My only fear is that I am dragging you into a matter that should from
the beginning have been entrusted to—Oh, it’s monstrous!’ It appeared
for a moment as if she were blinking to keep back her tears, yet her
scrutiny seemed merely to harden. Only the merest flicker of the folded eyelids over the greenish eyes of
her visitor answered the challenge. He stood small and black, peeping
fixedly out of the window at the sunflecked laurels. ‘Last night,’ he said slowly, ‘when I said good-bye to your husband, on
the tip of my tongue were the words I have used, in season and out of
season, for nearly forty-five years—“God knows best.” Well, my dear
lady, a sense of humour, a sense of reverence, or perhaps even a taint
of scepticism—call it what you will—just intercepted them. Oh no, not
any of these, my child; just pity, overwhelming pity. God does know
best; but in a matter like this it is not even my place to say so. It
would be good for none of us to endanger our souls even with _verbal_
cant. Now, if, do you think, I had just five minutes’ talk—five
minutes; would it disquiet him?’

Only by an almost undignified haste, for the vicar was remarkably
agile, Sheila managed to unlock the bedroom door without apparently his
perceiving it, and with a warning finger she preceded him into the
great bedroom. ‘Oh, yes, yes,’ he was whispering to himself;
‘alone—well, well!’ He hung his hat on his umbrella and leaned it in a
corner, and then he turned. ‘I don’t think, you know, an old friend does him any wrong; but last
night I had no real oppor—’ He firmly adjusted his spectacles, and
looked long into the dark, dispassioned face. ‘H’m!’ he said, and fidgeted, and peered again. Mrs Lawford watched him
keenly. ‘Do you still—’ she began. But at the same moment he too broke silence, suddenly stepping back
with the innocent remark, ‘Has he—has he asked for anything?’

‘Only for Quain.’

‘“Quain”?’

‘The medical Dictionary.’

‘Oh, yes; bless me; of course.... A calm, complete sleep of utter
prostration—utter nervous prostration. And can one wonder? Poor fellow,
poor fellow!’ He walked to the window and peered between the blinds. ‘Sparrows, sunshine—yes, and here’s the postman,’ he said, as if to
himself. Then he turned sharply round, with mind made up. ‘Now, do you leave me here,’ he said. ‘Take half an hour’s quiet rest. He will be glad of a dull old fellow like me when he wakes. And as for
my pretty bride, if I miss the train, she must wait till the next. Good
discipline, my dear. Oh, dear me! _I_ don’t change. What a precious
experience now this would have been for a tottery, talkative, owlish
old parochial creature like me. But there, there. Light words make
heavy hearts, I see. I shall be quite comfortable. No, no, I
breakfasted at home. There’s hat and umbrella; at 9.3 I can fly.’

Mrs Lawford thanked him mutely. He smilingly but firmly bowed her out
and closed the door. But eyes and brain had been very busy. He had looked at the gutted
candle; at the tinted bland portrait on the dressing-table; at the
chair drawn-up; at the boots; and now again he turned almost with a
groan towards the sleeper. Then he took out an envelope, on which he
had jotted various memoranda, and waited awhile. Minutes passed and at
last the sleeper faintly stirred, muttering. Mr Bethany stooped quickly. ‘What is it, what is it?’ he whispered. Lawford sighed. ‘I was only dreaming, Sheila,’ he said, and softly,
peacefully opened his eyes. ‘I dreamed I was in the—’ His lids
narrowed, his dark eyes fixed themselves on the anxious spectacled face
bending over him. ‘Mr Bethany! Where? What’s wrong?’

His friend put out his hand. ‘There, there,’ he said soothingly, ‘do
not be disturbed; do not disquiet yourself.’

Lawford struggled up. Slowly, painfully consciousness returned to him. He glanced furtively round the room, at his clothes, slinkingly at the
vicar; licked his lips; flushed with extraordinary rapidity; and
suddenly burst into tears. Mr Bethany sat without movement, waiting till he should have spent
himself. ‘Now, Lawford,’ he said gently, ‘compose yourself, old friend. We must face the music—like men.’ He went to the window, drew up the
blind, peeped out, and took off his spectacles. ‘The first thing to be done,’ he said, returning briskly to his chair,
‘is to send for Simon. Now, does Simon know you _well?_’ Lawford shook
his head. ‘Would he recognise you?... I mean...’

‘I have only met him once—in the evening.’

‘Good; let him come immediately, then. Tell him just the facts. If I am
not mistaken, he will pooh-pooh the whole thing; tell you to keep
quiet, not to worry, and so on. My dear fellow, if we realised, say,
typhoid, who’d dare to face it? That will give us time; to wait a
while, to recover our breath, to see what happens next. And if—as I
don’t believe for a moment—Why, in that case I heard the other day of a
most excellent man—Grosser, of Wimpole Street; nerves. He would be
absorbed. He’ll bottle you in spirit, Lawford. We’ll have him down
quietly. You see? But there won’t be any necessity. Oh no. By then
light will have come. We shall remember. What I mean is this.’ He
crossed his legs and pushed out his lips. ‘We are on quaky ground; and
it’s absolutely essential that you keep cool, and trust. I am yours,
heart and soul—you know that. I own frankly, at first I was shaken. And
I have, I confess, been very cunning. But first, faith, then evidence
to bolster it up. The faith was absolute’—he placed one firm hand on
Lawford’s knee—‘why, I cannot explain; but it was. The evidence is
convincing. But there are others to think of. The shock, the
incredibleness, the consequences; we must not scan too closely. Think
_with_; never against: and bang go all the arguments. Your wife, poor
dear, believes; but of course, of course, she is horribly—’ he broke
off; ‘of course she is _shaken_, you old simpleton! Time will heal all
that. Time will wear out the mask. Time will tire out this detestable
physical witchcraft. The mind, the self’s the thing. Old fogey though I
may seem for saying it—that must be kept unsmirched. We won’t go
wearily over the painful subject again. You told me last night, dear
old friend, that you were absolutely alone at Widderstone. That is
enough. But here we have visible facts, tangible effects, and there
must have been a definite reason and a cause for them. I believe in the
devil, in the Powers of Darkness, Lawford, as firmly as I believe he
and they are powerless—in the long run. They—what shall we say?—have
surrendered their intrinsicality. You can just go through evil, as you
can go through a sewer, and come out on the other side too. A loathsome
process too. But there—we are not speaking of any such monstrosities,
and even if we were, you and I with God’s help would just tire them
out. And that ally gone, our poor dear old Mrs Grundy will at once
capitulate. Eh?