Part 66 (1/2)

She hesitated a moment before she spoke. Then her voice came in a broken way.

”I loved Angelo Reanda. I know it, now that I have lost him.”

Griggs barely heard the last words, but he bent his head gravely, and said nothing in answer.

CHAPTER XLVIII.

THE stillness was all around them and seemed to fold them together as they sat side by side. A deep sigh quivered and paused and was drawn again almost with a gasp that stirred the air. Suddenly Francesca's face was hidden in her hands, and her head was bowed almost to her knees. A moment more, and she sobbed aloud, wordless, as though her soul were breaking from her heart.

In the great gloom there was something unearthly in the sound of her weeping. The man who could neither suffer any more himself nor feel human pity for another's suffering, turned and looked at her with shadowy eyes. He understood, though he could not feel, and he knew that she had borne more than any one had guessed.

She shed many tears, and it was long before her sobbing ceased to call down pitiful, heart-breaking echoes from the unseen heights of darkness.

Her head was bent down upon her knees as she sat there, striving with herself.

He could do nothing, and there was nothing that he could say. He could not comfort her, he could not deny her grief. He only knew that there was one more being still alive and bearing the pain of sins done long ago. Truly the judgment upon that man by whom the offence had come, should be heavy and relentless and enduring.

At last all was still again. Francesca did not move, but sat bowed together, her hands pressing her face. Very softly, Griggs rose to his feet, and she did not see that he was no longer seated beside her. He stood up and leaned upon the broad marble of the bal.u.s.trade. When she at last raised her head, she thought that he was gone.

”Where are you?” she asked, in a startled voice.

Then, looking round, she saw him standing by the rail. She understood why he had moved--that she might not feel that he was watching her and seeing her tears.

”I am not ashamed,” she said. ”At least you know me, now.”

”Yes. I know.”

She also rose and stood up, and leaned upon the bal.u.s.trade and looked into his face.

”I am glad you know,” she said, and he saw how pale she was, and that her cheeks were wet. ”Now that it is over, I am glad that you know,” she said again. ”You are beyond sympathy, and beyond pitying any one, though you are not unkind. I am glad, that if any one was to know my secret, it should be you. I could not bear pity. It would hurt me. But you are not unkind.”

”Nor kind--nor anything,” he said.

”No. It is as though I had spoken to the grave--or to eternity. It is safe with you.”

”Yes. Quite safe. Safer than with the dead.”

”He never knew it. Thank G.o.d! He never knew it! To me he was always the same faithful friend. To you he was an enemy, and cruel. I thought him above cruelty, but he was human, after all. Was it not human, that he should be cruel to you?”

”Yes,” answered Griggs, wondering a little at her speech and tone. ”It was very human.”

”And you forgive him for it?”

”I?” There was surprise in his tone.

”Yes,” she answered. ”I want your forgiveness for him. He died without your forgiveness. It is the only thing I ask of you--I have not the right to ask anything, I know, but is it so very much?”

”It is nothing,” said Griggs. ”There is no such thing as forgiveness in my world. How could there be? I resent nothing.”