Robert Elsmere
her, took his hat, went out, saddled his horse, and rode off to
Whinborough. He got Dr. Baker to promise to come over on the morrow, and
on his way back he called and requested to see Catherine Leyburn. He
stammeringly asked her to come and visit his daughter who was ill and
lonesome, and when she consented gladly he went on his way feeling a
load off his mind. What he had just done had been due to an undefined,
but still vehement prompting of conscience. It did not make it any the
less probable that the girl would die on or before Midsummer Day; but,
supposing her story were true, it absolved him from any charge of
assistance to the designs of those grisly powers in whose clutch she
was.
When the doctor came next morning a change for the worse had taken
place, and she was too feeble actively to resent his appearance. She lay
there on the settle, every now and then making superhuman efforts to get
up, which generally ended in a swoon. She refused to take any medicine,
she would hardly take any food, and to the doctor's questions she
returned no answer whatever. In the same way, when Catherine came, she
would be absolutely silent, looking at her with glittering, feverish
eyes, but taking no notice at all, whether she read or talked, or simply
sat quietly beside her.
After the silent period, as the days went on, and Midsummer Day drew
nearer, there supervened a period of intermittent delirium. In the
evenings, especially when her temperature rose, she became talkative and
incoherent, and Catherine would sometimes tremble as she caught the
sentences which, little by little, built up the girl's hidden tragedy
before her eyes. London streets, London lights, London darkness, the
agony of an endless wandering, the little clinging puny life, which
could never be stilled or satisfied, biting cold, intolerable pain, the
cheerless workhouse order, and, finally, the arms without a burden, the
breast without a child--these were the sharp fragments of experience, so
common, so terrible to the end of time, which rose on the troubled
surface of Mary Backhouse's delirium, and smote the tender heart of the
listener.
Then in the mornings she would lie suspicious and silent, watching
Catherine's face with the long gaze of exhaustion, as though trying to
find out from it whether her secret had escaped her. The doctor, who had
gathered the story of the 'bogle' from Catherine, to whom Jim had told
it, briefly and reluctantly, and with an absolute reservation of his own
views on the matter, recommended that if possible they should try and
deceive her as to the date of the day and month. Mere nervous excitement
might, he thought, be enough to kill her when the actual day and hour
came round. But all their attempts were useless. Nothing distracted the
intense sleepless attention with which the darkened mind kept always in
view that one absorbing expectation. Words fell from her at night which
seemed to show that she expected a summons--a voice along the fell,
calling her spirit into the dark. And then would come the shriek, the
struggle to get loose, the choked waking, the wandering, horror-stricken
eyes, subsiding by degrees into the old silent watch.
On the morning of the 23d, when Robert, sitting at his work, was looking
at Burwood through the window in the flattering belief that Catherine
was the captive of the weather, she had spent an hour or more with Mary
Backhouse, and the austere influences of the visit had perhaps had more
share than she knew in determining her own mood that day. The world
seemed such dross, the pretences of personal happiness so hollow and
delusive, after such a sight! The girl lay dying fast, with a look of
extraordinary attentiveness in her face, hearing every noise, every
footfall, and, as it seemed to Catherine, in a mood of inward joy. She
took, moreover, some notice of her visitor. As a rough tomboy of
fourteen, she had shown Catherine, who had taught her in the school
sometimes, and had especially won her regard on one occasion by a
present of some article of dress, a good many uncouth signs of
affection. On the morning in question Catherine fancied she saw
something of the old childish expression once or twice. At any rate,
there was no doubt her presence was soothing, as she read in her low
vibrating voice, or sat silently stroking the emaciated hand, raising it
every now and then to her lips with a rush of that intense pitifulness
which was to her the most natural of all moods.
The doctor, whom she met there, said that this state of calm was very
possibly only transitory. The night had been passed in a succession of
paroxysms, and they were almost sure to return upon her, especially as
he could get her to swallow none of the sedatives which might have
carried her in unconsciousness past the fatal moment. She would have
none of them; he thought that she was determined to allow of no
encroachments on the troubled remnants of intelligence still left to
her; so the only thing to be done was to wait and see the result. 'I
will come to-morrow,' said Catherine briefly; 'for the day certainly,
longer if necessary.' She had long ago established her claim to be
treated seriously as a nurse, and Dr. Baker made no objection. '_If_ she
lives so long,' he said dubiously. 'The Backhouses and Mrs. Irwin [the
neighbour] shall be close at hand. I will come in the afternoon and try
to get her to take an opiate; but I can't give it her by force, and
there is not the smallest chance of her consenting to it.'
All through Catherine's own struggle and pain during these two days the
image of the dying girl had lain at her heart. It served her as the
crucifix serves the Romanist; as she pressed it into her thought, it
recovered from time to time the failing forces of the will. Need life
be empty because self was left unsatisfied? Now, as she neared the
hamlet, the quality of her nature reasserted itself. The personal want
tugging at her senses, the personal soreness, the cry of resentful love,
were silenced. What place had they in the presence of this lonely agony
of death, this mystery, this opening beyond? The old heroic mood revived
in her. Her step grew swifter, her carriage more erect, and as she
entered the farm kitchen she felt herself once more ready in spirit for
what lay before her.
