No haunting ghost could have had less of the energy of life in its
involuntary motions than he, who, nevertheless, went on with the
same measured clockwork tread until the door of his own house was
reached. And then he disappeared, and the latch fell feebly to, and
made a faint and wavering sound, breaking the solemn silence of the
night. Then all again was still.
For a minute or two Jem stood motionless, stunned by the thoughts
which the sight of Mary's father had called up.
Margaret did not know he was at home: had he stolen like a thief
by dead of night into his own dwelling? Depressed as Jem had often
and long seen him, this night there was something different about
him still; beaten down by some inward storm, he seemed to grovel
along, all self-respect lost and gone.
Must he be told of Mary's state? Jem felt he must not; and this for
many reasons. He could not be informed of her illness without many
other particulars being communicated at the same time, of which it
were better he should be kept in ignorance; indeed, of which Mary
herself could alone give the full explanation.
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