THE BEAST
From the day that her bed was moved to the window, Frances began to
regain her strength.
It came back to her slowly, with intervals of pain and weariness, when
she felt as if she were making no progress at all, but it returned, and
her indefatigable nurses gradually relinquished their vigil.
“You can go downstairs and sit in the sun if you want to,” said Dr.
Square one morning.
And she thanked him and promised to make the effort. There was a corner
of the old-fashioned garden that she could see from her window in which
she had often longed to sit, but now that the time had come, all desire
for change had left her. She lacked the energy for enthusiasm.
“That’s because you are weak still,” said Dolly. “Never mind! I’ll
arrange everything. We’ll get the couch out of the parlour. I can make
it very comfortable with some pillows and a rug. It’s nice and cool
under the cedar. Don’t you fret now! Just leave it all to me!”
She went off briskly to make her arrangements, and Frances heard her
from the garden calling Maggie to come and help her with the couch.
Maggie came, the hair as usual flying all around her sunny face. She was
accompanied by the young man they called Oliver, who carried a
stable-fork and had evidently just come from the farmyard. Maggie was
looking unusually serious, Frances discovered, as the three of them
paused at a corner of the old house for discussion.
Presently Maggie’s clear tones reached her. “Don’t you be a silly girl,
Dolly! You’ve no right to risk it. You keep her where she is!”
Dolly for once seemed undecided, and Oliver, with a faintly rueful smile
on his comical countenance, ranged himself on Maggie’s side.
“Don’t let’s have a shindy for goodness’ sake!” he said. “We’ve kept him
quiet till now, but I won’t answer for him much longer. The beast has
got to break out some time. I told Arthur so this morning.”
“Oh, but this is nonsense!” declared Dolly. “You can keep him in the
farmyard surely. I know I could.”
“Well, you’d better go and do it then, that’s all,” said Maggie. “For
he’s on the ramp this morning, and no mistake. I can’t pacify him.”
There followed some words in a lower tone which did not reach Frances at
her window, and then the group dispersed, Maggie and Oliver departing in
the direction of the farmyard, and Dolly entering the house.
Frances was left alone for some time, and presently coming to the not
unwelcome conclusion that she was to remain in her room that day, she
began to fall asleep. The day was sultry and very still. She heard
vaguely the summer sounds that came through her window. The atmosphere
was peaceful beyond words. The occasional lowing of a cow in the meadow
beyond the garden where the chattering stream ran, the cooing of the
pigeons on the roof of the old barn, and the cry of the wheeling
swallows that nestled in the eaves, the singing of a thousand larks
above the heather-covered moors, all came to her like a softly-coloured
dream. She felt wonderfully soothed and at rest, too tired to speculate
as to the meaning of that half-heard discussion below her window,
content to drowse the time away as long as Nurse Dolly would permit.
The breeze, laden with the scent of heather, came in upon her like a
benediction, playing lightly with her hair, closing her weary lids. She
sank more and more deeply into repose.
Then, just when the spell seemed complete, there came a sudden and
violent interruption, so startling that she sprang up in a wild alarm,
not knowing whence it came.
It began like the bellow of a bull—a terrific sound that sent all the
blood to her heart; then she realized that it came from somewhere in the
house, not the farmyard, and sat there palpitating, asking herself what
it could be.
It went on for many seconds. Sometimes it seemed to her strained senses
like the shouting of an angry man, then its utter lack of articulation
and intelligibility convinced her that it must be some animal gone mad
and broken loose. In the midst of the din she thought she heard a
woman’s voice crying frantically for help, and then there came a
frightful crash, and all sound ceased.
Frances sank back upon her pillows, completely unnerved. Something
terrible had happened. Of that she was certain. But what? But what? Why
was the house so deadly quiet after the uproar—that tumult that had
made her think of devils fighting together? This mysterious Beast of
whom the two girls whispered so freely—was it he who had broken loose,
trampling wide destruction through that wonderland of peace? And had he
escaped after that final crash, or was he dead? She longed to know, yet
dreaded to find out.
Her limbs felt paralysed, and her heart was beating with slow, uneven
strokes. A catastrophe of some kind had taken place. Of that she felt
certain. Had one of the six sisters been hurt? That wild cry for
help—she was sure now that she had heard it—which girl was it who had
been in such sore distress? And had the help come in time?
Ah! A sound a last! A step upon the stair! The door opened with quiet
decision and Dolly entered. She looked exactly as usual, her face
perfectly calm and unclouded.
“I am sorry,” she said, “but I am afraid it is a little too cold for you
in the garden to-day. The wind has changed.”
Frances gave a gasp, between relief and incredulity. For the moment
words were beyond her.
“Is there anything the matter?” said Dolly.
With an effort Frances made reply. “I thought—something had
happened—such a strange noise—it woke me.”
Dolly looked at her with a kindly smile. “Ah, you’ve been dreaming,” she
said practically. “People often get nightmares after a bad illness. It’s
just weakness, you know.”
She came and felt Frances’ pulse. “Yes, I think you are well enough. I
have got a letter for you here. Mrs. Trehearn sent it up this morning.”
