For those in Brussels the day had been one of increasing anxiety. Contrary to expectation, no firing was heard, the wind blowing steadily from the north-west. The Duke's despatch to Sir Charles Stuart, written from Waterloo in the small hours, reached him at seven o'clock, and shortly afterwards Baron van de Capellan, the Secretary of State, issued a reassuring proclamation. After that no news of any kind was received in the town for many hours.
Colonel Jones, left in Brussels during the Duke's absence as Military commander, was besieged all the morning by applications for passports. Every track-boat bound for Antwerp was as full as it could hold of refugees; money could not buy a pair of horses in all Brussels. Scores of people drove off at an early hour, with baggage piled high on the roofs of their carriages; the town seemed strangely quiet and deserted; and the church bells ringing for morning service sounded to sensitive ears like a knell.
Both Judith and Barbara had slept the night through, in utter exhaustion, but neither in the morning looked as though she were refreshed by this deep slumber. Except for discussing in a desultory manner the extraordinary revelation Lucy Devenish had made on the previous evening, they did not talk much. Once Judith said: "If you knew the comfort it is to me to have you with me!" but Barbara merely smiled rather mockingly, and shook her head.
In the privacy of their own bedroom, Judith had remarked impulsively to Worth: "I am out of all conceit with myself! I have been deceived alike in Lucy and in Barbara!"
"You might certainly be forgiven for having been deceived in Lucy," Worth replied. "I imagine no one could have suspected such a melodramatic story to lie behind that demure appearance."
"No, indeed! I was never more shocked in my life. Bab says George will make her a very bad husband, and if it were not unchristian I should be much inclined to say that she will have nothing but her just deserts. But Bab! I could not have believed that she had such strength of character, such real goodness of heart! Have not you been surprised?"
"No," he replied. "I should have been very much surprised had she not, in this crisis, behaved precisely as she has done. My opinion of her remains unchanged."
"How can you talk so? You cannot have supposed from her conduct during these past months that she would behave so well now!"
"On the contrary, I never doubted her spirit. She is, moreover, just the kind of young woman who, under the stress of such conditions as these, is elevated for the time above her ordinary self."
"For the time! You place no dependence on this softened mood continuing, I collect!"
"Very little," he answered.
"You are unjust, Worth! For my part, I am persuaded that she repents bitterly of all that has passed. Oh, if only Charles is spared, I shall be so glad to see him reunited to her!"
"That is fortunate, since I have little doubt that you will see it."
"You don't think it will do?"
"I am not a judge of what will suit Charles. It would not do for me. She will certainly lead him a pretty dance."
"Oh no, no! I am sure you are mistaken!"
He smiled at the distress in her face, and pinched her chin. "I daresay I may be. I will admit, it you like, that I prefer this match to the one you tried to make for Charles, my dear!"
She blushed. "Oh, don't speak of that! At least there is nothing of that lack of openness in Bab."
"Nothing at all," he agreed somewhat dryly.
She saw that she could not talk him round to her way of thinking, and allowed the conversation to drop.
They had scarcely got up from the breakfast table, a little later, when they received a morning call from Mr and Mrs Fisher.
"She has confessed, then!" Judith exclaimed when the visitors' cards were brought to her.
"In floods of tears, I'd lay my last guinea!" said Barbara.
"It is not to be wondered at if she did weep!"
"I abominate weeping females. Do you wish for my support at this interview?"
"Oh yes, they will certainly desire to see you."
"Very well, but I'll be hanged if I'll be held accountable for George's sins."
It was as Judith had supposed. Lucy had confessed the whole to her aunt and uncle. They were profoundly shocked, and Mr Fisher seemed almost bewildered. He said that he could not understand how such a thing could have come to pass, and so far from blaming Barbara for her brother's conduct, several times apologised to her for it. Mrs Fisher, torn between a sense of propriety and a love of romance, was inclined to find excuses for the young people, in which occupation Judith gladly assisted her. Mr Fisher agreed, but with a very sober face, that since the marriage had actually taken place there was nothing to do but to forgive Lucy. Barbara's presence prevented him from expressing his opinion of Lord George's character, but it was plain that this was not high. He sighed deeply several times, and shook his head over his poor girl's chances of happiness. Mrs Fisher exclaimed, with the tears springing to her eyes: "Oh, If only she is not even now, perhaps, a widow!"
