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1. A database is an organized collection of unrelated information.
a. True
b. False
ANSWER: False
POINTS: 1
REFERENCES: Access 254 - Understand Databases
LEARNING OBJECTIVES: ENHO.HUNT.17.10.01 - Understand databases
2. A query extracts data from one or more database tables according to criteria that you set.
a. True
b. False
ANSWER: True
POINTS: 1
3. A relational database contains only one table.
a. True
b. False
ANSWER: False
POINTS: 1
4. A form is a summary of database information specifically designed for printing.
a. True
b. False
ANSWER: False
POINTS: 1
5. The column headings in a database table are called field names.
a. True
b. False
ANSWER: True
POINTS: 1
Copyright Cengage Learning. Powered by Cognero. Page 1
Name: Class: Date:
Module 10 (Access)

6. You can save a table in Datasheet view by clicking the Save button on the Quick Access toolbar.
a. True
b. False
ANSWER: True
POINTS: 1
REFERENCES: Access 258 - Create a Table in Datasheet View
LEARNING OBJECTIVES: ENHO.HUNT.17.10.03 - Create a table in Datasheet view
7. When you save a database, all of the database objects within it are automatically saved too.
a. True
b. False
ANSWER: False
POINTS: 1
8. To add a field to a table, you need to specify its data type.
a. True
b. False
ANSWER: True
POINTS: 1
9. It is easier to add fields to new or existing tables in Datasheet view.
a. True
b. False
ANSWER: False
POINTS: 1
REFERENCES: Access 260 - Create a Table in Design View
LEARNING OBJECTIVES: ENHO.HUNT.17.10.04 - Create a table in Design view
10. In Design view, you use a grid to enter fields and specify field data types.
a. True
b. False
ANSWER: True
POINTS: 1
Name: Class: Date:
Module 10 (Access)

11. Tables, forms, queries, and reports are program components called objects. __________________________
ANSWER: True
POINTS: 1
12. Access is a database management system. __________________________
ANSWER: True
POINTS: 1
13. Each row in a database table is called a(n) record. __________________________
ANSWER: True
POINTS: 1
14. A(n) form extracts data from one or more database tables. __________________________
ANSWER: False - query
POINTS: 1
15. Each text box in a(n) form corresponds with a field in a table. __________________________
ANSWER: True
POINTS: 1
16. Creating a database from a(n) template saves time since it contains many ready-made database objects.
__________________________
ANSWER: True
POINTS: 1
REFERENCES: Access 256 - Create a Database
LEARNING OBJECTIVES: ENHO.HUNT.17.10.02 - Create a database
Name: Class: Date:
Module 10 (Access)

17. When you start working in a new database, a blank form opens in Datasheet view.
__________________________
ANSWER: False - table
POINTS: 1
18. Every table in a database must contain one field that is designated as the ID key field.
__________________________
ANSWER: False - primary
POINTS: 1
19. Every new table in Access includes a blank ID field which is automatically designated as the primary key field.
__________________________
ANSWER: True
POINTS: 1
20. Short Text is a(n) data type. __________________________
ANSWER: True
POINTS: 1
21. A database stores data in one or more spreadsheet-like lists called ____.
a. cells b. records
c. tables d. sheets
ANSWER: c
POINTS: 1
Name: Class: Date:
Module 10 (Access)

22. A database containing just one table is called a ____ database.
a. simple b. relational
c. query d. report
ANSWER: a
POINTS: 1
23. A database containing two or more tables of related information is called a ____ database.
a. simple b. relational
c. complex d. related
ANSWER: b
POINTS: 1
24. Records consist of ____, which contain information about one aspect of a record.
a. objects b. reports
c. queries d. fields
ANSWER: d
POINTS: 1
25. A(n) ____ is a user-friendly window that contains text boxes and labels that let users easily input data, usually one
record at a time.
a. object b. report
c. query d. form
ANSWER: d
POINTS: 1
Name: Class: Date:
Module 10 (Access)

26. A(n) ____ extracts data from one or more database tables according to criteria that you set.
a. object b. report
c. query d. form
ANSWER: c
POINTS: 1
27. A(n) ____ is a summary of information pulled from a database, specifically designed for printing.
a. object b. report
c. query d. form
ANSWER: b
POINTS: 1
28. As a ____ database management system, Access is particularly powerful because you can enter data once and then
retrieve information from all or several tables as you need it.
a. relational b. simple
c. complex d. manipulative
ANSWER: a
POINTS: 1
29. You can create a database in Access by starting with a ____.
a. blank database b. template
c. blank database and template. d. None of the answers are correct.
ANSWER: c
POINTS: 1
REFERENCES: Access 256 - Create a Database
LEARNING OBJECTIVES: ENHO.HUNT.17.10.02 - Create a database
Name: Class: Date:
Module 10 (Access)

30. To insert a new field, click an existing field and then click the Insert ____ button in the Tools group.
a. Rows b. Fields
c. New Field d. Columns
ANSWER: a
POINTS: 1
REFERENCES: Access 262 - Modify a Table and Set Properties
LEARNING OBJECTIVES: ENHO.HUNT.17.10.05 - Modify a table and set properties
31. If the ____ for Manager Last Name is Last Name, that means that only Last Name will be displayed as the field
name for this field in Datasheet view.
a. property b. ID
c. nickname d. caption
ANSWER: d
POINTS: 1
32. Field ____ are data characteristics that dictate how Access stores, handles, and displays field data.
a. descriptions b. names
c. properties d. descriptors
ANSWER: c
POINTS: 1
33. Field Size is an example of a field ____.
a. property b. name
c. ID d. caption
ANSWER: a
POINTS: 1
Name: Class: Date:
Module 10 (Access)

