It seemed no time at all until he was gone. The day went by and the night came. She went up to bed early. There was a kind of hush upon her spirits. Looking back on it afterwards, it seemed strange to her. It was as if everything waited, she didn’t know for what. She only knew that there was nothing she could do about it—nothing except wait. Deep in her mind the question asked itself, ‘What am I waiting for?’ and every time that happened something moved quickly in those under places and shut it away.
By the time that coffee had been drunk and the tray removed she was so tired that sleeping and waking seemed to be part of a pattern in which she moved uncertainly, with now one side of her awake and on the point of knowing what there was to be known about herself, about the dead girl, about the man who had threatened her; and now another side, not seen but dimly felt, pressing in, just not realized, but certain, sure, and inevitable. Except momentarily, there was no fear. She was able to talk.
There was a long period during which Lilian talked interminably about Christmas cards—how they must be certain to go over the list thoroughly and cut them down as much as possible.
‘Because really they are at least three times as expensive as they used to be, and though I don’t grudge anything to anyone, I must say it does seem a waste, because anything that is worthwhile spending on at all is such a price that I’m sure I don’t know where people get the money from.’
Harriet looked up and said, ‘If nobody sent any cards, we shouldn’t have them for the hospital. It’s dreadful to think of people throwing them away, when you think what has been spent on them.’
Lilian gave a sharp little glance at Anne.
‘I suppose you won’t have any cards to send,’ she said.
Anne wondered what she was to say to that. Then she found herself saying, ‘No.’
‘It gets worse and worse,’ said Lilian. ‘Every year.’
Harriet put down her coffee-cup.
‘Well, we needn’t think about it yet,’ she said.
For some reason the phrase went in and out of Anne’s shifting thought. No need to think or plan for Christmas or any other future day. Take things as they come. Take things as they are. What does it matter? There’s one end to everything.
Then suddenly she was broad awake. The soothing, loving tides, the half-consciousness, slid away and she was broad awake—broad awake and just about to see what it all meant. It was something she didn’t want to see. It was something horrible and frightening. And then suddenly, just as she was going to see what it was, it was gone again and the mists closed down. Her mind was full of mist. The room seemed to swirl. She didn’t know where she was for a moment. She didn’t know that all the color had left her face, and that she was staring blankly. And then after a moment the room cleared again. She saw the heavy old-fashioned curtains drawn across the windows, the clutter of furniture, the brass tray with the coffee-cups which someone had brought from India fifty or sixty years ago, the tall cupboards full of china, the sofa and the chairs, the carpet with its wreaths of flowers all gone away to a dull drab, and Lilian, sitting there looking at her.
Harriet was reading a heavy book. She wasn’t watching them. But Lilian, Lilian was looking at her with the strangest expression. A little picture came up in Anne’s mind—the picture of a cat waiting by a mouse-hole. Lilian was looking at her like that. She made a very great effort and pushed the picture away. Her thoughts cleared.
Lilian said, ‘Are you tired?’
‘Yes, I’m tired—I don’t know why.’
‘You had better go off to bed early. Harriet often goes early. I sit up to all hours, so don’t wait for me.’
She waited till Thomasina came for the tray, and then said good-night and went upstairs to bed.
Sleep came down on her like a rushing black cloud. Afterwards, when she thought about it, she was to wonder about that sleep. Was it just that she was tired, that she had been under a strain? Or was there another reason for that rushing down of the curtain of darkness? She was never to be quite sure, but her movements grew slower and slower, and the last thing she remembered was blowing out the candle by her bed. Nothing after that at all—nothing but the direct and distinct sensation of seeing the candle-flame very large and bright, a large bright flame to be blown at. She could remember blowing at it, and then darkness succeeded light and she couldn’t remember anything more at all, only a black unconsciousness that pressed in upon her and contained no living thought. It wasn’t like sleep. Sleep was natural and refreshing. This unconsciousness was like being drowned fathoms deep. When you were asleep you rested. Now she didn’t rest at all. There was a struggle going on. She struggled to come back out of the darkness, out of the horrible pit, and she couldn’t—she couldn’t. The darkness came in waves; it rose against her and flowed in. Then she would struggle against the blackness, against suffocation, against the imminent deadly knowledge which lay behind the blackness. Every time she got to that, to the fact that there was some knowledge which eluded her, she went down again into the blackness and the confusion.
