The Return Part 7

Miss Sinnet drew her long lips together, her eyebrows lifted with the faintest perturbation. 'But he certainly knows my name,' she said to herself. She turned once more, and in the still autumnal beauty, beneath that pale blue arch of evening, these two human beings confronted one another again. She eyed him blandly, yet with a certain grave directness.

'I don't really think,' she said, 'you can be Mary Lawford's son. I could scarcely have mistaken HIM.'

Lawford gulped and turned away. He hardly knew what this surge of feeling meant. Was it hope, despair, resentment; had he caught even the echo of an unholy joy? His mind for a moment became confused as if in the tumult of a struggle. He heard himself expostulate, 'Ah, Miss Bennett, I fear I set you too difficult a task.'

The old lady drew abruptly in, like a trustful and gentle snail into its shocked house. 'Bennett, sir; but my name is not Bennett.'

And again Lawford accepted the miserable prompting. 'Not Bennett!... How can I ever then apologise for so frantic a mistake?'

The little old lady took firm hold of her umbrella. She did not answer him. 'The likeness, the likeness!' he began unctuously, and stopped, for the glance that dwelt fleetingly on him was cold with the formidable dignity and displeasure of age. He raised his hat and turned miserably home. He strode on out of the last gold into the blue twilight. What fantastic foolery of mind was mastering him? He cast a hurried look over his shoulder at the kindly and offended old figure sitting there, solitary, on the little seat, in her great bonnet, with back turned resolutely upon him--the friend of his dead mother who might have proved in his need a friend indeed to him. And he had by this insane caprice hopelessly estranged her.

She would remember this face well enough now, he thought bitterly, and would take her place among his quiet enemies, if ever the day of reckoning should come. It was scandalous, it was ba.n.a.l to have abused her trust and courtesy. Oh, it was hopeless to struggle any more! The fates were against him. They had played him a trick. He was to be their transitory sport, as many a better man he could himself recollect had been before him. He would go home and give in; let Sheila do with him what she pleased. No one but a lunatic could have acted as he had, with just that frantic hint of method so remarkable in the insane.

He left the common. A lamplighter was lighting the lamps. A thin evening haze was on the air. If only he had stayed at home that fateful afternoon! Who, what had induced him, enticed him to venture out? And even with the thought welled up into his mind an intense desire to go to the old green time-worn churchyard again; to sit there contentedly alone, where none heeded the completest metamorphosis, down beside the yew-trees. What a fool he had been. There alone, of course, lay his only possible chance of recovery. He would go to-morrow. Perhaps Sheila had not yet discovered his absence; and there would be no difficulty in repeating so successful a stratagem.

Remembrance of his miserable mistake, of Miss Sinnet, faintly returned to him as he swiftly mounted the steps to his porch. Poor old lady. He would make amends for his discourtesy when he was quite himself again.

She should some day hear, perhaps, his infinitely tragic, infinitely comic experience from his own lips. He would take her some flowers, some old keepsake of his mother's. What would he not do when the old moods and brains of the stupid Arthur Lawford, whom he had appreciated so little and so superficially, came back to him.

He ran up the steps and stopped dead, his hand in his pocket, chilled and aghast. Sheila had taken his keys. He stood there, dazed and still, beneath the dim yellow of his own fanlight; and once again that inward spring flew back. 'Brazen it out; brazen it out! Knock and ring!'

He knocked flamboyantly, and rang.

There came a quiet step and the door opened. 'Dr Simon, of course, has called?' he inquired suavely.

'Yes, sir.'

'Ah, and gone'--as I feared. And Mrs Lawford?'

'I think Mrs Lawford is in, sir.'

Lawford put out a detaining hand. 'We will not disturb her; we will not disturb her. I can find my way up; oh yes, thank you!'

But Ada still palely barred the way. 'I think, sir,' she said, 'Mrs Lawford would prefer to see you herself; she told me most particularly "all callers." And Mr Lawford was not to be disturbed on any account.'

'Disturbed? G.o.d forbid!' said Lawford, but his dark eyes failed to move these lightest hazel. 'Well,' he continued nonchalantly, 'perhaps--perhaps it--WOULD be as well if Mrs Lawford should know that I am here. No, thank you, I won't come in. Please go and tell--'

But even as the maid turned to obey, Sheila herself appeared at the dining-room door in hat and veil.

Lawford hesitated an immeasurable moment. In one swift glance he perceived the lamplit mystery of evening, beckoning, calling, pleading--Fly, fly! Home's here for you. Begin again, begin again. And there before him in quiet and hostile decorum stood maid and mistress.

