, why not declare it
upon the marble when he rested from all his virtues?

"Here lie I, Ross Mallard; who can say no good of myself, yet have as
little right to say ill; who had no faith whereby to direct my steps,
yet often felt that some such was needful; who spent all my strength on
a task which I knew to be vain; who suffered much and joyed rarely;
whose happiest day was his last."

Somehow like that would it run, if he were to write his own epitaph at
present.

The quiet of the dim sanctuary was helpful to such self-communing. He
relished being alone again, and after an hour's brooding had recovered
at all events a decent balance of thought, a respite from madness in
melancholy.

But he could not employ himself, could not even seek the relief of
bodily exertion; his mind grew sluggish, and threw a lassitude upon his
limbs. The greater part of the day he spent in his room at the hotel,
merely idle. This time he had no energy to attack himself with
adjurations and sarcasms; body and soul were oppressed with uttermost
fatigue, and for a time must lie torpid. Fortunately he was sure of
sleep to-night; the bell of the cathedral might clang its worst, and
still not rob him of the just oblivion.

The next day he strayed into the hills, and there in solitude faced the
enemy in his heart, bidding misery do its worst. In imagination he
followed Reuben Elgar to Naples, saw him speed to Villa Sannazaro,
where as likely as not he would meet Cecily. Mallard had no tangible
evidence of its being Reuben's desire to see Cecily, but he was none
the less convinced that for no other reason had his companion set
forth. And jealousy tormented him sorely. It was his first experience
of this cruellest passion: what hitherto had been only a name to him,
and of ignoble sound, became a disease clutching at his vitals. It
taught him fierceness, injustice, base suspicion, brutal conjecture; it
taught him that of which all these are constituents--hatred.

But it did not constrain him to any unworthy action. The temptation
that passed through his mind when he looked from the balcony on the
carriage that was to convey Elgar, did not return--or only as a bitter
desire, impossible of realization. Distant from Naples he must remain,
awaiting whatsoever might happen.

Ah, bright, gentle, sweet-faced Cecily! Inconceivable to her this
suffering that lay upon her friend. How it would pain her if she knew
of it! With what sad, wondering tenderne