She laughed; a wild, fantastic laugh.  “The one who wronged me,” she said, “has not suffered at all.  He married in a year.”

“There are different ways of suffering,” he explained.  “With a woman, it is most often spread out over a long period.  The quick, clean-cut stroke is seldom given to a woman—­she suffers less and longer than a man.  With him, I’m thinking, it has come, or will come, all at once.”

“If it does,” she cried, her frail body quivering, “what a day for him, oh, what a day!”

Her voice was trembling with the hideous passion for revenge, and the Piper read her, unerringly.  “Lady,” he said, sadly, “’t is a long way to the light, but I’m here to help | you find it.  We’ll be going now.  Laddie and I, but we’ll come back soon.”

He whistled to the dog and the two went off downhill together.  She watched him from the gate until the bobbing red feather turned a corner at the foot of the hill, and the cheery whistle had ceased.

The stillness was acute, profound.  It was so deep that it seemed positive, rather than negative.  She went back into the house, her steps dragging painfully.

As in a vision she saw the days passing her while she stood upon a height.  All around her were bare rocks and fearful precipices; there was nothing but a narrow path in front.  Day by day, they came, peacefully, contentedly; till at last dawned that terrible one which had blasted her life.  Was it true that she still held that day by the garment, and could not unclasp her hands?

One by one they had passed her, leaving no gifts, because she still clung to one.  If she could let go, what gifts would the others bring?  Joy?  Never—­there was no joy in the world for her.

Sometime that mystical procession must come to an end.  When the last day passed on, she would follow, too, and go into the night of Yesterday, where, perhaps, there was peace.  As never before, she craved the last gift, praying to see the uplifted head and stately figure of the last Day—­grave, silent, unfathomable, tender; the Day with the veiled face, bearing white poppies in her hands.

XVII

Loved by a Dog

Anthony Dexter sat on the porch in front of his house, alone.  Ralph had been out since early morning, attending to his calls.  It was the last of April and the trees were brave in their panoply of new leaves.  Birds were singing and the very air was eloquent with new life.

Between Anthony Dexter and the lilac bush at the gate, there moved perpetually the black, veiled figure of Evelina Grey.  He knew she was not there and he was fully certain of the fact that it was an hallucination, but his assurance had not done away with the phantom.

How mercilessly she followed him!  Since the night he had flung himself out of her house, tortured in every nerve, she had not for a moment left him.  When he walked through the house, she followed him, her stealthy footfall sounding just the merest fraction of a second after his.  He avoided the bare polished floors and walked on the rugs whenever possible, that he might not hear that soft, slow step so plainly.  Ralph had laughed at him, once, for taking a long, awkward jump from rug to rug.