"YOU are not able to walk so fast," said Mrs. Hilyard, coming up to the
widow as she crossed over to the darker side of Grove Street, just where
the house of the Miss Hemmings turned its lighted staircase-window to
the street; "and it will not harm you to let me speak to you. Once you
offered me your hand, and would have gone with me. It is a long long
time ago--ages since--but I remember it. I do not come after you for
nothing. Let me speak. You said you were a--a minister's wife, and knew
human nature," she continued, with a certain pause of reverence, and at
the same time a gleam of amusement, varying for a moment the blank and
breathless voice in which she had spoken. "I want your advice."
Mrs. Vincent, who had paused with an uncomfortable sensation of being
pursued, recovered herself a little during this address. The minister's
mother had no heart to linger and talk to any one at that moment, after
all the excitement of the evening, with her fatigued frame and occupied
mind; but still she was the minister's mother, as ready and prepared as
Arthur himself ought to have been, to hear anything that any of the
flock might have to say to her, and to give all the benefit of her
experience to anybody connected with Salem, who might be in trouble. "I
beg your pardon," said Mrs. Vincent; "my daughter is ill--that is why I
was making so much haste; but I am sure, if I can be of any use to any
member of-- I mean to any of my son's friends"--she concluded rather
abruptly. She did not remember much about this woman, who was strangely
unlike the other people in Salem. When was that time in which they had
met before? The widow's mind had been so swept by the whirlwind of
events and emotions, that she remembered only dimly how and where it was
she had formerly seen her strange companion.
"Your daughter is ill?" said Mrs. Hilyard; "that is how trouble happens
to you. You are a good woman; you don't interfere in God's business; and
this is how your trouble comes. You can nurse her and be about her bed;
and when she wakes up, it is to see you and be grateful to you. But my
child," she said, touching the widow's arm suddenly with her hand, and
suppressing painfully a shrill tone of anguish in her voice which would
break through, "does not know me. She opens her blue eyes--they are not
even my eyes--they are Alice's eyes, who has no right to my child--and
looks at me as if I were a stranger; and for all this time, since I
parted with her, I have not heard--I do not know where she is. Hush,
hush, hush!" she went on, speaking to herself, "to think that this is
me, and that I should break down so at last. A woman has not soul enough
to subdue her nerves for ever. But this is not what I wanted to say to
you. I gave Miss Smith your son's address----"
Having said this, she paused, and looked anxiously at the widow, who
looked at her also in the windy gleams of lamplight with more and more
perplexity. "Who is Miss Smith?" asked poor Mrs. Vincent. "Who are--you?
Indeed, I am very sorry to seem rude; but my mind has been so much
occupied. Arthur, of course, would know if he were here, but Susan's
illness has taken up all my thoughts; and--I beg your pardon--she may
want me even now," she continued, quickening her steps. Even the
courtesy due to one of the flock had a limit; and the minister's mother
knew it was necessary not to yield too completely to all the demands
that her son's people might make upon her. Was this even one of her
son's people? Such persons were unusual in the connection. Mrs. Vincent,
all fatigued, excited, and anxious as she was, felt at her wits' end.
"Yes, your son would know if he were here; he has taken my parole and
trusted me," said the strange woman; "but a woman's parole should not be
taken. I try to keep it; but unless they come, or I have news---- Who am
I? I am a woman that was once young and had friends. They married me to
a man, who was not a man, but a fine organisation capable of pleasures
and cruelties. Don't speak. You are very good; you are a minister's
wife. You don't know what it is, when one is young and happy, to find
out all at once that life means only so much torture and misery, and so
many lies, either done by you or borne by you--what does it matter
which? My baby came into the world with a haze on her sweet soul because
of that discovery. If it had been but her body!" said Mrs. Vincent's
strange companion, with bitterness. "A dwarfed creature, or deformed,
or---- But she was beautiful--she is beautiful, as pretty as Alice; and
if she lives, she will be rich. Hush, hush! you don't know what my fears
were," continued Mrs. Hilyard, with a strange humility, once more
putting her hand on the widow's arm. "If he could have got possession of
her, how could I tell what he might have done?--killed her--but that
would have been dangerous; poisoned what little mind she had left--made
her like her mother. I stole her away. Long ago, when I thought she
might have been safe with you, I meant to have told you. I stole her out
of his power. For a little while she was with me, and he traced us--then
I sent the child away. I have not seen her but in glimpses, lest he
should find her. It has cost me all I had, and I have lived and worked
with my hands," said the needlewoman of Back Grove Street, lifting her
thin fingers to the light and looking at them, pathetic vouchers to the
truth of her story. "When he drove me desperate," she went on, labouring
in vain to conceal the panting, long-drawn breath which impeded her
utterance, "you know? I don't talk of that. The child put her arms round
that old woman after her mother had saved her. She had not a word, not a
word for me, who had done---- But it was all for her sake. This is what
I have had to suffer. She looked in my face and waved me away from her
and said, 'Susan, Susan!' Susan meant your daughter--a new friend, a
creature whom she had not seen a week before--and no word, no look, no
recognition for me!"
