The Goddess: a Demon
Copyright© 2024 by Richard Marsh
Chapter 2: The Woman Who Came Through the Window
I held my breath, staring in amazement. The figure was real, that was obvious. And yet, how could a woman have gained my window from without? Where had she come from at that hour of the night? What did she want, now that she was here?
A vague wonder passed through my mind as to whether her object might not be felony. She had left the window open—I could feel the cool night-air—and stood inside it, as if listening. Was she endeavouring to discover if her entrance had been discovered? She had but to use her eyes, and look straight in front of her, to see me sitting up in bed, staring. I was as visible as she was. So far as I could judge she remained motionless, looking neither to right nor left. Presently she sighed, as some tired child might do, a long-drawn sigh, as if the action brought relief to her breast. Then I was persuaded that she was at any rate no thief—there was something in the sound of that sustained respiration which was incompatible with the notion of a feminine burglar.
She came a little forward into the room, doubtfully, as if uncertain of her surroundings. She stumbled against a chair, the contact seeming to startle her. I saw her put her hand up to her head, with the gesture of one who was trying to collect her thoughts.
“I can’t think where I am.”
The words broke the silence in the oddest manner. The voice was sweet, soft, clear—unmistakably a lady’s. It thrilled me strangely. Nothing which had gone before had disconcerted me so much—it was an utterance of such extreme simplicity. Was it possible that the lady was a somnambulist, who, held in the thraldom of that curious disease, had woke to find herself in a stranger’s bedroom? If that was the case, what was I to do? How could I explain the situation, without unduly startling her?
The question was answered for me. I must unconsciously have fidgeted. All at once her face was turned towards me. She exclaimed:
“Who’s that?”
I arrived at an instant resolution—replying with the most matter-of-fact air of which I was capable.
“Do not be alarmed—it is I, John Ferguson. If you will allow me, I will turn on the light, so that we may see each other better.”
I switched on the electric light. What it revealed again amazed me into speechlessness. At the foot of my bed stood the most beautiful woman I had ever seen; I thought so in that first astounded moment—I think so still. She was tall and she was slight. She looked at me out of the biggest and the sweetest pair of eyes I ever saw. But there was something in them which I did not understand. It was not only bewilderment, it was as if she was looking at the world out of a dream. She regarded me, as I sat, with my touzled head of hair, not, as I had feared, with signs of agitation and alarm, but rather with a curious sort of wonderment.
“I don’t know who you are. Where am I? Have I ever seen you before?”
It was spoken as a child might speak, with a little tremulous intonation, as if she were on the verge of tears.
“I don’t think you have. But don’t be alarmed—you are quite safe. I think you have been walking in your sleep.”
“Walking in my sleep?”
“I fancy you must have been.”
“But—do I walk in my sleep?”
In spite of myself, I smiled at the simplicity of the inquiry.
“That is a matter on which you should know more than I do.”
“But—where can I have walked from?”
“That also is a question to which you should be able to supply an answer. Do you live in the Mansions?”
“The Mansions?”
“These are the Imperial Mansions. Is your home here?”
“My home?” She shook her head solemnly. “I don’t know where my home is.”
“Not know? But you must know where your home is. Who are you? What is your name?”
“I don’t know who I am or what is my name.”
Was she an imbecile? She did not look it. I never saw intellect more clearly marked upon a woman’s face. But the more attentively I regarded her the more distinctly I began to realise that there was something peculiar in her expression. She seemed mazed, as if she had recently been roused from sleep and had not yet had time to acquire consciousness of her surroundings. My original surmise was correct; she had been walking in her sleep, and had not yet recovered sufficient consciousness to enable her to recognise the actualities of existence, and comprehend what it was she had been doing.
While I told myself this I had never removed my glance from off her. And now my gaze fastened on something which had for me a dreadful fascination.
She was covered from head to foot in a voluminous garment, which set off her face and figure to perfection. I took it to be some sort of opera-cloak, though, more than anything else, it resembled a domino buttoned down the front. It was made of some bright plum-coloured material, which I afterwards learned was alpaca. A hood, which was attached to the garment, was half off, half on, her dainty head. The whole affair, cloak and hood, was lined with green silk. The front of the cloak was decorated with voluminous green ribbons; one of these caught my eye. It was a broad sash-ribbon, some six or eight inches wide, reaching from her neck almost to her toes.
For quite half its length the vivid green was obscured by what seemed to be a stain of another colour. The stain was apparently of such recent occurrence that the ribbon was still sopping wet. But it was not the broad ribbon only which was stained; I perceived that, here and there, the bright hues of the knots of narrower ribbon were also dimmed. More, there were splashes on the cloak itself. She had her hand up to her head. I glanced at it. How could the fact have previously escaped my notice? There were stains upon her uplifted hand, and upon the other hand which dangled loosely at her side. They were half covered with something red—and wet.
All at once there came back to me the extraordinary vision I had had of the strange happening in Lawrence’s room. I recalled the frenzied figure, clad in the woman’s robe, with the whirling skirts. Woman’s robe? Why, here it was in front of me, upon this woman, the very robe which I had seen. And here, too, now sufficiently quiescent, were the whirling skirts. I put my hand up to my eyes to shut out the horrid thought which seemed to rush at me; and I cried—
“Tell me who you are, and from where you come!”
There was silence. I repeated my inquiry. She answered with another.
“Why do you speak so strangely? And why do you put your hand before your eyes?”
The mere sound of her speaking soothed me. To my mind, one of the greatest charms of a woman should be her voice. Never did I hear a more comfortable voice than hers. It was impossible to imagine that a voice in which, to my ears, rang so unmistakably the accents of truth, could belong to one who was false. Removing my hands, I looked at her again.
She had smeared her countenance with her fingers; all down one side of her face was a crimson stain.
“Look,” I cried, “at what you’ve done!”
“What have I done?”
“What’s on your hands?”
“My hands? What is on my hands?”
She held out her hands in front of her, staring at them with the most innocent air in the world.
“It’s blood.”
“Blood? Where has it come from?”
She asked the question as a child might do. In spite of her blood-stained face, the ring of truth which was in her voice, the unspoken appeal which was in her eyes, went to my heart.
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