While this conversation was going on below, a stealthy figure stole up-stairs to the room Doctor May had just quitted, and paused at the door, listening. As all was quiet within, the woman entered noiselessly, and went up to the sick man’s bed. He lay apparently asleep; and who shall describe the haggard, passionate face of the woman as she knelt beside him, and bent down until her golden hair mingled with his tawny mustache.
“My darling!” she murmured at his ear, “I know all this is my fault; but only get better—only get better—and we will give the world the go-by, and be happy our own way. If only I were your wife, that I might stay by you now! I am sure you would be well at once! and oh! my dearest, I want you so badly, and I have only you.”
It seemed as if these tender words penetrated to the very heart of his sleep, for he stirred slightly, and muttered a name in a yearning voice.
A light came over the woman’s face, and she smiled faintly, but sweetly, as she bent lower still, until her lips brushed Colonel Dacre’s feverish cheek. Then, as if scared by her own boldness, she rose quickly to her feet, and with one backward look toward the bed, darted to the door and disappeared, running straight into the arms of Mary, the chambermaid.
“What were you doing in that room?” inquired Mary, in a tone of just severity. “It’s no use me having my orders, and being responsible for carrying them out, if you are to interfere.”
A vivid blush mounted into the other’s beautiful face, but she answered, quite humbly:
“I wanted to see him so much. You won’t tell of me, will you?”
“Well,” answered Mary uncompromisingly, “if the doctor asks me I can’t lie, you know.”
“He will be sure not; why should he? And I have done no harm. Have you nobody you care for very much?”
It was Mary’s turn to blush now.