Through the Wall
On the third night they put-up at the comfortable old inn called the
Three Nuns. With an effort they might easily have pushed on to Mardykes
Hall that night, for the distance is not more than five-and-thirty
miles. But, considering her sister's health, Lady Walsingham in planning
their route had resolved against anything like a forced march.
Here the ladies took possession of the best sitting-room; and,
notwithstanding the fatigue of the journey, Lady Haworth sat up with her
sister till near ten o'clock, chatting gaily about a thousand things.
Of the three sisters, Lady Walsingham was the eldest. She had been in
the habit of taking the command at home; and now, for advice and
decision, her younger sisters, less prompt and courageous than she, were
wont, whenever in her neighbourhood, to throw upon her all the cares and
agitations of determining what was best to be done in small things and
great. It is only fair to say, in addition, that this submission was not
by any means exacted; it was the deference of early habit and feebler
will, for she was neither officious nor imperious.
It was now time that Lady Haworth, a good deal more fatigued than her
sister, should take leave of her for the night.
Accordingly they kissed and bid each other good-night; and Lady
Walsingham, not yet disposed to sleep, sat for some time longer in the
comfortable room where they had taken tea, amusing the time with the
book that had, when conversation flagged, beguiled the weariness of the
journey. Her sister had been in her room nearly an hour, when she became
herself a little sleepy. She had lighted her candle, and was going to
ring for her maid, when, to her surprise, the door opened, and her
sister Lady Haworth entered in a dressing-gown, looking frightened.
"My darling Mary!" exclaimed Lady Walsingham, "what is the matter? Are
you well?"
"Yes, darling," she answered, "quite well; that is, I don't know what is
the matter--I'm frightened." She paused, listening, with her eyes turned
towards the wall. "O, darling Maud, I am so frightened! I don't know
what it can be."
"You must not be agitated, darling; there's nothing. You have been
asleep, and I suppose you have had a dream. Were you asleep?"
Lady Haworth had caught her sister fast by the arm with both hands, and
was looking wildly in her face.
"Have _you_ heard nothing?" she asked, again looking towards the wall of
the room, as if she expected to hear a voice through it.
"Nonsense, darling; you are dreaming still. Nothing; there has been
nothing to hear. I have been awake ever since; if there had been
anything to hear, I could not have missed it. Come, sit down. Sip a
little of this water; you are nervous, and over-tired; and tell me
plainly, like a good little soul, what is the matter; for nothing has
happened here; and you ought to know that the Three Nuns is the quietest
house in England; and I'm no witch, and if you won't tell me what's the
matter, I can't divine it."
"Yes, of course," said Mary, sitting down, and glancing round her
wildly. "I don't hear it now; _you_ don't?"
"Do, my dear Mary, tell me what you mean," said Lady Walsingham kindly
but firmly.
Lady Haworth was holding the still untasted glass of water in her hand.
"Yes, I'll tell you; I have been so frightened! You are right; I had a
dream, but I can scarcely remember anything of it, except the very end,
when I wakened. But it was not the dream; only it was connected with
what terrified me so. I was so tired when I went to bed, I thought I
should have slept soundly; and indeed I fell asleep immediately; and I
must have slept quietly for a good while. How long is it since I left
you?"
"More than an hour."
"Yes, I must have slept a good while; for I don't think I have been ten
minutes awake. How my dream began I don't know. I remember only that
gradually it came to this: I was standing in a recess in a panelled
gallery; it was lofty, and, I thought, belonged to a handsome but
old-fashioned house. I was looking straight towards the head of a wide
staircase, with a great oak banister. At the top of the stairs, as near
to me, about, as that window there, was a thick short column of oak, on
top of which was a candlestick. There was no other light but from that
one candle; and there was a lady standing beside it, looking down the
stairs, with her back turned towards me; and from her gestures I should
have thought speaking to people on a lower lobby, but whom from my place
I could not see. I soon perceived that this lady was in great agony of
mind; for she beat her breast and wrung her hands every now and then,
and wagged her head slightly from side to side, like a person in great
distraction. But one word she said I could not hear. Nor when she struck
her hand on the banister, or stamped, as she seemed to do in her pain,
upon the floor, could I hear any sound. I found myself somehow waiting
upon this lady, and was watching her with awe and sympathy. But who she
was I knew not, until turning towards me I plainly saw Janet's face,
pale and covered with tears, and with such a look of agony as--O God!--I
can never forget."
"Pshaw! Mary darling, what is it but a dream! I have had a thousand more
startling; it is only that you are so nervous just now."
