The Return Part 30

'And Mr Bethany?' interpolated Mr Craik modestly, feeling his way.

'Pah, Bethany, Craik! He'd back Old Nick himself if he came with a good tale. We've got to act; we've got to settle his hash before he does any mischief.'

'Well,' began Mrs Lovat, smiling a little remorsefully beneath the arch of her raised eyebrows, 'I sincerely hope you'll all forgive me; but I really am, heart and soul, with Old Nick, as Mr Danton seems on intimate terms enough to call him. Dead, he is really immensely alluring; and alive, I think, awfully--just awfully pitiful and--and pathetic. But if I know anything of Arthur he won't be beaten by a Frenchman. As for just the portrait, I think, do you know, I almost prefer dark men'--she glanced up at the face immediately in front of the clock--'at least,'

she added softly, 'when they are not looking very vindictive. I suppose people are fairly often possessed, Mr Craik? HOW many "deadly sins" are there?'

'As a matter of fact, Mrs Lovat, there are seven. But I think in this case Mrs Lawford intends to suggest not so much that--that her husband is in that condition; habitual sin, you know--grave enough, of course, I own--but that he is actually being compelled, even to the extent of a more or less complete change of physiognomy, to follow the biddings of some atrocious spiritual influence. It is no breach of confidence to say that I have myself been present at a death-bed where the struggle against what I may call the end was perfectly awful to witness. I don't profess to follow all the ramifications of the affair, but though possibly Mr Danton may seem a little harsh, such harshness, if I may venture to intercede, is not necessarily "vindictive." And--and personal security is a consideration.'

'If you only knew the awful fear, the awful uncertainty I have been in, Bettie! Oh, it is worse, infinitely worse, than you can possibly imagine. I have myself heard the Voice speak out of him--a high, hard, nasal voice. I've seen what Mr Danton calls the "gla.s.siness" come into his face, and an expression so wild and so appallingly depraved, as it were, that I have had to hurry downstairs to hide myself from the thought. I'm willing to sacrifice everything for my own husband and for Alice; but can it be expected of me to go on harbouring....' Lawford listened on in vain for a moment; poor Sheila, it seemed, had all but broken down.

'Look here, Mrs Lawford,' began Danton huskily, 'you really mustn't give way; you really mustn't. It's awful, unspeakably awful, I admit. But here we are; friends, in the midst of friends. And there's absolutely nothing--What's that? Eh? Who is it?... Oh, the maid!'

Ada stood in the doorway looking in. 'All I've come to ask, ma'am,' she said in a low voice, 'is, am I to stay downstairs any longer? And are you aware there's somebody in the house?'

'What's that? What's that you're saying?' broke out the husky voice again. 'Control yourself! Speak gently! What's that?'

'Begging your pardon, sir, I'm perfectly under control. And all I say is that I can't stay any longer alone downstairs there. There's somebody in the house.'

A concentrated hush seemed to have fallen on the little a.s.sembly.

'"Somebody"--but who?' said Sheila out of the silence. 'You come up here, Ada, with these idle fancies. Who's in the house? There has been no knock--no footstep.'

'No knock, no footstep, ma'am, that I've heard. It's Dr Ferguson, ma'am.

He was here that first night; and he's been here ever since. He was here when I came on Tuesday; and he was here last night. And he's here now.

I can't be deceived by my own feelings. It's not right, it's not out-spoken to keep me in the dark like this. And if you have no objection, I would like to go home.'

Lawford in his utter weariness had nearly closed the door and now sat bent up on a chair, wondering vaguely when this poor play was coming to an end, longing with an intensity almost beyond endurance for the keen night air, the open sky. But still his ears drank in every tiniest sound or stir. He heard Danton's lowered voice muttering his arguments. He heard Ada quietly sniffing in the darkness of the hall. And this was his world! This was his life's panorama, creaking on at every jolt. This was the 'must' Grisel had sent him back to--these poor fools packed together in a panic at an old stale tale! Well, they would all come out presently, and cl.u.s.ter; and the crested, cackling fellow would lead them safely away out of the haunted farmyard.

He started out of his reverie at Danton's voice close at hand.

