“Don't think of her: give your mind to getting well: remember, there is somebody who would break her heart if you—”
“Oh, my poor Bella! my sweet, timid, modest, loving Bella!” He was so weakened that he cried like a child.
Miss Somerset rose, and laid her forehead sadly upon the window-sill.
“Why do I cry for her, like a great baby?” muttered Sir Charles. “She wouldn't cry for me. She has cast me off in a moment.”
“Not she. It is her father's doing. Have a little patience. The whole thing shall be explained to them; and then she will soon soften the old man. 'It is not as if you were really to blame.”
“No more I was. It is all that vile woman.”
“Oh, don't! She is so sorry; she has taken it all to heart. She had once shammed a fit, on the very place; and when you had a real fit there—on the very spot—oh, it was so fearful—and lay like one dead, she saw God's finger, and it touched her hard heart. Don't say anything more against her just now. She is trying so hard to be good. And, besides, it is all a mistake: she never told that old admiral; she never breathed a word out of her own house. Her own people have betrayed her and you. She has made me promise two things: to find out who told the admiral, and—”
“Well?”
“The second thing I have to do—Well, that is a secret between me and that unhappy woman. She is bad enough, but not so heartless as you think.”
Sir Charles shook his head incredulously, but said no more; and soon after fell asleep.