THE KEY TO THE PUZZLE
She stood, for a second, with the handle of the open door in her
grasp--as if she was glad of its support to aid her stand. Then, with
a quick glance backwards, as of pleading to the one who exercised over
her so strange a spell, she tottered from the room. She continued
speaking as she went, as if deprecating the other's wrath.
"I shall be all right--in a moment--if you don't--hurry me at first.
I'm only slow because--I'm a little tired. It'll soon go, this tired
feeling, Tom--and I'll be sure--to be quicker when it's gone."
Ballingall hung back as she passed from the room, seeming, from his
attitude, to be in two minds whether to follow her at all. The others,
as if taking their cue from him, seemed hesitating too--until Madge,
with head thrown back, and fists hanging clenched at her sides,
went after her through the door. Then they moved close on Madge's
heels--Bruce Graham in front, Ballingall bringing up the rear.
The woman was staggering up the stairs, with obvious
unwillingness--and, also, with more than sufficient feebleness. It was
with difficulty she could lift her feet from step to step. Each time
she raised her foot she gave a backward lurch, which threatened to
precipitate her down the whole of the distance she had gained.
Madge's impulse was to dash forward, put her arms about the
unfortunate creature's wrist and, if she needs must go forward, bear
her bodily to the top of the stairs. But although, at the pitiful
sight which the woman presented, her fingers tingled and her pulses
throbbed, she was stayed from advancing to proffer her the assistance
which she longed to render by the consciousness, against which she
strove in vain, that between the woman and herself there was a
something which not only did she dare not pass, but which she dare not
even closely approach. Over and over again she told herself that it
was nonsense--but a delusion born of the woman's diseased and
conscience-haunted brain. There was absolutely nothing to be seen; and
why should she, a healthy-minded young woman, suffer herself to be
frightened by the vacant air? But in spite of all her efforts at
self-persuasion, she allowed a considerable space to continue to exist
between herself and the trembling wretch upon the stairs.
Slowly the queer procession advanced--the woman punctuating, as it
were, with her plaintive wailings every step she took.
"Tom! Tom! Tom!" She continually repeated the name, with all the
intonations of endearment, supplication, reproach, and even terror. To
hear her was a liberal education in the different effects which may be
produced by varieties of emphasis.
"Don't hurry me! I'm--going as quickly as I can. I--shall soon be at
the top! It's so--so steep--a staircase--Tom."
At last the top was reached. She stood upon the landing, clinging to
the banisters as she gasped for breath. Her figure swayed backward and
forward, in so ominous a fashion that, halfway up the staircase,
almost involuntarily Madge stretched out her arms to catch her if she
fell. But she did not fall--nor was she allowed much time to recover
from her exertions.
"I'm going--if--you'll let me--rest--for just one moment--Tom. Where
do you wish me to go?"
It seemed as if her question was answered, for she gave a shuddering
movement towards the wall, and burst into a passion of cries.
"No, Tom--not there! not there! not there! Don't make me go into our
bedroom--not into our bedroom!"
The command which had been given her was apparently repeated, for,
drawing herself away from the wall, she went with new and shuddering
haste along the passage.
"I'm--I'm going! Only--have mercy--have mercy on me, Tom! I don't wish
to anger you, only have mercy, Tom!"
The bedroom in front of the house was the one which was occupied by
Ella, It was towards this room that the woman was moving with hurried,
tremulous steps. Her unwillingness to advance was more marked than
before, and yet she seemed urged by something which was both in front
and behind her, which she was powerless to resist. They could see she
shuddered as she went; and she uttered cries, half of terror, half of
pain.
And yet she advanced with a decision, and a firmness, and also a
rapidity, which was unlike anything she hitherto had shown. On the
threshold of the room she stopped, starting back, and throwing out her
hands in front of her.
"It's our bedroom, Tom--it's full of ghosts! Ghosts! Ghosts! Don't
make me go into the bedroom, Tom."
But the propelling force, whatever it might have been, was beyond her
power to withstand. She gave a sudden, exceeding bitter cry. Turning
the handle, she flung the door right back upon its hinges. With a peal
of laughter, which grated on the ears of those who heard almost more
than anything which had gone before, she staggered into the room. As
she disappeared they stopped, listening, with faces which had suddenly
grown whiter, to her strange merriment.
"This is our bedroom--ha! ha! ha!--where you brought me when we were
first married! Why, Tom, how many years is it since I was here? Ha,
ha, ha!--I never thought I should come back to our bedroom, Tom--never!
Ha, ha, ha!"
All at once there was a change in her tone--a note of terror. The
laughter fled with the dreadful suddenness with which it had come.
"Don't, Tom, Don't! Have mercy--mercy! I'll do as you wish me--you
know I will; I'll--get your money. Only--I didn't know--you kept
it--in our bedroom--Tom. You didn't use to."
