The Damned

  Chapter VIII

  And then, while that dreadful house stood listening about us in theearly hours of this chill morning upon the edge of winter, she told me,with laconic brevity, things about Mabel that I heard as from adistance. There was nothing so unusual or tremendous in the shortrecital, nothing indeed I might not have already guessed for myself. Itwas 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 givenher soul into his keeping, this certainly I had not divined--probablybecause I had never thought about it one way or the other. He had"converted" her, I knew, but that she had subscribed whole-heartedly tothat most cruel and ugly of his dogmas--this was new to me, and camewith a certain shock as I heard it. In love, of course, the weakernature is receptive to all manner of suggestion. This man had"suggested" his pet brimstone lake so vividly that she had listened andbelieved. He had frightened her into heaven; and his heaven, a definitelocality in the skies, had its foretaste here on earth in miniature--TheTowers, house, and garden. Into his dolorous scheme of a handful savedand millions damned, his enclosure, as it were, of sheep and goats, hehad swept her before she was aware of it. Her mind no longer was herown. And it was Mrs. Marsh who kept the thought-stream open, thoughtempered, as she deemed, with that touch of craven, superstitious mercy.

  But what I found it difficult to understand, and still more difficult toaccept, was that, during her year abroad, she had been so haunted with asecret dread of that hideous after-death that she had finally revoltedand tried to recover that clearer state of mind she had enjoyed beforethe religious bully had stunned her--yet had tried in vain. She hadreturned to The Towers to find her soul again, only to realize that itwas 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 invain for the peace and beauty his teachings had destroyed. Nothing cameto replace these. She was empty, desolate, hopeless; craving her formerjoy 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 thedamned. His thinking wrapped her in this iron garment that held herfast.

  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 ofgreat beating issues and of menacing drama my own description fails torecapture. It was all so incongruous and remote from the world I livedin that more than once a smile, though a smile of pity, fluttered to mylips; but a glimpse of my face in the mirror showed rather the leer of agrimace. There was no real laughter anywhere that night.

  The entire adventure seemed so incredible, here, in this twentiethcentury--but yet delusion, that feeble word, did not occur once in thecomments my mind suggested though did not utter. I remembered thatforbidding Shadow too; my sister's watercolors; the vanished personalityof our hostess; the inexplicable, thundering Noise, and the figure ofMrs. Marsh in her midnight ritual that was so childish yet so horrible.I shivered in spite of my own "emancipated" cast of mind.

  "There is no Mabel," were the words with which my sister sent anothershower of ice down my spine. "He has killed her in his lake of fire andbrimstone."

  I stared at her blankly, as in a nightmare where nothing true orpossible ever happened.

  "He killed her in his lake of fire and brimstone," she repeated morefaintly.

  A desperate effort was in me to say the strong, sensible thing whichshould destroy the oppressive horror that grew so stiflingly about usboth, but again the mirror drew the attempted smile into the merestgrin, betraying the distortion that was everywhere in the place.

  "You mean," I stammered beneath my breath, "that her faith has gone, butthat the terror has remained?" I asked it, dully groping. I moved out ofthe line of the reflection in the glass.

  She bowed her head as though beneath a weight; her skin was the pallorof grey ashes.

  "You mean," I said louder, "that she has lost her--mind?"

  "She is terror incarnate," was the whispered answer. "Mabel has lost hersoul. Her soul is--there!" She pointed horribly below. "She is seekingit ...?"

  The word "soul" stung me into something of my normal self again.

  "But her terror, poor thing, is not--cannot be--transferable to us!" Iexclaimed more vehemently. "It certainly is not convertible intofeelings, sights and--even sounds!"

  She interrupted me quickly, almost impatiently, speaking with thatconviction by which she conquered me so easily that night.

  "It is her terror that revived 'the Others.' It has brought her intotouch with them. They are loose and driving after her. Her efforts atresistance have given them also hope--that escape, after all, ispossible. Day and night they strive.

  "Escape! Others!" The anger fast rising in me dropped of its own accordat the moment of birth. It shrank into a shuddering beyond my control.In that moment, I think, I would have believed in the possibility ofanything and everything she might tell me. To argue or contradict seemedequally futile.

  "His strong belief, as also the beliefs of others who have precededhim," she replied, so sure of herself that I actually turned to lookover my shoulder, "have left their shadow like a thick deposit over thehouse and grounds. To them, poor souls imprisoned by thought, it washopeless as granite walls--until her resistance, her effort to dissipateit--let in light. Now, in their thousands, they are flocking to thislittle light, seeking escape. Her own escape, don't you see, may releasethem all!"

  It took my breath away. Had his predecessors, former occupants of thishouse, also preached damnation of all the world but their own exclusivesect? Was this the explanation of her obscure talk of "layers," eachstriving against the other for domination? And if men are spirits, andthese spirits survive, could strong Thought thus determine theircondition even afterwards?

