Probably because she still steadfastly refused to look at him, her memory kept losing its hold on the appalling fact facing them. She realised fully only that she was in a great, unwarrantable, and insurmountable difficulty, but until she actually lifted her eyes for a moment she had not fully realised what that difficulty was. She got up with a sudden and horrible nausea. “One moment,” she said, “I will see if the servants have gone to bed.”
That long saturnine face, behind which Lawford lay in a dull and desperate ambush, smiled. Something partaking of its clay, some reflex ghost of its rather remarkable features, was even a little amused at Sheila.
She returned in a moment, and stood in profile in the doorway. “Will you come down?” she remarked distantly.
“One moment, Sheila,” Lawford began miserably. “Before we take this irrevocable step, a step I implore you to postpone awhile—for what comes, I suppose, may go—what precisely have you told the vicar? I must in fairness know that.”
“In fairness,” she began ironically, and suddenly broke off. Her husband had turned the flame of the lamp low down in the vacant room behind them; the corridor was lit obscurely by the chandelier far down in the hall below. A faint, inexplicable dread fell softly and coldly on her heart. “Have you no trust in me?” she murmured a little bitterly. “I have simply told him the truth.”
They softly descended the stairs; she first, the dark figure following close behind her.
CHAPTER THREE
Mr Bethany sat awaiting them in the dining-room, a large, heavily-furnished room with a great benign looking-glass on the mantelpiece, a marble clock, and with rich old damask curtains. Fleecy silver hair was all that was visible of their visitor when they entered. But Mr Bethany rose out of his chair when he heard them, and with a little jerk, turned sharply round. Thus it was that the gold-spectacled vicar and Lawford first confronted each other, the one brightly illuminated, the other framed in the gloom of the doorway. Mr Bethany’s first scrutiny was timid and courteous, but beneath it he tried to be keen, and himself hastened round the table almost at a trot, to obtain, as delicately as possible, a closer view. But Lawford, having shut the door behind him, had gone straight to the fire and seated himself, leaning his face in his hands. Mr Bethany smiled faintly, waved his hand almost as if in blessing, but certainly in peace, and tapped Mrs Lawford into the chair upon the other side. But he himself remained standing.
“Mrs Lawford has, I declare, been telling family secrets,” he began, and paused, peering. But there, you will forgive an old friend’s intrusion—this little confidence about a change, my dear fellow—about a ramble and a change?” He sat down, put up his kind little puckered face and peered again at Lawford, and then very hastily at his wife. But all her attention was centred on the bowed figure opposite to her. Lawford responded to this cautious advance without raising his head.
“You do not wish me to repeat all that my wife tells me she has told you?”
“Dear me, no,” said Mr Bethany cheerfully, “I wish nothing, nothing, old friend. You must not burden yourself with me. If I may be of any help, here I am.... Oh, no, no....” he paused, with blinking eyes, but wits still shrewd and alert. Why doesn’t the man raise his head? he thought. A mere domestic dispute!
“I thought,” he went on ruminatingly, “I thought on Tuesday, yes, on Tuesday, that you weren’t looking quite the thing. Indeed, I remarked on it. But now, I understand from Mrs Lawford that the malady has taken a graver turn—eh, Lawford, an heretical turn? I hear you have been wandering from the true fold.” Mr Bethany leaned forward with what might be described as a very large smile in a very small compass. “And that, of course, entailed instant retribution.” He broke off solemnly. “I know Widderstone churchyard well; a most verdant and beautiful spot. The late rector, a Mr Strickland, was a very old friend of mine. And his wife, dear good Alicia, used to set out her babies, in the morning, to sleep and to play there, twenty, dear me, perhaps twenty-five years ago. But I did not know, my dear Lawford, that you—” and suddenly, without an instant’s warning, something seemed to shout at him, “Look, look! He is looking at you!” He stopped, faltered, and a slight warmth came into his face. “And and you were taken ill there?” His voice had fallen flat and faint.
“I fell asleep—or something of that sort,” came the stubborn reply.
“Yes,” said Mr Bethany, brightly, ‘so your wife was saying. "Fell asleep," so have I too—scores of times”; he beamed, with beads of sweat glistening on his forehead. “And then? I’m not, I’m not persisting?”
“Then I woke; refreshed, I think, as it seemed—I felt much better and came home.”
“Ah, yes,” said his visitor. And after that there was a long, brightly lit, intense pause; at the end of which Lawford raised his face and again looked firmly at his friend.
Mr Bethany was now a shrunken old man; he sat perfectly still, his head craned a little forward, and his veined hands clutching his bent, spare knees.
There wasn’t the least sign of devilry, or out-facingness, or insolence in that lean shadowy steady head; and yet he himself was compelled to sidle his glance away, so much the face shook him. He closed his eyes, too, as a cat does after exchanging too direct a scrutiny with human eyes. He put out towards, and withdrew, a groping hand from Mrs Lawford.
“Is it,” came a voice from somewhere, “is it a great change, sir? I thought perhaps I may have exaggerated—candle-light, you know.”
