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diff --git a/59165-0.txt b/59165-0.txt index 2e5c5ed..a4916f4 100644 --- a/59165-0.txt +++ b/59165-0.txt @@ -1,8253 +1,7841 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook, Uncanny Stories, by May Sinclair, Illustrated
-by Jean de Bosschère
-
-
-This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most
-other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
-whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of
-the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at
-www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have
-to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook.
-
-
-
-
-Title: Uncanny Stories
- Where Their Fire is Not Quenched; The Token; The Flaw in the Crystal; The Nature of the Evidence; If the Dead Knew; The Victim; The Finding of the Absolute
-
-
-Author: May Sinclair
-
-
-
-Release Date: March 31, 2019 [eBook #59165]
-
-Language: English
-
-Character set encoding: UTF-8
-
-
-***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK UNCANNY STORIES***
-
-
-E-text prepared by Roger Frank and Sue Clark from page images digitized by
-the Google Books Library Project (https://books.google.com) and generously
-made available by HathiTrust Digital Library (https://www.hathitrust.org/)
-
-
-
-Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
- file which includes the original illustrations.
- See 59165-h.htm or 59165-h.zip:
- (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/59165/59165-h/59165-h.htm)
- or
- (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/59165/59165-h.zip)
-
-
- Images of the original pages are available through
- HathiTrust Digital Library. See
- https://babel.hathitrust.org/cgi/pt?id=uc1.b4088979;view=1up;seq=27
-
-
-
-
-
-UNCANNY STORIES
-
-
-[Illustration: “A terrified bird flew out of the hedge ...”]
-
-
-UNCANNY STORIES
-
-by
-
-May Sinclair
-
-Author of “Anne Severn and the Fieldings,” etc.
-
-Illustrations by Jean de Bosschère
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-London: Hutchinson & Co.
-Paternoster Row
-
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
-
- CONTENTS
-
- Where their Fire is not Quenched
- The Token
- The Flaw in the Crystal
- The Nature of the Evidence
- If the Dead Knew
- The Victim
- The Finding of the Absolute
-
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
-
- LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
-
- A terrified bird flew out of the hedge ...
- Then, suddenly the room began to come apart ...
- ... each held there by the other’s fear
- ... moving slowly, like figures in some monstrous and appalling dance
- “I’ve told you not to touch my things”
- ... her face was turned to Donald ...
- He stepped forward, opening his arms
- And she wondered whether really she would find him well
- “I saw the Powells at the station”
- Milly opened a door on the left
- “No place ever will be strange when It’s there”
- ... he stood for a moment in the open doorway ...
- ... stretching out her arms to keep him back
- ... drew itself after him along the floor
- ... her whole body listened ...
- The apparition maintained itself with difficulty
- Then all of a sudden she had burst out crying ...
- Steven waited with his hand on the tap ...
- It stood close against the window, looking in
- ... the figure became clear and solid ...
- “_Now_ he’s coming alive—”
-
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
-
- UNCANNY STORIES
-
-
-
-
- WHERE THEIR FIRE IS NOT QUENCHED
-
-
-There was nobody in the orchard. Harriott Leigh went out, carefully,
-through the iron gate into the field. She had made the latch slip into
-its notch without a sound.
-
-The path slanted widely up the field from the orchard gate to the stile
-under the elder tree. George Waring waited for her there.
-
-Years afterwards, when she thought of George Waring she smelt the sweet,
-hot, wine-scent of the elder flowers. Years afterwards, when she smelt
-elder flowers she saw George Waring, with his beautiful, gentle face,
-like a poet’s or a musician’s, his black-blue eyes, and sleek,
-olive-brown hair. He was a naval lieutenant.
-
-Yesterday he had asked her to marry him and she had consented. But her
-father hadn’t, and she had come to tell him that and say good-bye before
-he left her. His ship was to sail the next day.
-
-He was eager and excited. He couldn’t believe that anything could stop
-their happiness, that anything he didn’t want to happen could happen.
-
-“Well?” he said.
-
-“He’s a perfect beast, George. He won’t let us. He says we’re too
-young.”
-
-“I was twenty last August,” he said, aggrieved.
-
-[Illustration]
-
-“And I shall be seventeen in September.”
-
-“And this is June. We’re quite old, really. How long does he mean us to
-wait?”
-
-“Three years.”
-
-“Three years before we can be engaged even— Why, we might be dead.”
-
-She put her arms round him to make him feel safe. They kissed; and the
-sweet, hot, wine-scent of the elder flowers mixed with their kisses.
-They stood, pressed close together, under the elder tree.
-
-Across the yellow fields of charlock they heard the village clock strike
-seven. Up in the house a gong clanged.
-
-“Darling, I must go,” she said.
-
-“Oh stay—Stay _five_ minutes.”
-
-He pressed her close. It lasted five minutes, and five more. Then he was
-running fast down the road to the station, while Harriott went along the
-field-path, slowly, struggling with her tears.
-
-“He’ll be back in three months,” she said. “I can live through three
-months.”
-
-But he never came back. There was something wrong with the engines of
-his ship, the _Alexandra_. Three weeks later she went down in the
-Mediterranean, and George with her.
-
-Harriott said she didn’t care how soon she died now. She was quite sure
-it would be soon, because she couldn’t live without him.
-
-Five years passed.
-
-[Illustration]
-
-The two lines of beech trees stretched on and on, the whole length of
-the Park, a broad green drive between. When you came to the middle they
-branched off right and left in the form of a cross, and at the end of
-the right arm there was a white stucco pavilion with pillars and a
-three-cornered pediment like a Greek temple. At the end of the left arm,
-the west entrance to the Park, double gates and a side door.
-
-Harriott, on her stone seat at the back of the pavilion, could see
-Stephen Philpotts the very minute he came through the side door.
-
-He had asked her to wait for him there. It was the place he always chose
-to read his poems aloud in. The poems were a pretext. She knew what he
-was going to say. And she knew what she would answer.
-
-There were elder bushes in flower at the back of the pavilion, and
-Harriott thought of George Waring. She told herself that George was
-nearer to her now than he could ever have been, living. If she married
-Stephen she would not be unfaithful, because she loved him with another
-part of herself. It was not as though Stephen were taking George’s
-place. She loved Stephen with her soul, in an unearthly way.
-
-But her body quivered like a stretched wire when the door opened and the
-young man came towards her down the drive under the beech trees.
-
-She loved him; she loved his slenderness, his darkness and sallow
-whiteness, his black eyes lighting up with the intellectual flame, the
-way his black hair swept back from his forehead, the way he walked,
-tiptoe, as if his feet were lifted with wings.
-
-He sat down beside her. She could see his hands tremble. She felt that
-her moment was coming; it had come.
-
-“I wanted to see you alone because there’s something I must say to you.
-I don’t quite know how to begin....”
-
-Her lips parted. She panted lightly.
-
-“You’ve heard me speak of Sybill Foster?”
-
-Her voice came stammering, “N-no, Stephen. Did you?”
-
-“Well, I didn’t mean to, till I knew it was all right. I only heard
-yesterday.”
-
-“Heard what?”
-
-“Why, that she’ll have me. Oh, Harriott—do you know what it’s like to be
-terribly happy?”
-
-She knew. She had known just now, the moment before he told her. She sat
-there, stone-cold and stiff, listening to his raptures; listening to her
-own voice saying she was glad.
-
-Ten years passed.
-
- * * * * *
-
-Harriott Leigh sat waiting in the drawing-room of a small house in Maida
-Vale. She had lived there ever since her father’s death two years
-before.
-
-She was restless. She kept on looking at the clock to see if it was
-four, the hour that Oscar Wade had appointed. She was not sure that he
-would come, after she had sent him away yesterday.
-
-She now asked herself, why, when she had sent him away yesterday, she
-had let him come to-day. Her motives were not altogether clear. If she
-really meant what she had said then, she oughtn’t to let him come to her
-again. Never again.
-
-She had shown him plainly what she meant. She could see herself, sitting
-very straight in her chair, uplifted by a passionate integrity, while he
-stood before her, hanging his head, ashamed and beaten; she could feel
-again the throb in her voice as she kept on saying that she couldn’t,
-she couldn’t; he must see that she couldn’t; that no, nothing would make
-her change her mind; she couldn’t forget he had a wife; that he must
-think of Muriel.
-
-To which he had answered savagely: “I needn’t. That’s all over. We only
-live together for the look of the thing.”
-
-And she, serenely, with great dignity: “And for the look of the thing,
-Oscar, we must leave off seeing each other. Please go.”
-
-“Do you mean it?”
-
-“Yes. We must never see each other again.”
-
-And he had gone then, ashamed and beaten.
-
-She could see him, squaring his broad shoulders to meet the blow. And
-she was sorry for him. She told herself she had been unnecessarily hard.
-Why shouldn’t they see each other again, now he understood where they
-must draw the line? Until yesterday the line had never been very clearly
-drawn. To-day she meant to ask him to forget what he had said to her.
-Once it was forgotten, they could go on being friends as if nothing had
-happened.
-
-It was four o’clock. Half-past. Five. She had finished tea and given him
-up when, between the half-hour and six o’clock, he came.
-
-[Illustration]
-
-He came as he had come a dozen times, with his measured, deliberate,
-thoughtful tread, carrying himself well braced, with a sort of held-in
-arrogance, his great shoulders heaving. He was a man of about forty,
-broad and tall, lean-flanked and short-necked, his straight, handsome
-features showing small and even in the big square face and in the flush
-that swamped it. The close-clipped, reddish-brown moustache bristled
-forwards from the pushed-out upper lip. His small, flat eyes shone,
-reddish-brown, eager and animal.
-
-She liked to think of him when he was not there, but always at the first
-sight of him she felt a slight shock. Physically, he was very far from
-her admired ideal. So different from George Waring and Stephen
-Philpotts.
-
-He sat down, facing her.
-
-There was an embarrassed silence, broken by Oscar Wade.
-
-“Well, Harriott, you said I could come.” He seemed to be throwing the
-responsibility on her.
-
-“So I suppose you’ve forgiven me,” he said.
-
-“Oh, yes, Oscar, I’ve forgiven you.”
-
-He said she’d better show it by coming to dine with him somewhere that
-evening.
-
-She could give no reason to herself for going. She simply went.
-
-He took her to a restaurant in Soho. Oscar Wade dined well, even
-extravagantly, giving each dish its importance. She liked his
-extravagance. He had none of the mean virtues.
-
-It was over. His flushed, embarrassed silence told her what he was
-thinking. But when he had seen her home he left her at her garden gate.
-He had thought better of it.
-
-She was not sure whether she were glad or sorry. She had had her moment
-of righteous exaltation and she had enjoyed it. But there was no joy in
-the weeks that followed it. She had given up Oscar Wade because she
-didn’t want him very much; and now she wanted him furiously, perversely,
-because she had given him up. Though he had no resemblance to her ideal,
-she couldn’t live without him.
-
-She dined with him again and again, till she knew Schnebler’s Restaurant
-by heart, the white panelled walls picked out with gold; the white
-pillars, and the curling gold fronds of their capitals; the Turkey
-carpets, blue and crimson, soft under her feet; the thick crimson velvet
-cushions, that clung to her skirts; the glitter of silver and glass on
-the innumerable white circles of the tables. And the faces of the
-diners, red, white, pink, brown, grey and sallow, distorted and excited;
-the curled mouths that twisted as they ate; the convoluted electric
-bulbs pointing, pointing down at them, under the red, crinkled shades.
-All shimmering in a thick air that the red light stained as wine stains
-water.
-
-And Oscar’s face, flushed with his dinner. Always, when he leaned back
-from the table and brooded in silence she knew what he was thinking. His
-heavy eyelids would lift; she would find his eyes fixed on hers,
-wondering, considering.
-
-She knew now what the end would be. She thought of George Waring, and
-Stephen Philpotts, and of her life, cheated. She hadn’t chosen Oscar,
-she hadn’t really wanted him; but now he had forced himself on her she
-couldn’t afford to let him go. Since George died no man had loved her,
-no other man ever would. And she was sorry for him when she thought of
-him going from her, beaten and ashamed.
-
-She was certain, before he was, of the end. Only she didn’t know when
-and where and how it would come. That was what Oscar knew.
-
-It came at the close of one of their evenings when they had dined in a
-private sitting-room. He said he couldn’t stand the heat and noise of
-the public restaurant.
-
-She went before him, up a steep, red-carpeted stair to a white door on
-the second landing.
-
-From time to time they repeated the furtive, hidden adventure. Sometimes
-she met him in the room above Schnebler’s. Sometimes, when her maid was
-out, she received him at her house in Maida Vale. But that was
-dangerous, not to be risked too often.
-
-Oscar declared himself unspeakably happy. Harriott was not quite sure.
-This was love, the thing she had never had, that she had dreamed of,
-hungered and thirsted for; but now she had it she was not satisfied.
-Always she looked for something just beyond it, some mystic, heavenly
-rapture, always beginning to come, that never came. There was something
-about Oscar that repelled her. But because she had taken him for her
-lover, she couldn’t bring herself to admit that it was a certain
-coarseness. She looked another way and pretended it wasn’t there. To
-justify herself, she fixed her mind on his good qualities, his
-generosity, his strength, the way he had built up his engineering
-business. She made him take her over his works and show her his great
-dynamos. She made him lend her the books he read. But always, when she
-tried to talk to him, he let her see that _that_ wasn’t what she was
-there for.
-
-“My dear girl, we haven’t time,” he said. “It’s waste of our priceless
-moments.”
-
-She persisted. “There’s something wrong about it all if we can’t talk to
-each other.”
-
-He was irritated. “Women never seem to consider that a man can get all
-the talk he wants from other men. What’s wrong is our meeting in this
-unsatisfactory way. We ought to live together. It’s the only sane thing.
-I would, only I don’t want to break up Muriel’s home and make her
-miserable.”
-
-“I thought you said she wouldn’t care.”
-
-“My dear, she cares for her home and her position and the children. You
-forget the children.”
-
-Yes. She had forgotten the children. She had forgotten Muriel. She had
-left off thinking of Oscar as a man with a wife and children and a home.
-
-He had a plan. His mother-in-law was coming to stay with Muriel in
-October and he would get away. He would go to Paris, and Harriott should
-come to him there. He could say he went on business. No need to lie
-about it; he _had_ business in Paris.
-
-He engaged rooms in an hotel in the rue de Rivoli. They spent two weeks
-there.
-
-For three days Oscar was madly in love with Harriott and Harriott with
-him. As she lay awake she would turn on the light and look at him as he
-slept at her side. Sleep made him beautiful and innocent; it laid a
-fine, smooth tissue over his coarseness; it made his mouth gentle; it
-entirely hid his eyes.
-
-In six days reaction had set in. At the end of the tenth day, Harriott,
-returning with Oscar from Montmartre, burst into a fit of crying. When
-questioned, she answered wildly that the Hotel Saint Pierre was too
-hideously ugly it was getting on her nerves. Mercifully Oscar explained
-her state as fatigue following excitement. She tried hard to believe
-that she was miserable because her love was purer and more spiritual
-than Oscar’s; but all the time she knew perfectly well she had cried
-from pure boredom. She was in love with Oscar, and Oscar bored her.
-Oscar was in love with her, and she bored him. At close quarters, day in
-and day out, each was revealed to the other as an incredible bore.
-
-At the end of the second week she began to doubt whether she had ever
-been really in love with him.
-
- * * * * *
-
-Her passion returned for a little while after they got back to London.
-Freed from the unnatural strain which Paris had put on them, they
-persuaded themselves that their romantic temperaments were better fitted
-to the old life of casual adventure.
-
-Then, gradually, the sense of danger began to wake in them. They lived
-in perpetual fear, face to face with all the chances of discovery. They
-tormented themselves and each other by imagining possibilities that they
-would never have considered in their first fine moments. It was as
-though they were beginning to ask themselves if it were, after all,
-worth while running such awful risks, for all they got out of it. Oscar
-still swore that if he had been free he would have married her. He
-pointed out that his intentions at any rate were regular. But she asked
-herself: Would I marry _him_? Marriage would be the Hotel Saint Pierre
-all over again, without any possibility of escape. But, if she wouldn’t
-marry him, was she in love with him? That was the test. Perhaps it was a
-good thing he wasn’t free. Then she told herself that these doubts were
-morbid, and that the question wouldn’t arise.
-
-One evening Oscar called to see her. He had come to tell her that Muriel
-was ill.
-
-“Seriously ill?”
-
-“I’m afraid so. It’s pleurisy. May turn to pneumonia. We shall know one
-way or another in the next few days.”
-
-A terrible fear seized upon Harriott. Muriel might die of her pleurisy;
-and if Muriel died, she would have to marry Oscar. He was looking at her
-queerly, as if he knew what she was thinking, and she could see that the
-same thought had occurred to him and that he was frightened too.
-
-Muriel got well again; but their danger had enlightened them. Muriel’s
-life was now inconceivably precious to them both; she stood between them
-and that permanent union, which they dreaded and yet would not have the
-courage to refuse.
-
-After enlightenment the rupture.
-
-It came from Oscar, one evening when he sat with her in her
-drawing-room.
-
-“Harriott,” he said, “do you know I’m thinking seriously of settling
-down?”
-
-“How do you mean, settling down?”
-
-“Patching it up with Muriel, poor girl.... Has it never occurred to you
-that this little affair of ours can’t go on for ever?”
-
-“You don’t want it to go on?”
-
-“I don’t want to have any humbug about it. For God’s sake, let’s be
-straight. If it’s done, it’s done. Let’s end it decently.”
-
-“I see. You want to get rid of me.”
-
-“That’s a beastly way of putting it.”
-
-“Is there any way that isn’t beastly? The whole thing’s beastly. I
-should have thought you’d have stuck to it now you’ve made it what you
-wanted. When I haven’t an ideal, I haven’t a single illusion, when
-you’ve destroyed everything you didn’t want.”
-
-“What didn’t I want?”
-
-“The clean, beautiful part of it. The part _I_ wanted.”
-
-“My part at least was real. It was cleaner and more beautiful than all
-that putrid stuff you wrapped it up in. You were a hypocrite, Harriott,
-and I wasn’t. You’re a hypocrite now if you say you weren’t happy with
-me.”
-
-“I was never really happy. Never for one moment. There was always
-something I missed. Something you didn’t give me. Perhaps you couldn’t.”
-
-“No. I wasn’t spiritual enough,” he sneered.
-
-“You were not. And you made me what you were.”
-
-“Oh, I noticed that you were always very spiritual _after_ you’d got
-what you wanted.”
-
-“What I wanted?” she cried. “Oh, my God—”
-
-“If you ever knew what you wanted.”
-
-“What—I—wanted,” she repeated, drawing out her bitterness.
-
-“Come,” he said, “why not be honest? Face facts. I was awfully gone on
-you. You were awfully gone on me—once. We got tired of each other and
-it’s over. But at least you might own we had a good time while it
-lasted.”
-
-“A good time?”
-
-“Good enough for me.”
-
-“For you, because for you love only means one thing. Everything that’s
-high and noble in it you dragged down to that, till there’s nothing left
-for us but that. _That’s_ what you made of love.”
-
-Twenty years passed.
-
- * * * * *
-
-It was Oscar who died first, three years after the rupture. He did it
-suddenly one evening, falling down in a fit of apoplexy.
-
-His death was an immense relief to Harriott. Perfect security had been
-impossible as long as he was alive. But now there wasn’t a living soul
-who knew her secret.
-
-Still, in the first moment of shock Harriott told herself that Oscar
-dead would be nearer to her than ever. She forgot how little she had
-wanted him to be near her, alive. And long before the twenty years had
-passed she had contrived to persuade herself that he had never been near
-to her at all. It was incredible that she had ever known such a person
-as Oscar Wade. As for their affair, she couldn’t think of Harriott Leigh
-as the sort of woman to whom such a thing could happen. Schnebler’s and
-the Hotel Saint Pierre ceased to figure among prominent images of her
-past. Her memories, if she had allowed herself to remember, would have
-clashed disagreeably with the reputation for sanctity which she had now
-acquired.
-
-For Harriott at fifty-two was the friend and helper of the Reverend
-Clement Farmer, Vicar of St. Mary the Virgin’s, Maida Vale. She worked
-as a deaconess in his parish, wearing the uniform of a deaconess, the
-semi-religious gown, the cloak, the bonnet and veil, the cross and
-rosary, the holy smile. She was also secretary to the Maida Vale and
-Kilburn Home for Fallen Girls.
-
-Her moments of excitement came when Clement Farmer, the lean, austere
-likeness of Stephen Philpotts, in his cassock and lace-bordered
-surplice, issued from the vestry, when he mounted the pulpit, when he
-stood before the altar rails and lifted up his arms in the Benediction;
-her moments of ecstasy when she received the Sacrament from his hands.
-And she had moments of calm happiness when his study door closed on
-their communion. All these moments were saturated with a solemn
-holiness.
-
-And they were insignificant compared with the moment of her dying.
-
-She lay dozing in her white bed under the black crucifix with the ivory
-Christ. The basins and medicine bottles had been cleared from the table
-by her pillow; it was spread for the last rites. The priest moved
-quietly about the room, arranging the candles, the Prayer Book and the
-Holy Sacrament. Then he drew a chair to her bedside and watched with
-her, waiting for her to come up out of her doze.
-
-She woke suddenly. Her eyes were fixed upon him. She had a flash of
-lucidity. She was dying, and her dying made her supremely important to
-Clement Fanner.
-
-“Are you ready?” he asked.
-
-“Not yet. I think I’m afraid. Make me not afraid.”
-
-He rose and lit the two candles on the altar. He took down the crucifix
-from the wall and stood it against the foot-rail of the bed.
-
-She sighed. That was not what she had wanted.
-
-“You will not be afraid now,” he said.
-
-“I’m not afraid of the hereafter. I suppose you get used to it. Only it
-may be terrible just at first.”
-
-“Our first state will depend very much on what we are thinking of at our
-last hour.”
-
-“There’ll be my—confession,” she said.
-
-“And after it you will receive the Sacrament. Then you will have your
-mind fixed firmly upon God and your Redeemer.... Do you feel able to
-make your confession now, Sister? Everything is ready.”
-
-Her mind went back over her past and found Oscar Wade there. She
-wondered: Should she confess to him about Oscar Wade? One moment she
-thought it was possible; the next she knew that she couldn’t. She could
-not. It wasn’t necessary. For twenty years he had not been part of her
-life. No. She wouldn’t confess about Oscar Wade. She had been guilty of
-other sins.
-
-She made a careful selection.
-
-“I have cared too much for the beauty of this world.... I have failed in
-charity to my poor girls. Because of my intense repugnance to their
-sin.... I have thought, often, about—people I love, when I should have
-been thinking about God.”
-
-After that she received the Sacrament.
-
-“Now,” he said, “there is nothing to be afraid of.”
-
-“I won’t be afraid if—if you would hold my hand.”
-
-He held it. And she lay still a long time, with her eyes shut. Then he
-heard her murmuring something. He stooped close.
-
-“This—is—dying. I thought it would be horrible. And it’s bliss....
-Bliss.”
-
-The priest’s hand slackened, as if at the bidding of some wonder. She
-gave a weak cry.
-
-“Oh—don’t let me go.”
-
-His grasp tightened.
-
-“Try,” he said, “to think about God. Keep on looking at the crucifix.”
-
-“If I look,” she whispered, “you won’t let go my hand?”
-
-“I will not let you go.”
-
-He held it till it was wrenched from him in the last agony.
-
- * * * * *
-
-She lingered for some hours in the room where these things had happened.
-
-Its aspect was familiar and yet unfamiliar, and slightly repugnant to
-her. The altar, the crucifix, the lighted candles, suggested some
-tremendous and awful experience the details of which she was not able to
-recall. She seemed to remember that they had been connected in some way
-with the sheeted body on the bed; but the nature of the connection was
-not clear; and she did not associate the dead body with herself. When
-the nurse came in and laid it out, she saw that it was the body of a
-middle-aged woman. Her own living body was that of a young woman of
-about thirty-two.
-
-Her mind had no past and no future, no sharp-edged, coherent memories,
-and no idea of anything to be done next.
-
-Then, suddenly, the room began to come apart before her eyes, to split
-into shafts of floor and furniture and ceiling that shifted and were
-thrown by their commotion into different planes. They leaned slanting at
-every possible angle; they crossed and overlaid each other with a
-transparent mingling of dislocated perspectives, like reflections fallen
-on an interior seen behind glass.
-
-The bed and the sheeted body slid away somewhere out of sight. She was
-standing by the door that still remained in position.
-
-She opened it and found herself in the street, outside a building of
-yellowish-grey brick and freestone, with a tall slated spire. Her mind
-came together with a palpable click of recognition. This object was the
-Church of St. Mary the Virgin, Maida Vale. She could hear the droning of
-the organ. She opened the door and slipped in.
-
-[Illustration: Then, suddenly the room began to come apart ...]
-
-She had gone back into a definite space and time, and recovered a
-certain limited section of coherent memory. She remembered the rows of
-pitch-pine benches, with their Gothic peaks and mouldings; the
-stone-coloured walls and pillars with their chocolate stencilling; the
-hanging rings of lights along the aisles of the nave; the high altar
-with its lighted candles, and the polished brass cross, twinkling. These
-things were somehow permanent and real, adjusted to the image that now
-took possession of her.
-
-She knew what she had come there for. The service was over. The choir
-had gone from the chancel; the sacristan moved before the altar, putting
-out the candles. She walked up the middle aisle to a seat that she knew
-under the pulpit. She knelt down and covered her face with her hands.
-Peeping sideways through her fingers, she could see the door of the
-vestry on her left at the end of the north aisle. She watched it
-steadily.
-
-Up in the organ loft the organist drew out the Recessional, slowly and
-softly, to its end in the two solemn, vibrating chords.
-
-The vestry door opened and Clement Farmer came out, dressed in his black
-cassock. He passed before her, close, close outside the bench where she
-knelt. He paused at the opening. He was waiting for her. There was
-something he had to say.
-
-She stood up and went towards him. He still waited. He didn’t move to
-make way for her. She came close, closer than she had ever come to him,
-so close that his features grew indistinct. She bent her head back,
-peering, short-sightedly, and found herself looking into Oscar Wade’s
-face.
-
-He stood still, horribly still, and close, barring her passage.
-
-She drew back; his heaving shoulders followed her. He leaned forward,
-covering her with his eyes. She opened her mouth to scream and no sound
-came.
-
-She was afraid to move lest he should move with her. The heaving of his
-shoulders terrified her.
-
-One by one the lights in the side aisles were going out. The lights in
-the middle aisle would go next. They had gone. If she didn’t get away
-she would be shut up with him there, in the appalling darkness.
-
-She turned and moved towards the north aisle, groping, steadying herself
-by the book ledge.
-
-When she looked back, Oscar Wade was not there.
-
-Then she remembered that Oscar Wade was dead. Therefore, what she had
-seen was not Oscar; it was his ghost. He was dead; dead seventeen years
-ago. She was safe from him for ever.
-
- * * * * *
-
-When she came out on to the steps of the church she saw that the road it
-stood in had changed. It was not the road she remembered. The pavement
-on this side was raised slightly and covered in. It ran under a
-succession of arches. It was a long gallery walled with glittering shop
-windows on one side; on the other a line of tall grey columns divided it
-from the street.
-
-She was going along the arcades of the rue de Rivoli. Ahead of her she
-could see the edge of an immense grey pillar jutting out. That was the
-porch of the Hotel Saint Pierre. The revolving glass doors swung forward
-to receive her; she crossed the grey, sultry vestibule under the
-pillared arches. She knew it. She knew the porter’s shining,
-wine-coloured mahogany pen on her left, and the shining wine-coloured
-mahogany barrier of the clerk’s bureau on her right; she made straight
-for the great grey carpeted staircase; she climbed the endless flights
-that turned round and round the caged-in shaft of the well, past the
-latticed doors of the lift, and came up on to a landing that she knew,
-and into the long, ash-grey, foreign corridor lit by a dull window at
-one end.
-
-It was there that the horror of the place came on her. She had no longer
-any memory of St. Mary’s Church, so that she was unaware of her backward
-course through time. All space and time were here.
-
-She remembered she had to go to the left, the left. But there was
-something there; where the corridor turned by the window; at the end of
-all the corridors. If she went the other way she would escape it.
-
-The corridor stopped there. A blank wall. She was driven back past the
-stairhead to the left.
-
-At the corner, by the window, she turned down another long ash-grey
-corridor on her right, and to the right again where the night-light
-sputtered on the table-flap at the turn.
-
-This third corridor was dark and secret and depraved. She knew the
-soiled walls and the warped door at the end. There was a sharp-pointed
-streak of light at the top. She could see the number on it now, 107.
-
-Something had happened there. If she went in it would happen again.
-
-Oscar Wade was in the room waiting for her behind the closed door. She
-felt him moving about in there. She leaned forward, her ear to the key
-hole, and listened. She could hear the measured, deliberate, thoughtful
-footsteps. They were coming from the bed to the door.
-
-She turned and ran; her knees gave way under her; she sank and ran on,
-down the long grey corridors and the stairs, quick and blind, a hunted
-beast seeking for cover, hearing his feet coming after her.
-
-The revolving doors caught her and pushed her out into the street.
-
- * * * * *
-
-The strange quality of her state was this, that it had no time. She
-remembered dimly that there had once been a thing called time; but she
-had forgotten altogether what it was like. She was aware of things
-happening and about to happen; she fixed them by the place they
-occupied, and measured their duration by the space she went through.
-
-So now she thought: If I could only go back and get to the place where
-it hadn’t happened.
-
-To get back farther—
-
-She was walking now on a white road that went between broad grass
-borders. To the right and left were the long raking lines of the hills,
-curve after curve, shimmering in a thin mist.
-
-The road dropped to the green valley. It mounted the humped bridge over
-the river. Beyond it she saw the twin gables of the grey house pricked
-up over the high, grey garden wall. The tall iron gate stood in front of
-it between the ball-topped stone pillars.
-
-And now she was in a large, low-ceilinged room with drawn blinds. She
-was standing before the wide double bed. It was her father’s bed. The
-dead body, stretched out in the middle under the drawn white sheet, was
-her father’s body.
-
-The outline of the sheet sank from the peak of the upturned toes to the
-shin bone, and from the high bridge of the nose to the chin.
-
-She lifted the sheet and folded it back across the breast of the dead
-man. The face she saw then was Oscar Wade’s face, stilled and smoothed
-in the innocence of sleep, the supreme innocence of death. She stared at
-it, fascinated, in a cold, pitiless joy.
-
-Oscar was dead.
-
-She remembered how he used to lie like that beside her in the room in
-the Hotel Saint Pierre, on his back with his hands folded on his waist,
-his mouth half open, his big chest rising and falling. If he was dead,
-it would never happen again. She would be safe.
-
-The dead face frightened her, and she was about to cover it up again
-when she was aware of a light heaving, a rhythmical rise and fall. As
-she drew the sheet up tighter, the hands under it began to struggle
-convulsively, the broad ends of the fingers appeared above the edge,
-clutching it to keep it down. The mouth opened; the eyes opened; the
-whole face stared back at her in a look of agony and horror.
-
-Then the body drew itself forwards from the hips and sat up, its eyes
-peering into her eyes; he and she remained for an instant motionless,
-each held there by the other’s fear.
-
-[Illustration: ... each held there by the other’s fear]
-
-Suddenly she broke away, turned and ran, out of the room, out of the
-house.
-
-She stood at the gate, looking up and down the road, not knowing by
-which way she must go to escape Oscar. To the right, over the bridge and
-up the hill and across the downs she would come to the arcades of the
-rue de Rivoli and the dreadful grey corridors of the hotel. To the left
-the road went through the village.
-
-If she could get further back she would be safe, out of Oscar’s reach.
-Standing by her father’s death-bed she had been young, but not young
-enough. She must get back to the place where she was younger still, to
-the Park and the green drive under the beech trees and the white
-pavilion at the cross. She knew how to find it. At the end of the
-village the high road ran right and left, east and west, under the Park
-walls; the south gate stood there at the top, looking down the narrow
-street.
-
-She ran towards it through the village, past the long grey barns of
-Goodyer’s farm, past the grocer’s shop, past the yellow front and blue
-sign of the “Queen’s Head,” past the post office, with its one black
-window blinking under its vine, past the church and the yew-trees in the
-churchyard, to where the south gate made a delicate black pattern on the
-green grass.
-
-These things appeared insubstantial, drawn back behind a sheet of air
-that shimmered over them like thin glass. They opened out, floated past
-and away from her; and instead of the high road and park walls she saw a
-London street of dingy white facades, and instead of the south gate the
-swinging glass doors of Schnebler’s Restaurant.
-
- * * * * *
-
-The glass doors swung open and she passed into the restaurant. The scene
-beat on her with the hard impact of reality: the white and gold panels,
-the white pillars and their curling gold capitals, the white circles of
-the tables, glittering, the flushed faces of the diners, moving
-mechanically.
-
-She was driven forward by some irresistible compulsion to a table in the
-corner, where a man sat alone. The table napkin he was using hid his
-mouth, and jaw, and chest; and she was not sure of the upper part of the
-face above the straight, drawn edge. It dropped; and she saw Oscar
-Wade’s face. She came to him, dragged, without power to resist; she sat
-down beside him, and he leaned to her over the table; she could feel the
-warmth of his red, congested face; the smell of wine floated towards her
-on his thick whisper.
-
-“I knew you would come.”
-
-She ate and drank with him in silence, nibbling and sipping slowly,
-staving off the abominable moment it would end in.
-
-At last they got up and faced each other. His long bulk stood before
-her, above her; she could almost feel the vibration of its power.
-
-“Come,” he said. “Come.”
-
-And she went before him, slowly, slipping out through the maze of the
-tables, hearing behind her Oscar’s measured, deliberate, thoughtful
-tread. The steep, red-carpeted staircase rose up before her.
-
-She swerved from it, but he turned her back.
-
-“You know the way,” he said.
-
-At the top of the flight she found the white door of the room she knew.
-She knew the long windows guarded by drawn muslin blinds; the gilt
-looking-glass over the chimney-piece that reflected Oscar’s head and
-shoulders grotesquely between two white porcelain babies with bulbous
-limbs and garlanded loins, she knew the sprawling stain on the drab
-carpet by the table, the shabby, infamous couch behind the screen.
-
-They moved about the room, turning and turning in it like beasts in a
-cage, uneasy, inimical, avoiding each other.
-
-At last they stood still, he at the window, she at the door, the length
-of the room between.
-
-“It’s no good your getting away like that,” he said. “There couldn’t be
-any other end to it—to what we did.”
-
-“But that _was_ ended.”
-
-“Ended there, but not here.”
-
-“Ended for ever. We’ve done with it for ever.”
-
-“We haven’t. We’ve got to begin again. And go on. And go on.”
-
-“Oh, no. No. Anything but that.”
-
-“There isn’t anything else.”
-
-“We can’t. We can’t. Don’t you remember how it bored us?”
-
-“Remember? Do you suppose I’d touch you if I could help it?... That’s
-what we’re here for. We must. We must.”
-
-“No. No. I shall get away—now.”
-
-She turned to the door to open it.
-
-“You can’t,” he said. “The door’s locked.”
-
-“Oscar—what did you do that for?”
-
-“We always did it. Don’t you remember?”
-
-She turned to the door again and shook it; she beat on it with her
-hands.
-
-“It’s no use, Harriott. If you got out now you’d only have to come back
-again. You might stave it off for an hour or so, but what’s that in an
-immortality?”
-
-“Immortality?”
-
-“That’s what we’re in for.”
-
-“Time enough to talk about immortality when we’re dead.... Ah—”
-
-[Illustration: ... moving slowly, like figures in some monstrous and
-appalling dance ...]
-
-They were being drawn towards each other across the room, moving slowly,
-like figures in some monstrous and appalling dance, their heads thrown
-back over their shoulders, their faces turned from the horrible
-approach. Their arms rose slowly, heavy with intolerable reluctance;
-they stretched them out towards each other, aching, as if they held up
-an overpowering weight. Their feet dragged and were drawn.
-
-Suddenly her knees sank under her; she shut her eyes; all her being went
-down before him in darkness and terror.
-
- * * * * *
-
-It was over. She had got away, she was going back, back, to the green
-drive of the Park, between the beech trees, where Oscar had never been,
-where he would never find her. When she passed through the south gate
-her memory became suddenly young and clean. She forgot the rue de Rivoli
-and the Hotel Saint Pierre; she forgot Schnebler’s Restaurant and the
-room at the top of the stairs. She was back in her youth. She was
-Harriott Leigh going to wait for Stephen Philpotts in the pavilion
-opposite the west gate. She could feel herself, a slender figure moving
-fast over the grass between the lines of the great beech trees. The
-freshness of her youth was upon her.
-
-She came to the heart of the drive where it branched right and left in
-the form of a cross. At the end of the right arm the white Greek temple,
-with its pediment and pillars, gleamed against the wood.
-
-She was sitting on their seat at the back of the pavilion, watching the
-side door that Stephen would come in by.
-
-The door was pushed open; he came towards her, light and young, skimming
-between the beech trees with his eager, tiptoeing stride. She rose up to
-meet him. She gave a cry.
-
-“Stephen!”
-
-It had been Stephen. She had seen him coming. But the man who stood
-before her between the pillars of the pavilion was Oscar Wade.
-
-And now she was walking along the field-path that slanted from the
-orchard door to the stile; further and further back, to where young
-George Waring waited for her under the elder tree. The smell of the
-elder flowers came to her over the field. She could feel on her lips and
-in all her body the sweet, innocent excitement of her youth.
-
-“George, oh, George!”
-
-As she went along the field-path she had seen him. But the man who stood
-waiting for her under the elder tree was Oscar Wade.
-
-“I told you it’s no use getting away, Harriott. Every path brings you
-back to me. You’ll find me at every turn.”
-
-“But how did you get _here?_”
-
-“As I got into the pavilion. As I got into your father’s room, on to his
-death-bed. Because I _was_ there. I am in all your memories.”
-
-“My memories are innocent. How could you take my father’s place, and
-Stephen’s, and George Waring’s? You?”
-
-“Because I did take them.”
-
-“Never. My love for _them_ was innocent.”
-
-“Your love for me was part of it. You think the past affects the future.
-Has it never struck you that the future may affect the past? In your
-innocence there was the beginning of your sin. You _were_ what you _were
-to be_.”
-
-“I shall get away,” she said.
-
-“And, this time, I shall go with you.”
-
-The stile, the elder tree, and the field floated away from her. She was
-going under the beech trees down the Park drive towards the south gate
-and the village, slinking close to the right-hand row of trees. She was
-aware that Oscar Wade was going with her under the left-hand row,
-keeping even with her, step by step, and tree by tree. And presently
-there was grey pavement under her feet and a row of grey pillars on her
-right hand. They were walking side by side down the rue de Rivoli
-towards the hotel.
-
-They were sitting together now on the edge of the dingy white bed. Their
-arms hung by their sides, heavy and limp, their heads drooped, averted.
-Their passion weighed on them with the unbearable, unescapable boredom
-of immortality.
-
-“Oscar—how long will it last?”
-
-“I can’t tell you. I don’t know whether _this_ is one moment of
-eternity, or the eternity of one moment.”
-
-“It must end some time,” she said. “Life doesn’t go on for ever. We
-shall die.”
-
-“Die? We _have_ died. Don’t you know what this is? Don’t you know where
-you are? This is death. We’re dead, Harriott. We’re in hell.”
-
-“Yes. There can’t be anything worse than this.”
-
-“This isn’t the worst. We’re not quite dead yet, as long as we’ve life
-in us to turn and run and get away from each other; as long as we can
-escape into our memories. But when you’ve got back to the farthest
-memory of all and there’s nothing beyond it—When there’s no memory but
-this—
-
-“In the last hell we shall not run away any longer; we shall find no
-more roads, no more passages, no more open doors. We shall have no need
-to look for each other.
-
-“In the last death we shall be shut up in this room, behind that locked
-door, together. We shall lie here together, for ever and ever, joined so
-fast that even God can’t put us asunder. We shall be one flesh and one
-spirit, one sin repeated for ever, and ever; spirit loathing flesh,
-flesh loathing spirit; you and I loathing each other.”
-
-“Why? Why?” she cried.
-
-“Because that’s all that’s left us. That’s what you made of love.”
-
- * * * * *
-
-The darkness came down swamping, it blotted out the room. She was
-walking along a garden path between high borders of phlox and larkspur
-and lupin. They were taller than she was, their flowers swayed and
-nodded above her head. She tugged at the tall stems and had no strength
-to break them. She was a little thing.
-
-She said to herself then that she was safe. She had gone back so far
-that she was a child again; she had the blank innocence of childhood. To
-be a child, to go small under the heads of the lupins, to be blank and
-innocent, without memory, was to be safe.
-
-The walk led her out through a yew hedge on to a bright green lawn. In
-the middle of the lawn there was a shallow round pond in a ring of
-rockery cushioned with small flowers, yellow and white and purple.
-Gold-fish swam in the olive-brown water. She would be safe when she saw
-the gold-fish swimming towards her. The old one with the white scales
-would come up first, pushing up his nose, making bubbles in the water.
-
-At the bottom of the lawn there was a privet hedge cut by a broad path
-that went through the orchard. She knew what she would find there; her
-mother was in the orchard. She would lift her up in her arms to play
-with the hard red balls of the apples that hung from the tree. She had
-got back to the farthest memory of all; there was nothing beyond it.
-
-There would be an iron gate in the wall of the orchard. It would lead
-into a field.
-
-Something was different here, something that frightened her. An ash-grey
-door instead of an iron gate.
-
-She pushed it open and came into the last corridor of the Hotel Saint
-Pierre.
-
-
-
-
- THE TOKEN
-
-
- I
-
-
-I have only known one absolutely adorable woman, and that was my
-brother’s wife, Cicely Dunbar.
-
-Sisters-in-law do not, I think, invariably adore each other, and I am
-aware that my chief merit in Cicely’s eyes was that I am Donald’s
-sister; but for me there was no question of extraneous quality—it was
-all pure Cicely.
-
-And how Donald— But then, like all the Dunbars, Donald suffers from
-being Scottish, so that, if he has a feeling, he makes it a point of
-honour to pretend he hasn’t it. I daresay he let himself go a bit during
-his courtship, when he was not, strictly speaking, himself; but after he
-had once married her I think he would have died rather than have told
-Cicely in so many words that he loved her. And Cicely wanted to be told.
-You say she ought to have known without telling? You don’t know Donald.
-You can’t conceive the perverse ingenuity he could put into hiding his
-affection. He has that peculiar temper—I think it’s Scottish—that
-delights in snubbing and faultfinding and defeating expectation. If he
-knows you want him to do a thing, that alone is reason enough with
-Donald for not doing it. And my sister, who was as transparent as white
-crystal, was never able to conceal a want. So that Donald could, as we
-said, “have” her at every turn.
-
-And, then, I don’t think my brother really knew how ill she was. He
-didn’t want to know. Besides, he was so wrapt up in trying to finish his
-“Development of Social Economics” (which, by the way, he hasn’t finished
-yet) that he had no eyes to see what we all saw: that, the way her poor
-little heart was going, Cicely couldn’t have very long to live.
-
-[Illustration]
-
-Of course he understood that this was why, in those last months, they
-had to have separate rooms. And this in the first year of their marriage
-when he was still violently in love with her.
-
-I keep those two facts firmly in my mind when I try to excuse Donald;
-for it was the main cause of that unkindness and perversity which I find
-it so hard to forgive. Even now, when I think how he used to discharge
-it on the poor little thing, as if it had been her fault, I have to
-remind myself that the lamb’s innocence made her a little trying.
-
-She couldn’t understand why Donald didn’t want to have her with him in
-his library any more while he read or wrote. It seemed to her sheer
-cruelty to shut her out now when she was ill, seeing that, before she
-was ill, she had always had her chair by the fireplace, where she would
-sit over her book or her embroidery for hours without speaking, hardly
-daring to breathe lest she should interrupt him. Now was the time, she
-thought, when she might expect a little indulgence.
-
-Do you suppose that Donald would give his feelings as an explanation?
-Not he. They were _his feelings_, and he wouldn’t talk about them; and
-he never explained anything you didn’t understand.
-
-That—her wanting to sit with him in the library—was what they had the
-awful quarrel about, the day before she died: that and the paper-weight,
-the precious paper-weight that he wouldn’t let anybody touch because
-George Meredith had given it him. It was a brass block, surmounted by a
-white alabaster Buddha painted and gilt. And it had an inscription: _To
-Donald Dunbar, from George Meredith. In Affectionate Regard_.
-
-My brother was extremely attached to this paper-weight, partly, I’m
-afraid, because it proclaimed his intimacy with the great man. For this
-reason it was known in the family ironically as the Token.
-
-It stood on Donald’s writing-table at his elbow, so near the ink-pot
-that the white Buddha had received a splash or two. And this evening
-Cicely had come in to us in the library, and had annoyed Donald by
-staying in it when he wanted her to go. She had taken up the Token, and
-was cleaning it to give herself a pretext.
-
-She died after the quarrel they had then.
-
-It began by Donald shouting at her.
-
-“What are you doing with that paper-weight?”
-
-“Only getting the ink off.”
-
-I can see her now, the darling. She had wetted the corner of her
-handkerchief with her little pink tongue and was rubbing the Buddha. Her
-hands had begun to tremble when he shouted.
-
-“Put it down, can’t you? I’ve told you not to touch my things.”
-
-[Illustration: “I’ve told you not to touch my things.”]
-
-“_You_ inked him,” she said. She was giving one last rub as he rose,
-threatening.
-
-“Put—it—down.”
-
-And, poor child, she did put it down. Indeed, she dropped it at his
-feet.
-
-“Oh!” she cried out, and stooped quickly and picked it up. Her large
-tear-glassed eyes glanced at him, frightened.
-
-“He isn’t broken.”
-
-“No thanks to you,” he growled.
-
-“You beast! You know I’d die rather than break anything you care about.”
-
-“It’ll be broken some day, if you _will_ come meddling.”
-
-I couldn’t bear it. I said, “You mustn’t yell at her like that. You know
-she can’t stand it. You’ll make her ill again.”
-
-That sobered him for a moment.
-
-“I’m sorry,” he said; but he made it sound as if he wasn’t.
-
-“If you’re sorry,” she persisted, “you might let me stay with you. I’ll
-be as quiet as a mouse.”
-
-“No; I don’t want you—I can’t work with you in the room.”
-
-“You can work with Helen.”
-
-“You’re not Helen.”
-
-“He only means he’s not in love with _me_, dear.”
-
-“He means I’m no use to him. I know I’m not. I can’t even sit on his
-manuscripts and keep them down. He cares more for that damned
-paper-weight than he does for me.”
-
-“Well—George Meredith gave it me.”
-
-“And nobody gave you me. I gave myself.”
-
-That worked up his devil again. He _had_ to torment her.
-
-“It can’t have cost you much,” he said. “And I may remind you that the
-paper-weight has _some_ intrinsic value.”
-
-With that he left her.
-
-“What’s he gone out for?” she asked me.
-
-“Because he’s ashamed of himself, I suppose,” I said. “Oh, Cicely, why
-_will_ you answer him? You know what he is.”
-
-“No!” she said passionately—“that’s what I don’t know. I never have
-known.”
-
-“At least you know he’s in love with you.”
-
-“He has a queer way of showing it, then. He never does anything but
-stamp and shout and find fault with me—all about an old paper-weight!”
-
-She was caressing it as she spoke, stroking the alabaster Buddha as if
-it had been a live thing.
-
-“His poor Buddha. Do you think it’ll break if I stroke it? Better
-not.... Honestly, Helen, I’d rather die than hurt anything he really
-cared for. Yet look how he hurts me.”
-
-“Some men _must_ hurt the things they care for.”
-
-“I wouldn’t mind his hurting, if only I knew he cared. Helen—I’d give
-anything to know.”
-
-“I think you might know.”
-
-“I don’t! I don’t!”
-
-“Well, you’ll know some day.”
-
-“Never! He won’t tell me.”
-
-“He’s Scotch, my dear. It would kill him to tell you.”
-
-“Then how’m I to know! If I died to-morrow I should die not knowing.”
-
-And that night, not knowing, she died.
-
-She died because she had never really known.
-
-
- II
-
-
-We never talked about her. It was not my brother’s way. Words hurt him,
-to speak or to hear them.
-
-He had become more morose than ever, but less irritable, the source of
-his irritation being gone. Though he plunged into work as another man
-might have plunged into dissipation, to drown the thought of her, you
-could see that he had no longer any interest in it; he no longer loved
-it. He attacked it with a fury that had more hate in it than love. He
-would spend the greater part of the day and the long evenings shut up in
-his library, only going out for a short walk an hour before dinner. You
-could see that soon all spontaneous impulses would be checked in him and
-he would become the creature of habit and routine.
-
-[Illustration]
-
-I tried to rouse him, to shake him up out of his deadly groove; but it
-was no use. The first effort—for he did make efforts—exhausted him, and
-he sank back into it again.
-
-But he liked to have me with him; and all the time that I could spare
-from my housekeeping and gardening I spent in the library. I think he
-didn’t like to be left alone there in the place where they had the
-quarrel that killed her; and I noticed that the cause of it, the Token,
-had disappeared from his table.
-
-And all her things, everything that could remind him of her, had been
-put away. It was the dead burying its dead.
-
-Only the chair she had loved remained in its place by the side of the
-hearth—_her_ chair, if you could call it hers when she wasn’t allowed to
-sit in it. It was always empty, for by tacit consent we both avoided it.
-
-We would sit there for hours at a time without speaking, while he worked
-and I read or sewed. I never dared to ask him whether he sometimes had,
-as I had, the sense of Cicely’s presence there, in that room which she
-had so longed to enter, from which she had been so cruelly shut out. You
-couldn’t tell what he felt or didn’t feel. My brother’s face was a
-heavy, sombre mask; his back, bent over the writing-table, a wall behind
-which he hid himself.
-
-You must know that twice in my life I have more than _felt_ these
-presences; I have seen them. This may be because I am on both sides a
-Highland Celt, and my mother had the same uncanny gift. I had never
-spoken of these appearances to Donald because he would have put it all
-down to what he calls my hysterical fancy. And I am sure that if he ever
-felt or saw anything himself he would never own it.
-
-I ought to explain that each time the vision was premonitory of a death
-(in Cicely’s case I had no such warning), and each time it only lasted
-for a second; also that, though I am certain I was wide awake each time,
-it is open to anybody to say I was asleep and dreamed it. The queer
-thing was that I was neither frightened nor surprised.
-
-And so I was neither surprised nor frightened now, the first evening
-that I saw her.
-
-It was in the early autumn twilight, about six o’clock. I was sitting in
-my place in front of the fireplace; Donald was in his arm-chair on my
-left, smoking a pipe, as usual, before the lamplight drove him out of
-doors into the dark.
-
-I had had so strong a sense of Cicely’s being there in the room that I
-felt nothing but a sudden sacred pang that was half joy when I looked up
-and saw her sitting in her chair on my right.
-
-The phantasm was perfect and vivid, as if it had been flesh and blood. I
-should have thought that it was Cicely herself if I hadn’t known that
-she was dead. She wasn’t looking at me; her face was turned to Donald
-with that longing, wondering look it used to have, searching his face
-for the secret that he kept from her.
-
-[Illustration: ... her face was turned to Donald ...]
-
-I looked at Donald. His chin was sunk a little, the pipe drooping from
-the corner of his mouth. He was heavy, absorbed in his smoking. It was
-clear that he did not see what I saw.
-
-And whereas those other phantasms that I told you about disappeared at
-once, _this_ lasted some little time, and always with its eyes fixed on
-Donald. It even lasted while Donald stirred, while he stooped forward,
-knocking the ashes out of his pipe against the hob, while he sighed,
-stretched himself, turned, and left the room. Then, as the door shut
-behind him, the whole figure went out suddenly—not flickering, but like
-a light you switch off.
-
-I saw it again the next evening and the next, at the same time and in
-the same place, and with the same look turned towards Donald. And again
-I was sure that he did not see it. But I thought, from his uneasy
-sighing and stretching, that he had some sense of something there.
-
-No; I was not frightened. I was glad. You see, I loved Cicely. I
-remember thinking, “At last, at last, you poor darling, you’ve got in.
-And you can stay as long as you like now. He can’t turn you away.”
-
-The first few times I saw her just as I have said. I would look up and
-find the phantasm there, sitting in her chair. And it would disappear
-suddenly when Donald left the room. Then I knew I was alone.
-
-But as I grew used to its presence, or perhaps as it grew used to mine
-and found out that I was not afraid of it, that indeed I loved to have
-it there, it came, I think, to trust me, so that I was made aware of all
-its movements. I would see it coming across the room from the doorway,
-making straight for its desired place, and settling in a little
-curled-up posture of satisfaction, appeased, as if it had expected
-opposition that it no longer found. Yet that it was not happy, I could
-still see by its look at Donald. _That_ never changed. It was as
-uncertain of him now as she had been in her lifetime.
-
-Up till now, the sixth or seventh time I had seen it, I had no clue to
-the secret of its appearance; and its movements seemed to me mysterious
-and without purpose. Only two things were clear: it was Donald that it
-came for—the instant he went it disappeared; and I never once saw it
-when I was alone. And always it chose this room and this hour before the
-lights came, when he sat doing nothing. It was clear also that he never
-saw it.
-
-But that it was there with him sometimes when I was not I knew; for,
-more than once, things on Donald’s writing-table, books or papers, would
-be moved out of their places, though never beyond reach; and he would
-ask me whether I had touched them.
-
-“Either you lie,” he would say, “or I’m mistaken. I could have sworn I
-put those notes on the left-hand side; and they aren’t there now.”
-
-And once—that was wonderful—I saw, yes, I _saw_ her come and push the
-lost thing under his hand. And all he said was, “Well, I’m—I could have
-sworn—”
-
-For whether it had gained a sense of security, or whether its purpose
-was now finally fixed, it began to move regularly about the room, and
-its movements had evidently a reason and an aim.
-
-It was looking for something.
-
-One evening we were all there in our places, Donald silent in his chair
-and I in mine, and it seated in its attitude of wonder and of waiting,
-when suddenly I saw Donald looking at me.
-
-“Helen,” he said, “what are you staring for like that?”
-
-I started. I had forgotten that the direction of my eyes would be bound,
-sooner or later, to betray me.
-
-I heard myself stammer, “W—w—was I staring?”
-
-“Yes. I wish you wouldn’t.”
-
-I knew what he meant. He didn’t want me to keep on looking at that
-chair; he didn’t want to know that I was thinking of her. I bent my head
-closer over my sewing, so that I no longer had the phantasm in sight.
-
-It was then I was aware that it had risen and was crossing the
-hearthrug. It stopped at Donald’s knees, and stood there, gazing at him
-with a look so intent and fixed that I could not doubt that this had
-some significance. I saw it put out its hand and touch him; and, though
-Donald sighed and shifted his position, I could tell that he had neither
-seen nor felt anything.
-
-It turned to me then—and this was the first time it had given any sign
-that it was conscious of my presence—it turned on me a look of
-supplication, such supplication as I had seen on my sister’s face in her
-lifetime, when she could do nothing with him and implored me to
-intercede. At the same time three words formed themselves in my brain
-with a sudden, quick impulsion, as if I had heard them cried.
-
-“Speak to him—speak to him!”
-
-[Illustration]
-
-I knew now what it wanted. It was trying to make itself seen by him, to
-make itself felt, and it was in anguish at finding that it could not.
-
-It knew then that I saw it, and the idea had come to it that it could
-make use of me to get through to him.
-
-I think I must have guessed even then what it had come for.
-
-I said, “You asked me what I was staring at, and I lied. I was looking
-at Cicely’s chair.”
-
-I saw him wince at the name.
-
-“Because,” I went on, “I don’t know how _you_ feel, but _I_ always feel
-as if she were there.”
-
-He said nothing; but he got up, as though to shake off the oppression of
-the memory I had evoked, and stood leaning on the chimney-piece with his
-back to me.
-
-The phantasm retreated to its place, where it kept its eyes fixed on him
-as before.
-
-I was determined to break down his defences, to make him say something
-it might hear, give some sign that it would understand.
-
-“Donald, do you think it’s a good thing, a _kind_ thing, never to talk
-about her?”
-
-“Kind? Kind to whom?”
-
-“To yourself, first of all.”
-
-“You can leave me out of it.”
-
-“To me, then.”
-
-“What’s it got to do with you?” His voice was as hard and cutting as he
-could make it.
-
-“Everything,” I said. “You forget, I loved her.”
-
-He was silent. He did at least respect my love for her.
-
-“But that wasn’t what she wanted.”
-
-That hurt him. I could feel him stiffen under it.
-
-“You see, Donald,” I persisted, “_I_ like thinking about her.”
-
-It was cruel of me; but I _had_ to break him.
-
-“You can think as much as you like,” he said, “provided you stop
-talking.”
-
-“All the same, it’s as bad for you,” I said, “as it is for me, not
-talking.”
-
-“I don’t care if it is bad for me. I _can’t_ talk about her, Helen. I
-don’t want to.”
-
-“How do you know,” I said, “it isn’t bad for _her_?”
-
-“For _her_?”
-
-I could see I had roused him.
-
-“Yes. If she really is there, all the time.”
-
-“How d’you mean, _there?_”
-
-“Here—in this room. I tell you I can’t get over that feeling that she’s
-here.”
-
-“Oh, feel, feel,” he said; “but don’t talk to me about it!”
-
-And he left the room, flinging himself out in anger. And instantly her
-flame went out.
-
-I thought, “How he must have hurt her!” It was the old thing over again:
-I trying to break him down, to make him show her; he beating us both
-off, punishing us both. You see, I knew now what she had come back for:
-she had come back to find out whether he loved her. With a longing
-unquenched by death, she had come back for certainty. And now, as
-always, my clumsy interference had only made him more hard, more
-obstinate. I thought, “If only he could see her! But as long as he beats
-her off he never will.”
-
-Still, if I could once get him to believe that she was there—
-
-I made up my mind that the next time I saw the phantasm I would tell
-him.
-
-The next evening and the next its chair was empty, and I judged that it
-was keeping away, hurt by what it had heard the last time.
-
-But the third evening we were hardly seated before I saw it.
-
-It was sitting up, alert and observant, not staring at Donald as it
-used, but looking round the room, as if searching for something that it
-missed.
-
-“Donald,” I said, “if I told you that Cicely is in the room now, I
-suppose you wouldn’t believe me?”
-
-“Is it likely?”
-
-“No. All the same, I see her as plainly as I see you.”
-
-The phantasm rose and moved to his side.
-
-“She’s standing close beside you.”
-
-And now it moved and went to the writing-table. I turned and followed
-its movements. It slid its open hands over the table, touching
-everything, unmistakably feeling for something it believed to be there.
-
-I went on. “She’s at the writing-table now. She’s looking for
-something.”
-
-It stood back, baffled and distressed. Then suddenly it began opening
-and shutting the drawers, without a sound, searching each one in turn.
-
-I said, “Oh, she’s trying the drawers now!”
-
-Donald stood up. He was not looking at the place where it was. He was
-looking hard at me, in anxiety and a sort of fright. I supposed that was
-why he remained unaware of the opening and shutting of the drawers.
-
-It continued its desperate searching.
-
-The bottom drawer stuck fast. I saw it pull and shake it, and stand back
-again, baffled.
-
-“It’s locked,” I said.
-
-“What’s locked?”
-
-“That bottom drawer.”
-
-“Nonsense! It’s nothing of the kind.”
-
-“It is, I tell you. Give me the key. Oh, Donald, give it me!”
-
-He shrugged his shoulders; but all the same he felt in his pockets for
-the key, which he gave me with a little teasing gesture, as if he
-humoured a child.
-
-I unlocked the drawer, pulled it out to its full length, and there,
-thrust away at the back, out of sight, I found the Token.
-
-I had not seen it since the day of Cicely’s death.
-
-“Who put it there?” I asked.
-
-“I did.”
-
-“Well, that’s what she was looking for,” I said.
-
-I held out the Token to him on the palm of my hand, as if it were the
-proof that I had seen her.
-
-“Helen,” he said gravely, “I think you must be ill.”
-
-“You think so? I’m not so ill that I don’t know what you put it away
-for,” I said. “It was because she thought you cared for it more than you
-did for her.”
-
-“You can remind me of that? There must be something very badly wrong
-with you, Helen,” he said.
-
-“Perhaps. Perhaps I only want to know what _she_ wanted.... You _did_
-care for her, Donald?”
-
-I couldn’t see the phantasm now, but I could feel it, close, close,
-vibrating, palpitating, as I drove him.
-
-“Care?” he cried. “I was mad with caring for her! And she knew it.”
-
-“She didn’t. She wouldn’t be here now if she knew.”
-
-At that he turned from me to his station by the chimney-piece. I
-followed him there.
-
-“What are you going to do about it?” I said.
-
-“Do about it?”
-
-“What are you going to do with this?”
-
-I thrust the Token close towards him. He drew back, staring at it with a
-look of concentrated hate and loathing.
-
-“Do with it?” he said. “The damned thing killed her! This is what I’m
-going to do with it—”
-
-He snatched it from my hand and hurled it with all his force against the
-bars of the grate. The Buddha fell, broken to bits, among the ashes.
-
-[Illustration: He stepped forward, opening his arms.]
-
-Then I heard him give a short, groaning cry. He stepped forward, opening
-his arms, and I saw the phantasm slide between them. For a second it
-stood there, folded to his breast; then suddenly, before our eyes, it
-collapsed in a shining heap, a flicker of light on the floor, at his
-feet.
-
-Then that went out too.
-
-
- III
-
-
-I never saw it again.
-
-Neither did my brother. But I didn’t know this till some time
-afterwards; for, somehow, we hadn’t cared to speak about it. And in the
-end it was he who spoke first.
-
-We were sitting together in that room, one evening in November, when he
-said, suddenly and irrelevantly:
-
-“Helen—do you never see her now?”
-
-“No,” I said—“Never!”
-
-“Do you think, then, she doesn’t come?”
-
-“Why should she?” I said. “She found what she came for. She knows what
-she wanted to know.”
-
-“And that—was what?”
-
-“Why, that you loved her.”
-
-His eyes had a queer, submissive, wistful look.
-
-“You think that was why she came back?” he said.
-
-
-
-
- THE FLAW IN THE CRYSTAL
-
-
- I
-
-
-It was Friday, the day he always came, if (so she safeguarded it) he was
-to come at all. They had left it that way in the beginning, that it
-should be open to him to come or not to come. They had not even settled
-that it should be Fridays, but it always was, the week-end being the
-only time when he could get away; the only time, he had explained to
-Agatha Verrall, when getting away excited no remark. He had to, or he
-would have broken down. Agatha called it getting away from “things;” but
-she knew that there was only one thing, his wife Bella.
-
-To be wedded to a mass of furious and malignant nerves (which was all
-that poor Bella was now) simply meant destruction to a man like Rodney
-Lanyon. Rodney’s own nerves were not as strong as they had been, after
-ten years of Bella’s. It had been understood for long enough (understood
-even by Bella) that if he couldn’t have his week-ends he was done for;
-he couldn’t possibly have stood the torment and the strain of her.
-
-Of course she didn’t know he spent the greater part of them with Agatha
-Verrall. It was not to be desired that she should know. Her obtuseness
-helped them. Even in her younger and saner days she had failed,
-persistently, to realize any profound and poignant thing that touched
-him; so by the mercy of heaven she had never realized Agatha Verrall.
-She used to say she had never seen anything _in_ Agatha, which amounted,
-as he once told her, to not seeing Agatha at all. Still less could she
-have compassed any vision of the tie—the extraordinary, intangible,
-immaterial tie that held them.
-
-Sometimes, at the last moment, his escape to Agatha would prove
-impossible; so they had left it further that he was to send her no
-forewarning; he was to come when and as he could. He could always get a
-room in the village inn or at the farm near by, and in Agatha’s house he
-would find his place ready for him, the place which had become his
-refuge, his place of peace.
-
-There was no need to prepare her. She was never not prepared. It was as
-if by her preparedness, by the absence of preliminaries, of adjustments
-and arrangements, he was always there, lodged in the innermost chamber.
-She had set herself apart; she had swept herself bare and scoured
-herself clean for him. Clean she had to be; clean from the desire that
-he should come; clean, above all, from the thought, the knowledge she
-now had, that she could make him come.
-
-For if she had given herself up to _that_....
-
-But she never had; never since the knowledge came to her; since she
-discovered, wonderfully, by a divine accident, that at any moment she
-could make him—that she had whatever it was, the power, the uncanny,
-unaccountable Gift.
-
-She was beginning to see more and more how it worked; how inevitably,
-how infallibly it worked. She was even a little afraid of it, of what it
-might come to mean. It _did_ mean that without his knowledge, separated
-as they were and had to be, she could always get at him.
-
-And supposing it came to mean that she could get at him to make him do
-things? Why, the bare idea of it was horrible.
-
-Nothing could well have been more horrible to Agatha. It was the secret
-and the essence of their remarkable relation that she had never tried to
-get at him; whereas Bella _had_, calamitously; and still more
-calamitously, because of the peculiar magic that there was (there must
-have been) in her, Bella had succeeded. To have tried to get at him
-would have been for Agatha the last treachery, the last indecency; while
-for Rodney it would have been the destruction of her charm. She was the
-way of escape for him from Bella; but she had always left her door, even
-the innermost door, wide open; so that where shelter and protection
-faced him there faced him also the way of departure, the way of escape
-from _her_.
-
-And if her thought could get at him and fasten on him and shut him in
-there....
-
-It could, she knew; but it need not. She was really all right. Restraint
-had been the essence and the secret of the charm she had, and it was
-also the secret and the essence of her gift. Why, she had brought it to
-so fine a point that she could shut out, and by shutting out destroy,
-any feeling, any thought that did violence to any other. She could shut
-them all out, if it came to that, and make the whole place empty. So
-that, if this knowledge of her power did violence, she had only to close
-her door on it.
-
-She closed it now on the bare thought of his coming; on the little
-innocent hope she had that he would come. By an ultimate refinement and
-subtlety of honour she refused to let even expectation cling to him.
-
-But though it was dreadful to “work” her gift that way, to make him do
-things, there was another way in which she did work it, lawfully,
-sacredly, incorruptibly—the way it first came to her. She had worked it
-twenty times (without his knowledge, for how he would have scoffed at
-her) to make him well.
-
-Before it had come to her, he had been, ever since she knew him, more or
-less ill, more or less tormented by the nerves that were wedded so
-indissolubly to Bella’s. He was always, it seemed to her terror, on the
-verge. And she could say to herself: “Look at him _now!_”
-
-[Illustration]
-
-His abrupt, incredible recovery had been the first open manifestation of
-the way it worked. Not that she had tried it on him first. Before she
-dared do that once she had proved it on herself twenty times, till she
-found it infallible.
-
-But to ensure continuous results it had to be a continuous process; and
-in order to give herself up to it, to him (to his pitiful case), she had
-lately, as her friends said, “cut herself completely off.” She had gone
-down into Buckinghamshire and taken a small, solitary house at Sarratt
-End in the valley of the Chess, three miles from the nearest station.
-She had shut herself up in a world half a mile long; one straight hill
-to the north, one to the south, two strips of flat pasture, the river
-and the white farm-road between. A world closed east and west by the
-turn the valley takes there between the hills, and barred by a gate at
-each end of the farm-road. A land of pure curves, of delicate colours,
-delicate shadows; all winter through a land of grey woods and sallow
-fields, of ploughed hillsides pale with the white strain of the chalk.
-In April (it was April now) a land shining with silver and green. And
-the ways out of it led into lanes; it had neither sight nor hearing of
-the high roads beyond.
-
-There were only two houses in that half-mile of valley, Agatha’s house
-and Woodman’s Farm.
-
-Agatha’s house, white as a cutting in the chalk downs, looked
-south-west, up the valley and across it, to where a slender beech-wood
-went lightly up the hill and then stretched out in a straight line along
-the top, with the bare fawn-coloured flank of the ploughed land below.
-The farm-house looked east towards Agatha’s house across a field; a
-red-brick house—dull, dark red with the grey bloom of weather on
-it—flat-faced and flat-eyed, two windows on each side of the door and a
-row of five above, all nine staring at the small white house across the
-field. The narrow, flat farm-road linked the two.
-
-Except Rodney when his inn was full, nobody ever came to Woodman’s Farm;
-and Agatha’s house, set down inside its east gate, shared its isolation,
-its immunity. Two villages, unseen, unheard, served her, not a mile
-away. It was impossible to be more sheltered, more protected and more
-utterly cut off. And only fifteen miles, as the crow flies, between this
-solitude and London, so that it was easy for Rodney Lanyon to come down.
-
-At two o’clock, the hour when he must come if he were coming, she began
-to listen for the click of the latch at the garden gate. She had agreed
-with herself that at the last moment expectancy could do no harm; it
-couldn’t influence him; for either he had taken the twelve-thirty train
-at Marylebone or he had not (Agatha was so far reasonable); so at the
-last moment she permitted herself that dangerous and terrible joy.
-
-When the click came and his footsteps after it, she admitted further
-(now when it could do no harm) that she had had foreknowledge of him;
-she had been aware all the time that he would come. And she wondered, as
-she always wondered at his coming, whether really she would find him
-well, or whether this time it had incredibly miscarried. And her almost
-unbearable joy became suspense, became vehement desire to see him and
-gather from his face whether this time also it had worked.
-
-[Illustration: And she wondered whether really she would find him
-well ...]
-
-“How are you? How have you been?” was her question when he stood before
-her in her white room, holding her hand for an instant.
-
-“Tremendously fit,” he answered; “ever since I last saw you.”
-
-“Oh—seeing me—” It was as if she wanted him to know that seeing her made
-no difference.
-
-She looked at him and received her certainty. She saw him clear-eyed and
-young, younger than he was, his clean, bronzed face set, as it used to
-be, in a firmness that obliterated the lines, the little agonized lines,
-that had made her heart ache.
-
-“It always does me good,” he said, “to see you.”
-
-“And to see you—you know what it does to me.”
-
-He thought he knew as he caught back his breath and looked at her,
-taking in again her fine whiteness, and her tenderness, her purity of
-line, and the secret of her eyes, whose colour (if they had colour) he
-was never sure about; taking in all of her, from her adorable feet to
-her hair, vividly dark, that sprang from the white parting like—was it
-like waves or wings?
-
-What had once touched and moved him unspeakably in Agatha’s face was the
-capacity it had, latent in its tragic lines, for expressing terror.
-Terror was what he most dreaded for her, what he had most tried to keep
-her from, to keep out of her face. And latterly he had not found it; or
-rather he had not found the unborn, lurking spirit of it there. It had
-gone, that little tragic droop in Agatha’s face. The corners of her eyes
-and of her beautiful mouth were lifted, as if by—he could find no other
-word for the thing he meant but wings. She had a look which, if it were
-not of joy, was of something more vivid and positive than peace.
-
-He put it down to their increased and undisturbed communion, made
-possible by her retirement to Sarratt End. Yet as he looked at her he
-sighed again.
-
-In response to his sigh she asked suddenly: “How’s Bella?”
-
-His face lighted wonderfully. “It’s extraordinary,” he said; “she’s
-better. Miles better. In fact, if it wasn’t tempting Providence, I
-should say she was well. She’s been, for the last week anyhow, a perfect
-angel.”
-
-His amazed, uncomprehending look gave her the clue to what had happened.
-It was another instance of the astounding and mysterious way it worked.
-She must have got at Bella somehow in getting at him. She saw now no end
-to the possibilities of the thing. There wasn’t anything so wonderful in
-making him what, after all, he was; but if she, Bella, had been, even
-for a week, a perfect angel, it had made her what she was not and never
-had been.
-
-His next utterance came to her with no irrelevance.
-
-“You’ve been found out.”
-
-For a moment she wondered, had he guessed it then, her secret? He had
-never known anything about it, and it was not likely that he should know
-now. He was indeed very far from knowing when he could think that it was
-seeing her that did it.
-
-There was, of course, the other secret, the fact that he did see her;
-but she had never allowed that it _was_ a secret, or that it need be,
-although they guarded it so carefully. Anybody, except Bella, who
-wouldn’t understand it, was welcome to know that he came to see her. He
-must mean that.
-
-“Found out?” she repeated.
-
-“If you haven’t been, you will be.”
-
-“You mean,” she said, “Sarratt End has been found out?”
-
-“If you put it that way. I saw the Powells at the station.” (She
-breathed freely.)
-
-[Illustration: “I saw the Powells at the station.”]
-
-“They told me they’d taken rooms at some farm here.”
-
-“Which farm?”
-
-He didn’t remember.
-
-“Was it Woodman’s Farm?” she asked. And he said, “Yes, that was the name
-they’d told him. Whereabouts was it?”
-
-“Don’t you know,” she said. “That’s the name of _your_ farm.”
-
-He had not known it, and was visibly annoyed at knowing it now. And
-Agatha herself felt some dismay. If it had been any other place but
-Woodman’s Farm—it stared at them; it watched them; it knew all their
-goings out and their comings in; it knew Rodney; not that that had
-mattered in the least, but the Powells, when they came, would know too.
-
-She tried to look as if that didn’t matter either, while they faced each
-other in a silence, a curious, unfamiliar discomposure.
