"Oh no; I believe he is still sleeping," she said; "I will go and see." And this time she really went.
Her brother was sitting upright, flushed and rather excited.
"Sis, has any one been here?" he asked, the moment that she entered the room. "No? Ah well, it was fancy then—but—but I thought I heard my little daughter call me." The flush faded away; he lay back again disappointed. The wish was father to the thought!
"Charles," she cried, with an eagerness that surprised him, "do let us go away from this place! You will never be yourself till you have left it behind. If we travel by very easy stages I really think we might leave to-morrow. It seems a sudden idea on my part," she went on hurriedly; "but, indeed, the house is not healthy; I am convinced of it. I have had violent headaches ever since I have been here, and you are aware that I am not in the least liable to such ailments. I do not remember ever having felt like this before, and I cannot sleep or eat properly. Then, too, we are putting our kind host to immense inconvenience. The position is intensely awkward for me, though I have refrained from saying so. As for the stories about the fever, they are simply shocking—half the village died of it. I am not nervous; but it is really horrible to find every person one meets in mourning for some near relative."
Mr. Deane looked at her in undisguised astonishment.
"Why, my dear, I've never in my life before seen you possessed of a whim," he cried. "If it were not you, sis, I should say that it was a feminine attack of 'nerves'." And, to his farther surprise, she actually accepted the suggestion.
"I suppose it is," she said. "There, I own it; your illness has shaken me. I feel as if I could not possibly bear this dismal house any longer. All the family who used to live here are gone, and are buried just outside the gates. It is too melancholy; I dream of funerals! Do go, do go! You will be well as soon as we get away. You shall have no trouble; I will arrange everything. I will explain to our host, only let us go! Dear Charles, do let us go to-morrow."
Her voice trembled with unwonted earnestness, and Charles was much amazed and rather touched; it was so utterly unlike her to show any weakness of this kind, to stoop to entreaties. She must, indeed, have been anxious about him, since anxiety had so unnerved her. He had always been sure, he said to himself, that, in spite of what some people said, his sister was very warm-hearted in reality.
"Well, I daresay it won't hurt me. We'll go, if you want it so much, sis," he replied gently. "That is the least I can do for you, after all you've done for me."
And go they did, in spite of the parson's protestations, and in spite of a soft rain that fell continuously as if to damp Mrs. Russelthorpe's ardour, by literally pouring cold water on it.