So soon as the laughter, fading, was exchanged for that panic cry,
Madge hurried after her into the room--the others, as ever, hard upon
her heels. The woman stood in the centre of the floor, looking about
her with glances of evident bewilderment, as if seeking for something
she had been told to look for. She searched in vain. Her eagerness was
pitiful. She looked hither and thither, in every direction, as if,
urged to the search, she feared, in speechless agony, the penalties of
disobedience. All the while she kept giving short, sharp cries of
strained and frenzied fear.
"I'm looking! I'm looking, Tom, as hard as I can, but--I see
nothing--nothing, Tom! I'm doing as you tell me--I am--I am--I am! Oh,
Tom, I am! But I don't see your money--I don't! I don't! If you'll
show me where it is, I'll get it; but I see nothing of your money,
Tom! Where is it?--Here!"
She moved towards the wash-hand stand, which was at the side of the
room.
"Behind the washstand?"
She lifted the piece of furniture on one side with a degree of
strength of which, light though it was, one would not have thought
that she was capable. Getting behind it, she placed against the wall
her eager, trembling hand.
"But--your money isn't here. There's nothing but the wall. Take the
paper off the wall? But--how am I to do it?--With my fingers!--I can't
tear off with my fingers, Tom. Oh, Tom, I'll try! Don't speak to me
like that--I'll try!"
With feverish haste she dragged the apologies for gloves off her
quivering hands.
"Where shall I tear it off?--Here? Yes, Tom, I'll try to tear it off
just here."
Dropping on her knees she attacked with her nails the wall where,
while she remained in that posture, it was about the height of her
head--endeavouring to drive the edges through the paper, and to pick
it off, as children do.
But her attempts were less successful than are the efforts of the
average ingenious child.
"I can't, Tom, I can't! My fingers are not strong enough, and my nails
are broken--don't be angry with me, Tom."
She made frantic little dabs at the wall. But her endeavours to make
an impression on the paper were without result. It was plain that with
her unassisted nails she might continue to peck at it in vain for
ever.
Madge turned to Mr. Graham.
[Illustration: "'I can't, Tom, I can't! My fingers are not strong
enough, and my nails are broken--don't be angry with me, Tom!'" (_To
face p_. 290.)]
"Have you a pocket-knife?"
Without a word he took one from his waistcoat pocket.
Not waiting for him to open it, she took it from him with an action
which almost amounted to a snatch. With her own fingers she opened the
largest blade. Making a large, and under the circumstances curious
circuit, in order to reach her, leaning over the washstand, touching
the woman on the shoulder, she held out to her the knife.
Shrinking under Madge's finger, with an exclamation she looked round
to see who touched her.
"Take this," said Madge. "It's a knife. With its help you'll be better
able to tear the paper off the wall."
She took it--without a word of thanks, and, with it in her grasp,
returned to the attack with energies renewed.
"I've got a knife, Tom, I've got a knife. Now I'll get the paper off
quicker--much quicker. I'll soon get to your money, Tom."
But she did not get to it. On the contrary, the process of stripping
off the paper did not proceed much more rapidly than before, even with
the help of Mr. Graham's knife. It was with the greatest difficulty
that she was able to get off two or three square inches.
The disappearance, however, of even this small portion revealed the
fact that the paper-hanger who had been responsible for putting it
into place, instead of stripping off the previous wall covering, as
paperhangers are supposed to do, had been content, to save himself
what he had, perhaps, deemed unnecessary trouble, to paste this latest
covering on the previous one. This former paper appeared to have been
of that old-fashioned kind which used to be popular in the parlours of
country inns, and such-like places, and which was wont to be
embellished with "pictorial illustrations." The scraping off, by the
woman, of the small fragments of paper which she had succeeded in
removing, showed that the one beneath it seemed to have been
ornamented with more or less striking representations of various
four-footed animals. On the space laid bare were figures of what might
have been meant for anything; and which, in the light of the last line
on Mr. Ballingall's manuscript, were probably intended for cats and
dogs.
With these the woman was fumbling with hesitating, awkward fingers.
"Cat--dog? I don't--I don't understand, Tom--I see, Tom,--these are
the pictures of cats and dogs. I'm blind, and stupid, and slow. I
ought to have seen at once what they were?--I know I ought. But--be
patient with me, Tom. Which one?--This one? Yes, I see--this one.
It's--it's--yes, Tom, it's a dog's head, I see it is.--What am I
to do with it? Press?--Yes, Tom, I am pressing.--Press harder? Yes,
I'll--I'll try; but I'm--I'm not very strong, and I can't press much
harder. Have mercy!--have mercy, Tom! Say--say you forgive me--forgive
me! but I--I can't press harder, Tom--I can't!"
She could not--so much was plain. Even as the words were passing from
her lips, she relinquished pressing altogether. Uttering a little
throbbing cry, she turned away from the wall, throwing up her arms
with a gesture of entreaty, and sinking on to the floor, she lay there
still. As she dropped, that gentle, mocking laugh rang through the
startled room.