CHAPTER XXII.

AN APPALLING DISCOVERY.

Meantime, Mr. Tillinghast had been steadily gaining, and when all fear of any further danger from the scourge was past, Dr. Winthrop arranged that he should come out to the villa to spend a week or two, to gain a little more strength, after which he contemplated sending him to some healthful resort with the other invalids who were now rapidly convalescing.

They were all sitting together one evening, talking of the terrible epidemic, whose force was gradually becoming exhausted, and of the wonderful escape which they, as a family, had had, when Madame Winthrop feelingly remarked:

“I suppose very few have had the care which we have received; that old maid, Harriet, was a treasure of a nurse while Sister Angela was a perfect wonder. She seemed to know by instinct just the right thing to do. I do not believe she made a single mistake while she was here.”

“The ‘Angel in Gray,’” murmured Mr. Tillinghast, a look of reverence sweeping over his still thin face, and then he told them how she had been beloved in the hospital, and why she had been called so.

They were all enthusiastic in their praises—all save Dr. Winthrop, who had been lying wearily back in his chair, evidently too inert and indifferent to join in any conversation.

He could not seem to recover his normal strength and vigor, after the strain of those terrible weeks, and his friends were very anxious about him; yet not more so than usual upon this particular evening, and no one thought it strange when, after a while, he arose and quietly passed out of the room.

His friend, Tillinghast, however, thinking he might have gone out for a smoke, followed him after a few moments, and found him in the dining-room mixing something in a tumbler.

“Thirsty, True?” he began, then suddenly catching sight of his ghastly face, he exclaimed, “Good heavens, Winthrop! what ails you?”

“I am afraid my turn has come at last,” Dr. Winthrop replied, as he swallowed the potion of brandy at one gulp. “I have felt some pain all the afternoon and have been treating myself; but, in spite of all, I believe the disease has a grip on me.”

“Cholera?” gasped his friend, a look of terror on his face.

“Yes, and no light attack, either.”

A spasm of agony convulsed his features as he spoke, and he sank weakly upon the nearest chair.

“What shall I do for you, True?” his companion asked. “We must not delay—man! man! tell me—what shall I do?”

This last appeal was made in great alarm, as Dr. Winthrop seemed on the verge of losing consciousness.

“Send some one for Sister Angela at once, then get me to bed as soon as possible, with hot bottles and blankets,” the young physician feebly directed.

The whole household was aroused immediately, and everybody was greatly frightened, for Dr. Winthrop seemed to be their mainstay and bulwark of defense.

But he continued to grow rapidly and alarmingly worse, and by the time Sister Angela arrived with a skilful physician, whom she had called upon her own responsibility, he was almost in a state of insensibility.

It was fortunate for the gentle nun that she had had ample time to rest and recruit her strength before having to meet this fresh ordeal, for Dr. Winthrop was a very sick man, and Mr. Tillinghast regretted that he had not tried to secure the services of a strong man as nurse, instead of this apparently frail woman.

He proposed, the morning after her arrival, going for one.

“No,” she returned, with quiet resolution: “I can do better for him than any man, if you will help me when he needs to be moved or lifted.”

The poor man now had to reap the results of the terrible strain through which he had so recently passed, for he went alarmingly near the borders of the other world. He was delirious most of the time, and talked almost incessantly of Sister Angela and some one else, whom he called his “darling;” though his mutterings were so indistinct and incoherent that they could not make much sense of what he said.

“To whom does he refer?” Sister Angela asked of his mother one day, when he called more than usual for his “darling.”

Madame Winthrop flushed at the question, for she well knew to whom he referred, and her conscience had been busy with its upbraidings as she listened to her son’s ravings.

But of course she was not going to tell family secrets to a stranger, and so evaded a direct reply.

“He is betrothed to Miss Rochester,” she said, briefly.

The cup from which Sister Angela had been feeding her patient slipped from her fingers just then, but fortunately it dropped upon a hassock and made no noise.

