CHAPTER XXXVII. AT THE BEDSIDE. BEFORE she had uttered a word, I saw in my mother-in-law’s face that she brought bad news. “Eustace?” I said. She answered me by a look. “Let me he ar it at once!” I cried. “I can bear anything but suspense.” Mrs. Macallan lifted her hand, and showed me a telegraphic dispatch which she had hitherto kept concealed in the folds of her dress. “I can trust your courage,” she said. “There is no need, my child, to prevaricate with you. Read that.” I read the telegram. It was sent by the chief surgeon of a field-hospital; and it was dated from a village in the north of Spain. “Mr. Eustace severely wounded in a skirmish by a stray shot. Not in danger, so far. Every care taken of him. Wait for another telegram.” I turned away my face, and bore as best I might the pang that wrung me when I read those words. I thought I knew how dearly I loved him: I had never known it till that moment. My mother-in-law put her arm round me, and held me to her tenderly. She knew me well enough not to speak to me at that moment. I rallied my courage, and pointed to the last sentence in the telegram. “Do you mean to wait?” I asked. “Not a day!” she answered. “I am going to the Foreign Office about my passport--I have some interest there: they can give me letters; they can advise and assist me. I leave to-night by the mail train to Calais.” “_You_ leave?” I said. “Do you suppose I will let you go without me? Get my passport when you get yours. At seven this evening I will be at your house.” She attempted to remonstrate; she spoke of the perils of the journey. At the first words I stopped her. “Don’t you know yet, mother, how obstinate I am? They may keep you waiting at the Foreign Office. Why do you waste the precious hours here?” She yielded with a gentleness that was not in her everyday character. “Will my poor Eustace ever know what a wife he has got?” That was all she said. She kissed me, and went away in her carriage. My remembrances of our journey are strangely vague and imperfect.