CHAPTER XVI
DELIVERANCE
Notwithstanding her largeness of heart, Mrs. Errol was something of adespot, and when once she had assumed command she was slow torelinquish it.
"I guess you must let me have my own way, dear Anne," she said, "for I'venever had a daughter."
And Anne, to whom the burden of life just then was more than ordinarilyheavy, was fain to submit to the kindly tyranny. Mrs. Errol had found heralone at the inn at Bramhurst on the night of the storm, and in responseto her earnest request had taken her without delay straight back to herhome. Very little had passed between them on the circumstances that hadresulted in this development. Scarcely had Nap's name been mentioned byeither. Mrs. Errol seemed to know him too well to need an explanation.And Anne had noted this fact with a sick heart.
It meant to her the confirmation of what had already become a practicalconviction, that the man she had once dreamed that she loved was nomore than a myth of her own imagination. Again and yet again she hadbeen deceived, but her eyes were open at last finally and for all time.No devil's craft, however wily, however convincing, could ever closethem again.
Lying in her darkened room, with her stretched nerves yet quivering atevery sound, she told herself over and over that she knew Nap Errol nowas others knew him, as he knew himself, a man cruel, merciless,unscrupulous, in whose dark soul no germ of love had ever stirred.
Why he had ever desired her she could not determine. Possibly her veryfaith in him--that faith that he had so rudely shattered--had been theattraction; possibly only her aloofness, her pride, had kindled in himthe determination to conquer. But that he had ever loved her, as sheinterpreted love, she now told herself was an utter impossibility. Sheeven questioned in the bitterness of her disillusionment if Love, thatTrue Romance to which she had offered sacrifice, were not also a myth,the piteous creation of a woman's fond imagination, a thing non-existentsave in the realms of fancy, a dream-goal to which no man might attainand very few aspire.
All through the long day she lay alone with her problem, perpetuallyturning it in her mind, perpetually asking by what tragic influence shehad ever been brought to fancy that this man with his violent,unrestrained nature, his fierce egoism, his murderous impulses, had everbeen worthy of the halo her love had fashioned for him. No man wasworthy! No man was worthy! This man least of all! Had not he himselfwarned her over and over again, and she had not listened? Perhaps he hadnot meant her to listen. Perhaps it had only been another of his devilishartifices for ensnaring her, that attitude of humility, half-scoffing,half-persuasive, with which he had masked his inner vileness.
Oh, she was sick at heart that day, sick with disappointment, sick withhumiliation, sick with a terrible foreboding that gave her no rest.Slowly the hours dragged away. She had despatched her urgent message toLucas immediately upon her arrival at the Manor, and his prompt reply hadin a measure reassured her. But she knew that he was ill, and she couldnot drive from her mind the dread that he might fail her. How could he inhis utter physical weakness hope to master the demons that tore NapErrol's turbulent soul? And if Lucas failed her, what then? What then?She had no city of refuge to flee unto. She and her husband were at themercy of a murderer. For that he would keep his word she did not for amoment doubt. Nap Errol was not as other men. No second thoughts woulddeter him from his purpose. Unless Lucas by some miracle withheld him, noother influence would serve. He would wreak his vengeance with nohesitating hand. The fire of his savagery was an all-consuming flame,and it was too strongly kindled to be lightly quenched.
Her thoughts went back to her husband. The date of his return had notbeen definitely fixed. The letter had suggested that it should take placesome time in the following week. She had not yet replied to thesuggestion. She put her hand to her head. Actually she had forgotten!Ought she not to send a message of warning? But in what terms could shecouch it? Lucas might even yet succeed. It might be that even now he wasfighting the desperate battle.
Inaction became intolerable. She had promised Mrs. Errol that she wouldtake a long rest, but there was no rest for her. She knew that she wouldhear from Lucas the moment he had anything definite to report; but a newand ghastly fear now assailed her. What if Nap had not returned toBaronmead? What if he had gone direct to the asylum, there to snatch hisopportunity while his fury was at its height?
The thought turned her sick. She rose, scarcely knowing what she did, andmoved across the room to her escritoire. The vague idea of penning somesort of warning was in her mind, but before she reached it the convictionstabbed her that it would be too late. No warning would be of any avail.If that had been Nap Errol's intention, by this time the deed was done.And if that were so, she was in part guilty of her husband's murder.
Powerless, she sank upon her knees by the open window, strivingpainfully, piteously, vainly, to pray. But no words came to her, noprayer rose from her wrung heart. It was as though she knelt in outerdarkness before a locked door.
In that hour Anne Carfax went down into that Place of Desolation whichsome call hell and some the bitter school of sorrow--that place in whicheach soul is alone with its agony and its sin, that place where no lightshines and no voice is heard, where, groping along the edge ofdestruction, the wanderer seeks its Maker and finds Him not, where eventhe Son of God Himself once lost His faith.
And in that hour she knew why her love lay wounded unto death, though notthen did she recognise the revelation as a crowning mercy. She sawherself bruised and abased, humbled beyond belief. She saw her proudpurity brought low, brought down to the very mire which all her life shehad resolutely ignored, from the very though of which she had alwayswithdrawn herself as from an evil miasma that bred corruption. She sawherself a sinner, sunk incredibly low, a woman who had worshipped Loveindeed, but at a forbidden shrine, a woman moreover bereft of all things,who had seen her sacrifice crumble to ashes and had no more to offer.
