“You see how it is.”
“Nothing uncommon; but that virulence is a bad symptom,” answered the
Spaniard, and closing the door locked it, having dexterously removed the
key from within.
I had never been subjected to restraint of any kind; it made me reckless
at once, for this last indignity was not to be endured.
“Open this instantly!” I commanded, shaking the door. No one answered,
and after a few ineffectual attempts to break the lock I left it, threw
up the window and looked out; the ground was too far off for a leap, but
the trellis where summer-vines had clung was strong and high, a step
would place me on it, a moment’s agility bring me to the terrace below.
I was now in just the state to attempt any rash exploit, for the cordial
had both strengthened and excited me; my foot was bandaged, my clothes
still wet; I could suffer no new damage, and have my own way at small
cost. Out I crept, climbed safely down, and made my way to the lodge as
I had at first intended. But Guy was not there; and, returning, I boldly
went in at the great door, straight to the room where my uncle and the
doctor were still talking.
“I wish the key of my room,” was my brief command. Both started as if I
had been a ghost, and my uncle exclaimed,—
“You here! how in Heaven’s name came you out?”
“By the window. I am no child to be confined for a fit of anger. I will
not submit to it; to-morrow I shall go to madame; till then I will be
mistress in my own house. Give me the key, sir.”
“Shall I?” asked the doctor of my uncle, who nodded with a whispered,—
“Yes, yes; don’t excite her again.”
It was restored, and without another word I went loftily up to my room,
locked myself in, and spent a restless, miserable night. When morning
came, I breakfasted above stairs, and then busied myself packing trunks,
burning papers, and collecting every trifle Guy had ever given me. No
one annoyed me, and I saw only Janet, who had evidently received some
order that kept her silent and respectful, though her face still
betrayed the same curiosity and pitiful interest as the night before.
Lunch was brought up, but I could not eat, and began to feel that the
exposure, the fall, and excitement of the evening had left me weak and
nervous, so I gave up the idea of going to madame till the morrow; and,
as the afternoon waned, tried to sleep, yet could not, for I had sent a
note to several of Guy’s haunts, imploring him to see me; but my
messenger brought word that he was not to be found, and my heart was too
heavy to rest.
When summoned to dinner, I still refused to go down; for I heard Dr.
Karnac’s voice, and would not meet him, so I sent word that I wished the
carriage early the following morning, and to be left alone till then. In
a few minutes, back came Janet, with a glass of wine set forth on a
silver salver, and a card with these words,—
“Forgive, forget, for your father’s sake, and drink with me, ‘Oblivion
to the past.’”
It touched and softened me. I knew my uncle’s pride, and saw in this an
entire relinquishment of the hopes I had so thoughtlessly fostered in
his mind. I was passionate, but not vindictive. He had been kind, I very
wilful. His mistake was natural, my resentment ungenerous. Though my
resolution to go remained unchanged, I was sorry for my part in the
affair; and remembering that through me his son was lost to him, I
accepted his apology, drank his toast, and sent him back a dutiful
“Good-night.”
I was unused to wine. The draught I had taken was powerful with age,
and, though warm and racy to the palate, proved too potent for me. Still
sitting before my fire, I slowly fell into a restless drowse, haunted by
a dim dream that I was seeking Guy in a ship, whose motion gradually
lulled me into perfect unconsciousness.
Waking at length, I was surprised to find myself in bed, with the
shimmer of daylight peeping through the curtains. Recollecting that I
was to leave early, I sprang up, took one step and remained transfixed
with dismay, for the room was not my own! Utterly unfamiliar was every
object on which my eyes fell. The place was small, plainly furnished,
and close, as if long unused. My trunks stood against the wall, my
clothes lay on a chair, and on the bed I had left trailed a fur-lined
cloak I had often seen on my uncle’s shoulders. A moment I stared about
me bewildered, then hurried to the window,—it was grated!
