The old man closed his door softly, still without any hesitation, and
Ida, grasping the broad rail of the staircase, waited breathlessly. She
heard him moving about, as leisurely and precisely as before; then all
was still. She stole to the door and opened it; the light was streaming
into the room and fell athwart the bed in which he was lying, his eyes
closed, his face calm and peaceful; she went on tiptoe to the bed and
bent over him, and found that he was in a deep, profound sleep. With a
long breath of relief, she left him, and sat on the stairs and waited;
for it was just possible that he might rise again and resume the
dreadful walk--that motion of death in life.
She waited for an hour, so absorbed in her anxiety that she did not
remember the man she had left outside. After another quarter of an hour
she went to her father's room, and found that he was still sleeping.
Then she remembered Stafford, remembered him with a start of discomfort
and embarrassment. Was he waiting there still? She went down-stairs,
and from the open door-way she saw dimly his figure under the trees.
There was something in the attitude of the erect figure that reminded
her of a soldier on guard, a sentinel standing faithful at his post;
and when she had waved her hand in dismissal she did not quite close
the door, but watched him through the narrow opening as he paced slowly
down the road, looking back at the house now and again as if to see if
she wanted him.
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