Then suddenly starting, with one of those bursts of energy which so often had steeled her heart against peril, she walked to the kitchen-door, raised the latch, and entered. She had made but one step within the door when Joan turned and beheld her; and there they both stood, silently, each surveying the other. Mary felt too intensely the difficulty of the task before her to utter a word without well weighing the consequences. She knew how the merest accident might frustrate all she had in view, and stood hesitating and uncertain, when Joan, who now recognized her, vacillated between her instinctive sense of respect and a feeling of defiance in the consciousness of where she was. Happily for Mary the former sentiment prevailed, and in a tone of kindly anxiety Joan drew near her and said,—“Has anything happened? I trust in God no accident has befell you.”
“Thank God, nothing worse than a wetting,” said Mary,—“some little fatigue; and I'll think but little of either if they have brought me here to a good end. May I speak with you alone,—quite alone?”
“Come in here,” said Joan, pushing open the door of a small room off the kitchen which served for a species of larder,—“come in here.”
“I have come on a sad errand,” said Mary, taking her hand between both her own, “and I would that it had fallen to any other than myself. It is for you to decide that! have not come in vain.”
“What is it? tell me what it is?” cried Joan, as a sudden paleness spread over her features.
“These are days of sorrow and mourning everywhere,” said Mary, gloomily. “Can you not guess what my tidings may be? No, no,” cried she, as a sudden gesture of Joan interrupted her,—“no, not yet; he is still alive, and entreats to see you.”
“To curse me again, is it?” cried the other, wildly; “to turn me from the door, and pray down curses on me,—is it for that he wants to see me?”
“Not for that, indeed,” said Mary; “it is to see you—to give you his last kiss—his last blessing—to forgive you and be forgiven. Remember that he is alone, deserted by all that once were his. Your father and mother and sisters are all gone to America, and poor old Mat lingers on,—nay, the journey is nigh ended. Oh, do not delay, lest it be too late. Come now—now.”
“And if I see him once, can I ever come back to this?” cried Joan, in bitter agony. “Will I ever be able to hear his words and live as I do now?”