There must be many such.' 'Child! unsay those words! Ah! you do
not mean them. I understand. I, too, have had such moments.' For
an instant he was back in his native France, and a wistful,
sad-eyed face came as a mist between him and the woman before
him.
'Then, Father, has my God forsaken me? I am not wicked above
women. My misery with him has been great. Why should it be
greater? Why shall I not grasp at happiness? I cannot, will not,
go back to him!' 'Rather is your God forsaken. Return. Throw your
burden upon Him, and the darkness shall be lifted. O my child,--'
'No; it is useless; I have made my bed and so shall I lie. I will
go on. And if God punishes me, I shall bear it somehow. You do
not understand. You are not a woman.' 'My mother was a woman.'
'But--' 'And Christ was born of a woman.' She did not answer. A
silence fell. Wharton pulled his mustache impatiently and kept an
eye on the trail. Grace leaned her elbow on the table, her face
set with resolve. The smile had died away. Father Roubeau shifted
his ground.
'You have children?'
'At one time I wished--but now--no. And I am thankful.' 'And a
mother?' 'Yes.' 'She loves you?' 'Yes.
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