OUT IN THE STORM.
After this the younger Mrs. Bosworth came into the parlor, her eyes red
with weeping, and looking weaker and more in affliction than ever. She
had done everything, she said, dropping helplessly into a chair, and
nothing would pacify him. There he was, trying to read over a letter
that he kept hid away under the pillow, that shook and shook in his
hands till the whole room was full of its rustling, and it made her so
nervous she was afraid to stay alone with him--muttering, muttering as
if he were angry with her, that had been a good mother to him all his
days; no one could say to the contrary of that, she was sure.
Another woman of a character so much above the level of that poor
mother's, might have become impatient; but the old lady listened to her
with great sympathy, excused her futile grief by half implied apologies,
and finally succeeded in persuading her to lie down on the sofa, while
we went up-stairs and watched by her son.
The young man was indeed very ill, entirely out of his head, and talking
angrily to himself. The letter which Mrs. Bosworth had mentioned was
crushed in his hand, and he was rolling it into a round ball between his
two palms. While I stood looking upon him, thus troubled by some unseen
enemy, and flung back upon a sick-bed, it seemed impossible that any one
could be cruel enough for such work, unless the heart of a fiend had
somewhere taken human form.
I would have stayed in the sick-room longer, for my poor talent for
nursing was never more required, but the old lady seemed anxious to send
me home. Having done her utmost to relieve the unhappy situation of our
patient, she was restless till her object was put in some state of
forwardness; so I went away, leaving her rather hopeful, but very
desponding myself.
As I went home, the clouds that had been broken and scattered were
gathered into vast tent-like masses, and a slow rain began to fall,
which gradually wet me through. I did not heed it; nothing could be
gloomier than my feelings. It seemed to me as if I were going to a house
of strangers, so completely had the machinations of that woman shut me
out from my old place in the family. So I let it rain on, without a wish
to escape the discomfort.
When I was nearly across the fields, I saw a figure approaching through
the gray mists, and would gladly have avoided it by turning into the
woods; but a voice called me by name, and I stopped at once. It was
Jessie, who had come out into the storm to meet me. Lawrence had called
at the house and informed the family of young Bosworth's relapse.
"He is there now, I suppose," she said, excitedly; "but I came away,
guessing where you had gone. I cannot breathe in the house when they are
together, and he lying so ill and helpless."
I looked up at these words. The storm was beating in her face, but her
cheeks were like fire underneath. It might have been all rain that
flashed down the burning surface; but I thought not, for there were
suppressed sobs in her voice when she spoke.
"Is--is your father at home?" I inquired, hesitating in my speech, I
cannot tell wherefore.
"No; he rode over to town before the storm came on. They have the house
to themselves."
She spoke bitterly. In truth, I scarcely recognized my own sweet Jessie
with those wet garments clinging around her, and that excited face. We
walked on in silence, for she turned to retrace her steps. At last she
said, abruptly:
"How is he, Aunt Matty? Does he suffer?"
"Greatly, I think, Jessie."
"No wonder he is ill," she said, passionately. "It is enough to break
down anything human."
"I am glad you can feel for him, Jessie."
"Feel for him! Who can help it? But who feels for--for--"
She broke off abruptly, turning pale and cold.
I walked on, distressed by this broken confidence, but knew well that
Jessie was too proud for anything more definite.
As we came into the field bordered by the carriage sweep, a horseman
dashed up to the gate, which had been left open, and was passing at a
swift gallop toward the house. It was Mr. Lee returning from town, and
riding fast to escape the rain. He saw us dragging our way through the
grass, and drew up, regarding our condition with a look so stern that it
chilled me.
"He is angry with me for going out, I suppose," said Jessie, drearily.
"Well, I could not help it."
After regarding us for a full minute with that hard look, Mr. Lee rode
on, his horse tramping heavier than before, and sending back broken
flakes of mud, as if casting it purposely against us. He rode directly
to the stables. Jessie and I slunk into the house by the back entrance
like culprits.