-
-She recovered first. “After all,” she said, “why shouldn’t they?”
-
-“Well—I thought you weren’t going to tell people.”
-
-Her face mounted a sudden flame, a signal of resentment. She had always
-resented the imputation of secrecy in their relations. And now it was as
-if he were dragging forward the thought that she perpetually put away
-from her.
-
-“Tell about what?” she asked, coldly.
-
-“About Sarratt End. I thought we’d agreed to keep it for ourselves.”
-
-“I haven’t told everybody. But I did tell Milly Powell.”
-
-“My dear girl, that wasn’t very clever of you.”
-
-“I told her not to tell. She knows what I want to be alone for.”
-
-“Good God.” As he stared in dismay at what he judged to be her
-unspeakable indiscretion, the thought rushed in on her straight from
-him, the naked, terrible thought, that there _should_ be anything they
-had to hide, they had to be alone for. She saw at the same time how
-defenceless he was before it; he couldn’t keep it back; he couldn’t put
-it away from him. It was always with him, a danger watching on his
-threshold.
-
-“Then” (he made her face it with him) “we’re done for.”
-
-“No, no,” she cried; “how could you think that? It was another thing.
-Something I’m trying to do.”
-
-“You told her,” he insisted. “What did you tell her?”
-
-“That I’m doing it. That I’m here for my health. She understands it that
-way.”
-
-He smiled as if he were satisfied, knowing her so well. And still his
-thought, his terrible, naked thought, was there. It was looking at her
-straight out of his eyes.
-
-“Are you sure she understands?” he said.
-
-“Yes. Absolutely.”
-
-He hesitated, and then put it differently.
-
-“Are you sure she doesn’t understand? That she hasn’t an inkling?”
-
-He wasn’t sure whether Agatha understood, whether she realized the
-danger.
-
-“About you and me,” he said.
-
-“Ah, my dear, I’ve kept _you_ secret. She doesn’t know we know each
-other. And if she did—”
-
-She finished it with a wonderful look, a look of unblinking yet vaguely,
-pitifully uncandid candour.
-
-She had always met him, and would always have to meet him, with the idea
-that there was nothing in it; for, if she once admitted that there was
-anything, then they _were_ done for. She couldn’t (how could she?) let
-him keep on coming with that thought in him, acknowledged by them both.
-
-That was where she came in, and where her secret, her gift, would work
-now more beneficently than ever. The beauty of it was that it would make
-them safe, absolutely safe. She had only got to apply it to that thought
-of his, and the thought would not exist. Since she could get at him, she
-could do for him what he, poor dear, couldn’t perhaps always do for
-himself; she could keep that dreadful possibility in him under; she
-could, in fact, make their communion all that she wanted it to be.
-
-“I don’t like it,” he said miserably. “I don’t like it.”
-
-A little line of worry was coming in his face again.
-
-The door opened and a maid began to go in and out, laying the table for
-their meal. He watched the door close on her and said, “Won’t that woman
-wonder what I come for?”
-
-“She can see what you come for.” She smiled.
-
-“Why are you spoiling it with thinking things?”
-
-“It’s for you I think them. _I_ don’t mind. It doesn’t matter so much
-for me. But I want you to be safe.”
-
-“Oh, _I’m_ safe, my dear,” she answered.
-
-“You were. And you would be still, if these Powells hadn’t found you
-out.”
-
-He meditated.
-
-“What do you suppose _they’ve_ come for?” he asked.
-
-“They’ve come, I imagine, for his health.”
-
-“What? To a god-forsaken place like this?”
-
-“They know what it’s done for me. So they think, poor darlings, perhaps
-it may do something—even yet—for him.”
-
-“What’s the matter with him?”
-
-“Something dreadful. And they say—incurable.”
-
-“It isn’t—?” He paused.
-
-“I can’t tell you what it is. It isn’t anything you’d think it was. It
-isn’t anything bodily.”
-
-“I never knew it.”
-
-“You’re not supposed to know. And you wouldn’t, unless you _did_ know.
-And please—you don’t; you don’t know anything.”
-
-He smiled. “No. You haven’t told me, have you?”
-
-“I only told you because you never tell things, and because—”
-
-“Because?” He waited, smiling.
-
-“Because I wanted you to see he doesn’t count.”
-
-“Well—but _she’s_ all right, I take it?”
-
-At first she failed to grasp his implication that if, owing to his
-affliction, Harding Powell didn’t count, Milly, his young wife, did. Her
-faculties of observation and of inference would, he took it, be
-unimpaired.
-
-“She’ll wonder, won’t she?” he expounded.
-
-“About us? Not she. She’s too much wrapped up in him to notice anyone.”
-
-“And he?”
-
-“Oh, my dear—he’s too much wrapped up in _it_.” Another anxiety then
-came to him.
-
-“I say, you know, he isn’t dangerous, is he?” She laughed.
-
-“Dangerous? Oh dear me, no! A lamb.”
-
-
- II
-
-
-She kept on saying to herself. Why shouldn’t they come? What difference
-did it make?
-
-Up till now she had not admitted that anything could make a difference,
-that anything could touch, could alter by a shade the safe, the
-intangible, the unique relation between her and Rodney. It was proof
-against anything that anybody could think. And the Powells were not
-given to thinking things. Agatha’s own mind had been a crystal without a
-flaw, in its clearness, its sincerity.
-
-It had to be, to ensure the blessed working of the gift; as again, it
-was by the blessed working of the gift that she kept it so. She could
-only think of that, the secret, the gift, the inexpressible thing, as
-itself a flawless crystal, a charmed circle; or rather, as a sphere that
-held all the charmed circles that you draw round things to keep them
-safe, to keep them holy.
-
-She had drawn her circle round Rodney Lanyon and herself. Nobody could
-break it. They were super-naturally safe.
-
-And yet the presence of the Powells had made a difference. She was
-forced to own that, though she remained untouched, it had made a
-difference in him. It was as if, in the agitation produced by them, he
-had brushed aside some veil and had let her see something that up till
-now her crystal vision had refused to see, something that was more than
-a lurking possibility. She discovered in him a desire, an intention that
-up till now he had concealed from her. It had left its hiding place; it
-rose on terrifying wings and fluttered before her, troubling her. She
-was reminded that, though there were no lurking possibilities in her,
-with him it might be different. For him the tie between them might come
-to mean something it had never meant and could not mean for her,
-something she had refused not only to see but to foresee and provide
-for.
-
-She was aware of a certain relief when Monday came and he had left her
-without any further unveilings and revealings. She was even glad when,
-about the middle of the week, the Powells came with a cart-load of
-luggage and settled at the farm. She said to herself that they would
-take her mind off him. They had a way of seizing on her and holding her
-attention to the exclusion of all other objects.
-
-She could hardly not have been seized and held by a case so pitiful, so
-desperate as theirs. How pitiful and desperate it had become she learned
-almost at once from the face of her friend, the little pale-eyed wife,
-whose small, flat, flower-like features were washed out and worn fine by
-watchings and listenings on the border, on the threshold.
-
-Yes, he was worse. He had had to give up his business (Harding Powell
-was a gentle stock-broker). It wasn’t any longer, Milly Powell
-intimated, a question of borders and of thresholds. They had passed all
-that. He had gone clean over; he was in the dreadful interior; and she,
-the resolute and vigilant little woman, had no longer any power to get
-him out. She was at the end of her tether.
-
-Agatha knew what he had been for years? Well—he was worse than that; far
-worse than he had been, ever. Not so bad, though, that he hadn’t
-intervals in which he knew how bad he was, and was willing to do
-everything, to try anything. They were going to try Sarratt End. It was
-her idea. She knew how marvellously it had answered with dear Agatha
-(not that Agatha ever was, or could be, where _he_ was, poor darling).
-And besides, Agatha herself was an attraction. It had occurred to Milly
-Powell that it might do Harding good to be near Agatha. There was
-something about her; Milly didn’t know what it was, but she felt it,
-_he_ felt it—an influence, or something, that made for mental peace. It
-was, Mrs. Powell said, as if she had some secret.
-
-She hoped Agatha wouldn’t mind. It couldn’t possibly hurt her. _He_
-couldn’t. The darling couldn’t hurt a fly; he could only hurt himself.
-And if he got really bad, why then, of course, they would have to leave
-Sarratt End. He would have, she said sadly, to go away somewhere. But
-not yet—oh, not yet; he wasn’t bad enough for that. She would keep him
-with her up to the last possible moment—the last possible moment. Agatha
-could understand, couldn’t she?
-
-Agatha did indeed.
-
-Milly Powell smiled her desperate white smile, and went on; always with
-her air of appeal to Agatha. That was why she wanted to be near her. It
-was awful not to be near somebody who understood, who would understand
-him. For Agatha would understand—wouldn’t she?—that to a certain extent
-he must be given in to? _That_—apart from Agatha—was why they had chosen
-Sarratt End. It was the sort of place—wasn’t it?—where you would go if
-you didn’t want people to get at you; where (Milly’s very voice became
-furtive as she explained it) you could hide. His idea—his last—seemed to
-be that something _was_ trying to get at him.
-
-No, not people. Something worse, something terrible. It was always after
-him. The most piteous thing about him—piteous but adorable—was that he
-came to her—to _her_, imploring her to hide him.
-
-And so she had hidden him here.
-
-Agatha took in her friend’s high courage as she looked at the eyes where
-fright barely fluttered under the poised suspense. She approved of the
-plan. It appealed to her by its sheer audacity. She murmured that if
-there were anything that she could do, Milly had only to come to her.
-
-Oh, well, Milly _had_ come. What she wanted Agatha to do—if she saw him
-and he should say anything about it—was simply to take the line that he
-was safe.
-
-Agatha said that was the line she did take. She wasn’t going to let
-herself think, and Milly mustn’t think—not for a moment—that he wasn’t,
-that there was anything to be afraid of.
-
-“Anything to be afraid of _here_. That’s my point,” said Milly.
-
-“Mine is that here or anywhere—wherever _he_ is—there mustn’t be any
-fear. How can he get better if we keep him wrapped in it? You’re _not_
-afraid. You’re not afraid.”
-
-Persistent, invincible affirmation was part of her method, her secret.
-
-Milly replied a little wearily (she knew nothing about the method).
-
-“I haven’t time to be afraid,” she said. “And as long as you’re not—”
-
-“It’s you who matter,” Agatha cried. “You’re so near him. Don’t you
-realize what it means to be so near?”
-
-Milly smiled sadly, tenderly. (As if she didn’t know!)
-
-“My dear, that’s all that keeps me going. I’ve got to make him feel that
-he’s protected.”
-
-“He _is_ protected,” said Agatha.
-
-Already she was drawing her charmed circle round him.
-
-“As long as I hold out. If I give in he’s done for.”
-
-“You mustn’t think it. You mustn’t say it!”
-
-“But—I know it. Oh, my dear! I’m all he’s got.”
-
-At that she looked for a moment as if she might break down. She said the
-terrible part of it was that they were left so much alone. People were
-beginning to shrink from him, to be afraid of him.
-
-“You know,” said Agatha, “I’m not. You must bring him to see me.”
-
-The little woman had risen, as she said, “to go to him.” She stood
-there, visibly hesitating. She couldn’t bring him. He wouldn’t come.
-Would Agatha go with her and see him?
-
-Agatha went.
-
-As they approached the farm, she saw to her amazement that the door was
-shut and the blinds, the ugly, ochreish yellow blinds, were down in all
-the nine windows of the front, the windows of the Powells’ rooms. The
-house was like a house of the dead.
-
-“Do you get the sun on this side?” she said; and as she said it she
-realized the stupidity of her question; for the nine windows looked to
-the east, and the sun, wheeling down the west, had been in their faces
-as they came.
-
-Milly answered mechanically, “No, we don’t get any sun.” She added with
-an irrelevance that was only apparent, “I’ve had to take all four rooms
-to keep other people out.”
-
-“They never come,” said Agatha.
-
-“No,” said Milly, “but if they did—”
-
-The front door was locked. Milly had the key. When they had entered
-Agatha saw her turn it in the lock again, slowly and without a sound.
-
-All the doors were shut in the passage, and it was dark there. Milly
-opened a door on the left at the foot of the steep stairs.
-
-“He will be in here,” she said.
-
-[Illustration: Milly opened the door on the left ...]
-
-The large room was lit with a thick ochreish light through the squares
-of its drawn blinds. It ran the whole width of the house and had a third
-window looking west where the yellow light prevailed. A horrible light
-it was. It cast thin, turbid, brown shadows on the walls.
-
-Harding Powell was sitting between the drawn blinds, alone in the black
-hollow of the chimney place. He crouched in his chair, and his bowed
-back was towards them as they stood there on the threshold.
-
-“Harding,” said Milly, “Agatha has come to see you.”
-
-He turned in his chair and rose as they entered.
-
-His chin was sunk on his chest, and the first thing Agatha noticed was
-the difficult, slow, forward-thrusting movement with which he lifted it.
-His eyes seemed to come up last of all from the depths to meet her. With
-a peculiar foreign courtesy he bowed his head again over her hand as he
-held it.
-
-He apologized for the darkness in which they found him. Harding Powell’s
-manners had always been perfect, and it struck Agatha as strange and
-pathetic that his malady should have left untouched the incomparable
-quality he had.
-
-Milly went to the windows and drew the blinds up. The light revealed him
-in his exquisite perfection, his small fragile finish. He was fifty or
-thereabouts, but slight as a boy, and nervous, and dark as Englishmen
-are dark; jaw and chin shaven; his mouth hidden by the straight droop of
-his moustache. From the eyes downwards the outlines of his face and
-features were of an extreme regularity and a fineness undestroyed by the
-work of the strained nerves on the sallow, delicate texture. But his
-eyes, dark like an animal’s, were the eyes of a terrified thing, a thing
-hunted and on the watch, a thing that listened continually for the soft
-feet of the hunter. Above these eyes his brows were twisted, were
-tortured with his terror.
-
-He turned to his wife.
-
-“Did you lock the door, dear?” he said.
-
-“I did. But you know, Harding, we needn’t—here.”
-
-He shivered slightly and began to walk up and down before the
-hearthplace. When he had his back to Milly, Milly followed him with her
-eyes of anguish; when he turned and faced her, she met him with her
-white smile.
-
-Presently he spoke again. He wondered whether they would object to his
-drawing the blinds down. He was afraid he would have to. Otherwise, he
-said, _he would be seen_.
-
-Milly laid her hand on the arm that he stretched towards the window.
-
-“Darling,” she said, “you’ve forgotten. You can’t possibly be seen—here.
-It’s just the one place—isn’t it, Agatha?—where you can’t be.” Her eyes
-signalled to Agatha to support her. (Not but what she had perfect
-confidence in the plan.)
-
-It was, Agatha assented. “And Agatha knows,” said Milly.
-
-He shivered again. He had turned to Agatha.
-
-“Forgive me if I suggest that you cannot really know. Heaven forbid that
-you _should_ know.”
-
-Milly, intent on her “plan,” persisted.
-
-“But, dearest, you said yourself it was. The one place.”
-
-“I said that? When did I say it?”
-
-“Yesterday.”
-
-“Yesterday? I daresay. But I didn’t sleep last night. It wouldn’t let
-me.”
-
-“Very few people do sleep,” said Agatha, “for the first time in a
-strange place.”
-
-“The place isn’t strange. That’s what I complain of. That’s what keeps
-me awake. No place ever will be strange when It’s there. And it was
-there last night.”
-
-[Illustration: “No place ever will be strange when It’s there.”]
-
-“Darling—” Milly murmured.
-
-“You know what I mean,” he said. “The Thing that keeps me awake. Of
-course if I’d slept last night I’d have known it wasn’t there. But when
-I didn’t sleep—”
-
-He left it to them to draw the only possible conclusion.
-
-They dropped the subject. They turned to other things and talked a
-little while, sitting with him in his room with the drawn blinds. From
-time to time when they appealed to him he gave an urbane assent, a
-murmur, a suave motion of his hand. When the light went they lit a lamp.
-Agatha stayed and dined with them, that being the best thing she could
-do.
-
-At nine o’clock she rose and said good-night to Harding Powell. He
-smiled a drawn smile.
-
-“Ah—if I could sleep—,” he said.
-
-“That’s the worst of it—his not sleeping,” said Milly at the gate.
-
-“He will sleep. He will sleep,” said Agatha.
-
-Milly sighed. She knew he wouldn’t.
-
-The plan, she said, was no good after all. It wouldn’t work.
-
-
- III
-
-
-How could it? There was nothing behind it. All Milly’s plans had been
-like that; they fell to dust; they _were_ dust. There had been always
-that pitiful, desperate stirring of the dust to hide the terror; the
-futile throwing of the dust in the poor thing’s eyes. As if he couldn’t
-see through it. As if, with the supernatural ludicity, the invincible
-cunning of the insane, he didn’t see through anything and provide for
-it. It was really only his indestructible urbanity, persisting through
-the wreck of him, that bore, tolerantly, temperately, with Milly and her
-plans. Without it he might be dangerous. With it, as long as it lasted,
-little Milly, plan as she would, was safe.
-
-But they couldn’t count on its lasting. Agatha had realized that from
-the moment when she had seen him draw down the blind again after his
-wife had drawn it up. That was the maddest thing he had done yet. She
-had shuddered at it as at an act of violence. It outraged, cruelly, his
-exquisite quality. It was so unlike him.
-
-She was not sure that Milly hadn’t even made things worse by her latest
-plan, the flight to Sarratt End. It emphasized the fact that they were
-flying, that they had to fly. It had brought her to the house with the
-drawn blinds in the closed, barred valley, to the end of the world, to
-the end of her tether. And when she realized that it _was_ the end, when
-he realized it....
-
-Agatha couldn’t leave him there. She couldn’t (when she had the secret)
-leave him to poor Milly and her plans. That had been in her mind when
-she had insisted on it that he would sleep.
-
-She knew what Milly meant by her sigh and the look she gave her. If
-Milly could have been impolite she would have told her that it was all
-very well to say so, but how were they going to make him? And she, too,
-felt that something more was required of her than that irritating
-affirmation. She had got to make him. His case, his piteous case, cried
-out for an extension of the gift.
-
-She hadn’t any doubt as to its working. There were things she didn’t
-know about it yet, but she was sure of that. She had proved it by a
-hundred experimental intermissions, abstentions, and recoveries. In
-order to be sure you had only to let go and see how you got on without
-it. She had tried in that way, with scepticism and precaution, on
-herself.
-
-But not in the beginning. She could not say that she had tried it in the
-beginning at all, even on herself. It had simply come to her, as she put
-it, by a divine accident. Heaven knew she had needed it. She had been,
-like Rodney Lanyon, on the verge, where he, poor dear, had brought her;
-so impossible had it been then to bear her knowledge and, what was
-worse, her divination of the things he bore from Bella. It was her
-divination, her compassion, that had wrecked her as she stood aside, cut
-off from him, he on the verge and she near it, looking on, powerless to
-help while Bella tore at him. Talk of the verge, the wonder was they
-hadn’t gone clean over it, both of them.
-
-[Illustration]
-
-She couldn’t say then from what region, what tract of unexplored,
-incredible mystery her help had come. It came one day, one night when
-she was at her worst. She remembered how, with some resurgent, ultimate
-instinct of surrender, she had sunk on the floor of her room, flung out
-her arms across the bed in the supreme gesture of supplication, and thus
-gone, eyes shut and with no motion of thought or sense in her, clean
-into the blackness where, as if it had been waiting for her, the thing
-had found her.
-
-It had found her. Agatha was precise on that point. She had not found
-it. She had not even stumbled on it, blundered up against it in the
-blackness. The way it worked, the wonder of her instantaneous
-well-being, had been the first, the very first hint she had that it was
-there.
-
-She had never quite recaptured her primal, virgin sense of it; but to
-set against that, she had entered more and more into possession. She had
-found out the secret of its working and had controlled it, reduced it to
-an almost intelligible method. You could think of it as a current of
-transcendent power, hitherto mysteriously inhibited. You made the
-connection, having cut off all other currents that interfered, and then
-you simply turned it on. In other words, if you could put it into words
-at all, you shut your eyes and ears, you closed up the sense of touch,
-you made everything dark around you and withdrew into your innermost
-self; you burrowed deep into the darkness there till you got beyond it;
-you tapped the Power, as it were, underground at any point you pleased
-and turned it on in any direction.
-
-She could turn it on to Harding Powell without any loss to Rodney
-Lanyon; for it was immeasurable, inexhaustible.
-
-She looked back at the farm-house with its veiled windows. Formless and
-immense, the shadow of Harding Powell swayed uneasily on one of the
-yellow blinds. Across the field her own house showed pure and dim
-against the darkening slope behind it, showed washed and watered white
-in the liquid, lucid twilight. Her house was open always and on every
-side; it flung out its casement arms to the night and to the day. And
-now all the lamps were lit, every doorway was a golden shaft, every
-window a golden square; the whiteness of its walls quivered and the
-blurred edges flowed into the dark of the garden. It was the fragile
-shell of a sacred and a burning light.
-
-She did not go in all at once. She crossed the river and went up the
-hill through the beech-wood. She walked there every evening in the
-darkness, calling her thoughts home to sleep. The Easter moon,
-golden-white and holy, looked down at her, shrined under the long, sharp
-arch of the beech-trees; it was like going up and up towards a dim
-sanctuary where the holiest sat enshrined. A sense of consecration was
-upon her. It came, solemn and pure and still, out of the tumult of her
-tenderness and pity; but it was too awful for pity and for tenderness;
-it aspired like a flame and lost itself in light; it grew like a wave
-till it was vaster than any tenderness or any pity. It was as if her
-heart rose on the swell of it and was carried away into a rhythm so
-tremendous that her own pulses of compassion were no longer felt, or
-felt only as the hushed and delicate vibration of the wave. She
-recognized her state. It was the blessed state desired as the condition
-of the working of the gift.
-
-She turned when the last arch of the beech-trees broke and opened to the
-sky at the top of the hill, where the moon hung in immensity, free of
-her hill, free of the shrine that held her. She went down with slow soft
-footsteps as if she carried herself, her whole fragile being, as a
-vessel, a crystal vessel for the holy thing, and was careful lest a
-touch of the earth should jar and break her.
-
-
- IV
-
-
-She went still more gently and with half-shut eyes through her
-illuminated house. She turned the lights out in her room and undressed
-herself in the darkness. She laid herself on the bed with straight lax
-limbs, with arms held apart a little from her body, with eyelids shut
-lightly on her eyes; all fleshly contacts were diminished.
-
-It was now as if her being drank at every pore the swimming darkness; as
-if the rhythm of her heart and of her breath had ceased in the pulse of
-its invasion. She sank in it and was covered with wave upon wave of
-darkness. She sank and was upheld; she dissolved and was gathered
-together again, a flawless crystal. She was herself the heart of the
-charmed circle, poised in the ultimate unspeakable stillness, beyond
-death, beyond birth, beyond the movement, the vehemence, the agitations
-of the world. She drew Harding Powell into it and held him there.
-
-To draw him to any purpose she had first to loosen and destroy the
-fleshly, sinister image of him that, for the moment of evocation, hung
-like a picture on the darkness. In a moment the fleshly image receded,
-it sank back into the darkness. His name, Harding Powell, was now the
-only earthly sign of him that she suffered to appear. In the third
-moment his name was blotted out. And then it was as if she drew him by
-intangible, supersensible threads; she touched, with no sense of peril,
-his innermost essence; the walls of flesh were down between them; she
-had got at him.
-
-And having got at him she held him, a bloodless spirit, a bodiless
-essence, in the fount of healing. She said to herself, “He will sleep
-now. He will sleep. He will sleep.” And as she slid into her own sleep
-she held and drew him with her.
-
-He would sleep; he would be all right as long as _she_ slept. Her sleep,
-she had discovered, did more than carry on the amazing act of communion
-and redemption. It clinched it. It was the seal on the bond.
-
-Early the next morning she went over to the Farm. The blinds were up;
-the doors and windows were flung open. Milly met her at the garden gate.
-She stopped her and walked a little way with her across the field. “It’s
-worked,” she said. “It’s worked after all, like magic.” For a moment
-Agatha wondered whether Milly had guessed anything; whether she divined
-the Secret and had brought him there for that, and had refused to
-acknowledge it before she knew.
-
-“What has?” she asked.
-
-“The plan. The place. He slept last night. Ten hours straight on end. I
-know, for I stayed awake and watched him. And this morning—oh, my dear,
-if you could see him! He’s all right. He’s all right.”
-
-“And you think,” said Agatha, “it’s the place?”
-
-Milly knew nothing, guessed, divined nothing.
-
-“Why, what else can it be?” she said.
-
-“What does _he_ think?”
-
-“He doesn’t think. He can’t account for it. He says himself it’s
-miraculous.”
-
-“Perhaps,” said Agatha, “it is.”
-
-They were silent a moment over the wonder of it.
-
-“I can’t get over it,” said Milly presently. “It’s so odd that it should
-make all that difference. I could understand it if it had worked that
-way at first. But it didn’t. Think of him yesterday. And yet—if it isn’t
-the place, what is it? What is it?”
-
-Agatha did not answer. She wasn’t going to tell Milly what it was. If
-she did, Milly wouldn’t believe her, and Milly’s unbelief might work
-against it. It might prove, for all she knew, an inimical, disastrous
-power.
-
-“Come and see for yourself.” Milly spoke as if it had been Agatha who
-doubted.
-
-They turned again towards the house. Powell had come out and was in the
-garden, leaning on the gate. They could see how right he was by the mere
-fact of his being there, presenting himself like that to the vivid
-light.
-
-He opened the gate for them, raising his hat and smiling as they came.
-His face witnessed to the wonder worked on him. The colour showed clean,
-purged of his taint. His eyes were candid and pure under brows smoothed
-by sleep.
-
-As they went in he stood for a moment in the open doorway and looked at
-the view, admiring the river and the green valley and the bare upland
-fields under the wood. He had always had (it was part of his rare
-quality) a prodigious capacity for admiration.
-
-“My God,” he said, “how beautiful the world is!”
-
-He looked at Milly. “And all that isn’t a patch on my wife.”
-
-He looked at her with tenderness and admiration, and the look was the
-flower, the perfection of his sanity.
-
-Milly drew in her breath with a little sound like a sob. Her joy was so
-great that it was almost unbearable.
-
-Then he looked at Agatha and admired the green gown she wore. “You don’t
-know,” he said, “how exquisitely right you are.”
-
-She smiled. She knew how exquisitely right _he_ was.
-
-
- V
-
-
-Night after night, she continued and without an effort. It was as easy
-as drawing your breath; it was indeed the breath you drew. She found
-that she had no longer to devote hours to Harding Powell, any more than
-she gave hours to Rodney; she could do his business in moments, in
-points of inappreciable time. It was as if from night to night the times
-swung together and made one enduring timeless time. For the process
-belonged to a region that was not of times or time.
-
-She wasn’t afraid, then, of not giving enough time to it, but she _was_
-afraid of omitting it altogether. She knew that every intermission would
-be followed by a relapse, and Harding’s state did not admit of any
-relapses.
-
-Of course, if time _had_ counted, if the thing was measurable, she would
-have been afraid of losing hold of Rodney Lanyon. She held him now by a
-single slender thread, and the thread was Bella. She “worked” it
-regularly now through Bella. He was bound to be all right as long as
-Bella was; for his possibilities of suffering were thus cut off at their
-source. Besides, it was the only way to preserve the purity of her
-intention, the flawlessness of the crystal.
-
-That was the blessedness of her attitude to Harding Powell. It was
-passionless, impersonal. She wanted nothing of Harding Powell except to
-help him, and to help Milly, dear little Milly. And never before had she
-been given so complete, so overwhelming a sense of having helped. It was
-nothing—unless it was a safeguard against vanity—that they didn’t know
-it, that they persisted in thinking it was Milly’s plan that worked. Not
-that that altogether accounted for it to Harding Powell. He said so at
-last to Agatha.
-
-They were returning, he and she, by the edge of the wood at the top of
-the steep field after a long walk. He had asked her to go with him—it
-was her country—for a good stretch, further than Milly’s little feet
-could carry her. They stood a moment up there and looked around them.
-April was coming on, but the ploughed land at their feet was still bare;
-the earth waited. On that side of the valley she was delicately
-unfruitful, spent with rearing the fine, thin beauty of the woods. But,
-down below, the valley ran over with young grass and poured it to the
-river in wave after wave, till the last surge of green rounded over the
-water’s edge. Rain had fallen in the night, and the river had risen; it
-rested there, poised. It was wonderful how a thing so brimming, so
-shining, so alive could be so still; still as marsh water, flat to the
-flat land.
-
-[Illustration: ... he stood for a moment in the open doorway ...]
-
-At that moment, in a flash that came like a shifting of her eyes, the
-world she looked at suffered a change.
-
-And yet it did not change. All the appearances of things, their colours,
-the movement and the stillness remained as if constant in their rhythm
-and their scale; but they were heightened, intensified; they were
-carried to a pitch that would have been vehement, vibrant, but that the
-stillness as well as the movement was intense. She was not dazzled by it
-or confused in any way. Her senses were exalted, adjusted to the pitch.
-
-She would have said now that the earth at her feet had become
-insubstantial, but that she knew, in a flash, that what she saw was the
-very substance of the visible world; live and subtle as flame; solid as
-crystal and as clean. It was the same world, flat field for flat field
-and hill for hill; but radiant, vibrant, and, as it were, infinitely
-transparent.
-
-Agatha in her moment saw that the whole world brimmed and shone and was
-alive with the joy that was its life, joy that flowed flood-high and yet
-was still. In every leaf, in every blade of grass, this life was
-manifest as a strange, a divine translucence. She was about to point it
-out to the man at her side when she remembered that he had eyes for the
-beauty of the earth, but no sense of its secret and supernatural light.
-Harding Powell denied, he always had denied, the supernatural. And when
-she turned to him her vision had passed from her.
-
-They must have another tramp some day, he said. He wanted to see more of
-this wonderful place. And then he spoke of his recovery.
-
-“It’s all very well,” he said, “but I can’t account for it. Milly says
-it’s the place.”
-
-“It _is_ a wonderful place,” said Agatha.
-
-“Not so wonderful as all that. You saw how I was the day after we came.
-Well—it can’t be the place altogether.”
-
-“I rather hope it isn’t,” Agatha said.
-
-“Do you? What do you think it is, then?”
-
-“I think it’s something in you.”
-
-“Of course, of course. But what started it? That’s what I want to know.
-Something’s happened. Something queer and spontaneous and unaccountable.
-It’s—it’s uncanny. For, you know, I oughtn’t to feel like this. I got
-bad news this morning.”
-
-“Bad news?”
-
-“Yes. My sister’s little girl is very ill. They think it’s meningitis.
-They’re in awful trouble. And I—I’m feeling like this.”
-
-“Don’t let it distress you.”
-
-“It doesn’t distress me. It only puzzles me. That’s the odd thing. Of
-course, I’m sorry, and I’m anxious and all that; but I _feel_ so well.”
-
-“You _are_ well. Don’t be morbid.”
-
-“I haven’t told my wife yet. About the child, I mean. I simply daren’t.
-It’ll frighten her. She won’t know how I’ll take it, and she’ll think
-it’ll make me go all queer again.”
-
-He paused and turned to her.
-
-“I say, if she _did_ know how I’m taking it, she’d think _that_ awfully
-queer, wouldn’t she?” He paused.
-
-“The worst of it is,” he said, “I’ve got to tell her.”
-
-“Will you leave it to me?” Agatha said. “I think I can make it all
-right.”
-
-“How?” he queried.
-
-“Never mind how. I can.”
-
-“Well,” he assented, “there’s hardly anything you can’t do.”
-
-That was how she came to tell Milly.
-
-She made up her mind to tell her that evening as they sat alone in
-Agatha’s house. “Harding,” Milly said, “was happy over there with his
-books; just as he used to be, only more so.” So much more so that she
-was a little disturbed about it. She was afraid it wouldn’t last. And
-again she said it was the place, the wonderful place.
-
-“If you want it to last,” Agatha said, “don’t go on thinking it’s the
-place.”
-
-“Why shouldn’t it be? I feel that he’s safe here. He’s out of it. Things
-can’t reach him.”
-
-“Bad news reached him to-day.”
-
-“Aggy—what?” Milly whispered in her fright.
-
-“His sister is very anxious about her little girl.”
-
-“What’s wrong?”
-
-Agatha repeated what she had heard from Harding Powell.
-
-“Oh—” Milly was dumb for an instant while she thought of her
-sister-in-law. Then she cried aloud:
-
-“If the child dies, it’ll make him ill again?”
-
-“No, Milly, it won’t.”
-
-“It will, I tell you. It’s always been that sort of thing that does it.”
-
-“And supposing there was something that keeps it off?”
-
-“What is there? What is there?”
-
-“I believe there’s something. Would you mind awfully if it wasn’t the
-place?”
-
-“What do you mean, Agatha?” (There was a faint resentment in Milly’s
-agonized tone.)
-
-It was then that Agatha told her. She made it out for her as far as she
-had made it out at all, with the diffidence that a decent attitude
-required.
-
-Milly raised doubts which subsided in a kind of awe when Agatha faced
-her with the evidence of dates.
-
-“You remember, Milly, the night when he slept?”
-
-“I do remember. He said himself it was miraculous.” She meditated.
-
-“And so you think it’s that?” she said presently.
-
-“I do indeed. If I dared leave off (I daren’t) you’d see for yourself.”
-
-“What do you think you’ve got hold of?”
-
-“I don’t know yet.”
-
-There was a long, deep silence which Milly broke.
-
-“What do you _do_?” she said.
-
-“I don’t do anything. It isn’t me.”
-
-“I see,” said Milly. “I’ve prayed. You didn’t think I hadn’t?”
-
-“It’s not that—not anything _you_ mean by it. And yet it is; only it’s
-more, much more. I can’t explain it. I only know it isn’t me.”
-
-She was beginning to feel vaguely uncomfortable about having told her.
-
-“And, Milly, you mustn’t tell him. Promise me you won’t tell him.”
-
-“No, I won’t tell him.”
-
-“Because, you see, he’d think it was all rot.”
-
-“He would,” said Milly. “It’s the sort of thing he does think rot.”
-
-“And that might prevent its working.”
-
-Milly smiled faintly. “I haven’t the ghost of an idea what ‘it’ is. But
-whatever it is, can you go on doing it?”
-
-“Yes, I think so. You see, it depends rather—”
-
-“It depends on what?”
-
-“Oh, on a lot of things—on your sincerity; on your—your purity. It
-depends so much on _that_ that it frightens you, lest, perhaps, you
-mightn’t, after all be so very pure.” Milly smiled again a little
-differently. “Darling, if that’s all, I’m not frightened.
-Only—supposing—supposing you gave out? You might, you know.”
-
-“_I_ might. But It couldn’t. You mustn’t think it’s me, Milly. Because
-if anything happened to me, if I did give out, don’t you see how it
-would let him down? It’s as bad as thinking it’s the place.”
-
-“Does it matter what it is—or who it is,” said Milly passionately; “as
-long as—” Her tears came and stopped her.
-
-Agatha divined the source of Milly’s passion.
-
-“Then you don’t mind, Milly? You’ll let me go on?” Milly rose; she
-turned abruptly, holding her head high, so that she might not spill her
-tears.
-
-Agatha went with her over the grey field towards the farm. They paused
-at the gate. Milly spoke.
-
-“Are you sure?” she said.
-
-“Certain.”
-
-“And you won’t let go?” Her eyes shone towards her friend’s in the
-twilight. “You _will_ go on?”
-
-“_You_ must go on.”
-
-“Ah—how?”
-
-“Believing that he’ll be all right.”
-
-“Oh, Aggy, he was devoted to Winny. And if the child dies—”
-
-
- VI
-
-
-The child died three days later. Milly came over to Agatha with the
-news.
-
-She said it had been an awful shock, of course. She’d been dreading
-something like that for him. But he’d taken it wonderfully. If he came
-out of it all right, she _would_ believe in what she called Agatha’s
-“thing.”
-
-He did come out of it all right. His behaviour was the crowning proof,
-if Milly wanted more proof, of his sanity. He went up to London and made
-still the arrangements for his sister. When he returned he forestalled
-Milly’s specious consolations with the truth. It was better, he told
-her, that the dear little girl should have died, for there was distinct
-brain trouble anyway. He took it as a sane man takes a terrible
-alternative.
-
-Weeks passed. He had grown accustomed to his own sanity and no longer
-marvelled at it.
-
-And still, without intermission, Agatha went on. She had been so far
-affected by Milly’s fright (that was the worst of Milly’s knowing) that
-she held on to Harding Powell with a slightly exaggerated intensity. She
-even began to give more and more time to him, she who had made out that
-time in this process did not matter. She was afraid of letting go,
-because the consequences (Milly was perpetually reminding her of the
-consequences) of letting go would be awful.
-
-For Milly kept her at it. Milly urged her on. Milly, in Milly’s own
-words, sustained her. She praised her; she praised the Secret, praised
-the Power. She said you could see how it worked. It was tremendous; it
-was inexhaustible. Milly, familiarized with its working, had become a
-fanatical believer in the Power. But she had her own theory. She knew,
-of course, that they were all, she and Agatha and poor Harding,
-dependent on the Power, that it was the Power that did it, and not
-Agatha. But Agatha was _their_ one link with it, and if the link gave
-way where were they? Agatha felt that Milly watched her and waylaid her;
-that she was suspicious of failures and of intermissions; that she
-wondered; that she peered and pried. Milly would, if she could, have
-stuck her fingers into what she called the machinery of the thing. Its
-vagueness baffled and even annoyed her, for her mind was limited; it
-loved and was at home with limits; it desired above all things precise
-ideas, names, phrases, anything that constricted and defined.
-
-[Illustration]
-
-But still, with it all, she believed; and the great thing was that Milly
-_should_ believe. She might have worked havoc if, with her temperament,
-she had doubted.
-
-What did suffer was the fine poise with which she, Agatha, had held
-Rodney Lanyon and Harding Powell each by his own thread. Milly had
-compelled her to spin a stronger thread for Harding and, as it were, to
-multiply her threads, so as to hold him at all points. And because of
-this, because of giving more and more time to him, she could not always
-loose him from her and let him go. And she was afraid lest the pull he
-had on her might weaken Rodney’s thread.
-
-Up till now, the Powells’ third week at Sarratt End, she had had the
-assurance that his thread still held. She heard from him that Bella was
-all right, which meant that he too was all right, for there had never
-been anything wrong with him _but_ Bella. And she had a further glimpse
-of the way the gift worked its wonders.
-
-Three Fridays had passed, and he had not come.
-
-Well—she had meant that; she had tried (on that last Friday of his),
-with a crystal sincerity, to hold him back so that he should not come.
-And up till now, with an ease that simply amazed her, she had kept
-herself at the highest pitch of her sincere and beautiful intention.
-
-Not that it was the intention that had failed her now. It had succeeded
-so beautifully, so perfectly, that he had no need to come at all. She
-had given Bella back to him. She had given him back to Bella. Only, she
-faced the full perfection of her work. She had brought it to so fine a
-point that she would never see him again; she had gone to the root of
-it; she had taken from him the desire to see her. And now it was as if
-subtly, insidiously, her relation to him had become inverted. Whereas
-hitherto it had been she who had been necessary to him, it seemed now
-that he was far more, beyond all comparison, more necessary to her.
-After all, Rodney had had Bella; and she had nobody but Rodney. He was
-the one solitary thing she cared for. And hitherto it had not mattered
-so immensely, for all her caring, whether he came to her or not. Seeing
-him had been, perhaps, a small mortal joy; but it had not been the
-tremendous and essential thing. She had been contented, satisfied beyond
-all mortal contentments and satisfactions, with the intangible,
-immaterial tie. Now she longed, with an unendurable longing, for his
-visible, bodily presence. She had not realized her joy as long as it was
-with her; she had refused to acknowledge it because of its mortal
-quality, and it had raised no cry that troubled her abiding spiritual
-calm. But now that she had put it from her, it thrust itself on her, it
-cried, it clung piteously to her and would not let her go. She looked
-back to the last year, her year of Fridays, and saw it following her,
-following and entreating. She looked forward and she saw Friday after
-Friday coming upon her, a procession of pitiless days, trampling it
-down, her small, piteous mortal joy, and her mortality rose in her and
-revolted. She had been disturbed by what she had called the “lurking
-possibilities” in Rodney; they were nothing to the lurking possibilities
-in her.
-
-There were moments when her desire to see Rodney sickened her with its
-importunity. Each time she beat it back, in an instant, to its burrow
-below the threshold, and it hid there, it ran underground. There were
-ways below the threshold by which desire could get at him. Therefore,
-one night—Tuesday of the fourth week—she cut him off. She refused to
-hold him even by a thread. It was Bella and Bella only that she held
-now.
-
-On Friday of that week she heard from him. Bella was still all right.
-But _he_ wasn’t. Anything but. He didn’t know what was the matter with
-him. He supposed it was the same old thing again. He couldn’t think how
-poor Bella stood him, but she did. It must be awfully bad for her. It
-was beastly—wasn’t it?—that he should have got like that, just when
-Bella was so well.
-
-She might have known it. She had, in fact, known. Having once held him,
-and having healed him, she had no right—as long as the Power consented
-to work through her—she had no right to let him go.
-
-She began again from the beginning, from the first process of
-purification and surrender. But what followed was different now. She had
-not only to recapture the crystal serenity, the holiness of that state
-by which she had held Rodney Lanyon and had healed him; she had to
-recover the poise by which she had held him and Harding Powell together.
-She was bound equally not to let Harding go.
-
-It was now almost a struggle to concentrate on both Rodney and Harding,
-a struggle in which Harding persisted and prevailed. Yes, there was no
-blinking it, he prevailed.
-
-She had been prepared for it, but not as for a thing that could really
-happen. It was contrary to all that she knew of the beneficent working
-of the Power. She thought she knew all its ways, its silences, its
-reassurances, its inexplicable reservations and evasions. She couldn’t
-be prepared for this—that it, the high and holy, the unspeakably pure
-thing should allow Harding to prevail, should connive (that was what it
-looked like) at his taking the gift into his own hands and turning it to
-his own advantage against Rodney Lanyon.
-
-Not that she thought it really had connived. That was unthinkable, and
-Agatha did not think these things; she felt them. Hitherto she had had
-no misgivings as to the possible behaviour of the Power. And now she was
-afraid, not of It, and not, certainly not, of poor Harding (how could
-she be afraid of him?); she was afraid mysteriously, without knowing why
-or how.
-
-It was her fear that made her write to Rodney Lanyon. She wrote in the
-beginning of the fifth week (she was counting the weeks now). She only
-wanted to know, she said, that he was better, that he was well. She
-begged him to write and tell her that he was well.
-
-He did not write.
-
-And every night of that week, in those “states” of hers, Powell
-predominated. He was becoming almost a visible presence impressed upon
-the blackness of the “state.” All she could do then was to evoke the
-visible image of Rodney Lanyon and place it there over Harding’s image,
-obliterating him. Now, properly speaking, the state, the perfection of
-it, did not admit of visible presences, and that Harding could so
-impress himself showed more than anything the extent to which he had
-prevailed.
-
-He prevailed to such good purpose that he was now, Milly said, well
-enough to go back to business. They were to leave Sarratt End in about
-ten days, when they would have been there seven weeks.
-
-She had come over on the Sunday to let Agatha know that; and also, she
-said, to make a confession.
-
-Milly’s face, as she said it, was all candour. It had filled out; it had
-bloomed in her happiness; it was shadowless, featureless almost, like a
-flower.
-
-She had done what she said she wouldn’t do; she had told Harding.
-
-“Oh, Milly, what on earth did you do that for?” Agatha’s voice was
-strange.
-
-“I thought it better,” Milly said, revealing the fine complacence of her
-character.
-
-“Why better?”
-
-“Because secrecy is bad. And he was beginning to wonder. He wanted to go
-back to business; and he wouldn’t, because he thought it was the place
-that did it.”
-
-“I see,” said Agatha. “And what does he think it is now?”
-
-“He thinks it’s _you_, dear.”
-
-“But I told you—I told you—that was what you were not to think.”
-
-“My dear, it’s an immense concession that he should think it’s you.”
-
-“A concession to what?”
-
-“Well, I suppose, to the supernatural.”
-
-“Milly, you shouldn’t have told him. You don’t know what harm you might
-have done. I’m not sure even now that you haven’t done it.”
-
-“Oh, have I?” said Milly triumphantly. “You’ve only got to look at him.”
-
-“When did you tell him, then?”
-
-“I told him—let me see—it was a week ago last Friday.” Agatha was
-silent. She wondered. It had been after Friday a week ago that he had
-prevailed so terribly.
-
-“Agatha,” said Milly solemnly, “when we go away you won’t lose sight of
-him? You won’t let go of him?”
-
-“You needn’t be afraid. I doubt now if he will let go of me.”
-
-“How do you mean—_now_?” Milly flushed slightly as a flower might flush.
-
-“Now that you’ve told him, now that he thinks it’s me.
-
-“Perhaps,” said Milly, “that was why I told him. I don’t want him to let
-go.”
-
-
- VII
-
-
-It was the sixth week, and still Rodney did not write; and Agatha was
-more and more afraid.
-
-By this time she had definitely connected her fear with Harding Powell’s
-dominion and persistence. She was certain now that what she could only
-call his importunity had proved somehow disastrous to Rodney Lanyon. And
-with it all, unacknowledged, beaten back, her desire to see Rodney ran
-to and fro in the burrows underground.
-
-He did not write, but on the Friday of that week, the sixth week, he
-came.
-
-She saw him coming up the garden path, and she shrank back into her room
-but the light searched her and found her, and he saw her there. He never
-knocked; he came straight and swiftly to her through the open doors. He
-shut the door of the room behind him and held her by her arms with both
-his hands.
-
-“Rodney,” she said, “did you mean to come, or did I make you?”
-
-“I meant to come. You couldn’t make me.”
-
-“Couldn’t I? Oh, _say_ I couldn’t.”
-
-“You could,” he said, “but you didn’t. And what does it matter so long
-as I’m here?”
-
-“Let me look at you.”
-
-She held him at arm’s length and turned him to the light. It showed his
-face white, worn as it used to be, all the little lines of worry back
-again, and two new ones that drew down the corners of his mouth.
-
-“You’ve been ill,” she said. “You _are_ ill.”
-
-“No. I’m all right. What’s the matter with _you?_”
-
-“With me? Nothing. Do I look as if anything was wrong?”
-
-“You look as if you’d been frightened.”
-
-He paused, considering it.
-
-“This place isn’t good for you. You oughtn’t to be here like this, all
-by yourself.”
-
-“Oh! Rodney, it’s the dearest place. I love every inch of it. Besides,
-I’m not altogether by myself.”
-
-He did not seem to hear her; and what he said next arose evidently out
-of his own thoughts.
-
-“I say, are those Powells still here?”
-
-“They’ve been here all the time.”
-
-“Do you see much of them?”
-
-“I see them every day. Sometimes nearly all day.”
-
-“That accounts for it.”
-
-Again he paused.
-
-“It’s my fault, Agatha. I shouldn’t have left you to them. I knew.”
-
-“What did you know?”
-
-“Well—the state he was in, and the effect it would have on you—that it
-would have on anybody.”
-
-“It’s all right. He’s going. Besides, he isn’t in a state any more. He’s
-cured.”
-
-“Cured? What’s cured him?”
-
-She evaded him.
-
-“He’s been well ever since he came; absolutely well after the first
-day.”
-
-“Still, you’ve been frightened; you’ve been worrying; you’ve had some
-shock or other, or some strain. What is it?”
-
-“Nothing. Only—just the last week—I’ve been a little frightened about
-you—when you wouldn’t write to me. Why didn’t you?”
-
-“Because I couldn’t.”
-
-“Then you _were_ ill?”
-
-“I’m all right. I know what’s the matter with me.”
-
-“It’s Bella?”
-
-He laughed harshly.
-
-“No, it isn’t this time. I haven’t that excuse.”
-
-“Excuse for what?”
-
-“For coming. Bella’s all right. Bella’s a perfect angel. God knows
-what’s happened to her. I don’t. I haven’t had anything to do with it.”
-
-“You had. You had everything. You were an angel too.”
-
-“I haven’t been much of an angel lately, I can tell you.”
-
-“She’ll understand. She does understand.”
-
-They had sat down on the couch in the corner so that they faced each
-other. Agatha faced him, but fear was in her eyes.
-
-“It doesn’t matter,” he said, “whether she understands or not. I don’t
-want to talk about her.”
-
-Agatha said nothing, but there was a movement in her face, a white wave
-of trouble, and the fear fluttered in her eyes. He saw it there.
-
-“You needn’t bother about Bella. She’s all right. You see, it’s not as
-if she cared.”
-
-“Cared?”
-
-“About _me_ much.”
-
-“But she does, she does care!”
-
-“I suppose she did once, or she couldn’t have married me. But she
-doesn’t now. You see—you may as well know it, Agatha—there’s another
-man.”
-
-“Oh, Rodney, no.”
-
-“Yes. It’s been perfectly all right, you know; but there he is, and
-there he’s been for years. She told me. I’m awfully sorry for her.”
-
-He paused.
-
-“What beats me is her being so angelic now, when she doesn’t care.”
-
-“Rodney, she does. It’s all over, like an illness. It’s you she cares
-for _now_.”
-
-“Think so?”
-
-“I’m sure of it.”
-
-“I’m not.”
-
-“You will be. You’ll see it. You’ll see it soon.”
-
-He glanced at her under his bent brows.
-
-“I don’t know,” he said, “that I want to see it. _That_ isn’t what’s the
-matter with me. You don’t understand the situation. It isn’t all over.
-She’s only being good about it. She doesn’t care a rap about me. She
-_can’t_. And what’s more, I don’t want her to.”
-
-[Illustration]
-
-“You—don’t—want her to?”
-
-He burst out. “My God, I want nothing in this world but _you_. And I
-can’t have you. That’s what’s the matter with me.”
-
-“No, no, it isn’t,” she cried. “You don’t know.”
-
-“I do know. It’s hurting me. And”—he looked at her and his voice
-shook—“it’s hurting you. I won’t have you hurt.”
-
-He started forward suddenly as if he would have taken her in his arms.
-She put up her hands to keep him off.
-
-“No, no!” she cried. “I’m all right. I’m all right. It isn’t that. You
-mustn’t think it.”
-
-“I know it. That’s why I came.”
-
-He came near again. He seized her struggling hands.
-
-“Agatha, why can’t we? Why shouldn’t we?”
-
-“No, no,” she moaned. “We can’t. We mustn’t. Not _that_ way. I don’t
-want it, Rodney, that way.”
-
-“It shall be any way you like. Only don’t beat me off.”
-
-“I’m not—beating—you—off.”
-
-She stood up. Her face changed suddenly.
-
-“Rodney—I forgot. They’re coming.”
-
-“Who are they?”
-
-“The Powells. They’re coming to lunch.”
-
-“Can’t you put them off?”
-
-“I can, but it wouldn’t be very wise, dear. They might think—”
-
-“Confound them—they _would_ think.”
-
-He was pulling himself visibly together.
-
-“I’m afraid, Aggy, I ought—”
-
-“I know—you must. You must go soon.”
-
-He looked at his watch.
-
-“I must go _now_, dear. I daren’t stay. It’s dangerous.”
-
-“I know,” she whispered.
-
-“But when is the brute going?”
-
-“Poor darling, he’s going next week—next Thursday.”
-
-“Well then, I’ll—I’ll—”
-
-“Please, you must go.”
-
-“I’m going.”
-
-She held out her hand.
-
-“I daren’t touch you,” he whispered. “I’m going now. But I’ll come again
-next Friday, and I’ll stay.”
-
-As she saw his drawn face, there was not any strength in her to say
-“No.”
-
-
- VIII
-
-
-He had gone. She gathered herself together and went across the field to
-meet the Powells as if nothing had happened.
-
-Milly and her husband were standing at the gate of the Farm. They were
-watching; yes, they were watching Rodney Lanyon as he crossed the river
-by the Farm bridge. The bridge carried the field path that slanted up
-the hill to the farther and western end of the wood. Their attitude
-showed that they were interested in his brief appearance on the scene,
-and that they wondered what he had been doing there. And as she
-approached them she was aware of something cold, ominous and inimical,
-that came from them, and set towards her and passed by. Her sense of it
-only lasted for a second, and was gone so completely that she could
-hardly realize that she had ever felt it.
-
-For they were charming to her. Harding, indeed, was more perfect in his
-beautiful quality than ever. There was something about him that she had
-not been prepared for, something strange and pathetic, humble almost and
-appealing. She saw it in his eyes, his large, dark, wild animal eyes,
-chiefly. But it was a look that claimed as much as it deprecated; that
-assumed between them some unspoken communion and understanding. With all
-its pathos it was a look that frightened her. Neither he nor his wife
-said a word about Rodney Lanyon. She was not even sure, now, that they
-had recognized him.
-
-They stayed with her all that afternoon; for their time, they said, was
-getting short; and when, about six o’clock, Milly got up to go she took
-Agatha aside and said that, if Agatha didn’t mind, she would leave
-Harding with her for a little while. She knew he wanted to talk to her.
-
-Agatha proposed that they should walk up the hill through the wood. They
-went in a curious silence and constraint; and it was not until they had
-got into the wood and were shut up in it together that he spoke.
-
-“I think my wife told you I had something to say to you?”
-
-“Yes, Harding,” she said. “What is it?”
-
-“Well, it’s this—first of all, I want to thank you. I know what you’re
-doing for me.”
-
-“I’m sorry. I didn’t want you to know. I thought Milly wasn’t going to
-tell you.”
-
-“She didn’t tell me.”
-
-Agatha said nothing. She was bound to accept his statement. Of course,
-he must have known that Milly had broken her word, and he was trying to
-shield her.
-
-“I mean,” he went on, “that whether she told me or not, it’s no matter;
-I knew.”
-
-“You—knew?”
-
-“I knew that something was happening, and I knew it wasn’t the place.
-Places never make any difference. I only go to ’em because Milly thinks
-they do. Besides, if it came to that, this place—from my peculiar point
-of view, mind you—was simply beastly. I couldn’t have stood another
-night of it.”
-
-“Well.”
-
-“Well, the thing went; and I got all right. And the queer part of it is,
-I felt as if you were in it somehow, as if you’d done something. I half
-hoped you might say something, but you never did.”
-
-“One oughtn’t to speak about these things, Harding. And I told you I
-didn’t want you to know.”
-
-“I didn’t know what you did. I don’t know now, though Milly tried to
-tell me. But I felt you. I felt you all the time.”
-
-“It was not I you felt. I implore you not to think it was.”
-
-“What can I think?”
-
-“Think as I do; think—think—” She stopped herself. She was aware of the
-futility of her charge to this man who denied, who always had denied,
-the supernatural. “It isn’t a question of thinking,” she said at last.
-
-“Of believing, then? Are you going to tell me to believe?”
-
-“No; it isn’t believing either. It’s knowing. Either you know it or you
-don’t know, though you may come to know. But whatever you think, you
-mustn’t think it’s me.”
-
-“I rather like to. Why shouldn’t I?”
-
-She turned on him her grave white face, and he noticed a curious
-expression there as of incipient terror.
-
-“Because you might do some great harm either to yourself or—”
-
-His delicate, sceptical eyebrows questioned her.
-
-“Or me.”
-
-“You?” he murmured gently, pitifully almost.
-
-“Yes, me. Or even—well, one doesn’t quite know where the harm might end.
-If I could only make you take another view. I tried to make you—to work
-it that way—so that you might find the secret and do it for yourself.”
-
-“I can’t do anything for myself. But, Agatha, I’ll take any view you
-like of it, so long as you’ll keep on at me.”
-
-“Of course I’ll keep on.”
-
-At that he stopped suddenly in his path, and faced her.
-
-“I say, you know, it isn’t hurting you, is it?”
-
-She felt herself wince. “Hurting me? How could it hurt me?”
-
-“Milly said it couldn’t.”
-
-Agatha sighed. She said to herself, “Milly—if only Milly hadn’t
-interfered.”
-
-“Don’t you think it’s cold here in the wood?” she said.
-
-“Cold?”
-
-“Yes. Let’s go back.”
-
-As they went Milly met them at the Farm bridge. She wanted Agatha to
-come and stay for supper; she pressed, she pleaded, and Agatha, who had
-never yet withstood Milly’s pleading, stayed.
-
-It was from that evening that she really dated it, the thing that came
-upon her. She was aware that in staying she disobeyed an instinct that
-told her to go home. Otherwise she could not say that she had any sort
-of premonition. Supper was laid in the long room with the yellow blinds,
-where she had first found Harding Powell. The blinds were drawn
-to-night, and the lamp on the table burnt low; the oil was giving out.
-The light in the room was still daylight and came level from the sunset,
-leaking through the yellow blinds. It struck Agatha that it was the same
-light, the same ochreish light that they had found in the room six weeks
-ago. But that was nothing.
-
-What it was she did not know. The horrible light went when the flame of
-the lamp burnt clearer. Harding was talking to her cheerfully and Milly
-was smiling at them both, when half through the meal Agatha got up and
-declared that she must go. She was ill; she was tired; they must forgive
-her, but she must go.
-
-The Powells rose and stood by her, close to her, in their distress.
-Milly brought wine and put it to her lips; but she turned her head away
-and whispered: “Please let me go. Let me get away.”
-
-Harding wanted to walk back with her, but she refused with a vehemence
-that deterred him.
-
-“How very odd of her,” said Milly, as they stood at the gate and watched
-her go. She was walking fast, almost running, with a furtive step, as if
-something pursued her.
-
-Powell did not speak. He turned from his wife and went slowly back into
-the house.
-
-
- IX
-
-
-She knew now what had happened to her. She was afraid of Harding Powell;
-and it was her fear that had cried to her to go, to get away from him.
-
-The awful thing was that she knew she could not get away from him. She
-had only to close her eyes and she would find the visible image of him
-hanging before her on the wall of darkness. And to-night, when she tried
-to cover it with Rodney’s it was no longer obliterated. Rodney’s image
-had worn thin and Harding’s showed through. She was more afraid of it
-than she had been of Harding; and more than anything, she was afraid of
-being afraid. Harding was the object of a boundless and indestructible
-compassion, and her fear of him was hateful to her and unholy. She knew
-that it would be terrible to let it follow her into that darkness where
-she would presently go down with him alone. “It would be all right,” she
-said to herself, “if only I didn’t keep on seeing him.”
-
-But he, his visible image, and her fear of it, persisted even while the
-interior darkness, the divine, beneficent darkness rose round her, wave
-on wave, and flooded her; even while she held him there and healed him;
-even while it still seemed to her that her love pierced through her fear
-and gathered to her, spirit to spirit, flame to pine flame, the
-nameless, innermost essence of Rodney and of Bella. She had known in the
-beginning that it was by love that she held them; but now, though she
-loved Rodney and had almost lost her pity for Harding in her fear of
-him, it was Harding rather than Rodney that she held.
-
-In the morning she woke with a sense, which was almost a memory, of
-Harding having been in the room with her all night. She was tired, as if
-she had had some long and unrestrained communion with him.
-
-She put away at once the fatigue that pressed on her (the gift still
-“worked” in a flash for the effacing of bodily sensation). She told
-herself that, after all, her fear had done no harm. Seldom in her
-experience of the Power had she had so tremendous a sense of having got
-through to it, of having “worked” it, of having held Harding under it
-and healed him. For, when all was said and done, whether she had been
-afraid of him or not, she had held him, she had never once let go. The
-proof was that he still went sane, visibly, indubitably cured.
-
-All the same, she felt that she could not go through another day like
-yesterday. She could not see him. She wrote a letter to Milly. Since it
-concerned Milly so profoundly, it was well that Milly should be made to
-understand. She hoped that Milly would forgive her if they didn’t see
-her for the next day or two. If she was to go on (she underlined it) she
-must be left absolutely alone. It seemed unkind when they were going so
-soon, but—Milly knew—it was impossible to exaggerate the importance of
-what she had to do.
-
-Milly wrote back that, of course, she understood. It should be as Agatha
-wished. Only (so Milly “sustained” her) Agatha must not allow herself to
-doubt the Power. How could she, when she saw what it had done for
-Harding? If _she_ doubted, what could she expect of Harding? But, of
-course, she must take care of her own dear self. If she failed—if she
-gave way—what on earth would the poor darling do, now that he had become
-dependent on her?
-
-She wrote as if it was Agatha’s fault that he had become dependent; as
-if Agatha had nothing, had nobody in the world to think of but Harding;
-as if nobody, as if nothing in the world beside Harding mattered. And
-Agatha found herself resenting Milly’s view. As if to her anything in
-the world mattered beside Rodney Lanyon.
-
-For three days she did not see the Powells.
-
-
- X
-
-
-The three nights passed as before, but with an increasing struggle and
-fear.
-
-She knew, she knew what was happening. It was as if the walls of
-personality were wearing thin, and through them she felt him trying to
-get at her.
-
-She put the thought from her. It was absurd. It was insane. Such things
-could not be. It was not in any region of such happenings that she held
-him, but in the place of peace, the charmed circle, the flawless crystal
-sphere.
-
-Still the thought persisted; and still, in spite of it, she held him,
-she would not let him go. By her honour and by her love for Milly she
-was bound to hold him, even though she knew how terribly, how implacably
-he prevailed.
-
-She was aware now that the persistence of his image on the blackness was
-only a sign to her of his being there in his substance; in his supreme
-innermost essence. It had obviously no relation to his bodily
-appearance, since she had not seen him for three days. It tended more
-and more to vanish, to give place to the shapeless, nameless,
-all-pervading presence. And her fear of him became pervading, nameless
-and shapeless too.
-
-Somehow it was always behind her now, it followed her from room to room
-of her house; it drove her out of doors. It seemed to her that she went
-before it with quick, uncertain feet and a fluttering heart, aimless and
-tormented as a leaf driven by a vague light wind. Sometimes it sent her
-up the field towards the wood; sometimes it would compel her to go a
-little way towards the Farm; and then it was as if it took her by the
-shoulders and turned her back again towards her house.
-
-[Illustration]
-
-On the fourth day (which was Tuesday of the Powells’ last week) she
-determined to fight this fear. She could not defy it to the extent of
-going on to the Farm where she might see Harding, but certainly she
-would not suffer it to turn her from her hill-top. It was there that she
-had always gone as the night fell, calling home her thoughts to sleep;
-and it was there, seven weeks ago, that the moon, the golden-white and
-holy moon, had led her to the consecration of her gift. She had returned
-softly, seven weeks ago, carrying carefully her gift, as a fragile,
-flawless crystal. Since then how recklessly she had held it! To what
-jars and risks she had exposed the exquisite and sacred thing!
-
-She waited for her hour between sunset and twilight. It was perfect,
-following a perfect day. Above the wood the sky had a violet lucidity,
-purer than the day; below it, the pale brown earth wore a violet haze,
-and over that a web of green, woven of the sparse, thin blades of the
-young wheat. There were two ways up the hill; one over her own bridge
-across the river, that led her to the steep, straight path through the
-wood; one over the Farm bridge by the slanting path up the field. She
-chose the wood.
-
-She paused on the bridge, and looked down the valley. She saw the
-farm-house standing in the stillness that was its own secret and the
-hour’s. A strange, pale lamplight, lit too soon, showed in the windows
-of the room she knew. The Powells would be sitting there at their
-supper.
-
-She went on and came to the gate of the wood. It swung open on its
-hinges, a sign to her that some time or other Harding Powell had passed
-there. She paused and looked about her. Presently she saw Harding Powell
-coming down the wood-path.
-
-He stopped. He had not yet seen her. He was looking up to the arch of
-the beech-trees, where the green light still came through. She could see
-by his attitude of quiet contemplation the sane and happy creature that
-he was. He was sane, she knew. And yet, no; she could not really see him
-as sane. It was her sanity, not his own, that he walked in. Or else what
-she saw was the empty shell of him. _He_ was in her. Hitherto it had
-been in the darkness that she had felt him most, and her fear of him had
-been chiefly fear of the invisible Harding, and of what he might do
-there in the darkness. Now her fear, which had become almost hatred, was
-transferred to his person. In the flesh, as in the spirit, he was
-pursuing her.
-
-He had seen her now. He was making straight for her. And she turned and
-ran round the eastern bend of the hill (a yard or so to the left of her)
-and hid from him. From where she crouched at the edge of the wood she
-saw him descend the lower slope to the river; by standing up and
-advancing a little she could see him follow the river path on the nearer
-side and cross by the Farm bridge.
-
-She was sure of all that. She was sure that it did not take her more
-than twelve or fifteen minutes (for she had gone that way a hundred
-times) to get back to the gate, to walk up the little wood, to cut
-through it by a track in the undergrowth, and turn round the further and
-western end of it. Thence she could either take the long path that
-slanted across the field to the Farm bridge or keep to the upper ground
-along a trail in the grass skirting the wood, and so reach home by the
-short, straight path and her own bridge.
-
-She decided on the short, straight path as leading her farther from the
-farm-house, where there could be no doubt that Harding Powell was now.
-At the point she had reached, the jutting corner of the wood hid from
-her the downward slope of the hill, and the flat land at its foot.
-
-As she turned the corner of the wood, she was brought suddenly in sight
-of the valley. A hot wave swept over her brain, so strong that she
-staggered as it passed. It was followed by a strange sensation of
-physical sickness, that passed also. It was then as if what went through
-her had charged her nerves of sight to a pitch of insane and horrible
-sensibility. The green of the grass, and of the young corn, the very
-colour of life, was violent and frightful. Not only was it abominable in
-itself, it was a thing to be shuddered at, because of some still more
-abominable significance it had.
-
-Agatha had known once, standing where she stood now, an exaltation of
-sense that was ecstasy; when every leaf and every blade of grass shone
-with a divine translucence; when every nerve in her thrilled, and her
-whole being rang with the joy which is immanent in the life of things.
-
-What she experienced now (if she could have given any account of it) was
-exaltation at the other end of the scale. It was horror and fear
-unspeakable. Horror and fear immanent in the life of things. She saw the
-world in a loathsome transparency; she saw it with the eye of a soul in
-which no sense of the divine had ever been, of a soul that denied the
-supernatural. It had been Harding Powell’s soul, and it had become hers.
-
-Furiously, implacably, he was getting at her.
-
-Out of the wood and the hedges that bordered it there came sounds that
-were horrible, because she knew them to be inaudible to any ear less
-charged with insanity; small sounds of movement, of strange shiverings,
-swarmings, crepitations; sounds of incessant, infinitely subtle urging,
-of agony and recoil. Sounds they were of the invisible things unborn,
-driven towards birth; sounds of the worm unborn, of things that creep
-and writhe towards dissolution. She knew what she heard and saw. She
-heard the stirring of the corruption that Life was; the young blades of
-corn were frightful to her, for in them was the push, the passion of the
-evil which was Life; the trees, as they stretched out their arms and
-threatened her, were frightful with the terror which was Life. Down
-there, in that gross green hot-bed, the earth teemed with the
-abomination; and the river, livid, white, a monstrous thing, crawled,
-dragging with it the very slime.
-
-All this she perceived in a flash, when she had turned the corner. It
-sank into stillness and grew dim; she was aware of it only as the scene,
-the region in which one thing, her terror, moved and hunted her. Among
-sounds of the rustling of leaves, and the soft crush of grass, and the
-whining of little wings in fright, she heard it go; it went on the other
-side of the hedge, a little way behind her as she skirted the wood. She
-stood still to let it pass her, and she felt that it passed, and that it
-stopped and waited. A terrified bird flew out of the hedge, no further
-than a fledgling’s flight in front of her. And in that place it flew
-from she saw Harding Powell.
-
-He was crouching under the hedge as she had crouched when she had hidden
-from him. His face was horrible, but not more horrible than the Terror
-that had gone behind her; and she heard herself crying out to him:
-“Harding! Harding!” appealing to him against the implacable, unseen
-Pursuer.
-
-He had risen (she saw him rise), but as she called his name he became
-insubstantial, and she saw a Thing, a nameless, unnameable, shapeless
-Thing, proceeding from him. A brown, blurred Thing, transparent as dusk
-is, that drifted on the air. It was torn and tormented, a fragment
-parted and flung off from some immense and as yet invisible cloud of
-horror. It drifted from her; it dissolved like smoke on the hillside;
-and the Thing that had born and begotten it pursued her.
-
-She bowed under it, and turned from the edge of the wood, the horrible
-place it had been born in; she ran before it, headlong down the field,
-trampling the young corn under her feet. As she ran she heard a voice in
-the valley, a voice of amazement and entreaty, calling to her in a sort
-of song.
-
-“What—are—you—running for—Aggy—Aggy?”
-
-It was Milly’s voice that called.
-
-Then as she came, still headlong, to the river, she heard Harding’s
-voice saying something, she did not know what. She couldn’t stop to
-listen to him, or to consider how he came to be there in the valley,
-when a minute ago she had seen him by the edge of the wood, up on the
-very top of the hill.
-
-He was on the bridge—the Farm bridge—now. He held out his hand to steady
-her as she came on over the swinging plank.
-
-She knew that he had led her to the other side, and that he was standing
-there, still saying something, and that she answered.
-
-“Have you no pity on me? Can’t you let me go?” And then she broke from
-him and ran.
-
-
- XI
-
-
-She was awake all that night. Harding Powell and the horror begotten of
-him had no pity; he would not let her go. Her gift, her secret, was
-powerless now against the pursuer.
-
-She had a light burning in her room till morning, for she was afraid of
-sleep. Those unlit roads down which, if she slept, the Thing would
-surely hunt her, were ten times more terrible than the white-washed,
-familiar room where it merely watched and waited.
-
-In the morning she found a letter on her breakfast-table, which she said
-Mrs. Powell had left late last evening, after Agatha had gone to bed.
-Milly wrote: “Dearest Agatha,— Of course I understand. But are we
-_never_ going to see you again? What was the matter with you last night?
-You terrified poor Harding.— Yours ever, M. P.”
-
-Without knowing why, Agatha tore the letter into bits and burned them in
-the flame of a candle. She watched them burn.
-
-“Of course,” she said to herself, “that isn’t sane of me.”
-
-And when she had gone round her house and shut all the doors and locked
-them, and drawn down the blinds in every closed window, and found
-herself cowering over her fireless hearth, shuddering with fear, she
-knew that, whether she were mad or not, there was madness in her. She
-knew that her face in the glass (she had the courage to look at it) was
-the face of an insane terror let loose.
-
-That she did know it, that there were moments—flashes—in which she could
-contemplate her state and recognize it for what it was, showed that
-there was still a trace of sanity in her. It was not her own madness
-that possessed her. It was, or rather, it had been, Harding Powell’s;
-she had taken it from him. That was what it meant—to take away madness.
-
-There could be no doubt as to what had happened, nor as to the way of
-its happening. The danger of it, utterly unforeseen, was part of the
-very operation of the gift. In the process of getting at Harding to heal
-him she had had to destroy, not only the barriers of flesh and blood,
-but those innermost walls of personality that divide and protect,
-mercifully, one spirit from another. With the first thinning of the
-walls Harding’s insanity had leaked through to her, with the first
-breach it had broken in. It had been transferred to her complete with
-all its details, with its very gestures, in all the phases that it ran
-through; Harding’s premonitory fears and tremblings; Harding’s exalted
-sensibility; Harding’s abominable vision of the world, that vision from
-which the resplendent divinity had perished; Harding’s flight before the
-pursuing Terror. She was sitting now as Harding had sat when she found
-him crouching over the hearth in that horrible room with the drawn
-blinds. It seemed to her that to have a madness of your own would not be
-so very horrible. It would be, after all, your own. It could not
-possibly be one-half so horrible as this, to have somebody else’s
-madness put into you.
-
-The one thing by which she knew herself was the desire that no longer
-ran underground, but emerged and appeared before her, lit by her lucid
-flashes, naked and unshamed.
-
-She still knew her own. And there was something in her still that was
-greater than the thing that inhabited her, the pursuer, the pursued, who
-had rushed into her as his refuge, his sanctuary; and that was her fear
-of him and of what he might do there. If her doors stood open to him,
-they stood open to Bella and to Rodney Lanyon too. What else had she
-been trying for, if it were not to break down in all three of them the
-barriers of flesh and blood, and to transmit the Power? In the
-unthinkable sacrament to which she called them they had all three
-partaken. And since the holy thing could suffer her to be thus
-permeated, saturated with Harding Powell, was it to be supposed that she
-could keep him to herself, that she would not pass him on to Rodney
-Lanyon?
-
-It was not, after all, incredible. If he could get at her, of course he
-could get, through her, at Rodney.
-
-That was the Terror of terrors, and it was her own. That it could
-subsist together with that alien horror, that it remained supreme beside
-it, proved that there was still some tract in her where the invader had
-not yet penetrated. In her love for Rodney and her fear for him she
-entrenched herself against the destroyer. There at least she knew
-herself impregnable.
-
-It was in such a luminous flash that she saw the thing still in her own
-hands, and resolved that it should cease.
-
-She would have to break her word to Milly. She would have to let Harding
-go, to loosen deliberately his hold on her and cut him off. It could be
-done. She had held him through her gift, and it would be still possible,
-through the gift, to let him go. Of course she knew it would be hard.
