It was nearly ten o'clock when he came into the parlour for some papers. I concluded he was going to his own sitting-room.
"Good-night!" he said, holding out his hand as usual.
Should I take it? A momentary debate with myself, and then I shook hands coldly with him. Had I not decided to let the past be as though it had never been? And all the display of resentment possible would not convert bad into good.
Days went on: days of an unsatisfactory life. The physician, Dr. Laken, came over, and stayed two of them. Of Mr. Chandos I saw but little: he was out and about, and more than usual in the west wing. I seemed estranged from everybody. Mrs. Penn I shunned; Mr. Chandos was just courteous to me, nothing more, and I had never been intimate with any one else in the house.
And now I resolved to leave. It would not look now as though I hurried away in passion, or because I feared my own love. Heaven knows I wished to do right, whatever it cost me; and reason pointed out that to remain longer was not only inexpedient but might be looked upon as such: The life for me was beginning to be intolerable. He was with me at times, the very fact of his presence feeding the love that held possession of me; and the image of Mrs. Chandos upstairs began to haunt me as a spectre. It was not possible longer to deceive myself with fine resolutions; my eyes were opened to the fact that I could not begin to forget him or to love him less so long as I stayed at Chandos.
I wrote to Madame de Mellissie, telling her that I felt obliged to cancel my engagement with her, and should quit Chandos. Then I wrote to the Misses Barlieu, asking them to receive me while I looked out for another situation, and begging them not to refuse me on the score of the fever: I was not afraid of it; I said, I need not go near the infirmary. But I truly hoped and expected it had by that time passed.
It was a fine afternoon, and a fancy came over to take the letters to the village post-office instead of leaving them on the hall-table, so I put my things on. In going out at the portico I met Mrs. Penn.
"Do you know that you are looking ill—that this struggle is telling upon you?" she abruptly exclaimed, but in a tone full of kindness. "Why don't you make an effort, and quit it?"
"The effort is made," I answered, half in anger, half in despair, as I held to her view the letters in my hand. "Here is the announcement to those who will, I hope, receive me. I must wait for an answer, and then I bid adieu to Chandos."
"My dear, you have done well," she answered, as she passed into the house, and I out of the portico.