The Secret of the House

She followed him out of the black room into a dark, narrow passage.

Her calmness and self-possession remained undisturbed. Without a tremor she accepted this unexpected invitation to the secrets of the Crooked House—quite ignorant of, and indifferent to, the danger to which she might be committing herself. That there were hidden things in the house she had for a long time been convinced, but of their nature she had been unable to form even a conjecture, in spite of many attempts to creep into the mystery. Copplestone's sudden decision to reveal them to her was a surprise, and an unpleasant check to the development of her schemes. Either he placed a much lower value on his secrets than she had expected, or her participation in them was by no means to be dreaded to the extent that she had relied upon. In any case her position was considerably weakened, and the success of her plans was no longer the assured thing she had believed it to be.

In silence they ascended a flight of stairs, and reached a door which appeared to be the entrance into a separate part of the building. It was a massive oak door, fitted with double locks of remarkable strength for a private house. Copplestone held it open, motioning her to pass before him, and relocked it on the other side. She was still without any nervousness, but her curiosity increased with every step. He led the way on, and she followed him unhesitatingly. They traversed several corridors, and turned many corners. Her sense of direction told her that they had entered an extreme wing of the house, hidden away among the thickest trees of the garden, and to all appearances unused. The place was damp, dusty, and silent, with the intense silence of emptiness. Some of the doors were open, showing unfurnished, neglected rooms. The papers were peeling off the walls; the fittings were covered with the rust and dirt of years; the soiled blinds half covered the closed, uncleaned windows. The atmosphere was close and unhealthy.

"What a parable of waste!" she said.

He did not reply. They came to a square landing, and another heavy door faced them. Copplestone stopped, and for a moment stood looking at her intently. She did not flinch. He shrugged his shoulders, and took a key from his pocket. It was a peculiar key, and was attached to a strong chain. He fitted it into the lock, and opened the door. Then he turned to her again, and she saw a change coming over his face.

"Go in," he said curtly.

She hesitated, for the first time. He withdrew the key, and returned it to his pocket.

"You need not be afraid," he said.

"I will follow you," she returned, watching him carefully.

He shrugged his shoulders again, and went into the room. She entered after him.

It was a long, low room. There was a window at the far end, but it was so dirty, and the curtains in front of it were so thick and discolored, that the place was in semi-darkness, and the air overwhelmingly heavy and unwholesome. There was a little rough furniture, a strip of worn carpet on the floor, and some untasted food on the table—but it was not any of those dismal objects that attached the woman's gaze. It was rather a white, pasty face that seemed to gleam at her from the darkest corner of the room—the drawn pallid face, and dull lifeless eyes, of a white-haired man, who was sitting in a huddled, contorted attitude on a bare wooden chair.

She shrank back with a startled exclamation, and turned to Copplestone. His face was convulsed with fury, his eyes aflame with hatred.

"Well?" he said harshly.

She drew away from him fearfully.

"What wickedness is this?" she shuddered.

"None of mine," he answered.

The vacant eyes rested on them with a fixed stare, completely devoid of intelligence. The huddled figure evinced no sign of life. It appeared to be unconscious of their presence. Copplestone advanced a few paces; but the woman hung back, horrified.

"Is that ... a living thing?" she whispered.

He laughed—an unnatural, metallic laugh.

"Yes," he said—"it's living ... with as much life as its sins have left it, and its rotten body can hold."

He turned back to her.

"Come nearer," he said. "There is nothing to be afraid of."

But the glassy stare of the motionless figure had unnerved her. She was white, and shaking.

"No, no," she muttered, shrinking further back.

He seized her arm.

"I warned you," he cried roughly, "but you wouldn't listen. You were brave enough then—when you thought I daren't stand up to you. You shall learn your lesson—you who talked so glibly of my secrets. Come closer."

He dragged her with him towards the corner. "Look!" he commanded. "Look at that thing in front of you—that thing crouching there like an ape. It was once a man. It was once an active, intelligent, healthy human being—a strong handsome member of a strong handsome family. Everything was in its favor. There were no obstacles in its path. It had many more natural gifts than the average man is endowed with. It might have ruled an empire. It might have loaded its name with honor, and left it to its children. It had the capability, the power, and the opportunity to leave the world a better place than it found it. Look at it now."

She stood silent, her head turned away. He went on, with increasing rage.

"Look at that man now! He has brought himself to a state of gibbering insanity by a life of indulgence in every form of vice and depravity known to humanity. He knowingly and deliberately drained his mental and physical resources by every insult to nature that depraved men and women—the lowest creatures of the earth—have devised for the satisfaction of their diseased senses. He was a drunkard and drug-fiend before he was twenty. Every effort was made to check and reclaim him, but he defied them all. He was fully warned. He knew what the consequences would be. He knew that nature cannot be violated continuously without exacting her penalty, sooner or later. But he plunged on. Step by step he brought himself to this. His brain and his body are decaying from the unnameable excesses he has committed with both. He is literally rotting in front of us at this moment."

