Rivers had stood listening all through this strange scene, he scarcely knew why. He was roused now to the inappropriateness of his presence here. What had he to do in the midst of a family tragedy with which he had no connection? His heart contracted with one sharp spasm of pain. He had no connection with the Trevanions. He looked round him, half contemptuous of himself, for some one of whom he could take leave before he closed the door of this portion of his life behind him, and left it forever. There was no one. All the different elements were drawn together in the one central interest with which the stranger had nothing to do. Rivers contemplated the group around Mrs. Trevanion’s chair as if it had been a picture. The drama was over, and all had resolved itself into stillness, whether the silence of death, or a pause only and interruption of the continuity, he could not tell. He looked round him, unconsciously receiving every detail into his mind. This was what he had given a year of his life for, to leave this household with which he had so strongly identified himself without even a word of farewell and to see them no more. He lingered only for a moment, the lines of the picture biting themselves in upon his heart. When he felt it to be so perfect that no after-experience could make it dim he went away; Roland Hamerton followed him to the door. Hamerton, on his side, very much shaken by the agitating scene, to which his inexperience knew no parallel, was eager to speak to some one, to relieve his heart.

“Do you think she is dead?” he said under his breath.

“Death, in my experience, rarely comes so easily,” Rivers replied. After a pause he added, “I am going away to-night. I suppose you remain?”

“If I can be of any use. You see I have known them all my life.”

“There you have the advantage of me,” said the other, sharply, with a sort of laugh. “I have given them only a year of mine. Good-bye, Hamerton. Our way—does not lie the same—”

“Good-bye,” said Roland, taken by surprise, and stopping short, though he had not meant to do so. Then he called after him with a kindly impulse, “We shall be sure to hear of you. Good luck! Good-bye.”

Good luck! The words seemed an insult; but they were not so meant. Rivers sped on, never looking back. At the gate he made up to Everard, walking with his head down and his hands in his pockets, in gloomy discomfiture. His appearance moved Rivers to a kind of inward laugh. There was no triumph, at least, in him.

“You have come away without knowing if your mother will live or die.”

“What’s the use of waiting on?” said young Everard. “She’ll be all right. They are only faints; all women have them; they are nothing to be frightened about.”

“I think they are a great deal to be frightened about—very likely she will never leave that house alive.”

“Oh, stuff!” Everard said; and then he added, half apologetically, “You don’t know her as I do.”

“Perhaps better than you do,” said Rivers; and then he added, as he had done to Hamerton, “Our ways lie in different directions. Good-bye. I am leaving Aix to-night.”

Everard looked after him, surprised. He had no good wishes to speak, as Roland had. A sense of pleasure at having got rid of an antagonist was in his mind. For his mind was of the calibre which is not aware when there comes an end. All life to him was a ragged sort of thread, going on vaguely, without any logic in it. He was conscious that a great deal had happened and that the day had been full of excitement; but how it was to affect his life he did not know.

Thus the three rivals parted. They had not been judged on their merits, but the competition was over. He who was nearest to the prize felt, like the others, his heart and courage very low; for he had not succeeded in what he had attempted; he had done nothing to bring about the happy termination; and whether even that termination was to be happy or not, as yet no one could say.