The Joss: A Reversion/Chapter 11
CHAPTER XI.
ONE WAY IN.
I heard her fumbling with her pocket.
“I can’t find the thing; I had it just now; I can’t have dropped it”
“Oh, Pollie! Quick! they’re at the wall!”
There was a scraping noise from behind; a muffled whispering. It sounded as if someone was endeavouring to negotiate the obstacle we had just surmounted. Still Pollie was continuing her researches.
“Where can I have put the thing?”
“Can’t you find it? Oh, Pollie!”
Someone was on the wall; had dropped softly to the ground. The sound of his alighting feet was distinctly audible. There was a pause, as if for someone to follow. It was the pause which saved us. As I waited, with my heart actually banging against my ribs, my legs giving way at the knees, expecting every second that someone would come darting at us through the darkness, just in time to save me from toppling in a heap on to the ground Pollie found the key.
“I’ve got it! What did uncle say I was to do with it? Push it against the spot of light—and then? I’ve got it into the keyhole; can’t you remember what uncle said I was to do with it then? It turns round and round.”
“Pollie!—they’re coming!”
They were. There was the sound of advancing footsteps. Approaching forms loomed dimly through the darkness. That same instant Pollie caught the trick of it; the door opened.
“Inside!” she gasped.
I was inside, moving faster than I had ever done in my life before. And Pollie was after me. The door shut behind us, seemingly of its own accord, with a kind of groan.
“That was a near thing!”
It could hardly have been nearer. Whoever was upon our heels had almost effected a simultaneous entrance with ourselves.
“He made a grab at my skirt; I felt his hand!”
But the door had closed so quickly that whoever was there had had no time to make an attempt to keep it open. It was pitch dark within, darker almost than it had been without. Pollie pressed close to my side. The fingers of one of her hands interlaced themselves with mine; she gripped me tighter than she perhaps thought. Her lips were near my ear; she spoke as if she were short of breath.
“There’s a good spring upon that door; it moved a bit too fast for them; it shuts like a rat-trap. Listen!”
There was no need to bid me to do that; already my sense of hearing was on the strain. Someone, apparently, was trying the door; to see if it was really shut; or if it could not be induced to open again.
There were voices in whispered consultation.
“There’s more than one; I wondered if there was more than one.”
“There are three,” I said.
Presently someone struck the door lightly, with the palm of the hand, or with the fist. Then, more forcibly, a rain of blows. Unless I was mistaken, the assault came from more than one pair of hands; it was like an attack made in the impotence of childish passion. The voices were raised, as if they called to us. They were like none which either of us had ever heard before; there was a curious squeakiness about them, as if their natural tone was a falsetto. What they said was gibberish to us; it was uttered in an unknown tongue. The voices ceased. After an interval, during which, one suspected, their owners had withdrawn a step or two to consider the situation, one was raised alone. It had in it a threatening quality, as if it warned us of the pains and penalties we were incurring. The fact that we were being addressed in a language which was, to us, completely strange, seemed at that moment to have about it something dreadful. Audibly, we paid no heed. Only I felt Pollie’s grip growing tighter and tighter. I wondered if she knew that she would crush my fingers if she did not take care.
The single speaker ceased to hurl at us his imprecations. I felt sure it was bad language he was using. All was still.
“What are they doing?”
So close were Pollie’s lips her whispered words tickled my ear. We had not long to wait before the answer came—in the shape of a smashing blow directed against the door.
“They’re trying to break it down; they’ll soon wake up the neighbourhood if they make that noise. Let’s get farther into the house. Why—whatever’s that?”
She had turned. In doing so she had pulled me half round with her. Her words caused me to glance about in the darkness, searching for some new terror. Nor was I long in learning what had caused her exclamation. There, glaring at us through the inky blackness in flaming letters, a foot in length, were the words “TOO LATE!” Beneath them was some hideous creature’s head.