"Oh, I am very sorry, very sorry!" said Mrs. Vincent, in her turn taking
the poor thin hand with an instinct of consolation. Susan's name, thus
introduced, went to the mother's heart. She could have wept over the
other mother thus complaining, moaning out her troubles in her
compassionate ear.
"I left them in a safe place. I came home to fall into your son's hands.
He might have been sure, had it come to that, that no one should have
suffered for me" said Mrs. Hilyard, with again a tone of bitterness.
"What was my life worth, could any man suppose? And since then I have
not heard a word--not a word--whether the child is still where I left
her, or whether some of his people have found her--or whether she is
ill--or whether-- I know nothing, nothing! Have a little pity upon me,
you innocent woman! I never asked pity, never sought sympathy before;
but a woman can never tell what she may be brought to. I am brought down
to the lowest depths. I cannot stand upright any longer," she cried,
with a wailing sigh. "I want somebody--somebody at least to give me a
little comfort. Comfort! I remember," she said, with one of those sudden
changes of tone which bewildered Mrs. Vincent, "your son once spoke to
me of getting comfort from those innocent young sermons of his. He knows
a little better now; he does not sail over the surface now as he used to
do in triumph. Life has gone hard with him, as with me and all of us.
Tell him, if I get no news I will break my parole. I cannot help
myself--a woman's honour is not her word. I told him so. Say to your
son----"
"My son? what have you to do with my son?" said Mrs. Vincent, with a
sudden pang. The poor mother was but a woman too. She did not understand
what this connection was. A worn creature, not much younger than
herself, what possible tie could bind her to Arthur? The widow, like
other women, could believe in any "infatuation" of men; but could not
understand any other bond subsisting between these two. The thought went
to her heart. Young men had been known before now to be mysteriously
attracted by women old, unbeautiful, unlike themselves. Could this be
Arthur's fate? Perhaps it was a danger more dismal than that which he
had just escaped in Salem. Mrs. Vincent grew sick at heart. She
repeated, with an asperity of which her soft voice might have been
thought incapable, "What have you to do with my son?"
Mrs. Hilyard made no answer--perhaps she did not hear the question. Her
eyes, always restlessly turning from one object to another, had found
out, in the lighted street to which they had now come, a belated postman
delivering his last letters. She followed him with devouring looks; he
went to Vincent's door as they approached, delivered something, and
passed on into the darkness with a careless whistle. While Mrs. Vincent
watched her companion with doubtful and suspicious looks through the
veil which, once more among the lights of Grange Street, the minister's
mother had drawn over her face, the unconscious object of her suspicion
grasped her arm, and turned to her with beseeching eyes. "It may be news
of my child?" she said, with a supplication beyond words. She drew the
widow on with the desperation of her anxiety. The little maid had still
the letter in her hand when she opened the door. It was not even for Mr.