“Miss Sadie Rochester, the young lady whom the other nurse took care of when you were here before,” she explained.

“Miss Sadie Rochester!” repeated the nun.

“Yes; did not the nurse tell you her name?” asked madam.

“No; I have scarcely seen her since; she was called away elsewhere,” murmured Sister Angela.

“Are you ill, sister?” madam inquired a moment later, as she noticed that she pressed her hand to her side as if in sudden pain.

“No; it was only a sudden pain; it will soon pass,” she explained.

“You must be careful; you must not neglect yourself,” returned madam, kindly; “for I do not know what we should do without you. Oh, save my son! he is my idol! It would kill me to lose him. Save him, and I shall bless you all the days of my life!” and the woman, still somewhat weak from her own recent illness, wept and broke down utterly as she looked upon the unconscious sufferer.

The nun did not reply for a moment, then lifting her clasped hands, which were locked in a viselike grip, to her bosom, she said, brokenly:

“God rules! I know not if he can live; but, if human care can avail, he—shall not die!”

Madam thought her very sympathetic, and then after asking if she needed anything for her comfort, went away to her own room for the night.

The door had scarcely closed behind her when Sister Angela sank upon her knees beside the bed and buried her face in her hands, while convulsive, yet low sobs shook her slight form from head to foot.

She was so absorbed in the emotion that had overcome her that she was oblivious of all else, until, all at once, she felt a touch upon her head, and a feeble voice murmured: “My darling! my darling!”

A quiver ran over her frame; she lifted her face and gazed upon her patient.

But he did not appear to be conscious of her presence; his eyes were partially unclosed and he seemed to be looking off into vacancy, as if he saw some one beyond her.

His hand had slipped from her head, as she raised it, and now lay upon the bed before her. As if seized with some sudden impulse, which she could not control, she leaned forward and pressed her lips passionately upon it, a pitiful sob bursting from them as she did so.

It was a strange—a very strange thing for a Sister of Mercy to do; but there was no eye to see the act, and even her charge himself did not notice it.

She soon recovered herself, however, and arose from her kneeling position, murmuring:

“God is merciful, He will not let him die.”

A little later, while she was feeding him, she heard the door behind her softly open again, and turning she saw a white robed figure standing in the aperture.

She stood as if paralyzed a moment; then a low, startled exclamation broke from her.

“Hush!” said the intruder, holding up a warning hand. “I do not wonder you are startled, for I suppose I look like a ghost, but I could not sleep without knowing just how he is to-night.”

The nurse turned back to the bedside, as Miss Rochester advanced into the room, noiselessly closing the door after her, and then came and stood beside the man, whose wife she coveted to be, but who lay very near death at that moment.

“What do you think of him?” she asked, trying in vain to get a view of the nun’s averted face.

“No better—no worse,” she briefly replied, in a muffled tone.

“Thank Heaven he is no worse!” the girl said, with a sigh. “Do you think he can possibly rally?”

“I—hope so; he has a strong constitution.”

“You will do your best, I know,” Miss Rochester said, earnestly; “you have done your best through all our trouble here. I have heard of your wonderful faithfulness and powers of endurance, and I have longed to see you. I suppose it is not just proper for me to come here to-night—mamma would scold if she knew it; but I had to come to see for myself just how he is. How dreadful he looks!—how pinched and ghastly his face!—how thin and white his hands! I—I suppose you know that I—expect to be his—wife—if he lives,” she concluded, with a conscious glance toward the nun, as if she thought this apology for her presence was necessary.

Sister Angela made no reply; but Miss Rochester thought she saw her shiver, and a flush dyed her cheek.

“I suppose it sounds strangely to you to hear me speak of marriage with one who seems so near death,” she said; “but I thought you ought to know why I came, and it is natural that I should be anxious.”

Then regarding her companion more closely, she asked, curiously:

“What is the matter with your eyes, sister? Why do you wear those queer double spectacles?”

