“Some of us have got to do without it,” said Powys, with a short laugh, though he did not see any thing amusing in it. Yet there was a certain bitter drollery in the contrast between his own little salary and the family he had already to support on it, and Jack’s difficulties at finding that his Cinderella had turned into a fairy princess. Jack gave a hasty glance at him, as if fearing that he himself was being laughed at. But poor Powys had a sigh coming so close after his laugh that it was impossible to suspect him of mockery. Jack sighed too, for company. His heart was opened; and the chance of talking to any body was a godsend to him in that moment of suspense.
“Were you to have been with us this evening?” he said. “Why did not you come? My father always likes to see you.”
“He does not care to see me now,” said Powys, with a little bitterness; “I don’t know why. I went up to carry him some papers, against my will. He took me to your house as first against my own judgment. It would have been better for me I had walked over a precipice or been struck down like the poor lady up stairs.”
“No,” said Jack, pitying, and yet there was a touch of condescension in his voice. “Don’t say so—not so bad as that. A man may make a mistake, and yet it need not kill him. There’s the doctor—I must hear what he has to say.”
The doctor came in looking very grave. He said there were signs of some terrible mental tumult and shock she had received; that all the symptoms were of the worst kind, and that he had no hope whatever for her life. She might recover her faculties and be able to speak; but it was almost certain she must die. This was the verdict pronounced upon Mrs. Preston as the carriage lamps of the departing guests began to gleam down the avenue, and old Betty rushed across to open the gates, and the horses came prancing out into the road. Pamela caught a momentary glimpse of them as she moved about the room, and it suddenly occurred to her to remember her own childish delight at the sight when she first came. And oh, how many things had happened since then! And this last of all which she understood least. She was sick with terror and wonder, and her head ached and her heart throbbed. They were her mother’s eyes which looked at her so, and yet she was afraid of them. How was she ever to live out the endless night?
It was a dreadful night for more people than Pamela. Powys went up to the great house very shortly after to carry the news to Mr. Brownlow, who was so much overcome by it that he shivered and trembled and looked for the moment like a feeble old man. He sank down into his chair, and could not speak at first. “God forgive me,” he said when he had recovered himself. “I am afraid I had ill thoughts of her—very ill thoughts in my head. Sara, you heard all—was I harsh to her? It could not be any thing I said?”
“No, papa,” said Sara, trembling, and she came to him and drew his head for a moment to her young, tremulous, courageous breast. And Powys stood looking on with a pang in his heart. He did not understand what all this meant, but he knew that she was his and yet could not be his. He dared not go and console her as he had done in his madness when they were alone.
Mr. Brownlow would not go to bed; he sat and watched, and sent for news through the whole long night. And Powys, who knew only by Jack’s short and incoherent story what important issues were involved, served him faithfully as his messenger coming and going. The thoughts that arose in Mr. Brownlow’s mind were not to be described. It was not possible that compunction such as that which moved him at first could be his only feeling. As the hours went on, a certain strange mixture of satisfaction and reproach against Providence came into his mind. He said Providence in his mind, being afraid and ashamed to say God. If Providence was about to remove this obstacle out of his way, it would seem but fitting and natural; but why, then why, when it was to be, not have done it a few days sooner? Two days sooner?—that would have made all the difference. Now the evil she had done would not die with her, though it might be lessened. In these unconscious inarticulate thoughts, which came by no will of his, which haunted him indeed against his will, there rose a certain upbraiding against the tardy fate. It was too late. The harm was done. As it was, it seemed natural that his enemy should be taken out of his way, for Providence had ever been very kind to him—but why should it be this one day too late?
Jack sat down stairs in Mrs. Swayne’s parlor all the night. The fire went out, and he had not the heart to have it lighted: one miserable candle burned dully in the chill air. Now and then Powys came in from the darkness without, glowing from his rapid walk; sometimes Mrs. Swayne came creaking down stairs to tell him there was no change; once or twice he himself stole up to see the same awful sight. Poor Pamela, for her part, sat by the bedside half stupefied by her vigil. She had not spirit enough left to give one answering look to her lover. Her brain was racking with devices to make out what her mother meant. She kept talking to her, pleading with her, entreating—oh, if she would but try to speak! and ever in desperation making another and another effort to get at her meaning. Jack could not bear the sight. The misery, and darkness, and suspense down stairs were less dreadful at least than this. Even the doctor, though he knew nothing of what lay below, had been apparently excited by the external aspect of affairs, and came again before day-break to see if any change were perceptible. It was that hour of all others most chilling and miserable; that hour which every watcher knows, just before dawn, when the darkness seems more intense, the cold more keen, the night more lingering and wretched than at any other moment. Jack in his damp and thin dress walked shivering about the little black parlor, unable to keep still.
She might die and make no sign; and if she did so, was it possible still to ignore all that had happened, and to bestow her just heritage on Pamela only under cover as his wife? This was the question that racked him as he waited and listened; but when the doctor went up just before day-break a commotion was heard in the room above. Jack stood still for a moment holding his breath, and then he rushed up stairs. Before he got into the room there arose suddenly a hoarse voice, which was scarcely intelligible. It was Mrs. Preston who was speaking. “What was it? what was it?” she was crying wildly. “What did I tell you, child?” and then, as he opened the door, a great outcry filled the air. “Oh, my God, I’ve forgotten—I’ve forgotten!” cried the dying woman. She was sitting up in her bed in a last wild rally of all her powers. Motion and speech had come back to her. She was propping herself up on her two thin arms, thrusting herself forward with a strained and excessive muscular action, such as extreme weakness sometimes is equal to. As she looked round wildly with the same eager impotent look that had wrung the beholders’ hearts while she was speechless, her eye fell on Jack, who was standing at the door. She gave a sudden shriek of mingled triumph and entreaty. “You can tell them,” she said—“you can tell me—come and tell me—tell me! Pamela, there is one that knows.”