Sometimes, at an hour's interval, a sign of life would come--a moan from
that tall sheeted figure in the bed--a moan and a pattering of the lips.
Was it prayer--_what_ was it? who could guess what thoughts were passing
behind that white-fillited forehead?
I had peeped at him: a white cloth steeped in vinegar and water was folded
round his head; his great eyes were closed, so were his marble lips; his
figure straight, thin, and long, dressed in a white dressing-gown, looked
like a corpse 'laid out' in the bed; his gaunt bandaged arm lay outside the
sheet that covered his body.
With this awful image of death we kept our vigil, until poor Milly grew so
sleepy that old Wyat proposed that she should take her place and watch with
me.
Little as I liked the crone with the high-cauled cap, she would, at all
events, keep awake, which Milly could not. And so at one o'clock this new
arrangement began.
'Mr. Dudley Ruthyn is not at home?' I whispered to old Wyat.
'He went away wi' himself yesternight, to Cloperton, Miss, to see the
wrestling; it was to come off this morning.'
'Was he sent for?'
'Not he.
Pages:
484
485
486
487
488
489
490
491
492
493
494
495
496
497
498
499
500
501
502
503
504
505
506
507
508