XII.

When she got home she went to her room. She took off her dress and put

on an old wrapper, and then lay on the floor and cried. She could not

cry in a pair of stays. To abandon herself wholly to grief she must

have her figure free.

And all that evening she hardly spoke; she lay back in her chair, her

soul lost in one of her most miserable of moods. Harold spoke a few

words from time to time so that she should not perceive that he was

aware of her depression.

Her novel lay on her knees unread, and she sat, her eyes fixed,

staring into the heart of life. She had never seen so far into life

before; she was looking into the heart of life, which is death. He was

about to die--he had loved her even unto death; he had loved her even

while he was living with another woman. As she sat thinking, her novel

on her knees, she could see that other woman sitting by his death-bed.

Two candles were burning in the vast studio, and by their dim light

she saw the shadow of the profile on the pillow. She thought of him as

a man yearning for an ideal which he could never attain, and dying of

his yearning in the end! And that so beautiful and so holy an

aspiration should proceed from the common concubinage of a studio!

Suddenly she decided that Ralph was not worthy of her. Her instinct

had told her from the first that something was wrong. She had never

known why she had refused him. Now she knew.

But in the morning she was, as she put it herself, better able to see

things from a man's point of view, and she found some excuses for

Ralph's life. This connection had been contracted long ago. ... Ralph

had had to earn his living since he was sixteen--he had never been in

society; he had never known nice women: the only women he had known

were his models; what was he to do? A lonely life in a studio, his

meals brought in from the public-house, no society but those women.

... She could understand. ... Nevertheless, it was a miserable thing

to think that all the time he had been making love to her he had been

living with that woman. 'He used to leave her to come to meet me in

the park.'

This was a great bitterness. She thought that she hated him. But

hatred was inconsistent with her present mood, and she reflected that,

after all, Ralph was dying for love of her, that was a fact, and

behind that fact it were not wise to look. No man could do more than

die for the woman he loved, no man could prove his love more

completely. ... But it was so sad to think he was dying. Could nothing

be done to save him? Would he recover if she were to promise to be his

wife? She need not carry out her promise; she didn't know if she

could. But if a promise would cure him, she would promise. She would

go as far as that. ... But for what good? To get him well so that he

might continue living with that woman. ...

If he hadn't confessed, if she hadn't known of this shameful

connection, if it hadn't been dragged under her eyes! Ralph might have

spared her that. If he had spared her that she felt that she could

promise to be his wife, and perhaps to keep her promise, for in the

end she supposed she would have to marry some one. She didn't see how

she was going to escape. ... Yes, if he had not told her, or better

still, if he had not proved himself unworthy of her, she felt she

would have been capable of the sacrifice.

She had been to see him! She knew that she ought not to have gone. Her

instinct had told her not to go. But she had conquered her feeling. If

she had known that she was going to meet that woman she would not have

gone. Whenever we allow ourselves to be led by our better feelings we

come to grief. That woman hated her; she knew she did. She could see

it in her look. She wouldn't put herself in such a false position

again. ... A moment after she was considering if she should go to

Ellen and propose that she, Mildred, should offer to marry Ralph, but

not seriously, only just to help him to get well. If the plan

succeeded she would persuade Ralph that his duty was to marry Ellen.

And intoxicated with her own altruism, Mildred's thoughts passed on

and she imagined a dozen different dramas, in every one of which she

appeared in the character of a heroine.

'Mildred, what is the matter?'

'Nothing, dear, I've only forgotten my pocket-handkerchief.'

How irritating were Harold's stupid interruptions. She had to ask him

if he would take another cup of tea. He said that he thought he would

just have time. He had still five minutes. She poured out the tea,

thinking all the while of the sick man lying on his poor narrow bed in

the corner of the great studio. It was shameful that he should die;

tears rose to her eyes, and she had to walk across the room to hide

them. It was a pitiful story. He was dying for her, and she wasn't

worth it. She hadn't much heart; she knew it, perhaps one of these

days she would meet some one who would make her feel. She hoped so,

she wanted to feel. She wanted to love; if her brother were to die to-

morrow, she didn't believe she would really care. It was terrible; if

people only knew what she was like they would look the other way when

she passed down the street.... But, no, all this was morbid nonsense;

she was overwrought, and nervous, and that proved that she had a

heart. Perhaps too much heart.

