As I spoke, the horse’s hoofs made a loud clattering noise on the stone-paved verandah outside, and a man’s voice—a young man’s eager voice—called, “Lucy.”
Instantly a chair near the writing-table was pushed back, and some one went quickly to the window—a French one—and bungled for a moment with the fastening. I always had a difficulty with that window myself. Aggie and I were within the bright circle of the firelight, but the rest of the room was dim, and outside the streaming grey sky was spasmodically illuminated by occasional vivid flashes, that lit up the surrounding hills as if it were daylight. The trampling of impatient hoofs, and the rattling of a door-handle, were the only sounds that were audible for a few breathless seconds; but during those seconds Pip, bristling like a porcupine, and trembling violently in every joint, had sprung off my lap and crawled abjectly under Aggie’s chair, seemingly in a transport of fear. The door was opened audibly, and a cold, icy blast swept in, that seemed to freeze my very heart, and made me shiver from head to foot. At this moment there came, with a sinister blue glare, the most vivid flash of lightning I ever saw. It lit up the whole room, which was empty save for ourselves, and was instantly followed by a clap of thunder, that caused my knees to knock together, and that terrified me and filled me with horror. It evidently terrified the horse too; there was a violent plunge, a clattering of hoofs on the stones, a sudden loud crash of smashing timber, a woman’s long, loud, piercing shriek, which stopped the very beating of my heart, and then a frenzied struggle in the cruel, crumbling, treacherous shale, the rattle of loose stones, and the hollow roar of something sliding down the precipice.
I rushed to the door and tore it open, with that awful despairing cry still ringing in my ears. The verandah was empty; there was not a soul to be seen, or a sound to be heard, save the rain on the roof.
“Aggie,” I screamed, “come here! Some one has gone over the verandah, and down the khud! You heard him.”
“Yes,” she said, following me out; “but come in—come in.”
“I believe it was Charlie Chalmers”—shaking her violently as I spoke. “He has been killed—killed—killed! And you stand, and do nothing. Send people! Let us go ourselves! Bearer! Ayah! Khidmatgar!” I cried, raising my voice.
“Hush! It was not Charlie Chalmers,” she said, vainly endeavouring to draw me into the drawing-room. “Come in—come in.”
“No, no!” pushing her away, and wringing my hands. “How cruel you are! How inhuman! There is a path. Let us go at once—at once!”
“You need not trouble yourself, Susan,” she interrupted; “and you need not cry and tremble;—they will bring him up. What you heard was supernatural; it was not real.”
“No—no—no! It was all real. Oh! that scream is in my ears still.”