And in a split second he moved towards me, closed the gap between us, towering over me, those slender white fingers gently closing on my arms.
“Julie!” he whispered, in a voice so low it seemed my own thoughts speaking to me. But this was no dream. He was real. He was holding to me and the scream had broken loose from me, deafening, uncontrollable and echoing from the four walls.
I saw Richard rising from the chair. I was alone. Clutching to the door frame, I staggered forward, and then again in a moment of perfect clarity I saw the young intruder, saw him standing in the garden, looking back over his shoulder, and then he was gone.
I could not stop screaming. I could not stop even as Richard held me and pleaded with me, and sat me down in the chair.
And I was still crying when Mrs. Blessington finally came.
She got a glass of cordial for me at once, as Richard begged me once more to tell what I had seen.
“But you know who it was!” I said to Richard almost hysterically. "It was he, the young man from the train. Only he wore a frockcoat years out of fashion and his silk tie was open at his throat. Richard, he was reading your papers, turning them over, reading them in the pitch dark.”
“All right,” Richard said, gesturing with his hand up for calm. "He was standing at the desk. And there was no light there so you could not see him well.”
“Richard, it was he! Don’t you understand? He touched me, he held my arms.” I looked imploringly to Mrs. Blessington who was shaking her head, her little eyes like blue beads in the light. "He called me Julie,” I whispered. "He knows my name!”
I rose, snatching up the candle, and all but pushing Richard out of the way went to the desk. "Oh, dear God,” I said, "Don’t you see what’s happened? It’s your letters to Dr. Partridge, and Mrs. Sellers, about tearing down the house!”
Mrs. Blessington gave a little cry and put her hand to her cheek. She looked like a withered child in her nightcap as she collapsed into the straight-backed chair by the door.
“Surely you don’t believe it was the same man, Julie, after all these years…”
“But he had not changed, Richard, not in the smallest detail. There is no mistake, Richard, it was he, I tell you, the very same.”
“Oh, dear, dear…” Mrs. Blessington whispered, "What will he do if you try to tear it down? What will he do now?”
“What will who do?” Richard asked carefully, narrowing his eyes. He took the candle from me and approached her. I was staring at her, only half realizing what I had heard.
“So you know who he is!” I whispered.
“Julie, stop it!” Richard said.
But her face had tightened, gone blank and her eyes had become distant and small.
“You knew he was here!” I insisted. "You must tell us at once!”
With an effort she climbed to her feet. "There is nothing in this house to hurt you,” she said, "nor any of us.” She turned, spurning Richard as he tried to help her, and wandered into the dark hallway alone. "You’ve no need of me here any longer,” she said softly, "and if you should tear down this house built by your forefathers, then you should do it without need of me.”
“Oh, but we don’t mean to do it, Mrs. Blessington!” I insisted. But she was making her way through the gallery back towards the north wing. "Go after her, Richard. You heard what she said. She knows who he is.”
“I’ve had quite enough of this tonight,” Richard said almost angrily. "Both of us should go up to bed. By the light of day we will dissect this entire matter and search this house. Now come.”
“But he should be told, shouldn’t he?” I demanded.
“Told what? Of whom do you speak!”
“Told that we will not tear down this house!” I said clearly, loudly, listening to the echo of my own voice.
The next day was indeed the most trying since we had come. It took the better part of the morning to convince Mrs. Blessington that we had no intention of tearing down Rampling Gate. Richard posted his letters and resolved that we should do nothing until help came.
And together we commenced a search of the house. But darkness found us only half finished, having covered the south tower and the south wing, and the main portion of the house itself. There remained still the north tower, in a dreadful state of disrepair, and some rooms beneath the ground which in former times might have served as dungeons and were now sealed off. And there were closets and private stairways everywhere that we had scarce looked into, and at times we lost all track of where precisely we had been.
But it was also quite clear by supper time that Richard was in a state of strain and exasperation, and that he did not believe that I had seen anyone in the study at all.
He was further convinced that Uncle Baxter had been mad before he died, or else his ravings were a code for some mundane happening that had him extraordinarily overwrought.
But I knew what I had seen. And as the day progressed, I became ever more quiet and withdrawn. A silence had fallen between me and Mrs. Blessington. And I understood only too well the anger I’d heard in my father’s voice on that long ago night when we had come home from Victoria Station and my mother had accused him of imagining things.
Yet what obsessed me more than anything else was the gentle countenance of the mysterious man I had glimpsed, the dark, almost innocent, eyes that had fixed on me for one moment before I had screamed.
“Strange that Mrs. Blessington is not afraid of him,” I said in a low distracted voice, no longer caring if Richard heard me. "And that no one here seems in fear of him at all…” The strangest fancies were coming to me. The careless words of the villagers were running through my head. "You would be wise to do one very important thing before you retire,” I said. "Leave out in writing a note to the effect that you do not intend to tear down the house.”
“Julie, you have created an impossible dilemma,” Richard demanded. "You insist we reassure this apparition that the house will not be destroyed, when in fact you verify the existence of the very creature that drove our father to say what he did.”
“Oh, I wish I had never come here!” I burst out suddenly.
“Then we should go, both of us, and decide this matter at home.”
“No, that’s just it. I could never go without knowing… ‘his secrets’… ‘the demon wretch.’ I could never go on living without knowing now!”
Anger must be an excellent antidote to fear, for surely something worked to alleviate my natural alarm. I did not undress that night, nor even take off my shoes, but rather sat in that dark hollow bedroom gazing at the small square of diamond-paned window until I heard all of the house fall quiet. Richard’s door at last closed. There came those distant echoing booms that meant other bolts had been put in place.
And when the grandfather clock in the great hall chimed the hour of eleven, Rampling Gate was as usual fast asleep.
I listened for my brother’s step in the hall. And when I did not hear him stir from his room, I wondered at it, that curiosity would not impel him to come to me, to say that we must go together to discover the truth.
It was just as well. I did not want him to be with me. And I felt a dark exultation as I imagined myself going out of the room and down the stairs as I had the night before. I should wait one more hour, however, to be certain. I should let the night reach its pitch. Twelve, the witching hour. My heart was beating too fast at the thought of it, and dreamily I recollected the face I had seen, the voice that had said my name.
Ah, why did it seem in retrospect so intimate, that we had known each other, spoken together, that it was someone I recognized in the pit of my soul?
“What is your name?” I believe I whispered aloud. And then a spasm of fear startled me. Would I have the courage to go in search of him, to open the door to him? Was I losing my mind? Closing my eyes, I rested my head against the high back of the damask chair.