She was still in the act of devotion, when the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps caused her to start suddenly from her knees. A man ran past at full speed, then another, and another: then a group of women without hats and shawls, running and calling to one another. What could all this mean, at that still hour of night, and in that lonely place?
Clary's heart beat tumultuously. She rushed to the garden gate, that opened from the lawn into the main road. She called aloud to one of the retreating figures to stop and inform her what was the matter. Why they were abroad at that late hour, and whither they were going? No one slackened their speed, or stayed one moment to answer her enquires. At length an old man, tired and out of breath, came panting along; one whom Clary knew, and springing into the road she intercepted his path.
"Ralph Hilton, what is the matter? Is there a fire in the neighborhood? Where are you all going?"
"Up to the Hall, Miss Clary. Dear, dear, have you not heard the news? The old man has been murdered. Murdered by his son. Alack, alack, 'tis a desperate piece of wickedness! The coroner is up at the old cottage, sitting upon the body, and I want to get a sight of the murdered man, like the rest of 'un."
"Who is it you mean? Who has been murdered?" gasped out the terrified girl.
"Why old Squire Hurdlestone. He has been shot dead by his own son—that young chap who has been staying here so long. They have got him safe, though. And by this time he must be in jail. Oh, I hope they will hang 'un. But hanging is too good. He should be burnt alive."
And here the old man hobbled on, eager to get a sight of the frightful spectacle, and to hear all the news from the fountain head.
The first blush of the red dawn was glowing in the east; but Clary still remained in the same attitude, with her hand resting upon the half-open gate, her eyes fixed on vacancy, her lips apart, a breathing image of despair. The stage coach from —— drove briskly up. A gentleman sprang from the top of the vehicle. A portmanteau was flung down to him by the guard.—"All right," and the horses were again at full gallop.
"Clary, dear Clary, who would have thought of your being up so early to meet me?"
That voice seemed to recall the wandering spirit of the pale girl back to its earthly tabernacle. With a long wild cry, she flung herself into her brother's arms. "Hide me in your heart, Frederic, hide me from myself. I am sick and weary of the world!"