In answer to that sigh came a sound of something falling outside against
the door. He opened it to see what might be there. The spaniel John,
lying on a cushion of blue linen, with his head propped up against the
wall, darkly turned his eyes.
'I am here, master,' he seemed to say; 'it is late--I was about to go
to sleep; it has done me good, however, to see you;' and hiding his eyes
from the light under a long black ear, he drew a stertorous breath. Mr.
Pendyce shut-to the door. He had forgotten the existence of his dog.
But, as though with the sight of that faithful creature he had regained
belief in all that he was used to, in all that he was master of, in all
that was--himself, he opened the bedroom door and took his place beside
his wife.
And soon he was asleep.
PART III
CHAPTER I
MRS. PENDYCE'S ODYSSEY
But Mrs. Pendyce did not sleep. That blessed anodyne of the long day
spent in his farmyards and fields was on her husband's eyes--no anodyne
on hers; and through them, all that was deep, most hidden, sacred, was
laid open to the darkness. If only those eyes could have been seen that
night! But if the darkness had been light, nothing of all this so deep
and sacred would have been there to see, for more deep, more sacred
still, in Margery Pendyce, was the instinct of a lady.
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