Part 8 (2/2)

”Please, my lady, wake up; I'm afraid you'll catch your death of--”

The words ended in a shriek that rang through the house from end to end--a woman's shrill, ear-splitting shriek. She had laid her hand upon my lady's bosom to arouse her; she s.n.a.t.c.hed it away and sprang back in horror. Asleep! Yes the sleep that knows no waking. Sir Victor Catheron's pretty young wife lay there in the moonlight--dead.

Dead! There is blood on the white dress, blood on the blue shawl, blood on Ellen's hand, blood trickling in a small red stream from under the left breast. Ethel, Lady Catheron, lies there before her in the moonlight stone dead--foully murdered.

CHAPTER VII.

IN THE NURSERY.

She stands for a moment paralyzed--struck dumb by a horror too great for word or cry. Then she rushes to the door, along the pa.s.sages, into the midst of the startled household like a mad creature, shrieking that one most awful word, ”Murder!”

They flock around her, they catch hold of her, and keep her still by main force. They ask her questions, but she only screams still that ghastly word, ”Murder!”

”_Who_ is murdered? Where--what do you mean? Good Lord! young woman,”

cries Mr. Hooper, the butler, giving her a shake, ”do come out of these hysterics if you can, and speak! _Who's_ murdered?”

”My lady! Oh, my lady! my lady! my lady!”

She is like a creature distraught. There is blood on her right hand; she sees it, and with a gasping cry at the grisly sight, and before they know what she is about, she falls down in a faint in their midst.

They lift her up; they look into one another's pale faces.

”My lady!” they repeat, in an awe-struck whisper. ”_Murdered_!”

”Here!” cries Mr. Hooper, his dignity coming to his aid, ”let us investigate this here. Lay this young woman flat on her back on the floor, sprinkle her with water, and let her come to. I'm going to find out what she means.”

They lay poor Ellen stiffly out as directed, some one dashes water into her face, then in a body, with Mr. Hooper at their head, they march off to investigate.

”She was in the day-nursery,” Nurse Pool suggests, in a whisper, and to the day-nursery they go.

On the threshold for a second or two they halt, their courage failing.

But there is nothing very terrifying. Only the solemn moonlight, only the motionless little figure in the arm-chair. And yet a great awe holds them back. Does death--does murder stand grisly in their midst?

”Let us go in, in the name of Providence,” says Mr. Hooper, a tremble in his voice; ”it--it can't be what she says. O good Lord, no!”

They go forward on tiptoe, as if afraid of awakening that quiet sleeper whom only the last trump will ever awake now. They bend above her, holding their breath. Yes, there it is--the blood that is soaking her dress, dripping horribly on the carpet--oozing slowly from that cruel wound.

A gasping, inarticulate sort of groan comes heavily from every lip.

Old Hooper takes her wrist between his shaking fingers. Stilled forever, already with the awful chill of death. In the crystal light of the moon the sweet young face has never looked fairer, calmer, more peaceful than now.

The old butler straightens himself up, ashen gray.

”It's too true,” he says, with a sort of sob. ”O Lord, have mercy on us--it's too true! She's dead! She's murdered!”

He drops the wrist he holds, the little jewelled, dead hand falls limp and heavy. He puts his own hands over his face and sobs aloud:

”Who will tell Sir Victor? O my master! my dear young master!”

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