She struggled to bring herself out of the strange numbness which
gripped her. "If I could only tell Dad."
"Surely it can be our own sweet secret, dearest."
She laid her cheek against his arm, in a dumb gesture of surrender, and
her little bare left hand crept up and rested like a white rose petal
against the blackness of his coat.
He laid his own upon it. "Poor little hand without a wedding ring," he
said.
And now the numbness seemed to engulf her, to break---"Hush, Leila, dear one."
But she could not hush. That very morning they had slipped the wedding
ring over a length of narrow blue ribbon, and Barry had tied it about
her neck. To-morrow, he had promised, she should wear it for all the
world to see.
But she was not to wear it. It must be hidden, as she had hidden it
all day above her heart.
"Leila, you are making it hard for me."
It was the man's cry of selfishness, but hearing it, she put her own
trouble aside. He needed her, and her king could do no wrong.
So she set herself to comfort him. In the month that was left to them
they would make the most of their happiness. Then perhaps she could
get Dad to bring her over in the summer, and he should show her London,
and all the lovely places, and there would be the letters; she would
write everything--and he must write.
"You little saint," he said when he left her, "you're too good for me,
but all that's best in me belongs to you--my precious."
She went to the door with him and said "good-night" bravely.
Then she shut the door and shivered. When at last she made her way
through the hall to the library, she seemed to be pushing against some
barrier, so that her way was slow.
On the threshold of that room she stopped.
"Dad," she said, sharply.
"My darling."
He sprang to his feet just in time and caught her.
She lay against his heart white and still. The strain of the last two
days had been too great for her, and Little-Lovely Leila had fainted
dead away.