She went, and again found Walter in the outer room, watching for tidings of his mother. 'Asleep,' she said. 'Lionel?'
'Asleep too, I hope. You are going to bed?'
'Yes, thank you; but Clara--'
'I will go to Clara the first thing in the morning. I shall sit up on my father's account. Don't you think of it,--sleep as long as you can; you have had watching enough.'
'I have been so glad,' Marian said, in a tear-stilled whisper.
'You cannot tell how I have longed to thank you, Marian, for what you have been to her:' said Walter, speaking from the fulness of heart, which overcame his natural reserve and bashfulness. 'You are thanked enough by our present feelings on the subject,--by that letter:--may I keep it a little longer?'
'O yes, yes!' cried Marian, hastily, disclaiming in her heart all his thanks, though unable to do so with her lips.
'It takes away all regret for the briefness of the illness,' added Walter, as if the speaking of it was a satisfaction he could hardly relinquish.
'I am sure she thought much; no one can tell what passed,' said Marian, in a low, broken murmur.
'Little did I think last summer--' said Walter, aloud to himself. 'Yes, this is best, far best, if one could but feel it so!'
Marian thought the same, and, like him, could not feel it; but unable to express herself, she simply said, as soon as her tears would let her, 'Good-night,' and went up to her own room.
Fatigue came on her now. When she took off the dress she had worn since leaving Fern Torr, she found her limbs stiff and aching, and her head dizzy with weariness. She could hardly get through the operation of undressing; and when she tried to say her prayers, they would not come. She could only go through the LORD'S Prayer; and too worn out to be shocked at herself more than in a dull way, scarcely even alive to the recollection of what had happened, she laid herself down on the bed, which seemed strangely soft, but for a long time was too tired to sleep. With confused thoughts and exhausted spirits, she kept on feeling as if her aching limbs belonged to somebody else, and going off into odd, dreamy vagaries, each more uncomfortable than the last,--ever and anon waking into a moment's remembrance that Caroline was dead, wondering at herself for being so dull as only to think it strange, then losing the consciousness again. At last the light of morning made her perceptions clearer. Fanny knocked at her door, and brought her a cup of tea. She heard that all was quiet,--said she would get up; but with that resolution she suddenly became more easy, and while believing she was getting up, fell into a sound sleep.
She awoke refreshed, and entirely herself again, though feeling stunned and bewildered by the all-pervading thought. Caroline dead! It seemed as if it was not otherwise with the rest of the family. Her illness had been so short, that there had been no time to grow familiar with the idea of her danger; and it was the first death in the household that had hitherto been so strong and confident in health,--the first touch that taught them how little the world they loved was an abiding-place. So sudden had been the stroke, that they seemed to pause and stand aghast under it, scarcely conscious how deep the wound might be. Her father went about the house, bowed down and stricken with grief, his tones low, sorrowful, and so gentle when speaking to his children, or to Marian, that they could scarcely be recognised as the same voice; but, without a word, so far as Marian, Clara, or Lionel knew, of his daughter, or of his own feelings. Her mother, already very weak, and suffering most acutely from the remembrance of the coldness with which she had treated her during the last autumn, became so seriously unwell, between a return of influenza, and her extreme depression and nervous hysterical agitation, that Marian and Clara were almost entirely occupied in nursing her, and trying to soothe her. In this work they were little successful. Marian had no hold on her affection, no power of talking soothingly, though most anxious to do what she could, and distressed excessively by her inability to be a comfort in the painful scenes which she was obliged to witness. She almost thought her presence made things worse, and that Mrs. Lyddell wished her away; but poor Clara was so entirely helpless and frightened, clung to her in so imploring a way, and was so incapable, from the restraint that had always subsisted between her and her mother, of saying anything to comfort her, or assuming any direction, that Marian was obliged, for her sake, to be almost always in the room. The only thing Marian could do in the way of consolation was to read aloud; she could not talk of the great thankfulness, peace, and hope which she felt herself, to Mrs. Lyddell, though she could have done so a little, with time, to Lionel, or even
