Part 30 (1/2)
She put her hand into his. He felt as if her soul lay in it. They walked on. Already the evening was dark around them.
Canon Alston was a little surprised, merely because he was a father, and fathers are always a little surprised when men love their children. But he liked Maurice heartily and gave his consent to the marriage. Miss Bigelow ordered a valuable wedding-present, and resolved to live until over the marriage day at least. And Brayfield gossiped and gloried in possessing a legitimate cause for excitement.
As for Lily, she was strangely happy with a happiness far different from that of the usual betrothed young girl. She loved Maurice deeply.
Nevertheless she did not blind herself to the fact that he was still unhappy, restless, self-engrossed and often terror-stricken, although he tried to appear more confident than of old, and to a.s.sume a gaiety suitable to his situation in the eyes of the world. She knew he could never be entirely free to love so long as the cry of the child rang in his ears. And he told her that, strangely enough, since their engagement it had become more importunate. Once he even tried to break their contract.
”I cannot link my life with another's,” he said desperately. ”Who knows--when you are one with me, you may be haunted as I am. That would be too horrible.”
It was a flash of real and heartfelt unselfishness. Lily felt herself thrill with grat.i.tude. But she only said:
”I am not afraid.”
On another occasion--this was about a month after they became engaged--Maurice said:
”Lily, when shall we be married?”
She glanced up at him, and saw that he was paler even than usual, and that his face looked drawn with fatigue.
”Whenever you wish,” she answered.
”Let it be soon,” he said. And then he broke out almost despairingly:
”I cannot bear this much longer. Lily, what can it mean? There is something too strange. Ever since you and I have been betrothed the curse that is laid upon me has been heavier, the cry of the child has been more incessantly with me. I hear it more plainly. It is nearer to me. It is close to me. In the night sometimes I start up thinking the child is even beside me on the pillow, complaining to me in the darkness. I stretch out my hand. I feel for its little body. But there is nothing--nothing but that cry of fear, of pain, of eternal reproach.
Why does the spirit persecute me now as it never persecuted me before?
Is it because it believes that you will make me happier? Is it because it wishes to deny me all earthly joy? Sometimes I think that, once we are actually husband and wife the cry will die away. Sometimes I think that then it will never leave me even for a moment. If that were so, Lily, I should die, or I should lose my reason.”
He covered his face with his hands. He was trembling. Lily put her soft hand against his hands. A great light had come into her eyes as he spoke.
”Let us be married, Maurice,” she said. ”Perhaps the little child wants me.”
He looked up at her and his dark eyes seemed to pierce her, hungry for help.
”Wants you?” he said. ”How can that be? No, no. It cries against my thought of happiness, against my desire for peace.”
”We must give it peace. We must lay it to rest.”
”No one can do that. If I have not the power to redeem my deed of wickedness, how can you, how can any one living redeem it for me?”
Lily looked away from him. Her cheeks were burning with a blush. A tingling fire seemed to run through all her veins and her pulses beat.
”There is some way of redemption for every one,” she said.
But he answered gloomily:
”Your religion teaches you to say that, Lily, perhaps to believe it. But there is no way. The dead cannot return to earth that we may give them tenderness instead of our former cruelty. No--no!”