34. When you click a field name to add a new record, the field ____ appears in the status bar.
a. description b. type
c. size d. category
ANSWER: a
POINTS: 1
REFERENCES: Access 264 - Enter Data in a Table
LEARNING OBJECTIVES: ENHO.HUNT.17.10.06 - Enter data in a table
35. A(n) ____ selector to the left of each record lets you select a record or records.
a. row b. record
c. object d. key
ANSWER: a
POINTS: 1
36. The data you enter in each field is called a field ____.
a. object b. name
c. value d. pane
ANSWER: c
POINTS: 1
37. You can edit text in fields by selecting it and typing new text or using the [____] key.
a. Data b. Edit
c. Tab d. Backspace
ANSWER: d
POINTS: 1
REFERENCES: Access 266 - Edit Data in Datasheet View
LEARNING OBJECTIVES: ENHO.HUNT.17.10.07 - Edit data in Datasheet view
38. The border between field names is called the ____.
a. border separator b. border divider
c. column separator d. column divider
ANSWER: c
POINTS: 1
REFERENCES: Access 266 - Edit Data in Datasheet View
LEARNING OBJECTIVES: ENHO.HUNT.17.10.07 - Edit data in Datasheet view
Name: Class: Date:
Module 10 (Access)

39. _____ controls are devices for inputting data such as text boxes, list arrows, or check boxes.
a. Input b. Form
c. Data d. Text
ANSWER: b
POINTS: 1
REFERENCES: Access 268 - Create and Use a Form
LEARNING OBJECTIVES: ENHO.HUNT.17.10.08 - Create and use a form
40. The ____ data type assigns a unique number for each record in the table.
a. AutoNumber b. UniqueNumber
c. AutoSet d. AutoList
ANSWER: a
POINTS: 1
41. The field description appears in the ____ bar and helps users understand what type of data should be entered for the
field.
a. properties b. status
c. address d. navigation
ANSWER: b
POINTS: 1
42. The Caption property appears in a form or in Datasheet view in place of the field ____.
a. icon b. group
c. name d. property
ANSWER: c
POINTS: 1
43. You can use _____________________ to create a database to help you manage and track a large collection of
related data.
ANSWER: Access
POINTS: 1
Name: Class: Date:
Module 10 (Access)

44. To view different records you use buttons on the _____________________ bar.
ANSWER: navigation
POINTS: 1
45. In _____________________ view, you can view records but cannot add, delete or edit records.
ANSWER: Layout
POINTS: 1
46. To close Access, click Close on the _________________ tab.
ANSWER: FILE
File
POINTS: 1
47. Text boxes, check boxes and list arrows are all ___________________ controls.
ANSWER: Form
form
POINTS: 1
REFERENCES: Access 268- Create and Use a Form
48. Split view is a(n) _____________________ that displays the data entry form above the underlying datasheet.
ANSWER: form
POINTS: 1
REFERENCES: Access 268- Create and Use a Form
49. The simplest way to create a form is to click the Form button on the _______________ tab.
ANSWER: CREATE
Create
POINTS: 1
Name: Class: Date:
Module 10 (Access)

50. Describe the difference between a simple and a relational database.
ANSWER: A database containing one table is a simple database, and one that contains two or more
tables of related information is a relational database.
POINTS: 1
TOPICS: Critical Thinking
51. Describe how a database stores data.
ANSWER: A database stores data in tables, organized into rows and columns. Each column in the
table is a field, and each row in the table is a record. The columns are the values for a
given piece of information, such as a name, for all records. The rows represent all
information for a given record in the database, containing all values across all columns.
POINTS: 1
52. Describe the operations you can perform when a table is in Design view.
ANSWER: You can set field properties and modify a table’s structure. You can also add field
descriptions or insert, delete, rearrange, or rename fields.
POINTS: 1
You work for a small pet shop and the store manager asks you to convert some of his paper records to an online
system. A simple database exists and the owner wants to add to the existing database.
53. Your supervisor wants a list of all the customers who purchased something recently from the store. Can you do this
with the current database design?
ANSWER: Since the database only contains a single table, it is not likely that the current design
tracks that information. However, if the last sale information is part of the existing table,
a query may be able to answer the question.
POINTS: 1
Name: Class: Date:
Module 10 (Access)

54. Assuming that the existing database does not contain information related to sales in the table, how can you extend the
database to track the purchases for each customer?
ANSWER: An additional table must be added to the database to track the information, transforming
the database into a relational design. The new table must be related to the original table
in the database.
POINTS: 1
55. Assuming you can extend the database with every possible need for the store, what objects must be included in
addition to the table(s) that make up the database?
ANSWER: You must add query, form, and report objects to the database to make a complete
application that the store can use on a regular basis.
POINTS: 1
You work in the human resources department of a large company that uses Microsoft Access to track information
before and after entering it into the company’s administrative system.
56. Your supervisor has asked you to add a field description to a field in the table. How can you do this?
ANSWER: Open the table in Design view, choose the field name that needs a description, press
[Tab] twice to move to the Description text box, and then type a description. The
description will appear in the status bar.
POINTS: 1
57. Your boss asks you for specific field values. What are field values?
ANSWER: Field values are the data you enter into each field.
POINTS: 1
Name: Class: Date:
Module 10 (Access)

Match each item with a statement below.
a. Field names
b. Form
c. Report
d. Table
e. Query
58. A set of criteria (conditions) you specify to retrieve data from a database.
ANSWER: e
POINTS: 1
59. A window that lets you view, enter, and edit data in a database one record at a time.
ANSWER: b
POINTS: 1
60. A summary of database information designed specifically for printing or distributing.
ANSWER: c
POINTS: 1
61. A list of data organized in rows (records) and columns (fields).
ANSWER: d
POINTS: 1
62. The column headings in the table.
ANSWER: a
POINTS: 1
Name: Class: Date:
Module 10 (Access)

