She looked up. There was nothing there, but the dimmed loved room
obtruded itself upon her, and through the moonlit window she could see
the antique trees, and the silver glint to the greenhouses, and in a
clairvoyant instant she could see the old men sleeping after the day's
work, and the ancient maids, and Fenian in his paddock, and poor
Sheila, and the foxhounds. She knew what called.
"Margery!"
"Yes, dears."
"Oh, Lady Margery!"
"Hush, now. It's all right."
She had thought that to-night she would sleep as a child sleeps, and
try to recapture the magic day in dreams. And be so happy. But the
voice of the trees, and the murmur of the old house, and the pleading
eyes of dog and horse, and the wailing tyranny of the sleeping aging
folk shocked her into the knowledge that there was a sterner thing than
dreaming before her. To-night she would not sleep.
"Margery! Lady Margery!"
"Yes. Yes."
"You couldn't, little mistress, you couldn't.'
"Hush, hearts, hush. I will not go away."