CHAPTER NINETEEN
Herbert himself went down to order the governess cart, and packed themin with a rug. And in the dusk Grisel set Lawford down at the corner ofhis road and drove on to an old bookseller's with a commission from herbrother, promising to return for him in an hour. Dust and a few strawslay at rest as if in some abstruse arrangement on the stones of theporch just as the last faint whirling gust of sunset had left them. Shutlids of sightless indifference seemed to greet the wanderer from thecurtained windows.
He opened the door and went in. For a moment he stood in the vacanthall; then he peeped first into the blind-drawn dining-room, faintly,dingily sweet, like an empty wine-bottle. He went softly on a few pacesand just opening the door looked in on the faintly glittering twilightof the drawing-room. But the congealed stump of candle that he had setin the corner as a final rancorous challenge to the beaten Shade wasgone. He slowly and deliberately ascended the stairs, conscious of apeculiar sense of ownership of what in even so brief an absence hadtaken on so queer a look of strangeness. It was almost as if he might besome lone heir come in the rather mournful dusk to view what melancholyfate had unexpectedly bestowed on him.
'Work in'--what on earth else could this chill sense of strangenessmean? Would he ever free his memory from that one haphazard, hauntinghint? And as he stood in the doorway of the big, calm room, which seemedeven now to be stirring with the restless shadow of these last fewfar-away days; now pacing sullenly to and fro; now sitting hunched-up tothink; and now lying impotent in a vain, hopeless endeavour only for thebreath of a moment to forget--he awoke out of reverie to find himselfsmiling at the thought that a changed face was practically at the mercyof an incredulous world, whereas a changed heart was no one's deadlydull affair but its owner's. The merest breath of pity even stole overhim for the Sabathier who after all had dared and had needed, perhaps,nothing like so arrogant and merciless a coup de grace to realise thathe had so ignominiously failed.
'But there, that's done!' he exclaimed out loud, not without a tinge ofregret that theories, however brilliant and bizarre, could never now beanything 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 noteven savoury enough for a goose. How wide exactly, he wondered, wouldSheila's discreet, shocked circle prove? He stood once more before thelooking-glass, hearing again Grisel's words in the still green shadowof the beech-tree, 'Except of course, horribly, horribly ill.' 'What afool, what a coward she thinks I am!'
There was still nearly an hour to be spent in this great barn of fadedinterests. He lit a candle and descended into the kitchen. A mouse wentscampering to its hole as he pushed open the door. The memory of thatravenous morning meal nauseated him. It was sour and very still here;he stood erect; the air smelt faint of earth. In the breakfast-room thebookcase still swung open. Late evening mantled the garden; and insheer ennui again he sat down to the table, and turned for a last notunfriendly hob-a-nob with his poor old friend Sabathier. He would takethe thing back. Herbert, of course, was going to translate it for him.Now if the patient old Frenchman had stormed Herbert instead--thatsurely would have been something like a coup! Those frenzied books.The absurd talk of the man. Herbert was perfectly right--he could haveentertained fifty old Huguenots without turning a hair. 'I'm such anawful 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 booksoftly down on the table and sat back. He stared with narrowed lidsinto the flame of his quiet friendly candle. Every trace, every shred ofportrait and memoir were gone. Once more, deliberately, punctiliously,he examined page by page the blurred and unfamiliar French--the sootyheads, the long, lean noses, the baggy eyes passing like figures ina peepshow one by one under his hand--to the last fragmentary anddexterously mended leaf. Yes, Sabathier was gone. Quite the old slowLawford smile crept over his face at the discovery. It was a smile alittle sheepish too, as he thought of Sheila's quiet vigilance.
And the next instant he had looked up sharply, with a sudden peculiarshrug, 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 upstairsagain to the big sepulchral bedroom. He pressed with his fingernail thetiny spring in the looking-glass. The empty drawer flew open. There werefinger-marks still in the dust.
Yet, strangely enough, beneath all the clashing thoughts that cameflocking 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 MrBethany. So far as he himself was concerned the discovery--well, hewould have plenty of time to consider everything that could possibly nowconcern himself. Anyhow, it could only simplify matters.
