He went out of the gate, and did not answer her faint “good-night.”  Was it true, as he said, that he should never cease calling her?  Something in her spirit stirred strangely at his appeal, as a far, celestial trumpet blown from on high might summon the valiant soul of a warrior who had died in the charge.

XX

The Secret of the Veil

“Father,” said Ralph, pacing back and forth, as was his habit, “I have wanted for some time to ask you about Miss Evelina—­the woman, you know, in the little house on the hill.  She always wears a veil and there can be no reason for it except some terrible disfigurement.  Has she never consulted you?”

“Never,” answered Anthony Dexter, with dry lips.

“I remember, you told me, but it seems strange.  I spoke to her about it the other day.  I told her I was sure that something could be done.  I offered to find the best available specialist for her, go with her, and stand by her until it was over.”

Anthony Dexter laughed—­a harsh, unnatural laugh that jarred upon his son.

“I fail to see anything particularly funny about it,” remarked Ralph, coldly.

“What did she say?” asked his father, not daring to meet Ralph’s eyes.

“She thanked me, and said nothing could be done.”

“She didn’t show you her face, I take it.”

“No.”

“I should have thought she would, under the circumstances—­under all the circumstances.”

“Have you seen her face?” asked Ralph, quickly, “by chance, or in any other way?”

“Yes.”

“How is it?  Is it so bad that nothing can be done?”

“She was perfectly right,” returned Anthony Dexter, slowly.  “There is nothing to be done.”

At the moment, the phantom Evelina was pacing back and forth between the man and his son.  Her veiled face was proudly turned away.  “I wonder,” thought Anthony Dexter, curiously, “if she hears.  If she did, though, she’d speak, or throw back her veil, so she doesn’t hear.”

“I may be wrong,” sighed Ralph, “but I’ve always believed that nothing is so bad it can’t be made better.”

“The unfailing ear-mark of Youth, my son,” returned Anthony Dexter, patronisingly.  “You’ll get over that.”

He laughed again, gratingly, and went out, followed by his persistent apparition.  “We’ll go out for a walk, Evelina,” he muttered, when he was half-way to the gate.  “We’ll see how far you can go without getting tired.”  The fantastic notion of wearying his veiled pursuer appealed to him strongly.

Ralph watched his father uneasily.  Even though he had been relieved of the greater part of his work, Anthony Dexter did not seem to be improving.  He was morose, unreasonable, and given to staring vacantly into space for hours at a time.  Ralph often spoke to him when he did not hear at all, and at times he turned his head from left to right and back again, slowly, but with the maddening regularity of clock-work.  He ate little, but claimed to sleep well.