by Algernon Blackwood
I'm over forty, Frances, and rather set in my ways,' I said
good-naturedly, ready to yield if she insisted that our going together
on the visit involved her happiness. 'My work is rather heavy just now
too, as you know. The question is, could I work there—with a lot of
unassorted people in the house?'
'Mabel doesn't mention any other people, Bill,' was my sister's
rejoinder. 'I gather she's alone—as well as lonely.'
By the way she looked sideways out of the window at nothing, it was
obvious she was disappointed, but to my surprise she did not urge the
point; and as I glanced at Mrs. Franklyn's invitation lying upon her
sloping lap, the neat, childish handwriting conjured up a mental
picture of the banker's widow, with her timid, insignificant
personality, her pale grey eyes and her expression as of a backward
child. I thought, too, of the roomy country mansion her late husband
had altered to suit his particular needs, and of my visit to it a few
years ago when its barren spaciousness suggested a wing of Kensington
Museum fitted up temporarily as a place to eat and sleep in. Comparing
it mentally with the poky Chelsea flat where I and my sister kept
impecunious house, I realised other points as well. Unworthy details
flashed across me to entice:
the fine library, the organ, the quiet work-room I should have,
perfect service, the delicious cup of early tea, and hot baths at any
moment of the day—without a geyser!
'It's a longish visit, a month—isn't it?' I hedged, smiling at the
details that seduced me, and ashamed of my man's selfishness, yet
knowing that Frances expected it of me. 'There are points about it, I
admit. If you're set on my going with you, I could manage it all
I spoke at length in this way because my sister made no answer. I
saw her tired eyes gazing into the dreariness of Oakley Street and
felt a pang strike through me. After a pause, in which again she said
no word, I added: 'So, when you write the letter, you might hint,
perhaps, that I usually work all the morning, and—er—am not a very
lively visitor! Then she'll understand, you see.' And I half-rose to
return to my diminutive study, where I was slaving, just then, at an
absorbing article on Comparative Aesthetic Values in the Blind and
But Frances did not move. She kept her grey eyes upon Oakley Street
where the evening mist from the river drew mournful perspectives into
view. It was late October. We heard the omnibuses thundering across
the bridge. The monotony of that broad, characterless street seemed
more than usually depressing. Even in June sunshine it was dead, but
with autumn its melancholy soaked into every house between King's Road
and the Embankment. It washed thought into the past, instead of
inviting it hopefully towards the future. For me, its easy width was
an avenue through which nameless slums across the river sent creeping
messages of depression, and I always regarded it as Winter's main
entrance into London—fog, slush, gloom trooped down it every
November, waving their forbidding banners till March came to rout them.
Its one claim upon my love was that the south wind swept sometimes
unobstructed up it, soft with suggestions of the sea. These lugubrious
thoughts I naturally kept to myself, though I never ceased to regret
the little flat whose cheapness had seduced us. Now, as I watched my
sister's.impassive face, I realised that perhaps she, too, felt as I
felt, yet, brave woman, without betraying it.
'And, look here, Fanny,' I said, putting a hand upon her shoulder
as I crossed the room, 'it would be the very thing for you. You're
worn out with catering and housekeeping. Mabel is your oldest friend,
besides, and you've hardly seen her since he died—'
'She's been abroad for a year, Bill, and only just came back,' my
sister interposed. 'She came back rather unexpectedly, though I never
thought she would go there to live—' She stopped abruptly. Clearly,
she was only speaking half her mind. 'Probably,' she went on, 'Mabel
wants to pick up old links again.'
'Naturally,' I put in, 'yourself chief among them.' The veiled
reference to the house I let pass.
It involved discussing the dead man for one thing.
'I feel I ought to go anyhow,' she resumed, 'and of course it would
be jollier if you came too.
You'd get in such a muddle here by yourself, and eat wrong things,
and forget to air the rooms, and—oh, everything!' She looked up
laughing. 'Only,' she added, 'there's the British Museum— ?'
'But there's a big library there', I answered, 'and all the hooks
of reference I could possibly want. It was of you I was thinking. You
could take up your painting again; you always sell half of what you
paint. It would be a splendid rest too, and Sussex is a jolly country
to walk in. By all means, Fanny, I advise—'
Our eyes met, as I stammered in my attempts to avoid expressing the
thought that hid in both our minds. My sister had a weakness for
dabbling in the various 'new' theories of the day, and Mabel, who
before her marriage had belonged to foolish societies for investigating
the future life to the neglect of the present one, had fostered this
undersirable tendency. Her amiable, impressionable temperament was
open to every psychic wind that blew. I deplored, detested the whole
business. But even more than this I abhorred the later influence that
Mr. Franklyn had steeped his wife in, capturing her body and soul in
his sombre doctrines. I had dreaded lest my sister also might be
'Now that she is alone again—'
I stopped short. Our eyes now made pretence impossible, for the
truth had slipped out inevitably, stupidly, although unexpressed in
definite language. We laughed, turning our faces a moment to look at
other things in the room. Frances picked up a book and examined its
cover as though she had made an important discovery, while I took my
case out and lit a cigarette I did not want to smoke. We left the
matter there. I went out of the room before further explanation could
cause tension. Disagreements grow into discord from such tiny
things—wrong adjectives, or a chance inflection of the voice. Frances
had a right to her views of life as much as I had. At least, I
reflected comfortably, we had separated upon an agreement this time,
recognised mutually, though not actually stated.
And this point of meeting was, oddly enough, our way of regarding
some one who was dead.
For we had both disliked the husband with a great dislike, and
during his three years' married life had only been to the house
once—for a weekend visit; arriving late on Saturday, we had left after
an early breakfast on Monday morning. Ascribing my sister's dislike to
a natural jealousy at losing her old friend, I said merely that he
displeased me. Yet we both knew that the real emotion lay much deeper.
Frances, loyal, honourable creature, had kept silence; and beyond
saying that house and grounds—he altered one and laid out the
other—distressed her as an expression of his personality somehow
("distressed" was the word she used), no further explanation had passed
Our dislike of his personality was easily accounted for—up to a
point, since both of us shared the artist's point of view that a
creed, cut to measure and carefully dried, was an ugly thing, and that
a dogma to which believers must subscribe or perish everlastingly was a
barbarism resting upon cruelty. But while my own dislike was purely
due to an abstract worship of Beauty, my sister's had another twist in
it, for with her 'new' tendencies, she believed that all religions were
an aspect of truth and that no one, even the lowest wretch, could
escape 'heaven' in the long run.
Samuel Franklyn, the rich banker, was a man universally respected
and admired, and the marriage, though Mabel was fifteen years his
junior, won general applause; his bride was an heiress in her own
right—breweries—and the story of her conversion at a revivalist
meeting where Samuel Franklyn had spoken fervidly of heaven, and
terrifyingly of sin, hell and damnation, even contained a touch of
genuine romance. She was a brand snatched from the burning; his
detailed eloquence had frightened her into heaven; salvation came in
the nick of time; his words had plucked her from the edge of that lake
of fire and brimstone where their worm dieth not and the fire is not
quenched. She regarded him as a hero, sighed her relief upon his
saintly shoulder, and accepted the peace he offered her with a grateful
For her husband was a 'religious man' who successfully combined
great riches with the glamour of winning souls. He was a portly
figure, though tall, with masterful, big hands, he fingers rather
thick and red; and his dignity, that just escaped being pompous, held
in it something that was implacable. A convinced assurance, almost
remorseless, gleamed in his eyes when he preached especially, and his
threats of hell fire must have scared souls stronger than the timid,
receptive Mabel whom he married. He clad himself in long frock-coats
hat buttoned unevenly, big square boots, and trousers that invariably
bagged at the knee and were a little short; he wore low collars, spats
occasionally, and a tall black hat that was not of silk. His voice was
alternately hard and unctuous; and he regarded theatres, ball-rooms and
race-courses as the vestibule of that brimstone lake of whose
geography he was as positive as of his great banking offices in the
City. A philanthropist up to the hilt, however, no one ever doubted his
complete sincerity; his convictions were ingrained, his faith borne
out by his life—as witness his name upon so many admirable Societes,
as treasurer, patron, or heading the donation list. He bulked large in
the world of doing good, a broad and stately stone in the rampart
against evil. And his heart was genuinely king and soft for
others—who believed as he did.
Yet, in spite of this true sympathy with suffering and his desire
to help, he was narrow as a telegraph wire and unbending as a church
pillar; he was intensely selfish; intolerant as an officer of the
Inquisition, his bourgeois soul constructed a revolting scheme of
heaven that was reproduced in miniature in all he did and planned.
Faith was the sine qua non of salvation, and by 'faith' he meant
belief in his own particular view of things—'which faith, except every
one do keep whole and undefiled, without doubt he shall perish
everlastingly.' All the world but his own small, exclusive sect must
be damned eternally—a pity, but alas, inevitable. He was right.
Yet he prayed without ceasing, and gave heavily to the poor—the
only thing he could not give being big ideas to his provincial and
suburban deity. Pettier than an insect, and more obstinate than a
mule, he had also the superior, sleek humility of a 'chosen one'. He
was churchwarden too. He read the Lesson in a 'place of worship',
either chilly or overheated, where neither organ, vestments, nor
lighted candles were permitted, but where the odour of hair-wash on the
heads in the back rows pervaded the entire building.
This portrait of the banker, who accumulated riches both on earth
and in heaven, may possibly be overdrawn, however, because Frances and
I were 'artistic temperaments' that viewed the type with a dislike and
distrust amounting to contempt. The majority considered Samuel Franklyn
a.worthy man and a good citizen. The majority, doubtless, held the
saner view. A few years more, and he certainly would have been made a
baronet. He relieved much suffering in the world, as assuredly as he
caused many souls the agonies of torturing fear by his emphasis upon
Had there been one point of beauty in him, we might have been more
lenient; only we found it not, and, I admit, took little pains to
search. I shall never forget the look of dour forgiveness with which
he heard our excuses for missing Morning Prayers that Sunday morning of
our single visit to The Towers. My sister learned that a change was
made soon afterwards, prayers being 'conducted' after breakfast
instead of before.
The Towers stood solemnly upon a Sussex hill amid park-like modern
grounds, but the house cannot better be described—it would be so
wearisome for one thing—than by saying that it was a cross between an
overgrown, pretentious Norwood villa and one of those saturnine
Institutes for cripples the train passes as it slinks ashamed through
South London into Surrey. It was 'wealthily' furnished and at first
sight imposing, but on closer acquaintance revealed a meagre
personality, barren and austere. One looked for Rules and Regulations
on the walls, all signed By Order. The place was a prison that shut
out 'the world.' There was, of course, no billiard-room, no
smoking-room, no room for play of any kind, and the great hail at the
back, once a chapel, which might have been used for dancing,
theatricals, or other innocent amusements, was consecrated in his day
to meetings of various kinds, chiefly brigades, temperance or
missionary societies. There was a harmonium at one end—on the level
floor—a raised dais or platform at the other, and a gallery above for
the servants, gardeners and coachmen. It was heated with hot-water
pipes, and hung with Doré's pictures, though these latter were soon
removed and stored out of sight in the attics as being too
unspiritual. In polished, shiny wood, it was a representation in
miniature of that poky exclusive Heaven he took about with him,
externalising it in all he did and planned, even in the grounds about
Changes in The Towers, Frances told me, had been made during
Mabel's year of widowhood abroad—an organ put into the big hall, the
library made liveable and recatalogued— when it was permissible to
suppose she had found her soul again and returned to her normal,
healthy views of life, which included enjoyment and play, literature,
music and the arts, without, however, a touch of that trivial
thoughtlessness usually termed worldliness. Mrs. Franklyn, as I
remembered her, was a quiet little woman, shallow, perhaps, and easily
influenced, but sincere as a dog and thorough in her faithful
Friendship. Her tastes at heart were catholic, and that heart was
simple and unimaginative. That she took up with the various movements
of the day was sign merely that she was searching in her limited way
for a belief that should bring her peace. She was, in fact, a very
ordinary woman, her calibre a little less than that of Frances. I knew
they used to discuss all kinds of theories together, but as these
discussions never resulted in action, I had come to regard her as
harmless. Still, I was not sorry when she married, and I did not
welcome now a renewal of the former intimacy. The philanthropist she
had given no children, or she would have made a good and sensible
mother. No doubt she would marry again.
'Mabel mentions that she's been alone at The Towers since the end
of August,' Frances told me at tea-time; 'and I'm sure she feels out
of it and lonely. It would be a kindness to go. Besides, I always
I agreed. I had recovered from my attack of selfishness. I
expressed my pleasure.
'You've written to accept,' I said, half statement and half
Frances nodded. 'I thanked for you,' she added quietly, 'explaining
that you were not free at the moment, but that later, if not
inconvenient, you might come down for a bit and join me.'
I stared. Frances sometimes had this independent way of deciding
things. I was convicted, and.punished into the bargain.
Of course there followed argument and explanation, as between
brother and sister who were affectionate, but the recording of our
talk could be of little interest. It was arranged thus, Frances and I
both satisfied. Two days later she departed for The Towers, leaving me
alone in the flat with everything planned for my comfort and good
behaviour—she was rather a tyrant in her quiet way—and her last
words as I saw her off from Charing Cross rang in my head for a long
time after she was gone:
'I'll write and let you know, Bill. Eat properly, mind, and let me
know if anything goes wrong.'
She waved her small gloved hand, nodded her head till the feather
brushed the window, and was gone.
After the note announcing her safe arrival a week of silence passed,
and then a letter came; there were various suggestions for my welfare,
and the rest was the usual rambling information and description
Frances loved, generously italicised.
'... and we are quite alone,' she went on in her enormous
handwriting that seemed such a waste of space and labour, 'though some
others are coming presently, I believe. You could work here to your
heart's content. Mabel quite understands, and says she would love to
have you when you feel free to come. She has changed a bit—back to
her old natural self: she never mentions him. The place has changed
too in certain ways: it has more cheerfulness, I think. She has put it
in, this cheerfulness, spaded it in, if you know what I mean; but it
lies about uneasily and is not natural—quite. The organ is a beauty.
She must be very rich now, but she's as gentle and sweet as ever. Do
you know, Bill, I think he must have frightened her into marrying him.
I get the impression she was afraid of him.' This last sentence was
inked out, I but I read it through the scratching; the letters being
too big to hide. 'He had an inflexible will beneath all that oily
kindness which passed for spiritual. He was a real personality, I
mean. I'm sure he'd have sent you and me cheerfully to the stake in
another century—for our own good. Isn't it odd she never speaks of
him, even to me?' This, again, was stroked through, though without the
intention to obliterate— merely because it was repetition, probably.
'The only reminder of him in the house now is a big copy of the
presentation portrait that stands on the stairs of the Multitechnic
Institute at Peckham—you know—that life-size one with his fat hand
sprinkled with rings resting on a thick Bible and the other slipped
between the buttons of a tight frock-coat. It hangs in the dining-room
and rather dominates our meals. I wish Mabel would take it down. I
think she'd like to, if she dared. There's not a single photograph of
him anywhere, even in her own room. Mrs. Marsh is here—you remember
her, his housekeeper, the wife of the man who got penal servitude for
killing a baby or something—you said she robbed him and justified her
stealing because the story of the unjust steward was in the Bible! How
we laughed over that! She's just the same too, gliding about all over
the house and turning up when least expected.'
Other reminiscences filled the next two sides of the letter, and
ran, without a trace of punctuation, into instructions about a
Salamander stove for heating my work-room in the flat; these were
followed by things I was to tell the cook, and by requests for several
articles she had forgotten and would like sent after her, two of them
blouses, with descriptions so lengthy and.contradictory that I sighed
as I read them—'unless you come down soon, in which case perhaps you
wouldn't mind bringing them; not the mauve one I wear in the evening
sometimes, but the pale blue one with lace round the collar and the
crinkly front. They're in the cupboard—or the drawer, I'm not sure
which—of my bedroom. Ask Annie if you're in doubt. Thanks most
Send a telegram, remember, and we'll meet you in the motor any
time. I don't quite know if I shall stay the whole month—alone. It
all depends....' And she closed the letter, the italicised words
increasing recklessly towards the end, with a repetition that Mabel
would love to have me 'for myself,' as also to have a 'man in the
house', and that I only had to telegraph the day and the train....
This letter, coming by the second post, interrupted me in a moment of
absorbing work, and, having read it through to make sure there was
nothing requiring instant attention, I threw it aside and went on with
my notes and reading. Within five minutes, however, it was back at me
again. That restless thing called 'between the lines' fluttered about
my mind. My interest in the Balkan States—political article that had
been 'ordered'—faded. Somewhere, somehow I felt disquieted,
disturbed. At first I persisted in my work, forcing myself to
concentrate, but soon found that a layer of new impressions floated
between the article and my attention. It was like a shadow, though a
shadow that dissolved upon inspection. Once or twice I glanced up,
expecting to find some one in the room, that the door had opened
unobserved and Annie was waiting for instructions. I heard the 'buses
thundering across the bridge. I was aware of Oakley Street.
Montenegro and the blue Adriatic melted into the October haze along
that depressing Embankment that aped a river bank, and sentences from
the letter flashed before my eyes and stung me. Picking it up and
reading it through more carefully, I rang the bell and told Annie to
find the blouses and pack them for the post, showing her finally the
written description, and resenting the superior smile with which she
at once interrupted. 'I know them, sir,' and disappeared.
But it was not the blouses: it was that exasperating thing 'between
the lines' that put an end to my work with its elusive teasing
nuisance. The first sharp impression is alone of value in such a case,
for once analysis begins the imagination constructs all kinds of false
interpretation. The more I thought, the more I grew fuddled. The
letter, it seemed to me, wanted to say another thing; instead the
eight sheets conveyed it merely. It came to the edge of disclosure,
There was something on the writer's mind, and I felt uneasy.
Studying the sentences brought, however, no revelation, but increased
confusion only; for while the uneasiness remained, the first clear
hint had vanished. In the end I closed my books and went out to look up
another matter at the British Museum library. Perhaps I should
discover it that way—by turning the mind in a totally new direction.
I lunched at the Express Dairy in Oxford Street close by, and
telephoned to Annie that I would be home to tea at five.
And at tea, tired physically and mentally after breathing the
exhausted air of the Rotunda for five hours, my mind suddenly
delivered up its original impression, vivid and clear-cut; no proof
accompanied the revelation; it was mere presentiment, but convincing.