Exploring the Variety of Random
Documents with Different Content

Many times that day, as Chudleigh Wilmot sat cold and grave, and,
although deeply sad, more composed, more like himself than most
men would have been in similar circumstances--a vision rose before
his mind. It was a vision such as has come to many a mourner--a
vision of what might have been. For it was not only his wife's death
that the new-made widower had learned that day; he had learned
that which had made her death doubly sad, far more untimely. The
vision Chudleigh saw in his day-dream was of a fair young mother
and her child, a happy wife in the summer-time of her beauty and
her pride of motherhood--this was what might have been. What
was, was a dead white face upstairs upon the bed, waiting for the
coffin and the grave, and a blighted hope, a promise never to be
fulfilled, which had never even been whispered between the living
and the dead.
Mrs. Prendergast had been in the darkened house for many hours
of that long day. Wilmot knew she was there; but she had sent him
no message, and he had made no attempt to see her. He shrank
from seeing her; and yet he wished to know all that she, and she
alone, could tell him. If he had ever loved his wife sufficiently to be
jealous of any other sharing or even usurping her confidence, to
have resented that any other should have a more intimate
knowledge of Mabel's sentiments and tastes, should have occupied
her time and her attention more fully than he, Henrietta
Prendergast's intimacy with her might have elicited such feeling. But
Chudleigh Wilmot had not loved his wife enough for jealousy of the
nobler, and was too much of a gentleman for jealousy of the baser
kind. No such insidious element of ill ever had a place in his nature;
and, except that he did not like Mrs. Prendergast, whom he
considered a clever woman of a type more objectionable than
common--and Wilmot was not an admirer of clever women
generally--he never resented, or indeed noticed, the exceptional
place she occupied among the number of his wife's friends. But
there was something lurking in his thoughts to-day; there was some

unfaced, some unquestioned misery at work within him, something
beyond the tremendous shock he had received, the deep natural
grief and calamity which enshrouded him, that made him shrink
from seeing Henrietta until he should have had more time to get
accustomed to the truth.
When the night had fallen, he heard the light tread of women's
feet in the hall and a gentle whispering. Then the street-door was
softly shut, and carriage-wheels rolled away. The gas had been
lighted in Wilmot's room, but he had turned it almost out, and was
sitting in the dim light, when a knock at the door aroused his
attention. The intruder was the "Susan" already mentioned. Mrs.
Wilmot had not boasted an "own maid;" but this girl, one of the
housemaids, had been in fact her personal attendant. She came
timidly towards her master, her eyes red and her face pale with grief
and watching.
"Well, what is it now?" said Wilmot impatiently. He was weary of
disturbance; he wanted to be securely alone, and to think it out.
"Mrs. Prendergast desired me to give you this, sir," the girl replied,
handing him a small packet, "and to say she wants to see you, sir,
to-morrow--respecting some messages from missus."
He took the parcel from her, and Susan left the room. Before she
reached the stairs, her master called her back. "Susan," he said,
"where's the seal-ring your mistress always wore? This parcel
contains her keys and her wedding-ring; where is the seal-ring? Has
it been left on her hand?"
"No, sir," said Susan; "and I can't think where it can have got to.
Missus hasn't wore it, sir, not this fortnight; and I have looked
everywhere for it. You'll find all her things quite right, sir, except that
ring; and Mrs. Prendergast, she knows nothing about it neither; for I
called her my own self to take off missus's wedding-ring, as it was

missus's own wish as she should do it, and she missed the seal-ring
there and then, sir, and couldn't account for it no more than me."
"Very well, Susan, it can't be helped," replied Wilmot; and Susan
again left him.
He sat long, looking at the golden circlet as it lay in the broad
palm of his hand. It had never meant so much to him before; and
even yet he was far from knowing all it had meant to her from
whose dead hand it had been taken. At last, and with some
difficulty, he placed the ring upon the little finger of his left hand,
saying as he did so, "I must find the other, and always wear them
both.".
CHAPTER XII.
The Leaden Seal.
When Chudleigh Wilmot arose on the following morning, with the
semi-stupefied feeling of a man on whom a great calamity has just
fallen, not the least painful portion of the task, not the least difficult
part of the endurance that lay before him was the inevitable
interview with his dead wife's friend. Mrs. Prendergast had
requested that he would receive her early. This he learned from the
servant who answered his bell; and he had directed that she should
be admitted as soon as she arrived. He loitered about his room; he
dallied with the time; he dared not face the cold silent house, the
servants, who looked at him with natural curiosity, and, as he
thought, avoidance. If the case had not been his own, Wilmot would
have remembered that the spectacle of a new-made widow or

widower always has attractions for the curiosity of the vulgar:
strong, if the grief in the case be very violent; and stronger, if it be
mild or non-existent. Wilmot was awfully shocked by his wife's
death, terribly remorseful for his own absence, and perhaps for
another reason--at which, however, he had not yet had the
hardihood to look--almost stunned by the terrible sense, the
conviction of the irrevocable ill of the past, the utterly irreparable
nature of the wrong that had been done. But all these warring
feelings did not constitute grief. Its supreme agony, its utter
sadness, its unspeakable weariness were wanting in the strife which
shook and rent him. The thought of the dead face had terror and
regret for him; but not the dreadful yearning of separation, not the
mysterious wrenching asunder of body and spirit, almost as powerful
as that of death itself, which comes with the sentence of parting,
which makes the possibility of living on so incomprehensible and so
cruel to the true mourner. Not the fact itself, so much as the
attendant circumstances, caused Wilmot to suffer, as he undoubtedly
did suffer. He knew in his heart that had there been no self-reproach
involved in this calamity, he would not have felt it as he felt it now;
and in the knowledge there was denial of the reality of grief.
No such thought as "How am I to live without her?" the natural
utterance of bereavement, arose in Wilmot's heart; though neither
did he profane his wife's memory or do dishonour to his own higher
nature by even the most passing reference to the object which had
so fatally engrossed him. The strong hand of death had curbed that
passion for the present, and his thoughts turned to Kilsyth only with
remorse and regret. But the wife who had had no absorbing share in
his life could not by her death make a blank in it of wide extent or
long duration.
He was still lingering in his room, when he was told that Mrs.
Prendergast had arrived and was in the drawing-room. The closely-
drawn blinds rendered the room so dark that he could not
distinguish Henrietta's features, still further obscured by a heavy
black veil. She did not rise, and she made no attempt to take his

