She had held him close to her and comforted him.
Her splendid faithfulness.
He laid her on the narrow bed against the wall, and smoothed her dress
and folded her hands over her breast. Her bag, which he had gathered up
with her rolled on to the floor. A book fell out. He picked it up
mechanically. It was a little Bible, and on the fly-leaf was written:
"From JIM and CONSTANCE
to their friend, CHRISTINE."
The writing was his father's. It had faded, but one could still see how
regular and beautiful it was. Then the date. His own birthday--the
first of all the unfortunate birthdays.
He looked at it for a long time, stupidly, not realizing. Then suddenly
he saw it--in a new light. Ricardo. How frightfully--excruciatingly
funny. Ricardo. He felt that he was going to laugh--shout with
laughter. It was horrible. Laughter rising and falling---like a sort of
awful sickness--choking him.
Instead his heart broke. He flung himself down beside her and pressed
his face against her cold, thin cheek. And, instead of laughter, sobs
that tore him to pieces--and at last, in mercy, tears.
"Oh, Christine, Christine--my own darling! I did love you--I never told
you--you never, never knew how much!"
The earth-old cry of unavailing, inevitable remorse.
7
So there was no one but Francey now.
He did not know what he hoped, or indeed if he hoped for anything. He
turned to her instinctively. And when the door of the ward opened he
did, in fact, feel a faint lifting of the flat indifference which had
followed on that one difficult rending surrender.
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