The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Return, by Walter de la Mare

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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.




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