hand, which he extended to her in silence, the result of agitation.
She bowed to him formally, and was the first to speak. Her voice
was low and her words were hurried, though she tried hard to be
calm.
"I was with your wife during her illness and at her death, Dr.
Wilmot," she said; "and I am here now not to offer you ill-timed
condolences, but to fulfil a trust."
Her tone surprised Wilmot, and affected him disagreeably. There
had never been any disagreement between himself and Mrs.
Prendergast; he was not a man likely to interfere or quarrel with his
wife's friends; and as he was wholly unconscious of the projects she
had entertained towards him, he had not any suspicion of hidden
malice on her part. Emotion he was prepared for--would indeed have
welcomed; he was ready also for blame and reproaches, in which he
would have joined heartily, against himself; but the calm, cold,
rooted anger in this woman's voice he was not prepared for. If such
a thing had been possible--the thought flashed lightning-like across
his mind before she had concluded her sentence--he might have had
in her an enemy, biding her time, and now at length finding it.
He did not speak, and she continued:
"I presume you have heard from Dr. Whittaker the particulars of
Mabel's illness, its cause, and the means used to avert--what has not
been averted?--"
"I have," briefly replied the listener.
"Then I need not enter into that--beyond this: a portion of my
trust is to tell you that Dr. Whittaker is not to blame."
"I have not blamed him, Mrs. Prendergast."
"That is well. When Mabel knew, or thought, I fear hoped, that
her life was in danger, her strongest desire was that you should be

kept in ignorance of the fact."
"Good God! why?" exclaimed Wilmot.
"I think you must know why better than I can tell you," replied
Henrietta pitilessly. "But, at all events, such was the case. Dr.
Whittaker wrote to you, but she suppressed the letter. She gave it to
me on the night she died. Here it is."
Chudleigh Wilmot took the letter from her hand silently.
Astonishment and distress overwhelmed him.
"She bade me tell you that she laid her life down gladly; that she
had nothing to leave, nothing to regret; that she was glad she had
succeeded in keeping you in ignorance of her danger--for she knew,
for the sake of your reputation, you would have left even Miss
Kilsyth to be here at her death. But she preferred your absence; she
distinctly bade me tell you so. She left no dying charge to you but
this, that you should allow me to see her coffin closed on the second
day after her death, and that you should wear her wedding-ring. I
sent it to you last night, Dr. Wilmot. I hope you got it safely."
"I did; it is here on my finger," answered Wilmot; "but, for God's
sake, Mrs. Prendergast, tell me what all this means. Why did my wife
charge you with such a message for me; how have I deserved it?
Why did she, how should she, so young, and to all appearance not
unhappy, wish to die, and to die in my absence? Did she persevere
in that wish, or was it only a whim of her illness, which, had there
been any one to remonstrate with her, would have yielded later?"
"It was no whim, Dr. Wilmot. A wretched truth, I grant you, but a
truth, and persisted in. So long as consciousness remained, she
never changed in that."
A dark and angry look came into Wilmot's face, and he raised his
voice as he asked the next question:

"Do you mean to explain this extraordinary circumstance, Mrs.
Prendergast? Are you going to give me the clue to this mystery? My
wife and I always lived on good terms; we parted on the same. No
man or woman living can say with truth that I ever was unkind to
her, or that she had cause given her by me to wish her life at an
end, to welcome death. I believe the communication you have just
made to me is utterly without example. I never heard, I don't
believe anyone ever heard of such a thing. I ask you to explain it, if
you can."
"You speak as though you asked, or desired me to account for it
too," said Henrietta, in a cold and cutting tone, which rebuked the
vehemence of his manner, and revealed the intense, unsleeping
egotism of her disposition. "I could do so, I daresay; but I cannot
see the profitableness of such a discussion between you and me. It
is too late now; nothing can undo the wrong, no matter what it was,
or how far it extended. It is all over, and I have nothing more to do
than to carry out the last wishes of my dear friend. Have I your
permission to do so?" she asked, in the most formal possible tone,
as she rose and stood opposite him.
Wilmot put his hands up to his face, and walked hurriedly about
the room. Then he came suddenly towards Henrietta, and said with
intense feeling:
"I beg your pardon; I did not mean to speak roughly: but I am
bewildered by all this. I am sure you must feel for me; you must
understand how utterly I am unable to comprehend what has
occurred. To come home and receive such a shock as the news of
my wife's death, was surely enough in itself to try me severely. And
now to hear what you tell me, and tell me too so calmly, as if you
did not understand what it means, and what it must be to me to
hear it! You were with her, her chosen friend. I think you knew her
better than anyone in the world."

