Startled, chilled, by the sound, she wondered that she could hear it so

plainly; then she saw that the door opposite was slightly ajar;

evidently the visitor had failed to close it. Celia waited, with the

familiar horror, the tense expectation, for a repetition of the groan.

It came. Obeying an impulse, a womanly impulse, to fly to the call of

such poignant distress, Celia crossed the corridor softly and opened the

door.

By the light of a single candle, she saw the young man seated at a

table; his head was resting, face downward, on one arm; his whole

attitude was eloquent of despair; but it was not this abandonment of

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grief which caused her to thrill with quick terror; it was because the

hand held clenched in its grasp a revolver.

Most women have a horror of firearms; Celia stood motionless, her eyes

fixed on the shining, deadly weapon, as if it were a poisonous snake.

She wanted to cry out, to rush at the beastly thing and snatch it from

the hand that gripped it; but she felt incapable of speech or movement;

she could only stare with distended eyes at the revolver and the head

lying on the arm.

So quick, so noiseless had been her entrance, that the man had not heard

her; but presently, after a few moments which seemed years to her, he

became conscious of her presence. He raised his head slowly and looked

at her with vacant eyes, as if he were half-dazed and were asking

himself if she were a vision. The movement released Celia from her

spell; a pang of pity smote her at the sight of the white, drawn face,

the hopeless despair in the young fellow's eyes; her womanly compassion,

that maternal instinct which the youngest of girl-children possesses,

gave her courage. She leant forward, loosened the stiff, cold fingers

and took the revolver from them. He submitted, as if he were still only

half-conscious of her presence, and her action; and he glanced at his

empty hand, at the revolver in hers, and then at her face. Guided once

more by impulse, Celia closed the door, then went back and seated

herself in a chair on the other side of the table; and so, face to face,

they regarded each other in silence.

The man broke it.

"How--how did you know?" he asked. He spoke almost in a whisper, as a

man speaks who is recovering from an anæsthetic.

"I heard you--groan," said Celia, also almost in a whisper.

"You did?" he said, more clearly, and with disgust. "I must have groaned

pretty loudly." His self-contempt was evident.




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