"He is sound asleep." she said smilingly. "He thinks I am someone named 'Elinor,' and he calls me that. As my own name is Sarah, it's rather pleasant."
Ward had been shot on Sunday night. By the following Wednesday he was out of danger.
On the same Wednesday the rector of St. Jude's brought himself and his rheumatism back to the parish.
For three days, Elinor had hardly ate or slept. Never once had she been in Ward's room, but always, day and night, she was just outside. When, on that Wednesday evening the doctor said Ward would live she went down once more into her garden.
Many times during those three days had Elinor tried to pray to Ward's God and found herself voiceless and inarticulate. But now, out of the depth of her great relief, came welling the first prayer of her life. She stood waist-deep among her phlox and larkspur.
"I thank thee," she said. "I thank thee." ...
Nothing had been heard of Huff. The assault on the assistant rector of Saint Jude's had been of a line with the other mysterious happenings around the village. The little town was hag-ridden with fear. Extra constables had been sworn in, and from the hall, during her long night vigils, Elinor had seen many lighted windows, where there had been but the one.
The problem of her future began to obsess her. It was plainly impossible to stay on here—not that she feared exposure: she was quite past fear—but the thought of going on with her life was intolerable. To meet Ward, to see again the scorn and loathing in his eyes, more than all, to continue to deserve them—those were the things that to Elinor seemed worse than death itself.
All the philosophy that old Hilary had taught her failed her now. The revolt of the individual against laws made for the masses—what had it brought her but isolation and grief? Of what use was revolt? All must go through the mills of the gods. She knew that now. There were no exceptions. And something else she had learned: that if one is to live through great crises one must have a higher power to turn to for help. She had felt it vaguely at the time of her father's death. Sitting outside Ward's door she had known it. Every breath had been a prayer to something, she knew not what, to save him.
"I thank thee," she said again.
The phlox and larkspur quivered about her as if under the touch of a gentle hand.
Boroday had been free for three days, but beyond a telephone message announcing his release she had heard nothing of him. Over the wire he had advised extreme caution. She judged from that that things were not going well.
She knew that Huff's reckless crime would demand a scapegoat. There were bound to be arrests. All this Elinor knew quite well. It was in such an atmosphere that she had drawn her earliest breaths—the play of cunning against cunning, wit against wit.
She did not send for Boroday. She dared not. But because the intimacy between her and the middle-aged Russian had always been very close, he seemed to feel her need. And so, on that Wednesday night, an hour or so after midnight, he came.
Old Henriette came down and tapped softly Elinor's door.
"Boroday," she whispered. "He has rung from the arbor."
That was one of old Hilary's devices; a hidden wire from the arbor to the house. It prevented collisions. Unless otherwise summoned, no member of his band ever came directly to the house.
Elinor went out and found him there. He bent over her hand and kissed it. It was his custom, and then, realizing she was crying, he held out his arms and she went into them. Very tender was the Russian with her that night, very fatherly. He put her into one of the arbor seats and sat down beside her.
"Now tell me," he commanded, "everything from the start. It was Walter, I know. But why?"
When she did not speak, the Russian nodded.
"Jealousy, of course, but what madness!"
There in the arbor, with her hand between two of his, Elinor sobbed out the story of the pearl and her attempt to return it. Huff's threat against Ward, Ward's evening visit, and the scene between them; and last of all, the shot that had nearly ended everything in the world for Ward and for her. Boroday listened quietly; better than old Hilary ever could, he understood. He had been reared on an ancient faith.
"He is recovering?"
"Yes."
"And he cares for you, of course?"
"No. I think, perhaps, before he knew—"
"Bah!" said the Russian, and rose. "What sort of love is that which changes? I have seen the man. If he cared at all, he still cares."