"Do you think she will come back again, mother? that would be worse than anything. She muttered some bad words, or some threat, as she was leaving the room: and yet do you know it was my hand kept Marmaduke from murdering her? Murder; has not that an ugly sound? Poor 'Duke! he was half mad, I think."
"Of course he was. Do not let your mind dwell on it. Look what large soft cushions; only put your head on them, and you will sleep. And I will tuck you up, and sing to you, and imagine you my own little baby Phyllis again."
"But what an old, old baby! I feel as old as yourself to-day. This morning I remember I laughed for nearly five minutes without stopping over some absurd story of Martha's. I fear I offended her at last; but I am punished now; much laughing, you know, goes before crying. Shall I cry much, later on I wonder?"
"No, no, my love, I hope not. Come; if you will lie down here, and drink this, I will lie with you, and then you will not be lonely."
"No, I want to walk. I feel so restless. Where is my hat, mother? Can you see it? Ah! you are not much better than Martha after all; she never knows where anything is. How light my head feels! Do not pity me, mother? is it not hard to bear? Ah—-" I fling my arms above my head, and fall senseless at her feet.
----
It is evening of the same day—a dark sullen December evening, dark as the thoughts that throng my breast. I feel unsympathetic, cold, almost dead. Much as I have tried during the past few hours, I cannot quite reconcile myself to the idea that it is I—I myself—who am principally concerned in all this horror that has taken place.
I argue in my own mind. I represent the case a for a third person. I cannot realize that the one most to be pitied is I—Phyllis Phyllis what?
I have at length consented to see Marmaduke, and am lying upon a sofa in a hopelessly dishevelled state, as he enters. I have not shed a single tear; yet the black hollows beneath my eyes might have come from ceaseless weeping.
I half rise as he comes across the room, yet cannot raise my head to meet his gaze. I dread the havoc despair and self torture will have wrought in his face. He moves slowly, lingeringly, until he reaches the hearthrug, and there stands and regard me imploringly. This I feel and know, though through some other sense beside sight.