CHAPTER XLI.

OUT IN THE STORM.

After this the younger Mrs. Bosworth came into the parlor, her eyes red with weeping, and looking weaker and more in affliction than ever. She had done everything, she said, dropping helplessly into a chair, and nothing would pacify him. There he was, trying to read over a letter that he kept hid away under the pillow, that shook and shook in his hands till the whole room was full of its rustling, and it made her so nervous she was afraid to stay alone with him--muttering, muttering as if he were angry with her, that had been a good mother to him all his days; no one could say to the contrary of that, she was sure.

Another woman of a character so much above the level of that poor mother's, might have become impatient; but the old lady listened to her with great sympathy, excused her futile grief by half implied apologies, and finally succeeded in persuading her to lie down on the sofa, while we went up-stairs and watched by her son.

The young man was indeed very ill, entirely out of his head, and talking angrily to himself. The letter which Mrs. Bosworth had mentioned was crushed in his hand, and he was rolling it into a round ball between his two palms. While I stood looking upon him, thus troubled by some unseen enemy, and flung back upon a sick-bed, it seemed impossible that any one could be cruel enough for such work, unless the heart of a fiend had somewhere taken human form.

I would have stayed in the sick-room longer, for my poor talent for nursing was never more required, but the old lady seemed anxious to send me home. Having done her utmost to relieve the unhappy situation of our patient, she was restless till her object was put in some state of forwardness; so I went away, leaving her rather hopeful, but very desponding myself.

As I went home, the clouds that had been broken and scattered were gathered into vast tent-like masses, and a slow rain began to fall, which gradually wet me through. I did not heed it; nothing could be gloomier than my feelings. It seemed to me as if I were going to a house of strangers, so completely had the machinations of that woman shut me out from my old place in the family. So I let it rain on, without a wish to escape the discomfort.

When I was nearly across the fields, I saw a figure approaching through the gray mists, and would gladly have avoided it by turning into the woods; but a voice called me by name, and I stopped at once. It was Jessie, who had come out into the storm to meet me. Lawrence had called at the house and informed the family of young Bosworth's relapse.

"He is there now, I suppose," she said, excitedly; "but I came away, guessing where you had gone. I cannot breathe in the house when they are together, and he lying so ill and helpless."

I looked up at these words. The storm was beating in her face, but her cheeks were like fire underneath. It might have been all rain that flashed down the burning surface; but I thought not, for there were suppressed sobs in her voice when she spoke.

"Is--is your father at home?" I inquired, hesitating in my speech, I cannot tell wherefore.

"No; he rode over to town before the storm came on. They have the house to themselves."

She spoke bitterly. In truth, I scarcely recognized my own sweet Jessie with those wet garments clinging around her, and that excited face. We walked on in silence, for she turned to retrace her steps. At last she said, abruptly:

"How is he, Aunt Matty? Does he suffer?"

"Greatly, I think, Jessie."

"No wonder he is ill," she said, passionately. "It is enough to break down anything human."

"I am glad you can feel for him, Jessie."

"Feel for him! Who can help it? But who feels for--for--"

She broke off abruptly, turning pale and cold.

I walked on, distressed by this broken confidence, but knew well that Jessie was too proud for anything more definite.

As we came into the field bordered by the carriage sweep, a horseman dashed up to the gate, which had been left open, and was passing at a swift gallop toward the house. It was Mr. Lee returning from town, and riding fast to escape the rain. He saw us dragging our way through the grass, and drew up, regarding our condition with a look so stern that it chilled me.

"He is angry with me for going out, I suppose," said Jessie, drearily. "Well, I could not help it."

After regarding us for a full minute with that hard look, Mr. Lee rode on, his horse tramping heavier than before, and sending back broken flakes of mud, as if casting it purposely against us. He rode directly to the stables. Jessie and I slunk into the house by the back entrance like culprits.