“The black moments at end, the elements change.”
IT was early, and the sunlight with sharp shadows had a chilly and
almost stage effect. The sky was dazzling over Notre Dame. Geoffrey
Grant sat in the great church, watching the sunbeams catch up and
glorify the dust. Worshippers and sightseers slipped in and out, and
many candles gleamed.
The thought of Muriel had driven him there; and now he was alone with
it, he thought half cynically how many had been driven there from the
effects of unhappy love affairs, only they had called it aspiration. He
at least was honest with himself; he knew it was Muriel.
In his early youth he had been embittered by a girl. It was the usual
story of love and no money, and the girl had chosen not to wait. When
success and good fortune came to him, he was indifferent to it. He
treated all women with a sort of good-natured contempt, thinking them
creatures of diseased nerves and hysterical affections. Necessary evils
distinctly, but of the two perhaps more evil than necessary. His sister
had been the one exception; he almost worshipped her. Then came her
story. A crisis which he had passed through, by an extraordinary power,
but once faced, he had resolutely killed, and hidden all traces of the
past. His sister never knew what agony she had brought into his life.
She believed that his perceptions were blunted, instead they were too
delicate to be obvious; he had encased them in reserve, and bore without
wincing because the worst pain stings into silence. Muriel had been a
revelation to him, her gaiety was so spontaneous, her brightness so
infectious. She had thrown her life, all dusty and human, into the glory
of the sunbeam, and she was strong. He had watched her with Jack
Hurstly, and he watched her afterwards. As a doctor her magnificent
healthiness appealed to him. He could not imagine her having nervous
prostration; as a man he marvelled at her. She knew that he loved her,
yet she could look him straight in the eyes and be frankly friendly.
It had become the purpose of his life to strengthen their friendship
into something more. For a long while he had struggled against it, but
it was a passion that found grace with his whole nature; and, when he
had come to the conclusion that strength lay in submission, Cynthia
needed him, and he laid down his love and his work to face the Arch Fear
of his life. If Cynthia should fail!
The last month had worn lines in his face, and his keen eyes in repose
looked sadder than ever. He had fought, and the worst was over; he had
watched and fenced, waited and listened, seized opportunities, avoided
dangers, guided and guarded, and slaved that Cynthia should be safe and
ignorant of his efforts. He had felt happier when Launcelot came, and
this afternoon had left her with a mind at rest.
The figure of a woman with a child in her arms attracted him. She had
evidently come a long way; she was tired and footsore, and very poorly
dressed. He watched her buy a candle for the Virgin’s shrine and kneel
there till overcome with weariness, she slept, her head against a
pillar, but even though she slept she clasped the child. He felt less
impatience than usual with the wasteful, senseless candle-buying, and
the love, the unconscious love of motherhood, and all things beautiful
touched him closely. After all, he wondered, there was something
strangely more than human in women who could give so much as Muriel and
that mother. No physical passion could explain it all—it was so
selfless, so extraordinary, so unnatural in another mood he might have
called it, but here and now “supernatural” seemed the more fitting word.
The baby stirred in its sleep, and the mother’s eyes opened watchfully.
She changed its position to a more comfortable one in her arms, then she
made the sign of the Cross on its forehead, and crossing herself rose to
her feet and left the church. The doctor rose too, and then, moved by an
emotion he could never account for knelt and prayed. He smiled a little
whimsically to himself. “Why, I believe I am becoming a Christian,” he
thought. But he had not changed; he was only beginning to see what all
along the tremendous struggle of his life had been making him. People
who are so much better than their creeds often wake up to find their
creeds are higher than they dreamed.