“Augusta! what is that noise? Augusta! are you awake?” said Miss Prudence with renewed alarm.
There was no answer but a prolonged wail. Really frightened, Prudence advanced into the room, holding the candle above her head. All was as she had left it, except, except—Where was Augusta? The bed was empty. The room was empty. Filled with an indefinable terror, Prudence advanced to her sister’s bedside. Oh! horror! Augusta was gone, and in her place lay—what? A little, shrivelled, red-faced baby, wailing feebly, a huge night-cap fallen back off its bald head, a woman’s night-dress lying round it in folds a world too wide.
“My God!” exclaimed poor Prudence, “what on earth is this? Am I going mad? Where is Augusta?” Her distracted glance lighted on the broken bottle, and a sudden gleam of intelligence lit up her brain. “Are you Augusta?” she cried to the baby. The tearful baby seemed to make a desperate but ineffectual effort to speak. It appeared to be on the brink of convulsions. There was intelligence in its eye, however, and her worst fears confirmed, poor Prudence dropped the candlestick on her toes, and went into violent hysterics.
Fortunately for her, the room was at the end of a passage, removed from the other sleeping apartments by an intervening bath room. Underneath it was the now empty drawing-room, while overhead reposed the deaf Mrs. Belcher. Thus and thus alone did her shrieks fail to rouse the household. Every now and then she made an effort at self-control, but again and again the grotesque horror of the situation overcame her.
It was dawn before she pulled herself together and faced her position. With reflection came a burst of anger most unusual to the placid woman.
“Augusta,” she said sternly to the baby, which had ceased weeping, as if frightened at its sister’s distress. “Augusta, do you understand me?”
The baby apparently tried to nod.
“Can’t you speak?”
The baby shook its head.
“It is no use, I suppose, in that case, asking how this terrible misfortune has come about?”