She drew back from him as if she were performing a little rite. Her eyes filled with tears. “Harboro!” she cried, “do you need to ask me that?” Her fingers sought his face and traveled with ineffable tenderness from line to line. It was as if she were playing a little love-lyric of her own upon a beautiful harp. And then she fell upon his breast and pressed her cheek to his. “Harboro!” she cried again. She had seen only the suffering in his eyes.
He held her in his arms and leaned back with closed eyes. A hymn of praise was singing through all his being. She loved him! she loved him! And then that hymn of praise sank to pianissimo notes and was transformed by some sort of evil magic to something shockingly different. It was as if a skillful yet unscrupulous musician were constructing a revolting medley, placing the sacred song in juxtaposition with the obscene ditty. And the words of the revolting thing were “Runyon and Sylvia! Runyon and Sylvia!”
He opened his eyes resolutely. “We’re making too much over a little matter,” he said with an obvious briskness which hid the cunning in his mind. “I suppose I’ve been sticking to things too close. I’ll take a run down the line and hunt up some of the old fellows—down as far as Torreon at least. I’ll rough it a little. I suspect things have been a little too soft for me here. Maybe some of the old-timers will let me climb up into a cab and run an engine again. That’s the career for a man—with the distance rushing upon you, and your engine swaying like a bird in the air! That will fix me!”
He got up with an air of vigor, helping Sylvia to her feet. “It wouldn’t be the sort of experience a woman could share,” he added. “You’ll stay here at home and get a little rest yourself. I must have been spoiling things for you, too.” He looked at her shrewdly.
“Oh, no,” she said honestly. “I’m only sorry I didn’t realize earlier that you need to get away.”
She went out of the room with something of the regal industry of the queen bee, as if she were the natural source of those agencies which sustain and heal. He heard her as she busied herself in their bedroom. He knew that she was already making preparations for that journey of his. She was singing a soft, wordless song in her throat as she worked.
And Harboro, with an effect of listening with his eyes, stood in his place for a long interval, and then shook his head slowly.
He could not believe in her; he would not believe in her. At least he would not believe in her until she had been put to the test and met the test triumphantly. He could not believe in her; and yet it seemed equally impossible for him to hold with assurance to his unbelief.
CHAPTER XXVII
Returning from the office the next forenoon, Harboro stopped at the head of the short street on which the chief stable of Eagle Pass was situated.