“Now, Mrs. Holl, I will go up and call Carry. How astonished she will be when I tell her its half-past nine, and breakfast's ready!”
Stephen Walker was away two or three minutes and then returned, looking white and scared. He sat down in a chair, trembling in every limb.
“What is the matter, Mr. Walker?”
“I don't know, Mrs. Holl; I have knocked, and knocked, and I cannot make her hear.”
“I dare say she's sleeping sound,” Mrs. Holl said; “she's not been looking well of late; shall I go up and wake her?”
Stephen Walker made a gesture of assent, and Mrs. Holl went upstairs to Carry's room. She knocked at first gently, and then more loudly. There was no answer. Mrs. Holl was not a nervous woman, but she felt frightened—she did not know of what. The fear of Stephen Walker had infected her, and this strange silence made her as timid as he had been. She tried the handle to see if the door was locked. It was not; the door yielded to her touch, but it was with a nervous trembling that Mrs. Holl pushed the door open, and entered. What she had expected to see—what she was afraid of—she knew not, but no sight could have affected her so much, not even the sight of the girl dead in her bed, as did that deserted room, that unused bed, that letter lying upon the table. Mrs. Holl saw the truth at once, and as she thought of Carry, thought of the old man downstairs, she sat down, and began to cry. Presently she heard a step on the stairs. What should she say? how should she break it to him? She hurried out and met him outside the door.
“Don't go in, don't go in; come downstairs, and I will tell you all about it.”
“Is she——?”
He did not finish the question—indeed he had scarcely uttered the words, but Mrs. Holl guessed them by the movement of his lips.
“No, she's not dead; she's not, indeed. Please, go down——”