“I—I do not understand. She always seemed so bright, so happy.”
“She had no cause for secret grief? None, you think?”
“None.”
Unconsciously, as he spoke, he turned and met the gaze of his cross-questioner. He flushed nervously, and turned his eyes away. Did Haldane suspect the secret of his love? Had Ellen, before she died, spoken anything to incriminate him? Surely not; else his reception would have been different. Yet in her husband’s manner and look, despite his frigid politeness, there seemed a strange suspicion. The cold, cruel eyes never ceased to scrutinize him; they seemed to read his very soul.
“I see, reverend sir, that you cannot realize what has taken place.”
“I cannot realize it!”
“You will at least believe the evidence of your own eyes. Step with me to the house, and look upon her!”
As he spoke, Haldane moved towards the house. After a moment’s hesitation, Santley followed. Yes, he would look upon her for the last time; he would kneel and pray beside her. As he walked, he staggered like a drunken man.
They passed from the dismal shadow of the trees, crossed the snowy lawn, and ascended the steps leading to the house door. How dark and funereal looked the old mansion as they entered! All was silent; not a soul stirred; their footsteps sounded hollow on the paven floor of the open hall.
Haldane led the way into the drawingroom. The blinds were drawn, there was no fire, and the chamber seemed like a tomb.