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Vera did nothing foolish. She neither cried, screamed, turned
deadly pale, clenched her fragile hands, bit her lips till the
blood came, smashed a wine-glass, nor fell with a dull thud
senseless to the floor. Nevertheless, she was extremely perturbed
by this astounding revelation of Mr Bittenger's. Of course, dreams
are nonsense. But still--The truth is, one tries to believe that
dreams are nonsense, and up to a certain point one may succeed in
believing. But it seemed to Vera that circumstances had passed
that point. She could not but admit, also, that if the dream went
on being fulfilled, within forty-eight hours Mr Bittenger would
have made love to her, and would have killed her husband.
She was so incensed against Stephen that she really could not
decide whether she wanted the dream to be fulfilled or not. No one
would have imagined that that soft breast could conceal a
homicidal thought. Yet so it was. That pretty and delightful
woman, wandering about in the edifice of her terrific grievance
against Stephen, could not say positively to herself that she
would not care to have Stephen killed as a punishment for his
sins.
After dinner, she found an excuse for retiring. She must think the
puzzle out in solitude. Matters were really going too far. She
allowed it to be understood that she was indisposed. Mr Bittenger
was full of sorrow and sympathy. But did Stephen show the
slightest concern? Stephen did not. She went upstairs, and she
meditated, stretched on the sofa at the foot of the bed, a rug
over her knees and the fire glinting on her face. Yes, it was her
duty as a Christian, if not as an outraged wife, to warn Stephen
that the shadow of death was creeping up behind him. He ought at
least to be warned. But how could she warn him? Clearly she could
not warn him in the presence of Mr Bittenger, the prospective
murderer. She would, therefore, have to warn him when they were
alone. And that meant that she would have to give way in the great
conjugal sulking match. No, never! It was impossible that she
should give way there! She frowned desperately at the leaping
flames, and did ultimately decide that Stephen's death was
preferable to her defeat in that contest. Of such is human nature.
After all, dreams were nonsense.
Surely Stephen would come upstairs to inquire about her health,
her indisposition? But no! He came not. And, as he continued not
to come, she went downstairs again and proclaimed that she was
better.
And then she learned that she had been worrying herself to no
purpose whatever. Mr Bittenger was leaving on the morrow, the
morrow being Christmas Eve. Stephen would drive him to Bursley in
the morning. He would go to the Five Towns Hotel to get his
baggage, and catch the Liverpool express at noon. He had booked a
passage on the Saxonia, which sailed at threethirty o'clock. Thus
he would spend his Christmas at sea; and, spending his Christmas
at sea, he could not possibly kill Stephen in the village of Sneyd
on Christmas night.
Relief! And yet a certain vague regret in the superstitious little
heart! The little heart went to bed again. And Stephen and the
stranger stayed up talking very late--doubtless about the famous
cure.
The leave-taking the next morning increased the vague regret. Mr
Bittenger was the possessor of an attractive individuality, and
Vera pondered upon its attractiveness far into the afternoon. How
nicely Mr Bittenger had thanked her for her gracious hospitality--
with what meaning he had charged the expression of his deep regret
at leaving her!
After all, dreams WERE nonsense.
She was sitting in the bow-window of the drawing-room, precisely
as she had been sitting twenty-four hours previously, when whom
should she see, striding masculinely along the drive towards the
house, but Mr Bittenger?
This time she was much more perturbed even than she had been by
the revelation of Mr Bittenger's baldness.
After all--
She uprose, the blood having rushed to her head, and retreated she
knew not whither, blindly, without a purpose. And found herself in
a little morning-room which was scarcely ever used, at the end of
the hall. She had not shut the door. And Mr Bittenger, having been
admitted by a servant, caught sight of her, and breezily entered
her retreat, clad in his magnificent furs.
And as he doffed the furs, he gaily told her what had happened.
Owing to difficulties with the Cheswardine mare on the frosty,
undulating road between Sneyd and Bursley, and owing to delays
with his baggage at the Five Towns Hotel, he had just missed the
Liverpool express, and, therefore, the steamer also. He had
returned to Stephen's manufactory. Stephen had insisted that he
should spend his Christmas with them. And, in brief, there he was.
He had walked from Bursley. Stephen, kept by business, was coming
later, and so was some of the baggage.
Mr Bittenger's face radiated joy. The loss of his twenty-guinea
passage on the Saxonia did not appear to cause him the least
regret.
And he sat down by the side of Vera.
And Vera suddenly noticed that they were on a sofa--the sofa of
her dream--and she fancied she recognized the room.
'You know, my dear lady,' said Mr Bittenger, looking her straight
in the eyes, 'I'm just GLAD I missed my steamer. It gives me a
chance to spend a Christmas in England, and in your delightful
society--your delightful society--' He gazed at her, without
adding to the sentence.
If this was not love-making on a sofa, what could be?
Mr Bittenger had certainly missed the Liverpool express on
purpose. Of that Vera was convinced. Or, if he had not missed it
on purpose, he had missed it under the dictates of the mysterious
power of the dream. Those people who chose to believe that dreams
are nonsense were at liberty to do so.
Read next: PART VII - CHAPTER VERA'S SECOND CHRISTMAS ADVENTURE: CHAPTER IV
Read previous: PART VII - CHAPTER VERA'S SECOND CHRISTMAS ADVENTURE: CHAPTER II
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