rlotte started
at their strange wild glare: they glittered with a freezing brilliancy,
and stared around with the vacuity of an image. Could Margaret be mad?
She bit her tender lips with sullen rage, and a gnashing desperation;
her cheek was cold, white, and clammy as the cheek of a corpse; her
hair, still woven with the strings of pearl she often wore, hung down
loose and dishevelled, except that on her flushing brow the crisp curls
stood on end, as a nest of snakes. And now a sudden thought seemed to
strike the brain; her eyes were set in a steady horror; slowly, with
dread determination, as if inspired by some fearful being, other than
herself, uprose Margaret; and, while her frightened sister, shuddering,
fell back, she glided, still gazing on vacancy, to the door: so, like a
ghost through the dark corridor, down those old familiar stairs, and
away through the Armory-hall; Charlotte now more calmly following, for
her father's library, where his use was to study late, opened out of it,
and surely the conscience-stricken Margaret was going in her penitence
to him. But, see! she has silently passed by; her hand is on the lock of
the hall-door; with one last look of despairing recklessness behind her,
as taking an eternal leave of that awe-struck sister, the door turns
upon its hinge, and she, still with slow solemnity, goes out. Whither,
oh God!--whither? The night is black as pitch, rainy, tempestuous; the
old knight's guests at Clopton Hall have gladly and right wisely
preferred even such questionable accommodation as the blue chamber, the
dreary white apartment looking on the moat--nay, the haunted room of the
parricide himself--to encountering the dangers and darkness of a
night-return so desperate; but Margaret, in her gayest evening attire,
near upon so foul a midnight in November, stalks like a spectre down the
splashy steps. Charlotte follows, calls, runs to her--but cannot rescue
from some settled purpose, horribly suggested, that gentle fearful
creature, now so changed. Suddenly in the dark she has lost her. Which
way did the maniac turn?--whither in that desolate gloom shall Charlotte
fly to find her? Guided by the taper still twinkling in her father's
study, she rushes back in terror to the hall; and then--Help,
help!--torches, torches! The household is roused, dull lanterns glance
among the shrubberies; pine-lights, ill-shielded from wind and rain by
cap or cloak, are seen dotting the park in every direction