XI UNSIGHT UNSEEN
"After midnight, Uncle George, and miles from anywhere, so do please hurry."
These were parting words to an uncle as he started back to the nearest house—perhaps a quarter of a mile away—to get gasoline for his motor.
Alone in the car, the waiting woman began to realize the extraordinary darkness that enveloped her. Along the road, in front, the two head lights sent their beams of light. But elsewhere, on either side, behind her and above, the black air seemed almost threatening in its silence. So solemn was this silence that she began to imagine herself the only living creature in England. Her own home was in another country, and the invisible scenery on either side was all a mystery. It might be open fields or densest forest—or both. But the damp air that came slowly against her face seemed laden with odors of yet darker places, of deep ravines or sunless caves.
Was this hideous gloom a regular habit with English nights? Being in a foreign land this darkness was, perhaps, more terrifying than darkness in a more familiar country. In the heavens above were no signs of light, either of light that had been or of light to come. And it seemed, in this tomb-like silence, as if the very universe were dead: as if she had drifted into space—the infinite space of her astronomy. From this sable silence she sought relief in watching a portion of the road that lay before her, now illumined by the two lanterns of the car. These beams of light seemed a cheerful, human bond between life and death.
From the gloom, on her right, came the hopeless hoot of an owl. It seemed a voice from the sepulcher—a summons to despair.
A hundred feet, or more, in front of her, where the farthest rays of this light began to lose themselves and mingle with the darkness, she saw a rabbit jump into the road, and speed across it. She wondered what had frightened him. Also, she was inclined to blame him for not being safe at home with his family instead of roaming about the world on such an evil night. To a woman yearning for a sign of life 'twas a welcome sight; but this rabbit, although a thing of life, was as noiseless and unreal as the ghostly world about him. With his half dozen silent leaps through the bar of light he seemed a phantom creature, "of such stuff as dreams are made of."
From his nervous haste she judged that he was frightened. It was possible, of course, that he was a fearless rabbit and merely taking exercise for his health. But this theory was not accepted, and she watched with interest to see what sort of a pursuer, if any, might appear. Being in that state of mind when almost any imaginings might come true, she would not have been surprised had the pursuer been a real phantom.