First of all, after hovering between life and death for many weeks, Joyce one morning quite suddenly looked again upon the world with eyes in which shone the light of intelligence. Doctor Westbrook chanced to be present, and the mother heard them whisper a while together; and presently the Doctor came to her, his face pinched with worry.
It was characteristic that she did not question him; but as he left the room, she immediately followed him into the hall, closed the door noiselessly behind her, and placing her back to it, waited.
"We must be extremely careful," said he. "Any sudden shock may kill her.... Mother, she has forgotten—all."
The woman seemed to shrink; but she said nothing.
"It may be only temporary," the Doctor hastily added. So far he had talked quite as if he were discussing the condition of some chance patient with a member of that patient's family; but now a groan burst from him. "God grant it!" he cried tensely, under his breath. "God grant that the past may come to her gradually as she grows strong to bear it. But up to the moment of her waking her memory is a complete blank; it is like a slate sponged clean."
The mother tried to whisper a question: 'You—you don't think her mind—' The Doctor showed that he had been thinking of it, by the quickness with which he read his mother's thoughts, and hastened to deny.
"No, no," he insisted vigorously. "The condition is common enough in such debilitating diseases. Were I not so upset myself—were I free of any personal interest—I should say it was a benefit for the time being. But I can't bear any abnormal conditions in Joyce. Merely be careful not to shock her. Please speak to the servants."
Mrs. Westbrook simply bowed her head, and did not raise it again until her son had departed.
But if the Doctor's words were reassuring, he was by no means so sanguine himself: it was also not uncommon that memories so lost were never recovered.
During a black night of tempest and pounding sleet without, of high-leaping fires assaulted by gelid gusts within, Mrs. Elinor Fairchild's spirit winged its flight from the poor earthly frame that had enchained it. So imperceptible was the transition, that Charlotte, star-eyed and sibylline, brooding by the glowing hearth, marked it not.