For a second or two, in the first shock of surprise, I imagined it to be the head of some actual man, or, rather, monster. As it gleamed there, with its wide open jaws, huge teeth and flashing eyes, it was like the vivid realisation of some dreadful nightmare. It was as if something of horror, which had haunted us in sleep, had suddenly taken on itself some tangible shape and form. So irresistible was this impression, so unexpected was the shock of discovering it, that I believe, if Pollie had not caught hold of me with both her hands, and held me up, I should have fallen to the floor. As it was I reeled and staggered, so that I daresay it needed all her strength to keep me perpendicular. It was her voice, addressing me in earnest, half angry, expostulation which reassured me—at least in part.
“You goose! Don’t you see that it’s a picture drawn with phosphorus, or luminous paint, or something, on the wall. It won’t bite you; you’re not afraid of a picture, child.”
It was a picture; and, when you came to look into it, not a particularly well-drawn one either. Though I could not understand how we had missed seeing it so soon as we had entered—unless the explanation was that it had only just been put there. And, if that was the case, by whom? and how? A brief inspection was enough to show that the thing was more like one of those masks which boys wear on Guy Fawkes’ day than anything else. It was just as ridiculous, and just as much like anything in heaven or earth.
“Let’s get out of this; let’s go into the house; why do you stop in this horrid place? Where’s the door?”
“That’s the question—Where is it? Uncle Benjamin’s ideas of the proper way of getting in and out of a house are a little too ingenious for me; we seem to be in a sort of entry with nothing but walls all round us. Haven’t you a match? Didn’t you take a box out with you? For goodness sake don’t say you’ve lost it.”
I had not lost it, fortunately for us. I gave it to her. She struck a light. As she did so, the face and the writing on the wall grew dimmer. They were only visible when, standing before the flame, she cast them into shadow.
“Well, this is a pretty state of things, upon my word! There doesn’t seem to be a door!”
There did not. The flickering match served to show that we were in what looked uncommonly like an ingenious trap. We were in what seemed to be a sort of vault, or cell, which was just large enough to enable us to turn about with a tolerable amount of freedom, and that was all. Semblance of a door there was none, not even of that by which we had entered. So far as could be judged by that imperfect light on all four sides were dirty, discoloured, bare walls, in not one of which was there a crack or crevice which suggested a means of going out or in. As Pollie had said, it was indeed a pretty state of things. It seemed that we were prisoners, and in a prison from which there was no way out. Our situation reminded me of terrible stories which I had read about the Spanish Inquisition; of the sufferings of men and women, and even girls, who had spent weeks, and months, and years, in hidden dungeons out of which they had never come alive again.
Just as I had begun to really realise the fact that there did not seem to be a door, Pollie’s match went out. That same moment there came a fresh crash from without. And, directly after, another sound, or, rather, sounds. Something was taking place outside which, to us, shut in there, sounded uncommonly like a scrimmage, or the beginning of one, at any rate. Someone else, apparently, had climbed over the wall, a weighty someone, for we heard him descend with a ponderous flop. Without a doubt, the first comers had heard him too, with misgivings. Something fell, with a clatter—perhaps the tool with which they had been assailing the door. There was a scurrying of feet, as of persons eager to seek safety in flight. An exclamation or two, it seemed to us in English; then a thud, as if some soft and heavy body had come in sudden contact with the ground. A momentary silence. Then what was unmistakably an official voice, a beautiful and a blessed voice it sounded to me just then.
“All right, my lads! A little tricky, aren’t you? I daresay you think you did that very neat. You wait a bit. Next time it’ll be my turn, then perhaps I’ll show you a dodge or two.”
“Pollie,” I exclaimed, “it’s that nice policeman!”
“Hush! What if it is?”
What if it is? Everything—to me. It meant the flight of mystery, and an opportunity to breathe again. If I could have had my way I would have rushed out into the back yard and hugged him. But Pollie was so cold, and—when she liked and her precious Tom wasn’t concerned—so self-contained. She froze me. I could hear his dear big feet stamping across the yard. He thumped against the door—and I perhaps within an inch of him and not allowed to say a word.
“Inside there! Is there anyone in there?” There was; there was me. I longed to tell him so, only Pollie’s grasp closed so tightly on my arm—I knew it would be black and blue in the morning—that I did not dare. “Isn’t there a bell or a knocker? This seems to be a queer sort of a house. There’s something fishy about the place, or I’m mistaken.”