Frances was disturbed in her mind, her orderly, sensible, housekeeping
mind; she was uneasy, even perhaps afraid; something in the house
distressed her, and she had need of me. Unless I went down, her time of
rest and change, her quite necessary holiday, in fact, would be
spoilt. She was too unselfish to say this, but it ran everywhere
between the lines. I saw it clearly now. Mrs. Franklyn, moreover—and
that meant Frances too—would like a 'man in the house.' It was a
disagreeable phrase, a suggestive way of hinting something she dared
not state definitely. The two women in that great, lonely barrack of a
house were afraid.
My sense of duty, affection, unselfishness, whatever the composite
emotion may be termed,.was stirred; also my vanity. I acted quickly,
lest reflection should warp clear, decent judgment.
'Annie,' I said, when she answered the bell, 'you need not send
those blouses by the post. I'll take them down tomorrow when I go. I
shall be away a week or two, possibly longer.' And, having looked up a
train, I hastened out to telegraph before I could change my fickle
But no desire came that night to change my mind. I was doing the
right, the necessary thing. I was even in something of a hurry to get
down to The Towers as soon as possible. I chose an early afternoon
A telegram had told me to come to a town ten miles from the house, so
I was saved the crawling train to the local station, and travelled
down by an express. As soon as we left London the fog cleared off, and
an autumn sun, though without heat in it, painted the landscape with
golden browns and yellows. My spirits rose as I lay back in the
luxurious motor and sped between the woods and hedges. Oddly enough,
my anxiety of overnight had disappeared. It was due, no doubt, to that
exaggeration of detail which reflection in loneliness brings. Frances
and I had not been separated for over a year, and her letters from The
Towers told so little. It had seemed unnatural to be deprived of those
intimate particulars of mood and feeling I was accustomed to. We had
such confidence in one another, and our affection was so deep. Though
she was but five years younger than myself, I regarded her as a child.
My attitude was fatherly.
In return, she certainly mothered me with a solicitude that never
cloyed. I felt no desire to marry while she was still alive. She
painted in water-colours with a reasonable success, and kept house for
me; I wrote, reviewed books and lectured on aesthetics; we were a
humdrum couple of quasi-artists, well satisfied with life, and all I
feared for her was that she might become a suffragette or be taken
captive by one of these wild theories that caught her imagination
sometimes, and that Mabel, for one, had fostered. As for myself, no
doubt she deemed me a trifle solid or stolid—I forget which word she
preferred—but on the whole there was just sufficient difference of
opinion to make intercourse suggestive without monotony, and certainly
Drawing in deep draughts of the stinging autumn air, I felt happy
and exhilarated. It was like going for a holiday, with comfort at the
end of the journey instead of bargaining for centimes.
But my heart sank noticeably the moment the house came into view.
The long drive, lined with hostile monkey trees and formal
wellingtonias that were solemn and sedate, was mere extension of the
miniature approach to a thousand semidetached suburban 'residences';
and the appearance of The Towers, as we turned the corner with a rush,
suggested a commonplace climax to a story that had begun
interestingly, almost thrillingly. A villa had escaped from the shadow
of the Crystal Palace, thumped its way down by night, grown suddenly
monstrous in a shower of rich rain, and settled itself insolently to
stay. Ivy climbed about the opulent red-brick walls, but climbed
neatly and with disfiguring effect, sham as on a prison or—the simile
made me smile— an orphan asylum. There was no hint of the comely
roughness of untidy ivy on a ruin. Clipped, trained and precise it
was, as on a brand-new protestant church. I swear there was not a
bird's nest nor a single earwig in it anywhere. About the porch it was
particularly thick, smothering a seventeenth-century lamp with a
contrast that was quite horrible. Extensive glass-houses spread away
on the farther side of the house; the numerous towers to which the
building owed its name seemed made to hold school bells; and the
window-sills, thick with potted flowers, made me.think of the desolate
suburbs of Brighton or Bexhill. In a commanding position upon the crest
of a hill, it overlooked miles of undulating, wooded country
southwards to the Downs, but behind it, to the north, thick banks of
ilex, holly and privet protected it from the cleaner and more
stimulating winds. Hence, though highly placed, it was shut in. Three
years had passed since I last set eyes upon, it, but the unsightly
memory I had retained was justified by the reality. The place was
It is my habit to express my opinions audibly sometimes, when
impressions are strong enough to warrant it; but now I only sighed
'Oh, dear,' as I extricated my legs from many rugs and went into the
house. A tall parlour-maid, with the bearing of a grenadier, received
me, and standing behind her was Mrs. Marsh, the housekeeper, whom I
remembered because her untidy back hair had suggested to me that it
had been burnt. I went at once to my room, my hostess already dressing
for dinner, but Frances came in to see me just as I was struggling with
my black tie that had got tangled like a bootlace. She fastened it for
me in a neat, effective bow, and while I held my chin up for the
operation, staring blankly at the ceiling, the impression came—I
wondered, was it her touch that caused it?—that something in her
trembled. Shrinking perhaps is the truer word. Nothing in her face or
manner betrayed it, nor in her pleasant, easy talk while she tidied my
things and scolded my slovenly packing, as her habit was, questioning
me about the servants at the flat. The blouses, though right, were
crumpled, and my scolding was deserved. There was no impatience even.
Yet somehow or other the suggestion of a shrinking reserve and holding
back reached my mind. She had been lonely, of course, but it was more
than that; she was glad that I had come, yet for some reason unstated
she could have wished that I had stayed away. We discussed the news
that had accumulated during our brief separation, and in doing so the
impression, at best exceedingly slight, was forgotten. My chamber was
large and beautifully furnished; the hall and dining-room of our flat
would have gone into it with a good remainder; yet it was not a place
I could settle down in for work. It conveyed the idea of impermanence,
making me feel transient as in a hotel bedroom. This, of course, was
the fact. But some rooms convey a settled, lasting hospitality even in
a hotel; this one did not; and as I was accustomed to work in the room
I slept in, at least when visiting, a slight frown must have crept
between my eyes.
'Mabel has fitted a work-room for you just out of the library,'
said the clairvoyant Frances.
'No one will disturb you there, and you'll have fifteen thousand
books all catalogued within easy reach. There's a private staircase
too. You can breakfast in your room and slip down in your
dressing-gown if you want to.' She laughed. My spirits took a turn
upwards as adsurdly as they had gone down.
'And how are you?' I asked, giving her a belated kiss. 'It's jolly
to be together again. I did feel rather lost without you, I'll admit.'
'That's natural,' she laughed. 'I'm so glad.'
She looked well and had country colour in her cheeks. She informed
me that she was eating and sleeping well, going out for little walks
with Mabel, painting bits of scenery again, and enjoying a complete
change and rest; and yet, for all her brave description, the word
somehow did not quite ring true. Those last words in particular did
not ring true. There lay in her manner, just out of sight, I felt,
this suggestion of the exact reverse—of unrest, shrinking, almost of
anxiety. Certain small strings in her seemed over-tight. 'Keyed-up'
was the slang expression that crossed my mind. I looked rather
searchingly into her face as she was telling me this.
'Only—the evenings,' she added, noticing my query, yet rather
avoiding my eyes, 'the evenings are—well, rather heavy sometimes, and
I find it difficult to keep awake.'
'The strong air after London makes you drowsy,' I suggested, 'and
you like to get early to bed.'
Frances turned and looked at me for a moment steadily. 'On the
contrary, Bill, I dislike going to bed—here. And Mabel goes so
early.' She said it lightly enough, fingering the disorder upon my
dressing-table in such a stupid way that I saw her mind was working in
another direction altogether. She looked up suddenly with a kind of
nervousness from the brush and scissors.
'Billy,' she said abruptly, lowering her voice, 'isn't it odd, but
I hate sleeping alone here? I can't make it out quite; I've never felt
such a thing before in my life. Do you—think it's all nonsense?'
And she laughed, with her lips but not with her eyes; there was a
note of defiance in her I failed to understand.
'Nothing a nature like yours feels strongly is nonsense, Frances,'
I replied soothingly.
But I, too, answered with my lips only, for another part of my mind
was working elsewhere, and among uncomfortable things. A touch of
bewilderment passed over me. I was not certain how best to continue.
If I laughed she would tell me no more, yet if I took her too seriously
the strings would tighten further. Instinctively, then, this flashed
rapidly across me: that something of what she felt, I had also felt,
though interpreting it differently. Vague it was, as the coming of
rain or storm that announce themselves hours in advance with their
hint of faint, unsettling excitement in the air. I had been but a
short hour in the house—big, comfortable, luxurious house—but had
experienced this sense of being unsettled, unfixed, fluctuating—a kind
of impermanence that transient lodgers in hotels must feel, but that a
guest in a friend's home ought not to feel, be the visit short or
long. To Frances, an impressionable woman, the feeling had come in the
terms of alarm. She disliked sleeping alone, while yet she longed to
sleep. The precise idea in my mind evaded capture, merely brushing
through me, three-quarters out of sight; I realised only that we both
felt the same thing, and that neither of us could get at it dearly.
Degrees of unrest we felt, but the actual thing did not disclose
itself. It did not happen.
I felt strangely at sea for a moment. Frances would interpret
hesitation as endorsement, and encouragement might be the last thing
that could help her.
'Sleeping in a strange house,' I answered at length, 'is often
difficult at first, and one feels lonely. After fifteen months in our
tiny flat one feels lost and uncared-for in a big house. It's an
uncomfortable feeling—I know it well. And this is a barrack, isn't
it? The masses of furniture only make it worse. One feels in storage
somewhere underground—the furniture doesn't furnish.
One must never yield to fancies, though—'
Frances looked away towards the windows; she seemed disappointed a
'After our thickly-populated Chelsea,' I went on quickly, 'it seems
But she did not turn back, and clearly I was saying the wrong
thing. A wave of pity rushed suddenly over me. Was she really
frightened, perhaps? She was imaginative, I knew, but never moody;
common sense was strong in her, though she had her times of
hypersensitiveness. I caught the echo of some unreasoning, big alarm
in her. She stood there, gazing across my balcony towards the sea of
wooded country that spread dim and vague in the obscurity of the dusk.
The deepening shadows entered the room, I fancied, from the grounds
below. Following her abstracted gaze a moment, I experienced a curious
sharp desire to leave, to escape. Out yonder was wind and space and
freedom. This enormous building was oppressive, silent, still.
Great catacombs occured to me, things beneath the ground,
imprisonment and capture. I believe I even shuddered a little.
I touched her shoulder. She turned round slowly, and we looked with
a certain deliberation into each other's eyes.
'Fanny,' I asked, more gravely than I intended, 'you are not
frightened, are you? Nothing has happened, has it?'
She replied with emphasis, 'Of course not! How could it—I mean,
why should I?' She stammered, as though the wrong sentence flustered
her a second. 'It's simply—that I have this ter—this dislike of
Naturally, my first thought was how easy it would be to cut our
visit short. But I did not say this. Had it been a true solution,
Frances would have said it for me long ago.
'Wouldn't Mabel double-up with you?' I said instead, 'or give you
an adjoining room, so that you could leave the door between you open?
There's space enough, heaven knows.'
And then, as the gong sounded in the hall below for dinner, she
said, as with an effort, this thing:
'Mabel did ask me—on the third night—after I had told her. But I
'You'd rather be alone than with her?' I asked, with a certain
Her reply was so gravely given, a child would have known there was
more behind it: 'Not that; but that she did not really want it.'
I had a moment's intuition and acted on it impulsively. 'She feels
it too, perhaps, but wishes to face it by herself—and get over it?'
My sister bowed her head, and the gesture made me realise of a
sudden how grave and solemn our talk had grown, as though some
portentous thing were under discussion. It had come of
itself—indefinite as a gradual change of temperature. Yet neither of
us knew its nature, for apparently neither of us could state it
plainly. Nothing happened, even in our words.
'That was my impression,' she said, '—that if she yields to it she
encourages it. And a habit forms so easily. Just think,' she added
with a faint smile that was the first sign of lightness she had yet
betrayed, 'what a nuisance it would be—everywhere—if everybody was
afraid of being alone—like that.'
I snatched readily at the chance. We laughed a little, though it
was a quiet kind of laughter that seemed wrong. I took her arm and led
her towards the door.
'Disastrous, in fact,' I agreed.
She raised her voice to its normal pitch again, as I had done. 'No
doubt it will pass,' she said, 'now that you have come. Of course,
it's chiefly my imagination.' Her tone was lighter, though nothing
could convince me that the matter itself was light—just then. 'And in
tightening her grip on my arm as we passed into the bright enormous
corridor and caught sight of Mrs. Franklyn waiting in the cheerless
hall below, 'I'm very glad you're here, Bill, and Mabel, I know, is
'If it doesn't pass,' I just had time to whisper with a feeble
attempt at jollity, 'I'll come at night and snore outside your door.
After that you'll be so glad to get rid of me that you won't mind
'That's a bargain,' said Frances.
I shook my hostess by the hand, made a banal remark about the long
interval since last we met, and walked behind them into the great
dining-room, dimly lit by candles, wondering in my heart how long my
sister and I should stay, and why in the world we had ever left our
cosy little flat to enter this desolation of riches and false luxury
at all. The unsightly picture of the late Samuel Franklyn, Esq.,
stared down upon me from the farther end of the room above the mighty
He looked, I thought, like some pompous Heavenly Butler who denied
to all the world, and to us in particular, the right of entry without
presentation cards signed by his hand as proof that we belonged to his
own exclusive set. The majority, to his deep grief, and in spite of all
his.prayers on their behalf, must burn and 'perish everlastingly.'
With the instinct of the healthy bachelor I always try to make myself
a nest in the place I live in, be it for long or short. Whether
visiting, in lodging-house, or in hotel, the first essential is this
nest—one's own things built into the walls as a bird builds in its
feathers. It may look desolate and uncomfortable enough to others,
because the central detail is neither bed nor wardrobe, sofa nor
arm-chair, but a good solid writing-table that does not wriggle, and
that has wide elbow-room.
And The Towers is vividly described for me by the single fact that
I could not 'nest' there.
I took several days to discover this, but the first impression of
impermanence was truer than I knew. The feathers of the mind refused
here to lie one way. They ruffled, pointed and grew wild.
Luxurious furniture does not mean comfort; I might as well have
tried to settle down in the sofa and arm-chair department of a big
shop. My bedroom was easily managed; it was the private workroom,
prepared especially for my reception, that made me feel alien and
Externally, it was all one could desire: an ante-chamber to the
great library, with not one, but two generous oak tables, to say
nothing of smaller ones against the walls with capacious drawers.
There were reading-desks, mechanical devices for holding books,
perfect light, quiet as in a church, and no approach but across the
huge adjoining room. Yet it did not invite.
'I hope you'll be able to work here,' said my little hostess the
next morning, as she took me in—her only visit to it while I stayed
in the house—and showed me the ten-volume Catalogue.
'It's absolutely quiet and no one will disturb you.'
'If you can't, Bill, you're not much good,' laughed Frances, who
was on her arm. 'Even I could write in a study like this!'
I glanced with pleasure at the ample tables, the sheets of thick
blotting-paper, the rulers, sealing-wax, paper-knives, and all the
other immaculate paraphernalia. 'It's perfect,' I answered with a
secret thrill, yet feeling a little foolish. This was for Gibbon or
Carlyle, rather than for my pot-boiling insignificancies. 'If I can't
write masterpieces here, it's certainly not your fault,' and I turned
with gratitude to Mrs. Franklyn. She was looking straight at me, and
there was a question in her small pale eyes I did not understand. Was
she noting the effect upon me, I wondered?
'You'll write here—perhaps a story about the house,' she said,
'Thompson will bring you anything you want; you only have to ring.'
She pointed to the electric bell on the central table, the wire
running neatly down the leg. 'No one has ever worked here before, and
the library has been hardly used since it was put in. So there's no
previous atmosphere to affect your imagination—er—adversely.'
We laughed. 'Bill isn't that sort,' said my sister; while I wished
they would go out and leave me to arrange my little nest and set to
I thought, of course, it was the huge listening library that made
me feel so inconsiderable—the fifteen thousand silent, staring books,
the solemn aisles, the deep, eloquent shelves. But when the women had
gone and I was alone, the beginning of the truth crept over me, and I
felt that first hint of disconsolateness which later became an
imperative No. The mind shut down, images ceased to rise and flow. I
read, made copious notes, but I wrote no single line at The Towers.
Nothing completed itself there. Nothing happened.
The morning sunshine poured into the library through ten long narrow
windows; birds were singing; the autumn air, rich with a faint aroma
of November melancholy that stung the imagination pleasantly, filled
my ante-chamber. I looked out upon the undulating wooded landscape,
hemmed in by the sweep of distant Downs, and I tasted a whiff of the
sea. Rooks cawed as they floated above the elms, and there were lazy
cows in the nearer meadows. A dozen times I tried to make my nest and
settle down to work, and a dozen times, like a turning fastidious dog
upon a hearth-rug, I rearranged my chair and books and papers. The
temptation of the Catalogue and shelves, of course, was accountable
for much, yet not, I felt, for all. That was a manageable seduction.
My work, moreover, was not of the creative kind that requires absolute
absorption; it was the mere readable presentation of data I had
accumulated. My note-books were charged with facts ready to tabulate—
facts, too, that interested me keenly. A mere effort of the will was
necessary, and concentration of no difficult kind. Yet, somehow, it
seemed beyond me:
something for ever pushed the facts into disorder… and in the end I
sat in the sunshine, dipping into a dozen books selected from the
shelves outside, vexed with myself and only half-enjoying it. I felt
restless. I wanted to be elsewhere.
And even while I read, attention wandered. Frances, Mabel, her late
husband, the house and grounds, each in turn and sometimes all
together, rose uninvited into the stream of thought, hindering any
consecutive flow of work. In disconnected fashion came these pictures
that interrupted concentration, yet presenting themselves as broken
fragments of a bigger thing my mind already groped for unconsciously.
They fluttered round this hidden thing of which they were aspects,
fugitive interpretations, no one of them bringing complete revelation.
There was no adjective, such as pleasant or unpleasant, that I could
attach to what I felt, beyond that the result was unsettling. Vague as
the atmosphere of a dream, it yet persisted, and I could not dissipate
Isolated words or phrases in the lines I read sent questions
scouring across my mind, sure sign that the deeper part of me was
restless and ill at ease.
