For a moment she saw only the pretty, innocent face lying white and pale upon the pillow; then as she entered she saw, in the flickering of the solitary candle, a tall figure bending over the bed.
It moved as she entered, and, turning, presented the face of Mr. Faradeane.
For a moment the two, girl and man, looked at each other, and she saw in that moment that the face was paler even than when she had seen it in the afternoon, and that there was a blood-red mark across the left temple. Alford stood by—stupefied and useless.
She drew near the bed, and went down on her knees beside the unconscious girl, and was about to murmur her name when she felt a hand upon her arm, and a voice said in low accents of command.
“Don’t speak to her, please.”
Olivia looked into the grave, handsome face with a meekness utterly novel and strange to her.
“Can I—can I do anything?” she whispered. “Poor Bessie!”
“Yes,” he said in the same low, calm tone. “Get me some cold water.”
She glided to the water-jug, and poured some out for him, and watched him in a frenzy of anxiety as he bathed the girl’s white forehead.
But, great as was her anxiety and excitement, she noticed—and remembered long afterward—how gently and pityingly he did his work. He, the woman-hater!