A WAYSIDE HOUSE AND GLOOMY CELL
But what and where was this place that she had come to? Instead of
coming out upon a mews or narrower street of that big city on the planet
Lucifram, she stood upon the borders of a wood. Foxgloves, cowslips, and
pale wood anemones bordered its shaded paths. She passed onward,
conscious of a new sweetness in the air, and a certain subdued light
which, though faint, was quite devoid of shadows.
And oh! to tread upon a path of velvet—velvet of Nature’s making, all
soft and soothing to the foot.
And though the beauties of the forest awed, they did not trouble her,
for their shade was instinct with the mood that she was in—a mood which
had much of quiet thankfulness, but no elation. With little feeling of
fatigue she walked along the pleasant path, coming out at last upon a
city all deserted. Its buildings were the most majestic she had ever
seen. There was no ordinary streets of houses all in a row. The
buildings had the strength and beauty of past ages. With courtyards of
green, and gates with armorial bearings, the windows of the houses were
narrow. During the ages, here and there a cornice or a step had
crumbled, giving a certain hoary majesty to the houses, showing they had
long withstood the inroads of all-conquering Time. No sound of life
enlivened the scene; all was silent as the house which she had left. In
the central square two churches stood, one in a state of erection, one
in the middle stage of being pulled down. Truly it was very curious. All
around betokened signs of recent workmanship. But as in dreams one
cannot pause to reason, neither did she.
Through the silent empty streets she passed, and came once more on to a
stretch of country which rose in hills not far off. These were steep and
high, as Rosalie found on coming nearer to them, but the path bordered
with wild flowers led her to and up them, and when at last she stood
upon the summit of one that rose amongst the highest, she looked down
upon a country of gentle slopes and valleys, and dark stretches of
forest. A broad and glorious river rolled its even course picturesquely,
curving to right and left, here disappearing in the shade of the
woodlands, here glittering in the rising sun. With more heart and
renewed vigour she descended from the hill-top into this pleasant
country beyond it. The path led along the boundaries of a wood, and
suddenly there came in sight a low white house, lying far back within a
wide expanse of garden, banked with wild flowers of Nature’s growing. On
the sunny side it was unshaded by the forest, and deep-coloured peaches
were glowing in the light. A low verandah ran along the façade, and many
sweet and lovely creepers twined about its slender pillars. The big
front door stood open, also the garden gate. Rosalie, with tired feet
and thankful heart, went up to it and knocked.
Within was a simply-furnished hall, arranged with simplest taste. Bowls
of roses stood upon the tables, and the windows, in the recesses formed
by the window seats, were open, admitting straggling stems of flowers
that clustered upward from below. Built in the wall was a golden fluted
organ, the ivory keyboard open, and all the mystic stops clear to the
view.
Rosalie knocked.
A door at the farther end of the house opened, and a youth appeared,
coming toward her. He was so handsome, and walked with such grace and
youthful brightness, that Rosalie’s heart went out toward him on the
instant. He did not wait for any word of explanation, but said:
“My father will be very pleased to see you. We have been expecting your
arrival for almost a week.”
“But where did I come from?” asked Rosalie, as taken with his gentle way
of speaking as his appearance.
He laughed.
“I don’t know; but from a hot place and a great distance, I should
think, or else your wits would never have been sharpened to take so long
a journey.”
“I wonder how old he is?” thought she. “Fourteen at the most. He should
have more respect for me than to speak so—so freely; and yet it’s nice
to be spoken to quite humanly again.”
“Yes,” she answered; “I’ve come a very long distance.”
“Come this way. See my father, and then you may rest.”
He took her to a room furnished simply, and not unlike that of Mr.
Barringcourt’s; and there, seated at the table, occupied much as he had
been in studying, writing, and arranging papers, was the father of the
boy.
His hair was very white, as white as silver, and his face was beautiful
and clearly cut. He had an appearance of great age, and his tall figure
was thin and muscular. In some indescribable way he reminded Rosalie of
Mr. Barringcourt. A vague fear began to spring in her mind—for in his
dress and manner there was something strangely reminiscent, even though
he looked so very old, with his lined face and silver hair.
But he used what Mr. Barringcourt had never used, and that was a pair of
glasses; and his glance was very keen as he looked up at her above them
with bent brows. And whereas Mr. Barringcourt’s eyes were as black as
night, his were of a piercing blue, or some colour very like blue. The
quality that struck Rosalie most was their intense brightness.
The youth, having admitted her, withdrew, and closed the door behind
him.
“You are punctual, Rosalie, and I’m very pleased to see you.”
He rose as he spoke, and drew a chair for her, and on the hearing of his
kind, grave voice much peace and reassurance settled on her.
