And as the days went by without word from her and the full realization of what he had lost slowly came to him, he thought he would go mad from anxiety and remorse.  He did not know where she had gone and his pride prevented him from communicating with her sister.  James Gillie had handed in a haughty resignation the day following Virginia’s departure, so there was no way of learning anything from that source, and the detective he had employed had thus far discovered nothing.  She might be in difficulties, in actual want and would not ask assistance from sheer pride.  The thought was maddening and for days Stafford, distraught, unable to attend to his affairs, remained in the house, hoping, half expecting, she would return until the uncertainty and continual disappointment nearly drove him insane.  He could not eat; he could not sleep.  His ears still rang with her reproaches, her stinging words of bitter denunciation.  At night he would wake up suddenly in a cold sweat imagining he saw her standing at the bed, looking at him with her large, sorrowful eyes, full of tears and reproach.

If he had never been sure of it before, he knew now that he loved her.  Everything in the house, now she was gone, told him so.  As he wandered aimlessly through the deserted rooms, and his glance fell on the corners and objects with which she was associated—­the deep easy chair in the library in which she would bury herself for hours with an interesting book; her baby grand piano, still open with the sheets of music scattered about; her private chamber with the bed undisturbed, closets empty, furniture arranged in precise order, and already beginning to accumulate dust—­he realized for the first time all that she had been to him.  He had not married young like most men.  She had come into his life when his habits and opinions were already formed.  For that reason he had treated his wife like a child, to be petted and indulged, but who at no time must be permitted to assert her independence or interfere in any way with her husband’s mode of living.  But little by little, even without his being conscious of it, she had taken a larger place in his life.  Gradually, she had made herself necessary to him, to his peace of mind, to his comfort.  Not only did she fill the house with her youthful enthusiasm and girlish laughter, but when business cares weighed heavy on his shoulders and he came home tired, glad of someone to whom he could confide his troubles, he found in her the most sympathetic of listeners.  In the evening she would sit at the piano and play for him his favorite music.  Ah, how divinely she played the Schubert Serenade; its sad, mournful melody was even now ringing in his ears, perfectly attuned to his present mood.  Insensate fool that he had been!  He had enjoyed all this and yet had deemed it of such little value that he had spurned it and driven it away.  This woman, his wife, who had brought sunshine into his life and home—­this loyal, faithful comrade—­he had insulted beyond all forgiveness.  When it all came clear to him, he thought he would go mad.