“Yes, yes; I got the note. … Gone?”
“Oh, yes; all gone. It was my choice. I preferred it so.”
Mr. Bethany sat down on one of the hard old wooden chairs that stood on either side of the lofty hall, and breathing rather thickly, rested his hands on his knees. “What’s happened?” he inquired, looking up into the candle. “I forgot my glasses, old fool that I am, and can’t, my dear fellow, see you very plainly. But your voice—”
“I think,” said Lawford, “I think it’s beginning to come back.”
“What, the whole thing! Oh no, my dear, dear man; be frank with me; not the whole thing?”
“Yes,” said Lawford, “the whole thing—very, very gradually, imperceptibly. I think even Sheila noticed. But I rather feel it than see it; that is all. … I’m cornering him.”
“Him?”
Lawford jerked his candle as if towards some definite goal. “In time,” he said.
The two faces with the candle between them seemed as it were to gain light each from the other.
“Well, well,” said Mr. Bethany, “every man for himself, Lawford; it’s the only way. But what’s going to be done? We must be cautious; must think of—of the others?”
“Oh, that,” said Lawford; “she’s going to squeeze me out.”
“You’ve—squabbled? Oh, but my dear, honest old, honest old idiot, there are scores of families here in this parish, within a stone’s throw, that squabble, wrangle, all but politely tear each other’s eyes out, every day of their earthly lives. It’s perfectly natural. Where should we poor old busybodies be else. Peace on earth we bring, and it’s mainly between husband and wife.”
“Yes,” said Lawford, “but you see, this was not our earthly life. It was between us.”
“Listen, listen to the dear mystic!” exclaimed the old creature scoffingly. “What depths we’re touching. Here’s the first serious break of his lifetime, and he’s gone stark staring transcendental. Ah well.” He paused and glanced quickly about him, with his curious birdlike poise of head. “But you’re not alone here?” he inquired suddenly; “not absolutely alone?”
“Yes,” said Lawford. “But there’s plenty to think about—and read. I haven’t thought or read for years.”
“No, nor I; after thirty, my dear boy, one merely annotates, and the book’s called Life. Bless me, his solemn old voice is grinding epigrams out of even this poor old parochial barrel-organ. You don’t suppose, you cannot be supposing you are the only serious person in the world? What’s more, it’s only skin deep.”
Lawford smiled. “Skin deep. But think quietly over it; you’ll see I’m done.”
“Come here,” said Mr. Bethany. “Where’s the whiskey, where’s the cigars? You shall smoke and drink, and I’ll watch. If it weren’t for a pitiful old stomach, I’d join you. Come on!” He led the way into the dining-room.
He looked sparer, more wizened and sinewy than ever as he stooped to open the sideboard. “Where on earth do they keep everything?” he was muttering to himself.
Lawford put the candlestick down on the table. “There’s only one thing,” he said, watching his visitor’s rummaging; “what precisely do you think they will do with me?”
“Look here, Lawford,” snapped Mr. Bethany; “I’ve come round here, hooting through your letter-box, to talk sense, not sentiment. Why has your wife deserted you? Without a servant, without a single—It’s perfectly monstrous.”
“On my word of honour, I prefer it so. I couldn’t have gone on. Alone I all but forget this—this lupus. Every turn of her little finger reminded me of it. We are all of us alone, whether we know it or not; you said so yourself. And it’s better to realize it stark and unconfused. Besides, you have no idea what—what odd things. … There may be; there is something on the other side. I’ll win through to that.”
Mr. Bethany had been listening attentively. He scrambled up from his knees with a half-empty syphon of sodawater. “See here, Lawford,” he said; “if you really want to know what’s your most insidious and most dangerous symptom just now, it is spiritual pride. You’ve won what you think a domestic victory; and you can scarcely bear the splendour. Oh, you may shrug! Pray, what is this ‘other side’ which the superior double-faced creature’s going to win through to now?” He rapped it out almost bitterly, almost contemptuously.
Lawford hardly heard the question. Before his eyes had suddenly arisen the peace, the friendly unquestioning stillness, the thunderous lullaby old as the grave. “It’s only a fancy. It seemed I could begin again.”
“Well, look here,” said Mr. Bethany, his whole face suddenly lined and grey with age. “You can’t. It’s the one solitary thing I’ve got to say, as I’ve said it to myself morn, noon, and night these scores of years. You can’t begin again; it’s all a delusion and a snare. You say we’re alone. So we are. The world’s a dream, a stage, a mirage, a rack, call it what you will—but you don’t change, you’re no illusion. There’s no crying off for you, no ravelling out, no clean leaves. You’ve got this—this trouble, this affliction—my dear, dear fellow what shall I say to tell you how I grieve and groan for you—oh yes, and actually laughed, I confess it, a vile hysterical laughter, to think of it. You’ve got this almost intolerable burden to bear; it’s come like a thief in the night; but bear it you must, and alone! They say death’s a going to bed; I doubt it; but anyhow life’s a long undressing. We came in puling and naked, and every stitch must come off before we get out again. We must stand on our feet in all our Rabelaisian nakedness, and watch the world fade. Well then, and not another word of sense shall you worm out of my worn-out old brains after today—all I say is, don’t give in! Why, if you stood here now, freed from this devilish disguise, the old, fat, sluggish fellow that sat and yawned his head off under my eyes in his pew the Sunday before last, if I know anything about
