The Return

by Walter De la Mare

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Her husband turned wearily once more, and drawing up a chair sat down infront of the cold grate. He realised that Sheila thought him as muchof a fool now as she had for the moment thought him an impostor, orsomething worse, the night before. That was at least something gained.He realised, too, in a vague way that the exuberance of mind that hadpractically invented Dr Ferguson, and outraged Miss Sinnet, had quitesuddenly flickered out. It was astonishing, he thought, with gazefixed innocently on the black coals, that he should ever have done suchthings. He detested that kind of 'rot'; that jaunty theatrical pose somany men prided their jackdaw brains on.

  And he sat quite still, like a cat at a cranny, listening, as itwere, for the faintest remotest stir that might hint at any return ofthis--activity. It was the first really sane moment he had had sincethe 'change.' Whatever it was that had happened at Widderstone was nowdistinctly weakening in effect. Why, now, perhaps? He stole a thievishlook over his shoulder at the glass, and cautiously drew finger andthumb down that beaked nose. Then he really quietly smiled, a smile hefelt this abominable facial caricature was quite unused to, the superiorLawford smile of guileless contempt for the fanatical, the fantastic,and the bizarre: He wouldn't have sat with his feet on the fender beforea burnt-out fire.

  And the animosity of that 'he,' uttered only just under his breath,surprised even himself. It actually did seem as if there were a chance;if only he kept cool and collected. If the whole mind of a man was benton being one thing, surely no power on earth, certainly not on earth,could for long compel him to look another, any more (followed theresplendent thought) than vice versa.

  That, in fact, was the trick that had been in fitful fashion played himsince yesterday. Obviously, and apart altogether from his promise toSheila, the best possible thing he could do would be to walk quietlyover to Widderstone to-morrow and like a child that has lost a penny,just make the attempt to reverse the process: look at the graves, readthe inscriptions on the weather-beaten stones, compose himself once moreto sleep on the little seat.

  Magic, witchcraft, possession, and all that--well, Mr Bethany mightprefer to take it on the authority of the Bible if it was his duty. Butit was at least mainly Old Testament stuff, like polygamy, Joshua, andthe 'unclean beasts.' The 'unclean beasts.' It was simply, as Simon hadsaid, mainly an affair of the nerves, like Indian jugglery. He had heardof dozens of such cases, or similar cases. And it was hardly likelythat cases even remotely like his own would be much bragged about, oradvertised. All those mysterious 'disappearances,' too, which onereads about so repeatedly? What of them? Even now, he felt (and glancedswiftly behind him at the fancy), it would be better to think as softlyas possible, not to hope too openly, certainly not to triumph in theleast degree, just in case of--well--listeners.

  He would wrap up too. And he wouldn't tell Sheila of the project tillhe had come safely back. What an excellent joke it would be to confessmeekly to his escapade, and to be scolded, and then suddenly to revealhimself. He sat back and gazed with an almost malignant animosity at theface in the portrait, comely and plump.

  An inarticulate, unfathomable depression rolled back on him, like amist out of the sea. He hastily undressed, put watch and door-key andCritchett's powder under his pillow, paused, vacantly ruminated, andthen replaced the powder in his waistcoat pocket, said his prayers, andgot shivering to bed. He did not feel hurt at Sheila's leaving him likethis. So long as she really believed in him. And now--Alice was home. Helistened, trying not to shiver, for her voice; and sometimes heard, hefancied, the clear note. It was this beastly influenza that made himfeel so cold and lifeless. But all would soon come right--that is, ifonly that face, luminous against the floating darkness within, would notappear the instant he closed his eyes.

  But legions of dreams are Influenza's allies. He fell into a chill doze,heard voices innumerable, and one above the rest, shouting them down,until there fell a lull. And another, as it were, from afar said quiteclearly and distinctly, 'But surely, my dear, you have heard the storyof the poor old charwoman who talked Greek in her delirium? A littleschool French need not alarm us.' And Lawford opened his eyes again onMr Bethany standing at his bed.

  'Tt, tt! There, I've been and waked him. And yet they say men make suchexcellent nurses in time of war. But you see, Lawford, what did I tellyou? Wasn't I now an infallible prophet? Your wife has been giving me amost glowing account. Quite your old self, she tells me, except for justthis--this touch of facial paralysis. And I think, do you know' (thekind old creature stooped over the bed, but still, Lawford noticedbitterly, still without his spectacles)--'yes, I really think there isa decided improvement. Not quite so--drawn. We must make haste slowly.Wedderburn, you know, believes profoundly in Simon; he pulled hiswife through a dangerous confinement. And here's pills and tonics andliniments--a whole chemist's shop. Oh, we are getting on swimmingly.'

  Flamelight was flickering in the candled dusk. Lawford turned his headand saw Sheila's coiled, beautiful hair in the firelight.

  'You haven't told Alice?' he asked.

