A deep hush followed, in the middle of which an owl was heard calling
its muffled note in the forest. A big moth whirred with a soft
collision against one of the windows. Mrs. Bittacy started slightly,
but no one spoke. Above the trees the stars were faintly visible. From
the distance came the barking of a dog.
Bittacy, relighting his cigar, broke the little spell of silence that
had caught all three.
‘It’s rather a comforting thought,’ he said, throwing the match out of
the window, ‘that life is about us everywhere, and that there is really
no dividing line between what we call organic and inorganic.’
‘The universe, yes,’ said Sanderson, ‘is all one, really. We’re puzzled
by the gaps we cannot see across, but as a fact, I suppose, there are
no gaps at all.’
Mrs. Bittacy rustled ominously, holding her peace meanwhile. She feared
long words she did not understand. Beelzebub lay hid among too many
syllables.
‘In trees and plants especially, there dreams an exquisite life that no
one yet has proved unconscious.’
‘Or conscious either, Mr. Sanderson,’ she neatly interjected. ‘It’s
only man that was made after His image, not shrubberies and things....’
Her husband interposed without delay.
‘It is not necessary,’ he explained suavely, ‘to say that they’re alive
in the sense that we are alive. At the same time,’ with an eye to his
wife, ‘I see no harm in holding, dear, that all created things contain
some measure of His life Who made them. It’s only beautiful to hold
that He created nothing dead. We are not pantheists for all that!’ he
added soothingly.
‘Oh, no! Not that, I hope!’ The word alarmed her. It was worse than
pope. Through her puzzled mind stole a stealthy, dangerous thing ...
like a panther.
‘I like to think that even in decay there’s life,’ the painter
murmured. ‘The falling apart of rotten wood breeds sentiency; there’s
force and motion in the falling of a dying leaf, in the breaking up
and crumbling of everything indeed. And take an inert stone: it’s
crammed with heat and weight and potencies of all sorts. What holds its
particles together indeed? We understand it as little as gravity or
why a needle always turns to the “North.” Both things may be a mode of
life....’
‘You think a compass has a soul, Mr. Sanderson?’ exclaimed the lady
with a crackling of her silk flounces that conveyed a sense of outrage
even more plainly than her tone. The artist smiled to himself in the
darkness, but it was Bittacy who hastened to reply.
‘Our friend merely suggests that these mysterious agencies,’ he said
quietly, ‘may be due to some kind of life we cannot understand. Why
should water only run downhill? Why should trees grow at right angles
to the surface of the ground and towards the sun? Why should the
worlds spin for ever on their axes? Why should fire change the form of
everything it touches without really destroying them? To say these
things follow the law of their being explains nothing. Mr. Sanderson
merely suggests--poetically, my dear, of course--that these may be
manifestations of life, though life at a different stage to ours.’
‘The “_breath_ of life,” we read, “He breathed into them.” These things
do not breathe.’ She said it with triumph.
Then Sanderson put in a word. But he spoke rather to himself or to his
host than by way of serious rejoinder to the ruffled lady.
‘But plants do breathe too, you know,’ he said. ‘They breathe, they
eat, they digest, they move about, and they adapt themselves to their
environment as men and animals do. They have a nervous system too ...
at least a complex system of nuclei which have some of the qualities of
nerve cells. They may have memory too. Certainly, they know definite
action in response to stimulus. And though this may be physiological,
no one has proved that it is only that, and not--psychological.’
He did not notice, apparently, the little gasp that was audible behind
the yellow shawl. Bittacy cleared his throat, threw his extinguished
cigar upon the lawn, crossed and recrossed his legs.
‘And in trees,’ continued the other, ‘behind a great forest, for
instance,’ pointing towards the woods, ‘may stand a rather splendid
Entity that manifests through all the thousand individual trees--some
huge collective life, quite as minutely and delicately organised as
our own. It might merge and blend with ours under certain conditions,
so that we could understand it by _being_ it, for a time at least. It
might even engulf human vitality into the immense whirlpool of its
own vast dreaming life. The pull of a big forest on a man can be
tremendous and utterly overwhelming.’
The mouth of Mrs. Bittacy was heard to close with a snap. Her shawl,
and particularly her crackling dress, exhaled the protest that burned
within her like a pain. She was too distressed to be overawed, but
at the same time too confused ‘mid the litter of words and meanings
half understood, to find immediate phrases she could use. Whatever the
actual meaning of his language might be, however, and whatever subtle
dangers lay concealed behind them meanwhile, they certainly wove a
kind of gentle spell with the glimmering darkness that held all three
delicately enmeshed there by that open window. The odours of dewy lawn,
flowers, trees, and earth formed part of it.
