
that some such was needful; who spent all my strength on a task which I knew to
be vain; who suffered much and joyed rarely; whose happiest day was his last.«
    Somehow like that would it run, if he were to write his own epitaph at
present.
    The quiet of the dim sanctuary was helpful to such self-communing. He
relished being alone again, and after an hour's brooding had recovered at all
events a decent balance of thought, a respite from madness in melancholy.
    But he could not employ himself, could not even seek the relief of bodily
exertion; his mind grew sluggish, and threw a lassitude upon his limbs. The
greater part of the day he spent in his room at the hotel, merely idle. This
time he had no energy to attack himself with adjurations and sarcasms; body and
soul were oppressed with uttermost fatigue, and for a time must lie torpid.
Fortunately he was sure of sleep to-night; the bell of the cathedral might clang
its worst, and still not rob him of the just oblivion.
    The next day he strayed into the hills, and there in solitude faced the
enemy in his heart, bidding misery do its worst. In imagination he followed
Reuben Elgar to Naples, saw him speed to Villa Sannazaro, where as likely as not
he would meet Cecily. Mallard had no tangible evidence of its being Reuben's
desire to see Cecily, but he was none the less convinced that for no other
reason had his companion set forth. And jealousy tormented him sorely. It was
his first experience of this cruellest passion: what hitherto had been only a
name to him, and of ignoble sound, became a disease clutching at his vitals. It
taught him fierceness, injustice, base suspicion, brutal conjecture; it taught
him that of which all these are constituents - hatred.
    But it did not constrain him to any unworthy action. The temptation that
passed through his mind when he looked from the balcony on the carriage that was
to convey Elgar, did not return - or only as a bitter desire, impossible of
realization. Distant from Naples he must remain, awaiting whatsoever might
happen.
    Ah, bright, gentle, sweet-faced Cecily! Inconceivable to her this suffering
that lay upon her friend. How it would pain her if she knew of it! With what
sad, wondering tenderness her eyes would regard him! How kindly would she lay
her soft hand in his, and entreat him to be comforted!
    If he asked her, would she not give him that hand, to be his always?
