But it could not rest at that.  I fought a battle with myself all through the quiet night, motionless and in silence, lest Jack should become aware that I was not sleeping.  How should I ever face him, or grasp his hearty hand again, with such a secret weight upon my soul?  Yet how could I resolve to save Foster at the cost of dooming Olivia to a life-long bondage should he discover where she was, or to life-long poverty should she remain concealed?  If I were only sure that she was alive!  But if she were dead—­why, then all motive for keeping back this chance of saving him would be taken away.  It was for her sake merely that I hesitated.

For her sake, but for my own as well, said my conscience; for the subtle hope, which had taken deeper root day by day, that by-and-by the only obstacle between us would be removed.  Suppose then that he was dead, and Olivia was free to love me, to become my wife.  Would not her very closeness to me be a reproving presence forever at my side?  Could I ever recall the days before our marriage, as men recall them when they are growing gray and wrinkled, as a happy golden time?  Would there not always be a haunting sense of perfidy, and disloyalty to duty, standing between me and her clear truth and singleness of heart?  There could be no happiness for me, even with Olivia, my cherished and honored wife, if I had this weight and cloud resting upon my conscience.

The morning dawned before I could decide.  The decision, when made, brought no feeling of relief or triumph to me.  As soon as it was probable that Dr. Senior could see me; I was at his house at Fulham; and in rapid, almost incoherent words laid what I believed to be my important discovery before him.  He sat thinking for some time, running over in his own mind such cases as had come under his own observation.  After a while a gleam of pleasure passed over his face, and his eyes brightened as he looked at me.

“I congratulate you, Martin,” he said, “though I wish Jack had hit upon this.  I believe it will prove a real benefit to our science.  Let me turn it over a little longer, and consult some of my colleagues about it.  But I think you are right.  You are about to try it on poor Foster?”

“Yes,” I answered, with a chilly sensation in my veins, the natural reaction upon the excitement of the past night.

“It can do him no harm,” he said, “and in my opinion it will prolong his life to old age, if he is careful of himself.  I will write a paper on the subject for the Lancet, if you will allow me.”

“With all my heart,” I said sadly.

The old physician regarded me for a minute with his keen eyes, which had looked through the window of disease into many a human soul.  I shrank from the scrutiny, but I need not have done so.  He grasped my hand firmly and closely in his own.

“God bless you, Martin!” he said, “God bless you!”

CHAPTER THE FORTY-SIXTH.