Her father's door was shut, and he could be heard
snoring regularly. The light came from Stephen's room, and the
slight sounds also coming thence emphatically denoted what he was
doing. In the perfect silence she could hear the closing of a lid
and the clicking of a lock,--he was fastening his hat-box. Then
the buckling of straps and the click of another key,--he was
securing his portmanteau. With trebled foreboding she opened her
door softly, and went towards his. One sensation pervaded her to
distraction. Stephen, her handsome youth and darling, was going
away, and she might never see him again except in secret and in
sadness--perhaps never more. At any rate, she could no longer
wait till the morning to hear the result of the interview, as she
had intended. She flung her dressing-gown round her, tapped
lightly at his door, and whispered 'Stephen!' He came instantly,
opened the door, and stepped out.
'Tell me; are we to hope?'
He replied in a disturbed whisper, and a tear approached its
outlet, though none fell.
'I am not to think of such a preposterous thing--that's what he
said. And I am going to-morrow. I should have called you up to
bid you good-bye.'
'But he didn't say you were to go--O Stephen, he didn't say that?'
'No; not in words. But I cannot stay.'
'Oh, don't, don't go! Do come and let us talk. Let us come down
to the drawing-room for a few minutes; he will hear us here.
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