Vincent. It was for the mistress of the house, who had not yet returned
from the meeting at Salem. Mrs. Vincent paused upon the threshold,
compassionate but determined. She looked at the unhappy woman who stood
upon the steps in the light of the lamp, gazing eagerly in at the door,
and resolved that she should penetrate no farther; but even in the
height of her determination the widow's heart smote her when she looked
at that face, so haggard and worn with passion and anxiety, with its
furtive gleaming eyes, and all the dark lines of endurance which were so
apparent now, when the tide of emotion had grown too strong to be
concealed. "Have you--no--friends in Carlingford?" said the widow, with
hesitation and involuntary pity. She could not ask her to enter where,
perhaps, her presence might be baleful to Arthur; but the little woman's
tender heart ached, even in the midst of her severity, for the suffering
in that face.
"Nowhere!" said Mrs. Hilyard; then, with a gleam out of her eyes which
took the place of a smile, "Do not be sorry for me; I want no
friends--nobody could share my burden with me. I am going back--home--to
Alice. Tell Mr. Vincent; I think something must happen to-night," she
added, with a slight shiver; "it grows intolerable, beyond bearing.
Perhaps by the telegraph--or perhaps---- And Miss Smith has this
address. I told you my story," she went on, drawing closer, and taking
the widow's hand, "that you might have pity on me, and understand--no,
not understand; how could she?--but if you were like me, do you think
you could sit still in one place, with so much upon your heart? You
never could be like me--but if you had lost your child----"
"I did," said Mrs. Vincent, drawing a painful breath at the
recollection, and drawn unwittingly by the sight of the terrible anxiety
before her into a reciprocation of confidence--"my child who had been in
my arms all her life-- God gave her back again; and now, while I am
speaking, He may be taking her away," said the mother, with a sudden
return of all her anxiety. "I cannot do you any good, and Susan may want
me: good-night--good-night."
"It was not God who gave her back to you," said Mrs. Hilyard, grasping
the widow's hand closer--"it was I--remember it was I. When you think
hardly of me, recollect--I did it. She might have been--but I freed
her--remember; and if you hear anything, if it were but a whisper, of my
child, think of it, and have pity on me. You will?--you understand what
I say?"
The widow drew away her hand with a pang of fear. She retreated
hurriedly, yet with what dignity she could, calling the little maid to
shut the door.
When that strange face, all gleaming, haggard, and anxious, was shut out
into the night, Mrs. Vincent went up-stairs very hastily, scarcely able
to give her alarmed withdrawal the aspect of an orderly retreat. Was
this woman mad to whom she had been speaking so calmly? In her agitation
she forgot all the precautions with which she had intended to soften to
her son the fact of her attendance at that meeting of which he had not
even informed her. Pursued by the recollection of that face, she
hastened to Arthur, still in her bonnet and veil. He was seated at the
table writing as when she left him; but all the minister's self-control
could not conceal a certain expectancy and excitement in the eyes which
he raised with a flash of eager curiosity to see who it was that thus
invaded his solitude. "Mother! where have you been?" he asked, with
irritation, when he perceived her. His impatience and anxiety, and the
great effort he had made to subdue both, betrayed him into a momentary
outburst of annoyance and vexation. "Where have you been?" he repeated,
throwing down his pen. "Surely not to this meeting, to compromise me, as
if I had not trouble enough already!" This rude accost put her immediate
subject out of Mrs. Vincent's mind: she went up to her son with
deprecating looks, and put her hand fondly on his head. The tears came
into her eyes, not because his words offended or grieved her, but for
joy of the good news she had to tell; for the minister's mother was
experienced in the ways of man, and knew how many things a woman does
for love which she gets no thanks for doing. Her boy's anger did not
make her angry, but it drove other matters, less important, out of her
head.
"Oh, Arthur, no one saw me," she said; "I had my veil down all the time.
How could I help going when I knew of it? I did not tell you--I did not
mean you to know; but it was impossible to stay away," cried the widow,
perceiving her son's impatience while she explained herself, and growing
confused in consequence, "when I heard what was going on. Oh, Arthur
dear, don't look so disturbed; they know better than you imagine--they
appreciate you, though they have not the way of showing it. I have seen
things happen so differently, that I know the value of such friends as
you have in the flock. Oh, my dear boy, don't look so strange! It has
been a great triumph, Arthur. There is a deputation coming to offer you
their support and sympathy. All this dreadful business has not harmed
you. Thank God for that! I think I shall be able to bear anything now."
