XI.

When she was able to leave her room she was ordered to the sea-side.

After a fortnight in Brighton she went to stay with some friends in

town. Christmas she spent in Sutton. There was a large party of

Harold's friends, business folk, whom Mildred hated. She was glad when

they left, and she was free to choose the room that suited her purpose

best. She purchased draperies, and hired models, and commenced a

picture. She commenced a second picture, but that too went wrong; she

then tried a few studies. She got on better with these, but it soon

became clear to her that she could not carry out her ideas until she

had learned to draw.

Another two years of hard work in the studio were necessary. But as

she was not going to Paris till the spring her thoughts turned to the

National Gallery, and on the following week she commenced copying a

head by Greuse. She had barely finished sketching in the head when

Miss Brand told her that Ralph was very ill and was not expected to

live. She laid her charcoal on the easel, the movement was very slow,

and she lifted a frightened face.

'What is the matter with him? Do you know?'

'He caught a bad cold about a month ago, he doesn't seem ever to have

got over it. But for a long time he has been looking worried, you know

the look of a man who has something on his mind.'

A close observer might have noticed that the expression on Mildred's

face changed a little. 'He is dying for me,' she thought. 'He is dying

for love of me.' And as in a ray of sunlight she basked for a moment

in a little glow of self-satisfaction. Then, almost angrily, she

defended herself against herself. She was not responsible for so

casual a thought, the greatest saint might be the victim of a

wandering thought. She was, of course, glad that he liked her, but she

was sorry that she had caused him suffering. He must have suffered.

Men will sacrifice anything for their passions. But no, Ralph had

always been nice with her, she owed him a great deal; they had had

pleasant times together--in this very gallery. She could remember

almost every word he said. She had liked him to lean over her

shoulder, and correct her drawing. He would never do so again.

Good heavens! ... Just before Miss Brand came up to speak to her she

was wondering if she should meet him in the gallery, and what he would

think of the Greuse. He wouldn't care much about it. He didn't care

much about the French eighteenth century, of course he admired

Watteau, but it was an impersonal admiration, there was nothing of the

Watteau, Greuse, Pater, or Lancret in him. He was purely English. He

took no interest in the unreal charm that that head expressed. Of

course, no such girl had ever existed or could exist, those melting

eyes and the impossible innocence of that mouth! It was the soul of a

courtesan in the body of a virgin. She was like that, somewhat like

that; and, inspired by the likeness between herself and the picture,

Mildred took up her charcoal and continued her drawing.

But she must have been thinking vaguely all the while of Ralph, for

suddenly her thoughts became clear and she heard the words as if they

had been read to her: 'Lots of men have killed themselves for women,

but to die of a broken heart proves a great deal more. Few women have

inspired such a love as that.... If it were known--if--she pushed the

thought angrily aside as one might a piece of furniture over which one

has stumbled in the dark. It was shocking that thoughts should come

uncalled for, and such thoughts! the very opposite of what she really

felt. That man had been very good to her; she had liked him very much.

It was shocking that she had been the cause of his death. It was too

terrible. But it was most improbable, it was much more likely that his

illness was the effect of the cold he had caught last month. Men did

not die of broken hearts. She had nothing whatever to do with it....

And yet she didn't know. When men like him set their hearts on a

woman--she was very sorry, she was sorry. But there was no use

thinking any more about it...

So she locked up her paint-box and left the gallery. She was nervous;

her egotism had frightened her a little. He was dying, and for her,

yet she felt nothing. Not only were her eyes dry, but her heart was

too. A pebble with her own name written on it, that was her heart. She

wished to feel, she longed for the long ache of regret which she read

of in books, she yearned for tears. Tears were a divine solace, grief

was beautiful. And all along the streets she continued to woo sorrow--

she thought of his tenderness, the real goodness of his nature, his

solicitude for her, and she allowed her thoughts to dwell on the

pleasant hours they had passed together.

Her heart remained unmoved, but her feet led her towards St. James'

Park. She thought she would like to see it again, and when she stood

on the bridge where they had so often stood, when she visited the seat

where they had often sat chatting under the budding trees her eyes

would surely fill with tears, and she would grieve for her dying lover

as appropriately as any other woman.

But that day the park was submerged in blue mist. The shadows of the

island fell into the lake, still as death; and the birds, moving

through the little light that lingered on the water, seemed like

shadows, strange and woe-begone. To Mildred it seemed all like death.

She would never again walk with him in the pretty spring mornings when

light mist and faint sunlight play together, and the trees shake out

their foliage in the warm air. How sad it all was. But she did feel

sorry for him, she really was sorry, though she wasn't overcome with

grief. But she had done nothing wrong. In justice to herself she could

not admit that she had. She always knew just where to draw the line,

and if other girls did not, so much the worse for them. He had wanted

to marry her, but that was no reason why she should marry him. She may

have led him to expect that she would sooner or later, but in breaking

with him she had done the wisest thing. She would not have made him

happy; she was not sure that she could make any man happy...

