“I am known as Sister Cecilia. God will bless you for your kindness to me, and—”
“There, there, you are not well enough to talk,” interrupted Annie, with good-humoured brusqueness, as she hurried away to prepare for her errand.
Of a certainty the sufferer could have been left in no better hands, and just then such a work of mercy was doubly grateful to Lilian, whose own hopes had been so miraculously fulfilled. Her charge having sunk into a deep, refreshing sleep, Lilian moved noiselessly to a seat in the window, and there, with her eyes fixed upon the outside world, she let her busy thoughts have free scope. Something in the stillness of the day took her memory back to that fatal afternoon when Truscott had come in and dashed the cup of happiness from her lips. She remembered the terrible shock the discovery of his reappearance had been, and then the ruthless manner in which he had seared her heartstrings as with a red-hot iron, and a reaction overtook her. If there was anything in his knowledge, why, his terrible threats were all-powerful for evil still. Yet her lover’s life was safe for the present. He had been snatched almost miraculously from the cruel hands of his savage enemies. Let her be thankful for that, at any rate. Perhaps Heaven might be even yet more merciful to her—to them both—and the other dark mystery might be cleared up. Ah, that only it would!
For a couple of hours her reverie had run on, when a sudden ejaculation and a few words, muttered hurriedly in a foreign language sounding like Spanish or Italian, recalled her.
“Are you feeling better, Sister?” she began, softly, rising at once, and going over to her charge.
The latter hardly seemed to hear. With gaze set and rigid, her attention was fixed on something opposite the bed, and Lilian noticed that her lips were livid and trembling.
“Who is that?” she gasped. “Am I dreaming? What is he—to you?”
Lilian’s face flushed softly, as she followed the other’s glance. It was riveted on two lifelike cabinet portraits of her lover, which stood framed upon the table.
“What is Lidwell to you?” went on the sufferer, half raising herself, while her burning eyes sought Lilian’s with a feverish glow. “Ah, I see—I need not ask. But where is he? Here? No—not here!”
It was now Lilian’s turn to grow deathly pale. She pressed her hand to her heart to still its beatings, and felt as if she must faint. Lidwell! Only once before had she heard that name—only from one other. Who was this woman, and what did she know? There must be truth in Truscott’s sinister allegations, then. Better to know the whole truth, whatever it might he, than walk blindfold any longer. Her impulse found vent in a despairing cry.