“That’s precisely what I think, Mrs. Lovat; one is saturated with one’s personality, as it were.”
“You see, that’s just it! That’s just exactly every woman’s husband all over; he is saturated with his personality. Bravo, Mr. Craik!”
“Good Lord,” said Danton softly. “I don’t deny it!”
“But that,” broke in Sheila crisply—“that’s just precisely what I asked you all to come in for. It’s because I know now, apart altogether from the mere evidence, that—that he is Arthur. Mind, I don’t say I ever really doubted. I was only so utterly shocked, I suppose. I positively put posers to him; but his memory was perfect in spite of the shock which would have killed a—a more sensitive nature.” She had risen, it seemed, and was moving with all her splendid impressiveness of silk and presence across the general line of vision. But the hall was dark and still; her eyes were dimmed with light. Lawford could survey her there unmoved.
“Are you there, Ada?” she called discreetly.
“Yes, ma’am,” answered the faint voice from below.
“You have not heard anything—no knock?”
“No, ma’am, no knock.”
“The door is open if you should call.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“The girl’s scared out of her wits,” said Sheila returning to her audience. “I’ve told you all that miserable Ferguson story—a piece of calm, callous presence of mind I should never have dreamed my husband capable of. And the curious thing is—at least, it is no longer curious in the light of the ghastly facts I am only waiting for Mr. Bethany to tell you—from the very first she instinctively detested the very mention of his name.”
“I believe, you know,” said Mr. Craik with some decision, “that servants must have the same wonderful instinct as dogs and children; they are natural, intuitive judges of character.”
“Yes,” said Sheila gravely, “and it’s only through that that I got to hear of the—the mysterious friend in the little pony-carriage. Ada’s magnificently loyal—I will say that.”
“I don’t want to suggest anything, Mrs. Lawford,” began Mr. Craik rather hurriedly, “but wouldn’t it perhaps be wiser not to wait for Mr. Bethany? It is not at all unusual for him to be kept a considerable time in the vestry after service, and today is the Feast of St. Michael’s and all Angels, you know. Mightn’t your husband be—er—coming back, don’t you think?”
“Craik’s right, Mrs. Lawford; it’s not a bit of good waiting. Bethany would stick there till midnight if any old woman’s spiritual state could keep her going so long. Here we all are, and at any moment we may be interrupted. Mind you, I promise nothing—only that there shall be no scene. But here I am, and if he does come knocking and ringing and lunging out in the disgusting manner he—well, all I ask is permission to speak for you. ’Pon my soul, to think what you must have gone through! It isn’t the place for ladies just now—honestly it ain’t.”
“Besides, supposing the romantic lady of the pony-carriage has friends? Are you a pugilist, Mr. Craik?”
“I hope I could give some little account of myself, Mrs. Lovat; but you need have no anxiety about that.”
“There, Mr. Danton. So as there is not the least cause for anxiety even if poor Arthur should return to his earthly home, may we share your dreadful story at once, Sheila; and then, perhaps, hear Mr. Bethany’s exposition of it when he does arrive? We are amply guarded.”
“Honestly, you know, you are a bit of a sceptic, Mrs. Lovat,” pleaded Danton playfully. “I’ve seen him.”
“And seeing is disbelieving, I suppose. Now then, Sheila.”
“I don’t think there’s the least chance of Arthur returning tonight,” said Sheila solemnly. “I am perfectly well aware it’s best to be as cheerful as one can—and as resolved; but I think, Bettie, when even you know the whole horrible secret, you won’t think Mr. Danton was—was horrified for nothing. The ghastly, the awful truth is that my husband—there is no other word for it—is—possessed!”
“ ‘Possessed,’ Sheila! What in the name of all the creeps is that?”
“Well, I dare say Mr. Craik will explain it much better than I can. By a devil, dear.” The voice was perfectly poised and restrained, and Mr. Craik did not see fit for the moment to embellish the definition.
Lawford, with an almost wooden immobility, listened on.
“But the devil, or a devil? Isn’t there a distinction?” inquired Mrs. Lovat.
“It’s in the Bible, Bettie, over and over again. It was quite a common thing in the Middle Ages; I think I’m right in saying that, am I not, Mr. Craik?” Mr. Craik must have solemnly nodded or abundantly looked his unwilling affirmation. “And what has been,” continued Sheila temperately, “I suppose may be again.”
“When the fellow began raving at me the other night,” began Danton huskily, as if out of an unfathomable pit of reflection, “among other things he said that I haven’t any wish to remember was that I was a sceptic. And Bethany said ditto to it. I don’t mind being called a sceptic: why, I said myself Mrs. Lovat was a sceptic just now! But when it comes to ‘devils,’ Mrs. Lawford—I may be convinced about the other, but ‘devils’! Well, I’ve been in the City nearly twenty-five years, and it’s my impression human nature can raise all the devils we shall ever need. And another thing,’ he added, as if inspired, and with an immensely intelligent blink, “is it just precisely that word in the Revised Version—eh, Craik?”
“I’ll certainly look it up, Danton. But I take it that Mrs. Lawford is not so much insisting on the word, as on the—the manifestation. And I’m bound to confess that the Society for Psychical Research, which has among its members quite eminent and entirely trustworthy men of science—I am bound to admit they have some very curious stories to tell. The old idea was, you know, that there are seventy-two princely devils, and as many
