I got out of bed, stepping softly, and put on my dressing-gown. It wasn't easy, I was that weak and shaken; but still I did it. And I took the candle in my hand, swaying as I walked, for I could scarce keep myself upright. Passing the glass, I had a glimpse of such a white changed face. It didn't look like Kitty Phrynne. But I went straight to the door, and out upon the landing.
There wasn't a sound nor a stir outside, except that the floor creaked beneath me. I waited a moment, and listened.
Father and mother's room was opposite, and the door stood ajar. I had a sort of wonder—were they both sleeping there quietly?
Well, they wouldn't hear me, if I peeped in. I thought I would: just to make sure all was right. Mother would tell me I was silly, but that wouldn't matter.
I said all this to myself, in my thoughts, knowing it wasn't true, yet somehow half believing it.
When I pushed open the door of the room, I found it dark within. So I went softly on towards the bed, carrying my candle, and I found it hadn't been slept in.
I stayed a moment, looking, and feeling, oh so strange! I didn't know what to let myself think.
Then I saw I wasn't alone. Somebody was sitting in a chair near the fireplace; sitting still, her hands folded together. I went a step or two nearer, and stopped again. For it was mother; and I was frightened to see mother like that, all alone in the dark, not stirring nor speaking.
She hadn't undressed; and her face was pale, with a sort of stiffened look. But she wasn't unconscious; for her eyes were following me about, staring hard in a cold dull way. I had never seen her so before.
"Mother!" I said, and I went nearer.