I awoke next morning to see Aunt Martha standing by my bedside.
"You're to get up at once. Your uncle says you are to spend a week in
the attic for your naughtiness, so get up and dress quickly. I'll come
back to take you in a few minutes. Your uncle says you're to go before
breakfast, now, at once, so that you can speak to nobody."
Robbie had heard aright.
I was still very sore; my nightgown stuck to me here and there with
dry blood, and hurt me as I tore it off. I dressed, and was ready when
Aunt Martha returned. In the grey of a damp winter dawn I followed her
upstairs. No one else was stirring. The unused, airless smell of the
attic seemed more unpleasant than usual in the cold: an atmosphere at
once frozen and stuffy. A mattress had been put on the floor; there
were no bedclothes or coverlets. The room was bare except for a few
boxes and old picture frames in one corner, the rusty old fender that
always stood end upwards against the wall, and one rickety backless old
chair.
"Here's a cloak to wrap round you in the night. Your uncle said I
wasn't to leave one." She went away.
All day I was left alone. Twice Aunt Martha came up with a bowl of
gruel and a dry crust, but (evidently under orders) she said nothing.
It was so cold that the cloak could not prevent my getting numbed. I
lay huddled up on the mattress all through the day, thinking, thinking,
thinking.... Now that the first glow of the Wonder Night had passed
away, there came a reaction, and I was gnawing away once more at all
my bitter memories and hates. Pain, too, was governing me; my aching
body was half numbed with cold, especially my legs and feet, which the
cloak was not long enough to cover, huddle as I might. I kept my soul
warm--and body too to some degree--by hugging to me the loves that now
were mine. I lived the time spent with my mother and with Robbie over
and over and over again: every gesture, every kindness, every kiss.
For all my unhappiness and physical misery I could never again be so
blankly, harbourlessly miserable as before. In my darkest moments I now
knew that there were places of comfort to which I could fly.
I wondered what was going on in the house downstairs. It was night-time
now; tomorrow morning Robbie would be going and I should be alone with
Uncle Simeon. Escape I must. I climbed on to the rickety old chair and
opened the skylight window. I looked out and observed that the skylight
was of a level piece with the sloping roof. I could see nothing beyond
the edge of the roof; the sense of the great drop beyond that edge came
to me, and as I pictured myself falling, I shuddered. That way there
was no escape.
Then, for one second, as I looked down the sloping roof, came a sudden
notion to throw myself over. It was a physical impulse only, and passed
as quickly as it came. It would have stayed longer had I been the least
bit tempted. But I could never see the sense of suicide. I saw no good
in killing myself, because I believed in immortality. By killing myself
I should only be ensuring an Eternity in hell instead of an Eternity
in heaven. The little boy in one of the new novels makes away with
himself because he believes that there is nothing beyond death, and
that by killing himself in this world he has killed his soul for ever.
If I had believed that I too might have been tempted. But my creed was
in immortality, from which there is no escape. Nor had I the physical
courage which suicide requires. And it would steal my chance of meeting
my mother in the next world and Robbie in this.
I lay down on my mattress, seeking vainly, like a mouse in a trap, some
new way of escape. During the first night in that cold dreary attic
I slept hardly at all. The rats frightened me; I could not sleep for
fear they would crawl over my face once it was still. Surely Robbie
would send some sign, some message. None came. Later I must have slept;
for again it was Aunt Martha who woke me when she came to bring my
"breakfast." She was startled to see how starved with cold I was, and
came back with a big warm blanket. It was a brave thing for her to do.
"Robert Grove is going, isn't he?" I asked casually, steadying my voice.
"Your Uncle thought he was going today, but it has been put off till
next Tuesday, New Year's Day, when his uncle returns from abroad. Till
then your uncle says you must stay here."
There I stayed. Four walls, locked door, and precipitous roof baffled
all my notions of escape. The best thing I could think of was a rush
for the door when Aunt Martha came with my food; but I saw this would
not be much good. She would raise the alarm, and he would catch me
before I could get clear of the house.
Five days passed, long, cold and wretched; though with the big blanket,
and the forbidden extras Aunt Martha contrived sometimes to convey me
with my meals, I managed to keep alive, and kept, in my fashion of
health, reasonably well. No message came from Robbie. No doubt Uncle
Simeon was watching him day and night. But still--.
