Part 40 (1/2)

There was a time when the Holy Mysteries brought him a joy which was priceless and unutterable.

Yes! when he knelt at the Ma.s.s with Mary by his side, he had felt the breath of Paradise upon his brow. Emptied of all earthly things his soul had entered into the mystical Communion of Saints.

To husband and wife, in humble supplication side by side, the still small voice had spoken. The rus.h.i.+ng wind of the Holy Ghost had risen around them and the Pa.s.sion of Jesus been more near.

And now?--the man rose from his chair with a laugh so sad and hollow, a face so contorted with pain, that it startled the silly girl behind the bar.

She made a rapid calculation. ”He was sober when 'e come,” she thought in the vernacular, ”and 'e can stand a lot, can Mr. Lothian. It's nothing. Them poets!”

”Something amusing you?” she said with her best smile.

Lothian nodded. ”Oh, just my thoughts,” he replied. ”Give me another whiskey and soda--a fat one, yes, a little more, yes, that'll do.”

For a moment, a moment of hesitation, he held it out at arm's length.

The sunlight of the afternoon blazed into the gla.s.s and turned the liquid to molten gold.

The light came from a window in the roof, just over the bar itself. The remainder of the room was in quiet shadow.

He looked down into the room and shuddered. It was typical of his life now.

He looked up at the half open window from which the glory came.

”Oh, that I had the wings of a dove!” he said, with a sad smile.

Molly Palmer watched him. ”Juggins!” she thought, ”them poets!”

But Lothian's words seemed to call for some rejoinder and the girl was at a loss.

”Wish you meant it!” she said at length, wondering if that would meet the occasion--as it often met others.

Lothian laughed, and drank down the whiskey.

The light from above faded almost instantly--perhaps a cloud was pa.s.sing over the sun.

But, _au contraire_, the shadow of the room beyond had invitation now. It no longer seemed sombre.

He went into the shadows and sat down in the same chair where he had been before.

He smiled as he lit another cigarette. How strange moods were! how powerful for a moment, but how quickly over! The letters in his breast pocket seemed to glow out with material warmth, a warmth that went straight to his heart through the cloth and linen of his clothing. The new Ego was fed. Rita!

Yes! at least life had given him this and was it not the treasure of treasures? There was nothing coa.r.s.e nor earthly in this at least!

The music of the Venusberg throbbed in all his pulses, calling, calling from the hollow hill. He did not realise from where it came--this magic music--and that there is more than one angelic choir.

Rita and Gilbert. Gilbert and Rita!

The words and music of one song!

So we observe that now the masked musicians in the unseen orchestra are in their places.