Sylvia was ill for a long time after that terrible hour. Although Maud had not succeeded in strangling her, yet the black silk handkerchief left marks on her neck. Then the struggle, the shock and the remembrance of the horrors related by the miserable woman, threw her into a nervous fever, and it was many weeks before she recovered sufficiently to enjoy life. Deborah never forgave herself for having left Sylvia alone, and nursed her with a fierce tenderness which was the result of remorse.
"If that wretch 'ad killed my pretty," she said to Paul, "I'd ha' killed her, if I wos hanged fur it five times over."
"God has punished the woman," said Paul, solemnly. "And a terrible death she met with, being mutilated by the wheels of the train."
"Serve 'er right," rejoined Deborah, heartlessly. "What kin you expect fur good folk if wicked ones, as go strangulating people, don't git the Lord down on 'em. Oh, Mr. Beecot," Deborah broke down into noisy tears, "the 'orrors that my lovely one 'ave tole me. I tried to stop her, but she would tork, and was what you might call delirous-like. Sich murders and gory assassins as wos never 'eard of."
"I gathered something of this from what Sylvia let drop when we came back from the station," said Beecot, anxiously. "Tell me exactly what she said, Deborah."
"Why that thing as is dead, an' may she rest in a peace, she don't deserve, tole 'ow she murdered Lady Rachel Sandal an' my ole master."
"Deborah," cried Beecot, amazed. "You must be mistaken."
"No, I ain't, sir. That thing guv my lily-queen the 'orrors. Jes you 'ear, Mr. Beecot, and creeps will go up your back. Lor' 'ave mercy on us as don't know the wickedness of the world."
"I think we have learned something of it lately, Mrs. Tawsey," was Paul's grim reply. "But tell me—"