Author: Walter De la Mare
Category: Childrens
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CHAPTER THREE
Mr Bethany sat awaiting them in the dining-room, a large,heavily-furnished room with a great benign looking-glass on themantelpiece, a marble clock, and with rich old damask curtains. Fleecysilver 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 alittle jerk, turned sharply round. Thus it was that the gold-spectacledvicar and Lawford first confronted each other, the one brightlyilluminated, the other framed in the gloom of the doorway. Mr Bethany'sfirst scrutiny was timid and courteous, but beneath it he tried to bekeen, and himself hastened round the table almost at a trot, to obtain,as delicately as possible, a closer view. But Lawford, having shutthe door behind him, had gone straight to the fire and seated himself,leaning his face in his hands. Mr Bethany smiled faintly, waved his handalmost as if in blessing, but certainly in peace, and tapped Mrs Lawfordinto 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'sintrusion--this little confidence about a change, my dear fellow--abouta ramble and a change?' He sat down, put up his kind little puckeredface 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 toldyou?'
'Dear me, no,' said Mr Bethany cheerfully, 'I wish nothing, nothing, oldfriend. 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 witsstill 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, onTuesday, that you weren't looking quite the thing. Indeed, I remarked onit. But now, I understand from Mrs Lawford that the malady has takena graver turn--eh, Lawford, an heretical turn? I hear you have beenwandering from the true fold.' Mr Bethany leaned forward with what mightbe described as a very large smile in a very small compass. 'And that,of course, entailed instant retribution.' He broke off solemnly. 'I knowWidderstone churchyard well; a most verdant and beautiful spot. The laterector, 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 sleepand to play there, twenty, dear me, perhaps twenty-five years ago. ButI did not know, my dear Lawford, that you--' and suddenly, without aninstant's warning, something seemed to shout at him, 'Look, look! He islooking at you!' He stopped, faltered, and a slight warmth came into hisface. 'And and you were taken ill there?' His voice had fallen flat andfaint.
'I fell asleep--or something of that sort,' came the stubborn reply.
'Yes,' said Mr Bethany, brightly, 'so your wife was saying. "Fellasleep," so have I too--scores of times'; he beamed, with beads of sweatglistening 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 andcame home.'
'Ah, yes,' said his visitor. And after that there was a long, brightlylit, intense pause; at the end of which Lawford raised his face andagain looked firmly at his friend.
Mr Bethany was now a shrunken old man; he sat perfectly still, his headcraned a little forward, and his veined hands clutching his bent, spareknees.
There wasn't the least sign of devilry, or out-facingness, or insolencein that lean shadowy steady head; and yet he himself was compelled tosidle 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 humaneyes. 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? Ithought perhaps I may have exaggerated--candle-light, you know.'
Mr Bethany remained still and silent, striving to entertain one thoughtat a time. His lips moved as if he were talking to himself. And againit was Lawford's faltering voice that broke the silence. 'You see,'he said, 'I have never... no fit, or anything of that kind before. Iremember on Tuesday... oh yes, quite well. I did feel seedy, very. Andwe talked, didn't we?--Harvest Festival, Mrs Wine's flowers, the newoffertory-bags, and all that. For God's sake, Vicar, it is not as badas--as they make out?'
Mr Bethany woke with a start. He leaned forward, and stretched out along black wrinkled sleeve, just managing to reach far enough to tapLawford's knee. 'Don't worry, don't worry,' he said soothingly. 'Webelieve, we believe.'
It was, none the less, a sheer act of faith. He took off his spectaclesand took out his handkerchief. 'What we must do, eh, my dear,' he halfturned to Mrs Lawford, 'what we must do is to consult, yes, consulttogether. And later--we must have advice--medical advice; unless, asI very much suspect, it is merely a little quite temporary physicalaberration. Science, I am told, is making great strides, experimenting,groping after things which no sane man has ever dreamed ofbefore--without being burned alive for it. What's in a name? Nerves,especially, Lawford.'
Mrs Lawford sat perfectly still, absorbedly listening, turning her facefirst this way, then that, to each speaker in turn. 'That is whatI thought,' she said, and cast one fleeting glance across at thefireplace, 'but--'
The little old gentleman turned sharply with half-blind eyes, and lipstight shut. 'I think,' he said, with a hind of austere humour, 'I think,do you know, I see no "but."' He paused as if to catch the echo andadded, 'It's our only course.' He continued to polish round and roundhis glasses. Mrs Lawford rather magnificently rose.
'Perhaps if I were to leave you together awhile? I shall not be faroff. It is,' she explained, as if into a huge vacuum, 'it is a terriblevisitation.' She moved gravely round the table and very softly andfirmly closed the door after her.
Lawford took a deep breath. 'Of course.' he said, 'you realise mywife does not believe me. She thinks,' he explained naively, as if tohimself, 'she thinks I am an imposter. Goodness knows what she doesthink. 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 themain issue. The others right themselves. Now, to take a plunge into yourgenerosity. You have let me in far enough to make it impossible for meto get out--may I hear then exactly the whole story? All that I knownow, so far as I could gather from your wife, poor soul, is of courseinconceivable: that you went out one man and came home another. You willunderstand, my dear man, I am speaking, as it were, by rote. God hasmercifully ordered that the human brain works slowly; first theblow, hours afterwards the bruise. Oh, dear me, that man Hume--"onmiracles"--positively amazing! So that too, please, you will be quiteclear 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 wholestory.' He sat, lean and erect in his big chair, a hand restingloosely on each knee, in one spectacles, in the other a dangling pockethandkerchief. And the dark, sallow, aquiline, formidable figure, withits oddly changing voice, re-told the whole story from the beginning.