A lawn, sere and sodden, lay without, and a line of sombre firs hid the
landscape beyond the high wall which encompassed the dreary plot. More
and more alarmed, I flew to the door and found it locked. No bell was
visible, no sound audible, no human presence near me, and an ominous
foreboding thrilled cold through nerves and blood, as, for the first
time, I felt the paralyzing touch of fear. Not long, however. My native
courage soon returned, indignation took the place of terror, and
excitement gave me strength. My temples throbbed with a dull pain, my
eyes were heavy, my limbs weighed down by an unwonted lassitude, and my
memory seemed strangely confused; but one thing was clear to me, I must
see somebody, ask questions, demand explanations, and get away to madame
without delay.
With trembling hands I dressed, stopping suddenly, with a cry; for,
lifting my hands to my head, I discovered that my hair, my beautiful,
abundant hair, was gone! There was no mirror in the room, but I could
feel that it had been shorn away close about face and neck. This outrage
was more than I could bear, and the first tears I shed fell for my lost
charm. It was weak, perhaps, but I felt better for it, clearer in mind
and readier to confront whatever lay before me. I knocked and called.
Then, losing patience, shook and screamed; but no one came or answered
me, and, wearied out at last, I sat down and cried again in impotent
despair.
An hour passed, then a step approached, the key turned, and a hard-faced
woman entered with a tray in her hand. I had resolved to be patient, if
possible, and controlled myself to ask quietly, though my eyes kindled,
and my voice trembled with resentment,—
“Where am I, and why am I here against my will?”
“This is your breakfast, miss; you must be sadly hungry,” was the only
reply I got.
“I will never eat till you tell me what I ask.”
“Will you be quiet, and mind me if I do, miss?”
“You have no right to exact obedience from me, but I’ll try.”
“That’s right. Now all I know is that you are twenty miles from the
Moors, and came because you are ill. Do you like sugar in your coffee?”
“When did I come? I don’t remember it.”
“Early this morning; you don’t remember because you were put to sleep
before being fetched, to save trouble.”
“Ah, that wine! Who brought me here?”
“Dr. Karnac, miss.”
“Alone?”
“Yes, miss; you were easier to manage asleep than awake, he said.”
I shook with anger, yet still restrained myself hoping to fathom the
mystery of this nocturnal journey.
“What is your name, please?” I meekly asked.
“You can call me Hannah.”
“Well, Hannah, there is a strange mistake somewhere. I am not ill—you
see I am not—and I wish to go away at once to the friend I was to meet
to-day. Get me a carriage and have my baggage taken out.”
“It can’t be done, miss. We are a mile from town, and have no carriages
here; besides, you couldn’t go if I had a dozen. I have my orders, and
shall obey ’em.”
“But Dr. Karnac has no right to bring or keep me here.”
“Your uncle sent you. The doctor has the care of you, and that is all I
know about it. Now I have kept my promise, do you keep yours, miss, and
eat your breakfast, else I can’t trust you again.”
“But what is the matter with me? How can I be ill and not know or feel
it?” I demanded, more and more bewildered.
“You look it, and that’s enough for them as is wise in such matters.
You’d have had a fever, if it hadn’t been seen to in time.”
“Who cut my hair off?”
“I did; the doctor ordered it.”
“How dared he? I hate that man, and never will obey him.”
“Hush, miss, don’t clench your hands and look in that way, for I shall
have to report every thing you say and do to him, and it won’t be
pleasant to tell that sort of thing.”
The woman was civil, but grim and cool. Her eye was unsympathetic, her
manner business-like, her tone such as one uses to a refractory child,
half-soothing, half-commanding. I conceived a dislike to her at once,
and resolved to escape at all hazards, for my uncle’s inexplicable
movements filled me with alarm. Hannah had left my door open, a quick
glance showed me another door also ajar at the end of a wide hall, a
glimpse of green, and a gate. My plan was desperately simple, and I
executed it without delay. Affecting to eat, I presently asked the woman
for my handkerchief from the bed. She crossed the room to get it. I
darted out, down the passage, along the walk, and tugged vigorously at
the great bolt of the gate, but it was also locked. In despair I flew
into the garden, but a high wall enclosed it on every side; and as I ran
round and round, vainly looking for some outlet, I saw Hannah,
accompanied by a man as gray and grim as herself, coming leisurely
toward me, with no appearance of excitement or displeasure. Back I would
not go; and, inspired with a sudden hope, swung myself into one of the
firs that grew close against the wall. The branches snapped under me,
the slender tree swayed perilously, but up I struggled, till the wide
coping of the wall was gained. There I paused and looked back. The woman
was hurrying through the gate to intercept my descent on the other side,
and close behind me the man, sternly calling me to stop. I looked down;
a stony ditch was below, but I would rather risk my life than tamely
lose my liberty, and with a flying leap tried to reach the bank; failed,
fell heavily among the stones, felt an awful crash, and then came an
utter blank.
