I accepted Hilda’s statement that it would be useless to question others, so my imagination was free to create drama after drama about the people who used to live in the Empty House—and theory after theory to explain the mystery of its desolation.
At all hours of the day, I stood by the rusty gates until every nettle, every strand of dangling creeper, every shuttered window, every cluster of ivy became familiar. But whether I stood by the gates when dawn whitened the sky, or when shadowless noon held everything in thrall, or when twilight slowly obliterated contours and colours, the essential atmosphere of the tragic house did not change. Rain might rattle on shutters, winds roar through the woods, lightning might flicker and thunder roll, but the Empty House remained as remote from these vicissitudes as the dead in their graves.
Familiarity, however, did not deliver me from fear and, no matter how often I stood by the gates, nothing could have compelled me to open them and walk up the derelict drive. Even to imagine standing in the porch, confronted by that tentacled creeper, so terrified me that I could think of nothing demanding greater courage.
Then something new happened.
I began to imagine the people who had lived there. At first they were shadowy, background figures, but, finally, they seemed as real as Hilda. The family which eventually emerged in my imagination consisted of a father and mother; a boy, Maurice; and a girl—Fredrika.
I could see them! I could hear them! They were happy in a way I had never known and they inspired passionate longing for such happiness. The more real they became, the more frequently I had visions of the Empty House as it had been when they lived in it.
It rose from desolation like a dream.
The rust had gone from the gates and the nettles from the drive. Flowers lit the spacious garden: birds sang in the snowy orchard. The green shutters were flung back—a blue front door stood invitingly open—laughter and eager voices filled the old white house glowing in sunshine. It had risen from the dead, and I gazed at it enthralled.
Then something very strange happened. Maurice, Fredrika, and their parents ceased to be people whom I had invented and who had once lived in the Empty House.
They were living there now.
Yes—now! I lavished imagination upon them until Fredrika and Maurice seemed my constant companions. They roamed the countryside with me, shared all my hopes, collaborated in all my schemes. They became so intimate that I planned nothing in which they had no part.
They existed only in my imagination—but they were wholly real to me.
Not very remarkable, when one remembers the extent to which the element of “make-believe” enters into a child’s life—and certainly not remarkable in my case, as I had no companions of my own age. Actually, with the exception of my tutor, I seldom saw any one except my parents and Hilda—and, recently, Hilda’s time was almost wholly occupied attending to my mother, who had become practically a permanent invalid, so it was not unusual for me to spend hours and hours alone. It is not surprising, therefore, that my imaginary companions became more and more real.
Even now, the images of Fredrika and Maurice are more vital in my memory than those of many flesh and blood acquaintances, encountered long ago and half-forgotten long ago. Fredrika and Maurice are immortal. Imagination created them, and they are therefore invulnerable to the siege of time and the vicissitudes of chance. They inhabit realms remote from humanity. No hungry generations tread them down.
Even now, I can see Maurice with his fearless freckled face and brown solemn eyes. I can see slender Fredrika with dark curly hair, lit brows, and elfin features. I can see her eager impulsive movements, her impetuous mouth, her imaginative eyes. I can hear her voice, her laugh. I cannot believe that only imagination created her. Surely, surely, she lived long ago—and died long ago!
Often, while I was in bed, waiting for father to come to my room, I reviewed the day’s adventures with Fredrika and Maurice. Perhaps, after birds’-nesting, we had had a picnic in a mossy space, under a giant oak, circled by fronds of delicate ferns. While we feasted, we looked at the eggs in Maurice’s hat—pale green eggs with ink-black spots.
Or Fredrika and I had wandered into a wooded valley through which a lazy river runs. An enchanted valley. Mid-stream, is a diamond-shaped island, where the river divides in order to double its beauty.
Or we had lit a bonfire at the end of a veiled autumn day—and cooked potatoes in the ashes. Sometimes a charred twig flickered into flame. Nothing moved, except spying shadows.
Or we had been to our dancing class at the Royal Hotel—Miss Pippitt’s dancing class, every Friday evening, during the winter. When we left, twilight transformed everything: lights glowed in miniature shops; passers-by had a phantom air. Before leaving the hotel, we had been told to muffle up well because we were warm after dancing. Then we went to a dairy where we each had a glass of milk and a sponge cake.
Or we had had tea with Fredrika’s parents in the library at the back of the Empty House. I had imagined a finely panelled room so often that I could breathe its mellow atmosphere. All day, rain had rattled like shot on the panes and sudden gusts of wind moaned through leafless boughs but, just before five o’clock, the rain ceased and the wind dropped. Everything was supernaturally still. Thick white mist made the garden ghostly: the orchard seemed to have turned to smoke. But, in the library, with shutters closed and curtains drawn and a great log fire of leaping flame, everything was enchantment. The eyes of portraits on the walls watched you when you took more honey. Fredrika’s father toasted the crumpets and burned two of them, which he insisted on eating himself, provided he could drown them in butter.
How happy these people were—these people who existed only in my imagination.
Then an event happened which explained why my father had had a bed moved into my room and had slept there every night for months.
Actually, the event occurred soon after my father ceased to share my room. He gave no reason for reverting to the former arrangement but, although I missed him at first, I was so obsessed by Fredrika that everything else seemed secondary.
One October night I went to bed later than usual and had difficulty in going to sleep. But at last I slept—and dreamed that it was a fine May morning and that Fredrika and Maurice were waiting for me to go into town and eat ices. So, in my dream, I hurried through the avenue of domed chestnuts, emerged on to the circular space, then descended into the twilight of interlacing trees, rounded the sudden bend—and there was the Empty House, with shutters open and Fredrika waving from one window and Maurice from another.
Then something amazing happened.
I woke up. It was night. I was fully dressed. I was standing by the rusty gates.
The discovery that I had walked in my sleep did not frighten me, but I was appalled by the contrast between dream and reality. Never had the Empty House been so sinister as on this autumn night, under a moon bewitched by flying clouds.
At last I turned and walked slowly home. When I reached the drive, I found my father in a state of great anxiety. He hurried me into the house, gave me a hot drink, and spent the rest of the night in my room.
The next day, he took me to the town to consult Dr. Gandy.
I had a great affection for Dr. Gandy who had often attended me. He was about fifty-five and had calm patient features and steady kind eyes. Directly you saw him, you felt different. Knowing my affection for the doctor, my father decided that I should have a preliminary talk with him, so I went into the consulting-room and, directly I saw Dr. Gandy, I knew that everything was all right and always would be all right.