It was on such a night—she had awakened from her sleep to notice such stillness in Osborn’s adjoining room, that she thought him profoundly asleep—that she arose from her bed to go and sit at her open window.
She had not been seated there many minutes before she became singularly conscious, she did not know how, of some presence near her among the bushes in the garden below. It had indeed scarcely seemed to be sound or movement which had attracted her attention, and yet it must have been one or both, for she involuntarily turned to a particular spot.
Yes, something, someone, was standing in a corner, hidden by shrubbery. It was the middle of the night, and people were meeting. She sat still and almost breathless. She could hear nothing and saw nothing but, between the leafage, a dim gleam of white. Only Ameerah wore white. After a few seconds’ waiting she began to think a strange thing, though she presently realised that, taking all things into consideration, it was not strange at all. She got up very noiselessly and stole into her husband’s room. He was not there; the bed was empty, though he had slept there earlier in the night.
She went back to her own bed and got into it again. In ten minutes’ time Captain Osborn crept upstairs and returned to bed also. Hester made no sign and did not ask any questions. She knew he would have told her nothing, and also she did not wish to hear. She had seen him speaking to Ameerah in the lane a few days before, and now that he was meeting her in the night she knew that she need not ask herself what the subject of their consultation might be. But she looked haggard in the morning.
Lady Walderhurst herself did not look well, For the last two or three nights she had been starting from her sleep again with that eerie feeling of being wakened by someone at her bedside, though she had found no one when she had examined the room on getting up.
“I am sorry to say I am afraid I am getting a little nervous,” she had said to Jane Cupp. “I will begin to take valerian, though it is really very nasty.”
Jane herself had a somewhat harried expression of countenance. She did not mention to her mistress that for some days she had been faithfully following a line of conduct she had begun to mark out for herself. She had obtained a pair of list slippers and had been learning to go about softly. She had sat up late and risen from her bed early, though she had not been rewarded by any particularly marked discoveries. She had thought, however, that she observed that Ameerah did not look at her as much as had been her habit, and she imagined she rather avoided her. All she said to Lady Walderhurst was:
“Yes, my lady, mother thinks a great deal of valerian to quiet the nerves. Will you have a light left in your room tonight, my lady?”
“I am afraid I could not sleep with a light,” her mistress answered. “I am not used to one.”
She continued to sleep, disturbedly some nights, in the dark. She was not aware that on some of the nights Jane Cupp either slept or laid awake in the room nearest to her. Jane’s own bedroom was in another part of the house, but in her quiet goings about in the list shoes she now and then saw things which made her nervously determined to be within immediate call.
“I don’t say it isn’t nerves, mother,” she said, “and that I ain’t silly to feel so suspicious of all sorts of little things, but there’s nights when I couldn’t stand it not to be quite near her.”
Chapter Sixteen
The Lime Avenue was a dim, if lovely, place at twilight. When the sun was setting, broad lances of gold slanted through the branches and glorified the green spaces with mellow depths of light. But later, when the night was drawing in, the lines of grey tree-trunks, shadowed and canopied by boughs, suggested to the mind the pillars of some ruined cathedral, desolate and ghostly.
Jane Cupp, facing the gloom of it during her lady’s dinner-hour, and glancing furtively from side to side as she went, would have been awed by the grey stillness, even if she had not been in a timorous mood to begin with. In the first place, the Lime Avenue, which was her ladyship’s own special and favourite walk, was not the usual promenade of serving-maids. Even the gardeners seldom set foot in it unless to sweep away dead leaves and fallen wood. Jane herself had never been here before. This evening she had gone absolutely because she was following Ameerah.
She was following Ameerah because, during the afternoon tea-hour in the servants’ hall, she had caught a sentence or so in the midst of a gossiping story, which had made her feel that she should be unhappy if she did not go down the walk and to the water-side,—see the water, the boat, the steps, everything.
“My word, mother!” she had said, “it’s a queer business for a respectable girl that’s maid in a great place to be feeling as if she had to watch black people, same as if she was in the police, and not daring to say a word; for if I did say a word, Captain Osborn’s clever enough to have me sent away from here in a jiffy. And the worst of it is,” twisting her hands together, “there mayn’t be anything going on really. If they were as innocent as lambs they couldn’t act any different; and just the same, things might have happened by accident.”
“That’s the worst of it,” was Mrs. Cupp’s fretted rejoinder. “Any old piece of carving might have dropped out of a balustrade, and any lady that wasn’t well might have nightmare and be disturbed in her sleep.”
“Yes,” admitted Jane, anxiously, “that is the worst of it. Sometimes I feel so foolish I’m all upset with myself.”
The gossip in servants’ halls embraces many topics. In country houses there is naturally much to be said of village incidents, of the scandals of cottages and the tragedies of farms. This afternoon, at one end of the table the talk had been of a cottage scandal which had verged on tragedy. A handsome, bouncing, flaunting village girl had got into that “trouble” which had been anticipated for her by both friends and enemies for some time. Being the girl she was, much venomous village social stir had resulted. It had been predicted that she would “go up to London,” or that she would drown herself, having an impudent high spirit which brought upon her much scornful and derisive flouting on her evil day. The manor servants knew a good deal of her, because she had been for a while a servant at The Kennel Farm, and had had a great fancy for Ameerah, whom it had pleased her to make friends with. When she fell suddenly ill, and for days lay at the point of death, there was a stealthy general opinion that Ameerah, with her love spells and potions, could have said much which might have been enlightening, if she had chosen. The girl had been in appalling danger. The village doctor, who had been hastily called in, had at one moment declared that life had left her body. It was, in fact, only Ameerah who had insisted that she was not dead. After a period of prostration, during which she seemed a corpse, she had slowly come back to earthly existence. The graphic descriptions of the scenes by her bedside, of her apparent death, her cold and bloodless body, her lagging and ghastly revival to consciousness, aroused in the servants’ hall a fevered interest. Ameerah was asked questions, and gave such answers as satisfied herself if not her interlocutors.