'"It taks aw soarts to mak a worrld," as they say up here. But Marsworth and Cis are queer specimens! I am privately certain he can't do for long without seeing her. And as for her, I had no sooner arranged that he should join me here to-night, than she telegraphed to you! Just like her! I had no idea she thought of coming. Well, I suppose to quarrel yourself into matrimony is one of the recognised openings!'
The talk dropped. The joint consciousness behind it was too much for it. It fell like a withered leaf.
Farrell got up to go. Nelly too rose, trembling, to her feet. He took her hand.
'Don't leave us,' he repeated, softly. 'You are our little saint—you help us by just living. Don't attempt things too hard for you. You'll kill yourself, and then——'
She looked at him mutely, held by the spell of his eyes.
'Well then,' he finished, abruptly, 'there won't be much left for one man to live for. Good-night.'
He was gone, and she was left standing in the firelight, a small, bewildered creature.
'What shall I do?' she was saying to herself, 'Oh, what ought I to do?'
She sank down on the floor, and hid her face against a chair. Helplessly, she wished that Hester would come!—someone wise and strong who would tell her what was right. The thought of supplanting George, of learning to forget him, of letting somebody else take his place in her heart, was horrible—even monstrous—to her. Yet she did not know how she would ever find the strength to make Farrell suffer. His devotion appealed—not to any answering passion in her—there was none—but to an innate lovingness, that made it a torment to her to refuse to love and be loved. Her power of dream, of visualisation, shewed him to her alone and unhappy; when, perhaps, she might still—without harm—have been a help to him—have shewn him her gratitude. She felt herself wavering and retreating; seeking, as usual, the easiest path out of her great dilemma. Must she either be disloyal to her George?—her dead, her heroic George!—or unkind to this living man, whose unselfish devotion had stood between her and despair? After all, might it not still go on? She could protect herself. She was not afraid.
But she was afraid! She was in truth held by the terror of her own weakness, and Farrell's strength, as she lay crouching by the fire.