She was not admitted to his room until nearly a week after the accident, for, although he had not been seriously injured, he had received a rather severe shock, and it was thought advisable to keep him quiet as a matter of precaution. When she did see him at last, lying on a sofa in a dressing-gown, and with his head and face as we have described, his appearance did not call to her remembrance the faintest resemblance to the confused, wild, and altogether incomprehensible youth, who had tumbled her over in the streets of London, and almost run her down in the Eagle Pass.
Of course Barret feared that she would recognise him, and had been greatly exercised as to his precise duty in the circumstances; but when he found that she did not recognise either his face or his voice, he felt uncertain whether it would not be, perhaps, better to say nothing at all about the matter in the meantime. Indeed, the grateful old lady gave him no time to make a “clean breast of it,” as he had at first intended to do.
“Oh! Mr Barret,” she exclaimed, sitting down beside him, and laying her hand lightly on his arm, while the laird sat down on another chair and looked on benignly, “I cannot tell you how thankful I am that you have not been killed, and how very grateful I am to you for all your bravery in saving my darling Milly’s life. Now, don’t say a word about disclaiming credit, as I know you are going to do—”
“But, dear madam,” interrupted the invalid, “allow me to explain. I cannot bear to deceive you, or to sail under false colours—”
“Sail under false colours! Explain!” repeated Mrs Moss, quickly. “What nonsense do you talk? Has not my daughter explained, and she is not given to colouring things falsely.”
“Excuse me, Mrs Moss,” said Barret; “I did not mean that. I only—”
“I don’t care what you mean, Mr Barret,” said the positive little woman; “it’s of no use your denying that you have behaved in a noble, courageous manner, and I won’t listen to anything to the contrary; so you need not interrupt me. Besides, I have been told not to allow you to speak much; so, sir, if I am to remain beside you at all, I must impose silence.”
Barret sank back on his couch with a sigh, and resigned himself to his fate.
So much for the mother. Later in the same day the daughter sat beside his couch. The laird was not present on that occasion. They were alone.
“Milly,” said the invalid, taking her small hand in his, “have you mentioned it yet to your mother?”