Author: Walter De la Mare
Category: Childrens
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CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Sheila, calm, alert, reserved, was sitting at the open window when heawoke again. His breakfast tray stood on a little table beside the bed.He raised himself on his elbow and looked at his wife. The morninglight shone full on her features as she turned quickly at sound of hisstirring.
'You have slept late,' she said, in a low, mellow voice.
'Have I, Sheila? I suppose I was tired out. It is very kind of you tohave got everything ready like this.'
'I am afraid, Arthur, I was thinking rather of the maids. I like toinconvenience them as little as possible; in their usual routine, Imean. How are you feeling, do you think, this morning?'
'I--I haven't seen the glass, Sheila.'
She paused to place a little pencil tick at the foot of the page of herbutcher's book. 'And did you--did you try?'
'Did I try? Try what?'
'I understood,' she said, turning slowly in her chair, 'you gave me tounderstand that you went out with the specific intention of trying toregain.... But there, forgive me, Arthur; I think I must be getting alittle bit hardened to the position, so far at least as any hope is inmy mind of rather amateurish experiments being of much help. I may seemunsympathetic in saying frankly what I feel. But amateurish or no, youare curiously erratic. Why, if you really were the Dr Ferguson whosepart you play so admirably you could scarcely spend a more active life.'
'All you mean, Sheila, I suppose, is that I have failed.'
'"Failed" did not enter my mind. I thought, looking at you just nowin your clothes on the bed, one might for the moment be deceived intothinking there was a slight--quite the slightest improvement. Therewas not quite that'--she hovered for the right word--'that tenseness.Whether or not, whether you desired any such change or didn't, I shouldhave supposed in any case it would have been better to act as faras possible like any ordinary person. You were certainly in anextraordinarily sound sleep. I was almost alarmed; until I rememberedthat it was a little after two when I looked up from reading aloud tokeep myself awake and discovered that you had only just come home. I hadno fire. You know how easily late hours bring on my headaches; a littlethought might possibly have suggested that I should be anxious to hear.But no; it seems I cannot profit by experience, Arthur. And even now youhave not answered surely a very natural question. You do not recollect,perhaps, exactly what did happen last night? Did you go in the directioneven of Widderstone?'
'Yes, Sheila, I went to Widderstone.'
'It was of course absurd to suppose that sitting on a seat besidethe broken-down grave of a suicide would have the slightest effect onone's--one's physical condition; though possibly it might affect one'sbrain. It would mine; I am at least certain of that. It was your ownprescription, however; and it merely occurred to me to inquire whetherthe actual experience has not brought you round to my own opinion.'
'Yes, I think it has,' Lawford answered calmly. 'But I don't quite seewhat suicide has got to do with it; unless--You know Widderstone, then,Sheila?'
'I drove there last Saturday afternoon.'
'For prayer or praise?' Although Lawford had not actually raised hishead, he became conscious rather of the wonderfully adjusted massof hair than of the pained dignity in the face that was now closelyregarding him.
'I went,' came the rigidly controlled retort, 'simply to test aninconceivable story.'
'And returned?'
'Convinced, Arthur, of its inconceivability. But if you would kindlyinform me what precise formula you followed at Widderstone last night, Iwould tell you why I think the explanation, or rather your first accountof the matter, is not an explanation of the facts.'
Lawford shot a rather doglike glance over his toast. 'Danton?' he said.
