A SOUND IN THE NIGHT.
Slow in forming, swift in acting; slow in the making, swift in the
working; slow to the summit, swift down the other slope; it is the way
of nature, and the way of the human mind. What seemed yesterday unborn
and impossible, is to-day incipient and a great way off, to-morrow
complete, present, and accomplished. After long labour a thing springs
forth full grown; to deny it, or refuse it, or fight against it, seems
now as vain as a few hours ago it was to hope for it, or to fear, or to
imagine, or conceive it. In like manner, the slow, crawling, upward
journey can be followed by every eye; its turns, its twists, its checks,
its zigzags may be recorded on a chart. Then is the brief pause--on the
summit--and the tottering incline towards the declivity. But how
describe what comes after? The dazzling rush that beats the eye, that in
its fury of advance, its paroxysm of speed, is void of halts or turns,
and, darting from point to point, covers and blurs the landscape till
there seems nothing but the moving thing; and that again, while the
watcher still tries vainly to catch its whirl, has sprung, and reached,
and ceased; and, save that there it was and here it is, he would not
know that its fierce stir had been.
Such a race runs passion to its goal, when the reins hang loose. Hours
may do what years have not done, and minutes sum more changes than long
days could stretch to hold. The world narrows till there would seem to
be nothing else existent in it--nothing of all that once held out the
promise (sure as it then claimed to be) of escape, of help, or warning.
The very promise is forgotten, the craving for its fulfilment dies away.
"Let me alone," is the only cry; and the appeal makes its own answer,
the entreaty its own concession.
Some thirty hours had passed since the last recorded scene, and Marjory
Valentine was still under Mrs. Dennison's roof. It had been hard to
stay, but the girl would not give up her self-imposed hopeless task.
Helpless she had proved, and hopeless she had become. The day had passed
with hardly a word spoken between her and her hostess. Mrs. Dennison had
been out the greater part of the time, and, when out, she had been with
Ruston. She had come in to dinner at half-past seven, and at nine had
gone to her room, pleading fatigue and a headache. Marjory had sat up a
little longer, with an unopened book on her knee. Then she also went to
bed, and tried vainly to sleep. She had left her bed now, and, wrapped
in a dressing-gown, sat in a low arm-chair near the window. It was a
dark and still night; a thick fog hung over the little garden; nothing
was to be heard save the gentle roll of a quiet sea, and the occasional
blast of a steam whistle. Marjory's watch had stopped, but she guessed
it to be somewhere in the small hours of the morning--one o'clock,
perhaps, or nearing two. There was an infinite weary time, then, before
the sun would shine again, and the oppression of the misty darkness be
lifted off. She hated the night--this night--it savoured not of rest to
her, but of death; for she was wrought to a nervous strain, and felt her
imaginings taking half-bodily shapes about her, so that she was fearful
of looking to the right hand or the left. Sleep was impossible; to try
to sleep like a surrender to the mysterious enemies round her. Time
seemed to stand still; she counted sixty once, to mark a minute's
flight, and the counting took an eternity. The house was utterly
noiseless, and she shivered at the silence. She would have given half
her life, she felt, for a ray of the sun; but half a life stretched
between her and the first break of morning. Sitting there, she heaped
terrors round her; the superstitions that hide their heads before
daytime mockery reared them now in victory and made a prey of her. The
struggle she had in her weakness entered on seemed less now with human
frailty than against the strong and evil purpose of some devil; in face
of which she was naught. How should she be? She had not, she told
herself in morbid upbraiding, even a pure motive in the fight; her
hatred of the sin had been less keen had she not once desired the love
of him that caused it, and when she arrested Maggie Dennison's kiss, she
shamed a rival in rebuking an unfaithful wife. Then she cried
rebelliously against her anguish. Why had this come on her, darkening
bright youth? Why was she compassed about with trouble? And
why--why--why did not the morning come?
The mist was thick and grey against the window. A fog-horn roared, and
the sea, regardless, repeated its even beat; behind the feeble
interruptions there sounded infinite silence. She hid her face in her
hands. Then she leapt up and flung the window open wide. The damp
fog-folds settled on her face, but she heard the sea more plainly, and
there were sounds in the air about her. It was not so terribly quiet.
She peered eagerly through the mist, but saw nothing save vague
tremulous shapes, vacant of identity. Still the world, the actual,
earthly, healthy world, was there--a refuge from imagination.
She stood looking; and, as she looked, one shape seemed to grow into a
nearer likeness of something definite. It was motionless; it differed
from the rest only in being darker and of rather sharper outline. It
must be a tree, she thought, but remembered no tree there; the garden
held only low-growing shrubs. A post? But the gate lay to the right, and
this stood on her left hand, hard by the door of the house. What then?
The terror came on her again, but she stood and looked, longing to find
some explanation for it--some meaning on which her mind could rest, and,
reassured, drive away its terrifying fancies. For the shape was large in
the mist, and she could not tell what it might mean. Was it human? On
her superstitious mood the thought flashed bright with sudden relief,
and she cried beseechingly,
"Who is it? Who is there?"
