Lexy sat on the edge of the bed, her hands clasped loosely before her, her bright head bent, her eyes fixed somberly upon nothing; and she could see nothing—not one step of the way that lay ahead of her. She could not think what she ought to do next. For the first time in her life, she had a feeling of utter confusion and dismay.
“It’s because I’m so tired,” she said to herself. “I’ve never been really tired out before.”
But that in itself was a cause for alarm. Why should she feel like this, so exhausted and depressed? Horrible thoughts came to her. Dr. Quelton had called her nervous, high-strung, hysterical. Was that because he had seen in her something which she herself had never suspected? Was she hysterical? Mrs. Enderby had laughed at her. Mr. Houseman had gone away, satisfied with his own solution. Captain Grey, chivalrous and kindly as he was, had obviously lost interest in her affairs. Nobody believed in her. Was it because every one could see—
She remembered the intolerable humiliation of the day before, her wild outburst of tears in the Queltons’ house. Even in her childhood she had never done such a thing before.
“What does it mean?” she asked herself in terror. “What is the matter with me? Is this whole thing just a delusion? I came here to find Caroline, and I thought—I thought I did see her. Am I mad?”
That was the awful thing that had lain in ambush in her mind ever since yesterday, that had haunted her restless sleep all night. She had not admitted it, but it had been there every minute. All her actions, all her words, to-day, had the one object of showing Mrs. Royce and Captain Grey how entirely normal and sensible she was.
“That’s what they always do!” she whispered with dry lips.
All day, hiding her terror and weakness, talking to Mrs. Royce, sitting at the lunch table and talking and laughing with Captain Grey, trying to make them believe her quite cheerful and untroubled—and all the time perhaps they knew. Perhaps they were humoring her!
She sprang up and went over to the window. The sun was beginning to sink in a tranquil sky. It had been a beautiful day, but Lexy felt too weary and listless to go out. She remembered now that both Captain Grey and the landlady had urged her to do so, that they had both said it would do her good. Then they must have noted that something was wrong with her. What did they think it was? Did she look—
She crossed the room and stood before the mirror. The rays of the setting sun fell upon her hair, turning it to copper and gold. It seemed to her to shine with a strange light about her pallid little face. Her eyes seemed enormous, somber, and terrible.
She covered her face with her hands and lung herself on the bed, sick and desperate. She could not see any one, could not speak to any one. When a knock came at her loor, she thrust her fingers into her ears and lay there, with her eyes shut tight, trembling from head to foot; but the knocking went on until she could endure it no longer.
“Yes?” she said, sitting up.
“Supper’s all on the table!” said Mrs. Royce’s cheerful voice.
“I don’t want any supper to-night, thank you,” replied Lexy.
Mrs. Royce expostulated and argued for a time, but she could not persuade Lexy even to unlock the door; and at last, with a worried sigh, she went downstairs again.
The room was quite dark now, and the wind blowing in through the open window felt chill; but Lexy was too tired to close the window or light the gas. She was not drowsy. She lay stretched out, limp, overpowered with fatigue, but wide awake, and with a curious certainty that she was waiting for something.
There was another knock at the door, and this time Captain Grey’s voice spoke.
“I say, Miss Moran!” he said anxiously. “You’re not ill, are you?”
“No!” she answered, with a trace of irritability. “I’m just tired.”
“But don’t you think you ought to eat something, you know? Or a cup of tea?”
“No!” she cried, still more impatiently. “I can’t. I want to rest.”
“Can you open the door for half a moment?” he asked. “I’ve some roses here that my sister sent to you. She wanted me to say—”
The door opened with startling suddenness. Lexy appeared, and took the roses out of his hand.
“Thank you! Good night!” she said, and was gone again before he quite realized what was happening.
Then he heard the key turn in the lock, and, bewildered and very uneasy, he went away.
Lexy flung the roses down on the table, not even troubling to put them into water.
“Anything to get rid of him!” she said to herself. “I want to be let alone!”
