When she came to herself she was lying on her bed. Someone--Curtis--was
bathing her arm in warm water. He did not speak to her or raise his:
eyes from his occupation. She thought he looked very grim.
"Where is--Brett?" she whispered.
Curtis did not answer her, but a moment later she looked beyond him and
saw Mercer leaning upon the bed-rail. His eyes were fixed upon her and
held her own. She sought to avoid them, but could not. And suddenly she
knew that he was angry with her, not merely displeased, but furiously
angry.
She made an effort to rise, but at that Curtis laid a restraining hand
upon her, and spoke.
"Go away, Mercer!" he said. "Haven't you done harm enough for one
night?"
The words amazed her. She had never thought that he would dare to use
such a tone to her husband. She trembled for the result, for Mercer's
face just then was terrible, but Curtis did not so much as glance in his
direction.
Mercer's eyes remained mercilessly fixed upon her.
"Do you wish me to go?" he said.
"No," she murmured faintly.
Her arm was beginning to hurt her horribly, and she shuddered
uncontrollably once or twice. But that unvarying scrutiny was harder to
bear, and at last, in desperation, she made a quivering appeal.
"Come and help me!" she begged. "Come and lift me up!"
For an instant he did not stir, and she even thought he would refuse.
Then, stiffly, he straightened himself and moved round to her side.
Stooping, he raised and supported her. But his expression did not alter;
the murderous glare was still in his eyes. She turned her face into his
breast and lay still.
After what seemed a very long interval Curtis spoke.
"That's all I can do for the present. I will dress it again in the
morning, and it had better be in a sling. Mercer, I should like a word
with you outside."
Sybil stirred sharply at the brief demand. Her nerves were on edge, and
a quaking doubt shot through her as to what Mercer might do if Curtis
presumed too far.
She laid an imploring hand on her husband's arm.
"Stay with me!" she begged him faintly.
He did not move or speak.
Curtis stood up.
"Presently, then!" he said, and she heard him move away.
At the door he paused, and she thought he made some rapid sign to
Mercer. But the next moment she heard the door close softly, and knew
that he had gone.
She lay quite still thereafter, her heart fluttering too much for
speech. What would he say to her, she wondered; how would he break his
silence? She had no weapon to oppose against his anger. She was as
powerless before it as Beelzebub had been.
Suddenly he moved. He turned her head back upon his arm and looked
straight down into her eyes. She did not shrink. She would not. But her
heart died within her. She felt as if she were gazing into hell,
watching a soul in torment.
"Well?" he said at last. "Are you satisfied?"
"Satisfied?" she faltered.
"As to the sort of monster you have married," he explained, with savage
bitterness. "You've been putting out feelers ever since you came here.
Did you think I didn't know? Well, you've found out a little more than
you wanted, this time. Perhaps it will be a lesson to you.
Perhaps"--sheer cruelty shone red in his eyes--"when you see what I've
done to you, you will remember that I am not a man to play with, and
that any one, man or woman, who interferes with me, must pay the price."
"I don't know what you mean," she answered with an effort. "What
happened was an accident."
"Was it?" he said brutally. "Was it?"
Still she did not shrink from him.
"Yes," she said. "It was an accident."
"How do you know?" he asked.
She answered him instantly. She had not realized till then that she was
fighting the flames for his soul. The knowledge came upon her suddenly,
and it gave her strength.
"Because I know that you love me," she said. "Because--because--though
you are cruel, and though you may be wicked--I love you, too."
She said it with absolute sincerity, but it was the hardest thing she
had ever done in her life. To tell this man who was half animal and half
fiend that he had not somehow touched the woman's heart in her seemed
almost a desecration. She saw the flare of passion leap up in his eyes,
and she was conscious for one sick moment of a feeling of downright
repulsion. If she had only succeeded in turning his savagery into
another channel she had spoken in vain; or, worse, she had made a
mistake that could never be remedied.
Abruptly she felt her courage waver. She shrank at last.
"I want you to understand," she faltered; and again, "I want you to
understand."
But she could get no further. She hid her face against him and began to
sob.
There followed a silence, tense and terrible, which she dared not break.
Then she felt him bend lower, and suddenly his arms were under her. He
lifted her like a little child and sat down, holding her. His hand
pressed her head against his neck, fondling, soothing, consoling. And
she knew, with an overwhelming thankfulness, that she had not offered
herself in vain. She had drawn him out of his hell by the magic of her
love.