BURGLARY
She wakened in sharp panic, bewildered by the grotesquerie of some
half-remembered dream in contrast with the harshness of inclement
fact, drowsily realising that since she had fallen asleep it had come
on to rain smartly out of a shrouded sky.
Without the least warning a blinding violet glare cut the gloom, the
atmosphere quaked with a terrific shock of thunder, and the downpour
became heavier.
Appalled, the girl sprang from her chair and groped her way to the
scuttle through a crepuscle resembling late twilight.
It was closed.
Somebody, presumably the janitor, had shut it against the impending
storm without troubling to make sure there was no one on the roof, for
her chair had been invisible behind the shoulder of the top-light.
With a cry of dismay the girl knelt and, digging fingers beneath the
cover, tugged with all her might. But it was securely hooked
beneath and held fast.
Then, driven half frantic less by the lashing rain than by a dread of
lightning which she had never outgrown, she stumbled back to the glass
face of the top-light and pounded it with her fists, screaming to Mary
Warden to come and let her in. But no lights showed in the studio, and
no one answered; reluctantly she was persuaded that Mary was not yet
home from rehearsals.
The long rolling, grinding broadsides of thunder made almost
continuous accompaniment--broken only by the briefest
intermissions--to the fiery sword-play that slashed incessantly
through and through that grim tilt of swollen black cloud.
Half-stunned and wholly terrified, dazzled and deafened as well, the
girl dashed the rain from her eyes and strove to recollect her wits
and grapple sanely with her plight.
Already she was wet to her skin--water could no more harm her--but the
mad elemental tumult confounded all her senses; her sole conscious
impulse was to gain shelter of some sort from the sound and fury of
the tempest.
It was a bare chance that a scuttle on some one of the adjacent roofs
might be, at least, not fastened down.
Fighting the buffeting wind, the scourging rain, and her panic
fright, she gained the scuttle of the roof to the west, but found it
immovable.
She tried the next roof, with no better fortune.
Panting, even sobbing a little in her terror, she scrambled on through
a sort of nightmarish progress to the next roof, and on and on to the
next and the next.
She kept on reckoning, and couldn't have said how many roofs she had
crossed, when at length she discovered a scuttle that was actually
ajar, propped wide to the pounding flood; and without pause to wonder
at this circumstance, or what might be her reception and how to
account for herself, she swung down into that hospitable black hole,
found footing on the ladder, let herself farther down--and by
mischance dislodged the iron arm supporting the cover.
It fell with a bang and a click, and Sally barely escaped crushed
fingers by releasing the rim and tumbling incontinently to the floor.
Happily she hadn't far to fall, wasn't hurt, and hastily picking
herself up, stood half-dazed, listening for sounds of alarm within the
house.
Coincidently the storm sounded a crisis in a series of tremendous,
shattering crashes, so heavy and so prolonged that all the world
seemed to rock and vibrate, echoing the uproar like a gigantic
sounding-board.
This passed; but from the body of the house Sally heard nothing--only
the crepitation of rain on the roof and the sibilant splatter of drops
trickling from her saturated skirts into the puddle that had formed
beneath the scuttle.
She stood in what at first seemed unrelieved darkness--but for
glimpses revealed by the incessant slash and flare of lightning--at
one end of a short hallway, by the rail of a staircase well. Three or
four doors opened upon this hall; but she detected no sign of any
movement in the shadows, and still heard no sound.
Wondering--and now, as she began to appreciate her position, almost as
unhappy in her refuge as she had been in the storm--Sally crept to the
rail and peered down. But her straining senses detected nothing below
more than shadows, solitude, and silence; which, however, failed to
convey reassurance; the fact of the open scuttle would seem to
indicate that she hadn't stumbled into an uninhabited house.
Stealthily she proceeded to investigate the several rooms of that
topmost story--servants' quarters, comfortably furnished, but
tenantless.
Then step by timid step she descended to the next floor, which she
found devoted to three handsomely appointed bedchambers, also empty.
And slowly, as her courage served, another flight took her down to a
story given over wholly to two bedchambers with baths, dressing-rooms
and boudoirs adjoining, all very luxurious to a hasty survey.
Below this again was an entrance hall, giving access to a
drawing-room, a library, and, at the back of the house, a dining-room,
each apartment in its way deepening the impression of a home toward
whose making wealth and good taste had worked in rarely harmonious
collaboration.
And finally the basement proved to be as deserted as any room above;
this though the kitchen clock still ticked on stertorously, though the
fire in the range had been banked rather than drawn, though one had
but to touch the boiler to learn it still held water piping-hot.
