And, kneeling there close to that face so sad and lonely, that heart so beaten even in its sleep, he knew that he could not do it--knew it with sudden certainty, and a curious sense of peace.
Over!--the long struggle--over at last! Youth with youth, summer to summer, falling leaf with falling leaf! And behind him the fire flickered, and the plane-tree leaves tap-tapped.
He rose, and crept away stealthily downstairs into the drawing-room, and through the window at the far end out into the courtyard, where he had sat that day by the hydrangea, listening to the piano-organ.Very dark and cold and eerie it was there, and he hurried across to his studio.There, too, it was cold, and dark, and eerie, with its ghostly plaster presences, stale scent of cigarettes, and just one glowing ember of the fire he had left when he rushed out after Nell--those seven hours ago.
He went first to the bureau, turned up its lamp, and taking out some sheets of paper, marked on them directions for his various works; for the statuette of Nell, he noted that it should be taken with his compliments to Mr.Dromore.He wrote a letter to his banker directing money to be sent to Rome, and to his solicitor telling him to let the house.He wrote quickly.If Sylvia woke, and found him still away, what might she not think? He took a last sheet.Did it matter what he wrote, what deliberate lie, if it helped Nell over the first shock?