The Goddess: a Demon
Copyright© 2024 by Richard Marsh
Chapter 22: A Miracle
The hustling throng came quickly forward. In its midst some one was being propelled towards the entrance. Although he was shouting at the top of his voice, he appeared to be offering no actual resistance, but seemed rather to be regarding the proceedings as a joke. In spite of the hubbub Mr. Bernstein’s accents reached my ear.
“Did you ever hear anything like him? Isn’t he a beauty? And that’s the man who’s had I don’t know how much cash out of me—a hatful! And that’s how he goes on!”
I was indifferent to Mr. Bernstein’s lamentations. As the crowd came nearer I was beginning to ask myself if I was dreaming; if, again, I was about to become the victim of a nightmare imagining. I turned to Miss Moore.
“Hadn’t you—better go? Hadn’t I better—get you out of this?”
I was conscious that my voice was a little hoarse. Hers was clear and resonant. Although she did not speak loudly, it seemed to ring above the din.
“Go? Now? When it’s coming face to face, the light is breaking, I’m beginning to see clear, and it’s my call? No; now I’ll stay and play the scene right through until the curtain drops. It was God who made us miss that train.”
The crowd was drawing very close. Was I asleep or waking? Were my eyes playing tricks, my senses leaving me? What suddenly made the world seem to spin round and round? Who was it in the midst of the people—the man they were hustling—who raved and screamed? Was he a creature born of delirium, or a thing of flesh and blood?
It was from the girl at my side that recognition first came.
“It’s he!” she cried. “It’s he!”
It was he—the wretch who had set us all by the ears; who had fooled and duped us; who had played upon us, as a last stroke, a trick whose nature, even yet, I did not understand. I strode into the crowd.
“Let me pass! Make way for me!”
They made way. It was well for them they did; the strength of a dozen Samsons was that moment in my arms. I planted myself in front of him.
“How is it that you’ve come back—from the gates of hell?”
“Ferguson! It’s you!” He broke into a peal of laughter, which spoke of pain, not pleasure. “But I’ve not come back! They’re still stoking the fires!” He threw out his arms as if referring to the jeering mob, which pressed upon us. “Here are the attendant demons—can’t you see them?”
I continued standing still, regarding him.
“It is Edwin Lawrence, as I live. Edwin—not Philip.”
“Yes; not Philip—Edwin!” He laughed again. “Would you like to see the strawberry mark? It’s there.”
“What is this game in which you have been taking a hand?”
“It’s a game of my own invention—and hers!” He made an upward movement with his hand. “It was from her the inspiration came. She named the stakes, framed the rules, started the game, watched the play—and with both eyes she’s watched it ever since. Those eyes of hers! They never sleep, and never blink or wink, but watch, watch, watch all the time. They’ve watched me ever since the game began. They’re watching now! She haunts and hounds me—into the train and out of it. She’s here now—enjoying the joke. Hark! Can’t you hear her?” He stopped to listen. I heard nothing out of the common, though it seemed he did. “That’s her laughter!” He broke into discordant merriment. “I play the part of Echo. She has me, body, soul, and spirit; and she thinks it such a jest!”
He spoke as men do in fevers. I could see that there were some about us who set him down as mad. There were those who jeered, as fools will at the sight of a man’s anguish, when, in the abandonment of his shame, he trails his soul in the dust. I had seen persons in his case before. He was not mad, as yet, but on the border line, where men fight with demons. He had been drinking, to drive them back; but they had come the more, threatening, on every hand, to shut him in for ever. He knew what it was they threatened. It was the anguish of the knowledge which caused the sweat to stand in beads upon his brow.
The railway officials, I fancy, took it to be a case of incipient delirium tremens. A person in authority addressed himself to me.
“Are you a friend of this gentleman’s, sir?”
“I know him well.”
“Are you willing to undertake the charge of him? You see he’s not in a fit state to go about alone.”
“I’ll take charge of him.”
“Then you’ll be so good as to remove him from the station at once. He’s already given us more than sufficient trouble.”
Lawrence interposed with what he intended to be an assumption of the grand manner.
“My good Mr. Railway-porter, or whatever you may be, I will remove myself from your objectionable station without any hint from you. My destination was Ostend, and is now Pimlico. This is an acquaintance of mine who owes me £1880; but I don’t require him to take charge of me. There already is somebody who does that. Can’t you hear her? That’s her laughing.”
“Come,” I said. “Let’s get into a cab.”
“Thank you, I prefer walking. Nothing like exercise when you are liverish. Are you alone?”
Miss Moore came through the crowd.
“No; I am with him.”
He stared at her as if in doubt; then with sudden recognition—
“Ah! It is the sister of the brother—the affectionate relative of our dear Tom—the beautiful Miss Moore! It is like a scene out of one of the plays in which you are the bright, particular star. The ghosts are gathering round. You were there; you saw her?”
“Who?”
“The Goddess!”
“Was it—a Goddess?”
“That’s a demon!”
“What do you mean?” She took me by the arm. “Ask him what he means.”
Lawrence answered.
“It’s not a thing the meaning of which can be clarified by words. Come, and you shall see; come together—Mr. Ferguson and you.”
She looked at me, inquiry in her eyes. I questioned him.
“Where do you propose to take us?”
“To a little place of mine, where the Goddess is.”
“What is this stuff about the Goddess?”
“Come, and you shall see.”
I glanced at her.
“Let’s go,” she said.
He caught her words.
“There speaks the lady who would learn; the woman possessed of the spirit of inquiry.”
I repeated my former suggestion.
“Let’s get into a cab.”
But he declined.
“No; I’ll have none of your cabs, I’ll walk. I’m cribb’d, cabined, and confined out in the open; in a cab I’d stifle. There’s a hand upon my heart, a grip upon my throat, a weight upon my head; they make it hard to breathe. I’ll be in close quarters soon enough; I’ll keep out of them as long as I can.”
I turned to the officials. “Can’t you keep these people back? I don’t want to have them following us through the streets. The man’s not drunk, he’s ill.”
“I should get him into a cab.”
Lawrence, hearing what the fellow said, rushed at him in a fit of maniacal fury, repeating, in a crescendo scale—
“You’d get me into a cab! You’d get me into a cab! You’d get me into a cab! I’d kill you first.” The man shrank back as if fearful that his last hour had come.
We went out of the station, a motley crowd—Lawrence with Miss Moore, and me close at his heels; behind, before, on either side, a miscellaneous assemblage of fools. I would have prevented her from coming had I had my way. I told her so at starting; but she whispered in my ear—
“I’m not afraid. Are you?”
“I am afraid for you—of these blackguards; of the mood he’s in; of where he’s taking us; of what may happen. I don’t know what devil’s trick it is he has been playing, but I’m sure it is a devil’s trick, and there may be worse to come.”
“I’m safe with you.”
“I doubt it.”
“But I am sure. The light is coming; I’d like to see the brightness of the day, for mine honour’s sake, which I thought might be a consideration, perhaps, with you. Still, I’m under orders. If you bid me I will go. But—mayn’t I come?”
I could deny her nothing which she asked in such a tone, though it were an apple out of Eden. But I was gruff.
“Then take my arm.”
“I’d like to.”
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