For many days after that I waited for news of Richard Dawson so eagerly that it seemed to break in upon my expectation.

One thing I knew at least, and that was that love was nursing him.  The information came to me through Maureen, in a characteristic manner.  Even the happiness of these days did not make Maureen gentle.

“You’ve heard about Nora Brady, Miss Bawn?” she said.

“No?”

My heart sank, apprehending some new calamity; while Maureen went on in bitter tones—­

“I never thought well of her and now I’m proved right.  The minute she heard that Master Richard was took with the small-pox she ran off to him like a mad thing.  And there she is ever since.  Not a womankind in the house but herself.  Her mother was a decent woman; I’m glad she didn’t live to see it.”

“And if she did, Maureen,” I said sternly, “she might be proud of her girl.  It isn’t possible that you are making scandal out of Nora’s mercy to the sick?  I think it most noble, most Christian of her.  I honour her for it.”

“Whisht, child!” said Maureen, scornfully.  I shall never inspire respect in Maureen’s breast.  “I know what I know.  To be sure, you’d be the last to know of it, of the walks and the talks with Master Richard.  Every one knew except yourself.”

“Be silent, Maureen,” I said, asserting myself for once.  “I know everything, everything.  And I know that Nora is a good, innocent girl.  Don’t dare to speak to others as you have spoken to me.”

And then I was contrite, seeing my old nurse quail before me, for I had never shown her that I could be angry.

CHAPTER XXXIX

THE BRIDEGROOM COMES

About the last week of February my joy came home.  I remember that it was exquisite weather, the blackbird singing his passionate song in the bare boughs fit to break your heart with its beauty.  There were high, white, shining clouds on the blue, and the mountains were grey-lavender.  The wall-flower clumps were in bloom in the courtyard of the Abbey, and there were many primroses and delicate primulas in the garden; and all the hyacinths were out withindoors, making a delicious smell.

I went to meet my joy with a heart in which there was no sorrow.  Richard Dawson was out of danger, and little Robin Ardaragh’s case had proved to be merely chicken-pox.  I met them out driving, and Robin was on his mother’s knee, and his father was looking at the pair as though the world contained nothing else.  They pulled up when they saw me; and Lady Ardaragh cried out to me—­

“Bawn, Bawn, I am the happiest woman alive.”

“And I the happiest man,” said Sir Arthur, seriously.  “Would you believe it, Miss Devereux, that she thought I cared more for my books than for her?  As though anything could give me consolation without her!”

Then Lady Ardaragh cried out that they were a pair of egotists and pulled me down to kiss her, saying that she wished me joy, for every one knew by this time that Anthony Cardew was my lover and was coming home to me.