CHAPTER I
THE POWER DIVINE
"Well, if this isn't a pleasure!"
Thus Lucas Errol, sitting on the terrace on a certain hot afternoonearly in August, greeted Dot, whose multifarious duties did not permither to be a very frequent visitor. He smiled at her with that cordialitywhich even on his worst days was never absent, but she thought himlooking very ill.
"Are you sure I shan't tire you too much?" she asked him, as he invitedher to sit down.
"Quite sure, my dear Dot!" he answered. "It does me good to see people.Lady Carfax is coming presently. The mother has gone to fetch her. Itwill be her last appearance, I am afraid, for the present. She isexpecting her husband home to-morrow. But I'm glad you are here first. Iwas just wishing I could see you."
"Were you really?" said Dot.
"Yes, really. No, you needn't look at me like that. I'm telling thetruth. I always do, to the best of my ability. Is that chair quitecomfortable? Do you mind if I smoke?"
"I don't mind anything," Dot said. "And I'm so comfortable that I want totake off my hat and go to sleep."
"You may do the first," said Lucas. "But not the second, because I wantto talk, and it's sort of uninteresting not to have an audience,especially when there is something important to be said."
"Something important!" echoed Dot. "I hope it's something nice."
"Oh, quite nice," he assured her. "It's to do with Bertie." He wassmiling in his own peculiarly kindly fashion. "By the way, he's stewingindoors, studying for that exam, which he isn't going to pass."
"Not going to pass?" Dot looked up in swift anxiety. "Oh, don't youthink he will?"
Lucas shook his head. "What's success anyway? I guess the Creator findsthe failures just as useful to Him in the long run."
"But I don't want him to fail!" she protested.
"In my opinion," Lucas said slowly, "it doesn't matter a single red cent,so long as a man does his best. Believe me, it isn't success that counts.We're apt to think it's everything when we're young. I did myselfonce--before I began to realise that I hadn't come to stay." The shrewdblue eyes smiled at her under their heavy lids. "Now I don't want todistress you any," he said, "but I'm going to say something that p'r'apsyou'll take to heart though you mustn't let it grieve you. Capper iscoming here next month to perform an operation on me. It may besuccessful, and on the other hand--it may not. The uncertainty worries mesome. I'm trying to leave my affairs in good order, but--there are somethings beyond my scope that I'd like unspeakably to see settled before Itake my chances. You can understand that?"
Dot's hand, warm, throbbing with life, slipped impulsively into his."Dear Lucas, of course--of course I understand."
"Thanks! That's real nice of you. I always knew you were a womanof sense. I wonder if you can guess what it is I've set my hearton, eh, Dot?"
"Tell me," murmured Dot.
His eyes still rested upon her, but they seemed to be looking atsomething beyond. "P'r'aps I'm over fond of regulating other folks'affairs," he said. "It's a habit that easily grows on the head of afamily. But I've a sort of fancy for seeing you and Bertie married beforeI go out. If you tell me it's quite impossible I won't say any more. Butif you could see your way to it--well, it would be a real kindness, and Ineedn't say any more than that."
The weary, rather droning voice ceased to speak. The eyelids drooped moreheavily. It seemed to Dot that a grey shadow lay upon the worn face. Helooked so unutterably tired, so ready for the long, long sleep.
She sat quite still beside him, turning the matter in her mind.
After a little he went on speaking, with eyes half-closed. "It would hithim hard if I went under, but he wouldn't feel so badly if you werethere. The mother too--she wants someone to lean on. There's Lady Carfax,but she has her own burden. And there'd be a lot for Bertie to see to,Nap being away. Besides--"
"Oh, Luke," Dot broke in, her eyes full of tears, "I--I can't imaginethis place without you."
"No? Well, you mustn't let it distress you any. We've all got to go,sooner or later. There isn't anything in that. The main thing is to getit over, when it comes, with as little fuss as possible. Life isn't longenough for grieving. It's just a mortal waste of time. And what is Deathanyway?" He raised his eyes with what seemed an effort. "You won't blameme," he said, "for wanting to close up the ranks a bit before I go. Ofcourse I may live as long as any of you. God knows I shall do my best. Iwant to pull through--for several reasons. But if I've got to go, I'dlike to feel I've left things as ship-shape as possible. Bertie will tellyou what provision I desire to make for you. P'r'aps you and he will talkit over, and if you're willing I'll see the padre about it. But I kind offelt the first word ought to be with you. Bertie didn't like to speakbecause he'd promised to wait. You'll find he's a man of his word. That'swhy I've butted in. Say, child, I didn't mean to make you cry. That wasclumsy of me."
He patted her hand gently, while Dot blinked away her tears.
"Don't let us talk about it any more now," she besought him. "Oh,Lucas--I do want you to live, more--more than anything."
"That's real kind of you," he said. "I'll do my best, you may be sure.I can hear Lady Carfax talking in the drawing-room. Won't you go andbring her out?"
He made no effort to rise when Anne came on to the terrace, but he gaveher so vivid a smile of welcome that she scarcely noted the omission. Itwas their first meeting since Nap's departure, for Lucas had beenconfined to his bed for days. But that smile of his banished any sense ofembarrassment from her mind. He was so candidly, so unaffectedly, pleasedto see her.
She sat down in the riotous sunshine and gave herself up unreservedly tothe pleasure of being with her friends. They were all congenial to her.Mrs. Errol, Dot, Lucas, but most especially Lucas, who occupied a uniqueposition in her heart and in her thoughts. He had always been soperfectly her friend in need.
As the long, sunny afternoon wore away, she found herself watching himand in silence marvelling. How was it that this man in his utter,piteous weakness accomplished so much, ruled thus supreme? Wherein laythat potent charm of his which neither devil nor brute could effectivelyresist? Whence came it, this power of the soul, this deliberate andconscious mastery?
She watched Bertie waiting on him, hovering about him, ready to spring upat his lightest word to execute his scarcely-uttered wish. Othermen--even great men--did not command this personal homage, this complete,incessant devotion. Undoubtedly there was something kingly about him; butwherein did it lie? Not in the impotent, unwieldy figure, not in thepleasant, emotionless drawl, not even in the friendly quiet of his eyes,the kindly sympathy of his smile. In none of these lay his power, and yetin all of them it was in some fashion apparent. No great force ofpersonality characterised him, and yet his monarchy was absolute. Nosplendour of intellect, no keenness of wit, no smartness of repartee werehis. Only a shrewdness of understanding that was never cruel, a humourthat had no edge.
And presently Anne remembered that his own mother had given her the keyto the problem, and she doubted not that it solved the whole. "It isn'tpersonal magnetism," Mrs. Errol had said, "nor anything of that sort.It's just love."
That was the magic to which even Nap, the fierce, the passionate, thetreacherous, had been forced to bow. In the midst of his weakness thisman wielded an all-potent power--a power before which they allinstinctively did homage--before which even devils humbledthemselves--because it was Divine.
That was the secret of his strength. That was the weapon by which heconquered. She wondered if it had always been so, or if his physicalweakness had tended to develop in him a greatness of heart of which moreactive men were quite incapable. It might be true, as Mrs. Errol hadcontended, that all men had their possibilities, but, this was the onlyman she had ever met who had turned them to account. All unconsciously,perhaps in response to a reaction which had been necessarily violent,Anne yielded herself that day for the first time in her life to a speciesof hero-worship that could not but beautify her own sad life.
When later she found herself alone with him, they talked for a space uponindifferent things, and then they did not talk at all. The intimacybetween them made conversation unnecessary, and Lucas Errol's silence wasas easy as his speech.
"You'll take care of yourself," he said once, "or I shan't be easyabout you."
And, when she had promised that: "And you'll look us up as often asyou find you can. P'r'aps if you can't come very often you'll manageto write."
But he made no direct reference to her husband's return. His sympathyneither sought nor needed expression in words.
Neither did he speak of himself. He only at parting held her hand veryclosely for several silent seconds. And Anne went away with a hushedfeeling at her heart as if he had invoked a benediction.
Back to her home she went, strangely quiet and at peace. She had thoughtthat visit to Baronmead would have been painful to her. She had expectedto suffer afresh. But it was instead as if a healing hand had been laidupon her, and as she went she thought no more of Nap, the savage, thesudden, the terrible; but of Lucas, the gentle, the patient, thechivalrous, who had won and would for ever keep her perfect trust.
The light of a golden evening lay upon the Manor as she entered. It waswonderfully quiet. She went in by the French windows that led into thedrawing-room, and here, tempted by an impulse that had not moved her forlong, she sat down at the piano and began very softly to play.
She had not touched the keys since her last visit to Baronmead. Shewondered, as idly she suffered her fingers to wander, how long it wouldbe before she played again.
Yet it was hard to believe, sitting there in the quiet evening light,that the next day would witness her return to bondage, that bondage thathad so cruelly galled her, the very thought of which had at one timefilled her with repulsion. But her feelings had undergone a change oflate. She could not feel that the old burden would ever return upon her.She had been emancipated too long. Her womanhood had developed too muchduring those months of liberty. No, it could never be the same. Patientand faithful wife she would still be. She was ready to devote herselfungrudgingly, without reservation, to her invalid husband. But his slaveshe would never be again. She had overcome her repugnance; she waswilling to serve. But never again would he compel. The days of histyranny were for ever gone.
