The Damned | Page 4

wood, it
was a representation in miniature of that poky exclusive Heaven he
took about with him, externalizing it in all he did and planned, even in
the grounds about the house.
Changes in The Towers, Frances told me, had been made during
Mabel's year of widowhood abroad--an organ put into the big hall, the
library made livable and re-catalogued--when it was permissible to
suppose she had found her soul again and returned to her normal,
healthy views of life, which included enjoyment and play, literature,
music and the arts, without, however, a touch of that trivial
thoughtlessness usually termed worldliness. Mrs. Franklyn, as I
remembered her, was a quiet little woman, shallow, perhaps, and easily
influenced, but sincere as a dog and thorough in her faithful Friendship.
Her tastes at heart were catholic, and that heart was simple and
unimaginative. That she took up with the various movements of the day
was sign merely that she was searching in her limited way for a belief
that should bring her peace. She was, in fact, a very ordinary woman,
her caliber a little less than that of Frances. I knew they used to discuss
all kinds of theories together, but as these discussions never resulted in
action, I had come to regard her as harmless. Still, I was not sorry when
she married, and I did not welcome now a renewal of the former
intimacy. The philanthropist she had given no children, or she would
have made a good and sensible mother. No doubt she would marry
again.
"Mabel mentions that she's been alone at The Towers since the end of
August," Frances told me at teatime; "and I'm sure she feels out of it

and lonely. It would be a kindness to go. Besides, I always liked her."
I agreed. I had recovered from my attack of selfishness. I expressed my
pleasure.
"You've written to accept," I said, half statement and half question.
Frances nodded. "I thanked for you," she added quietly, "explaining
that you were not free at the moment, but that later, if not inconvenient,
you might come down for a bit and join me."
I stared. Frances sometimes had this independent way of deciding
things. I was convicted, and punished into the bargain.
Of course there followed argument and explanation, as between brother
and sister who were affectionate, but the recording of our talk could be
of little interest. It was arranged thus, Frances and I both satisfied. Two
days later she departed for The Towers, leaving me alone in the flat
with everything planned for my comfort and good behavior--she was
rather a tyrant in her quiet way--and her last words as I saw her off
from Charing Cross rang in my head for a long time after she was gone:
"I'll write and let you know, Bill. Eat properly, mind, and let me know
if anything goes wrong."
She waved her small gloved hand, nodded her head till the feather
brushed the window, and was gone.


Chapter II
After the note announcing her safe arrival a week of silence passed, and
then a letter came; there were various suggestions for my welfare, and
the rest was the usual rambling information and description Frances
loved, generously italicized.

" ...and we are quite alone," she went on in her enormous handwriting
that seemed such a waste of space and labor, "though some others are
coming presently, I believe. You could work here to your heart's
content. Mabel quite understands, and says she would love to have you
when you feel free to come. She has changed a bit--back to her old
natural self: she never mentions him. The place has changed too in
certain ways: it has more cheerfulness, I think. She has put it in, this
cheerfulness, spaded it in, if you know what I mean; but it lies about
uneasily and is not natural--quite. The organ is a beauty. She must be
very rich now, but she's as gentle and sweet as ever. Do you know, Bill,
I think he must have frightened her into marrying him. I get the
impression she was afraid of him." This last sentence was inked out, I
but I read it through the scratching; the letters being too big to hide.
"He had an inflexible will beneath all that oily kindness which passed
for spiritual. He was a real personality, I mean. I'm sure he'd have sent
you and me cheerfully to the stake in another century--for our own
good. Isn't it odd she never speaks of him, even to me?" This, again,
was stroked through, though without the intention to obliterate--merely
because it was repetition, probably. "The only reminder of him in the
house now is a big copy of the presentation portrait that stands on the