A human voice in answer would have been heaven to her, but no answer
came. With a stifled cry, she shut the window down, and stood a moment,
listening--eager, yet fearful, to hear. Hark! Yes, there was a sound!
What was it? It was a footstep on the gravel--a slow, uncertain,
wavering, intermittent step, as though of someone groping with
hesitating feet and doubtful resolution through the mist. She must know
what it was--who it was--what it meant. She started up again, laying
both hands on the window-sash. But then terror conquered curiosity;
gasping as if breath failed her and something still pursued, she ran
across the room and flung open the door. She must find someone--Maggie
or someone.
On the threshold she paused in amazement. The door of Mrs. Dennison's
room was open, and Maggie stood in the doorway, holding a candle, behind
which her face gleamed pale and her eyes shone. She was muffled in a
long white wrapper, and her dark hair fell over her shoulders. The
candle shook in her hand, but, on sight of Marjory, her lips smiled
beneath her deep shining eyes. Marjory ran to her crying,
"Is it you, Maggie?"
"Who should it be?" asked Mrs. Dennison, still smiling, so well as her
fast-beating breath allowed her. "Why aren't you in bed?"
The girl grasped her hand, and pushed her back into the room.
"Maggie, I----Hark! there it is again! There's something outside--there,
in the garden! If you open the window----"
As she spoke, Mrs. Dennison darted quick on silent naked feet to the
window, and stood by it; but she seemed rather to intercept approach to
it than to think of opening it. Indeed there was no need. The slow
uncertain step sounded again; there were five or six seeming footfalls,
and the women stood motionless, listening to them. Then there was
stillness outside, matching the hush within; till Maggie Dennison,
tearing the wrapper loose from her throat, said in low tones,
"I hear nothing outside;" and she put the candle on the table by her.
"You can see nothing for the fog," she added as she gazed through the
glass. Her tone was strangely full of relief.
"I opened the window," whispered Marjory, "and I saw--I thought I
saw--something. And then I heard--that. You heard it, Maggie?"
The girl was standing in the middle of the room, her eyes fixed on Mrs.
Dennison, who leant against the window-sash with a strained, alert,
watchful look on her face.
"I heard you open the window and call out something," she said. "That's
all I heard."
"But just now--just now as we stood here?"
Mrs. Dennison did not answer for a moment; her ear was almost against
the panes, and her face was like a runner's as he waits for the
starter's word. There was nothing but the gentle beat of the sea. Mrs.
Dennison pushed her hair back over her shoulders and sighed; her tense
frame relaxed, and the fixed smile on her lips seemed, in broadening, to
lose something of its rigidity.
"No, I didn't, you silly child," she said. "You're full of fancies,
Marjory."
The curl of her lip and the shrug of her shoulders won no attention.
"It went across the garden from the door--across towards the gate," said
Marjory, "towards the path down. I heard it. It came from near the door.
I heard it."
Mrs. Dennison shook her head. The girl sprang forward and again caught
her by the arm.
"You heard too?" she cried. "I know you heard!" and a challenge rang in
her voice.
"I didn't hear," she repeated impatiently, "but I daresay you did.
Perhaps it was a man--a thief, or somebody lost in the fog. Would you
like me to wake the footman? I can tell him to take a lantern and look
if anyone's in the garden."
Marjory took no notice of the offer.
"But if it was anyone, he'll have gone now," continued Maggie Dennison,
"your opening the window will have frightened him. You made such a
noise--you woke me up."
"Were you asleep?" came in quick question.
"Yes," answered Mrs. Dennison steadily, "I was asleep. Couldn't you
sleep?"
"Sleep? No, I couldn't sleep. I was afraid."
"You're as bad as the children," said Mrs. Dennison, laughing gently.
"Come, go back to bed. Shall I come and sit by you till it's light?"
The girl seemed not to hear; she drew nearer, searching Mrs. Dennison's
face with suspicious eyes. Maggie could not face her; she dropped her
glance to the floor and laughed nervously and fretfully. Suddenly
Marjory threw herself on the floor at her friend's feet.
"Maggie, come away from here," she beseeched. "Do come; do come away
directly. Maggie, dear, I love you so, and--and I was unkind last night.
Do come, darling! We'll go back together--back home," and she burst into
sobbing.
Maggie Dennison stood passive and motionless, her hands by her side. Her
lips quivered and she looked down at the girl kneeling at her feet.
"Won't you come?" moaned Marjory. "Oh, Maggie, there's still time!"
Mrs. Dennison knew what she meant. A strange smile came over her face.
Yes, there was time; in a sense there was time, for the uncertain
footfalls had not reached their goal--arrested by that cry from the
window, they had stopped--wavered--retreated--and were gone. Because a
girl had not slept, there was time. Yet what difference did it make that
there was still time--to-night? Since to-morrow was coming and must
come.
"Time!" she echoed in a whisper.
"For God's sake, come, Maggie! Come to-morrow--you and the children.
Come back with them to England! Maggie, I can't stay here!"
Mrs. Dennison put out her hands and took Marjory's.
"Get up," she said, almost roughly, and dragged the girl to her feet.
"You can go, Marjory; I--I suppose you're not happy here. You can go."
