It soon became evident that, whatever her disease might be, Trilby had but a very short time to live.
She was soon too weak even to be taken out in a Bath-chair, and remained all day in her large sitting-room with Marta; and there, to her great and only joy, she received her three old friends every afternoon, and gave them coffee, and made them smoke cigarettes of caporal as of old; and their hearts were daily harrowed as they watched her rapid decline.
Day by day she grew more beautiful in their eyes, in spite of her increasing pallor and emaciation—her skin was so pure and white and delicate, and the bones of her face so admirable!
Her eyes recovered all their old humorous brightness when les trois Angliches were with her, and the expression of her face was so wistful and tender for all her playfulness, so full of eager clinging to existence and to them, that they felt the memory of it would haunt them forever, and be the sweetest and saddest memory of their lives.
Her quick, though feeble gestures, full of reminiscences of the vigorous and lively girl they had known a few years back, sent waves of pity through them and pure brotherly love; and the incomparable tones and changes and modulations of her voice, as she chatted and laughed, bewitched them almost as much as when she had sung the “Nussbaum” of Schumann in the Salle des Bashibazoucks.
Sometimes Lorrimer came, and Antony and the Greek. It was like a genial little court of bohemia. And Lorrimer, Antony, the Laird, and Little Billee made those beautiful chalk and pencil studies of her head which are now so well known—all so singularly like her, and so singularly unlike each other! Trilby vue à travers quatre tempéraments!
These afternoons were probably the happiest poor Trilby had ever spent in her life—with these dear people round her, speaking the language she loved; talking of old times and jolly Paris days, she never thought of the morrow.
But later—at night, in the small hours—she would wake up with a start from some dream full of tender and blissful recollection, and suddenly realize her own mischance, and feel the icy hand of that which was to come before many morrows were over; and taste the bitterness of death so keenly that she longed to scream out loud, and get up, and walk up and down, and wring her hands at the dreadful thought of parting forever!
But she lay motionless and mum as a poor little frightened mouse in a trap, for fear of waking up the good old tired Marta, who was snoring at her side.
And in an hour or two the bitterness would pass away, the creeps and the horrors; and the stoical spirit of resignation would steal over her—the balm, the blessed calm! and all her old bravery would come back.
And then she would sink into sleep again, and dream more blissfully than ever, till the good Marta woke her with a motherly kiss and a fragrant cup of coffee; and she would find, feeble as she was, and doomed as she felt herself to be, that joy cometh of a morning; and life was still sweet for her, with yet a whole day to look forward to.
One day she was deeply moved at receiving a visit from Mrs. Bagot, who, at Little Billee’s earnest desire, had come all the way from Devonshire to see her.
As the graceful little lady came in, pale and trembling all over, Trilby rose from her chair to receive her, and rather timidly put out her hand, and smiled in a frightened manner. Neither could speak for a second. Mrs. Bagot stood stock-still by the door gazing (with all her heart in her eyes) at the so terribly altered Trilby—the girl she had once so dreaded.
Trilby, who seemed also bereft of motion, and whose face and lips were ashen, exclaimed, “I’m afraid I haven’t quite kept my promise to you, after all! but things have turned out so differently! anyhow, you needn’t have any fear of me now.”
At the mere sound of that voice, Mrs. Bagot, who was as impulsive, emotional, and unregulated as her son, rushed forward, crying, “Oh, my poor girl, my poor girl!” and caught her in her arms, and kissed and caressed her, and burst into a flood of tears, and forced her back into her chair, hugging her as if she were a long-lost child.
“I love you now as much as I always admired you—pray believe it!”
“Oh, how kind of you to say that!” said Trilby, her own eyes filling. “I’m not at all the dangerous or designing person you thought. I knew quite well I wasn’t a proper person to marry your son all the time; and told him so again and again. It was very stupid of me to say yes at last. I was miserable directly after, I assure you. Somehow I couldn’t help myself—I was driven.”
“Oh, don’t talk of that! don’t talk of that! You’ve never been to blame in any way—I’ve long known it—I’ve been full of remorse! You’ve been in my thoughts always, night and day. Forgive a poor jealous mother. As if any man could help loving you—or any woman either. Forgive me!”
“Oh, Mrs. Bagot—forgive you! What a funny idea! But, anyhow, you’ve forgiven me, and that’s all I care for now. I was very fond of your son—as fond as could be.
