‘So be it,’ replied Falkenberg, repressing an impatient sigh.
The note was written: the appointment made for an hour from that time. Leaving directions for what was necessary to be done at once, the doctor departed.
‘Sir,’ said Ellen, turning with some agitation to Falkenberg, ‘excuse me, but is it true what you said to the doctor, that my young lady had promised to marry you?’
‘Quite true. I wrung it from her last night, by telling her that she degraded herself by grieving for that other fellow. And if she lives, my friend, I intend her to be my wife; therefore don’t distress yourself on the subject. You will keep faith, and are her oldest friend, therefore I wish there to be confidence between us.’
‘Thank you, sir. I hope indeed you may succeed. I wish you well with all my heart,’ she said.
The two doctors looked very grave. It was as Ellen had dreaded–they feared for the permanent loss of her reason, after the long, unendurable strain, and the cruel blow she had had. Falkenberg, without naming names, inspired only by an intense desire for her recovery, had judged it best to be tolerably explicit as to facts. One of the doctors–he named Moritz–looked down at the unconscious face, remarking:
‘Ay! She has been betrayed, and there are natures to which betrayal is death.’
‘But Miss Sara was never one to give way,’ said Ellen, appealingly. ‘She was as strong as a man, sir, and as simple as a child, in her mind.’
‘Then she stands so much the better chance. From what you say I conclude she was not a morbid subject,’ he answered, as he went away.