He had spoiled his own household, destroyed his own
peace, forsaken his own nest, outlived his hope and the possibility of
further hope, except more business success, more to leave behind him.
That was the stern truth. Had he been a different man the devotion his
wife had shown would have drawn him back to her; had she been a different
woman, unvexed by a horrible remembrance, she would have made his soul
her own and her soul his own once again. She had not dared to tell him
the truth; afraid more for her boy's sake than for her own. She had been
glad that Tarboe had helped to replace the broken link with Fabian, that
he had taken the place which Carnac, had he been John Grier's son, ought
to have taken. She could not blame Carnac, and she could not blame her
husband, but the thing ate into her heart.
John Grier found her sitting by her table in the great living-room,
patient and grave, and yet she smiled at him, and rose as he came into
the room. His troubled face brought her forward quickly. She stretched
out a hand appealingly to him.
"What's the matter, John? Has anything upset you?"
"I'm not upset."
"Yes you are," she urged, "but, yes, you are! Something has gone wrong."
"Nothing's gone wrong that hasn't been wrong for many a year," he said.
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