_ PART III CHAPTER VI. A VOICE THAT CALLED
Christmas came and went--the most peaceful Christmas that Anne had ever known. A wonderful peace had indeed begun to possess her. It was as if after long tossing she had come at last into quiet waters, and a contentment such as she had never known before was hers. Her health had improved in this calm, untroubled atmosphere. She slept without dreaming. She had put all regrets and fears out of her life.
Lucas filled all her thoughts. Had he allowed it, she would have devoted herself exclusively to him, but this he would not have. Very slowly, very painfully, he had struggled out of his Slough of Despond, and what that struggle had meant to him none but himself would ever know. And now that he had made it, and in a measure succeeded, he suffered scarcely less than before. His strength was undoubtedly greater, his spirits were more even; but these were the only visible signs of improvement. The long, sleepless nights with spells of racking pain continued. Perhaps they became less frequent as time went on, but they did not cease.
Anne always knew, though the same brave smile greeted her every day, when he had been through one of these ordeals. He was always so ready to tell her when the news was good, but when it was otherwise his lips were sealed upon the subject. He never uttered a desponding word in her presence.
But still, gradual, often halting though it was, he did make progress. He went forward more than he slipped back. And ever he carried in his eyes the light of a great hope. She knew that he did not despair, even in his own hidden soul.
And day by day her love and admiration for the man grew and spread, filling her life, renewing her youth, transforming her very existence. Day by day she sounded greater depths of a nature that made her feel infinitely small in comparison. Day by day she marvelled afresh at the greatness and the simplicity that went to the making of this man's soul.
No one, save Mrs. Errol, knew of what had passed between them. They scarcely referred to it even in private. There was no need, for the understanding between them was complete. By mutual consent they awaited the coming of Capper and the final miracle.
Slowly the dark, bitter days of January dragged away. The Hunt Ball had been postponed till the following month when the Town Hall, which had been building all the winter, should be complete. Anne, to her dismay, had been unanimously elected to perform the opening ceremony. Her position as Lady of the Manor made her prominent, and, no substitute being forthcoming, she had been obliged reluctantly to consent. Her deep mourning enabled her to avoid any succeeding social function, but, since she had broken her seclusion, she found it impossible to escape the ceremony itself.
She had never enjoyed social prominence, and she was thankful that at the Hunt Ball at least her presence could not be expected. She never thought of the last that she had attended without a shiver. It had been her birthday, and this fact brought it to mind the more persistently. This year she spent the day in the peaceful atmosphere of Baronmead, driving home at length, through the frosty starlight, in the Errols' car.
She strove as she went to put away from her the memory of that other ride of a year ago, when she had been borne swiftly through the darkness as though upon wings, when she had lain back exhausted in her corner and dreamed a strange, vivid dream, while Nap had sat upright beside her, alert, silent, inscrutable, plucking the gloves to tatters between his restless hands.
The vision would not be excluded, strive though she might. She leaned amongst the cushions and closed her eyes, trying to trick herself to drowsiness, but on the instant he was there beside her again, a ruthless, indomitable presence, which would not be ignored. She was glad when she came to her journey's end.
Entering the hall, she gathered up a few letters that lay there, and went straight to her room. With a feeling of unwonted fatigue she dropped into an easy-chair and sat for awhile inert. On her right hand she wore a ring that Lucas had given her only that day.
He had half-apologised for his offering. "If you think it premature, don't wear it!" he had said.
And she had slipped it on to her right hand and worn it ever since.
She recalled the kindling of his tired eyes at her action, and smiled sadly to herself. How little she had to give him after all! And yet he was content!
Sitting there, she raised her hand and looked closely at the gift. It was a complete circle of diamonds. She had never seen such a ring before. It must have cost a fortune. She wondered if she ought to wear it. Again memory began to crowd upon her, strive though she would.
"Do you like diamonds?" asked a casual voice.
Her hand fell into her lap. She sat as one watching a scene upon a stage, rapt and listening. She wanted to rise and move away, to break the magic spell that bound her, to flee--to flee--but she was powerless.
"No," said the voice. "You haven't a passion for anything at present. You will have soon."
There fell a silence in her soul, a brief darkness, then again words, no longer casual, but quick, burning, passionate.
"I am mad--I am mad for you, Anne! Goddess--queen--woman--you are mine--you are mine--you are mine!" And then, less fiery, less vehement, but infinitely more compelling: "Where is your love for me? I will swear that you loved me once!"
The voice ceased, was lost in the wild throbbing of her heart, and Anne's hands clenched unconsciously. In that moment there came to her the conviction, inexplicable but extraordinarily vivid, that across the world Nap Errol had called to her--and had called in vain.
Minutes passed. She sat as one in a trance. Her eyes were wide and fixed. Her face was grey.
She rose at last and stood looking down into the red depths of the fire. The coals sank together under her eyes, and a sudden flame flared fiercely for a moment and died. It was like the opening and the shutting of a furnace door. A long, long shiver went through her. She turned away....
Anne Carfax did not look in her glass again that day. For the third time in her life she was afraid to meet her own eyes.
And all night long her brain thrummed like a vibrating wire to a voice that sometimes pleaded but more often gibed. "Has the Queen no further use for her jester?" _