The following day brought answers to some of the questions that had troubled Marianne, but they were not the answers she had hoped to hear.
She slept late, and upon arising went to see how the Duchess was. Her soft knock was answered at once, and when she entered she saw the patient propped up on lace-trimmed pillows and looking quite herself. She greeted Marianne with a smile.
"My dear girl, what a night you must have had!"
"Nothing compared with yours. I am so glad to see you looking better. But perhaps you should not talk, or have visitors," Marianne added; for as she came closer, the Duchess's high color and sparkling eyes did not look so much like signs of recovered health as of unhealthy excitement. "I won't stay. I only came to ask how you were."
"I feel splendid. Horace is an old fussbudget. It is you I am concerned about. I will ask him to have a look at you."
"I assure you, my health has never been better. Is there anything I can do for you? Write letters, or read, perhaps?"
"You are a sweet child," the Duchess replied, with an affectionate smile. "Later, perhaps, if you would care to join me for tea, I might ask you to write a letter or two. Now I want you to get out into the fresh air. I am sure Roger is waiting impatiently to go riding with you."
"I imagine he is still sleeping."
"No, no; he was here only a few minutes ago. Have you had breakfast? You must eat; it is essential to your health."
"You are not to fuss," Marianne said, patting the thin hand that moved restlessly on the counterpane, as if seeking to take up the reins of authority once again. "I will leave you to rest now, and return later. I hope you will sleep."
She had no particular desire for food, or for Carlton's company, but she sensed that her presence was keeping the Duchess from the rest she needed.
Carlton was in the entrance hall, turning over a heap of papers and letters.
"The post has come," he said, glancing up. "And here is a letter for you."
"For me?"
"Why do you sound surprised? We are not cut off from civilization. This was forwarded from London."
Even before he handed it to her, Marianne suspected whom the letter was from. There could be only one correspondent. The sight of the handwriting confirmed her assumption.
Carlton, frowning over a letter he had just opened, did not appear to be paying attention, but when she thrust her mail, unread, into her bag, he inquired, "Don't you want to read it? Pray don't let my presence deter you."
"It can wait," Marianne replied. Mrs. Jay could not yet have received her letter, so this epistle, written when she was probably still in doubt as to her young friend's whereabouts, could hardly contain anything she wanted to hear. It was probably full of admonitions and advice.
"The Duchess has ordered me to take you riding," Carlton said, still glancing through his mail.
"You need not consider it an obligation."
"Ah, but I do. Run along and change; that will give me time to finish looking over my correspondence."
Marianne did as she was bid. When she had put on her riding habit she sat down to open Mrs. Jay's letter. There was no sense putting it off – and really she had no reason except her own uneasy conscience to anticipate that the contents might not be to her liking.
They were, however, even worse than she had expected. Mrs. Shortbody had apparently peppered her old friend with daily bulletins about Marianne's activities. Naturally she knew nothing of Marianne's brief career in the theater, or of Bagshot; but Mrs. Pettibone had reported her quondam governess's "insolence and brutality" to the employment agency, which had passed the report on to Mrs. Shortbody. The good landlady was too fair-minded to take this account at face value; Mrs. Jay acknowledged that she had reported Mrs. Pettibone to be an impossible woman, who could not keep help of any kind. All the same, Mrs. Jay felt bound to lecture Marianne at some length on the advisability of controlling her temper and facing adversity with Christian meekness.
"But this," she went on, "is of small consequence compared with the latest news I have from Mrs. Shortbody. She was unaware when Mr. Carlton first called upon her that he was in the employ of the Dowager Duchess of Devenbrook. Had she known, she would not have been a party to connecting you with such a person. Naturally you would not be aware of Her Grace's reputation, but, Marianne, you ought to know enough to inquire of those older and wiser before entrusting yourself to anyone not known to you personally! Heaven knows I am not one to give credence to vulgar gossip, and Her Grace's relationship with a certain gentleman now deceased was never proved; in any case that subject is not fit for your ears. What concerns me even more is the fact that she is known to be involved with a pagan cult condemned by all true -"
At this point Marianne crumpled the letter in her hand and threw it at the fireplace. Her cheeks were burning. Really, Mrs. Jay was outrageous! If she was so concerned about me, Marianne thought angrily, why didn't she offer me a home? Not that she had wanted to stay in that Yorkshire backwater, and as things turned out it was fortunate that she had not. But she had been hurt, at the time, that Mrs. Jay seemed so willing to be rid of her.
