THE VISION
It was growing dusk when Anne at length came to the Manor. She was
utterly weary and faint from lack of food. The servant who admitted her
looked at her strangely, as if half afraid.
"Please have tea taken to my sitting-room," she said quietly, as she
passed him.
And with that she went straight to her room. Standing before a mirror to
remove her hat, she caught sight of something that seemed to stab her
heart. The cream cloth coat she wore was all spattered with blood.
She stood rigid, not breathing, staring into the white face above
it--the white face of a woman she hardly knew, with compressed lips and
wild, tragic eyes. What was it those eyes held? Was it hatred? Was it
madness? Was it--?
She broke away horror-stricken, and stripped the coat from her with hands
like ice. Again through her mind, with feverish insistence, ran those
words that had startled her earlier in the day. She found herself
repeating them deliriously, under her breath: "I beheld Satan--as
lightning--fall from heaven!"
Why did they haunt her so? What was it in the utterance that
frightened her? What meaning did they hold for her? What hidden terror
lay behind it? What had happened to her? What nightmare horror was
this clawing at her heart, lacerating, devouring, destroying? It was
something she had never felt before, something too terrible to face,
too overwhelming to ignore.
Was she going mad, she asked herself? And like a dreadful answer to a
riddle inscrutable her white lips whispered those haunting unforgettable
words: "I beheld Satan--as lightning--fall from heaven."
Mechanically she bathed her face and hands and passed into her
sitting-room, where her tea awaited her. A bright fire crackled there,
and her favourite chair was drawn up to it. The kettle hissed merrily on
a spirit-lamp.
Entering, she found, somewhat to her surprise, old Dimsdale waiting to
serve her.
"Thank you," she said. "I can help myself."
"If your ladyship will allow me," he said deferentially.
She sat down, conscious of a physical weakness she could not control. And
the old butler, quiet and courteous and very grave, proceeded to make the
tea and wait upon her in silence.
Anne lay back in her chair with her eyes upon the fire, and accepted his
ministrations without further speech. There was a very thorough
understanding between herself and Dimsdale, an understanding established
and maintained without words.
The tea revived her, and after a little she turned her head and looked
up at him.
"Well, Dimsdale?"
Dimsdale coughed. "It was about Sir Giles that I wanted to speak to your
ladyship."
"Well?" she said again.
"Sir Giles, my lady, is not himself--not at all himself," Dimsdale told
her cautiously. "I was wondering just before you came in if I didn't
ought to send for the doctor."
"Why, Dimsdale?" Anne looked straight up into the old man's troubled
face, but her eyes had a strangely aloof expression, as though the matter
scarcely touched her.
Dimsdale shook his head. "It's not the same as usual, my lady. I've never
seen him like this before. There's something--I don't rightly know
what--about him that fair scares me. If your ladyship will only let me
send for the doctor--"
He paused. Anne's eyes had gone back to the fire. She seemed to be
considering.
"I don't think the doctor would be at home," she said at last. "Wait till
the morning, Dimsdale--unless he is really ill."
"My lady, it's not that," said Dimsdale. "There's nothing ails his body.
But--but--" he faltered a little, and finally, "It's his mind," he said,
"if I may make so bold as to say it. I don't believe as he's safe. I'm
afraid he'll be doing a mischief to--someone."
His pause was not lost upon Anne. Again she raised her eyes and steadily
regarded him.
"To whom, Dimsdale?" she asked.
"My lady--" the old man murmured unwillingly.
"To me?" she questioned in a quiet, unmoved voice. "Why are you
afraid of that?"
Dimsdale hesitated.
"Tell me," she said. But again her eyes had sunk to the fire. She seemed
as one not vitally interested, as one whose thoughts were elsewhere.
Reluctantly Dimsdale made answer: "He's been cutting your ladyship's
portrait into strips and burning 'em in the study fire. It was dreadful
to see him, so intent like and quiet. I saw him put his hand right into
the flame once, and he didn't seem to know. And he came in in one of his
black moods with his hunting-crop broken right in two. Carrying the
pieces he was, and glaring like as if all the world was against him. I
was afraid there would be trouble when he came home to lunch and found
your ladyship not there."
He stopped, arrested by a sudden movement from Anne. She had leaned
forward and covered her face with her hands. The tension of her attitude
was such that Dimsdale became strongly aware that his presence was an
intrusion. Yet, the matter being urgent, he stood his ground.
