Author: Walter De la Mare
Category: Childrens
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CHAPTER FIVE
It was but little after daybreak when Mrs Lawford, after listening athis door a while, turned the key and looked in on her husband. Blue-greylight from between the venetian blinds just dusked the room. She stoodin a bluish dressing-gown, her hand on her bosom, looking down on thelean impassive face. For the briefest instant her heart had leapt withan indescribable surmise; to fall dull as lead once more. Breathingequably and quietly, the strange figure lay stretched upon the bed. 'Howcan he sleep? How can he sleep?' she whispered with a black and hopelessindignation. What a night she had had! And he!
She turned noiselessly away. The candle had guttered to extinction. Thebig glass reflected her, voluminous and wan, her dark-ringed eyes, fulllips, rich, glossy hair, and rounded chin. 'Yes, yes,' it seemed tomurmur mournfully. She turned away, and drawing stealthily near stoopedonce more quite low, and examined the face on the pillow with lynx-likeconcentration. And though every nerve revolted at the thought, she wasfinally convinced, unwillingly, but assuredly, that her husband washere. Indeed, if it were not so, how could she for a single moment haveaccepted the possibility that he was a stranger? He seemed to haunt,like a ghostly emanation, this strange, detestable face--as memorysupplies the features concealed beneath a mask. The face was stilland stony, like one dead or imaged in wax, yet beneath it dreams werepassing--silly, ordinary Lawford dreams. She was almost alarmed at theterribly rancorous hatred she felt for the face... 'It was just likeArthur to be so taken in!'
Then she too remembered Quain, and remembered also in the slowly palingdusk that the house would soon be stirring. She went out and noiselesslylocked the door again. But it was useless to begin looking forQuain now--her husband had a good many dull books, most of them his'eccentric' father's. What must the servants be thinking? and what wasall that talk about a mysterious visitor? She would have to questionAda--diplomatically. She returned to her room and sat down in anarm-chair, and waited. In sheer weariness she fell into a doze, and wokeat the sound of dustpan and broom. She rang the bell, and asked for hotwater, tea, and a basin of cornflour.
'And please, Ada, be as quiet as possible over your work; your master isin a nice sleep, and must not be disturbed on any account. In the frontbedroom.' She looked up suddenly. 'By the way, who let Dr Ferguson inlast night?' It was dangerous, but successful.
'Dr Ferguson, ma'am? Oh, you mean... He WAS in.'
Sheila smiled resignedly. 'Was in? What do you mean, "was in"? And wherewere you, then?'
'I had been sent out to Critchett's, the chemist's.'
'Of course, of course. So cook let Dr Ferguson in, then? Why didn't yousay so before, Ada? And did you bring the medicine with you?'
'It was a packet in an envelope, ma'am. But Cook is sure she heardno knock--not while I was out. So Dr Ferguson must have come in quiteunbeknown.'
'Well, really,' said Sheila, 'it seems very difficult to get at thetruth sometimes. And when illness is in the house I cannot understandwhy there should be no one available to answer the door. You musthave left it ajar, unsecured, when you went out. And pray, what if DrFerguson had been some common tramp? That would have been a nice thing.'
'I am quite certain,' said Ada a little flatly, 'that I did shut thedoor. And cook says she never so much as stirred from the kitchen tillI came down the area steps with the packet. And that's all I know aboutit, ma'am; except that he was here when I came back. I did not know eventhere was a Dr Ferguson; and my mother has lived here nineteen years.'
'We must be thankful your mother enjoys such good health,' repliedMrs Lawford suavely. 'Please tell cook to be very careful with thecornflour--to be sure it's well mixed and thoroughly done.'
Mrs Lawford's eyes followed with a certain discomfort those narrow printshoulders descending the stairs. And this abominable ruse was--Arthur's!She ran up lightly and listened with her ear to the panel of his door.And just as she was about to turn away again, there came a little lightknock at the front door.
