338 THE MESSENGER OF LOVE.
she passed by me, and went rapidly up the stair-case.
My friend’s conduct surprised me. I had hitherto been incredulous of those exhibitions of temper, which made Cecile so obnoxious to all.
I returned to the library, and drawing up an arm-chair to the fire, I strove to drive out unpleasant thoughts with sweet imaginations of my next meeting with Gerald; but the bright visions would not come as their wont was. Thomas entered, and I had every gas jet turned up to its brightest, to give to the room a faint semblance of its customary cheerfulness. The tea equipage was brought in. A maid was sent to Madame Bassigny’s apartment to let her know that tea was served. The maid came back to say that madame did not care to come down.
“Did you ask her if she would have the tea in her room?” I asked.
“Yes, Miss; and she said she did not wish any tea at all.”
“What was she doing, Ellen?”
“Why, Miss, she was acting quité queer. She had a lot cf pictures and papers lying all over the floor, and she was walking up and down right over them.”
I ran upstairs myself, and rapped at Cecile’s door. There was no reply.
“Cecile, let me in, won’t you?”
No sound save a series of deep sighs. I knocked and called loudly,
“Cecile, let mein, your friend Madge. Are you ill, Cecile?”
At length there was a slight movement within, and a constrained voice said,
“Leave me. I am quite well.”
Still unsatisfied, I waited a few minutes at the door; but hearing no more, I went down. The varied events of the afternoon, and Cecile’s strange conduct, had utterly deprived me of appetite; so, merely swallowing a cup of strong tea, I ordered the rest to be taken away.
Thomas stood irresolutely for a moment after the tea arrangements had been removed.
“If you please, Miss Madge,” (I looked up,) “if you would not think it strange of me, Miss. I don’t want to do it; but it’s a hard thing for a man to get round; Miss——
“What?” I said, impatiently.
“Why, Miss Madge, there’s a messenger come from over the river to Mr. Pleasants, where my wife lives, to say that my wife is taken very sick, indeed, and nothing will do the poor woman but that I must come over to see her; the man is waiting with the boat, Miss.”
I instantly felt that it would be no pleasant thing to be left in that large house without a man to protect me in ¢ase of danger. I am not especially timid by nature; but Gresham was well-known as an elegantly appointed establishment, only too tempting to evil-doers. But a second thought showed me the poor, sick wife, to whom the woodén-featured Thomas was, pro- bably, as dear as my handsome Gerald to me, (this last argument prevailed over my nervousness;) so, with a mighty effort, I gave the old man-servant the permission he waited for. Thomas thanked me gratefully, and for a few moments ‘the glow of my self-denial, the consciousness of generosity, made me quite jubilant; but suddenly the whole sense of my utter loneliness struck upon me. The maid-servants all slept in a remote wing of the house; Cecile’s room was quite distant from mine, I was completely isolated.
I would have given worlds to recall that hasty permission to Thomas. I ran through the hall, hoping he was not yet gone, calling his name repeatedly; but my loud heart-beats were my only answer. I returned to the library, and summoned all my common sense and fortitude. Trying to laugh at my childish and nameless fears, I sat down with a novel, resolved to forget everything but the heroines and heroes of fiction. But my choice of a love-story was un- fortunate—it was the sad story of Rupert and Cyrilla von Adlerkron. In the excited state of my nerves, I felt as if the parting between my- self and Gerald might be followed by some awful tragedy to part us forever, like those two young lovers. I threw the book down with a shudder, and extinguishing the lights, retired to my own ‘room. Once within that familiar precinct, my fears gradually faded away. I threw a few additional lumps of coal on the fire, drew up to it my wide arm-chair, and sunk, with a feeling of relief, into its soft embrace. I thought of Gerald, pictured to myself the years of happiness that would yet be ours. I seemed to feel his loving eyes bent on me; my hand in the firm, warm clasp of his, until my waking dreams glided gently into the vivid phantoms of sleep. I was suddenly awakened by a long-drawn sigh.
Kneeling on the hearth-rug, the fire-light flickering over her strongly-marked features, was Cecile. The long, black hair of the Creole hung in heavy masses to the floor; her face, always pale, was now unutterably ghastly; broad, black rings encircled her eyes, which glowed with a restless light.
“Good heavens, Cecile! what is the matter?” I cried, springing to my feet.
