"I--I wish it," added he.
Straightway with hasty foot I left the room. Going to the little
closet where I had ordered his wife to remain concealed, I knocked
and entered. She was crouched in an attitude of prayer on the floor,
her face buried in her hands, and her whole person breathing that
agony of suspense that is a torture to the sensitive soul.
"Mrs. Blake," said I, dismissing the landlady who stood in helpless
distress beside her, "the arrest has been satisfactorily made and
your father calls for you to say good-bye before going away with us.
Will you come?"
"But my--my--Mr. Blake?" exclaimed she leaping to her feet. "I am
sure I heard his footstep in the hall?"
"He is with your father and brother. It was at his command I came for
you."
A gleam hard to interpret flashed for an instant over her face. With
her eye on the door she towered in her womanly dignity, while
thoughts innumerable seemed to rush in wild succession through her
mind.
"Will you not come?" I urged.
"I--," she paused. "I will go see my father," she murmured, "but--"
Suddenly she trembled and drew back; a step was in the hall, on the
threshold, at her side; Mr. Blake had come to reclaim his bride.
"Mr. Blake!"
The word came from her in a low tone shaken with the concentrated
anguish of many a month of longing and despair, but there was no
invitation in its sound, and he who had held out his arms, stopped
and surveying her with a certain deprecatory glance in his proud eye,
said,
"You are right; I have first my acknowledgments to make and your
forgiveness to ask before I can hope--"
"No, no," she broke in, "your coming here is enough, I request no
more.
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