She had seemed
to him cruel and terrible as a hungry animal despising her mate because
he fails to bring her prey as food. He had said to himself in shame and
desolation of soul that she had never cared for him really, but only for
what he might give; and because he had disappointed her, giving little,
she hated and would perhaps leave him, to better herself. Now the touch
of her shoulder against his breast, and the tired, childlike tucking of
her head into his neck, warmed his blood that had run sluggishly and
cold as the blood of a prisoner in a cell. New courage flowed back to
his heart. Vague thoughts of suicide flapped away like night-birds with
the coming of light. If Eve cared for him still he had the incentive to
live.
"That place seems to haunt us," she murmured, as they stood together in
seeming love and need of one another. He knew what she meant. Their eyes
were on the distant glimmer of Monte Carlo. "Its influence follows us."
"From here the lights look pure white, like the lights of some
mysterious paradise, seen far off across the sea," Dauntrey said.
"No," his wife answered; "to me they're more like the light that comes
out of graves at night time; the strange, phosphorescent light of
decayed, dead things. We've done with that lure light forever, haven't
we?"
"I suppose so!" A sigh of yearning and regret heaved his breast, under
the nestling head. "If you're going to be kind to me again, Eve, I can
do anything and go anywhere.
Pages:
501
502
503
504
505
506
507
508
509
510
511
512
513
514
515
516
517
518
519
520
521
522
523
524
525