I was not sure of the passage of time, but I reckoned one night that it
was New Year's Eve. The last night, and still no message. Tomorrow he
was going: this time for certain, and for ever; I should be left alone
with my tormentor. Half in terror (of Uncle Simeon when he should get
me alone), half in hope (of a sign from Robbie), I lay awake through
the whole of that night. It struck midnight. The bells rang out;
merrily, mockingly. It was New Year's night as I had thought. All over
the town people, even Saints, were wishing each other a Happy New Year.
The bells were still. I lay awake waiting for something to happen,
for I knew it would. All the night-time sounds of an old house were
around me. Boards creaked, roof shook, rats scampered. Sometimes I was
startled by a metallic sound as a rat scampered over the tin plate on
which Aunt Martha brought my bread.
There--that was a new sound! That tapping noise at the door was never
a rat. It seemed low down just where a rat might scratch, but that was
the rap of human knuckles, faint but unmistakable. Who? Why? I crawled
out of the blanket, lay down on the bare boards and whispered under the
door.
"Robbie, is that you, Robbie?"
There was no reply except the stealthy sound of something being pushed
under the door. I saw a white thing that looked like a small envelope.
I touched it and felt inside the paper a hard round thing. It was the
half-sovereign he had promised me.
"Robbie, Robbie, thank you! Are you there? Robbie, Robbie."
There was no reply. I heard cautious footsteps, with a long interval
between each, going down the creaky old stairs. How I wished he had
whispered one word, one word. He had thought I was asleep and had not
dared to speak loud enough to wake me. Never mind, it was better that
the last thing was Christmas Night's perfect good-bye.
I clutched the envelope and mourned the weary hours of waiting until I
could read it, for I had no candle. I kept my eyes staring wide open
to prevent myself falling asleep. I could feel that there was a letter
as well as money inside the envelope. I knew it would help me; I was
impatient to know how. So much did it raise my hopes, that I fell to
thinking of the coach-ride to Tawborough, of what Grandmother would say
and how Aunt Jael would receive me.
As I stared through the darkness I became gradually aware of a ray of
light along the ceiling. It did not come from the skylight, for there
was no moon; and it ran horizontally along the ceiling, not down into
the room. I got up and climbed on to the chair to investigate. Then I
guessed. I had often noticed in a corner in the top of the wall (the
corner farthest from the door) a little wooden door a foot or more
square; it did not exactly fit the space in the wall and there was a
thin aperture between the bottom of this little door and where the wall
began. It was through this slit, not more than half an inch wide, that
the strip of light came. I pulled at the handle and the little door
opened.
Ten yards or so away, on a level with my eyes, I saw a square patch
of brightness. In a flash, I understood; the light from which it came
was in Uncle Simeon's attic. There was a hole in the corner of the
top of the wall there too, the selfsame square space I had seen when
peeping through the keyhole. What the holes were for I did not know;
most likely to ventilate the room in between. The space mystery which
had so often puzzled me was now explained. There was, in between the
two attics which I knew, mine and Uncle Simeon's, another intermediate
garret twice as large as either.
Instantly, I formed the resolution of squeezing my way through the
hole, traversing the long dark attic in between, clambering up the
other aperture through which the ray of light was streaming, and
seeing--just what I was too excited to guess, except that I knew that
_he_ was there. The hole was about eighteen inches square; it was a
tight squeeze, but thanks to his dieting I managed it. Clambering down
the other side was awkward work; I held on to the wall part of the
hole to prepare for a jump. I knew it was a longish drop; there was no
convenient chair on this side, and as I had left my slippers behind
so as to make as little noise as possible, I hoped the ground was not
too hard. My feet alighted unevenly; the left foot on the corner of a
beam stuck edgeways, the right on the level of the floor, which was of
course lower by the width of the beam. I hurt my toe badly. The ray
of light was only sufficient to show up very dimly the big garret in
which I now stood; I could make out that the floor was traversed by
long beams laid edgeways, parallel with the front of the house and thus
leading from my attic to his. Along one of these I walked; for although
it was awkwardly narrow, it was better for my stockinged feet than the
floor, which I made out to be strewn with pieces of wood, stone and
plaster. When I got to the other end I found that my objective was too
high; my fingers only just reached the edge of the hole. By standing on
tiptoe, however, and clutching for all I was worth I managed to lever
myself up. Then I looked into the mysterious room.
