“You are my good angel, Vashti,” he said, catching her fingers as she made the first pass across his forehead, and kissing them one by one. She looked down at him, for he lay upon the green leather couch in the study, and smiled almost tenderly. His continual sweetness of temper, his unselfishness, his thoughtfulness, and, above all, his great adoration for her had touched her greatly since their marriage. She was too keen an observer, too clever a woman, not to recognize that this man was head and shoulders above the men she had known. She had moments when she was enraged against herself for loving Lanty instead of her husband, but yet her heart never wavered in its allegiance to her yellow-haired cousin. There was something in his magnificent physique, his superabundant energy, his almost arrogant virility, which appealed to her. Beneath that calm, pale face of hers were strong passions, sleeping, but stirring in their sleep at the voice which did not call them.
Sidney, or Sidney’s welfare, would never weigh with her a featherweight if balanced against a chance of winning Lanty from her cousin, or of revenging herself upon them both, yet there were times when she wished that it had been any other man than Sidney who was bound to her.
“It is you who are good,” she said. “The village people think you are a saint.”
“Vashti,” said Sidney, wistfully. “Do you think I do them good?”
“Indeed, yes,” said Vashti, “just think how they turn out to church. It’s something wonderful.”
Sidney’s eyes lighted up with delight of her praise.
“Oh, Vashti!” he said, “I am so glad. I often wonder if you are satisfied with my work. You know it was you who ordained me to the priesthood.”
A slow colour stole into her cheeks. She waved her hands soothingly above his brow, then posing two fingers upon his temples where the pain was, said gently but imperatively, “Sleep, sleep,” and almost immediately, with her name upon his lips, he closed his eyes and fell into a deep slumber.
She leaned back in her chair and looked about the room, so manifestly the sanctum of a man of taste. The bookshelves which extended round and round the room to the height of a man’s shoulder, were filled with books uniformly bound in dark green leather.