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Return, The (de la Mare version)

<h2> CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO </h2> He was utterly wearied, but he walked on for a long while with a dogged unglancing pertinacity and without looking behind him. Then he rested under the dew-sodden hedgeside and buried his face in his hands. Once, indeed, he did turn and grind his way back with hard uplifted face for many minutes, but at the meeting with an old woman who in the late dusk passed him unheeded on the road, he stopped again, and after standing awhile looking down upon the dust, trying to gather up the tangled threads of his thoughts, he once more set off homewards. It was clear, starry, and quite dark when he reached the house. The lamp at the roadside obscurely lit its breadth and height. Lamp-light within, too, was showing yellow between the Venetian blinds; a cold gas-jet gleamed out of the basement window. He seemed bereft now of all desire or emotion, simply the passive witness of things external in a calm which, though he scarcely realised its cause, was an exquisite solace and relief. His senses were intensely sharpened with sleeplessness. The faintest sound belled clear and keen on his ear. The thinnest beam of light besprinkled his eyes with curious brilliance. As quietly as some nocturnal creature he ascended the steps to the porch, and leaning between stone pilaster and wall, listened intently for any rumour of those within. He heard a clear, rather languid and delicate voice quietly speak on until it broke into a little peal of laughter, followed, when it fell silent by Sheila's—rapid, rich, and low. The first speaker seemed to be standing. Probably, then, his evening visitors had only just come in, or were preparing to depart. He inserted his latchkey and gently pushed at the cumbersome door. It was locked against him. With not the faintest thought of resentment or surprise, he turned back, stooped over the balustrade and looked down into the kitchen. Nothing there was visible but a narrow strip of the white table, on which lay a black cotton glove, and beyond, the glint of a copper pan. What made all these mute and inanimate things so coldly hostile? An extreme, almost nauseous distaste filled him at the thought of knocking for admission, of confronting Ada, possibly even Sheila, in the cold echoing gloom of the detestable porch; of meeting the first wild, almost metallic, flash of recognition. He swept softly down again, and paused at the open gate. Once before the voices of the night had called him: they would not summon him forever in vain. He raised his eyes again towards the window. Who were these visitors met together to drum the alien out? He narrowed his lids and smiled up at the vacuous unfriendly house. Then wheeling, on a sudden impulse he groped his way down the gravel path that led into the garden. As he had left it, the long white window was ajar. With extreme caution he pushed it noiselessly up, and climbed in, and stood listening again in the black passage on the other side. When he had fully recovered his breath, and the knocking of his heart was stilled, he trod on softly, till turning the corner he came in sight of the kitchen door. It was now narrowly open, just enough, perhaps, to admit a cat; and as he softly approached, looking steadily in, he could see Ada sitting at the empty table, beneath the single whistling chandelier, in her black dress and black straw hat. She was reading apparently; but her back was turned to him and he could not distinguish her arm beyond the elbow. Then almost in an instant he discovered, as, drawn up and unstirring he gazed on, that she was not reading, but had covertly and instantaneously raised her eyes from the print on the table beneath, and was transfixedly listening too. He turned his eyes away and waited. When again he peered in she had apparently bent once more over her magazine, and he stole on. One by one, with a thin remote exultation in his progress, he mounted the kitchen stairs, and with each deliberate and groping step the voices above him became more clearly audible. At last, in the darkness of the hall, but faintly stirred by the gleam of lamplight from the chink of the dining-room door, he stood on the threshold of the drawing-room door and could hear with varying distinctness what those friendly voices were so absorbedly discussing. His ear seemed as exquisite as some contrivance of science, registering passively the least sound, the faintest syllable, and like it, in no sense meddling with the thought that speech conveyed. He simply stood listening, fixed and motionless, like some uncouth statue in the leafy hollow of a garden, stony, unspeculating. 