Twilight Sleep (26 page)

"Of course I excuse you, Arthur. Do sit down—here by the fire.
You must be cold after your wet journey … so unseasonable,
after the weather we've been having. Nona will ring for tea,"
Pauline said, with her accent of indomitable hospitality.

Nona, that night, in her mother's doorway, wavered a moment and
then turned back. "Well, then—goodnight, mother."

"Goodnight, child."

But Mrs. Manford seemed to waver too. She stood there in her rich
dusky draperies, and absently lifted a hand to detach one after the
other of her long earrings. It was one of Mrs. Manford's rules
never to keep up her maid to undress her.

"Can I unfasten you, mother?"

"Thanks, dear, no; this teagown slips off so easily. You must be
tired…"

"No; I'm not tired. But you…"

"I'm not either." They stood irresolute on the threshold of the
warm shadowy room lit only by a waning sparkle from the hearth.
Pauline switched on the lamps.

"Come in then, dear." Her strained smile relaxed, and she laid a
hand on her daughter's shoulder. "Well, it's over," she said, in
the weary yet satisfied tone in which Nona had sometimes heard her
pronounce the epitaph of a difficult but successful dinner.

Nona followed her, and Pauline sank down in an armchair near the
fire. In the shaded lamplight, with the glint of the fire playing
across her face, and her small head erect on still comely
shoulders, she had a sweet dignity of aspect which moved her
daughter incongruously.

"I'm so thankful you've never bobbed your hair, mother."

Mrs. Manford stared at this irrelevancy; her stare seemed to say
that she was resigned to her daughter's verbal leaps, but had long
since renounced the attempt to keep up with them.

"You're so handsome just as you are," Nona continued. "I can
understand dear old Exhibit's being upset when he saw you here, in
the same surroundings, and looking, after all, so much as you must
have in his day… And when he himself is so changed…"

Pauline lowered her lids over the vision. "Yes. Poor Arthur!"
Had she ever, for the last fifteen years, pronounced her former
husband's name without adding that depreciatory epithet? Somehow
pity—an indulgent pity—was always the final feeling he evoked.
She leaned back against the cushions, and added: "It was certainly
unfortunate, his taking it into his head to come out here. I
didn't suppose he would have remembered so clearly how everything
looked… The Sargent of Jim on the pony… Do you think he
minded?"

"Its having been moved to father's room? Yes; I think he did."

"But, Nona, he's always been so grateful to your father for what
he's done for Jim—and for Lita. He ADMIRES your father. He's
often told me so."

"Yes."

"At any rate, once he was here, I couldn't do less than ask him to
stay to dine."

"No; you couldn't. Especially as there was no train back till
after dinner."

"And, after all, I don't, to this minute, know what he came for!"

Nona lifted her eyes from an absorbed contemplation of the fire.
"You don't?"

"Oh, of course, in a vague way, to talk about Jim and Lita. The
same old things we've heard so many times. But I quieted him very
soon about that. I told him Lita had been perfectly happy here—
that the experiment had been a complete success. He seemed
surprised that she had given up all her notions about Hollywood and
Klawhammer … apparently Amalasuntha has been talking a lot of
nonsense to him … but when I said that Lita had never once
spoken of Hollywood, and that she was going home the day after
tomorrow to join her husband, it seemed to tranquillize him
completely. Didn't he seem to you much quieter when he drove off?"

"Yes; he was certainly quieter. But he seemed to want particularly
to see Lita."

Pauline drew a quick breath. "Yes. On the whole I was glad she
wasn't here. Lita has never known how to manage Arthur, and her
manner is sometimes so irritating. She might have said something
that would have upset him again. It was really a relief when your
father telephoned that they had decided to dine at Greystock—
though I could see that Arthur thought that funny too. His ideas
have never progressed an inch; he's always remained as old–
fashioned as his mother." She paused a moment, and then went on:
"I saw you were a little startled when I asked him if he wouldn't
like to spend the night. But I didn't want to appear inhospitable."

"No; not in this house," Nona agreed with her quick smile. "And of
course one knew he wouldn't—"

Pauline sighed. "Poor Arthur! He's always so punctilious."

"It wasn't only that. He was suffering horribly."

"About Lita? So foolish! As if he couldn't trust her to us—"

"Not only about Lita. But just from the fact of being here—of
having all his old life thrust back on him. He seemed utterly
unprepared for it—as if he'd really succeeded in not thinking
about it at all for years. And suddenly there it was: like the
drowning man's vision. A drowning man—that's what he was like."

