He laid his hand on the knob, withdrew it, thought he heard some one
in the transe, rushed up the garret stair, and stood listening,
hastened down, and with a sudden influx of determination opened the
door, saw that the trap was raised, closed the door behind him, and
standing with his head on the level of the floor, gazed into the
paradise of Miss St. John's room. To have one peep into such a room
was a kind of salvation to the half-starved nature of the boy. All
before him was elegance, richness, mystery. Womanhood radiated from
everything. A fire blazed in the chimney. A rug of long white wool
lay before it. A little way off stood the piano. Ornaments
sparkled and shone upon the dressing-table. The door of a wardrobe
had swung a little open, and discovered the sombre shimmer of a
black silk dress. Something gorgeously red, a China crape shawl,
hung glowing beyond it. He dared not gaze any longer. He had
already been guilty of an immodesty. He hastened to ascend, and
seated himself at the piano.
Let my reader aid me for a moment with his imagination--reflecting
what it was to a boy like Robert, and in Robert's misery, to open a
door in his own meagre dwelling and gaze into such a room--free to
him. If he will aid me so, then let him aid himself by thinking
that the house of his own soul has such a door into the infinite
beauty, whether he has yet found it or not.
'Just think,' Robert said to himself, 'o' me in sic a place! It's a
pailace.
Pages:
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273