They kissed each other, laughing and crying over that old recollection. How long, how long ago? And all life had passed since then, and here they were, two sisters growing old, with wrinkles upon the faces which the early light revealed, despising all the tender fictions of the night. Mary soon slept as she had said, fearing nothing, innocent in the discovery she had made. She fell asleep like a child with the light of the summer morning growing on her face. But Agnes could not sleep. When her sister’s regular breathing showed the deep repose in which she was wrapped, Agnes stole out of bed and went to the furthest window where there was a glimmer of the rising sun, and knelt down there in the dawning ray, turning her face towards the east. Why she could not have told. To turn her face towards the east was no spell, there was nothing in that to secure that her prayers should be heard. And it could not be said that she prayed. Her soul and body were both worn out. She knelt there silent, her head bowed in her hands. The new day was bringing life or death to Mar—which was it bringing, life or death? She knelt on silent, like an image of devotion. It was something at least to await that crisis, when it should come, upon her knees.
Lady Frogmore slept till it was late, long after Agnes had dressed and come upstairs again to await at her bedside her sister’s awakening with a little anxiety after all the excitement of the night. Mary had lain very still; she had not moved for hours, and was sleeping like a child. But when she began to give signs of waking, her appearance changed. She moved about uneasily, her face contracted as if with pain; she put out her hands as if appealing to some one. Suddenly she sprang up broad awake in her bed. “Ford!” she cried, and then “Agnes!” as she perceived her sister. Her breath came quick, a look of terror came over her face. “Who was it?” she cried, “Who was it—that said ‘May he grow up an idiot, and kill you——’ Who was it, Agnes?”
“Oh, my lady, my lady!” cried Ford from the other side of the bed.
“Mary! don’t think of that, for God’s sake.”
“Who was it?” she cried. “It was to me it was said.”
“Oh, my lady,” said Ford, “don’t think of such dreadful things.”
“‘May he grow up an idiot—and kill you—’ It was said to me—it was a curse upon my baby—my child! Who said it Agnes?—you know.”
“Oh, Mary, what does it matter now? What harm could such wicked words do to any one? Yes—yes, it is true. Mary, I ought not to tell you, it was Letitia. Oh, what does it matter now?”
Mary pushed her away, flinging herself out of her bed. “Not matter! Ford, let me dress at once. Order the carriage. Tell me what is the first train. We must go at once by the first train.”
“Where, Mary? Oh, my dear, where?”