“But,” Henrietta said, smiling, “you have your husband.”
“He’s often away,” wearily. “He’s often away; by day and night. He’s a doctor.”
“But your servant? You have her?”
“She goes home, nights. And then——” with a spasm of the querulous face that had been pretty no more than a year before, “the hours are long when you are alone. You don’t know,” timidly reaching out a hand as if she would touch Henrietta’s frock—but withdrawing it quickly, “what it is to be alone, miss, all night in such a house as this.”
“No, and no one should be!” Henrietta answered.
She glanced round the great silent kitchen and tried to fancy what the house would be like of nights; when darkness settled down on the hollow in the hills, and the wood cut it off from the world below; and when, whatever threatened, whatever came, whatever face of terror peered through the dark-paned window, whatever sound, weird or startling, rent the silence of the distant rooms, this helpless woman must face it alone!
She shuddered.
“But you are not alone all night?” she said.
“No, but——” in a whisper, “often until after midnight, miss. And once—all night.”
Henrietta restrained the words that rose to her lips.