“No,” said Agnes soothingly, “of course he won’t bear it; and you must just stand between him—— Rogers, what is that? I am sure I heard a carriage driving up to the door.”
“It will be someone coming to inquire,” said Rogers. “Don’t you be frightened, Miss ’Ill. If I can get free of that woman, don’t you be miserable. We’ll pull him through.”
“Do you think it can be anyone coming to inquire?” cried Agnes. “Surely there is a great commotion downstairs. Oh, Rogers, for Heaven’s sake go and see what it is. I heard a cry. What’s that? What’s that? Surely I know that voice.”
Agnes did not know what she feared. There were sounds on the stair which denoted some strange events—many voices together—the sound of steps hurrying. She stood at the door half afraid to open it, listening intently, overcome with alarms which she could not explain. What had happened? The voices came nearer, one of them talking in gentle but persistent tones. Agnes threw up her arms and uttered a wild but faint cry. What did it mean? What could it mean? The wildest hallucination, or her sister’s voice?
And then the door was opened quickly, and into the wintry daylight, in which there was no mystery, Mary walked without excitement—smiling, yet with a serious face, as if she had never left her own house where she was supreme, but was coming upstairs after a private consultation with the doctor, in which he had told her that her husband was ill, but not so ill as to cause any extreme of anxiety. She came in smiling to Agnes, and, taking both her hands, kissed her. “I am so glad,” she said, “to find you here. Then Frogmore has had someone to rely upon. Fancy I have been away on a visit, and they never told me he was ill till to-day.”
“Oh, Mary, dear!” Agnes cried. She was choking with excitement and emotion, but the imperative gesture by which her sister’s companion warned her to be on her guard stopped the tears in her eyes and the words in her mouth. Even in that glance Agnes perceived that it was the doctor in whose care Mary had been placed who came in behind her. This did something to still the beating of her amazed and anxious heart.
“Oh, Rogers,” said Mary, “I am so glad to see you before I go to him. How is he? He was quite well when I left home. Do tell me everything before I go to him: for I am sure you have never left him, you faithful servant—more faithful than his wife,” she said with a smile, turning to the doctor, who stood behind. Lady Frogmore looked exactly as if she had come from a visit as she said, a little troubled that she had not been sent for at once, yet scarcely anxious. Agnes even thought she looked younger, better, more self-possessed than of old.
“You were not aware he was ill, Lady Frogmore. You must rest a little and get warmed, and take something—a cup of tea, perhaps—before you go to his room. You must not take in too much cold air to the room of a patient with bronchitis. In the meantime I will go—shall I?—and bring you an exact report.”
“Do!” said Mary, “that will be the kindest thing. I can trust to what you say. But it is cold this morning,” she added, walking up to the fire. “I must not go and touch my dear old lord with cold hands. How are they at home, Agnes? and how long have you been here?”
“They are quite well,” said Agnes, very tremulous. “My father begins to show signs of getting old——”