“Well,” began Lawford ruminatingly, “there was something curious even then, perhaps. I remember, for instance, I knelt down to read an old tombstone. There was a little seat—no back. And an epitaph. The sun was just setting; some French name. And there was a long jagged crack in the stone, like the black line you know one sees after lightning, I mean it’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 almost querulously, “there was no living creature near you? Bless me, Lawford, I see no unkindness in believing what the Bible itself relates. There are powers supernatural. Saul, and so on. We are all convinced of that. No one?”
“I remember distinctly,” replied Lawford, in a calm, stubborn voice, “I looked up all around me, while I was kneeling there, and there wasn’t a soul to be seen. Because, you see, it even then occurred to me that it would have looked rather queer—my wandering about like that, I mean. Facing me there were some cypress-trees, and beyond, a low sunken fence, and then, just open country. Up above there were the gravestones toppling down the hill, where I had just strolled down, and sunshine!” He suddenly threw up his hand. “Oh, marvellous! streaming in gold—flaming, like God’s own antechamber.”
There was a very pregnant pause. Mr. Bethany shrunk back a little into his chair. His lips moved; he folded his spectacles.
“Yes, yes,” he said. And then very quietly he stole one mole-like look into his sidesman’s face.
“What is Dr. Simon’s number?” he said. Lawford was gazing gloomily into the fire. “Oh, Annandale,” he replied absently. “I don’t know the number.”
“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 killed my father.” He laughed out shamefacedly.
“A sound, lovable man,” said Mr. Bethany, “one of the kindest men I ever knew; and a very old friend of mine.”
And suddenly the dark face turned with a shudder from the fire, and spoke in a low trembling voice. “Only one thing—only one thing—my sanity, my sanity. If once I forget, who will believe me?” He thrust his long lean fingers beneath his coat. “And mad,” he added; “I would sooner die.”
Mr. Bethany deliberately adjusted his spectacles. “May I, may I experiment?” he said boldly. There came a tap on the door.
“Bless me,” said the vicar, taking out his watch, “it is a quarter to twelve. Yes, yes, Mrs. Lawford,” he trotted round to the door. “We are beginning 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 greatcoat, and a 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, is imperative. Just till the first thing tomorrow. And till then,” he turned to Mrs. Lawford, where she stood looking in at the doorway, “oh yes, complete quiet; and caution!”
Mrs. Lawford let him out. He shook his head once or twice, holding her fingers. “Oh yes,” he whispered, “it is your husband, not the smallest doubt. I tried: for myself. But something—something has happened. Don’t fret him now. Have patience. Oh yes, it is incredible … the change! But there, the very first thing tomorrow.” She closed the door gently after him, and stepping softly back to the dining-room, peered in. Her husband’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 facing him there, “is our old friend gone?”
“Yes,” said Sheila, “he’s gone.” Lawford sighed and turned round. “It’s useless talking now, Sheila. No more questions. I cannot tell you how tired 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 old headaches,” he smiled, “my old bilious headaches—the hereditary Lawford variety.” But his voice fell low again. “We must get to bed.”
With a rather pretty and childish movement, Sheila gently drew her hands across her silk skirts. “Yes, dear,” she said, “I have made up a bed for you in the large spare room. It is thoroughly aired.” She came softly in, hastened over to a closed worktable that stood under the curtains, and opened it.
Lawford watched her, utterly expressionless, utterly motionless. He opened his mouth and shut it again, still watching his wife as she stooped with ridiculously too busy fingers, searching through her coloured silks.
Again he opened his mouth. “Yes,” he said, and stalked slowly towards the door. But there he paused. “God knows,” he said, strangely and meekly, “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,” she murmured, “I can’t find anywhere the—the little red box key.”
Lawford’s cheek turned more sallow than ever. “You are only pretending to look for it,” he said, “to try me. We both know perfectly well the lock is broken. Ada broke it.”
Sheila let fall the lid; and yet for a while her eyes roved over it as if in violent search for something. Then she turned: “I am so very glad the 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, I can’t bear it!” She sat down in the chair and huddled her face between her hands, sobbing on and on, without a tear.
Lawford listened and stared solemnly. “Whatever
