He ceased laughing; the fit passed—­indeed it was no laughing matter.  Then he thought of the first night of their strange communion, that night before he had returned to London.  The seed sown in that hour had blossomed and borne fruit indeed.  Who would have dreamed it possible that he should thus have drawn Beatrice to him?  Well, he ought to have known.  If it was possible that the words which floated through her mind could arise in his as they had done upon that night, what was not possible?  And were there not other words, written by the same master-hand, which told of such things as these: 

     “‘Now—­now,’ the door is heard;
     Hark, the stairs! and near—­
     Nearer—­and here—­
     ‘Now’! and at call the third,
     She enters without a word.

     Like the doors of a casket shrine,
     See on either side,
     Her two arms divide
     Till the heart betwixt makes sign,
     ‘Take me, for I am thine.’

     First, I will pray.  Do Thou
     That ownest the soul,
     Yet wilt grant control
     To another, nor disallow
     For a time, restrain me now!”

Did they not run thus?  Oh, he should have known!  This he could plead, and this only—­that control had been granted to him.

But how would Beatrice fare?  Would she come to herself safely?  He thought so, it was only a fainting fit.  But when she did recover, what would she do?  Nothing rash, he prayed.  And what could be the end of it all?  Who might say?  How fortunate that the sister had been so sound asleep.  Somehow he did not trust Elizabeth—­he feared her.

Well might Geoffrey fear her!  Elizabeth’s sleep was that of a weasel.  She too was laughing at this very moment, laughing, not loud but long—­the laugh of one who wins.

She had seen him enter, his burden in his arms; saw him come with it to her own bedside, and had breathed heavily to warn him of his mistake.  She had watched him put Beatrice on her bed, and heard him sigh and turn away; nothing had escaped her.  As soon as he was gone, she had risen and crept up to Beatrice, and finding that she was only in a faint had left her to recover, knowing her to be in no danger.  Elizabeth was not a nervous person.  Then she had listened till at length a deep sigh told her of the return of her sister’s consciousness.  After this there was a pause, till presently Beatrice’s long soft breaths showed that she had glided from swoon to sleep.

The slow night wore away, and at length the cold dawn crept through the window.  Elizabeth still watching, for she was not willing to lose a single scene of a drama so entrancing in itself and so important to her interests, saw her sister suddenly sit up in bed and press her hands to her forehead, as though she was striving to recall a dream.  Then Beatrice covered her eyes with her hands and groaned heavily.  Next she looked at her watch, rose, drank a glass of water, and dressed herself, even to the putting on of an old grey waterproof with a hood to it, for it was wet outside.