Blind Love

"Ring, if you like," Hugh answered; "but hear this first. My letter to

you alluded to a consultation between us, which might be necessary in

the interests of Iris. Imagine her situation if you can! The assassin

of Arthur Mountjoy is reported to be in London; and Lord Harry has

heard of it."

Mrs. Vimpany looked at him with horror in her eyes.

"Gracious God!" she cried, "the man is here--under my care. Oh, I am

not in the conspiracy to hide the wretch! I knew no more of him than

you do when I offered to nurse him. The names that have escaped him, in

his delirium, have told me the truth."

As she spoke, a second door in the room was opened. An old woman showed

herself for a moment, trembling with terror. "He's breaking out again,

nurse! Help me to hold him!"

Mrs. Vimpany instantly followed the woman into the bed-room. "Wait and

listen," she said to Mountjoy--and left the door open.

The quick, fierce, muttering tones of a man in delirium were now

fearfully audible. His maddened memory was travelling back over his own

horrible life. He put questions to himself; he answered himself: "Who drew the lot to kill the traitor? I did! I did! Who shot him on

the road, before he could get to the wood? I did! I did! Arthur

Mountjoy, traitor to Ireland. Set that on his tombstone, and disgrace

him for ever. Listen, boys--listen! There is a patriot among you. I am

the patriot--preserved by a merciful Providence. Ha, my Lord Harry,

search the earth and search the sea, the patriot is out of your reach!

Nurse! What's that the doctor said of me? The fever will kill him?

Well, what does that matter, as long as Lord Harry doesn't kill me?

Open the doors, and let everybody hear of it. I die the death of a

saint--the greatest of all saints--the saint who shot Arthur Mountjoy.

Oh, the heat, the heat, the burning raging heat!" The tortured creature

burst into a dreadful cry of rage and pain. It was more than Hugh's

resolution could support. He hurried out of the house.

* * * * * * * * Ten days passed. A letter, in a strange handwriting, reached Iris at

Passy.

The first part of the letter was devoted to the Irish desperado, whom

Mrs. Vimpany had attended in his illness.

When she only knew him as a suffering fellow-creature she had promised

to be his nurse. Did the discovery that he was an assassin justify

desertion, or even excuse neglect? No! the nursing art, like the

healing art, is an act of mercy--in itself too essentially noble to

inquire whether the misery that it relieves merits help. All that

experience, all that intelligence, all that care could offer, the nurse

gave to the man whose hand she would have shrunk from touching in

friendship, after she had saved his life.