"It was not Madame Beck's fault," said I; "it is no living being's fault, and I won't hear any one blamed."
"Who is in the wrong, then, Lucy?"
"Me--Dr. John--me; and a great abstraction on whose wide shoulders I like to lay the mountains of blame they were sculptured to bear: me and Fate."
"'Me' must take better care in future," said Dr. John--smiling, I suppose, at my bad grammar.
"Change of air--change of scene; those are my prescriptions," pursued the practical young doctor. "But to return to our muttons, Lucy. As yet, Père Silas, with all his tact (they say he is a Jesuit), is no wiser than you choose him to be; for, instead of returning to the Rue Fossette, your fevered wanderings--there must have been high fever--"
"No, Dr. John: the fever took its turn that night--now, don't make out that I was delirious, for I know differently."
"Good! you were as collected as myself at this moment, no doubt. Your wanderings had taken an opposite direction to the pensionnat. Near the Béguinage, amidst the stress of flood and gust, and in the perplexity of darkness, you had swooned and fallen. The priest came to your succour, and the physician, as we have seen, supervened. Between us we procured a fiacre and brought you here. Père Silas, old as he is, would carry you up-stairs, and lay you on that couch himself. He would certainly have remained with you till suspended animation had been restored: and so should I, but, at that juncture, a hurried messenger arrived from the dying patient I had scarcely left--the last duties were called for--the physician's last visit and the priest's last rite; extreme unction could not be deferred. Père Silas and myself departed together, my mother was spending the evening abroad; we gave you in charge to Martha, leaving directions, which it seems she followed successfully. Now, are you a Catholic?"
"Not yet," said I, with a smile. "And never let Père Silas know where I live, or he will try to convert me; but give him my best and truest thanks when you see him, and if ever I get rich I will send him money for his charities. See, Dr. John, your mother wakes; you ought to ring for tea."
Which he did; and, as Mrs. Bretton sat up--astonished and indignant at herself for the indulgence to which she had succumbed, and fully prepared to deny that she had slept at all--her son came gaily to the attack.
"Hushaby, mamma! Sleep again. You look the picture of innocence in your slumbers."
"My slumbers, John Graham! What are you talking about? You know I never do sleep by day: it was the slightest doze possible."