Outside the library she stopped and forced herself to wait till her temper had cooled. Not for all the world would she want Carlton to see her in a flaming rage. When her breathing had slowed down she turned the knob, and as she did so a voice boomed out, uttering a phrase that made her stand motionless and listen intently.
"… she will leave that wretched girl every penny she has. Her personal fortune is enormous, you know that."
The speaker was Roger Carlton, angry enough to speak more loudly than was his wont. The voice of the doctor replied.
"You don't know that she will do that. Surely you can remind her of her obligations toward the servants and charities she has always supported. In any case, my young friend, your duty is to see that she makes a will; it is not to approve or disapprove her choice of beneficiaries."
"Curse it, Gruffstone, don't remind me of my duty – even if I did the same to you!" Carlton's voice was calmer now. "Are you really sure that – that the situation is serious?"
"Her heart has been deteriorating for years," was the grave reply. "She has made a remarkable recovery from the last attack, but the end may come any day."
Silence ensued. Shocked and distressed at what she had heard, Marianne tried to decide whether to retreat as silently as she had come, or to warn the men of her presence by making a noise. Much as she resented Carlton's implication that she was a coldblooded, consciousless fortune hunter, she was ashamed of eavesdropping. She could not even throw the words back in his face without admitting that she had been listening.
"I suppose I knew it," Carlton said finally. "Instinct told me – but my feelings denied the truth. Of course you are right, Gruffstone. I have tried before to convince Her Grace to make her will. I will try again, more forcefully."
"But without frightening her," the doctor warned.
"I shall do my best. It won't be easy."
"I know that, my boy."
Marianne eased the door open a little farther. The two men were at the far end of the long room, their backs to her. Carlton sat with head bowed, his hands over his face. The doctor was patting his shoulder.
Marianne pulled the door closed, then rattled the knob vigorously. When she entered Carlton was sitting upright, his face a calm mask. The doctor's coattails were just disappearing through a door at the other end of the room.
"Ready?" Carlton asked coolly.
"Yes. I hope I have not kept you waiting."
"Not at all. I entertained myself by reading the papers. You may be interested to know that you have become famous, Miss Ransom."
"What do you mean?"
Carlton handed her a newspaper. "You are not familiar with this offensive publication, I daresay; only those of us who are brave enough to admit we enjoy scandal dare read it openly."
Marianne was familiar with the Daily Yell, though she should not have been; it was the squire's favorite newspaper, and he had not always remembered to remove it from her path.
She took the newspaper with a fine display of fastidious distaste. "Are you telling me that my name appears in this – this -"
"Rag," Carlton supplied. "Not your name, no. But there is no doubt as to who is meant. See here."
He folded the paper back and indicated a column with the charming title of "Aristocratic Antics." The paragraph in question did not, in fact, mention names. It referred, in the most revoltingly coy terms, to "a lady of decal degree, known for her probings into spiritual matters" and "the young and beautiful handmaiden of the occult, reputed to be descended from a gentleman well known to the royal courts of Europe as well as the boudoirs of the noble ladies of London…"
For the second time Marianne crumpled a sheet of paper and flung it away. "It suggests that I am the Duchess's…" She could not finish the sentence; her face was as hot as fire. "How dare they? Are there no laws?"
"There is no violation of law when no names are mentioned. Besides, would you care to fan this nasty little flame of innuendo into a roaring blaze of scandal by bringing the publisher to court?"
"Good heavens, no!"
"Most of his victims feel the same. As for the implication, surely you must have realized that evil minds would place that interpretation on the Duchess's kindness to an unknown young woman. There was considerable scandal regarding her relationship with Holmes. I need not add that there was no foundation for it -"
"You need not. I could never believe such a thing of her! Why, she thought of him as a son."
"As to that…" Carlton's eyebrows lifted. Then he shook his head and made a sour face. "Listen to me! Her Grace's feelings are none of my business, and her actions are beyond criticism. Oh, the devil with this; let us go out and let some fresh air blow the filth from our minds."
Marianne enjoyed the ride, but it did not free her mind of the discomfort induced by Mrs. Jay's letter, and reinforced by the newspaper column. What a sad world it was, when a woman like the Duchess could be suspected of such things. Though it went against all her instinct of natural affection and common sense, she could admit the bare possibility that she might be the daughter of David Holmes. The suggestion that the Duchess might be her mother never took the slightest hold on her imagination, much less her reason. Yet the suggestion made her feel contaminated.
