“It was that cat, I thought.”
“Never mind. I’m through now, if you please, sir. Take a look at this room, and fix it on your mind, if you will; and the next time you’re out here, we’ll open it together.”
We reclosed and barred the shutters throughout the house, carefully fastened the doors, once more leaving it to its desolation. We had seen no ghosts; I do not suppose the woman expected to see any, but I felt certain that her fears were in no manner dispelled.
“You see the place is all right,” I said, when I handed her the keys. “There is nothing in the world to make you uneasy. I would as soon sleep alone in the villa as in my own room. I will do it, soon, if you are not satisfied. All I ask of you is not to write to Mr. Moreland until I have seen you again. I shall come out before many days, to see how you get along.”
“We shall wait until you come again, sir, before we say anything. I feel better, now things are ’tended to. There’s Johnny crying again! Well, Mr. Redfield, goodbye. It’ll snow by the time you get home.”
I had a wild walk back to the village—full of lonely magnificence and gloom, which suited my temper. Gray mists hung over the river and swept about the bases of the hills; gray clouds whirled around their summits; gray snow came down in blinding drifts; a savage wind seemed to be blowing the universe about my ears.
XI
The Little Guest and the Apparition
I went to Mr. Argyll’s to the Christmas dinner. I was surprised to meet Eleanor in the family group; for, though she now frequently joined the home circle, I thought that on this holiday her own loss would press upon her with overwhelming weight. Instead of this, I saw a light in her countenance which it had never before worn; her face, totally devoid of smiles or color, yet shone with a serene and solemn luster, the most touching, the most saddening, and yet elevating, of any expression I had ever seen upon human features. My intense sympathy with her taught me how to translate this new phase of her mind; I felt that, in those mystic vows which she had taken upon herself with a spirit, she had derived a comfort; that she joyed in the consciousness that she was now and from henceforth evermore the bride of him who waited for her in the mansions of the Heavenly country. This life was transient—to be meekly borne a little while alone—then she would go to him who awaited her in the only true and abiding home. I, and I only, looked upon her as the wife of Henry Moreland, as sacredly as if he were her living partner. I only was fitted, by the power of my own passion and suffering, to appreciate her position, and the feelings with which she now returned to her friends, to play such a part in life as duty still pointed out. I can not explain with what an emotion of reverence I took and pressed the little, attenuated hand which she placed in mine.
There had been, as yet, no change in Eleanor’s demeanor toward me. Whether I imagined it in the rest of the family, or whether they had changed, this much was still certain, and gave me the deepest pleasure I could now know: Eleanor was the same to me as she had ever been—the benignant, gentle sister, who loved and trusted me as a dear brother—more dear than ever since I had given such proofs of my devotion to her cause—since she could not but see how my very heart was wrung with the pain which tore her own. As long as she continued to treat me thus, as long as I could give her one smallest atom of pleasure in any way, I felt that I could bear anything from the others. Not that there was anything to bear—nothing—nothing, except that indefinable air which a sensitive spirit feels more keenly than any open slight. The new year was now approaching; it would be the most natural time for entering into new business relations; I felt that if Mr. Argyll intended to offer me the partnership, he would do it then. If he did not—I must look out for myself—I must go away.
The Christmas dinner was the sumptuous feast which it always had been, the old housekeeper having taken it into her own hands. She, to judge by her provision, felt that such kind of painstaking would be a relief to the general gloom. No guests were invited, of course. It was touching to see how the servants persisted in placing every imaginable delicacy before Miss Eleanor, which she could not, by any possibility, even taste. A cup of coffee, with a piece of bread, made up her slender Christmas feast. Yet it was a joy to her father to have her at the table at all. Mary’s affectionate glances continually sought her face; parent and sister both felt relieved and comforted by its tranquil expression.
James, too, was cheerful; he would have been brilliant had an opportunity offered. I, who read him tolerably well, knew that it was the sight of Eleanor’s tranquillity which had inspired him—and that he did not understand that saintly resignation as I did.
In the course of the conversation around the table, which I did my best to make cheerful, I happened to speak of Lenore Burton. It was not the first time I had mentioned her, always with such enthusiasm as to excite the interest of the ladies. Mary asked me many questions about her, finally turning to her sister, and saying,
“You were always so fond of children, Eleanor. May I not send for this beautiful little
