‘None. I am returning to-morrow to the north.’
‘My wife is anxious that you should stay the night,’ said my husband; ‘you will be very welcome; but if it would make you more comfortable to return to your hotel, I will call a cab and personally attend you there; provide—for I am very well acquainted with the landlord of the house—that you be carefully looked after; and, if you should desire to communicate with your friends in the North by telegraph or by letter, I shall be very pleased to do your bidding.’
‘Yes, I shall feel easier—my strength is returning,’ I exclaimed, and I forced myself to sit upright.
‘John,’ said my sister, ‘it is settled that Miss Lee sleeps in this house to-night. It is not as though she had friends to go to. She is ill,’ she added, and for a moment her voice trembled. ‘The spare room is ready. I can take no denial.’
She crossed the room and rang the bell.
‘Be it as you wish, my dear,’ said my husband, and casting another look upon me of curiosity he left the room.
The housemaid answered the bell; my sister told her to send the nurse, then poured out another glass of port and begged me to drink it. I drank it, for I needed strength. Already had I settled what to do, but I required more strength than I now possessed to carry out my resolution. The nurse arrived and my sister requested her help to convey me upstairs. I said not a word. I kept my eyes fastened upon the floor. I feared that I should betray myself by speech, by look, by tears, or by some subtle sign that would be interpretable by the penetrating, wonderful sympathy that exists between twins—the sympathy that had certainly existed between my sister and me. So far I had victoriously passed through one of the most terrible ordeals that a woman could be confronted with, and the sight and presence of my sister, her sweet voice, her sweet face, the memories which arose in me as I looked at her and listened to her, had still further heightened and hardened what I might have already deemed my unconquerable determination to remain dead to her and her husband that her happiness should not be disturbed, leaving it, as I have already said, to my Heavenly Father to bring my children to me in any way that should not bruise my sister’s heart, or cloud the clear serenity of her life as a wife.
CHAPTER XXV
MARY
My sister took me by one arm and the nurse by the other, and assisted me to rise. I found myself a little stronger than I had imagined. I felt, indeed, fully equal to returning to the hotel, if my sister sent for a cab; but my bedroom was ready, I was now being helped upstairs, and, moreover, I had settled a plan which I did not intend to disturb. I looked neither to the right nor to the left, as I ascended the stairs, supported by my sister and the nurse. I feared the effect upon me of the familiar objects which my sight must encounter—the shield and stag’s head in the hall, the pictures on the staircase, the barometer, and other such details—in all which I had taken a young wife’s pride, choosing places for them, dusting them with my own hands.