Appalled, she stood and listened.
Presently there came a sound of footsteps on the stairs and a heavy
muffled noise as of some dead weight being dragged down the staircase
and along the passage. Then she heard the hall door cautiously opened
and shut. And, finally, she distinguished the sound of wheels rolling
away from the house.
Unable longer to restrain herself, she rapped and beat upon her own
door, crying aloud for deliverance.
Presently the bolt was withdrawn, the door jerked open and Dorcas
Knight, with a face of horror, stood before her.
"What is the matter! Who was that screaming? In the name of mercy, what
has happened?" cried Clara, shrinking in abhorrence from the ghastly
woman.
"Hush! it is nothing! There were two tomcats screaming and fighting in
the attic, and they fought all the way downstairs, rolling over and
over each other. I've just turned them out," faltered the woman,
shivering as with an ague fit.
"What--what was that--that went away in the carriage?" asked Clara
shuddering.
"The colonel, gone to meet the early stage at Tip-Top, to take him to
Washington. He would have taken leave of you last night, but when he
came to your parlor you had left it."
"But--but--there is blood upon your hand, Dorcas Knight!" cried Clara,
shaking with horror.
"I--I know; the cats scratched me as I put them out," stammered the
stern woman, trembling almost as much as Clara herself.
These answers failed to satisfy the young girl, who shrank in terror
and loathing from that woman's presence, and sought the privacy of her
own chamber, murmuring: "What has happened? What has been done? Oh, heaven! oh, heaven! have
mercy on us! some dreadful deed has been done in this house to-night!"
There was no more sleep for Clara. She heard the clock strike every
hour from one to six in the morning, when she arose and dressed herself
and went from her room, expecting to see upon the floor and walls and
upon the faces of the household signs of some dreadful tragedy enacted
upon the previous night.
But all things were as usual--the same dark, gloomy and neglected
magnificence about the rooms and passages, the same reserved, sullen
and silent aspect about the persons.
Dorcas Knight presided as usual at the head of the breakfast table, and
Craven Le Noir at the foot. Clara sat in her accustomed seat at the
side, midway between them.
Clara shuddered in taking her cup of coffee from the hand of Dorcas,
and declined the wing of fowl that Craven Le Noir would have put upon
her plate.