Part 92 (1/2)

She was sobbing and laughing by turns. It was her old self, and the cruel years seemed to roll back. But still he struggled. ”What is the love of the body to the love of the soul?” he told himself.

”You wore flannels then, and I was in a white jersey--like this, see,”

and she s.n.a.t.c.hed up from the mantelpiece the photograph he had been looking at. ”I got up my first act in imitation of it, and sometimes in the middle of a scene--such a jolly scene, too--my mind goes back to that sweet old time and I burst out crying.”

He pushed the photograph away. ”Why do you remind me of those days?”

he said. ”Is it only to make me realize the change in you?” But even at that moment the wonderful eyes pierced him through and through.

”Am I so much changed, John? Am I? No, no, dear! It is only my hair done differently. See, see!” and with trembling fingers she tore her hair from its knot. It fell in cl.u.s.ters over her shoulders and about her face. He wanted to lay his hand on it, and he turned to her and then turned away, fighting with himself as with an enemy.

”Or is it this old rag of lace that is so unlike my jersey?

There--there!” she cried, tearing the lace from her neck, and throwing it on the floor and trampling upon it. ”Look at me now, John--look at me? Am I not the same as ever? Why don't you look?”

She was fighting for her life. He started to his feet and came to her with his teeth set and his pupils fixed. ”This is only the devil tempting me. Say your prayers, child!”

He grasped her left hand with his right. His grip almost overtaxed her strength and she felt faint. In an explosion of emotion the insane frenzy for destroying had come upon him again. He longed to give his feelings physical expression.

”Say them, say them!” he cried, ”G.o.d sent me to kill you, Glory!”

A sensation of terror and of triumph came over her at once. She half closed her eyes and threw her other arm around his neck. ”No, but to love me!--Kiss me, John!”

Then a cry came from him like that of a man flinging himself over a precipice. He threw his arms about her, and her disordered hair fell over his face.

IX.

”I thought it was G.o.d's voice--it was the devil's!”

John Storm was creeping like a thief through the streets of London in the dark hours before the dawn. It was a peaceful night after the thunderstorm of the evening before. A few large stars had come out, a clear moon, was s.h.i.+ning, and the air was quiet after the cries, the crackling tumult, and all the fury of human throats. There was only the swift rattling of mail cars running to the Post Office, the heavy clank of country carts crawling to Covent Garden, the measured tread of policemen, and the muddled laughter of drunken men and women by the coffee stands at the street corners. ”'Ow's the deluge, myte? Not come off yet? Well, give us a cup of cawfee on the strength of it.”

It seemed as if eyes looked down on him from the dark sky and pierced him through and through. His whole life had been an imposture from the first--his quarrel with his father, his taking Orders, his entering the monastery and his leaving it, his crusade in Soho, his intention of following Father Damien, his predictions at Westminster--all, all had been false, and the expression of a lie! He was a sham, a mockery, a whited sepulchre, and had grossly sinned against the light and against G.o.d.

But the spiritual disillusion had come at last, and it had revealed him to himself at an awful depth of self-deception. Thinking in his pride and arrogance he was the divine messenger, the avenger, the man of G.o.d, he had set out to shed blood like any wretched criminal, any jealous murderer who was driven along by devilish pa.s.sion. How the devil had played with him too!--with him, who was dedicated by the most solemn and sacred vows! And he had been as stubble before the wind--as chaff that the storm carrieth away!

With such feelings of poignant anguish he plodded through the echoing streets. Mechanically he made his way back to Westminster. By the time he got there the moon and stars had gone and the chill of daybreak was in the air. He saw and heard nothing, but as he crossed Broad Sanctuary a line of mounted police trotted past him with their swords clanking.

It was not yet daylight when he knocked at the door of his chambers under the church.

”Who's there?” came in a fierce whisper.

”Open the door,” he said in a spiritless voice.

The door was opened, and Brother Andrew, with the affectionate whine of a dog who has been snarling at his master in the dark, said: ”Oh, is it you, Father? I thought you were gone. Did you meet them? They've been searching for you everywhere all night long.”

He still spoke in whispers, as if some one had been ill. ”I can't light up. They'd be sure to see and perhaps come back. They'll come in the morning in any case. Oh, it's terrible! Worse than ever now! Haven't you heard what has happened? Somebody has been killed!”

John was struggling to listen, but everything seemed to be happening a long way off.

”Well, not killed exactly, but badly hurt, and taken to the hospital.”

It was Charlie Wilkes. He had insulted the name of the Father, and Pincher, the p.a.w.nbroker, had knocked him down. His head had struck against the curb, and he had been picked up insensible. Then the police had come and Pincher had been taken off to the police station.