Mrs Lawford paused at the loop of the staircase; and not altogetherwith gratitude or relief she heard the voice of Mr Bethany, inquiring incautious but quite audible tones after her husband.
She dressed quickly and went down. The little white old man looked verysolitary in the long, fireless, drawing-room.
'I could not sleep,' he said; 'I don't think I grasped in the least, Idon't indeed, until I was nearly home, the complexity of our problem.I came, in fact, to a lamppost. It was casting a peculiar shadow.And then--you know how such thoughts seize us, my dear--like a suddeninspiration, I realised how tenuous, how appallingly tenuous a hold weevery one of us have on our mere personality. But that,' he continuedrapidly, 'that's only for ourselves--and after the event. Ours, justnow, is to act. And first--?'
'You really do, then--you really are convinced--' began Mrs Lawford.
But Mr Bethany was too quick. 'We must be most circumspect. My dearfriend, we must be most circumspect, for all our sakes. And this, you'llsay,' he added, smiling, stretching out his arms, his soft hat in onehand, his umbrella in the other--'this is being circumspect--a seveno'clock in the morning call! But you see, my dear, I have come, as Itook the precaution of explaining to the maid, because it's now ornever to-day. It does so happen that I have to take a wedding for an oldfriend's niece at Witchett; so when in need, you see, Providence enablesus to tell even the conventional truth. Now really, how is he? has heslept? has he recalled himself at all? is there any change?--and, dearme, how are YOU?'
Mrs Lawford sighed. 'A broken night is really very little to a mother,'she said. 'He is still asleep. He hasn't, I think, stirred all night.'
'Not stirred!' Mr Bethany repeated. 'You baffle me. And you havewatched?'
'Oh no,' was the cheerful answer; 'I felt that quiet, solitude; space,was everything; he preferred it so. He--he changed alone, I suppose.Don't you think it almost stands to reason that he will be alone...whenhe comes back? Was I right? But there, it's useless, it's worse thanuseless, to talk like this. My husband is gone. Some terrible thing hashappened. Whatever the mystery may be, he will never come back alive. Myonly fear is that I am dragging you into a matter that should from thebeginning have been entrusted to--Oh, it's monstrous!' It appeared for amoment as if she were blinking to keep back her tears, yet her scrutinyseemed merely to harden.
Only the merest flicker of the folded eyelids over the greenish eyes ofher visitor answered the challenge. He stood small and black, peepingfixedly out of the window at the sunflecked laurels.
'Last night,' he said slowly, 'when I said good-bye to your husband, onthe tip of my tongue were the words I have used, in season and out ofseason, for nearly forty-five years--"God knows best." Well, my dearlady, a sense of humour, a sense of reverence, or perhaps even a taintof scepticism--call it what you will--just intercepted them. Oh no,not any of these, my child; just pity, overwhelming pity. God does knowbest; but in a matter like this it is not even my place to say so. Itwould be good for none of us to endanger our souls even with verbalcant. Now, if, do you think, I had just five minutes' talk--fiveminutes; would it disquiet him?'
Only by an almost undignified haste, for the vicar was remarkablyagile, Sheila managed to unlock the bedroom door without apparently hisperceiving it, and with a warning finger she preceded him into the greatbedroom. 'Oh, yes, yes,' he was whispering to himself; 'alone--well,well!' He hung his hat on his umbrella and leaned it in a corner, andthen he turned.
'I don't think, you know, an old friend does him any wrong; but lastnight I had no real oppor--' He firmly adjusted his spectacles, andlooked long into the dark, dispassioned face.
'H'm!' he said, and fidgeted, and peered again. Mrs Lawford watched himkeenly.
'Do you still--' she began.
But at the same moment he too broke silence, suddenly stepping back withthe innocent remark, 'Has he--has he asked for anything?'
'Only for Quain.'
'"Quain"?'
'The medical Dictionary.'
