A DEED OF SEPARATION.

That keen, benevolent glance of Dr. Senior’s was like a gleam of sunlight piercing through the deepest recesses of my troubled spirit.  I felt that I was no longer fighting my fight out alone.  A friendly eye was upon me; a friendly voice was cheering me on.  “The dead shall look me through and through,” says Tennyson.  For my part I should wish for a good, wise man to look me through and through; feel the pulse of my soul from time to time, when it was ailing, and detect what was there contrary to reason and to right.  Dr. Senior’s hearty “God bless you!” brought strength and blessing with it.

I went straight from Fulham to Bellringer Street.  A healthy impulse to fulfil all my duty, however difficult, was in its first fervid moment of action.  Nevertheless there was a subtle hope within me founded upon one chance that was left—­it was just possible that Foster might refuse to be made the subject of an experiment; for an experiment it was.

I found him not yet out of bed.  Mrs. Foster was busy at her task of engrossing in the sitting-room—–­ a task she performed so well that I could not believe but that she had been long accustomed to it.  I followed her to Foster’s bedroom, a small close attic at the back, with a cheerless view of chimneys and the roofs of houses.  There was no means of ventilation, except by opening a window near the head of the bed, when the draught of cold air would blow full upon him.  He looked exceedingly worn and wan.  The doubt crossed me, whether the disease had not made more progress than we supposed.  His face fell as he saw the expression upon mine.

“Worse, eh?” he said; “don’t say I am worse.”

I sat down beside him, and told him what I believed to be his chance of life; not concealing from him that I proposed to try, if he gave his consent, a mode of treatment which had never been practised before.  His eye, keen and sharp as that of a lynx, seemed to read my thoughts as Dr. Senior’s had done.

“Martin Dobree,” he said, in a voice so different from his ordinary caustic tone that it almost startled me, “I can trust you.  I put myself with implicit confidence into your hands.”

The last chance—­dare I say the last hope?—­was gone.  I stood pledged on my honor as a physician, to employ this discovery, which had been laid open to me by my mother’s fatal illness, for the benefit of the man whose life was most harmful to Olivia and myself.  I felt suffocated, stifled.  I opened the window for a minute or two, and leaned through it to catch the fresh breath of the outer air.

“I must tell you,” I said, when I drew my head in again, “that you must not expect to regain your health and strength so completely as to be able to return to your old dissipations.  You must make up your mind to lead a regular, quiet, abstemious life, avoiding all excitement.  Nine months out of the twelve at least, if not the whole year, you must spend in the country for the sake of fresh air.  A life in town would kill you in six months.  But if you are careful of yourself you may live to sixty or seventy.”