He rose with the ludicrous alacrity of a man who had taken a public
and awkward misstep. The wan lamplight, diffused from within, made
just visible the bulk that had descended with him. It lay without
motion, sprawling upon a lower step and the floor. John Woolfolk moved
backward from it, his hand behind him, feeling for the entrance to the
lighted room. He shifted his feet carefully, for the darkness was
wheeling about him in visible black rings streaked with pale orange as
he passed into the room.
Here objects, dimensions, became normally placed, recognizable. He saw
the mezzotint with its sere and sunny peace, the portfolios on their
stands, like grotesque and flattened quadrupeds, and Lichfield Stope
on the floor, still hiding his dead face in the crook of his arm.
He saw these things, remembered them, and yet now they had new
significance--they oozed a sort of vital horror, they seemed to crawl
with a malignant and repulsive life. The entire room was charged with
this palpable, sentient evil. John Woolfolk defiantly faced the still,
cold inclosure; he was conscious of an unseen scrutiny, of a menace
that lived in pictures, moved the fingers of the dead, and that could
take actual bulk and pound his heart sore.
He was not afraid of the wrongness that inhabited this muck of house
and grove and matted bush. He said this loudly to the prostrate form;
then, waiting a little, repeated it. He would smash the print with its
fallacious expanse of peace. The broken glass of the smitten picture
jingled thinly on the floor. Woolfolk turned suddenly and defeated the
purpose of whatever had been stealthily behind him; anyway it had
disappeared. He stood in a strained attitude, listening to the
aberrations of the wind without, when an actual presence slipped by
him, stopping in the middle of the floor.
It was Millie Stope. Her eyes were opened to their widest extent, but
they had the peculiar blank fixity of the eyes of the blind. Above
them her hair slipped and slid in a loosened knot.
"I had to walk round him," she protested in a low, fluctuating voice,
"there was no other way.... Right by his head. My skirt----" She broke
off and, shuddering, came close to John Woolfolk. "I think we'd better
go away," she told him, nodding. "It's quite impossible here, with him
in the hall, where you have to pass so close."
Woolfolk drew back from her. She too was a part of the house; she had
led him there--a white flame that he had followed into the swamp. And
this was no ordinary marsh. It was, he added aloud, "A swamp of
souls."
"Then," she replied, "we must leave at once."
A dragging sound rose from the hall. Millie Stope cowered in a
voiceless accession of terror; but John Woolfolk, lamp in hand, moved
to the door. He was curious to see exactly what was happening. The
bulk had risen; a broad back swayed like a pendulum, and a swollen
hand gripped the stair rail. The form heaved itself up a step, paused,
tottering, and then mounted again. Woolfolk saw at once that the other
was going for the knife buried in the wall above. He watched with an
impersonal interest the dragging ascent. At the seventh step it
ceased; the figure crumpled, slid halfway back to the floor.
"You can't do it," Woolfolk observed critically.
The other sat bowed, with one leg extended stiffly downward, on
the stair that mounted from the pale radiance of the lamp into
impenetrable darkness. Woolfolk moved back into the room and replaced
the lamp on its table. Millie Stope still stood with open, hanging
hands, a countenance of expectant dread. Her eyes did not shift
from the door as he entered and passed her; her gaze hung starkly on
what might emerge from the hall.
A deep loathing of his surroundings swept over John Woolfolk, a sudden
revulsion from the dead man on the floor, from the ponderous menace on
the stair, the white figure that had brought it all upon him. A
mounting horror of the place possessed him, and he turned and
incontinently fled. A complete panic enveloped him at his flight, a
blind necessity to get away, and he ran heedlessly through the night,
with head up and arms extended. His feet struck upon a rotten fragment
of board that broke beneath him, he pushed through a tangle of grass,
and then his progress was held by soft and dragging sand. A moment
later he was halted by a chill flood rising abruptly to his knees. He
drew back sharply and fell on the beach, with his heels in the water
of the bay.
An insuperable weariness pinned him down, a complete exhaustion of
brain and body. A heavy wind struck like a wet cloth on his face. The
sky had been swept clear of clouds, and stars sparkled in the pure
depths of the night. They were white, with the exception of one that
burned with an unsteady yellow ray and seemed close by. This, John
Woolfolk thought, was strange. He concentrated a frowning gaze upon
it--perhaps in falling into the soiled atmosphere of the earth it had
lost its crystal gleam and burned with a turgid light. It was very,
very probable.
He continued to watch it, facing the tonic wind, until with a clearing
of his mind, a gasp of joyful recognition, he knew that it was the
riding light of the _Gar_.
Woolfolk sat very still under the pressure of his renewed sanity. Fact
upon fact, memory on memory, returned, and in proper perspective built
up again his mentality, his logic, his scattered powers of being. The
_Gar_ rode uneasily on her anchor chains; the wind was shifting. They
must get away!--Halvard, waiting at the wharf--Millie----
He rose hurriedly to his feet--he had deserted Millie; left her, in
all her anguish, with her dead parent and Iscah Nicholas. His love for
her swept back, infinitely heightened by the knowledge of her
suffering. At the same time there returned the familiar fear of a
permanent disarrangement in her of chords that were unresponsive to
the clumsy expedients of affection and science. She had been subjected
to a strain that might well unsettle a relatively strong will; and she
had been fragile in the beginning.
