About a month after she came to us, Ideala caught a bad cold. The
doctor said her chest was very delicate. There was no disease, but she
required great care, and must not go out of doors. Soon afterwards he
ordered her to remain in two rooms, and my sister had a favourite
sitting-room turned into a bedroom for her. It opened into the blue
drawing-room, and we took to sitting there in the evening, so that
Ideala might join us without change of temperature. Ideala had always
been careless about her health, and we expected some trouble with her
now, but she acquiesced in all our arrangements without a word. It was
easy to see, however, that her docility arose from indifference. The
one idea possessed her, and she cared for nothing else. Did he, or did
he not, mean it? was the question she asked herself, morning, noon, and
night, till at last she could bear it no longer. Anything was better
than suspense. She must write to him, she must know the truth one way
or the other.
I had stayed up in the blue drawing-room to read one night after the
rest of the party had gone to their rooms, but my mind wandered from
the book. Ideala had been very still that evening, and I could not help
thinking about her. Once or twice I had caught her looking at me
intently. It seemed as if she had something to say, but when I went to
speak to her she answered quite at random. I was much troubled about
her, and something happened presently which did not tend to set my mind
at rest. The room was large, and the fire, though bright, and one
shaded lamp standing on a low table, left the greater part of it in
shadow. When I gave up the attempt to read, I had gone to the farther
end of it to lie on a sofa which was quite in the shade. About midnight
the door into Ideala's room opened and she stood on the threshold with
a loose white wrapper round her. She could not see me, and I ought to
have spoken and let her know I was there, but I was startled at first
by her sudden appearance, and afterwards I was afraid of startling her.
She was so nervous and fragile then that a very little might have led
to serious consequences. I did not like to play the spy, but it was a
choice of two evils, and I thought she had come for a book or
something, and would go directly, and if she did discover me she would
suppose me to be asleep. She walked about the room, however, for a
little in an objectless way; then she sank down on the floor with a low
moan beside a chair, and hid her face on her arm. Presently she looked
up, and I saw she held something in her hand. It was a gold crucifix,
and she fixed her eyes on it. The lamplight fell on her face, and I
could see that it was drawn and haggard. Claudia had maintained
latterly that her illness arose more from mental than from physical
trouble; did this explain it? And was it a religious difficulty?
A weary while she remained in the same attitude, gazing at the
crucifix; but evidently there was no pity for her pain, and no relief.
She neither prayed nor wept, and scarcely moved; and I dared not. At
last, however, a great drowsiness came over me; and when I awoke I
almost thought I had dreamt it all, for the daylight was streaming in,
and I was alone.
Later in the day when I saw Ideala she had just finished writing a
letter.
"Shall I take it down for you?" I asked. "The man will come for the
others presently."
She handed it to me without a word. On the way downstairs I saw that it
was addressed to Lorrimer, of whom I had not then heard, but somehow I
could not help thinking that this letter had something to do with what
I had seen the night before.
For a day or two after that Ideala seemed better. Then she grew
restless, which was a new phase of her malady; she had been so still
before; and soon it was evident that she was devoured by anxiety which
she could not conceal. I felt sure she was expecting someone, or
something, that never came. For days she wandered up and down, up and
down, and she neither ate nor slept.
One afternoon I went to ask if she had any letters for the post. At
first she said she had not, then she wanted to know how soon the post
was going. In a few minutes, I told her. She sat down on the impulse of
the moment, and hurriedly wrote a note, which she handed to me. It was
addressed to Lorrimer; but I asked no questions.
Two days afterwards a single letter came by the post for Ideala. I took
it to her myself, and saw in a moment that it was what she had waited
for so anxiously: the cruel suspense was over at last.
That evening she was radiant; but she told us she must go home next
day, and we were thunderstruck. It was the depth of winter; the weather
was bitterly cold, and she had not been out of the house for months,
and under the circumstances to take such a journey was utter madness.
But we remonstrated in vain. She was determined to go, and she went.