tenderness to the sick and suffering. The monster cap was made in an hour, and Miss Somerset put it on, and a thick veil, and then she no longer thought it necessary to sit out of the patient's sight.
The consequence was that, in the middle of his ramblings, he broke off and looked at her. The sister puzzled him. At last he called to her in French.
She made no reply.
“Je suis a l'hopital, n'est ce pas bonne soeur?”
“I am English,” said she, softly.
CHAPTER VI.
“ENGLISH!” said Sir Charles. “Then tell me, how did I come here? Where am I?”
“You had a fit, and the doctor ordered you to be kept quiet; and I am here to nurse you.”
“A fit! Ay, I remember. That vile woman!”
“Don't think of her: give your mind to getting well: remember, there is somebody who would break her heart if you—”
“Oh, my poor Bella! my sweet, timid, modest, loving Bella!” He was so weakened that he cried like a child.
Miss Somerset rose, and laid her forehead sadly upon the window-sill.
“Why do I cry for her, like a great baby?” muttered Sir Charles. “She wouldn't cry for me. She has cast me off in a moment.”
“Not she. It is her father's doing. Have a little patience. The whole thing shall be explained to them; and then she will soon soften the old man. 'It is not as if you were really to blame.”
“No more I was. It is all that vile woman.”
“Oh, don't! She is so sorry; she has taken it all to heart. She had once shammed a fit, on the very place; and when you had a real fit there—on the very spot—oh, it was so fearful—and lay like one dead, she saw God's finger, and it touched her hard heart. Don't say anything more against her just now. She is trying so hard to be good. And, besides, it is all a mistake: she never told that old admiral; she never breathed a word out of her own house. Her own people have betrayed her and you. She has made me promise two things: to find out who told the admiral, and—”
“Well?”
“The second thing I have to do—Well, that is a secret between me and that unhappy woman. She is bad enough, but not so heartless as you think.”
Sir Charles shook his head incredulously, but said no more; and soon after fell asleep.
In the evening he woke, and found the Sister watching.
She now turned her head away from him, and asked him quietly to describe Miss Bella Bruce to her.
He described her in minute and glowing terms. “But oh, Sister,” said he, “it is not her beauty only, but the beauty of her mind. So gentle, so modest, so timid, so docile. She would never have had the heart to turn me off. But she will obey her father. She looked forward to obey me, sweet dove.”
“Did she say so?”
“Yes, that is her dream of happiness, to obey.”
The Sister still questioned him with averted head, and he told her what had passed between Bella and him the last time he saw her, and all their innocent plans of married happiness. He told her, with the tear in his eye, and she listened, with the tear in hers. “And then,” said he, laying his hand on her shoulder, “is it not hard? I just went to Mayfair, not to please myself, but to do an act of justice—of more than justice; and then, for that, to have her door shut in my face. Only two hours between the height of happiness and the depth of misery.”
The Sister said nothing, but she hid her face in her hands, and thought.
The next morning, by her order, Polly came into the room, and said, “You are to go home. The carriage is at the door.” With this she retired, and Sir Charles's valet entered the room soon after to help him dress.
“Where am I, James?”
“Miss Somerset's house, Sir Charles.”
“Then get me out of it directly.”
“Yes, Sir Charles. The carriage is at the door.”
“Who told you to come, James?”
“Miss Somerset, Sir Charles.”
“That is odd.”
“Yes, Sir Charles.”
When he got home he found a sofa placed by a fire, with wraps and pillows; his cigar case laid out, and a bottle of salts, and also a small glass of old cognac, in case of faintness.
“Which of you had the gumption to do all this?”
“Miss Somerset, Sir Charles.”
“What, has she been here?”
“Yes, Sir Charles.”
“Curse her!”
“Yes, Sir Charles.”
CHAPTER VII.
“LOVE LIES BLEEDING.”
BELLA BRUCE was drinking the bitterest cup a young virgin soul can taste. Illusion gone—the wicked world revealed as it is, how unlike what she thought it was—love crushed in her, and not crushed out of her, as it might if she had been either proud or vain.
Frail men and women should see what a passionate but virtuous woman can suffer, when a revelation, of which they think but little, comes and blasts her young heart, and bids her dry up in a moment the deep well of her affection, since it flows for an unworthy object, and flows in vain. I tell you that the fair head severed from the chaste body is nothing to her compared with this. The fair body, pierced with heathen arrows, was nothing to her in the days of old compared with this.
In a word—for nowadays we can but amplify, and so enfeeble, what some old dead master of language, immortal though obscure, has said in words of granite—here
“Love lay bleeding.”
No fainting—no vehement weeping; but oh, such deep desolation; such weariness of life; such a pitiable restlessness. Appetite gone; the taste of food almost lost; sleep unwilling to come; and oh, the torture of waking—for at that horrible
