I do not know how far I went. Every yard I covered, my feet
dragged more. I was dead beat, inside and out. I had neither
strength nor courage left. And within there was that frightful
craving, which was as though it shrieked aloud. I leant against
some palings, dazed and giddy. If only death had come upon me
quickly, painlessly, how true a friend I should have thought it!
It was the agony of dying inch by inch which was so hard to bear.
It was some minutes before I could collect myself sufficiently to
withdraw from the support of the railings, and to start afresh. I
stumbled blindly over the uneven road. Once, like a drunken man, I
lurched forward, and fell upon my knees. Such was my backboneless
state that for some seconds I remained where I was, half disposed
to let things slide, accept the good the gods had sent me, and
make a night of it just there. A long night, I fancy, it would
have been, stretching from time unto eternity.
Having regained my feet, I had gone perhaps another couple of
hundred yards along the road—Heaven knows that it seemed to me
just then a couple of miles!—when there came over me again that
overpowering giddiness which, I take it, was born of my agony of
hunger. I staggered, helplessly, against a low wall which, just
there, was at the side of the path. Without it I should have
fallen in a heap. The attack appeared to last for hours; I suppose
it was only seconds; and, when I came to myself, it was as though
I had been aroused from a swoon of sleep,—aroused, to an
extremity of pain. I exclaimed aloud,
'For a loaf of bread what wouldn't I do!'
I looked about me, in a kind of frenzy. As I did so I for the
first time became conscious that behind me was a house. It was not
a large one. It was one of those so-called villas which are
springing up in multitudes all round London, and which are let at
rentals of from twenty-five to forty pounds a year. It was
detached. So far as I could see, in the imperfect light, there was
not another building within twenty or thirty yards of either side
of it. It was in two storeys. There were three windows in the
upper storey. Behind each the blinds were closely drawn. The hall
door was on my right. It was approached by a little wooden gate.
The house itself was so close to the public road that by leaning
over the wall I could have touched either of the windows on the
lower floor. There were two of them. One of them was a bow window.
The bow window was open. The bottom centre sash was raised about
six inches.
I realised, and, so to speak, mentally photographed all the little
details of the house in front of which I was standing with what
almost amounted to a gleam of preternatural perception. An instant
before, the world swam before my eyes. I saw nothing. Now I saw
everything, with a clearness which, as it were, was shocking.
Above all, I saw the open window. I stared at it, conscious, as I
did so, of a curious catching of the breath. It was so near to me;
so very near. I had but to stretch out my hand to thrust it
through the aperture. Once inside, my hand would at least be dry.
How it rained out there! My scanty clothing was soaked; I was wet
to the skin! I was shivering. And, each second, it seemed to rain
still faster. My teeth were chattering. The damp was liquefying
the very marrow in my bones.
And, inside that open window, it was, it must be, so warm, so dry!
There was not a soul in sight. Not a human being anywhere near. I
listened; there was not a sound. I alone was at the mercy of the
sodden night. Of all God's creatures the only one unsheltered from
the fountains of Heaven which He had opened. There was not one to
see what I might do; not one to care. I need fear no spy. Perhaps
the house was empty; nay, probably. It was my plain duty to knock
at the door, rouse the inmates, and call attention to their
oversight,—the open window. The least they could do would be to
reward me for my pains. But, suppose the place was empty, what
would be the use of knocking? It would be to make a useless
clatter. Possibly to disturb the neighbourhood, for nothing. And,
even if the people were at home, I might go unrewarded. I had
learned, in a hard school, the world's ingratitude. To have caused
the window to be closed—the inviting window, the tempting window,
the convenient window!—and then to be no better for it after all,
but still to be penniless, hopeless, hungry, out in the cold and
the rain—better anything than that. In such a situation, too
late, I should say to myself that mine had been the conduct of a
fool. And I should say it justly too. To be sure.