For many weeks I lay burning in a fever, fitfully conscious of Dr.
Karnac and the woman’s presence; once I fancied I saw my uncle, but was
never sure, and rose at last a shadow of my former self, feeling
pitifully broken, both mentally and physically. I was in a better room
now, wintry winds howled without, but a generous fire glowed behind the
high closed fender, and books lay on my table.
I saw no one but Hannah, yet could wring no intelligence from her beyond
what she had already told, and no sign of interest reached me from the
outer world. I seemed utterly deserted and forlorn, my spirit was
crushed, my strength gone, my freedom lost, and for a time I succumbed
to despair, letting one day follow another without energy or hope. It is
hard to live with no object to give zest to life, especially for those
still blest with youth, and even in my prison-house I soon found one
quite in keeping with the mystery that surrounded me.
As I sat reading by day or lay awake at night, I became aware that the
room above my own was occupied by some inmate whom I never saw. A
peculiar person it seemed to be; for I heard steps going to and fro,
hour after hour, in a tireless march, that wore upon my nerves, as many
a harsher sound would not have done. I could neither tease nor surprise
Hannah into any explanation of the thing, and day after day I listened
to it, till I longed to cover up my ears and implore the unknown walker
to stop, for Heaven’s sake. Other sounds I heard and fretted over: a low
monotonous murmur, as of some one singing a lullaby; a fitful tapping,
like a cradle rocked on a carpetless floor; and at rare intervals cries
of suffering, sharp but brief, as if forcibly suppressed. These sounds,
combined with the solitude, the confinement, and the books I read, a
collection of ghostly tales and weird fancies, soon wrought my nerves to
a state of terrible irritability, and wore upon my health so visibly
that I was allowed at last to leave my room.
The house was so well guarded that I soon relinquished all hope of
escape, and listlessly amused myself by roaming through the unfurnished
rooms and echoing halls, seldom venturing into Hannah’s domain; for
there her husband sat, surrounded by chemical apparatus, poring over
crucibles and retorts. He never spoke to me, and I dreaded the glance of
his cold eye, for it looked unsoftened by a ray of pity at the little
figure that sometimes paused a moment on his threshold, wan and wasted
as the ghost of departed hope.
The chief interest of these dreary walks centred in the door of the room
above my own, for a great hound lay before it, eying me savagely as he
rejected all advances, and uttering his deep bay if I approached too
near. To me this room possessed an irresistible fascination. I could not
keep away from it by day, I dreamed of it by night, it haunted me
continually, and soon became a sort of monomania, which I condemned, yet
could not control, till at length I found myself pacing to and fro as
those invisible feet paced over head. Hannah came and stopped me, and a
few hours later Dr. Karnac appeared. I was so changed that I feared him
with a deadly fear. He seemed to enjoy it; for in the pride of youth and
beauty I had shown him contempt and defiance at my uncle’s, and he took
an ungenerous satisfaction in annoying me by a display of power. He
never answered my questions or entreaties, regarded me as being without
sense or will, insisted on my trying various mixtures and experiments in
diet, gave me strange books to read, and weekly received Hannah’s report
of all that passed. That day he came, looked at me, said, “Let her
walk,” and went away, smiling that hateful smile of his.
Soon after this I took to walking in my sleep, and more than once woke
to find myself roving lampless through that haunted house in the dead of
night. I concealed these unconscious wanderings for a time, but an
ominous event broke them up at last, and betrayed them to Hannah.