‘The moods,’ he continued, ‘that people waken in us are due to their
hidden life affecting our own. Deep calls to deep. A person, for
instance, joins you in an empty room: you both instantly change. The
new arrival, though in silence, has caused a change of mood. May
not the moods of Nature touch and stir us in virtue of a similar
prerogative? The sea, the hills, the desert, wake passion, joy, terror,
as the case may be; for a few, perhaps,’ he glanced significantly at
his host so that Mrs. Bittacy again caught the turning of his eyes,
‘emotions of a curious, flaming splendour that are quite nameless. Well
... whence come these powers? Surely from nothing that is ... dead!
Does not the influence of a forest, its sway and strange ascendancy
over certain minds, betray a direct manifestation of life? It lies
otherwise beyond all explanation, this mysterious emanation of big
woods. Some natures, of course, deliberately invite it. The authority
of a host of trees,’--his voice grew almost solemn as he said the
words--‘is something not to be denied. One feels it here, I think,
particularly.’
There was considerable tension in the air as he ceased speaking. Mr.
Bittacy had not intended that the talk should go so far. They had
drifted. He did not wish to see his wife unhappy or afraid, and he was
aware--acutely so--that her feelings were stirred to a point he did not
care about. Something in her, as he put it, was ‘working up’ towards
explosion.
He sought to generalise the conversation, diluting this accumulated
emotion by spreading it.
‘The sea is His and He made it,’ he suggested vaguely, hoping Sanderson
would take the hint, ‘and with the trees it is the same....’
‘The whole gigantic vegetable kingdom, yes,’ the artist took him up,
‘all at the service of man, for food, for shelter and for a thousand
purposes of his daily life. Is it not striking what a lot of the globe
they cover ... exquisitely organised life, yet stationary, always ready
to our hand when we want them, never running away? But the taking
them, for all that, not so easy. One man shrinks from picking flowers,
another from cutting down trees. And, it’s curious that most of the
forest tales and legends are dark, mysterious, and somewhat ill-omened.
The forest-beings are rarely gay and harmless. The forest life was felt
as terrible. Tree-worship still survives to-day. Woodcutters ... those
who take the life of trees ... you see, a race of haunted men....’
He stopped abruptly, a singular catch in his voice. Bittacy felt
something even before the sentences were over. His wife, he knew, felt
it still more strongly. For it was in the middle of the heavy silence
following upon these last remarks, that Mrs. Bittacy, rising with a
violent abruptness from her chair, drew the attention of the others to
something moving towards them across the lawn. It came silently. In
outline it was large and curiously spread. It rose high, too, for the
sky above the shrubberies, still pale gold from the sunset, was dimmed
by its passage. She declared afterwards that it moved in ‘looping
circles,’ but what she perhaps meant to convey was ‘spirals.’
She screamed faintly. ‘It’s come at last! And it’s you that brought it!’
She turned excitedly, half afraid, half angry, to Sanderson. With a
breathless sort of gasp she said it, politeness all forgotten. ‘I knew
it ... if you went on. I knew it. Oh! Oh!’ And she cried again, ‘Your
talking has brought it out!’ The terror that shook her voice was rather
dreadful.
But the confusion of her vehement words passed unnoticed in the first
surprise they caused. For a moment nothing happened.
‘What is it you think you see, my dear?’ asked her husband, startled.
Sanderson said nothing. All three leaned forward, the men still
sitting, but Mrs. Bittacy had rushed hurriedly to the window, placing
herself of a purpose, as it seemed, between her husband and the lawn.
She pointed. Her little hand made a silhouette against the sky, the
yellow shawl hanging from the arm like a cloud.
‘Beyond the cedar--between it and the lilacs.’ The voice had lost its
shrillness; it was thin and hushed. ‘There ... now you see it going
round upon itself again--going back, thank God! ... going back to the
Forest.’ It sank to a whisper, shaking. She repeated, with a great
dropping sigh of relief--‘Thank God! I thought ... at first ... it was
coming here ... to us!... David ... to _you_!’
She stepped back from the window, her movements confused, feeling in
the darkness for the support of a chair, and finding her husband’s
outstretched hand instead. ‘Hold me, dear, hold me, please ... tight.
Do not let me go.’ She was in what he called afterwards ‘a regular
state.’ He drew her firmly down upon her chair again.
‘Smoke, Sophie, my dear,’ he said quickly, trying to make his voice
calm and natural. ‘I see it, yes. It’s smoke blowing over from the
gardener’s cottage....’
‘But, David,’--and there was new horror in her whisper now--‘it made
a noise. It makes it still. I hear it swishing.’ Some such word she
used--swishing, sishing, rushing, or something of the kind. ‘David, I’m
very frightened. It’s something awful! That man has called it out...!’
‘Hush, hush,’ whispered her husband. He stroked her trembling hand
beside him.