Rather trivial questions too—half-foolish interrogations, as of a
puzzled or curious child: Why was my sister afraid to sleep alone, and
why did her friend feel a similar repugnance, yet seek to conquer it?
Why was the solid luxury of the house without comfort, its shelter
without the sense of permanence? Why had Mrs. Franklyn asked us to
come, artists, unbelieving vagabonds, types at the farthest possible
remove from the saved sheep of her husband's household? Had a reaction
set in against the hysteria of her conversion? I had seen no signs of
religious fervour in her; her atmosphere was that of an ordinary,
high-minded woman, yet a woman of the world. Lifeless, though, a
little, perhaps, now that I came to think about it: she had made no
definite impression upon me of any kind. And my thoughts ran vaguely
after this fragile clue.
Closing my book, I let them run. For, with this chance reflection
came the discovery that I could not see her clearly—could not feel
her soul, her personality. Her face, her small pale eyes, her dress
and body and walk, all these stood before me like a photograph; but her
Self evaded me. She seemed not there, lifeless, empty, a
shadow—nothing. The picture was disagreeable, and I put it by.
Instantly she melted out, as though light thought had conjured up a
phantom that had no real existence. And at that very moment,
singularly enough, my eye caught sight of her moving past the window,
going silently along the gravel path. I watched her, a sudden new
sensation gripping me. 'There goes a prisoner,' my thought instantly
ran, 'one who wishes to escape, but cannot.'
What brought the outlandish notion, heaven only knows. The house
was of her own choice, she was twice an heiress, and the world lay
open at her feet. Yet she stayed—unhappy, frightened, caught. All
this flashed over me, and made a sharp impression even before I had
time.to dismiss it as absurd. But a moment later explanation offered
itself, though it seemed as far-fetched as the original impression. My
mind, being logical, was obliged to provide something, apparently. For
Mrs. Franklyn, while dressed to go out, with thick walking-boots, a
pointed stick, and a motor-cap tied on with a veil as for the windy
lanes, was obviously content to go no farther than the little garden
paths. The costume was a sham and a pretence. lt was this, and her
lithe, quick movements that suggested a caged creature—a creature
tamed by fear and cruelty that cloaked themselves in kindness—pacing
up and down, unable to realise why it got no farther, but always met
the same bars in exactly the same place. The mind in her was barred.
I watched her go along the paths and down the steps from one
terrace to another, until the laurels hid her altogether; and into
this mere imagining of a moment came a hint of something slightly
disagreeable, for which my mind, search as it would, found no
explanation at all. I remembered then certain other little things.
They dropped into the picture of their own accord. In a mind not
deliberately hunting for clues, pieces of a puzzle sometimes come
together in this way, bringing revelation, so that for a second there
flashed across me, vanishing instantly again before I could consider
it, a large, distressing thought. I can only describe vaguely as a
Dark and ugly, oppressive certainly it might be described, with
something torn and dreadful about the edges that suggested pain and
strife and terror. The interior of a prison with two rows of occupied
condemned cells, seen years ago in New York, sprang to memory after
it—the connection between the two impossible to surmise even. But the
'certain other little things'
mentioned above were these: that Mrs. Franklyn, in last night's
dinner talk, had always referred to 'this house', but never called it
'home'; and had emphasised unnecessarily, for a well-bred woman, our
'great kindness' in coming down to stay so long with her. Another time,
in answer to my futile compliment about the 'stately rooms', she said
quietly, 'It is an enormous house for so small a party; but I stay
here very little, and only till I get it straight again.' The three of
us were going up the great staircase to bed as this was said, and, not
knowing quite her meaning, I dropped the subject. It edged delicate
ground, I felt. Frances added no word of her own. It now occurred to
me abruptly that 'stay' was the word made use of, when 'live' would
have been more natural. How insignificant to recall! Yet why did they
suggest themselves just at this moment?...
And, on going to Frances's room to make sure she was not nervous or
lonely, I realised abruptly, that Mrs. Franklyn, of course, had talked
with her in a confidential sense that I, as a mere visiting brother,
could not share. Frances had told me nothing. I might easily have
wormed it out of her, had I not felt that for us to discuss further
our hostess and her house merely because we were under the roof
together, was not quite nice or loyal.
'I'll call you, Bill, if I'm scared,' she had laughed as we parted,
my room being just across the big corridor from her own. I had fallen
asleep, thinking what in the world was meant by 'getting it straight
And now in my ante-chamber to the library, on the second morning,
sitting among piles of foolscap and sheets of spotless blotting-paper,
all useless to me, these slight hints came back and helped to frame
the big, vague Shadow I have mentioned. Up to the neck in this Shadow,
almost drowned, yet just treading water, stood the figure of my
hostess in her walking costume. Frances and I seemed swimming to her
aid. The Shadow was large enough to include both house and grounds,
but farther than that I could not see.... Dismissing it, I fell to
reading my purloined book again. Before I turned another page,
however, another startling detail leaped out at me: the figure of Mrs.
Franklyn in the Shadow was not living. It floated helplessly, like a
doll or puppet that has no life in it. It was both pathetic and
Any one who sits in reverie thus, of course, may see similar
ridiculous pictures when the will.no longer guides construction. The
incongruities of dreams are thus explained. I merely record the
picture as it came. That it remained by me for several days, just as
vivid dreams do, is neither here nor there. I did not allow myself to
dwell upon it. The curious thing, perhaps, is that from this moment I
date my inclination, though not yet my desire, to leave. I purposely
say 'to leave.'
I cannot quite remember when the word changed to that aggressive,
frantic thing which is escape.
We were left delightfully to ourselves in this pretentious country
mansion with the soul of a villa. Frances took up her painting again,
and, the weather being propitious, spent hours out of doors, sketching
flowers, trees and nooks of woodland, garden, even the house itself
where bits of it peered suggestively across the orchards. Mrs.
Franklyn seemed always busy about something or other, and never
interfered with us except to propose motoring, tea in another part of
the lawn, and so forth. She flitted everywhere, preoccupied, yet
apparently doing nothing. The house engulfed her rather. No visitor
called. For one thing, she was not supposed to be back from abroad
yet; and for another, I think, the neighbourhood—her husband's
neighbourhood—was puzzled by her sudden cessation from good works.
Brigades and temperance societies did not ask to hold their meetings
in the big hall, and the vicar arranged the school-treats in another's
field without explanation. The full-length portrait in the
dining-room, and the presence of the housekeeper with the 'burnt'
backhair, indeed, were the only reminders of the man who once had
lived here. Mrs. Marsh retained her place in silence, well-paid
sinecure as it doubtless was, yet with no hint of that suppressed
disapproval one might have expected from her. Indeed there was nothing
positive to disapprove, since nothing 'worldly' entered grounds or
building. In her master's lifetime she had been another 'brand
snatched from the burning', and it had then been her custom to give
vociferous 'testimony' at the revival meetings where he adorned the
platform and led in streams of prayer. I saw her sometimes on the
stairs, hovering, wandering, half-watching and half-listening, and the
idea came to me once that this woman somehow formed a link with the
departed influence of her bigoted employer. She, alone among us,
belonged to the house, and looked at home there. When I saw her
talking—oh, with such correct and respectful mien—to Mrs. Franklyn,
I had the feeling that for all her unaggressive attitude, she yet
exerted some influence that sought to make her mistress stay in the
building for ever—live there. She would prevent her escape, prevent
'getting it straight again,' thwart somehow her will to freedom, if
she could. The idea in me was of the most fleeting kind. But another
time, when I came down late at night to get a book from the library
ante-chamber, and found her sitting in the hall—alone—the impression
left upon me was the reverse of fleeting. I can never forget the
vivid, disagreeable effect it produced upon me. What was she doing
there at half-past eleven at night, all alone in the darkness? She was
sitting upright, stiff, in a big chair below the clock. It gave me a
turn. It was so incongruous and odd. She rose quietly as I turned the
corner of the stairs, and asked me respectfully, her eyes cast down as
usual, whether I had finished with the library, so that she might lock
up. There was no more to it than that; but the picture stayed with
These various impressions came to me at odd moments, of course, and
not in a single sequence as I now relate them. I was hard at work
before three days were past, not writing, as explained,.but reading,
making notes, and gathering material from the library for future use.
It was in chance moments that these curious flashes came, catching me
unawares with a touch of surprise that sometimes made me start. For
they proved that my under-mind was still conscious of the Shadow, and
that far away out of sight lay the cause of it that left me with a
vague unrest, unsettled, seeking to 'nest' in a place that did not
want me. Only when this deeper part knows harmony, perhaps, can good
brain work result, and my inability to write was thus explained.
Certainly, I was always seeking for something here I could not
find—an explanation that continually evaded me. Nothing but these
trivial hints offered themselves. Lumped together, however, they had
the effect of defining the Shadow a little. I became more and more
aware of its very real existence. And, if I have made little mention
of Frances and my hostess in this connection, it is because they
contributed at first little or nothing towards the discovery of what
this story tries to tell. Our life was wholly external, normal, quiet,
and uneventful; conversation banal—Mrs. Franklyn's conversation in
particular. They said nothing that suggested revelation.
Both were in this Shadow, and both knew that they were in it, but
neither betrayed by word or act a hint of interpretation. They talked
privately, no doubt, but of that I can report no details.
And so it was that, after ten days of a very commonplace visit, I
found myself looking straight into the face of a Strangeness that
defied capture at dose quarters. 'There's something here that never
happens,' were the words that rose in my mind, 'and that's why none of
us can speak of it.'
And as I looked out of the window and watched the vulgar
blackbirds, with toes turned in, boring out their worms, I realised
sharply that even they, as indeed everything large and small in the
house and grounds, shared this strangeness, and were twisted out of
normal appearance because of it. Life, as expressed in the entire
place, was crumpled, dwarfed, emasculated. God's meanings here were
crippled, His love of joy was stunted. Nothing in the garden danced or
There was hate in it. 'The Shadow,' my thought hurried on to
completion, 'is a manifestation of hate; and hate is the Devil.' And
then I sat back frightened in my chair, for I knew that I had partly
found the truth.
Leaving my books I went out into the open. The sky was overcast,
yet the day by no means gloomy, for a soft, diffused light oozed
through the clouds and turned all things warm and almost summery. But
I saw the grounds now in their nakedness because I understood. Hate
means strife, and the two together weave the robe that terror wears.
Having no so-called religious beliefs myself, nor belonging to any set
of dogmas called a creed, I could stand outside these feelings and
observe. Yet they soaked into me sufficiently for me to grasp
sympathetically what others, with more cabined souls (I flattered
myself), might feel. That picture in the dining-room stalked
everywhere, hid behind every tree, peered down upon me from the peaked
ugliness of the bourgeois towers, and left the impress of its powerful
hand upon every bed of flowers. 'You must not do this, you must not do
that,' went past me through the air. 'You must not leave these narrow
paths,' said the rigid iron railings of black. 'You shall not walk
here,' was written on the lawns. 'Keep to the steps,' 'Don't pick the
flowers; make no noise of laughter, singing, dancing,'
was placarded all over the rose-garden, and 'Trespassers will
be—not prosecuted but— destroyed' hung from the crest of monkey-tree
and holly. Guarding the ends of each artificial terrace stood gaunt,
implacable policemen, warders, gaolers. 'Come with us,' they chanted,
'or be damned eternally.'
I remember feeling quite pleased with myself that I had discovered
this obvious explanation of the prison-feeling the place breathed out.
That the posthumous influence of heavy old Samuel Franklyn might be an
inadequate solution did not occur to me. By 'getting the place straight
again,' his widow, of course, meant forgetting the glamour of fear and
foreboding his depressing.creed had temporarily forced upon her; and
Frances, delicately-minded being, did not speak of it because it was
the influence of the man her friend had loved. I felt lighter; a load
was lifted from me. 'To trace the unfamiliar to the familiar,' came
back a sentence I had read somewhere, 'is to understand.' It was a
real relief. I could talk with Frances now, even with my hostess, no
danger of treading clumsily. For the key was in my hands. I might even
help to dissipate the Shadow, 'to get it straight again.' It seemed,
perhaps, our long invitation was explained!
I went into the house laughing—at myself a little. 'Perhaps after
all the artist's outlook, with no hard and fast dogmas, is as narrow
as the others! How small humanity is! And why is there no possible and
true combination of all outlooks?'
The feeling of 'unsettling' was very strong in me just then, in
spite of my big discovery which was to clear everything up. And at the
moment I ran into Frances on the stairs, with a portfolio of sketches
under her arm.
It came across me then abruptly that, although she had worked a
great deal since we came, she had shown me nothing. It struck me
suddenly as odd, unnatural. The way she tried to pass me now confirmed
my new-born suspicion that—well, that her results were hardly what
they ought to be.
'Stand and deliver!' I laughed, stepping in front of her. 'I've
seen nothing you've done since you've been here, and as a rule you
show me all your things. I believe they are atrocious and degrading!'
Then my laughter froze.
She made a sly gesture to slip past me, and I almost decided to let
her go, for the expression that flashed across her face shocked me.
She looked uncomfortable and ashamed; the colour came and went a
moment in he cheeks, making me think of a child detected in some secret
naughtiness. It was almost fear.
'It's because they're not finished then?' I said, dropping the tone
of banter, 'or because they're too good for me to understand?' For my
criticism of painting, she told me, was crude and ignorant sometimes.
'But you'll let me see them later, won't you?'
Frances, however, did not take the way of escape I offered. She
changed her mind. She drew the portfolio from beneath her arm instead.
'You can see them if you really want to, Bill,' she said quietly, and
her tone reminded me of a nurse who says to a boy just grown out of
childhood, 'you are old enough now to look upon horror and
ugliness—only I don't advise it.'
'I do want to,' I said, and made to go downstairs with her. But,
instead, she said in the same low voice as before, 'Come up to my
room, we shall be undisturbed there.' So I guessed that she had been
on her way to show the paintings to our hostess, but did not care for
us all three to see them together. My mind worked furiously.
'Mabel asked me to do them,' she explained in a tone of submissive
horror, once the door was shut, 'in fact, she begged it of me. You
know how persistent she is in her quiet way. I—er—had to.'
She flushed and opened the portfolio on the little table by the
window, standing behind me as I turned the sketches over-sketches of
the grounds and trees and garden. In the first moment of 'inspection,
however, I did not take in clearly why my sister's sense of modesty had
been offended. For my attention flashed a second elsewhere. Another
bit of the puzzle had dropped into place, defining still further the
nature of what I called 'the Shadow'. Mrs. Franklyn, I now remembered,
has suggested to me in the library that I might perhaps write something
about the place, and I had taken it for one of her banal sentences and
paid no further attention. I realised now that it was said in earnest.
She wanted our interpretations, as expressed in our respective
'talents', painting and writing. Her invitation was explained. She
left us to ourselves on purpose.
'I should like to tear them up,' Frances was whispering behind me
with a shudder, 'only I promised—' She hesitated a moment.
'Promised not to?' I asked with a queer feeling of distress, my
eyes glued to the papers.
'Promised always to show them to her first,' she finished so low I
barely caught it.
I have no intuitive, immediate grasp of the value of paintings;
results come to me slowly, and though every one believes his own
judgment to be good, I dare not claim that mine is worth more than
that of any other layman, Frances had too often convicted me of gross
ignorance and error. I can only say that I examined these sketches
with a feeling of amazement that contained revulsion, if not actually
horror and disgust. They were outrageous. I felt hot for my sister, and
it was a relief to know she had moved across the room on some pretence
or other, and did not examine them with me. Her talent, of course, is
mediocre, yet she has her moments of inspiration —moments, that is to
say, when a view of Beauty not normally her own flames divinely through
her. And these interpretations struck me forcibly as being thus
'inspired'—not her own. They were uncommonly well done; they were
also atrocious. The meaning in them, however, was never more than
hinted. There the unholy skill and power came in: they suggested so
abominably, leaving most to the imagination. To find such significance
in a bourgeois villa garden, and to interpret it with such delicate
yet legible certainty, was a kind of symbolism that was sinister, even
diabolical. The delicacy was her own, but the point of view was
And the word that rose in my mind was not the gross description of
'impure', but the more fundamental qualification—'un-pure'.
In silence I turned the sketches over one by one, as a boy hurries
through the pages of an evil book lest he be caught.
'What does Mabel do with them?' I asked presently in a low tone, as
I neared the end. 'Does she keep them?'
'She makes notes about them in a book and then destroys them,' was
the reply from the end of the room. I heard a sigh of relief. 'I'm
glad you've seen them, Bill. I wanted you to— but was afraid to show
them. You understand?'
'I understand,' was my reply, though it was not a question intended
to be answered. All I understood really was that Mabel's mind was as
sweet and pure as my sister's, and that she had some good reason for
what she did. She destroyed the sketches, but first made notes! It was
an interpretation of the place she sought. Brother-like, I felt
resentment, though, that Frances should waste her time and talent,
when she might be doing work that she could sell. Naturally, I felt
other things as well....
'Mabel pays me five guineas for each one,' I heard. 'Absolutely
I stared at her stupidly a moment, bereft of speech or wit. 'I must
either accept, or go away,'
she went on calmly, but a little white. 'I've tried everything.
There was a scene the third day I was here—when I showed her my first
result. I wanted to write to you, but hesitated—'
'It's unintentional, then, on your part—forgive my asking it,
Frances, dear?' I blundered, hardly knowing what to think or say.
'Between the lines' of her letter came back to me. 'I mean, you make
the sketches in your ordinary way and—the result comes out of itself,
so to speak?'
She nodded, throwing her hands out like a Frenchman. 'We needn't
keep the money for ourselves, Bill. We can give it away, but—I must
either accept or leave,' and she repeated the shrugging gesture. She
sat down on the chair facing me, staring helplessly at the carpet.
'You say there was a scene?' I went on presently, 'She insisted?'
'She begged me to continue,' my sister replied very quietly. 'She
thinks—that is, she has an idea or theory that there's something
about the place—something she can't get at quite.' Frances.stammered
badly. She knew I did not encourage her wild theories.
'Something she feels—yes,' I helped her, more than curious.
'Oh, you know what I mean, Bill,' she said desperately. 'That the
place is saturated with some influence that she is herself too
positive or too stupid to interpret. She's trying to make herself
negative and receptive, as she calls it, but can't, of course,
succeed. Haven't you noticed how dull and impersonal and insipid she
seems, as though she had no personality? She thinks impressions will
come to her that way. But they don't—'
'So she's trying me—us—what she calls the sensitive and
impressionable artistic temperament. She says that until she is sure
exactly what this influence is, she can't fight it, turn it out, "get
the house straight", as she phrases it.
