Complete Novels of E Nesbit

by Edith Nesbit

  I rather liked that expression, and she hastened to spoil it.

  “... Quite an adventure going all over this glorious old place, and looking at everything one wanted to see, and not just at what the housekeeper didn’t mind one’s looking at.”

  She passed through the door, but when I had closed it and prepared to lock it, I found that the key was no longer in the lock. I looked on the floor — I felt in my pockets, and at last, wandering back into the kitchen, discovered it on the table, where I swear I never put it.

  When I had fitted that key into the lock and turned it, and got out of the window and made that fast, I dropped into the yard. No one shared its solitude with me. I searched garden and pleasure grounds, but never a glimpse of pink rewarded my anxious eyes. I found the sundial again, and stretched myself along the warm brick of the wide step where she had sat: and called myself a fool.

  I had let her go. I did not know her name; I did not know where she lived; she had been at the inn, but probably only for lunch. I should never see her again, and certainly in that event I should never see again such dark, soft eyes, such hair, such a contour of cheek and chin, such a frank smile — in a word, a girl with whom it would be so delightfully natural for me to fall in love. For all the time she had been talking to me of architecture and archæology, of dates and periods, of carvings and mouldings, I had been recklessly falling in love with the idea of falling in love with her. I had cherished and adored this delightful possibility, and now my chance was over. Even I could not definitely fall in love after one interview with a girl I was never to see again! And falling in love is so pleasant! I cursed my lost chance, and went back to the inn. I talked to the waiter.

  “Yes, a lady in pink had lunched there with a party. Had gone on to the Castle. A party from Tonbridge it was.”

  Barnhurst Castle is close to Sefton Manor. The inn lays itself out to entertain persons who come in brakes and carve their names on the walls of the Castle keep. The inn has a visitors’ book. I examined it. Some twenty feminine names. Any one might be hers. The waiter looked over my shoulder. I turned the pages.

  “Only parties staying in the house in this part of the book,” said the waiter.

  My eye caught one name. “Selwyn Sefton,” in a clear, round, black hand-writing.

  “Staying here?” I pointed to the name.

  “Yes, sir; came to-day, sir.”

  “Can I have a private sitting-room?”

  I had one. I ordered my dinner to be served in it, and I sat down and considered my course of action. Should I invite my cousin Selwyn to dinner, ply him with wine, and exact promises? Honour forbade. Should I seek him out and try to establish friendly relations? To what end?

  Then I saw from my window a young man in a light-checked suit, with a face at once pallid and coarse. He strolled along the gravel path, and a woman’s voice in the garden called “Selwyn.”

  He disappeared in the direction of the voice. I don’t think I ever disliked a man so much at first sight.

  “Brute,” said I, “why should he have the house? He’d stucco it all over as likely as not; perhaps let it! He’d never stand the ghosts, either — —”

  Then the inexcusable, daring idea of my life came to me, striking me rigid — a blow from my other self. It must have been a minute or two before my muscles relaxed and my arms fell at my sides.

  “I’ll do it,” I said.

  I dined. I told the people of the house not to sit up for me. I was going to see friends in the neighbourhood, and might stay the night with them. I took my Inverness cape with me on my arm and my soft felt hat in my pocket. I wore a light suit and a straw hat.

  Before I started I leaned cautiously from my window. The lamp at the bow window next to mine showed me the pallid young man, smoking a fat, reeking cigar. I hoped he would continue to sit there smoking. His window looked the right way; and if he didn’t see what I wanted him to see some one else in the inn would. The landlady had assured me that I should disturb no one if I came in at half-past twelve.

  “We hardly keep country hours here, sir,” she said, “on account of so much excursionist business.”

  I bought candles in the village, and, as I went down across the park in the soft darkness, I turned again and again to be sure that the light and the pallid young man were still at that window. It was now past eleven.

