IX

And so the thought that she was the one to go remained and grew. It

was, perhaps, first sign of that weakening of the mind which indicated

the singular manner of her going. For it was her mental opposition,

the trees felt, that stood in their way. Once that was overcome,

obliterated, her physical presence did not matter. She would be

harmless.

Having accepted defeat, because she had come to feel that his obsession

was not actually evil, she accepted at the same time the conditions of

an atrocious loneliness. She stood now from her husband farther than

from the moon. They had no visitors. Callers were few and far between,

and less encouraged than before. The empty dark of winter was before

them. Among the neighbours was none in whom, without disloyalty to her

husband, she could confide. Mr. Mortimer, had he been single, might

have helped her in this desert of solitude that preyed upon her mind,

but his wife was there the obstacle; for Mrs. Mortimer wore sandals,

believed that nuts were the complete food of man, and indulged in other

idiosyncrasies that classed her inevitably among the ‘latter signs’

which Mrs. Bittacy had been taught to dread as dangerous. She stood

most desolately alone.

Solitude, therefore, in which the mind unhindered feeds upon its own

delusions, was the assignable cause of her gradual mental disruption

and collapse.

With the definite arrival of the colder weather her husband gave up his

rambles after dark; evenings were spent together over the fire; he read

_The Times_; they even talked about their postponed visit abroad in

the coming spring. No restlessness was on him at the change; he seemed

content and easy in his mind; spoke little of the trees and woods;

enjoyed far better health than if there had been change of scene, and

to herself was tender, kind, solicitous over trifles, as in the distant

days of their first honeymoon.

But this deep calm could not deceive her; it meant, she fully

understood, that he felt sure of himself, sure of her, and sure of the

trees as well. It all lay buried in the depths of him, too secure and

deep, too intimately established in his central being to permit of

those surface fluctuations which betray disharmony within. His life

was hid with trees. Even the fever, so dreaded in the damp of winter,

left him free. She now knew why. The fever was due to their efforts to

obtain him, his efforts to respond and go--physical results of a fierce

unrest he had never understood till Sanderson came with his wicked

explanations. Now it was otherwise. The bridge was made. And--he had

gone.

And she, brave, loyal, and consistent soul, found herself utterly

alone, even trying to make his passage easy. It seemed that she stood

at the bottom of some huge ravine that opened in her mind, the walls

whereof instead of rock were trees that reached enormous to the

sky, engulfing her. God alone knew that she was there. He watched,

permitted, even perhaps approved. At any rate--He knew.

During those quiet evenings in the house, moreover, while they sat over

the fire listening to the roaming winds about the house, her husband

knew continual access to the world his alien love had furnished for

him. Never for a single instant was he cut off from it. She gazed at

the newspaper spread before his face and knees, saw the smoke of his

cheroot curl up above the edge, noticed the little hole in his evening

socks, and listened to the paragraphs he read aloud as of old. But

this was all a veil he spread about himself of purpose. Behind it--he

escaped. It was the conjurer’s trick to divert the sight to unimportant

details while the essential thing went forward unobserved. He managed

wonderfully; she loved him for the pains he took to spare her distress;

but all the while she knew that the body lolling in that armchair

before her eyes contained the merest fragment of his actual self. It

was little better than a corpse. It was an empty shell. The essential

soul of him was out yonder with the Forest--farther out near that

ever-roaring heart of it.

And, with the dark, the Forest came up boldly and pressed against the

very walls and windows, peering in upon them, joining hands above the

slates and chimneys. The winds were always walking on the lawn and

gravel paths; steps came and went and came again; some one seemed

always talking in the woods, some one was in the building too. She

passed them on the stairs, or running soft and muffled, very large and

gentle, down the passages and landings after dusk, as though loose

fragments of the Day had broken off and stayed there caught among the

shadows, trying to get out. They blundered silently all about the

house. They waited till she passed, then made a run for it. And her

husband always knew. She saw him more than once deliberately avoid

them--because _she_ was there. More than once, too, she saw him

stand and listen when he thought she was not near, then heard herself

the long bounding stride of their approach across the silent garden.