“I couldn’t help myself,” she answered. “I had to come. But you can’t be
half as pleased to see me as I am to see you!”
He looked at her. “Are you then so much in need of a friend?”
“Yes; but I think I should make better friends with your son than you.”
The vestige of a smile crept into his eyes. “But why?”
“Well, I expect you will be too clever. You would soon learn how stupid
I was; and then perhaps we should quarrel.”
Rosalie looked up shyly as she spoke those last words. The quarrelling,
she felt pretty certain, would be all on his side, as it had been with
Mr. Barringcourt, for she would never have presumed so far.
“You give Billy credit for being more forbearing than I?”
“Oh, no; I think he will be less observant. I’m very stupid, you know,”
she continued, with her large, earnest eyes fixed on his; “and people
get very soon tired of me. I thought it might be just as well to tell
you now, in case you might form a wrong impression, and then be annoyed
after, and blame me for it.”
“Well,” said he, smiling, “that will do for the present. Sleep to-night,
and in the morning we will hold a longer conversation.”
“But it’s morning now.”
“Oh, no! It’s evening coming on. The sun has set. No travellers ever
come to us with morning. The journey is too long for that.”
“But everybody cannot come to you just at the same time.”
“Well, pretty much at the same time. We live in the centre of a circle,
and the distance from every direction is fairly equal.”
“Do you get many travellers?”
“Not compared with many wayside inns. But we have a select few that are
always very welcome, for we know that they possess some merit, or they
would never reach us.”
“Ah! Then I am afraid I am not equal to the rest. I have no merits.
Nothing but chance and God’s goodness brought me to you.”
He smiled. “That is curious coupling,” he answered. “Chance and God’s
goodness.”
“Well, it was so extremely strange and unexpected.”
“We will speak more about it to-morrow. But now I will come with you to
see what light refreshment our house affords.”
He rose from his chair and led the way into another room where lamps
were lit, though there was still much light outside, and a clear fire
burning.
“How stupid of me not to notice the sun was setting. I thought when
first I saw it it was rising.”
“That is a common mistake, much commoner than you’d think, with those
coming from Lucifram. You see, it is the direct turnabout, and it is apt
to muddle one at first.”
“Yes, indeed. What lovely flowers!”
Rosalie was looking at the pretty supper-table and its exquisite
decorations. There was something so pure and delicate and delicious
about everything, from the snowy linen and flowers all white and flaxen
coloured, to the china and vessels of silver and crystal glass.
Moreover, there was no shadow lying here. One might eat in happiness and
sweet contentment, and the thankfulness born of these.
And moreover, she did not sit down alone. Her host took his place at the
head of the small square table, she to the side of him. Every dish was
ready served. But first he offered her a little glass of purest
sparkling water. Rosalie drank it. The intense fatigue had vanished
almost on the instant. She made no effort to talk much, for he said
nothing, but ate her supper in silence. Then at last he rose.
“I will show you to your room,” he said. “Billy has gone home; he only
stayed to welcome you.”
“I thought he was your son?”
“So he is. But this is not my home. It is but a temporary lodging,
conveniently situated for business purposes.”
“Does no one else live here?”
“No one. You need not be afraid. I am sufficient protection.”
She followed him with trust and all simplicity to the bedroom set for
strangers. When she was alone, by the light of two soft lights hanging
from the ceiling, she compared the pure white hangings with the crimson
silks at Marble House. Here, indeed, was light-heartedness and freedom
from all depression; and with her head once on the pillow, she slept the
first genuine sleep of happiness for many a day.
* * * * *
Marble House lay swathed in the mist of early morning. The sun had not
yet risen, only that just perceptible twilight that makes known the
distant approach of day was at hand. But one by one various lights made
their appearance in several of the upper rooms. The occupants were
rising at their accustomed hour. It was close on six.
Mariana also awoke, and with the first return of consciousness came the
consciousness of loss, vague and alarming. When the light was turned on
she noticed the door leading to Rosalie’s room wide open, and her own
upon the passage standing closed but for the catching of the clasp.
Hurriedly she passed into the inner room, to find, almost as she
anticipated, the bed unoccupied, its inmate gone. She went to the
dressing-room beyond. It also was empty. Then turning back to her own
room, she dressed with a curious silent haste. A dull, murky grey sky
showed through the window. It caught Mariana’s eye and intruded itself
upon her memory. Then when her toilette was completed she went out into
the corridor. There was no sign of Rosalie either in the little
sitting-room or dining-room, and the truth forced itself undeniably upon
her. Rosalie had gone—escaped in the night. But where? On second
thoughts it seemed impossible. Who ever yet escaped from Marble House in
Greensward Avenue upon the planet Lucifram? She smiled forlornly to
think of such a thing. And then a sudden fear and trembling for the
unhappy girl came over her.
