At the table that evening, Alice Robinson announced that she was going
to meet Wyndham immediately after dinner. Had her parents not been
accustomed to her departure at such summary notice, they might have
observed the touch of embarrassment that accompanied it. For, although
the expedition had been planned and considered for twenty-four hours on
end, Alice found the initial falsehood singularly agitating. Painfully
conscious of this lack of sangfroid, and fearful of betraying herself,
she felt she must escape from the house as soon as was plausible. So, a
little later, she rose in feverish haste from the dinner-table, and went
to her room to put on her wrappings. No one was to wait up for her, in
case she might be late, she said; she was taking a latch-key as usual.
Then she slipped out of the house, and went down the street rapidly.
Some little time had elapsed before she had control of her wits and
began to reflect. She had been impelled to start far earlier than she
had calculated, and thus she undoubtedly ran the danger of finding
Wyndham there, if she went straight to the studio. It was half-past
eight; by taking various omnibuses she could fill out the time and be
there by half-past nine. But even that seemed too early--he might be
only just on the point of going out to his club engagement. No, to be
absolutely safe, she would not venture actually to intrude till ten
o'clock.
However, she decided to make the journey at once, and to pass the
remaining time in that neighbourhood. So she mounted the first omnibus
that came along, and, once settled down for the long drive, she drew a
deep breath of relief. Now that she was definitely on the way, some of
the stress and pressure seemed to leave her, and the expedition seemed
less terrible. She pictured herself stealing down Tite Street, standing
nervously on the opposite pavement in the shadow, and looking up to see
if the studio were illuminated. Even if all were dark, Wyndham might
still be dressing in the room at the back; for, from the state of the
hall, nothing could be deduced, as often he would not take the trouble
to light the oil-lamp on which he at present depended. No, it would be
certainly more prudent to wait long enough for certainty. Should she
once break in upon him, she knew he would take good care she should not
see the picture; for no doubt he had taken measures against such a
surprise visit.
Immersed in these reflections, Alice was dimly aware of the miles of
streets through which she was being carried. Indeed, she forgot to
change omnibuses at Oxford Street, and was borne some distance out of
her way before she discovered the omission. The whole town seemed to her
like a dream; the street and the studio at her journey's end were all
that existed for her. And even when she gazed at the world around her,
it refused to take on any reality; the people that were abroad, going
their way and standing out brilliantly in the night wherever a blaze of
light fell upon them, seemed all strangely irrelevant. The only figures
that mattered were her affianced husband and the beautiful, sad woman of
stately presence, whose loveliness and nobility had drawn him from her.
She knew now she hated Lady Lakeden--definitely, terribly. It was
shameful, it was wicked--to hate like that! Lady Lakeden was blameless,
and had not the least idea of all this suffering which her loveliness
had caused to a fellow-woman, and to Wyndham, too. Yet how good it was
to let this mad fury against Lady Lakeden develop in her heart!
She pictured the portrait as standing with its face to the wall,
unobtrusive, even lost, amid the hosts of other canvasses. With what
terrible eagerness she would dart on it, turn it again, and let the
light fall on it! At last she should gaze on the face, should satiate
her consuming curiosity!
At Sloane Square she alighted, deciding to eke out the time by walking
the rest of the distance. As she plunged into the heart of Chelsea, and
was so sensibly near her journey's end, her pulse beat faster, her
breath came irregularly, and again her whole mind was concentrated
vividly on her goal. The streets through which she passed were almost
deserted. The old houses, the gardens, the stretches of brand-new
buildings, the great Hospital itself, were all vague silhouettes; above,
the stars were keen, but her eyes were fixed rigidly before her.
At the corner of Tite Street she stopped to draw breath, for her heart
was now thumping painfully. At the same time she felt almost afraid to
set foot in the street itself. The hesitation was unexpected; she had
imagined herself going straight to the studio, all of the same impulse.
But here a sense of wrong-doing came upon her; the underhandedness of
the whole proceeding stood out in that moment, curiously revealed,
strangely impressive. A strong temptation assailed her to turn, to run
off with all her force, to go back home. But she set her teeth, again.
No, she must not go back without seeing Lady Lakeden's portrait. She
must not yield to these moments of cowardice. It was stupid. Other women
dared much greater things; would hesitate at nothing, however false and
ignoble, to gain their own end!
