“Now, Magdalene, now, my dear,” she said, coaxingly, “you will try to be good and command yourself before this young lady. Look at her: she is not a bit afraid of the storm:—are you, Miss Challoner? No, just so; you are far too sensible.”
“Oh, that is what you always tell me,” returned Mrs. Cheyne, wrenching herself free with some violence. “Be sensible,—be good,—when I am nearly mad with the oppression and suffocation, here, and here,” pointing to her head and breast. “Commonplaces, commonplaces; as well stop a deluge with a teacup. Oh, you are an old fool, Barby: you will never learn wisdom.”
“My poor lamb! Barby never minds one word you say when you are like this.”
“Oh, I will beg your pardon to-morrow, or when the thunder stops. Hark! there it is again,” cowering down in her chair. “Can’t you pray for it to cease, Barby? Oh, it is too horrible! Don’t you recollect the night he rode away,—right into the storm, into the very teeth of the storm? ‘Good-bye, Magdalene; who knows when we may meet again?’ and I never looked at him, never kissed him, never broke the silence by one word; and the thunder came, and he was gone,” beating the air with her hands.
“Oh, hush, my dear, hush! Let me read to you a little, and the fever will soon pass. You are frightening the poor young lady with your wild talk, and no wonder!”
“Pshaw! who minds the girl? Let her go or stop; what do I care? What is the whole world to me, when I am tormented like this? Three years, four years—more than a thousand 204 days—of this misery! Oh, Barby! do you think I have been punished enough? do you think where he is, up in heaven with the children, that he forgives and pities me, who was such a bad wife to him?”
As Miss Mewlstone paused a moment to wipe the tears that were flowing over her old cheeks, Phillis’s voice came to her relief.
“Oh, can you doubt it?” she said, in much agitation. “Dear Mrs. Cheyne, can you have an instant’s doubt? Do you think the dead carry all these paltry earthly feelings into the bright place yonder? Forgive you—oh, there is no need of forgiveness there; he will only be loving you,—he and the children too.”
“God bless you!” whispered Miss Mewlstone. “Hush, that is enough! Go, my dear, go, and I will come to you presently. Magdalene, put your poor head down here: I have thought of something that will do you good.” She waved Phillis away almost impatiently, and laid the poor sufferer’s head on her bosom, shielding it from the flashes that darted through the room. Phillis could see her bending over her, and her voice was as tender as though she were soothing a sick infant.
Phillis was trembling with agitation as she stole down the dark corridor. Never in her happy young life had she witnessed or imagined such a scene. The wild words, the half-maddened gestures, the look of agony stamped on the pale, almost distorted features, would haunt her for many a day. Oh, how the poor soul must have suffered before she lost self-control and balance like this!