She hoped the best for him, but his
letter did not encourage her.
He wrote, "She is good, sweet and wholesome. I have taught her what she
knows--I mean by that that I have helped her to pick up a clue here and
there to take her by some means to the heart of our mystery. She has had a
dreadful mauling by the world; but her brain is sound. I intend to make
her happy, but not here. We go to Baden a-painting. She vows she will keep
the door of my tent like a Bedouin's wife. It's a great test. If she comes
through it--with her upbringing--she will show mettle. Farewell, Queen
Mab. One does what one must, being man. Pray for us both."
She answered him frankly and kindly. Ingram was away on one of his long
absences, and she felt acold. "I shall always wish for your happiness. How
could I ever forget what you did to give me mine?" He read that as meaning
that she had found and had it still, so wrote no more--not even when his
venture, not too hopefully begun, had ended. His head was low in the dust,
his zest was gone. It needed his austerities and solitude to restore his
tone.
But now, in his hidden valley, she never left him, though she was always
veiled. He could not call up her blue eyes' magic, nor her slow smile, nor
the touch of her thin fingers.
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