Alone on a Wide Wide Sea, Vol. 3 (of 3)

by William Clark Russell

We mounted the stairs in silence. I was taken to a room over the dining-room, an apartment at the back of the house. This room had been the spare room with us ever since we had occupied the house. A cheerful fire burnt in the grate, and on a chair near it were my jacket, hat, and veil. Lighted candles stood upon the dressing-table; the curtains were drawn; the bed, draped with a new eider-down quilt, was open ready for my reception; there was a smell of flowers in the atmosphere, and the whole chamber was spotless and the picture of comfort.

‘A long night’s rest will do you all the good in the world,’ said Mary. ‘Do not hurry to rise in the morning.’

I could not thank her; I could not feel grateful for hospitality shown to me in my own house; I could not bring my tongue to utter to my sister words which my heart would pronounce ironical. But I could have thrown my arms round her neck, I could have wept upon her breast, I could have poured forth the story of my life; and all this, too, my heart denied me.

She sent Barclay, the nurse, for some hot spirits and water, and for another plate of sandwiches; but I refused to eat or drink. I said I was weary and would get into bed and rest. She asked me at what hour I wished to leave by train next day.

‘If I can reach my destination by five or six o’clock in the evening I shall be satisfied,’ I answered.

She looked around as though there was something, unremembered by her, that would add to my comfort, then softly said, ‘Good-night,’ and left the room, closing the door after her.

I thanked God when she went out, for another few minutes must have betrayed me. No sooner, indeed, had she closed the door than my heart gave way, and I cried with a dreadful grief, burying my face upon the bed that the sound of my sobs might be unheard. My children, I knew, were sleeping on the same floor. I say I knew, because the disposition of the rooms would not admit of a day and night nursery on the floor above. My bedroom—the bedroom I had occupied—had been over the room in which I now was; it was the best room in the house, with a bath-room and dressing-room adjoining it, and this apartment I might be sure my husband still used. Therefore, knowing that my children were within a few yards of me, my yearning to visit them, to behold and kiss my baby—my little baby girl—to kiss my darling boy, to view them even for a moment only—this yearning was anguish inexpressible. But I dared not leave my room. I could not think of any excuse to make should I be found looking at my children. Indeed, my being found in their room, bending over them, would infallibly lead to my husband and sister making conjectures, and putting one thing and another together—for my husband was a lawyer and my sister a clever woman of quick intellect—and so discovering who I was.

I partially unclothed, extinguished the lights, and got into bed—not to sleep, but that I should be found in bed if my sister visited me before she herself retired. I heard a distant clock strike nine. A few minutes later a child cried. I sat up, straining my ear to catch the precious voice of my baby girl. It was the cry of a sleeping child, and was not repeated; but, even if that cry of my child had found me drowsy, it would have awakened me to the very full of all my senses and held me sleepless for the rest of the night.

All was quiet below. I heard no sound of my husband and sister conversing, though I supposed that they continued to occupy the dining-room beneath me. The distant church clock struck ten. The hall-door was then bolted, and the noise was followed by a faint tapping on my bedroom door. I made no answer. I knew by the character of the knocking that it was my sister, and wished her to think that I was asleep. I held my face to the wall, and kept my eyes closed and drew my breath regularly, as though I slumbered; but, though my eyes were closed, I was sensible of the presence of my sister at the bedside. The light she held dimly flushed my sealed vision, and I knew by the radiance that she held the candle close to my face, whence I might conclude she was inspecting me. That she had not recognised me I was sure, but I now dreaded this minute scrutiny. Some feature, some point of resemblance to our mother or to herself, some expression which I could not control, she might witness, and by it know me.

I sighed and stirred, without opening my eyes, on which the light vanished; and when, after waiting a little, I stealthily lifted my eyelids, I found myself alone and the room in darkness.