CHAPTER XXIII
“I am half-sick of shadows.”
MURIEL read Cynthia’s letter wonderingly. It was short, and merely contained her reasons for leaving Muriel for six months at least. By the end of that time Leslie Damores would have given her up, and she would be more fit to take up her life again. Muriel was not to tell him that she was ever coming back; she was not to overdo herself or live alone, and above all she must not give him her address. Geoff was going with her. Muriel sighed and frowned; the sigh was one of loneliness. She had got so used to companionship—Cynthia’s, and generally her brother in the evening. It was something to have a man to discuss things with sensibly even if she never agreed with him. She frowned because it was a little strange he had not written to say good-bye.
He had got over caring for her that was evident. She was glad of that—of course she was extremely glad of it. Suddenly she felt tired and discouraged. The girls had been unresponsive and tiresome in the Bible-class. She loved Paris; she could see its clean, broad streets filled with brilliant, rapid life, bright and gay and fresh, alive with incessant laughter.
It was a damp, foggy evening and the fire smoked. They had such theaters in Paris, and then the studios! Muriel had studied there for six months in the pleasantest and easiest fashion. Sometimes the love of her old, careless radiant life, pleasure and beauty, and the ease of things made her catch her breath and remember she was twenty-seven, and her eyes were beautiful, and there was that couple downstairs drunk and quarrelling again! It was too late for tea, too early for supper, and if she lit the candle she would have to write letters.
The door-bell clanged, and she heard a man’s voice. For a moment she thought it was Dr. Grant coming to say good-bye. Her hands wandered instinctively to her hair. No!—he asked for Cynthia. He must see her—but she was out. “Then Miss Dallerton”—the girl “would see.” The blackbeetle’s heavy footsteps paused outside her door. Muriel lit the candles and poked the fire.
“Yes, I will see Mr. Damores,” she said smiling encouragingly at the girl.
She felt less depressed because she had already begun to sympathize, and yet she could not help feeling angry with Leslie Damores.
He stood before her, tall, handsome, eager; she sat down and waited for him to speak. One of the most extraordinary things about her was her willingness to wait for somebody else, even her silence was an invitation.
“Cynthia wouldn’t see me,” he began, almost boyishly. “Won’t you tell me why, and where she is, Miss Muriel?”
“She has gone away, Mr. Damores, and left us both. It’s a case of double desertion, isn’t it?” she laughed nervously, for the look in his eyes was too strongly anxious to make the interview a pleasant one.
“Has she left you a message for me?”
“She does not wish to see you again,” said Muriel gravely. He was quite silent, with his eyes bent on the carpet.
“Then—and you—do you approve of her decision?” he asked slowly, his voice so different from his first eager greeting. It was tired and a little thick. An idea flashed through Muriel’s mind; she leaned forward suddenly.
“Mr. Damores, do you care for her?” she asked. He squared his shoulders, and looked back at her steadily, but a little surprised.
“Really, Miss Muriel, I thought—I thought it was pretty obvious!” he replied.
“Then,” said Muriel, “I think very poorly of you for not wishing to marry her!”
“But, good Heavens! Miss Dallerton,” he cried, now really astonished, “I want nothing so much! I came here, if you must know, simply for that purpose! and I find her—gone—leaving no traces, and, if you will excuse my saying so, a great deal of confusion behind her!”
“I certainly do feel confusion, not to say chaos,” said Muriel smiling; “and the worst of it is I can’t possibly explain. However one thing’s evident, if you want her you must look for her, for I have no address beyond Paris. She hates writing letters, and it will probably be a month at least before she writes and gives it to me. Will you wait in London?” Leslie Damores smiled.
“I might find her in Paris, and I shall not find her here,” he said; “and when I do find her, I shall bring her back. Good-bye, Miss Dallerton; I’m glad I didn’t deserve your scolding this time, it looked as if it was going to be a pretty bad one. Oh, but I was a fool for not marrying Cynthia eight years ago!” Muriel held out both her hands to him, her eyes filled with tears.
“I am glad you are going to her,” she said. “I won’t wish you luck, because there is something so much better that you have got already; but I can’t help being a little sorry, for she will never come back to me again!”
“Are you all alone?” he asked.
“There’s my work,” she said; “and the blackbeetle, who is a great friend of mine, and looks after me very well.”
“Do you remember ‘The Lady of Shalott?’” he asked abruptly. “I always liked that last line of it, ‘God in His mercy lend her grace.’ Good-bye, Miss Dallerton.” He was gone, hopeful and strong once more, with the possibility of satisfaction within his grasp, and Muriel again alone.
“It was all very well for Launcelot to say that,” she thought, “but when she needed him most she had no loyal knight and true, the Lady of Shalott, and—and not even God’s grace would make her forget that!” And Muriel put her arms on the table and cried a little about Jack—at least she thought it was about Jack, but it was really that Cynthia’s hand was on what she herself had missed. The woman’s lips that bear no kiss of love seem formed in vain; even the angels must sigh for them—and not even the angels satisfy. Yet she had held it all once, and remorse and passion and pity mocked at her for having thrown life’s gift away.
When the blackbeetle, whose other name was Catherine Mary, appeared again it was to bring supper, and a message from a poor woman that “She was taken cruel bad, and would Miss Muriel come to her?” Muriel left her after a terrible four hours. The fight had given her strength, and the light in her eyes was wonderful. She had forgotten all about the Lady of Shalott.