Awaking from her thoughts she reproached herself for her selfishness,

she was always thinking of herself... and that poor fellow was dying

for love of her! She knew what death was; she too had been ill. She

was quite well now, but she had been ill enough to see to the edge of

that narrow little slit in the ground, that terrible black little slit

whence Ralph was going, going out of her sight for ever, out of sight

of the park, this park which would be as beautiful as ever in another

couple of months, and where he had walked with her. How terrible it

was, how awful--and how cold, she could not stand on the bridge any

longer. She shivered and said, 'I'm catching a cold.'

For the sake of her figure she never wore quite enough clothes, and

she regretted her imprudence in standing so long on the misty bridge.

She must take care of herself, for her to feel ill would serve no

purpose--she would not be able to see Ralph, and she wanted to see him

above all things. As she crossed the open space in front of Buckingham

Palace the desire to see him laid hold of her. She must know if he

were really dying. She would, drive straight to his studio. She had

been there before, but then she knew no one would be there. She would

have to risk the chance of some one seeing her going in and coming

out. But no matter who saw her, she must go. She hailed a hansom, and

the discovery that she was capable of so much adventure, pleased her.

She thought of his poor sick-bed in the dark room behind the studio.

She had caught sight of his bedroom as she had passed through the

passage. She believed herself capable and willing to sit by his sick-

bed and nurse him. She did not as a rule care for sick people, but she

thought she would like to nurse him.

The hansom turned through the Chelsea streets getting nearer and

nearer to the studio. She wondered who was nursing him--there must be

some one there.... The hansom stopped. She got out and knocked. The

door was opened by a young woman who looked like a servant, but

Mildred was not deceived by her appearance. 'One of his models come to

nurse him,' she thought.

'I have heard,' she said, 'that Mr. Hoskin is ill.'

'Yes, he is very ill, I'm sorry to say.'

'I should like to see him. Will you inquire?'

'He's not well enough to see any one to-day. He has just dozed off. I

couldn't awake him. But I'll give him any message.'

'Give him my card and say I would like to see him. Stay, I'll write a

word upon it.'

While Mildred wrote on the card the girl watched her--her face was

full of suspicion; and when she read the name, an involuntary 'Oh'

escaped from her, and Mildred knew that Ralph had spoken of her.

'Probably,' she thought, 'she has been his mistress. She wouldn't be

here nursing, if she hadn't been.'

'I'll give him your card.'

There was nothing for it but to lower her eyes and murmur 'thank you,'

and before she reached the end of the street her discomfort had

materially increased. She was humiliated and angry, humiliated that

that girl should have seen through her so easily, angry that Ralph

should have spoken about her to his mistress; for she was sure that

the woman was, or had been, his mistress. She regretted having asked

to see Ralph, but she had asked for an appointment, she could hardly

get out of it now.... She would have to meet that woman again, but she

wanted to see Ralph.

'Ralph, I suppose, told her the truth.'

A moment's reflection convinced Mildred that that was probably the

case, and reassured, she went to bed wondering when she would get a

letter. She might get one in the morning. She was. not disappointed;

the first letter she opened read as follows:--

MADAM,--Mr. Hoskin begs me to thank you for your kind inquiry. He is

feeling a little stronger and will be glad to see you. His best time

is in the afternoon about three o'clock. Could you make it convenient

to call about that time?

'I think it right to warn you that it would be well not to speak of

anything that would be likely to excite him, for the doctor says that

all hope of his recovery depends on his being kept quiet.--I am,

Madam, yours truly,

'ELLEN GIBBS.'

'Ellen Gibbs, so that is her name,' thought Mildred. There was a note

of authority in the letter which did not escape Mildred's notice and

which she easily translated into a note of animosity, if not of

hatred. Mildred did not like meeting this woman, something told her

that it would be wiser not, but she wanted to see Ralph, and an

expression of vindictiveness came into her cunning eyes. 'If she dares

to try to oppose me, she'll soon find out her mistake. I'll very soon

settle her, a common woman like that. Moreover she has been his

mistress, I have not, she will quail before me, I shall have no

difficulty in getting the best of her.'

