The Return | Page 7

of
his mind. He would go again some day, and sit on the little hard seat
beside the crooked tombstone of the friendless old Huguenot. He
opened a drawer, took out his razors, and, faintly whistling, returned to
the table and lit a second candle. And still with this strange heightened
sense of life stirring in his mind, he drew his hand gently over his chin
and looked unto the glass.
For an instant he stood head to foot icily still, without the least feeling,
or thought, or stir--staring into the looking-glass. Then an
inconceivable drumming beat on his ear. A warm surge, like the onset
of a wave, broke in him, flooding neck, face, forehead, even his hands
with colour. He caught himself up and wheeled deliberately and
completely round, his eyes darting to and fro, suddenly to fix

themselves in a prolonged stare, while he took a deep breath, caught
back his self-possession and paused. Then he turned and once more
confronted the changed strange face in the glass.
Without a sound he drew up a chair and sat down, just as he was, frigid
and appalled, at the foot of the bed. To sit like this, with a kind of
incredibly swift torrent of consciousness, bearing echoes and images
like straws and bubbles on its surface, could not be called thinking.
Some stealthy hand had thrust open the sluice of memory. And words,
voices, faces of mockery streamed through without connection,
tendency, or sense. His hands hung between his knees, a deep and
settled frown darkened the features stooping out of the direct rays of
the light, and his eyes wandered like busy and inquisitive, but stupid,
animals over the floor.
If, in that flood of unintelligible thoughts, anything clearly recurred at
all, it was the memory of Sheila. He saw her face, lit, transfigured,
distorted, stricken, appealing, horrified. His lids narrowed; a vague
terror and horror mastered him. He hid his eyes in his hands and cried
without sound, without tears, without hope, like a desolate child. He
ceased crying; and sat without stirring. And it seemed after an age of
vacancy and meaninglessness he heard a door shut downstairs, a distant
voice, and then the rustle of some one slowly ascending the stairs.
Some one turned the handle; in vain; tapped. 'Is that you, Arthur?'
For an instant Lawford paused, then like a child listening for an echo,
answered, 'Yes, Sheila.' And a sigh broke from him; his voice, except
for a little huskiness, was singularly unchanged.
'May I come in?' Lawford stood softly up and glanced once more into
the glass. His lips set tight, and a slight frown settled between the long,
narrow, intensely dark eyes.
'Just one moment, Sheila,' he answered slowly, 'just one moment.'
'How long will you be?'
He stood erect and raised his voice, gazing the while impassively into

the glass.
'It's no use,' he began, as if repeating a lesson, 'it's no use your asking
me, Sheila. Please give me a moment, a...I am not quite myself, dear,'
he added quite gravely.
The faintest hint of vexation was in the answer.
'What is the matter? Can't I help? It's so very absurd--'
'What is absurd?' he asked dully.
'Why, standing like this outside my own bedroom door. Are you ill? I
will send for Dr. Simon.'
'Please, Sheila, do nothing of the kind. I am not ill. I merely want a
little time to think in.' There was again a brief pause, and then a slight
rattling at the handle.
'Arthur, I insist on knowing at once what's wrong; this does not sound a
bit like yourself. It is not even quite like your own voice.'
'It is myself,' he replied stubbornly, staring fixedly into the glass. You
must give me a few moments, Sheila. Something has happened. My
face. Come back in an hour.'
'Don't be absurd; it's simply wicked to talk like that. How do I know
what you are doing? As if I can leave you for an hour in uncertainty!
Your face! If you don't open at once I shall believe there's something
seriously wrong: I shall send Ada for assistance.'
'If you do that, Sheila, it will be disastrous. I cannot answer for the
con--. Go quietly downstairs. Say I am unwell; don't wait dinner for me;
come back in an hour; oh, half an hour!'
The answer broke out angrily. 'You must be mad, beside yourself, to
ask such a thing. I shall wait in the next room until you call.'
'Wait where you please,' Lawford replied, 'but tell them downstairs.'

'Then if I tell them to wait until half-past eight, you will come down?
You say you are not ill: the dinner will be ruined. It's absurd.'
Lawford made no answer. He listened a