But a sudden call from the sickroom startled them both. Buntingford hurried forward.

When Buntingford entered he found the patient lying in a deep old-fashioned chair propped up by pillows. She had been supplied with the simplest of night-gear by Miss Alcott, and was wearing besides a blue cotton overall or wrapper in which the Rector's sister was often accustomed to do her morning's work. There was a marked incongruity between the commonness of the dress, and a certain cosmopolitan stamp, a touch of the grand air, which was evident in its wearer. The face, even in its mortal pallor and distress, was remarkable both for its intellect and its force. Buntingford stood a few paces from her, his sad eyes meeting hers. She motioned to him.

"Send them all away."

The doctors went, with certain instructions to Buntingford, one of them remaining in the room below. Buntingford came to sit close by her.

"They say I shall kill myself if I talk," she said in her gasping whisper. "It doesn't matter. I must talk! So--you don't doubt the boy?"

Her large black eyes fixed him intently.

"No. I have no doubts--that he is my son. But his condition is very piteous. I have asked a specialist to come down."

There was a gleam of scorn in her expression.

"That'll do no good. I suppose--you think--we neglected the boy.

_Niente_. We did the best we could. He was under a splendid man--in Naples--as good as any one here. He told me nothing could be done--and nothing can be done."

Buntingford had the terrible impression that there was a certain triumph in the faint tone. He said nothing, and presently the whisper began again.

"I keep seeing those people dancing--and hearing the band. I dropped a little bag--did anybody find it?"

"Yes, I have it here." He drew it out of his pocket, and put it in her hand, which feebly grasped it.

"Rocca gave it to me at Florence once, I am very fond of it. I suppose you wonder that--I loved him?"

There was a strange and tragic contrast between the woman's weakness, and her bitter provocative spirit; just as there was between the picturesque strength of Buntingford--a man in his prime--and the humble, deprecating gentleness of his present voice and manner.

"No," he answered. "I am glad--if it made you happy."

"Happy!" She opened her eyes again. "Who's ever happy? We were never happy!"

"Yes--at the beginning," he said, with a certain firmness. "Why take that away?"

She made a protesting movement.

"No--never! I was always--afraid. Afraid you'd get tired of me. I was only happy--working--and when they hung my picture--in the Salon--you remember?"

"I remember it well."

"But I was always jealous--of you. You drew better--than I did. That made me miserable."

After a long pause, during which he gave her some of the prepared stimulant Ramsay had left ready, she spoke again, with rather more vigour.

"Do you remember--that Artists' Fete--in the Bois--when I went as Primavera--Botticelli's Primavera?"

"Perfectly."

"I was as handsome then--as that girl you were rowing. And now--But I don't want to die!"--she said with sudden anguish--"Why should I die? I was quite well a fortnight ago. Why does that doctor frighten me so?" She tried to sit more erect, panting for breath. He did his best to soothe her, to induce her to go back to bed. But she resisted with all her remaining strength; instead, she drew him down to her.

"Tell me!--confess to me!"--she said hoarsely--"Madame de Chaville was your mistress!"

"Never! Calm yourself, poor Anna! I swear to you. Won't you believe me?"

She trembled violently. "If I left you--for nothing--"

She closed her eyes, and tears ran down her cheeks.

He bent over her--"Won't you rest now--and let them take you back to bed?

You mustn't talk like this any more. You will kill yourself."

He left her in Ramsay's charge, and went first to find Alcott, begging him to pray with her. Then he wandered out blindly, into the summer evening. It was clear to him that she had only a few more hours--or at most--days to live. In his overpowering emotion--a breaking up of the great deeps of thought and feeling--he found his way into the shelter of one of the beechwoods that girdled the park, and sat there in a kind of moral stupor, till he had somehow mastered himself. The "old unhappy far-off things" were terribly with him; the failures and faults of his own distant life, far more than those of the dying woman. The only thought--the only interest--which finally gave him fresh strength--was the recollection of his boy.

