There was no reply; and he left the room. Listening intently to his receding footsteps, Mr St. Cyr rose with difficulty, and holding by the furniture, crossed the room to the cabinet in which Frederica, on her first visit, had seen so many beautiful and curious things. From a hidden compartment in one of its sides, he drew forth several papers, and looked eagerly and attentively over them. He had only time to replace them and return to his seat, before his brother came in again.
“Your fire is bright in yon chamber. My brother, I entreat you to allow me to assist you thither, before I leave. I cannot divest myself of a feeling of responsibility with regard to that foolish young girl lingering in the street at this unseemly hour. I must see that she is safe at home. And I must hasten.”
“Thanks,” said Mr St. Cyr, rising meekly. “You are most kind, but pray do not stay. Babette can do all that is necessary for me. I fancy myself better to-night.”
“Better,” repeated his brother, as he went down the stairs. “I do not see it. For the present it is not necessary that you should be better. I can do your work for you, better than you can do it yourself. I have succeeded beyond hope—unless indeed, by some unimaginable chance, there should exist such an instrument as Cyprien asserts. Even then something might be done to put matters right, should I, and not Cyprien, guide them. We shall see.”
Chapter Eighteen.
Frederica reached home excited and breathless, and sat down to rest for a moment on the steps, before she went in.
“Miss Frederica—Thank God,” said old Dixen, coming out of the shadow where he had been waiting for the return of his young mistress in great anxiety.
“All right, Dixen—only I am so tired, I cannot tell you about it now.”