"And if I did," said Henrietta,--all her assumed calm gone, and her
manner now as vehement as his own,--"if I did, is not that an
answer to all you ask me? If I am to explain her motives, to lay bare
her thoughts, to tell her sorrows, to you, her husband, is that not
your answer? Surely you have it in that fact! They are not true
husband and true wife who have closer friends. You never loved her,
and you never knew or cared what her life was; and so, when she
was leaving it, she kept you aloof from her."
Wilmot made no sound in reply. He stood quite still, and looked at
her. His eyes had grown accustomed to the gloom, and she had
raised her veil. He could see her face now. Her pale cheeks, paler
than usual in her grief and passion, her deep angry sorrowful eyes,
and her trembling lips, made her look almost terrible, as she stood
there and told him out the truth.
"No," she went on, "you did not know her, and you were satisfied
not to know her; you went complacently on your way, and never
thought whether hers was lonely and wearisome. You never were
unkind to her, you say; no, I daresay you never were. She had all
the advantages to which your wife was entitled, and she did you and
them due honour. Why, even I, who did, as you say, know her best,
had suspected only recently, and learned fully only since her illness
began, all she suffered; no, not all--that one heart can never pour
into another--but I have only read the story of her life lately, and you
have never read it at all. You were a physician, and you did not see
that your own wife, a dweller under your own roof, whose life was
lived in your sight, had a mortal disease."
"What do you mean?" he said; "she had no such thing."
"She had!" Henrietta repeated impetuously; "she had a broken
heart. You never ill-treated her--true; you never neglected her--
true,--until she was dying, that is to say;--but did you ever love her,
Dr. Wilmot? Did you ever consider her as other or more than an
appendage of your position, an ornament in your house, a condition

of your social success and respectability? What were her thoughts,
her hopes, her disappointments to you? Did you ever make her your
real companion, the true sharer of your life? Did you ever return the
love, the worship which she gave you? Did you ever pity her jealous
nature; did you ever interpret it by any love or sensitiveness of your
own, and abstain from wounding it? Did you know, did you care,
whether she suffered when you shut yourself up in your devotion to
a pursuit in which she had no share? All women have to bear that,
no doubt, and are fools if they quarrel with the bread-winner's
devotion to his work. Yes; but all women have not her silent,
brooding, jealous, sullen nature; all women are not so little frivolous
as she was; all women, Dr. Wilmot, do not love their husbands as
Mabel loved you."
She paused in the torrent of her words, and then he spoke.
"All this is new and terrible to me; as new as it is terrible. Mrs.
Prendergast, do me the justice to believe that."
"It is not for me to do you justice or injustice," she made answer;
"your punishment must come from your own heart, or you must go
unpunished."
"But"--he almost pleaded with her--"Mabel never blamed me,
never tried to keep me more with her; rarely indeed expressed a
wish of any kind. I declare, before God, I never dreamed, it never
occurred to me to suspect that she was unhappy."
"No," she said; "and Mabel knew that. She interested you so little,
you cared so little for her, that you never looked below the surface of
her life; and her pride kept that surface fair and smooth. She would
have died before she would have complained,--she has died, in fact,
and made no sign."
"Yes," said Wilmot suddenly and bitterly; "but she has left me this
legacy, brought me by your hands, of miserable regret and vain
repentance. She has insured the destruction of my peace of mind;

she has taken care that mine shall be no ordinary grief, sent by God
and to be dispelled by time; she has added bitterness to the bitter,
and put me utterly in the wrong by her unwarrantable concealment
and reticence."
"How truly manlike your feelings are, Dr. Wilmot! She has hurt
your pride, and you can't forgive her even in death! She has put you
in the wrong,--and all her own wrongs, so silently borne, sink into
nothing in comparison!"
"I deny it!" Wilmot said vehemently; "she had no wrongs,--no
woman of her acquaintance had a better husband. What did I ever
deny her?"
"Only your love, only a wife's true place in your life, only all she
longed for, only all she died for lack of."
"All this is absurd," he said. "If she really had these romantic
notions, why did she conceal them? Have I nothing to complain of in
this? Was she just to me, or candid with me?"
"What encouragement did you give her? Do you think a proud,
shy, silent woman like Mabel was likely to lay her heart open to so
cold and careless a glance as yours? No; she loved you as few
women can love; but if she had much love, so she had much pride
and jealousy; and all three had power with her."
"Jealousy!" said Wilmot in an angry tone; "in God's name, of
whom did she contrive to be jealous."
"Her jealousy was not of a mean kind," said Henrietta. "Ever since
your marriage it had nourished itself, so far as I understood the
matter, upon your devotion to your profession, upon the complacent
ease with which you set her claims aside for those which so
thoroughly engrossed you, that you had no heart, no eyes, no
attention for her. Of late--" she paused.

"Well?" said Wilmot;--"of late?"
"Of late," repeated Henrietta, speaking now with some more
reserve of manner, "she believed you devoted--to a degree which
conquered your devotion to your profession and to the interests of
your own advancement--to the patient who detained you at Kilsyth."
"What madness! what utter folly!" said Wilmot; but his face turned
deeply red, and he felt in his heart that the arrow had struck home.
"Perhaps so," said Henrietta, and her voice resumed the cutting
tone from which all through this painful interview Wilmot had
shrunk. "But Mabel was not more reasonable or less so than other
jealous women. You had never neglected your business for her,
remember, or been turned aside by any sentimental attraction from
your course of professional duty. Friendship, gratitude, and interest
alike required you to attend to Mr. Foljambe's summons. You did not
come, and people talked. Mr. Foljambe himself spoke of the
attractions of Kilsyth, and joked, after his inconsiderate manner."
"In her presence?" said Wilmot incautiously.
"Yes, in her presence," said Henrietta, who perfectly appreciated
the slip he had made. "She knew some people who knew the
Kilsyths, and she heard the remarks that were made. I daresay she
imagined more than she heard. No matter. Nothing matters any
more. She was not sorry to die when her time came; she would not
have you troubled,--that is all. And now I will leave you. I am going
to her."
The last sentence had a dreadful effect on Wilmot. In the
agitation, the surprise, the pain of this interview, he had almost
forgotten time; the present reality had nearly escaped him. He had
been rapt away into a world of feeling, of passion; he had been
absorbed in the sense of a discovery, and of something which
seemed like an impossible injustice. With Henrietta's words it all
vanished, and he remembered, with a start, that his wife lay dead