Mr Bethany remained still and silent, striving to entertain one thought at a time. His lips moved as if he were talking to himself. And again it was Lawford’s faltering voice that broke the silence. “You see,” he said, “I have never... no fit, or anything of that kind before. I remember on Tuesday... oh yes, quite well. I did feel seedy, very. And we talked, didn’t we?—Harvest Festival, Mrs Wine’s flowers, the new offertory-bags, and all that. For God’s sake, Vicar, it is not as bad as—as they make out?”
Mr Bethany woke with a start. He leaned forward, and stretched out a long black wrinkled sleeve, just managing to reach far enough to tap Lawford’s knee. “Don’t worry, don’t worry,” he said soothingly. “We believe, we believe.”
It was, none the less, a sheer act of faith. He took off his spectacles and took out his handkerchief. “What we must do, eh, my dear,” he half turned to Mrs Lawford, “what we must do is to consult, yes, consult together. And later—we must have advice—medical advice; unless, as I very much suspect, it is merely a little quite temporary physical aberration. Science, I am told, is making great strides, experimenting, groping after things which no sane man has ever dreamed of before—without being burned alive for it. What’s in a name? Nerves, especially, Lawford.”
Mrs Lawford sat perfectly still, absorbedly listening, turning her face first this way, then that, to each speaker in turn. ‘that is what I thought,” she said, and cast one fleeting glance across at the fireplace, “but—”
The little old gentleman turned sharply with half-blind eyes, and lips tight shut. “I think,” he said, with a kind 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 e
nough 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 antechamber.”
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 tomorrow. 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 tomorrow.” She closed the door gently after him, and stepping softly back to the dining-room, peered in. Her husband’s back was turned, but he could see her in the looking-glass, stooping a little, with set face watching him, in the silvery stillness.
“Well,” he said, “is the old—” he doggedly met the fixed eyes facing him there, “is our old friend gone?”
“Yes,” said Sheila, “he’s gone.” Lawford sighed and turned round. “It’s useless talking now, Sheila. No more questions. I cannot tell you how tired I am. And my head—”
“What is wrong with your head?” inquired his wife discreetly.
The haggard face turned gravely and patiently. “Only one of my old headaches.” he smiled, “my old bilious headaches—the hereditary Lawford variety.” But his voice fell low again. “We must get to bed.”
With a rather pretty and childish movement, Sheila gently drew her hands across her silk skirts. “Yes, dear,” she said, “I have made up a bed for you in the large spare room. It is thoroughly aired.” She came softly in, hastened over to a closed work-table that stood under the curtains, and opened it.
Lawford watched her, utterly expressionless, utterly motionless. He opened his mouth and shut it again, still watching his wife as she stooped with ridiculously too busy fingers, searching through her coloured silks.
Again he opened his mouth. “Yes,” he said, and stalked slowly towards the door. But there he paused. “God knows,” he said, strangely and meekly, “I am sorry, sorry for all this. You will forgive me, Sheila?”
She looked up swiftly. “It’s very tiresome, I can’t find anywhere,” she murmured, “I can’t find anywhere the—the little red box key.”
Lawford’s cheek turned more sallow than ever. “You are only pretending to look for it,” he said, ‘to try me. We both know perfectly well the lock is broken. Ada broke it.”
Sheila let fall the lid; and yet for a while her eyes roved over it as if in violent search for something. Then she turned: “I am so very glad the vicar was at home,” she said brightly. “And mind, mind you rest, Arthur. There’s nothing so bad but it might be worse.... Oh, I can’t, I can’t bear it!” She sat down in the chair and huddled her face between her hands, sobbing on and on, without a tear.
Lawford listened and stared solemnly. “Whatever it may be, Sheila, I will be loyal,” he said.
Her sobs hushed, and again cold horror crept over her. Nobody in the whole world could have said that “I will be
loyal” quite like that—nobody but Arthur. She stood up, patting her hair. “I don’t think my brain would bear much more. It’s useless to talk. If you will go up; I will put out the lamp.”
CHAPTER FOUR
One solitary and tall candle burned on the great dressing-table. Faint, solitary pictures broke the blankness of each wall. The carpet was rich, the bed impressive, and the basins on the washstand as uninviting as the bed. Lawford sat down on the edge of it in complete isolation. He sat without stirring, listening to his watch ticking in his pocket. The china clock on the chimney piece pointed cheerfully to the hour of dawn. It was exactly, he computed carefully, five hours and seven minutes fast. Not the slightest sound broke the stillness, until he heard, very, very softly and gradually, the key of his door turn in the oiled wards, and realized that he was a prisoner.
Women were strange creatures. How often he had heard that said, he thought lamely. He felt no anger, no surprise or resentment, at the trick. It was only to be expected. He could sit on till morning; easily till morning. He had never noticed before how empty a well-furnished room could seem. It was his own room too; his best visitors’ room. His father-in-law had slept here, with his whiskers on that pillow. His wife’s most formidable aunt had been all night here, alone with these pictures. She certainly was... “But what are you doing here?” cried a voice suddenly out of his reverie.
The Altar of the Dead And Other Morbid Tales Page 17