IN THE HALLS AT MIDNIGHT.
OCTOBER 10, 1791.
I was not mistaken. Madame is not only interested in, but has serious
designs upon the oak parlor. Not content with roaming up and down the
hallway leading to it, she was detected yesterday morning trying to open
its door, and when politely questioned as to whom she was seeking,
answered that she was looking for the sitting room, which, by the way,
is on the other side of the house. And this is not all. As I lay in my
bed last night resting as only a weary woman can rest, I heard a light
tap at my door. Rising, I opened it, and was astonished to see standing
before me the light figure of mademoiselle.
"Excuse me for troubling you," said she, in her pure English--they both
speak good English, though with a foreign accent--"I am sorry to wake
you, but I am so anxious about my mother. She went to bed with me, and
we fell asleep; but when I woke a little while ago she was missing, and
though I have waited for her a long time, she does not return. I am not
well, and easily frightened! Oh, how cold it is."
I drew her in, wrapped a shawl about her, and led her back to her room.
"Your mother will return speedily," I promised. "Doubtless she felt
restless, and is taking a turn or two up and down the hall."
"Perhaps; for her dressing gown and slippers are gone. But she never did
anything like this before, and in a strange house--"
A slight trembling stopped the young lady from continuing.
Urging her to get into bed, I spoke one or two further words of a
comforting nature, at which the lovely girl seemed to forget her pride,
for she threw her arms about my neck with a low sigh, and then, pushing
me softly from her, observed:
"You are a kind woman; you make me feel happier whenever you speak to
me."
Touched, I made some loving reply, and withdrew. I longed to linger,
longed to tell her how truly I was her friend; but I feared the mother's
return--feared to miss the knowledge of madame's whereabouts, which my
secret suspicion made important; so I subdued my feelings and hastened
quickly to my room, where I wrapped myself in a long, dark cloak. Thus
equipped, I stole back again to the hall, and gliding with as noiseless
a step as possible, found my way to the back stairs, down which I crept,
holding my breath, and listening intently.
To many who read these words the situation of those back stairs is well
known; but there may be others who will not understand that they lead
directly, after a couple of turns, to that hall upon which opens the oak
parlor. Five steps from the lower floor there is a landing, and upon
this landing there is a tall Dutch clock, so placed as to offer a very
good hiding place behind it to any one anxious to gaze unobserved down
the hall. But to reach the clock one has to pass a window, and as this
looks south, and was upon this night open to the moonlight, I felt that
the situation demanded circumspection.
I, therefore, paused when I reached the last step above the platform,
and listened intently before proceeding further. There was no noise; all
was quiet, as a respectable house should be at two o'clock in the
morning. Yet from the hall below came an undefinable something which
made me feel that she was there; a breathing influence that woke every
nervous sensibility within me, and made my heart-beats so irregular that
I tried to stop them lest my own presence should be betrayed. She was
there, a creeping, baleful figure, blotting the moonshine with her tall
shadow, as she passed, panther-like, to and fro before that closed door,
or crouched against the wall in the same attitude of listening which I
myself assumed. Or so I pictured her as I clung to the balustrade above,
asking myself how I could cross that strip of moonlight separating me
from that vantage-point I longed to gain. For that I knew her to be
there was not enough. I must see her, and learn, if possible, what the
attraction was which drew her to this fatal door. But how, how, how? If
she were watching, as secrecy ever watches, I could not take a step upon
that platform without being discerned. Not even if a friendly cloud came
to obscure the brightness of the moon, could I hope to project my dark
figure into that belt of light without discovery. I must see what was to
be seen from the step where I stood, and to do this I knew but one way.
Taking up the end of my long cloak, I advanced it the merest trifle
beyond the edge of the partition that separated me from the hall below.
