The sound of a young laughing voice came faintly up from below. “How did Jimmie Fortescue know she was coming home today?”
“Will you not inquire of Jimmie Fortescue for yourself?”
“Oh, what is the use of sneering?” began the dull voice again. “I am horribly tired, Sheila. And try how you will, you can’t convince me that you believe for a moment that I am not—myself, that you are as hard as you pretend. An acquaintance, even a friend might be deceived; but husband and wife—oh no! It isn’t only a man’s face that’s himself—or even his hands.” He looked at them, straightened them slowly out, and buried them in his pockets. “All I care about now is Alice. Is she, or is she not going to be told? I am simply asking you to give her just a chance.”
“ ‘Simply asking me to give Alice a chance’; now isn’t that really just a little … ?”
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 far down 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 lucid interval.’ Don’t please look at my face like that, Sheila. Think—think that it’s just lupus, just some horrible disfigurement.”
Not much light was in the large room, and there was something so extraordinarily characteristic of her husband in those stooping shoulders, in the head hung a little forward, and in the preternaturally solemn voice, that Sheila had to bend a little over the bed to catch a glimpse of the sallow and keener face again. She sighed; and even on her own 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’s just Alice knowing, that was all; I mean at once.”
“Don’t for a moment suppose I am not perfectly aware that it is only Alice you think of. You were particularly anxious about my feelings, weren’t you? You broke the news to me with the tenderest solicitude. I am glad our—our daughter shares my husband’s love.”
“Look here,” said Lawford densely, “you know that I love you as much as ever; 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 father awake? May I come in?”
In a flash the memory returned to her; twenty-four hours ago she was asking that very question of this unspeakable figure that sat hunched-up before her.
“One moment, dear,” she called. And added in a very low voice, “Come here!”
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 poor child to go away.”
She paused. “Are you there, Alice? Would you mind, father says, waiting a 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 an impulse; they did laugh at me so. Father dear—do speak to me; how are you now?”
Lawford opened his mouth, gulped, and shook his head.
“Ssh, dear!” whispered Sheila, “I think he has fallen asleep. I will be down in a minute.” Mrs. Lawford was about to close the door when Ada appeared.
“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 not laid yet.”
“I really should have thought, Ada,” Sheila began, then caught back the angry words, and turned and looked over her shoulder into the room. “Do you think you will need anything more, Dr. Ferguson?” she asked in a sepulchral voice.
Again Lawford’s lips moved; again he shook his head.
“One moment, Ada,” she said closing the door. “Some more medicine—what medicine? 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’s gone: we want more of that.”
Lawford stared heavily. “Oh, yes, yes,” he said thickly, “more of that. …”
Sheila, with a shrug of extreme distaste and vexation, hastily opened the door. “Dr. Ferguson wants a further supply of the drug which Mr. Critchett made up for Mr. Lawford yesterday evening. You had better go at once, 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 have induced 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 to feel we are friends, Sheila.”
Sheila almost imperceptibly shuddered, crossed the room, and faced the still, almost lifeless mask. “I spoke,” she said, in a low, cold, difficult voice—“I spoke in a temper this morning. You must try to understand what a shock it has been to me. Now, I own it frankly, I know you are—Arthur. But God only knows how it frightens me, and—and—horrifies me.” She shut her eyes beneath her veil. They waited on in silence a while.
“Poor boy!” she said at
