'Why, what has happened? Can I do anything for you? No, I can't. I forgot.'
'Oh, ****, I'm so sorry! I've come to tell you, and---- Let me take you back to your chair.'
'Don't! I'm not a child. You only do that out of pity. I never meant to tell you anything about it. I'm no good now. I'm down and done for. Let me alone!'
He groped back to his chair, his chest labouring as he sat down.
Maisie watched him, and the fear went out of her heart, to be followed by a very bitter shame. He had spoken a truth that had been hidden from the girl through every step of the impetuous flight to London; for he was, indeed, down and done for--masterful no longer but rather a little abject;neither an artist stronger than she, nor a man to be looked up to--only some blind one that sat in a chair and seemed on the point of crying. She was immensely and unfeignedly sorry for him--more sorry than she had ever been for any one in her life, but not sorry enough to deny his words.
So she stood still and felt ashamed and a little hurt, because she had honestly intended that her journey should end triumphantly; and now she was only filled with pity most startlingly distinct from love.
'Well?' said ****, his face steadily turned away. 'I never meant to worry you any more. What's the matter?'
He was conscious that Maisie was catching her breath, but was as unprepared as herself for the torrent of emotion that followed. She had dropped into a chair and was sobbing with her face hidden in her hands.
'I can't--I can't!' she cried desperately. 'Indeed, I can't. It isn't my fault.
I'm so sorry. Oh, ****ie, I'm so sorry.'
****'s shoulders straightened again, for the words lashed like a whip.
Still the sobbing continued. It is not good to realise that you have failed in the hour of trial or flinched before the mere possibility of ****** sacrifices.
'I do despise myself--indeed I do. But I can't. Oh, ****ie, you wouldn't ask me--would you?' wailed Maisie.
She looked up for a minute, and by chance it happened that ****'s eyes fell on hers. The unshaven face was very white and set, and the lips were trying to force themselves into a smile. But it was the worn-out eyes that Maisie feared. Her **** had gone blind and left in his place some one that she could hardly recognise till he spoke.
'Who is asking you to do anything, Maisie? I told you how it would be.
What's the use of worrying? For pity's sake don't cry like that; it isn't worth it.'
'You don't know how I hate myself. Oh, ****, help me--help me!' The passion of tears had grown beyond her control and was beginning to alarm the man. He stumbled forward and put his arm round her, and her head fell on his shoulder.
'Hush, dear, hush! Don't cry. You're quite right, and you've nothing to reproach yourself with--you never had. You're only a little upset by the journey, and I don't suppose you've had any breakfast. What a brute Torp was to bring you over.'
'I wanted to come. I did indeed,' she protested.
'Very well. And now you've come and seen, and I'm--immensely grateful.
When you're better you shall go away and get something to eat. What sort of a passage did you have coming over?'
Maisie was crying more subduedly, for the first time in her life glad that she had something to lean against. **** patted her on the shoulder tenderly but clumsily, for he was not quite sure where her shoulder might be.
She drew herself out of his arms at last and waited, trembling and most unhappy. He had felt his way to the window to put the width of the room between them, and to quiet a little the tumult in his heart.
'Are you better now?' he said.
'Yes, but--don't you hate me?'
'I hate you? My God! I?'
'Isn't--isn't there anything I could do for you, then? I'll stay here in England to do it, if you like. Perhaps I could come and see you sometimes.'
'I think not, dear. It would be kindest not to see me any more, please. Idon't want to seem rude, but--don't you think--perhaps you had almost better go now.'
He was conscious that he could not bear himself as a man if the strain continued much longer.
'I don't deserve anything else. I'll go, ****. Oh, I'm so miserable.'
'Nonsense. You've nothing to worry about; I'd tell you if you had. Wait a moment, dear. I've got something to give you first. I meant it for you ever since this little trouble began. It's my Melancolia; she was a beauty when I last saw her. You can keep her for me, and if ever you're poor you can sell her. She's worth a few hundreds at any state of the market.' He groped among his canvases. 'She's framed in black. Is this a black frame that I have my hand on? There she is. What do you think of her?'
He turned a scarred formless muddle of paint towards Maisie, and the eyes strained as though they would catch her wonder and surprise. One thing and one thing only could she do for him.
'Well?'
The voice was fuller and more rounded, because the man knew he was speaking of his best work. Maisie looked at the blur, and a lunatic desire to laugh caught her by the throat. But for ****'s sake--whatever this mad blankness might mean--she must make no sign. Her voice choked with hard-held tears as she answered, still gazing at the wreck--'Oh, ****, it is good!'
He heard the little hysterical gulp and took it for tribute. 'Won't you have it, then? I'll send it over to your house if you will.'
'I? Oh yes--thank you. Ha! ha!' If she did not fly at once the laughter that was worse than tears would kill her. She turned and ran, choking and blinded, down the staircases that were empty of life to take refuge in a cab and go to her house across the Parks. There she sat down in the dismantled drawing-room and thought of **** in his blindness, useless till the end of life, and of herself in her own eyes. Behind the sorrow, the shame, and the humiliation, lay fear of the cold wrath of the red-haired girl when Maisie should return. Maisie had never feared her companion before. Not until she found herself saying, 'Well, he never asked me,' did she realise her scorn of herself.
And that is the end of Maisie.
* * * * * *
