Uncanny Stories

A terrified bird flew out of the hedge ... Then, suddenly the room began to come apart ... ... each held there by the other’s fear ... moving slowly, like figures in some monstrous and appalling dance “I’ve told you not to touch my things” ... her face was turned to Donald ... He stepped forward, opening his arms And she wondered whether really she would find him well “I saw the Powells at the station” Milly opened a door on the left “No place ever will be strange when It’s there” ... he stood for a moment in the open doorway ... ... stretching out her arms to keep him back ... drew itself after him along the floor ... her whole body listened ... The apparition maintained itself with difficulty Then all of a sudden she had burst out crying ... Steven waited with his hand on the tap ... It stood close against the window, looking in ... the figure became clear and solid ... “Now he’s coming alive—”

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UNCANNY STORIES

WHERE THEIR FIRE IS NOT QUENCHED

There was nobody in the orchard. Harriott Leigh went out, carefully, through the iron gate into the field. She had made the latch slip into its notch without a sound.

The path slanted widely up the field from the orchard gate to the stile under the elder tree. George Waring waited for her there.

Years afterwards, when she thought of George Waring she smelt the sweet, hot, wine-scent of the elder flowers. Years afterwards, when she smelt elder flowers she saw George Waring, with his beautiful, gentle face, like a poet’s or a musician’s, his black-blue eyes, and sleek, olive-brown hair. He was a naval lieutenant.

Yesterday he had asked her to marry him and she had consented. But her father hadn’t, and she had come to tell him that and say good-bye before he left her. His ship was to sail the next day.

He was eager and excited. He couldn’t believe that anything could stop their happiness, that anything he didn’t want to happen could happen.

“Well?” he said.

“He’s a perfect beast, George. He won’t let us. He says we’re too young.”

“I was twenty last August,” he said, aggrieved.

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“And I shall be seventeen in September.”

“And this is June. We’re quite old, really. How long does he mean us to wait?”

“Three years.”

“Three years before we can be engaged even— Why, we might be dead.”

She put her arms round him to make him feel safe. They kissed; and the sweet, hot, wine-scent of the elder flowers mixed with their kisses. They stood, pressed close together, under the elder tree.

Across the yellow fields of charlock they heard the village clock strike seven. Up in the house a gong clanged.

“Darling, I must go,” she said.

“Oh stay—Stay five minutes.”

He pressed her close. It lasted five minutes, and five more. Then he was running fast down the road to the station, while Harriott went along the field-path, slowly, struggling with her tears.

“He’ll be back in three months,” she said. “I can live through three months.”

But he never came back. There was something wrong with the engines of his ship, the Alexandra. Three weeks later she went down in the Mediterranean, and George with her.

Harriott said she didn’t care how soon she died now. She was quite sure it would be soon, because she couldn’t live without him.

Five years passed.

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