I am seated by his side, Ivanka is sitting opposite, near to the invalid’s feet, listening intently, if I may be allowed to say so, with her large black eyes, to a conversation which she cannot understand.
“You must not take so gloomy a view of your case, Nicholas. The doctors say you will recover, and, my good fellow, you have no idea what can be done by surgery in the way of putting a man together again after a break-down. Bella would be grieved beyond measure if I were to write as you wish.”
I spoke cheerily, more because I felt it to be a duty to do so, than because I had much hope.
The invalid paused for a few minutes as if to recover strength. Then he said—
“Jeff, I insist on your doing what I wish. It is unkind of you to drag me into a dispute when I am so weak. Tell the dear girl that I give her up—I release her from our engagement. It is likely that I shall die at any rate, which will settle the question, but if I do recover—why, just think, my dear fellow, I put it to you, what sort of husband should I make, with my ribs all smashed, my right leg cut off, my left hand destroyed, an eye gone, and my whole visage cut to pieces. No, Jeff—”
He paused; the light vein of humour which he had tried to assume passed off, and there was a twitching about the muscles of his mouth as he resumed—
“No, Bella must never see me again.”
Ivanka looked from the invalid’s face to mine with eyes so earnest, piercing, and inquiring, that I felt grieved she did not understand us.
“I’m sorry, Nicholas, very sorry,” said I, “but Bella has already been written to, and will certainly be here in a day or two. I could not know your state of mind on my first arrival, and, acting as I fancied for the best, I wrote to her.”
Nicholas moved uneasily, and I observed a deep flush on his face, but he did not speak.