'Oh, yes; bless me; of cours
e.... A calm, complete sleep of utterprostration--utter nervous prostration. And can one wonder? Poor fellow,poor fellow!' He walked to the window and peered between the blinds.'Sparrows, sunshine--yes, and here's the postman,' he said, as if tohimself. Then he turned sharply round, with mind made up.
'Now, do you leave me here,' he said. 'Take half an hour's quiet rest.He will be glad of a dull old fellow like me when he wakes. And as formy pretty bride, if I miss the train, she must wait till the next.Good discipline, my dear. Oh, dear me! I don't change. What a preciousexperience now this would have been for a tottery, talkative, owlishold parochial creature like me. But there, there. Light words make heavyhearts, I see. I shall be quite comfortable. No, no, I breakfasted athome. There's hat and umbrella; at 9.3 I can fly.'
Mrs Lawford thanked him mutely. He smilingly but firmly bowed her outand closed the door.
But eyes and brain had been very busy. He had looked at the guttedcandle; at the tinted bland portrait on the dressing-table; at the chairdrawn-up; at the boots; and now again he turned almost with a groantowards the sleeper. Then he took out an envelope, on which he hadjotted various memoranda, and waited awhile. Minutes passed and at lastthe sleeper faintly stirred, muttering.
Mr Bethany stooped quickly. 'What is it, what is it?' he whispered.
Lawford sighed. 'I was only dreaming, Sheila,' he said, and softly,peacefully opened his eyes. 'I dreamed I was in the--, His lidsnarrowed, his dark eyes fixed themselves on the anxious spectacled facebending over him. 'Mr Bethany! Where? What's wrong?'
His friend put out his hand. 'There, there,' he said soothingly, 'do notbe disturbed; do not disquiet yourself.'
Lawford struggled up. Slowly, painfully consciousness returned to him.He glanced furtively round the room, at his clothes, slinkingly atthe vicar; licked his lips; flushed with extraordinary rapidity; andsuddenly burst into tears.
Mr Bethany sat without movement, waiting till he should have spenthimself. 'Now, Lawford,' he said gently, compose yourself, old friend.We must face the music--like men.' He went to the window, drew up theblind, peeped out, and took off his spectacles.
'The first thing to be done,' he said, returning briskly to his chair,'is to send for Simon. Now, does Simon know you WELL?' Lawford shook hishead. 'Would he recognise you?... I mean...'
'I have only met him once--in the evening.'
'Good; let him come immediately, then. Tell him just the facts. If I amnot mistaken, he will pooh-pooh the whole thing; tell you to keep quiet,not to worry, and so on. My dear fellow, if we realised, say, typhoid,who'd dare to face it? That will give us time; to wait a while, torecover our breath, to see what happens next. And if--as I don'tbelieve for a moment--Why, in that case I heard the other day of a mostexcellent man--Grosser, of Wimpole Street; nerves. He would be absorbed.He'll bottle you in spirit, Lawford. We'll have him down quietly. Yousee? But there won't be any necessity. Oh no. By then light will havecome. We shall remember. What I mean is this.' He crossed his legsand pushed out his lips. 'We are on quaky ground; and it's absolutelyessential that you keep cool, and trust. I am yours, heart and soul--youknow that. I own frankly, at first I was shaken. And I have, I confess,been very cunning. But first, faith, then evidence to bolster it up. Thefaith was absolute'--he placed one firm hand on Lawford's knee--'why,I cannot explain; but it was. The evidence is convincing. But there areothers to think of. The shock, the incredibleness, the consequences; wemust not scan too closely. Think WITH; never against: and bang go allthe arguments. Your wife, poor dear, believes; but of course, of course,she is horribly--' he broke off; 'of course she is SHAKEN, you oldsimpleton! Time will heal all that. Time will wear out the mask. Timewill tire out this detestable physical witchcraft. The mind, the self'sthe thing. Old fogey though I may seem for saying it--that must be keptunsmirched. We won't go wearily over the painful subject again. Youtold me last night, dear old friend, that you were absolutely alone atWidderstone. That is enough. But here we have visible facts, tangibleeffects, and there must have been a definite reason and a cause forthem. I believe in the devil, in the Powers of Darkness, Lawford,as firmly as I believe he and they are powerless--in the long run.They--what shall we say?--have surrendered their intrinsicality. You canjust go through evil, as you can go through a sewer, and come out on theother side too. A loathsome process too. But there--we are not speakingof any such monstrosities, and even if we were, you and I with God'shelp would just tire them out. And that ally gone, our poor dear old MrsGrundy will at once capitulate. Eh? Eh?'