He remembered waking to that old wave of sickening horror on the firstunhappy morning; he remembered the keen yet owlish old face blinkingits 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 longernecessary to one's social satisfaction. But she would edge out cleverly,magnanimously, triumphantly enough, no doubt, when the day of reckoningshould come, the day when, her nets wide spread, her bait prepared, hemust stand up before her outraged circle and positively prove himselfher lawful husband, perhaps even to the very imprint of his thumb.
'Poor old thing!' he said again; and this time his pity was sharedalmost equally between both witnesses to Mr Bethany's ingenuous littledocument, the loss of which had fallen so softly and pathetically thathe felt only ashamed of having discovered it so soon.
He shut back the tell-tale drawer, and after trying to collect histhoughts in case anything should have been forgotten, he turned with adeep trembling sigh to descend the stairs. But on the landing he drewback at the sound of voices, and then a footstep. Soon came the sound ofa key in the lock. He blew out his candle and leant listening over thebalusters.
'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?' Itwas like dropping tiny pebbles into a deep well--so long after came theanswering feeble splash.
'Then I was to go back, sir.' And a moment after the discreet voicefloated up with the faintest tinge of effrontery out of the hush. 'Isthat Dr Ferguson, too sir?'
'No, Ada; and please tell your mistress from me that Dr Ferguson isunlikely to call again.' A keen but rather forlorn smile passed over hisface. 'He's dining with friends no doubt at Holloway. But of course ifshe should want to see him he will see her to-morrow at any hour at MrsLovat's. And--Ada!'
'Yes, sir?'
'Say that I'm a little better; your mistress will be relieved to hearthat I'm a little better; still not quite myself say, but, I think, alittle 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 youwon't repeat it, sir. She promised if she came that mistress shouldn'tknow. I was only afraid she might disturb you, or--or Dr Ferguson. Anddid you say, sir, that I was to tell mistress that he MIGHT be comingback?'
'Ah, that I don't know; so perhaps it would be as well not to mentionhim at all. Is Miss Alice there?'
'I said I would tell her if you were alone. But I hope you'll understandthat it was only because she begged so. Mistress has gone to St Peter'sbazaar; 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 momenthe had Alice's hand in his and they were groping together through thegloaming back into t
he solitude of the empty room again.
'Don't be alarmed, dear,' he heard himself imploring. Just hold tightto that clear common sense, and above all you won't tell? It must be oursecret; a dead, dead secret from every one, even your mother, for justa 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 shutand the last pale blueness of dusk at the window Lawford turned andlooked at his daughter. She stood with eyes wide open, like the eyesof a child walking in its sleep; then twisted her fingers more tightlywithin 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 comingback. And mother told me such curious things; as if I were a child andunderstood nothing. And even after I knew that you were you--I meanbefore I sat up here in the dark to see you--she said that you weregone and would never come back; that a terrible thing had happened--adisgrace which we must never speak of; and that all the other was onlya pretence to keep people from talking. But I did not believe then, andhow could I believe afterwards?'
'There, never mind now, dear, what she said. It was all meant for thebest, 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 itshould be necessary for me to go away for a time. And this is oursecret, mind; ours only; just a dead secret between you and me.'
They sat for awhile without speaking or stirring. And faintly along thehushed road Lawford heard in the silence a leisurely indolent beat oflittle hoofs approaching, and the sound of wheels. A sudden wave offeeling swept over him. He took Alice's quiet loving face in his handsand kissed her passionately. 'Do not so much as think of me yet, ordoubt, or question: only love me, dearest. And soon--and soon--'
'We'll just begin again, just begin again, won't we? all three of ustogether, just as we used to be. I didn't mean to have said all thosehorrid things about mother. She was only dreadfully anxious and meanteverything for the best. You'll let me tell her soon?'