Remembering my own singular impressions, I felt more lenient than I
might otherwise have done. I tried to keep impatience out of my voice.
'And this influence, what—whose is it?'
We used the pronoun that followed in the same breath, for I
answered my own question at the same moment as she did:
'His.' Our heads nodded involuntarily towards the floor, the
dining-room being directly underneath.
And my heart sank, my curiosity died away on the instant; I felt
bored. A commonplace haunted house was the last thing in the world to
amuse or interest me. The mere thought exasperated, with its
suggestions of imagination, overwrought nerves, hysteria, and the rest.
Mingled with my other feelings was certainly disappointment. To see
a figure or feel a 'presence', and report from day to day strange
incidents to each other would be a form of weariness I could never
'But really, Frances,' I said firmly, after a moment's pause, 'it's
too far-fetched, this explanation. A curse, you know, belongs to the
ghost stories of early Victorian days.' And only my positive
conviction that there was something after all worth discovering, and
that it most certainly was not this, prevented my suggesting that we
terminate our visit forthwith, or as soon as we decently could. 'This
is not a haunted house, whatever it is,' I concluded somewhat
vehemently, bringing my hand down upon her odious portfolio.
My sister's reply revived my curiosity sharply.
'I was waiting for you to say that. Mabel says exactly the same. He
is in it—but it's something more than that alone, something far
bigger and more complicated.' Her sentence seemed to indicate the
sketches, and though I caught the inference I did not take it up,
having no desire to discuss them with her just them indeed, if ever.
I merely stared at her and listened. Questions, I felt sure, would
be of little use. It was better she should say her thought in her own
'He is one influence, the most recent,' she went on slowly, and
always very calmly, 'but there are others—deeper layers, as it
were—underneath. If his were the only one, something would happen.
But nothing ever does happen. The others hinder and prevent—as though
each were struggling to predominate.'
I had felt it already myself. The idea was rather horrible. I
'That's what is so ugly about it—that nothing ever happens,' she
said. 'There is this endless anticipation—always on the dry edge of a
result that never materialises. It is torture. Mabel is at her wits'
end, you see. And when she begged me—what I felt about my sketches—I
She stammered badly as before.
I stopped her. I had judged too hastily. That queer symbolism in her
paintings, pagan and yet not innocent, was, I understood, the result
of mixture. I did not pretend to understand, but at least I could be
patient. I consequently held my peace. We did talk on a little longer,
but it was more general talk that avoided successfully our hostess,
the paintings, wild theories, and him—until at length the emotion
Frances had hitherto so successfully kept under burst vehemently forth
It had hidden between her calm sentences, as it had hidden between
the lines of her letter. It swept her now from head to foot, packed
tight in the thing she then said.
'Then, Bill, if it is not an ordinary haunted house,' she asked,
'what is it?'
The words were commonplace enough. The emotion was in the tone of
her voice that trembled; in the gesture she made, leaning forward and
clasping both hands upon her knees, and in the slight blanching of her
cheeks as her brave eyes asked the question and searched my own with
anxiety that bordered upon panic. In that moment she put herself under
my protection. I winced.
'And why,' she added, lowering her voice to a still and furtive
whisper, 'does nothing ever happen? If only,'—this with great
emphasis—'something would happen—break this awful tension—bring
relief. It's the waiting I cannot stand.' And she shivered all over as
she said it, a touch of wildness in her eyes.
I would have given much to have made a true and satisfactory
answer. My mind searched frantically for a moment, but in vain. There
lay no sufficient answer in me. I felt what she felt, though with
differences. No conclusive explanation lay within reach. Nothing
happened. Eager as I was to shoot the entire business into the rubbish
heap where ignorance and superstition discharge their poisonous weeds,
I could not honestly accomplish this. To treat Frances as a child, and
merely 'explain away' would be to strain her confidence in my
protection, so affectionately claimed. It would further be dishonest
to myself—weak, besides—to deny that I had also felt the strain and
tension even as she did. While my mind continued searching, I returned
her stare in silence; and Frances then, with more honesty and insight
than my own, gave suddenly the answer herself—an answer whose truth
and adequacy, so far as they went, I could not readily gainsay:
'I think, Bill, because it is too big to happen here—to happen
anywhere, indeed, all at once— and too awful!'
To have tossed the sentence aside as nonsense, argued it away,
proved that it was really meaningless, would have been easy—at any
other time or in any other place; and, had the past week brought me
none of the vivid impressions it had brought me, this is doubtless what
I should have done. My narrowness again was proved. We understand in
others only what we have in ourselves. But her explanation, in a
measure, I knew was true. It hinted at the strife and struggle that my
notion of a Shadow had seemed to cover thinly.
'Perhaps,' I murmured lamely, waiting in vain for her to say more.
'But you said just now that you felt the thing was "in layers", as it
were. Do you mean each one—each influence— fighting for the upper
I used her phraseology to conceal my own poverty. Terminology,
after all, was nothing, provided we could reach the idea itself.
Her eyes said yes. She had her clear conception, arrived at
independently, as was her way.
And, unlike her sex, she kept it clear, unsmothered by too many
'One set of influences gets at me, another gets at you. It's
according to our temperaments, I think.' She glanced significantly at
the vile portfolio. 'Sometimes they are mixed—and therefore false.
There has always been in me, more than in you, the pagan thing,
perhaps, though never,.thank God, like that.'
The frank confession of course invited my own, as it was meant to
do. Yet it was difficult to find the words.
'What I have felt in this place, Frances, I honestly can hardly
tell you, because—er—my impressions have not arranged themselves in
any definite form I can describe. The strife, the agony of
vainly-sought escape, and the unrest—a sort of prison atmosphere—this
I have felt at different times and with varying degrees of strength.
But I find, as yet, no final label to attach. I couldn't say pagan,
Christian, or anything like that, I mean, as you do. As with the blind
and deaf, you may have an intensification of certain senses denied to
me, or even another sense altogether in embryo—'
'Perhaps,' she stopped me, anxious to keep to the point, 'you feel
it as Mabel does. She feels the whole thing complete.'
'That also is possible,' I said very slowly. I was thinking behind
my words. Her odd remark that it was 'big and awful' came back upon me
as true. A vast sensation of distress and discomfort swept me
suddenly. Pity was in it, and a fierce contempt, a savage, bitter anger
as well. Fury against some sham authority was part of it.
'Frances,' I said, caught unawares, and dropping all pretence,
'what in the world can it be?' I looked hard at her. For some minutes
neither of us spoke.
'Have you felt no desire to interpret it?' she asked presently,
'Mabel did suggest my writing something about the house,' was my
reply, 'but I've felt nothing imperative. That sort of writing is not
my line, you know. My only feeling,' I added, noticing that she waited
for more, 'is the impulse to explain, discover, get it out of me
somehow, and so get rid of it. Not by writing, though—as yet.' And
again I repeated my former question:
'What in the world do you think it is?' My voice had become
involuntarily hushed. There was awe in it.
Her answer, given with slow emphasis, brought back all my reserve:
the phraseology provoked me rather:— 'Whatever it is, Bill, it is
not of God.'
I got up to go downstairs. I believe I shrugged my shoulders.
'Would you like to leave, Frances? Shall we go back to town?' I
suggested this at the door, and hearing no immediate reply, I turned
back to look. Frances was sitting with her head bowed over and buried
in her hands. The attitude horribly suggested tears. No woman, I
realised, can keep back the pressure of strong emotion as long as
Frances had done, without ending in a fluid collapse. I waited a
moment uneasily, longing to comfort, yet afraid to act—and in this
way discovered the existence of the appalling emotion in myself,
hitherto but half guessed. At all costs a scene must be prevented: it
would involve such exaggeration and over-statement. Brutally, such is
the weakness of the ordinary man, I turned the handle to go out, but
my sister then raised her head. The sunlight caught her face, framed
untidily in its auburn hair, and I saw her wonderful expression with a
start. Pity, tenderness and sympathy shone in it like a flame. It was
undeniable. There shone through all her features the imperishable love
and yearning to sacrifice self for others which I have seen in only
one type of human being. It was the great mother look.
'We must stay by Mabel and help her get it straight,' she
whispered, making the decision for us both.
I murmured agreement. Abashed and half ashamed, I stole softly from
the room and went out into the grounds. And the first thing clearly
realised when alone was this: that the long scene between us was
without definite result. The exchange of confidence was really nothing
but hints.and vague suggestion. We had decided to stay, but it was a
negative decision not to leave rather than a positive action. All our
words and questions, our guesses, inferences, explanations, our most
subtle allusions and insinuations, even the odious paintings
themselves, were without definite result. Nothing had happened.
And instinctively, once alone, I made for the places where she had
painted her extraordinary pictures; I tried to see what she had seen.
Perhaps, now that she had opened my mind to another view, I should be
sensitive to some similar interpretation—and possibly by way of
literary expression. If I were to write about the place, I asked
myself, how should I treat it? I deliberately invited an
interpretation in the way that came easiest to me—writing.
But in this case there came no such revelation. Looking closely at
the trees and flowers, the bits of lawn and terrace, the rose-garden
and corner of the house where the flaming creeper hung so thickly, I
discovered nothing of the odious, unpure thing her colour and grouping
had unconsciously revealed. At first, that is, I discovered nothing.
The reality stood there, commonplace and ugly, side by side with her
distorted version of it that lay in my mind. It seemed incredible. I
tried to force it, but in vain. My imagination, ploughed less deeply
than hers, or to another pattern, grew different seed. Where I saw the
gross soul of an overgrown suburban garden, inspired by the spirit of
a vulgar, rich revivalist who loved to preach damnation, she saw this
rush of pagan liberty and joy, this strange licence of primitive flesh
which, tainted by the other, produced the adulterated, vile result.
Certain things, however, gradually then became apparent, forcing
themselves upon me, willy nilly. They came slowly, but overwhelmingly.
Not that facts had changed, or natural details altered in the
grounds—this was impossible—but that I noticed for the first time
various aspects I had not noticed before—trivial enough, yet for me,
just then, significant. Some I remembered from previous days; others I
saw now as I wandered to and fro, uneasy, uncomfortable,—almost, it
seemed, watched by some one who took note of my impressions. The
details were so foolish, the total result so formidable. I was half
aware that others tried hard to make me see. It was de-liberate.
My sister's phrase, 'one layer got at me, another gets at you',
flashed, undesired, upon me.
For I saw, as with the eyes of a child, what I can only call a
goblin garden—house, grounds, trees, and flowers belonged to a goblin
world that children enter through the pages of their fairy tales. And
what made me first aware of it was the whisper of the wind behind me,
so that I turned with a sudden start, feeling that something had moved
closer. An old ash tree, ugly and ungainly, had been artificially
trained to form an arbour at one end of the terrace that was a tennis
lawn, and the leaves of it now went rustling together, swishing as
they rose and fell. I looked at the ash tree, and felt as though I had
passed that moment between doors into this goblin garden that crouched
behind the real one. Below, at a deeper layer perhaps, lay hidden the
one my sister had entered.
To deal with my own, however, I call it goblin, because an odd
aspect of the quaint in it yet never quite achieved the picturesque.
Grotesque, probably, is the truer word, for everywhere I noticed, and
for the first time, this slight alteration of the natural due either to
the exaggeration of some detail, or to its suppression, generally, I
think, to the latter. Life everywhere appeared to me.as blocked from
the full delivery of its sweet and lovely message. Some counter
influence stopped it—suppression; or sent it awry—exaggeration. The
house itself, mere expression, of course, of a narrow, limited mind,
was sheer ugliness; it required no further explanation. With the
grounds and garden, so far as shape and general plan were concerned,
this was also true; but that trees and flowers and other natural
details should share the same deficiency perplexed my logical soul,
and even dismayed it. I stood and stared, then moved about, and stood
and stared again. Everywhere was this mockery of a sinister,
unfinished aspect. I sought in vain to recover my normal point of
view. My mind had found this goblin garden and wandered to and fro in
it, unable to escape.
The change was in myself, of course, and so trivial were the
details which illustrated it, that they sound absurd, thus mentioned
one by one. For me, they proved it, is all I can affirm. The goblin
touch lay plainly everywhere: in the forms of the trees, planted at
neat intervals along the lawns; in this twisted ash that rustled just
behind me; in the shadow of the gloomy wellingtonias, whose sweeping
skirts obscured the grass; but especially, I noticed, in the tops and
crests of them. For here, the delicate, graceful curves of last year's
growth seemed to shrink back into themselves. None of them pointed
upwards. Their life had failed and turned aside just when it should
have become triumphant. The character of a tree reveals itself chiefly
at the extremities, and it was precisely here that they all drooped
and achieved this hint of goblin distortion—in the growth, that is,
of the last few years. What ought to have been fairy, joyful, natural,
was instead uncomely to the verge of the grotesque. Spontaneous
expression was arrested. My mind perceived a goblin garden, and was
caught in it. The place grimaced at me.
With the flowers it was similar, though far more difficult to
detect in detail for description. I saw the smaller vegetable growth
as impish, half-malicious. Even the terraces sloped ill, as though
their ends had sagged since they had been so lavishiy constructed;
their varying angles gave a queerly bewildering aspect to their
sequence that was unpleasant to the eye. One might wander among their
deceptive lengths and get lost—lost among open terraces!—with the
house quite close at hand. Unhomely seemed the entire garden, unable
to give repose, restlessness in it everywhere, almost strife, and
Moreover, the garden grew into the house, the house into the
garden, and in both was this idea of resistance to the natural—the
spirit that says No to joy. All over it I was aware of the effort to
achieve another end, the struggle to burst forth and escape into free,
spontaneous expression that should be happy and natural, yet the
effort for ever frustrated by the weight of this dark shadow that
rendered it abortive. Life crawled aside into a channel that was a
cul-de-sac, then turned horribly upon itself. Instead of blossom and
fruit, there were weeds. This approach of life I was conscious
of—then dismal failure. There was no fulfilment. Nothing happened.
And so, through this singular mood, I came a little nearer to
understand the unpure thing that had stammered out into expression
through my sister's talent. For the unpure is merely negative; it has
no existence; it is but the cramped expression of what is true,
stammering its way brokenly over false boundaries that seek to limit
and confine. Great, full expression of anything is pure, whereas here
was only the incomplete, unfinished, and therefore ugly. There was a
strife and pain and desire to escape. I found myself shrinking from
house and grounds as one shrinks from the touch of the mentally
arrested, those in whom life has turned awry. There was almost
mutilation in it.
Past items, too, now flocked to confirm this feeling that I walked,
liberty captured and half-maimed, in a monstrous garden. I remembered
days of rain that refreshed the countryside, but left these grounds,
cracked with the summer heat, unsatisfied and thirsty; and how the big
winds,.that cleaned the woods and fields elsewhere, crawled here with
difficulty through the dense foliage that protected The Towers from
the North and West and East. They were ineffective, sluggish currents.
There was no real wind. Nothing happened. I began to realise—far more
clearly than in my sister's fanciful explanation about 'layers'—that
here were many contrary influences at work, mutually destructive of
one another. House and grounds were not haunted merely; they were the
arena of past thinking and feeling, perhaps of terrible, impure
beliefs, each striving to suppress the others, yet no one of them
achieving supremacy because no one of them was strong enough, no one
of them was true. Each, moreover, tried to win me over, though only
one was able to reach my mind at all. For some obscure
reason—possibly because my temperament had a natural bias towards the
grotesque—it was the goblin layer. With me, it was the line of least
In my own thoughts this 'goblin garden' revealed, of course, merely
my personal interpretation. I felt now objectively what long ago my
mind had felt subjectively. My work, essential sign of spontaneous
life with me, had stopped dead; production had become impossible.
I stood now considerably closer to the cause of this sterility. The
Cause, rather, turned bolder, had stepped insolently nearer. Nothing
happened anywhere; house, garden, mind alike were barren, abortive,
torn by the strife of frustrate impulse, ugly, hateful, sinful. Yet
behind it all was still the desire of life—desire to
escape—accomplish. Hope—an intolerable hope—I became startlingly
aware— crowned torture.
And, realising this, though in some part of me where Reason lost
her hold, there rose upon me then another and a darker thing that
caught me by the throat and made me shrink with a sense of revulsion
that touched actual loathing. I knew instantly whence it came, this
wave of abhorrence and disgust, for even while I saw red and felt
revolt rise in me, it seemed that I grew partially aware of the layer
next below the goblin. I perceived the existence of this deeper
stratum. One opened the way for the other, as it were. There were so
many, yet all inter-related; to admit one was to clear the way for
all. If I lingered I should be caught—horribly. They struggled with
such violence for supremacy among themselves, however, that this
latest uprising was instantly smothered and crushed back, though not
before a glimpse had been revealed to me, and the redness in my
thoughts transferred itself to colour my surroundings thickly and
appallingly— with blood. This lurid aspect drenched the garden,
smeared the terraces, lent to the very soil a tinge as of sacrificial
rites, that choked the breath in me, while it seemed to fix me to the
earth my feet so longed to leave. It was so revolting that at the same
time I felt a dreadful curiosity as of fascination—I wished to stay.
Between these contrary impulses I think I actually reeled a moment,
transfixed by a fascination of the Awful. Through the lighter goblin
veil I felt myself sinking down, down, down into this turgid layer
that was so much more violent and so much more ancient. The upper
layer, indeed, seemed fairy by comparison with this terror born of the
lust for blood, thick with the anguish of human sacrificial victims.
Upper! Then I was already sinking; my feet were caught; I was
actually in it! What atavistic strain, hidden deep within me, had been
touched into vile response, giving this flash of intuitive
comprehension, I cannot say. The coatings laid on by civilisation are
probably thin enough in all of us. I made a supreme effort. The sun
and wind came back. I could almost swear I opened my eyes. Something
very atrocious surged back into the depths, carrying with it a thought
of tangled woods, of big stones standing in a circle, motionless,
white figures, the one form bound with ropes, and the ghastly gleam of
the knife. Like smoke upon a battlefield, it rolled away....
I was standing on the gravel path below the second terrace when the
familiar goblin garden danced back again, doubly grotesque now, doubly
mocking, yet, by way of contrast, almost.welcome. My glimpse into the
depths was momentary, it seems, and had passed utterly away.
