“Your presence here, Mi—Mi—Mi—hang it, I may say Lotte to my sister’s dear friend, and I must. So let me tell you, Lotte, your coming will light up this dull, gloomy old place with sunshine. It is, indeed; welcome to me, and you will find how dear it will be to Flo’. Let me say also, Lotte, I quite understand the peculiarity of the position in which Nathan Gomer has placed you, but I am sure it is for the best he has done it; besides, you know he can do just what he pleases here. Let me further beg you to discard all fear of being ill at ease, for nothing shall be left untried to make you happy and contented, even to my scrupulously fulfilling the suggestion of Nathan Gomer.”
He released her hand as he concluded, tapped sharply at his sister’s room-door, and with a beaming smile of happiness, such as had not for some time illumined his face, he quitted her, and, hurrying along the corridor, returned to Nathan Gomer.
In one statement Nathan Gomer had been truthful. Flora Wilton was really very ill; her nerves had been shattered by the horrible event in which she had taken part, and by the sight of the ghastly face of her father, as he lay motionless in his bed on her return to Harleydale after her abduction. For a day or two she had contrived to devote herself to watching and waiting upon him, but when fever and delirium—the effects of his wound—exhibited themselves, her strength gave way, her nervous system was prostrated, and the physician attending her father insisted upon her not only keeping her room, but her bed, to prevent fatal consequences following her efforts to continue her self-imposed and natural office of nurse.
The chamber door was opened by Flora’s maid, who, without a word, admitted Lotte, assuming her to be a friend of her young mistress, and the latter walked up to the bedside to announce herself.
She could not forget in doing so that night when, rescued from the commission of a great crime, Hal Vivian presented her to Flora. She was not likely to forget her reception then, still she was not prepared for the cry of delight that Flora uttered when her feeble eyes rested on her face; still less did she look for the passionate action with which Flora flung her arms about her neck and kissed her many times. She had some difficulty in preserving her composure, and exerted herself to calm down Flora’s excitement and soothe her emotion. When the maid, intuitively comprehending that her absence would be desirable, retired, Lotte sought to elicit an explanation of this display of joy at her appearance. The more striking it was to her, as she expected only to be welcomed with a quiet courtesy, tempered by the reserve which did not acknowledge an equality of position between them.
To find herself so pleasantly in error was agreeable enough, but she needed, nevertheless, a cause for conduct at least improbable; and which, in the circumstances in which she was placed, she could hardly help looking at as a little more extravagant than the occasion warranted—grateful, so very grateful as she was for it.
She had yet to understand Flora’s actual position; and when she did so, her wonder at her reception was considerably modified. Flora had not one friend of her own sex. When old Wilton came to Harleydale, it did not occur to him to invite to his new home the gentry of the vicinity. He preferred seclusion; Flora thus had not even a female acquaintance. The events by which she had been rapidly surrounded were all of a character to render communion with a female friend all but imperative: one in whom she could confide, with whom she could consult, became in her isolation a want necessary to her present happiness.
With each succeeding phase of circumstances her need grew greater, and never did she feel more keenly, than at the moment when Lotte arrived, the desolation of having no ear in which to pour her sorrows, no gentle eye to beam with sympathy upon her sadness, no tender voice to guide her in the path she ought to take.
Of all the world, Lotte Clinton was the being she would have selected to fill up the void. Of all faces in the world to shine upon her now in her tribulation, Lotte Clinton’s was the most welcome. She knew Lotte’s kindly nature, and she knew her self-reliance. She knew that she loved, and that a cloud had settled on that love. She had faith in her pure, bright spirit; in its independence, in her clear sense of rectitude, and in that unwavering resolve which would maintain her in acting up to its dictates.
Here was a mind to direct hers, a soul to sympathise with her, and a breast which she could safely make the repository of her secrets.