Part 12 (1/2)
”But I could tell you a pitiful case about another. Some time ago I nursed a gentleman whom love had laid on a sick-bed.”
”A gentleman! What! can they love as we do?” said Bella, bitterly.
”Not many of them; but this was an exception. But I don't know whether I ought to tell these secrets to so young a lady.”
”Oh, yes--please--what else is there in this world worth talking about?
Tell me about the poor man who could love as we can.”
The Sister seemed to hesitate, but at last decided to go on.
”Well, he was a man of the world, and he had not always been a good man; but he was trying to be. He had fallen in love with a young lady, and seen the beauty of virtue, and was going to marry her and lead a good life. But he was a man of honor, and there was a lady for whom he thought it was his duty to provide. He set his lawyer to draw a deed, and his lawyer appointed a day for signing it at her house. The poor man came because his lawyer told him. Do you think there was any great harm in that?”
”No; of course not.”
”Well, then, he lost his love for that.”
Miss Bruce's color began to come and go, and her supple figure to crouch a little. She said nothing.
The Sister continued: ”Some malicious person went and told the young lady's father the gentleman was in the habit of visiting that lady, and would be with her at a certain hour. And so he was; but it was the lawyer's appointment, you know. You seem agitated.”
”No, no; not agitated,” said Bella, ”but astonished; it is so like a story I know. A young lady, a friend of mine, had an anonymous letter, telling her that one she loved and esteemed was unworthy. But what you have told me shows me how deceitful appearances may be. What was your patient's name?”
”It is against our rules to tell that. But you said an 'anonymous letter.' Was your friend so weak as to believe an anonymous letter? The writer of such a letter is a coward, and a coward always is a liar.
Show me your friend's anonymous letter. I may, perhaps, be able to throw a light on it.”
The conversation was interrupted by Admiral Bruce, who had approached them un.o.bserved. ”Excuse me,” said he, ”but you ladies seem to have hit upon a very interesting theme.”
”Yes, papa,” said Bella. ”I took the liberty to question this lady as to her experiences of sick-beds, and she was good enough to give me some of them.”
Having uttered this with a sudden appearance of calmness that first amazed the Sister, then made her smile, she took her father's arm, bowed politely, and a little stiffly, to her new friend, and drew the admiral away.
”Oh!” thought the Sister. ”I am not to speak to the old gentleman. He is not in her confidence. Yet she is very fond of him. How she hangs on his arm! Simplicity! Candor! We are all tarred with the same stick--we women.”
That night Bella was a changed girl--exalted and depressed by turns, and with no visible reason.
Her father was pleased. Anything better than that deadly languor.
The next day Bella sat by her father's side in the square, longing to go to the Sister, yet patiently waiting to be ordered.
At last the admiral, finding her dull and listless, said, ”Why don't you go and talk to the Sister? She amuses you. I'll join you when I have smoked this cigar.”
The obedient Bella rose, and went toward the Sister as if compelled.
But when she got to her her whole manner changed. She took her warmly by the hand, and said, trembling and blus.h.i.+ng, and all on fire, ”I have brought you the anonymous letter.”
The elder actress took it and ran her eye over it--an eye that now sparkled like a diamond. ”Humph!” said she, and flung off all the dulcet tones of her a.s.sumed character with mighty little ceremony.
”This hand is disguised a little, but I think I know it. I am sure I do! The dirty little rascal!”
”Madam!” cried Bella, aghast with surprise at this language.