“Hark, they are mocking me again! Hear them, hear them!” groaned Abel Day, clapping his hands to his head. “And the horror, too, is coming over me again: it always comes with those jeering voices.”
“I hear nobody. Oh! I beg you to be calm,” said Marguerite, now thoroughly alarmed on Abel’s account. Then, leading him to the bench, “What agitates you so, dear friend? Oh! do, do calm yourself and tell me what you fear.”
Abel sank down on the bench, and, after groaning once more, “Hark! hark! They are mocking me,” did not utter another word, hard though she urged him to speak; but, with eyes glued to the Magic Nest, he remained dumb and motionless.
Then by and by evening came, and the twilight deepened into night, yet still Abel moved not, nor opened his lips, unless occasionally to heave a sigh. Then the moon rose, and as its pale rays streamed into the room and fell upon the sufferer’s face, it assumed an expression so unearthly that Marguerite was filled with awe.
And now a dreadful, startling thought occurred to her: her dear friend might be mad! What a pang this gave her tender heart! What bright, new-born hopes became suddenly blasted. How many fair castles in the air crumbled away into ghostly ruins at the thought that Abel Day was mad!
“Is it possible,” she asked herself, “that this good man—he who has been so kind to me, whom I looked up to as one far, far above the cold, heartless world—is it possible that he is bereft of reason?” And even as Marguerite breathed these words she for the first time grew conscious of something glowing in her bosom more ardent than friendship for Abel Day.
“I love him,” she murmured—“I love him. And no matter what people may think of me, I’ll stay by him and nurse him; I’ll be his servant and truest friend as long as he lives.”
Trying indeed was this night for Marguerite—oh! very, very. It seemed as if it never would end. Nor did day bring any relief to her anxiety. The blessed, life-giving sunshine shimmered in; the chimney-swallows twittered by the window; a stray bee, blown away by the morning breeze from his far-off hive, flew in and buzzed about the chamber; still Abel remained like one turned into stone, except for the deep-drawn sighs which ever and anon escaped his lips.
And so this day passed, and so day followed day, without bringing any change in his mysterious condition.
Of course Marguerite was not with him the whole time. But she took care whenever she quitted the room to lock the door; then she would hasten with winged feet to the Frog Emporium, where she would spend four or five hours; then back Marguerite hurried, hoping and praying that no ill had befallen Abel during her absence. But while she was with the poor man she did more than simply watch him. The ugly pencil-marks were rubbed off the wall; the floor was thoroughly swept; the cobwebs were brushed out of the corners; and many another thing which only woman’s hand can do Marguerite did. On a little table, too (the only piece of furniture besides the bench and bed), was spread a good, substantial meal for Abel to eat the moment he felt hungry; and it amazed her to see him fasting so long.