Ape's Face

by Marion L. Fox

  When it gets off the stump of the tree you can see all its gnarled and twisted little body; the ugly clothes it wears twined about its limbs: the battered hat, the draggled feather, the, misshapen boots. It has a strange way of walking too, and as it goes it dances grotesquely to its shadow on the mist.

  It has never walked in anything but the dark for years: it has never seen its shadow by any light but the moon or stars. But at the end it has grown tired of concealments and wearied of restraint. So to free itself it has thought to bend greater and stranger things yet to its own ends, greater and stranger than ever it has tried before.

  It has felt the growth of a power outside its own poor world, has listened to the talk of others concerning it (the power), both when they spoke in public or quite privately so that eavesdropping was required for the listening.

  It has desired to use this new power for personal purposes, misunderstood and twisted the force from a beauty to a crime. So ugly is the gnarled creature that in ugliness it sees no slur on fairness.

  So it passes on through the cold, the mist, the snow, capering a little as it laughs. It comes down across the empty downs in their silence, and on through the plantation to the old house under the hill—the old house which has been its desire from the beginning of life in this animated dust.

  All the windows in the house are blindly shuttered, but the door which should have been locked is too evidently open. They shall mind her house better in future. She goes to the door, opens it and enters in. On the threshold she takes off her boots, goes back into the garden and buries them in a bush under one of the windows. They will not be needed again. The times for night walking are nearly run.

  The house is utterly peaceful. It is almost Christmas—that time of good-will and peace. You can feel it through the very mist to the stars. But the old creature gropes her way down the quiet corridors, feeling the walls as she passes, and the doors of the rooms. They are all locked. She knew that she would find them so. She knows, too, that all but one are empty. The key is in the lock; she turns it ever so softly, and goes in.

  Asleep in the old four-poster bed lies a fat old man, snoring. He is the most unromantic object possible to be found in such a romantic setting. He never was fit for the place in which much crooked scheming placed him: he had only been aware spasmodically of either the scheming or the place. She has never hated him so much as now, when the contempt of years needs no longer concealment.

  She laughs a little as she scrambles lightly on to the side of the bed, contemplating him briefly with her chin on her hunched-up knees. The breath comes thickly from between his toothless gums, his teeth lie in the glass at his bedside. The bed is so large and she so small that her presence does not at all disturb his sleeping.

  There are two pillows on the bed: his head rests only on the one. She can see all this clearly, her eyes being well-accustomed to the dark, and besides a pallid light comes in through an uncurtained window. She draws the unused pillow swiftly from its place and covers his face with it, pressing it tightly across his mouth. At first there is no movement; but then there comes a little struggle: his body heaves. She throws herself across the pillow. But for all that there is a tumult in the bed. She feels he is escaping even now from under her hands, from beneath her body, and yet she feels a strength within her that must fight him still.

  He has disentangled himself from the pillow, but the sheets encumber him, and in the dark he can scarcely see what happens. He only feels the horror of two claw-like hands squeezing, squeezing at his throat. He drags her off the bed still clinging to him; his one idea is flight, space to put between him and this awful thing. He reaches the door, they come out into the passage. The place has grown clear with starlight, the walls and floor are chequered with the patterns of those leaded panes; and on that ground of curious lights and shadows they struggle breathlessly together. She clings to him with hands, arms, knees—she is all about him.

  And then suddenly there sweeps across the downs outside the great onslaught of a terrific wind; it bursts open the door between the carved wood-creatures, and rocks the pictures on the walls. As suddenly as it came it goes. In the ensuing peace still the two struggle.

  The walls seem to waver and part, the patterns on the floor rise and flow; there is a gigantic sound of running feet, of some great body passing. The air is gathered together in its going. The strugglers are caught in its flight.

  The clawing hands fall apart, the clinging creature gives way and sinks to the ground limply, the battered hat and feather crushed beneath her on the floor. Just a heap of dust, twisted, wrinkled, meaningless. No animation here, no horror. This is the end.