In the next few days Ralph died a hundred times, and had been rescued

from death at least a dozen times by Mildred; she had watched by his

bedside, she had even visited his grave. And at the end of each dream

came the question: 'Would he live, would he die?' At last, unable to

bear the suspense any longer, she went to the National Gallery to

obtain news of him. But Miss Brand had little news of him. She was

leaving the gallery, and the two girls went for a little walk. Mildred

was glad of company, anything to save her from thinking of Ralph, and

she laughed and talked with Nellie on the bridge in St. James' Park,

until she began to feel that the girl must think her very heartless.

'How pale and ill you're looking, Mildred.'

'Am I? I feel all right.'

Nellie's remark delighted Mildred, 'Then I have a heart,' she thought,

'I'm not so unfeeling as I thought.'

The girls separated at Buckingham Palace. Mildred walked a little way,

and then suddenly called a hansom and told the man to drive to

Chelsea. But he had not driven far before thoughts of the woman he was

living with obtruded upon her pity, and she decided that it would be

unwise for her to venture on a second visit. The emotion of seeing her

again might make him worse, might kill him. So she poked her parasol

through the trap, and told the cabby to drive to Victoria Station.

There she bought some violets, she kept a little bunch for herself,

and sent him a large bouquet. 'They'll look nice in the studio,' she

said, 'I think that will be best.'

Two days after she received a letter from Ellen Gibbs.

'MADAM,--It is my sad duty to inform you that Mr. Ralph Hoskin died

this afternoon at two o'clock. He begged me to write and thank you for

the violets you sent him, and he expressed a hope that you would come

and see him when he was dead.

'The funeral will take place on Monday. If you come here to-morrow,

you will see him before he is put into his coffin.--I am, yours truly,

'ELLEN GIBBS.'

The desire to see her dead lover was an instinct, and the journey from

Sutton to Chelsea was unperceived by her, and she did not recover from

the febrile obedience her desire imposed until Ellen opened the studio

door.

'I received a letter from you....'

'Yes, I know, come in.'

Mildred hated the plain middle-class appearance and dress of this

girl. She hated the tone of her voice. She walked straight into the

studio. There was a sensation of judgment in the white profile, cold,

calm, severe, and Mildred drew back affrighted. But she recovered a

little when she saw that her violets lay under the dead hand. 'He

thought of me to the end. I forgive him everything.'

As she stood watching the dead man, she could hear Ellen moving in the

passage. She did not know what Ellen knew of her relations with Ralph.

But there could be no doubt that Ellen was aware that they were of an

intimate nature. She hoped, hurriedly, that Ellen did not suspect her

of being Ralph's mistress, and listened again, wondering if Ellen

would come into the studio. Or would she have the tact to leave her

alone with the dead? If she did come in it would be rather awkward.

She did not wish to appear heartless before Ellen, but tears might

lead Ellen to suspect. As Mildred knelt down, Ellen entered. Mildred

turned round.

'Don't let me disturb you,' said Ellen, 'when you have finished.'

'Will you not say a prayer with me?'

'I have said my prayers. Our prayers would not mingle.'

'What does she mean?' thought Mildred. She buried her face in her

hands and asked herself what Ellen meant. 'Our prayers would not

mingle. Why? Because I'm a pure woman, and she isn't. I wonder if she

meant that. I hope she does not intend any violence. I must say

nothing to annoy, her.' Her heart throbbed with fear, her knees

trembled, she thought she would faint. Then it occurred to her that it

would be a good idea to faint. Ellen would have to carry her into the

street, and in the street she would be safe.

And resolved to faint on the slightest provocation she rose from her

knees, and stood facing the other woman, whom she noticed, with some

farther alarm, stood between her and the door. If she could get out of

this difficulty she never would place herself in such a position

again.... Mildred tried to speak, but words stuck fast in her throat,

and it was some time before her terror allowed her to notice that the

expression on Ellen's face was not one of anger, but of resignation.