-
-It _was_ hard. It was terrible; for he clung. She had not counted on his
-clinging. It was as if, in their undivided substance, he had had
-knowledge of her purpose and had prepared himself to fight it. He hung
-on desperately; he refused to yield an inch of the ground he had taken
-from her. He was no longer a passive thing in that world where she had
-brought him. And he had certain advantages. He had possessed her for
-three nights and for three days. She had made herself porous to him; and
-her sleep had always been his opportunity.
-
-It took her three nights and three days to cast him out. In the first
-night she struggled with him. She lay with all her senses hushed, and
-brought the divine darkness round her, but in the darkness she was aware
-that she struggled. She could build up the walls between them, but she
-knew that as fast as she built them he tore at them and pulled them
-down.
-
-She bore herself humbly towards the Power that permitted him. She
-conceived of it as holiness—estranged and offended; she pleaded with it.
-She could no longer trust her knowledge of its working, but she tried to
-come to terms with it. She offered herself as a propitiation, as a
-substitute for Rodney Lanyon, if there was no other way by which he
-might be saved.
-
-Apparently, that was not the way it worked. Harding seemed to gain. But,
-as he kept her awake all night, he had no chance to establish himself,
-as he would otherwise have done, in her sleep. The odds between her and
-her adversary were even.
-
-The second night _she_ gained. She felt that she had built up her walls
-again; that she had cut Harding off. With spiritual pain, with the
-tearing of the bonds of compassion, with a supreme agony of rupture, he
-parted from her.
-
-Possibly the Power was neutral; for in the dawn after the second night
-she slept. That sleep left her uncertain of the event. There was no
-telling into what unguarded depths it might have carried her. She knew
-that she had been free of her adversary before she slept, but the
-chances were that he had got at her in her sleep. Since the Power held
-the balance even between her and the invader, it would no doubt permit
-him to enter by any loophole that he could seize.
-
-On the third night, as it were in the last watch, she surrendered, but
-not to Harding Powell.
-
-She could not say how it came to her; she was lying in her bed with her
-eyes shut and her arms held apart from her body, diminishing all
-contacts, stripping for her long slide into the cleansing darkness, when
-she found herself recalling some forgotten, yet inalienable knowledge
-that she had. Something said to her: “Do you not remember? There is no
-striving and no crying in the world which you would enter. There is no
-more appeasing where peace _is_. You cannot make your own terms with the
-high and holy Power. It is not enough to give yourself for Rodney
-Lanyon, for he is more to you than you are yourself. Besides, any
-substitution of self for self would be useless, for there is no more
-self there. That is why the Power cannot work that way. But if it should
-require you, here on this side the threshold, to give him up, to give up
-your desire of him, what then? Would you loose your hold on him and let
-him go?”
-
-“Would you?” the voice insisted.
-
-She heard herself answer from the pure threshold of the darkness: “I
-would.”
-
-Sleep came on her there; a divine sleep from beyond the threshold;
-sacred, inviolate sleep.
-
-It was the seal upon the bond.
-
-
- XII
-
-
-She woke on Friday morning to a vivid and indestructible certainty of
-escape.
-
-But there had been a condition attached to her deliverance; and it was
-borne in on her that instead of waiting for the Power to force its terms
-on her, she would do well to be beforehand with it. Friday was Rodney’s
-day, and this time she knew that he would come. His coming, of course,
-was nothing, but he had told her plainly that he would not go. She must,
-therefore, wire to him not to come.
-
-In order to do this she had to get up early and walk about a mile to the
-nearest village. She took the shortest way, which was by the Farm
-bridge, and up the slanting path to the far end of the wood. She knew
-vaguely that once, as she turned the corner of the wood, there had been
-horrors, and that the divine beauty of green pastures and still waters
-had appeared to her as a valley of the shadow of evil, but she had no
-more memory of what she had seen than of a foul dream, three nights
-dead. She went at first uplifted in the joy of her deliverance, drawing
-into her the light and fragrance of the young morning. Then she
-remembered Harding Powell. She had noticed as she passed the Farm-house
-that the blinds were drawn again in all the windows. That was because
-Harding and Milly were gone. She thought of Harding, of Milly, with an
-immense tenderness and compassion, but also with lucidity, with sanity.
-They had gone—yesterday—and she had not seen them. That could not be
-helped. She had done all that was possible. She could not have seen them
-as long as the least taint of Harding’s malady remained with her. And
-how could she have faced Milly after having broken her word to her?
-
-Not that she regretted even that, the breaking of her word, so sane was
-she. She could conceive that, if it had not been for Rodney Lanyon, she
-might have had the courage to have gone on. She might have considered
-that she was bound to save Harding, even at the price of her own sanity,
-since there _was_ her word to Milly. But it might be questioned whether
-by holding on to him she would have kept it, whether she really could
-have saved him that way. She was no more than a vehicle, a crystal
-vessel for the inscrutable and secret Power, and in destroying her
-utterly, Harding would have destroyed himself. You could not transmit
-the Power through a broken crystal—why, not even through one that had a
-flaw.
-
-[Illustration]
-
-There had been a flaw somewhere; so much was certain. And as she
-searched now for the flaw, with her luminous sanity, she found it in her
-fear. She knew, she had always known, the danger of taking fear, and the
-thought of fear with her into that world where to think was to will, and
-to will was to create. But for the rest, she had tried to make herself
-clear as crystal. And what could she do more than give up Rodney?
-
-As she set her face towards the village, she was sustained by a sacred
-ardour, a sacrificial exaltation. But as she turned homewards across the
-solitary fields, she realized the sadness, the desolation of the thing
-she had accomplished. He would not come. Her message would reach him two
-hours before the starting of the train he always came by.
-
-Across the village she saw her white house shining, and the windows of
-his room (her study, which was always his room when he came); its
-lattices were flung open as if it welcomed him.
-
-Something had happened there.
-
-Her maid was standing by the garden gate, looking for her. As she
-approached, the girl came over the field to meet her. She had an air of
-warning her, of preparing her for something.
-
-It was Mrs. Powell, the maid said. She had come again. She was in there,
-waiting for Miss Agatha. She wouldn’t go away; she had gone straight in.
-She was in an awful state. The maid thought it was something to do with
-Mr. Powell.
-
-They had not gone, then.
-
-“If I were you, miss,” the maid was saying, “I wouldn’t see her.”
-
-“Of course I shall see her.”
-
-She went at once into the room where Rodney might have been, where Milly
-was. Milly rose from the corner where she sat averted.
-
-“Agatha,” she said, “I had to come.”
-
-Agatha kissed the white, suppliant face that Milly lifted. “I thought,”
-she said, “you’d gone—yesterday.”
-
-“We couldn’t go. He—he’s ill again.”
-
-“Ill?”
-
-“Yes. Didn’t you see the blinds down as you passed?”
-
-“I thought it was because you’d gone.”
-
-“It’s because that _thing’s_ come back again.”
-
-“When did it come, Milly?”
-
-“It’s been coming for three days.”
-
-Agatha drew in her breath with a pang. It was just three days since she
-began to let him go.
-
-Milly went on. “And now he won’t come out of the house. He says he’s
-being hunted. He’s afraid of being seen, being found. He’s in there—in
-that room. He made me lock him in.”
-
-They stared at each other and at the horror that their faces took and
-gave back each to each.
-
-“Oh, Aggy—” Milly cried it out in her anguish.
-
-“You _will_ help him?”
-
-“I can’t.” Agatha heard her voice go dry in her throat.
-
-“You _can’t_?”
-
-Agatha shook her head.
-
-“You mean you haven’t, then?”
-
-“I haven’t. I couldn’t.”
-
-“But you told me—you told me you were giving yourself up to it. You said
-that was why you couldn’t see us.”
-
-“It _was_ why. Do sit down, Milly.”
-
-They sat down, still staring at each other. Agatha faced the window, so
-that the light ravaged her.
-
-Milly went on. “That was why I left you alone. I thought you were going
-on. You said you wouldn’t let him go; you promised me you’d keep on—”
-
-“I did keep on, till—”
-
-But Milly had only paused to hold down a sob. Her voice broke out again,
-clear, harsh, accusing.
-
-“What were you doing all that time?”
-
-“Of course,” said Agatha, “you’re bound to think I let you down.”
-
-“What am I to think?”
-
-“Milly—I asked you not to think it was me.”
-
-“Of course I knew it was the Power, not you. But you had hold of it. You
-did something. Something that other people can’t do. You did it for one
-night, and that night he was well. You kept on for six weeks, and he was
-well all that time. You leave off for three days—I know when you left
-off—and he’s ill again. And then you tell me it isn’t you. It _is_ you;
-and if it’s you, you can’t give him up. You can’t stand by, Aggy, and
-refuse to help him. You know what it was. How can you bear to let him
-suffer? How can you?”
-
-“I can, because I must.”
-
-“And why must you?”
-
-Milly raised her head more in defiance than in supplication.
-
-“Because—I told you—I might give out. Well—I _have_ given out.”
-
-“You told me the Power can’t give out—that you’ve only got to hold on to
-it—that it’s no effort. I’m only asking you, Aggy, to hold on.”
-
-“You don’t know what you’re asking.”
-
-“I’m asking you only to do what you have done, to give five minutes in
-the day to him. You said it was enough. Only five minutes. It isn’t much
-to ask.”
-
-Agatha sighed.
-
-“What difference could it make to you—five minutes?”
-
-“You don’t understand,” said Agatha.
-
-“I do. I don’t ask you to see him, or to bother with him; only to go on
-as you were doing.”
-
-“You don’t understand. It isn’t possible to explain it. I can’t go on.”
-
-“I see. You’re tired, Aggy. Well—not now, not to-day. But later, when
-you’re rested, won’t you?”
-
-“Oh, Milly, dear Milly, if I could—”
-
-“You can. You will. I know you will—”
-
-“No. You must understand it. Never again. Never again.”
-
-“Never?”
-
-“Never.”
-
-There was a long silence. At last Milly’s voice crept through, strained
-and thin, feebly argumentative, the voice of a thing defeated and yet
-unconvinced.
-
-“I don’t understand you, Agatha. You say it isn’t you; you say you’re
-only a connecting link; that you do nothing; that the Power that does it
-is inexhaustible; that there’s nothing it can’t do, nothing it won’t do
-for us, and yet you go and cut yourself off from it—deliberately, from
-the thing you believe to be divine.”
-
-“I haven’t cut myself off from it.”
-
-“You’ve cut Harding off,” said Milly. “If you refuse to hold him.”
-
-“That wouldn’t cut him off—from It. But, Milly, holding him was bad; it
-wasn’t safe.”
-
-“It saved him.”
-
-“All the same, Milly, it wasn’t safe. The thing itself isn’t.”
-
-“The Power? The divine thing?”
-
-“Yes. It’s divine and it’s—it’s terrible. It does terrible things to
-us.”
-
-“How could it? If it’s divine, wouldn’t it be compassionate? Do you
-suppose it’s less compassionate than—_you_ are? Why, Agatha, when it’s
-goodness and purity itself—?”
-
-“Goodness and purity are terrible. We don’t understand it. It’s got its
-own laws. What you call prayer’s all right—it would be safe, I mean—I
-suppose it might get answered anyway, however we fell short. But
-_this_—this is different. It’s the highest, Milly; and if you rush in
-and make for the highest, can’t you see, oh, can’t you _see_ how it
-might break you? Can’t you see what it requires of _you_? Absolute
-purity. I told you, Milly. You have to be crystal to it—crystal without
-a flaw.”
-
-“And—if there were a flaw?”
-
-“The whole thing, don’t you see, would break down; it would be no good.
-In fact, it would be awfully dangerous.”
-
-“To whom?”
-
-“To you—to them, the people you’re helping. You make a connection; you
-smash down all the walls so that you—you get through to each other; and
-supposing there was something wrong with _you_, and it doesn’t work any
-longer (the Power, I mean), don’t you see you might do harm where you
-were trying to help?”
-
-“But—Agatha—there was nothing wrong with you.”
-
-“How do I know? Can anybody be sure there’s nothing wrong with them?”
-
-“You think,” said Milly, “there was a flaw somewhere?”
-
-“There must have been—somewhere—”
-
-“What was it? Can’t you find out? Can’t you think? Think.”
-
-“Sometimes—I’ve thought it may have been my fear.”
-
-“Fear?”
-
-“Yes, it’s the worst thing. Don’t you remember, I told you not to be
-afraid?”
-
-“But, Agatha, you were _not_ afraid.”
-
-“I was—afterwards. I got frightened.”
-
-“_You_? And you told _me_ not to be afraid,” said Milly.
-
-“I had to tell you.”
-
-“And I wasn’t afraid—afterwards. I believed in you. He believed in you.”
-
-“You shouldn’t have. You shouldn’t. That was just it.”
-
-“That was it? I suppose you’ll say next it was I who frightened you?”
-
-As they faced each other there, Agatha, with the terrible, the almost
-supernatural lucidity she had, saw what was making Milly say that. Milly
-had been frightened; she felt that she had probably communicated her
-fright; she knew that was dangerous, and she knew that if it had done
-harm to Harding, she, and not Agatha, would be responsible. And because
-she couldn’t face her responsibility, she was trying to fasten upon
-Agatha some other fault than fear.
-
-“No, Milly, I don’t say you frightened me; it was my own fear.”
-
-“What was there for _you_ to be afraid of?”
-
-Agatha was silent. That was what she must never tell her, not even to
-make her understand. She did not know what Milly was trying to think of
-her; Milly might think what she liked; but she should never know what
-her terror had been and her danger.
-
-Agatha’s silence helped Milly.
-
-“Nothing,” she said, “will make me believe it was your fear that did it.
-That would never have made you give Harding up. Besides, you were not
-afraid at first, though you may have been afterwards.”
-
-“Afterwards?”
-
-It was her own word, but it had as yet no significance for her.
-
-“After—whatever it was you gave him up for. You gave him up for
-something.”
-
-“I did not. I never gave him up until I was afraid.”
-
-“You gave It up. You wouldn’t have done that if there had not been
-something. Something that stood between.”
-
-“If,” said Agatha, “you could only tell me what it was.”
-
-“I can’t tell you. I don’t know what came to you. I only know that if
-I’d had a gift like that, I would not have given it up for anything. I
-wouldn’t have let anything come between. I’d have kept myself—”
-
-“I did keep myself—for it. I couldn’t keep myself entirely for Harding;
-there were other things, other people. I couldn’t give them up for
-Harding or for anybody.”
-
-“Are you quite sure you kept yourself what you were, Aggy?”
-
-“What _was_ I?”
-
-“My dear—you were absolutely pure. You said _that_ was the condition.”
-
-“Yes. And, don’t you see, who _is_ absolutely? If you thought I was, you
-didn’t know me.”
-
-As she spoke she heard the sharp click of the latch as the garden gate
-fell to; she had her back to the window so that she saw nothing, but she
-heard footsteps that she knew, resolute and energetic footsteps that
-hurried to their end. She felt the red blood surge into her face, and
-saw that Milly’s face was white with another passion, and that Milly’s
-eyes were fixed on the figure of the man who came up the garden path.
-And without looking at her Milly answered:
-
-“I don’t know now; but I think I see, my dear—” In Milly’s pause the
-door-bell rang violently. Milly rose and let her have it. “What the flaw
-in the crystal was.”
-
-
- XIII
-
-
-Rodney entered the room, and it was then that Milly looked at her.
-Milly’s face was no longer the face of passion, but of sadness and
-reproach, almost of recovered incredulity. It questioned rather than
-accused her. It said unmistakably, “You gave him up for _that_?”
-
-Agatha’s voice recalled her. “Milly, I think you know Mr. Lanyon.”
-
-Rodney, in acknowledging Milly’s presence, did not look at her. He saw
-nothing there but Agatha’s face, which showed him at last the expression
-that to his eyes had always been latent in it, the look of the tragic,
-hidden soul of terror that he had divined in her. He saw her at last as
-he had known he should some day see her. Terror was no longer there, but
-it had possessed her; it had passed through her and destroyed that other
-look she had from her lifted mouth and hair, the look of a thing borne
-on wings. Now, with her wings beaten, with her white face and haggard
-eyes, he saw her as a flying thing tracked down and trampled under the
-feet of the pursuer. He saw it in one flash as he stood there holding
-Milly’s hand.
-
-Milly’s face had no significance for him. He didn’t see it. When at last
-he looked at her his eyes questioned her; they demanded an account from
-her of what he saw.
-
-For Agatha, Milly’s face, prepared as it was for leave-taking, remained
-charged with meaning; it refused to divest itself of reproach and of the
-incredulity that challenged her. Agatha rose to it.
-
-“You’re not going, Milly, just because he’s come? You needn’t.”
-
-Milly _was_ going.
-
-He rose to it also.
-
-If Mrs. Powell _would_ go like that—in that distressing way—she must at
-least let him walk back with her. Agatha wouldn’t mind. He hadn’t seen
-Mrs. Powell for ages.
-
-He had risen to such a height that Milly was bewildered by him. She let
-him walk back with her to the Farm and a little way beyond it. Agatha
-said good-bye to Milly at the garden gate and watched them go. Then she
-went up into her own room.
-
-He was gone so long that she thought he was never coming back again. She
-didn’t want him to come back just yet, but she knew she was not afraid
-to see him. It didn’t occur to her to wonder why, in spite of her
-message, he had come, nor why he had come by an earlier train than
-usual; she supposed he must have started before her message could have
-reached him. All that, his coming or his not coming, mattered so little
-now.
-
-For now the whole marvellous thing was clear to her. She knew the secret
-of the gift. She saw luminously, almost transparently, the way it
-worked. Milly had shown her. Milly knew; Milly had seen; she had put her
-finger on the flaw.
-
-It was not fear; Milly had been right there too. Until the moment when
-Harding Powell had begun to get at her Agatha had never known what fear
-felt like. It was the strain of mortality in her love for Rodney; the
-hidden thing, unforeseen and unacknowledged, working its work in the
-darkness. It had been there all the time, undermining her secret, sacred
-places. It had made the first breach through which the fear that was not
-_her_ fear had entered. She could tell the very moment when it happened.
-
-She had blamed poor little Milly; but it was the flaw, the flaw that had
-given their deadly point to Milly’s interference and Harding’s
-importunity. But for the flaw they could not have penetrated her
-profound serenity. Her gift might have been trusted to dispose of them.
-
-For before that moment the gift had worked indubitably; it had never
-missed once. She looked back on its wonders; on the healing of herself;
-the first healing of Rodney and Harding Powell; the healing of Bella. It
-had worked with a peculiar rhythm of its own, and always in a strict, a
-measurable proportion to the purity of her intention. To Harding’s case
-she had brought nothing but innocent love and clean compassion; to
-Bella’s nothing but a selfless and beneficent desire to help. And
-because in Bella’s case at least she had been flawless, of the three,
-Bella’s was the only cure that had lasted. It had most marvellously
-endured. And because of the flaw in her she had left Harding worse than
-she had found him. No wonder that poor Milly had reproached her.
-
-It mattered nothing that Milly’s reproaches went too far, that in
-Milly’s eyes she stood suspected of material sin (anything short of the
-tangible had never been enough for Milly); it mattered nothing that
-(though Milly mightn’t believe it) she had sinned only in her thought;
-for Agatha, who knew, that was enough; more than enough; it counted
-more.
-
-For thought went wider and deeper than any deed; it was of the very
-order of the Powers intangible wherewith she had worked. Why, thoughts
-unborn and shapeless, that run under the threshold and hide there,
-counted more in that world where It, the Unuttered, the Hidden and the
-Secret, reigned.
-
-She knew now that her surrender of last night had been the ultimate
-deliverance. She was not afraid any more to meet Rodney; for she had
-been made pure from desire; she was safeguarded for ever.
-
-He had been gone about an hour when she heard him at the gate again and
-in the room below.
-
-She went down to him. He came forward to meet her as she entered; he
-closed the door behind them; but her eyes held them apart.
-
-“Did you not get my wire?” she said.
-
-“Yes. I got it.”
-
-“Then why—?”
-
-“Why did I come? Because I knew what was happening. I wasn’t going to
-leave you here for Powell to terrify you out of your life.”
-
-“Surely—you thought they’d gone?”
-
-“I knew they hadn’t or you wouldn’t have wired.”
-
-“But I would. I’d have wired in any case.”
-
-“To put me off?”
-
-“To—put—you—off.”
-
-“Why?”
-
-He questioned without divination or forewarning. The veil of flesh was
-as yet over his eyes, so that he could not see.
-
-“Because I didn’t mean that you should come, that you should ever come
-again, Rodney.”
-
-He smiled.
-
-“So you went back on me, did you?”
-
-“If you call it going back.”
-
-She longed for him to see.
-
-“That was only because you were frightened,” he said. He turned from her
-and paced the room uneasily, as if he saw. Presently he drew up by the
-hearth and stood there for a moment, puzzling it out; and she thought he
-had seen.
-
-He hadn’t. He faced her with a smile again.
-
-“But it was no good, dear, was it? As if I wouldn’t know what it meant.
-You wouldn’t have done it if you hadn’t been ill. You lost your nerve.
-No wonder, with those Powells preying on you, body and soul, for weeks.”
-
-“No, Rodney, no. I didn’t _want_ you to come back. And I think—now—it
-would be better if you didn’t stay.”
-
-It seemed to her now that perhaps he had seen and was fighting what he
-saw.
-
-“I’m not going to stay,” he said, “I am going—in another hour—to take
-Powell away somewhere.”
-
-He took it up where she had made him leave it. “Then, Agatha, I shall
-come back again. I shall come back—let me see—on Sunday.”
-
-She swept that aside.
-
-“Where are you going to take him?”
-
-“To a man I know who’ll look after him.”
-
-“Oh, Rodney, it’ll break Milly’s heart.”
-
-She had come, in her agitation, to where he stood. She sat on the couch
-by the corner of the hearth, and he looked down at her there.
-
-“No,” he said, “it won’t. It’ll give him a chance to get all right. I’ve
-convinced her it’s the only thing to do. He can’t be left here for you
-to look after.”
-
-“Did she tell you?”
-
-“She wouldn’t have told me a thing if I hadn’t made her. I dragged it
-out of her, bit by bit.”
-
-“Rodney, that was cruel of you.”
-
-“Was it? I don’t care. I’d have done it if she’d bled.”
-
-“What did she tell you?”
-
-“Pretty nearly everything, I imagine. Quite enough for me to see what,
-between them, they’ve been doing to you.”
-
-“Did she tell you _how he got well_?”
-
-He did not answer all at once. It was as if he drew back before the
-question, alien and disturbed, shirking the discerned, yet
-unintelligible issue.
-
-“Did she tell you, Rodney?” Agatha repeated.
-
-“Well, yes. She _told_ me.”
-
-He seemed to be making, reluctantly, some admission. He sat down beside
-her, and his movement had the air of ending the discussion. But he did
-not look at her.
-
-“What do you make of it?” she said.
-
-This time he winced visibly.
-
-“I don’t make anything. If it happened—if it happened like _that_,
-Agatha—”
-
-“It did happen.”
-
-“Well, I admit it was uncommonly queer.”
-
-He left it there and reverted to his theme.
-
-“But it’s no wonder—if you sat down to that for six weeks—it’s no wonder
-you got scared. It’s inconceivable to me how that woman could have let
-you in for him. She knew what he was.”
-
-“She didn’t know what I was doing till it was done.”
-
-“She’d no business to let you go on with it when she did know.”
-
-“Ah, but she knew—then—it was all right.”
-
-“All right?”
-
-“Absolutely right. Rodney—” She called to him as if she would compel him
-to see it as it was. “I did no more for him than I did for you and
-Bella.”
-
-He started. “Bella?” he repeated.
-
-He stared at her. He had seen something.
-
-“You wondered how she got all right, didn’t you?”
-
-He said nothing.
-
-“That was how.”
-
-And still he did not speak. He sat there, leaning forward, staring now
-at his own clasped hands. He looked as if he bowed himself before the
-irrefutable.
-
-“And there was you, too, before that.”
-
-“I know,” he said then; “I can understand _that_. But —why Bella?”
-
-“Because Bella was the only way.”
-
-She had not followed his thoughts, nor he hers.
-
-“The only way?” he said.
-
-“To work it. To keep the thing pure. I had to be certain of my motive,
-and I knew that if I could give Bella back to you that would prove—to
-me, I mean—that it was pure.”
-
-“But Bella,” he said softly—“Bella. Powell I can understand—and me.”
-
-It was clear that he could get over all the rest. But he could not get
-over Bella. Bella’s case convinced him. Bella’s case could not be
-explained away—or set aside. Before Bella’s case he was baffled, utterly
-defeated. He faced it with a certain awe.
-
-“You were right, after all, about Bella,” he said at last. “And so was
-I. She didn’t care for me, as I told you. But she does care now.”
-
-She knew it.
-
-“That was what I was trying for,” she said. “That was what I meant.”
-
-“You meant it?”
-
-“It was the only way. That’s why I didn’t want you to come back.”
-
-He sat silent, taking that in.
-
-“Don’t you see now how it works? You have to be pure crystal. That’s why
-I didn’t want you to come back.”
-
-Obscurely, through the veil of flesh, he saw.
-
-“And I am never to come back?” he said.
-
-“You will not need to come.”
-
-“You mean you won’t want me?”
-
-“No. I shall not want you. Because, when I did want you, it broke down.”
-
-He smiled.
-
-“I see. When you want me, it breaks down.”
-
-He rallied for a moment. He made his one last pitiful stand against the
-supernatural thing that was conquering him.
-
-He had risen to go.
-
-“And when _I_ want to come, when I long for you, what then?”
-
-“_Your_ longing will make no difference.”
-
-She smiled also, as if she foresaw how it would work, and that soon,
-very soon, he would cease to long for her.
-
-His hand was on the door. He smiled back at her.
-
-“I don’t want to shake your faith in it,” he said.
-
-“You can’t shake my faith in It.”
-
-“Still—it breaks down. It breaks down,” he cried.
-
-“Never. You don’t understand,” she said. “It was the flaw in the
-crystal.”
-
-Soon, very soon he would know it. Already he had shown submission.
-
-She had no doubt of the working of the Power. Bella remained as a sign
-that it had once been, and that, given the flawless crystal, it should
-be again.
-
-
-
-
- THE NATURE OF THE EVIDENCE
-
-
-[Illustration]
-
-This is the story Marston told me. He didn’t want to tell it. I had to
-tear it from him bit by bit. I’ve pieced the bits together in their time
-order, and explained things here and there, but the facts are the facts
-he gave me. There’s nothing that I didn’t get out of him somehow.
-
-Out of _him_—you’ll admit my source is unimpeachable. Edward Marston,
-the great K.C., and the author of an admirable work on “The Logic of
-Evidence.” You should have read the chapters on “What Evidence Is and
-What It Is Not.” You may say he lied; but if you knew Marston you’d know
-he wouldn’t lie, for the simple reason that he’s incapable of inventing
-anything. So that, if you ask me whether I believe this tale, all I can
-say is, I believe the things happened, because he said they happened and
-because they happened to him. As for what they _were_—well, I don’t
-pretend to explain it, neither would he.
-
-You know he was married twice. He adored his first wife, Rosamund, and
-Rosamund adored him. I suppose they were completely happy. She was
-fifteen years younger than he, and beautiful. I wish I could make you
-see how beautiful. Her eyes and mouth had the same sort of bow, full and
-wide-sweeping, and they stared out of her face with the same grave,
-contemplative innocence. Her mouth was finished off at each corner with
-the loveliest little moulding, rounded like the pistil of a flower. She
-wore her hair in a solid gold fringe over her forehead, like a child’s,
-and a big coil at the back. When it was let down it hung in a heavy
-cable to her waist. Marston used to tease her about it. She had a trick
-of tossing back the rope in the night when it was hot under her, and it
-would fall smack across his face and hurt him.
-
-There was a pathos about her that I can’t describe—a curious, pure,
-sweet beauty, like a child’s; perfect, and perfectly immature; so
-immature that you couldn’t conceive its lasting—like that—any more than
-childhood lasts. Marston used to say it made him nervous. He was afraid
-of waking up in the morning and finding that it had changed in the
-night. And her beauty was so much a part of herself that you couldn’t
-think of her without it. Somehow you felt that if it went she must go
-too.
-
-Well, she went first.
-
-For a year afterwards Marston existed dangerously, always on the edge of
-a break-down. If he didn’t go over altogether it was because his work
-saved him. He had no consoling theories. He was one of those bigoted
-materialists of the nineteenth century type who believe that
-consciousness is a purely physiological function, and that when your
-body’s dead, _you’re_ dead. He saw no reason to suppose the contrary.
-“When you consider,” he used to say, “the nature of the evidence!”
-
-It’s as well to bear this in mind, so as to realize that he hadn’t any
-bias or anticipation. Rosamund survived for him only in his memory. And
-in his memory he was still in love with her. At the same time he used to
-discuss quite cynically the chances of his marrying again.
-
-It seems that in their honeymoon they had gone into that. Rosamund said
-she hated to think of his being lonely and miserable, supposing she died
-before he did. She would like him to marry again. If, she stipulated, he
-married the right woman.
-
-He had put it to her: “And if I marry the wrong one?” And she had said,
-That would be different. She couldn’t bear that.
-
-He remembered all this afterwards; but there was nothing in it to make
-him suppose, at the time, that she would take action.
-
-We talked it over, he and I, one night.
-
-“I suppose,” he said, “I shall have to marry again. It’s a physical
-necessity. But it won’t be anything more. I shan’t marry the sort of
-woman who’ll expect anything more. I won’t put another woman in
-Rosamund’s place. There’ll be no unfaithfulness about it.”
-
-And there wasn’t. Soon after that first year he married Pauline Silver.
-
-She was a daughter of old Justice Parker, who was a friend of Marston’s
-people. He hadn’t seen the girl till she came home from India after her
-divorce.
-
-Yes, there’d been a divorce. Silver had behaved very decently. He’d let
-her bring it against _him_, to save her. But there were some queer
-stories going about. They didn’t get round to Marston, because he was so
-mixed up with her people; and if they had he wouldn’t have believed
-them. He’d made up his mind he’d marry Pauline the first minute he’d
-seen her. She was handsome; the hard, black, white and vermilion kind,
-with a little aristocratic nose and a lascivious mouth.
-
-It was, as he had meant it to be, nothing but physical infatuation on
-both sides. No question of Pauline’s taking Rosamund’s place.
-
-Marston had a big case on at the time.
-
-They were in such a hurry that they couldn’t wait till it was over; and
-as it kept him in London they agreed to put off their honeymoon till the
-autumn, and he took her straight to his own house in Curzon Street.
-
-This, he admitted afterwards, was the part he hated. The Curzon Street
-house was associated with Rosamund; especially their bedroom—Rosamund’s
-bedroom—and his library. The library was the room Rosamund liked best,
-because it was his room. She had her place in the corner by the hearth,
-and they were always alone there together in the evenings when his work
-was done, and when it wasn’t done she would still sit with him, keeping
-quiet in her corner with a book.
-
-Luckily for Marston, at the first sight of the library Pauline took a
-dislike to it.
-
-I can hear her. “Br-rr-rh! There’s something beastly about this room,
-Edward. I can’t think how you can sit in it.”
-
-And Edward, a little caustic:
-
-“_You_ needn’t, if you don’t like it.”
-
-“I certainly shan’t.”
-
-She stood there—I can see her—on the hearthrug by Rosamund’s chair,
-looking uncommonly handsome and lascivious. He was going to take her in
-his arms and kiss her vermilion mouth, when, he said, something stopped
-him. Stopped him clean, as if it had risen up and stepped between them.
-He supposed it was the memory of Rosamund, vivid in the place that had
-been hers.
-
-You see it was just that place, of silent, intimate communion, that
-Pauline would never take. And the rich, coarse, contented creature
-didn’t even want to take it. He saw that he would be left alone there,
-all right, with his memory.
-
-But the bedroom was another matter. That, Pauline had made it understood
-from the beginning, she would have to have. Indeed, there was no other
-he could well have offered her. The drawing-room covered the whole of
-the first floor. The bedrooms above were cramped, and this one had been
-formed by throwing the two front rooms into one. It looked south, and
-the bathroom opened out of it at the back. Marston’s small northern room
-had a door on the narrow landing at right angles to his wife’s door. He
-could hardly expect her to sleep there, still less in any of the tight
-boxes on the top floor. He said he wished he had sold the Curzon Street
-house.
-
-But Pauline was enchanted with the wide, three-windowed piece that was
-to be hers. It had been exquisitely furnished for poor little Rosamund;
-all seventeenth century walnut wood, Bokhara rugs, thick silk curtains,
-deep blue with purple linings, and a big, rich bed covered with a purple
-counterpane embroidered in blue.
-
-One thing Marston insisted on: that _he_ should sleep on Rosamund’s side
-of the bed, and Pauline in his own old place. He didn’t want to see
-Pauline’s body where Rosamund’s had been. Of course he had to lie about
-it and pretend he had always slept on the side next the window.
-
-I can see Pauline going about in that room, looking at everything;
-looking at herself, her black, white and vermilion, in the glass that
-had held Rosamund’s pure rose and gold; opening the wardrobe where
-Rosamund’s dresses used to hang, sniffing up the delicate, flower scent
-of Rosamund, not caring, covering it with her own thick trail. And
-Marston (who cared abominably)—I can see him getting more miserable and
-at the same time more excited as the wedding evening went on. He took
-her to the play to fill up the time, or perhaps to get her out of
-Rosamund’s rooms; God knows. I can see them sitting in the stalls, bored
-and restless, starting up and going out before the thing was half over,
-and coming back to that house in Curzon Street before eleven o’clock.
-
-[Illustration]
-
-It wasn’t much past eleven when he went to her room.
-
-I told you her door was at right angles to his, and the landing was
-narrow, so that anybody standing by Pauline’s door must have been seen
-the minute he opened his. He hadn’t even to cross the landing to get to
-her.
-
-Well, Marston swears that there was nothing there when he opened his own
-door; but when he came to Pauline’s he saw Rosamund standing up before
-it; and, he said, “_She wouldn’t let me in._”
-
-Her arms were stretched out, barring the passage. Oh yes, he saw her
-face, Rosamund’s face; I gathered that it was utterly sweet, and utterly
-inexorable. He couldn’t pass her.
-
-So he turned into his own room, backing, he says, so that he could keep
-looking at her. And when he stood on the threshold of his own door she
-wasn’t there.
-
-No, he wasn’t frightened. He couldn’t tell me what he felt; but he left
-his door open all night because he couldn’t bear to shut it on her. And
-he made no other attempt to go in to Pauline; he was so convinced that
-the phantasm of Rosamund would come again and stop him.
-
-I don’t know what sort of excuse he made to Pauline the next morning. He
-said she was very stiff and sulky all day; and no wonder. He was still
-infatuated with her, and I don’t think that the phantasm of Rosamund had
-put him off Pauline in the least. In fact, he persuaded himself that the
-thing was nothing but a hallucination, due, no doubt, to his excitement.
-
-Anyhow, he didn’t expect to see it at the door again the next night.
-
-Yes. It was there. Only, this time, he said, it drew aside to let him
-pass. It smiled at him, as if it were saying, “Go in, if you must;
-you’ll see what’ll happen.”
-
-He had no sense that it had followed him into the room; he felt certain
-that, this time, it would let him be.
-
-It was when he approached Pauline’s bed, which had been Rosamund’s bed,
-that she appeared again, standing between it and him, and stretching out
-her arms to keep him back.
-
-[Illustration: ... stretching out her arms to keep him back.]
-
-All that Pauline could see was her bridegroom backing and backing, then
-standing there, fixed, and the look on his face. That in itself was
-enough to frighten her.
-
-She said, “What’s the matter with you, Edward?”
-
-He didn’t move.
-
-“What are you standing there for? Why don’t you come to bed?”
-
-Then Marston seems to have lost his head and blurted it out:
-
-“I can’t. I can’t.”
-
-“Can’t what?” said Pauline from the bed.
-
-“Can’t sleep with you. She won’t let me.”
-
-“She?”
-
-“Rosamund. My wife. She’s there.”
-
-“What on earth are you talking about?”
-
-“She’s there, I tell you. She won’t let me. She’s pushing me back.”
-
-He says Pauline must have thought he was drunk or something. Remember,
-she _saw_ nothing but Edward, his face, and his mysterious attitude. He
-must have looked very drunk.
-
-She sat up in bed, with her hard, black eyes blazing away at him, and
-told him to leave the room that minute. Which he did.
-
-The next day she had it out with him. I gathered that he kept on talking
-about the “state” he was in.
-
-“You came to my room, Edward, in a _disgraceful_ state.”
-
-I suppose Marston said he was sorry; but he couldn’t help it; he wasn’t
-drunk. He stuck to it that Rosamund was there. He had seen her. And
-Pauline said, if he wasn’t drunk then he must be mad, and he said
-meekly, “Perhaps I _am_ mad.”
-
-That set her off, and she broke out in a fury. He was no more mad than
-she was; but he didn’t care for her; he was making ridiculous excuses;
-shamming, to put her off. There was some other woman.
-
-Marston asked her what on earth she supposed he’d married her for. Then
-she burst out crying and said she didn’t know.
-
-Then he seems to have made it up with Pauline. He managed to make her
-believe he wasn’t lying, that he really had seen something, and between
-them they arrived at a rational explanation of the appearance. He had
-been overworking. Rosamund’s phantasm was nothing but a hallucination of
-his exhausted brain.
-
-This theory carried him on till bed-time. Then, he says, he began to
-wonder what would happen, what Rosamund’s phantasm would do next. Each
-morning his passion for Pauline had come back again, increased by
-frustration, and it worked itself up crescendo, towards night. Supposing
-he _had_ seen Rosamund. He might see her again. He had become suddenly
-subject to hallucinations. But as long as you _knew_ you were
-hallucinated you were all right.
-
-So what they agreed to do that night was by way of precaution, in case
-the thing came again. It might even be sufficient in itself to prevent
-his seeing anything.
-
-Instead of going in to Pauline he was to get into the room before she
-did, and she was to come to him there. That, they said, would break the
-spell. To make him feel even safer he meant to be in bed before Pauline
-came.
-
-Well, he got into the room all right.
-
-It was when he tried to get into bed that—he saw her (I mean Rosamund).
-
-She was lying there, in his place next the window, her own place, lying
-in her immature child-like beauty and sleeping, the firm full bow of her
-mouth softened by sleep. She was perfect in every detail, the lashes of
-her shut eyelids golden on her white cheeks, the solid gold of her
-square fringe shining, and the great braided golden rope of her hair
-flung back on the pillow.
-
-He knelt down by the bed and pressed his forehead into the bedclothes,
-close to her side. He declared he could feel her breathe.
-
-He stayed there for the twenty minutes Pauline took to undress and come
-to him. He says the minutes stretched out like hours. Pauline found him
-still kneeling with his face pressed into the bedclothes. When he got up
-he staggered.
-
-She asked him what he was doing and why he wasn’t in bed. And he said,
-“It’s no use. I can’t. I can’t.”
-
-But somehow he couldn’t tell her that Rosamund was there. Rosamund was
-too sacred; he couldn’t talk about her. He only said:
-
-“You’d better sleep in my room to-night.”
-
-He was staring down at the place in the bed where he still saw Rosamund.
-Pauline couldn’t have seen anything but the bedclothes, the sheet
-smoothed above an invisible breast, and the hollow in the pillow. She
-said she’d do nothing of the sort. She wasn’t going to be frightened out
-of her own room. He could do as he liked.
-
-He couldn’t leave them there; he couldn’t leave Pauline with Rosamund,
-and he couldn’t leave Rosamund with Pauline. So he sat up in a chair
-with his back turned to the bed. No. He didn’t make any attempt to go
-back. He says he knew she was still lying there, guarding his place,
-which was her place. The odd thing is that he wasn’t in the least
-disturbed or frightened or surprised. He took the whole thing as a
-matter of course. And presently he dozed off into a sleep.
-
-A scream woke him and the sound of a violent body leaping out of the bed
-and thudding on to its feet. He switched on the light and saw the
-bedclothes flung back and Pauline standing on the floor with her mouth
-open.
-
-He went to her and held her. She was cold to the touch and shaking with
-terror, and her jaws dropped as if she was palsied.
-
-She said, “Edward, there’s something in the bed.”
-
-He glanced again at the bed. It was empty.
-
-“There isn’t,” he said. “Look.”
-
-He stripped the bed to the foot-rail, so that she could see.
-
-“There _was_ something.”
-
-“Do you see it?”
-
-[Illustration]
-
-“No, I felt it.”
-
-She told him. First something had come swinging, smack across her face.
-A thick, heavy rope of woman’s hair. It had waked her. Then she had put
-out her hands and felt the body. A woman’s body, soft and horrible; her
-fingers had sunk in the shallow breasts. Then she had screamed and
-jumped.
-
-And she couldn’t stay in the room. The room, she said, was “beastly.”
-
-She slept in Marston’s room, in his small single bed, and he sat up with
-her all night, on a chair.
-
-She believed now that he had really seen something, and she remembered
-that the library was beastly, too. Haunted by something. She supposed
-that was what she had felt. Very well. Two rooms in the house were
-haunted; their bedroom and the library. They would just have to avoid
-those two rooms. She had made up her mind, you see, that it was nothing
-but a case of an ordinary haunted house; the sort of thing you’re always
-hearing about and never believe in till it happens to yourself. Marston
-didn’t like to point out to her that the house hadn’t been haunted till
-she came into it.
-
-The following night, the fourth night, she was to sleep in the spare
-room on the top floor, next to the servants, and Marston in his own
-room.
-
-But Marston didn’t sleep. He kept on wondering whether he would or would
-not go up to Pauline’s room. That made him horribly restless, and
-instead of undressing and going to bed, he sat up on a chair with a
-book. He wasn’t nervous; but he had a queer feeling that something was
-going to happen, and that he must be ready for it, and that he’d better
-be dressed.
-
-It must have been soon after midnight when he heard the door-knob
-turning very slowly and softly. The door opened behind him and Pauline
-came in, moving without a sound, and stood before him. It gave him a
-shock; for he had been thinking of Rosamund, and when he heard the
-door-knob turn it was the phantasm of Rosamund that he expected to see
-coming in. He says, for the first minute, it was this appearance of
-Pauline that struck him as the uncanny and unnatural thing.
-
-She had nothing, absolutely nothing on but a transparent white chiffony
-sort of dressing-gown. She was trying to undo it. He could see her hands
-shaking as her fingers fumbled with the fastenings. He got up suddenly,
-and they just stood there before each other, saying nothing, staring at
-each other. He was fascinated by her, by the sheer glamour of her body,
-gleaming white through the thin stuff, and by the movement of her
-fingers. I think I’ve said she was a beautiful woman, and her beauty at
-that moment was overpowering.
-
-And still he stared at her without saying anything. It sounds as if
-their silence lasted quite a long time, but in reality it couldn’t have
-been more than some fraction of a second.
-
-Then she began. “Oh, Edward, for God’s sake say something. Oughtn’t I to
-have come?”
-
-And she went on without waiting for an answer. “Are you thinking of
-_her_? Because, if—if you are, I’m not going to let her drive you away
-from me.... I’m not going to.... She’ll keep on coming as long as we
-don’t— Can’t you see that this is the way to stop it...? When you take
-me in your arms.”
-
-She slipped off the loose sleeves of the chiffon thing and it fell to
-her feet. Marston says he heard a queer sound, something between a groan
-and a grunt, and was amazed to find that it came from himself.
-
-He hadn’t touched her yet—mind you, it went quicker than it takes to
-tell, it was still an affair of the fraction of a second—they were
-holding out their arms to each other, when the door opened again without
-a sound, and, without visible passage, the phantasm was there. It came
-incredibly fast, and thin at first, like a shaft of light sliding
-between them. It didn’t do anything; there was no beating of hands,
-only, as it took on its full form, its perfect likeness of flesh and
-blood, it made its presence felt like a push, a force, driving them
-asunder.
-
-Pauline hadn’t seen it yet. She thought it was Marston who was beating
-her back. She cried out: “Oh, don’t, don’t push me away!” She stooped
-below the phantasm’s guard and clung to his knees, writhing and crying.
-For a moment it was a struggle between her moving flesh and that still,
-supernatural being.
-
-And in that moment Marston realized that he hated Pauline. She was
-fighting Rosamund with her gross flesh and blood, taking a mean
-advantage of her embodied state to beat down the heavenly, discarnate
-thing.
-
-He called to her to let go.
-
-“It’s not I,” he shouted. “Can’t you _see_ her?”
-
-Then, suddenly, she saw, and let go, and dropped, crouching on the floor
-and trying to cover herself. This time she had given no cry.
-
-The phantasm gave way; it moved slowly towards the door, and as it went
-it looked back over its shoulder at Marston, it trailed a hand,
-signalling to him to come.
-
-He went out after it, hardly aware of Pauline’s naked body that still
-writhed there, clutching at his feet as they passed, and drew itself
-after him, like a worm, like a beast, along the floor.
-
-[Illustration: ... drew itself after him along the floor.]
-
-She must have got up at once and followed them out on to the landing;
-for, as he went down the stairs behind the phantasm, he could see
-Pauline’s face, distorted with lust and terror, peering at them above
-the stairhead. She saw them descend the last flight, and cross the hall
-at the bottom and go into the library. The door shut behind them.
-
-Something happened in there. Marston never told me precisely what it
-was, and I didn’t ask him. Anyhow, that finished it.
-
-The next day Pauline ran away to her own people. She couldn’t stay in
-Marston’s house because it was haunted by Rosamund, and he wouldn’t
-leave it for the same reason.
-
-And she never came back; for she was not only afraid of Rosamund, she
-was afraid of Marston. And if she _had_ come it wouldn’t have been any
-good. Marston was convinced that, as often as he attempted to get to
-Pauline, something would stop him. Pauline certainly felt that, if
-Rosamund were pushed to it, she might show herself in some still more
-sinister and terrifying form. She knew when she was beaten.
-
-And there was more in it than that. I believe he tried to explain it to
-her; said he had married her on the assumption that Rosamund was dead,
-but that now he knew she was alive; she was, as he put it, “there.” He
-tried to make her see that if he had Rosamund he couldn’t have _her_.
-Rosamund’s presence in the world annulled their contract.
-
-You see I’m convinced that something _did_ happen that night in the
-library. I say, he never told me precisely what it was, but he once let
-something out. We were discussing one of Pauline’s love-affairs (after
-the separation she gave him endless grounds for divorce).
-
-“Poor Pauline,” he said, “she thinks she’s so passionate.”
-
-“Well,” I said, “wasn’t she?”
-
-Then he burst out. “No. She doesn’t know what passion is. None of you
-know. You haven’t the faintest conception. You’d have to get rid of your
-bodies first. _I_ didn’t know until—”
-
-He stopped himself. I think he was going to say, “until Rosamund came
-back and showed me.” For he leaned forward and whispered: “It isn’t a
-localized affair at all.... If you only knew—”
-
-So I don’t think it was just faithfulness to a revived memory. I take it
-there had been, behind that shut door, some experience, some terrible
-and exquisite contact. More penetrating than sight or touch. More—more
-extensive: passion at all points of being.
-
-Perhaps the supreme moment of it, the ecstasy, only came when her
-phantasm had disappeared.
-
-He couldn’t go back to Pauline after _that_.
-
-
-
-
- IF THE DEAD KNEW
-
-
- I
-
-
-The voluntary swelled, it rose, it rushed to its climax. The organist
-tossed back his head with a noble gesture, exalted; he rocked on his
-bench; his feet shuffled faster and faster, pedalling passionately.
-
-The young girl who stood beside him drew in a deep, rushing breath; her
-heart swelled; her whole body listened, with hurried senses desiring the
-climax, the climax, the crash of sound. Her nerves shook as the organist
-rocked towards her; when he tossed back his head her chin lifted; she
-loved his playing hands, his rocking body, his superb, excited gesture.
-
-Three times a week Wilfrid Hollyer went down to Lower Wyck, to give
-Effie Carroll a music lesson; three times a week Effie Carroll came up
-to Wyck on the Hill to listen to Hollyer’s organ practice.
-
-The climax had come. The voluntary fell from its height and died in a
-long cadence, thinned out, a trickling, trembling diminuendo. It was all
-over.
-
-The young girl released her breath in a long, trembling sigh.
-
-[Illustration: ... her whole body listened ...]
-
-The organist rose and put out the organ lights. He took Effie by the arm
-and led her down the short aisles of the little country church and out
-on to the flagged path of the churchyard between the tombstones.
-
-“Wilfrid,” she said, “you’re too good for Wyck. You ought to be playing
-in Gloucester Cathedral.”
-
-“I’m not good enough. Perhaps—if I’d been trained—”
-
-“Why weren’t you?”
-
-“My mother couldn’t afford it. Besides, I couldn’t leave her. She hasn’t
-anybody but me.”
-
-“I know. You’re awfully fond of her, aren’t you?”
-
-“Yes,” he said shortly.
-
-They had passed down the turn of the street into the Market Square.
-There was a plot of grass laid down in the north-east corner. Two tall
-elms stood up on the grass, and behind the elms a small, ivy-covered
-house with mullioned windows, looking south.
-
-“That’s our house,” Hollyer said. “Won’t you come in and see her?”
-
-They found her sitting by herself in the little cramped, green
-drawing-room. She was the most beautiful old lady; small, upright and
-perfect; slender, like a girl, in her grey silk blouse. She had a
-miniature oval face, pretty and white: a sharp chin, and a wide forehead
-under a pile of pure white hair. And sorrowful blue eyes, white-lidded,
-in two rings of mauve and bistre.
-
-She couldn’t be so very old, Effie thought. Not more than sixty.
-
-Mrs. Hollyer rose, holding out a fragile hand.
-
-Presently she said: “I wanted to see you; after all you’ve done for
-him.”
-
-“I? I haven’t done anything.”
-
-“You’ve listened to his playing. He can’t get anybody to do that for him
-in Wyck.”
-
-“They hear enough of me on Sundays.”
-
-“Then they haven’t heard him. He plays much better on week-days, when he
-plays to me,” said Effie.
-
-“So I can imagine,” Mrs. Hollyer said.
-
-“She thinks I’m better than I am,” said Hollyer.
-
-“Go on thinking it. That’s the way to make him better.” She was smiling
-at Effie as if she liked her.
-
-All through tea-time and after they talked about Wilfrid’s playing and
-Wilfrid and Wyck, and the people of Wyck, and how they knew nothing and
-cared nothing about Wilfrid’s playing.
-
-Twilight came, twilight of October. He was going to walk back with Effie
-down the hill to Lower Wyck.
-
-As the house door closed behind them he said: “Now you know why I’m
-nothing but an organist at Wyck.”
-
-“Wilfrid, she’s the most beautiful thing I’ve seen yet—your mother. No
-wonder you can’t leave her.”
-
-“It isn’t that altogether. I mean we’re tied here because we can’t
-afford to leave; and because I’ve got this organ job. I should never
-have had it anywhere else.” He paused. “And you know, I couldn’t live on
-it—without mother. She’s got the house.”
-
-Effie said nothing.
-
-“So here I am. Thirty-five and still dependent on my mother.”
-
-“Oh, Wilfrid, what will you do when—when—”
-
-“When my mother dies? That’s the awful thing. I shall have enough then.
-There’ll be the house and her income. I hate to think of it. I don’t
-think of it—”
-
-“You see,” he went on, “when I was a kid I was so seedy they didn’t
-think I’d live. So I was brought up to do nothing. Nothing but my
-playing. They gave me this job just to keep me quiet. And now I’m strong
-enough, but there’s nothing else I can do.”
-
-He hung his head, frowning gloomily.
-
-“You know why I’m telling you all this?”
-
-“No. But I’m glad you’ve told me.”
-
-“It’s because—because—if I had a decent income, Effie, I’d ask you to
-marry me. As it is, I can only hope that you won’t ever care for me as I
-care for you.”
-
-[Illustration]
-
-“But I _do_ care for you. You know I do.”
-
-“Would you have married me, Effie? Do you care as much as that?”
-
-“You know I would. I will the minute you ask me.”
-
-“I shall never ask you.”
-
-“Why not? I can wait.”
-
-“My dear, for what?” He paused again. “I can’t marry in my mother’s
-lifetime.”
-
-“Oh, Wilfrid—I didn’t mean that. Your dear, beautiful mother. You know I
-didn’t.”
-
-“Of course, darling, I know. But there it is.”
-
-He left her at the gate of the cottage where she lived with her father.
-
-As he went back up the hill he meditated on his position. He was right
-to make it clear to her, now that she had begun to care for him. He
-would have told her long ago if he had known that she cared. Yesterday
-he didn’t know it. But to-day there had been something, in her manner,
-in her voice, in the way she looked at him in the church after his
-playing, that had told him.
-
-Poor little Effie. She would have nothing either, unless her father—and
-Effie’s father was a robust man, not quite fifty.
-
-Well—he mustn’t think of it. And he mustn’t let his mother think. He
-wondered whether he was too late, whether she had seen anything. He
-tried to slink past the drawing-room and up the stairs. But his mother
-had heard him come in. She called to him. He went to her, shame-faced,
-as if he had committed a sin.
-
-Her large, gentle eyes looked at him, wondering. He could see them
-wondering.
-
-“Wilfrid,” she said suddenly, “do you care for that little girl?”
-
-“What’s the good of my caring? I can’t marry her. I’ve just told her
-so.”
-
-“It’s too late. She’s in love with you. You should have told her
-before.”
-
-“How could I if she didn’t care? You can’t be fatuous.”
-
-“No—poor boy. Poor Effie.”
-
-“Mother—why couldn’t I have been brought up to a profession?”
-
-“You know why—you weren’t strong enough. It was as much as I could do to
-keep you alive.”
-
-“I’m strong enough now.”
-
-“Only because I took such care of you. Only because you hadn’t to go out
-and earn your own living. You’d have been dead before you were twenty if
-I hadn’t kept you with me.”
-
-“It would have been better if you’d let me die.”
-
-“Don’t say that, Wilfrid. What should I have done without you? What
-should I do without you now?”
-
-“You mean if I married?”
-
-“No, my dear. I’d be glad if you could marry. I don’t want to keep you
-tied to me for ever. If you can get better work and better pay by going
-anywhere else, I shan’t mind your leaving me.”
-
-“I shouldn’t get anything. I’m not good enough. I shall never be worth
-more than fifty pounds a year anywhere. We can’t live on that.”
-
-“If you could live on half my income, I’d give it you, but you
-couldn’t.”
-
-“No. We’ll just have to wait.”
-
-“I hope for your sake, my dear, it won’t be too long.”
-
-“What do you mean, mother?”
-
-“What did _you_ mean?”
-
-“Why, I meant we’d have to wait till I heard of something.”
-
-“You _might_ have meant something else.” She smiled.
-
-“Oh, mother—_don’t_.”
-
-“Why not?” she said cheerfully.
-
-“You know—you know I couldn’t bear it.”
-
-“You’ll have to bear it some day—I’m an old woman.”
-
-“Well, I shall be an old man—by then.”
-
-He tossed it back to her, laughing, as he left her to wash his hands and
-brush his hair. He laughed, to shake off her pathos and to hide his own.
-
-When he talked about waiting, he hadn’t meant what she thought he meant.
-He was simply trying to dismiss a too serious situation with a
-reassuring levity. Waiting to hear of something? Was it likely he would
-ever hear of anything? Could he have made a more frivolous suggestion?
-
-It was she who had faced it. She had made him see how hopeless their
-case was, his and Effie’s. He saw it now, as he saw his own face in the
-glass, between two hair-brushes, a little drawn, even now, a little
-sallow and haggard. Not a young face.
-
-He would be an old man—an old man before he could dream of marrying. His
-mother, after all, was only sixty, and she came of a long-lived family.
-Her apparent fragility was an illusion; she had never had a day’s
-illness as long as he could remember. Nerves like whipcord, young
-arteries, and every organ sound. She would live ten—fifteen—twenty years
-longer, live to be eighty. He was thirty-five now, and Effie was
-twenty-five. Before they could marry, they would be fifty-five and
-forty-five; old, old; too old to feel, to care passionately. He had no
-right to ask Effie to wait twenty years for him.
-
-He must give up thinking about her.
-
-His mother was still in her chair by the drawing-room fire, waiting for
-him. She turned as he came to her, and held up her face to be kissed,
-like a child, he thought, or like a young wife waiting for her husband.
-She put her hands on his hair and stroked it. And he remembered the time
-when he used to say to her: “I shall never marry. You’re all the wife I
-want, Mother.”
-
-And now it was as if he had been calculating on her death.
-
-But he hadn’t. He hadn’t. You couldn’t calculate on anything so far-off,
-so unlikely. He had done the only possible, the only decent thing. He
-had given Effie up.
-
-
- II
-
-
-The doctor had gone. Hollyer went back into his mother’s room. She lay
-there, dozing, in the big white bed, propped high on the pillows.
-Through her mouth, piteously open, he could hear her short quick breath,
-struggling and gasping.
-
-[Illustration]
-
-The illness had lasted nine days. Even now Hollyer hadn’t got used to
-it. He still looked at the figure in the bed with the same stare of
-shocked incredulity. It was still incredible that his mother’s influenza
-should have turned to pleurisy, that she should lie like that, utterly
-abandoned, the neat pile of her hair undone, and her face, with its open
-mouth, loose and infirm between the two white loops that hung askew,
-rumpled by the pillow. He knew in a vague way how it had happened. First
-his own attack of influenza, then his mother’s. His had been pretty bad,
-but hers had been slight, so slight that it had not been recognized, and
-through it she had still nursed him. Then she had gone out too soon, in
-the raw January weather. And now the doctor came morning and evening;
-she had a trained nurse for the night, and Hollyer looked after her all
-day.
-
-He had got used to the nurse. Her expensive presence proved to him that
-he had nothing to reproach himself with; he had done, as they said,
-everything that could be done.
-
-He knew that the nurse and the doctor disagreed about the case. Nurse
-Eden declared that his mother would get over it. Dr. Ransome was
-convinced she wouldn’t; she hadn’t strength in her for another rally.
-Hollyer himself agreed with Nurse Eden. He couldn’t believe that his
-mother would die. The thought of her death was unbearable, therefore he
-denied it, he put it from him. When he left her for the night he would
-come creeping back at midnight and dawn, to make sure that she was still
-there.
-
-The little room was half filled by the big white bed. It seemed to him
-there was nothing in it but the white bed and his mother and Nurse Eden
-in her white uniform. She had looked in on her way downstairs to tea.
-Everything was cold and white. On the window-panes the frost made a
-white pattern of moss and feathers. From his seat between the bed and
-the fire he could see Nurse Eden and her small, pure face brooding above
-the pillows as she shifted them with tender, competent hands.
-
-“She’ll be better in the morning,” she said. “She always gets better in
-the night.”
-
-She did. Always she gained ground in the night under Nurse Eden and
-always she lost it in the daytime, getting worse and worse towards
-evening.
-
-The afternoon wore on. At four o’clock old Martha, the servant, tapped
-at the door. Miss Carroll, she said, was downstairs and wanted to see
-him. Martha took his place at the bedside.
-
-Every day Effie came to inquire, and every day she went away sad, as if
-it had been her own mother who was dying. This time she stayed, for the
-old doctor had stopped her in the Square and told her to get Hollyer out
-of his mother’s room, if possible. “Talk to him. Take him off it. Make
-him buck up.”
-
-She sat in his mother’s chair behind the round tea-table and poured out
-his tea for him, and talked to him about his music and a book she had
-been reading. When he looked at her, at her sweet face, soft and clear
-with youth, at her hands moving with pretty gestures, his heart
-trembled. That was how it would be if Effie was his wife. They would sit
-there every day and she would pour out his tea for him. He would hear
-her feet ruftning up and down the stairs.
-
-When she got up to go she said, “Whatever you do, Wilfrid, don’t keep on
-thinking about it.”
-
-“I can’t help thinking.”
-
-She put her hand on his sleeve and stroked it. At her touch he broke
-down.
-
-“Oh, Effie—I cannot bear it. If she dies, I shall never forgive myself.”
-
-“Nonsense. Don’t talk about her dying. Don’t think about it.”
-
-She turned to him on the doorstep. “Just think how strong she is. I
-can’t see her ill, somehow. I see her there, all the time, sitting
-upright in her chair, looking beautiful.”
-
-That was how _he_ had once seen her, sitting there between the fire and
-the round tea-table, for years and years, as long as his own life
-lasted.
-
-But now he saw Effie. Upstairs, in his mother’s room, as he watched, he
-saw Effie. Effie—the sweet face, and the sweet hands moving. He heard
-Effie’s voice in the rooms, Effie’s feet on the stairs. That was how it
-would be if Effie was his wife.
-
-That was how it would be if his mother died.
-
-He would have an income of his own, and a house of his own; he would be
-his own master in his house.
-
-If his mother died, Effie and he would sleep together. Perhaps in that
-bed, on those pillows.
-
-He shut his eyes and covered his face with his hands, pressing in on his
-eyelids as if that way he could keep out the sight of Effie.
-
-
- III
-
-
-That evening the doctor came again. He left a little before nine
-o’clock, the hour when Nurse Eden would begin her night watch. He
-refused to hold out any hope. She was sinking fast.
-
-As Hollyer turned from the front-door he met Nurse Eden coming
-downstairs. She signed to him to follow her into the drawing-room,
-moving before him without a sound. She shut the door.
-
-[Illustration]
-
-He was afraid of Nurse Eden; there was something—he didn’t know what it
-was, but—there was something unbearable in her small, pure face; in the
-thrust of her chin tilted by the stiff cap-strings; in her brave,
-slender mouth, straightening itself against the droop of its compassion;
-and in the stillness of her dense, grey eyes. Her eyes made him feel
-uneasy, somehow, and unsafe. He was going to sit up with her to-night;
-but he would rather have shared his night-watch with old Martha.
-
-“Well?” she said.
-
-“He says this is the end.”
-
-“It may be,” said Nurse Eden. “But it needn’t.”
-
-“You’ve seen her.”
-
-“Yes.”
-
-“_Well—?_”
-
-“She hasn’t gone yet, Mr. Hollyer—”
-
-“She’s on the edge. She’s in that state when a breath would tip her one
-way or the other.”
-
-“A breath?”
-
-“Yes, Mr. Hollyer. Or a thought.”
-
-“A thought?”
-
-“A thought. If I had Mrs. Hollyer to myself, I believe I could bring her
-round even now.”
-
-“Oh, Nurse—”
-
-“I _have_ brought her round. Night after night I’ve brought her.”
-
-“What do you do?”
-
-“I don’t know what I do. But it works. Haven’t you noticed she gets
-better in the night when I’ve had her; and that she slips back in the
-day?”
-
-“Yes, I have.”
-
-“You see, Mr. Hollyer, Dr. Ransome’s made up his mind. And when the
-doctor makes up his mind that the patient’s going to die, ten to one the
-patient does die. It lowers their resistance. It isn’t every one that
-would feel it; but your mother would.”
-
-“If,” she went on, “I had her day _and_ night, I might save her.”
-
-“You really think that?”
-
-“I think there’s a chance.”
-
-He didn’t know whether he believed her or not. Dr. Ransome shrugged his
-shoulders and said Nurse Eden could try it if she liked. She had a
-wonderful way with her; but he wouldn’t advise Hollyer to count on it.
-Nothing but a miracle, he said, could save his mother.
-
-Hollyer didn’t count on Nurse Eden’s way. But he thought—something
-stronger than himself compelled him to think—that his mother would not
-die.
-
-And each hour showed her slowly coming back. Under his eyes the miracle
-was being accomplished. At midnight her breathing and temperature and
-pulse were normal; and by noon of the next day even Ransome was
-convinced. He wouldn’t swear to the miracle, but whatever Nurse Eden had
-or had not done, he believed Mrs. Hollyer would recover.
-
-Hollyer not only believed it, but he was certain, as Nurse Eden was
-certain. She came to him, radiant with certainty, and told him that his
-mind could be at rest now.
-
-But his mind was not at rest. It had only rested while he doubted, as if
-doubt absolved him from knowledge of some secret that he could not face.
-With the first moment of certainty he was aware of it. It was given to
-him in physical sensations, a weight and pain about his heart that did
-not lie. In a flash he saw himself back in his old life of dependence
-and frustration. There would be no Effie sitting with him in the house,
-no Effie running up and down the stairs. He would not sleep with Effie
-in the big, white bed. They would grow old, wanting each other.
-
-He tried to jerk his mouth into a smile, but it had stiffened. It
-opened, gasping, as his muffled heart-beats choked him.
-
-He went upstairs to his mother’s room. She was sitting up in bed,
-clear-eyed, almost alert, and she turned her face to him as he entered.
-
-“I don’t know how it is,” she said. “I thought I was going, but there’s
-something that won’t let me go. It keeps on pulling me back and back.”
-(Nurse Eden looked at him.) “Is it you, Wilfrid?”
-
-He knelt down and buried his face in the bedclothes by her side. His
-sobs shook the mattress. The nurse took him by the arm; he got up and
-stared at her as if dazed and drunk with grief. She led him from the
-room.
-
-“You’re upsetting her,” she said. “Don’t come back till you’ve pulled
-yourself together.”
-
-When he went back his mother was sleeping calmly. Hollyer and the nurse
-withdrew from the bedside to the window and talked there in low voices.
-
-“Did you hear what she said. Nurse?”
-
-“Yes. We can get her through, between us, if we make up our minds she’s
-to live. Think of what she was yesterday.”
-
-“But do you think we ought to? I don’t want her brought back to suffer.”
-
-“She isn’t going to suffer. There’s no reason why she shouldn’t be as
-well as ever. If you want her to live.”
-
-“Want her? Of course I want her to live.”
-
-“I know you do. But you must get rid of your fear.”
-
-“My fear?”
-
-“Your fear of her dying.”
-
-“Do you think my fear could—could make her?”
-
-“I know it could. Make up your mind with me that she’s going to get
-well.”
-
-“Supposing she wants to go? Supposing she’s fighting against us all the
-time?”
-
-“She isn’t fighting. She hasn’t any fight in her— Now, while she’s
-sleeping, is the time. You’ve only got to say to yourself ‘She shall
-live. She’s going to live.’ There—you sit in that chair, make yourself
-quite comfortable, shut your eyes, and keep on saying it. Don’t think of
-anything else.”
-
-He sat down. He said it over and over again: “She shall live. She’s
-going to live. She shall live—” He tried to think of nothing else; but
-all the time he was aware of the dragging of his heart. He shut his
-eyes, but he couldn’t get rid of the vision of Effie. Effie sitting in
-his mother’s place. Effie sleeping beside him in the big bed.
-
-“She _shall_ live. She’s going to live.” The words meant nothing. Only
-the dragging weight at his heart had meaning. And it didn’t lie.
-
-He thought: If that’s how I feel about it, I’d better keep my mind off
-her.
-
-Then he was aware that he was tired, dead beat, too tired to think. And
-presently, sitting upright in the chair, he fell asleep.
-
-He was waked by Nurse Eden’s voice calling to him from the bed: “Mr.
-Hollyer! She’s going!”
-
-His mother lay in the nurse’s arms, her head had fallen forward on her
-chest, her mouth was open; and through it there came a groaning, grating
-cry. Once, twice, three times; and she was gone.
-
-After the funeral Hollyer went up into his mother’s room. Nurse Eden was
-there, removing the signs of death. She had covered the bed with a white
-counterpane. She had opened the door and window wide, and a flood of
-dean cold air streamed through the room.
-
-“Nurse,” he said, “come here a minute.”
-
-She followed him into his bed-sitting room on the other side of the
-landing. Hollyer shut the door.
-
-“You remember that night when my mother got better?”
-
-“Indeed I do.”
-
-“Do you still think you brought her back?”
-
-“I do think it.”
-
-“Do you really believe that a thought—_a thought_ could do that?”
-
-“Yes.”
-
-“But it doesn’t always work. It breaks down.”
-
-“Sometimes. That night she died I felt it wasn’t working. I was up
-against a wall. I couldn’t get through. But remember, before that, she
-was going when I brought her back.”
-
-“Could a thought—another thought—kill?”
-
-“It depends. Perhaps, if it was a very strong thought. A wish.”
-
-Her queer eyes looked through him and beyond him, not seeing him, seeing
-some reality that was not he. He had gone to her for her truth and she
-had given it him. A wish, even a hidden wish, could kill. In the dark,
-secret places of the mind your thoughts ran loose beyond your knowing;
-they burrowed under the walls that shut off one self from another; they
-got through. It was as if his secret self had broken loose, and got
-through to his mother, and had killed her secretly, in the dark. His
-wish was a part of himself, but stronger than himself. The force behind
-it was indestructible, for it was a form of his desire for Effie; so
-that while he lived he could not kill it.
-
-It had been there all the time, cunningly disguised. It was there in his
-fear of Nurse Eden; it was there in that obstinate belief of his that
-his mother would live. His beliefs were always the expression of his
-fears. He had been afraid that his mother would not die. That was his
-fear. He saw it all clearly in the moment while Nurse Eden’s voice went
-on.
-
-“But it wasn’t _that_, Mr. Hollyer,” she was saying. “We were all
-wishing her to live— No. I think she was too far gone. She had got
-beyond us.”
-
-It was too late for Nurse Eden to go back on it. He knew. He was
-certain.
-
-
- IV
-
-
-He knew, and if he were to keep on thinking about it—but he was afraid
-to think. You could go mad, thinking. The moment of his certainty
-remained in his memory; he knew where to find it if he chose to look
-that way. But he refused to look. Such things were better forgotten.
-
-He told himself there was nothing in it. Nothing but Nurse Eden’s
-hysteria and vanity. She wanted you to believe she was wonderful, that
-she could do things. She didn’t really believe it herself. In her own
-last moment of honesty she had confessed as much. He was a fool to have
-been taken in by her.
-
-Meanwhile, three months after his mother’s death, he had married Effie
-Carroll. Her father, who had held out against the engagement,
-surrendered suddenly on the day of the wedding, and made his daughter an
-allowance of fifty pounds a year. He said he didn’t want to profit by
-her folly, and the fifty pounds were no more than the cost of her keep.
-
-It was horrible to think they should owe their happiness to his mother’s
-death; but as things had turned out they didn’t owe it; they could have
-married even if she had lived. And as he had now no motive for wishing
-her dead, he almost forgot that he had ever wished it.
-
-Not that Hollyer reproached himself; his tendency, when he thought it
-all over, was to reproach his mother. He had found out something about
-himself. Before he married he had gone to Dr. Ransome to be overhauled,
-and Ransome had told him there was nothing much the matter with him;
-never was. And if the old pessimist said there wasn’t much the matter,
-you might depend upon it there wasn’t anything at all. Except, Ransome
-said, molly-coddling; and that wasn’t Hollyer’s fault.
-
-“Whose was it, then?” Hollyer had asked. “My mother’s?”
-
-“No. Your dear mother, Hollyer, had no faults. But she made mistakes, as
-we all do.”
-
-“You mean, if I’d been allowed to live like other people I’d have been
-all right?”
-
-“Well—you weren’t a very robust infant; and later on there _was_ a
-slight risk. Personally, I’d have taken it. You must take some risks.
-But your mother was afraid. You were all she had. And I daresay she
-wasn’t sorry to keep you with her.”
-
-“I see.”
-
-He saw it clearly. He had been sacrificed to his mother’s selfishness.
-Nothing but that had doomed him to his humiliating dependence, his
-poverty, his intolerable celibacy. He found himself brooding over it,
-going back and back to it, with a certain gratification, as if it
-justified him. His mind was appeased by this righteous resentment. When
-the remembrance of his mother’s beauty and sweetness rushed at him and
-accused him he turned from it to his brooding.
-
-He had begun to talk, to say things about his mother. Put into spoken
-words his grievance seemed more real; it acquired validity.
-
-He had felt so safe. His mother couldn’t hear him. She would never know
-what he thought about her; he would have died rather than let her know.
-And he had only talked to Effie. Talking to his wife was no worse than
-thinking to himself. After all he had gone through, he felt he was
-entitled to that relief.
-
-It was June, a hot, close evening before lamplight; they were sitting
-together in the drawing-room, Effie in his mother’s chair and he at his
-piano in the recess on the other side of the fireplace. And there was
-something that Effie said when he had stopped playing and had turned to
-her, smiling.
-
-“Wilfrid—are you happy?”
-
-“Of course I’m happy.”
-
-“No, but—really?”
-
-“Really. Absolutely. You make me happy.”
-
-“Do I? I’m so glad. You see, when I married you I was afraid I couldn’t.
-It was so hard to come after your mother.”
-
-He winced.
-
-“How do you mean? You don’t come ‘after’ her.”
-
-“I mean, after all she was to you. After all she did. Your life with her
-was so perfect.”
-
-“If it’s any consolation to you, Effie, it wasn’t.”
-
-“Wasn’t?”
-
-“No. Anything but.”
-
-“Oh, Wilfrid!”
-
-He seemed to her to be uttering blasphemy.
-
-“It’s better you should know it. My dear mother didn’t understand me in
-the least. My whole up-bringing was a ghastly blunder. If I’d been let
-live a decent fife, like any other boy, like any other man, I might have
-been good for something. But she wouldn’t let me. She pretended there
-was something the matter with me when there wasn’t, so that she could
-keep me dependent on her.”
-
-“Wilfrid _dear_, it may have been a blunder and it may have been
-ghastly—”
-
-“It was.”
-
-“But it was only her love for you.”
-
-“A very selfish sort of love, Effie.”
