You will never be happy till you do.
Eleanore persists in silence; but that is no reason why you should emulate her example.
You only make her position more doubtful by it.”
“I know it; but I cannot help myself.
Fate has too strong a hold upon me; I cannot break away.”
“That is not true.
Any one can escape from bonds imaginary as yours.”
“No, no,” she protested; “you do not understand.”
“I understand this: that the path of rectitude is a straight one, and that he who steps into devious byways is going astray.”
A nicker of light, pathetic beyond description, flashed for a moment across her face; her throat rose as with one wild sob; her lips opened; she seemed yielding, when— A sharp ring at the front door-bell!
“Oh,” she cried, sharply turning, “tell him I cannot see him; tell him—”
“Miss Leavenworth,” said I, taking her by both hands, “never mind the door; never mind anything but this.
I have asked you a question which involves the mystery of this whole affair; answer me, then, for your soul’s sake; tell me, what the unhappy circumstances were which could induce you—”
But she tore her hands from mine.
“The door!” she cried; “it will open, and—”
Stepping into the hall, I met Thomas coming up the basement stairs.
“Go back,” said I;
“I will call you when you are wanted.” With a bow he disappeared.
“You expect me to answer,” she exclaimed, when I re-entered, “now, in a moment?
I cannot.”
“But—”
“Impossible!” fastening her gaze upon the front door.
“Miss Leavenworth!”
She shuddered.
“I fear the time will never come, if you do not speak now.”
“Impossible,” she reiterated.
Another twang at the bell.
“You hear!” said she.
I went into the hall and called Thomas.
“You may open the door now,” said I, and moved to return to her side.
But, with a gesture of command, she pointed up-stairs.
“Leave me!” and her glance passed on to Thomas, who stopped where he was.
“I will see you again before I go,” said I, and hastened up-stairs.
Thomas opened the door.
“Is Miss Leavenworth in?” I heard a rich, tremulous voice inquire.
“Yes, sir,” came in the butler’s most respectful and measured accents, and, leaning over the banisters I beheld, to my amazement, the form of Mr. Clavering enter the front hall and move towards the reception room.
XVIII. ON THE STAIRS
“You cannot say I did it.”
—Macbeth.
EXCITED, TREMULOUS, FILLED WITH wonder at this unlooked-for event, I paused for a moment to collect my scattered senses, when the sound of a low, monotonous voice breaking upon my ear from the direction of the library, I approached and found Mr. Harwell reading aloud from his late employer’s manuscript.
It would be difficult for me to describe the effect which this simple discovery made upon me at this time.
There, in that room of late death, withdrawn from the turmoil of the world, a hermit in his skeleton-lined cell, this man employed himself in reading and rereading, with passive interest, the words of the dead, while above and below, human beings agonized in doubt and shame.
Listening, I heard these words:
“By these means their native rulers will not only lose their jealous terror of our institutions, but acquire an actual curiosity in regard to them.”
Opening the door I went in.
“Ah! you are late, sir,” was the greeting with which he rose and brought forward a chair.
My reply was probably inaudible, for he added, as he passed to his own seat:
“I am afraid you are not well.”
I roused myself.
“I am not ill.”