Magdalen did not dare repeat the last word even to herself, and, as she thought it, there came rushing over her a feeling as if she were already guilty of making Roger Irving a beggar.
“No, no, I can’t do that. If there is anything under there,—which I do not believe,—it may remain there for all of me,” she said; and her face was very pale as she drew back from beneath the roof, and took the candle in her hand.
The moon had passed under a cloud, leaving the garret in darkness, and Magdalen heard the rising wind sweeping past the windows as she went down the stairs and out again into the hall, where she breathed more freely, and felt less as if there were a nightmare’s spell upon her. Mrs. Walter Scott’s door stood ajar just as it had done when Magdalen passed it on her way to the garret, and, impelled by a feeling she could not resist, she looked cautiously in. The lady was sleeping soundly, with her hair in the hideous curl papers, and her white hands resting peacefully outside the counterpane. She had not been near the garret. She knew nothing of the loose plank under the roof, and with a feeling that injustice had been done to the sleeper, Magdalen passed on toward Hester’s room, her heart beating rapidly and the blood rushing in torrents to her face and neck as she heard Hester’s sharp, querulous tones mingled with another voice which seemed trying to quiet her. It was a man’s voice,—Roger’s voice,—and Roger himself was bending over the restless woman and telling her that Magdalen would soon be back, and that nobody was going to harm him.
“Here she is now,” he continued, as Magdalen glided into the room, looking like some ghost, for the blood which had crimsoned her face a moment before had receded from it, leaving it white as marble, and making her dark eyes seem larger and brighter and blacker than their wont. “Why, Magda,” Roger exclaimed, coming quickly to her side, “what is the matter? Have you, too, been hearing burglars?”
“Burglars!” Magdalen repeated, trying to smile as she put her candle upon the table and hastened to Hester, who was sitting up in bed, and who demanded of her, “Did you find it? Was she there?”
“No, no. There was nobody there,” Magdalen said, soothingly; and then as Hester became quiet, and seemed falling away to sleep as suddenly as she sometimes awoke, Magdalen turned to Roger, who was looking curiously at her, and as she fancied with a troubled expression on his face. “You spoke of burglars. What did you mean?” she asked.
“Nothing,” he replied, laughingly. “Only I have been restless all night,—too strong coffee for dinner, I dare say. Suppose you see to it yourself to-morrow. I remember a cup you made me once, and I never tasted better.”
“Yes; but what of the burglars, and why are you up?” Magdalen continued.
She knew there was some reason for Roger’s being there at that hour of the night, and she wished to get at it.
“I could not sleep,” he replied, “and I thought I heard some one about the house. The post-office was entered last week, and as it would not be a very improbable thing for the robbers to come here, I dressed, and fearing that you might be alarmed at any unusual sound about the house, I came directly here, and learned from Hester that you were rummaging,—you or somebody. I could hardly understand what she did mean, she was so excited.”