“I am half-sick of shadows.”
MURIEL read Cynthia’s letter wonderingly. It was short, and merely
contained her reasons for leaving Muriel for six months at least. By the
end of that time Leslie Damores would have given her up, and she would
be more fit to take up her life again. Muriel was not to tell him that
she was ever coming back; she was not to overdo herself or live alone,
and above all she must not give him her address. Geoff was going with
her. Muriel sighed and frowned; the sigh was one of loneliness. She had
got so used to companionship—Cynthia’s, and generally her brother in
the evening. It was something to have a man to discuss things with
sensibly even if she never agreed with him. She frowned because it was a
little strange he had not written to say good-bye.
He had got over caring for her that was evident. She was glad of
that—of course she was extremely glad of it. Suddenly she felt tired
and discouraged. The girls had been unresponsive and tiresome in the
Bible-class. She loved Paris; she could see its clean, broad streets
filled with brilliant, rapid life, bright and gay and fresh, alive with
incessant laughter.
It was a damp, foggy evening and the fire smoked. They had such theaters
in Paris, and then the studios! Muriel had studied there for six months
in the pleasantest and easiest fashion. Sometimes the love of her old,
careless radiant life, pleasure and beauty, and the ease of things made
her catch her breath and remember she was twenty-seven, and her eyes
were beautiful, and there was that couple downstairs drunk and
quarrelling again! It was too late for tea, too early for supper, and if
she lit the candle she would have to write letters.
The door-bell clanged, and she heard a man’s voice. For a moment she
thought it was Dr. Grant coming to say good-bye. Her hands wandered
instinctively to her hair. No!—he asked for Cynthia. He must see
her—but she was out. “Then Miss Dallerton”—the girl “would see.” The
blackbeetle’s heavy footsteps paused outside her door. Muriel lit the
candles and poked the fire.
“Yes, I will see Mr. Damores,” she said smiling encouragingly at the
girl.
She felt less depressed because she had already begun to sympathize, and
yet she could not help feeling angry with Leslie Damores.
He stood before her, tall, handsome, eager; she sat down and waited for
him to speak. One of the most extraordinary things about her was her
willingness to wait for somebody else, even her silence was an
invitation.
“Cynthia wouldn’t see me,” he began, almost boyishly. “Won’t you tell me
why, and where she is, Miss Muriel?”
“She has gone away, Mr. Damores, and left us both. It’s a case of double
desertion, isn’t it?” she laughed nervously, for the look in his eyes
was too strongly anxious to make the interview a pleasant one.
“Has she left you a message for me?”
“She does not wish to see you again,” said Muriel gravely. He was quite
silent, with his eyes bent on the carpet.
“Then—and you—do you approve of her decision?” he asked slowly, his
voice so different from his first eager greeting. It was tired and a
little thick. An idea flashed through Muriel’s mind; she leaned forward
suddenly.
“Mr. Damores, do you care for her?” she asked. He squared his shoulders,
and looked back at her steadily, but a little surprised.
“Really, Miss Muriel, I thought—I thought it was pretty obvious!” he
replied.
“Then,” said Muriel, “I think very poorly of you for not wishing to
marry her!”
“But, good Heavens! Miss Dallerton,” he cried, now really astonished, “I
want nothing so much! I came here, if you must know, simply for that
purpose! and I find her—gone—leaving no traces, and, if you will
excuse my saying so, a great deal of confusion behind her!”
“I certainly do feel confusion, not to say chaos,” said Muriel smiling;
“and the worst of it is I can’t possibly explain. However one thing’s
evident, if you want her you must look for her, for I have no address
beyond Paris. She hates writing letters, and it will probably be a month
at least before she writes and gives it to me. Will you wait in London?”
Leslie Damores smiled.
“I might find her in Paris, and I shall not find her here,” he said;
“and when I do find her, I shall bring her back. Good-bye, Miss
Dallerton; I’m glad I didn’t deserve your scolding this time, it looked
as if it was going to be a pretty bad one. Oh, but I was a fool for not
marrying Cynthia eight years ago!” Muriel held out both her hands to
him, her eyes filled with tears.
“I am glad you are going to her,” she said. “I won’t wish you luck,
because there is something so much better that you have got already; but
I can’t help being a little sorry, for she will never come back to me
again!”
“Are you all alone?” he asked.
“There’s my work,” she said; “and the blackbeetle, who is a great friend
of mine, and looks after me very well.”
“Do you remember ‘The Lady of Shalott?’” he asked abruptly. “I always
liked that last line of it, ‘God in His mercy lend her grace.’ Good-bye,
Miss Dallerton.” He was gone, hopeful and strong once more, with the
possibility of satisfaction within his grasp, and Muriel again alone.
“It was all very well for Launcelot to say that,” she thought, “but when
she needed him most she had no loyal knight and true, the Lady of
Shalott, and—and not even God’s grace would make her forget that!” And
Muriel put her arms on the table and cried a little about Jack—at least
she thought it was about Jack, but it was really that Cynthia’s hand was
on what she herself had missed. The woman’s lips that bear no kiss of
love seem formed in vain; even the angels must sigh for them—and not
even the angels satisfy. Yet she had held it all once, and remorse and
passion and pity mocked at her for having thrown life’s gift away.
When the blackbeetle, whose other name was Catherine Mary, appeared
again it was to bring supper, and a message from a poor woman that “She
was taken cruel bad, and would Miss Muriel come to her?” Muriel left her
after a terrible four hours. The fight had given her strength, and the
light in her eyes was wonderful. She had forgotten all about the Lady of
Shalott.