“The child is in a high fever,” he said, “and has had, I should think, some great nervous shock. Great care and quiet are needed. Let him sleep as much as possible.”
But that was the difficulty, for, as time went on, Ambrose seemed less and less able to sleep quietly at night. As evening drew on the fever and restlessness increased; he could not bear to be left alone a moment, and often in the night he would start up and cry out trembling:
“Take her away.” “She is coming.” “Don’t let her catch me.”
It was most distressing for everyone and puzzling too, for no one could imagine what it was that had frightened him in the garret, or how he came to be there at all at that time in the evening. It was evidently a most terrible remembrance to him, for he could not bear the least reference to it, and to question him was a sure way to give him what he called “bad dreams.” So in his presence the subject was dropped; but Mrs Hawthorn and Nurse did not cease their conjectures, and there was one person who listened to their conversation with a feeling of the deepest guilt. This was Pennie, who just now was having a most miserable time of it, for she felt that it was all her fault. If she had not told those stories about the Goblin Lady it never would have happened, although it certainly was Nancy who had put the garret into Ambrose’s head.
Nancy was the only person she could talk to on the subject, but she was not any comfort at all.
“Don’t let’s think about it,” she said. “I knew you made it up. I daresay he’ll get better soon.”
Poor Pennie could not take matters so lightly; it was a most dreadful weight on her mind, and she felt sure she should never have another happy minute till she had confessed about the Goblin Lady. But she was not allowed to see Ambrose, and she could not bring herself to tell anyone else about it. Once she nearly told mother, and then something stuck in her throat; and once she got as far as the study door with the intention of telling father, but her courage failed her and she ran away.
She would creep to Ambrose’s door and listen, or peep round the screen at him while he was asleep, and her face got quite thin and pointed with anxiety. Every morning she asked:
“Is he better, mother? May I go and sit with him?” But the answer always was:
“Not to-day, dear. We hope he is better, but he has such bad nights.”