The white cotton blinds of Sally Northrop’s bedroom were drawn against the sun, but the windows were open outside them. From time to time they moved gently in the light breeze, and the shadows of the house-martens flitted across them. The chamber was softly aglow with light, and it smelt of some preparation of lemon that Dooina Benn had supplied Cicely with for the sprinkling of it. Cicely’s face was composed and grave, and the third finger of the hand with which every few minutes she felt Sally’s low pulse was ringless.
So slowly did the coverlet rise to Sally’s breathing that its movement was hardly noticeable. At long intervals there came a light purring sound from her lips. The little wicker cradle on the floor was trimmed with gaudy ribbons and muslin, and its patchwork quilt was of Sally’s own making.
Round the front of the house there came the sound of steps. They passed up the alley, and there came a knock at the kitchen door. Cicely descended and called softly, “Who’s there?”
“Arthur and your father. You must open the door, Cicely.”
She drew back the bar. Arthur carried Ellah in his arms in the blanket. “It’s your cousin,” he said; “make a place for him in the niche.”
She drew back the curtain on the string, and Monjoy placed Ellah in the niche, bidding Eastwood watch. “I’ll come upstairs with you, Cicely,” he said, and she led the way to Sally’s chamber.
“How is she?” he asked, bending over the deeply sleeping woman.
“Very low.”
“Has she known anything?”
“She hasn’t stirred more than you see her now since morning; she’s to be kept so. What’s wrong with Eastwood?—No, no, don’t tell me any more o’ that business. I want no word o’ that ——” She added the last words hastily, and her hands made a movement as if to hold some physical thing away from her.