"You know, Angeline," were the first words audible--when at that moment he seemed to become conscious that some one had entered to disturb the interview, and turned his head. Who was it? Some muffled figure. Mr. Lake strained his eyes as it came nearer, and sent them peering through the semidarkness. The next moment he had sprung at least five yards from "Angeline."
"Clara! How could you be so imprudent? My dear child! you know you ought not to have left your room."
Pushing aside Lady Ellis with, it must be confessed, little ceremony, he dragged a couch to the warmest corner of the hearth, and took his wife in his sheltering arms. Placing her upon it, he snatched up a cloth mantle of Mrs. Chester's that happened to be near, and fenced her in with it from the draught, should there be any. Then he sat down on the same sofa, edging himself on it, as if he would also be a fence for her against the cold. That his concern and care were genuine, springing right from his heart, there could be no question. My Lady Ellis, standing on the opposite side to recover her equanimity, after having stirred the fire into a blaze, and looking on with her great black eyes, saw that.
He bent his head slightly as he gazed on his wife, waiting in silence, not saying a word further until her breath was calmer. Very laboured it was just then, perhaps with the exertion of walking down, perhaps with mental emotion.
"Now tell me why you ventured out of your room," said he, making a prisoner of one of her hands, and speaking in a tender tone.
"I was dull: I was alone," she panted.
"Alone! dull! Where's Penelope? where's Anna? I thought they were with you. Elizabeth, what is she about?"
She did not explain or answer. She lay back quietly as he had placed her, her eyes closed, and her white face motionless. For the first time Robert Lake thought he saw a look of DEATH upon it, and a strange thrill of anguish darted through him. "What a fool I am!" quoth he to himself, the next moment; "it's the reflection of that fire."
"My dear Mrs. Lake, I should only be too happy to sit with you when you feel lonely," spoke Lady Ellis, as softly as her naturally harsh voice would allow. "But you never will let me, you know."
Clara murmured some inaudible answer about not giving her trouble, and lay quiet where her husband had placed her. He kept her hand still; and she let him do it. He stole quick glances at her wasted features, as if alarm had struck him. She never lifted her eyes to either of them.