What I saw was unforgettable. On a high cupboard flared a lamp, nearly
on a level with the space through which I was looking. This explained
how it was that the light carried right through to the corresponding
hole in the wall of my attic. In the full glare of the lamp sat Simeon
Greeber, leaning over a table covered with papers and documents, at
which he peered. He gloated over them, fondled them, sometimes he
laughed and breathed hard, and his eyes shone. Then he would stop, cock
his head on one side for a moment, and listen anxiously. I watched him,
fascinated. Round him, on the floor and the table, were many envelopes
and papers. The wall was some inches thick; to see as much as I could
I peered further in, so far indeed that if he stood up and looked my
way he could hardly fail to see me. I noticed the big green box I had
observed from the key-hole months before; a heavy door on hinges stood
wide open; inside were more papers. His face, in the moments when he
lifted it up, was of a greenish yellow hue in the lamp-light; and his
eyes shone.
In my interest I had forgotten the awkwardness of my posture; supported
by my elbows and wrists on the wall part of the hole, with my feet
hanging in mid-air, my toes perhaps barely touching the wall. Once I
lost my hold, and clutched convulsively so as not to fall. He heard the
noise, lifted his face from the pile in which he was wallowing, and
looked round anxiously. I had scared him.
"No, no, it can't be, it can't be," he whispered, endeavouring to
assure himself of something.
He returned to his love. Now he rubbed his face sideways against the
papers, gently, like a friendly cat against your leg.
I resolved to make a noise deliberately, keeping myself far enough back
not to be seen, and to listen to what he might say.
In silence, at night, alone, a sigh is the most awful noise that can
strike the human ear. I waited till his face was lifted again for a
moment, held myself far enough back so as not to be seen easily, while
still seeing him, and uttered a long-drawn agonized sigh. He started up
with a cry. His cowardly face was a livid green.
"Brother, brother"--it was a terrified whine--"twelve years ago, twelve
years ago."
"Twelve years ago, twelve years ago," echoed the watching whisperer.
He gave a horrible frightened cry, something between a beast's whine
and howl, dropped on his knees, clasped his hands, turned his terrified
eyes upward, and broke into delirious prayer. His face streamed with
sweat.
"Oh, God, God, visit not Thy servant thus. 'Twas all done for Thee, all
for Thee, Thou knowest. The gold is all Thine. For Thy name's sake, Oh
Lord, pity Thy faithful, humble servant. _He_, Lord, was a sinner, it
was meet that he should go, and that one of Thine own people should
hold his wealth. He was spending all in sin; it was one's duty, Lord,
one's duty. It was Thou who guidedst one's hand that night, and was
he not dying already from the illness with which Thou hadst stricken
him? For Thy sake, oh Lord, it was done. Thou knowest it. Not the
meanest penny has been spent on worldly pleasures nor evil ways nor
self, as he, oh Lord, would have spent it. Thou knowest, Thou knowest;
the meetings, the missionaries, the work in Thy vineyard amongst Thy
people; all that has been spent has been spent in Thy service, and when
Thou callest me to Thee, all will be left for Thy work on earth below.
All, oh Lord, all. Thou knowest, Thou knowest. Grant then that he
trouble me not thus, grant--"
"Twelve years ago, twelve years ago," I whispered, more boldly, tasting
dear revenge, anxious to see to what length of terror and blasphemy
this snivelling Thing could go.
I overshot my mark; I whispered a little too loud. He looked quickly up
to the hole in the wall, and though I shrank back like a flash, for a
fraction of a second our eyes met.
Then he rushed for the door.
I dropped myself down and ran for dear life back across the beamed room
to my attic. Feverishly I reviewed the position. He had quite certainly
seen me and was now rushing to my attic to cut off my retreat. I sped
across, sprang up to the aperture, squeezed my way wildly through,
calculating all the while, as the quarry does, the number of seconds
it will take the huntsman to finish him. He would have to fly down the
stairs from his attic, along the landing, and up the stairs to mine.
Thank God, he had to fetch the key, which I knew was kept somewhere
downstairs. This delay saved me. I just had time to squeeze through,
shut the little door, drop on to the chair, move the chair from
beneath, fly to my mattress, and throw the cape around me, before I
heard the key turning.
He came in stealthily and stood listening for a second near the door.
Then he struck a match and lighted the candle he held in his hand.
