in this morning to tell me of the death. Considering that I have no claim upon him, that a year ago I had never spoken to him, I must say that Arthur Bohun is very kind and attentive to me. He is one in a thousand."

Perhaps the temptation to say, "It\'s not for your sake he is so attentive," momentarily assailed Oliver Rane. But he was good-natured in the main, and he knew when to be silent, and when to speak: no man better. Besides, it was no business of his.

"I entertain a different opinion," he observed, referring to the point in discussion. "Of course it is all guess work as to the writer\'s motive: there can be no profit in discussing it, mother: and I must be going, for my dinner\'s waiting. Thank you for sending me the chicken."

"A moment yet, Oliver," she interposed, as he was moving away. "Have you heard that Alexander is going to leave?"

"Yes: he was talking to me about it this morning."

If ever a glow of light had been seen lately on Mrs. Cumberland\'s marble face, it was seen then. The tightly-drawn features had lost their grey tinge.

"Oliver, I could go down on my knees and thank Heaven for it. You don\'t know how grieved I have felt all through these past two years, to see you put into the shade by that man, and to know that it was I who had brought you here! It will be all right now. New houses are to be built, they say, at the other end of the Ham, and the practice will be worth a great deal. I shall sleep well to-night."

He smiled as he shook hands with her; partly in affection, partly at her unusual vehemence. In passing the drawing-room, Ellen Adair happened to be coming out of it, but he went on. She supposed he had not observed her, and spoke.

"Ah! how do you do, Miss Adair?" he said, turning back, and offering his hand. "Forgive my haste; I am busy to-day."

And before she had time to make any reply, he was gone; leaving an impression on her mind, she could not well have told why or wherefore, that he was ill at ease; that he had hastened away, not from pressure of work, but because he did not care to talk to her.

If that feeling was possessing Dr. Rane, and had reference to the world in general, and not to the young lady in particular, it might not have been agreeable to him to encounter an acquaintance as he turned out of his mother\'s house. Mr. Alexander was swiftly passing on his way towards home from the lower part of the Ham, and stopped.

"I wish I had never said a syllable about going away until I was off," cried he in his off-hand manner--a pleasanter and more sociable manner than Dr. Rane\'s. "The news has been noised abroad, and the whole place is upon me; asking this, that, and the other. One man comes and wants to know if I\'ll sell my furniture; another thinks he\'d like the house as it stands. My patients are up in arms;--say I\'m doing it to kill them. I shall have some of them in a fever before the day\'s over."

"Perhaps you won\'t go, after all," observed Dr. Rane.

"Not go! How can I help going? I\'m elected to the post. Why, it\'s what I\'ve been looking out for ever so long--almost ever since I came here. No, no, Rane: a short time, and Dallory Ham will have seen the last of me."

He hastened across the road to his house, like a man who has the world\'s work on his busy shoulders. Dr. Rane\'s thoughts, as he glanced after him, reverted to the mental argument he had held in his chamber, and he unconsciously resumed it, putting himself in the place of the unknown, unhappy writer, as before.

"It\'s almost keener than the death itself--if the motive was to injure Alexander in his profession, or drive him from the place--to know that he, or she--Mrs. North--might have spared her pains! Heavens! what remorse it must be!--to commit a crime, and then find there was no necessity for doing it!"

Dr. Rane passed his white handkerchief over his brow--the day was very warm--and turned into his house. Phillis once more placed the dinner on the table, and he sat down to it.

But not a mouthful could he swallow; his throat felt like so much dried-chip, and the food would not go down. Phillis, who was coming in for something or other, saw him leave his plate and rise from table.

"Is the fowl not tender, sir?"

"Tender?" he responded, as though the sense of the question had not reached him, and paused. "Oh, it\'s tender enough: but I must go off to a patient. Get your own dinner, Phillis."

"Surely you\'ll come back to yours, sir?"

"I\'ve had as much as I want. Take the things away."

"I wonder what\'s come to him?" mused the woman as his quick steps receded from the house, and she was left with the rejected dishes. A consciousness came dimly penetrating to her hazy brain that there was some change upon him. What it was, or where it lay, she did not define. It was unusual for his strong firm fingers to drop a glass; it was still more unusual for him to explain cause and effect. "The jar slipped from my fingers." "I\'ve had as much as I want. I must go off to a patient." It was quite out of the order of routine for Dr. Rane to be explanatory to his servant on any subject whatever: and perhaps it was his having been so in these two instances that impressed Phillis.

"How quick he must have eaten his dinner!"

Phillis nearly dropped the dish. The words were spoken close behind her, and she had believed herself alone in the house. Turning, she saw Jelly, standing half in, half out of the window.

"Well, I\'m sure!" cried Phillis, in wrath. "You needn\'t come startling a body in that way, Mrs. Jelly. How did you know but the doctor might be at table?"

"I\'ve just seen him go down the lane," returned Jelly, who had plenty of time for gossiping with her neighbours, and had come strolling over the fence now with no other object. "Has he had his dinner? It\'s but the other minute he was in at our house."

"He has had as much as he means to have," answered Phillis, her anger evaporating, for she liked a gossip also. "I\'m sure it\'s not worth the trouble of serving meals, if they are to be left in this fashion. It was the same thing at breakfast."

Jelly recollected the scene at breakfast; the startled pallor on Dr. Rane\'s face, when told that Edmund North was dead: she supposed that had spoiled his appetite. Her inquisitive eyes turned unceremoniously to the fowl, and she saw that the merest slice off the wing was alone eaten.

"Perhaps he is not well to-day," said Jelly.

"I don\'t know about his being well; he\'s odder than I ever saw him," answered Phillis. "I shouldn\'t wonder but he has had his stomach turned over them two half-drowned men."

She carried the dinner-things across to the kitchen. Jelly, who assisted at the ceremony, as far as watching and talking went, was standing in the passage, when her quick eyes caught sight of two small pieces of glass. She stooped to pick them up.

"Look, Phillis! You have been breaking something. It\'s uncommonly careless to leave the bits about."

"Is it!" retorted Phillis. "Your eyes are in everything. I thought I took \'em all up," she added, looking on the ground.

"What did you break?"

"Nothing. It was the doctor. He dropped one of them dusty glass jars down the stairs. It did give me a start. You should have heard the smash."

"What made him drop it?" asked Jelly.

"Goodness knows," returned the older woman. "He\'s not a bit like himself to-day; it\'s just as if something had come to him."

She began her dinner as she spoke, standing, her usual mode of taking it. Jelly, following her free-and-easy habits, stood against the door-post, apparently interested in the progress of the meal. They presented a contrast, these two women, the one a thin, upright giantess, the other a dwarf stooping forward. Jelly, a lady\'s-maid, held herself of course altogether above Phillis, an ignorant (as Jelly would have described her) servant-of-all-work, though condescending to drop in for the sake of gossip.

"Did you happen to hear how the doctor found Ketler?"

"As if I should be likely to hear!" was Phillis\'s retort. "He\'d not tell me, and I couldn\'t ask. My master\'s not one you can put questions to, Jelly."

A silence ensued. The gossip apparently flagged to-day. Phillis had it chiefly to herself, for Jelly vouchsafed only a brief remark now and again. She was engaged in the mental process of wondering what had come to Dr. Rane.