Randalls Round (12 page)

The others with one accord drew together round the fire. For a few minutes no one spoke.

“Good lord!” said Massingham suddenly. “I think this is the most horrible thing that’s happened yet. He’s such an utter kid to go into that pit of evil. He doesn’t know – anything.”

“If you come to that,” said Amory, “I don’t think any of us really knew what evil was. There’s something in that room – God only knows what – some loathsome spirit of evil – that fills you until you become evil incarnate.”

“There is – you’re right!” cried Grindley excitedly. “You are – cut off. It’s appalling-”

“It is appalling,” said Massingham slowly, “to know that one is cut off oneself from hope of mercy or forgiveness. It is worse to cutoff someone else.”

They looked at him attentively.

“When one lets go the reins – allows blind fury to possess one utterly,” said Massingham, still in that slow, almost detached voice, “one does not only kill one’s own soul. There’s the other soul. It’s let out of the dead, heavy body – a damned soul, reproaching you for its damnation. And you can do nothing – nothing! It’s – oh, I can’t tell you! There aren’t human words for a thing like that, which is inhuman.”

The others remained silent.

“Have you ever thought,” added Massingham abruptly, “how terrible it must be to be God? To know things like that, and let them be, because they’re just?”

“God is merciful first and just afterwards,” said Amory. “I know I used to say the reverse, but now I know better.”

“You may be right,” said Massingham. “There must be an amazing amount of goodness somewhere when there is such a quantity of unspeakable evil in men like us, who thought ourselves decent fellows enough.”

Grindley moved impatiently.

“There is,” he said; “I know there is. But I can’t bear to think of that horror of evil, which we all know of, let loose on Reece. He knows all I could tell him, but you can’t
tell
about–”

“No, you can’t,” agreed Amory.

“What I can’t understand,” said Massingham, “was why you were so – well, so callous – about it, Vernon. You had as ghastly a time as any of us, and yet, when you could have dissuaded that kid – (for you could have dissuaded him, only you could) – you let him go on.”

“It’s like this,” said Vernon, and the others were astonished at the gentleness of his voice. “Since – that night – I’ve felt the most tremendous reverence for innocence – purity of mind and thought. It seems to me that evil can’t touch it, but it might touch evil. Do you see what I mean? – You do, Amory.”

“Y-Yes, I do,” admitted the Parson; “but – oh, Vernon, it’s the most ghastly risk! None of us ever guessed what would happen to the others, and we were more or less intimate with them. Now we know – (a little: we shall never know really) – what each has gone through; we can see how it worked. That room is so evil that when a man goes into it all the worst in him is drawn out. He is himself still, but filled and soaked with evil passions. He becomes vice incarnate–”

“Yes!” cried Vernon; “that’s it!”

“What evil is in Reece?” asked Ladislaw.

They were silent a little, and then Grindley said apologetically:

“You see, one knows him so little. As Amory said, we aren’t intimate with him, any of us. We’ve only been in close contact with him just lately, when we’re all abnormal. I don’t know – I hate to think of him alone up there, unsuspecting–”

They fell silent again, like men who anxiously await news. Suddenly Ladislaw rose and went and opened the door. They all listened intently. The house was utterly still. Ladislaw came back, but he left the door open. “Just in case,” he murmured, half- apologetically.

The night wore on. Somehow no one cared to go to bed. With the others it had been different – they could look after themselves; but they all felt a queer responsibility for Reece. He was such a kid, they kept saying, and the danger was so horrible. The dead silence of the house, dark and brooding beyond the open door of the warm and well-lit smoking-room, was terrible. Reece was out there, alone…

Dawn showed grey at last, and slowly the night lifted. The five men had been silent for the last hour or more. Now they looked dully, almost hopelessly, at each other’s faces, grey in the early light, and silently they rose. It was over. Whatever had happened was ended.

They all felt a shock of surprise, relief – yes, and delight – when Reece came into the dining-room. He looked round at their drawn faces with concern.

“I say – is anything wrong?” he asked.

“No,” said Massingham, with a half-laugh. “No; not if you’re all right.”

“Oh,
I’m
all right,” said the little curate cheerfully. “Never slept better in my life, and that’s saying a lot.”

