Yet she
could have sworn that she had heard her name called. The rushlight was
burned out; but in the summer night she could still make out the outline
of Mistress Alice's bed. Yet all was still there, except for the gentle
breathing: it could not have been she who had called out in her sleep,
or she would surely show some signs of restlessness.
She sat up listening; but there was not a sound. She lay down again; and
the strange fancy seized her that it had been her mother's voice that
she had heard.... It was in this room that her mother had died.... Again
she sat up and looked round. All was quiet as before: the tall press at
the foot of her bed glimmered here and there with lines and points of
starlight.
Then, as again she began to lie down, there came the signal for which
her heart was expectant, though her mind knew nothing of its coming. It
was a clear rap, as of a pebble against the glass.
She was up and out of bed in a moment, and was peering out under the
thick arch of the little window. And a figure stood there, bending, it
seemed, for another pebble; in the very place where she had seen it, she
thought, nearly three weeks ago, standing ready to mount a horse.
Then she was at Alice's bedside.
"Alice," she whispered. "Alice! Wake up.... There is someone come. You
must come with me. I do not know--" Her voice faltered: she knew that
she knew, and fear clutched her by the throat.
* * * * *
The porter was fast asleep, and did not move, as carrying a rushlight
she went past the buttery with her friend behind her saying no word.
Pages:
422
423
424
425
426
427
428
429
430
431
432
433
434
435
436
437
438
439
440
441
442
443
444
445
446