Stephen broke out of his chair. “Rachael, am I wakin’ or dreamin’ this dreadfo’ night?”
“‘Tis all well, Stephen. I have been asleep myself. ‘Tis near three. Hush! I hear the bells.”
The wind brought the sounds of the church clock to the window. They listened, and it struck three. Stephen looked at her, saw how pale she was, noted the disorder of her hair, and the red marks of fingers on her forehead, and felt assured that his senses of sight and hearing had been awake. She held the cup in her hand even now.
“I thought it must be near three,” she said, calmly pouring from the cup into the basin, and steeping the linen as before. “I am thankful I stayed! ‘Tis done now, when I have put this on. There! And now she’s quiet again. The few drops in the basin I’ll pour away, for ’tis bad stuff to leave about, though ever so little of it.” As she spoke as she drained the basin into the ashes of the fire, and broke the bottle on the hearth.
She had nothing to do, then, but to cover herself with her shawl before going out into the wind and rain.
“Thou’lt let me walk wi’ thee at this hour, Rachael?”
“No, Stephen. ‘Tis but a minute and I’m home.”
“Thou’rt not fearfo’;” he said it in a low voice, as they went out at the door; “to leave me alone wi’ her!”
As she looked at him, saying “Stephen?” he went down on his knee before her, on the poor mean stairs, and put an end of her shawl to his lips.
“Thou art an Angel. Bless thee, bless thee!”
“I am, as I have told thee, Stephen, thy poor friend. Angels are not like me. Between them, and a working woman fu’ of faults, there is a deep gulf set. My little sister is among them, but she is changed.”
She raised her eyes for a moment as she said the words: and then they fell again, in all their gentleness and mildness, on his face.
“Thou changest me from bad to good. Thou mak’st me humbly wishfo’ to be more like thee, and fearfo’ to lose thee when this life is ower, and a’ the muddle cleared awa’. Thou’rt an Angel; it may be, thou hast saved my soul alive!”
She looked at him on his knee at her feet, with her shawl still in his hand, and the reproof on her lips died away when she saw the working of his face.
“I coom home desp’rate. I coom home wi’out a hope, and mad wi’ thinking that when I said a word o’ complaint I was reckoned a onreasonable Hand. I told thee I had had a fright. It were the Poison-bottle on table. I never hurt a livin’ creatur; but happenin’ so suddenly upon’t, I thowt, ‘How can I say, what I may ha’ done to myseln, or her, or both!'”
She put her two hands on his mouth, with a face of terror, to stop him from saying more. He caught them in his unoccupied hand, and holding them, and still clasping the border of her shawl, said hurriedly:
“But I see thee, Rachael, setten by the bed. I ha’ seen thee, aw this night. In my troublous sleep I ha’ known thee still to be there. Evermore I will see there. I nevermore will see her or think o’ her, but thou shalt be beside her. I nevermore will see or think o’ anything that angers me, but thou, so much better than me, shalt be by th’ side on’t. And so I will try t’ look t’ th’ time, and so I will try t’ trust t’ th’ time, when thou and me at last shall walk together far awa’, beyond the deep gulf, in th’ country where thy little sister is.”
He kissed the border of her shawl again, and let her go. She bade him good-night in a broken voice, and went out into the street.
The wind blew from the quarter where the day would soon appear, and still blew strongly. It had cleared the sky before it, and the rain had spent itself or travelled elsewhere, and the stars were bright. He stood bareheaded in the road, watching her quick disappearance. As the shining stars were to the heavy candle in the window, so was Rachael, in the rugged fancy of this man, to the common experiences of his life.