Through all this long and arduous harangue, consciousness, like thegradual light of dawn, had been flooding that other brain. And the facethat now confronted Mr Bethany, though with his feeble unaided sight hecould only very obscurely discern it, was vigilant and keen, in everysharp-cut hungry feature.
A rather prolonged silence followed, the visitor peering mutely. Theblack eyes nearly closed, the face turned slowly towards the window, sawburnt-out candle, comprehensive glass.
'Yes, yes.' he said; 'I'll send for Simon at once.'
'Good,' said Mr Bethany, and more doubtfully repeated 'good.' 'Nowthere's only one thing left,' he went on cheerfully. 'I have jotted downa few test questions here; they are questions no one on this earth couldanswer but you, Lawford. They are merely for external proofs. You won't,you can't, mistake my motive. We cannot foretell or foresee what needmay arise for just such jog-trot primitive evidence. I propose that younow answer them here, in writing.'
Lawford stood up and walked to the looking-glass, and paused. He put hishand to his head, 'es,' he said, 'of course; it's a rattling good move.I'm not quite awake; myself, I mean. I'll do it now.' He took out apencil case and tore another leaf from his pocket-book. 'What are they?'
Mr Bethany rang the bell. Sheila herself answered it. She stood on thethreshold and looked across through a shaft of autumnal sunshine ather husband, and her husband with a quiet strange smile looked acrossthrough the sunshine at his wife. Mr Bethany waited in vain.
'I am just going to put the arch-impostor through his credentials,' hesaid tartly. 'Now then, Lawford!' He read out the questions, one by one,from his crafty little list, pursing his lips between each; and oneby one, Lawford, seated at the dressing-table, fluently scribbledhis answers. Then question and answer were rigorously compared by MrBethany, with small white head bent close and spectacles poised upon thepowerful nose, and signed and dated, and passed to Mrs Lawford without aword.
Mrs Lawford read question and answer where she stood, in completesilence. She looked up. 'Many of these questions I don't know theanswers to myself,' she said.
'It is immaterial,' said Mr Bethany.
'One answer is--is inaccurate. 'Yes, yes, quite so: due to a mistake ina letter from myself.'
Mrs Lawford read quietly on, folded the papers, and held them outbetween finger and thumb. 'The--handwriting...' she remarked verysoftly.
'Wonderful, isn't it?' said Mr Bethany warmly; 'all the general look andrun of the thing different, but every real essential feature unchanged.Now into the envelope. And now a little wax?'
Mrs Lawford stood waiting. 'There's a green piece of sealing-wax,'almost drawled the quiet voice, 'in the top right drawer of the nestin the study, which old James gave me the Christmas before last.' Heglanced with lowered eyelids at his wife's flushed cheek. Their eyesmet.
'Thank you,' she said.
When she returned the vicar was sitting in a chair, leaning his chin onthe knobbed handle of his umbrella. He rose and lit a taper for herwith a match from a little green pot on the table. And Mrs Lawford, withtrembling fingers, sealed the letter, as he directed, with his own seal.
