The Damned | Page 8

such a
thing before in my life. Do you--think it's all nonsense?"
And she laughed, with her lips but not with her eyes; there was a note
of defiance in her I failed to understand.
"Nothing a nature like yours feels strongly is nonsense, Frances," I
replied soothingly.
But I, too, answered with my lips only, for another part of my mind
was working elsewhere, and among uncomfortable things. A touch of
bewilderment passed over me. I was not certain how best to continue. If

I laughed she would tell me no more, yet if I took her too seriously the
strings would tighten further. Instinctively, then, this flashed rapidly
across me: that something of what she felt, I had also felt, though
interpreting it differently. Vague it was, as the coming of rain or storm
that announce themselves hours in advance with their hint of faint,
unsettling excitement in the air. I had been but a short hour in the
house--big, comfortable, luxurious house--but had experienced this
sense of being unsettled, unfixed, fluctuating--a kind of impermanence
that transient lodgers in hotels must feel, but that a guest in a friend's
home ought not to feel, be the visit short or long. To Frances, an
impressionable woman, the feeling had come in the terms of alarm. She
disliked sleeping alone, while yet she longed to sleep. The precise idea
in my mind evaded capture, merely brushing through me, three-quarters
out of sight; I realized only that we both felt the same thing, and that
neither of us could get at it clearly.
Degrees of unrest we felt, but the actual thing did not disclose itself. It
did not happen.
I felt strangely at sea for a moment. Frances would interpret hesitation
as endorsement, and encouragement might be the last thing that could
help her.
"Sleeping in a strange house," I answered at length, "is often difficult at
first, and one feels lonely. After fifteen months in our tiny flat one feels
lost and uncared-for in a big house. It's an uncomfortable feeling--I
know it well. And this is a barrack, isn't it? The masses of furniture
only make it worse. One feels in storage somewhere underground--the
furniture doesn't furnish. One must never yield to fancies, though--"
Frances looked away towards the windows; she seemed disappointed a
little.
"After our thickly-populated Chelsea," I went on quickly, "it seems
isolated here."
But she did not turn back, and clearly I was saying the wrong thing. A
wave of pity rushed suddenly over me. Was she really frightened,

perhaps? She was imaginative, I knew, but never moody; common
sense was strong in her, though she had her times of hypersensitiveness.
I caught the echo of some unreasoning, big alarm in her. She stood
there, gazing across my balcony towards the sea of wooded country
that spread dim and vague in the obscurity of the dusk. The deepening
shadows entered the room, I fancied, from the grounds below.
Following her abstracted gaze a moment, I experienced a curious sharp
desire to leave, to escape. Out yonder was wind and space and freedom.
This enormous building was oppressive, silent, still.
Great catacombs occurred to me, things beneath the ground,
imprisonment and capture. I believe I even shuddered a little.
I touched her shoulder. She turned round slowly, and we looked with a
certain deliberation into each other's eyes.
"Fanny," I asked, more gravely than I intended, "you are not frightened,
are you? Nothing has happened, has it?"
She replied with emphasis, "Of course not! How could it--I mean, why
should I?" She stammered, as though the wrong sentence flustered her a
second. "It's simply--that I have this ter--this dislike of sleeping alone."
Naturally, my first thought was how easy it would be to cut our visit
short. But I did not say this. Had it been a true solution, Frances would
have said it for me long ago.
"Wouldn't Mabel double-up with you?" I said instead, "or give you an
adjoining room, so that you could leave the door between you open?
There's space enough, heaven knows."
And then, as the gong sounded in the hall below for dinner, she said, as
with an effort, this thing:
"Mabel did ask me--on the third night--after I had told her. But I
declined."
"You'd rather be alone than with her?" I asked, with a certain relief.

Her reply was so gravely given, a child would have known there was
more behind it: "Not that; but that she did not really want it."
I had a moment's intuition and acted on it impulsively. "She feels it too,
perhaps, but wishes to face it by herself--and get over it?"
My sister bowed her head, and the gesture made me realize of a sudden
how grave and solemn our talk had grown, as