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.’