"No, madam," he answered, with a strange expression on his face, "he is only very drunk." CHAPTER VI. Margaret stared at the doctor, who so calmly announced this appalling fact to her, with widely opened eyes and a blanched face. Ignorant of her history, he was startled to find so young a creature in such a position, and he said, impelled to respect by her whole air and manner, "This is news, and very unwelcome news, to you?" "I have this moment arrived from nursing my sister in Scotland," she said, hurriedly. "My husband has been alone.... All is very wretched; can you tell me where I could hear of a nurse, I suppose, and--servants?" "You must have a male nurse," he said. "I will send you in a man-servant I know of, and to-morrow things will be better." He stayed with her a little while, lost in astonishment over her beauty, her grace, and the extraordinary contrast existing between her and the man she called her husband. "I shall be afraid--to-night. He might be ill." "Oh! you must not be left alone with him," he answered, and then, noting her weariness and pallor, he said, "If you will go and have some refreshment I can wait here, and when I leave I will send you some one." She thanked him, and went to see if there was any room she could take possession of. To her relief the rooms upstairs were all furnished; and when she had bathed her face and had some slight refreshment she went downstairs again. "I may tell you that my own conviction is that this terrible business is not a habit," said the doctor, as she entered. "Mr.----" looking at her for the name which she supplied, "has not any of the signs of an habitual drunkard. He has had something now which has had a terrible effect upon him; when that effect is over he will perhaps never relapse. Of course, I speak from imperfect knowledge, but I think I am right." Poor Margaret could not answer him. She saw him go with a feeling akin to despair. She sat looking at the fire, and then at the man she had vowed to honour--and obey. She rose hurriedly from her seat and rushed to the open window, suffocating with the agony and horror of it all. Was this to be her life? She had sinned, and this was her punishment; and she was so young, so very young. She had, perhaps, a long life before her. How she shrank from this prospect, and from another confronting her then. Tears came; and kneeling before the window she allowed them to fall. Never was any girl more wretched, never was any more forlorn, than this poor child; helpless, lovely, and endowed with many gifts she was as yet all unconscious of. She was roused by a man's step on the pavement leading to the house. She had not heard him ring, but he entered; a stern, grave man, with eyes accustomed to control the weak will of others, accustomed to see scenes far worse than this--far more terrible.