"It's very strange," said Mrs. Wilcox, "she never took much notice of the

little thing when it was alive."

The doctor said nothing to that; but he asked whether her father had

not died of consumption. He certainly had; but nobody had ever been

afraid for Molly; her lungs were always particularly strong. Yes, but the

lungs were not always attacked. Tuberculosis, like other things, follows

the line of least resistance. Her brain could never have been very

strong.--"Her brain was as strong as yours or mine, sir. You don't know;

she has had a miserable life."--Ah, any shock or strong excitement, or

any great drain on the system, was enough to bring on brain fever.

In other words, what could you expect after so much agony, so much

thinking, and the striving of that life within her life, the hope that

would have renewed the world for her--the fruit of three days and three

nights of happiness? It was a grave case, but--oh yes, while there was

life there was hope.

So they talked. But she was far away from them, lost in her dream. And in

her dream the dead child and the unborn child were one.

By night the tumult in her brain was raging like a fire. She had bad

dreams. They were full of noises. First, the hiss of a thin voice singing

from a great distance an insistent, intolerable song; then the roar of

hell, and the hissing of a thousand snakes of flame. And now a crowd of

evil faces pressed on her; they sprang up quick out of the darkness,

and then they left her alone. She was outside in the streets. It was

twilight, a dreadful twilight; and perhaps it was only a dream, for it is

always twilight in dreams. She was all in white, in her night-gown, and

it was open at the neck too. She clutched at it to hide--what was it she

wanted to hide? She had forgotten--forgotten.

But that was nothing, only a dream, and she was awake now. It was light;

it was broad daylight. Then why was she out here, in the street, in her

night-gown? She must hide herself--anywhere--down that dark alley, quick!

No, not there--there was a bundle--a dead baby.

No, no, she knew all about it now; there was a fire, and she had got up

out of her bed to save some one--to save--"Nevill! Nevill!" She must run

or she would be late. Ah, the crowd again, and those faces--all looking

at her and wondering. They were running too, they were hunting her down,

the brutes, driving her before them with pitchforks. The shame of it, the

shame of it! Who was singing that hideous song? It was about her, What

had she done? She had done nothing--nothing. She was bearing the sins of

all women, the sins of the whole world. It was swords now--sharp burning

swords, and they hurt her back--her head--Nevill!




readonlinefreebook.com Copyright 2016 - 2024