The Power of Darkness

The Power of Darkness
E. Nesbit
1905

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 everyone she
knew was at the Gare de Lyon to catch the 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
looked all things and meant Heaven alone knew 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 the 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.
'Oh, goodbye; goodbye, all of you,' said Rose. 'I shall miss you. Oh,
you don't know how I shall miss you all!'
She gathered the eyes of her friends and her worshippers in a glance, as
one gathers jewels on a silken string. The eyes of Edward alone seemed
to escape her.
'En voiture, messieurs et dames!'
Folk drew back from the train. There was a whistle.
And then at the very last little moment of all, as the train pulled itself
together for the start, her eyes met Edward's eyes. And the other man
saw the meeting, and he knew--which was more than Edward did.
So when, the light of life having been borne away in the retreating train,
the broken-hearted group dispersed, the other man--whose name, by the
way, was Vincent--linked his arm in Edward's and asked, cheerily:
'Whither away, sweet nymph?'
'I'm off home,' said Edward. 'The seven-twenty to Calais.'
'Sick of Paris?'
'One has to see one's people sometimes, don't you know, hang it all!'
was Edward's way of expressing the longing that tore him for the old
house among the brown woods of Kent.
'No attraction here now, eh?'
'The chief attraction has gone, certainly,' Edward made himself say.
'But there are as good fish in the sea--'
'Fishing isn't my trade,' said Edward.

'The beautiful Rose!' said Vincent.
Edward raised hurriedly the only shield he could find. It happened to be
the truth as he saw it.
'Oh,' he said, 'of course, we're all in love with her--and all hopelessly.'
Vincent perceived that this was truth, as Edward saw it.
'What are you going to do till your train goes?' he asked.
'I don't know. Café, I suppose, and a vilely early dinner.'
'Let's look in at the Museé Grévin,' said Vincent.
The two were friends. They had been schoolfellows, and this is a link
that survives many a strain too strong to be resisted by more intimate
and vital bonds. And they were fellow-students, though that counts for
little or much--as you take it. Besides, Vincent knew something about
Edward that no one else of their age and standing even guessed. He
knew that Edward was afraid of the dark, and why. He had found it out
that Christmas which the two had spent at an English country house.
The house was full; there was a dance. There were to be theatricals.
Early in the new year the hostess meant to 'move house' to an old
convent, built in Tudor times, a beautiful palace with terraces and
clipped yew trees, castellated battlements, a moat, swans, and a ghost
story.
'You boys,' she said, 'must put up with a shake-down in the new house.
I hope the ghost won't worry you. She's an old lady in a figured satin
dress. Comes and breathes softly on the back of your neck when you're