“What do you intend to do?”
“I should like to go back to London. I shall see him there, and if the letter makes it right we may be married. I will write to you.”
“You will?—Do. Here is five pounds. I have no more about me, but if anything should occur, you know where to write to.”
“You are very good; I don't deserve it. I don't know why you take so much trouble about me. If he doesn't marry me I'll try to get another place; I shall go back to the firm.”
“When do you intend to leave?”
“As soon as I am well enough, in a day or two; but you will not come here again.”
“I had thought that I might.”
“I know; but if he were to hear that you had been here, it would be worse than ever. You don't mind, do you? You aren't angry, are you?”
“No; good-bye, Lizzie. Write to me when you are married.” Frank walked into the street. There was neither rage nor will in him. He was a sorrowing creature in a bitter world. The sea was cruelly blue in the coming night; the sky was also blue, only deeper, a red streak like a red bar of iron stretched across the embaying land, relieving into picturesque detail the outlines of coast-towns and villages. His eyes rested on and drew grief from this dim distance so illusive; and for jarring contrast, the pier hung with gaudy and gross decoration in the blue night, and a brass band replied to the waves.
Then the clouds lifted, and when he returned to Southwick the moon was shining and some boys pursued the resounding ball through the shadows. He undressed with an effort, and he lay down hoping never to rise again. Next morning he went to his studio full of resolve. His picture must be finished for one of the winter exhibitions. He did not take up his palette, nor did he sit at his piano for more than a few minutes; and when he met Willy he raged against Lizzie, jeered at her vulgarity, heaped ridicule upon her lover, the waiter; he spoke of writing a novel on the subject; he set out her character at length; and was alarmed when told that Maggie was ill. He must win her. She must be his wife. So he told Willy, so he assured himself that she would. He knew that Lizzie was nothing to him. She had left Brighton, thank God! He went to sleep, certain he had torn this page out of his life, and he awoke to find it still there; and day after day he continued to brood upon, and still unable to understand its meaning, he longed to turn it over and read, for there were other pages; but they were sealed, and he might only read this one page.