The Dawn of Reckoning (18 page)

“Well? Being a brave little woman you immediately got out of bed, tackled
him, gave the alarm, and sent for the police. Isn’t that right?”

“Don’t
you
be silly,” she said scathingly. “It wasn’t a burglar. It
was Philip. He just walked quietly to the bedroom door and went out…But it
wasn’t what he did; it was the way he looked—his face…It was all
twisted…”

The danger light was in her eyes again, and he put a calming hand over her
wrist. “Yes. I understand. Now I don’t want you to tell me any more about
that. Lock your bedroom door in future. That’s a very simple remedy.’

“Yes, of course. I did lock my door, and then one morning during breakfast
Philip said: ‘So you barricade yourself in at nights now?’—Just
that—nothing more. But I knew—I knew from the tone of his voice
that he knew I had seen him. And I’m certain that when I get back to-night
he’ll know where I’ve been. I’m certain, I’m certain—”

“Now, just a moment—”

“It’s no use trying to talk me round. I feel I’m going mad in that awful
old house day after day and night after night—I can’t endure it much
longer—I know I can’t. Something in my head will break suddenly, and
then—”

“Mrs. Monsell.” He looked at her earnestly until she had regained some
measure of calmness, and then went on: “From what you have told me I should
imagine that both you and Philip are suffering from a severe attack of
nerves. As regards Philip, it isn’t at all unusual after a bad illness.
Anyhow, I’ll come round and observe things for myself. I’ll just run up some
evening unexpectedly and stay for dinner. Will that suit you?”

She nodded without much enthusiasm; it was as if her excitement had been
quenched suddenly by a fit of exhaustion.

They dropped the subject then. He talked to her of his medical work in
Bethnal Green, and from that the conversation turned to the polar expedition
and his adventures in the South. He told her that another South Polar
expedition had been projected, and that he had been asked by the promoters to
join it.

“And will you?” she said, with a strange fearfulness at her heart.

His answer was: “I might. I shall think about it.”

Then they had to leave in time for her to catch the last train but one
back to Chassingford. As they left the café, newsboys were rushing through
the streets crying out: “Great Fog over London. M.P.‘s Tragic Death…”

Ward bought a paper, but did not glance at it until he had seen Stella
safely on the train. Then, leaning against a pillar underneath a light, he
read: “Among the victims of to-day’s fog was Mr. James Grainger, M.P. He was
knocked down by a lorry whilst crossing the Strand, and although the vehicle
pulled up in time, he fell badly, fracturing the base of the skull and dying
almost immediately…His death necessitates a bye-election in the
Chassingford division of Essex…”

There was no chance of any assiduous newspaper-reader
forgetting Chassingford in the days that followed. Ward was by no means an
assiduous newspaper-reader, but on this occasion he took the trouble to
glance at a few head-lines, and from these he gathered (very vaguely, for he
knew next to nothing about politics) that popular feeling was beginning to
turn against the Government of the day, and that such popular feeling was
expected to find an outlet in the Chassingford bye-election. It was to be a
“key” election, to which the big guns of all parties would give their keenest
attention. And within a few days of the funeral of the late Mr. Grainger it
was announced officially that Philip Monsell would stand again for the
constituency.

Ward was not surprised. He wondered, though, whether the impending
election would help or hinder him in his task of judging the peculiarities of
life at the Hall. In one sense the mere announcement of Philip’s candidature
helped him to judge, for it was obvious that there could not be very much
amiss with a man who had offered himself and had been accepted as a
Parliamentary candidate. And if, therefore, there was nothing wrong with
Philip, with whom did the wrong lie? He could see only one answer, and it
both hurt and worried him.

He was on the point of making his own personal arrangement to visit
Chassingford one evening when the following letter arrived, solving his
problem to some extent:

“
My Dear Ward
,—As you may
perhaps have seen from the papers, I am once again in the turmoil of an
election campaign. I should be delighted, however, if you could come up to
see us one evening and stay the night. I have to be out a good deal, of
course, but if you would let me know a date that suited you I would try to
arrange to be in for at least a part of the evening.