It required, however, only a moment's sober thought, once satisfied
she was alone, to suggest as one reasonable solution to the puzzle
that the owners had fled town for the week-end, leaving the
establishment in care of untrustworthy servants, who had promptly
elected to seek their own pleasure elsewhere.
Content with this theory, Sally chose one of the windows of the
servants' dining-room from which to spy out stealthily, between the
shade and the sill, over a flooded area and street; first remarking a
sensible modification of the gloom in spite of an unabated downpour,
then that the house was near the Park Avenue corner, finally a
policeman sheltered in the tradesman's entrance of the dwelling
across the way.
At this last disquieting discovery Sally retreated expeditiously from
the window, for the first time realising that her presence in that
house, however adventitious and innocent, wouldn't be easy to explain
to one of a policeman's incredulous idiosyncrasy; the legal definition
of burglar, strictly applied, fitted Sarah Manvers with disconcerting
neatness.
But nobody knew; it was only half past six by the clock in the
kitchen; it was reasonably improbable that the faithless servants
would come back much before midnight; and she need only wait for the
storm to pass to return across the roofs, or, for that matter, to
leave circumspectly by the front door. For it would certainly be dark
by the time the storm uttered its last surly growl and trailed its
bedraggled skirts off across Long Island.
For an instant finely thrilled with a delicious sense of the wild
adventure of being alone in a strange house, free to range and pry at
will, she found the full piquancy a bit difficult to relish with
sodden clothing clinging clammily to her body and limbs.
None the less it was quite without definite design that Sally retraced
her way to that suite of rooms in the second story which seemed to be
the quarters of the mistress of the establishment; and it was no
more than common-sense precaution (prompted, it's true, by sheer, idle
curiosity) which moved her to darken windows already shuttered by
drawing their draperies of heavy, rose-coloured silk before switching
on the lights.
It may have been merely the reflection of rose-tinted walls that lent
the face of the girl unwonted colour, but the glow that informed her
eyes as she looked about was unquestionably kindled by envy as much as
by excitement.
Nothing, indeed, lacked to excite envy in that hungry heart of hers.
The bedchamber and its boudoir and bath were not only exquisitely
appointed, but stood prepared for use at a moment's notice; the bed
itself was beautifully dressed; the dressing-table was decked with all
manner of scent-bottles, mirrors, and trays, together with every
conceivable toilet implement in tortoise-shell with a silver-inlay
monogram--apparently A-M-S; the rugs were silken, princely, priceless;
elusive wraiths of seductive perfumes haunted the air like memories of
lost caresses.
And when the girl pursued her investigations to the point of opening
closed doors she found clothes-presses containing a wardrobe to cope
with every imaginable emergency--frocks of silk, of lace, of satin, of
linen; gowns for dinner, the theatre, the street, the opera;
boudoir-robes and negligees without end; wraps innumerable, hats,
shoes, slippers, mules--and a treasure of lingerie to ravish any
woman's heart.
And against all this sybaritic store the intruder had to set the
figure mirrored by a great cheval-glass--the counterfeit of a jaded
shop-girl in shabby, shapeless, sodden garments, her damp, dark hair
framing stringily a pinched and haggard face with wistful, care-worn
eyes.
Her heart ached with a reawakened sense of the cruel unfairness of
life. Her flesh crept with the touch of her rain-soaked clothing. And
in her thoughts temptation stirred like a whispering serpent.
Beyond dispute it was wrong, what she contemplated, utterly wrong, and
wild to madness; but the girl was ripe for such temptation and frail
with a weakness due to long years of deprivation. Full half of her
heart's desire was here, free to her covetous fingers, a queen's
trousseau of beautiful belongings.
"It's only for an hour. No one need ever know. I'll leave everything
just as I found it. And I'm so uncomfortable!"
She hesitated a moment longer, but only a moment; of a sudden
smouldering embers of jealousy and desire broke into devastating
flame, consuming doubts and scruples in a trice. Swift action ensued;
this was no more an affair of conscience, but of persuasion and
resistless impulse. She flew about like one possessed--as, indeed, she
was, no less.
Her first move was to turn on hot water in the shining porcelain tub.
Then, instinctively closing and locking the hall door, she slipped
from her despised garments and, hanging them up to dry in a tiled
corner where their dampness could harm, nothing, slipped into the
bath. . . .
Half an hour later, deliciously caressed by garments of soft white
silk beneath a feather-weight _robe-de-chambre_, she sat before the
dressing-table, drying her hair in the warm draft of an electric fan
and anointing face, hands, and arms with creams and delicately scented
lotions.
