THE next note reached King four days after his meeting with Billee in the Museum. The four days had seemed four years. It would be untrue to say that the mystery of it all did not continue to wear on him in the hours when he should have been sleeping, but the Southerner is born and dies an optimist, and is usually loyal to his ideals. King’s loyalty refused to entertain a doubt. Who could doubt Billee’s eyes? The note came as his reward, or so he cheered himself. It appointed a meeting for the afternoon in one of New York’s suburban churches.
“The choir will be rehearsing for Easter, but the church doors will be open and only a few, if any, people in the pews. Go at four and find a seat well back, over on the left. I shall join you as soon as I am free to come. Dear King, I have been so miserable, so happy! Please, please, don’t make love to me any more. But don’t stop loving me. Please understand. I am not in a position for your love—now. Trust me—whatever happens don’t doubt that I love you. There now! I have said it. Does it make you happy? It makes me miserable, but I am only happy now when I’m miserable about you.
“Billee.”
The world stood still for King Dubignon, or at least time seemed to, when the hurried, unrevised, illogical little note revealed its message. Trust her? Trust Billee? Well, rather! He stowed it in his deepest pocket along with some other priceless compositions of hers, and went off to church much ahead of the appointed time. The chiaroscuro over on the left received him, and ages after, she glided into the pew and slipped her hand in his, while the choir sang, afar off, “Lead, kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom.”
Speech, while the divine voices carried that wonderful song-prayer, would have been sacrilege. And, though he did not analyze, it was expressing his feelings far better than he knew how.
He covered the one hand he held with his other and sat in silent bliss, and presently she added the one, little, lonesome hand she had left to the friendly group, and nestled up closer.
“Just sweethearts!” she whispered.
When the hymn was ended, he was dreaming off toward a beautiful window of stained glass. The colors were exquisitely blended, the design simple. In the foreground was a cross and scroll bearing a name. In the deep perspective, the sun was setting, its splendor on a single drifting cloud. To the right and left of the cross cherubs hovered, one face lifted, the other foreshortened, and eyes closed. The faces were identical.
A loved one slept under the cross; a spirit had ascended to heaven. This was the story they told.
“You like my window? I call it mine because I love it so. And I am afraid I come oftener to see it than to pray.”