He and Mrs. Colwood spoke almost in whispers. The old
house, generally so winning and sympathetic, seemed to hold itself
silent and aloof--as though in this touch of calamity the living were no
longer its master and the dead generations woke. And, up-stairs, Diana
lay perhaps in her white bed, miserable and alone, not knowing that he
was there, within a few yards of her.
Mrs. Colwood noiselessly opened a garden door and so dismissed him. It
was moonlight outside, and instead of returning to the inn he took the
road up the hill to the crest of the encircling down. Diverging a little
to the left, he found himself on the open hill-side, at a point
commanding the village and Beechcote itself, ringed by its ancient
woods. In the village two dim lights, far apart, were visible; lights,
he thought, of sickness or of birth?--for the poor sleep early. One of
the Beechcote windows shone with a dim illumination. Was she there, and
sleepless? The sky was full of light; the blanched chalk down on which
he stood ran northward in a shining curve, bare in the moon; but in the
hollow below, and on the horizon, the dark huddled woods kept watch,
guarding the secrets of night.
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