I could have assured him that he was not mistaken, and would if it had not been for Pollie. I could picture him in my mind’s eyes flashing the rays of his bull’s-eye lantern in search of something by means of which he could acquaint the inhabitants within of his presence there without—in his innocence! As if we did not know that he was there. For some minutes—it seemed hours to me—he prowled about, patiently looking for what he could not find. Then, giving up the quest in despair, he strode across the yard, climbed heavily over the wall, stamped along the passage; we could hear his footsteps even in the street beyond.
Then I ventured to use my tongue.
“Pollie, why wouldn’t you let me speak to him? Why wouldn’t you let me tell him we were here?”
“And a nice fuss there’d have been. No, thanks, my dear. Before I call in the assistance of the police I should like to turn the matter over in my mind. It begins to strike me that where my Uncle Benjamin had reasons for concealment, I may have reasons too, at any rate until I know just what there is to conceal.”
“In the meanwhile, how are we to get out of here? We’re trapped.”
“It’s the ingenuity with which Uncle Ben, or somebody, has guarded the approach to his, or, rather, my, premises which makes it clear to me that there may be something about the place on which it may be as well not to be in too great a hurry to turn the searchlight of a policeman’s eye. As to getting out of this—we’ll see.”
She struck another match, and saw. Either we had been the victims of an ocular delusion, or something curious had taken place since she had struck the first, for where, just now, there was a blank wall, in which was no sign of any opening, a door stood wide open. I could not credit the evidence of my own eyes.
“I declare,” I cried, “it wasn’t there just now.”
“It was not visible, at any rate. I tell you what, my dear, we mayn’t be the only occupants of this establishment, that’s about the truth of it. It’s possible that there’s someone behind the scenes who’s pulling the strings.”
I did not like the ideas which her words conjured up at all.
“But—who can it be?”
“That’s for us to discover.”
There was a grimness about her tone which suggested what was, to me, a new side of Pollie’s character. My impulse was to get away from the place as fast as ever I could and never return to it again. She spoke as if she were not only resolved to remain, and defied anyone to turn her out who could, but as if she had a positive appetite for any—to put it mildly—disagreeable experiences which her remaining might involve. The first horror she encountered then and there. If she did not mind it—I only wish that I could say the same of myself!
“You left the candle in the hall; let’s go and fetch it.”
As soon as we set foot outside that entry there was a pandemonium of sounds, as of a legion rushing, scrambling, squeaking. It was rats—myriads. The whole house swarmed with them; they were every-where. They were about our feet; I felt them rushing over my boots, whirling against my skirts. One rat is bad enough, in the light, but in the dark—that multitude! I had to scream; to stumble blindfold among those writhing creatures, and keep still, was altogether too much for my capacity.
“Pollie!—light a match!—quick!—they’re all over me!—Pollie!”
She struck a match. I do not know that it was any better now that we could see them. The light only seemed to make them more excited. In fact, their squeaking increased so much that, thinking that it angered them, I had half a mind to tell Pollie to put it out again. But she never gave me a chance. Taking me by the arm she dragged me along the passage so that we were at the front door before I knew it. When we went out we had left a candle on the floor in the passage so that it might be ready for us when we came back. Pollie stooped to pick it up. But, instead of doing so at once, she remained in the same position for a second or two, as if she were staring at something. Then she broke into a laugh.
“Well, that beats anything. That was a new candle when we went out; look at it now.”
I looked; the candle had vanished. In its place what seemed to be a greasy piece of twine trailed over the side of the candlestick. The candle itself had been consumed by the rats; they had presented us with an object lesson, by way of showing us what they could do if they had a chance. I shuddered. I had heard of their fondness for fat. I am not thin. I thought of them picking the plumpness off my bones as I lay sleeping.
“Let’s get out of this awful house. Do, Pollie, do! The rats will eat us if we stay in it”
“Let ’em try. They’ll find us tougher morsels than you think. If a rat once has a taste of me he won’t want another, I promise you that, my dear.”
It was a frightful thing to say. It made my blood run cold to hear her. I felt absolutely convinced that if rats once started nibbling at me they would never rest content till they had had all of me that they could eat. I was sure that there was not enough that was tough about me. In that hour of trial I almost wished that there had been.