“It’s very odd,” he heard the old man mutter to himself; “I could almost swear that I saw something white go into that room. Where’s the handle? If I believed in ghosts—hullo! my candle has blown out! I must go and hunt for a match. Don’t quite like going in there without a light.”
For the moment they were saved. The fierce draught rushing through the open crack of the door from the ill-fitting window had extinguished the candle.
Geoffrey waited a few seconds to allow Mr. Granger to reach his room, and then once more started on his awful journey. He passed out of the room in safety; happily Beatrice showed no signs of recovery. A few quick steps and he was at her own door. And now a new terror seized him. What if Elizabeth was also walking the house or even awake? He thought of putting Beatrice down at the door and leaving her there, but abandoned the idea. To begin with, her father might see her, and then how could her presence be accounted for? or if he did not, she would certainly suffer ill effects from the cold. No, he must risk it, and at once, though he would rather have faced a battery of guns. The door fortunately was ajar. Geoffrey opened it with his foot, entered, and with his foot pushed it to again. Suddenly he remembered that he had never been in the room, and did not know which bed belonged to Beatrice. He walked to the nearest; a deep-drawn breath told him that it was the wrong one. Drawing some faint consolation from the fact that Elizabeth was evidently asleep, he groped his way to the second bed through the deep twilight of the room. The clothes were thrown back. He laid Beatrice down and threw them over her. Then he fled.
As he reached the door he saw Mr. Granger’s light disappear into his own room and heard his door close. After that it seemed to him that he took but two steps and was in his own place.
He burst out laughing; there was as much hysteria in the laugh as a man gives way to. His nerves were shattered by struggle, love and fear, and sought relief in ghastly merriment. Somehow the whole scene reminded him of one in a comic opera. There was a ludicrous side to it. Supposing that the political opponents, who already hated him so bitterly, could have seen him slinking from door to door at midnight with an unconscious lady in his arms—what would they have said?
He ceased laughing; the fit passed—indeed it was no laughing matter. Then he thought of the first night of their strange communion, that night before he had returned to London. The seed sown in that hour had blossomed and borne fruit indeed. Who would have dreamed it possible that he should thus have drawn Beatrice to him? Well, he ought to have known. If it was possible that the words which floated through her mind could arise in his as they had done upon that night, what was not possible? And were there not other words, written by the same master-hand, which told of such things as these:
“‘Now—now,’ the door is heard;
Hark, the stairs! and near—
Nearer—and here—
‘Now’! and at call the third,
She enters without a word.
Like the doors of a casket shrine,
See on either side,
Her two arms divide
Till the heart betwixt makes sign,
‘Take me, for I am thine.’
First, I will pray. Do Thou
That ownest the soul,
Yet wilt grant control
To another, nor disallow
For a time, restrain me now!”
Did they not run thus? Oh, he should have known! This he could plead, and this only—that control had been granted to him.
But how would Beatrice fare? Would she come to herself safely? He thought so, it was only a fainting fit. But when she did recover, what would she do? Nothing rash, he prayed. And what could be the end of it all? Who might say? How fortunate that the sister had been so sound asleep. Somehow he did not trust Elizabeth—he feared her.
Well might Geoffrey fear her! Elizabeth’s sleep was that of a weasel. She too was laughing at this very moment, laughing, not loud but long—the laugh of one who wins.