She sat beside the baby’s cradle, rocking it slowly, and gazed down at the floor. What did all this confusion and contradiction on Dick’s part mean? Why did he look like that, as scared as though he had seen a ghost? And why was he so angry, and why again so flushed?
Dick meantime was riding back to London at a great pace—riding as if the devil himself rode behind him. But when he reached town it was to ask himself why he had come there; for deep down in his heart he knew that the time had come, and that tell Anne he must—yes, the whole black truth from first to last. He had ridden away from her searching truth-compelling eyes, but they followed him still, and back he must go and have done with it all. Why would the earth not open and swallow him up?—Ah, happy Dathan and Abiram!
CHAPTER VII
The day passed slowly for Anne after Dick had left. Her mind was troubled by vague half-formulated doubts. Had Dick spoken truly, or had he lied to save her pain? Surely, surely she could never mistake Sebastian’s signature, the same she had gazed at so often, and kissed, aye, and wept over also. She revolved these questions in her mind all day and found no satisfactory answers to them; when she lay down at night, one insistent suggestion whispered on in her ear, ‘Why did Dick look like that? Was he lying? Did ever man look so mazed and scared when he spoke the truth?’ Then Anne’s tired eyes closed and she entered the beautiful dream-world. Now the dream-world holds sensations of indescribable vividness not attainable on the earth-world; here experiences come within the scope of words, there we experience the inexpressible.
In a dream, then, in a vision of the night, when deep sleep had fallen upon her, Anne dreamed and thought she awoke in Paradise. For Sebastian came to her (out of nowhere, after the fashion of dreams), and their souls seemed fused together in a warm silence. Not a word was spoken between them; yet the miserable past was blotted out for ever; a great light shone everywhere—a glow, a heat of forgiveness, a passion of fulfilment at last; and the beautiful thrilling silence of it all! They seemed alone in hollow space, out of reach of this world’s hubbub. What need of explanations when all was understood? Her thoughts rested on that splendid wordless vacancy. ‘Sure I be in heaven at last!’ said poor Anne. ‘A fine heaven too, that quiet as it is! The old one as I used to hear on was all noise o’ trumpets an’ hosannas—here’s heaven indeed, with this grand quiet as is to go on for ever.’
Anne woke suddenly then—the appalling conviction of a dream was upon her: she might have spoken face to face with her dear lover, so vividly present he had seemed, such a sudden assurance of his faithfulness had come to her. She sat up in bed and called out aloud in the quiet room—
‘Lord! be it a dream? Sebastian dear, what’s this I’m feelin’? Have Dick Sundon fooled me out an’ out a-tellin’ lies of you all this long time? Help me, am I losing my judgment?’
She rose up, groped her way across the dark room, and drew back the window-curtain. The first streaks of day were showing in the sky, the peaceful wooded land was half shrouded still in the mists of morning. With long whistling notes the birds gave welcome to the coming day; they called to each other, near at hand, and far off among the blossoming thickets, like happy spirits that sing together in the fields of joy. Anne leaned from the window and listened to these songs that went up so straight into the dim blue morning skies. A great fear held her fast,—the fear that Dick, her husband, her helper, had deceived her. In her dismay and bewilderment she could only repeat again and again, ‘Lord help me, Lord help me,’ scarcely knowing what she said. Then, afraid to lie down again, she dressed and went down-stairs and into the garden. Far off on the London road she heard the distant trotting of a horse and the roll of wheels; some one must be driving along in the quiet morning dimness. Anne stepped down the little walk and stood leaning against the gate.
The wheels came nearer, and then came down the lane. Anne turned away, for even in that dim light the passers-by must see her tears.
Then she heard the chaise stop at the gate; Dick’s voice—how clear it sounded in the early stillness!—was speaking to the post-boy.