prepare to mount them. Behind him I see Mr Rivers; but I do not catch his eye.
When the drawing- room door is closed I push Agnes away, and in my own room I look about me for some cool thing to put upon my face. I finally go to the mantel, and lean my cheek against the looking- glass.
'Your skirts, miss!' says Agnes. She draws them from the fire.
I feel queer, dislocated. The house clock has not chimed. When it sounds, I will feel better. I will not think of Mr Rivers— of what he must know of me, how he might know it, what he means by seeking me out. Agnes stands awkwardly, half- crouched, my skirts still gathered in her hands.
The clock strikes. I step back, then let her undress me. My heart beats a little smoother.
She puts me in my bed, unlooses the curtains— now the night might be any night, any at all. I hear her in her own room, unfastening her gown: if I lift my head and look through the gap in my curtains I will see her upon her knees with her eyes hard shut, her hands pressed together like a child's, her lips moving. She prays every night to be taken home; and for safety as she slumbers.
While she does it, I unlock my little wooden box and whisper cruel words to my mother's portrait. I close my eyes. I think, / shall not study your face!— but, once having thought it, I know I must do it or lie sleepless and grow ill. I look hard into her pale eyes. Do you think of your mother, he said, and feel her madness in you?
Do I?
I put the portrait away, and call for Agnes to bring me a tumbler of water. I take a drop of my old medicine— then, unsure that that will calm me, I take another. Then I lie still, my hair put back. My hands, inside their gloves, begin to tingle. Agnes stands and waits. Her own hair is let down— coarse hair, red hair, coarser and redder than ever against the fine white stuff of her nightdress. One slender collar-bone is marked a delicate blue with what is
perhaps only a shadow, but might— I cannot remember— be a bruise.
I feel the drops at last, sour in my stomach.
'That's all,' I say. 'Go on.'
I hear her climb into her bed, draw up her blankets. There is a silence. After a little time there comes a creak, a whisper, the faint groan of machinery: my uncle's clock, shifting its gears. I lie and wait for sleep. It does not come. Instead, my limbs grow restless and begin to twitch. I feel, too hard, my blood— I feel the bafflement of it, at the dead points of my fingers and my toes. I raise my head, call softly: 'Agnes!' She does not hear; or hears, but fears to answer. 'Agnes!'— At last, the sound of my own voice unnerves me. I give it up, lie still. The clock groans again, then strikes. Then come other sounds, far-off. My uncle keeps early hours. Closing doors, lowered voices, shoes upon the stairs: the gentlemen are leaving the drawing- room and going each to their separate chambers.
Perhaps I sleep, then— but if I do, it is only for a moment. For suddenly I give a start, and am wide awake; and I know that what has roused me is not sound, but movement.
Movement, and light. Beyond the bed-curtain the rush- lamp's wick has flared suddenly bright, and the doors and the window-glasses are straining against their frames.
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The house has opened its mouth, and is breathing.
Then I know that, after all, this night is not like any other. As if summoned to it by a calling voice, I rise. I stand at the doorway to Agnes's room until I am sure, from the evenness of her breaths, that she is sleeping; then I take up my lamp and go, on naked feet, to my drawing-room. I go to the window and stand at the glass, cup my hands against their own feeble reflection, peer through the darkness at the sweep of gravel, the edge of lawn, that I know lie below. For a time I see nothing. Then I hear the soft fall of a shoe, and then another, still softer. Then comes the single noiseless flaring of a match between slender fingers; and a face, made hollow-eyed and garish as it tilts towards the flame.
Richard Rivers keeps restless as I; and walks upon the lawns of Briar, perhaps hoping for sleep.
Cold weather for walking. About the tip of his cigarette, his breath shows whiter than the smoke of his tobacco. He gathers his collar about his throat. Then he looks up. He seems to know what he will see. He does not nod, or make any gesture; only holds my gaze. The cigarette fades, glows bright, fades again. His stance grows more deliberate.
He moves his head; and all at once I understand what he is doing. He is surveying the face of the house. He is counting the windows.
He is calculating his way to my room!— and when he is certain of his route he lets his cigarette fall and crushes the glowing point of it beneath his heel. He comes back across the gravel-walk and someone— Mr Way, I suppose— admits him. I cannot see that. I only hear the front door open, feel the movement of the air. Again my lamp flares, and the window-glass bulges. This time, however, the house seems holding its breath.
I step back with my hands before my mouth, my eyes on my own soft face: it has started back into the darkness beyond the glass, and seems to swim, or hang, in space.
I think, He won't do it! He dare not do it! Then I think: He will. I go to the door and put my ear against the wood. I hear a voice, and then a tread. The tread grows soft, another door closes— of course, he will wait for Mr Way to go to his bed. He will wait for that.
I take up my lamp and go quickly, quickly: the shade throws crescents of light upon the walls. I have not time to dress— cannot dress, without Agnes to help me— but know I must not see him in my nightgown. I find stockings, garters, slippers, a cloak.
My hair, that is loose, I try to fasten; but I am clumsy with the pins, and my gloves— and the medicine I have swallowed— make me clumsier. I grow afraid. My heart beats quick again, but now it beats against the drops, it is like a vessel beating hard against the pull of a sluggish river. I put my hand to it, and feel the yielding of my breast— unlaced, it feels; unguarded, unsafe.
But the tug of the drops is greater than the resistance of my fear.
That is the point of them, after all. For restlessness. When at length he comes, tapping at my door with his fingernail, I think I seem calm to him. I say at once, 'You know my maid is very close— asleep, but close. One cry will wake her.' He bows and says nothing.
Do I suppose he will try to kiss me? He does not do that. He only comes very 141
stealthily into the room and gazes about him in the same cool, thoughtful way in which I saw him take his measure of the house. He says, 'Let us keep from the window, the light shows plainly from the lawn.' Then, nodding to the inner door: 'Is that where she lies? She won't hear us? You are sure?'
Do I think he will embrace me? He never once steps close. But I feel the cool of the night, still clinging to his coat. I smell the tobacco on his hair, his whiskers, his mouth.
I do not remember him so tall. I move to one side of the sofa and stand tensely, gripping the back of it. He keeps at the other, leans into the space between us, and speaks in whispers.
He says, 'Forgive me, Miss Lilly. This is not how I would have met you. But I have come to Briar, after so much careful labour; and tomorrow I may be obliged to leave without seeing you. You understand me. I make no judgement on your receiving me like this. If your girl stirs, you are to say that you were wakeful; that I found out your room and came, without invitation. I've been guilty of as much, in other men's houses.— It's as well you know at once, what manner of fellow I am. But here, Miss Lilly, tonight, I mean you no sort of harm. I think you do understand me? I think you did wish me to come?'
I say, 'I understand that you have found out something you think perhaps a secret: that my mother was a lunatic; that my uncle had me from a ward of the place she died in.
But that is no secret, anyone might know it; the very servants here know it. I am forbidden to forget it. I am sorry for you, if you meant to profit by it.'