“Oh, no, no!” cried the young doctor. “Her mind, I hope, may not be touched. She is in a state I can’t explain. She takes no notice of anything. I thought it was catalepsy at first. You will be more frightened when you see her than perhaps there is any need for being——”
“Doctor—if you are the doctor—take me to her, take me to her! that is better than explanation.”
“Bear with me a little, Mrs. Asquith. I want you to come in suddenly. I want to try the shock of your appearance.”
“Take me to my child!” said Mary; “I cannot bear all these preliminaries. I have a right to be with Hetty, wherever she is. Where is she? Tell me what room she is in. I know my way.”
“Just one moment—one moment!” he said. He led the way to the room which had been the morning-room in Mary’s day, the brightest room in the house, looking out upon the flowers, and then left her at the door. “Come in,” he said, “in five minutes; throw open the door; make what noise you can—oh! forgive me—and let her see you fully. Don’t come too quick. It is for her sake. If she knows you, all will go well.”
“If she knows me!” cried poor Mary. These terrible words subdued her in her impatience and almost anger. She stood at the door counting the time by the beatings of her heart. Then she pushed it open, as he told her. Hetty’s chair had been turned round to face the door, and she sat in it, her pale hands folded in her lap, her face, like marble, against the white pillow, her eyes looking steadily before her, with an extraordinary abstract gaze. Mary stood for a moment, herself paralysed by that strange sight, clasping her hands, with a cry of trouble and consternation. Then she flew forward and flung herself on her knees before this marble image of her child. “Hetty! Hetty! Speak to me,” she cried, clasping her arms round the inanimate figure. “Hetty!” Then, with a terrible cry, “Don’t you know your mother? don’t you know your mother, my darling, my poor child?”
Mary perceived none of the people behind,
“‘HETTY! HETTY! SPEAK TO ME.’”
watching so anxiously the effect of her entrance, which had been indeed far more effective, being entirely natural, than anything they had planned. She saw only the waxen whiteness, the unresponsive silence, of the poor little soul in prison. She went on kissing the white face, the little limp hands, pouring out appeals and cries. “Oh, my child! Oh, Hetty, Hetty! Don’t you know me? I’m your mother, my darling. I’ve come to fetch you, to take you home. Hetty, my sweet, papa’s breaking his heart for you; and poor Janey daren’t even cry, dear, for she must take care of them all while you and I are away. And, Hetty, the baby, your little baby—Hetty, Hetty! my own darling! Oh, Hetty, say a word to me—say a word!”