Half-Past Seven
“I would it were midnight, Hal, and all well.”
The library was dim; Bertram, who had felt the oppressive influence of the great empty room, had turned down the lights, and was now engaged in pacing the floor, with restless and uneven steps, asking himself a hundred questions, and wishing with all the power of his soul, that Mr. Sylvester would return, and by his appearance cut short a suspense that was fast becoming unendurable.
He had just returned from his third visit to the front door, when the curtain between him and the hall was gently raised, and Paula glided in and stood before him. She was dressed for the street, and her face where the light touched it, shone like marble upon which has fallen the glare of a lifted torch.
“Paula!” burst from the young man’s lips in surprise.
“Hush!” said she, her voice quavering with an emotion that put to defiance all conventionalities, “I want you to take me to the place where Mr. Sylvester is gone. He is in danger; I know it, I feel it. I dare not leave him any longer alone. I might be able to save him if—if he meditates anything that—” she did not try to say what, but drew nearer to Bertram and repeated her request. “You will take me, won’t you?”
He eyed her with amazement, and a shudder seized his own strong frame. “No,” cried he, “I cannot take you; you do not know what you ask; but I will go myself if you apprehend anything serious. I remember where it is. I studied the address too closely, to readily forget it.”