“Then, you saw-?” began Grindley.

“I didn’t see a thing,” said Reece half-regretfully. “Something missing in my make-up, I expect. It
is
a pity! However, I’ve had my chance.”

And he fell hungrily on his breakfast.

IT WAS, I know my fault but though she never may – and I pray that she never will – realise it, it was even more Freda’s. For it was Freda who implored me to undertake the whole thing saying in her brisk and decisive way “He must
vegetate,
Spud. It’s his nerves. You understand. Let him just be quiet – do nothing and think nothing.” And, again, “Make him into a
real vegetable
won’t you?” Which shows, of course, that she knew nothing of Erik, though she was his twin. You could no more make a vegetable of Erik Storm than you could make a doorscraper of a violin. Though I didn’t know that then. It’s one of the things I learnt, down at Crows’ Hall. And I learnt, too, that when it’s the thoughts of a man that are distorted and flaming like a jungle it’s the wickedest and silliest thing you can do to give his mind complete rest. Then, like a spider, his Idea (for everyone has an Idea that is the driving-power of his whole mind) begins to work and weave, out of its own substance, a filmy web that grows and tangles the mind until —

Well, you see how it is. I know these things now. I was, at the beginning of this story – if it is a story – the stolidest and stupidest of creatures. Which is exactly why Freda chose me as Erik’s companion.

I’d grown up next door to the Storms, and we three – Erik and Freda and I – had played together. Erik invented the games out of his head – wonderful games, I daresay, for he was a wonderful boy; but Freda, who was quick and practical, and I, who was slow and literal, used to shriek with laughter sometimes over his wild fancies; and we could never see, as he could, all manner of beauties and terrors by ’just thinking.” So it generally ended in Erik’s going off, sore and furious, to the bare sea-marshes, while Freda and I played the normal, ordinary games in the pretty secluded garden. When our games gave out – (two is a small number, and we were uninventive) – we used to go out and find Erik, sitting in the sea- lavender with his hands clasped round his knees, crooning to himself; or standing, silent, listening to the lonely wind creeping round the dunes. Most unhealthy. He’d generally forgotten all about the quarrel then. He never did remember his human relationships very well.

We didn’t go to the same school. Erik went to some queer Scandinavian place – did I say that Mr. Storm was Scandinavian? Swedish or Norwegian or Danish, I forget which – and I went to a “lesser public school” near home. I was only a weekly boarder, and so I saw a lot of Freda still. She was a good pal – far more of a boy than a girl, though a good housewife even then. And I’m afraid we didn’t miss Erik much. Then he went to Oxford; and I, who was far too stupid for a University, and had no desire whatever for one, took to farming in Sussex. Freda went on her brisk, interested way alone until she got married to a decent quiet chap called Martin. And then for some years I lost sight of the Storms – heard vaguely of Freda’s babies – that Erik had gone abroad to Russia – that he was spending six months in Iceland – that he was doing research into Northern folklore. So
like
Erik, I thought.

Then, one day when I was in town on business, Freda and I ran into each other in Baker Street.

“Spud!” she said, rather breathlessly. “It’s like a miracle. I believe I was praying to see you.”

She slurred her r’s, as she always did when she was excited.

“Were you?” I said stupidly. I hadn’t seen her for over four years, but we always met like that – as though one of us had just been out of the room for a moment and had come back. “What’s up?” I went on, for she looked quite disturbed.

“I can’t tell you here,” she said, looking round. “Can’t we go somewhere and talk?”

“Madame Tussaud’s-” I began. I was quite surprised when she began to laugh a little wildly.

“Spud! How like you!” she cried. “We meet after four years – you come like a miracle – and you propose to go to a waxwork show!”

“Not to see the waxworks,” I explained patiently. I’d never seen Freda like that before. “To talk. It’s quiet. It’s generally empty at this time of year.”

“I didn’t even know there was really such a place… Well, let’s go - anywhere to talk in peace – I
must
talk to you, Spud.”

So we went. It was nearly empty – I knew it would be, in June – and we ordered tea in the place there. And Freda told me.

“It’s Erik,” she said, taking off her gloves very carefully. “He’s – so funny, Spud.”

I nodded. That was nothing unusual.