The common world rushed back with a sense of glad relief, yet
ominous now for ever, I felt, for the knowledge of what its past had
built upon. In street, in theatre, in the festivities of friends, in
music-room or playing-field, even indeed in church—how could the
memory of what I had seen and felt leave its hideous trace? The very
structure of my Thought, it seemed to me, was stained.
What has been thought by others can never be obliterated until....
With a start my reverie broke and fled, scattered by a violent
sound that I recognised for the first time in my life as wholly
desirable. The returning motor meant that my hostess was back.
Yet, so urgent had been my temporary obsession, that my first
presentation of her was—well, not as I knew her now. Floating along
with a face of anguished torture I saw Mabel, a mere effigy captured
by others' thinking, pass down into those depths of fire and blood that
only just had closed beneath my feet. She dipped away. She vanished,
her fading eyes turned to the last towards some saviour who had failed
her. And that strange intolerable hope was in her face.
The mystery of the place was pretty thick about me just then. It
was the fall of dusk, and the ghost of slanting sunshine was as unreal
as though badly painted. The garden stood at attention all about me. I
cannot explain it, but I can tell it, I think, exactly as it happened,
for it remains vivid in me for ever—that, for the first time,
something almost happened, myself apparently the combining link
through which it pressed towards delivery:
I had already turned towards the house. In my mind were
pictures—not actual thoughts—of the motor, tea on the verandah, my
sister, Mabel—when there came behind me this tumultuous, awful
rush—as I left the garden. The ugliness, the pain, the striving to
escape, the whole negative and suppressed agony that was the Place,
focused that second into a concentrated effort to produce a result. It
was a blinding tempest of long-frustrate desire that heaved at me,
surging appallingly behind me like an anguished mob. I was in the act
of crossing the frontier into my normal self again, when it came,
catching fearfully at my skrits. I might use an entire dictionary of
descriptive adjectives yet come no nearer to it than this—the
conception of a huge assemblage determined to escape with me, or to
snatch me back among themselves. My legs trembled for an instant, and
I caught my breath—then turned and ran as fast as possible up the ugly
At the same instant, as though the clanging of an iron gate cut
short the unfinished phrase, I thought the beginning of an awful
Like this it rushed after me from that goblin garden that had
sought to keep me:
For there was sound in it. I know full well it was subjective, not
actually heard at all; yet somehow sound was in it—a great volume,
roaring and booming thunderously, far away, and below me. The sentence
dipped back into the depths that gave it birth, unfinished. Its
completion was prevented. As usual, nothing happened. But it drove
behind me like a hurricane as I ran towards the house, and the sound
of it I can only liken to those terrible undertones you may hear
standing beside Niagara. They lie behind the mere crash of the falling
flood, within it somehow, not audible to all—felt rather than
It seemed to echo back from the surface of those sagging terraces
as I flew across their sloping ends, for it was somehow underneath
them. It was in the rustle of the wind that stirred the skirts of the
drooping wellingtonias. The beds of formal flowers passed it on to the
creepers, red as blood, that crept over the unsightly building. Into
the structure of the vulgar and forbidding house it sank away; The
Towers took it home. The uncomely doors and windows seemed almost like
mouths that had uttered the words themselves, and on the upper floors
at that very moment I.saw two maids in the act of closing them again.
And on the verandah, as I arrived breathless, and shaken in my
soul, Frances and Mabel, standing by the tea-table, looked up to greet
me. In the faces of both were clearly legible the signs of shock. They
watched me coming, yet so full of their own distress that they hardly
noticed the state in which I came. In the face of my hostess, however,
I read another and a bigger thing than in the face of Frances. Mabel
knew. She had experienced what I had experienced. She had heard that
awful sentence I had heard but heard it not for the first time; heard
it, moreover, I verily believe, complete and to its dreadful end.
'Bill, did you hear that curious noise just now?' Frances asked it
sharply before I could say a word. Her manner was confused; she looked
straight at me; and there was a tremor in her voice she could not
'There's wind about,' I said, 'wind in the trees and sweeping round
the walls. It's risen rather suddenly.' My voice faltered rather.
'No. It wasn't wind,' she insisted, with a significance meant for
me alone, but badly hidden. 'It was more like distant thunder, we
thought. How you ran too!' she added. 'What a pace you came across the
I knew instantly from the way she said it that they both had
already heard the sound before and were anxious to know if I had heard
it, and how. My interpretation was what they sought.
'It was a curiously deep sound, I admit. It may have been big guns
at sea,' I suggested, 'forts or cruisers practising. The coast isn't
so very far, and with the wind in the right direction—'
The expression on Mabel's face stopped me dead.
'Like huge doors closing,' she said softly in her colourless voice,
'enormous metal doors shutting against a mass of people clamouring to
get out.' The gravity, the note of hopelessness in her tones, was
Frances had gone into the house the instant Mabel began to speak.
'I'm cold,' she had said; 'I think I'll get a shawl.' Mabel and I were
alone. I believe it was the first time we had been really alone since
I arrived. She looked up from the teacups, fixing her pallid eyes on
mine. She had made a question of the sentence.
'You hear it like that?' I asked innocently. I purposely used the
She changed her stare from one eye to the other; it was absolutely
expressionless. My sister's step sounded on the floor of the room
'If only—' Mabel began, then stopped, and my own feelings leaping
out instinctively completed the sentence I felt was in her mind:
'—something would happen.'
She instantly corrected me. I had caught her thought, yet somehow
phrased it wrongly.
'We could escape!' She lowered her tone a little, saying it
hurriedly. The 'we' amazed and horrified me; but something in her
voice and manner struck me utterly dumb. There was ice and terror in
it. It was a dying woman speaking— a lost and hopeless soul.
In that atrocious moment I hardly noticed what was said exactly,
but I remember that my sister returned with a grey shawl about her
shoulders, and that Mabel said, in her ordinary voice again, 'It is
chilly, yes; let's have tea inside,' and that two maids, one of them
the grenadier, speedily carried the loaded trays into the morning-room
and put a match to the logs in the great open fireplace. It was, after
all, foolish to risk the sharp evening air, for dusk was falling
steadily, and even the sunshine of the day just fading could not turn
autumn into summer. I was the last to come in. Just as I left the
verandah a large black bird swooped down in front of me past the
pillars; it dropped from overhead, swerved abruptly to one side as it
caught sight of me, and.flapped heavily towards the shrubberies on the
left of the terraces, where it disappeared into the gloom. It flew
very low, very close. And it startled me, I think because in some way
it seemed like my Shadow materialised—as though the dark horror that
was rising everywhere from house and garden, then settling back so
thickly yet so imperceptibly upon us all, were incarnated in that
whirring creature that passed between the daylight and the coming
I stood a moment, wondering if it would appear again, before I
followed the others indoors, and as I was in the act of closing the
windows after me, I caught a glimpse of a figure on the lawn. It was
some distance away, on the other side of the shrubberies, in fact where
the bird had vanished. But in spite of the twilight that half
magnified, half obscured it, the identity was unmistakable. I knew the
housekeeper's stiff walk too well to be deceived. 'Mrs. Marsh taking
the air,' I said to myself. I felt the necessity of saying it, and I
wondered why she was doing so at this particular hour. If I had other
thoughts they were so vague, and so quickly and utterly suppressed,
that I cannot recall them sufficiently to relate them here.
And, once indoors, it was to be expected that there would come
explanation, discussion, conversation, at any rate, regarding the
singular noise and its cause, some uttered evidence of the mood that
had been strong enough to drive us all inside. Yet there was none. Each
of us purposely, and with various skill, ignored it. We talked little,
and when we did it was of anything in the world but that. Personally,
I experienced a touch of that same bewilderment which had come over me
during my first talk with Frances on the evening of my arrival, for I
recall now the acute tension, and the hope, yet dread, that one or
other of us must sooner or later introduce the subject. It did not
happen, however; no reference was made to it even remotely. It was the
presence of Mabel, I felt positive, that prohibited. As soon might we
have discussed Death in the bedroom of a dying woman.
The only scrap of conversation I remember, where all was ordinary
and commonplace, was when Mabel spoke casually to the grenadier asking
why Mrs. Marsh had omitted to do something or other—what it was I
forget—and that the maid replied respectfully that 'Mrs.
Marsh was very sorry, but her 'and still pained her.' I enquired,
though so casually that I scarcely know what prompted the words,
whether she had injured herself severely, and the reply, 'She upset a
lamp and burnt herself,' was said in a tone that made me feel my
curiosity was indiscreet, 'but she always has an excuse for not doing
things she ought to do.' The little bit of conversation remained with
me, and I remember particularly the quick way Frances interrupted and
turned the talk upon the delinquencies of servants in general, telling
incidents of her own at our flat with a volubility that perhaps seemed
forced, and that certainly did not encourage general talk as it may
have been intended to do. We lapsed into silence immediately she
But for all our care and all our calculated silence, each knew that
something had, in these last moments, come very close; it had brushed
us in passing; it had retired; and I am inclined to think now that the
large dark thing I saw, riding the dusk, probably bird of prey, was in
some sense a symbol of it in my mind—that actually there had been no
bird at all, I mean, but that my mood of apprehension and dismay had
formed the vivid picture in my thoughts. It had swept past us, it had
retreated, but it was now, at this moment, in hiding very close. And it
was watching us.
Perhaps, too, it was mere coincidence that I encountered Mrs.
Marsh, his housekeeper, several times that evening in the short
interval between tea and dinner, and that on each occasion the sight
of this gaunt, half-saturnine woman fed my prejudice against her. Once,
on my way to the telephone. I ran into her just where the passage is
somewhat jammed by a square table carrying the Chinese gong, a
grandfather's clock and a box of croquet mallets. We both gave way,
then.both advanced, then again gave way—simultaneously. It seemed,
impossible to pass. We stepped with decision to the same side, finally
colliding in the middle, while saying those futile little things, half
apology, half excuse, that are inevitable at such times. In the end she
stood upright against the wall for me to pass, taking her place
against the very door I wished to open. It was ludicrous.
'Excuse me—I was just going in—to telephone,' I explained. And
she sidled off, murmuring apologies, but opening the door for me while
she did so. Our hands met a moment on the handle.
There was a second's awkwardness—it was too stupid. I remembered
her injury, and by way of something to say, I enquired after it. She
thanked me; it was entirely healed now, but it might have been much
worse; and there was something about the 'mercy of the Lord' that I
didn't quite catch. While telephoning, however—a London call, and my
attention focused on it—I realised sharply that this was the first
time I had spoken with her; also, that I had— touched her.
It happened to be a Sunday, and the lines were clear. I got my
connection quickly, and the incident was forgotten while my thoughts
went up to London. On my way upstairs, then, the woman came back into
my mind, so that I recalled other things about her—how she seemed all
over the house, in unlikely places often; how I had caught her sitting
in the hail alone that night; how she was for ever coming and going
with her lugubrious visage and that untidy hair at the back that had
made me laugh three years ago with the idea that it looked singed or
burnt; and how the impression on my first arrival at The Towers was
that this woman somehow kept alive, though its evidence was outwardly
suppressed, the influence of her late employer and of his sombre
teachings. Somewhere with her was associated the idea of punishment,
vindictiveness, revenge. I remembered again suddenly my odd notion
that she sought to keep her present mistress here, a prisoner in this
bleak and comfortless house, and that really, in spite of her
obsequious silence, she was intensely opposed to the change of thought
that had reclaimed Mabel to a happier view of life.
All this in a passing second flashed in review before me, and I
discovered, or at any rate reconstructed, the real Mrs. Marsh. She was
decidedly in the Shadow. More, she stood in the forefront of it,
stealthily leading an assault, as it were, against The Towers and its
occupants, as though, consciously or unconsciously, she laboured
incessantly to this hateful end.
I can only judge that some state of nervousness in me permitted the
series of insignificant thoughts to assume this dramatic shape, and
that what had gone before prepared the way and led her up at the head
of so formidable a procession. I relate it exactly as it came to me. My
nerves were doubtless somewhat on edge by now. Otherwise I should
hardly have been a prey to the exaggeration at all. I seemed open to
so many strange, impressions.
Nothing else, perhaps, can explain my ridiculous conversation with
her, when, for the third time that evening, I came suddenly upon the
woman half-way down the stairs, standing by an open window as if in
the act of listening. She was dressed in black, a black shawl over her
square shoulders and black gloves on her big, broad hands. Two black
objects, prayerbooks apparently, she clasped, and on her head she wore
a bonnet with shaking beads of jet. At first I did not know her, as I
came running down upon her from the landing; it was only when she stood
aside to let me pass that I saw her profile against the tapestry and
recognised Mrs. Marsh. And to catch her on the front stairs, dressed
like this, struck me as incongruous—impertiment. I paused in my
dangerous descent. Through the opened window came the sound of
bells—church bells—a sound more depressing to me than superstition,
and as nauseating. Though the action was ill-judged, I obeyed the
sudden prompting—was it a secret desire to attack, perhaps?—and spoke
'Been to church, I suppose, Mrs. Marsh?' I said. 'Or just going,
Her face, as she looked up a second to reply, was like an iron doll
that moved its lips and turned its eyes, but made no other imitation
of life at all.
'Some of us still goes, sir,' she said unctuously.
It was respectful enough, yet the implied judgment of the rest of
the world made me almost angry. A deferential insolence lay behind the
'For those who believe no doubt it is helpful,' I smiled. 'True
religion brings peace and happiness, I'm sure—joy, Mrs. Marsh, joy!'
I found keen satisfaction in the emphasis.
She looked at me like a knife. I cannot describe the implacable
thing that shone in her fixed, stern eyes, nor the shadow of felt
darkness that stole across her face. She glittered. I felt hate in
her. I knew—she knew too—who was in the thoughts of us both at that
She replied softly, never forgetting her place for an instant:
'There is joy, sir—in 'eaven—over one sinner that repenteth, and
in church there goes up prayer to Gawd for those 'oo—well, for the
others, sir, 'oo—'
She cut short her sentence thus. The gloom about her as she said it
was like the gloom about a hearse, a tomb, a darkness of great
hopeless dungeons. My tongue ran on of itself with a kind of bitter
'We must believe there are no others, Mrs. Marsh. Salvation, you
know, would be such a failure if there were. No merciful,
all-foreseeing God could ever have devised such a fearful plan—'
Her voice, interrupting me, seemed to rise out of the bowels of the
'They rejected the salvation when it was offered to them, sir, on
'But you wouldn't have them tortured for ever because of one
mistake in ignorance,' I said, fixing her with my eye. 'Come now,
would you, Mrs. Marsh? No God worth worshipping could permit such
cruelty. Think a moment what it means.'
She stared at me, a curious expression in her stupid eyes. It
seemed to me as though the 'woman' in her revolted, while yet she
dared not suffer her grim belief to trip. That is, she would willingly
have had it otherwise but for a terror that prevented.
'We may pray for them, sir, and we do—we may 'ope'. She dropped
her eyes to the carpet.
'Good, good!' I put in cheerfully, sorry now that I had spoken at
all. 'That's more hopeful, at any rate isn't it?'
She murmured something about Abraham's bosom, and the 'time of
salvation not being for ever,' as I tried to pass her. Then a half
gesture that she made stopped me. There was something more she wished
to say—to ask. She looked up furtively. In her eyes I saw the 'woman'
peering out through fear.
'Per'aps, sir.' she faltered, as though lightning must strike her
dead, 'per'aps, would you think, a drop of cold water, given in His
name, might moisten—?'
But I stopped her, for the foolish talk had lasted long enough. 'Of
course,' I exclaimed, 'of course. For God is love, remember, and love
means charity, tolerance, sympathy, and sparing others pain,' and I
hurried past her, determined to end the outrageous conversation for
which yet I knew myself entirely to blame. Behind me, she stood
stock-still for several minutes, half bewildered, half alarmed, as I
suspected. I caught the fragment of another sentence, one word of it,
rather— 'punishment'—but the rest escaped me. Her arrogance and
condescending tolerance exasperated me, while I was at the same time
secretly pleased that I might have touched some string of remorse or
sympathy in her after all. Her belief was iron; she dared not let it
go; yet somewhere underneath there lurked the germ of a wholesome
revulsion. She would help.'them'—if she dared. Her question proved it.
Half ashamed of myself, I turned and crossed the hail quickly lest
I should be tempted to say more, and in me was a disagreeable
sensation as though I had just left the Incurable Ward of some great
hospital. A reaction caught me as of nausea. Ugh! I wanted such people
cleansed by fire. They seemed to me as centres of contamination whose
vicious thoughts flowed out to stain God's glorious world. I saw
myself, Frances, Mabel too especially, on the rack, while that odious
figure of cruelty and darkness stood over us and ordered the awful
handles turned in order that we might be 'saved'—forced, that is, to
think and believe exactly as she thought and believed.
I found relief for my somewhat childish indignation by letting
myself loose upon the organ then. The flood of Bach and Beethoven
brought back the sense of proportion. It proved, however, at the same
time that there had been this growth of distortion in me, and that it
had been provided apparently by my closer contact—for the first
time—with that funereal personality, the woman who, like her master,
believed that all holding views of God that differed from her own,
must be damned eternally. It gave me, moreover, some faint clue
perhaps, though a clue I was unequal of following up, to the nature of
the strife and terror and frustrate influence in the house. That
housekeeper had to do with it. She kept it alive. Her thought was like
a spell she waved above her mistress's head.
That night I was wakened by a hurried tapping at my door, and before I
could answer, Frances stood beside my bed. She had switched on the
light as she came in. Her hair fell straggling over her dressing-gown.
Her face was deathly pale, its expression so distraught it was almost
The eyes were very wide. She looked almost like another woman.
She was whispering at a great pace: 'Bill, Bill, wake up, quick!'
'I am awake. What is it?' I whispered too. I was startled.
'Listen!' was all she said. Her eyes stared into vacancy.
There was not a sound in the great house. The wind had dropped, and
all was still. Only the tapping seemed to continue endlessly in my
brain. The clock on the mantelpiece pointed to half-past two.
'I heard nothing, Frances. What is it?' I rubbed my eyes; I had
been very deeply asleep.
'Listen!' she repeated very softly, holding up one finger and
turning her eyes towards the door she had left ajar. Her usual
calmness had deserted her. She was in the grip of some distressing
For a full minute we held our breath and listened. Then her eyes
rolled round again and met my own, and her skin went even whiter than
'It woke me,' she said beneath her breath, and moving a step nearer
to my bed. 'It was the Noise.' Even her whisper trembled.