  The old man runs screaming down the passage like a child.

  ‘And she clutched me with her knees!’ he cried, ‘she sat on my bed! I saw her! She has no teeth or hair; but she walks! She will run after me and catch me!’ and so he goes calling down the stairs, shrieking and crying. The dust lies still behind him: it is soon laid.

  XV

  Christmas Eve and an Obituary Notice

  SURRENDERING TO A CONVICTION that new feelings require an outward expression in changed surroundings, the library windows were left unshuttered, the curtains undrawn, although night had long ago descended upon the land. Slow, heavy flakes of snow could be seen falling against the panes, tickingly, with the steady precision of sand dropping in an hour-glass. The fire being piled high with logs shone brightly. There was a just and pleasing sufficiency of light, such as suggests comfort and quietude. The room seemed in some way to typify the ideal ending to a long and cold journey.

  Without any conscious rearrangement the furniture was grouped quite differently; though everyone had gathered round the fire there was no rigid circle now, for they had come of their own volition, and the result was consequently more harmonious if less symmetrical. The two great chairs now sat beside one another, elbow to elbow; but in Aunt Ellen’s place sat Ape’s-face, and Mr Delane-Morton’s hand rested perilously near her knee—perilously, that is, to those who look with suspicion on the outward shows of affection. Godfrey and Arthur lounged comfortably in chairs that before had invited occupation but elicited no overt response. Armstrong watched them all from the other side of the hearth in a contented wonder.

  ‘My dear,’ Mr Delane-Morton said confidingly to his daughter, ‘do you know, I think it would be nice—quite nice—if, on this evening of all others when we like to think most kindly of everyone—for I take it that we all think that Christmas is intended for such a purpose—yes! it would be nice to write out the notice—the obituary notice of your poor aunt which must go to the papers. Not that it can be a long notice such as celebrities deserve; though your aunt was quite as extraordinary a woman as any celebrity. I always remember thinking that, and so did your poor mother. It would be best to write a rough draft in pencil, and then we can all make suggestions.’

  Pencil and paper wore brought by Arthur.

  ‘And the Morning Post,’ his father amended, ‘we must not be ostentatious, nor put in one word more or less than is considered fitting on these occasions.

  I have always admired the fine, the real English reserve of our . . .’ he paused a moment and swallowed something, ‘well, our death-columns. Nothing marks the civilisation of nations or persons more than their scale of values as regards reticence.’ He cast his eye along the first columns of the paper. ‘I begin to see how it is done,’ he said softly and with a sort of reverence, at the same time poising his pencil ready for writing, ‘we begin with the surname: that shews the great respect bred in every Englishman for the great principle of Family Life. Then we have the Christian name or names. Thus—Delane, Ellen Josephine. Somehow it always comes over me as odd that she should never have been Morton, when she had almost more than their own pride at heart. Your poor mother remarked upon the fact once or twice just before she passed away; she said quite a remarkable thing about bequeathing a place to Ellen which she felt herself to have usurped too long. I cannot exact
ly remember how it went, but it was almost witty. Your poor mother was witty once or twice in her quiet way, but to my mind her remarks lacked a trifle in point. However . . . next the date, December 23rd; but no! it must have occurred after midnight. I remember running down into the hall, and then you all knocked upon the door. I seem to recollect our shouting at one another. But it was Pym who opened the door after all. “I beg your pardon, sir,” he said, “but you will catch cold standing near the door in your light attire.” Did anyone look at the time?’

  ‘It must have been about four o’clock,’ said Ape’s-face, ‘although the mist had lifted we came slowly home across the downs.’

  ‘I cannot yet understand what you were all doing out there at that singular hour, although you have tried to explain it to me twice,’ said Mr Delane-Morton pettishly.

  ‘Well, the truth is,’ said Arthur hurriedly, ‘I was going to London by the evening train from Monkton, but when I got half-way I remembered they had knocked it off for the winter, and that there was not another until eleven o’clock. So I thought of looking up an artist friend of mine who was staying with old Lush. I lost my way once or twice in the mist and then it got dark.