He took off his hat and stepped quickly in.

'So late, so very late, I fear,' he began glibly. 'A sudden call, a perfectly impossible distance. Shall we disturb him, do you think?'

'Wouldn't it,' began Sheila softly, 'be rather a pity perhaps? Dr Simon seemed to think.... But, of course, you must decide that.'

Ada turned quiet small eyes.

'No, no, by no means,' he almost mumbled.

And a hard, slow smile pa.s.sed over Sheila's face. 'Excuse me one moment,' she said; 'I will see if he is awake.' She swept swiftly forward, superb and triumphant, beneath the gaze of those dark, restless eyes. But so still was home and street that quite distinctly a clear and youthful laughter was heard, and light footsteps approaching. Sheila paused. Ada, in the act of closing the door, peered out. 'Miss Alice, ma'am,' she said.

And in this infinitesimal advantage of time Dr Ferguson had seized his vanis.h.i.+ng opportunity, and was already swiftly mounting the stairs. Mrs Lawford stood with veil half raised and coldly smiling lips and, as if it were by pre-arrangement, her daughter's laughing greeting from the garden, and from the landing above her, a faint 'Ah, and how are we now?' broke out simultaneously. And Ada, silent and discreet, had thrown open the door again to the twilight and to the young people ascending the steps.

Lawford was still sitting on his bed before a cold and ashy hearth when Sheila knocked at the door.

'Yes?' he said; 'who's there?' No answer followed. He rose with a shuddering sigh and turned the key. His wife entered.

'That little exhibition of finesse was part of our agreement, I suppose?'

'I say--' began Lawford.

'To creep out in my absence like a thief, and to return like a mountebank; that was part of our compact?'

'I say,' he stubbornly began again, 'did you wire for Alice?'

'Will you please answer my question? Am I to be a mere catspaw in your intrigues, in this miserable masquerade before the servants? To set the whole place ringing with the name of a doctor that doesn't exist, and a bedridden patient that slips out of the house with his bedroom key in his pocket! Are you aware that Ada has been hammering at your door every half-hour of your absence? Are you aware of that? How much,'

she continued in a low, bitter voice, 'how much should I offer for her discretion?'

'Who was that with Alice?' inquired the same toneless voice.

'I refuse to be ignored. I refuse to be made a child of. Will you please answer me?'

Lawford turned. 'Look here, Sheila,' he began heavily, 'what about Alice? If you wired: well, it's useless to say anything more. But if you didn't, I ask you just this one thing. Don't tell her!'

'Oh, I perfectly appreciate a father's natural anxiety.'

Her husband drew up his shoulders as if to receive a blow. 'Yes, yes,'

he said, 'but you won't?'

The sound of a young laughing voice came faintly up from below. 'How did Jimmie Fortescue know she was coming home to-day?'

'Will you not inquire of Jimmie Fortescue for yourself?'

'Oh, what is the use of sneering?' began the dull voice again. 'I am horribly tired, Sheila. And try how you will, you can't convince me that you believe for a moment that I am not myself, that you are as hard as you pretend. An acquaintance, even a friend might be deceived; but husband and wife--oh no! It isn't only a man's face that's himself--or even his hands.' He looked at them, straightened them slowly out, and buried them in his pockets. 'All I care about now is Alice. Is she, or is she not going to be told? I am simply asking you to give her just a chance.'

'"Simply asking me to give Alice a chance"; now isn't that really just a little...?'

Lawford slowly shook his head. 'You know in your heart it isn't, Sheila; you understand me quite well, although you persistently pretend not to.

I can't argue now. I can't speak up for myself. I am just about as far down as I can go. It's only Alice.'

'I see; a lucid interval?' suggested his wife in a low, trembling voice.

'Yes, yes, if you like,' said her husband patiently, '"a lucid interval." Don't please look at my face like that, Sheila. Think--think that it's just lupus, just some horrible disfigurement.'

Not much light was in the large room, and there was something so extraordinarily characteristic of her husband in those stooping shoulders, in the head hung a little forward, and in the preternaturally solemn voice, that Sheila had to bend a little over the bed to catch a glimpse of the sallow and keener face again. She sighed; and even on her own strained ear her sigh sounded almost like one of relief.

'It's useless, I know, to ask you anything while you are in this mood,'

continued Lawford dully; 'I know that of old.'

The white, ringed hands clenched, '"Of old!"'