Part 40 (2/2)

Mrs. Cheyne started up with an hysterical scream, and caught hold of Phillis. ”Come,” she said, almost wildly, ”we will not stay here. The children will not come to-night, for who could hear their voices in such a storm? My little angels!--but they shall not see me like this.

Come, come!” And, taking the girl by the arm, she almost dragged her from the room, and led the way with rapid and disordered footsteps to a large luxurious chamber, furnished evidently as a dressing-room, and only divided from the sleeping-room by a curtained archway.

As Mrs. Cheyne threw herself down in an arm-chair and hid her face in her hands, the curtain was drawn back, and Miss Mewlstone came in with an anxious, almost frightened expression on her good-natured countenance. She hurried up to Mrs. Cheyne and took her in her arms as though she were a child.

”Now, Magdalene, now, my dear,” she said, coaxingly, ”you will try to be good and command yourself before this young lady. Look at her: she is not a bit afraid of the storm:--are you, Miss Challoner? No, just so; you are far too sensible.”

”Oh, that is what you always tell me,” returned Mrs. Cheyne, wrenching herself free with some violence. ”Be sensible,--be good,--when I am nearly mad with the oppression and suffocation, here, and here,”

pointing to her head and breast. ”Commonplaces, commonplaces; as well stop a deluge with a teacup. Oh, you are an old fool, Barby: you will never learn wisdom.”

”My poor lamb! Barby never minds one word you say when you are like this.”

”Oh, I will beg your pardon to-morrow, or when the thunder stops.

Hark! there it is again,” cowering down in her chair. ”Can't you pray for it to cease, Barby? Oh, it is too horrible! Don't you recollect the night he rode away,--right into the storm, into the very teeth of the storm? 'Good-bye, Magdalene; who knows when we may meet again?'

and I never looked at him, never kissed him, never broke the silence by one word; and the thunder came, and he was gone,” beating the air with her hands.

”Oh, hush, my dear, hus.h.!.+ Let me read to you a little, and the fever will soon pa.s.s. You are frightening the poor young lady with your wild talk, and no wonder!”

”Pshaw! who minds the girl? Let her go or stop; what do I care? What is the whole world to me, when I am tormented like this? Three years, four years--more than a thousand days--of this misery! Oh, Barby! do you think I have been punished enough? do you think where he is, up in heaven with the children, that he forgives and pities me, who was such a bad wife to him?”

As Miss Mewlstone paused a moment to wipe the tears that were flowing over her old cheeks, Phillis's voice came to her relief.

”Oh, can you doubt it?” she said, in much agitation. ”Dear Mrs.

Cheyne, can you have an instant's doubt? Do you think the dead carry all these paltry earthly feelings into the bright place yonder?

Forgive you--oh, there is no need of forgiveness there; he will only be loving you,--he and the children too.”

”G.o.d bless you!” whispered Miss Mewlstone. ”Hush, that is enough! Go, my dear, go, and I will come to you presently. Magdalene, put your poor head down here: I have thought of something that will do you good.” She waved Phillis away almost impatiently, and laid the poor sufferer's head on her bosom, s.h.i.+elding it from the flashes that darted through the room. Phillis could see her bending over her, and her voice was as tender as though she were soothing a sick infant.

Phillis was trembling with agitation as she stole down the dark corridor. Never in her happy young life had she witnessed or imagined such a scene. The wild words, the half-maddened gestures, the look of agony stamped on the pale, almost distorted features, would haunt her for many a day. Oh, how the poor soul must have suffered before she lost self-control and balance like this!

It was not the death of her children that had so utterly unnerved her.

It must have been that bitter parting with her husband, and the remembrance of angry words never to be atoned for in this life, that was cankering the root of her peace, and that brought about these moods of despair.

Phillis thought of Coleridge's lines,--

”And to be wroth with one we love Doth work like madness on the brain,”--

as she took refuge in the dim drawing-room. Here, at least, there were signs of human life and occupation. A little tea-table had been set in one window, though the tea was cold. The greyhounds came and laid their slender noses on her gown, and one small Italian one coiled himself up on her lap. Miss Mewlstone's work-basket stood open, and a tortoise sh.e.l.l kitten had helped itself to a ball of wool and was busily unwinding it. The dogs were evidently frightened at the storm, for they all gathered round Phillis, s.h.i.+vering and whining, as though missing their mistress; and she had much ado to comfort them, though she loved animals and understood their dumb language better than most people.

It was not so very long, and yet it seemed hours before Miss Mewlstone came down to her.

”Are you here, my dear?” she asked, in a loud whisper, for the room was dark. ”Ah, just so. We must have lights, and I must give you a gla.s.s of wine or a nice hot cup of coffee.” And, notwithstanding Phillis's protest that she never took wine and was not in need of anything, Miss Mewlstone rang the bell, and desired the footman to bring in the lamp. ”And tell Bishop to send up some nice hot coffee and sandwiches as soon as possible. For young people never know what they want, and you are just worried and tired to death with all you have gone through,--not being an old woman and seasoned to it like me,” went on the good creature, and she patted Phillis's cheek encouragingly as she spoke.

”But how is she? Oh, thank G.o.d, the storm has lulled at last!”

exclaimed the girl, breathlessly.

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