Both had been perplexed,—alike unable to discover a clue to the mysterious movement of Scarthe and his comet.
After more than an hour spent in shaping conjectures, and building hypotheses, they had arrived no nearer to a rational belief, than when commencing their speculations on the subject.
Finally, Lora, less interested in the event or its consequences, laid her head complacently on the pillow, and fell off into a sleep—determined, no doubt, to dream of Walter.
For Marion there was no such solace; no rest for her that night—with the image of Henry Holtspur hovering over her heart; and her bosom filled with vague apprehensions about his safety.
She had not tried to sleep. She had not even kept to her couch; but stealing gently from the side of her unconscious cousin, she had repeatedly sought the window; and gazed forth from it.
After going several times to and fro, she had at length stationed herself by the casement; and there crouching in its embayment—her form shrouded by the silken tapestry—had she remained for hours, eagerly listening to every sound—listening to the rain, as it plashed heavily on roof, terrace, and trees—watching the lightning’s flash—straining her eyes, while it glared, adown that long arcade between the chestnuts, that bordered the path by which the nocturnal excursionists might be expected to reappear.
Her vigil was not unrewarded. They came back at length—as they had gone—Scarthe and Stubbs, together and by themselves.
“Thank Heaven!” muttered Marion, as she caught sight of the two forms returning up the avenue, and saw that they were alone. “Thank Heaven! Their errand, whatever it may have been, is ended. I hope it had no reference to him!”
Holding the curtain, so as to screen her form, she stayed in the window until the two horsemen had ridden up to the walls. But the darkness outside—still impenetrable except when the lightning played—prevented observation; and she only knew by the sound of their horses’ hooves, that they had passed under her window towards the rear of the mansion, and entered the courtyard—whose heavy gate she could hear closing behind them.
Then, and not till then, did she consent to surrender herself to that god, puissant as love itself; and, gently extending her white limbs alongside those of Lora, she entered upon the enjoyment of a slumber—perhaps not so innocent, as that of her unconscious cousin—but equally profound.