  'My dear good man,' said Mr Bethany, 'of course we haven't. You shalltell her yourself on Monday. What an incredible tradition it will be!But you mustn't worry; you mustn't even think. And no more of thesejaunts, eh? That Ferguson business--that was too bad. What are we goingto do with the fellow now we have created him? He will come home toroost--mark my words. And as likely as not down the Vicarage chimney.I wouldn't have believed it of you, my dear fellow.' He beamed, butlooked, none the less, very lean and fagged and depressed.

  'How did the wedding go off?' Lawford managed to think of inquiring.

  'Oh, A1,' said Mr Bethany. 'I've just been describing it to Alice--thebride, her bridegroom, mother, aunts, cake, presents, finery, blushes,tears, and everything that was hers. We've been in fits, haven't we, MrsLawford? And Alice says I'm a Worth in a clerical collar--didn't she?And that it's only Art that has kept me out of an apron. Now look here;quiet, quiet, quiet; no excitement, no pranks. What is there to worryabout, pray? And now Little Dorrit's down with influenza too. And Craikand I will have double work to do. Well, well; good-bye, my dear. Godbless you, Lawford. I can't tell you how relieved, how unspeakablyrelieved I am to find you so much--so much better. Feed him up, my otherdear; body and mind and soul and spirit. And there goes the bell. I musthave a biscuit. I've swallowed nothing but a Cupid in plaster of Parissince breakfast. Goodnight; we shall miss you both--both.'

  But when Sheila returned, her husband was sunk again into a quiet sleep,from which not even the many questions she fretted to put to him seemedweighty enough to warrant his disturbance.

  So when Lawford again opened his eyes he found himself lying wide awake,clear and refreshed, and eager to get up. But upon the air lay the stillhush of early morning. He tried in vain to catch back sleep again.A distant shred of dream still floated in his mind, like a cloudat evening. He rarely dreamed, but certainly something immenselyinteresting had but a moment ago eluded him. He sat up and looked atthe clear red cinders and their maze of grottoes. He got out of bed andpeeped through the blinds. To the east and opposite to him gardens andan apple-orchard lay, and there in strange liquid tranquillity hung themorning star, and rose, rifling into the dusk of night, the first greyof dawn. The street beneath its autumn leaves was vacant, charmed,deserted.

  Hardly since childhood had Lawford seen the dawn unless over his winterbreakfast-table. Very much like a child now he stood gazing out of hisbow-window--the child whom Time's busy robins had long ago covered overwith the leaves of numberless hours. A vague exultation fumed up intohis brain. Still on the borders of sleep, he unlocked the great wardrobeand took out an old faded purple and crimson dressing-gown that hadbelonged to his grandfather, the chief glory of every Christmas charade.He pulled the cowl-like hood over his head and strode majestically overto the looking-glass.

  He looked in there a moment on the strange face, like a child dismayedat its own excitement, and a fit of sobbing that was half uncontrolla
blelaughter swept over him. He threw off the hood and turned once more tothe window. Consciousness had flooded back indeed. What would Sheilahave said to see him there? The unearthly beauty and stillness, andman's small labours, garden and wall and roof-tree idle and smokeless inthe light of daybreak--there seemed to be some half-told secret betweenthem. What had life done with him to leave a reality so clouded? Heput on his slippers, and, gently opening the door, crept with extremecaution up the stairs. At a long, narrow landing window he confronteda panorama of starry night-gardens, sloping orchards; and beyond themfields, hills, Orion, the Dogs, in the clear and cloudless darkness.

  'My God, how beautiful!' a voice whispered. And a cock crowed mistilyafar. He stood staring like a child into the wintry brightness of apastry-cook's. Then once more he crept stealthily on. He stooped andlistened at a closed door, until he fancied that above the beating ofhis own heart he could hear the breathing of the sleeper within. Then,taking firm hold of the handle with both hands, he slowly noiselesslyturned it, and peeped in on Alice.

  The moon was long past her faint shining here. The blind was down. Andyet it was not pitch dark. He stood with eyes fixed, waiting. Then heedged softly forward and knelt down beside the bed. He could hear herbreathing now: long, low, quiet, unhastening--the miracle of life. Hecould just dimly discern the darkness of her hair against the pillow.Some long-sealed spring of tenderness seemed to rise in his heart with agrief and an ache he had never known before. Here at least he could finda little peace, a brief pause, however futile and stupid all his hopesof the night had been. He leant his head on his hands on the counterpaneand refused to think. He felt a quick tremor, a startled movement, andknew that eyes wide open with fear were striving to pierce the gloombetween them.

  'There, there, dearest,' he said in a low whisper, 'it's only me, onlyme.' He stroked the narrow hand and gazed into the shadowiness. Herfingers lay quiet and passive in his, with that strange sense ofimmateriality that sleep brings to the body.

