She stopped just where that
moonlight fell, and tapped. There came no answer. She opened the door a
little way, and said:
"Are you asleep, Eusty?"
There still came no answer, and she went in.
The curtains were drawn, but a chink of moonlight peering through fell
on the bed. This was empty. Barbara stood uncertain, listening. In the
heart of that darkness there seemed to be, not sound, but, as it were,
the muffled soul of sound, a sort of strange vibration, like that of a
flame noiselessly licking the air. She put her hand to her heart, which
beat as though it would leap through the thin silk covering. From what
corner of the room was that mute tremor coming? Stealing to the window,
she parted the curtains, and stared back into the shadows. There, on
the far side, lying on the floor with his arms pressed tightly round
his head and his face to the wall, was Miltoun. Barbara let fall the
curtains, and stood breathless, with such a queer sensation in her
breast as she had never felt; a sense of something outraged-of scarred
pride. It was gone at once, in a rush of pity. She stepped forward
quickly in the darkness, was visited by fear, and stopped. He had seemed
absolutely himself all the evening. A little more talkative, perhaps, a
little more caustic than usual. And now to find him like this! There was
no great share of reverence in Barbara, but what little she possessed
had always been kept for her eldest brother.
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