‘Did she seem hurt by your silence?'
‘I am afraid she was hurt by it. ‘‘You have not got your mother's face,'' she said, ‘‘or your mother's heart. Your mother's face was dark, and your mother's heart, Miss Fairlie, was the heart of an angel.'' ‘‘I am sure I feel kindly towards you,'' I said, ‘‘though I may not be able to express it as I ought. Why do you call me Miss Fairlie --?'' ‘‘Because I love the name of Fairlie and hate the name of Glyde,--' she broke out violently.
I had seen nothing like madness in her before this, but I fancied I saw it now in her eyes. ‘‘l only thought you might not know I was married,''
I said, remembering the wild letter she wrote to me at Limmeridge, and trying to quiet her. She sighed bitterly, and turned away from me. ‘‘Not know you were married?'' she repeated. ‘‘I am here because you are married.
I am here to make atonement to you, before I meet your mother in the world beyond the grave.'' She drew farther and farther away from me, till she was out of the boat-house, and then she watched and listened for a little while. When she turned round to speak again, instead of coming back, she stopped where she was, looking in at me, with a hand on each side of the entrance. ‘‘Did you see me at the lake last night?'' she said. ‘‘Did you hear me following you in the wood? I have been waiting for days together to speak to you alone -- I have left the only friend I have in the world, anxious and frightened about me -- I have risked being shut up again in the mad-house -- and all for your sake, Miss Fairlie, all for your sake.''
Her words alarmed me, Marian, and yet there was something in the way she spoke that made me pity her with all my heart. I am sure my pity must have been sincere, for it made me bold enough to ask the poor creature to come in, and sit down in the boat-house, by my side.'
‘Did she do so?'
‘No. She shook her head, and told me she must stop where she was, to watch and listen, and see that no third person surprised us. And from first to last, there she waited at the entrance, with a hand on each side of it, sometimes bending in suddenly to speak to me, sometimes drawing back suddenly to look about her. ‘I was here yesterday,'' she said, ‘‘before it came dark, and I heard you, and the lady with you, talking together.
I heard you tell her about your husband. I heard you say you had no influence to make him believe you, and no influence to keep him silent. Ah! I knew what those words meant -- my conscience told me while I was listening.
Why did I ever let you marry him! Oh, my fear -- my mad, miserable, wicked fear! --'' She covered up her face in her poor worn shawl, and moaned and murmured to herself behind it. I began to be afraid she might break out into some terrible despair which neither she nor I could master. ‘‘Try to quiet yourself,'' I said; ‘‘try to tell me how you might have prevented my marriage.'' She took the shawl from her face, and looked at me vacantly.
‘‘I ought to have had heart enough to stop at Limmeridge,'' she answered.
‘‘I ought never to have let the news of his coming there frighten me away.
I ought to have warned you and saved you before it was too late. Why did I only have courage enough to write you that letter? Why did I only do harm, when I wanted and meant to do good? Oh, my fear -- my mad, miserable, wicked fear!'' She repeated those words again, and hid her face again in the end of her poor worn shawl. It was dreadful to see her, and dreadful to hear her.'
‘Surely, Laura, you asked what the fear was which she dwelt on so earnestly?'
‘Yes, I asked that.'
‘And what did she say?'
‘She asked me in return, if I should not be afraid of a man who had shut me up in a mad-house, and who would shut me up again, if he could?
I said, ‘‘Are you afraid still? Surely you would not be here if you were afraid now?'' ‘‘No,'' she said, ‘‘I am not afraid now.'' I asked why not She suddenly bent forward into the boat-house, and said, ‘‘Can't you guess why?'' I shook my head. ‘‘Look at me,'' she went on. I told her I was grieved to see that she looked very sorrowful and very ill. She smiled for the first time. ‘‘Ill?'' she repeated; ‘‘I'm dying. You know why I'm not afraid of him now. Do you think I shall meet your mother in heaven? Will she forgive me if I do?'' I was so shocked and so startled, that I could make no reply.
‘‘I have been thinking of it,'' she went on, ‘‘all the time I have been in hiding from your husband, all the time I lay ill. My thoughts have driven me here -- I want to make atonement -- I want to undo all I can of the harm I once did.'' I begged her as earnestly as I could to tell me what she meant. She still looked at me with fixed vacant eyes. ‘‘Shall I undo the harm?'' she said to herself doubtfully. ‘‘You have friends to take your part. If you know his Secret, he will be afraid of you, he won't dare use you as he used me. He must treat you mercifully far his own sake, if he is afraid of you and your friends. And if he treats you mercifully, and if I can say it was my doing --'' I listened eagerly for more, but she stopped at those words.'
‘You tried to make her go on?'
‘I tried, but she only drew herself away from me again, and leaned her face and arms against the side of the boat-house. ‘‘Oh!'' I heard her say, with a dreadful, distracted tenderness in her voice, ‘‘oh! if I could only be buried with your mother! If I could only wake at her side, when the angel's trumpet sounds, and the graves give up their dead at the resurrection!''
-- Marian! I trembled from head to foot -- it was horrible to hear her.
‘‘But there is no hope of that,'' she said, moving a little, so as to look at me again, ‘‘no hope for a poor stranger like me. I shall not rest under the marble cross that I washed with my own hands, and made so white and pure for her sake. Oh no! oh no! God's mercy, not man's, will take me to her, where the wicked cease from troubling and the weary are at rest.''