Already _he_ had heard them in the windy distance of the night, far,

far away. They sped, she well knew, along that glade of mossy turf by

which she last came out; it cushioned their tread exactly as it had

cushioned her own.

It seemed to her the trees were always in the house with him, and in

their very bedroom. He welcomed them, unaware that she also knew, and

trembled.

One night in their bedroom it caught her unawares. She woke out of

deep sleep and it came upon her before she could gather her forces for

control.

The day had been wildly boisterous, but now the wind had dropped;

only its rags went fluttering through the night. The rays of the full

moon fell in a shower between the branches. Overhead still raced the

scud and wrack, shaped like hurrying monsters; but below the earth

was quiet. Still and dripping stood the hosts of trees. Their trunks

gleamed wet and sparkling where the moon caught them. There was a

strong smell of mould and fallen leaves. The air was sharp--heavy with

odour.

And she knew all this the instant that she woke; for it seemed to her

that she had been elsewhere--following her husband--as though she had

been _out_! There was no dream at all, merely this definite, haunting

certainty. It dived away, lost, buried in the night. She sat upright in

bed. She had come back.

The room shone pale in the moonlight reflected through the windows,

for the blinds were up, and she saw her husband’s form beside her,

motionless in deep sleep. But what caught her unawares was the horrid

thing that by this fact of sudden, unexpected waking she had surprised

these other things in the room, beside the very bed, gathered close

about him while he slept. It was their dreadful boldness--herself of

no account as it were--that terrified her into screaming before she

could collect her powers to prevent. She screamed before she realised

what she did--a long, high shriek of terror that filled the room, yet

made so little actual sound. For wet and shimmering presences stood

grouped all round that bed. She saw their outline underneath the

ceiling, the green, spread bulk of them, their vague extension over

walls and furniture. They shifted to and fro, massed yet translucent,

mild yet thick, moving and turning within themselves to a hushed

noise of multitudinous soft rustling. In their sound was something

very sweet and winning that fell into her with a spell of horrible

enchantment. They were so mild, each one alone, yet so terrific in

their combination. Cold seized her. The sheets against her body turned

to ice.

She screamed a second time, though the sound hardly issued from

her throat. The spell sank deeper, reaching to the heart; for it

softened all the currents of her blood and took life from her in a

stream--towards themselves. Resistance in that moment seemed impossible.

Her husband then stirred in his sleep, and woke. And, instantly, the

forms drew up, erect, and gathered themselves in some amazing way

together. They lessened in extent--then scattered through the air like

an effect of light when shadows seek to smother it. It was tremendous,

yet most exquisite. A sheet of pale-green shadow that yet had form and

substance filled the room. There was a rush of silent movement, as the

Presences drew past her through the air,--and they were gone.

But, clearest of all, she saw the manner of their going; for she

recognised in their tumult of escape by the window open at the top, the

same wide ‘looping circles’--spirals it seemed--that she had seen upon

the lawn those weeks ago when Sanderson had talked. The room once more

was empty.

In the collapse that followed, she heard her husband’s voice, as though

coming from some great distance. Her own replies she heard as well.

Both were so strange and unlike their normal speech, the very words

unnatural:

‘What is it, dear? Why do you wake me _now_?’ And his voice whispered

it with a sighing sound, like wind in pine boughs.

‘A moment since something went past me through the air of the room.

Back to the night outside it went.’ Her voice, too, held the same note

as of wind entangled among too many leaves.

‘My dear, it _was_ the wind.’

‘But it called, David. It was calling _you_--by name!’

‘The stir of the branches, dear, was what you heard. Now, sleep again,

I beg you, sleep.’

‘It had a crowd of eyes all through and over it--before and behind----’

Her voice grew louder. But his own in reply sank lower, far away, and

oddly hushed.

‘The moonlight, dear, upon the sea of twigs and boughs in the rain, was

what you saw.’

‘But it frightened me. I’ve lost my God--and you--I’m cold as death!’

‘My dear, it is the cold of the early morning hours. The whole world

sleeps. Now sleep again yourself.’

