Part 29 (1/2)

”'Sir, I know that child must be ill,' she said.

”'Ill--why? What do you mean?'

”'Oh, sir, its crying is awful. It goes right through me.'

”I pushed the woman out almost roughly.

”'It is not ill,' I said. 'It is only restless. Leave me. Don't you see I am working?'

”And I shut the door sharply. I sat down again at my table and toiled till dawn. I remember that dawn so well. At last my brain had utterly tired. I could work no longer. I pushed away my papers and got up. The room was misty--so I thought--with a flickering grey light. The dirty white blind was drawn half up. I looked out over the river, and from it I heard the dull shout of a man on a black barge. This shout recalled to me my child and the noise of its lament. I listened. All was silent.

There was no murmur from the inner room. And then I remember that suddenly the silence, for which I had so often longed and prayed, frightened me. It seemed full of a dreadful meaning. I waited a moment.

Then I walked softly across the room to the folding doors. They were closed, I opened them furtively and looked into the bedroom. It was nearly dark. Approaching the bed I could scarcely discern the tiny white heap which marked where the child lay among the tumbled bedclothes. I bent down to listen to the sound of its breathing. I could not hear the sound. Then I caught the child in my arms and carried it over to the sitting-room window so that the dawn might strike upon its little face.

The face was discoloured. The heart was not beating. Miss Alston, while I worked, my child had died in a convulsion. It had striven against death, poor feeble baby, and had had no help from its father. My medical skill might have eased its sufferings. Might have saved it. But I had deliberately closed my ears to its appeal for love, for a.s.sistance. I had let it go. I should never hear it again.”

Maurice had spoken the last words with excitement. Now he paused. With an obvious effort he controlled himself and added calmly:

”I buried my child and gave myself again to work. My examination was close at hand. I pa.s.sed it brilliantly. But I shuddered at my success.

Those lodgings by the river had become horrible to me. I left them, took a practice in a remote c.u.mberland valley, and withdrew myself from the world, from all who had known me. In this retirement, however, I had a companion of whose presence at first I was unaware. The dead child followed me, the child of whom now I feel myself to have been the murderer.”

”No--no--not that!” Lily whispered. But he did not seem to hear her.

”One night,” he continued, ”in my lonely house in the valley I was awakened by some sound. I sat up in bed and listened. All was black around me, and at first all was quiet too. I lay down again to sleep.

But as I touched the pillow I heard a faint murmur that seemed to come from far away. I said to myself that it was a fancy of my mind but again it came. Then I thought it was the wind caught in some cranny of my house. I opened my window and leaned out. But there was no wind in the trees. What was the noise then? The cry of a bird perhaps. Yes, it must be that. Yet did any note of a bird have a thrill of pain in it? I hurried on some clothes and let myself out into the garden. I would hear that bird again. I would convince myself of its presence. But in the garden I could hear nothing save the thin murmur of the stream that threaded the valley. So I returned to the house, and at the door I was greeted by a little cry from within. Miss Alston, it was the cry of my dead child, full of pain and of eternal reproach. I shut the door, closing myself in with my fate, and since that night I have been a haunted man. Scarcely a day has pa.s.sed since then, scarcely a night has gone by without my hearing that appeal for help which once I disregarded, which now I can never reply to. I fled from the valley, in a vain hope of leaving that voice behind me. I came here. But the child's spirit is here too. It is forever with me.”

He stopped abruptly, then he added, ”I can even hear it now, while I look at you, while I touch your hand.”

His burning eyes were fixed on Lily's face. His burning hand closed on hers as if seeking a.s.sistance.

”What am I to do?” he said, and for the first time his voice broke and failed.

”Pray!” she whispered.

”I have prayed. But G.o.d forgives only those who reverse their evil acts. Mine can never be reversed. I can never be kind to my child to whom I have been bitterly cruel. There is no help for me, none. Yet I had a feeling that--that you might help me.”

”If I could!” the girl cried with a blaze of sudden eagerness. Her heart leaped up at the words, leaped up from its depth of pity for Maurice to a height of almost fiery enthusiasm.

”But how?” he said.

Then his face hardened and grew stern.

”No,” he said, ”there can be no help for me, none in this world.”

The drawing-room door opened and the Canon appeared.

”Miss Bigelow has not died for the thirteenth time,” he said, coming up to the fire.

When the Canon kissed his daughter that night, after Maurice Dale had gone home, he seemed struck by a new expression in her face.

”Why, how excited you look, child!” he said, ”what is it?”