She had tried to escape and had been detected—must have been detected.
There were many cells in the east wing, and to attempt to escape and
fail in it was of all crimes most criminal.
A feeling, or the memory of a feeling, surged in her heart, so cold, and
even, and restricted. Like some quick-gliding spirit she sought the
staircase and descended, finding Everard arranging a large batch of
papers on the table in the hall. He looked up at her approach, and
seeing the slight alteration in her features and expression, said to
himself, “It’s Wednesday,” and went on with his work. But the
earnestness of her voice attracted him.
“Everard!” There was more in it than her usual simple, even tone.
He looked up again.
“Everard! Where is Rosalie? Where have you put her?”
“Rosalie? I have not seen. Is she not upstairs?”
She shook her head.
“Is she in there? You have not put her in there?” and pointed to the
right-hand door.
He shook his head impatiently.
“She is nowhere of my putting or knowing. She should be upstairs yet.
Eight o’clock is her hour for getting up.”
“She is not there.”
“Not there?” He put the papers he held in his hand down, and looked at
her.
“No. And nowhere else upon the corridor.”
“Have you searched well?”
“Yes. I did not like to wake the others. Do you think she can possibly
have got away?”
“Impossible! The doors are barred—and double locked—and spring-locked.”
“I know. But where is she.”
“There must be a search instituted.”
“Thank God the Master is away.”
“He came home last night at midnight.”
His voice was grim as his information was short.
“Come home! Come home!” repeated Mariana. “What shall I do?”
“You had best go and tell him.”
“Is he up?”
“Yes. An hour ago.”
“I can’t go. Do this thing for me, Everard. I never asked you anything
before.”
He looked at her with a face half serious, half cold, then turned in the
direction of the west wing.
Mariana sat down on one of the many chairs—a solitary figure in that big
empty hall, with clasped hands and shrinking form, fearing vaguely.
Everard knocked at Mr. Barringcourt’s door, and obeyed the summons to go
in. Before Everard could speak the Master looked up, and said, with a
pleasantness not always customary in him:
“Good morning, Everard! When Rosalie Paleaf has had breakfast, I want
you to see her. Don’t forget to tell Mariana. What is it?”
“She has disappeared in the night!”
“Who?” and the dark brows contracted slightly as he looked across at the
speaker.
“Rosalie Paleaf.”
“Disappeared in the night? Tell fairy stories to those that believe
them.”
“She is not in her bedroom, nor the corridor to which she was
restricted.”
“Who has told you this?” said the Master, getting up.
“Mariana.”
“Confound Mariana! Go and search house and gardens, and take the
search-light, and bring her back in half an hour.”
Everard withdrew.
“Disappeared!” said Mr. Barringcourt, left to himself, and his brows
came together blackly. “That is impossible, without the help of
Mariana,” and then he turned to the letter he was writing and finished
it, though it was a long one, before Everard returned.
On his entrance the Master looked up.
“She is nowhere.”
“You have searched in every place, likely and unlikely?”
“In every place.”
Then a very cruel light leapt into his eyes, in that deep shadow that
encircled them, and his lips closed one over the other grimly, as he
looked across at the doorkeeper.
“Who is to thank for this?”
“It was a circumstance quite unforeseen.”
“I don’t doubt it. Where is that heavy-sleeping ass, whose snores
swallow up footfalls and opening doors?”
“You mean—”
“I mean your first cousin for dulness of perception. Send me that
brainless thing called Mariana.”
Everard withdrew. He walked along the corridor as evenly as usual.
Whether doubt or misgiving was in his mind, it showed nothing in his
face.
There, in the outer hall, scarcely having moved during the whole time,
sat Mariana. On the opening of the door she looked up.
“The Master wishes to speak to you.”
“Is he very angry?”
“Nothing but what may be appeased. But you had better say no more than
you can help.”
She got up without a word, and went to the study.
“Where is the girl I entrusted to you?” he said, as soon as the door was
closed.
“She has escaped during the night.”
“At what time?”
“Between ten and six.”
“The time is vague. You’re a sound sleeper to be able to count eight
hours of unconsciousness.”
“I merit it by hard work during the day.”
“Oh! you should have explained this a little earlier. If your work was
too hard, others could have been set to watch. Your excuse is
admirable.”
“It is no excuse, it is the truth.”
“You never heard a footfall, nor a door creak?”
“No. The doors, as you know, have never creaked.”
