William was standing behind Leigh, his arms folded and his eyes down. It seemed to his father that he had never seen such wreckage in a young man’s face before. It was as hard as flint. The square jaws were set and the brows bent. William had been drinking the cup of humiliation to the dregs.
“Serves him right,” his father thought hotly, and then: “She’s saved Leigh!”
That sent a thrill of remorse through him, and his eyes followed the line of reporters, which led, like a trail of ants after a dead beetle, straight to the small figure in black on the other side of the court-room. Mr. Carter, perspiring freely and with a sinking heart, beheld his daughter-in-law.
Fanchon was as white as William, but those lovely, fawn-like eyes were soft, appealing, almost childlike. She scarcely heeded the reporters. She seemed unwilling to speak to any one, and, as Mr. Carter looked at her, she began to make her way toward Leigh.
There was a little hum of excited comment as she moved, and the light grace and beauty of the small, black-clad figure had never been more marked. She wore the same big, black hat, and her veil, floating from the wide brim, formed a shadowy background for the small, pointed face—the face that had never shown more fully than it did at that moment its subtle, tantalizing, inimitable charm. Mr. Carter saw it reluctantly, and Leigh saw it with boyish devotion as she came up. They said little. She gave both her small hands to the boy.
“Dear, dear Leigh!” she whispered, a sob in her throat.
“Oh, Fanchon!”
That was all he could gasp out, his eyes too misted to see the beauty of hers. Their hands clung together.
“Dear boy!” Fanchon murmured. “I can’t thank you—you believed in me! I shall remember—toujours, toujours!”
He wrung her hands. Then some one else came up to speak to him, and she passed on.