REVELATION
She had it in her hand at last—that letter which had caused her so much
doubt and anxiety. She sat there holding it after the closing of the
door, wondering, puzzled, troubled. He had found it—he must have found
it—under the cedar-tree the night before. Why had he kept it back? Or,
having kept it, why did he give it to her now? Suspicion stabbed her,
and she turned the envelope over. Had it been opened? It was impossible
to say. It had obviously been rubbed from having been carried in a
pocket; but there was no sign of weather-stain upon it. She was
instantly convinced that it had not lain out all night. Yet why had he
kept it?
An odd thought came to her, born of that strange new note of appeal that
she had begun to hear in his voice—a thought which sent the blood to
her face in a great wave and for a moment almost dazed her. Was it
jealousy that had prompted him? He had known that her letter had caused
her agitation, that it was from another man. He had almost openly done
his best to counteract that other man’s influence upon her. He had taken
her to the Stones only that morning in the hope of inducing her to be
frank with him regarding her adventure there. It was not curiosity—it
could not be mere curiosity—that had actuated him. She recalled his
behaviour of the night before when he had carried her in, how he had
bluntly given her to understand that his own desire was to keep her
there as long as possible. And then Oliver’s warning flashed upon her,
illuminating all the rest. With a gasp she faced the situation,
suspicion merging into certainty, amazing but irrefutable. He cared for
her, this extraordinary man who ruled at Tetherstones with so heavy a
hand. For some reason wholly inexplicable to her, his fancy had lighted
upon her—just as had Montague Rotherby’s in an idle hour. But with what
a difference! It was at this point that Frances arose and went
unsteadily to her dressing-table to lean upon it and stare in
stupefaction at her own reflection. Had all the world gone mad? What on
earth did they see in her—the faded, the drab, the tired? She gazed for
a long, breathless space, and slowly her eyes widened. What did she see
in herself? Was there not something present here that she had never seen
before? What was it? What was it? A sudden tremor went through her, and
she drew back.
What were those words he had said to her that morning? Vividly the
memory rushed upon her, and his eyes—the look in his eyes—as they had
rested upon her. . . . “You were not intended for a slave.”
Was it this that they saw in her—a slave who had broken free—her
shackles in the dust? Was it this that she had suddenly seen in herself?
She was quivering from head to foot. A feeling of giddiness came upon
her, and she dropped down upon the edge of the bed. Something had
frightened her, badly frightened her,—something wholly apart from the
gloomy secrets of Tetherstones, the undercurrent of rebellion that
existed there, the muttered warnings, the element of violence barely
masked—something that had looked at her out of her own eyes—something
that throbbed very deeply in her own heart—a thing so widely different
from anything she had ever know before that she was amazed, that she was
actually terrified, beyond thought or speech.
It was this that had stirred within her in answer to that unspoken
appeal for understanding. It was this that had inspired that sense of
comradeship within her. She had called it intuition, sympathy. But
now—she knew now that it had another name. And what was she going to
do? How was she going to treat this amazing thing? Was she prepared to
let it grow and become great? Was she prepared to yield herself to it,
her cherished independence, her very life, and become a slave again? Was
she going to stake all she had—all that the unknown future might hold
for her—upon one fatal throw? To be absorbed into this tragic
atmosphere, to feel the ground unstable beneath her feet, to hear the
grim clash of antagonisms shattering the peace, to be in bondage to this
man of harsh judgments and unrestrained passions,—to be a slave again,
perhaps to cower as Lucy had cowered from his ungoverned fury! But no!
She would never do that! Sheer pride came to her aid, and she
straightened herself with a little smile of self-ridicule. Why was she
permitting this panic? She knew herself well enough to be quite sure she
would never do that.
“I believe I could manage him alone,” she reflected. “But in this
atmosphere of servitude and oppression—well, of course—” she laughed a
faint laugh and felt the better for it—“any man would be bound to
become a tyrant—like the Bishop—only worse.” Her letter slipped from
her grasp, and she stooped to recover it. Something of the old official
attitude was hers as she sat up again and prepared to open it. “Well, we
will put a stop to this anyhow,” she said with decision. “And then we
must consider the best and safest way of leaving Tetherstones without
giving rise to foolish conjecture.”
Again that odd little smile of hers tilted her lips. The feeling of
dismay had gone.