'Candidly, Arthur, Mr Danton doubts the whole story. Your veryconduct--well, it would serve no useful purpose to go into that.Candidly, on the other hand, Mr. Danton did make some extremely helpfulsuggestions--basing them, of course, on the TRUTH of your account. Hehas seen a good deal of life; and certainly very mysterious things dooccur to quite innocent and well-meaning people without the faintestshadow of warning, and as Mr. Bethany himself said, evil birds do comehome to roost, and often out of a clear sky, as it were. But there,every fresh solution that occurs to me only makes the thing morepreposterous, more, I was going to say, disreputable--I mean, of course,to the outside world. And we have our duties to perform to them too, Isuppose. Why, what can we say? What plausible account of ourselves havewe? We shall never be able to look anybody in the face again. I canonly--I am compelled to believe that God has been pleased to make thisprecise visitation upon us--an eye for an eye, I suppose, SOMEWHERE. Andto that conviction I shall hold until actual circumstances convince methat it's false. What, however, and this is all that I have to say now,what I cannot understand are your amazing indiscretions.'
'Do you understand your own, Sheila?'
'My indiscretions, Arthur?'
'Well,' said Lawford, 'wasn't it indiscreet, don't you think, to riskdivine retribution by marrying me? Shouldn't you have inquired? Wasn'tit indiscreet to allow me to remain here in--in my "visitation?" Wasn'tit indiscreet to risk the moral stigma this unhappy face of mine mustcast on its surroundings? I am not sure whether such a change as thisconstitutes cruelty.... Oh, what is the use of fretting and babbling onlike this?'
'Am I to understand, then, that you refuse positively to discuss thishorrible business any more? You are doing your best to drive me away,Arthur; you must see that. Will you be very disappointed if I refuse togo?'
Lawford rose from the bed. 'Listen just this once,' he said, seatinghimself on the corner of the dressing-table. 'Imagine all this--whateveryou like to call it--obliterated. Take this,' he nodded towards theglass, 'entirely for itself, on its own merits, as it were. Let the deadpast bury its dead. Which, now, precisely, REALLY do you prefer--him,'he jerked his head in the direction of the dispassionate youthfulpicture on the wall, 'him or me?'
He was so close to her now that he could see the faintest tremor on theface 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 thanskin-deep now. One can't go through what I have gone through these lastfew terrifying days, Sheila, unchanged. They have played the devil withmy body; now begins the tampering with my mind. Not even Danton knowshow it will end. But shall I tell you why you won't, why you can'tanswer 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 guessingat it, wore that down till it had no more meaning for you or me than anyother faded remembrance in this interminable footling with truth that wecall life. And this one--the whole abject meaning of it lies simply inthe 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--leaveme out; don't think, or care, or regard my living-on one shadow of aniota--all I ask is, What am I to do for you?' He turned away and stoodstaring 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 heartand soul strove to regain--yourself?'
Lawford lifted a still, colourless face into the sunlight. 'No,' hesaid; 'I spent the evening at the house of a friend.'
'Then I say it is infamous. You cast all this on me. You have broughtme into contempt and poisoned Alice's whole life. You dream and idleon just as you used to do, without the least care or thought orconsideration for others; and go out in this condition--go outabsolutely unashamed--to spend the evening at a friend's. Peculiarfriends they must be. Why, real
ly, Arthur, you must be mad!'
Lawford paused. Like a flock of sheep streaming helter-skelter beforethe onset of a wolf were the thoughts that a moment before had seemed soorderly 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 ofthose who brought you into the world--the world which you pretend soconveniently to despise--somewhere is hidden some miserable secret. Godvisits 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 cupboardit 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 outalone, then!'
Lawford heard the door close, and the dying away of the sound that hadbeen the unceasing accompaniment of all these later years--the rustlingof his wife's skirts, her crisp, authoritative footstep. And he turnedtowards the flooding sunlight that streamed in on the upturned surfaceof the looking-glass. No clear decisive thought came into his mind, onlya vague recognition that so far as Sheila was concerned this was theend. No regret, no remorse visited him. He was just alone again, thatwas all--alone, as in reality he had always been alone, without havingthe sense or power to see or to acknowledge it. All he had said had beenthe mere flotsam of the moment, and now it stood stark and irrevocablebetween himself and the past.
