For several days De Laprade hovered between life and death, apparently conscious and that was all. Dorothy hardly left his bedside night or day, attending upon him with sedulous care and devotion. Seeing that she was about to give way under the strain, Saunderson took affairs into his own hands and forbade her the room altogether. While she had been in the sick chamber De Laprade had used to follow her with his eyes--eyes in which there was little sign of intelligence--but now that she came no more, he sank into a deep and deathlike lethargy from which he seldom awakened. Whether for Dorothy′s sake or from the nature of the case, Saunderson gave up much of his time to the wounded Viscount, and invariably reported his patient′s progress to the anxious girl who was awaiting his departure from the sick chamber. So far from adopting the physician′s usual diplomacy, he had endeavoured to keep up her spirits from the beginning, assuring her that with skill and care, ill as he seemed, he would yet dance at her wedding.

“You will see,” he had said, with rough kindliness “there are twa bodies tha′ll no die lichtly--he that′s 246gain to be married and he that′s gain to be hangit; and when this braw callant hath had both prospects before him he′ll no leave us this gait. He should have been a corp three days syne by every rule of the faculty, but yon bit thing never touched his vitals after all. You′ll no greet your bonnie een out, Miss Carew, but just tak your rest and leave him to Providence and me.”

For Saunderson had come to the conclusion that the Vicomte was Dorothy′s lover, and that in some way or other, that was the cause of the quarrel in which he had been wounded. He had at first believed that Gervase had been the assailant, but Dorothy had undeceived him on that head; but on the other she had remained entirely silent and made no effort to remove his misunderstanding. She had, however, seen, or thought she had seen, through the friendly deception of the surgeon, and when she had been closed out of the sick room she had believed the end was approaching. She had not understood, though she had guessed, the nature of the tragedy that had been enacted between her brother and her cousin; and though she was not aware of all the circumstances she had come to think she owed the Vicomte a great debt. She had remembered every word of their brief conversation an hour or two before the brawl, and knowing his high sense of honour, she had laid the blame entirely on her brother. All that was passing without seemed like a dream now--only the death chamber was real to her and this tragedy with its deep and indelible 247stain of guilt. She had felt that she was grieved for the wretches who had been driven to starve under the walls, and she felt rejoiced when she heard that De Rosen had relented, but she felt also that she had not realized the news. It seemed wholly remote. This domestic tragedy, so near and so terrible, entirely filled her mind with its abiding horror. She felt there was no sacrifice she would not willingly make to avert this calamity, and each day she waited with a suspense that was intolerable for the coming of the surgeon from the sick room. Even Jasper′s treachery had passed into the background in the presence of this new and more appalling crime. Gervase Orme had called every day but she had refused to see him, for though she yearned for sympathy in her distress her pride compelled her to nurse her sorrow in secret. Jasper came and went with perfect sang froid; he seemed to be the only person in the household to whom the wounded man′s condition was a matter of indifference.

So the days went past and there seemed to be little or no change in the Vicomte′s condition. But at length he recovered perfect consciousness and asked eagerly for Dorothy. It was indeed his first question after he recovered speech. Saunderson was in the room and seated by his patient′s side feeling his thin and languid pulse, when De Laprade suddenly looked at him with an eager and questioning gaze. The change was so sudden that the surgeon was startled. “I saw Dorothy--Miss 248Carew--but now,” said the Vicomte. “Where is she?”

“She′ll no be long, my friend; just keep yourself cool and ye′ll see her the now. That′s a good laddie.”

“I have little time to spare and I must see her before I die.”

“Ye′ll no die this time. Ye′ll scratch grey hairs yet, if ye keep yersel′ blate and dinna fash without reason.”

“You′re a good fellow,” said De Laprade, with a faint smile on his thin, wasted face, “I think I have seen you here in the room with me for months, but I will not trouble you much longer. Now bring Miss Carew here and complete your kindness.”

