Part 22 (1/2)

”Why this silence? Stay at home to-day. I _must_ see you.”

It is neither commenced nor signed, but written in Carol Quinton's familiar hand.

Surely there is something imperative about that ”Stay at home to-day.”

No ”please,” or ”will you?” Merely the bare command. True the _must_ is underlined, and the question savours of anxiety as to her reticence in writing or meeting him again.

”Well, he shall come, since this is to be the end.”

Better face the matter out; it is dangerous dodging poisoned arrows.

She will try how her s.h.i.+eld works, that is to glance them aside.

Determination is in her heart, and courage in her eye. Eleanor is worked up into a fever of virtuous indignation at the remembrance of all she has allowed Quinton to do and say in the past. This is to be the turning point in her life. She will be loyal to her husband, and her first pure love, she will show him that she is capable of sacrifice, a woman to be trusted, looked up to, reverenced. Carol Quinton shall never enter her doors again after this call, never see her, hear from her, speak to her. She will fade from his life, as a shadow, a phantom! The sting of sorrow, the bitterness of thus casting a love she treasured to the wind, is subdued in a measure by a sense of exhilaration, at the thought of her good resolve.

Already ”virtue's own reward” seems in her grasp, her heart is lighter, her spirit does not quail. She is tasting perhaps a shred of the martyrs' joy, when they suffered in the cause of right, she is battling down that weaker nature and gaining a victory in advance.

She is impatient for the moment to arrive when Carol shall stand before her to learn his fate, his isolation, from her lips. No pity, no glimpse of feeling, no suspicion of sentiment is to creep into this day's farewell. He will leave her for ever with the ordinary hand-shake of a casual acquaintance. Yes, she is nerved, strong, sure!

It has taken Eleanor three nights of sleepless vigil to overcome her love and stamp it out. She has not reached this point without a struggle.

She listens eagerly for him to come, longing for the interview to commence and end, while a spirit of heroism is upon her, laying her lower nature in the dust.

”Down! you shall never rise again,” she cries. ”Oh! why is he so long?

I want him _now_. I could do it _now_. After to-day I shall have swept the temptation from my path, and made it impossible for Carol Quinton to be my friend.”

The bell rings--the outer bell. She staggers to her feet.

The brown chrysanthemum in her belt falls to the ground and lies unheeded.

How she trembles! Her face, too, is deadly pale, revealed in the mirror opposite. She sways like a flower blown in a gale. There is a prayer on her lips, an angel knocking at her heart.

The door opens, and Sarah enters with the tea-tray.

Eleanor sinks on the sofa, the reaction leaving her faint and powerless to speak.

She watches the tea-table brought forward, the hot scones placed by the fire.

At last she regains her composure.

”Who was that at the front door, Sarah?”

”Mr. Quinton, ma'am.”

”Mr. Quinton! Why did you not show him in?”

Eleanor leans forward breathlessly, looking Sarah up and down.

The maid crimsons, and replies: