One more day—­which would probably see the departure of Margaret French—­one more wrestle with Lady Tranmore, and all the links with the old life would be torn away.  A bare, stripped soul, dependent henceforth on Geoffrey Cliffe for every crumb of happiness, treading in unknown paths, suffering unknown things, probing unknown passions and excitements—­it was so she saw herself; not without that corroding double consciousness of the modern, that it was all very interesting, and as such to be forgiven and admired.

Notwithstanding what she had said to Ashe, she did believe—­with a clinging and desperate faith—­that Cliffe loved her.  Had she really doubted it, her conduct would have been inexplicable, even to herself, and he must have seemed a madman.  What else could have induced him to burden himself with a woman on such an errand and at such a time?  She had promised, indeed, to be his lieutenant and comrade—­and to return to Venice if her health should be unequal to the common task.  But in spite of the sternness with which he put that task first—­a sternness which was one of his chief attractions for Kitty—­she knew well that her coming threw a glamour round it which it had never yet possessed, that the passion she had aroused in him, and the triumph of binding her to his fate, possessed him—­for the moment at any rate—­heart and soul.  He had the poet’s resources, too, and a mind wherewith to organize and govern.  She shrank from him still, but she already envisaged the time when her being would sink into and fuse with his, and like two colliding stars they would flame together to one fiery death.

Thoughts like these ran in her mind.  Yet all the time she saw the high mountains of her dream, the old inn, the receding face of her child on William’s shoulder; and the tears ran down her cheeks.  The letter from William that Lady Tranmore had given her lay on a table near.  She took it up, and lit a candle to read it.

* * * * *

“Kitty—­I bid you come home.  I should have started for Venice an hour ago, after reading Miss French’s letter, but that honor and public duty keep me here.  But mother is going, and I implore and command you, as your husband, to return with her.  Oh, Kitty, have I ever failed you?—­have I ever been hard with you?—­that you should betray our love like this?  Was I hard when we parted—­a month ago?  If I was, forgive me, I was sore pressed.  Come home, you poor child, and you shall hear no reproaches from me.  I think I have nearly succeeded in undoing your rash work.  But what good will that be to me if you are to use my absence for that purpose to bring us both to ruin?  Kitty, the grass is not yet green on our child’s grave.  I was at Haggart last Sunday, and I went over in the dusk to put some flowers upon it.  I thought of you without a moment’s bitterness, and prayed for us both, if such as I may pray.  Then next morning came Miss French’s letter.  Kitty, have you no heart—­and no conscience?  Will you bring disgrace on that little grave?  Will you dig between us the gulf which is irreparable, across which your hand and mine can never touch each other any more?  I cannot and I will not believe it.  Come back to me—­come back!”