"But the eyes are not hurt," she replied; "see how they look at one."
She handed it back.
"Yes, kindly."
"And sadly. As though he still remembered Lucile. Lucile! I have not
been called that name for a long time. It is on my grave-stone, you
know. Ah, perhaps you do not know. You never saw my grave. I have.
And on the tombstone is written this: By Luke to Lucile. And then
beneath, where the grass almost hides it, the line: I have followed my
Star to the last. You do not know what that line means; I will tell you.
Once, when we were first married, he wrote me some verses, and he called
them, 'My Star, Lucile.' Here is a verse--ah, why do you not smile, when
I say I will tell you what he wrote? Chut! Women such as I have
memories sometimes. One can admire the Heaven even if one lives in--ah,
you know! Listen." And with a voice that seemed far away and not part
of herself she repeated these lines:
"In my sky of delight there's a beautiful Star;
'Tis the sun and the moon of my days;
And the doors of its glory are ever ajar,
And I live in the glow of its rays.
'Tis my winter of joy and my summer of rest,
'Tis my future, my present, my past;
And though storms fill the East and the clouds haunt the West,
I shall follow my Star to the last."
"There, that was to Lucile. What would he write to Gabrielle--to Henri's
Gabrielle? How droll--how droll!" Again she laughed that laugh of
eternal recklessness.
It filled Shorland this time with a sense of fear. He lost sight of
everything--this strange and interesting woman, and the peculiar nature
of the events in which he was sharing, and saw only Clare Hazard's ruined
life, Luke Freeman's despair, and the fatal 26th of January, so near at
hand. He could see no way out of the labyrinth of disgrace. It unnerved
him more than anything that had ever happened to him, and he turned
bewildered towards the door. He saw that while Gabrielle lived, a dead
misfortune would be ever crouching at the threshold of Freeman's home,
that whether the woman agreed to be silent or not, the hurt to Clare
would remain the same. With an angry bitterness in his voice that he
did not try to hide he said: "There is nothing more to be done now,
Gabrielle, that I can see. But it is a crime--it is a pity!"
"A pity that he did not tell the truth on the gravestone--that he did not
follow his star to the last, monsieur? How droll! And you should see
how green the grass was on my grave! Yes, it is a pity."
But Shorland, heavy at heart, looked at her and said nothing more. He
wondered why it was that he did not loathe her. Somehow, even in her
shame, she compelled a kind of admiration and awe. She was the wreck of
splendid possibilities. A poisonous vitality possessed her, but through
it glowed a daring and a candour that belonged to her before she became
wicked, and that now half redeemed her in the eyes of this man, who knew
the worst of her. Even in her sin she was loyal to the scoundrel for
whom she had sacrificed two lives, her own and another's. Her brow might
flush with shame of the mad deed that turned her life awry, and of the
degradation of her present surroundings; but her eyes looked straight
into those of Shorland without wavering, with the pride of strength if
not of goodness.
"Yes, there is one thing more," she said. "Give me that portrait to
keep--until the 25th. Then you may take it--from the woman in the
Morgue."
Shorland thought for a moment. She had spoken just now without sneering,
without bravado, without hardness. He felt that behind this woman's
outward cruelty and varying moods there was something working that
perhaps might be trusted, something in Luke's interest. He was certain
that this portrait had moved her deeply. Had she come to that period of
reaction in evil when there is an agonised desire to turn back towards
the good? He gave the portrait to her.