“What right have you to come here? Are you not snug and warm upstairs in your turret? Why must you come and exult over me? You were welcome to my husband. Then you took my child. Can you not spare her to me now she is dying?”
I had heard that one must always talk to mad people as if one thought them sane; so I said—
“Not dying, Mrs. Rayner; don’t say that. I came down just to see if I could be of any use. Why don’t you take her into your own room? It is so cold in here. And wouldn’t it be better to send in for Doctor Maitland? Oh, I forgot! He is away. But you might send Sam to Beaconsburgh for Doctor Lowe.”
Her manner changed. As she looked at me, all the anger, all the little gust of defiance faded out of her great eyes, and she fell to sobbing and whispering—
“I dare not—I dare not!”
“May I take her into your room, Mrs. Rayner?”
“No, no.”
“Then, if you will allow me, I will take her up into mine. You won’t mind her being so far from you, if you know it is better for her, will you?” said I persuasively. “It is so beautifully warm up there that it won’t matter if she throws the clothes off her, as she can’t help doing, poor little thing; and I’ll wrap her up well, so that she shall not take cold on the way.”
Mrs. Rayner stared at me helplessly.
“Will you dare?” she asked fearfully.