  'You, you!' she answered with a deep sigh. 'Oh, dearest, how youfrightened me. What is wrong? why have you come? Are you worse, dearest,dearest?'

  He kissed her hand. 'No, Alice, not worse. I couldn't sleep, that wasall.'

  'Oh, and I came so utterly miserable to bed because you would not seeme. And Mother would tell me only so very little. I didn't even knowyou had been ill.' She pressed his hand between her own. 'But this, youknow, is very, very naughty--you will catch cold, you bad thing. Whatwould Mother say?'

  'I think we mustn't tell her, dear. I couldn't help it; I felt much Iwanted to see you. I have been rather miserable.'

  'Why?' she said, stroking his hand from wrist to fingertips with onesoft finger. 'You mustn't be miserable. You and me have never done sucha thing before; have we? Was it that wretched old Flu?'

  It was too dark in the little fragrant room even to see her face soclose to his own. And yet he feared. 'Dr Simon,' she went on softly,'said it was. But isn't your voice a little hoarse, and it sounds somelancholy in the dark. And oh'--she squeezed his wrist--'you have grownso thin! You do frighten me. Whatever should I do if you were reallyill? And it was so odd, dear. When first I woke I seemed to be stillstraining my eyes in a dream, at such a curious, haunting face--not verynice. I am glad, I am glad you were here.'

  'What was the dream-face like?' came the muttered question.

  'Dark and sharp, and rather dwelling eyes; you know those long faces onesees in dreams: like a hawk, like a conjuror's.'

  Like a conjuror's!--it was the first unguarded and ungarbled criticism.'Perhaps, dear, if you find my voice different, and my hand shrunk up,you will find my face changed, too--like a conjuror's.... What then?'

  She laughed gaily and tenderly. 'You silly silly; I should love you morethan ever. Your hands are icy cold. I can't warm them nohow.'

  Lawford held tight his daughter's hand. 'You do love me, Alice? Youwould not turn against me, whatever happened? Ah, you shall see, youshall see.' A sudden burning hope sprang up in him. Surely when all waswell again, these last few hours would not have been spent in vain.Like the shadow of death they had been, against whose darkness the greenfamiliar earth seems beautiful as the plains of paradise. Had he butrealized before how much he loved her--what years of life had beenwasted in leaving it all unsaid! He came back from his reverie to findhis hand wet with her tears. He stroked her hair, and touched gently hereyelids without speaking.

  'You will let me come in to-morrow?' she pleaded; 'you won't keep meout?'

  'Ah, but, dear, you must remember your mother. She gets so anxious, andevery word the doctor says is law. How would you like me to come againlike this, perhaps?--like Santa Claus?'

  'You know how I love having you,' she said, and stopped. 'But--but...'He leaned closer. 'Yes, yes, come,' she said, clutching his hand andhiding her eyes; 'it is only my dream--that horrible, dwelling face inthe dream; it frightened me so.'

  Lawford rose very slowly from his knees. He could feel in the dark hisbrows drawn down; there came a low, sullen beating on his ear; he sawhis face as it were in dim outline against the dark. Rage and rebellionsurged up in him; even his love could be turned to bitterness. Well, twocould play at any game! Alice sprang up in bed and caught his sleeve.'Dearest, dearest, you must not be angry with me now!'

  He flung himself down beside the bed. Anger, resentment died away. 'Youare all I have left,' he said.

  He stole back, as he had come, in the clear dawn to his bedroom.

  It was not five yet. He put a few more coals on his fire and blew outthe night-light, and lay down. But it was impossible to rest, to remaininactive. He would go down and search for that first volume of Quain.Hallucination, Influenza, Insanity--why, Sheila must have purposelymislaid it. A rather formidable figure he looked, descending the stairsin the grey dusk of daybreak. The breakfast-room was at the back ofthe house. He tilted the blind, and a faint light flowed in from thechanging colours of the sky. He opened the glass door of the littlebookcase to the right of the window, and ran eye and finger over the fewrows of books. But as he stood there with his back to the room, just asthe shadow of a bird's wing floats across the moonlight of a pool, hebecame suddenly conscious that something, somebody had passed across thedoorway, and in passing had looked in on him.

  He stood motionless, listening; but no sound broke the morningslumbrousness, except the faraway warbling of a thrush in the firstlight. So sudden and transitory had been the experience that it seemednow to be illusory; yet it had so caught him up, it had with so furtiveand sinister a quietness broken in on his solitude, that for a moment hedared not move. A cold, indefinite sensation stole over him that he wasbeing watched; that some dim, evil presence was behind him biding itstime, patient and stealthy, with eyes fixed unmovingly on him wherehe stood. But, watch and wait as silently as he might, only the daybroadened at the window, and at last a narrow ray of sunlight stoletrembling up into the dusky bowl of the sky.

  At any rate Quain was found, with all the ills of life, from A to I; andLawford turned back to his bondage with the book under his arm.