This reflection made them all silent. After a moment, her husband said heavily: "You are very right, Mrs Fisher. Ah, poor child, who knows what this day may not bring upon her? You must know, Lady Worth, that she is already quite overcome by her troubles, and is laid down upon her bed with the hartshorn."
"I am sure it is no wonder," Judith responded, avoiding Barbara's eye.
The Fishers soon took their leave, and the rest of the morning was spent by Judith and Barbara in rendering all the assistance in their power to those nursing the wounded in the tent by the Namur Gate. Returning together just before four o'clock they found visitors with Worth in the salon, and walked in to discover these to be none other than the Duke and Duchess of Avon, who had arrived in Brussels scarcely an hour previously.
Barbara stood on the threshold, staring at them. "What the devil - ? Grandmama, how the deuce do you come to be here?"
The Duke, a tall man with grizzled hair and fiery dark eyes, said: "Don't talk to your grandmother like that! What's this damnable story I hear about that worthless brother of yours?"
Barbara bent to kiss her grandmother, a rather stout lady, with a straight back, and an air of unshakable imperturbability: "Dear love! Did you come for my sake?"
"No, I came because your grandfather would do so. But this is very surprising, this news of George's marriage. Tell me, shall I like his wife?"
"You'll have nothing to do with her!" snapped his Grace. "Upon my word, I'm singularly blessed in my grandchildren! One is such a miserable poltroon that he takes to his heels the instant he hears a gun fired; another makes herself the talk of the town; and a third marries a damned Cit's daughter. You may as well tell me what folly Harry has committed, and be done with it. I wash my hands of the pack of you! There is no understanding how I came to have such a set of grandchildren."
"Vidal's behaviour is certainly very bad," agreed the Duchess. "But I find nothing remarkable about George's and Bab's conduct, Dominic. Only I'm sorry George should have married in such a hole-and-corner fashion. It will make it very awkward for his wife. You have not told me if I shall like her, Bab."
"You will think her very dull, I daresay."
"You will not receive her at all!" stated his Grace.
The Duchess replied calmly: "Your mother received me, Dominic."
"Mary!"
"Well, my dear, but the circumstances were far more disgraceful, weren't they?"
"I suppose you will say that I am to blame for George's conduct?"
"At all events, you are scarcely in a position to condemn him," she said, smiling. "You made a shocking mesalliance yourself. Dear me, how rude we are, to be sure! Here is Lady Worth come in, and not one of us pays the least heed! How do you do, my dear child? You must let me thank you for your kindness to my granddaughter. I am afraid she has not used your family very well."
"Oh, ma'am, that is all forgotten!" Judith said, taking her hand. "I cannot find words to express to you what it has meant to me to have her here during this terrible time!" She turned towards the Duke, saying with a quiver in her voice: "This is not a moment for reproaches! If you knew what we have seen - what may even now be happening - forgive me, but every consideration but the one seems so trivial, so -" Her voice failed, she averted her face, groping in her reticule for her handkerchief. She recovered her composure with a strong effort, and said in a low tone: "Excuse me! We have been among the wounded the whole morning, and it has a little upset me."
Barbara pushed her into a chair, saying: "Confound you, Judith, if you set me off crying, I'll never forgive you!" She looked at the Duke. "Well, sir, my compliments! You must be quite the only man to come into Brussels today! Did you come because there was a battle being fought, or in despite of it?"
"I came," replied his Grace, "on account of the intelligence received by your grandmother from Vidal. So you have jilted Charles Audley, have you? I congratulate you!"
"Your congratulations are out of place. I never did anything more damnable in my life."
"Why, Bab, my girl!" said his Grace, surprised. He put his arm round her, and said gruffly: "There, that will do! You are a baggage, but at least you have some spirit in you! When I think of that white-livered cur, Vidal, running for his life -"
"Oh, that was Gussie's doing! Did you meet them on your way here?"
