"I dare do whatever is for your good."
"My good!" she repeated, with a cold laugh. "I am a child, then, to be lectured into silence, to be terrorized into submission. Ah, you do not know me! I will not live with you—I will never forgive you—until you come on your knees to me—on your knees!"
"I have not asked forgiveness. It is for you to do that. My wife must not outrage my sense of dignity and propriety. You have hurt and wounded me beyond pardon. The sacredness of my home relations has been violated and coarsely discussed. I am ashamed to raise my head before my own servants. And to make it, at last, unbearable—your old sweetheart calls me to account for your unhappiness. It is too galling—too humiliating!"
"I—I—what have I said? I didn't mean it."
"Ah," exclaimed Indiana, "Glen did come, then?"
"At your invitation," said Thurston, quickly.
"What of it? He would not have locked me out—insulted me. Oh, I'm sorry I ever married you!" Thurston gave a suppressed cry of pain. "I mean it. I have never known a harsh word in my life. You—to treat me like this! I won't stand it, I tell you!" Losing all control, she took up a paper-cutter and snapped it in pieces in her rage. "I hate you—standing there like ice! I hate—" Thurston looked down into her face with an expression of horror and rushed from the room, slamming the door. "I—I—what have I said? I didn't mean it, Thurston," murmured Indiana, with a sudden revulsion of feeling. She stretched out her hands piteously, helpless and groping, like a frightened child. "Thurston, I didn't mean it. There was a rush of red before my eyes—it blinded me." She sank on her knees with a feeling of terror at the remembrance. "Thurston, I'm afraid," she sobbed, shudderingly. "Don't leave me here with myself." She struggled to her feet, trembling from head to foot. "Thurston, I'm sorry—forgive me—I love you—I—" She fell blindly against the door, then sank to the ground, shaking with sobs.
When the storm passed, her exhaustion was so great she felt powerless to mount the stairs to her room, and lay there on the floor, beside the door, throughout the night. Though stiff with cold, her moral distress would scarcely permit her to notice this physical discomfort. She was clutched tightly in the grasp of a terrible dread. That this sudden tidal wave of love had rushed over her heart too late. And if this proved true, she felt she would no longer have the courage to live. The fact had so suddenly awakened in her consciousness, as a flower might spring at once into full and perfect bloom, that her husband's love alone gave life significance. She fell, at intervals, from pure exhaustion, into a short, troubled sleep, awakening always with a remembrance of Thurston's horrified face as he rushed from the room, closing the door, as though he would shut her forever out of his life. When daylight came, she rose with an effort and threw herself upon the lounge.
CHAPTER XIX.