Archer Clifton sank into a chair, exclaiming—
“Pray, tell me, dear madam, the circumstances of this departure, and all that occurred from the time I left, until she went away.”
“Why, sir, after you left, she continued in the same deep sleep until nearly nine o’clock, when she began to show symptoms of awakening. I sent out and ordered the hot bath to be prepared, and sat down to watch her. As she drew near to consciousness, her face lost that look of profound repose, which had previously marked it, and began to assume an expression of suffering. Her brows folded, and her lips sprang apart and quivered, as with a spasm of sharp pain, and her eyes flared open suddenly, and she was awake. I asked her how she felt, but she shook her head, and closed her eyes again, and shut her teeth tightly, like one trying to bear silently some sharp, inward pain. The bath was then prepared by the bedside, and we began to get her ready for it; but on the slightest attempt to move her, she groaned so deeply, that we scarcely dared to lift her for some minutes. I knew then how it was;—that her muscles were stiff and painful, from the severe exertion of such a long equestrian journey. And I knew also that the hot bath would relieve her; and the doctor’s directions had been peremptory, so we tried again, and placed her in the bath. And very soon the hot water seemed to alleviate her sufferings. And when we put her comfortably to bed again, she thanked us very sweetly. I asked her how she found herself. She answered, ‘Better’—adding, that she thought, by her hard exercise, she had hurt some part of her chest or side, which had given her great pain, but which was now partially relieved.”
“Did she seem very much better? Was her voice strong in speaking?”
“No, it was very weak and faint, and frequently broken, as by some inward pain, as I said.”
“Go on, dear lady.”
“We brought her a cup of tea and a plate of toast, of both of which she partook slightly. It was then after nine o’clock, and she begged that she might not disturb us—that we would retire to bed—and said that she was better, and would try to sleep again. She then composed herself to rest, and the girls all left the room. I remained watching until I thought she slept, and then I lay down to rest on the other bed in the same room. I think she passed a good night, for I could not divest myself of uneasiness upon her account, and so I could not get to sleep until after midnight, and during all that time I never heard her move, or sigh. After I did get to sleep, however, I slept very soundly, till near six o’clock. And when I awoke, what was my surprise, to see her up and dressed, as for a journey. She looked very pale and ill and sorrowful, and in fastening her habit, she frequently stopped and leaned against the bed-post for support. I arose quickly and questioned her wishes, and begged her to lie down again. But she only waved her hand against me, with a mute, imploring gesture. I expostulated with her, but arguments and persuasions were alike in vain—she only answered, ‘I must go.’”
“Oh, Heaven! Where, where did she wish to go?”
“We do not know. She was not communicative, and we did not like to question her.”
“Forgive me, dear madam. Indeed I fear my questionings must appear almost rude, but my great anxiety must be my excuse.”