he said. ‘To Africa.’
‘Africa!’
Maisie echoed the word blankly. Before she could pull herself together he had shaken her by the hand and gone. She was left standing there, her hands clenched by her sides, an angry spot of colour in each cheek.
Below, on the doorstep, John Segrave came face to face with Allegra coming in from the street. She was in black, her face white and lifeless. She took one glance at him then drew him into a small morning room.
‘Maisie told you,’ she said. ‘You know?’
He nodded.
‘But what does it matter? You’re all right. It—it leaves some people out.’
She looked at him sombrely, mournfully.
‘You are all right,’ he repeated.
‘I don’t know,’ she almost whispered it. ‘I don’t know. I told you—about my dreams. And when I play—when I’m at the piano—those others come and take hold of my hands.’
He was staring at her—paralysed. For one instant, as she spoke, something looked out from her eyes. It was gone in a flash—but he knew it. It was the Thing that had looked out from the House.
She caught his momentary recoil.
‘You see,’ she whispered. ‘You see—but I wish Maisie hadn’t told you. It takes everything from you.’
‘Everything?’
‘Yes. There won’t even be the dreams left. For now—you’ll never dare to dream of the House again.’
The West African sun poured down, and the heat was intense.
John Segrave continued to moan.
‘I can’t find it. I can’t find it.’
The little English doctor with the red head and the tremendous jaw, scowled down upon his patient in that bullying manner which he had made his own.
‘He’s always saying that. What does he mean?’
‘He speaks, I think, of a house, monsieur.’ The soft-voiced Sister of Charity from the Roman Catholic Mission spoke with her gentle detachment, as she too looked down on the stricken man.
‘A house, eh? Well, he’s got to get it out of his head, or we shan’t pull him through. It’s on his mind. Segrave! Segrave!’
The wandering attention was fixed. The eyes rested with recognition on the doctor’s face.
‘Look here, you’re going to pull through. I’m going to pull you through. But you’ve got to stop worrying about this house. It can’t run away, you know. So don’t bother about looking for it now.’
‘All right.’ He seemed obedient. ‘I suppose it can’t very well run away if it’s never been there at all.’
‘Of course not!’ The doctor laughed his cheery laugh. ‘Now you’ll be all right in no time.’ And with a boisterous bluntness of manner he took his departure.
Segrave lay thinking. The fever had abated for the moment, and he could think clearly and lucidly. He must find that House.
For ten years he had dreaded finding it—the thought that he might come upon it unawares had been his greatest terror. And then, he remembered, when his fears were quite lulled to rest, one day it had found him. He recalled clearly his first haunting terror, and then his sudden, his exquisite, relief. For, after all, the House was empty!
Quite empty and exquisitely peaceful. It was as he remembered it ten years before. He had not forgotten. There was a huge black furniture van moving slowly away from the House. The last tenant, of course, moving out with his goods. He went up to the men in charge of the van and spoke to them. There was something rather sinister about that van, it was so very black. The horses were black, too, with freely flowing manes and tails, and the men all wore black clothes and gloves. It all reminded him of something else, something that he couldn’t remember.
Yes, he had been quite right. The last tenant was moving out, as his lease was up. The House was to stand empty for the present, until the owner came back from abroad.
And waking, he had been full of the peaceful beauty of the empty House.
A month after that, he had received a letter from Maisie (she wrote to him perseveringly, once a month). In it she told him that Allegra Kerr had died in the same home as her mother, and wasn’t it dreadfully sad? Though of course a merciful release.
It had really been very odd indeed. Coming after his dream like that. He didn’t quite understand it all. But it was odd.
And the worst of it was that he’d never been able to find the House since. Somehow, he’d forgotten the way.
The fever began to take hold of him once more. He tossed restlessly. Of course, he’d forgotten, the House was on high ground! He must climb to get there. But it was hot work climbing cliffs—dreadfully hot. Up, up, up—oh! he had slipped! He must start again from the bottom. Up, up, up—days passed, weeks—he wasn’t sure that years didn’t go by! And he was still climbing.
Once he heard the doctor’s voice. But he couldn’t stop climbing to listen. Besides the doctor would tell him to leave off looking for the House. He thought it was an ordinary house. He didn’t know.
He remembered suddenly that he must be calm, very calm. You couldn’t find the House unless you were very calm. It was no use looking for the House in a hurry, or being excited.
If he could only keep calm! But it was so hot! Hot? It was cold—yes, cold. These weren’t cliffs, they were icebergs—jagged cold, icebergs.
He was so tired. He wouldn’t go on looking—it was no good. Ah! here was a lane—that was better than icebergs, anyway. How pleasant and shady it was in the cool, green lane. And those trees—they were splendid! They were rather like—what? He couldn’t remember, but it didn’t matter.
Ah! here were flowers. All golden and blue! How lovely it all was—and how strangely familiar. Of course, he had been here before. There, through the trees, was the gleam of the House, standing on the high ground. How beautiful it was. The green lane and the trees and the flowers were as nothing to the paramount, the all-satisfying, beauty of the House.
He hastened his steps. To think that he had never yet been inside! How unbelievably stupid of him—when he had the key in his pocket all the time!
And of course the beauty of the exterior was as nothing to the beauty that lay within—especially now that the owner had come back from abroad. He mounted the steps to the great door.
Cruel strong hands were dragging him back! They fought him, dragging him to and fro, backwards and forwards.
The doctor was shaking him, roaring in his ear. ‘Hold on, man, you can. Don’t let go. Don’t let go.’ His eyes were alight with the fierceness of one who sees an enemy. Segrave wondered who the Enemy was. The black-robed nun was praying. That, too, was strange.
And all he wanted was to be left alone. To go back to the House. For every minute the House was growing fainter.
That, of course, was because the doctor was so strong. He wasn’t strong enough to fight the doctor. If he only could.
But stop! There was another way—the way dreams went in the moment of waking. No strength could stop them—they just flitted past. The doctor’s hands wouldn’t be able to hold him if he slipped—just slipped!
Yes, that was the way! The white walls were visible once more, the doctor’s voice was fainter, his hands were barely felt. He knew now how dreams laugh when they give you the slip!
He was at the door of the House. The exquisite stillness was unbroken. He put the key in the lock and turned it.
Just