"Let me pass," almost shrieked Ellen, mad with anger, and losing all control of herself. "I will not stay to be laughed at," and she began with all her strength to push against one of the stilts.
"Oh! Ellen, just hear this line—'Whose patient love—'Stop, stop, Ellen, you'll throw me into the water," cried Charles hurriedly, as he felt the stilt yielding to the efforts of Ellen, to whom increasing anger lent new vigor. Ellen pushed on, either not hearing or not heeding. Perhaps she had not time to stay her hand, for it was but a moment and the stilt had passed off the bridge. Then came a crashing sound, as the hand-rail yielded beneath the weight of Charles—then a sharp cry of terror—a sudden plash—and Ellen stood alone upon the bridge, gazing in wild dismay upon the waters which had closed silently over the just now gay and animated boy.
But Ellen had not been the only spectator of this scene. The cry of Charles had been echoed from the bank. There had been a quick rush of some one to the spot where Ellen stood. She was conscious of a plunge into the water, on which her eyes were riveted with a stupifying, bewildering horror. How long it was she knew not—it seemed to her very, very long—ere George, for it was he who made the rush and the plunge, was seen swimming to the shore, bearing with him a body, which appeared to have no power to support itself, but rested a lifeless weight on his supporting arm. Ellen followed his every movement with a fixed, wild stare—she saw him land, still clasping one arm around that body—then her Aunt Herbert met him, and helped him to carry it. Ellen had not seen her before, but she now remembered that echoing cry, and knew that it had been hers. In all this time Ellen had uttered no sound—made no movement; but now Mrs. Herbert called her. Ellen drew near—near enough to see that still, pale face, with the bright eyes closed and the dripping hair hanging around it—to see the clinched hand, in which a remnant yet remained of the worthless paper for which she had done this. Ellen covered her face with her hands and shuddered. "Ellen," said Mrs. Herbert, and her voice was gentle as ever, though melancholy and full of pity, "he may live yet; at least let us not think of ourselves till we have done all we can for him. Run, Ellen, to Mr. Smith's—send him for the doctor—quick, quick, Ellen—then home—have a fire made—blankets got ready—send the first person you meet to help George and me in bearing—God grant," she exclaimed, suddenly interrupting herself and letting her head drop for a moment on the cold face which rested on her bosom, "God grant we may not be bearing the dead!"
Ellen flew rather than ran to Mr. Smith's, repeating to herself on the way the words which had put new life into her, "He may live—he may live." On the way she met a laborer, whom she sent forward to join her aunt and George. Her message to Mr. Smith delivered, she waited not to answer one of the many questions urged upon her, she did not seem to hear them, but rushing back, passed the sad, slow procession about half way, and had the fire made, the bed and blankets prepared, before they arrived. Then came the agony for her. To see that lifeless body, as she was called upon to help her aunt—to touch those cold limbs—to watch and wait in vain for some token of returning life—some mark that she was not henceforward to regard herself as a murderer—this was agony indeed.
Under Mrs. Herbert's direction all the usual restoratives for persons rescued from drowning were resorted to, and even before the physician who had been sent for appeared, some warmth was restored to the limbs, and a faint tinge of color to the cheeks. Oh the joy of that first hope of success—the yet greater joy, when those lips, which they had feared were sealed forever, unclosed, and a feeble voice proceeded from them murmuring "Mother."
"He is safe enough now," said the physician. Up to this moment Ellen had not made a sound expressive of her feelings. She was deadly pale, and had any one touched her, they would have found that she was scarcely less cold than the limbs she was chafing; but she was perfectly still. Now, however, as the physician's welcome words reached her ear, she clasped her hands together, uttered one cry, and would have fallen, had not George caught her. She was taken to her own apartment, and the doctor having given her a composing draught, ordered her to be put immediately to bed. Notwithstanding this, fever came on, and before morning Mrs. Herbert was called from her now quietly sleeping boy to the delirious Ellen. Ellen's constant cry during this delirium was, "I have killed him—I have killed him," repeated in every variety of tone, now low and plaintive, now wild and phrensied. At length, towards morning, she fell asleep.
Mrs. Herbert having seen that Charles was still quiet, and having obtained George's promise to call her if he awoke and inquired for her, returned to Ellen's room, and lay down beside her. Ellen continued to sleep for several hours, at first uttering low moans, and muttering to herself, as if disturbed by unpleasant dreams, but afterwards becoming quite still, and sleeping easily and naturally. Mrs. Herbert had arisen, and was seated beside her when she awoke, which she did with a start. She gazed for a moment at her aunt with some wildness in her countenance, but as Mrs. Herbert smiled upon her, this expression passed away, and putting out her hand to her, she said, "Aunt Herbert, I have had such a dreadful dream. I dreamed that I killed Charles. It is not true," she exclaimed quickly, "is it?" and Ellen raised herself on her elbow, and looked searchingly into her Aunt's face.
"No, my dear Ellen—Charles is almost well again."
"Almost well again," she repeated, and then was silent for some minutes, during which she lay with her eyes closed. At length tears began to steal down her cheeks, and in a low, tremulous voice, Ellen said, "I remember all now, Aunt Herbert: I hoped it was a dream; but I remember it all now, and I know that if you and George had not been walking that way just then, Charles would have been drowned, and I should have killed him—have killed your child—my own dear cousin Charles. Aunt Herbert, do you not wish I had never come to you?"
"So far from it, dear Ellen, that the more proof I have of the strength of this evil in your nature, the more rejoiced I am that by coming to me you have given me the power of helping you to subdue it. You were the occasion of very bitter suffering to me yesterday evening, Ellen; and yet, now that God in His mercy has restored my child, I can be thankful even for this lesson to you, if it influence you as I hope and believe it will—if you learn from it to dread anger as the beginning of murder. Human passion, Ellen, is like a raging sea, to which only the infinite God can say, 'hitherto shalt thou go, and no farther, and here shall thy waves be stayed.'"