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 bidden 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