He sat down dazed and stupid. Again and again a struggling recollectiontried to obtrude itself; again and again he beat it back. And ratherfor something to distract his attention than for any real interestor enlightenment he might find in its pages, he took out the grimydog's-eared book that Herbert had given him, and turned slowly over theleaves till he came to Sabathier once more. Snatches of remembrance oftheir long talk returned to him, but just as that dark, water-hauntedhouse had seemed to banish remembrance and the reality of the room inwhich he now sat, and of the old familiar life; so now the house, thefaces of yesterday seemed in their turn unreal, almost spectral, andthe thick print on the smudgy page no more significant than a story onereads and throws away.
But a moment's comparison in the glass of the two faces side byside suddenly sharpened his attention--the resemblance was so oddlyarresting, and yet, and yet, so curiously inconclusive. There was thensomething of the stolid old Saxon left, he thought. Or had it beenregained? Which was it? Not merely the complexity of the question, buta half-conscious distaste of attempting to face it, set him reading veryslowly and laboriously, for his French was little more than fragmentaryrecollection, the first few pages of the life of this buried Sabathier.But with a disinclination almost amounting to aversion he made very slowprogress. Many of the words were meaningless to him, and every othermoment he found himself listening with intense concentration for theleast hint of what Sheila was doing, of what was going on in the housebeneath him. He had not very long to wait. He was sitting with his headleaning on his hand, the book unheeded beneath the other on the table,when the door opened again behind him, and Sheila entered. She stood fora 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--thisincessant heedlessness and recrimination. There have been mistakes,misconceptions, perhaps, on both sides. To me naturally yours are mostconspicuous. 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 aquiet rapid voice. 'Have you really shown the slightest regard, I won'tsay for me, or even for Alice, but for just the obvious difficultiesand--and proprieties of our position? I have given up as far as Ican brooding on and on over the same horrible impossible thoughts. Iwithdraw unreservedly what I said just now about punishment. Whateverthe evidence, it is not even a wife's place to judge like that. You willforgive me that?'
Lawford did not turn his head. 'Of course,' he said, looking rathervacantly 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 bedwith one gloved hand--'well, I feel it is my duty to withdraw it. Apartfrom it, I see only too clearly that even though all that has happenedin 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 togethercan never be recalled. You have told me quite deliberately that foryears past your life has been nothing but a pretence--a sham. Youimplied 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 mighthappen at any moment to anybody, some actual defacement (you willforgive me suggesting such a horrible thing)--why, if what you say istrue, even in that case my sympathy would have been only a continualfret and annoyance to you. And this--this change, I own, is infinitelyharder to bear. It would be an outrage on common sense and on all thatwe hold seemly and--and sacred in life, even in some trumpery story. Youdo, you must see all that, Arthur?'
'Oh yes,' said Lawford, narrowing his eyes to pierce through thesunlight, '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 thecontrary, keep firmly to my present convictions. Mr Bethany has assuredme repeatedly that he has no--no misgivings; that he understands. Andeven if I still doubted, which I don't, Arthur, though it would berather trying to have to accept one's husband at second-hand, as itwere, I should have to be satisfied. I dare say even such an unheard-ofthing as what we are discussing now, or something equally ghastly, doesoccur occasionally. In foreign countries, perhaps. I have not studiedsuch things enough to say. We were all very much restricted in ourreading as children, and I honestly think, not unwisely. It is enoughfor the present to repeat that I do believe, and that whatever mayhappen--and I know absolutely nothing about the procedure in suchcases--but whatever may happen, I shall still be loyal; I shall alwayshave your interests at heart.' Her words faltered and she turned herhead away. 'You did love me once, Arthur, I can't forget that.' Thecontralto voice trembled ever so little, and the gloved hand smoothedgently the brass knob beneath.
'If,' said Lawford, resting his face on his hands, and curiouslywatching the while his moving reflection in the looking-glass beforehim--'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 broodingover the trouble this--this metamorphosis was bringing on us all haddriven 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 alittle, and turned back again, 'like this?'
