dream?"
"Wait, dearest, till you are stronger, and I will tell you all."
I lifted her gently, and laid her on the wretched bed. The childfollowed us, and climbing to the bedstead with my help, nestled at hermother's side. I sent the boy away to tell the mistress of the housethat I should remain with my patient, watching her progress towardrecovery, through the night. He went out, jingling his money joyfully inhis pocket. We three were left together.
As the long hours followed each other, she fell at intervals into abroken sleep; waking with a start, and looking at me wildly as if I hadbeen a stranger at her bedside. Toward morning the nourishment which Istill carefully administered wrought its healthful change in her pulse,and composed her to quieter slumbers. When the sun rose she was sleepingas peacefully as the child at her side. I was able to leave her, untilmy return later in the day, under the care of the woman of the house.The magic of money transformed this termagant and terrible person intoa docile and attentive nurse--so eager to follow my instructions exactlythat she begged me to commit them to writing before I went away. For amoment I still lingered alone at the bedside of the sleeping woman, andsatisfied myself for the hundredth time that her life was safe, beforeI left her. It was the sweetest of all rewards to feel sure of this--totouch her cool forehead lightly with my lips--to look, and look again,at the poor worn face, always dear, always beautiful, to _my_ eyes.change as it might. I closed the door softly and went out in the brightmorning, a happy man again. So close together rise the springs of joyand sorrow in human life! So near in our heart, as in our heaven, is thebrightest sunshine to the blackest cloud!
CHAPTER XXVI. CONVERSATION WITH MY MOTHER.
I REACHED my own house in time to snatch two or three hours of repose,before I paid my customary morning visit to my mother in her own room. Iobserved, in her reception of me on this occasion, certain peculiaritiesof look and manner which were far from being familiar in my experienceof her.
When our eyes first met, she regarded me with a wistful, questioninglook, as if she were troubled by some doubt which she shrunk fromexpressing in words. And when I inquired after her health, as usual, shesurprised me by answering as impatiently as if she resented my havingmentioned the subject. For a moment, I was inclined to think thesechanges signified that she had discovered my absence from home duringthe night, and that she had some suspicion of the true cause of it. Butshe never alluded, even in the most distant manner, to Mrs. VanBrandt; and not a word dropped from her lips which implied, directly orindirectly, that I had pained or disappointed her. I could only concludethat she had something important to say in relation to herself or tome--and that for reasons of her own she unwillingly abstained fromgiving expression to it at that time.
Reverting to our ordinary topics of conversation, we touched on thesubject (always interesting to my mother) of my visit to Shetland.Speaking of this, we naturally spoke also of Miss Dunross. Here, again,when I least expected it, there was another surprise in store for me.
"You were talking the other day," said my mother, "of the green flagwhich poor Dermody's daughter worked for you, when you were bothchildren. Have you really kept it all this time?"
"Yes."
"Where have you left it? In Scotland?"
"I have brought it with me to London."
"Why?"
"I promised Miss Dunross to take the green flag with me, wherever Imight go."
My mother smiled.
"Is it possible, George, that you think about this as the young lady inShetland thinks? After all the years that have passed, you believe inthe green flag being the means of bringing Mary Dermody and yourselftogether again?"
"Certainly not! I am only humoring one of the fancies of poor MissDunross. Could I refuse to grant her trifling request, after all I owedto her kindness?"
The smile left my mother's face. She looked at me attentively.
"Miss Dunross seems to have produced a very favorable impression onyou," she said.
"I own it. I feel deeply interested in her."
"If she had not been an incurable invalid, George, I too might havebecome interested in Miss Dunross--perhaps in the character of mydaughter-in-law?"
"It is useless, mother, to speculate on what _might_ have happened. Thesad reality is enough."
My mother paused a little before she put her next question to me.
"Did Miss Dunross always keep her veil drawn in your presence, whenthere happened to be light in the room?"
"Always."
"She never even let you catch a momentary glance at her face?"
"Never."
"And the only reason she gave you was that the light caused her apainful sensation if it fell on her uncovered skin?"
"You say that, mother, as if you doubt whether Miss Dunross told me thetruth."
"No, George. I only doubt whether she told you _all_ the truth."
"What do you mean?"
"Don't be offended, my dear. I believe Miss Dunross has some moreserious reason for keeping her face hidden than the reason that she gave_you_."
I was silent. The suspicion which those words implied had never occurredto my mind. I had read in medical books of cases of morbid nervoussensitiveness exactly similar to the case of Miss Dunross, as describedby herself--and that had been enough for me. Now that my mother's ideahad found its way from her mind to mine, the impression produced onme was painful in the last degree. Horrible imaginings of deformitypossessed my brain, and profaned all that was purest and dearest in myrecollections of Miss Dunross. It was useless to change the subject--theevil influence that was on me was too potent to be charmed away by talk.Making the best excuse that I could think of for leaving my mother'sroom, I hurried away to seek a refuge from myself, where alone I couldhope to find it, in the presence of Mrs. Van Brandt.
CHAPTER XXVII. CONVERSATION WITH MRS. VAN BRANDT.
THE landlady was taking the air at her own door when I reachedthe house. Her reply to my inquiries justified my most hopefulanticipations. The poor lodger looked already "like another woman";and the child was at that moment posted on the stairs, watching for thereturn of her "new papa."
"There's one thing I should wish to say to you, sir, before you goupstairs," the woman went on. "Don't trust the lady with more money ata time than the money that is wanted for the day's housekeeping. Ifshe has any to spare, it's as likely as not to be wasted on hergood-for-nothing husband."
Absorbed in the higher and dearer interests that filled my mind, I hadthus far forgotten the very existence of Mr. Van Brandt.
"Where is he?" I asked.
"Where he ought to be," was the answer. "In prison for debt."
In those days a man imprisoned for debt was not infrequently a manimprisoned for life. There was little fear of my visit being shortenedby the appearance on the scene of Mr. Van Brandt.
Ascending the stairs, I found the child waiting for me on the upperlanding, with a ragged doll in her arms. I had bought a cake for her onmy way to the house. She forthwith turned over the doll to my care, and,trotting before me into the room with her cake in her arms, announced myarrival in these words:
"Mamma, I like this papa better than the other. You like him better,too."
The mother's wasted face reddened for a moment, then turned pale again,as she held out her hand to me. I looked at her anxiously, and discernedthe welcome signs of recovery, clearly revealed. Her grand gray eyesrested on me again with a glimmer of their old light. The hand that hadlain so cold in mine on the past night had life and warmth in it now.
"Should I have died before the morning if you had not come here?" sheasked, softly. "Have you saved my life for the second time? I can wellbelieve it."
Before I was aware of her, she bent her head over my hand, andtouched it tenderly with her lips. "I am not an ungrateful woman," shemurmured--"and yet I don't know how to thank you."
The child looked up quickly from her cake. "Why don't you kiss him?" thequaint little creature asked, with a broad stare of astonishmen
t.
Her head sunk on her breast. She sighed bitterly.
"No more of Me!" she said, suddenly recovering her composure, andsuddenly forcing herself to look at me again. "Tell me what happy chancebrought you here last night?"
"The same chance," I answered, "which took me to Saint Anthony's Well."
She raised herself eagerly in the chair.
"You have seen me again--as you saw me in the summer-house by thewaterfall!" she exclaimed. "Was it in Scotland once more?"
"No. Further away than Scotland--as far away as Shetland."
"Tell me about it! Pray, pray tell me about it!"
I related what had happened as exactly as I could, consistently withmaintaining the
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