Before this thought he came to his better self through his worst. He called down a curse on the forces that played with his convictions; he damned the inner voice of reason that showed him what he had deemed duty was an interested crime. Standing beneath the storm he put bitter facts behind him for vain phantoms, and maligned the awful ray of truth. Then, moody and sick in spirit, he leapt suddenly to sweeter and cleaner thinking. Some phase of mind, some physical conjunction, or some psychic crisis pervious to the influence of Nature, lifted him, as often happened, into great longing for the better part. The dawn showed him what no dawn had ever yet revealed. He turned to the East and prayed to it.
"Before Heaven I mourn for what I am! I see myself cursed—self-cursed. Oh, God, give me back my child again, and I will be a wiser man! Only my child—only my Grace. I humble myself. Punish me, great God, but not by taking her—my only one. I repent; I will mend my life if I may but have my child again."
The sun, struggling above wild new-born day and dying tempest, answered his petition with shafts of flame, and wrapped that desolate wilderness in a mingled splendour of mist and fire. The pageant of the sky uttered a music proper to the man's sore spirit, and unrolled with solemn glory. Heaven glowed and burnt, or frowned and shuddered in black precipices of storm-cloud that sank upon the West. Into the deep senses of the watcher these things penetrated graciously. They touched the ragged wounds of his heart and helped to heal them, while a harmony, as of music, fell upon his helpless, hopeless soul. All the wonder of the sky filled Malherb's dark eyes as he lifted them; but a light greater than the sky or any inspiration born of day shone out. Upon the verge of apocalypse he stood; yet gulfs unseen separated him from it. His days were not accomplished; his darkest hour was not yet come.
Now, where a rock rose at a point not far distant, there appeared Lovey Lee. She stood like some night-spirit, surprised by dawn, blinking and disarmed in the unfamiliar sunshine. For a moment she hesitated at the sight of Malherb; then approached him, conscious of her complete power. This man, and perhaps only this man in the world, was impotent against her. Not a finger could he lift. Harm done to her must bring far worse upon himself. Her wits planned a cunning lie and she advanced to utter it.
"You'm stirring early, Maurice Malherb. 'Tis strange that you an' me should both choose to walk this here ill-wisht heath all rotten wi' bog and water."
"I came to seek peace—not you. I ask you to quit my sight without more words. There is no anger in me now."
"'Peace'! Do 'e find peace in your own company? I'll swear you never have, nor never will. No peace for the likes of you till you be dead. Come, let's talk secrets—shall us? I've got things you'd dearly like to hear about."
"Leave me," he said. "I've done with cursing and swearing. There is much upon my mind. I will not be angry with you. My daughter is lost."
"They say you drove her away with a whip."
"They lie! 'Twas her own damnable folly that drove her away."