Julian Wyllard a long time to wade through them all. But when the stable clock struck twelve, Dora thought she might fairly hope to find the task finished.
"Good-night, Bothwell," she said. "I'll go and look for Julian."
The servants had all gone to bed, and the lamps had been extinguished, except in the hall and corridors. A half-glass door opened from the garden into the hall, and this was always left unbolted for the accommodation of Bothwell, who was fond of late saunterings in the grounds. The library was at the further end of the house, a superb room, filled with a choice collection of books, the growth of the last seven years; for Julian Wyllard was a new man in the county, and had only owned Penmorval during that period.
There was a good fire burning in the artistic tiled grate—a modern improvement upon the old arrangement in wrought iron. Mr. Wyllard had opened all his letters, and had evidently burned some of them, for an odour of calcined paper and sealing-wax pervaded the room.
He was sitting in a low chair beside the hearth, in a stooping attitude, deeply meditative, looking down at some object in his hands. He was so profoundly absorbed as to be unconscious of Dora's presence till she was standing close beside him.
The object which so engrossed his attention, which had led his thoughts backward to the faraway past, was a long tress of chestnut hair. He had wound it round his fingers—a smooth, silken tress, which flashed with gleams of gold in the cheery light of the fire.
"What beautiful hair!" said Dora gently, as she looked downward from behind his shoulder. "Whose is it, Julian?"
"It was my sister's," he answered.
"The sister who died so many years ago. Poor Julian! You have been sitting here alone, giving yourself up to sad memories."
"I came upon this auburn tress among some old papers just now, while I was looking for Martin's lease."
He rolled the hair up quickly, and flung it into the flaming coals.
"O Julian, why did you do that?" asked his wife reproachfully.
"What is the use of keeping such things, only to perpetuate sorrowful memories? God knows we have enough of our dead. They haunt us and plague us at every stage of life. We cannot get rid of them."
The bitterness of his tone jarred upon his wife's ear.
"My dearest, you are wearied and out of spirits," she said. "You have worked too long. Were your letters troublesome?"
"Not more so than usual, dear. Yes, I am very tired."