Carlton was also abstracted – and no wonder, Marianne thought. Fond as she was of the Duchess, she knew her affection was nothing compared to the feelings of someone who was virtually a foster son and who must face the imminence of the final parting from one he loved. She could not even give him, and herself, the comfort of sharing grief without confessing her reprehensible behavior.
Even more distressing was the thought that the Duchess might be planning to leave her money. It surprised her a little that a woman of such efficiency in other matters should not have made her will, but she supposed there were reasons; it was not a subject to which she had given any thought. Under happier circumstances she would have been pleased and grateful for a small remembrance. Now she could not accept so much as a penny without incurring the scorn of those who suspected her.
Eventually Carlton roused himself from his reverie and sought relief in baiting her.
"I wonder," he said guilelessly, "what has become of poor Pudenzia?"
"Who? Oh." Rallying, Marianne replied haughtily, "Since I was never aware of that – er – person's existence, I can hardly be responsible for her actions."
"Oh, yes, I had forgotten. A medium is not supposed to be conscious of remarks made by her control. That is the right word, is it not?"
"So I have been told."
"But I am afraid that poor girl has met with some unpleasant fate. She did not turn up at all last time, and on the previous occasion, when the Duchess called on her, you went into a fit before she had a chance to say more than a word or two. I wonder why."
"I have not the faintest idea."
"I wonder if the vicar's lecture could have had anything to do with it," Carlton mused.
"You had, I think, been impressed by that silly notion of demonic possession?"
"What on earth could that have to do -"
"Ah, well, no doubt I have got it all wrong." His eyes wide with assumed innocence, Carlton tried without success to look humble. "When Gruffstone was talking about hysteria and autosuggestion, I thought of an interesting hypothetical case -"
"Hypothetical!"
"Oh, purely hypothetical, I assure you. Imagine an amiable young woman who is asked, by someone she admires and respects, to produce a certain effect. With the best intentions in the world she obliges. But when another person whom she also admires and respects suggests that her actions might be wrong, even dangerous -"
"That is a ridiculous suggestion! How could I have invented such a name as Pudenzia, or concocted a history for her?"
"Such things are common in the spiritualist trade," Carlton replied. "Red Indians are the most popular controls, I admit, but any pathetic story -"
Marianne loosened the reins and left her tormentor far behind. He had not caught her up by the time she reached the castle.
However, the day had one pleasant surprise in store for her. After she had tidied herself and changed, she went to the Duchess's room. And whom should she find, sitting by the bed, but Mr. St. John.
"We two have made it up, you see," the Duchess explained with a smile. "Mr. St. John very kindly called when he heard that I was taken ill, and we have had a pleasant talk. Now, my dear Marianne, you are just in time to take him downstairs and give him some tea."
It must be recorded, to Marianne's credit, that she demurred, although the smile of the young man showed her how much he approved this idea.
"I had hoped to take tea with you, ma'am, and perhaps write those letters we spoke of."
"You may come up later, my dear. Just now you can serve me best by doing as I ask."
"But first," St. John said, "let us pray."
It was a beautiful and very affecting prayer; Marianne's eyes were piously lowered, so she did not observe that the Duchess grimaced once or twice at pointed references to the Hereafter. But she thanked the vicar prettily when it was done, and said he had helped her.
Once outside the room the vicar heaved a deep sigh. Marianne glanced at him, but was too shy to ask why he looked so serious all at once. Not until they had reached the rose parlor did she venture to speak.
"It was good of you to come," she said, tugging at the bellpull.
"I could do no less," was the reply, made in gloomy tones, and accompanied by an equally lugubrious look. "Her Grace has been an angel of kindness to the poor. If only… Oh, Miss Ransom, may I relieve an overburdened heart by speaking frankly?"
"Oh, sir," Marianne exclaimed, startled by his agitated look.
"Thank you. Thank you. I knew I could depend on your kindness. I do not know what -"
The parlormaid entered and Marianne asked for tea to be served. As soon as the maid had gone the vicar resumed exactly where he had left off.
