midnight in November
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 can not 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 ?