Now he stared at it in a conflict of emotion—joy, shame, fear—that he should hear from her again, that she should write to him.
But he scarcely dared to open the letter.
What should he find there? Oh, what scorn and hatred—what reproaches and maledictions should he meet? And all so well deserved.
At length, with a desperate resolution, as one who had been compelled to go into fire would take the plunge, he tore open the letter, and read:
“Will, my own dear Will, I have only just this instant learned where you are staying. Come to me at once, my beloved. We cannot reach a mutual understanding by letters. I am just starting for Goblin Hall. Meet me there. Your own
Roma.”
It was well the waiting-room was empty, that no one might witness the utter breakdown of the young man. He dropped his head upon his hands and burst into a storm of sobs and tears—the first tears that he had shed in the tragedy of his youth.
“It needed but these words,” he wailed, in low tones. “It needed but these words to complete despair. Coals of fire! Coals of fire! Coals of fire!”
CHAPTER VIII
ROMA’S DELUSIVE JOY
When gray-haired Amos Merritt burst in upon Roma Fronde on that early April day, and, with almost boyish exultation, exclaimed, “I have good news for you! Will Harcourt is found!” great throbs of joy pulsated through her frame, almost depriving her of the power of speech. She who had borne the heaviest shocks of fate without losing her self-command, was almost overcome by this sudden joy. She started to her feet, and uttered but one syllable: