With Cytherea it was otherwise. Unused to the place and circumstances,
she continued wakeful, ill at ease, and mentally distressed. She
withdrew herself from her companion’s embrace, turned to the other
side, and endeavoured to relieve her busy brain by looking at the
window-blind, and noticing the light of the rising moon--now in her last
quarter--creep round upon it: it was the light of an old waning moon
which had but a few days longer to live.
The sight led her to think again of what had happened under the rays of
the same month’s moon, a little before its full, the ecstatic
evening scene with Edward: the kiss, and the shortness of those happy
moments--maiden imagination bringing about the apotheosis of a status
quo which had had several unpleasantnesses in its earthly reality.
But sounds were in the ascendant that night. Her ears became aware of a
strange and gloomy murmur.
She recognized it: it was the gushing of the waterfall, faint and low,
brought from its source to the unwonted distance of the House by a faint
breeze which made it distinct and recognizable by reason of the utter
absence of all disturbing sounds. The groom’s melancholy representation
lent to the sound a more dismal effect than it would have had of its own
nature. She began to fancy what the waterfall must be like at that hour,
under the trees in the ghostly moonlight. Black at the head, and over
the surface of the deep cold hole into which it fell; white and
frothy at the fall; black and white, like a pall and its border; sad
everywhere.
She was in the mood for sounds of every kind now, and strained her ears
to catch the faintest, in wayward enmity to her quiet of mind. Another
soon came.
The second was quite different from the first--a kind of intermittent
whistle it seemed primarily: no, a creak, a metallic creak, ever and
anon, like a plough, or a rusty wheelbarrow, or at least a wheel of some
kind. Yes, it was, a wheel--the water-wheel in the shrubbery by the old
manor-house, which the coachman had said would drive him mad.
She determined not to think any more of these gloomy things; but now
that she had once noticed the sound there was no sealing her ears to it.
She could not help timing its creaks, and putting on a dread expectancy
just before the end of each half-minute that brought them. To imagine
the inside of the engine-house, whence these noises proceeded, was now a
necessity. No window, but crevices in the door, through which, probably,
the moonbeams streamed in the most attenuated and skeleton-like rays,
striking sharply upon portions of wet rusty cranks and chains; a
glistening wheel, turning incessantly, labouring in the dark like a
captive starving in a dungeon; and instead of a floor below, gurgling
water, which on account of the darkness could only be heard; water which
laboured up dark pipes almost to where she lay.
She shivered. Now she was determined to go to sleep; there could be
nothing else left to be heard or to imagine--it was horrid that her
imagination should be so restless. Yet just for an instant before going
to sleep she would think this--suppose another sound _should_ come--just
suppose it should! Before the thought had well passed through her brain,
a third sound came.
The third was a very soft gurgle or rattle--of a strange and abnormal
kind--yet a sound she had heard before at some past period of her
life--when, she could not recollect. To make it the more disturbing, it
seemed to be almost close to her--either close outside the window, close
under the floor, or close above the ceiling. The accidental fact of
its coming so immediately upon the heels of her supposition, told so
powerfully upon her excited nerves that she jumped up in the bed. The
same instant, a little dog in some room near, having probably heard the
same noise, set up a low whine. The watch-dog in the yard, hearing
the moan of his associate, began to howl loudly and distinctly. His
melancholy notes were taken up directly afterwards by the dogs in the
kennel a long way off, in every variety of wail.
One logical thought alone was able to enter her flurried brain. The
little dog that began the whining must have heard the other two sounds
even better than herself. He had taken no notice of them, but he had
taken notice of the third. The third, then, was an unusual sound.
It was not like water, it was not like wind; it was not the night-jar,
it was not a clock, nor a rat, nor a person snoring.
She crept under the clothes, and flung her arms tightly round Miss
Aldclyffe, as if for protection. Cytherea perceived that the lady’s late
peaceful warmth had given place to a sweat. At the maiden’s touch, Miss
Aldclyffe awoke with a low scream.
She remembered her position instantly. ‘O such a terrible dream!’ she
cried, in a hurried whisper, holding to Cytherea in her turn; ‘and
your touch was the end of it. It was dreadful. Time, with his wings,
hour-glass, and scythe, coming nearer and nearer to me--grinning and
mocking: then he seized me, took a piece of me only... But I can’t tell
you. I can’t bear to think of it. How those dogs howl! People say it
means death.’
The return of Miss Aldclyffe to consciousness was sufficient to
dispel the wild fancies which the loneliness of the night had woven in
Cytherea’s mind. She dismissed the third noise as something which in all
likelihood could easily be explained, if trouble were taken to inquire
into it: large houses had all kinds of strange sounds floating about
them. She was ashamed to tell Miss Aldclyffe her terrors.
A silence of five minutes.
‘Are you asleep?’ said Miss Aldclyffe.
‘No,’ said Cytherea, in a long-drawn whisper.
‘How those dogs howl, don’t they?’
‘Yes. A little dog in the house began it.’
‘Ah, yes: that was Totsy. He sleeps on the mat outside my father’s
bedroom door. A nervous creature.’
There was a silent interval of nearly half-an-hour. A clock on the
landing struck three.
‘Are you asleep, Miss Aldclyffe?’ whispered Cytherea.
‘No,’ said Miss Aldclyffe. ‘How wretched it is not to be able to sleep,
isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ replied Cytherea, like a docile child.
Another hour passed, and the clock struck four. Miss Aldclyffe was still
awake.
‘Cytherea,’ she said, very softly.
Cytherea made no answer. She was sleeping soundly.
The first glimmer of dawn was now visible. Miss Aldclyffe arose, put on
her dressing-gown, and went softly downstairs to her own room.
‘I have not told her who I am after all, or found out the particulars
of Ambrose’s history,’ she murmured. ‘But her being in love alters
everything.’