She crossed to the opposite side, and flitted down the street like a
shadow. She had so effectively lengthened out her journey that it was at
last nearly ten o'clock. Wyndham's whole house was dark, and she had
little doubt but that he was already out. Yet she wanted to be
absolutely certain, so she moved on again, and sauntered off into a
network of neighbouring streets. But she was too impatient to go far
afield, and, after a few minutes, she retraced her steps till once more
she found herself looking across the street at the silent house that lay
all in deep shadow. How dark and deserted; how unnaturally still the
whole quarter! Then tramp, tramp, tramp, came the heavy foot of a
policeman, and she made him out dimly approaching her. She crossed the
road, nervous indeed of any human scrutiny, and walked on briskly, only
venturing to turn back when he had finally passed out of the street.
Now, she told herself, was the moment.
With every muscle tense, her heart beating now with terrible strokes, so
that she felt she might fall swooning at any moment, she approached the
house, and mounted the few steps that led to the doorway. Her key was in
her little purse-bag, and she extricated it tremblingly. At last she had
the door open, gave a last, quick, furtive, glance around, and then
stepped into the hall. For a moment she stood listening, her ears
intensely on the alert for the least sound in the house. But the sense
of absolute emptiness was too profound: the measured ticking of the tall
hall-clock seemed to be sounding a curiously vigorous note. She let the
door slam behind her, and moved forward a step or two, her feet sinking
into the deep Turkey carpet that she herself had chosen; then she sank
on a hard oak chair, and sat there gratefully, trying to master her
breath, and waiting for her heart to thump itself through sheer
weariness into a gentler measure. She unfastened her wraps and threw her
coat open, for from head to foot she was burning. She did not note the
time that passed, but when she rose again with a start she heard from
some neighbouring church clock the single stroke of a quarter. She
hesitated no longer, but determined to go up at once to the studio.
But first she lighted the hall lamp. Now that she was here she intended
to take possession openly, as was her right. If he should come back
suddenly, he at least should not imagine that she was there in secret.
But the cunning of the reasoning gave her a twinge of shame; she knew
that she was throwing dust in her own eyes in thus spouting of her
right. Admit at once that this liberal illumination was a piece of
craft, was intended to maintain the surface of innocence that was the
cover for woman's guile from time immemorial. Well, so be it! She had
been a child all her life. If perhaps she had been less truly innocent,
even she might have kept the man who had slipped from her. She was
graduating in womanhood now; how splendid it was to be unscrupulous, to
do absolutely what you wished, yet skilfully maintain the blind belief
and confidence of those you tricked! What great power, what joy could be
gathered for yourself that way! Yes, that was the only thing for woman
in this world; otherwise she was left to rot!
And, as if to emphasise the conviction, she deliberately lighted a
second spare lamp that stood in the hall, so that the spaces were
illumined resplendently. Then she mounted the flight of stairs, letting
her hand trail along the graceful sweep of balustrade, and pushed open
the door of the studio.
Peering into the darkness, her eyes at first could distinguish nothing
save the objects in the spaces near her, as some of the light flowed up
from below. But presently she was able to distinguish the familiar
furniture, and cautiously felt her way across to the mantelpiece. Soon
two powerful lamps were in full flame, and she sat down again to rest
for a minute, whilst her eyes wandered round seeking for the portrait
that was the object of her pilgrimage. She did not remove her coat and
wraps, although, spacious as the room was, the atmosphere felt
oppressive and the slow fire, banked up with ashes, seemed to give out
an immense heat. Yet she felt singularly at leisure, in full possession
of her purpose.
Obviously Lady Lakeden's portrait was not on any of the easels; nor
could she distinguish any fresh unit amid these many canvasses, all
individually familiar to her--like a card-sharper, she could identify
any one of them immediately from its apparently featureless back. Her
first feeling was one of astonished disappointment, and she rose now,
ready to institute a closer search. The possibility of being baulked of
her purpose stirred a sudden rage in her. She no longer knew herself. "I
am mad--mad," was the thought that echoed through her brain. "But if I
am," she reasoned grimly, "my sufferings all these weeks have made me
so. I would sooner die than endure this all over again." Then she set
about examining all the canvasses, turning them one after the other to
the light, in the vain hope that her too accurate knowledge of them
might prove in some instance mistaken. But in vain! Was it possible that
the portrait was already on its way to Paris?
