FullReads

To his words, her brain formed vivid images, till she cried out, ‘Don’t! don’t!’ and shrank away as do the wolf-dogs from the lash.

‘But you must face all this; and better it is to do it now.’ In his eyes, which she could not see, there was a great compassion, but his face, tense and quivering, showed no relenting.

She raised her head from the table, forced back the tears, struggled for control.

‘I shall go away. They will never see me, and come to forget me. I shall be to them as dead. And–and I will go with Clyde–today.’ It seemed final. Wharton stepped forward, but the priest waved him back.

‘You have wished for children?’ A silent ‘Yes.’ ‘And prayed for them?’ ‘Often.’ ‘And have you thought, if you should have children?’ Father Roubeau’s eyes rested for a moment on the man by the window.

A quick light shot across her face. Then the full import dawned upon her. She raised her hand appealingly, but he went on.

‘Can you picture an innocent babe in your arms? A boy? The world is not so hard upon a girl. Why, your very breast would turn to gall! And you could be proud and happy of your boy, as you looked on other children?–‘ ‘O, have pity! Hush!’ ‘A scapegoat–‘

‘Don’t! don’t! I will go back!’ She was at his feet.

‘A child to grow up with no thought of evil, and one day the world to fling a tender name in his face. A child to look back and curse you from whose loins he sprang!’

‘O my God! my God!’ She groveled on the floor. The priest sighed and raised her to her feet.

Wharton pressed forward, but she motioned him away.

‘Don’t come near me, Clyde! I am going back!’ The tears were coursing pitifully down her face, but she made no effort to wipe them away.

‘After all this? You cannot! I will not let you!’ ‘Don’t touch me!’ She shivered and drew back.

‘I will! You are mine! Do you hear? You are mine!’ Then he whirled upon the priest. ‘O what a fool I was to ever let you wag your silly tongue! Thank your God you are not a common man, for I’d–but the priestly prerogative must be exercised, eh? Well, you have exercised it. Now get out of my house, or I’ll forget who and what you are!’ Father Roubeau bowed, took her hand, and started for the door. But Wharton cut them off.

‘Grace! You said you loved me?’ ‘I did.’ ‘And you do now?’ ‘I do.’ ‘Say it again.’

‘I do love you, Clyde; I do.’ ‘There, you priest!’ he cried. ‘You have heard it, and with those words on her lips you would send her back to live a lie and a hell with that man?’

But Father Roubeau whisked the woman into the inner room and closed the door. ‘No words!’ he whispered to Wharton, as he struck a casual posture on a stool. ‘Remember, for her sake,’ he added.

The room echoed to a rough knock at the door; the latch raised and Edwin Bentham stepped in.

‘Seen anything of my wife?’ he asked as soon as salutations had been exchanged.

Two heads nodded negatively.

‘I saw her tracks down from the cabin,’ he continued tentatively, ‘and they broke off, just opposite here, on the main trail.’ His listeners looked bored.

‘And I–I thought–‘

‘She was here!’ thundered Wharton.

The priest silenced him with a look. ‘Did you see her tracks leading up to this cabin, my son?’ Wily Father Roubeau–he had taken good care to obliterate them as he came up the same path an hour before.

‘I didn’t stop to look, I–‘ His eyes rested suspiciously on the door to the other room, then interrogated the priest. The latter shook his head; but the doubt seemed to linger.

Father Roubeau breathed a swift, silent prayer, and rose to his feet. ‘If you doubt me, why–‘ He made as though to open the door.