_ She went to the front door with him; she always went that far. They
had formed a little code of leave-taking, by habit, neither of them
ever speaking of it; but it was always the same. She always stood
in the doorway until he reached the sidewalk, and there he always
turned and looked back, and she waved her hand to him. Then he went
on, halfway to the New House, and looked back again, and Mary was not
in the doorway, but the door was open and the light shone. It was as
if she meant to tell him that she would never shut him out; he could
always see that friendly light of the open doorway--as if it were
open for him to come back, if he would. He could see it until a wing
of the New House came between, when he went up the path. The open
doorway seemed to him the beautiful symbol of her friendship--of her
thought of him; a symbol of herself and of her ineffable kindness.
And she kept the door open--even to-night, though the sleet and fine
snow swept in upon her bare throat and arms, and her brown hair was
strewn with tiny white stars. His heart leaped as he turned and saw
that she was there, waving her hand to him, as if she did not know
that the storm touched her. When he had gone on, Mary did as she
always did--she went into an unlit room across the hall from that
in which they had spent the evening, and, looking from the window,
watched him until he was out of sight. The storm made that difficult
to-night, but she caught a glimpse of him under the street-lamp that
stood between the two houses, and saw that he turned to look back
again. Then, and not before, she looked at the upper windows of
Roscoe's house across the street. They were dark. Mary waited, but
after a little while she closed the front door and returned to her
window. A moment later two of the upper windows of Roscoe's house
flashed into light and a hand lowered the shade of one of them. Mary
felt the cold then--it was the third night she had seen those windows
lighted and the shade lowered, just after Bibbs had gone.
But Bibbs had no glance to spare for Roscoe's windows. He stopped for
his last look back at the open door, and, with a thin mantle of white
already upon his shoulders, made his way, gasping in the wind, to the
lee of the sheltering wing of the New House.
A stricken George, muttering hoarsely, admitted him, and Bibbs became
aware of a paroxysm within the house. Terrible sounds came from the
library: Sheridan cursing as never before; his wife sobbing, her
voice rising to an agonized squeal of protest upon each of a series
of muffled detonations--the outrageous thumping of a bandaged hand
upon wood; then Gurney, sharply imperious, "Keep your hand in that
sling! Keep your hand in that sling, I say!"
"LOOK!" George gasped, delighted to play herald for so important
a tragedy; and he renewed upon his face the ghastly expression with
which he had first beheld the ruins his calamitous gesture laid before
the eyes of Bibbs. "Look at 'at lamidal statue!"
Gazing down the hall, Bibbs saw heroic wreckage, seemingly Byzantine--
painted colossal fragments of the shattered torso, appallingly human;
and gilded and silvered heaps of magnificence strewn among ruinous
palms like the spoil of a barbarians' battle. There had been a
massacre in the oasis--the Moor had been hurled headlong from his
pedestal.
"He hit 'at ole lamidal statue," said George. "POW!"
"My father?"
"YESsuh! POW! he hit 'er! An' you' ma run tell me git doctuh quick
's I kin telefoam--she sho' you' pa goin' bus' a blood-vessel. He
ain't takin' on 'tall NOW. He ain't nothin' 'tall to what he was
'while ago. You done miss' it, Mist' Bibbs. Doctuh got him all
quiet' down, to what he was. POW! he hit'er! Yessuh!" He took
Bibbs's coat and proffered a crumpled telegraph form. "Here what
come," he said. "I pick 'er up when he done stompin' on 'er. You
read 'er, Mist' Bibbs--you' ma tell me tuhn 'er ovuh to you soon's
you come in."
Bibbs read the telegram quickly. It was from New York and addressed
to Mrs. Sheridan.
Sure you will all approve step have taken as was so wretched my
health would probably suffered severely Robert and I were married
this afternoon thought best have quiet wedding absolutely sure
you will understand wisdom of step when you know Robert better am
happiest woman in world are leaving for Florida will wire address
when settled will remain till spring love to all father will like
him too when knows him like I do he is just ideal.
Edith Lamhorn.
George departed, and Bibbs was left gazing upon chaos and listening
to thunder. He could not reach the stairway without passing the open
doors of the library, and he was convinced that the mere glimpse of
him, just then, would prove nothing less than insufferable for his
father. For that reason he was about to make his escape into the
gold-and-brocade room, intending to keep out of sight, when he heard
Sheridan vociferously demanding his presence.
"Tell him to come in here! He's out there. I heard George just let
him in. Now you'll SEE!" And tear-stained Mrs. Sheridan, looking out
into the hall, beckoned to her son. _