“He’s… Well, you know how he went off into the North to find out sagas and charms and things? He found out a lot… and… I can’t quite follow it all. He was alone, you know, alone there in the dark and the ice… He seemed – fascinated… He went about, farther and farther north. He opened tombs and things… and he found odd things, and heard – dreadful things… Spud, I think he got sort of – possessed. He used to go out alone at night to those awful old dead places… and he’d learned spells and charms and rites… And – and, Spud – I’m – afraid.”

She broke off sharply. She was quite pale.

“He got ill. Of course he did, going out at night into that ghastly cold. I went to him. He was – I’ve never seen him like that before. He was frightened – oh, I can’t tell you -
terrified!
He was delirious - he
shrieked
– and then he’d whisper, and whisper… Just scraps, but enough…”

Her voice was shaking so that she had to stop. After a little she went on more quietly.

“Well, I brought him home, back to the sun and warmth. His nerves are all to pieces. He’s more or less controlled, now, but -

Well, honestly, Spud, I don’t like having him in the house with the children. Peter’s timid as it is, and he and Erik are always together. And then you came into my mind… I thought you might help… I don’t know what to do.”

I’d never seen Freda so distressed.

“Is he still ill – apart from nerves I mean?” I asked.

“Oh no – his
body’s
all right. He needs to
vegetate
you know. He’s been so worked up – so excited over all this silly magic business. And you’re such a
calm
old thing Spud-”

It was then that she made the remark about my making a vegetable of Erik.

Well I needn’t detail the whole thing. I went and saw – Freda ostensibly, but really the situation. Erik looked all right, I thought - pale and thin of course, but then he’d been ill; and his eyes looked odd. People’s eyes often do, though, when their faces are thin. He was quiet enough, except that once, at dinner, he started up trembling all over and rushed into the garden. When he came back he muttered some silly rot about having heard a bat. Now one doesn’t, you know, in Hampstead – or anywhere, as a rule, they squeak too high; I thought it a thin explanation… Oh yes, and he did get quite excited once when he noticed a queer old ring I was wearing. I always wear it since I turned it up one day when I was ploughing up on Wether Down – an ugly, heavy thing of some dull metal with queer shapes – runes, don’t you call them? – cut on it. He got quite worked up – wanted the thing, and behaved like a spoilt child when I refused to part with it. I got quite annoyed - I am obstinate, I know. And Erik suddenly got up and went off somewhere alone, just as he used to when we were kids. Lord knows where he went to, though, in Hampstead…

Of course Freda had her way. I could see that Erik was nervy - Lord! what an inadequate word! But it really was all that I saw then – and Freda was naturally worried. And I am far too lazy to be anything but obliging. So, as I was going back to Sussex anyhow, I invited Erik. Freda and I thought that the farm would be just the place for him – so quiet, so uneventful, so calm… God! What fools sensible people are!

Now, I want to make two things quite clear. I never had, and didn’t then, begin to understand Erik or anything about him. But I was tremendously sorry for him – he was so white and miserable and silent and (I know now)
haunted.
I wanted to do my best for him; only I didn’t know what to do. I could only think of the silliest, most obvious attentions that one would pay to an invalid aunt.

I met him the night he came. I drove to the little station where there are three trains a day, because it seemed the thing to do. I remember it was a threatening looking night, and I hoped the rain wouldn’t come just yet and beat down the hay. Erik was the only passenger, and he was absurdly glad to see me. I was quite moved.

“I was so afraid you wouldn’t be here,” he kept saying.

“Well, it wouldn’t have been so far to walk if I hadn’t come,” I said once. “You could have left your stuff at the station.”

He looked at me oddly and didn’t answer.

“Besides, you’d probably have had company on the road,” I went on.

He started then, and shivered violently. I remembered his illness, and told him to pull up the rug…

He seemed very listless at first – wouldn’t even unpack properly, so my housekeeper, Mrs. Burns, told me. She is very tidy, and she seemed a bit annoyed. I can’t risk that. So one evening I said to Erik:

“Got straight upstairs yet, Erik?”

“N-not yet,” he said very slowly. “You see, I-I’ve brought a lot of stuff… unnecessary… curios, you know. I haven’t sorted my things since I came south…”