, between
the sea and the purple Apennines.

Either Elgar was not coming, or he had lingered long between the two
portions of his journey.

Mallard turned back; if the carriage came, it would overtake him. He
plodded slowly, the evening falling around him in still loveliness,
fragrance from the groves of orange and lemon spread on every motion of
the air.

And if he did not come? That must have some strange meaning. In any
case, he must surely write. And ten to one his letter would be a lie.
What was to be expected of him but a lie?

Monday, Tuesday, and now Wednesday morning. Hitherto not even a letter.

When it was clear that Elgar had disregarded his promise, and, for
whatever reason, did not even seek to justify or excuse himself, there
came upon Mallard a strong mood of scorn, which for some hours enabled
him to act as though all his anxiety were at an end. He set himself a
piece of work; a flash of the familiar energy traversed his mind. He
believed that at length his degradation was over, and that, come what
might, he could now face it sturdily. Mere self-deception, of course.
The sun veiled itself, and hope was as far as ever.

Never before had he utterly lost the power of working. In every
struggle he had speedily overcome, and found in work the one unfailing
resource. If he were robbed of this, what stay had life for him
henceforth? He could not try to persuade himself that his suffering
would pass, sooner or later, and time grant him convalescence; the
blackness ahead was too profound. He fell again into torpor, and let
the days go as they would; he cared not.

But this morning brought him a letter. At the first glance he was
surprised by a handwriting which was not Elgar's; recollecting himself,
he knew it for that of Mrs. Lessingham.

"DEAR MR. MALLARD,--

"It grieves me to be obliged to send you disquieting news so soon after
your departure from Naples, but I think you will agree with me that I
have no choice but to write of something that has this morning come to
my knowledge. You have no taste for roundabout phrases, so I will say
at once in plain words that Cecily and Mr. Elgar have somehow contrived
to fall in love with each other--or to imagine that they have done so,
which, as regards results, unfortunately amounts to the same thing. I
cannot learn by what process it came about, but I am assured by Cecily,
in words of becoming vagueness, that they plighted troth, or some thing
of the ki