yes, she was dead; had died with a smile upon her lips; had died at peace and charity with all; had died knowing that the man whom she had looked up to and reverenced, had loved with all the pure and guileless love of her young heart, had loved her also, and had so loved her that he had suffered in silence, and only spoken when the confession could bring no remorse to her, even no longing regret for what might have been. even no longing regret? no! "happy, quand même," were the last words that ever passed her lips; "happy, quand même,"--she had been something to him after all! in the few short and fleeting hours which she had passed between hearing chudleigh wilmot's confession, wrung from his heart by the great agony which possessed him, she had pondered over the words which he had spoken with inexpressible delight. what can we tell, we creatures moulded in coarser clay, creatures of baser passions, soiled in the perpetual contact with earth, its mean fears and gross aspirations, if aspirations they may be called,--what can we tell of the feelings of a young girl like this? death, which we contemplate as the king of terrors, threatening us with his uplifted dart, and destined to drag us away from the stage of life, bright with its tawdry tinsel, and its garish splendour, came to her in softer and more kindly guise. for months she had been expecting the advent of the "shadow cloaked from head to foot," in whose gentle embrace she knew that she must shortly find herself. those around her, her loving, doating father, lady muriel, ronald, softened by the silent contemplation of her gradually-decreasing strength, the daily ebbing of physical force, the daily loosening of even the slight hold on life which she possessed, visible even to his unpractised eyes,--none of these had the smallest idea that the frail delicate creature, round whose couch they stood day by day with forced smiles and feigned hope, knew better than any of them, better even than he whose professional skill had never been brought into such play, how swiftly the current of her life was bearing her on to the great rapids of eternity. and if before she had heard those burning words, intensified by the agony shown in the choking voice in which they found their utterance, she had been able calmly and not unwillingly to contemplate her fate, how much greater had been her resignation, how much more readily did she accept the fiat when she learned that the one love of her life had been returned; and that, despite of all that had come between them, despite the interposition of the dread barrier which had apparently so effectually separated them from each other, the man who had been to her far beyond all others, had singled her out as the object of his adoration!

in those few last earthly hours the "what might have been" had passed through her mind, and passed away again, leaving behind it no trace of anguish or remorse. not only to wilmot had the time since their first acquaintance at kilsyth passed in review in phantasmagoric semblance; madeleine had often gone through such scenes in the short drama, recollecting every detail, remembering much which had been overlooked even in his rapid summary. "what might have been!" even suppose the dearest, the only real aspiration of her heart had been accomplished, and sire had become chudleigh wilmot's wife, would not the inevitable end have had additional distress and misery to both of them? the inevitable end! for she must have died--she knew that; not for one instant did she imagine that any combination of circumstances different from what had actually occurred could have averted or postponed the fulfilment of the dread decree. her married life had not been specially happy; then should she not have less regret in leaving it? would not the pangs of parting be robbed of half their bitterness by the knowledge that her husband left behind would not sink under the blow? what might have been? ah, wilmot would feel her loss acutely, she knew that; the one outburst of grief, of passionate tenderness and heartfelt agony which had escaped him had told her that; but he would feel it less than if what might have been had been, and she had been taken away from him in the early days of their love and happiness.

a notion that such thoughts as these might have filled the mind of her for whom they mourned occurred to each of those by whom the dead girl was really loved, not indeed at once nor simultaneously, but at divers times, as they pondered over the blank which her loss had left in their lives. among this number mr. ramsay caird was not to be reckoned. the solemn announcement which, at his own request, dr. wilmot had made to him as to the impossibility of his wife's recovery and the probable short duration of her illness had had very little effect on the young man. what were the motives which prompted him were known to himself alone; but the insouciance, to use the mildest term for it, which had prompted him during the whole of his short married life seemed in no way diminished even by the dread news which had been communicated to him. he acknowledged that he had seen dr. wilmot, and had asked him his opinion; that that opinion had been very serious, and to some persons would have been alarming, but that he was not easily alarmed, and that he was utterly and entirely incredulous in the present instance. madeleine had a bad cough, and was naturally delicate on her chest, and that sort of thing; she did not wrap up enough when she went out, and sat in draughts: but as to the way in which they all went on about her--well, they would find that he was right, and then they would be sorry they had listened to any such nonsense. he said this to lady muriel; for both kilsyth and ronald shrunk from any communication with him. bitterest among all the bitter feelings which oppressed these two men, so different in mind and spirit, but with their love centred on the same object, was the thought that they had given up the guardianship of their treasure to one who was utterly unworthy of it, and, as one of them at least confessed to himself with keen remorse, had blighted two lives by unreasoning and short-sighted pride.