And then suddenly the dream broke and she was free. She lay on her back with her arms stretched out, and she was panting and sobbing, ‘No—no—no—!’ And all the time the blessed waking world came in on her thought and became the real.
She sat up in bed panting. She had had a horrible dream. She didn’t know what it was, but it had been there and it was gone again. Thank God it was gone. She got out of bed. No watch or clock in the room, and she had no idea of the time.
She went to the window and opened it. She never slept with her window shut. That was it of course. She hadn’t opened the window. She had been too sleepy to open it. She had had a horrible nightmare. She leaned right out and let the cool air flow over her. Her throat was dry and her head felt hot. It was a still, calm night. She thought of water, running and bubbling and very, very cold, and from there her thoughts turned to a long cool drink.
She drew back from the window, and the room felt very dark. Outside the night was clear. You could see the curve of the drive, the trees, the black tracery, and the clear depths of the sky. To turn from them was like turning from sight to blindness. Fear touched her again, a light shiver went over her. And then she was wide awake, tingling with a sudden imminent thought. If it was so late, if so much time had gone by, why was there light on the other side of her door? She didn’t know why the question frightened her so much. She only knew that it did frighten her. And then quite suddenly as she looked at it the streak of light under her door disappeared. It went out and left her looking at darkness.
After a little the faint, pale outdoor shine was free again. She remained standing quite still for some minutes. Then she began to count steadily and monotonously. When she had got up to five hundred she stopped and listened again. There was no sound. There was no sound at all. She drew a long breath. Two voices warred in her. One of them said, ‘What nonsense! You wake up and there’s a light in the passage—what about it? You don’t even know what time it is.’ The other voice said, ‘I could find out.’ Then the first voice again, ‘You daren’t. You daren’t put on a light to look. Suppose there’s someone waiting in the dark just to see if you do anything at all.’
A deep sharp pang of terror went through her. It was true what the voice said—she didn’t dare. And she knew with a dreadful passionate certainty that what she did now in the next few minutes would have power over her for the rest of her life. She thought of Jim. He wouldn’t let anything hurt her. He didn’t believe that there was anything to hurt her here, or he wouldn’t have gone away and left her to it. And then she knew that it was no use thinking of Jim, because he wasn’t here. She had to depend on herself. She went to the door and opened it.
The darkness outside was absolute. She stood there listening. There was no sound. Her room opened upon a cross passage. At the end of the passage there was a landing, and the stair going down. She went barefoot along the passage to the landing and leaned over the rail that ran along it.
A small light burned in the hall below. She tried to think whether it burned there all night. Perhaps it did. Perhaps she had imagined the light she had seen under the door in her room. Perhaps she had dreamed about it. Perhaps she was dreaming now. She shuddered violently and turned back.
It was quite dark in the passage. She felt her way along it to the open door of her room. Her coat—she must put on her coat. She went to the wardrobe and opened it. It felt like a black cavern, and it was empty except for her coat, and her shirt and skirt. At that moment, curiously and blindingly, she remembered that she had a red dress—dark red. It was her best dress. She wondered where it was now. She wondered if she would ever see it again. And then her groping hands were on the collar of a coat and she unhooked it and slipped it on.
It was warm. She had not known that she was cold until she put it on. Nothing made you so cold as fear. She was very much afraid. She turned round from the wardrobe and made her way across the room to the door. And out of the door into the length of dark passage and along it to the landing.
On the landing itself she stopped. Darkness covered you. Darkness was safe. She couldn’t come out of its protection into the light and down the stairs and across the hall. She couldn’t—she couldn’t. The very thought of it made her limbs shake and brought the taste of fear up into her throat.
And then suddenly she thought about the back stairs. That was it. She would only have to cross this wide shadowy passage to the other side of the house, and the quicker she did it the better. Every moment that she stood and waited, the little courage that she had would be draining away. She mustn’t wait—she mustn’t wait at all. It was quite easy, there was no danger. Her heart banged against her side and she did it. Now she was across the dimly lighted space, and now the black mouth of the passage was ppen before her.
