In that space he had blown the candle out, and was by the old man's
side: and then, in the darkness, he heard the two women ascending the
stairs. Just outside his door, which he had left ajar, they seemed to
turn off into a small adjoining room, from whence came immediately the
soft delicious sounds of female disrobing. They were but factory women,
yet Narcissus thought of Saint Agnes and Madeline, we may be sure. And
then, at last--indeed, there was to be no mistake about it--the door was
softly pushed open, and two dim forms whispered across to the adjoining
bed, and, after a little preliminary rustle, settled down to a rather
fluttered breathing.
No one had spoken: not even a Goodnight; but Narcissus could hardly
refrain from ringing out a great mirthful cry, while his heart beat
strangely, and the darkness seemed to ripple, like sunlight in a cup,
with suppressed laughter. The thought of the little innocent deception
as to their sleeping-room, which poverty had caused them to practise,
probably held the breath of the women, while the shyness of sex was a
common bond of silence--at least, on the part of the three younger. It
was long before Narcissus was able to fall asleep, for he kept picturing
the elder woman with burning cheek and open eyes in a kind of 'listening
fear' beneath the coverlet; and the oddity of the thing was so original,
so like some _conte_ of a _Decameron_ or _Heptameron_, with the
wickedness left out.
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