“I cannot bear to leave you. Lily, think of me—a little—think of—”
She threw herself down on the floor, crushing her fresh dress and knocking down another vase, which broke. She lay there and could not cry—could only moan, long shuddering moans of sorrow. Alone, alone—always now, and forever, and he never would know that she had loved him—loved him! If only she had written to him!
Launa was busy with her clothes, and people were giving her teaspoons.
Paul had gone to Germany. He would return in time for her wedding. Hugh Wainbridge and Lord Wainbridge, who liked his future niece very much, had her all to themselves. Lady Wainbridge sent her volumes of sermons and books on the disappointments of the marriage state.
“I suppose it is wretched,” said Launa; “but people seem to bear it fairly well after a time.”
“I could,” said her lover, “with you. Don’t believe all you read in my aunt’s books.”
They were alone in the music-room. The piano had vases of flowers, and a strip—a beautiful deadening strip—of velvet upon it. Launa’s piano had hitherto been bare.
Matrimony and music—more often matrimony and discord. She did not play very much, only little things for Lord Wainbridge; Chopin and ghosts went together.
It fell in long straight folds made of some soft black material. It was becoming and yet dreary, like the robe of a sister of charity.
“It suits you; but you look like a widow.”
“Death,” she said; “how unlucky of you to say that! I dreamed of a coffin last night—my own—and I was getting in and out of it to see if it fitted.”
“Dearest, you and I shall always be together.”
“Always?” she repeated, with a little shiver, as if some ghost of the past was near, “always.”
Already his mind did not answer hers. She did not want him always.
“It was a horrid dream. It frightened me.”
“You will never be frightened with me. Have you heard about Herbert?”
“He was yachting with Blakeley in the Mediterranean, and the yacht went down. They were all drowned.”
“How terrible! I am so sorry for Lily, and I liked him very much. What will she do? She loves him, I am sure of that. It is terrible.”
“Darling you feel for all women. But for her—she has Sir Ralph.”
“Yes, but she does not love him. I must go to her. I may as well go now.”