'The Noise!' The word repeated itself dully of its own accord. I
would rather it had been anything in the world but that—earthquake,
foreign cannon, collapse of the house above our heads! 'The Noise,
Frances I Are you sure?' I was playing really for a little time.
'It was like thunder. At first I thought it was thunder. But a
minute later it came again—from underground. It's appalling.' She
muttered the words, her voice not properly under control.
There was a pause of perhaps a minute, and then we both spoke at
once. We said foolish,.obvious things that neither of us believed in
for a second. The roof had fallen in, there were burglars downstairs,
the safes had been blown open. It was to comfort each other as children
do that we said these things; also it was to gain further time.
'There's some one in the house, of course,' I heard my voice say
finally, as I sprang out of bed and hurried into dressing-gown and
slippers. 'Don't be alarmed. I'll go down and see,' and from the
drawer I took a pistol it was my habit to carry everywhere with me. I
loaded it carefully while Frances stood stock-still beside the bed and
watched. I moved towards the open door.
'You stay here, Frances,' I whispered, the beating of my heart
making the words uneven, 'while I go down and make a search. Lock
yourself in, girl. Nothing can happen to you. It was downstairs, you
'Underneath,' she answered faintly, pointing through the floor.
She moved suddenly between me and the door.
'Listen! Hark!' she said, the eyes in her face quite fixed; 'it's
coming again,' and she turned her head to catch the slightest sound. I
stood there watching her, and while I watched her, shook.
But nothing stirred. From the halls below rose only the whirr and
quiet ticking of the numerous clocks. The blind by the open window
behind us flapped out a little into the room as the draught caught it.
'I'll come with you, Bill—to the next floor,' she broke the
silence. 'Then I'll stay with Mabel—till you come up again.' The
blind sank down with a long sigh as she said it.
The question jumped to my lips before I could repress it:
'Mabel is awake. She heard it too?'
I hardly know why horror caught me at her answer. All was so vague
and terrible as we stood there playing the great game of this sinister
house where nothing ever happened.
'We met in the passage. She was on her way to me.'
What shook in me, shook inwardly. Frances, I mean, did not see it.
I had the feeling just that the Noise was upon us, that any second it
would boom and roar about our ears. But the deep silence held. I only
heard my sister's little whisper coming across the room in answer to my
'Then what is Mabel doing now?'
And her reply proved that she was yielding at last beneath the
dreadful tension, for she spoke at once, unable longer to keep up the
pretence. With a kind of relief, as it were, she said it out, looking
helplessly at me like a child:
'She is weeping and gna—'
My expression must have stopped her. I believe I clapped both hands
upon her mouth, though when I realised things clearly again, I found
they were covering my own ears instead. It was a moment of unutterable
horror. The revulsion I felt was actually physical. It would have given
me pleasure to fire off all the five chambers of my pistol into the
air above my head; the sound—a definite, wholesome sound that
explained itself—would have been a positive relief. Other feelings,
though, were in me too, all over me, rushing to and fro. It was vain to
seek their disentanglement; it was impossible. I confess that I
experienced, among them, a touch of paralysing fear—though for a
moment only; it passed as sharply as it came, leaving me with a
violent flush of blood to the face such as bursts of anger bring,
followed abruptly by an icy perspiration over the entire body. Yet I
may honestly avow that it was not ordinary personal fear I felt, nor
any common dread of physical injury. It was, rather, a vast, impersonal
shrinking—a sympathetic shrinking—from the agony and terror that
countless others, somewhere, somehow, felt for themselves. The first
sensation of a prison overwhelmed me in that instant, of bitter
strife.and frenzied suffering, and the fiery torture of the yearning to
escape that was yet hopelessly uttered.... It was of incredible power.
It was real. The vain, intolerable hope swept over me.
I mastered myself, though hardly knowing how, and took my sister's
hand. It was as cold as ice, as I led her firmly to the door and out
into the passage. Apparently she noticed nothing of my so near
collapse, for I caught her whisper as we went. 'You are brave, Bill;
The upper corridors of the great sleeping house were brightly lit;
on her way to me she had turned on every electric switch her hand
could reach; and as we passed the final flight of stairs to the floor
below, I heard a door shut softly and knew that Mabel had been
listening—waiting for us. I led my sister up to it. She knocked, and
the door was opened cautiously an inch or so. The room was pitch
black. I caught no glimpse of Mabel standing there. Frances turned to
me with a hurried whisper, 'Billy, you will be careful, won't you?'
and went in. I just had time to answer that I would not be long, and
Frances to reply, 'You'll find us here' when the door closed and cut
her sentence short before its end.
But it was not alone the closing door that took the final words.
Frances—by the way she disappeared I knew it—had made a swift and
violent movement into the darkness that was as though she sprang. She
leaped upon that other woman who stood back among the shadows, for,
simultaneously with the clipping of the sentence, another sound was
also stopped— stifled, smothered, choked back lest I should also hear
it. Yet not in time. I heard it—a hard and horrible sound that
explained both the leap and the abrupt cessation of the whispered
I stood irresolute a moment. It was as though all the bones had
been withdrawn from my body, so that I must sink and fall. That sound
plucked them out, and plucked out my self-possession with them. I am
not sure that it was a sound I had ever heard before, though children,
I half remembered, made it sometimes in blind rages when they knew not
what they did. In a grown-up person certainly I had never known it. I
associated it with animals rather—horribly. In the history of the
world, no doubt, it has been common enough, alas, but fortunately
to-day there can be but few who know it, or would recognise it even
when heard. The bones shot back into my body the same instant, but
red-hot and burning; the brief instant of irresolution passed; I was
torn between the desire to break down the door and enter, and to
run—run for my life from a thing I dared not face.
Out of the horrid tumult, then, I adopted neither course. Without
reflection, certainly without analysis of what was best to do for my
sister, myself or Mabel, I took up my action where it had been
interrupted. I turned from the awful door and moved slowly towards the
head of the stairs.
But that dreadful little sound came with me. I believe my own teeth
chattered. It seemed all over the house—in the empty halls that
opened into the long passages towards the music-room, and even in the
grounds outside the building. From the lawns and barren garden, from
the ugly terraces themselves, it rose into the night, and behind it
came a curious driving sound, incomplete, unfinished, as of wailing
for deliverance, the wailing of desperate souls in anguish, the dull
and dry beseeching of hopeless spirits in prison.
That I could have taken the little sound from the bedroom where I
actually heard it, and spread it thus over the entire house and
grounds, is evidence, perhaps, of the state my nerves were in.
The wailing assuredly was in my mind alone. But the longer I
hesitated, the more difficult became my task, and, gathering up my
dressing-gown, lest I should trip in the darkness, I passed slowly
down the staircase into the hail below. I carried neither candle nor
matches; every switch in room and corridor was known to me. The
covering of darkness was indeed rather comforting than otherwise, for
if it prevented seeing, it also prevented being seen. The heavy
pistol,.knocking against my thigh as I moved, made me feel I was
carrying a child's toy, foolishly. I experienced in every nerve that
primitive vast dread which is the Thrill of darkness. Merely the child
in me was comforted by that pistol.
The night was not entirely black; the iron bars across the glass
front door were visible, and, equally, I discerned the big, stiff
wooden chairs in the hall, the gaping fireplace, the upright pillars
supporting the staircase, the round table in the centre with its books
and flower-vases, and the basket that held visitors' cards. There,
too, was the stick and umbrella stand and the shelf with railway
guides, directory, and telegraph forms. Clocks ticked everywhere with
sounds like quiet footfalls. Light fell here and there in patches from
the floor above. I stood a moment in the hall, letting my eyes grow
more accustomed to the gloom, while deciding on a plan of search. I
made out the ivy trailing outside over one of the big windows... and
then the tall clock by the front door made a grating noise deep down
inside its body—it was the Presentation clock, large and hideous,
given by the congregation of his church—and, dreading the booming
strike it seemed to threaten, I made a quick decision. If others
beside myself were about in the night, the sound of that striking
might cover their approach.
So I tiptoed to the right, where the passage led towards the
dining-room. In the other direction were the morning-and
drawing-rooms, both little used, and various other rooms beyond that
had been his, generally now kept locked. I thought of my sister,
waiting upstairs with that frightened woman for my return. I went
quickly, yet stealthily.
And, to my surprise, the door of the dining-room was open. It had
been opened. I paused on the threshold, staring about me. I think I
fully expected to see a figure blocked in the shadows against the
heavy sideboard, or looming on the other side beneath his portrait. But
the room was empty; I felt it empty. Through the wide bow-windows that
gave on to the verandah came an uncertain glimmer that even shone
reflected in the polished surface of the dinner-table, and again I
perceived the stiff outline of chairs, waiting tenantless all round it,
two larger ones with high carved backs at either end. The monkey-trees
on the upper terrace, too, were visible outside against the sky, and
the solemn crests of the wellingtonias on the terraces below. The
enormous dock on the mantelpiece ticked very slowly, as though its
machinery were runmng down, and I made out the pale round patch that
was its face. Resisting my first inclination to turn the lights up—my
hand had gone so far as to finger the friendly knob—I crossed the room
so carefully that no single board creaked, nor a single chair, as I
rested a hand upon its back, moved on the parquet flooring. I turned
neither to the right nor left, nor did I once look back.
I went towards the long corridor filled with priceless objets
d'art, that led through various antechambers into the spacious
music-room, and only at the mouth of this corridor did I next halt a
moment in uncertainty. For this long corridor, lit faintly by high
windows on the left from the verandah, was very narrow, owing to the
mass of shelves and fancy tables it contained. It was not that I
feared to knock over precious things as I went, but, that, because of
its ungenerous width, there would be no room to pass another
person—if I met one. And the certainty had suddenly come upon me that
somewhere in this corridor another person at this actual moment stood.
Here, somehow, amid all this dead atmosphere of furniture and
impersonal emptiness, lay the hint of a living human presence; and
with such conviction did it come upon me, that my hand instinctively
gripped the pistol in my pocket before I could even think. Either some
one had passed along this corridor just before me, or some one lay
waiting at its farther end—withdrawn or flattened into one of the
little recesses, to let me pass. It was the person who had opened the
door. And the blood ran from my heart as I realised it.
It was not courage that sent me on, but rather a strong impulsion
from behind that made it.impossible to retreat: the feeling that a
throng pressed at my back, drawing nearer and nearer; that I was
already half surrounded, swept, dragged, coaxed into a vast
prison-house where there was wailing and gnashing of teeth, where
their worm dieth not and their fire is not quenched. I can neither
explain nor justify the storm of irrational emotion that swept me as I
stood in that moment, staring down the length of the silent corridor
towards the music-room at the far end, I can only repeat that no
personal bravery sent me down it, but that the negative emotion of fear
was swamped in this vast sea of pity and commiseration for others that
surged upon me.
My senses, at least, were no whit confused; if anything, my brain
registered impressions with keener accuracy than usual. I noticed, for
instance, that the two swinging doors of baize that cut the corridor
into definite lengths, making little rooms of the spaces between them,
were both wide-open—in the dim light no mean achievement. Also that
the fronds of a palm plant, some ten feet in front of me, still
stirred gently from the air of some one who had recently gone past
them. The long green leaves waved to and fro like hands. Then I went
stealthily forward down the narrow space, proud even that I had this
command of myself, and so carefully that my feet made no sound upon
the Japanese matting on the floor.
It was a journey that seemed timeless. I have no idea how fast or
slow I went, but I remember that I deliberately examined articles on
each side of me, peering with particular closeness into the recesses
of wall and window. I passed the first baize doors, and the passage
beyond them widened out to hold shelves of books; there were sofas and
small reading-tables against the wall.
It narrowed again presently, as I entered the second stretch. The
windows here were higher and smaller, and marble statuettes of
classical subject lined the walls, watching me like figures of the
dead. Their white and shining faces saw me, yet made no sign. I passed
next between the second baize doors. They, too, had been fastened back
with hooks against the wall. Thus all doors were open—had been
And so, at length, I found myself in the final widening of the
corridor which formed an antechamber to the music-room itself. It had
been used formerly to hold the overflow of meetings. No door separated
it from the great hall beyond, but heavy curtains hung usually to
close it off, and these curtains were invariably drawn. They now stood
wide. And here—I can merely state the impression that came upon me—I
knew myself at last surrounded. The throng that pressed behind me,
also surged in front: facing me in the big room, and waiting for my
entry, stood a multitude; on either side of me, in the very air above
my head, the vast assemblage paused upon my coming. The pause,
however, was momentary, for instantly the deep, tumultuous movement
was resumed that yet was silent as a cavern underground. I felt the
agony that was in it, the passionate striving, the awful struggle to
escape. The semi-darkness held beseeching faces that fought to press
themselves upon my vision, yearning yet hopeless eyes, lips scorched
and dry, mouths that opened to implore but found no craved delivery in
actual words, and a fury of misery and hate that made the life in me
stop dead, frozen by the horror of vain pity. That intolerable, vain
Hope was everywhere.
And the multitude, it came to me, was not a single multitude, but
many; for, as soon as one huge division pressed too close upon the
edge of escape, it was dragged back by another and prevented. The wild
host was divided against itself. Here dwelt the Shadow I had 'imagined'
weeks ago, and in it struggled armies of lost souls as in the
depths of some bottomless pit whence there is no escape. The layers
mingled, fighting against themselves in endless torture. It was in
this great Shadow I had clairvoyantly seen Mabel, but about its fearful
mouth, I now was certain, hovered another figure of darkness, a figure
who sought to keep it in existence, since to her thought were due
those lampless depths of woe without escape.... Towards me the
It was a sound and a movement that brought me back into myself. The
great dock at the farther end of the room just then struck the hour of
three. That was the sound. And the movement—? I was aware that a
figure was passing across the distant centre of the floor. Instantly I
dropped back into the arena of my little human terror. My hand again
clutched stupidly at the pistol butt. I drew back into the folds of
the heavy curtain. And the figure advanced.
I remember every detail. At first it seemed to me enormous— this
advancing shadow—far beyond human scale; but as it came nearer, I
measured it, though not consciously, by the organ pipes that gleamed
in faint colours, just above its gradual soft approach. It passed them,
already half-way across the great room. I saw then that its stature
was that of ordinary men. The prolonged booming of the clock died
away. I heard the footfall, shuffling upon the polished boards. I
heard another sound—a voice, low and monotonous, droning as in prayer.
The figure was speaking. It was a woman. And she carried in both hands
before her a small object that faintly shimmered—a glass of water.
And then I recognised her.
There was still an instant's time before she reached me, and I made
use of it. I shrank back, flattening myself against the wall. Her
voice ceased a moment, as she turned and carefully drew the curtains
together behind her, dosing them with one hand. Oblivious of my
presence, though she actually touched my dressing-gown with the hand
that pulled the cords, she resumed her dreadful, solemn march,
disappearing at length down the long vista of the corridor like a
But as she passed me, her voice began again, so that I heard each
word distinctly as she uttered it, her head aloft, her figure upright,
as though she moved at the head of a procession:
'A drop of cold water, given in His name, shall moisten their
It was repeated monotonously over and over again, droning down into
the distance as she went, until at length both voice and figure faded
into the shadows at the farther end.
For a time, I have no means of measuring precisely, I stood in that
dark corner, pressing my back against the wall, and would have drawn
the curtains down to hide me had I dared to stretch an arm out. The
dread that presently the woman would return passed gradually away. I
realised that the air had emptied, the crowd her presence had stirred
into activity had retreated; I was alone in the gloomy under-space of
the odious building... Then I remembered suddenly again the terrified
women waiting for me on that upper landing; and realised that my skin
was wet and freezing cold after a profuse perspiration. I prepared to
retrace my steps. I remember the effort it cost me to leave the
support of the wall and covering darkness of my corner, and step out
into the grey light of the corridor. At first I sidled, then, finding
this mode of walking impossible, turned my face boldly and walked
quickly, regardless that my dressing-gown set the precious objects
shaking as I passed. A wind that sighed mournfully against the high,
small windows seemed to have got inside the corridor as well; it felt
so cold; and every moment I dreaded to see the outline of the woman's
figure as she waited in recess or angle against the wall for me to
Was there another thing I dreaded even more? I cannot say. I only
know that the first baize doors had swung to behind me, and the second
ones were close at hand, when the great dim thunder caught me, pouring
up with prodigious volume so that it, seemed to roll out from another
world. It shook the very bowels of the building. I was closer to it
than that other time, when it had followed me from the goblin garden.
There was strength and hardness in it, as of metal reverberation. Some
touch of numbness, almost of paralysis, must surely have been upon me
that I felt no actual terror, for I remember even turning and standing
still to hear it better. 'That is the Noise,' my thought ran stupidly,
and I think I whispered it aloud; 'the Doors are closing.'.The wind
outside against the windows was audible, so it cannot have been really
loud, yet to me it was the biggest, deepest sound I have ever heard,
but so far away, with such awful remoteness in it, that I had to doubt
my own ears at the same time. It seemed underground—the rumbling of
earthquake gates that shut remorselessly within the rocky Earth—
stupendous ultimate thunder. They were shut off from help again. The
doors had closed.
I felt a storm of pity, an agony of bitter, futile hate sweep
through me. My memory of the figure changed then. The Woman with the
glass of cooling water had stepped down from Heaven; but the Man—or
was it Men?—who smeared this terrible layer of belief and Thought
upon the world! ...
I crossed the dining-room—it was fancy, of course, that held my
eyes from glancing at the portrait for fear I should see it smiling
approval—and so finally reached the hall, where the light from the
floor above seemed now quite bright in comparison. All the doors I
dosed carefully behind me; but first I had to open them. The woman had
closed every one. Up the stairs, then, I actually ran, two steps at a
time. My sister was standing outside Mabel's door. By her face I knew
that she had also heard. There was no need to ask. I quickly made my
'There's nothing,' I said, and detailed briefly my tour of search.
'All is quiet and undisturbed downstairs.' May God forgive me!
She beckoned to me, closing the door softly behind her. My heart
beat violently a moment, then stood still.
'Mabel,' she said aloud.
It was like the sentence of a judge, that one short word.
I tried to push past her and go in, but she stopped me with her
arm. She was wholly mistress of herself, I saw.
'Hush!' she said in a lower voice. 'I've got her round again with
brandy. She's sleeping quietly now. We won't disturb her.'
