Susan could hardly bear all these little attentions: they choked
her, and yet she was so wet, so weak with fatigue and excitement,
that she could neither resist by voice or by action. Two children
stood awkwardly about, puzzled at the scene, and even Eleanor began
to wish for some explanation of who her strange visitor was.
"You've, maybe, heard him speaking of me? I'm called Susan Dixon."
Nelly coloured, and avoided meeting Susan's eye.
"I've heard other folk speak of you. He never named your name."
This respect of silence came like balm to Susan: balm not felt or
heeded at the time it was applied, but very grateful in its effects
for all that.
"He is at my house," continued Susan, determined not to stop or
quaver in the operation--the pain which must be inflicted.
"At your house? Yew Nook?" questioned Eleanor, surprised. "How came
he there?"--half jealously. "Did he take shelter from the coming
storm? Tell me,--there is something--tell me, woman!"
"He took no shelter. Would to God he had!"
"O! would to God! would to God!" shrieked out Eleanor, learning all
from the woful import of those dreary eyes. Her cries thrilled
through the house; the children's piping wailings and passionate
cries on "Daddy! Daddy!" pierced into Susan's very marrow.
Pages:
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84