'Oh, but you either refuse to believe, Bettie, or you won't understand that it's far worse than that.' Sheila seemed to be upbraiding, or at least reasoning with, the last speaker. 'Ask Mr Danton—he actually SAW him.' '"Saw him,"' repeated a thick, still voice. 'He stood there, in that very doorway, Mrs Lovat, and positively railed at me. He stood there and streamed out all the names he could lay his tongue to. I wasn't—unfriendly to the poor beggar. When Bethany let me into it I thought it was simply—I did indeed, Mrs Lawford—a monstrous exaggeration. Flatly, I didn't believe it; shall I say that? But when I stood face to face with him, I could have taken my oath that that was no more poor old Arthur Lawford than—well, I won't repeat what particular word occurred to me. But there,' the corpulent shrug was almost audible, 'we all know what old Bethany is. A sterling old chap, mind you, so far as mere character is concerned; the right man in the right place; but as gullible and as soft-hearted as a tom-tit. I've said all this before, I know, Mrs Lawford, and been properly snubbed for my pains. But if I had been Bethany I'd have sifted the whole story at the beginning, the moment he put his foot into the house. Look at that Tichborne fellow—went for months and months, just picking up one day what he floored old Hawkins—wasn't it?—with the next. But of course,' he added gloomily, 'now that's all too late. He's moaned himself into a tolerably tight corner. I'd just like to see, though, a British jury comparing this claimant with his photograph, 'pon my word I would. Where would he be then, do you think?' 'But my dear Mr Danton,' went on the clear, languid voice Lawford had heard break so light-heartedly into laughter, 'you don't mean to tell me that a woman doesn't know her own husband when she sees him—or, for the matter of that, when she doesn't see him? If Tom came home from a ramble as handsome as Apollo to-morrow, I'd recognise him at the very first blush—literally! He'd go nuzzling off to get his slippers, or complain that the lamps had been smoking, or hunt the house down for last week's paper. Oh, besides, Tom's Tom—and there's an end of it.' '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 to-day 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 to-night,' 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 as seven million—er—commoners. It may very well sound quaint to our ears, Mrs Lovat; but there it is. But whether that has any bearing on—on what you were saying, Danton, I can't say. Perhaps Mrs Lawford will throw a little more light on the subject when she tells us on what precise facts her—her distressing theory is based.' Lawford had soundlessly stolen a pace or two nearer, and by stooping forward a little he could, each in turn, scrutinise the little intent company sitting over his story around the lamp at the further end of the table; squatting like little children with their twigs and pins, fishing for wonders on the brink of the unknown. 'Yes,' Mrs Lovat was saying, 'I quite agree, Mr Craik. Seventy-two princes, and no princesses. Oh, these masculine prejudices! But do throw a little more modern light on the subject, Sheila.' 'I mean this,' said Sheila firmly. 'When I went in for the last time to say good-bye—and of course it was at his own wish that I did leave him; and precisely WHY he wished it is now unhappily only too apparent—I had brought him some money from the bank—fifty pounds, I think; yes, fifty pounds. And quite by the merest chance I glanced down, in passing, at a book he had apparently been reading, a book which he seemed very anxious to conceal with his hand. Arthur is not a great reader, though I believe he studied a little before we were married, and—well, I detest anything like subterfuge, and I said it out without thinking, "Why, you're reading French, Arthur!" He turned deathly white but made no answer.' 'And can't you even confide to us the title, Sheila?' sighed Mrs Lovat reproachfully. 