The minister got up hastily from his chair, and took refuge on the
hearthrug. He changed colour; grew red and grew pale; and by way of
escaping from the complication of feelings that moved him, once more
broke out into impatient exclamations. "Why did you go? Why did not you
tell me you were going?" he said. "Why did you leave Susan, who wanted
you? Mother, you will never understand that a man's affairs must not be
meddled with!" cried the Nonconformist, with an instinctive effort to
conceal the agitation into which this unexpected news threw him. Then he
began to pace about the room, exclaiming against the impatience of
women, who can never wait for a result. The young man was too proud to
acknowledge the state of feverish suspense in which he had been, or the
wonderful tumult suddenly produced in his mind. He seized upon this
ready safety-valve of irritation, which was half real and half
fictitious. It gave him time to collect his troubled thoughts.
"Arthur dear, hush! no one saw me at the meeting. I had my veil down,
and spoke to nobody," said the widow: "and oh! don't you think it was
only natural that your mother should be there? No one in the world is so
much interested in what concerns you. I spoke to no one--except," said
Mrs. Vincent, with a little effort, "that strange woman, Arthur, whom
you have had so much to do with. Who is she? Oh, my dear boy, I hope you
have not formed any connections that you will repent? She said something
about a promise, and having given her word. I don't know why you should
have her word, or what she has to do with you. She came here to the door
with me to-night."
"Mrs. Hilyard!" cried the minister, suddenly roused. "Mrs.----; no
matter what her name is. Where is she? Do you mean that she came here?
They keep no watch over her. To-night of all nights in the world! If you
had but stayed at home, I should not have known of her wanderings at
least," he said, with vexation. "Now I shall have to go and look after
her--she must be sent back again--she must not be allowed to escape."
"Is she mad?" said Mrs. Vincent, alarmed, yet relieved. "Don't go away,
Arthur; she is not here. She said I was to tell you that she had gone
back--to Alice. Who is Alice?--who is this woman? What have you to do
with her? Oh! my dear boy, you are a minister, and the world is so ready
to make remarks. She said you had her word. Oh, Arthur, I hope it does
not mean anything you will live to repent?" cried the anxious mother,
fixing her jealous eyes on her son's face. "She is not like you. I
cannot tell what you can have to do with such a woman--you who
might----" Mrs. Vincent's fright and anxiety exhausted both her language
and her breath.
"It does not matter much after all," said the Nonconformist, who had
been busy with his own thoughts, and had only half heard his mother's
adjurations. "Like me?--what has that to do with the matter? But I
daresay she will go back, as she said; and now that he is out of danger,
and has not accused her, things must take their chance. Mad? It would
not be wonderful if she were mad. I can sympathise with people when they
are driven out of their wits. Who is this next? Another messenger from
the meeting, or perhaps your deputation? I think I shall go mad after a
while if I get no rest."
But as the minister stood in ill-concealed excitement by the fire, not
without expectation that it might be somebody with an official report
from Salem, Mr. Vincent's landlady, still in her bonnet and shawl, just
returned from the meeting, came in to tell the widow of the approach of
the doctor. "He's a-coming directly, ma'am; he's gone in for a minute
to Smith's, next door, where they've got the hooping-cough. And oh, Mr.
Vincent, sir," cried the woman, who had made this a pretence to express
her sentiments on the more important subject, "if there hasn't a-been a
sweet meeting! I'd have giv' a half-year's rent, ma'am, the pastor had
been there. All as unanimous and as friendly!--all but them Pigeons, as
are the poison of the place; and sweet Miss Phoebe Tozer a-crying of
her pretty eyes out; but there ain't no occasion for crying now," said
the triumphant landlady, who had a real stake in the matter. At this
touch the minister regained his composure. He went back to his seat at
the table, and took up the pen he had thrown down. A bishop could not
have looked more grandly indifferent than did the Nonconformist as he
turned his back upon his anxious partisan. "Tell the doctor to let me
know how Susan is, mother, for I am busy to-night," said the young man.
"I cannot leave my work just now even for Dr. Rider." He began again to
write in the excitement of his mind, and produced a sentence which was
not one of the least successful of his sentences, while the two women
with a certain awe stood silent behind his chair.
