Janet sent out before her into the hall a bursting sigh, a hot wave of
impatient fiery breath, which seemed to raise a little mist before her
eyes as she emerged into the silence and found herself alone, leaving
mockery and music, and sentiment true or false, behind. What did he
mean, what did he want, that visitor whose non-appearance had held the
household in suspense, whose coming had introduced so many elements of
disturbance? It cannot be said that Janet herself had been uninfluenced
by his absence. It had been a fact of which she could not get rid,
always present with her as with Gussy, though in a different way.
Certainly he had taken away much of the salt of life with him--the
interest, the drama. And now that he had come back the salt had not lost
its savor; it was almost too keen: it affected sharply not only the
chief personage in the piece, but the audience. He was now more than
actor--he was audience also; and that look of intelligence which had
conveyed so many confidences on his own part now expressed the most
daring suggestions as to hers. Janet burst out of the room with a sense
that her period of peace was over. His looks would put motives to the
most trifling actions. What had he to do with her? How dared he to
suggest that this booby, this music-hall hero, this cherished only son,
could in any way affect the life of Janet? “Miss Summerhayes plays his
accompaniments.” The tone was light enough, the laugh as light; but it
stung Janet to the very depths of her heart.
Something cold and fresh blowing in her face made her turn to the door,
which had been left inadvertently open, filling the house with the chill
of December. Outside it was a beautiful night--the moon shining full,
the stars sparkling with that keen glitter which is given by frost, the
shadows of the leafless trees standing as if engraved upon the
whiteness, not a breath stirring. Moonlight is always an attraction to a
girl, and the outer air the best calmer of feverish thoughts. She caught
a shawl from the stand, and wrapping it round her, went softly out.
Everything was very still. Talk of the silence of the hills! The hills
have sounds innumerable that can never be silenced--movements of birds,
of insects, of living creatures of all kinds; rustlings among the
heather; tinklings of water; the air itself, occupying vast fields of
space, has a breath--which means silence, but is not. But, if you like,
the silence, in St. John’s Wood! That is something worth speaking of.
There was not a sound. At long intervals, when anybody moved in the
world outside, you could hear the distant footstep walk out of the
unknown, advance step by step as if it had been that of a messenger of
doom, diverge, pass away again, grow fainter and fainter till it went
out in the stillness like the withdrawal of a light. That mystic, unseen
passage occurred from time to time, but faintly at a distance. Sometimes
there came into the absolute stillness a distant jar of wheels,
increasing and diminishing in the same manner, going out in space.
When Janet stole out, in her little thin evening shoes that made no
sound, the house stood surrounded by that intense quiet and moonlight
like a house in a dream. Like its own enclosure of humble human garden
soil, that mystic atmosphere isolated and surrounded it from everything
else in the world. It was almost an awe to steal round the white path,
and cross the branching shadows that lay over it in all the complication
of their elaborate anatomy, and watch the dark and solid dwelling
standing in the midst, surrounded by all that reverence of nature, with
a touch of yellow light here and there in its windows, and such foolish
evanescent fret and jar of feelings and thoughts within! Janet’s own
little step, which was scarcely so much as the stir of a bird, struck,
she felt, a half-guilty little broken note into the profound calm. The
chill of the air cooled her little head. She was so small, so
insignificant an atom in that silent world, troubled about matters so
infinitesimally little, so unworthy to be breathed in the all-listening
ear of night.
She had made the round of the garden, which was a long piece of ground,
more than half of it grass, and of a very woodland aspect for anything
so near London, and was about passing the side of the house on her way
back, when Janet’s attention was suddenly roused in a very extraordinary
way. The house was square, of the commonest comfortable form, but on the
western side there had been built on to it, at some previous period, a
wing, which projected in front, making a gable, and slightly outpassing
the _corps du logis_. This wing, however, was not, so far as Janet knew,
ever used at all. If used, it was as a lodging or workshop, whatever his
employment might be, for the mysterious Vicars, who yet was not
mysterious at all--the man-servant of whom more had been seen since
Dolff’s return home, and who, Janet had vaguely understood, lived in
some corner of the house, carrying on his own avocations, whatever they
were, but at hand when he was wanted for any special service--a
privilege given by the kindness of Mrs. Harwood to an old servant, but
also a convenience to herself. It was after Janet had seen this
personage carrying through an open door, which had all the appearance at
other times of being hermetically closed, a tray covered with dainties,
that Mrs. Harwood herself had explained the position of Vicars to the
governess, thus settling the question.