  So many questions flooded into me that I selected no one of them, butstared in uncomfortable silence, bewildered, out of my depth, andacutely, painfully distressed. There was so odd a mixture of possibletruth and incredible, unacceptable explanation in it all; so muchconfirmed, yet so much left darker than before. What she said did,indeed, offer a quasi-interpretation of my own series of abominablesensations--strife, agony, pity, hate, escape--but so far-fetched thatonly the deep conviction in her voice and attitude made it tolerable fora second even. I found myself in a curious state of mind. I couldneither think clearly nor say a word to refute her amazing statements,whispered there beside me in the shivering hours of the early morningwith only a wall between ourselves and--Mabel. Close behind her words Iremember this singular thing, however--that an atmosphere as of theInquisition seemed to rise and stir about the room, beating awful wingsof black above my head.

  Abruptly, then, a moment's common sense returned to me. I faced her.

  "And the Noise?" I said aloud, more firmly, "the roar of the closingdoors? We have all heard that! Is that subjective too?"

  Frances looked sideways about her in a queer fashion that made my fleshcreep 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 ofperspiration glistened on her forehead. She caught at the back of achair to steady herself, then glanced about her again with that sidelonglook that made my blood run cold. I understood suddenly then. She didnot take in what I said. I knew now. She was listening--for somethingelse.

  And the discovery revived in me a far stronger emotion than any meredesire for immediate explanation. Not only did I not insist upon ananswer, but I was actually terrified lest she would answer. More, I feltin me a terror lest I should be moved to describe my own experiencesbelow-stairs, thus i
ncreasing 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, itseemed, and her voice had a sound like a stone that drops into a deepwell, its fate though hidden, known.

  "We are in it with her, too, Bill. We are in it with her. Ourinterpretations vary--because we are--in parts of it only. Mabel is init--all."

  The desire for violence came over me. If only she would say a definitething in plain King's English! If only I could find it in me to giveutterance to what shouted so loud within me! If only--the same old cry--something would happen! For all this elliptic talk that dazed my mindleft obscurity everywhere. Her atrocious meaning, nonetheless, flashedthrough me, though vanishing before it wholly divulged itself.

  It brought a certain reaction with it. I found my tongue. Whether Iactually believed what I said is more than I can swear to; that itseemed to me wise at the moment is all I remember. My mind was in astate of obscure perception less than that of normal consciousness.

  "Yes, Frances, I believe that what you say is the truth, and that we arein it with her"--I meant to say I with loud, hostile emphasis, butinstead I whispered it lest she should hear the trembling of my voice--"and for that reason, my dear sister, we leave tomorrow, you and I--today, rather, since it is long past midnight--we leave this house ofthe damned. We go back to London."

  Frances looked up, her face distraught almost beyond recognition. But itwas 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 itmyself, and had she not pointed I could never have known the directionwhence it came. Small and terrible it rose again in the stillness of thenight, the sound of gnashing teeth. And behind it came another--thetread of stealthy footsteps. Both were just outside the door.

  The room swung round me for a second. My first instinct to prevent mysister going out--she had dashed past me frantically to the door--gaveplace to another when I saw the expression in her eyes. I followed herlead instead; it was surer than my own. The pistol in my pocket swunguselessly against my thigh. I was flustered beyond belief and ashamedthat I was so.

  "Keep close to me, Frances," I said huskily, as the door swung wide anda shaft of light fell upon a figure moving rapidly. Mabel was going downthe corridor. Beyond her, in the shadows on the staircase, a secondfigure stood beckoning, scarcely visible.

  "Before they get her! Quick!" was screamed into my ears, and our armswere about her in the same moment. It was a horrible scene. Not thatMabel struggled in the least, but that she collapsed as we caught herand fell with her dead weight, as of a corpse, limp, against us. And herteeth began again. They continued, even beneath the hand that Francesclapped upon her lips....

  We carried her back into her own bedroom, where she lay down peacefullyenough. It was so soon over.... The rapidity of the whole thing robbedit of reality almost. It had the swiftness of something rememberedrather than of something witnessed. She slept again so quickly that itwas almost as if we had caught her sleepwalking. I cannot say. I askedno questions at the time; I have asked none since; and my help wasneeded as little as the protection of my pistol. Frances was strangelycompetent and collected.... I lingered for some time uselessly by thedoor, till at length, looking up with a sigh, she made a sign for me togo.

  "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 hearthe faintest call for help. In that dark corridor upstairs I waited, butnot long. It may have been fifteen minutes when Frances reappeared,locking the door softly behind her. Leaning over the banisters, I sawher.

  "I'll go in again about six o'clock," she whispered, "as soon as it getslight. She is sound asleep now. Please don't wait. If anything happensI'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 spentin an armchair close to my opened door, listening for the slightestsound. Soon after five o'clock I heard Frances fumbling with the key,and, peering over the railing again, I waited till she reappeared andwent back into her own room. She closed her door. Evidently she wassatisfied that all was well.

  Then, and then only, did I go to bed myself, but not to sleep. I couldnot get the scene out of my mind, especially that odious detail of itwhich I hoped and believed my sister had not seen--the still, darkfigure of the housekeeper waiting on the stairs below--waiting, ofcourse, for Mabel.