Lying thus, upon the verge of slumber, Mrs. Payne became aware of a
sound of light steps in the corridor outside her room. She opened her
eyes and lay with tense muscles listening. The sound was unmistakable,
and the steps came from the direction of Arthur's room, the only one on
that side of hers that was occupied. The steps came nearer. Passing
her bedroom door they became tiptoe and cautious, as though the walker,
whoever he might be, was anxious not to arouse her attention. The
sound passed and grew fainter down the length of the corridor, and she
knew then that the very worst had happened, for Gabrielle's room lay at
the end of the passage. Many things she had dreaded, but not this last
enormity.
She crept out of bed, neglecting in her anxiety to put on a
dressing-gown, and went softly to the door. She wondered how she could
open it without making a noise, and if, when she had opened it, she
could hear at such a distance.
Very carefully with her hot hand she turned the door handle and opened
a small chink that fortunately allowed her to look along the passage
towards Gabrielle's room. Through a window halfway down the corridor
moonlight cut across it, throwing on the floor the distorted shadow of
an Etruscan vase. She remembered that Arthur's father had bought it in
Italy on their honeymoon, yet, while this thought went through her
mind, her ears were strained to listen. She could do no more, for the
further end of the passage was plunged by this insulating flood of
moonlight into inscrutable darkness.
It was so quiet that she felt that she had missed him; he had already
entered her room; but while she considered the awful indignity of
surprising him there, the sound of a light tapping on the door's panel
relieved her. She thanked God that she was still in time.
The knock was repeated and evidently answered, for now she heard him
speak in a whisper. He called her Mrs. Considine--it was ridiculous!
"Are you awake?" she heard. "The nightingale--yes, the nightingale.
We could go down into the garden under the trees. If you're game. How
splendid of you! ... Yes, I'll wait below .... Outside, under your
window."
Before Mrs. Payne could pull herself together she heard his steps
returning. She closed the door fearfully. He came along the passage
and stopped for a moment just outside her room. There was nothing
between them but an oak door, so thin, she felt, that he must surely
hear her anxious breath. She dared not breathe, but in a moment he
passed by.
Why had he stopped outside her door? What curious filial instinct had
made him think of her at that moment? Had he thought kindly, or only
perhaps suspiciously, wondering if she were safely asleep? She
couldn't tell. Her mind was too full of disturbing emotions to allow
her to think. One thing emerged foremost from her confusion, a feeling
of devout thankfulness that her first fears had not been justified, and
as the dread of definite and paralysing defeat lifted from her mind,
she realised with a sudden exultation that chance had given her the
very opportunity for which she had been waiting and scheming. If she
went carefully she might see them together, alone and unsuspecting, and
know for certain by their behaviour how far matters had gone.
She dared not switch on the light or strike a match for fear that her
windows might become conspicuous. Very gently she released one of the
blinds, admitting the light of the luminous sky. She dressed
hurriedly, catching sight of her figure in the long pier glass as she
pulled on her stockings. For the moment it struck her as faintly
ludicrous to see this middle-aged woman in a long white nightdress
behaving like a creature in a detective story. It was extravagant.
People of her age and figure and general sobriety didn't do this sort
of thing in real life. But the seriousness of her mission recalled
her, and while she had been considering the picturesque aspects of the
case she found that she had actually, unconsciously dressed ... and
only just in time, for now she heard the lighter step of Gabrielle in
the passage.
The sound gave her a sudden flush of anger. She wanted, there and
then, to open her door and ask Gabrielle where she was going. It was
tantalising to let the thing go on and hold her hand. She clutched on
to the foot of the bed to save herself from doing anything so rash.
Gabrielle's steps passed, and the house was quiet again. The most
difficult moment had come. "I hope to goodness none of the servants
are awake," she thought...
Reaching the top of the staircase she heard them whispering in the
hall. It seemed that they were going out brazenly by the front door,
and since it seemed to her that to follow them closely would be
dangerous she herself hastened round to the back staircase and let
herself out of the house by a side door set in an angle of the building
that sheltered her.
An eastward drift of cloud came over, hiding the moon, and she was glad
of this, for the crude moonlight had put her to shame by its
brilliance. She wondered to see the clouds moving so fast, for in the
garden not a tree stirred but one aspen that made a sound as of gentle
rain. She heard the grating of their feet on the drive, and then, by
the sudden cessation of this sound, guessed that they had stepped on to
the lawn. Arthur's low voice came to her clearly. "He's stopped
singing, but I think he'll sing again," and from Gabrielle a whispered
"Yes."
Mrs. Payne could scarcely be certain of the words she heard: she knew
that she ought in some way to get nearer to them, but the expanse of
dewy turf by which they were surrounded made it impossible for her to
approach without being seen. Very cautiously she cut across to the
left and into the shelter of the privet hedge, along which she stole
until she reached their level.
They stood together in the middle of the lawn without speaking. At
last Gabrielle shivered. Arthur noticed it quickly. "I hope you're
not cold," he said.
"No, I'm not cold--only--only we're so exposed out here. If we could
get a little more into the shadow I should feel more comfortable----"
"That's easily managed," he said laughing. "We can go over by the
sundial. It's called a yew-parlour, I think. It might have been made
for us."
So they passed into its shade. Mrs. Payne noticed eagerly that his
hand was not on her arm. The yew hedge that now sheltered them
concealed her also from their sight, and, greatly relieved, she crept
along her cover of privet into the shadow of a mulberry tree where, by
stooping a little, she could watch them unperceived.
"What a wonderful night," Gabrielle whispered.
"I never knew such a night," he said. "It feels a bit like that
evening when we stood leaning over the bridge by the lake."
"Don't," she said. "I want to forget it. Can you smell the dew?"
"Yes, and the scent of may coming over from the meadows."
"We call it whitethorn in Ireland."
There was a long pause, then he spoke again.
"I think you look sad to-night," he said. "Are you sorry that you
came?"
"No, no--of course not. It's the moonlight that makes me paler than
usual. But I'm always pale. You shouldn't look at me so closely,
Arthur."
"I love to look at you. It isn't always that I get the chance. I just
wanted to be certain that you weren't anxious. You don't think that we
oughtn't to have come here?"
"No, why shouldn't we?" she said, turning her face away.
Then suddenly, in the edge of the copse beyond the nearest field, the
nightingale began. The song was so beautiful in the stillness of the
night that even Mrs. Payne, who had other things to think of, felt its
influence. It was a strange, unearthly moment.
"You hear it?" Arthur whispered; but Gabrielle did not answer; she laid
her hand on his sleeve and Arthur trembled at her touch. So they stood
listening, close together, while Arthur took the hand that held him.
She smiled and turned her eyes towards him but they could not look at
each other for long. She surrendered herself to his arms and they
kissed.
Mrs. Payne saw their faces close together in the dusk and their shadowy
bodies entwined. She could bear it no longer, but turned and groped
her way back along the privet hedge to the door from which she had
first come. She did not know where she was going or how she went until
she found that she had reached her own bedroom again. There, in her
dressing-gown, she threw herself on the bed and fell into a fit of
violent sobbing. She lay there shaken by sobs like a disconsolate
child. Over in the coppice the nightingale sang exultantly as if he
knew of the wonder that his song had revealed to the lovers who
listened to him with their lips together.