"I will not disturb you any longer, my dear boy. Good-night," said Mrs.
Vincent. She went away, followed by the discomfited landlady, who was
overwhelmed, and did not know what to make of it. The widow could not
but improve such an opportunity. "The minister must not be disturbed in
his studies," she said, with importance and in a whisper as she closed
the door. "When he is engaged with a subject, it does not answer to go
in upon him and disturb his attention. Neither meetings nor anything
else, however important, should interrupt a pastor when he is engaged in
composition," said the little woman, grandly. But while the mistress of
the house departed to her own quarter much overawed, the minister's
mother went to the sick-room with no such composure as she assumed.
Something she did not understand was in Arthur's mind. The Salem meeting
did not appear to her so conclusive as it had done an hour ago. He was
young and high-spirited and proud, and had not that dutiful subjection
to the opinions of the flock which became a minister of Salem. What if
that visionary horror with which she had frightened Tozer might turn out
a real danger? Though she had made such skilful use of it, the
possibility she had herself invented had not really alarmed her; but the
thought thrilled through her now with a fear which had some remorse in
it. She had invoked the ghost, not much believing in any such
supernatural climax; but if the apparition really made itself visible,
the widow recognised at once her entire want of any power to lay it. She
took off her shawl and bonnet with little comfort in her mind on that
subject to support her under the returning pangs of anxiety about Susan,
which overwhelmed her again as she opened the door of the sick-room. The
two troubles united in her heart and aggravated each other, as with a
sick throb of expectation she went in to Susan's bedside. Perhaps there
might be "a change"--for better or for worse, something might have
happened. The doctor might find something more conclusive to-night in
that languid pallid face. The noiseless room struck her with a chill of
misery as she went to her usual place, carrying the active life of pain
and a troubled heart into that melancholy atmosphere from which life
seemed to have fled. With a faltering voice she spoke to Susan, who
showed no signs of hearing her except by a feeble half-lifting of her
heavy eyelids and restless motion of her frame. No change! Never any
change! or, at least, as the nurse imagined, until---- The widow's heart
heaved with a silent sob of anguish--anguish sharp and acute as it is
when our misery breaks suddenly upon us out of a veil of other thoughts,
and we feel it intolerable. This sudden pang convulsed Mrs. Vincent's
much-tried heart as she wiped the bitter tears out of her eyes and
looked at her child, thus gliding, in a hopeless apathy and
unconsciousness, out of the arms that strained themselves in vain to
hold her. After so much as she had borne in her troubled life, God knows
it was hard. She did not rebel, but her heart lifted up a bitter cry to
the Father in heaven.
It was just then, while her anxious ear caught the step of the doctor on
the stair, that Mrs. Vincent was aware also of a carriage driving
rapidly up to the door. Preoccupied as she was, the sound startled her.
A passing wonder who it could be, and the vague expectation which
influences the mind at the great crises of life, when one feels that
anything may happen, moved her dimly as she rose to receive the doctor.
Dr. Rider came in with his noiseless step and anxious face; they shook
hands with each other mechanically, she gazing at him to see what his
opinion was before it could be formed--he looking with solicitous
serious eyes on the sick-bed. The light was dim, and Dr. Rider held it
up to see his patient. There she lay, moving now and then with the
restlessness of weakness, the pale large eyelids half closed, the pale
lips dropping apart,--a solemn speechless creature, abstracted already
out of this world and all its influences. The light that streamed over
her for the moment made no difference to Susan. There was nothing here
powerful enough to rouse the soul which horror and passion had driven
into one terrible corner of memory, obliterating all the rest of her
life. Dr. Rider looked at her with eyes in which the impatience of
powerless strength overcame even his professional reserve. He wrung the
widow's hand, which she laid on his arm in a trembling appeal to him to
tell her the worst. "The worst is that she is dying before our eyes, and
that she might be saved," he said, leading the poor mother to the other
end of the room. "All her heart and soul are concentrated upon that time
when she was away from you; unless we can rouse her by something that
will recall that time, she will never know you more. Think! is there
nothing that would wake her up even to remember the misery she endured?
