“He is here, and there, and everywhere. Would you go to the Court again, mother? I told you how Elizabeth behaved to me.”
“Aw, then she had the bride-fever, my dear. She will be come to her senses by this time. Yes, yes, if you aren’t very sure how to act, take the kind way rather than the ill way; you will be mostly right, my dear.”
Of course Denas had no idea of taking either way, but the invitation furnished her with a reason for wearing her best dress on Monday; and she had been much exercised to find out a cause for this unusual finery. She felt quite excited over this fortunate incident, and she could not avoid a smile when she reflected that Elizabeth had so opportunely furnished her with the very thing she wanted.
Then for an hour or two Joan quite controlled herself. She asked after the news of the upper town, and listened with interest to her daughter’s description of the dresses she was helping to fashion. From this topic they glided naturally to Christmas and its coming festivities, and Joan talked a good deal of the new silver watch they had decided to give John as a Christmas gift, and so for some time she was as full of plans and happy hopes as a little child could be.
She did not notice that after a while Denas grew weary and constrained, that speech seemed a trouble to her, that she lost herself frequently in reverie, and was as nearly nervous as she had accused her mother of being. But the conversation finally flagged so much that Joan began to worry about the weather once more. The wind was now frightful, the icy rain rattled against the windows, and at the open door Joan could hear billow on billow, crash on crash, shrieking blast on shrieking blast. She was unable to preserve her cheerfulness. Like all strong hearts in anxiety, she became silent. The platitudes of Denas, dropped without interest, annoyed her; she only moved her head in reply.
Midnight came, and no boats. There was a pitifully frequent opening of cottage doors, and the sudden flashes of fire and candle light that followed revealed always some white, fearful face thrust out into the black night, in the hope of hearing the shouts of the home-coming men. Joan could not keep away from the door; and the yawning of Denas, her shifting movements, her uncontrolled 133 sleepiness, irritated Joan. In great anxiety, companionship not perfectly sympathetic is irritating; mere mortals quiver under its infliction. For Denas could not perceive any special reason for unusual fear; she longed to go to bed and sleep, as she had done many a time before under the same circumstances. She laid the Bible on the table before Joan and said: “Won’t you read a psalm and lie down a bit, mother?”
“No. Read for yourself, and to bed then if you want to go.”
Denas opened the book. Her father’s mark was in the psalms, and she began to read to herself.
Joan’s face was beneath her blue apron. David’s words did not interpret her at this hour; only her own lips could speak for her own sorrow and fear. There was a deep stillness in the house. Outside the tempest raged wildly. It seemed to Joan as if hours passed in that interval of heart-trembling; she was almost shocked when the old clock gave its long whirring warning and then struck only one. Her first look was to the fire. It wanted replenishing. Her next was at Denas. The girl was fast asleep. Her hands were across the open Bible, her face was dropped upon them. Joan touched her and said not unkindly: