THE SLAVE OF GOODNESS
It seemed to Anne presently that she had left the earth altogether, and
was gliding upwards through starland without effort or conscious movement
of any sort, simply as though lifted by the hands that held her own.
Their vitality thrilled through her like a strong current of electricity.
She felt that whichever way they turned, wherever they led her, she must
be safe. And there was a quivering ecstasy in that dazzling, rapid rush
that filled her veins like liquid fire.
"Do you know where you are?" he asked her once.
And she answered, in a species of breathless rapture, "I feel as if I
were caught in a rainbow."
He laughed again at that, a soft, exultant laugh, and drew her more
swiftly on.
They left the other masqueraders behind; they left the shimmering
lake and its many lights; and at last in the starlight only they
slackened speed.
Anne came out of her trance of delight to find that they were between the
banks of the stream that fed the lake. The ground on each side of them
shone white and hard in the frost-bound silence. The full moon was just
rising over a long silver ridge of down. She stood with her face to its
cold splendour, her hands still locked in that vital grip.
Slowly at last, compelled she knew not how, she turned to the man beside
her. His eyes were blazing at her with a lurid fire, and suddenly that
sensation that had troubled her once before in his presence--a sensation
of sharp uneasiness--pricked through her confidence.
She stood quite still, conscious of a sudden quickening of her heart. But
she did not shrink from that burning gaze. She met it with level eyes.
For seconds they stood so, facing one another. He seemed to be trying in
some fashion to subjugate her, to beat her down; but she would not yield
an inch. And it was he who finally broke the spell.
"Am I forgiven?"
"For what?" she said.
"For pretending to disbelieve you this morning."
"Was it pretence?" she asked.
"No, it wasn't!" he told her fiercely. "It was deadly earnest. I would
have given all I had to be able to disbelieve you. Do you know that?"
"But why, Nap?"
"Why?" he said. "Because your goodness, your purity, are making a slave
of me. If I could catch you--if I could catch you only once--cheating, as
all other women cheat, I should be free. But you are irreproachable and
incorruptible. I believe you are above temptation."
"Oh, you don't know me," she interposed quietly. "But even if I were all
these things, why should it vex you?"
"Why?" he said. "Because you hold me back, you check me at every turn.
You harness me to your chariot wheels, and I have to run in the path of
virtue whether I will or not!"
He broke off with a laugh that had in it a note of savagery.
"Don't you even care to know what was in that letter that you never had?"
he asked abruptly.
"Tell me!" she said.
"I told you that I was mad to have missed you that day. I begged you to
let me have a line before you came again. I besought you to let me call
upon you and to fix a day. I signed myself your humble and devoted slave,
Napoleon Errol."
He ceased, still laughing queerly, with his lower lip between his teeth.
Anne stood silent for many seconds.
At last, "You must never come to see me," she said very decidedly.
"Not if I bring the mother as a chaperon?" he jested.
"Neither you nor your mother must ever come to see me again," she
said firmly. "And--Nap--though I know that the writing of that
letter meant nothing whatever to you, I am more sorry than I can say
that you sent it."
He threw back his head arrogantly. "What?" he said. "Has the queen no
further use for her jester? Am I not even to write to you then?"
"I think not," she said.
"And why?" he demanded imperiously.
"I think you know why," she said.
"Do I know why? Is it because you are afraid of your husband?"
"No."
"Afraid of me then?" There was almost a taunt in the words.
"No," she said again.
"Why, then?" He was looking full into her eyes. There was something
peculiarly sinister about his masked face. She almost felt as if he were
menacing her.
Nevertheless she made unfaltering reply. "For a reason that means much
to me, though it may not appeal to you. Because my husband is not
always sane, and I am afraid of what he might do to you if he were
provoked any further."
"Great Lucifer!" said Nap. "Does he think I make love to you then?"
She did not answer him. "He is not always sane," she repeated.
"You are right," he said. "That reason does not appeal to me. Your
husband's hallucinations are not worth considering. But I don't propose
on that account to write any more letters for his edification. For the
future--" He paused.
"For the future," Anne said, "there must be no correspondence between us
at all. I know it seems unreasonable to you, but that cannot be helped.
Mr. Errol, surely you are generous enough--chivalrous enough--to
understand."
"No, I don't understand," Nap said. "I don't understand how you can, by
the widest stretch of the imagination, believe it your duty to conform to
the caprices of a maniac."
"How can I help it?" she said very sadly.
He was silent a moment. His hands were still gripping hers; she
could feel her wedding-ring being forced into her flesh. "Like our
mutual friend, Major Shirley," he said slowly, "I wonder why you
stick to the man."
She turned her face away with a sound that was almost a moan.
"You never loved him," he said with conviction.
She was silent. Yet after a little, as he waited, she spoke as one
compelled.
"I live with him because he gave me that for which I married him. He
fulfilled his part of the bargain. I must fulfil mine. I was nothing but
his bailiff's daughter, remember; a bailiff who had robbed him--for whose
escape from penal servitude I paid the price."
"Great Heavens!" said Nap.
She turned to him quickly, with an impulsiveness that was almost girlish.
"I have never told anyone else," she said. "I tell you because I know
you are my friend and because I want you to understand. We will
never--please--speak of it again."
"Wait!" Nap's voice rang stern. "Was it part of the bargain that he
should insult you, trample on you, make you lead a dog's life without a
single friend to make it bearable?"
She did not attempt to answer him. "Let us go back," she said.
He wheeled at once, still holding her hands.
They skated a few yards in silence. Then suddenly, almost under his
breath, he spoke. "I am not going to give up my friendship with you. Let
that be clearly understood."
"You are very good to me," she said simply.
"No. I am not. I am human, that's all. I don't think this state of
affairs can last much longer."
She shuddered. Her husband's condition had been very much worse of late,
but she did not tell him so.
They were skating rapidly back towards the head of the lake. In front of
them sounded the swirling rush of skates and the laughter of many voices.
"I'm sorry I've been a beast to you," Nap said abruptly. "You mustn't
mind me. It's just my way."
"Oh, I don't mind you, Nap," she answered gently.
"Thanks!" he said.
And with that he stooped suddenly and shot forward like a meteor, bearing
her with him.
They flashed back into the gay throng of masqueraders, and mingled with
the crowd as though they had never left it.