is merely another instance of poor Mary’s intransigence. Margaret, go and bring her here for prayers. As she is late to breakfast, she will have none this morning.”
“Yes, Mr. Harcourt.” The Irish girl darted off. Sally stood very still behind the door, hardly daring to breathe until she had passed.
The flaxen-haired girl had not sat down. Mr. Harcourt looked at her, brows lifted. “Have you something else to say, Florence?”
“W-well, sir, it’s only that—” Florence swallowed hard. “I don’t think Mary meant to sleep so late, sir. I was thinking, happen it might be her medicine as made her sleep so sound. I seen the bottle on the table by her bed, and—”
“What bottle?” said Mrs. Fiske impatiently. “She doesn’t take her medicine from a bottle. I give it to her in a glass.”
“But I seen a bottle—”
“You may sit down now, Florence,” said Mr. Harcourt.
“Yes, sir.”
“While we wait for Mary,” he said, “this seems an opportune time to read the lesson of the wise and foolish bridesmaids.” He opened his Bible.
Suddenly Margaret came running down the stairs and into the room. She stopped still in the doorway, hands clasped. Every head turned toward her.
“Oh, Mr. Harcourt, Mrs. Fiske, it’s a grievous thing I’ve seen! Sure, we knew Mary had an unrepentant heart, but I never thought she’d stoop to such wickedness!”
“What do you mean?” demanded Harcourt. “Has she left us?”
“Aye, sir!” wailed Margaret. “And I shudder to think of her where she is now!”
“What are you saying?” cried Mrs. Fiske. “Where is she?”
“Where no hope nor help can ever reach her! She’s dead, ma’am—and by her own hand!”
CHAPTER
6
The Wages of Sin
T he inmates broke into gasps, exclamations, shrieks. “Quiet, all of you!” Harcourt commanded, his voice ringing clearly through the din. Margaret strode in among them, enforcing silence by shaking their shoulders and boxing their ears.
Mrs. Fiske stood clenching and unclenching her fists. Her face was contorted with passion, but Sally—her eyes glued in fascination to the gap in the door—could not tell what passion it was. “Are you sure of this?” she pressed Margaret. “If you’ve caused all this row to no purpose—”
“It’s true, ma’am, I swear it! Bad luck to me if I lie! I saw her as clear as I see you now—stretched out on her bed, cold as ice! And there was a bottle of laudanum, almost empty, on the table by her bed, and a bit of laudanum left in the glass she takes her medicine in. Sure as Shrove-tide, she’s used the laudanum to put an end to her miserable life—”
“Don’t blaspheme, Margaret,” said Harcourt curtly. “Come, we must go to her at once. Mrs. Fiske, will you be so good as to come with me? And Margaret, I’ll need you as well. The rest of you are to have breakfast as usual. Bess, you may serve the porridge and bread, and Nancy, lead the others in saying grace.”
He went out, Mrs. Fiske and Margaret with him. Sally hid behind the door till she heard them go up the stairs, then crept quickly after them. She reached the top of the stairs just in time to see them disappear through the door that connected this house with the one adjacent. To her disappointment, she heard a key scrape in the lock. She tried the door, but, as she expected, it would not budge.
What should she do now? Mrs. Fiske seemed to have forgotten all about her. She did not want to leave yet—she still had not found the writer of the letter, and besides, she was curious about this girl Mary. Perhaps she should go downstairs and talk to the inmates while they were left free of supervision.
The key turned in the lock again. Sally fled a little way down the stairs and stood pressed against the wall. The light was dim enough here for her to look up into the front hallway without much chance of being seen herself.
Mrs. Fiske came through the connecting door, locked it behind her, and hastened upstairs.
“Yes, Mr. Harcourt.” The Irish girl darted off. Sally stood very still behind the door, hardly daring to breathe until she had passed.
The flaxen-haired girl had not sat down. Mr. Harcourt looked at her, brows lifted. “Have you something else to say, Florence?”
“W-well, sir, it’s only that—” Florence swallowed hard. “I don’t think Mary meant to sleep so late, sir. I was thinking, happen it might be her medicine as made her sleep so sound. I seen the bottle on the table by her bed, and—”
“What bottle?” said Mrs. Fiske impatiently. “She doesn’t take her medicine from a bottle. I give it to her in a glass.”
“But I seen a bottle—”
“You may sit down now, Florence,” said Mr. Harcourt.
“Yes, sir.”
“While we wait for Mary,” he said, “this seems an opportune time to read the lesson of the wise and foolish bridesmaids.” He opened his Bible.
Suddenly Margaret came running down the stairs and into the room. She stopped still in the doorway, hands clasped. Every head turned toward her.
“Oh, Mr. Harcourt, Mrs. Fiske, it’s a grievous thing I’ve seen! Sure, we knew Mary had an unrepentant heart, but I never thought she’d stoop to such wickedness!”
“What do you mean?” demanded Harcourt. “Has she left us?”
“Aye, sir!” wailed Margaret. “And I shudder to think of her where she is now!”
“What are you saying?” cried Mrs. Fiske. “Where is she?”
“Where no hope nor help can ever reach her! She’s dead, ma’am—and by her own hand!”
CHAPTER
6
The Wages of Sin
T he inmates broke into gasps, exclamations, shrieks. “Quiet, all of you!” Harcourt commanded, his voice ringing clearly through the din. Margaret strode in among them, enforcing silence by shaking their shoulders and boxing their ears.
Mrs. Fiske stood clenching and unclenching her fists. Her face was contorted with passion, but Sally—her eyes glued in fascination to the gap in the door—could not tell what passion it was. “Are you sure of this?” she pressed Margaret. “If you’ve caused all this row to no purpose—”
“It’s true, ma’am, I swear it! Bad luck to me if I lie! I saw her as clear as I see you now—stretched out on her bed, cold as ice! And there was a bottle of laudanum, almost empty, on the table by her bed, and a bit of laudanum left in the glass she takes her medicine in. Sure as Shrove-tide, she’s used the laudanum to put an end to her miserable life—”
“Don’t blaspheme, Margaret,” said Harcourt curtly. “Come, we must go to her at once. Mrs. Fiske, will you be so good as to come with me? And Margaret, I’ll need you as well. The rest of you are to have breakfast as usual. Bess, you may serve the porridge and bread, and Nancy, lead the others in saying grace.”
He went out, Mrs. Fiske and Margaret with him. Sally hid behind the door till she heard them go up the stairs, then crept quickly after them. She reached the top of the stairs just in time to see them disappear through the door that connected this house with the one adjacent. To her disappointment, she heard a key scrape in the lock. She tried the door, but, as she expected, it would not budge.
What should she do now? Mrs. Fiske seemed to have forgotten all about her. She did not want to leave yet—she still had not found the writer of the letter, and besides, she was curious about this girl Mary. Perhaps she should go downstairs and talk to the inmates while they were left free of supervision.
The key turned in the lock again. Sally fled a little way down the stairs and stood pressed against the wall. The light was dim enough here for her to look up into the front hallway without much chance of being seen herself.
Mrs. Fiske came through the connecting door, locked it behind her, and hastened upstairs.
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