She turned her head swiftly and stared out of the window. On the glass, vaguely, Elena's shadowy features seemed to smile at her.
Was that what tortured her? Was that what she wished to know when she and this man separated for the day—where the woman was? Had her confidence in him been so utterly, so shamefully destroyed that it had lowered her to an ignoble level—hurled down her dignity and self-respect to grovel amid unworthy and contemptible emotions? Was it the vulgar vice of jealousy that was beginning to fasten itself upon her?
Sickened, she closed her eyes a moment; but on the lids was still imprinted the face of the woman; and her words began to ring in her brain. And thought began to gallop again, uncurbed, frantic, stampeding. How could he have done it? How could he have carried on this terrible affair after he had met her, after he had known her, loved her, won her? How could he have received that woman as a guest under the same roof that sheltered her? How could he have made a secret rendezvous with the woman scarcely an hour after he had asked her to marry him?
Even if anybody had come to her and told her of these things she could have found it in her heart to find excuses, to forgive him; she could have believed that he had received Elena and arranged a secret meeting with her merely to tell her that their intrigue was at an end.
She could have accustomed herself to endure the knowledge of this concrete instance. And, whatever else he might have done in the past she could endure; because, to her, it was something too abstract, too vague and foreign to her to seem real.
But the attitude and words of Elena Clydesdale—the unmistakable impression she coolly conveyed that this thing was not yet ended, had poisoned the very spring of her faith in him. And the welling waters were still as bitter as death to her.
What did faith matter to her in the world if she could not trust this man? Of what use was it other than to believe in him? And now she could not. She had tried, and she could not. Only when he was near her—only when she might see him, hear him, could she ever again feel sure of him. And now they were to separate for the day. And—where was he going? And where was the other woman?
And her heart almost stopped in her breast as she thought of the days and days and years and years to come in which she must continue to ask herself these questions.
Yet, in the same quick, agonised breath, she knew she was going to fight for him—do battle in behalf of that broken and fireless altar where love lay wounded.
There were many ways of doing battle, but only one right way. And she had thought of many—confused, frightened, unknowing, praying for unselfishness and for light to guide her.