"She needed someone to take care of her, and she found Eliot," she sighed a moment later as she stood in the shadow and saw Elinor lying propped up against white pillows, her eyes very large and lustrous, a faint smile on her lips. And then she softly left the room.
Within, Ilingsworth sat on the edge of the bed and babbled like a child, happiness suffusing his countenance; a little while longer and his voice became firm once more, had the ring of conviction in it, weakness had dropped from him as a mantle.
"I'm happy, oh, so happy, Elinor!" he cried.
There were no questions on his lips for her to answer; she knew there never would be. Nothing mattered to her nor to him now save that they were together and were happy in each other's love.
Madeline knelt suddenly on the other side of the couch.
"Mr. Ilingsworth," she whispered in a choking voice, "there's something that I've got to tell you, something that's been driving me almost mad, for a long time." Her face grew white and her eyes widened as she met the old man's gaze. "It was I," she confessed, "I shot Mr. Pallister."
In a bound Ilingsworth was on his feet, his eyes fixed upon hers.
"You!" he exclaimed. "You ...!"
"Don't—don't let them hear!" she moaned, hiding her face in her hands. "I'm weak—I've always been weak, and if it hadn't been for me none of this would have happened."
"It was Wilkinson," cried Ilingsworth, clenching his hands, "Wilkinson is at the bottom of it all!"