"You will let my lady alone," said Miss Catheron sharply, "and attend to your nursery. She is asleep still. It is not your place to disturb her. Go!"
"Drat her!" Nurse Pool exclaimed inwardly, obeying, however; "she's that 'aughty and that stuck up, that she thinks we're the dirt under her feet. I only hope she'll be sent packing to-morrow, but I has my doubts. Sir Victor's afraid of her—anybody can see that with half an eye."
She descended to the servants' regions again, and encountered Ellen,
Lady Catheron's smart maid, sociably drinking tea with the housekeeper.
And once more into their attentive ears she poured forth this addenda
to her previous narrative.
"What was Miss Inez doing in there?" demanded the maid; "no, good, I'll be bound. She hates my lady like poison; Sir Victor jilted her, you know, and she's in love with him yet. My lady shall be woke up in spite of her; she'd like her to get her death in the night air, I dare say. I've an easy missis and a good place, and I mean to keep 'em. I ain't afraid of Miss Inez's black eyes and sharp tongue; I'll go and wake my lady up."
She finished her tea and left. She reached the nursery door and rapped as Nurse Pool had done. There was no reply. She turned the handle softly and went in.
The large, crystal, clear moon was high in the sky now; its chill brightness filled the room. The arm-chair still stood under the window; the small figure of my lady still lay motionless in it.
"My lady," Ellen said gently, advancing, "please wake up."
There was no reply, no stir. She bent closer over her.
"Please, my lady, wake up; I'm afraid you'll catch your death of—"
The words ended in a shriek that rang through the house from end to end—a woman's shrill, ear-splitting shriek. She had laid her hand upon my lady's bosom to arouse her; she snatched it away and sprang back in horror. Asleep! Yes the sleep that knows no waking. Sir Victor Catheron's pretty young wife lay there in the moonlight—dead.