‘How stupid of me to sit crying there, and thinking of nothing but myself, while you think of every one except yourself. You wish me to go to her, do you not? And I will go. I will be ready directly, if you will wait. I never thought of it. If he deserts her, I will not. If I can do nothing else, I can sit by her, and people can hear that I am there. That is always something.’
She made a step as if to go to the door. Michael caught her hand to detain her.
‘No, no! I was thinking nothing of the kind,’ said he. ‘You must not go. Do you know—but of course you don’t—that she is perfectly insane at this present moment? She would not know you. She does not know me; and she would shriek with horror if any one showed her her child. She is in the right hands, and you must not go near her.’
‘Mad—but she will get better?’
‘I hope so—at least, perhaps she may.’
‘But she will recover her reason?’
‘Most likely, if she lives. But it may be a long time first.’
Stayed in her desire to go to Ada’s help, and as it were cast back upon herself, Eleanor stood drooping for a moment.
‘Have you had no telegram from London?’ he asked.
‘Oh, I had nearly forgotten. This is it,’ she said, taking it from the mantelpiece. Michael read—