upstairs. They were not talking of a life long extinguished, which in
former years might have been made happier by him, but of one
which had ended only a few hours ago; a life whose forsaken
tenement was still untouched by "decay's effacing fingers." With all
this new knowledge fresh upon him, with all this bewildering
conviction of irreparable wrong, he might look upon the calm young
face again. Not as he had looked upon it yesterday; not with the
deep sorrow and the irresistible though unjustified compassion with
which death in youth is always regarded, but with an exceeding and
heart-rending bitterness, in comparison with which even that
repentant grief was mild and merciful. The fixedness, the blank, the
silence, would be far more dreadful, far more reproachful now, when
he knew that he had never understood, never appreciated her--had
unwittingly tortured her; now when he knew that, in all her youth
and beauty, she had been glad to die. Glad to die! The words had a
tremendous, an unbearable meaning for him. If even the last month
could have been unlived! If only he had not had that to reproach
himself with, to justify her! In vain, in vain. In that one moment of
unspeakable suffering Wilmot felt that his punishment, however
grave his offence, was greater than he could bear.
He turned away from Henrietta with the air of a man to whom
another word would be intolerable, and sat down wearily. She stood
still, looking at him, as if awaiting an answer or a dismissal.
At length she said, "Have you forgotten, Dr. Wilmot, that I asked
your permission to carry out Mabel's wish?"
"No," he said drearily, "I remember. Of course do as you like; I
should say, as she directed. I suppose the object of her request was,
that I should see her no more, in death either. Well, well--it is
fortunate that did not succeed too." He spoke in a patient, broken
tone, which touched Henrietta's heart. But her perverted notion of
truth and loyalty to the dead held her back from showing any sign of
softening. Just as she was leaving the room he said:

"Such a course is very unusual, is it not?"
"I believe so," she replied; "but the servants know it was her
desire."
Then Henrietta Prendergast went away; and presently he heard a
slight sound in that awful room overhead, and he knew she had
taken her place beside the dead. He felt, as he sat for hours of that
day quite alone, like a banished man. His wife was doubly dead to
him now. All his married life had grown on a sudden unreal; and
when he thought of the still white face which he was to see once,
and only once more, for ever, it was with a strange sense of dread
and avoidance, and not with the tender sorrow which, even amid the
shock and self-reproach of yesterday, had come to his relief.
Somehow, he could not have told how, with the inevitable
interruptions, the wretched necessary business of such a time, the
hours of that day passed over Chudleigh Wilmot's head, and the
night came. He had looked his last upon his wife, had taken his
solemn leave of the death-chamber. She lay now in her coffin,
sealed, hidden from sight for evermore, and there was nothing now
but the long dreary waiting. In its turn that too passed, and in due
time the funeral day; and Chudleigh Wilmot was quite alone in his
silent house, and had only to look back into the past. Forward into
the future he did not dare, he had not heart to look. A kind of blank,
the reaction from intense excitement, had set in with him, and for
the first time in his life his physical strength flagged. The claims of
his business began to press upon him; people sent for him,
respectfully and hesitatingly, but with some confidence that he
would come, nevertheless. And Wilmot went; and was received with
condoling looks, which he affected not to see, and compassionating
tones, of which he took no notice.
He had no more to do with the past--he had buried it; his sole
desire was that others should aid him in this apparent oblivion; how
far from real it was, he alone could have told. He had written to

Kilsyth a few indispensable lines, and had had a formal report of
Madeleine's health, which he had conscientiously tried to range with
other professional documents, and lay by with them. It was certainly
a dark and dreary time, endless in length, and so hopeless, so final,
that it seemed to have no outlet; a time than which Chudleigh
Wilmot believed life could never bring him a darker. But trouble was
new to him. He learned more about it later on in his day.
When a fortnight had elapsed after Wilmot's return to London, and
the tumult of his mind had subsided, though the bitterness of his
feelings was not yet allayed, he chanced one morning to require a
paper, which he knew was to be found in a certain cabinet which
filled a niche in the wall of his consulting-room. The cabinet in
question was one he rarely opened; and the moment he attempted
to turn the key, he felt confident that the lock had been tampered
with. The conviction was singularly unpleasant; for the cabinet was a
repository of private papers, deeds, letters, and professional notes.
It also contained several poisons, which Wilmot kept there in what
he supposed to be inviolable security. Closer inspection confirmed his
suspicions. The lock had been opened by the simple process of
breaking it; and the doors, merely laid together, had caught on a
jagged piece of metal, and thus presented the slight obstacle they
had offered. With a mere shake they unclosed.
This circumstance puzzled Wilmot exceedingly. He made a careful
examination of the contents of the cabinet. All was precisely as he
had left it; not a paper missing or disturbed.
"Who can have been at the cabinet?" he thought, "and with what
motive?--Nothing has been taken; nothing, so far as I can discover,
has been touched. Mere curiosity would hardly tempt anyone to run
such a risk; and no one knew that there was anything of value here.
Stay," he reflected; "one person knew it. She knew it; she knew that
I kept private papers here. No doubt it was she who opened the
cabinet. But with what motive? What can she possibly have wanted
which she could have hoped to find here?"

