He walked home from the station, which he reached at nine o’clock.
Crossing the zone of the ‘dirty’ country, now successful invader of
the dream-estate, he entered his property at length by the upper end
of the Piney Valley. A passionate wind was searching the trees for
music, and handfuls of rain were flung against the trunks like stones;
but, on leaving the road the tempest seemed to pass out towards the
sea, leaving an unexpected, sudden hush about his footsteps. The moon
peered down through high, scudding clouds. It was partly that the storm
was breaking up, and partly that the valley provided shelter; but it
gave him the feeling that he had entered a little world prepared for
his reception. He was expected, the principal figure in it. Attention
everywhere focussed on himself. He felt like a prisoner who comes out
of streets indifferent to his presence and enters a Court of Law. This
ominous silence preceded the arrival of the Judge.
The path at once dipped downwards into a world of shadows where the
splashes of moonlight peered up at him like faces on the ground. He
heard the water murmuring out of sight; and it came about his ears like
whispering from the body of the Court. There reigned, indeed, the same
gentle peace and stillness he had known for years, but somewhere in it
a brooding unaccustomed element that was certainly neither peace nor
stillness. Something unwonted stirred slowly, very grandly, through the
darkness.
He paused a moment to listen; he looked about him; he pushed aside
the bracken with his stick, and his eyes glanced up among the lower
branches of the trees. And everywhere, it seemed, he encountered other
eyes--eyes usually veiled, but now with lifted lids. Then he went on
again, faster a little than before. A touch of childhood’s terror
chilled his blood. And it took at first a childhood’s form. He thought
of some big, savage animal that lurked in hiding, its presence turning
the once friendly wood all otherwise and dreadful. A giant paw filled
the little valley to the brim. The stir of the wind was the opening and
shutting of its claws. The lips were drawn back to show the gums and
teeth. Something opened; there came a rush of air. The awful spring
would follow in a moment....
Another hood of memory lifted then and showed him Mánya, as she played
about the sand-pits--then paused when the full discovery dawned upon
her mind. She had eyed him. She had given him this similar impression
of an animal waiting its opportunity to spring. But now it was the
Place that waited to spring....
He banished the bizarre, exaggerated picture his imagination conjured
up, but could not banish the emotion that produced it. The Place _was_
different. Change spread all over it. Potential attack hummed through
the very air. Thus might a man feel walking through a hostile crowd.
But thus also might he feel in the presence of a friend to whom in a
time of confidence he had betrayed himself too lavishly--a friend now
turned against him with this added power of knowing all his secrets.
His own imagination leaped upon him, calling him coward, traitor,
unfaithful steward. Fear made him bitterly regret the familiarity
that years of unguarded dreaming had established between himself
and--and----His mind hesitated horribly between the choice of pronouns;
and when he finally chose the neuter, it seemed that a curious running
laughter passed within the sounds of wind and water. It almost was like
the mockery of Mánya’s laughter taken over by the dying storm.
While he evaded the direct attack, his mind, however, continued
searching for the word that should describe accurately, and so limit
all this vague, distressing feeling of hostility. But for long he
could not find it. The new element that breathed through the sombre
intricacies of the glen played with him as it pleased until he could
catch it in the proper word, and so imprison it. Branches seemed no
longer soft and feathery: they bristled, pointed, stood rigid for
a blow. The stream no longer murmured: it laughed and cried aloud.
The shadows did not cover smoothly: they concealed; and the whole
atmosphere of the Place, instead of welcoming, repelled.
And then, quite suddenly, the word emerged and stood before his face:
Disturbance.
Less than disorder, yet more than mere disquietude, this word described
the attitude he was conscious of. In its aggressive, threatening,
sinister meaning, he accepted it as true.
There was Disturbance. Somewhere in those chains of iron that bind the
operations of Nature within invariable, unyielding laws, a link had
weakened. Disturbance was the result--but a disturbance that somehow
let in purpose. Urging everywhere through the manifestations of Nature
in his dream-estate was the drive and stress of purposiveness.
The discovery of the word, moreover, announced the approach, though not
yet the actual entrance, of the Judge. There were steps, and the steps
were in himself. Some one walked upon his life.
* * * * *
He quickened his pace like a terrified child. With genuine relief at
last he reached the house. But even in the friendly building he was
aware of this keen discomfort at his heels. It penetrated easily.
The Disturbance came in after him into the house itself. Hanging up
coat and hat, he then passed into the Study, and the prosaic business
of drinking milk and munching water-biscuits scattered the strange
illusion for a time. It weakened, at any rate, for it never wholly
disappeared. It waited.