From the next room there came a succession of husky sibilant sounds, as
though some one were whispering hurriedly and continuously.
After her subdued greeting she looked inquiringly at Jim.
'She's in a taaking way,' said Jim, who looked more attenuated and his
face more like a pink and white parchment than ever. 'She's been
knacking an' taaking a long while. She woan't know ye. Luke ye,' he
continued, dropping his voice as he opened the 'house' door for her; 'ef
you want ayder ov oos, you jest call oot--sharp! Mrs. Irwin, shell stay
in wi' ye--she's not afeeard!'
The superstitious excitement which the looks and gestures of the old man
expressed touched Catherine's imagination, and she entered the room with
an inward shiver.
Mary Backhouse lay raised high on her pillows, talking to herself or to
imaginary other persons, with eyes wide open but vacant, and senses
conscious of nothing but the dream world in which the mind was
wandering. Catherine sat softly down beside her, unnoticed, thankful for
the chances of disease. If this delirium lasted till the ghost-hour--the
time of twilight, that is to say, which would begin about half-past
eight, and the duration of which would depend on the cloudiness of the
evening--was over, or, better still, till midnight were past, the strain
on the girl's agonised senses might be relieved, and death come at last
in softer, kinder guise.
'Has she been long like this?' she asked softly of the neighbour who sat
quietly knitting by the evening light.
The woman looked up and thought.
'Ay!' she said. 'Aa came in at tea-time, an' she's been maistly taakin'
ivver sence!'
The incoherent whisperings and restless movements, which obliged
Catherine constantly to replace the coverings over the poor wasted and
fevered body, went on for some time. Catherine noticed presently, with a
little thrill, that the light was beginning to change. The weather was
growing darker and stormier; the wind shook the house in gusts; and the
farther shoulder of High Fell, seen in distorted outline through the
casemented window, was almost hidden by the trailing rain clouds. The
mournful western light coming from behind the house struck the river
here and there; almost everything else was gray and dark. A mountain
ash, just outside the window, brushed the panes every now and then; and
in the silence every surrounding sound--the rare movements in the next
room, the voices of quarrelling children round the door of a
neighbouring house, the far-off barking of dogs--made itself distinctly
audible.
Suddenly Catherine, sunk in painful reverie, noticed that the mutterings
from the bed had ceased for some little time. She turned her chair, and
was startled to find those weird eyes fixed with recognition on herself.
There was a curious malign intensity, a curious triumph in them.
'It must be--eight o'clock,' said the gasping voice--'_eight o'clock_;'
and the tone became a whisper, as though the idea thus half
involuntarily revealed had been drawn jealously back into the
strongholds of consciousness.
'Mary,' said Catherine, falling on her knees beside the bed, and taking
one of the restless hands forcibly into her own, 'can't you put this
thought away from you? We are not the playthings of evil spirits--we are
the children of God! We are in His hands. No evil thing can harm us
against His will.'
It was the first time for many days she had spoken openly of the thought
which was in the mind of all, and her whole pleading soul was in her
pale, beautiful face. There was no response in the sick girl's
countenance, and again that look of triumph, of sinister exultation.
They had tried to cheat her into sleeping, and living, and in spite of
them, at the supreme moment, every sense was awake and expectant. To
what was the materialised peasant imagination looking forward? To an
actual call, an actual following to the free mountain-side, the rush of
the wind, the phantom figure floating on before her, bearing her into
the heart of the storm? Dread was gone, pain was gone; there was only
rapt excitement and fierce anticipation.
'Mary,' said Catherine again, mistaking her mood for one of tense
defiance and despair, 'Mary, if I were to go out now and leave Mrs.
Irwin with you, and if I were to go up all the way to the top of
Shanmoss and back again, and if I could tell you there was nothing
there, nothing!--if I were to stay out till the dark has come--it will
be here in half an hour--and you could be quite sure when you saw me
again, that there was nothing near you but the dear old hills, and the
power of God, could you believe me and try and rest and sleep?'
Mary looked at her intently. If Catherine could have seen clearly in the
dim light she would have caught something of the cunning of madness
slipping into the dying woman's expression. While she waited for the
answer there was a noise in the kitchen outside, an opening of the outer
door, and a voice. Catherine's heart stood still. She had to make a
superhuman effort to keep her attention fixed on Mary.
'Go!' said the hoarse whisper close beside her, and the girl lifted her
wasted hand, and pushed her visitor from her. 'Go!' it repeated
insistently, with a sort of wild beseeching; then, brokenly, the gasping
breath interrupting, 'There's naw fear--naw fear--fur the likes o' you!'
Catherine rose.
'I'm not afraid,' she said gently, but her hand shook as she pushed her
chair back; 'God is everywhere, Mary.'