On she hurried, the white road was stretching behind her instead of in front. Another quarter of a mile and she had come to Chidhurst village; it was still and sleeping. How strange it seemed to skurry through it at this hour! A few minutes more and the square tower of the church stood out before her. The darkness had lifted so well that she could see the clock; it had stopped, of course—at a quarter-past three; a lump came to her throat and her heart stood still, for low on the ground beneath the church tower she saw the whiteness of the tombstones round the church. She turned her head quickly away; on the other side of the road were the gates of Sir George Stringer's house—the sight of them gave her comfort—and on her right, at last, was the little gate that led into the fields that made the short cut to the farm. She gave a cry of thankfulness as she went through it, and stood on her mother's land once more. It was only a month since she had slept on the green ground beneath her feet, and kissed it and wondered when she would walk over it again. She had not thought it would be so soon. Across the field by one of the pathways that made a white line leading to the stile, over the stile and into the second field, and she ran now, for she knew that in a moment she would see the house.
XXXI
Margaret stood in sight of her mother's window and could have cried with joy, for there was a light in it. She lifted up her heart in thankfulness, feeling as if Heaven had heard her. Then another fear presented itself, one that had been haunting her all through the journey, but that in the overwhelming dread of not finding her mother alive she had not stayed to consider—Hannah. What would Hannah do? Would she refuse to let her enter the house while her mother was ill—perhaps dying? The letter which she had written was still in the post; it would not arrive till the morning; there was not yet the chance of that softening her. She had no right to keep Margaret out; but it was no good considering any question of right now; she dreaded high words and Hannah's rasping voice. Her feet flagged as she went down the green path of the Dutch garden; she stood irresolute at the bottom of it, looking up at the dimly lighted window, wondering what to do. The front door was certain to be bolted at this time of night, and probably every one was up-stairs, so that no one would hear her if she tapped, and she was afraid to ring lest she should disturb her mother. She went softly past the house, beside the flower-bed against the wall, and beneath her own bedroom window, round to the back door by which she had left the house a month ago, and cautiously tried the latch, but it was fastened on the inside, as she knew it would be. Then suddenly a light came from the kitchen window; evidently some one had entered with a candle; perhaps Towsey had come down, or Hannah—she was afraid to knock lest it should be Hannah. A thick muslin blind was drawn over the window, which was so high that Margaret was not tall enough to look in. She remembered the four-legged stool painted gray—it generally stood between the wood-house and the back door; the postman used to sit on it sometimes and talk to Towsey while he rested. If she stood on that she might see into the kitchen. She found it, and, still not making a sound, put it down beneath the window, mounted, and looked in. Through the muslin curtain she could see Towsey by the fireplace; she had put a little saucepan on the fire, and was beginning to stir something that was in it, and there was no one else in the kitchen. Margaret tapped gently, and Towsey started as if she divined that it was Margaret; she came to the window and, lifting the curtain, looked out. Margaret put her head close to the glass so that in the darkness there could be no mistake of her identity.
Then Towsey signed to her to go to the back door, and went and softly unbarred it. She only opened it a little way and put out her head as if she were afraid that even a whisper might be heard inside the house.
"Miss Margaret," she said, "I knew you would be here."
"Is she better?" Margaret asked, breathlessly.
Towsey shook her head. "She's never going to be better," she whispered; "but she's always been a healthy woman, and it may take a deal of dying to bring her to the end."
The words smote Margaret, and she held on to the doorway to support herself.