“By the way, could you lend me a revolver—the more
murderous-looking the better? There have been a good many attempted
burglaries round here lately, and once or twice, when I have been working
late, I have had the idea that men were trying to get into the house.
Recently also I have had several threatening letters, though these are quite
possibly political hoaxes. Any-how, as you know, I am temperamentally rather
nervous, and I should feel better if I had a revolver in one of my
desk-drawers. Could you bring me one when you come? But for goodness sake
don’t bring it loaded, as that would only make me more nervous than ever. My
idea is to frighten any intruders, you see.

“Stella and I both hope we shall see you very soon. My
health is not so bad, considering the strain of the campaign. Stella,
however, seems run down and low-spirited—I think she is even more
scared of burglars than I am.—Yours cordially,

“
Philip
.”

Ward nodded to himself as he read it. It seemed to confirm both his hopes
and his fears. Philip was all right, evidently; it was Stella who was in a
far more serious condition.

He wrote to Philip suggesting the following Wednesday evening, but making
it clear that he could not stay overnight. And after posting the letter he
examined some of his old polar kit and selected a villainous-looking fire-arm
that he had used on the ice-floes of Adelie Land for killing seals. He smiled
at the notion of the mild-mannered, pacifically-inclined Philip flourishing
such a weapon.

Chassingford, when Ward reached it at twilight on the
following Wednesday evening, betrayed all the evidences of having been
violently wakened up. There was a life, a pulsating activity everywhere,
which Ward, knowing the place very well, had never witnessed before. At the
corner where the station approach curved into the High Street, a great
hoard-ing advised the passer-by to “Vote for Monsell,” and beneath the fat
red letters was a head-and-shoulders photograph of Philip, more than
life-size, that made him look almost Napoleonic. Unfortunately, just as Ward
passed by, some urchin with opposite political views aimed a dollop of mud
very accurately on Philip’s nose and mouth. The urchin ran away and Ward
laughed.

He was still laughing when he saw a car, gaily decorated with red and blue
streamers, draw up at the kerb near-by. In front of the radiator was a card:
“Vote for Monsell.” And in the car was Philip himself.

Now Philip had seen the mud-throwing incident. Ward was certain of it from
the look in his eyes. It was a look of fierce, consuming hatred, the kind
that is powerless to hurt anyone save its possessor. It was obviously hurting
Philip. His eyes kept looking first at the defaced poster and then at the
grey distance into which the urchin had disappeared. And then, quite
suddenly, he saw Ward.

His face changed then, as quickly as the removal of a mask. With some
agility he got out of the car and went up to Ward with a cordially
outstretched hand. “Hallo, old chap…How are you?…So glad you’ve come.
You’re looking fit. Just hop into the car, will you?…Home, Stimpson…”

Ward, never very communicative at first, smiled a greeting and settled
himself into a corner of the car. One thing he noticed; Philip both talked
and looked more like a public man. There was a new verve about him; almost a
personality
. His slang phrases—his “Halo, old chap,” and “hop
into the car” showed the extent of his improvement. And if he had not been
able to laugh at a small boy throwing mud at his photograph, well, perhaps
that was an irremediable deficiency in sense of humour.

The car was an open touring-car, and the journey through the pleasant
chilly twilight gave some impression of the extent to which the bye-election
had roused Chassingford from its customary lethargy. The High Street
presented a litter of posters and hoardings—“Vote for
Monsell”—and “Vote for Stookes”; Monsell was championed by most of the
big shops, but Stookes seemed strong in the residential roads that branched
out from the High Street. As they passed one rather busy corner a group of
children booed vociferously. Ward smiled, but once again Philip seemed hurt,
even by such a paltry matter.

In the open road between the town and the Hall Philip became very cordial.
“I’m so glad you’ve come, Ward. For one thing, it will be a change for
Stella. She likes you, and as a matter of fact, she gets rather bored with
living at a dull place like this.”

“Dull? I shouldn’t call it dull at present. Isn’t she working in the
election?”