'To-morrow. This letter was written last night, so I have to go to see

him to-day, this afternoon, three o'clock, I shall have to go up after

lunch by the two o'clock train. That will get me there by three.... I

wonder if he is really dying? If I were to go and see him and he were

to recover it would be like beginning it over again.... But I don't

know why every base thought and calculation enter my head. I don't

know why such thoughts should come into my head, I don't know why they

do come, I don't call them nor do their promptings affect me. I am

going to see him because I was once very fond of him, because I caused

him, through no fault of mine, a great deal of suffering--because it

appears that he's dying for love of me. I know he'd like to see me

before he dies, that's why I am going, and yet horrid thoughts will

come into my head; to hear me thinking, any one would imagine it was

only on account of my own vanity that I wanted to see him, whereas it

is quite the contrary. As a rule I hate sick people, and I'm sure it

is most disagreeable to me to meet that woman.'

The two o'clock train took her to town, a hansom from Victoria to the

studio; she dismissed the hansom at the corner and walked up the

street thinking of the woman who would open the door to her. There was

something about the woman she didn't like. But it didn't matter; she

would be shown in at once, and of course left alone with Ralph...

Supposing the woman were to sit there all the while. But it was too

late now, she had knocked.

'I've come to see Mr. Hoskin.' Feeling that her speech was too abrupt

she added, 'I hope he is better to-day.'

'Yes, I'm thankful to say he's a little better.'

Mildred stopped in the passage, and Ellen said:

'Mr. Hoskin isn't in his bedroom. We've put him into the studio.'

'I hope she doesn't think that I've been in his bedroom,' thought

Mildred. Ralph lay in a small iron bed, hardly more than a foot from

the floor, and his large features, wasted by illness, seemed larger

than ever. But a glow appeared in his dying eyes at the sight of

Mildred. Ellen placed a chair by his bedside and said:

'I will go out for a short walk. I shan't be away more than half an

hour.'

Their eyes said, 'We shall be alone for half an hour,' and she took

the thin hand he extended to her.

'Oh, Ralph, I'm sorry to find you ill.... But you're better to-day,

aren't you?'

'Yes, I feel a little better to-day. It was good of you to come.'

'I came at once.'

'How did you hear I was ill? We've not written to each other for a

long while.'

'I heard it in the National. Miss Brand told me.'

'You know her?'

'I remember, she wrote about the new pictures for an American paper.'

'Yes. How familiar it sounds, those dear days in the National.'

Ralph's eyes were fixed upon her. She could not bear their

wistfulness, and she lowered hers.

'She told me you were ill.'

'But when did you return from France? Tell me.'

'About six weeks ago. I fell ill the moment I got back.'

'What was the matter?'

'I had overdone it. I had overworked myself. I had let myself run

down. The doctor said that I didn't eat enough meat. You know I never

did care for meat.'

'I remember.'

'When I got better I was ordered to the seaside, then I went on a

visit to some friends and didn't get back to Sutton till Christmas. We

had a lot of stupid people staying with us. I couldn't do any work

while they were in the house. When they left I began a picture, but I

tried too difficult subjects and got into trouble with my drawing. You

said I'd never succeed. I often thought of what you said. Well, then,

I went to the National. Nellie Brand told me you were ill, that you

had been ill for some time, at least a month.'

A thin smile curled Ralph's red lips and his eyes seemed to grow more

wistful. 'I've been ill more than a month,' he said. 'But no matter,

Nellie Brand told you and---'

'Of course I could not stay at the National. I felt I must see you. I

didn't know how. ... My feet turned towards St. James' Park. I stood

on the little bridge thinking. You know I was very fond of you, Ralph,

only it was in my way and you weren't satisfied.' She looked at him

sideways, so that her bright brown eyes might have all their charm;

his pale eyes, wistful and dying, were fixed on her, not intently as a

few moments before, but vaguely, and the thought stirred in her that

he might die before her eyes. In that case what was she to do? 'Are

you listening?' she said.

'Oh yes, I'm listening,' he answered, his smile was reassuring, and

she said:

'Suddenly I felt that--that I must see you. I felt I must know what

was the matter, so I took a cab and came straight here. Your

servant---'

'You mean Ellen.'

'I thought she was your servant, she said that you were lying down and

could not be disturbed. She did not seem to wish me to see you or to

know what was the matter.'

'I was asleep when you called yesterday, but when I heard of your

visit I told her to write the letter which you received this morning.

It was kind of you to come.'

'Kind of me to come! You must think badly of me if you think I could

have stayed away. ... But now tell me, Ralph, what is the matter, what

does the doctor say? Have you had the best medical advice, are you in

want of anything? Can I do anything? Pray, don't hesitate. You know

that I was, that I am, very fond of you, that I would do anything. You

have been ill a long while now--what is the matter?'

'Thank you, dear. Things must take their course. What that course is

it is impossible to say. I've had excellent medical advice and Ellen

takes care of me.'