But wait, was there anything behind the screen so carelessly sprawling
in the corner there under the great window? In a moment she had dashed
across, and had half-dragged, half-flung it out of its place. Ah! she
could almost have screamed with fury at Wyndham's cautious
foresight--this unmistakable provision against an accidental visit from
her. It was then true; definitely, absolutely true! The man whom she
loved to madness, who had professed to love her for herself alone,
belonged heart and soul to another woman!
A mist palpitated in the air before her, and the gold foliage and
convolutions of the ornate Venetian frame shone through it distorted and
terrible. But the canvas itself was a vague blur to her. She staggered
over to the nearer lamp and bore it over to the corner, kneeling so as
to bring the light full on the picture and her own face opposite Lady
Lakeden's. And as now she saw this rare princess, bathed in a mystic
light, this figure, full of a sweet dignity and a stately grace; as her
eyes rested on the girlish face whose character yet shone out in a
splendid illumination, though the rounded, youthful features were free
from any stamp that might have touched the bloom of their spring-tide
beauty, a cruel knife worked in Alice's heart, a knife that seared as
well as stabbed. For a long minute she gazed at the portrait, letting it
burn itself on her vision in its every shade and detail--the fresh sheen
on the hair, the proud yet sweet tilt of the face, the wonderfully fresh
and deep violet-grey eyes, the veritable rose-bud mouth that was yet so
firm and true! This, then, was her rival! How could she, the plainest
of the plain, hope to struggle against the irresistible might of this
loveliness! A sense of absolute defeat, of complete hopelessness invaded
her whole being; it was the same submissive acquiescence with which she
had contemplated herself in the glass on that momentous evening when
Wyndham had appeared in her father's house for the first time. But then
the hope had never been roused; now the joy was literally snatched from
her lips. But, though her intelligence saw the hopelessness, her heart
was full of desperation. And while yet her eyes were riveted on the
picture, fascinated, yet loathing it with a passion that seemed to flame
and to dominate her as though her real self were too puny to stir
against it, a wild whirling thought came to her that made her body rock
and shiver, and she set the lamp on the floor to save it from crashing
down out of her hand. What if this woman were as guilty as the man?
"I understand now," her lips broke out involuntarily. "They loved each
other from the beginning, but she married another for convention's sake.
Now they have resumed their old love, but I am in the way. He will not
jilt me, because his honour is at stake, but as a man of honour he would
not think it dishonourable to deceive me." She laughed aloud in
bitterness. That was it! They would both deceive her, though he would
never break his word. Had she not seen the point exemplified in a
hundred books and plays?
Ah, this honour of the fashionable classes! And she had believed Lady
Lakeden to be true; had, in pity and sympathy, set her on the highest
pedestal of womanhood. How her belief in her rival's perfect goodness
had blinded her! What a fool she had been, going through life with such
simplicity! With a heart so open and trusting! No wonder nothing had
come to illumine her existence!--that what had seemed to hold the
promise was a cheat and a delusion!
And, as her mind ran back over the past weeks, a thousand things seemed
to confirm her new inspiration at every turn. Ah, God! how she had been
tricked! Was there another woman in the world who would have been so
trustingly stupid? The blood seemed to surge all to her temples:
everything before her faded. An impulse to give vent to her fury seized
her. She longed to tear and rend the canvas, to crush and break it with
her fingers, to bite it through and through with her teeth. And she
would have carried the imperious impulse into effect, had not a new
thought, like a zigzag of lightning, come flashing through her brain.
Lady Lakeden had no doubt written him letters; there must be a whole
packet of them somewhere here in the studio! She would read them; they
would not lie!
Intent on this new end, she darted across to the bureau (of which the
lid was permanently down and laden with papers and portfolios), and
scrutinised the pigeon-holes. These were always open to her without
restriction, but she had never thought of examining the contents, though
she had often put away papers and receipts for him. She made a quick,
feverish inspection of them now, not hoping to find the letters she
sought in a place thus conspicuous, but yet fearful of overlooking them.
The pigeon-holes yielded in fact nothing to interest her, and then with
trembling fingers she turned out the little drawers, one at a time,
replacing the contents of each carefully before proceeding to the next.
She was reckless now, having no control over itself. She did not fear
his sudden arrival on the scene; she would face him--she would taunt him
with the truth!