so, while his young wife had been gradually declining, ramsay caird had made very little alteration in the mode of life which he had thought fit to pursue since the earliest days of his marriage. relying principally on the fact, which he was constantly urging, that he was of "no use," he absented himself more and more from his home; and when "doing duty" there, as he phrased it, strove in no way to hide the dislike with which he regarded the irksome task. companionship was necessary to ramsay caird, and was not to be obtained, he found, among the class with whom since his arrival in london and his domestication in brook-street he had been accustomed to associate. the men who had been pleasantly familiar with him in those days stood aloof, and seemed by no means anxious to continue the acquaintance. they had come, soon after his marriage, and dined in the little red-flocked tank in squab-street, but that was principally for madeleine's sake; and when rumours as to the newly-founded ménage grew rife, and more especially after tommy toshington's delightful story of seeing caird at madame favorita's door had got wind, the men generally agreed that he was a bad lot, and fought as shy of him as was compatible with common politeness. for it is to be noted that the loose-living benedick, the married man who glories in his own escapades and talks with unctuous smack of his dissipations, is generally shunned by those men of his own set, who are by no means strait-laced, and forced to seek his company in a lower grade.

ramsay caird began to be bored and oppressed by his wife's illness, and by the constant presence of her father and brother at his house. it is true that he never saw these unwelcome visitors--on both sides any meeting was studiously avoided--but he could not help knowing of their being constantly with the invalid; and his own conscience, as much of it as he had ever possessed, did not fail to tell him what must be their indubitable opinion of him and his conduct. the companions too with whom he had taken up--for ramsay caird was essentially gregarious, and especially during the last few months had found the impossibility of living without excitement--the new companions with whom he consorted, and who were principally half-sporting, half-military, whole raffish adventurers, always well dressed, and retaining a certain hold on society, where they once had been well received,--these men encouraged caird in his dislike to his home, and assisted him in the invention of plausible excuses to get away from it. the fact that he had "gone on to the turf," which he had at first taken every precaution to prevent his connections in brook-street from becoming acquainted with, and which, when some kind common friend had told them of it, struck kilsyth with silent horror, and aroused much burning and outspoken indignation in ronald, was now put forward on every occasion, just as though it had been a legitimate business on which he was employed. "meetings" were constantly taking place all over the country at which his attendance was indispensable, and he was soon well known as one of the regular frequenters of the betting-ring. on his return the servants in squab-street could generally tell what had been the result of his betting speculations; but only to them and to one other person did he ever show his temper. and that one other person was lady muriel--the proud lady muriel--who in all matters between her husband and this man, who by her instrumentality had become the husband of her husband's daughter, had to be the go-between; to her it was left to soften his irregularities and gloss them over as best she might, and she alone possessed his confidence. to be the confidante of a gambler and the apologist for a debauchee was scarcely what lady muriel had expected when she gave her pledge to dying stewart caird, and when she intrigued and manoeuvred so successfully in gaining her stepdaughter's hand for ramsay.

three days before madeleine's death ramsay caird announced to lady muriel, whom he stopped as she was about to ascend the stairs to the invalid's room, that he wanted to speak to her, and, on joining him in the red-flocked tank, told her that he was about to start that night for paris. there were races at chantilly in which he was very much interested, having a large sum at stake, and it was absolutely necessary that he should be on the spot to watch and avail himself of the fluctuations in the betting-ring. then, for the first time during their acquaintance, lady muriel spoke out to her quondam protégé. the long-repressed emotions under which she was suffering seemed to have given her eloquence; she drew a vivid picture of "what might have been" if ramsay's conduct had been different, and lashed his present life and pursuits, the company he kept, and the general degradation into which he had fallen, with an unsparing tongue. she implored him to give up his intended journey, assuring him that he either would not or could not understand the extreme danger of his wife's position, pointing out to him what scandal must necessarily arise from his absenting himself at such a time, and telling him that his past conduct during his married life, already sufficiently commented upon by the world, might to a certain extent be condoned by his doing his duty and devoting himself to his home for the future. ramsay listened impatiently, as men of his stamp always listen to such advice, and then he in his turn spoke out. he said that he would be his own master, that he would brook no interference with his plans, that already he was a mere cipher in his own house, which was invaded and occupied by other people at their own pleasure, and that he would stand it no longer; then, after this outburst, he moderated his tone, apologised to lady muriel for his violence, and told her that, though the importance of his business arrangements and the largeness of his venture made it absolutely necessary for him to go to paris on this occasion, yet it should be the last; he would do as her ladyship wished him, as he felt he ought to do, and his enemies should find that he was not so black as by some persons he had been painted.