'Look here, my good girl, we haven't the least intention of keeping you in the dark. If you want to leave your mistress like this in the midst of her anxieties she says you can go and welcome. But it's not a bit of good in the world coming up with these c.o.c.k-and-bull stories. The truth is your master's mad, that's the sober truth of it--hopelessly insane, you understand; and we've got to find him. But nothing's to be said, d'ye see? It's got to be done without fuss or scandal. But if there's any witness wanted, or anything of that kind, why, here you are; and,'

he dropped his voice to an almost inaudible hoot, 'and well worth your while! You did see him, eh? Step into the trap, and all that?'

Ada stood silent a moment. 'I don't know, sir,' she began quietly, 'by what right you speak to me about what you call my c.o.c.k-and-bull stories.

If the master is mad, all I can say to anybody is I'm very sorry to hear it. I came to my mistress, sir, if you please; and I prefer to take my orders from one who has a right to give them. Did I understand you to say, ma'am, that you wouldn't want me any more this evening?'

Sheila had swept solemnly to the door. 'Mr Danton meant all that he said quite kindly, Ada. I can perfectly understand your feelings--perfectly.

And I'm very much obliged to you for all your kindness to me in very trying circ.u.mstances. We are all agreed--we are forced to the terrible conclusion which--which Mr Danton has just--expressed. And I know I can rely on your discretion. Don't stay on a moment if you really are afraid. But when you say "some one" Ada, do you mean--some one like you or me; or do you mean--the other?'

'I've been sitting in the kitchen, ma'am, unable to move. I'm watched everywhere. The other evening I went into the drawing-room--I was alone in the house--and... I can't describe it. It wasn't dark; and yet it was all still and black, like the ruins after a fire. I don't mean I saw it, only that it was like a scene. And then the watching--I am quite aware to some it may sound all fancy. But I'm not superst.i.tious, never was.

I only mean--that I can't sit alone here. I daren't. Else, I'm quite myself. So if so be you don't want me any more; if I can't be of any further use to you or to--to Mr. Lawford, I'd prefer to go home.'

'Very well, Ada; thank you. You can go out this way.'

The door was unchained and unbolted, and 'Good-night' said. And Sheila swept back in sombre pomp to her absorbed friends.

'She's quite a good creature at heart,' she explained frankly, as if to disclaim any finesse, 'and almost quixotically loyal. But what really did she mean, do you think? She is so obstinate. That maddening "some one"! How they do repeat themselves. It can't be my husband; not Dr Ferguson, I mean. You don't suppose--oh surely, not "some one" else!'

Again the dark silence of the house seemed to drift in on the little company.

Mr Craik cleared his throat. 'I failed to catch quite all that the maid said,' he murmured apologetically; 'but I certainly did gather it was to some kind of--of emanation she was referring. And the "ruin," you know.

I'm not a mystic; and yet do you know, that somehow seemed to me almost offensively suggestive of--of demonic influence. You don't suppose, Mrs Lawford--and of course I wouldn't for a moment venture on such a conjecture unsupported-but even if this restless spirit (let us call it) did succeed in making a footing, it might possibly be rather in the nature of a lodging than a permanent residence. Moreover we are, I think, bound to remember that probably in all spheres of existence like attracts like; even the Gadarene episode seems to suggest a possible MULTIPLICATION!' he peered largely. 'You don't suppose, Mrs Lawford...?'

'I think Mr Craik doesn't quite relish having to break the news, Sheila dear,' explained Mrs Lovat soothingly, 'that perhaps Sabathier's out.

Which really is quite a heavenly suggestion, for in that case your husband would be in, wouldn't he? Just our old stolid Arthur again, you know. And next Mr Craik is suggesting, and it certainly does seem rather fascinating, that poor Ada's got mixed up with the Frenchman's friends, or perhaps, even, with one of the seventy-two Princes Royal. I know women can't, or mustn't reason, Mr Danton, but you do, I hope, just catch the drift?'

Danton started. 'I wasn't really listening to the girl,' he explained nonchalantly, shrugging his black shoulders and pursing up his eyes.

'Personally, Mrs Lovat, I'd pack the baggage off to-night, box and all.

But it's not my business.'

'You mustn't be depressed--must he, Mr Craik? After all, my dear man, the business, as you call it, is not exactly entailed. But really, Sheila, I think it must be getting very late. Mr Bethany won't come now.