Suddenly her physical powers seemed to break down, and she clutched at
the bureau for support. And as soon as she had steadied herself, she was
glad to drag over a chair, and continue her search with feeble, tired
movements. And with this abrupt collapse, her crude, violent emotions
seemed to have blazed themselves out. She felt now a poor forlorn,
helpless creature; her eyes were wet with tears, and she was choking
down her sobs. And it seemed to her that she was gulping down an
infinite bitterness. "I have it," she said suddenly, a momentary
illumination flitting across her features. He had once shown her in
this old provincial French bureau a receptacle which he had spoken of as
his secret drawer, a space neatly stowed away amid the other surrounding
spaces so that its ingenious existence might remain reasonably
unsuspected. She immediately stopped her operations, replacing things
with a movement that was increasingly languid and feeble; and eventually
opened the principal compartment in the centre which was on a level with
the writing-lid. Removing all its contents, she inserted her nail in a
little innocent slit, made the floor of the compartment slide along,
then thrust her hand into the space revealed.
Clearly a packet of letters was there. She drew it forth--over a dozen
of them, carefully preserved in their fashionable-looking envelopes and
tied together with a broad piece of tape. A faint perfume of violets was
in her nostrils as she handled them. And this packet, too, seemed
strangely imbued with the personality of their writer, reminiscent of a
world of dream and books. How remote from her they seemed! How remote
from her, indeed, all the amazing history of these past months! That,
too, belonged rather to a world of dream and books. What! these great
tragic complications and emotions had sprung up in her simple,
uneventful existence! had related themselves to a brick bow-windowed
house in the suburbs!
She gazed at the packet again, conscious that her fingers were
faltering. How mean, low, hateful to read letters that had not been
meant for others' eyes! And what purpose would be served by her reading
them? She needed no further proof of the intrigue that had been carried
on in the shelter of her own credulity and simplicity. Besides, she
could divine what passionate vows of love were written herein, and to
pry into them would be to renew her tortures beyond human endurance. She
feared and turned away from them as from a furnace heated seven times
hot. The packet dropped amid the masses of papers that encumbered the
desk. Her tears came anew, and she gave them full vent; a storm of
hysteric sobbing shook her convulsively.
When eventually the attack had spent itself, she sat there listlessly,
without the force to stir hand or foot. But her brain was working
feverishly, definitely recognising that her life was spoilt. She had
made her great cry of revolt in this mad dash and underhanded search;
better perhaps to have made it in the silent depths of her heart! Ah,
God, it was bitter, it was cruel! But what had she expected? Had she not
known from the beginning that she ought never to accept one so far above
her?--that she was not the ideal his heart would crave for, but that, at
the best, a deep secret dissatisfaction would rankle in him all his
life? Had she not steadily seen this, while yet a shred of sanity
remained to her? But it had all happened in spite of herself; she had
been stricken with blindness, and her clear-seeing mind had been
possessed with inexplicable folly. She--Alice Robinson!--and the thought
made her laugh out aloud--had wholly believed that this man sincerely
loved her! She laughed again and again, seized suddenly by the pitifully
comic spectacle she presented to herself--Alice Robinson, shy, awkward,
devoid of all the graces, lacking _savoir-faire_, neglected not only by
men, but even by her own sex: Alice Robinson, the granddaughter of a
carpenter, seriously beloved by an aristocrat with all the graces and
culture, an artist, moreover, for whom beauty was always the primal
appeal! She--Alice Robinson--had been under this wondrous delusion! Was
there anything more ridiculous since men and women were? Her laughter
could not be repressed, but it rang out through the studio weirdly, with
a strange note of hardness and bitterness, and somehow it echoed and
re-echoed through all the house, coming back to her mockingly from the
empty rooms beneath her.
Even when her laughter had died away she sat there brooding. And for the
first time there was mingled in her emotions a touch of pity for
Wyndham. She was conscious now of a softening, in spite of all. Poor
Wyndham! Had he not loved Lady Lakeden years before he had set eyes on
the Robinsons? If only he had not possessed that terrible code of
honour! He might then have come to her frankly and begged her
compassion! She would have released him. But he could not break his
word. His honour only allowed him to carry on an intrigue!
But time was passing, and she told herself she must not stay. She knew
she was defeated and must accept it: she must leave him to his intrigue,
whilst she herself stepped back into the old suburban existence!
