The Damned | Page 7

hill, it
overlooked miles of undulating, wooded country southwards to the
Downs, but behind it, to the north, thick banks of ilex, holly, and privet
protected it from the cleaner and more stimulating winds. Hence,
though highly placed, it was shut in. Three years had passed since I last
set eyes upon, it, but the unsightly memory I had retained was justified
by the reality. The place was deplorable.
It is my habit to express my opinions audibly sometimes, when
impressions are strong enough to warrant it; but now I only sighed "Oh,
dear," as I extricated my legs from many rugs and went into the house.
A tall parlor-maid, with the bearing of a grenadier, received me, and
standing behind her was Mrs. Marsh, the housekeeper, whom I
remembered because her untidy back hair had suggested to me that it

had been burnt. I went at once to my room, my hostess already dressing
for dinner, but Frances came in to see me just as I was struggling with
my black tie that had got tangled like a bootlace. She fastened it for me
in a neat, effective bow, and while I held my chin up for the operation,
staring blankly at the ceiling, the impression came--I wondered, was it
her touch that caused it?--that something in her trembled. Shrinking
perhaps is the truer word. Nothing in her face or manner betrayed it,
nor in her pleasant, easy talk while she tidied my things and scolded my
slovenly packing, as her habit was, questioning me about the servants
at the flat. The blouses, though right, were crumpled, and my scolding
was deserved. There was no impatience even. Yet somehow or other
the suggestion of a shrinking reserve and holding back reached my
mind. She had been lonely, of course, but it was more than that; she
was glad that I had come, yet for some reason unstated she could have
wished that I had stayed away. We discussed the news that had
accumulated during our brief separation, and in doing so the impression,
at best exceedingly slight, was forgotten. My chamber was large and
beautifully furnished; the hall and dining room of our flat would have
gone into it with a good remainder; yet it was not a place I could settle
down in for work. It conveyed the idea of impermanence, making me
feel transient as in a hotel bedroom. This, of course, was the fact. But
some rooms convey a settled, lasting hospitality even in a hotel; this
one did not; and as I was accustomed to work in the room I slept in, at
least when visiting, a slight frown must have crept between my eyes.
"Mabel has fitted a work-room for you just out of the library," said the
clairvoyant Frances.
"No one will disturb you there, and you'll have fifteen thousand books
all catalogued within easy reach. There's a private staircase too. You
can breakfast in your room and slip down in your dressing gown if you
want to." She laughed. My spirits took a turn upwards as absurdly as
they had gone down.
"And how are you?" I asked, giving her a belated kiss. "It's jolly to be
together again. I did feel rather lost without you, I'll admit."
"That's natural," she laughed. "I'm so glad."

She looked well and had country color in her cheeks. She informed me
that she was eating and sleeping well, going out for little walks with
Mabel, painting bits of scenery again, and enjoying a complete change
and rest; and yet, for all her brave description, the word somehow did
not quite ring true. Those last words in particular did not ring true.
There lay in her manner, just out of sight, I felt, this suggestion of the
exact reverse--of unrest, shrinking, almost of anxiety. Certain small
strings in her seemed over-tight. "Keyed-up" was the slang expression
that crossed my mind. I looked rather searchingly into her face as she
was telling me this.
"Only--the evenings," she added, noticing my query, yet rather
avoiding my eyes, "the evenings are--well, rather heavy sometimes, and
I find it difficult to keep awake."
"The strong air after London makes you drowsy," I suggested, "and you
like to get early to bed."
Frances turned and looked at me for a moment steadily. "On the
contrary, Bill, I dislike going to bed--here. And Mabel goes so early."
She said it lightly enough, fingering the disorder upon my dressing
table in such a stupid way that I saw her mind was working in another
direction altogether. She looked up suddenly with a kind of
nervousness from the brush and scissors.
"Billy," she said abruptly, lowering her voice, "isn't it odd, but I hate
sleeping alone here? I can't make it out quite; I've never felt