Every step she took away from the light made her safer. In her dark coat she couldn’t really be seen now. No one would look this way. The back stair went down two-thirds of the way along the passage. It was screened by a door. Sometimes the door stood open. Mattie was careless about leaving it. If Thomasina had come up last, it would be shut. It was open. Walking in the dark with what light there was getting fainter and fainter behind her, she came upon it, her fingers feeling along the wall. And then quite suddenly the edge of the door, and then nothing. The door was open, and there was no light—no light at all.
She slipped into the darkness, shut the door, and took a long breath. She did not know how frightened she had been until it was over. Now she stood for a moment, pulling herself together.
It was quite, quite dark. After a moment or two she began to move her foot half a step at a time. She thought there was a sort of landing there, taps and a sink on one side, and steps going down on the other. She had to be very careful. If she made a false step, anyone might hear her. She took two steps—three, with her hand before her—four—five—and then there was the stair-rail, and her foot poised over nothingness. Her hand touched the rail just in time to prevent a loss of balance. She gripped hard on the rail and went down. She wasn’t quite sure where the stair came out.
When she had reached the last of the steps she had to feel about her. There was another door, shut this time. She opened it and found herself in a dark passage. At that moment there came over her a desperate longing to be back in her room warm in her bed. It came and it went again. Afterwards she thought that was the last moment at which she could have drawn back. It was her opportunity, and she refused it. From then on she had no choice.
In the study Lilian Fancourt sat bolt upright on the sofa. Her expression was strained, her face very white. She was looking at the man who sat beside her, his whole appearance that of someone who is quite sure of himself. He said in an easy manner, ‘Come along, Lilian—what’s all the fuss about? I’m not going to eat her.’
Lilian brightened a little. She said, ‘N-no—’
He laughed.
‘Anyone would think I was asking you to do something dreadful, my dear.’
‘Oh, you’re not—are you!’
‘Of course I’m not. I’m only asking you to help me to restore a poor lost girl to her nearest relation. You’ve really no truck with her at all, you know. She’s not married to your nephew and never has been, and if I take her off in the middle of the night, well, she’s run away and that’s all there is to it. Next time she turns up, if she turns up at all, it’ll be as a blushing bride.’
Lilian gave him a curious frightened look.
‘What do you mean?’
‘What I’ve said. ’
‘What do you mean by saying “if she turns up at all”?’
‘Oh, just a manner of speaking.’
‘You wouldn’t hurt her—you don’t mean that!’
He laughed.
‘Look here, my dear, she’s got money, and if she was out of the way it would all go to Charity with a nice big C. You’ve known me a good long time. Have I ever struck you as being the sort of chump who would go out of his way to endow a charity?’
‘N-no—you haven’t.’ Lilian looked at him out of the corners of her eyes. It was curious to see him after—how long was it—fifteen years? No, it must be near twenty—but it might have been yesterday. She let her thoughts run back. He had always taken the high hand… She wouldn’t really have liked it. She and Harriet were better off as they were. And yet—and yet—
His voice cut in.
‘My dear girl, what’s all the fuss about?’
Anne went on through the door into the hall. The light seemed frighteningly bright to her eyes which had accustomed themselves to the darkness. She had come out into the back part of the hall. What light there was came from the single jet turned low just inside the hall door. The first door on her right led into the dining-room, and beyond it, to the front of the house, was the room where they had sat after dinner. It was the room where Lilian had her writing-table. Light shone under the door. Straining, she thought she could catch the sound of voices. She stood still and listened. The murmur of voices went on.
And then she had a sudden fright. One of the voices rose, came nearer. She darted for the dining-room door. It was level with her. She was inside and the door held close in front of her—not shut but just held close. She stood there, her heart beating so loud that it seemed to her that anyone would be able to hear it and follow the sound and find her.
Moments passed. Her heart-beats quieted. And then when she could hear again there was sound coming, not through the door whose handle she clutched, but from behind her. She turned round. The door against which she had been leaning, the door into the hall, wasn’t shut. But the sound didn’t come from there. It came from in front of her on the right-hand side. It came from the next-door room, and she remembered that there was a door between the two rooms.
When the house was built all those years ago, when old Mr Fancourt was young, there had been gay parties in the house and provision made for guests to circulate. Lilian’s voice, explaining that of course they lived very differently now since the two wars, came to her.
