The Garden at No. 19/Chapter 8

AMELA was not content to accept my first refusal to let her share my watch  on the next celebration of the rites. Whenever we met or talked over the hedge between the two gardens, sooner or later she would try to shake my resolution; often she  came to the assault primed with new arguments. Always I refused; but I admired her stubbornness, and even more I admired the  courage with which she was ready to endure  another of those nerve-racking frights.

For days after the celebration of the rites no visitors that I saw came to Woodfell. But I met Marks at a meeting of the New Bohemians. It was an uncommonly cheerful evening, full of battle. The poets fell foul of the Anglicans in the society; and the socialists fell foul of both. At the end of the meeting I invited Marks to come to smoke and talk with me on the Saturday evening; and he accepted with an eagerness which set me fancying that  he might wish to learn if I knew that the ritual  of the Abyss had been celebrated in the garden  of No. 19. If he asked me I should make no bones about telling him that I did. I felt sure that I might trust him not to inform Woodfell.

He came; and we talked for a while about the Classics, of whom he is a fervent admirer,  and then about the New Bohemians.

Then, after a pause in our talk, I said: "There's a thing you said the last evening you spent with me which has been sticking in my mind and bothering me.  You said that the  sorcerer was all right as long as he was dealing with the powers, but that it was when he  began to deal with the principalities that the  trouble came.  Is there a hierarchy of the  Abyss."

"I never said anything about the Abyss," he said quickly, a little startled.

"Well, of the empyrean, if you prefer it," I said carelessly. "But is there a hierarchy?"

"There is  a  spiritual  hierarchy,  undoubtedly," he said with conviction.

"In fact there are Milton's angelic hierarchy and demonic hierarchy?"

"Yes."

"Then as long as you are dealing with the lower ranks of the demonic hierarchy, the  powers, you are fairly safe.  But when you  come to deal with the higher ranks, with the  principalities, the real danger begins.  That is  to say the sorcerer might, for example, handle  the lesser gods of the Indian Pantheon without coming to harm, but when he came to Shiva  himself it would be perilous."

"You've certainly worked  it out," said  Marks, smiling. "And you have it right. Of course you're rather talking in theological  terms.  These  powers  may  be  merely  the  powers of Nature."

"I see," I said. "But anyhow the wise sorcerer would be content to deal only with the powers and leave the principalities alone?"

"Is there such a thing as a wise sorcerer?" he said, thoughtfully. "The true sorcerer was before all things a seeker; and the seeker will  not cease his search till he comes to the last  secret.

"I suppose not," I said.

"You certainly have thought it out," said Marks looking at me curiously.

I saw that he suspected that I knew something of Woodfell's doings; and I said: "Well, what you said about a man's losing control of the powers he has evoked and about the greater  danger  of evoking the principalities;  that,  coupled with your evident uneasiness at hearing that Miss Woodfell was living at No. 19,  has made me uneasy, too—not for myself, but  for her."

"She is in no immediate danger."

"Will you tell me when she is?" I said quickly.

"If I can—if she is in danger—if there is really any danger.  But it may be sudden." He paused, hesitating; then he said: "We may as well be open with one another.  I see that  you know something of Woodfell's—experiments; but I see too, that since you are interested in Miss Woodfell you are not likely to talk of them—"

"I have talked of them to no one but you; and I shan't," I interrupted.

"Good," he said. "Besides, it is little use talking of them; no one would believe you. But don't on any account let Woodfell learn of  your interest in them."

"I won't," I said. "It is enough if you will give me the warning."

"I will if I can. But the danger may be sudden—always supposing that there is any real danger."

He fell silent, pondering with knitted brow.

I should have liked to have asked him what was Woodfell's purpose in importing the feminine element into the Mysteries. But I did not like to show so great a knowledge of what had  been done at No. 19 on the night of the full  moon.

Then he changed the subject of our talk with a decision which showed me plainly that he  did not wish to talk any more of No. 19; and  presently he was restored to his usual genial  content.

The garden of No. 19 remained peaceful and undisturbed. Woodfell's control over the creatures he had evoked if those creatures were not merely the children of my fancy, seemed  to remain firm and unshaken; and there was  no  further unexpected,  terrifying  irruption  from the Abyss.

Pamela never ceased her efforts to persuade me to let her share my watch on the next celebration of the rites; and I was hard put to it  not to yield to her entreaties. But I did persist in my refusal; and my firmness increased, I  thought, her liking for me.

Once after a failure to shake my resolve, she said:  "Never mind, one of these days I shall  learn these things for myself."

"How will you work it?" I said curiously.

"Never mind," she said.

