THE HOUSE-MAID'S FACE.
ALL was quiet at Thorpe Ambrose. The hall was solitary， the rooms were dark. The servants， waiting for the supper hour in the garden at the back of the house， looked up at the clear heaven and the rising moon， and agreed that there was little prospect of the return of the picnic party until later in the night. The general opinion， led by the high authority of the cook， predicted that they might all sit down to supper without the least fear of being disturbed by the bell. Having arrived at this conclusion， the servants assembled round the table， and exactly at the moment when they sat down the bell rang.
The footman， wondering， went up stairs to open the door， and found to his astonishment Midwinter waiting alone on the threshold， and looking (in the servant's opinion) miserably ill.
He asked for a light， and， saying he wanted nothing else， withdrew at once to his room. The footman went back to his fellow-servants， and reported that something had certainly happened to his master's friend.
On entering his room， Midwinter closed the door， and hurriedly filled a bag with the necessaries for traveling. This done， he took from a locked drawer， and placed in the breast pocket of his coat， some little presents which Allan had given him--a cigar case， a purse， and a set of studs in plain gold. Having possessed himself of these memorials， he snatched up the bag and laid his hand on the door. There， for the first time， he paused. There， the headlong haste of all his actions thus far suddenly ceased， and the hard despair in his face began to soften： he waited， with the door in his hand.
Up to that moment he had been conscious of but one motive that animated him， but one purpose that he was resolute to achieve.
"For Allan's sake！" he had said to himself， when he looked back toward the fatal landscape and saw his friend leaving him to meet the woman at the pool. "For Allan's sake！" he had said again， when he crossed the open country beyond the wood， and saw afar， in the gray twilight， the long line of embankment and the distant glimmer of the railway lamps beckoning him away already to the iron road.
It was only when he now paused before he closed the door behind him--it was only when his own impetuous rapidity of action came for the first time to a check， that the nobler nature of the man rose in protest against the superstitious despair which was hurrying him from all that he held dear. His conviction of the terrible necessity of leaving Allan for Allan's good had not been shaken for an instant since he had seen the first Vision of the Dream realized on the shores of the Mere. But now， for the first time， his own heart rose against him in unanswerable rebuke. "Go， if you must and will！ but remember the time when you were ill， and he sat by your bedside； friendless， and he opened his heart to you--and write， if you fear to speak； write and ask him to forgive you， before you leave him forever！"The half-opened door closed again softly. Midwinter sat down at the writing-table and took up the pen.
He tried again and again， and yet again， to write the farewell words； he tried， till the floor all round him was littered with torn sheets of paper. Turn from them which way he would， the old times still came back and faced him reproachfully. The spacious bed-chamber in which he sat， narrowed， in spite of him， to the sick usher誷 garret at the west-country inn. The kind hand that had once patted him on the shoulder touched him again； the kind voice that had cheered him spoke unchangeably in the old friendly tones. He flung his arms on the table and dropped his head on them in tearless despair. The parting words that his tongue was powerless to utter his pen was powerless to write. Mercilessly in earnest， his superstition pointed to him to go while the time was his own. Mercilessly in earnest， his love for Allan held him back till the farewell plea for pardon and pity was written.
He rose with a sudden resolution， and rang for the servant， "When Mr. Armadale returns，" he said， "ask him to excuse my coming downstairs， and say that I am trying to get to sleep." He locked the door and put out the light， and sat down alone in the darkness. "The night will keep us apart，" he said； "and time may help me to write. I may go in the early morning； I may go while--" The thought died in him uncompleted； and the sharp agony of the struggle forced to his lips the first cry of suffering that had escaped him yet.
He waited in the darkness.
As the time stole on， his senses remained mechanically awake， but his mind began to sink slowly under the heavy strain that had now been laid on it for some hours past. A dull vacancy possessed him； he made no attempt to kindle the light and write once more.
He never started； he never moved to the open window， when the first sound of approaching wheels broke in on the silence of the night. He heard the carriages draw up at the door； he heard the horses champing their bits； he heard the voices of Allan and young Pedgift on the steps； and still he sat quiet in the darkness， and still no interest was aroused in him by the sounds that reached his ear from outside.
The voices remained audible after the carriages had been driven away； the two young men were evidently lingering on the steps before they took leave of each other. Every word they said reached Midwinter through the open window. Their one subject of conversation was the new governess. Allan's voice was loud in her praise. He had never passed such an hour of delight in his life as the hour he had spent with Miss Gwilt in the boat， on the way from Hurle Mere to the picnic party waiting at the other Broad.
Agreeing， on his side， with all that his client said in praise of the charming stranger， young Pedgift appeared to treat the subject， when it fell into his hands， from a different point of view. Miss Gwilt's attractions had not so entirely absorbed his attention as to prevent him from noticing the impression which the new governess had produced on her employer and her pupil.