VENGEANCE
By what magic he cajoled her into trying her skill upon skis Anne never
afterwards remembered. It seemed to her later that the exhilarating
atmosphere of that cloudless winter day must in some magic fashion have
revived in her the youth which had been crushed out of existence so long
ago. A strange, irresponsible happiness possessed her, so new, so subtly
sweet, that the heavy burden she had borne for so long seemed almost to
have shrunk into insignificance. It permeated her whole being like an
overpowering essence, so that she forgot the seven dreary years that
separated her from her girlhood, forgot the bondage to which she was
returning, the constant, ever-increasing anxiety that wrought so
mercilessly upon her; and remembered only the splendour of the sunshine
that sparkled on the snow, and the ecstasy of the keen clear air she
breathed. It was like an enchanting dream to her, a dream through which
she lived with all the greater zest because it so soon must pass.
All the pent energies of her vanished youth were in the dream. She could
not--for that once she could not--deny them vent.
And Nap, strung to a species of fierce gaiety that she had never seen in
him before, urged her perpetually on. He would not let her pause to
think, but yet he considered her at every turn. He scoffed like a boy at
her efforts to ski, but he held her up strongly while he scoffed, taking
care of her with that adroitness that marked everything he did. And while
they thus dallied the time passed swiftly, more swiftly than either
realised. The sun began to draw to the south-west. The diamonds ceased to
sparkle save here and there obliquely. The haze of a winter afternoon
settled upon the downs.
Suddenly Anne noticed these things, suddenly the weight of care which had
so wonderfully been lifted from her returned, suddenly the shining
garment of her youth slipped from her, and left her like Cinderella when
the spell of her enchantment was broken.
"Nap!" she exclaimed. "I must go! I must have been dreaming to forget
the time!"
"Time!" laughed Nap. "What is time?"
"It is something that I have to remember," she said. "Why, it must be
nearly two o'clock!"
Nap glanced at the sun and made no comment. Anne felt for and consulted
her watch. It was already three.
She looked up in amazement and dismay. "I must go at once!"
"Don't!" said Nap. "I am sure your watch is wrong."
"I must go at once," she repeated firmly. "It is long past the luncheon
hour. I had no idea we had been here so long. You must go too. Your
chauffeur will think you are never coming."
The skis were still on her feet. Nap looked at her speculatively.
"This is rather an abrupt end," he said. "Won't you have one more go? A
few minutes more or less can't make any difference now."
"They may make all the difference," Anne said. "Really, I ought not."
They stood on a gentle slope that led downwards to the path she
must take.
"Just ski down into the valley from here then," urged Nap. "It's quicker
than walking. I won't hold you this time. You won't fall."
The suggestion was reasonable, and the fascination of the sport had taken
firm hold of her. Anne smiled and yielded. She set her feet together and
let herself go.
Almost at the same instant a sound that was like the bellow of an
infuriated bull reached her from above.
She tried to turn, but the skis were already slipping over the snow. To
preserve her balance she was forced to go, and for seconds that seemed
like hours she slid down the hillside, her heart thumping in her throat;
her nerves straining and twitching to check that maddening progress. For
she knew that sound. She had heard it before, had shrunk secretly many a
time before its coarse brutality. It was the yell of a man in headlong,
furious wrath, an animal yell, unreasoning, hideously bestial; and she
feared, feared horribly, what that yell might portend.
She reached the valley, and managed to swerve round without falling. But
for an instant she could not, she dared not, raise her eyes. Clear on the
frosty air came sounds that made her blood turn cold. She felt as if her
heart would suffocate her. A brief blindness blotted out all things.
Then with an agonised effort she forced back her weakness, she forced
herself to look. Yes, the thing she had feared so horribly was being
enacted like a ghastly nightmare above her.
There on the slope was her husband, a gigantic figure outlined against
the snow. He had not stopped to parley. Those mad fits of passion always
deprived him, at the outset, of the few reasoning powers that yet
remained to him. Without question or explanation of any kind he had flung
himself upon the man he deemed his enemy, and Anne now beheld him,
gripping him by the neck as a terrier grips a rat, and flogging him with
the loaded crop he always carried to the hunt.
Nap was writhing to and fro like an eel, striving, she saw, to overthrow
his adversary. But the gigantic strength of madness was too great for
his lithe activity. By sheer weight he was borne down.
With an anguished cry Anne started to intervene. But two steps with the
skis flung her headlong upon the snow, and while she grovelled there,
struggling vainly to rise, she heard the awful blows above her like
pistol-shots through the stillness. Once she heard a curse, and once a
demonical laugh, and once, thrilling her through and through, spurring
her to wilder efforts, a dreadful sound that was like the cry of a
stricken animal.
She gained her feet at last, and again started on her upward way. Nap had
been forced to his knees, but he was still fighting fiercely, as a rat
will fight to the last. She cried to him wildly that she was coming, was
coming, made three paces, only to trip and fall again.
Then she knew that, so handicapped, she could never reach them, and with
shaking, fumbling fingers she set herself to unfasten the straps that
bound the skis. It took her a long, long time--all the longer for her
fevered haste. And still that awful, flail-like sound went on and on,
though all sound of voices had wholly ceased.
Free at last, she stumbled to her feet, and tore madly up the hill. She
saw as she went that Nap was not struggling any longer. He was hanging
like a wet rag from the merciless grip that upheld him, and though his
limp body seemed to shudder at every crashing blow, he made no voluntary
movement of any sort.
As she drew near, her husband suddenly swung round as though aware of
her, and dropped him. He fell in a huddled heap upon the snow, and lay,
twisted, motionless as a dead thing.
Sir Giles, his eyes suffused and terrible, turned upon his wife.
"There lies your gallant lover!" he snarled at her. "I think I've cured
him of his fancy for you."
Her eyes met his. For a single instant, hatred, unveiled, passionate,
shone out at him like sudden, darting lightning. For a single instant she
dared him with the courage born of hatred. It was a challenge so distinct
and personal, so fierce, that he, satiated for the moment with revenge,
drew back instinctively before it, as an animal shrinks from the flame.
She uttered not a word. She did not after that one scorching glance deign
to do battle with him. Without a gesture she dismissed him, kneeling
beside his vanquished foe as though he were already gone.
And--perhaps it was the utter intrepidity of her bearing that deprived
him of the power to carry his brutality any further just then--perhaps
the ferocity that he had never before encountered in those grey eyes
cowed him somewhat in spite of the madness that still sang in his
veins--whatever the motive power it was too potent to resist--Sir Giles
turned and tramped heavily away.
Anne did not watch him go. It was nothing to her at the moment whether he
went or stayed. She knelt beside the huddled, unconscious figure and
tried to straighten the crumpled limbs. The sweater had been literally
torn from his back, and the shirt beneath it was in blood-stained
tatters. His face was covered with blood. Sir Giles had not been
particular as to where the whip had fallen. Great purple welts crossed
and re-crossed each other on the livid features. The bleeding lips were
drawn back in a devilish grimace. He looked as though he had been
terribly mauled by some animal.
Anne gripped a handful of snow, hardly knowing what she did, and tried to
stanch the blood that ran from an open cut on his temple. She was not
trembling any longer. The emergency had steadied her. But the agony of
those moments was worse than any she had ever known.
Minutes passed. She was beginning to despair. An icy dread was at her
heart. He lay so lifeless, so terribly inert. She had attempted to lift
him, but the dead weight was too much for her. She could only rest his
head against her, and wipe away the blood that trickled persistently from
that dreadful, sneering mouth. Would he ever speak again, she asked
herself? Were the fiery eyes fast shut for ever? Was he dead--he whose
vitality had always held her like a charm? Had her friendship done this
for him, that friendship he had valued so highly?
She stooped lower over him. The anguish of the thought was more than she
could bear.
"O God," she prayed suddenly and passionately, "don't let him die! Don't
let him die!"
And in that moment Nap's eyes opened wide and fixed themselves upon her.
He did not attempt to move or speak, but the snarling look went wholly
out of his face. The thin lips met and closed over the battered mouth. He
lay regarding her intently, as if he were examining some curious thing he
had never seen before.
And before that gaze Anne's eyes wavered and sank. She felt she could
never meet his look again.
"Are you better?" she whispered. "Can I--will you let me--help you?"
"No," he said. "Just--leave me!" He spoke quite quietly, but the very
sound of his voice sent a perfect storm of emotion through her.
"I can't!" she said almost fiercely. "I won't! Let me help you! Let me do
what I can!"
He stirred a little, and his brow contracted, but he never took his eyes
from her face.
"Don't be--upset," he said with an effort. "I'm not going--to die!"
"Tell me what to do," she urged piteously. "Can I lift you a
little higher?"
"For Heaven's sake--no!" he said, and swallowed a shudder. "My
collar-bone's broken."
He was silent for a space, but still his dusky eyes watched her
perpetually.
At last, "Let me hold your hand," he said.
She put it into his, and he held it tightly. The blood was running down
his face again, and she wiped it softly away.
"Thank you," he said.
Those two words, spoken almost under his breath, had a curious effect
upon her. She felt as if something had suddenly entered and pierced her
heart. Before she knew it, a sharp sob escaped her, and then all in a
moment she broke down.
"Oh, Nap, Nap," she sobbed, "I wish I had died before this could happen!"
She felt his hand tighten as she crouched there beside him in her
anguish, and presently she knew that he had somehow managed to raise
himself to a sitting posture.
Through her agony his voice came to her. It was pitched very low, yet
she heard it.
"Don't cry--for pity's sake! I shall get over it. I shall live--to get
back--my own."
Torn by emotion as she was, something in the last words, spoken in that
curious undertone, struck her with a subtle force. With a desperate
effort she controlled herself. She knew that he was still watching her
with that strange intensity that she could not bring herself to meet. His
right hand still held hers with quivering tenacity; the other trailed
uselessly on the snow.
"Let me help you," she urged again.
He was silent; she feared he was going to refuse. And then she saw that
his head had begun to droop forward, and realised that he was on the
verge of another collapse. Instinctively she slipped her arm about his
shoulders, supporting him. He was shuddering all over. She drew his head
to rest against her.
A long time passed thus, she kneeling motionless, holding him, while he
panted against her breast, struggling with dogged persistence to master
the weakness that threatened to overpower him. It was terrible to see him
so, he the arrogant, the fierce, the overbearing, thus humbled to the
earth before her. She felt the agony of his crushed pride, and yearned
with an intensity that was passionate to alleviate it. But there seemed
nothing for her to do. She could only kneel and look on in bitter
impotence while he fought his battle.
In the end he lifted his face. "It's the collarbone that hurts so
infernally. Could you push something under my left arm to hold it up?
Your muff would do. Mind my wrist--that's broken too. Ah!" She heard the
breath whistle sharply between his lips as with the utmost care she
complied with these instructions, but almost instantly he went on: "Don't
be afraid of touching me--unless I'm too monstrous to touch. But I don't
believe I can walk."
"I will help you," she said. "I am very strong."
"You are--wonderful," he said.
And the words comforted her subtly though she did not know exactly what
he meant by them.
Thereafter they scarcely spoke at all. By slow degrees he recovered his
self-command, though she knew with only too keen a perception how
intolerable was the pain that racked his whole body. With her assistance
and with strenuous effort he managed at last to get upon his feet, but he
was immediately assailed afresh by deadly faintness, and for minutes he
could stand only by means of her arms upholding him.
Later, with his one available arm across her shoulders, he essayed to
walk, but it was so ghastly an ordeal that he could accomplish only a few
steps at a time.
Anne did not falter now. She was past that stage. All her nerves were
strung to meet his pressing need. Again and again as he hung upon her,
half-fainting, she stopped to support him more adequately till he had
fought down his exhaustion and was ready to struggle on again. She
remained steadfast and resolute throughout the long-drawn-out agony of
that walk over the snow.
"Great Heaven!" he muttered once. "That you should do this--for me!"
And she answered him quickly and passionately, as though indeed there
were something within that spoke for her, "I would do anything for
you, Nap."
It was drawing near to sunset when at last the end of the journey came in
sight. Anne perceived the car waiting in the distance close to the spot
where Nap had descended upon her that morning.
She breathed a sigh of thankfulness. "I scarcely thought he would have
waited for you so long," she said.
"He daren't do otherwise," said Nap, and she caught a faint echo of
arrogance in the words.
And then of his own free will he paused and faced her. "You are coming
with me," he said.
She shook her head. "No, Nap."
His eyes blazed redly. His disfigured face was suddenly devilish. "You
are mad if you go back," he said.
But she shook her head again. "No, I know what I am doing. And I am going
back now. But I will come to Baronmead in the morning."
He looked at her. "Are you--tired of life?" he asked abruptly.
She smiled--a piteous smile. "Very, very tired!" she said. "But you
needn't be afraid of that. He will not touch me. He will not even see me
to-night." Then, as he still looked combative, "Oh, please, leave this
matter to my judgment! I know exactly what I am doing. Believe me, I am
in no danger."
He gave in, seeing that she was not to be moved from her purpose.
They went a few yards farther; then, "In Heaven's name--come early to
Baronmead," he said jerkily. "I shall have no peace till you come."
"I will," she promised.
The chauffeur came to meet them with clumsy solicitude as they neared the
car, but Nap kept him at a distance.
"Don't touch me! I've had a bad fall skiing. It's torn me to ribbons.
Just open the door. Lady Carfax will do the rest!" And as the man turned
to obey, "Not a very likely story, but it will serve our turn."
"Thank you," she said very earnestly.
He did not look at her again. She had a feeling that he kept his eyes
from her by a deliberate effort of the will.
Silently she helped him into the car, saw him sink back with her muff
still supporting his injured arm, whispered a low "Good-bye!" and turned
to the waiting chauffeur.
"Drive him quickly home," she said. "And then go for a doctor."
Not till the car was out of sight did she realise that her knees were
shaking and refusing to support her. She tottered to a gate by the
roadside, and there, clinging weakly with her head bowed upon her arms,
she remained for a very long time.