The Open Question Part 47

"I am sorry to have kept you," she said. If she noticed Gano's changed manner, she put it down to anxiety for his friend. "Come, I've brought an umbrella," she said, almost sharply, as Gano stood an instant looking out for a _fiacre_; "it's nearly as quick to walk, and I--I--"

He took the umbrella from her silently, and they hurried on side by side in the rain. Gano, with growing agitation, searched for some way of letting her know that he was in possession of the situation, and meant to remain in possession.

As they turned into the Rue de Provence she stopped, breathless.

"Are you quite sure he wants to see me only for a minute?"

"So he says."

"He understands that just at present I can't sit up with him any more?"

"He doesn't expect you to stay to-night, at any rate," Gano answered, in a determined voice. He began to walk on.

"Mr. Gano." She laid an arresting hand on his arm. He looked down coldly at the white face. "You've shown too plainly in these last weeks to what lengths your friendship for d.i.c.k can go. I don't pretend to apologize for asking if you can spare the time to take him away for a few weeks as soon as he gets a little better."

The man hesitated. She misunderstood.

"I've just got some money from the _Semaine_," she went on, "and I can antic.i.p.ate my next payment. I've told you how I owe it to Mr. Driscoll that I have the money at all. It's his in a sense, anyhow."

"You want to get him out of Paris?"

"Yes, _anywhere_ for a change."

"I might do that if he can be moved."

"Oh, thank you, thank you. d.i.c.k can't say he hasn't got friends. You _are_ good about it." They splashed on a few steps in the downpour, and she slackened her pace again. "But since you are going away alone with him--and, anyhow, I ought to tell you. He's developing a kind of monomania. He doesn't want to live--wants--" Her voice choked.

"I know," said Gano.

"You know! He's ventured to say it to you?"

"Yes."

"Then, you see, it's serious." She was clinging to him again. Gano nodded. Before he could help himself he was trying her.

"You see, he'll never get well."

"How can you say that? and say it so--so--"

Indignant tears stood in her upturned eyes, and she took her hands off his arm.

"Surely you know it's true."

"I only know that he's still alive, and that I love him."

They walked on--they were nearly at the door.

"You know how he suffers," began Gano.

"Everybody suffers," she interrupted. "He knows nothing about the worst pain. And he has his art; he has you to care about him, and--he has me.

Oh, Mr. Gano"--she turned on him suddenly--"help me to take care of him--help me, for G.o.d's sake--help me to keep him in the world!"

"Yes, yes; I give you my word."

A great weight was lifted off them both. They went up-stairs together, but Gano left Mary at Driscoll's door. He wrote some letters in his own room, then he went softly up-stairs, heard the low, pleasant sound of voices, and came down without interrupting them. He went to bed, and slept soundly till the morning.

"I shall cable Bostwick & Allen first thing after breakfast," he said to himself.

When he was dressed, he went up-stairs as usual to Driscoll, knocked lightly, and, without waiting, went in. Mary Burne was still there, kneeling by the bedside. It flashed over Gano that it had been something like this very picture that had first set him thinking about Mary Burne. But the spell had lost its potency; something had happened; some chord of sympathy had snapped. He could think of his friend whole-heartedly now, without a woman's thrusting her face between them.

Driscoll was asleep this morning, just as he had been that other time when Gano had found Mary Burne worn out with watching by the bedside; but his face was hidden. Mary stirred and turned round. Gano started. No sleep weighed down her eyelids; her eyes were wide and quick-glancing, but seemed unseeing; the agonized face was pinched and gray-white, like chalk.

"What is it? What--"

Gano sprang forward to the bed. Driscoll's face was no longer in the shadow now.

"He's gone," said Mary.

"Not dead?"

"Yes, dead."

She got up slowly, staggering a little. Her cloak was round her. She went unsteadily to the opposite side of the room and picked up her hat.

She seemed to forget to put it on, and stood with it aimlessly in her hands, those strained, bright-glancing eyes moving uncannily in the drawn white mask of a face. Gano had flung himself down by the bed. He laid his hand over Driscoll's. It was cold.

"When did it happen?" Gano asked; and as the word "happen" left his lips, he started up and stared at the woman.

"About four o'clock," she said, going in that blind way to the table.

He had the impulse to rush forward and seize her by the shoulders. He would force those restless eyes to meet his steadily for once, and give up their secret; but she was counting some gold pieces out of her purse, doing it by the instinct of touch, while her roving, animal-like glance seemed to dash itself against window, wall, and door, seeking an escape.

"How did it come?" Gano demanded.

"Quite quietly; no pain--no pain at the last."

Her m.u.f.fled voice seemed to reach him from far off.

"Why didn't you call me?"

"No good," she said, tonelessly; "and besides, he held fast to my hand.

I am leaving some money here." She motioned to the little pile of ten and twenty franc pieces on the table, and moved towards the door.

"You'll see to what's necessary." And, without waiting for his a.s.surance, "I've enough to pay for everything," she said, and went out.

Gano found his first impressions weakened by Mary Burne's clear and convincing official account of the death. The doctor accepted it without misgiving. Why should a layman have a doubt?

Driscoll was buried, and his few effects were bought in by Mary Burne at the sale. When Gano went to say good-bye to her the next day he was told she had given up her old lodging, and left no address behind.

Gano's original reluctance to return home had not been so very serious.