"Thought! Never think, Simons. Don't let me ever hear again that you indulge in the pernicious habit of thinking! Great Heaven! what would I not give to drown thought—to bury it out of sight—deep, deep—so deep that nothing on earth would ever have the power to resurrect it! Thought—memory! Bah! a regular Old Man of the Sea—like that story of Anstey's, 'The Fallen Idol.' (Deuced clever fellow is Anstey!) Some artist fellow owned the idol, and he could not get rid of the thing, no matter what he did. He hid it—gave it away—lost it—drowned it—buried it—left no stone unturned to be rid of its cursed presence. It was ruining his life, and making him contemplate suicide. But all his efforts were in vain. Even theosophy itself was of no avail—and, to my way of thinking, theosophy can do much. And so the poor fellow was cursed by the presence of this idol—a black, evil shadow upon his life—until a bolt of thunder and a flash of lightning shivered the thing to fragments. Direct interposition of Providence! Ah, yes; to be sure—Simons!"—flashing about swiftly, as his eyes fell upon the unfortunate darky—"what on earth are you doing here? Didn't I tell you to go?"
"No, sah; I never heard you, sah!"
"Then hear me now—Go!"
And the heavy cane came down upon the floor with emphasis.
Outside, a night of storm and tempest. The roar of the wind, the beating rain, or roar of the elements, which, after all, is no more fierce and bitter than that which often rages within a human breast. The wind shrieked shrilly down the chimney, the trees swayed in the blast, and tapped upon the crystal window-panes with bare, ghostly fingers. Old Bernard Dane drew a little nearer the fire, and wrapped his silken dressing-gown about his gaunt frame.
"What o'clock is it?" he demanded, as Simons was about to withdraw.
"Jes' nine, sah. De church clock jes' struck."
"Humph! Very well; do go. No—stop! was not that the gate bell? Can it be Ken at last? Wish to mercy it may be. Go and see who has come, Simons, and make haste!"
The negro obeyed in silence, and the door closed behind him.
Bernard Dane's head drooped once more upon his clasped hands, and save for his slow, labored breathing, there was no sound to break the dreary silence of the room. The moments came and went until five—twice five—three times five—were ticked away. Then the chamber door opened noiselessly, so noiselessly that Bernard Dane did not hear it, and a slight, black-robed figure stole softly into the room and stood beside the hearth. A forlorn little figure in an old-fashioned, dingy black gown, with a dowdyish hat pushed back from the pale little face, with its tired, drooping mouth, and great, glorious dark eyes full of a weary light.