“Sleep sweetly, gallant and gentle heart,” she said in a voice like fervid music. “Sleep, folded in the rest of Heaven, folded in our Savior’s arms. Well for us if we had died like you.”
She rose with a rapt and pallid face, and moved away encircled by Wentworth’s arm, with her own around him.
“I love you, Richard,” she said. “I love you with my whole nature! But far above me, I saw a nobler love than mine. It was a love too great and sweet for me—a love to which I never could attain; and with that love I loved him.”
He did not reply, but clasped her closer to him, and they all went out into the other section of the room.
While they stood in silence, a loud and violent ring, like the jar of devils breaking in upon their solemn peace, came at the hall entrance. Muriel paused a moment, then shut the folding doors, and stepped into the passage. Patrick was up, and was already shuffling along the entry below to answer the summons. Presently the hall-door opened, and Muriel, leaning over the banister, heard a harsh and angry voice say:
“Where’s Mr. Harrington? I want to see him immediately.”
It was Lemuel Atkins.
“Patrick,” said Muriel, before the servant could reply, “show that person up here.”
She retired into the library, and trampling rudely up-stairs came Mr. Atkins, and strode into the library with his hat on, livid with passion.
“Where’s that ruffian husband of yours?” he brawled, fronting Muriel. “I want to see him instantly. Where is he? Where have you hidden him?”