-
-“Oh _don’t_,” she cried. “Don’t. She’s _dead_, Wilfrid.”
-
-“I’m not likely to forget it.”
-
-“You talk as if you’d forgotten— If the dead knew—”
-
-If the dead knew—
-
-“If they knew,” she said, “how we spoke about them, how we thought—”
-
-If the dead knew—
-
-If his mother had heard him; if she knew what he had been thinking; if
-she knew that he had wished her dead and that his wish had killed her—
-
-If the dead knew—
-
-“Happily for us and them, they don’t know,” he said.
-
-And he began playing again. He was aware that Effie had risen and was
-now seated at the writing-table. As he played he had his back to the
-writing-table and the door.
-
-The book on the piano ledge before him was Mendelssohn’s _Lieder ohne
-Worte_. open as Effie had left it at Number Nine. He remembered that was
-the one his mother had loved so much. His fingers fell of their own
-accord into the prelude, into the melody, pressing out its thick, sweet,
-deliberate sadness. It wounded him, each note a separate stab, yet he
-went on, half-voluptuously enjoying the self-inflicted pain, trying to
-work it up and up into a supreme poignancy of sorrow, of regret.
-
-As he stopped on the closing chord he heard somewhere behind him a
-thick, sobbing sigh.
-
-“Effie—”
-
-He looked round. But Effie was not there. He could hear her footsteps in
-the room overhead. She had gone, then, before he had stopped playing,
-shutting the door without a sound. It must have been his imagination.
-
-He played a few bars, then paused, listening. The sighing had begun
-again; it was close behind him.
-
-He swung round sharply. There was nobody there. But the door, which had
-been shut a minute ago, stood wide open. A cold wind blew in, cutting
-through the hot, stagnant air. He got up and shut the door. The cold
-wind wrapped him in a belt, a swirl; he stood still in it for a moment,
-stiff with fear. When he crossed the room to the piano it was as if he
-moved breast high in deep, cold water.
-
-Somewhere in the secret place of his mind a word struggled to form
-itself, to be born.
-
-“Mother.”
-
-It came to him with a sense of appalling, supernatural horror. Horror
-that was there with him in the room like a presence.
-
-“Mother.”
-
-The word had lost its meaning. It stood for nothing but that horror.
-
-He tried to play again, but his fingers, slippery with sweat, dropped
-from the keyboard.
-
-Something compelled him to turn round and look towards his mother’s
-chair.
-
-Then he saw her.
-
-She stood between him and the chair, straight and thin, dressed in the
-clothes she had died in, the yellowish flannel nightgown and bed jacket.
-
-[Illustration: The apparition maintained itself with difficulty.]
-
-The apparition maintained itself with difficulty. Already its hair had
-grown indistinct, a cap of white mist. Its face was an insubstantial
-framework for its mouth and eyes, and for the tears that fell in two
-shining tracks between. It was less a form than a visible emotion, an
-anguish.
-
-Hollyer stood up and stared at it. Through the glasses of its tears it
-gazed back at him with an intense, a terrible reproach and sorrow.
-
-Then, slowly and stiffly, it began to recede from him, drawn back and
-back, without any movement of its feet, in an unearthly stillness,
-keeping up, to the last minute, its look of indestructible reproach.
-
-And now it was a formless mass that drifted to the window and hung there
-a second, and passed, shrinking like a breath on the pane.
-
-Hollyer, rigid, pouring out sweat, still stared at the place where it
-had stood. His heart-beats came together in a running tremor: it was as
-if all the blood in his body was gathered into his distended heart,
-dragging it down to meet his heaving belly.
-
-Then he turned and went headlong towards the door, stumbling and
-lurching. He threw out his hands to clutch at a support and found
-himself in Effie’s arms.
-
-“Wilfrid—darling—what is it?”
-
-“Nothing. I’m giddy. I—I think I’m going to be sick.”
-
-He broke from her and dragged himself upstairs and shut himself into his
-study. That night his old single bed was brought back and made up there.
-He was afraid to sleep in the room that had been his mother’s.
-
-
- V
-
-
-He had run through all the physical sensations of his terror. What he
-felt now was the sharp, abominable torture of the mind.
-
-If the dead knew—
-
-The dead _did_ know. She had come back to tell him that she knew. She
-knew that he thought of her with unkindness. She had been there when he
-talked about her to Effie. She knew the thought he had hidden even from
-himself. She knew that she had died because, secretly, he had wished her
-dead.
-
-That was the meaning of her look and of her tears.
-
-No fleshly eyes could have expressed such an intensity of suffering, of
-unfathomable grief. He thought: the pain of a discarnate spirit might be
-infinitely sharper than any earthly pain. It might be inexhaustible. Who
-was to say that it was not?
-
-Yet could it—could even an immortal suffering—be sharper than the
-anguish he felt now? If only he had known what he was doing to her— If
-he had known. If he had known—
-
-But, he thought, we know nothing, and we care less. We say we believe in
-immortality, but we do not believe in it. We treat the dead as if they
-_were_ dead, as if they were not there. If he had really believed that
-she was there, he would have died rather than say the things he had said
-to Effie. Nobody, he told himself, could have accused him of unkindness
-to his mother while she lived. He had really loved her up to the moment,
-the moment of supreme temptation, when he wanted Effie. He had not
-willed her to die. He had been barely conscious of his wish. How, then,
-could he be held accountable? How could he have destroyed the thing
-whose essence was the hidden, unknown darkness? Yet, if men are
-accountable at all, he was accountable. There had been a moment when he
-was conscious of it. He could have destroyed it then. He should have
-faced it; he should have dragged it out into the light and fought it.
-
-Instead, he had let it sink back into its darkness, to work there
-unseen.
-
-And if he had really loved his mother, he would have wished, not willed
-her to live. He would have wanted her as he wanted her now.
-
-For, now that it was too late, he did want her. His whole mind had
-changed. He no longer thought of her with resentment. He thought, with a
-passionate adoration and regret, of her beauty, her goodness, and her
-love for him. What if she _had_ kept him with her? It had been, as Effie
-had said, because she loved him. How did he know that if she had let him
-go he would have been good for anything? What on earth could he have
-been but the third-rate organist he was?
-
-He remembered the happiness he had had with her before _he_ had loved
-Effie; her looks, her words, the thousand Clings she used to do to
-please him. The Mendelssohn she had given him. A certain sweet cake she
-made for him on his birthdays. And the touch of her hands, her kisses.
-
-He thought of these things with an agony of longing. If only he could
-have her back; if only she would come to him again, that he might show
-her—
-
-He asked himself: How much did Effie know? She must wonder why he had
-taken that sudden dislike to the drawing-room; why he insisted on
-sleeping in his study. She had never said anything.
-
-A week had passed—they were sitting in the dining-room after supper,
-when she spoke.
-
-“Wilfrid, why do you always want to sit here?”
-
-“Because I hate the other room.”
-
-“You didn’t use to. It’s only since that day you were ill, the last time
-you were playing. Why do you hate it?”
-
-“Well, if you want to know—you remember the beastly things I said about
-mother?”
-
-[Illustration]
-
-“You didn’t mean them.”
-
-“I did mean them— But it wasn’t that. It was something you said.”
-
-“I?”
-
-“Yes. You said ‘If the dead knew—’”
-
-“Well—?”
-
-“Well—they do know—I’m certain my mother knew. Certain, as I’m certain
-I’m sitting here, that she heard.”
-
-“Oh, Wilfrid, what makes you think that?”
-
-“I can’t tell you what makes me think it— But—she was there.”
-
-“You only think it because you’re feeling sorry. You must get over it.
-Go back into the room and play.”
-
-He shook his head and still sat there thinking. Effie did not speak
-again; she saw that she must let him think.
-
-Presently he got up and went into the drawing-room, shutting the doors
-behind him.
-
-The Mendelssohn was still on the piano ledge, open at Number Nine. He
-began to play it. But at the first bars of the melody he stopped,
-overwhelmed by an agony of regret. He slid down on his knees, with his
-arms on the edge of the piano and his head bowed on his arms.
-
-His soul cried out in him with no sound.
-
-“Mother—Mother—if only I had you back. If only you would come to me.
-Come—Come—”
-
-And suddenly he felt her come. From far-off, from her place among the
-blessed, she came rushing, as if on wings. He heard nothing; he saw
-nothing; but with every nerve he felt the vibration of her approach, of
-her presence. She was close to him now, closer than hearing or sight or
-touch could bring her; her self to his self; her inmost essence was
-there.
-
-The phantasm of a week ago was a faint, insignificant thing beside this
-supreme manifestation. No likeness of flesh and blood could give him
-such an assurance of reality, of contact.
-
-For, more certain than any word of flesh and blood, her meaning flashed
-through him and thrilled.
-
-She knew. She knew she had him again; she knew she would never lose him.
-He was her son. As she had once given him flesh of her flesh, so now,
-self to innermost self, she gave him her blessedness, her peace.
-
-
-
-
- THE VICTIM
-
-
-Steven Acroyd, Mr. Greathead’s chauffeur, was sulking in the garage.
-
-Everybody was afraid of him. Everybody hated him except Mr. Greathead,
-his master, and Dorsy, his sweetheart.
-
-And even Dorsy now, after yesterday!
-
-Night had come. On one side the yard gates stood open to the black
-tunnel of the drive. On the other the high moor rose above the wall,
-immense, darker than the darkness. Steven’s lantern in the open doorway
-of the garage and Dorsy’s lamp in the kitchen window threw a blond
-twilight into the yard between. From where he sat, slantways on the step
-of the car, he could see, through the lighted window, the table with the
-lamp and Dorsy’s sewing huddled up in a white heap as she left it just
-now, when she had jumped up and gone away. Because she was afraid of
-him.
-
-She had gone straight to Mr. Greathead in his study, and Steven,
-sulking, had flung himself out into the yard.
-
-He stared into the window, thinking, thinking. Everybody hated him. He
-could tell by the damned spiteful way they looked at him in the bar of
-the “King’s Arms”; kind of sideways and slink-eyed, turning their dirty
-tails and shuffling out of his way.
-
-He had said to Dorsy he’d like to know what he’d done. He’d just dropped
-in for his glass as usual; he’d looked round and said “Good-evening,”
-civil, and the dirty tykes took no more notice of him than if he’d been
-a toad. Mrs. Oldishaw, Dorsy’s aunt, _she_ hated him, boiled-ham-face,
-swelling with spite, shoving his glass at the end of her arm, without
-speaking, as if he’d been a bloody cockroach.
-
-[Illustration]
-
-All because of the thrashing he’d given young Ned Oldishaw. If she
-didn’t want the cub’s neck broken she’d better keep him out of mischief.
-Young Ned knew what he’d get if he came meddling with _his_ sweetheart.
-
-It had happened yesterday afternoon, Sunday, when he had gone down with
-Dorsy to the “King’s Arms” to see her aunt. They were sitting out on the
-wooden bench against the inn wall when young Ned began it. He could see
-him now with his arm round Dorsy’s neck and his mouth gaping.
-
-And Dorsy laughing like a silly fool and the old woman snorting and
-shaking.
-
-He could hear him. “She’s my cousin if she _is_ your sweetheart. You
-can’t stop me kissing her.” _Couldn’t_ he!
-
-Why, what did they think? When he’d given up his good job at the
-Darlington Motor Works to come to Eastthwaite and black Mr. Greathead’s
-boots, chop wood, carry coal and water for him, and drive his shabby
-secondhand car. Not that he cared what he did so long as he could live
-in the same house with Dorsy Oldishaw. It wasn’t likely he’d sit like a
-bloody Moses, looking on, while Ned—
-
-To be sure, he had half killed him. He could feel Ned’s neck swelling
-and rising up under the pressure of his hands, his fingers. He had
-struck him first, flinging him back against the inn wall, then he had
-pinned him—till the men ran up and dragged him off.
-
-And now they were all against him. Dorsy was against him. She had said
-she was afraid of him.
-
-“Steven,” she had said, “tha med ’a killed him.”
-
-“Well—p’r’aps next time he’ll knaw better than to coom meddlin’ with
-_my_ lass.”
-
-“I’m not thy lass, ef tha canna keep thy hands off folks. I should be
-feared for my life of thee. Ned wum’t doing naw ’arm.”
-
-“Ef he doos it again, ef he cooms between thee and me, Dorsy, I shall do
-’im in.”
-
-“Naw, tha maunna talk that road.”
-
-“It’s Gawd’s truth. Anybody that cooms between thee and me, loove, I
-shall do ’im in. Ef ’twas thy aunt, I should wring ’er neck, same as I
-wroong Ned’s.”
-
-“And ef it was me, Steven?”
-
-“Ef it wur thee, ef tha left me— Aw, doan’t tha assk me, Dorsy.”
-
-“There—that’s ’ow tha scares me.”
-
-“But tha’ ’astna left me—’tes thy wedding daithes tha’rt making.”
-
-“Aye, ’tes my wedding claithes.”
-
-She had started fingering the white stuff, looking at it with her head
-on one side, smiling prettily. Then all of a sudden she had flung it
-down in a heap and burst out crying. When he tried to comfort her she
-pushed him off and ran out of the room, to Mr. Greathead.
-
-It must have been half an hour ago and she had not come back yet.
-
-He got up and went through the yard gates into the dark drive. Turning
-there, he came to the house front and the lighted window of the study.
-Hidden behind a clump of yew he looked in.
-
-Mr. Greathead had risen from his chair. He was a little old man, shrunk
-and pinched, with a bowed narrow back and slender neck under his grey
-hanks of hair.
-
-Dorsy stood before him, facing Steven. The lamplight fell full on her.
-Her sweet flower-face was flushed. She had been crying.
-
-Mr. Greathead spoke.
-
-“Well, that’s my advice,” he said. “Think it over, Dorsy, before you do
-anything.”
-
-That night Dorsy packed her boxes, and the next day at noon, when Steven
-came in for his dinner, she had left the Lodge. She had gone back to her
-father’s house in Garthdale.
-
-She wrote to Steven saying that she had thought it over and found she
-daren’t marry him. She was afraid of him. She would be too unhappy.
-
-[Illustration: Then all of a sudden she had burst out crying ...]
-
-
- II
-
-
-That was the old man, the old man. He had made her give him up. But for
-that, Dorsy would never have left him. She would never have thought of
-it herself. And she would never have got away if he had been there to
-stop her. It wasn’t Ned. Ned was going to marry Nancy Peacock down at
-Morfe. Ned hadn’t done any harm.
-
-It was Mr. Greathead who had come between them. He hated Mr. Greathead.
-
-His hate became a nausea of physical loathing that never ceased. Indoors
-he served Mr. Greathead as footman and valet, waiting on him at meals,
-bringing the hot water for his bath, helping him to dress and undress.
-So that he could never get away from him. When he came to call him in
-the morning, Steven’s stomach heaved at the sight of the shrunken body
-under the bedclothes, the flushed, pinched face with its peaked,
-finicking nose upturned, the thin silver tuft of hair pricked up above
-the pillow’s edge. Steven shivered with hate at the sound of the
-rattling, old-man’s cough, and the “shoob-shoob” of the feet shuffling
-along the flagged passages.
-
-He had once had a feeling of tenderness for Mr. Greathead as the tie
-that bound him to Dorsy. He even brushed his coat and hat tenderly, as
-if he loved them. Once Mr. Greathead’s small, close smile—the greyish
-bud of the lower lip pushed out, the upper lip lifted at the corners—and
-his kind, thin “Thank you, my lad,” had made Steven smile back, glad to
-serve Dorsy’s master. And Mr. Greathead would smile again and say, “It
-does me good to see your bright face, Steven.” Now Steven’s face writhed
-in a tight contortion to meet Mr. Greathead’s kindliness, while his
-throat ran dry and his heart shook with hate.
-
-At meal-times from his place by the sideboard he would look on at Mr.
-Greathead eating, in a long contemplative disgust. He could have
-snatched the plate away from under the slow, fumbling hands that hovered
-and hesitated. He would catch words coming into his mind: “He ought to
-be dead. He ought to be dead.” To think that this thing that ought to be
-dead, this old, shrivelled skin-bag of creaking bones should come
-between him and Dorsy, should have power to drive Dorsy from him.
-
-[Illustration]
-
-One day when he was brushing Mr. Greathead’s soft felt hat a paroxysm of
-hatred gripped him. He hated Mr. Greathead’s hat. He took a stick and
-struck at it again and again; he threw it on the flags and stamped on
-it, clenching his teeth and drawing in his breath with a sharp hiss. He
-picked up the hat, looking round furtively, for fear lest Mr. Greathead
-or Dorsy’s successor, Mrs. Blenkiron, should have seen him. He pinched
-and pulled it back into shape and brushed it carefully and hung it on
-the stand. He was ashamed, not of his violence, but of its futility.
-
-Nobody but a damned fool, he said to himself, would have done that. He
-must have been mad.
-
-It wasn’t as if he didn’t know what he was going to do. He had known
-ever since the day when Dorsy left him.
-
-“I shan’t be myself again till I’ve done him in,” he thought.
-
-He was only waiting till he had planned it out; till he was sure of
-every detail; till he was fit and cool. There must be no hesitation, no
-uncertainty at the last minute, above all, no blind, headlong violence.
-Nobody but a fool would kill in mad rage, and forget things, and be
-caught and swing for it. Yet that was what they all did. There was
-always something they hadn’t thought of that gave them away.
-
-Steven had thought of everything, even the date, even the weather.
-
-Mr. Greathead was in the habit of going up to London to attend the
-debates of a learned Society he belonged to that held its meetings in
-May and November. He always travelled up by the five o’clock train, so
-that he might go to bed and rest as soon as he arrived. He always stayed
-for a week and gave his housekeeper a week’s holiday. Steven chose a
-dark, threatening day in November, when Mr. Greathead was going up to
-his meeting and Mrs. Blenkiron had left Eastthwaite for Morfe by the
-early morning bus. So that there was nobody in the house but Mr.
-Greathead and Steven.
-
-Eastthwaite Lodge stands alone, grey, hidden between the shoulder of the
-moor and the ash-trees of its drive. It is approached by a bridle-path
-across the moor, a turning off the road that runs from Eastthwaite in
-Rathdale to Shawe in Westleydale, about a mile from the village and a
-mile from Hardraw Pass. No tradesmen visited it. Mr. Greathead’s letters
-and his newspaper were shot into a post-box that hung on the ash-tree at
-the turn.
-
-The hot water laid on in the house was not hot enough for Mr.
-Greathead’s bath, so that every morning, while Mr. Greathead shaved,
-Steven came to him with a can of boiling water.
-
-Mr. Greathead, dressed in a mauve and grey striped sleeping-suit, stood
-shaving himself before the looking-glass that hung on the wall beside
-the great white bath. Steven waited with his hand on the cold tap,
-watching the bright curved rod of water falling with a thud and a
-splash.
-
-In the white, stagnant light from the muffed window-pane the knife-blade
-flame of a small oil-stove flickered queerly. The oil sputtered and
-stank.
-
-Suddenly the wind hissed in the water-pipes and cut off the glittering
-rod. To Steven it seemed the suspension of all movement. He would have
-to wait there till the water flowed again before he could begin. He
-tried not to look at Mr. Greathead and the lean wattles of his lifted
-throat. He fixed his eyes on the long crack in the soiled green
-distemper of the wall. His nerves were on edge with waiting for the
-water to flow again. The fumes of the oil-stove worked on them like a
-rank intoxicant. The soiled green wall gave him a sensation of physical
-sickness.
-
-He picked up a towel and hung it over the back of a chair. Thus he
-caught sight of his own face in the glass above Mr. Greathead’s; it was
-livid against the soiled green wall. Steven stepped aside to avoid it.
-
-“Don’t you feel well, Steven?”
-
-“No, sir.” Steven picked up a small sponge and looked at it.
-
-Mr. Greathead had laid down his razor and was wiping the lather from his
-chin. At that instant, with a gurgling, spluttering haste, the water
-leaped from the tap.
-
-It was then that Steven made his sudden, quiet rush. He first gagged Mr.
-Greathead with the sponge, then pushed him back and back against the
-wall and pinned him there with both hands round his neck, as he had
-pinned Ned Oldishaw. He pressed in on Mr. Greathead’s throat, strangling
-him.
-
-Mr. Greathead’s hands flapped in the air, trying feebly to beat Steven
-off; then his arms, pushed back by the heave and thrust of Steven’s
-shoulders, dropped. Then Mr. Greathead’s body sank, sliding along the
-wall, and fell to the floor, Steven still keeping his hold, mounting it,
-gripping it with his knees. His fingers tightened, pressing back the
-blood. Mr. Greathead’s face swelled up; it changed horribly. There was a
-groaning and rattling sound in his throat. Steven pressed in till it had
-ceased.
-
-Then he stripped himself to the waist. He stripped Mr. Greathead of his
-sleeping-suit and hung his naked body face downwards in the bath. He
-took the razor and cut the great arteries and veins in the neck. He
-pulled up the plug of the waste-pipe, and left the body to drain in the
-running water.
-
-He left it all day and all night.
-
-He had noticed that murderers swung just for want of attention to little
-things like that; messing up themselves and the whole place with blood;
-always forgetting something essential. He had no time to think of
-horrors. From the moment he had murdered Mr. Greathead his own neck was
-in danger; he was simply using all his brain and nerve to save his neck.
-He worked with the stem, cool hardness of a man going through with an
-unpleasant, necessary job. He had thought of everything.
-
-He had even thought of the dairy.
-
-[Illustration: Steven waited with his hand on the tap ...]
-
-It was built on to the back of the house under the shelter of the high
-moor. You entered it through the scullery, which cut it off from the
-yard. The window-panes had been removed and replaced by sheets of
-perforated zinc. A large corrugated glass sky-light lit it from the
-roof. Impossible either to see in or to approach it from the outside. It
-was fitted up with a long, black slate shelf, placed, for the
-convenience of butter-makers, at the height of an ordinary work-bench.
-Steven had his tools, a razor, a carving-knife, a chopper and a
-meat-saw, laid there ready, beside a great pile of cotton waste.
-
-Early the next day he took Mr. Greathead’s body out of the bath, wrapped
-a thick towel round the neck and head, carried it down to the dairy and
-stretched it out on the slab. And there he cut it up into seventeen
-pieces.
-
-These he wrapped in several layers of newspaper, covering the face and
-the hands first, because, at the last moment, they frightened him. He
-sewed them up in two sacks and hid them in the cellar.
-
-He burnt the towel and the cotton waste in the kitchen fire; he cleaned
-his tools thoroughly and put them back in their places; and he washed
-down the marble slab. There wasn’t a spot on the floor except for one
-flagstone where the pink rinsing of the slab had splashed over. He
-scrubbed it for half an hour, still seeing the rusty edges of the splash
-long after he had scoured it out.
-
-He then washed and dressed himself with care.
-
-As it was war-time Steven could only work by day, for a light in the
-dairy roof would have attracted the attention of the police. He had
-murdered Mr. Greathead on a Tuesday; it was now three o’clock on
-Thursday afternoon. Exactly at ten minutes past four he had brought out
-the car, shut in close with its black hood and side curtains. He had
-packed Mr. Greathead’s suit-case and placed it in the car with his
-umbrella, railway rug, and travelling cap. Also, in a bundle, the
-clothes that his victim would have gone to London in.
-
-He stowed the body in the two sacks beside him on the front.
-
-By Hardraw Pass, half-way between Eastthwaite and Shawe, there are three
-round pits, known as the Churns, hollowed out of the grey rock and said
-to be bottomless. Steven had thrown stones, big as a man’s chest, down
-the largest pit, to see whether they would be caught on any ledge or
-boulder. They had dropped clean, without a sound.
-
-It poured with rain, the rain that Steven had reckoned on. The Pass was
-dark under the clouds and deserted. Steven turned his car so that the
-headlights glared on the pit’s mouth. Then he ripped open the sacks and
-threw down, one by one, the seventeen pieces of Mr. Greathead’s body,
-and the sacks after them, and the clothes.
-
-It was not enough to dispose of Mr. Greathead’s dead body; he had to
-behave as though Mr. Greathead were alive. Mr. Greathead had disappeared
-and he had to account for his disappearance. He drove on to Shawe
-station to the five o’clock train, taking care to arrive close on its
-starting. A troop-train was due to depart a minute earlier. Steven, who
-had reckoned on the darkness and the rain, reckoned also on the hurry
-and confusion on the platform.
-
-As he had foreseen, there were no porters in the station entry; nobody
-to notice whether Mr. Greathead was or was not in the car. He carried
-his things through on to the platform and gave the suit-case to an old
-man to label. He dashed into the booking-office and took Mr. Greathead’s
-ticket, and then rushed along the platform as if he were following his
-master. He heard himself shouting to the guard, “Have you seen Mr.
-Greathead?” And the guard’s answer, “Naw!” And his own inspired
-statement, “He must have taken his seat in the front, then.” He ran to
-the front of the train, shouldering his way among the troops. The drawn
-blinds of the carriages favoured him.
-
-Steven thrust the umbrella, the rug, and the travelling cap into an
-empty compartment, and slammed the door to. He tried to shout something
-through the open window; but his tongue was harsh and dry against the
-roof of his mouth, and no sound came. He stood, blocking the window,
-till the guard whistled. When the train moved he ran alongside with his
-hand on the window ledge, as though he were taking the last instructions
-of his master. A porter pulled him back.
-
-“Quick work, that,” said Steven.
-
-Before he left the station he wired to Mr. Greathead’s London hotel,
-announcing the time of his arrival.
-
-He felt nothing, nothing but the intense relief of a man who has saved
-himself by his own wits from a most horrible death. There were even
-moments, in the week that followed, when, so powerful was the illusion
-of his innocence, he could have believed that he had really seen Mr.
-Greathead off by the five o’clock train. Moments when he literally stood
-still in amazement before his own incredible impunity. Other moments
-when a sort of vanity uplifted him. He had committed a murder that for
-sheer audacity and cool brain work surpassed all murders celebrated in
-the history of crime. Unfortunately the very perfection of his
-achievement doomed it to oblivion. He had left not a trace.
-
-Not a trace.
-
-Only when he woke in the night a doubt sickened him. There was the
-rusted ring of that splash on the dairy floor. He wondered, had he
-really washed it out clean. And he would get up and light a candle and
-go down to the dairy to make sure. He knew the exact place; bending over
-it with the candle, he could imagine that he still saw a faint outline.
-
-Daylight reassured him. _He_ knew the exact place, but nobody else knew.
-There was nothing to distinguish it from the natural stains in the
-flagstone. Nobody would guess. But he was glad when Mrs. Blenkiron came
-back again.
-
-On the day that Mr. Greathead was to have come home by the four o’clock
-train Steven drove into Shawe and bought a chicken for the master’s
-dinner. He met the four o’clock train and expressed surprise that Mr.
-Greathead had not come by it. He said he would be sure to come by the
-seven. He ordered dinner for eight; Mrs. Blenkiron roasted the chicken,
-and Steven met the seven o’clock train. This time he showed uneasiness.
-
-The next day he met all the trains and wired to Mr. Greathead’s hotel
-for information. When the manager wired back that Mr. Greathead had not
-arrived, he wrote to his relatives and gave notice to the police.
-
-Three weeks passed. The police and Mr. Greathead’s relatives accepted
-Steven’s statements, backed as they were by the evidence of the booking
-office clerk, the telegraph clerk, the guard, the porter who had
-labelled Mr. Greathead’s luggage and the hotel manager who had received
-his telegram. Mr. Greathead’s portrait was published in the illustrated
-papers with requests for any information which might lead to his
-discovery. Nothing happened, and presently he and his disappearance were
-forgotten. The nephew who came down to Eastthwaite to look into his
-affairs was satisfied. His balance at his bank was low owing to the
-non-payment of various dividends, but the accounts and the contents of
-Mr. Greathead’s cash-box and bureau were in order and Steven had put
-down every penny he had spent. The nephew paid Mrs. Blenkiron’s wages
-and dismissed her and arranged with the chauffeur to stay on and take
-care of the house. And as Steven saw that this was the best way to
-escape suspicion, he stayed on.
-
-Only in Westleydale and Rathdale excitement lingered. People wondered
-and speculated. Mr. Greathead had been robbed and murdered in the train
-(Steven said he had had money on him). He had lost his memory and
-wandered goodness knew where. He had thrown himself out of the railway
-carriage. Steven said Mr. Greathead wouldn’t do _that_, but he shouldn’t
-be surprised if he had lost his memory. He knew a man who forgot who he
-was and where he lived. Didn’t know his own wife and children.
-Shell-shock. And lately Mr. Greathead’s memory hadn’t been what it was.
-Soon as he got it back he’d turn up again. Steven wouldn’t be surprised
-to see him walking in any day.
-
-But on the whole people noticed that he didn’t care to talk much about
-Mr. Greathead. They thought this showed very proper feeling. They were
-sorry for Steven. He had lost his master and he had lost Dorsy Oldishaw.
-And if he _did_ half kill Ned Oldishaw, well, young Ned had no business
-to go meddling with his sweetheart. Even Mrs. Oldishaw was sorry for
-him. And when Steven came into the bar of the King’s Arms everybody said
-“Good-evening, Steve,” and made room for him by the fire.
-
-
- III
-
-
-Steven came and went now as if nothing had happened. He made a point of
-keeping the house as it would be kept if Mr. Greathead were alive. Mrs.
-Blenkiron, coming in once a fortnight to wash and clean, found the fire
-lit in Mr. Greathead’s study and his slippers standing on end in the
-fender. Upstairs his bed was made, the clothes folded back, ready. This
-ritual guarded Steven not only from the suspicions of outsiders, but
-from his own knowledge. By behaving as though he believed that Mr.
-Greathead was still living he almost made himself believe it. By
-refusing to let his mind dwell on the murder he came to forget it. His
-imagination saved him, playing the play that kept him sane, till the
-murder became vague to him and fantastic like a thing done in a dream.
-He had waked up and this was the reality; this round of caretaking, this
-look the house had of waiting for Mr. Greathead to come back to it. He
-had left off getting up in the night to examine the place on the dairy
-floor. He was no longer amazed at his impunity.
-
-[Illustration]
-
-Then suddenly, when he really had forgotten, it ended. It was on a
-Saturday in January, about five o’clock. Steven had heard that Dorsy
-Oldishaw was back again, living at the “King’s Arms” with her aunt. He
-had a mad, uncontrollable longing to see her again.
-
-But it was not Dorsy that he saw.
-
-His way from the Lodge kitchen into the drive was through the yard gates
-and along the flagged path under the study window. When he turned on to
-the flags he saw it shuffling along before him. The lamplight from the
-window lit it up. He could see distinctly the little old man in the
-long, shabby black overcoat, with the grey woollen muffler round his
-neck hunched up above his collar, lifting the thin grey hair that stuck
-out under the slouch of the black hat.
-
-In the first moment that he saw it Steven had no fear. He simply felt
-that the murder had not happened, that he really _had_ dreamed it, and
-that this was Mr. Greathead come back, alive among the living. The
-phantasm was now standing at the door of the house, its hand on the
-door-knob as if about to enter.
-
-But when Steven came up to the door it was not there.
-
-He stood, fixed, staring at the space which had emptied itself so
-horribly. His heart heaved and staggered, snatching at his breath. And
-suddenly the memory of the murder rushed at him. He saw himself in the
-bathroom, shut in with his victim by the soiled green walls. He smelt
-the reek of the oil-stove; he heard the water running from the tap. He
-felt his feet springing forward, and his fingers pressing, tighter and
-tighter, on Mr. Greathead’s throat. He saw Mr. Greathead’s hands
-flapping helplessly, his terrified eyes, his face swelling and
-discoloured, changing horribly, and his body sinking to the floor.
-
-He saw himself in the dairy, afterwards; he could hear the thudding,
-grinding, scraping noises of his tools. He saw himself on Hardraw Pass
-and the headlights glaring on the pit’s mouth. And the fear and the
-horror he had not felt then came on him now.
-
-He turned back; he bolted the yard gates and all the doors of the house,
-and shut himself up in the lighted kitchen. He took up his magazine.
-_The Autocar_, and forced himself to read it. Presently his terror left
-him. He said to himself it was nothing. Nothing but his fancy. He didn’t
-suppose he’d ever see anything again.
-
-Three days passed. On the third evening, Steven had lit the study lamp
-and was bolting the window when he saw it again.
-
-It stood on the path outside, close against the window, looking in. He
-saw its face distinctly, the greyish, stuck-out bud of the under-lip,
-and the droop of the pinched nose. The small eyes peered at him,
-glittering. The whole figure had a glassy look between the darkness
-behind it and the pane. One moment it stood outside, looking in; and the
-next it was mixed up with the shimmering picture of the lighted room
-that hung there on the blackness of the trees. Mr. Greathead then showed
-as if reflected, standing with Steven in the room.
-
-[Illustration: It stood close against the window, looking in.]
-
-And now he was outside again, looking at him, looking at him through the
-pane.
-
-Steven’s stomach sank and dragged, making him feel sick. He pulled down
-the blind between him and Mr. Greathead, clamped the shutters to and
-drew the curtains over them. He locked and double-bolted the front door,
-all the doors, to keep Mr. Greathead out. But, once that night, as he
-lay in bed, he heard the “shoob-shoob” of feet shuffling along the
-flagged passages, up the stairs, and across the landing outside his
-door. The door handle rattled; but nothing came. He lay awake till
-morning, the sweat running off his skin, his heart plunging and
-quivering with terror.
-
-When he got up he saw a white, scared face in the looking-glass. A face
-with a half-open mouth, ready to blab, to blurt out his secret; the face
-of an idiot. He was afraid to take that face into Eastthwaite or into
-Shawe. So he shut himself up in the house, half starved on his small
-stock of bread, bacon and groceries.
-
-Two weeks passed; and then it came again in broad daylight.
-
-It was Mrs. Blenkiron’s morning. He had lit the fire in the study at
-noon and set up Mr. Greathead’s slippers in the fender. When he rose
-from his stooping and turned round he saw Mr. Greathead’s phantasm
-standing on the hearthrug dose in front of him. It was looking at him
-and smiling in a sort of mockery, as if amused at what Steven had been
-doing. It was solid and completely lifelike at first. Then, as Steven in
-his terror backed and backed away from it (he was afraid to turn and
-feel it there behind him), its feet became insubstantial. As if
-undermined, the whole structure sank and fell together on the floor,
-where it made a pool of some whitish glistening substance that mixed
-with the pattern of the carpet and sank through.
-
-That was the most horrible thing it had done yet, and Steven’s nerve
-broke under it. He went to Mrs. Blenkiron, whom he found scrubbing out
-the dairy.
-
-She sighed as she wrung out the floor-doth.
-
-“Eh, these owd yeller stawnes, scroob as you will they’ll nawer look
-dean.”
-
-“Naw,” he said. “Scroob and scroob, you’ll nawer get them clean.”
-
-She looked up at him.
-
-“Eh, lad, what ails ’ee? Ye’ve got a faace like a wroong dishdout
-hanging ower t’ sink.”
-
-“I’ve got the colic.”
-
-“Aye, an’ naw woonder wi’ the damp, and they misties, an’ your awn bad
-cooking. Let me roon down t’ ‘King’s Arms’ and get you a drop of
-whisky.”
-
-“Naw, I’ll gaw down mysen.”
-
-He knew now he was afraid to be left alone in the house. Down at the
-“King’s Arms” Dorsy and Mrs. Oldishaw were sorry for him. By this time
-he was really ill with fright. Dorsy and Mrs. Oldishaw said it was a
-chill. They made him lie down on the settle by the kitchen fire and put
-a rug over him, and gave him stiff hot grog to drink. He slept. And when
-he woke he found Dorsy sitting beside him with her sewing.
-
-He sat up and her hand was on his shoulder.
-
-“Lay still, lad.”
-
-“I maun get oop and gaw.”
-
-“Nay, there’s naw call for ’ee to gaw. Lay still and I’ll make thee a
-coop o’ tea.”
-
-He lay still.
-
-Mrs. Oldishaw had made up a bed for him in her son’s room, and they kept
-him there that night and till four o’clock the next day.
-
-When he got up to go Dorsy put on her coat and hat.
-
-“Is tha gawing out, Dorsy?”
-
-“Aye. I canna let thee gaw and set there by thysen. I’m cooming oop to
-set with ’ee till night time.”
-
-She came up and they sat side by side in the Lodge kitchen by the fire
-as they used to sit when they were together there, holding each other’s
-hands and not talking.
-
-“Dorsy,” he said at last, “what astha coom for? Astha coom to tall me
-tha’ll nawer speak to me again?”
-
-“Nay. Tha knaws what I’ve coom for.”
-
-“To saay tha’ll marry me?”
-
-“Aye.”
-
-“I maunna marry thee, Dorsy. ’twouldn’ be right.”
-
-“Right? What dostha mean? ’twouldn’t be right for me to coom and set wi’
-thee this road ef I doan’t marry thee.”
-
-“Nay. I darena’. Tha said tha was afraid of me, Dorsy. I doan’t want ’ee
-to be afraid. Tha said tha’d be unhappy. I doan’t want ’ee to be
-unhappy.”
-
-“That was lasst year. I’m not afraid of ’ee, now, Steve.”
-
-“Tha doan’t knaw me, lass.”
-
-“Aye, I knaw thee. I knaw tha’s sick and starved for want of me. Tha
-canna live wi’out thy awn lass to take care of ’ee.”
-
-She rose.
-
-“I maun gaw now. But I’ll be oop to-morrow and the next day.”
-
-And to-morrow and the next day and the next, at dusk, the hour that
-Steven most dreaded, Dorsy came. She sat with him till long after the
-night had fallen.
-
-Steven would have felt safe so long as she was with him, but for his
-fear that Mr. Greathead would appear to him while she was there and that
-she would see him. If Dorsy knew he was being haunted she might guess
-why. Or Mr. Greathead might take some horrible blood-dripping and
-dismembered shape that would show her how he had been murdered. It would
-be like him, dead, to come between them as he had come when he was
-living.
-
-They were sitting at the round table by the fireside. The lamp was lit
-and Dorsy was bending over her sewing. Suddenly she looked up, her head
-on one side, listening. Far away inside the house, on the flagged
-passage from the front door, he could hear the “shoob-shoob” of the
-footsteps. He could almost believe that Dorsy shivered. And somehow, for
-some reason, this time he was not afraid.
-
-“Steven,” she said, “didsta ’ear anything?”
-
-“Naw. Nobbut t’ wind oonder t’ roogs.”
-
-She looked at him; a long wondering look. Apparently it satisfied her,
-for she answered: “Aye. Mebbe ’tes nobbut wind,” and went on with her
-sewing.
-
-He drew his chair nearer to her to protect her if it came. He could
-almost touch her where she sat.
-
-The latch lifted. The door opened, and, his entrance and his passage
-unseen, Mr. Greathead stood before them.
-
-The table hid the lower half of his form; but above it he was steady and
-solid in his terrible semblance of flesh and blood.
-
-Steven looked at Dorsy. She was staring at the phantasm with an
-innocent, wondering stare that had no fear in it at all. Then she looked
-at Steven. An uneasy, frightened, searching look, as though to make sure
-whether he had seen it.
-
-That was her fear—that _he_ should see it, that _he_ should be
-frightened, that _he_ should be haunted.
-
-He moved closer and put his hand on her shoulder. He thought, perhaps,
-she might shrink from him because she knew that it _was_ he who was
-haunted. But no, she put up her hand and held his, gazing up into his
-face and smiling.
-
-Then, to his amazement, the phantasm smiled back at them; not with
-mockery, but with a strange and terrible sweetness. Its face lit up for
-one instant with a sudden, beautiful, shining light; then it was gone.
-
-“Did tha see ’im, Steve?”
-
-“Aye.”
-
-“Astha seen annything afore?”
-
-“Aye, three times I’ve seen ’im.”
-
-“Is it that ’as scared thee?”
-
-“’Oo tawled ’ee I was scared?”
-
-“I knawed. Because nowt can ’appen to thee but I maun knaw it.”
-
-“What dostha think, Dorsy?”
-
-“I think tha needna be scared, Steve. ’E’s a kind ghawst. Whatever ’e is
-’e doan’t mean thee no ’arm. T’ owd gentleman nawer did when he was
-alive.”
-
-“Didn’ ’e? Didn’ ’e? ’E served me the woorst turn ’e could when ’e
-coomed between thee and me.”
-
-“Whatever makes ’ee think that, lad?”
-
-“I doan’ think it. I _know_.”
-
-“Nay, loove, tha dostna.”
-
-“’E did. ’E did, I tell thee.”
-
-“Doan’ tha say that,” she cried. “Doan’ tha say it, Stevey.”
-
-“Why shouldn’t I?”
-
-“Tha’ll set folk talking that road.”
-
-“What do they knaw to talk about?”
-
-“Ef they was to remember what tha said.”
-
-“And what did I say?”
-
-“Why, that ef annybody was to coom between thee and me, tha’d do them
-in.”
-
-“I wasna thinking of _’tin_. Gawd knaws I wasna.”
-
-“_They_ doan’t,” she said.
-
-“_Tha_ knaws? Tha knaws I didna mean ’im?”
-
-“Aye, _I_ knaw, Steve.”
-
-“An’, Dorsy, tha ’m’t afraid of me? Tha ’m’t afraid of me anny more?”
-
-“Nay, lad. I loove thee too mooch. I shall nawer be afraid of ’ee again.
-Would I coom to thee this road ef I was afraid?”
-
-“Tha’ll be afraid now.”
-
-“And what should I be afraid of?”
-
-“Why—’m.”
-
-“_’Im?_ I should be a deal more afraid to think of ’ee setting with ’im
-oop ’ere, by thysen. Wuntha coom down and sleep at aunt’s?”
-
-“That I wunna. But I shall set ’ee on t’ road passt t’ moor.”
-
-He went with her down the bridle-path and across the moor and along the
-main road that led through Eastthwaite. They parted at the turn where
-the lights of the village came in sight.
-
-The moon had risen as Steven went back across the moor. The ash-tree at
-the bridle-path stood out clear, its hooked, bending branches black
-against the grey moor-grass. The shadows in the ruts laid stripes along
-the bridle-path, black on grey. The house was black-grey in the darkness
-of the drive. Only the lighted study window made a golden square in its
-long wall.
-
-Before he could go up to bed he would have to put out the study lamp. He
-was nervous; but he no longer felt the sickening and sweating terror of
-the first hauntings. Either he was getting used to it, or—something had
-happened to him.
-
-He had closed the shutters and put out the lamp. His candle made a ring
-of light round the table in the middle of the room. He was about to take
-it up and go when he heard a thin voice calling his same: “Steven.” He
-raised his head to listen. The thin thread of sound seemed to come from
-outside, a long way off, at the end of the bridle-path.
-
-“Steven, Steven—”
-
-This time he could have sworn the sound came from inside his head, like
-the hiss of air in his ears.
-
-“Steven—”
-
-He knew the voice now. It was behind him in the room. He turned, and saw
-the phantasm of Mr. Greathead sitting, as he used to sit, in the
-arm-chair by the fire. The form was dim in the dusk of the room outside
-the ring of candlelight. Steven’s first movement was to snatch up the
-candlestick and hold it between him and the phantasm, hoping that the
-light would cause it to disappear. Instead of disappearing the figure
-became clear and solid, indistinguishable from a figure of flesh and
-blood dressed in black broadcloth and white linen. Its eyes had the
-shining transparency of blue crystal; they were fixed on Steven with a
-look of quiet, benevolent attention. Its small, narrow mouth was lifted
-at the corners, smiling.
-
-[Illustration: ... the figure became clear and solid ...]
-
-It spoke.
-
-“You needn’t be afraid,” it said.
-
-The voice was natural now, quiet, measured, slightly quavering. Instead
-of frightening Steven it soothed and steadied him.
-
-He put the candle on the table behind him and stood up before the
-phantasm, fascinated.
-
-“_Why_ are you afraid?” it asked.
-
-Steven couldn’t answer. He could only stare, held there by the shining,
-hypnotizing eyes.
-
-“You are afraid,” it said, “because you think I’m what you call a ghost,
-a supernatural thing. You think I’m dead and that you killed me. You
-think you took a horrible revenge for a wrong you thought I did you. You
-think I’ve come back to frighten you, to revenge myself in my turn.
-
-“And every one of those thoughts of yours, Steven, is wrong. I’m real,
-and my appearance is as natural and real as anything in this room—_more_
-natural and more real if you did but know. You didn’t kill me, as you
-see; for here I am, as alive, more alive than you are. Your revenge
-consisted in removing me from a state which had become unbearable to a
-state more delightful than you can imagine. I don’t mind telling you,
-Steven, that I was in serious financial difficulties (which, by the way,
-is a good thing for you, as it provides a plausible motive for my
-disappearance). So that, as far as revenge goes, the thing was a
-complete frost. You were my benefactor. Your methods were somewhat
-violent, and I admit you gave me some disagreeable moments before my
-actual deliverance; but as I was already developing rheumatoid arthritis
-there can be no doubt that in your hands my death was more merciful than
-if it had been left to Nature. As for the subsequent arrangements, I
-congratulate you, Steven, on your coolness and resource. I always said
-you were equal to any emergency, and that your brains would pull you
-safe through any scrape. You committed an appalling and dangerous crime,
-a crime of all things the most difficult to conceal, and you contrived
-so that it was not discovered and never will be discovered. And no doubt
-the details of this crime seemed to you horrible and revolting to the
-last degree; and the more horrible and the more revolting they were, the
-more you piqued yourself on your nerve in carrying the thing through
-without a hitch.
-
-“I don’t want to put you entirely out of conceit with your performance.
-It was very creditable for a beginner, very creditable indeed. But let
-me tell you, this idea of things being horrible and revolting is all
-illusion. The terms are purely relative to your limited perceptions.
-
-“I’m speaking now to your intelligence—I don’t mean that practical
-ingenuity which enabled you to dispose of me so neatly. When I say
-intelligence I mean intelligence. All you did, then, was to redistribute
-matter. To our incorruptible sense matter never takes any of those
-offensive forms in which it so often appears to you. Nature has evolved
-all this horror and repulsion just to prevent people from making too
-many little experiments like yours. You mustn’t imagine that these
-things have any eternal importance. Don’t flatter yourself you’ve
-electrified the universe. For minds no longer attached to flesh and
-blood, that horrible butchery you were so proud of, Steven, is simply
-silly. No more terrifying than the spiffing of red ink or the
-rearrangement of a jig-saw puzzle. I saw the whole business, and I can
-assure you I felt nothing but intense amusement. Your face, Steven, was
-so absurdly serious. You’ve no idea what you looked like with that
-chopper. I’d have appeared to you then and told you so, only I knew I
-should frighten you into fits.
-
-“And there’s another grand mistake, my lad—your thinking that I’m
-haunting you out of revenge, that I’m trying to frighten you.... My dear
-Steven, if I’d wanted to frighten you I’d have appeared in a very
-different shape. I needn’t remind you what shape I _might_ have appeared
-in.... What do you suppose I’ve come for?”
-
-“I don’t know,” said Steven in a husky whisper. “Tell me.
-
-“I’ve come to forgive you. And to save you from the horror you _would_
-have felt sooner or later. And to stop your going on with your crime.”
-
-“You needn’t,” Steven said. “I’m not going on with it. I shall do no
-more murders.”
-
-“There you are again. Can’t you understand that I’m not talking about
-your silly butcher’s work? I’m talking about your _real_ crime. Your
-real crime was hating me.
-
-“And your very hate was a blunder, Steven. You hated me for something I
-hadn’t done.”
-
-“Aye, what did you do? Tell me that.”
-
-“You thought I came between you and your sweetheart. That night when
-Dorsy spoke to me, you thought I told her to throw you over, didn’t
-you?”
-
-“Aye. And what did you tell her?”
-
-“I told her to stick to you. It was you, Steven, who drove her away. You
-frightened the child. She said she was afraid for her life of you. Not
-because you half killed that poor boy, but because of the look on your
-face before you did it. The look of hate, Steven.
-
-“I told her not to be afraid of you. I told her that if she threw you
-over you might go altogether to the devil; that she might even be
-responsible for some crime. I told her that if she married you and was
-faithful—_if she loved you_—I’d answer for it you’d never go wrong.
-
-“She was too frightened to listen to me. Then I told her to think over
-what I’d said before she did anything. You heard me say that.”
-
-“Aye. That’s what I heard you say. I didn’ knaw. I didn’ knaw. I thought
-you’d set her agen me.”
-
-“If you don’t believe me, you can ask her, Steven.”
-
-“That’s what she said t’ other night. That you nawer coom between her
-and me. Nawer.”
-
-“Never,” the phantasm said. “And you don’t hate me now.”
-
-“Naw. Naw. I should nawer ’a hated ’ee. I should nawer ’a laid a finger
-on thee, ef I’d knawn.”
-
-“It’s not your laying fingers on me, it’s your hatred that matters. If
-that’s done with, the whole thing’s done with.”
-
-“Is it? Is it? Ef it was knawn, I should have to hang for it. Maunna I
-gie mysen oop? Tell me, maun I gie mysen oop?”
-
-“You want me to decide that for you?”
-
-“Aye. Doan’t gaw,” he said. “Doan’t gaw.”
-
-It seemed to him that Mr. Greathead’s phantasm was getting a little
-thin, as if it couldn’t last more than an instant. He had never so
-longed for it to go, as he longed now for it to stay and help him.
-
-“Well, Steven, any flesh-and-blood man would tell you to go and get
-hanged to-morrow; that it was no more than your plain duty. And I
-daresay there are some mean, vindictive spirits even in my world who
-would say the same, not because _they_ think death important but because
-they know _you_ do, and want to get even with you that way.
-
-“It isn’t _my_ way. I consider this little affair is strictly between
-ourselves. There isn’t a jury of flesh-and-blood men who would
-understand it. They all think death so important.”
-
-“What do you want me to do, then? Tell me and I’ll do it! Tell me!”
-
-He cried it out loud; for Mr. Greathead’s phantasm was getting thinner
-and thinner; it dwindled and fluttered, like a light going down. Its
-voice came from somewhere away outside, from the other end of the
-bridle-path.
-
-“Go on living,” it said. “Marry Dorsy.”
-
-“I darena’. She doan’ knaw I killed ’ee.”
-
-“Oh, yes”—the eyes flickered up, gentle and ironic—“she does. She knew
-all the time.”
-
-And with that the phantasm went out.
-
-
-
-
- THE FINDING OF THE ABSOLUTE
-
-
- I
-
-
-Mr. Spalding had gone out into the garden to find peace, and had not
-found it. He sat there, with hunched shoulders and bowed head, dejected
-in the spring sunshine.
-
-Jerry, the black cat, invited him to play; he stood on his hind legs and
-danced, and bowed sideways, and waved his forelegs in the air like
-wings. At any other time his behaviour would have enchanted Mr.
-Spalding, but now he couldn’t even look at him; he was too miserable.
-
-He had gone to bed miserable; he had passed a night of misery, and he
-had waked up more miserable than ever. He had been like that for three
-days and three nights straight on end, and no wonder. It wasn’t only
-that his young wife Elizabeth had run away with Paul Jeffreson, the
-Imagist poet. Besides the frailty of Elizabeth, he had discovered a
-fatal flaw in his own system of metaphysics. His belief in Elizabeth was
-gone. So was his belief in the Absolute.
-
-The two things had come at once, to crush him. And he had to own
-bitterly that they were not altogether unrelated. “If,” Mr. Spalding
-said to himself, “I had served my wife as faithfully as I have served my
-God, she would not now have deserted me for Paul Jeffreson.” He meant
-that if he had not been wrapped up in his system of metaphysics,
-Elizabeth might still have been wrapped up in him. He had nobody but
-himself to thank for her behaviour.
-
-If she had run away with anybody else, since run she must, he might have
-forgiven her; he might have forgiven himself; but there could be nothing
-but misery in store for Elizabeth. Paul Jeffreson had genius, Mr.
-Spalding didn’t deny it; immortal genius; but he had no morals; he
-drank; he drugged; in Mr. Spalding’s decent phrase, he did everything he
-shouldn’t do.
-
-You would have thought this overwhelming disaster would have completely
-outweighed the other trouble. But no; Mr. Spalding had a balanced mind;
-he mourned with equal sorrow the loss of his wife and the loss of his
-Absolute. A flaw in a metaphysical system may seem to you a small thing;
-but you must bear in mind that, ever since he could think at all, Mr.
-Spalding had been devoured by a hunger and thirst after metaphysical
-truth. He had flung over the God he had been taught to believe in
-because, besides being an outrage to Mr. Spalding’s moral sense, he
-wasn’t metaphysical enough. The poor man was always worrying about
-metaphysics; he wandered from system to system, seeking truth, seeking
-reality, seeking some supreme intellectual satisfaction that never came.
-He thought he had found it in his theory of Absolute Pantheism. But
-really, Spalding’s Pantheism, anybody’s Pantheism for that matter,
-couldn’t, when you brought it down to bed-rock thinking, hold water for
-a minute. And the more Absolute he made it, the leakier it was.
-
-For, consider, on Mr. Spalding’s theory, there isn’t any reality except
-the Absolute. Things are only real because they exist in It; because It
-is Them. Mr. Spalding conceived that his consciousness and Elizabeth’s
-consciousness and Paul Jeffreson’s consciousness existed somehow in the
-Absolute unchanged. For, if that inside existence changed them you would
-have to say that the ground of their present appearance lay somewhere
-outside the Absolute, which to Mr. Spalding was rank blasphemy. And if
-Elizabeth and Paul Jeffreson existed in the Absolute unchanged, then
-their adultery existed there unchanged. And an adultery within the
-Absolute outraged his moral sense as much as anything he had been told
-about God in his youth. The odd thing was that until Elizabeth had run
-away and committed it he had never thought of that. The metaphysics of
-Pantheism had interested him much more than its ethics. And now he could
-think of nothing else.
-
-And it wasn’t only Elizabeth and her iniquity; there were all the
-intolerable people he had ever known. There was his Uncle Sims, a mean
-sneak if ever there was one; and his Aunt Emily, a silly fool; and his
-cousin, Tom Rumbold, an obscene idiot. And his uncle’s mean
-sneak-ishness, and his aunt’s silly folly, and his cousin’s obscene
-idiocy would have to exist in the Absolute, too; and unchanged, mind
-you.
-
-And the things you see and hear—A blue sky, now, would it be blue in the
-Sight of God, or just something inconceivable? And noises, music? For
-example, I am listening to Grand Opera, and you to the jazz band in your
-restaurant; but the God of Pantheism is listening to both, to all the
-noises in the universe at once. As if He had sat down on the piano. This
-idea shocked Mr. Spalding even more than the thought of Elizabeth’s
-misconduct.
-
-Time went on. Paul Jeffreson drank himself to death. Elizabeth, worn out
-with grief, died of pneumonia following influenza; and Mr. Spalding
-still went about worrying over his inadjustable metaphysics.
-
-And at last he, too, found himself dying.
-
-And then he began to worry about other things. Things that had, as he
-put it, “happened” in his youth, before he knew Elizabeth, and one thing
-that had happened after she left him. He thought of them as just
-happening; happening _to_ him rather than _through_ him, against his
-will. In calm, philosophic moments he couldn’t conceive how they had
-ever happened at all, how, for example, he could have endured Connie
-Larkins. The episodes had been brief, because in each case boredom and
-disgust had supervened to put asunder what Mr. Spalding owned should
-never have been joined. Brief, insignificant as they were, Mr. Spalding,
-in his dying state, was worried when he looked back on them. Supposing
-they were more significant than they had seemed? Supposing they had an
-eternal significance and entailed tremendous consequences in the
-after-life? Supposing you were not just wiped out, that there really
-_was_ an after-life? Supposing that in that other world there was a
-hell?
-
-Mr. Spalding could imagine no worse hell than the eternal repetition of
-such incidents; eternal repetition of boredom and disgust. Fancy going
-on with Connie Larkins for ever and ever, never being able to get away
-from her, doomed to repeat—And, if there _was_ an Absolute, if there was
-reality, truth, never knowing it; being cut off from it for ever—
-
-“He that is filthy let him be filthy still.”
-
-That was hell, the continuance of the filthy state.
-
-He wondered whether goodness was not, after all, _the_ important thing;
-he wondered whether there really was a next world; with an extreme
-uneasiness he wondered what would happen to him in it.
-
-He died wondering.
-
-
- II
-
-
-His first thought was: Well, here I am again. I’ve not been wiped out.
-His next, that he hadn’t died at all. He had gone to sleep and was now
-dreaming. He was not in the least agitated, nor even surprised.
-
-He found himself alone in an immense grey space, in which there was no
-distinguishable object but himself. He was aware of his body as
-occupying a portion of this space. For he had a body; a curious,
-tenuous, whitish body. The odd thing was that this empty space had a
-sort of solidity under him. He was lying on it, stretched out on it,
-adrift. It supported him with the buoyancy of deep water. And yet his
-body was part of it, netted in.
-
-He was now aware of two figures approaching. They came and stood, like
-figures treading water, one on each side of him, and he saw that they
-were Elizabeth and Paul Jeffreson.
-
-Then he concluded that he was really dead; dead like Elizabeth and
-Jeffreson, and (since they were there) that he was in hell.
-
-Elizabeth was speaking, and her voice sounded sweet and very kind. All
-the same he knew he was in hell.
-
-“It’s all right,” she said. “It’s queer at first, but you’ll get used to
-it. You don’t mind our coming to meet you?”
-
-Mr. Spalding said he’d no business to mind, no right to reproach her,
-since they were all in the same boat. They had, all three, deserved
-their punishment.
-
-“Punishment?” (Jeffreson spoke). “Why, where does he think he is?”
-
-“I’m in hell, aren’t I? If—”
-
-“If _we’re_ here. Is that it?”
-
-“Well, Jeffreson, I don’t want to rake up old unpleasantness, but
-after—after what happened, you’ll forgive my saying so, but what else
-_can_ I think?”
-
-He heard Jeffreson laugh; a perfectly natural laugh.
-
-“Will _you_ tell him, Elizabeth, or shall I?”
-
-“You’d better. He always respected your intelligence.”
-
-“Well, old chap, if you really want to know where you are, you’re in
-heaven.”
-
-“You don’t mean to say so?”
-
-“Fact. I daresay you’re wondering what we’re doing here?”
-
-“Well, Elizabeth—perhaps. But, frankly, Jeffreson,
-
-“Yes. How about me?”
-
-“With your record I should have thought you’d even less business here
-than I have.”
-
-“Wouldn’t you? I lived on unpaid bills. I drank. I drugged. There was
-nothing I didn’t do. What do you suppose I got in on? You’ll never
-guess.”
-
-“No. No. I give it up.”
-
-“My love of beauty. You wouldn’t think it, but it seems that actually
-counts here, in the eternal world.”
-
-“And Elizabeth, what did she get in on?”
-
-“Her love of me.”
-
-“Then all I can say is,” said Mr. Spalding, “Heaven must be a most
-immoral place.”
-
-“Oh, no. Your parochial morality doesn’t hold good here, that’s all. Why
-should it? It’s entirely relative. Relative to a social system with
-limits in time and space. Relative to a certain biological configuration
-that ceased with our terrestrial organisms. Not absolute. Not eternal.
-
-“But beauty—Beauty _is_ eternal, is absolute. And I—I loved beauty more
-than credit, more than drink or drugs or women, more even than
-Elizabeth.
-
-“And love is eternal. And Elizabeth loved me more than you, more than
-respectability, more than peace and comfort, and a happy life.”
-
-“That’s all very well, Jeffreson; and Elizabeth may be all right. Mary
-Magdalene, you know. _Quia mulium amavit_, and so forth. But if a
-blackguard like you can slip into heaven as easily as all that, where
-_are_ our ethics?”
-
-“Your ethics, my dear Spalding, are where they’ve always been, where you
-came from, not here. And if I _was_ what they call a bad man, that’s to
-say a bad terrestrial organism, I was a thundering good poet. You say I
-slipped in easily; do you suppose it’s easy to be a poet? My dear
-fellow, it requires an inflexibility, a purity, a discipline of mind—of
-_mind_, remember—that you haven’t any conception of. And surely _you_
-should be the last person in the world to regard mind as an inferior
-secondary affair. Anyhow, the consequence is that I’ve not only got into
-heaven, I’ve got into one of the best heavens, a heaven reserved
-exclusively for the very finest spirits.”
-
-“Then,” said Mr. Spalding, “if we’re in heaven, who’s in hell?”
-
-“Couldn’t say for certain. But we shouldn’t put it that way. We should
-say: Who’s gone back to earth?”
-
-“Well—am I likely to meet Uncle Sims, or Aunt Emily, or Tom Rumbold
-here? You remember them, Elizabeth?”
-
-“Oh, yes, I remember. They’d be almost certain to be sent back. They
-couldn’t stand eternal things. There’s nothing eternal about meanness
-and stupidity and nastiness.”
-
-“What’ll happen to them, do you suppose?”
-
-“What should you say, Paul?”
-
-“I should say they’d suffer damnably till they’d got some bigness and
-intelligence and decency knocked into them.”
-
-“It’ll be a sell for Aunt Emily. She was brought up to believe that
-stupidity was no drawback to getting into heaven.”
-
-“Lots of people,” said Jeffreson, “will be sold. Like my father, the
-Dean of Eastminster; he was cocksure he’d get in; but they won’t let
-him. And why, do you suppose? Because the poor old boy couldn’t see that
-my poems were beautiful.
-
-“But even that wouldn’t have dished him, if he’d had a passion for
-anybody; or if he’d cared two straws about metaphysical truth. Your
-truth, Spalding.”
-
-“Bless me, all our preconceived ideas seem to have been wrong.”
-
-“Yes. Even I wasn’t prepared for that. By the way, that’s what you got
-in on, your passion for truth. It’s like my passion for beauty.”
-
-“But—aren’t you distressed about your father, Jeffreson?”
-
-“Oh, no. He’ll get into some heaven or other some day. He’ll find out
-that he cares for somebody, perhaps. Then he’ll be all right— But don’t
-you want to look about a bit?”
-
-“I don’t see very much to look at. It strikes me as a bit bare, your
-heaven.”
-
-“Oh, that’s because you’re only at the landing-state.”
-
-“The landing _what_?”
-
-“State. What we used to call landing place. Times and spaces here, you
-know, are states. States of mind.”
-
-Mr. Spalding sat up, excited. “But—but that’s what I always said they
-were. I and Kant.”
-
-“Well, you’d better talk to him about it.”
-
-“Talk to _him_? Shall I see Kant?”
-
-“Look at him, Elizabeth. _Now_ he’s coming alive— Of course you’ll see
-him when you get into your own place—state, I mean. You’d better get up
-and come along with me and Elizabeth. We’ll show you round.”
-
-[Illustration: “_Now_ he’s coming alive—”]
-
-He rose, they steadied him, and he made his way between them through the
-grey immensity, over a half-seen yet perfectly solid tract of something
-that he thought of, absurdly, as condensed space. As yet there were no
-objects in sight but the figures of Elizabeth and Jeffreson; the
-half-seen, yet tangible floor he went on seemed to create itself out of
-nothing, under his feet, as the desire to walk arose in him. And as yet
-he had felt no interest or curiosity; but as he went on he was aware of
-a desire to see things that became more and more urgent. He would see.
-He must see. He felt that before him and around him there were endless
-things to be seen. His mind strained forwards towards vision.
-
-And then, suddenly, he saw.
-
-He saw a landscape more beautiful than anything he could have imagined.
-It was, Jeffreson informed him, very like the umbrella pine country
-between Florence and Siena. As they came out of it on a great, curving
-road they had their faces towards the celestial west. To the south the
-land fell away in great red cliffs to a shining, blue sea. Like,
-Jeffreson said, the Riviera, the Estérel. West and north the landscape
-rolled in green hill after green hill, pine-tufted, to a sweeping
-rampart of deep blue; such a rampart, such blue as Mr. Spalding had seen
-from the heights above Sidmouth, looking towards Dartmoor. Only this
-country had a grace, a harmony of line and colour that gave it an
-absolute beauty; and over it there lay a serene, unearthly radiance.
-
-Before them, on a hill, was an exquisite little white, golden and
-rose-red town.
-
-“You may or may not believe me,” said Jeffreson, “but the beauty of all
-this is that I made it. I mean Elizabeth and I made it between us.”
-
-“You made it?”
-
-“Made it.”
-
-“How?”
-
-“By thinking of it. By wanting it. By imagining it.”
-
-“But—out of what?”
-
-“I don’t know and I don’t much care. Our scientists here will tell you
-we made it out of the ultimate constituents of matter. Matter, unformed,
-only exists for us in its ultimate constituents. Something like
-electrons of electrons of electrons. Here we are all suspended in a web,
-immersed, if you like, in a sea, an air of this matter. It is utterly
-plastic to our imagination and our will. Imperceptible in its unformed
-state, it becomes visible and tangible as our minds get to work on it,
-and we can make out of it anything we want, including our own bodies.
-Only, so far as our imaginations are still under the dominion of our
-memories, so far will the things they create resemble the things we knew
-on earth. Thus you will notice that while Elizabeth and I are much more
-beautiful than we were on earth” (he _had_ noticed it), “because we
-desired to be more beautiful, we are still recognizable as Paul and
-Elizabeth because our imaginations are controlled by our memories. You
-are as you always were, only younger than when we knew you, because your
-imagination had nothing but memory to go on. Everything you create here
-will probably be a replica of something on earth you remember.”
-
-“But if I want something new, something beautiful that I haven’t seen
-before, can’t I have it?”
-
-“Of course you can have it. Only, just at first, until your own
-imagination develops, you’ll have to come to me or Turner or Michael
-Angelo to make it for you.”
-
-“And will these things that you and Turner and Michael Angelo make for
-me be permanent?”
-
-“Absolutely, unless we unmade them. And I don’t think we should do that
-against your will. Anyhow, though we can destroy our own works we can’t
-destroy each other’s, that is to say, reduce them to their ultimate
-constituents. What’s more, we shouldn’t dream of trying.”
-
-“Why not?”
-
-“Because old motives don’t work here. Envy, greed, theft, robbery,
-murder, or any sort of destruction, are unknown. They can’t happen.
-Nothing alters matter here but mind, and I can’t will your body to come
-to pieces so long as you want it to keep together. You can’t destroy it
-yourself as you can other things you make, because your need of it is
-greater than your need of other things.
-
-“We can’t thieve or rob for the same reason. Things that belong to us
-belong to our state of mind and can’t be torn away from it, so that we
-couldn’t remove anything from another person’s state into our own. And
-if we could we shouldn’t want to, because each of us can always have
-everything he wants. If I like your house or your landscape better than
-my own, I can make one for myself just like it. But we don’t do this,
-because we’re proud of our individualities here, and would rather have
-things different than the same— By the way, as you haven’t got a house
-yet, let alone a landscape, you’d better share ours.”
-
-“That’s very good of you,” Mr. Spalding said. He was thinking of Oxford.
-Oxford. Quiet rooms in Balliol. He seemed to hesitate.
-
-“If you’re still sitting on that old grievance of yours, I tell you,
-once for all, Spalding, I’m not going to express any regret. I’m _not_
-sorry, I’m glad I took Elizabeth away from you. I made her more happy
-than unhappy even on earth. And please notice it’s I who got her into
-heaven, not you. If she’d stayed with you and hated you, as she would
-have done, she couldn’t have got in.”
-
-“I wasn’t thinking of that,” said Mr. Spalding. “I was only wondering
-where I could put my landscape.”
-
-“How do you mean—‘put’ it?”
-
-“Place it—so as not to interfere with other people’s landscapes.”
-
-“But how on earth could you interfere? You ‘place’ it, as you call it,
-in your own space and in your own time.” His own space, his own time—Mr.
-Spalding got more and more excited.
-
-“But—how?”
-
-“Oh, I can’t tell you how. It simply happens.”
-
-“But I want to understand it. I—I _must_ understand.”
-
-“You shouldn’t put him off like that, Paul,” Elizabeth said. “He always
-did want to understand things.”
-
-“But when I don’t understand them myself—”
-
-“You’d better take him to Kant, or Hegel.”
-
-“I should prefer Kant,” said Mr. Spalding.
-
-“Well, Kant then. You’ll have to get into his state first.”
-
-“How do I do that?”
-
-“It’s very simple. You just think him up and ask him if you can come
-in.”
-
-Elizabeth explained. “Like ringing somebody up, you know, and asking if
-you can come and call.”
-
-“Supposing he won’t let me.”
-
-“Trust him to say so. Of course, we mayn’t get through. He may have
-_thought off_.”
-
-“You can think off, can you?”
-
-“Yes, that’s how you protect yourself. Otherwise life here would be
-unbearable. Just keep quiet for a second, will you?”
-
-There was an intense silence. Presently Jeffreson said: “Now you’re
-through.”
-
-And Mr. Spalding found himself in a white-washed room, scantily
-furnished with three rows of bookshelves, a writing-table, a table set
-with mysterious instruments, and two chairs. A shaded lamp on the
-writing-table gave light. Mr. Spalding had left the umbrella pine
-country blazing with sunlight, but it seemed that Kant’s time was
-somewhere about ten o’clock at night. The large window was bared to a
-dark-blue sky of stars.
-
-A little, middle-aged man sat at the writing-table. He wore
-eighteenth-century clothes and a tie wig. The face that looked up at Mr.
-Spalding was lean and dried, the mouth tight, the eyes shining distantly
-with a deep, indrawn intelligence. Mr. Spalding understood that he was
-in the presence of Immanuel Kant.
-
-“You thought me up?”
-
-“Forgive me. I am James Spalding, a student of philosophy. I was told
-that you might, perhaps, be willing to explain to me the—the very
-extraordinary conditions in which I find myself.”
-
-“May I ask, Mr. Spalding, if you have paid any particular attention to
-_my_ philosophy?”
-
-“I am one of your most devoted disciples, sir. I refuse to believe that
-philosophy has made any considerable advance since the Critique of Pure
-Reason.”
-
-“T-t-t. My successor, Hegel, made a very considerable advance. If you
-have neglected Hegel—”
-
-“Pardon me, I have not. I was once Hegel’s devoted disciple. An
-entrancing fantasy, the Triple Dialectic. But I came to see that yours,
-sir, was the safer and the saner system, and that the recurrent tendency
-of philosophy must be back to Kant.”
-
-“Better say Forward with him. If you are indeed my disciple, I do not
-think that conditions here should have struck you as extraordinary.”
-
-“They struck me as an extraordinary confirmation of your theory of space
-and time, sir.”
-
-“They are that. They are that. But they go far beyond anything I ever
-dreamed of. It was not in my scheme that the Will—to which, if you
-remember, I gave a purely ethical and pragmatical rôle—that the Will and
-the imagination of individuals, of you and me, Mr. Spalding, should
-create their own space and time, and their own objects in space and
-time. I did not anticipate this multiplicity of spaces and times. In my
-time there was only one space and one time for everybody.
-
-“Still, it is a very remarkable confirmation, and you may imagine, Mr.
-Spalding, that I was gratified when I first came here to find everybody
-talking and thinking correctly about time and space. You will have
-noticed that here we say state, meaning state of consciousness, where we
-used to say place. In the same way we talk about states of time, meaning
-time as a state of consciousness. My present state, you will observe, is
-exactly ten minutes past ten by my clock, which is my consciousness. My
-consciousness registers time automatically. My own time, mind you, not
-other people’s.”
-
-“But isn’t that frightfully inconvenient? If your time isn’t everybody
-else’s time, how on earth—I mean how in heaven—do you keep your
-appointments? How do you co-ordinate?”
-
-“We keep appointments, we co-ordinate, exactly as we used to do, by a
-purely arbitrary system. We measure time by space, by events, movements
-in space-time. Only, whereas under earthly conditions there was
-apparently one earth and one sun, one day and one night for everybody,
-here everybody has his own earth, his own sun and his own day and night.
-So we are obliged to take an ideal earth and sun, an ideal day and
-night. Their revolutions are measured exactly as we measured them on
-earth, by the movements of hands on a dial marking minutes and hours.
-Only our public clocks have five hands marking the revolutions of weeks,
-months and years. That is our public standardized time, and all
-appointments are kept, all scientific calculations made by it. The only
-difference between heaven and earth is that here public space-time is
-regarded as it really is—an unreal, a purely arbitrary and artificial
-convention. We know, not as a result of philosophic or mathematical
-reasoning, but as part of our ordinary conscious experience, that there
-is no absolute space and no absolute time. I would say no _real_ space
-and no real time, but that in heaven a state of consciousness carries
-its own reality with it as such; and the time state or the space state
-is as real as any other.
-
-“Of course, without an arbitrary public space-time, a public clock,
-states of consciousness from individual to individual could never be
-co-ordinated. For example, you have come straight from Mr. Jeffreson’s
-twelve-noon to my ten o’clock p.m. But the public clock, which you will
-see out there in the street—we are in Königsberg; I have no visual
-imagination and must rely entirely on memory for my scenery—the public
-dock, I say, marks time at a quarter to eight; and if I were asking Mr.
-Jeffreson to spend the evening with me, the hour would be fixed for us
-by public time at eight. But he would find himself in my time at ten.
-
-“Now I want to point out to you, Mr. Spalding, that this way of
-regarding space and time is not so revolutionary as it may appear. I
-said, if you remember, that under terrestrial conditions there was
-apparently one earth and one sun, one day and night for everybody. But
-really, even then, everybody carried about with him his own private
-space and time, and his own private world in space and time. It was
-only, even then, by an arbitrary system of mathematical conventions,
-mostly geometrical, that all these private times and spaces were
-co-ordinated, so as to constitute one universe. Public clock time, based
-on the revolutions of bodies in a mathematically determined public
-space, was as conventional and relative an affair on earth as it is in
-heaven.
