BROKEN SPIRITS
So full of pain and heaviness was Rosalie that all her childish fear had
vanished. She passed up the slippery staircase into the corridor, from
which her own small sitting-room was.
Never to go downstairs again for three long weary years! Never to be out
of the grey, silent, ghostly shadows of those upper rooms—never to have
human companionship or friendliness! A part of the meaning floated
through her mind, and cast its heavy shroud on all things.
It was still early in the evening, too early for Mariana to return from
the work which held her. She sat down in the high-backed chair before
the fire, and listlessly looked into it. The flames burnt low. There was
none of the brightness of the other day in them—no whispered message of
hope.
Rosalie’s spirit ached more from the cruel heartlessness of the Master’s
conduct than even from the thought of coming imprisonment. For this was
in the present—that the future. None had ever spoken so to her
before—sharply, no doubt but never with this harsh and cruel coldness.
Every feeling in her simple nature seemed outraged and lacerated. Once
only she moved uneasily in her chair, as one undergoes some great pain,
and cried, or rather moaned:
“It’s unfair—unfair! I haven’t done anything that’s wrong, and it was
silly and stupid of me to ever think of coming back again.”
At last the door opened, and Mariana entered with supper. Rosalie did
not turn round till they were alone again, and scarcely even then, till
Mariana came and stood beside her, and looking down, said:
“Rosalie, why did you not come in at five o’clock?”
“Don’t ask me. I was foolish. There is no other reason.”
“Is Mr. Barringcourt’s company more agreeable than mine?”
“I thought it was, and have paid the penalty. Don’t reproach me. I can’t
stand it to-night. Perhaps to-morrow.”
“I don’t wish to reproach you. Once I thought the same, for an hour or
two, like you. But I got over it as you have done. You will not care for
his company now?”
“No.”
“That is well. I suppose you know you are not to go downstairs again?”
“Yes. What am I to do, Mariana, to pass the time away?”
“I don’t know of anything. I wish you had come in by five o’clock. There
are so many interesting things below.”
Rosalie laughed.
“Oh, I didn’t come in, so there’s an end of it! I’ll take supper now and
go to bed.”
She sipped the glass of warm milk silently, and then together they went
to bed. How cold it was in the corridor. How ill lit and melancholy it
appeared And Rosalie lay awake, with burning tears, which were never
shed, in her eyes.
Three years! And Mr. Barringcourt had said a woman of brains or spirit
would have forestalled them and have escaped.
And then it seemed as if across the silence there came that clear, pure
voice that spoke to her before, after her aunt was dead: “Neither brains
nor spirit, but the path directed.”
And silence and sleep and comfort fell—night’s gentle curtain and soft
pillow for all weary heads.
Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, long or short, according to the circumstance.
Each resembled some long and silent eternity of Nothingness. Here was
nothing to do. Mariana said there was nothing, and she knew best.
“Bring me a little bit of sewing.”
But she shook her head. “I cannot bring it from the workroom.”
“Then something from above.”
“There is nothing. Each has her work; for you there is none.”
“Have you no books?”
“Mr. Barringcourt has the key to the library. I can ask him for one if
you like.”
But Rosalie shook her head. “No, thank you.”
And how difficult she found meal-times, when she must force down food
against all wish and inclination. Sunday and Monday it was managed
fairly well, but on the Tuesday at dinner-time Rosalie recognised the
task was quite beyond her.
“All this tastes of cobwebs and damp soil,” she said. “If I must have
one, give me one of those little lozenges you offered me the other day.”
It was brought. She took it with a glass of water, then rose from her
seat. When she got to the door she turned round. Her pretty eyebrows
were slightly raised, and she laughed.
“That was essence of cobweb, I believe. Thank you; I feel better already
for it.”
All was lost upon the youth; he bowed gravely, and returned no answer,
and Rosalie went away.
Up and down! Up and down the long dim corridor she walked, with nothing
to do but think or mope, or grow melancholy through despair.
After tea Rosalie did not venture out beyond the sitting-room, for the
old fear of the darkness had returned; and moreover, to-night a strange
weariness oppressed her. At last she fell asleep. Her head rested on the
table, and she slept there for nearly an hour.
A little after nine came Mariana and the supper.
“How is the dress progressing?” asked Rosalie.
“It is doing very well.”
“How is Everard?”
“He is very well.”
“Have you seen Mr. Barringcourt to-day?”
“No. He is away till to-morrow.”
“Have you taken a walk this afternoon?”
“A short one.”
“Where did you go?”