She was safe.

'She has pretty eyes,' thought Mildred, 'a weak, nervous creature; I

can do with her what I like. ... If she thinks that she can get the

better of me, I'll very soon show her that she is mistaken. Of course,

if it came to violence, I could do nothing but scream. I'm not

strong.'

Then Mildred said in a firm voice:

'I'm much obliged to you for your letter. This is very sad, I'll send

some more flowers for the coffin. Good morning.'

But a light came into Ellen's eyes, which Mildred did not like.

'Well,' she said, 'I hope you're satisfied. He died thinking of you. I

hope you're satisfied.'

'Mr. Hoskin and I were intimate friends. It is only natural that he

should think of me.'

'We were happy until you came... you've made dust and ashes of my

life. Why did you take the trouble to do this? You were not in love

with him, and I did you no injury.'

'I didn't know of your existence till the other day. I heard that---'

'That I was his mistress. Well, so I was. It appears that you were

not. But, I should like to know which of us two is the most virtuous,

which has done the least harm. I made him happy, you killed him.'

'This is madness.'

'No, it is not madness. I know all about you, Ralph told me

everything.'

'It surprises me very much that he should have spoken about me. It was

not like him. I hope that he didn't tell you, that he didn't suggest

that there were any improper relations between me and him.'

'I daresay that you were virtuous, more or less, as far as your own

body is concerned. Faugh! Women like you make virtue seem odious.'

'I cannot discuss such questions with you,' Mildred said timidly, and,

swinging her parasol vaguely, she tried to pass Ellen by. But it was

difficult to get by. The picture she had admired the other day blocked

the way. Mildred's eyes glanced at it vindictively.

'Yes,' said Ellen in her sad doleful voice, 'You can look at it. I sat

for it. I'm not ashamed, and perhaps I did more good by sitting for it

than you'll do with your painting.... But look at him--there he lies.

He might have been a great artist if he had not met you and I should

have been a happy woman. Now I've nothing to live for.... You said

that you didn't know of my existence till the other day. But you knew

that, in making that man love you, you were robbing another woman.'

'That is very subtle.'

'You knew that you did not love him, and that it could end only in

unhappiness. It has ended in death.'

Mildred looked at the cold face, so claylike, and trembled. The horror

of the situation crept over her; she had no strength to go, and

listened meekly to Ellen.

'He smiled a little, it was a little sad smile, when he told me that I

was to write, saying that he would be glad if you would come to see

him when he was dead. I think I know what was passing in his mind--he

hoped that his death might be a warning to you. Not many men die of

broken hearts, but one never knows. One did. Look at him, take your

lesson.'

'I assure you that we were merely friends. He liked me, I know--he

loved me, if you will; I could not help that,' Mildred drew on the

floor of the studio with her parasol. 'I am very sorry, it is most

unfortunate. I did nothing wrong. I'm sure he never suggested---'

'How that one idea does run in your head. I wonder if your thoughts

are equally chaste.'

Mildred did not answer.

'I read you in the first glance, one glance was enough, your eyes tell

the tale of your cunning, mean little soul. Perhaps you sometimes try

to resist, maybe your nature turns naturally to evil. There are people

like that.'

'If I had done what you seem to think I ought to have done, he would

have abandoned you.' And Mildred looked at her rival triumphantly.

'That would have been better than what has happened. Then there would

have been only one heart broken, now there are two.'

Mildred hated the woman for the humiliation she was imposing upon her,

but in her heart she could not but feel admiration for such single

heartedness. Noticing on Mildred's face the change of expression, but

misinterpreting it, Ellen said:

'I can read you through and through. You have wrecked two lives. Oh,

that any one should be so wicked, that any one should delight in

wickedness. I cannot understand.'

'You are accusing me wrongly.... But let me go. It is not likely that

we shall arrive at any understanding.'

'Go then, you came to gloat; you have gloated, go.

Ellen threw herself on a chair by the bedside. Her head fell on her

hands. Mildred whisked her black crape dress out of the studio.