“I shall get over it all right,” she said. “It’s a pity of course, but
it isn’t big enough yet to hurt me much. If I had been younger—” she
lifted her head suddenly—“but dash it, I’m not so old as that. If he
wants me he must get rid of his retinue of slaves and take the trouble
to win me. But to add me to the number—make me the chief one at
that—no, no, no!” She shook her head in humorous negation. “It isn’t
good enough, my dear man. Love doesn’t thrive in that soil.”
But even as she said it, a little gibing voice rose up in her soul and
mocked her. Who was she to say from what small beginnings Love the
Immortal might spring? Like the wonderful, purple flower on the grey
stone arch in the Palace garden that no human hand had ever planted!
She opened her letter almost absent-mindedly, and began to read it with
an interest as impersonal as she would have bestowed upon the letter of
an employer.
“Circe—beloved enchantress,” so the letter ran. “Am I to have
no word from you? It is getting urgent, and I have news for you.
First, let me make a confession! When I left you that evening at
the cottage, I stole one of your sketches—the one of the
stepping-stones. I sent it to a friend of mine in town, and have
to-day received it back. He speaks very highly of it, and
declares you have a living in your talent, if not a fortune. How
does that appeal to you? The old woman tells me you are better,
but that you are staying on at Tetherstones. I must see you
somewhere where we can talk undisturbed. Will you come to the
Stones to-night at ten? I will wait for you there.
“Yours with all my love as ever. M. R.”
So that was why he had written a second time! He had news for her. Such
news as she had little expected—news that made her heart leap wildly.
This was freedom. This was deliverance. Strange that they should have
come to her by his hand!
No further doubt existed in her mind with regard to meeting him. She
would certainly meet him. She put her letter away with a business-like
precision that wholly banished her agitation. It was the best tonic that
she could possibly have received. She wondered what had made him take
the trouble, and the thought of being under an obligation to him
oppressed her for a time, but she thrust it away from her. She could not
afford to be too scrupulous in this particular. To make her own living
successfully seemed to her at that moment the goal of all desire.
The arrival of Nell with her tray diverted her thoughts. Nell’s face was
flushed, her eyes round and indignant.
“A nice family of wild beasts you must think us!” she said, as she
dumped the tray on a corner of the dressing-table. “I suppose you’re
making plans to leave us by the next train. It’s enough to make you.”
Frances looked at her, and saw that she was near to angry tears. “My
dear child,” she said gently, “please put that idea quite out of your
mind! When I go—and it will probably be soon now that I am so much
better—it won’t be with any feelings of that sort. It will only be with
the very warmest gratitude to you all for your goodness to me.”
“Do you mean that?” said Nell.
“Of course I mean it,” Frances said.
“Well, I’m glad—awfully glad.” The girl spoke with honest feeling.
“We’re all so fond of you, Miss Thorold, and we do do our best to make
you happy. It isn’t our fault that—that—” She checked herself. “I
expect you understand that,” she ended more calmly.
“I know you are all much too kind to me,” Frances said.
“We’re not!” said Nell stoutly. “We’d do anything for you. And we hate
you to think us rough and ill-mannered. It’s Arthur’s fault if you do,
but even he means well.”
“But, my dear, I don’t,” Frances protested.
“Sure?” said Nell.
“Yes, quite sure.” Frances laid a friendly hand on her arm. “I couldn’t
think anything horrid of you if I tried,” she said.
“Thank you,” said Nell somewhat pathetically. “It’s rather hard to be
judged by one’s men-folk, I sometimes think. They can be such beasts.”
“I expect it depends how you take them,” said Frances practically.
Nell looked at her with a hint of envy. “It’s all right for you,” she
said. “You’re not under any man’s heel.”
“I have been,” said Frances, with a sudden memory of the Bishop. “But I
never shall be again.”
“You will be if you marry,” said Nell.
“Oh, I don’t think so,” smiled Frances. “But as I am not going to marry,
that is beside the point.”
“How nice to be sure you don’t want to!” said the girl with a sigh.
Whereat Frances laughed with a curious lightheartedness. “I didn’t say
that, did I? But women of my age think twice before they sign away their
liberty.”
“Your age!” Nell stared. “Why, I thought you were quite young!” she
said, then blushed violently and turned to go. “Oh, I suppose I oughtn’t
to have said that—but it’s true!”
The door closed behind her upon the words, and Frances was left still
laughing. “What can have come to them all?” she said. “Me—young! If I
am, it’s something in the air that has made me so. I never used to be!”
And then a fantastic thought came to her, checking her laughter. She had
never been young before. She had never had time to be young. Could it be
possible that for her, here at Tetherstones, life had but just begun? If
so—if so—was she right to turn away from aught that life might have to
offer?