  I wandered about all over the place. It was the worst night I have ever seen.

  I was making up my mind to spending the whole night out on the downs, when I suddenly found myself on the high road to the Drylches again. I thought of asking old Lush to put me up. It was just then that the mist cleared up a little and I saw an old tramp woman on the road before me. She was coming in my direction. I didn’t like the look of her somehow. She spoke to me as I passed. It made me hurry on. She turned and followed me. I didn’t like that either.’

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘Oh, something. I don’t quite remember what.’

  ‘Well, and then?’

  ‘Then I went on to the Drylches and found old Godfrey talking to my friend. I didn’t like something Godfrey said, and then we had a bit of a scrum, and he chased me over the downs. We got lost again, and then old Ape’s-face came along and found us.’

  ‘It’s very odd,’ said Mr Delane-Morton, ‘how all my family seem suddenly to have acquired this habit of rambling about the downs without my knowledge. And Godfrey knew this artist person, too, did he?’

  ‘The fact is,’ replied Godfrey hurriedly, ‘I liked the fellow, but knowing that you did not care for that sort I did not want to distress you, sir.’

  ‘There’s something I don’t like about this,’ rejoined Mr Delane-Morton judicially. ‘Now, Josephine, did you know this person also, this artist fellow?’

  ‘We had just met,’ replied Ape’s-face reluctantly.

  ‘I thought as much,’ he cried, ‘all women are alike. A little long hair, a sad look, or a large tie attracts them sooner than mere worth. I thought there was more in this than met the eye. Do you like this fellow? and further—does he like you?’

  She hesitated and looked across at her brothers.

  ‘No, no,’ cried her father, ‘your brothers shall not shield you! You must tell the truth. I will have no philandering.’ Then turning to Armstrong: ‘I understand you have been under the same roof, sir, as this fellow for two nights. How did the situation strike you? You are a gentleman, sir; pray give me your opinion.’

  Armstrong hesitated: he knew Ape’s-face wished to shield her brothers.

  ‘Ah!’ said Mr Delane-Morton sadly, ‘then he is all I feared. My dear,’

  turning to his daughter, ‘believe me, you must give up all idea of this unprincipled fellow. I value my child too much to throw her away upon a waster. You are your father’s only comfort now.’ He took her hand.

  A suppressed sound from Arthur broke the silence. Mr Delane-Morton looked up from his air of parental solicitude at the disturbance.

  ‘My boy,’ he said, ‘I thought I heard you laugh. You should be old enough to understand the seriousness of the affair.’

  ‘Oh, but old Ape’s-face! It’s too funny!’ cried Arthur in an agony of incompletely controlled laughter. ‘Oh lord! I can’t help it. You must know the truth, father: the joke is too good to be missed. The artist isn’t a man—she’s a girl. Godfrey just called her a fellow to show how friendly he was. He is more her friend than I. I never did care for her very much—too much of the minx for me!’

  ‘A girl!’ cried Mr Delane-Morton, falling back in his chair.

  ‘It’s not true, sir,’ said Godfrey quickly, ‘she was Arthur’s friend before ever I met her. It was she who gave him the notion of going off to paint in London.’

  ‘A girl!’ repeated Mr Delane-Morton breathlessly ‘then the point of it all is . . .’

  ‘The point of it all is this,’ cried Ape’s-face, interrupting him, ‘that both these boys ought to be hard at work instead of idling about here. The Delanes always were workers, and there must be a considerable amount of good energy going to waste.’

  ‘The Delanes!’ cried her father, ‘the Delanes, my dear!’

  ‘Yes,’ said Josephine, ‘the Delanes. And we ought all to be thankful for their energy and what was once their enterprise. Look at Aunt Ellen. I liked and admired her. Even when she was ill, and she must have been paralysed at least half her life, she had the power and the energy of a man. The doctor said this morning when he came that it could only have been quite recently that her bodily strength returned. See how she accumulated money. It was a mean way; but she did it. All of us, younger generation that we are, ought to be applying all our strength in some way or other. Let Arthur be an artist if he likes—skill of hand combined with imagination. Godfrey would make an excellent motor agent. It’s a great gift to make dull things sound fine; and the system of wheels and screws and such should be in his blood.’

