Author: Walter De la Mare
Category: Childrens
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CHAPTER SIX
There were three books in the room--Jeremy Taylor's 'Holy Living andDying,' a volume of the Quiver, and a little gilded book on wildflowers.He read in vain. He lay and listened to the uproar of his thoughts onwhich an occasional sound--the droning of a fly, the cry of a milkman,the noise of a passing van--obtruded from the workaday world. The palegold sunlight edged softly over the bed. He ate up everything on histray. He even, on the shoals of nightmare, dreamed awhile. But by andby as the hours wheeled slowly on he grew less calm, less strenuouslyresolved on lying there inactive. Every sparrow that twittered criedreveille through his brain. He longed with an ardour strange to histemperament to be up and doing.
What if his misfortune was, as he had in the excitement of the momentsuggested to Sheila, only a morbid delusion of mind; shared too in partby sheer force of his absurd confession? Even if he was going mad, whoknows how peaceful a release that might not be? Could his shrewd oldvicar have implicitly believed in him if the change were as completeas he supposed it? He flung off the bedclothes and locked the door.He dressed himself, noticing, he fancied, with a deadly revulsionof feeling, that his coat was a little too short in the sleeves, hiswaistcoat too loose. In the midst of his dressing came Sheila bringinghis luncheon. 'I'm sorry,' he called out, stooping quickly beside thebed, 'I can't talk now. Please put the tray down.'
About half an hour afterwards he heard the outer door close, and peepingfrom behind the curtains saw his wife go out. All was drowsily quiet inthe house. He devoured his lunch like a schoolboy. That finished to thelast crumb, without a moment's delay he covered his face with a towel,locked the door behind him, put the key in his pocket, and ran lightlydownstairs. He stuffed the towel into an ulster pocket, put on a soft,wide-brimmed hat, and noiselessly let himself out. Then he turnedwith an almost hysterical delight and ran--ran like the wind, withoutpausing, without thinking, straight on, up one turning, down another,until he reached a broad open common, thickly wooded, sprinkled withgorse and hazel and may, and faintly purple with fading heather. Therehe flung himself down in the beautiful sunlight, among the yellowingbracken, to recover his breath.
He lay there for many minutes, thinking almost with composure. Flight,it seemed, had for the moment quietened the demands of that other feeblystruggling personality which was beginning to insinuate itself into hisconsciousness, which had so miraculously broken in and taken possessionof his body. He would not think now. All he needed was a little quietand patience before he threw off for good and all his right to be free,to be his own master, to call himself sane.
He scrambled up and turned his face towards the westering sun. What wasthere in the stillness of its beautiful splendour that seemed to sharpenhis horror and difficulty, and yet to stir him to such a daring anddevilry as he had never known since he was a boy? There was little soundof life; somewhere an unknown bird was singing, and a few late bees weredroning in the bracken. All these years he had, like an old blind horse,stolidly plodded round and round in a dull self-set routine. And now,just when the spirit had come for rebellion, the mood for a harmlesstruancy, there had fallen with them too this hideous enigma. He satthere with the dusky silhouette of the face that was now drenched withsunlight in his mind's eye. He set off again up the stony incline.
Why not walk on and on? In time real wholesome weariness would come; hecould sleep at ease in some pleasant wayside inn, without once meetingthe eyes that stood as it were like a window between himself and ashrewd incredulous scoffing world that would turn him into a monstrosityand his story into a fable. And in a little while, perhaps in threedays, he would awaken out of this engrossing nightmare, and know hewas free, this black dog gone from his back, and (as the old sayingexpressed it without any one dreaming what it really meant) his ownman again. How astonished Sheila would be; how warmly she would welcomehim!... Oh yes, of course she would.
He came again to a standstill. No voice answered him out of thatillimitable gold and blue. Nothing seemed aware of him. But as he stoodthere, doubtful as Cain on the outskirts of the unknown, he caught thesound of a footfall on the lonely and stone-strewn path.
