4. MARCH THE THIRTIETH. DAYBREAK
The third and last instance of Cytherea's subjection to those
periodic terrors of the night which had emphasized her connection
with the Aldclyffe name and blood occurred at the present date.
It was about four o'clock in the morning when Cytherea, though most
probably dreaming, seemed to awake--and instantly was transfixed by
a sort of spell, that had in it more of awe than of affright. At
the foot of her bed, looking her in the face with an expression of
entreaty beyond the power of words to portray, was the form of Miss
Aldclyffe--wan and distinct. No motion was perceptible in her; but
longing--earnest longing--was written in every feature.
Cytherea believed she exercised her waking judgment as usual in
thinking, without a shadow of doubt, that Miss Aldclyffe stood
before her in flesh and blood. Reason was not sufficiently alert to
lead Cytherea to ask herself how such a thing could have occurred.
'I would have remained with you--why would you not allow me to
stay!' Cytherea exclaimed. The spell was broken: she became
broadly awake; and the figure vanished.
It was in the grey time of dawn. She trembled in a sweat of
disquiet, and not being able to endure the thought of her brother
being asleep, she went and tapped at his door.
'Owen!'
He was not a heavy sleeper, and it was verging upon his time to
rise.
'What do you want, Cytherea?'
'I ought not to have left Knapwater last night. I wish I had not. I really think I will start at once. She wants me, I know.'
'What time is it?'
'A few minutes past four.'
'You had better not. Keep to the time agreed upon. Consider, we
should have such a trouble in rousing the driver, and other things.'
Upon the whole it seemed wiser not to act on a mere fancy. She went
to bed again.
An hour later, when Owen was thinking of getting up, a knocking came
to the front door. The next minute something touched the glass of
Owen's window. He waited--the noise was repeated. A little gravel
had been thrown against it to arouse him.
He crossed the room, pulled up the blind, and looked out. A solemn
white face was gazing upwards from the road, expectantly straining
to catch the first glimpse of a person within the panes. It was the
face of a Knapwater man sitting on horseback.
Owen saw his errand. There is an unmistakable look in the face of
every man who brings tidings of death. Graye opened the window.
'Miss Aldclyffe . . .' said the messenger, and paused.
'Ah--dead?'
'Yes--she is dead.'
'When did she die?'
'At ten minutes past four, after another effusion. She knew best, you see, sir. I started directly, by the rector's orders.'