The haggard face turned slowly, listening. 'I hear, I understand, butI can't think very clearly now, Alice; I can't, dear; my miserable oldtangled nerves. I just stumble along as best I can. You'll understandbetter when you get to be a poor old thing like me. We must do the bestwe can. And of course you'll see, Dillie, how awfully important it isnot to raise false hopes. You understand? I mustn't risk the least thingin the world, must I? And now goodbye; only for a few hours now. And nota word, not a word to a single living soul.'
He extinguished the candle again, and led the way to the top of thestairs. 'Are you there, Ada?'
'Yes, sir,' answered the quiet imperturbable voice from under the blackstraw 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 asudden 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 cautiousyet uneasy thought that seemed to haunt her mind. 'I thought--it seemedthere 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. Youdo 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 stillhesitated. He took hold of the stairs above his head as he stood onthe landing and leaned his head upon his hands, striving calmly todisentangle the perplexity of his thoughts. His pulses were beating inhis ear with a low muffled roar. He looked down between the blinds towhere against the blue of the road beneath the straggling yellow beamsof the lamp stood the little cart and drooping, shaggy pony, and Griselsitting quietly there awaiting him. He shut his eyes as if in hope bysome convulsive effort of mind to break through this subtle glasslikeatmosphere of dream that had stolen over consciousness, and blotted outthe 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 doubtconfronted him: Would he ever come back? Who knows? he thought; andagain stood pondering, arguing, denying. At last he seemed to have cometo a decision. He made his way downstairs, opened and left ajar a longnarrow window in a passage to the garden beyond the kitchen. He turnedon his heel as he reached the gate and waved his hand as if in a kind offorlorn mockery towards the darkly glittering windows. The drowsy ponyawoke at touch of the whip.
Grisel lifted the rug and squeezed a little closer into the corner. Shehad drawn a veil over her face, so that to Lawford her eyes seemed tobe dreaming in a little darkness of their own as he laid his hand onthe side of the cart. 'It's a most curious thing,' he said, 'but peepingdown at you just now when the sound of the wheels came, a memory cameclearly back to me of years and years ago--of my mother. She used tocome to fetch me at school in a little cart like this, and a littlepony just like this, with a thick dusty coat. And once I remember I wassimply sick of everything, a failure, and fagged out, and all that, andwas looking out in the twilight; I fancy even it was autumn too. It wasa little side staircase window; I was horribly homesick. And she camequite unexpectedly. I shall never forget it--the misery, and then, hercoming.' He lifted his eyes, cowed with the incessant struggle, andwatched 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 manydisguises--convention, cowardice, weakness, ennui; they all take theirturn 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 lastexquisite thread gives way, and then it is all over. You see I have evento 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, dearme, yes, your courage too.'
'Listen,' said Lawford, stooping forward. He could scarcely see thepale, 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 tocome!--a stranger with no history, no mockery, no miserable rant of agrave and darkness and fear behind me. Are we not all haunted--everyone? That forgotten, and the fool I was, and the vacillating, and thepretence--oh, how it all sweeps clear before me; without a will, withouta hope or glimpse or whisper of courage. Be just the memory of mymother, the face, the friend I've never seen; the voice that every dreamleaves echoing. Ask me to come.'
She sat unstirring; and then as if by some uncontrollable impulsestooped 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 thepony's hoofs. Night had darkened to its deepest when their lamp shonewhite on the wicket in the hedge. They had scarcely spoken. Lawford hadsimply watched pass by, almost without a thought, the arching trees, thedarkening fields; had watched rise up in a mist of primrose light theharvest moon to shine in saffron on the faces and shoulders of the fewwayfarers they met, or who passed them by. The still grave face beneaththe shadow of its veil had never turned, though the moon poured all herflood of brilliance upon the dark profile. And once when as if in suddenalarm he had lifted his head and looked at her, a sudden doubt hadassailed him so instantly that he had half put out his hand to touchher, and had as quickly withdrawn it, lest her beauty and stillnessshould be, even as the moment's fancy had suggested, only a far-gonemem
ory returned in dream.
Herbert hailed them from the darkness of an open window. He camedown, and they talked a little in the cold air of the garden. He lita cigarette, and climbed languidly into the cart, and drove the drowsylittle pony off into the moonlight.