Lucette felt very sorry for the poor soldiers; for hers was a very kindly and tender heart. Edward gave them a passing "Poor fellows!" and at his heart wished he had not made them so drunk. But still, as a man's mind is always a more business sort of article than a woman's, he argued from the premises that all chances of further pursuit and detention were at an end; and thus, though the troopers were to be pitied, their removal from this scene of care was no misfortune to him.
Now, all this shows, or may be supposed to show, that Master Ned was not of a very sensitive or sentimental disposition. In truth, dear reader, it only shows that he had mingled a good deal more with the world than most lads of his age, and that time and storms had hardened the outer shell. There was much that was soft within,—not about the head, but at the heart. That very night proved it; for Lucette, after having been somewhat languid all day, was suddenly seized about seven o'clock with a violent fit of shivering, and Edward had to behold the marsh-fever in all its horrors. Good old Madame Brin took upon herself to be physician: indeed, there was no other within thirty miles, except the barber at Fontenay le Comte; and he could not be got at. The eldest daughter was to be head nurse; but Lucette had another and a good one. She had nursed Edward through a severe illness, and he was resolved to nurse her in return. Happily, they were good, simple people there, and had no false notions of proprieties and decorums, so that Edward had his own way; and it was very sweet to poor Lucette to take her tisanes of écorce de chêne and thyme-flowers from his hand, and to gaze into his eyes as he bent over her and drink in a better medicine from his looks than any up to that time discovered,—or since, to say the truth.
Then, again, the household was a cheerful household. Though they lived in the midst of swamps and ponds and canals, like a family of frogs, there was nothing cold or chilly about them. Madame Brin had had the fever twice herself, she said: all her children had had it. She would soon get the dear little girl well; and a shake or two they thought nothing of in their country. Her poor dead husband had had hundreds of them, and died, drowned, at sixty and upward. The eldest girl and the young one, too, were also all kind cheerfulness; and Edward, who was certainly the most melancholy and apprehensive of the party, took care to hide that such was the case whenever he was in Lucette's room. When he was unwillingly away, his thoughts were very heavy; for, though it must be confessed they rested principally on his fair young companion, yet they would often turn to other subjects of care. Leave her amongst perfect strangers he could not,—he would not; but when he considered that he had lost valuable letters, much money, much time still more valuable, and asked himself whether he should still find Lord Montagu at the place of rendezvous, where he should find him, what secrets might not have been revealed to the enemy by his losses, how much he himself might be compromised and his passage through France endangered by the discoveries which probably had been made, there appeared a very tolerable bundle of cares for one young pair of shoulders to carry.
Nevertheless, good nursing, and that skill which is given by experience, did their usual services to poor Lucette. The fits of fever were retarded, lessened, ceased; and at the end of a fortnight she could sit at the door in the sunshine and look out. Often would she now gaze up at Edward; and at length she summoned courage to ask, in English, "Is it not time we should go forward?"
It did require a great effort of courage to put that question, for, what between weakness and some other sensations, Lucette had got into a frame of mind which would have made it even pleasant for her to remain there in the Marais all her life,—if Edward Langdale had remained with her.
There is always a good effect produced by looking difficulties and unpleasant things of all sorts in the face. We either discover some mode of getting rid of them, or else we learn to endure them. Very soon Edward and Lucette talked composedly over their future plans; and both agreed, with a sigh, that to proceed upon their journey as soon as she had recovered sufficient strength was unavoidable. They might both, perchance, have dreamed, and their dreams might have been somewhat wild; but with calm thought the sense of serious reality returned, and they felt that they must soon proceed together to part very soon.
"And when shall we meet again, Edward?" said Lucette, in a low voice.
Edward laid his hand upon hers, saying, sadly, "God only knows, Lucette. But I know and am sure we shall meet again. Till then, let us never part in heart. We cannot forget each other after all that has passed; and, oh, let the memory be as dear to you as it is to me, so that, when we do meet, it may be with the same feelings we now experience."
Lucette bent down her eyes, and there was a tear in them; but that tear seemed to Edward Langdale a promise.