My life had been the life of a little child until my meeting on the shore with Cheneston that day, all things ordered and planned for me, and now I was suddenly called upon to play a rôle almost verging on drama, requiring subtlety of which I was quite incapable, finesse of which I could have no knowledge.
I crept, shivering, along the panelled landing, past Cheneston's door. I knew the nurse was sleeping in the little dressing-room attached to Mrs. Cromer's.
I prayed Heaven she was asleep as I cautiously opened the door.
The night-light on the washhand-stand burned steadily; it was reflected in little spots of primrose light on the mahogany furniture.
I crept to the bed.
The old lady was lying very still. She looked extraordinarily lovely and fragile, and a tiny smile curved the corners of her sweet old mouth, as if she had fallen asleep in a network of happy thoughts.
She seemed so small in the big room full of furniture.
I realised as I knelt beside her how much I loved her, what an ideal she would always be in my life.
I softly kissed her hand, kneeling there, and then I realised it held a letter, and I caught sight of the words.
"I fall asleep happily because I leave you to another mother—little mother Pam of the big eyes and the big heart. The child loves you, Cheneston——"