Part 78 (1/2)
He drew nearer, and looked at her despairingly.
”Cecily! when I came last night, I had a longing to throw myself at your feet, and tell you all my misery--everything, and find strength again with your help. I never feared _this_. You, who are all love and womanliness, you cannot have put me utterly from your heart!”
”I am your wife still; but I ask nothing of you, and you must not seek for more than I can give.”
”Well, I too ask for nothing, But I will prove--”
She checked him.
”Don't forget your philosophy. We both of us know that it is idle to make promises of that kind.”
”You will leave London with me?”
”I shall go wherever you wish.”
”Then we will make our home again in Paris. The sooner the better. A few days, and we will get rid of everything except what we wish to take with us. I don't care if I never see London again.”
In the evening, Cecily was again at the Denyers' house. Madeline lay without power of speech, and seemed gradually sinking into unconsciousness. Mrs. Denyer had been telegraphed for; a reply had come, saying that she would be home very soon, but already a much longer time than was necessary had pa.s.sed, and she did not arrive.
Zillah sat by the bed weeping, or knelt in prayer.
”If your mother does not come,” Cecily said to her, ”I will stay all night. It's impossible for you to be left alone.”
”She must surely come; and Barbara too. How can they delay so long?”
Madeline's eyes were open, but she gave no sign of recognition. The look upon her face was one of suffering, there was no telling whether of body or mind. Hitherto it had changed a little when Zillah spoke to her, but at length not even this sign was to be elicited. Cecily could not take her gaze from the blank visage; she thought unceasingly of the bright, confident girl she had known years ago, and the sunny sh.o.r.e of Naples.
The doctor looked in at nine o'clock. He stayed only a few minutes.
At half-past ten there came a loud knocking at the house-door, and the servant admitted Mrs. Denyer, who was alone. In the little room above, the two watchers were weeping over the dead girl.
CHAPTER XVI
THE TWO FACES
Mallard, when he had taken leave of Cecily by Regent's Park, set out to walk homewards. He was heavy-hearted, and occasionally a fit of savage feeling against Elgar took hold of him, but his mood remained that of one who watches life's drama from a point of vantage. Sitting close by Cecily's side, he had been made only more conscious of their real remoteness from each other--of his inability to give her any kind of help. He wished she had not come to him, for he saw she had hoped to meet with warmer sympathy, and perhaps she was now more than ever oppressed with the sense of abandonment. And yet such a result might have its good; it might teach her that she must look for support to no one but herself. Useless to lament the necessity; fate had brought her to the hardest pa.s.s that woman can suffer, and she must make of her life what she could. It was not the kind of distress that a friend can remedy; though she perished, he could do nothing but stand by and sorrow.
Coming to his own neighbourhood, he did not go straight to the studio, but turned aside to the Spences' house. He had no intention of letting his friends know of Cecily's visit, but he wished to ask whether they had any news of Elgar. No one was at home, however.
The next morning, when surprised by the appearance of Elgar himself, he was on the point of again going to the Spences'. The interview over, he met forth, and found Eleanor alone. She had just learnt from Miriam what news Reuben had brought, and on Mallard's entrance she at once repeated this to him.
”I knew it,” replied the artist. ”The fellow has been with me.”
”He ventured to come? Before or after his coming here?”
”After. I think,” he added carelessly, ”that Mrs. Baske suggested it to him.”
”Possibly. I know nothing of what pa.s.sed between them.”