Seated in his library, Mellen found it impossible to fulfil his task of letter writing. He could not account for the feelings which crept over him. The quiet content of the afternoon was all gone; and in its place came, not only anxiety about his wife, but a host of wild suspicions so vague and absurd, that he was angry with the folly which forced him to insult his reason by dwelling upon them.
The confinement of the house became absolutely hateful to him. He opened one of the French windows, stepped out upon the veranda and walked up and down in the gathering gloom, looking across the waters where the fog shifted to and fro, like ghostly shadows sent up to veil the ever restless ocean.
At last Mellen passed down the steps and entered the grounds; he was some distance from the house when he heard a sound like a person moaning aloud in distress.
He looked about—the mist and the coming night made it impossible to distinguish objects with any distinctness—but he saw the garments of a woman fluttering among the trees.
He darted forward; with what impulse he could hardly have told; but the woman had disappeared, whether warned by his hasty movement or urged forward by some other motive, he could not tell.
The thought in his mind was—
"That is my wife, Elizabeth."
Then the folly of this suspicion struck him; not an hour before he had left his wife almost asleep in her room, how was it possible that she could be there, wandering about like a demented creature in the misty twilight?
"I will go up to her room," he thought; "I will cure myself of these absurd fancies."
He entered the house and ran upstairs quickly, opened the door of his wife's room and looked in. She was standing before the fire—at the noise of the opening door she thrust something into her bosom—a paper it looked like to Mellen—then she turned and stood silently regarding him.