“My customary round. But you must not ask so many questions.”
“But why?”
“Because,” Mariana’s voice sank to a whisper, “if we talk much I must
leave you, and Sybilla will come. And she never speaks all the week,
except on my one night out, and then in a language I never heard
before.”
Rosalie’s pale face grew paler. Suddenly she took Mariana’s hand and
held it very tight.
“Are—are you making fun of me?” she asked.
The other shook her head, and thus abruptly the conversation ended.
At midnight Rosalie suddenly awoke, to hear the great clock striking—a
sound which she had never heard before in that room. The ache and
weariness of the evening had entirely vanished. She sat up in bed and
looked round the room, lit by one meagre night-light. All was as usual,
very still; the corners of the room were all shadowy. In another second
Rosalie was standing on the floor looking around her in a puzzled sort
of way. Understanding came with the swiftness of lightning to her brain.
She stood alert, listening, listening, but there was no sound. Quickly
and silently she dressed, holding her breath, fearful of being found
thus dressing in the middle of the sleeping night. Then with courage
screwed to desperation she went toward the door.
“If I’m found out, God only knows what will happen,” she thought and
turned the handle.
It had one advantage with all the rest of that big house: it was silent.
Mercifully, a few straggling moonbeams lit up the room, shining from
door to door, leaving the rest in obscurity. Without glancing toward the
shadowy bed, she crossed to the outer door, opened it, and stood in the
corridor. The fears born of reality and action had quite killed those of
imagination. She no longer started at shadows, nor trembled at the
darkness, but went on quickly till she reached the stairhead. Her shoes
she carried in her hand to prevent sound. She feared the slippery
staircase, lest she should stumble and waken some light sleeper. But
to-night it seemed scarcely so slippery as before. Perhaps it was the
descent in her unshod feet. At last she stood safely at the bottom in
the large hall, with its Spartan plainness and great richness. Chairs,
each worth some small fortune, statues in bronze and marble, and above
all the great, oppressive shadow, emanating from that eastern door of
glass, polished like diamonds, all met her fearful glance.
“If—if I fail—if I’m caught, that’s where I go—”
The thought flashed like lightning through her mind, and she looked
round breathlessly to find a doorway.
That leading to the conservatory—it stood wide open. On! On! along the
corridor, dark but for one dim electric light, such as was also shining
in the hall. Then through the palm-house, and toward the central doors.
A red spot gleamed upon the centre—the toad’s head—for this door was
carved alike inside and out. Instinctively she touched the shining knob.
The door flew open. The cold damp air of night wafted toward her as she
stood thus upon the threshold of the garden. Then, closing the door
behind her, she moved forward to the steps. And here again Rosalie
returned thanks to that light upon the ugly head. For whereas within it
showed her where to touch the spring, here it shone with a direct
brilliancy that lit up the entire straight path across the garden, right
across and through the wooded shrubbery at the farther end, that led
toward the stables. For though the faint light of night might have been
strong enough to guide her to the avenue of trees, nothing could ever
penetrate this heavy gloom, save only a light such as this steady red
one, that lit up the whole long path, right to the stables, as clear
toward the end as at the beginning. So without trouble she came to the
doorless building. One gigantic slab of marble, between two pillars, was
slid back into the wall, and the red light penetrated in beyond. She
followed on the path it lit for her, and stood within a sumptuous
building. It was certainly a stable, though at the moment it was empty.
Here she looked round, not from curiosity, but to find some means of
exit. She walked round many times, but found nothing but one small door,
more like a cupboard than a door, built low in the wall, and quite
beyond her power to open.
She wrung her hands in despair, and a terrible sweat broke out all over
her. No way of escape! Up to now all things had been so easy, as if
aiding and abetting her in this wild dream and dash for freedom.
Suddenly upon the still and ghostly midnight air came a sound: the
rhythmic trampling of horses, and then a neigh half-echoed by another,
as the sound came nearer.
“God help me!” she said, and leant against the carved partition of two
stalls, with that deathlike sweat and fear robbing her limbs of any
strength of motion.
“The key! The key!”
What voice was it that rang so clearly on the night?
She fumbled in her pocket, and found the old disused one of her uncle’s
safe.
With nothing but desperation for a guidance she applied it to the little
door, close-built to the ground. It fitted and turned. The door flew
open. As it did so, from the garden came the crunching sound of horses’
feet on gravel, and of wheels.
The little door closed again. Rosalie was without the precincts of
Marble House, and breathed her first long sigh of freedom.