Her
husband had turned the flame of the lamp low down in the vacant room
behind them; the corridor was lit obscurely by the chandelier far down
in the hall below. A faint, inexplicable dread fell softly and coldly
on her heart. ‘Have you no trust in me?’ she murmured a little
bitterly. ‘I have simply told him the truth.’

They softly descended the stairs; she first, the dark figure following
close behind her. CHAPTER THREE


Mr Bethany sat awaiting them in the dining-room, a large,
heavily-furnished room with a great benign looking-glass on the
mantelpiece, a marble clock, and with rich old damask curtains. Fleecy
silver hair was all that was visible of their visitor when they
entered. But Mr Bethany rose out of his chair when he heard them, and
with a little jerk, turned sharply round. Thus it was that the
gold-spectacled vicar and Lawford first confronted each other, the one
brightly illuminated, the other framed in the gloom of the doorway. Mr
Bethany’s first scrutiny was timid and courteous, but beneath it he
tried to be keen, and himself hastened round the table almost at a
trot, to obtain, as delicately as possible, a closer view. But Lawford,
having shut the door behind him, had gone straight to the fire and
seated himself, leaning his face in his hands. Mr Bethany smiled
faintly, waved his hand almost as if in blessing, but certainly in
peace, and tapped Mrs Lawford into the chair upon the other side. But
he himself remained standing. ‘Mrs Lawford has, I declare, been telling family secrets,’ he began,
and paused, peering. ‘But there, you will forgive an old friend’s
intrusion—this little confidence about a change, my dear fellow—about a
ramble and a change?’ He sat down, put up his kind little puckered face
and peered again at Lawford, and then very hastily at his wife. But all
her attention was centred on the bowed figure opposite to her. Lawford
responded to this cautious advance without raising his head. ‘You do not wish me to repeat all that my wife tells me she has told
you?’

‘Dear me, no,’ said Mr Bethany cheerfully, ‘I wish nothing, nothing,
old friend. You must not burden yourself with me. If I may be of any
help, here I am.... Oh, no, no....’ he paused, with blinking eyes, but
wits still shrewd and alert. Why doesn’t the man raise his head? he
thought. A mere domestic dispute! ‘I thought,’ he went on ruminatingly, ‘I thought on Tuesday, yes, on
Tuesday, that you weren’t looking quite the thing. Indeed, I remarked
on it. But now, I understand from Mrs Lawford that the malady has taken
a graver turn—eh, Lawford, an heretical turn? I hear you have been
wandering from the true fold.’ Mr Bethany leaned forward with what
might be described as a very large smile in a very small compass. ‘And
that, of course, entailed instant retribution.’ He broke off solemnly. ‘I know Widderstone churchyard well; a most verdant and beautiful spot. The late rector, a Mr Strickland, was a very old friend of mine. And
his wife, dear good Alicia, used to set out her babies, in the morning,
to sleep and to play there, twenty, dear me, perhaps twenty-five years
ago. But I did not know, my dear Lawford, that you—’ and suddenly,
without an instant’s warning, something seemed to shout at him, ‘Look,
look! He is looking at you!’ He stopped, faltered, and a slight warmth
came into his face. ‘And and you were taken ill there?’ His voice had
fallen flat and faint. ‘I fell asleep—or something of that sort,’ came the stubborn reply. ‘Yes,’ said Mr Bethany, brightly, ‘so your wife was saying. “Fell
asleep,” so have I too—scores of times’; he beamed, with beads of sweat
glistening on his forehead. ‘And then? I’m not, I’m not persisting?’

‘Then I woke; refreshed, I think, as it seemed—I felt much better and
came home.’

‘Ah, yes,’ said his visitor. And after that there was a long, brightly
lit, intense pause; at the end of which Lawford raised his face and
again looked firmly at his friend. Mr Bethany was now a shrunken old man; he sat perfectly still, his head
craned a little forward, and his veined hands clutching his bent, spare
knees. There wasn’t the least sign of devilry, or out-facingness, or insolence
in that lean shadowy steady head; and yet he himself was compelled to
sidle his glance away, so much the face shook him. He closed his eyes,
too, as a cat does after exchanging too direct a scrutiny with human
eyes. He put out towards, and withdrew, a groping hand from Mrs
Lawford. ‘Is it,’ came a voice from somewhere, ‘is it a great change, sir? I
thought perhaps I may have exaggerated—candle-light, you know.’

Mr Bethany remained still and silent, striving to entertain one thought
at a time. His lips moved as if he were talking to himself. And again
it was Lawford’s faltering voice that broke the silence. ‘You see,’ he
said, ‘I have never... no fit, or anything of that kind before. I
remember on Tuesday... oh yes, quite well. I did feel seedy, very. And
we talked, didn’t we?—Harvest Festival, Mrs Wine’s flowers, the new
offertory-bags, and all that. For God’s sake, Vicar, it is not as bad
as—as they make out?’

Mr Bethany woke with a start. He leaned forward, and stretched out a
long black wrinkled sleeve, just managing to reach far enough to tap
Lawford’s knee. ‘Don’t worry, don’t worry,’ he said soothingly. ‘We
believe, we believe.’

It was, none the less, a sheer act of faith. He took off his spectacles
and took out his handkerchief. ‘What we must do, eh, my dear,’ he half
turned to Mrs Lawford, ‘what we must do is to consult, yes, consult
together. And later—we must have advice—medical advice; unless, as I
very much suspect, it is merely a little quite temporary physical
aberration. Science, I am told, is making great strides, experimenting,
groping after things which no sane man has ever dreamed of
before—without being burned alive for it. What’s in a name? Nerves,
especially, Lawford.’

Mrs Lawford sat perfectly still, absorbedly listening, turning her face
first this way, then that, to each speaker in turn. ‘That is what I
thought,’ she said, and cast one fleeting glance across at the
fireplace, ‘but—’

The little old gentleman turned sharply with half-blind eyes, and lips
tight shut. ‘I think,’ he said, with a hind of austere humour, ‘I
think, do you know, I see no “but.”’ He paused as if to catch the echo
and added, ‘It’s our only course.’ He continued to polish round and
round his glasses. Mrs Lawford rather magnificently rose. ‘Perhaps if I were to leave you together awhile? I shall not be far
off. It is,’ she explained, as if into a huge vacuum, ‘it is a terrible
visitation.’ She moved gravely round the table and very softly and
firmly closed the door after her. Lawford took a deep breath. ‘Of course,’ he said, ‘you realise my wife
does not believe me. She thinks,’ he explained naively, as if to
himself, ‘she thinks I am an imposter. Goodness knows what she does
think. I can’t think much myself—for long!’

The vicar rubbed busily on.