Mrs. Marvyn's eyes grew wilder,--she walked the door, wringing her hands,--and her words, mingled with shrieks and moans, became whirling and confused, as when in autumn a storm drives the leaves in dizzy mazes.
Mary was alarmed,--the ecstasy of despair was just verging on insanity. She rushed out and called Mr. Marvyn.
"Oh! come in! do! quick!--I'm afraid her mind is going!" she said.
"It is what I feared," he said, rising from where he sat reading his great Bible, with an air of heartbroken dejection. "Since she heard this news, she has not slept nor shed a tear. The Lord hath covered us with a cloud in the day of his fierce anger."
He came into the room, and tried to take his wife into his arms. She pushed him violently back, her eyes glistening with a fierce light. "Leave me alone!" she said,--"I am a lost spirit!"
These words were uttered in a shriek that went through Mary's heart like an arrow.
At this moment, Candace, who had been anxiously listening at the door for an hour past, suddenly burst into the room.
"Lor' bress ye, Squire Marvyn, we won't hab her goin' on dis yer way," she said. "Do talk _gospel_ to her, can't ye?--ef you can't, I will."
"Come, ye poor little lamb," she said, walking straight up to Mrs. Marvyn, "come to ole Candace!"--and with that she gathered the pale form to her bosom, and sat down and began rocking her, as if she had been a babe. "Honey, darlin', ye a'n't right,--dar's a drefful mistake somewhar," she said. "Why, de Lord a'n't like what ye tink,--He _loves_ ye, honey! Why, jes' feel how _I_ loves ye,--poor ole black Candace,--an' I a'n't better'n Him as made me! Who was it wore de crown o' thorns, lamb?--who was it sweat great drops o' blood?--who was it said, 'Father, forgive dem'? Say, honey!--wasn't it de Lord dat made ye?--Dar, dar, now ye'r' cryin'!--cry away, and ease yer poor little heart! He died for Mass'r Jim,--loved him and _died_ for him,--jes' give up his sweet, precious body and soul for him on de cross! Laws, jes' _leave_ him in Jesus' hands! Why, honey, dar's de very print o' de nails in his hands now!"
The flood-gates were rent; and healing sobs and tears shook the frail form, as a faded lily shakes under the soft rains of summer. All in the room wept together.