Miss Halcombe passed a very bad night, the fever coming and going, and getting worse towards the morning instead of better.  No nurse fit to wait on her being at hand in the neighbourhood, her ladyship the Countess and myself undertook the duty, relieving each other.  Lady Glyde, most unwisely, insisted on sitting up with us.  She was much too nervous and too delicate in health to bear the anxiety of Miss Halcombe’s illness calmly.  She only did herself harm, without being of the least real assistance.  A more gentle and affectionate lady never lived—­but she cried, and she was frightened, two weaknesses which made her entirely unfit to be present in a sick-room.

Sir Percival and the Count came in the morning to make their inquiries.

Sir Percival (from distress, I presume, at his lady’s affliction and at Miss Halcombe’s illness) appeared much confused and unsettled in his mind.  His lordship testified, on the contrary, a becoming composure and interest.  He had his straw hat in one hand, and his book in the other, and he mentioned to Sir Percival in my hearing that he would go out again and study at the lake.  “Let us keep the house quiet,” he said.  “Let us not smoke indoors, my friend, now Miss Halcombe is ill.  You go your way, and I will go mine.  When I study I like to be alone.  Good-morning, Mrs. Michelson.”

Sir Percival was not civil enough—­perhaps I ought in justice to say, not composed enough—­to take leave of me with the same polite attention.  The only person in the house, indeed, who treated me, at that time or at any other, on the footing of a lady in distressed circumstances, was the Count.  He had the manners of a true nobleman—­he was considerate towards every one.  Even the young person (Fanny by name) who attended on Lady Glyde was not beneath his notice.  When she was sent away by Sir Percival, his lordship (showing me his sweet little birds at the time) was most kindly anxious to know what had become of her, where she was to go the day she left Blackwater Park, and so on.  It is in such little delicate attentions that the advantages of aristocratic birth always show themselves.  I make no apology for introducing these particulars—­they are brought forward in justice to his lordship, whose character, I have reason to know, is viewed rather harshly in certain quarters.  A nobleman who can respect a lady in distressed circumstances, and can take a fatherly interest in the fortunes of an humble servant girl, shows principles and feelings of too high an order to be lightly called in question.  I advance no opinions—­I offer facts only.  My endeavour through life is to judge not that I be not judged.  One of my beloved husband’s finest sermons was on that text.  I read it constantly—­in my own copy of the edition printed by subscription, in the first days of my widowhood—­and at every fresh perusal I derive an increase of spiritual benefit and edification.

There was no improvement in Miss Halcombe, and the second night was even worse than the first.  Mr. Dawson was constant in his attendance.  The practical duties of nursing were still divided between the Countess and myself, Lady Glyde persisting in sitting up with us, though we both entreated her to take some rest.  “My place is by Marian’s bedside,” was her only answer.  “Whether I am ill, or well, nothing will induce me to lose sight of her.”