She replaced the letters in the secret receptacle, and restored
everything in the bureau as it had been before. Then she dragged back
the screen before the picture, turning away her eyes resolutely so as
not to catch sight again of that gracious figure gleaming out in
exquisite radiance. The lamps were put back as she had found them, then
carefully extinguished. But the difficulty she had with them revealed to
her the tense nervous condition under which she was still labouring,
though she had appeared to herself quiet and resigned now. She stood in
the dark a moment, conscious of the suffocating closeness of the
atmosphere. How good it would be to be out in the air again! She would
walk on the Embankment for a few minutes, and then ingloriously go home
as fast as possible--in a hansom! having yielded to ignoble impulses and
played the role of a common spy. But in one way she at least had no
regret She was enlightened, knew as much of the position as Wyndham.
She descended the stairs, put out the lamps in the hall, and stepped
into the streets again. The cold air beat in her face deliciously; the
stars were brilliant in the pure sky. She looked up to them now
yearningly--their calm and beauty shamed the storm and fever in her own
mind. The street, too, seemed so exquisitely still in the splendid
darkness. She let her wraps hang loosely about her, and did not fasten
her coat. She breathed the air greedily, and it seemed to allay the
stress at her heart. Then somehow she turned her steps towards the
river, wondering where Wyndham and Lady Lakeden were passing their
evening! She could take that for granted now, she felt. How carefully he
had built up the wall around his romance!
At the bottom of the street the river night-scene, scintillating with
points of light, burst on her vision, and seemed to draw her into its
own strange mood of mystery. It was as though a new universe of stars
had come into being, wafting some fascinating message which baffled her
reading. And as she stood in the great avenue, under the far-spreading
arch of foliage, a deeper calm seemed to fall upon her. She went to the
parapet, and looked over. The long stretch of water, all gleams and
shadows, lay gently between the two gray bridges that hung suspended
from their steel network in soft silhouette.
Alice strolled some distance down the bank, then turned and retraced her
steps. She told herself it was foolish to linger here, that she ought to
make at once for the busier streets, and take the first vehicle that
offered itself. But it was so deliciously silent, so majestic, that it
comforted her to stay here. Besides, somehow, she could not tear herself
away from the neighbourhood of the studio. She looked at her watch; to
her surprise it was nearly half-past eleven; she had been at the studio
a full hour and more! Surely he must be coming home soon. Perhaps,
indeed, he had returned already!
She found herself instinctively turning up Tite Street again, keeping as
before to the opposite side of the road. But all was as dark and still
in the house as when she had left it. Then the idea came to her that she
would wait and see. It was a mere whim perhaps; but she could not go
home till she had watched him enter. Still, she could not wait here in
one fixed spot; she had almost the sense of being observed by she knew
not whom. Besides, she must be cautious; she did not intend that he
should suspect she was actually so near to him at that hour of the
night. It gave her an anguished thrill to think he would pass close by
her, and yet never give her a thought.
She was, however, loth to move away, for she could not know from which
end of the street he would come. If she waited too long near one end, he
might slip by from the other. And this, whether he came on foot or in a
hansom. Feverishly she paraded the street, stopping here a minute, there
a minute; keeping well within the shadow, and avoiding the encounter of
every chance passer-by. Now and again she heard the ring of a hansom,
the smart trot of a horse, and she held her breath with excitement. And
there was even a minute when hansoms came dashing into the street one
after the other; most of them to pass right through it, and only one or
two to draw up in the street itself.
Midnight sounded, but still no sign of Wyndham. She looked up at the
sky, but was surprised to find the stars were blotted out. A spot of
rain fell on her upturned face. Her sense of misery reasserted itself,
and with it came a sullen resolution to stay out till dawn, if needs be.
Again she went to the Hospital end of the road and took up a discreet
point of vantage. But again the tramp of a policeman scared her away,
and accepting this as a sort of unpropitious omen she definitely decided
to keep to the other end. She was like a gambler uncertain how to stake,
but at last abruptly deciding for any irrelevant reason.
The minutes passed, infinitely long to her now impatient mood. The
spots of rain kept falling. The neighbouring clock boomed out the
quarters. At last another hansom--coming from the abandoned direction!
Back she went again into the road, but it had stopped short farther
down. The studio was still in darkness. Strangely disappointed and
fatigued almost to the point of falling, she dragged her worn feet once
more down to the Embankment, keeping her wits alert with a sustained
effort, that grew harder and harder. This time she did not cross to the
parapet, but walked under the great red brick houses, noticing idly
their gates and doorways as they loomed on her. And her eyes were half
closed in spite of her struggle. The trot of a horse, and the rattle and
tinkle of a hansom sounded just then, coming smartly along the avenue.
