“Why did you frighten me like that?” she repeated, rocking herself to and fro; and her voice had a high, strained tone in it. “There is no trouble, but your face is pale, and there are tears in your eyes; and look how your hand shakes! Miss Challoner—Phillis, what does she mean? Barby, you are a foolish old woman; your wits are gone.”
“If they are gone, it is with joy!” she sobbed. “Yes, my precious one! for sheer joy!” but then she broke down utterly. It was Phillis who came to the rescue.
“Dear Mrs. Cheyne, I think I could tell you best,” she began, in her sweet sensible voice, which somehow stilled Mrs. Cheyne’s frightful agitation. “There has been some news,—a letter that has been lost, which ought to have arrived months ago. We have heard about it this afternoon.” She stopped, for there seemed to be a faint sound of footsteps in the hall below. Could he have followed them? What would be the result of such imprudence? But, as she faltered and hesitated, Mrs. Cheyne gripped her arm with an iron force:
“A letter from Herbert! Did he write to me? oh, my darling! did he write to me before he died? Only one word—one word of forgiveness, and I will say heaven indeed is merciful! Give it to me, Barby! Why do you keep me waiting? Oh, this is blessed, blessed news!” But Miss Mewlstone only clasped her gently in her arms.
“One moment, my dearie! There is more than that. It is not a message from heaven. There is still one living on earth that loves you! Try and follow my meaning,” for the perplexed stare had returned again. “Say to yourself, ‘Perhaps, after all, Herbert is not dead. Nobody saw him die. He may be alive; he may have written to me––” She stopped, for Mrs. 261 Cheyne had suddenly flung up her arms over her head with a hoarse cry, that rang through the house:
“Herbert! Herbert! Herbert!”
“I am here,—Magdalene! Magdalene!” A tall figure that had crept unperceived through the open hall door, and had lurked unseen in the shadow of the portiere, suddenly dashed into the room, and took his wife’s rigid form into his arms. “Magdalene!—love—wife! It is Herbert! Look up, my darling!—I am here! I am holding you!” But there was no response. Magdalene’s face was like the face of the dead.
They took her from him almost by force, for he refused to give her up. Over and over again they prayed him to leave her to their care, but he seemed like a deaf man that did not hear.
“She is dead! I have killed her; but there is no reason why I should give her up,” he had said, with terrible calm in his voice.
“She is not dead!” returned Miss Mewlstone, almost angrily. “She has been like this before; but Jeffreys and I know what to do. Ay, you were always wilful, Herbert; but when it comes to killing your own wife––” And after this he consented to lay her down on her couch.