"It will not do to think now. I must make thought drunk with action. She is not heavy. I have often carri——No, no; that sort of thing would be the worst of all. Now for it!"
He stooped once again, rose more slowly than at any former time, and walked down the room with heavy footfall, carrying a burden.
The room had two doors—one between it and the passage leading to the bedroom; the other between it and the landing of the tower-stairs.
The staircase down from the landing was boarded off, so that egress from the tower-room by that staircase was impossible.
The upward way was unimpeded. The staircase had not been used once for years. There was nothing in either of the upper rooms, and no one had ever been in either of them since Grey himself, when he had gone over the house before buying it.
The staircase was as dark and silent as a grave. A thin carpet of dust deadened the footfalls, and, clinging to the boot-leather, muffled the feet. Now and then his foot crushed a small piece of plaster which had fallen from the ceiling. This made a sound like a wild beast crunching bones.
The paper had parted from the walls in many places, and hung in damp festoons from the ceiling here and there.
Now and then long slimy arms of paper stretched out to him from the walls and held him back. This made him stagger against the balustrade to steady himself. The balustrade upon which he laid his hand was rickety, and covered with a damp spongy dust, that clung to his hand and worked up between his moist fingers, and stuck his fingers together as with blood. When he had got clear of the paper that, hanging from the walls, had seized him, and had pushed himself away from the slimy balustrade, he toiled upward.
But the day had been a terribly exhausting one, and his progress was very slow.
He held his burden with his right arm on his right shoulder, and steadied himself against the wall with his right elbow, against the balustrade with his left hand.