CHAPTER XI THE VOICE IN THE NIGHT The fire burned low, in the study grate. The black marble clock on the mantel-piece had struck midnight, more slowly and sonorously than it ever sounded the hour by day. Each stroke had seemed a knell--a requiem to bright hopes and golden prospects; and now it slowly and distinctly ticked out the first hour of a new day. Sarah, and her assistants, had long been sleeping soundly, untroubled by any difficult questions of casuistry. The one solitary watcher beneath the roof of Brambledene Rectory sat huddled up in the Rector's large armchair, his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands. His little worn Prayer-book had fallen to the floor, unnoticed. He had been reading the marriage service. The Prayer-book lay on its back, at his feet, open at the Burial of the Dead, as if in silent suggestion that that solemn office had an important bearing on the case. The fire burned low; yet David did not bestir himself to give it any attention. The hot embers sank together, in the grate, with that sound of finality which implies no further attempt to keep alight--a sitting-down under adverse circumstances, so characteristic of human nature, and so often caused by the absorbed neglect of others. David had as yet arrived at no definite decision regarding the important question of marriage with Diana. He had reviewed the matter from every possible standpoint. Diana had begged him not to let the question become an impersonal one--not to consider it as an abstract issue. There had been little need for that request. Diana's brilliant personality dominated his whole mental vision, just as the sun, bursting through clouds, illumines a grey scene, touching and gilding the heretofore dull landscape, with unexpected glory. It puzzled David to find that he could not consider his own plans, his most vital interests, as apart from her. The whole future seemed to hinge upon whether she were to be happy or disconsolate; surrounded by the delights of her lovely home, or cast out into the world, alone and comfortless. A readjustment had suddenly taken place in his proportionate view of things. Hitherto, Africa had come first; all else, his own life included, being a mere background. Now--DIANA stepped forth, in golden capitals; and all things else receded, appearing of small importance; all save his sensitive conscientiousness; his unwavering determination to adhere to the right and to shun the wrong. It perplexed David that this should be so. It was an experience so new that it had not as yet found for itself a name, or formulated an explanation.