‘It is in the wind,’ said Sanderson, speaking for the first time, very
quietly. The expression on his face was not visible in the gloom, but
his voice was soft and unafraid. At the sound of it, Mrs. Bittacy
started violently again. Bittacy drew his chair a little forward to
obstruct her view of him. He felt bewildered himself, a little, hardly
knowing quite what to say or do. It was all so very curious and sudden.
But Mrs. Bittacy was badly frightened. It seemed to her that what she
saw came from the enveloping forest just beyond their little garden. It
emerged in a sort of secret way, moving towards them as with a purpose,
stealthily, difficultly. Then something stopped it. It could not
advance beyond the cedar. The cedar--this impression remained with her
afterwards too--prevented, kept it back. Like a rising sea the Forest
had surged a moment in their direction through the covering darkness,
and this visible movement was its first wave. Thus to her mind it
seemed ... like that mysterious turn of the tide that used to frighten
and mystify her in childhood on the sands. The outward surge of some
enormous Power was what she felt ... something to which every instinct
in her being rose in opposition because it threatened her and hers. In
that moment she realised the Personality of the Forest ... menacing.
In the stumbling movement that she made away from the window and
towards the bell she barely caught the sentence Sanderson--or was it
her husband?--murmured to himself: ‘It came because we talked of it;
our thinking made it aware of us and brought it out. But the cedar
stops it. It cannot cross the lawn, you see....’
All three were standing now, and her husband’s voice broke in with
authority while his wife’s fingers touched the bell.
‘My dear, I should _not_ say anything to Thompson.’ The anxiety he felt
was manifest in his voice, but his outward composure had returned. ‘The
gardener can go....’
Then Sanderson cut him short. ‘Allow me,’ he said quickly. ‘I’ll see if
anything’s wrong.’ And before either of them could answer or object, he
was gone, leaping out by the open window. They saw his figure vanish
with a run across the lawn into the darkness.
A moment later the maid entered, in answer to the bell, and with her
came the loud barking of the terrier from the hall.
‘The lamps,’ said her master shortly, and as she softly closed the door
behind her, they heard the wind pass with a mournful sound of singing
round the outer walls. A rustle of foliage from the distance passed
within it.
‘You see, the wind _is_ rising. It _was_ the wind!’ He put a comforting
arm about her, distressed to feel that she was trembling. But he knew
that he was trembling too, though with a kind of odd elation rather
than alarm. ‘And it _was_ smoke that you saw coming from Stride’s
cottage, or from the rubbish heaps he’s been burning in the kitchen
garden. The noise we heard was the branches rustling in the wind. Why
should you be so nervous?’
A thin whispering voice answered him:
‘I was afraid for _you_, dear. Something frightened me for _you_.
That man makes me feel so uneasy and uncomfortable for his influence
upon you. It’s very foolish, I know. I think ... I’m tired; I feel so
overwrought and restless.’ The words poured out in a hurried jumble and
she kept turning to the window while she spoke.
‘The strain of having a visitor,’ he said soothingly, ‘has taxed you.
We’re so unused to having people in the house. He goes to-morrow.’ He
warmed her cold hands between his own, stroking them tenderly. More,
for the life of him, he could not say or do. The joy of a strange,
internal excitement made his heart beat faster. He knew not what it
was. He knew only, perhaps, whence it came.
She peered close into his face through the gloom, and said a curious
thing. ‘I thought, David, for a moment ... you seemed ... different. My
nerves are all on edge to-night.’ She made no further reference to her
husband’s visitor.
A sound of footsteps from the lawn warned of Sanderson’s return, as he
answered quickly in a lowered tone--‘There’s no need to be afraid on
my account, dear girl. There’s nothing wrong with me, I assure you; I
never felt so well and happy in my life.’
Thompson came in with the lamps and brightness, and scarcely had she
gone again when Sanderson in turn was seen climbing through the window.
‘There’s nothing,’ he said lightly, as he closed it behind him.
‘Somebody’s been burning leaves, and the smoke is drifting a little
through the trees. The wind,’ he added, glancing at his host a moment
significantly, but in so discreet a way that Mrs. Bittacy did not
observe it, ‘the wind, too, has begun to roar ... in the Forest ...
further out.’
But Mrs. Bittacy noticed about him two things which increased her
uneasiness. She noticed the shining of his eyes, because a similar
light had suddenly come into her husband’s; and she noticed, too, the
apparent depth of meaning he put into those simple words that ‘the wind
had begun to roar in the Forest ... further out.’ Her mind retained
the disagreeable impression that he meant more than he said. In his
tone lay quite another implication. It was not actually ‘wind’ he spoke
of, and it would not remain ‘further out’ ... rather, it was coming
in. Another impression she got too--still more unwelcome--was that her
husband understood his hidden meaning.