It was not the death of her children that had so utterly unnerved her. It must have been that bitter parting with her husband, and the remembrance of angry words never to be atoned for in this life, that was cankering the root of her peace, and that brought about these moods of despair.
Phillis thought of Coleridge’s lines,—
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“And to be wroth with one we love Doth work like madness on the brain,”— |
as she took refuge in the dim drawing-room. Here, at least, there were signs of human life and occupation. A little tea-table had been set in one window, though the tea was cold. The greyhounds came and laid their slender noses on her gown, and one small Italian one coiled himself up on her lap. Miss Mewlstone’s work-basket stood open, and a tortoise shell kitten had helped itself to a ball of wool and was busily unwinding it. The dogs were evidently frightened at the storm, for they all gathered round Phillis, shivering and whining, as though missing their mistress; and she had much ado to comfort them, though she loved animals and understood their dumb language better than most people. 205
It was not so very long, and yet it seemed hours before Miss Mewlstone came down to her.
“Are you here, my dear?” she asked, in a loud whisper, for the room was dark. “Ah, just so. We must have lights, and I must give you a glass of wine or a nice hot cup of coffee.” And, notwithstanding Phillis’s protest that she never took wine and was not in need of anything, Miss Mewlstone rang the bell, and desired the footman to bring in the lamp. “And tell Bishop to send up some nice hot coffee and sandwiches as soon as possible. For young people never know what they want, and you are just worried and tired to death with all you have gone through,—not being an old woman and seasoned to it like me,” went on the good creature, and she patted Phillis’s cheek encouragingly as she spoke.
“But how is she? Oh, thank God, the storm has lulled at last!” exclaimed the girl, breathlessly.
“Oh, yes; the storm is over. We have reason to dread storms in this house,” returned Miss Mewlstone, gravely. “She was quite exhausted, and let Charlotte and me help her to bed. Now she has had her composing-draught, and Charlotte will sit by her till I go up. I always watch by her all night after one of these attacks.”
“Is it a nervous attack?” asked Phillis, timidly, for she felt she was treading on delicate ground.
“I believe Dr. Parkes calls it hysteria,” replied Miss Mewlstone, hesitating a little. “Ah, we have sad times with her. You heard what she said, poor dear: she has been sorely tried.”