Both were in this Shadow, and both knew that they were in it, but
neither betrayed by word or act a hint of interpretation. They talked
privately, no doubt, but of that I can report no details. And so it was that, after ten days of a very commonplace visit, I found
myself looking straight into the face of a Strangeness that defied
capture at close quarters. "There's something here that never happens,"
were the words that rose in my mind, "and that's why none of us can
speak of it." And as I looked out of the window and watched the vulgar blackbirds,
with toes turned in, boring out their worms, I realized sharply that
even they, as indeed everything large and small in the house and
grounds, shared this strangeness, and were twisted out of normal
appearance because of it. Life, as expressed in the entire place, was
crumpled, dwarfed, emasculated. God's meanings here were crippled, His
love of joy was stunted. Nothing in the garden danced or sang. There was hate in it. "The Shadow," my thought hurried on to completion,
"is a manifestation of hate; and hate is the Devil." And then I sat back
frightened in my chair, for I knew that I had partly found the truth. Leaving my books I went out into the open. The sky was overcast, yet the
day by no means gloomy, for a soft, diffused light oozed through the
clouds and turned all things warm and almost summery. But I saw the
grounds now in their nakedness because I understood. Hate means strife,
and the two together weave the robe that terror wears. Having no
so-called religious beliefs myself, nor belonging to any set of dogmas
called a creed, I could stand outside these feelings and observe. Yet
they soaked into me sufficiently for me to grasp sympathetically what
others, with more cabined souls (I flattered myself), might feel. That
picture in the dining room stalked everywhere, hid behind every tree,
peered down upon me from the peaked ugliness of the bourgeois towers,
and left the impress of its powerful hand upon every bed of flowers. "You must not do this, you must not do that," went past me through the
air. "You must not leave these narrow paths," said the rigid iron
railings of black. "You shall not walk here," was written on the lawns. "Keep to the steps," "Don't pick the flowers; make no noise of laughter,
singing, dancing," was placarded all over the rose-garden, and
"Trespassers will be--not prosecuted but--destroyed" hung from the crest
of monkey tree and holly. Guarding the ends of each artificial terrace
stood gaunt, implacable policemen, warders, jailers. "Come with us,"
they chanted, "or be damned eternally." I remember feeling quite pleased with myself that I had discovered this
obvious explanation of the prison feeling the place breathed out. That
the posthumous influence of heavy old Samuel Franklyn might be an
inadequate solution did not occur to me. By "getting the place straight
again," his widow, of course, meant forgetting the glamour of fear and
foreboding his depressing creed had temporarily forced upon her; and
Frances, delicately minded being, did not speak of it because it was the
influence of the man her friend had loved. I felt lighter; a load was
lifted from me. "To trace the unfamiliar to the familiar," came back a
sentence I had read somewhere, "is to understand." It was a real relief. I could talk with Frances now, even with my hostess, no danger of
treading clumsily. For the key was in my hands. I might even help to
dissipate the Shadow, "to get it straight again." It seemed, perhaps,
our long invitation was explained! I went into the house laughing--at myself a little. "Perhaps after all
the artist's outlook, with no hard and fast dogmas, is as narrow as the
others! How small humanity is! And why is there no possible and true
combination of all outlooks?" The feeling of "unsettling" was very strong in me just then, in spite of
my big discovery which was to clear everything up. And at the moment I
ran into Frances on the stairs, with a portfolio of sketches under her
arm. It came across me then abruptly that, although she had worked a great
deal since we came, she had shown me nothing. It struck me suddenly as
odd, unnatural. The way she tried to pass me now confirmed my newborn
suspicion that--well, that her results were hardly what they ought to
be. "Stand and deliver!" I laughed, stepping in front of her. "I've seen
nothing you've done since you've been here, and as a rule you show me
all your things. I believe they are atrocious and degrading!" Then my
laughter froze. She made a sly gesture to slip past me, and I almost decided to let her
go, for the expression that flashed across her face shocked me. She
looked uncomfortable and ashamed; the color came and went a moment in he
cheeks, making me think of a child detected in some secret naughtiness. It was almost fear. "It's because they're not finished then?" I said, dropping the tone of
banter, "or because they're too good for me to understand?" For my
criticism of painting, she told me, was crude and ignorant sometimes. "But you'll let me see them later, won't you?" Frances, however, did not take the way of escape I offered. She changed
her mind. She drew the portfolio from beneath her arm instead. "You can
see them if you really want to, Bill," she said quietly, and her tone
reminded me of a nurse who says to a boy just grown out of childhood,
"you are old enough now to look upon horror and ugliness--only I don't
advise it." "I do want to," I said, and made to go downstairs with her. But,
instead, she said in the same low voice as before, "Come up to my room,
we shall be undisturbed there." So I guessed that she had been on her
way to show the paintings to our hostess, but did not care for us all
three to see them together. My mind worked furiously. "Mabel asked me to do them," she explained in a tone of submissive
horror, once the door was shut, "in fact, she begged it of me. You know
how persistent she is in her quiet way. I--er--had to." She flushed and opened the portfolio on the little table by the window,
standing behind me as I turned the sketches over--sketches of the
grounds and trees and garden. In the first moment of inspection,
however, I did not take in clearly why my sister's sense of modesty had
been offended. For my attention flashed a second elsewhere. Another bit
of the puzzle had dropped into place, defining still further the nature
of what I called "the Shadow." Mrs. Franklyn, I now remembered, had
suggested to me in the library that I might perhaps write something
about the place, and I had taken it for one of her banal sentences and
paid no further attention. I realized now that it was said in earnest. She wanted our interpretations, as expressed in our respective
"talents," painting and writing. Her invitation was explained. She left
us to ourselves on purpose. "I should like to tear them up," Frances was whispering behind me with a
shudder, "only I promised--" She hesitated a moment. "Promised not to?"