She entreated her husband to consult an eminent physician as to the
state of his health; but she dared not press her request, so coldly was
it received.
"Who told you that I was ill?" he asked; "I am not ill. All the
physicians in Christendom could do nothing for me."
After this, Rosamond could say no more. For worlds she would not have
revealed to a stranger her sad suspicion of George Jernam's insanity.
She could only pray that Providence would protect and guide him in his
roving life.
"The excitement and hard work of his existence on board ship may work a
cure," she thought, trying to be hopeful. "It is very possible that the
calm monotony of a landsman's life may have produced a bad effect upon
his brain. I can only trust in Providence--I can only pray night and
day for the welfare of him I love so fondly."
And so they parted. George Jernam left his wife with sadness in his
heart; but it was a kind of sadness in which love had little share.
"I have thought too much of my own happiness," he said to himself, "and
I have left my brother's death unavenged. Have I forgotten the time
when he carried me along the lonely sea-shore in his loving arms? Have
I forgotten the years in which he was father, mother--all the world to
me? No; by heaven! I have not. The time has come when the one thought
of my life must be revenge--revenge upon the murderer of my brother,
whosoever he may be.
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