  Godfrey looked up a little scared. ‘Good Heavens!’ he said; ‘but on the whole I do not mind the idea.’

  ‘Well, well,’ sighed Mr Delane-Morton, ‘if it would keep these girls away.

  But I suppose there might be girls about motor-works. Still, we might try, eh?’

  ‘The carriage for Mr Armstrong is at the door,’ said Pym’s magisterial voice from the distance.

  There was a general upheaval, and an outburst of farewells. Armstrong had decided to curtail his visit at the Drylches, and his baggage had been sent down in the brougham which was to carry him to the station—finally this time.

  ‘Josephine is taking a parcel for Christmas to the woman at the Lodge,’

  said Mr Delane-Morton; ‘she will drive with you so far.’

  The whole party accompanied Armstrong to the door and stood upon the steps to see him go. The world was extraordinarily white about them and the sky white with stars over their heads; its lustrousness was like the sheen of lily-petals new unfolding. The soft crackling of frost, so like the chirping of grasshoppers, was the only thing to disturb the quietude. The old horse and the still older vehicle looked like some immovable giant toy stranded in the snow. Ape’s-face got into the carriage and Armstrong clambered in beside her. Mr Delane-Morton waved his hand, Pym shut the door as if he were fate closing her sealed books, and the equipage lurched heavily upon its way.

  ‘This is unexpectedly good,’ said Armstrong immediately, ‘there are things I want to hear you say, and things I want you to hear. They have all been talking a great deal in there, but it is only you who have the right explanation; just as it is only you who will guide that household now.’

  ‘You have the real explanation too,’ she said, ‘it is a case of your truth and mine, against all their untruth and folly.’

  ‘What is the moral of it all, I wonder?’

  ‘I was thinking,’ she returned, ‘that each one of us is a moral in human clothing.’

  ‘So this has been a Christmas Morality Play, after all’s said and done. But I would rather not apportion the parts.’

  ‘It is the Return of the Five Wits to their Senses, I think,’ she rejoined, ‘and the release of an imprisoned spirit. I like to believe that the old gods we
re converted at the first Christmas-time, and became angels. The old people must have had some such idea, else why do you find so many churches dedicated to St Michael the Archangel near the downs—that is, near the sites of so many more ancient holy places? The old spirits were not really cruel till men made them so.’

  ‘And shall you never reveal the existence of that curse to your father or brothers?’

  ‘They would never understand. They would see in it either too much or too little. Besides, it is gone now for ever. I am sure that ancient spirit rejoices to be freed from the curse just as much as we ourselves.’

  ‘I daresay,’ said Armstrong shortly; ‘but there is one thing I should like to remark, and that is, your curse has always had its natural obvious explanation as jealousy, greed . . .’

  ‘Of course, of course. Man always suffers through his own nature, or where is justice ?’

  ‘That way saneness lies, anyhow. I’ll quote something from a speech written not so long ago. It was spoken by an eminent person to warn his audience against pseudo-science, and “the theory that the divine supernatural order occasionally broke in to subvert and alter the laws of Nature.” He said 120

  that “people took too much refuge in gaps that science had not yet filled, and he would like to remind such people that they were likely to be in a tight place when the gaps were filled.” What do you think of that?’

  ‘It sounds common-sensible, it admits of truth, and it allows for development—by his leave.’

  ‘And, by your leave, you could not have defined your own character better. But that is personal. I beg your pardon.’

  ‘That is the privilege of friends and enemies.’

  ‘Then I’ll lay claim to both kinds, and say I’ve guessed the moral you stand for. It’s honesty.’

  ‘Please,’ she broke in, ‘we are nearly at the gates, and I must say goodbye.’