At last the desire to go once more to the south of England grew overpowering.  If she could live in London, she felt it might console her to feel that she was near Wilfrid; he would not seem, as now, in a world utterly remote.  Perchance she might one day even see him.  If she had knowledge of the approach of death, Wilfrid would not refuse to come and see her at the last, and with her hand in his how easy it would be to die.  She sought for means of supporting herself in London; she still had money saved from that which the sale of her father’s house had brought her, but she did not wish to use more of this than she could help, keeping it for a certain cherished purpose.  After many months of fruitless endeavour, she found a place in a school in Hammersmith....

And Wilfrid had sat by her, had looked at her with something of the old tenderness, had pressed her hand as no one else would.  Far into the night she lay thinking over every word he had spoken.  Sometimes she wept—­poor Emily!  He had not asked her where she lived; for that doubtless there was good reason.  But it was much to have seen him this once.  Again she wept, saying to herself that she loved him,—­that he was lost to her,—­that she must die.

CHAPTER XXIII

HER PATH IN THE LIGHT

That Wilfrid did not at the last moment leap on shore and follow Emily seemed to him less the result of self-control than obedience to outward restraint; it was as though an actual hand lay on his shoulder and held him back.  He went back to his seat, and again fell into dreaminess.

The arrival of the boat at Chelsea pier reminded him that he must land; thence he drove home.  On reaching the house he found Mrs. Birks there; she had called to see his father, and was in the hall on the point of leaving as he entered.  She stepped up to him, and spoke in a low voice.

‘What is the matter with Beatrice?’

‘The matter?  How?’

‘She seems out of sorts.  Come round and see her, will you?’

‘I really can’t just now,’ Wilfrid replied.  ’Do you mean that she is not well?’

‘Something seems to be upsetting her.  Why can’t you come and see her?’

‘I can’t this evening.  I have an engagement.’

‘Very well.  But you had better come soon, I think.’

‘I don’t understand you,’ said Wilfrid, with some show of impatience.  ‘Is she ill?’

’Not exactly ill, I suppose.  Of course I mustn’t interfere.  No doubt you understand.’

‘I will come as soon as I can,’ Wilfrid said.  And he added, ’Has she—­spoken to you about anything?’

’I wish she had.  She will speak neither to me nor to anyone else.  It is too bad, Wilf, if you let her fret herself into a fever.  She is just the girl to do it, you know.’

She nodded, smiled, and went off.  Wilfrid, having committed himself to an engagement, loitered about in his dressing-room for a while, then, without seeing his father, betook himself to his club and dined there.  After passing the early part of the evening in an uncomfortable way, with the help of newspapers and casual conversation, he went home again and shut himself in his study.