"But that is not all--nothing; what followed is so dreadful; for either
there is something very horrible going on at Mardykes, or else I am
losing my reason," said Lady Haworth in increasing agitation. "I wakened
instantly in great alarm, but I suppose no more than I have felt a
hundred times on awakening from a frightful dream. I sat up in my bed; I
was thinking of ringing for Winnefred, my heart was beating so, but
feeling better soon I changed my mind. All this time I heard a faint
sound of a voice, as if coming through a thick wall. It came from the
wall at the left side of my bed, and I fancied was that of some woman
lamenting in a room separated from me by that thick partition. I could
only perceive that it was a sound of crying mingled with ejaculations of
misery, or fear, or entreaty. I listened with a painful curiosity,
wondering who it could be, and what could have happened in the
neighbouring rooms of the house; and as I looked and listened, I could
distinguish my own name, but at first nothing more. That, of course,
might have been an accident; and I knew there were many Marys in the
world besides myself. But it made me more curious; and a strange thing
struck me, for I was now looking at that very wall through which the
sounds were coming. I saw that there was a window in it. Thinking that
the rest of the wall might nevertheless be covered by another room, I
drew the curtain of it and looked out. But there is no such thing. It is
the outer wall the entire way along. And it is equally impossible of the
other wall, for it is to the front of the house, and has two windows in
it; and the wall that the head of my bed stands against has the gallery
outside it all the way; for I remarked that as I came to you."
"Tut, tut, Mary darling, nothing on earth is so deceptive as sound; this
and fancy account for everything."
"But hear me out; I have not told you all. I began to hear the voice
more clearly, and at last quite distinctly. It was Janet's, and she was
conjuring you by name, as well as me, to come to her to Mardykes,
without delay, in her extremity; yes, _you_, just as vehemently as me.
It was Janet's voice. It still seemed separated by the wall, but I heard
every syllable now; and I never heard voice or words of such anguish.
She was imploring of us to come on, without a moment's delay, to
Mardykes; and crying that, if we were not with her, she should go mad."
"Well, darling," said Lady Walsingham, "you see I'm included in this
invitation as well as you, and should hate to disappoint Janet just as
much; and I do assure you, in the morning you will laugh over this fancy
with me; or rather, she will laugh over it with us, when we get to
Mardykes. What you do want is rest, and a little sal-volatile."
So saying she rang the bell for Lady Haworth's maid. Having comforted
her sister, and made her take the nervous specific she recommended, she
went with her to her room; and taking possession of the arm-chair by the
fire, she told her that she would keep her company until she was asleep,
and remain long enough to be sure that the sleep was not likely to be
interrupted. Lady Haworth had not been ten minutes in her bed, when she
raised herself with a start to her elbow, listening with parted lips and
wild eyes, her trembling fingers behind her ears. With an exclamation of
horror, she cried,
"There it is again, upbraiding us! I can't stay longer."
She sprang from the bed, and rang the bell violently.
"Maud," she cried in an ecstasy of horror, "nothing shall keep me here,
whether you go or not. I will set out the moment the horses are put to.
If you refuse to come, Maud, mind the responsibility is yours--listen!"
and with white face and starting eyes she pointed to the wall. "Have you
ears; don't you hear?"
The sight of a person in extremity of terror so mysterious, might have
unnerved a ruder system than Lady Walsingham's. She was pale as she
replied; for under certain circumstances those terrors which deal with
the supernatural are more contagious than any others. Lady Walsingham
still, in terms, held to her opinion; but although she tried to smile,
her face showed that the panic had touched her.
"Well, dear Mary," she said, "as you will have it so, I see no good in
resisting you longer. Here, it is plain, your nerves will not suffer you
to rest. Let us go then, in heaven's name; and when you get to Mardykes
Hall you will be relieved."
All this time Lady Haworth was getting on her things, with the careless
hurry of a person about to fly for her life; and Lady Walsingham issued
her orders for horses, and the general preparations for resuming the
journey.
It was now between ten and eleven; but the servant who rode armed with
them, according to the not unnecessary usage of the times, thought that
with a little judicious bribing of postboys they might easily reach
Mardykes Hall before three o'clock in the morning.
When the party set forward again, Lady Haworth was comparatively
tranquil. She no longer heard the unearthly mimickry of her sister's
voice; there remained only the fear and suspense which that illusion or
visitation had produced.
Her sister, Lady Walsingham, after a brief effort to induce something
like conversation, became silent. A thin sheet of snow had covered the
darkened landscape, and some light flakes were still dropping. Lady
Walsingham struck her repeater often in the dark, and inquired the
distances frequently. She was anxious to get over the ground, though by
no means fatigued. Something of the anxiety that lay heavy at her
sister's heart had touched her own.