Cobwebs and Cables | Page 6

for
them.
"Where is Mr. Sefton?" he asked in a deep, hoarse voice; "is he at home,
Madame?"
Ever since the elder Mr. Sefton had brought his young foreign wife
home, now more than thirty years ago, the people of Riversborough
had called her Madame, giving to her no other title or surname. It had
always seemed to set her apart, and at a distance, as a foreigner, and so
quiet had she been, so homely and domesticated, that she had remained
a stranger, keeping her old habits of life and thought, and often
yearning for the old pastor's home among the Jura Mountains.
"But yes," she answered, "my son is late this morning; but all the world
is early, I think. It is not much beyond nine o'clock, Mr. Acton. The
bank is not open yet."
"No, no," he answered hurriedly, while his eyes wandered restlessly
about the room; "he is not ill, Madame?"
"I hope so not," she replied, with some vague uneasiness stirring in her
heart.

"Nor dead?" he muttered.
"Dead!" exclaimed both Madame and Phebe in one breath; "dead!"
"All men die," he went on, "and it is a pleasant thing to lie down
quietly in one's own grave, where the wicked cease from troubling, and
the weary are at rest. He could rest soundly in the grave."
"I will go and see," cried Madame, catching Phebe by the arm.
"Pray God you may find him dead," he answered, with a low, miserable
laugh, ending in a sob. He was mad; neither Madame nor Phebe had a
doubt of it. They put the children before them, and bade them run away
to the nursery, while they followed up the broad old staircase. Madame
went into her son's bedroom; but in a few seconds she returned to
Phebe with an anxious face.
"He is not there," she said, "nor Felicita. She is in her own sitting-room,
where she likes not to be followed. It is her sacred place, and I go there
never, Phebe."
"But she knows where Mr. Sefton is," answered Phebe, "and we must
ask her. We cannot leave poor Mr. Acton alone. If nobody else dare
disturb her, I will."
"She will not be vexed with you," said Madame Sefton. "Knock at this
door, Phebe; knock till she answers. I am miserable about my son."
Several times Phebe knocked, more loudly each time, until at last a low
voice, sounding far away, bade them go in. Very quietly, as if indeed
they were stepping into some holy place barefooted, they crossed the
threshold.
CHAPTER III.
FELICITA.
The room was a small one, with a dim, many-colored light pervading it;

for the upper part of the mullioned casement was filled with painted
glass, and even the panes of the lower part were of faintly tinted green.
Like all the rest of the old house, the walls were wainscoted, but here
there was no piece of china or silver to sparkle; the only glitter was that
of the gilding on the handsomely bound books arranged in two
bookcases. In this green gloom sat Felicita Sefton, leaning back in her
chair, with her head resting languidly on the cushions, and her dark
eyes turned dimly and dreamily toward the quietly opening door.
"Phebe Marlowe!" she said, her eyes brightening a little, as the fresh,
sweet face of the young country girl met her gaze. Phebe stepped softly
forward into the dim room, and laid the finest of the golden flowers she
had gathered that morning upon Felicita's lap. It brought a gleam of
spring sunshine into the gloom which caught Felicita's eye, and she
uttered a low cry of delight as she took it up in her small, delicate hand.
Phebe stooped down shyly and kissed the small hand, her face all
aglow with smiles and blushes.
"Felicita," said Madame, her voice altering a little, "where is my son
this morning?"
"Roland!" she repeated absently; "Roland? Didn't he say last night he
was going to London?"
"To London!" exclaimed his mother.
"Yes," she answered, "he bade me good-by last night; I remember now.
He said he would not disturb me again; he was going by the mail-train.
He was sorry to be away on poor little Felix's birthday. I recollect quite
distinctly now."
"He said not one word to me," said Madame. "It is strange."
"Very strange," asserted Felicita languidly, as if she were wandering
away again into the reverie they had broken in upon.
"Did he say when he would be back?" asked his mother.

"In a few days, of course," she answered.
"But he has not told Acton," resumed Madame.
"Who did you say?" inquired Felicita.
"The head clerk, the manager when Roland is away," she said. "He has
not said anything to him."
"Very strange," said Felicita