At the foot of the staircase she stopped again; her heart drummed in her
ears, as she listened intently with parted lips. There was a profound
silence; the lamp on the stairs had not been lighted, and the terrace
window only let in a pale glimmer.
It was horrible to her! this secret presence of incarnate pain that
brooded somewhere in the house, this silence of living anguish, worse
than death a thousand times!
Where was he? What would it look like? Even a scream somewhere would have
relieved her, and snapped the tension of the listening stillness that lay
on her like a shocking nightmare. This lobby with its well-known
doors--the banister on which her fingers rested--the well of the
staircase up which she stared with dilated eyes--all was familiar; and
yet, somewhere in the shadows overhead lurked this formidable Presence of
pain, mute, anguished, terrifying....
She longed to run back, to shriek for help; but she dared not: and stood
panting. She went up a couple of steps--stopped, listened to the sick
thumping of her heart--took another step and stopped again; and so,
listening, peering, hesitating, came to the head of the stairs.
Ah! there was the door, with a line of light beneath it. It was there
that the horror dwelt. She stared at the thin bright line; waited and
listened again for even a moan or a sigh from within, but none came.
Then with a great effort she stepped forward and tapped.
There was no answer; but as she listened she heard from within the gentle
tinkle of some liquid running into a bowl, rhythmically, and with pauses.
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