Ursula picked herself up, and went tottering round the room, holding her head between her hands. She moved to the dresser, dragged out one drawer after another, and came back at last with a horn-handled knife in her hand. Bess never shifted her eyes from the old woman’s face.
“My wrist, here, the cord—cut it.”
Ursula tumbled on her knees, sawed at the rope shakily, and stabbed Bess’s wrist in her clumsy fright. The sight of blood startled her. She dropped the knife, and sat on her heels, gaping at Bess.
“Cut the rope, mother; ye haven’t hurt me.”
Ursula picked up the knife and sawed at the cord again, Bess straining at it to keep it taut. Blood was trickling slowly down her fingers; that was nothing. Strand by strand the thin rope gave under the edge of the knife. A last twist of the girl’s strong arm and her hand was free.
She took the knife from Ursula instantly, cut the cords about her other wrist and ankles, careless of how she hurt herself in her haste. A stifled cry came from Ursula as Bess rose free of the oak chair. The old woman had tottered forward and fallen in a faint upon the floor.
Bess stood staring at her in mute vexation, then went on her knees beside her, turning Ursula upon her back, and chafing her hands. The old woman gave no single sign of consciousness, but lay there with her mouth open and her eyes shut, the pallor of her face contrasting with the red bricks in the floor. Bess gazed at her, hesitating. What should she do? Leave Ursula to Isaac’s anger, and take time and its precious fortune to herself? Solomon Grimshaw might be hanging about the cottage; every moment Bess thought to see a face looking at her through the open lattice.
Desperate, she ran to the window and looked out. The garden seemed asleep in the sunshine; no one was to be seen. In the distance she fancied she could catch the sharp play of Solomon’s bill as he split the pine-boughs in his woodshed. With necessity for her inspiration, she turned back to Ursula, lifted her easily in her strong arms, carried her to the window, and lowered her unceremoniously by her skirts into the garden. Then she climbed out after her, picked Ursula up again, for she was nothing but a sack of skin and bone, and, passing round to the back of the garden, broke away into the woods that rose close about the cottage. Casting a half circle through the trees, breathing hard through her set teeth, and stopping often to listen, she drew towards Ursula’s cottage with the woman still unconscious in her arms. Interminable minutes seemed to pass before she came through the pine-thickets to the cottage, raised the latch of the door, and carried Ursula within.
Bess laid her down on the settle before the fire, and, kneeling, saw that Ursula showed signs of a return to consciousness. The eyes opened, the hands groped out towards the girl’s face. Bess bent and kissed the old woman upon the mouth.
“Mother, mother—”