  I got into the house and lighted a candle, and crept through the dark kitchens, whose windows, I knew, did not look towards the inn. When I came to the hall I blew out my candle. I dared not show light prematurely, and in the unhaunted part of the house.

  I gave myself a nasty knock against one of the long tables, but it helped me to get my bearings, and presently I laid my hand on the stone balustrade of the great staircase. You would hardly believe me if I were to tell you truly of my sensations as I began to go up these stairs. I am not a coward — at least, I had never thought so till then — but the absolute darkness unnerved me. I had to go slowly, or I should have lost my head and blundered up the stairs three at a time, so strong was the feeling of something — something uncanny — just behind me.

  I set my teeth. I reached the top of the stairs, felt along the walls, and after a false start, which landed me in the great picture gallery, I found the white parlour, entered it, closed the door, and felt my way to a little room without a window, which we had decided must have been a powdering-room.

  Here I ventured to re-light my candle.

  The white parlour, I remembered, was fully furnished. Returning to it I struck one match, and by its flash determined the way to the mantelpiece.

  Then I closed the powdering-room door behind me. I felt my way to the mantelpiece and took down the two brass twenty-lighted candelabra. I placed these on a table a yard or two from the window, and in them set up my candles. It is astonishingly difficult in the dark to do anything, even a thing so simple as the setting up of a candle.

  Then I went back into my little room, put on the Inverness cape and the slouch hat, and looked at my watch. Eleven-thirty. I must wait. I sat down and waited. I thought how rich I was — the thought fell flat; I wanted this house. I thought of my beautiful pink lady; but I put that thought aside; I had an inward consciousness that my conduct, more heroic than enough in one sense, would seem mean and crafty in her eyes. Only ten minutes had passed. I could not wait till twelve. The chill of the night and of the damp, unused house, and, perhaps, some less material influence, made me shiver.

  I opened the door, crept on hands and knees to the table, and, carefully keeping myself below the level of the window, I reached up a trembling arm, and lighted, one by one, my forty candles. The room was a blaze of light. My courage came back to me with the retreat of the darkness. I was far too excited to know what a fool I was making of myself. I rose boldly, and struck an attitude over against the window, where the candle-light shone upon as well as behind me. My Inverness was flung jauntily over my shoulder, my soft, black felt twisted and slouched over my eyes.

  There I stood for the world, and particularly for my cousin Selwyn, to see, the very image of the ghost that haunted that chamber. And from my window I could see the light in that other window, and indistinctly the lounging figure there. Oh, my cousin Selwyn, I wished many things to your address in that moment! For it was only a moment that I had to feel brave and daring in. Then I heard, deep down in the house, a sound, very slight, very faint. Then came silence. I drew a deep breath. The silence endured. And I stood by my lighted window.

  After a very long time, as it seemed, I heard a board crack, and then a soft rustling sound that drew near and seemed to pause outside the very door of my parlour.

  Again I held my breath, and now I thought of the most horrible story Poe ever wrote—”The Fall of the House of Usher” — and I fancied I saw the handle of that door move. I fixed my eyes on it. The fancy passed: and returned.

  Then again there was silence. And then the door opened with a soft, silent suddenness, and I saw in the doorway a
figure in trailing white. Its eyes blazed in a death-white face. It made two ghostly, gliding steps forward, and my heart stood still. I had not thought it possible for a man to experience so sharp a pang of sheer terror. I had masqueraded as one of the ghosts in this accursed house. Well, the other ghost — the real one — had come to meet me. I do not like to dwell on that moment. The only thing which it pleases me to remember is that I did not scream or go mad. I think I stood on the verge of both.

  The ghost, I say, took two steps forward; then it threw up its arms, the lighted taper it carried fell on the floor, and it reeled back against the door with its arms across its face.

  The fall of the candle woke me as from a nightmare. It fell solidly, and rolled away under the table.

  I perceived that my ghost was human. I cried incoherently: “Don’t, for Heaven’s sake — it’s all right.”

