“I could not have thought it possible,” said James Kavanagh gravely, “that they could become so wicked all at once—God forgive them! God help them!”
“Oh, uncle!” cried Alice, as they came in view of the house of guilt once more, “they are not up yet! See, the shutters are still closed!”
They were now in front of the house. “Dear uncle,” said Alice entreatingly, “go into them—do, dear uncle, bring out poor Gerald to eat his Easter dinner with us.”
A thought struck James—he knocked loudly at the door. There was no answer. Another loud knock, and a long pause; and still no sound within the house.
Alice’s little heart echoed the last unsuccessful knock—it almost said. “Wake, Gerald, with the knocking.”
She could endure the suspense no longer, and, running to the gripe at the road-side, she took up a heavy stone, with which she battered the panels of the hall-door as long as her strength permitted her. When she was obliged to desist, her screams might be heard afar off, and still there was no sound in the house.
James Kavanagh had dispatched one of his little boys to a neighbouring cottage for a crow-bar. The boy quickly returned with one, and James, assisted by the crowd who gathered near, was not long in forcing the door.
“Good people,” said he to the anxious company outside, “don’t come in till I tell you—there’s no use in further exposing the shame of my brother’s house.”
He and Alice, with one or two particular friends, entered the hall with faltering steps, and they closed the door behind them.
The first object which met their eyes was Peggy, the old housekeeper, lying on the mat at the foot of the staircase, in a trance of intoxication: she had evidently fallen down stairs in her attempt to reach the door, and had been for hours perhaps insensible. Alice jumped over her, and darted up stairs with the speed of lightning. James and his companions, after a vain attempt at arousing the housekeeper, slowly followed her.