Muriel and Harrington had stood transfixed with astonishment up to this moment, but as they saw both Emily and Wentworth leave the parlor, they recovered with a start.
“Stay, Wentworth,” cried Harrington, rushing to the door, and “Emily, Emily,” cried Muriel, flying after her friend.
But Harrington reached the hall, just as the front door slammed at the heels of Wentworth, and tearing it open, he beheld him running up the street like a madman, while Muriel, bounding up-stairs after Emily, saw her vanish into her chamber, and heard the lock of her door click behind her.
Both returned to the parlor at the same moment, and advancing toward each other, pale, agitated, and almost petrified with wonder at the lightning-like suddenness and inexplicable character of this incident, gazed into each other’s faces. The affair was like a flash on a dark landscape, giving a vague glimpse of some mysterious form there, and vanishing before its nature was revealed.
“Good Heavens, John! what does this mean?” exclaimed Muriel, breaking the lonely stillness of the lighted parlor.
“I do not know,” he murmured, vacantly gazing at her. “Is Richard mad?”
She put her hands to her bosom to repress its throbbings, and sank into a large chair near her. Both were silent for some minutes, each trying to think, with a whirling brain, what this could possibly mean.
“What a singular day this has been!” murmured Harrington at length, as behind this last incident the tableau of its many-passioned hours rose in his mind.
“Singular, indeed!” replied Muriel, in a low voice, “and how singularly and sadly it ends!”
“Not so,” he replied with sweet gravity. “Let it end in our good night, which is always happy with affection and peace. We will dismiss this scene, Muriel. To-morrow we can think more clearly, and we will know its meaning. Meanwhile, good night.”