He waited silently, and presently Anne lifted her head. "I think you
must leave the matter till the morning, Dimsdale," she said. "It could do
no good to have the doctor at this hour. Besides, I doubt if he could
come. And Sir Giles will be himself again after a night's rest."
"I'm very much afraid not, my lady," said Dimsdale lugubriously. "He's
drinking brandy--neat brandy--all the while. I've never seen him drink
like that before. It fair scares me, and that's the truth."
"You are not afraid on your own account?" Anne asked.
"Oh, no, my lady. He wouldn't interfere with me. It's your ladyship--"
"Ah, well," she said, quietly interrupting, "you need not be afraid for
me either. I shall not go downstairs again to-night. He will not be
expecting me."
"Very good, my lady."
Dimsdale looked somewhat relieved but not wholly satisfied. He lingered
as if he longed yet did not dare to say more.
As for Anne, she sat quite motionless gazing into the fire, her hands
clasped very tightly before her. She seemed to have dismissed the subject
under discussion and the faithful Dimsdale simultaneously from her mind.
After a few seconds the old butler realised this, and without further ado
he removed the tea-things and went quietly away.
Anne did not notice his departure. She was too deep in thought. Her
brain was steadier now, and she found it possible to think. For the first
time she was asking herself if she would be justified in bringing her
long martyrdom to an end. She had fulfilled her part of the bargain,
patiently, conscientiously, unflaggingly, throughout those seven bitter
years. She had married her husband without loving him, and he had never
sought to win her love. He had married her for the sake of conquering
her, attracted by the very coldness with which she had tried in her
girlhood to repel him. She had caught his fancy in those far-off days.
Her queenliness, her grace, had captivated him. And later, with the sheer
hunter's instinct, he had pursued her, and had eventually discovered a
means of entrapping her. He had named his conditions and she had named
hers. In the end he had dispatched the father to Canada and made the
daughter his wife.
But his fancy for her had scarcely outlasted his capture. He had taken
pleasure for a while in humiliating her, counting it sport if he
succeeded in arousing her rare indignation. But soon even this had ceased
to amuse him. He had developed into that most odious of all bullies, the
domestic tyrant, and had therewith sunk back into those habits of
intemperance which his marriage had scarcely interrupted. He was many
years her senior. He treated her as a slave, and if now and then an
uncomfortable sensation of inferiority assailed him, he took his revenge
upon her in evil, glowering tempers that rendered him more of a beast
than a man.
But yet she had borne with him. By neither word nor action had she ever
voluntarily widened the breach between them: His growing dislike had not
had any visible effect upon her. She had done her duty faithfully through
all, had borne his harshness and his insults in silence, with a patience
too majestic, too colossal, for his understanding.
And now for the first time she asked herself, Did he want to be rid of
her? Had he invented this monstrous grievance to drive her from him? Were
the days of her bondage indeed drawing at last to an end? Had she borne
with him long enough? Was she free--was she free to go?
Her heart quickened at the bare thought. How gladly would she set herself
to make a living when once this burden had been lifted from her!
But she would not relinquish it without his sanction. She would be
faithful to the last, true to that bargain she had struck with him so
long ago. Yet surely he could not refuse it. She was convinced that he
hated her.
Again she felt that strange new life thrilling in her veins. Again she
felt herself almost young. To be free! To be free! To choose her own
friends without fear; to live her own life in peace; to know no further
tumults or petty tyrannies--to be free!
The prospect dazzled her. She lifted her face and gasped for breath.
Then, hearing a sound at her door, she turned.
A white-faced servant stood on the threshold. "If you please, my lady,
your coat is in a dreadful state. I was afraid there must have been an
accident."
Anne stared at the woman for a few seconds with the dazed eyes of one
suddenly awakened.
"Yes," she said slowly at length. "There was--an accident. Mr. Nap Errol
was--hurt while skiing."
The woman looked at her with frank curiosity, but there was that about
her mistress at the moment that did not encourage inquiry or comment.
She stood for a little silent; then, "What had I better do with the coat,
my lady?" she asked diffidently.
Anne made an abrupt gesture. The dazed look in her eyes had given place
to horror. "Take it away!" she said sharply. "Do what you like with it! I
never want to see it again."
"Very good, my lady."
The woman withdrew, and Anne covered her face with her hands once more,
and shuddered from head to foot.