‘He is—very kind,’ said Agnes, stiffly, and she was restrained even in her intercourse with Emmy, not saying half so much to her as she did on ordinary occasions, which was wrong; for, in fact, Emmy could not justly bear blame for anything committed, neither for his coming nor his going away. The child was quite cast down by Miss Burchell’s coldness. She began to inquire if Agnes was ill, if she was tired, if she thought the Sisters would object to let her go to Margate; thus plainly showing that she perceived her visitor’s abstraction, which was, of all things in the world, the last thing which Agnes wished to be remarked. And poor Agnes could not conceal how worried she was by these questions; she could not account for the discouragement, the sickness of heart, that had come over her. She was tired all at once—overcome by the heat or the cold; which was it?
‘It is the spring, miss,’ said the nurse.
And she was very willing to allow that it must be the spring.
‘I will send you word as soon as I have spoken to the Sister,’ she said, kissing little Emmy as she went away; ‘and forgive me, dear—for I have a headache. I have not been able to talk to you to-day.’
‘Oh, have you a headache?’ cried poor little Emmy, ready to cry for sympathy. What perverse things hearts are when they are young! Agnes walked away through the wards the emblem, of peaceful quiet, in her black bonnet, her soft face breathing serenity and ease, as one sufferer and another thought as she passed, but under that conventual drapery a hundred thoughts rustling and stinging, so that the girl was afraid lest they should be heard. Oh, she was glad that he was gone! Glad to be spared the struggle and the necessity for telling him that he must haunt her steps no more. Glad to be let alone, to do her work in peace; her work, that was what she lived for, not absurd romances which she was ashamed even to dream of. Her mind was brimful and running over with these thoughts. It was like carrying a hive full of bees, or a cage full of birds through the place, to walk through it like this, her heart beating, and so many voices whispering in her ears. But suddenly, all at once, as she came out of the great doors, they all hushed in a moment. Her heart stopped (she thought); her thoughts fled like frightened children. She was stilled. Why? It was all for no better reason than that Oswald Meredith was visible at the gate, in his black clothes, looking (the hospital nurses thought) like an interesting young widower, bereaved and pensive, yet not inconsolable. He had put on a look in conformity with his hatband, and stood there waiting for her as she came out, claiming her sympathy. Agnes grew still in a moment, the tumult and the commotion ceasing in her mind as by magic. She tried to look as if she did not see him, and then to pass him when she got out beyond the gate; but he stepped forward quickly into her path.
‘May I ask if you will speak for me about little Emmy?’ he said. ‘The child looks weak and rather excitable. I should like, if the authorities will permit me, to pay her expenses to the sea.’
‘Oh, yes, they will permit you,’ said Agnes, smiling in spite of all her terrors. ‘You are very kind. I will speak—if you wish it.’
‘And write to me,’ said Oswald, eagerly. ‘It will be necessary to write to me to let me know.’
But Agnes demurred to this easy settlement of the matter. ‘Sister Mary Jane will write. She manages these things herself. But she will be pleased. Good morning,’ she said, making am attempt to quicken her steps.
‘I am going this way,’ said Oswald. ‘I could not come last week. We had bad news.’