'There!' he said triumphantly, 'how many more such brilliant lawyers, Iwonder, lie dormant in the Church? And who shall keep this?... Why, allthree, of course.' He went on without pausing. 'Some little drawer now,secret and undetectable, with a lock.' Just such a little drawer thatlocked itself with a spring lay by chance in the looking-glass. Therethe letter was hidden. And Mr Bethany l
ooked at his watch. 'Nineteenminutes,' he said. 'The next thing, my dear child--we're getting onswimmingly--and it's astonishing how things are simplified by mereuse--the next thing is to send for Simon.'
Sheila took a deep breath, but did not look up. 'I am entirely in yourhands,' she replied.
'So be it,' said he crisply. 'Get to bed, Lawford; it's better so. AndI'll look in on my way back from Witchett. I came, my dear fellow, ingloomy disturbance of mind. It was getting up too early; it fogs oldbrains. Good-bye, good-bye.'
He squeezed Lawford's hand. Then, with umbrella under his arm, his haton his head, his spectacles readjusted, he hurried out of the room. MrsLawford followed him. For a few minutes Lawford sat motionless, withhead bent a little, and eyes restlessly scanning the door. Then he roseabruptly, and in a quarter of an hour was in bed, alone with his slowthoughts: while a basin of cornflour stood untasted on a little tableat his bedside, and a cheerful fire burned in the best visitors' room'stiny grate.
At half-past eleven Dr Simon entered this soundless seclusion. He satdown beside Lawford, and took temperature and pulse. Then he half closedhis lids, and scanned his patient out of an unusually dark, un-Englishface, with straight black hair, and listened attentively to his ratherincoherent story. It was a story very much modified and rounded off.Nor did Lawford draw Dr Simon's attention to the portrait now smilingconventionally above their heads from the wall over the fireplace.
'It was rather bleak--the wind; and, I think, perhaps, I had had atouch of influenza. It was a silly thing to do. But still, Dr Simon, onedoesn't expect--well, there, I don't feel the same man--physically. Ireally cannot explain how great a change has taken place. And yet I feelperfectly fit in myself. And if it were not for--for being laughed at,go back to town, to-day. Why my wife scarcely recognised me.'
Dr Simon continued his scrutiny. Try as he would, Lawford could notraise his downcast eyes to meet direct the doctor's polite attention.
'And what,' said Dr Simon, 'what precisely is the nature of the change?Have you any pain?'
'No, not the least pain,' said Lawford; 'I think, perhaps, or rather myface is a little shrunken--and yet lengthened; at least it feels so;and a faint twinge of rheumatism. But my hair--well, I don't know; it'sdifficult to say one's self.' He could get on so very much better,he thought, if only his mind would be at peace and these preposterouspromptings and voices were still.
Dr Simon faced the window, and drew his hand softly over his head.'We never can be too cautious at a certain age, and especially afterinfluenza,' he said. 'It undermines the whole system, and in particularthe nervous system; leaving the mind the prey of the most melancholyfancies. I should astound you, Mr Lawford, with the devil influenzaplays.... A slight nervous shock and a chill; quite slight, I hope. Afew days' rest and plenty of nourishment. There's nothing; temperatureinconsiderable. All perfectly intelligible. Most certainly reassureyourself! And as for the change you speak of'--he looked steadily at thedark face on the pillow and smiled amiably--'I don't think we needworry much about that. It certainly was a bleak wind yesterday--and acemetery, my dear sir! It was indiscreet--yes, very.' He held out hishand. 'You must not be alarmed,' he said, very distinctly withthe merest trace of an accent; 'air, sunshine, quiet, nourishment;sleep--that is all. The little window might be a few inches open,and--and any light reading.'
He opened the door and joined Mrs Lawford on the staircase. He talkedto her quietly over his shoulder all the way downstairs. 'It was, it wassporting with Providence--a wind, believe me, nearly due east, in spiteof the warm sunshine.'
'But the change--the change!' Mrs Lawford managed to murmur tragically,as he strode to the door. Dr Simon smiled, and gracefully tapped hisforehead with a red-gloved forefinger.