  The ghost dropped its hands and turned agonised eyes on me. I tore off my cloak and hat.

  “I — didn’t — scream,” she said, and with that I sprang forward and caught her in my arms — my poor, pink lady — white now as a white rose.

  I carried her into the powdering-room, and left one candle with her, extinguishing the others hastily, for now I saw what in my extravagant folly had escaped me before, that my ghost exhibition might bring the whole village down on the house. I tore down the long corridor and double locked the doors leading from it to the staircase, then back to the powdering-room and the prone white rose. How, in the madness of that night’s folly, I had thought to bring a brandy-flask passes my understanding. But I had done it. Now I rubbed her hands with the spirit. I rubbed her temples, I tried to force it between her lips, and at last she sighed and opened her eyes.

  “Oh — thank God — thank God!” I cried, for indeed I had almost feared that my mad trick had killed her. “Are you better? oh, poor little lady, are you better?”

  She moved her head a little on my arm.

  Again she sighed, and her eyes closed. I gave her more brandy. She took it, choked, raised herself against my shoulder.

  “I’m all right now,” she said faintly. “It served me right. How silly it all is!” Then she began to laugh, and then she began to cry.

  It was at this moment that we heard voices on the terrace below. She clutched at my arm in a frenzy of terror, the bright tears glistening on her cheeks.

  “Oh! not any more, not any more,” she cried. “I can’t bear it.”

  “Hush,” I said, taking her hands strongly in mine. “I’ve played the fool; so have you. We must play the man now. The people in the village have seen the lights — that’s all. They think we’re burglars. They can’t get in. Keep quiet, and they’ll go away.”

  But when they did go away they left the local constable on guard. He kept guard like a man till daylight began to creep over the hill, and then he crawled into the hayloft and fell asleep, small blame to him.

  But through those long hours I sat beside her and held her hand. At first she clung to me as a frightened child clings, and her tears were the prettiest, saddest things to see. As we grew calmer we talked.

  “I did it to frighten my cousin,” I owned. “I meant to have told you to-day, I mean yesterday, only you went away. I am Lawrence Sefton, and the place is to go either to me or to my cousin Selwyn. And I wanted to frighten him off it. But you, why did you —— ?”

  Even then I couldn’t see. She looked at me.

  “I don’t know how I ever could have thought I was brave enough to do it, but I did want the house so, and I wanted to frighten you — —”

  “To frighten me. Why?”

  “Because I am your cousin Selwyn,” she said, hiding her face in her hands.

  “And you knew me?” I asked.

  “By your ring,” she said. “I saw your father wear it when I was a little girl. Can’t we get back to the inn now?”

  “Not unless you want every one to know how silly we have been.”

  “I wish you’d forgive me,” she said when we had talked awhile, and she had even laughed at the description of the pallid young man on whom I had bestowed, in my mind, her name.

  “The wrong is mutual,” I said; “we will exchange forgivenesses.”

  “Oh, but it isn’t,” she said eagerly. “Because I knew it was you, and you didn’t know it was me: you wouldn’t have tried to frighten me.”

  “You know I wouldn’t.” My voice was tenderer than I meant it to be.

  She was silent.

  “And who is to have the house?” she said.

  “Why you, of course.”

  “I never will.”

  “Why?”

  “Oh, because!”

  “Can’t we put off the decision?” I asked.

  “Impossible. We must decide to-morrow — to-day I mean.”

  “Well, when we meet to-morrow — I mean to-day — with lawyers and chaperones and mothers and relations, give me one word alone with you.”

  “Yes,” she answered, with docility.

  “Do you know,” she said presently, “I can never respect myself again? To undertake a thing like that, and then be so horribly frightened. Oh! I thought you really were the other ghost.”

  “I will tell you a secret,” said I. “I thought you were, and I was much more frightened than you.”

  “Oh well,” she said, leaning against my shoulder as a tired child might have done, “if you were frightened too, Cousin Lawrence, I don’t mind so very, very much.”

