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Updated: May 1, 2025
It's something awful! That man has called it out...!" "Hush, hush," whispered her husband. He stroked her trembling hand beside him. "It is in the wind," said Sanderson, speaking for the first time, very quietly. The expression on his face was not visible in the gloom, but his voice was soft and unafraid. At the sound of it, Mrs. Bittacy started violently again.
Bittacy caught the gleaming of his turned eyes, "I failed with badly at first, because I did it in the morning. You shall see to-morrow what I mean that first sketch is upstairs in my portfolio; it's quite another tree to the one you bought. That view" he leaned forward, lowering his voice "I caught one morning about two o'clock in very faint moonlight and the stars.
Bittacy drew his chair a little forward to obstruct her view of him. He felt bewildered himself, a little, hardly knowing quite what to say or do. It was all so very curious and sudden. But Mrs. Bittacy was badly frightened. It seemed to her that what she saw came from the enveloping forest just beyond their little garden.
And even underneath the sea she heard that terrible sound of roaring was it surf or wind or voices? further out, yet coming steadily towards her. And so, in the loneliness of that drab English winter, the mind of Mrs. Bittacy, preying upon itself, and fed by constant dread, went lost in disproportion.
An easterly wind, for instance, carrying on stage by stage as it were linking dropped messages and meanings from land to land like the birds an easterly wind " Mrs. Bittacy swept in upon them with the tumbler "There, David," she said, "that will ward off any beginnings of attack. Just a spoonful, dear.
A smell of earth and flowers stole in through the window on a breath of wandering air. Mrs. Bittacy said nothing at the moment. "We both sleep like tops," put in her husband, laughing. "You're a courageous man, though, Sanderson, and, by Jove, the picture justifies you.
And then he added gravely: "That, my dear, is the statement of a scientific man of the Twentieth Century." Mrs. Bittacy sat forward in her chair so that her silk flounces crackled louder than the newspaper. She made a characteristic little sound between sniffling and snorting. She put her shoes closely together, with her hands upon her knees.
Steadfast in her purpose, looking back as little as she dared, Sophia Bittacy marched slowly and deliberately into the heart of the silent woods, deeper, ever deeper. And then, abruptly, in an open space where the sunshine fell unhindered, she stopped. It was one of the breathing places of the forest. Dead, withered bracken lay in patches of unsightly grey. There were bits of heather too.
The words floated out across the lawn towards the wall of blue darkness where the big Forest swept the little garden with its league-long curve that was like the shore-line of a sea. A wave of distant sound that was like surf accompanied his voice, as though the wind was fain to listen too: The voice of Mrs. Bittacy presently broke the silence that followed.
Bittacy had warmed the teapot and was in the act of pouring the water in to heat the cups when her husband, looking up from his chair across the hearth, made the abrupt announcement: "My dear," he said, as though following a train of thought of which she only heard this final phrase, "it's really quite impossible for me to go."
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