Phases of an Inferior Planet Part 55

She was silent, holding out her gloved hand with an impulsive gesture.

He did not take it. He had made a sudden clutch at self-control, and he clung to it desperately.

"Can I do anything for you?" he asked, and his voice rang hollow and without inflection.

She still held out her hand. Flecks of snow lay on her loosened hair, and the snow was hardly whiter than her face.

"You must speak to me," she said. "You promised to come, and I waited--and waited."

"I was busy," he returned, in the same voice.

"We cannot be as strangers," she went on, pa.s.sionately. "We must be friends. Can you or I undo the past? Can you or I undo our love--or our child?"

"Hush!" he said, harshly.

"I came only to hear that you forgive me," she continued, a brave smile softening the intensity of her face. "Tell me that and I will go away."

He was silent for a moment; then he spoke.

"I forgive you."

She took a step towards the door and came back.

"And is that all?"

"That is all." Beneath the brutal pressure of his teeth a drop of blood rose to his lips. There was a wave of scarlet before his eyes, and he clinched his hands to keep them at his sides. A terrible force was drawing him to her, impelling him to fall upon her as she stood defenceless--to bear her away out of reach.

She looked at him, and a light flamed in her face.

"It is not all," she retorted, triumphantly. "You have not forgotten me."

He looked at her dully.

"I had--until to-night."

Tears rose to her eyes and fell upon her hands, while the snow on her hair melted and rained down until she seemed to weep from head to foot.

"I was never good enough," she said, brokenly. "I have always done wrong, even when I most wanted to be good." Then she raised her head proudly. "But I loved you," she added. "I never loved any one but you.

Will you believe it?"

He shook his head, smiling bitterly. As he stood there in his priestly dress he looked like one in a mighty struggle between the calls of the flesh and of the spirit. The last wavering fires of anger flamed within him, and he took a step towards her.

"Do you think," he asked, slowly, forcing his words, "that I would have left you while there remained a crust to live on? Do you think that I would not have starved with you rather than have lived in luxury without you? Bah! It is all over!"

"I was too young," she answered--"too young. I did not know. I have learned since then."

His outburst had exhausted his bitterness, and a pa.s.sionate tenderness was in his eyes.

"I would to G.o.d that you had been spared the knowledge," he said.

She shook her head.

"No," she responded. "Not that--not that."

She swayed, and he caught her in his arms. For an instant he held her--not in pa.s.sion, but with a gentleness that was almost cold. Then he released her, and she moved away.

"Good-bye."

"Good-bye."

He followed her into the hall and opened the door. An icy draught blew past him.

"Wait a moment," he said. He took an umbrella from the rack, and, raising it, held it over her until she entered the carriage.

"I hope you will not take cold," he said, as he closed the door.

Then he went back into his study and walked the floor until dawn.

CHAPTER XII

One afternoon during the third week in January, Father Algarcife went to the studio of Claude Nevins, and found the artist smoking a moody pipe over a brandy-and-soda. His brush and palette lay upon the floor.

"How are you?" inquired Father Algarcife, with attempted lightness; "and what are you doing?"

Nevins looked up gloomily, blowing a wreath of gray smoke towards the skylight.

"Enjoying life," he responded.

The other laughed.

"It doesn't look exactly like enjoyment," he returned. "From a casual view, I should call it a condition of boredom."

He had aged ten years in the last fortnight, and his eyes had the shifting look of a man who flees an inward fear.

Nevins regarded him unsmilingly.

"Oh, I like it," he answered, lifting his gla.s.s. "Come and join me. I tell you I'd rather be drunk to-day than be President to-morrow."

"What's the matter?"

"Oh, nothing. I haven't done a d.a.m.ned stroke for a week; that's all. I am tired of painting people's portraits."

"Nonsense. Ten years ago you went on a spree because there were no portraits to paint."

"Yes," Nevins admitted, "history repeats itself--with variations. The truth is, Anthony, I can't work."