She did not know how long she had slept, when, waking, she perceived General Garnet in the room.
He was sitting in the large armchair near the bed, and his attention riveted upon a letter he was reading. Alice glanced at the dressing-table. The letter she had placed there was gone. Yes, it was that letter which he was reading with such fixed interest.
Alice lay quietly, yet anxiously watching him, until he finished reading, folded up the letter, and put it in his pocket. His attitude was one of deep, even intense, thought. In the crimson twilight of that closely curtained chamber she could not see the expression of his face. It was evident, she thought, that he had not seen her in the shadowy recess where her sofa stood.
After thus watching a moment, breathing a prayer for mercy, she slowly arose, crossed the room, and sank upon the cushion near his feet, took his hand, and looked up pleadingly into his face.
Alice was still a very beautiful woman, as I have told you, and never was a more beautiful picture than that kneeling figure, with the bright, flowing hair, flushed cheek, and upturned, pleading gaze with which she sought silently to deprecate the anger of her husband. She sought to read her fate in his countenance; but that high and haughty face was lifted and averted, and its features were stern, and calm, and impassible. Then she found words to speak, and inquired, softly:
“You received my letter, General Garnet?”
“Yes, madam, I received your letter,” he answered, in a hard, cold tone of voice.
“Then you know what else I should tell you here at your feet.”
“I know that my daughter has eloped, and that my wife helped her off,” he replied, in the same dry tone, and with his head still averted.
Alice could not see that his lips were bloodless and compressed, and his eyes burning with a fearful, lurid glare. His very quietude, hard and dry, and constrained as it was, deceived her. She took his hand again and pressed it to her lips, and held it to her bosom, murmuring softly: