Did she hear Karl say he had telegraphed for Kate Barrington?  But what did it matter?  Neither Kate nor Karl, strong and kind as they were, could stem the tide that bore those ships along the never-quiet seas.

XXVIII

So Kate was coming!

He had cravenly rebuffed her, and she had borne the rebuff in silence.  Yet now that he needed her, she was coming.  Ah, that was what women meant to men.  They were created for the comforting of them.  He always had known it, but he had impiously doubted them—­doubted Her.  Because fortune had turned from him, he had turned from Her—­from Kate Barrington.  He had imagined that she wanted more than he could give; whereas, evidently, all she ever had wanted was to be needed.  He had called.  She had answered.  It had been as swift as telegraphy could make it.  And now he was driving to the station to meet her.

Life, it appeared, was just as simple as that.  A man, lost in the darkness, could cry for a star to guide him, and it would come.  It would shine miraculously out of the heavens, and his path would be made plain.  It seemed absurd that the horses should be jogging along at their usual pace over the familiar road.  Why had they not grown shining wings?  Why was the old station wagon not transformed, by the mere glory of its errand, into a crystal coach?  But, no, the horses went no faster because they were going on this world-changing errand.  The resuscitated village, with the American litter heaped on the Italian dirt, looked none the less slovenly because She was coming into it in a few minutes.  The clock kept its round; the sun showed its usual inclination toward the west.  But notwithstanding this torpidity, She was coming, and that day stood apart from all other days.

That it was Honora’s desperate need which she was answering, in no way lessened the value of her response to him.  His need and Honora’s were indissoluble now; it was he who had called, and it was not to Honora alone that she was coming with healing in her hands.

He saw her as she leaped from the train,—­tall, alert, green-clad,—­and he ran forward, sweeping his Stetson from his head.  Their hands met—­clung.

“You!” he said under his breath.

She laughed into his eyes.

“No, you!” she retorted.

He took her bags and they walked side by side, looking at each other as if their eyes required the sight.

“How is she?” asked Kate.

“Very bad.”

“What is it?”

“The doorway to madness.”

“You’ve had a specialist?”

“Yes.  He wanted to take her to a sanatorium.  I begged him to wait—­to let you try.  How could I let her go out from my door to be cast in with the lost?”

“I suppose it was David’s death that caused it.”

“Oh, yes.  What else could it be?”

“Then she loved him—­to the end.”