He whispered close to her ear. She felt his hand stroking her. His

voice was soft and very soothing. But only a part of him was there;

only a part of him was speaking; it was a half-emptied body that lay

beside her and uttered these strange sentences, even forcing her own

singular choice of words. The horrible, dim enchantment of the trees

was close about them in the room--gnarled, ancient, lonely trees of

winter, whispering round the human life they loved.

‘And let me sleep again,’ she heard him murmur as he settled down among

the clothes, ‘sleep back into that deep, delicious peace from which you

called me....’

His dreamy, happy tone, and that look of youth and joy she discerned

upon his features even in the filtered moonlight, touched her again as

with the spell of those shining, mild green presences. It sank down

into her. She felt sleep grope for her. On the threshold of slumber one

of those strange vagrant voices that loss of consciousness lets loose

cried faintly in her heart--

‘There is joy in the Forest over one sinner that----’

Then sleep took her before she had time to realise even that she

was vilely parodying one of her most precious texts, and that the

irreverence was ghastly....

And though she quickly slept again, her sleep was not as usual,

dreamless. It was not woods and trees she dreamed of, but a small and

curious dream that kept coming again and again upon her: that she

stood upon a wee, bare rock in the sea, and that the tide was rising.

The water first came to her feet, then to her knees, then to her waist.

Each time the dream returned, the tide seemed higher. Once it rose

to her neck, once even to her mouth, covering her lips for a moment

so that she could not breathe. She did not wake between the dreams;

a period of drab and dreamless slumber intervened. But, finally, the

water rose above her eyes and face, completely covering her head.

And then came explanation--the sort of explanation dreams bring. She

understood. For, beneath the water, she had seen the world of seaweed

rising from the bottom of the sea like a forest of dense green--long,

sinuous stems, immense thick branches, millions of feelers spreading

through the darkened watery depths the power of their ocean foliage.

The Vegetable Kingdom was even in the sea. It was everywhere. Earth,

air, and water helped it, way of escape there was none.

And even underneath the sea she heard that terrible sound of

roaring--was it surf or wind or voices?--further out, yet coming

steadily towards her.

* * * * *

And so, in the loneliness of that drab English winter, the mind of Mrs.

Bittacy, preying upon itself, and fed by constant dread, went lost in

disproportion. Dreariness filled the weeks with dismal, sunless skies

and a clinging moisture that knew no wholesome tonic of keen frosts.

Alone with her thoughts, both her husband and her God withdrawn into

distance, she counted the days to Spring. She groped her way, stumbling

down the long dark tunnel. Through the arch at the far end lay a

brilliant picture of the violet sea sparkling on the coast of France.

There lay safety and escape for both of them, could she but hold on.

Behind her the trees blocked up the other entrance. She never once

looked back.

She drooped. Vitality passed from her, drawn out and away as by some

steady suction. Immense and incessant was this sensation of her powers

draining off. The taps were all turned on. Her personality, as it

were, streamed steadily away, coaxed outwards by this Power that never

wearied and seemed inexhaustible. It won her as the full moon wins the

tide. She waned; she faded; she obeyed.

At first she watched the process, and recognised exactly what was

going on. Her physical life, and that balance of the mind which

depends on physical well-being, were being slowly undermined. She saw

that clearly. Only the soul, dwelling like a star apart from these

and independent of them, lay safe somewhere--with her distant God.

That she knew--tranquilly. The spiritual love that linked her to her

husband was safe from all attack. Later, in His good time, they would

merge together again because of it. But, meanwhile, all of her that

had kinship with the earth was slowly going. This separation was being

remorselessly accomplished. Every part of her the trees could touch was

being steadily drained from her. She was being--removed.

After a time, however, even this power of realisation went, so that she

no longer ‘watched the process’ or knew exactly what was going on. The

one satisfaction she had known--the feeling that it was sweet to suffer

for his sake--went with it. She stood utterly alone with this terror of

the trees ... mid the ruins of her broken and disordered mind.

