The unusual air of command brought her to her senses. She went into the house. "Wait here in the hall; I'll get a light."
She was gone but a moment, and returned with a candle in a brass candlestick. Then, without a word, she led the way up the stairs. They passed silently through an upper hall where an open door revealed a glimpse of her bed-chamber, all in white, as exquisitely kept as a hospital ward. Here she left him to get her father's keys. They came to a flight of steps, leading upward. She waited for him to go first and lift the trap-door at the top. When he had disappeared into the gloom above, she followed him, handed up the candlestick and took his hand to a place beside him.
The garret stretched the full length of this wing of the house. At the far end a dim light came through a gable window, in front of which the bough of a tree waved. The candle cast wavering, widening shadows of the rafters against the sloping roof, and picked out with its light the rows of trunks, boxes and pieces of furniture on either side of the floor. It was damp and cold; there was a musty odor of old books.
She led the way to the end, where, under the window a large, black trunk stood upon the floor. Granthope's heart leaped with hope. But, in another moment it stood still as death. She had handed him the key, and he had thrown open the lid. There, inside, was a smaller trunk, covered with cow-hide, with a rounded top and a lip of pinked leather, studded with brass nails. There were the letters, "F.G."
He needed but one look to recognize it as Madam Grant's. But still, it was a common pattern of the old-fashioned "hair trunk" and he must be sure. The lock had been broken, and no key was needed to open it. He threw open this lid, also. Clytie bent over him holding the candle, so near that she touched his shoulder. Neither had spoken.
There was the same collection of papers, letters and account-books, the same little mahogany box. How well he recalled his first sight of it all! How heavy that tray had seemed to him, as a child! Now he raised it with ease. Below, the same revelation of yellowing satin and old lace—even the same tissue paper, shredded to tatters, wrapped about the packages. The boxes of silk stockings and handkerchiefs were there as well. He thought of the package of bills that had lain in one corner—he knew the place as well as if he still saw the money. Lastly, he groped for the white vellum prayer-book. He found it, and drew it out. Opening the cover, he looked once at the fly-leaf, then handed it silently to Clytie. Written there was the name "Felicia Gerard." He turned his face away from her.
She looked at the book and then at him, still bewildered.
"What does it mean, Francis? Tell me; I can't stand it a moment longer! This is Madam Grant's trunk, of course—I see that. But how came it here? Why should my father—"
She set the candle upon a box and put her arms tenderly about his neck, her face close to his, to soothe his agitation. Her smooth cheek against his was rapture. He could feel her body, warm and soft, through her thin peignoir, and the contact inflamed him. He unclasped her arms with a sudden violent gesture and sprang up in an agony of despair.
"Don't touch me!" he cried. "Never again!"