The ground sloped steeply away to the left, and slowly mounting thehillside came mildly on an old lady he knew, a Miss Sinnet, an oldfriend of his mother's. There was just such a little seat as thatother he knew so well, on the brow of the hill. He made his way to it,intending to sit quietly there until the little old lady had passed by.Up and up she came. Her large bonnet appeared, and then her mild whiteface, inclined a little towards him as she ascended. Evidently this veryseat was her goal; and evasion was impossible. Evasion!... Memory rushedback and set his pulses beating. He turned boldly to the sun, and theold lady, with a brief glance into his face, composed herself at theother end of the little seat. She gazed out of a gentle reverie into thegolden valley. And so they sat a while. And almost as if she hadfelt the bond of acquaintance between them, she presently sighed, andaddressed him: 'A very, very, beautiful view, sir.'
Lawford paused, then turned a gloomy, earnest face, gilded withsunshine. 'Beautiful, indeed,' he said, 'but not for me. No, MissSinnet, not for me.'
The old lady gravely turned and examined the aquiline profile. 'Well, Iconfess,' she remarked urbanely, 'you have the advantage of me.'
Lawford smiled uneasily. 'Believe me, it is little advantage.'
'My sight,' said Miss Sinnet precisely, 'is not so good as I might wish;though better perhaps than I might have hoped; I fear I am not muchwiser; your face is still unfamiliar to me.'
'It is not unfamiliar to me,' said Lawford. Whose trickery was this? hethought, putting such affected stuff into his mouth.
A faint lightening of pity came into the silvery and scrupulouscountenance. 'Ah, dear me, yes,' she said courteously.
Lawford rested a lean hand on the seat. 'And have you,' he asked, 'notthe least recollection in the world of my face?'
'Now really,' she said, smiling blandly, 'is that quite fair? Think ofall the scores and scores of faces in seventy long years; and how verytreacherous memory is. You shall do me the service of REMINDING me ofone whose name has for the moment escaped me.'
'I am the son of a very old friend of yours, Miss Sinnet,' said Lawfordquietly 'a friend that was once your schoolfellow at Brighton.'
'Well, now,' said the old lady, grasping her umbrella, 'that isundoubtedly a clue; but then, you see, all but one of the friends of mygirlhood are dead; and if I have never had the pleasure of meeting herson, unless there is a decided resemblance, how am I to recollect HER bylooking at HIM?'
'There is, I believe, a likeness,' said Lawford.
She nodded her great bonnet at him with gentle amusement. 'You areinsistent in your fancy. Well, let me think again. The last to leaveme was Fanny Urquhart, that was--let me see--last October. Now you arecertainly not Fanny Urquhart's son,' she stooped austerely, 'for shenever had one. Last year, too, I heard that my dear, dear Mrs Jamesonwas dead. HER I hadn't met for many, many years. But, if I may ventureto say so, yours is not a Scottish face; and she not only married aScottish husband, but was herself a Dunbar. No, I am still at a loss.'
A miserable strife was in her chance companion's mind, a strife of angerand recrimination. He turned his eyes wearily to the fast declining sun.'You will forgive my persistency, but I assure you it is a matter oflife or death to me. Is there no one my face recalls? My voice?'
Miss Sinnet drew her long lips together, her eyebrows lifted with thefaintest perturbation. 'But he certainly knows my name,' she said toherself. She turned once more, and in the still autumnal beauty, beneaththat pale blue arch of evening, these two human beings confrontedone another again. She eyed him blandly, yet with a certain gravedirectness.
'I don't really think,' she said, 'you can be Mary Lawford's son. Icould scarcely have mistaken HIM.'
Lawford gulped and turned away. He hardly knew what this surge offeeling meant. Was it hope, despair, resentment; had he caught even theecho of an unholy joy? His mind for a moment beca
me confused as ifin the tumult of a struggle. He heard himself expostulate, 'Ah, MissBennett, I fear I set you too difficult a task.'
The old lady drew abruptly in, like a trustful and gentle snail into itsshocked house. 'Bennett, sir; but my name is not Bennett.'
And again Lawford accepted the miserable prompting. 'Not Bennett!... Howcan I ever then apologise for so frantic a mistake?'
The little old lady took firm hold of her umbrella. She did not answerhim. 'The likeness, the likeness!' he began unctuously, and stopped,for the glance that dwelt fleetingly on him was cold with the formidabledignity and displeasure of age. He raised his hat and turned miserablyhome. He strode on out of the last gold into the blue twilight. Whatfantastic foolery of mind was mastering him? He cast a hurried lookover his shoulder at the kindly and offended old figure sitting there,solitary, on the little seat, in her great bonnet, with back turnedresolutely upon him--the friend of his dead mother who might have provedin his need a friend indeed to him. And he had by this insane capricehopelessly estranged her.
