University of Virginia Library

3. CHAPTER III.

As the doctor entered the adjoining room, Mrs.
Temple followed, and he desired to speak with her
and her husband again.

“I am going to ask something,” said he; “but
I believe we are scarcely calm enough to-day.”

“Speak—oh speak!” said Mrs. Temple; “if it
concern Flora, another day may be too late.”

“Well, then, hear me without shrinking. It is
my duty to tell you—”

The mother motioned her hand for him not to
proceed, and hid her face.

“Nay, I am not in despair about your daughter's
recovery, but it is my duty to tell you that she is in
a most perilous crisis. Her disorder increases. It
has baffled my skill; and I am induced to believe,
from something which has taken place this morning,
that we have not fully understood her disease.
You ascribe it to cold and agitation at the trial of
Leslie.”

“Yes; that monster will have her life to answer
for as well as poor Rosalie's. She was obliged

to attend as a witness, and there took this fatal disorder.”

“You know, Mrs. Temple,” said the doctor,
“that I have at times thought Flora troubled with
some secret grief.”

“Oh, doctor,” replied Mrs. Temple, “what grief,
secret or known, could Flora Temple have ever
suffered? She was never from our sight! She
never had a wish ungratified.”

“In these cases, sometimes,” added the doctor,
“the affections prey upon the heart.”

“Affections! impossible! She has been ever
sought by all.”

“And all have been refused?” inquired the doctor.

“Always, always!” was the reply.

“Many offers rejected?”

“Many, very many,” said Mr. Temple; “the
richest—the noblest!”

“I think Flora Temple would scarcely love in
vain!” added the proud mother, haughty even in
her grief, and with a sarcastic tone; “that tale
would meet with little credit.”

“Has she been accustomed to see no one who
might awaken an interest in her?”

“None, none! I know her heart. It is pure,
and free as ice from such a feeling. I have myself
often wondered at it. She not only never loves,
but, by her actions and words, never admits the
possibility of her loving; and yet her nature is all
affection.”

“And it was at Leslie's trial that she took this
illness?”

“That fatal trial,” said the father.

“And since that period she has declined to her
present state?” pursued the doctor. “Do not be
offended or surprised at any questions I may ask”

“You alarm me,” said Mrs. Temple.

“Was your daughter acquainted with Norman
Leslie previous to this trial?”

“No, no!” answered the mother, with an expression
of anger; “she cannot be said to have been
acquainted.”

“He visited us,” said Mr. Temple, “perhaps
once a month, and remained a half-hour at a time.”

“Heaven forbid,” ejaculated the mother, “that
she should be insulted with the name of his acquaintance.”

“Is it quite impossible that your daughter—”
The doctor paused in some embarrassment.

“Doctor Melbourne,” said Mrs. Temple, with
severe gravity, and a little elevating her bust, “you
do not mean to insult us in our misery?”

“Let us once more enter her chamber, madam,”
said the doctor: “watch her face as I speak from
a distance; and, as you value her health, her life,
express no surprise.”

They re-entered. The momentary gayety of
Flora was gone. She sat in her chair, languid and
pale, and scarcely spoke as the doctor once more
took her unresisting hand.

“My dear young lady,” said he, “you must not
despond; you are really better to-day; I do hope
to make you well.”

She closed her eyes, and, with a heavy sigh,
shook her head.

“Here have been visiters to see you this morning,
your mother tells me, and they have all gone
away with the hope of your recovery. Count Clairmont
called.”

“He is very good,” said Flora, quietly.

“And Mr. Morton.”

“Poor Morton!” said she, with a faint smile of
half-remembered humour

“And Mr. Moreland,” added the doctor, walking
carelessly to the window.

“I shall never forget the eloquence of Mr. Moreland,”
replied Flora, with a long-drawn sigh.

“And, as I entered,” continued the doctor, with
the same air of careless inattention—“there stood
at the door and made many kind inquiries after you,
our poor friend Norman Leslie.—Look,” said the
doctor to the mother, in a whisper only audible to
her ear; “be convinced.” He withheld her from
springing to Flora.

“There has been Captain Forbes of the army,
and a whole host of others,” continued he, aloud,
and calmly, as if he had noticed nothing. “They
all join in their warmest prayers for your recovery,
and recommend you to fly this cold climate.”

“Has she ever heard any thing respecting Leslie?”
inquired the doctor, when they were again
alone.

“Nothing but casual conversation concerning his
guilt, his infamy, and the general execration in
which he is held.”

“And has she never asked concerning him?”

“Never.”

“Not one question?”

“Nothing.”

“Nor desired to know aught of the man whom
she avowed herself to believe innocent? never
even mentioned the name at the bare sound of
which she thus starts and trembles?”

The mother clasped her hands with a new impulse
of agitation.

“Mrs. Temple,” said the doctor, solemnly, “your
daughter loves. The lightest word of Norman
Leslie is dearer to her young heart than all the
world beside.”