No, Aunt
Caroline would not get better.
She died in the early morning while Henrietta slept. Susan, entering
as usual with Henrietta's tea, did not say a word. She knew her place;
it was not for her to give the news to a member of the family;
moreover, she blamed Henrietta for Miss Caroline's death. It was the
Battys' ball that had killed Miss Caroline, and Susan stuck to her
belief that if it had not been for Miss Henrietta, there would not
have been a ball.
Sleepily, Henrietta watched Susan draw the blinds, but something in
the woman's slow, languid movements startled her into wakefulness. Her
dreams dropped back into their place. She had been sleeping warmly,
forgetfully, while death hovered over the house, looking for a way in.
She sat up in bed. 'Aunt Caroline?'
Susan began to cry, but in spite of her tears and her distress she
ejaculated dutifully, 'Miss Henrietta, your dressing-gown, your
slippers!' but Henrietta had rushed forth and bounded into Rose's
room.
'You might have told me! You might have waked me!'
Rose was writing at her desk. She turned. 'Put on your dressing-gown,
Henrietta. You will get cold. I came into your room but you were fast
asleep, and in that minute it was all over. The big things happen so
quickly.'
Yes, that was true. Quickly one fell in and out of love, ran away from
home, returned and slept and waked to find that people had quickly
died. The big things happened quickly, but the little ones of every
day went on slow feet, as though they were tired of themselves.
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