Then I listened again. No sound, no stir. I breathed deeply and thrust
my arm still further, the long cloak hanging from it dark and
impenetrable to the floor below. Then I waited. The moonlight was not
quite as bright as it had been; surely that was a cloud I saw careering
over the face of the sky above me, and in another moment, if I could
wait for it, the hall would be almost dark. I let my arm advance an inch
or so further, and satisfied now that I had got the slit which answers
for an arm-hole into a position that would afford me full opportunity of
looking through the black wall I had thus improvised, I watched the
cloud for the moment of comparative darkness which I so confidently
expected. It came, and with it a sound--the first I had heard. It was
from far down the hall, and was, as near as I could judge, of a jingling
nature, which for an instant I found it hard to understand. Then the
quick suspicion came as to what it was, and unable to restrain myself
longer I separated the slit I have spoken of with the fingers of my
right hand, and looked through.
There she was, standing before the door of the oak parlor, fitting keys.
I knew it at my first glimpse, both from her attitude and the slight
noise which the keys made. Taken aback, for I had not expected this, I
sank out of sight, cloak and all, asking myself what I should do. I
finally decided to do nothing. I would listen, and if the least
intimation came to prove that she had succeeded in her endeavor, I would
then spring down the steps that separated us and hold her back by the
hair of her head. Meanwhile I congratulated myself that the lock of that
room was a peculiar one, and that the only key I knew of that would
unlock it was under the pillow of the bed I had just left.
She worked several minutes; then the moon came out. Instantly all was
still. I knew whither she had gone. Near the door she was tampering with
is a short passageway leading to another window. Into this she had
slipped, and I could look out now with impunity, sure that she would not
see me.
But I remained immovable. There was another cloud rushing up from the
south, and in another moment I was confident that I should hear again
the slight clatter of the key against the lock. And I did, and not only
once, but several times, which fact assured me that she had not only
brought a handful of keys with her, but that these keys must have come
from some more distant quarter than the town; that indeed she had come
provided to the Happy-Go-Lucky for this nocturnal visit, and that any
doubts I might cherish were likely to have a better foundation in fact
than is usual with women circumstanced like myself.
She did not succeed in her efforts. Had she brought burglar's tools I
hardly think she would have been able to open that lock; as it was,
there was no hope for her, and presently she seemed to comprehend this,
for the slight sounds ceased and, presently, I heard a step, and peering
recklessly from my corner, I perceived her gliding away toward the front
stairs. I smiled, but it could not have been in a way she would have
enjoyed seeing, and crept noiselessly to my own room, and our doors
closed simultaneously.
This morning I watched with some anxiety for her first look. It was
slightly inquiring. Summoning up my best smile, I gave her a cheerful
good-morning, and then observed:
"I am glad to see you look so well this morning! Your daughter seemed to
be concerned about you in the night because you had left your bed. But I
told her I was sure all was right, that you were feeling nervous, and
only wanted a breath of the fresh air you would find in the halls." And
my glance did not flinch, nor my mouth lose its smile, though she
surveyed me keenly with eyes whose look might penetrate a stone.
"You understand your own sex," was her light reply, after this short
study of my face. "Yes; I was very nervous. I have cares on my mind,
and, though my daughter does not realize it, I often lie awake at her
side, longing for space to breathe in and freedom to move as freely as
my uneasiness demands. Last night my feelings were too much for my
self-control, and I arose. I hope I did not seriously disturb you, or
awaken anybody, with my restless pacing up and down the hall."
I assured her that it took more than this to disturb me, and that after
quieting her daughter I had immediately fallen asleep; all of which she
may have believed or may not; I had no means of reading her mind, as she
had no means of reading mine.
But whether she was deceived or whether she was not, she certainly
looked relieved, and after some short remarks about the weather, turned
from me with the most cheerful air in the world, to greet her daughter.
As for me, I have made up my mind to change my room. I shall not say
anything about it or make any fuss on the subject, but to-night, and for
some nights to come, I intend to take up my abode in a certain small
room in the west wing, not very far removed from the dreadful oak
parlor.