“All right, old fellow,” poor Bertie said, whenever Everard’s anxious face appeared; but when Reine and he were left alone, he panted forth abuse of himself and complaints of Providence. “Just as I thought I was all right—whenever I felt a little freedom, took a little liberty—”
“Oh, Bertie,” said Reine, “you know you should not have done it. Dear, don’t talk now, to make it worse. Lie still, and you’ll be better. Oh, Bertie! have patience, have patience, dear!”
“To look like a fool!” he gasped; “never good for anything. No—more—strength than a baby! and all those follows looking on.”
“Bertie, they are all very kind, they are all very sorry. Oh, how can you talk of looking like a fool?”
“I do,” he said; “and the girls, too!—weaker, weaker than any of them. Sorry! I don’t want them to be sorry; and old Farrel gloating over it. Oh, God! I can’t bear it—I can’t bear it, Reine.”
“Bertie, be still—do you hear me? This is weak, if you please; this is unlike a man. You have done too much, and overtired yourself. Is this a reason to give up heart, to abuse everybody, to blaspheme—”
“It is more—than being overtired,” he moaned; “feel my heart, how it goes!”
“Yes, it is a spasm,” said Reine, taking upon her a composure and confidence she did not feel. “You have had the same before. If you want to be better, don’t talk, oh, don’t talk, Bertie! Be still, be quite still!”
And thus she sat, with his hand in hers, softly fanning him; and half in exhaustion, half soothed by her words, he kept silent. Reine had harder work when the dinner was over, and Sophy and Kate fluttered into the room, to stand by the sofa, and worry him with questions.
“How are you now? Is your breathing easier? Are you better, Bertie? oh, say you are a little better! We can never, never forgive ourselves for keeping you out so late, and for letting you tire yourself so.”