the echo of a voice, the shutting or opening of doors downstairs, must, on this momentous day, presage some mysterious calamity, some strange discovery, some secret project formed against me, I knew not how, or by whom. Two or three times I found myself listening intently on the staircase, with what object I could hardly tell. It was always, however, on those occasions, that a dread, significant quiet appeared to have fallen suddenly on the house. Clara never came to me, no message arrived from my father; the doorbell seemed strangely silent, the servants strangely neglectful of their duties above stairs. I caught myself returning to my own room softly, as if I expected that some hidden catastrophe might break forth, if sound of my footsteps were heard.
Would my father seek me again in my own room, or would he send for me downstairs? It was not long before the doubt was decided. One of the servants knocked at my door—the servant whose special duty it had been to wait on me in my illness. I longed to take the man’s hand, and implore his sympathy and encouragement while he addressed me.
“My master, Sir, desires me to say that, if you feel well enough, he wishes to see you in his own room.”
I rose, and immediately followed the servant. On our way, we passed the door of Clara’s private sitting-room—it opened, and my sister came out and laid her hand on my arm. She smiled as I looked at her; but the tears stood thick in her eyes, and her face was deadly pale.
“Think of what I said last night, Basil,” she whispered, “and, if hard words are spoken to you, think of me . All that our mother would have done for you, if she had been still among us, I will do. Remember that, and keep heart and hope to the very last.”
She hastily returned to her room, and I went on downstairs. In the hall, the servant was waiting for me, with a letter in his hand.