“Annabella, this is the excitement of fever; you require—surely I hear Bardon’s voice below!” said the vicar, who found it impossible to manage his niece in her present mood, and who was almost alarmed at the wildness of her manner. “Would you see the doctor?” added Mr. Aumerle. Annabella hesitated for a moment, then exclaimed, “Dr. Bardon! yes, I will see him at once.” She remained in her standing position, rigid as a statue, till the vicar, after a brief absence, introduced the physician into the room, and then himself retired to another. CHAPTER XIV. A FATAL STEP. “The arrow once discharged from this weak hand, Can I arrest its flight in the free air? Where will this course now lead me?” CAMOENS. BY H. S. G. TUCKER. The countess advanced one step towards Bardon, and held out her hand. He took it cordially, and looked at her bloodless face with mingled interest and concern. “Do not suppose,” said Annabella, resuming her seat, and motioning to him to take a chair beside her,—“do not suppose that I see you in order to ask for your medical advice. You must know well that it is beyond your power to ‘minister to a mind diseased,’ that my case is not one which the whole pharmacopeia can cure. I see you as a friend,”—her lip quivered as she spoke,—“as one who will understand my feelings, and not torment me with well-meant advice which I would rather die than follow!” “You are a noble creature—a brave creature!” exclaimed Bardon; “I am proud of the spirit which you have shown.” “Have you been far to-day?” asked the countess, colouring slightly at the ill-merited praise. “I was at Pelton this morning on business, or I should have called upon you earlier,” was the doctor’s reply. “You have been, doubtless, at many houses,”—Annabella seemed to frame each sentence with difficulty,—“you have seen many people—have heard—heard much that is—that must be said—and—.” She stopped, and looked at the doctor, but he did not seem disposed to guess the meaning of her unfinished sentence. “I wish to learn from you,” continued the countess, forcing herself to a more explicit explanation; “it is important for me to know what the world says of this—this unhappy affair.” “You care as little as I do for what the world says,” replied the doctor. But it was not so with Annabella. Popular distinction, the applause of others, had been to her as the breath of life. Her pride was not the pride of self-sufficiency; she was intensely desirous to know whether public opinion were inclining to her side or that of her lord, and she pressed the doctor for a more definite reply. “Of course,” he answered at last, “there are almost as many versions of the story as there are narrators of it. No tale loses by the telling. Some say this thing, some say that, some pity, and some blame. What is, however, pretty universally received as the most authentic account is—” “Tell me!” cried the countess nervously, as the speaker paused.