She would remember this face well enough now, he thought bitterly,and would take her place among his quiet enemies, if ever the day ofreckoning should come. It was scandalous, it was banal to have abusedher trust and courtesy. Oh, it was hopeless to struggle any more! Thefates were against him. They had played him a trick. He was to be theirtransitory sport, as many a better man he could himself recollect hadbeen before him. He would go home and give in; let Sheila do with himwhat she pleased. No one but a lunatic could have acted as he had, withjust that frantic hint of method so remarkable in the insane.
He left the common. A lamplighter was lighting the lamps. A thinevening haze was on the air. If only he had stayed at home that fatefulafternoon! Who, what had induced him, enticed him to venture out? Andeven with the thought welled up into his mind an intense desire to goto the old green time-worn churchyard again; to sit there contentedlyalone, where none heeded the completest metamorphosis, down beside theyew-trees. What a fool he had been. There alone, of course, lay his onlypossible chance of recovery. He would go to-morrow. Perhaps Sheila hadnot yet discovered his absence; and there would be no difficulty inrepeating so successful a stratagem.
Remembrance of his miserable mistake, of Miss Sinnet, faintly returnedto him as he swiftly mounted the steps to his porch. Poor old lady. Hewould make amends for his discourtesy when he was quite himself again.She should some day hear, perhaps, his infinitely tragic, infinitelycomic experience from his own lips. He would take her some flowers, someold keepsake of his mother's. What would he not do when the old moodsand brains of the stupid Arthur Lawford, whom he had appreciated solittle and so superficially, came back to him.
He ran up the steps and stopped dead, his hand in his pocket, chilledand aghast. Sheila had taken his keys. He stood there, dazed and still,beneath the dim yellow of his own fanlight; and once again that inwardspring flew back. 'Brazen it out; brazen it out! Knock and ring!'
He knocked flamboyantly, and rang.
There came a quiet step and the door opened. 'Dr Simon, of course, hascalled?' he inquired suavely.
'Yes, sir.'
'Ah, and gone'--as I feared. And Mrs Lawford?'
'I think Mrs Lawford is in, sir.'
Lawford put out a detaining hand. 'We will not disturb her; we will notdisturb her. I can find my way up; oh yes, thank you!'
But Ada still palely barred the way. 'I think, sir,' she said, 'MrsLawford would prefer to see you herself; she told me most particularly"all callers." And Mr Lawford was not to be disturbed on any account.'
'Disturbed? God forbid!' said Lawford, but his dark eyes failed tomove these lightest hazel. 'Well,' he continued nonchalantly,'perhaps--perhaps it--WOULD be as well if Mrs Lawford should know thatI am here. No, thank you, I won't come in. Please go and tell--'But even as the maid turned to obey, Sheila herself appeared at thedining-room door in hat and veil.
Lawford hesitated an immeasurable moment. In one swift glancehe perceived the lamplit mystery of evening, beckoning, calling,pleading--Fly, fly! Home's here for you. Begin again, begin again. Andthere before him in quiet and hostile decorum stood maid and mistress.He took off his hat and stepped quickly in.
'So late, so very late, I fear,' he began glibly. 'A sudden call, aperfectly impossible distance. Shall we disturb him, do you think?'
'Wouldn't it,' began Sheila softly, 'be rather a pity perhaps? Dr Simonseemed to think.... But, of course, you must decide that.'
Ada turned quiet small eyes.
'No, no, by no means,' he almost mumbled.
And a hard, slow smile passed over Sheila's face. 'Excuse me onemoment,' she said; 'I will see if he is awake.' She swept swiftlyforward, superb and triumphant, beneath the gaze of those dark, restlesseyes. But so still was home and street that quite distinctly a clearand youthful laughter was heard, and light footsteps approaching. Sheilapaused. Ada, in the act of closing the door, peered out. 'Miss Alice,ma'am,' she said.