It was no easy path that lay before her, but she had not forgotten hownarrowly she had escaped the precipice. Even yet she still trembled whenshe remembered the all-engulfing pit of destruction that had openedbefore her, and the anguish of fear that had possessed her untildeliverance had come. Lucas Errol had been her deliverer. She rememberedthat also, and a faint, sad smile touched her lips--Lucas Errol, kingand cripple, ruler and weakling.
Softly the sunset faded. Anne's fingers ceased to roam over the keys. Sheclasped them in her lap and sat still.
All at once a quiet voice spoke. "My lady!"
With a start she turned. "Dimsdale! How you startled me!"
"I beg your ladyship's pardon," the old man said.
He was standing close behind her. There was an air of subdued importanceabout him. He was grave to severity.
But Anne did not look at him very critically. "I shall not want anytea," she said. "I will dine at eight in my sitting-room as usual. Iseverything in readiness, Dimsdale? Is Sir Giles's room just as itshould be?"
"Yes, my lady."
Anne rose and quietly closed the piano. She wondered why Dimsdalelingered, and after a moment it struck her that he had something to say.She took up her gloves and turned round to him.
"No one has been, I suppose?"
"No one, my lady."
"Are there any letters?"
"No letters, my lady."
"Then--" Anne paused, and for the first time looked at the old servantattentively. "Is anything the matter, Dimsdale?" she asked.
He hesitated, the fingers of one hand working a little, an unusual signof agitation with him.
With an effort at last he spoke. "Your ladyship instructed me to open anytelegram that might arrive."
Her heart gave a great throb of foreboding. "Certainly," she said. "Hasthere been a telegram then?"
Dimsdale's hand clenched. He looked at her anxiously, rather piteously.
"My lady--" he said, and stopped.
Anne stood like a statue. She felt as if her vitality were suddenlyarrested, as if every pulse had ceased to beat.
"Please go on," she said in a whisper. "There has been a telegram. Eithergive it to me, or--tell me what was in it."
Dimsdale made a jerky movement, as if pulling himself together. He put anunsteady hand into his breast-pocket. "It came this afternoon, my lady,about an hour ago. I am afraid it's bad news--very bad news. Yes, mylady, I'm telling you, I'm telling you. I regret to say Sir Giles hasbeen took worse, took very sudden like, and--and--"
"He is dead," Anne said very clearly, very steadily, in a tone that wasneither of question nor of exclamation.
Dimsdale bent his head. "He died at half-past three, my lady."
He had the telegram in his hand. Anne took it from him and moved veryquietly to the window.
Mutely the old man stood and watched her in the silence, thankful for hercomposure. He was himself severely shaken, and the ordeal of telling herhad been no light one.
But as the silence still continued he began to grow uneasy again. Hewondered if he ought to go, if she had forgotten to dismiss him. Herstately head was bent over the paper, which never crackled or stirred inher hand. There began to be something terrible, something fateful, inher passivity. Old Dimsdale shivered, and took the liberty of breakingthe silence.
"Would your ladyship wish a message to be sent to Baronmead?"
She stirred at that, moved sharply as one suddenly awakened. Her face wasquite white, but her eyes were alight, curiously vital, with a glitterthat was almost of horror.
"To Baronmead!" she said, a queer note of sharpness in her voice. "No,certainly not, most certainly not!"
And there she stopped, stopped dead as though struck dumb. In the gardenbehind her, down among the lilac trees, a bird had begun to sing,eagerly, voluptuously, thrillingly, with a rapture as of the fullspring-tide of life.
Anne stood for a space of many seconds and listened, her white faceupraised, her eyes wide and shining.
And then suddenly her attitude changed. She put her hands over her faceand tottered blindly from the open window.
Dimsdale started to support her, but she needed no support. In amoment she was looking at him again, but with eyes from which alllight had faded.
"I must write some messages at once," she said. "One of the grooms musttake them. No, I shall not send to Mrs. Errol to-night. I wish to bealone--quite alone. Please admit no one. And--yes--tell them to pull downthe blinds, and--shut all the windows!"
Her voice quivered and sank. She stood a moment, collecting herself,then walked quietly to the door.
"Come to me in ten minutes for those telegrams," she said. "And afterthat, remember, Dimsdale, I am not to be disturbed by anyone."
And with that she passed out, erect and calm, and went up to her room.
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