“On the contrary,” I answered. I liked Miss Althorpe so much and agreed with her so thoroughly in her opinion of this man, that it was a real pleasure to me to hear her speak so unreservedly.
“We are not a foolish couple,” she went on, warming with the charm of her topic till she looked beautiful in the half light thrown upon her by the shaded lamp. “We are interested in people and things, and get half our delight from the perfect congeniality of our natures. Mr. Stone has given up his club and all his bachelor pursuits since he knew me, and—”
O love, if at any time in my life I have despised thee, I did not despise thee then! The look with which she finished this sentence would have moved a cynic.
“Forgive me,” she prayed. “It is the first time I have poured out my heart to any one of my own sex. It must sound strange to you, but it seemed natural while I was doing it, for you looked as if you could understand.”
This to me, to me, Amelia Butterworth, of whom men have said I had no more sentiment than a wooden image. I looked my appreciation, and she, blushing slightly, whispered in a delicious tone of mingled shyness and pride:
“Only two weeks now, and I shall have someone to stand between me and the world. You have never needed any one, Miss Butterworth, for you do not fear the world, but it awes and troubles me, and my whole heart glows with the thought that I shall be no longer alone in my sorrows or my joys, my perplexities or my doubts. Am I to blame for anticipating this with so much happiness?”
I sighed. It was a less eloquent sigh than hers, but it was a distinct one and it had a distinct echo. Lifting my eyes, for I sat so as to face the bed, I was startled to observe my patient leaning towards us from her pillows, and staring upon us with eyes too hollow for tears but filled with unfathomable grief and yearning.
She had heard this talk of love, she, the forsaken and crime-stained one. I shuddered and laid my hand on Miss Althorpe’s.
But I did not seek to stop the conversation, for as our looks met, the sick woman fell back and lapsed, or seemed to lapse, into immediate insensibility again.
“Is Miss Oliver worse?” inquired Miss Althorpe.
I rose and went to the bedside, renewed the bandages on my patient’s head, and forced a drop or two of medicine between her half-shut lips.
“No,” I returned, “I think her fever is abating.” And it was, though the suffering on her face was yet heart-rendingly apparent.
“Is she asleep?”
“She seems to be.”
Miss Althorpe made an effort.
“I am not going to talk any more about myself.” Then as I came back and sat down by her side, she quietly asked:
“What do you think of the Van Burnam murder?”
Dismayed at the introduction of this topic, I was about to put my hand over her mouth, when I noticed that her words had made no evident impression upon my patient, who lay quietly and with a more composed expression than when I left her bedside. This assured me, as nothing else could have done, that she was really asleep, or in that lethargic state which closes the eyes and ears to what is going on.
“I think,” said I, “that the young man Howard stands in a very unfortunate position. Circumstances certainly do look very black against him.”
“It is dreadful, unprecedently dreadful. I do not know what to think of it all. The Van Burnams have borne so good a name, and Franklin especially is held in such high esteem. I don’t think anything more shocking has ever happened in this city, do you, Miss Butterworth? You saw it all, and should know. Poor, poor Mrs. Van Burnam!”