“Sartain, sah; all as you say.” Then the girl, whose face shone like a black bottle that had just been dipped in water, showed her brilliant teeth, from ear to ear, laughed outright, looked foolish, after which she looked earnest, when the secret burst out of her heart, in the melodious voice of a young negress, that did not know whether to laugh or to cry—“Where Neb, Masser Mile? what he do now; de fel-ler!”
“He will kiss you in ten minutes, Chloe; so put the best face on the matter you are able.”
“Dat he wont—de sauce-box—-Miss Grace teach me better dan dat.”
I waited to hear no more, but proceeded towards the triangular little room, with steps so hurried and yet so nervous, that I do not remember, ever before to have laid my hand on a lock in a manner so tremulous—I found myself obliged to pause, ere I could muster resolution to open the door, a hope coming over me that the impatience of Grace would save me the trouble, and that I should find her in my arms before I should be called on to exercise any more fortitude. All was still as death, however, within the room, and I opened the door, as if I expected to find one of the bodies I had formerly seen in its coffin, in this last abiding place above ground, of one dead. My sister was on the causeuse, literally unable to rise from debility and agitation. I shall not attempt to describe the shock her appearance gave me. I was prepared for a change, but not one that placed her, as my heart instantly announced, so near the grave!
Grace extended both arms, and I threw myself at her side, drew her within my embrace, and folded her to my heart, with the tenderness with which one would have embraced an infant. In this situation we both wept violently, and I am not ashamed to say that I sobbed like a child. I dare say five minutes passed in this way, without either of us speaking a word.
“A merciful and all gracious God be praised! You are restored to me in time, Miles!” murmured my sister, at length. “I was afraid it might be too late.”
“Grace!—Grace!—What means this, love?—my precious, my only, my most dearly beloved sister, why do I find you thus?”
“Is it necessary to speak, Miles?—cannot you see?—do you not see, and understand it all?”
The fervent pressure I gave my sister, announced how plainly I comprehended the whole history. That Grace could ever love, and forget, I did not believe; but, that her tenderness for Rupert—one whom I knew for so frivolous and selfish a being, should reduce her to this terrible state, I had not indeed foreseen as a thing possible. Little did I then understand how confidingly a woman loves, and how apt she is to endow the being of her choice with all the qualities se could wish him to possess. In the anguish of my soul I muttered, loud enough to be heard, “the heartless villain!”
Grace instantly rose from my arms. At that moment, she looked more like a creature of heaven, than one that was still connected with this wicked world. Her beauty could scarcely be called impaired, though I dreaded that she would be snatched away from me in the course of the interview; so frail and weak did it appear was her hold of life. In some respects I never saw her more lovely than she seemed on this very occasion. This was when the hectic of disease imparted to the sweetest and most saint-like eyes that were ever set in the human countenance, a species of holy illumination. Her countenance, now, was pale and colourless; however, and her look sorrowful and filled with reproach.