The White Lie Part 26

This he attributed to Jean's careful nursing. To every one he was loud in her praises. Indeed, he often spoke of her in eulogistic terms while she was present, and on such occasions she would blush deeply and declare that she had only performed her duty.

In those weeks they had been constantly in each other's society. The long days in which she sat at his bedside reading or doing needlework, and the nights when each quarter of an hour she stole in stealthily to see that all was well, she had grown very partial to his society. He was so bright and intellectual, and possessed such a keen sense of humour when his mind was not overshadowed by the weight of political events.

Often he would chat with her for hours, and sometimes, indeed, he would put a subtle question upon the matter in which he now took so keen an interest--her past.

But to all his cleverly-conceived inquiries she remained dumb. Her wit was as quick as his, and he saw that whatever was the truth, her intelligence was of a very high order. She would speak freely upon every other subject, but as to what she had done or where she had been before entering the Sisterhood she refused to satisfy him.

The past! To her it was all a horrible nightmare. Often, when alone, the face of Ralph Ansell, the man who had been shot like a dog by the police, arose before her. She tried to blot it out, but all was, alas!

of no avail.

Sometimes she compared her patient with her dead husband. And then she would sigh to herself--sigh because she held the Earl in such admiration and esteem.

Just after Christmas another diplomatic bombsh.e.l.l burst in Europe.

Darnborough came to and fro to Bracondale half a dozen times in the course of four or five days. Once he arrived by special train from Paddington in the middle of the night. Many serious conferences did he have with his chief, secret consultations at which Jean, filled with curiosity, of course was not present, though she did not fail to note that Darnborough usually regarded her with some suspicion, notwithstanding his exquisite politeness.

More than once in those last days of the year Jean suggested that her presence at Bracondale was no longer required. But her patient seemed very loath to part with her.

"Another week, nurse," he would say. "Perhaps I will be able to do without you then. We shall see."

And so indispensable did his lordship find her that not until the last day of January did she pack her small belongings ready to be carried back to the convent.

It was a warm, bright evening, one of those soft, sunny winter days which one so often experiences in sheltered Torquay, when Jean, having sent her things down by Davis, the under chauffeur, put on her neat little velvet hat and her black, tailor-made coat, and carrying her business-like nursing-bag, went into the huge drawing-room, where she had learnt from Jenner the Earl was reading.

The big, luxurious, heavily-gilded apartment was empty, but the long, French windows were open upon the stone terrace, and upon one of the white iron garden chairs the Earl, a smart, neatly-dressed figure in black morning coat, widely braided in the French manner--a fashion he usually affected--sat reading.

Jean walked to the window, bag in hand, and paused for a few seconds, looking at him in silence.

Then, as their eyes met and he rose quickly to his feet, she advanced with outstretched hand to wish him farewell.

CHAPTER XVIII.

LORD BRACONDALE'S CONFESSION.

"What!" he cried, with a look of dismay upon his pale face. "Are you really leaving, nurse?"

"Yes, Lord Bracondale. I have already sent my things back to the convent. I have come to wish you good-bye."

"To wish me good-bye!" he echoed blankly, looking her straight in the face. "How can I ever thank you--how can I ever repay you for all your kindness, care, and patience with me? Sir Evered says that I owe my life to your good nursing."

She smiled.

"I think Sir Evered is merely paying me an undeserved compliment," was her modest reply.

He had taken her small, white hand in his, and for a moment he stood mute before her, overcome with grat.i.tude.

"Sir Evered has spoken the truth, Nurse Jean," he said. "I know it, and you yourself know it. In all these weeks we have been together we have begun to know each other, we have been companions, and--and you have many a time cheered me when I felt in blank despair."

"I am very pleased if I have been able to bring you happiness," she replied. "It is sometimes difficult to infuse gaiety into a sick-room."

"But you have brought me new life, new hope, new light into my dull, careworn life," he declared quickly. "Since I found you at my bedside I have become a different man."

"How?" she asked, very seriously.

"You have inspired in me new hopes, new aspirations--and a fresh ambition."

"Of what?"

He raised her ungloved hand and kissed it fervently.

She tried to s.n.a.t.c.h it away, but he held it fast, and, looking into her dark, startled eyes, replied:

"Of making you my wife, Jean."

"Your wife!" she gasped, her face pale in an instant, as she drew back, astounded at the suggestion.

"Yes. Listen to me!" he cried, quickly, still holding her hand, and drawing her to him as he stepped into the huge room upholstered with pale blue silk. "This is no sudden fancy on my part, Jean. I have watched you--watched you for days and weeks--for gradually I came to know how deeply attached I had become to you--that I love you!"

"No, no!" she exclaimed. "Let me go, please, Lord Bracondale! This is madness. I refuse to hear you. Reflect--and you will see that I can never become your wife!"

And upon her sweet face there spread a hard, pained expression.

"But I repeat, Jean--I swear it--I love you!" he said. "I again repeat my question--Will you honour me by becoming my wife? Can you ever love me sufficiently to sacrifice yourself? And will you try and love me--will you----"

"I cannot bear it!" she cried, struggling to free herself from his strong embrace, while he held her hand and again pa.s.sionately raised it to his lips. "Please recall those words. They are injudicious, to say the least."

"I have spoken the plain truth. I love you!"

Her eyes were downcast. She stood against a large, silk-covered settee, her hand touching the silken covering, her chest heaving and falling in deep emotion, so unprepared had she been for the Earl's declaration of affection.

Through her mind, however, one thought ran--the difference in their social status; he--a Cabinet Minister; and she--the widow of a thief!

Recollection of that hideous chapter of her life flashed upon her, and she shuddered.

Bracondale noticed that she shivered, but, ignorant of the reason, only drew her closer to him.

"Tell me, Jean," he whispered. "May I hope? Now that you are leaving, I cannot bear that you should go out of my life for ever. I am no young lover, full of flowery speeches, but I love you as fervently, as ardently, as any man has ever loved a woman; and if you will be mine I will endeavour to make you contented and happy to all the extent I am able."

"But, Lord Bracondale," she protested, raising her fine eyes to his, "I am unworthy--I----"

"You are worthy, Jean," he declared, earnestly. "You are the only woman in all my life that I have loved. For all these years I have been a bachelor, self-absorbed in the affairs of the nation, in politics and diplomacy, until, by my accident, I have suddenly realised that there is still something more in the world to live for higher than the position I hold as a member of the Cabinet--the love of a good woman, and you are that woman. Tell me," he urged, speaking in a low whisper as he bent to her, "tell me--may I hope?"

Slowly she disengaged the hand he held, and drew it across her white brow beneath her velvet hat.

"I--I--ah! no, Lord Bracondale," she cried. "This is all very unwise.

You would soon regret."