“If,” said Lawford, resting his face on his hands, and curiously watching the while his moving reflection in the looking-glass before him—“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 brooding over the trouble this—this metamorphosis was bringing on us all had driven 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 a little, and turned back again, “like this?”
Sheila paused. “Could any woman answer such a question?” she almost sighed at last.
“Yes, but,” Lawford pressed on, in a voice almost naive and stubborn as a 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 almost as frantic as it is heartless! Is it, is it even right?”
“Well, I have not actually asked it. I own,” he added moodily, almost under his breath, “it would be—dangerous. … But there, Sheila, this poor 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 were standing.”
“I shall not keep you a moment,” she answered hurriedly; “I will sit here. The truth is, Arthur,” she began again almost solemnly, “apart from all sentiment and—and good intentions, my presence here only harasses you and keeps you back. I am not so bound up in myself that I cannot realise that. The consequence is that after calmly—and I hope considerately—thinking the whole thing over, I have come to the conclusion that it would arouse very little comment, the least possible perhaps in the circumstances, if I just went away for a few days. You are 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 go out and come in just as you pleased. Possibly,” Sheila smiled frankly beneath her veil, “even this Dr. Ferguson you have invented will be a help. 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 would not mind letting her in, Mrs. Gull can come in every other day or so just to keep things in order. She’s entirely trustworthy and discreet. Or perhaps, if you would prefer—”
“Mrs. Gull will do nicely, Sheila. It’s very good of you to have given me so much thought.” A long and rather arduous pause followed.
“Oh, one other thing, Arthur. You sent out to Mr. Critchett—do you remember?—the night you first came home. I think, too, after the first awful shock, when we were sitting in our bedroom, you actually referred to—to violent measures. You will promise me, I may perhaps at least ask that, you will promise me on your word of honour, for Alice’s sake, if not for mine, to do nothing rash.”
“Yes, yes,” said Lawford, sinking lower even than he had supposed possible into the thin and lightless chill of ennui—“nothing rash.”
Sheila rose with a sigh only in part suppressed. “I have not seen Mr. Bethany again. I think, however, it would be better to let Harry know; I mean, dear, of your derangement. After all, he is one of the family—at least, of mine. He will not interfere. He would, perhaps quite naturally, be hurt if we did not take him into our confidence. Otherwise there 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 Mr. Wedderburn; wouldn’t it be as well to let him know that at least for the present you are quite unable to think of returning to town? That, too, in time will have to be arranged, I suppose, if nothing happens meanwhile; I mean if things don’t come right. And I do hope, Arthur, you will 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, became conscious of the black veil turned towards him tentatively, speculatively, impenetrably.
“Yes,” he said, “I’ll write to Wedderburn; he’s had his ups and downs too.”
“I always rather fancied so,” said Sheila reflectively, “he looks rather a—a restless man. Oh, and then again,” she broke off quickly, “there’s the question of money. I suppose—it is only a conjecture—I suppose it would 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 own private account—do you think that will be enough, just, of course, for your present needs?”
“As a bribe, hush-money, or a thank-offering, Sheila?” murmured her husband 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, if