A faint smile touched lips now guiltless of any hint of sullenness;
she hummed softly to herself, whose heart had almost forgotten its
birthright of song and laughter; never the least pang of conscience
flawed the serene surface of her content.
Properly dressed, her hair was beautiful, soft, fine and plentiful,
with a natural wave that lent an accent to its brownish lustre. When
she finished arranging it to her complete satisfaction she hardly knew
the face that smiled back at her from the mirror's depths.
Miraculously it seemed to have gained new lines of charm; its very
thinness was now attractive, its colour unquestionably intrinsic; and
her eyes were as the eyes of a happy child, exulting in the
attainment of long-coveted possessions.
It wasn't in human nature to contemplate this transformation and feel
contrition for whatever steps had been necessary to bring it about.
And when she could do no more to beautify her person Sally turned
again to the clothes-press, by now so far gone in self-indulgence, her
moral sense so insidiously sapped by the sheer sensual delight she had
of all this pilfered luxury, that she could contemplate without a
qualm less venial experiments with the law of _meum et tuum_.
She entertained, in short, a project whose lawless daring enchanted
her imagination, if one as yet of vague detail. But with command of
the resources of this wonderful wardrobe, what was to prevent her from
appropriating a suitable costume and stealing forth, when the storm
had passed, to seek adventure, perhaps to taste for a night those joys
she had read about and dreamed about, longed for and coveted, all her
life long? Nothing could be more mad; there was no telling what might
not happen; there was every warrant for believing that the outcome
might be most unpleasant. But adventures are to the adventurous; and
surely this one had started off propitiously enough!
"And what I need she'll never miss. Besides, I can send back
everything in the morning, anonymously, by parcel-post. It's only
borrowing."
Already she had passed from contemplation to purpose and stood
committed to the enterprise, reckless of its consequence.
But she found it far from easy to make her selection; it wouldn't do
to fare forth _en decolletee_ without an escort--a consideration that
sadly complicated the search for just the right thing, at once simple
and extravagant, modish and becoming. Moreover, any number of
captivating garments positively demanded to be tried on, then clung
tenaciously to her pretty shoulders, refusing to be rejected.
She wasted many a sigh over her choice, which was ultimately something
darkish, a frock (I think) of dark-blue _crepe-de-chine_, designed
primarily for afternoon wear, but, supplemented by a light silk wrap,
quite presentable for evening; and it fitted to admiration.
This question once settled, she experienced little trouble finding
slippers and a hat to her taste.
The testimony of a small gilt clock startled her when at length she
stood ready for the next step in her nefarious career: the hour-hand
was passing ten. That seemed almost incredible.
Running into the unlighted boudoir, she caught back the
window-draperies, raised the sash, and peered cautiously out through
the slanted slats of the wooden blinds.
The sky that now shone down upon the city was a fair shield of stars
unblurred by cloud; the storm had passed without her knowledge.
Closing the window, Sally delayed for one last, rapturous survey of
herself in the cheval-glass, then put out the lights and went to the
door.
She hardly knew why it was that she opened it so gently and waited so
long upon the threshold, every nerve tensed to detect alien sound in
the stillness of the empty house. But it was as if with darkness those
vacant rooms and passages had become populous with strange, hostile
spirits. She heard nothing whatever, yet it was with an effect of
peril strong upon her senses that she stole forth through the hallway
and up the stairs to the topmost floor, where, perched precariously
upon the iron ladder, she tried her patience sorely with a stubborn
scuttle-cover before recalling the click that had accompanied its
closing--the click of a spring-latch.
And this last, when gropingly located, proved equally obdurate; she
fumbled doggedly until back and limbs ached with the strain of her
position; but her fingers lacked cunning to solve the secret; and in
the end, when on the point of climbing down to fetch matches, she
heard a sound that chilled her heart and checked her breath in a
twinkling--an odd, scuffling noise on the roof.
At first remote and confused, it drew nearer and grew more
clear--a sound of light footfalls on the sheet-tin.
Her self-confidence and satisfaction measurably dashed, she climbed
down, so fearful of betraying herself to the person on the roof that
she went to the absurd extreme of gathering her skirts up tightly to
still their silken murmur.
Now she must leave by the street. And now she remembered the policeman
who kept nightly vigil at the avenue crossing!
She was beginning to be definitely frightened, vividly picturing to
herself the punishment that must follow detection.
And as she crept down-stairs, guided only by the banister-rail, the
sense of her loneliness and helplessness there in that strange, dark
place worked upon the temper of the girl until her plight, however
real, was exaggerated hideously and endued with terrors so frightful
that she was ready to scream at the least alarm.