On that fourth day—the day of Ellen’s return, Sara verily thought once or twice that she was going mad. The horrible strain and tension; the dead, unbroken silence, suspense, waiting; the horrible conviction, which yet she could not prove without this eternity of waiting, that she was being slighted, insulted, betrayed; it formed altogether an ordeal more scorching than any of which her philosophy had hitherto even surmised the existence.
At length, in the evening, she heard a step on the stair; the door was opened, and Ellen entered, looking utterly broken-down and exhausted.
‘Ellen!’ she exclaimed, starting up, and fixing dilated eyes upon her; ‘are you ill?’
‘I’m not very well. Excuse my sitting down, Miss Sara. I can stand no more. I’m not a good traveller, you know, especially by sea.’
‘Poor old Ellen! I’ll get you some wine. Loose your shawl and your bonnet-strings. Did you get a rest at Wellfield? Did you stay all night?’
‘Yes, ma’am; I stayed all night. I might have stayed longer if I’d chosen to. Miss Wellfield begged me to remain another day.’
‘But you preferred to return to me?’ said Sara, her hand trembling so violently as she poured out the wine, that she had to desist.
‘I did, Miss Sara. I could not remain there.’
‘Not remain: why?’
‘I did not like the things I heard there; and besides, Mr. Wellfield gave me a letter for you.’