The Garden at No. 19/Chapter 12

WAS not greatly distressed that I had to wait a while before my desire to learn  the  secret of the mysteries could be  gratified, for I was relieved of my present  anxieties for Pamela; and as soon as possible  I would marry her and take her out of her  dangerous home.

We settled down to a delightful life. She spent nearly every evening with me; and on  Saturday afternoon and Sunday we went to  gether to Richmond Park or into the country. I found our love an amazing stimulant. I did my work at the office infinitely better; once or  twice it was of a brilliance which won me the  compliments of the firm; and I have the authority of the New Bohemians for saying that the  verses, which I sometimes read to them, had  grown finer by far. The editors of two or three of the better magazines endorsed the judgment  of the Society by publishing them.

The intellectual and emotional stimulation of which I was aboundingly conscious induced me  to attempt fiction. It seemed to me that since I was about to marry I ought to add to my  sources of income. I made a dismal failure of it. I tried to write short stories; I tried to write a novel; they were worthless—worthless that is in the eyes of every one but Pamela. She persisted in finding excellencies in them. I had no gift for the writing of fiction. It was disappointing; and it was curious. I think I may take it that my verses showed me not to  lack imagination; and my training in the new  law had given me a considerable power of arranging facts, or perhaps I should say incidents, in their due order. I accepted my defeat and made up my mind that, for an income, I must  rely on the law alone.

It was at the end of October that I saw that Pamela was wearing a troubled air. For three evenings running I observed that in the intervals of our talk her pretty brow was creased by  a frown of anxious meditation.

On the third evening I said: "What's the matter?  What's bothering you?"

"Oh, nothing," she said smiling.

"That won't do for the Argus' eyes of adoration," I said. "I observe you acquiring premature wrinkles; and you tell me it is nothing. I must insist on sharing this destruction  secret."

"Well," she said, smiling. "It's winter clothes."

"Heavens! Am I to see you spoiling your  smooth and beautiful brow for a matter of  clothes?  Tell me about them—tell me at  once."

"Well, it's like this," she said sadly. "Uncle has given me £3 to buy them with; and I've got to make it do; and it won't do. It—it wouldn't matter; but I do so want to look nice when I go about with you."

"Now that is a nice thing to get wrinkles for," I cried. "You ought to have come flying to me at once with the tidings of your uncle's crustiness.  I am going to buy those  clothes."

"Oh! I can't let you do that," she cried.

"Not a word—not two words, or three. Here am I, dying to marry you out of hand—unable to do so merely because you insist on not  being old enough.  The least I can do in these  unfortunate circumstances is to buy you winter  clothes—the very least."

"Oh, I can't let you—you know I can't, Heine dear! Oh, I wish I hadn't told you!"

"Now, what is the use of our being so de-delightfully [sic] out of the world if we are going to let its stale old conventions in the matter  of money obtain with you and me.  It would be  wrong for us to pay any regard whatever to  them.  Besides, obedience is the first quality  in a wife. You know it is. It would be too  dreadful when we were married to find you unversed in that necessary art.  You cannot do  better than practice it.  This is an excellent  opportunity to begin—excellent.  I bid, order,  and command you to let me buy your winter  clothes.  You shall spend some of that £3 on  nice woolly things to keep you warm; and I  will deck you out in purple or scarlet attire, or in whatever colors suit you best.  Besides,  think how interesting the shopping will be."

"Oh, you are a dear, Heine!" she said. "And oh, I do so want to look nice when I go out with you! And I shan't want much."

"You shall have everything to make you gorgeous as—not the rainbow for it is not  summer—as gorgeous as the Aurora borealis,"  I said.

We did indeed enjoy buying those clothes. We debated colors and textures and patterns with untiring earnestness, and explored shop after shop in my resolve to find exactly the  vesture Pamela's uncommon and exotic beauty  demanded. I think that we succeeded.

The autumn wore through; and we never felt the tediousness of the declining  year. Long walks with Pamela took the place of my lawn tennis; and I never missed it. In the fuller and healthier life she was enjoying she  throve like a flower in its proper sunshine;  her beauty and charm increased.

The rites, as Woodfell had promised, were not again that autumn celebrated in the garden  of No. 19; at any rate the full rites were not. But some rites were celebrated in his study—at least so it seemed —for three or four times he sent Pamela to bed early, and locked her  in her room. I always had notice of this; and I kept watch. Always I found that Marks and the thick-set man with the white beard were  his visitors; and I took it that they came to  help him in some minor rite. Pamela reported him as working continuously, furiously. Often his undisturbed bed showed that he had worked  the night through. I met Marks frequently at the New Bohemians;  and several times we spent an evening together at my house, or at  his northern flat. Sometimes we talked of the mysteries,  but  never  of Woodfell. Marks seemed to shrink from talking of him; and I  spared him my curiosity.

It was on a dismal, foggy night in December that I made, in a somewhat startling way,  Woodfell's acquaintance.

At half-past ten Pamela left me; and I stood on my doorstep till I had heard her slip into  No. 19. Her passages out of it and into it had by practice become utterly noiseless.

I shut my front door, and went into my study. I had not had time to settle down in my easy chair, when there came a hurried knocking. I ran to the door, opened  it, and found Pamela  at the threshold, pale and trembling.

"Oh, Heine, something dreadful has happened!" she cried. "Uncle is lying on the floor of his study—I think he is dying—and the  house  is horrible!"

"Go into the study and wait; and I'll see about it,"  I said.

"No! no! no!" she cried. "I'll come with you. I won't let you go into that dreadful  house alone.  I heard him call to me, or moan,  and  I opened the study door and saw him on the floor.  But I couldn't go in. The room is  full of dreadful things—shapes." And she shuddered; and her teeth chattered. I could see her forehead shining wet in the light of  the hall lamp.

