"Nonsense, Rosamond!" interrupted Mr. Torrens, cruelly agitated: "you see that he has taken a drop too much—he is a good well meaning fellow—and will be very sorry in the morning——"
"Sorry! why the devil should I be sorry?" cried Jeffreys, with the dogged insolence of inebriation. "I don't know what I've got to be sorry for——"
"Come, come," said Mr. Torrens, gently pushing his daughter aside, and approaching the man-servant in a coaxing, conciliatory way; "this is carrying the thing too far, John——"
"Well—well, we can talk it over in the morning, Miss—and I dare say we shall make matters right enough together," stammered the drunken hind, as he allowed himself to be led away from the chamber by Mr. Torrens. "You're a pretty gal—and if I said anythink amiss——"
The almost maddened father hurried him over the threshold, and Rosamond hastened to secure the door behind them both.
Then flinging herself into a chair, she exclaimed, "My God! what horrors have met my ears this night! Misfortunes—crimes—woes—fears—outrages have entered the house, like an army carrying desolation along with it! But my father—a murderer—Oh! heavens—no—no—it cannot be! And yet that dread accusation—so cool—so systematic——my God! my God!"
And she wept as if her heart would break.
From this painful—or rather most agonising condition of mind, she was aroused by a low knock at her door; and, in answer to her question who was there, the voice of her father replied.
She hastened to admit him;—but, as he entered, she started back, appalled by the ghastliness of his countenance, every lineament of which denoted horror and fearful emotions.
"Father, tell me all—keep me not in suspense—let me know the worst!" exclaimed Rosamond, clasping her hands in an imploring manner. "Dreadful things have happened, I am sure—and my brain is reeling, maddening!"