The doctor looked up at the portrait over the mantelpiece. The calm passionless face smiled blandly at the tiny dog. One sensitive hand, white and delicate as a woman’s, was raised, forefinger uplifted, gently holding the attention of the little animal’s eager eyes. The magic skill of the artist supplied the doctor with the key to the problem. A woman—as mate, as wife, as part of himself, was not a necessity in the life of this thinker, inventor, scholar, saint. He could appreciate dumb devotion; he was capable of unlimited kindness, leniency, patience, toleration. But woman and dog alike, remained outside the citadel of his inner self. Had not her eyes resembled those of a favourite spaniel, he would very probably not have wedded the lovely woman who, now, during ten years had borne his name; and even then he might not have done so, had not the tyranny of her mother, awakening his instinct of protection towards the weak and oppressed, aroused in him a determination to withstand that tyranny, and to carry her off triumphantly to freedom.
The longer the doctor looked, the more persistently the picture said; “We two; and where does she come in?”—Righteous wrath arose in the heart of Deryck Brand; for his ideal as to man’s worship of woman was a high one. As he thought of the closed door; of the lonely wife, humbly jealous of a toy-poodle, yet blaming herself only, for her loneliness, his jaw set, and his brow darkened. And all the while he listened for a sound from the outer world which must soon come.
Lady Ingleby noticed his intent gaze, and, leaning forward, also looked up at the picture. The firelight shone on her lovely face, and on the gleaming softness of her hair. Her lips parted in a tender smile; a pure radiance shone from her eyes.
“Ah, he is so good!” she said. “In all the years, he has never once spoken harshly to me. And see how lovingly he looks at Peter, who really is a most unattractive little dog. Did you ever hear the duchess’s bon mot about Michael? He and I once stayed together at Overdene; but she did not ask us again until he was abroad, fishing in Norway; so of course I went by myself. The duchess always does those things frankly, and explains them. Therefore on this occasion she said: ‘My dear, I enjoy a visit from you; but you must only come, when you can come alone. I will never undertake again, to live up to your good Michael. It really was a case of St. Michael and All Angels. He was St. Michael, and we had to be all angels!’ Wasn’t it like the duchess; and a beautiful testimony to Michael’s consistent goodness? Oh, I wish you knew him better. And, for the matter of that, I wish I knew him better! But after all I am his wife. Nothing can rob me of that. And don’t you think—when Michael comes home this time—somehow, all will be different; better than ever before?”
The hall clock chimed three-quarters after the hour.
The clang of a bell resounded through the silent house.
Peter sat up, and barked once, sharply.
The doctor rose and stood with his back to the fire, facing the door.
Myra’s question remained unanswered.
Hurried steps approached.