Without a falter, without any hesitation, she went through the mist and moonlight on the streets, the strong impression keeping its hold upon her brain, as if it had been some mechanical impulse guiding her. She passed the dim outlines of the village-houses, the lighted public-house; she entered the Thackbusk lane; she did not tremble, not even from weariness, until she stood once more on the threshold of her home. As she opened the door a stream of light rushed forth; the house appeared to be full of people, full of light; a sound of wild laughing passed through her like a stab, and the whole place began to reel before her eyes. Exhausted, staggering, with a fearful dread upon her, she felt the door close behind her, and knew that she stood within her home. CHAPTER XXVIII A NIGHT OF DELIRIUM ‘OH, mother, I’m glad you’ve come,’ Annie’s voice was crying to her--she could hear her child’s voice, though she could not see her face--‘I want you to send away all these women as is keepin’ me, that I may get ready for my wedding-day. I’ve took my hair down so as to be ready for t’ flowers, but they will hold my hands so as I can’t put it up; an’ t’ clergyman an’ ladies is all gone to t’ church, an’ I shan’t be there, an’ they willent wait for me. I’ve waited for ye. I didn’t think ye’d be so long. I’ve waited for ye to help make me nice to go.’ She attempted to rise, but was held down by two women, who seemed to have been assuming some guardianship over her; Jenny slowly recognised the portly Mrs Robson, and the more blooming matronliness of Mrs Jones. Through all the trials that had pressed on her since her marriage the poor mother had never known such a sight as this before--her cottage full of lights and the staring eyes of friends, her daughter delirious, and her son crouching and ashamed. Annie was on a chair, with her dress loose and disordered, her arms held by the two women, and her hair hanging free; she made every now and then a convulsive effort to get up, which could be scarcely checked even by those who held her arms. The light on her face showed that it had a fearful beauty; her eyes were wide, brilliant, her lips hot and dry, her convulsive efforts at breathing seemed to be more than she could endure as they heaved through her frame and tossed her shining hair. The women who held her were not gentle in their movements, but then her struggles were almost too strong for them. ‘Ah, it’s a poor tale,’ cried Mrs Jones, with due severity--‘a poor tale when young ’omen behaves theirsens like this.’