Once more the father and daughter stood close together, waiting for Edmund Oakhurst. The pale moon looked in at the narrow casement, the street was slippery with recent rain, and the wind was damp and cold. Within burned one low candle on the table before the fireplace, where the coals were blackening into ashes, and every now and then throwing out a tongue of dim, red flame, only to make the black emptiness more noticeable.
"I will have the fire all right when you come back, darling," said Grace, "and some hot wine and water ready for you. Mind you keep that cloak well about you. O my love! I cannot bear to think we have so few days before us still!"
"Almost a few weeks, Grace," said her father cheerfully.
"It seems to me as if they were days," reiterated the girl; "but I know it is right. My mother would say so, if she could speak to us from her home in the spirit-land. Kiss me, my father, my own!"
There was almost a despairing wail under that quick exclamation. Seymour felt strangely moved, but, unwilling to weaken his child's fortitude, he kissed her and soothed her in the most cheerful way he could, yet tenderly keeping her hands clasped in his. Edmund Oakhurst was not long, and the two men were soon ready to start. Grace took the candle, and led the way down the dark stairs. She motioned her lover to go out first, and then, detaining her father, said in a voice broken by uncontrollable emotion:
"My own precious father, bless me before you go."
He caught her in his arms, and laid one hand on her head, murmuring, "God bless you for ever, my child, as your father does now. Don't give way, my love, my little treasure, and think of me while I am gone. We will have a nice evening together when we come home, my pet." And he gave her a fervent, solemn kiss, and pressed her hands to his heart.
In silence she let him go, but a passionate prayer burst from her lips as soon as he had crossed the threshold. She shaded the flickering light with one hand, while she stepped forth and strained her eyes after him as far as sight could follow. When he disappeared behind a corner, a sob broke from her, and she turned wearily to go up the stairs. A cloud scudded across the face of the moon, and the shrill laugh of a woman sounded clear and cutting down the street. Grace went back to the little room, where the fire was sullenly going to sleep, waking up now and then in a fretful, spectre-like glare and a weird rustle, then leaving utter darkness behind once more. The girl shuddered; she knew not what ailed her. Thoughts came in upon her, maddening her, and she paced up and down the small enclosure with rapid, unsteady steps. She had never felt like this before; when her mother lay dying, she had stepped lightly and softly, her mind clear, her loving heart calm, though crushed. What meant this fever, this horror of something vague, this dread that made her heart beat as the wind creaked the wooden stairs and shook the ill-fitting casement? A crucifix hung on the wall, a Bible lay on the table; to both she looked for comfort and peace, but the one seemed alive with ruddy blood-stains, and the other opened at these words: "I said, In the midst of my days I shall go to the gates of hell; I sought for the residue of my years.... I hoped till morning; as a lion so hath he broken all my bones: from morning even to night thou wilt make an end of me."[275] Grace closed the book with pale cheeks and scared expression, and flung herself on her knees before the burnt-out fire. She sank to the ground, and a kind of mist seemed to dull her senses; yet it was not sleep. A child awoke in the room overhead, and began its wailing, peevish cry; otherwise the stillness was intense. The moon climbed the sky so that its light went beyond the range of the low window; the radiance came, however, wan and misty, up from the street. The clock in the passage ticked, and Grace found herself unconsciously counting its pulses; and when she tried to break off, a spell seemed upon her that compelled her to count on. Again she paced the room, and then, as if impatient of this unaccountable restlessness, she began to make things ready for her father's return. This occupied her some time, and she lingered over the homely task as if in it lay a talisman to shield her against this nameless fear, this importunate, impalpable horror, that seemed to her almost a presence. She said aloud, to cheat her own belief, "I must be ill; this is fever;" but her mind was pitilessly alive, and refused this interpretation. She sat down to read; philosophy would surely drive away the unholy phantom. But the pages grew dim before her eyes, and, though unclosed, those eyes saw nothing of what was before them. Twenty times she rose up to look at the passage clock; the time lagged, she thought, as if it dreaded to become the present. The fire burnt brightly again, and hot wine and water were ready on the table. A few flowers that stood in a common cup on the mantel-piece she took down and laid gracefully in a shallow saucer, placing it on the table, in green and scarlet contrast with the white, transparent flagon, and the quaint old silver ewer. Then she thought, as if forcing her mind to leave her unnamed dread behind, of the many vicissitudes this piece of Howard plate had seen; of the drinking bouts of old at which it had figured in the days of the reckless cavaliers; of the mediæval honors it might have won at jousts and tournaments; for its date was carved on a small shield up-born by a griffin and a monk, and went far back into the XVth century. But this speculation was disturbed by sounds of horrid revel in the street, and Grace shiveringly met the old horror face to face again. Something half human seemed to brood over the place; the room seemed tenanted, and, though brave, the girl was thoroughly unnerved. She opened the door, the clock ticked, and she saw it was growing late. From the impatience of two hours ago she rushed back into a shrinking dread of the lateness of the time, now it had come. Her father was still away—why? Had he not looked forward to a quiet evening after his work of charity was done, and would he not have hurried home, that she might not have to wait long after the usual hour? The shadowy terror that all the time had obstinately kept his form as a sort of centre round which it could turn and play in fantastic dreams and ever-changing pictures, crept nearer to her heart now, and strangled it with a more certain fear, a more defined vision. Then a cold wind seemed to blow all round her, and she looked up. It was only the open door into the passage that was swinging on its grating hinges, and letting in a rush of air from the outside. Yes; but whence was the cold air that wrung the frail door? Was not that a sound on the stairs? Her first impulse was to rush out, and meet her father; her second, a scarcely shaped wish to prolong the yet doubtful present. Irresolutely she stood and listened; there were voices on the stairs—whispers.
Then a slow tread came lingeringly up, and through the half-open door she saw Edmund Oakhurst. She knew it all now. Had he rushed up with maddening speed, as if human feet were not swift enough for his errand, she might have hoped. As it was, she saw it all; and when he spoke, she only answered: "Yes."
He stood silent then, and, taking her hand, waited for her to ask him where she must follow him. She passed her other hand over her forehead, and then pointed to the table, with a sort of pathetic smile that wrung her lover's heart.