But, though Quirk and Clinton both were found guilty, they faithfully kept their oath, and threw no suspicion upon Arthur. Poor Jeff, who had felt convinced of his guilt, had allowed his secret to die with him, for Guly's sake; Wilkins had rejected any such idea he may have entertained, the moment he saw Arthur that night in bed, and Guly alone was left to his cruel doubts, with the memory of that familiar voice haunting him, always haunting him. CHAPTER XXXIV. "Is there no constancy in earthly things? No happiness in us but what must alter? No life without the heavy load of fortune? What miseries we are, and to ourselves! Even then, when full content sits by us, What daily sores and sorrows!" Beaumont & Fletcher. Mr. Delancey hurried from the court-room to his own house. He said nothing about what had occurred, to his wife, but, stern and silent, took his seat in the breakfast-room, waiting for the morning meal to be served. "Go to Miss Della's room," said he, to a servant, who entered, "and tell her I wish her to fill her place at table this morning." The servant returned in a moment, telling his master that he had knocked loudly, but received no answer, and he could hear no one stirring in the room. "And has Ruth been by the door constantly, as I bade her?" "She has, sir; but says she has heard no sound in the room since the usual hour for retiring last night." "She can't be asleep at this hour," said Mrs. Delancey, looking up from the morning paper. A sudden thought seemed to strike the merchant, and starting to his feet, he hurried away to his daughter's apartment; he knocked, but all was still; he tried the door, but it was locked. "Go," said he, to a servant standing near, "and bring me the brass key lying on my dressing-table; it fits this lock." The key was brought, and Mr. Delancey entered the room, closing the door behind him. All was silence and loneliness around him. He called his daughter's name, there was no responsive voice; he rushed to her sleeping-apartment, but the luxurious couch, unrumpled and unpressed, told it had known no occupant during the night. The balcony, the garden, belonging to her rooms, all were searched, but in vain; and the agonized father threw himself upon the chair Della had so often occupied, with all the terrible truth rushing across his heart. He buried his pallid face in his hands, and _wept_; aye, _wept_ hot, burning tears, from those steady eyes that had never wept for another's woe, and rarely for his own. There was no note, no word, or line, left to tell him of her flight, but he knew all without; and bitter, bitter was the crushing weight upon his mighty pride.