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Mad Barbara

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<div><h1>VII</h1></div> Barbara Purcell could not sleep that night, perhaps because she had chosen not to have her curtains drawn, so that the light of the full moon poured into the room. An increasing restlessness brought with it that feverish race of thoughts, where the memories of years flash out and intermingle like fantastic figures at a masked ball. She sat up at last in bed, shook her dark hair free from her shoulders, and stretched her arms out over her knees. The window stood a brilliant square in the blackness of the wall, each lozenge of glass like crystal set in ebony. Through the open casement she could see the silvery domes of the great trees in the park and the few faint clouds that streaked the summer sky. Her restlessness and the close night air made the moonlight seem like a shower of icy spray. And it was as though some feverish freak inspired her with the whim of bathing her hands and face in it, for she slipped out of bed, her white feet gliding over the polished woodwork of the floor. A sound like the scuffling of rats behind the wainscoting startled her for a moment, so that she stood listening with her face turned toward the door. The deep silence of the house seemed to listen with her for the recurrence of the sound, but she heard nothing but the sigh of her own breath. Moving to the window, she leaned her hands upon the sill, letting the draught play upon her bosom and in her hair. She felt as though the night laid a cool hand upon her forehead, while the infinite calmness of everything entered into her soul. Beneath her lay the garden, the lawn like a stretch of dusky silver, the bay-trees casting sharp shadows upon it, the portico of the music-room cut into black panels by its pillars. She stood gazing down upon it all with the air of one whose mind was full of dreams. The moon mirrored itself, twin images, within her eyes, and made her night-gear shine like snow under the torrent of her hair. Distant clocks began chiming suddenly, to be followed by the deep pealing of the hour. The sound roused the girl from her lethargy, like the challenge of a trumpet waking a sentinel at his post. The echoes of the chimes still seemed to be sweeping upward into the moonlight when she heard a sound below her in the house. It was like the snap of a turning lock, brief, crisp, and final. The striking of the hour might have had the significance of a signal to some one in the house. She was still listening for other sounds to follow when a shadow moved out between the outlines of the bay-trees on the lawn. Barbara leaned toward the window, and then drew back with an instinct of caution, still keeping her view of the moonlit garden. The shadow and the figure that cast it moved toward the music-room with the gliding motion attributed to ghosts. The breath of the night air seemed doubly cold upon her face and bosom for the moment. She saw the figure disappear under the portico of the music-room with all the mystery of the night to solemnize its passing. A slight shiver swept up her limbs toward her heart. Things may seem possible at such an hour that the reason might ridicule at noon. Yet she remembered the snap of the shooting lock, and that mere incident of sound held the supernatural vagueness of her thoughts in thrall. Still listening, she seemed to hear something that brought a sharp and almost fierce expression to her face. Holding her breath, she leaned against the window-jamb as though to steady herself against the slightest movement that might distract her sense of hearing. A murmur of voices came to her out of the silence of the night, like the rustle of aspen leaves in a light wind. Her body straightened suddenly, bearing its weight upon one out-stretched arm whose hand rested against the jamb of the window. Her eyes became brighter in the moonlight. Her throat showed white under her raised chin. Then turning as though impelled by some inspired thought, she moved toward the door, opened it, and stepped out into the gallery. Pausing for an instant, she began to walk slowly down the passageway toward a transomed window that gleamed white in the moonlight. She moved haughtily, with no shrinking haste, her head held high, her hands hanging at her sides. It was the poise of a sleep-walker, stately, wide-eyed, without a flicker of self-consciousness. Barbara had not gone ten steps before she heard a slight sound behind her like the rustle of a skirt. Startled though she may have been, she betrayed nothing, but moved on with every sense alert. That some one was close behind her she felt assured. Her hand was on the latch of her mother’s door before her suspicions began to be confirmed. She pushed the door open and crossed the threshold; yet though the room was in utter darkness, she felt instinctively that it was empty. Turning slowly so that she faced the door, she saw the outline of a figure framed there against the dim glow of the moonlight that filled the gallery. Barbara stood motionless awhile, making no sign or sound, and then walked straight toward the door. The figure faltered a moment before gliding aside. Barbara passed it, her eyes fixed as on some dreamy distance, her face blank and expressionless, her step unhurried. As she passed back along the gallery she felt that the figure was following her, and knew that it was a woman, and that woman Mrs. Jael. Still statuesque as one walking in her sleep she re-entered her room, closed the door, locked it, and moved toward the window. She stood there a moment, motionless, and if she saw anything in the garden beneath her she betrayed no feeling and no conscious life. Before the clocks had chimed the half-hour she was in her bed again, but not to sleep. By the door leading into the garden two shadowy figures were whispering together. “She was asleep?” “Yes, my lady.” “Are you sure?” “She walked past me as though I was not there. I have seen such a thing before, yet it gave me a fright.” “And she went to my room, Jael?” “It was as dark as a cupboard, my lady. No one could have told that it was empty—even if they had been awake.” The sky was a brave blue next morning, and the air full of the scent of summer when Barbara came down to the little parlor that looked out on the garden. Her air of lethargy had a touch of gentleness to soften it. Anne Purcell was already at the table. A plate of cherries and a flask of red wine added color to the prosaic usefulness of pie and bacon. Anne Purcell glanced at her daughter with momentary and questioning distrust. The girl’s face betrayed no more self-consciousness than the great white loaf on the trencher near her mother. She sat down, glanced over the table listlessly, and then through the window where the sun was shining. “You look tired, Barbe?” An insinuating friendliness approached her in the mother’s voice. “Tired?—I slept all night. How fresh the garden looks! I feel I should like a drive in the park to-day.” “Yes; you want more interest—more bustle in your life.” “Perhaps I should have fewer moods—” “Take some wine, dear,” and she pushed the flask toward her. “Why not trust yourself to me a little more? We are not all so melancholy.” “I might only spoil your pleasure.” “Nonsense. I should enjoy life more if you had a happier face.” <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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