And the dear old thing ought certainly to have his say before we go any further; OUGHTN'T he, Mr Danton? So what's the use of worriting poor Ada's ghost any longer. And as for poor Arthur--I haven't the faintest desire in the world to hear the little cart drive up, simply in case it should be to leave your unfortunate husband behind it, Sheila. What it must be to be alone all night in this house with a dead and buried Frenchman's face--well, I shudder, dear!'

'And yet, Mrs Lovat,' said Mr Craik, with some little show of returning bravado, 'as we make our bed, you know.'

'But in this case, you see,' she replied reflectively, 'if all accounts are true, Mr Craik, it's manifestly the wicked Frenchman who has made the bed, and Sheila who refu---- But look; Mr Danton is fretting to get home.'

'If you'll all go to the door,' said Danton, seizing a fleeting opportunity to raise his eyebrows more expressively even than if he had again shrugged his shoulders at Sheila, 'I'll put out the light.'

The night air flowed into the dark house as Danton hastily groped his way out of the dining-room.

'There's only one thing,' said Sheila slowly. 'When I last saw my husband, you know, he was, I think, the least bit better. He was always stubbornly convinced it would all come right in time. That's why, I think, he's been spending his--his evenings away from home. But supposing it did?'

'For my part,' said Mrs Lovat, breathing the faint wind that was rising out of the west, 'I'd sigh; I'd rub my eyes; I'd thank G.o.d for such an exciting dream; and I'd turn comfortably over and go to sleep again. I'm all for Arthur--absolutely--back against the wall.'

'For my part,' said Danton, looming in the dusk, 'friend or no friend, I'd cut the--I'd cut him dead. But don't fret, Mrs Lawford, devil or no devil, he's gone for good.'

'And for my part--' began Mr Craik; but the door at that moment slammed.

Voices, however, broke out almost immediately in the porch. And after a hurried consultation, Lawford in his stagnant retreat heard the door softly reopen, and the striking of a match. And Mr Craik, followed closely by Danton's great body, stole circ.u.mspectly across his dim c.h.i.n.k, and the first adventurer went stumbling down the kitchen staircase.

'I suppose,' muttered Lawford, turning his head in the darkness, 'they have come back to put out the kitchen gas.'

Danton began a busy tuneless whistle between his teeth.

'Coming, Craik?' he called thickly, after a long pause.

Apparently no answer had been returned to his inquiry: he waited a little longer, with legs apart, and eyeb.a.l.l.s enveloped in brooding darkness. 'I'll just go and tell the ladies you're coming,' he suddenly bawled down the hollow. 'Do you hear, Craik? They're alone, you know.'

And with that he resolutely wheeled and rapidly made his way down the steps into the garden. Some few moments afterwards Mr Craik shook himself free of the bas.e.m.e.nt, hastened at a spirited trot to rejoin his companions, and in his absence of mind omitted to shut the front door.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Lawford sat on in the darkness, and now one sentence and now another of their talk would repeat itself in his memory, in much the same way as one listlessly turns over an antiquated diary, to read here and there a flattened and almost meaningless sentiment. Sometimes a footstep pa.s.sed echoing along the path under the trees, then his thoughts would leave him, and he would listen and listen till it had died quite out. It was all so very far away. And they too--these talkers--so very far away; as remote and yet as clear as the characters in a play when they have made their final bow, and have left the curtained stage, and one is standing uncompanioned and nearly the last of the spectators, and the lights that have summoned back reality again are being extinguished. It was only by painful effort of mind that he kept recalling himself to himself--why he was here; what it all meant; that this was indeed actuality.

Yet, after all, this by now was his customary loneliness: there was little else he desired for the present than the hospitality of the dark.

He glanced around him in the clear, black, stirless air. Here and there, it seemed, a humped or spindled form held against all comers its pa.s.sive place. Here and there a tiny faintness of light played. Night after night these chairs and tables kept their blank vigil. Why, he thought, pleased as an overtired child with the fancy, in a sense they were always alone, shut up in a kind of senselessness--just like us all. But what--what, he had suddenly risen from his chair to ask himself--what on earth are they alone with? No precise answer had been forthcoming to that question. But as in turning in the doorway, he looked out into the night, flashing here and there in dark s.p.a.ces of the sky above the withering apple leaves--the long dark wall and quiet untrodden road--with the tumultuous beating of the stars--one thing at least he was conscious of having learned in these last few days: he knew what kind of a place he was alone IN.