-
-“Our private consciousnesses registered their own times automatically
-then as now, by the passage of internal events. If events passed
-quickly, our private time outran clock time; if they dragged, it was
-behindhand.
-
-“Thus in dream experience there are many more events to the second than
-in waking experience; and consciousness registers by the tick-tick of
-events, so that in a dream we may live through crowded hours and days in
-the fraction of time that coincides with the knock on the door that
-waked us. It is absurd to say that in this case we do not live in two
-different time-systems.”
-
-“Yes, and—” Mr. Spalding cried out excitedly—
-
-“Einstein has proved that motion in public space-time is a purely
-relative and arbitrary thing, and that the velocity, or time value, of a
-ray of light moving under different conditions is a constant; when on
-any theory of absolute time and absolute motion it should be a variant.”
-
-“That,” said Kant, “is no more than I should have expected.”
-
-“You said, sir, that the only distinction between earthly and heavenly
-conditions is that this artificial character of standardized space-time
-is recognized in heaven and not on earth. I should have said that the
-most striking differences were, firstly, that in heaven our experience
-is created for us by our imagination and our will, whereas on earth it
-was, in your own word, sir, ‘given.’ Secondly that in heaven our states
-are not closed as they were on earth, but that anybody can enter anybody
-else’s. It seems to me that these differences are so great as to surpass
-anything in our experience on earth.”
-
-“They are not so great,” said Kant, “as all that. In dreaming you
-already had an experience of a world created by each person for himself
-in a space and time of his own; a world in which you transcended the
-conditions of ordinary space and time. In telepathy and clairvoyance you
-had experience of entering other people’s states.”
-
-“But,” Mr. Spalding said, “on earth my consciousness was dependent on a
-world apparently outside it, arising presumably in God’s consciousness,
-my body being the ostensible medium. Here, on the contrary, I have my
-world inside me, created by my consciousness, and my body is not so much
-a medium as an accessory after the fact.”
-
-“And what inference do you draw, Mr. Spalding?”
-
-“Why, that on earth I was nearer God, more dependent on him than in
-heaven. I seem to have become my own God.”
-
-“Doesn’t it strike you that in becoming more god-like you are actually
-nearer God? That in this power of your imagination to conceive, this
-freedom of your will to create your universe, God is cutting a clearer
-path for himself than through that constrained and obstructed
-consciousness you had on earth?”
-
-“That’s it. When I think of that appalling life of earth, the pain, sir,
-the horrible pain, the wickedness, the imbecility, the endless
-struggling through blood and filth, and being beaten, I can’t help
-wondering how such things can exist in the Absolute, and why the
-Absolute shouldn’t have put us—or as you would say, _thought_ us into
-this heavenly state from the beginning.”
-
-“Do you suppose that any finite intelligence—any finite will could have
-been trusted, untrained, with the power we have here? Only wills
-disciplined by struggling against earth’s evil, only intelligences
-braced by wrestling with earth’s problems are fitted to create
-universes. You may remember my enthusiasm for the moral law, my
-Categorical Imperative? It is not diminished. The moral law still holds
-and always will hold on earth. But I see now it is not an end in itself,
-only the means to which this power, this freedom is the end.
-
-“That is how and why pain and evil exist in the Absolute. It is obvious
-that they cannot exist in it as such, being purely relative to states of
-terrestrial organisms. That is why the comparatively free wills of
-terrestrial organisms are permitted to create pain and evil.
-
-“When you talk of such things existing in the Absolute, unchanged and
-unabridged, you are talking nonsense. You are thinking of pain and evil
-in terms of one dimension of time and three dimensions of space, by
-which they are indefinitely multiplied.”
-
-“How do you mean—one dimension of time?”
-
-“I mean time taken as linear extension, the pure succession of past,
-present and future. You think of pain and evil as indefinitely
-distributed in space and indefinitely repeated in time, whereas in the
-idea, which is their form of eternity, at their worst they are not many,
-but one.”
-
-“That doesn’t make them less unbearable,”
-
-“I am not talking about that I am talking about their significance for
-eternity, or in the Absolute, since you said that was what distressed
-you.
-
-“You will see this for yourself if you will come with me into the state
-of three dimensional time.”
-
-“What’s that?” said Mr. Spalding, deeply intrigued. “That,” said the
-philosopher, “is time which is not linear succession, time which has
-turned on itself twice to take up the past and future into its present.
-For as the point is repeated to form the line of space, so the instant
-is repeated to form the linear time of past, present, future. And as the
-one-dimensional line turns at right angles to itself to form the
-two-dimensional plane, so linear or one-dimensional time turns on itself
-to form two-dimensional or plane time, the past-present, or
-present-future. And as the plane turns on itself to form the cube, so
-past-present and present-future double back to meet each other and form
-cubic time, or past-present-future all together.
-
-“This is the three dimensional state of consciousness we shall have to
-think ourselves into.”
-
-“Do you mean to say that if we get into it we shall have solved the
-riddle of the universe?”
-
-[Illustration]
-
-“Hardly. The universe is a tremendous jig-saw puzzle. If God wanted to
-keep us amused to all eternity, he couldn’t have hit on anything better.
-We shall not be able to stay very long, or to take in _all_
-past-present-future at once. But you will see enough to realize what
-cubic time is. You will begin with one small cubic section, which will
-gradually enlarge until you have taken in as much cubic time as you can
-hold together in one duration.
-
-“Look out through that window. You see that cart coming down the street.
-It will have to pass Herr Schmidt’s house opposite and the ‘Prussian
-Soldier,’ and that grocer’s shop and the clock before it gets to the
-church.
-
-“Now you’ll see what’ll happen.”
-
-
- III
-
-
-What Mr. Spalding saw was the sudden stoppage of the cart, which now
-appeared as standing simultaneously at each station, Herr Schmidt’s
-house, the inn, the grocery, the clock, the church and the side street
-up which it had not yet turned.
-
-In this vision solid objects became transparent, so that he saw the side
-street through the intervening houses. In the same way, distributed in
-space as on a Mercator’s projection, he saw all the subsequent stations
-of the cart, up to its arrival in a farmyard between a stable and a
-haystack. In the same duration of time, which was his present, he saw
-the townspeople moving in their houses, eating, smoking and going to
-bed, and the peasants in their farms and cottages, and the household of
-the Graf in his castle. These figures retained all their positions while
-the amazing experience lasted.
-
-The scene widened. It became all Königsberg, and Königsberg became all
-Prussia, and Prussia all Europe. Mr. Spalding seemed to have eyes at the
-sides and back of his head. He saw time rising up round him as an
-immense cubic space. He was aware of the French Revolution, the
-Napoleonic wars, the Franco-Prussian war, the establishment of the
-French Republic, the Boer war, the death of Queen Victoria, the
-accession and death of King Edward VII., the accession of King George
-V., the Great War, the Russian and German Revolutions, the rise of the
-Irish Republic, the Indian Republic, the British Revolution, the British
-Republic, the conquest of Japan by America, and the federation of the
-United States of Europe and America, all going on at once.
-
-The scene stretched and stretched, and still Mr. Spalding kept before
-him every item as it had first appeared. He was now aware of the vast
-periods of geologic time. On the past side he saw the mammoth and the
-caveman; on the future he saw the Atlantic flooding the North Sea and
-submerging the flats of Lincolnshire, Cambridgeshire, Norfolk, Suffolk,
-Essex, and Kent. He saw the giant tree-ferns; he saw the great saurians
-trampling the marshlands and sea-beaches of the past. A flight of
-fearful pterodactyls darkened the air. And he saw the ice creep down and
-down from the poles to the vast temperate zone of Europe, America and
-Australasia; he saw men and animals driven before it to the belt of the
-equator.
-
-And now he sank down deeper; he was swept into the stream that flowed,
-thudding and throbbing, through all live things; he felt it beat in and
-around him, jet after jet from the beating heart of God; he felt the
-rising of the sap in trees, the delight of animals at mating-time. He
-knew the joy that made Jerry, the black cat, dance on his hind legs and
-bow sideways and wave his forelegs like wings. The stars whirled past
-him with a noise like violin strings, and through it he heard the voice
-of Paul Jeffreson, singing a song. He was aware of an immense,
-all-pervading rapture pierced with stabs of pain. At the same time he
-was drawn back on the ebb of life into a curious peace.
-
-His stretch widened. He was present at the beginning and the end. He saw
-the earth flung off, an incandescent ball, from the wheeling sun. He saw
-it hang like a dead white moon in a sky strewn with the corpses of spent
-worlds. But to his surprise he saw no darkness. He learned that light is
-older than the suns; that they are born of it, not it of them. The whole
-universe stood up on end round him, doubling all its future back upon
-all its past.
-
-He saw the vast planes of time intersecting each other, like the planes
-of a sphere, wheeling, turning in and out of each other. He saw other
-space and time systems rising up, toppling, enclosing and enclosed. And
-as a tiny inset in the immense scene, his own life from birth to the
-present moment, together with the events of his heavenly life to come.
-In this vision Elizabeth’s adultery, which had once appeared so
-monstrous, so overpowering an event, was revealed as slender and
-insignificant.
-
-And now the universe dissolved into the ultimate constituents of matter,
-electrons of electrons of electrons, an unseen web, intensely vibrating,
-stretched through all space and all time. He saw it sucked back into the
-space of space, the time of time, into the thought of God.
-
-Mr. Spalding was drawn in with it. He passed from God’s immanent to his
-transcendent life, into the Absolute. For one moment he thought that
-this was death; the next his whole being swelled and went on swelling in
-an unspeakable, an unthinkable bliss.
-
-Joined with him, vibrating with him in one tremendous rapture, were the
-spirits of Elizabeth and Paul Jeffreson. He had now no memory of their
-adultery or of his own.
-
-When he came out of his ecstasy he was aware that God was spinning his
-thought again, stretching the web of matter through space and time.
-
-He was going to make another jig-saw puzzle of a universe.
-
-
- PRINTED AT
- THE CHAPEL RIVER PRESS,
- KINGSTON, SURREY.
-
-
-
-***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK UNCANNY STORIES***
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+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 59165 *** + + + + +UNCANNY STORIES + + +[Illustration: “A terrified bird flew out of the hedge ...”] + + +UNCANNY STORIES + +by + +May Sinclair + +Author of “Anne Severn and the Fieldings,” etc. + +Illustrations by Jean de Bosschère + + + + + + + +London: Hutchinson & Co. +Paternoster Row + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + CONTENTS + + Where their Fire is not Quenched + The Token + The Flaw in the Crystal + The Nature of the Evidence + If the Dead Knew + The Victim + The Finding of the Absolute + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS + + A terrified bird flew out of the hedge ... + Then, suddenly the room began to come apart ... + ... each held there by the other’s fear + ... moving slowly, like figures in some monstrous and appalling dance + “I’ve told you not to touch my things” + ... her face was turned to Donald ... + He stepped forward, opening his arms + And she wondered whether really she would find him well + “I saw the Powells at the station” + Milly opened a door on the left + “No place ever will be strange when It’s there” + ... he stood for a moment in the open doorway ... + ... stretching out her arms to keep him back + ... drew itself after him along the floor + ... her whole body listened ... + The apparition maintained itself with difficulty + Then all of a sudden she had burst out crying ... + Steven waited with his hand on the tap ... + It stood close against the window, looking in + ... the figure became clear and solid ... + “_Now_ he’s coming alive—” + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + UNCANNY STORIES + + + + + WHERE THEIR FIRE IS NOT QUENCHED + + +There was nobody in the orchard. Harriott Leigh went out, carefully, +through the iron gate into the field. She had made the latch slip into +its notch without a sound. + +The path slanted widely up the field from the orchard gate to the stile +under the elder tree. George Waring waited for her there. + +Years afterwards, when she thought of George Waring she smelt the sweet, +hot, wine-scent of the elder flowers. Years afterwards, when she smelt +elder flowers she saw George Waring, with his beautiful, gentle face, +like a poet’s or a musician’s, his black-blue eyes, and sleek, +olive-brown hair. He was a naval lieutenant. + +Yesterday he had asked her to marry him and she had consented. But her +father hadn’t, and she had come to tell him that and say good-bye before +he left her. His ship was to sail the next day. + +He was eager and excited. He couldn’t believe that anything could stop +their happiness, that anything he didn’t want to happen could happen. + +“Well?” he said. + +“He’s a perfect beast, George. He won’t let us. He says we’re too +young.” + +“I was twenty last August,” he said, aggrieved. + +[Illustration] + +“And I shall be seventeen in September.” + +“And this is June. We’re quite old, really. How long does he mean us to +wait?” + +“Three years.” + +“Three years before we can be engaged even— Why, we might be dead.” + +She put her arms round him to make him feel safe. They kissed; and the +sweet, hot, wine-scent of the elder flowers mixed with their kisses. +They stood, pressed close together, under the elder tree. + +Across the yellow fields of charlock they heard the village clock strike +seven. Up in the house a gong clanged. + +“Darling, I must go,” she said. + +“Oh stay—Stay _five_ minutes.” + +He pressed her close. It lasted five minutes, and five more. Then he was +running fast down the road to the station, while Harriott went along the +field-path, slowly, struggling with her tears. + +“He’ll be back in three months,” she said. “I can live through three +months.” + +But he never came back. There was something wrong with the engines of +his ship, the _Alexandra_. Three weeks later she went down in the +Mediterranean, and George with her. + +Harriott said she didn’t care how soon she died now. She was quite sure +it would be soon, because she couldn’t live without him. + +Five years passed. + +[Illustration] + +The two lines of beech trees stretched on and on, the whole length of +the Park, a broad green drive between. When you came to the middle they +branched off right and left in the form of a cross, and at the end of +the right arm there was a white stucco pavilion with pillars and a +three-cornered pediment like a Greek temple. At the end of the left arm, +the west entrance to the Park, double gates and a side door. + +Harriott, on her stone seat at the back of the pavilion, could see +Stephen Philpotts the very minute he came through the side door. + +He had asked her to wait for him there. It was the place he always chose +to read his poems aloud in. The poems were a pretext. She knew what he +was going to say. And she knew what she would answer. + +There were elder bushes in flower at the back of the pavilion, and +Harriott thought of George Waring. She told herself that George was +nearer to her now than he could ever have been, living. If she married +Stephen she would not be unfaithful, because she loved him with another +part of herself. It was not as though Stephen were taking George’s +place. She loved Stephen with her soul, in an unearthly way. + +But her body quivered like a stretched wire when the door opened and the +young man came towards her down the drive under the beech trees. + +She loved him; she loved his slenderness, his darkness and sallow +whiteness, his black eyes lighting up with the intellectual flame, the +way his black hair swept back from his forehead, the way he walked, +tiptoe, as if his feet were lifted with wings. + +He sat down beside her. She could see his hands tremble. She felt that +her moment was coming; it had come. + +“I wanted to see you alone because there’s something I must say to you. +I don’t quite know how to begin....” + +Her lips parted. She panted lightly. + +“You’ve heard me speak of Sybill Foster?” + +Her voice came stammering, “N-no, Stephen. Did you?” + +“Well, I didn’t mean to, till I knew it was all right. I only heard +yesterday.” + +“Heard what?” + +“Why, that she’ll have me. Oh, Harriott—do you know what it’s like to be +terribly happy?” + +She knew. She had known just now, the moment before he told her. She sat +there, stone-cold and stiff, listening to his raptures; listening to her +own voice saying she was glad. + +Ten years passed. + + * * * * * + +Harriott Leigh sat waiting in the drawing-room of a small house in Maida +Vale. She had lived there ever since her father’s death two years +before. + +She was restless. She kept on looking at the clock to see if it was +four, the hour that Oscar Wade had appointed. She was not sure that he +would come, after she had sent him away yesterday. + +She now asked herself, why, when she had sent him away yesterday, she +had let him come to-day. Her motives were not altogether clear. If she +really meant what she had said then, she oughtn’t to let him come to her +again. Never again. + +She had shown him plainly what she meant. She could see herself, sitting +very straight in her chair, uplifted by a passionate integrity, while he +stood before her, hanging his head, ashamed and beaten; she could feel +again the throb in her voice as she kept on saying that she couldn’t, +she couldn’t; he must see that she couldn’t; that no, nothing would make +her change her mind; she couldn’t forget he had a wife; that he must +think of Muriel. + +To which he had answered savagely: “I needn’t. That’s all over. We only +live together for the look of the thing.” + +And she, serenely, with great dignity: “And for the look of the thing, +Oscar, we must leave off seeing each other. Please go.” + +“Do you mean it?” + +“Yes. We must never see each other again.” + +And he had gone then, ashamed and beaten. + +She could see him, squaring his broad shoulders to meet the blow. And +she was sorry for him. She told herself she had been unnecessarily hard. +Why shouldn’t they see each other again, now he understood where they +must draw the line? Until yesterday the line had never been very clearly +drawn. To-day she meant to ask him to forget what he had said to her. +Once it was forgotten, they could go on being friends as if nothing had +happened. + +It was four o’clock. Half-past. Five. She had finished tea and given him +up when, between the half-hour and six o’clock, he came. + +[Illustration] + +He came as he had come a dozen times, with his measured, deliberate, +thoughtful tread, carrying himself well braced, with a sort of held-in +arrogance, his great shoulders heaving. He was a man of about forty, +broad and tall, lean-flanked and short-necked, his straight, handsome +features showing small and even in the big square face and in the flush +that swamped it. The close-clipped, reddish-brown moustache bristled +forwards from the pushed-out upper lip. His small, flat eyes shone, +reddish-brown, eager and animal. + +She liked to think of him when he was not there, but always at the first +sight of him she felt a slight shock. Physically, he was very far from +her admired ideal. So different from George Waring and Stephen +Philpotts. + +He sat down, facing her. + +There was an embarrassed silence, broken by Oscar Wade. + +“Well, Harriott, you said I could come.” He seemed to be throwing the +responsibility on her. + +“So I suppose you’ve forgiven me,” he said. + +“Oh, yes, Oscar, I’ve forgiven you.” + +He said she’d better show it by coming to dine with him somewhere that +evening. + +She could give no reason to herself for going. She simply went. + +He took her to a restaurant in Soho. Oscar Wade dined well, even +extravagantly, giving each dish its importance. She liked his +extravagance. He had none of the mean virtues. + +It was over. His flushed, embarrassed silence told her what he was +thinking. But when he had seen her home he left her at her garden gate. +He had thought better of it. + +She was not sure whether she were glad or sorry. She had had her moment +of righteous exaltation and she had enjoyed it. But there was no joy in +the weeks that followed it. She had given up Oscar Wade because she +didn’t want him very much; and now she wanted him furiously, perversely, +because she had given him up. Though he had no resemblance to her ideal, +she couldn’t live without him. + +She dined with him again and again, till she knew Schnebler’s Restaurant +by heart, the white panelled walls picked out with gold; the white +pillars, and the curling gold fronds of their capitals; the Turkey +carpets, blue and crimson, soft under her feet; the thick crimson velvet +cushions, that clung to her skirts; the glitter of silver and glass on +the innumerable white circles of the tables. And the faces of the +diners, red, white, pink, brown, grey and sallow, distorted and excited; +the curled mouths that twisted as they ate; the convoluted electric +bulbs pointing, pointing down at them, under the red, crinkled shades. +All shimmering in a thick air that the red light stained as wine stains +water. + +And Oscar’s face, flushed with his dinner. Always, when he leaned back +from the table and brooded in silence she knew what he was thinking. His +heavy eyelids would lift; she would find his eyes fixed on hers, +wondering, considering. + +She knew now what the end would be. She thought of George Waring, and +Stephen Philpotts, and of her life, cheated. She hadn’t chosen Oscar, +she hadn’t really wanted him; but now he had forced himself on her she +couldn’t afford to let him go. Since George died no man had loved her, +no other man ever would. And she was sorry for him when she thought of +him going from her, beaten and ashamed. + +She was certain, before he was, of the end. Only she didn’t know when +and where and how it would come. That was what Oscar knew. + +It came at the close of one of their evenings when they had dined in a +private sitting-room. He said he couldn’t stand the heat and noise of +the public restaurant. + +She went before him, up a steep, red-carpeted stair to a white door on +the second landing. + +From time to time they repeated the furtive, hidden adventure. Sometimes +she met him in the room above Schnebler’s. Sometimes, when her maid was +out, she received him at her house in Maida Vale. But that was +dangerous, not to be risked too often. + +Oscar declared himself unspeakably happy. Harriott was not quite sure. +This was love, the thing she had never had, that she had dreamed of, +hungered and thirsted for; but now she had it she was not satisfied. +Always she looked for something just beyond it, some mystic, heavenly +rapture, always beginning to come, that never came. There was something +about Oscar that repelled her. But because she had taken him for her +lover, she couldn’t bring herself to admit that it was a certain +coarseness. She looked another way and pretended it wasn’t there. To +justify herself, she fixed her mind on his good qualities, his +generosity, his strength, the way he had built up his engineering +business. She made him take her over his works and show her his great +dynamos. She made him lend her the books he read. But always, when she +tried to talk to him, he let her see that _that_ wasn’t what she was +there for. + +“My dear girl, we haven’t time,” he said. “It’s waste of our priceless +moments.” + +She persisted. “There’s something wrong about it all if we can’t talk to +each other.” + +He was irritated. “Women never seem to consider that a man can get all +the talk he wants from other men. What’s wrong is our meeting in this +unsatisfactory way. We ought to live together. It’s the only sane thing. +I would, only I don’t want to break up Muriel’s home and make her +miserable.” + +“I thought you said she wouldn’t care.” + +“My dear, she cares for her home and her position and the children. You +forget the children.” + +Yes. She had forgotten the children. She had forgotten Muriel. She had +left off thinking of Oscar as a man with a wife and children and a home. + +He had a plan. His mother-in-law was coming to stay with Muriel in +October and he would get away. He would go to Paris, and Harriott should +come to him there. He could say he went on business. No need to lie +about it; he _had_ business in Paris. + +He engaged rooms in an hotel in the rue de Rivoli. They spent two weeks +there. + +For three days Oscar was madly in love with Harriott and Harriott with +him. As she lay awake she would turn on the light and look at him as he +slept at her side. Sleep made him beautiful and innocent; it laid a +fine, smooth tissue over his coarseness; it made his mouth gentle; it +entirely hid his eyes. + +In six days reaction had set in. At the end of the tenth day, Harriott, +returning with Oscar from Montmartre, burst into a fit of crying. When +questioned, she answered wildly that the Hotel Saint Pierre was too +hideously ugly; it was getting on her nerves. Mercifully Oscar explained +her state as fatigue following excitement. She tried hard to believe +that she was miserable because her love was purer and more spiritual +than Oscar’s; but all the time she knew perfectly well she had cried +from pure boredom. She was in love with Oscar, and Oscar bored her. +Oscar was in love with her, and she bored him. At close quarters, day in +and day out, each was revealed to the other as an incredible bore. + +At the end of the second week she began to doubt whether she had ever +been really in love with him. + + * * * * * + +Her passion returned for a little while after they got back to London. +Freed from the unnatural strain which Paris had put on them, they +persuaded themselves that their romantic temperaments were better fitted +to the old life of casual adventure. + +Then, gradually, the sense of danger began to wake in them. They lived +in perpetual fear, face to face with all the chances of discovery. They +tormented themselves and each other by imagining possibilities that they +would never have considered in their first fine moments. It was as +though they were beginning to ask themselves if it were, after all, +worth while running such awful risks, for all they got out of it. Oscar +still swore that if he had been free he would have married her. He +pointed out that his intentions at any rate were regular. But she asked +herself: Would I marry _him_? Marriage would be the Hotel Saint Pierre +all over again, without any possibility of escape. But, if she wouldn’t +marry him, was she in love with him? That was the test. Perhaps it was a +good thing he wasn’t free. Then she told herself that these doubts were +morbid, and that the question wouldn’t arise. + +One evening Oscar called to see her. He had come to tell her that Muriel +was ill. + +“Seriously ill?” + +“I’m afraid so. It’s pleurisy. May turn to pneumonia. We shall know one +way or another in the next few days.” + +A terrible fear seized upon Harriott. Muriel might die of her pleurisy; +and if Muriel died, she would have to marry Oscar. He was looking at her +queerly, as if he knew what she was thinking, and she could see that the +same thought had occurred to him and that he was frightened too. + +Muriel got well again; but their danger had enlightened them. Muriel’s +life was now inconceivably precious to them both; she stood between them +and that permanent union, which they dreaded and yet would not have the +courage to refuse. + +After enlightenment the rupture. + +It came from Oscar, one evening when he sat with her in her +drawing-room. + +“Harriott,” he said, “do you know I’m thinking seriously of settling +down?” + +“How do you mean, settling down?” + +“Patching it up with Muriel, poor girl.... Has it never occurred to you +that this little affair of ours can’t go on for ever?” + +“You don’t want it to go on?” + +“I don’t want to have any humbug about it. For God’s sake, let’s be +straight. If it’s done, it’s done. Let’s end it decently.” + +“I see. You want to get rid of me.” + +“That’s a beastly way of putting it.” + +“Is there any way that isn’t beastly? The whole thing’s beastly. I +should have thought you’d have stuck to it now you’ve made it what you +wanted. When I haven’t an ideal, I haven’t a single illusion, when +you’ve destroyed everything you didn’t want.” + +“What didn’t I want?” + +“The clean, beautiful part of it. The part _I_ wanted.” + +“My part at least was real. It was cleaner and more beautiful than all +that putrid stuff you wrapped it up in. You were a hypocrite, Harriott, +and I wasn’t. You’re a hypocrite now if you say you weren’t happy with +me.” + +“I was never really happy. Never for one moment. There was always +something I missed. Something you didn’t give me. Perhaps you couldn’t.” + +“No. I wasn’t spiritual enough,” he sneered. + +“You were not. And you made me what you were.” + +“Oh, I noticed that you were always very spiritual _after_ you’d got +what you wanted.” + +“What I wanted?” she cried. “Oh, my God—” + +“If you ever knew what you wanted.” + +“What—I—wanted,” she repeated, drawing out her bitterness. + +“Come,” he said, “why not be honest? Face facts. I was awfully gone on +you. You were awfully gone on me—once. We got tired of each other and +it’s over. But at least you might own we had a good time while it +lasted.” + +“A good time?” + +“Good enough for me.” + +“For you, because for you love only means one thing. Everything that’s +high and noble in it you dragged down to that, till there’s nothing left +for us but that. _That’s_ what you made of love.” + +Twenty years passed. + + * * * * * + +It was Oscar who died first, three years after the rupture. He did it +suddenly one evening, falling down in a fit of apoplexy. + +His death was an immense relief to Harriott. Perfect security had been +impossible as long as he was alive. But now there wasn’t a living soul +who knew her secret. + +Still, in the first moment of shock Harriott told herself that Oscar +dead would be nearer to her than ever. She forgot how little she had +wanted him to be near her, alive. And long before the twenty years had +passed she had contrived to persuade herself that he had never been near +to her at all. It was incredible that she had ever known such a person +as Oscar Wade. As for their affair, she couldn’t think of Harriott Leigh +as the sort of woman to whom such a thing could happen. Schnebler’s and +the Hotel Saint Pierre ceased to figure among prominent images of her +past. Her memories, if she had allowed herself to remember, would have +clashed disagreeably with the reputation for sanctity which she had now +acquired. + +For Harriott at fifty-two was the friend and helper of the Reverend +Clement Farmer, Vicar of St. Mary the Virgin’s, Maida Vale. She worked +as a deaconess in his parish, wearing the uniform of a deaconess, the +semi-religious gown, the cloak, the bonnet and veil, the cross and +rosary, the holy smile. She was also secretary to the Maida Vale and +Kilburn Home for Fallen Girls. + +Her moments of excitement came when Clement Farmer, the lean, austere +likeness of Stephen Philpotts, in his cassock and lace-bordered +surplice, issued from the vestry, when he mounted the pulpit, when he +stood before the altar rails and lifted up his arms in the Benediction; +her moments of ecstasy when she received the Sacrament from his hands. +And she had moments of calm happiness when his study door closed on +their communion. All these moments were saturated with a solemn +holiness. + +And they were insignificant compared with the moment of her dying. + +She lay dozing in her white bed under the black crucifix with the ivory +Christ. The basins and medicine bottles had been cleared from the table +by her pillow; it was spread for the last rites. The priest moved +quietly about the room, arranging the candles, the Prayer Book and the +Holy Sacrament. Then he drew a chair to her bedside and watched with +her, waiting for her to come up out of her doze. + +She woke suddenly. Her eyes were fixed upon him. She had a flash of +lucidity. She was dying, and her dying made her supremely important to +Clement Farmer. + +“Are you ready?” he asked. + +“Not yet. I think I’m afraid. Make me not afraid.” + +He rose and lit the two candles on the altar. He took down the crucifix +from the wall and stood it against the foot-rail of the bed. + +She sighed. That was not what she had wanted. + +“You will not be afraid now,” he said. + +“I’m not afraid of the hereafter. I suppose you get used to it. Only it +may be terrible just at first.” + +“Our first state will depend very much on what we are thinking of at our +last hour.” + +“There’ll be my—confession,” she said. + +“And after it you will receive the Sacrament. Then you will have your +mind fixed firmly upon God and your Redeemer.... Do you feel able to +make your confession now, Sister? Everything is ready.” + +Her mind went back over her past and found Oscar Wade there. She +wondered: Should she confess to him about Oscar Wade? One moment she +thought it was possible; the next she knew that she couldn’t. She could +not. It wasn’t necessary. For twenty years he had not been part of her +life. No. She wouldn’t confess about Oscar Wade. She had been guilty of +other sins. + +She made a careful selection. + +“I have cared too much for the beauty of this world.... I have failed in +charity to my poor girls. Because of my intense repugnance to their +sin.... I have thought, often, about—people I love, when I should have +been thinking about God.” + +After that she received the Sacrament. + +“Now,” he said, “there is nothing to be afraid of.” + +“I won’t be afraid if—if you would hold my hand.” + +He held it. And she lay still a long time, with her eyes shut. Then he +heard her murmuring something. He stooped close. + +“This—is—dying. I thought it would be horrible. And it’s bliss.... +Bliss.” + +The priest’s hand slackened, as if at the bidding of some wonder. She +gave a weak cry. + +“Oh—don’t let me go.” + +His grasp tightened. + +“Try,” he said, “to think about God. Keep on looking at the crucifix.” + +“If I look,” she whispered, “you won’t let go my hand?” + +“I will not let you go.” + +He held it till it was wrenched from him in the last agony. + + * * * * * + +She lingered for some hours in the room where these things had happened. + +Its aspect was familiar and yet unfamiliar, and slightly repugnant to +her. The altar, the crucifix, the lighted candles, suggested some +tremendous and awful experience the details of which she was not able to +recall. She seemed to remember that they had been connected in some way +with the sheeted body on the bed; but the nature of the connection was +not clear; and she did not associate the dead body with herself. When +the nurse came in and laid it out, she saw that it was the body of a +middle-aged woman. Her own living body was that of a young woman of +about thirty-two. + +Her mind had no past and no future, no sharp-edged, coherent memories, +and no idea of anything to be done next. + +Then, suddenly, the room began to come apart before her eyes, to split +into shafts of floor and furniture and ceiling that shifted and were +thrown by their commotion into different planes. They leaned slanting at +every possible angle; they crossed and overlaid each other with a +transparent mingling of dislocated perspectives, like reflections fallen +on an interior seen behind glass. + +The bed and the sheeted body slid away somewhere out of sight. She was +standing by the door that still remained in position. + +She opened it and found herself in the street, outside a building of +yellowish-grey brick and freestone, with a tall slated spire. Her mind +came together with a palpable click of recognition. This object was the +Church of St. Mary the Virgin, Maida Vale. She could hear the droning of +the organ. She opened the door and slipped in. + +[Illustration: Then, suddenly the room began to come apart ...] + +She had gone back into a definite space and time, and recovered a +certain limited section of coherent memory. She remembered the rows of +pitch-pine benches, with their Gothic peaks and mouldings; the +stone-coloured walls and pillars with their chocolate stencilling; the +hanging rings of lights along the aisles of the nave; the high altar +with its lighted candles, and the polished brass cross, twinkling. These +things were somehow permanent and real, adjusted to the image that now +took possession of her. + +She knew what she had come there for. The service was over. The choir +had gone from the chancel; the sacristan moved before the altar, putting +out the candles. She walked up the middle aisle to a seat that she knew +under the pulpit. She knelt down and covered her face with her hands. +Peeping sideways through her fingers, she could see the door of the +vestry on her left at the end of the north aisle. She watched it +steadily. + +Up in the organ loft the organist drew out the Recessional, slowly and +softly, to its end in the two solemn, vibrating chords. + +The vestry door opened and Clement Farmer came out, dressed in his black +cassock. He passed before her, close, close outside the bench where she +knelt. He paused at the opening. He was waiting for her. There was +something he had to say. + +She stood up and went towards him. He still waited. He didn’t move to +make way for her. She came close, closer than she had ever come to him, +so close that his features grew indistinct. She bent her head back, +peering, short-sightedly, and found herself looking into Oscar Wade’s +face. + +He stood still, horribly still, and close, barring her passage. + +She drew back; his heaving shoulders followed her. He leaned forward, +covering her with his eyes. She opened her mouth to scream and no sound +came. + +She was afraid to move lest he should move with her. The heaving of his +shoulders terrified her. + +One by one the lights in the side aisles were going out. The lights in +the middle aisle would go next. They had gone. If she didn’t get away +she would be shut up with him there, in the appalling darkness. + +She turned and moved towards the north aisle, groping, steadying herself +by the book ledge. + +When she looked back, Oscar Wade was not there. + +Then she remembered that Oscar Wade was dead. Therefore, what she had +seen was not Oscar; it was his ghost. He was dead; dead seventeen years +ago. She was safe from him for ever. + + * * * * * + +When she came out on to the steps of the church she saw that the road it +stood in had changed. It was not the road she remembered. The pavement +on this side was raised slightly and covered in. It ran under a +succession of arches. It was a long gallery walled with glittering shop +windows on one side; on the other a line of tall grey columns divided it +from the street. + +She was going along the arcades of the rue de Rivoli. Ahead of her she +could see the edge of an immense grey pillar jutting out. That was the +porch of the Hotel Saint Pierre. The revolving glass doors swung forward +to receive her; she crossed the grey, sultry vestibule under the +pillared arches. She knew it. She knew the porter’s shining, +wine-coloured mahogany pen on her left, and the shining wine-coloured +mahogany barrier of the clerk’s bureau on her right; she made straight +for the great grey carpeted staircase; she climbed the endless flights +that turned round and round the caged-in shaft of the well, past the +latticed doors of the lift, and came up on to a landing that she knew, +and into the long, ash-grey, foreign corridor lit by a dull window at +one end. + +It was there that the horror of the place came on her. She had no longer +any memory of St. Mary’s Church, so that she was unaware of her backward +course through time. All space and time were here. + +She remembered she had to go to the left, the left. But there was +something there; where the corridor turned by the window; at the end of +all the corridors. If she went the other way she would escape it. + +The corridor stopped there. A blank wall. She was driven back past the +stairhead to the left. + +At the corner, by the window, she turned down another long ash-grey +corridor on her right, and to the right again where the night-light +sputtered on the table-flap at the turn. + +This third corridor was dark and secret and depraved. She knew the +soiled walls and the warped door at the end. There was a sharp-pointed +streak of light at the top. She could see the number on it now, 107. + +Something had happened there. If she went in it would happen again. + +Oscar Wade was in the room waiting for her behind the closed door. She +felt him moving about in there. She leaned forward, her ear to the key +hole, and listened. She could hear the measured, deliberate, thoughtful +footsteps. They were coming from the bed to the door. + +She turned and ran; her knees gave way under her; she sank and ran on, +down the long grey corridors and the stairs, quick and blind, a hunted +beast seeking for cover, hearing his feet coming after her. + +The revolving doors caught her and pushed her out into the street. + + * * * * * + +The strange quality of her state was this, that it had no time. She +remembered dimly that there had once been a thing called time; but she +had forgotten altogether what it was like. She was aware of things +happening and about to happen; she fixed them by the place they +occupied, and measured their duration by the space she went through. + +So now she thought: If I could only go back and get to the place where +it hadn’t happened. + +To get back farther— + +She was walking now on a white road that went between broad grass +borders. To the right and left were the long raking lines of the hills, +curve after curve, shimmering in a thin mist. + +The road dropped to the green valley. It mounted the humped bridge over +the river. Beyond it she saw the twin gables of the grey house pricked +up over the high, grey garden wall. The tall iron gate stood in front of +it between the ball-topped stone pillars. + +And now she was in a large, low-ceilinged room with drawn blinds. She +was standing before the wide double bed. It was her father’s bed. The +dead body, stretched out in the middle under the drawn white sheet, was +her father’s body. + +The outline of the sheet sank from the peak of the upturned toes to the +shin bone, and from the high bridge of the nose to the chin. + +She lifted the sheet and folded it back across the breast of the dead +man. The face she saw then was Oscar Wade’s face, stilled and smoothed +in the innocence of sleep, the supreme innocence of death. She stared at +it, fascinated, in a cold, pitiless joy. + +Oscar was dead. + +She remembered how he used to lie like that beside her in the room in +the Hotel Saint Pierre, on his back with his hands folded on his waist, +his mouth half open, his big chest rising and falling. If he was dead, +it would never happen again. She would be safe. + +The dead face frightened her, and she was about to cover it up again +when she was aware of a light heaving, a rhythmical rise and fall. As +she drew the sheet up tighter, the hands under it began to struggle +convulsively, the broad ends of the fingers appeared above the edge, +clutching it to keep it down. The mouth opened; the eyes opened; the +whole face stared back at her in a look of agony and horror. + +Then the body drew itself forwards from the hips and sat up, its eyes +peering into her eyes; he and she remained for an instant motionless, +each held there by the other’s fear. + +[Illustration: ... each held there by the other’s fear] + +Suddenly she broke away, turned and ran, out of the room, out of the +house. + +She stood at the gate, looking up and down the road, not knowing by +which way she must go to escape Oscar. To the right, over the bridge and +up the hill and across the downs she would come to the arcades of the +rue de Rivoli and the dreadful grey corridors of the hotel. To the left +the road went through the village. + +If she could get further back she would be safe, out of Oscar’s reach. +Standing by her father’s death-bed she had been young, but not young +enough. She must get back to the place where she was younger still, to +the Park and the green drive under the beech trees and the white +pavilion at the cross. She knew how to find it. At the end of the +village the high road ran right and left, east and west, under the Park +walls; the south gate stood there at the top, looking down the narrow +street. + +She ran towards it through the village, past the long grey barns of +Goodyer’s farm, past the grocer’s shop, past the yellow front and blue +sign of the “Queen’s Head,” past the post office, with its one black +window blinking under its vine, past the church and the yew-trees in the +churchyard, to where the south gate made a delicate black pattern on the +green grass. + +These things appeared insubstantial, drawn back behind a sheet of air +that shimmered over them like thin glass. They opened out, floated past +and away from her; and instead of the high road and park walls she saw a +London street of dingy white facades, and instead of the south gate the +swinging glass doors of Schnebler’s Restaurant. + + * * * * * + +The glass doors swung open and she passed into the restaurant. The scene +beat on her with the hard impact of reality: the white and gold panels, +the white pillars and their curling gold capitals, the white circles of +the tables, glittering, the flushed faces of the diners, moving +mechanically. + +She was driven forward by some irresistible compulsion to a table in the +corner, where a man sat alone. The table napkin he was using hid his +mouth, and jaw, and chest; and she was not sure of the upper part of the +face above the straight, drawn edge. It dropped; and she saw Oscar +Wade’s face. She came to him, dragged, without power to resist; she sat +down beside him, and he leaned to her over the table; she could feel the +warmth of his red, congested face; the smell of wine floated towards her +on his thick whisper. + +“I knew you would come.” + +She ate and drank with him in silence, nibbling and sipping slowly, +staving off the abominable moment it would end in. + +At last they got up and faced each other. His long bulk stood before +her, above her; she could almost feel the vibration of its power. + +“Come,” he said. “Come.” + +And she went before him, slowly, slipping out through the maze of the +tables, hearing behind her Oscar’s measured, deliberate, thoughtful +tread. The steep, red-carpeted staircase rose up before her. + +She swerved from it, but he turned her back. + +“You know the way,” he said. + +At the top of the flight she found the white door of the room she knew. +She knew the long windows guarded by drawn muslin blinds; the gilt +looking-glass over the chimney-piece that reflected Oscar’s head and +shoulders grotesquely between two white porcelain babies with bulbous +limbs and garlanded loins, she knew the sprawling stain on the drab +carpet by the table, the shabby, infamous couch behind the screen. + +They moved about the room, turning and turning in it like beasts in a +cage, uneasy, inimical, avoiding each other. + +At last they stood still, he at the window, she at the door, the length +of the room between. + +“It’s no good your getting away like that,” he said. “There couldn’t be +any other end to it—to what we did.” + +“But that _was_ ended.” + +“Ended there, but not here.” + +“Ended for ever. We’ve done with it for ever.” + +“We haven’t. We’ve got to begin again. And go on. And go on.” + +“Oh, no. No. Anything but that.” + +“There isn’t anything else.” + +“We can’t. We can’t. Don’t you remember how it bored us?” + +“Remember? Do you suppose I’d touch you if I could help it?... That’s +what we’re here for. We must. We must.” + +“No. No. I shall get away—now.” + +She turned to the door to open it. + +“You can’t,” he said. “The door’s locked.” + +“Oscar—what did you do that for?” + +“We always did it. Don’t you remember?” + +She turned to the door again and shook it; she beat on it with her +hands. + +“It’s no use, Harriott. If you got out now you’d only have to come back +again. You might stave it off for an hour or so, but what’s that in an +immortality?” + +“Immortality?” + +“That’s what we’re in for.” + +“Time enough to talk about immortality when we’re dead.... Ah—” + +[Illustration: ... moving slowly, like figures in some monstrous and +appalling dance ...] + +They were being drawn towards each other across the room, moving slowly, +like figures in some monstrous and appalling dance, their heads thrown +back over their shoulders, their faces turned from the horrible +approach. Their arms rose slowly, heavy with intolerable reluctance; +they stretched them out towards each other, aching, as if they held up +an overpowering weight. Their feet dragged and were drawn. + +Suddenly her knees sank under her; she shut her eyes; all her being went +down before him in darkness and terror. + + * * * * * + +It was over. She had got away, she was going back, back, to the green +drive of the Park, between the beech trees, where Oscar had never been, +where he would never find her. When she passed through the south gate +her memory became suddenly young and clean. She forgot the rue de Rivoli +and the Hotel Saint Pierre; she forgot Schnebler’s Restaurant and the +room at the top of the stairs. She was back in her youth. She was +Harriott Leigh going to wait for Stephen Philpotts in the pavilion +opposite the west gate. She could feel herself, a slender figure moving +fast over the grass between the lines of the great beech trees. The +freshness of her youth was upon her. + +She came to the heart of the drive where it branched right and left in +the form of a cross. At the end of the right arm the white Greek temple, +with its pediment and pillars, gleamed against the wood. + +She was sitting on their seat at the back of the pavilion, watching the +side door that Stephen would come in by. + +The door was pushed open; he came towards her, light and young, skimming +between the beech trees with his eager, tiptoeing stride. She rose up to +meet him. She gave a cry. + +“Stephen!” + +It had been Stephen. She had seen him coming. But the man who stood +before her between the pillars of the pavilion was Oscar Wade. + +And now she was walking along the field-path that slanted from the +orchard door to the stile; further and further back, to where young +George Waring waited for her under the elder tree. The smell of the +elder flowers came to her over the field. She could feel on her lips and +in all her body the sweet, innocent excitement of her youth. + +“George, oh, George!” + +As she went along the field-path she had seen him. But the man who stood +waiting for her under the elder tree was Oscar Wade. + +“I told you it’s no use getting away, Harriott. Every path brings you +back to me. You’ll find me at every turn.” + +“But how did you get _here?_” + +“As I got into the pavilion. As I got into your father’s room, on to his +death-bed. Because I _was_ there. I am in all your memories.” + +“My memories are innocent. How could you take my father’s place, and +Stephen’s, and George Waring’s? You?” + +“Because I did take them.” + +“Never. My love for _them_ was innocent.” + +“Your love for me was part of it. You think the past affects the future. +Has it never struck you that the future may affect the past? In your +innocence there was the beginning of your sin. You _were_ what you _were +to be_.” + +“I shall get away,” she said. + +“And, this time, I shall go with you.” + +The stile, the elder tree, and the field floated away from her. She was +going under the beech trees down the Park drive towards the south gate +and the village, slinking close to the right-hand row of trees. She was +aware that Oscar Wade was going with her under the left-hand row, +keeping even with her, step by step, and tree by tree. And presently +there was grey pavement under her feet and a row of grey pillars on her +right hand. They were walking side by side down the rue de Rivoli +towards the hotel. + +They were sitting together now on the edge of the dingy white bed. Their +arms hung by their sides, heavy and limp, their heads drooped, averted. +Their passion weighed on them with the unbearable, unescapable boredom +of immortality. + +“Oscar—how long will it last?” + +“I can’t tell you. I don’t know whether _this_ is one moment of +eternity, or the eternity of one moment.” + +“It must end some time,” she said. “Life doesn’t go on for ever. We +shall die.” + +“Die? We _have_ died. Don’t you know what this is? Don’t you know where +you are? This is death. We’re dead, Harriott. We’re in hell.” + +“Yes. There can’t be anything worse than this.” + +“This isn’t the worst. We’re not quite dead yet, as long as we’ve life +in us to turn and run and get away from each other; as long as we can +escape into our memories. But when you’ve got back to the farthest +memory of all and there’s nothing beyond it—when there’s no memory but +this— + +“In the last hell we shall not run away any longer; we shall find no +more roads, no more passages, no more open doors. We shall have no need +to look for each other. + +“In the last death we shall be shut up in this room, behind that locked +door, together. We shall lie here together, for ever and ever, joined so +fast that even God can’t put us asunder. We shall be one flesh and one +spirit, one sin repeated for ever, and ever; spirit loathing flesh, +flesh loathing spirit; you and I loathing each other.” + +“Why? Why?” she cried. + +“Because that’s all that’s left us. That’s what you made of love.” + + * * * * * + +The darkness came down swamping, it blotted out the room. She was +walking along a garden path between high borders of phlox and larkspur +and lupin. They were taller than she was, their flowers swayed and +nodded above her head. She tugged at the tall stems and had no strength +to break them. She was a little thing. + +She said to herself then that she was safe. She had gone back so far +that she was a child again; she had the blank innocence of childhood. To +be a child, to go small under the heads of the lupins, to be blank and +innocent, without memory, was to be safe. + +The walk led her out through a yew hedge on to a bright green lawn. In +the middle of the lawn there was a shallow round pond in a ring of +rockery cushioned with small flowers, yellow and white and purple. +Gold-fish swam in the olive-brown water. She would be safe when she saw +the gold-fish swimming towards her. The old one with the white scales +would come up first, pushing up his nose, making bubbles in the water. + +At the bottom of the lawn there was a privet hedge cut by a broad path +that went through the orchard. She knew what she would find there; her +mother was in the orchard. She would lift her up in her arms to play +with the hard red balls of the apples that hung from the tree. She had +got back to the farthest memory of all; there was nothing beyond it. + +There would be an iron gate in the wall of the orchard. It would lead +into a field. + +Something was different here, something that frightened her. An ash-grey +door instead of an iron gate. + +She pushed it open and came into the last corridor of the Hotel Saint +Pierre. + + + + + THE TOKEN + + + I + + +I have only known one absolutely adorable woman, and that was my +brother’s wife, Cicely Dunbar. + +Sisters-in-law do not, I think, invariably adore each other, and I am +aware that my chief merit in Cicely’s eyes was that I am Donald’s +sister; but for me there was no question of extraneous quality—it was +all pure Cicely. + +And how Donald— But then, like all the Dunbars, Donald suffers from +being Scottish, so that, if he has a feeling, he makes it a point of +honour to pretend he hasn’t it. I daresay he let himself go a bit during +his courtship, when he was not, strictly speaking, himself; but after he +had once married her I think he would have died rather than have told +Cicely in so many words that he loved her. And Cicely wanted to be told. +You say she ought to have known without telling? You don’t know Donald. +You can’t conceive the perverse ingenuity he could put into hiding his +affection. He has that peculiar temper—I think it’s Scottish—that +delights in snubbing and faultfinding and defeating expectation. If he +knows you want him to do a thing, that alone is reason enough with +Donald for not doing it. And my sister, who was as transparent as white +crystal, was never able to conceal a want. So that Donald could, as we +said, “have” her at every turn. + +And, then, I don’t think my brother really knew how ill she was. He +didn’t want to know. Besides, he was so wrapt up in trying to finish his +“Development of Social Economics” (which, by the way, he hasn’t finished +yet) that he had no eyes to see what we all saw: that, the way her poor +little heart was going, Cicely couldn’t have very long to live. + +[Illustration] + +Of course he understood that this was why, in those last months, they +had to have separate rooms. And this in the first year of their marriage +when he was still violently in love with her. + +I keep those two facts firmly in my mind when I try to excuse Donald; +for it was the main cause of that unkindness and perversity which I find +it so hard to forgive. Even now, when I think how he used to discharge +it on the poor little thing, as if it had been her fault, I have to +remind myself that the lamb’s innocence made her a little trying. + +She couldn’t understand why Donald didn’t want to have her with him in +his library any more while he read or wrote. It seemed to her sheer +cruelty to shut her out now when she was ill, seeing that, before she +was ill, she had always had her chair by the fireplace, where she would +sit over her book or her embroidery for hours without speaking, hardly +daring to breathe lest she should interrupt him. Now was the time, she +thought, when she might expect a little indulgence. + +Do you suppose that Donald would give his feelings as an explanation? +Not he. They were _his feelings_, and he wouldn’t talk about them; and +he never explained anything you didn’t understand. + +That—her wanting to sit with him in the library—was what they had the +awful quarrel about, the day before she died: that and the paper-weight, +the precious paper-weight that he wouldn’t let anybody touch because +George Meredith had given it him. It was a brass block, surmounted by a +white alabaster Buddha painted and gilt. And it had an inscription: _To +Donald Dunbar, from George Meredith. In Affectionate Regard_. + +My brother was extremely attached to this paper-weight, partly, I’m +afraid, because it proclaimed his intimacy with the great man. For this +reason it was known in the family ironically as the Token. + +It stood on Donald’s writing-table at his elbow, so near the ink-pot +that the white Buddha had received a splash or two. And this evening +Cicely had come in to us in the library, and had annoyed Donald by +staying in it when he wanted her to go. She had taken up the Token, and +was cleaning it to give herself a pretext. + +She died after the quarrel they had then. + +It began by Donald shouting at her. + +“What are you doing with that paper-weight?” + +“Only getting the ink off.” + +I can see her now, the darling. She had wetted the corner of her +handkerchief with her little pink tongue and was rubbing the Buddha. Her +hands had begun to tremble when he shouted. + +“Put it down, can’t you? I’ve told you not to touch my things.” + +[Illustration: “I’ve told you not to touch my things.”] + +“_You_ inked him,” she said. She was giving one last rub as he rose, +threatening. + +“Put—it—down.” + +And, poor child, she did put it down. Indeed, she dropped it at his +feet. + +“Oh!” she cried out, and stooped quickly and picked it up. Her large +tear-glassed eyes glanced at him, frightened. + +“He isn’t broken.” + +“No thanks to you,” he growled. + +“You beast! You know I’d die rather than break anything you care about.” + +“It’ll be broken some day, if you _will_ come meddling.” + +I couldn’t bear it. I said, “You mustn’t yell at her like that. You know +she can’t stand it. You’ll make her ill again.” + +That sobered him for a moment. + +“I’m sorry,” he said; but he made it sound as if he wasn’t. + +“If you’re sorry,” she persisted, “you might let me stay with you. I’ll +be as quiet as a mouse.” + +“No; I don’t want you—I can’t work with you in the room.” + +“You can work with Helen.” + +“You’re not Helen.” + +“He only means he’s not in love with _me_, dear.” + +“He means I’m no use to him. I know I’m not. I can’t even sit on his +manuscripts and keep them down. He cares more for that damned +paper-weight than he does for me.” + +“Well—George Meredith gave it me.” + +“And nobody gave you me. I gave myself.” + +That worked up his devil again. He _had_ to torment her. + +“It can’t have cost you much,” he said. “And I may remind you that the +paper-weight has _some_ intrinsic value.” + +With that he left her. + +“What’s he gone out for?” she asked me. + +“Because he’s ashamed of himself, I suppose,” I said. “Oh, Cicely, why +_will_ you answer him? You know what he is.” + +“No!” she said passionately—“that’s what I don’t know. I never have +known.” + +“At least you know he’s in love with you.” + +“He has a queer way of showing it, then. He never does anything but +stamp and shout and find fault with me—all about an old paper-weight!” + +She was caressing it as she spoke, stroking the alabaster Buddha as if +it had been a live thing. + +“His poor Buddha. Do you think it’ll break if I stroke it? Better +not.... Honestly, Helen, I’d rather die than hurt anything he really +cared for. Yet look how he hurts me.” + +“Some men _must_ hurt the things they care for.” + +“I wouldn’t mind his hurting, if only I knew he cared. Helen—I’d give +anything to know.” + +“I think you might know.” + +“I don’t! I don’t!” + +“Well, you’ll know some day.” + +“Never! He won’t tell me.” + +“He’s Scotch, my dear. It would kill him to tell you.” + +“Then how’m I to know! If I died to-morrow I should die not knowing.” + +And that night, not knowing, she died. + +She died because she had never really known. + + + II + + +We never talked about her. It was not my brother’s way. Words hurt him, +to speak or to hear them. + +He had become more morose than ever, but less irritable, the source of +his irritation being gone. Though he plunged into work as another man +might have plunged into dissipation, to drown the thought of her, you +could see that he had no longer any interest in it; he no longer loved +it. He attacked it with a fury that had more hate in it than love. He +would spend the greater part of the day and the long evenings shut up in +his library, only going out for a short walk an hour before dinner. You +could see that soon all spontaneous impulses would be checked in him and +he would become the creature of habit and routine. + +[Illustration] + +I tried to rouse him, to shake him up out of his deadly groove; but it +was no use. The first effort—for he did make efforts—exhausted him, and +he sank back into it again. + +But he liked to have me with him; and all the time that I could spare +from my housekeeping and gardening I spent in the library. I think he +didn’t like to be left alone there in the place where they had the +quarrel that killed her; and I noticed that the cause of it, the Token, +had disappeared from his table. + +And all her things, everything that could remind him of her, had been +put away. It was the dead burying its dead. + +Only the chair she had loved remained in its place by the side of the +hearth—_her_ chair, if you could call it hers when she wasn’t allowed to +sit in it. It was always empty, for by tacit consent we both avoided it. + +We would sit there for hours at a time without speaking, while he worked +and I read or sewed. I never dared to ask him whether he sometimes had, +as I had, the sense of Cicely’s presence there, in that room which she +had so longed to enter, from which she had been so cruelly shut out. You +couldn’t tell what he felt or didn’t feel. My brother’s face was a +heavy, sombre mask; his back, bent over the writing-table, a wall behind +which he hid himself. + +You must know that twice in my life I have more than _felt_ these +presences; I have seen them. This may be because I am on both sides a +Highland Celt, and my mother had the same uncanny gift. I had never +spoken of these appearances to Donald because he would have put it all +down to what he calls my hysterical fancy. And I am sure that if he ever +felt or saw anything himself he would never own it. + +I ought to explain that each time the vision was premonitory of a death +(in Cicely’s case I had no such warning), and each time it only lasted +for a second; also that, though I am certain I was wide awake each time, +it is open to anybody to say I was asleep and dreamed it. The queer +thing was that I was neither frightened nor surprised. + +And so I was neither surprised nor frightened now, the first evening +that I saw her. + +It was in the early autumn twilight, about six o’clock. I was sitting in +my place in front of the fireplace; Donald was in his arm-chair on my +left, smoking a pipe, as usual, before the lamplight drove him out of +doors into the dark. + +I had had so strong a sense of Cicely’s being there in the room that I +felt nothing but a sudden sacred pang that was half joy when I looked up +and saw her sitting in her chair on my right. + +The phantasm was perfect and vivid, as if it had been flesh and blood. I +should have thought that it was Cicely herself if I hadn’t known that +she was dead. She wasn’t looking at me; her face was turned to Donald +with that longing, wondering look it used to have, searching his face +for the secret that he kept from her. + +[Illustration: ... her face was turned to Donald ...] + +I looked at Donald. His chin was sunk a little, the pipe drooping from +the corner of his mouth. He was heavy, absorbed in his smoking. It was +clear that he did not see what I saw. + +And whereas those other phantasms that I told you about disappeared at +once, _this_ lasted some little time, and always with its eyes fixed on +Donald. It even lasted while Donald stirred, while he stooped forward, +knocking the ashes out of his pipe against the hob, while he sighed, +stretched himself, turned, and left the room. Then, as the door shut +behind him, the whole figure went out suddenly—not flickering, but like +a light you switch off. + +I saw it again the next evening and the next, at the same time and in +the same place, and with the same look turned towards Donald. And again +I was sure that he did not see it. But I thought, from his uneasy +sighing and stretching, that he had some sense of something there. + +No; I was not frightened. I was glad. You see, I loved Cicely. I +remember thinking, “At last, at last, you poor darling, you’ve got in. +And you can stay as long as you like now. He can’t turn you away.” + +The first few times I saw her just as I have said. I would look up and +find the phantasm there, sitting in her chair. And it would disappear +suddenly when Donald left the room. Then I knew I was alone. + +But as I grew used to its presence, or perhaps as it grew used to mine +and found out that I was not afraid of it, that indeed I loved to have +it there, it came, I think, to trust me, so that I was made aware of all +its movements. I would see it coming across the room from the doorway, +making straight for its desired place, and settling in a little +curled-up posture of satisfaction, appeased, as if it had expected +opposition that it no longer found. Yet that it was not happy, I could +still see by its look at Donald. _That_ never changed. It was as +uncertain of him now as she had been in her lifetime. + +Up till now, the sixth or seventh time I had seen it, I had no clue to +the secret of its appearance; and its movements seemed to me mysterious +and without purpose. Only two things were clear: it was Donald that it +came for—the instant he went it disappeared; and I never once saw it +when I was alone. And always it chose this room and this hour before the +lights came, when he sat doing nothing. It was clear also that he never +saw it. + +But that it was there with him sometimes when I was not I knew; for, +more than once, things on Donald’s writing-table, books or papers, would +be moved out of their places, though never beyond reach; and he would +ask me whether I had touched them. + +“Either you lie,” he would say, “or I’m mistaken. I could have sworn I +put those notes on the left-hand side; and they aren’t there now.” + +And once—that was wonderful—I saw, yes, I _saw_ her come and push the +lost thing under his hand. And all he said was, “Well, I’m—I could have +sworn—” + +For whether it had gained a sense of security, or whether its purpose +was now finally fixed, it began to move regularly about the room, and +its movements had evidently a reason and an aim. + +It was looking for something. + +One evening we were all there in our places, Donald silent in his chair +and I in mine, and it seated in its attitude of wonder and of waiting, +when suddenly I saw Donald looking at me. + +“Helen,” he said, “what are you staring for like that?” + +I started. I had forgotten that the direction of my eyes would be bound, +sooner or later, to betray me. + +I heard myself stammer, “W—w—was I staring?” + +“Yes. I wish you wouldn’t.” + +I knew what he meant. He didn’t want me to keep on looking at that +chair; he didn’t want to know that I was thinking of her. I bent my head +closer over my sewing, so that I no longer had the phantasm in sight. + +It was then I was aware that it had risen and was crossing the +hearthrug. It stopped at Donald’s knees, and stood there, gazing at him +with a look so intent and fixed that I could not doubt that this had +some significance. I saw it put out its hand and touch him; and, though +Donald sighed and shifted his position, I could tell that he had neither +seen nor felt anything. + +It turned to me then—and this was the first time it had given any sign +that it was conscious of my presence—it turned on me a look of +supplication, such supplication as I had seen on my sister’s face in her +lifetime, when she could do nothing with him and implored me to +intercede. At the same time three words formed themselves in my brain +with a sudden, quick impulsion, as if I had heard them cried. + +“Speak to him—speak to him!” + +[Illustration] + +I knew now what it wanted. It was trying to make itself seen by him, to +make itself felt, and it was in anguish at finding that it could not. + +It knew then that I saw it, and the idea had come to it that it could +make use of me to get through to him. + +I think I must have guessed even then what it had come for. + +I said, “You asked me what I was staring at, and I lied. I was looking +at Cicely’s chair.” + +I saw him wince at the name. + +“Because,” I went on, “I don’t know how _you_ feel, but _I_ always feel +as if she were there.” + +He said nothing; but he got up, as though to shake off the oppression of +the memory I had evoked, and stood leaning on the chimney-piece with his +back to me. + +The phantasm retreated to its place, where it kept its eyes fixed on him +as before. + +I was determined to break down his defences, to make him say something +it might hear, give some sign that it would understand. + +“Donald, do you think it’s a good thing, a _kind_ thing, never to talk +about her?” + +“Kind? Kind to whom?” + +“To yourself, first of all.” + +“You can leave me out of it.” + +“To me, then.” + +“What’s it got to do with you?” His voice was as hard and cutting as he +could make it. + +“Everything,” I said. “You forget, I loved her.” + +He was silent. He did at least respect my love for her. + +“But that wasn’t what she wanted.” + +That hurt him. I could feel him stiffen under it. + +“You see, Donald,” I persisted, “_I_ like thinking about her.” + +It was cruel of me; but I _had_ to break him. + +“You can think as much as you like,” he said, “provided you stop +talking.” + +“All the same, it’s as bad for you,” I said, “as it is for me, not +talking.” + +“I don’t care if it is bad for me. I _can’t_ talk about her, Helen. I +don’t want to.” + +“How do you know,” I said, “it isn’t bad for _her_?” + +“For _her_?” + +I could see I had roused him. + +“Yes. If she really is there, all the time.” + +“How d’you mean, _there?_” + +“Here—in this room. I tell you I can’t get over that feeling that she’s +here.” + +“Oh, feel, feel,” he said; “but don’t talk to me about it!” + +And he left the room, flinging himself out in anger. And instantly her +flame went out. + +I thought, “How he must have hurt her!” It was the old thing over again: +I trying to break him down, to make him show her; he beating us both +off, punishing us both. You see, I knew now what she had come back for: +she had come back to find out whether he loved her. With a longing +unquenched by death, she had come back for certainty. And now, as +always, my clumsy interference had only made him more hard, more +obstinate. I thought, “If only he could see her! But as long as he beats +her off he never will.” + +Still, if I could once get him to believe that she was there— + +I made up my mind that the next time I saw the phantasm I would tell +him. + +The next evening and the next its chair was empty, and I judged that it +was keeping away, hurt by what it had heard the last time. + +But the third evening we were hardly seated before I saw it. + +It was sitting up, alert and observant, not staring at Donald as it +used, but looking round the room, as if searching for something that it +missed. + +“Donald,” I said, “if I told you that Cicely is in the room now, I +suppose you wouldn’t believe me?” + +“Is it likely?” + +“No. All the same, I see her as plainly as I see you.” + +The phantasm rose and moved to his side. + +“She’s standing close beside you.” + +And now it moved and went to the writing-table. I turned and followed +its movements. It slid its open hands over the table, touching +everything, unmistakably feeling for something it believed to be there. + +I went on. “She’s at the writing-table now. She’s looking for +something.” + +It stood back, baffled and distressed. Then suddenly it began opening +and shutting the drawers, without a sound, searching each one in turn. + +I said, “Oh, she’s trying the drawers now!” + +Donald stood up. He was not looking at the place where it was. He was +looking hard at me, in anxiety and a sort of fright. I supposed that was +why he remained unaware of the opening and shutting of the drawers. + +It continued its desperate searching. + +The bottom drawer stuck fast. I saw it pull and shake it, and stand back +again, baffled. + +“It’s locked,” I said. + +“What’s locked?” + +“That bottom drawer.” + +“Nonsense! It’s nothing of the kind.” + +“It is, I tell you. Give me the key. Oh, Donald, give it me!” + +He shrugged his shoulders; but all the same he felt in his pockets for +the key, which he gave me with a little teasing gesture, as if he +humoured a child. + +I unlocked the drawer, pulled it out to its full length, and there, +thrust away at the back, out of sight, I found the Token. + +I had not seen it since the day of Cicely’s death. + +“Who put it there?” I asked. + +“I did.” + +“Well, that’s what she was looking for,” I said. + +I held out the Token to him on the palm of my hand, as if it were the +proof that I had seen her. + +“Helen,” he said gravely, “I think you must be ill.” + +“You think so? I’m not so ill that I don’t know what you put it away +for,” I said. “It was because she thought you cared for it more than you +did for her.” + +“You can remind me of that? There must be something very badly wrong +with you, Helen,” he said. + +“Perhaps. Perhaps I only want to know what _she_ wanted.... You _did_ +care for her, Donald?” + +I couldn’t see the phantasm now, but I could feel it, close, close, +vibrating, palpitating, as I drove him. + +“Care?” he cried. “I was mad with caring for her! And she knew it.” + +“She didn’t. She wouldn’t be here now if she knew.” + +At that he turned from me to his station by the chimney-piece. I +followed him there. + +“What are you going to do about it?” I said. + +“Do about it?” + +“What are you going to do with this?” + +I thrust the Token close towards him. He drew back, staring at it with a +look of concentrated hate and loathing. + +“Do with it?” he said. “The damned thing killed her! This is what I’m +going to do with it—” + +He snatched it from my hand and hurled it with all his force against the +bars of the grate. The Buddha fell, broken to bits, among the ashes. + +[Illustration: He stepped forward, opening his arms.] + +Then I heard him give a short, groaning cry. He stepped forward, opening +his arms, and I saw the phantasm slide between them. For a second it +stood there, folded to his breast; then suddenly, before our eyes, it +collapsed in a shining heap, a flicker of light on the floor, at his +feet. + +Then that went out too. + + + III + + +I never saw it again. + +Neither did my brother. But I didn’t know this till some time +afterwards; for, somehow, we hadn’t cared to speak about it. And in the +end it was he who spoke first. + +We were sitting together in that room, one evening in November, when he +said, suddenly and irrelevantly: + +“Helen—do you never see her now?” + +“No,” I said—“Never!” + +“Do you think, then, she doesn’t come?” + +“Why should she?” I said. “She found what she came for. She knows what +she wanted to know.” + +“And that—was what?” + +“Why, that you loved her.” + +His eyes had a queer, submissive, wistful look. + +“You think that was why she came back?” he said. + + + + + THE FLAW IN THE CRYSTAL + + + I + + +It was Friday, the day he always came, if (so she safeguarded it) he was +to come at all. They had left it that way in the beginning, that it +should be open to him to come or not to come. They had not even settled +that it should be Fridays, but it always was, the week-end being the +only time when he could get away; the only time, he had explained to +Agatha Verrall, when getting away excited no remark. He had to, or he +would have broken down. Agatha called it getting away from “things;” but +she knew that there was only one thing, his wife Bella. + +To be wedded to a mass of furious and malignant nerves (which was all +that poor Bella was now) simply meant destruction to a man like Rodney +Lanyon. Rodney’s own nerves were not as strong as they had been, after +ten years of Bella’s. It had been understood for long enough (understood +even by Bella) that if he couldn’t have his week-ends he was done for; +he couldn’t possibly have stood the torment and the strain of her. + +Of course she didn’t know he spent the greater part of them with Agatha +Verrall. It was not to be desired that she should know. Her obtuseness +helped them. Even in her younger and saner days she had failed, +persistently, to realize any profound and poignant thing that touched +him; so by the mercy of heaven she had never realized Agatha Verrall. +She used to say she had never seen anything _in_ Agatha, which amounted, +as he once told her, to not seeing Agatha at all. Still less could she +have compassed any vision of the tie—the extraordinary, intangible, +immaterial tie that held them. + +Sometimes, at the last moment, his escape to Agatha would prove +impossible; so they had left it further that he was to send her no +forewarning; he was to come when and as he could. He could always get a +room in the village inn or at the farm near by, and in Agatha’s house he +would find his place ready for him, the place which had become his +refuge, his place of peace. + +There was no need to prepare her. She was never not prepared. It was as +if by her preparedness, by the absence of preliminaries, of adjustments +and arrangements, he was always there, lodged in the innermost chamber. +She had set herself apart; she had swept herself bare and scoured +herself clean for him. Clean she had to be; clean from the desire that +he should come; clean, above all, from the thought, the knowledge she +now had, that she could make him come. + +For if she had given herself up to _that_.... + +But she never had; never since the knowledge came to her; since she +discovered, wonderfully, by a divine accident, that at any moment she +could make him—that she had whatever it was, the power, the uncanny, +unaccountable Gift. + +She was beginning to see more and more how it worked; how inevitably, +how infallibly it worked. She was even a little afraid of it, of what it +might come to mean. It _did_ mean that without his knowledge, separated +as they were and had to be, she could always get at him. + +And supposing it came to mean that she could get at him to make him do +things? Why, the bare idea of it was horrible. + +Nothing could well have been more horrible to Agatha. It was the secret +and the essence of their remarkable relation that she had never tried to +get at him; whereas Bella _had_, calamitously; and still more +calamitously, because of the peculiar magic that there was (there must +have been) in her, Bella had succeeded. To have tried to get at him +would have been for Agatha the last treachery, the last indecency; while +for Rodney it would have been the destruction of her charm. She was the +way of escape for him from Bella; but she had always left her door, even +the innermost door, wide open; so that where shelter and protection +faced him there faced him also the way of departure, the way of escape +from _her_. + +And if her thought could get at him and fasten on him and shut him in +there.... + +It could, she knew; but it need not. She was really all right. Restraint +had been the essence and the secret of the charm she had, and it was +also the secret and the essence of her gift. Why, she had brought it to +so fine a point that she could shut out, and by shutting out destroy, +any feeling, any thought that did violence to any other. She could shut +them all out, if it came to that, and make the whole place empty. So +that, if this knowledge of her power did violence, she had only to close +her door on it. + +She closed it now on the bare thought of his coming; on the little +innocent hope she had that he would come. By an ultimate refinement and +subtlety of honour she refused to let even expectation cling to him. + +But though it was dreadful to “work” her gift that way, to make him do +things, there was another way in which she did work it, lawfully, +sacredly, incorruptibly—the way it first came to her. She had worked it +twenty times (without his knowledge, for how he would have scoffed at +her) to make him well. + +Before it had come to her, he had been, ever since she knew him, more or +less ill, more or less tormented by the nerves that were wedded so +indissolubly to Bella’s. He was always, it seemed to her terror, on the +verge. And she could say to herself: “Look at him _now!