Cynthia raised her hand to silence him. The torrent of words broke out again.
"It was not all my fault. It was Flossy's fault; but one cannot betray a woman, one's sister—can one? Even she would say that. But she has gone away, and she will never come back again. Cynthia—Cynthia! I might call as long as I pleased—she would never come. Why don't you fetch her, some of you? So many people here, and nobody will bring Cynthia to me! Cynthia, Cynthia, my love!"
"I am here, dear—I am here, beside you," said Cynthia.
But he did not seem to understand. She touched his hot hand with her own, and smoothed his fevered brow. The restless tongue went on.
"She has given me up, and I shall never see her any more! She gave me too hard a task; I could not do it—not all at once. It is done now. Yes, I have done it, and it has divided us for ever. Why did you make me speak, Cynthia? He was not miserable—he was happy. But I am to be miserable for ever and ever now. There is no way out of the misery—no way out of it—darkness and loneliness all my life, and worse afterwards. Cynthia, Cynthia, you are sending me to perdition!"
He half rose from his bed, and made as if he would struggle with her. Jenkins came to the rescue; but Cynthia would not move aside.
"Lie down, dearest," she was saying—"lie down and rest. Cynthia is here—Cynthia is with you; she will never leave you any more unless you send her away. Lie down, my darling, and try to rest."
He did not understand the words; but the sweet rhythm of her voice caught his ear. He fell back upon the pillows, staring, helpless, subdued. She kept her cool hand upon his brow.
"Is that Cynthia?" he said suddenly.
"Yes, dearest, it is Cynthia."