“Who knows but that he may be dying with no one near to help him?”
How terrible is remorse! Catherine, during those moments of suspense, suffered untold anguish, and when at last she could endure it no longer, she snatched up her wrap and rushed out into the night. The clock tinkled four as she closed the door behind her. Possessed with the one idea of finding her husband, she hurried on, but just as she entered the wood she heard a loud reverberating report.
“O God! I am too late!” cried the distracted woman, as she fell on her knees like a sobbing suppliant. Soon, however, she recovered herself in a measure, but instead of flying to Savin’s side, her one thought was to get home as rapidly as possible.
“They must find me alone and asleep,” she murmured, “when they come to break the news.”
In her confusion it did not occur to her that Savin might be only wounded and that immediate relief might save him. Nor did she dream that anybody could have seen her leave the house—only to return precipitately after the shot was fired, and lock the door, which all night had remained unlocked, behind her.
Mounting the staircase she entered her bed-room and prepared for bed. But her every nerve was on the alert. The ticking of the little clock on the mantelpiece sounded like a cannon in her ears. What a dreadful suspense! Would they never come? In a waiting, listening attitude she seated herself by the window.
“Do I hear footsteps on the walk?” she asked herself. “No, it is only the beating of my heart.”
A death-like soundlessness prevailed.
“Oh, what a demon is that Firmin! I would kill him if he stood before me now,” she exclaimed.
Five o’clock sounded.