She paused and looked into Susan's face, which was fixed in a strange half vacant stare, as if she were in a sort of cataleptic state.
"You don't look well. Ah, yes! I remember. You have already had two epileptic fits have you not, Susan? The strain of your amusements and your hates is telling on your nervous system. I suspect that that death in life in which the live mind burns in agony out of the dead body is not far from you, Susan. Poor butterfly! your summer day is over. Your wings are even now faded and no longer beautiful; they will draggle impotently by your side soon, no longer able to carry you out into the delight of the sunshine. There will be no more sunshine for you, but cold darkness and biting pains. I must leave you now, wishing you a speedy release, and in the meantime do not forget your orders."
Catherine turned from her and walked away: but Susan did not move. Catherine took one glance over her shoulders as she went, and she saw that the fixed expression had not left Susan's face; the wretched woman was standing motionless and speechless, heedless of the sharp wind of March that swept by her; but two large tears were now hanging from her eyes. Catherine saw them and was touched. It was indeed so strange a thing to see tears in those eyes! and her heart smote her as she walked home, and she reproached herself that she had allowed herself to be carried away in the rage of victory to trample so ungenerously on a fallen foe, and inflict needless torture on one sufficiently punished.
CHAPTER XXXI.
PEACE.
When Dr. Duncan returned home, he found his wife suffering from a nervous fever, and in a delirious condition. The servants told him in what way it had been produced—how a lady who gave the name of Mrs. Riley had called at the house, representing that he had sent her; how Mary had heard her voice from upstairs, had hurried down and ordered her to go, exhibiting extreme agitation; and had been ill ever since. He closely cross-examined the two women who had been present at the interview, and learnt every detail of it; and it was perhaps well for Susan Riley that she was not by, so transported he was with grief and rage.
He watched by the side of his wife all the night, and on the following day, which was Sunday, he perceived that the crisis was past. But she was still delirious, starting up wildly at times to cry out that her baby had been murdered, and not being satisfied when it was even brought in and shown her.
Dr. Duncan began to suspect that there must be some cause in facts at the bottom of this fancy, that it was something more than the delusion of an unhinged brain; so he carefully listened to every word she dropped in her delirium, hoping to gather some clue to the mystery, which might enable him to take definite action against these enemies of his wife, and for once and all, remove the weight of terror from her mind. He determined that he would find out what this secret of hers was, what was this dread which was goading her to madness. To begin with, he would put detectives on the track of this Mrs. Riley—he would spare no pains or expense to discover whether Mary was the victim of a mania or of a foul conspiracy; he would no longer remain in this state of perplexity as to which it was.