'Humour him, humour him,' he repeated indulgently. 'Rest and quietwill soon put that little trouble out of his head. Oh yes, I did noticeit--the set drawn look, and the droop: quite so. Good morning.'
Mrs Lawford gently closed the door after him. A glimpse of Ada, crossingfrom room to room, suggested a precaution. She called out in herclearest notes. 'If Dr Ferguson should call while I am out, Ada, willyou please tell him that Dr Simon regretted that he was unable to wait?Thank you.' She paused with hand on the balusters, then slowly ascendedthe stairs. Her husband's face was turned to the ceiling, his handsclasped above his head. She took up her stand by the fireplace, restingone silk-slippered foot on the fender. 'Dr Simon is reassuring,' shesaid, 'but I do hope, Arthur, you will follow his advice. He looks afairly clever man.... But with a big practice.... Do you think, dear, hequite realised the extent of the--the change?'
'I told him what happened,' said her husband's voice out of thebed-clothes.
'Yes, yes, I know,' said Sheila soothingly; 'but we must remember he iscomparatively a stranger. He would not detect--'
'What did he tell you?' asked the voice.
Mrs Lawford deliberately considered. If only he would always thus keephis face concealed, how much easier it would be to discuss mattersrationally. 'You see, dear,' she said softly, 'I know, of course,nothing about the nerves; but personally, I think his suggestion absurd.No mere fancy, surely, can make a lasting alteration in one's face. Andyour hair--I don't want to say anything that may seem unkind--but isn'tit really quite a distinct shade darker, Arthur?'
'Any great strain will change the colour of a man's hair,' said Lawfordstolidly; 'at any rate, to white. Why, I read once of a fellow in India,a Hindoo, or something, who--'
'But have you HAD any intense strain, or anxiety?' broke in Sheila. 'Youmight, at least, have confided in me; that is, unless--But there, don'tyou think really, Arthur, it would be much more satisfactory in everyway if we had further advice at once? Alice will be home next week.To-morrow is the Harvest Festival, and next week, of course, theDedication; and, in any case, the Bazaar is out of the question. Theywill have to find another stall-holder. We must do our utmost to avoidcomment or scandal. Every minute must help to--to fix a thing like that.I own even now I cannot realise what this awful calamity means. It'suseless to brood on it. We must, as the poor dear old vicar said onlylast night, keep our heads clear. But I am sure Dr Simon was under amisapprehension. If, now, it was explained to him, a little more fully,Arthur--a photograph. Oh, anything on earth but this dreadful wearinguncertainty and suspense! Besides ...is Simon quite an English name?'
Lawford drew further into his pillow. 'Do as you think best, Sheila,'he said. 'For my own part, I believe it may be as he suggests--partly anillusion, a touch of nervous breakdown. It simply can't be as bad as Ithink it is. If it were, you would not be here talking like this; andBethany wouldn't have believed a word I said. Whatever it is, it's nogood crying it on the housetops. Give me time, just time. Besides, howdo we know what he really thought? Doctors don't tell their patientseverything. Give the poor chap a chance, and more so if he is aforeigner. He's'--his voice sank almost to a whisper--'he's no darkerthan this. And do, please, Sheila, take this infernal stuff away, andlet me have something solid. I'm not ill--in that way. All I want ispeace and quiet, time to think. Let me fight it out alone. It's beensprung on me. The worst's not over. But I'll win through; wait! Andif not--well, you shall not suffer, Sheila. Don't be afraid. There areother ways out.'
Sheila broke down. 'Any one would think to hear you talk, that I wasperfectly heartless. I told Ada to be most careful about the cornflour.And as for other ways out, it's a positively wicked thing to say to mewhen I'm nearly distracted with trouble and anxiety. What motive couldyou have had for loitering in an old cemetery? And in an east wind! It'suseless for me to remain here, Arthur, to be accused of every horriblething that comes into a morbid imagination. I will leave you, as yousuggest, in peace.'