_” + +[Illustration] + +His abrupt, incredible recovery had been the first open manifestation of +the way it worked. Not that she had tried it on him first. Before she +dared do that once she had proved it on herself twenty times, till she +found it infallible. + +But to ensure continuous results it had to be a continuous process; and +in order to give herself up to it, to him (to his pitiful case), she had +lately, as her friends said, “cut herself completely off.” She had gone +down into Buckinghamshire and taken a small, solitary house at Sarratt +End in the valley of the Chess, three miles from the nearest station. +She had shut herself up in a world half a mile long; one straight hill +to the north, one to the south, two strips of flat pasture, the river +and the white farm-road between. A world closed east and west by the +turn the valley takes there between the hills, and barred by a gate at +each end of the farm-road. A land of pure curves, of delicate colours, +delicate shadows; all winter through a land of grey woods and sallow +fields, of ploughed hillsides pale with the white strain of the chalk. +In April (it was April now) a land shining with silver and green. And +the ways out of it led into lanes; it had neither sight nor hearing of +the high roads beyond. + +There were only two houses in that half-mile of valley, Agatha’s house +and Woodman’s Farm. + +Agatha’s house, white as a cutting in the chalk downs, looked +south-west, up the valley and across it, to where a slender beech-wood +went lightly up the hill and then stretched out in a straight line along +the top, with the bare fawn-coloured flank of the ploughed land below. +The farm-house looked east towards Agatha’s house across a field; a +red-brick house—dull, dark red with the grey bloom of weather on +it—flat-faced and flat-eyed, two windows on each side of the door and a +row of five above, all nine staring at the small white house across the +field. The narrow, flat farm-road linked the two. + +Except Rodney when his inn was full, nobody ever came to Woodman’s Farm; +and Agatha’s house, set down inside its east gate, shared its isolation, +its immunity. Two villages, unseen, unheard, served her, not a mile +away. It was impossible to be more sheltered, more protected and more +utterly cut off. And only fifteen miles, as the crow flies, between this +solitude and London, so that it was easy for Rodney Lanyon to come down. + +At two o’clock, the hour when he must come if he were coming, she began +to listen for the click of the latch at the garden gate. She had agreed +with herself that at the last moment expectancy could do no harm; it +couldn’t influence him; for either he had taken the twelve-thirty train +at Marylebone or he had not (Agatha was so far reasonable); so at the +last moment she permitted herself that dangerous and terrible joy. + +When the click came and his footsteps after it, she admitted further +(now when it could do no harm) that she had had foreknowledge of him; +she had been aware all the time that he would come. And she wondered, as +she always wondered at his coming, whether really she would find him +well, or whether this time it had incredibly miscarried. And her almost +unbearable joy became suspense, became vehement desire to see him and +gather from his face whether this time also it had worked. + +[Illustration: And she wondered whether really she would find him +well ...] + +“How are you? How have you been?” was her question when he stood before +her in her white room, holding her hand for an instant. + +“Tremendously fit,” he answered; “ever since I last saw you.” + +“Oh—seeing me—” It was as if she wanted him to know that seeing her made +no difference. + +She looked at him and received her certainty. She saw him clear-eyed and +young, younger than he was, his clean, bronzed face set, as it used to +be, in a firmness that obliterated the lines, the little agonized lines, +that had made her heart ache. + +“It always does me good,” he said, “to see you.” + +“And to see you—you know what it does to me.” + +He thought he knew as he caught back his breath and looked at her, +taking in again her fine whiteness, and her tenderness, her purity of +line, and the secret of her eyes, whose colour (if they had colour) he +was never sure about; taking in all of her, from her adorable feet to +her hair, vividly dark, that sprang from the white parting like—was it +like waves or wings? + +What had once touched and moved him unspeakably in Agatha’s face was the +capacity it had, latent in its tragic lines, for expressing terror. +Terror was what he most dreaded for her, what he had most tried to keep +her from, to keep out of her face. And latterly he had not found it; or +rather he had not found the unborn, lurking spirit of it there. It had +gone, that little tragic droop in Agatha’s face. The corners of her eyes +and of her beautiful mouth were lifted, as if by—he could find no other +word for the thing he meant but wings. She had a look which, if it were +not of joy, was of something more vivid and positive than peace. + +He put it down to their increased and undisturbed communion, made +possible by her retirement to Sarratt End. Yet as he looked at her he +sighed again. + +In response to his sigh she asked suddenly: “How’s Bella?” + +His face lighted wonderfully. “It’s extraordinary,” he said; “she’s +better. Miles better. In fact, if it wasn’t tempting Providence, I +should say she was well. She’s been, for the last week anyhow, a perfect +angel.” + +His amazed, uncomprehending look gave her the clue to what had happened. +It was another instance of the astounding and mysterious way it worked. +She must have got at Bella somehow in getting at him. She saw now no end +to the possibilities of the thing. There wasn’t anything so wonderful in +making him what, after all, he was; but if she, Bella, had been, even +for a week, a perfect angel, it had made her what she was not and never +had been. + +His next utterance came to her with no irrelevance. + +“You’ve been found out.” + +For a moment she wondered, had he guessed it then, her secret? He had +never known anything about it, and it was not likely that he should know +now. He was indeed very far from knowing when he could think that it was +seeing her that did it. + +There was, of course, the other secret, the fact that he did see her; +but she had never allowed that it _was_ a secret, or that it need be, +although they guarded it so carefully. Anybody, except Bella, who +wouldn’t understand it, was welcome to know that he came to see her. He +must mean that. + +“Found out?” she repeated. + +“If you haven’t been, you will be.” + +“You mean,” she said, “Sarratt End has been found out?” + +“If you put it that way. I saw the Powells at the station.” (She +breathed freely.) + +[Illustration: “I saw the Powells at the station.”] + +“They told me they’d taken rooms at some farm here.” + +“Which farm?” + +He didn’t remember. + +“Was it Woodman’s Farm?” she asked. And he said, “Yes, that was the name +they’d told him. Whereabouts was it?” + +“Don’t you know,” she said. “That’s the name of _your_ farm.” + +He had not known it, and was visibly annoyed at knowing it now. And +Agatha herself felt some dismay. If it had been any other place but +Woodman’s Farm—it stared at them; it watched them; it knew all their +goings out and their comings in; it knew Rodney; not that that had +mattered in the least, but the Powells, when they came, would know too. + +She tried to look as if that didn’t matter either, while they faced each +other in a silence, a curious, unfamiliar discomposure. + +She recovered first. “After all,” she said, “why shouldn’t they?” + +“Well—I thought you weren’t going to tell people.” + +Her face mounted a sudden flame, a signal of resentment. She had always +resented the imputation of secrecy in their relations. And now it was as +if he were dragging forward the thought that she perpetually put away +from her. + +“Tell about what?” she asked, coldly. + +“About Sarratt End. I thought we’d agreed to keep it for ourselves.” + +“I haven’t told everybody. But I did tell Milly Powell.” + +“My dear girl, that wasn’t very clever of you.” + +“I told her not to tell. She knows what I want to be alone for.” + +“Good God.” As he stared in dismay at what he judged to be her +unspeakable indiscretion, the thought rushed in on her straight from +him, the naked, terrible thought, that there _should_ be anything they +had to hide, they had to be alone for. She saw at the same time how +defenceless he was before it; he couldn’t keep it back; he couldn’t put +it away from him. It was always with him, a danger watching on his +threshold. + +“Then” (he made her face it with him) “we’re done for.” + +“No, no,” she cried; “how could you think that? It was another thing. +Something I’m trying to do.” + +“You told her,” he insisted. “What did you tell her?” + +“That I’m doing it. That I’m here for my health. She understands it that +way.” + +He smiled as if he were satisfied, knowing her so well. And still his +thought, his terrible, naked thought, was there. It was looking at her +straight out of his eyes. + +“Are you sure she understands?” he said. + +“Yes. Absolutely.” + +He hesitated, and then put it differently. + +“Are you sure she doesn’t understand? That she hasn’t an inkling?” + +He wasn’t sure whether Agatha understood, whether she realized the +danger. + +“About you and me,” he said. + +“Ah, my dear, I’ve kept _you_ secret. She doesn’t know we know each +other. And if she did—” + +She finished it with a wonderful look, a look of unblinking yet vaguely, +pitifully uncandid candour. + +She had always met him, and would always have to meet him, with the idea +that there was nothing in it; for, if she once admitted that there was +anything, then they _were_ done for. She couldn’t (how could she?) let +him keep on coming with that thought in him, acknowledged by them both. + +That was where she came in, and where her secret, her gift, would work +now more beneficently than ever. The beauty of it was that it would make +them safe, absolutely safe. She had only got to apply it to that thought +of his, and the thought would not exist. Since she could get at him, she +could do for him what he, poor dear, couldn’t perhaps always do for +himself; she could keep that dreadful possibility in him under; she +could, in fact, make their communion all that she wanted it to be. + +“I don’t like it,” he said miserably. “I don’t like it.” + +A little line of worry was coming in his face again. + +The door opened and a maid began to go in and out, laying the table for +their meal. He watched the door close on her and said, “Won’t that woman +wonder what I come for?” + +“She can see what you come for.” She smiled. + +“Why are you spoiling it with thinking things?” + +“It’s for you I think them. _I_ don’t mind. It doesn’t matter so much +for me. But I want you to be safe.” + +“Oh, _I’m_ safe, my dear,” she answered. + +“You were. And you would be still, if these Powells hadn’t found you +out.” + +He meditated. + +“What do you suppose _they’ve_ come for?” he asked. + +“They’ve come, I imagine, for his health.” + +“What? To a god-forsaken place like this?” + +“They know what it’s done for me. So they think, poor darlings, perhaps +it may do something—even yet—for him.” + +“What’s the matter with him?” + +“Something dreadful. And they say—incurable.” + +“It isn’t—?” He paused. + +“I can’t tell you what it is. It isn’t anything you’d think it was. It +isn’t anything bodily.” + +“I never knew it.” + +“You’re not supposed to know. And you wouldn’t, unless you _did_ know. +And please—you don’t; you don’t know anything.” + +He smiled. “No. You haven’t told me, have you?” + +“I only told you because you never tell things, and because—” + +“Because?” He waited, smiling. + +“Because I wanted you to see he doesn’t count.” + +“Well—but _she’s_ all right, I take it?” + +At first she failed to grasp his implication that if, owing to his +affliction, Harding Powell didn’t count, Milly, his young wife, did. Her +faculties of observation and of inference would, he took it, be +unimpaired. + +“She’ll wonder, won’t she?” he expounded. + +“About us? Not she. She’s too much wrapped up in him to notice anyone.” + +“And he?” + +“Oh, my dear—he’s too much wrapped up in _it_.” Another anxiety then +came to him. + +“I say, you know, he isn’t dangerous, is he?” She laughed. + +“Dangerous? Oh dear me, no! A lamb.” + + + II + + +She kept on saying to herself, Why shouldn’t they come? What difference +did it make? + +Up till now she had not admitted that anything could make a difference, +that anything could touch, could alter by a shade the safe, the +intangible, the unique relation between her and Rodney. It was proof +against anything that anybody could think. And the Powells were not +given to thinking things. Agatha’s own mind had been a crystal without a +flaw, in its clearness, its sincerity. + +It had to be, to ensure the blessed working of the gift; as again, it +was by the blessed working of the gift that she kept it so. She could +only think of that, the secret, the gift, the inexpressible thing, as +itself a flawless crystal, a charmed circle; or rather, as a sphere that +held all the charmed circles that you draw round things to keep them +safe, to keep them holy. + +She had drawn her circle round Rodney Lanyon and herself. Nobody could +break it. They were supernaturally safe. + +And yet the presence of the Powells had made a difference. She was +forced to own that, though she remained untouched, it had made a +difference in him. It was as if, in the agitation produced by them, he +had brushed aside some veil and had let her see something that up till +now her crystal vision had refused to see, something that was more than +a lurking possibility. She discovered in him a desire, an intention that +up till now he had concealed from her. It had left its hiding place; it +rose on terrifying wings and fluttered before her, troubling her. She +was reminded that, though there were no lurking possibilities in her, +with him it might be different. For him the tie between them might come +to mean something it had never meant and could not mean for her, +something she had refused not only to see but to foresee and provide +for. + +She was aware of a certain relief when Monday came and he had left her +without any further unveilings and revealings. She was even glad when, +about the middle of the week, the Powells came with a cart-load of +luggage and settled at the farm. She said to herself that they would +take her mind off him. They had a way of seizing on her and holding her +attention to the exclusion of all other objects. + +She could hardly not have been seized and held by a case so pitiful, so +desperate as theirs. How pitiful and desperate it had become she learned +almost at once from the face of her friend, the little pale-eyed wife, +whose small, flat, flower-like features were washed out and worn fine by +watchings and listenings on the border, on the threshold. + +Yes, he was worse. He had had to give up his business (Harding Powell +was a gentle stockbroker). It wasn’t any longer, Milly Powell +intimated, a question of borders and of thresholds. They had passed all +that. He had gone clean over; he was in the dreadful interior; and she, +the resolute and vigilant little woman, had no longer any power to get +him out. She was at the end of her tether. + +Agatha knew what he had been for years? Well—he was worse than that; far +worse than he had been, ever. Not so bad, though, that he hadn’t +intervals in which he knew how bad he was, and was willing to do +everything, to try anything. They were going to try Sarratt End. It was +her idea. She knew how marvellously it had answered with dear Agatha +(not that Agatha ever was, or could be, where _he_ was, poor darling). +And besides, Agatha herself was an attraction. It had occurred to Milly +Powell that it might do Harding good to be near Agatha. There was +something about her; Milly didn’t know what it was, but she felt it, +_he_ felt it—an influence, or something, that made for mental peace. It +was, Mrs. Powell said, as if she had some secret. + +She hoped Agatha wouldn’t mind. It couldn’t possibly hurt her. _He_ +couldn’t. The darling couldn’t hurt a fly; he could only hurt himself. +And if he got really bad, why then, of course, they would have to leave +Sarratt End. He would have, she said sadly, to go away somewhere. But +not yet—oh, not yet; he wasn’t bad enough for that. She would keep him +with her up to the last possible moment—the last possible moment. Agatha +could understand, couldn’t she? + +Agatha did indeed. + +Milly Powell smiled her desperate white smile, and went on; always with +her air of appeal to Agatha. That was why she wanted to be near her. It +was awful not to be near somebody who understood, who would understand +him. For Agatha would understand—wouldn’t she?—that to a certain extent +he must be given in to? _That_—apart from Agatha—was why they had chosen +Sarratt End. It was the sort of place—wasn’t it?—where you would go if +you didn’t want people to get at you; where (Milly’s very voice became +furtive as she explained it) you could hide. His idea—his last—seemed to +be that something _was_ trying to get at him. + +No, not people. Something worse, something terrible. It was always after +him. The most piteous thing about him—piteous but adorable—was that he +came to her—to _her_, imploring her to hide him. + +And so she had hidden him here. + +Agatha took in her friend’s high courage as she looked at the eyes where +fright barely fluttered under the poised suspense. She approved of the +plan. It appealed to her by its sheer audacity. She murmured that if +there were anything that she could do, Milly had only to come to her. + +Oh, well, Milly _had_ come. What she wanted Agatha to do—if she saw him +and he should say anything about it—was simply to take the line that he +was safe. + +Agatha said that was the line she did take. She wasn’t going to let +herself think, and Milly mustn’t think—not for a moment—that he wasn’t, +that there was anything to be afraid of. + +“Anything to be afraid of _here_. That’s my point,” said Milly. + +“Mine is that here or anywhere—wherever _he_ is—there mustn’t be any +fear. How can he get better if we keep him wrapped in it? You’re _not_ +afraid. You’re not afraid.” + +Persistent, invincible affirmation was part of her method, her secret. + +Milly replied a little wearily (she knew nothing about the method). + +“I haven’t time to be afraid,” she said. “And as long as you’re not—” + +“It’s you who matter,” Agatha cried. “You’re so near him. Don’t you +realize what it means to be so near?” + +Milly smiled sadly, tenderly. (As if she didn’t know!) + +“My dear, that’s all that keeps me going. I’ve got to make him feel that +he’s protected.” + +“He _is_ protected,” said Agatha. + +Already she was drawing her charmed circle round him. + +“As long as I hold out. If I give in he’s done for.” + +“You mustn’t think it. You mustn’t say it!” + +“But—I know it. Oh, my dear! I’m all he’s got.” + +At that she looked for a moment as if she might break down. She said the +terrible part of it was that they were left so much alone. People were +beginning to shrink from him, to be afraid of him. + +“You know,” said Agatha, “I’m not. You must bring him to see me.” + +The little woman had risen, as she said, “to go to him.” She stood +there, visibly hesitating. She couldn’t bring him. He wouldn’t come. +Would Agatha go with her and see him? + +Agatha went. + +As they approached the farm, she saw to her amazement that the door was +shut and the blinds, the ugly, ochreish yellow blinds, were down in all +the nine windows of the front, the windows of the Powells’ rooms. The +house was like a house of the dead. + +“Do you get the sun on this side?” she said; and as she said it she +realized the stupidity of her question; for the nine windows looked to +the east, and the sun, wheeling down the west, had been in their faces +as they came. + +Milly answered mechanically, “No, we don’t get any sun.” She added with +an irrelevance that was only apparent, “I’ve had to take all four rooms +to keep other people out.” + +“They never come,” said Agatha. + +“No,” said Milly, “but if they did—” + +The front door was locked. Milly had the key. When they had entered +Agatha saw her turn it in the lock again, slowly and without a sound. + +All the doors were shut in the passage, and it was dark there. Milly +opened a door on the left at the foot of the steep stairs. + +“He will be in here,” she said. + +[Illustration: Milly opened the door on the left ...] + +The large room was lit with a thick ochreish light through the squares +of its drawn blinds. It ran the whole width of the house and had a third +window looking west where the yellow light prevailed. A horrible light +it was. It cast thin, turbid, brown shadows on the walls. + +Harding Powell was sitting between the drawn blinds, alone in the black +hollow of the chimney place. He crouched in his chair, and his bowed +back was towards them as they stood there on the threshold. + +“Harding,” said Milly, “Agatha has come to see you.” + +He turned in his chair and rose as they entered. + +His chin was sunk on his chest, and the first thing Agatha noticed was +the difficult, slow, forward-thrusting movement with which he lifted it. +His eyes seemed to come up last of all from the depths to meet her. With +a peculiar foreign courtesy he bowed his head again over her hand as he +held it. + +He apologized for the darkness in which they found him. Harding Powell’s +manners had always been perfect, and it struck Agatha as strange and +pathetic that his malady should have left untouched the incomparable +quality he had. + +Milly went to the windows and drew the blinds up. The light revealed him +in his exquisite perfection, his small fragile finish. He was fifty or +thereabouts, but slight as a boy, and nervous, and dark as Englishmen +are dark; jaw and chin shaven; his mouth hidden by the straight droop of +his moustache. From the eyes downwards the outlines of his face and +features were of an extreme regularity and a fineness undestroyed by the +work of the strained nerves on the sallow, delicate texture. But his +eyes, dark like an animal’s, were the eyes of a terrified thing, a thing +hunted and on the watch, a thing that listened continually for the soft +feet of the hunter. Above these eyes his brows were twisted, were +tortured with his terror. + +He turned to his wife. + +“Did you lock the door, dear?” he said. + +“I did. But you know, Harding, we needn’t—here.” + +He shivered slightly and began to walk up and down before the +hearthplace. When he had his back to Milly, Milly followed him with her +eyes of anguish; when he turned and faced her, she met him with her +white smile. + +Presently he spoke again. He wondered whether they would object to his +drawing the blinds down. He was afraid he would have to. Otherwise, he +said, _he would be seen_. + +Milly laid her hand on the arm that he stretched towards the window. + +“Darling,” she said, “you’ve forgotten. You can’t possibly be seen—here. +It’s just the one place—isn’t it, Agatha?—where you can’t be.” Her eyes +signalled to Agatha to support her. (Not but what she had perfect +confidence in the plan.) + +It was, Agatha assented. “And Agatha knows,” said Milly. + +He shivered again. He had turned to Agatha. + +“Forgive me if I suggest that you cannot really know. Heaven forbid that +you _should_ know.” + +Milly, intent on her “plan,” persisted. + +“But, dearest, you said yourself it was. The one place.” + +“I said that? When did I say it?” + +“Yesterday.” + +“Yesterday? I daresay. But I didn’t sleep last night. It wouldn’t let +me.” + +“Very few people do sleep,” said Agatha, “for the first time in a +strange place.” + +“The place isn’t strange. That’s what I complain of. That’s what keeps +me awake. No place ever will be strange when It’s there. And it was +there last night.” + +[Illustration: “No place ever will be strange when It’s there.”] + +“Darling—” Milly murmured. + +“You know what I mean,” he said. “The Thing that keeps me awake. Of +course if I’d slept last night I’d have known it wasn’t there. But when +I didn’t sleep—” + +He left it to them to draw the only possible conclusion. + +They dropped the subject. They turned to other things and talked a +little while, sitting with him in his room with the drawn blinds. From +time to time when they appealed to him he gave an urbane assent, a +murmur, a suave motion of his hand. When the light went they lit a lamp. +Agatha stayed and dined with them, that being the best thing she could +do. + +At nine o’clock she rose and said good-night to Harding Powell. He +smiled a drawn smile. + +“Ah—if I could sleep—,” he said. + +“That’s the worst of it—his not sleeping,” said Milly at the gate. + +“He will sleep. He will sleep,” said Agatha. + +Milly sighed. She knew he wouldn’t. + +The plan, she said, was no good after all. It wouldn’t work. + + + III + + +How could it? There was nothing behind it. All Milly’s plans had been +like that; they fell to dust; they _were_ dust. There had been always +that pitiful, desperate stirring of the dust to hide the terror; the +futile throwing of the dust in the poor thing’s eyes. As if he couldn’t +see through it. As if, with the supernatural ludicity, the invincible +cunning of the insane, he didn’t see through anything and provide for +it. It was really only his indestructible urbanity, persisting through +the wreck of him, that bore, tolerantly, temperately, with Milly and her +plans. Without it he might be dangerous. With it, as long as it lasted, +little Milly, plan as she would, was safe. + +But they couldn’t count on its lasting. Agatha had realized that from +the moment when she had seen him draw down the blind again after his +wife had drawn it up. That was the maddest thing he had done yet. She +had shuddered at it as at an act of violence. It outraged, cruelly, his +exquisite quality. It was so unlike him. + +She was not sure that Milly hadn’t even made things worse by her latest +plan, the flight to Sarratt End. It emphasized the fact that they were +flying, that they had to fly. It had brought her to the house with the +drawn blinds in the closed, barred valley, to the end of the world, to +the end of her tether. And when she realized that it _was_ the end, when +he realized it.... + +Agatha couldn’t leave him there. She couldn’t (when she had the secret) +leave him to poor Milly and her plans. That had been in her mind when +she had insisted on it that he would sleep. + +She knew what Milly meant by her sigh and the look she gave her. If +Milly could have been impolite she would have told her that it was all +very well to say so, but how were they going to make him? And she, too, +felt that something more was required of her than that irritating +affirmation. She had got to make him. His case, his piteous case, cried +out for an extension of the gift. + +She hadn’t any doubt as to its working. There were things she didn’t +know about it yet, but she was sure of that. She had proved it by a +hundred experimental intermissions, abstentions, and recoveries. In +order to be sure you had only to let go and see how you got on without +it. She had tried in that way, with scepticism and precaution, on +herself. + +But not in the beginning. She could not say that she had tried it in the +beginning at all, even on herself. It had simply come to her, as she put +it, by a divine accident. Heaven knew she had needed it. She had been, +like Rodney Lanyon, on the verge, where he, poor dear, had brought her; +so impossible had it been then to bear her knowledge and, what was +worse, her divination of the things he bore from Bella. It was her +divination, her compassion, that had wrecked her as she stood aside, cut +off from him, he on the verge and she near it, looking on, powerless to +help while Bella tore at him. Talk of the verge, the wonder was they +hadn’t gone clean over it, both of them. + +[Illustration] + +She couldn’t say then from what region, what tract of unexplored, +incredible mystery her help had come. It came one day, one night when +she was at her worst. She remembered how, with some resurgent, ultimate +instinct of surrender, she had sunk on the floor of her room, flung out +her arms across the bed in the supreme gesture of supplication, and thus +gone, eyes shut and with no motion of thought or sense in her, clean +into the blackness where, as if it had been waiting for her, the thing +had found her. + +It had found her. Agatha was precise on that point. She had not found +it. She had not even stumbled on it, blundered up against it in the +blackness. The way it worked, the wonder of her instantaneous +well-being, had been the first, the very first hint she had that it was +there. + +She had never quite recaptured her primal, virgin sense of it; but to +set against that, she had entered more and more into possession. She had +found out the secret of its working and had controlled it, reduced it to +an almost intelligible method. You could think of it as a current of +transcendent power, hitherto mysteriously inhibited. You made the +connection, having cut off all other currents that interfered, and then +you simply turned it on. In other words, if you could put it into words +at all, you shut your eyes and ears, you closed up the sense of touch, +you made everything dark around you and withdrew into your innermost +self; you burrowed deep into the darkness there till you got beyond it; +you tapped the Power, as it were, underground at any point you pleased +and turned it on in any direction. + +She could turn it on to Harding Powell without any loss to Rodney +Lanyon; for it was immeasurable, inexhaustible. + +She looked back at the farm-house with its veiled windows. Formless and +immense, the shadow of Harding Powell swayed uneasily on one of the +yellow blinds. Across the field her own house showed pure and dim +against the darkening slope behind it, showed washed and watered white +in the liquid, lucid twilight. Her house was open always and on every +side; it flung out its casement arms to the night and to the day. And +now all the lamps were lit, every doorway was a golden shaft, every +window a golden square; the whiteness of its walls quivered and the +blurred edges flowed into the dark of the garden. It was the fragile +shell of a sacred and a burning light. + +She did not go in all at once. She crossed the river and went up the +hill through the beech-wood. She walked there every evening in the +darkness, calling her thoughts home to sleep. The Easter moon, +golden-white and holy, looked down at her, shrined under the long, sharp +arch of the beech-trees; it was like going up and up towards a dim +sanctuary where the holiest sat enshrined. A sense of consecration was +upon her. It came, solemn and pure and still, out of the tumult of her +tenderness and pity; but it was too awful for pity and for tenderness; +it aspired like a flame and lost itself in light; it grew like a wave +till it was vaster than any tenderness or any pity. It was as if her +heart rose on the swell of it and was carried away into a rhythm so +tremendous that her own pulses of compassion were no longer felt, or +felt only as the hushed and delicate vibration of the wave. She +recognized her state. It was the blessed state desired as the condition +of the working of the gift. + +She turned when the last arch of the beech-trees broke and opened to the +sky at the top of the hill, where the moon hung in immensity, free of +her hill, free of the shrine that held her. She went down with slow soft +footsteps as if she carried herself, her whole fragile being, as a +vessel, a crystal vessel for the holy thing, and was careful lest a +touch of the earth should jar and break her. + + + IV + + +She went still more gently and with half-shut eyes through her +illuminated house. She turned the lights out in her room and undressed +herself in the darkness. She laid herself on the bed with straight lax +limbs, with arms held apart a little from her body, with eyelids shut +lightly on her eyes; all fleshly contacts were diminished. + +It was now as if her being drank at every pore the swimming darkness; as +if the rhythm of her heart and of her breath had ceased in the pulse of +its invasion. She sank in it and was covered with wave upon wave of +darkness. She sank and was upheld; she dissolved and was gathered +together again, a flawless crystal. She was herself the heart of the +charmed circle, poised in the ultimate unspeakable stillness, beyond +death, beyond birth, beyond the movement, the vehemence, the agitations +of the world. She drew Harding Powell into it and held him there. + +To draw him to any purpose she had first to loosen and destroy the +fleshly, sinister image of him that, for the moment of evocation, hung +like a picture on the darkness. In a moment the fleshly image receded, +it sank back into the darkness. His name, Harding Powell, was now the +only earthly sign of him that she suffered to appear. In the third +moment his name was blotted out. And then it was as if she drew him by +intangible, supersensible threads; she touched, with no sense of peril, +his innermost essence; the walls of flesh were down between them; she +had got at him. + +And having got at him she held him, a bloodless spirit, a bodiless +essence, in the fount of healing. She said to herself, “He will sleep +now. He will sleep. He will sleep.” And as she slid into her own sleep +she held and drew him with her. + +He would sleep; he would be all right as long as _she_ slept. Her sleep, +she had discovered, did more than carry on the amazing act of communion +and redemption. It clinched it. It was the seal on the bond. + +Early the next morning she went over to the Farm. The blinds were up; +the doors and windows were flung open. Milly met her at the garden gate. +She stopped her and walked a little way with her across the field. “It’s +worked,” she said. “It’s worked after all, like magic.” For a moment +Agatha wondered whether Milly had guessed anything; whether she divined +the Secret and had brought him there for that, and had refused to +acknowledge it before she knew. + +“What has?” she asked. + +“The plan. The place. He slept last night. Ten hours straight on end. I +know, for I stayed awake and watched him. And this morning—oh, my dear, +if you could see him! He’s all right. He’s all right.” + +“And you think,” said Agatha, “it’s the place?” + +Milly knew nothing, guessed, divined nothing. + +“Why, what else can it be?” she said. + +“What does _he_ think?” + +“He doesn’t think. He can’t account for it. He says himself it’s +miraculous.” + +“Perhaps,” said Agatha, “it is.” + +They were silent a moment over the wonder of it. + +“I can’t get over it,” said Milly presently. “It’s so odd that it should +make all that difference. I could understand it if it had worked that +way at first. But it didn’t. Think of him yesterday. And yet—if it isn’t +the place, what is it? What is it?” + +Agatha did not answer. She wasn’t going to tell Milly what it was. If +she did, Milly wouldn’t believe her, and Milly’s unbelief might work +against it. It might prove, for all she knew, an inimical, disastrous +power. + +“Come and see for yourself.” Milly spoke as if it had been Agatha who +doubted. + +They turned again towards the house. Powell had come out and was in the +garden, leaning on the gate. They could see how right he was by the mere +fact of his being there, presenting himself like that to the vivid +light. + +He opened the gate for them, raising his hat and smiling as they came. +His face witnessed to the wonder worked on him. The colour showed clean, +purged of his taint. His eyes were candid and pure under brows smoothed +by sleep. + +As they went in he stood for a moment in the open doorway and looked at +the view, admiring the river and the green valley and the bare upland +fields under the wood. He had always had (it was part of his rare +quality) a prodigious capacity for admiration. + +“My God,” he said, “how beautiful the world is!” + +He looked at Milly. “And all that isn’t a patch on my wife.” + +He looked at her with tenderness and admiration, and the look was the +flower, the perfection of his sanity. + +Milly drew in her breath with a little sound like a sob. Her joy was so +great that it was almost unbearable. + +Then he looked at Agatha and admired the green gown she wore. “You don’t +know,” he said, “how exquisitely right you are.” + +She smiled. She knew how exquisitely right _he_ was. + + + V + + +Night after night, she continued and without an effort. It was as easy +as drawing your breath; it was indeed the breath you drew. She found +that she had no longer to devote hours to Harding Powell, any more than +she gave hours to Rodney; she could do his business in moments, in +points of inappreciable time. It was as if from night to night the times +swung together and made one enduring timeless time. For the process +belonged to a region that was not of times or time. + +She wasn’t afraid, then, of not giving enough time to it, but she _was_ +afraid of omitting it altogether. She knew that every intermission would +be followed by a relapse, and Harding’s state did not admit of any +relapses. + +Of course, if time _had_ counted, if the thing was measurable, she would +have been afraid of losing hold of Rodney Lanyon. She held him now by a +single slender thread, and the thread was Bella. She “worked” it +regularly now through Bella. He was bound to be all right as long as +Bella was; for his possibilities of suffering were thus cut off at their +source. Besides, it was the only way to preserve the purity of her +intention, the flawlessness of the crystal. + +That was the blessedness of her attitude to Harding Powell. It was +passionless, impersonal. She wanted nothing of Harding Powell except to +help him, and to help Milly, dear little Milly. And never before had she +been given so complete, so overwhelming a sense of having helped. It was +nothing—unless it was a safeguard against vanity—that they didn’t know +it, that they persisted in thinking it was Milly’s plan that worked. Not +that that altogether accounted for it to Harding Powell. He said so at +last to Agatha. + +They were returning, he and she, by the edge of the wood at the top of +the steep field after a long walk. He had asked her to go with him—it +was her country—for a good stretch, further than Milly’s little feet +could carry her. They stood a moment up there and looked around them. +April was coming on, but the ploughed land at their feet was still bare; +the earth waited. On that side of the valley she was delicately +unfruitful, spent with rearing the fine, thin beauty of the woods. But, +down below, the valley ran over with young grass and poured it to the +river in wave after wave, till the last surge of green rounded over the +water’s edge. Rain had fallen in the night, and the river had risen; it +rested there, poised. It was wonderful how a thing so brimming, so +shining, so alive could be so still; still as marsh water, flat to the +flat land. + +[Illustration: ... he stood for a moment in the open doorway ...] + +At that moment, in a flash that came like a shifting of her eyes, the +world she looked at suffered a change. + +And yet it did not change. All the appearances of things, their colours, +the movement and the stillness remained as if constant in their rhythm +and their scale; but they were heightened, intensified; they were +carried to a pitch that would have been vehement, vibrant, but that the +stillness as well as the movement was intense. She was not dazzled by it +or confused in any way. Her senses were exalted, adjusted to the pitch. + +She would have said now that the earth at her feet had become +insubstantial, but that she knew, in a flash, that what she saw was the +very substance of the visible world; live and subtle as flame; solid as +crystal and as clean. It was the same world, flat field for flat field +and hill for hill; but radiant, vibrant, and, as it were, infinitely +transparent. + +Agatha in her moment saw that the whole world brimmed and shone and was +alive with the joy that was its life, joy that flowed flood-high and yet +was still. In every leaf, in every blade of grass, this life was +manifest as a strange, a divine translucence. She was about to point it +out to the man at her side when she remembered that he had eyes for the +beauty of the earth, but no sense of its secret and supernatural light. +Harding Powell denied, he always had denied, the supernatural. And when +she turned to him her vision had passed from her. + +They must have another tramp some day, he said. He wanted to see more of +this wonderful place. And then he spoke of his recovery. + +“It’s all very well,” he said, “but I can’t account for it. Milly says +it’s the place.” + +“It _is_ a wonderful place,” said Agatha. + +“Not so wonderful as all that. You saw how I was the day after we came. +Well—it can’t be the place altogether.” + +“I rather hope it isn’t,” Agatha said. + +“Do you? What do you think it is, then?” + +“I think it’s something in you.” + +“Of course, of course. But what started it? That’s what I want to know. +Something’s happened. Something queer and spontaneous and unaccountable. +It’s—it’s uncanny. For, you know, I oughtn’t to feel like this. I got +bad news this morning.” + +“Bad news?” + +“Yes. My sister’s little girl is very ill. They think it’s meningitis. +They’re in awful trouble. And I—I’m feeling like this.” + +“Don’t let it distress you.” + +“It doesn’t distress me. It only puzzles me. That’s the odd thing. Of +course, I’m sorry, and I’m anxious and all that; but I _feel_ so well.” + +“You _are_ well. Don’t be morbid.” + +“I haven’t told my wife yet. About the child, I mean. I simply daren’t. +It’ll frighten her. She won’t know how I’ll take it, and she’ll think +it’ll make me go all queer again.” + +He paused and turned to her. + +“I say, if she _did_ know how I’m taking it, she’d think _that_ awfully +queer, wouldn’t she?” He paused. + +“The worst of it is,” he said, “I’ve got to tell her.” + +“Will you leave it to me?” Agatha said. “I think I can make it all +right.” + +“How?” he queried. + +“Never mind how. I can.” + +“Well,” he assented, “there’s hardly anything you can’t do.” + +That was how she came to tell Milly. + +She made up her mind to tell her that evening as they sat alone in +Agatha’s house. “Harding,” Milly said, “was happy over there with his +books; just as he used to be, only more so.” So much more so that she +was a little disturbed about it. She was afraid it wouldn’t last. And +again she said it was the place, the wonderful place. + +“If you want it to last,” Agatha said, “don’t go on thinking it’s the +place.” + +“Why shouldn’t it be? I feel that he’s safe here. He’s out of it. Things +can’t reach him.” + +“Bad news reached him to-day.” + +“Aggy—what?” Milly whispered in her fright. + +“His sister is very anxious about her little girl.” + +“What’s wrong?” + +Agatha repeated what she had heard from Harding Powell. + +“Oh—” Milly was dumb for an instant while she thought of her +sister-in-law. Then she cried aloud: + +“If the child dies, it’ll make him ill again?” + +“No, Milly, it won’t.” + +“It will, I tell you. It’s always been that sort of thing that does it.” + +“And supposing there was something that keeps it off?” + +“What is there? What is there?” + +“I believe there’s something. Would you mind awfully if it wasn’t the +place?” + +“What do you mean, Agatha?” (There was a faint resentment in Milly’s +agonized tone.) + +It was then that Agatha told her. She made it out for her as far as she +had made it out at all, with the diffidence that a decent attitude +required. + +Milly raised doubts which subsided in a kind of awe when Agatha faced +her with the evidence of dates. + +“You remember, Milly, the night when he slept?” + +“I do remember. He said himself it was miraculous.” She meditated. + +“And so you think it’s that?” she said presently. + +“I do indeed. If I dared leave off (I daren’t) you’d see for yourself.” + +“What do you think you’ve got hold of?” + +“I don’t know yet.” + +There was a long, deep silence which Milly broke. + +“What do you _do_?” she said. + +“I don’t do anything. It isn’t me.” + +“I see,” said Milly. “I’ve prayed. You didn’t think I hadn’t?” + +“It’s not that—not anything _you_ mean by it. And yet it is; only it’s +more, much more. I can’t explain it. I only know it isn’t me.” + +She was beginning to feel vaguely uncomfortable about having told her. + +“And, Milly, you mustn’t tell him. Promise me you won’t tell him.” + +“No, I won’t tell him.” + +“Because, you see, he’d think it was all rot.” + +“He would,” said Milly. “It’s the sort of thing he does think rot.” + +“And that might prevent its working.” + +Milly smiled faintly. “I haven’t the ghost of an idea what ‘it’ is. But +whatever it is, can you go on doing it?” + +“Yes, I think so. You see, it depends rather—” + +“It depends on what?” + +“Oh, on a lot of things—on your sincerity; on your—your purity. It +depends so much on _that_ that it frightens you, lest, perhaps, you +mightn’t, after all, be so very pure.” + +Milly smiled again a little differently. “Darling, if that’s all, I’m +not frightened. Only—supposing—supposing you gave out? You might, you +know.” + +“_I_ might. But It couldn’t. You mustn’t think it’s me, Milly. Because +if anything happened to me, if I did give out, don’t you see how it +would let him down? It’s as bad as thinking it’s the place.” + +“Does it matter what it is—or who it is,” said Milly passionately; “as +long as—” Her tears came and stopped her. + +Agatha divined the source of Milly’s passion. + +“Then you don’t mind, Milly? You’ll let me go on?” Milly rose; she +turned abruptly, holding her head high, so that she might not spill her +tears. + +Agatha went with her over the grey field towards the farm. They paused +at the gate. Milly spoke. + +“Are you sure?” she said. + +“Certain.” + +“And you won’t let go?” Her eyes shone towards her friend’s in the +twilight. “You _will_ go on?” + +“_You_ must go on.” + +“Ah—how?” + +“Believing that he’ll be all right.” + +“Oh, Aggy, he was devoted to Winny. And if the child dies—” + + + VI + + +The child died three days later. Milly came over to Agatha with the +news. + +She said it had been an awful shock, of course. She’d been dreading +something like that for him. But he’d taken it wonderfully. If he came +out of it all right, she _would_ believe in what she called Agatha’s +“thing.” + +He did come out of it all right. His behaviour was the crowning proof, +if Milly wanted more proof, of his sanity. He went up to London and made +all the arrangements for his sister. When he returned he forestalled +Milly’s specious consolations with the truth. It was better, he told +her, that the dear little girl should have died, for there was distinct +brain trouble anyway. He took it as a sane man takes a terrible +alternative. + +Weeks passed. He had grown accustomed to his own sanity and no longer +marvelled at it. + +And still, without intermission, Agatha went on. She had been so far +affected by Milly’s fright (that was the worst of Milly’s knowing) that +she held on to Harding Powell with a slightly exaggerated intensity. She +even began to give more and more time to him, she who had made out that +time in this process did not matter. She was afraid of letting go, +because the consequences (Milly was perpetually reminding her of the +consequences) of letting go would be awful. + +For Milly kept her at it. Milly urged her on. Milly, in Milly’s own +words, sustained her. She praised her; she praised the Secret, praised +the Power. She said you could see how it worked. It was tremendous; it +was inexhaustible. Milly, familiarized with its working, had become a +fanatical believer in the Power. But she had her own theory. She knew, +of course, that they were all, she and Agatha and poor Harding, +dependent on the Power, that it was the Power that did it, and not +Agatha. But Agatha was _their_ one link with it, and if the link gave +way where were they? Agatha felt that Milly watched her and waylaid her; +that she was suspicious of failures and of intermissions; that she +wondered; that she peered and pried. Milly would, if she could, have +stuck her fingers into what she called the machinery of the thing. Its +vagueness baffled and even annoyed her, for her mind was limited; it +loved and was at home with limits; it desired above all things precise +ideas, names, phrases, anything that constricted and defined. + +[Illustration] + +But still, with it all, she believed; and the great thing was that Milly +_should_ believe. She might have worked havoc if, with her temperament, +she had doubted. + +What did suffer was the fine poise with which she, Agatha, had held +Rodney Lanyon and Harding Powell each by his own thread. Milly had +compelled her to spin a stronger thread for Harding and, as it were, to +multiply her threads, so as to hold him at all points. And because of +this, because of giving more and more time to him, she could not always +loose him from her and let him go. And she was afraid lest the pull he +had on her might weaken Rodney’s thread. + +Up till now, the Powells’ third week at Sarratt End, she had had the +assurance that his thread still held. She heard from him that Bella was +all right, which meant that he too was all right, for there had never +been anything wrong with him _but_ Bella. And she had a further glimpse +of the way the gift worked its wonders. + +Three Fridays had passed, and he had not come. + +Well—she had meant that; she had tried (on that last Friday of his), +with a crystal sincerity, to hold him back so that he should not come. +And up till now, with an ease that simply amazed her, she had kept +herself at the highest pitch of her sincere and beautiful intention. + +Not that it was the intention that had failed her now. It had succeeded +so beautifully, so perfectly, that he had no need to come at all. She +had given Bella back to him. She had given him back to Bella. Only, she +faced the full perfection of her work. She had brought it to so fine a +point that she would never see him again; she had gone to the root of +it; she had taken from him the desire to see her. And now it was as if +subtly, insidiously, her relation to him had become inverted. Whereas +hitherto it had been she who had been necessary to him, it seemed now +that he was far more, beyond all comparison, more necessary to her. +After all, Rodney had had Bella; and she had nobody but Rodney. He was +the one solitary thing she cared for. And hitherto it had not mattered +so immensely, for all her caring, whether he came to her or not. Seeing +him had been, perhaps, a small mortal joy; but it had not been the +tremendous and essential thing. She had been contented, satisfied beyond +all mortal contentments and satisfactions, with the intangible, +immaterial tie. Now she longed, with an unendurable longing, for his +visible, bodily presence. She had not realized her joy as long as it was +with her; she had refused to acknowledge it because of its mortal +quality, and it had raised no cry that troubled her abiding spiritual +calm. But now that she had put it from her, it thrust itself on her, it +cried, it clung piteously to her and would not let her go. She looked +back to the last year, her year of Fridays, and saw it following her, +following and entreating. She looked forward and she saw Friday after +Friday coming upon her, a procession of pitiless days, trampling it +down, her small, piteous mortal joy, and her mortality rose in her and +revolted. She had been disturbed by what she had called the “lurking +possibilities” in Rodney; they were nothing to the lurking possibilities +in her. + +There were moments when her desire to see Rodney sickened her with its +importunity. Each time she beat it back, in an instant, to its burrow +below the threshold, and it hid there, it ran underground. There were +ways below the threshold by which desire could get at him. Therefore, +one night—Tuesday of the fourth week—she cut him off. She refused to +hold him even by a thread. It was Bella and Bella only that she held +now. + +On Friday of that week she heard from him. Bella was still all right. +But _he_ wasn’t. Anything but. He didn’t know what was the matter with +him. He supposed it was the same old thing again. He couldn’t think how +poor Bella stood him, but she did. It must be awfully bad for her. It +was beastly—wasn’t it?—that he should have got like that, just when +Bella was so well. + +She might have known it. She had, in fact, known. Having once held him, +and having healed him, she had no right—as long as the Power consented +to work through her—she had no right to let him go. + +She began again from the beginning, from the first process of +purification and surrender. But what followed was different now. She had +not only to recapture the crystal serenity, the holiness of that state +by which she had held Rodney Lanyon and had healed him; she had to +recover the poise by which she had held him and Harding Powell together. +She was bound equally not to let Harding go. + +It was now almost a struggle to concentrate on both Rodney and Harding, +a struggle in which Harding persisted and prevailed. Yes, there was no +blinking it, he prevailed. + +She had been prepared for it, but not as for a thing that could really +happen. It was contrary to all that she knew of the beneficent working +of the Power. She thought she knew all its ways, its silences, its +reassurances, its inexplicable reservations and evasions. She couldn’t +be prepared for this—that it, the high and holy, the unspeakably pure +thing should allow Harding to prevail, should connive (that was what it +looked like) at his taking the gift into his own hands and turning it to +his own advantage against Rodney Lanyon. + +Not that she thought it really had connived. That was unthinkable, and +Agatha did not think these things; she felt them. Hitherto she had had +no misgivings as to the possible behaviour of the Power. And now she was +afraid, not of It, and not, certainly not, of poor Harding (how could +she be afraid of him?); she was afraid mysteriously, without knowing why +or how. + +It was her fear that made her write to Rodney Lanyon. She wrote in the +beginning of the fifth week (she was counting the weeks now). She only +wanted to know, she said, that he was better, that he was well. She +begged him to write and tell her that he was well. + +He did not write. + +And every night of that week, in those “states” of hers, Powell +predominated. He was becoming almost a visible presence impressed upon +the blackness of the “state.” All she could do then was to evoke the +visible image of Rodney Lanyon and place it there over Harding’s image, +obliterating him. Now, properly speaking, the state, the perfection of +it, did not admit of visible presences, and that Harding could so +impress himself showed more than anything the extent to which he had +prevailed. + +He prevailed to such good purpose that he was now, Milly said, well +enough to go back to business. They were to leave Sarratt End in about +ten days, when they would have been there seven weeks. + +She had come over on the Sunday to let Agatha know that; and also, she +said, to make a confession. + +Milly’s face, as she said it, was all candour. It had filled out; it had +bloomed in her happiness; it was shadowless, featureless almost, like a +flower. + +She had done what she said she wouldn’t do; she had told Harding. + +“Oh, Milly, what on earth did you do that for?” Agatha’s voice was +strange. + +“I thought it better,” Milly said, revealing the fine complacence of her +character. + +“Why better?” + +“Because secrecy is bad. And he was beginning to wonder. He wanted to go +back to business; and he wouldn’t, because he thought it was the place +that did it.” + +“I see,” said Agatha. “And what does he think it is now?” + +“He thinks it’s _you_, dear.” + +“But I told you—I told you—that was what you were not to think.” + +“My dear, it’s an immense concession that he should think it’s you.” + +“A concession to what?” + +“Well, I suppose, to the supernatural.” + +“Milly, you shouldn’t have told him. You don’t know what harm you might +have done. I’m not sure even now that you haven’t done it.” + +“Oh, have I?” said Milly triumphantly. “You’ve only got to look at him.” + +“When did you tell him, then?” + +“I told him—let me see—it was a week ago last Friday.” Agatha was +silent. She wondered. It had been after Friday a week ago that he had +prevailed so terribly. + +“Agatha,” said Milly solemnly, “when we go away you won’t lose sight of +him? You won’t let go of him?” + +“You needn’t be afraid. I doubt now if he will let go of me.” + +“How do you mean—_now_?” Milly flushed slightly as a flower might flush. + +“Now that you’ve told him, now that he thinks it’s me. + +“Perhaps,” said Milly, “that was why I told him. I don’t want him to let +go.” + + + VII + + +It was the sixth week, and still Rodney did not write; and Agatha was +more and more afraid. + +By this time she had definitely connected her fear with Harding Powell’s +dominion and persistence. She was certain now that what she could only +call his importunity had proved somehow disastrous to Rodney Lanyon. And +with it all, unacknowledged, beaten back, her desire to see Rodney ran +to and fro in the burrows underground. + +He did not write, but on the Friday of that week, the sixth week, he +came. + +She saw him coming up the garden path, and she shrank back into her room +but the light searched her and found her, and he saw her there. He never +knocked; he came straight and swiftly to her through the open doors. He +shut the door of the room behind him and held her by her arms with both +his hands. + +“Rodney,” she said, “did you mean to come, or did I make you?” + +“I meant to come. You couldn’t make me.” + +“Couldn’t I? Oh, _say_ I couldn’t.” + +“You could,” he said, “but you didn’t. And what does it matter so long +as I’m here?” + +“Let me look at you.” + +She held him at arm’s length and turned him to the light. It showed his +face white, worn as it used to be, all the little lines of worry back +again, and two new ones that drew down the corners of his mouth. + +“You’ve been ill,” she said. “You _are_ ill.” + +“No. I’m all right. What’s the matter with _you?_” + +“With me? Nothing. Do I look as if anything was wrong?” + +“You look as if you’d been frightened.” + +He paused, considering it. + +“This place isn’t good for you. You oughtn’t to be here like this, all +by yourself.” + +“Oh! Rodney, it’s the dearest place. I love every inch of it. Besides, +I’m not altogether by myself.” + +He did not seem to hear her; and what he said next arose evidently out +of his own thoughts. + +“I say, are those Powells still here?” + +“They’ve been here all the time.” + +“Do you see much of them?” + +“I see them every day. Sometimes nearly all day.” + +“That accounts for it.” + +Again he paused. + +“It’s my fault, Agatha. I shouldn’t have left you to them. I knew.” + +“What did you know?” + +“Well—the state he was in, and the effect it would have on you—that it +would have on anybody.” + +“It’s all right. He’s going. Besides, he isn’t in a state any more. He’s +cured.” + +“Cured? What’s cured him?” + +She evaded him. + +“He’s been well ever since he came; absolutely well after the first +day.” + +“Still, you’ve been frightened; you’ve been worrying; you’ve had some +shock or other, or some strain. What is it?” + +“Nothing. Only—just the last week—I’ve been a little frightened about +you—when you wouldn’t write to me. Why didn’t you?” + +“Because I couldn’t.” + +“Then you _were_ ill?” + +“I’m all right. I know what’s the matter with me.” + +“It’s Bella?” + +He laughed harshly. + +“No, it isn’t this time. I haven’t that excuse.” + +“Excuse for what?” + +“For coming. Bella’s all right. Bella’s a perfect angel. God knows +what’s happened to her. I don’t. I haven’t had anything to do with it.” + +“You had. You had everything. You were an angel too.” + +“I haven’t been much of an angel lately, I can tell you.” + +“She’ll understand. She does understand.” + +They had sat down on the couch in the corner so that they faced each +other. Agatha faced him, but fear was in her eyes. + +“It doesn’t matter,” he said, “whether she understands or not. I don’t +want to talk about her.” + +Agatha said nothing, but there was a movement in her face, a white wave +of trouble, and the fear fluttered in her eyes. He saw it there. + +“You needn’t bother about Bella. She’s all right. You see, it’s not as +if she cared.” + +“Cared?” + +“About _me_ much.” + +“But she does, she does care!” + +“I suppose she did once, or she couldn’t have married me. But she +doesn’t now. You see—you may as well know it, Agatha—there’s another +man.” + +“Oh, Rodney, no.” + +“Yes. It’s been perfectly all right, you know; but there he is, and +there he’s been for years. She told me. I’m awfully sorry for her.” + +He paused. + +“What beats me is her being so angelic now, when she doesn’t care.” + +“Rodney, she does. It’s all over, like an illness. It’s you she cares +for _now_.” + +“Think so?” + +“I’m sure of it.” + +“I’m not.” + +“You will be. You’ll see it. You’ll see it soon.” + +He glanced at her under his bent brows. + +“I don’t know,” he said, “that I want to see it. _That_ isn’t what’s the +matter with me. You don’t understand the situation. It isn’t all over. +She’s only being good about it. She doesn’t care a rap about me. She +_can’t_. And what’s more, I don’t want her to.” + +[Illustration] + +“You—don’t—want her to?” + +He burst out. “My God, I want nothing in this world but _you_. And I +can’t have you. That’s what’s the matter with me.” + +“No, no, it isn’t,” she cried. “You don’t know.” + +“I do know. It’s hurting me. And”—he looked at her and his voice +shook—“it’s hurting you. I won’t have you hurt.” + +He started forward suddenly as if he would have taken her in his arms. +She put up her hands to keep him off. + +“No, no!” she cried. “I’m all right. I’m all right. It isn’t that. You +mustn’t think it.” + +“I know it. That’s why I came.” + +He came near again. He seized her struggling hands. + +“Agatha, why can’t we? Why shouldn’t we?” + +“No, no,” she moaned. “We can’t. We mustn’t. Not _that_ way. I don’t +want it, Rodney, that way.” + +“It shall be any way you like. Only don’t beat me off.” + +“I’m not—beating—you—off.” + +She stood up. Her face changed suddenly. + +“Rodney—I forgot. They’re coming.” + +“Who are they?” + +“The Powells. They’re coming to lunch.” + +“Can’t you put them off?” + +“I can, but it wouldn’t be very wise, dear. They might think—” + +“Confound them—they _would_ think.” + +He was pulling himself visibly together. + +“I’m afraid, Aggy, I ought—” + +“I know—you must. You must go soon.” + +He looked at his watch. + +“I must go _now_, dear. I daren’t stay. It’s dangerous.” + +“I know,” she whispered. + +“But when is the brute going?” + +“Poor darling, he’s going next week—next Thursday.” + +“Well then, I’ll—I’ll—” + +“Please, you must go.” + +“I’m going.” + +She held out her hand. + +“I daren’t touch you,” he whispered. “I’m going now. But I’ll come again +next Friday, and I’ll stay.” + +As she saw his drawn face, there was not any strength in her to say +“No.” + + + VIII + + +He had gone. She gathered herself together and went across the field to +meet the Powells as if nothing had happened. + +Milly and her husband were standing at the gate of the Farm. They were +watching; yes, they were watching Rodney Lanyon as he crossed the river +by the Farm bridge. The bridge carried the field path that slanted up +the hill to the farther and western end of the wood. Their attitude +showed that they were interested in his brief appearance on the scene, +and that they wondered what he had been doing there. And as she +approached them she was aware of something cold, ominous and inimical, +that came from them, and set towards her and passed by. Her sense of it +only lasted for a second, and was gone so completely that she could +hardly realize that she had ever felt it. + +For they were charming to her. Harding, indeed, was more perfect in his +beautiful quality than ever. There was something about him that she had +not been prepared for, something strange and pathetic, humble almost and +appealing. She saw it in his eyes, his large, dark, wild animal eyes, +chiefly. But it was a look that claimed as much as it deprecated; that +assumed between them some unspoken communion and understanding. With all +its pathos it was a look that frightened her. Neither he nor his wife +said a word about Rodney Lanyon. She was not even sure, now, that they +had recognized him. + +They stayed with her all that afternoon; for their time, they said, was +getting short; and when, about six o’clock, Milly got up to go she took +Agatha aside and said that, if Agatha didn’t mind, she would leave +Harding with her for a little while. She knew he wanted to talk to her. + +Agatha proposed that they should walk up the hill through the wood. They +went in a curious silence and constraint; and it was not until they had +got into the wood and were shut up in it together that he spoke. + +“I think my wife told you I had something to say to you?” + +“Yes, Harding,” she said. “What is it?” + +“Well, it’s this—first of all, I want to thank you. I know what you’re +doing for me.” + +“I’m sorry. I didn’t want you to know. I thought Milly wasn’t going to +tell you.” + +“She didn’t tell me.” + +Agatha said nothing. She was bound to accept his statement. Of course, +he must have known that Milly had broken her word, and he was trying to +shield her. + +“I mean,” he went on, “that whether she told me or not, it’s no matter; +I knew.” + +“You—knew?” + +“I knew that something was happening, and I knew it wasn’t the place. +Places never make any difference. I only go to ’em because Milly thinks +they do. Besides, if it came to that, this place—from my peculiar point +of view, mind you—was simply beastly. I couldn’t have stood another +night of it.” + +“Well.” + +“Well, the thing went; and I got all right. And the queer part of it is, +I felt as if you were in it somehow, as if you’d done something. I half +hoped you might say something, but you never did.” + +“One oughtn’t to speak about these things, Harding. And I told you I +didn’t want you to know.” + +“I didn’t know what you did. I don’t know now, though Milly tried to +tell me. But I felt you. I felt you all the time.” + +“It was not I you felt. I implore you not to think it was.” + +“What can I think?” + +“Think as I do; think—think—” She stopped herself. She was aware of the +futility of her charge to this man who denied, who always had denied, +the supernatural. “It isn’t a question of thinking,” she said at last. + +“Of believing, then? Are you going to tell me to believe?” + +“No; it isn’t believing either. It’s knowing. Either you know it or you +don’t know, though you may come to know. But whatever you think, you +mustn’t think it’s me.” + +“I rather like to. Why shouldn’t I?” + +She turned on him her grave white face, and he noticed a curious +expression there as of incipient terror. + +“Because you might do some great harm either to yourself or—” + +His delicate, sceptical eyebrows questioned her. + +“Or me.” + +“You?” he murmured gently, pitifully almost. + +“Yes, me. Or even—well, one doesn’t quite know where the harm might end. +If I could only make you take another view. I tried to make you—to work +it that way—so that you might find the secret and do it for yourself.” + +“I can’t do anything for myself. But, Agatha, I’ll take any view you +like of it, so long as you’ll keep on at me.” + +“Of course I’ll keep on.” + +At that he stopped suddenly in his path, and faced her. + +“I say, you know, it isn’t hurting you, is it?” + +She felt herself wince. “Hurting me? How could it hurt me?” + +“Milly said it couldn’t.” + +Agatha sighed. She said to herself, “Milly—if only Milly hadn’t +interfered.” + +“Don’t you think it’s cold here in the wood?” she said. + +“Cold?” + +“Yes. Let’s go back.” + +As they went Milly met them at the Farm bridge. She wanted Agatha to +come and stay for supper; she pressed, she pleaded, and Agatha, who had +never yet withstood Milly’s pleading, stayed. + +It was from that evening that she really dated it, the thing that came +upon her. She was aware that in staying she disobeyed an instinct that +told her to go home. Otherwise she could not say that she had any sort +of premonition. Supper was laid in the long room with the yellow blinds, +where she had first found Harding Powell. The blinds were drawn +to-night, and the lamp on the table burnt low; the oil was giving out. +The light in the room was still daylight and came level from the sunset, +leaking through the yellow blinds. It struck Agatha that it was the same +light, the same ochreish light that they had found in the room six weeks +ago. But that was nothing. + +What it was she did not know. The horrible light went when the flame of +the lamp burnt clearer. Harding was talking to her cheerfully and Milly +was smiling at them both, when half through the meal Agatha got up and +declared that she must go. She was ill; she was tired; they must forgive +her, but she must go. + +The Powells rose and stood by her, close to her, in their distress. +Milly brought wine and put it to her lips; but she turned her head away +and whispered: “Please let me go. Let me get away.” + +Harding wanted to walk back with her, but she refused with a vehemence +that deterred him. + +“How very odd of her,” said Milly, as they stood at the gate and watched +her go. She was walking fast, almost running, with a furtive step, as if +something pursued her. + +Powell did not speak. He turned from his wife and went slowly back into +the house. + + + IX + + +She knew now what had happened to her. She was afraid of Harding Powell; +and it was her fear that had cried to her to go, to get away from him. + +The awful thing was that she knew she could not get away from him. She +had only to close her eyes and she would find the visible image of him +hanging before her on the wall of darkness. And to-night, when she tried +to cover it with Rodney’s it was no longer obliterated. Rodney’s image +had worn thin and Harding’s showed through. She was more afraid of it +than she had been of Harding; and more than anything, she was afraid of +being afraid. Harding was the object of a boundless and indestructible +compassion, and her fear of him was hateful to her and unholy. She knew +that it would be terrible to let it follow her into that darkness where +she would presently go down with him alone. “It would be all right,” she +said to herself, “if only I didn’t keep on seeing him.” + +But he, his visible image, and her fear of it, persisted even while the +interior darkness, the divine, beneficent darkness rose round her, wave +on wave, and flooded her; even while she held him there and healed him; +even while it still seemed to her that her love pierced through her fear +and gathered to her, spirit to spirit, flame to pure flame, the +nameless, innermost essence of Rodney and of Bella. She had known in the +beginning that it was by love that she held them; but now, though she +loved Rodney and had almost lost her pity for Harding in her fear of +him, it was Harding rather than Rodney that she held. + +In the morning she woke with a sense, which was almost a memory, of +Harding having been in the room with her all night. She was tired, as if +she had had some long and unrestrained communion with him. + +She put away at once the fatigue that pressed on her (the gift still +“worked” in a flash for the effacing of bodily sensation). She told +herself that, after all, her fear had done no harm. Seldom in her +experience of the Power had she had so tremendous a sense of having got +through to it, of having “worked” it, of having held Harding under it +and healed him. For, when all was said and done, whether she had been +afraid of him or not, she had held him, she had never once let go. The +proof was that he still went sane, visibly, indubitably cured. + +All the same, she felt that she could not go through another day like +yesterday. She could not see him. She wrote a letter to Milly. Since it +concerned Milly so profoundly, it was well that Milly should be made to +understand. She hoped that Milly would forgive her if they didn’t see +her for the next day or two. If she was to go on (she underlined it) she +must be left absolutely alone. It seemed unkind when they were going so +soon, but—Milly knew—it was impossible to exaggerate the importance of +what she had to do. + +Milly wrote back that, of course, she understood. It should be as Agatha +wished. Only (so Milly “sustained” her) Agatha must not allow herself to +doubt the Power. How could she, when she saw what it had done for +Harding? If _she_ doubted, what could she expect of Harding? But, of +course, she must take care of her own dear self. If she failed—if she +gave way—what on earth would the poor darling do, now that he had become +dependent on her? + +She wrote as if it was Agatha’s fault that he had become dependent; as +if Agatha had nothing, had nobody in the world to think of but Harding; +as if nobody, as if nothing in the world beside Harding mattered. And +Agatha found herself resenting Milly’s view. As if to her anything in +the world mattered beside Rodney Lanyon. + +For three days she did not see the Powells. + + + X + + +The three nights passed as before, but with an increasing struggle and +fear. + +She knew, she knew what was happening. It was as if the walls of +personality were wearing thin, and through them she felt him trying to +get at her. + +She put the thought from her. It was absurd. It was insane. Such things +could not be. It was not in any region of such happenings that she held +him, but in the place of peace, the charmed circle, the flawless crystal +sphere. + +Still the thought persisted; and still, in spite of it, she held him, +she would not let him go. By her honour and by her love for Milly she +was bound to hold him, even though she knew how terribly, how implacably +he prevailed. + +She was aware now that the persistence of his image on the blackness was +only a sign to her of his being there in his substance; in his supreme +innermost essence. It had obviously no relation to his bodily +appearance, since she had not seen him for three days. It tended more +and more to vanish, to give place to the shapeless, nameless, +all-pervading presence. And her fear of him became pervading, nameless +and shapeless too. + +Somehow it was always behind her now, it followed her from room to room +of her house; it drove her out of doors. It seemed to her that she went +before it with quick, uncertain feet and a fluttering heart, aimless and +tormented as a leaf driven by a vague light wind. Sometimes it sent her +up the field towards the wood; sometimes it would compel her to go a +little way towards the Farm; and then it was as if it took her by the +shoulders and turned her back again towards her house. + +[Illustration] + +On the fourth day (which was Tuesday of the Powells’ last week) she +determined to fight this fear. She could not defy it to the extent of +going on to the Farm where she might see Harding, but certainly she +would not suffer it to turn her from her hill-top. It was there that she +had always gone as the night fell, calling home her thoughts to sleep; +and it was there, seven weeks ago, that the moon, the golden-white and +holy moon, had led her to the consecration of her gift. She had returned +softly, seven weeks ago, carrying carefully her gift, as a fragile, +flawless crystal. Since then how recklessly she had held it! To what +jars and risks she had exposed the exquisite and sacred thing! + +She waited for her hour between sunset and twilight. It was perfect, +following a perfect day. Above the wood the sky had a violet lucidity, +purer than the day; below it, the pale brown earth wore a violet haze, +and over that a web of green, woven of the sparse, thin blades of the +young wheat. There were two ways up the hill; one over her own bridge +across the river, that led her to the steep, straight path through the +wood; one over the Farm bridge by the slanting path up the field. She +chose the wood. + +She paused on the bridge, and looked down the valley. She saw the +farm-house standing in the stillness that was its own secret and the +hour’s. A strange, pale lamplight, lit too soon, showed in the windows +of the room she knew. The Powells would be sitting there at their +supper. + +She went on and came to the gate of the wood. It swung open on its +hinges, a sign to her that some time or other Harding Powell had passed +there. She paused and looked about her. Presently she saw Harding Powell +coming down the wood-path. + +He stopped. He had not yet seen her. He was looking up to the arch of +the beech-trees, where the green light still came through. She could see +by his attitude of quiet contemplation the sane and happy creature that +he was. He was sane, she knew. And yet, no; she could not really see him +as sane. It was her sanity, not his own, that he walked in. Or else what +she saw was the empty shell of him. _He_ was in her. Hitherto it had +been in the darkness that she had felt him most, and her fear of him had +been chiefly fear of the invisible Harding, and of what he might do +there in the darkness. Now her fear, which had become almost hatred, was +transferred to his person. In the flesh, as in the spirit, he was +pursuing her. + +He had seen her now. He was making straight for her. And she turned and +ran round the eastern bend of the hill (a yard or so to the left of her) +and hid from him. From where she crouched at the edge of the wood she +saw him descend the lower slope to the river; by standing up and +advancing a little she could see him follow the river path on the nearer +side and cross by the Farm bridge. + +She was sure of all that. She was sure that it did not take her more +than twelve or fifteen minutes (for she had gone that way a hundred +times) to get back to the gate, to walk up the little wood, to cut +through it by a track in the undergrowth, and turn round the further and +western end of it. Thence she could either take the long path that +slanted across the field to the Farm bridge or keep to the upper ground +along a trail in the grass skirting the wood, and so reach home by the +short, straight path and her own bridge. + +She decided on the short, straight path as leading her farther from the +farm-house, where there could be no doubt that Harding Powell was now. +At the point she had reached, the jutting corner of the wood hid from +her the downward slope of the hill, and the flat land at its foot. + +As she turned the corner of the wood, she was brought suddenly in sight +of the valley. A hot wave swept over her brain, so strong that she +staggered as it passed. It was followed by a strange sensation of +physical sickness, that passed also. It was then as if what went through +her had charged her nerves of sight to a pitch of insane and horrible +sensibility. The green of the grass, and of the young corn, the very +colour of life, was violent and frightful. Not only was it abominable in +itself, it was a thing to be shuddered at, because of some still more +abominable significance it had. + +Agatha had known once, standing where she stood now, an exaltation of +sense that was ecstasy; when every leaf and every blade of grass shone +with a divine translucence; when every nerve in her thrilled, and her +whole being rang with the joy which is immanent in the life of things. + +What she experienced now (if she could have given any account of it) was +exaltation at the other end of the scale. It was horror and fear +unspeakable. Horror and fear immanent in the life of things. She saw the +world in a loathsome transparency; she saw it with the eye of a soul in +which no sense of the divine had ever been, of a soul that denied the +supernatural. It had been Harding Powell’s soul, and it had become hers. + +Furiously, implacably, he was getting at her. + +Out of the wood and the hedges that bordered it there came sounds that +were horrible, because she knew them to be inaudible to any ear less +charged with insanity; small sounds of movement, of strange shiverings, +swarmings, crepitations; sounds of incessant, infinitely subtle urging, +of agony and recoil. Sounds they were of the invisible things unborn, +driven towards birth; sounds of the worm unborn, of things that creep +and writhe towards dissolution. She knew what she heard and saw. She +heard the stirring of the corruption that Life was; the young blades of +corn were frightful to her, for in them was the push, the passion of the +evil which was Life; the trees, as they stretched out their arms and +threatened her, were frightful with the terror which was Life. Down +there, in that gross green hot-bed, the earth teemed with the +abomination; and the river, livid, white, a monstrous thing, crawled, +dragging with it the very slime. + +All this she perceived in a flash, when she had turned the corner. It +sank into stillness and grew dim; she was aware of it only as the scene, +the region in which one thing, her terror, moved and hunted her. Among +sounds of the rustling of leaves, and the soft crush of grass, and the +whirring of little wings in fright, she heard it go; it went on the other +side of the hedge, a little way behind her as she skirted the wood. She +stood still to let it pass her, and she felt that it passed, and that it +stopped and waited. A terrified bird flew out of the hedge, no further +than a fledgling’s flight in front of her. And in that place it flew +from she saw Harding Powell. + +He was crouching under the hedge as she had crouched when she had hidden +from him. His face was horrible, but not more horrible than the Terror +that had gone behind her; and she heard herself crying out to him: +“Harding! Harding!” appealing to him against the implacable, unseen +Pursuer. + +He had risen (she saw him rise), but as she called his name he became +insubstantial, and she saw a Thing, a nameless, unnameable, shapeless +Thing, proceeding from him. A brown, blurred Thing, transparent as dusk +is, that drifted on the air. It was torn and tormented, a fragment +parted and flung off from some immense and as yet invisible cloud of +horror. It drifted from her; it dissolved like smoke on the hillside; +and the Thing that had born and begotten it pursued her. + +She bowed under it, and turned from the edge of the wood, the horrible +place it had been born in; she ran before it, headlong down the field, +trampling the young corn under her feet. As she ran she heard a voice in +the valley, a voice of amazement and entreaty, calling to her in a sort +of song. + +“What—are—you—running for—Aggy—Aggy?” + +It was Milly’s voice that called. + +Then as she came, still headlong, to the river, she heard Harding’s +voice saying something, she did not know what. She couldn’t stop to +listen to him, or to consider how he came to be there in the valley, +when a minute ago she had seen him by the edge of the wood, up on the +very top of the hill. + +He was on the bridge—the Farm bridge—now. He held out his hand to steady +her as she came on over the swinging plank. + +She knew that he had led her to the other side, and that he was standing +there, still saying something, and that she answered. + +“Have you no pity on me? Can’t you let me go?” And then she broke from +him and ran. + + + XI + + +She was awake all that night. Harding Powell and the horror begotten of +him had no pity; he would not let her go. Her gift, her secret, was +powerless now against the pursuer. + +She had a light burning in her room till morning, for she was afraid of +sleep. Those unlit roads down which, if she slept, the Thing would +surely hunt her, were ten times more terrible than the white-washed, +familiar room where it merely watched and waited. + +In the morning she found a letter on her breakfast-table, which she said +Mrs. Powell had left late last evening, after Agatha had gone to bed. +Milly wrote: “Dearest Agatha,— Of course I understand. But are we +_never_ going to see you again? What was the matter with you last night? +You terrified poor Harding.