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.