Bridie

The froward girl would not answer me; she stared stupidly at me and almost seeming to mock me, finally throwing her apron over her head and shreiking like an imbecile, ran pell-mell from the room. "Where is your mistress?" Not a difficult question, but apparently one for which she had no answer. I went from room to room, hardly noticing where I went, and there was no sign of Rosalie, or Bridie, or of any human or animal movement. Even our little King Charles spaniel was nowhere in evidence. Dust lay thick on some of the small tables, Rosalie's usual flowers were not in their crystal vases, rather dreary bent stems, and the vases themselves cloudeded and green-black from water long-ago evaporated. When I threw open the heavy drapes to admit the thin winter sun, a miasma of dust rose up into the room like old regrets. Somewhere below the stairs I heard a door slam, - Bridie's final defection, I supposed - and I was left alone in the house, where not even a clock ticked, and the silence settled round me like a shroud.