Silently the three of us stole up the uncarpeted attic stair. It was
unknown territory to us, having been forbidden from the first by Mrs.
Handsomebody, and all we had ever seen from the hall below was a cramped
passage, guarded by three closed doors. Time and time again we had been
tempted to explore it, but there was a sinister aloofness about it that had
hitherto repelled us. Now, however, it had become but a pathway to the
Dawn, and, as we clutched the bannisters, we imagined ourselves three
pilgrims fearfully climbing toward light and beauty.
Angel stood first at the top. Gently he tried two doors in succession,
which were locked. The third gave, harshly--it seemed to me, grudgingly.
The Seraph and I pressed close behind Angel, glad of the warm contact of
each other's bodies.
In the large attic room, the air was stifling, and the sloping roof, from
which dim cobwebs were draped, seemed to press toward the dark shapes of
discarded furniture as though to guard some fearful secret. It took all our
courage to grope our way to the low casement, and it was a struggle to
dislodge the rusty bolt, and press the window out on its unused hinges. It
creaked so loudly that we held our breath for a moment, but we drew it
again with a sharp sensation of relief, as thirsty young animals drink, for
fresh night air, sweet, stinging to the nostrils, had surged in upon us,
sweeping away fear, and loneliness, and the hot depression of the attic
room.
Mrs. Handsomebody's house was tall, and we could look down upon many roofs
and chimneys. They huddled together in the soft grey light as though
waiting for some great happening which they expected, but did not
understand. They wore an air of expectancy and humility. Little low-roofed
out-houses pressed close to high walls for shelter, and a frosty white
skylight stared up-ward fearfully.
"Is this the Dawn?" came from The Seraph, in a tiny voice.
"Only the beginning of it," I whispered back. "There's two stars left over
from the night--see! that big blue one in the east, and the little white
one just above the cobbler's chimney."
"Will they be afwaid of the Dawn, when it comes?"
"Rather. I shouldn't be surprised if the big fellow bolted right across the
sky, and the little one will p'raps fall down the cobbler's chimney into
his work-room."
The Seraph was enchanted. "Then the cobbler'll sew him wight up in the sole
of a shoe, an' the boy who wears the shoe will twinkle when he wuns, won't
he? Oh, it's coming now! I hear it. I'm afwaid."
"That's not the Dawn," said Angel, "that's the night flying away."
It was true that there came to us then a rushing sound, as of strong wings;
our hair was lifted from our hot foreheads; and the casement rattled on its
hinges.
This wind, that came from the wings of night, was sharp with the fragrance
of heather and the sea. One fancied how it would surge through the dim
aisles of cathedral-like forests, ruffling the plumage of drowsy birds,
stirring the surface of some dark pool, where the trout still slept, and
making sibilant music among the drooping reeds.
The sky had now become delicately luminous, and a streak of saffron showed
above the farthest roofs; a flock of little clouds huddled together above
this, like timorous sheep at graze. The white star hung just above the
cobbler's chimney, dangerously near, it seemed to us, who watched.
There were only two of us at the window now, for Angel had stolen away to
explore every corner of the new environment, as was his custom. I could
hear the soft opening and shutting of bureau drawers, and once, a grunting
and straining, as of one engaged in severe manual labour.
A low whistle drew me to his side.
"What's up?" I demanded.
"Got this little old trunk open at last," he muttered, "full of women's
junk. Funny stuff. Look."
Our heads touched as we bent curiously over the contents. It was a dingy
and insignificant box on the outside, but it was lined with a gaily
coloured paper, on which nosegays of spring flowers bent beneath the weight
of silver butterflies, and sad-eyed cockatoos. The trays were full, as
Angel had said, of women's things; delicate, ruffly frocks of pink and
lilac; and undergarments edged with yellowing lace. A sweet scent rose from
them, as of some gentle presence that strove to reach the light and air
once more. A pair of little white kid slippers looked as though they longed
to twinkle in and out beneath a soft silk skirt. Angel's mischievous brown
hands dived among the light folds, discovering opera glasses,--(treasures
to be secured if possible, against some future South Sea expedition), an
inlaid box of old-fashioned trinkets, a coral necklace, gold-tasselled
earrings, and a brooch of tortured locks of hair.
