Cobwebs and Cables | Page 4

Never to see her again was horrible; but to see her
shrink from him as a base and dishonest man, his name an infamy to
her, would be worse than death. Did she love him enough to forgive a
sin committed chiefly for her sake? In the depths of his own soul the
answer was no.
He stole down stairs again, and passed out by a side door into the
streets. It was raining heavily, and the wind was moaning through the
deserted thoroughfares, where no sound of footsteps could be heard.
Behind him lay his pleasant home, never so precious as at this moment.
He looked up at the windows, the two faintly lit up, and that other
darkened window of the chamber he had not dared to enter. In a few
hours those women, so unutterably dear to him, would be overwhelmed
by the great sorrow he had prepared for them; those children would
become the inheritors of his sin. He looked back longingly and
despairingly, as if there only was life for him; and then hurrying on
swiftly he lost sight of the old home, and felt as a drowning wretch at
sea feels when the heaving billows hide from him the glimmering light
of the beacon, which, however, can offer no harbor of refuge to him.

CHAPTER II.
PHEBE MARLOWE.
Though the night had been stormy, the sun rose brightly on the
rain-washed streets, and the roofs and walls stood out with a peculiar
clearness, and with a more vivid color than usual, against the deep blue
of the sky. It was May-day, and most hearts were stirred with a pleasant
feeling as of a holiday; not altogether a common day, though the shops
were all open, and business was going on as usual. The old be-thought
themselves of the days when they had gone a-Maying; and the young
felt less disposed to work, and were inclined to wander out in search of
May-flowers in the green meadows, or along the sunny banks of the
river, which surrounded the town. Early, very early considering the ten
miles she had ridden on her rough hill-pony, came a young country girl
across one of the ancient bridges, with a large market-basket on her arm,
brimful of golden May-flowers, set off well by their own glossy leaves,
and by the dark blue of her dress. She checked her pony and lingered
for a few minutes, looking over the parapet at the swift rushing of the
current through the narrow arches. A thin line of alders grew along the
margin of the river, with their pale green leaves half unfolded; and in
the midst of the swirling waters, parting them into two streams, lay a
narrow islet on which tall willow wands were springing, with soft,
white buds on every rod, and glistening in the sunshine. Not far away a
lofty avenue of lime-trees stretched along the banks, casting wavering
shadows on the brown river; while beyond it, on the summit of one of
the hills on which the town was built, there rose the spires of two
churches built close together, with the gilded crosses on their tapering
points glittering more brightly than anything else in the joyous light.
For a little while the girl gazed dreamily at the landscape, her color
coming and going quickly, and then with a deep-drawn sigh of delight
she roused herself and her pony, and passed on into the town.
The church clocks struck nine as she turned into Whitefriars Road, the
street where the old bank of Riversborough stood. The houses on each
side of the broad and quiet street were handsome, old-fashioned
dwelling-places, not one of which had as yet been turned into a shop.

The most eminent lawyers and doctors lived in it; and there was more
than one frontage which displayed a hatchment, left to grow faded and
discolored long after the year of mourning was ended. Here too was the
judge's residence, set apart for his occupation during the assizes. But
the old bank was the most handsome and most ancient of all those
urban mansions. It had originally stood alone on the brow of the hill
overlooking the river and the Whitefriars Abbey. Toward the street,
when Ronald Sefton's forefathers had realized a fortune by banking,
now a hundred years ago, there had been a new frontage built to it, with
the massive red brick workmanship and tall narrow windows of the
eighteenth century. But on the river side it was still an old Elizabethan
mansion, with gabled roofs standing boldly up against the sky; and low
broad casements, latticed and filled with lozenge-shaped panes; and
half-timber walls, with black beams fashioned into many forms: and
with one story jutting out beyond that below, until the attic window
under