She lay down on the bed again, pulling a blanket over herself. Downstairs she could hear Mrs. Royce moving about in the kitchen, and Captain Grey’s singularly agreeable voice talking to the landlady. It seemed to her that they were in a different world, and that she was shut outside, in a black and terrible solitude.
“If I can only sleep!” she thought. “Perhaps, in the morning—”
She was beginning to feel a little drowsy now. How heavenly it would be to sleep, even for a little while! To sleep and to forget!
The wind was blowing through the dark little room, bringing to her the perfume of the roses—a wonderful fragrance. It was wonderful, but almost too strong. It was too strong. It troubled her.
“I’ll put them out on the window sill,” she murmured. “It’s such a queer scent!”
But she was too tired, too unspeakably tired. She didn’t seem able to get up, or even to move. She sighed faintly, and closed her eyes. The wind blew, strong and steady, heavy with that sweet and subtle odor.
“Look out!” cried Mr. Houseman. “She’s going about!”
Lexy laughed, and ducked down into the cockpit while the boom swung over. The little sailboat was flying over the sunny water like a bird. There was not a cloud in the pure bright sky, not a shadow in her joyous heart.
“I am so glad you came!” she said.
“Of course I came,” he answered. “I had to swim all the way from India.”
“Mercy!” cried Lexy. “That must have been dreadful! But why?”
Mr. Houseman leaned forward and whispered solemnly:
“There was a tempest in a teapot.”
This frightened her.
“Do you think there’s going to be another one?” she whispered back.
“Sure to be!” said he. “Don’t you see how dark it’s getting?”
It was getting very dark. Lexy couldn’t see his face now.
“Hold my hand!” he shouted, and she reached out for it; but she couldn’t find him at all.
“Mr. Houseman!” she cried.
There was no answer. She stared about her, numb with terror. What was it that rustled like that? What were these black, tall things that were standing motionless about her on every side?
“I’ve been dreaming,” she said to herself. “I’m in my own room, of course. If I go just a few steps, I’ll touch the wall. I’m awake now—only it’s so dark!”
And what was it that rustled like that—like leaves in the wind? What were these black, still forms about her? Trees? No—they couldn’t be trees.
In a wild panic she moved forward. Her outstretched hand touched something, and she screamed. The scream seemed to run along through the dark, leaping and rolling over the ground like a terrified animal. She tried to run after it, stumbling and panting, until her shoulder struck violently against something, and she stopped.
And into her sick and shuddering mind her old sturdy courage began to return. She tried to breathe quietly. She struggled desperately against the awful weakness that urged her to sink down on the ground and cover her eyes.
“No!” she said aloud. “I won’t! I’m here! I’m alive! I will understand! I will see!”
She was able now to draw a deep breath, and the horrible fluttering of her heart grew less. She stood motionless, waiting. It was coming back to her, that immortal, unconquerable spirit of hers. The anguish and the strange fear were passing.
“I’m here,” she said. “I’m in a wood somewhere. These are trees. What I hear are only the leaves in the wind. I don’t know where it is, or how I got here; but I’m alive and well. I can walk. I can get out of it.”
She moved forward again, quietly and deliberately. Her eyes were more accustomed to the darkness now, and she made her way through the trees, looking always ahead, never once behind her.
“The wood must end somewhere,” she said. “The morning will have to come some time. All I have to do is to go on.”
Patter, patter, patter, like little feet running behind her.
“Only the leaves on the trees,” said Lexy. “All I have to do is to go on.”
And she went on. Sometimes a wild desire to run swept over her, but she would not hasten her steps, and she would not look behind. The primeval terror of the forest pressed upon her, but she cast it away. Alone, lost, in darkness and solitude, she kept her hold upon the one thing that mattered—the honor and dignity of her own soul.
“I’m not afraid,” she said.
And then she saw a light. At first she thought it was the moon, but it hung too low, and it was too brilliant. Even then she would not run. She went on steadily toward it. In a few minutes she stepped out of the woodland upon a road—a hard, asphalt road with lights along it. It was quite empty, it was unfamiliar to her, but she would have gone down on her knees and kissed the dust of it. It was a road, and all roads lead home.