Miss Caprice Part 11

"You seek news, Doctor Craig."

"That is true."

"News of one who has long been lost; news concerning a member of our holy order; the dear sister who has consecrated her life to charity, and who, under my fostering care, has long since redeemed her past--Sister Magdalen."

The words almost unnerve John; he has a feeling that perhaps Heaven means to be kind and allow him the bliss he craves.

"Ah! madame, you know my secret. It is true. I would find her, would hear from her own lips the story of the past. I believe you can help me. She has occupied this house."

"That very chair upon which you are seated sustained her fainting form one afternoon when she came in. I thought she was dying. In her hand she carried a paper, an American daily. I glanced at it to see if I could learn the truth, and saw it there as plain as day. She had read a notice of a fire in Chicago where a young man named John Craig, said to be a medical student, perished."

"Did she see that account? It was cruel. The next day's paper refuted the lie, and explained how he escaped," says John, warmly.

"Yes, I saw it. She would give us no rest until we procured a later copy of the same paper, and there she read the truth. Sister Magdalen was all smiles from that hour; she said that Heaven had indeed answered her prayer."

"Tell me, is she here now?" holding his breath with suspense.

"Oh! no, she went away several weeks ago. We shall not see her again unless she chances to be one of three lay delegates now on their way here from a sister sanctuary."

"Then you can give me hope; let me know where I may find her?"

"If I see my duty in that way, Doctor Craig," is the astonis.h.i.+ng reply he receives.

He conceives the idea what this may mean.

"Madame, I am ready to do what I can for the good of your order if you will bring about this long antic.i.p.ated meeting."

"Your word shall be your bond. We need five hundred dollars to endow another bed in the hospital at Rome."

"It shall be yours; I swear it."

"Hush, impious man! Your word is enough. On my part I promise that ere an hour goes by you shall be in a fair way to look upon the face of one who loves you more dearly than if you had never been lost to her."

John hears and believes; he is not suspicious enough to put a double meaning upon the words.

"An hour--so soon? What am I to do in order to gain this consummation of my hopes?" he asks, in deep surprise.

"Nothing, only be content to remain here as my guests."

John looks at Philander and the latter nods, for it all seems clear and above board.

"We agree, madame," says the young doctor.

The Mother Superior, as they take her to be, bows her head solemnly.

"It is well," she says, and touches a bell.

Almost immediately the native servant appears, to whom she speaks in low tones, while John wonders when so great a revolution in the affairs of orders like this occurred whereby they are enabled to have men-servants.

Hardly has the native vanished than another sister appears, carrying a small tray upon which are seen a crystal bottle full of grape juice, three odd gla.s.ses and a plate of plain flat cakes.

"Doctor Craig, our order refuses the use of wines; this is the pure juice of the grape, expressed at our own vineyard on this island. It is as harmless as water, but refres.h.i.+ng. It is our simple habit to invite our guests to join us in this way; we believe in the Arab rule of breaking bread; those with whom we take salt are ever more our friends.

You will not, cannot refuse."

How should they?

John looks at the professor, and in turn the latter looks at John.

"Madame, you have given me cause for happiness; we will join you in your simple lunch," returns the young man.

"You are wounded," noticing his arm in its sling.

"Not seriously."

"By chance I saw your adventure this day. I am proud to have the hero of that n.o.ble deed for my guest."

"Pardon; please do not mention it."

He accepts a gla.s.s of the grape juice and an anise-seed cake, for this plant is grown in Malta for export.

The liquid is cold and very refres.h.i.+ng. John has a dozen questions on the tip of his tongue, all of which relate to Sister Magdalen, but he does not put them, for his thoughts become somewhat incoherent, and it is so comfortable sitting there.

When the Mother Superior raises her vail to sip from the amber gla.s.s of unfermented wine John Craig, M.D., has sense enough to notice two things; the hand that holds the gla.s.s is plump and fair, and the lips under the vail form a Cupid's bow such as age can never know.

This arouses a wild curiosity in his mind; he wonders what this woman, who wears such a strange habit, can be like, and watches her with something of eagerness.

Surely the room is growing very close; a window opened would be a good thing he believes, and yet somehow lacks the energy to open it, turns his head, and sees the professor lying back in his chair _fast asleep_.

This gives him a faint shock, but his nerves are deadened; nothing would surprise him very much now, unless an earthquake occurred.

"Rest your head, Doctor Craig; the back of the chair is very comfortable," he hears a soft voice say.

Warm breath fans his face. The Mother Superior has thrown aside that ugly bonnet; it is a young, face, a fair face, surrounded by golden curls, that looks down upon him, as with a stage laugh the woman rests one hand on the head of the drugged medical student from Chicago, to exclaim:

"At last! he belongs to Pauline Potter!"

CHAPTER VII.

THE BEAUTIFUL TIGRESS.

John Craig dreams. He fancies himself bathing with demon apes in the wilds of Africa, having read an explorer's account of such a scene very recently.

They press him hard, and he can see no hope of escaping with his life.