"- what to do. I can do Her Grace no good unless I am in her confidence. Yet I cannot subscribe to the very doctrine that gives her peace of mind. A false peace, a dangerous peace. Can I see this kind but misguided woman sink into eternal fire because I -"
"Sir!" Marianne bounced up from her chair. "How dare you suggest that the Duchess is going to Hell… Oh!" The vicar's horrified expression made her clap her hands to her mouth. "Oh, I didn't mean that! I have never said that word before – except, of course, in church… you know – 'He descended into Hell; the third day He rose again from -' "
"Do not fear the word." St. John advanced toward her, shaking a long finger vehemently. "Fear the reality! Do you think I am unaware of what evil transpired here last night? The devilish spirit that moved furniture and played on Satan's instruments finally found a vehicle in that unfortunate boy – but it might have been you, Miss Ransom. It might have been you!"
In his agitation he actually took her by the shoulders. Like a rabbit mesmerized by a snake, Marianne gazed up into a face transformed by spiritual fervor. No longer did he resemble a gentle saint, but an archangel with a fiery sword of eloquence.
"I don't think…" she began weakly.
"Do not think! Let the love of God enter your heart." The vicar's hands drew Marianne closer to him. His face bent low over hers. "That heavenly love… that divine affection…"
"Oh," Marianne breathed. "Oh, yes!"
"No earthly love can compare with it," St. John said, without conviction. His lips were only inches from hers.
The doorknob rattled. The vicar pulled his hands away as if the surface they touched had turned red-hot. Marianne collapsed into the nearest chair. The door opened, admitting the maid with the tea tray. She was followed by Roger Carlton.
"Ah, Mr. St. John," Carlton said. "How nice to see you. I hope I have not interrupted some tender exchange of – er – religious exhortation?"
"I was warning Miss Ransom," the vicar said stiffly, "about the performance that went on here last night."
"Oh, was that it? I congratulate you for having the courage to expose yourself to such dreadful dangers."
"That is my duty. I only wish I could persuade Her Grace how dangerous it is."
"For heaven's sake," Carlton exclaimed. "You didn't rant at her and threaten her with hellfire, I hope? If you did -"
"Of course I did not." St. John passed a slender hand across his brow. "I want to help Her Grace. I only wish I knew how to go about it."
"Pray," Carlton suggested, taking a chair and a buttered scone.
"I have," the young vicar replied simply. "And I will return to the church now to pray again. No, thank you, Miss Ransom, I really cannot stay."
His mouth filled with scone, Carlton waved a casual hand in farewell, and the vicar left the room.
"You were very rude," Marianne said. "You drove him away."
"No, not I. It was God who drove him – his God, who is not, I thank Him, mine. Has he seen the Duchess?"
"Yes, and she seemed cheered by his visit."
'Oh, he has his points," Carlton admitted grudgingly. "He is pompous, stupid, priggish, and conceited, but I believe at heart he is sincere. If he were not cursed with those girlish good looks -"
Before Marianne could reply to this outrageous remark the door opened and the vicar's handsome head reappeared.
"I hope he did not hear you," Marianne muttered to Carlton, who merely grinned in an aggravating manner. Aloud she exclaimed, "Have you changed your mind, Mr. St. John? Do have a cup of tea, at least."
The vicar closed the door behind him and came toward her with an air of portentous gravity. "I will return, Miss Ransom, if I can persuade someone else to join me. I met her in the hall and I think I have persuaded her to come in; but I ran ahead to warn you and ask you to welcome her."
"Is it Lady Violet of whom you speak?" Marianne asked eagerly. "Poor lady, this is her house and I am only a guest, she does me a favor by joining me."
"You are an angel of goodness," the young man said, with a look that made Marianne's bones melt. "I will go and fetch her."
He ran out. Marianne turned defiantly to Carlton, expecting some sarcastic comment. She was not disappointed.
"Angel of goodness," he repeated, mimicking the vicar's deep voice with devastating effect. "Good of you to let the lady take tea in her own parlor from her own teapot."
Marianne was saved from a rude reply by the opening of the door. The vicar's tall body towered over the form of a woman so slender and small that she looked like a child playing at dress-up in her mother's clothes. She had very pretty, soft brown hair, which fell loose in a style more appropriate to a young lady than a mother and a widow. Marianne suspected that she wore it so in an attempt to veil her face. That face was turned aside and her hand, toying nervously with a stray lock of hair, further concealed her features.
Marianne rose and curtsied. "It is an honor to meet you, Lady Violet. Not knowing you were coming, I fear I have taken your place. Will you not sit here?"
Her voice was so sweet and her manner so genuinely anxious to please that the rigid little figure in the doorway relaxed and took a few timid steps forward. The vicar beamed approval over her head; even Carlton's eagle glance softened, though Marianne missed this rare sign of approval, so eager was she to make the lady feel at ease.