The house was silent, every one in bed. He locked the front
door carefully, stared at his face a moment in the hat-stand
mirror--wondering at a certain change in the expression of the
features, though he could not name it--and with his lighted candle
went on tiptoe up to bed. But the instant he entered the room he was
aware that the feeling of distress had already preceded him. He was
forestalled. There was this dark disquiet in the very atmosphere of his
bedroom. The Disturbance had established itself in these most private,
intimate quarters that once had been his wife’s. It was strongest here.
Dismissing a sharp desire to sleep in another room--anywhere but in the
place made sacred by long-worshipped memories--he began to undress. He
said to himself with a certain vehemence, ‘I’ll ignore the thing.’
But it was fear that said it. A frightened child without a light might
as well determine to ignore the darkness. For this thing was urgent
everywhere about him, inside and outside, like the air he breathed. And
the next minute, instead of ignoring it, he made an attempt to face it.
He would drag the secret out. The fact was, both will and emotions were
already in disorder. He knew not how or where to take the thing.
The attempt then showed him another thing. It was no secret. The terror
in his heart and conscience made pretence of screening something that
he really knew quite well. This aggressive, hostile Presence was a
Presence that he recognised, and had recognised all along.
And instinctively he turned to this side and to that, examining the
room; for space in this room, he realised, was no longer quite as
usual: there was a change in its conditions. Everything contained
within it--the very objects between the four walls--were affected. He
felt them altered; they had become otherwise. He himself was changed
as well, become otherwise. And if anything alive--another person or an
animal even--came in, they also, in some undetermined, startling way,
would look otherwise than usual. They would look different.
Hurriedly he sought a concrete simile to steady his shaking mind
on, and his mind provided this: That, if the temperature were
suddenly lowered, the invisible moisture would at once appear,
otherwise--frost-crystals on the window-panes, snow, and so forth.
The change would not be untrue or even distorted, no falseness in it
anywhere, nor exaggeration--only otherwise. And if the presence of the
dead, whom he felt so close now in this room, turned visible owing to
the changed conditions of the space about him, he would see--but the
thought remained unfinished in his mind....
He thrust the terror down into the depths. Yet the idea must have
been very insistent in him, for he crossed the floor on tiptoe to
lock the door securely, and stood already within easy reach of it,
one hand actually stretched out, when there came a faint knocking on
the panelling within a few inches of his very face. He saw the handle
turn. With suggestive, dreadful stealthiness the door then opened,
the merest crack at first, then gradually wider and wider. And the
slowness was exasperating. The seconds dragged like hours. Had he not
been spellbound he would have violently slammed it to again or torn it
instead wide open.
There was just time in his bewildered mind to wonder what form this
Presence from the dead would take, when he realised that the figure
stood already by his side. She had crossed the threshold. With
amazement he saw that it was Mánya.
She came in swiftly. She was on the carpet close against him before
he could speak a word or move. And she looked, as he had expected,
otherwise: she looked extraordinary. The word came to him in the
way she might herself have used it, getting its first meaning
out--extra-ordinary.
And her appearance was--might well have been, at least--ludicrous. For
she was dressed to go out, but in a fashion that at any other time must
have been cause for laughter. Now it stood at the very opposite pole,
however. It was superb. Her red tam-o’-shanter was perched carelessly,
almost gaily, on her hair, which was already fashioned into plaits
for the night, and underneath the garden jacket that he knew so well,
he saw white drapery that plainly was her little nightgown. She had
pulled her stockings on, but had not fastened them. They hung down,
partly showing her skin below the knee. The boots flapped open, with
no attempt to button them. Her hurry had been evidently great, and she
looked at the first glance like some one surprised by a midnight call
of fire.
Yet these details, which he took in at a single glance, stirred no
faintest touch of amusement in him, for about her whole presentment was
this other nameless quality that showed her to him--utterly otherwise
than usual. It made him wince and shudder, yet pause in a wondering
amazement too--amazement that barely held back awe. He stared like a
man struck suddenly dumb. The phrase the child so often used came back
upon him with the force of a shock. The girl had put her Self out.
This being that stood just opposite to his face was not Mánya. It was
another. It was _the_ other!
And both doubt and knowledge dropped down upon him in that fearful
moment: knowledge, that it was the Influence she had been so long in
league with, and that sought to use her as its instrument of protest;
and doubt, as to exactly what--or who--this Influence really was.
For it came to him as being so enormously bigger and vaster than
anything his mind could label ‘the dead.’ He felt in the presence of
a multitude. He had once felt thus when seeing a single Redskin steal
like a shadow round the camp, knowing that the night concealed a host
of others. About her actual form and body, too, this sense of multitude
also spread and trembled, only just concealed: and indescribable
utterly. For the edges of the child were ill-defined and misty, so that
he could not see exactly where her outline ceased. The candle-light
played round and over her as though she filled the room. She might have
been all through the air above him, behind as well as opposite, close
in front as well. In a sense he felt that she had come to him through
the open windows and from the night itself, and not merely along the
passage and through the narrow door. She came from the entire Place.