I had followed the steps one day for several hours, walking below as
they walked above; had peopled that mysterious room with every mournful
shape my disordered fancy could conjure up; had woven tragical romances
about it, and brooded over the one subject of interest my unnatural life
possessed with the intensity of a mind upon which its uncanny influence
was telling with perilous rapidity. At midnight I woke to find myself
standing in a streak of moonlight, opposite the door whose threshold I
had never crossed. The April night was warm, a single pane of glass high
up in that closed door was drawn aside, as if for air; and, as I stood
dreamily collecting my sleep-drunken senses, I saw a ghostly hand emerge
and beckon, as if to me. It startled me broad awake, with a faint
exclamation and a shudder from head to foot. A cloud swept over the
moon, and when it passed the hand was gone, but shrill through the
keyhole came a whisper that chilled me to the marrow of my bones, so
terribly distinct and imploring was it.
“Find it! for God’s sake find it before it is too late!”
The hound sprang up with an angry growl; I heard Hannah leave her bed
near by, and, with an inspiration strange as the moment, I paced slowly
on with open eyes and lips apart, as I had seen “Amina” in the happy
days when kind old madame took me to the theatre, whose mimic horrors I
had never thought to equal with such veritable ones. Hannah appeared at
her door with a light, but on I went in a trance of fear; for I was only
kept from dropping in a swoon by the blind longing to fly from that
spectral voice and hand. Past Hannah I went, she following; and, as I
slowly laid myself in bed, I heard her say to her husband, who just then
came up,—
“Sleep-walking, John; it’s getting worse and worse, as the doctor
foretold; she’ll settle down like the other presently, but she must be
locked up at night, else the dog will do her a mischief.”
The man yawned and grumbled; then they went, leaving me to spend hours
of unspeakable suffering, which aged me more than years. What was I to
find? where was I to look? and when would it be too late? These
questions tormented me; for I could find no answers to them, divine no
meaning, see no course to pursue. Why was I here? what motive induced my
uncle to commit such an act? and when should I be liberated? were
equally unanswerable, equally tormenting, and they haunted me like
ghosts. I had no power to exorcise or forget. After that I walked no
more, because I slept no more; sleep seemed scared away, and waking
dreams harassed me with their terrors. Night after night I paced my room
in utter darkness,—for I was allowed no lamp,—night after night I wept
bitter tears wrung from me by anguish, for which I had no name; and
night after night the steps kept time to mine, and the faint lullaby
came down to me as if to soothe and comfort my distress. I felt that my
health was going, my mind growing confused and weak, my thoughts
wandered vaguely, memory began to fail, and idiocy or madness seemed my
inevitable fate; but through it all my heart clung to Guy, yearning for
him with a hunger that would not be appeased.
At rare intervals I was allowed to walk in the neglected garden, where
no flowers bloomed, no birds sang, no companion came to me but surly
John, who followed with his book or pipe, stopping when I stopped,
walking when I walked, keeping a vigilant eye upon me, yet seldom
speaking except to decline answering my questions. These walks did me no
good, for the air was damp and heavy with vapors from the marsh; for the
house stood near a half-dried lake, and hills shut it in on every side.
No fresh winds from upland moor or distant ocean ever blew across the
narrow valley; no human creature visited the place, and nothing but a
vague hope that my birthday might bring some change, some help,
sustained me. It did bring help, but of such an unexpected sort that its
effects remained through all my after-life. My birthday came, and with
it my uncle. I was in my room, walking restlessly,—for the habit was a
confirmed one now,—when the door opened, and Hannah, Dr. Karnac, my
uncle, and a gentleman whom I knew to be his lawyer, entered, and
surveyed me as if I were a spectacle. I saw my uncle start and turn
pale; I had never seen myself since I came, but, if I had not suspected
that I was a melancholy wreck of my former self, I should have known it
then, such sudden pain and pity softened his ruthless countenance for a
single instant. Dr. Karnac’s eye had a magnetic power over me; I had
always felt it, but in my present feeble state I dreaded, yet submitted
to it with a helpless fear that should have touched his heart,—it was on
me then, I could not resist it, and paused fixed and fascinated by that
repellent yet potent glance. Hannah pointed to the carpet worn to shreds
by my weary march, to the walls which I had covered with weird,
grotesque, or tragic figures to while away the heavy hours, lastly to
myself, mute, motionless, and scared, saying, as if in confirmation of
some previous assertion,—
“You see, gentlemen, she is, as I said, quiet, but quite hopeless.”