"I? No, nor wish to! We landed at Ostend, and drove here through Ghent. If it had not been for the rabble choking the road we should have been here yesterday."
"Yes," said his wife. "They warned us in Ghent not to proceed farther, as we should certainly be obliged to fly from Brussels, so naturally your grandfather had the horses put to immediately."
He regarded her with a grim little smile. "You were not behind hand, Mary!"
"Certainly not. All this dashing about makes me feel myself a young woman again. Which reminds me that I must call upon my new granddaughter. You will give me her uncle's direction, Bab."
"Understand me, Mary -"
"I will give it to you, ma'am, but you must know that Mr Fisher regards the match with quite as much dislike as does my grandfather."
This remark brought a sparkle into the Duke's eye. "He does, does he? Go on, Miss! Go on! What the devil has he against my grandson?"
"He thinks him a spendthrift, sir."
"Ha! Damned Cit! He may consider himself lucky to have caught George for his nobody of a niece!"
"As to that, Lucy is his heir. I fancy he was looking higher for her. Her fortune will not be inconsiderable, you know, and in these days -"
"So he was looking higher, was he? An Alastair is not good enough for him! I'll see this greasy merchant!"
The Duchess said in her matter-of-fact way: "You should certainly do so. It will be much more the thing than that wild notion you had taken into your head of riding out with Lord Worth towards the battlefield."
"Fisher can wait," replied his Grace. "I have every intention of going to see what news can be got the instant I have swallowed my dinner."
"Dinner!" Judith exclaimed. "How shocking of me! I had forgotten the time. You must know, Duchess, that here in Brussels we have got into the way of dining at four. I hope you will not mind. You must please stay and join us."
"You should warn them that Charles bore off our Sunday dinner," Barbara said, with a wry smile.
"You may be sure my cook will have contrived something."
The Avons were putting up at the Hotel de Belle Vue, and the Duchess at once suggested that the whole party should walk round to dine there. It was declined, however; Judith's confidence in her cook was found not to have been misplaced; and in a very few minutes they were all seated round the table in the dining-parlour.
The conversation was mostly of the war. The wildest rumours were current in Ghent, and the Duke was glad to listen to a calm account from Worth of all that had so far passed. When he heard that the Life Guards had driven the French lancers out of Genappe, he looked pleased, but beyond saying that if George did not get his brevet for this he supposed he would be obliged to purchase promotion for him, he made no remark. As soon as they rose from the table, he and Worth took their departure, to ride towards the Forest of Soignes in search of intelligence, and Judith, excusing herself, left Barbara alone with her grandmother.
"I have surpassed myself, ma'am," Barbara said in a bitter tone. "Did Vidal write you the whole?"
"Quite enough," replied the Duchess. "I wish, dearest, you will try to get the better of this shocking disposition of yours."
"If Charles comes back to me there is nothing I will not do!"
"We will hope he may do so. Your grandfather was very much pleased with the civil letter Colonel Audley wrote to him. How came you to throw him off as you did, my love?"
"O God, Grandmama!" Barbara whispered, and fell on her knees beside the Duchess, and buried her face in her lap.
It was long before she could be calm. The Duchess listened in understanding silence to the disjointed sentences gasped out, merely saying presently: "Don't cry, Bab. It will ruin your face, you know."
"I don't give a damn for my face!"
"I am very sure that you do."
Barbara sat up, smiling through her tears. "Confound you, ma'am, you know too much! There, I have done! You don't wish me to remove to the Hotel de Belle Vue, do you? I cannot leave Judith at this present."
"By all means stay here, my love. But tell me about this child George has married, if you please!"
"I cannot conceive what possessed George to look twice at her. She is quite insipid."
"Dear me! I had better go and call upon her aunt."
She very soon took her leave, setting out on foot to the Fishers' lodging. Her visit did much to sooth Lucy's agitation; and her calm good sense almost reconciled Mr Fisher to an alliance which he had been regarding with the deepest misgiving. Neither his appearance nor the obsequiousness of his manners could be expected to please the Duchess, but she was agreeably surprised in Lucy, and although not placing much dependence upon her being able to hold George's volatile fancy, went back presently to her hotel feeling that things might have been much worse.
