“I shall wait in your room next door,”
I whispered, “till you come.” But,
though going out, I waited in the corridor instead,
so as to hear the faintest call for help. In
that dark corridor upstairs I waited, but not long.
It may have been fifteen minutes when Frances reappeared,
locking the door softly behind her. Leaning over
the banisters, I saw her.
“I’ll go in again about six o’clock,”
she whispered, “as soon as it gets light.
She is sound asleep now. Please don’t wait.
If anything happens I’ll call—you
might leave your door ajar, perhaps.”
And she came up, looking like a ghost.
But I saw her first safely into bed, and the rest
of the night I spent in an armchair close to my opened
door, listening for the slightest sound. Soon
after five o’clock I heard Frances fumbling with
the key, and, peering over the railing again, I waited
till she reappeared and went back into her own room.
She closed her door. Evidently she was satisfied
that all was well.
Then, and then only, did I go to bed myself, but not
to sleep. I could not get the scene out of my
mind, especially that odious detail of it which I
hoped and believed my sister had not seen—the
still, dark figure of the housekeeper waiting on the
stairs below—waiting, of course, for Mabel.
It seems I became a mere spectator after that; my
sister’s lead was so assured for one thing,
and, for another, the responsibility of leaving Mabel
alone—Frances laid it bodily upon my shoulders—was
a little more than I cared about. Moreover, when
we all three met later in the day, things went on
so exactly as before, so absolutely without friction
or distress, that to present a sudden, obvious excuse
for cutting our visit short seemed ill-judged.
And on the lowest grounds it would have been desertion.
At any rate, it was beyond my powers, and Frances was
quite firm that she must stay. We therefore did
stay. Things that happen in the night always
seem exaggerated and distorted when the sun shines
brightly next morning; no one can reconstruct the terror
of a nightmare afterwards, nor comprehend why it seemed
so overwhelming at the time.
I slept till ten o’clock, and when I rang for
breakfast, a note from my sister lay upon the tray,
its message of counsel couched in a calm and comforting
strain. Mabel, she assured me, was herself again
and remembered nothing of what had happened; there
was no need of any violent measures; I was to treat
her exactly as if I knew nothing. “And,
if you don’t mind, Bill, let us leave the matter
unmentioned between ourselves as well. Discussion
exaggerates; such things are best not talked about.
I’m sorry I disturbed you so unnecessarily; I
was stupidly excited. Please forget all the things
I said at the moment.” She had written
“nonsense” first instead of “things,”
then scratched it out. She wished to convey that
hysteria had been abroad in the night, and I readily
gulped the explanation down, though it could not satisfy
me in the smallest degree.