'Wait a minute,' said Sheila; 'you shall make as much fun of the thing as you like, Bettie, when I've finished. I don't know why, but that peculiar, stealthy look haunted me. "Why French?" I kept asking myself. "Why French?" Arthur hasn't opened a French book for years. He doesn't even approve of the entente. His argument was that we ought to be friends with the Germans because they are more hostile. Never mind. When Ada came back the next evening and said he was out, I came the following morning—by myself—and knocked. No one answered, and I let myself in. His bed had not been slept in. There were candles and matches all over the house—one even burnt nearly to the stick on the floor in the corner of the drawing-room. I suppose it was foolish, but I was alone, and just that, somehow, horrified me. It seemed to point to such a peculiar state of mind. I hesitated; what was the use of looking further? Yet something seemed to say to me—and it was surely providential—"Go downstairs!" And there in the breakfast-room the first thing I saw on the table was this book—a dingy, ragged, bleared, patched-up, oh, a horrible, a loathsome little book (and I have read bits too here and there); and beside it was my own little school dictionary, my own child's 'She looked up sharply. 'What was that? Did anybody call?' 'Nobody I heard,' said Danton, staring stonily round. 'It may have been the passing of the wind,' suggested Mr Craik, after a pause. 'Peep between the blinds, Mr Craik; it may be poor Mr Bethany confronting Pneumonia in the porch.' 'There's no one there, Mrs Lovat,' said the curate, returning softly from his errand. 'Please continue your—your narrative, Mrs Lawford.' 'We are panting for the "devil," my dear.' 'Well, I sat down and, very much against my inclination, turned over the pages. It was full of the most revolting confessions and trials, so far as I could see. In fact, I think the book was merely an amateur collection of—of horrors. And the faces, the portraits! Well, then, can you imagine my feelings when towards the end of the book about thirty pages from the end, I came upon this—gloating up at me from the table in my house before my very eyes?' She cast a rapid glance over her shoulder, and gathering up her silk skirt, drew out, from the pocket beneath, the few crumpled pages, and passed them without a word to Danton. Lawford kept him plainly in view, as, lowering his great face, he slowly stooped, and holding the loose leaves with both fat hands between his knees, stared into the portrait. Then he truculently lifted his cropped head. 'What did I say?' he said. 'What did I SAY? What did I tell old Bethany in this very room? What d'ye think of that, Mrs Lovat, for a portrait of Arthur Lawford? What d'ye make of that, Craik—eh? Devil—eh?' Mrs Lovat glanced with arched eyebrows, and with her finger-tips handed the sheets on to her neighbour, who gazed with a settled and mournful frown and returned them to Sheila. She took the pages, folded them and replaced them carefully in her pocket. She swept her hands over her skirts, and turned to Danton. 'You agree,' she inquired softly, 'it's like?' 'Like! It's the livin' livid image. The livin' image,' he repeated, stretching out his arm, 'as he stood there that very night.' 'What will you say, then,' said Sheila, quietly, 'What will you say if I tell you that that man, Nicholas de Sabathier, has been in his grave for over a hundred years?' Danton's little eyes seemed, if anything, to draw back even further into his head. 'I'd say, Mrs Lawford, if you'll excuse the word, that it might be a damn horrible coincidence—I'd go farther, an almost incredible coincidence. But if you want the sober truth, I'd say it was nothing more than a crafty, clever, abominable piece of trickery. That's what I'd say. Oh, you don't know, Mrs Lovat. When a scamp's a scamp, he'll stop at nothing. I could tell you some tales.' 'Ah, but that's not all,' said Sheila, eyeing them steadfastly one by one. 'We all of us know that my husband's story was that he had gone down to Widderstone—into the churchyard, for his convalescent ramble; that story's true. We all know that he said he had had a fit, a heart attack, and that a kind of—of stupor had come over him. I believe on my honour that's true too. But no one knows but he himself and Mr Bethany and I, that it was a wretched broken grave, quite at the bottom of the hill, that he chose for his resting place, nor—and I can't get the scene out of my head—nor that the name on that one solitary tombstone down there was—was...this!' Danton rolled his eyes. 'I don't begin to follow,' he said stubbornly. 'You don't mean,' said Mr Craik, who had not removed his gaze from Sheila's face, 'I am not to take it that you mean, Mrs Lawford, the—the other?' 'Yes,' said Sheila, 'HIS'—she patted her skirts—'Sabathier's.' 'You mean,' said Mrs Lovat crisply, 'that the man in the grave is the man in the book, and that the man in the book is—is poor Arthur's changed face?' Sheila nodded. Danton rose cumbrously from his chair, looking beadily down on his three friends. 'Oh, but you know, it isn't—it isn't right,' he began. 