'One moment, Sheila,' answered the muffled voice. 'I have accused youof nothing. If you knew all; if you could read my thoughts, you wouldbe surprised, perhaps, at my--But never mind that. On the other hand, Ireally do think it would be better for the present to discuss the thingno more. To-day is Friday. Give this
miserable face a week. Talk it overwith Bethany if you like. But I forbid'--he struggled up in bed,sallow and sinister--'I flatly forbid, please understand, any otherinterference till then. Afterwards you must do exactly as you please.Send round the Town Crier! But till then, silence!'
Sheila with raised head confronted him. 'This, then, is your gratitude.So be it. Silence, no doubt! Until it's too late to take action. Untilyou have wormed your way in, and think you are safe. To have believed!Where is my husband? that is what I am asking you now. When and how youhave learned his secrets God only knows, and your conscience! But healways was a simpleton at heart. I warn you, then. Until next ThursdayI consent to say nothing provided you remain quiet; make no disturbance,no scandal here. The servants and all who inquire shall simply be toldthat my husband is confined to his room with--with a nervous breakdown,as you have yourself so glibly suggested. I am at your mercy, I own it.The vicar believes your preposterous story--with his spectacles off.You would convince anybody with the wicked cunning with which you havecajoled and wheedled him, with which you have deceived and fooled aforeign doctor. But you will not convince me. You will not convinceAlice. I have friends in the world, though you may not be aware of it,who will not be quite so apt to believe any cock-and-bull story you maysee fit to invent. That is all I have to say. To-night I tell the vicarall that I have just told you. And from this moment, please, we arestrangers. I shall come into the room no more than necessity dictates.On Friday we resume our real parts. My husband--Arthur--to--to conniveat... Phh!'
Rage had transfigured her. She scarcely heard her own words. They pouredout senselessly, monotonously, one calling up another, as if from thelips of a Cassandra. Lawford sank back into bed, clutching the sheetswith both lean hands. He took a deep breath and shut his mouth.
'It reminds me, Sheila,' he began arduously, 'of our first quarrelbefore we were married, the evening after your aunt Rose died atLlandudno--do you remember? You threw open the window, and I think--Isaved your life.' A pause followed. Then a queer, almost inarticulatevoice added, 'At least, I am afraid so.'
A cold and awful quietness fell on Sheila's heart. She stared fixedlyat the tuft of dark hair, the only visible sign of her husband, on thepillow. Then, taking up the basin of cold cornflour, she left the room.In a quarter of an hour she reappeared carrying a tray, with ham andeggs and coffee and honey invitingly displayed. She laid it down.
'There is only one other question,' she said, with perfectcomposure--'that of money. Your signature as it appears on the--thedocument drawn up this morning, would, of course, be quite useless ona cheque. I have taken all the money I could find; it is in safety.You may, however, conceivably be in need of some yourself; here is fivepounds. I have my own cheque-book, and shall therefore have no needto consider the question again for--for the present. So far as you areconcerned, I shall be guided solely by Mr Bethany. He will, I do notdoubt, take full responsibility.'
'And may the Lord have mercy on my soul!' uttered a stifled, unfamiliarvoice from the bed. Mrs Lawford stooped. 'Arthur!' she cried faintly,'Arthur!'
Lawford raised himself on his elbow with a sigh that was very near tobeing a sob. 'Oh, Sheila, if you'd only be your real self! What is theuse of all this pretence? Just consider MY position a little. The fearand horror are not all on your side. You called me Arthur even then. I'dwillingly do anything you wish to save you pain; you know that. Can't webe friends even in this--this ghastly--Won't you, Sheila?'
Mrs Lawford drew back, struggling with a doubtful heart.
'I think,' she said, `it would be better not to discuss that now.'
The rest of the morning Lawford remained in solitude.