Part 54 (2/2)

She turned from him towards the little bed, and, falling on her knees beside it, burst into pa.s.sionate weeping.

”It was all I had!” she cried. ”All I had! O G.o.d! How cruel!”

He laid his hand upon her shoulder, not to stay her tears, but to suggest sympathy. Beyond her the sweet, grave face of the dead child lay wreathed in rose-buds.

At his touch she rose and faced him.

”Tell me that I shall see him again!” she cried. ”Tell me that he is not dead--that he is somewhere--somewhere! Tell me that G.o.d is just!”

His lips were blue, and he put up his hand imploring mercy; then he opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came.

She clung to him, sobbing.

”Pray to G.o.d for me,” she said.

He staggered for a moment beneath her touch. Then he knelt with her beside the little bed and prayed.

When he walked home through the storm an hour later he reeled like a drunken man, and, despite the cold, his flesh was on fire.

As he entered his door the wind drove a drift of snow into the hall, and the water dripping from his coat made s.h.i.+ning pools on the carpet.

He went into his study and slammed the door behind him. The little dog sleeping on the rug came to welcome him, and he patted it mechanically with a nerveless hand. His face was strained and set, and his breath came pantingly. In a sudden revolution the pa.s.sion which he believed buried forever had risen, reincarnated, to overwhelm him. He lived again, more vitally because of the dead years, the death of a child who was his and the grief of a woman who was his also. He, who had believed himself arbiter of his fate, had awakened to find himself the slave of pa.s.sion--a pa.s.sion mighty in its decay, but all victorious in its resurrection. He s.h.i.+vered and looked about him. The room, the fire, the atmosphere seemed thrilled with an emotional essence. He felt it in his blood, and it warmed the falling snow beyond the window. Before the consuming flame the apathy of years was lost in smoke. A memory floated before him. He was sitting again in that silent room, driving the heavy pen, listening to the breathing of his dying child, watching the still droop of Mariana's profile, framed by dusk. He felt her sobbing upon his breast, her hands clinging in pain when he lifted her from beside her dead--and his. He heard again her cry: ”Tell me that I shall see her!

Tell me that G.o.d is just!” The eternal cry of stricken motherhood.

Whatever the present or the future held, these things were locked within the past. He might live them over or live them down, but unlive them he could not. They had been and they would be forever.

The door opened and the servant came in.

”If you please, father, there is a lady to see you.”

He looked up, startled.

”A lady? On such a night?”

”She came in a carriage, but she is very wet. Will you see her at once?”

”Yes, at once.”

He turned to the door. It opened and closed, and Mariana came towards him.

She came like a ghost, pale and still as he had seen her in his memory, with a veil of snow clinging to her coat and to the feathers in her hat.

Her eyes alone were aflame.

He drew back and looked at her.

”You?” he said.

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