Where is your servant who was with her?--but she has seen her lately,
and nothing has come of that. If you have the courage and strength,"
said the doctor, once more grasping Mrs. Vincent's hand tight, "to talk
of that man under the name she knew him by--to talk of him so as perhaps
she might hear; to discuss the matter; anything that will recall her
mind. Hush! what is that noise down-stairs?"
Even while listening to the doctor's dreadful suggestion, Mrs. Vincent
had been aware of the opening of the door down-stairs, and of a sound of
voices. She was trembling so that she could scarcely stand, principally,
no doubt, on account of this strange demand which he made upon her
strength, but with a nervous expectation besides which she could not
explain even to herself. But when, out of that confused commotion below,
there rose faint but audible the sound of a voice calling "Susan!
Susan!" the two anxious people started apart, and turned a wondering
momentary gaze upon each other, involuntarily asking what was that? what
did it mean? Then the doctor rushed to the door, where the widow
followed him as well as her trembling limbs would permit. She saw him
dash down-stairs, and herself stood grasping the railing, waiting for
what was about to happen, with her heart so beating and fluttering in
her breast that she could scarcely breathe for it. She could make
nothing of the rapid interrogation that went on downstairs. She heard
the voice of the doctor in hasty questions, and the slow, agitated,
somewhat confused utterance of a strange voice, which appeared to answer
him; and once or twice through these sounds came the strange cry,
"Susan! Susan!" which went to the widow's heart. Who could this be that
called upon Susan with so pathetic a repetition? It seemed a very long
interval to Mrs. Vincent before the doctor reappeared, and yet so short
was the time, that the door by which the new-comers, whoever they were,
had entered, was still open, admitting some strange familiar sounds from
the street into the bewildering maze of wonder and expectation. Mrs.
Vincent held fast by the rails to support herself, when she saw the
doctor returning up the stair, leading by the hand a girl whom he
grasped fast, and carried along with him by a kind of gentle but strong
compulsion. It was she who was calling Susan, gazing round her with
large dilated blue eyes, looking everywhere for something she had not
yet found. A beautiful girl--more beautiful than anything mortal to the
widow's surprised and wondering eyes. Who was she? The face was very
young, sadly simple, framed by long curling locks of fair hair, and the
broad circle of a large flapping Leghorn hat and blue veil. A bewildered
half-recognition came to Mrs. Vincent's mind as this blue veil waved in
her face in the wind from the open door; but excitement and anxiety had
deprived her of speech: she could ask no questions. "Here is the
physician," said Dr. Rider, with a kindred excitement in his voice. He
went into the room before her, leading the girl, behind whom there
followed slowly a confused and disturbed woman, whose face Mrs. Vincent
felt she had seen before. The mother, half jealous in her wonder,
pressed in after the doctor to guard her Susan even from experiments of
healing. "Doctor, doctor, who is it?" she said. But Dr. Rider held up
his hand imperatively to silence her. The room was imperfectly lighted
with candles burning dimly, and a faint glow of firelight. "Susan!"
cried the eager child's voice, with a weary echo of longing and
disappointment. "Susan!--take me to Susan; she is not here." Then Dr.
Rider led her round to the bedside, closely followed by the widow, and,
lifting a candle, threw its light fully upon the stranger. "Is it
Susan?" said the girl. "Will she not speak to me?--is she dead? Susan,
oh Susan, Susan!" It was an outcry of childish impatience and despair,
rising louder than any voice had risen in that room for many a day. Then
she burst forth into tears and sobs. "Susan!--she will not speak to me,
she will not look at me!" cried the stranger, drawing her arm out of the
doctor's hold, and clasping her hands together. There was a slight
movement in the bed; not the restless tossing with which her nurse was
familiar, but a trembling shiver came over that dying frame. The sound
had reached to the dull ears of the patient. She lifted her heavy
eyelids, and looked round with half-awakened eyes. "Call her again,
again!" said the doctor, in an intense whisper, which seemed to thrill
through the room. The girl, who was engaged with a much more engrossing
interest of her own, took no notice of the doctor. She knew nothing
about Susan's danger--she was bent on gaining succour for herself.
