Even now his face seemed serene enough; it jerked softly this way and
that, up the street and down again; then once more settled down to
stare across the road at the grey and silver pile beyond the trees.
Yet even he saw nothing there beyond what the landlord had seen. It
stood there, uncrossed by lights or footsteps or sounds, keeping its
secret well, even from him who knew what it contained.
Yet to the watcher the place was as sinister as a prison. Behind the
solemn walls and the superficial flash of the windows, beneath the
silence and the serenity, lay a life more terrible than death, engaged
now in some drama of which he could not guess the issue. A conflict
was proceeding there, more silent than the silence itself. Two souls
fought for one against a foe of unknown strength and unguessed
possibilities. The servants slept apart, and the old mistress apart,
yet in one of those rooms (and he did not know which) a battle was
locked of which the issue was more stupendous than that of any
struggle with disease. Yet he could do nothing to help, except what he
already did, with his fingers twisting and gripping a string of beads
beneath the window-sill. Such a battle as this must be fought by
picked champions; and since the priesthood in this instance could not
help, a girl's courage and love must take its place.
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