"You must let me go."
"Not until I have told you, Lydia! I am poor, rough--not worthy to
touch you--but I love you with my whole heart and soul, Lydia. You
must let me take care of you. You need me, dear."
Tears overflowed her eyes, quiet, patient tears; but she answered
steadily.
"Can't you see that I--I am different from other women? I have only
one thing to live for. I must go to him.... You had forgotten--him."
In vain he protested, arguing his case with all lover's skill and
ingenuity. She shook her head.
"Sometime you will forgive me that one moment of weakness," she said
sadly. "I was frightened and--tired."
He followed her upstairs in gloomy silence. The old man, she was
telling him hurriedly, would be terrified. She must reassure him; and
tomorrow they would go away together for a long journey. She could
see now that she had made a cruel mistake in bringing him to
Brookville.
But there was no answer in response to her repeated tapping at his
door; and suddenly the remembrance of that stooping shadow came back
to him.
"Let me go in," he said, pushing her gently aside.
The lights, turned high in the quiet room, revealed only emptiness
and disorder; drawers and wardrobes pulled wide, scattered garments
apparently dropped at random on chairs and tables. The carpet, drawn
aside in one corner, disclosed a shallow aperture in the floor, from
which the boards had been lifted.
"Why-- What?" stammered the girl, all the high courage gone from her
face.
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