So talking, they crossed their own lawn, entering the house by one of the French windows of the drawing-room, where they half expected to find their mother.
She was not there, however, nor was she in the library.
“I hope she hasn’t gone out alone,” said Blanche. “Run up-stairs, Stasy dear, and see if she is in her room.”
Stasy did so, Blanche remaining at the foot of the staircase.
She heard Stasy’s step along the passage, a door opening, and the young girls cheerful “Are you there, mamma dear?” Then—or was it her fancy?—a sort of muffled exclamation, and the slamming to of the door, as there was a good deal of wind that afternoon, and for a moment or two nothing more.
Blanche grew slightly impatient, which was not usual with her. Was there a touch of instinctive anxiety in the impatience?
“Stasy might be quick,” she said to herself. “If mamma is out, we—”
But just then came Stasy’s voice.
“Blanche,” it said, “come up at once. I can’t leave mamma: there is something the matter.”
Blanche flew up-stairs, her imagination, even in that short space of time, picturing to itself a dozen terrible possibilities. “Something the matter!” What suggestions in the simple words.