Amy had a way of seeming to listen very attentively when the Colonel talked to her, and always smiled her appreciation and approbation of what he said. Just how much she really heard or understood was doubtful. Her mind seemed to run in two channels,—one the present, the other the past,—and both were blurred and indistinct,—especially the past. She understood about the young girl, however, and at once expressed her sympathy, and said, "We must do something for her."
To do something for any one in sickness or trouble was her first thought, and many a home had been made glad because of her since she came to Crompton.
"Certainly; do what you like, only don't bring her here," the Colonel replied, his voice and manner softening, as they always did with Amy.
She was a very handsome woman and looked younger than her years. The storm which had swept over her had not impaired her physical beauty, but had touched her mentally in a way very puzzling to those about her, and rather annoying to the Colonel, who was trying to make amends for the harshness which had driven her from his home. Sometimes her quiet, passive manner irritated him, and he felt that he would gladly welcome the old imperiousness with which she had defied him. But it was gone. Something had broken her on the wheel, killing her spirit completely, or smothering it and leaving her a timid, silent woman, who sat for hours with a sad, far-off expression, as if looking into the past and trying to gather up the tangled threads which had in a measure obscured her intellect.
"The Harrises are queer," kept sounding in the Colonel's ears, with a thought that the taint in the Harris blood was working in Amy's veins, intensified by some great shock, or series of shocks.
Once, after he brought her home, he questioned her of her life as a singer, and of the baby, which she occasionally mentioned, but he never repeated the experiment. There was a fit of nervous trembling,—a look of terror in her eyes, and a drawn expression on her face, and for a moment she was like the girl Eudora when roused. Then, putting her hand before her eyes as if to shut out something hateful to her, she said, "Oh, don't ask me to bring up a past I can't remember without such a pain in my head and everywhere, as if I were choking. It was very dreadful,—with him,—not with Adolf,—he was so kind."
"Did he ever beat you?—or what did the wretch do? Smith, I mean," the Colonel asked, and Amy replied, "Oh, no; it wasn't that. It was a constant grind, grind,—swear, swear,—a breaking of my will, till I had none left. He never struck me but once, and then it was throwing something instead of a blow. It hit me here, and it has ached ever since."
She put her hand to one side of her temple, and went on, "It was the night I heard baby was dead, and I said I could not sing,—but he made me, and I broke down, and I don't know much what happened after till you came. I can't remember."
"Yes, but the baby,—where did it die, and when?" the Colonel asked.
Amy had been getting quiet as she talked, but at the mention of the baby, she began to tremble again, and beat the air with her hands.