She was afraid that in some such moments as this she should cast her arms around the neck of her young husband, and press her lips to his and say:
“You saved me once from death, and once from worse than that. You love me more than I deserve. You merit all my love. I am your wife. Do not leave me.”
She was in danger of saying this every hour—and she did not wish to say it.
Now she hurried after the old housekeeper, who led the way to a room at the end of the hall, fitted up with shelves above and drawers below, all around the walls. These were, however, empty, and two large cedar chests that stood in the middle of the floor seemed to contain all the household linen.
Mrs. Brent drew a key from her pocket and unlocked one of the chests, from which a heavy aromatic odor of sweet herbs and spices arose.
“I used to take out these things and air them every summer, but of late years, seeing that they never seemed to come into any use, I gave up doing that, and just contented myself with putting more dried lavender and basil in them every fall,” she said, as she lifted out folded sheets, fine as cambric, yellow as saffron, and filled with the odor of sweet herbs.
“It is no use, honey,” continued the housekeeper, “these here things are not fit to be used. They will have to be washed and bleached first. I shall have to lend you some of mine. They are not so fine as these, but they are a deal whiter, so perhaps you will excuse them.”
“I shall be very thankful for the loan of them, Mrs. Brent,” said the young lady.
“Indeed you are welcome, my dear,” replied the housekeeper, who was still looking over the contents of the cedar chest.
“Now, Mrs. Brent, I wish to ask you—have you never slept in this house since the night that—that Dyvyd Gryphyn was killed?”