"I expect your uncle's in a fit, or else one of his devils has got the better of him. I'll  get some brandy and go to him.  I'd better lose  no time," said I.

She followed me into the study. I got the brandy, and hastily I made her drink a little.

"Now you sit still and recover. I shan't be long," I said.

"No, I'm going with you. You shan't go alone.  The Abyss is loose," she said.

She was still trembling with terror; but her eyes shone with a resolution there was no shaking; and I saw its strength. It was no use wasting time on it. I kissed her, and said, "Come."

I took the bottle of brandy and a teaspoon from the sugar-basin and led the way. The door of No. 19 was open; and as I crossed the  threshold I found the house horrible indeed; my  scalp prickled; and the cold chills ran down  my spine.

Pamela had left the door open; and I pushed into Woodfell's study. I pushed into it, pushed against some invisible, intangible force that  strove to hold me back. The room should have been bright enough; two electric lights were  burning. But it was dim. I thought that Woodfell was very careless about the globes. Then I saw, or perhaps I felt, that the room  was full of waiting shadows. I had an impression of their forms, distorted, monstrous shapes. But my eye could not disentangle them one from another in the dimness.

I dropped on one knee beside Woodfell, poured brandy into the teaspoon, raised him,  and poured  it into his mouth. Then I laid  him back, re-filled the teaspoon, gave him the  brandy,  and laid him back again. Pamela stood with a hand on my shoulder; and I could  hear her teeth chattering. We watched him a minute, or  a minute and  a half. His face in that dim light looked blueish. His faint breathing grew stronger; and I gave him more brandy. All the while fear unspeakable tore at my vitals.

In another minute, without opening his eyes, he whispered:  "The medicine—on the table."

I looked up, saw a little bottle on the table, rose and stumbled to  it on tottering feet. Pamela shifted her grip to my arm and came with me. On the label was written: "Dose,  ten drops." With trembling, fumbling fingers. I uncorked the bottle and let the ten drops drip into the teaspoon. Then I stumbled back to Woodfell and gave them to him.

Pamela sank to the floor beside me, half-fainting. I turned to her, put my arm around her, and gave her brandy from the bottle. Then I drank myself. The raw spirit burnt my throat; and I looked round the room at the  shadows which would not grow distinct with  helpless, raging eyes. I was chilled to the marrow.

Suddenly the fear began to lift; and I looked at Woodfell. The blueness had gone out of his  face  and he was  breathing  easily. I watched him and saw him frown, and his lips  tighten. His fingers moved; and his hands clenched. He seemed to be gathering himself for an effort.

Then he cried out, hoarsely and low, in a strange tongue.

There was a swirl of shadows; the room was bright; and the fear had gone.

I sat blinking; then lifting Pamela with me I rose to my feet and rubbed my eyes.

"Well, I'm damned!" I said softly; and Pamela burst out crying.

She was limp and helpless; I set her in a very dusty easy-chair, and began to sooth her. Presently she grew quieter, and lay back with her eyes closed.

I turned to Woodfell and lifted him on to a couch.

"Thanks," he muttered. "They nearly downed me that time, curse them!  Give me  some more brandy, please."

He stared round the room with truculent, savage eyes; then closed them again. I gave him some more brandy.

Pamela opened her eyes and smiled at me faintly, to reassure me.

"Ah, you're feeling better?" I said, keeping my voice as nearly as I could in tones of polite sympathy."

"Yes; thank you," she said.

"You must have a nerve," Woodfell broke in in a tone of rather grudging admiration. "I suppose my niece fetched you.  How came you  to know of my attack, Pamela?"

I observed that his voice had recovered its hoarse depth.

"I was in the hall; and I heard you call out," said Pamela. "I opened the study door and saw you lying on the floor.  But I couldn't  come in.  The room was full of shadows—horrible shadows.  So I ran for help."

"The room was full of shadows, eh? They are rather terrifying, though they are only  shadows.  That's why I wonder at your nerve,  Mr.—Mr.—?"

"Plowden," I said.

"Mr. Plowden. You're a friend of Marks,  I think. He has spoken to me about you," said Woodfell.

"Yes," I said.

"Well, you've done me a service; and I'm very much obliged to you.  This is the second  of these attacks—weak heart—and if you  hadn't come to my help, I might not have come  through it."

"I hope there's no danger of another to-night," I said.

"No, no; none whatever. I shouldn't have  had this one, if I had got hold of the medicine  twenty seconds sooner.  I had plenty of time;  but I was working, absorbed in it; and I let  myself go too far.  But it's all right now,  thanks to you."

"I'm glad to hear it," I said. "Is there anything more I can do for you? Can I give  you an arm up to your bedroom?"

"Thanks, if you would. These attacks leave  me rather weak."

I gave him my arm, and helped him up the stairs to the back room on the first floor. He was indeed shaky. I was surprised by his extraordinary thinness, for, as I have said, his face was ruddy with the glow of health. It was the thinness of an ascetic who fasts often;  and his bedroom was as bare as an ascetic's  cell.

As I bade him good-night, he asked me to ask Pamela to bring him a glass of milk.

I came down stairs, and found Pamela nearly as shaky as her uncle.

I kissed her and said, "Your uncle wants a glass of milk, and then you must get to bed  quickly, dear child."

"Wasn't it horrible?" she said. "I have never had such a fright. I never dreamt that  I could be so full of terror. I never could have  come back to uncle by myself.  He would just  have died.  And what's more I don't believe  that anyone could have gone into that room  but you—no one In the world."

"It was horrible. And I don't believe that anyone could have gone into that room but you  and I together," I said; and I kissed her.