Standing in the darkness,--her only apparel the silken robe, and the thick, warm cloak which covered it,--the young wife trembled like a leaf.
She attempted to utter a word, but her voice failed her.
"Joanna!" breathed a voice, speaking near her.
"Beverly!" answered the young wife, breathing the name in a whisper.
A faint sound like a step, whose echo is muffled by thick carpets, and the hand of a man, clasps the hand of Joanna.
"How long have you been here?" she whispered.
"By the front door, and the key which you gave me."
An arm encircled the cloak which covered her, and girded it tightly about her form.
"Come, then, let us go. The carriage is waiting at the next corner; and the street-lamp near the front door is extinguished. All is dark without; no one can see us."
"Come, Joanna," and through the thick darkness he led her toward the hall, supporting her form upon his arm.
"O, whither are you leading me," she whispered in a broken voice.
"Can you ask? Don't you remember my note of to-day? To the TEMPLE, Joanna."
Then the faint sound produced by the careful closing of the street door is heard.
All is still as death throughout the mansion and the street on which it fronts.
Hours pass away, and once more the street door is unclosed, and carefully closed again. A step echoes faintly through the hall,--very faintly,--and yet it can be heard distinctly, so profound is the stillness which reigns throughout the mansion. It ascends the marble staircase, and is presently heard crossing the threshold of the bed-chamber. A pause ensues, and the taper in front of the mirror is lighted again, and a faint ray steals through the chamber.
EUGENE LIVINGSTONE stands in front of the mirror. He flings his cloak on a chair, dashes his cap from his brow, and wipes the sweat from his forehead,--although he has just left the air of a winter night, his forehead is bathed in moisture. His slender frame shakes as with an ague-chill. His eyes are unnaturally dilated; the white of the eyeball may be plainly traced around the pupil of each eye. His lips are pressed together, and yet they quiver, as if with deathly cold.
A letter is in his right hand, neatly folded and scented with _pachouli_. It bears the name "_Joanna_," as a superscription. He opens it and reads its contents, traced in a delicate hand--