"Yes," she cried, springing up, and dashing back her beautiful hair—beautiful still, though she must have been five or six and thirty at least—"Yes, it is true—it shall be true. I will break my bonds and live the life I was made for. I would have done it long ago, but for—no matter. Why, Ursula, he adores me; young and handsome as he is, he adores me. He will give me my youth back again, ay, he will."
And she sang out a French chanson, something about "la liberte et ses plaisirs, la jeunesse, l'amour."
The mother grew sterner—any such wife and mother would. Then and there, compassion might have died out of even her good heart, had it not been for the sudden noise over-head of children's feet—children's chattering. Once more the pitiful thought came—"She has no children."
"Caroline," she said, catching her gown as she passed, "when I was with you, you had a child which only breathed and died. It died spotless. When you die, how dare you meet that little baby?"
The singing changed to sobbing. "I had forgotten. My little baby! Oh, mon Dieu, mon Dieu!"
Mrs. Halifax, taking in earnest those meaningless French ejaculations, whispered something about Him who alone can comfort and help us all.
"Him! I never knew Him, if indeed He be. No, no, there is no after-life."
Ursula turned away in horror. "John, what shall we do with her? No home!—no husband!—no God!"
"He never leaves Himself without a witness. Look, love."
The wretched woman sat rocking to and fro—weeping and wringing her hands. "It was cruel—cruel! You should not have spoken about my baby. Now—"