Part 40 (1/2)

Anne commanded herself and looked up. ”Keep it, by all means,” she said.

”But do not expect too much from me. No woman is always good. The best of us fail sometimes.”

”But you will do your best when the time comes?” he said, in a tone that was a curious blend of demand and entreaty.

She met his eyes quite fully. ”Yes,” she said, ”I will do my best.”

”Then I'm not afraid,” said Capper. ”We shall pull him through between us. It will be a miracle, of course, but”--a sudden smile flashed across his face, transforming him completely--”miracles happen, Lady Carfax.”

CHAPTER V

THE TOKEN

Slowly Anne drew aside the curtain and looked forth into the night, a magic night, soft and wonderful, infinitely peaceful. A full moon shone high in the sky with an immense arc of light around it, many-rayed, faintly prismatic. There was the scent of coming rain in the air, but no clouds were visible. The stars were dim and remote, almost quenched in that flood of moonlight.

Across the quiet garden came the song of a nightingale in one of the shrubberies, now soft and far like the notes of a fairy flute, now close at hand and filling the whole world with music. Anne stood, a silent listener, on the edge of the magic circle.

She had just risen from the piano, where for the past hour or more she had been striving to forget the fever that burned within. Now at last she had relinquished the piteous, vain attempt, and utterly wearied she stood drinking in the spring sweetness.

It was drawing towards midnight, and all but herself had retired. She knew she ought to bolt the window and go to rest also; only she knew, too, that no rest awaited her. The silver peace into which she gazed was like balm to her tired spirit, but yet she could only stand, as it were, upon the edge.

A great longing was upon her, a voiceless, indescribable desire, that made within her so deep a restlessness that no outside influence seemed able to touch it. She leaned her head against the window-frame, conscious of suffering but scarcely aware of thought.

With no effort of hers the events of that afternoon pa.s.sed before her.

She heard again the ardent voice of the friend who had become the lover.

He had loved her from the first, it seemed, and she had not known it.

Could it be that she had loved him also, all unknowing?

There came again to her the memory of those fierce, compelling eyes, the dogged mastery with which he had fought her resolution, the sudden magic softening of the harsh face when he smiled. There came again the pa.s.sionate thrilling of his voice; again her hands tingled in that close grip; again she thought she felt the beating of the savage heart.

She raised her arms above her head with the gesture of one who wards off something immense, but they fell almost immediately. She was so tired--so tired. She had fought so hard and so long. Oh, why was there no peace for her? What had she done to be thus tortured? Why had love come to her at all? In all her barren life she had never asked for love.

And now that it had come it was only to be ruthlessly dashed against the stones. What had she to do with love--love, moreover, for a man who could offer her but the fiery pa.s.sion of a savage, a man from whom her every instinct shrank, who mocked at holy things and overthrew all barriers of convention with a cynicism that silenced all protest. What--ah, what indeed!--had she to do with love?

She had lived a pure life. She had put out the fires of youth long ago, with no hesitating hand. She had dwelt in the desert, and made of it her home. Was it her fault that those fires had been kindled afresh? Was she to blame because the desert had suddenly blossomed? Could she be held responsible for these things, she who had walked in blindness till the transforming miracle had touched her also and opened her eyes?

She s.h.i.+vered a little. Oh, for a helping hand! Oh, for a deliverer from this maze of misery!

She saw again the quiet garden lying sleeping before her in the moonlight, and felt as if G.o.d must be very far away. She was very terribly alone that night.

The impulse came to her to pa.s.s out into the dewy stillness, and she obeyed it, scarcely knowing what she did. Over the silver gra.s.s, ghost-like, she moved. It was as if a voice had called her. On to the lilac trees with their burden of fragrant blossoms, where the thrush had raised his song of rapture, where she had faced that first fiery ordeal of love.

She reached the bench where she had sat that afternoon. There was not a leaf that stirred. The nightingale's song sounded away in the distance.

The midnight peace lay like a shroud upon all things. But suddenly fear stabbed her, piercing every nerve to quivering activity. She knew--how, she could not have said--that she was no longer alone.

She stood quite still, but the beating of her heart rose quick and insistent in her ears, like the beat of a drum. Swift came the conviction that it was no inner impulse that had brought her hither. She had obeyed a voice that called.