For some days Euphra seemed to be gradually regaining her health and composure of mind. One evening, after a longer talk than usual, Margaret had left her in bed, and had gone to her own room. She was just preparing to get into bed herself, when a knock at her door startled her, and going to it, she saw Euphra standing there, pale as death, with nothing on but her nightgown, notwithstanding the bitter cold of an early and severe frost. She thought at first she must be walking in her sleep, but the scared intelligence of her open eyes, soon satisfied her that it was not so.
"What is the matter, dear Miss Cameron?" she said, as calmly as she could.
"He is coming. He wants me. If he calls me, I must go.""No, you shall not go," rejoined Margaret, firmly.
"I must, I must," answered Euphra, wringing her hands.
"Do come in," said Margaret, "you must not stand there in the cold.""Let me get into your bed."
"Better let me go with you to yours. That will be more comfortable for you.""Oh! yes; please do."
Margaret threw a shawl round Euphra, and went back with her to her room.
"He wants me. He wants me. He will call me soon," said Euphra, in an agonised whisper, as soon as the door was shut. "What shall Ido!"
"Come to bed first, and we will talk about it there."As soon as they were in bed, Margaret put her arm round Euphra, who was trembling with cold and fear, and said:
"Has this man any right to call you?"
"No, no," answered Euphra, vehemently.
"Then don't go."
"But I am afraid of him."
"Defy him in God's name."
"But besides the fear, there is something that I can't describe, that always keeps telling me--no, not telling me, pushing me--no, drawing me, as if I could not rest a moment till I go. I cannot describe it. I hate to go, and yet I feel that if I were cold in my grave, I must rise and go if he called me. I wish I could tell you what it is like. It is as if some demon were shaking my soul till Iyielded and went. Oh! don't despise me. I can't help it.""My darling, I don't, I can't despise you. You shall not go to him.""But I must," answered she, with a despairing faintness more convincing than any vehemence; and then began to weep with a slow, hopeless weeping, like the rain of a November eve.
Margaret got out of bed. Euphra thought she was offended. Starting up, she clasped her hands, and said:
"Oh Margaret! I won't cry. Don't leave me. Don't leave me."She entreated like a chidden child.
"No, no, I didn't mean to leave you for a moment. Lie down again, dear, and cry as much as you like. I am going to read a little bit out of the New Testament to you.""I am afraid I can't listen to it."
"Never mind. Don't try. I want to read it."Margaret got a New Testament, and read part of that chapter of St.
John's Gospel which speaks about human labour and the bread of life.
She stopped at these words:
"For I came down from heaven, not to do mine own will, but the will of him that sent me."Euphra's tears had ceased. The sound of Margaret's voice, which, if it lost in sweetness by becoming more Scotch when she read the Gospel, yet gained thereby in pathos, and the power of the blessed words themselves, had soothed the troubled spirit a little, and she lay quiet.
"The count is not a good man, Miss Cameron?"
"You know he is not, Margaret. He is the worst man alive.""Then it cannot be God's will that you should go to him.""But one does many things that are not God's will.""But it is God's will that you should not go to him."Euphra lay silent for a few moments. Suddenly she exclaimed:
"Then I must not go to him,"--got out of bed, threw herself on her knees by the bedside, and holding up her clasped hands, said, in low tones that sounded as if forced from her by agony:
"I won't! I won't! O God, I will not. Help me, help me!"Margaret knelt beside her, and put her arm round her. Euphra spoke no more, but remained kneeling, with her extended arms and clasped hands lying on the bed, and her head laid between them. At length Margaret grew alarmed, and looked at her. But she found that she was in a sweet sleep. She gently disengaged herself, and covering her up soft and warm, left her to sleep out her God-sent sleep undisturbed, while she sat beside, and watched for her waking.
She slept thus for an hour. Then lifting her head, and seeing Margaret, she rose quietly, as if from her prayers, and said with a smile:
"Margaret, I was dreaming that I had a mother.""So you have, somewhere."
"Yes, so I have, somewhere," she repeated, and crept into bed like a child, lay down, and was asleep again in a moment.
Margaret watched her for another hour, and then seeing no signs of restlessness, but that on the contrary her sleep was profound, lay down beside her, and soon shared in that repose which to weary women and men is God's best gift.
She rose at her usual hour the next day, and was dressed before Euphra awoke. It was a cold grey December morning, with the hoar-frost lying thick on the roofs of the houses. Euphra opened her eyes while Margaret was busy lighting the fire. Seeing that she was there, she closed them again, and fell once more fast asleep.
Before she woke again, Margaret had some tea ready for her; after taking which, she felt able to get up. She rose looking more bright and hopeful than Margaret had seen her before.
But Margaret, who watched her intently through the day, saw a change come over her cheer. Her face grew pale and troubled. Now and then her eyes were fixed on vacancy; and again she would look at Margaret with a woebegone expression of countenance; but presently, as if recollecting herself, would smile and look cheerful for a moment.
Margaret saw that the conflict was coming on, if not already begun--that at least its shadow was upon her; and thinking that if she could have a talk with Hugh about what he had been doing, it would comfort her a little, and divert her thoughts from herself, even if no farther or more pleasantly than to the count, she let Harry know Hugh's address, as given in the letter to her father.