The Altar of the Dead And Other Morbid Tales

by Osie Turner, Algernon Blackwood, Henry James

  “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 anymore? 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.
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br />   “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.