Now
all this time, while the tragi-comedy
of life was being played in these
three suburban villas, while
on a commonplace stage love and
humor and fears and lights and
shadows were so swiftly succeeding
each other, and while these three
families, drifted together by
fate, were shaping each other's
destinies and working out in
their own fashion the strange,
intricate ends of human life,
there were human eyes which watched
over every stage of the performance,
and which were keenly critical
of every actor on it. Across
the road beyond the green palings
and the close-cropped lawn, behind
the curtains of their creeper-framed
windows, sat the two old ladies,
Miss Bertha and Miss Monica Williams,
looking out as from a private
box at all that was being enacted
before them. The growing friendship
of the three families, the engagement
of Harold Denver with Clara Walker,
the engagement of Charles Westmacott
with her sister, the dangerous
fascination which the widow exercised
over the Doctor, the preposterous
behavior of the Walker girls
and the unhappiness which they
had caused their father, not
one of these incidents escaped
the notice of the two maiden
ladies. Bertha the younger had
a smile or a sigh for the lovers,
Monica the elder a frown or a
shrug for the elders. Every night
they talked over what they had
seen, and their own dull, uneventful
life took a warmth and a coloring
from their neighbors as a blank
wall
reflects a beacon fire.
And now it was destined that
they should experience the one
keen sensation of their later
years, the one memorable incident
from which all future incidents
should be dated.
It was on the very night which
succeeded the events which have
just been narrated, when suddenly
into Monica William's head, as
she tossed upon her sleepless
bed, there shot a thought which
made her sit up with a thrill
and a gasp.
"Bertha," said she, plucking
at the shoulder of her sister, "I
have left the front window open."
"No, Monica, surely not." Bertha
sat up also, and thrilled in
sympathy.
"I
am sure of
it. You remember
I had forgotten to water the
pots, and then I opened the window,
and Jane called me about the
jam, and I have never been in
the room since."
"Good
gracious, Monica,
it is a mercy
that we have
not been
murdered in our beds. There was
a house broken into at Forest
Hill last week. Shall we go down
and shut it?"
"I
dare not go
down alone,
dear, but if you will come with
me. Put on your slippers and
dressing-gown. We do not need
a candle. Now, Bertha, we will
go down together."
Two little white patches moved
vaguely through the darkness,
the stairs creaked, the door
whined, and they were at the
front room window. Monica closed
it gently down, and fastened
the snib.
"What a beautiful moon!" said
she, looking out. "We can see
as clearly as if it were day.
How peaceful and quiet the three
houses are over yonder! It seems
quite sad to see that `To Let'
card upon number one. I wonder
how number two will like their
going. For my part I could better
spare that dreadful woman at
number three with her short skirts
and her snake. But, oh, Bertha,
look! look!! look!!!" Her voice
had fallen suddenly to a quivering
whisper and she was pointing
to the Westmacotts' house. Her
sister gave a gasp of horror,
and stood with a clutch at Monica's
arm, staring in the same direction.
There was a light in the front
room, a slight, wavering light
such as would be given by a small
candle or taper. The blind was
down, but the light shone dimly
through. Outside in the garden,
with his figure outlined against
the luminous square, there stood
a man, his back to the road,
his two hands upon the window
ledge, and his body rather bent
as though he were trying to peep
in past the blind. So absolutely
still and motionless was he that
in spite of the moon they might
well have overlooked him were
it not for that tell-tale light
behind.
"Good heaven!" gasped Bertha, "it
is a burglar."
But
her sister
set her mouth
grimly and shook her head. "We
shall see," she whispered. "It
may be something worse."
Swiftly and furtively the man
stood suddenly erect, and began
to push the window slowly up.
Then he put one knee upon the
sash, glanced round to see that
all was safe, and climbed over
into the room. As he did so he
had to push the blind aside.
Then the two spectators saw where
the light came from. Mrs. Westmacott
was standing, as rigid as a statue,
in the center of the room, with
a lighted taper in her right
hand. For an instant they caught
a glimpse of her stern face and
her white collar. Then the blind
fell back into position, and
the two figures disappeared from
their view.
"Oh, that dreadful woman!" cried
Monica. "That dreadful, dreadful
woman! She was waiting for him.
You saw it with your own eyes,
sister Bertha!"
"Hush, dear, hush and listen!" said
her more charitable companion.
They pushed their own window
up once more, and watched from
behind the curtains.
For a long time all was silent
within the house. The light still
stood motionless as though Mrs.
Westmacott remained rigidly in
the one position, while from
time to time a shadow passed
in front of it to show that her
midnight visitor was pacing up
and down in front of her. Once
they saw his outline clearly,
with his hands outstretched as
if in appeal or entreaty. Then
suddenly there was a dull sound,
a cry, the noise of a fall, the
taper was extinguished, and a
dark figure fled in the moonlight,
rushed across the garden, and
vanished amid the shrubs at the
farther side.
Then
only did the
two old ladies
understand that they had looked
on whilst a tragedy had been
enacted. "Help!" they cried,
and "Help!" in their high, thin
voices, timidly at first, but
gathering volume as they went
on, until the Wilderness rang
with their shrieks. Lights shone
in all the windows opposite,
chains rattled, bars were unshot,
doors opened, and out rushed
friends to the rescue. Harold,
with a stick; the Admiral, with
his sword, his grey head and
bare feet protruding from either
end of a long brown ulster; finally,
Doctor Walker, with a poker,
all ran to the help of the Westmacotts.
Their door had been already opened,
and they crowded tumultuously
into the front room.
Charles Westmacott, white to
his lips, was kneeling an the
floor, supporting his aunt's
head upon his knee. She lay outstretched,
dressed in her ordinary clothes,
the extinguished taper still
grasped in her hand, no mark
or wound upon her--pale, placid,
and senseless.
"Thank God you are come, Doctor," said
Charles, looking up. "Do tell
me how she is, and what I should
do."
Doctor Walker kneeled beside
her, and passed his left hand
over her head, while he grasped
her pulse with the right.
"She has had a terrible blow," said
he. "It must have been with some
blunt weapon. Here is the place
behind the ear. But she is a
woman of extraordinary physical
powers. Her pulse is full and
slow. There is no stertor. It
is my belief that she is merely
stunned, and that she is in no
danger at all."
"Thank
God for that!"
"We
must get her
to bed. We
shall carry
her upstairs,
and
then I shall send my girls in
to her. But who has done this?"
"Some robber" said Charles. "You
see that the window is open.
She must have heard him and come
down, for she was always perfectly
fearless. I wish to goodness
she had called me.
"But
she was dressed."
"Sometimes
she sits up
very late."
"I did sit up very late," said
a voice. She had opened her eyes,
and was blinking at them in the
lamplight. "A villain came in
through the window and struck
me with a life-preserver. You
can tell the police so when they
come. Also that it was a little
fat man. Now, Charles, give me
your arm and I shall go upstairs."
But her spirit was greater
than her strength, for, as she
staggered to her feet, her head
swam round, and she would have
fallen again had her nephew not
thrown his arms round her. They
carried her upstairs among them
and laid her upon the bed, where
the Doctor watched beside her,
while Charles went off to the
police-station, and the Denvers
mounted guard over the frightened
maids. |