Cynthia!--her letter--what was it she wanted to say to him? He got up, and resolutely turned his steps towards the cottage.

Cynthia was waiting for him. She brought him into the little drawing-room where a lamp had been lighted, and a tray of food was waiting of which she persuaded him to eat some mouthfuls. But when he questioned her as to the meaning of her letter, she evaded answering for a little while, till he had eaten something and drunk a glass of wine. Then she stretched out a hand to him, with a quiet smile.

"Come and see what I have been doing upstairs. It will be dreadful if you don't approve!"

He followed her in surprise, and she led him upstairs through the spotless passages of the cottage, bright with books and engravings, where never a thing was out of place, to a room with a flowery paper and bright curtains, looking on the park.

"I had it all got ready in a couple of hours. We have so much room--and it is such a pleasure--" she said, in half apology. "Nobody ever gets any meals at the Ramsays'--and they can't keep any servants. Of course you'll change it, if you don't like it. But Dr. Ramsay himself thought it the best plan. You see we are only a stone's throw from him. He can run in constantly. He really seemed relieved!"

And there in a white bed, with the newly arrived special nurse--kind-faced and competent--beside him, lay his recovered son, deeply and pathetically asleep. For in his sleep the piteous head movement had ceased, and he might have passed for a very delicate child of twelve, who would soon wake like other children to a new summer day.

Into Buntingford's strained consciousness there fell a drop of balm as he sat beside him, listening to the quiet breathing, and comforted by the mere peace of the slight form.

He looked up at Cynthia and thanked her; and Cynthia's heart sang for joy.

CHAPTER XIV

The Alcotts' unexpected guest lingered another forty-eight hours under their roof,--making a hopeless fight for life. But the influenza poison, recklessly defied from the beginning, had laid too deadly a grip on an already weakened heart. And the excitement of the means she had taken to inform herself as to the conditions of Buntingford's life and surroundings, before breaking in upon them, together with the exhaustion of her night wandering, had finally destroyed her chance of recovery.

Buntingford saw her whenever the doctors allowed. She claimed his presence indeed, and would not be denied. But she talked little more; and in her latest hours it seemed to those beside her both that the desire to live had passed, and that Buntingford's attitude towards her had, in the end, both melted and upheld her. On the second night after her arrival, towards dawn she sent for him. She then could not speak. But her right hand made a last motion towards his. He held it, till Ramsay who had his fingers on the pulse of the left, looked up with that quiet gesture which told that all was over. Then he himself closed her eyes, and stooping, he kissed her brow--

"_Pardonnons--nous! Adieu_!" he said, under his breath, in the language familiar to their student youth together. Then he went straight out of the room, and through the dewy park, and misty woods already vocal with the awakening birds; he walked back to Beechmark, and for some hours shut himself into his library, where no one disturbed him.

When he emerged it was with the air of a man turning to a new chapter in life. Geoffrey French was still with him. Otherwise the big house was empty and seemed specially to miss the sounds of Helena's voice, and tripping feet. Buntingford enquired about her at once, and Geoffrey was able to produce a letter from Mrs. Friend describing the little Welsh Inn, near the pass of Aberglasslyn, where they had settled themselves; the delicious river, shrunken however by the long drought, which ran past their windows, and the many virtues--qualified by too many children--of the primitive Welsh pair who ran the inn.

"I am to say that Miss Pitstone likes it all very much, and has found some glorious things to draw. Also an elderly gentleman who is sketching on the river has already promised her a lesson."

"You'll be going down there sometime?" said Buntingford, turning an enquiring look on his nephew.

"The week-end after next," said Geoffrey--"unless Helena forbids it. I must inspect the inn, which I recommended--and take stock of the elderly gentleman!"

The vision of Helena, in "fresh woods and pastures new" radiantly transfixing the affections of the "elderly gentleman," put them both for the moment in spirits. Buntingford smiled, and understanding that Geoffrey was writing to his ward, he left some special messages for her.