She slept badly; woke in the morning with hot and tired eyes; her head

ached dully; she grew confused in thought and lost the clues of daily

life in the most feeble fashion. At the same time she lost sight, too,

of that brilliant picture at the exit of the tunnel; it faded away into

a tiny semicircle of pale light, the violet sea and the sunshine the

merest point of white, remote as a star and equally inaccessible. She

knew now that she could never reach it. And through the darkness that

stretched behind, the power of the trees came close and caught her,

twining about her feet and arms, climbing to her very lips. She woke at

night, finding it difficult to breathe. There seemed wet leaves pressed

against her mouth, and soft green tendrils clinging to her neck. Her

feet were heavy, half rooted, as it were, in deep, thick earth. Huge

creepers stretched along the whole of that black tunnel, feeling about

her person for points where they might fasten well, as ivy or the giant

parasites of the Vegetable Kingdom settle down on the trees themselves

to sap their life and kill them.

Slowly and surely the morbid growth possessed her life and held her.

She feared those very winds that ran about the wintry forest. They were

in league with it. They helped it everywhere.

‘Why don’t you sleep, dear?’ It was her husband now who played the rôle

of nurse, tending her little wants with an honest care that at least

aped the services of love. He was so utterly unconscious of the raging

battle he had caused. ‘What is it keeps you so wide awake and restless?’

‘The winds,’ she whispered in the dark. For hours she had lain watching

the tossing of the trees through the blindless windows. ‘They go

walking and talking everywhere to-night, keeping me awake. And all the

time they call so loudly to you.’

And his strange whispered answer appalled her for a moment until the

meaning of it faded and left her in a dark confusion of the mind that

was now becoming almost permanent.

‘The trees excite them in the night. The winds are the great swift

carriers. Go with them, dear--and not against. You’ll find sleep that

way if you do.’

‘The storm is rising,’ she began, hardly knowing what she said.

‘All the more then--go with them. Don’t resist. They’ll take you to the

trees, that’s all.’

Resist! The word touched on the button of some text that once had

helped her.

‘Resist the devil and he will flee from you,’ she heard her whispered

answer, and the same second had buried her face beneath the clothes in

a flood of hysterical weeping.

But her husband did not seem disturbed. Perhaps he did not hear it, for

the wind ran just then against the windows with a booming shout, and

the roaring of the Forest farther out came behind the blow, surging

into the room. Perhaps, too, he was already asleep again. She slowly

regained a sort of dull composure. Her face emerged from the tangle of

sheets and blankets. With a growing terror over her--she listened. The

storm was rising. It came with a sudden and impetuous rush that made

all further sleep for her impossible.

Alone in a shaking world, it seemed, she lay and listened. That storm

interpreted for her mind the climax. The Forest bellowed out its

victory to the winds; the winds in turn proclaimed it to the Night.

The whole world knew of her complete defeat, her loss, her little

human pain. This was the roar and shout of victory that she listened to.

For, unmistakably, the trees were shouting in the dark. There were

sounds, too, like the flapping of great sails, a thousand at a time,

and sometimes reports that resembled more than anything else the

distant booming of enormous drums. The trees stood up--the whole

beleaguering host of them stood up--and with the uproar of their

million branches drummed the thundering message out across the night.

It seemed as if they all had broken loose. Their roots swept trailing

over field and hedge and roof. They tossed their bushy heads beneath

the clouds with a wild, delighted shuffling of great boughs. With

trunks upright they raced leaping through the sky. There was upheaval

and adventure in the awful sound they made, and their cry was like the

cry of a sea that has broken through its gates and poured loose upon

the world....

Through it all her husband slept peacefully as though he heard it not.

It was, as she well knew, the sleep of the semi-dead. For he was out

with all that clamouring turmoil. The part of him that she had lost was

there. The form that slept so calmly at her side was but the shell,

half emptied....

And when the winter’s morning stole upon the scene at length, with a

pale, washed sunshine that followed the departing tempest, the first

thing she saw, as she crept to the window and looked out, was the

ruined cedar lying on the lawn. Only the gaunt and crippled trunk of

it remained. The single giant bough that had been left to it lay dark

upon the grass, sucked endways towards the Forest by a great wind eddy.

It lay there like a mass of drift-wood from a wreck, left by the

ebbing of a high spring-tide upon the sands--remnant of some friendly,

splendid vessel that once had sheltered men.

And in the distance she heard the roaring of the Forest further out.

Her husband’s voice was in it.