  It was soon afterwards that, cautiously looking out of the parlour window for the twentieth time, I had the happiness of seeing the local policeman disappear into the stable rubbing his eyes.

  We got out of the window on the other side of the house, and went back to the inn across the dewy park. The French window of the sitting-room which had let her out let us both in. No one was stirring, so no one save she and I were any the wiser as to that night’s work.

  It was like a garden party next day, when lawyers and executors and aunts and relations met on the terrace in front of Sefton Manor House.

  Her eyes were downcast. She followed her Aunt demurely over the house and the grounds.

  “Your decision,” said my great-uncle’s solicitor, “has to be given within the hour.”

  “My cousin and I will announce it within that time,” I said and I at once gave her my arm.

  Arrived at the sundial we stopped.

  “This is my proposal,” I said: “we will say that we decide that the house is yours — we will spend the £20,000 in restoring it and the grounds. By the time that’s done we can decide who is to have it.”

  “But how?”

  “Oh, we’ll draw lots, or toss a halfpenny, or anything you like.”

  “I’d rather decide now,” she said; “you take it.”

  “No, you shall.”

  “I’d rather you had it. I — I don’t feel so greedy as I did yesterday,” she said.

  “Neither do I. Or at any rate not in the same way.”

  “Do — do take the house,” she said very earnestly.

  Then I said: “My cousin Selwyn, unless you take the house, I shall make you an offer of marriage.”

  “Oh!” she breathed.

  “And when you have declined it, on the very proper ground of our too slight acquaintance, I will take my turn at declining. I will decline the house. Then, if you are obdurate, it will become an asylum. Don’t be obdurate. Pretend to take the house and — —”

  She looked at me rather piteously.

  “Very well,” she said, “I will pretend to take the house, and when it is restored — —”

  “We’ll spin the penny.”

  So before the waiting relations the house was adjudged to my cousin Selwyn. When the restoration was complete I met Selwyn at the sundial. We had met there often in the course of the restoration, in which business we both took an extravagant interest.

  “Now,” I said, “we’ll spin the penny. Heads you take the house, tails it comes to me.�
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  I spun the coin — it fell on the brick steps of the sundial, and stuck upright there, wedged between two bricks. She laughed; I laughed.

  “It’s not my house,” I said.

  “It’s not my house,” said she.

  “Dear,” said I, and we were neither of us laughing then, “can’t it be our house?”

  And, thank God, our house it is.

  THE POWER OF DARKNESS

  It was an enthusiastic send-off. Half the students from her Atelier were there, and twice as many more from other studios. She had been the belle of the Artists’ Quarter in Montparnasse for three golden months. Now she was off to the Riviera to meet her people, and every one she knew was at the Gare de Lyons to catch the pretty last glimpse of her. And, as had been more than once said late of an evening, “to see her was to love her.” She was one of those agitating blondes, with the naturally rippled hair, the rounded rose-leaf cheeks, the large violet-blue eyes that look all things and mean Heaven alone knows how little. She held her court like a queen, leaning out of the carriage window and receiving bouquets, books, journals, long last words, and last longing looks. All eyes were on her, and her eyes were for all — and her smile. For all but one, that is. Not a single glance went Edward’s way, and Edward, tall, lean, gaunt, with big eyes, straight nose, and mouth somewhat too small, too beautiful, seemed to grow thinner and paler before one’s eyes. One pair of eyes at least saw the miracle worked, the paling of what had seemed absolute pallor, the revelation of the bones of a face that seemed already covered but by the thinnest possible veil of flesh.

  And the man whose eyes saw this rejoiced, for he loved her, like the rest, or not like the rest; and he had had Edward’s face before him for the last month, in that secret shrine where we set the loved and the hated, the shrine that is lighted by a million lamps kindled at the soul’s flame, the shrine that leaps into dazzling glow when the candles are out and one lies alone on hot pillows to outface the night and the light as best one may.