Kind old Nance Folgate had forced the girls to retire to bed as dawn was breaking; but no sleep closed the eyes of Ethel Basset.
Morning came—a bright May morning—and still no word of Morley; for she could not realise as yet the idea, the dread conviction, of his death—that he had indeed perished so miserably.
Oh! was this the world of yesterday?
Her sister, Rose, weary with watching overnight, was now asleep. Happy Rose, who could gain oblivion in slumber. Ethel quitted her restless bed, opened the window, and looked forth into the sunny morning.
There was still the garden, with its trees and flowers, the first rays of the sun shining through the conservatory, a distant glimpse of the village church through a long vista of oaks, and the blue sea beyond. There, in the distance, she could trace the road that wound over the uplands towards that fatal Chine—the road he must have pursued but yesterday. There also—but tears, hot and blinding, welled up in her eyes, and she nestled again beside her sleeping and unconscious sister.
"Gone! Morley gone—Morley dead—Morley drowned!"
These words seemed ever on her lips, written in the air before her, to be whispered in her ears and in her heart, while fancy drew an agonising picture of his fall from that dreadful cliff into the yawning profundity below, where he would be tossed and dashed upon the rocks, till his poor, uncoffined remains were chafed to pieces by the waves.
As the lagging day drew on, she did not quit her bed; but, after a time, total prostration of mind and body enabled her to sleep soundly and deeply, with her aching head pillowed on the bosom of Rose; while her father, with Hawkshaw and others, pursued a hopeless and fruitless search for the missing man.
This slumber lasted little more than an hour, and waking brought her back to misery—a misery that flashed upon her vividly, keenly, and suddenly, calling all her half dormant faculties into instant life and action.
It was indeed coming back to agony.