"And you?"
"I shan't go," said Maggie Dennison.
Marjory, standing now, shrank back from her.
"You won't go?" she whispered. "Why, what are you staying for?"
"You forget," said Mrs. Dennison coldly. "I'm waiting for my husband."
"Oh!" moaned Marjory, a world of misery and contempt in her voice.
At the tone Mrs. Dennison's face grew rigid, and, if it could be, paler
than before; she had been called "liar" to her face, and truly. It was
lost to-night her madness mourned--hoped for to-morrow that held her in
her place.
The fog was lifting outside; the darkness grew less dense; a distant,
dim, cold light began to reveal the day.
"See, it's morning," said Mrs. Dennison. "You needn't be afraid any
longer. Won't you go back to your own room, Marjory?"
Marjory nodded. She wore a helpless bewildered look, and she did not
speak. She started to cross the room, when Mrs. Dennison asked her,
"Do you mean to go this morning? I suppose the Seminghams will take you,
if you like. We can make some excuse if you like."
Marjory stood still, then she sank on a chair near her, and began to sob
quietly. Mrs. Dennison slowly walked to her, and stood by her. Then,
gently and timidly, she laid her hand on the girl's head.
"Don't cry," she said. "Why should you cry?"
Marjory clutched her hand, crying,
"Maggie, Maggie, don't, don't!"
Mrs. Dennison's eyes filled with tears. She let her hand lie passive
till the girl released it, and, looking up, said,
"I'm not going, Maggie. I shall stay. Don't send me away! Let me stay
till Mr. Dennison comes."
"What's the use? You're unhappy here."
"Can't I help you?" asked the girl, so low that it seemed as though she
were afraid to hear her own voice.
Mrs. Dennison's self-control suddenly gave way.
"Help!" she cried recklessly. "No, you can't help. Nobody can help. It's
too late for anyone to help now."
The girl raised her head with a start.
"Too late! Maggie, you mean----?"
"No, no, no," cried Mrs. Dennison, and then her eager cry died swiftly
away.
Why protest in horror? By no grace of hers was it that it was not too
late. The girl's eyes were on her, and she stammered,
"I mean nothing--nothing. Yes, you must go. I hate--no, no! Marjory,
don't push me away! Let me touch you! There's no reason I shouldn't
touch you. I mean, I love you, but--I can't have you here."
"Why not?" came from the girl in slow, strong tones.
A moment later, she sprang to her feet, her eyes full of new horror, as
the vague suspicion grew to a strange undoubting certainty.
"Who was it in the garden? Who was out there? Maggie, if I hadn't----?"
She could not end. On the last words her voice sank to a fearful
whisper; when she had uttered them--with their unfinished, yet plain and
naked, question--she hid her face in her hands, listening for the
answer.
A minute--two minutes--passed. There was no sound but Maggie Dennison's
quick breathings; once she started forward with her lips parted as if to
speak, and a look of defiance on her face; once too, entreaty, hope,
tenderness dawned for a moment. In anger or in sorrow, the truth was
hard on being uttered; but the impulse failed. She arrested the words on
her lips, and with an angry jerk of her head, said petulantly,
"Oh, you're a silly girl, and you make me silly too. There's nothing the
matter. I don't know who it was or what it was. Very likely it was
nothing. I heard nothing. It was all your imagination." Her voice grew
harder, colder, more restrained as she went on. "Don't think about what
I've said to-night--and don't chatter about it. You upset me with your
fancies. Marjory, it means nothing."
The last words were imperative in their insistence, but all the answer
Marjory made was to raise her head and ask,
"Am I to go?" while her eyes added, too plainly for Maggie Dennison not
to read them, "You know the meaning of that."
Under the entreaty and the challenge of her eyes, Mrs. Dennison could
not give the answer which it was her purpose to give--the answer which
would deny the mad hope that still filled her, the hope which still
cried that, though to-night was gone, there was to-morrow. It was the
answer she must make to all the world--which she must declare and study
to confirm in all her acts and bearing. But there--alone with the
girl--under the compelling influence of the reluctant confidence--that
impossibility of open falsehood--which the time and occasion seemed
strangely to build up between them--she could not give it plainly. She
dared not bid the girl stay, with that hope at her heart; she dared not
cast away the cloak by bidding her go.
"You must do as you like," she said at last. "I can't help you about
it."
Marjory caught at the narrow chance the answer left her; with returning
tenderness she stretched out her hands towards her friend, saying,
"Maggie, do tell me! I shall believe what you tell me."
Mrs. Dennison drew back from the contact of the outstretched hands.
Marjory rose, and for an instant they stood looking at one another. Then
Marjory turned, and walked slowly to the door. To her own room she went,
to fear and to hope, if hope she could.
Mrs. Dennison was left alone. The night was far gone, the morning coming
apace. Her lips moved, as she gazed from the window. Was it in
thanksgiving for the escape of the night, or in joy that the morrow was
already to-day? She could not tell; yes, she was glad--surely she was
glad? Yet, as at last she flung herself upon her bed, she murmured,
"He'll come early to-day," and then she sobbed in shame.