‘I am glad of it, ma’am,’ said Ellen, taking the letter, and hastening as quickly as she might, to and from the Post-Office.
On her return she found that her young lady had indeed not been idle. One end of the table was spread with a cloth, and she had placed upon it bread and butter, and cold meat. The gas-stand was lighted, and the little kettle upon it was singing cheerily–everything looked bright and cheerful, only that Miss Ford’s face was white and haggard, and her eyes hollow, while just between her eyebrows there was a slight fold, telling of a world of mental suffering.
‘Miss Ford!’ exclaimed Ellen, almost shocked; ‘you shouldn’t have done that. I could have got my supper ready without so much trouble.’
‘Come, sit down and refresh yourself, Ellen, for I am sure you will be tired,’ said Sara, composedly. And she insisted upon Ellen’s sitting down, and eating and drinking, while she asked little questions about England, sitting upright in her chair, and even laughing once or twice, but always with the same blanched face, the same unnatural fixity of the eyes; and once Ellen saw how, in a momentary silence, a visible shudder shook her–how she caught her breath and bit her lips.
All this took away Ellen’s appetite. She scarcely ate anything, but professed herself mightily refreshed with what she had taken; and then she rose and began to take away the things, and suggested that it was time Miss Ford had her supper too.
‘I don’t want anything, thank you,’ she said; and it was in vain that Ellen urged her to take something–a glass of wine; a bit of bread–for she dreaded the results of a long fast and a long vigil, coming upon this present mental and moral anguish.
Sara refused, and there was that in her manner, with all its gentleness, which prevented Ellen from approaching a step nearer. She could only grieve silently, and wish intensely that her young lady had a single friend to whom to turn in this emergency. But there was no one, neither father nor mother nor brother, to help her with sympathising heart and strong protecting hand. There was no one but Ellen herself, and her mental attitude towards the girl always was and had been one of deference, with all the motherly love she felt towards her. Amongst Miss Ford’s various friends and acquaintances at Elberthal, she could think only of one whose face had impressed her, whose manner and–to use the expressive German word–whose whole Wesen had carried to her mind the conviction that he was trustworthy–and that was Rudolf Falkenberg. But he was, so far as she knew, a new friend, and a man; not one who could be appealed to in such a case. Thus, nothing remained to the poor woman but, when her mistress insisted upon it, to go to bed. She did so, on receiving from Sara a promise that she also would not be long in seeking her room.
Wearied with five days’ almost incessant travelling, and exhausted with the mingled emotions which had filled the last forty-eight hours, Ellen, though she had determined not to rest till her mistress went to bed, was soon overcome with her fatigue, and dropped asleep; nor did she awaken again until daylight, pouring into her room, told her it must be growing late. She sprang up, and throwing on a dressing-gown, opened the door and looked into the parlour. No one was there, and all was still. Perhaps Sara slept. Ellen knocked at the closed door of the bedroom, and was bidden by a composed but weary voice to come in. She entered, and saw that Sara had never undressed. She had thrown a wrapping gown about her, and was just then seated on a chair beside her bed, which, as Ellen saw with dismay, had not been disturbed. As the woman entered Sara looked at her–her face whiter than ever, her eyes distended, an expression of such blank, utter woe in her whole look and attitude as appalled Ellen, who said in a trembling tone:
‘Child, you promised me to rest!’
‘Did I, Ellen? Then I forgot it, and if I had remembered, I could not have kept my promise. I could not have lain still for two seconds.’