Sheila paused. 'Could ANY woman answer such a question?' she almostsighed at last.
'Yes, but,' Lawford pressed on, in a voice almost naive and stubborn asa 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 almostas frantic as it is heartless! Is it, is it even right?'
'Well, I have not actually asked it. I own,' he added moodily, almostunder his breath, 'it would be--dangerous.... But there, Sheila, thispoor 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 werestanding.'
'I shall not keep you a moment,' she answered hurriedly; 'I will sithere. The truth is, Arthur,' she began again almost solemnly, 'apartfrom all sentiment and--and good intentions, my presence here onlyharasses you and keeps you back. I am not so bound up in myself that Icannot realise THAT. The consequence is that after calmly--and Ihope considerately--thinking the whole thing over, I have come to theconclusion that it would arouse very little comment, the least possibleperhaps in the circumstances, if I just went away for a few days. Youare 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 goout and come in just as you pleased. Possibly,' Sheila smiled franklybeneath her veil, 'even this Dr Ferguson you have invented will be ahelp. 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 wouldnot mind letting her in, Mrs Gull can come in every other day or so justto keep things in order. She's entirely trustworthy and discreet. Orperhaps, if you would prefer--'
'Mrs Gull will do nicely, Sheila. It's very good of you to have given meso much thought.' A long and rather arduous pause followed.
'Oh, one other thing, Arthur. You sent out to Mr Critchett--do youremember?--the night you first came home. I think, too, after the firstawful shock, when we were sitting in our bedroom, you actually referredto--to violent measures. You will promise me, I may perhaps at least askthat, you will promise me on your word of honour, for Alice's sake, ifnot for mine, to do nothing rash.'
'Yes, yes,' said Lawford, sinking lower even than he had supposedpossible into the thin and lightless chill of ennui--'nothing rash.'
Sheila rose with a sigh only in part suppressed. 'I have not seen MrBethany again. I think, however, it would be better to let Harry know; Imean, dear, of your derangement. After all, he is one of the family--atleast, of mine. He will not interfere. He would, perhaps quitenaturally, be hurt if we did not take him into our confidence. Otherwisethere 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 MrWedderburn; wouldn't it be as well to let him know that at least for thepresent you are quite unable to think of returning to town? That,too, in time will have to be arranged, I suppose, if nothing happensmeanwhile; I mean if things don't come right. And I do hope, Arthur, youwill 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, becameconscious of the black veil turned towards him tentatively,speculatively, impenetrably.
'Yes,' he said, 'I'll write to Wedderburn; he's had his ups and downstoo.'
'I always rather fancied so,' said Sheila reflectively, 'he looks rathera--a restless man. Oh, and then again,' she broke off quickly, 'there'sthe question of money. I suppose--it is only a conjecture--I suppose itwould 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 ownprivate account--do you think that will be enough, just, of course, foryour PRESENT needs?'
'As a bribe, hush-money, or a thank-offering, Sheila?' murmured herhusband 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, ifyou have no objection. It's near; it will be a long-deferred visit; andshe need know very little. And, of course, if for the least thing in theworld you should want me, there I am within call, as it were. And youwill 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 havestayed. Candidly, I can't see it in that light. Surely every experienceof life proves that in intimate domestic matters, and especially inthose between husband and wife, only the parties concerned have anymeans of judging what is best for them? It has been our experience atany 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 pausedagain for a reply.
'What kind of thing?'
'Domestic experience, dear.'
The house was quiet. There was not a sound stirring in the stillsunny road of orchards and discreet and drowsy villas. A long silencefollowed, immensely active and alert on the one side, almost morbidlylethargic so far as the stooping figure in front of the looking-glasswas concerned. At last the last haunting question came in a kind ofcroak, as if only by a supreme effort could it be compelled to produceitself for consideration.