She drew me farther out into the landing, and as she did so, the
clock in the hall below struck half-past three. I had stood, then,
thirty minutes in the corridor below. 'You've been such a long time.'
she said simply. 'I feared for you,' and she took my hand in her own
that was cold and clammy.
And then, while that dreadful house stood listening about us in the
early hours of this chill morning upon the edge of winter, she told
me, with laconic brevity, things about Mabel that I heard as from a
distance. There was nothing so unusual or tremendous in the short
recital, nothing indeed I might not have already guessed for myself.
It was the time and scene, the inference, too, that made it so
afflicting: the idea that Mabel believed herself so utterly and
hopelessly lost—beyond recovery damned.
That she had loved him with so passionate a devotion that she had
given her soul into his keeping, this certainly I had not
divined—probably because I had never thought about it one way or the
other. He had 'converted' her, I knew, but that she had subscribed
whole-heartedly to that most cruel and ugly of his dogmas—this was
new to me, and came with a certain shock as I heard it. In love, of
course, the weaker nature is receptive to all manner of suggestion.
This man had 'suggested' his pet brimstone lake so vividly that she
had listened and believed. He had.frightened her into heaven; and his
heaven, a definite locality in the skies, had its foretaste here on
earth in miniature—The Towers, house and garden. Into his dolorous
scheme of a handful saved and millions damned, his enclosure, as it
were, of sheep and goats, he had swept her before she was aware of it.
Her mind no longer was her own. And it was Mrs. Marsh who kept the
thought-stream open, though tempered, as she deemed, with that touch
of craven, superstitious mercy.
But what I found it difficult to understand, and still more
difficult to accept, was that, during her year abroad, she had been so
haunted with a secret dread of that hideous after-death that she had
finally revolted and tried to recover that clearer state of mind she
had enjoyed before the religious bully had stunned her—yet had tried
in vain. She had returned to The Towers to find her soul again, only
to realise that it was lost eternally. The cleaner state of mind lay
then beyond recovery. In the reaction that followed the removal of his
terrible 'suggestion,' she felt the crumbling of all that he had
taught her, but searched in vain for the peace and beauty his
teachings had destroyed. Nothing came to replace these. She was empty,
desolate, hopeless; craving her former joy and carelessness, she found
only hate and diabolical calculation. This man, whom she had loved to
the point of losing her soul for him, had bequeathed to her one black
and fiery thing—the terror of the damned. His thinking wrapped her in
this iron garment that held her fast.
All this Frances told me, far more briefly than I have here
repeated it. In her eyes and gestures and laconic sentences lay the
conviction of great beating issues and of menacing drama my own
description fails to recapture. It was all so incongruous and remote
from the world I lived in that more than once a smile, though a smile
of pity, fluttered to my lips; but a glimpse of my face in the mirror
showed rather the leer of a grimace. There was no real laughter
anywhere that night.
The entire adventure seemed so incredible, here, in this twentieth
century—but yet delusion, that feeble word, did not occur once in the
comments my mind suggested though did not utter. I re-membered that
forbidding Shadow too; my sister's watercolours; the vanished
personality of our hostess; the inexplicable, thundering Noise, and
the figure of Mrs. Marsh in her midnight ritual that was so childish
yet so horrible. I shivered in spite of my own 'emancipated' cast of
'There is no Mabel,' were the words with which my sister sent
another shower of ice down my spine. 'He has killed her in his lake of
fire and brimstone.'
I stared at her blankly, as in a nightmare where nothing true or
possible ever happened.
'He killed her in his lake of fire and brimstone,' she repeated
A desperate effort was in me to say the strong, sensible thing
which should destroy the oppressive horror that grew so stiflingly
about us both, but again the mirror drew the attempted smile into the
merest grin, betraying the distortion that was everywhere in the place.
'You mean,' I stammered beneath my breath, 'that her faith has
gone, but that the terror has remained?' I asked it, dully groping. I
moved out of the line of the reflection in the glass.
She bowed her head as though beneath a weight; her skin was the
pallor of grey ashes.
'You mean,' I said louder, 'that she has lost her—mind?'
'She is terror incarnate,' was the whispered answer. 'Mabel has
lost her soul. Her soul is— there!' She pointed horribly below. 'She
is seeking it...?'
The word 'soul' stung me into something of my normal self again.
'But her terror, poor thing, is not—cannot be—transferable to
us!' I exclaimed more vehemently. 'It certainly is not convertible
into feelings, sights and—even sounds!'
She interrupted me quickly, almost impatiently, speaking with that
conviction by which she conquered me so easily that night.
'It is her terror that revived "the Others." It has brought her into
touch with them. They are loose and driving after her. Her efforts at
resistance have given them also hope—that escape, after all, is
possible. Day and night they strive.
'Escape! Others!' The anger fast rising in me dropped of its own
accord at the moment of birth. It shrank into a shuddering beyond my
control. In that moment, I think, I would have believed in the
possibility of anything and everything she might tell me. To argue or
contradict seemed equally futile.
'His strong belief, as also the beliefs of others who have preceded
him,' she replied, so sure of herself that I actually turned to look
over my shoulder, 'have left their shadow like a thick deposit over
the house and grounds. To them, poor souls imprisoned by thought, it
was hopeless as granite walls— until her resistance, her effort to
dissipate it—let in light. Now, in their thousands, they are flocking
to this little light, seeking escape. Her own escape, don't you see,
may release them all!'
It took my breath away. Had his predecessors, former occupants of
this house, also preached damnation of all the world but their own
exclusive sect? Was this the explanation of her obscure talk of
'layers,' each striving against the other for domination? And if men
are spirits, and these spirits survive, could strong Thought thus
determine their condition even afterwards?
So many questions flooded into me that I selected no one of them,
but stared in uncomfortable silence, bewildered, out of my depth, and
acutely, painfully distressed. There was so odd a mixture of possible
truth and incredible, unacceptable explanation in it all; so much
confirmed, yet so much left darker than before. What she said did,
indeed, offer a quasi-interpretation of my own series of abominable
sensations— strife, agony, pity, hate, escape—but so far-fetched that
only the deep conviction in her voice and attitude made it tolerable
for a second even. I found myself in a curious state of mind. I could
neither think clearly nor say a word to refute her amazing statements,
whispered there beside me in the shivering hours of the early morning
with only a wall between ourselves and—Mabel. Close behind her words
I remember this singular thing, however—that an atmosphere as of the
Inquisition seemed to rise and stir about the room, beating awful
wings of black above my head.
Abruptly, then, a moment's common-sense returned to me. I faced
'And the Noise?' I said aloud, more firmly, 'the roar of the
closing doors? We have all heard that! Is that subjective too?'
Frances looked sideways about her in a queer fashion that made my
flesh creep again. I spoke brusquely, almost angrily. I repeated the
question, and waited with anxiety for her reply.
'What noise?' she asked, with the frank expression of an innocent
child. 'What closing doors?'
But her face turned from grey to white, and I saw that drops of
perspiration glistened on her forehead. She caught at the back of a
chair to steady herself, then glanced about her again with that
sidelong look that made my blood run cold. I understood suddenly then.
She did not take in what I said. I knew now. She was listening—for
And the discovery revived in me a far stronger emotion than any
mere desire for immediate explanation. Not only did I not insist upon
an answer, but I was actually terrified lest she would answer. More, I
felt in me a terror lest I should be moved to describe my own
experiences below-stairs, thus increasing their reality and so the
reality of all. She might even explain them too!
Still listening intently, she raised her head and looked me in the
eyes. Her lips opened to speak. The words came to me from a great
distance, it seemed, and her voice had a sound like a stone that drops
into a deep well, its fate though hidden, known.
We are in it with her, too, Bill. We are in it with her. Our
interpretations vary—because we.are—in parts of it only. Mabel is in
The desire for violence came over me. If only she would say a
definite thing in plain King's English! If only I could find it in me
to give utterance to what shouted so loud within me! If only—the same
old cry—something would happen! For all this elliptic talk that dazed
my mind left obscurity everywhere. Her atrocious meaning, none the
less, flashed through me, though vanishing before it wholly divulged
It brought a certain reaction with it. I found my tongue. Whether I
actually believed what I said is more than I can swear to; that it
seemed to me wise at the moment is all I remember. My mind was in a
state of obscure perception less than that of normal consciousness.
'Yes, Frances, I believe that what you say is the truth, and that
we are in it with her'—I meant to say I with loud, hostile emphasis,
but instead I whispered it lest she should hear the trembling of my
voice—'and for that reason, my dear sister, we leave to-morrow, you
and I—to-day, rather, since it is long past midnight—we leave this
house of the damned. We go back to London.'
Frances looked up, her face distraught almost beyond recognition.
But it was not my words that caused the tumult in her heart. It was a
sound—the sound she had been listening for—so faint I barely caught
it myself, and had she not pointed I could never have known the
direction whence it came. Small and terrible it rose again in the
stillness of the night, the sound of gnashing teeth. And behind it
came another—the tread of stealthy footsteps. Both were just outside
The room swung round me for a second. My first instinct to prevent
my sister going out—she had dashed past me frantically to the
door—gave place to another when I saw the expression in her eyes. I
followed her lead instead; it was surer than my own. The pistol in my
pocket swung uselessly against my thigh. I was flustered beyond belief
and ashamed that I was so.
'Keep close to me, Frances,' I said huskily, as the door swung wide
and a shaft of light fell upon a figure moving rapidly. Mabel was
going down the corridor. Beyond her, in the shadows on the staircase,
a second figure stood beckoning, scarcely visible.
'Before they get her! Quick!' was screamed into my ears, and our
arms were about her in the same moment. It was a horrible scene. Not
that Mabel struggled in the least, but that she collapsed as we caught
her and fell with her dead weight, as of a corpse, limp, against us.
And her teeth began again. They continued, even beneath the hand that
Frances clapped upon her lips....
We carried her back into her own bedroom, where she lay down
peacefully enough. It was so soon over.... The rapidity of the whole
thing robbed it of reality almost. It had the swiftness of something
remembered rather than of something witnessed. She slept again so
quickly that it was almost as if we had caught her sleep-walking. I
cannot say. I asked no questions at the time; I have asked none since;
and my help was needed as little as the protection of my pistol.
Frances was strangely competent and collected.... I lingered for some
time uselessly by the door, till at length, looking up with a sigh,
she made a sign for me to go.
'I shall wait in your room next door,' I whispered, 'till you
come.' But, though going out, I waited in the corridor instead, so as
to hear the faintest call for help. In that dark corridor upstairs I
waited, but not long. It may have been fifteen minutes when Frances
reappeared, locking the door softly behind her. Leaning over the
banisters, I saw her.
'I'll go in again about six o'clock,' she whispered, 'as soon as it
gets light. She is sound asleep now. Please don't wait. If anything
happens I'll call—you might leave your door ajar, perhaps.'
And she came up, looking like a ghost.
But I saw her first safely into bed, and the rest of the night I
spent in an armchair close to my opened door, listening for the
slightest sound. Soon after five o'clock I heard Frances fumbling with
the key, and, peering over the railing again, I waited till she
reappeared and went back into her own room. She closed her door.
Evidently she was satisfied that all was well.
Then, and then only, did I go to bed myself, but not to sleep. I
could not get the scene out of my mind, especially that odious detail
of it which I hoped and believed my sister had not seen— the still,
dark figure of the housekeeper waiting on the stairs below—waiting, of
course, for Mabel.
It seems I became a mere spectator after that; my sister's lead was so
assured for one thing, and, for another, the responsibility of leaving
Mabel alone—Frances laid it bodily upon my shoulders—was a little
more than I cared about. Moreover, when we all three met later in the
day, things went on so exactly as before, so absolutely without
friction or distress, that to present a sudden, obvious excuse for
cutting our visit short seemed ill-judged. And on the lowest grounds
it would have been desertion. At any rate, it was beyond my powers, and
Frances was quite firm that she must stay. We therefore did stay.
Things that happen in the night always seem exaggerated and distorted
when the sun shines brightly next morning; no one can reconstruct the
terror of a nightmare afterwards, nor comprehend why it seemed so
overwhelming at the time.
I slept till ten o'clock, and when I rang for breakfast, a note
from my sister lay upon the tray, its message of counsel couched in a
calm and comforting strain. Mabel, she assured me, was herself again
and remembered nothing of what had happened; there was no need of any
violent measures; I was to treat her exactly as if I knew nothing.
'And, if you don't mind, Bill, let us leave the matter unmentioned
between ourselves as well. Discussion exaggerates; such things are
best not talked about. I'm sorry I disturbed you so unnecessarily; I
was stupidly excited. Please forget all the things I said at the
moment.' She had written 'nonsense' first instead of 'things', then
scratched it out. She wished to convey that hysteria had been abroad in
the night, and I readily gulped the explanation down, though it could
not satisfy me in the smallest degree.
There was another week of our visit still, and we stayed it out to
the end without disaster. My desire to leave at times became that
frantic thing, desire to escape; but I controlled it, kept silent,
watched and wondered. Nothing happened. As before, and everywhere,
there was no sequence of development, no connection between cause and
effect; and climax, none whatever. The thing swayed up and down,
backwards and forwards like a great loose curtain in the wind, and I
could only vaguely surmise what caused the draught or why there was a
curtain at all. A novelist might mould the queer material into
coherent sequence that would be interesting but could not be true.
It remains, therefore, not a story but a history. Nothing happened.
Perhaps my intense dislike of the fall of darkness was due wholly
to my stirred imagination, and perhaps my anger when I learned that
Frances now occupied a bed in our hostess's room was unreasonable.
Nerves were unquestionably on edge. I was for ever on the look-out for
some event that should make escape imperative, but yet that never
presented itself. I slept lightly, left my door ajar to catch the
slightest sound, even made stealthy tours of the house below-stairs
while everybody dreamed in their beds. But I discovered nothing; the
doors were always locked; I neither saw the housekeeper again in
unreasonable times and places, nor heard a footstep in the.passages and
halls. The Noise was never once repeated. That horrible, ultimate
thunder, my intensest dread of all, lay withdrawn into the abyss
whence it had twice arisen. And though in my thoughts it was sternly
denied existence, the great black reason for the fact afflicted me
unbelievably. Since Mabel's fruitless effort to escape, the Doors kept
closed remorselessly. She had failed; they gave up hope. For this was
the explanation that haunted the region of my mind where feelings stir
and hint before they clothe themselves in actual language. Only I
firmly kept it there; it never knew expression.
But, if my ears were open, my eyes were opened too, and it were
idle to pretend that I did not notice a hundred details that were
capable of sinister interpretation had I been weak enough to yield.
Some protective barrier had fallen into ruins round me, so that Terror
stalked behind the general collapse, feeling for me through all the
gaping fissures. Much of this, I admit, must have been merely the
elaboration of those sensations I had first vaguely felt, before
subsequent events and my talks with Frances had dramatised them into
living thoughts. I therefore leave them unmentioned in this history,
just as my mind left them unmentioned in that interminable final week.
Our life went on precisely as before—Mabel unreal and outwardly so
still; Frances, secretive, anxious, tactful to the point of slyness,
and keen to save to the point of self-forget-fulness.
There were the same stupid meals, the same wearisome long evenings,
the stifling ugliness of house and grounds, the Shadow settling in so
thickly that it seemed almost a visible, tangible thing. I came to
feel the only friendly things in all this hostile, cruel place were the
robins that hopped boldly over the monstrous terraces and even up to
the windows of the unsightly house itself. The robins alone knew joy;
they danced, believing no evil thing was possible in all God's radiant
world. They believed in everybody; their god's plan of life had no
room in it for hell, damnation and lakes of brimstone. I came to love
the little birds. Had Samuel Franklyn known them, he might have
preached a different sermon, bequeathing love in place of terror!
Most of my time I spent writing; but it was a pretence at best, and
rather a dangerous one besides. For it stirred the mind to production,
with the result that other things came pouring in as well. With
reading it was the same. In the end I found an aggressive, deliberate
resistance to be the only way of feasible defence. To walk far afield
was out of the question, for it meant leaving my sister too long
alone, so that my exercise was confined to nearer home. My saunters in
the grounds, however, never surprised the goblin garden again. It was
close at hand, but I seemed unable to get wholly into it. Too many
things assailed my mind for any one to hold exdusive possession,
Indeed, all the interpretations, all the 'layers,' to use my
sister's phrase, slipped in by turns and lodged there for a time. They
came day and night, and though my reason denied them entrance they
held their own as by a kind of squatter's right. They stirred moods
already in me, that is, and did not introduce entirely new ones; for
every mind conceals ancestral deposits that have been cultivated in
turn along the whole line of its descent. Any day a chance shower may
cause this one or that to blossom. Thus it came to me, at any rate.
After darkness the Inquisition paced the empty corridors and set up
ghastly apparatus in the dismal halls; and once, in the library, there
swept over me that easy and delicious conviction that by confessing my
wickedness I could resume it later, since Confession is expression,
and expression brings relief and leaves one ready to accumulate again.
And in such mood I felt bitter and unforgiving towards all others who
thought differently. Another time it was a Pagan thing that assaulted
me—so trivial yet oh, so significant at the time—when I dreamed that
a herd of centaurs rolled up with a great stamping of hoofs round the
house to destroy it, and then woke to hear the horses tramping across
the field.below the lawns; they neighed ominously and their noisy
panting was audible as if it were just outside my windows.
But the tree episode, I think, was the most curious of all—
except, perhaps, the incident with the children which I shall mention
in a moment—for its closeness to reality was so unforgettable.
Outside the east window of my room stood a giant wellingtonia on
the lawn, its head rising level with the upper sash. It grew some
twenty feet away, planted on the highest terrace, and I often saw it
when dosing my curtains for the night, noticing how it drew its heavy
skirts about it, and how the light from other windows threw glimmering
streaks and patches that turned it into the semblance of a towering,
solemn image. It stood there then so strikingly, somehow like a great
old-world idol, that it claimed attention. Its appearance was
curiously formidable. Its branches rustled without visibly moving and
it had a certain portentous, forbidding air, so grand and dark and
monstrous in the night that I was always glad when my curtains shut it
out. Yet, once in bed, I had never thought about it one way or the
other, and by day had certainly never sought it out.