"Thank you," was the reply, in tones so soft they could scarcely be heard. "Please don't get up; I will sit here." And she indicated a chair as far removed as possible from the window.
"May I pour you a cup of tea?" Marianne asked.
"Thank you."
Carlton had risen too. "May I say how well you are looking, Lady Violet. Have one of these little cakes."
Lady Violet had to lower her hand, which she had kept before her face, in order to take the proffered cake. She had big, expressive brown eyes. They darted rapidly from one face to the next, as if trying to judge the effect of her disfigurement.
Marianne was glad she had been warned. The harelip was more pathetic than terrible, but without some preparation she might have allowed some demonstration of surprise to escape her. The vicar smiled on all and sundry and bounced up and down on his heels, his hands clasped behind him like a proud father watching his child's performance.
The conversation was easy, thanks primarily – Marianne had to admit – to Roger Carlton, who babbled on about the topics of the day. Once Lady Violet actually laughed at one of his jokes. Finally the vicar, who had consumed quite a quantity of tea and sandwiches after all, rose to take his leave.
"This has been a most pleasant meeting. It has been too long since I have seen you, Lady Violet, Now -" he lifted an admonitory finger – "I expect to see you on Sunday. Promise you won't fail me."
A look of terror clouded the lady's fine brown eyes.
"Perhaps," Marianne said quickly, "Lady Violet will be good enough to let me accompany her to church. I don't suppose," she added, with a cold glance at Carlton, "that anyone else in the household will be attending."
"The very thing," St. John exclaimed, with rather excessive enthusiasm. "It is settled then; I look forward to seeing you both."
The door had hardly closed behind him when Lady Violet rose.
"It has been pleasant," she murmured. "Thank you, I must go now – I will see you again -"
She left with a gliding, rapid movement that reminded Marianne of the elusive figure she had seen in the dark hallway.
"That was kindly meant," Carlton said, resuming his seat and taking the last scone. "But it was a mistake. She won't go."
"To church? But why not? It is terrifying to walk down that aisle with all the villagers staring; I thought companionship might make it easier for her. It certainly would be pleasanter for me. My offer was not entirely unselfish."
"I cannot contradict that, since you insist upon it. Good heavens, Miss Ransom, just think a moment; with her sad misfortune, to be seen beside a girl radiant with youthful beauty – why, the contrast is too pitiful."
Marianne felt herself blushing. Did he really think her "radiant"? He had never paid her a compliment before.
And he seemed to regret having done so now, for he went on rapidly, with a self-conscious look, "I know many people with similar difficulties – birthmarks, withered limbs, wens, and so on – some try to hide, others make the best of it and face life with a smile and a jest. Perhaps it is more difficult for a woman who might, but for that, be beautiful."
"You are right," Marianne said, wondering at his perception. "She would be beautiful; she has lovely eyes and skin, beautiful hair, a pretty figure. Life is very sad."
"How profound." Carlton's eyes shone with amusement over the rim of the cup he had raised to his lips.
"I must go to the Duchess," Marianne said coolly.
Curse the man, she thought, stamping up the stairs. Why was he so gentle and sympathetic one moment and so sarcastic the next? It was as if he wanted to win her confidence only so he could make fun of her. He had been so kind with Lady Violet. Was it possible that he could feel…? She must be years older than he, Marianne told herself, not realizing that she was paying Carlton the highest compliment in her power by assuming that Lady Violet's pitiful looks would not affect his feelings.
At least she had finally met the mysterious figure she had seen wandering in the night like a lost soul. She could not believe such a shy, timid woman would play malicious tricks. Cross one off her list of suspects.
She had hoped to find the Duchess resting, but such was not the case. The lady was wide awake and ready to be amused. So Marianne stayed with her, sharing her dinner and reading from Pride and Prejudice until the Duchess began to nod.
"What a good child you are," she murmured drowsily, as Marianne bent over her to bid her good night. "Giving up your evening to entertain an old woman…"
Much as she would like to have thought of herself as noble and self-sacrificing, Marianne could not really feel that she had given up much. An evening with Carlton and Gruffstone grumbling at her, or Henry asking impertinent questions and his tutor glowering… Of course, there was Lady Annabelle and the cat Horace.
