He arrived before the door of the chamber in which his brother lay. It was near the foot of a broad staircase which, thickly carpeted, and with bannisters of walnut, darkened by time, was illumined by light from the skylight far above. The door of the chamber was slightly open,—Randolph started, for he heard his brother's voice, speaking in rapid, impetuous tones. And the next instant, the voice of Bernard Lynn, hoarse with anger. Randolph, with his step upon the threshold, drew back and listened.
He did not pause to ask himself how Bernard Lynn came to be a visitor in the chamber of his brother,—he only listened to their voices,—with all his soul, he tried to distinguish their words.
It was the moment of his life. It required a terrible exertion of will, to suppress the cry of despair which rose to his lips.
"A negro!" he heard the voice of Bernard Lynn, hoarse with rage,—"and to my daughter! Never!"
And then the voice of Harry Royalton, whose life he had spared and saved,—"I heard of this marriage from one of the servants, and felt it my duty to set you on your guard. Therefore, I sent for you. I can give you proof,—proof that will sink the slave into the earth."
Once more the voice of Bernard Lynn,—"A negro! and about to marry him to my daughter! A negro!"
There was the hatred of a whole life embodied in the way he pronounced that word,—"a negro!"
Randolph laid his hand against the wall, and his head sank on his breast. He was completely unnerved.
The hopes of his life were ashes.
Once more, with a terrible exertion, he rallied himself, and with the thought,—"There remains, at least, revenge!"—he advanced toward the threshold.