“I know nothing. You will perhaps enlighten me, and not take too much
for granted.”
“I can say nothing but in answer to your questions.”
“And you know nothing of the hour of escape?”
“I know only that I saw her safely into bed last night, looking utterly
tired out. She fell asleep almost before I left the room. This morning I
found the door leading from my room into hers standing open, and that
leading to the corridor off the latch.”
“Has she left anything behind her?”
“I found her hat and cloak in the wardrobe; I do not think she can have
taken them.”
“Your deduction is beyond argument. A little less sleep would stir that
muddled, dreamy brain of yours into some semblance, at least, of
action.”
“I don’t think it’s the sleep that makes me stupid. It’s the dull
greyness of the sky.”
“Maybe. What penalty are you inclined to pay for your neglect and lack
of vigilance?”
“It was not neglect. I slept heavier than I have ever slept before. I
believe God helped her, for she was young and good and innocent.”
“You seem to entertain no sorrow for your neglect of duty.”
Her puzzled eyes, tired and questioning, met his.
“No, I do not feel sorry. How can I? She could not settle to this prison
life as I have done. She was of a softer and more yielding nature. What
hardens me would soon have killed her altogether.”
“Better be killed than get away alive without permission. And you, being
the offender, must bear her punishment beside your own.”
A wintry smile crept to her lips.
“Oh! I am strong enough for any punishment. I have a frame of iron
buried in what seems like flesh. If I have sinned, then name the
punishment. But sin at times, if sin this be, brings near an echo of
happier things beyond this life to conjure.”
“You are too hard-worked, you say.”
“I said I slept the sounder for it.”
“Sound sleeping is a thing for swine. You shall not work so hard, for
you must sleep less heavily. You are intent upon a wedding-gown, I hear.
Leave it unfinished.”
“But I have worked at it three years; the dullest work is finished. This
is the part I love, that makes some compensation for that other thing I
worship.”
“And for the double punishment, seeing your working hours have been
reduced and cancelled, there will be no further need for that night
out—excruciating torment for the all unhappy listeners.”
“Rosalie loved my playing.” Her dark eyes shone out from a face pale as
death.
“No. She was bribing you to stop by flattery. Did she not counsel you to
give it up?”
“Ah! that is impossible. I ask nothing but two little hours a week. If
that goes, I might as well be dead.”
“You might then, for you have done with them.”
“It was the stipulation when I came here.”
“You have broken the stipulation by your carelessness.”
“What am I to do, then?”
“Nothing. Learn to appreciate the luxury of idleness.”
“You have not weighed the fairness of such a punishment.”
“You have angered me.”
“Give me but one hour a week, then. Give me but one.”
“No, not one! Get away out of my sight, lest I be tempted to kick you
out.”
“Where must I go? I have no place amongst the others now.”
“There is the workroom. You had best guard what you have made from
moths. That is sufficient occupation surely for one who hitherto was too
hard-worked.”
“It is a return to the life I led before I came here.”
“The information does not interest me. You live your life according to
your own making. Go; I have no more to say to you.”
Mariana’s eyes glittered.
“I would I could appeal to some power without against this cruel
sentence.”
“Oh! there is no power without. The world is too busy with its own
affairs. You had best sink into silence gracefully. You have got past
the age of screaming and past the age of tears. You have let go the only
prisoner I set my mind on keeping, and need expect no mercy for it.
Imbecile! Go!”
The words were accompanied by an action so indicative of savage
irritation that Mariana, without further reply, turned to the door and
left the room.
Daylight, unaccompanied by much warmth, had taken the place of twilight.
The lights were out, and morning had begun.
Along the corridor into the central hall, with face all deathly white,
she passed. She met Everard there. He had waited for her.
He read her untold story by her face, for she never said a word, and
glided past him like a ghost in a painted picture toward the eastern
wing.
The door swung open. Here no light had ever penetrated by night or day,
save only the artificial glimmer and pale ghastliness.
Then at No. 13 she stopped, and opened the low-built door. She gave one
hurried glance back to the big double door that shut her off from life,
then passed into the damp, dark cell, and closed the door behind her.
No longer the work that filled with a certain pleasure the long hours of
day. To sit there idle, without light, or companionship, or
occupation—that was her doom now. And then, to give up that precious
pleasure and intoxicating dream that came round once a week! She
shuddered at the black thought.
Down she sat upon one wooden chair. And as she sat, the moths descended
one by one about her. But when she sighed they flew far off again. The
moths in flimsy clouds hovered above, and knew quite all too well their
time had not come yet.
So there for the present we must leave her—stiff, rigid, and unmoving.
Crushed down by pain and heaviness so great, she had no strength to move
or cry.