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.
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