One night, then, as I went to bed and dosed this window against a
cutting easterly wind, I saw—that there were two of these trees. A
brother wellingtonia rose mysteriously beside it, equally huge,
equally towering, equally monstrous. The menacing pair of them faced me
there upon the lawn. But in this new arrival lay a strange suggestion
that frightened me before I could argue it away. Exact counterpart of
its giant companion, it revealed also that gross, odious quality that
all my sister's paintings held. I got the odd impression that the rest
of these trees, stretching away dimly in a troop over the farther
lawns, were similar, and that, led by this enormous pair, they had all
moved boldly closer to my windows. At the same moment a blind was
drawn down over an upper room; the second tree disappeared into the
It was, of course, this chance light that had brought it into the
field of vision, but when the black shutter dropped over it, hiding it
from view, the manner of its vanishing produced the queer effect that
it had slipped into its companion—almost that it had been an emanation
of the one I so disliked, and not really a tree at all! In this way
the garden turned vehicle for expressing what lay behind it all!...
The behaviour of the doors, the little, ordinary doors, seems
scarcely worth mention at all, their queer way of opening and shutting
of their own accord; for this was accountable in a hundred natural
ways, and to tell the truth, I never caught one in the act of moving.
Indeed, only after frequent repetitions did the detail force itself
upon me, when, having noticed one, I noticed all. It produced,
however, the unpleasant impression of a continual coming and going in
the house, as though, screened cleverly and purposely from actual
sight, some one in the building held constant invisible intercourse
Upon detailed descriptions of these uncertain incidents I do not
venture, individually so trival, but taken all together so impressive
and so insolent. But the episode of the children, mentioned above, was
different. And I give it because it showed how vividly the intuitive
child-mind received the impression—one impression, at any rate—of
what was in the air. It may be told in a very few words. I believe
they were the coachman's children, and that the man had been in Mr.
Franklyn's service; but of neither point am I quite positive.
I heard screaming in the rose-garden that runs along the stable
walls—it was one afternoon not far from the tea-hour—and on hurrying
up I found a little girl of nine or ten fastened with ropes to a
rustic seat, and two other children—boys, one about twelve and one
much younger— gathering sticks beneath the climbing rose-trees. The
girl was white and frightened, but the others were laughing and
talking among themselves so busily while they picked that they did not
notice my abrupt arrival. Some game, I understood, was in progress,
but a game that had become.too serious for the happiness of the
prisoner, for there was a fear in the girl's eyes that was a very
genuine fear indeed. I unfastened her at once; the ropes were so
loosely and clumsily knotted that they had not hurt her skin; it was
not that which made her pale. She collapsed a moment upon the bench,
then picked up her tiny skirts and dived away at full speed into the
safety of the stable-yard.
There was no response to my brief comforting, but she ran as though
for her life, and I divined that some horrid boys' cruelty had been
afoot. It was probably mere thoughtlessness, as cruelty with children
usually is, but something in me decided to discover exactly what it
And the boys, not one whit alarmed at my intervention, merely
laughed shyly when I explained that their prisoner had escaped, and
told me frankly what their 'gime' had been. There was no vestige of
shame in them, nor any idea, of course, that they aped a monstrous
That it was mere pretence was neither here nor there. To them,
though make-believe, it was a make-believe of something that was right
and natural and in no sense cruel. Grown-ups did it too. It was
necessary for her good.
'We was going to burn her up, sir,' the older one informed me,
answering my 'Why?' with the explanation, 'Because she wouldn't
believe what we wanted 'er to believe.'
And, game though it was, the feeling of reality about the little
episode was so arresting, so terrific in some way, that only with
difficulty did I confine my admonitions on this occasion to mere
words. The boys slunk off, frightened in their turn, yet not, I felt,
convinced that they had erred in principle. It was their inheritance.
They had breathed it in with the atmosphere of their bringing-up. They
would renew the salutary torture when they could—till she 'believed'
as they did.
I went back into the house, afflicted with a passion of mingled
pity and distress impossible to describe, yet on my short way across
the garden was attacked by other moods in turn, each more real and
bitter than its predecessor. I received the whole series, as it were,
at once. I felt like a diver rising to the surface through layers of
water at different temperatures, though here the natural order was
reversed, and the cooler strata were uppermost, the heated ones below.
Thus, I was caught by the goblin touch of the willows that fringed the
field; by the sensuous curving of the twisted ash that formed a
gateway to the little grove of sapling oaks where fauns and satyrs
lurked to play in the moonlight before Pagan altars; and by the
cloaking darkness, next, of the copse of stunted pines, close gathered
each to each, where hooded figures stalked behind an awful cross. The
episode with the children seemed to have opened me like a knife. The
whole Place rushed at me.
I suspect this synthesis of many moods produced in me that climax
of loathing and disgust which made me feel the limit of bearable
emotion had been reached, so that I made straight to find Frances in
order to convince her that at any rate I must leave. For, although this
was our last day in the house, and we had arranged to go next day, the
dread was in me that she would still find some persuasive reason for
staying on. And an unexpected incident then made my dread unnecessary.
The front door was open and a cab stood in the drive; a tall, elderly
man was gravely talking in the hall with the parlourmaid we called the
Grenadier. He held a piece of paper in his hand. 'I have called to see
the house,' I heard him say, as I ran up the stairs to Frances, who
was peering like an inquisitive child over the banisters....
'Yes,' she told me with a sigh, I know not whether of resignation
or relief, 'the house is to be let or sold. Mabel has decided. Some
Society or other, I believe—'
I was overjoyed: this made our leaving right and possible. 'You
never told me, Frances!'
'Mabel only heard of it a few days ago. She told me herself this
morning. It is a chance, she says. Alone she cannot get it "straight".
'Defeat?' I asked, watching her closely.
'She thinks she has found a way out. It's not a family, you see,
it's a Society, a sort of Community—they go in for thought—'
'A Community!' I gasped. 'You mean religious?'
She shook her head. 'Not exactly,' she said smiling, 'but some kind
of association of men and women who want a headquarters in the
country—a place where they can write and meditate— think—mature
their plans and all the rest—I don't know exactly what.'
'Utopian dreamers?' I asked, yet feeling an immense relief come
over me as I heard. But I asked in ignorance, not cynically. Frances
would know. She knew all this kind of thing.
'No, not that exactly,' she smiled. 'Their teachings are grand and
simple-old as the world too, really—the basis of every religion
before men's minds perverted them with their manufactured creeds—'
Footsteps on the stairs, and the sound of voices, interrupted our
odd impromptu conversation, as the Grenadier came up, followed by the
tall, grave gentleman who was being shown over the house. My sister
drew me along the corridor towards her room, where she went in and
dosed the door behind me, yet not before I had stolen a good look at
the caller—long enough, at least, for his face and general appearance
to have made a definite impression on me. For something strong and
peaceful emanated from his presence; he moved with such quiet dignity;
the glance of his eyes was so steady and reassuring, that my mind
labelled him instantly as a type of man one would turn to in an
emergency and not be disappointed. I had seen him but for a passing
moment, but I had seen him twice, and the way he walked down the
passage, looking competently about him, conveyed the same impression
as when I saw him standing at the door— fearless, tolerant, wise. 'A
sincere and kindly character,' I judged instantly, 'a man whom some
big kind of love has trained in sweetness towards the world; no hate
in him anywhere.' A great deal, no doubt, to read in so brief a
glance! Yet his voice confirmed my intuition, a deep and very gentle
voice, great firmness in it too.
'Have I become suddenly sensitive to people's atmospheres in this
extraordinary fashion?' I asked myself, smiling, as I stood in the
room and heard the door dose behind me. 'Have I developed some
clairvoyant faculty here?' At any other time I should have mocked.
And I sat down and faced my sister, feeling strangely comforted and
at peace for the first time since I had stepped beneath The Towers'
roof a month ago. Frances, I then saw, was smiling a little as she
'You know him?' I asked.
'You felt it too?' was her question in reply. 'No,' she added, 'I
don't know him—beyond the fact that he is a leader in the Movement
and has devoted years and money to its objects. Mabel felt the same
thing in him that you have felt—and jumped at it.'
'But you've seen him before?' I urged, for the certainty was in me
that he was no stranger to her.
She shook her head. 'He called one day early this week, when you
were out. Mabel saw him. I believe—' she hesitated a moment, as
though expecting me to stop her with my usual impatience of such
subjects—'I believe he has explained everything to her—the beliefs he
embodies, she declares, are her salvation—might be, rather, if she
could adopt them.'
'Conversion again!' For I remembered her riches, and how gladly a
Society would gobble them.
'The layers I told you about,' she continued calmly, shrugging her
shoulders slightly—'the deposits that are left behind by strong
thinking and real belief—but especially by ugly, hateful.belief,
because, you see—unfortunately there's more vital passion in that
'Frances, I don't understand a bit,' I said out loud, but said it a
little humbly, for the impression the man had left was still strong
upon me and I was grateful for the steady sense of peace and comfort
he had somehow introduced. The horrors had been so dreadful. My nerves,
doubtless, were more than a little overstrained. Absurd as it must
sound, I classed him in my mind with the robins, the happy, confiding
robins who believed in everybody and thought no evil! I laughed a
moment at my ridiculous idea, and my sister, encouraged by this sign of
patience in me, continued more fluently.
'Of course you don't understand, Bill? Why should you? You've never
thought about such things. Needing no creed yourself, you think all
creeds are rubbish.'
'I'm open to conviction—I'm tolerant,' I interrupted.
'You're as narrow as Sam Franklyn, and as crammed with prejudice,'
she answered, knowing that she had me at her mercy.
'Then, pray, what may be his, or his Society's beliefs?' I asked,
feeling no desire to argue, 'and how are they going to prove your
Mabel's salvation? Can they bring beauty into all this aggressive hate
'Certain hope and peace,' she said, 'that peace which is
understanding, and that understanding which explains all creeds and
therefore tolerates them.'
'Toleration! The one word a religous man loathes above all others!
His pet word is damnation—'
'Tolerates them,' she repeated patiently, unperturbed by my
explosion, 'because it includes them all.'
'Fine, if true' I admitted, 'very fine. But how, pray, does it
include them all?'
'Because the key-word, the motto, of their Society is, "There is no
religion higher than Truth,"
and it has no single dogma of any kind. Above all,' she went on,
'because it claims that no individual can be "lost." It teaches
universal salvation. To damn outsiders is uncivilised, childish,
impure. Some take longer than others—it's according to the way they
think and live—but all find peace, through development, in the end.
What the creeds call a hopeless soul, it regards as a soul having
further to go. There is no damnation—'
'Well, well,' I exclaimed, feeling that she rode her hobby horse
too wildly, too roughly over me, 'but what is the bearing of all this
upon this dreadful place, and upon Mabel? I'll admit that there is
this atmosphere—this——er—inexplicable horror in the house and
grounds, and that if not of damnation exactly, it is certainly
damnable. I'm not too prejudiced to deny that, for I've felt it
To my relief she was brief. She made her statement, leaving me to
take it or reject it as I would.
'The thought and belief its former occupants—have left behind. For
there has been coincidence here, a coincidence that must be rare. The
site on which this modern house now stands was Roman, before that
Early Britain, with burial mounds, before that again, Druid—the Druid
stones still lie in that copse below the field, the Tumuli among the
ilexes behind the drive.
The older building Sam Franklyn altered and practically pulled down
was a monastery; he changed the chapel into a meeting hall, which is
now the music room; but, before he came here, the house was occupied
by Manetti, a violent Catholic without tolerance or vision; and in the
interval between these two, Julius Weinbaum had it, Hebrew of most
rigid orthodox type imaginable—so they all have left their—'
'Even so,' I repeated, yet interested to hear the rest, 'what of
'Simply this,' said Frances with conviction, 'that each in turn has
left his layer of concentrated thinking and belief behind him; because
each believed intensely, absolutely, beyond the least weakening of any
doubt—the kind of strong belief and thinking that is rare anywhere
to-day, the kind that wills, impregnates objects, saturates the
atmosphere, haunts, in a word. And each, believing he was utterly and
finally right, damned with equally positive conviction the rest of the
world. One and all preached that implicitly if not explicitly. It's
the root of every creed. Last of the bigoted, grim series came Samuel
I listened in amazement that increased as she went on. Up to this
point her explanation was so admirable. It was, indeed, a pretty study
in psychology if it were true.
'Then why does nothing ever happen?' I enquired mildly. 'A place so
thickly haunted ought to produce a crop of no ordinary results!'
'There lies the proof,' she went on in a lowered voice, 'the proof
of the horror and the ugly reality. The thought and belief of each
occupant in turn kept all the others under. They gave no sign of life
at the time. But the results of thinking never die. They crop out again
the moment there's an opening. And, with the return of Mabel in her
negative state, believing nothing positive herself the place for the
first time found itself free to reproduce its buried stores.
Damnation, hell-fire, and the rest—the most permanent and vital
thought of all those creeds, since it was applied to the majority of
the world—broke loose again, for there was no restraint to hold it
back. Each sought to obtain its former supremacy. None conquered. There
results a pandemonium of hate and fear, of striving to escape, of
agonised, bitter warring to find safety, peace—salvation. The place
is saturated by that appalling stream of thinking—the terror of the
damned. It concentrated upon Mabel, whose negative attitude furnished
the channel of de-liverance.
You and I, according to our sympathy with her, were similarly
involved. Nothing happened, because no one layer could ever gain the
I was so interested—I dare not say amused—that I stared in
silence while she paused a moment, afraid that she would draw rein and
end the fairy tale too soon.
'The beliefs of this man, of his Society rather, vigorously thought
and therefore vigorously given out here, will put the whole place
straight. It will act as a solvent. These vitriolic layers actively
denied, will fuse and disappear in the stream of gentle, tolerant
sympathy which is love.
For each member, worthy of the name, loves the world, and all
creeds go into the melting-pot; Mabel, too, if she joins them out of
real conviction, will find salvation—'
'Thinking, I know, is of the first importance,' I objected, 'but
don't you, perhaps, exaggerate the power of feeling and emotion which
in religion are au fond always hysterical?'
'What is the world,' she told me, 'but thinking and feeling? An
individual's world is entirely what that individual thinks and
believes—interpretation. There is no other. And unless he really
thinks and really believes, he has no permanent world at all. I grant
that few people think, and still fewer believe, and that most take
ready-made suits and make them do. Only the strong make their own
things; the lesser fry, Mabel among them, are merely swept up into what
has been manufactured for them. They get along somehow. You and I have
made for ourselves, Mabel has not. She is a nonentity, and when her
belief is taken from her, she goes with it.'
It was not in me just then to criticise the evasion, or pick out
the sophistry from the truth. I merely waited for her to continue.
'None of us have Truth, my dear Frances,' I ventured presently,
seeing that she kept silent.
'Precisely,' she answered, 'but most of us have beliefs. And what
one believes and thinks affects the world at large. Consider the
legacy of hatred and cruelty involved in the doctrines men have built
into their creeds where the sine qua non of salvation is absolute
acceptance of.one particular set of views or else perishing
everlastingly—for only by repudiating history can they disavow it—'
'You're not quite accurate,' I put in. 'Not all the creeds teach
damnation, do they? Franklyn did, of course, but the others are a bit
modernised now surely?'
'Trying to get out of it,' she admitted, 'perhaps they are, but
damnation of unbelievers—of most of the world, that is—is their
rather favourite idea if you talk with them.'
'I never have.'
She smiled. 'But I have,' she said significantly, 'so, if you
consider what the various occupants of this house have so strongly
held and thought and believed, you need not be surprised that the
influence they have left behind them should be a dark and dreadful
legacy. For thought, you know, does leave—'
The opening of the door, to my great relief, interrupted her, as
the Grenadier led in the visitor to see the room. He bowed to both of
us with a brief word of apology, looked round him, and withdrew, and
with his departure the conversation between us came naturally to an
end. I followed him out. Neither of us in any case, I think, cared to
And, so far as I am aware, the curious history of The Towers ends
here too. There was no climax in the story sense. Nothing ever really
happened. We left next morning for London. I only know that the
Society in question took the house and have since occupied it to their
entire satisfaction, and that Mabel, who became a member shortly
afterwards, now stays there frequently when in need of repose from the
arduous and unselfish labours she took upon herself under its aegis.
She dined with us only the other night, here in our tiny Chelsea flat,
and a jollier, saner, more interesting and happy guest I could hardly
wish for. She was vital—in the best sense; the lay-figure had come to
life. I found it difficult to believe she was the same woman whose
fearful effigy had floated down those dreary corridors and almost
disappeared in the depths of that atrocious Shadow.
What her beliefs were now I was wise enough to leave unquestioned,
and Frances, to my great relief, kept the conversation well away from
such inappropriate topics. It was clear, however, that the woman had
in herself some secret source of joy, that she was now an aggressive,
positive force, sure of herself, and apparently afraid of nothing in
heaven or hell. She radiated something very like hope and courage
about her, and talked as though the world were a glorious place and
everybody in it kind and beautiful. Her optimism was certainly
The Towers were mentioned only in passing. The name of Marsh came
up—not the Marsh, it so happened, but a name in some book that was
being discussed—and I was unable to restrain myself. Curiosity was
too strong. I threw out a casual enquiry Mabel could leave unanswered
if she wished. But there was no desire to avoid it. Her reply was
frank and smiling.
'Would you believe it? She married,' Mabel told me, though
obviously surprised that I remembered the housekeeper at all; 'and is
happy as the day is long. She's found her right niche in life. A
'The army!' I ejaculated.
'Salvation Army,' she explained merrily.
Frances exchanged a glance with me. I laughed too, for the
information took me by surprise. I cannot say why exactly, but I
expected at least to hear that the woman had met some dreadful end,
not impossibly by burning.
'And The Towers, now called the Rest House,' Mabel chattered on,
'seems to me the most peaceful and delightful spot in England—'
'Really,' I said politely.
'When I lived there in the old days—while you were there, perhaps,
though I won't be sure,'
Mabel went on, 'the story got abroad that it was haunted. Wasn't it
odd? A less likely place for a ghost I've never seen. Why, it had no
atmosphere at all.' She said this to Frances, glancing up at me with a
smile that apparently had no hidden meaning. 'Did you notice anything
queer about it when you were there?'
This was plainly addressed to me.
'I found it—er—difficult to settle down to anything,' I said,
after an instant's hesitation. 'I couldn't work there—'
'But I thought you wrote that wonderful book on the Deaf and Blind
while you stayed with me,' she asked innocently.
I stammered a little. 'Oh no, not then. I only made a few
notes—er—at The Towers. My mind, oddly enough, refused to produce at
all down there. But—why do you ask? Did anything—was anything
supposed to happen there?'
She looked searchingly into my eyes a moment before she answered:
'Not that I know of,' she said simply.