And, in truth, Margaret knew of no cause for an effect so overwhelming. Looking back, she wondered how so strong an emotion had taken hold of her. Why had she been afraid? and why now was she conscious of having escaped, of having awakened—of having lost something, too?
“Let’s go and dance,” she said.
“No, not now,” John answered, “not if you are tired.” He led her away, and stopped opposite two chairs. “There,” he said, “sit there for a little while where it is cool. Don’t talk or worry.”
When she was seated he moved away a few yards, wishing to give her the time she needed. Gradually she realized that the cloud charged with so much power over her was indeed gone. The atmosphere seemed less stifling. Freedom of thought and action was returning. Presently she remembered John and was grateful because he had taken her away from the place where she had been with Ordith; and grateful, with warmth of gratitude, because he had known how to be silent. Her look summoned him.
“You don’t know how good you have been,” she said.
“I hated to see you hurt, to-night of all nights.”
“To-night?”
“Because everything seemed so good. I was looking forward to China and seeing you there. To-night seemed a kind of celebration of the future.”
“But that remains,” she said, as if the recollection of the fact surprised her. She could not forget Ordith’s power, or, for the time, think of any part of her existence as being altogether free from his influence. Where was he now? Was he near her? Involuntarily her hand went out to John’s sleeve.
She tried to thank him for what he had done. Her sense of relief, of safety after danger, made his chance intervention seem the result of his kindness of heart; and every word she spoke, hesitating and tremulous, between tears and laughter, was marvellous to him.