"Victor! Victor!"
It was Janet's voice outside the door.
"Eh?"
"Six o'clock. Didn't you want to catch the first train in town,
dear?"
"Oh yes! All right. I'll be down presently."
Stowell found it difficult to recover consciousness. He was lying on
the sofa, and he looked around. There was the armchair--it was
empty. But the lamp on the bureau was still burning. He must have
slept, for he was feeling refreshed and even strong.
Leaping to his feet he blew out the lamp and pulled back the window
curtains. It was a beautiful morning, tranquil as the sky and
noiseless as the dew. Over the tops of the tall trees the bald crown
of old Snaefell was bathed in sunshine.
He was like another man. Life had no terrors for him now. It was
just as if a curse had fallen from him in the night. No more
visions! No more spectres! He knew what he had to do and he would
do it. He had a sense of immense emancipation. He felt like a slave
who had broken the chain which he had dragged after him for years.
He was a free man once more.
Throwing off coat and waistcoat he washed--lashing the cold water
over face and head and neck as if he were diving into one of the dubs
in the glen--and then went downstairs with a strong step.
Breakfast was not quite ready, so he stepped out over the piazza, to
the farm-yard. The cheerful place was full of its morning
activities. Cows were mooing their way to the grass of the fields
before barking dogs, and milkmaids were carrying their frothing pails
across to the dairy.