Pauline straightened herself slightly, and Nona saw her brows
gather in a faint frown. "What dreadful ideas you have! I thought
I'd never seen him looking better; and certainly he didn't take too
much wine at dinner."

"No; he was careful about that."

"And I was careful too. I managed to give a hint to Powder." Her
frown relaxed, and she leaned back with another sigh, this time of
appeasement. After all, her look seemed to say, she was not going
to let herself be unsettled by Nona's mortuary images, now that the
whole business was over, and she had every reason to congratulate
herself on her own share in it.

Nona (but it was her habit!) appeared less sure. She hung back a
moment, and then said: "I haven't told you yet. On the way down
to dinner…"

"What, dear?"

"I met him on the upper landing. He asked to see the baby …
that was natural…"

Pauline drew her lips in nervously. She had thought she had all
the wires in her hands; and here was one—She agreed with an
effort: "Perfectly natural."

"The baby was asleep, looking red and jolly. He stood over the
crib a long time. Luckily it wasn't the old nursery."

"Really, Nona! He could hardly expect—"

"No; of course not. Then, just as we were going downstairs, he
said: 'Funny, how like Jim the child is growing. Reminds me of
that old portrait.' And he jerked out at me: 'Could I see it?'"

"What—the Sargent?"

Nona nodded. "Could I refuse him?"

"I suppose that was natural too."

"So I took him into father's study. He seemed to remember every
step of the way. He stood and looked and looked at the picture.
He didn't say anything … didn't answer when I spoke… I saw
that it went through and through him."

"Well, Nona, byegones are byegones. But people do bring things
upon themselves, sometimes—"

"Oh, I know, mother."

"Some people might think it peculiar, his rambling about the house
like that—his coming here at all, with his ideas of delicacy! But
I don't blame him; and I don't want you to," Pauline continued
firmly. "After all, it's just as well he came. He may have been a
little upset at the moment; but I managed to calm him down; and I
certainly proved to him that everything's all right, and that
Dexter and I can be trusted to know what's best for Lita." She
paused, and then added: "Do you know, I'm rather inclined not to
mention his visit to your father—or to Lita. Now it's over, why
should they be bothered?"

"No reason at all." Nona rose from her crouching attitude by the
fire, and stretched her arms above her head. "I'll see that Powder
doesn't say anything. And besides, he wouldn't. He always seems
to know what needs explaining and what doesn't. He ought to be
kept to avert cataclysms, like those fire–extinguishers in the
passages… Goodnight, mother—I'm beginning to be sleepy."

Yes; it was all over and done with; and Pauline felt that she had a
right to congratulate herself. She had not told Nona how
"difficult" Wyant had been for the first few minutes, when the girl
had slipped out of the library after tea and left them alone. What
was the use of going into all that? Pauline had been a little
nervous at first—worried, for instance, as to what might happen if
Dexter and Lita should walk in while Arthur was in that queer
excited state, stamping up and down the library floor, and
muttering, half to himself and half to her: "Damn it, am I in my
own house or another man's? Can anybody answer me that?"

But they had not walked in, and the phase of excitability had soon
been over. Pauline had only had to answer: "You're in MY house,
Arthur, where, as Jim's father, you're always welcome…" That
had put a stop to his ravings, shamed him a little, and so brought
him back to his sense of what was due to the occasion, and to his
own dignity.

"My dear—you must excuse me. I'm only an intruder here, I know—"

And when she had added: "Never in my house, Arthur. Sit down,
please, and tell me what you want to see me about—" why, at that
question, quietly and reasonably put, all his bluster had dropped,
and he had sat down as she bade him, and begun, in his ordinary
tone, to rehearse the old rigmarole about Jim and Lita, and Jim's
supineness, and Lita's philanderings, and what would the end of it
be, and did she realize that the woman was making a laughing–stock
of their son—yes, that they were talking about it at the clubs?