No answer to this query presented itself to Wilmot's mind. He
thought and thought over it, painfully recurring to all Mrs.
Prendergast had told him, and trying to help himself to a solution of
this mystery by the aid of those which had preceded it. For some
time he thought in vain; at length the idea struck him that the
jealous woman, restless and miserable in her unhappy curiosity--he
could understand now what she had felt, he could pity her now--had
opened the cabinet to seek for letters from some fancied rival in his
affections. Nothing but his belief in the perversion of mind which
comes of the indulgence of such a passion as jealousy could have
led Wilmot to suspect his wife of such an act for a moment. But he
was a wise man, now that it was too late, in that lore which he had
never studied while he might have read the book, and he recognised
the transforming power of jealousy. Yes, that was it doubtless; she
had sought here for the material wherewith to feed the flame that
had tortured her.
Chudleigh Wilmot took the paper he wanted from the place where
it had lain, and was about to close the doors of the cabinet once
more--restoring them, until he could have the lock repaired, to their
deceptive appearance of security--when his attention was caught by
a dark-coloured spot, about the size of a shilling, upon the topmost
sheet of a packet of papers which lay beside a small mahogany case
containing the before-mentioned poisons. He took the packet out
and examined it. The spot was there, and extended to every paper
in the packet. A sudden flush and expression of vague alarm crossed
Wilmot's face. He took up the case and examined the exterior. A
dark mark, the stain of some glutinous fluid, ran down the side of
the box next which the papers had lain. For a moment he held the
case in his hands, and literally dared not open it. Then in sickening
fear he did so, and found its contents apparently undisturbed. The
box was divided into ten little compartments, in each of which stood
a tiny bottle, glass-stoppered and covered with a leaden capsule. To
the neck of each was appended a little leaden seal, the mark of the
French chemist from whom Wilmot had purchased the deadly drugs.
He took the bottles out one by one, examined their seals, and held

them up to the light. All safe for nine out of the number; but as he
touched the tenth, the capsule with the leaden seal attached to it fell
off, and Wilmot discovered, with ineffable horror, that the bottle,
which had contained one of the deadliest poisons known to science,
was half empty.
He set down the case, and reeled against the corner of the
mantelshelf near him, like a drunken man. He could not face the
idea that had taken possession of him; he could not collect his
thoughts. He gasped as though water were surging round him. Once
more he took up the bottle and looked at it. It was only too true;
one half the contents was missing. He closed the case, and pushed it
back into its place. It struck against something on the shelf of the
cabinet. He felt for the object, and drew out his wife's seal-ring!
And now Chudleigh Wilmot knew what was the terror that had
seized him. It was no longer vague; it stood before him clear,
defined, unconquerable; and he groaned:
"My God! she destroyed herself!".

CHAPTER XIII.
A Turn of the Screw.
Chudleigh Wilmot had not seen Mrs. Prendergast since the day on
which his wife's funeral had taken place; and it was with equal
surprise and satisfaction that she received a brief but kindly-worded
note from him, requesting her to permit him to call upon her.
"I wonder what it's all about," she thought, as she wrote with
deliberation and care a gracious answer in the affirmative. Mrs.
Prendergast had been thinking too since her friend's death, and her
cogitations had had some practical results. It was true that Mabel
Darlington had not been happy with Wilmot; but Mrs. Prendergast,
thinking it all over, was not indisposed to the opinion that it was a
good deal her own fault, and to entertain the very natural feminine
conviction that things would have been quite otherwise had she
been in Mabel's place. Why should she not--of course in due time,
and with a proper observance of all the social decencies--hope to fill
that place now? She was a practical, not a sentimental woman; but
when the idea occurred to her very strongly, she certainly did find
pleasure in remembering that Mabel Wilmot had been very much
attached to her, and would perhaps have liked the notion of her
being her successor as well as any woman ever really likes any
suggestion of the kind, that is to say, resignedly, and with an "it-
might-be-worse" reservation.
Henrietta Prendergast had cherished a very sound dislike to
Chudleigh Wilmot for some time; but it was, though quite real--while
the fact that he had chosen another than herself, though she had

been so ready and willing to be chosen, was constantly impressed
upon her remembrance--not of a lasting nature. Besides, she had
had the satisfaction of making him understand very distinctly that
the choice he had made had not been a wise one; and ever since
her feelings towards him had been undergoing a considerable
modification.
How much ground had Mabel had for her jealously of Miss Kilsyth?
What truth was there in the suspicions they had both entertained
respecting the influence which his young patient had exercised over
Wilmot?'. She had no means of determining these questions. It
would have been impossible for her, had she been a woman capable
of such a meanness, to have watched Wilmot during the interval
which had elapsed since his wife's death. His numerous professional
duties, the constant demands upon his time, all rendered her
attaining any distinct knowledge of his proceedings impossible; and
beyond the announcement in the Morning Post that Kilsyth of Kilsyth
and his family had arrived in town, she knew nothing whatever
concerning them. Henrietta Prendergast had, on the whole, been
considerably occupied with the idea of Chudleigh Wilmot when his
note reached her, and she prepared to receive him with feelings
which resembled those of long-past days rather than those which
had actuated her of late.
It was late in the afternoon when the expected visitor made his
appearance, and Henrietta had already begun to feel piqued and
angry at the delay. His note indicated a pressing wish to see her--
she had answered it promptly. What had made him so dilatory about
availing himself of her permission?
The first look she caught of Wilmot's face convinced her that the
motive of his visit was a grave one. He was pale and sedate, even to
a fixed seriousness far beyond that which had fallen upon him after
the shock of Mabel's death, and a painful devouring anxiety might be
read in the troubled haggard expression of his deep-set dark eyes.
He entered at once upon the matter which had induced him to ask