And in this infinitesimal advantage of time Dr Ferguson had seized hisvanishing opportunity, and was already swiftly mounting the stairs. MrsLawford stood with veil half raised and coldly smiling lips and, as ifit were by pre-arrangement, her daughter's laughing greeting from thegarden, and from the landing above her, a faint 'Ah, and how are wenow?' broke out simultaneously. And Ada, silent and discreet, had thrownopen the door again to the twilight and to the young people ascendingthe steps.
Lawford was still sitting on his bed before a cold and ashy hearth whenSheila knocked at the door.
'Yes?' he said; 'who's there?' No answer followed. He rose with ashuddering sigh and turned the key. His wife entered.
'That little exhibition of finesse was part of our agreement, Isuppose?'
'I say--' began Lawford.
'To creep out in my absence like a thief, and to return like amountebank; that was part of our compact?'
'I say,' he stubbornly began again, 'did you wire for Alice?'
'Will you please answer my question? Am I to be a mere catspaw in yourintrigues, in this miserable masquerade before the servants? To set thewhole place ringing with the name of a doctor that doesn't exist, anda bedridden patient that slips out of the house with his bedroom key inhis pocket! Are you aware that Ada has been hammering at your doorevery half-hour of your absence? Are you aware of that? How much,'she continued in a low, bitter voice, 'how much should I offer for herdiscretion?'
'Who was that with Alice?' inquired the same toneless voice.
'I refuse to be ignored. I refuse to be made a child of. Will you pleaseanswer me?'
Lawford turned. 'Look here, Sheila,' he began heavily, 'what aboutAlice? If you wired: well, it's useless to say anything more. But if youdidn't, I ask you just this one thing. Don't tell her!'
'Oh, I perfectly appreciate a father's natural anxiety.'
Her husband drew up his shoulders as if to receive a blow. 'Yes, yes,'he said, 'but you won't?'
The sound of a young laughing voice came faintly up from below. 'How didJimmie Fortescue know she was coming home to-day?'
'Will you not inquire of Jimmie Fortescue for yourself?'
'Oh, what is the use of sneering?' began the dull voice again. 'I amhorribly tired, Sheila. And try how you will, you can't convince me thatyou believe for a moment that I am not myself, that you are as hardas you pretend. An acquaintance, even a friend might be deceived; buthusband and wife--oh no! It isn't only a man's face that's himself--oreven his hands.' He looked at them, straightened them slowly out, andburied them in his pockets. 'All I care about now is Alice. Is she, oris she not going to be told? I am simply asking you to give her just achance.'
'"Simply asking me to give Alice a chance"; now isn't that really just alittle...?'
Lawford slowly shook his head. 'You know in your heart it isn't, Sheila;you understand me quite well, although you persistently pretend not to.I can't argue now. I can't speak up for myself. I am just about as fardown as I can go. It's only Alice.'
'I see
; a lucid interval?' suggested his wife in a low, trembling voice.
'Yes, yes, if you like,' said her husband patiently, '"a lucidinterval." Don't please look at my face like that, Sheila. Think--thinkthat it's just lupus, just some horrible disfigurement.'
Not much light was in the large room, and there was something soextraordinarily characteristic of her husband in those stoopingshoulders, in the head hung a little forward, and in the preternaturallysolemn voice, that Sheila had to bend a little over the bed to catch aglimpse of the sallow and keener face again. She sighed; and even on herown strained ear her sigh sounded almost like one of relief.
'It's useless, I know, to ask you anything while you are in this mood,'continued Lawford dully; 'I know that of old.'
The white, ringed hands clenched, '"Of old!"'
'I didn't mean anything. Don't listen to what I say. It's only--it'sjust Alice knowing, that was all; I mean at once.'
'Don't for a moment suppose I am not perfectly aware that it is onlyAlice you think of. You were particularly anxious about my feelings,weren't you? You broke the news to me with the tenderest solicitude. Iam glad our--our daughter shares my husband's love.'
'Look here,' said Lawford densely, 'you know that I love you as much asever; but with this--as I am; what would be the good of my saying so?'Mrs Lawford took a deep breath.
And a voice called softly at the door, 'Mother, are you there? Is fatherawake? May I come in?'
In a flash the memory returned to her; twenty-four hours ago she wasasking that very question of this unspeakable figure that sat hunched-upbefore her.
