Part 59 (1/2)

”Is it clear?” she asked, excitedly. ”If it is clear, I must go out. I feel as if I were caged.”

Miss Ramsey raised the shades, revealing the murky aspect of a variable day.

”It is not quite clear,” she answered. ”I don't think you had better venture out. There is a damp wind.”

”Very well,” responded Mariana. She rose and dressed herself hurriedly; then she sat down with Miss Ramsey to breakfast, but she had little appet.i.te, and soon left the table, to wander about the house with a nervous step.

”I can't settle myself,” she said, a little pettishly.

Going up-stairs to her room presently, she threw herself into a chair before the fire, and looked into the long mirror hanging on the opposite wall.

She was possessed with a pulsating memory of the evening before--of Anthony, and of the kiss he had left upon her lips. Then swift darts of fear shot through her that it might all be unreal--that, upon leaving her, he had yielded once more to the sway of his judgment. She did not want judgment, she wanted love.

As she looked at her image in the long mirror, meeting her haggard face and dilated eyes, she grew white with the foreboding of failure. What was there left in her that a man might love? What was she--the wreck of a woman's form--that she could immortalize a man's fugitive desire? Was it love, after all? Was it not pity, pa.s.sing itself for pa.s.sion? Her cheeks flamed and her pulses beat feverishly.

She turned from the gla.s.s and looked at her walking-gown lying upon the bed.

”I can't wait,” she said, breathlessly. ”I must see him. He must tell me with his own lips that it is true.”

She dressed herself with quivering fingers, stumbling over the b.u.t.tons of her coat. Then she put on her hat and tied a dark veil over her face.

As she came down-stairs she met Miss Ramsey in the hall.

”Mariana, you are not going out!” she exclaimed.

”Only a little way,” said Mariana.

”But it has clouded. It may rain.”

”Not before I return. Good-bye.”

She opened the hall door. Pausing for an instant upon the threshold, a soft, damp air struck her, and overhead a ray of suns.h.i.+ne pierced the clouds.

She fastened the furs at her throat and descended to the street.

At first she had no definite end in view, but when she had walked a block the idea of seeing Anthony grew stronger, and she turned in the direction of his house. The contact of the moist air invigorated her, and she felt less weak than she had believed herself to be. When she reached the rectory she hesitated a moment with her hand upon the bell, trembling before the thought of seeing him--of hearing him speak. She rang, and the door was opened.

”Can I see Father Algarcife?” she asked.

Agnes eyed her curiously.

”Why, he's at church!” she responded. ”He's been gone about a half-hour or so. Is it important?”

”No, no,” answered Mariana, her voice recovering. ”Don't say I called, please. I'll come again.”

”Perhaps you'll step in and rest a bit. You look tired. You can sit in the study if you like.”

”Oh no, I will go on. I will go to the church.” She started, and then turned back. ”I believe I will come in for a few minutes,” she said.

She entered the house and pa.s.sed through the open door into the study. A bright fire was burning, and the dog was lying before it. She seated herself in the easy-chair, resting her head against the cus.h.i.+ons. Agnes stood on the rug and looked at her.