Worth returned at about six o'clock, having parted from the Duke at the end of the street. He had very little news to report. He described meeting Creevey in the suburbs, and their mutual surprise at finding the Sunday population of Brussels drinking beer, and making merry, round little tables, for all the world as though no pitched battle were being fought not more than ten miles to the south of them. It had been found to be impossible to penetrate far into the Forest, on account of the baggage choking the road, but they had met with a number of wounded soldiers making their way back to Brussels, and had had speech with a Life Guardsman, who reported that the French were getting on in such a way that he did not see what was to stop them.
"He had taken part in a charge of the whole Household Brigade, and says that they have lost, in killed, wounded, and prisoners, more than half their number. George, however, was safe when the man left the field. A private soldier's opinion of the battle is not to be depended on, but I don't like the look of things."
Scarcely an hour later, the town was thrown into an uproar by the Cumberland Hussars galloping in through the Namur Gate, and stampeding through the streets, shouting that all was lost, and the French hard on their heels. They seemed not to have drawn rein in their flight from the battlefield, and went through Brussels scattering the inhabitants before them.
People began once more to run about, crying: "Les Franqais sons ici! Its's'emparent a porte de la ville! Nous sommes tons perdus! Que ferons nous?" Many people kept their horses at their doors, but no more troops followed the hussars, and the panic gradually abated. A little later, a large number of French prisoners entered the town under escort, and were marched to the barracks of Petit Chateau. The sight of two captured Eagles caused complete strangers to shake one another by the hand; more prisoners arrived, and hopes ran high, only to be dashed by the intelligence conveyed by one or two wounded officers that everything had been going as badly as possible when they had left the field. The Adjutant-General's chaise-and-four was seen by Mr Creevey to set out from his house in the Park and bowl away, as fast as the horses could drag it, to the Namur Gate. More and more wounded arrived in town, all telling the same tale: it was the most sanguinary battle they had ever known; men were dropping like flies; there was no saying in the smoke and the carnage who was still alive or who had been killed; no time should be lost by civilians in getting away.
In curious contrast to this scene of agitation, light shone in the Theatre de la Monnaie, where Mlle Ternaux was playing in Edipe a Colonne before an audience composed of persons who either had no relatives or friends engaged in the battle or who looked forward with pleasure to the entrance of Bonaparte into Brussels.
At half past eight o'clock, Worth, who had gone out some time before in quest of news, came abruptly into the salon where Judith and Barbara were sitting in the most dreadful suspense, and said, with more sharpness in his voice than his wife had ever heard: "Judith, be so good as to have pillows put immediately into the chaise! I am going at once towards Waterloo: Charles is there, very badly wounded. Cherry has just come to me with the news."
He did not wait, but strode out to his own room, to make what preparations for the journey were necessary. Both ladies ran after him, imploring him to tell them more.
"I know nothing more than what I have told you. Cherry had no idea how things were going - badly, he thinks. I may be away some time: the road is almost blocked by the carts overturned by the German cavalry's rout. Have Charles's bed made up - but you will know what to do!"
"I will have the pillows put in the chaise," Barbara said in a voice of repressed anguish, and left the room.The chaise was already at the door, and Colonel Audley's groom waiting impatiently beside it. He was too overcome to be able to tell Barbara much, but the little he did say was enough to appal her.
Colonel Audley had been carried to Mont St Jean by some foreigners; he did not know whether Dutch or German.
"It does not signify. Go on!"
Cherry brushed his hand across his eyes. "I saw them carrying him along the road. Oh, my lady, in all the years I've served the Colonel I never thought to see such a sight as met my eyes! My poor master like one dead, and the blood soaked right through the horse-blanket they had laid him on! He was taken straight to the cottage at Mont St Jean, where those damned sawbones - saving your ladyship's presence! - was busy. I thought my master was gone, but he opened his eyes as they put him down, and said to me: 'Hallo, Cherry!' he said, 'I've got it, you see'."
He fairly broke down, but Barbara, gripping the open chaise door, merely said harshly: "Go on!"
