And Miss Fennimore sank on her knees, weeping and hiding her face. The words which she had gazed at, and listened to, in vain longing, had—even as she imparted them—touched herself in their fulness. She had seen the face of Truth, when, at Mrs. Fulmort’s death-bed, she had heard Phœbe speak of the Blood that cleanseth from all sin. Then it had been a moment’s glimpse. She had sought it earnestly ever since, and at length it had come to nestle within her own bosom. It was not sight, it was touch—it was embracing and holding fast.
Alas! the sight was hidden from Bertha. She moodily turned aside in vexation, as though her last trust had failed her. In vain did Miss Fennimore, feeling that she had led her to the brink of an abyss of depth unknown, till she was tottering on the verge, lavish on her the most tender cares. They were requited with resentful gloom, that the governess felt to be so just towards herself that she would hardly have been able to lift up her head but for the new reliance that gave peace to deepening contrition.
That was a bad night, and the day was worse. Bertha had more strength, but more fever; and the much-enduring Phœbe could hardly be persuaded to leave her to Miss Charlecote at dusk, and air herself with her brothers in the garden. The weather was close and misty, and Honora set open the door to admit the air from the open passage window. A low, soft, lulling sound came in, so much softened by distance that the tune alone showed that it was an infant school ditty sung by Maria, while rocking herself in her low chair over the
school-room fire. Turning to discover whether the invalid were annoyed by it, Honor beheld the hard, keen little eyes intently fixed, until presently they filled with tears; and with a heavy sigh, the words broke forth, ‘Oh! to be as silly as she is!’
‘As selig, you mean,’ said Honor, kindly.
‘It is the same thing,’ she said, with a bitter ring in her poor worn voice.
‘No, it is not weakness that makes your sister happy. She was far less happy before she learnt to use her powers lovingly.’
With such earnestness that her stuttering was very painful to hear, she exclaimed, ‘Miss Charlecote, I can’t recollect things—I get puzzled—I don’t say what I want to say. Tell me, is not my brain softening or weakening? You know Maria had water on the head once!’ and her accents were pitiably full of hope.
‘Indeed, my dear, you are not becoming like Maria.’
‘If I were,’ said Bertha, certainly showing no such resemblance, ‘I suppose I should not know it. I wonder whether Maria be ever conscious of her Ich,’ said she, with a weary sigh, as if this were a companion whence she could not escape.