How strange it all was, and incomprehensible! This morning Agnes had trembled for the arrival of the letters, not knowing to what tragic tidings the agitating news of “a change” might have come—and had felt as if the burden of anxiety on her was insupportable. Now—was it lifted from her shoulders, or had it become incalculably more heavy? She could not tell. She followed with tremulous steps to the door of Lord Frogmore’s room, and then came back again, not venturing to enter. There was nothing for it but to wait till some further development should take place, till something should happen—she did not know what she hoped or feared. Lord Frogmore was very ill. Would the sight of him drive his wife back into the frenzy from which she seemed to have escaped? Would her bewildering appearance act favorably or unfavorably upon the old man, whose vitality had fallen so low? Would sorrow, if sorrow was coming, undo the astonishing advantage that had been gained? Of all these confusing questions the mind of Agnes was full to bursting. She tried to return to the morning room where she had been occupying herself as best she could, and keeping down her anxiety when Mary arrived. It was only an hour ago, but how everything had changed! And the boys? What could she say to the boys? How account to them for the strange events that had taken place while they had been out with the forester watching him mark the trees. They were anxious to tell her all about this when they came in, little Mar echoing every word that Duke said, and striking in with little bits of observation of his own. Agnes, generally so admirable a listener, could scarcely hear what they said for the tumult in her own breast. What was she to say to the children? The meeting, when it came, what would it be? Mary, who thought she had been absent on a visit of a few days, what oh what would she say to her son? Poor Agnes was like a woman distracted. She trembled at every sound. And to think that she had to sit at table with those eager boys, and to give them their dinner, and talk to them in terror every moment lest the door should be opened and Mary come in. For what would Mary say to her child?
Every torture comes to an end if we can but wait for it, and the children’s dinner was ended at last: they were so eager about the forester and the trees he was marking to cut down that to Agnes’ intense relief they hurried out again as soon as their food was swallowed. Fortunately nobody had told them of the arrival, or else they had been too much absorbed in their own exciting occupation to dwell upon it. Little Mar knew nothing of his mother. Even if he had heard that Lady Frogmore had come home, the child would probably in the bustle of his childish excitement have put no meaning to the words. And Duke, though he was older and had been Mary’s favorite, yet had much forgotten her, and would think only of his grandmother if he heard that name. This gave poor Agnes a little comfort in the hurry of her thoughts. She sat alone all the day, more anxious and miserable than words could tell. The doctor, Lord Frogmore’s own doctor, came in for a moment to tell her that he found his patient a little better. “What an astonishing recovery this is. It is the most wonderful thing I ever saw,” he said. “She has taken her place by the bedside, as good a nurse as I ever met with. She seems to think of everything. And Lord Frogmore looks quite bright. The cure of one will be the cure of the other I hope. But it is the most wonderful think I ever saw.”
“Do you think it will last, doctor?” cried Agnes.
“Well, one can never say,” he replied, oracularly. “Sometimes these things prove a success, sometimes—not. I could not give an opinion. To tell the truth, I would not trust Lady Frogmore with my patient if Marsden was not there. He keeps in the dressing-room out of sight—but he’s there, and on the watch. These mad doctors have strange ways, but I daresay he’s right. He has his eye on her all the time. He’s not very sure about her, I suppose, or he would not do that; but you and I may make ourselves easy, Miss Hill. It is Lord Frogmore who is my affair—and he is better—certainly better. I will come in the evening and let you know how he is then.”
Agnes, on whom the household affairs told heavily, and who had the anxious concern of a simple woman, to whom the provision of meals is one of the chief businesses of life, about regular food, here put in a troubled question about lunch. What should she do about lunch? She had given the boys their dinner, thinking it better not to disturb Lady Frogmore. But they must have luncheon. What should she do about lunch? It was reassuring to know that a tray had been taken to the dressing-room, and that Lady Frogmore had been attended to by the watchful guardian who was sharing her vigil. It was very strange altogether. It disturbed Agnes in every possible way in which a quiet woman could be disturbed, but yet it was a relief. And Miss Hill sat down again with the needlework which was so poor a pastime in her hands to-day, thinking, wondering, questioning to herself till she could question no more. Many a broken prayer rose to heaven that afternoon for Lord Frogmore. Oh that he might but live. Oh that he might get better! His life was more valuable, Agnes thought, than it ever could have been before. It would be his business to clear up all this imbroglio, to make everything clear. He would have the responsibility, the power would be his alone. And surely, surely, all would go well. Agnes would not look upon the other side of the picture. There must be no other side to the picture. She could not allow herself to think of what darker prospect there might be.
It was evening when Mary came into the drawing-room where Agnes was. The doctors were making their last examination of the patient for the night, and she came in to rest a little, to change the air as she said, to refresh herself. It was time for the boys to go to bed, but they had not paid much attention to Agnes’ entreaties, and in the disorganization of the house, which was full of consternation and inquiry, no authoritative messenger from the nursery had as yet come for little Mar. He was seated on his usual stool before the fire, which gave a ruddy color to his rather pale little face, and sparkled in his dark eyes. Duke lay on the rug stretched out at full length at Agnes’ feet. They were chattering still of their busy day. “I wouldn’t let him mark that old bush,” said little Mar, “it’s like an old man. Not an old man like papa, but one I’ve seen with a long beard. Papa’s an old gentleman, and they say I’m a little old man, and for love of us I wouldn’t have him mark that tree. Oh! Aunt Agnes, here is a lady! Is it the lady that came with a post-chaise, and the marks is all over the grass? Is it——”
“Hush, oh hush, Mar—don’t say a word,” cried Agnes, with her heart leaping in her throat.
Mary came in and sat down besides Agnes, a little behind her back. “I will not come to the fire,” she said, “for Frogmore’s room is very warm. I prefer to get cooled a little. I think he is better, but we will see what the doctors say. They say I ought to lie down, but I don’t think I shall want it to-night. I am quite fresh. One never wants to lie down one’s first night.”
“Oh, my dear, surely, surely they will not let you sit up?”
“Why not?” said Lady Frogmore. “I am quite fresh. I have had no fatigue as yet. And he was so pleased to see me. They all say it has done him good to have me back. What is that on the rug at your feet, Agnes? Why, it is a child! Why it is—Duke, my dear boy! I didn’t know you were here. Why, what a leap you have taken, what a huge great boy you have grown.”