"Yes, my lady! But I don't know how to tell your ladyship what they done to my master, Dr Hume, and them others, right there in the garden. Oh, my lady, they've taken his arm off! And he bore it all without a groan!"
She pressed her handkerchief to her lips. In a stifled voice, she said: "But he will live!"
"You would not say so if you could but see him, my lady. Four horses he's had shot under him this day, and a wound on his leg turning as black as my boot. We got him to the inn at Waterloo, but there's no staying there: they couldn't take in the Prince of Orange himself, for all he had a musketball in his shoulder. Poor Sir Alexander Gordon's laying there, and Lord Fitzroy too. Never till my dying day shall I forget the sound of Sir Alexander's sufferings - him as always was such a merry gentleman, and such a close friend of my master's! Not but what by the time we got my master to the inn he was too far gone to heed. I shouldn't have spoken of it to your ladyship, but I'm that upset I hardly know what I'm saying."
Worth ran down the steps of the house at that moment, and curtly told Cherry to get up on the box. As he drew on his driving-gloves, Barbara said: "I have put my smelling-salts inside the chaise, and a roll of lint. I would come with you, but I believe you will do better without me. 0 God, Worth, bring him safely back!"
"I shall certainly bring him back. Go in to Judith, and do not be imagining anything nonsensical if I'm away some hours. Goodbye! A man doesn't die because he has the misfortune to lose an arm, you know."
He mounted the box; the grooms let go the wheelers' heads, and as the chaise moved forward one of them jumped up behind.
For the next four hours Judith and Barbara, having made every preparation for the Colonel's arrival, waited, sick with suspense, for Worth's return. The Duke of Avon walked round the Hotel de Belle Vue at ten o'clock, and, learning of Colonel Audley's fate from Judith's faltering tongue, said promptly: "Good God, is that all! One would say he had been blown in pieces by a howitzer shell to look at your faces! Cheer up, Bab! Why, I once shot a man just above the heart, and he recovered!"
"That must have been a mistake, sir, I feel sure."
"It was," he admitted. "Only time I ever missed my mark."
At any other time both ladies would have wished to hear more of this anecdote, but in the agitation of spirits which they were suffering nothing that did not bear directly upon the present issue had the power to engage their attention. The Duke, after animadverting with peculiar violence upon Mr Fisher's manners and ideals, bade them goodnight, and went back to his hotel.
Hardly more than an hour later, Creevey called to bring the ladies news. His prospective stepson-in-law, Major Hamilton, had brought the Adjutant-General into Brussels a little after ten o'clock, and had immediately repaired to Mr Creevey's house to warn him that in General Barnes's opinion the battle was lost, and no time should be wasted in getting away from Brussels.
"I could not go to bed without informing you of this," Creevey said. "I thought it only right that you should know, and decide for yourselves what were best to do under the circumstances."
"Thank you," Judith said. "It was kind of you, but there is now no question of our leaving Brussels. My brother-in-law is severely wounded. Worth has gone to bring him in."
He looked genuinely concerned, and pressed her hand in the most speaking way. "I am excessively sorry to hear of this! But once you have Colonel Audley in your care you will see how quickly he will recover!"
"We hope - Do you and Mrs Creevey mean to go to Antwerp?"
"No, it is out of the question to move Mrs Creevey in her present state of health. I don't scruple to tell you, my dear ma'am, that General Barnes's prognostications do not convince me that all is over. Hamilton tells me he was shot through the body at about five o'clock, and borne off the field. I cannot but feel that if the battle had been lost we must by now have received intelligence of it. Do you know what I judge by? Why, I'll tell you! The baggage-train is still moving towards the battlefield! To my mind, that proves that all is well."
"I had not thought of that. Yes, indeed: you must be right. You put us quite at our ease, Mr Creevey. Thank you again for coming to us!"
He saw that the result of the battle was of less importance to her at the moment than Colonel Audley's fate, and after lingering only for a few moments to express his sympathy, took his leave and went back to the Rue du Musee.