Nothing could possibly be more uninhabited, more shut-up and empty, than
the wing. It had two long windows on the upper floor, facing the garden,
which were so grown over with ivy that it was clearly apparent no light
could enter, or human uses be served by them. The ivy was carefully
trained, and perhaps a little thinner than usual at this time of the
year. As Janet came opposite the windows, something--she could not tell
what--made her look up. The moonlight was streaming full upon them,
showing white crevices and reflections in the half-covered window-panes
which never showed by day. She stopped short, struck by an alarm and
horror which seemed to freeze the blood in her veins. At the nearest
window, in an opening made by the curvature of a great ivy branch half
denuded of leaves, there appeared to her the face of an old man with
white hair and a long, white beard--a white image so like the moonlight
that, after the first dreadful realization of what she saw as a face,
Janet, in her terror, tried to persuade herself that it was only some
effect of the white light shining upon the panes, which were covered by
dust and the droppings of the heavy foliage. If she had hurried away
then, flying indoors, as was her first impulse, no doubt she would have
been able to persuade herself that this was the case. But she was, on
the other hand, too much frightened, too much excited, to fly. She stood
still, scarcely able to draw her breath.
A pale, very pale face, with a long, white beard--patriarchal, like the
beard of a prophet--white hair, deep-sunken, aged eyes, looking up
towards the moon. A sort of frenzy of terror caught hold upon Janet, so
that she could not move. Who was it? Who was it? Vague recollections
flew across her mind of things she had read--of an old, blind, mad king
whom she remembered in her history--of--she knew not what. The thoughts
thronged over her mind like clouds o’er the sky, and she could take no
count of them. For there could be no king, no martyr, no prison, no
madhouse here. Who was it? Who was it? In a house in St. John’s Wood,
the most respectable, the most perfectly well-known and
well-established, in the midst of the quiet, within the tranquil garden,
surrounded by all the decorums of society. Who--oh, who could it be?
She stood transfixed, not thinking that she herself in the midst of that
white light, a little dark figure, all surrounded and isolated by the
brightness, was more clearly distinguishable than anything about her,
and, indeed, could scarcely fail to catch the eye of any one that might
be looking. Janet did not think of this, her whole mind being occupied
with her extraordinary discovery. She was afraid of being seen. She
never realized the possibility--until suddenly, all in a moment as she
stood and gazed, her whole bewildered being lost in wonder and amaze,
she discovered, with a second shock even more potent than the first,
that the face in the window had changed its direction and turned towards
herself. Whether it was that Janet was too terrified to have the
strength to fly, or whether that she was not so terrified as she
thought, and more eager, more curious than she was frightened, it is
certain that, though she shrank back a step upon herself, she did not
run away, but stood there gazing with her heart in her mouth, and the
sensation tingling through and through her that not only did she see
this extraordinary being, a real person, whoever he was, but that he saw
her. The head, with its white hair, turned slowly from contemplating the
sky to contemplating her. He began to make signs to her, beckoning,
bending forward, till the crown of white hair was pressed against the
pane, and seemed to sparkle and reflect, as if those patriarchal locks
had been spun glass, the hard white blaze of the moon. Janet felt as if
she could neither move nor breathe. It was real--it was not a dream--it
was a man shut up there, who saw her, made signs, called for her
help--an old man--a man in trouble. Her head seemed to go round, though
her feet were planted on the path as if they had grown to it, or frozen
there. What was she to do? What could she do?
At this moment there came from within, from the room whence there stole
a ray or two of yellow lamp-light out into the whiteness of the moon,
the sound of music--a few notes--tremulous notes--with which she was
very familiar; and then rising together the two voices, also so
familiar, every tone of which she could have anticipated. The sound made
a diversion in her thoughts. She turned her head for a minute that way
with a thrill of sensation, wondering if they could but see what she
saw--if they only knew! It was so strange to realize, as she did, with
a sudden flash of consciousness, the tranquil room, the mother in her
chair with her mild face full of gratification and reflected pleasure
turned towards the pair at the piano in perfect composure and ease--the
two singers busy with their music, with themselves, thinking of nothing
else. She took her eyes from the window in her startled realization of
all this, and turned her head for a moment in the direction of those
unconscious people, who did not know---- In that moment, while her eyes
were averted, the air was suddenly rent, torn asunder, cleft by the same
wild, unnatural, and awful cry which Janet had twice heard before. Her
feet, which had seemed growing to the path, were loosened with a spring,
and Janet too uttered a scream which she could not restrain. Where was
it? Though she was wild with terror, she had yet sense enough left to
see that the figure at the window had altered its position, and that it
was from thence that the sound came. But her strength was equal to no
more. She fled, forgetting all precautions, her feet flying over the
hard path to the open door. She was dimly aware that the music had
wavered, half stopped, and then gone on again, Gussy’s voice coming out
loudly upon the night. After that Janet knew no more. She burst into the
house, and stood panting in the hall, recovering her breath, not knowing
what to do.