so ramsay caird and a select circle of british turfites took their departure by that night's mail, and enjoyed themselves very much, smoking, drinking, and playing cards whenever it was practicable on the journey. most of them were men whose acquaintance caird had made some time previously; but amongst them there was a frenchman, a m. leroux, whom ramsay had never previously seen, although the little gentleman said he had frequently been in england, and seemed perfectly conversant with the english language, manners, and customs. he was a lively, vivacious, gasconading little fellow; and any temporary depression of spirits which ramsay caird may have felt after his interview with lady muriel quite vanished under the influence of m. leroux's conversation. he and m. leroux seemed to have taken a mutual liking to each other; they went together to the races, where caird won a large sum of money, leroux not being quite so fortunate; and on their return to paris, ramsay declined to join his english friends, and dined with leroux and some very agreeable frenchmen to whom leroux had introduced him at the races. the dinner was excellent; and after they had done full justice to it, and to the wines which accompanied it, they all adjourned so some neighbouring rooms belonging to one of their number, where cards and dice were speedily introduced. again ramsay caird's luck stood by him. malheureux en amour, he was destined to be heureux en jeu on this occasion at least. nothing could alter or diminish his flow of success; no matter what he played, lansquenet, baccarat, hazard, he won largely at them all; and when at a very late hour he left the rooms in company with leroux and two of his friends, his pockets were filled with notes and gold. they were quite empty when they were examined about noon the next day by the attendants at the morgue, whither ramsay caird's dead body, found in the seine with a deep gash in its breast, had been conveyed.

m. leroux and his friends did not come so well out of this little affair as they had expected. they knew that ramsay was a stranger in paris, known only to the english sporting-men in whose company he had arrived there, and who had probably returned to england. but they did not make allowance for the fact that of all cities paris has a charm for the "english division," who, if they have won any money, linger for a few days amongst its pleasures, one of which undoubtedly is a frequent visit to the morgue. by one of these late lingerers, no less a person than captain severn, the body of ramsay caird was seen and recognised; inquiries were at once set on foot; the waiter at the restaurant, the concierge at the house where the play had taken place, were examined, and gave their evidence. m. leroux and his two friends were apprehended; one of the friends turned traitor (his share of the spoil had been too small), and leroux and the other, being found guilty of murder under extenuating circumstances, were sentenced to the galleys for life.

the news of this catastrophe was conveyed to the kilsyth family in a letter addressed by captain severn to ronald, which letter lay unopened in brook-street for several days. ronald kilsyth was far too much crushed and broken by the blow, which, for all their long expectation of its advent, had yet fallen suddenly upon them at the last, to attend to anything unconnected, as he imagined, with the dead. he had indeed carelessly glanced at the cover of this letter, with several others; but the handwriting was unfamiliar to him, and he put it aside, to be opened at a later opportunity. it was not until two or three days afterwards, when ramsay caird had been sought in vain, and when lady muriel had confessed that he had confided to her his intention of going to paris, that ronald recollected the letter in the strange handwriting with the paris postmark. he sent for the letter, and read it through without the smallest sign of emotion. he was a hard man, ronald kilsyth, and the softening effect of his sister's illness only included her and those who were fond of her. ronald knew well enough that ramsay caird did not come within this category, and he felt no pity for his fate.

