imed
creature; but the peevish image of the wife was swept away by the
more truly tragic image of the husband. Eugenie might try to persuade
herself of the possibility of Elsie's recovery; her real instinct
denied it. Yet life was not necessarily threatened, it seemed, though
certain fatal accidents might end it in a week. The omens pointed to
a long and fluctuating case--to years of hopeless nursing for Arthur,
and complaining misery for his wife.

Years! Eugenie sat down in a corner of the Orangerie garden, locking
her hands together, in a miserable pity for Arthur. She knew well what
a shining pinnacle of success and fame Welby occupied in the eyes of
the world; she knew how envious were the lesser men--such a man as
John Fenwick, for instance--of a reputation and a success they thought
overdone and undeserved. But Arthur himself! She seemed to be looking
into his face, graven on the dusk, the face of a man tragically
silent, patient, eternally disappointed; of an artist conscious of
ideals and discontents, loftier, more poignant, far than his fellows
will ever know--of a poet, alone at heart, forbidden to 'speak out,'
blighted, and in pain.

'_Arthur--Arthur_!' She leaned her head against the pedestal of a
marble vase--wrestling with herself.

Then, quick as fire, there flew through her veins the alternate
possibility--Elsie's death--freedom for herself and Arthur--the power
to retrace her own quixotic, fatal step....

Madame de Pastourelles rose to her feet, rigid and straight in her
black dress, wrestling as though with an attacking Apollyon. She
seemed to herself a murderess in thought--the lowest and vilest of
human beings.

In an anguish she looked through the darkness, in a wild appeal to
Heaven to save her from herself--this new self, unknown to her!--to
shut down and trample on this mutiny of a sinful and selfish heart--to
make it impossible--_impossible_!--that ever again, even without her
will, against her will, a thought so hideous, so incredible, should
enter and defile her mind.

She walked on blindly towards the water and the woods. Her eyes were
full of tears, which she could not stop. Unconsciously, to hide them,
she threw round her head a black lace scarf she had brought out with
her against the evening chill, and drew it close round her face.

'How late you are!' said a joyous voice beside her.

She looked up. Fenwick emerging from the wood, towards the shelter
of which she was hurrying,