After he had gone, no further interruptions occurred. The evening was mild, with a fitful moonlight shining through the lifting storm-clouds. Barbara had drawn back the blinds and opened one of the windows, and sat by it almost without stirring. In the street below a few people passed, but the sounds that drifted to the salon were muffled, as though Brussels were restless but quiet.
Once Judith said: "Would you like to lie down upon your bed for a little while? I would wake you the instant he comes."
"I could not rest. But you -"
"No, nor I."
The brief conversation died. Another hour crept by. As the church clocks struck the hour of one, the clatter of horses' feet on the cobbles reached the ladies' straining ears. Lanterns, dipping and rocking with the lurch of a chaise, were seen approaching down the street, and in another moment Worth's chaise-and-four had drawn up outside the house.
Barbara picked up the branch of candles from the table. "Go down. I will light the stairs," she said.
Judith ran from the room, feeling her knees shaking under her. The butler and Worth's valet were already at the door: there was nothing for her to do, and, almost overpowered by dread, she remained upon the landing, leaning against the wall, fighting against the nervous spasm that turned her sick and faint. She saw Barbara standing straight and tall in her pale dress, at the head of the stairs, holding the branch of candles up in one steady hand. A murmur of voices reached her ears. She heard the butler exclaim, and Worth reply sharply. A groan, and she knew that Charles lived, and found that the tears were pouring down her cheeks. She wiped them away, and, regaining command of herself, ran back into the salon, and snatching up a companion to the chandelier Barbara held, bore it up the second pair of stairs to the Colonel's room. She had scarcely had time to turn back the sheets from the bed before Worth and Cherry carried Colonel Audley into the room.
Judith could not suppress an exclamation of horror. The Colonel had been wrapped in his own cloak, but this fell away as he was lowered on to the bed, revealing a bloodstained shirt hanging in tatters about him. His white buckskins were caked with mud, and had been slit down the right leg to permit of the flesh wound on his thigh being dressed. His curling brown hair clung damply to his brow; his face, under the blackening smoke, was ghastly; but worst of all was the sight of the bandaged stump where so short a time ago his left arm had been. He was groaning, and muttering, but although his pain-racked eyes were open it was plain that he was unconscious of his surroundings.
"Razor!" Worth said to his valet, who had followed him up the stairs with a heavy can of hot water. "These boots off first!" He glanced across at the two women. "This is no fit sight for you. You had better go."
"Fool!" Barbara said, in a low, fierce voice.
"As you please," he shrugged, and, taking the razor from his valet's hand began to slit the seams of the Colonel's Hessians.
While he got the boots off, Barbara knelt down by the bed and sponged away the dirt from the Colonel's livid face. Judith stood beside her, holding the bowl of warm water. Over Barbara's head, she spoke to Worth: "Will he live?"
"He is very ill, but I believe so. I have sent for a surgeon to come immediately. The worst is this fever. The jolting of the chaise has been very bad for him. I thought at one time I should never get through to Waterloo: the road is choked - wagons lying all over it, baggage spilt and plundered, and horses shot in their traces. There was never anything so disgraceful!"
"The battle?"
"I know no more than you. I met Charles in a common tiltwagon half way through the Forest, being brought to Brussels with a dozen others. Everything is turmoil on the road: I could come by no certain intelligence; but I conjecture that all must be well, or the French must by now have penetrated at least to the Forest."
He moved up to the head of the bed, and while he and his valet stripped the clothes from the Colonel's body, Barbara poured away the tainted water in the bowl and filled it with fresh. She looked so pale that Judith feared she must be going to faint, and begged her to withdraw. She shook her head. "Do not heed me! I shall not fail."
By the time an over-driven surgeon had arrived, the Colonel was lying between clean sheets, restlessly trying to twist from side to side. At times it needed all Worth's strength to prevent him from turning on to his injured left side; occasionally he made an effort to wrench himself up; once he said quite clearly: "The Duke! I've a message to deliver!" But mostly his utterance was indistinct, and interrupted by deep groans.
The surgeon looked grave, and saw nothing for it but to bleed him. Judith could not help saying with a good deal of warmth: "I should have thought he had lost enough blood!"
