Part 105

It was a brace of pistols, hanging near the head of her grandfather’s bed, which he always kept there loaded, as a precaution against possible burglars, the house being very lonely. Eustacia regarded them long, as if they were the page of a book in which she read a new and a strange matter. Quickly, like one afraid of herself, she returned downstairs and stood in deep thought.

“If I could only do it!” she said. “It would be doing much good to myself and all connected with me, and no harm to a single one.”

The idea seemed to gather force within her, and she remained in a fixed attitude nearly ten minutes, when a certain finality was expressed in her gaze, and no longer the blankness of indecision.

She turned and went up the second time—softly and stealthily now—and entered her grandfather’s room, her eyes at once seeking the head of the bed. The pistols were gone.

The instant quashing of her purpose by their absence affected her brain as a sudden vacuum affects the body—she nearly fainted. Who had done this? There was only one person on the premises besides herself. Eustacia involuntarily turned to the open window which overlooked the garden as far as the bank that bounded it. On the summit of the latter stood Charley, sufficiently elevated by its height to see into the room. His gaze was directed eagerly and solicitously upon her.

She went downstairs to the door and beckoned to him.

“You have taken them away?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Why did you do it?”

“I saw you looking at them too long.”

“What has that to do with it?”

“You have been heart-broken all the morning, as if you did not want to live.”

“Well?”

“And I could not bear to leave them in your way. There was meaning in your look at them.”

“Where are they now?”

“Locked up.”

“Where?”

“In the stable.”

“Give them to me.”

“No, ma’am.”

“You refuse?”

“I do. I care too much for you to give ’em up.”

She turned aside, her face for the first time softening from the stony immobility of the earlier day, and the corners of her mouth resuming something of that delicacy of cut which was always lost in her moments of despair. At last she confronted him again.

“Why should I not die if I wish?” she said tremulously. “I have made a bad bargain with life, and I am weary of it—weary. And now you have hindered my escape. O, why did you, Charley! What makes death painful except the thought of others’ grief?—and that is absent in my case, for not a sigh would follow me!”

“Ah, it is trouble that has done this! I wish in my very soul that he who brought it about might die and rot, even if ’tis transportation to say it!”

“Charley, no more of that. What do you mean to do about this you have seen?”

“Keep it close as night, if you promise not to think of it again.”

“You need not fear. The moment has passed. I promise.” She then went away, entered the house, and lay down.