She put her hands up to her face.

"Can he hear you?" she gasped.

"I don't know," he replied savagely. "Perhaps he can. I hope he can. I hope he can hear every word. It wouldn't be the first time he had heard the story of his shame. And it won't be the last. Curse him!"

She tried to draw him back.

"Come away," she cried. "How can you stand in front of the poor creature, and talk like that before his face?"

His iron grip closed on her wrist, and held her helpless. "Why not?" he demanded, with dreadful bitterness. "Why should he be spared because he is suffering a fraction of the just and natural consequences of his own deliberate acts? What is there to pity in that? It is a merciful retribution. If you have any sympathy to show—show it to me."

"To you?" she echoed.

"To me," he repeated.

She screamed, and tried to wrench herself from his grasp. The horrible head had begun to move slowly from side to side. A faint, ghastly smile appeared round the twisted lips.

"Let me go," she cried. "It's too dreadful."

He dragged her round again.

"You forced yourself into my secrets," he said hardly. "It is too late to shrink back now. You shall know them to the full—and then you may go."

He paused, still holding her. In her horror, and under the sickly, stifling atmosphere of the room, she was almost fainting. But he paid no heed to her condition. His eyes were fixed malignantly on the grinning object of his hatred.

"That man," he said slowly, "was free from any hereditary weakness. His viciousness was not inherent. He came of a good, clean stock. When he was thirty—although the inevitable results of his violations had already seized upon him—he committed the crime of marrying. It was the foulest sin of his life. He knew what the result would be—what it was bound by every natural law to be. He knew that the sins of the fathers must be visited on the children"—he clenched his hands, and she winced as her wrist was crushed in his grip—"and knowing that, he dared to marry."

His voice rose. His face began to work with passion.

"He married a good woman—who bore all the cruelties he heaped upon her because she loved him. Her money had been his only consideration—and when he had got all that he treated her like dirt. But there are limits even to what a woman can bear. He broke her heart, and she died ... mad. If only she had died a little sooner...."

She steadied herself with an effort.

"Who is he?" she asked. "Why is he here, in your house?"

A flood of fury shook him.

"His name is Oscar Winslowe," he said fiercely. "He is my father."

She uttered a sharp cry, and wrenched her hand away from him.

"Your father? That creature ... your father...."

"Yes," he cried wildly—"he is my father. I am George Copplestone Winslowe. Do you wonder that I hate him? I am the victim of his vices—the heir to his sins. He has left me the legacy of outraged nature. I am mad."

She recoiled from him, panting. He was beside himself. His face was distorted; madness glared in his eyes. Then, suddenly, the paroxysm left him. He turned to her weakly, with the appeal of his utter despair.

"Pity me," he said. "Oh, if you are capable of pitying anything in this dreadful world, pity me! My awful inheritance is closing in on me. Every day one more grain of reason leaves me. Like him, I might have been a leader of men. Like him, I have power and capability. I have a brain that could have raised me to the greatest heights. I have a body that can bear any strain. But I am mad."

His agony was pitiful. He sobbed, wringing his hands.

"I can feel the hideous thing growing in me, hour by hour—a little more—a little more. I can feel its clutch tightening on me. And I can't resist. I can't escape. The little mental balance I have is being dragged away from me. In a few years—if I let myself live to it—I shall be a babbling maniac. Nothing can save me. I knew it when I was a boy—before that thing there completely lost its reason. I knew I was born a madman for my father's sins. It crept on me gradually—one sign after another—one horrible secret impulse after another. The slow, sure growth of madness." He buried his face in his hands. "Oh, God! Oh, God!" In the silence that followed the figure on the chair straightened itself with a jerk, and gibbered at him, twitching spasmodically. The woman turned away, shaking.

"I live in hell," he moaned—"in all the torment of the uttermost hell. I fly from one thing to another for respite, for relief—but there is no relief. I can only make madness of them all. Everything twists and turns in my hands. I can keep nothing straight." Then another gust of passion seized him. He shouted, beating his hands together. "What right," he cried furiously, "have men and women to marry and bequeath disease and madness to their children? What right have they to propagate the rottenness of their minds and bodies? It's worse than murder. It's the cruelest, the most wicked, of all crimes. What are the feelings of a child to such parents? Is it not to hate them—as I hate that foul thing there?—to curse them, as I curse him, with every breath?" His arms dropped limply to his sides. "What is the use of hating?" he said dully. "It can't cure me. It can't cure me." He looked at her fixedly.

"Well?" he asked bitterly. "You know the secrets of my house. Are you satisfied?"

She laid a hand on his arm, and turned him gently towards the door. There were tears in her eyes.

"Come away," she said weakly. "Let us speak somewhere else."

He followed her. They went out, without another look at the figure behind them, and returned in silence to the black room.