he communicated the news to his father more as a matter of form than anything else; for the shock of his beloved child's death had almost deprived kilsyth of his reason. like rachel, he refused to be comforted, and would sit hour after hour in one position on his chair, his eyes fixed on vacancy, his chin resting on his breast, his hands idly clasped before him. nothing seemed to rouse him,--not even the news which had been conveyed to ronald in captain severn's letter. he comprehended it, for he said "poor ramsay!" once, and once only; then heaved a deep sigh, and never alluded to his dead son-in-law again. his thoughts were filled with reminiscences of his lost darling, and he had none to bestow on anyone else. "my poor maddy!" "my bonnie lass!" "my own childie!"--he would sit and repeat these phrases over and over again; then steal away down to the house where all that was left of her still lay, and remain on his knees by the coffin, until ronald would come and half forcibly lead him away. he left london immediately after the funeral, and never could be persuaded to return to it. after a while, the fresh mountain air, to which he had been so accustomed, and away from which he was never well, had some of its old restorative effect, and kilsyth recovered most of his physical strength and some of his old pleasure in field sports; but his zest for life was gone, and the gullies mourned the alteration in the chief whom they loved so much.

the death of ramsay caird under such horrible circumstances was a crushing blow to lady muriel. this, then, was the end of all her schemes and plots; this the result of so much mental agony and remorse endured by herself--of so much grief and cruel injustice inflicted by her on others. she had kept the promise she had made to stewart caird on his deathbed, two lives had been sacrificed, two loves had been blighted--but she had kept her promise. for the first time in her life "my lady's" courage failed her; and her conscience showed her how recklessly she had availed herself of the means to gain her ends. for the first time in her life she dreaded meeting the glances of the world. more than all men she dreaded ronald kilsyth, knowing as she did full well how she had used him for her own purposes, and with what lamentable results. she had been seriously affected by madeleine's death--like many worldly people, never knowing how much she had loved the girl until she lost her; and now the fact of ramsay's murder under such discreditable circumstances--a story which had been made public in the newspapers, where the world could glean the undeniable truth that the murdered man had left what was actually his wife's deathbed to attend some races--seemed to overwhelm her the young men who visited at the house had been in the habit of expressing to each other great admiration of lady muriel's "pluck"--that quality did not desert her even at her worst. she made head against her troubles, and never gave in; but those intimate enemies who saw her before she left london with her husband declared lady muriel to be "quite broken" and a "thorough wreck."

and chudleigh wilmot? he lived, of course; lived, and ate and drank, and pursued very much his usual course of life. well, no; not quite his usual course of life. the effect of the death of the one woman whom in his lifetime he had loved was to him much as are the gunshot wounds of which we sometimes hear officers and army surgeons tell; wounds where the hit man feels a slight concussion at the moment, and does not know until a short time afterwards that he is stunned, paralysed for ever. while wilmot had been watching the insidious progress of madeleine's disease, his mental misery at times was most acute; every variation in her was apparent to his practised eye; and day by day he saw the destroyer creeping stealthily onward in his attack, without the smallest power to resist him. when the bitter tidings of her death were brought by ronald's servant, the words fell upon chudleigh wilmot's ear and smote him as if a sharp cut from a whip had fallen upon him. she whom he had loved so devotedly, so hopelessly, so selflessly, was dead--he realised that. he knew that he should never see the light in her blue eyes, never hear the sweet soft tones of her voice again. he was thankful that, under the impulse of his grief, he had spoken to her out of his overcharged heart and told her how he loved her. he dared not have done it before, he dared not under any other circumstances have confessed the passion for her that had so long been the motive-power of his life; but then--"happy, quand même!" her last words--she never had spoken after that--her last words were addressed to him, and told him of her happiness.

it was not until after the funeral that wilmot experienced the full effect of the blow, experienced it in the dead dull blankness which seemed for the second time to have fallen upon his life. he had had something of the kind before, but nothing equal in intensity to what he now suffered. he felt as though the light had died out, and that henceforward he was to walk in darkness, without care, without hope, without interest in any mortal thing. previously he had found some relief in hard study; now he found it impossible to fix his attention on his hooks. the awful sense of something impending was perpetually upon him; the more awful sense of something wanting in his life never left him. the only time that a ray of comfort broke in upon him was when ronald kilsyth would come and sit with him, and they would talk of the dead girl for hours together, as madeleine had predicted they would do. they are very much together now, these two men; ronald has risen in the service, and he and wilmot are engaged in ameliorating the condition of the common soldiers and their families, it was a work in which madeleine at one time took much interest; and this was sufficient to recommend it to wilmot, who at once took it up.

he is a middle-aged man now, with a grizzled head and a worn grave face. he has wealth and fame, and might have any position; but the world can offer him nothing that arouses in him the slightest interest, unless it be associated with the memory of his lost love.