“If I only knew!” he would groan in his anguish. “Did Bright Wing and Joe escape and return to Franklinton? If they did, have they told all they knew? And, thinking me dead, she may have married George Hilliard!”
Then, in his excitement, he would stride up and down the room, until he was in a state of nervous collapse and compelled to seek his bed, to lie fretting and planning until sleep came to his relief.
Bradford noticed that his patient was always worse after being left to himself for a short time, and shrewdly suspected the cause. He spoke to La Violette about the matter; and they decided that one or the other of them would be with Ross constantly.
As spring approached, the weather grew milder. On fine, warm days, Douglas and Duke—always accompanied by Bradford or La Violette—took short strolls through the village. But on wet, cold days, he was compelled to crouch by the fire in his miserable cabin, a prey to his own gloomy thoughts. It was on such occasions that La Violette came as a ministering angel to cheer and comfort him. She talked to him, sang to him, read to him—her heart upon her sleeve, her soul in her beautiful eyes. But he was blind—he saw nothing. To him she was a fair, lovable child—unused to the ways of the world. She talked to him; he heard only her words, and gave no heed to the tender inflection of her voice. She sang quaint little love ballads to him; he closed his eyes and listened dreamily to her bird-like notes—scarcely noticing the sentiment of the song. She read to him from two or three old French books, tales of love and chivalry; but he took the stories for what they were worth—and lost sight of the reader. He noticed her marked preference for his society; but thought only that she desired to amuse him—to be amused herself. He looked upon her and pronounced her very beautiful; he thoroughly enjoyed her society. He was interested in her, and wondered who and what she was. He respected her, pitied her, felt grateful for what she had done for him. He would have fought for her—died for her. But did he love her—did she love him? He never asked himself the questions. Perhaps he did not dare to do so—perhaps he was willfully blind. At any rate, he was true as steel to Amy Larkin.
One day when La Violette had been reading to him for some time, she stopped suddenly and, closing her book, remarked naïvely:
“You are not interested in what I have been reading. Do you want me to sing to you, or talk to you?”
“Talk to me, please.”
“Of what or whom?”
“Of yourself.”
“Of myself?”—in pleased surprise. It was the first time he had manifested so great an interest in her.