Had living lips really touched me?
Was the sound that I had heard really the sound of a sigh?
Or was it all delusion, beginning and ending in a dream?
The time passed without my deciding, or caring to decide, those questions.
Minute by minute, the composing influence of the draught began at last to strengthen its hold on my brain.
A cloud seemed to pass softly over my last waking impressions.
One after another, the ties broke gently that held me to conscious life.
I drifted peacefully into perfect sleep.
Shortly after sunrise, I awoke.
When I regained the use of my memory, my first clear recollection was the recollection of the soft breathing which I had felt above me—then of the touch on my forehead, and of the sigh which I had heard after it.
Was it possible that some one had entered my room in the night?
It was quite possible.
I had not locked the door—I had never been in the habit of locking the door during my residence under Mr. Dunross's roof.
After thinking it over a little, I rose to examine my room.
Nothing in the shape of a discovery rewarded me, until I reached the door.
Though I had not locked it overnight, I had certainly satisfied myself that it was closed before I went to bed.
It was now ajar.
Had it opened again, through being imperfectly shut? or had a person, after entering and leaving my room, forgotten to close it?
Accidentally looking downward while I was weighing these probabilities, I noticed a small black object on the carpet, lying just under the key, on the inner side of the door.
I picked the thing up, and found that it was a torn morsel of black lace.
The instant I saw the fragment, I was reminded of the long black veil, hanging below her waist, which it was the habit of Miss Dunross to wear.
Was it her dress, then, that I had heard softly traveling over the carpet; her kiss that had touched my forehead; her sigh that had trembled through the silence?
Had the ill-fated and noble creature taken her last leave of me in the dead of night, trusting the preservation of her secret to the deceitful appearances which persuaded her that I was asleep?
I looked again at the fragment of black lace.
Her long veil might easily have been caught, and torn, by the projecting key, as she passed rapidly through the door on her way out of my room.
Sadly and reverently I laid the morsel of lace among the treasured memorials which I had brought with me from home.
To the end of her life, I vowed it, she should be left undisturbed in the belief that her secret was safe in her own breast!
Ardently as I still longed to take her hand at parting, I now resolved to make no further effort to see her.
I might not be master of my own emotions; something in my face or in my manner might betray me to her quick and delicate perception.
Knowing what I now knew, the last sacrifice I could make to her would be to obey her wishes.
I made the sacrifice.
In an hour more Peter informed me that the ponies were at the door, and that the Master was waiting for me in the outer hall.
I noticed that Mr. Dunross gave me his hand, without looking at me.
His faded blue eyes, during the few minutes while we were together, were not once raised from the ground.
"God speed you on your journey, sir, and guide you safely home," he said.
"I beg you to forgive me if I fail to accompany you on the first few miles of your journey.
There are reasons which oblige me to remain with my daughter in the house."
He was scrupulously, almost painfully, courteous; but there was something in his manner which, for the first time in my experience, seemed designedly to keep me at a distance from him.
Knowing the intimate sympathy, the perfect confidence, which existed between the father and daughter, a doubt crossed my mind whether the secret of the past night was entirely a secret to Mr. Dunross.
His next words set that doubt at rest, and showed me the truth.
In thanking him for his good wishes, I attempted also to express to him (and through him to Miss Dunross) my sincere sense of gratitude for the kindness which I had received under his roof.
He stopped me, politely and resolutely, speaking with that quaintly precise choice of language which I h ad remarked as characteristic of him at our first interview.
"It is in your power, sir," he said, "to return any obligation which you may think you have incurred on leaving my house.
If you will be pleased to consider your residence here as an unimportant episode in your life, which ends—absolutely ends—with your departure, you will more than repay any kindness that you may have received as my guest.
In saying this, I speak under a sense of duty which does entire justice to you as a gentleman and a man of honor.
In return, I can only trust to you not to misjudge my motives, if I abstain from explaining myself any further."
A faint color flushed his pale cheeks.
He waited, with a certain proud resignation, for my reply.
I respected her secret, respected it more resolutely than ever, before her father.
"After all that I owe to you, sir," I answered, "your wishes are my commands."