Letitia had felt that if she ever got free from the grasp that held her—if ever she could throw off the hand that was like velvet yet closed on her like iron, there was but one thing to do, to fly, to get help, to make everybody understand that Lady Frogmore, mad as she had once been before, had burst in on her and tried to kill her. But now that she had freed herself she did not take to flight as she intended. She drew away a step nearer the door, that she might retain that alternative—and kept the most watchful eye upon her antagonist, ready in a moment to fly. But she did not do so. Her breath began to come more easily. Perhaps she was relieved that the attempt had failed—which at once relaxed the tragic tension of her nerves; at all events her heart gave a leap of satisfaction that there was no proof against her. The milk spilt on the floor had soaked into the carpet—the vial was fused into liquid metal, which could betray no one, in the fire. She had gone through a terrible moment but it was over. She fell back upon the wall and supported herself against it, propping up the shoulders which still heaved with the storm that was passed—and then she said in something like her usual voice—
“What is this all about, Lady Frogmore?”
Mary had grown restless like Letitia. The first impulse of passion and excitement failed in her, it was so unusual to her gentle bosom. She looked at this woman who stood defiant, staring at her, with a look of wonder and doubt. “If I have done you any wrong—” she began with a quaver in her voice; and then paused. “You know,” she began again, “that I have not done you wrong. You stole into the room in the dark, you put something in his drink. Oh,” cried Mary, clasping her hands, “if I had not come at that moment, if God had not sent me, my boy might have been murdered. How dare you stand and face me there? Go, go!” She stamped her foot upon the floor. “Go! Don’t come near my child again.”
“Your child,” Letitia said, with a smile of scorn. “You who never had one! You have said so a hundred times.”
Mary’s lips opened as if to reply—then she paused. “Who am I to be angry!” she said. “I have given her cause to speak. Oh, go,” she cried, “go. I will not accuse you. You know what you have done, and I know, and that will separate us for ever and ever. No one, no one shall come near my child to harm him again, for his mother will be there. Go, you wicked woman, go.”
“You are mad,” cried Letitia, “who would believe a mad woman? Say what you please, do you think anyone will listen to you! You are mad, mad! I’ll have you put in an asylum. I’ll have you shut up. I’ll—Oh, save me from her, she’s mad, she’s mad!” cried Letitia, with a shriek. There was someone coming—and Mary had put forth her hands as if to seize her again. Letitia ran past her to the door, and there stood for a moment panting, vindictive. “Do you think they will leave him with a mad woman?” she cried, then gave another shriek and fled; for it was not John as she thought who was coming to protect her but another cloaked figure like a repetition of Mary’s, who appeared on the other side. She did not stop for further parley, but ran wildly, with the precipitation of terror, into the long, silent, dim corridor.
“What has happened? What is it?” said Agnes, terrified, going up to her sister who stood with clasped hands in the middle of the room, the light falling upon her face. Mary put her arms round her, giving her a close momentary embrace, which was half joy to see some one come who would stand by her, and half an instinctive motion to support herself and derive strength from her sister’s touch.
“I came in time,” she said. “I saved him. He is safe. I will never leave my child again. Oh never while she is here——”
“What is it? What is it, Mary?”
Mary told her story, leaning upon her sister, holding her fast, whispering in her ear. Even Letitia’s cries and vituperations had been subdued, whispers of passion and desperation, no more. But to Agnes it seemed an incredible tale, a vision of the still confused and wandering brain. She soothed Mary, patting her shoulder with a trembling hand saying, “No, no. You must have dreamt it. No, no, my dear: oh, that was not the danger,” in a troubled voice. Mary detached herself from her sister, putting Agnes away gently, but with decision. She took off the bonnet which she had worn all this time, and tied the veil which had dropped from it over her head. Then she went into the inner room without a word. To pass into that silent and darkened room out of the agitation of the other was like going into another world. The breathing of the nurse in her deep sleep filled it with a faint regular sound. The patient did not stir. Mary sat down at the foot of the bed, like a shadow. Her figure in its dark dress seemed to be absorbed in the dimness and pass out of sight altogether. Agnes stood at the door and looked into the chamber full of sleep and silence, weighed down by the mystery about her. Had that fantastic, horrible scene really happened, or had it been but a dream? There were still traces on the carpet of something white that had soaked into it, and her foot had crushed a portion of the broken glass upon the floor. Was it true? Was it possible it could be true? She stood wondering on the verge of the stillness that closed over the sick room in which her sister had disappeared and been swallowed up. It is strange at any time to look into a chamber thus occupied. The feeble patient in the bed noiseless in the slumber of weakness, the watcher by his side invisible in the gloom, a point of wakeful, anxious life among those shadows. The nurse sleeping heavily in the background, invisible, added another aching circumstance to the mystery—nurses of that class do not sleep so. Was it true? Could it be true?