During the night, I had arranged no plan on which to conduct the terrible disclosure which I was now bound to make—­the greatness of the emergency deprived me of all power of preparing myself for it.  I thought on my father’s character, on the inbred principles of honour which ruled him with the stern influence of a fanaticism:  I thought on his pride of caste, so unobtrusive, so rarely hinted at in words, and yet so firmly rooted in his nature, so intricately entwined with every one of his emotions, his aspirations, his simplest feelings and ideas:  I thought on his almost feminine delicacy in shrinking from the barest mention of impurities which other men could carelessly discuss, or could laugh over as good material for an after-dinner jest.  I thought over all this, and when I remembered that it was to such a man that I must confess the infamous marriage which I had contracted in secret, all hope from his fatherly affection deserted me; all idea of appealing to his chivalrous generosity became a delusion in which it was madness to put a moment’s trust.

The faculties of observation are generally sharpened, in proportion as the faculties of reflection are dulled, under the influence of an absorbing suspense.  While I now waited alone in my room, the most ordinary sounds and events in the house, which I never remembered noticing before, absolutely enthralled me.  It seemed as if the noise of a footstep, the echo of a voice, the shutting or opening of doors down stairs, must, on this momentous day, presage some mysterious calamity, some strange discovery, some secret project formed against me, I knew not how, or by whom.  Two or three times I found myself listening intently on the staircase, with what object I could hardly tell.  It was always, however, on those occasions, that a dread, significant quiet appeared to have fallen suddenly on the house.  Clara never came to me, no message arrived from my father; the door-bell seemed strangely silent, the servants strangely neglectful of their duties above stairs.  I caught myself returning to my own room softly, as if I expected that some hidden catastrophe might break forth, if sound of my footsteps were heard.

Would my father seek me again in my own room, or would he send for me down stairs?  It was not long before the doubt was decided.  One of the servants knocked at my door—­the servant whose special duty it had been to wait on me in my illness.  I longed to take the man’s hand, and implore his sympathy and encouragement while he addressed me.

“My master, Sir, desires me to say that, if you feel well enough, he wishes to see you in his own room.”

I rose, and immediately followed the servant.  On our way, we passed the door of Clara’s private sitting-room—­it opened, and my sister came out and laid her hand on my arm.  She smiled as I looked at her; but the tears stood thick in her eyes, and her face was deadly pale.

“Think of what I said last night, Basil,” she whispered, “and, if hard words are spoken to you, think of me. All that our mother would have done for you, if she had been still among us, I will do.  Remember that, and keep heart and hope to the very last.”