Part 27 (1/2)

To his more self-contained nature the violence of Mariana's grief was like the searing of the bleeding sores in his own heart. To avoid that cry of stricken motherhood he would have given the better portion of his life--to have been deaf to that impulsive expression of a pain he felt but could not utter he would have d.a.m.ned his soul.

And when, during the first few days, Mariana gathered together all the scattered little garments, and brooded over them with the pa.s.sion of irremediableness, he would cry aloud out of his own bitterness,

”Put them away! If you love me, Mariana, hide them.”

But Mariana, in the selfishness of loss, would glance at him with reproachful eyes, and turn to stroke the rubber doll in its bright-hued dress, and the half-worn socks with the impress of restless feet.

In the night she would start from a troubled sleep with corroding self-questionings. ”Make a light,” she would say, fretfully, sitting up and staring into the gloom. ”Make a light. The darkness stifles me. I can't breathe.”

Then, when the flame of the candle would flare up beside her, she would turn upon Anthony the blaze of her excited eyes, and play upon the sheet with feverish fingers. The loss of sleep which these spasms entailed upon Algarcife was an additional drain upon his wrecking system, and sometimes in sheer exhaustion he would plead for peace.

”Mariana, only sleep. Lie still, and I will fan you--or shall I give you bromide?”

But the hot questions would rush upon him and he would answer them as he had answered such questions for the past six weeks.

”Was it my fault? Could I have done anything? Was it taken away because I didn't want it to come?”

”Mariana!”

”Do you remember that I said I hoped it would die? You knew they were idle words, didn't you? You knew that I didn't mean it?”

”Of course, my dearest.”

”But somebody told me once that for every idle word we would be held to account. Is this the account?”

”Hush.”

For a moment she would lie silent, and then, rising again, the torrent would come.

”Perhaps if I had not left the window open that first warm day. And I did not send for the doctor at once. I thought it was only fretful.

Perhaps--”

”You could have done nothing.”

”I did not know. I was so ignorant. I should have studied. I should have asked questions.”

Then she would turn towards him, laying her hot hand upon his arm.

”Tell me that it was not my fault. Tell me--tell me!”

”It was not. It was not.”

”But I want her so. I want to feel her. I want to feel her soft and warm in my arms. Oh, my baby!”

And so the summer nights would wear away.

But as time went on a reactionary lethargy pervaded her. Her vitality being spent, she was left limp and devoid of energy. For hours she would lie motionless in the heated room, the afternoon sun, intensified by the reflected glare of pressed brick, streaming upon her, and she would appear to be indifferent to both heat and glare. From Algarcife she turned with an avoidance which was almost instinctive. When he touched her she shrank into silence, when he spoke she met his words with lethargic calm. It was as if the demands he made upon her emotional nature became irksome to her when that nature lay dormant.

”I suppose I love you,” she said one day, in answer to his questions. ”I think I do, but I don't feel it. I don't feel anything. I only want to forget.”