Part 57 (1/2)

Little piteous hand!--its touch was to her symbolic, imperative.

Eight months had she been at Mellor? And that Marcella, who had been living and moving amid these woods and lanes all this time--that foolish girl, delighting in new grandeurs, and flattered by Aldous Raeburn's attentions--that hot, ambitious person who had meant to rule a county through a husband--what had become of her? Up to the night of Hurd's death sentence she had still existed in some sort, with her obligations, qualms, remorses. But since then--every day, every hour had been grinding, scorching her away--fas.h.i.+oning in flame and fever this new Marcella who sat here, looking impatiently into another life, which should know nothing of the bonds of the old.

Ah, yes!--her _thought_ could distinguish between the act and the man, between the man and his cla.s.s; but in her _feeling_ all was confounded.

This awful growth of sympathy in her--strange irony!--had made all sympathy for Aldous Raeburn impossible to her. Marry him?--no!

no!--never! But she would make it quite easy to him to give her up.

Pride should come in--he should feel no pain in doing it. She had in her pocket the letter she had received from him that afternoon. She had hardly been able to read it. Ear and heart were alike dull to it.

From time to time she probably slept in her chair. Or else it was the perpetual rush of images and sensations through the mind that hastened the hours. Once when the first streaks of the March dawn were showing through the curtains Minta Hurd sprang up with a loud cry:

”Oh, my G.o.d! Jim, _Jim!_ Oh, no!--take that off. Oh, _please_, sir, please! Oh, for G.o.d's sake, sir!”

Agony struggled with sleep. Marcella, shuddering, held and soothed her, and for a while sleep, or rather the drug in her veins, triumphed again.

For another hour or two she lay restlessly tossing from side to side, but unconscious.

Willie hardly moved all night. Again and again Marcella held beef-tea or milk to his mouth, and tried to rouse him to take it, but she could make no impression on the pa.s.sive lips; the sleeping serenity of the brow never changed.

At last, with a start, Marcella looked round and saw that the morning was fully there. A cold light was streaming through the curtains; the fire was still glowing; but her limbs were stiff and chilled under her shawl. She sprang up, horror descending on her. Her shaking fingers could hardly draw out the watch in her belt.

_Ten minutes to eight_!

For the first time the girl felt nerve and resolution fail her. She looked at Mrs. Hurd and wrung her hands. The mother was muttering and moving, but not yet fully awake; and Willie lay as before. Hardly knowing what she was doing, she drew the curtains back, as though inspiration might come with the light. The rain-clouds trailed across the common; water dripped heavily from the thatch of the cottage; and a few birds twittered from some bedraggled larches at the edge of the common. Far away, beyond and beneath those woods to the right, Widrington lay on the plain, with that high-walled stone building at its edge. She saw everything as it must now be happening as plainly as though she were bodily present there--the last meal--the pinioning--the chaplain.

Goaded by the pa.s.sing seconds, she turned back at last to wake that poor sleeper behind her. But something diverted her. With a start she saw that Willie's eyes were open.

”Willie,” she said, running to him, ”how are you, dear? Shall I lift your head a little?”

He did not answer, though she thought he tried, and she was struck by the blueness under the eyes and nose. Hurriedly she felt his tiny feet.

They were quite cold.

”Mrs. Hurd!” she cried, rousing her in haste; ”dear Mrs. Hurd, come and see Willie!”

The mother sprang up bewildered, and, hurrying across the room, threw herself upon him.

”Willie, what is it ails you, dear? Tell mother! Is it your feet are so cold? But we'll rub them--we'll get you warm soon. And here's something to make you better.” Marcella handed her some brandy. ”Drink it, dear; drink it, sweetheart!” Her voice grew shrill.

”He can't,” said Marcella. ”Do not let us plague him; it is the end. Dr.

Clarke said it would come in the morning.”

They hung over him, forgetting everything but him for the moment--the only moment in his little life he came first even with his mother.

There was a slight movement of the hand.

”He wants his animals,” said Marcella, the tears pouring down her cheeks. She lifted them and put them on his breast, laying the cold fingers over them.

Then he tried to speak.