RODERICK HUDSON
Mary's hand on his arm. He imputed for a moment a meaning to it, some attenuation of her vain challenge, an assurance that she accepted, for Roderick, whatever he thought probable. But, nevertheless, thought Rowland, the cry had come, her passion had spoken; her first impulse had been to sacrifice him. He had been uncertain before; here at least was the comfort of certainty.
It must be confessed, however, that the certainty did little to enliven the gloom of that formidable evening. There was a noisy crowd everywhere — noisy even beyond the uproar without; lodgers and servants, chattering, shuffling, bustling, vociferating; breaking in, as he felt, upon the dignity of the storm. It was some time, in the confusion, before a lamp was lighted, and the first thing it showed him when swung from the ceiling was the closed eyes of Mrs. Hudson, carried away in a faint by two stout maid-servants and with Mary Garland forcing a passage. He rendered what help he could, but when they had laid their companion on her bed Mary motioned him away.
"I think you make her worse," was all the girl's comment.
He could but betake himself then to his own room. The partitions in Swiss mountain-inns are thin, and he heard Mrs. Hudson's wail three doors away. The rage of the weather, for all its violence, was slow to abate; it held its own for two lone hours. With the drop of the thunder the rush of water continued, and night had come on impenetrably black. Rowland thought of Mary Garland's question in the porch,
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