the
house, while I was again to look upon his face, the end had not come;
there was a sort of hope, though only a hope of suffering, something to
look forward to, before black monotony began its endless day.

CHAPTER XVII.

BESIDE HIM ONCE AGAIN.

There are blind ways provided, the foredone
Heart-weary player in this pageant world
Drops out by, letting the main masque defile
By the conspicuous portal.

_R. Browning_.

What is this world? What asken men to have?
Now with his love--now in his cold grave--
Alone, withouten any companie!

_Chaucer_.

The tall old clock, which stood by the dining-room door, had struck two,
and been silent many minutes, before Richard came to me. I had spent
those dreadful hours in feverish restlessness: my room seemed
suffocating to me. I had walked about, had put away my trinkets, I had
changed my dress, and put on a white one which I had worn in the
morning, and had tried to braid my hair.

The quieting of the house, it seemed, would never come. It was twelve
o'clock before any one came up-stairs. I heard one door after another
shut, and then sat waiting and wondering why Richard did not come, till
the moments seemed to grow to centuries. At last I heard him at the
door, and I went toward it trembling, and followed him into the hall. He
carried a light, for up-stairs it was all dark, and when we reached the
stairway, he took my hand to lead me. I was trembling very much; the
hall below was dimly lit by a large lamp which had been turned low. Our
steps on the bare staircase made so much noise, though we tried to move
so silently. It was weird and awful. I clung to Richard's hand in
silence. He led me across the hall, and stopped before the library-door.
He let go my hand, and taking a key from his pocket, put it in the lock,
turned it slowly, then opened the door a little way, and motioned me
to enter.

Like one in a trance, I obeyed him, and went in alone. He shut the door
noiselessly, and left me with the dead.

That was the great, the immense hour of my life. No vicissitude, no
calamity of this mortal state, no experience that may be to come, can
ever have the force, the magnitude of this. All feelings, but a child's
feelings, were comparatively new to me, and here, at one moment, I had
put into my hand the plummet that sounded hell; anguish, remorse,
fear--a woman's heart in hopeless pain. For I will not believe that an