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.