CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
THE DAWN OF MORNING
"Victor! Victor!"
It was Janet's voice outside the door.
"Eh?"
"Six o'clock. Didn't you want to catch the first train in town, dear?"
"Oh yes! All right. I'll be down presently."
Stowell found it difficult to recover consciousness. He was lying on the sofa, and he looked around. There was the armchair—it was empty. But the lamp on the bureau was still burning. He must have slept, for he was feeling refreshed and even strong.
Leaping to his feet he blew out the lamp and pulled back the window curtains. It was a beautiful morning, tranquil as the sky and noiseless as the dew. Over the tops of the tall trees the bald crown of old Snaefell was bathed in sunshine.
He was like another man. Life had no terrors for him now. It was just as if a curse had fallen from him in the night. No more visions! No more spectres! He knew what he had to do and he would do it. He had a sense of immense emancipation. He felt like a slave who had broken the chain which he had dragged after him for years. He was a free man once more.