“Ye must not excite yoursel′ in that fashion. Ye have been ower long in coming round, and we maun keep ye here when we hae you. Now drink this like a good laddie, and I’ll even fetch her mysel’.”

He poured out a draught and held it to the Vicomte′s lips, who drank it obediently. Saunderson believed that the crisis had come and though he hoped that he was wrong for Dorothy′s sake, had come to the conclusion that this was the last feeble flicker of consciousness in his patient before the end. As he left the room De Laprade followed him with the same eager gaze. He found Dorothy in the corridor and told her what had happened. “And now,” he said, “ye′ll just keep him quiet 249and humour him like a baby. Let him gang his ain gait and say ‘Ay′ to all his clavers. I′d rather you were elsewhere, but he′ll no bide till he has seen you.”

It was with a heavy heart that Dorothy entered the sick room. There was something in the surgeon′s manner that told her she must hope no longer; and as she saw De Laprade lying with the deathlike pallor on his wasted face and the eager famished look in his dark eyes she thought that he was dying. She went over noiselessly to the bed and sat down beside him, laying her hand on the coverlet. Neither of them spoke, and it was with an heroic effort that she restrained her tears. Then De Laprade took her hand in his and a look of contentment lighted up his dark face. She wondered to herself at the change that had taken place in so short a time. There was something almost boyish in the face that was turned toward her.

“I am starting on a long journey, my cousin,” he said, “and I would see you before I go. You will not think unkindly of me when----”

She could make no answer but only bent over his hand to hide the tears that were welling to her eyes, though she strove to repress them.

“This is a fit end for me,” he went on, “but, believe me, I tried to keep my promise toward your brother; he did not understand and----”

“You must say no more,” said Dorothy; “I never doubted of your faith and honour. You will yet live to know that I trust you.”

250“Too late, too late!” he said, sorrowfully. “Why should I live? I have had my chance and wasted it. In all the world there is no one who will regret me but yourself, and you will forget me when--it is but right you should. Victor De Laprade--a stranger--that is all, and I deserve no better.”

“I will never forget you,” she said, touched beyond expression by the pathos of his speech; “you must not think such thoughts; you will yet live to smile at them.”

“Why should I live for whom there is no room and no need? I have wasted my life. As I lay here I have lived it all again, and seen its folly. You have helped me to see what I never saw before, and I could not go before I told you. Nay, it is best for me to die. It is not hard to say farewell with your hand in mine. I had hoped some day to tell you what I am going to speak, some day when I had shown myself not altogether unworthy, but I cannot wait for that now, and must say it here if it is ever to be spoken.”

She knew what he was about to say; full of pity she did not withdraw her hand, but continued to hold his in her own. At that moment she almost felt she loved the man who looked at her with such fervent longing in his eyes.

“I have come to love you, my cousin, with such love as I never felt or dreamed of before--a love that makes me ashamed of my life, and desire to forget the past and all its follies. That love has taken the terror away from death. I do not think 251I should have made you happy. I had too much to forget. And you know you did not love me, Dorothy; as indeed why should you.”

“Indeed, I think I do,” she answered honestly, and lifted his hand to her lips with the tears in her eyes. “Oh! Victor, do not wrong yourself in speaking thus.”

“I am but a poor fellow, Dorothy,” he said slowly, “but if this is true I would not change my place with His Christian Majesty. In happier times you will remember me as one who loved you, and died content because he loved you.”

“You will not die, but live to let me help you to forget the past. There is no sacrifice I would not make to bring you happiness.”

“I would not let you sacrifice your life for me, my cousin.”

“Nay, I did not mean that. I am but a weak and thoughtless girl and cannot say all that I would, but I love no other, and--and I think I love you dearly.”

She could not have imagined before she came into the room that she would have spoken these words, but the pitiable sight of this wrecked and wasted life filled her with a great flood of compassion, and she spoke almost without thinking of the meaning of her words. Then she bent over and pressed her lips to his forehead. His pallid cheeks flushed a little; the act was so spontaneous and so foreign to her manner, that it carried to his heart the............