The Return

, and refreshingly still. The silence in which it lay seemed as keen and mellow as the light-the pale, almost heatless

such lonely ramblings, together with the feeling that his continued ill-health had grown a little irksome to his wife, and that now that he was really better she would be relieved at his absence, had induced him to wander on from home without much considering where the quiet lanes were leading

some time-worn inscription; stooping a little broodingly over the dark green graves. Not for the first time during the long laborious convalescence that had followed apparently so slight an indisposition, a fleeting sense almost as if of an unintelligible remorse had overtaken him, a vague thought that behind all these past years, hidden as it were from his daily life, lay something not yet quite reckoned with. How often as a boy had he been rapped into a galvani

he squat little belfry-'and then, without the slightest reason or warning, down you go, and it all begins to wear thin, and you get wondering what on earth it all means.' Memory slipped back for an instant to the life that in so unusual a fashion seemed to have floated a little aloof. Fortunately he had not dis

aint listless ideas made no more stir than the sunlight gilding the fading lea

moment paus

m chamber

once found

inds his sl

the Judgemen

everlast

, the echo of that whisper rather jarred. He was, he supposed, rather a dull creature-at least people seemed to think so-and he seldom felt at ease even with his own small facetiousness. Besides, just that kind of question was getting

y of Ann Hard, who

mes, her i

y a few everlastingly green cypresses and coral-fruited yew-trees. And above and beyond all hung a pale blue arch of sky with a few voyaging clouds like silvered wool, and the calm wide curves of stubble field and pasture land. He stood with vacant eyes, not in th

ly facing each other with worn-out, sightless faces. A low curved granite canopy arched over the grave, with a crevice so wide between its stones that Lawford actually

e ye Bon

ier, a Stranger

y his own

Michael an

CXX

evidently; probably Huguenot. And the Huguenots, he remembered vaguely, were a rather remarkable 'crowd.' He had, he thought, even played at 'Huguenots' once. What was the man's name? Coligny; yes, of course, Coligny. 'And I suppose,' Lawford continued, muttering to himself, 'I suppose this poor beggar was put here out of the way. The

fellow had some kind of brains. Besides, poor devil! he killed himself. That seems to hint at brains... Oh, for goodness' sake!' he cried out; so loud that the sound of

ny, pale-green, faintly conspicuous eyes of a large spider, confronting his own. It was for the moment an alarming, and yet a faintly fascinating experience. The little almost colourless fires remained so changeless. But st

oon to be returning, and for good. He began to realize how ludicrous a spectacle he must be, kneeling here amid the we

. He leant his hand on the stone and lifted himself on to the low wooden seat nearby. He drew off his glove and thrust his bare hand under

e wings everlastingly folded. The robin that had been his only living witness lifted its throat, and broke, as if from the uttermost outskirts of reality, into its shrill, passionless song. Lawford moved heavy eyes from one object to another-bird-sun-gilded stone-those two small earth-worn faces-his hands-a stirring in the grass as of some creature labouring to clim

he west, dimly illuminating with its band of light the huddled figure on his low wood seat, his right hand still pressed against a faintly beating heart. Dusk gathered; the first white stars appeared; out of the shadowy fields a nightjar purred. But there was only the silence of the falli

ndering night-beast to the indiscriminate stir and echoings of the darkness. He cocked his head above his shoulder and listened again, then turned upon the soundless grass towards the hill. He

oon walking swiftly, almost trotting, downhill with this vivid exaltation in the huge dark night in his heart, and Sheila merely a little angry Titianesque cloud on a scarcely perceptible horizon. He had no notion of the time; the golden hands o

creasing pleasure in this long, wolf-like stride. He turned round occasionally to look into the face of some fellow-wayfarer whom he had overtaken, for he felt not only this unusual animation, this peculiar zest, but that, like a boy on some secret errand, he had slightly disguised his very presence, was going masked, a

s bedroom door. It was closed, but no answer came. He opened it, shut it, locked it, and sat down on the bedside for a moment, in the darkness, so that he could scarcely hear any other sound, as

. It seemed as if a heavy and dull dream had withdrawn out 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

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, sud

ke 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 sen

gue 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 ag

an echo, answered, 'Yes, Sheila.' And a sigh broke from him; hi

more into the glass. His lips set tight, and a slight fr

ila,' he answered slo

ng will

is voice, gazing the while

no use your asking me, Sheila. Please give me a moment,

t of vexation wa

r? Can't I help? I

surd?' he a

e my own bedroom door. Are you

merely want a little time to think in.' There was again

wrong; this does not sound a bit like yourse

into the glass. You must give me a few moments, Sheila.

g? As if I can leave you for an hour in uncertainty! Your face! If you don't open at on

er for the con-. Go quietly downstairs. Say I am unwell; don'

ad, beside yourself, to ask such a thing. I

' Lawford replied, 'but

eight, you will come down? You say you are no

ally?-really?' He sat there and it seemed to him his body was transparent as glass. It seemed he had no body at all-only the memory of an hallucinatory reflection in the glass, and this inward voice crying, arguin

ightest emotion, even to his fainter secondary thoughts; as if these unfamiliar features were not entirely within control. He could not, in fact, without the glass before him, tell precisely what that face WAS expressing. He was still, it seemed, keen