Alcott, Louisa May - SSC 15 (45 page)

 
          
I
thought she was interceding for me; and breaking from the bewilderment and fear
that held me, I stretched my hands to them, crying with an imploring cry, “Yes,
I am quiet! I am hopeless! Oh, have pity on me before this dreadful life kills
me or drives me mad!”

 
          
Dr.
Karnac came to me at once with a black frown, which I alone could see; I evaded
him, and clung to Hannah, still crying frantically— for this seemed my last
hope—“Uncle, let me go! I will give you all I have, will never ask for Guy,
will
be obedient and meek if I may only go to Madame and
never hear the feet again, or see the sights that terrify me in this dreadful
room. Take me out! For God’s sake take me out!”

 
          
My
uncle did not answer me, but covered up his face with a despairing gesture, and
hurried from the room; the lawyer followed, muttering pitifully, “Poor thing!
Poor thing!” and Dr. Karnac laughed the first laugh I had ever heard him utter
as he wrenched Hannah from my grasp and locked me in alone. My one hope died
then, and I resolved to kill myself rather than endure this life another month;
for now it grew clear to me that they believed me mad, and death of the body
was far more preferable than that of the mind. I think I was a little mad just
then, but remember well the sense of peace that came to me as I tore strips
from my clothing, braided them into a cord, hid it beneath my mattress, and
serenely waited for the night. Sitting in the last twilight I thought to see in
this unhappy world, I recollected that I had not heard the feet all day, and
fell to pondering over the unusual omission. But if the steps had been silent
in that room, voices had not, for I heard a continuous murmur at one time: the
tones of one voice were abrupt and broken, the other low, yet resonant, and
that, I felt assured, belonged to my uncle. Who was he speaking to? What were
they saying? Should I ever know? And even then, with death before me, the
intense desire to possess the secret filled me with its old unrest.

 
          
Night
came at last; I heard the clock strike one, and listening to discover if John
still lingered up, I heard through the deep hush a soft grating in the room
above, a stealthy sound that would have escaped ears less preternaturally alert
than mine. Like a flash
came
the thought, “Someone is
filing bars or picking locks: will the unknown remember me and let me share her
flight?” The fatal noose hung ready, but I no longer cared to use it, for hope
had come to nerve me with the strength and courage I had lost. Breathlessly I
listened; the sound went on, stopped; a dead silence reigned; then something
brushed against my door, and with a suddenness that made me tingle from head to
foot like an electric shock, through the keyhole came again that whisper,
urgent, imploring, and mysterious, “Find it! For God’s sake find it before it
is too late!” Then fainter, as if breath failed,
came
the broken words, “The dog—a lock of hair—there is yet time.”

 
          
Eagerness
rendered me forgetful of the secrecy I should preserve, and I cried aloud,
“What shall I find? Where shall I look?” My voice, sharpened by fear, rang
shrilly through the house; Hannah’s quick tread rushed down the hall; something
fell; then loud and long rose a cry that made my heart stand still, so
helpless, so hopeless was its wild lament. I had betrayed and I could not save
or comfort the kind soul who had lost liberty through me. I was frantic to get
out, and beat upon my door in a paroxysm of impatience, but no one came; and
all night long those awful cries went on above, cries of mortal anguish, as if
soul and body were being torn asunder. Till dawn I listened, pent in that room
which now possessed an added terror; till dawn I called, wept, and prayed, with
mingled pity, fear, and penitence; and till dawn the agony of that unknown
sufferer continued unabated. I heard John hurry to and fro, heard Hannah issue
orders with an accent of human sympathy in her hard voice; heard Dr. Karnac
pass and repass my door; and all the sounds of confusion and alarm in that once
quiet house. With daylight all was still,
a stillness
more terrible than the stir; for it fell so suddenly, remained so utterly
unbroken, that there seemed no explanation of it but the dread word death.

 
          
At
noon Hannah, a shade paler but grim as ever, brought me some food, saying she
forgot my breakfast, and when I refused to eat, yet asked no questions, she
bade me go into the garden and not fret myself over last night’s flurry. I
went, and passing down the corridor, glanced furtively at the door I never saw
without a thrill; but I experienced a new sensation then, for the hound was
gone, the door was open, and with an impulse past control, I crept in and
looked about me. It was a room like mine, the carpet worn like mine, the
windows barred like mine; there the resemblance ended, for an empty cradle stood
beside the bed, and on that bed, below a sweeping cover, stark and still a
lifeless body lay. I was inured to fear now, and an unwholesome craving for new
terrors seemed to have grown by what it fed on: an irresistible desire led me
close, nerved me to lift the cover and look below—a single glance—then with a
cry as panic-stricken as that which rent the silence of the night, I fled away,
for the face I saw was a pale image of my own. Sharpened by suffering, pallid
with death, the features were familiar as those I used to see; the hair,
beautiful and blond as mine had been, streamed long over the pulseless breast,
and on the hand, still clenched in that last struggle, shone the likeness of a
ring I wore, a ring bequeathed me by my father. An awesome fancy that it was
myself
assailed me; I had plotted death, and with the
waywardness of a shattered mind, I recalled legends of spirits returning to
behold the bodies they had left.

 
          
Glad
now to seek the garden, I hurried down, but on the threshold of the great hall
door was arrested by the sharp crack of a pistol; and as a little cloud of
smoke dispersed, I saw John drop the weapon and approach the hound, who lay
writhing on the bloody grass. Moved by compassion for the faithful brute whose
long vigilance was so cruelly repaid, I went to him, and kneeling there,
caressed the great head that never yielded to my touch before. John assumed his
watch at once, and leaning against a tree, cleaned the pistol, content that I
should amuse myself with the dying creature,
who
looked
into my face with eyes of almost human pathos and reproach. The brass collar
seemed to choke him as he gasped for breath, and leaning nearer to undo it, I
saw, half hidden in his own black hair, a golden lock wound tightly round the
collar, and so near its color as to be unobservable, except upon a close
inspection. No accident could have placed it there; no head but mine in that
house wore hair of that sunny hue—yes, one other, and my heart gave a sudden
leap as I remembered the shining locks just seen on that still bosom.

