“She is coming to—I see it now,” said old Hickman; “leave the room, Bob; quick, before she sees you.”
As O'Reilly gently disengaged his arm, which, in placing the fainting form on the sofa, was laid beneath her head, Lady Eleanor slowly opened her eyes, and fixed them upon him. O'Reilly suddenly became motionless; the calm and steady gaze seemed to have paralyzed him; he could not stir, he could not turn away his own eyes, but stood like one fascinated and spell-bound.
“Oh dear! oh dear!” muttered the old man; “she 'll know him now, and see it all.”
“Yes,” exclaimed Lady Eleanor, pushing back from her the officious bands that ministered about her. “Yes, sir, I do see it all! Oh, let me be thankful for the gleam of reason that has guided me in this dark hour. And you, too, do you be thankful that you have been spared from working such deep iniquity!”
As she spoke she arose, not a vestige of illness remaining, but a deep flush mantling in the cheek that, but a moment back, was deathly pale. “Farewell, sir. You had a brief triumph over the fears of a poor weak woman; but I forgive you, for you have armed her heart with a courage it never knew before.”
With these words she moved calmly towards the door, which O'Reilly in respectful silence held open; and then, descending the stairs with a firm step, left the house.
“Is she gone, Bob?” said the old man, faintly, as the door clapped heavily. “Is she gone?”
O'Reilly made no reply, but leaned his head on the chimney, and seemed lost in thought.
“I knew it would fail,” said Nalty in a whisper to O'Reilly.
“What 's that he 's saying, Bob?—what 's Nalty saying?”