Angel's eyes were dancing above a gauze fan held coquettishly against his
mouth of an impudent boy, but I gave no heed to him; I was busy with a
velvet work-box that promised a solution of the mystery--for hidden away
with thimble and scissors as one would secrete a treasure, was a fat little
book, "The Mysteries of Udolpho." Some one had drawn on the fly leaf, very
beautifully, I thought, a ribbed sea-shell, and on it had printed the
words, "Lucy from Charles;" and on a scroll beneath the shell, in
microscopic characters--"Bide the Time!"
My brother was looking over my shoulder now. We were filled with
conjecture.
"Lucy," said Angel, "owned all this stuff, and Charles was her lover, of
course. But who was she? Mrs. Handsomebody never had a daughter, I know,
and if she had she'd never have allowed her to wear these things. Look how
she jaws when Mary Ellen spends her wage on finery. I'll bet Lucy was a
beauty. And she's dead too, you can bet, and Charles was her lover, and
likely he's dead too. 'Bide the time,' eh? You see they're waitin' around
yet--_somewheres_. Isn't it queer?"
The Seraph's voice came from the window in a sort of chant:
"The little white star has fallen down the cobbler's chimney!
"It has fallen down, and the cobbler is sewing it into a shoe!
"A milkman is wunning down the stweet!
"Tell you what," whispered Angel, "I'll show you what Lucy was like--just a
little. I'll make a picture of her."
The space between two tall chests of drawers formed a sort of alcove in
which stood a pier glass, whose tarnished frame was draped in white net.
Before it Angel drew (without much caution) a high-backed chair, and on it
he began his picture.
Over the seat and almost touching the floor, he draped a frilled petticoat,
and against the back of the chair (with a foundation of formidable stays
for support) he hung a garment, which, even then, he seemed to know for a
camisole. Over all he laid a charming lilac silk gown, and under the hem in
the most natural attitude peeped the little party slippers. A small lace
and velvet bonnet with streamers was hung at the apex of the creation, and
in her lap (for the time has come to use the feminine pronoun) he spread
the gauzy fan. He hung over her tenderly, as an artist over his
subject--each fold must be in place--the empty sleeves curved just so--one
fancied a rounded chin beneath the velvet streamers, so artfully was it
adjusted. Her reflection in the pier glass was superb!
"It is here!" chanted The Seraph. "Evwy bit of evwy fing is shinin'! Oh,
Angel an' John, _please_ look!"
We flew to the window and leaned across the sill.
It was a happy world that morning, glowing in the sweetest dawn that ever
broke over roofs and chimney pots. The earth sang as she danced her dewy
way among the paling stars. The little grey clouds blushed pink against the
azure sky. Blossoming boughs of peach and apricot hung over the gates of
heaven, and rosy spirals curled upward from two chimneys. Pink-footed
pigeons strutted, rooketty-cooing along the roofs. They nodded their heads
as though to affirm the consummation of a miracle. "It is so--" they seemed
to say--"It is indeed so--" One of them hopped upon the cobbler's chimney,
peering earnestly into its depths. "It sees the star!" shouted The Seraph.
"It sees the star and nods to it. 'I am higher now than you'--it says!"
Something--was it a breath? a sigh?--made me look back into the attic where
Lucy's clothes clung to the high-backed chair, like flower petals blown
against a wall. The pier-glass had caught all the glory of the morning and
was releasing it in quivering spears of light that dazzled me for a moment;
I rubbed my eyes, and stared, and shook a little, for in the midst of all
this splendour I saw Lucy! No pallid, rigid ghost, but something warm,
eager with life, spreading the folds of the lilac gown like a butterfly
warming its new wings in the strength of the sun.
Her bosom rose and fell quickly, her eyes were fixed on me with a
beseeching look, it seemed. I drew nearer--near enough to smell the faint
perfume of her, and I saw then that she was not looking at me, but at the
fat little book of "The Mysteries of Udolpho" which I still held in my
hands. The book that Charles had given her! "Bide the time!" he had
written, but she could bide the time no longer.
Proud as any knight before his lady, I strode forward, and pressed the book
into her hands--saw her slender fingers curl around it--heard her little
gasp of joy. I should not have been at all surprised had the door opened
and Charles walked in.
As a matter of fact, the door _did_ open and--Mrs. Handsomebody walked in.