Yet when I thought of a child of mine—with Maurice’s eyes and Maurice’s ways—I turned sick and faint, and I flung the thought out. But it came back and back, roosting in my mind, pecking at my heart like a little black vulture.
I let him have the kitten to himself when he wanted it, and he would take it away to his room. We got into the way of keeping it in turn to spend the night with us. But it always preferred me. It would escape from him whenever it could and come scampering back across the yard to me; and he following it in a rage, would grab it up roughly, accusing me of feeding it in the night to make it like me best!
The nights I had Snowie I slept well, dreaming I had a child with Anthony Kinsella’s blue eyes, nestling at my heart. I often woke crooning to it as my old Irish nurse used to croon to me:
“Hush-a, Hush-a, Hush-a, m’babee.”
But on the nights that I had no kitten to nestle against my throat, the little black vulture kept me company, staying with me unweariedly, plucking at my heart, asking little terrible questions to which I had no answer.
“Do you think Maurice Stair also croons over dream children?—does he give them the eyes of his love?—have they little hands that fondle him?”
“You have tried beguiling, and flattering, and scorn, and hate—is there nothing else left to try?”
“Is a man’s soul nothing?—what of the little smouldering spark down below, under the mud and weights—is it still there?—or have you put it out?”
“Who are you to keep yourself so aloof and proud?—do you think women have not sacrificed themselves before to-day—better, nobler women than you?”
“Yes—but for love—for love—for love!” I cried, and wept till dawn.