Mary held up the stronger woman with a rally of her own strength, but did not move otherwise. Her eyes were full of tears, but there was no anguish in them. She said in a low voice, like the coo of a dove, “No one need tell me. I know. It was I who made it for my baby—my baby! And he was born. I remember now everything. The old mother was there—my mother—don’t you know—and so proud. And my old lord, my dear old lord—with his heir—— Agnes, Agnes!” she cried, suddenly, “what have you done to me, to keep me so long from my boy?”
Agnes sank down upon her knees on the floor. She held up her clasped hands as if she were praying to the white figure that stood over her. “It can do no harm now,” she cried. “What does it matter if we all go mad? I think I shall: to see her remember him, to see her find out the truth too late—too late! Oh, God, that I should have my answer now when it is all over. It would have been better if there had been no answer—no answer now.”
“Agnes,” said Mary, gently laying a hand upon her head. She held the precious little garment in her other hand, and kissed it, pressing it to her lips and her cheek. “Agnes,” she said in her soft voice, pitying her sister’s emotion, “I do not blame you, dear. I have been kept in the dark, I don’t know why; I have done many strange things not knowing. Perhaps my—my baby—my boy has been injured; God forbid. But I don’t blame you, dear. If he has been injured we can put it right. All can be put right now we know. You meant it, I am sure, for the best. Agnes, I never, never will blame you, dear. Oh, rise up now and tell me, tell me all you have kept from me; tell me everything about my boy.”
“I think God has taken him,” cried Agnes on her knees. “This was the night—I think he must be here to have found his way to his mother’s heart. Oh Mar, Mar! if you are dead, if you hear, say something, let us see you one moment, one moment before you go to heaven. One moment, one moment, Mar!”
The maid who was standing by, and whom these words froze with terror, thought to her dying day that she had heard something, she knew not what, like the passing of a soft footstep, like a subdued breath, and would have turned and fled had she not thought herself safer in the room with the lights than in the dark passages outside. This impulse of terror was stopped in Ford’s mind by the look her mistress gave her—which was a look which Ford had exchanged with many persons over Lady Frogmore’s own head—a look of pity and appeal, consulting her what was to be done for the distracted woman at their feet. This curious turning of the tables stupefied Ford. It was as if an infant from its cradle had turned and bid its nurse care for its mother.
“All this has been too much for her,” said Lady Frogmore. “Help me to put her in my bed, Ford. She and I have always been together. We slept together when we were two little girls in the old vicarage. Agnes, let me lift you, dear; don’t strain yourself or take any trouble. We’ll stay together this wonderful night. And when you’re able you will tell me; let me lift you first——”
“You!” cried Agnes, stumbling somehow to her feet. She added in a humble tone, coming to herself, “I have forgotten my duty, Mary. Don’t think any more of me. It was more than I could bear, just for a moment.”
“Yes, I saw it was too much. Ford, do you think you could sleep on the sofa, just to be at hand if we wanted anything? I am not easy about her still. We’ll stay together to-night. Lie down and I will sit by you, and when you are able you will tell me——”
“My lady, it would be much better for you to get your natural rest.”
“Mary, you must not sit up with me!”