— Yours ever, M. P.” + +Without knowing why, Agatha tore the letter into bits and burned them in +the flame of a candle. She watched them burn. + +“Of course,” she said to herself, “that isn’t sane of me.” + +And when she had gone round her house and shut all the doors and locked +them, and drawn down the blinds in every closed window, and found +herself cowering over her fireless hearth, shuddering with fear, she +knew that, whether she were mad or not, there was madness in her. She +knew that her face in the glass (she had the courage to look at it) was +the face of an insane terror let loose. + +That she did know it, that there were moments—flashes—in which she could +contemplate her state and recognize it for what it was, showed that +there was still a trace of sanity in her. It was not her own madness +that possessed her. It was, or rather, it had been, Harding Powell’s; +she had taken it from him. That was what it meant—to take away madness. + +There could be no doubt as to what had happened, nor as to the way of +its happening. The danger of it, utterly unforeseen, was part of the +very operation of the gift. In the process of getting at Harding to heal +him she had had to destroy, not only the barriers of flesh and blood, +but those innermost walls of personality that divide and protect, +mercifully, one spirit from another. With the first thinning of the +walls Harding’s insanity had leaked through to her, with the first +breach it had broken in. It had been transferred to her complete with +all its details, with its very gestures, in all the phases that it ran +through; Harding’s premonitory fears and tremblings; Harding’s exalted +sensibility; Harding’s abominable vision of the world, that vision from +which the resplendent divinity had perished; Harding’s flight before the +pursuing Terror. She was sitting now as Harding had sat when she found +him crouching over the hearth in that horrible room with the drawn +blinds. It seemed to her that to have a madness of your own would not be +so very horrible. It would be, after all, your own. It could not +possibly be one-half so horrible as this, to have somebody else’s +madness put into you. + +The one thing by which she knew herself was the desire that no longer +ran underground, but emerged and appeared before her, lit by her lucid +flashes, naked and unshamed. + +She still knew her own. And there was something in her still that was +greater than the thing that inhabited her, the pursuer, the pursued, who +had rushed into her as his refuge, his sanctuary; and that was her fear +of him and of what he might do there. If her doors stood open to him, +they stood open to Bella and to Rodney Lanyon too. What else had she +been trying for, if it were not to break down in all three of them the +barriers of flesh and blood, and to transmit the Power? In the +unthinkable sacrament to which she called them they had all three +partaken. And since the holy thing could suffer her to be thus +permeated, saturated with Harding Powell, was it to be supposed that she +could keep him to herself, that she would not pass him on to Rodney +Lanyon? + +It was not, after all, incredible. If he could get at her, of course he +could get, through her, at Rodney. + +That was the Terror of terrors, and it was her own. That it could +subsist together with that alien horror, that it remained supreme beside +it, proved that there was still some tract in her where the invader had +not yet penetrated. In her love for Rodney and her fear for him she +entrenched herself against the destroyer. There at least she knew +herself impregnable. + +It was in such a luminous flash that she saw the thing still in her own +hands, and resolved that it should cease. + +She would have to break her word to Milly. She would have to let Harding +go, to loosen deliberately his hold on her and cut him off. It could be +done. She had held him through her gift, and it would be still possible, +through the gift, to let him go. Of course she knew it would be hard. + +It _was_ hard. It was terrible; for he clung. She had not counted on his +clinging. It was as if, in their undivided substance, he had had +knowledge of her purpose and had prepared himself to fight it. He hung +on desperately; he refused to yield an inch of the ground he had taken +from her. He was no longer a passive thing in that world where she had +brought him. And he had certain advantages. He had possessed her for +three nights and for three days. She had made herself porous to him; and +her sleep had always been his opportunity. + +It took her three nights and three days to cast him out. In the first +night she struggled with him. She lay with all her senses hushed, and +brought the divine darkness round her, but in the darkness she was aware +that she struggled. She could build up the walls between them, but she +knew that as fast as she built them he tore at them and pulled them +down. + +She bore herself humbly towards the Power that permitted him. She +conceived of it as holiness—estranged and offended; she pleaded with it. +She could no longer trust her knowledge of its working, but she tried to +come to terms with it. She offered herself as a propitiation, as a +substitute for Rodney Lanyon, if there was no other way by which he +might be saved. + +Apparently, that was not the way it worked. Harding seemed to gain. But, +as he kept her awake all night, he had no chance to establish himself, +as he would otherwise have done, in her sleep. The odds between her and +her adversary were even. + +The second night _she_ gained. She felt that she had built up her walls +again; that she had cut Harding off. With spiritual pain, with the +tearing of the bonds of compassion, with a supreme agony of rupture, he +parted from her. + +Possibly the Power was neutral; for in the dawn after the second night +she slept. That sleep left her uncertain of the event. There was no +telling into what unguarded depths it might have carried her. She knew +that she had been free of her adversary before she slept, but the +chances were that he had got at her in her sleep. Since the Power held +the balance even between her and the invader, it would no doubt permit +him to enter by any loophole that he could seize. + +On the third night, as it were in the last watch, she surrendered, but +not to Harding Powell. + +She could not say how it came to her; she was lying in her bed with her +eyes shut and her arms held apart from her body, diminishing all +contacts, stripping for her long slide into the cleansing darkness, when +she found herself recalling some forgotten, yet inalienable knowledge +that she had. Something said to her: “Do you not remember? There is no +striving and no crying in the world which you would enter. There is no +more appeasing where peace _is_. You cannot make your own terms with the +high and holy Power. It is not enough to give yourself for Rodney +Lanyon, for he is more to you than you are yourself. Besides, any +substitution of self for self would be useless, for there is no more +self there. That is why the Power cannot work that way. But if it should +require you, here on this side the threshold, to give him up, to give up +your desire of him, what then? Would you loose your hold on him and let +him go?” + +“Would you?” the voice insisted. + +She heard herself answer from the pure threshold of the darkness: “I +would.” + +Sleep came on her there; a divine sleep from beyond the threshold; +sacred, inviolate sleep. + +It was the seal upon the bond. + + + XII + + +She woke on Friday morning to a vivid and indestructible certainty of +escape. + +But there had been a condition attached to her deliverance; and it was +borne in on her that instead of waiting for the Power to force its terms +on her, she would do well to be beforehand with it. Friday was Rodney’s +day, and this time she knew that he would come. His coming, of course, +was nothing, but he had told her plainly that he would not go. She must, +therefore, wire to him not to come. + +In order to do this she had to get up early and walk about a mile to the +nearest village. She took the shortest way, which was by the Farm +bridge, and up the slanting path to the far end of the wood. She knew +vaguely that once, as she turned the corner of the wood, there had been +horrors, and that the divine beauty of green pastures and still waters +had appeared to her as a valley of the shadow of evil, but she had no +more memory of what she had seen than of a foul dream, three nights +dead. She went at first uplifted in the joy of her deliverance, drawing +into her the light and fragrance of the young morning. Then she +remembered Harding Powell. She had noticed as she passed the Farm-house +that the blinds were drawn again in all the windows. That was because +Harding and Milly were gone. She thought of Harding, of Milly, with an +immense tenderness and compassion, but also with lucidity, with sanity. +They had gone—yesterday—and she had not seen them. That could not be +helped. She had done all that was possible. She could not have seen them +as long as the least taint of Harding’s malady remained with her. And +how could she have faced Milly after having broken her word to her? + +Not that she regretted even that, the breaking of her word, so sane was +she. She could conceive that, if it had not been for Rodney Lanyon, she +might have had the courage to have gone on. She might have considered +that she was bound to save Harding, even at the price of her own sanity, +since there _was_ her word to Milly. But it might be questioned whether +by holding on to him she would have kept it, whether she really could +have saved him that way. She was no more than a vehicle, a crystal +vessel for the inscrutable and secret Power, and in destroying her +utterly, Harding would have destroyed himself. You could not transmit +the Power through a broken crystal—why, not even through one that had a +flaw. + +[Illustration] + +There had been a flaw somewhere; so much was certain. And as she +searched now for the flaw, with her luminous sanity, she found it in her +fear. She knew, she had always known, the danger of taking fear, and the +thought of fear with her into that world where to think was to will, and +to will was to create. But for the rest, she had tried to make herself +clear as crystal. And what could she do more than give up Rodney? + +As she set her face towards the village, she was sustained by a sacred +ardour, a sacrificial exaltation. But as she turned homewards across the +solitary fields, she realized the sadness, the desolation of the thing +she had accomplished. He would not come. Her message would reach him two +hours before the starting of the train he always came by. + +Across the village she saw her white house shining, and the windows of +his room (her study, which was always his room when he came); its +lattices were flung open as if it welcomed him. + +Something had happened there. + +Her maid was standing by the garden gate, looking for her. As she +approached, the girl came over the field to meet her. She had an air of +warning her, of preparing her for something. + +It was Mrs. Powell, the maid said. She had come again. She was in there, +waiting for Miss Agatha. She wouldn’t go away; she had gone straight in. +She was in an awful state. The maid thought it was something to do with +Mr. Powell. + +They had not gone, then. + +“If I were you, miss,” the maid was saying, “I wouldn’t see her.” + +“Of course I shall see her.” + +She went at once into the room where Rodney might have been, where Milly +was. Milly rose from the corner where she sat averted. + +“Agatha,” she said, “I had to come.” + +Agatha kissed the white, suppliant face that Milly lifted. “I thought,” +she said, “you’d gone—yesterday.” + +“We couldn’t go. He—he’s ill again.” + +“Ill?” + +“Yes. Didn’t you see the blinds down as you passed?” + +“I thought it was because you’d gone.” + +“It’s because that _thing’s_ come back again.” + +“When did it come, Milly?” + +“It’s been coming for three days.” + +Agatha drew in her breath with a pang. It was just three days since she +began to let him go. + +Milly went on. “And now he won’t come out of the house. He says he’s +being hunted. He’s afraid of being seen, being found. He’s in there—in +that room. He made me lock him in.” + +They stared at each other and at the horror that their faces took and +gave back each to each. + +“Oh, Aggy—” Milly cried it out in her anguish. + +“You _will_ help him?” + +“I can’t.” Agatha heard her voice go dry in her throat. + +“You _can’t_?” + +Agatha shook her head. + +“You mean you haven’t, then?” + +“I haven’t. I couldn’t.” + +“But you told me—you told me you were giving yourself up to it. You said +that was why you couldn’t see us.” + +“It _was_ why. Do sit down, Milly.” + +They sat down, still staring at each other. Agatha faced the window, so +that the light ravaged her. + +Milly went on. “That was why I left you alone. I thought you were going +on. You said you wouldn’t let him go; you promised me you’d keep on—” + +“I did keep on, till—” + +But Milly had only paused to hold down a sob. Her voice broke out again, +clear, harsh, accusing. + +“What were you doing all that time?” + +“Of course,” said Agatha, “you’re bound to think I let you down.” + +“What am I to think?” + +“Milly—I asked you not to think it was me.” + +“Of course I knew it was the Power, not you. But you had hold of it. You +did something. Something that other people can’t do. You did it for one +night, and that night he was well. You kept on for six weeks, and he was +well all that time. You leave off for three days—I know when you left +off—and he’s ill again. And then you tell me it isn’t you. It _is_ you; +and if it’s you, you can’t give him up. You can’t stand by, Aggy, and +refuse to help him. You know what it was. How can you bear to let him +suffer? How can you?” + +“I can, because I must.” + +“And why must you?” + +Milly raised her head more in defiance than in supplication. + +“Because—I told you—I might give out. Well—I _have_ given out.” + +“You told me the Power can’t give out—that you’ve only got to hold on to +it—that it’s no effort. I’m only asking you, Aggy, to hold on.” + +“You don’t know what you’re asking.” + +“I’m asking you only to do what you have done, to give five minutes in +the day to him. You said it was enough. Only five minutes. It isn’t much +to ask.” + +Agatha sighed. + +“What difference could it make to you—five minutes?” + +“You don’t understand,” said Agatha. + +“I do. I don’t ask you to see him, or to bother with him; only to go on +as you were doing.” + +“You don’t understand. It isn’t possible to explain it. I can’t go on.” + +“I see. You’re tired, Aggy. Well—not now, not to-day. But later, when +you’re rested, won’t you?” + +“Oh, Milly, dear Milly, if I could—” + +“You can. You will. I know you will—” + +“No. You must understand it. Never again. Never again.” + +“Never?” + +“Never.” + +There was a long silence. At last Milly’s voice crept through, strained +and thin, feebly argumentative, the voice of a thing defeated and yet +unconvinced. + +“I don’t understand you, Agatha. You say it isn’t you; you say you’re +only a connecting link; that you do nothing; that the Power that does it +is inexhaustible; that there’s nothing it can’t do, nothing it won’t do +for us, and yet you go and cut yourself off from it—deliberately, from +the thing you believe to be divine.” + +“I haven’t cut myself off from it.” + +“You’ve cut Harding off,” said Milly. “If you refuse to hold him.” + +“That wouldn’t cut him off—from It. But, Milly, holding him was bad; it +wasn’t safe.” + +“It saved him.” + +“All the same, Milly, it wasn’t safe. The thing itself isn’t.” + +“The Power? The divine thing?” + +“Yes. It’s divine and it’s—it’s terrible. It does terrible things to +us.” + +“How could it? If it’s divine, wouldn’t it be compassionate? Do you +suppose it’s less compassionate than—_you_ are? Why, Agatha, when it’s +goodness and purity itself—?” + +“Goodness and purity are terrible. We don’t understand it. It’s got its +own laws. What you call prayer’s all right—it would be safe, I mean—I +suppose it might get answered anyway, however we fell short. But +_this_—this is different. It’s the highest, Milly; and if you rush in +and make for the highest, can’t you see, oh, can’t you _see_ how it +might break you? Can’t you see what it requires of _you_? Absolute +purity. I told you, Milly. You have to be crystal to it—crystal without +a flaw.” + +“And—if there were a flaw?” + +“The whole thing, don’t you see, would break down; it would be no good. +In fact, it would be awfully dangerous.” + +“To whom?” + +“To you—to them, the people you’re helping. You make a connection; you +smash down all the walls so that you—you get through to each other; and +supposing there was something wrong with _you_, and it doesn’t work any +longer (the Power, I mean), don’t you see you might do harm where you +were trying to help?” + +“But—Agatha—there was nothing wrong with you.” + +“How do I know? Can anybody be sure there’s nothing wrong with them?” + +“You think,” said Milly, “there was a flaw somewhere?” + +“There must have been—somewhere—” + +“What was it? Can’t you find out? Can’t you think? Think.” + +“Sometimes—I’ve thought it may have been my fear.” + +“Fear?” + +“Yes, it’s the worst thing. Don’t you remember, I told you not to be +afraid?” + +“But, Agatha, you were _not_ afraid.” + +“I was—afterwards. I got frightened.” + +“_You_? And you told _me_ not to be afraid,” said Milly. + +“I had to tell you.” + +“And I wasn’t afraid—afterwards. I believed in you. He believed in you.” + +“You shouldn’t have. You shouldn’t. That was just it.” + +“That was it? I suppose you’ll say next it was I who frightened you?” + +As they faced each other there, Agatha, with the terrible, the almost +supernatural lucidity she had, saw what was making Milly say that. Milly +had been frightened; she felt that she had probably communicated her +fright; she knew that was dangerous, and she knew that if it had done +harm to Harding, she, and not Agatha, would be responsible. And because +she couldn’t face her responsibility, she was trying to fasten upon +Agatha some other fault than fear. + +“No, Milly, I don’t say you frightened me; it was my own fear.” + +“What was there for _you_ to be afraid of?” + +Agatha was silent. That was what she must never tell her, not even to +make her understand. She did not know what Milly was trying to think of +her; Milly might think what she liked; but she should never know what +her terror had been and her danger. + +Agatha’s silence helped Milly. + +“Nothing,” she said, “will make me believe it was your fear that did it. +That would never have made you give Harding up. Besides, you were not +afraid at first, though you may have been afterwards.” + +“Afterwards?” + +It was her own word, but it had as yet no significance for her. + +“After—whatever it was you gave him up for. You gave him up for +something.” + +“I did not. I never gave him up until I was afraid.” + +“You gave It up. You wouldn’t have done that if there had not been +something. Something that stood between.” + +“If,” said Agatha, “you could only tell me what it was.” + +“I can’t tell you. I don’t know what came to you. I only know that if +I’d had a gift like that, I would not have given it up for anything. I +wouldn’t have let anything come between. I’d have kept myself—” + +“I did keep myself—for it. I couldn’t keep myself entirely for Harding; +there were other things, other people. I couldn’t give them up for +Harding or for anybody.” + +“Are you quite sure you kept yourself what you were, Aggy?” + +“What _was_ I?” + +“My dear—you were absolutely pure. You said _that_ was the condition.” + +“Yes. And, don’t you see, who _is_ absolutely? If you thought I was, you +didn’t know me.” + +As she spoke she heard the sharp click of the latch as the garden gate +fell to; she had her back to the window so that she saw nothing, but she +heard footsteps that she knew, resolute and energetic footsteps that +hurried to their end. She felt the red blood surge into her face, and +saw that Milly’s face was white with another passion, and that Milly’s +eyes were fixed on the figure of the man who came up the garden path. +And without looking at her Milly answered: + +“I don’t know now; but I think I see, my dear——” In Milly’s pause the +door-bell rang violently. Milly rose and let her have it. “What the flaw +in the crystal was.” + + + XIII + + +Rodney entered the room, and it was then that Milly looked at her. +Milly’s face was no longer the face of passion, but of sadness and +reproach, almost of recovered incredulity. It questioned rather than +accused her. It said unmistakably, “You gave him up for _that_?” + +Agatha’s voice recalled her. “Milly, I think you know Mr. Lanyon.” + +Rodney, in acknowledging Milly’s presence, did not look at her. He saw +nothing there but Agatha’s face, which showed him at last the expression +that to his eyes had always been latent in it, the look of the tragic, +hidden soul of terror that he had divined in her. He saw her at last as +he had known he should some day see her. Terror was no longer there, but +it had possessed her; it had passed through her and destroyed that other +look she had from her lifted mouth and hair, the look of a thing borne +on wings. Now, with her wings beaten, with her white face and haggard +eyes, he saw her as a flying thing tracked down and trampled under the +feet of the pursuer. He saw it in one flash as he stood there holding +Milly’s hand. + +Milly’s face had no significance for him. He didn’t see it. When at last +he looked at her his eyes questioned her; they demanded an account from +her of what he saw. + +For Agatha, Milly’s face, prepared as it was for leave-taking, remained +charged with meaning; it refused to divest itself of reproach and of the +incredulity that challenged her. Agatha rose to it. + +“You’re not going, Milly, just because he’s come? You needn’t.” + +Milly _was_ going. + +He rose to it also. + +If Mrs. Powell _would_ go like that—in that distressing way—she must at +least let him walk back with her. Agatha wouldn’t mind. He hadn’t seen +Mrs. Powell for ages. + +He had risen to such a height that Milly was bewildered by him. She let +him walk back with her to the Farm and a little way beyond it. Agatha +said good-bye to Milly at the garden gate and watched them go. Then she +went up into her own room. + +He was gone so long that she thought he was never coming back again. She +didn’t want him to come back just yet, but she knew she was not afraid +to see him. It didn’t occur to her to wonder why, in spite of her +message, he had come, nor why he had come by an earlier train than +usual; she supposed he must have started before her message could have +reached him. All that, his coming or his not coming, mattered so little +now. + +For now the whole marvellous thing was clear to her. She knew the secret +of the gift. She saw luminously, almost transparently, the way it +worked. Milly had shown her. Milly knew; Milly had seen; she had put her +finger on the flaw. + +It was not fear; Milly had been right there too. Until the moment when +Harding Powell had begun to get at her Agatha had never known what fear +felt like. It was the strain of mortality in her love for Rodney; the +hidden thing, unforeseen and unacknowledged, working its work in the +darkness. It had been there all the time, undermining her secret, sacred +places. It had made the first breach through which the fear that was not +_her_ fear had entered. She could tell the very moment when it happened. + +She had blamed poor little Milly; but it was the flaw, the flaw that had +given their deadly point to Milly’s interference and Harding’s +importunity. But for the flaw they could not have penetrated her +profound serenity. Her gift might have been trusted to dispose of them. + +For before that moment the gift had worked indubitably; it had never +missed once. She looked back on its wonders; on the healing of herself; +the first healing of Rodney and Harding Powell; the healing of Bella. It +had worked with a peculiar rhythm of its own, and always in a strict, a +measurable proportion to the purity of her intention. To Harding’s case +she had brought nothing but innocent love and clean compassion; to +Bella’s nothing but a selfless and beneficent desire to help. And +because in Bella’s case at least she had been flawless, of the three, +Bella’s was the only cure that had lasted. It had most marvellously +endured. And because of the flaw in her she had left Harding worse than +she had found him. No wonder that poor Milly had reproached her. + +It mattered nothing that Milly’s reproaches went too far, that in +Milly’s eyes she stood suspected of material sin (anything short of the +tangible had never been enough for Milly); it mattered nothing that +(though Milly mightn’t believe it) she had sinned only in her thought; +for Agatha, who knew, that was enough; more than enough; it counted +more. + +For thought went wider and deeper than any deed; it was of the very +order of the Powers intangible wherewith she had worked. Why, thoughts +unborn and shapeless, that run under the threshold and hide there, +counted more in that world where It, the Unuttered, the Hidden and the +Secret, reigned. + +She knew now that her surrender of last night had been the ultimate +deliverance. She was not afraid any more to meet Rodney; for she had +been made pure from desire; she was safeguarded for ever. + +He had been gone about an hour when she heard him at the gate again and +in the room below. + +She went down to him. He came forward to meet her as she entered; he +closed the door behind them; but her eyes held them apart. + +“Did you not get my wire?” she said. + +“Yes. I got it.” + +“Then why—?” + +“Why did I come? Because I knew what was happening. I wasn’t going to +leave you here for Powell to terrify you out of your life.” + +“Surely—you thought they’d gone?” + +“I knew they hadn’t or you wouldn’t have wired.” + +“But I would. I’d have wired in any case.” + +“To put me off?” + +“To—put—you—off.” + +“Why?” + +He questioned without divination or forewarning. The veil of flesh was +as yet over his eyes, so that he could not see. + +“Because I didn’t mean that you should come, that you should ever come +again, Rodney.” + +He smiled. + +“So you went back on me, did you?” + +“If you call it going back.” + +She longed for him to see. + +“That was only because you were frightened,” he said. He turned from her +and paced the room uneasily, as if he saw. Presently he drew up by the +hearth and stood there for a moment, puzzling it out; and she thought he +had seen. + +He hadn’t. He faced her with a smile again. + +“But it was no good, dear, was it? As if I wouldn’t know what it meant. +You wouldn’t have done it if you hadn’t been ill. You lost your nerve. +No wonder, with those Powells preying on you, body and soul, for weeks.” + +“No, Rodney, no. I didn’t _want_ you to come back. And I think—now—it +would be better if you didn’t stay.” + +It seemed to her now that perhaps he had seen and was fighting what he +saw. + +“I’m not going to stay,” he said, “I am going—in another hour—to take +Powell away somewhere.” + +He took it up where she had made him leave it. “Then, Agatha, I shall +come back again. I shall come back—let me see—on Sunday.” + +She swept that aside. + +“Where are you going to take him?” + +“To a man I know who’ll look after him.” + +“Oh, Rodney, it’ll break Milly’s heart.” + +She had come, in her agitation, to where he stood. She sat on the couch +by the corner of the hearth, and he looked down at her there. + +“No,” he said, “it won’t. It’ll give him a chance to get all right. I’ve +convinced her it’s the only thing to do. He can’t be left here for you +to look after.” + +“Did she tell you?” + +“She wouldn’t have told me a thing if I hadn’t made her. I dragged it +out of her, bit by bit.” + +“Rodney, that was cruel of you.” + +“Was it? I don’t care. I’d have done it if she’d bled.” + +“What did she tell you?” + +“Pretty nearly everything, I imagine. Quite enough for me to see what, +between them, they’ve been doing to you.” + +“Did she tell you _how he got well_?” + +He did not answer all at once. It was as if he drew back before the +question, alien and disturbed, shirking the discerned, yet +unintelligible issue. + +“Did she tell you, Rodney?” Agatha repeated. + +“Well, yes. She _told_ me.” + +He seemed to be making, reluctantly, some admission. He sat down beside +her, and his movement had the air of ending the discussion. But he did +not look at her. + +“What do you make of it?” she said. + +This time he winced visibly. + +“I don’t make anything. If it happened—if it happened like _that_, +Agatha—” + +“It did happen.” + +“Well, I admit it was uncommonly queer.” + +He left it there and reverted to his theme. + +“But it’s no wonder—if you sat down to that for six weeks—it’s no wonder +you got scared. It’s inconceivable to me how that woman could have let +you in for him. She knew what he was.” + +“She didn’t know what I was doing till it was done.” + +“She’d no business to let you go on with it when she did know.” + +“Ah, but she knew—then—it was all right.” + +“All right?” + +“Absolutely right. Rodney—” She called to him as if she would compel him +to see it as it was. “I did no more for him than I did for you and +Bella.” + +He started. “Bella?” he repeated. + +He stared at her. He had seen something. + +“You wondered how she got all right, didn’t you?” + +He said nothing. + +“That was how.” + +And still he did not speak. He sat there, leaning forward, staring now +at his own clasped hands. He looked as if he bowed himself before the +irrefutable. + +“And there was you, too, before that.” + +“I know,” he said then; “I can understand _that_. But—why Bella?” + +“Because Bella was the only way.” + +She had not followed his thoughts, nor he hers. + +“The only way?” he said. + +“To work it. To keep the thing pure. I had to be certain of my motive, +and I knew that if I could give Bella back to you that would prove—to +me, I mean—that it was pure.” + +“But Bella,” he said softly—“Bella. Powell I can understand—and me.” + +It was clear that he could get over all the rest. But he could not get +over Bella. Bella’s case convinced him. Bella’s case could not be +explained away—or set aside. Before Bella’s case he was baffled, utterly +defeated. He faced it with a certain awe. + +“You were right, after all, about Bella,” he said at last. “And so was +I. She didn’t care for me, as I told you. But she does care now.” + +She knew it. + +“That was what I was trying for,” she said. “That was what I meant.” + +“You meant it?” + +“It was the only way. That’s why I didn’t want you to come back.” + +He sat silent, taking that in. + +“Don’t you see now how it works? You have to be pure crystal. That’s why +I didn’t want you to come back.” + +Obscurely, through the veil of flesh, he saw. + +“And I am never to come back?” he said. + +“You will not need to come.” + +“You mean you won’t want me?” + +“No. I shall not want you. Because, when I did want you, it broke down.” + +He smiled. + +“I see. When you want me, it breaks down.” + +He rallied for a moment. He made his one last pitiful stand against the +supernatural thing that was conquering him. + +He had risen to go. + +“And when _I_ want to come, when I long for you, what then?” + +“_Your_ longing will make no difference.” + +She smiled also, as if she foresaw how it would work, and that soon, +very soon, he would cease to long for her. + +His hand was on the door. He smiled back at her. + +“I don’t want to shake your faith in it,” he said. + +“You can’t shake my faith in It.” + +“Still—it breaks down. It breaks down,” he cried. + +“Never. You don’t understand,” she said. “It was the flaw in the +crystal.” + +Soon, very soon he would know it. Already he had shown submission. + +She had no doubt of the working of the Power. Bella remained as a sign +that it had once been, and that, given the flawless crystal, it should +be again. + + + + + THE NATURE OF THE EVIDENCE + + +[Illustration] + +This is the story Marston told me. He didn’t want to tell it. I had to +tear it from him bit by bit. I’ve pieced the bits together in their time +order, and explained things here and there, but the facts are the facts +he gave me. There’s nothing that I didn’t get out of him somehow. + +Out of _him_—you’ll admit my source is unimpeachable. Edward Marston, +the great K.C., and the author of an admirable work on “The Logic of +Evidence.” You should have read the chapters on “What Evidence Is and +What It Is Not.” You may say he lied; but if you knew Marston you’d know +he wouldn’t lie, for the simple reason that he’s incapable of inventing +anything. So that, if you ask me whether I believe this tale, all I can +say is, I believe the things happened, because he said they happened and +because they happened to him. As for what they _were_—well, I don’t +pretend to explain it, neither would he. + +You know he was married twice. He adored his first wife, Rosamund, and +Rosamund adored him. I suppose they were completely happy. She was +fifteen years younger than he, and beautiful. I wish I could make you +see how beautiful. Her eyes and mouth had the same sort of bow, full and +wide-sweeping, and they stared out of her face with the same grave, +contemplative innocence. Her mouth was finished off at each corner with +the loveliest little moulding, rounded like the pistil of a flower. She +wore her hair in a solid gold fringe over her forehead, like a child’s, +and a big coil at the back. When it was let down it hung in a heavy +cable to her waist. Marston used to tease her about it. She had a trick +of tossing back the rope in the night when it was hot under her, and it +would fall smack across his face and hurt him. + +There was a pathos about her that I can’t describe—a curious, pure, +sweet beauty, like a child’s; perfect, and perfectly immature; so +immature that you couldn’t conceive its lasting—like that—any more than +childhood lasts. Marston used to say it made him nervous. He was afraid +of waking up in the morning and finding that it had changed in the +night. And her beauty was so much a part of herself that you couldn’t +think of her without it. Somehow you felt that if it went she must go +too. + +Well, she went first. + +For a year afterwards Marston existed dangerously, always on the edge of +a break-down. If he didn’t go over altogether it was because his work +saved him. He had no consoling theories. He was one of those bigoted +materialists of the nineteenth century type who believe that +consciousness is a purely physiological function, and that when your +body’s dead, _you’re_ dead. He saw no reason to suppose the contrary. +“When you consider,” he used to say, “the nature of the evidence!” + +It’s as well to bear this in mind, so as to realize that he hadn’t any +bias or anticipation. Rosamund survived for him only in his memory. And +in his memory he was still in love with her. At the same time he used to +discuss quite cynically the chances of his marrying again. + +It seems that in their honeymoon they had gone into that. Rosamund said +she hated to think of his being lonely and miserable, supposing she died +before he did. She would like him to marry again. If, she stipulated, he +married the right woman. + +He had put it to her: “And if I marry the wrong one?” And she had said, +That would be different. She couldn’t bear that. + +He remembered all this afterwards; but there was nothing in it to make +him suppose, at the time, that she would take action. + +We talked it over, he and I, one night. + +“I suppose,” he said, “I shall have to marry again. It’s a physical +necessity. But it won’t be anything more. I shan’t marry the sort of +woman who’ll expect anything more. I won’t put another woman in +Rosamund’s place. There’ll be no unfaithfulness about it.” + +And there wasn’t. Soon after that first year he married Pauline Silver. + +She was a daughter of old Justice Parker, who was a friend of Marston’s +people. He hadn’t seen the girl till she came home from India after her +divorce. + +Yes, there’d been a divorce. Silver had behaved very decently. He’d let +her bring it against _him_, to save her. But there were some queer +stories going about. They didn’t get round to Marston, because he was so +mixed up with her people; and if they had he wouldn’t have believed +them. He’d made up his mind he’d marry Pauline the first minute he’d +seen her. She was handsome; the hard, black, white and vermilion kind, +with a little aristocratic nose and a lascivious mouth. + +It was, as he had meant it to be, nothing but physical infatuation on +both sides. No question of Pauline’s taking Rosamund’s place. + +Marston had a big case on at the time. + +They were in such a hurry that they couldn’t wait till it was over; and +as it kept him in London they agreed to put off their honeymoon till the +autumn, and he took her straight to his own house in Curzon Street. + +This, he admitted afterwards, was the part he hated. The Curzon Street +house was associated with Rosamund; especially their bedroom—Rosamund’s +bedroom—and his library. The library was the room Rosamund liked best, +because it was his room. She had her place in the corner by the hearth, +and they were always alone there together in the evenings when his work +was done, and when it wasn’t done she would still sit with him, keeping +quiet in her corner with a book. + +Luckily for Marston, at the first sight of the library Pauline took a +dislike to it. + +I can hear her. “Br-rr-rh! There’s something beastly about this room, +Edward. I can’t think how you can sit in it.” + +And Edward, a little caustic: + +“_You_ needn’t, if you don’t like it.” + +“I certainly shan’t.” + +She stood there—I can see her—on the hearthrug by Rosamund’s chair, +looking uncommonly handsome and lascivious. He was going to take her in +his arms and kiss her vermilion mouth, when, he said, something stopped +him. Stopped him clean, as if it had risen up and stepped between them. +He supposed it was the memory of Rosamund, vivid in the place that had +been hers. + +You see it was just that place, of silent, intimate communion, that +Pauline would never take. And the rich, coarse, contented creature +didn’t even want to take it. He saw that he would be left alone there, +all right, with his memory. + +But the bedroom was another matter. That, Pauline had made it understood +from the beginning, she would have to have. Indeed, there was no other +he could well have offered her. The drawing-room covered the whole of +the first floor. The bedrooms above were cramped, and this one had been +formed by throwing the two front rooms into one. It looked south, and +the bathroom opened out of it at the back. Marston’s small northern room +had a door on the narrow landing at right angles to his wife’s door. He +could hardly expect her to sleep there, still less in any of the tight +boxes on the top floor. He said he wished he had sold the Curzon Street +house. + +But Pauline was enchanted with the wide, three-windowed piece that was +to be hers. It had been exquisitely furnished for poor little Rosamund; +all seventeenth century walnut wood, Bokhara rugs, thick silk curtains, +deep blue with purple linings, and a big, rich bed covered with a purple +counterpane embroidered in blue. + +One thing Marston insisted on: that _he_ should sleep on Rosamund’s side +of the bed, and Pauline in his own old place. He didn’t want to see +Pauline’s body where Rosamund’s had been. Of course he had to lie about +it and pretend he had always slept on the side next the window. + +I can see Pauline going about in that room, looking at everything; +looking at herself, her black, white and vermilion, in the glass that +had held Rosamund’s pure rose and gold; opening the wardrobe where +Rosamund’s dresses used to hang, sniffing up the delicate, flower scent +of Rosamund, not caring, covering it with her own thick trail. And +Marston (who cared abominably)—I can see him getting more miserable and +at the same time more excited as the wedding evening went on. He took +her to the play to fill up the time, or perhaps to get her out of +Rosamund’s rooms; God knows. I can see them sitting in the stalls, bored +and restless, starting up and going out before the thing was half over, +and coming back to that house in Curzon Street before eleven o’clock. + +[Illustration] + +It wasn’t much past eleven when he went to her room. + +I told you her door was at right angles to his, and the landing was +narrow, so that anybody standing by Pauline’s door must have been seen +the minute he opened his. He hadn’t even to cross the landing to get to +her. + +Well, Marston swears that there was nothing there when he opened his own +door; but when he came to Pauline’s he saw Rosamund standing up before +it; and, he said, “_She wouldn’t let me in._” + +Her arms were stretched out, barring the passage. Oh yes, he saw her +face, Rosamund’s face; I gathered that it was utterly sweet, and utterly +inexorable. He couldn’t pass her. + +So he turned into his own room, backing, he says, so that he could keep +looking at her. And when he stood on the threshold of his own door she +wasn’t there. + +No, he wasn’t frightened. He couldn’t tell me what he felt; but he left +his door open all night because he couldn’t bear to shut it on her. And +he made no other attempt to go in to Pauline; he was so convinced that +the phantasm of Rosamund would come again and stop him. + +I don’t know what sort of excuse he made to Pauline the next morning. He +said she was very stiff and sulky all day; and no wonder. He was still +infatuated with her, and I don’t think that the phantasm of Rosamund had +put him off Pauline in the least. In fact, he persuaded himself that the +thing was nothing but a hallucination, due, no doubt, to his excitement. + +Anyhow, he didn’t expect to see it at the door again the next night. + +Yes. It was there. Only, this time, he said, it drew aside to let him +pass. It smiled at him, as if it were saying, “Go in, if you must; +you’ll see what’ll happen.” + +He had no sense that it had followed him into the room; he felt certain +that, this time, it would let him be. + +It was when he approached Pauline’s bed, which had been Rosamund’s bed, +that she appeared again, standing between it and him, and stretching out +her arms to keep him back. + +[Illustration: ... stretching out her arms to keep him back.] + +All that Pauline could see was her bridegroom backing and backing, then +standing there, fixed, and the look on his face. That in itself was +enough to frighten her. + +She said, “What’s the matter with you, Edward?” + +He didn’t move. + +“What are you standing there for? Why don’t you come to bed?” + +Then Marston seems to have lost his head and blurted it out: + +“I can’t. I can’t.” + +“Can’t what?” said Pauline from the bed. + +“Can’t sleep with you. She won’t let me.” + +“She?” + +“Rosamund. My wife. She’s there.” + +“What on earth are you talking about?” + +“She’s there, I tell you. She won’t let me. She’s pushing me back.” + +He says Pauline must have thought he was drunk or something. Remember, +she _saw_ nothing but Edward, his face, and his mysterious attitude. He +must have looked very drunk. + +She sat up in bed, with her hard, black eyes blazing away at him, and +told him to leave the room that minute. Which he did. + +The next day she had it out with him. I gathered that she kept on talking +about the “state” he was in. + +“You came to my room, Edward, in a _disgraceful_ state.” + +I suppose Marston said he was sorry; but he couldn’t help it; he wasn’t +drunk. He stuck to it that Rosamund was there. He had seen her. And +Pauline said, if he wasn’t drunk then he must be mad, and he said +meekly, “Perhaps I _am_ mad.” + +That set her off, and she broke out in a fury. He was no more mad than +she was; but he didn’t care for her; he was making ridiculous excuses; +shamming, to put her off. There was some other woman. + +Marston asked her what on earth she supposed he’d married her for. Then +she burst out crying and said she didn’t know. + +Then he seems to have made it up with Pauline. He managed to make her +believe he wasn’t lying, that he really had seen something, and between +them they arrived at a rational explanation of the appearance. He had +been overworking. Rosamund’s phantasm was nothing but a hallucination of +his exhausted brain. + +This theory carried him on till bed-time. Then, he says, he began to +wonder what would happen, what Rosamund’s phantasm would do next. Each +morning his passion for Pauline had come back again, increased by +frustration, and it worked itself up crescendo, towards night. Supposing +he _had_ seen Rosamund. He might see her again. He had become suddenly +subject to hallucinations. But as long as you _knew_ you were +hallucinated you were all right. + +So what they agreed to do that night was by way of precaution, in case +the thing came again. It might even be sufficient in itself to prevent +his seeing anything. + +Instead of going in to Pauline he was to get into the room before she +did, and she was to come to him there. That, they said, would break the +spell. To make him feel even safer he meant to be in bed before Pauline +came. + +Well, he got into the room all right. + +It was when he tried to get into bed that—he saw her (I mean Rosamund). + +She was lying there, in his place next the window, her own place, lying +in her immature child-like beauty and sleeping, the firm full bow of her +mouth softened by sleep. She was perfect in every detail, the lashes of +her shut eyelids golden on her white cheeks, the solid gold of her +square fringe shining, and the great braided golden rope of her hair +flung back on the pillow. + +He knelt down by the bed and pressed his forehead into the bedclothes, +close to her side. He declared he could feel her breathe. + +He stayed there for the twenty minutes Pauline took to undress and come +to him. He says the minutes stretched out like hours. Pauline found him +still kneeling with his face pressed into the bedclothes. When he got up +he staggered. + +She asked him what he was doing and why he wasn’t in bed. And he said, +“It’s no use. I can’t. I can’t.” + +But somehow he couldn’t tell her that Rosamund was there. Rosamund was +too sacred; he couldn’t talk about her. He only said: + +“You’d better sleep in my room to-night.” + +He was staring down at the place in the bed where he still saw Rosamund. +Pauline couldn’t have seen anything but the bedclothes, the sheet +smoothed above an invisible breast, and the hollow in the pillow. She +said she’d do nothing of the sort. She wasn’t going to be frightened out +of her own room. He could do as he liked. + +He couldn’t leave them there; he couldn’t leave Pauline with Rosamund, +and he couldn’t leave Rosamund with Pauline. So he sat up in a chair +with his back turned to the bed. No. He didn’t make any attempt to go +back. He says he knew she was still lying there, guarding his place, +which was her place. The odd thing is that he wasn’t in the least +disturbed or frightened or surprised. He took the whole thing as a +matter of course. And presently he dozed off into a sleep. + +A scream woke him and the sound of a violent body leaping out of the bed +and thudding on to its feet. He switched on the light and saw the +bedclothes flung back and Pauline standing on the floor with her mouth +open. + +He went to her and held her. She was cold to the touch and shaking with +terror, and her jaws dropped as if she was palsied. + +She said, “Edward, there’s something in the bed.” + +He glanced again at the bed. It was empty. + +“There isn’t,” he said. “Look.” + +He stripped the bed to the foot-rail, so that she could see. + +“There _was_ something.” + +“Do you see it?” + +[Illustration] + +“No, I felt it.” + +She told him. First something had come swinging, smack across her face. +A thick, heavy rope of woman’s hair. It had waked her. Then she had put +out her hands and felt the body. A woman’s body, soft and horrible; her +fingers had sunk in the shallow breasts. Then she had screamed and +jumped. + +And she couldn’t stay in the room. The room, she said, was “beastly.” + +She slept in Marston’s room, in his small single bed, and he sat up with +her all night, on a chair. + +She believed now that he had really seen something, and she remembered +that the library was beastly, too. Haunted by something. She supposed +that was what she had felt. Very well. Two rooms in the house were +haunted; their bedroom and the library. They would just have to avoid +those two rooms. She had made up her mind, you see, that it was nothing +but a case of an ordinary haunted house; the sort of thing you’re always +hearing about and never believe in till it happens to yourself. Marston +didn’t like to point out to her that the house hadn’t been haunted till +she came into it. + +The following night, the fourth night, she was to sleep in the spare +room on the top floor, next to the servants, and Marston in his own +room. + +But Marston didn’t sleep. He kept on wondering whether he would or would +not go up to Pauline’s room. That made him horribly restless, and +instead of undressing and going to bed, he sat up on a chair with a +book. He wasn’t nervous; but he had a queer feeling that something was +going to happen, and that he must be ready for it, and that he’d better +be dressed. + +It must have been soon after midnight when he heard the door-knob +turning very slowly and softly. The door opened behind him and Pauline +came in, moving without a sound, and stood before him. It gave him a +shock; for he had been thinking of Rosamund, and when he heard the +door-knob turn it was the phantasm of Rosamund that he expected to see +coming in. He says, for the first minute, it was this appearance of +Pauline that struck him as the uncanny and unnatural thing. + +She had nothing, absolutely nothing on but a transparent white chiffony +sort of dressing-gown. She was trying to undo it. He could see her hands +shaking as her fingers fumbled with the fastenings. He got up suddenly, +and they just stood there before each other, saying nothing, staring at +each other. He was fascinated by her, by the sheer glamour of her body, +gleaming white through the thin stuff, and by the movement of her +fingers. I think I’ve said she was a beautiful woman, and her beauty at +that moment was overpowering. + +And still he stared at her without saying anything. It sounds as if +their silence lasted quite a long time, but in reality it couldn’t have +been more than some fraction of a second. + +Then she began. “Oh, Edward, for God’s sake say something. Oughtn’t I to +have come?” + +And she went on without waiting for an answer. “Are you thinking of +_her_? Because, if—if you are, I’m not going to let her drive you away +from me.... I’m not going to.... She’ll keep on coming as long as we +don’t— Can’t you see that this is the way to stop it...? When you take +me in your arms.” + +She slipped off the loose sleeves of the chiffon thing and it fell to +her feet. Marston says he heard a queer sound, something between a groan +and a grunt, and was amazed to find that it came from himself. + +He hadn’t touched her yet—mind you, it went quicker than it takes to +tell, it was still an affair of the fraction of a second—they were +holding out their arms to each other, when the door opened again without +a sound, and, without visible passage, the phantasm was there. It came +incredibly fast, and thin at first, like a shaft of light sliding +between them. It didn’t do anything; there was no beating of hands, +only, as it took on its full form, its perfect likeness of flesh and +blood, it made its presence felt like a push, a force, driving them +asunder. + +Pauline hadn’t seen it yet. She thought it was Marston who was beating +her back. She cried out: “Oh, don’t, don’t push me away!” She stooped +below the phantasm’s guard and clung to his knees, writhing and crying. +For a moment it was a struggle between her moving flesh and that still, +supernatural being. + +And in that moment Marston realized that he hated Pauline. She was +fighting Rosamund with her gross flesh and blood, taking a mean +advantage of her embodied state to beat down the heavenly, discarnate +thing. + +He called to her to let go. + +“It’s not I,” he shouted. “Can’t you _see_ her?” + +Then, suddenly, she saw, and let go, and dropped, crouching on the floor +and trying to cover herself. This time she had given no cry. + +The phantasm gave way; it moved slowly towards the door, and as it went +it looked back over its shoulder at Marston, it trailed a hand, +signalling to him to come. + +He went out after it, hardly aware of Pauline’s naked body that still +writhed there, clutching at his feet as they passed, and drew itself +after him, like a worm, like a beast, along the floor. + +[Illustration: ... drew itself after him along the floor.] + +She must have got up at once and followed them out on to the landing; +for, as he went down the stairs behind the phantasm, he could see +Pauline’s face, distorted with lust and terror, peering at them above +the stairhead. She saw them descend the last flight, and cross the hall +at the bottom and go into the library. The door shut behind them. + +Something happened in there. Marston never told me precisely what it +was, and I didn’t ask him. Anyhow, that finished it. + +The next day Pauline ran away to her own people. She couldn’t stay in +Marston’s house because it was haunted by Rosamund, and he wouldn’t +leave it for the same reason. + +And she never came back; for she was not only afraid of Rosamund, she +was afraid of Marston. And if she _had_ come it wouldn’t have been any +good. Marston was convinced that, as often as he attempted to get to +Pauline, something would stop him. Pauline certainly felt that, if +Rosamund were pushed to it, she might show herself in some still more +sinister and terrifying form. She knew when she was beaten. + +And there was more in it than that. I believe he tried to explain it to +her; said he had married her on the assumption that Rosamund was dead, +but that now he knew she was alive; she was, as he put it, “there.” He +tried to make her see that if he had Rosamund he couldn’t have _her_. +Rosamund’s presence in the world annulled their contract. + +You see I’m convinced that something _did_ happen that night in the +library. I say, he never told me precisely what it was, but he once let +something out. We were discussing one of Pauline’s love-affairs (after +the separation she gave him endless grounds for divorce). + +“Poor Pauline,” he said, “she thinks she’s so passionate.” + +“Well,” I said, “wasn’t she?” + +Then he burst out. “No. She doesn’t know what passion is. None of you +know. You haven’t the faintest conception. You’d have to get rid of your +bodies first. _I_ didn’t know until—” + +He stopped himself. I think he was going to say, “until Rosamund came +back and showed me.” For he leaned forward and whispered: “It isn’t a +localized affair at all.... If you only knew—” + +So I don’t think it was just faithfulness to a revived memory. I take it +there had been, behind that shut door, some experience, some terrible +and exquisite contact. More penetrating than sight or touch. More—more +extensive: passion at all points of being. + +Perhaps the supreme moment of it, the ecstasy, only came when her +phantasm had disappeared. + +He couldn’t go back to Pauline after _that_. + + + + + IF THE DEAD KNEW + + + I + + +The voluntary swelled, it rose, it rushed to its climax. The organist +tossed back his head with a noble gesture, exalted; he rocked on his +bench; his feet shuffled faster and faster, pedalling passionately. + +The young girl who stood beside him drew in a deep, rushing breath; her +heart swelled; her whole body listened, with hurried senses desiring the +climax, the climax, the crash of sound. Her nerves shook as the organist +rocked towards her; when he tossed back his head her chin lifted; she +loved his playing hands, his rocking body, his superb, excited gesture. + +Three times a week Wilfrid Hollyer went down to Lower Wyck, to give +Effie Carroll a music lesson; three times a week Effie Carroll came up +to Wyck on the Hill to listen to Hollyer’s organ practice. + +The climax had come. The voluntary fell from its height and died in a +long cadence, thinned out, a trickling, trembling diminuendo. It was all +over. + +The young girl released her breath in a long, trembling sigh. + +[Illustration: ... her whole body listened ...] + +The organist rose and put out the organ lights. He took Effie by the arm +and led her down the short aisles of the little country church and out +on to the flagged path of the churchyard between the tombstones. + +“Wilfrid,” she said, “you’re too good for Wyck. You ought to be playing +in Gloucester Cathedral.” + +“I’m not good enough. Perhaps—if I’d been trained—” + +“Why weren’t you?” + +“My mother couldn’t afford it. Besides, I couldn’t leave her. She hasn’t +anybody but me.” + +“I know. You’re awfully fond of her, aren’t you?” + +“Yes,” he said shortly. + +They had passed down the turn of the street into the Market Square. +There was a plot of grass laid down in the north-east corner. Two tall +elms stood up on the grass, and behind the elms a small, ivy-covered +house with mullioned windows, looking south. + +“That’s our house,” Hollyer said. “Won’t you come in and see her?” + +They found her sitting by herself in the little cramped, green +drawing-room. She was the most beautiful old lady; small, upright and +perfect; slender, like a girl, in her grey silk blouse. She had a +miniature oval face, pretty and white: a sharp chin, and a wide forehead +under a pile of pure white hair. And sorrowful blue eyes, white-lidded, +in two rings of mauve and bistre. + +She couldn’t be so very old, Effie thought. Not more than sixty. + +Mrs. Hollyer rose, holding out a fragile hand. + +Presently she said: “I wanted to see you; after all you’ve done for +him.” + +“I? I haven’t done anything.” + +“You’ve listened to his playing. He can’t get anybody to do that for him +in Wyck.” + +“They hear enough of me on Sundays.” + +“Then they haven’t heard him. He plays much better on week-days, when he +plays to me,” said Effie. + +“So I can imagine,” Mrs. Hollyer said. + +“She thinks I’m better than I am,” said Hollyer. + +“Go on thinking it. That’s the way to make him better.” She was smiling +at Effie as if she liked her. + +All through tea-time and after they talked about Wilfrid’s playing and +Wilfrid and Wyck, and the people of Wyck, and how they knew nothing and +cared nothing about Wilfrid’s playing. + +Twilight came, twilight of October. He was going to walk back with Effie +down the hill to Lower Wyck. + +As the house door closed behind them he said: “Now you know why I’m +nothing but an organist at Wyck.” + +“Wilfrid, she’s the most beautiful thing I’ve seen yet—your mother. No +wonder you can’t leave her.” + +“It isn’t that altogether. I mean we’re tied here because we can’t +afford to leave; and because I’ve got this organ job. I should never +have had it anywhere else.” He paused. “And you know, I couldn’t live on +it—without mother. She’s got the house.” + +Effie said nothing. + +“So here I am. Thirty-five and still dependent on my mother.” + +“Oh, Wilfrid, what will you do when—when—” + +“When my mother dies? That’s the awful thing. I shall have enough then. +There’ll be the house and her income. I hate to think of it. I don’t +think of it—” + +“You see,” he went on, “when I was a kid I was so seedy they didn’t +think I’d live. So I was brought up to do nothing. Nothing but my +playing. They gave me this job just to keep me quiet. And now I’m strong +enough, but there’s nothing else I can do.” + +He hung his head, frowning gloomily. + +“You know why I’m telling you all this?” + +“No. But I’m glad you’ve told me.” + +“It’s because—because—if I had a decent income, Effie, I’d ask you to +marry me. As it is, I can only hope that you won’t ever care for me as I +care for you.” + +[Illustration] + +“But I _do_ care for you. You know I do.” + +“Would you have married me, Effie? Do you care as much as that?” + +“You know I would. I will the minute you ask me.” + +“I shall never ask you.” + +“Why not? I can wait.” + +“My dear, for what?” He paused again. “I can’t marry in my mother’s +lifetime.” + +“Oh, Wilfrid—I didn’t mean that. Your dear, beautiful mother. You know I +didn’t.” + +“Of course, darling, I know. But there it is.” + +He left her at the gate of the cottage where she lived with her father. + +As he went back up the hill he meditated on his position. He was right +to make it clear to her, now that she had begun to care for him. He +would have told her long ago if he had known that she cared. Yesterday +he didn’t know it. But to-day there had been something, in her manner, +in her voice, in the way she looked at him in the church after his +playing, that had told him. + +Poor little Effie. She would have nothing either, unless her father—and +Effie’s father was a robust man, not quite fifty. + +Well—he mustn’t think of it. And he mustn’t let his mother think. He +wondered whether he was too late, whether she had seen anything. He +tried to slink past the drawing-room and up the stairs. But his mother +had heard him come in. She called to him. He went to her, shame-faced, +as if he had committed a sin. + +Her large, gentle eyes looked at him, wondering. He could see them +wondering. + +“Wilfrid,” she said suddenly, “do you care for that little girl?” + +“What’s the good of my caring? I can’t marry her. I’ve just told her +so.” + +“It’s too late. She’s in love with you. You should have told her +before.” + +“How could I if she didn’t care? You can’t be fatuous.” + +“No—poor boy. Poor Effie.” + +“Mother—why couldn’t I have been brought up to a profession?” + +“You know why—you weren’t strong enough. It was as much as I could do to +keep you alive.” + +“I’m strong enough now.” + +“Only because I took such care of you. Only because you hadn’t to go out +and earn your own living. You’d have been dead before you were twenty if +I hadn’t kept you with me.” + +“It would have been better if you’d let me die.” + +“Don’t say that, Wilfrid. What should I have done without you? What +should I do without you now?” + +“You mean if I married?” + +“No, my dear. I’d be glad if you could marry. I don’t want to keep you +tied to me for ever. If you can get better work and better pay by going +anywhere else, I shan’t mind your leaving me.” + +“I shouldn’t get anything. I’m not good enough. I shall never be worth +more than fifty pounds a year anywhere. We can’t live on that.” + +“If you could live on half my income, I’d give it you, but you +couldn’t.” + +“No. We’ll just have to wait.” + +“I hope for your sake, my dear, it won’t be too long.” + +“What do you mean, mother?” + +“What did _you_ mean?” + +“Why, I meant we’d have to wait till I heard of something.” + +“You _might_ have meant something else.” She smiled. + +“Oh, mother—_don’t_.” + +“Why not?” she said cheerfully. + +“You know—you know I couldn’t bear it.” + +“You’ll have to bear it some day—I’m an old woman.” + +“Well, I shall be an old man—by then.” + +He tossed it back to her, laughing, as he left her to wash his hands and +brush his hair. He laughed, to shake off her pathos and to hide his own. + +When he talked about waiting, he hadn’t meant what she thought he meant. +He was simply trying to dismiss a too serious situation with a +reassuring levity. Waiting to hear of something? Was it likely he would +ever hear of anything? Could he have made a more frivolous suggestion? + +It was she who had faced it. She had made him see how hopeless their +case was, his and Effie’s. He saw it now, as he saw his own face in the +glass, between two hair-brushes, a little drawn, even now, a little +sallow and haggard. Not a young face. + +He would be an old man—an old man before he could dream of marrying. His +mother, after all, was only sixty, and she came of a long-lived family. +Her apparent fragility was an illusion; she had never had a day’s +illness as long as he could remember. Nerves like whipcord, young +arteries, and every organ sound. She would live ten—fifteen—twenty years +longer, live to be eighty. He was thirty-five now, and Effie was +twenty-five. Before they could marry, they would be fifty-five and +forty-five; old, old; too old to feel, to care passionately. He had no +right to ask Effie to wait twenty years for him. + +He must give up thinking about her. + +His mother was still in her chair by the drawing-room fire, waiting for +him. She turned as he came to her, and held up her face to be kissed, +like a child, he thought, or like a young wife waiting for her husband. +She put her hands on his hair and stroked it. And he remembered the time +when he used to say to her: “I shall never marry. You’re all the wife I +want, Mother.” + +And now it was as if he had been calculating on her death. + +But he hadn’t. He hadn’t. You couldn’t calculate on anything so far-off, +so unlikely. He had done the only possible, the only decent thing. He +had given Effie up. + + + II + + +The doctor had gone. Hollyer went back into his mother’s room. She lay +there, dozing, in the big white bed, propped high on the pillows. +Through her mouth, piteously open, he could hear her short quick breath, +struggling and gasping. + +[Illustration] + +The illness had lasted nine days. Even now Hollyer hadn’t got used to +it. He still looked at the figure in the bed with the same stare of +shocked incredulity. It was still incredible that his mother’s influenza +should have turned to pleurisy, that she should lie like that, utterly +abandoned, the neat pile of her hair undone, and her face, with its open +mouth, loose and infirm between the two white loops that hung askew, +rumpled by the pillow. He knew in a vague way how it had happened. First +his own attack of influenza, then his mother’s. His had been pretty bad, +but hers had been slight, so slight that it had not been recognized, and +through it she had still nursed him. Then she had gone out too soon, in +the raw January weather. And now the doctor came morning and evening; +she had a trained nurse for the night, and Hollyer looked after her all +day. + +He had got used to the nurse. Her expensive presence proved to him that +he had nothing to reproach himself with; he had done, as they said, +everything that could be done. + +He knew that the nurse and the doctor disagreed about the case. Nurse +Eden declared that his mother would get over it. Dr. Ransome was +convinced she wouldn’t; she hadn’t strength in her for another rally. +Hollyer himself agreed with Nurse Eden. He couldn’t believe that his +mother would die. The thought of her death was unbearable, therefore he +denied it, he put it from him. When he left her for the night he would +come creeping back at midnight and dawn, to make sure that she was still +there. + +The little room was half filled by the big white bed. It seemed to him +there was nothing in it but the white bed and his mother and Nurse Eden +in her white uniform. She had looked in on her way downstairs to tea. +Everything was cold and white. On the window-panes the frost made a +white pattern of moss and feathers. From his seat between the bed and +the fire he could see Nurse Eden and her small, pure face brooding above +the pillows as she shifted them with tender, competent hands. + +“She’ll be better in the morning,” she said. “She always gets better in +the night.” + +She did. Always she gained ground in the night under Nurse Eden and +always she lost it in the daytime, getting worse and worse towards +evening. + +The afternoon wore on. At four o’clock old Martha, the servant, tapped +at the door. Miss Carroll, she said, was downstairs and wanted to see +him. Martha took his place at the bedside. + +Every day Effie came to inquire, and every day she went away sad, as if +it had been her own mother who was dying. This time she stayed, for the +old doctor had stopped her in the Square and told her to get Hollyer out +of his mother’s room, if possible. “Talk to him. Take him off it. Make +him buck up.” + +She sat in his mother’s chair behind the round tea-table and poured out +his tea for him, and talked to him about his music and a book she had +been reading. When he looked at her, at her sweet face, soft and clear +with youth, at her hands moving with pretty gestures, his heart +trembled. That was how it would be if Effie was his wife. They would sit +there every day and she would pour out his tea for him. He would hear +her feet running up and down the stairs. + +When she got up to go she said, “Whatever you do, Wilfrid, don’t keep on +thinking about it.” + +“I can’t help thinking.” + +She put her hand on his sleeve and stroked it. At her touch he broke +down. + +“Oh, Effie—I cannot bear it. If she dies, I shall never forgive myself.” + +“Nonsense. Don’t talk about her dying. Don’t think about it.” + +She turned to him on the doorstep. “Just think how strong she is. I +can’t see her ill, somehow. I see her there, all the time, sitting +upright in her chair, looking beautiful.” + +That was how _he_ had once seen her, sitting there between the fire and +the round tea-table, for years and years, as long as his own life +lasted. + +But now he saw Effie. Upstairs, in his mother’s room, as he watched, he +saw Effie. Effie—the sweet face, and the sweet hands moving. He heard +Effie’s voice in the rooms, Effie’s feet on the stairs. That was how it +would be if Effie was his wife. + +That was how it would be if his mother died. + +He would have an income of his own, and a house of his own; he would be +his own master in his house. + +If his mother died, Effie and he would sleep together. Perhaps in that +bed, on those pillows. + +He shut his eyes and covered his face with his hands, pressing in on his +eyelids as if that way he could keep out the sight of Effie. + + + III + + +That evening the doctor came again. He left a little before nine +o’clock, the hour when Nurse Eden would begin her night watch. He +refused to hold out any hope. She was sinking fast. + +As Hollyer turned from the front-door he met Nurse Eden coming +downstairs. She signed to him to follow her into the drawing-room, +moving before him without a sound. She shut the door. + +[Illustration] + +He was afraid of Nurse Eden; there was something—he didn’t know what it +was, but—there was something unbearable in her small, pure face; in the +thrust of her chin tilted by the stiff cap-strings; in her brave, +slender mouth, straightening itself against the droop of its compassion; +and in the stillness of her dense, grey eyes. Her eyes made him feel +uneasy, somehow, and unsafe. He was going to sit up with her to-night; +but he would rather have shared his night-watch with old Martha. + +“Well?” she said. + +“He says this is the end.” + +“It may be,” said Nurse Eden. “But it needn’t.” + +“You’ve seen her.” + +“Yes.” + +“_Well—?_” + +“She hasn’t gone yet, Mr. Hollyer— She’s on the edge. She’s in that +state when a breath would tip her one way or the other.” + +“A breath?” + +“Yes, Mr. Hollyer. Or a thought.” + +“A thought?” + +“A thought. If I had Mrs. Hollyer to myself, I believe I could bring her +round even now.” + +“Oh, Nurse—” + +“I _have_ brought her round. Night after night I’ve brought her.” + +“What do you do?” + +“I don’t know what I do. But it works. Haven’t you noticed she gets +better in the night when I’ve had her; and that she slips back in the +day?” + +“Yes, I have.” + +“You see, Mr. Hollyer, Dr. Ransome’s made up his mind. And when the +doctor makes up his mind that the patient’s going to die, ten to one the +patient does die. It lowers their resistance. It isn’t every one that +would feel it; but your mother would.” + +“If,” she went on, “I had her day _and_ night, I might save her.” + +“You really think that?” + +“I think there’s a chance.” + +He didn’t know whether he believed her or not. Dr. Ransome shrugged his +shoulders and said Nurse Eden could try it if she liked. She had a +wonderful way with her; but he wouldn’t advise Hollyer to count on it. +Nothing but a miracle, he said, could save his mother. + +Hollyer didn’t count on Nurse Eden’s way. But he thought—something +stronger than himself compelled him to think—that his mother would not +die. + +And each hour showed her slowly coming back. Under his eyes the miracle +was being accomplished. At midnight her breathing and temperature and +pulse were normal; and by noon of the next day even Ransome was +convinced. He wouldn’t swear to the miracle, but whatever Nurse Eden had +or had not done, he believed Mrs. Hollyer would recover. + +Hollyer not only believed it, but he was certain, as Nurse Eden was +certain. She came to him, radiant with certainty, and told him that his +mind could be at rest now. + +But his mind was not at rest. It had only rested while he doubted, as if +doubt absolved him from knowledge of some secret that he could not face. +With the first moment of certainty he was aware of it. It was given to +him in physical sensations, a weight and pain about his heart that did +not lie. In a flash he saw himself back in his old life of dependence +and frustration. There would be no Effie sitting with him in the house, +no Effie running up and down the stairs. He would not sleep with Effie +in the big, white bed. They would grow old, wanting each other. + +He tried to jerk his mouth into a smile, but it had stiffened. It +opened, gasping, as his muffled heart-beats choked him. + +He went upstairs to his mother’s room. She was sitting up in bed, +clear-eyed, almost alert, and she turned her face to him as he entered. + +“I don’t know how it is,” she said. “I thought I was going, but there’s +something that won’t let me go. It keeps on pulling me back and back.” +(Nurse Eden looked at him.) “Is it you, Wilfrid?” + +He knelt down and buried his face in the bedclothes by her side. His +sobs shook the mattress. The nurse took him by the arm; he got up and +stared at her as if dazed and drunk with grief. She led him from the +room. + +“You’re upsetting her,” she said. “Don’t come back till you’ve pulled +yourself together.” + +When he went back his mother was sleeping calmly. Hollyer and the nurse +withdrew from the bedside to the window and talked there in low voices. + +“Did you hear what she said. Nurse?” + +“Yes. We can get her through, between us, if we make up our minds she’s +to live. Think of what she was yesterday.” + +“But do you think we ought to? I don’t want her brought back to suffer.” + +“She isn’t going to suffer. There’s no reason why she shouldn’t be as +well as ever. If you want her to live.” + +“Want her? Of course I want her to live.” + +“I know you do. But you must get rid of your fear.” + +“My fear?” + +“Your fear of her dying.” + +“Do you think my fear could—could make her?” + +“I know it could. Make up your mind with me that she’s going to get +well.” + +“Supposing she wants to go? Supposing she’s fighting against us all the +time?” + +“She isn’t fighting. She hasn’t any fight in her— Now, while she’s +sleeping, is the time. You’ve only got to say to yourself ‘She shall +live. She’s going to live.’ There—you sit in that chair, make yourself +quite comfortable, shut your eyes, and keep on saying it. Don’t think of +anything else.” + +He sat down. He said it over and over again: “She shall live. She’s +going to live. She shall live—” He tried to think of nothing else; but +all the time he was aware of the dragging of his heart. He shut his +eyes, but he couldn’t get rid of the vision of Effie. Effie sitting in +his mother’s place. Effie sleeping beside him in the big bed. + +“She _shall_ live. She’s going to live.” The words meant nothing. Only +the dragging weight at his heart had meaning. And it didn’t lie. + +He thought: If that’s how I feel about it, I’d better keep my mind off +her. + +Then he was aware that he was tired, dead beat, too tired to think. And +presently, sitting upright in the chair, he fell asleep. + +He was waked by Nurse Eden’s voice calling to him from the bed: “Mr. +Hollyer! She’s going!” + +His mother lay in the nurse’s arms, her head had fallen forward on her +chest, her mouth was open; and through it there came a groaning, grating +cry. Once, twice, three times; and she was gone. + +After the funeral Hollyer went up into his mother’s room. Nurse Eden was +there, removing the signs of death. She had covered the bed with a white +counterpane. She had opened the door and window wide, and a flood of +clean cold air streamed through the room. + +“Nurse,” he said, “come here a minute.” + +She followed him into his bed-sitting room on the other side of the +landing. Hollyer shut the door. + +“You remember that night when my mother got better?” + +“Indeed I do.” + +“Do you still think you brought her back?” + +“I do think it.” + +“Do you really believe that a thought—_a thought_ could do that?” + +“Yes.” + +“But it doesn’t always work. It breaks down.” + +“Sometimes. That night she died I felt it wasn’t working. I was up +against a wall. I couldn’t get through. But remember, before that, she +was going when I brought her back.” + +“Could a thought—another thought—kill?” + +“It depends. Perhaps, if it was a very strong thought. A wish.” + +Her queer eyes looked through him and beyond him, not seeing him, seeing +some reality that was not he. He had gone to her for her truth and she +had given it him. A wish, even a hidden wish, could kill. In the dark, +secret places of the mind your thoughts ran loose beyond your knowing; +they burrowed under the walls that shut off one self from another; they +got through. It was as if his secret self had broken loose, and got +through to his mother, and had killed her secretly, in the dark. His +wish was a part of himself, but stronger than himself. The force behind +it was indestructible, for it was a form of his desire for Effie; so +that while he lived he could not kill it. + +It had been there all the time, cunningly disguised. It was there in his +fear of Nurse Eden; it was there in that obstinate belief of his that +his mother would live. His beliefs were always the expression of his +fears. He had been afraid that his mother would not die. That was his +fear. He saw it all clearly in the moment while Nurse Eden’s voice went +on. + +“But it wasn’t _that_, Mr. Hollyer,” she was saying. “We were all +wishing her to live— No. I think she was too far gone. She had got +beyond us.” + +It was too late for Nurse Eden to go back on it. He knew. He was +certain. + + + IV + + +He knew, and if he were to keep on thinking about it—but he was afraid +to think. You could go mad, thinking. The moment of his certainty +remained in his memory; he knew where to find it if he chose to look +that way. But he refused to look. Such things were better forgotten. + +He told himself there was nothing in it. Nothing but Nurse Eden’s +hysteria and vanity. She wanted you to believe she was wonderful, that +she could do things. She didn’t really believe it herself. In her own +last moment of honesty she had confessed as much. He was a fool to have +been taken in by her. + +Meanwhile, three months after his mother’s death, he had married Effie +Carroll. Her father, who had held out against the engagement, +surrendered suddenly on the day of the wedding, and made his daughter an +allowance of fifty pounds a year. He said he didn’t want to profit by +her folly, and the fifty pounds were no more than the cost of her keep. + +It was horrible to think they should owe their happiness to his mother’s +death; but as things had turned out they didn’t owe it; they could have +married even if she had lived. And as he had now no motive for wishing +her dead, he almost forgot that he had ever wished it. + +Not that Hollyer reproached himself; his tendency, when he thought it +all over, was to reproach his mother. He had found out something about +himself. Before he married he had gone to Dr. Ransome to be overhauled, +and Ransome had told him there was nothing much the matter with him; +never was. And if the old pessimist said there wasn’t much the matter, +you might depend upon it there wasn’t anything at all. Except, Ransome +said, molly-coddling; and that wasn’t Hollyer’s fault. + +“Whose was it, then?” Hollyer had asked. “My mother’s?” + +“No. Your dear mother, Hollyer, had no faults. But she made mistakes, as +we all do.” + +“You mean, if I’d been allowed to live like other people I’d have been +all right?” + +“Well—you weren’t a very robust infant; and later on there _was_ a +slight risk. Personally, I’d have taken it. You must take some risks. +But your mother was afraid. You were all she had. And I daresay she +wasn’t sorry to keep you with her.” + +“I see.” + +He saw it clearly. He had been sacrificed to his mother’s selfishness. +Nothing but that had doomed him to his humiliating dependence, his +poverty, his intolerable celibacy. He found himself brooding over it, +going back and back to it, with a certain gratification, as if it +justified him. His mind was appeased by this righteous resentment. When +the remembrance of his mother’s beauty and sweetness rushed at him and +accused him he turned from it to his brooding. + +He had begun to talk, to say things about his mother. Put into spoken +words his grievance seemed more real; it acquired validity. + +He had felt so safe. His mother couldn’t hear him. She would never know +what he thought about her; he would have died rather than let her know. +And he had only talked to Effie. Talking to his wife was no worse than +thinking to himself. After all he had gone through, he felt he was +entitled to that relief. + +It was June, a hot, close evening before lamplight; they were sitting +together in the drawing-room, Effie in his mother’s chair and he at his +piano in the recess on the other side of the fireplace. And there was +something that Effie said when he had stopped playing and had turned to +her, smiling. + +“Wilfrid—are you happy?” + +“Of course I’m happy.” + +“No, but—really?” + +“Really. Absolutely. You make me happy.” + +“Do I? I’m so glad. You see, when I married you I was afraid I couldn’t. +It was so hard to come after your mother.” + +He winced. + +“How do you mean? You don’t come ‘after’ her.” + +“I mean, after all she was to you. After all she did. Your life with her +was so perfect.” + +“If it’s any consolation to you, Effie, it wasn’t.” + +“Wasn’t?” + +“No. Anything but.” + +“Oh, Wilfrid!” + +He seemed to her to be uttering blasphemy. + +“It’s better you should know it. My dear mother didn’t understand me in +the least. My whole up-bringing was a ghastly blunder. If I’d been let +live a decent life, like any other boy, like any other man, I might have +been good for something. But she wouldn’t let me. She pretended there +was something the matter with me when there wasn’t, so that she could +keep me dependent on her.” + +“Wilfrid _dear_, it may have been a blunder and it may have been +ghastly—” + +“It was.” + +“But it was only her love for you.” + +“A very selfish sort of love, Effie.” + +“Oh _don’t_,” she cried. “Don’t. She’s _dead_, Wilfrid.” + +“I’m not likely to forget it.” + +“You talk as if you’d forgotten— If the dead knew—” + +If the dead knew— + +“If they knew,” she said, “how we spoke about them, how we thought—” + +If the dead knew— + +If his mother had heard him; if she knew what he had been thinking; if +she knew that he had wished her dead and that his wish had killed her— + +If the dead knew— + +“Happily for us and them, they don’t know,” he said. + +And he began playing again. He was aware that Effie had risen and was +now seated at the writing-table. As he played he had his back to the +writing-table and the door. + +The book on the piano ledge before him was Mendelssohn’s _Lieder ohne +Worte_ open as Effie had left it at Number Nine. He remembered that was +the one his mother had loved so much. His fingers fell of their own +accord into the prelude, into the melody, pressing out its thick, sweet, +deliberate sadness. It wounded him, each note a separate stab, yet he +went on, half-voluptuously enjoying the self-inflicted pain, trying to +work it up and up into a supreme poignancy of sorrow, of regret. + +As he stopped on the closing chord he heard somewhere behind him a +thick, sobbing sigh. + +“Effie—” + +He looked round. But Effie was not there. He could hear her footsteps in +the room overhead. She had gone, then, before he had stopped playing, +shutting the door without a sound. It must have been his imagination. + +He played a few bars, then paused, listening. The sighing had begun +again; it was close behind him. + +He swung round sharply. There was nobody there. But the door, which had +been shut a minute ago, stood wide open. A cold wind blew in, cutting +through the hot, stagnant air. He got up and shut the door. The cold +wind wrapped him in a belt, a swirl; he stood still in it for a moment, +stiff with fear. When he crossed the room to the piano it was as if he +moved breast high in deep, cold water. + +Somewhere in the secret place of his mind a word struggled to form +itself, to be born. + +“Mother.” + +It came to him with a sense of appalling, supernatural horror. Horror +that was there with him in the room like a presence. + +“Mother.” + +The word had lost its meaning. It stood for nothing but that horror. + +He tried to play again, but his fingers, slippery with sweat, dropped +from the keyboard. + +Something compelled him to turn round and look towards his mother’s +chair. + +Then he saw her. + +She stood between him and the chair, straight and thin, dressed in the +clothes she had died in, the yellowish flannel nightgown and bed jacket. + +[Illustration: The apparition maintained itself with difficulty.] + +The apparition maintained itself with difficulty. Already its hair had +grown indistinct, a cap of white mist. Its face was an insubstantial +framework for its mouth and eyes, and for the tears that fell in two +shining tracks between. It was less a form than a visible emotion, an +anguish. + +Hollyer stood up and stared at it. Through the glasses of its tears it +gazed back at him with an intense, a terrible reproach and sorrow. + +Then, slowly and stiffly, it began to recede from him, drawn back and +back, without any movement of its feet, in an unearthly stillness, +keeping up, to the last minute, its look of indestructible reproach. + +And now it was a formless mass that drifted to the window and hung there +a second, and passed, shrinking like a breath on the pane. + +Hollyer, rigid, pouring out sweat, still stared at the place where it +had stood. His heart-beats came together in a running tremor: it was as +if all the blood in his body was gathered into his distended heart, +dragging it down to meet his heaving belly. + +Then he turned and went headlong towards the door, stumbling and +lurching. He threw out his hands to clutch at a support and found +himself in Effie’s arms. + +“Wilfrid—darling—what is it?” + +“Nothing. I’m giddy. I—I think I’m going to be sick.” + +He broke from her and dragged himself upstairs and shut himself into his +study. That night his old single bed was brought back and made up there. +He was afraid to sleep in the room that had been his mother’s. + + + V + + +He had run through all the physical sensations of his terror. What he +felt now was the sharp, abominable torture of the mind. + +If the dead knew— + +The dead _did_ know. She had come back to tell him that she knew. She +knew that he thought of her with unkindness. She had been there when he +talked about her to Effie. She knew the thought he had hidden even from +himself. She knew that she had died because, secretly, he had wished her +dead. + +That was the meaning of her look and of her tears. + +No fleshly eyes could have expressed such an intensity of suffering, of +unfathomable grief. He thought: the pain of a discarnate spirit might be +infinitely sharper than any earthly pain. It might be inexhaustible. Who +was to say that it was not? + +Yet could it—could even an immortal suffering—be sharper than the +anguish he felt now? If only he had known what he was doing to her— If +he had known. If he had known— + +But, he thought, we know nothing, and we care less. We say we believe in +immortality, but we do not believe in it. We treat the dead as if they +_were_ dead, as if they were not there. If he had really believed that +she was there, he would have died rather than say the things he had said +to Effie. Nobody, he told himself, could have accused him of unkindness +to his mother while she lived. He had really loved her up to the moment, +the moment of supreme temptation, when he wanted Effie. He had not +willed her to die. He had been barely conscious of his wish. How, then, +could he be held accountable? How could he have destroyed the thing +whose essence was the hidden, unknown darkness? Yet, if men are +accountable at all, he was accountable. There had been a moment when he +was conscious of it. He could have destroyed it then. He should have +faced it; he should have dragged it out into the light and fought it. + +Instead, he had let it sink back into its darkness, to work there +unseen. + +And if he had really loved his mother, he would have wished, not willed +her to live. He would have wanted her as he wanted her now. + +For, now that it was too late, he did want her. His whole mind had +changed. He no longer thought of her with resentment. He thought, with a +passionate adoration and regret, of her beauty, her goodness, and her +love for him. What if she _had_ kept him with her? It had been, as Effie +had said, because she loved him. How did he know that if she had let him +go he would have been good for anything? What on earth could he have +been but the third-rate organist he was? + +He remembered the happiness he had had with her before he had loved +Effie; her looks, her words, the thousand things she used to do to +please him. The Mendelssohn she had given him. A certain sweet cake she +made for him on his birthdays. And the touch of her hands, her kisses. + +He thought of these things with an agony of longing. If only he could +have her back; if only she would come to him again, that he might show +her— + +He asked himself: How much did Effie know? She must wonder why he had +taken that sudden dislike to the drawing-room; why he insisted on +sleeping in his study. She had never said anything. + +A week had passed—they were sitting in the dining-room after supper, +when she spoke. + +“Wilfrid, why do you always want to sit here?” + +“Because I hate the other room.” + +“You didn’t use to. It’s only since that day you were ill, the last time +you were playing. Why do you hate it?” + +“Well, if you want to know—you remember the beastly things I said about +mother?” + +[Illustration] + +“You didn’t mean them.” + +“I did mean them— But it wasn’t that. It was something you said.” + +“I?” + +“Yes. You said ‘If the dead knew—’” + +“Well—?” + +“Well—they do know—I’m certain my mother knew. Certain, as I’m certain +I’m sitting here, that she heard.” + +“Oh, Wilfrid, what makes you think that?” + +“I can’t tell you what makes me think it— But—she was there.” + +“You only think it because you’re feeling sorry. You must get over it. +Go back into the room and play.” + +He shook his head and still sat there thinking. Effie did not speak +again; she saw that she must let him think. + +Presently he got up and went into the drawing-room, shutting the doors +behind him. + +The Mendelssohn was still on the piano ledge, open at Number Nine. He +began to play it. But at the first bars of the melody he stopped, +overwhelmed by an agony of regret. He slid down on his knees, with his +arms on the edge of the piano and his head bowed on his arms. + +His soul cried out in him with no sound. + +“Mother—Mother—if only I had you back. If only you would come to me. +Come—Come—” + +And suddenly he felt her come. From far-off, from her place among the +blessed, she came rushing, as if on wings. He heard nothing; he saw +nothing; but with every nerve he felt the vibration of her approach, of +her presence. She was close to him now, closer than hearing or sight or +touch could bring her; her self to his self; her inmost essence was +there. + +The phantasm of a week ago was a faint, insignificant thing beside this +supreme manifestation. No likeness of flesh and blood could give him +such an assurance of reality, of contact. + +For, more certain than any word of flesh and blood, her meaning flashed +through him and thrilled. + +She knew. She knew she had him again; she knew she would never lose him. +He was her son. As she had once given him flesh of her flesh, so now, +self to innermost self, she gave him her blessedness, her peace. + + + + + THE VICTIM + + +Steven Acroyd, Mr. Greathead’s chauffeur, was sulking in the garage. + +Everybody was afraid of him. Everybody hated him except Mr. Greathead, +his master, and Dorsy, his sweetheart. + +And even Dorsy now, after yesterday! + +Night had come. On one side the yard gates stood open to the black +tunnel of the drive. On the other the high moor rose above the wall, +immense, darker than the darkness. Steven’s lantern in the open doorway +of the garage and Dorsy’s lamp in the kitchen window threw a blond +twilight into the yard between. From where he sat, slantways on the step +of the car, he could see, through the lighted window, the table with the +lamp and Dorsy’s sewing huddled up in a white heap as she left it just +now, when she had jumped up and gone away. Because she was afraid of +him. + +She had gone straight to Mr. Greathead in his study, and Steven, +sulking, had flung himself out into the yard. + +He stared into the window, thinking, thinking. Everybody hated him. He +could tell by the damned spiteful way they looked at him in the bar of +the “King’s Arms”; kind of sideways and slink-eyed, turning their dirty +tails and shuffling out of his way. + +He had said to Dorsy he’d like to know what he’d done. He’d just dropped +in for his glass as usual; he’d looked round and said “Good-evening,” +civil, and the dirty tykes took no more notice of him than if he’d been +a toad. Mrs. Oldishaw, Dorsy’s aunt, _she_ hated him, boiled-ham-face, +swelling with spite, shoving his glass at the end of her arm, without +speaking, as if he’d been a bloody cockroach. + +[Illustration] + +All because of the thrashing he’d given young Ned Oldishaw. If she +didn’t want the cub’s neck broken she’d better keep him out of mischief. +Young Ned knew what he’d get if he came meddling with _his_ sweetheart. + +It had happened yesterday afternoon, Sunday, when he had gone down with +Dorsy to the “King’s Arms” to see her aunt. They were sitting out on the +wooden bench against the inn wall when young Ned began it. He could see +him now with his arm round Dorsy’s neck and his mouth gaping. + +And Dorsy laughing like a silly fool and the old woman snorting and +shaking. + +He could hear him. “She’s my cousin if she _is_ your sweetheart. You +can’t stop me kissing her.” _Couldn’t_ he! + +Why, what did they think? When he’d given up his good job at the +Darlington Motor Works to come to Eastthwaite and black Mr. Greathead’s +boots, chop wood, carry coal and water for him, and drive his shabby +secondhand car. Not that he cared what he did so long as he could live +in the same house with Dorsy Oldishaw. It wasn’t likely he’d sit like a +bloody Moses, looking on, while Ned— + +To be sure, he had half killed him. He could feel Ned’s neck swelling +and rising up under the pressure of his hands, his fingers. He had +struck him first, flinging him back against the inn wall, then he had +pinned him—till the men ran up and dragged him off. + +And now they were all against him. Dorsy was against him. She had said +she was afraid of him. + +“Steven,” she had said, “tha med ’a killed him.” + +“Well—p’r’aps next time he’ll knaw better than to coom meddlin’ with +_my_ lass.” + +“I’m not thy lass, ef tha canna keep thy hands off folks. I should be +feared for my life of thee. Ned wurn’t doing naw ’arm.” + +“Ef he doos it again, ef he cooms between thee and me, Dorsy, I shall do +’im in.” + +“Naw, tha maunna talk that road.” + +“It’s Gawd’s truth. Anybody that cooms between thee and me, loove, I +shall do ’im in. Ef ’twas thy aunt, I should wring ’er neck, same as I +wroong Ned’s.” + +“And ef it was me, Steven?” + +“Ef it wur thee, ef tha left me— Aw, doan’t tha assk me, Dorsy.” + +“There—that’s ’ow tha scares me.” + +“But tha’ ’astna left me—’tes thy wedding claithes tha’rt making.” + +“Aye, ’tes my wedding claithes.” + +She had started fingering the white stuff, looking at it with her head +on one side, smiling prettily. Then all of a sudden she had flung it +down in a heap and burst out crying. When he tried to comfort her she +pushed him off and ran out of the room, to Mr. Greathead. + +It must have been half an hour ago and she had not come back yet. + +He got up and went through the yard gates into the dark drive. Turning +there, he came to the house front and the lighted window of the study. +Hidden behind a clump of yew he looked in. + +Mr. Greathead had risen from his chair. He was a little old man, shrunk +and pinched, with a bowed narrow back and slender neck under his grey +hanks of hair. + +Dorsy stood before him, facing Steven. The lamplight fell full on her. +Her sweet flower-face was flushed. She had been crying. + +Mr. Greathead spoke. + +“Well, that’s my advice,” he said. “Think it over, Dorsy, before you do +anything.” + +That night Dorsy packed her boxes, and the next day at noon, when Steven +came in for his dinner, she had left the Lodge. She had gone back to her +father’s house in Garthdale. + +She wrote to Steven saying that she had thought it over and found she +daren’t marry him. She was afraid of him. She would be too unhappy. + +[Illustration: Then all of a sudden she had burst out crying ...] + + + II + + +That was the old man, the old man. He had made her give him up. But for +that, Dorsy would never have left him. She would never have thought of +it herself. And she would never have got away if he had been there to +stop her. It wasn’t Ned. Ned was going to marry Nancy Peacock down at +Morfe. Ned hadn’t done any harm. + +It was Mr. Greathead who had come between them. He hated Mr. Greathead. + +His hate became a nausea of physical loathing that never ceased. Indoors +he served Mr. Greathead as footman and valet, waiting on him at meals, +bringing the hot water for his bath, helping him to dress and undress. +So that he could never get away from him. When he came to call him in +the morning, Steven’s stomach heaved at the sight of the shrunken body +under the bedclothes, the flushed, pinched face with its peaked, +finicking nose upturned, the thin silver tuft of hair pricked up above +the pillow’s edge. Steven shivered with hate at the sound of the +rattling, old-man’s cough, and the “shoob-shoob” of the feet shuffling +along the flagged passages. + +He had once had a feeling of tenderness for Mr. Greathead as the tie +that bound him to Dorsy. He even brushed his coat and hat tenderly, as +if he loved them. Once Mr. Greathead’s small, close smile—the greyish +bud of the lower lip pushed out, the upper lip lifted at the corners—and +his kind, thin “Thank you, my lad,” had made Steven smile back, glad to +serve Dorsy’s master. And Mr. Greathead would smile again and say, “It +does me good to see your bright face, Steven.” Now Steven’s face writhed +in a tight contortion to meet Mr. Greathead’s kindliness, while his +throat ran dry and his heart shook with hate. + +At meal-times from his place by the sideboard he would look on at Mr. +Greathead eating, in a long contemplative disgust. He could have +snatched the plate away from under the slow, fumbling hands that hovered +and hesitated. He would catch words coming into his mind: “He ought to +be dead. He ought to be dead.” To think that this thing that ought to be +dead, this old, shrivelled skin-bag of creaking bones should come +between him and Dorsy, should have power to drive Dorsy from him. + +[Illustration] + +One day when he was brushing Mr. Greathead’s soft felt hat a paroxysm of +hatred gripped him. He hated Mr. Greathead’s hat. He took a stick and +struck at it again and again; he threw it on the flags and stamped on +it, clenching his teeth and drawing in his breath with a sharp hiss. He +picked up the hat, looking round furtively, for fear lest Mr. Greathead +or Dorsy’s successor, Mrs. Blenkiron, should have seen him. He pinched +and pulled it back into shape and brushed it carefully and hung it on +the stand. He was ashamed, not of his violence, but of its futility. + +Nobody but a damned fool, he said to himself, would have done that. He +must have been mad. + +It wasn’t as if he didn’t know what he was going to do. He had known +ever since the day when Dorsy left him. + +“I shan’t be myself again till I’ve done him in,” he thought. + +He was only waiting till he had planned it out; till he was sure of +every detail; till he was fit and cool. There must be no hesitation, no +uncertainty at the last minute, above all, no blind, headlong violence. +Nobody but a fool would kill in mad rage, and forget things, and be +caught and swing for it. Yet that was what they all did. There was +always something they hadn’t thought of that gave them away. + +Steven had thought of everything, even the date, even the weather. + +Mr. Greathead was in the habit of going up to London to attend the +debates of a learned Society he belonged to that held its meetings in +May and November. He always travelled up by the five o’clock train, so +that he might go to bed and rest as soon as he arrived. He always stayed +for a week and gave his housekeeper a week’s holiday. Steven chose a +dark, threatening day in November, when Mr. Greathead was going up to +his meeting and Mrs. Blenkiron had left Eastthwaite for Morfe by the +early morning bus. So that there was nobody in the house but Mr. +Greathead and Steven. + +Eastthwaite Lodge stands alone, grey, hidden between the shoulder of the +moor and the ash-trees of its drive. It is approached by a bridle-path +across the moor, a turning off the road that runs from Eastthwaite in +Rathdale to Shawe in Westleydale, about a mile from the village and a +mile from Hardraw Pass. No tradesmen visited it. Mr. Greathead’s letters +and his newspaper were shot into a post-box that hung on the ash-tree at +the turn. + +The hot water laid on in the house was not hot enough for Mr. +Greathead’s bath, so that every morning, while Mr. Greathead shaved, +Steven came to him with a can of boiling water. + +Mr. Greathead, dressed in a mauve and grey striped sleeping-suit, stood +shaving himself before the looking-glass that hung on the wall beside +the great white bath. Steven waited with his hand on the cold tap, +watching the bright curved rod of water falling with a thud and a +splash. + +In the white, stagnant light from the muffed window-pane the knife-blade +flame of a small oil-stove flickered queerly. The oil sputtered and +stank. + +Suddenly the wind hissed in the water-pipes and cut off the glittering +rod. To Steven it seemed the suspension of all movement. He would have +to wait there till the water flowed again before he could begin. He +tried not to look at Mr. Greathead and the lean wattles of his lifted +throat. He fixed his eyes on the long crack in the soiled green +distemper of the wall. His nerves were on edge with waiting for the +water to flow again. The fumes of the oil-stove worked on them like a +rank intoxicant. The soiled green wall gave him a sensation of physical +sickness. + +He picked up a towel and hung it over the back of a chair. Thus he +caught sight of his own face in the glass above Mr. Greathead’s; it was +livid against the soiled green wall. Steven stepped aside to avoid it. + +“Don’t you feel well, Steven?” + +“No, sir.” Steven picked up a small sponge and looked at it. + +Mr. Greathead had laid down his razor and was wiping the lather from his +chin. At that instant, with a gurgling, spluttering haste, the water +leaped from the tap. + +It was then that Steven made his sudden, quiet rush. He first gagged Mr. +Greathead with the sponge, then pushed him back and back against the +wall and pinned him there with both hands round his neck, as he had +pinned Ned Oldishaw. He pressed in on Mr. Greathead’s throat, strangling +him. + +Mr. Greathead’s hands flapped in the air, trying feebly to beat Steven +off; then his arms, pushed back by the heave and thrust of Steven’s +shoulders, dropped. Then Mr. Greathead’s body sank, sliding along the +wall, and fell to the floor, Steven still keeping his hold, mounting it, +gripping it with his knees. His fingers tightened, pressing back the +blood. Mr. Greathead’s face swelled up; it changed horribly. There was a +groaning and rattling sound in his throat. Steven pressed in till it had +ceased. + +Then he stripped himself to the waist. He stripped Mr. Greathead of his +sleeping-suit and hung his naked body face downwards in the bath. He +took the razor and cut the great arteries and veins in the neck. He +pulled up the plug of the waste-pipe, and left the body to drain in the +running water. + +He left it all day and all night. + +He had noticed that murderers swung just for want of attention to little +things like that; messing up themselves and the whole place with blood; +always forgetting something essential. He had no time to think of +horrors. From the moment he had murdered Mr. Greathead his own neck was +in danger; he was simply using all his brain and nerve to save his neck. +He worked with the stern, cool hardness of a man going through with an +unpleasant, necessary job. He had thought of everything. + +He had even thought of the dairy. + +[Illustration: Steven waited with his hand on the tap ...] + +It was built on to the back of the house under the shelter of the high +moor. You entered it through the scullery, which cut it off from the +yard. The window-panes had been removed and replaced by sheets of +perforated zinc. A large corrugated glass sky-light lit it from the +roof. Impossible either to see in or to approach it from the outside. It +was fitted up with a long, black slate shelf, placed, for the +convenience of butter-makers, at the height of an ordinary work-bench. +Steven had his tools, a razor, a carving-knife, a chopper and a +meat-saw, laid there ready, beside a great pile of cotton waste. + +Early the next day he took Mr. Greathead’s body out of the bath, wrapped +a thick towel round the neck and head, carried it down to the dairy and +stretched it out on the slab. And there he cut it up into seventeen +pieces. + +These he wrapped in several layers of newspaper, covering the face and +the hands first, because, at the last moment, they frightened him. He +sewed them up in two sacks and hid them in the cellar. + +He burnt the towel and the cotton waste in the kitchen fire; he cleaned +his tools thoroughly and put them back in their places; and he washed +down the marble slab. There wasn’t a spot on the floor except for one +flagstone where the pink rinsing of the slab had splashed over. He +scrubbed it for half an hour, still seeing the rusty edges of the splash +long after he had scoured it out. + +He then washed and dressed himself with care. + +As it was war-time Steven could only work by day, for a light in the +dairy roof would have attracted the attention of the police. He had +murdered Mr. Greathead on a Tuesday; it was now three o’clock on +Thursday afternoon. Exactly at ten minutes past four he had brought out +the car, shut in close with its black hood and side curtains. He had +packed Mr. Greathead’s suit-case and placed it in the car with his +umbrella, railway rug, and travelling cap. Also, in a bundle, the +clothes that his victim would have gone to London in. + +He stowed the body in the two sacks beside him on the front. + +By Hardraw Pass, half-way between Eastthwaite and Shawe, there are three +round pits, known as the Churns, hollowed out of the grey rock and said +to be bottomless. Steven had thrown stones, big as a man’s chest, down +the largest pit, to see whether they would be caught on any ledge or +boulder. They had dropped clean, without a sound. + +It poured with rain, the rain that Steven had reckoned on. The Pass was +dark under the clouds and deserted. Steven turned his car so that the +headlights glared on the pit’s mouth. Then he ripped open the sacks and +threw down, one by one, the seventeen pieces of Mr. Greathead’s body, +and the sacks after them, and the clothes. + +It was not enough to dispose of Mr. Greathead’s dead body; he had to +behave as though Mr. Greathead were alive. Mr. Greathead had disappeared +and he had to account for his disappearance. He drove on to Shawe +station to the five o’clock train, taking care to arrive close on its +starting. A troop-train was due to depart a minute earlier. Steven, who +had reckoned on the darkness and the rain, reckoned also on the hurry +and confusion on the platform. + +As he had foreseen, there were no porters in the station entry; nobody +to notice whether Mr. Greathead was or was not in the car. He carried +his things through on to the platform and gave the suit-case to an old +man to label. He dashed into the booking-office and took Mr. Greathead’s +ticket, and then rushed along the platform as if he were following his +master. He heard himself shouting to the guard, “Have you seen Mr. +Greathead?” And the guard’s answer, “Naw!” And his own inspired +statement, “He must have taken his seat in the front, then.” He ran to +the front of the train, shouldering his way among the troops. The drawn +blinds of the carriages favoured him. + +Steven thrust the umbrella, the rug, and the travelling cap into an +empty compartment, and slammed the door to. He tried to shout something +through the open window; but his tongue was harsh and dry against the +roof of his mouth, and no sound came. He stood, blocking the window, +till the guard whistled. When the train moved he ran alongside with his +hand on the window ledge, as though he were taking the last instructions +of his master. A porter pulled him back. + +“Quick work, that,” said Steven. + +Before he left the station he wired to Mr. Greathead’s London hotel, +announcing the time of his arrival. + +He felt nothing, nothing but the intense relief of a man who has saved +himself by his own wits from a most horrible death. There were even +moments, in the week that followed, when, so powerful was the illusion +of his innocence, he could have believed that he had really seen Mr. +Greathead off by the five o’clock train. Moments when he literally stood +still in amazement before his own incredible impunity. Other moments +when a sort of vanity uplifted him. He had committed a murder that for +sheer audacity and cool brain work surpassed all murders celebrated in +the history of crime. Unfortunately the very perfection of his +achievement doomed it to oblivion. He had left not a trace. + +Not a trace. + +Only when he woke in the night a doubt sickened him. There was the +rusted ring of that splash on the dairy floor. He wondered, had he +really washed it out clean. And he would get up and light a candle and +go down to the dairy to make sure. He knew the exact place; bending over +it with the candle, he could imagine that he still saw a faint outline. + +Daylight reassured him. _He_ knew the exact place, but nobody else knew. +There was nothing to distinguish it from the natural stains in the +flagstone. Nobody would guess. But he was glad when Mrs. Blenkiron came +back again. + +On the day that Mr. Greathead was to have come home by the four o’clock +train Steven drove into Shawe and bought a chicken for the master’s +dinner. He met the four o’clock train and expressed surprise that Mr. +Greathead had not come by it. He said he would be sure to come by the +seven. He ordered dinner for eight; Mrs. Blenkiron roasted the chicken, +and Steven met the seven o’clock train. This time he showed uneasiness. + +The next day he met all the trains and wired to Mr. Greathead’s hotel +for information. When the manager wired back that Mr. Greathead had not +arrived, he wrote to his relatives and gave notice to the police. + +Three weeks passed. The police and Mr. Greathead’s relatives accepted +Steven’s statements, backed as they were by the evidence of the booking +office clerk, the telegraph clerk, the guard, the porter who had +labelled Mr. Greathead’s luggage and the hotel manager who had received +his telegram. Mr. Greathead’s portrait was published in the illustrated +papers with requests for any information which might lead to his +discovery. Nothing happened, and presently he and his disappearance were +forgotten. The nephew who came down to Eastthwaite to look into his +affairs was satisfied. His balance at his bank was low owing to the +non-payment of various dividends, but the accounts and the contents of +Mr. Greathead’s cash-box and bureau were in order and Steven had put +down every penny he had spent. The nephew paid Mrs. Blenkiron’s wages +and dismissed her and arranged with the chauffeur to stay on and take +care of the house. And as Steven saw that this was the best way to +escape suspicion, he stayed on. + +Only in Westleydale and Rathdale excitement lingered. People wondered +and speculated. Mr. Greathead had been robbed and murdered in the train +(Steven said he had had money on him). He had lost his memory and +wandered goodness knew where. He had thrown himself out of the railway +carriage. Steven said Mr. Greathead wouldn’t do _that_, but he shouldn’t +be surprised if he had lost his memory. He knew a man who forgot who he +was and where he lived. Didn’t know his own wife and children. +Shell-shock. And lately Mr. Greathead’s memory hadn’t been what it was. +Soon as he got it back he’d turn up again. Steven wouldn’t be surprised +to see him walking in any day. + +But on the whole people noticed that he didn’t care to talk much about +Mr. Greathead. They thought this showed very proper feeling. They were +sorry for Steven. He had lost his master and he had lost Dorsy Oldishaw. +And if he _did_ half kill Ned Oldishaw, well, young Ned had no business +to go meddling with his sweetheart. Even Mrs. Oldishaw was sorry for +him. And when Steven came into the bar of the King’s Arms everybody said +“Good-evening, Steve,” and made room for him by the fire. + + + III + + +Steven came and went now as if nothing had happened. He made a point of +keeping the house as it would be kept if Mr. Greathead were alive. Mrs. +Blenkiron, coming in once a fortnight to wash and clean, found the fire +lit in Mr. Greathead’s study and his slippers standing on end in the +fender. Upstairs his bed was made, the clothes folded back, ready. This +ritual guarded Steven not only from the suspicions of outsiders, but +from his own knowledge. By behaving as though he believed that Mr. +Greathead was still living he almost made himself believe it. By +refusing to let his mind dwell on the murder he came to forget it. His +imagination saved him, playing the play that kept him sane, till the +murder became vague to him and fantastic like a thing done in a dream. +He had waked up and this was the reality; this round of caretaking, this +look the house had of waiting for Mr. Greathead to come back to it. He +had left off getting up in the night to examine the place on the dairy +floor. He was no longer amazed at his impunity. + +[Illustration] + +Then suddenly, when he really had forgotten, it ended. It was on a +Saturday in January, about five o’clock. Steven had heard that Dorsy +Oldishaw was back again, living at the “King’s Arms” with her aunt. He +had a mad, uncontrollable longing to see her again. + +But it was not Dorsy that he saw. + +His way from the Lodge kitchen into the drive was through the yard gates +and along the flagged path under the study window. When he turned on to +the flags he saw it shuffling along before him. The lamplight from the +window lit it up. He could see distinctly the little old man in the +long, shabby black overcoat, with the grey woollen muffler round his +neck hunched up above his collar, lifting the thin grey hair that stuck +out under the slouch of the black hat. + +In the first moment that he saw it Steven had no fear. He simply felt +that the murder had not happened, that he really _had_ dreamed it, and +that this was Mr. Greathead come back, alive among the living. The +phantasm was now standing at the door of the house, its hand on the +door-knob as if about to enter. + +But when Steven came up to the door it was not there. + +He stood, fixed, staring at the space which had emptied itself so +horribly. His heart heaved and staggered, snatching at his breath. And +suddenly the memory of the murder rushed at him. He saw himself in the +bathroom, shut in with his victim by the soiled green walls. He smelt +the reek of the oil-stove; he heard the water running from the tap. He +felt his feet springing forward, and his fingers pressing, tighter and +tighter, on Mr. Greathead’s throat. He saw Mr. Greathead’s hands +flapping helplessly, his terrified eyes, his face swelling and +discoloured, changing horribly, and his body sinking to the floor. + +He saw himself in the dairy, afterwards; he could hear the thudding, +grinding, scraping noises of his tools. He saw himself on Hardraw Pass +and the headlights glaring on the pit’s mouth. And the fear and the +horror he had not felt then came on him now. + +He turned back; he bolted the yard gates and all the doors of the house, +and shut himself up in the lighted kitchen. He took up his magazine, +_The Autocar_, and forced himself to read it. Presently his terror left +him. He said to himself it was nothing. Nothing but his fancy. He didn’t +suppose he’d ever see anything again. + +Three days passed. On the third evening, Steven had lit the study lamp +and was bolting the window when he saw it again. + +It stood on the path outside, close against the window, looking in. He +saw its face distinctly, the greyish, stuck-out bud of the under-lip, +and the droop of the pinched nose. The small eyes peered at him, +glittering. The whole figure had a glassy look between the darkness +behind it and the pane. One moment it stood outside, looking in; and the +next it was mixed up with the shimmering picture of the lighted room +that hung there on the blackness of the trees. Mr. Greathead then showed +as if reflected, standing with Steven in the room. + +[Illustration: It stood close against the window, looking in.] + +And now he was outside again, looking at him, looking at him through the +pane. + +Steven’s stomach sank and dragged, making him feel sick. He pulled down +the blind between him and Mr. Greathead, clamped the shutters to and +drew the curtains over them. He locked and double-bolted the front door, +all the doors, to keep Mr. Greathead out. But, once that night, as he +lay in bed, he heard the “shoob-shoob” of feet shuffling along the +flagged passages, up the stairs, and across the landing outside his +door. The door handle rattled; but nothing came. He lay awake till +morning, the sweat running off his skin, his heart plunging and +quivering with terror. + +When he got up he saw a white, scared face in the looking-glass. A face +with a half-open mouth, ready to blab, to blurt out his secret; the face +of an idiot. He was afraid to take that face into Eastthwaite or into +Shawe. So he shut himself up in the house, half starved on his small +stock of bread, bacon and groceries. + +Two weeks passed; and then it came again in broad daylight. + +It was Mrs. Blenkiron’s morning. He had lit the fire in the study at +noon and set up Mr. Greathead’s slippers in the fender. When he rose +from his stooping and turned round he saw Mr. Greathead’s phantasm +standing on the hearthrug close in front of him. It was looking at him +and smiling in a sort of mockery, as if amused at what Steven had been +doing. It was solid and completely lifelike at first. Then, as Steven in +his terror backed and backed away from it (he was afraid to turn and +feel it there behind him), its feet became insubstantial. As if +undermined, the whole structure sank and fell together on the floor, +where it made a pool of some whitish glistening substance that mixed +with the pattern of the carpet and sank through. + +That was the most horrible thing it had done yet, and Steven’s nerve +broke under it. He went to Mrs. Blenkiron, whom he found scrubbing out +the dairy. + +She sighed as she wrung out the floor-cloth. + +“Eh, these owd yeller stawnes, scroob as you will they’ll navver look +clean.” + +“Naw,” he said. “Scroob and scroob, you’ll navver get them clean.” + +She looked up at him. + +“Eh, lad, what ails ’ee? Ye’ve got a faace like a wroong dishclout +hanging ower t’ sink.” + +“I’ve got the colic.” + +“Aye, an’ naw woonder wi’ the damp, and they misties, an’ your awn bad +cooking. Let me roon down t’ ‘King’s Arms’ and get you a drop of +whisky.” + +“Naw, I’ll gaw down mysen.” + +He knew now he was afraid to be left alone in the house. Down at the +“King’s Arms” Dorsy and Mrs. Oldishaw were sorry for him. By this time +he was really ill with fright. Dorsy and Mrs. Oldishaw said it was a +chill. They made him lie down on the settle by the kitchen fire and put +a rug over him, and gave him stiff hot grog to drink. He slept. And when +he woke he found Dorsy sitting beside him with her sewing. + +He sat up and her hand was on his shoulder. + +“Lay still, lad.” + +“I maun get oop and gaw.” + +“Nay, there’s naw call for ’ee to gaw. Lay still and I’ll make thee a +coop o’ tea.” + +He lay still. + +Mrs. Oldishaw had made up a bed for him in her son’s room, and they kept +him there that night and till four o’clock the next day. + +When he got up to go Dorsy put on her coat and hat. + +“Is tha gawing out, Dorsy?” + +“Aye. I canna let thee gaw and set there by thysen. I’m cooming oop to +set with ’ee till night time.” + +She came up and they sat side by side in the Lodge kitchen by the fire +as they used to sit when they were together there, holding each other’s +hands and not talking. + +“Dorsy,” he said at last, “what astha coom for? Astha coom to tall me +tha’ll navver speak to me again?” + +“Nay. Tha knaws what I’ve coom for.” + +“To saay tha’ll marry me?” + +“Aye.” + +“I maunna marry thee, Dorsy. ’twouldn’ be right.” + +“Right? What dostha mean? ’Twouldn’t be right for me to coom and set wi’ +thee this road ef I doan’t marry thee.” + +“Nay. I darena’. Tha said tha was afraid of me, Dorsy. I doan’t want ’ee +to be afraid. Tha said tha’d be unhappy. I doan’t want ’ee to be +unhappy.” + +“That was lasst year. I’m not afraid of ’ee, now, Steve.” + +“Tha doan’t knaw me, lass.” + +“Aye, I knaw thee. I knaw tha’s sick and starved for want of me. Tha +canna live wi’out thy awn lass to take care of ’ee.” + +She rose. + +“I maun gaw now. But I’ll be oop to-morrow and the next day.” + +And to-morrow and the next day and the next, at dusk, the hour that +Steven most dreaded, Dorsy came. She sat with him till long after the +night had fallen. + +Steven would have felt safe so long as she was with him, but for his +fear that Mr. Greathead would appear to him while she was there and that +she would see him. If Dorsy knew he was being haunted she might guess +why. Or Mr. Greathead might take some horrible blood-dripping and +dismembered shape that would show her how he had been murdered. It would +be like him, dead, to come between them as he had come when he was +living. + +They were sitting at the round table by the fireside. The lamp was lit +and Dorsy was bending over her sewing. Suddenly she looked up, her head +on one side, listening. Far away inside the house, on the flagged +passage from the front door, he could hear the “shoob-shoob” of the +footsteps. He could almost believe that Dorsy shivered. And somehow, for +some reason, this time he was not afraid. + +“Steven,” she said, “didsta ’ear anything?” + +“Naw. Nobbut t’ wind oonder t’ roogs.” + +She looked at him; a long wondering look. Apparently it satisfied her, +for she answered: “Aye. Mebbe ’tes nobbut wind,” and went on with her +sewing. + +He drew his chair nearer to her to protect her if it came. He could +almost touch her where she sat. + +The latch lifted. The door opened, and, his entrance and his passage +unseen, Mr. Greathead stood before them. + +The table hid the lower half of his form; but above it he was steady and +solid in his terrible semblance of flesh and blood. + +Steven looked at Dorsy. She was staring at the phantasm with an +innocent, wondering stare that had no fear in it at all. Then she looked +at Steven. An uneasy, frightened, searching look, as though to make sure +whether he had seen it. + +That was her fear—that _he_ should see it, that _he_ should be +frightened, that _he_ should be haunted. + +He moved closer and put his hand on her shoulder. He thought, perhaps, +she might shrink from him because she knew that it _was_ he who was +haunted. But no, she put up her hand and held his, gazing up into his +face and smiling. + +Then, to his amazement, the phantasm smiled back at them; not with +mockery, but with a strange and terrible sweetness. Its face lit up for +one instant with a sudden, beautiful, shining light; then it was gone. + +“Did tha see ’im, Steve?” + +“Aye.” + +“Astha seen annything afore?” + +“Aye, three times I’ve seen ’im.” + +“Is it that ’as scared thee?” + +“’Oo tawled ’ee I was scared?” + +“I knawed. Because nowt can ’appen to thee but I maun knaw it.” + +“What dostha think, Dorsy?” + +“I think tha needna be scared, Steve. ’E’s a kind ghawst. Whatever ’e is +’e doan’t mean thee no ’arm. T’ owd gentleman navver did when he was +alive.” + +“Didn’ ’e? Didn’ ’e? ’E served me the woorst turn ’e could when ’e +coomed between thee and me.” + +“Whatever makes ’ee think that, lad?” + +“I doan’ think it. I _know_.” + +“Nay, loove, tha dostna.” + +“’E did. ’E did, I tell thee.” + +“Doan’ tha say that,” she cried. “Doan’ tha say it, Stevey.” + +“Why shouldn’t I?” + +“Tha’ll set folk talking that road.” + +“What do they knaw to talk about?” + +“Ef they was to remember what tha said.” + +“And what did I say?” + +“Why, that ef annybody was to coom between thee and me, tha’d do them +in.” + +“I wasna thinking of _’im_. Gawd knaws I wasna.” + +“_They_ doan’t,” she said. + +“_Tha_ knaws? Tha knaws I didna mean ’im?” + +“Aye, _I_ knaw, Steve.” + +“An’, Dorsy, tha ’rn’t afraid of me? Tha ’rn’t afraid of me anny more?” + +“Nay, lad. I loove thee too mooch. I shall navver be afraid of ’ee again. +Would I coom to thee this road ef I was afraid?” + +“Tha’ll be afraid now.” + +“And what should I be afraid of?” + +“Why—_’im_.” + +“_’Im?_ I should be a deal more afraid to think of ’ee setting with ’im +oop ’ere, by thysen. Wuntha coom down and sleep at aunt’s?” + +“That I wunna. But I shall set ’ee on t’ road passt t’ moor.” + +He went with her down the bridle-path and across the moor and along the +main road that led through Eastthwaite. They parted at the turn where +the lights of the village came in sight. + +The moon had risen as Steven went back across the moor. The ash-tree at +the bridle-path stood out clear, its hooked, bending branches black +against the grey moor-grass. The shadows in the ruts laid stripes along +the bridle-path, black on grey. The house was black-grey in the darkness +of the drive. Only the lighted study window made a golden square in its +long wall. + +Before he could go up to bed he would have to put out the study lamp. He +was nervous; but he no longer felt the sickening and sweating terror of +the first hauntings. Either he was getting used to it, or—something had +happened to him. + +He had closed the shutters and put out the lamp. His candle made a ring +of light round the table in the middle of the room. He was about to take +it up and go when he heard a thin voice calling his name: “Steven.” He +raised his head to listen. The thin thread of sound seemed to come from +outside, a long way off, at the end of the bridle-path. + +“Steven, Steven—” + +This time he could have sworn the sound came from inside his head, like +the hiss of air in his ears. + +“Steven—” + +He knew the voice now. It was behind him in the room. He turned, and saw +the phantasm of Mr. Greathead sitting, as he used to sit, in the +arm-chair by the fire. The form was dim in the dusk of the room outside +the ring of candlelight. Steven’s first movement was to snatch up the +candlestick and hold it between him and the phantasm, hoping that the +light would cause it to disappear. Instead of disappearing the figure +became clear and solid, indistinguishable from a figure of flesh and +blood dressed in black broadcloth and white linen. Its eyes had the +shining transparency of blue crystal; they were fixed on Steven with a +look of quiet, benevolent attention. Its small, narrow mouth was lifted +at the corners, smiling. + +[Illustration: ... the figure became clear and solid ...] + +It spoke. + +“You needn’t be afraid,” it said. + +The voice was natural now, quiet, measured, slightly quavering. Instead +of frightening Steven it soothed and steadied him. + +He put the candle on the table behind him and stood up before the +phantasm, fascinated. + +“_Why_ are you afraid?” it asked. + +Steven couldn’t answer. He could only stare, held there by the shining, +hypnotizing eyes. + +“You are afraid,” it said, “because you think I’m what you call a ghost, +a supernatural thing. You think I’m dead and that you killed me. You +think you took a horrible revenge for a wrong you thought I did you. You +think I’ve come back to frighten you, to revenge myself in my turn. + +“And every one of those thoughts of yours, Steven, is wrong. I’m real, +and my appearance is as natural and real as anything in this room—_more_ +natural and more real if you did but know. You didn’t kill me, as you +see; for here I am, as alive, more alive than you are. Your revenge +consisted in removing me from a state which had become unbearable to a +state more delightful than you can imagine. I don’t mind telling you, +Steven, that I was in serious financial difficulties (which, by the way, +is a good thing for you, as it provides a plausible motive for my +disappearance). So that, as far as revenge goes, the thing was a +complete frost. You were my benefactor. Your methods were somewhat +violent, and I admit you gave me some disagreeable moments before my +actual deliverance; but as I was already developing rheumatoid arthritis +there can be no doubt that in your hands my death was more merciful than +if it had been left to Nature. As for the subsequent arrangements, I +congratulate you, Steven, on your coolness and resource. I always said +you were equal to any emergency, and that your brains would pull you +safe through any scrape. You committed an appalling and dangerous crime, +a crime of all things the most difficult to conceal, and you contrived +so that it was not discovered and never will be discovered. And no doubt +the details of this crime seemed to you horrible and revolting to the +last degree; and the more horrible and the more revolting they were, the +more you piqued yourself on your nerve in carrying the thing through +without a hitch. + +“I don’t want to put you entirely out of conceit with your performance. +It was very creditable for a beginner, very creditable indeed. But let +me tell you, this idea of things being horrible and revolting is all +illusion. The terms are purely relative to your limited perceptions. + +“I’m speaking now to your intelligence—I don’t mean that practical +ingenuity which enabled you to dispose of me so neatly. When I say +intelligence I mean intelligence. All you did, then, was to redistribute +matter. To our incorruptible sense matter never takes any of those +offensive forms in which it so often appears to you. Nature has evolved +all this horror and repulsion just to prevent people from making too +many little experiments like yours. You mustn’t imagine that these +things have any eternal importance. Don’t flatter yourself you’ve +electrified the universe. For minds no longer attached to flesh and +blood, that horrible butchery you were so proud of, Steven, is simply +silly. No more terrifying than the spilling of red ink or the +rearrangement of a jig-saw puzzle. I saw the whole business, and I can +assure you I felt nothing but intense amusement. Your face, Steven, was +so absurdly serious. You’ve no idea what you looked like with that +chopper. I’d have appeared to you then and told you so, only I knew I +should frighten you into fits. + +“And there’s another grand mistake, my lad—your thinking that I’m +haunting you out of revenge, that I’m trying to frighten you.... My dear +Steven, if I’d wanted to frighten you I’d have appeared in a very +different shape. I needn’t remind you what shape I _might_ have appeared +in.... What do you suppose I’ve come for?” + +“I don’t know,” said Steven in a husky whisper. “Tell me.” + +“I’ve come to forgive you. And to save you from the horror you _would_ +have felt sooner or later. And to stop your going on with your crime.” + +“You needn’t,” Steven said. “I’m not going on with it. I shall do no +more murders.” + +“There you are again. Can’t you understand that I’m not talking about +your silly butcher’s work? I’m talking about your _real_ crime. Your +real crime was hating me. + +“And your very hate was a blunder, Steven. You hated me for something I +hadn’t done.” + +“Aye, what did you do? Tell me that.” + +“You thought I came between you and your sweetheart. That night when +Dorsy spoke to me, you thought I told her to throw you over, didn’t +you?” + +“Aye. And what did you tell her?” + +“I told her to stick to you. It was you, Steven, who drove her away. You +frightened the child. She said she was afraid for her life of you. Not +because you half killed that poor boy, but because of the look on your +face before you did it. The look of hate, Steven. + +“I told her not to be afraid of you. I told her that if she threw you +over you might go altogether to the devil; that she might even be +responsible for some crime. I told her that if she married you and was +faithful—_if she loved you_—I’d answer for it you’d never go wrong. + +“She was too frightened to listen to me. Then I told her to think over +what I’d said before she did anything. You heard me say that.” + +“Aye. That’s what I heard you say. I didn’ knaw. I didn’ knaw. I thought +you’d set her agen me.” + +“If you don’t believe me, you can ask her, Steven.” + +“That’s what she said t’ other night. That you navver coom between her +and me. Navver.” + +“Never,” the phantasm said. “And you don’t hate me now.” + +“Naw. Naw. I should navver ’a hated ’ee. I should navver ’a laid a finger +on thee, ef I’d knawn.” + +“It’s not your laying fingers on me, it’s your hatred that matters. If +that’s done with, the whole thing’s done with.” + +“Is it? Is it? Ef it was knawn, I should have to hang for it. Maunna I +gie mysen oop? Tell me, maun I gie mysen oop?” + +“You want me to decide that for you?” + +“Aye. Doan’t gaw,” he said. “Doan’t gaw.” + +It seemed to him that Mr. Greathead’s phantasm was getting a little +thin, as if it couldn’t last more than an instant. He had never so +longed for it to go, as he longed now for it to stay and help him. + +“Well, Steven, any flesh-and-blood man would tell you to go and get +hanged to-morrow; that it was no more than your plain duty. And I +daresay there are some mean, vindictive spirits even in my world who +would say the same, not because _they_ think death important but because +they know _you_ do, and want to get even with you that way. + +“It isn’t _my_ way. I consider this little affair is strictly between +ourselves. There isn’t a jury of flesh-and-blood men who would +understand it. They all think death so important.” + +“What do you want me to do, then? Tell me and I’ll do it! Tell me!” + +He cried it out loud; for Mr. Greathead’s phantasm was getting thinner +and thinner; it dwindled and fluttered, like a light going down. Its +voice came from somewhere away outside, from the other end of the +bridle-path. + +“Go on living,” it said. “Marry Dorsy.” + +“I darena’. She doan’ knaw I killed ’ee.” + +“Oh, yes”—the eyes flickered up, gentle and ironic—“she does. She knew +all the time.” + +And with that the phantasm went out. + + + + + THE FINDING OF THE ABSOLUTE + + + I + + +Mr. Spalding had gone out into the garden to find peace, and had not +found it. He sat there, with hunched shoulders and bowed head, dejected +in the spring sunshine. + +Jerry, the black cat, invited him to play; he stood on his hind legs and +danced, and bowed sideways, and waved his forelegs in the air like +wings. At any other time his behaviour would have enchanted Mr. +Spalding, but now he couldn’t even look at him; he was too miserable. + +He had gone to bed miserable; he had passed a night of misery, and he +had waked up more miserable than ever. He had been like that for three +days and three nights straight on end, and no wonder. It wasn’t only +that his young wife Elizabeth had run away with Paul Jeffreson, the +Imagist poet. Besides the frailty of Elizabeth, he had discovered a +fatal flaw in his own system of metaphysics. His belief in Elizabeth was +gone. So was his belief in the Absolute. + +The two things had come at once, to crush him. And he had to own +bitterly that they were not altogether unrelated. “If,” Mr. Spalding +said to himself, “I had served my wife as faithfully as I have served my +God, she would not now have deserted me for Paul Jeffreson.” He meant +that if he had not been wrapped up in his system of metaphysics, +Elizabeth might still have been wrapped up in him. He had nobody but +himself to thank for her behaviour. + +If she had run away with anybody else, since run she must, he might have +forgiven her; he might have forgiven himself; but there could be nothing +but misery in store for Elizabeth. Paul Jeffreson had genius, Mr. +Spalding didn’t deny it; immortal genius; but he had no morals; he +drank; he drugged; in Mr. Spalding’s decent phrase, he did everything he +shouldn’t do. + +You would have thought this overwhelming disaster would have completely +outweighed the other trouble. But no; Mr. Spalding had a balanced mind; +he mourned with equal sorrow the loss of his wife and the loss of his +Absolute. A flaw in a metaphysical system may seem to you a small thing; +but you must bear in mind that, ever since he could think at all, Mr. +Spalding had been devoured by a hunger and thirst after metaphysical +truth. He had flung over the God he had been taught to believe in +because, besides being an outrage to Mr. Spalding’s moral sense, he +wasn’t metaphysical enough. The poor man was always worrying about +metaphysics; he wandered from system to system, seeking truth, seeking +reality, seeking some supreme intellectual satisfaction that never came. +He thought he had found it in his theory of Absolute Pantheism. But +really, Spalding’s Pantheism, anybody’s Pantheism for that matter, +couldn’t, when you brought it down to bed-rock thinking, hold water for +a minute. And the more Absolute he made it, the leakier it was. + +For, consider, on Mr. Spalding’s theory, there isn’t any reality except +the Absolute. Things are only real because they exist in It; because It +is Them. Mr. Spalding conceived that his consciousness and Elizabeth’s +consciousness and Paul Jeffreson’s consciousness existed somehow in the +Absolute unchanged. For, if that inside existence changed them you would +have to say that the ground of their present appearance lay somewhere +outside the Absolute, which to Mr. Spalding was rank blasphemy. And if +Elizabeth and Paul Jeffreson existed in the Absolute unchanged, then +their adultery existed there unchanged. And an adultery within the +Absolute outraged his moral sense as much as anything he had been told +about God in his youth. The odd thing was that until Elizabeth had run +away and committed it he had never thought of that. The metaphysics of +Pantheism had interested him much more than its ethics. And now he could +think of nothing else. + +And it wasn’t only Elizabeth and her iniquity; there were all the +intolerable people he had ever known. There was his Uncle Sims, a mean +sneak if ever there was one; and his Aunt Emily, a silly fool; and his +cousin, Tom Rumbold, an obscene idiot. And his uncle’s mean +sneak-ishness, and his aunt’s silly folly, and his cousin’s obscene +idiocy would have to exist in the Absolute, too; and unchanged, mind +you. + +And the things you see and hear—A blue sky, now, would it be blue in the +Sight of God, or just something inconceivable? And noises, music? For +example, I am listening to Grand Opera, and you to the jazz band in your +restaurant; but the God of Pantheism is listening to both, to all the +noises in the universe at once. As if He had sat down on the piano. This +idea shocked Mr. Spalding even more than the thought of Elizabeth’s +misconduct. + +Time went on. Paul Jeffreson drank himself to death. Elizabeth, worn out +with grief, died of pneumonia following influenza; and Mr. Spalding +still went about worrying over his inadjustable metaphysics. + +And at last he, too, found himself dying. + +And then he began to worry about other things. Things that had, as he +put it, “happened” in his youth, before he knew Elizabeth, and one thing +that had happened after she left him. He thought of them as just +happening; happening _to_ him rather than _through_ him, against his +will. In calm, philosophic moments he couldn’t conceive how they had +ever happened at all, how, for example, he could have endured Connie +Larkins. The episodes had been brief, because in each case boredom and +disgust had supervened to put asunder what Mr. Spalding owned should +never have been joined. Brief, insignificant as they were, Mr. Spalding, +in his dying state, was worried when he looked back on them. Supposing +they were more significant than they had seemed? Supposing they had an +eternal significance and entailed tremendous consequences in the +after-life? Supposing you were not just wiped out, that there really +_was_ an after-life? Supposing that in that other world there was a +hell? + +Mr. Spalding could imagine no worse hell than the eternal repetition of +such incidents; eternal repetition of boredom and disgust. Fancy going +on with Connie Larkins for ever and ever, never being able to get away +from her, doomed to repeat—And, if there _was_ an Absolute, if there was +reality, truth, never knowing it; being cut off from it for ever— + +“He that is filthy let him be filthy still.” + +That was hell, the continuance of the filthy state. + +He wondered whether goodness was not, after all, _the_ important thing; +he wondered whether there really was a next world; with an extreme +uneasiness he wondered what would happen to him in it. + +He died wondering. + + + II + + +His first thought was: Well, here I am again. I’ve not been wiped out. +His next, that he hadn’t died at all. He had gone to sleep and was now +dreaming. He was not in the least agitated, nor even surprised. + +He found himself alone in an immense grey space, in which there was no +distinguishable object but himself. He was aware of his body as +occupying a portion of this space. For he had a body; a curious, +tenuous, whitish body. The odd thing was that this empty space had a +sort of solidity under him. He was lying on it, stretched out on it, +adrift. It supported him with the buoyancy of deep water. And yet his +body was part of it, netted in. + +He was now aware of two figures approaching. They came and stood, like +figures treading water, one on each side of him, and he saw that they +were Elizabeth and Paul Jeffreson. + +Then he concluded that he was really dead; dead like Elizabeth and +Jeffreson, and (since they were there) that he was in hell. + +Elizabeth was speaking, and her voice sounded sweet and very kind. All +the same he knew he was in hell. + +“It’s all right,” she said. “It’s queer at first, but you’ll get used to +it. You don’t mind our coming to meet you?” + +Mr. Spalding said he’d no business to mind, no right to reproach her, +since they were all in the same boat. They had, all three, deserved +their punishment. + +“Punishment?” (Jeffreson spoke). “Why, where does he think he is?” + +“I’m in hell, aren’t I? If—” + +“If _we’re_ here. Is that it?” + +“Well, Jeffreson, I don’t want to rake up old unpleasantness, but +after—after what happened, you’ll forgive my saying so, but what else +_can_ I think?” + +He heard Jeffreson laugh; a perfectly natural laugh. + +“Will _you_ tell him, Elizabeth, or shall I?” + +“You’d better. He always respected your intelligence.” + +“Well, old chap, if you really want to know where you are, you’re in +heaven.” + +“You don’t mean to say so?” + +“Fact. I daresay you’re wondering what we’re doing here?” + +“Well, Elizabeth—perhaps. But, frankly, Jeffreson, _you_——” + +“Yes. How about me?” + +“With your record I should have thought you’d even less business here +than I have.” + +“Wouldn’t you? I lived on unpaid bills. I drank. I drugged. There was +nothing I didn’t do. What do you suppose I got in on? You’ll never +guess.” + +“No. No. I give it up.” + +“My love of beauty. You wouldn’t think it, but it seems that actually +counts here, in the eternal world.” + +“And Elizabeth, what did she get in on?” + +“Her love of me.” + +“Then all I can say is,” said Mr. Spalding, “Heaven must be a most +immoral place.” + +“Oh, no. Your parochial morality doesn’t hold good here, that’s all. Why +should it? It’s entirely relative. Relative to a social system with +limits in time and space. Relative to a certain biological configuration +that ceased with our terrestrial organisms. Not absolute. Not eternal. + +“But beauty—Beauty _is_ eternal, is absolute. And I—I loved beauty more +than credit, more than drink or drugs or women, more even than +Elizabeth. + +“And love is eternal. And Elizabeth loved me more than you, more than +respectability, more than peace and comfort, and a happy life.” + +“That’s all very well, Jeffreson; and Elizabeth may be all right. Mary +Magdalene, you know, _Quia multum amavit_, and so forth. But if a +blackguard like you can slip into heaven as easily as all that, where +_are_ our ethics?” + +“Your ethics, my dear Spalding, are where they’ve always been, where you +came from, not here. And if I _was_ what they call a bad man, that’s to +say a bad terrestrial organism, I was a thundering good poet. You say I +slipped in easily; do you suppose it’s easy to be a poet? My dear +fellow, it requires an inflexibility, a purity, a discipline of mind—of +_mind_, remember—that you haven’t any conception of. And surely _you_ +should be the last person in the world to regard mind as an inferior +secondary affair. Anyhow, the consequence is that I’ve not only got into +heaven, I’ve got into one of the best heavens, a heaven reserved +exclusively for the very finest spirits.” + +“Then,” said Mr. Spalding, “if we’re in heaven, who’s in hell?” + +“Couldn’t say for certain. But we shouldn’t put it that way. We should +say: Who’s gone back to earth?” + +“Well—am I likely to meet Uncle Sims, or Aunt Emily, or Tom Rumbold +here? You remember them, Elizabeth?” + +“Oh, yes, I remember. They’d be almost certain to be sent back. They +couldn’t stand eternal things. There’s nothing eternal about meanness +and stupidity and nastiness.” + +“What’ll happen to them, do you suppose?” + +“What should you say, Paul?” + +“I should say they’d suffer damnably till they’d got some bigness and +intelligence and decency knocked into them.” + +“It’ll be a sell for Aunt Emily. She was brought up to believe that +stupidity was no drawback to getting into heaven.” + +“Lots of people,” said Jeffreson, “will be sold. Like my father, the +Dean of Eastminster; he was cocksure he’d get in; but they won’t let +him. And why, do you suppose? Because the poor old boy couldn’t see that +my poems were beautiful. + +“But even that wouldn’t have dished him, if he’d had a passion for +anybody; or if he’d cared two straws about metaphysical truth. Your +truth, Spalding.” + +“Bless me, all our preconceived ideas seem to have been wrong.” + +“Yes. Even I wasn’t prepared for that. By the way, that’s what you got +in on, your passion for truth. It’s like my passion for beauty.” + +“But—aren’t you distressed about your father, Jeffreson?” + +“Oh, no. He’ll get into some heaven or other some day. He’ll find out +that he cares for somebody, perhaps. Then he’ll be all right— But don’t +you want to look about a bit?” + +“I don’t see very much to look at. It strikes me as a bit bare, your +heaven.” + +“Oh, that’s because you’re only at the landing-state.” + +“The landing _what_?” + +“State. What we used to call landing place. Times and spaces here, you +know, are states. States of mind.” + +Mr. Spalding sat up, excited. “But—but that’s what I always said they +were. I and Kant.” + +“Well, you’d better talk to him about it.” + +“Talk to _him_? Shall I see Kant?” + +“Look at him, Elizabeth. _Now_ he’s coming alive— Of course you’ll see +him when you get into your own place—state, I mean. You’d better get up +and come along with me and Elizabeth. We’ll show you round.” + +[Illustration: “_Now_ he’s coming alive—”] + +He rose, they steadied him, and he made his way between them through the +grey immensity, over a half-seen yet perfectly solid tract of something +that he thought of, absurdly, as condensed space. As yet there were no +objects in sight but the figures of Elizabeth and Jeffreson; the +half-seen, yet tangible floor he went on seemed to create itself out of +nothing, under his feet, as the desire to walk arose in him. And as yet +he had felt no interest or curiosity; but as he went on he was aware of +a desire to see things that became more and more urgent. He would see. +He must see. He felt that before him and around him there were endless +things to be seen. His mind strained forwards towards vision. + +And then, suddenly, he saw. + +He saw a landscape more beautiful than anything he could have imagined. +It was, Jeffreson informed him, very like the umbrella pine country +between Florence and Siena. As they came out of it on a great, curving +road they had their faces towards the celestial west. To the south the +land fell away in great red cliffs to a shining, blue sea. Like, +Jeffreson said, the Riviera, the Estérel. West and north the landscape +rolled in green hill after green hill, pine-tufted, to a sweeping +rampart of deep blue; such a rampart, such blue as Mr. Spalding had seen +from the heights above Sidmouth, looking towards Dartmoor. Only this +country had a grace, a harmony of line and colour that gave it an +absolute beauty; and over it there lay a serene, unearthly radiance. + +Before them, on a hill, was an exquisite little white, golden and +rose-red town. + +“You may or may not believe me,” said Jeffreson, “but the beauty of all +this is that I made it. I mean Elizabeth and I made it between us.” + +“You made it?” + +“Made it.” + +“How?” + +“By thinking of it. By wanting it. By imagining it.” + +“But—out of what?” + +“I don’t know and I don’t much care. Our scientists here will tell you +we made it out of the ultimate constituents of matter. Matter, unformed, +only exists for us in its ultimate constituents. Something like +electrons of electrons of electrons. Here we are all suspended in a web, +immersed, if you like, in a sea, an air of this matter. It is utterly +plastic to our imagination and our will. Imperceptible in its unformed +state, it becomes visible and tangible as our minds get to work on it, +and we can make out of it anything we want, including our own bodies. +Only, so far as our imaginations are still under the dominion of our +memories, so far will the things they create resemble the things we knew +on earth. Thus you will notice that while Elizabeth and I are much more +beautiful than we were on earth” (he _had_ noticed it), “because we +desired to be more beautiful, we are still recognizable as Paul and +Elizabeth because our imaginations are controlled by our memories. You +are as you always were, only younger than when we knew you, because your +imagination had nothing but memory to go on. Everything you create here +will probably be a replica of something on earth you remember.” + +“But if I want something new, something beautiful that I haven’t seen +before, can’t I have it?” + +“Of course you can have it. Only, just at first, until your own +imagination develops, you’ll have to come to me or Turner or Michael +Angelo to make it for you.” + +“And will these things that you and Turner and Michael Angelo make for +me be permanent?” + +“Absolutely, unless we unmade them. And I don’t think we should do that +against your will. Anyhow, though we can destroy our own works we can’t +destroy each other’s, that is to say, reduce them to their ultimate +constituents. What’s more, we shouldn’t dream of trying.” + +“Why not?” + +“Because old motives don’t work here. Envy, greed, theft, robbery, +murder, or any sort of destruction, are unknown. They can’t happen. +Nothing alters matter here but mind, and I can’t will your body to come +to pieces so long as you want it to keep together. You can’t destroy it +yourself as you can other things you make, because your need of it is +greater than your need of other things. + +“We can’t thieve or rob for the same reason. Things that belong to us +belong to our state of mind and can’t be torn away from it, so that we +couldn’t remove anything from another person’s state into our own. And +if we could we shouldn’t want to, because each of us can always have +everything he wants. If I like your house or your landscape better than +my own, I can make one for myself just like it. But we don’t do this, +because we’re proud of our individualities here, and would rather have +things different than the same— By the way, as you haven’t got a house +yet, let alone a landscape, you’d better share ours.” + +“That’s very good of you,” Mr. Spalding said. He was thinking of Oxford. +Oxford. Quiet rooms in Balliol. He seemed to hesitate. + +“If you’re still sitting on that old grievance of yours, I tell you, +once for all, Spalding, I’m not going to express any regret. I’m _not_ +sorry, I’m glad I took Elizabeth away from you. I made her more happy +than unhappy even on earth. And please notice it’s I who got her into +heaven, not you. If she’d stayed with you and hated you, as she would +have done, she couldn’t have got in.” + +“I wasn’t thinking of that,” said Mr. Spalding. “I was only wondering +where I could put my landscape.” + +“How do you mean—‘put’ it?” + +“Place it—so as not to interfere with other people’s landscapes.” + +“But how on earth could you interfere? You ‘place’ it, as you call it, +in your own space and in your own time.” His own space, his own time—Mr. +Spalding got more and more excited. + +“But—how?” + +“Oh, I can’t tell you how. It simply happens.” + +“But I want to understand it. I—I _must_ understand.” + +“You shouldn’t put him off like that, Paul,” Elizabeth said. “He always +did want to understand things.” + +“But when I don’t understand them myself—” + +“You’d better take him to Kant, or Hegel.” + +“I should prefer Kant,” said Mr. Spalding. + +“Well, Kant then. You’ll have to get into his state first.” + +“How do I do that?” + +“It’s very simple. You just think him up and ask him if you can come +in.” + +Elizabeth explained. “Like ringing somebody up, you know, and asking if +you can come and call.” + +“Supposing he won’t let me.” + +“Trust him to say so. Of course, we mayn’t get through. He may have +_thought off_.” + +“You can think off, can you?” + +“Yes, that’s how you protect yourself. Otherwise life here would be +unbearable. Just keep quiet for a second, will you?” + +There was an intense silence. Presently Jeffreson said: “Now you’re +through.” + +And Mr. Spalding found himself in a white-washed room, scantily +furnished with three rows of bookshelves, a writing-table, a table set +with mysterious instruments, and two chairs. A shaded lamp on the +writing-table gave light. Mr. Spalding had left the umbrella pine +country blazing with sunlight, but it seemed that Kant’s time was +somewhere about ten o’clock at night. The large window was bared to a +dark-blue sky of stars. + +A little, middle-aged man sat at the writing-table. He wore +eighteenth-century clothes and a tie wig. The face that looked up at Mr. +Spalding was lean and dried, the mouth tight, the eyes shining distantly +with a deep, indrawn intelligence. Mr. Spalding understood that he was +in the presence of Immanuel Kant. + +“You thought me up?” + +“Forgive me. I am James Spalding, a student of philosophy. I was told +that you might, perhaps, be willing to explain to me the—the very +extraordinary conditions in which I find myself.” + +“May I ask, Mr. Spalding, if you have paid any particular attention to +_my_ philosophy?” + +“I am one of your most devoted disciples, sir. I refuse to believe that +philosophy has made any considerable advance since the Critique of Pure +Reason.” + +“T-t-t. My successor, Hegel, made a very considerable advance. If you +have neglected Hegel—” + +“Pardon me, I have not. I was once Hegel’s devoted disciple. An +entrancing fantasy, the Triple Dialectic. But I came to see that yours, +sir, was the safer and the saner system, and that the recurrent tendency +of philosophy must be back to Kant.” + +“Better say Forward with him. If you are indeed my disciple, I do not +think that conditions here should have struck you as extraordinary.” + +“They struck me as an extraordinary confirmation of your theory of space +and time, sir.” + +“They are that. They are that. But they go far beyond anything I ever +dreamed of. It was not in my scheme that the Will—to which, if you +remember, I gave a purely ethical and pragmatical rôle—that the Will and +the imagination of individuals, of you and me, Mr. Spalding, should +create their own space and time, and their own objects in space and +time. I did not anticipate this multiplicity of spaces and times. In my +time there was only one space and one time for everybody. + +“Still, it is a very remarkable confirmation, and you may imagine, Mr. +Spalding, that I was gratified when I first came here to find everybody +talking and thinking correctly about time and space. You will have +noticed that here we say state, meaning state of consciousness, where we +used to say place. In the same way we talk about states of time, meaning +time as a state of consciousness. My present state, you will observe, is +exactly ten minutes past ten by my clock, which is my consciousness. My +consciousness registers time automatically. My own time, mind you, not +other people’s.” + +“But isn’t that frightfully inconvenient? If your time isn’t everybody +else’s time, how on earth—I mean how in heaven—do you keep your +appointments? How do you co-ordinate?” + +“We keep appointments, we co-ordinate, exactly as we used to do, by a +purely arbitrary system. We measure time by space, by events, movements +in space-time. Only, whereas under earthly conditions there was +apparently one earth and one sun, one day and one night for everybody, +here everybody has his own earth, his own sun and his own day and night. +So we are obliged to take an ideal earth and sun, an ideal day and +night. Their revolutions are measured exactly as we measured them on +earth, by the movements of hands on a dial marking minutes and hours. +Only our public clocks have five hands marking the revolutions of weeks, +months and years. That is our public standardized time, and all +appointments are kept, all scientific calculations made by it. The only +difference between heaven and earth is that here public space-time is +regarded as it really is—an unreal, a purely arbitrary and artificial +convention. We know, not as a result of philosophic or mathematical +reasoning, but as part of our ordinary conscious experience, that there +is no absolute space and no absolute time. I would say no _real_ space +and no real time, but that in heaven a state of consciousness carries +its own reality with it as such; and the time state or the space state +is as real as any other. + +“Of course, without an arbitrary public space-time, a public clock, +states of consciousness from individual to individual could never be +co-ordinated. For example, you have come straight from Mr. Jeffreson’s +twelve-noon to my ten o’clock p.m. But the public clock, which you will +see out there in the street—we are in Königsberg; I have no visual +imagination and must rely entirely on memory for my scenery—the public +clock, I say, marks time at a quarter to eight; and if I were asking Mr. +Jeffreson to spend the evening with me, the hour would be fixed for us +by public time at eight. But he would find himself in my time at ten. + +“Now I want to point out to you, Mr. Spalding, that this way of +regarding space and time is not so revolutionary as it may appear. I +said, if you remember, that under terrestrial conditions there was +apparently one earth and one sun, one day and night for everybody. But +really, even then, everybody carried about with him his own private +space and time, and his own private world in space and time. It was +only, even then, by an arbitrary system of mathematical conventions, +mostly geometrical, that all these private times and spaces were +co-ordinated, so as to constitute one universe. Public clock time, based +on the revolutions of bodies in a mathematically determined public +space, was as conventional and relative an affair on earth as it is in +heaven. + +“Our private consciousnesses registered their own times automatically +then as now, by the passage of internal events. If events passed +quickly, our private time outran clock time; if they dragged, it was +behindhand. + +“Thus in dream experience there are many more events to the second than +in waking experience; and consciousness registers by the tick-tick of +events, so that in a dream we may live through crowded hours and days in +the fraction of time that coincides with the knock on the door that +waked us. It is absurd to say that in this case we do not live in two +different time-systems.” + +“Yes, and—” Mr. Spalding cried out excitedly— + +“Einstein has proved that motion in public space-time is a purely +relative and arbitrary thing, and that the velocity, or time value, of a +ray of light moving under different conditions is a constant; when on +any theory of absolute time and absolute motion it should be a variant.” + +“That,” said Kant, “is no more than I should have expected.” + +“You said, sir, that the only distinction between earthly and heavenly +conditions is that this artificial character of standardized space-time +is recognized in heaven and not on earth. I should have said that the +most striking differences were, firstly, that in heaven our experience +is created for us by our imagination and our will, whereas on earth it +was, in your own word, sir, ‘given.’ Secondly that in heaven our states +are not closed as they were on earth, but that anybody can enter anybody +else’s. It seems to me that these differences are so great as to surpass +anything in our experience on earth.” + +“They are not so great,” said Kant, “as all that. In dreaming you +already had an experience of a world created by each person for himself +in a space and time of his own; a world in which you transcended the +conditions of ordinary space and time. In telepathy and clairvoyance you +had experience of entering other people’s states.” + +“But,” Mr. Spalding said, “on earth my consciousness was dependent on a +world apparently outside it, arising presumably in God’s consciousness, +my body being the ostensible medium. Here, on the contrary, I have my +world inside me, created by my consciousness, and my body is not so much +a medium as an accessory after the fact.” + +“And what inference do you draw, Mr. Spalding?” + +“Why, that on earth I was nearer God, more dependent on him than in +heaven. I seem to have become my own God.” + +“Doesn’t it strike you that in becoming more god-like you are actually +nearer God? That in this power of your imagination to conceive, this +freedom of your will to create your universe, God is cutting a clearer +path for himself than through that constrained and obstructed +consciousness you had on earth?” + +“That’s it. When I think of that appalling life of earth, the pain, sir, +the horrible pain, the wickedness, the imbecility, the endless +struggling through blood and filth, and being beaten, I can’t help +wondering how such things can exist in the Absolute, and why the +Absolute shouldn’t have put us—or as you would say, _thought_ us into +this heavenly state from the beginning.” + +“Do you suppose that any finite intelligence—any finite will could have +been trusted, untrained, with the power we have here? Only wills +disciplined by struggling against earth’s evil, only intelligences +braced by wrestling with earth’s problems are fitted to create +universes. You may remember my enthusiasm for the moral law, my +Categorical Imperative? It is not diminished. The moral law still holds +and always will hold on earth. But I see now it is not an end in itself, +only the means to which this power, this freedom is the end. + +“That is how and why pain and evil exist in the Absolute. It is obvious +that they cannot exist in it as such, being purely relative to states of +terrestrial organisms. That is why the comparatively free wills of +terrestrial organisms are permitted to create pain and evil. + +“When you talk of such things existing in the Absolute, unchanged and +unabridged, you are talking nonsense. You are thinking of pain and evil +in terms of one dimension of time and three dimensions of space, by +which they are indefinitely multiplied.” + +“How do you mean—one dimension of time?” + +“I mean time taken as linear extension, the pure succession of past, +present and future. You think of pain and evil as indefinitely +distributed in space and indefinitely repeated in time, whereas in the +idea, which is their form of eternity, at their worst they are not many, +but one.” + +“That doesn’t make them less unbearable.” + +“I am not talking about that. I am talking about their significance for +eternity, or in the Absolute, since you said that was what distressed +you. + +“You will see this for yourself if you will come with me into the state +of three dimensional time.” + +“What’s that?” said Mr. Spalding, deeply intrigued. “That,” said the +philosopher, “is time which is not linear succession, time which has +turned on itself twice to take up the past and future into its present. +For as the point is repeated to form the line of space, so the instant +is repeated to form the linear time of past, present, future. And as the +one-dimensional line turns at right angles to itself to form the +two-dimensional plane, so linear or one-dimensional time turns on itself +to form two-dimensional or plane time, the past-present, or +present-future. And as the plane turns on itself to form the cube, so +past-present and present-future double back to meet each other and form +cubic time, or past-present-future all together. + +“This is the three dimensional state of consciousness we shall have to +think ourselves into.” + +“Do you mean to say that if we get into it we shall have solved the +riddle of the universe?” + +[Illustration] + +“Hardly. The universe is a tremendous jig-saw puzzle. If God wanted to +keep us amused to all eternity, he couldn’t have hit on anything better. +We shall not be able to stay very long, or to take in _all_ +past-present-future at once. But you will see enough to realize what +cubic time is. You will begin with one small cubic section, which will +gradually enlarge until you have taken in as much cubic time as you can +hold together in one duration. + +“Look out through that window. You see that cart coming down the street. +It will have to pass Herr Schmidt’s house opposite and the ‘Prussian +Soldier,’ and that grocer’s shop and the clock before it gets to the +church. + +“Now you’ll see what’ll happen.” + + + III + + +What Mr. Spalding saw was the sudden stoppage of the cart, which now +appeared as standing simultaneously at each station, Herr Schmidt’s +house, the inn, the grocery, the clock, the church and the side street +up which it had not yet turned. + +In this vision solid objects became transparent, so that he saw the side +street through the intervening houses. In the same way, distributed in +space as on a Mercator’s projection, he saw all the subsequent stations +of the cart, up to its arrival in a farmyard between a stable and a +haystack. In the same duration of time, which was his present, he saw +the townspeople moving in their houses, eating, smoking and going to +bed, and the peasants in their farms and cottages, and the household of +the Graf in his castle. These figures retained all their positions while +the amazing experience lasted. + +The scene widened. It became all Königsberg, and Königsberg became all +Prussia, and Prussia all Europe. Mr. Spalding seemed to have eyes at the +sides and back of his head. He saw time rising up round him as an +immense cubic space. He was aware of the French Revolution, the +Napoleonic wars, the Franco-Prussian war, the establishment of the +French Republic, the Boer war, the death of Queen Victoria, the +accession and death of King Edward VII., the accession of King George +V., the Great War, the Russian and German Revolutions, the rise of the +Irish Republic, the Indian Republic, the British Revolution, the British +Republic, the conquest of Japan by America, and the federation of the +United States of Europe and America, all going on at once. + +The scene stretched and stretched, and still Mr. Spalding kept before +him every item as it had first appeared. He was now aware of the vast +periods of geologic time. On the past side he saw the mammoth and the +caveman; on the future he saw the Atlantic flooding the North Sea and +submerging the flats of Lincolnshire, Cambridgeshire, Norfolk, Suffolk, +Essex, and Kent. He saw the giant tree-ferns; he saw the great saurians +trampling the marshlands and sea-beaches of the past. A flight of +fearful pterodactyls darkened the air. And he saw the ice creep down and +down from the poles to the vast temperate zone of Europe, America and +Australasia; he saw men and animals driven before it to the belt of the +equator. + +And now he sank down deeper; he was swept into the stream that flowed, +thudding and throbbing, through all live things; he felt it beat in and +around him, jet after jet from the beating heart of God; he felt the +rising of the sap in trees, the delight of animals at mating-time. He +knew the joy that made Jerry, the black cat, dance on his hind legs and +bow sideways and wave his forelegs like wings. The stars whirled past +him with a noise like violin strings, and through it he heard the voice +of Paul Jeffreson, singing a song. He was aware of an immense, +all-pervading rapture pierced with stabs of pain. At the same time he +was drawn back on the ebb of life into a curious peace. + +His stretch widened. He was present at the beginning and the end. He saw +the earth flung off, an incandescent ball, from the wheeling sun. He saw +it hang like a dead white moon in a sky strewn with the corpses of spent +worlds. But to his surprise he saw no darkness. He learned that light is +older than the suns; that they are born of it, not it of them. The whole +universe stood up on end round him, doubling all its future back upon +all its past. + +He saw the vast planes of time intersecting each other, like the planes +of a sphere, wheeling, turning in and out of each other. He saw other +space and time systems rising up, toppling, enclosing and enclosed. And +as a tiny inset in the immense scene, his own life from birth to the +present moment, together with the events of his heavenly life to come. +In this vision Elizabeth’s adultery, which had once appeared so +monstrous, so overpowering an event, was revealed as slender and +insignificant. + +And now the universe dissolved into the ultimate constituents of matter, +electrons of electrons of electrons, an unseen web, intensely vibrating, +stretched through all space and all time. He saw it sucked back into the +space of space, the time of time, into the thought of God. + +Mr. Spalding was drawn in with it. He passed from God’s immanent to his +transcendent life, into the Absolute. For one moment he thought that +this was death; the next his whole being swelled and went on swelling in +an unspeakable, an unthinkable bliss. + +Joined with him, vibrating with him in one tremendous rapture, were the +spirits of Elizabeth and Paul Jeffreson. He had now no memory of their +adultery or of his own. + +When he came out of his ecstasy he was aware that God was spinning his +thought again, stretching the web of matter through space and time. + +He was going to make another jig-saw puzzle of a universe. + + + PRINTED AT + THE CHAPEL RIVER PRESS, + KINGSTON, SURREY. + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 59165 *** |