“I fancied he was not gone,” thought the attorney. “I am glad I spoke to Norris.”
VI. SELF-EXAMINATION.
Chetwynd had become more tranquillised since he entered the room that had once belonged to him—and that might be said to belong to him still—since it had always been kept for him.
A comfortable bed-chamber, with windows looking upon the garden. Night was now coming on, but it was still light enough to see every object in the room, and Chetwynd examined them with interest—almost with emotion.
The furniture was precisely the same he had left; the narrow iron bed, without curtains, and covered with an eider-down quilt—the easy-chair on which he used to sit and smoke—the books on the shelf and the prints on the walls, were still there, as of yore. Nothing seemed to have been disturbed.
When he last occupied that room Teresa was his father's ward, and believing himself in love with her, he indulged in dreams of future happiness—for there seemed no obstacle to their union.
Now, all was gone. Teresa had become hateful to him. Yet, somehow or other, her image was associated with the room.
Throwing open the windows, he looked out into the garden, and, after listening to the singing of the birds, sat down in the easy-chair, and tried to lay out a plan for the future.