Mrs. Prendergast for an interview; and though her manner was
emphatically gracious, and designed to show him that she desired to
maintain their former relations intact, he took no notice of her
courtesy. This was a mistake. All women are quick to take
cognisance of a slight, and Henrietta was no slower than the rest of
her sex. He showed her much too plainly that he had an object in
seeking her presence entirely unconnected with herself. It was not
wise; but the shock of the discovery which he had made had shaken
Wilmot's nerves and overthrown his judgment for the time. He
briefly informed Mrs. Prendergast that he came for the purpose of
asking her to recapitulate all the circumstances of his wife's illness
and death; to entreat her to tax her memory to the utmost, to recall
everything, however trivial, bearing upon the progress of the
malady, and in particular every detail bearing upon her state of
mind.
Henrietta listened to him with profound astonishment. Previously
he had shunned all such details. When she had met him, prepared
to supply them, he had asked her no questions; he had been
apparently satisfied with the medical report made to him by Dr.
Whittaker; he had been almost indifferent to such minor facts as she
had stated; and the painful revelation which she had made to him
had not been followed up by any close questioning on his part. And
now, when all was at an end, when the grave had closed over the
sad domestic story, as over all the tragedies of human life, hidden or
displayed, the grave must close,--now he came to her with this
preoccupied brooding face and manner to ask her these vain and
painful questions. Thus she was newly associated with dark and
dismal images in his mind, and this was precisely what Henrietta had
no desire to be. She answered him, therefore, in her coldest tone
(and no woman knew how to ice her answers better than she did),
that the subject was extremely painful to her for many reasons. Was
it absolutely necessary to revive it? Wilmot said it was, and
expressed no consideration for her feelings nor regret for the
necessity of wounding them.

"Well, then, Dr. Wilmot," said Henrietta, "as I presume you wish to
question me in some particular direction, though I am quite at a loss
to understand why, you are at liberty to do so."
Wilmot then commenced an interrogatory, which, as it proceeded,
filled Henrietta with amazement. Had he any theory of his wife's
illness and death incompatible with the facts as she had seen and
understood them? Did he suspect Dr. Whittaker of ignorance and
mismanagement in the case? Even supposing he did, what would it
avail him now to convince himself that such suspicion was well
founded? All was inevitable, all was irreparable now. While these
thoughts were busy in her brain, she was answering question after
question put to her by Wilmot in a cold voice, and with her steady
neutral-tinted eyes fixed in pitiless scrutiny upon him. He asked her
in particular about the period at which Mabel had suppressed Dr.
Whittaker's letter to him. Had she been particularly unhappy just
then; had the "unfortunate notion she had conceived about--about
Miss Kilsyth, been in her mind before, or just at that time?"
This question Mrs. Prendergast could not, or would not, answer
very distinctly. She did not remember exactly when Mabel had heard
so much about Miss Kilsyth; she did not know what day it was on
which Dr. Whittaker had written. Wilmot produced the letter, and
pointed out the date. Still Mrs. Prendergast's memory refused to aid
her reliably. She really did not know; she could not answer this.
Could she remember whether Mabel had ever left her room after
that letter had been written? or whether she had been confined to
her room when she had received his (Wilmot's) letter from Kilsyth;
the letter which Mrs. Prendergast had said had distressed her so
much, had brought about the confidence between Mabel and herself
relative to the feelings of the former, and had led Mabel to say that
she had no desire to live? Wilmot awaited the reply to these
questions in a state of suspense not far removed from agony. He
could not indeed permit himself to cherish a hope that the dreadful
idea he entertained was unfounded; but in the answer awful
confirmation or the germ of hope must lie.

Henrietta replied, after a few moments' thoughtful silence. She
could remember the circumstances, though not the precise date.
Mabel had left her room on the day on which she had received
Wilmot's letter; she had been in the drawing-rooms, and even in the
consulting-room on that day. It was on the night that she had told
Mrs. Prendergast all, and had expressed her desire to die, her
conviction that she could not recover. Henrietta was not certain
whether that day was the same as that on which Dr. Whittaker's
letter was written, but she was perfectly clear on the point on which
Wilmot appeared to lay so much stress; she knew it was the day
after his last letter from Kilsyth had reached her.
The intense suffering displayed in every line of Wilmot's face as
she made this statement touched Henrietta as much as it puzzled
her. Had she mistaken this man? Had he really deep feelings, strong
susceptibilities? Had the shock of his wife's death been far otherwise
felt than she had believed, and was he now groping after every
detail, in order to feed the vain flame of love and memory? Such a
supposition accorded very ill with all she knew and all she imagined
of Chudleigh Wilmot; but she could find no other within her not
infertile brain.
"What became of my letter to her?" Wilmot asked her abruptly.
"It is in her coffin, together with every other you ever wrote her. I
placed them there at her own request. She had them tied up in a
packet,--the others I mean; but she gave me that one separately."
"Why?" asked Wilmot in a hoarse whisper.
"Why!" repeated Henrietta. "I don't know. It was only a few hours
before she died. She hardly spoke at all after, but she told me quite
distinctly then that I was to give you her wedding-ring, and to place
those letters in her coffin. 'I could not destroy those,' she said,
touching the packet in my hand; 'and this,' she drew it from under

her pillow as she spoke, 'I want to be placed with me too. It is my
justification.'"
"My justification!" repeated Wilmot. "What did she mean? What
did you understand that she meant by that?"
"I did not think much about it. The poor thing was near her end
then, and I thought little of it; though of course I did what she
desired."
"Yes, yes, I understand," said Wilmot. "But her justification--
justification in what--for what?"
"In her gloomy and miserable ideas of course, and, above all, in
her desire to die. She believed that your letter contained the proof of
all she feared and suffered from, and so justified her longing to
escape from further neglect and sorrow."
"You did not suspect that it had any further meaning?"
Henrietta stared at him in silence. "I beg your pardon," he said;
"my mind is confused by anxiety. I am afraid, Mrs. Prendergast,
there may have been features in this case not rightly understood.
Could it be that Whittaker was deceived?"
"I think not--I cannot believe that there was any error. Dr.
Whittaker never expressed any anxiety on that point, any
uncertainty, any wish to divide the responsibility, except with
yourself. I understood him to say that he had gone into the case
very fully with you, and that you were satisfied everything had been
done within the resources of medicine."
"Yes, he did. I don't blame him; I don't blame anyone but myself.
But, Mrs. Prendergast, that is not the point. What I want to get at is
this: did she--my wife I mean--did she hide anything from
Whittaker's knowledge?"

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