Vera did nothing foolish. She neither cried, screamed, turned deadly
pale, clenched her fragile hands, bit her lips till the blood came,
smashed a wine-glass, nor fell with a dull thud senseless to the floor.
Nevertheless, she was extremely perturbed by this astounding revelation
of Mr Bittenger's. Of course, dreams are nonsense. But still--The truth
is, one tries to believe that dreams are nonsense, and up to a certain
point one may succeed in believing. But it seemed to Vera that
circumstances had passed that point. She could not but admit, also,
that if the dream went on being fulfilled, within forty-eight hours Mr
Bittenger would have made love to her, and would have killed her
husband.
She was so incensed against Stephen that she really could not decide
whether she wanted the dream to be fulfilled or not. No one would have
imagined that that soft breast could conceal a homicidal thought. Yet
so it was. That pretty and delightful woman, wandering about in the
edifice of her terrific grievance against Stephen, could not say
positively to herself that she would not care to have Stephen killed as
a punishment for his sins.
After dinner, she found an excuse for retiring. She must think the
puzzle out in solitude. Matters were really going too far. She allowed
it to be understood that she was indisposed. Mr Bittenger was full of
sorrow and sympathy. But did Stephen show the slightest concern?
Stephen did not. She went upstairs, and she meditated, stretched on the
sofa at the foot of the bed, a rug over her knees and the fire glinting
on her face. Yes, it was her duty as a Christian, if not as an outraged
wife, to warn Stephen that the shadow of death was creeping up behind
him. He ought at least to be warned. But how could she warn him?
Clearly she could not warn him in the presence of Mr Bittenger, the
prospective murderer. She would, therefore, have to warn him when they
were alone. And that meant that she would have to give way in the great
conjugal sulking match. No, never! It was impossible that she should
give way there! She frowned desperately at the leaping flames, and did
ultimately decide that Stephen's death was preferable to her defeat in
that contest. Of such is human nature.
After all, dreams were nonsense.
Surely Stephen would come upstairs to inquire about her health, her
indisposition? But no! He came not. And, as he continued not to come,
she went downstairs again and proclaimed that she was better.
And then she learned that she had been worrying herself to no purpose
whatever. Mr Bittenger was leaving on the morrow, the morrow being
Christmas Eve. Stephen would drive him to Bursley in the morning. He
would go to the Five Towns Hotel to get his baggage, and catch the
Liverpool express at noon. He had booked a passage on the Saxonia,
which sailed at threethirty o'clock. Thus he would spend his Christmas
at sea; and, spending his Christmas at sea, he could not possibly kill
Stephen in the village of Sneyd on Christmas night.
Relief! And yet a certain vague regret in the superstitious little
heart! The little heart went to bed again. And Stephen and the stranger
stayed up talking very late--doubtless about the famous cure.
The leave-taking the next morning increased the vague regret. Mr
Bittenger was the possessor of an attractive individuality, and Vera
pondered upon its attractiveness far into the afternoon. How nicely Mr
Bittenger had thanked her for her gracious hospitality--with what
meaning he had charged the expression of his deep regret at leaving her!
After all, dreams WERE nonsense.
She was sitting in the bow-window of the drawing-room, precisely as she
had been sitting twenty-four hours previously, when whom should she
see, striding masculinely along the drive towards the house, but Mr
Bittenger?
This time she was much more perturbed even than she had been by the
revelation of Mr Bittenger's baldness.