‘The world looks different now,’ began Lady Eliza again; ‘I don’t know if I was right to do as I did about Gilbert Sp—about Whanland. I am a wicked woman, my dear, and I cannot forgive—but you don’t know about that.’
‘If he comes back, aunt—if he comes back?’
‘But you cannot wait all your life for that. He is gone and he has said he will not come back. Put that away from you; I am thinking only of you—believe me, my darling. I beg of you, Cecilia, I pray you. You know I shall never be able to ask anything again, soon.’
‘Give me time,’ she sobbed, terribly moved.
‘In a year, Cecilia—in a year?’
Cecilia rose and went to the window. Outside, over the bare boughs, some pigeons from the dovecot were whirling in the air. Her heart was tortured within her. Crauford was almost abhorrent to her but it seemed as though the relentless driving of fate were forcing her towards him. She saw no escape. Why had Gilbert gone! His letter had made no mention of Fullarton’s name and he had only written that he could not ask her to share with him a position, which, as he now knew, was thoroughly understood by the world and which she would find unbearable. In his honesty, he had said nothing that should make her think of him as anything but a bygone episode in her life, no vow of love, none of remembrance. Even if she knew where he had gone she could not appeal to him after that. She looked back at Lady Eliza’s face on the pillow, now so white, with the shadow of coming death traced on it. She had thought that she had given up all to buy her peace, but it seemed as if there were still a higher price to be paid. As she thought of Crauford, of his dull vanity, of his slow perceptions, of his all-sufficing egotism, she shuddered. His personality was odious to her. She hated his heavy, smooth, coarse face and his heavier manner, never so hateful as when he deemed himself most pleasant. She must think of herself, not as a woman with a soul and a body, but as a dead thing that can neither feel nor hope. What mattered it what became of her now? She had lost all, absolutely all. It only remained for her to secure a quiet end to the one creature left her for a pitiful few hours.
She went back and stood by the pillow. The dumb question that met her touched her to the heart.
‘I will promise what you wish,’ she said, steadily. ‘In a year I will marry him if he asks me. But if, if’—she faltered for a moment and turned away—‘not if Gilbert Speid comes back. Aunt, tell me that I have made you happy!’
‘I can rest now,’ said Lady Eliza.
In spite of the predictions of the doctor, the days went on and still she lingered, steadily losing strength, but with a mind at ease and a simple acceptance of her case. She had not cared for Crauford, but he would stand between Cecilia and a life of poverty, of even possible hardship, and she knew that his faults were those that could only injure himself. He would never be unkind to his wife, she felt sure. The world was too bad a place for a beautiful young woman to stand alone in, and Gilbert would not come back. Why should he when the causes of his going could not be altered? Now, lying at the gate of another life, this one, as she said, looked different. Cecilia had told her, months ago, that she could never marry Speid, but her vision had cleared enough to show her that she should not have believed her. However, he was gone.