“My worst suffering would be not to speak,” she replied, with increased agitation.  “I must say what I came to say; then I can go and face whatever is before me.  I want to tell you how right you were.  You told me through Mrs. Lessingham how strongly you disapproved of my marrying at once; you wished me to take no irrevocable step till I knew myself and him better.  You did everything in your power to prevent me from committing a childish folly.  But I paid no regard to you.  I ought to have held your wish sacred; I owed you respect and obedience.  But I chose my own foolish way, and now that I know how right you were, I feel the need of thanking you.  You would have saved me if you could.  It is a simple duty in me to acknowledge this now I know it.”

Mallard rose and stood for a minute looking absently at the temples.  Then he turned gravely towards her.

“If it has really lightened your mind to say this, I am content to have heard it.  But let it end there; there is no good in such thoughts and speeches.  They are hysterical, and you don’t like to be thought that.  Such a service as you believe I might have rendered you is so very doubtful, so entirely a matter of suppositions and probabilities and possibilities, that we can’t talk of it seriously.  I acted as any guardian was bound to act, under the circumstances.  You, on the other hand, took the course that young people have taken from time immemorial.  The past is past; it is worse than vain to revive it.  Come, now, let us talk for a few minutes quietly.”

Cecily’s head was bent.  He saw that her bosom heaved, but on her face there was no foreboding of tears.  The strong impulse having had its way, she seemed to be recovering self command.

“By the bye,” he asked, “how did you know where to find me?”

“I found a letter of yours lying open.  Did he answer your invitation?”

“Yes; he wrote a few lines saying he would come before long.  But I haven’t seen him.  What do you intend to do when you leave me?”

“Go home again and wait,” she answered, with quiet sadness.

“In solitude?  And what assurance have you that he means to come?”

“None whatever.  But where else should I go, but home?  My place is there, until I have heard his pleasure.”

It was mournfully unlike her, this bitter tone.  Her eyes were fixed upon the picture again.  Looking at her, Mallard was moved by something of the same indignant spirit that was still strong in her heart.  Her pure and fine-wrought beauty, so subtle in expression of the soul’s life, touched him with a sense of deepest pathos.  It revolted him to think of her in connection with those brutalities of the newspaper; he had a movement of rebellion against the undiscerning rigour of social rule.  Disinterested absolutely, but he averted his face lest she should have a suspicion of what he thought.

In spite of that, he was greatly relieved to hear her purpose.  He had feared other things.  It was hateful that she should remain the wife of such a man as Elgar, but what refuge was open to her?  The law that demands sacrifice of the noble few on behalf of the ignoble many is too swift and sure in avenging itself when defied.  It was well that she had constrained herself to accept the inevitable.