Part 2, Chapter XIV.
Gone! Where?
If one could but bring oneself to the belief, there is only a slight difference between day and night, and that difference is that in the latter case there is an absence of light—that is all; but, somehow, we people the darkness with untold horrors. We ignore it, of course; we should ridicule the impeachment, but the fact remains the same, that probably nineteen people out of every twenty are afraid of being in the dark—perhaps more so than they were when children.
Possibly we grow more nervous than when we were young, or gas may have had something to do with it; certainly more people seem to burn lights in their bedrooms than used to be the case before a gas-burner or two had become the regular furniture of a well-ordered bedroom in town.
In our fathers’ days, people who were invalids burned long, thin, dismal rushlights in shades, with the candle itself in the middle of a cup of water; or else they had a glass containing so much oil floating on water, and a little wick upon its own raft, sailing about like a miniature floating beacon in the oil. But still these were the exceptions, and a light in a bedroom was an uncommon thing. At the same time, though, it must be allowed that there is something fear-exciting about the dark rooms, and that sounds that are unnoticed in the broad daylight acquire a strange weirdness if heard when all else is still. People have a bad habit of being taken ill in the night; burglars choose “the sma’” hours for breaking into houses; sufferers from indigestion select the darkness for their deeds of evil known as sleep-walking; and the imps attendant on one’s muscles prefer two or three o’clock in the so-called morning for putting our legs on that rack known as the cramp. It is perhaps after all excusable then for people to indulge, in moderation, in a little nocturnal alarm; and it may also, for aught we know, be good for us, and act as a safety-valve escape for a certain amount of bad nerve-force. No doubt Priam was terribly alarmed when his curtains were drawn in the dead of the night—as much so, perhaps, as the mobled queen; and therefore it was quite excusable for the Rector to answer the summons of the head of his wedding staff of servants in a state of no little excitement.
“Dreadful! extraordinary! most strange?” he faltered. “You were passing, Henry, eh?”
“Yes: Mr Magnus and I were going by, and we found the policeman had discovered that the door was open.”
“Then the place has been rifled,” exclaimed the Rector; “and many of the things are hired,” he cried piteously. “Everything will be gone! What is to be done?”
“Hush, Mr Mallow! we shall alarm the whole house,” said Artingale, hastily. “I fancy I saw some one leave the place as we came up. Will you send and see if—if—”
He hesitated, for he saw Magnus with a face like ashes, standing holding on by the balustrade.
“Yes, yes,” exclaimed the Rector. “Speak out, please. Do you mean see if all the servants are at home?”
“I don’t know—I scarcely know what to say,” whispered Artingale, going close up to him. “We want to avoid exposure, sir. Go and knock at Cynthia’s door, and send her to see if her sister has been alarmed.”
“There is no occasion to frighten her. Let the place below be well searched, and the servants examined.”
Just then Mrs Mallow’s voice was heard inquiring what was the matter, and the Rector thrust his head inside the door to tell her that she was not to be alarmed.
“Is any one ill?” said a voice just then, which made Artingale thrill, and he ran to the door from which the voice had come.
“Dress yourself quickly, Cynthy,” he whispered, “and go and tell Julie not to be alarmed. We—we are afraid there has been a burglary.”
The door closed, and just then the Rector, who had been compelled to go back to his room to quiet Mrs Mallow’s fears, came back.
“I will speak to the young ladies,” he said, looking pale and troubled, and going along the landing, he tapped lightly at Julia’s door.
“Julia, my dear! Julia!”
He tapped again.
“Julia, my child! Julia!”
Still no answer.
He tapped a little louder, a little louder still—but no answer; and Artingale and Magnus exchanged glances.
“Dear me, it is most embarrassing. How fast she sleeps,” said the Rector, looking round apologetically. “Really, gentlemen, I do not think we ought to disturb her.”
All the same, urged by a strange feeling of alarm, he tapped again, but still without result; and once more he looked round at the strange group gathered upon the broad landing—the police in great-coats, and lantern-bearing; the butler with his candlestick and pistol; the two gentlemen in evening dress, with their light overcoats and crush hats in hand.
Just then a door opened, and every one drew back to allow the pretty little vision that burst upon their sight to pass them by.
The figure was that of Cynthia, with her crisp, fair hair lightly tied back, so that it floated down loosely over the loose wide peignoir of creamy cashmere trimmed with blue, which formed a costume, as it swept from her in graceful folds, far more becoming than the most ravishing toilet from a Parisian modiste. She held a little silver candlestick, with bell glass to shade the light, and as she came forward, looking very composed and firm, though rather pale, Artingale felt for the moment as if he could have emulated Perry-Morton, and fallen down to kiss her pretty little slipper-covered feet.
“Ah, my dear!” exclaimed the Rector, “I am glad you have come. I cannot make Julia hear.”
Cynthia darted a quick glance at Artingale, full of dread and dismay, and then without a word she passed on and laid her hand upon the china knob of Julia’s door. Then she hesitated for a moment, but only for a moment, before turning the handle and going in, the door swinging to behind her.
Cynthia held her candle above her head and gave one glance round, the light falling on Julia’s wedding dress and veil; the wreath was on a table, side by side with the jewels that had been presented to her. Over other chairs and in half-packed trunks were travelling and other costumes, with the endless little signs of preparation for leaving home.
Cynthia gave one glance round her with dilating eyes; ran into the dressing-room and back looked at the unpressed bed, and then she let fall the candlestick as she sank on her knees uttering a loud cry, and covering her face with her hands.
It was no time for ceremony, and at the cry the Rector rushed in, followed by Artingale, Magnus stopping at the door to keep back the police and the servants, who would have entered too, both the men from below having now joined the group.
As the Rector ran in with Artingale, Cynthia started up once more.
“Oh, papa! oh, Harry!” she cried, piteously, “Julie has gone!”
“Gone!” gasped the Rector. “Gone! Where? Are you mad?”
“Mad? no, papa, but she is. Oh, Harry! I saw that dreadful man to-night outside in the garden, after we had gone to bed; but I thought she would be safe; and now I know it—I am quite sure. Oh, Harry, Harry! what shall we do? He has taken her away!”