Through her mind flashed a single sentence that had often and often sether wondering: "From him that hath not shall be taken away even thatwhich he seemeth to have." She knew its meaning now. It scorched herinmost soul. Such an one was she. No effort had she ever made to possessher husband's love. No love had she ever offered to him; duty andsubmission indeed, but love--never. Her heart had been unwarmed, nor hadshe ever sought to kindle within it the faintest spark. She had hated himalways. She knew it now. Or perhaps her feeling for him had beensomething too cold for even hatred. If he had made her drink the watersof bitterness, she had given him in return the icy draught of contempt.
There had been a time when his passion for her might have turned to love,but she had let it slide. She had not wanted love. Or else--like so manyfevered souls--she had yearned for the full blossom thereof, neglectingto nourish the parched seed under her feet.
She had committed sacrilege. That was why Love had come to her at lastwith a flaming sword, devastating her whole life, depriving her of eventhat which she had seemed to have. That was why she now knelt impotentbefore a locked door. That was why God was angry.
A long, long time passed. She did not hear the rain pattering upon thegreen earth, nor feel the soft breeze on her neck. She had lost touchwith things physical. She was yet groping in outer darkness.
A hand very softly turned the handle of her door, and a motherly facelooked in.
"Why, Anne, dear child, I thought you were asleep!" the deep voicesaid reproachfully. "I've been listening outside for ages, and you wereso quiet!"
She raised her head quickly, and in a moment rose. Her eyes were deeplyshadowed, but they bore no trace of tears.
"I could not sleep," she said. "But you mustn't trouble about me. I amquite well. I will dress and come down."
Mrs. Errol came forward, shaking her head disapprovingly. "I have anote from Lucas," she said. "It arrived a quarter of an hour ago, butthere was no answer, so I thought it would be real wicked to wake youup to read it."
Anne stretched out a hand that shook. "Please!" she said almostinarticulate
ly.
With the note open in her hand she turned and sat down suddenly as ifincapable of standing. The clumsy, uneven writing danced before her eyes.One sentence only, but it took her many seconds to read!
"My brother Nap leaves to-night for Arizona.--Lucas."
She raised her face with a deep, deep breath. She felt as if she had notbreathed for hours. Silently, after a moment, she held out the briefmessage to Mrs. Errol.
"My!" said the latter. "Well, thank the Lord for that!"
And then very tenderly she laid her hand upon Anne's shoulder. "Mydearie, would it help you any to speak of him?"
Anne leaned her weary head against her. "I don't know," she said.
"I often wanted to warn you," Mrs. Errol said. "But I thought--Ihoped--it was unnecessary. You were always so kind of frank with him thatI thought maybe it would be an impertinence to say anything. It wasn't asif you were an inexperienced girl. If you had been--but to give him hisdue, Nap never tried to trap inexperience. He's got some morals, knave ashe is. Say, Anne dear, you know he is no son of mine?"
"Yes," whispered Anne, gently drawing her friend's hand round her neck.
"And I sometimes wonder," Mrs. Errol went on, in her deep sing-song voicethat yet somehow held a note of pathos, "if I did wrong to take him as Idid. He was the quaintest baby, Anne--the cutest morsel you ever saw. Hisdying mother brought him to me. She was only a girl herself--abroken-hearted girl, dying before her time. I couldn't refuse. I felt hehad a sort of claim upon us. Maybe I was wrong. My husband didn't view itthat way, but at that time I hadn't much faith in his judgment. So I tookthe boy--his boy--and he was brought up as one of my own. But he wasalways unaccountable. He had queer lapses. I tried to be kind to him. Iguess I always was kind. But I surmise that he always suspected me ofresenting his existence. Lucas was the only one who ever had anyinfluence over him. Latterly I've thought you had some too, but I guessthat was where I went wrong. He and Bertie never got on. P'r'aps it wasmy fault. P'r'aps he inherited some of my antagonism. The Lord knows Itried to suppress it, but somehow it was always there."
"Dear Mrs. Errol!" Anne murmured softly. "Not one woman in a thousandwould have done as much."
"Oh, you mustn't say that, dearie. I'm a very poor specimen. I gave himwhat advantages I could, but I never loved him. P'r'aps if I had, he'dhave been a better boy. It's only love that counts for anything in God'ssight, and I never gave him any. Lucas did. That's how it is he knows howto manage him. It isn't personal magnetism or anything of that sort. It'sjust love. He can't help answering to that, because it's Divine."
"Ah!" breathed Anne. "You think him capable of love then?"
"I guess so, dear. He's raw and undeveloped, but like the rest ofcreation he has his possibilities. You've seen him in his better moodsyourself. I always thought he kept his best side for you."
"I know," Anne said. She leaned slowly back, looking up into the kindlyeyes above her. "But it was only a mask. I see it now. I think there aremany men like that, perhaps all are to a certain extent. They are onlythemselves to one another. No woman would ever love a man if she saw himas he is."
"My dear! My dear!" Mrs. Errol said. "That's a bitter thing to say. Andit isn't true either. You'll see better by-and-by. Men are contemptible,I own--the very best of them; but they've all got possibilities, and it'sjust our part to draw them out. It's the divine foolishness of women'slove that serves their need, that makes them feel after better things. Nowoman ever won a man by despising him. He may be inferior--he is--but hewants real love to bolster him up. I guess the dear Lord thought of thatwhen He fashioned women."
But Anne only smiled, very sadly, and shook her head. It might be true,but she was in no state to judge. She was blinded by present pain. Shefelt she had given her love to the wrong man, and though it hadflourished like a tropical flower in the fiery atmosphere of his passion,it had been burnt away at last by the very sun that had called it intobeing. And she would love in that way no more for ever. There was onlyduty left down all the long grey vista of her life.
PART III