‘Of course, we don’t remember its gay days. He wasn’t so young when he married our mother.’ Lilian’s high, affected voice came trailing out of her memory as she crossed the dark dining-room step by cautious step. She mustn’t make any noise at all or they would hear her as she could hear them.
She was about half-way across the room, her hands feeling before her and the carpet soft under her feet, when it came to her with paralysing suddenness that one of the people she could hear speaking next door was a man. It came to her with terrifying suddenness. From that moment when her own heart had quieted and she had really begun to listen, it had been Lilian’s voice to which she had been listening. And then suddenly there was a man speaking. It was strange to her, and yet not strange at all. It wasn’t Jim’s voice. Quite definitely it wasn’t his.
She went on moving slowly and carefully until she came to the door between the two rooms. Her hands groping in front of her felt the panels of the door. They came flat against it and stayed there. Her forehead came down between them and was pressed against the dark panel. She heard the man say, ‘You’d much better leave it all to me,’ and in that moment she knew that the man who was speaking was the man who had watched her in the garden. She had been on her knees planting the bulbs, and she had looked up and seen him. It swept out of her memory and caught her back. It took her a moment to shake it off and to come again to the dark room with her hands pressed against the door and her forehead leaning against it. It took her a moment to be where she was, not where she had been.
She came back and listened to the voices on the other side of the dark door. She must have missed something, because what she heard was Lilian again—not what she said, but her voice leaving off as if she had been speaking and then had stopped. And quite clear on that again, the man’s voice, a little louder.
‘Dry up, will you! The less you know about this the better! You do what you’re told and that’s all you’ve got to bother about!’
‘I don’t think—’
‘You don’t need to think! You do just what you’re told and no harm will come to you! You start thinking, and before you know where you are you’ll be in difficulties! And if you get into difficulties, you can get out of them all on your own as far as I’m concerned!’
Then Lilian again.
‘Oh, no, I didn’t mean that. I wish you wouldn’t—you confuse me so—I only meant—’
He said, ‘Dry up! You’d better! When I want you to think or plan anything I’ll let you know! Which room is she in?’
‘Upstairs. But I don’t think—’
‘Dry up! I’ll take her now—no time like the present. She’s been here long enough—too long. If I’d thought for a moment… Now, look here—’
Anne seemed to come to herself. She had this minute—only this minute. It didn’t matter what they said, or what they were going to say, she had just this minute in which to save herself. Her hands, which were flat on the door, pushed her back from it. It was as if they had a life and energy of their own. They pushed her, and she was upright. And then the same curious force seemed to turn her and she retraced her steps. There was just one moment when she stopped. She was half-way to the door, and the man laughed. Everything in her went cold at the sound. She stopped and stood with her bare feet on the thick, warm carpet and felt the deadly cold pass over her. She did not know that the laugh might have driven her into headlong flight. If it had done that, nothing could have saved her. It was the age-old instinct to be still, not to move, that had saved her. She stood and waited. When her pulses had died down she moved on towards the door.
It was terrible to leave the dark room for the lighted hall. It was harder now than it had been. The thought went through her mind that if it was so hard as not to be possible she was lost. The fear of that struck into her and took her across the strip of lighted hall between the doorway of the dining-room and the door which led to the safe back stair.
When she was in the dark again, the terror that was upon her slackened a little. She came out upon the cross passage which ran through the house and made her way along it to the landing, and so back again to her room.
The room felt safe, but it wasn’t. Nothing under this roof was safe. Nothing at all. She began to dress herself. The clothes she put on struck cold against her. She felt in the cupboard and found her coat and skirt and the shirt which went with it. She must be quick—oh, she must be quick. And she didn’t dare to make a light, she didn’t dare. She put on her shoes and stockings, and the shirt, and the coat and skirt, the hat, and the top coat, and she was at the door.
The passage was dark and empty. Just one more effort and she would be free. A tune and the fragment of a song came into her mind as she stood there looking out at the dark passage brightening towards the landing, darkening again on the other side.
One more river and that’s the river of Jordan,
One more river, one more river to cross.
Suddenly she felt quick, and clear, and calm. She was going to get away, and nobody was going to stop her.
She went quietly along the brightening way, across the landing, and made her way along the passage to the stair down which she had gone before.