"What is his name?" at length I asked.
The question seemed to quiet her. She looked at me, and then down; and then again at me.
Once or twice she had mentioned a brother whom she loved very much, and who was one of her great anxieties. Was this wounded man he? If not, was he a lover? This latter could hardly be; for she had once, after a long, laughing fencing with my close questions, told me suddenly, quite gravely, "I have no lover, and no admirer, except one whom I despise and dislike as much as I can any one on earth." It was very possible that her brother was in debt, or in some other trouble that made her, for the present, object to disclose anything about him. I thought she was going to tell me a great deal now—but I was disappointed. I was again put off; but I knew she spoke truth, for she was the truest person I ever met, when she said that she longed to tell me all her story, and that the time would soon come when she could. But now, poor thing! she was, in spite of all I could say, in a state, very nearly, of distraction. She never was coherent, except when, in answer to her constantly repeated questioning, I again and again described the appearance of the wounded man, which each time seemed to satisfy her on the point of identity, but without preventing her from renewing her inquiries with increasing detail.
That evening passed miserably enough for us both. Doctor Mervyn, on his way to his patient, looked in upon us early next morning, intent on learning all he could from me about the circumstances of the discovery of his patient. I had been too well drilled by prudent Rebecca Torkill, to volunteer any information respecting the unexpected appearance of Mr. Marston so suspiciously near the scene of the occurrence. I described, therefore, simply the spectacle presented by the wounded man, on my lighting upon him in the wood, and his removal to the farm-house of Plas Ylwd.
"It's all very fine, saying it was a accident," said the doctor, with a knowing nod and a smile. "Accident, indeed! If it was, why should he refuse to say who had a hand in the accident, besides himself? But there's no need to make a secret of the matter, for unless something unexpected should occur, he must, in the ordinary course of things, be well in little more than a week. It's an odd wound. The ball struck the collar bone and broke it, glancing upward. If it had penetrated obliquely downward instead, it might have killed him on the spot."
"Do you know his name?" I inquired.
"No; he's very reserved; fellows in his situation often are; they don't like figuring in the papers, you understand; or being bound over to be of good behaviour; or, possibly, prosecuted. But no trouble will come of this; and he'll be on his legs again in a very few days."
With this re-assuring news the doctor left us. Miss Grey was relieved. One thing seemed pretty certain; and that was that the guilty and victorious duellist would not venture to appear in our part of the world for some time to come.
"Will you come with me to-day, to ask how he gets on?" I said to Laura as soon as the doctor was gone.
"No, I can't do that; but it would be very kind of you: that is, if you have no objection."