I dropped my eyelids so that I could just see him, and affected as
far as I could a quiet and regular breathing. He looked first at me,
then round the room, evidently baffled. If he had found my mattress
empty, if I had not flown back on the wings of terror, he would have
had the pleasure of trapping me like a rat in the dark roof-room, the
relief of a natural explanation of the strange whisperings, and at
last a genuine excuse for beating me sick. But here I was, sleeping
peacefully. I could feel him looking at me with intense hate. He hated
me almost as much for bringing him here on a fool's errand as if he had
thought I was really guilty. He bent down and peered more closely at my
face. Instinctively my hand was clasped against my heart.
The door opened and Aunt Martha came in, shivering slightly in her
nightdress.
"You here, Simeon? I thought I heard the child cry out."
"So did oneself. One came to see if anything were the matter; but she
sleeps calmly enough." The lie saved him.
"Come, Martha, my dear," he said, as he closed the door, "one will deal
with her tomorrow."
There, however, he was wrong.
The sights of the past half hour had of course excited me beyond
measure, but I already reflected that they could be put to use; a very
handy lever to turn Aunt Jael's wrath from me to him. Once again, _how_
was I to get to Aunt Jael? I reckoned that hours must still pass before
it was light enough for me to read Robbie's letter. I got up again from
the mattress to sit on the chair and await the dawn. My feet crunched
against something; it was a box of matches Uncle Simeon must have
dropped in his excitement. By striking these one after another I read:
DEAR DEAR MARY: Here is the money for the coach. I am going
tomorrow morning. The door is bolted, it is no good that way, but
I have found a way. You wait till eleven o'clock tomorrow morning,
that will be the morning you find this, then get out by the little
window in the roof, it is quite safe I have made sure. There is a
drain pipe begins at the very top where the sloping part of the
roof stops, you must climb down that, it gets you down into the
back yard, and the back yard door is not locked, I've taken the
key. Then take the coach or run or anything to Tawborough. Get away
from here, that's all, you must. There is _no_ danger, it will be
quite easy to climb down, you'll not hurt. I am always, always
going to think of you and next Christmas we will meet properly like
you said.
Your loving
ROBBIE.
P. S. Happy New Year.
I kissed the letter.
There was no time to be lost. I wrapped Aunt Martha's cape round me
and put on my shoes,--indoor slippers without a strap, poor enough
footwear for an eight mile walk. I clambered on to the chair and
lifted the heavy handle of the sky-light window. The damp air of a raw
winter's night crept into the room.
How I ever got to the ground, I do not know. Somehow I slithered down
the sloping roof till my feet touched the ledge Robbie had spoken of;
somehow I found the drain pipe, and somehow I clambered down. The yard
door was open as he had said, and I walked through it into the deathly
silent street, breathing a sigh of intense relief that I remember to
this day. I broke immediately into a run, that I might put between
me and that accursed house as much distance with as small delay as
possible; when I was halfway across the old bridge I looked back at it,
dimly silhouetted against the winter's night.
"Good-bye Robbie!" I called.
I crossed the bridge and climbed the hill. Very soon I was foot-sore;
the toe that had caught on the beam in the roof-room began to bleed,
and my shoes kept slipping off. I was cold, hungry, sore, cramped and
faint. The cold slow rain, somewhere between drizzle and sleet, beat
upon my face. By all the tenets of melodrama my escape should have been
through deep crisp snow with the valiant horned moon astride the sky.
There was no moon, and sleet is crueller than snow. After a while, I
lost one of my shoes, turned back, peered about for it, was unable to
find it; kicked away the other and ran along in my stockinged feet.
Both feet were soon bleeding. After a mile or so, when I could run no
further, I trudged or rather hobbled along, keeping to the middle of
the road, which was the easiest and least muddy part. At moments the
temptation to sit down was almost irresistible; sleep more than half
possessed me. I clenched my teeth and kept on, will power eking out
what little physical force was left. I prayed continuously.
After perhaps three or four hours, though it seemed unending years, I
saw ahead of me the first roofs of Tawborough. I limped through the wet
silent streets of the town, up Bear Street on to the Lawn, and through
our garden gate. I pulled the bell, and then with a wretchedness and
weariness I could not resist now that my goal was reached, sank down
upon the doorstep.
Immediately I must have fallen asleep, for it seemed that I awoke from
far away to see my Grandmother in her red dressing-gown and funny
nightcap standing before me.
"It's me--Mary. I've come back, Grandmother, because he would have
killed me. I've walked all night, and I'm so tired."
I rose to my feet, and fainted in her arms. Then I remember no more.