Blind Love

It was about five o'clock on Saturday afternoon. The funeral was over.

The unfortunate young Irish gentleman was now lying in the cemetery of

Auteuil in a grave purchased in perpetuity. His name, age, and rank

were duly inscribed in the registers, and the cause of his death was

vouched for by the English physician who had attended him at the

request of his family. He was accompanied, in going through the

formalities, by the respectable woman who had nursed the sick man

during his last seizure. Everything was perfectly in order. The

physician was the only mourner at the funeral. No one was curious about

the little procession. A funeral, more or less, excites no attention.

The funeral completed, the doctor gave orders for a single monument to

be put in memory of Lord Harry Norland, thus prematurely cut off. He

then returned to the cottage, paid and dismissed the nurse, taking her

address in case he should find an opportunity, as he hoped, to

recommend her among his numerous and distinguished clientele, and

proceeded to occupy himself in setting everything in order before

giving over the key to the landlord. First of all he removed the

medicine bottles from the cupboard with great care, leaving nothing.

Most of the bottles he threw outside into the dust-hole; one or two he

placed in a fire which he made for the purpose in the kitchen: they

were shortly reduced to two or three lumps of molten glass. These

contained, no doubt, the mysteries and secrets of Science. Then he went

into every room and searched in every possible place for any letters or

papers which might have been left about. Letters left about are always

indiscreet, and the consequences of an indiscretion may be far-reaching

and incalculable. Satisfied at last that the place was perfectly

cleared, he sat down in the salon and continued his business

correspondence with the noble family and the solicitors. Thus engaged,

he heard footsteps outside, footsteps on the gravel, footsteps on the

doorstop. He got up, not without the slightest show of nervousness, and

opened the door. Lord Harry was right. There stood the woman who had

been his first nurse--the woman who overheard and watched--the woman

who suspected. The suspicion and the intention of watching were legible

in her eyes still. She had come back to renew her watch.

In her hand she carried her box, which she had lugged along from the

place where the omnibus had deposited her. She made as if she were

stepping in; but the big form of the doctor barred the way.

"Oh!" he said carelessly, "it is you. Who told you to come back?"