Miss Gertrude was that night arrived just on that dim and delicious
plateau--that debatable land upon which the last waking reverie and the
first dream of slumber mingle together in airy dance and shifting
colours--when, on a sudden, she was recalled to a consciousness of her
grave bed-posts, and damask curtains, by the voice of her aunt.
Sitting up, she gazed on the redoubted Aunt Becky through the lace of
her _bonnet de nuit_, for some seconds, in a mystified and incredulous
way.
Mistress Rebecca Chattesworth, on the other hand, had drawn the
curtains, and stood, candle in hand, arrayed in her night-dress, like a
ghost, only she had on a pink and green quilted dressing-gown loosely
over it.
She was tall and erect, of course; but she looked softened and strange;
and when she spoke, it was in quite a gentle, humble sort of way, which
was perfectly strange to her niece.
'Don't be frightened, sweetheart,' said she, and she leaned over and
with her arm round her neck, kissed her. 'I came to say a word, and just
to ask you a question. I wish, indeed I do--Heaven knows, to do my duty;
and, my dear child, will you tell me the whole truth--will you tell me
truly?--You will, when I ask it as a kindness.
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