'One moment, dear,' she called. And added in a very low voice, 'Comehere!'
Lawford looked up. 'What?' he said.
'Perhaps, perhaps,' she whispered, 'it isn't quite so bad.'
'For mercy's sake, Sheila,' he said, 'don't torture me; tell the poorchild to go away.'
She paused. 'Are you there, Alice? Would you mind, father says, waitinga little? He is so very tired.'
'Too tired to.... Oh, very well, mother.'
Mrs Lawford opened the door, and called after her, 'Is Jimmie gone?'
'Oh, yes, hours.'
'Where did you meet?'
'I couldn't get a carriage at the station. He carried my dressing-bag;I begged him not to. The other's coming on. You know what Jimmie is.How very, very lucky I did come home. I don't know what made me; just animpulse; they did laugh at me so. Father dear--do speak to me; how areyou now?'
Lawford opened his mouth, gulped, and shook his head.
'Ssh, dear!' whispered Sheila, 'I think he has fallen asleep. I willbe down in a minute.' Mrs Lawford was about to close the door when Adaappeared.
'If you please, ma'am,' she said, 'I have been waiting, as you told me,to let Dr Ferguson out, but it's nearly seven now; and the table's notlaid yet.'
'I really should have thought, Ada,' Sheila began, then caught back theangry words, and turned and looked over her shoulder into the room.'Do you think you will need anything more, Dr Ferguson?' she asked in asepulchral voice.
Again Lawford's lips moved; again he shook his head.
'One moment, Ada,' she said closing the door. 'Some more medicine--whatmedicine? Quick! She mustn't suspect.'
'"What medicine?"' repeated Lawford stolidly.
'Oh, vexing, vexing; don't you see we must send her out? Don't you see?What was it you sent to Critchett's for last night? Tell him that'sgone: we want more of that.'
Lawford stared heavily. Oh, yes, yes,' he said thickly, 'more ofthat....'
Sheila, with a shrug of extreme distaste and vexation, hastily openedthe door. 'Dr Ferguson wants a further supply of the drug which MrCritchett made up for Mr Lawford yesterday evening. You had better go atonce, Ada, and please make as much haste as you possibly can.'
'I say, I say,' began Lawford; but it was too late, the door was shut.
'How I detest this wretched falsehood and subterfuge. What could haveinduced you....?'
'Yes,' said her husband, 'what! I think I'll be getting to bed again,Sheila; I forgot I had been ill. And now I do really feel very tired.But I should like to feel--in spite of this hideous--I should like tofeel we are friends, Sheila.'
Sheila almost imperceptibly shuddered, crossed the room, and facedthe still, almost lifeless mask. 'I spoke,' she said, in a low, cold,difficult voice--'I spoke in a temper this morning. You must try tounderstand what a shock it has been to me. Now, I own it frankly, Iknow you are--Arthur. But God only knows how it frightens me,and--and--horrifies me.' She shut her eyes beneath her veil. They waitedon in silence a while.
'Poor boy!' she said at last, lightly touching the loose sleeve; 'bebrave; it will all come right, soon. Meanwhile, for Alice's sake, ifnot for mine, don't give way to--to caprices, and all that. Keep quietlyhere, Arthur. And--and forgive my impatience.'
He put out his hand as if to touch her. 'Forgive you!' he said humbly,pushing it stubbornly back into his pocket again. 'Oh, Sheila, theforgiveness is all on your side. You know I have nothing to forgive.' Along silence fell between them.
'Then, to-night,' at last began Sheila wearily, drawing back, 'wesay nothing to Alice, except that you are too tired--just nervousprostration--to see her. What we should do without this influenza, Icannot conceive. Mr Bethany will probably look in on his way home; andthen we can talk it over--we can talk it over again. So long as youare like this, yourself, in mind, why I--What is it now?' she broke offquerulously.
'If you please, ma'am, Mr Critchett says he doesn't know Dr Ferguson,his name's not in the Directory, and there must be something wrong withthe message, and he's sorry, but he must have it in writing becausethere was more even in the first packet than he ought by rights to send.What shall I do, if you please?'
Still looking at her husband. Sheila listened quietly to the end, andthen, as if in inarticulate disdain, she deliberately shrugged hershoulders, and went out to play her part unaided.