Alice had not gone far when she was seized with a great shivering—the mediate process by which from high hysterical tension, nature brings down the nerves again to their accustomed tone.
The air was soft and still, and the faint gray of morning was already changing the darkness into its peculiar twilight.
“Ye’ll be better presently, dear,” said the old woman, with unaccustomed kindness. “There, there, ye’ll be nothing the worse when a’s done, and yell have a cup o’ tea when ye come back.”
Under the great old trees near the ivied wall which screens the court is a stone bench, and on this old Mildred was constrained to place her.
“There, there, there, rest a bit—rest a little bit. Hih! cryin’—well, cry if ye will; but yell ha’ more to thank God than to cry for, if all be as I guess.”
Alice cried on with convulsive sobs, starting every now and then, with a wild glance towards the yard gate, and grasping the old woman’s arm. In a very few minutes this paroxysm subsided, and she wept quietly.
“’Twas you, ma’am, that cried out, I take it—hey? Frightened mayhap?”
“I was—yes—I—I’ll wait a little, and tell you by-and-by—horribly—horribly.”
“Ye needn’t be afeerd here, and me beside ye, ma’am, and daylight a-comin’, and I think I could gi’e a sharp guess at the matter. Ye saw her ladyship, I do suppose? The old soger, ma’am—ay, that’s a sight might frighten a body—like a spirit a’most—a great white-faced, blind devil.”
“Who is she? how did she come? She tried to kill me. Oh! Mrs. Tarnley, I’m so terrified!”
And with these words Alice began to cry and tremble afresh.
“Hey! try to kill ye, did she? I’m glad o’ that—right glad o’t; ’twill rid us o’ trouble, ma’am. But la! think o’ that! And did she actually raise her hand to you?”
“Oh yes, Mrs. Tarnley—frightful. I’m saved by a miracle—I don’t know how—the mercy of God only.”
She was clinging to Mrs. Tarnley with a fast and trembling grasp.
“Zooks! the lass is frightened. Ye ha’ seen sights tonight, young lady, ye’ll remember. Young folk loves pleasure, and the world, and themselves ower well to trouble their heads about death or judgment, if the Lord in His mercy didn’t shake ’em up from their dreams and their sins. ‘Awake thou that sleepest,’ says the Word, callin’ loud in a drunken ear, at dead o’ night, wi’ the house all round a-fire, as the parson says. He’s a good man, though I may ha’ seen better, in old days in Carwell pulpit. So, ’tis all for good, and in place o’ crying ye should be praisin’ God for startlin’ ye out o’ your carnal sleep, and makin’ ye think o’ him, and see yourself as ye are, and not according to the flatteries o’ your husband and your own vanity. Ye’ll pardon me, but truth is truth, and God’s truth first of all; and who’ll tell it ye if them as is within hearin’ won’t open their lips, and I don’t see that Mr. Charles troubles his head much about the matter.”
“He is so noble, and always my guardian angel. Oh, Mrs. Tarnley, tonight I must have perished if it had not been for him; he is always my best friend, and so unselfish and noble.”
“Well that’s good,” said Mildred Tarnley, coldly. “But I’m thinkin’ something ought to be done wi’ that catamountain in there, and strike while the iron’s hot, and they’ll never drive home that nail ye’ll find—more like to go off when airs done wi’ her pocket full o’ money. ’Tis a sin, while so many an honest soul wants, and I’ll take that just into my own old hands, I’m thinkin’, and sarve her out as she would better women.”
“Isn’t she mad, Mrs. Tarnley?” asked Alice.
“And if she’s mad, to the madhouse wi’ her, an’ if she’s not, where’s the gallows high enough for her, the dangerous harridan? For, one way or t’other, the fiend’s in her, and the sooner judgment overtakes her, and she’s in her coffin, the sooner the devil’s laid, and the better for honest folk.”
“If she is mad, it accounts for everything; but I feel as if I never could enter that house again; and oh! Mrs. Tarnley, you mustn’t leave me. Oh, heavens! what’s that?”
It was no great matter—Mrs. Tarnley had got up, for the yard-door had opened and some one passed out and looked round.
It was the girl, Lilly Dogger, who stood there looking about her under the canopy of tall trees.
“Hoot, ma’m, ’tis only the child Lilly Dogger—and well pleased I am, for I was thinkin’ this minute how I could get her to me quietly. Here, Lilly—come here, ye goose-cap—d’ye see me?”
So, closing the door behind her, the girl approached with eyes very wide, and a wonderfully solemn countenance. She had been roused and scared by the sounds which had alarmed the house, huddled on her clothes, and seeing Mrs. Tarnley’s figure cross the window, had followed in a tremor.
Mrs. Tarnley walked a few steps towards her, and beckoning with her lean finger, the girl drew near.
“Yell have to go over Cressley Common, girl, to Wykeford. Ye know Wykeford?”
“Yes, please ’m.”
“Well, ye must go through the village, and call up Mark Topham. Ye know Mark Topham’s house with the green door, by the bridge-end?”
“Yes please, Mrs. Tarnley, ma’am.”
“And say he’ll be wanted down here at the Grange—for murder mind—and go ye on to Mr. Rodney at t’other side o’ the river. Squire Rodney of Wrydell. Ye know that house, too?”
“Yes, ’em,” said the girl, with eyes momentarily distending, and face of blanker consternation.
“And ye’ll tell Mr. Rodney there’s been bad work down here, and murder all but done, and say ye’ve told Mark Topham, the constable, and that it is hoped he’ll come over himself to make out the writin’s and send away the prisoner as should go. We being chiefly women here, and having to keep Tom Clinton at home to mind the prisoner—ye understand—and keep all safe, having little other protection. Now run in, lass, and clap your bonnet on, and away wi’ ye; and get ye there as fast as your legs will carry ye, and take your time comin’ back; and ye may get a lift, for they’ll not be walkin’, and you’re like to get your bit o’ breakfast down at Wry dell; but if............