"Susan! tell her to look at me--at me! Susan! I care for nobody but
you!" said the lovely helpless creature, with strange half-articulate
cries, pressing closer to the bed. "You are to take care of me." Mrs.
Vincent pressed forward with pangs of anxiety, of terror, of hope, and
of a mother's tender jealousy through all, as these strange entreaties
filled the room. She too cried aloud, as she perceived the awakening in
that pallid face, the faint movement as if to raise herself up, which
indicated a conscious effort on the part of Susan. The clouds were
breaking on that obscured and hopeless firmament. The light, which
trembled in the doctor's hand, caught a gleam of understanding and life
in Susan's eyes, as her mother flew to raise her up, obeying the
suggestion of that unhoped-for movement. "Susan! you said you would take
care of me!" cried the young stranger, throwing herself upon the bedside
and grasping at the weak arm which once had protected her. The touch of
her hands awoke the slumbering soul. Slowly the light grew in Susan's
eyes. She who had not moved for days except in the restless tossings of
languor, lifted those white feeble arms to put them round the appealing
child. Then Susan struggled up, faint, yet inspired, unconscious of her
mother's help that enabled her to do so, and confronted the strange
people in her room, whom she had seen for weeks past, but did not know,
with living eyes. "Nobody shall touch her--we will protect each other,"
said the voice that had grown strange even to her mother's ears. Mrs.
Vincent could hardly be restrained from breaking in with a thousand
caresses and outcries of joy and thankfulness. But Dr. Rider quieted the
poor mother with a touch of his hand. "Let them alone," he said, with
that authority which no one in a sick-room can resist. Mrs. Vincent kept
back with unspeakable pangs in her heart, and watched the waking up of
that paralysed life which, alike in its loss and its recovery, had been
swept apart from her into another world. Without any help from her
mother, without even recognising her mother or distinguishing her from
the strangers round, Susan's soul awoke. She raised herself more and
more among those pillows where a little while ago she lay so
passively--she opened her eyes fully and looked round upon the man by
her bedside, and the other indistinct figures in the room, with a look
of resistance and conscious strength. "We will protect each other," said
Susan, slowly, "nobody shall harm her--we will keep each other safe."
Then, after another interval, other instincts awoke in the reviving
soul. She cast a wistful look from one to another, always drawing her
faint white arm round the girl who clung to her and found security in
her clasp. "Hush, hush! there are women here," she said in a whisper,
and with a tone of strange confusion, light breaking through the
darkness. Then there followed a long pause. Dr. Rider stood by the
bedside holding up his candle, attracting the wandering wistful glances
of his patient, who ceased to look at him with defiance as her eyes
again and again returned to the face, of which, often as it had bent
over her, she had no knowledge. All over the unknown room wandered those
strange looks, interrogating everything with a wistfulness beyond words.
What was this strange unfamiliar world into which, after her trance of
suffering, Susan had awakened? She did not know where she was, nor who
the people were who surrounded her. But the recollection of deadly peril
was not more distinct upon her confused mind than was the sentiment of
safety, of love, and watchfulness which somehow abode in this strange
dim room, in the little undecipherable circle of faces which surrounded
her bed. "Hush!" said Susan again, holding the stranger close. "Here are
women--women! nobody will harm us;" then, with a sudden flush over all
her face and cry of joy as the doctor suddenly threw the light full upon
Mrs. Vincent, who was bending over her, her mind struggled into
possession of itself,--"Here is my mother! she has come to take us
home!"
Mrs. Vincent remembered nothing more; she did not faint, for her child
wanted her--she sat all the night through on the bed, with Susan leaning
against her shoulder, clinging to her, holding her fast--starting again
and again to make sure that all was safe, and that it was, indeed, her
mother's arms that held her. Her soul was recalled out of that trance of
death. They laid the beautiful child upon the sofa in her young
guardian's sight, to keep up that happy influence; and when the night
was about half spent, the widow, throbbing all over her wearied frame
with exhaustion, pain, and joy, perceived that her Susan had fallen deep
and sweet asleep, clasping close, as if never again to lose hold of
them, her mother's tender hands.