Ah, indeed, if it were because of these things she was to leave him, he had no defence, not one. He could only raise his hat and speed her on her way. No doubt she would be happier, oh, much happier without him.
But was such a thing possible? Could it be that the one being in all the world whom he loved, whom he had loved for seven years with a seven times seven increasing love, whom he loved now with a prodigality of affection of which he had been previously unaware, could it be possible that she was to leave him because of this?
The accusation in regard to the woman perplexed, he knew it to be a delusion, one which he could rout with a word. That which presently affected him was the suffering Hilda must endure because of her belief in it. In similar circumstances what would his sufferings be! Why they would drive him mad. But apart from that the thing which moved him most was the fact that she could condemn him unheard, that she could go to others for her knowledge of him. It was not a thing he could have done to her. Of that he was quite sure. But on what, after all, had the condemnation been based? He was not a saint, far from it. In spite of his present perplexity, there had been moments when his deportment to others had not been licit. But never, as the phrase is used, had there been an affair, fancies merely which at best, or at worst, had not outlasted a week. What was it then that had come out? Why was she dumb and crushed?
And then, suddenly as intuitions visit us unaided by anything more tangible than that intangible operation which has been christened unconscious cerebration, a clue appeared and vanished.
“By the living God! I believe it is some nastiness of that Mrs. Anderson. If it is—”
He had sprung to his feet; his hand clenched menaced the gilding of the cornice, the filmy yellow of the curtains, the world that lay beyond.
But the sound of his voice must have startled him; he crossed the room, ashamed of the outburst, and presently, aided by the understanding that if ever calm were required of him it was then, he sat down again and strove to think.
This was Monday. There would be no ship from Havre till the end of the week, but on Wednesday there was a choice of boats that sailed from Southampton and Liverpool. It was now high noon. At three the Club-train left for London. By midnight he could be there. On the morrow he could engage passage. The day after he could sail. A week later he would be in New York, and one hour after he put foot on shore this nightmare would be dissipated and Hilda in his arms. Was he not sure of her, and how few the words that would serve to make her sure of him?
Closing his eyes he saw her again, as he had seen her the morning of his departure, her dark hair falling about the sweetness of her face, and in a voice that seemed tremulous with emotion, imploring him to remember his promise to return to her soon.
Yes surely, that promise he would keep, and with a lunge at a tasseled cord, presently he had Baptiste attending to his traps.
“Not the trouble to come to take oneself off so swift, is it not, my sir? But my sir will re-come, very sure. The America, it is far however. Beautiful land, eno says, and rich! Ah, how I wish my sir me would lead with him!”
Baptiste pottered away, mumbling to himself. But Nevius had gone. There was a trinket at the jeweler’s opposite which would look well on Hilda’s throat. Then, too, there was a telegram to be sent to the Canal Company. These things accomplished, he was able to eat an omelette, and get to the remote Gare du Nord in time to catch the train.
The next morning he awoke bewildered. What had happened to the Rue Castiglione? Why was it so hushed? Where were the birdlike trills of the hawkers? What had been done to the roar and rumble of Paris? And that sky of glittering tin, a pall had been stretched across it.
The Rue Castiglione no doubt was as noisy and as bright as ever. It was in Jermyn Street that he had awaked, in a room which overlooked the ghostliness of mews that lay dumb and hidden beneath a fog of leprous brown.
It was by candle that he dressed, and when at last he was able to set out for the steamship office his teeth chattered with the rawness of the air. Hell is supposed to be hot, but fancy it cold, and there can not be a pin to choose between it and London in December.
The steamship office was in Cockspur Street, the throw of a stone beyond, but Nevius felt too numb and depressed to get there unfortified. He went back to the hotel, ordered some drink, and in the gloom of the coffee-room sat a while, a copy of the Times before him. But since when had that serious sheet appeared in pink?
Before he could account for such levity, the paper disappeared, the room as well, and when, long after, he issued from a terrible struggle with rushing waters he was lying on a bed; at his side was a little man with white whiskers.
Nevius opened his eyes