Philip spoke more quietly. “No, she’s not. I wish she were, but she
doesn’t appear to want to, and I don’t care to persuade her. The fact is, she
suffers terribly from nerves. Are you a nerve specialist at all?

“Well, I shouldn’t call myself that. But of course I know something about
nerves. What exactly is the matter with—with Mrs. Monsell?”

Philip considered. “Well, she’s frightened. She’s frightened of any sudden
noise, or anything—anything that comes unexpectedly. By the way, while
I think of it—did you bring me that revolver?”

“It’s safely packed away in my bag.”

“Good. Well, that’s an instance—don’t let Stella see it. It’s the
sort of thing that would most certainly frighten her. See?”

“Quite. And if you like I’ll try to diagnose what’s wrong, so far as I can
without seeming inquisitive.”

“I wish you would. I shall be going out to a meeting almost immediately
after dinner, so you’ll be alone with her for a little while.”

“Wouldn’t she care for us all to go to the meeting?”

“I think not. She hates politics. She’s often told me so. I’m sure she’d
rather stay indoors and talk to you.”

Philip was almost a charming host that evening. Before
dinner he took Ward into his study and showed him the drawer in which he
proposed to keep the revolver. He was very amusing when he flourished it as
he would do if he were confronted by any unwelcome intruder. “We really need
a weapon in this house,” he said. “Venner’s very deaf, and the maids go out
in the evenings. I told you in my letter—didn’t I?—that I rather
thought that burglars had been trying to get in. I think Stella must have
heard them too, for she always locks her bedroom door now.”

Dinner Was a pleasant meal, admirably seasoned with conversation. Ward
tried from time to time to include Stella in it, but she seemed terribly
low-spirited and despondent, giving a morose, almost a surly reply to
everything he asked her.

He was quite certain now that it was Stella with whom the trouble lay, and
that her complaints against Philip were based on mere delusions of her own.
Perhaps Philip was tactless in dealing with her; but no doubt she was
difficult to deal with. The truth most likely was that her careful nursing of
Philip during his illness had strained her nerves, and that life at
Chassingford was not making her any better. Perhaps after the election Philip
would take her for a long holiday abroad.

After dinner the snorting of the car in the drive outside was a reminder
of the busy life of the parliamentary candidate. Philip, notes and
dispatch-case in his hand, bade farewell to Ward. “So sorry I’ve got to be
off. Wish you could stay the night…Afraid I shan’t be back till after
you’ve gone, if you’re catching the last train, because I’ve two meetings out
in the villages…Good-bye, old chap…So pleased to have seen you…” And in
a whisper: “Find out what’s the matter with Stella if you can.”

The car drove away and left Ward standing rather uncomfortably in the
hall. He did not much care for being left in the house in this way; he would
much rather have gone with Philip to the meetings, intensely as he loathed
politics. As Venner locked and bolted the front door, the Hall seemed to grow
suddenly darker and huger, so that for a fleeting moment he could almost
share Stella’s distaste for it.

“Perhaps you will ring the bell, sir, if you want anything,” said Venner,
shuffling down to the side staircase with a huge bunch of keys in his
hand.

Ward nodded, and as soon as Venner was out of sight he walked briskly to
the drawing-room door and knocked on it. There was no answer, and after a
pause he turned the handle and entered.

The moment he saw her he lost something, some sense of
personal security that he had always possessed up to then. Before he saw her
he had been wishing that Philip had taken him along to the meeting. Now he
was strangely glad that he was left behind.

And as soon as she saw him she smiled. She looked sadly, pitiably
beautiful, like a bird with a torn wing, fluttering on the earth instead of
soaring in the skies. His senses were, for the moment, reeling; if he had
taken wine he would have believed himself drunk.

“Come and sit down,” she said quietly. And when he had taken a chair near
to her she went on, just as quietly: “Now what is it you have been
commissioned to find out?”

He stared at her blankly. “What—what—”

“Poor man,” she said. “You must be in a dreadful muddle. I ask you here
for you to find out what’s wrong with Philip, and as soon as you come he gets
hold of you and asks you to find out what’s wrong with me. Well, you can have
your chance. One or the other of us is mad, that’s certain.”