What was she to do? She stood leaning against the wall inside, safe from
pursuit. And it was not till some time later that it occurred to her
that, instead of being safe from pursuit, she was within the very walls
of the house which inclosed the mystery, and that the prisoner, the
maniac, whoever he was, the pale old man with the white hair, was an
inmate of the same dwelling, and therefore she was within his reach far
more easily than she had been outside. But this in her panic she did not
think of. For the moment she felt securely sheltered, and stood gasping,
recovering her breath, asking herself what she should do. They were
singing in the drawing-room, singing as if all was right, as if nothing
could ever be wrong. Had they not heard it? Did they not care? They had
not seen as she had, but how could they remain unconscious after that
cry? Should she walk in and tell them--tell them? What should she tell
them? That there was some one shut up in the wing--an old man with white
hair, with his pallid face pressed against the window between the
branches of the ivy? How could she go and tell them this? “Mrs. Harwood,
there is a man--an old man--at the window--in the wing----” Was that
what she should say? Some door might have been open and some madman got
in. But then it was not the first time she had heard that cry. He must
have been there for some time--he must have been there before she
herself came. Perhaps--perhaps--how could she tell?--perhaps Mrs.
Harwood already knew--perhaps---- Janet panted and gasped, but after a
time got back her breath. But still she stood there thinking, wondering
over her problem. What was she to do? Was it, perhaps, her part to do
nothing--to ignore this sight she had seen--to try to forget it? Was it
none of her business to interfere? Was it her duty to tell at once her
appalling discovery? What was she to do?
In the meantime she had not closed the door, which still stood open,
letting in the cold air of the night; and presently, while she still
stood trembling, steps approached from the servants’ quarters. It was
Vicars who made his appearance, and Janet almost had a new shock of
terror as the man to whom she had never spoken before came up and looked
at her severely with suspicious eyes. He asked, in a tone as severe as
his look,
“Was it you, miss, as left the hall door open, to give everybody their
death?”
“I--I found it open,” Janet said, faltering.
“If a person finds a door open of a cold night it’s their part, if
they’ve any sense, to shut it,” said Vicars. He never removed his look
from her, fixing her with the eyes of a judge. “May I ask, miss, if it’s
your custom to go ranging about the grounds at this hour of the night?”
“Oh, no,” said Janet, “it was only an accident. I never did it before.”
“I am only a servant,” said Vicars, “but if I was the master I wouldn’t
hold with folks going round and round of my house in the middle of the
night looking things up.”
“I have not been looking anything up,” said Janet, indignantly. She
stood by while he closed the door; but when he turned to go away, made a
step after him timidly. “Oh!” she said, “if you would only let me speak
to you for a moment. Mr. Vicars, you said you were a servant----”
“Did you take me for the master, miss?” he said, with a low laugh.
“Oh!” said Janet, “if you would but tell me. Who is the old gentleman at
the window with the white hair? And why does he cry so? I will never,
never say a word if you will but tell me. I am so frightened, I don’t
know what to do.”
“There is no gentleman at the window--and he don’t cry,” said Vicars,
fixing her once more with keen eyes.
“But I saw him--and I’ve heard him, oh! three times. Mr. Vicars, tell
me, for goodness’ sake, does Mrs. Harwood know?”
“You’d best go and tell her, and see what she’ll say. You’ll not stop
another night in this house if you bother the missus with what you hear
and see. You may take my word for it, Miss Peep and Pry.”
“You are very impertinent,” said Janet, indignantly, “and I do not care
in the least whether I stop here another night or not. Does Mrs. Harwood
know?”
“I’d advise you, miss, not to offer her no information,” said Vicars,
“about things as happen in her own house;” and with this he turned his
back on Janet, and went deliberately away.
Should she go and tell Mrs. Harwood what she had seen? She turned
towards the drawing-room door, which was so close at hand; but she
paused again before she had opened it. Had Vicars remained there she
would certainly have done it; but as he was gone, and as there was
nobody to see, Janet hesitated, pondered--and, finally, though with a
beating heart, and every nerve in her body thrilling, went away in the
other direction, and very softly and slowly, hesitating at every second
step, retired upstairs.