Chapter 67
"No matter. Heaven knows. And all I did was for love of you. Is it so guilty a thing that I have loved you--to all lengths and ends of love? I meant to put a hemisphere between you--to send him to Australia, and you back home to c.u.mberland. What if the lie had then been outfaced? I should have parted you, and that would have been enough."
"And now, when your revenge falls idle at your feet, you come to me on your knees," said Greta.
"Revenge? That was but a feeble revenge," said Hugh. "He would have learned the truth and come back to claim you. There would have been no peace for me while he was alive and free. Do I come to you on my knees?
Yes; but it is to pray of you to save your husband. Is it so much that I ask of you? Think what is earned by it. If you have no pity for me, have you none for him?"
She was struggling to pa.s.s him.
"Greta," he said, "choose, and at once. It is now or never.
To-night--to-morrow will be too late. You for a holy life of self-renouncement, or your husband to drag out his miserable days in penal servitude."
"This is only another lie. Let me pa.s.s," she said.
"It is the truth, as sure as G.o.d hears us," said Hugh.
"I shall never believe it."
"I will swear it." He laid a strong hand on her wrist. "I will swear it at the very foot of G.o.d's altar."
He tried to draw her back into the church. She resisted.
"Let me go; I will cry for help."
He dropped her wrist, and fell back from her. She drew herself up in silence, and walked slowly away.
He stood a moment alone in the sacristy. Then he went out through the church. It was empty and all but dark. The sacristan, with a long rod, was putting out the lights one by one. He turned, with arm uplifted, to look after the halting figure that pa.s.sed down the aisle and out at the west porch.
CHAPTER XIII.
Abbey Gardens, the street in front, was dark and all but deserted. Only a drunken woman went reeling along. But the dull buzz in the distance, and the white sheet in the sky, told that, somewhere near, the wild heart of the night beat high.
Hugh Ritson looked up at the heavy ma.s.s of the convent building as he crossed the street. The lights were already out, and all was dark within. He went on, but presently stopped by a sudden impulse, and looked again.
It was then he was aware that something moved in the deep portico.
Hugh Ritson recrossed the street. Amid all the turmoil of his soul, the incident had arrested him.
The woman was coming toward him. He put himself in her path. The light fell full upon her, and he saw her face.
It was Mercy Fisher.
With a low cry, the girl sunk back against the railings of the convent, and covered her face with her hands.
"Is it you, Mercy?" said Hugh.
She made no answer. Then she tried to steal away, but he held her with gentle force.
"Why did you leave Hendon?" he asked.
"You did not want me," said the girl, in a tone of unutterable pain. And still her face was buried in her hands.
He did not reply. He let her grief spend itself.
Just then a drunken woman reeled back along the pavement and pa.s.sed them close, peering into their midst, and going by with a jarring laugh.
"What's he a-doing to ye, my dear, eh?" she said, jeeringly. "Sarve ye right!" she added, and laughed again. She was a draggled, battered outcast--a human ruin, such as night, the pander, flings away.
Mercy lifted her head. A dull, weary look was in her eyes.
"You know how I waited and waited," she said, "and you were so long in coming, so very long." She turned her eyes aside. "You did not want me; in your heart you did not want me," she said.
The wave of bitter memory drowned her voice. Not unmoved, he stood and looked at her, and saw the child-face wet with tears, and the night breeze of the city drift in her yellow hair.
"Where have you been since?" he said.
"A man going to market brought me up in his wagon. I fainted, and then he took me to his home. He lives close by, in the Horse and Groom Yard.
His wife is bedridden, and such a good creature, and so kind to me. But they are poor, and I had no money, and I was afraid to be a burden to them; and besides--besides--"
"Well?"
"She saw that I was--she saw what was going to--being a woman, she knew I was soon--"
"Yes, yes," said Hugh, stopping another flood of tears with a light touch of the hand. "How red your eyes look. Are they worse?"
"The man was very good; he took me to the doctors at a hospital, and they said--oh, they said I might lose my sight!"
"Poor little Mercy!" said Hugh.
He was now ashamed of his own sufferings. How loud they had clamored awhile ago; yet, what were they side by side with this poor girl's tangible sorrows! Mere things of the air, with no reality.
"But no matter!" she burst out. "That's no matter."
"You must keep up heart, Mercy. I spoke angrily to you the other night, but it's over now, is it not?"
"Oh, why didn't you leave me alone?" said the girl.
"Hush, Mercy; it will be well with you yet." His own eyes were growing dim, but even then his heart was bitter. Had he not said in his wrath that pa.s.sion was the demon of the world? He might say it in his sorrow, too. The simple heart of this girl loved him, even as his own l.u.s.tier soul loved Greta. He had wronged her. But that was only a t.i.the of the trouble. If she could but return him hate for wrong, how soon everything would be right with her! "What brought you here, Mercy?"
"One of the sisters--they visit the sick--one of them visited the house where they gave me lodgings, and I heard that they sometimes took homeless girls into the convent. And I thought I was homeless, now, and--and--"
"Poor little woman!"
"I came the night before last, but saw your brother Paul walking here in front. So I went away."
"Paul?"