After that she had had no trouble. It had been easy to throw a
little gentle ridicule over his apprehensions, and then to reassure
him by her report of her own talk with Lita (though she winced even
now at its conclusion), and the affirmation that the Cedarledge
experiment had been entirely successful. Then, luckily, just as
his questions began to be pressing again—as he began to hint at
some particular man, she didn't know who—Powder had come in to
show him up to one of the spare–rooms to prepare for dinner; and
soon after dinner the motor was at the door, and Powder (again
acting for Providence) had ventured to suggest, sir, that in view
of the slippery state of the roads it would be well to get off as
promptly as possible. And Nona had taken over the seeing–off, and
with a long sigh of relief Pauline had turned back into the
library, where Wyant's empty whisky–and–soda glass and ash–tray
stood, so uncannily, on the table by her husband's armchair. Yes;
she had been thankful when it was over…

And now she was thankful that it had happened. The encounter had
fortified her confidence in her own methods and given her a new
proof of her power to surmount obstacles by smiling them away. She
had literally smiled Arthur out of the house, when some women, in a
similar emergency, would have made a scene, or stood on their
dignity. Dignity! Hers consisted, more than ever, in believing
the best of every one, in persuading herself and others that to
impute evil was to create it, and to disbelieve it was to prevent
its coming into being. Those were the Scientific Initiate's very
words: "We manufacture sorrow as we do all the other toxins." How
grateful she was to him for that formula! And how light and happy
it made her feel to know that she had borne it in mind, and proved
its truth, at so crucial a moment! She looked back with pity at
her own past moods of distrust, her wretched impulses of jealousy
and suspicion, the moments when even those nearest her had not been
proof against her morbid apprehensions…

How absurd and far away it all seemed now! Jim was coming back the
day after tomorrow. Lita and the baby were going home to him. And
the day after that they would all be going back to town; and then
the last touches would be put to the ceremonial of the Cardinal's
reception. Oh, she and Powder would have their hands full! All of
the big silver–gilt service would have to be got out of the safety
vaults and gone over… Luckily the last reports of Mrs. Bruss's
state were favourable, and no doubt Maisie would be back as
usual… Yes, life was really falling into its usual busy and
pleasurable routine. Rest in the country was all very well; but
rest, if overdone, became fatiguing…

She found herself in bed, the lights turned off, and sleep
descending on her softly.

Before it held her, she caught, through misty distances, the sound
of her husband's footfall, the opening and shutting of his door,
and the muffled noises of his undressing. Well … so he was
back … and Lita … silly Lita … no harm, really…
Just as well they hadn't met poor Arthur… Everything was all
right … the Cardinal…

Pauline sat up suddenly in bed. It was as if an invisible hand had
touched a spring in her spinal column, and set her upright in the
darkness before she was aware of any reason for it.

No doubt she had heard something through her sleep; but what? She
listened for a repetition of the sound.

All was silence. She stretched out her hand to an onyx knob on the
table by her bed, and instantly the face of a miniature clock was
illuminated, and the hour chimed softly; two strokes followed by
one. Half–past two—the silentest hour of the night; and in the
vernal hush of Cedarledge! Yet certainly there had been a sound—
a sharp explosive sound… Again! There it was: a revolver
shot … somewhere in the house…

Burglars?

Her feet were in her slippers, her hand on the electric light
switch. All the while she continued to listen intently. Dead
silence everywhere…

But how had burglars got in without starting the alarm? Ah—she
remembered! Powder had orders never to set it while any one was
out of the house; it was Dexter who should have seen that it was
connected when he got back from Greystock with Lita. And naturally
he had forgotten to.

Pauline was on her feet, her hair smoothed back under her fillet–
shaped cap of silver lace, her "rest–gown" of silvery silk slipped
over her night–dress. This emergency garb always lay at her
bedside in case of nocturnal alarms, and she was equipped in an
instant, and had already reconnected the burglar–alarm, and sounded
the general summons for Powder, the footmen, the gardeners and
chauffeurs. Her hand played irresolutely over the complicated
knobs of the glittering switchboard which filled a panel of her
dressing–room; then she pressed the button marked "Engine–house."
Why not? There had been a series of bad suburban burglaries
lately, and one never knew… It was just as well to rouse the
neighbourhood… Dexter was so careless. Very likely he had
left the front door open.

Silence still—profounder than ever. Not a sound since that second
shot, if shot it was. Very softly she opened her door and paused
in the anteroom between her room and her husband's. "Dexter!" she
called.

No answer; no responding flash of light. Men slept so heavily.
She opened, lighted—"Dexter!"