Sometimes I tried to learn from her what she had learned from reading her uncle's books. But she was shy of telling me. My refusal to believe that the creatures of the Abyss had  obeyed the summons to the garden of No. 19 on  the night of the full moon, had inspired into her the fear that I should laugh at her. But I gathered from a slip of her tongue that she believed that devils, actively malefic, did exist.

I was nearly sure that nothing would happen in the garden of No. 19 before the night of the  next full moon; but I did not slacken my watch  on it at night. On the night of the new moon I left my reading three or four times to look  down on it. It was a starry night and warm; and the garden was in a dim light. I went to bed at a few minutes to twelve.

I went into the back room for a last look, and lingered gazing down into the garden, wonder  ing whether I had really seen the lawn full of  dancing figures, whether I had really heard that  half -human, wanton laugh, wondering what was under the cupola. Then I heard the door of No. 19 leading into the garden open softly, and  I drew my head back into the shadow. A figure went down the path to the lawn; my eye had  grown well used to the dim light, and to my  surprise I saw that it was Pamela.

She was dressed in white, a white tunic; her arms were bare, and I was nearly sure that her  legs and feet were bare, too.

A little way down the path she stopped and looked up at No. 20. Plainly she was looking to see if I were keeping my watch.

Then a whisper of "Heine" came floating up to me.

I was on the very point of answering, when I stopped myself. I wanted to see what she would do.

She went on down the garden, crossed the lawn, and went out of my sight towards the  cupola. I heard a clinking of curtain-rings on a metal rod, as if she had drawn a curtain.

Then she came back to the lawn and began to dance, her face towards the cupola. I wished heartily that there was enough light for me to  see her clearly. It was a slow dance with many movements of the arms in it; it reminded me  of the dancing of a girl on Greek vases; even in that dim light I could see that it was a graceful, charming dance. Presently she stopped and stood, facing the cupola, uttering an invocation or a prayer. Then she danced again, singing very softly, so softly that I could not  catch a word of the song. She danced for a long while, singing. When her dance came to an end she stood again before the cupola uttering another prayer.

Then she came slowly down the garden. I heard her panting softly as she drew near. And she passed into the house.

On the next evening we went down to Kew Gardens, early; and when we had seated our  selves on our bank by the river, I said, "I saw you dancing in the garden last night."

"You did?" she cried, flushing. "Didn't you hear me call up to you to find out if you were  there?"

"Yes, but I wanted to learn what you were going to do."

"That was horrid of you!" she cried. "It was—it was just spying on me!"

"I'm afraid there's no other word for it," I said contritely. "But what was I to do? If I'm to look after you, as I mean to look after  you, I must learn everything I can, mustn't I?    I'm only bothering about your uncle's doings on  your account. And don't you think I'm enough  of a friend even to spy on you?"

"Still—still—I don't like it. It was rather horrid," she said in a milder tone.

"It was nothing of the kind. It was the most charming and delightful dance I ever  saw."

"But like that," she said, blushing again.

"Oh, you needn't mind that. There wasn't enough light to see you clearly."

She breathed a gentle sigh of relief.

"And what were you doing? It was by way of being a ritual dance, wasn't it?" I said.

"Yes," she said slowly. "It was an idea of mine. Why shouldn't I learn some of the secrets for myself?"

"I don't like it. I don't like your tampering with the forbidden things. I have the strongest feeling that they are very dangerous.  Already they've given me the two worst frights  I ever had in my life. And the worst of it is  both those frights were inexplicable."

"But I do so want to know, and I've wanted to know for so long.  I've had so little else to  think about for years till lately—till since I've known you.  You don't understand how much I want to learn the secrets. Oh, I must go on  trying to find out."

"I don't like it," I said. "But if you must, I suppose you must. Only in that case you must take me into partnership in your search.  Then we shall share the danger, and I may be  able to help you."

"But why should you run into danger?" she said quickly. "You are not really eager to learn the secrets."

"No, I'm not. I have seen your uncle and I've seen his friends. None of them look as  if they had any satisfaction from their search.  But where you go, I go, too and if we come to grief, we come to grief together."

"Oh, no—no! I don't want that. I don't  want you to run into danger for me," she cried.

"You admit it is dangerous, then?" I said.

"No, I don't. Of course the ritual of the Abyss is dangerous. It must be, or we shouldn't  have had such frights.  But I don't believe that  it is dangerous to dance before the statue; the  Greek girl used to dance before it."

"Oh, there's a statue under the cupola, is there?" I said quickly.

"Yes, it's terrible; but, oh, it is fascinating—a statue of Pan."