On leaving the room she was surprised to see Dr. Gruffstone sitting in a chair in the hall, his legs stretched out in front of him, his hands folded over his stomach, and a series of snuffling snores coming from his parted lips. He woke the instant the door closed and blinked drowsily at her.
"She is not asleep yet, is she?"
"Not quite; but she was dropping off when I left."
"I want to have another look at her,"
Gruffstone said, rising with a grunt. "I hope you said nothing -"
"The subject is as unpleasant to me as it is to you, sir," Marianne answered quickly. But the doctor looked so weary and so sad, like a tired old bear, that she regretted her sauciness. "She did not mention that subject and neither did I," she said more gently. "Truly, sir, she seems much better."
"Good, good." The doctor peered at her over his spectacles. "You look a little peaked yourself, young lady. I will just drop in for a moment after I have seen the Duchess. I promised her I would look after you. Go on and prepare for bed; an old man like myself cannot endanger your reputation."
He smiled as he spoke, and looked so amiable and avuncular that Marianne could not refuse his offer, though she had no particular desire to be poked and prodded and made to say "ah."
When she reached her room she found her bath waiting, her bed turned back, and all the other duties of a maid performed; but Annie was not to be seen. Marianne tested the bathwater and found it still hot. She made a sour face. Annie was trying to emulate the little elves who had helped the shoemaker, but her motive in remaining unseen was superstitious fear.
So Marianne did not ring for help in preparing for bed. Since the bath was neatly concealed behind a screen, she had no hesitation in hopping into it; if the doctor came into the room, she would still be private. She took her time, enjoying the comfort of the hot water, and then put on the flannel nightgown she had to warm before the fire, covering it with a heavy dressing gown.
She was toasting her feet and reading Wuthering Heights, which she had neglected for the past few days, when the doctor knocked.
"Nothing much wrong with you," he said, after examining her. "Have you trouble sleeping?"
"Not often."
"A glass of wine, perhaps, if you are wakeful."
"I can't drink wine," Marianne said. "The other evening I felt quite faint and giddy after dinner."
"During the seance?" The doctor laughed shortly. "No wonder."
"I don't think it was that. Indeed, the symptoms improved as the evening wore on; but it was not until much later, when I had taken some food and several cups of tea, that I felt quite myself again."
'Hmph. Let me see your tongue once more."
Gravely he examined the protruding member and then shook his head.
"If you have an ailment it is not of the body. Did you take any wine tonight?"
"Yes; the Duchess insisted that I take a glass with her."
"And you feel no such symptoms as you felt last night?"
"No."
"Then it cannot have been the wine," the doctor said. "No doubt you are suffering from nervous strain; that would not be surprising. The Duchess wants me to give you some medicine, so…" From his bag he took a bottle of dark-brown liquid. "A mild sedative in case you find yourself wakeful. You probably will not need it; but at least I can tell Her Grace, when she asks, that I duly prescribed for you. It will be our little conspiracy, eh?"
He smiled and took his leave. Marianne was not as reassured by his comments as she ought to have been. The big brown bottle on the table seemed to wink and grimace at her as the firelight reflected dully from its glass surface. Having medicine prescribed suggests that medicine is needed, no matter what the verbal disclaimers.
She read for a little longer, but found that the descriptions of desolate heaths and wailing ghostly voices did nothing to relieve her nerves. So she got into bed and blew out the candle, and fell asleep almost at once.
Later, however, she seemed to wake – or rather, to come halfway out of slumber into a state midway between unconsciousness and dreaming. The fire had died to a bed of coals that gave no light, but the room was alive with small sounds and movements – rustlings and soft creakings and a distant whistling wail, like that of a rising wind.
Marianne could not decide whether she was awake or dreaming of waking. She tried to remember whether she had locked her door after the doctor left. Somehow the question did not seem important. She concluded that she must be dreaming, stimulated by the eerie prose of Miss Bronte, and was about to woo slumber again when the bed vibrated with the fall of a heavy weight upon it.
Fully, shockingly awake, Marianne tried to pull her body up and away from the object that pressed the bedclothes tight against her lower limbs. She was on the verge of hysteria – not the medical state the doctor had described, but a good, old-fashioned screaming fit – when one particular sound reached her ears and produced a miraculous cure for her nerves. It was a low, rumbling purr.
Marianne stretched out her hand. It brushed a soft, furry surface.
There is no more soothing sound than a cat's purr; when the animal walked up the length of the girl's body and settled down next to her she wrapped both arms around its warm bulk and let the purring sing her to sleep.