She must be a part of no more scenes of violence, he told himself,
moving hurriedly through the orange grove; she must be led quietly to
the tender--that is, if it were not already too late. His entire
effort to preserve her had been a series of blunders, each one of
which might well have proved fatal, and now, together, perhaps had.
He mounted to the porch and entered the hall. The light flowed
undisturbed from the room on the right; and, in its thin wash, he saw
that Iscah Nicholas had disappeared from the lower steps. Immediately,
however, and from higher up, he heard a shuffling, and could just make
out a form heaving obscurely in the gloom. Nicholas patently was
making progress toward the consummation of his one fixed idea; but
Woolfolk decided that at present he could best afford to ignore him.
He entered the lighted room, and found Millie seated and gazing in
dull wonderment at the figure on the floor.
"I must tell you about my father," she said conversationally. "You
know, in Virginia, the women tied an apron to his door because he
would not go to war, and for years that preyed on his mind, until he
was afraid of the slightest thing. He was without a particle of
strength--just to watch the sun cross the sky wearied him, and the
smallest disagreement upset him for a week."
She stopped, lost in amazement at what she contemplated, what was to
follow.
"Then Nicholas----But that isn't important. I was to meet a man--we
were going away together, to some place where it would be peaceful. We
were to sail there. He said at eight o'clock. Well, at seven Nicholas
was in the kitchen. I got father into his very heaviest coat, and laid
out a muffler and his gloves, then sat and waited. I didn't need
anything extra, my heart was quite warm. Then father asked why I had
changed his coat--if I'd told him, he would have died of fright--he
said he was too hot, and he fretted and worried. Nicholas heard him,
and he wanted to know why I had put on father's winter coat. He found
the muffler and gloves ready and got suspicious.
"He stayed in the hall, crying a little--Nicholas cried right
often--while I sat with father and tried to think of some excuse to
get away. At last I had to go--for an orange, I said--but Nicholas
wouldn't believe it. He pushed me back and told me I was going out to
the other.
"'Nicholas,' I said, 'don't be silly; nobody would come away from a
boat on a night like this. Besides, he's gone away.' We had that last
made up. But he pushed me back again. Then I heard father move behind
us, and I thought--he's going to die of fright right now. But father's
footsteps came on across the floor and up to my side."
"'Don't do that, Nicholas,' he told him; 'take your hand from my
daughter.' He swayed a little, his lips shook, but he stood facing
him. It was father!" Her voice died away, and she was silent for a
moment, gazing at the vision of that unsuspected and surprising
courage. "Of course Nicholas killed him," she added. "He twisted him
away and father died. That didn't matter," she told Woolfolk; "but the
other was terribly important, anyone can see that."
John Woolfolk listened intently, but there was no sound from without.
Then, with every appearance of leisure, he rolled and lighted a
cigarette.
"Splendid!" he said of her recital; "and I don't doubt you're right
about the important thing." He moved toward her, holding out his hand.
"Splendid! But we must go on--the man is waiting for you."
"It's too late," she responded indifferently. She redirected her
thoughts to her parent's enthralling end. "Do you think a man as brave
as that should lie on the floor?" she demanded. "A flag," she added
obscurely, considering an appropriate covering for the still form.
"No, not on the floor," Woolfolk instantly responded. He bent and,
lifting the body of Lichfield Stope, carried it into the hall, where,
relieved at the opportunity to dispose of his burden, he left it in an
obscure corner.
Iscah Nicholas was stirring again. John Woolfolk waited, gazing up the
stair, but the other progressed no more than a step. Then he returned
to Millie.
"Come," he said. "No time to lose." He took her arm and exerted a
gentle pressure toward the door.
"I explained that it was too late," she reiterated, evading him.
"Father really lived, but I died. 'Swamp of souls,'" she added in a
lower voice. "Someone said that, and it's true; it happened to me."
"The man waiting for you will be worried," he suggested. "He depends
absolutely on your coming."
"Nice man. Something had happened to him too. He caught a rockfish and
Nicholas boiled it in milk for our breakfast." At the mention of Iscah
Nicholas a slight shiver passed over her. This was what Woolfolk hoped
for--a return of her normal revulsion from her surroundings, from the
past.
"Nicholas," he said sharply, contradicted by a faint dragging from the
stair, "is dead."
"If you could only assure me of that," she replied wistfully. "If I
could be certain that he wasn't in the next shadow I'd go gladly. Any
other way it would be useless." She laid her hand over her heart. "I
must get him out of here----My father did. His lips trembled a little,
but he said quite clearly: 'Don't do that. Don't touch my daughter.'"
"Your father was a singularly brave man," he assured her, rebelling
against the leaden monotony of speech that had fallen upon them. "Your
mother too was brave," he temporized. He could, he decided, wait no
longer. She must, if necessary, be carried away forcibly. It was a
desperate chance--the least pressure might result in a permanent,
jangling discord. Her waist, torn, he saw, upon her pallid shoulder,
was an insufficient covering against the wind and night. Looking about
he discovered the muffler, laid out for her father, crumpled on the
floor; and, with an arm about her, folded it over her throat and
breast.
"Now we're away," he declared in a forced lightness. She resisted him
for a moment, and then collapsed into his support.
John Woolfolk half led, half carried her into the hall. His gaze
searched the obscurity of the stair; it was empty; but from above came
the sound of a heavy, dragging step.