A NIGHT OF PORTENTS
ALICE was combing Lady Betty’s hair late that night.
The two girls were in Betty’s bedroom, a solitary taper burning on the table. In this rosy twilight both faces showed indistinctly. Betty’s finery lay upon a chair near by; she wore only a flowing white robe over her night-rail, and one rosy foot, out of the slipper, rested on the rug. Her luxuriant hair falling about her almost hid her face, and her eyes were fixed pensively upon the fire. Meanwhile, Alice stood behind her combing and brushing her hair with hands that actually trembled, while her face was very white. If Lady Clancarty had looked at her, she would have divined some trouble, but as it was she was only aroused from her revery by the girl’s unwonted awkwardness.
“Dear me, Alice!” she exclaimed, “that is the third time you have pulled my hair. I shall be as bald soon as Lady Dacres without her perukes. What ails you, girl?”
“I’m nervous,” Alice said, her voice breaking suspiciously, “I can’t help it.”
Lady Betty tossed back her hair, snatched up a taper and looked at her sharply.
“Nervous?” she exclaimed, “why, you are naturally as tame as any barnyard fowl. Nervous! Why, your eyes are sticking out of your head. What is it, girl? Hast met your friend the parson again?”
“No, no,” faltered Alice, with a little sob. “I—I overheard some talk between two gentlemen to-night in the hall—and it scared me.”
Betty laughed merrily.
“Fie, Alice, fie!” she cried, “an eavesdropper! What horrible thing was it they said? Mercy on us, girl, you look as if they plotted bloody murder!”