She was not attended to; the surgeon had been at work among the wounded since the previous morning, and was himself tired and harassed. He took a pint of blood from the Colonel, and it seemed to relieve him a little. He ceased his restless tossing and fell into a kind of coma. The surgeon gave Worth a few directions, and went away, promising to return later in the morning. It was evident that he did not take a very hopeful view of the Colonel's state. He would not permit of the bandages being removed to enable him to inspect the injuries to the thigh and the left side of the body. "Better not disturb him!" he said. "If Hume attended to him, you may depend upon it the wounds have been properly dressed. I will see them later. There is nothing for it now but to keep him quiet and hope for the fever to abate."
He hurried away. Worth bent over the Colonel, feeling his hand and brow. Over his shoulder, he addressed the two women: "Settle it between yourselves, but one of you must go and rest. Charles is in no immediate danger."
"There can be no doubt which of us must go," said Judith. "Come, my poor child!"
"Oh no! You go!"
"No, Bab. It is you Charles will want when he comes to himself, and if you sit up now you will drop in the end, and think how shocking that would be! It is of no use to argue; I am quite determined."
Barbara glanced towards the bed; the Colonel was lying still at last, sunk in a heavy stupor. "Very well," she said in a deadened tone. "I will do as you wish."
Judith led her away, with an arm round her waist. Barbara went unresistingly, but by the time they had reached her room such a fit of shuddering had seized her that Judith was alarmed. She forced her to sit down in a chair, while she ran to fetch her smelling-salts and the hartshorn. When she came back, the shudders had given place to dry sobs that seemed to convulse Barbara's whole body. She contrived to make her swallow a dose of hartshorn and water, and got her upon the bed, and sat with her till she was a little calmer. Barbara gasped: "Oh, do not stay! Go back to him! This is nothing!"
"Worth will send if he needs me. Only tell me where I may find your laudanum drops."
"Never! He did not like me to!"
"In such a case as this he could have no objection!"
"No, I tell you! See, I am better; I wish you to go back."
Judith drew the quilt up over her shoulders. "I will go, if it will relieve your mind. There, my dear, do not look like that! He will recover, and you will both be so happy together!" She bent, and kissed Barbara, and had the satisfaction of seeing the dreadful pallor grow less deathly. "I shall come back in a little while to see how you go on," she promised, and, setting the candle where its tongue of light would not worry Barbara's eyes, went softly back to Colonel Audley's room.
Barbara returned to the sick-room shortly after six o'clock. Judith came forward to meet her, saying in a low tone. "We think him better. The pulse is not so tumultuous. There has been a good deal of restlessness, but you see he is quiet now. Oh, my dear, such glorious news! Bonaparte has been utterly overthrown and the whole French Army put to rout! Worth sent round to Sir Charles Stuart's an hour ago, and he had just himself heard from General Alten of our complete victory! You must know that Alten was brought in, severely wounded, very late last night, but had left instructions with one of his aides-de-camp to let him know the result of the battle at the earliest opportunity. The news reached him at three o'clock."
"The French Army routed!" Barbara repeated. "Good God, is it possible? Oh, if anything can make Charles recover, it must be that news!"
"You shall tell him when he wakes," Judith said. "I am going to bed for an hour or so. Worth has gone off to shave and change his clothes, but his man is just outside if you should need any assistance. But indeed, my dear, Charles is better."
She went away. Barbara took her vacated chair by the bedside, and sat watching the Colonel. He lay quiet, except for the occasional twitching of his hand. She felt it softly, and found it, though still dry and hot, no longer burning to the touch. Satisfied, she folded her own hands in her lap, and sat without moving, waiting for him to awaken.
A few minutes after seven he stirred. A deep sigh broke the long silence; he opened his eyes, clouded with sleep, and gave a stifled groan. His hand moved; Barbara took it in hers and lifted it to her lips. He looked at her, blankly for a moment, then with recognition creeping into his eyes, and, with it, the ghost of his old smile. "Why Bab!" he said, in a very faint voice. "You've come back to me!"
Tears hung on her lashes; she slipped to her knees, and laid her cheek against his. "You have come back to me, Charles. I shall never let you go again."
He put his arm weakly around her, and turned his head on the pillow to kiss her.