'Lord! I can see him now. Glassy—yes, that's the very word I said—glassy. It won't do, Mrs Lawford; on my solemn honour, it won't do. I don't deny it, call it what you like; yes, devils, if you like. But what I say as a practical man is that it's just rank—that's what it is! Bethany's had too much rope. The time's gone by for sentiment and all that foolery. Mercy's all very well, but after all it's justice that clinches the bargain. There's only one way: we must catch him; we must lay the poor wretch by the heels before it's too late. No publicity, God bless me, no. We'd have all the rags in London on us. They'd pillory us nine days on end. We'd never live it down. No, we must just hush it up—a home or something; an asylum. For my part,' he turned like a huge toad, his chin low in his collar—'and I'd say the same if it was my own brother, and, after all, he is your husband, Mrs Lawford—I'd sooner he was in his grave. It takes two to play at that game, that's what I say. To lay himself open! I can't stand it—honestly, I can't stand it. And yet,' he jerked his chin over the peak of his collar towards the ladies, 'and yet you say he's being fetched; comes creeping home, and is fetched at dark by a—a lady in a pony-carriage. God bless me! It's rank. What,' he broke out violently again, 'what was he doing there in a cemetery after dark? Do you think that beastly Frenchman would have played such a trick on Craik here? Would he have tried his little game on me? Deviltry be it, if you prefer the word, and all deference to you, Mrs Lawford. But I know this—a couple of hundred years ago they would have burnt a man at the stake for less than a tenth of this. Ask Craik here. I don't know how, and I don't know when: his mother, I've always heard say, was a little eccentric; but the truth is he's managed by some unholy legerdemain to get the thing at his finger's ends; that's what it is. Think of that unspeakable book. Left open on the table! Look at his Ferguson game. It's our solemn duty to keep him for good and all out of mischief. It reflects all round. There's no getting out of it; we're all in it. And tar sticks. And then there's poor little Alice to consider, and—and you yourself, Mrs. Lawford: I wouldn't give the fellow—friend though he was, in a way—it isn't safe to give him five minutes' freedom. We've simply got to save you from yourself, Mrs Lawford; that's what it is—and from old-fashioned sentiment. And I only wish Bethany was here now to dispute it!' He stirred himself down, as it were, into his clothes, and stood in the middle of the hearthrug, gently oscillating, with his hands behind his back. But at some faint rumour out of the silent house his posture suddenly stiffened, and he lifted a little, with heavy, steady lids, his head. 'What is the matter, Danton?' said Mr Craik in a small voice; 'why are you listening?' 'I wasn't listening,' said Danton stoutly, 'I was thinking.' At the same moment, at the creak of a footstep on the kitchen stairs, Lawford also had drawn soundlessly back into the darkness of the empty drawing-room. 'While Mr Danton is "thinking," Sheila,' Mrs Lovat was softly interposing, 'do please listen a moment to me. Do you mean really that that Frenchman—the one you've pocketed—is the poor creature in the grave?' 'Yes, Mrs Lawford,' said Mr Craik, putting out his face a little, 'are we to take it that you mean that?' 'It's the same date, dear, the same name even to the spelling; what possibly else can I think?' 'And that the poor creature in the grave actually climbed up out of the darkness and—well, what?' 'I know no more than you do NOW, Bettie. But the two faces—you must remember you haven't seen my husband SINCE.' You must remember you haven't heard the peculiar—the most peculiar things he—Arthur himself—has said to me. Things such as a wife... And not in jest, Bettie; I assure you....' '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 "glassiness" 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 assembly. '"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 cluster; 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 cock-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 cock-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 circumstances. 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 superstitious, 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 God 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 circumspectly across his dim chink, 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 eyeballs 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 basement, hastened at a spirited trot to rejoin his companions, and in his absence of mind omitted to shut the front door. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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