Slightly dressing herself, she threw on a warm dressing-gown, and stole down the stairs. Passing through the door that divided the dwelling from the Bank, she softly turned the handle of George’s room, and opened it. Secure in the house being at rest, he had not locked the doors against interruption.
The tables seemed strewed with books, but George was not then occupied with them. He was sitting in a chair apart, buried, as it appeared—in thought, his hands and his head alike drooping listlessly. He started up at Maria’s entrance.
“I grew alarmed, George,” she said, trying to explain her appearance. “I awoke suddenly, and finding you had not come up, I grew frightened, thinking you might be ill. It is two o’clock!”
“What made you come down out of your warm bed?” reiterated George. “You’ll catch your death.”
“I was frightened, I say. Will you not come up now?”
“I am coming directly,” replied George. “Go back at once. You’ll be sure to take cold.”
Maria turned to obey. Somehow the dark passages struck on her with a nervous dread. She shrank into the room again.
“I don’t care to go up alone,” she cried. “I have no light.”
“How foolish!” he exclaimed. “I declare Meta would be braver!”
Some nervous feeling did certainly appear to be upon her, for she burst into tears. George’s tone—a tone of irritation, it had been—was exchanged for one of soothing tenderness, as he bent over her. “What is the matter with you to-night, Maria? I’ll light you up.”