The room was empty, her husband's bed unslept in. But then—what?
Those sounds of his return? Had she been dreaming when she thought
she heard them? Or was it the burglars she had heard, looting his
room, a few feet off from where she lay? In spite of her physical
courage a shiver ran over her…

But if Dexter and Lita were not yet back, whence had the sound of
the shot come, and who had fired it? She trembled at the thought
of Nona—Nona and the baby! They were alone with the baby's nurse
on the farther side of the house. And the house seemed suddenly so
immense, so resonant, so empty…

In the shadowy corridor outside her room she paused again for a
second, straining her ears for a guiding sound; then she sped on,
pushing back the swinging door which divided the farther wing from
hers, turning on the lights with a flying hand as she ran… On
the deeply carpeted floors her foot–fall made no sound, and she had
the sense of skimming over the ground inaudibly, like something
ghostly, disembodied, which had no power to break the hush and make
itself heard…

Half way down the passage she was startled to see the door of
Lita's bedroom open. Sounds at last—sounds low, confused and
terrified—issued from it. What kind of sounds? Pauline could not
tell; they were rushing together in a vortex in her brain. She
heard herself scream "Help!" with the strangled voice of a
nightmare, and was comforted to feel the rush of other feet behind
her: Powder, the men–servants, the maids. Thank God the system
worked! Whatever she was coming to, at least they would be there
to help…

She reached the door, pushed it—and it unexpectedly resisted.
Some one was clinging to it on the inner side, struggling to hold
it shut, to prevent her entering. She threw herself against it
with all her strength, and saw her husband's arm and hand in the
gap. "Dexter!"

"Oh, God." He fell back, and the door with him. Pauline went in.

All the lights were on—the room was a glare. Another man stood
shivering and staring in a corner, but Pauline hardly noticed him,
for before her on the floor lay Lita's long body, in a loose
spangled robe, flung sobbing over another body.

"Nona—Nona!" the mother screamed, rushing forward to where they
lay.

She swept past her husband, dragged Lita back, was on her knees on
the floor, her child pressed to her, Nona's fallen head against her
breast, Nona's blood spattering the silvery folds of the rest–gown,
destroying it forever as a symbol of safety and repose.

"Nona—child! What's happened? Are you hurt? Dexter—for pity's
sake! Nona, look at me! It's mother, darling, mother—"

Nona's eyes opened with a flutter. Her face was ashen–white, and
empty as a baby's. Slowly she met her mother's agonized stare.
"All right … only winged me." Her gaze wavered about the
disordered room, lifting and dropping in a butterfly's bewildered
flight. Lita lay huddled on the couch in her spangles, twisted and
emptied, like a festal garment flung off by its wearer. Manford
stood between, his face a ruin. In the corner stood that other
man, shrinking, motionless. Pauline's eyes, following her child's,
travelled on to him.

"Arthur!" she gasped out, and felt Nona's feeble pressure on her
arm.

"Don't … don't… It was an accident. Father—an accident!
FATHER!"

The door of the room was wide now, and Powder stood there,
unnaturally thin and gaunt in his improvised collarless garb,
marshalling the gaping footmen, with gardeners, chauffeurs and
maids crowding the corridor behind them. It was really marvellous,
how Pauline's system had worked.

Manford turned to Arthur Wyant, his stony face white with revenge.
Wyant still stood motionless, his arms hanging down, his body
emptied of all its strength, a broken word that sounded like
"honour" stumbling from his bedraggled lips.

"FATHER!" At Nona's faint cry Manford's arm fell to his side also,
and he stood there as powerless and motionless as the other.

"All an accident … " breathed from the white lips against
Pauline.

Powder had stepped forward. His staccato orders rang back over his
shoulder. "Ring up the doctor. Have a car ready. Scour the
gardens… One of the women here! Madam's maid!"

Manford suddenly roused himself and swung about with dazed eyes on
the disheveled group in the doorway. "Damn you, what are you doing
here, all of you? Get out—get out, the lot of you! Get out, I
say! Can't you hear me?"

Powder bent a respectful but controlling eye on his employer.
"Yes, sir; certainly, sir. I only wish to state that the burglar's
mode of entrance has already been discovered." Manford met this
with an unseeing stare, but the butler continued imperturbably:
"Thanks to the rain, sir. He got in through the pantry window; the
latch was forced, and there's muddy footprints on my linoleum, sir.
A tramp was noticed hanging about this afternoon. I can give
evidence—"

He darted swiftly between the two men, bent to the floor, and
picked up something which he slipped quickly and secretly into his
pocket. A moment later he had cleared his underlings from the
threshold, and the door was shut on them and him.

"Dexter," Pauline cried, "help me to lift her to the bed."

Outside, through the watchful hush of the night, a rattle and roar
came up the drive. It filled the silence with an unnatural
clamour, immense, mysterious and menacing. It was the Cedarledge
fire–brigade, arriving double quick in answer to their benefactress's
summons.

Pauline, bending over her daughter's face, fancied she caught a wan
smile on it…