Part 72 (1/2)
”You dislike her?”
”I! No. How can one dislike a painted rag? How can one dislike a pink and white sh.e.l.l that holds nothing?”
”Every body holds a soul. Every human sh.e.l.l holds its murmur of the great sea.”
”The body of Cuckoo then contains a soul that's cankered with disease, moth-eaten with corruption, worn away to an atom not bigger than a grain of dust. I would not call it a soul at all.”
He spoke with more than a shade of excitement, and the gay expression of his face had changed to an uneasy anger. The doctor observed it, and rejoined quietly:
”How can you answer for another person's soul? We see the body, it is true. But are we to divine the soul from that--wholly and solely?”
”The soul! Let us call it the will.”
”Why?”
”The will of man is the soul of man. It is possible to judge the will by the body. The will of such a woman as Cuckoo Bright is a negative quant.i.ty. Her body is the word 'weakness,' written in flesh and blood for all to read.”
”Ah, you speak of her will for herself,” the doctor said, thinking of Cuckoo's broken wail to him, as she sat on that autumn evening in his consulting-room. ”But what of her will for another, her soul for another?”
He had spoken partly at random, partly led by the thought, the suspicion, that Cuckoo's abandoned body held a fine love for Julian. He was by no means prepared for the striking effect his remark had upon Valentine.
No sooner were the words spoken than a strong expression of fear was visible in Valentine's face, of terror so keen that it killed the anger which had preceded it. He trembled as he stood, till the table shook; and apparently noticing this, and wis.h.i.+ng to conceal so extreme an exhibition of emotion, he slid hastily into a seat.
”Her will for another,” he repeated,--”for another. What do you mean by that? where's the other, then? who is it?”
The doctor looked upon him keenly.
”Anybody for whom she has any desire, any solicitude, or any love--you, myself, or--Julian.”
”Julian!” Valentine repeated unsteadily. ”Julian! you mean to say you--”
He pulled himself together abruptly.
”Doctor,” he said, ”forgive me for saying that you are scarcely talking sense when you a.s.sume that such a creature as Cuckoo Bright can really love anybody. And even if she did, Julian's the last man--oh, but the whole thing is absurd. Why should you and I talk about a street-girl, a drab whose life begins and ends in the gutter? Julian will be here directly. Meanwhile let us have coffee.”
He pushed his cigarette-case over to the doctor and touched the bell.
”Coffee!” he said, when Julian's man answered it.
The door stood open, and as the man murmured, ”Yes, sir,” a dog close by howled shrilly.
The noise diverted Valentine's attention and roused him from the agitation into which he had fallen. He glanced at the doctor.
”Rip,” he said.
”Howling for his master,” said the doctor.
”Wait a moment,” Valentine said to the man, who was preparing to leave the room. Then, to the doctor:
”I am his master.”
”To be sure,” rejoined the doctor, who had, in truth, for the moment forgotten the fact, so long a time had elapsed since the little dog took up his residence with Julian.