III
Unconsciously as he went toward his home, he was doing it again. He had never lost the magic of going home to his wife. Entering the still hall, where the single lamp cast tiny pools of light through the crystal chandelier, he was pervaded by her presence. Somewhere, awake or asleep, above that stairway, was Helen. The gentle fact of it put him at peace.
Her door was closed and he went softly past it to his own room. Then, in a dressing gown, he settled himself in an easy chair by a reading lamp, no book before him, cherishing that mental quiet which surrounded him.
Down the hall he heard her door open quietly and her footfall on the soft rug. She had heard him come in and was come to say good night. With a quick motion he turned out the light beside him and waited.
“Asleep, Gage?” She spoke softly, not to awaken him, if he were asleep.
“No—resting—here by the window.”
She found her way to him and he gathered her up in his arms.
“You wonderful bundle of relaxation! Have you any idea how I love you like this?”
“Do you know, Gage, I think that for all our bad moments that we are really happier than most people?”
“There’s no one in the world, dear, as happy as I am at this moment.”
“And it isn’t just because I’m—”
He bent his head to her, stifling her sentence.
“You mustn’t talk—don’t say it. It isn’t because of anything. It just is.”
“I know. And when it is—it swallows up the times when it isn’t.”
“Hush, sweetheart. Let’s not—talk. Let’s just rest.”
He felt her grow even easier in his arms. All the instinct for poetry in him, starved, without vehicle, sought to dominate the relentlessness of her mind, working, working in its tangles of thought. The meaning of his inexpressible love for her must come through his arms, must be compelling, tender. They sat together in the big chair enfolded in peace. And the same little secret thought ran from one to the other, comforting them. This is the best.