Oh, this spectre of death!
Oh, this last hour, approaching in such horror!
Alas, this isolation—this banishment from my kind!
Not only the anchor of hope, but the footing of fortitude was gone—at least for a moment; but the last I soon endeavoured to regain.
“I can but die,” I said, “and I believe in God.
Let me try to wait His will in silence.”
These words I not only thought, but uttered; and thrusting back all my misery into my heart, I made an effort to compel it to remain there—dumb and still.
“All men must die,” said a voice quite close at hand; “but all are not condemned to meet a lingering and premature doom, such as yours would be if you perished here of want.”
“Who or what speaks?”
I asked, terrified at the unexpected sound, and incapable now of deriving from any occurrence a hope of aid.
A form was near—what form, the pitch-dark night and my enfeebled vision prevented me from distinguishing.
With a loud long knock, the new-comer appealed to the door.
“Is it you, Mr. St. John?” cried Hannah.
“Yes—yes; open quickly.”
“Well, how wet and cold you must be, such a wild night as it is!
Come in—your sisters are quite uneasy about you, and I believe there are bad folks about.
There has been a beggar-woman—I declare she is not gone yet!—laid down there.
Get up! for shame!
Move off, I say!”
“Hush, Hannah!
I have a word to say to the woman.
You have done your duty in excluding, now let me do mine in admitting her.
I was near, and listened to both you and her.
I think this is a peculiar case—I must at least examine into it.
Young woman, rise, and pass before me into the house.” Hush, Hannah; I have a word to say to the woman
With difficulty I obeyed him.
Presently I stood within that clean, bright kitchen—on the very hearth—trembling, sickening; conscious of an aspect in the last degree ghastly, wild, and weather-beaten.
The two ladies, their brother, Mr. St. John, the old servant, were all gazing at me.
“St. John, who is it?” I heard one ask.
“I cannot tell: I found her at the door,” was the reply.
“She does look white,” said Hannah.
“As white as clay or death,” was responded.
“She will fall: let her sit.”
And indeed my head swam: I dropped, but a chair received me.
I still possessed my senses, though just now I could not speak.
“Perhaps a little water would restore her.
Hannah, fetch some.
But she is worn to nothing.
How very thin, and how very bloodless!”
“A mere spectre!”
“Is she ill, or only famished?”
“Famished, I think.
Hannah, is that milk?
Give it me, and a piece of bread.”
Diana (I knew her by the long curls which I saw drooping between me and the fire as she bent over me) broke some bread, dipped it in milk, and put it to my lips.
Her face was near mine: I saw there was pity in it, and I felt sympathy in her hurried breathing.
In her simple words, too, the same balm-like emotion spoke:
“Try to eat.”
“Yes—try,” repeated Mary gently; and Mary’s hand removed my sodden bonnet and lifted my head.
I tasted what they offered me: feebly at first, eagerly soon.