He made a feverish struggling effort to concentrate his mind upon
common words. He wanted to move backwards, but his feet refused to
stir. The familiar sound of her name he uttered close into her face:--
‘Mánya! And at this hour of the night!’ he stammered.
His voice was thick and without resonance in his mouth, smothered like
a sound in a closed box. And as he heard the name a kind of silent
laughter reached him--inaudible really, as though inside him--sly
laughter like her own. For the name had lost its known familiarity. It,
too, was different and otherwise, though for the life of him he could
not seize at first wherein the alteration lay.
She smiled, and her eyes, wide opened, were like stars. The breath
came soft and windily between her lips, but no words with it. It
was regular, deep, unhurried. There was something in her face that
petrified him--something, as it were, non-human. He began to forget who
and where he was. Identity slipped from him like a dream.
With another effort, this time a more violent one, he strove to fasten
upon things that were close and real in life. He felt the buttons down
his coat, fingering them desperately till they hurt his hands and
escaped from his slippery moist skin.
‘Mánya!’ he repeated in a louder voice, while his mind plunged out to
seek the child he had always known behind the familiar name.
And this time she answered; but to his horror, the whole room, and even
space beyond the actual room, seemed to answer with her. The name was
repeated by her lips, yet came from the night beyond the open window
too. He had made a question of it. The answer, repeating it, was assent.
‘M á n y-a ...’ he heard all round him, while the head bent gently down
and forward.
The shock of it restored to him some power of movement, and he stumbled
back a step or two further from her side. It might well have been
whimsical and cheap, this artificial play upon a name, but instead of
either it was abominably significant. This motionless figure, so close
that he could feel her breath upon his face, was positively in some
astonishing way more than one. She _was_ many. The laughter that lay
behind the trivial little thing was a laughter both grand and terrible.
It was the laughter of the sea, of the woods, of sand--a host that no
man counteth--the laughter of a multitude.
And he thrust out both his hands automatically lest she should touch
him. He shook from head to toe. Contact with her person would break
up his being into millions. The sensation of terror was both immense
and acute, sweeping him beyond himself. Like her, he was becoming
many--becoming hundreds and thousands--sand that none can number.
‘Child!’ he heard his voice repeating faintly, yet with an emphasis
that spaced the words apart with slow distinctness, ‘what does this
mean?’ In vain he tried to smother the beseeching note in it that was
like a cry for help.
He stepped back another pace. She did not move. Composure then began
to come back slowly to him, a little and a little. He remembered who
he was, and where he was. He said to himself the commonplace thing:
‘This is Mánya, my little niece, and she ought to be asleep in bed.’ It
sounded ridiculous even in his mind, but he tried deliberately to think
of ordinary things.
And then he said it aloud: ‘Do you realise where you are and what you
are doing, child?’ And then he added, gaining courage, a question of
authority: ‘Do you realize what time it is?’
Her answer came again without hesitation, as from a long way off. A
smile lit up the entire face, gleaming from her skin like moonlight.
There were tears, he saw, upon the cheeks. But the face itself was
radiant, wonderful.
‘The time,’ she said, peering very softly into his eyes, ‘is _now_.’
And she took a slow-gliding step towards him, with a movement that
frightened him beyond belief.
But by this time he had himself better in hand. He understood that
the child was walking in her sleep. It was her little frame that was
being worked and driven by--Another. She was possessed. Something was
speaking through the entranced physical body. Her answer regarding
time was the answer absolute, not relative, the only true answer that
could be given. Other answers would be similar. He understood that here
was the long expected revelation, and that he must question her if he
wished to hear it. He resolved to do so, but with a cold awe in his
heart as though he were about to question--Death.
They both retained their first positions, three feet apart, standing.
The candle behind him on the table shed its flickering light across her
altered features. Outside he heard the trees shaking and tossing in the
gusts of rainy wind.
‘Who are you then?’ he asked hesitatingly, in a low tone.
There was no reply. But effort, showing that she heard and tried to
answer, traced a little frown above the eyebrows; and the eyes looked
puzzled for a moment.
‘You mean,’ he whispered, ‘you cannot tell me?’
The head bowed slowly once by way of assent.
‘You cannot find the word, the language?’ he helped her. ‘Is that it?’
He still whispered, afraid of his own voice.
‘Yes,’ was the answer, spoken below the breath. Then instantly
afterwards, straightening herself up with a vigorous movement that
startled him horribly, she made a curious, rushing gesture of the whole
body, spreading her arms out through the air about her. ‘I am--_like
that_!’ the voice sprang out loud and clear.
