She revolted from the very thought of herself for having such a feeling towards her mother.  Every instinct of loyalty in her deeply loyal nature rose up indignantly against her.  She would reiterate to herself the word, “Mother! mother! mother!” as she sat gazing with a species of horror-stricken fascination into the meaningless face.  But she could not shake off the feeling.  Her nerves were fast giving way under the strain, and no one could help her.  If she left the room or the house, the consciousness that the helpless creature was lying silently weeping for lack of the sight of her pursued her like a presence.  She saw the piteous old face on the pillow, and the slow tears trickling down the cheeks, just as distinctly as if she were sitting by the bed.  On the whole, the torture of staying was less than the torture of being away; and for weeks together she did not leave the house.  Sometimes a dull sense of relief came to her in the thought that by this strange confinement she was escaping many things which would have been hard.  She rarely saw Stephen except for a few moments late in the evening.  He had ventured into Mrs. Carr’s room once or twice; but his presence seemed to disturb her, the only presence that had done so.  She looked distressed, made agonizing efforts to speak, and with the hand she could lift made a gesture to repel him when he drew near the bed.  In Mercy’s overwrought state, this seemed to her like an omen.  She shuddered, and drew Stephen away.

“O Stephen,” she said, “she knows now that I have deceived her about you.  Don’t come near her again.”

“You never deceived her, darling.  Do not distress yourself so,” whispered Stephen.  They were standing on the threshold of the room.  A slight rustling in the bed made them turn:  Mrs. Carr had half-lifted her head from the pillow, her lower jaw had fallen to its utmost extent in her effort to articulate, and she was pointing the forefinger of her left hand at the door.  It was a frightful sight.  Even Stephen turned pale, and sprang hastily away.

“You see,” said Mercy, in a ghastly whisper, “sometimes she certainly does know things; but she never looks like that except at you.  You must never come in again.”

“No,” said Stephen, almost as horror-stricken as Mercy.  “It is very strange though, for she always used to seem so fond of me.”

“She was very childish and patient,” said Mercy.  “And I think she thought that you were slowly getting to care about me; but now, wherever her soul is,—­I think it has left her body,—­she knows that we deceived her.”

Stephen made no answer, but turned to go.  The expression of resolved endurance on his face pierced Mercy to the quick, as it always did.  She sprang after him, and clasped both her hands on his arm.  “O Stephen, darling,—­precious, brave, strong darling! do forgive me.  I ought to be killed for even saying one word to give you pain.  How I can, I don’t see, when I long so to make you happy always.”