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diff --git a/3075-0.txt b/3075-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..144703c --- /dev/null +++ b/3075-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,9116 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Return, by Walter de la Mare + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you +will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before +using this eBook. + +Title: The Return + +Author: Walter de la Mare + +Release Date: December 15, 2000 [eBook #3075] +[Most recently updated: November 19, 2022] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +Produced by: Eve Sobol and David Widger + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE RETURN *** + + + + +[Illustration] + + + + +The Return + +By Walter de la Mare + + + + + “Look not for roses in Attalus his garden, or wholesome flowers in + a venomous plantation. And since there is scarce any one bad, but + some others are the worse for him; tempt not contagion by proximity + and hazard not thyself in the shadow of corruption.”—SIR THOMAS + BROWNE. + + + + +CONTENTS + + CHAPTER ONE + CHAPTER TWO + CHAPTER THREE + CHAPTER FOUR + CHAPTER FIVE + CHAPTER SIX + CHAPTER SEVEN + CHAPTER EIGHT + CHAPTER NINE + CHAPTER TEN + CHAPTER ELEVEN + CHAPTER TWELVE + CHAPTER THIRTEEN + CHAPTER FOURTEEN + CHAPTER FIFTEEN + CHAPTER SIXTEEN + CHAPTER SEVENTEEN + CHAPTER EIGHTEEN + CHAPTER NINETEEN + CHAPTER TWENTY + CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE + CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO + CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE + + + + +CHAPTER ONE + + +The churchyard in which Arthur Lawford found himself wandering that +mild and golden September afternoon was old, green, and refreshingly +still. The silence in which it lay seemed as keen and mellow as the +light—the pale, almost heatless, sunlight that filled the air. Here and +there robins sang across the stones, elvishly shrill in the quiet of +harvest. The only other living creature there seemed to Lawford to be +his own rather fair, not insubstantial, rather languid self, who at the +noise of the birds had raised his head and glanced as if between +content and incredulity across his still and solitary surroundings. An +increasing inclination for such lonely ramblings, together with the +feeling that his continued ill-health had grown a little irksome to his +wife, and that now that he was really better she would be relieved at +his absence, had induced him to wander on from home without much +considering where the quiet lanes were leading him. And in spite of a +peculiar melancholy that had welled up into his mind during these last +few days, he had certainly smiled with a faint sense of the irony of +things on lifting his eyes in an unusually depressed moodiness to find +himself looking down on the shadows and peace of Widderstone. + +With that anxious irresolution which illness so often brings in its +train he had hesitated for a few minutes before actually entering the +graveyard. But once safely within he had begun to feel extremely loth +to think of turning back again, and this not the less at remembering +with a real foreboding that it was now drawing towards evening, that +another day was nearly done. He trailed his umbrella behind him over +the grass-grown paths; staying here and there to read some time-worn +inscription; stooping a little broodingly over the dark green graves. +Not for the first time during the long laborious convalescence that had +followed apparently so slight an indisposition, a fleeting sense almost +as if of an unintelligible remorse had overtaken him, a vague thought +that behind all these past years, hidden as it were from his daily +life, lay something not yet quite reckoned with. How often as a boy had +he been rapped into a galvanic activity out of the deep reveries he +used to fall into—those fits of a kind of fishlike day-dream. How +often, and even far beyond boyhood, had he found himself bent on some +distant thought or fleeting vision that the sudden clash of +self-possession had made to seem quite illusory, and yet had left so +strangely haunting. And now the old habit had stirred out of its long +sleep, and, through the gate that Influenza in departing had left ajar, +had returned upon him. + +‘But I suppose we are all pretty much the same, if we only knew it,’ he +had consoled himself. ‘We keep our crazy side to ourselves; that’s all. +We just go on for years and years doing and saying whatever happens to +come up—and really keen about it too’—he had glanced up with a kind of +challenge in his face at the squat little belfry—‘and then, without the +slightest reason or warning, down you go, and it all begins to wear +thin, and you get wondering what on earth it all means.’ Memory slipped +back for an instant to the life that in so unusual a fashion seemed to +have floated a little aloof. Fortunately he had not discussed these +inward symptoms with his wife. How surprised Sheila would be to see him +loafing in this old, crooked churchyard. How she would lift her dark +eyebrows, with that handsome, indifferent tolerance. He smiled, but a +little confusedly; yet the thought gave even a spice of adventure to +the evening’s ramble. + +He loitered on, scarcely thinking at all now, stooping here and there. +These faint listless ideas made no more stir than the sunlight gilding +the fading leaves, the crisp turf underfoot. With a slight effort he +stooped even once again;— + +‘Stranger, a moment pause, and stay; +In this dim chamber hidden away +Lies one who once found life as dear +As now he finds his slumbers here: +Pray, then, the Judgement but increase +His deep, everlasting peace!’ + + +‘But then, do you _know_ you lie at peace?’ Lawford audibly questioned, +gazing at the doggerel. And yet, as his eyes wandered over the blunt +green stone and the rambling crimson-berried brier that had almost +encircled it with its thorns, the echo of that whisper rather jarred. +He was, he supposed, rather a dull creature—at least people seemed to +think so—and he seldom felt at ease even with his own small +facetiousness. Besides, just that kind of question was getting very +common. Now that cleverness was the fashion most people were +clever—even perfect fools; and cleverness after all was often only a +bore: all head and no body. He turned languidly to the small +cross-shaped stone on the other side: + +‘Here lies the body of Ann Hard, who died in child-bed. +Also of James, her infant son.’ + + +He muttered the words over with a kind of mournful bitterness. ‘That’s +just it—just it; that’s just how it goes!’... He yawned softly; the +pathway had come to an end. Beyond him lay ranker grass, one and +another obscurer mounds, an old scarred oak seat, shadowed by a few +everlastingly green cypresses and coral-fruited yew-trees. And above +and beyond all hung a pale blue arch of sky with a few voyaging clouds +like silvered wool, and the calm wide curves of stubble field and +pasture land. He stood with vacant eyes, not in the least aware how +queer a figure he made with his gloves and his umbrella and his hat +among the stained and tottering gravestones. Then, just to linger out +his hour, and half sunken in reverie, he walked slowly over to the few +solitary graves beneath the cypresses. + +One only was commemorated with a tombstone, a rather unusual +oval-headed stone, carved at each corner into what might be the heads +of angels, or of pagan dryads, blindly facing each other with worn-out, +sightless faces. A low curved granite canopy arched over the grave, +with a crevice so wide between its stones that Lawford actually bent +down and slid in his gloved fingers between them. He straightened +himself with a sigh, and followed with extreme difficulty the +well-nigh, illegible inscription: + +‘Here lie ye Bones of one, +Nicholas Sabathier, a Stranger to this Parish, +who fell by his own Hand on ye +Eve of Ste. Michael and All Angels. +MDCCXXXIX + + +Of the date he was a little uncertain. The ‘Hand’ had lost its ‘n’ and +‘d’; and all the ‘Angels’ rain had erased. He was not quite sure even +of the ‘Stranger.’ There was a great rich ‘S,’ and the twisted tail of +a ‘g’; and, whether or not, Lawford smilingly thought, he is no +Stranger now. But how rare and how memorable a name! French evidently; +probably Huguenot. And the Huguenots, he remembered vaguely, were a +rather remarkable ‘crowd.’ He had, he thought, even played at +‘Huguenots’ once. What was the man’s name? Coligny; yes, of course, +Coligny. ‘And I suppose,’ Lawford continued, muttering to himself, ‘I +suppose this poor beggar was put here out of the way. They might, you +know,’ he added confidentially, raising the ferrule of his umbrella, +‘they might have stuck a stake through you, and buried you at the +crossroads.’ And again, a feeling of ennui, a faint disgust at his poor +little witticism, clouded over his mind. It was a pity thoughts always +ran the easiest way, like water in old ditches. + +‘“Here lie ye bones of one, Nicholas Sabathier,”’ he began murmuring +again—‘merely bones, mind you; brains and heart are quite another +story. And it’s pretty certain the fellow had some kind of brains. +Besides, poor devil! he killed himself. That seems to hint at brains... +Oh, for goodness’ sake!’ he cried out; so loud that the sound of his +voice alarmed even a robin that had perched on a twig almost within +touch, with glittering eye intent above its dim red breast on this +other and even rarer stranger. + +‘I wonder if it is XXXIX.; it might be LXXIX.’ Lawford cast a cautious +glance over his round grey shoulder, then laboriously knelt down beside +the stone, and peeped into the gaping cranny. There he encountered +merely the tiny, pale-green, faintly conspicuous eyes of a large +spider, confronting his own. It was for the moment an alarming, and yet +a faintly fascinating experience. The little almost colourless fires +remained so changeless. But still, even when at last they had actually +vanished into the recesses of that quiet habitation, Lawford did not +rise from his knees. An utterly unreasonable feeling of dismay, a +sudden weakness and weariness had come over him. + +‘What is the good of it all?’ he asked himself inconsequently—this +monotonous, restless, stupid life to which he was soon to be returning, +and for good. He began to realize how ludicrous a spectacle he must be, +kneeling here amid the weeds and grass beneath the solemn cypresses. +‘Well, you can’t have everything,’ seemed loosely to express his +disquiet. + +He stared vacantly at the green and fretted gravestone, dimly aware +that his heart was beating with an unusual effort. He felt ill and +weak. He leant his hand on the stone and lifted himself on to the low +wooden seat nearby. He drew off his glove and thrust his bare hand +under his waistcoat, with his mouth a little ajar, and his eyes fixed +on the dark square turret, its bell sharply defined against the evening +sky. + +‘Dead!’ a bitter inward voice seemed to break into speech; ‘Dead!’ The +viewless air seemed to be flocking with hidden listeners. The very +clearness and the crystal silence were their ambush. He alone seemed to +be the target of cold and hostile scrutiny. There was not a breath to +breathe in this crisp, pale sunshine. It was all too rare, too thin. +The shadows lay like wings everlastingly folded. The robin that had +been his only living witness lifted its throat, and broke, as if from +the uttermost outskirts of reality, into its shrill, passionless song. +Lawford moved heavy eyes from one object to another—bird—sun-gilded +stone—those two small earth-worn faces—his hands—a stirring in the +grass as of some creature labouring to climb up. It was useless to sit +here any longer. He must go back now. Fancies were all very well for a +change, but must be only occasional guests in a world devoted to +reality. He leaned his hand on the dark grey wood, and closed his eyes. +The lids presently unsealed a little, momentarily revealing astonished, +aggrieved pupils, and softly, slowly they again descended.... + +The flaming rose that had swiftly surged from the west into the zenith, +dyeing all the churchyard grass a wild and vivid green, and the +stooping stones above it a pure faint purple, waned softly back like a +falling fountain into its basin. In a few minutes, only a faint orange +burned in the west, dimly illuminating with its band of light the +huddled figure on his low wood seat, his right hand still pressed +against a faintly beating heart. Dusk gathered; the first white stars +appeared; out of the shadowy fields a nightjar purred. But there was +only the silence of the falling dew among the graves. Down here, under +the ink-black cypresses, the blades of the grass were stooping with +cold drops; and darkness lay like the hem of an enormous cloak, whose +jewels above the breast of its wearer might be in the unfathomable +clearness the glittering constellations.... + +In his small cage of darkness Lawford shuddered and raised a furtive +head. He stood up and peered eagerly and strangely from side to side. +He stayed quite still, listening as raptly as some wandering +night-beast to the indiscriminate stir and echoings of the darkness. He +cocked his head above his shoulder and listened again, then turned upon +the soundless grass towards the hill. He felt not the faintest +astonishment or strangeness in his solitude here; only a little +chilled, and physically uneasy; and yet in this vast darkness a faint +spiritual exaltation seemed to hover. + +He hastened up the narrow path, walking with knees a little bent, like +an old labourer who has lived a life of stooping, and came out into the +dry and dusty lane. One moment his instinct hesitated as to which turn +to take—only a moment; he was soon walking swiftly, almost trotting, +downhill with this vivid exaltation in the huge dark night in his +heart, and Sheila merely a little angry Titianesque cloud on a scarcely +perceptible horizon. He had no notion of the time; the golden hands of +his watch were indiscernible in the gloom. But presently, as he passed +by, he pressed his face close to the cold glass of a little +shop-window, and pierced that out by an old Swiss cuckoo-clock. He +would if he hurried just be home before dinner. + +He broke into a slow, steady trot, gaining speed as he ran on, vaguely +elated to find how well his breath was serving him. An odd smile +darkened his face at remembrance of the thoughts he had been thinking. +There could be little amiss with the heart of a man who could shamble +along like this, taking even pleasure, an increasing pleasure in this +long, wolf-like stride. He turned round occasionally to look into the +face of some fellow-wayfarer whom he had overtaken, for he felt not +only this unusual animation, this peculiar zest, but that, like a boy +on some secret errand, he had slightly disguised his very presence, was +going masked, as it were. Even his clothes seemed to have connived at +this queer illusion. No tailor had for these ten years allowed him so +much latitude. He cautiously at last opened his garden gate and with +soundless agility mounted the six stone steps, his latch-key ready in +his gloveless hand, and softly let himself into the house. + +Sheila was out, it seemed, for the maid had forgotten to light the +lamp. Without pausing to take off his greatcoat, he hung up his hat, +ran nimbly upstairs, and knocked with a light knuckle on his bedroom +door. It was closed, but no answer came. He opened it, shut it, locked +it, and sat down on the bedside for a moment, in the darkness, so that +he could scarcely hear any other sound, as he sat erect and still, like +some night animal, wary of danger, attentively alert. Then he rose from +the bed, threw off his coat, which was clammy with dew, and lit a +candle on the dressing-table. + +Its narrow flame lengthened, drooped, brightened, gleamed clearly. He +glanced around him, unusually contented—at the ruddiness of the low +fire, the brass bedstead, the warm red curtains, the soft silveriness +here and there. It seemed as if a heavy and dull dream had withdrawn +out of his mind. He would go again some day, and sit on the little hard +seat beside the crooked tombstone of the friendless old Huguenot. He +opened a drawer, took out his razors, and, faintly whistling, returned +to the table and lit a second candle. And still with this strange +heightened sense of life stirring in his mind, he drew his hand gently +over his chin and looked unto the glass. + +For an instant he stood head to foot icily still, without the least +feeling, or thought, or stir—staring into the looking-glass. Then an +inconceivable drumming beat on his ear. A warm surge, like the onset of +a wave, broke in him, flooding neck, face, forehead, even his hands +with colour. He caught himself up and wheeled deliberately and +completely round, his eyes darting to and fro, suddenly to fix +themselves in a prolonged stare, while he took a deep breath, caught +back his self-possession and paused. Then he turned and once more +confronted the changed strange face in the glass. + +Without a sound he drew up a chair and sat down, just as he was, frigid +and appalled, at the foot of the bed. To sit like this, with a kind of +incredibly swift torrent of consciousness, bearing echoes and images +like straws and bubbles on its surface, could not be called thinking. +Some stealthy hand had thrust open the sluice of memory. And words, +voices, faces of mockery streamed through without connection, tendency, +or sense. His hands hung between his knees, a deep and settled frown +darkened the features stooping out of the direct rays of the light, and +his eyes wandered like busy and inquisitive, but stupid, animals over +the floor. + +If, in that flood of unintelligible thoughts, anything clearly recurred +at all, it was the memory of Sheila. He saw her face, lit, +transfigured, distorted, stricken, appealing, horrified. His lids +narrowed; a vague terror and horror mastered him. He hid his eyes in +his hands and cried without sound, without tears, without hope, like a +desolate child. He ceased crying; and sat without stirring. And it +seemed after an age of vacancy and meaninglessness he heard a door shut +downstairs, a distant voice, and then the rustle of some one slowly +ascending the stairs. Some one turned the handle; in vain; tapped. ‘Is +that you, Arthur?’ + +For an instant Lawford paused, then like a child listening for an echo, +answered, ‘Yes, Sheila.’ And a sigh broke from him; his voice, except +for a little huskiness, was singularly unchanged. + +‘May I come in?’ Lawford stood softly up and glanced once more into the +glass. His lips set tight, and a slight frown settled between the long, +narrow, intensely dark eyes. + +‘Just one moment, Sheila,’ he answered slowly, ‘just one moment.’ + +‘How long will you be?’ + +He stood erect and raised his voice, gazing the while impassively into +the glass. + +‘It’s no use,’ he began, as if repeating a lesson, ‘it’s no use your +asking me, Sheila. Please give me a moment, a...I am not quite myself, +dear,’ he added quite gravely. + +The faintest hint of vexation was in the answer. + +‘What is the matter? Can’t I help? It’s so very absurd—’ + +‘What is absurd?’ he asked dully. + +‘Why, standing like this outside my own bedroom door. Are you ill? I +will send for Dr. Simon.’ + +‘Please, Sheila, do nothing of the kind. I am not ill. I merely want a +little time to think in.’ There was again a brief pause, and then a +slight rattling at the handle. + +‘Arthur, I insist on knowing at once what’s wrong; this does not sound +a bit like yourself. It is not even quite like your own voice.’ + +‘It is myself,’ he replied stubbornly, staring fixedly into the glass. +You must give me a few moments, Sheila. Something has happened. My +face. Come back in an hour.’ + +‘Don’t be absurd; it’s simply wicked to talk like that. How do I know +what you are doing? As if I can leave you for an hour in uncertainty! +Your face! If you don’t open at once I shall believe there’s something +seriously wrong: I shall send Ada for assistance.’ + +‘If you do that, Sheila, it will be disastrous. I cannot answer for the +con—. Go quietly downstairs. Say I am unwell; don’t wait dinner for me; +come back in an hour; oh, half an hour!’ + +The answer broke out angrily. ‘You must be mad, beside yourself, to ask +such a thing. I shall wait in the next room until you call.’ + +‘Wait where you please,’ Lawford replied, ‘but tell them downstairs.’ + +‘Then if I tell them to wait until half-past eight, you will come down? +You say you are not ill: the dinner will be ruined. It’s absurd.’ + +Lawford made no answer. He listened a while, then he deliberately sat +down once more to try to think. Like a squirrel in a cage his mind +seemed to be aimlessly, unceasingly astir. ‘What is it really? What is +it really?—really?’ He sat there and it seemed to him his body was +transparent as glass. It seemed he had no body at all—only the memory +of an hallucinatory reflection in the glass, and this inward voice +crying, arguing, questioning, threatening out of the silence—‘What is +it really—really—_really_?’ And at last, cold, wearied out, he rose +once more and leaned between the two long candle-flames, and stared +on—on—on, into the glass. + +He gave that long, dark face that had been foisted on him tricks to +do—lift an eyebrow, frown. There was scarcely any perceptible pause +between the wish and its performance. He found to his discomfiture that +the face answered instantaneously to the slightest emotion, even to his +fainter secondary thoughts; as if these unfamiliar features were not +entirely within control. He could not, in fact, without the glass +before him, tell precisely what that face _was_ expressing. He was +still, it seemed, keenly sane. That he would discover for certain when +Sheila returned. Terror, rage, horror had fallen back. If only he felt +ill, or was in pain: he would have rejoiced at it. He was simply caught +in some unheard-of snare—caught, how? when? where? by whom? + + + + +CHAPTER TWO + + +But the coolness and deliberation of his scrutiny, had to a certain +extent calmed Lawford’s mind and given him confidence. Hitherto he had +met the little difficulties of life only to vanquish them with ease and +applause. Now he was standing face to face with the unknown. He burst +out laughing, into a long, low, helpless laughter. Then he arose and +began to walk softly, swiftly, to and fro across the room—from wall to +wall seven paces, and at the fourth, that awful, unseen, brightly-lit +profile passed as swiftly over the tranquil surface of the +looking-glass. The power of concentration was gone again. He simply +paced on mechanically, listening to a Babel of questions, a conflicting +medley of answers. But above all the confusion and turmoil of his +brain, as a boatswain’s whistle rises above a storm, so sounded that +same infinitesimal voice, incessantly repeating another question now, +‘What are you going to do? What are you going to do?’ + +And in the midst of this confusion, out of the infinite, as it were, +came another sharp tap at the door, and all within sank to utter +stillness again. + +‘It’s nearly half-past eight, Arthur; I can’t wait any longer.’ + +Lawford cast a last fleeting look into the glass, turned, and +confronted the closed door. ‘Very well, Sheila, you shall _not_ wait +any longer.’ He crossed over to the door, and suddenly a swift crafty +idea flashed into his mind. + +He tapped on the panel. ‘Sheila,’ he said softly, ‘I want you first, +before you come in, to get me something out of my old writing-desk in +the smoking-room. Here is the key.’ He pushed a tiny key—from off the +ring he carried—beneath the door. ‘In the third little drawer from the +top, on the left side, is a letter; please don’t say anything now. It +is the letter you wrote me, you will remember, after I had asked you to +marry me. You scribbled in the corner under your signature the initials +“Y.S.O.A.”—do you remember? They meant, You Silly Old Arthur!—do you +remember? Will you please get that letter at once?’ + +‘Arthur,’ answered the voice from without, empty of all expression, +‘what does all this mean, this mystery, this hopeless nonsense about a +silly letter? What has happened? Is this a miserable form of +persecution? Are you mad?—I refuse to get the letter.’ + +Lawford stooped, black and angular, against the door. ‘I am not mad. +Oh, I am in the deadliest earnest, Sheila. You _must_ get the letter, +if only for your own peace of mind.’ He heard his wife hesitate as she +turned. He heard a sob. And once more he waited. + +‘I have brought the letter,’ came the low toneless voice again. + +‘Have you opened it?’ + +There was a rustle of paper. ‘Are the letters there underlined three +times—“Y.S.O.A.”?’ + +‘The letters are there.’ + +‘And the date of the month is underneath, “April 3rd.” No one else in +the whole world, living or dead, could know of this but ourselves, +Sheila?’ + +‘Will you please open the door?’ + +‘No one?’ + +‘I suppose not—no one.’ + +‘Then come in.’ He unlocked the door and opened it. A dark, rather +handsome woman, with sleek hair, in a silk dress of a dark rich colour +entered. Lawford closed the door. But his face was in shadow. He had +still a moment’s respite. + +‘I need not ask you to be patient,’ he began quickly; ‘if I could +possibly have spared you—if there had been anybody in the world to go +to... I am in horrible, horrible trouble, Sheila. It is inconceivable. +I said I was sane: so I am, but the fact is—I went out for a walk; it +was rather stupid, perhaps, so soon: and I think I was taken ill, or +something—my heart. A kind of fit, a nervous fit. Possibly I am a +little unstrung, and it’s all, it’s mainly fancy: but I think, I can’t +help thinking it has a little distorted—changed my face; everything, +Sheila; except, of course, myself. Would you mind looking?’ He walked +slowly and with face averted towards the dressing-table. + +‘Simply a nervous—to make such a fuss, to scare!...’ began his wife, +following him. + +Without a word he took up the two old china candlesticks, and held +them, one in each lank-fingered hand, before his face, and turned. + +Lawford could see his wife—every tint and curve and line as distinctly +as she could see him. Her cheeks never had much colour; now her whole +face visibly darkened, from pallor to a dusky leaden grey, as she +gazed. It was not an illusion then; not a miserable hallucination. The +unbelievable, the inconceivable, had happened. He replaced the candles +with trembling fingers and sat down. + +‘Well,’ he said, ‘what is it really; what is it really, Sheila? What on +earth are we to do?’ + +‘Is the door locked?’ she whispered. He nodded. With eyes fixed +stirlessly on his face, Sheila unsteadily seated herself, a little out +of the candlelight, in the shadow. Lawford rose and put the key of the +door on his wife’s little rose-wood prayer-desk at her elbow, and +deliberately sat down again. + +‘You said “a fit”—where?’ + +‘I suppose—is—is it very different—hopeless? You will understand my +being... O Sheila, what am I to do?’ His wife sat perfectly still, +watching him with unflinching attention. + +‘You gave me to understand—“a nervous fit”; where?’ + +Lawford took a deep breath, and quietly faced her again. ‘In the old +churchyard, Widderstone; I was looking at—at the gravestones.’ + +‘A fit; in the old churchyard, Widderstone—you were “looking at the +gravestones”?’ + +Lawford shut his mouth. ‘I suppose so—a fit,’ he said presently. ‘My +heart went a little queer, and I sat down and fell into a kind of +doze—a stupor, I suppose. I don’t remember anything more. And then I +woke; like this.’ + +‘How do you know?’ + +‘How do I know what?’ + +‘“Like that”?’ + +He turned slowly towards the looking-glass. ‘Why, here I am!’ + +She gazed at him steadily; and a hard, incredulous, almost cunning +glint came into her wide blue eyes. She took up the key carelessly, +glanced at it; glanced at him. ‘It has made me—I mean the first shock, +you know—it has made me a little faint.’ She walked slowly, +deliberately to the door, and unlocked it. ‘I’ll get a little sal +volatile.’ She softly drew out the key, and without once removing her +eyes from his face, opened the door and pushed the key noiselessly in +on the other side. ‘Please stay there; I won’t be a minute.’ + +Lawford’s face smiled—a rather desperate, yet for all that a patient, +resolute smile. ‘Oh yes, of course,’ he said, almost to himself, ‘I had +not foreseen—at least—you must do precisely what you please, Sheila. +You were going to lock me in. You will, however, before taking any +final step, please think over what it will entail. I did not think you +would, after such proof, in this awful trouble—I did not think you +would simply disbelieve me, Sheila. Who else is there to help me? You +have the letter in your hand. Isn’t that sufficient proof? It was +overwhelming proof to me. And even I doubted too; doubted myself. But +never mind; why I should have dreamed you would believe me; or taken +this awful thing differently, I don’t know. It’s rather awful to have +to go on alone. But there, think it over. I shall not stir until I hear +the voices. And then: honestly, Sheila, I couldn’t face quite that. I’d +sooner give up altogether. Any proof you can think of—I will... O God, +I cannot bear it!’ He covered his face with his hands; but in a moment +looked up, unmoved once more. ‘Why, for that matter,’ he added slowly, +and, as it were, with infinite pains, a faint thin smile again stealing +into his face, ‘I think,’ he turned wearily to the glass, ‘I think, +it’s almost an improvement!’ + +Something deep in those dark clear pupils, out of that lean adventurous +face, gleamed back at him, the distant flash of a heliograph, as it +were, height to height, flashing ‘Courage!’ He shuddered, and shut his +eyes. ‘But I would really rather,’ he added in a quiet childlike way, +‘I would really rather, Sheila, you left me alone now.’ + +His wife stood irresolute. ‘I understand you to explain,’ she said, +‘that you went out of this house, just your usual self, this afternoon, +for a walk; that for some reason you went to Widderstone—“to read the +tombstones,” that you had a heart attack, or, as you said at first, a +fit, that you fell into a stupor, and came home like—like this. Am I +likely to believe all that? Am I likely to believe such a story as +that? Whoever you are, whoever you may be, is it likely? I am not in +the least afraid. I thought at first it was some silly practical joke. +I thought that at first.’ She paused, but no answer came. ‘Well, I +suppose in a civilised country there is a remedy even for a joke as +wicked as that.’ + +Lawford listened patiently. ‘She is pretending; she is trying me; she +is feeling her way,’ he kept repeating to himself. ‘She knows I _am_ I, +but hasn’t the courage... Let her talk!’ + +‘I shall leave the door open,’ Sheila continued. ‘I am not, as you no +doubt very naturally assumed—I am not going to do anything either +senseless or heedless. I am merely going to ask your brother Cecil to +come in, if he is at home, and if not, no doubt our old friend Mr. +Montgomery would—would help us.’ Her scrutiny was still and +concentrated, like that of a cat above a mouse’s hole. + +Lawford sat crouched together in the candle-light. ‘By all means, +Sheila,’ he said slowly choosing his words, ‘if you think poor old +Cecil, who next January will have been three years in his grave, will +be of any use in our difficulty. Who Mr. Montgomery is...’ His voice +dropped in utter weariness. ‘You did it very well, my dear,’ he added +softly. + +Sheila gently closed the door and sat down on the bed. He heard her +softly crying, he heard the bed shaken with her sobs. But a slow glance +towards the steady candle-flames restrained him. He let her cry on +alone. When she had become a little more composed he stood up. ‘You +have had no dinner,’ he managed to blurt out at last, ‘you will be +faint. It’s useless to talk, even to think, any more to-night. Leave me +to myself for a while. Don’t look at me any more. Perhaps I can sleep: +perhaps if I sleep it will come right again. When the servants are gone +up, I will come down. Just let me have some—some medical book, or +other; and some more candles. Don’t think, Sheila; don’t even think!’ + +Sheila paid him no attention for a while. ‘You tell me not to think,’ +she began, in a low, almost listless voice; ‘why—I wonder I am in my +right mind. And “eat”! How can you have the heartlessness to suggest +it? You don’t seem in the least to _realize_ what you say. You seem to +have lost all—all consciousness. I quite agree, it is useless for me to +burden you with my company while you are in your present condition of +mind. But you will at least promise me that you won’t take any further +steps in this awful business.’ She could not, try as she would, bring +herself again to look at him. She rose softly, paused a moment with +sidelong eyes, then turned deliberately towards the door, ‘What, what +have I done to deserve all this?’ + +From behind her that voice, so extraordinarily like—and yet in some +vague fashion more arresting, more resonant than her husband’s, broke +incredibly out once more. ‘You will please leave the key, Sheila. I am +ill, but I am not yet in the padded room. And please understand, I take +no further steps in “this awful business” until I hear a strange voice +in the house.’ Sheila paused, but the quiet voice rang in her ear, +desperately yet convincingly. She took the key out of the lock, placed +it on the bed, and with a sigh, that was not quite without a hint of +relief in its misery, she furtively extinguished the gas-light on the +landing and rustled downstairs. + +She speedily returned. ‘I have brought the book.’ she said hastily. ‘I +could only find the one volume. I have said you have taken a fresh +chill. No one will disturb you.’ + +Lawford took the book without a word. And once more, with eyes stonily +averted, his wife left him to his own company and that of the face in +the glass. + +When completely deserted, Lawford with fumbling fingers opened Quain’s +‘Dictionary of Medicine.’ He had never had much curiosity, and had +always hated what he disbelieved, but none the less he had heard +occasionally of absurd and questionable experiments. He remembered even +to have glanced over reports of cases in the newspapers concerning +disappearances, loss of memory, dual personality. Cranks... Oh yes, he +thought now, with a sense of cold humiliating relief, there _had_ been +such cases as his before. They were no doubt curable. They must be +comparatively common in America—that land of jangled nerves. Possibly +bromide, rest, a battery. But Quain, it seemed, shared his prejudices, +at least in this edition, or had hidden away all such apocryphal matter +beneath technical terms, where no sensible man could find it, +‘Besides,’ he muttered angrily, ‘what’s the good of your one volume?’ +He flung it down and strode to the bed, and rang the bell. Then +suddenly recollecting himself, he paused and listened. There came a tap +on the door. ‘Is that you, Sheila?’ he called, doubtfully. + +‘No, sir, it’s me,’ came the answer. + +‘Oh, don’t trouble; I only wanted to speak to your mistress. It’s all +right.’ + +‘Mrs. Lawford has gone out, sir,’ replied the voice. + +‘Gone out?’ + +‘Yes, sir; she told me not to mention it; but I suppose as you asked—’ + +‘Oh, that’s all right; never mind; I didn’t ring.’ He stood with face +uplifted, thinking. + +‘Can I do anything, sir?’ came the faint, nervous question after a long +pause. + +‘One moment, Ada,’ he called in a loud voice. He took out his +pocket-book, sat down, and scribbled a little note. He hardly noticed +how changed his handwriting was—the clear round letters crabbed and +irregular. + +‘Are you there, Ada?’ he called. ‘I am slipping a note beneath the +door; just draw back the mat; that’s it. Take it at once, please, to +Mr. Critchett’s, and be sure to wait for an answer. Then come back +direct to me, up here. I don’t think, Ada, your mistress believes much +in Critchett; but I have fully explained what I want. He has made me up +many prescriptions. Explain that to his assistant if he is not there. +Go at once, and you will be back before she is. I should be so very +much obliged, tell him. “Mr Arthur Lawford.”’ + +The minutes slowly drifted by. He sat quite still in the clear +untroubled light, waiting in the silence of the empty house. And for +the first time he was confronted with the cold incredible horror of his +ordeal. Who would believe, who could believe, that behind this strange +and awful, yet how simple mask, lay himself? What test; what heaped-up +evidence of identity would break it down? It was all a loathsome +ignominy. It was utterly absurd. It was— + +Suddenly, with a kind of ape-like cunning, he deliberately raised a +long lean forefinger and pointed it at the shadowy crystal of the +looking-glass. Perhaps he was dead, was really and indeed changed in +body, was fated really and indeed to change in soul, into That. ‘It’s +that beastly voice again,’ Lawford cried out loud, looking vacantly at +his upstretched finger. And then, hand and arm, not too willingly, as +it were, obeyed; relaxed and fell to his side. ‘You must keep a tight +hold, old man,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Once, once you lose +yourself—the least symptom of that—the least symptom, and it’s all up!’ +And the fools, the heartless, preposterous fools had brought him one +volume! + +When on earth was Ada coming back? She was lagging on purpose. She was +in the conspiracy too. Oh, it should be a lesson to Sheila! Oh, if only +daylight would come! ‘What are you going to do—to do—to DO?’ He rose +once more and paced his silent cage. To and fro, thinking no more; just +using his eyes, compelling them to wander from picture to picture, +bedpost to bedpost; now counting aloud his footsteps; now humming; +only, only to keep himself from thinking. At last he took out a drawer +and actually began arranging its medley of contents; ties, letters, +studs, concert and theatre programmes—all higgledy-piggledy. And in the +midst of this childish strategem he heard a faint sound, as of heavy +water trickling from a height. He turned. A thief was in one of the +candles. It was guttering out. He would be left in darkness. He turned +hastily without a moment’s heed, to call for light, flung the door open +and full in the flare of a lamp, illuminating her pale forehead and +astonished face beneath her black straw hat, stood face to face with +Ada. + +With one swift dexterous movement he drew the door to after him, +looking straight into her almost colourless steady eyes. ‘Ah,’ he said +instantly, in a high faint voice, ‘the powder, thank you; yes, Mr +Lawford’s powder; thank you, thank you. He must be kept absolutely +quiet—absolutely. Mrs Lawford is following. Please tell her that I am +here, when she returns. Mr Critchett was in, then? Thank you. Extreme, +extreme silence, please.’ Again that knotted, melodramatic finger +raised itself on high; and within that lean, cadaverous body the soul +of its lodger quailed at this spectral boldness. But it was triumphant. +The maid at once left him and went downstairs. He heard faint voices in +muffled consultation. And in a moment Sheila’s silks rustled once more +on the staircase. Lawford put down the lamp, and watched her +deliberately close the door. + +‘What does this mean?’ she began swiftly, ‘I understand that—Ada tells +me a stranger is here; giving orders, directions. Who is he? where is +he? You bound yourself on your solemn promise not to stir till I +returned. You... How can I, how can we get decently through this +horrible business if you are so wretchedly indiscreet? You sent Ada to +the chemist’s. What for? What for? I say.’ + +Lawford watched his wife with an almost extraneous interest. She was +certainly extremely interesting from that point of view, that very +novel point of view. ‘It’s quite useless,’ he said, ‘to get in the +least nervous or hysterical. I don’t care for the darkness just now. +That was all. Tell the girl I am a strange doctor—Dr Simon’s new +partner. You are clever at conventionalities, Sheila. Invent! I said +our patient must be kept quiet—I really think he must. That is all, so +far as Ada is concerned.... What on earth else _are_ we to say?’ he +broke out. ‘That, for the present to _everybody_, is our only possible +story. It will give us what we must have—time. And next—where is the +second volume of Quain? I want that. And next—why have you broken faith +with me?’ Mrs Lawford sat down. This sudden and baffling outburst had +stupefied her. + +‘I can’t, I can’t make head or tail of what you say. And as for having +broken faith, as you call it, would any wife, would any sane woman face +what you have brought on us, a situation like this, without seeking +advice and help? Mr Bethany will be perfectly discreet—if he thinks +discretion desirable. He is the only available friend we have close +enough to ask at once. And things of this kind are, I suppose, if +anybody’s concern, his. It’s certain to leak out. Everybody will hear +of it. Don’t flatter yourself you are going to hush up a thing like +this for long. You can’t keep _living_ skeletons in a cupboard. You +think only of yourself, only of your own misfortune. But who’s to know, +pray, that you really are my husband—if you are? The sooner I get the +vicar on my side the better for us both. Who in the whole of the +parish—I ask you—and you must have the sense left to see that—who will +believe that a respectable man, a gentleman, a Churchman, would +deliberately go out to seek an afternoon’s amusement in a poky little +country churchyard? Why, apart from everything else, _that_ was +absolutely mad to start with. Can you really wonder at the result?’ + +Probably because she still steadfastly refused to look at him, her +memory kept losing its hold on the appalling fact facing them. She +realised fully only that she was in a great, unwarrantable, and +insurmountable difficulty, but until she actually lifted her eyes for a +moment she had not fully realised what that difficulty was. She got up +with a sudden and horrible nausea. ‘One moment,’ she said, ‘I will see +if the servants have gone to bed.’ + +That long saturnine face, behind which Lawford lay in a dull and +desperate ambush, smiled. Something partaking of its clay, some reflex +ghost of its rather remarkable features, was even a little amused at +Sheila. + +She returned in a moment, and stood in profile in the doorway. ‘Will +you come down?’ she remarked distantly. + +‘One moment, Sheila,’ Lawford began miserably. ‘Before we take this +irrevocable step, a step I implore you to postpone awhile—for what +comes, I suppose, may go—what precisely have you told the vicar? I must +in fairness know that.’ + +‘In fairness,’ she began ironically, and suddenly broke off. Her +husband had turned the flame of the lamp low down in the vacant room +behind them; the corridor was lit obscurely by the chandelier far down +in the hall below. A faint, inexplicable dread fell softly and coldly +on her heart. ‘Have you no trust in me?’ she murmured a little +bitterly. ‘I have simply told him the truth.’ + +They softly descended the stairs; she first, the dark figure following +close behind her. + + + + +CHAPTER THREE + + +Mr Bethany sat awaiting them in the dining-room, a large, +heavily-furnished room with a great benign looking-glass on the +mantelpiece, a marble clock, and with rich old damask curtains. Fleecy +silver hair was all that was visible of their visitor when they +entered. But Mr Bethany rose out of his chair when he heard them, and +with a little jerk, turned sharply round. Thus it was that the +gold-spectacled vicar and Lawford first confronted each other, the one +brightly illuminated, the other framed in the gloom of the doorway. Mr +Bethany’s first scrutiny was timid and courteous, but beneath it he +tried to be keen, and himself hastened round the table almost at a +trot, to obtain, as delicately as possible, a closer view. But Lawford, +having shut the door behind him, had gone straight to the fire and +seated himself, leaning his face in his hands. Mr Bethany smiled +faintly, waved his hand almost as if in blessing, but certainly in +peace, and tapped Mrs Lawford into the chair upon the other side. But +he himself remained standing. + +‘Mrs Lawford has, I declare, been telling family secrets,’ he began, +and paused, peering. ‘But there, you will forgive an old friend’s +intrusion—this little confidence about a change, my dear fellow—about a +ramble and a change?’ He sat down, put up his kind little puckered face +and peered again at Lawford, and then very hastily at his wife. But all +her attention was centred on the bowed figure opposite to her. Lawford +responded to this cautious advance without raising his head. + +‘You do not wish me to repeat all that my wife tells me she has told +you?’ + +‘Dear me, no,’ said Mr Bethany cheerfully, ‘I wish nothing, nothing, +old friend. You must not burden yourself with me. If I may be of any +help, here I am.... Oh, no, no....’ he paused, with blinking eyes, but +wits still shrewd and alert. Why doesn’t the man raise his head? he +thought. A mere domestic dispute! + +‘I thought,’ he went on ruminatingly, ‘I thought on Tuesday, yes, on +Tuesday, that you weren’t looking quite the thing. Indeed, I remarked +on it. But now, I understand from Mrs Lawford that the malady has taken +a graver turn—eh, Lawford, an heretical turn? I hear you have been +wandering from the true fold.’ Mr Bethany leaned forward with what +might be described as a very large smile in a very small compass. ‘And +that, of course, entailed instant retribution.’ He broke off solemnly. +‘I know Widderstone churchyard well; a most verdant and beautiful spot. +The late rector, a Mr Strickland, was a very old friend of mine. And +his wife, dear good Alicia, used to set out her babies, in the morning, +to sleep and to play there, twenty, dear me, perhaps twenty-five years +ago. But I did not know, my dear Lawford, that you—’ and suddenly, +without an instant’s warning, something seemed to shout at him, ‘Look, +look! He is looking at you!’ He stopped, faltered, and a slight warmth +came into his face. ‘And and you were taken ill there?’ His voice had +fallen flat and faint. + +‘I fell asleep—or something of that sort,’ came the stubborn reply. + +‘Yes,’ said Mr Bethany, brightly, ‘so your wife was saying. “Fell +asleep,” so have I too—scores of times’; he beamed, with beads of sweat +glistening on his forehead. ‘And then? I’m not, I’m not persisting?’ + +‘Then I woke; refreshed, I think, as it seemed—I felt much better and +came home.’ + +‘Ah, yes,’ said his visitor. And after that there was a long, brightly +lit, intense pause; at the end of which Lawford raised his face and +again looked firmly at his friend. + +Mr Bethany was now a shrunken old man; he sat perfectly still, his head +craned a little forward, and his veined hands clutching his bent, spare +knees. + +There wasn’t the least sign of devilry, or out-facingness, or insolence +in that lean shadowy steady head; and yet he himself was compelled to +sidle his glance away, so much the face shook him. He closed his eyes, +too, as a cat does after exchanging too direct a scrutiny with human +eyes. He put out towards, and withdrew, a groping hand from Mrs +Lawford. + +‘Is it,’ came a voice from somewhere, ‘is it a great change, sir? I +thought perhaps I may have exaggerated—candle-light, you know.’ + +Mr Bethany remained still and silent, striving to entertain one thought +at a time. His lips moved as if he were talking to himself. And again +it was Lawford’s faltering voice that broke the silence. ‘You see,’ he +said, ‘I have never... no fit, or anything of that kind before. I +remember on Tuesday... oh yes, quite well. I did feel seedy, very. And +we talked, didn’t we?—Harvest Festival, Mrs Wine’s flowers, the new +offertory-bags, and all that. For God’s sake, Vicar, it is not as bad +as—as they make out?’ + +Mr Bethany woke with a start. He leaned forward, and stretched out a +long black wrinkled sleeve, just managing to reach far enough to tap +Lawford’s knee. ‘Don’t worry, don’t worry,’ he said soothingly. ‘We +believe, we believe.’ + +It was, none the less, a sheer act of faith. He took off his spectacles +and took out his handkerchief. ‘What we must do, eh, my dear,’ he half +turned to Mrs Lawford, ‘what we must do is to consult, yes, consult +together. And later—we must have advice—medical advice; unless, as I +very much suspect, it is merely a little quite temporary physical +aberration. Science, I am told, is making great strides, experimenting, +groping after things which no sane man has ever dreamed of +before—without being burned alive for it. What’s in a name? Nerves, +especially, Lawford.’ + +Mrs Lawford sat perfectly still, absorbedly listening, turning her face +first this way, then that, to each speaker in turn. ‘That is what I +thought,’ she said, and cast one fleeting glance across at the +fireplace, ‘but—’ + +The little old gentleman turned sharply with half-blind eyes, and lips +tight shut. ‘I think,’ he said, with a hind of austere humour, ‘I +think, do you know, I see no “but.”’ He paused as if to catch the echo +and added, ‘It’s our only course.’ He continued to polish round and +round his glasses. Mrs Lawford rather magnificently rose. + +‘Perhaps if I were to leave you together awhile? I shall not be far +off. It is,’ she explained, as if into a huge vacuum, ‘it is a terrible +visitation.’ She moved gravely round the table and very softly and +firmly closed the door after her. + +Lawford took a deep breath. ‘Of course,’ he said, ‘you realise my wife +does not believe me. She thinks,’ he explained naively, as if to +himself, ‘she thinks I am an imposter. Goodness knows what she does +think. I can’t think much myself—for long!’ + +The vicar rubbed busily on. ‘I have found, Lawford,’ he said smoothly, +‘that in all real difficulties the only feasible plan is—is to face the +main issue. The others right themselves. Now, to take a plunge into +your generosity. You have let me in far enough to make it impossible +for me to get out—may I hear then exactly the whole story? All that I +know now, so far as I could gather from your wife, poor soul, is of +course inconceivable: that you went out one man and came home another. +You will understand, my dear man, I am speaking, as it were, by rote. +God has mercifully ordered that the human brain works slowly; first the +blow, hours afterwards the bruise. Oh, dear me, that man Hume—“on +miracles”—positively amazing! So that too, please, you will be quite +clear about. Credo_—not quia impossible est_, but because you, Lawford, +have told me. Now then, if it won’t be too wearisome to you, the whole +story.’ He sat, lean and erect in his big chair, a hand resting loosely +on each knee, in one spectacles, in the other a dangling pocket +handkerchief. And the dark, sallow, aquiline, formidable figure, with +its oddly changing voice, re-told the whole story from the beginning. + +‘You were aware then of nothing different, I understand, until you +actually looked into the glass?’ + +‘Only vaguely. I mean that after waking I felt much better, more alert. +And my thoughts—’ + +‘Ah, yes, your thoughts?’ + +‘I hardly know—oh, clear as if I had had a real long rest. It was just +like being a boy again. Influenza dispirits one so.’ + +Mr Bethany gazed without stirring. ‘And yet, you know,’ he said, ‘I can +hardly believe, I mean conceive, how—You have been taking no drugs, no +quackery, Lawford?’ + +‘I never dose myself,’ said Lawford, with sombre pride. + +‘God bless me, that’s Lawford to the echo,’ thought his visitor. ‘And +before—?’ he went on gently; ‘I really cannot conceive, you see, how a +mere fit could... Before you sat down you were quite alone?’ He stuck +out his head. ‘There was nobody with you?’ + +‘With me? Oh no,’ came the soft answer. + +‘What had you been thinking of? In these days of faith-cures, and +hypnotism, and telepathy, and subliminalities—why, the simple old world +grows very confusing. But rarely, very rarely novel. You were thinking, +you say; do you remember, perhaps, just the drift?’ + +‘Well,’ began Lawford ruminatingly, ‘there was something curious even +then, perhaps. I remember, for instance, I knelt down to read an old +tombstone. There was a little seat—no back. And an epitaph. The sun was +just setting; some French name. And there was a long jagged crack in +the stone, like the black line you know one sees after lightning, I +mean it’s as clear as that even now, in memory. Oh yes, I remember. And +then, I suppose, came the sleep—stupid, sluggish: and then; well, here +I am.’ + +‘You are absolutely certain, then,’ persisted Mr Bethany almost +querulously, ‘there was no living creature near you? Bless me, Lawford, +I see no unkindness in believing what the Bible itself relates. There +_are_ powers supernatural. Saul, and so on. We are all convinced of +that. No one?’ + +‘I remember distinctly,’ replied Lawford, in a calm, stubborn voice, ‘I +looked up all around me, while I was kneeling there, and there wasn’t a +soul to be seen. Because, you see, it even then occurred to me that it +would have looked rather queer—my wandering about like that, I mean. +Facing me there were some cypress-trees, and beyond, a low sunken +fence, and then, just open country. Up above there were the gravestones +toppling down the hill, where I had just strolled down, and sunshine!’ +He suddenly threw up his hand. ‘Oh, marvellous! streaming in +gold—flaming, like God’s own ante-chamber.’ + +There was a very pregnant pause. Mr Bethany shrunk back a little into +his chair. His lips moved; he folded his spectacles. + +‘Yes, yes,’ he said. And then very quietly he stole one mole-like look +into his sidesman’s face. + +‘What is Dr Simon’s number?’ he said. Lawford was gazing gloomily into +the fire. ‘Oh, Annandale,’ he replied absently. ‘I don’t know the +number.’ + +‘Do you believe in him? Your wife mentioned him. Is he clever?’ + +‘Oh, he’s new,’ said Lawford; ‘old James was our doctor. He—he killed +my father.’ He laughed out shamefacedly. + +‘A sound, lovable man,’ said Mr Bethany, ‘one of the kindest men I ever +knew; and a very old friend of mine.’ + +And suddenly the dark face turned with a shudder from the fire, and +spoke in a low trembling voice. ‘Only one thing—only one thing—my +sanity, my sanity. If once I forget, who will believe me?’ He thrust +his long lean fingers beneath his coat. ‘And mad,’ he added; ‘I would +sooner die.’ + +Mr Bethany deliberately adjusted his spectacles. ‘May I, may I +experiment?’ he said boldly. There came a tap on the door. + +‘Bless me,’ said the vicar, taking out his watch, ‘it is a quarter to +twelve. ‘Yes, yes, Mrs Lawford,’ he trotted round to the door. ‘We are +beginning to see light—a ray!’ + +‘But I—_I_ can see in the dark,’ whispered Lawford, as if at a cue, +turning with an inscrutable smile to the fire. + +The vicar came again, wrapped up in a little tight grey great-coat, and +a white silk muffler. He looked up unflinching into Lawford’s face, and +tears stood in his eyes. ‘Patience, patience, my dear fellow,’ he +repeated gravely, squeezing his hand. ‘And rest, complete rest, is +imperative. Just till the first thing to-morrow. And till then,’ he +turned to Mrs Lawford, where she stood looking in at the doorway, ‘oh +yes, complete quiet; and caution!’ + +Mrs Lawford let him out. He shook his head once or twice, holding her +fingers. ‘Oh yes,’ he whispered, ‘it is your husband, not the smallest +doubt. I tried: for _myself_. But something—something has happened. +Don’t fret him now. Have patience. Oh yes, it is incredible... the +change! But there, the very first thing to-morrow.’ She closed the door +gently after him, and stepping softly back to the dining-room, peered +in. Her husband’s back was turned, but he could see her in the +looking-glass, stooping a little, with set face watching him, in the +silvery stillness. + +‘Well,’ he said, ‘is the old—’ he doggedly met the fixed eyes facing +him there, ‘is our old friend gone?’ + +‘Yes,’ said Sheila, ‘he’s gone.’ Lawford sighed and turned round. ‘It’s +useless talking now, Sheila. No more questions. I cannot tell you how +tired I am. And my head—’ + +‘What is wrong with your head?’ inquired his wife discreetly. + +The haggard face turned gravely and patiently. ‘Only one of my old +headaches,’ he smiled, ‘my old bilious headaches—the hereditary Lawford +variety.’ But his voice fell low again. ‘We must get to bed.’ + +With a rather pretty and childish movement, Sheila gently drew her +hands across her silk skirts. ‘Yes, dear,’ she said, ‘I have made up a +bed for you in the large spare room. It is thoroughly aired.’ She came +softly in, hastened over to a closed work-table that stood under the +curtains, and opened it. + +Lawford watched her, utterly expressionless, utterly motionless. He +opened his mouth and shut it again, still watching his wife as she +stooped with ridiculously too busy fingers, searching through her +coloured silks. + +Again he opened his mouth. ‘Yes,’ he said, and stalked slowly towards +the door. But there he paused. ‘God knows,’ he said, strangely and +meekly, ‘I am sorry, sorry for all this. You will forgive me, Sheila?’ + +She looked up swiftly. ‘It’s very tiresome, I can’t find anywhere,’ she +murmured, ‘I can’t find anywhere the—the little red box key.’ + +Lawford’s cheek turned more sallow than ever. ‘You are only pretending +to look for it,’ he said, ‘to try me. We both know perfectly well the +lock is broken. Ada broke it.’ + +Sheila let fall the lid; and yet for a while her eyes roved over it as +if in violent search for something. Then she turned: ‘I am so very glad +the vicar was at home,’ she said brightly. ‘And mind, mind you rest, +Arthur. There’s nothing so bad but it might be worse.... Oh, I can’t, I +can’t bear it!’ She sat down in the chair and huddled her face between +her hands, sobbing on and on, without a tear. + +Lawford listened and stared solemnly. ‘Whatever it may be, Sheila, I +will be loyal,’ he said. + +Her sobs hushed, and again cold horror crept over her. Nobody in the +whole world could have said that ‘I will be loyal’ quite like +that—nobody but Arthur. She stood up, patting her hair. ‘I don’t think +my brain would bear much more. It’s useless to talk. If you will go up; +I will put out the lamp.’ + + + + +CHAPTER FOUR + + +One solitary and tall candle burned on the great dressing-table. Faint, +solitary pictures broke the blankness of each wall. The carpet was +rich, the bed impressive, and the basins on the washstand as uninviting +as the bed. Lawford sat down on the edge of it in complete isolation. +He sat without stirring, listening to his watch ticking in his pocket. +The china clock on the chimney piece pointed cheerfully to the hour of +dawn. It was exactly, he computed carefully, five hours and seven +minutes fast. Not the slightest sound broke the stillness, until he +heard, very, very softly and gradually, the key of his door turn in the +oiled wards, and realized that he was a prisoner. + +Women were strange creatures. How often he had heard that said, he +thought lamely. He felt no anger, no surprise or resentment, at the +trick. It was only to be expected. He could sit on till morning; easily +till morning. He had never noticed before how empty a well-furnished +room could seem. It was his own room too; his best visitors’ room. His +father-in-law had slept here, with his whiskers on that pillow. His +wife’s most formidable aunt had been all night here, alone with these +pictures. She certainly was... ‘But what are _you_ doing here?’ cried a +voice suddenly out of his reverie. + +He started up and stretched himself, and taking out the neat little +packet that the maid had brought from the chemist’s, he drew up a +chair, and sat down once more in front of the glass. He sighed +vacantly, rose and lifted down from the wall above the fireplace a +tinted photograph of himself that Sheila had had enlarged about twelve +years ago. It was a brighter, younger, hairier, but unmistakably the +same dull indolent Lawford who had ventured into Widderstone churchyard +that afternoon. The cheek was a little plumper, the eyes not quite so +full-lidded, the hair a little more precisely parted, the upper lip +graced with a small blonde moustache. He tilted the portrait into the +candlelight, and compared it with this reflection in the glass of what +had come out of Widderstone, feature with feature, with perfect +composure and extreme care. Then he laid down the massive frame on the +table, and gazed quietly at the tiny packet. + +It was to be a day of queer experiences. He had never before realized +with how many miracles mere everyday life is besieged. Here in this +small punctilious packet lay a Sesame—a power of transformation beside +which the transformation of that rather flaccid face of the noonday +into this tense, sinister face of midnight was but as a moving from +house to house—a change just as irrevocable and complete, and yet so +very normal. Which should it be, that, or—his face lifted itself once +more to the ice-like gloom of the looking-glass—that, or this? + +It simply gazed back with a kind of quizzical pity on its lean features +under the scrutiny of eyes so deep, so meaningful, so desolate, and yet +so indomitably courageous. In the brain behind them a slow and stolid +argument was in progress; the one baffling reply on the one side to +every appeal on the other being still simply. ‘What dreams may come?’ + +Those eyes surely knew something of dreams, else, why this violent and +stubborn endeavour to keep awake. + +Lawford did indeed once actually frame the question, ‘But who the devil +are you?’ And it really seemed the eyes perceptibly widened or +brightened. The mere vexation of his unparalleled position. Sheila’s +pathetic incredulity, his old vicar’s laborious kindness, the tiresome +network of experience into which he would be dragged struggling on the +morrow, and on the morrow after that, and after that—the thought of all +these things faded for the moment from his mind, lost if not their +significance, at least their instancy. + +He simply sat face to face with the sheer difficulty of living on at +all. He even concluded in a kind of lethargy that if nothing had +occurred, no ‘change,’ he might still be sitting here, Arthur Rennet +Lawford, in his best visitor’s room, deciding between inscrutable life +and just—death. He supposed he was tired out. His thoughts hadn’t even +the energy to complete themselves. None cared but himself and this—this +Silence. + +‘But what does it all mean?’ the insistent voice he was getting to know +so well began tediously inquiring again. And every time he raised his +eyes, or, rather, as in many cases it seemed, his eyes raised +themselves, they saw this haunting face there—a face he no longer +bitterly rebelled at, nor dimmed with scrutiny, but a face that was +becoming a kind of hold on life, even a kind of refuge, an ally. It was +a face that might have come out of a rather flashy book; or such as is +revered on the stage. ‘A rotten bad face,’ he whispered at it in his +own familiar slang, after some such abrupt encounter; a fearless, +packed, daring, fascinating face, with even—what?—a spice of genius in +it. Whose the devil’s face was it? What on earth was the matter?... +‘Brazen it out,’ a jubilant thought cried suddenly; ‘follow it up; play +the game! give me just one opening. Think—think what I’ve risked!’ + +And all these voices thought Lawford, in deadly lassitude, meant only +one thing—insanity. A blazing, impotent indignation seized him. He +leaned near, peering as it were out of a red dusky mist. He snatched up +the china candlestick, and poised it above the sardonic reflection, as +if to throw. Then slowly, with infinite pains, he drew back from the +glass and replaced the candlestick on the table; stuffed his paper +packet into his pocket, took off his boots and threw himself on to the +bed. In a little while, in the faint, still light, he opened drowsily +wondering eyes. ‘Poor old thing!’ his voice murmured, ‘Poor old +Sheila!’ + + + + +CHAPTER FIVE + + +It was but little after daybreak when Mrs Lawford, after listening at +his door a while, turned the key and looked in on her husband. +Blue-grey light from between the venetian blinds just dusked the room. +She stood in a bluish dressing-gown, her hand on her bosom, looking +down on the lean impassive face. For the briefest instant her heart had +leapt with an indescribable surmise; to fall dull as lead once more. +Breathing equably and quietly, the strange figure lay stretched upon +the bed. ‘How can he sleep? How can he sleep?’ she whispered with a +black and hopeless indignation. What a night she had had! And he! + +She turned noiselessly away. The candle had guttered to extinction. The +big glass reflected her, voluminous and wan, her dark-ringed eyes, full +lips, rich, glossy hair, and rounded chin. ‘Yes, yes,’ it seemed to +murmur mournfully. She turned away, and drawing stealthily near stooped +once more quite low, and examined the face on the pillow with lynx-like +concentration. And though every nerve revolted at the thought, she was +finally convinced, unwillingly, but assuredly, that her husband was +here. Indeed, if it were not so, how could she for a single moment have +accepted the possibility that he was a stranger? He seemed to haunt, +like a ghostly emanation, this strange, detestable face—as memory +supplies the features concealed beneath a mask. The face was still and +stony, like one dead or imaged in wax, yet beneath it dreams were +passing—silly, ordinary Lawford dreams. She was almost alarmed at the +terribly rancorous hatred she felt for the face... ‘It was just like +Arthur to be so taken in!’ + +Then she too remembered Quain, and remembered also in the slowly paling +dusk that the house would soon be stirring. She went out and +noiselessly locked the door again. But it was useless to begin looking +for Quain now—her husband had a good many dull books, most of them his +‘eccentric’ father’s. What must the servants be thinking? and what was +all that talk about a mysterious visitor? She would have to question +Ada—diplomatically. She returned to her room and sat down in an +arm-chair, and waited. In sheer weariness she fell into a doze, and +woke at the sound of dustpan and broom. She rang the bell, and asked +for hot water, tea, and a basin of cornflour. + +‘And please, Ada, be as quiet as possible over your work; your master +is in a nice sleep, and must not be disturbed on any account. In the +front bedroom.’ She looked up suddenly. ‘By the way, who let Dr +Ferguson in last night?’ It was dangerous, but successful. + +‘Dr Ferguson, ma’am? Oh, you mean... He _was_ in.’ + +Sheila smiled resignedly. ‘Was in? What do you mean, “was in”? And +where were you, then?’ + +‘I had been sent out to Critchett’s, the chemist’s.’ + +‘Of course, of course. So cook let Dr Ferguson in, then? Why didn’t you +say so before, Ada? And did you bring the medicine with you?’ + +‘It was a packet in an envelope, ma’am. But Cook is sure she heard no +knock—not while I was out. So Dr Ferguson must have come in quite +unbeknown.’ + +‘Well, really,’ said Sheila, ‘it seems very difficult to get at the +truth sometimes. And when illness is in the house I cannot understand +why there should be no one available to answer the door. You must have +left it ajar, unsecured, when you went out. And pray, what if Dr +Ferguson had been some common tramp? That would have been a nice +thing.’ + +‘I am quite certain,’ said Ada a little flatly, ‘that I did shut the +door. And cook says she never so much as stirred from the kitchen till +I came down the area steps with the packet. And that’s all I know about +it, ma’am; except that he was here when I came back. I did not know +even there was a Dr Ferguson; and my mother has lived here nineteen +years.’ + +‘We must be thankful your mother enjoys such good health,’ replied Mrs +Lawford suavely. ‘Please tell cook to be very careful with the +cornflour—to be sure it’s well mixed and thoroughly done.’ + +Mrs Lawford’s eyes followed with a certain discomfort those narrow +print shoulders descending the stairs. And this abominable ruse +was—Arthur’s! She ran up lightly and listened with her ear to the panel +of his door. And just as she was about to turn away again, there came a +little light knock at the front door. + +Mrs Lawford paused at the loop of the staircase; and not altogether +with gratitude or relief she heard the voice of Mr Bethany, inquiring +in cautious but quite audible tones after her husband. + +She dressed quickly and went down. The little white old man looked very +solitary in the long, fireless, drawing-room. + +‘I could not sleep,’ he said; ‘I don’t think I grasped in the least, I +don’t indeed, until I was nearly home, the complexity of our problem. I +came, in fact, to a lamppost. It was casting a peculiar shadow. And +then—you know how such thoughts seize us, my dear—like a sudden +inspiration, I realised how tenuous, how appallingly tenuous a hold we +every one of us have on our mere personality. But that,’ he continued +rapidly, ‘that’s only for ourselves—and after the event. Ours, just +now, is to act. And first—?’ + +‘You really do, then—you really are convinced—’ began Mrs Lawford. + +But Mr Bethany was too quick. ‘We must be _most_ circumspect. My dear +friend, we must be _most_ circumspect, for all our sakes. And this, +you’ll say,’ he added, smiling, stretching out his arms, his soft hat +in one hand, his umbrella in the other—‘this is being circumspect—a +seven o’clock in the morning call! But you see, my dear, I have come, +as I took the precaution of explaining to the maid, because it’s now or +never to-day. It does so happen that I have to take a wedding for an +old friend’s niece at Witchett; so when in need, you see, Providence +enables us to tell even the conventional truth. Now really, how is he? +has he slept? has he recalled himself at all? is there any change?—and, +dear me, how are _you_?’ + +Mrs Lawford sighed. ‘A broken night is really very little to a mother,’ +she said. ‘He is still asleep. He hasn’t, I think, stirred all night.’ + +‘Not stirred!’ Mr Bethany repeated. ‘You baffle me. And you have +watched?’ + +‘Oh no,’ was the cheerful answer; ‘I felt that quiet, solitude; space, +was everything; he preferred it so. He—he changed alone, I suppose. +Don’t you think it almost stands to reason that he will be alone...when +he comes back? Was I right? But there, it’s useless, it’s worse than +useless, to talk like this. My husband is gone. Some terrible thing has +happened. Whatever the mystery may be, he will never come back alive. +My only fear is that I am dragging you into a matter that should from +the beginning have been entrusted to—Oh, it’s monstrous!’ It appeared +for a moment as if she were blinking to keep back her tears, yet her +scrutiny seemed merely to harden. + +Only the merest flicker of the folded eyelids over the greenish eyes of +her visitor answered the challenge. He stood small and black, peeping +fixedly out of the window at the sunflecked laurels. + +‘Last night,’ he said slowly, ‘when I said good-bye to your husband, on +the tip of my tongue were the words I have used, in season and out of +season, for nearly forty-five years—“God knows best.” Well, my dear +lady, a sense of humour, a sense of reverence, or perhaps even a taint +of scepticism—call it what you will—just intercepted them. Oh no, not +any of these, my child; just pity, overwhelming pity. God does know +best; but in a matter like this it is not even my place to say so. It +would be good for none of us to endanger our souls even with _verbal_ +cant. Now, if, do you think, I had just five minutes’ talk—five +minutes; would it disquiet him?’ + +Only by an almost undignified haste, for the vicar was remarkably +agile, Sheila managed to unlock the bedroom door without apparently his +perceiving it, and with a warning finger she preceded him into the +great bedroom. ‘Oh, yes, yes,’ he was whispering to himself; +‘alone—well, well!’ He hung his hat on his umbrella and leaned it in a +corner, and then he turned. + +‘I don’t think, you know, an old friend does him any wrong; but last +night I had no real oppor—’ He firmly adjusted his spectacles, and +looked long into the dark, dispassioned face. + +‘H’m!’ he said, and fidgeted, and peered again. Mrs Lawford watched him +keenly. + +‘Do you still—’ she began. + +But at the same moment he too broke silence, suddenly stepping back +with the innocent remark, ‘Has he—has he asked for anything?’ + +‘Only for Quain.’ + +‘“Quain”?’ + +‘The medical Dictionary.’ + +‘Oh, yes; bless me; of course.... A calm, complete sleep of utter +prostration—utter nervous prostration. And can one wonder? Poor fellow, +poor fellow!’ He walked to the window and peered between the blinds. +‘Sparrows, sunshine—yes, and here’s the postman,’ he said, as if to +himself. Then he turned sharply round, with mind made up. + +‘Now, do you leave me here,’ he said. ‘Take half an hour’s quiet rest. +He will be glad of a dull old fellow like me when he wakes. And as for +my pretty bride, if I miss the train, she must wait till the next. Good +discipline, my dear. Oh, dear me! _I_ don’t change. What a precious +experience now this would have been for a tottery, talkative, owlish +old parochial creature like me. But there, there. Light words make +heavy hearts, I see. I shall be quite comfortable. No, no, I +breakfasted at home. There’s hat and umbrella; at 9.3 I can fly.’ + +Mrs Lawford thanked him mutely. He smilingly but firmly bowed her out +and closed the door. + +But eyes and brain had been very busy. He had looked at the gutted +candle; at the tinted bland portrait on the dressing-table; at the +chair drawn-up; at the boots; and now again he turned almost with a +groan towards the sleeper. Then he took out an envelope, on which he +had jotted various memoranda, and waited awhile. Minutes passed and at +last the sleeper faintly stirred, muttering. + +Mr Bethany stooped quickly. ‘What is it, what is it?’ he whispered. + +Lawford sighed. ‘I was only dreaming, Sheila,’ he said, and softly, +peacefully opened his eyes. ‘I dreamed I was in the—’ His lids +narrowed, his dark eyes fixed themselves on the anxious spectacled face +bending over him. ‘Mr Bethany! Where? What’s wrong?’ + +His friend put out his hand. ‘There, there,’ he said soothingly, ‘do +not be disturbed; do not disquiet yourself.’ + +Lawford struggled up. Slowly, painfully consciousness returned to him. +He glanced furtively round the room, at his clothes, slinkingly at the +vicar; licked his lips; flushed with extraordinary rapidity; and +suddenly burst into tears. + +Mr Bethany sat without movement, waiting till he should have spent +himself. ‘Now, Lawford,’ he said gently, ‘compose yourself, old friend. +We must face the music—like men.’ He went to the window, drew up the +blind, peeped out, and took off his spectacles. + +‘The first thing to be done,’ he said, returning briskly to his chair, +‘is to send for Simon. Now, does Simon know you _well?_’ Lawford shook +his head. ‘Would he recognise you?... I mean...’ + +‘I have only met him once—in the evening.’ + +‘Good; let him come immediately, then. Tell him just the facts. If I am +not mistaken, he will pooh-pooh the whole thing; tell you to keep +quiet, not to worry, and so on. My dear fellow, if we realised, say, +typhoid, who’d dare to face it? That will give us time; to wait a +while, to recover our breath, to see what happens next. And if—as I +don’t believe for a moment—Why, in that case I heard the other day of a +most excellent man—Grosser, of Wimpole Street; nerves. He would be +absorbed. He’ll bottle you in spirit, Lawford. We’ll have him down +quietly. You see? But there won’t be any necessity. Oh no. By then +light will have come. We shall remember. What I mean is this.’ He +crossed his legs and pushed out his lips. ‘We are on quaky ground; and +it’s absolutely essential that you keep cool, and trust. I am yours, +heart and soul—you know that. I own frankly, at first I was shaken. And +I have, I confess, been very cunning. But first, faith, then evidence +to bolster it up. The faith was absolute’—he placed one firm hand on +Lawford’s knee—‘why, I cannot explain; but it was. The evidence is +convincing. But there are others to think of. The shock, the +incredibleness, the consequences; we must not scan too closely. Think +_with_; never against: and bang go all the arguments. Your wife, poor +dear, believes; but of course, of course, she is horribly—’ he broke +off; ‘of course she is _shaken_, you old simpleton! Time will heal all +that. Time will wear out the mask. Time will tire out this detestable +physical witchcraft. The mind, the self’s the thing. Old fogey though I +may seem for saying it—that must be kept unsmirched. We won’t go +wearily over the painful subject again. You told me last night, dear +old friend, that you were absolutely alone at Widderstone. That is +enough. But here we have visible facts, tangible effects, and there +must have been a definite reason and a cause for them. I believe in the +devil, in the Powers of Darkness, Lawford, as firmly as I believe he +and they are powerless—in the long run. They—what shall we say?—have +surrendered their intrinsicality. You can just go through evil, as you +can go through a sewer, and come out on the other side too. A loathsome +process too. But there—we are not speaking of any such monstrosities, +and even if we were, you and I with God’s help would just tire them +out. And that ally gone, our poor dear old Mrs Grundy will at once +capitulate. Eh? Eh?’ + +Through all this long and arduous harangue, consciousness, like the +gradual light of dawn, had been flooding that other brain. And the face +that now confronted Mr Bethany, though with his feeble unaided sight he +could only very obscurely discern it, was vigilant and keen, in every +sharp-cut hungry feature. + +A rather prolonged silence followed, the visitor peering mutely. The +black eyes nearly closed, the face turned slowly towards the window, +saw burnt-out candle, comprehensive glass. + +‘Yes, yes.’ he said; ‘I’ll send for Simon at once.’ + +‘Good,’ said Mr Bethany, and more doubtfully repeated ‘good.’ ‘Now +there’s only one thing left,’ he went on cheerfully. ‘I have jotted +down a few test questions here; they are questions no one on this earth +could answer but you, Lawford. They are merely for external proofs. You +won’t, you can’t, mistake my motive. We cannot foretell or foresee what +need may arise for just such jog-trot primitive evidence. I propose +that you now answer them here, in writing.’ + +Lawford stood up and walked to the looking-glass, and paused. He put +his hand to his head, ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘of course; it’s a rattling good +move. I’m not quite awake; myself, I mean. I’ll do it now.’ He took out +a pencil case and tore another leaf from his pocket-book. ‘What are +they?’ + +Mr Bethany rang the bell. Sheila herself answered it. She stood on the +threshold and looked across through a shaft of autumnal sunshine at her +husband, and her husband with a quiet strange smile looked across +through the sunshine at his wife. Mr Bethany waited in vain. + +‘I am just going to put the arch-impostor through his credentials,’ he +said tartly. ‘Now then, Lawford!’ He read out the questions, one by +one, from his crafty little list, pursing his lips between each; and +one by one, Lawford, seated at the dressing-table, fluently scribbled +his answers. Then question and answer were rigorously compared by Mr +Bethany, with small white head bent close and spectacles poised upon +the powerful nose, and signed and dated, and passed to Mrs Lawford +without a word. + +Mrs Lawford read question and answer where she stood, in complete +silence. She looked up. ‘Many of these questions I don’t know the +answers to myself,’ she said. + +‘It is immaterial,’ said Mr Bethany. + +‘One answer is—is inaccurate. ‘Yes, yes, quite so: due to a mistake in +a letter from myself.’ + +Mrs Lawford read quietly on, folded the papers, and held them out +between finger and thumb. ‘The—handwriting...’ she remarked very +softly. + +‘Wonderful, isn’t it?’ said Mr Bethany warmly; ‘all the general look +and run of the thing different, but every real essential feature +unchanged. Now into the envelope. And now a little wax?’ + +Mrs Lawford stood waiting. ‘There’s a green piece of sealing-wax,’ +almost drawled the quiet voice, ‘in the top right drawer of the nest in +the study, which old James gave me the Christmas before last.’ He +glanced with lowered eyelids at his wife’s flushed cheek. Their eyes +met. + +‘Thank you,’ she said. + +When she returned the vicar was sitting in a chair, leaning his chin on +the knobbed handle of his umbrella. He rose and lit a taper for her +with a match from a little green pot on the table. And Mrs Lawford, +with trembling fingers, sealed the letter, as he directed, with his own +seal. + +‘There!’ he said triumphantly, ‘how many more such brilliant lawyers, I +wonder, lie dormant in the Church? And who shall keep this?... Why, all +three, of course.’ He went on without pausing. ‘Some little drawer now, +secret and undetectable, with a lock.’ Just such a little drawer that +locked itself with a spring lay by chance in the looking-glass. There +the letter was hidden. And Mr Bethany looked at his watch. ‘Nineteen +minutes,’ he said. ‘The next thing, my dear child—we’re getting on +swimmingly—and it’s astonishing how things are simplified by mere +use—the next thing is to send for Simon.’ + +Sheila took a deep breath, but did not look up. ‘I am entirely in your +hands,’ she replied. + +‘So be it,’ said he crisply. ‘Get to bed, Lawford; it’s better so. And +I’ll look in on my way back from Witchett. I came, my dear fellow, in +gloomy disturbance of mind. It was getting up too early; it fogs old +brains. Good-bye, good-bye.’ + +He squeezed Lawford’s hand. Then, with umbrella under his arm, his hat +on his head, his spectacles readjusted, he hurried out of the room. Mrs +Lawford followed him. For a few minutes Lawford sat motionless, with +head bent a little, and eyes restlessly scanning the door. Then he rose +abruptly, and in a quarter of an hour was in bed, alone with his slow +thoughts: while a basin of cornflour stood untasted on a little table +at his bedside, and a cheerful fire burned in the best visitors’ room’s +tiny grate. + +At half-past eleven Dr Simon entered this soundless seclusion. He sat +down beside Lawford, and took temperature and pulse. Then he half +closed his lids, and scanned his patient out of an unusually dark, +un-English face, with straight black hair, and listened attentively to +his rather incoherent story. It was a story very much modified and +rounded off. Nor did Lawford draw Dr Simon’s attention to the portrait +now smiling conventionally above their heads from the wall over the +fireplace. + +‘It was rather bleak—the wind; and, I think, perhaps, I had had a touch +of influenza. It was a silly thing to do. But still, Dr Simon, one +doesn’t expect—well, there, I don’t feel the same man—physically. I +really cannot explain how great a change has taken place. And yet I +feel perfectly fit in myself. And if it were not for—for being laughed +at, go back to town, to-day. Why my wife scarcely recognised me.’ + +Dr Simon continued his scrutiny. Try as he would, Lawford could not +raise his downcast eyes to meet direct the doctor’s polite attention. + +‘And what,’ said Dr Simon, ‘what precisely is the nature of the change? +Have you any pain?’ + +‘No, not the least pain,’ said Lawford; ‘I think, perhaps, or rather my +face _is_ a little shrunken—and yet lengthened; at least it feels so; +and a faint twinge of rheumatism. But my hair—well, I don’t know; it’s +difficult to say one’s self.’ He could get on so very much better, he +thought, if only his mind would be at peace and these preposterous +promptings and voices were still. + +Dr Simon faced the window, and drew his hand softly over his head. ‘We +never can be too cautious at a certain age, and especially after +influenza,’ he said. ‘It undermines the whole system, and in particular +the nervous system; leaving the mind the prey of the most melancholy +fancies. I should astound you, Mr Lawford, with the devil influenza +plays.... A slight nervous shock and a chill; quite slight, I hope. A +few days’ rest and plenty of nourishment. There’s nothing; temperature +inconsiderable. All perfectly intelligible. Most certainly reassure +yourself! And as for the change you speak of’—he looked steadily at the +dark face on the pillow and smiled amiably—‘I don’t think we need worry +much about that. It certainly was a bleak wind yesterday—and a +cemetery, my dear sir! It was indiscreet—yes, very.’ He held out his +hand. ‘You must not be alarmed,’ he said, very distinctly with the +merest trace of an accent; ‘air, sunshine, quiet, nourishment; +sleep—that is all. The little window might be a few inches open, +and—and any light reading.’ + +He opened the door and joined Mrs Lawford on the staircase. He talked +to her quietly over his shoulder all the way downstairs. ‘It was, it +was sporting with Providence—a wind, believe me, nearly due east, in +spite of the warm sunshine.’ + +‘But the change—the change!’ Mrs Lawford managed to murmur tragically, +as he strode to the door. Dr Simon smiled, and gracefully tapped his +forehead with a red-gloved forefinger. + +‘Humour him, humour him,’ he repeated indulgently. ‘Rest and quiet will +soon put that little trouble out of his head. Oh yes, I did notice +it—the set drawn look, and the droop: quite so. Good morning.’ + +Mrs Lawford gently closed the door after him. A glimpse of Ada, +crossing from room to room, suggested a precaution. She called out in +her clearest notes. ‘If Dr Ferguson should call while I am out, Ada, +will you please tell him that Dr Simon regretted that he was unable to +wait? Thank you.’ She paused with hand on the balusters, then slowly +ascended the stairs. Her husband’s face was turned to the ceiling, his +hands clasped above his head. She took up her stand by the fireplace, +resting one silk-slippered foot on the fender. ‘Dr Simon is +reassuring,’ she said, ‘but I do hope, Arthur, you will follow his +advice. He looks a fairly clever man.... But with a big practice.... Do +you think, dear, he quite realised the extent of the—the change?’ + +‘I told him what happened,’ said her husband’s voice out of the +bed-clothes. + +‘Yes, yes, I know,’ said Sheila soothingly; ‘but we must remember he is +comparatively a stranger. He would not detect—’ + +‘What did he tell you?’ asked the voice. + +Mrs Lawford deliberately considered. If only he would always thus keep +his face concealed, how much easier it would be to discuss matters +rationally. ‘You see, dear,’ she said softly, ‘I know, of course, +nothing about the nerves; but personally, I think his suggestion +absurd. No mere fancy, surely, can make a lasting alteration in one’s +face. And your hair—I don’t want to say anything that may seem +unkind—but isn’t it really quite a distinct shade darker, Arthur?’ + +‘Any great strain will change the colour of a man’s hair,’ said Lawford +stolidly; ‘at any rate, to white. Why, I read once of a fellow in +India, a Hindoo, or something, who—’ + +‘But have you _had_ any intense strain, or anxiety?’ broke in Sheila. +‘You might, at least, have confided in me; that is, unless—But there, +don’t you think really, Arthur, it would be much more satisfactory in +every way if we had further advice at once? Alice will be home next +week. To-morrow is the Harvest Festival, and next week, of course, the +Dedication; and, in any case, the Bazaar is out of the question. They +will have to find another stall-holder. We must do our utmost to avoid +comment or scandal. Every minute must help to—to fix a thing like that. +I own even now I cannot realise what this awful calamity means. It’s +useless to brood on it. We must, as the poor dear old vicar said only +last night, keep our heads clear. But I am sure Dr Simon was under a +misapprehension. If, now, it was explained to him, a little more fully, +Arthur—a photograph. Oh, anything on earth but this dreadful wearing +uncertainty and suspense! Besides ...is Simon quite an English name?’ + +Lawford drew further into his pillow. ‘Do as you think best, Sheila,’ +he said. ‘For my own part, I believe it may be as he suggests—partly an +illusion, a touch of nervous breakdown. It simply can’t be as bad as I +think it is. If it were, you would not be here talking like this; and +Bethany wouldn’t have believed a word I said. Whatever it is, it’s no +good crying it on the housetops. Give me time, just time. Besides, how +do we know what he really thought? Doctors don’t tell their patients +everything. Give the poor chap a chance, and more so if he is a +foreigner. He’s’—his voice sank almost to a whisper—‘he’s no darker +than this. And do, please, Sheila, take this infernal stuff away, and +let me have something solid. I’m not ill—in that way. All I want is +peace and quiet, time to think. Let me fight it out alone. It’s been +sprung on me. The worst’s not over. But I’ll win through; wait! And if +not—well, you shall not suffer, Sheila. Don’t be afraid. There are +other ways out.’ + +Sheila broke down. ‘Any one would think to hear you talk, that I was +perfectly heartless. I told Ada to be most careful about the cornflour. +And as for other ways out, it’s a positively wicked thing to say to me +when I’m nearly distracted with trouble and anxiety. What motive could +you have had for loitering in an old cemetery? And in an east wind! +It’s useless for me to remain here, Arthur, to be accused of every +horrible thing that comes into a morbid imagination. I will leave you, +as you suggest, in peace.’ + +‘One moment, Sheila,’ answered the muffled voice. ‘I have accused you +of nothing. If you knew all; if you could read my thoughts, you would +be surprised, perhaps, at my—But never mind that. On the other hand, I +really do think it would be better for the present to discuss the thing +no more. To-day is Friday. Give this miserable face a week. Talk it +over with Bethany if you like. But I forbid’—he struggled up in bed, +sallow and sinister—‘I flatly forbid, please understand, any other +interference till then. Afterwards you must do exactly as you please. +Send round the Town Crier! But till then, silence!’ + +Sheila with raised head confronted him. ‘This, then, is your gratitude. +So be it. Silence, no doubt! Until it’s too late to take action. Until +you have wormed your way in, and think you are safe. To have believed! +Where is my husband? that is what I am asking you now. When and how you +have learned his secrets God only knows, and your conscience! But he +always was a simpleton at heart. I warn you, then. Until next Thursday +I consent to say nothing provided you remain quiet; make no +disturbance, no scandal here. The servants and all who inquire shall +simply be told that my husband is confined to his room with—with a +nervous breakdown, as you have yourself so glibly suggested. I am at +your mercy, I own it. The vicar believes your preposterous story—with +his spectacles off. You would convince anybody with the wicked cunning +with which you have cajoled and wheedled him, with which you have +deceived and fooled a foreign doctor. But you will not convince me. You +will not convince Alice. I have friends in the world, though you may +not be aware of it, who will not be quite so apt to believe any +cock-and-bull story you may see fit to invent. That is all I have to +say. To-night I tell the vicar all that I have just told you. And from +this moment, please, we are strangers. I shall come into the room no +more than necessity dictates. On Friday we resume our real parts. My +husband—Arthur—to—to connive at... Phh!’ + +Rage had transfigured her. She scarcely heard her own words. They +poured out senselessly, monotonously, one calling up another, as if +from the lips of a Cassandra. Lawford sank back into bed, clutching the +sheets with both lean hands. He took a deep breath and shut his mouth. + +‘It reminds me, Sheila,’ he began arduously, ‘of our first quarrel +before we were married, the evening after your aunt Rose died at +Llandudno—do you remember? You threw open the window, and I think—I +saved your life.’ A pause followed. Then a queer, almost inarticulate +voice added, ‘At least, I am afraid so.’ + +A cold and awful quietness fell on Sheila’s heart. She stared fixedly +at the tuft of dark hair, the only visible sign of her husband, on the +pillow. Then, taking up the basin of cold cornflour, she left the room. +In a quarter of an hour she reappeared carrying a tray, with ham and +eggs and coffee and honey invitingly displayed. She laid it down. + +‘There is only one other question,’ she said, with perfect +composure—‘that of money. Your signature as it appears on the—the +document drawn up this morning, would, of course, be quite useless on a +cheque. I have taken all the money I could find; it is in safety. You +may, however, conceivably be in need of some yourself; here is five +pounds. I have my own cheque-book, and shall therefore have no need to +consider the question again for—for the present. So far as you are +concerned, I shall be guided solely by Mr Bethany. He will, I do not +doubt, take full responsibility.’ + +‘And may the Lord have mercy on my soul!’ uttered a stifled, unfamiliar +voice from the bed. Mrs Lawford stooped. ‘Arthur!’ she cried faintly, +‘Arthur!’ + +Lawford raised himself on his elbow with a sigh that was very near to +being a sob. ‘Oh, Sheila, if you’d only be your real self! What is the +use of all this pretence? Just consider _my_ position a little. The +fear and horror are not all on your side. You called me Arthur even +then. I’d willingly do anything you wish to save you pain; you know +that. Can’t we be friends even in this—this ghastly—Won’t you, Sheila?’ + +Mrs Lawford drew back, struggling with a doubtful heart. + +‘I think,’ she said, ‘it would be better not to discuss that now.’ + +The rest of the morning Lawford remained in solitude. + + + + +CHAPTER SIX + + +There were three books in the room—Jeremy Taylor’s ‘Holy Living and +Dying,’ a volume of the Quiver, and a little gilded book on +wildflowers. He read in vain. He lay and listened to the uproar of his +thoughts on which an occasional sound—the droning of a fly, the cry of +a milkman, the noise of a passing van—obtruded from the workaday world. +The pale gold sunlight edged softly over the bed. He ate up everything +on his tray. He even, on the shoals of nightmare, dreamed awhile. But +by and by as the hours wheeled slowly on he grew less calm, less +strenuously resolved on lying there inactive. Every sparrow that +twittered cried reveille through his brain. He longed with an ardour +strange to his temperament to be up and doing. + +What if his misfortune was, as he had in the excitement of the moment +suggested to Sheila, only a morbid delusion of mind; shared too in part +by sheer force of his absurd confession? Even if he was going mad, who +knows how peaceful a release that might not be? Could his shrewd old +vicar have implicitly believed in him if the change were as complete as +he supposed it? He flung off the bedclothes and locked the door. He +dressed himself, noticing, he fancied, with a deadly revulsion of +feeling, that his coat was a little too short in the sleeves, his +waistcoat too loose. In the midst of his dressing came Sheila bringing +his luncheon. ‘I’m sorry,’ he called out, stooping quickly beside the +bed, ‘I can’t talk now. Please put the tray down.’ + +About half an hour afterwards he heard the outer door close, and +peeping from behind the curtains saw his wife go out. All was drowsily +quiet in the house. He devoured his lunch like a schoolboy. That +finished to the last crumb, without a moment’s delay he covered his +face with a towel, locked the door behind him, put the key in his +pocket, and ran lightly downstairs. He stuffed the towel into an ulster +pocket, put on a soft, wide-brimmed hat, and noiselessly let himself +out. Then he turned with an almost hysterical delight and ran—ran like +the wind, without pausing, without thinking, straight on, up one +turning, down another, until he reached a broad open common, thickly +wooded, sprinkled with gorse and hazel and may, and faintly purple with +fading heather. There he flung himself down in the beautiful sunlight, +among the yellowing bracken, to recover his breath. + +He lay there for many minutes, thinking almost with composure. Flight, +it seemed, had for the moment quietened the demands of that other +feebly struggling personality which was beginning to insinuate itself +into his consciousness, which had so miraculously broken in and taken +possession of his body. He would not think now. All he needed was a +little quiet and patience before he threw off for good and all his +right to be free, to be his own master, to call himself sane. + +He scrambled up and turned his face towards the westering sun. What was +there in the stillness of its beautiful splendour that seemed to +sharpen his horror and difficulty, and yet to stir him to such a daring +and devilry as he had never known since he was a boy? There was little +sound of life; somewhere an unknown bird was singing, and a few late +bees were droning in the bracken. All these years he had, like an old +blind horse, stolidly plodded round and round in a dull self-set +routine. And now, just when the spirit had come for rebellion, the mood +for a harmless truancy, there had fallen with them too this hideous +enigma. He sat there with the dusky silhouette of the face that was now +drenched with sunlight in his mind’s eye. He set off again up the stony +incline. + +Why not walk on and on? In time real wholesome weariness would come; he +could sleep at ease in some pleasant wayside inn, without once meeting +the eyes that stood as it were like a window between himself and a +shrewd incredulous scoffing world that would turn him into a +monstrosity and his story into a fable. And in a little while, perhaps +in three days, he would awaken out of this engrossing nightmare, and +know he was free, this black dog gone from his back, and (as the old +saying expressed it without any one dreaming what it really meant) his +own man again. How astonished Sheila would be; how warmly she would +welcome him!... Oh yes, of course she would. + +He came again to a standstill. No voice answered him out of that +illimitable gold and blue. Nothing seemed aware of him. But as he stood +there, doubtful as Cain on the outskirts of the unknown, he caught the +sound of a footfall on the lonely and stone-strewn path. + +The ground sloped steeply away to the left, and slowly mounting the +hillside came mildly on an old lady he knew, a Miss Sinnet, an old +friend of his mother’s. There was just such a little seat as that other +he knew so well, on the brow of the hill. He made his way to it, +intending to sit quietly there until the little old lady had passed by. +Up and up she came. Her large bonnet appeared, and then her mild white +face, inclined a little towards him as she ascended. Evidently this +very seat was her goal; and evasion was impossible. Evasion!... Memory +rushed back and set his pulses beating. He turned boldly to the sun, +and the old lady, with a brief glance into his face, composed herself +at the other end of the little seat. She gazed out of a gentle reverie +into the golden valley. And so they sat a while. And almost as if she +had felt the bond of acquaintance between them, she presently sighed, +and addressed him: ‘A very, very, beautiful view, sir.’ + +Lawford paused, then turned a gloomy, earnest face, gilded with +sunshine. ‘Beautiful, indeed,’ he said, ‘but not for me. No, Miss +Sinnet, not for me.’ + +The old lady gravely turned and examined the aquiline profile. ‘Well, I +confess,’ she remarked urbanely, ‘you have the advantage of me.’ + +Lawford smiled uneasily. ‘Believe me, it is little advantage.’ + +‘My sight,’ said Miss Sinnet precisely, ‘is not so good as I might +wish; though better perhaps than I might have hoped; I fear I am not +much wiser; your face is still unfamiliar to me.’ + +‘It is not unfamiliar to me,’ said Lawford. Whose trickery was this? he +thought, putting such affected stuff into his mouth. + +A faint lightening of pity came into the silvery and scrupulous +countenance. ‘Ah, dear me, yes,’ she said courteously. + +Lawford rested a lean hand on the seat. ‘And have you,’ he asked, ‘not +the least recollection in the world of my face?’ + +‘Now really,’ she said, smiling blandly, ‘is that quite fair? Think of +all the scores and scores of faces in seventy long years; and how very +treacherous memory is. You shall do me the service of _reminding_ me of +one whose name has for the moment escaped me.’ + +‘I am the son of a very old friend of yours, Miss Sinnet,’ said Lawford +quietly ‘a friend that was once your schoolfellow at Brighton.’ + +‘Well, now,’ said the old lady, grasping her umbrella, ‘that is +undoubtedly a clue; but then, you see, all but one of the friends of my +girlhood are dead; and if I have never had the pleasure of meeting her +son, unless there is a decided resemblance, how am I to recollect _her_ +by looking at _him?_’ + +‘There is, I believe, a likeness,’ said Lawford. + +She nodded her great bonnet at him with gentle amusement. ‘You are +insistent in your fancy. Well, let me think again. The last to leave me +was Fanny Urquhart, that was—let me see—last October. Now you are +certainly not Fanny Urquhart’s son,’ she stooped austerely, ‘for she +never had one. Last year, too, I heard that my dear, dear Mrs Jameson +was dead. _Her_ I hadn’t met for many, many years. But, if I may +venture to say so, yours is not a Scottish face; and she not only +married a Scottish husband, but was herself a Dunbar. No, I am still at +a loss.’ + +A miserable strife was in her chance companion’s mind, a strife of +anger and recrimination. He turned his eyes wearily to the fast +declining sun. ‘You will forgive my persistency, but I assure you it is +a matter of life or death to me. Is there no one my face recalls? My +voice?’ + +Miss Sinnet drew her long lips together, her eyebrows lifted with the +faintest perturbation. ‘But he certainly knows my name,’ she said to +herself. She turned once more, and in the still autumnal beauty, +beneath that pale blue arch of evening, these two human beings +confronted one another again. She eyed him blandly, yet with a certain +grave directness. + +‘I don’t really think,’ she said, ‘you _can_ be Mary Lawford’s son. I +could scarcely have mistaken _him_.’ + +Lawford gulped and turned away. He hardly knew what this surge of +feeling meant. Was it hope, despair, resentment; had he caught even the +echo of an unholy joy? His mind for a moment became confused as if in +the tumult of a struggle. He heard himself expostulate, ‘Ah, Miss +Bennett, I fear I set you too difficult a task.’ + +The old lady drew abruptly in, like a trustful and gentle snail into +its shocked house. ‘Bennett, sir; but my name is not Bennett.’ + +And again Lawford accepted the miserable prompting. ‘Not Bennett!... +How can I ever then apologise for so frantic a mistake?’ + +The little old lady took firm hold of her umbrella. She did not answer +him. ‘The likeness, the likeness!’ he began unctuously, and stopped, +for the glance that dwelt fleetingly on him was cold with the +formidable dignity and displeasure of age. He raised his hat and turned +miserably home. He strode on out of the last gold into the blue +twilight. What fantastic foolery of mind was mastering him? He cast a +hurried look over his shoulder at the kindly and offended old figure +sitting there, solitary, on the little seat, in her great bonnet, with +back turned resolutely upon him—the friend of his dead mother who might +have proved in his need a friend indeed to him. And he had by this +insane caprice hopelessly estranged her. + +She would remember this face well enough now, he thought bitterly, and +would take her place among his quiet enemies, if ever the day of +reckoning should come. It was scandalous, it was banal to have abused +her trust and courtesy. Oh, it was hopeless to struggle any more! The +fates were against him. They had played him a trick. He was to be their +transitory sport, as many a better man he could himself recollect had +been before him. He would go home and give in; let Sheila do with him +what she pleased. No one but a lunatic could have acted as he had, with +just that frantic hint of method so remarkable in the insane. + +He left the common. A lamplighter was lighting the lamps. A thin +evening haze was on the air. If only he had stayed at home that fateful +afternoon! Who, what had induced him, enticed him to venture out? And +even with the thought welled up into his mind an intense desire to go +to the old green time-worn churchyard again; to sit there contentedly +alone, where none heeded the completest metamorphosis, down beside the +yew-trees. What a fool he had been. There alone, of course, lay his +only possible chance of recovery. He would go to-morrow. Perhaps Sheila +had not yet discovered his absence; and there would be no difficulty in +repeating so successful a stratagem. + +Remembrance of his miserable mistake, of Miss Sinnet, faintly returned +to him as he swiftly mounted the steps to his porch. Poor old lady. He +would make amends for his discourtesy when he was quite himself again. +She should some day hear, perhaps, his infinitely tragic, infinitely +comic experience from his own lips. He would take her some flowers, +some old keepsake of his mother’s. What would he not do when the old +moods and brains of the stupid Arthur Lawford, whom he had appreciated +so little and so superficially, came back to him. + +He ran up the steps and stopped dead, his hand in his pocket, chilled +and aghast. Sheila had taken his keys. He stood there, dazed and still, +beneath the dim yellow of his own fanlight; and once again that inward +spring flew back. ‘Brazen it out; brazen it out! Knock and ring!’ + +He knocked flamboyantly, and rang. + +There came a quiet step and the door opened. ‘Dr Simon, of course, has +called?’ he inquired suavely. + +‘Yes, sir.’ + +‘Ah, and gone’—as I feared. And Mrs Lawford?’ + +‘I think Mrs Lawford is in, sir.’ + +Lawford put out a detaining hand. ‘We will not disturb her; we will not +disturb her. I can find my way up; oh yes, thank you!’ + +But Ada still palely barred the way. ‘I think, sir,’ she said, ‘Mrs +Lawford would prefer to see you herself; she told me most particularly +“all callers.” And Mr Lawford was not to be disturbed on any account.’ + +‘Disturbed? God forbid!’ said Lawford, but his dark eyes failed to move +these lightest hazel. ‘Well,’ he continued nonchalantly, +‘perhaps—perhaps it—_would_ be as well if Mrs Lawford should know that +I am here. No, thank you, I won’t come in. Please go and tell—’ But +even as the maid turned to obey, Sheila herself appeared at the +dining-room door in hat and veil. + +Lawford hesitated an immeasurable moment. In one swift glance he +perceived the lamplit mystery of evening, beckoning, calling, +pleading—Fly, fly! Home’s here for you. Begin again, begin again. And +there before him in quiet and hostile decorum stood maid and mistress. +He took off his hat and stepped quickly in. + +‘So late, so very late, I fear,’ he began glibly. ‘A sudden call, a +perfectly impossible distance. Shall we disturb him, do you think?’ + +‘Wouldn’t it,’ began Sheila softly, ‘be rather a pity perhaps? Dr Simon +seemed to think.... But, of course, you must decide that.’ + +Ada turned quiet small eyes. + +‘No, no, by no means,’ he almost mumbled. + +And a hard, slow smile passed over Sheila’s face. ‘Excuse me one +moment,’ she said; ‘I will see if he is awake.’ She swept swiftly +forward, superb and triumphant, beneath the gaze of those dark, +restless eyes. But so still was home and street that quite distinctly a +clear and youthful laughter was heard, and light footsteps approaching. +Sheila paused. Ada, in the act of closing the door, peered out. ‘Miss +Alice, ma’am,’ she said. + +And in this infinitesimal advantage of time Dr Ferguson had seized his +vanishing opportunity, and was already swiftly mounting the stairs. Mrs +Lawford stood with veil half raised and coldly smiling lips and, as if +it were by pre-arrangement, her daughter’s laughing greeting from the +garden, and from the landing above her, a faint ‘Ah, and how are we +now?’ broke out simultaneously. And Ada, silent and discreet, had +thrown open the door again to the twilight and to the young people +ascending the steps. + +Lawford was still sitting on his bed before a cold and ashy hearth when +Sheila knocked at the door. + +‘Yes?’ he said; ‘who’s there?’ No answer followed. He rose with a +shuddering sigh and turned the key. His wife entered. + +‘That little exhibition of finesse was part of our agreement, I +suppose?’ + +‘I say—’ began Lawford. + +‘To creep out in my absence like a thief, and to return like a +mountebank; that was part of our compact?’ + +‘I say,’ he stubbornly began again, ‘did you _wire_ for Alice?’ + +‘Will you please answer my question? Am I to be a mere catspaw in your +intrigues, in this miserable masquerade before the servants? To set the +whole place ringing with the name of a doctor that doesn’t exist, and a +bedridden patient that slips out of the house with his bedroom key in +his pocket! Are you aware that Ada has been hammering at your door +every half-hour of your absence? Are you aware of that? How much,’ she +continued in a low, bitter voice, ‘how much should I offer for her +discretion?’ + +‘Who was that with Alice?’ inquired the same toneless voice. + +‘I refuse to be ignored. I refuse to be made a child of. Will you +please answer me?’ + +Lawford turned. ‘Look here, Sheila,’ he began heavily, ‘what about +Alice? If you wired: well, it’s useless to say anything more. But if +you didn’t, I ask you just this one thing. Don’t tell her!’ + +‘Oh, I perfectly appreciate a father’s natural anxiety.’ + +Her husband drew up his shoulders as if to receive a blow. ‘Yes, yes,’ +he said, ‘but you won’t?’ + +The sound of a young laughing voice came faintly up from below. ‘How +did Jimmie Fortescue know she was coming home to-day?’ + +‘Will you not inquire of Jimmie Fortescue for yourself?’ + +‘Oh, what is the use of sneering?’ began the dull voice again. ‘I am +horribly tired, Sheila. And try how you will, you can’t convince me +that you believe for a moment that I am not myself, that you are as +hard as you pretend. An acquaintance, even a friend might be deceived; +but husband and wife—oh no! It isn’t only a man’s face that’s +himself—or even his hands.’ He looked at them, straightened them slowly +out, and buried them in his pockets. ‘All I care about now is Alice. Is +she, or is she not going to be told? I am simply asking you to give her +just a chance.’ + +‘“Simply asking me to give Alice a chance”; now isn’t that really just +a little...?’ + +Lawford slowly shook his head. ‘You know in your heart it isn’t, +Sheila; you understand me quite well, although you persistently pretend +not to. I can’t argue now. I can’t speak up for myself. I am just about +as far down as I can go. It’s only Alice.’ + +‘I see; a lucid interval?’ suggested his wife in a low, trembling +voice. + +‘Yes, yes, if you like,’ said her husband patiently, ‘“a lucid +interval.” Don’t please look at my face like that, Sheila. Think—think +that it’s just lupus, just some horrible disfigurement.’ + +Not much light was in the large room, and there was something so +extraordinarily characteristic of her husband in those stooping +shoulders, in the head hung a little forward, and in the +preternaturally solemn voice, that Sheila had to bend a little over the +bed to catch a glimpse of the sallow and keener face again. She sighed; +and even on her own strained ear her sigh sounded almost like one of +relief. + +‘It’s useless, I know, to ask you anything while you are in this mood,’ +continued Lawford dully; ‘I know that of old.’ + +The white, ringed hands clenched, ‘“Of old!”’ + +‘I didn’t mean anything. Don’t listen to what I say. It’s only—it’s +just Alice knowing, that was all; I mean at once.’ + +‘Don’t for a moment suppose I am not perfectly aware that it is only +Alice you think of. You were particularly anxious about my feelings, +weren’t you? You broke the news to me with the tenderest solicitude. I +am glad our—our daughter shares my husband’s love.’ + +‘Look here,’ said Lawford densely, ‘you know that I love you as much as +ever; but with this—as I am; what would be the good of my saying so?’ +Mrs Lawford took a deep breath. + +And a voice called softly at the door, ‘Mother, are you there? Is +father awake? May I come in?’ + +In a flash the memory returned to her; twenty-four hours ago she was +asking that very question of this unspeakable figure that sat +hunched-up before her. + +‘One moment, dear,’ she called. And added in a very low voice, ‘Come +here!’ + +Lawford looked up. ‘What?’ he said. + +‘Perhaps, perhaps,’ she whispered, ‘it isn’t quite so bad.’ + +‘For mercy’s sake, Sheila,’ he said, ‘don’t torture me; tell the poor +child to go away.’ + +She paused. ‘Are you there, Alice? Would you mind, father says, waiting +a little? He is so very tired.’ + +‘Too tired to.... Oh, very well, mother.’ + +Mrs Lawford opened the door, and called after her, ‘Is Jimmie gone?’ + +‘Oh, yes, hours.’ + +‘Where did you meet?’ + +‘I couldn’t get a carriage at the station. He carried my dressing-bag; +I begged him not to. The other’s coming on. You know what Jimmie is. +How very, very lucky I _did_ come home. I don’t know what made me; just +an impulse; they did laugh at me so. Father dear—do speak to me; how +are you now?’ + +Lawford opened his mouth, gulped, and shook his head. + +‘Ssh, dear!’ whispered Sheila, ‘I think he has fallen asleep. I will be +down in a minute.’ Mrs Lawford was about to close the door when Ada +appeared. + +‘If you please, ma’am,’ she said, ‘I have been waiting, as you told me, +to let Dr Ferguson out, but it’s nearly seven now; and the table’s not +laid yet.’ + +‘I really should have thought, Ada,’ Sheila began, then caught back the +angry words, and turned and looked over her shoulder into the room. ‘Do +you think you will need anything more, Dr Ferguson?’ she asked in a +sepulchral voice. + +Again Lawford’s lips moved; again he shook his head. + +‘One moment, Ada,’ she said closing the door. ‘Some more medicine—what +medicine? Quick! She mustn’t suspect.’ + +‘“What medicine?”’ repeated Lawford stolidly. + +‘Oh, vexing, vexing; don’t you _see_ we must send her out? Don’t you +see? What was it you sent to Critchett’s for last night? Tell him +that’s gone: we want more of _that_.’ + +Lawford stared heavily. Oh, yes, yes,’ he said thickly, ‘more of +that....’ + +Sheila, with a shrug of extreme distaste and vexation, hastily opened +the door. ‘Dr Ferguson wants a further supply of the drug which Mr +Critchett made up for Mr Lawford yesterday evening. You had better go +at once, Ada, and please make as much haste as you possibly can.’ + +‘I say, I say,’ began Lawford; but it was too late, the door was shut. + +‘How I detest this wretched falsehood and subterfuge. What could have +induced you....?’ + +‘Yes,’ said her husband, ‘what! I think I’ll be getting to bed again, +Sheila; I forgot I had been ill. And now I do really feel very tired. +But I should like to feel—in spite of this hideous—I should like to +feel we are friends, Sheila.’ + +Sheila almost imperceptibly shuddered, crossed the room, and faced the +still, almost lifeless mask. ‘I spoke,’ she said, in a low, cold, +difficult voice—‘I spoke in a temper this morning. You must try to +understand what a shock it has been to me. Now, I own it frankly, I +know you are—Arthur. But God only knows how it frightens me, +and—and—horrifies me.’ She shut her eyes beneath her veil. They waited +on in silence a while. + +‘Poor boy!’ she said at last, lightly touching the loose sleeve; ‘be +brave; it will all come right, soon. Meanwhile, for Alice’s sake, if +not for mine, don’t give way to—to caprices, and all that. Keep quietly +here, Arthur. And—and forgive my impatience.’ + +He put out his hand as if to touch her. ‘Forgive you!’ he said humbly, +pushing it stubbornly back into his pocket again. ‘Oh, Sheila, the +forgiveness is all on your side. You know _I_ have nothing to forgive.’ +A long silence fell between them. + +‘Then, to-night,’ at last began Sheila wearily, drawing back, ‘we say +nothing to Alice, except that you are too tired—just nervous +prostration—to see her. What we should do without this influenza, I +cannot conceive. Mr Bethany will probably look in on his way home; and +then we can talk it over—we can talk it over again. So long as you are +like this, yourself, in mind, why I—What is it now?’ she broke off +querulously. + +‘If you please, ma’am, Mr Critchett says he doesn’t know Dr Ferguson, +his name’s not in the Directory, and there must be something wrong with +the message, and he’s sorry, but he must have it in writing because +there was more even in the first packet than he ought by rights to +send. What shall I do, if you please?’ + +Still looking at her husband. Sheila listened quietly to the end, and +then, as if in inarticulate disdain, she deliberately shrugged her +shoulders, and went out to play her part unaided. + + + + +CHAPTER SEVEN + + +Her husband turned wearily once more, and drawing up a chair sat down +in front of the cold grate. He realised that Sheila thought him as much +of a fool now as she had for the moment thought him an impostor, or +something worse, the night before. That was at least something gained. +He realised, too, in a vague way that the exuberance of mind that had +practically invented Dr Ferguson, and outraged Miss Sinnet, had quite +suddenly flickered out. It was astonishing, he thought, with gaze fixed +innocently on the black coals, that he should ever have done such +things. He detested that kind of ‘rot’; that jaunty theatrical pose so +many men prided their jackdaw brains on. + +And he sat quite still, like a cat at a cranny, listening, as it were, +for the faintest remotest stir that might hint at any return of +this—activity. It was the first really sane moment he had had since the +‘change.’ Whatever it was that had happened at Widderstone was now +distinctly weakening in effect. Why, now, perhaps? He stole a thievish +look over his shoulder at the glass, and cautiously drew finger and +thumb down that beaked nose. Then he really quietly smiled, a smile he +felt this abominable facial caricature was quite unused to, the +superior Lawford smile of guileless contempt for the fanatical, the +fantastic, and the bizarre: _He_ wouldn’t have sat with his feet on the +fender before a burnt-out fire. + +And the animosity of that ‘he,’ uttered only just under his breath, +surprised even himself. It actually did seem as if there were a chance; +if only he kept cool and collected. If the whole mind of a man was bent +on being one thing, surely no power on earth, certainly not on earth, +could for long compel him to look another, any more (followed the +resplendent thought) than vice versa. + +That, in fact, was the trick that had been in fitful fashion played him +since yesterday. Obviously, and apart altogether from his promise to +Sheila, the best possible thing he could do would be to walk quietly +over to Widderstone to-morrow and like a child that has lost a penny, +just make the attempt to reverse the process: look at the graves, read +the inscriptions on the weather-beaten stones, compose himself once +more to sleep on the little seat. + +Magic, witchcraft, possession, and all that—well, Mr Bethany might +prefer to take it on the authority of the Bible if it was his duty. But +it was at least mainly Old Testament stuff, like polygamy, Joshua, and +the ‘unclean beasts.’ The ‘unclean beasts.’ It was simply, as Simon had +said, mainly an affair of the nerves, like Indian jugglery. He had +heard of dozens of such cases, or similar cases. And it was hardly +likely that cases even remotely like his own would be much bragged +about, or advertised. All those mysterious ‘disappearances,’ too, which +one reads about so repeatedly? What of them? Even now, he felt (and +glanced swiftly behind him at the fancy), it would be better to think +as softly as possible, not to hope too openly, certainly not to triumph +in the least degree, just in case of—well—listeners. + +He would wrap up too. And he wouldn’t tell Sheila of the project till +he had come safely back. What an excellent joke it would be to confess +meekly to his escapade, and to be scolded, and then suddenly to reveal +himself. He sat back and gazed with an almost malignant animosity at +the face in the portrait, comely and plump. + +An inarticulate, unfathomable depression rolled back on him, like a +mist out of the sea. He hastily undressed, put watch and door-key and +Critchett’s powder under his pillow, paused, vacantly ruminated, and +then replaced the powder in his waistcoat pocket, said his prayers, and +got shivering to bed. He did not feel hurt at Sheila’s leaving him like +this. So long as she really believed in him. And now—Alice was home. He +listened, trying not to shiver, for her voice; and sometimes heard, he +fancied, the clear note. It was this beastly influenza that made him +feel so cold and lifeless. But all would soon come right—that is, if +only that face, luminous against the floating darkness within, would +not appear the instant he closed his eyes. + +But legions of dreams are Influenza’s allies. He fell into a chill +doze, heard voices innumerable, and one above the rest, shouting them +down, until there fell a lull. And another, as it were, from afar said +quite clearly and distinctly, ‘But surely, my dear, you have heard the +story of the poor old charwoman who talked Greek in her delirium? A +little school French need not alarm us.’ And Lawford opened his eyes +again on Mr Bethany standing at his bed. + +‘Tt, tt! There, I’ve been and waked him. And yet they say men make such +excellent nurses in time of war. But you see, Lawford, what did I tell +you? Wasn’t I now an infallible prophet? Your wife has been giving me a +most glowing account. Quite your old self, she tells me, except for +just this—this touch of facial paralysis. And I think, do you know’ +(the kind old creature stooped over the bed, but still, Lawford noticed +bitterly, still without his spectacles)—‘yes, I really think there is a +decided improvement. Not quite so—drawn. We must make haste slowly. +Wedderburn, you know, believes profoundly in Simon; he pulled his wife +through a dangerous confinement. And here’s pills and tonics and +liniments—a whole chemist’s shop. Oh, we are getting on swimmingly.’ + +Flamelight was flickering in the candled dusk. Lawford turned his head +and saw Sheila’s coiled, beautiful hair in the firelight. + +‘You haven’t told Alice?’ he asked. + +‘My dear good man,’ said Mr Bethany, ‘of course we haven’t. You shall +tell her yourself on Monday. What an incredible tradition it will be! +But you mustn’t worry; you mustn’t even think. And no more of these +jaunts, eh? That Ferguson business—that was too bad. What are we going +to do with the fellow now we have created him? He will come home to +roost—mark my words. And as likely as not down the Vicarage chimney. I +wouldn’t have believed it of you, my dear fellow.’ He beamed, but +looked, none the less, very lean and fagged and depressed. + +‘How did the wedding go off?’ Lawford managed to think of inquiring. + +‘Oh, A1,’ said Mr Bethany. ‘I’ve just been describing it to Alice—the +bride, her bridegroom, mother, aunts, cake, presents, finery, blushes, +tears, and everything that was hers. We’ve been in fits, haven’t we, +Mrs Lawford? And Alice says I’m a Worth in a clerical collar—didn’t +she? And that it’s only Art that has kept me out of an apron. Now look +here; quiet, quiet, quiet; no excitement, no pranks. What is there to +worry about, pray? And now Little Dorrit’s down with influenza too. And +Craik and I will have double work to do. Well, well; good-bye, my dear. +God bless you, Lawford. I can’t tell you how relieved, how unspeakably +relieved I am to find you so much—so much better. Feed him up, my other +dear; body and mind and soul and spirit. And there goes the bell. I +must have a biscuit. I’ve swallowed nothing but a Cupid in plaster of +Paris since breakfast. Goodnight; we shall miss you both—both.’ + +But when Sheila returned, her husband was sunk again into a quiet +sleep, from which not even the many questions she fretted to put to him +seemed weighty enough to warrant his disturbance. + +So when Lawford again opened his eyes he found himself lying wide +awake, clear and refreshed, and eager to get up. But upon the air lay +the still hush of early morning. He tried in vain to catch back sleep +again. A distant shred of dream still floated in his mind, like a cloud +at evening. He rarely dreamed, but certainly something immensely +interesting had but a moment ago eluded him. He sat up and looked at +the clear red cinders and their maze of grottoes. He got out of bed and +peeped through the blinds. To the east and opposite to him gardens and +an apple-orchard lay, and there in strange liquid tranquillity hung the +morning star, and rose, rifling into the dusk of night, the first grey +of dawn. The street beneath its autumn leaves was vacant, charmed, +deserted. + +Hardly since childhood had Lawford seen the dawn unless over his winter +breakfast-table. Very much like a child now he stood gazing out of his +bow-window—the child whom Time’s busy robins had long ago covered over +with the leaves of numberless hours. A vague exultation fumed up into +his brain. Still on the borders of sleep, he unlocked the great +wardrobe and took out an old faded purple and crimson dressing-gown +that had belonged to his grandfather, the chief glory of every +Christmas charade. He pulled the cowl-like hood over his head and +strode majestically over to the looking-glass. + +He looked in there a moment on the strange face, like a child dismayed +at its own excitement, and a fit of sobbing that was half +uncontrollable laughter swept over him. He threw off the hood and +turned once more to the window. Consciousness had flooded back indeed. +What would Sheila have said to see him there? The unearthly beauty and +stillness, and man’s small labours, garden and wall and roof-tree idle +and smokeless in the light of daybreak—there seemed to be some +half-told secret between them. What had life done with him to leave a +reality so clouded? He put on his slippers, and, gently opening the +door, crept with extreme caution up the stairs. At a long, narrow +landing window he confronted a panorama of starry night-gardens, +sloping orchards; and beyond them fields, hills, Orion, the Dogs, in +the clear and cloudless darkness. + +‘My God, how beautiful!’ a voice whispered. And a cock crowed mistily +afar. He stood staring like a child into the wintry brightness of a +pastry-cook’s. Then once more he crept stealthily on. He stooped and +listened at a closed door, until he fancied that above the beating of +his own heart he could hear the breathing of the sleeper within. Then, +taking firm hold of the handle with both hands, he slowly noiselessly +turned it, and peeped in on Alice. + +The moon was long past her faint shining here. The blind was down. And +yet it was not pitch dark. He stood with eyes fixed, waiting. Then he +edged softly forward and knelt down beside the bed. He could hear her +breathing now: long, low, quiet, unhastening—the miracle of life. He +could just dimly discern the darkness of her hair against the pillow. +Some long-sealed spring of tenderness seemed to rise in his heart with +a grief and an ache he had never known before. Here at least he could +find a little peace, a brief pause, however futile and stupid all his +hopes of the night had been. He leant his head on his hands on the +counterpane and refused to think. He felt a quick tremor, a startled +movement, and knew that eyes wide open with fear were striving to +pierce the gloom between them. + +‘There, there, dearest,’ he said in a low whisper, ‘it’s only me, only +me.’ He stroked the narrow hand and gazed into the shadowiness. Her +fingers lay quiet and passive in his, with that strange sense of +immateriality that sleep brings to the body. + +‘You, you!’ she answered with a deep sigh. ‘Oh, dearest, how you +frightened me. What is wrong? why have you come? Are you worse, +dearest, dearest?’ + +He kissed her hand. ‘No, Alice, not worse. I couldn’t sleep, that was +all.’ + +‘Oh, and I came so utterly miserable to bed because you would not see +me. And Mother would tell me only so very little. I didn’t even know +you had been ill.’ She pressed his hand between her own. ‘But this, you +know, is very, very naughty—you will catch cold, you bad thing. What +_would_ Mother say?’ + +‘I think we mustn’t tell her, dear. I couldn’t help it; I felt much I +wanted to see you. I have been rather miserable.’ + +‘Why?’ she said, stroking his hand from wrist to fingertips with one +soft finger. ‘You mustn’t be miserable. You and me have never done such +a thing before; have we? Was it that wretched old Flu?’ + +It was too dark in the little fragrant room even to see her face so +close to his own. And yet he feared. ‘Dr Simon,’ she went on softly, +‘said it was. But isn’t your voice a little hoarse, and it sounds so +melancholy in the dark. And oh’—she squeezed his wrist—‘you have grown +so thin! You do frighten me. Whatever should I do if you were really +ill? And it was so odd, dear. When first I woke I seemed to be still +straining my eyes in a dream, at such a curious, haunting face—not very +nice. I am glad, I am glad you were here.’ + +‘What was the dream-face like?’ came the muttered question. + +‘Dark and sharp, and rather dwelling eyes; you know those long faces +one sees in dreams: like a hawk, like a conjuror’s.’ + +Like a conjuror’s!—it was the first unguarded and ungarbled criticism. +‘Perhaps, dear, if you find my voice different, and my hand shrunk up, +you will find my face changed, too—like a conjuror’s.... What then?’ + +She laughed gaily and tenderly. ‘You silly silly; I should love you +more than ever. Your hands are icy cold. I can’t warm them nohow.’ + +Lawford held tight his daughter’s hand. ‘You do love me, Alice? You +would not turn against me, whatever happened? Ah, you shall see, you +shall see.’ A sudden burning hope sprang up in him. Surely when all was +well again, these last few hours would not have been spent in vain. +Like the shadow of death they had been, against whose darkness the +green familiar earth seems beautiful as the plains of paradise. Had he +but realized before how much he loved her—what years of life had been +wasted in leaving it all unsaid! He came back from his reverie to find +his hand wet with her tears. He stroked her hair, and touched gently +her eyelids without speaking. + +‘You will let me come in to-morrow?’ she pleaded; ‘you won’t keep me +out?’ + +‘Ah, but, dear, you must remember your mother. She gets so anxious, and +every word the doctor says is law. How would you like me to come again +like this, perhaps?—like Santa Claus?’ + +‘You know how I love having you,’ she said, and stopped. ‘But—but...’ +He leaned closer. ‘Yes, yes, come,’ she said, clutching his hand and +hiding her eyes; ‘it is only my dream—that horrible, dwelling face in +the dream; it frightened me so.’ + +Lawford rose very slowly from his knees. He could feel in the dark his +brows drawn down; there came a low, sullen beating on his ear; he saw +his face as it were in dim outline against the dark. Rage and rebellion +surged up in him; even his love could be turned to bitterness. Well, +two could play at any game! Alice sprang up in bed and caught his +sleeve. ‘Dearest, dearest, you must not be angry with me now!’ + +He flung himself down beside the bed. Anger, resentment died away. ‘You +are all I have left,’ he said. + +He stole back, as he had come, in the clear dawn to his bedroom. + +It was not five yet. He put a few more coals on his fire and blew out +the night-light, and lay down. But it was impossible to rest, to remain +inactive. He would go down and search for that first volume of Quain. +Hallucination, Influenza, Insanity—why, Sheila must have purposely +mislaid it. A rather formidable figure he looked, descending the stairs +in the grey dusk of daybreak. The breakfast-room was at the back of the +house. He tilted the blind, and a faint light flowed in from the +changing colours of the sky. He opened the glass door of the little +bookcase to the right of the window, and ran eye and finger over the +few rows of books. But as he stood there with his back to the room, +just as the shadow of a bird’s wing floats across the moonlight of a +pool, he became suddenly conscious that something, somebody had passed +across the doorway, and in passing had looked in on him. + +He stood motionless, listening; but no sound broke the morning +slumbrousness, except the faraway warbling of a thrush in the first +light. So sudden and transitory had been the experience that it seemed +now to be illusory; yet it had so caught him up, it had with so furtive +and sinister a quietness broken in on his solitude, that for a moment +he dared not move. A cold, indefinite sensation stole over him that he +was being watched; that some dim, evil presence was behind him biding +its time, patient and stealthy, with eyes fixed unmovingly on him where +he stood. But, watch and wait as silently as he might, only the day +broadened at the window, and at last a narrow ray of sunlight stole +trembling up into the dusky bowl of the sky. + +At any rate Quain was found, with all the ills of life, from A to I; +and Lawford turned back to his bondage with the book under his arm. + + + + +CHAPTER EIGHT + + +The Sabbath, pale with September sunshine, and monotonous with chiming +bells, had passed languidly away. Dr Simon had come and gone, +optimistic and urbane, yet with a faint inward dissatisfaction over a +patient behind whose taciturnity a hint of mockery and subterfuge +seemed to lurk. Even Mrs Lawford had appeared to share her husband’s +reticence. But Dr Simon had happened on other cases in his experience +where tact was required rather than skill, and time than medicine. + +The voices and footsteps, even the frou-frou_ of worshippers going to +church, the voices and footsteps of worshippers returning from church, +had floated up to the patient’s open window. Sunlight had drawn across +his room in one pale beam, and vanished. A few callers had called. +Hothouse flowers, waxen and pale, had been left with messages of +sympathy. Even Dr Critchett had respectfully and discreetly made +inquiries on his way home from chapel. + +Lawford had spent most of his time in pacing to and fro in his soft +slippers. The very monotony had eased his mind. Now and again he had +lain motionless, with his face to the ceiling. He had dozed and had +awakened, cold and torpid with dream. He had hardly been aware of the +process, but every hour had done something, it seemed, towards +clarifying his point of view. A consciousness had begun to stir in him +that was neither that of the old, easy Lawford, whom he had never been +fully aware of before, nor of this strange ghostly intelligence that +haunted the hawklike, restless face, and plucked so insistently at his +distracted nerves. He had begun in a vague fashion to be aware of them +both, could in a fashion discriminate between them, almost as if there +really were two spirits in stubborn conflict within him. It would, of +course, wear him down in time. There could be only one end to such a +struggle—_the_ end. + +All day he had longed for freedom, on and on, with craving for the open +sky, for solitude, for green silence, beyond these maddening walls. +This heedful silken coming and going, these Sunday voices, this +reiterant yelp of a single peevish bell—would they never cease? And +above all, betwixt dread and an almost physical greed, he hungered for +night. He sat down with elbows on knees and head on his hands, thinking +of night, its secrecy, its immeasurable solitude. + +His eyelids twitched; the fire before him had for an instant gone black +out. He seemed to see slow-gesturing branches, grass stooping beneath a +grey and wind-swept sky. He started up; and the remembrance of the +morning returned to him—the glassy light, the changing rays, the +beaming gilt upon the useless books. Now, at last, at the windows; +afternoon had begun to wane. And when Sheila brought up his tea, as if +Chance had heard his cry, she entered in hat and stole. She put down +the tray, and paused at the glass, looking across it out of the window. + +‘Alice says you are to eat every one of those delicious sandwiches, and +especially the tiny omelette. You have scarcely touched anything +to-day, Arthur. I am a poor one to preach, I am afraid; but you know +what that will mean—a worse breakdown still. You really must try to +think of—of us all.’ + +‘Are you going to church?’ he asked in a low voice. + +‘Not, of course, if you would prefer not. But Dr Simon advised me most +particularly to go out at least once a day. We must remember, this is +not the beginning of your illness. Long-continued anxiety, I suppose, +does tell on one in time. Anyhow, he said that I looked worried and +run-down. I _am_ worried. Let us both try for each other’s sakes, or +even if only for Alice’s, to—to do all we can. I must not harass you; +but is there any—do you see the slightest change of any kind?’ + +‘You always look pretty, Sheila; to-night you look prettier: _that_ is +the only change, I think.’ + +Mrs Lawford’s attitude intensified in its stillness. ‘Now, speaking +quite frankly, what is it in you suggests these remarks at such a time? +That’s what baffles me. It seems so childish, so needlessly blind.’ + +‘I am very sorry, Sheila, to be so childish. But I’m not, say what you +like, blind. You _are_ pretty: I’d repeat it if I was burning at the +stake.’ + +Sheila lowered her eyes softly on to the rich-toned picture in the +glass. ‘Supposing,’ she said, watching her lips move, ‘supposing—of +course, I know you are getting better and all that—but supposing you +don’t change back as Mr Bethany thinks, what will you do? Honestly, +Arthur, when I think over it calmly, the whole tragedy comes back on me +with such a force it sweeps me off my feet; I am for the moment +scarcely my own mistress. What would you do?’ + +‘I think, Sheila,’ replied a low, infinitely weary voice, ‘I think I +should marry again.’ It was the same wavering, faintly ironical voice +that had slightly discomposed Dr Simon that same morning. + +‘“Marry again”!’ exclaimed incredulously the full lips in the +looking-glass. ‘Who?’ + +‘_You_, dear!’ + +Sheila turned softly round, conscious in a most humiliating manner that +she had ever so little flushed. + +Her husband was pouring out his tea, unaware, apparently, of her change +of position. She watched him curiously. In spite of all her reason, of +her absolute certainty, she wondered even again for a moment if this +really could be Arthur. And for the first time she realised the power +and mastery of that eager and far too hungry face. Her mind seemed to +pause, fluttering in air, like a bird in the wind. She hastened rather +unsteadily to the door. + +‘Will you want anything more, do you think, for an hour?’ she asked. + +Her husband looked up over his little table. ‘Is Alice going with you?’ + +‘Oh yes; poor child, she looks so pale and miserable. We are going to +Mrs Sherwin’s, and then on to Church. You will lock your door?’ + +‘Yes, I will lock my door.’ + +‘And I do hope Arthur—nothing rash!’ + +A change, that seemed almost the effect of actual shadow, came over his +face. ‘I wish you could stay with me,’ he said slowly. ‘I don’t think +you have any idea what—what I go through.’ + +It was as if a child had asked on the verge of terror for a candle in +the dark. But an hour’s terror is better than a lifetime of timidity. +Sheila sighed. + +‘I think,’ she said, ‘I too might say that. But there; giving way will +do nothing for either of us. I shall be gone only for an hour, or two +at the most. And I told Mr Bethany I should have to come out before the +sermon: it’s only Mr Craik.’ + +‘But why Mrs Sherwin? She’d worm a secret out of one’s grave.’ + +‘It’s useless to discuss that, Arthur; you have always consistently +disliked my friends. It’s scarcely likely that you would find any +improvement in them now.’ + +‘Oh, well—’ he began. But the door was already closed. + +‘Sheila!’ he called in a burst of anger. + +‘Well, Arthur?’ + +‘You have taken my latchkey.’ + +Sheila came hastily in again. ‘Your latchkey?’ + +‘I am going out.’ + +‘“Going out!”—you will not be so mad, so criminal; and after your +promise!’ + +He stood up. ‘It is useless to argue. If I do not go out, I shall +certainly go mad. As for criminal—why, that’s a woman’s word. Who on +earth is to know me?’ + +‘It is of no consequence, then, that the servants are already gossiping +about this impossible Dr Ferguson; that you are certain to be seen +either going or returning; that Alice is bound to discover that you are +well enough to go out, and yet not even enough to say good-night to +your own daughter—oh, it’s monstrous, it’s a frantic, a heartless thing +to do!’ Her voice vaguely suggested tears. + +Lawford eyed her coldly and stubbornly—thinking of the empty room he +would leave awaiting his return, its lamp burning, its fire-flames +shining. It was almost a physical discomfort, this longing unspeakable +for the twilight, the green secrecy and the silence of the graves. +‘Keep them out of the way,’ he said in a low voice; ‘it will be dark +when I come in.’ His hardened face lit up. ‘It’s useless to attempt to +dissuade me.’ + +‘Why must you always be hurting me? why do you seem to delight in +trying to estrange me?’ Husband and wife faced each other across the +clear-lit room. He did not answer. + +‘For the last time,’ she said in a quiet, hard voice, ‘I ask you not to +go.’ + +He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Ask me not to come back,’ he said; ‘that’s +nearer your hope.’ He turned his face to the fire. Without moving he +heard her go out, return, pause, and go out again. And when he +deliberately wheeled round in his chair the little key lay conspicuous +there on the counterpane. + + + + +CHAPTER NINE + + +The last light of sunset lay in the west; and a sullen wrack of cloud +was mounting into the windless sky when Lawford entered the country +graveyard again by its dark weather-worn lych-gate. The old stone +church with its square tower stood amid trees, its eastern window +faintly aglow with crimson and purple. He could hear a steady, rather +nasal voice through its open lattices. But the stooping stones and the +cypresses were out of sight of its porch. He would not be seen down +there. He paused a moment, however; his hat was drawn down over his +eyes; he was shivering. Far over the harvest fields showed a growing +pallor in the sky. He would have the moon to go home by. + +‘Home!’—these trees, this tongueless companionship, this heavy winelike +air, this soundless turf—these in some obscure desolate fashion seemed +far rather really home. His eyes wandered towards the fading crimson. +And with that on his right hand he began softly, almost on tiptoe, +descending the hill. It seemed to him that the steady eyes of the dead +were watching him in his slow progress. The air was echoing with little +faint, clear calls. He turned and snapped his fingers at a robin that +was stalking him with its stony twittering from bush to bush. + +But when after some little time he actually came out of the narrow +avenue and looked down, his heart misgave him, for some one was already +sitting there on his low and solitary seat beneath the cypresses. He +stood hesitating, gazing steadily and yet half vacantly at the +motionless figure, and in a while a face was lifted in his direction, +and undisconcerted eyes calmly surveyed him. + +‘I am afraid,’ called Lawford rather nervously—‘I hope I am not +intruding?’ + +‘Not at all, not at all,’ said the stranger. ‘I have no privileges +here; at least as yet.’ + +Lawford again hesitated, then slowly advanced. ‘It’s astonishingly +quiet and beautiful,’ he said. + +The stranger turned his head to glance over the fields. ‘Yes, it is, +very,’ he replied. There was the faintest accent, a little drawl of +unfriendliness in the remark. + +‘You often sit here?’ Lawford persisted. + +The stranger raised his eyebrows. ‘Oh yes, often.’ He smiled. ‘It is my +own modest fashion of attending divine service. The congregation is +rapt.’ + +‘_My_ visits,’ said Lawford, ‘have been very few—in fact, so far as I +know, I have only once been here before.’ + +‘I envy you the novelty.’ There was again the same faint unmistakable +antagonism in voice and attitude; and yet so deep was the relief in +talking to a fellow creature who hadn’t the least suspicion of anything +unusual in his appearance that Lawford was extremely disinclined to +turn back. He made another effort—for conversation with strangers had +always been a difficulty to him—and advanced towards the seat. ‘You +mustn’t please let me intrude upon you,’ he said, ‘but really I am very +interested in this queer old place. Perhaps you would tell me something +of its history?’ He sat down. His companion moved slowly to the other +side of the broken gravestone. + +‘To tell you the truth,’ he replied, picking his way as it were from +word to word, ‘it’s “history,” as people call it, does not interest me +in the least. After all, it’s not _when_ a thing is, but _what_ it is, +that much matters. What this is’—he glanced, with head bent, across the +shadowy stones, ‘is pretty evident. Of course, age has its charms.’ + +‘And is this very old?’ + +‘Oh yes, it’s old right enough, as things go; but even age, perhaps, is +mainly an affair of the imagination. There’s a tombstone near that +little old hawthorn, and there are two others side by side under the +wall, still even legibly late seventeenth century. That’s pretty good +weathering.’ He smiled faintly. ‘Of course, the church itself is +centuries older, drenched with age. But she’s still sleep-walking while +these old tombstones dream. Glow-worms and crickets are not such bad +bedfellows.’ + +‘What interested me most, I think,’ said Lawford haltingly, ‘was this.’ +He pointed with his stick to the grave at his feet. + +‘Ah, yes, Sabathier’s,’ said the stranger; ‘I know his peculiar history +almost by heart.’ + +Lawford found himself staring with unusual concentration into the +rather long and pale face. ‘Not, I suppose,’ he resumed faintly—‘not, I +suppose, beyond what’s there.’ + +His companion leant his hand on the old stooping tombstone. ‘Well, you +know, there’s a good deal there’—he stooped over—‘if you read between +the lines. Even if you don’t.’ + +‘A suicide,’ said Lawford, under his breath. + +‘Yes, a suicide; that’s why our Christian countrymen have buried him +outside of the fold. Dead or alive, they try to keep the wolf out.’ + +‘Is this, then, unconsecrated ground?’ said Lawford. + +‘Haven’t you noticed,’ drawled the other, ‘how green the grass grows +down here, and how very sharp are poor old Sabathier’s thorns? Besides, +he was a stranger, and they—kept him out.’ + +‘But, surely,’ said Lawford, ‘was it so entirely a matter of choice—the +laws of the Church? If he did kill himself, he did.’ + +The stranger turned with a little shrug. ‘I don’t suppose it’s a matter +of much consequence to _him_. I fancied I was his only friend. May I +venture to ask why you are interested in the poor old thing?’ + +Lawford’s mind was as calm and shallow as a millpond. ‘Oh, a rather +unusual thing happened to me here,’ he said. ‘You say you often come?’ + +‘Often,’ said the stranger rather curtly. + +‘Has anything—ever—occurred?’ + +‘“Occurred?”’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘I wish it had. I come here +simply, as I have said, because it’s quiet; because I prefer the +company of those who never answer me back, and who do not so much as +condescend to pay me the least attention.’ He smiled and turned his +face towards the quiet fields. + +Lawford, after a long pause, lifted his eyes. ‘Do you think,’ he said +softly, ‘it is possible one ever could?’ + +‘“One ever could?”’ + +‘Answer back?’ + +There was a low rotting wall of stone encompassing Sabathier’s grave; +on this the stranger sat down. He glanced up rather curiously at his +companion. ‘Seldom the time and the place and the _revenant_ +altogether. The thought has occurred to others,’ he ventured to add. + +‘Of course, of course,’ said Lawford eagerly. ‘But it is an absolutely +new one to me. I don’t mean that I have never had such an idea, just in +one’s own superficial way; but’—he paused and glanced swiftly into the +fast-thickening twilight—‘I wonder: are they, do you think, really, all +quite dead?’ + +‘Call and see!’ taunted the stranger softly. + +‘Ah, yes, I know,’ said Lawford. ‘But I believe in the resurrection of +the body; that is what we say; and supposing, when a man dies—supposing +it was most frightfully against one’s will; that one hated the awful +inaction that death brings, shutting a poor devil up like a child +kicking against the door in a dark cupboard; one might surely one +might—just quietly, you know, try to get out? wouldn’t you?’ he added. + +‘And, surely,’ he found himself beginning gently to argue again, +‘surely, what about, say, him?’ He nodded towards the old and broken +grave that lay between them. + +‘What, Sabathier?’ the other echoed, laying his hand upon the stone. + +And a sheer enormous abyss of silence seemed to follow the unanswerable +question. + +‘He was a stranger; it says so. Good God!’ said Lawford, ‘how he must +have wanted to get home! He killed himself, poor wretch, think of the +fret and fever he must have been in—just before. Imagine it.’ + +‘But it might, you know,’ suggested the other with a smile—‘might have +been sheer indifference.’ + +‘“Nicholas Sabathier, Stranger to this parish”—no, no,’ said Lawford, +his heart beating as if it would choke him, ‘I don’t fancy it was +indifference.’ + +It was almost too dark now to distinguish the stranger’s features but +there seemed a faint suggestion of irony in his voice. ‘And how do you +suppose your angry naughty child would set about it? It’s narrow +quarters; how would he begin?’ + +Lawford sat quite still. ‘You say—I hope I am not detaining you—you say +you have come here, sat here often, on this very seat; have you ever +had—have you ever fallen asleep here?’ + +‘Why do you ask?’ inquired the other curiously. + +‘I was only wondering,’ said Lawford. He was cold and shivering. He +felt instinctively it was madness to sit on here in the thin gliding +mist that had gathered in swathes above the grass, milk-pale in the +rising moon. The stranger turned away from him. + +‘“For in that sleep of death what dreams may come must give us pause,”’ +he said slowly, with a little satirical catch on the last word. ‘What +did _you_ dream?’ + +Lawford glanced helplessly about him. The moon cast lean grey beams of +light between the cypresses. But to his wide and wandering eyes it +seemed that a radiance other than hers haunted these mounds and leaning +stones. ‘Have you ever noticed it?’ he said, putting out his hand +towards his unknown companion; ‘this stone is cracked from head to +foot?... But there’—he rose stiff and chilled—‘I am afraid I have bored +you with my company. You came here for solitude, and I have been trying +to convince you that we are surrounded with witnesses. You will forgive +my intrusion?’ There was a kind of old-fashioned courtesy in his manner +that he himself was dimly aware of. He held out his hand. + +‘I hope you will think nothing of the kind,’ said the other earnestly; +‘how could it be in any sense an intrusion? It’s the old story of +Bluebeard. And I confess I too should very much like a peep into his +cupboard. Who wouldn’t? But there, it’s merely a matter of time, I +suppose.’ He paused, and together they slowly ascended the path already +glimmering with a heavy dew. At the porch they paused once more. And +now it was the stranger that held out his hand. + +‘Perhaps,’ he said, ‘you will give me the pleasure of some day +continuing our talk. As for our friend below, it so happens that I +_have_ managed to pick up a little more of his history than the sexton +seems to have heard of—if you would care some time or other to share +it. I live only at the foot of the hill, not half a mile distant. +Perhaps you could spare the time now?’ + +Lawford took out his watch, ‘You are really very kind,’ he said. ‘But, +perhaps—well, whatever that history may be, I think you would agree +that mine is even—but, there, I’ve talked too much about myself +already. Perhaps to-morrow?’ + +‘Why, to-morrow, then,’ said his companion. ‘It’s a flat wooden house, +on the left-hand side. Come at any time of the evening’; he paused +again and smiled—‘the third house after the Rectory, which is marked up +on the gate. My name is Herbert—Herbert Herbert to be precise.’ + +Lawford took out his pocket-book and a card. ‘Mine,’ he said, handing +it gravely to his companion. ‘is Lawford—at least...’ It was really the +first time that either had seen the other’s face at close quarters and +clear-lit; and on Lawford’s a moon almost at the full shone dazzlingly. +He saw an expression—dismay, incredulity, overwhelming +astonishment—start suddenly into the dark, rather indifferent eyes. + +‘What is it?’ he cried, hastily stooping close. + +‘Why,’ said the other, laughing and turning away, ‘I think the moon +must have bewitched me too.’ + + + + +CHAPTER TEN + + +Lawford listened awhile before opening his door. He heard voices in the +dining-room. A light shone faintly between the blinds of his bedroom. +He very gently let himself in, and unheard, unseen, mounted the stairs. +He sat down in front of the fire, tired out and bitterly cold in spite +of his long walk home. But his mind was wearier even than his body. He +tried in vain to catch up the thread of his thoughts. He only knew for +certain that so far as his first hope and motives had gone his errand +had proved entirely futile. ‘How could I possibly fall asleep with that +fellow talking there?’ he had said to himself angrily; yet knew in his +heart that their talk had driven every other idea out of his mind. He +had not yet even glanced into the glass. His every thought was vainly +wandering round and round the one curious hint that had drifted in, but +which he had not yet been able to put into words. + +Supposing, though, that he had really fallen into a deep sleep, with +none to watch or spy—what then? However ridiculous that idea, it was +not more ridiculous, more incredible than the actual fact. If he had +remained there, he might, it was just possible that he would by now, +have actually awakened just his own familiar every-day self again. And +the thought of that—though he hardly realised its full import—actually +did send him on tip-toe for a glance that more or less effectually set +the question at rest. And there looked out at him, it seemed, the same +dark sallow face that had so much appalled him only two nights +ago—expressionless, cadaverous, with shadowy hollows beneath the +glittering eyes. And even as he watched it, its lips, of their own +volition, drew together and questioned him—‘Whose?’ + +He was not to be given much leisure, however, for fantastic reveries +like this. As he leaned his head on his hands, gladly conscious that he +could not possibly bear this incessant strain for long, Sheila opened +the door. He started up. + +‘I wish you would knock,’ he said angrily; ‘you talk of quiet; you tell +me to rest, and think; and here you come creeping and spying on me as +if I was a child in a nursery. I refuse to be watched and guarded and +peeped on like this.’ He knew that his hands were trembling, that he +could not keep his eyes fixed, that his voice was nearly inarticulate. + +Sheila drew in her lips. ‘I have merely come to tell you, Arthur, that +Mr Bethany has brought Mr Danton in to supper. He agrees with me it +really would be advisable to take such a very old and prudent and +practical friend into our confidence. You do nothing I ask of you. I +simply cannot bear the burden of this incessant anxiety. Look, now, +what your night walk has done for you! You look positively at death’s +door.’ + +‘What—what an instinct you have for the right word,’ said Lawford +softly. ‘And Danton, of all people in the world! It was surely rather a +curious, a thoughtless choice. Has he had supper?’ + +‘Why do you ask?’ + +‘He won’t believe: too—bloated.’ + +‘I think,’ said Sheila indignantly, ‘it is hardly fair to speak of a +very old and a very true friend of mine in such—well, vulgar terms as +that. Besides, Arthur, as for believing—without in the least desiring +to hurt your feelings—I must candidly warn you, some people won’t.’ + +‘Come along,’ said Lawford, with a faint gust of laughter; ‘let’s see.’ + +They went quickly downstairs, Sheila with less dignity, perhaps, than +she had been surprised into since she had left a slimmer girlhood +behind. She swept into the gaze of the two gentlemen standing together +on the hearthrug; and so was caught, as it were, between a rain of +conflicting glances, for her husband had followed instantly, and stood +now behind her, stooping a little, and with something between contempt +and defiance confronting an old fat friend, whom that one brief +challenging instant had congealed into a condition of passive and +immovable hostility. + +Mr Danton composed his chin in his collar, and deliberately turned +himself towards his companion. His small eyes wandered, and +instantaneously met and rested on those of Mrs Lawford. + +‘Arthur thought he would prefer to come down and see you himself.’ + +‘You take such formidable risks, Lawford,’ said Mr Bethany in a dry, +difficult voice. + +‘Am I really to believe,’ Danton began huskily. ‘I am sure, Bethany, +you will—My dear Mrs Lawford!’ said he, stirring vaguely, glancing +restlessly. + +‘It was not my wish, Vicar, to come at all,’ said a voice from the +doorway. ‘To tell you the truth, I am too tired to care a jot either +way. And’—he lifted a long arm—‘I must positively refuse to produce the +least, the remotest proof that I am not, so far as I am personally +aware, even the Man in the Moon. Danton at heart was always an +incorrigible sceptic. Aren’t you, T. D.? You pride your dear old brawn +on it in secret?’ + +‘I really—’ began Danton in a rich still voice. + +‘Oh, but you know you are,’ drawled on the slightly hesitating +long-drawn syllables; ‘it’s your parochial métier_. Firm, unctuous, +subtle, scepticism; and to that end your body flourishes. You were born +fat; you became fat; and fat, my dear Danton, has been deliberately +thrust on you—in layers! Lampreys! You’ll perish of surfeit some day, +of sheer Dantonism. And fat, postmortem, Danton. Oh, what a basting’s +there!’ + +Mr Bethany, with a convulsive effort, woke. He turned swiftly on Mrs +Lawford. ‘Why, why, could you not have seen?’ he cried. + +‘It’s no good, Vicar. She’s all sheer Laodicean. Blow hot, blow cold. +North, south, east, west—to have a weathercock for a wife is to marry +the wind. There’s nothing to be got from poor Sheila but...’ + +‘Lawford!’ the little man’s voice was as sharp as the crack of a whip; +‘I forbid it. Do you hear me? I forbid it. Some self-command; my dear +good fellow, remember, remember it’s only the will, the will that keeps +us breathing.’ + +Lawford peered as if out of a gathering dusk, that thickened and +flickered with shadows before his eyes. ‘What’s he mean, then,’ he +muttered huskily, ‘coming here with his black, still carcase—peeping, +peeping—what’s he mean, I say?’ There was a moment’s silence. Then with +lifted brows and wide eyes that to every one of his three witnesses +left an indelible memory of clear and wolfish light within their glassy +pupils, he turned heavily, and climbed back to his solitude. + +‘I suppose,’ began Danton, with an obvious effort to disentangle +himself from the humiliation of the moment, ‘I suppose he +was—wandering?’ + +‘Bless me, yes,’ said Mr Bethany cordially—‘fever. We all know what +that means.’ + +‘Yes,’ said Danton, taking refuge in Mrs Lawford’s white and intent +gaze. + +‘Just think, think, Danton—the awful, incessant strain of such an +ordeal. Think for an instant what such a thing _means_!’ + +Danton inserted a plump, white finger between collar and chin. ‘Oh yes. +But—eh?—needlessly abusive? I never _said_ I disbelieved him.’ + +‘Do you?’ said Mrs Lawford’s voice. + +He poised himself, as if it were, on the monolithic stability of his +legs. ‘Eh?’ he said. + +Mr Bethany sat down at the table. ‘I rather feared some such temporary +breakdown as this, Danton. I think I foresaw it. And now, just while we +are all three alone here together in friendly conclave, wouldn’t it be +as well, don’t you think, to confront ourselves with the difficulties? +I know—we all know, that that poor half-demented creature _is_ Arthur +Lawford. This morning he was as sane, as lucid as I hope I am now. An +awful calamity has suddenly fallen upon him—this change. I own frankly +at the first sheer shock it staggered me as I think for the moment it +has staggered you. But when I had seen the poor fellow face to face, +heard him talk, and watched him there upstairs in the silence stir and +awake and come up again to his trouble out of his sleep. I had no more +doubt in my own mind and heart that he was he than I have in my mind +that I—am I. We do in some mysterious way, you’ll own at once, grow so +accustomed, so inured, if you like, to each other’s faces (masks though +they be) that we hardly realise we see them when we are speaking +together. And yet the slightest, the most infinitesimal change is +instantly apparent.’ + +‘Oh yes, Vicar; but you see—’ + +Mr Bethany raised a small lean hand: ‘One moment, please. I have heard +Lawford’s own account. Conscious or unconscious, he has been through +some terrific strain, some such awful conflict with the unseen powers +that we—thank God!—have only read about, and never perhaps, until death +is upon us, shall witness for ourselves. What more likely, more +inevitable than that such a thing should leave its scar, its cloud, its +masking shadow?—call it what you will. A smile can turn a face we dread +into a face we’d die for. Some experience, which would be nothing but a +hideous cruelty and outrage to ask too closely about—one, perhaps, +which he could, even if he would, poor fellow, give no account of—has +put him temporarily at the world’s mercy. They made him a nine days’ +wonder, a byword. And that, my dear Danton, is just where we come in. +We know the man himself; and it is to be our privilege to act as a +buffer-state, to be intermediaries between him and the rest of this +deadly, craving, sheepish world—for the time being; oh yes, just for +the time being. Other and keener and more knowledgeable minds than mine +or yours will some day bring him back to us again. We don’t attempt to +explain; we can’t. We simply believe.’ + +But Danton merely continued to stare, as if into the quiet of an +aquarium. + +‘My dear good Danton,’ persisted Mr Bethany with cherubic patience, +‘how old are you?’ + +‘I don’t see quite...’ smiled Danton with recovered ease, and rapidly +mobilising forces. ‘Excuse the confidence, Mrs Lawford, I’m +forty-three.’ + +‘Good,’ said Mr Bethany; ‘and I’m seventy-one, and this child here’—he +pointed an accusing finger at Sheila—is youth perpetual. So,’ he +briskly brightened, ‘say, between us we’re six score all told. Are +we—can _we_, deliberately, with this mere pinch of years at our command +out of the wheeling millions that have gone—can we say, “This is +impossible,” to any single phenomenon? _Can_ we?’ + +‘No, we can’t, of course,’ said Danton formidably. ‘Not finally. That’s +all very well, but’—he paused, and nodded, nodding his round head +upward as if towards the inaudible overhead, ‘I suppose he can’t +_hear?_’ + +Mr Bethany rose cheerfully. ‘All right, Danton; I am afraid you are +exactly what the poor fellow in his delirium solemnly asseverated. And, +jesting apart, it is in delirium that we tell our sheer, plain, +unadulterated truth: you’re a nicely covered sceptic. Personally, I +refuse to discuss the matter. Mere dull, stubborn prejudice; bigotry, +if you like. I will only remark just this—that Mrs Lawford and I, in +our inmost hearts, _know_. You, my dear Danton, forgive the freedom, +merely incredulously grope. Faith versus Reason—that prehistoric +Armageddon. Some day, and a day not far distant either, Lawford will +come back to us. This—this shutter will be taken down as abruptly as by +some inconceivably drowsy heedlessness of common Nature it has been put +up. He’ll win through; and of his own sheer will and courage. But now, +because I ask it, and this poor child here entreats it, you will say +nothing to a living soul about the matter, say, till Friday? What +step-by-step creatures we are, to be sure! I say Friday because it will +be exactly a week then. And what’s a week?—to Nature scarcely the +unfolding of a rose. But still, Friday be it. Then, if nothing has +occurred, we will, we shall _have_ to call a friendly gathering, we +shall be compelled to have a friendly consultation.’ + +‘I’m not, I hope, a brute, Bethany,’ said Danton apologetically; ‘but, +honestly, speaking for myself, simply as a man of the world, it’s a big +risk to be taking on—what shall we call it?—on mere intuition. +Personally, and even in a court of law—though Heaven forbid it ever +reaches that stage—personally, I could swear that the fellow that stood +abusing me there, in that revolting fashion, was not Lawford. It would +be easier even to believe in him, if there were not that—that glaze, +that shocking simulation of the man himself, the very man. But then, I +am a sceptic; I own it. And ‘pon my word, Mrs Lawford, there’s plenty +of room for sceptics in a world like this.’ + +‘Very well,’ said Mr Bethany crisply, ‘that’s settled, then. With your +permission, my dear,’ he added, turning untarnishably clear childlike +eyes on Sheila, ‘I will take all risks—even to the foot of the gibbet: +accessory, Danton, _after_ the fact.’ And so direct and cloudless was +his gaze that Sheila tried in vain to evade it and to catch a glimpse +of Danton’s small agate-like eyes, now completely under mastery, and +awaiting confidently the meeting with her own. + +‘Of course,’ she said, ‘I am entirely in your hands, dear Mr Bethany.’ + + + + +CHAPTER ELEVEN + + +Lawford slept far into the cloudy Monday morning, to wake steeped in +sleep, lethargic, and fretfully haunted by inconclusive remembrances of +the night before. When Sheila, with obvious and capacious composure, +brought him his breakfast tray, he watched her face for some time +without speaking. + +‘Sheila,’ he began, as she was about to leave the room again. + +She paused, smiling. + +‘Did anything happen last night? Would you mind telling me, Sheila? Who +was it was here?’ + +Her lids the least bit narrowed. ‘Certainly, Arthur; Mr Danton was +here.’ + +‘Then it was not a dream?’ + +‘Oh no,’ said Sheila. + +‘What did I say? What did _he_ say? It was hopeless, anyhow.’ + +‘I don’t quite understand what you mean by “hopeless,” Arthur. And must +I answer the other questions?’ + +Lawford drew his hand over his face, like a tired child. ‘He +didn’t—believe?’ + +‘No, dear,’ said Sheila softly. + +‘And you, Sheila?’ came the subdued voice. + +Sheila crossed slowly to the window. ‘Well, quite honestly, Arthur, I +was not very much surprised. Whatever we are agreed about on the whole, +you were scarcely yourself last night.’ + +Lawford shut his eyes, and re-opened them full on his wife’s calm +scrutiny, who had in that moment turned in the light of the one drawn +blind to face him again. + +‘Who is? Always?’ + +‘No,’ said Sheila; ‘but—it was at least unfortunate. We can’t, I +suppose, rely on Dr Bethany alone.’ + +Lawford crouched over his food. ‘Will he blab?’ + +‘Blab! Mr Danton is a gentleman, Arthur.’ + +Lawford rolled his eyes as if in temporary vertigo. ‘Yes,’ he said. And +Sheila once more prepared to make a reposeful exit. + +‘I don’t think I can see Simon this morning.’ + +‘Oh. Who, then?’ + +‘I mean I would prefer to be left alone.’ + +‘Believe me, I had no intention to intrude.’ And this time the door +really closed. + +‘He is in a quiet, soothing sleep,’ said Sheila a few minutes later. + +‘Nothing could be better,’ said Dr Simon; and Lawford, to his +inexpressible relief, heard the fevered throbbing of the doctor’s car +reverse, and turned over and shut his eyes, dulled and exhausted in the +still unfriendliness of the vacant room. His spirits had sunk, he +thought, to their lowest ebb. He scarcely heeded the fragments of +dreams—clear, green landscapes, amazing gleams of peace, the sudden +broken voices, the rustling and calling shadowiness of +subconsciousness—in this quiet sunlight of reality. The clouds had +broken, or had been withdrawn like a veil from the October skies. One +thought alone was his refuge; one face alone haunted him with its +peace; one remembrance soothed him—Alice. Through all his scattered and +purposeless arguments he strove to remember her voice, the +loving-kindness of her eyes, her untroubled confidence. + +In the afternoon he got up and dressed himself. He could not bring +himself to stand before the glass and deliberately shave. He even +smiled at the thought of playing the barber to that lean chin. He +dressed by the fireplace. + +‘I couldn’t rest,’ he told Sheila, when she presently came in on one of +her quiet, cautious, heedful visits; ‘and one tires of reading even +Quain in bed.’ + +‘Have you found anything?’ she inquired politely. + +‘Oh yes,’ said Lawford wearily; ‘I have discovered that infinitely +worse things are infinitely commoner. But that there’s nothing quite so +picturesque.’ + +‘Tell me,’ said Sheila, with refreshing naivete. ‘How does it feel? +does it even in the slightest degree affect your mind?’ + +He turned his back and looked up at his broad gilt portrait for +inspiration. ‘Practically, not at all,’ he said hollowly. ‘Of course, +one’s nerves—that fellow Danton—when one’s overtired. You have’—his +voice, in spite of every effort, faintly quavered—‘_you_ haven’t +noticed anything? My mind?’ + +‘Me? Oh dear, no! I never was the least bit observant; you know that, +Arthur. But apart from that, and I hope you will not think me +unsympathetic—but don’t you think we must sooner or later be thinking +of what’s to be done? At present, though I fully agree with Mr Bethany +as to the wisdom of hushing this unhappy business up as long as +possible, at least from the gossiping outside world, still we are only +standing still. And your malady, dear, I suppose, isn’t. You _will_ +help me, Arthur? You will try and think? Poor Alice!’ + +‘What about Alice?’ + +‘She mopes, dear, rather. She cannot, of course, quite understand why +she must not see her father, and yet his not being, or, for the matter +of that, even if he was, at death’s door.’ + +‘At death’s door,’ murmured Lawford under his breath; ‘who was it was +saying that? Have you ever, Sheila, in a dream, or just as one’s +thoughts go sometimes, seen that door?...its ruinous stone lintel +carved into lichenous stone heads...stonily silent in the last thin +sunlight, hanging in peace unlatched. Heated, hunted, in agony—in that +cold, green-clad shadowed porch is haven and sanctuary....But beyond—O +God, beyond!’ + +Sheila stood listening with startled eyes. ‘And was all that in Quain?’ +she inquired rather flutteringly. + +Lawford turned a sidelong head, and looked steadily at his wife. + +She shook herself, with a slight shiver. ‘Very well, then,’ she said +and paused in the silence. + +Her husband yawned, and smiled, and almost as if lit with that thin +last sunshine seemed the smile that passed for an instant across the +reverie of his shadowy face. He drew a hand wearily over his eyes. +‘What has he been saying now?’ he inquired like a fretful child. + +Sheila stood very quiet and still, as if in fear of scaring some rare, +wild, timid creature by the least stir. ‘Who?’ she merely breathed. + +Lawford paused on the hearth-rug with his comb in his hand. ‘It’s just +the last rags of that beastly influenza,’ he said, and began vigorously +combing his hair. And yet, simple and frank though the action was, it +moved Sheila, perhaps, more than any other of the congested occurrences +of the last few days. Her forehead grew suddenly cold, the palms of her +hands began to ache, she had to hasten out of the room to avoid +revealing the sheer physical repulsion she had experienced. + +But Lawford, quite unmindful of the shock, continued in a kind of +heedless reverie to watch, as he combed, the still visionary thoughts +that passed in tranced stillness before his eyes. He longed beyond +measure for freedom that until yesterday he had not even dreamed +existed outside the covers of some old impossible romance—the magic of +the darkening sky, the invisible flocking presences of the dead, the +shock of imaginations that had no words, of quixotic emotions which the +stranger had stirred in that low, mocking, furtive talk beside the +broken stones of the Huguenot. Was the ‘change’ quite so monstrous, so +meaningless? How often, indeed, he remembered curiously had he seemed +to be standing outside these fast-shut gates of thought, that now had +been freely opened to him. + +He drew ajar the door, and leant his ear to listen. From far away came +a rich, long-continued chuckle of laughter, followed by the clatter of +a falling plate, and then, still more uncontrollable laughter. There +was a faint smell of toast on the air. Lawford ventured out on to the +landing and into a little room that had once, in years gone by, been +Alice’s nursery. He stood far back from the strip of open window that +showed beneath the green blind, craning forward to see into the +garden—the trees, their knotted trunks, and then, as he stole nearer, a +flower-bed, late roses, geraniums, calceolarias, the lawn and—yes, +three wicker chairs, a footstool, a work-basket, a little table on the +smooth grass in the honey-coloured sunshine; and Sheila sitting there +in the autumnal sunlight, her hands resting on the arms of her chair, +her head bent, evidently deeply engrossed in her thoughts. He crept an +inch or two forward, and stooped. There was a hat on the grass—Alice’s +big garden hat—and beside it lay Flitters, nose on paws, long ears +sagging. He had forgotten Flitters. Had Flitters forgotten him? Would +he bark at the strange, distasteful scent of a—Dr Ferguson? The coast +was clear, then. He turned even softlier yet, to confront, rapt, still, +and hovering betwixt astonishment and dread, the blue calm eyes of his +daughter, looking in at the door. It seemed to Lawford as if they had +both been suddenly swept by some unseen power into a still, unearthly +silence. + +‘We thought,’ he began at last, ‘we thought just to beckon Mrs Lawford +from the window. He—he is asleep.’ + +Alice nodded. Her whole face was in a moment flooded with red. It ebbed +and left her pale. ‘I will go down and tell mother you want to see her. +It was very silly of me. I did not quite recognise at first...I +suppose, thinking of my father—’ The words faltered, and the eyes were +lifted to his face again with a desolate, incredulous appeal. Lawford +turned away heartsick and trembling. + +‘Certainly, certainly, by no means,’ he began, listening vaguely to the +glib patter that seemed to come from another mouth. ‘Your father, my +dear young lady, I venture to think is now really on the road to +recovery. Dr Simon makes excellent progress. But, of course—two heads, +we know, are so much better than one when there’s the least—the least +difficulty. The great thing is quiet, rest, isolation, no possibility +of a shock, else—’ His voice fell away, his eloquence failed. + +For Alice stood gazing stirlessly on and on into this infinitely +strange, infinitely familiar shadowy, phantasmal face. ‘Oh yes,’ she +replied, ‘I quite understand, of course; but if I might just peep even, +it would—I should be so much, much happier. Do let me just see him, Dr +Ferguson, if only his head on the pillow! I wouldn’t even breathe. +Couldn’t it possibly help—even a faith-cure?’ She leant forward +impulsively, her voice trembling, and her eyes still shining beneath +their faint, melancholy smile. + +‘I fear, my dear...it cannot be. He longs to see you. But with his +mind, you know, in this state, it might—?’ + +‘But mother never told me,’ broke in the girl desperately, ‘there was +anything wrong with his _mind_. Oh, but that was quite unfair. You +don’t mean, you don’t mean—that—?’ + +Lawford scanned swiftly the little square beloved and memoried room +that fate had suddenly converted for him into a cage of unspeakable +pain and longing. ‘Oh no; believe me, no! Not his brain, not that, not +even wandering; really: but always thinking, always longing on and on +for you, dear, only. Quite, quite master of himself, but—’ + +‘You talk,’ she broke in again angrily, ‘only in pretence! You are +treating me like a child; and so does mother, and so it has been ever +since I came home. Why, if mother can, and you can, why may not I? Why, +if he can walk and talk in the night....’ + +‘But who—who “can walk and talk in the night?”’ inquired a low stealthy +voice out of the quietness behind her. + +Alice turned swiftly. Her mother was standing at a little distance, +with all the calm and moveless concentration of a waxwork figure, +looking up at her from the staircase. + +‘I was—I was talking to Dr Ferguson, mother.’ + +‘But as I came up the stairs I understood you to be inquiring something +of Dr Ferguson, “if,” you were saying, “he can walk and talk in the +night”: you surely were not referring to your father, child? That could +not possibly be, in his state. Dr Ferguson, I know, will bear me out in +that at least. And besides, I really must insist on following out +medical directions to the letter. Dr Ferguson I know, will fully +concur. Do, pray, Dr Ferguson,’ continued Sheila, raising her voice +even now scarcely above a rapid murmur—‘do pray assure my daughter that +she must have patience; that however much even he himself may desire +it, it is impossible that she should see her father yet. And now, my +dear child, come down, I want to have a moment’s talk with Dr Ferguson. +I feared from his beckoning at the window that something was amiss.’ + +Alice turned, dismayed, and looked steadily, almost with hostility, at +the stranger, so curiously transfixed and isolated in her small old +play-room. And in this scornful yet pleading confrontation her eye fell +suddenly on the pin in his scarf—the claw and the pearl she had known +all her life. From that her gaze flitted, like some wild demented +thing’s, over face, hair, hands, clothes, attitude, expression, and her +heart stood still in an awful, inarticulate dread of the unknown. She +turned slowly towards her mother, groped forward a few steps, turned +once more, stretching out her hands towards the vague still figure +whose eyes had called so piteously to her out of their depths, and fell +fainting in the doorway. Lawford stood motionless, vacantly watching +Sheila, who knelt, chafing the cold hands. ‘She has fainted?’ he said; +‘oh, Sheila, tell me—only fainted?’ + +Sheila made no answer; did not even raise her eyes. + +‘Some day, Sheila’ he began in a dull voice, and broke off, and without +another word, without even another glance at the still face and blue, +twitching lids, he passed her rapidly by, and in another instant Sheila +heard the house-door shut. She got up quickly, and after a glance into +the vacant bedroom turned the key; then she hastened upstairs for sal +volatile and eau de cologne.... + +It was yet clear daylight when Lawford appeared beneath the portico of +his house. With a glance of circumspection that almost seemed to +suggest a fear of pursuit, he descended the steps, only to be made +aware in so doing that Ada was with a kind of furtive eagerness +pointing out the mysterious Dr Ferguson to a steadily gazing cook. One +or two well-known and many a well-remembered face he encountered in the +thin stream of City men treading blackly along the pavement. It was a +still, high evening, and something very like a forlorn compassion rose +in his mind at sight of their grave, rather pretentious, rather dull, +respectable faces. + +He found himself walking with an affectation of effrontery, and smiling +with a faint contempt on all alike, as if to keep himself from +slinking, and the wolf out of his eyes. He felt restless, and watchful, +and suspicious, as if he had suddenly come down in the world. His, +then, was a disguise as effectual as a shabby coat and a glazing eye. +His heart sickened. Was it even worth while living on a crust of social +respectability so thin and so exquisitely treacherous? He challenged no +one. One or two actual acquaintances raised and lowered a faintly +inquiring eyebrow in his direction. One even recalled in his confusion +a smile of recognition just a moment too late. There was, it seemed, a +peculiar aura in Lawford’s presence, a shadow of a something in his +demeanour that proved him alien. + +None the less green Widderstone kept calling him, much as a bell in the +imagination tolls on and on, the echo of reality. If the worst should +come to the worst, why—there is pasture in the solitary by-ways for the +beast that strays. He quickened his pace along lonelier streets, and +soon strode freely through the little flagged and cobbled village of +shops, past the same small jutting window whose clock had told him the +hour on that first dark hurried night. All was pale and faint with +dying colours now; and decay was in the leaf, and the last swallows +filled the gold air with their clashing stillness. No one heeded him +here. He looked from side to side, exulting in the strangeness. Shops +were left behind, the last milestone passed, and in a little while he +was descending the hill beneath the elm boughs, which he remembered had +stood like a turreted wall against the sunset when first he had +wandered down into the churchyard. + +At the foot of the hill he passed by the green and white Rectory, and +there was the parson, a short fat, pursy man with wrists protruding +from his jacket sleeves as he stood on tip-toe tying up a rambling +rose-shoot on his trim cedared lawn. The next house barely showed its +old red chimney-tops, above its bowers; the next was empty, with +windows vacantly gazing, its paths peopled with great bearded weeds +that stood mutely watching and guarding the seldom-opened gate. Then +came more lofty grandmotherly elms, a dense hedge of every leaf that +pricks, and then Lawford found himself standing at the small canopied +gate of the queer old wooden house that the stranger of his talk had in +part described. + +It stood square and high and dark in a small amphitheatre of verdure. +Roses here and there sprang from the grass, and a narrow box-edged path +led to a small door in a low green-mantled wing, with its one square +window above the porch. And while, with vacant mind, Lawford stood +waiting, as one stands forebodingly upon the eve of a new experience he +heard as if at a distance the sound of falling water. He still paused +on the country roadside, scrutinising this strange, still, wooden +presence; but at last with an effort he pushed open the gate, followed +the winding path, and pulled the old iron hanging bell. There came +presently a quiet tread, and Herbert himself opened the door which led +into a little square wood-panelled hall, hung with queer old prints and +obscure portraits in dark frames. + +‘Ah, yes, come in, Mr Lawford,’ he drawled; ‘I was beginning to be +afraid you were not coming.’ + +Lawford laid hat and walking-stick on an oak bench, and followed his +churchyard companion up a slightly inclined corridor and a staircase +into a high room, covered far up the yellowish walls with old books on +shelves and in cases, between which hung in little black frames, mezzo +tints, etchings, and antiquated maps. A large table stood a few paces +from the deep alcove of the window, which was surrounded by a low, +faded, green seat, and was screened from the sunshine by wooden +shutters. And here the tranquil surge of falling water shook +incessantly on the air, for the three lower casements stood open to the +fading sunset. On a smaller table were spread cups, old earthenware +dishes of fruit, and a big bowl of damask roses. + +‘Please sit down; I shan’t be a moment; I am not sure that my sister is +in; but if so, I will tell her we are ready for tea.’ Left to himself +in this quiet, strange old room, Lawford forgot for a while everything +else, he was for the moment so taken up with his surroundings. + +What seized on his fancy and strangely affected his mind was this +incessant changing roar of falling water. It must be the Widder, he +said to himself, flowing close to the walls. But not until he had had +the boldness to lean head and shoulders out of the nearest window did +he fully realize how close indeed the Widder was. It came sweeping dark +and deep and begreened and full with the early autumnal rains, actually +against the lower walls of the house itself, and in the middle suddenly +swerved in a black, smooth arch, and tumbled headlong into a great +pool, nodding with tall slender water-weeds, and charged in its bubbled +blackness here and there with the last crimson of the setting sun. To +the left of the house, where the waters floated free again, stood vast, +still trees above the clustering rushes; and in glimpses between their +spreading boughs lay the far-stretching countryside, now dimmed with +the first mists of approaching evening. So absorbed he became as he +stood leaning over the wooden sill above the falling water, that eye +and ear became enslaved by the roar and stillness. And in the faint +atmosphere of age that seemed like a veil to hang about the odd old +house and these prodigious branches, he fell into a kind of waking +dream. + +When at last he did draw back into the room it was perceptibly darker, +and a thin keen shaft of recollection struck across his mind—the +recollection of what he was, and of how he came to be there, his +reasons for coming and of that dark indefinable presence which like a +raven had begun to build its dwelling in his mind. He sat on, his eyes +restlessly wandering, his face leaning on his hands; and in a while the +door opened and Herbert returned, carrying an old crimson and green +teapot and a dish of hot cakes. + +‘They’re all out,’ he said; ‘sister, Sallie, and boy; but these were in +the oven, so we won’t wait. I hope you haven’t been very much bored.’ + +Lawford dropped his hands from his face and smiled. ‘I have been +looking at the water,’ he said. + +‘My sister’s favorite occupation; she sits for hours and hours, with +not even a book for an apology, staring down into the black old roaring +pot. It has a sort of hypnotic effect after a time. And you’d be +surprised how quickly one gets used to the noise. To me it’s even less +distracting than sheer silence. You don’t know, after all, what on +earth sheer silence means—even at Widderstone. But one can just realize +a water-nymph. They chatter; but, thank Heaven, it’s not articulate.’ +He handed Lawford a cup with a certain niceness and self-consciousness, +lifting his eyebrows slightly as he turned. + +Lawford found himself listening out of a peculiar stillness of mind to +the voice of this suave and rather inscrutable acquaintance. ‘The +curious thing is, do you know,’ he began rather nervously, ‘that though +I must have passed your gate at least twice in the last few months, I +have never noticed it before, never even caught the sound of the +water.’ + +‘No, that’s the best of it; nobody ever does. We are just buried alive. +We have lived here for years, and scarcely know a soul—not even our +own, perhaps. Why on earth should one? Acquaintances, after all, are +little else than a bad habit.’ + +‘But then, what about me?’ said Lawford. + +‘But that’s just it,’ said Herbert. ‘I said _acquaintances_; that’s +just exactly what I’m going to prove—what very old friends we are. +You’ve no idea! It really is rather queer.’ He took up his cup and +sauntered over to the window. + +Lawford eyed him vacantly for a moment, and, following rather his own +curious thoughts than seeking any light on this somewhat vague +explanation, again broke the silence. ‘It’s odd, I suppose, but this +house affects me much in the same way as Widderstone does. I’m not +particularly fanciful—at least, I used not to be. But sitting here I +seem, I hope it isn’t a very frantic remark, it seems as though, if +only my ears would let me, I should hear—well, voices. It’s just what +you said about the silence. I suppose it’s the age of the place; it +_is_ very old?’ + +‘Pretty old, I suppose; it’s worm-eaten and rat-eaten and tindery +enough in all conscience; and the damp doesn’t exactly foster it. It’s +a queer old shanty. There are two or three accounts of it in some old +local stuff I have. And of course there’s a ghost.’ + +‘A ghost?’ echoed Lawford, looking up. + + + + +CHAPTER TWELVE + + +‘What’s in a name?’ laughed Herbert. ‘But it really is a queer show-up +of human oddity. A fellow comes in here, searching; that’s all.’ His +back was turned, as he stood staring absently out, sipping his tea +between his sentences. ‘He comes in—oh, it’s a positive fact, for I’ve +seen him myself, just sitting back in my chair here, you know, watching +him as one would a tramp in one’s orchard.’ He cast a candid glance +over his shoulder. ‘First he looks round, like a prying servant. Then +he comes cautiously on—a kind of grizzled, fawn-coloured face, +middle-size, with big hands; and then just like some quiet, groping, +nocturnal creature, he begins his precious search—shelves, drawers that +are not here, cupboards gone years ago, questing and nosing no end, and +quite methodically too, until he reaches the window. Then he stops, +looks back, narrows his foxy lids, listens—quite perceptibly, you know, +a kind of gingerish blur; then he seems to open this corner bookcase +here, as if it were a door and goes out along what I suppose might at +some time have been an outside gallery or balcony, unless, as I rather +fancy, the house extended once beyond these windows. Anyhow, out he +goes quite deliberately, treading the air as lightly as Botticelli’s +angels, until, however far you lean out of the window, you can’t follow +him any further. And then—and this is the bit that takes one’s +fancy—when you have contentedly noddled down again to whatever you may +have been doing when the wretch appeared, or are sitting in a cold +sweat, with bolting eyes awaiting developments, just according to your +school of thought, or of nerves, the creature comes back—comes back; +and with what looks uncommonly like a lighted candle in his hand. That +really is a thrill, I assure you.’ + +‘But you’ve seen this—you’ve really seen this yourself?’ + +‘Oh yes, twice,’ replied Herbert cheerfully. ‘And my sister, quite by +haphazard, once saw him from the garden. She was shelling peas one +evening for Sallie, and she distinctly saw him shamble out of the +window here, and go shuffling along, mid-air, across the roaring +washpot down below, turn sharp round the high corner of the house, +sheer against the stars, in a kind of frightened hurry. And then, after +five minutes’ concentrated watching over the shucks, she saw him come +shuffling back again—the same distraction, the same nebulous snuff +colour, and a candle trailing its smoke behind him as he whisked in +home.’ + +‘And then?’ + +‘Ah, then,’ said Herbert, lagging along the bookshelves, and scanning +the book-backs with eyes partially closed: he turned with lifted +teapot, and refilled his visitor’s cup; ‘then, wherever you are—I +mean,’ he added, cutting up a little cake into six neat slices, +‘wherever the chance inmate of the room happens to be, he comes +straight for you, at a quite alarming velocity, and fades, vanishes, +melts, or, as it were, silts inside.’ + +Lawford listened in a curious hush that had suddenly fallen over his +mind. ‘“Fades inside? silts?”—I’m awfully stupid, but what on earth do +you mean?’ The room had slowly emptied itself of daylight; its own +darkness, it seemed, had met that of the narrowing night, and Herbert +deliberately lit a cigarette before replying. His clear pale face, with +its smooth outline and thin mouth and rather long dark eyes, turned +with a kind of serene good-humour towards his questioner. + +‘Why,’ he said, ‘I mean frankly just that. Besides, it’s Grisel’s own +phrase; and an old nurse we used to have said much the same. He comes, +or _it_ comes towards you, first just walking, then with a kind of +gradually accelerated slide or glide, and sweeps straight into you,’ he +tapped his chest, ‘me, whoever it may be is here. In a kind of panic, I +suppose, to hide, or perhaps simply to get back again.’ + +‘Get back where?’ + +‘Be resumed, as it were, via you. You see, I suppose he is compelled to +regain his circle, or Purgatory, or Styx, whatever you like to call it, +via consciousness. No one present, then no revenant or spook, or astral +body, or hallucination: what’s in a name? And of course even an +hallucination is mind-stuff, and on its own, as it were. What I mean is +that the poor devil must have some kind of human personality to get +back through in order to make his exit from our sphere of consciousness +into his. And naturally, of course to make his entrance too. If like a +tenuous smoke he can get in, the probability is that he gets out in +precisely the same fashion. For really, if you weren’t consciously +expecting the customary impact (you actually jerk forward in the act of +resistance unresisted), you would not notice his going. I am afraid I +must be horribly boring you with all these tangled theories. All I mean +is, that if you were really absorbed in what you happened to be doing +at the time, the thing might come and go, with your mind for entrance +and exit, as it were, without your being conscious of it at all.’ There +was a longish pause, in which Herbert slowly inhaled and softly +breathed out his smoke. + +‘And what—what is the poor wretch searching _for?_ And what—why, what +becomes of him when he does go?’ + +‘Ah, there you have me! One merely surmises just as one’s temperament +or convictions lean. Grisel says it’s some poor derelict soul in search +of peace—that the poor beggar wants finally to die, in fact, and can’t. +Sallie smells crime. After all, what is every man?’ he talked on; ‘a +horde of ghosts—like a Chinese nest of boxes—oaks that were acorns that +were oaks. Death lies behind us, not in front—in our ancestors, back +and back, until—’ + +‘“Until?”’ Lawford managed to remark. + +‘Ah, that settles me again. Don’t they call it an amoeba? But really I +am abjectly ignorant of all that kind of stuff. We are _all_ we are, +and all in a sense we care to dream we are. And for that matter, +anything outlandish, bizarre, is a godsend in this rather stodgy life. +It is after all just what the old boy said—it’s only the impossible +that’s credible; whatever credible may mean....’ + +It seemed to Lawford as if the last remark had wafted him bodily into +the presence of his kind, blinking, intensely anxious old friend, Mr +Bethany. And what leagues asunder the two men were who had happened on +much the same words to express their convictions. + +He drew his hand gropingly over his face, half rose, and again seated +himself. ‘Whatever it may be,’ he said, ‘the whole thing reminds me, +you know—it is in a way so curiously like my own—my own case.’ + +Herbert sat on, a little drawn up in his chair, quietly smoking. The +crash of the falling water, after seeming to increase in volume with +the fading of evening, had again died down in the darkness to a low +multitudinous tumult as of countless inarticulate, echoing voices. + +‘“Bizarre,” you said; God knows _I_ am.’ But Herbert still remained +obdurately silent. ‘You remember, perhaps,’ Lawford faintly began +again, ‘our talk the other night?’ + +‘Oh, rather,’ replied the cordial voice out of the dusk. + +‘I suppose you thought I was insane?’ + +‘Insane!’ There was a genuinely amused astonishment in the echo. ‘You +were lucidity itself. Besides—well, honestly, if I may venture, I don’t +put very much truck in what one calls one’s sanity: except, of course, +as a bond of respectability and a means of livelihood.’ + +‘But did you realise in the least from what I said how I really stand? +That I went down into that old shadowy hollow one man, and came +back—well—this?’ + +‘I gathered vaguely something like that. I thought at first it was +merely an affectation—that what you said was an affectation, I +mean—until—well, to be frank, it was the “this” that so immensely +interested me. Especially,’ he added almost with a touch of gaiety, +‘especially the last glimpse. But if it’s really not a forbidden +question, what precisely _was_ the other? What precise manner of man, I +mean, came down into Widderstone?’ + +‘It is my face that is changed, Mr Herbert. If you’ll try to understand +me—my _face_. What you see now is not what I really am, not what I was. +Oh, it is all quite different. I know perfectly well how absurd it must +sound. And you won’t press me further. But that’s the truth: that’s +what they have done for me.’ + +It seemed to Lawford as if a remote tiny shout of laughter had been +suddenly caught back in the silence that had followed this confession. +He peered in vain in the direction of his companion. Even his cigarette +revealed no sign of him. ‘I know, I know,’ he went gropingly on; ‘I +felt it would sound to you like nothing but frantic incredible +nonsense. _You_ can’t see it. _You_ can’t feel it. _You_ can’t hear +these hooting voices. It’s no use at all blinking the fact; I am simply +on the verge, if not over it, of insanity.’ + +‘As to that, Mr Lawford,’ came the still voice out of the darkness; +‘the very fact of your being able to say so seems to me all but proof +positive that you’re not. Insanity is on another plane, isn’t it? in +which one can’t compare one’s states. As for what you say being +credible, take our precious noodle of a spook here! Ninety-nine +hundredths of this amiable world of ours would have guffawed the poor +creature into imperceptibility ages ago. To such poor credulous +creatures as my sister and I he is no more and no less a fact, a +personality, an amusing reality than—well, this teacup. Here we are, +amazing mysteries both of us in any case; and all round us are scores +of books, dealing just with life, pure, candid, and unexpurgated; and +there’s not a single one among them but reads like a taradiddle. Yet +grope between the lines of any autobiography, it’s pretty clear what +one has got—a feeble, timid, creeping attempt to describe the +indescribable. As for what you say _your_ case is, the bizarre—that +kind very seldom gets into print at all. In all our make-believe, all +our pretence, how, honestly, could it? But there, this is immaterial. +The real question is, may I, can I help? What I gather is this: You +just trundled down into Widderstone all among the dead men, and—but one +moment, I’ll light up.’ + +A light flickered up in the dark. Shading it in his hand from the night +air straying through the open window, Herbert lit the two candles that +stood upon the little chimneypiece behind Lawford’s head. Then +sauntering over to the window again, almost as if with an affectation +of nonchalance, he drew one of the shutters, and sat down. ‘Nothing +much struck me,’ he went on, leaning back on his hands, ‘I mean on +Sunday evening, until you said good-bye. It was then that I caught in +the moon a distinct glimpse of your face.’ + +‘This,’ said Lawford, with a sudden horrible sinking of the heart. + +Herbert nodded. ‘The fact is, I have a print of it,’ he said. + +‘A print of it?’ + +‘A miserable little dingy engraving.’ + +‘Of this?’ Herbert nodded, with eyes fixed. ‘Where?’ + +‘That’s the nuisance. I searched high and low for it the instant I got +home. For the moment it has been mislaid; but it must be somewhere in +the house and it will turn up all in good time. It’s the frontispiece +of one of a queer old hotchpotch of pamphlets, sewn up together by some +amateur enthusiast in a marbled paper cover—confessions, travels, +trials and so on. All eighteenth century, and all in French.’ + +‘And mine?’ said Lawford, gazing stonily across the candlelight. + +Herbert, from a head slightly stooping, gazed back in an almost +birdlike fashion across the room at his visitor. + +‘Sabathier’s,’ he said. + +‘Sabathier’s!’ + +‘A really curious resemblance. Of course, I am speaking only from +memory; and perhaps it’s not quite so vivid in this light; but still +astonishingly clear.’ + +Lawford sat drawn up, staring at his companion’s face in an intense and +helpless silence. His mouth opened but no words came. + +‘Of course,’ began Herbert again, ‘I don’t say there’s anything in +it—except the—the mere coincidence,’ he paused and glanced out of the +open casement beside him. ‘But there’s just one obvious question. Do +you happen to know of any strain of French blood in your family?’ + +Lawford shut his eyes, even memory seemed to be forsaking him at last. +‘No,’ he said, after a long pause, ‘there’s a little Dutch, I think, on +my mother’s side, but no French.’ + +‘No Sabathier, then?’ said Herbert, smiling. ‘And then there’s another +question—this change; is it really as complete as you suppose? Has +it—please just warn me off if I am in the least intruding—has it been +noticed?’ + +Lawford hesitated. ‘Oh, yes,’ he said slowly, ‘it has been noticed—my +wife, a few friends.’ + +‘Do you mind this infernal clatter?’ said Herbert, laying his fingers +on the open casement. + +‘No, no. And you think?’ + +‘My dear fellow, I don’t think anything. It’s all the craziest +conjecture. Stranger things even than this have happened. There are +dozens here—in print. What are we human beings after all? Clay in the +hands of the potter. Our bodies are merely an inheritance, packed tight +and corded up. We have practically no control over their main +functions. We can’t even replace a little finger-nail. And look at the +faces of us—what atrocious mockeries most of them are of _any_ kind of +image! But we know our bodies change—age, sickness, thought, passion, +fatality. It proves they are amazingly plastic. And merely even as a +theory it is not in the least untenable that by force of some violent +convulsive effort from outside one’s body _might_ change. It answers +with odd voluntariness to friend or foe, smile or snarl. As for what we +call the laws of Nature, they are pure assumptions to-day, and may be +nothing better than scrap-iron tomorrow. Good Heavens, Lawford, +consider man’s abysmal impudence.’ He smoked on in silence for a +moment. ‘You say you fell asleep down there?’ + +Lawford nodded. Herbert tapped his cigarette on the sill. ‘Just +following up our ludicrous conjecture, you know,’ he remarked musingly, +‘it wasn’t such a bad opportunity for the poor chap.’ + +‘But surely,’ said Lawford, speaking as it were out of a dream of +candle-light and reverberating sound and clearest darkness, towards +this strange deliberate phantom with the unruffled clear-cut +features—‘surely then, in that case, he is here now? And yet, on my +word of honour, though every friend I ever had in the world should deny +it, I am the same. Memory stretches back clear and sound to my +childhood. I can see myself with extraordinary lucidity, how I think, +my motives and all that; and in spite of these voices that I seem to +hear, and this peculiar kind of longing to break away, as it were, just +to press on—it is I,—I myself, that am speaking to you now out of +this—this mask.’ + +Herbert glanced reflectively at his companion. ‘You mustn’t let me tire +you,’ he said; ‘but even on our theory it would not necessarily follow +that you yourself would be much affected. It’s true this fellow +Sabathier really was something of a personality. He had a rather +unusual itch for life, for trying on and on to squeeze something out of +experience that isn’t there; and he seemed never to weary of a +magnificent attempt to find in his fellow-creatures, especially in the +women he met, what even—if they have it—they cannot give. The little +book I wanted to show you is partly autobiographical and really does +manage to set the fellow on his feet. Even there he does absolutely +take one’s imagination. I shall never forget the thrill of picking him +up in the Charing Cross Road. You see, I had known the queer old +tombstone for years. He’s enormously vivid—quite beyond my feebleness +to describe, with a kind of French verve and rapture. Unluckily we +can’t get nearer than two years to his death. I shouldn’t mind guessing +some last devastating dream swept over him, held him the breath of an +instant too long beneath the wave, and he caved in. We know he killed +himself; and perhaps lived to regret it ever after. + +‘After all, what is this precious dying we talk so much about?’ Herbert +continued after a while, his eyes restlessly wandering from shelf to +shelf. ‘You remember our talk in the churchyard? We all know that the +body fades quick enough when its occupant is gone. Supposing even in +the sleep of the living it lies very feebly guarded. And supposing in +that state some infernally potent thing outside it, wandering +disembodied, just happens on it—like some hungry sexton beetle on the +carcase of a mouse. Supposing—I know it’s the most outrageous +theorising—but supposing all these years of sun and dark, Sabathier’s +emanation, or whatever you like to call it, horribly restless, by some +fatality longing on and on just for life, or even for the face, the +voice, of some “impossible she” whom he couldn’t get in this muddled +world, simply loathing all else; supposing he has been lingering in +ambush down beside those poor old dusty bones that had poured out for +him such marrowy hospitality—oh, I know it; the dead do. And then, by a +chance, one quiet autumn evening, a veritable godsend of a little Miss +Muffet comes wandering down under the shade of his immortal cypresses, +half asleep, fagged out, depressed in mind and body, perhaps: imagine +yourself in his place, and he in yours!’ Herbert stood up in his +eagerness, his sleek hair shining. ‘The one clinching chance of a +century! Wouldn’t you have made a fight for it? Wouldn’t you have +risked the raid? I can just conceive it—the amazing struggle in that +darkness within a darkness; like some dazed alien bee bursting through +the sentinels of a hive; one mad impetuous clutch at victory; then the +appalling stirring on the other side; the groping back to a house +dismantled, rearranged, not, mind you, disorganised or +disintegrated....’ He broke off with a smile, as if of apology for his +long, fantastic harangue. + +Lawford sat listening, his eyes fixed on Herbert’s colourless face. +There was not a sound else, it seemed, than that slightly drawling +scrupulous voice poking its way amid a maze of enticing, baffling +thoughts. Herbert turned away with a shrug. ‘It’s tempting stuff,’ he +said, choosing another cigarette. ‘But anyhow, the poor beggar failed.’ + +‘Failed?’ + +‘Why, surely; if he had succeeded I should not now be talking to a mere +imperfect simulacrum, to the outward illusion of a passing likeness to +the man, but to Sabathier himself!’ His eyes moved slowly round and +dwelt for a moment with a dark, quiet scrutiny on his visitor. + +‘You say a passing likeness; do you _mean_ that?’ + +Herbert smiled indulgently. ‘If one _can_ mean what is purely a +speculation. I am only trying to look at the thing dispassionately, you +see. We are so much the slaves of mere repetition. Here is life—yours +and mine—a kind of plenum in vacuo_. It is only when we begin to play +the eavesdropper; when something goes askew; when one of the sentries +on the frontier of the unexpected shouts a hoarse “Qui vive?”_—it is +only then we begin to question; to prick our aldermen and pinch the +calves of our kings. Why, who is there can answer to anybody’s but his +own satisfaction just that one fundamental question—Are we the +prisoners, the slaves, the inheritors, the creatures, or the creators +of our bodies? Fallen angels or horrific dust? As for identity or +likeness or personality, we have only our neighbours’ nod for them, and +just a fading memory. No, the old fairy tales knew better; and +witchcraft’s witchcraft to the end of the chapter. Honestly, and just +of course on that one theory, Lawford, I can’t help thinking that +Sabathier’s raid only just so far succeeded as to leave his impression +in the wax. It doesn’t, of course, follow that it will necessarily end +there. It might—it may be even now just gradually fading away. It may, +you know, need driving out—with whips and scorpions. It might, perhaps, +work in.’ + +Lawford sat cold and still. ‘It’s no good, no good,’ he said, ‘I don’t +understand; I can’t follow you. I was always stupid, always bigoted and +cocksure. These things have never seemed anything but old women’s tales +to me. And now I must pay for it. And this Nicholas Sabathier; you say +he was a blackguard?’ + +‘Well,’ said Herbert with a faint smile, ‘that depends on your +definition of the word. He wasn’t a flunkey, a fool, or a prig, if +that’s what you mean. He wasn’t perhaps on Mrs Grundy’s visiting list. +He wasn’t exactly gregarious. And yet in a sense that kind of +temperament is so rare that Sappho, Nelson, and Shelley shared it. To +the stodgy, suety world of course it’s little else than sheer +moonshine, midsummer madness. Naturally, in its own charming and stodgy +way the world kept flickering cold water in his direction. Naturally it +hissed.... I shall find the book. You shall have the book; oh yes.’ + +‘There’s only one more question,’ said Lawford in a dull, slow voice, +stooping and covering his face with his hands. ‘I know it’s impossible +for you to realise—but to me time seems like that water there, to be +heaping up about me. I wait, just as one waits when the conductor of an +orchestra lifts his hand and in a moment the whole surge of brass and +wood, cymbal and drum will crash out—and sweep me under. I can’t tell +you Herbert, how it all is, with just these groping stirrings of that +mole in my mind’s dark. You say it may be this face, working in! God +knows. I find it easy to speak to you—this cold, clear sense, you know. +The others feel too much, or are afraid, or—Let me think—yes, I was +going to ask you a question. But no one can answer it.’ He peered +darkly, with white face suddenly revealed between his hands. ‘What +remains now? Where do _I_ come in? What is there left for _me_ to do?’ + +And at that moment there sounded, even above the monotonous roar of the +water beyond the window—there fell the sound of a light footfall +approaching along the corridor. + +‘Listen,’ said Herbert; ‘here’s my sister coming; we’ll ask her.’ + + + + +CHAPTER THIRTEEN + + +The door opened. Lawford rose, and into the further rays of the +candlelight entered a rather slim figure in a light summer gown. + +‘Just home?’ said Herbert. + +‘We’ve been for a walk—’ + +‘My sister always forgets everything,’ said Herbert, turning to +Lawford; ‘even tea-time. This is Mr Lawford, Grisel. We’ve been arguing +no end. And we want you to give a decision. It’s just this: Supposing +if by some impossible trick you had come in now, not the charming +familiar sister you are, but shorter, fatter, fair and round-faced, +quite different, physically, you know—what would you do?’ + +‘What nonsense you talk, Herbert!’ + +‘Yes, but supposing: a complete transmogrification—by some unimaginable +ingression or enchantment, by nibbling a bunch of roses, or whatever +you like to call it?’ + +‘_Only_ physically?’ + +‘Well, yes, actually; but potentially, why—that’s another matter.’ + +The dark eyes passed slowly from her brother’s face and rested gravely +on their visitor’s. + +‘Is he making fun of me?’ + +Lawford almost imperceptibly shook his head. + +‘But what a question! And I’ve had no tea.’ She drew her gloves slowly +through her hand. ‘The thing, of course, isn’t possible, I know. But +shouldn’t I go mad, don’t you think?’ + +Lawford gazed quietly back into the clear, grave, deliberate eyes. +‘Suppose, suppose, just for the sake of argument—_not_,’ he suggested. + +She turned her head and reflected, glancing from one to the other of +the pure, steady candle-flames. + +‘And what was _your_ answer?’ she said, looking over her shoulder at +her brother. + +‘My dear child, you know what _my_ answers are like!’ + +‘And yours?’ + +Lawford took a deep breath, gazing mutely, forlornly, into the lovely +untroubled peace of her eyes, and without the least warning tears swept +up into his own. With an immense effort he turned, and choking back +every sound, beating back every thought, groped his way towards the +square black darkness of the open door. + +‘I must think, I must think,’ he managed to whisper, lifting his hand +and steadying himself. He caught over his shoulder the glimpse of a +curiously distorted vision, a lifted candle, and a still face gazing +after him with infinitely grieved eyes, then found himself groping and +stumbling down the steep, uneven staircase into the darkness of the +queer old wooden and hushed and lonely house. The night air cold on his +face calmed his mind. He turned and held out his hand. + +‘You’ll come again?’ Herbert was saying, with a hint of anxiety, even +of apology in his voice. + +Lawford nodded, with eyes fixed blankly on the candle, and turning once +more, made his way slowly down the narrow green-bordered path upon +which the stars rained a scattered light so feeble it seemed but as a +haze that blurred the darkness. He pushed open the little white wicket +and turned his face towards the soundless, leaf-crowned hill. He had +advanced hardly a score of steps in the thick dust when almost as if +its very silence had struck upon his ear he remembered the black broken +grave with its sightless heads that lay beyond the leaves. And fear, +vast and menacing, fear such as only children know, broke like a sea of +darkness on his heart. He stopped dead—cold, helpless, trembling. And, +in the silence he heard a faint cry behind him and light footsteps +pursuing him. He turned again. In the thick close gloom beneath the +enormous elm-boughs the grey eyes shone clearly visible in the face +upturned to him. ‘My brother,’ she began breathlessly—‘the little +French book. It was I who—who mislaid it.’ + +The set, stricken face listened unmoved. + +‘You are ill. Come back! I am afraid you are very ill.’ + +‘It’s not that, not that,’ Lawford muttered; ‘don’t leave me; I am +alone. Don’t question me,’ he said strangely, looking down into her +face, clutching her hand; ‘only understand that I can’t, I can’t go +on.’ He swept a lean arm towards the unseen churchyard. ‘I am afraid.’ + +The cold hand clasped his closer. ‘Hush, don’t speak! Come back; come +back. I am with you, a friend, you see; come back.’ + +Lawford clutched her hand as a blind man in sudden peril might clutch +the hand of a child. He saw nothing clearly; spoke almost without +understanding his words. + +‘Oh, but it’s _must_,’ he said; ‘I _must_ go on. You see—why, +everything depends on struggling through: the future! But if you only +knew—There!’ Again his arm swept out, and the lean terrified face +turned shuddering from the dark. + +‘I do know; believe me, believe me! I can guess. See, I am coming with +you; we will go together. As if, as if I did not know what it is to be +afraid. Oh, believe me; no one is near; we go on; and see! it +gradually, gradually lightens. How thankful I am I came.’ + +She had turned and they were steadily ascending as if pushing their +way, battling on through some obstacle of the mind rather than of the +senses beneath the star-powdered callous vault of night. And it seemed +to Lawford as if, as they pressed on together, some obscure detestable +presence as slowly, as doggedly had drawn worsted aside. He could see +again the peaceful outspread branches of the trees, the lych-gate +standing in clear-cut silhouette against the liquid dusk of the sky. A +strange calm stole over his mind. The very meaning and memory of his +fear faded out and vanished, as the passed-away clouds of a storm that +leave a purer, serener sky. + +They stopped and stood together on the brow of the little hill, and +Lawford, still trembling from head to foot, looked back across the +hushed and lightless countryside. ‘It’s all gone now,’ he said wearily, +‘and now there’s nothing left. You see, I cannot even ask your +forgiveness—and a stranger!’ + +‘Please don’t say that—unless—unless—a “pilgrim” too. I think, surely, +you must own we did have the best of it that time. Yes—and I don’t care +_who_ may be listening—but we _did_ win through.’ + +‘What can I say? How shall I explain? How shall I make you understand?’ + +The clear grey eyes showed not the faintest perturbation. ‘But I do; I +do indeed, in part; I do understand, ever so faintly.’ + +‘And now I will come back with _you_.’ + +They paused in the darkness face to face, the silence of the sky, +arched in its vastness above the little hill, the only witness of their +triumph. + +She turned unquestioningly. And laughing softly almost as children do, +the stalking shadows of a twilight wood behind them—they trod in +silence back to the house. They said good-bye at the gate, and Lawford +started once more for home. He walked slowly, conscious of an almost +intolerable weariness, as if his strength had suddenly been wrested +away from him. And at some distance beyond the top of the hill he sat +down on the bank beside a nettled ditch, and with his book pressed down +upon the wayside grass struck a match, and holding it low in the +scented, windless air turned slowly the cockled leaf. + +Few of them were alike except for the dinginess of the print and the +sinister smudge of the portraits. All were sewn roughly together into a +mould-stained, marbled cover. He lit a second match, and as he did so +glanced as if inquiringly over his shoulder. And a score or so of pages +before the end he came at last upon the name he was seeking, and turned +the page. + +It was a likeness even more striking in its crudeness of ink and line +and paper than the most finished of portraits could have been. It +repelled, and yet it fascinated him. He had not for a moment doubted +Herbert’s calm conviction. And yet as he stooped in the grass, closely +scrutinising the blurred obscure features, he felt the faintest +surprise not so much at the significant resemblance but at his own +composure, his own steady, unflinching confrontation with this sinister +and intangible adversary. The match burned down to his fingers. It +hissed faintly in the grass. + +He stuffed the book into his pocket, and stared into the pale dial of +his watch. It was a few minutes after eleven. Midnight, then, would +just see him in. He rose stiffly and yawned in sheer exhaustion. Then, +hesitating, he turned his head and looked back towards the hollow. But +a vague foreboding held him back. A sour and vacuous incredulity swept +over him. What was the use of all this struggling and vexation. What +gain in living on? Once dead _his_ sluggish spirit at least would find +its rest. Dust to dust it would indeed be for him. What else, in sober +earnest, had he been all his daily stolid life but half dead, scarce +conscious, without a living thought, or desire, in head or heart? + +And while he was still gloomily debating within himself he had turned +towards home, and soon was walking in a kind of reverie, even his +extreme tiredness in part forgotten, and only a far-away dogged +recollection in his mind that in spite of shame, in spite of all his +miserable weakness, the words had been uttered once for all, and in all +sincerity, ‘We _did_ win through.’ + +Yet a desolate and odd air of strangeness seemed to drape his unlighted +house as he stood looking up in a kind of furtive communion with its +windows. It affected him with that discomforting air of extreme and +meaningless novelty that things very familiar sometimes take upon +themselves. In this leaden tiredness no impression could be +trustworthy. His lids shut of themselves as he softly mounted the +steps. It seemed a needlessly wide door that soundlessly admitted him. +But however hard he pressed the key his bedroom door remained +stubbornly shut until he found that it was already unlocked and he had +only to turn the handle. A night-light burned in a little basin on the +washstand. The room was hung, as it were, with the stillness of night. +And half lying on the bed in her dressing-gown, her head leaning on the +rail at the foot, was Alice, just as sleep had overtaken her. + +Lawford returned to the door and listened. It seemed he heard a voice +talking downstairs, and yet not talking, for it ran on and on in an +incessant slightly argumentative monotony that had neither break nor +interruption. He closed the door, and stooping laid his hand softly on +Alice’s narrow, still childish hand that lay half-folded on her knee. +Her eyes opened instantly and gazed widely into his face. A slow vacant +smile of sleep came and went and her fingers tightened gently over his +as again her lids drooped down over the drowsy blue eyes. + +‘At last, at last, dear,’ she said; ‘I have been waiting such a time. +But we mustn’t talk much. Mother is waiting up, reading.’ + +Faintly through the close-shut door came the sound of that distant +expressionless voice monotonously rising and falling. + +‘Why didn’t you tell me, dear?’ Alice still sleepily whispered. ‘Would +I have asked a single question? How could I? Oh, if you had only +trusted me!’ + +‘But the change—the change, Alice! You must have seen that. You spoke +to me, you did think I was only a stranger; and even when you knew, it +was only fear on your face, dearest, and aversion; and you turned to +your mother first. Don’t think, Alice, that I am...God only knows—I’m +not complaining. But truth is best whatever it is. I do feel that. You +mustn’t be afraid of hurting me, my dear.’ + +Her very hands seemed to quicken in his as now, with sleep quite gone, +the fret of memory returned, and she must reassure both herself and +him. ‘But you see, dear, mother had told me that you—besides, I did +know you at once, really; quite inside, you know, deep down. I know I +was perplexed; I didn’t understand; but that was all. Why, even when +you came up in the dark, and we talked—if you only knew how miserable I +had been—though I knew even then there was something different, still I +was not a bit afraid. Was I? And shouldn’t I have been afraid, horribly +afraid, if _you_ had not been _you?_’ She repressed a little shudder, +and clasped his hand more closely. ‘Don’t let us say anything more +about it, she implored him; ‘we are just together again, you and I; +that is all that matters.’ But her words were like brave soldiers who +have fought their way through an ambuscade but have left all confidence +behind them. + +Lawford listened; and that was enough just now—that she still, in spite +of doubt, believed in him, and thought and cared for him. He was too +tired to have refused the least kindness. He made no answer, but leant +his head on the cool, slender fingers in gratitude and peace. And, just +as he was, he almost instantly fell asleep. He woke in the darkness to +find himself alone. He groped his way heavily to the door and turned +the handle. But now it was really locked. Energy failed him. ‘I +suppose—Sheila...’ he muttered. + + + + +CHAPTER FOURTEEN + + +Sheila, calm, alert, reserved, was sitting at the open window when he +awoke again. His breakfast tray stood on a little table beside the bed. +He raised himself on his elbow and looked at his wife. The morning +light shone full on her features as she turned quickly at sound of his +stirring. + +‘You have slept late,’ she said, in a low, mellow voice. + +‘Have I, Sheila? I suppose I was tired out. It is very kind of you to +have got everything ready like this.’ + +‘I am afraid, Arthur, I was thinking rather of the maids. I like to +inconvenience them as little as possible; in their usual routine, I +mean. How are you feeling, do you think, this morning?’ + +‘I—I haven’t seen the glass, Sheila.’ + +She paused to place a little pencil tick at the foot of the page of her +butcher’s book. ‘And did you—did you try?’ + +‘Did I try? Try what?’ + +‘I understood,’ she said, turning slowly in her chair, ‘you gave me to +understand that you went out with the specific intention of trying to +regain.... But there, forgive me, Arthur; I think I must be getting a +little bit hardened to the position, so far at least as any hope is in +my mind of rather amateurish experiments being of much help. I may seem +unsympathetic in saying frankly what I feel. But amateurish or no, you +are curiously erratic. Why, if you really were the Dr Ferguson whose +part you play so admirably you could scarcely spend a more active +life.’ + +‘All you mean, Sheila, I suppose, is that I have failed.’ + +‘“Failed” did not enter my mind. I thought, looking at you just now in +your clothes on the bed, one might for the moment be deceived into +thinking there was a slight—quite the slightest improvement. There was +not quite that’—she hovered for the right word—‘that tenseness. Whether +or not, whether you desired any such change or didn’t, I should have +supposed in any case it would have been better to act as far as +possible like any ordinary person. You were certainly in an +extraordinarily sound sleep. I was almost alarmed; until I remembered +that it was a little after two when I looked up from reading aloud to +keep myself awake and discovered that you had only just come home. I +had no fire. You know how easily late hours bring on my headaches; a +little thought might possibly have suggested that I should be anxious +to hear. But no; it seems I cannot profit by experience, Arthur. And +even now you have not answered surely a very natural question. You do +not recollect, perhaps, exactly what did happen last night? Did you go +in the direction even of Widderstone?’ + +‘Yes, Sheila, I went to Widderstone.’ + +‘It was of course absurd to suppose that sitting on a seat beside the +broken-down grave of a suicide would have the slightest effect on +one’s—one’s physical condition; though possibly it might affect one’s +brain. It would mine; I am at least certain of that. It was your own +prescription, however; and it merely occurred to me to inquire whether +the actual experience has not brought you round to my own opinion.’ + +‘Yes, I think it has,’ Lawford answered calmly. ‘But I don’t quite see +what suicide has got to do with it; unless—You know Widderstone, then, +Sheila?’ + +‘I drove there last Saturday afternoon.’ + +‘For prayer or praise?’ Although Lawford had not actually raised his +head, he became conscious rather of the wonderfully adjusted mass of +hair than of the pained dignity in the face that was now closely +regarding him. + +‘I went,’ came the rigidly controlled retort, ‘simply to test an +inconceivable story.’ + +‘And returned?’ + +‘Convinced, Arthur, of its inconceivability. But if you would kindly +inform me what precise formula you followed at Widderstone last night, +I would tell you why I think the explanation, or rather your first +account of the matter, is not an explanation of the facts.’ + +Lawford shot a rather doglike glance over his toast. ‘Danton?’ he said. + +‘Candidly, Arthur, Mr Danton doubts the whole story. Your very +conduct—well, it would serve no useful purpose to go into that. +Candidly, on the other hand, Mr. Danton did make some extremely helpful +suggestions—basing them, of course, on the _truth_ of your account. He +has seen a good deal of life; and certainly very mysterious things do +occur to quite innocent and well-meaning people without the faintest +shadow of warning, and as Mr. Bethany himself said, evil birds do come +home to roost, and often out of a clear sky, as it were. But there, +every fresh solution that occurs to me only makes the thing more +preposterous, more, I was going to say, disreputable—I mean, of course, +to the outside world. And we have our duties to perform to them too, I +suppose. Why, what can we say? What plausible account of ourselves have +we? We shall never be able to look anybody in the face again. I can +only—I am compelled to believe that God has been pleased to make this +precise visitation upon us—an eye for an eye, I suppose, _somewhere_. +And to that conviction I shall hold until actual circumstances convince +me that it’s false. What, however, and this is all that I have to say +now, what I cannot understand are your amazing indiscretions.’ + +‘Do you understand your own, Sheila?’ + +‘My indiscretions, Arthur?’ + +‘Well,’ said Lawford, ‘wasn’t it indiscreet, don’t you think, to risk +divine retribution by marrying me? Shouldn’t you have inquired? Wasn’t +it indiscreet to allow me to remain here in—in my “visitation?” Wasn’t +it indiscreet to risk the moral stigma this unhappy face of mine must +cast on its surroundings? I am not sure whether such a change as this +constitutes cruelty.... Oh, what is the use of fretting and babbling on +like this?’ + +‘Am I to understand, then, that you refuse positively to discuss this +horrible business any more? You are doing your best to drive me away, +Arthur; you must see that. Will you be very disappointed if I refuse to +go?’ + +Lawford rose from the bed. ‘Listen just this once,’ he said, seating +himself on the corner of the dressing-table. ‘Imagine all this—whatever +you like to call it—obliterated. Take this,’ he nodded towards the +glass, ‘entirely for itself, on its own merits, as it were. Let the +dead past bury its dead. Which, now, precisely, _really_ do you +prefer—him,’ he jerked his head in the direction of the dispassionate +youthful picture on the wall, ‘him or me?’ + +He was so close to her now that he could see the faintest tremor on the +face that had suddenly become grey and still in the thin clear +sunshine. + +‘I own it, I own it,’ he went on, slowly; ‘the change is more than +skin-deep now. One can’t go through what I have gone through these last +few terrifying days, Sheila, unchanged. They have played the devil with +my body; now begins the tampering with my mind. Not even Danton knows +how it will end. But shall I tell you why you won’t, why you can’t +answer me that one question—him or me? Shall I tell you?’ + +Sheila slowly raised her eyes. + +‘It is because, my dear, you don’t care the ghost of a straw for +either. That one—he was worn out long ago, and we never knew it. I know +it now. Time and the sheer going-on of day by day, without either of us +guessing at it, wore that down till it had no more meaning for you or +me than any other faded remembrance in this interminable footling with +truth that we call life. And this one—the whole abject meaning of it +lies simply in the fact that it has pierced down and shown us up. I had +no courage. I couldn’t see how feeble a hold I had on life—just one’s +friends’ opinions. It was all at second hand. What I want to know now +is—leave me out; don’t think, or care, or regard my living-on one +shadow of an iota—all I ask is, What am I to do for you?’ He turned +away and stood staring down at the cinders in the fireless grate. + +‘I answer that mad wicked outburst with one plain question,’ said a +low, trembling voice; ‘did you or did you not go to Widderstone +yesterday?’ + +‘I did go.’ + +‘You sat there, just as you said you sat before; and with all your +heart and soul strove to regain—yourself?’ + +Lawford lifted a still, colourless face into the sunlight. ‘No,’ he +said; ‘I spent the evening at the house of a friend.’ + +‘Then I say it is infamous. You cast all this on me. You have brought +me into contempt and poisoned Alice’s whole life. You dream and idle on +just as you used to do, without the least care or thought or +consideration for others; and go out in this condition—go out +absolutely unashamed—to spend the evening at a friend’s. Peculiar +friends they must be. Why, really, Arthur, you must be mad!’ + +Lawford paused. Like a flock of sheep streaming helter-skelter before +the onset of a wolf were the thoughts that a moment before had seemed +so orderly and sober. + +‘Not mad—possessed,’ he said softly. + +‘And I add this,’ cried Sheila, as it were out of a tragic mask, +‘somewhere in the past, whether of your own life, or of the lives of +those who brought you into the world—the world which you pretend so +conveniently to despise—somewhere is hidden some miserable secret. God +visits all sins. On you has fallen at last the payment. _That_ I +believe. You can’t run away, any more than a child can run away from +the cupboard it has been locked into for a punishment. Who’s going to +hear you now? You have deliberately refused to make a friend of me. +Fight it out alone, then!’ + +Lawford heard the door close, and the dying away of the sound that had +been the unceasing accompaniment of all these later years—the rustling +of his wife’s skirts, her crisp, authoritative footstep. And he turned +towards the flooding sunlight that streamed in on the upturned surface +of the looking-glass. No clear decisive thought came into his mind, +only a vague recognition that so far as Sheila was concerned this was +the end. No regret, no remorse visited him. He was just alone again, +that was all—alone, as in reality he had always been alone, without +having the sense or power to see or to acknowledge it. All he had said +had been the mere flotsam of the moment, and now it stood stark and +irrevocable between himself and the past. + +He sat down dazed and stupid. Again and again a struggling recollection +tried to obtrude itself; again and again he beat it back. And rather +for something to distract his attention than for any real interest or +enlightenment he might find in its pages, he took out the grimy +dog’s-eared book that Herbert had given him, and turned slowly over the +leaves till he came to Sabathier once more. Snatches of remembrance of +their long talk returned to him, but just as that dark, water-haunted +house had seemed to banish remembrance and the reality of the room in +which he now sat, and of the old familiar life; so now the house, the +faces of yesterday seemed in their turn unreal, almost spectral, and +the thick print on the smudgy page no more significant than a story one +reads and throws away. + +But a moment’s comparison in the glass of the two faces side by side +suddenly sharpened his attention—the resemblance was so oddly +arresting, and yet, and yet, so curiously inconclusive. There was then +something of the stolid old Saxon left, he thought. Or had it been +regained? Which was it? Not merely the complexity of the question, but +a half-conscious distaste of attempting to face it, set him reading +very slowly and laboriously, for his French was little more than +fragmentary recollection, the first few pages of the life of this +buried Sabathier. But with a disinclination almost amounting to +aversion he made very slow progress. Many of the words were meaningless +to him, and every other moment he found himself listening with intense +concentration for the least hint of what Sheila was doing, of what was +going on in the house beneath him. He had not very long to wait. He was +sitting with his head leaning on his hand, the book unheeded beneath +the other on the table, when the door opened again behind him, and +Sheila entered. She stood for a moment, calm and dignified, looking +down on him through her veil. + +‘Please understand, Arthur, that I am not taking this step in pique, or +even in anger. It would serve no purpose to go on like this—this +incessant heedlessness and recrimination. There have been mistakes, +misconceptions, perhaps, on both sides. To me naturally yours are most +conspicuous. That need not, however, blind me to my own.’ + +She paused in vain for an answer. + +‘Think the whole thing over candidly and quietly,’ she began again in a +quiet rapid voice. ‘Have you really shown the slightest regard, I won’t +say for me, or even for Alice, but for just the obvious difficulties +and—and proprieties of our position? I have given up as far as I can +brooding on and on over the same horrible impossible thoughts. I +withdraw unreservedly what I said just now about punishment. Whatever +the evidence, it is not even a wife’s place to judge like that. You +will forgive me that?’ + +Lawford did not turn his head. ‘Of course,’ he said, looking rather +vacantly out of the window, ‘it was only in the heat of the moment, +Sheila; though, who knows? it may be true.’ + +‘Well,’ she took hold of the great brass knob at the foot of the bed +with one gloved hand—‘well, I feel it is my duty to withdraw it. Apart +from it, I see only too clearly that even though all that has happened +in these last few days was in reality nothing but a horrible nightmare, +I see that even then what you have said about our married life together +can never be recalled. You have told me quite deliberately that for +years past your life has been nothing but a pretence—a sham. You +implied that mine had been too. Honestly, I was not aware of it, +Arthur. But supposing all that has happened to you had been merely what +might happen at any moment to anybody, some actual defacement (you will +forgive me suggesting such a horrible thing)—why, if what you say is +true, even in that case my sympathy would have been only a continual +fret and annoyance to you. And this—this change, I own, is infinitely +harder to bear. It would be an outrage on common sense and on all that +we hold seemly and—and sacred in life, even in some trumpery story. You +do, you must see all that, Arthur?’ + +‘Oh yes,’ said Lawford, narrowing his eyes to pierce through the +sunlight, ‘I see all that.’ + +‘Then we need not go over it all again. Whatever others may say, or +think, I shall still, at least so long as nothing occurs to the +contrary, keep firmly to my present convictions. Mr Bethany has assured +me repeatedly that he has no—no misgivings; that he understands. And +even if I still doubted, which I don’t, Arthur, though it would be +rather trying to have to accept one’s husband at second-hand, as it +were, I should have to be satisfied. I dare say even such an unheard-of +thing as what we are discussing now, or something equally ghastly, does +occur occasionally. In foreign countries, perhaps. I have not studied +such things enough to say. We were all very much restricted in our +reading as children, and I honestly think, not unwisely. It is enough +for the present to repeat that I do believe, and that whatever may +happen—and I know absolutely nothing about the procedure in such +cases—but whatever may happen, I shall still be loyal; I shall always +have your interests at heart.’ Her words faltered and she turned her +head away. ‘You did love me once, Arthur, I can’t forget that.’ The +contralto voice trembled ever so little, and the gloved hand smoothed +gently the brass knob beneath. + +‘If,’ said Lawford, resting his face on his hands, and curiously +watching the while his moving reflection in the looking-glass before +him—‘if I said I still loved you, what then? + +‘But you have already denied it, Arthur.’ + +‘Yes; but if I said that that too was said only in haste, that brooding +over the trouble this—this metamorphosis was bringing on us all had +driven me almost beyond endurance: supposing that I withdrew all that, +and instead said now that I do still love you, just as I—’ he turned a +little, and turned back again, ‘like this?’ + +Sheila paused. ‘Could _any_ woman answer such a question?’ she almost +sighed at last. + +‘Yes, but,’ Lawford pressed on, in a voice almost naive and stubborn as +a child’s, ‘If I tried to—to make you? I did once, Sheila.’ + +‘I can’t, I can’t conceive such a position. Surely that alone is almost +as frantic as it is heartless! Is it, is it even right?’ + +‘Well, I have not actually asked it. I own,’ he added moodily, almost +under his breath, ‘it would be—dangerous.... But there, Sheila, this +poor old mask of mine is wearing out. I am somehow convinced of that. +What will be left, God only knows. You were saying—’ He rose abruptly. +‘Please, please sit down,’ he said; ‘I did not notice you were +standing.’ + +‘I shall not keep you a moment,’ she answered hurriedly; ‘I will sit +here. The truth is, Arthur,’ she began again almost solemnly, ‘apart +from all sentiment and—and good intentions, my presence here only +harasses you and keeps you back. I am not so bound up in myself that I +cannot realise _that_. The consequence is that after calmly—and I hope +considerately—thinking the whole thing over, I have come to the +conclusion that it would arouse very little comment, the least possible +perhaps in the circumstances, if I just went away for a few days. You +are not in any sense ill. In fact, I have never known you so—so robust, +so energetic. You will be alone: Mr Bethany, perhaps.... You could go +out and come in just as you pleased. Possibly,’ Sheila smiled frankly +beneath her veil, ‘even this Dr Ferguson you have invented will be a +help. It’s only the servants that remain to be considered.’ + +‘I should prefer to be quite alone.’ + +‘Then do not worry about _them_. I can easily explain. And if you would +not mind letting her in, Mrs Gull can come in every other day or so +just to keep things in order. She’s entirely trustworthy and discreet. +Or perhaps, if you would prefer—’ + +‘Mrs Gull will do nicely, Sheila. It’s very good of you to have given +me so much thought.’ A long and rather arduous pause followed. + +‘Oh, one other thing, Arthur. You sent out to Mr Critchett—do you +remember?—the night you first came home. I think, too, after the first +awful shock, when we were sitting in our bedroom, you actually referred +to—to violent measures. You will promise me, I may perhaps at least ask +that, you will promise me on your word of honour, for Alice’s sake, if +not for mine, to do nothing rash.’ + +‘Yes, yes,’ said Lawford, sinking lower even than he had supposed +possible into the thin and lightless chill of ennui—‘nothing rash.’ + +Sheila rose with a sigh only in part suppressed. ‘I have not seen Mr +Bethany again. I think, however, it would be better to let Harry know; +I mean, dear, of your derangement. After all, he is one of the +family—at least, of mine. He will not interfere. He would, perhaps +quite naturally, be hurt if we did not take him into our confidence. +Otherwise there is no pressing cause for haste, at least for another +week or so. After that, I suppose, something will have to be done. Then +there’s Mr Wedderburn; wouldn’t it be as well to let him know that at +least for the present you are quite unable to think of returning to +town? That, too, in time will have to be arranged, I suppose, if +nothing happens meanwhile; I mean if things don’t come right. And I do +hope, Arthur, you will not set your mind too closely on what may only +prove false hopes. This is all intensely painful to me; of course, to +us both.’ + +Again Lawford, even though he did not turn to confront it, became +conscious of the black veil turned towards him tentatively, +speculatively, impenetrably. + +‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I’ll write to Wedderburn; he’s had his ups and downs +too.’ + +‘I always rather fancied so,’ said Sheila reflectively, ‘he looks +rather a—a restless man. Oh, and then again,’ she broke off quickly, +‘there’s the question of money. I suppose—it is only a conjecture—I +suppose it would be better to do nothing in that direction just for the +present. Ada has now gone to the Bank. Fifty pounds, Arthur; it is out +of my own private account—do you think that will be enough, just, of +course, for your _present_ needs?’ + +‘As a bribe, hush-money, or a thank-offering, Sheila?’ murmured her +husband wearily. + +‘I don’t follow you,’ replied the discreet voice from beneath the veil. + +He did actually turn this time and glance steadily over his shoulder. +‘How long are you going for? and where?’ + +‘I proposed to go to my cousin’s, Bettie Lovat’s; that is, of course, +if you have no objection. It’s near; it will be a long-deferred visit; +and she need know very little. And, of course, if for the least thing +in the world you should want me, there I am within call, as it were. +And you will write? We _are_ acting for the best, Arthur?’ + +‘So long as it is your best, Sheila.’ + +Sheila pondered. ‘You think, you mean, they’ll all say I ought to have +stayed. Candidly, I can’t see it in that light. Surely every experience +of life proves that in intimate domestic matters, and especially in +those between husband and wife, only the parties concerned have any +means of judging what is best for them? It has been our experience at +any rate: though I must in fairness confess that, outwardly at least, I +haven’t had much of that kind of thing to complain of.’ Sheila paused +again for a reply. + +‘What kind of thing?’ + +‘Domestic experience, dear.’ + +The house was quiet. There was not a sound stirring in the still sunny +road of orchards and discreet and drowsy villas. A long silence +followed, immensely active and alert on the one side, almost morbidly +lethargic so far as the stooping figure in front of the looking-glass +was concerned. At last the last haunting question came in a kind of +croak, as if only by a supreme effort could it be compelled to produce +itself for consideration. + +‘And Alice, Sheila?’ + +‘Alice, dear, of course goes with _me_.’ + +‘You realise,’ he stirred uneasily, ‘you realise it may be final.’ + +‘My dear Arthur,’ cried Sheila, ‘it is surely, apart from mere +delicacy, a parental obligation to screen the poor child from the +shock. Could she be at such a time in any better keeping than her +mother’s? At present she only vaguely guesses. To know definitely that +her father, infinitely worse than death, had—had—Oh, is it possible to +realise anything in this awful cloud? It would kill her outright.’ + +Lawford made no stir. The quietest of raps came at the door. ‘The money +from the Bank, ma’am,’ said a faint voice. + +Sheila carefully opened the door a few inches. She laid the blue +envelope on the dressing-table at her husband’s elbow. ‘You had better +perhaps count it,’ she said in a low voice—‘forty in notes, the rest in +gold,’ and narrowed her eyes beneath her veil upon her husband’s very +peculiar method of forgetting his responsibilities. + +‘French?’ she said with a nod. ‘How very quaint.’ + +Lawford’s eyes fell and rested gravely on the dingy page of Herbert’s +mean-looking bundle of print. A queer feeling of cold crept over him. +‘Yes,’ he said vaguely, ‘French,’ and hopelessly failed to fill in the +silence that seemed like some rather sleek nocturnal creature quietly +waiting to be fed. + +Sheila swept softly towards the door. ‘Well, Arthur, I think that is +all. The servants will have gone by this evening. I have ordered a +carriage for half-past twelve. Perhaps you would first write down +anything that occurs to you to be necessary? Perhaps, too, it would be +better if Dr Simon were told that we shall not need him any more, that +you are thinking of a complete change of scene, a voyage. He is +obviously useless. Besides, Mr Bethany, I think, is going to discuss a +specialist with you. I have written him a little note, just briefly +explaining. Shall I write to Dr Simon too?’ + +‘You remember everything,’ said Lawford, and it seemed to him it was a +remark he had heard ages and ages ago. ‘It’s only this money, Sheila; +will you please take that away?’ + +‘Take it away?’ + +‘I think, Sheila, if I do take a voyage I should almost prefer to work +my passage. As for a mere “change of scene,” that’s quite uncostly.’ + +‘It is only your face, Arthur,’ said Sheila solemnly, ‘that suggest +these wicked stabs. Some day you will perhaps repent of every one.’ + +‘It is possible, Sheila; we none of us stand still, you know. One rips +open a lid sometimes and the wax face rots before one’s eyes. Take back +your blue envelope; and thank you for thinking of me. It’s always the +woman of the house that has the head.’ + +‘I wish,’ said Sheila almost pathetically, and yet with a faint quaver +of resignation, ‘I wish it could be said that the man of the house +sometimes has the heart. Think it over, Arthur!’ + +Sheila, with her husband’s luncheon tray, brought also her farewells. +Lawford surveyed, not without a faint, shy stirring of incredulity, the +superbly restrained presence. He stood before her dry-lipped, +inarticulate, a schoolboy caught redhanded in the shabbiest of +offences. + +‘It is your wish then that I go, Arthur?’ she said pleadingly. + +He handed her her money without a word. + +‘Very well, Arthur; if you won’t take it,’ she said. ‘I should scarcely +have thought this the occasion for mere pride.’ + +‘The tenth,’ she continued, as she squeezed the envelope into her +purse, with only the least hardening of voice, ‘although I daresay you +have not troubled to remember it—the tenth will be the eighteenth +anniversary of our wedding-day. It makes parting, however advisable, +and though only for the few days we should think nothing of in happier +circumstances, a little harder to bear. But there, all will come right. +You will see things in a different light, perhaps. Words may wound, but +time will heal.’ But even as she now looked closely into his colourless +sunken face some distant memory seemed to well up irresistibly—the +memory of eyes just as ingenuous, and as unassuming that even in +claiming her love had expressed only their stolid unworthiness. + +‘Did you know it? have you seen it?’ she said, stooping forward a +little. ‘I believe in spite of all....’ He gazed on solemnly, almost +owlishly, out of his fading mask. + +‘Wait till Mr Bethany tells you; you will believe it perhaps from him.’ +He saw the grey-gloved hand a little reluctantly lifted towards him. + +‘Good-bye, Sheila,’ he said, and turned mechanically back to the +window. + +She hesitated, listening to a small far-away voice that kept urging her +with an almost frog-like pertinacity to do, to say something, and yet +as stubbornly would not say what; and she was gone. + + + + +CHAPTER FIFTEEN + + +Raying and gleaming in the sunlight the hired landau drove up to the +gate. Lawford, peeping between the blinds, looked down on the coachman, +with reins hanging loosely from his red squat-thumbed hand, seated in +his tight livery and indescribable hat on the faded cushions. One thing +only was in his mind; and it was almost with an audible cry that he +turned towards the figure that edged, white and trembling, into the +chill room, to fling herself into his arms. ‘Don’t look at me,’ he +begged her, ‘only remember, dearest, I would rather have died down +there and been never seen again than have given you pain. Run—run, your +mother’s calling. Write to me, think of me; good-bye!’ + +He threw himself on the bed and lay there till evening—till the door +had shut gently behind the last rat to leave the sinking ship. All the +clearness, the calmness were gone again. Round and round in dizzy +sickening flare and clatter his thoughts whirled. Contempt, fear, +loathing, blasphemy, laughter, longing: there was no end. Death was no +end. There was no meaning, no refuge, no hope, no possible peace. To +give up was to go to perdition: to go forward was to go mad. And even +madness—he sat up with trembling lips in the twilight—madness itself +was only a state, only a state. You might be bereaved, and the pain and +hopelessness of that would pass. You might be cast out, betrayed, +deserted, and still be you, still find solitude lovely and in a brave +face a friend. But madness!—it surged in on him with all the clearness +and emptiness of a dream. And he sat quite still, his hand clutching +the bedclothes, his head askew, waiting for the sound of footsteps, for +the presences and the voices that have their thin-walled dwelling +beneath the shallow crust of consciousness. + +Inky blackness drifted up in wisps, in smoke before his eyes; he was +powerless to move, to cry out. There was no room to turn; no air to +breathe. And yet there was a low, continuous, never-varying stir as of +an enormous wheel whirling in the gloom. Countless infinitesimal faces +arched like glimmering pebbles the huge dim-coloured vault above his +head. He heard a voice above the monstrous rustling of the wheel, +clamouring, calling him back. He was hastening headlong, muttering to +himself his own flat meaningless name, like a child repeating as he +runs his errand. And then as if in a charmed cold pool he awoke and +opened his eyes again on the gathering darkness of the great bedroom, +and heard a quick, importunate, long-continued knocking on the door +below, as of some one who had already knocked in vain. + +Cramped and heavy-limbed, he felt his way across the room and lit a +candle. He stood listening awhile: his eyes fixed on the door that hung +a little open. All in the room seemed acutely fantastically still. The +flame burned dim, enisled in the sluggish air. He stole slowly to the +door, looked out, and again listened. Again the knocking broke out, +more impetuously and yet with a certain restraint and caution. +Shielding the flame of his candle in the shell of his left hand, +Lawford moved slowly, with chin uplifted, to the stairs. He bent +forward a little, and stood motionless and drawn up, the pupils of his +eyes slowly contracting and expanding as he gazed down into the +carpeted vacant gloom; past the dim louring presence that had fallen +back before him. + +His mouth opened. ‘Who’s there?’ at last he called. + +‘Thank God, thank God!’ he heard Mr Bethany mutter. ‘I mustn’t call, +Lawford,’ came a hurried whisper as if the old gentleman were pressing +his lips to speak through the letter-box. ‘Come down and open the door; +there’s a good fellow! I’ve been knocking no end of a time.’ + +‘Yes, I am coming,’ said Lawford. He shut his mouth and held his +breath, and stair by stair he descended, driving steadily before him +the crouching, gloating menacing shape, darkly lifted up before him +against the darkness, contending the way with him. + +‘Are you ill? Are you hurt? Has anything happened, Lawford?’ came the +anxious old voice again, striving in vain to be restrained. + +‘No, no,’ muttered Lawford. ‘I am coming; coming slowly.’ He paused to +breathe, his hands trembling, his hair lank with sweat, and still with +eyes wide open he descended against the phantom lurking in the +darkness—an adversary that, if he should but for one moment close his +lids, he felt would master sanity and imagination with its evil. ‘So +long as you don’t get in,’ he heard himself muttering, ‘so long as you +don’t get _in_, my friend!’ + +‘What’s that you’re saying?’ came up the muffled, querulous voice; ‘I +can’t for the life of me hear, my boy.’ + +‘Nothing, nothing,’ came softly the answer from the foot of the stairs. +‘I was only speaking to myself.’ + +Deliberately, with candle held rigidly on a level with his eyes, +Lawford pushed forward a pace or two into the airless, empty +drawing-room, and grasped the handle of the door. He gazed in awhile, a +black oblique shadow flung across his face, his eyes fixed like an +animal’s, then drew the door steadily towards him. And suddenly some +power that had held him tense seemed to fail. He thrust out his head, +and, his face quivering with fear and loathing, spat defiance as if in +a passion of triumph into the gloom. + +Still muttering, he shut the door and turned the key. In another moment +his light was gleaming out on the grey perturbed face and black narrow +shoulders of his visitor. + +‘You gave me quite a fright,’ said the old man almost angrily; ‘have +you hurt your foot, or something?’ + +‘It was very dark,’ said Lawford, ‘down the stairs.’ + +‘What!’ said Mr Bethany still more angrily, blinking out of his +unspectacled eyes; ‘has she cut off the gas, then?’ + +‘You got the note?’ said Lawford, unmoved. + +‘Yes, yes; I got the note.... Gone?’ + +‘Oh, yes; all gone. It was my choice. I preferred it so.’ + +Mr Bethany sat down on one of the hard old wooden chairs that stood on +either side of the lofty hall, and breathing rather thickly, rested his +hands on his knees. ‘What’s happened?’ he inquired, looking up into the +candle. ‘I forgot my glasses, old fool that I am, and can’t, my dear +fellow, see you very plainly. But your voice—’ + +‘I think,’ said Lawford, ‘I think it’s beginning to come back.’ + +‘What, the whole thing! Oh no, my dear, dear man; be frank with me; not +the whole thing?’ + +‘Yes,’ said Lawford, ‘the whole thing—very, very gradually, +imperceptibly. I think even Sheila noticed. But I rather feel it than +see it; that is all.... I’m cornering him.’ + +‘Him?’ + +Lawford jerked his candle as if towards some definite goal. ‘In time,’ +he said. + +The two faces with the candle between them seemed as it were to gain +light each from the other. + +‘Well, well,’ said Mr Bethany, ‘every man for himself, Lawford; it’s +the only way. But what’s going to be done? We must be cautious; must +think of—of the others?’ + +‘Oh, that,’ said Lawford; ‘she’s going to squeeze me out.’ + +‘You’ve—squabbled? Oh, but my dear, honest old, _honest_ old idiot, +there are scores of families here in this parish, within a stone’s +throw, that squabble, wrangle, all but politely tear each other’s eyes +out, every day of their earthly lives. It’s perfectly natural. Where +should we poor old busybodies be else. Peace on earth we bring, and +it’s mainly between husband and wife.’ + +‘Yes,’ said Lawford, ‘but you see, this was not our earthly life. It +was between _us_.’ + +‘Listen, listen to the dear mystic!’ exclaimed the old creature +scoffingly. ‘What depths we’re touching. Here’s the first serious break +of his lifetime, and he’s gone stark staring transcendental. Ah well.’ +He paused and glanced quickly about him, with his curious bird-like +poise of head. ‘But you’re not alone here?’ he inquired suddenly; ‘not +absolutely alone?’ + +‘Yes,’ said Lawford. ‘But there’s plenty to think about—and read. I +haven’t thought or read for years.’ + +‘No, nor I; after thirty, my dear boy, one merely annotates, and the +book’s called Life. Bless me, his solemn old voice is grinding epigrams +out of even this poor old parochial barrel-organ. You don’t suppose, +you cannot be supposing you are the only serious person in the world? +What’s more, it’s only skin deep.’ + +Lawford smiled. ‘Skin deep. But think quietly over it; you’ll see I’m +done.’ + +‘Come here,’ said Mr Bethany. ‘Where’s the whiskey, where’s the cigars? +You shall smoke and drink, and I’ll watch. If it weren’t for a pitiful +old stomach, I’d join you. Come on!’ He led the way into the +dining-room. + +He looked sparer, more wizened and sinewy than ever as he stooped to +open the sideboard. ‘Where on earth do they keep everything?’ he was +muttering to himself. + +Lawford put the candlestick down on the table. ‘There’s only one +thing,’ he said, watching his visitor’s rummaging; ‘what precisely do +you think they will do with me?’ + +‘Look here, Lawford,’ snapped Mr Bethany; ‘I’ve come round here, +hooting through your letter-box, to talk sense, not sentiment. Why has +your wife deserted you? Without a servant, without a single—It’s +perfectly monstrous.’ + +‘On my word of honour, I prefer it so. I couldn’t have gone on. Alone I +all but forget this—this lupus. Every turn of her little finger +reminded me of it. We are all of us alone, whether we know it or not; +you said so yourself. And it’s better to realize it stark and +unconfused. Besides, you have no idea what—what odd things.... There +may be; there _is_ something on the other side. I’ll win through to +that.’ + +Mr Bethany had been listening attentively. He scrambled up from his +knees with a half-empty syphon of sodawater. ‘See here, Lawford,’ he +said; ‘if you really want to know what’s your most insidious and most +dangerous symptom just now, it is spiritual pride. You’ve won what you +think a domestic victory; and you can scarcely bear the splendour. Oh, +you may shrug! Pray, what _is_ this “other side” which the superior +double-faced creature’s going to win through to now?’ He rapped it out +almost bitterly, almost contemptuously. + +Lawford hardly heard the question. Before his eyes had suddenly arisen +the peace, the friendly unquestioning stillness, the thunderous lullaby +old as the grave. ‘It’s only a fancy. It seemed I could begin again.’ + +‘Well, look here,’ said Mr Bethany, his whole face suddenly lined and +grey with age. ‘You can’t. It’s the one solitary thing I’ve got to say, +as I’ve said it to myself morn, noon, and night these scores of years. +You can’t begin again; it’s all a delusion and a snare. You say we’re +alone. So we are. The world’s a dream, a stage, a mirage, a rack, call +it what you will—but _you_ don’t change, _you’re_ no illusion. There’s +no crying off for _you_ no ravelling out, no clean leaves. You’ve got +this—this trouble, this affliction—my dear, dear fellow what shall I +say to tell you how I grieve and groan for you oh yes, and actually +laughed, I confess it, a vile hysterical laughter, to think of it. +You’ve got this almost intolerable burden to bear; it’s come like a +thief in the night; but bear it you must, and _alone!_ They say death’s +a going to bed; I doubt it; but anyhow life’s a long undressing. We +came in puling and naked, and every stitch must come off before we get +out again. We must stand on our feet in all our Rabelaisian nakedness, +and watch the world fade. Well then, and not another word of sense +shall you worm out of my worn-out old brains after today—all I say is, +don’t give in! Why, if you stood here now, freed from this devilish +disguise, the old, fat, sluggish fellow that sat and yawned his head +off under my eyes in his pew the Sunday before last, if I know anything +about human nature I’d say it to your face, and a fig for your vanity +and resignation—your last state would be worse than the first. There!’ + +He bunched up a big white handkerchief and mopped it over his head. +‘That’s done,’ he said, ‘and we won’t go back. What I want to know now +is what are you going to do? Where are you sleeping? What are you going +to think about? I’ll stay—yes, yes, that’s what it must be: I must +stay. And I detest strange beds. I’ll stay, you _sha’n’t_ be alone. Do +you hear me, Lawford?—you _sha’n’t_ be alone!’ + +Lawford gazed gravely. ‘There is just one little thing I want to ask +you before you go. I’ve wormed out an extraordinary old French book; +and—just as you say—to pass the time, I’ve been having a shot at +translating it. But I’m frightfully rusty; it’s old French; would you +mind having a look?’ + +Mr Bethany blinked and listened. He tried for the twentieth time to +judge his friend’s eyes, to gain as best he could some sustained and +unobserved glance at this baffling face. ‘Where is your precious French +book?’ he said irritably. + +‘It’s upstairs.’ + +‘Fire away, then!’ Lawford rose and glanced about the room. ‘What, no +light there either?’ snapped Mr Bethany. ‘Take this; _I_ don’t mind the +dark. There’ll be plenty of that for me soon.’ + +Lawford hesitated at the door, looking rather strangely back. ‘No,’ he +said, ‘there are matches upstairs.’ He shut the door after him. The +darkness seemed cold and still as water. He went slowly up, with eyes +fixed wide on the floating luminous gloom, and out of memory seemed to +gather, as faintly as in the darkness which they had exorcised for him, +the strange pitiful eyes of the night before. And as he mounted a +chill, terrible, physical peace seemed to steal over him. + +Mr Bethany was sitting as he had left him, looking steadily on the +floor, when Lawford returned. He flattened out the book on the table +with a sniff of impatience. And dragging the candle nearer, and +stooping his nose close to the fusty print, he began to read. + +‘Was this in the house?’ he inquired presently. + +‘No,’ said Lawford; ‘it was lent to me by a friend—Herbert.’ + +‘H’m! don’t know him. Anyhow, precious poor stuff this is. This +Sabathier, whoever he is, seems to be a kind of clap-trap +eighteenth-century adventurer who thought the world would be better +off, apparently, for a long account of all his sentimental amours. +Rousseau, with a touch of Don Quixote in his composition, and an echo +of that prince of bogies, Poe! What, in the name of wonder, induced you +to fix on this for your holiday reading?’ + +‘Sabathier’s alive, isn’t he?’ + +‘I never said he wasn’t. He’s a good deal too much alive for my old +wits, with his Mam’selle This and Madame the Other; interesting enough, +perhaps, for the professional literary nose with a taste for +patchouli.’ + +‘Yet I suppose even that is not a very rare character?’ Mr Bethany +peered up from the dingy book at his ingenuous questioner. ‘I should +say decidedly that the fellow was a _very_ rare character, so long as +by rare you don’t mean good. It’s one of the dullest stupidities of the +present day, my dear fellow, to dote on a man simply because he’s +different from the rest of us. Once a man strays out of the common +herd, he’s more likely to meet wolves in the thickets than angels. From +what I can gather in just these few pages this Sabathier appears to +have been an amorous, adventurous, emotional Frenchman, who went to the +dogs as easily and as rapidly as his own nature and his period allowed. +And I should say, Lawford, that he made precious bad reading for a poor +old troubled hermit like yourself at the present moment.’ + +‘There’s a portrait of him a few pages back.’ + +Mr Bethany, with some little impatience, turned back to the engraving. +‘“Nicholas de Sabathier,”’s he muttered. ‘“De,” indeed!’ He poked in at +the foxy print with narrowed eyes. ‘I don’t deny it’s a striking, even +perhaps, a rather taking face. I don’t deny it.’ He gazed on with an +even more acute concentration, and looked up sharply. ‘Look here, +Lawford, what in the name of wonder—what trick are you playing on me +now?’ + +‘Trick?’ said Lawford; and the world fell with the tiniest plash in the +silence, like a vivid little float upon the surface of a shadowy pool. + +The old face flushed. ‘What conceivable bearing, I say, has this dead +and gone old roué on us now?’ + +‘You don’t think, then, you see any resemblance—_any_ resemblance at +all?’ + +‘Resemblance?’ repeated Mr Bethany in a flat voice, and without raising +his face again to meet Lawford’s direct scrutiny. ‘Resemblance to +whom?’ + +‘To me? To me, as I am?’ + +‘But even, my dear fellow (forgive my dull old brains!), even if there +was just the faintest superficial suggestion of—of that; what then?’ + +‘Why,’ said Lawford, ‘he’s buried in Widderstone.’ + +‘Buried in Widderstone?’ The keen childlike blue eyes looked almost +stealthily up across the book; the old man sat without speaking, so +still that it might even be supposed he himself was listening for a +quiet distant footfall. + +‘He is buried in the grave beside which I fell asleep,’ said Lawford; +‘all green and still and broken,’ he added faintly. ‘You remember,’ he +went on in a repressed voice—‘you remember you asked me if there was +anybody else in sight, any eavesdropper? You don’t think—him?’ + +Mr. Bethany pushed the book a few inches away from him. ‘Who, did you +say—who was it you said put the thing into your head? A queer friend +surely?’ he paused helplessly. ‘And how, pray, do you know,’ he began +again more firmly, ‘even if there is a Sabathier buried at Widderstone, +how do you know it is this Sabathier? It’s not, I think,’ he added +boldly, ‘a very uncommon name; with two _b_’s at any rate. Whereabouts +is the grave?’ + +‘Quite down at the bottom, under the trees. And the little seat I told +you of is there, too, where I fell asleep. You see,’ he explained, ‘the +grave’s almost isolated; I suppose because he killed himself.’ + +Mr Bethany clasped his knuckled fingers on the tablecloth. ‘It’s no +good,’ he concluded after a long pause; ‘the fellow’s got up into my +head. I can’t think him out. We must thrash it out quietly in the +morning with the blessed sun at the window; not this farthing dip. To +me the whole idea is as revolting as it is incredible. Why, above a +century—no, no! And on the other hand, how easily one’s fancy builds! A +few straws and there’s a nest and squawking fledglings, all complete. +Is that why—is that why that good, practical wife of yours and all your +faithful household have absconded? Does it’—he threw up his head as if +towards the house above them—‘does it _reek_ with him?’ + +Lawford shook his head. ‘She hasn’t seen him: not—not apart. I haven’t +told her.’ + +Mr Bethany tossed the hugger-mugger of pamphlets across the table. +‘Then, for simple sanity’s sake, don’t. Hide it; burn it; put the thing +completely out of your mind. A friend! Who, where is this wonderful +friend?’ + +‘Not very far from Widderstone. He lives—practically alone.’ + +‘And all that stumbling and muttering on the stairs?’ he leant forward +almost threateningly. ‘There isn’t anybody here, Lawford?’ + +‘Oh, no,’ said Lawford. ‘We are practically alone with this, you know,’ +he pointed to the book, and smiled frankly, however faintly. + +Again Mr Bethany sank into a fixed yet uneasy reverie, and again shook +himself and raised his eyes. + +‘Well then,’ he said, in a voice all but morose in its fretfullness, +‘what I suggest is that first you keep quiet here; and next, that you +write and get your wife back. You say you are better. I think you said +she herself noticed a slight improvement. Isn’t it just exactly as I +foresaw? And yet she’s gone! But that’s not our business. Get her back. +And don’t for a single instant waste a thought on the other; not for a +single instant, I implore you, Lawford. And in a week the whole thing +will be no more than a dreary, preposterous dream.... You don’t +_answer_ me!’ he cried impulsively. + +‘But can one so easily forget a dream like this?’ + +‘You don’t speak out, Lawford; you mean _she_ won’t.’ + +‘It must at least seem to have been in part of my own seeking, or +contriving; or at any rate—she said it—of my own hereditary or +unconscious deserving.’ + +‘She said that!’ Mr Bethany sat back. ‘I see, I see,’ he said. ‘I’m +nothing but a fumbling old meddler. And there was I, not ten minutes +ago, preaching for all I was worth on a text I knew nothing about. God +bless me, Lawford, how long we take a-learning. I’ll say no more. But +what an illusion. To think this—this—he laid a long lean hand at arm’s +length flat upon the table towards his friend—‘to think this is our old +jog-trot Arthur Lawford! From henceforth I throw you over, you old wolf +in sheep’s wool. I wash my hands of you. And now where am I going to +sleep?’ + +He covered up his age and weariness for an instant with a small crooked +hand. + +Lawford took a deep breath. ‘You’re going, old friend, to sleep at +home. And I—I’m going to give you my arm to the Vicarage gate. Here I +am, immeasurably relieved, fitter than I’ve been since I was a dolt of +a schoolboy. On my word of honour: I can’t say why, but I am. I don’t +care _that_, vicar, honestly—puffed up with spiritual pride. If a man +can’t sleep with pride for a bed-fellow, well, he’d better try +elsewhere. It’s no good; I’m as stubborn as a mule; that’s at least a +relic of the old Adam. I care no more,’ he raised his voice firmly and +gravely—‘I don’t care a jot for solitude, not a jot for all the ghosts +of all the catacombs!’ + +Mr. Bethany listened, grimly pursed up his lips. ‘Not a jot for all the +ghosts of all the catechisms!’ he muttered. ‘Nor the devil himself, I +suppose?’ He turned once more to glance sharply in the direction of the +face he could so dimly—and of set purpose—discern; and without a word +trotted off into the hall. Lawford followed with the candle. + +‘’Pon my word, you haven’t had a mouthful of supper. Let me forage; +just a quarter of an hour, eh?’ + +‘Not me,’ said Mr Bethany; ‘if you won’t have me, home I go. I refuse +to encourage this miserable grass-widowering. What _would_ they say? +What would the busybodies say? Ghouls and graves and shocking +mysteries—Selina! Sister Anne! Come on.’ + +He shuffled on his hat and caught firm hold of his knobbed umbrella. +‘Better not leave a candle,’ he said. + +Lawford blew out the candle. + +‘What? What?’ called the old man suddenly. But no voice had spoken. + +A thin trickle of light from the lamp in the street stuck up through +the fanlight as, with a smile that could be described neither as +mischievous, saturnine, nor vindictive, and was yet faintly suggestive +of all three, Lawford quietly opened the drawing-room door and put down +the candlestick on the floor within. + +‘What on earth, my good man, are you fumbling after now?’ came the +almost fretful question from under the echoing porch. + +‘Coming, coming,’ said Lawford, and slammed the door behind them. + + + + +CHAPTER SIXTEEN + + +The first faint streaks of dawn were silvering across the stars when +Lawford again let himself into his deserted house. He stumbled down to +the pantry and cut himself a crust of bread and cheese, and ate it, +sitting on the table, watching the leafy eastern sky through the +painted bars of the area window. He munched on, hungry and tired. His +night walk had cooled head and heart. Having obstinately refused Mr +Bethany’s invitation to sleep at the Vicarage, he had sat down on an +old low wall, and watched until his light had shone out at his bedroom +window. Then he had simply wandered on, past rustling glimmering +gardens, under the great timbers of yellowing elms, hardly thinking, +hardly aware of himself except as in a far-away vision of a sluggish +insignificant creature struggling across the tossed-up crust of an old, +incomprehensible world. + +The secret of his content in that long leisurely ramble had been that +repeatedly by a scarcely realised effort it had not lain in the +direction of Widderstone. And now, as he sat hungrily devouring his +breakfast on the table in the kitchen, with the daybreak comforting his +eyes, he thought with a positive mockery of that poor old night-thing +he had given inch by inch into the safe keeping of his pink and white +drawing-room. Don Quixote, Poe, Rousseau—they were familiar but not +very significant labels to a mind that had found very poor +entertainment in reading. But they were at least representative enough +to set him wondering which of their influences it was that had inflated +with such a gaseous heroism the Lawford of the night before. He thought +of Sheila with a not unkindly smile, and of the rest. ‘I wonder what +they’ll do?’ had been a question almost as much in his mind during +these last few hours as had ‘What am I to do?’ in the first bout of his +‘visitation.’ + +But the ‘they’ was not very precisely visualised. He saw Sheila, and +Harry, and dainty pale-blue Bettie Lovat, and cautious old Wedderburn, +and Danton, and Craik, and cheery, gossipy Dr Sutherland, and the +verger, Mr Dutton, and Critchett, and the gardener, and Ada, and the +whole vague populous host that keep one as definitely in one’s place in +the world’s economy as a firm-set pin the camphored moth. What his +place was to be only time could show. Meanwhile there was in this +loneliness at least a respite. + +Solitude!—he bathed his weary bones in it. He laved his eyelids in it, +as in a woodland brook after the heat of noon. He sat on in calmest +reverie till his hunger was satisfied. Then, scattering out his last +crumbs to the birds from the barred window, he climbed upstairs again, +past his usual bedroom, past his detested guest room, up into the +narrow sweetness of Alice’s, and flinging himself on her bed fell into +a long and dreamless sleep. + +By ten next morning Lawford had bathed and dressed. And at half-past +ten he got up from Sheila’s fat little French dictionary and his +Memoirs to answer Mrs Gull’s summons on the area bell. The little woman +stood with arms folded over an empty and capacious bag, with an air of +sustained melancholy on her friendly face. She wished him a very +nervous ‘Good morning,’ and dived down into the kitchen. The hours +dragged slowly by in a silence broken only by an occasional ring at the +bell. About three she emerged from the house and climbed the area steps +with her bag hooked over her arm. He watched the little black figure +out of sight, watched a man in a white canvas hat ascend the steps to +push a blue-printed circular through the letter-box. It had begun to +rain a little. He returned to the breakfast-room and with the window +wide open to the rustling coolness of the leaves, edged his way very +slowly across from line to line of the obscure French print. + +Sabathier none the less, and in spite of his unintelligible +literariness, did begin to take shape and consistency. The man himself, +breathing, and thinking, began to live for Lawford even in those few +half-articulate pages, though not in quite so formidable a fashion as +Mr Bethany had summed him up. But as the west began to lighten with the +declining sun, the same old disquietude, the same old friendless and +foreboding ennui stole over Lawford’s solitude once more. He shut his +books, placed a candlestick and two boxes of matches on the hall table, +lit a bead of gas, and went out into the rainy-sweet streets again. + +At a mean little barber’s with a pole above his lettered door he went +in to be shaved. And a few steps further on he sat down at the +crumb-littered counter of a little baker’s shop to have some tea. It +pleased him almost to childishness to find how easily he could listen +and even talk to the oiled and crimpy little barber, and to the pretty, +consumptive-looking, print-dressed baker’s wife. Whatever his face +might now be conniving at, the Arthur Lawford of last week could never +have hob-nobbed so affably with his social ‘inferiors.’ + +For no reason in the world, unless to spend a moment or two longer in +the friendly baker’s shop, he bought six-penny-worth of cakes. He +watched them as they were deposited one by one in the bag, and even +asked for one sort to be exchanged for another, flushing a little at +the pretty compliment he had ventured on. + +He climbed out of the shop, and paused on the wooden doorstep. ‘Do you +happen to know Mr Herbert Herbert’s?’ he said. + +The baker’s wife glanced up at him with clear, reflective eyes. ‘Mr +Herbert’s?—that must be some little way off, sir. I don’t know any such +name, and I know most, just round about like.’ + +‘Well, yes, it is,’ said Lawford, rather foolishly; ‘I hardly know why +I asked. It’s past the churchyard at Widderstone.’ + +‘Oh yes, sir,’ she encouraged him. + +‘A big, wooden-looking house.’ + +‘Really, sir. Wooden?’ + +Lawford looked into her face, but could find nothing more to say, so he +smiled again rather absently, and ascended into the street. + +He sat down outside the churchyard gate on the very bank where he had +in the sourness of the nettles first opened Sabathier’s Memoirs. The +world lay still beneath the pale sky. Presently the little fat rector +walked up the hill, his wrists still showing beneath his sleeves. +Lawford meditatively watched him pass by. A small boy with a switch, a +tiny nose, and a swinging gallipot, his cheeks lit with the sunset, +followed soon after. Lawford beckoned him with his finger and held out +the bag of tarts. He watched him, half incredulous of his prize, and +with many a cautious look over his shoulder, pass out of sight. For a +long while he sat alone, only the evening birds singing out of the +greenness and silence of the churchyard. What a haunting inescapable +riddle life was. + +Colour suddenly faded out of the light streaming between the branches. +And depression, always lying in ambush of the novelty of his freedom, +began like mist to rise above his restless thoughts. It was all so +devilish empty—this raft of the world floating under evening’s shadow. +How many sermons had he listened to, enriched with the simile of the +ocean of life. Here they were, come home to roost. He had fallen +asleep, ineffectual sailor that he was, and a thief out of the cloudy +deep had stolen oar and sail and compass, leaving him adrift amid the +riding of the waves. + +‘Are they worth, do you think, quite a penny?’ suddenly inquired a +quiet voice in the silence. He looked up into the almost colourless +face, into the grey eyes beneath their clear narrow brows. + +‘I was thinking,’ he said, ‘what a curious thing life is, and +wondering—’ + +‘The first half is well worth the penny—its originality! I can’t afford +twopence. So you must _give_ me what you were wondering.’ + +Lawford gazed rather blankly across the twilight fields. ‘I was +wondering,’ he said with an oddly naive candour, ‘how long it took one +to sink.’ + +‘They say, you know,’ Grisel replied solemnly, ‘drowned sailors float +midway, suffering their sea change; purgatory. But what a splendid +pennyworth. All pure philosophy!’ + +‘“Philosophy!”’ said Lawford; ‘I am a perfect fool. Has your brother +told you about me?’ + +She glanced at him quickly. ‘We had a talk.’ + +‘Then you do know—?’ He stopped dead, and turned to her. ‘You really +realise it, looking at me now?’ + +‘I realise,’ she said gravely, ‘that you look even a little more pale +and haggard than when I saw you first the other night. We both, my +brother and I, you know, thought for certain you’d come yesterday. In +fact, I went into the Widderstone in the evening to look for you, +knowing your nocturnal habits....’ She glanced again at him with a kind +of shy anxiety. + +‘Why—why is your brother so—why does he let me bore him so horribly?’ + +‘Does he? He’s tremendously interested; but then, he’s pretty easily +interested when he’s interested at all. If he can possibly twist +anything into the slightest show of a mystery, he will. But, of course, +you won’t, you can’t, take all he says seriously. The tiniest pinch of +salt, you know. He’s an absolute fanatic at talking in the air. +Besides, it doesn’t really matter much.’ + +‘In the air?’ + +‘I mean if once a theory gets into his head—the more far-fetched, so +long as it’s original, the better—it flowers out into a positive +miracle of incredibilities. And of course you can rout out evidence for +anything under the sun from his dingy old folios. Why did he lend you +that _particular_ book?’ + +‘Didn’t he tell you that, then?’ + +‘He said it was Sabathier.’ She seemed to think intensely for the +merest fraction of a moment, and turned. ‘Honestly, though, I think he +immensely exaggerated the likeness. As for...’ + +He touched her arm, and they stopped again, face to face. ‘Tell me what +difference exactly you see,’ he said. ‘I am quite myself again now, +honestly; please tell me just the very worst you think.’ + +‘I think, to begin with,’ she began, with exaggerated candour, ‘his is +rather a detestable face.’ + +‘And mine?’ he said gravely. + +‘Why—very troubled; oh yes—but his was like some bird of prey. +Yours—what mad stuff to talk like this!—not the least symptom, that I +can see, of—why, the “prey,” you know.’ + +They had come to the wicket in the dark thorny hedge. ‘Would it be very +dreadful to walk on a little—just to finish?’ + +‘Very,’ she said, turning as gravely at his side. + +‘What I wanted to say was—’ began Lawford, and forgetting altogether +the thread by which he hoped to lead up to what he really wanted to +say, broke off lamely; ‘I should have thought you would have absolutely +despised a coward.’ + +‘It would be rather absurd to despise what one so horribly well +understands. Besides, we weren’t cowards—we weren’t cowards a bit. My +childhood was one long, reiterated terror—nights and nights of it. But +I never had the pluck to tell any one. No one so much as dreamt of the +company I had. Ah, and you didn’t see either that my heart was +absolutely in my mouth, that I was shrivelled up with fear, even at +sight of the fear on your face in the dark. There’s absolutely nothing +so catching. So, you see, I _do_ know a little what nerves are; and +dream too sometimes, though I don’t choose charnelhouses if I can get a +comfortable bed. A coward! May I really say that to ask my help was one +of the bravest things in a man I ever heard of. Bullets—that kind of +courage—no real woman cares twopence for bullets. An old aunt of mine +stared a man right out of the house with the thing in her face. Anyhow, +whether I may or not, I do say it. So now we are quits.’ + +‘Will you—’ began Lawford, and stopped. ‘What I wanted to say was,’ he +jerked on, ‘it is sheer horrible hypocrisy to be talking to you like +this—though you will never have the faintest idea of what it has meant +and done for me. I mean... And yet, and yet, I do feel when just for +the least moment I forget what I am, and that isn’t very often, when I +forget what I have become and what I must go back to—I feel that I +haven’t any business to be talking with you at all. “Quits!” And here I +am, an outcast from decent society. Ah, you don’t know—’ + +She bent her head and laughed under her breath. ‘You do really stumble +on such delicious compliments. And yet, do you know, I think my brother +would be immensely pleased to think you were an outcast from decent +society if only he could be thought one too. He has been trying half +his life to wither decent society with neglect and disdain—but it +doesn’t take the least notice. The deaf adder, you know. Besides, +besides; what is all this meek talk? I detest meek talk—gods or men. +Surely in the first and last resort all we are is ourselves. Something +has happened; you are jangled, shaken. But to us, believe me, you are +simply one of fewer friends—and I think, after struggling up +Widderstone Lane hand in hand with you in the dark, I have a right to +say “friends”—than I could count on one hand. What are we all if we +only realized it? We talk of dignity and propriety, and we are like so +many children playing with knucklebones in a giant’s scullery. Come +along, he will, some suppertime, for us, each in turn—and how many even +will so much as look up from their play to wave us good-bye? that’s +what I mean—the plot of _silence_ we are all in. If only I had my +brother’s lucidity, how much better I would have said all this. It is +only, believe me, that I want ever so much to help you, if I may—even +at risk, too,’ she added, rather shakily, ‘of having that help—well—I +know it’s little good.’ + +The lane had narrowed. They had climbed the arch of a narrow stone +bridge that spanned the smooth dark Widder. A few late starlings were +winging far above them. Darkness was coming on apace. They stood for +awhile looking down into the black flowing water, with here and there +the mild silver of a star dim leagues below. ‘I am afraid,’ said +Grisel, looking quietly up, ‘you have led me into talking most pitiless +nonsense. How many hours, I wonder, did I lie awake in the dark last +night, thinking of you? Honestly, I shall never, _never_ forget that +walk. It haunted me, on and on.’ + +‘Thinking of me? Do you really mean that? Then it was not all +imagination; it wasn’t just the drowning man clutching at a straw?’ + +The grey eyes questioned him. ‘You see,’ he explained in a whisper, as +if afraid of being overheard, ‘it—it came back again, and—I don’t mind +a bit how much you laugh at me! I had been asleep, and had had a most +awful dream, one of those dreams that seem to hint that some day _that_ +will be our real world, that some day we may awake where dreaming then +will be of this; and I woke—came back—and there was a tremendous +knocking going on downstairs. I knew there was no one else in the +house—’ + +‘No one else in the house? And you like this?’ + +‘Yes,’ said Lawford, stolidly, ‘they were all out as it happened. And, +of course,’ he went on quickly, ‘there was nothing for me to do but +simply to go down and open the door. And yet, do you know, at first I +simply couldn’t move. I lit a candle, and then—then somehow I got to +know that waiting for me was just—but there,’ he broke off +half-ashamed, ‘I mustn’t bother you with all this morbid stuff. Will +your brother be in now, do you think?’ + +‘My brother will be in, and, of course, expecting you. But as for +“bother,” believe me—well, did I quite deserve it?’ She stooped towards +him. ‘You lit a candle—and then?’ + +They turned and retraced their way slowly up the hill. + +‘It came again.’ + +‘It?’ + +‘That—that presence, that shadow. I don’t mean, of course, it’s a real +shadow. It comes, doesn’t it, from—from within? As if from out of some +unheard-of hiding place, where it has been lurking for ages and ages +before one’s childhood; at least, so it seems to me now. And yet +although it does come from within, there it is, too, in front of you, +before your eyes, feeding even on your fear, just watching, waiting +for—What nonsense all this must seem to you!’ + +‘Yes, yes; and then?’ + +‘Then, and you must remember the poor old boy had been knocking all +this time—my old friend—Mr Bethany, I mean—knocking and calling through +the letter-box, thinking I was in extremis_, or something; then—how +shall I describe it?—well _you_ came, your eyes, your face, as clear as +when, you know, the night before last, we went up the hill together. +And then...’ + +‘And then?’ + +‘And then, we—you and I, you know—simply drove him downstairs, and I +could hear myself grunting as if it was really a physical effort; we +drove him, step by step, downstairs. And—’ He laughed outright, and +boyishly continued his adventure. ‘What do you think I did then, +without the ghost of a smile, too, at the idiocy of the thing? I locked +the poor beggar in the drawing-room. I saw him there, as plainly as I +ever saw anything in my life, and the furniture glimmering, though it +was pitch dark: I can’t describe it. It all seemed so desperately real, +absolutely vital then. It all seems so meaningless and impossible now. +And yet, although I am utterly played out and done for, and however +absurd it may _sound_, I wouldn’t have lost it; I wouldn’t go back for +any bribe there is. I feel just as if a great bundle had been rolled +off my back. Of course, the queerest, the most detestable part of the +whole business is that _it_—the thing on the stairs—was this’—he lifted +a grave and haggard face towards her again—‘or rather _that_,’ he +pointed with his stick towards the starry churchyard. ‘Sabathier,’ he +said. + +Again they had paused together before the white gate, and this time +Lawford pushed it open, and followed his companion up the narrow path. + +She stayed a moment, her hand on the bell. ‘Was it my brother who +actually put that horrible idea into your mind?—about Sabathier?’ + +‘Oh no, not really put it into my head,’ said Lawford hollowly. ‘He +only found it there; lit it up.’ + +She laid her hand lightly on his arm. ‘Whether he did or not,’ she said +with an earnestness that was almost an entreaty, ‘of course, you _must_ +agree that we every one of us have some such experience—that kind of +visitor, once at least, in a lifetime.’ ‘Ah, but,’ began Lawford, +turning forlornly away, ‘you didn’t see, you can’t have realized—the +change.’ + +She pulled the bell almost as if in some inward triumph. ‘But don’t you +think,’ she suggested, ‘that that, like the other, might be, as it +were, partly imagination too? If now you thought _back._...’ + +But a little old woman had opened the door, and the sentence, for the +moment, was left unfinished. + + + + +CHAPTER SEVENTEEN + + +There was no one in the room, and no light, when they entered. For a +moment Grisel stood by the open window, looking out. Then she turned +impulsively. ‘My brother, of course, will ask you too,’ she said; ‘we +had made up our minds to do so if you came again; but I want you to +promise me now that you won’t dream of going back to-night. That surely +would be tempting—well, not Providence. I couldn’t rest if I thought +you might be alone; like that again.’ Her voice died away into the +calling of the waters. A light moved across the dingy old rows of books +and as his sister turned to go out Herbert appeared in the doorway, +carrying a green-shaded lamp, with an old leather quarto under his arm. + +‘Ah, here you are,’ he said. ‘I guessed you had probably met.’ He drew +up, burdened, before his visitor. But his clear black glance, instead +of wandering off at his first greeting, had intensified. And it was +almost with an air of absorption that he turned away. He dumped his +book on to a chair and it turned over with scattered leaves on to the +floor. He put the lamp down and stooped after it, so that his next +words came up muffled, and as if the remark had been forced out of him. +‘You don’t feel worse, I hope?’ He got up and faced his visitor for the +answer. And for the moment Lawford stood considering his symptoms. + +‘No,’ he said almost gaily; ‘I feel enormously better.’ But Herbert’s +long, oval, questioning eyes beneath the sleek black hair were still +fixed on his face. ‘I am afraid, my dear fellow,’ he said, with +something more than his usual curiously indifferent courtesy, ‘the +struggle has frightfully pulled you to pieces.’ + +‘The question is,’ answered Lawford, with a kind of tired yet whimsical +melancholy in his voice, ‘though I am not sure that the answer very +much matters—what’s going to put me together again? It’s the old story +of Humpty Dumpty, Herbert. Besides, one thing you said has stuck out in +a quite curious way in my memory. I wonder if you will remember?’ + +‘What was that?’ said Herbert with unfeigned curiosity. + +‘Why, you said even though Sabathier had failed, though I was still my +own old stodgy self, that you thought the face—the face, you know, +might work in. Somehow, sometimes I think it has. It does really rather +haunt me. In that case—well, what then?’ Lawford had himself listened +to this involved explanation much as one watches the accomplishment of +a difficult trick, marvelling more at its completion at all than at the +difficulty involved in the doing of it. + +‘“Work in,”’ repeated Herbert, like a rather blasé child confronted +with a new mechanical toy; ‘did I really say that? well, honestly, it +wasn’t bad; it’s what one would expect on that hypothesis. You see, we +are only different, as it were, in our differences. Once the foot’s +over the threshold, it’s nine points of the law! But I don’t remember +saying it.’ He shamefacedly and naively confessed it: ‘I say such an +awful lot of things. And I’m always changing my mind. It’s a standing +joke against me with my sister. She says the recording angel will have +two sides to my account: Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays; and +Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays—diametrically opposite convictions, +and both kinds wrong. On Sundays I am all things to all men. As for +Sabathier, by the way, I do want particularly to have another go at +him. I’ve been thinking him over, and I’m afraid in some ways he won’t +quite wash. And that reminds me, did you read the poor chap?’ + +‘I just grubbed through a page or two; but most of my French was left +at school. What I did do, though, was to show the book to an old friend +of ours—my wife’s and mine—just to skim—a Mr Bethany. He’s an old +clergyman—our vicar, in fact.’ + +Herbert had sat down, and with eyes slightly narrowed was listening +with peculiar attention. He smiled a little magnanimously. ‘His +verdict, I should think, must have been a perfect joy.’ + +‘He said,’ said Lawford, in his rather low, monotonous voice, ‘he said +it was precious poor stuff, that it reminded him of patchouli; and that +Sabathier—the print I mean—looked like a foxy old roué. They were, I +think, his exact words. We were alone together, last night.’ + +‘You don’t mean that he simply didn’t see the faintest resemblance?’ + +Lawford nodded. ‘But then,’ he added simply, ‘whenever he comes to see +me now he leaves his spectacles at home.’ + +And at that, as if at some preconcerted signal, they both went off into +a simple shout of laughter, unanimous and sustained. + +But this first wild bout of laughter over, the first real bursting of +the dam, perhaps, for years, Lawford found himself at a lower ebb than +ever. + +‘You see,’ he said presently, and while still his companion’s face was +smiling around the remembrance of his laughter like ripples after the +splash of a stone, ‘Bethany has been absolutely my sheet-anchor right +through. And I was—it was—you can’t possibly realise what a ghastly +change it really was. I don’t think any one ever will.’ + +Herbert opened his hand and looked reflectively into its palm before +allowing himself to reply. ‘I wonder, you know; I have been wondering a +good deal; simply taking the other point of view for a moment; _was_ +it? I don’t mean “ghastly” exactly (like, say, smallpox, G.P.I., +elephantiasis), but was it quite so complete, so radical, as in the +first sheer gust of astonishment you fancied?’ + +Lawford thought on a little further. ‘You know how one sees oneself in +a passion—why, how a child looks—the whole face darkened and drawn and +possessed? That was the change. That’s how it seems to come back to me. +And something, somebody, dodging behind the eyes. Yes; more that than +even any excessive change of feature, except, of course, that I also +seemed—Shall I ever forget that first cold, stifling stare into the +looking-glass! I certainly was much darker, even my hair. But I’ve told +you all this before,’ he added wearily, ‘and the scores and scores of +times I’ve thought it. I used to sit up there in the big spare bedroom +my wife put me up in, simply gloating. My flesh seemed nothing more +than an hallucination: there I was, haunting my body, an old grinning +tenement, and all that I thought I wanted, and couldn’t do without, all +I valued and prided myself on—stacked up in the drizzling street below. +Why, Herbert, our bodies _are_ only glass or cloud. They melt, don’t +they, like wax in the sun once we’re out. But those first few days +don’t make very pleasant thinking. Friday night was the first, when I +sat there like a twitching waxwork, soberly debating between Bedlam +here and Bedlam hereafter. I even sometimes wonder whether its very +repetition has not dulled the memory or distorted it. My wife,’ he +added ingenuously, ‘seems to think there are signs of a slight +improvement—a going back, I mean. But I’m not sure whether she meant +it.’ + +Herbert surveyed his visitor critically. ‘You say “dark,” he said; ‘but +surely, Lawford, your hair now is nearly grey; well-flecked at least.’ + +Although the remark carried nothing comparatively of a shock with it, +yet it seemed to Lawford as if an electric current had passed over his +scalp, coldly stirring every hair upon his head. But somehow or other +it was easier to sit quietly on, to express no surprise, to let them do +or say what they liked. ‘Well’ he retorted with an odd, crooked smile, +‘you must remember I am a good deal older than I was last Saturday. I +grew grey in the grave, Herbert.’ + +‘But it’s like this, you know,’ said Herbert, rising excitedly, and at +the next moment, on reflection, composedly reseating himself. ‘How many +of your people actually _saw_ it? How many owned to its being as bad, +as complete, as you made out? I don’t want for a moment to cut right +across what you said last night—our talk—but there are two million +sides to every question, and as often as not the less conspicuous have +sounder—well—roots. That’s all.’ + +‘I think really, do you know, I would rather not go over the detestable +thing again. Not many; my wife, though, and a man I know called Danton, +who—who’s prejudiced. After all, I have myself to think about too. And +right through, right through—there wasn’t the least doubt of that—they +all in their hearts knew it was me. They knew I was behind. I could +feel that absolutely always; it’s not just eyes and ears we use, +there’s us ourselves to consider, though God alone knows what that +means. But the password was there, as you might say; and they all knew +I knew it, all—except’—he looked up as if in bewilderment—‘except just +one, a poor old lady, a very old friend of my mother’s, whom I—I +Sabathiered!’ + +‘Whom—you—Sabathiered!’ repeated Herbert carefully, with infinite +relish, looking sidelong at his visitor. ‘And it is just precisely +that....’ + +But at that moment his sister appeared in the doorway to say that +supper was ready. And it was not until Herbert was actually engaged in +carving a cold chicken that he followed up his advantage. ‘Mr. Lawford, +Grisel,’ he said, ‘has just enriched our jaded language with a new +verb—to Sabathier. And if I may venture to define it in the presence of +the distinguished neologist himself, it means, “To deal with +histrionically”; or, rather, that’s what it will mean a couple of +hundred years hence. For the moment it means, “To act under the +influence of subliminalization; To perplex, or bemuse, or estrange with +_otherness_.” Do tell us, Lawford, more about the little old lady.’ He +passed with her plate a little meaningful glance at his sister, and +repeated, ‘Do!’ + +‘But I’ve been plaguing your sister enough already. You’ll wish...’ +Lawford began, and turned his tired-out eyes towards those others +awaiting them so frankly they seemed in their perfect friendliness a +rest from all his troubles. ‘You see,’ he went on, ‘what I kept on +thinking and thinking of was to get a quite unbiased and unprejudiced +view. She had known me for years, though we had not actually met more +than once or twice since my mother’s death. And there she was sitting +with me at the other end of just such another little seat as’—he +turned—to Herbert ‘as ours, at Widderstone. It was on Bewley Common: I +can see it all now; it was sunset. And I simply turned and asked her in +a kind of a whining affected manner if she remembered me; and when +after a long time she came round to owning that to all intents and +purposes she did not—I professed to have made a mistake in recognising +_her_. I think,’ he added, glancing up from one to the other of his two +strange friends, ‘I think it was the meanest trick I can remember.’ + +‘H’m,’ said Herbert solemnly: ‘I wish I had as sensitive a conscience. +But as your old friend didn’t recognise you, who’s the worse? As for +her not doing so, just think of the difference a few years makes to a +man, and _any_ severe shock. Life wears so infernally badly. Who, for +that matter, does not change, even in character and yet who professes +to see it? Mind, I don’t say in essence! But then how many of the human +ghosts one meets does one know in essence? One doesn’t want to. It +would be positively cataclysmic. And that’s what brings me around to +feel, Lawford, if I may venture to say so, that you may have brooded a +little too keenly on—on your own case. Tell any one you feel ill; he +will commiserate with you to positive nausea. Tell any priest your soul +is in danger; will he wait for proof? It’s misereres and penances world +without end. Tell any woman you love her; will she, can she, should +she, gainsay you? There you are. The cat’s out of the bag, you see. My +sister and I sat up half the night talking the thing over. I said I’d +take the plunge. I said I’d risk appearing the crassest, +contradictoriest wretch that ever drew breath. I don’t deny that what I +hinted at the other night must seem in part directly contrary to what +I’m going to say now.’ + +He wheeled his black eyes as if for inspiration, and helped himself to +salad. ‘It’s this,’ he said. ‘Isn’t it possible, isn’t it even probable +that being ill, and overstrung, moping a little over things more or +less out of the common ruck, and sitting there in a kind of +trance—isn’t it possible that you may have very largely _imagined_ the +change? Hypnotised yourself into believing it much worse—more profound, +radical, acute—and simply absolutely hypnotizing others into thinking +so, too. Christendom is just beginning to rediscover that there is such +a thing as faith, that it is just possible that, say, megrims or +melancholia may be removed at least as easily as mountains. The +converse, of course, is obvious on the face of it. A man fails because +he thinks himself a failure. It’s the men that run away that lose the +battle. Suppose then, Lawford’—he leaned forward, keen and +suave—‘suppose you have been and “Sabathiered” yourself!’ + +Lawford had grown accustomed during the last few days to finding +himself gazing out like a child into reality, as if from the windows of +a dream. He had in a sense followed this long, loosely stitched, +preliminary argument; he had at least in part realised that he sat +there between two clear friendly minds acting in the friendliest and +most obvious collusion. But he was incapable of fixing his attention +very closely on any single fragment of Herbert’s apology, or of rousing +himself into being much more than a dispassionate and not very +interested spectator of the little melodrama that Fate, it appeared, +had at the last moment decided rather capriciously to twist into a +farce. He turned with a smile to the face so keenly fixed and +enthusiastic with the question it had so laboriously led up to: ‘But +surely, I don’t quite see...’ + +Herbert lifted his glass as if to his visitor’s acumen and set it down +again without tasting it. ‘Why, my dear fellow,’ he said triumphantly, +‘even a dream must have a peg. Yours was this unforgettable old +suicide. Candidly now, how much of Sabathier was actually yours? In +spite of all that that fantastical fellow, Herbert, said last night, +dead men _don’t_ tell tales. The last place in the world to look for a +ghost is where his traitorous bones lie crumbling. Good heavens, think +what irrefutable masses of evidence there would be at our finger-tips +if every tombstone hid its ghost! No; the fellow just arrested you with +his creepy epitaph: an epitaph, mind you, that is in a literary sense +distinctly fertilizing. It catches one’s fancy in its own crude way, as +pages and pages of infinitely more complicated stuff take possession +of, germinate, and sprout in one’s imagination in another way. We are +all psychical parasites. Why, given his epitaph, given the +surroundings, I wager any sensitive consciousness could have guessed at +his face; and guessing, as it were, would have feigned it. What do you +think, Grisel?’ + +‘I think, dear, you are talking absolute nonsense; what do they call +it—“darkening counsel”? It’s “the hair of the dog,” Mr Lawford.’ + +‘Well, then, you see,’ said Herbert over a hasty mouthful, and turning +again to his victim—‘then you see, when you were just in the pink of +condition to credit any idle tale you heard, then I came in. What, with +the least impetus, can one _not_ see by moonlight? The howl of a dog +turns the midnight into a Brocken; the branch of a tree stoops out at +you like a Beelzebub crusted with gadflies. I’d, mind you, sipped of +the deadly old Huguenot too. I’d listened to your innocent prattle +about the child kicking his toes out on death’s cupboard door; what +more likely thing in the world, then, than that with that moon, in that +packed air, I should have swallowed the bait whole, and seen Sabathier +in every crevice of your skin? I don’t say there wasn’t any +resemblance; it was for the moment extraordinary; it was even when you +were here the other night distinctly arresting. But now (poor old +Grisel, I’m nearly done) all I want to say is this: that if we had the +“foxy old roué” here now, and Grisel played Paris between the three of +us, she’d hand over the apple not to you but to me.’ + +‘I don’t quite see where poor Paris comes in,’ suggested Grisel meekly. + +‘No, nor do I,’ said Herbert. ‘All that I mean, sagacious child, is, +that Mr Lawford no more resembles the poor wretch now than I resemble +the Apollo Belvedere. If you had only heard my sister scolding me, +railing at me for putting such ideas into your jangled head! They don’t +affect _me_ one iota. I have, I suppose, what is usually called +imagination; which merely means that I can sup with the devil, spoon +for spoon, and could sleep in Bluebeard’s linen-closet without turning +a hair. You, if I am not very much mistaken, are not much troubled with +that very unprofitable quality, and so, I suppose, when a crooked and +bizarre fancy does edge into your mind it roots there.’ + +And that said, not without some little confusion, and covert glance of +inquiry at his sister, Herbert made all the haste he could to catch up +the course that his companions had already finished. + +If only, Lawford thought, this insufferable weariness would lift awhile +he could enjoy the quiet, absurd, heedless talk, and this very friendly +topsy-turvy effort to ease his mind and soothe his nerves. He might +even take an interest again in his ‘case.’ + +‘You see,’ he said, turning to Grisel, ‘I don’t think it really very +much matters how it all came about. I never could believe it would +last. It may perhaps—some of it at least may be fancy. But then, what +isn’t? What _is_ trustworthy? And now your brother tells me my hair’s +turning grey. I suppose I have been living too slowly, too sluggishly, +and they thought it was high time to stir me up.’ + +He saw with extraordinary vividness the low panelled room; the still +listening face; the white muslin shoulders and dark hair; and the eyes +that seemed to recall some far-off desolate longing for home and +childhood. It was all a dream. That was the end of the matter. Even +now, perhaps, his tired old stupid body was lying hunched up, drenched +with dew upon the little old seat under the mist-wreathed branches. +Soon it would bestir itself and wake up and go off home—home to Sheila, +to the old deadly round that once had seemed so natural and inevitable, +to the old dull Lawford—eyes and brain and heart. + +They returned up the dark shallow staircase to Herbert’s book-room, and +he talked on to very quiet and passive listeners in his own fantastic +endless fashion. And ever and again Lawford would find himself +intercepting fleeting and anxious glances at his face, glances almost +of remorse and pity; and thought he detected beneath this irresponsible +contradictory babble an unceasing effort to clear the sky, to lure away +too pressing memories, to put his doubts and fears completely to rest. + +Herbert even went so far as to plead guilty, when Grisel gave him the +cue, of having a little heightened and overcoloured his story of the +restless phantasmal old creature that haunted their queer wooden +hauntable old house. And when they rose, laughing and yawning to take +up their candles, it was, after all, after a rather animated +discussion, with many a hair-raising ghost story brought in for proof +between brother and sister, as to exactly how many times that +snuff-coloured spectre had made his appearance; and, with less +unanimity still, as to the precise manner in which he was in the habit +of making his precipitant exit. + +‘You do at any rate acknowledge, Grisel, that the old creature does +appear, and that you saw him yourself step out into space when you were +sitting down there under the willow shelling peas. I’ve seen him twice +for certain, once rather hazily; Sallie saw him so plainly she asked +his business: that’s five. I resign.’ + +‘Acknowledge!’ said Grisel; ‘of course I do. I’d acknowledge anything +in the world to save argument. Why, I don’t know what I should do +without him. If only, now Mr Lawford would give him a fair chance to +show himself reading quietly here about ten minutes to one, or shelling +peas even, if he prefers it. If only he’d stay long enough for _that_. +Wouldn’t it be the very thing for them both!’ + +‘Of course,’ said Herbert cordially, ‘the very thing.’ + +Lawford looked up at neither of them. He shook his head. + +But he needed little persuasion to stay at least one night. The +prospect of that long solitary walk, of that tired stupid stooping +figure dragging itself along the interminable country roads seemed a +sheer impossibility. ‘It is not—it isn’t, I swear it—the other that +keeps me back,’ he had solemnly assured the friend that half smiled her +relief at his acceptance, ‘but—if you only knew how empty it’s all got +now; all reason gone even to go on at all.’ + +‘But doesn’t it follow? Of course it’s empty. And now life is going to +begin again. I assure you it is, I do indeed. Only, only have +courage—just the will to win on.’ + +He said good-night; shut-to the latched door of his long low room, +ceilinged with rafters close under the steep roof, its brown walls hung +with quiet, dark, pondering and beautiful faces looking gravely across +at him. And with his candle in his hand he sat down on the bedside. All +speculation was gone. The noisy clock of his brain had run down again. +He turned towards the old oval looking-glass on the dressing-table +without the faintest stirring of interest, suspense, or anxiety. What +did it matter what a man looked like—a now familiar but enfeebled and +deprecating voice seemed to say. He knew that a change had come. Even +Sheila had noticed it. And since then what had he not gone through? +What now was here seemed of little moment, so far at least as this +world was concerned. + +At last with an effort he rose, crossed the uneven floor, and looked in +unmovedly on what was his own poor face come back to him: changed +indeed almost beyond belief from the sleek self-satisfied genial yet +languid Arthur Lawford of the past years, and still haunted with some +faint trace of the set and icy sharpness, and challenge, and affront of +the dark Adventurer, but that—how immeasurably dimmed and blunted and +faded. He had expected to find it so. Would it (the thought vanished +across his mind) would it have been as unmistakably there had he come +hot-foot, fearing, expecting to find the other? But—was he +disappointed! + +He hardly knew how long he stood there, leaning on his hands, surveying +almost listlessly in the candle-light that lined, bedraggled, grey, +hopeless countenance, those dark-socketed, smouldering eyes, whose +pupils even now were so dilated that a casual glance would have failed +to detect the least hint of any iris. ‘It must have been something +pretty bad you were, you know, or something pretty bad you did,’ they +seemed to be trying to say to him, ‘to drag us down to this.’ + +He knelt down by force of habit to say his prayers; but no words came. +Well, between earthly friends a betrayal such as this would have caused +a livelong estrangement and hostility. The God the old Lawford used to +pray to would forgive him, he thought wearily, if just for the present +he was a little too sore at heart to play the hypocrite. But if, while +kneeling, he said nothing, he saw a good many things in such +tranquillity and clearness as the mere eyes of the body can share but +rarely with their sisters of the imagination. And now it was Alice who +looked mournfully out of the dark at him; and now the little old +charwoman, Mrs Gull, with her bag hooked over her arm, climbed +painfully up the area steps; and now it was the lean vexed face of a +friend, nursing some restless and anxious grievance against him—Mr +Bethany; and then and ever again it was the face of one who seemed pure +dream and fantasy and yet... He listened intently and fancied even now +he could hear the voices of brother and sister talking quietly and +circumspectly together in the room beneath. + + + + +CHAPTER EIGHTEEN + + +A quiet knocking aroused him in the long, tranquil bedroom; and +Herbert’s head was poked into the room. ‘There’s a bath behind that +door over there,’ he whispered, ‘or if you like I’m off for a bathe in +the Widder. It’s a luscious day. Shall I wait? All right,’ and the head +was withdrawn. ‘Don’t put much on,’ came the voice at the panel; ‘we’ll +be home again in twenty minutes.’ + +The green and brightness of the morning must have been prepared for +overnight by spiders and the dew. Everywhere the gleaming nets were +hung, and everywhere there rose a tiny splendour from the waterdrops, +so clear and pure and changeable it seemed with their fire and colour +they shook a tiny crystal music in the air. Herbert led the way along a +clayey downward path beneath hazels tossing softly together their twigs +of nuts, until they came out into a rounded hollow that, mounded with +thyme, sloped gently down to the green banks of the Widder. The water +poured like clearest glass beneath a rain of misty sunbeams. + +‘My sister always says that this is the very dell Boccaccio had in his +mind’s eye when he wrote the “Decameron.” There really is something +almost classic in those pines. And I’d sometimes swear with my eyes +just out of the water I’ve seen Dryads half in hiding peeping between +those beeches. Good Lord, Lawford, what a world we wretched moderns +have made, and missed!’ + +The water was violently cold. It seemed to Lawford, as it swept up over +his body, and as he plunged his night-distorted eyes beneath its +blazing surface, that it was charged with some strange, powerful +enchantment to wash away in its icy clearness even the memory of the +dull and tarnished days behind him. If one could but tie up anyhow that +stained bundle of inconsequent memories called life, and fling it into +a cupboard remoter even than Bluebeard’s, and lock the door, and drop +the quickly-rusting key into these living waters! + +He dressed himself with window thrown open to the blackbirds and +thrushes, and the occasional shrill solitary whistling of a robin. But, +like the sour-sweet fragrance of the brier, its wandering desolate +burst of music had power to wake memory, and carried him instantly back +to that first aimless descent into the evening gloom of Widderstone +from which it was in vain to hope ever to climb again. Surely never a +more ghoulish face looked out on its man before than that which +confronted him as with borrowed razor he stood shaving those sunken +chaps, that angular chin. + +And even now, beneath the lantern of broad daylight, just as within +that other face had lurked the undeniable ghost and presence of +himself, so beneath the sunken features seemed to float, tenuous as +smoke, scarcely less elusive than a dream, between eye and object, the +sinister darkness of the face that in those two bouts with fear he had +by some strange miracle managed to repel. + +‘Work in,’ the chance phrase came back. It had worked in in sober +earnest; and so far as the living of the next few weeks went, surely it +might prove an ally without which he simply could not conceive himself +as struggling on at all. + +But as dexterous minds as even restless Sabathier’s had him just now in +safe and kindly keeping. All the quiet October morning Herbert kept him +talking and stooping over his extraordinary collection of books. + +‘The point is,’ he explained to Lawford, standing amid a positive +archipelago of precious ‘finds,’ with his foot hoisted onto a chair and +a patched-up, sea-stained folio on his knee, ‘I honestly detest the +mere give and take of what we are fools enough to call life. I don’t +deny Life’s there,’ he swept his hand towards the open window—‘in that +frantic Tophet we call London; but there’s no focus, no point of +vantage. Even a scribbler only gets it piecemeal and through a dulled +medium. We learn to read before we know how to see; we swallow our +tastes, convictions, and emotions whole; so that nine-tenths of the +world’s nectar is merely honeydew.’ He smiled pleasantly into the fixed +vacancy of his visitor’s face. ‘That’s why I’ve just gone on,’ he +continued amiably, ‘collecting this particular kind of stuff—what you +might call riff-raff. There’s not a book here, Lawford, that hasn’t at +least a glimmer of the real thing in it—just Life, seen through a +living eye, and felt. As for literature, and style, and all that +gallimaufry, don’t fear for them if your author has the ghost of a hint +of genius in his making.’ + +‘But surely,’ said Lawford, trying for the twentieth time to pretend to +himself that these endless books carried the faintest savour of the +delight to him which they must, he rather forlornly supposed, shower +upon Herbert, ‘surely genius is a very rare thing!’ + +‘Rare! the world simply swarms with it. But before you can bottle it up +in a book it’s got to be articulate. Just for a single instant imagine +yourself Falstaff, and if there weren’t hundreds of Falstaffs in every +generation, to be examples of his ungodly life, he’d be as dead as a +doornail to-morrow—imagine yourself Falstaff, and being so, sitting +down to write “Henry IV,” or “The Merry Wives.” It’s simply +preposterous. You wouldn’t be such a fool as to waste the time. A mere +Elizabethan scribbler comes along with a gift of expression and an +observant eye, lifts the bloated old tippler clean out of life, and +swims down the ages as the greatest genius the world has ever seen. +Whereas, surely, though you mustn’t let me bore you with all this +piffle, it’s Falstaff is the genius, and W. S. merely a talented +reporter. + +‘Lear, Macbeth, Mercutio—they live on their own, as it were. The +newspapers are full of them, if we were only the Shakespeares to see +it. Have you ever been in a Police Court? Have you ever _watched_ +tradesmen behind their counters? My soul, the secrets walking in the +streets! You jostle them at every corner. There’s a Polonius in every +first-class railway carriage, and as many Juliets as there are +boarding-schools. What the devil are _you_, my dear chap, but genius +itself, with all the world brand new upon your shoulders? And who’d +have thought it of you ten days ago? + +‘It’s simply and solely because we’re all, poor wretches, dumb—dumb as +butts of Malmsez; dumb as drummerless drums. Here am I, ass that I am, +trickling out this—this whey that no more expresses me than Tupper does +Sappho. But that’s what I want to mean. How inexhaustibly rich +everything is, if you only stick to life. Here it is packed away behind +these rotting covers, just the real thing, no respectable stodge; no +mere parasitic stuff; not more than a dozen poets; scores of outcasts +and vagabonds—and the real thing in vagabonds is pretty rare in print, +I can tell you. We’re all, every one of us, sodden with facts, drugged +with the second-hand, and barnacled with respectability until—until the +touch comes. Goodness knows where from; but there’s no mistaking it; oh +no!’ + +‘But what,’ said Lawford uneasily, ‘what on earth do you mean by the +touch?’ + +‘I mean when you cease to be a puppet only and sit up in the gallery +too. When you squeeze through to the other side. When you suffer a kind +of conversion of the mind; become aware of your senses. When you get a +living inkling. When you become articulate to yourself. When you +_see_.’ + +‘I am awfully stupid,’ Lawford murmured, ‘but even now I don’t really +follow you a bit. But when, as you say, you do become articulate to +yourself, what happens then?’ + +‘Why, then,’ said Herbert with a shrug almost of despair, ‘then begins +the weary tramp back. One by one drop off the truisms, and the +Grundyisms, and the pedantries, and all the stillborn claptrap of the +marketplace sloughs off. Then one can seriously begin to think about +saving one’s soul.’ + +‘Saving one’s soul,’ groaned Lawford; ‘why, I am not even sure of my +own body yet.’ He walked slowly over to the window and with every +thought in his head as quiet as doves on a sunny wall, stared out into +the garden of green things growing, leaves fading and falling water. ‘I +tell you what,’ he said, turning irresolutely, ‘I wonder if you could +possibly find time to write me out a translation of Sabathier. My +French is much too hazy to let me really get at the chap. He’s gone +now; but I really should like to know what kind of stuff exactly he has +left behind.’ + +‘Oh, Sabathier!’ said Herbert, laughing. ‘What do you think of that, +Grisel?’ he asked, turning to his sister, who at that moment had looked +in at the door. ‘Here’s Mr Lawford asking me to make a translation of +Sabathier. Lunch, Lawford.’ + +Lawford sighed. And not until he had slowly descended half the narrow +uneven stairs that led down to the dining-room did he fully realise the +guile of a sister that could induce a hopeless bookworm to waste a +whole morning over the stupidest of companions, simply to keep his +tired-out mind from rankling, and give his Sabathier a chance to go to +roost. + +‘I think, do you know,’ he managed to blurt out at last ‘I think I +ought to be getting home again. The house is empty—and—’ + +‘You shall go this evening,’ said Herbert, ‘if you really must insist +on it. But honestly, Lawford, we both think that after what the last +few days must have been, it is merely common sense to take a rest. How +can you possibly rest with a dozen empty rooms echoing every thought +you think? There’s nothing more to worry about; you agree to that. Send +your people a note saying that you are here, safe and sound. Give them +a chance of lighting a fire, and driving in the fatted calf. Stay on +with us just the week out.’ + +Lawford turned from one to the other of the two friendly faces. But +what was dimly in his mind refused to express itself. ‘I think, you +know, I—’ he began falteringly. + +‘But it’s just this thinking that’s the deuce—this preposterous habit +of having continually to make up one’s mind. Off with his head, Grisel! +My sister’s going to take you for a picnic; we go every other fine +afternoon; and you can argue it out with her.’ + +Once alone again with Grisel, however, Lawford found talking +unnecessary. Silences seemed to fall between them as quietly and +restfully as evening flows into night. They walked on slowly through +the fading woods, and when they had reached the top of the hill that +sloped down to the dark and foamless Widder they sat down in the +honey-scented sunshine on a knoll of heather and bracken, and Grisel +lighted the little spirit-kettle she had brought with her, and busied +herself very methodically over making tea. + +That done, she clasped her hands round her knees, and sat now +gossiping, now silent, in the pale autumnal beauty. There was a bird +wistfully twittering in the branches overhead, and ever and again a +withered leaf would slip circling down from the motionless beech boughs +arched in their stillness above their heads beneath the thin blue sky. + +‘Men, you know,’ she began again suddenly, starting out of reverie, +‘really are absurdly blind; and just a little bit absurdly kindly +stupid. How many times have I been at the point of laughing out at my +brother’s delicious naive subtleties. But you do, you will, understand, +Mr Lawford, that he was, that we are both “doing our best”—to make +amends?’ + +‘I understand—I do indeed—a tenth part of all your kindness.’ + +‘Yes, but that’s just it—that horrible word “kindness”! If ever there +were two utterly self-absorbed people, without a trace, with an +absolute horror of kindness, it is just my brother and I. It’s most of +it false and most of it useless. We all surely must take what comes in +this topsy-turvy world. I believe in saying out:—that the more one +thinks about life the worse it becomes. There are only two kinds of +happiness in this world—a wooden post’s and Prometheus’s. And who ever +heard of any one having the impudence to be kind to Prometheus? As for +a miserable “medium” like me, not quite a post and leagues and leagues +from even envying a Prometheus, she’s better for the powder without the +jam. But that’s all nothing. What I can’t help thinking—and it’s not a +bit giving my brother away, because we both think it—that it was partly +our thoughtlessness that added at least something to—to the rest. It +was perfectly absurd. He saw you were ill; he saw—he must have seen +even in that first Sunday talk—that your nerves were all askew. And who +doesn’t know what “nerves” means nowadays? And yet he deliberately +chattered. He loves it—just at large, you know, like me. I told him +before I came out that I intended, if I could, to say all this. And now +it’s said you’ll please forgive me for going back to it.’ + +‘Please don’t talk about forgiveness. But when you say he chattered, +you mean about Sabathier, of course. And that, you know, I don’t care a +fig for now. We can settle all that between ourselves—him and me, I +mean. And now tell me candidly again—Is there any “prey” in my face +now?’ + +She looked up fleetingly into his eyes, leant back her head and +laughed. ‘“Prey,” there never was a glimpse.’ + +‘And “change”?’ Their eyes met again in an infinitely brief, infinitely +bewildering argument. + +‘Really, really, scarcely perceptible,’ she assured him, ‘except, of +course, how horribly, horribly ill you look. And that only seems to +prove to me you must be hiding something else. No illusion on earth +could—could have done that to your face.’ + +‘You think, I know,’ he persisted, ‘that I must be persuaded and +cosseted and humoured. Yes, you do; it’s my poor old sanity that’s +really in both your minds. Perhaps I am—not absolutely sound. Anyhow. +I’ve been watching it in your looks at each other all the time. And I +can never, never say, never tell you what you have done for me. But you +see, after all, we did win through; I keep on telling myself that. So +that now it’s purely from the most selfish and practical motives that I +want you to be perfectly frank with me. I have to go back, you know; +and some of them, one or two of my friends I mean, are not all on my +side. Think of me as I was when you came into the room, three centuries +ago, and you turned and looked, frowning at me in the candle-light; +remember that and look at me now. What is the difference? Does it shock +you? Does it make the whole world seem a trick, a sham? Does it simply +sour your life to think such a thing possible? Oh, the hours I’ve spent +gloating on Widderstone’s miserable mask of skin and bone, as I was +saying to your brother only last night, and never knew until they +shuffled me that the old self too was nothing better than a stifling +suffocating mask.’ + +‘But don’t you see,’ she argued softly, turning her face away a little, +‘you were a stranger then (though I certainly didn’t _mean_ to frown). +And then a little while after we were, well, just human beings, +shoulder to shoulder, and if friendship does not mean that, I don’t +know what it does mean. And now, you are—well, just you: the you, you +know, of three centuries ago! And if you mean to ask me whether at any +precise moment I have been conscious that this you I am now speaking to +was not the you of last night, or of that dark climb up the hill, why, +it is simply frantic to think it could ever be necessary to say over +and over again, No. But if you mean, Have you changed else? All I could +answer is, Don’t we all change as we grow to know one another? What +were just features, what just dingily represented one, as it were, is +forgotten, or rather gets remembered. Of course, the first glimpse is +the landscape under lightning as it were. But afterwards isn’t it +surely like the alphabet to a child; what was first a queer angular +scrawl becomes A, and is always ever after A, undistinguished, +half-forgotten, yet standing at last for goodness knows what real +wonderful things—or for just the dry bones of soulless words? Is that +it?’ She stole a sidelong glance into his brooding face, leaning her +head on her hand. + +‘Yes, yes,’ came the rather dissatisfied reply. ‘I do agree; perfectly. +But then, you see—I told you I was going to talk of nothing but +myself—what did at first happen to me was something much worse, and, I +suppose, something quite different from that.’ + +‘And yet, didn’t you tell us, that of all your friends not one really +denied in their hearts your—what they would call, I suppose—your +_identity_; except that poor little offended old lady. And even she, if +my intuition is worth a penny piece, even she when you go soon and talk +to her will own that she did know you, and that it was not because you +were a stranger that she was offended, but because you so ungenerously +pretended to be one. That was a little mad, now, if you like!’ + +‘Oh yes,’ said Lawford, ‘I am going to ask her forgiveness. I don’t +know what I didn’t vow to take her for a peace-offering if the chance +should ever come—and the courage—to make my peace with her. But now +that the chance has come, and I think the courage, it is the desire +that’s gone. I don’t seem to care either way. I feel as if I had got +past making my peace with any one.’ + +But this time no answer helped him out. + +‘After all,’ he went plodding on, ‘there is more than just the mere day +to day to consider. And one doesn’t realise that one’s face actually +_is_ one’s fortune without a shock. And that _that_ gone, one is, as +your brother said, just like a bee come back to the wrong hive. It +undermines,’ he smiled rather bitterly, ‘one’s views rather. And it +certainly shifts one’s friends. If it hadn’t been just for my old’—he +stopped dead, and again pushed slowly on—‘if it hadn’t been for our old +friend, Mr Bethany, I doubt if we should now have had a soul on our +side. I once read somewhere that wolves always chase the old and weak +and maimed out of the pack. And after all, what do _we_ do? Where do we +keep the homeless and the insane? And yet, you know,’ he added +ruminatingly, ‘it is not as if mine was ever a particularly lovely or +lovable face! While as for the poor wretch behind it, well, I really +cannot see what meaning, or life even, he had before—’ + +‘Before?’ + +Lawford met bravely the clear whimsical eyes. ‘Before, I was +Sabathiered.’ + +Grisel laughed outright. + +‘You think,’ he retorted almost bitterly, ‘you think I am talking like +a child.’ + +‘Yes,’ she sighed cheerfully, ‘I was quite envying you.’ + +‘Well, there I am,’ said Lawford inconsequently. ‘And now; well, now, I +suppose, the whole thing’s to begin again. I can’t help beginning to +wonder what the meaning of it all is; why one’s duty should always seem +so very stupid a thing. And then, too, what _can_ there be on earth +that even a buried Sabathier could desire?’ He glanced up in a really +animated perplexity at the still, dark face turned in the evening light +towards the darkening valley. And perplexity deepened into a disquieted +frown—like that of a child who is roused suddenly from a daydream by +the half-forgotten question of a stranger. He turned his eyes almost +furtively away as if afraid of disturbing her; and for awhile they sat +in silence... At last he turned again almost shyly. ‘I hope some day +you will let me bring my daughter to see you.’ + +‘Yes, yes,’ said Grisel eagerly; ‘we should both _love_ it, of course. +Isn’t it curious?—I simply _knew_ you had a daughter. Sheer intuition!’ + +‘I say “some day,”’ said Lawford; ‘I know, though, that that some day +will never come.’ + +‘Wait; just wait,’ replied the quiet confident voice, ‘that will come +too. One thing at a time, Mr Lawford. You’ve won your old self back +again; you’ll win your old love of life back again in a little while; +never fear. Oh, don’t I know that awful Land’s End after illness; and +that longing, too, that gnawing longing, too, for Ultima Thule. So, +it’s a bargain between us that you bring your daughter soon.’ She +busied herself over the tea things. ‘And, of course,’ she added, as if +it were an afterthought, looking across at him in the pale green +sunlight as she knelt, ‘you simply won’t think of going back +to-night.... Solitude, I really do think, solitude just now would be +absolute madness. You’ll write to-day and go, perhaps, to-morrow!’ + +Lawford looked across in his mind at his square ungainly house, +full-fronting the afternoon sun. He tried to repress a shudder. ‘I +think, do you know, I ought to go to-day.’ + +‘Well, why not? Why not? Just to reassure yourself that all’s well. And +come back here to sleep. If you’d really promise that I’d drive you in. +I’d love it. There’s the jolliest little governess-cart we sometimes +hire for our picnics. May I? You’ve no idea how much easier in our +minds my brother and I would be if you would. And then to-morrow, or at +any rate the next day, you shall be surrendered, whole and in your +right mind. There, that’s a bargain too. Now we must hurry.’ + + + + +CHAPTER NINETEEN + + +Herbert himself went down to order the governess cart, and packed them +in with a rug. And in the dusk Grisel set Lawford down at the corner of +his road and drove on to an old bookseller’s with a commission from her +brother, promising to return for him in an hour. Dust and a few straws +lay at rest as if in some abstruse arrangement on the stones of the +porch just as the last faint whirling gust of sunset had left them. +Shut lids of sightless indifference seemed to greet the wanderer from +the curtained windows. + +He opened the door and went in. For a moment he stood in the vacant +hall; then he peeped first into the blind-drawn dining-room, faintly, +dingily sweet, like an empty wine-bottle. He went softly on a few paces +and just opening the door looked in on the faintly glittering twilight +of the drawing-room. But the congealed stump of candle that he had set +in the corner as a final rancorous challenge to the beaten Shade was +gone. He slowly and deliberately ascended the stairs, conscious of a +peculiar sense of ownership of what in even so brief an absence had +taken on so queer a look of strangeness. It was almost as if he might +be some lone heir come in the rather mournful dusk to view what +melancholy fate had unexpectedly bestowed on him. + +‘Work in’—what on earth else could this chill sense of strangeness +mean? Would he ever free his memory from that one haphazard, haunting +hint? And as he stood in the doorway of the big, calm room, which +seemed even now to be stirring with the restless shadow of these last +few far-away days; now pacing sullenly to and fro; now sitting +hunched-up to think; and now lying impotent in a vain, hopeless +endeavour only for the breath of a moment to forget—he awoke out of +reverie to find himself smiling at the thought that a changed face was +practically at the mercy of an incredulous world, whereas a changed +heart was no one’s deadly dull affair but its owner’s. The merest +breath of pity even stole over him for the Sabathier who after all had +dared and had needed, perhaps, nothing like so arrogant and merciless a +coup de grâce_ to realise that he had so ignominiously failed. + +‘But there, that’s done!’ he exclaimed out loud, not without a tinge of +regret that theories, however brilliant and bizarre, could never now be +anything else—that now indeed that the symptoms had gone, the ‘malady,’ +for all who had not been actually admitted into the shocked circle, was +become nothing more than an inanely ‘tall’ story; stuffing not even +savoury enough for a goose. How wide exactly, he wondered, would +Sheila’s discreet, shocked circle prove? He stood once more before the +looking-glass, hearing again Grisel’s words in the still green shadow +of the beech-tree, ‘Except of course, horribly, horribly ill.’ ‘What a +fool, what a coward she thinks I am!’ + +There was still nearly an hour to be spent in this great barn of faded +interests. He lit a candle and descended into the kitchen. A mouse went +scampering to its hole as he pushed open the door. The memory of that +ravenous morning meal nauseated him. It was sour and very still here; +he stood erect; the air smelt faint of earth. In the breakfast-room the +bookcase still swung open. Late evening mantled the garden; and in +sheer ennui again he sat down to the table, and turned for a last not +unfriendly hob-a-nob with his poor old friend Sabathier. He would take +the thing back. Herbert, of course, was going to translate it for him. +Now if the patient old Frenchman had stormed Herbert instead—that +surely would have been something like a coup! Those frenzied books. The +absurd talk of the man. Herbert was perfectly right—he could have +entertained fifty old Huguenots without turning a hair. ‘I’m such an +awful stodge.’ + +He turned the woolly leaves over very slowly. He frowned impatiently, +and from the end backwards turned them over again. Then he laid the +book softly down on the table and sat back. He stared with narrowed +lids into the flame of his quiet friendly candle. Every trace, every +shred of portrait and memoir were gone. Once more, deliberately, +punctiliously, he examined page by page the blurred and unfamiliar +French—the sooty heads, the long, lean noses, the baggy eyes passing +like figures in a peepshow one by one under his hand—to the last +fragmentary and dexterously mended leaf. Yes, Sabathier was gone. Quite +the old slow Lawford smile crept over his face at the discovery. It was +a smile a little sheepish too, as he thought of Sheila’s quiet +vigilance. + +And the next instant he had looked up sharply, with a sudden peculiar +shrug, and a kind of cry, like the first thin cry of an awakened child, +in his mind. Without a moment’s hesitation he climbed swiftly upstairs +again to the big sepulchral bedroom. He pressed with his fingernail the +tiny spring in the looking-glass. The empty drawer flew open. There +were finger-marks still in the dust. + +Yet, strangely enough, beneath all the clashing thoughts that came +flocking into his mind as he stood with the empty drawer in his hand, +was a wounding yet still a little amused pity for his old friend Mr +Bethany. So far as he himself was concerned the discovery—well, he +would have plenty of time to consider everything that could possibly +now concern himself. Anyhow, it could only simplify matters. + +He remembered waking to that old wave of sickening horror on the first +unhappy morning; he remembered the keen yet owlish old face blinking +its deathless friendliness at him, and the steady pressure of the cold, +skinny hand. As for Sheila, she had never done anything by halves; +certainly not when it came to throwing over a friend no longer +necessary to one’s social satisfaction. But she would edge out +cleverly, magnanimously, triumphantly enough, no doubt, when the day of +reckoning should come, the day when, her nets wide spread, her bait +prepared, he must stand up before her outraged circle and positively +prove himself her lawful husband, perhaps even to the very imprint of +his thumb. + +‘Poor old thing!’ he said again; and this time his pity was shared +almost equally between both witnesses to Mr Bethany’s ingenuous little +document, the loss of which had fallen so softly and pathetically that +he felt only ashamed of having discovered it so soon. + +He shut back the tell-tale drawer, and after trying to collect his +thoughts in case anything should have been forgotten, he turned with a +deep trembling sigh to descend the stairs. But on the landing he drew +back at the sound of voices, and then a footstep. Soon came the sound +of a key in the lock. He blew out his candle and leant listening over +the balusters. + +‘Who’s there?’ he called quietly. + +‘Me, sir,’ came the feeble reply out of the darkness. + +‘What is it, Ada? What have you come for?’ + +‘Only, sir, to see that all was safe, and you were in, sir.’ + +‘Yes,’ he said. ‘All’s safe; and I am in. What if I had been out?’ It +was like dropping tiny pebbles into a deep well—so long after came the +answering feeble splash. + +‘Then I was to go back, sir.’ And a moment after the discreet voice +floated up with the faintest tinge of effrontery out of the hush. ‘Is +that Dr Ferguson, too sir?’ + +‘No, Ada; and please tell your mistress from me that Dr Ferguson is +unlikely to call again.’ A keen but rather forlorn smile passed over +his face. ‘He’s dining with friends no doubt at Holloway. But of course +if she should want to see him he will see her to-morrow at any hour at +Mrs Lovat’s. And—Ada!’ + +‘Yes, sir?’ + +‘Say that I’m a little better; your mistress will be relieved to hear +that I’m a little better; still not _quite_ myself say, but, I think, a +little better.’ + +‘Yes, sir; and I’m sure I’m very glad to hear it,’ came fainter still. + +‘What voice was that I heard just now?’ + +‘Miss Alice’s, sir; but she came quite against my wishes, and I hope +you won’t repeat it, sir. She promised if she came that mistress +shouldn’t know. I was only afraid she might disturb you, or—or Dr +Ferguson. And did you say, sir, that I was to tell mistress that he +_might_ be coming back?’ + +‘Ah, that I don’t know; so perhaps it would be as well not to mention +him at all. Is Miss Alice there?’ + +‘I said I would tell her if you were alone. But I hope you’ll +understand that it was only because she begged so. Mistress has gone to +St Peter’s bazaar; and that’s how it was.’ + +‘I quite understand. Beckon to her.’ + +There came a hasty step in the hall and a hurried murmur of +explanation. Lawford heard her call as she ran up the stairs; and the +next moment he had Alice’s hand in his and they were groping together +through the gloaming back into the solitude of the empty room again. + +‘Don’t be alarmed, dear,’ he heard himself imploring. ‘Just hold tight +to that clear common sense, and above all you won’t tell? It must be +our secret; a dead, dead secret from every one, even your mother, for +just a little while; just a mere two days or so—in case. I’m—I’m +better, dear.’ + +He fumbled with the little box of matches, dropped one, broke another; +but at last the candle-flame dipped, brightened, and with the door shut +and the last pale blueness of dusk at the window Lawford turned and +looked at his daughter. She stood with eyes wide open, like the eyes of +a child walking in its sleep; then twisted her fingers more tightly +within his. ‘Oh, dearest, how ill, how ill you look,’ she whispered. +‘But there, never mind—never mind. It was all a miserable dream, then; +it won’t, it can’t come back? I don’t think I could bear its coming +back. And mother told me such curious things; as if I were a child and +understood nothing. And even after I knew that you were you—I mean +before I sat up here in the dark to see you—she said that you were gone +and would never come back; that a terrible thing had happened—a +disgrace which we must never speak of; and that all the other was only +a pretence to keep people from talking. But I did not believe then, and +how could I believe afterwards?’ + +‘There, never mind now, dear, what she said. It was all meant for the +best, perhaps. But here I am; and not nearly so ill as I look, Alice; +and there’s nothing more to trouble ourselves about; not even if it +should be necessary for me to go away for a time. And this is our +secret, mind; ours only; just a dead secret between you and me.’ + +They sat for awhile without speaking or stirring. And faintly along the +hushed road Lawford heard in the silence a leisurely indolent beat of +little hoofs approaching, and the sound of wheels. A sudden wave of +feeling swept over him. He took Alice’s quiet loving face in his hands +and kissed her passionately. ‘Do not so much as think of me yet, or +doubt, or question: only love me, dearest. And soon—and soon—’ + +‘We’ll just begin again, just begin again, won’t we? all three of us +together, just as we used to be. I didn’t mean to have said all those +horrid things about mother. She was only dreadfully anxious and meant +everything for the best. You’ll let me tell her soon?’ + +The haggard face turned slowly, listening. ‘I hear, I understand, but I +can’t think very clearly now, Alice; I can’t, dear; my miserable old +tangled nerves. I just stumble along as best I can. You’ll understand +better when you get to be a poor old thing like me. We must do the best +we can. And of course you’ll see, Dillie, how awfully important it is +not to raise false hopes. You understand? I mustn’t risk the least +thing in the world, must I? And now goodbye; only for a few hours now. +And not a word, not a word to a single living soul.’ + +He extinguished the candle again, and led the way to the top of the +stairs. ‘Are you there, Ada?’ + +‘Yes, sir,’ answered the quiet imperturbable voice from under the black +straw brim. Alice went slowly down, but at the foot of the stairs, +looking out into the cold, blue, lamplit street she paused as if at a +sudden recollection, and ran hastily up again. + +‘There was nothing more, dear?’ She said, leaning back to peer up. + +‘“Nothing more?” What?’ + +She stood panting a little in the darkness, listening to some cautious +yet uneasy thought that seemed to haunt her mind. ‘I thought—it seemed +there was something we had not said, something I could not understand. +But there, it is nothing! You know what a fanciful old silly I am. You +do love me? Quite as much as ever?’ + +‘More, sweetheart, more!’ + +‘Good-night again, then; and God bless you, dear.’ + +The outer door closed softly, the footsteps died away. Lawford still +hesitated. He took hold of the stairs above his head as he stood on the +landing and leaned his head upon his hands, striving calmly to +disentangle the perplexity of his thoughts. His pulses were beating in +his ear with a low muffled roar. He looked down between the blinds to +where against the blue of the road beneath the straggling yellow beams +of the lamp stood the little cart and drooping, shaggy pony, and Grisel +sitting quietly there awaiting him. He shut his eyes as if in hope by +some convulsive effort of mind to break through this subtle glasslike +atmosphere of dream that had stolen over consciousness, and blotted out +the significance, almost the meaning of the past. He turned abruptly. +Empty as the empty rooms around him, unanswering were mind and heart. +Life was a tale told by an idiot—signifying nothing. + +He paused at the head of the staircase. And even then the doubt +confronted him: Would he ever come back? Who knows? he thought; and +again stood pondering, arguing, denying. At last he seemed to have come +to a decision. He made his way downstairs, opened and left ajar a long +narrow window in a passage to the garden beyond the kitchen. He turned +on his heel as he reached the gate and waved his hand as if in a kind +of forlorn mockery towards the darkly glittering windows. The drowsy +pony awoke at touch of the whip. + +Grisel lifted the rug and squeezed a little closer into the corner. She +had drawn a veil over her face, so that to Lawford her eyes seemed to +be dreaming in a little darkness of their own as he laid his hand on +the side of the cart. ‘It’s a most curious thing,’ he said, ‘but +peeping down at you just now when the sound of the wheels came, a +memory came clearly back to me of years and years ago—of my mother. She +used to come to fetch me at school in a little cart like this, and a +little pony just like this, with a thick dusty coat. And once I +remember I was simply sick of everything, a failure, and fagged out, +and all that, and was looking out in the twilight; I fancy even it was +autumn too. It was a little side staircase window; I was horribly +homesick. And she came quite unexpectedly. I shall never forget it—the +misery, and then, her coming.’ He lifted his eyes, cowed with the +incessant struggle, and watched her face for some time in silence. +‘Ought I to stay?’ + +‘I see no “ought,”’ she said. ‘No one is there?’ + +‘Only a miserable broken voice out of a broken cage—called Conscience.’ + +‘Don’t you think, perhaps, that even _that_ has a good many +disguises—convention, cowardice, weakness, ennui; they all take their +turn at hooting in its feathers? You must, you really must have rest. +You don’t know; you don’t see; I do. Just a little snap, some one last +exquisite thread gives way, and then it is all over. You see I have +even to try to frighten you, for I can’t tell you how you distress me.’ + +‘Why do I distress you?—my face, my story you mean?’ + +‘No; I mean you: your trouble, that horrible empty house, and—oh, dear +me, yes, your courage too.’ + +‘Listen,’ said Lawford, stooping forward. He could scarcely see the +pale, veiled face through this mist that had risen up over his eyes. ‘I +have no courage apart from you; no courage and no hope. Ask me to +come!—a stranger with no history, no mockery, no miserable rant of a +grave and darkness and fear behind me. Are we not all haunted—every +one? That forgotten, and the fool I was, and the vacillating, and the +pretence—oh, how it all sweeps clear before me; without a will, without +a hope or glimpse or whisper of courage. Be just the memory of my +mother, the face, the friend I’ve never seen; the voice that every +dream leaves echoing. Ask me to come.’ + +She sat unstirring; and then as if by some uncontrollable impulse +stooped a little closer to him and laid her gloved hand on his. + +‘I hear, you know; I hear too,’ she whispered. ‘But we mustn’t listen. +Come now. It’s growing late.’ + +The little village echoed back from its stone walls the clatter of the +pony’s hoofs. Night had darkened to its deepest when their lamp shone +white on the wicket in the hedge. They had scarcely spoken. Lawford had +simply watched pass by, almost without a thought, the arching trees, +the darkening fields; had watched rise up in a mist of primrose light +the harvest moon to shine in saffron on the faces and shoulders of the +few wayfarers they met, or who passed them by. The still grave face +beneath the shadow of its veil had never turned, though the moon poured +all her flood of brilliance upon the dark profile. And once when as if +in sudden alarm he had lifted his head and looked at her, a sudden +doubt had assailed him so instantly that he had half put out his hand +to touch her, and had as quickly withdrawn it, lest her beauty and +stillness should be, even as the moment’s fancy had suggested, only a +far-gone memory returned in dream. + +Herbert hailed them from the darkness of an open window. He came down, +and they talked a little in the cold air of the garden. He lit a +cigarette, and climbed languidly into the cart, and drove the drowsy +little pony off into the moonlight. + + + + +CHAPTER TWENTY + + +It was a quiet supper the three friends sat down to. Herbert sat +narrowing his eyes over his thoughts, which, when the fancy took him, +he scattered out upon the others’ silence. Lawford apparently had not +yet shaken himself free from the sorcery of the moonlight. His eyes +shone dark and full like those of a child who has trespassed beyond its +hour for bed, and sits marvelling at reality in a waking dream. + +Long after they had bidden each other good-night, long after Herbert +had trodden on tiptoe with his candle past his closed door, Lawford sat +leaning on his arms at the open window, staring out across the +motionless moonlit trees that seemed to stand like draped and dreaming +pilgrims, come to the peace of their Nirvana at last beside the +crashing music of the waters. And he himself, the self that never +sleeps beneath the tides and waves of consciousness, was listening, +too, almost as unmovedly and unheedingly to the thoughts that clashed +in conflict through his brain. + +Why, in a strange transitory life was one the slave of these small +cares? What if even in that dark pit beneath, which seemed to whisper +Lethe to the tumultuous, swirling waters—what if there, too, were +merely a beginning again, and to seek a slumbering refuge there merely +a blind and reiterated plunge into the heat and tumult of another day? +Who was that poor, dark, homeless ghoul, Sabathier? Who was this Helen +of an impossible dream? Her face with its strange smile, her eyes with +their still pity and rapt courage had taken hope away. ‘Here’s not your +rest,’ cried one insistent voice; ‘she is the mystery that haunts day +and night, past all the changing of the restless hours. Chance has +given you back eyes to see, a heart that can be broken. Chance and the +stirrings of a long-gone life have torn down the veil age spins so +thick and fast. Pride and ambition; what dull fools men are! Effort and +duty, what dull fools men are!’ He listened on and on to these phantom +pleadings and to the rather coarse old Lawford conscience grunting them +mercilessly down, too weary even to try to rest. + +Rooks at dawn came sweeping beneath the turquoise of the sky. He saw +their sharp-beaked heads turn this way, that way, as they floated on +outspread wings across the misty world. Except for the hoarse roar of +the water under the huge thin-leafed trees, not a sound was stirring. +‘One thing,’ he seemed to hear himself mutter as he turned with a +shiver from the morning air, ‘it won’t be for long. You can, at least, +poor devil, wait the last act out.’ If in this foolish hustling mob of +the world, hired anywhere and anywhen for the one poor dubious wage of +a penny—if it was only his own small dull part to carry a mock spear, +and shout huzza with the rest—there was nothing for it, he grunted +obstinately to himself, shout he would with the loudest. + +He threw himself on to the bed with eyes so wearied with want of sleep +it seemed they had lost their livelong skill in finding it. Not the +echo of triumph nor even a sigh of relief stirred the torpor of his +mind. He knew vaguely that what had been the misery and madness of the +last few days was gone. But the thought had no power to move him now. +Sheila’s good sense, and Mr Bethany’s stubborn loyalty were alike old +stories that had lost their savour and meaning. Gone, too, was the need +for that portentous family gathering that had sat so often in his fancy +during these last few days around his dining-room table, discussing +with futile decorum the problem of how to hush him up, to muffle him +down. Half dreaming, half awake, he saw the familiar door slowly open +and, like the timely hero in a melodrama, his own figure appear before +the stricken and astonished company. His eyes opened half-fearfully, +and glanced up in the morning twilight. Their perplexity gave place to +a quiet, almost vacant smile; the lids slowly closed again, and at last +the lean hands twitched awhile in sleep. + +Next morning he spent rummaging among the old books, dipping listlessly +here and there as the tasteless fancy took him, while Herbert sat +writing with serene face and lifted eyebrows at his open window. But +the unfamiliar long S’s, the close type, and the spelling of the musty +old books wearied eye and mind. What he read, too, however far-fetched, +or lively, or sententious, or gross, seemed either to be of the same +texture as what had become his everyday experience, and so baffled him +with its nearness, or else was only the meaningless ramblings of an +idle pen. And this, he thought to himself, looking covertly up at the +spruce clear-cut profile at the window, this is what Herbert had called +Life. + +‘Am I interrupting you, Herbert; are you very busy?’ he asked at last, +taking refuge on a chair in a far corner of the room. + +‘Bless me, no; not a bit—not a bit,’ said Herbert amiably, laying down +his pen. ‘I’m afraid the old leatherjackets have been boring you. It’s +a habit this beastly reading; this gorge and glint and fever all at +second-hand—purely a bad habit, like morphia, like laudanum. But once +in, you know there’s no recovery. Anyhow, I’m neck-deep, and to +struggle would be simply to drown.’ + +‘I was only going to say how sorry I am for having left Sabathier at +home.’ + +‘My dear fellow—’ began Herbert reassuringly. + +‘It was only because I wanted so very much to have your translation. I +get muddled up with other things groping through the dictionary.’ + +Herbert surveyed him critically. ‘What exactly is your interest now, +Lawford? You don’t mean that my old “theory” has left any sting now?’ + +‘No sting; oh no. I was only curious. But you yourself still think it +really, don’t you?’ + +Herbert turned for a moment to the open window. + +‘I was simply trying then to find something to fit the facts as you +experienced them. But now that the facts have gone—and they have, +haven’t they?—exit, of course, my theory!’ + +‘I see,’ was the cryptic answer. ‘And yet, Herbert,’ Lawford solemnly +began again, ‘it has changed me; even in my way of thinking. When I +shut my eyes now—I only discovered it by chance—I see immediately faces +quite strange to me; or places, sometimes thronged with people; and +once an old well with some one sitting in the shadow. I can’t tell you +how clearly, and yet it is all altogether different from a dream. Even +when I sit with my eyes open, I am conscious, as it were, of a kind of +faint, colourless mirage. In the old days—I mean before Widderstone, +what I saw was only what I’d seen already. Nothing came uncalled for, +unexplained. This makes the old life seem so blank; I did not know what +extraordinarily _real_ things I was doing without. And whether for that +reason or another, I can’t quite make out what in fact I did want then, +and was always fretting and striving for. I can see no wisdom or +purpose in anything now but to get to one’s journey’s end as quickly +and bravely as one can. And even then, even if we do call life a +journey, and death the inn we shall reach at last in the evening when +it’s over; that, too, I feel will be only as brief a stopping-place as +any other inn would be. Our experience here is so scanty and +shallow—nothing more than the moment of the continual present. Surely +that must go on, even if one does call it eternity. And so we shall all +have to begin again. Probably Sabathier himself.... But there, what on +earth _are_ we, Herbert, when all is said? Who is it has—has done all +this for us—what kind of self? And to what possible end? Is it that the +clockwork has been wound up and must still jolt on a while with jarring +wheels? Will it never run down, do you think?’ + +Herbert smiled faintly, but made no answer. + +‘You see,’ continued Lawford, in the same quiet, dispassionate +undertone, ‘I wouldn’t mind if it was only myself. But there are so +many of us, so many selves, I mean; and they all seem to have a voice +in the matter. What is the reality to this infernal dream?’ + +‘The reality is, Lawford, that you are fretting your life out over this +rotten illusion. Be guided by me just this once. We’ll go, all three of +us, a good ten-mile walk to-day, and thoroughly tire you out. And +to-night you shall sleep here—a really sound, refreshing sleep. Then +to-morrow, whole and hale, back you shall go; honestly. It’s only +professional strong men should ask questions. Babes like you and me +must keep to slops.’ + +So, though Lawford made no answer, it was agreed. Before noon the three +of them had set out on their walk across the fields. And after rambling +on just as caprice took them, past reddening blackberry bushes and +copses of hazel, and flaming beech, they sat down to spread out their +meal on the slope of a hill, overlooking quiet ploughed fields and +grazing cattle. Herbert stretched himself with his back to the earth, +and his placid face to the pale vacant sky, while Lawford, even more +dispirited after his walk, wandered up to the crest of the hill. + +At the foot of the hill, upon the other side, lay a farm and its +out-buildings, and a pool of water beneath a group of elms. It was +vacant in the sunlight, and the water vividly green with a scum of +weed. And about half a mile beyond stood a cluster of cottages and an +old towered church. He gazed idly down, listening vaguely to the +wailing of a curlew flitting anxiously to and fro above the broken +solitude of its green hill. And it seemed as if a thin and dark cloud +began to be quietly withdrawn from over his eyes. Hill and wailing cry +and barn and water faded out. And he was staring as if in an endless +stillness at an open window against which the sun was beating in a +bristling torrent of gold, while out of the garden beyond came the +voice of some evening bird singing with such an unspeakable ecstasy of +grief it seemed it must be perched upon the confines of another world. +The light gathered to a radiance almost intolerable, driving back with +its raining beams some memory, forlorn, remorseless, remote. His body +stood dark and senseless, rocking in the air on the hillside as if +bereft of its spirit. Then his hands were drawn over his eyes. He +turned unsteadily and made his way, as if through a thick, drizzling +haze, slowly back. + +‘What is that—there?’ he said almost menacingly, standing with +bloodshot eyes looking down upon Herbert. + +‘“That!”—what?’ said Herbert, glancing up startled from his book. ‘Why, +what’s wrong, Lawford?’ + +‘That,’ said Lawford sullenly, yet with a faintly mournful cadence in +his voice; ‘those fields and that old empty farm—that village over +there? Why did you bring me here?’ + +Grisel had not stirred. ‘The village...’ + +‘Ssh!’ she said, catching her brother’s sleeve; ‘that’s Detcham, yes, +Detcham.’ + +Lawford turned wide vacant eyes on her. He shook his head and +shuddered. ‘No, no; not Detcham. I know it; I know it; but it has gone +out of my mind. Not Detcham; I’ve been there before; don’t look at me. +Horrible, horrible. It takes me back—I can’t think. I stood there, +trying, trying; it’s all in a blur. Don’t ask me—a dream.’ + +Grisel leaned forward and touched his hand. ‘Don’t think; don’t even +try. Why should you? We can’t; we _mustn’t_ go back.’ + +Lawford, still gazing fixedly, turned again a darkened face towards the +steep of the hill. ‘I think, you know,’ he said, stooping and +whispering, ‘_he_ would know—the window and the sun and the singing. +And oh, of course it was too late. You understand—too late. And once... +you can’t go back; oh no. You won’t leave me? You see, if you go, it +would only be all. I could not be quite so alone. But Detcham—Detcham? +perhaps you will not trust me—tell me? That was not the name.’ He +shuddered violently and turned dog-like beseeching eyes. +‘To-morrow—yes, to-morrow,’ he said, ‘I will promise anything if you +will not leave me now. Once—’ But again the thread running so faintly +through that inextricable maze of memory eluded him. ‘So long as you +won’t leave me now!’ he implored her. + +She was vainly trying to win back her composure, and could not answer +him at once.... + +In the evening after supper Grisel sat her guest down in front of a big +wood fire in the old book-room, where, staring into the playing flames, +he could fall at peace into the almost motionless reverie which he +seemed merely to harass and weary himself by trying to disperse. She +opened the little piano at the far end of the room and played on and on +as fancy led—Chopin and Beethoven, a fugue from Bach, and lovely +forlorn old English airs, till the music seemed not only a voice +persuading, pondering, and lamenting, but gathered about itself the +hollow surge of the water and the darkness; wistful and clear, as the +thoughts of a solitary child. Ever and again a log burnt through its +strength, and falling amid sparks, stirred, like a restless animal, the +stillness; or Herbert in his corner lifted his head to glance towards +his visitor, and to turn another page. At last the music, too, fell +silent, and Lawford stood up with his candle in his hand and eyed with +a strange fixity brother and sister. His glance wandered slowly round +the quiet flame-lit room. + +‘You won’t,’ he said, stooping towards them as if in extreme +confidence, ‘you won’t much notice? They come and go. I try not to—to +speak. It’s the only way through. It is not that I don’t know they’re +only dreams. But if once the—the others thought there had been any +tampering’—he tapped his forehead meaningly—‘here: if once they thought +_that_, it would, you know, be quite over then. How could I prove...?’ +He turned cautiously towards the door, and with laborious significance +nodded his head at them. + +Herbert bent down and held out his long hands to the fire. ‘Tampering, +my dear chap: That’s what the lump said to the leaven.’ + +‘Yes, yes,’ said Lawford, putting out his hand, ‘but you know what I +mean, Herbert. Anything I tried to do then would be quite, quite +hopeless. That would be poisoning the wells.’ + +They watched him out of the room, and listened till quite distinctly in +the still night-shaded house they heard his door gently close. Then, as +if by consent, they turned and looked long and questioningly into each +other’s faces. + +‘Then you are not afraid?’ Herbert said quietly. + +Grisel gazed steadily on, and almost imperceptibly shook her head. + +‘You mean?’ he questioned her; but still he had again to read her +answer in her eyes. + +‘Oh, very well, Grisel,’ he said quietly, ‘you know best,’ and returned +once more to his writing. + +For an hour or two Lawford slept heavily, so heavily that when a little +after midnight he awoke, with his face towards the uncurtained window, +though for many minutes he lay brightly confronting all Orion, that +from blazing helm to flaming dog at heel filled high the glimmering +square, he could not lift or stir his cold and leaden limbs. He rose at +last and threw off the burden of his bedclothes, and rested awhile, as +if freed from the heaviness of an unrememberable nightmare. But so +clear was his mind and so extraordinarily refreshed he seemed in body +that sleep for many hours would not return again. And he spent almost +all the remainder of the lagging darkness pacing softly to and fro; one +face only before his eyes, the one sure thing, the one thing +unattainable in a world of phantoms. + +Herbert waited on in vain for his guest next morning, and after +wandering up and down the mossy lawn at the back of the house, went off +cheerfully at last alone for his dip. When he returned Lawford was in +his place at the breakfast-table. He sat on, moody and constrained, +until even Herbert’s haphazard talk trickled low. + +‘I fancy my sister is nursing a headache,’ he said at last, ‘but she’ll +be down soon. And I’m afraid from the looks of you, Lawford, your night +was not particularly restful.’ He felt his way very heedfully. ‘Perhaps +we walked you a little too far yesterday. We are so used to tramping +that—’ Lawford kept thoughtful eyes fixed on the deprecating face. + +‘I see what it is, Herbert—you are humouring me again. I have been +wracking my brains in vain to remember what exactly _did_ happen +yesterday. I feel as if it was all sunk oceans deep in sleep. I get so +far—and then I’m done. It won’t give up a hint. But you really mustn’t +think I’m an invalid, or—or in my second childhood. The truth is,’ he +added, ‘it’s only my _first_, come back again. But now that I’ve got so +far, now that I’m really better, I—’ He broke off rather vacantly, as +if afraid of his own confidence. ‘I must be getting on,’ he summed up +with an effort, ‘and that’s the solemn fact. I keep on forgetting +I’m—I’m a ratepayer!’ + +Herbert sat round in his chair. ‘You see, Lawford, the very term is +little else than Double-Dutch to me. As a matter of fact Grisel sends +all my hush-money to the horrible people that do the cleaning up, as it +were. I can’t catch their drift. Government to me is merely the +spectacle of the clever, or the specious, managing the dull. It deals +merely with the physical, and just the fringe of consciousness. I am +not joking. I think I follow you. All I mean is that the +obligations—mainly tepid, I take it—that are luring you back to the +fold would be the very ones that would scare me quickest off. The +imagination, the appeal faded: we’re dead.’ + +Lawford opened his mouth; ‘_Temporarily_ tepid,’ he at last all but +coughed out. + +‘Oh yes, of course,’ said Herbert intelligently. ‘Only temporarily. +It’s this beastly gregariousness that’s the devil. The very thought of +it undoes me—with an absolute shock of sheepishness. I suddenly realise +my human nakedness: that here we are, little better than naked animals, +bleating behind our illusory wattles on the slopes of—of infinity. And +nakedness, after all, is a wholesome thing to realize only when one +thinks too much of one’s clothes. I peer sometimes, feebly enough, out +of my wool, and it seems to me that all these busybodies, all these +fact-devourers, all this news-reading rabble, are nothing brighter than +very dull-witted children trying to play an imaginative game, much too +deep for their poor reasons. I don’t mean that _your_ wanting to go +home is anything gregarious, but I do think _their_ insisting on your +coming back at once might be. And I know you won’t visit this stuff on +me as anything more than just my “scum,” as Grisel calls the fine +flower of my maiden meditations. All that I really _want_ to say is +that we should both be more than delighted if you’d stay just as long +as it will not be a bore for you to stay. Stay till you’re heartily +tired of us. Go back now, if you _must_; tell them how much better you +are. Bolt off to a nerve specialist. He’ll say complete rest—change of +scene, and all that. They all do. Instinct via intellect. And why not +take your rest here? We are such miserably dull company to one another +it would be a greater pleasure to have you with us than I can say. I +mean it from the very bottom of my heart. Do!’ + +Lawford listened. ‘I wish—,’ he began, and stopped dead again. ‘Anyhow, +I’ll go back. I am afraid, Herbert, I’ve been playing truant. It was +all very well while—To tell you the truth I can’t think _quite_ +straight yet. But it won’t last for ever. Besides—well, anyhow, I’ll go +back.’ + +‘Right you are,’ said Herbert, pretending to be cheerful. ‘You can’t +expect, you really can’t, everything to come right straight away. Just +have patience. And now, let’s go out and sit in the sun. They’ve mixed +September up with May.’ + +And about half an hour afterwards he glanced up from his book to find +his visitor fast asleep in his garden chair. + +Grisel had taken her brother’s place, with a little pile of needlework +beside her on the grass, when Lawford again opened his eyes under the +rosy shade of a parasol. He watched her for a while, without speaking. + +‘How long have I been asleep?’ he said at last. + +She started and looked up from her needle. + +‘That depends on how long you have been awake,’ she said, smiling. ‘My +brother tells me,’ she went on, beginning to stitch, ‘that you have +made up your mind to leave us to-day. Perhaps we are only flattering +ourselves it has been a rest. But if it has—is that, do you think, +quite wise?’ + +He leant forward and hid his face in his hands. ‘It’s because—it’s +because it’s the only “must” I can see.’ + +‘But even “musts”—well, we have to be sure even of “musts,” haven’t we? +Are _you_?’ She glanced up and for an instant their eyes met, and the +falling water seemed to be sounding out of a distance so remote it +might be but the echo of a dream. She stooped once more over her work. + +‘Supposing,’ he said very slowly, and almost as if speaking to himself, +‘supposing Sabathier—and you know he’s merely like a friend now one +mustn’t be seen talking to—supposing he came back; what then?’ + +‘Oh, but Sabathier’s gone: he never really came. It was only a fancy—a +mood. It was only you—another you.’ + +‘Who was that yesterday, then?’ + +She glanced at him swiftly and knew the question was but a venture. + +‘Yesterday?’ + +‘Oh, very well,’ he said fretfully, ‘you too! But if he did, if he did, +come really back: “prey” and all?’ + +‘What is the riddle?’ she said, taking a deep breath and facing him +brightly. + +‘Would _my_ “must” still be _his_?’ The face he raised to her, as he +leaned forward under the direct light of the sun, was so colourless, +cadaverous and haggard, the thought crossed her mind that it did indeed +seem little more than a shadowy mask that but one hour of darkness +might dispel. + +‘You said, you know, we did win through. Why then should we be even +thinking of defeat now?’ + +‘“We”!’ + +‘Oh no, you!’ she cried triumphantly. + +‘You do not answer my question.’ + +‘Nor you mine! It _was_ a glorious victory. Is there the ghost of a +reason why you should cast your mind back? Is there, now?’ + +‘Only,’ said Lawford, looking patiently up into her face, ‘only because +I love you’: and listened in the silence to the words as one may watch +a bird that has escaped for ever and irrevocably out of its cage, +steadily flying on and on till lost to sight. + +For an instant the grey eyes faltered. ‘But that, surely,’ she began in +a low voice, still steadily sewing, ‘that was our compact last +night—that you should let me help, that you should trust me just as you +trusted the mother years ago who came in the little cart with the +shaggy dusty pony to the homesick boy watching at the window. Perhaps,’ +she added, her fingers trembling, ‘in this odd shuffle of souls and +faces, I _am_ that mother, and most frightfully anxious you should not +give in. Why, even because of the tiredness, even because the cause +seems vain, you must still fight on—wouldn’t she have said it? Surely +there are prizes, a daughter, a career, no end! And even they +gone—still the self undimmed, undaunted, that took its drubbing like a +man.’ + +‘I know you know I’m all but crazed; you see this wretched mind all +littered and broken down; look at me like that, then. Forget even you +have befriended me and pretended—Why must I blunder on and on like +this? Oh, Grisel, my friend, my friend, if only you loved me!’ + +Tears clouded her eyes. She turned vaguely as if for a hiding-place. +‘We can’t talk here. How mad the day is. Listen, listen! I do—I do love +you—mother and woman and friend—from the very moment you came. It’s all +so clear, so clear: _that_, and your miserable “must,” my friend. Come, +we will go away by ourselves a little, and talk. That way. I’ll meet +you by the gate.’ + + + + +CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE + + +She came out into the sunlight, and they went through the little gate +together. She walked quickly, without speaking, over the bridge, past a +little cottage whose hollyhocks leaned fading above its low flint wall. +Skirting a field of stubble, she struck into a wood by a path that ran +steeply up the hillside. And by and by they came to a glen where the +woodmen of a score of years ago had felled the trees, leaving a green +hollow of saplings in the midst of their towering neighbours. + +‘There,’ she said, holding out her hand to him, ‘now we are alone. Just +six hours or so—and then the sun will be there,’ she pointed to the +tree-tops to the west, ‘and then you will have to go; for good, for +good—you your way, and I mine. What a tangle—a tangle is this life of +ours. Could I have dreamt we should ever be talking like this, you and +I? Friends of an hour. What will you think of me? Does it matter? Don’t +speak. Say nothing—poor face, poor hands. If only there were something +to look to—to pray to!’ She bent over his hand and pressed it to her +breast. ‘What worlds we’ve seen together, you and I. And then—another +parting.’ + +They wandered on a little way, and came back and listened to the first +few birds that flew up into the higher branches, noonday being past, to +sing. + +They talked, and were silent, and talked again with out question, or +sadness, or regret, or reproach; she mocking even at themselves, +mocking at this ‘change’—‘Why, and yet without it, would you ever even +have dreamed once a poor fool of a Frenchman went to his restless grave +for me—for me? Need we understand? Were we told to pry? Who made us +human must be human too. Why must we take such care, and make such a +fret—this soul? I know it, I know it; it is all we have—“to save,” they +say, poor creatures. No, never to _spend_, and so they daren’t for a +solitary instant lift it on the finger from its cage. Well, we have; +and now, soon, back it must go, back it must go, and try its best to +whistle the day out. And yet, do you know, perhaps the very freedom +does a little shake its—its monotony. It’s true, you see, they have +lived a long time; these Worldly Wisefolk they were wise before they +were swaddled.... + +‘There, and you are hungry?’ she asked him, laughing in his eyes. ‘Of +course, of course you are—scarcely a mouthful since that first still +wonderful supper. And you haven’t slept a wink, except like a tired-out +child after its first party, on that old garden chair. I sat and +watched, and yes, almost hoped you’d never wake in case—in case. Come +along, see, down there. I can’t go home just yet. There’s a little old +inn—we’ll go and sit down there—as if we were really trying to be +romantic! I know the woman quite well; we can talk there—just the day +out.’ + +They sat at a little table in the garden of ‘The Cherry Trees,’ its +thick green apple branches burdened with ripened fruit. And Grisel +tried to persuade him to eat and drink, ‘for to-morrow we die,’ she +said, her hands trembling, her face as it were veiled with a faint +mysterious light. + +‘There are dozens and dozens of old stories, you know,’ she said, +leaning on her elbows, ‘dozens and dozens, meaning only us. You must, +you must eat; look, just an apple. We’ve got to say good-bye. And +faintness will double the difficulty.’ She lightly touched his hand as +if to compel him to smile with her. ‘There, I’ll peel it; and this is +Eden; and soon it will be the cool of the evening. And then, oh yes, +the voice will come. What nonsense I am talking. Never mind.’ + +They sat on in the quiet sunshine, and a spider slid softly through the +air and with busy claws set to its nets; and those small ghosts the +robins went whistling restlessly among the heavy boughs. + +A child presently came out of the porch of the inn into the garden, and +stood with its battered doll in its arms, softly watching them awhile. +But when Grisel smiled and tried to coax her over, she burst out +laughing and ran in again. + +Lawford stooped forward on his chair with a groan. ‘You see,’ he said, +‘the whole world mocks me. You say “this evening”; need it be, must it +be this evening? If you only knew how far they have driven me. If you +only knew what we should only detest each other for saying and for +listening to. The whole thing’s dulled and staled. Who wants a +changeling? Who wants a painted bird? Who does not loathe the +converted?—and I’m converted to Sabathier’s God. Should we be sitting +here talking like this if it were not so? I can’t, I can’t go back.’ + +She rose and stood with her hand pressed over her mouth, watching him. + +‘Won’t you understand?’ he continued. ‘I am an outcast—a felon caught +red-handed, come in the flesh to a hideous and righteous judgment. I +hear myself saying all these things; and yet, Grisel, I do, I do love +you with all the dull best I ever had. Not now, then; I don’t ask new +even. I can, I would begin again. God knows my face has changed enough +even as it is. Think of me as that poor wandering ghost of yours; how +easily I could hide away—in your memory; and just wait, wait for you. +In time even this wild futile madness too would fade away. Then I could +come back. May I try?’ + +‘I can’t answer you. I can’t reason. Only, still, I do know, talk, put +off, forget as I may, must is must. Right and wrong, who knows what +_they_ mean, except that one’s to be done and one’s to be forsworn; +or—forgive, my friend, the truest thing I ever said—or else we lose the +savour of both. Oh, then, and I know, too, you’d weary of me. I know +you, Monsieur Nicholas, better than you can ever know yourself, though +you have risen from your grave. You follow a dream, no voice or face or +flesh and blood; and not to do what the one old raven within you cries +you _must,_ would be in time to hate the very sound of my footsteps. +You shall go back, poor turncoat, and face the clearness, the utterly +more difficult, bald, and heartless clearness, as together we faced the +dark. Life is a little while. And though I have no words to tell what +always are and must be foolish reasons because they are not reasons at +all but ghosts of memory, I know in my heart that to face the worst is +your only hope of peace. Should I have staked so much on your finding +that, and now throw up the game? Don’t let us talk any more. I’ll walk +half the way, perhaps. Perhaps I will walk _all_ the way. I think my +brother guesses—at least _my_ madness. I’ve talked and talked him +nearly past his patience. And then, when you are quite safely, oh yes, +quite safely and soundly gone, then I shall go away for a little, so +that we can’t even hear each other speak, except in dreams. Life!—well, +I always thought it was much too plain a tale to have as dull an +ending. And with us the powers beyond have played a newer trick, that’s +all. Another hour, and we will go. Till then there’s just the solitary +walk home and only the dull old haunted house that hoards as many +ghosts as we ourselves to watch our coming.’ + +Evening began to shine between the trees; they seemed to stand aflame, +with a melancholy rapture in their uplifted boughs above their fading +coats. The fields of the garnered harvest shone with a golden +stillness, awhir with shimmering flocks of starlings. And the old birds +that had sung in the spring sang now amid the same leaves, grown older +too to give them harbourage. + +Herbert was sitting in his room when they returned, nursing his teacup +on his knee while he pretended to be reading, with elbow propped on the +table. + +‘Here’s Nicholas Sabathier, my dear, come to say goodbye awhile,’ said +Grisel. She stood for a moment in her white gown, her face turned +towards the clear green twilight of the open window. ‘I have promised +to walk part of the way with him. But I think first we must have some +tea. No; he flatly refuses to be driven. We are going to walk.’ + +The two friends were left alone, face to face with a rather difficult +silence, only the least degree of nervousness apparent, so far as +Herbert was concerned, in that odd aloof sustained air of impersonality +that had so baffled his companion in their first queer talk together. + +‘Your sister said just now, Herbert,’ blurted Lawford at last. ‘“Here’s +Nicholas Sabathier come to say good-bye” well, I—what I want you to +understand is that it _is_ Sabathier, the worst he ever was; but also +that it _is_ “good-bye.”’ + +Herbert slowly turned. ‘I don’t quite see why “goodbye,” Lawford. +And—frankly, there is nothing to explain. We have chosen to live such a +very out-of-the-way life,’ he went on, as if following up a train of +thought.... ‘The truth is if one wants to live at all—one’s own life, I +mean—there’s no time for many friends. And just steadfastly regarding +your neighbour’s tail as you follow it down into the Nowhere—it’s that +that seems to me the deadliest form of hypnotism. One must simply go +one’s own way, doing one’s best to free one’s mind of cant—and I dare +say clearing some excellent stuff out with the rubbish. One consequence +is that I don’t think, however foolhardy it may be to say so, I don’t +think I care a groat for any opinion as human as my own, good or bad. +My sister’s a million times a better woman than I am a man. What +possibly could there be, then, for me to say?’ He turned with a nervous +smile. ‘Why should it be good-bye?’ + +Lawford glanced involuntarily towards the door that stood in shadow +duskily ajar. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘we have talked, and we think it must be +that, until, at least,’ he smiled faintly, ‘I can come as quietly as +your old ghost you told me of; and in that case it may not be so very +long to wait.’ + +Their eyes met fleetingly across the still, listening room. ‘The more I +think of it,’ Lawford pushed slowly on, ‘the less I understand the +frantic purposelessness of all that has happened to me. Until I went +down, as you said, “a godsend of a little Miss Muffet,” and the +inconceivable farce came off, I was fairly happy, fairly contented to +dance my little wooden dance and wait till the showman should put me +down into his box again. And now—well, here I am. The whole thing has +gone by and scarcely left a trace of its visit. Here I am for all my +friends to swear to; and yet, Herbert, if you’ll forgive me troubling +you with this stuff about myself, not a single belief, or thought, or +desire remains unchanged. You will remember all that, I hope. It’s not, +of course, the ghost of an apology, only the mere facts.’ + +Herbert rose and paced slowly across to the window. ‘The longer I live, +Lawford, the more I curse this futile gift of speech. Here am I, +wanting to tell you, to say out frankly what, if mind could appeal +direct to mind, would be merely as the wind passing through the leaves +of a tree with just one—one multitudinous rustle, but which, if I tried +to put into words—well, daybreak would find us still groping on....’ He +turned; a peculiar wry smile on his face. ‘It’s a dumb world: but there +we are. And some day you’ll come again.’ + +‘Well,’ said Lawford, as if with an almost hopeless effort to turn +thought into such primitive speech, ‘that’s where we stand, then.’ He +got up suddenly like a man awakened in the midst of unforeseen danger, +‘Where is your sister?’ he cried, looking into the shadow. And as if in +actual answer to his entreaty, they heard the clinking of the cups on +the little, old, green lacquer tray she was at that moment carrying +into the room. She sat down on the window seat and put the tray down +beside her. ‘It will be before dark even now,’ she said, glancing out +at the faintly burning skies. + +They had trudged on together with almost as deep a sense of physical +exhaustion as peasants have who have been labouring in the fields since +daybreak. And a little beyond the village, before the last, long road +began that led in presently to the housed and scrupulous suburb, she +stopped with a sob beside an old scarred milestone by the wayside. +‘This—is as far as I can go,’ she said. She stooped, and laid her hand +on the cold moss-grown surface of the stone. ‘Even now it’s wet with +dew.’ She rose again and looked strangely into his face. ‘Yes, yes, +here it is,’ she said, ‘oh, and worse, worse than any fear. But nothing +now can trouble you again of that. We’re both at least past that.’ + +‘Grisel,’ he said, ‘forgive me, but I can’t—I can’t go on.’ + +‘Don’t think, don’t think,’ she said, taking his hands, and lifting +them to her bosom. ‘It’s only how the day goes; and it has all, my one +dear, happened scores and scores of times before—mother and child and +friend—and lovers that are all these too, like us. We mustn’t cry out. +Perhaps it was all before even we could speak—this sorrow came. Take +all the hope and all the future: and then may come our chance.’ + +‘What’s life to me now. You said the desire would come back; that I +should shake myself free. I could if you would help me. I don’t know +what you are or what your meaning is, only that I love you; care for +nothing, wish for nothing but to see you and think of you. A flat, dull +voice keeps saying that I have no right to be telling you all this. You +will know best. I know I am nothing. I ask nothing. If we love one +another, what is there else to say?’ + +‘Nothing, nothing to say, except only good-bye. What could you tell me +that I have not told myself over and over again? Reason’s gone. +Thinking’s gone. Now I am only sure.’ She smiled shadowily. ‘What peace +did _he_ find who couldn’t, perhaps, like you, face the last good-bye?’ + +They stood in utter solitude awhile in the evening gloom. The air was +as still and cold as some grey unfathomable untraversed sea. Above them +uncountable clouds drifted slowly across space. + +‘Why do they all keep whispering together?’ he said in a low voice, +with cowering face. ‘Oh if you knew, Grisel, how they have hemmed me +in; how they have come pressing in through the narrow gate I left ajar. +Only to mock and mislead. It’s all dark and unintelligible.’ + +He touched her hand, peering out of the shadows that seemed to him to +be gathering between their faces. He drew her closer and touched her +lips with his fingers. Her beauty seemed to his distorted senses to +fill earth and sky. This, then, was the presence, the grave and lovely +overshadowing dream whose surrender made life a torment, and death the +near fold of an immortal, starry veil. She broke from him with a faint +cry. And he found himself running and running, just as he had run that +other night, with death instead of life for inspiration, towards his +earthly home. + + + + +CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO + + +He was utterly wearied, but he walked on for a long while with a dogged +unglancing pertinacity and without looking behind him. Then he rested +under the dew-sodden hedgeside and buried his face in his hands. Once, +indeed, he did turn and grind his way back with hard uplifted face for +many minutes, but at the meeting with an old woman who in the late dusk +passed him unheeded on the road, he stopped again, and after standing +awhile looking down upon the dust, trying to gather up the tangled +threads of his thoughts, he once more set off homewards. + +It was clear, starry, and quite dark when he reached the house. The +lamp at the roadside obscurely lit its breadth and height. Lamp-light +within, too, was showing yellow between the Venetian blinds; a cold +gas-jet gleamed out of the basement window. He seemed bereft now of all +desire or emotion, simply the passive witness of things external in a +calm which, though he scarcely realised its cause, was an exquisite +solace and relief. His senses were intensely sharpened with +sleeplessness. The faintest sound belled clear and keen on his ear. The +thinnest beam of light besprinkled his eyes with curious brilliance. + +As quietly as some nocturnal creature he ascended the steps to the +porch, and leaning between stone pilaster and wall, listened intently +for any rumour of those within. + +He heard a clear, rather languid and delicate voice quietly speak on +until it broke into a little peal of laughter, followed, when it fell +silent by Sheila’s—rapid, rich, and low. The first speaker seemed to be +standing. Probably, then, his evening visitors had only just come in, +or were preparing to depart. He inserted his latchkey and gently pushed +at the cumbersome door. It was locked against him. With not the +faintest thought of resentment or surprise, he turned back, stooped +over the balustrade and looked down into the kitchen. Nothing there was +visible but a narrow strip of the white table, on which lay a black +cotton glove, and beyond, the glint of a copper pan. What made all +these mute and inanimate things so coldly hostile? + +An extreme, almost nauseous distaste filled him at the thought of +knocking for admission, of confronting Ada, possibly even Sheila, in +the cold echoing gloom of the detestable porch; of meeting the first +wild, almost metallic, flash of recognition. He swept softly down +again, and paused at the open gate. Once before the voices of the night +had called him: they would not summon him forever in vain. He raised +his eyes again towards the window. Who were these visitors met together +to drum the alien out? He narrowed his lids and smiled up at the +vacuous unfriendly house. Then wheeling, on a sudden impulse he groped +his way down the gravel path that led into the garden. As he had left +it, the long white window was ajar. + +With extreme caution he pushed it noiselessly up, and climbed in, and +stood listening again in the black passage on the other side. When he +had fully recovered his breath, and the knocking of his heart was +stilled, he trod on softly, till turning the corner he came in sight of +the kitchen door. It was now narrowly open, just enough, perhaps, to +admit a cat; and as he softly approached, looking steadily in, he could +see Ada sitting at the empty table, beneath the single whistling +chandelier, in her black dress and black straw hat. She was reading +apparently; but her back was turned to him and he could not distinguish +her arm beyond the elbow. Then almost in an instant he discovered, as, +drawn up and unstirring he gazed on, that she was not reading, but had +covertly and instantaneously raised her eyes from the print on the +table beneath, and was transfixedly listening too. He turned his eyes +away and waited. When again he peered in she had apparently bent once +more over her magazine, and he stole on. + +One by one, with a thin remote exultation in his progress, he mounted +the kitchen stairs, and with each deliberate and groping step the +voices above him became more clearly audible. At last, in the darkness +of the hall, but faintly stirred by the gleam of lamplight from the +chink of the dining-room door, he stood on the threshold of the +drawing-room door and could hear with varying distinctness what those +friendly voices were so absorbedly discussing. His ear seemed as +exquisite as some contrivance of science, registering passively the +least sound, the faintest syllable, and like it, in no sense meddling +with the thought that speech conveyed. He simply stood listening, fixed +and motionless, like some uncouth statue in the leafy hollow of a +garden, stony, unspeculating. + +‘Oh, but you either refuse to believe, Bettie, or you won’t understand +that it’s far worse than that.’ Sheila seemed to be upbraiding, or at +least reasoning with, the last speaker. ‘Ask Mr Danton—he actually +_saw_ him.’ + +‘“Saw him,”’ repeated a thick, still voice. ‘He stood there, in that +very doorway, Mrs Lovat, and positively railed at me. He stood there +and streamed out all the names he could lay his tongue to. I +wasn’t—unfriendly to the poor beggar. When Bethany let me into it I +thought it was simply—I did indeed, Mrs Lawford—a monstrous +exaggeration. Flatly, I didn’t believe it; shall I say that? But when I +stood face to face with him, I could have taken my oath that that was +no more poor old Arthur Lawford than—well, I won’t repeat what +particular word occurred to me. But there,’ the corpulent shrug was +almost audible, ‘we all know what old Bethany is. A sterling old chap, +mind you, so far as mere character is concerned; the right man in the +right place; but as gullible and as soft-hearted as a tom-tit. I’ve +said all this before, I know, Mrs Lawford, and been properly snubbed +for my pains. But if I had been Bethany I’d have sifted the whole story +at the beginning, the moment he put his foot into the house. Look at +that Tichborne fellow—went for months and months, just picking up one +day what he floored old Hawkins—wasn’t it?—with the next. But of +course,’ he added gloomily, ‘now that’s all too late. He’s moaned +himself into a tolerably tight corner. I’d just like to see, though, a +British jury comparing this claimant with his photograph, ‘pon my word +I would. Where would he be then, do you think?’ + +‘But my dear Mr Danton,’ went on the clear, languid voice Lawford had +heard break so light-heartedly into laughter, ‘you don’t mean to tell +me that a woman doesn’t know her own husband when she sees him—or, for +the matter of that, when she doesn’t see him? If Tom came home from a +ramble as handsome as Apollo to-morrow, I’d recognise him at the very +first blush—literally! He’d go nuzzling off to get his slippers, or +complain that the lamps had been smoking, or hunt the house down for +last week’s paper. Oh, besides, Tom’s Tom—and there’s an end of it.’ + +‘That’s precisely what I think, Mrs Lovat; one is saturated with one’s +personality, as it were.’ + +‘You see, that’s just it! That’s just exactly every woman’s husband all +over; he is saturated with his personality. Bravo, Mr Craik!’ + +‘Good Lord,’ said Danton softly. ‘I don’t deny it!’ + +‘But that,’ broke in Sheila crisply—‘that’s just precisely what I asked +you all to come in for. It’s because I know now, apart altogether from +the mere evidence, that—that he is Arthur. Mind, I don’t say I ever +really doubted. I was only so utterly shocked, I suppose. I positively +put posers to him; but his memory was perfect in spite of the shock +which would have killed a—a more sensitive nature.’ She had risen, it +seemed, and was moving with all her splendid impressiveness of silk and +presence across the general line of vision. But the hall was dark and +still; her eyes were dimmed with light. Lawford could survey her there +unmoved. + +‘Are you there, Ada?’ she called discreetly. + +‘Yes, ma’am,’ answered the faint voice from below. + +‘You have not heard anything—no knock?’ + +‘No, ma’am, no knock.’ + +‘The door is open if you should call.’ + +‘Yes, ma’am.’ + +‘The girl’s scared out of her wits,’ said Sheila returning to her +audience. ‘I’ve told you all that miserable Ferguson story—a piece of +calm, callous presence of mind I should never have dreamed my husband +capable of. And the curious thing is—at least, it is no longer curious +in the light of the ghastly facts I am only waiting for Mr Bethany to +tell you—from the very first she instinctively detested the very +mention of his name.’ + +‘I believe, you know,’ said Mr Craik with some decision, ‘that servants +must have the same wonderful instinct as dogs and children; they are +natural, _intuitive_ judges of character.’ + +‘Yes,’ said Sheila gravely, ‘and it’s only through that that I got to +hear of the—the mysterious friend in the little pony-carriage. Ada’s +magnificently loyal—I will say that.’ + +‘I don’t want to suggest anything, Mrs Lawford,’ began Mr Craik rather +hurriedly, ‘but wouldn’t it perhaps be wiser not to wait for Mr +Bethany? It is not at all unusual for him to be kept a considerable +time in the vestry after service, and to-day is the Feast of St +Michael’s and all Angels, you know. Mightn’t your husband be—er—coming +back, don’t you think?’ + +‘Craik’s right, Mrs Lawford; it’s not a bit of good waiting. Bethany +would stick there till midnight if any old woman’s spiritual state +could keep her going so long. Here we all are, and at any moment we may +be interrupted. Mind you, I promise nothing—only that there shall be no +scene. But here I am, and if he does come knocking and ringing and +lunging out in the disgusting manner he—well, all I ask is permission +to speak for _you_. ‘Pon my soul, to think what you must have gone +through! It isn’t the place for ladies just now—honestly it ain’t.’ + +‘Besides, supposing the romantic lady of the pony-carriage has friends? +Are _you_ a pugilist, Mr Craik?’ + +‘I hope I could give some little account of myself, Mrs Lovat; but you +need have no anxiety about that.’ + +‘There, Mr Danton. So as there is not the least cause for anxiety even +if poor Arthur _should_ return to his earthly home, may we share your +dreadful story at once, Sheila; and then, perhaps, hear Mr Bethany’s +exposition of it when he _does_ arrive? We are amply guarded.’ + +‘Honestly, you know, you are a bit of a sceptic, Mrs Lovat,’ pleaded +Danton playfully. ‘I’ve _seen_ him.’ + +‘And seeing is disbelieving, I suppose. Now then, Sheila.’ + +‘I don’t think there’s the least chance of Arthur returning to-night,’ +said Sheila solemnly. ‘I am perfectly well aware it’s best to be as +cheerful as one can—and as resolved; but I think, Bettie, when even you +know the whole horrible secret, you won’t think Mr Danton was—was +horrified for nothing. The ghastly, the awful truth is that my +husband—there is no other word for it—is—possessed!’ + +‘“Possessed,” Sheila! What in the name of all the creeps is that?’ + +‘Well, I dare say Mr Craik will explain it much better than I can. By a +devil, dear.’ The voice was perfectly poised and restrained, and Mr +Craik did not see fit for the moment to embellish the definition. + +Lawford, with an almost wooden immobility, listened on. + +‘But _the_ devil, or _a_ devil? Isn’t there a distinction?’ inquired +Mrs Lovat. + +‘It’s in the Bible, Bettie, over and over again. It was quite a common +thing in the Middle Ages; I think I’m right in saying that, am I not, +Mr Craik?’ Mr Craik must have solemnly nodded or abundantly looked his +unwilling affirmation. ‘And what _has_ been,’ continued Sheila +temperately, ‘I suppose may be again.’ + +‘When the fellow began raving at me the other night,’ began Danton +huskily, as if out of an unfathomable pit of reflection, ‘among other +things he said that I haven’t any wish to remember was that I was a +sceptic. And Bethany said _ditto_ to it. I don’t mind being called a +sceptic: why, I said myself Mrs Lovat was a sceptic just now! But when +it comes to “devils,” Mrs Lawford—I may be convinced about the other, +but “devils”! Well, I’ve been in the City nearly twenty-five years, and +it’s my impression human nature can raise all the devils _we_ shall +ever need. And another thing,’ he added, as if inspired, and with an +immensely intelligent blink, ‘is it just precisely that word in the +Revised Version—eh, Craik?’ + +‘I’ll certainly look it up, Danton. But I take it that Mrs Lawford is +not so much insisting on the word, as on the—the manifestation. And I’m +bound to confess that the Society for Psychical Research, which has +among its members quite eminent and entirely trustworthy men of +_science_—I am bound to admit they have some very curious stories to +tell. The old idea was, you know, that there are seventy-two princely +devils, and as many as seven million—er—commoners. It may very well +sound quaint to _our_ ears, Mrs Lovat; but there it is. But whether +that has any bearing on—on what you were saying, Danton, I can’t say. +Perhaps Mrs Lawford will throw a little more light on the subject when +she tells us on what precise facts her—her distressing theory is +based.’ + +Lawford had soundlessly stolen a pace or two nearer, and by stooping +forward a little he could, each in turn, scrutinise the little intent +company sitting over his story around the lamp at the further end of +the table; squatting like little children with their twigs and pins, +fishing for wonders on the brink of the unknown. + +‘Yes,’ Mrs Lovat was saying, ‘I quite agree, Mr Craik. Seventy-two +princes, and no princesses. Oh, these masculine prejudices! But do +throw a little more _modern_ light on the subject, Sheila.’ + +‘I mean this,’ said Sheila firmly. ‘When I went in for the last time to +say good-bye—and of course it was at his own wish that I did leave him; +and precisely _why_ he wished it is now unhappily only too apparent—I +had brought him some money from the bank—fifty pounds, I think; yes, +fifty pounds. And quite by the merest chance I glanced down, in +passing, at a book he had apparently been reading, a book which he +seemed very anxious to conceal with his hand. Arthur is not a great +reader, though I believe he studied a little before we were married, +and—well, I detest anything like subterfuge, and I said it out without +thinking, “Why, you’re reading French, Arthur!” He turned deathly white +but made no answer.’ + +‘And can’t you even confide to us the title, Sheila?’ sighed Mrs Lovat +reproachfully. + +‘Wait a minute,’ said Sheila; ‘you shall make as much fun of the thing +as you like, Bettie, when I’ve finished. I don’t know why, but that +peculiar, stealthy look haunted me. “Why French?” I kept asking myself. +“Why French?” Arthur hasn’t opened a French book for years. He doesn’t +even approve of the entente_. His argument was that we ought to be +friends with the Germans because they are more hostile. Never mind. +When Ada came back the next evening and said he was out, I came the +following morning—by myself—and knocked. No one answered, and I let +myself in. His bed had not been slept in. There were candles and +matches all over the house—one even burnt nearly to the stick on the +floor in the corner of the drawing-room. I suppose it was foolish, but +I was alone, and just that, somehow, horrified me. It seemed to point +to such a peculiar state of mind. I hesitated; what was the use of +looking further? Yet something seemed to say to me—and it was surely +providential—“Go downstairs!” And there in the breakfast-room the first +thing I saw on the table was this book—a dingy, ragged, bleared, +patched-up, oh, a horrible, a loathsome little book (and I have read +bits too here and there); and beside it was my own little school +dictionary, my own child’s——’ She looked up sharply. ‘What was that? +Did anybody call?’ + +‘Nobody _I_ heard,’ said Danton, staring stonily round. + +‘It may have been the passing of the wind,’ suggested Mr Craik, after a +pause. + +‘Peep between the blinds, Mr Craik; it may be poor Mr Bethany +confronting Pneumonia in the porch.’ + +‘There’s no one there, Mrs Lovat,’ said the curate, returning softly +from his errand. ‘Please continue your—your narrative, Mrs Lawford.’ + +‘We are panting for the “devil,” my dear.’ + +‘Well, I sat down and, very much against my inclination, turned over +the pages. It was full of the most revolting confessions and trials, so +far as I could see. In fact, I think the book was merely an amateur +collection of—of horrors. And the faces, the portraits! Well, then, can +you imagine my feelings when towards the end of the book about thirty +pages from the end, I came upon this—gloating up at me from the table +in my house before my very eyes?’ + +She cast a rapid glance over her shoulder, and gathering up her silk +skirt, drew out, from the pocket beneath, the few crumpled pages, and +passed them without a word to Danton. Lawford kept him plainly in view, +as, lowering his great face, he slowly stooped, and holding the loose +leaves with both fat hands between his knees, stared into the portrait. +Then he truculently lifted his cropped head. + +‘What did I say?’ he said. ‘What did I _say?_ What did I tell old +Bethany in this very room? What d’ye think of that, Mrs Lovat, for a +portrait of Arthur Lawford? What d’ye make of that, Craik—eh? +Devil—eh?’ + +Mrs Lovat glanced with arched eyebrows, and with her finger-tips handed +the sheets on to her neighbour, who gazed with a settled and mournful +frown and returned them to Sheila. + +She took the pages, folded them and replaced them carefully in her +pocket. She swept her hands over her skirts, and turned to Danton. + +‘You agree,’ she inquired softly, ‘it’s like?’ + +‘Like! It’s the livin’ livid image. The livin’ image,’ he repeated, +stretching out his arm, ‘as he stood there that very night.’ + +‘What will you say, then,’ said Sheila, quietly, ‘What will you say if +I tell you that that man, Nicholas de Sabathier, has been in his grave +for over a hundred years?’ + +Danton’s little eyes seemed, if anything, to draw back even further +into his head. ‘I’d say, Mrs Lawford, if you’ll excuse the word, that +it might be a damn horrible coincidence—I’d go farther, an almost +incredible coincidence. But if you want the sober truth, I’d say it was +nothing more than a crafty, clever, abominable piece of trickery. +That’s what I’d say. Oh, you don’t know, Mrs Lovat. When a scamp’s a +scamp, he’ll stop at nothing. _I_ could tell you some tales.’ + +‘Ah, but that’s not all,’ said Sheila, eyeing them steadfastly one by +one. ‘We all of us know that my husband’s story was that he had gone +down to Widderstone—into the churchyard, for his convalescent ramble; +that story’s true. We all know that he said he had had a fit, a heart +attack, and that a kind of—of stupor had come over him. I believe on my +honour that’s true too. But no one knows but he himself and Mr Bethany +and I, that it was a wretched broken grave, quite at the bottom of the +hill, that he chose for his resting place, nor—and I can’t get the +scene out of my head—nor that the name on that one solitary tombstone +down there was—was...this!’ + +Danton rolled his eyes. ‘I don’t begin to follow,’ he said stubbornly. + +‘You don’t mean,’ said Mr Craik, who had not removed his gaze from +Sheila’s face, ‘I am not to take it that you mean, Mrs Lawford, the—the +other?’ + +‘Yes,’ said Sheila, ‘_his_’—she patted her skirts—‘Sabathier’s.’ + +‘You mean,’ said Mrs Lovat crisply, ‘that the man in the grave is the +man in the book, and that the man in the book is—is poor Arthur’s +changed face?’ + +Sheila nodded. + +Danton rose cumbrously from his chair, looking beadily down on his +three friends. + +‘Oh, but you know, it isn’t—it isn’t right,’ he began. ‘Lord! I can see +him now. Glassy—yes, that’s the very word I said—glassy. It won’t do, +Mrs Lawford; on my solemn honour, it won’t do. I don’t deny it, call it +what you like; yes, devils, if you like. But what I say as a practical +man is that it’s just rank—that’s what it is! Bethany’s had too much +rope. The time’s gone by for sentiment and all that foolery. Mercy’s +all very well, but after all it’s justice that clinches the bargain. +There’s only one way: we must catch him; we must lay the poor wretch by +the heels before it’s too late. No publicity, God bless me, no. We’d +have all the rags in London on us. They’d pillory us nine days on end. +We’d never live it down. No, we must just hush it up—a home or +something; an asylum. For my part,’ he turned like a huge toad, his +chin low in his collar—‘and I’d say the same if it was my own brother, +and, after all, he is your husband, Mrs Lawford—I’d sooner he was in +his grave. It takes two to play at that game, that’s what I say. To lay +himself open! I can’t stand it—honestly, I can’t stand it. And yet,’ he +jerked his chin over the peak of his collar towards the ladies, ‘and +yet you say he’s being fetched; comes creeping home, and is fetched at +dark by a—a lady in a pony-carriage. God bless me! It’s rank. What,’ he +broke out violently again, ‘what was he doing there in a cemetery after +dark? Do you think that beastly Frenchman would have played such a +trick on Craik here? Would he have tried his little game on me? +Deviltry be it, if you prefer the word, and all deference to you, Mrs +Lawford. But I know this—a couple of hundred years ago they would have +burnt a man at the stake for less than a tenth of this. Ask Craik here. +I don’t know how, and I don’t know when: his mother, I’ve always heard +say, was a little eccentric; but the truth is he’s managed by some +unholy legerdemain to get the thing at his finger’s ends; that’s what +it is. Think of that unspeakable book. Left open on the table! Look at +his Ferguson game. It’s our solemn duty to keep him for good and all +out of mischief. It reflects all round. There’s no getting out of it; +we’re all in it. And tar sticks. And then there’s poor little Alice to +consider, and—and you yourself, Mrs. Lawford: I wouldn’t give the +fellow—friend though he was, in a way—it isn’t safe to give him five +minutes’ freedom. We’ve simply got to save you from yourself, Mrs +Lawford; that’s what it is—and from old-fashioned sentiment. And I only +wish Bethany was here now to dispute it!’ + +He stirred himself down, as it were, into his clothes, and stood in the +middle of the hearthrug, gently oscillating, with his hands behind his +back. But at some faint rumour out of the silent house his posture +suddenly stiffened, and he lifted a little, with heavy, steady lids, +his head. + +‘What is the matter, Danton?’ said Mr Craik in a small voice; ‘why are +you listening?’ + +‘I wasn’t listening,’ said Danton stoutly, ‘I was thinking.’ + +At the same moment, at the creak of a footstep on the kitchen stairs, +Lawford also had drawn soundlessly back into the darkness of the empty +drawing-room. + +‘While Mr Danton is “thinking,” Sheila,’ Mrs Lovat was softly +interposing, ‘do please listen a moment to _me_. Do you mean really +that that Frenchman—the one you’ve pocketed—is the poor creature in the +grave?’ + +‘Yes, Mrs Lawford,’ said Mr Craik, putting out his face a little, ‘are +we to take it that you mean that?’ + +‘It’s the same date, dear, the same name even to the spelling; what +possibly else can I think?’ + +‘And that the poor creature in the grave actually climbed up out of the +darkness and—well, what?’ + +‘I know no more than you do _now_, Bettie. But the two faces—you must +remember you haven’t seen my husband _since_.’ You must remember you +haven’t heard the peculiar—the most peculiar things he—Arthur +himself—has said to me. Things such as a wife... And not in jest, +Bettie; I assure you....’ + +‘And Mr Bethany?’ interpolated Mr Craik modestly, feeling his way. + +‘Pah, Bethany, Craik! He’d back Old Nick himself if he came with a good +tale. We’ve got to act; we’ve got to settle his hash before he does any +mischief.’ + +‘Well,’ began Mrs Lovat, smiling a little remorsefully beneath the arch +of her raised eyebrows, ‘I sincerely hope you’ll all forgive me; but I +really am, heart and soul, with Old Nick, as Mr Danton seems on +intimate terms enough to call him. Dead, he is really immensely +alluring; and alive, I think, awfully—just awfully pitiful and—and +pathetic. But if I know anything of Arthur he won’t be beaten by a +Frenchman. As for just the portrait, I think, do you know, I almost +prefer dark men’—she glanced up at the face immediately in front of the +clock—‘at least,’ she added softly, ‘when they are not looking very +vindictive. I suppose people are fairly often possessed, Mr Craik? +_How_ many “deadly sins” are there?’ + +‘As a matter of fact, Mrs Lovat, there are seven. But I think in this +case Mrs Lawford intends to suggest not so much that—that her husband +is in that condition; habitual sin, you know—grave enough, of course, I +own—but that he is actually being compelled, even to the extent of a +more or less complete change of physiognomy, to follow the biddings of +some atrocious spiritual influence. It is no breach of confidence to +say that I have myself been present at a death-bed where the struggle +against what I may call the end was perfectly awful to witness. I don’t +profess to follow all the ramifications of the affair, but though +possibly Mr Danton may seem a little harsh, such harshness, if I may +venture to intercede, is not necessarily “vindictive.” And—and personal +security is a consideration.’ + +‘If you only knew the awful fear, the awful uncertainty I have been in, +Bettie! Oh, it is worse, infinitely worse, than you can possibly +imagine. I have myself heard the Voice speak out of him—a high, hard, +nasal voice. I’ve seen what Mr Danton calls the “glassiness” come into +his face, and an expression so wild and so appallingly depraved, as it +were, that I have had to hurry downstairs to hide myself from the +thought. I’m willing to sacrifice everything for my own husband and for +Alice; but can it be expected of me to go on harbouring....’ Lawford +listened on in vain for a moment; poor Sheila, it seemed, had all but +broken down. + +‘Look here, Mrs Lawford,’ began Danton huskily, ‘you really mustn’t +give way; you really mustn’t. It’s awful, unspeakably awful, I admit. +But here we are; friends, in the midst of friends. And there’s +absolutely nothing—What’s that? Eh? Who is it?... Oh, the maid!’ + +Ada stood in the doorway looking in. ‘All I’ve come to ask, ma’am,’ she +said in a low voice, ‘is, am I to stay downstairs any longer? And are +you aware there’s somebody in the house?’ + +‘What’s that? What’s that you’re saying?’ broke out the husky voice +again. ‘Control yourself! Speak gently! What’s that?’ + +‘Begging your pardon, sir, I’m perfectly under control. And all I say +is that I can’t stay any longer alone downstairs there. There’s +somebody in the house.’ + +A concentrated hush seemed to have fallen on the little assembly. + +‘“Somebody”—but who?’ said Sheila out of the silence. ‘You come up +here, Ada, with these idle fancies. Who’s in the house? There has been +no knock—no footstep.’ + +‘No knock, no footstep, ma’am, that I’ve heard. It’s Dr Ferguson, +ma’am. He was here that first night; and he’s been here ever since. He +was here when I came on Tuesday; and he was here last night. And he’s +here now. I can’t be deceived by my own feelings. It’s not right, it’s +not out-spoken to keep me in the dark like this. And if you have no +objection, I would like to go home.’ + +Lawford in his utter weariness had nearly closed the door and now sat +bent up on a chair, wondering vaguely when this poor play was coming to +an end, longing with an intensity almost beyond endurance for the keen +night air, the open sky. But still his ears drank in every tiniest +sound or stir. He heard Danton’s lowered voice muttering his arguments. +He heard Ada quietly sniffing in the darkness of the hall. And this was +his world! This was his life’s panorama, creaking on at every jolt. +This was the ‘must’ Grisel had sent him back to—these poor fools packed +together in a panic at an old stale tale! Well, they would all come out +presently, and cluster; and the crested, cackling fellow would lead +them safely away out of the haunted farmyard. + +He started out of his reverie at Danton’s voice close at hand. + +‘Look here, my good girl, we haven’t the least intention of keeping you +in the dark. If you want to leave your mistress like this in the midst +of her anxieties she says you can go and welcome. But it’s not a bit of +good in the world coming up with these cock-and-bull stories. The truth +is your master’s mad, that’s the sober truth of it—hopelessly insane, +you understand; and we’ve got to find him. But nothing’s to be said, +d’ye see? It’s got to be done without fuss or scandal. But if there’s +any witness wanted, or anything of that kind, why, here you are; and,’ +he dropped his voice to an almost inaudible hoot, ‘and well worth your +while! You did see him, eh? Step into the trap, and all that?’ + +Ada stood silent a moment. ‘I don’t know, sir,’ she began quietly, ‘by +what right you speak to me about what you call my cock-and-bull +stories. If the master is mad, all I can say to _anybody_ is I’m very +sorry to hear it. I came to my mistress, sir, if you please; and I +prefer to take my orders from one who has a right to give them. Did I +understand you to say, ma’am, that you wouldn’t want me any more this +evening?’ + +Sheila had swept solemnly to the door. ‘Mr Danton meant all that he +said quite kindly, Ada. I can perfectly understand your +feelings—perfectly. And I’m very much obliged to you for all your +kindness to me in very trying circumstances. We are all agreed—we are +forced to the terrible conclusion which—which Mr Danton has +just—expressed. And I know I can rely on your discretion. Don’t stay on +a moment if you really are afraid. But when you say “some one” Ada, do +you mean—some one like you or me; or do you mean—the other?’ + +‘I’ve been sitting in the kitchen, ma’am, unable to move. I’m watched +everywhere. The other evening I went into the drawing-room—I was alone +in the house—and... I can’t describe it. It wasn’t dark; and yet it was +all still and black, like the ruins after a fire. I don’t mean I saw +it, only that it was like a scene. And then the watching—I am quite +aware to some it may sound all fancy. But I’m not superstitious, never +was. I only mean—that I can’t sit alone here. I daren’t. Else, I’m +quite myself. So if so be you don’t want me any more; if I can’t be of +any further use to you or to—to Mr. Lawford, I’d prefer to go home.’ + +‘Very well, Ada; thank you. You can go out this way.’ + +The door was unchained and unbolted, and ‘Good-night’ said. And Sheila +swept back in sombre pomp to her absorbed friends. + +‘She’s quite a good creature at heart,’ she explained frankly, as if to +disclaim any finesse, ‘and almost quixotically loyal. But what really +did she mean, do you think? She is so obstinate. That maddening “some +one”! How they do repeat themselves. It can’t be my husband; not Dr +Ferguson, I mean. You don’t suppose—oh surely, not “some one” else!’ +Again the dark silence of the house seemed to drift in on the little +company. + +Mr Craik cleared his throat. ‘I failed to catch quite all that the maid +said,’ he murmured apologetically; ‘but I certainly did gather it was +to some kind of—of emanation she was referring. And the “ruin,” you +know. I’m not a mystic; and yet do you know, that somehow seemed to me +almost offensively suggestive of—of demonic influence. You don’t +suppose, Mrs Lawford—and of course I wouldn’t for a moment venture on +such a conjecture unsupported—but even if this restless spirit (let us +call it) did succeed in making a footing, it might possibly be rather +in the nature of a lodging than a permanent residence. Moreover we are, +I think, bound to remember that probably in all spheres of existence +like attracts like; even the Gadarene episode seems to suggest a +possible _multiplication!_’ he peered largely. ‘You don’t suppose, Mrs +Lawford...?’ + +‘I think Mr Craik doesn’t quite relish having to break the news, Sheila +dear,’ explained Mrs Lovat soothingly, ‘that perhaps Sabathier’s _out_. +Which really is quite a heavenly suggestion, for in that case your +husband would be in, wouldn’t he? Just our old stolid Arthur again, you +know. And next Mr Craik is suggesting, and it certainly does seem +rather fascinating, that poor Ada’s got mixed up with the Frenchman’s +friends, or perhaps, even, with one of the seventy-two Princes Royal. I +know women can’t, or mustn’t reason, Mr Danton, but you do, I hope, +just catch the drift?’ + +Danton started. ‘I wasn’t really listening to the girl,’ he explained +nonchalantly, shrugging his black shoulders and pursing up his eyes. +‘Personally, Mrs Lovat, I’d pack the baggage off to-night, box and all. +But it’s not my business.’ + +‘You mustn’t be depressed—must he, Mr Craik? After all, my dear man, +the business, as you call it, is not exactly entailed. But really, +Sheila, I think it must be getting very late. Mr Bethany won’t come +now. And the dear old thing ought certainly to have his say before we +go any further; _oughtn’t_ he, Mr Danton? So what’s the use of +worriting poor Ada’s ghost any longer. And as for poor Arthur—I haven’t +the faintest desire in the world to hear the little cart drive up, +simply in case it should be to leave your unfortunate husband behind +it, Sheila. What it must be to be alone all night in this house with a +dead and buried Frenchman’s face—well, I shudder, dear!’ + +‘And yet, Mrs Lovat,’ said Mr Craik, with some little show of returning +bravado, ‘as we make our bed, you know.’ + +‘But in this case, you see,’ she replied reflectively, ‘if all accounts +are true, Mr Craik, it’s manifestly the wicked Frenchman who has made +the bed, and Sheila who refu—— But look; Mr Danton is fretting to get +home.’ + +‘If you’ll all go to the door,’ said Danton, seizing a fleeting +opportunity to raise his eyebrows more expressively even than if he had +again shrugged his shoulders at Sheila, ‘I’ll put out the light.’ + +The night air flowed into the dark house as Danton hastily groped his +way out of the dining-room. + +‘There’s only one thing,’ said Sheila slowly. ‘When I last saw my +husband, you know, he was, I think, the least bit better. He was always +stubbornly convinced it would all come right in time. That’s why, I +think, he’s been spending his—his evenings away from home. But +supposing it did?’ + +‘For my part,’ said Mrs Lovat, breathing the faint wind that was rising +out of the west, ‘I’d sigh; I’d rub my eyes; I’d thank God for such an +exciting dream; and I’d turn comfortably over and go to sleep again. +I’m all for Arthur—absolutely—back against the wall.’ + +‘For my part,’ said Danton, looming in the dusk, ‘friend or no friend, +I’d cut the—I’d cut him dead. But don’t fret, Mrs Lawford, devil or no +devil, he’s gone for good.’ + +‘And for my part—’ began Mr Craik; but the door at that moment slammed. + +Voices, however, broke out almost immediately in the porch. And after a +hurried consultation, Lawford in his stagnant retreat heard the door +softly reopen, and the striking of a match. And Mr Craik, followed +closely by Danton’s great body, stole circumspectly across his dim +chink, and the first adventurer went stumbling down the kitchen +staircase. + +‘I suppose,’ muttered Lawford, turning his head in the darkness, ‘they +have come back to put out the kitchen gas.’ + +Danton began a busy tuneless whistle between his teeth. + +‘Coming, Craik?’ he called thickly, after a long pause. + +Apparently no answer had been returned to his inquiry: he waited a +little longer, with legs apart, and eyeballs enveloped in brooding +darkness. ‘I’ll just go and tell the ladies you’re coming,’ he suddenly +bawled down the hollow. ‘Do you hear, Craik? They’re alone, you know.’ +And with that he resolutely wheeled and rapidly made his way down the +steps into the garden. Some few moments afterwards Mr Craik shook +himself free of the basement, hastened at a spirited trot to rejoin his +companions, and in his absence of mind omitted to shut the front door. + + + + +CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE + + +Lawford sat on in the darkness, and now one sentence and now another of +their talk would repeat itself in his memory, in much the same way as +one listlessly turns over an antiquated diary, to read here and there a +flattened and almost meaningless sentiment. Sometimes a footstep passed +echoing along the path under the trees, then his thoughts would leave +him, and he would listen and listen till it had died quite out. It was +all so very far away. And they too—these talkers—so very far away; as +remote and yet as clear as the characters in a play when they have made +their final bow, and have left the curtained stage, and one is standing +uncompanioned and nearly the last of the spectators, and the lights +that have summoned back reality again are being extinguished. It was +only by painful effort of mind that he kept recalling himself to +himself—why he was here; what it all meant; that this was indeed +actuality. + +Yet, after all, this by now was his customary loneliness: there was +little else he desired for the present than the hospitality of the +dark. He glanced around him in the clear, black, stirless air. Here and +there, it seemed, a humped or spindled form held against all comers its +passive place. Here and there a tiny faintness of light played. Night +after night these chairs and tables kept their blank vigil. Why, he +thought, pleased as an overtired child with the fancy, in a sense they +were always alone, shut up in a kind of senselessness—just like us all. +But what—what, he had suddenly risen from his chair to ask himself—what +on earth are they alone with? No precise answer had been forthcoming to +that question. But as in turning in the doorway, he looked out into the +night, flashing here and there in dark spaces of the sky above the +withering apple leaves—the long dark wall and quiet untrodden road—with +the tumultuous beating of the stars—one thing at least he was conscious +of having learned in these last few days: he knew what kind of a place +he was alone _in_. + +It seemed to weave a spell over him, to call up a nostalgia he had lost +all remembrance of since childhood. And that queer homesickness, at any +rate, was all Sabathier’s doing, he thought, smiling in his rather +careworn fashion. Sabathier! It was this mystery, bereft now of all +fear, and this beauty together, that made life the endless, changing +and yet changeless, thing it was. And yet mystery and loveliness alike +were only really appreciable with one’s legs, as it were, dangling down +over into the grave. + +Just with one’s lantern lit, on the edge of the whispering unknown, and +a reiterated going back out of the solitude into the light and warmth, +to the voices and glancing of eyes, to say good-bye:—that after all was +this life on earth for those who watched as well as acted. What if +one’s earthly home were empty?—still the restless fretted traveller +must tarry; ‘for the horrible worst of it is, my friend,’ he said, as +if to some silent companion listening behind him, ‘the worst of it is, +_your_ way was just simply, solely suicide.’ What was it Herbert had +called it? Yes, a cul-de-sac—black, lofty, immensely still and old and +picturesque, but none the less merely a contemptible cul-de-sac; no +abiding place, scarcely even sufficing with its flagstones for a groan +from the fugitive and deluded refugee. There was no peace for the +wicked. The question of course then came in—Was there any peace +anywhere, for anybody? + +He smiled at a sudden odd remembrance of a quiet, sardonic old aunt +whom he used to stay with as a child. ‘Children should be seen and not +heard,’ she would say, peering at him over his favourite pudding. + +His eyes rested vacantly on the darkling street. He fell again into +reverie, gigantically brooded over by shapes only imagination dimly +conceived of: the remote alleys of his mind astir with a shadowy and +ceaseless traffic which it wasn’t at least _this_ life’s business to +hearken after, or regard. And as he stood there in a mysteriously +thronging peaceful solitude such as he had never known before, faintly +out of the silence broke the sound of approaching hoofs. His heart +seemed to gather itself close; a momentary blindness veiled his eyes, +so wildly had his blood surged up into cheek and brain. He remained, +caught up, with head slightly inclined, listening, as, with an +interminable tardiness, measureless anguished hope died down into +nothing in his mind. + +Cold and heavy, his heart began to beat again, as if to catch up those +laggard moments. He turned with an infinite revulsion of feeling to +look out on the lamps of the old fly that had drawn up at his gate. + +He watched incuriously a little old lady rather arduously alight, +pause, and look up at his darkened windows, and after a momentary +hesitation, and a word over her shoulder to the cabman, stoop and +fumble at the iron latch. He watched her with a kind of wondering +aversion, still scarcely tinged with curiosity. She had succeeded in +lifting the latch and in pushing her way through, and was even now +steadily advancing towards him along the tiled path. And a minute after +he recognised with the strangest reactions the quiet old figure that +had shared a sunset with him ages and ages ago—his mother’s old +schoolfellow, Miss Sinnet. + +He was already ransacking the still faintly-perfumed dining-room for +matches, and had just succeeded in relighting the still-warm lamp, when +he heard her quiet step in the porch, even felt her peering in, in the +gloom, with all her years’ trickling customariness behind her, a little +dubious of knocking on a wide-open door. + +But the lamp lit Lawford went out again and welcomed his visitor. ‘I am +alone,’ he was explaining gravely, ‘my wife’s away and the whole house +topsy-turvy. How very, very kind of you!’ + +The old lady was breathing a little heavily after her ascent of the +steep steps, and seemed not to have noticed his outstretched hand. None +the less she followed him in, and when she was well advanced into the +lighted room, she sighed deeply, raised her veil over the front of her +bonnet, and leisurely took out her spectacles. + +‘I suppose,’ she was explaining in a little quiet voice, ‘you _are_ Mr +Arthur Lawford, but as I did not catch sight of a light in any of the +windows I began to fear that the cabman might have set me down at the +wrong house.’ + +She raised her head, and first through, and then over her spectacles +she deliberately and steadfastly regarded him. + +‘Yes,’ she said to herself, and turned, not as it seemed entirely with +satisfaction, to look for a chair. He wheeled the most comfortable up +to the table. + +‘I have been visiting my old friend Miss Tucker—Rev W. Tucker’s +daughter—she, I knew, could give me your address; and sure enough she +did. Your road, d’ye see, was on my way home. And I determined, in +spite of the hour, just to inquire. You must understand, Mr Lawford, +there was something that I rather particularly wanted to say to you. +But there!—you’re looking sadly, sadly ill; and,’ she glanced round a +little inquisitively, ‘I think my story had better wait for a more +convenient occasion.’ + +‘Not at all, Miss Sinnet; please not,’ Lawford assured her, ‘really. I +have been ill, but I’m now practically quite myself again. My wife and +daughter have gone away for a few days; and I follow to-morrow, so if +you’ll forgive such a very poor welcome, it may be my—my only chance. +Do please let me hear.’ + +The old lady leant back in her chair, placed her hands on its arms and +softly panted, while out of the rather broad serenity of her face she +sat blinking up at her companion as if after a long talk, instead of at +the beginning of one. ‘No,’ she repeated reflectively, ‘I don’t like +your looks at all; yet here we are, enjoying beautiful autumn weather, +Mr Lawford, why not make use of it?’ + +‘Oh yes,’ said Lawford, ‘I do. I have been making tremendous use of +it.’ + +Her eyelid flickered at his candid glance. ‘And does your business +permit of much walking?’ + +‘Well, I’ve been malingering these last few days idling at home; but I +am usually more or less my own man, Miss Sinnet. I walk a little.’ + +‘H’m, but not much in my direction, Mr Lawford?’ she quizzed him. + +‘All horrible indolence, Miss Sinnet. But I often—often think of you; +and especially just lately.’ + +‘Well, now,’ she wriggled round her head to get a better view of him +rather stiffly seated on his chair, ‘that’s very peculiar; because I +too have been thinking lately a great deal of you. And yet—I fancy I +shall succeed in mystifying you presently—not precisely of you, but of +somebody else!’ + +‘You do mystify me—“somebody else”!’ he replied gallantly. ‘And that is +the story, I suppose?’ + +‘That’s the story,’ repeated Miss Sinnet with some little triumph. +‘Now, let me see; it was on Saturday last—yes, Saturday evening; a +wonderful sunset; Bewley Heath.’ + +‘Oh yes; my daughter’s favourite walk.’ + +‘And your daughter’s age now?’ + +‘She’s nearly sixteen; Alice, you know.’ + +‘Ah, yes, Alice; to be sure. It _is_ a beautiful walk, and if fine, I +generally take mine there too. It’s near; there’s shade; it’s very +little frequented; and I can wander and muse undisturbed. And that I +think is pretty well all that an old woman like me is fit for, Mr +Lawford. “Nearly sixteen!” Is it possible? Dear, dear me? But let me +get on. On my way home from the Heath, you may be aware, before one +reaches the road again, there’s a somewhat steep ascent. I haven’t the +strength I had, and whether I’m fatigued or not, I have always made it +a rule to rest awhile on a most convenient little seat at the summit, +admire the view—what I can see of it—and then make my way quietly, +quietly home. On Saturday, however, and it most rarely occurs—once, I +remember, when a very civil nursemaid was sitting with two charmingly +behaved little children in the sunshine, and I heard they were my old +friend Major Loder’s _son’s_ children—on Saturday, as I was saying, my +own particular little haunt was already occupied.’ She glanced back at +him from out of her thoughts, as it were. ‘By a gentleman. I say, +gentleman; though I must confess that his conduct—perhaps, too, a +little something even in his appearance, somewhat belied the term. +Anyhow, gentleman let us call him.’ + +Lawford, all attention, nodded, and encouragingly smiled. + +‘I’m not one of those tiresome, suspicious people, Mr Lawford, who +distrust strangers. I have never been molested, and I have enjoyed many +and many a most interesting, and sometimes instructive, talk with an +individual whom I’ve never seen in my life before, and this side of the +grave perhaps, am never likely to see again.’ She lifted her head with +pursed lips, and gravely yet still flickeringly regarded him once more. +‘Well, I made some trifling remark—the weather, the view, what-not,’ +she explained with a little jerk of her shoulder—‘and to my extreme +astonishment he turned and addressed me by name—Miss Sinnet. +Unmistakably—Sinnet. Now, perhaps, and very rightly, you won’t +considered _that_ a very peculiar thing to do? But you will recollect, +Mr Lawford, that I had been sitting there a considerable time. Surely, +now, if you had recognised my face you would have addressed me at +once?’ + +‘Was he, do you think, Miss Sinnet, a little uncertain, perhaps?’ + +‘Never mind, never mind; let me get on with my story first. The next +thing my gentleman does is more mysterious still. His whole manner was +a little peculiar, perhaps—a certain restlessness, what, in fact, one +might be almost tempted to call a certain furtiveness of behaviour. +Never mind. What he does next is to ask me a riddle! Perhaps you won’t +think _that_ was peculiar either?’ + +‘What was the riddle?’ smiled Lawford. + +‘Why, to be sure, to guess his name! Simply guided, so I surmised, by +some very faint resemblance in his face to his _mother_, who was, he +assured me, an old schoolfellow of mine at _Brighton_. I thought and +thought. I confess the adventure was beginning to be a little +perplexing. But of course, very, very few of my old schoolfellows +remain distinctly in my memory now; and I fear _that_ grows more +treacherous the longer I live. Their faces as girls are clear enough. +But later in life most of them drifted out of sight—many, alas, are +dead; and, well, at last I narrowed my man down to one. And who now, do +you suppose _that_ was?’ + +Lawford sustained an expression of abysmal mystification. ‘Do tell +me—who?’ + +‘Your own poor dear mother, Mr Lawford.’ + +‘_He_ said so?’ + +‘No, no,’ said the old lady, with some vexation, closing her eyes. ‘_I_ +said so. He asked me to guess. And I guessed Mary Lawford; now do you +see?’ + +‘Yes, yes. But _was_ he like her, Miss Sinnet? That was really very, +very extraordinary. Did you see _any_ likeness in his face?’ + +Miss Sinnet very deliberately took her spectacles out of their case +again. ‘Now, see here, sir; this is being practical, isn’t it? I’m just +going to take a leisurely glance at yours. But you mustn’t let me +forget the time. You must look after the time for me.’ + +‘It’s about a quarter to ten,’ said Lawford, having glanced first at +the stopped clock on the chimney-piece and then at his watch. He then +sat quite still and endeavoured to sit at ease, while the old lady +lifted her bonneted head and ever so gravely and benignly surveyed him. + +‘H’m,’ she said at last. ‘There’s no mistaking _you_. It’s Mary’s chin, +and Mary’s brow—with just a little something, perhaps, of her dreamy +eye. But you haven’t all her looks, Mr Lawford, by any manner of means. +She was a very beautiful girl, and so vivacious, so fanciful—it was, I +suppose the foreign strain showing itself. Even marriage did not quite +succeed in spoiling her.’ + +‘The foreign strain?’ Lawford glanced with a kind of fleeting fixity at +the quiet old figure. ‘The foreign strain?’ + +Your mother’s maiden name, my dear Mr Lawford, surely memory does not +deceive me in that, was van der Gucht. _That_, I believe, is a foreign +name.’ + +‘Ah, yes,’ said Lawford, his rising thoughts sinking quietly to rest +again. ‘Van der Gucht, of course. I—how stupid of me!’ + +‘As a matter of fact, your mother was very proud of her Dutch blood. +But there,’ she flung out little fin-like sleeves, ‘if you don’t let me +keep to my story I shall go back as uneasy as I came. And you didn’t,’ +she added even more fretfully, ‘you didn’t tell me the time.’ + +Lawford stared at his watch again for some few moments without +replying. ‘It’s a few minutes to ten,’ he said at last. + +‘Dear me! And I’m keeping the cabman! I must hurry on. Well, now, I put +it to you; you shall be my father confessor—though I detest the idea in +real life—was I wrong? Was I justified in professing to the poor fellow +that I detected a likeness when there was extremely little likeness +there?’ + +‘What! None at all!’ cried Lawford; ‘not the faintest trace?’ + +‘My dear good Mr Lawford,’ she expostulated, patting her lap, ‘there’s +very little more than a trace of my dear beautiful Mary in _you_, her +own son. How could there be—how could you expect it in him, a complete +stranger? No, it was nothing but my own foolish kindliness. It might +have been Mary’s son for all that I could recollect. I haven’t for +years, please remember, had the pleasure of receiving a visit from +_you_. I am firmly of opinion that I was justified. My motive was +entirely benevolent. And then—to my positive amazement—well, I won’t +say hard things of the absent; but he suddenly turns round on me with a +“Thank you, Miss Bennett.” Bennett, hark ye! Perhaps you won’t agree +that I had any justification in being vexed and—and affronted at +_that_.’ + +‘I think, Miss Sinnet,’ said Lawford solemnly, ‘that you were perfectly +justified. Oh, perfectly. I wonder even you had the patience to give +the real Arthur Lawford a chance to ask your forgiveness for—for the +stranger.’ + +‘Well, candidly,’ said Miss Sinnett severely. ‘I was very much +scandalised; and I shouldn’t be here now telling you my story if it +hadn’t been for your mother.’ + +‘My mother!’ + +The old lady rather grimly enjoyed his confusion. ‘Yes, Mr Lawford, +your mother. I don’t know why—something in his manner, something in his +face—so dejected, so unhappy, so—if it is not uncharitablnesse to say +it—so wild: it has haunted me: I haven’t been able to put the matter +out of my mind. I have lain awake in my bed thinking of him. Why did he +speak to me, I keep asking myself. Why did he play me so very aimless a +trick? How had he learned my name? Why was he sitting there so solitary +and so dejected? And worse even than that, what has become of him? A +little more patience, a little more charity, perhaps—what might I not +have done for him? The whole thing has harassed and distressed me more +than I can say. Would you believe it, I have actually twice, and on one +occasion, three times in a day made my way to the seat—hoping to see +him there. And I am not so young as I was. And then, as I say, to crown +all, I had a most remarkable dream about your mother. But that’s my own +affair. Elderly people like me are used—well, perhaps I won’t say +used—we’re not surprised or disturbed by visits from those who have +gone before. We live, in a sense, among the tombs; though I would not +have you fancy it’s in any way a morbid or unhappy life to lead. We +don’t talk about it—certainly not to young people. Let them enjoy their +Eden while they can; though there’s plenty of apples, I fear, on the +Tree yet, Mr Lawford.’ + +She leant forward and whispered it with a big, simple smile:—‘We don’t +even discuss it much among ourselves. But as one gets nearer and nearer +to the wicket-gate there’s other company around one than you’ll find +in—in the directory. And that is why I have just come on here tonight. +Very probably my errand may seem to have no meaning for you. You look +ill, but you don’t appear to be in any great trouble or adversity, as I +feared in my—well, there—as I feared you might be. I must say, though, +it seems a terribly empty house. And no lights, too!’ + +She slowly, with a little trembling nodding of her bonnet, turned her +head and glanced quietly, fixedly, and unflinchingly, out of the +half-open door. ‘But that’s not my affair.’ And again she looked at him +for a little while. + +Then she stooped forward and touched him kindly and trustingly on the +knee. ‘Trouble or no trouble,’ she said, ‘it’s never too late to remind +a man of his mother. And I’m sure, Mr Lawford, I’m very glad to hear +you are struggling up out of your illness again. We must keep a brave +heart, forty or seventy, whichever we may be: “While the evil days come +not nor the years draw nigh when thou shalt say, I have no pleasure in +them,” though they have not come to me even yet; and I trust from the +bottom of my heart, not to _you_.’ + +She looked at him without a trace of emotion or constraint in her +large, quiet face, and their eyes met for a moment in that brief, +fixed, baffling fashion that seems to prove that mankind is after all +but a dumb masked creature saddled with the vain illusion of speech. + +‘And now that I’ve eased my conscience,’ said the old lady, pulling +down her veil, ‘I must beg pardon for intruding at such an hour of the +evening. And may I have your arm down those dreadful steps? Really, Mr +Lawford, judging from the houses they erect for us, the builders must +have a very peculiar notion of mankind. Is the fly still there? I +expressly told the man to wait, and what I am going to do if—!’ + +‘He’s there,’ Lawford reassured her, craning his neck in their slow +progress to catch a peep into the quiet road. And like a flock of birds +scared by a chance comer at their feeding in some deserted field, a +whirring cloud of memories swept softly up in his mind—memories whose +import he made no effort to discover. None the less, the leisurely +descent became in their company something of a real experience even in +such a brimming week. + +‘I hope, some day, you will really tell me your dream?’ he said, +pushing the old lady’s silk skirts in after her as she slowly climbed +into the carriage. + +‘Ah, my dear Lawford, when you are my age,’ she called back to him, +groping her way into the rather musty gloom, ‘you’ll dream such dreams +for yourself. Life’s not what’s just the fashion. And there are queerer +things to be seen and heard just quietly in one’s solitude than this +busy life gives us time to discover. But as for my mystifying Bewley +acquaintance—I confess I cannot make head or tail of him.’ + +‘Was he,’ said Lawford rather vaguely, looking up into the dim white +face that with its plumes filled nearly the whole carriage window, ‘was +his face very unpleasing?’ + +She raised a gloved hand. ‘It has haunted me, haunted me, Mr Lawford; +its—its conflict! Poor fellow; I hope, I do hope, he faced his trouble +out. But I shall never see him again.’ + +He squeezed the trembling, kindly old hand. ‘I bet, Miss Sinnet,’ he +said earnestly, ‘even your having _thought_ kindly of the poor beggar +eased his mind—whoever he may have been. I assure you, assure you of +that.’ + +‘Ay, but I did more than _think_,’ replied the old lady with a chuckle +that might have seemed even a little derisive if it had not been so +profoundly magnanimous. + +He watched the old black fly roll slowly off, and still smiling at Miss +Sinnet’s inscrutable finesse went back into the house. ‘And now, my +friend,’ he said, addressing peacefully the thronging darkness, ‘the +time’s nearly up for me to go too.’ + +He had made up his mind. Or, rather, it seemed as if in the unregarded +silences of this last long talk his mind had made up itself. Only among +impossibilities had he the shadow of a choice. In this old haunted +house, amid this shallow turmoil no practicable clue could show itself +of a way out. He would go away for a while. + +He left the door ajar behind him for the moments still left, and stood +for a while thinking. Then, lamp in hand, he descended into the +breakfast-room for pen, ink, and paper. He sat for some time in that +underground calm, nibbling his pen like a harassed and self-conscious +schoolboy. At last he began: + +‘MY DEAR SHEILA,—I must tell you, to begin with, that the _change_ has +now all passed away. I am—as near as man can be—completely myself +again. And next: that I overheard all that was said to-night in the +dining-room. + +‘I’m sorry for listening; but it’s no good going over all that now. +Here I am, and, as you said, for Alice’s sake we must make the best of +it. I am going away for a while, to get, if I can, a chance to quiet +down. I suppose every one comes sooner or later to a time in life when +there is nothing else to be done but just shut one’s eyes and blunder +on. And that’s all I can do now—blunder on....’ + +He paused, and suddenly, at the echo of the words in his mind, a +revulsion of feeling—shame and hatred of himself surged up, and he tore +his letter into tiny pieces. Once more he began, ‘my dear Sheila,’ +dropped his pen, sat on for a long time, cold and inert, harbouring +almost unendurably a pitiful, hopeless longing.... He would write to +Grisel another day. + +He leant back in his chair, his fingers pressed against his eyelids. +And clearer than those which myriad-hued reality can ever present, +pictures of the imagination swam up before his eyes. It seemed, indeed, +that even now some ghost, some revenant of himself was sitting there, +in the old green churchyard, roofed only with a thousand thousand +stars. The breath of darkness stirred softly on his cheek. Some little +scampering shape slipped by. A bird on high cried weirdly, solemnly, +over the globe. He shuddered faintly, and looked out again into the +small lamplit room. + +Here, too, was quite as inexplicable a coming and going. A fly was +walking on the table beneath his eyes, with the uneasy gait of one that +has outlived his hour and most of his companions. Mice were scampering +and shrieking in the empty kitchen. And all about him, in the viewless +air, the phantoms of another life passed by, unmindful of his +motionless body. He fell into a lethargy of the senses, and only +gradually became aware after a while of the strange long-drawn sigh of +rain at the window. He rose and opened it. The night air flowed in, +chilled with its waters and faintly fragrant of the dust. It soothed +away all thought for a while. He turned back to his chair. He would +wait until the rain had lulled before starting.... + +A little before midnight the door was softly, and with extreme care, +pushed open, and Mr Bethany’s old face, with an intense and sharpened +scrutiny, looked in on the lamplit room. And as if still intent on the +least sound within the empty walls around him, he came near, and +stooping across the table, stared through his spectacles at the +sidelong face of his friend, so still, with hands so lightly laid on +the arms of his chair that the old man had need to watch closely to +detect in his heavy slumber the slow measured rise and fall of his +breast. + +He turned wearily away muttering a little, between an immeasurable +relief and a now almost intolerable medley of vexations. What _was_ +this monstrous web of Craik’s? What _had_ the creature been nodding and +ducketing about?—those whisperings, that tattling? And what in the end, +when you were old and sour and out-strategied, what was the end to be +of this urgent dream called Life? He sat quietly down and drew his +hands over his face, pushed his lean knotted fingers up under his +spectacles, then sat blinking—and softly slowly deciphered the solitary +‘My dear Sheila’ on Lawford’s note-paper. ‘H’m,’ he muttered, and +looked up again at the dark still eyelids that in the strange torpor of +sleep might yet be dimly conveying to the dreaming brain behind them +some hint of his presence. ‘I wish to goodness, you wonderful old +creature,’ he muttered, wagging his head, ‘I wish to goodness you’d +wake up.’ + +For some time he sat on, listening to the still soft downpour on the +fading leaves. ‘They don’t come to _me_,’ he said softly again; with a +tiny smile on his old face. ‘It’s that old medieval Craik: with a face +like a last year’s rookery!’ And again he sat, with head a little +sidelong, listening now to the infinitesimal sounds of life without, +now to the thoughts within, and ever and again he gazed steadfastly on +Lawford. + +At last it seemed in the haunted quietness other thoughts came to him. +A cloud, as it were of youth, drew over the wrinkled skin, composed the +birdlike keenness; his head nodded. Once, like Lawford in the darkness +at Widderstone, he glanced up sharply across the lamplight at his +phantasmagorical shadowy companion, heard the steady surge of +multitudinous rain-drops, like the roar of Time’s winged chariot +hurrying near; then he too, with spectacles awry, bobbed on in his +chair, a weary old sentinel on the outskirts of his friend’s denuded +battlefield. + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE RETURN *** + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the +United States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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