“Is the captain in there now?”
“For all I know. I did think I heard the door shut, but it might have been my fancy. Good-night, sir. Pleasant dreams.”
Leaving the candle in Saxby’s hands, she returned to her kitchen, which was built out at the back. He halted at the parlour-door to listen. No voices were to be heard then; no sounds.
“Pym may have gone to bed—I dare say his head aches,” thought Saxby: and he opened the door to see whether the parlour was empty.
Why! what was it?—what was the matter? The young man took one startled look around and then put down the candle, his heart leaping into his mouth.
The lamp on the table threw its bright light on the little room. Some scuffle appeared to have taken place in it. A chair was overturned; the ivory ornament with its glass shade had been swept from its stand to the floor: and by its side lay Edward Pym—dead.
Mr. Alfred Saxby, third mate of that good ship, the Rose of Delhi, might be a sufficiently self-possessed individual when encountering sudden surprises at sea; but he certainly did not show himself to be so on shore. When the state of affairs had sufficiently impressed itself on his startled senses, he burst out of the room in mortal terror, shouting out “murder.”
There was nobody in the house to hear him but Mrs. Richenough. She came forward, slightly overcome by drowsiness; but the sight she saw woke her up effectually.
“Good mercy!” cried she, running to the prostrate man. “Is he dead?”