I thought she was interceding for me; and, breaking from the
bewilderment and fear that held me, I stretched my hands to them, crying
with an imploring cry,—
“Yes, I _am_ quiet! I _am_ hopeless! Oh, have pity on me before this
dreadful life kills me or drives me mad!”
Dr. Karnac came to me at once with a black frown, which I alone could
see; I evaded him, and clung to Hannah, still crying frantically,—for
this seemed my last hope,—
“Uncle, let me go! I will give you all I have, will never ask for Guy,
will be obedient and meek if I may only go to madame and never hear the
feet again, or see the sights that terrify me in this dreadful room.
Take me out! for God’s sake take me out!”
My uncle did not answer me, but covered up his face with a despairing
gesture, and hurried from the room; the lawyer followed, muttering
pitifully, “Poor thing! poor thing!” and Dr. Karnac laughed the first
laugh I had ever heard him utter as he wrenched Hannah from my grasp and
locked me in alone. My one hope died then, and I resolved to kill myself
rather than endure this life another month; for now it grew clear to me
that they believed me mad, and death of the body was far more preferable
than that of the mind. I think I _was_ a little mad just then, but
remember well the sense of peace that came to me as I tore strips from
my clothing, braided them into a cord, hid it beneath my mattress, and
serenely waited for the night. Sitting in the last twilight I thought to
see in this unhappy world, I recollected that I had not heard the feet
all day, and fell to pondering over the unusual omission. But, if the
steps had been silent in that room, voices had not, for I heard a
continuous murmur at one time: the tones of one voice were abrupt and
broken, the other low, yet resonant, and that, I felt assured, belonged
to my uncle. Who was he speaking to? what were they saying? should I
ever know? and even then, with death before me, the intense desire to
possess the secret filled me with its old unrest.
Night came at last; I heard the clock strike one, and, listening to
discover if John still lingered up, I heard through the deep hush a soft
grating in the room above, a stealthy sound that would have escaped ears
less preternaturally alert than mine. Like a flash came the thought,
“Some one is filing bars or picking locks: will the unknown remember me
and let me share her flight?” The fatal noose hung ready, but I no
longer cared to use it, for hope had come to nerve me with the strength
and courage I had lost. Breathlessly I listened; the sound went on,
stopped, a dead silence reigned; then something brushed against my door,
and, with a suddenness that made me tingle from head to foot like an
electric shock, through the keyhole came again that whisper, urgent,
imploring, and mysterious,—
“Find it! for God’s sake find it before it is too late!” then fainter,
as if breath failed, came the broken words, “The dog—a lock of
hair—there is yet time.”
Eagerness rendered me forgetful of the secrecy I should preserve, and I
cried aloud, “What shall I find? where shall I look?” My voice,
sharpened by fear, rang shrilly through the house, Hannah’s quick tread
rushed down the hall, something fell, then loud and long rose a cry that
made my heart stand still, so helpless, so hopeless was its wild lament.
I had betrayed and I could not save or comfort the kind soul who had
lost liberty through me. I was frantic to get out, and beat upon my door
in a paroxysm of impatience, but no one came; and all night long those
awful cries went on above, cries of mortal anguish, as if soul and body
were being torn asunder. Till dawn I listened, pent in that room which
now possessed an added terror; till dawn I called, wept, and prayed,
with mingled pity, fear, and penitence, and till dawn the agony of that
unknown sufferer continued unabated. I heard John hurry to and fro,
heard Hannah issue orders with an accent of human sympathy in her hard
voice; heard Dr. Karnac pass and repass my door, and all the sounds of
confusion and alarm in that once quiet house. With daylight all was
still, a stillness more terrible than the stir; for it fell so suddenly,
remained so utterly unbroken, that there seemed no explanation of it but
the dread word death.