Leaning over the low wall I found that I could very easily put my
hand inside the room. How warm it was in there! I could feel the
difference of temperature in my fingertips. Very quietly I stepped
right over the wall. There was just room to stand in comfort
between the window and the wall. The ground felt to the foot as if
it were cemented. Stooping down, I peered through the opening. I
could see nothing. It was black as pitch inside. The blind was
drawn right up; it seemed incredible that anyone could be at home,
and have gone to bed, leaving the blind up, and the window open. I
placed my ear to the crevice. How still it was! Beyond doubt, the
place was empty.
I decided to push the window up another inch or two, so as to
enable me to reconnoitre. If anyone caught me in the act, then
there would be an opportunity to describe the circumstances, and
to explain how I was just on the point of giving the alarm. Only,
I must go carefully. In such damp weather it was probable that the
sash would creak.
Not a bit of it. It moved as readily and as noiselessly as if it
had been oiled. This silence of the sash so emboldened me that I
raised it more than I intended. In fact, as far as it would go.
Not by a sound did it betray me. Bending over the sill I put my
head and half my body into the room. But I was no forwarder. I
could see nothing. Not a thing. For all I could tell the room
might be unfurnished. Indeed, the likelihood of such an
explanation began to occur to me. I might have chanced upon an
empty house. In the darkness there was nothing to suggest the
contrary. What was I to do?
Well, if the house was empty, in such a plight as mine I might be
said to have a moral, if not a legal, right, to its bare shelter.
Who, with a heart in his bosom, would deny it me? Hardly the most
punctilious landlord. Raising myself by means of the sill I
slipped my legs into the room.
The moment I did so I became conscious that, at any rate, the room
was not entirely unfurnished. The floor was carpeted. I have had
my feet on some good carpets in my time; I know what carpets are;
but never did I stand upon a softer one than that. It reminded me,
somehow, even then, of the turf in Richmond Park,—it caressed my
instep, and sprang beneath my tread. To my poor, travel-worn feet,
it was luxury after the puddly, uneven road. Should I, now I had
ascertained that—the room was, at least, partially furnished,
beat a retreat? Or should I push my researches further? It would
have been rapture to have thrown off my clothes, and to have sunk
down, on the carpet, then and there, to sleep. But,—I was so
hungry; so famine-goaded; what would I not have given to have
lighted on something good to eat!
I moved a step or two forward, gingerly, reaching out with my
hands, lest I struck, unawares, against some unseen thing. When I
had taken three or four such steps, without encountering an
obstacle, or, indeed, anything at all, I began, all at once, to
wish I had not seen the house; that I had passed it by; that I had
not come through the window; that I were safely out of it again. I
became, on a sudden, aware, that something was with me in the
room. There was nothing, ostensible, to lead me to such a
conviction; it may be that my faculties were unnaturally keen;
but, all at once, I knew that there was something there. What was
more, I had a horrible persuasion that, though unseeing, I was
seen; that my every movement was being watched.
What it was that was with me I could not tell; I could not even
guess. It was as though something in my mental organisation had
been stricken by a sudden paralysis. It may seem childish to use
such language; but I was overwrought, played out; physically
speaking, at my last counter; and, in an instant, without the
slightest warning, I was conscious of a very curious sensation,
the like of which I had never felt before, and the like of which I
pray that I never may feel again,—a sensation of panic fear. I
remained rooted to the spot on which I stood, not daring to move,
fearing to draw my breath. I felt that the presence will me in the
room was something strange, something evil.
I do not know how long I stood there, spell-bound, but certainly
for some considerable space of time. By degrees, as nothing moved,
nothing was seen, nothing was heard, and nothing happened, I made
an effort to better play the man. I knew that, at the moment, I
played the cur. And endeavoured to ask myself of what it was I was
afraid. I was shivering at my own imaginings. What could be in the
room, to have suffered me to open the window and to enter
unopposed? Whatever it was, was surely to the full as great a
coward as I was, or why permit, unchecked, my burglarious entry.
