Beatrice did not hear it. Brandon did, and turned his face. Potts stood before them.
“Mr. Potts!” said he, as he still held Beatrice close to his heart, “this poor young lady is in wretched health. She nearly fainted. I had to almost carry her to the window. Will you be good enough to open it, so as to give her some air? Is she subject to these faints? Poor child!” he said; “the air of this place ought surely to do you good. I sympathize with you most deeply, Mr. Potts.”
“She’s sickly—that’s a fact,” said Potts. “I’m very sorry that you have had so much trouble—I hope you’ll excuse me. I only thought that she’d entertain you, for she’s very clever. Has all the accomplishments—”
“Perhaps you’d better call some one to take care of her,” interrupted Brandon.
“Oh, I’ll fetch some one. I’m sorry it happened so. I hope you won’t blame me, Sir,” said Potts, humbly, and he hurried out of the room.
Beatrice had not moved. She heard Brandon speak to some one, and at first gave herself up for lost, but in an instant she understood the full meaning of his words. To his admirable presence of mind she added her own. She did not move, but allowed her head to rest where it was, feeling a delicious joy in the thought that Potts was looking on and was utterly deceived. When he left to call a servant she raised her head and gave Brandon a last look expressive of her deathless, her unutterable love. Again and again he pressed her to his heart. Then the noise of servants coming in roused him. He gently placed her on a sofa, and supported her with a grave and solemn face.
“Here, Mrs. Compton. Take charge of her,” said Potts. “She’s been trying to faint.”
Mrs. Compton came up, and kneeling down kissed Beatrice’s hands. She said nothing.
“Oughtn’t she to have a doctor?” said Brandon.
“Oh no—she’ll get over it. Take her to her room, Mrs. Compton.”