She gave an envelope into Frances’ hand, but Frances only stared at her
blankly.
“Well?” said Dolly after a moment. “Don’t you want to read it?”
“Thank you,” Frances said, recovering herself.
Dolly smiled again upon her and went to the door. “One of the girls will
be in with your cocoa directly. I must go down and help Mother with the
bread.”
She went, still unruffled, serenely sure of herself. But Frances, who at
first had been almost bewildered into imagining that she had actually
dreamed the disturbance below, lay back again with a feeling akin to
indignation. Did Dolly really think that she was to be deceived so
easily?
She suddenly remembered the letter in her hand, and looked down at it. A
man’s writing sprawled across the envelope, and again her heart gave a
jerk. What was this?
No word from Montague Rotherby had reached her since little Ruth had led
her to Tetherstones on that night of darkness. She had been too ill to
think of him till lately, and now in her convalescence she never
voluntarily suffered her thoughts to wander in his direction. She had
come to regard the whole episode of her acquaintance with him in the
light of a curious illusion, such an illusion as she would always
remember with a sense of shame. With all her heart she hoped that she
would never see him again, for the bare memory of him had become
abhorrent to her. Here in the wholesome security of Tetherstones she
felt that she had come to her senses, and she would never again be led
away by the glitter of that which was not gold.
And so, as she looked at the letter in her hand, there came upon her
such a feeling of revolt as had never before possessed her. It was as
though she grasped a serpent, and she yearned to destroy it, but dared
not.
There came again to her as a sombre echo in her soul the memory of the
Bishop’s words: “. . . Until you have endured your hell, and—if God is
merciful—begun to work out your own salvation.”
But had she yet endured her hell? Of the hours spent with Rotherby on
the moor before the coming of the child her memory was vague. A long
wandering, coupled with a growing fear, and at the last an overwhelming
sense of evil that she was powerless to combat were the only impressions
that remained to her. But with a great vividness did she remember how
she had surrendered herself to him the evening before, and burned with
shame at the memory. No, she never wanted to see him again, and she
longed to destroy his letter unread. The very touch of it was horrible
to her.
But something stayed her hand. Something called within her—a mocking,
elusive something that taunted her courage. What was there in a letter
to frighten her? If she were sure of herself—if she were sure of
herself—She tore open the envelope with a gesture of exasperation. Of
course she was sure of herself!
“Circe, my beloved!” So the note began, and before her eyes there swam a
mist. No man in the whole world had ever called her beloved before! She
gripped herself firmly, nerving herself for the ordeal. This was not
Love—this was not Love! This was an evil that must be firmly met and
cast out. But ah, if it had been Love!
Resolutely she read the letter through. It was written from the inn at
Fordestown. “I lost you on that night of fog, but I have found you
again, and I have been waiting ever since. They tell me you are better,
but I can’t meet you among strangers. When will you come to me? Come
soon, Circe beloved! Come soon!
“I am yours, M. R.”
She looked up from the letter. So he was waiting for her still! Somehow
she had thought that he would not have deemed it worth his while. A
curious dazed feeling possessed her. He was waiting for her still! The
ordeal was not over yet. How was she going to face it?
There came a knock at the door—Nell’s boyish knock. She entered,
carrying a tray with cocoa and cream upon it.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” she said. “I hope you haven’t been wanting it very
badly.”
Frances crumpled the letter in her hand. She looked at the girl and saw
that Nell’s usually rosy face was pale.
“Is anything the matter, Nell?” she said.
Nell’s chin quivered at the question. “Oh, there’s been a frightful
row,” she said. “But I mustn’t tell you anything about it. Arthur would
be furious if he knew.”
“You needn’t be afraid of that,” said Frances. “He won’t know.”
“Thank you,” the girl said, and dried her eyes. “But I can’t tell you
all the same. It wouldn’t be fair. You don’t know the beast’s ways, and
it’s a good thing you don’t. Please don’t ask me anything—or I shall
say too much! I know I shall.”
“My dear, I don’t want you to tell me anything against your will,”
Frances said kindly.
“No, it isn’t that,” Nell said. “But I don’t want you to think you ought
to go. We’ve been so glad to have you. We’ve loved looking after you.
But there’s never any peace—and never will be so long as Arthur—” She
broke off abruptly. “Oh, I’d better go. I’m making a muddle of things,
and there’ll be a worse row if he finds out.”
She left the room precipitately, and Frances was again alone. She closed
her eyes to think. Something in Nell’s confused words had given her a
shock.
So they wanted her gone! That was what it amounted to. She had outstayed
her welcome, and she must go. The thought of all the kindness they had
showered upon her sent a pang to her heart. How good they had been to
the unwelcome stranger within their gates! And all the while there had
been no peace at Tetherstones because of the black-browed master who
wanted her gone.
No peace at Tetherstones, and how nobly they had striven to keep it from
her! Ah well, she knew now—she knew now!
Her hand clenched unconsciously, and she became aware of the letter she
held. A great wave of feeling went through her. Her eyes were suddenly
full of tears. Ah, if it had been Love that called her! If it had been
Love!