'You were aware then of nothing different, I understand, until youactually 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 justlike being a boy again. Influenza dispirits one so.'
Mr Bethany gazed without stirring. 'And yet, you know,' he said, 'I canhardly believe, I mean conceive, how--You have been taking no drugs, noquackery, Lawford?'
'I never dose myself,' said Lawford, with sombre pride.
'God bless me, that's Lawford to the echo,' thought his visitor. 'Andbefore--?' he went on gently; 'I really cannot conceive, you see, howa mere fit could... Before you sat down you were quite alone?' He stuckout his head. 'There was nobody with you?'
'With me? Oh no,' came t
he soft answer.
'What had you been thinking of? In these days of faith-cures, andhypnotism, and telepathy, and subliminalities--why, the simple old worldgrows 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 eventhen, perhaps. I remember, for instance, I knelt down to read an oldtombstone. There was a little seat--no back. And an epitaph. The sun wasjust setting; some French name. And there was a long jagged crack inthe stone, like the black line you know one sees after lightning, I meanit'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 almostquerulously, 'there was no living creature near you? Bless me, Lawford,I see no unkindness in believing what the Bible itself relates. Thereare powers supernatural. Saul, and so on. We are all convinced of that.No one?'
'I remember distinctly,' replied Lawford, in a calm, stubborn voice, 'Ilooked up all around me, while I was kneeling there, and there wasn't asoul to be seen. Because, you see, it even then occurred to me that itwould have looked rather queer--my wandering about like that, I mean.Facing me there were some cypress-trees, and beyond, a low sunkenfence, and then, just open country. Up above there were the gravestonestoppling down the hill, where I had just strolled down, and sunshine!'He suddenly threw up his hand. 'Oh, marvellous! streaming ingold--flaming, like God's own ante-chamber.'
There was a very pregnant pause. Mr Bethany shrunk back a little intohis chair. His lips moved; he folded his spectacles.
'Yes, yes,' he said. And then very quietly he stole one mole-like lookinto his sidesman's face.
'What is Dr Simon's number?' he said. Lawford was gazing gloomilyinto the fire. 'Oh, Annandale,' he replied absently. 'I don't know thenumber.'
'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 killedmy father.' He laughed out shamefacedly.
'A sound, lovable man,' said Mr Bethany, 'one of the kindest men I everknew; and a very old friend of mine.'
And suddenly the dark face turned with a shudder from the fire, andspoke in a low trembling voice. 'Only one thing--only one thing--mysanity, my sanity. If once I forget, who will believe me?' He thrust hislong lean fingers beneath his coat. 'And mad,' he added; 'I would soonerdie.'
Mr Bethany deliberately adjusted his spectacles. 'May I, may Iexperiment?' he said boldly. There came a tap on the door.
'Bless me,' said the vicar, taking out his watch, 'it is a quarter totwelve. 'Yes, yes, Mrs Lawford,' he trotted round to the door. 'We arebeginning 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, anda 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, isimperative. Just till the first thing to-morrow. And till then,' heturned to Mrs Lawford, where she stood looking in at the doorway, 'ohyes, complete quiet; and caution!'
Mrs Lawford let him out. He shook his head once or twice, holding herfingers. 'Oh yes,' he whispered, 'it is your husband, not the smallestdoubt. I tried: for MYSELF. But something--something has happened. Don'tfret him now. Have patience. Oh yes, it is incredible... the change! Butthere, the very first thing to-morrow.' She closed the door gentlyafter him, and stepping softly back to the dining-room, peered in. Herhusband'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 facinghim there, 'is our old friend gone?'
'Yes,' said Sheila, 'he's gone.' Lawford sighed and turned round. 'It'suseless talking now, Sheila. No more questions. I cannot tell you howtired 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 oldheadaches.' he smiled, 'my old bilious headaches--the hereditary Lawfordvariety.' But his voice fell low again. 'We must get to bed.'
With a rather pretty and childish movement, Sheila gently drew her handsacross her silk skirts. 'Yes, dear,' she said, 'I have made up a bed foryou in the large spare room. It is thoroughly aired.' She came softlyin, hastened over to a closed work-table that stood under the curtains,and opened it.
Lawford watched her, utterly expressionless, utterly motionless. Heopened his mouth and shut it again, still watching his wife as shestooped with ridiculously too busy fingers, searching through hercoloured silks.
Again he opened his mouth. 'Yes,' he said, and stalked slowly towardsthe door. But there he paused. 'God knows,' he said, strangely andmeekly, '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,' shemurmured, 'I can't find anywhere the--the little red box key.'
Lawford's cheek turned more sallow than ever. 'You are only pretendingto look for it,' he said, 'to try me. We both know perfectly well thelock is broken. Ada broke it.'
Sheila let fall the lid; and yet for a while her eyes roved over it asif in violent search for something. Then she turned: 'I am so very gladthe 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, Ican't bear it!' She sat down in the chair and huddled her face betweenher hands, sobbing on and on, without a tear.
Lawford listened and stared solemnly. 'Whatever it may be, Sheila, Iwill be loyal,' he said.
Her sobs hushed, and again cold horror crept over her. Nobody inthe whole world could have said that 'I will be loyal' quite likethat--nobody but Arthur. She stood up, patting her hair. 'I don't thinkmy brain would bear much more. It's useless to talk. If you will go up;I will put out the lamp.'