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.