“Uncle John, it is not agitation. I was not agitated to-night; I was quite at ease, thinking about—oh, thinking about very different things; I am ashamed of myself when I remember how little I was thinking. Russell is right, and I was to blame.”
“My dear, I believe there is a safeguard against bodily ailments in that condition. We must look after her better again.”
“But she has seen mamma, Uncle John!”
“Rosalind, you are so full of sense—”
“What has sense to do with it?” she cried. “Do you think the child came back by herself? And yet there was no one with her—no one. Who else could have led her back? Mamma took away her hand and she awoke. Uncle John, none of you can find her; but if she is not dead—and you say she is not dead—my mother must be here.”
Jane had dropped upon her knees, and was keeping down by force, with her face pressed against her mistress’s dress, her sobs and tears. But Mrs. Trevanion clung to her tree and listened and made no sound. There was a smile upon her face of pleasure that was heartrending, more pitiful than pain.
“My dear Rosalind,” said John, in great distress, “my dearest girl! I have told you she is not dead. And if she is here we shall find her. We are certain to find her. Rosalind, if she were here, what would she say to you? Not to agitate and excite yourself, to try to be calm, to wait. My dear,” he said, with a tremble in his voice, “your mother would never wish to disturb your life; she would like you to be—happy; she would like you—you know—your mother—”
It appeared that he became incoherent, and could say no more.
The house was closed again and all quiet before Jane, who had been in despair, could lead Mrs. Trevanion away. She yielded at length from weakness; but she did not hear what her faithful servant said to her. Her mind had fallen, or rather risen, into a state of semi-conscious exaltation, like the ecstasy of an ascetic, as her delicate and fragile form grew numb and powerless in the damp and cold.
“Did you think any one could stand and hear all that and never make a sign?” she said. “Did you see her face, Jane? It was like an angel’s. I think that must be her window with the light in it. And he said her mother— John was always my friend. He said her mother— Where do you want me to go? I should like to stay in the porch and die there comfortably, Jane. It would be sweet; and then there could be no more quarrelling or questions, or putting any one to the test. No test! no test! But dying there would be so easy. And Sophy Lennox would never forbid it. She would take me in, and lay me on her bed, and bury me—like a good woman. I am not unworthy of it. I am not a bad woman, Jane.”