Why does he not come up?
Why not go down and see?
Though the entry-ways and the stairs were lighted, it seemed a frightful undertaking to traverse them as far as the library. Still she would do it. She darted out, placed her hand on the broad black-walnut balustrade, and stepped slowly down,—down,—down the broad, low, thickly carpeted stairs.
At last she stood on one of the spacious square landings.
What terrible silence! Not even the rattle of an early milk-cart through the streets! Heavenly Powers! Why this unaccountable pressure, as of some horrid incubus, upon her mind, so that every thought as it wandered, try as she might to control it, would stop short at a tomb? She recoiled. She drew back a step or two up,—up the stairs. And then, at that very moment, there was a dull, smothered, explosive sound which smote like a hand on her heart. She sank powerless on the stairs, and sat there for some minutes, gasping, horror-stricken, helpless.
Then rallying her strength she rushed up three flights to the room of Fletcher, the man-servant, and bade him dress quickly and come to her. He obeyed, and the two descended to the library.
Through the glass window of the door the gas shone brightly. Fletcher entered first; and his cry of alarm told the whole tragic tale. Mrs. Charlton followed, gave one look, and fell senseless on the floor.
Leaning back in his arm-chair,—his head erect,—his eyes open and staring,—sat Charlton. On his white vest a crimson stain was beginning to spread and spread, and, higher up, the cloth was blackened as if by fire. The vase-like ornament which had attracted Pompilard’s attention on the library table had been drawn forth from its socket, and the pistol it concealed having been discharged, it lay on the floor, while Charlton’s right hand, as it hung over the arm of the chair, pointed to the deadly weapon as if in mute accusation of its instrumentality.
CHAPTER XLVII.
AN AUTUMNAL VISIT.
“Why linger, why turn back, why shrink, my heart?