CHAPTER XLIX.—ON THE ADVANTAGES OF CONFESSION.
HE stood silent, without taking a step into the room, when the door had been closed behind him.
With a cry she sprang from her seat in front of the fire and put out her hands to him.
Still he did not move a step toward her. He remained at the door.
Something of fear was upon her face as she stood looking at him. He was pale and haggard and ghostlike. She could not but perceive how strongly the likeness to his father, who had been buried the previous day, appeared upon his face now that it was so worn and haggard—much more so than she had ever seen his father’s face.
“Harold—Harold—my beloved!” she cried, and there was something of fear in her voice. “Harold—husband—”
“For God’s sake, do not say that, Beatrice!”
His voice was hoarse and quite unlike the voice that had whispered the lines of Shelley, with his face within the halo of moonlight that had clung about her hair.