An awful picture rose before Philip. It was a picture of himself in the time to come. An old man—great, powerful, perhaps even beloved, maybe worshipped, but heart-dead, tottering on to the grave, and the mockery of a gorgeous funeral, with crowds and drums and solemn music. Then suddenly a great silence, as if the snow had begun to fall, and a great white light, and an awful voice crying, “Who is this that comes with dust for a bleeding heart, and ashes for a living soul?”
Philip screamed aloud at the vision, as piece by piece he put it together. His cry died off with a tingle in the china ornaments of the mantelpiece, and he remembered where he was. Then two gentle taps came to the door of his room. He composed himself a little, snatched up a book, and cried “Come in!”
It was Auntie Nan. She was in her night-dress and night-cap. A candle was in her hand, and the flame was shaking.
“Whatever's to do, my child?” she said.
“Only reading aloud, Auntie. Did I awaken you?”
“But you screamed, Philip.”
“Macbeth, Auntie. See, the banquet scene. He has become king, you know, but his conscience——”
He stopped. The little lady looked at him dubiously and made a pull at the string of her night-cap, causing it to fall aside and give a grotesque appearance to her troubled old face.
“Take a little brandy, dear. I left it here on the dressing-table.”
“Don't trouble about me, Auntie. Good-night again. There! go back to bed.”