But she went on more and more as if in a dream, taking one step only
because she had taken the last. Nearer and nearer came the hansom,
louder and louder beat the horse's hoofs on the asphalte, but she
pursued her meaningless way, without paying any heed to it. Her senses
had almost left her. She opened her eyes suddenly, and, looking towards
the river, saw that a greyish mist hung over it, that the pavements were
wet and glistening. Ah, yes, the water lay below, dark and soft, full of
an eternal peace. The message that had baffled her!--she understood it
now! She had nothing to live for! In a flash all would be finished.
Impulsively she stepped into the roadway to cross to the parapet.
"Hallo, hallo!" The horse's head was almost on her, and she drew back
with a natural unreasoned movement. The driver shook his whip and
shouted angrily, then went onwards. But a moment's vision had burnt
itself on her consciousness as deep as that first sight of the portrait
of Lady Lakeden. Wyndham was seated in the vehicle side by side with
Lady Lakeden, his face turned towards her, whilst her hand clutched his
convulsively. And in that same swift moment Alice had felt Lady
Lakeden's face encounter hers with mutual intensity. The sudden backward
movement had almost paralysed her muscles; an agonising pain racked her
at her knees and ankles. She dragged herself to the nearest wall and
leaned against it. The picture of those two side by side was always with
her: of Lady Lakeden's eyes flashing full on her own.
She knew not how many minutes had passed when she was called to herself
by the inexorable clock that had sounded its notes throughout this
strange evening, and that now seemed to fling its boom through all the
spaces of the night. Was the universe resounding with a peal of
mockery?--disproportionately Titanic for so humble a soul as hers, so
paltry a destiny? Ah, she remembered now her frustrated purpose; the
instant when death had beckoned her imperiously and she had responded
with every fibre of her soul and body. Why, then, had she not let the
wheels crush her?
But she shuddered. Ah, no, no! Thank Heaven she had been inspired to
save herself. How his life would have been saddened and embittered by so
ironic an accident! She had meant only to help him; never to be a cause
of grief to him! Since apparently it had been thus fated, better perhaps
to live on. "I have others as well to think of--father and mother!" she
murmured. "How wicked it was of me to forget them! Besides, as I never
expected anything in life, why should I be disappointed now at getting
nothing?" The argument seemed convincing, so painfully she began to
hobble along the Embankment, moving again towards the familiar street,
why she knew not. But her lips kept muttering, to herself. "She has gone
with him alone to his studio. She is a wicked woman."
And opposite the house, that had held her brilliant hopes of love and
wonderful happiness for so brief a period, she stood still again, and
looked up to the great window of the studio that was now illumined with
a warm light, though everywhere else the house was dark. She saw a
shadow flit across the blind, and then another shadow. They were there
together.
How they would stare if she boldly used her key and intruded upon them!
How they would tremble if they knew she was there, straining for a
glimpse of their shadows!
But she had no impulse now to disturb them. The game had been played,
and she had been thrown out.
With a sigh she moved away, turning her painful steps up the street,
more instinctively than consciously. She walked and walked mechanically,
retracing the route she had taken on her way there. The rain descended
in thin, sharp lines, but she took no heed. But suddenly an arm was
thrust through hers, and she looked round with a terrible start. A burly
flush-faced man with a ruffled silk hat was holding an umbrella over
her, was speaking to her. Her eye noticed irrelevantly they were just by
a closed dark public-house whose nickel reflectors caught the light from
an adjoining street-lamp.
"Hadn't you better take me home with you, my dear?"
For a second she stared at him, then, with a hoarse cry, she shook
herself free, and with a supreme effort rushed off like a frightened
fawn. As she turned into another street she overtook a hansom going at a
snail's pace.
"Where to?" asked the man through the roof, after she had got in.
"Straight home as fast as you can," was her strange answer.
The man looked down upon her. "Where's that?" he asked good-humouredly.
"I beg your pardon," she exclaimed, vainly attempting to control her
breath. She gave him the address, and off they went.
At the end of the journey she paid him profusely, and he thanked her
with as profuse a civility. She let herself in with her key, went up at
once to her room, and threw herself across her bed. Her sobs broke out
afresh. "Darling," she called; "I want you back again to be mine, and
mine only."