'But what is your illness? Nellie Brand told me that you caught a bad

cold about a month ago. Perhaps a specialist---'

'Yes, I had a bad attack of influenza about a month or six weeks ago

and I hadn't strength, the doctor said, to recover from it. I have

been in bad health for some time. I've been disappointed. My painting

hasn't gone very well lately. That was a disappointment.

Disappointment, I think, is as often the cause of a man's death as

anything else. The doctors give it a name: influenza, or paralysis of

the brain, failure of the heart's action, but these are the

superficial causes of death. There is often a deeper reason: one which

medical science is unable to take into account.'

'Oh, Ralph, you mean me. Don't say that I am the cause. It was not my

fault. If I broke my engagement it was because I knew I could not have

made you happy. There's no reason to be jealous, it wasn't for any

other man. There never will be another man. I was really very fond of

you. ... It wasn't my fault.'

'No, dear, it wasn't your fault. It wasn't any one's fault, it was the

fault of luck.'

Mildred longed for tears, but her eyes remained dry, and they wandered

round the studio examining and wondering at the various canvases. A

woman who had just left her bath passed her arms into the sleeves of a

long white wrapper. There was something peculiarly attractive in the

picture. The picture said something that had not been said before, and

Mildred admired its naturalness. But she was still more interested in

the fact that the picture had been painted from the woman who had

opened the door to her.

'She sits for the figure and attends on him when he is ill, she must

be his mistress. Since when I wonder?'

'How do you like it?' he asked.

'Very much. It is beautifully drawn, so natural and so original. How

did you think of that movement? That is just how a woman passes her

arms into her wrapper when she get out of her bath. How did you think

of it?'

'I don't know. She took the pose. I think the movement is all right.'

'Yes; it is a movement that happens every morning, yet no one thought

of it before. How did you think of it?'

'I don't know, I asked her to take some poses and it came like that. I

think it is good. I'm glad you like it.'

'It is very different from the stupid things we draw in the studio.'

'I told you that you'd do no good by going to France.' 'I learnt a

good deal there. Every one cannot learn by themselves as you did. Only

genius can do that.'

'Genius! A few little pictures ... I think I might have done something

if I had got the chance. I should have liked to have finished that

picture. It is a good beginning. I never did better.'

'Dearest, you will live to paint your picture. I want you to finish

it. I want you to: live for my sake. ... I will buy that picture.'

'There's only one thing I should care to live for.'

'And that you shall have.' 'Then I'll try to live.' He raised himself

a little in bed. His eyes were fixed on her and he tried hard to

believe. 'I'm afraid,' he said, 'it's too late now.' She watched him

with the eyes she knew he loved, and though ashamed of the question,

she could not put it back, and it slipped through her lips.

'Would you sooner live for me than for that picture?'

'One never knows what one would choose,' he said. 'Such speculations

are always vain, and never were they vainer than now. ... But I'm glad

you like that movement. It doesn't matter even if I never finish it, I

don't think it looks bad in its present state, does it?'

'It is a sketch, one of those things that could not be finished. ... I

recognise the model. _She_ sat for it, didn't she?'

'Yes.'

'You seem very intimate. ... She seems very devoted.'

'She has been very good to me. ... Don't say anything against her.

I've nothing to conceal, Mildred. It is an old story. It began long

before I knew you.'

'And continued while you knew me?'

'Yes.'

'And you never told me. Oh, Ralph, while you were telling me you loved

me you were living with this woman.'

'It happened so. Things don't come out as straight or as nice as we'd

like them to--that's the way things come out in life--a bit crooked,

tangled, cracked. I only know that I loved you, I couldn't have done

otherwise. That's the way things happened to come out. There's no

other explanation.'

'And if I had consented to marry you, you'd have put her away.'

'Mildred, don't scold me. Things happened that way.'

Mildred did not answer and Ralph said:

'What are you thinking of?'

'Of the cruelty, of the wretchedness of it all.'

'Why look at that side of it? If I did wrong, I've been punished. She

knows all. She has forgiven me. You can do as much? Forgive me, kiss

me. I've never kissed you.'

'I cannot kiss you now. I hear her coming. Wipe those tears away. The

doctor said that you were to be kept quiet.'

'Shall I see you again?'

'I don't think I can come again. She'll be here.'

'Mildred! What difference can it make?'

'We shall see. ...'

The door opened. Ellen came in, and Mildred got up to go.

'I hope you've enjoyed your walk, Miss Gibbs.'

'Yes, thank you. I haven't been out for some days.'

'Nursing is very fatiguing. ... Good-bye, Mr. Hoskin. I hope I shall

soon hear that you're better. Perhaps Miss Gibbs will write.'

'Yes, I'll write, but I'm afraid Mr. Hoskin has been talking too much.

... Let me open the door for you.'