And then Paul had wished, standing there beside the bedstead, and, suddenly, the room was empty, except for the rustling tissue paper and the curtains falling softly back in place as if there had been a wind.
They felt terribly alone. They went downstairs, and the emptiness of the house seemed to follow them. They walked through the kitchen into the scullery. The drainboard was still damp from the washing up of the supper things, a washing up Miss Price had shared. The door of the garden stood open, and they wandered out. There, by the garbage can, stood a pile of Miss Price's old shoes. One pair, very stiff and mud-caked, were the ones she kept for gardening in wet weather.
The sun was sinking behind the wood, but the hillside was bathed in golden light.
"They'll be there by now," Charles said at last, breaking the dreary silence.
Carey looked across the shadowed wood to the familiar, friendly slope of Tinker's Hill.
"I know what," she exclaimed suddenly. "Let's run up there! We'll be back before dark." "Well, we wouldn't see them or anything," objected Charles.
"It doesn't matter. Miss Price might sort of know." It was good to run and climb, panting, up the sandy paths, through the bracken, onto the turf. It was good to reach the wind and feel the sunshine as, rich and warm, it fell on their shoulders and sent long shadows bobbing on ahead across the grass.
When they reached the ruined house, Carey climbed alone to the highest spot on the wall. She sat with her chin in her hands, as if in a trance, while the wind blew the wisps of hair on her forehead and her motionless shadow stretched out across the blackberry bushes and up the sun-drenched hill. Charles and Paul just messed about among the stones, uneasily picking an occasional blackberry and watching Carey.
After a while Carey climbed down. She did not speak. She walked slowly past the boys. There was a faraway expression on her face, and her eyes were dreamy.
"I can see them," she said in a chanting kind of voice. She stood quite still, among the brambles of the "apple orchard." "Oh, come on, Carey," said Charles. He knew she was acting, but all the same he did not like it.
"I can see them quite plainly," went on Carey, as if she had not heard. She stretched out her hands in a "hushing" gesture and raised her face a little, like a picture they had at home called "The Prophetess." "They are walking slowly down the path, hand in hand." She paused. "Now, they have stopped under the apple tree. Miss Price has no hat on. Now they have turned and are looking back at the house-" "Oh, Carey, come on," said Charles uncomfortably. "It's getting dark." "Now," Carey dropped her voice respectfully, "Mr. Jones has kissed Miss Price on the cheek. He's saying-" Carey paused, as if thinking up the words. "He is saying," she went on triumphantly, " 'My own true love'. . ." Then suddenly Charles and Paul saw Carey's expression change. Her eyes widened and her mouth dropped open. She looked round hurriedly, then she ran, almost leapt out of the brambles, and clambered awkwardly upon the wall. She stared downwards at the spot where she had stood.
"What's the matter, Carey? What happened?" cried Charles.
Carey's face was pale. She looked unnerved, but somewhere about her mouth was the shadow of a smile.
"Didn't you hear?" she asked.
"No," said Charles, "I didn't hear anything." "Didn't you hear Miss Price?" "Really Miss Price!" "Yes. It was her voice. Quite loud and distinct." Charles and Paul looked grave.
"What-what did she say?" stammered Charles.
"She said: 'Carey, come at once out of those lettuces.' "