I had a half consciousness that Dance was prevaricating with me in this matter, or hiding something from me; but I was obliged to accept her version as the correct one, especially as I saw that any further questioning would be of no avail.
I did not see Lady Chillington that day. She was reported to be unwell, and kept her own rooms.
About noon a message came from Sister Agnes that she would like to see me in her room. When I entered she was standing by a square oak table, resting one hand on it while the other was pressed to her heart. Her face was very pale, but her dark eyes beamed on me with a veiled tenderness that I could not misinterpret.
"Good-morrow, Miss Hope," she said, offering her white slender hand for my acceptance. "I fear that you will find Deepley Walls even duller than Park Hill Seminary."
Her tone was cold and constrained. I looked up earnestly into her face. Her lips began to quiver painfully. "Child! child! you must not look at me in that way," she cried.
Instinct whispered something in my ear. "You are the lady who came and kissed me when I was asleep!" I exclaimed.
Her brow contracted for a moment as if she were in pain. A hectic spot came out suddenly on either cheek, and vanished almost as swiftly. "Yes, it was I who came to your room last night," she said. "You are not vexed with me for doing so?"
"On the contrary, I love you for it."
Her smile, the sweetest I ever saw, beamed out at this. Gently she stroked my hair. "You looked so forlorn and weary last night," she said, "that after I got to bed I could not help thinking about you. I was afraid you would not be able to sleep in a strange place, so I could not rest till I had visited you: but I never intended to awake you."
"I do not mind how often I am awakened in the same way," I said. "No one has ever seemed to love me but you, and I cannot help loving you back."