Hugh followed the nurse and doctor, feeling as if in some strange dream. Truly, of late, his hitherto humdrum and monotonous life had changed—had utterly changed.
“As if Fate had overlooked me—poor insignificant unit—until now, and had pounced upon me with a vengeance, and intent to make up for lost time,” he thought.
They were conducted to a second-floor sitting-room—a comfortable room enough, with flowers and pretty knick-knacks about—while the nurse went into the next room, the sick chamber.
Coming back, “She is quite ready,” she said, addressing Dr. Hildyard.
“You see her,” he said, shortly, to Paull.
“Without you?” Hugh was astonished.
“Certainly.”
Dr. Hildyard sat down at the table and took up a newspaper that was lying there. There was a peremptoriness in his voice and manner which forbade Hugh’s further questioning. He paused a moment, then turned and followed the nurse into the next room.
It was large, bright, airy, and cheerful, with its light maple furniture and white hangings. Coloured engravings of pleasant subjects hung on the walls. After the bare wards of the hospital, Hugh felt that it would be almost a luxury to go through an illness here.
He changed his mind when he saw his patient. No face among the many he had watched lying on the hospital pillows had looked as pitiable as this. The girl was beautiful, even now that the pallor of her oval face was as the pallor of the dead, that her delicately-shaped nose was pinched and transparent in the light of the shaded lamp at her bedside; and her large, dark eyes had the solemn, wondering expression he had so often seen on the faces of the dying. In health she must have been—lovely, a “perfect woman, nobly planned.”