Bills were piled high everywhere. The rent was long overdue and must be paid. She had no money to pay it, none to pay the servants' wages.
"It's awful—it's awful—it's awful!" broke out between her sobs.
From her bedroom window—at evening—she watched "Cook," the smart footman, the nurse, the maids, climb into four-wheelers and be driven away.
"They're gone—all of them!" she gasped. "There's no one left in the house. It's empty!"
Then was Feather seized with a panic. She had something like hysterics, falling face downward upon the carpet and clutching her hair until it fell down. She was not a person to be judged—she was one of the unexplained incidents of existence.
The night drew in more closely. A prolonged wailing shriek tore through the utter soundlessness of the house. It came from the night-nursery. It was Robin who had wakened and was screaming.
"I—I won't!" Feather protested, with chattering teeth. "I won't! I won't!"
She had never done anything for the child since its birth. To reach her now, she would be obliged to go out into the dark—past Robert's bedroom—the room.
"I—I couldn't—even if I wanted to!" she quaked. "I daren't! I daren't! I wouldn't do it—for a million pounds!"
The screams took on a more determined note. She flung herself on her bed, burrowing her head under the coverings and pillows she dragged over her ears to shut out the sounds.