XVIII
ON THE STAIRS
"You cannot say I did it."
Macbeth.
EXCITED, tremulous, filled with wonder at this unlooked-for event, I paused for a moment to collect my scattered senses, when the sound of a low, monotonous voice breaking upon my ear from the direction of the library, I approached and found Mr. Harwell reading aloud from his late employer’s manuscript. It would be difficult for me to describe the effect which this simple discovery made upon me at this time. There, in that room of late death, withdrawn from the turmoil of the world, a hermit in his skeleton-lined cell, this man employed himself in reading and rereading, with passive interest, the words of the dead, while above and below, human beings agonized in doubt and shame. Listening, I heard these words:
"By these means their native rulers will not only lose their jealous terror of our institutions, but acquire an actual curiosity in regard to them."
Opening the door I went in.
"Ah! you are late, sir," was the greeting with which he rose and brought forward a chair.
My reply was probably inaudible, for he added, as he passed to his own seat:
"I am afraid you are not well."
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