In addition to those fearful intimations, Ellen heard inside the sobs and groans of her distracted father, mingled with caresses and such tender and affectionate language as, she knew by the words, could only be addressed to a person incapable of understanding them. Mrs. Brown held the door partially closed, but the faithful girl would not be repulsed. She pushed in, exclaiming:
“Stand back, Mrs. Brown, I must see my mistress!—if she is my mistress, or anybody's mistress now,”—and accordingly she approached the settee on which the Cooleen Bawn sat. The old squire was wringing his hands, sobbing, and giving vent to the most uncontrollable sorrow.
“Oh, Ellen,” said he, “pity and forgive me. Your mistress is gone, gone!—she knows nobody!”
“Stand aside,” she replied; “stand aside all of you; let me to her.”
She knelt beside the settee, looked distractedly,—but keenly, at her for about half a minute—but there she sat, calm, pale, and unconscious. At length she turned her eyes upon Ellen—for ever since the girl's entrance she had been gazing on vacancy—and immediately said:
“Oh! can you tell me where is William Reilly? They have taken me from him, and I cannot find him. Oh! will you tell me where is William Reilly?”
Ellen gave two or three rapid sobs; but, by a powerful effort, she somewhat composed herself.
“Miss Folliard,” she said, in a choking voice, however, “darling Miss Folliard—my beloved mistress—Cooleen Bawn—oh, do you not know me—me, your own faithful Ellen, that loved you—and that loves you so well—ay, beyond father and mother, and all others living in this unhappy world? Oh, speak to me, dear mistress—speak to your own faithful Ellen, and only say that you know me, or only look upon me as if you did.”
Not a glance, however, of recognition followed those loving solicitations; but there, before them all, she sat, with the pale face, the sorrowful brow, and the vacant look. Ellen addressed her with equal tenderness again and again, but with the same melancholy effect. The effect was beyond question—reason had departed; the fair temple was there, but the light of the divinity that had been enshrined in it was no longer visible; it seemed to have been abandoned probably for ever. Ellen now finding that every effort to restore her to rational consciousness was ineffectual, rose up, and, looking about for a moment, her eyes rested upon her father.
“Oh, Ellen!” he exclaimed, “spare me, spare me—you know I'm in your power. I neglected your honest and friendly warning, and now it is too late.”