When she had undressed she went again to her father's door and listened to his deep and regular breathing; then, at last, she went to bed; but the sense of loneliness was so intense that she lay awake for hours thinking of that bent figure walking in its sleep from the shadows of the ruined chapel. For the future she would have to watch her father closely, would perhaps have to lock the door of his room. Why had he gone to the chapel? So far as she knew he was not in the habit of going there; indeed, she did not remember having seen him go there in his waking moments. She knew nothing of somnambulism; but she imagined that he had gone in that direction by mere chance, that if he had happened to find any impediment in his way he might as easily have gone in another direction.
She fell asleep at last and slept an hour beyond her usual time, and so deeply that Jessie had filled the cold bath without waking her beloved young mistress. Ida dressed quickly, all the incidents of the preceding night rushing through her mind, and hurried to her father's room; the door was open, the room empty, and, with a sudden fear, she ran down the stairs and found him in his usual seat in the library. She drew a long breath and went and kissed him, wishing him good-morning as casually as she could.
"You are up early this morning, father," she said, trying to keep her tone free from any anxiety.
He glanced at the clock calmly.
"No, you are later," he said.
His eyes met hers with their usual expression of absentminded serenity.
"I—I was a little tired and overslept myself," she said. "Are—are you quite well this morning, father?"
"Yes, quite well. Why not?" he replied, with slight surprise.
She drew a breath of relief: it was quite evident that he knew nothing of that weird walk, and that it had not affected him injuriously.
"Nothing," she said, forcing a smile.