'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 shebe at such a time in any better keeping than her mother's? At presentshe only vaguely guesses. To know definitely that her father, infinitelyworse than death, had--had--Oh, is it possible to realise anything inthis awful cloud? It would kill her outright.'
Lawford made no stir. The quietest of raps came at the door. 'The moneyfrom the Bank, ma'am,' said a faint voice.
Sheila carefully opened the door a few inches. She laid the blueenvelope on the dressing-table at her husband's elbow. 'You had betterperhaps count it,' she said in a low voice--'forty in notes, the restin gold,' and narrowed her eyes beneath her veil upon her husband's verypeculiar method of forgetting his responsibilities.
'French?' she said with a nod. 'How very quaint.'
Lawford's eyes fell and rested gravely on the dingy page of Herbert'smean-looking bundle of print. A queer feeling of cold crept over him.'Yes,' he said vaguely, 'French,' and hopelessly failed to fill in thesilence that seemed like some rather sleek nocturnal creature quietlywaiting to be fed.
Sheila swept softly towards the door. 'Well, Arthur, I think that isall. The servants will have gone by this evening. I have ordered acarriage for half-past twelve. Perhaps you would first write downanything that occurs to you to be necessary? Perhaps, too, it would bebetter if Dr Simon were told that we shall not need him any more,that you are thinking of a complete change of scene, a voyage. He isobviously useless. Besides, Mr Bethany, I think, is going to discussa specialist with you. I have written him a little note, just brieflyexplaining. Shall I write to Dr Simon too?'
'You remember everything,' said Lawford, and it seemed to him it was aremark he had heard ages and ages ago. 'It's only this money, Sheila;will you please take that away?'
'Take it away?'
'I think, Sheila, if I do take a voyage I should almost prefer to workmy passage. As for a mere "change of scene," that's quite uncostly.'
'It is only your face, Arthur,' said Sheila solemnly, 'that suggestthese wicked stabs. Some day you will perhaps repent of every one.'
'It is possible, Sheila; we none of us stand still, you know. One ripsopen a lid sometimes and the wax face rots before one's eyes. Take backyour blue envelope; and thank you for thinking of me. It's always thewoman of the house that has the head.'
'I wish,' said Sheila almost pathetically, and yet with a faint quaverof resignation, 'I wish it could be said that the man of the housesometimes has the heart. Think it over, Arthur!'
Sheila, with her husband's luncheon tray, brought also her farewells.Lawford surveyed, not without a faint, shy stirring of incredulity,the superbly restrained presence. He stood before her dry-lipped,inarticulate, a schoolboy caught redhanded in the shabbiest of offences.
'It is your wish then that I go, Arthur?' she said pleadingly.
He handed her her money without a word.
'Very well, Arthur; if you won't take it,' she said. 'I should scarcelyhave thought this the occasion for mere pride.'
'The tenth,' she continued, as she squeezed the envelope into her purse,with only the least hardening of voice, 'although I daresay you have nottroubled to remember it--the tenth will be the eighteenth anniversaryof our wedding-day. It makes parting, however advisable, and though onlyfor the few days we should think nothing of in happier circumstances,a little harder to bear. But there, all will come right. You will seethings in a different light, perhaps. Words may wound, but time willheal.' But even as she now looked closely into
his colourless sunkenface some distant memory seemed to well up irresistibly--the memory ofeyes just as ingenuous, and as unassuming that even in claiming her lovehad expressed only their stolid unworthiness.
'Did you know it? have you seen it?' she said, stooping forward alittle. 'I believe in spite of all....' He gazed on solemnly, almostowlishly, out of his fading mask.
'Wait till Mr Bethany tells you; you will believe it perhaps from him.'He saw the grey-gloved hand a little reluctantly lifted towards him.
'Good-bye, Sheila,' he said, and turned mechanically back to the window.
She hesitated, listening to a small far-away voice that kept urging herwith an almost frog-like pertinacity to do, to say something, and yet asstubbornly would not say what; and she was gone.