 
          
“Find
it—the dog—the lock of hair,” rang in my ears, and swift as light came the
conviction that the unknown help was found at last. The little band was woven
close. I had no knife, delay was fatal. I bent my head as if lamenting over the
poor beast and bit the knot apart, drew out a folded paper, hid it in my hand,
and rising, strolled leisurely back to my own room, saying I did not care to
walk till it was warmer. With eager eyes I examined my strange treasure trove.
It consisted of two strips of thinnest paper, without address or signature, one
almost illegible, worn at the edges and stained with the green rust of the
collar; the other fresher, yet more feebly written, both abrupt and disjointed,
but terribly significant to me. This was the first:

 
          
I
have never seen you, never heard your name, yet I know that you are young, that
you are suffering, and l
try
to help you in my poor
way.

 
          
I
think you are not crazed yet, as I often am; for your voice is sane, your
plaintive singing not like mine, your walking only caught from me, l hope. I
sing to lull the baby whom I never saw; I walk to lessen the long journey that
will bring me to the husband I have lost—stop! I must not think of those things
or I shall forget. If you are not already mad, you will be; I suspect you were
sent here to be made so; for the air is poison, the solitude is fatal, and
Karnac remorseless in his mania for prying into the mysteries of human minds.
What devil sent you I may never know, but I long to warn you. I can devise no
way hut this; the dog comes into my room sometimes, you sometimes pause at my
door and talk to him; you may find the paper I shall hide about his collar.
Read, destroy, hut obey it. I implore you to leave this house before it is too
late.

 
          
The
other paper was as follows:

 
          
I
have watched you, tried to tell you where to look, for you have not found my
warning yet, though I often tie it there and hope. You fear the dog, perhaps,
and my plot fails; yet I know by your altered step and voice that you are fast
reaching my unhappy state; for I am fitfully mad, and shall be till I die.
Today I have seen a familiar face; it seems to have calmed and strengthened me,
and though he woidd not help you, I shall make one desperate attempt. I may not
find you, so leave my warning to the hound, yet hope to breathe a word into
your sleepless ear that shall send you back into the world the happy thing you
should be. Child! Woman! Whatever you are, leave this accursed house while you
have power to do it.

 
          
That
was all. I did not destroy the papers, but I obeyed them, and for a week
watched and waited till the propitious instant came. I saw my uncle, the
doctor, and two others follow the poor body to its grave beside the lake, saw
all depart but Dr. Karnac, and felt redoubled hatred and contempt for the men
who could repay my girlish slights with such a horrible revenge. On the seventh
day, as I went down for my daily walk, I saw John and Dr. Karnac so deep in
some uncanny experiment that I passed out unguarded. Hoping to profit by this
unexpected chance, I sprang down the steps, but the next moment dropped half
stunned upon the grass; for behind me rose a crash, a shriek, a sudden blaze
that flashed up and spread, sending a noisome vapor rolling out with clouds of
smoke and flame.

 
          
Aghast,
I was just gathering myself up when Hannah fled out of the house, dragging her
husband senseless and bleeding, while her own face was ashy with affright. She
dropped her burden beside me, saying, with white lips and a vain look for help
where help was not, “Something they were at has burst, killed the doctor, and
fired the house! Watch John till I get help, and leave him at your peril.” Then
flinging open the gate she sped away.

 
          
“Now
is my time,” I thought, and only waiting till she vanished, I boldly followed
her example, running rapidly along the road in an opposite direction, careless
of bonnetless head and trembling limbs, intent only upon leaving that prison
house far behind me. For several hours,

 
          
I
hurried along that solitary road; the spring sun shone, birds sang in the
blooming hedges, green nooks invited me to pause and rest; but I heeded none of
them, steadily continuing my flight, till spent and footsore I was forced to
stop a moment by a wayside spring. As I stooped to drink, I saw my face for the
first time in many months, and started to see how like that dead one it had
grown, in all but the eternal peace which made that beautiful in spite of
suffering and age. Standing thus and wondering if Guy would know me, should we
ever meet, the sound of wheels disturbed me. Believing them to be coming from
the place I had left, I ran desperately down the hill, turned a sharp corner,
and before I could check myself passed a carriage slowly ascending. A face
sprang to the window, a voice cried “Stop!” but on I flew, hoping the traveler
would let me go unpursued. Not so, however; soon I heard fleet steps following,
gaining rapidly, then a hand seized me, a voice rang in my ears, and with a
vain struggle I lay panting in my captor’s hold, fearing to look up and meet a
brutal glance. But the hand that had seized me tenderly drew me close, the
voice that had alarmed cried joyfully, “Sybil, it is Guy: Lie still, poor
child, you are safe at last.”

 
          
Then
I knew that my surest refuge was gained, and too weak for words, clung to him
in an agony of happiness, which brought to his kind eyes the tears I could not
shed.

 
          
The
carriage returned; Guy took me in, and for a time cared only to soothe and
sustain my worn soul and body with the cordial of his presence, as we rolled
homeward through a blooming world, whose beauty I had never truly felt before.
When the first tumult of emotion had subsided, I told the story of my captivity
and my escape, ending with a passionate entreaty not to be returned to my
uncle’s keeping, for henceforth there could be neither affection nor respect
between us.

 
          
“Fear
nothing, Sybil; Madame is waiting for you at the Moors, and my father’s
unfaithful guardianship has ended with his life.”