"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.