Magic, witchcraft, possession, and all that—well, Mr Bethany might
prefer to take it on the authority of the Bible if it was his duty. But
it was at least mainly Old Testament stuff, like polygamy, Joshua, and
the ‘unclean beasts.’ The ‘unclean beasts.’ It was simply, as Simon had
said, mainly an affair of the nerves, like Indian jugglery. He had
heard of dozens of such cases, or similar cases. And it was hardly
likely that cases even remotely like his own would be much bragged
about, or advertised. All those mysterious ‘disappearances,’ too, which
one reads about so repeatedly? What of them? Even now, he felt (and
glanced swiftly behind him at the fancy), it would be better to think
as softly as possible, not to hope too openly, certainly not to triumph
in the least degree, just in case of—well—listeners. He would wrap up too. And he wouldn’t tell Sheila of the project till
he had come safely back. What an excellent joke it would be to confess
meekly to his escapade, and to be scolded, and then suddenly to reveal
himself. He sat back and gazed with an almost malignant animosity at
the face in the portrait, comely and plump. An inarticulate, unfathomable depression rolled back on him, like a
mist out of the sea. He hastily undressed, put watch and door-key and
Critchett’s powder under his pillow, paused, vacantly ruminated, and
then replaced the powder in his waistcoat pocket, said his prayers, and
got shivering to bed. He did not feel hurt at Sheila’s leaving him like
this. So long as she really believed in him. And now—Alice was home. He
listened, trying not to shiver, for her voice; and sometimes heard, he
fancied, the clear note. It was this beastly influenza that made him
feel so cold and lifeless. But all would soon come right—that is, if
only that face, luminous against the floating darkness within, would
not appear 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
quite clearly and distinctly, ‘But surely, my dear, you have heard the
story of the poor old charwoman who talked Greek in her delirium? A
little school French need not alarm us.’ And Lawford opened his eyes
again on Mr Bethany standing at his bed. ‘Tt, tt! There, I’ve been and waked him. And yet they say men make such
excellent nurses in time of war. But you see, Lawford, what did I tell
you? Wasn’t I now an infallible prophet? Your wife has been giving me a
most glowing account. Quite your old self, she tells me, except for
just this—this touch of facial paralysis. And I think, do you know’
(the kind old creature stooped over the bed, but still, Lawford noticed
bitterly, still without his spectacles)—‘yes, I really think there is a
decided improvement. Not quite so—drawn. We must make haste slowly. Wedderburn, you know, believes profoundly in Simon; he pulled his wife
through a dangerous confinement. And here’s pills and tonics and
liniments—a whole chemist’s shop. Oh, we are getting on swimmingly.’

Flamelight was flickering in the candled dusk. Lawford turned his head
and 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 shall
tell 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 these
jaunts, eh? That Ferguson business—that was too bad. What are we going
to do with the fellow now we have created him? He will come home to
roost—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, but
looked, 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—the
bride, her bridegroom, mother, aunts, cake, presents, finery, blushes,
tears, and everything that was hers. We’ve been in fits, haven’t we,
Mrs Lawford? 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
worry about, pray? And now Little Dorrit’s down with influenza too. And
Craik and I will have double work to do. Well, well; good-bye, my dear. God bless you, Lawford. I can’t tell you how relieved, how unspeakably
relieved I am to find you so much—so much better. Feed him up, my other
dear; body and mind and soul and spirit. And there goes the bell. I
must have a biscuit. I’ve swallowed nothing but a Cupid in plaster of
Paris since 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
seemed weighty 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 still hush of early morning. He tried in vain to catch back sleep
again. A distant shred of dream still floated in his mind, like a cloud
at evening. He rarely dreamed, but certainly something immensely
interesting had but a moment ago eluded him. He sat up and looked at
the clear red cinders and their maze of grottoes. He got out of bed and
peeped through the blinds. To the east and opposite to him gardens and
an apple-orchard lay, and there in strange liquid tranquillity hung the
morning star, and rose, rifling into the dusk of night, the first grey
of dawn. The street beneath its autumn leaves was vacant, charmed,
deserted. Hardly since childhood had Lawford seen the dawn unless over his winter
breakfast-table. Very much like a child now he stood gazing out of his
bow-window—the child whom Time’s busy robins had long ago covered over
with the leaves of numberless hours. A vague exultation fumed up into
his brain. Still on the borders of sleep, he unlocked the great
wardrobe and took out an old faded purple and crimson dressing-gown
that had belonged to his grandfather, the chief glory of every
Christmas charade. He pulled the cowl-like hood over his head and
strode majestically over to the looking-glass. He looked in there a moment on the strange face, like a child dismayed
at its own excitement, and a fit of sobbing that was half
uncontrollable laughter swept over him. He threw off the hood and
turned once more to the window. Consciousness had flooded back indeed. What would Sheila have said to see him there? The unearthly beauty and
stillness, and man’s small labours, garden and wall and roof-tree idle
and smokeless in the light of daybreak—there seemed to be some
half-told secret between them. What had life done with him to leave a
reality so clouded?