Since I had been allowed to enter, the probability was that I
should be at liberty to retreat,—and I was sensible of a much
keener desire to retreat than I had ever had to enter.
I had to put the greatest amount of pressure upon myself before I
could summon up sufficient courage to enable me to even turn my
head upon my shoulders,—and the moment I did so I turned it back
again. What constrained me, to save my soul I could not have
said,—but I was constrained. My heart was palpitating in my
bosom; I could hear it beat. I was trembling so that I could
scarcely stand. I was overwhelmed by a fresh flood of terror. I
stared in front of me with eyes in which, had it been light, would
have been seen the frenzy of unreasoning fear. My ears were
strained so that I listened with an acuteness of tension which was
painful.
Something moved. Slightly, with so slight a sound, that it would
scarcely have been audible to other ears save mine. But I heard. I
was looking in the direction from which the movement came, and, as
I looked, I saw in front of me two specks of light. They had not
been there a moment before, that I would swear. They were there
now. They were eyes,—I told myself they were eyes. I had heard
how cats' eyes gleam in the dark, though I had never seen them,
and I said to myself that these were cats' eyes; that the thing in
front of me was nothing but a cat. But I knew I lied. I knew that
these were eyes, and I knew they were not cats' eyes, but what
eyes they were I did not know,—nor dared to think.
They moved,—towards me. The creature to which the eyes belonged
was coming closer. So intense was my desire to fly that I would
much rather have died than stood there still; yet I could not
control a limb; my limbs were as if they were not mine. The eyes
came on,—noiselessly. At first they were between two and three
feet from the ground; but, on a sudden, there was a squelching
sound, as if some yielding body had been squashed upon the floor.
The eyes vanished,—to reappear, a moment afterwards, at what I
judged to be a distance of some six inches from the floor. And
they again came on.
So it seemed that the creature, whatever it was to which the eyes
belonged, was, after all, but small. Why I did not obey the
frantic longing which I had to flee from it, I cannot tell; I only
know, I could not. I take it that the stress and privations which
I had lately undergone, and which I was, even then, still
undergoing, had much to do with my conduct at that moment, and
with the part I played in all that followed. Ordinarily I believe
that I have as high a spirit as the average man, and as solid a
resolution; but when one has been dragged through the Valley of
Humiliation, and plunged, again and again, into the Waters of
Bitterness and Privation, a man can be constrained to a course of
action of which, in his happier moments, he would have deemed
himself incapable. I know this of my own knowledge.
Slowly the eyes came on, with a strange slowness, and as they came
they moved from side to side as if their owner walked unevenly.
Nothing could have exceeded the horror with which I awaited their
approach,—except my incapacity to escape them. Not for an instant
did my glance pass from them,—I could not have shut my eyes for
all the gold the world contains!—so that as they came closer I
had to look right down to what seemed to be almost the level of my
feet. And, at last, they reached my feet. They never paused. On a
sudden I felt something on my boot, and, with a sense of
shrinking, horror, nausea, rendering me momentarily more helpless,
I realised that the creature was beginning to ascend my legs, to
climb my body. Even then what it was I could not tell,—it mounted
me, apparently, with as much ease as if I had been horizontal
instead of perpendicular. It was as though it were some gigantic
spider,—a spider of the nightmares; a monstrous conception of
some dreadful vision. It pressed lightly against my clothing with
what might, for all the world, have been spider's legs. There was
an amazing host of them,—I felt the pressure of each separate
one. They embraced me softly, stickily, as if the creature glued
and unglued them, each time it moved.
Higher and higher! It had gained my loins. It was moving towards
the pit of my stomach. The helplessness with which I suffered its
invasion was not the least part of my agony,—it was that
helplessness which we know in dreadful dreams. I understood, quite
well, that if I did but give myself a hearty shake, the creature
would fall off; but I had not a muscle at my command.