She seemed by the gesture to gather space and the night into her wide
embrace. She repeated it. The face smiled marvellously. Through this
slim body, he realised, there rolled something ancient as the stars. It
poured through space against him like a sea. It turned his little ideas
of space all--otherwise.
‘Tell me where you come from,’ he asked quickly, eager yet dreading to
hear.
‘From everywhere,’ came the answer like a wind.
He paused, breathless with astonishment. He felt himself dwindling.
Here was a vaster thing than he had contemplated. It was surely no
single discarnate influence that possessed the child!
‘And--for whom?’ It was whispered as before.
The figure stepped with a single gliding stride towards him, coming so
close that he held his ground only by a tremendous effort of the will.
‘For you!’ The voice came like a clap of wind again, at once soft yet
thundering, filling the entire room.
‘For me,’ he faltered. ‘Your message is for me?’
He felt the assault of strange, violent sensations he had never known
before and could not name. A boyhood’s dream rushed back upon him for
an instant. He recalled his misery and awe when he stood before the
Judgment Throne for some unforgivable breach of trust which he could
not explain because the dream concealed its nature. Only this was ten
times greater, and his guilt beyond redemption.
‘And I,’ he stammered, ‘who am I?’
Her eyes looked him all over like a stare of the big moon.
‘_You_,’ she answered, without pause or hesitation.
‘You do not know my name?’ he insisted, still clinging to the clue that
her he spoke with must be from the dead.
The little frown came back between the eyes. She nodded darkly.
‘_You_,’ she repeated, giving the answer absolute again, the only
really true one.
The girl stood like a statue, serene and solemn. She stared through and
beyond him, motionless but for a scarcely perceptible swaying, and calm
as a meadow in the dawn. Enormous meanings passed from her eyes across
the air, and sank down into him like meanings from a forest or a sea.
From these, he realised, came her stupendous inspiration, and, so
realising, he knew at last his deep mistake. For not so do the Dead
return. They never, indeed, return, because from the heart that
loved them they have never gone away, but only changed their magic
intercourse in kind. And, had _she_ known, she would have approved
the wisdom of his great decision, while clearing his motive of all
insincerity at the same time.
It was not _she_ who brought the protest and the menace. It was
something bigger by far, something awful and untamed. It was the
Place itself. And behind the Place stood Nature. It was Nature that
possessed the child and used her little lips and hands and body for its
thundering message of disapproval.
Mánya was possessed by Nature.
* * * * *
And the shock of the discovery first turned him into stone. His
body did not stir the fraction of an inch. In that moment of vivid
realisation these two little human figures stood facing one another,
motionless as columns; and, while so standing, the One who brought the
Message for himself drew closer.
For several minutes he saw absolutely nothing. The approach was too big
for any sensory perceptions he could recognise. And then, mercilessly,
pitilessly, the power of sight returned.
He knew the touch of a giant, earthy hand was upon his arm. Beside
him, in the flickering candle light, stood Nature. He looked into a
host of mighty eyes that yet his imagination translated into merely
two--eyes set wide apart beneath enormous brows. He met the gaze of
the Gigantic, the Patient, the Inexorable that saw him as he was, and
judged him where he stood. And a melting ran through his body, as
though the bones slipped from their accustomed places, leaving him
utterly without support. He swayed, but did not fall. His physical
frame stood upright to receive like a blow the revelation that was
coming.
And then, with a curious, deep sense of shame, he realised abruptly
that his position in regard to her was inappropriate. He, at any rate,
had no right to stand. His proper attitude must be a very different one.
He took her by the hand and, bending his head with an air of humble
worship, led her slowly across the room. The touch of her was
wonderful--like touching wind--all over him. With a reverence he guided
her, all unresisting, to a high-backed chair beside the open window.
She lowered herself upon it, and sat upright. She stared fixedly before
her into space. No clothing in the world could have stolen from her
childish face and figure the nameless air of grandeur that she wore.
She was august.
And he knelt before her. He raised his folded hands. A moment his eyes
rested on the dispassionate little face, then looked beyond her into
the night of wind and rain. His gaze returning then sought the eyes
again.
And the child, sweet little human interpreter of so vast a Mystery,
bent her head downwards and looked into his heart. Wind stirred the
hair upon her neck. He saw the bosom gently rise and fall.
‘What is it that you have to say to me?’ he whispered, like a prayer
for mercy. ‘What is the message that you bring?’
Her lips moved very slightly. The smile broke out again like moonlight
across the lowered face. The words dropped through the sky. Very
slowly, very distinctly, they fell into his open heart: simple as wind
or rain.
‘Leave--me--as--I--am--and--as--you--found--me.
Leave--us--together--as--we--are--and--as--we--were.’