have the courage to come, but not to speak upon a certain subject, which shall be nameless.”
The Sister, as may be imagined, was not so shy. She opened a conversation. “I committed a fault yesterday. I spoke to you of myself, and of the past: it is discouraged by our rules. We are bound to inquire the griefs of others; not to tell our own.”
This was a fair opening, but Bella was too delicate to show her wounds to a fresh acquaintance.
The Sister, having failed at that, tried something very different.
“But I could tell you a pitiful case about another. Some time ago I nursed a gentleman whom love had laid on a sick-bed.”
“A gentleman! What! can they love as we do?” said Bella, bitterly.
“Not many of them; but this was an exception. But I don't know whether I ought to tell these secrets to so young a lady.”
“Oh, yes—please—what else is there in this world worth talking about? Tell me about the poor man who could love as we can.”
The Sister seemed to hesitate, but at last decided to go on.
“Well, he was a man of the world, and he had not always been a good man; but he was trying to be. He had fallen in love with a young lady, and seen the beauty of virtue, and was going to marry her and lead a good life. But he was a man of honor, and there was a lady for whom he thought it was his duty to provide. He set his lawyer to draw a deed, and his lawyer appointed a day for signing it at her house. The poor man came because his lawyer told him. Do you think there was any great harm in that?”
“No; of course not.”
“Well, then, he lost his love for that.”
Miss Bruce's color began to come and go, and her supple figure to crouch a little. She said nothing.
The Sister continued: “Some malicious person went and told the young lady's father the gentleman was in the habit of visiting that lady, and would be with her at a certain hour. And so he was; but it was the lawyer's appointment, you know. You seem agitated.”
“No, no; not agitated,” said Bella, “but astonished; it is so like a story I know. A young lady, a friend of mine, had an anonymous letter, telling her that one she loved and esteemed was unworthy. But what you have told me shows me how deceitful appearances may be. What was your patient's name?”
“It is against our rules to tell that. But you said an 'anonymous letter.' Was your friend so weak as to believe an anonymous letter? The writer of such a letter is a coward, and a coward always is a liar. Show me your friend's anonymous letter. I may, perhaps, be able to throw a light on it.”
The conversation was interrupted by Admiral Bruce, who had approached them unobserved. “Excuse me,” said he, “but you ladies seem to have hit upon a very interesting theme.”
“Yes, papa,” said Bella. “I took the liberty to question this lady as to her experiences of sick-beds, and she was good enough to give me some of them.”
Having uttered this with a sudden appearance of calmness that first amazed the Sister, then made her smile, she took her father's arm, bowed politely, and a little stiffly, to her new friend, and drew the admiral away.
“Oh!” thought the Sister. “I am not to speak to the old gentleman. He is not in her confidence. Yet she is very fond of him. How she hangs on his arm! Simplicity! Candor! We are all tarred with the same stick—we women.”
That night Bella was a changed girl—exalted and depressed by turns, and with no visible reason.
Her father was pleased. Anything better than that deadly languor.
The next day Bella sat by her father's side in the square, longing to go to the Sister, yet patiently waiting to be ordered.
At last the admiral, finding her dull and listless, said, “Why don't you go and talk to the Sister? She amuses you. I'll join you when I have smoked this cigar.”
The obedient Bella rose, and went toward the Sister as if compelled. But when she got to her her whole manner changed. She took her warmly by the hand, and said, trembling and blushing, and all on fire, “I have brought you the anonymous letter.”
The elder actress took it and ran her eye over it—an eye that now sparkled like a diamond. “Humph!” said she, and flung off all the dulcet tones of her assumed character with mighty little ceremony. “This hand is disguised a little, but I think I know it. I am sure I do! The dirty little rascal!”
“Madam!” cried Bella, aghast with surprise at this language.
“I tell you I know the writer and his rascally motive. You must lend me this for a day or two.”
“Must I?” said Bella. “Excuse me! Papa would be so angry.”
“Very likely; but you will lend it to me for all that; for with this I can clear Miss Bruce's lover and defeat his enemies.”
Bella uttered a faint cry, and trembled, and her bosom heaved violently. She looked this way and that, like a frightened deer. “But papa? His eye is on us.”
“Never deceive your father!” said the Sister, almost sternly; “but,” darting her gray eyes right into those dove-like orbs, “give me five minutes' start—IF YOU REALLY LOVE SIR CHARLES BASSETT.”
With these words she carried off the letter; and Bella ran, blushing, panting, trembling, to her father, and clung to him.
He questioned her, but could get nothing from her very intelligible until the Sister was out of sight, and then she told him all without reserve.
“I was unworthy of him to doubt him. An anonymous slander. I'll never trust appearances again. Poor Charles! Oh, my darling! what he must have suffered if he loves like me.” Then came a shower of happy tears; then a shower of happy kisses.
The admiral groaned, but for a long time he could not get a word in. When he did it was chilling. “My poor girl,” said he, “this unhappy love blinds you. What, don't you see the woman is no nun, but some sly hussy that man has sent to throw dust in your eyes?”
Nothing she could say prevailed to turn him from this view, and he acted upon it with resolution: he confined her excursions to a little garden at the back of the house, and forbade her, on any pretense, to cross the threshold.
Miss Somerset came to the square in another disguise, armed with important information. But no Bella Bruce appeared to meet her.
All this time Richard Bassett was happy as a prince.
So besotted was he with egotism, and so blinded by imaginary wrongs, that he rejoiced in the lovers' separation, rejoiced in his cousin's attack.
Polly, who now regarded him almost as a lover, told him all about it; and already in anticipation he saw himself and his line once more lords of the two manors—Bassett and Huntercombe—on the demise of Sir Charles Bassett, Bart., deceased without issue.
And, in fact, Sir Charles was utterly defeated. He lay torpid.
But there