“Hush! Mademoiselle must not remain longer—it will disturb monsieur, if we talk,” the nurse returned, without looking at her, and ignoring her question; “besides, mademoiselle will take cold, and be in danger of another attack herself.”

And walking quietly to the door, she opened it, and waited for the girl to pass out.

Miss Rochester dared not disobey this unmistakable dismissal, and after bestowing one more look upon the unconscious sufferer, she went softly out, whispering, with an appealing glance:

“Save him, I beseech you, Sister, and I shall be eternally grateful; you little know how much depends upon his life.”

“My darling—my darling,” murmured the invalid, stirring uneasily upon his pillow.

Hastily closing the door upon the unceremonious intruder, Sister Angela flew back to her post by the bed, but with face and lips white as the spotless bandage about her brow, and shivering as with the ague.

The next day there was a slight improvement in Dr. Winthrop’s condition, then the symptoms were discouraging; after that the crisis came, was passed, and then there was a perceptible gain.

A week later he was improving rapidly—another passed and he was able to sit up; then seeing how worn and thin his mother and Evelyn were again looking, from the anxiety which they had suffered upon his account, he insisted that they should go to some watering-place to recuperate for a few weeks.

Mrs. Rochester, who alone, with the exception of Norman Winthrop, had escaped the terrible scourge, said she would remain and direct the household until they were able to return.

She tried to persuade her daughter to accompany them, but Miss Rochester, feeling that the period of convalescence might prove to be an impressionable one with Dr. Winthrop, refused to go, and fondly hoped that the next two or three weeks would decide her destiny beyond all question.

Dr. Winthrop still retained Sister Angela, although she had several times spoken of returning to Paris, since he had become so much better. He was opposed to her leaving him, however—he had pleaded for “just a week longer,” saying that she was so helpful, her presence so soothing—not to mention the preparation of certain dainties with which she was continually tempting his appetite—that he could not give her up just yet; and so she remained.

The week soon slipped by, the last day came, and Sister Angela seemed strangely agitated and depressed. Dr. Winthrop thought he had never seen her so nervous or so absent-minded, and blamed himself for requiring the service of this extra week, when she was so nearly worn out from constant attendance.

She went down as usual to prepare something especially nice for his dinner—the last meal she would take up to him—and, having finished her work and arranged everything temptingly upon a tray, she slowly mounted the stairs on her way to his room with it in her hands.

She had reached the top stair when a sudden dizziness seized her, an icy chill ran over her frame, and she had barely time to set her tray upon the floor when she fell prone beside it in a dead faint.

The sound of her fall drew Mrs. Rochester and her daughter from their room—for she had fallen just opposite their door—to see what had happened.

Dr. Winthrop’s room was some distance from the spot, and part way down another passage, so that the confusion attending Sister Angela’s mishap—fortunately or unfortunately—did not reach his ears and he knew nothing of it until afterward.

“Mercy! it is that nun!” exclaimed Miss Rochester, who was first to reach the unconscious girl, while she gazed with startled and curious eyes upon her prostrate form.

“She is worn out,” said Mrs. Rochester, as she dropped upon her knees and began to loosen the bandages about Sister Angela’s face, and tore her close black cap from her head, thus revealing a wealth of beautiful black hair.

“Why, she looks like——” she began, then suddenly checking herself, she quickly removed the double blue glasses which had always so effectually concealed her eyes.

A cry of astonishment and dismay burst from her lips, which had lost every atom of color.

“S—adie!” she gasped, lifting a pair of wild eyes to her daughter’s face.

“For goodness’ sake, mamma, what is the matter?” inquired the girl, who had not yet had a full view of the features thus exposed to view.

“Look!” whispered the mother, hoarsely.

She bent down to look into that still, white face; then she lifted her glance, and those two women gazed into each other’s eyes with speechless amazement and unmistakable terror.

“Mamma! it is—it is——” began Miss Rochester, looking as if she herself was on the verge of fainting.

“SALOME!” whispered the elder woman, with a gasp of terror.