"At an end," he repeated, gravely. "You will soon be free, and then I suppose you will wash your hands of me. Well! Perhaps I shall have a bit of luck in another quarter. I don't mind telling you that I had a man watching you all the time you were in Swanage. I knew when you left and where you ran to. I could have been here three weeks ago if I wished, and I have only come to bring you the news. Barbara is dying."
God forgive me, the exclamation that escaped me was not one of horror, but of relief; and the next moment I was shocked at myself.
"She has behaved abominably," he continued, "but after all, she is your wife, and you can hardly refuse to see her, and whisper a word of forgiveness—supposing we are in time. I left her this morning; the doctor was with her, and said he doubted whether she would live over to-morrow."
"It is so sudden," I said, and still my thoughts continued to dwell upon Ellen and our child. "Has she been long ill?"
"She has not been ill at all in that sense," he replied. "It was an accident. Yesterday morning, when she was in her usual state—you understand, John—she slipped from the top of the stairs to the bottom, and broke her spine. The moment the doctor saw her he said there was no hope. Will you come?"
It was my duty; I should have been less than man had I hesitated. "Yes," I said, "I will come. When is the train?"
"It starts in an hour if you can get ready by that time."
"I will meet you at the station," I said, and went at once to Ellen to inform her of what had occurred. She approved of my going, and hastened my departure. For Barbara she had only words of pity, and her eyes overflowed in commiseration for the wasted life so near its end. In this crisis it would have been contrary to nature had we not thought of ourselves, and of what Barbara's death meant to us, but it was a subject we avoided. I breathed a blessing over our sleeping child, and promising to write to Ellen directly I got to London, I bade her good-bye.
Maxwell was at the station.
"Plenty of time, John," he said, "the train doesn't start for half an hour. You'll stand me a brandy and soda and a sandwich, I suppose. I haven't had a bite or a drink since the morning. I'm shipwrecked again. Serve me right, you'll say. So say I. I shall have to turn over a new leaf. Would you believe I had to travel third-class, and didn't have money enough to pay for a return ticket? Hard lines for a gentleman; but such is life."