She merely essayed
a remonstrance, and, since it was obviously vain, she desisted. She would
not discuss the theme. She had no words. It even seemed that she had no
thoughts, no fears, no plans. She was annulled in waiting--waiting for
the moment, the opportunity to take action. While the time went by, she
sat there as under a spell of suspended animation, fresh, clear, capable,
tireless, silent. The housemaid came in once and mended the fire, but
later Gladys, mindful of the curiosity of servants, forbore to ring the
bell and threw on the logs herself; then sat down to gaze again into the
depths of the coals, flickering to a white heat at the end of the glowing
red perspective, and wonder what was to come to them all--indeed, what
was this strange thing that had already befallen them in the obsession of
this silent woman, who sat so still, so suddenly endued with vigor, so
brilliant with health and freshness, out of a state of mental anguish
bordering on nervous prostration? Was it all fictitious?--and was there
something terrible to ensue when it should collapse? And what action was
incumbent on her hostess, left to face this problem in this lonely
country house in the dead hours of night?
IX.
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