At noon Hannah, a shade paler, but grim as ever, brought me some food,
saying she forgot my breakfast, and when I refused to eat, yet asked no
questions, she bade me go into the garden and not fret myself over last
night’s flurry. I went, and, passing down the corridor, glanced
furtively at the door I never saw without a thrill; but I experienced a
new sensation then, for the hound was gone, the door was open, and, with
an impulse past control, I crept in and looked about me. It was a room
like mine, the carpet worn like mine, the windows barred like mine;
there the resemblance ended, for an empty cradle stood beside the bed,
and on that bed, below a sweeping cover, stark and still a lifeless body
lay. I was inured to fear now, and an unwholesome craving for new
terrors seemed to have grown by what it fed on: an irresistible desire
led me close, nerved me to lift the cover and look below,—a single
glance,—then, with a cry as panic-stricken as that which rent the
silence of the night, I fled away, for the face I saw was a pale image
of my own. Sharpened by suffering, pallid with death, the features were
familiar as those I used to see; the hair, beautiful and blonde as mine
had been, streamed long over the pulseless breast, and on the hand,
still clenched in that last struggle, shone the likeness of a ring I
wore, a ring bequeathed me by my father. An awesome fancy that it was
myself assailed me; I had plotted death, and, with the waywardness of a
shattered mind, I recalled legends of spirits returning to behold the
bodies they had left.
Glad now to seek the garden, I hurried down, but on the threshold of the
great hall-door was arrested by the sharp crack of a pistol; and, as a
little cloud of smoke dispersed, I saw John drop the weapon and approach
the hound, who lay writhing on the bloody grass. Moved by compassion for
the faithful brute whose long vigilance was so cruelly repaid, I went to
him, and, kneeling there, caressed the great head that never yielded to
my touch before. John assumed his watch at once, and leaning against a
tree cleaned the pistol, content that I should amuse myself with the
dying creature, who looked into my face with eyes of almost human pathos
and reproach. The brass collar seemed to choke him as he gasped for
breath, and, leaning nearer to undo it, I saw, half hidden in his own
black hair, a golden lock wound tightly round the collar, and so near
its color as to be unobservable, except upon a close inspection. No
accident could have placed it there; no head but mine in that house wore
hair of that sunny hue,—yes, one other, and my heart gave a sudden leap
as I remembered the shining locks just seen on that still bosom.
“Find it—the dog—the lock of hair,” rung in my ears, and swift as light
came the conviction that the unknown help was found at last. The little
band was woven close, I had no knife, delay was fatal, I bent my head as
if lamenting over the poor beast and bit the knot apart, drew out a
folded paper, hid it in my hand, and rising strolled leisurely back to
my own room, saying I did not care to walk till it was warmer. With
eager eyes I examined my strange treasure-trove; it consisted of two
strips of thinnest paper, without address or signature, one almost
illegible, worn at the edges and stained with the green rust of the
collar; the other fresher, yet more feebly written, both abrupt and
disjointed, but terribly significant to me. This was the first,—
“I have never seen you, never heard your name, yet I know that
you are young, that you are suffering, and I try to help you in
my poor way. I think you are not crazed yet, as I often am; for
your voice is sane, your plaintive singing not like mine, your
walking only caught from me, I hope. I sing to lull the baby
whom I never saw; I walk to lessen the long journey that will
bring me to the husband I have lost,—stop! I must not think of
those things or I shall forget. If you are not already mad, you
will be; I suspect you were sent here to be made so; for the air
is poison, the solitude is fatal, and Karnac remorseless in his
mania for prying into the mysteries of human minds. What devil
sent you I may never know, but I long to warn you. I can devise
no way but this; the dog comes into my room sometimes, you
sometimes pause at my door and talk to him; you may find the
paper I shall hide about his collar. Read, destroy, but obey it.
I implore you to leave this house before it is too late.”