Paths of Judgement Part 34

"No; do you?"

"No, thanks."

"I will put on my hat and coat; I will be only a moment." She went to the door while Geoffrey said--

"We can catch the fast afternoon train. We shall be in London by six."

CHAPTER XIV

A cold, evening sky was over London as Geoffrey and Felicia drove through wet squares and streets. Here, too, the storm had lifted, and between its darkness and the darkness of the coming night was the still moment of bleak and bitter twilight; strips of chill radiance behind the tattered trees; the pallid sky s.h.i.+ning from the puddles of the roadway.

They had hardly spoken to each other during the walk; the wait at the desolate little station; the journey in the train. Geoffrey had merely expressed the hope that she was not cold; she had feared that he was hungry, had begged him to buy a sandwich. Once or twice from their corners of the railway carriage they had gravely smiled at each other.

Now in the cab they neither spoke nor smiled.

Felicia's mood was that of the bleak, still pause between the storm and the darkness. It had its peace, its colourless peace. She could not look back at the storm and the coming darkness seemed impenetrable, but already her thoughts stole towards it, seeing, as if in a dream, Maurice, comforted; feeling his hand in hers.

She had a dreaming, a sorrowing presage that he had already returned, already knew the truth, that she would find him waiting, hopeless, yet waiting hopelessly for help.

From her letter he would look up at her--returned to him. And, though the thought wept for his pain, in her weariness it had lost its fear.

There was peace in its very sadness. For then there need be no horrid crash of revelation for her to face. In silence she would hold out her arms to him. And "poor, poor Maurice," her heart whispered.

The river, when they reached the Embankment, had the sky's cold stillness; a drowned face looking up at its ghost. Felicia, s.h.i.+vering a little, said that it was very chilly. A stir of fear came with the sudden hope that Maurice was not waiting for her. She would rather face crashes than have him waiting--alone--with her letter. Hope and its fear were like a rising of life, of eagerness in her. She leaned her head from the window of the rattling four-wheeler to direct the cabman; explaining: "They often take a longer way here."

"I will see you up to the door of the flat," said Geoffrey.

She nodded, then said, "But if he is there? If Maurice should come to the door?"

"But he doesn't return till to-morrow."

"He may be there--I think he is there."

"Well--the maid would come to the door. Besides--if he did--what more simple than to shake his hand and say good-bye to you both?"

She said quietly, "We shall not see you again--for how long?"

"Oh, it will be quite natural that I should now go under for some years," Geoffrey answered as quietly. "Some day, when you and Maurice feel like seeing me----"

"Yes; some day," Felicia answered, with her head again out of the window.

His dull ache of misery had been so steady that he was surprised to find it capable of a deeper pang. He had almost the impulse to ask her if her quiet were wrung from such agony as his. The next moment he was hating himself for the whimpering selfishness that could not feel gladness for her fort.i.tude. Yet the plaint was there, and it dimly guessed at a woman's capacity, strange in its sanity, its acceptance of compromise, for two lives; her absorption in response to the claim that she may listen to. He himself had helped to lock her into that smaller room of her heart and now she must live in it, since the high and beautiful chambers were closed to her for ever. In the smaller room, too, was the love cruelly wounded, wounded by her hand. Her whole nature was now an eagerness to staunch, uplift, console.

The cab drew up before the block of flats, and while Geoffrey, saying that he would walk back to his rooms, paid the man, Felicia went inside and rang beside the lift for the porter. Geoffrey had joined her when the man appeared.

Yes, he said, Mr. Wynne had come back that afternoon. No, Mr. Wynne had not been out again, though he had sent the maid away soon after arriving. He knew that he had not gone out for he had been sitting in the hall all day.

There had evidently been talk, Geoffrey saw. Felicia saw nothing, thought of nothing but Maurice's presence above; her heart seemed choked in its beating. She made no objection to Geoffrey following her into the lift.

They stepped out together and, before the foolishly decorative little door that Maurice had so often jested over they paused, the porter still lingering.

"You can go," said Geoffrey cheerfully; "I prefer walking down."

The man reluctantly descended and then Geoffrey rang.

Felicia leaned against the wall, seeing Maurice's eyes as he had said good-bye to her, hearing his, "It seems to me an eternity before I shall see you again." He had read her letter, alone. Remorse gave her the sense of swooning to all about her.

With almost a start she saw that Geoffrey still rang; and now he knocked as well.

"Maurice must be asleep," she said.

Geoffrey, his finger pressed on the electric bell, nodded.

She had answered, "The eternity will pa.s.s." It seemed an eternity. And it had pa.s.sed. Yes, here she was again, before the familiar door, and in a moment he would see her.

"I should think that by now he would be awake. Don't you think that he must be awake by now?" she repeated the question almost irritably as he did not answer her; adding, "Perhaps he guesses that it is we, and will not see us. Oh Geoffrey--Geoffrey. How could I have written such a letter!"

"It will be all right when you see each other. You must meet his despair, of course." Geoffrey, his shoulder turned to her, continued to knock loudly. The draughty landing with its twilight square of window open to a damp brick wall, was vault-like in its cold; Felicia, clasping her arms, s.h.i.+vered.

Geoffrey presently said, "I shall have to break the gla.s.s and open the door."

At this she started from her place, caught back his hand.

"No, no! He can't have waked yet. He is worn out--tired--imagine how tired! Go on ringing. Knock again."

Her face showed a horror that did not know itself.

"I think I had better break the door," said Geoffrey, gently; putting her back.

She dropped to helpless submission.

The gla.s.s panel crashed in under the sharp blow and putting his hand through the aperture Geoffrey drew the bolt.

Inside was complete darkness. A touch at the electric b.u.t.ton near the door and the little hall, its closed doors, its chairs, table, jar of laurel-leaves, flashed upon them.

Geoffrey still kept Felicia behind him.

"Let me go first," he said.

"You! First! No, no, I must see him first."

But firmly now he held her back.

"Felicia, you must wait here. Maurice may be ill."

She had seized his arms to push by him and they stood clutching each other in the brilliant light.