on his elbow, and held out his hand.
‘I know that I owe my life to you, young lady. Allow me to thank you. My life is of no value to any but myself. I have not hitherto regarded it much. Now I shall esteem it, as saved by you. I thank you. May I touch your hand?’
He took her fingers and put them to his lips.
‘This hand is firm and strong,’ he said, ‘but gentle as the wing of a dove.’
She coldly withdrew her fingers.
‘Enough of thanks,’ she said bluntly. ‘I did but my duty.’
‘Was there——’ he hesitated—‘anyone with me when I was found, or was I alone?’
‘There were two—a man and a boy.’
His face became troubled. He began a question, then let it die in his mouth, began another, but could not bring it to an end.
‘And they—where are they?’ he asked at length.
‘That one called Martin brought you here.’
‘He did!’ exclaimed Jasper, eagerly.
‘That is—he assisted in bringing you here.’ Barbara was so precise and scrupulous about truth, that she felt herself obliged to modify her first assertion. ‘Then, when he saw you safe in our hands, he left you.’
‘Did he—did he say anything about me?’
‘Once—but that I suppose was by a slip, he called you brother. Afterwards he asserted that you were nothing to him, nor he to you.’
Jasper’s face was moved with painful emotions, but it soon cleared, and he said, ‘Yes, I am nothing to him—nothing. He is gone. He did well. I was, as he said—and he spoke the truth—nothing to him.’
Then, hastily, to turn the subject, ‘Excuse me. Where am I now? And, young lady, if you will not think it rude of me to inquire, who are you to whom I owe my poor life?’
‘This, as I have already said, is Morwell, and I am the daughter of the gentleman who resides in it, Mr. Ignatius Jordan.’
He fell back on the bed, a deadly greyness came over his face, he raised his hands: ‘My God! my God! this is most wonderful. Thy ways are past finding out.’
‘What is wonderful?’ asked Barbara.
He did not answer, but partially raised himself again in bed.
‘Where are my clothes?’ he asked.
‘Which clothes?’ inquired Barbara, and her voice was hard, and her expression became stern. She hesitated for a moment, then went to the chest and drew forth the suit that had been rolled up on the pommel of the saddle; also that which he had worn when he met with the accident. She held one in each hand, and returned to the bed.
‘Which?’ she asked gravely, fixing her eyes on him.
He looked from one to the other, and his pale face turned a chalky white. Then he said in a low tremulous tone, ‘I want my waistcoat.’
She gave it him. He felt eagerly about it, drew the pocket-book from the breast-pocket, opened it and fell back.
‘Gone!’ he moaned, ‘gone!’
The garment dropped from his fingers upon the floor, his eyes became glassy and fixed, and scarlet spots of colour formed in his cheeks.
After this he became feverish, and tossed in his bed, put his hand to his brow, plucked at the bandages, asked for water, and his pulse quickened.
Towards evening he seemed conscious that his senses were slipping beyond control. He called repeatedly for the young lady, and Jane, who attended him then, was obliged to fetch Barbara.
The sun was setting when she came into the room. She despatched Jane about some task that had to be done, and, coming to the side of the bed, said in a constrained voice, ‘Yes, what do you require? I am here.’
He lifted himself. His eyes were glowing with fever; he put out his hand and clasped her wrist; his hand was burning. His lips quivered; his face was full of a fiery eagerness.
‘I entreat you! you are so good, so kind! You have surprised a secret. I beseech you let no one else into it—no one have a suspicion of it. I am hot. I am in a fever. I am afraid what I may say when others are by me. I would go on my knees to you could I rise. I pray you, I pray you——’ he put his hands together, ‘do not leave me if I become delirious. It is a hard thing to ask. I have no claim on you; but I fear. I would have none but you know what I say, and I may say strange things if my mind becomes deranged with fever. You feel my hand, is it not like a red-hot-coal? You know that I am likely to wander. Stay by me—in pity—in mercy—for the love of God—for the love of God!’
His hand, a fiery hand, grasped her wrist convulsively. She stood by his bed, greatly moved, much stung with self-reproach. It was cruel of her to act as she had done, to show him that convict suit, and let him see that she knew his vileness. It was heartless, wicked of her, when the poor fellow was just returned to consciousness, to cast him back into his misery and shame by the sight of that degrading garment.
Spots of colour came into her cheeks almost as deep as those which burnt in the sick man’s face.
‘I should have considered he was ill, that he was under my charge,’ she said, and laid her left hand on his to intimate that she sought to disengage her wrist from his grasp.
At the touch his eyes, less wild, looked pleadingly at her.
‘Yes, Mr. Jasper,’ she said, ‘I——’
‘Why do you call me Mr. Jasper?’
‘That other man gave you the name.’
‘Yes, my name is Jasper. And yours?’
‘Barbara. I am Miss Barbara Jordan.’
‘Will you promise what I asked?’
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I will stay by you all night, and whatever passes your lips shall never pass mine.’
He smiled, and gave a sigh of relief.
‘How good you are! How good! Barbara Jordan.’
He did not call her Miss, and she felt slightly piqued. He, a convict, to speak of her thus! But she pacified her wounded pride with the consideration that his mind was disturbed by fever.
CHAPTER VII.
A NIGHT-WATCH.
Barbara had passed her word to remain all night with the sick man, should he prove delirious; she was scrupulously conscientious, and in spite of her father’s remonstrance and assurance that old Betty Westlake could look after the
