Part 25 (2/2)
”No, indeed, dear, nothing of the sort; but Rachel is very ill, and I am going down to make her some lemonade. Won't you please put something on, and go in and sit with her? I cannot bear to leave her alone.”
Marion did not stop to answer; but running back into her room, threw a shawl over her shoulders, and hastily thrusting her feet into her slippers, hurried into Miss Stiefbach's room. There was only a dim light in the chamber. Marion went up to the bed, and, leaning over, called Rachel by name; but she made no answer, only moaned feebly, and tossed her arms over her head, rolling her great black eyes from side to side.
”Rachel,” said Marion, thoroughly frightened, ”don't you know me?”
The voice seemed to rouse her, for she started up, and looked fixedly at Marion; then putting her hands before her eyes, as if to shut out some horrible sight, she cried, in a hoa.r.s.e voice, ”Go away! go away! you hate me! you hate me! you're going to kill me!”
Marion shuddered, for she knew Rachel must be delirious; she tried to soothe her, but the sound of her voice only seemed to make her more excited. She seemed to have a vague idea who she was, and that she was there to do her harm. Once she sat up in bed, and, laying her hand on Marion's arm, said in the most grieved, beseeching tone, ”What makes you hate me so? I never did you any harm.”
Marion, with tears in her eyes was about to speak, when suddenly the tender, supplicating expression left Rachel's face, and one of intense horror and grief took its place, as she grasped Marion's arm tightly with one hand, stretching out her other arm, and pointing into a dark corner of the room, exclaiming, in a voice that made her companion shudder from head to foot: ”See! see! you see they're taking it off!
they're taking it off! don't you see? It's my father! O father! father!”
she wailed, stretching out her arm as if entreating some person seen only by herself, ”don't leave me; for there'll be no one to love me then. I'm all alone! all alone! all alone!”
Marion's tears fell thick and fast, as the exhausted girl threw herself back on the pillow and sobbed aloud; every unkind thought, every cold glance, and every act of neglect which she had shown the poor, desolate creature beside her pictured itself before her. Remorse was doing its work, and her greatest fear was that Rachel would die while yet delirious, and before she had an opportunity to ask her forgiveness, and atone by her kindness in the future for her neglect of the past. But although these thoughts pa.s.sed rapidly through her mind, they were but as the undercurrent of her immediate anxiety; it seemed as if Miss Christine would never come, and Rachel still moaned and sobbed in a heart-rending manner.
When Miss Christine did at last enter the room, bringing the lemonade, Marion hurried towards her, and whispered:--
”Oh, do you think she's going to die? Can't we do anything for her?
Can't _I_ do anything?”
”I think she seems very ill indeed,” replied Miss Christine, going to the bedside, and laying a cloth wet in cold water on Rachel's head; then coming back to Marion, ”Will you stay with her while I go for the doctor?”
”Can't you send Bridget?”
”No, the poor thing is half worn out with all she has had to do this week. I would not call her up for anything. If you will stay with Rachel, and keep changing the cloth on her head, I will go, for I dare not wait until morning.”
”O Miss Christine!” exclaimed Marion, in a trembling whisper, ”I can't stay; indeed I can't, and hear her rave about her father; it is dreadful! it goes right through me; you stay and _I'll_ go.”
”Marion, do you know it is almost midnight? You will be afraid.”
”You were not.”
”No, because I'm not nervous.”
”Well, I won't be nervous; if there's no danger for you, there is none for me. I shall go.”
”Any _real_ danger I do not think there is, but of imaginary danger a plenty, and if you should get seriously frightened I never should forgive myself.”
”But I won't be frightened or nervous,” said Marion, resolutely. ”Here, feel my hand; when Rachel was raving a moment ago, I _could_ not keep it still; now it is as steady as yours. O Miss Christine, if you only _knew_, you would let me go.”
”My dear child,” said Miss Christine, laying her hand tenderly on Marion's cheek, ”I _do_ know, and if you really are courageous enough, you may go. It is no use for me to wake up any of the girls; there is not one of them that would dare go with you, I know.”
”I'll go alone, Miss Christine, and I know nothing will happen to me.”
Marion hurried back into her room, and dressed herself as quickly as possible, putting on her thickest cloak, furs, and a warm hood. Miss Christine stepped into the entry, and kissed her good-by, saying:--
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